By Dalton Ott

Note from Metal: This is a re-post of a true bondage story that was originally posted under Anonymous. The author, Dalton Ott, who has been featured prominently on Serious Male Bondage, has subsequently revised his story, added to it, and has agreed to have it appear again, and under his name this time.

At a local sauna two men engaging in friendly conversation somehow stumbled on to the topic of bondage, not your usual sauna conversation. It was awkward at first but soon they discovered they shared a common secret. They were both secretly into heavy sensory deprivation bondage.

The excitement grew into a three-hour, intense conversation at a local coffee shop. They shared stories about their experiences and bondage equipment, what they owned and what they fantasized about.

They eventually talked about their unfulfilled bondage fantasies and discovered they both enjoyed extreme bondage without the need for sex. All they wanted to experience were long sensory deprivation sessions in heavy rubber or leather. They both had an unquenched passion to explore the depths of extreme subspace.

To the non-fetishist, bondage without sex is a boring experience, applying the bondage, monitoring a subject then letting them out without a happy ending makes no sense. This is a solo journey that gives nothing back, that is why only another true fetishist is willing to do these things for only a thank you.

They had both experienced this type of bondage with their wives but only briefly. In the beginning the wives were into it because they loved their husbands but soon the true nature of a bondage fetishist became boring for them.

They eventually realized they were simply helping their husbands have a relationship with what they really loved, and that was bondage.

Eventually this lack of attention to their sexual needs and need for attention was too much. One man was divorced because of this, and the other was widowed but had spent many years without indulging his bondage fetish.

Over the years they both realized what they had done to their former wives. If not kept in balance the true nature of a bondage fetishist can overwhelm the best of relationships. They were both honest enough to know finding another woman to overwhelm was definitely not am answer.

As they talked about the close calls they had had experimenting with self-bondage and how much they would love to find a willing partner to help them, they realized the obvious solution, why not help each other?

They were mature enough not to care what others might think. They knew they were both straight with no interest in sex with men, they simply had a deep passion or overwhelming craving for bondage.

They explored the idea and eventually negotiated a pact. They would take turns once a week helping the other have a safe bondage experience.

It started slow, with a few sleepsack afternoons while the other read a book or watched TV in the next room. Soon it became more elaborate as they grew accustomed to the needs and abilities of the other. The sessions became longer with heavier and heavier bondage. This was working out even better then they imagined. A skilled reliable partner that truly understands the bondage fetish.

This is one of their bondage sessions.

It’s 6:30 AM, and the room is ready.

The bed is draped in a black rubber sheet. Anchored to the frame is a thick black rubber bondage sleepsack with 13 D-ring attachment points gleaming from head to toe.

An electric blanket is under the sheet and a heat lamp is above the bed. They are set to cycle on and off keeping the temperature just right.

The air smells of rubber and silicone lube, a sterile yet powerful scent to the rubber fetishist. For the next hours bondage and the scent and feel of rubber covering every inch of his skin will be his whole world.

A bag for the piss tube hangs discreetly on the side of the bed. My phone displays real-time data from the Bluetooth oxygen sensor and heart monitor.

Everything is prepped, negotiated, and clear, this is our fourteenth session. He says he is ready for a long one, four hours more than he has ever experienced.

The session will begin at 7 AM and end at 7 PM.

He stands at the end of the bed, already hydrated from the water I insisted he drink earlier. Sweating is inevitable in this setup and hydration is our biggest concern, but I think he is capable and ready. Over our past sessions he has proved himself to be the real deal, cool and calm with great physical stamina and he trusts that I am competent to keep him safe.

We have gone over every detail, the gear, the duration, the hydration and signals. Two grunts to get my attention, then three grunts for a small issue, and more for a real problem but with our detailed preparation we should avoid using them.

I can end the session with the data from the sensors, he can end the session for any real reason. By real I mean a health issue or injury not just a cramp, itch or boredom.

Monitoring panic is my specialty. I’ve been told I have a sixth sense. I can usually stave off panic with a reassuring touch, no need to end a session. His goal is to endure the entire 12 hours, It is possible but not easy.

The gear is laid out and he is impatient to get into his full-body catsuit. It is thick natural rubber, an expensive investment but that is the price of a rubber fetish. He slides in starting with his feet. The suit’s interior is slick with silicone lube. His toes find the attached rubber socks, each digit snug in its own compartment.

The suit creeps up his legs, hugging every curve and compressing him. His penis and balls slip into the anatomical sleeve, a precise fit with the piss tube attached, ensuring function without exposure.

