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Mistakes in the Military

By slavesoldier

It’s a little after noon on a hot sunny day and the sun is streaming in through a window above me in the cafeteria. I’m sitting on a bench at a table with a plate of food in front of me waiting for the order to eat. Others are still gathering their food and taking their seats, marching in a prescribed orderly fashion. The food isn’t all that appetizing but I’m starving, it’s been a hard day so far.

Sitting, in this unit, means sitting on the front 2 inches of the bench, feet together flat on the ground with knees at 90 degrees and together. Upper body is erect and rigid with back straight, chest out and stomached sucked in as much as possible. Head is level with eyes staring straight ahead, no expression is allowed. Hands are placed on knees. It’s a position of attention from which no deviation is allowed.

We live by a strict code of discipline and are never without orders or expectations. We are expected to be the absolute best. Best in training, best in physical condition, best in drill and best in appearance so that presumably, we’ll be the best in combat. The consequence for even the slightest mistake can be brutal and the grip that the commander has on this unit means that what happens in the unit stays in the unit. The unit performs, he gets rewarded and we do as ordered. We all genuinely fear this man and wouldn’t dare cross him, even when his methods of enforcing the code of discipline exceed what is authorized by regulation.

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Chains

By lithium500mg

Part One

Whenever I see a naked steel chain I get hard. I want to feel the cold metal around my wrists, around my ankles, tightly harnessing my chest, cradling my groin, and digging into my ass. I want to feel the torture of a chain-mail chastity squeezing my balls and delivering a shallow catheterization when my dick is undisciplined.

Leather? For me leather is a work uniform. My love of the feel and smell of leather is satiated by professional motorcycle racing where thick cowhide is necessary for safety. On racing weekends I’m encased in heavy, sweaty leathers while riding on pavements hot enough to make French toast. I love the animal skin’s shrink-when-wet behavior that requires peeling out of it after a race day is over. In fact, someone on my team has to help peel it off my chest (I can do the rest). Racing fans with pit passes sometimes seem to enjoy the show of a ripped torso that has struggled to keep the bike upright through lefties and righties, corkscrews, and the heavy traffic aiming for the hole shot.

When my team finished the race at Willow Springs, I headed up towards the Air Force base on my street bike to new Master’s rented home. His shift as an MP at the base stockade ended in about two hours, so I had the place to myself. I stripped off my jeans and T-shirt, went to the crate where the linked steel was stored, and began adding metal to my now naked body.

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Read the Instructions

By Callum Buchanan (of blessed memory)

Note from Metal: I am re-posting this story after a reader contacted me about it. See below for more information about this author and where this story came from.

The boxer’s mouthpiece felt as if it had swollen to fill his whole mouth. It was three o’clock in the morning and he could neither spit it out nor even open his mouth. That thought was the least of his problems and once again he cursed himself for a fool, he should have read the instructions first!

He was fit, and did go into the gym to spar with a trainer on a regular basis. but he also had some kinks and one of them was to dress in the training kit and pretend that he could not take it off. That he was trapped and helpless in it. Unable even to open his front door and get help.

The dream though had now become reality and he was in a real fix. At the gym Bob his trainer had told him about some new extra safe sparing kit. The padding was better so was the fit. there were no laces or straps to cause problems in the ring and you did not even need to wrap or bandage your hands because the gloves were so well made. He had agreed that the stuff looked good and placed a telephone order for the kit from the makers, a local sports goods company he had never heard from before and bought 20oz gloves, a supersafe head guard and cup.

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RUBBER object

By muckyRUBBERpig

muckyRUBBERpigRubber was made for dehumanation of slaves, and their conversion into objects.

Worn by an object, rubber hides much of what makes a human body, what makes it different from another human body. Of course, there are still differences in size, width or general shape, but a rubber-covered body looks like another rubber-covered body, they no longer have a real identity of their own. Without this human physical identity and personality, the slave loses part of its humanity and thus becomes an object. During its existence, the object will very rarely see itself in a mirror or it may eventually glimpse its reflection somewhere. Despite the passage of time, when allowed to see, it will only see a human form without a face, without identity, expression or character and what it sees will never, ever change. This immutable image detaches it from the passing of time, cancels identity and the object will forget the image of itself and how it looked like before it was encased in its rubber skin. As soon as it is encased in rubber, a new identity of rubber object is created: It is just one thing, another possession of its Owner.