He guides his arms into the sleeves, fingers settling into the attached rubber gloves. I carefully guide super soft ear plugs into his ear canals, these are the most effective ear plugs made. I then stretch the attached hood over his head then pull the suit zipper up his back sealing him in a second skin. Every inch of him is now encased in rubber except for his eyes nose and mouth.

Inside, he feels the rubber’s embrace, warm and heavy, like sinking into a tight cocoon. It’s safe but overwhelming, his skin tingling where the lube slicks against him. I notice but ignore his cock as it hardens in its confinement, it isn’t me it’s the rubber.

Next, the sleepsack. This is an amazing piece of gear. It’s made of heavy, natural rubber, built for total containment. I lay it open on the bed as he lowers himself in. The lube inside the sack squelches as his suited body slides into place.

His arms are secured in the internal sleeves, locking them against his sides with no chance of movement. I attach the piss tube that goes through a special hole in the side of the sleep sack and attach it to the bag.

I then zip the sleepsack up slowly, from his ankles to his chest, the rubber tightening around him like a full-body hug. His legs are immobilized and his body cocooned. The sack’s D-rings are strapped to the bed frame, so I tighten each strap to an exact tension, not too tight, not too loose, just right.

As the sack closes over him, his world shrinks. He’s not going anywhere, but he knows he’s safe. The rubber presses in, warm and unyielding, his breath quickens as he wonders if he can do this.

The hood comes last, a thick natural rubber piece that has a zipper from the top of his head to his collar. But first his eyes are sealed with tape and padded patches, plunging him into total darkness. I ease the rubber mouth-fitting bite gag into his mouth. A hydration tube attaches to a large bag of hydration drink. I lock the gag strap and zipper with small padlocks. The hood also has breathing tubes that insert into his nose to assure a clear passage.

I then attach the “D” ring at the top of his head to another strap attached to the bed. For extra security I attach the two small “D” rings at his temples to each bedpost with another two straps completely immobilizing his head. This is when subspace kicks in.

This is when I like to say, “We now have lift off!“

I check his breathing and his pulse on my phone — steady, strong. I pat him on the chest as he gives me an affirmative moan.

The first hour is filled with escape attempts and struggling. He is like me, testing every possible escape route, every flaw or poorly positioned strap. He tests every lock, weak attachment point, and loose buckle. Even though we both know he cannot possibly escape, he must try with all his skill and strength. If he does not go through this ritual he cannot completely surrender to the bondage.

I watch him finally relax in the bondage as the second hour begins. He has surrendered but this will not be his last attempt. Later when he gets to the hard part he will be doing this in earnest. I must watch him closely when this happens because it can be a sign of panic. For now, he seems to be enjoying the ride.

The first three or four hours are filled with body adjustments. He thinks this could be tighter or this could be looser and maybe a small cramp or itch. Eventually everything fits perfectly and he loses the awareness of his body. He retreats back into his brain.

His internal clock begins to distort time. Sight, sound, movement, taste, and smell also get distorted. At this point dozing off for even a minute destroys all references, time direction even up and down. Some people have great internal clocks, but mine doesn’t work that well in or out of bondage.

The sense of up and down, east or west, it all gets blurred. In a while he might leave his body and be able to raise his arms over his head. I have completely left my body and developed the ability to fly. I hope he has that experience.

Hours five and six, I quietly change the hydration bag. So far he has been doing fine. He begins another struggling session. It’s not serious yet, just an attempt to loosen up his joints. As he moves I can hear liquid in the sleepsack. It is filling with sweat. He is aware of this, so he is drinking more, a good sign.

Hour seven he has actually gone to sleep. I hear his breathing and an actual snore that jolts him back to reality with a shot of adrenaline. His breathing quickens and his heart races, but each time he seems to handle it well.

It is hour eight, his old record. The next four hours are the real test. His body cycles from a full-body ache to complete numbness. He moves around in his bondage to feel real a sign he is losing his connection to reality. The next hours it will be harder and harder to feel what is real, this includes me. This is where I am needed the most. He will feel abandoned, it almost always happens.

He begins to ask himself, “Is he still there?” “Has he gone to sleep?” “Has he had an accident, a stroke, a heart attack?” “Will I be found in this bag by my family, by the police, or the neighbor curious about the smell?”” Will I die slowly or writhing in terror?” I know this because I usually have the same panicked thoughts.

He will dismiss these thoughts for a time but eventually they will terrify even the most experienced player. I sit close by watching his vitals on my phone. I could calm him now, but this is all part of the experience.