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Shirt and Tie Bondage

By bound2tie

Mark York was a good-looking guy on a budget-airline flight from Britain to Hamburg.   He was one of only two passengers to be wearing a suit and tie, and the check-in operator had put the other suit in the adjoining seat.

The other guy commented on their being the only two formally dressed, and asked what York’s business was in Hamburg.   York laughed and said he wouldn’t believe him if he told him.   In fact York didn’t need to be dressed like that.   But he was a homosexual with shirt’n’tie, bondage and other fetishes, and was on his way to stay a few days with a Hamburg guy, Reinhardt Schmidt, who shared his kinks.

York had never met Schmidt, but had photos of him, in formal clothes and/or bondage.   York couldn‘t spot Schmidt’s cute face when he emerged from Arrivals at Hamburg, but was surprised to see two goodlooking uniformed men waiting with a notice showing the name Mark York.   They were both wearing dark sweaters with epaulets, and v-necks showing white shirts and neat, formal ties, one with a clip-on tie and the other a real tie in a great looking wide Windsor knot, a perfectly symmetrical knot wider than it was long.

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A Weekend in Service

By bound2befun

Part 1

My dick is hard in my jockstrap and jeans as I ride the train to see him. What normally seems like a relatively quick trip seems to take forever. I’m incredibly horny having been ordered not to cum for the last five days. So, the restriction coupled with the anticipation of what is to come is making me antsy. I rub my crotch when others aren’t looking but even feeling somewhat guilty for doing so as I know Sir intended me to be denied all pleasure until I see him.

Finally, the train pulls up to Alexandria. Sir had indicated his place was close to the station so I pulled out the walking directions I had written from my pocket, softly brushing my dick one more time before I truly turned over control. I texted Sir to let him know of my imminent arrival and then quickly began the walk.

Arriving at his door, I knocked and waited. Was I really going to do this? I waited a while longer. Should I knock again? Is he just making me wait to amp me up (it’s working!). I am about to knock again when I hear the lock turning so I quickly avert my eyes to the base of the door. The door opens and I hear Sir telling me to come in but can only see the toe of his boot from behind the door. I walk through keeping my eyes down and hear the door close, locking with some type of finality that makes my dick twitch again.

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Permanent Change – Part 01

By Sportsrubb

Hey guys. It’s my first story to compose. I want to catch some things I like in different ones, so here’s a start. If you have any comments, suggestions or want to give supper: sportsrubb@gmail.com

Present day

With a blast I wake up. Sitting upright in under a second my heart races like crazy. I’ve got the feeling that I have slept for ages. Everything is dark but I can feel that I’m my own bed. My own room. It looks a bit warmer then usual though. When I scratch my arm I feel rubber, which makes me start thinking. Did I put my rubber on, can’t really remember me doing that…. We’ll sleeping in rubber isn’t that unusual for me but not remembering is rather strange. In a sudden I feel a sharp pain in my head. The kind of pain that equals the worst migraine I ever had. Thankfully there are painkillers next to my bed. Always. So with some difficulty I manage to find them and I can do something to that awful headache. The flashing doesn’t stop immediately so I decide to get back in bed and close my eyes.

6 months before

Well, here I am again. Surfing the internet, posting pics on instagram, and wasting my whole evening behind the computer looking at hot guys having fun. Why, why isn’t my life like this I wonder.

I’m the rather usual gay guy. A bit self insecure about the looks, have a nice job and some great friends, but not any of them into any gear. And yes there is a boyfriend, who actually likes gear himself too.

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The Game by Jim – Part 1

By Jim

David stood in his complex’s lobby, staring down anxiously at his phone. On it was the logo of the Game, along with a countdown: “00:00:01;24”. That damn timer had been ticking down for what felt like an eternity. For David it practically was; he’d been waiting for his chance to compete for almost 4 months now. 4 months of evenings filled with cruel tortures, mind-numbing tasks, and above all the aching, unrelenting pangs of horniness. This month had to be it. It would finally be his chance for release, he could feel it!

His heart raced as the timer ticked down to the very last seconds: three, two, one…

 This month’s contestants are: #37, #29, #14, #43, #20

Stand by for orders at 20:00 hours, EST. Failure to report is punishable by a penalty month; repeat offences will result in automatic forfeiture.

David’s heart sank. Another month of waiting! How long until he’d be able to get even a chance at his freedom? Dejected, he headed for the stairs.

Continue reading The Game by Jim – Part 1