Another round of attempted escape, this time even more violent. I sense he is about to crack. I place my hand on his chest for less than a minute. I feel the panic vanish. His breathing slows, and his heart rate settles. His journey continues.

The next hours his emotions surface. He laughs and hums. He shakes his head and mumbles in his gag. I listen closely for a signal. Soon he is weeping, then a full gasping cry. This is a place I have been a few times, and I will leave him alone.

We have grown close over time, and he feels comfortable not hiding his emotions. I know he has not fully grieved his divorce as I have not fully grieved my wife’s passing. Tears can be hard for men, this is the place we have both found to safely shed them.

The last hour he is simply breathing in long sighs. I do not think he has ever seen this place and perhaps I have not either. I can’t wait to hear his story if it can even be put into words. Our experience goes much deeper than many have journeyed. Most stop the journey with an orgasm and miss exploring the deeper waters.

It is now 7 PM, I slowly start the release him.

I loosen the straps holding the D-rings. I unlock the zipper and reveal his face. The lights are dim as I remove the tape from his eyes. He blinks with a blank stare he obviously is still far, far away.

I unzip the front of the sleepsack, revealing the slick catsuit beneath. I help him sit up to remove his arms from the internal sleeves. He gasps, tears streaming down his face as he reaches out, he is crying deep sobs and his body is trembling. I sit beside him, pulling him into my arms, holding him tight.

I don’t know the right words, so I stay silent. He cries harder and harder, I don’t let go. When the sobs ease, I guide him to the shower, his steps are shaky.

The bathroom is warm, steam rising from the shower. He leans against the tiled wall exhausted, letting me take over. I start to remove his catsuit, but it clings to his skin. I use the warm shower water to peel it away. I grab a washcloth and soap, lathering it under the warm stream. I start with his arms, scrubbing gently, the cloth gliding over his shoulders, down to his hands, cleaning each finger.

His legs come next, the lube washing away as I work from his thighs to his feet, lifting each foot to scrub between the toes. I clean his body with care, then I rinse it clean.

This moment, between two men, is intimate but not sexual. Men rarely touch like this out of fear of being misread. In this moment we’re just two human beings, bound by trust earned over the long bondage session.

I grab a soft towel, drying him from head to toe, careful not to rush. I lead him back to the room, where a snack waits, fruit, crackers, water. He sits on the bed, fresh sheets replacing the rubber. He eats slowly and sips the water, his hands still a bit shaky.

I prepare the bed, fluffing the pillow, making it a place to rest. I guide him to lie down. He spills it all, fears, shame, heartache, and the beauty, things he has possibly never said aloud. I listen, no judgment, I’m just there. My hand is steady on his shoulder.

I dim the lights and pull a chair close to the bed, watching as his breathing slows, his body sinking into sleep. I’ll stay here for a while, in case he wakes and wants to talk. The session’s over, but the moment lingers, a connection, a gift, a glimpse of who this man really is.

Little did we know from our first conversation about bondage where it would lead. We had no idea the journey we would share.

Tomorrow we will pull back a bit, but tonight he will sleep and I will watch over him.

Next week I will live out one of my fantasies. Who knows what it will bring.

The following days…

A few days have passed since our bondage session. We haven’t communicated since I left him sleeping. I apologized for leaving such a mess to clean up but I know how particular he is about his rubber gear.

Like most men we relieved the awkwardness with humor. He had revealed a very vulnerable part of himself. The things he had talked about were very personal. Somethings were painful, some were shameful and some were hateful. His tears were about loss and regret. He was embarrassed mostly about his anger and self-pity.

I talked only about what he brought up, I’m not his therapist. He did however bring up his anger and apologized. I pointed out it was just one of his pent-up emotions, all we did was let them out. All emotions need to be expressed; the fact you said them out loud is healing. You said them to me and I’m not your judge, I’m your friend.

What we did was break down walls and what is behind them is no one’s business. That moment was very special. I hope our next session will put a few cracks in my own walls.

BDSM is beautiful in the way it removes barriers. It functions in a world of extremes, giving or receiving pain, connecting with the power of domination or the freedom of surrender or the deep subspace of bondage. Most avenues lead to the cathartic release of emotions.

Sitting on a sofa in a therapist’s office recalling the loss of a puppy or getting your ass beat with Ratan cane, they both lead to tears.

Each session changes us, our need to process each session becomes less important. Being seen and seeing another person, I mean really seeing and being seen is very rare. We shared that and neither of us judged or were judged. We accept each other flaws and all. After expressing gratitude, we begin planning our next session.

To be continued…

Metal would like to thank the author, Dalton Ott, for sharing this!