Black Solitude II

Editorial note from Metalbond: Everyone has to make their own decisions in terms of what they consider safe play. In my opinion it is NEVER a good idea to leave someone gagged while alone. Having said that, I hope you enjoy the narrative below, which was sent from Master Jack over at Bondagezine.

Black Solitude II

By PFC Pflege

Part 1

I wrote an account of Black Solitude and how I was tested to my limits by the long hours of being hogtied, gagged, and hooded, totally alone in complete blackness for a couple of days.

After I was released and flew home, of course my mind thought of the long hours and the effect on my mind and my will of being hogtied with chains, being gagged, being hooded, and being left completely alone in impenetrable darkness. I erected frequently on the flight, but had to wait until I was home for release. The concept of what happened to me consumed me, and I began writing to Master Jack, outlining my thoughts for a second session.

Master Jack would never have consented to me undergoing the first Black Solitude, let alone the second, if he had not already tested me in shorter, intense scenes before. So when I wrote to him, trying to formulate what it was I thought I wanted from Black Solitude II, he was ready to help, because he knew what I could take. And so, several months later, I returned to California, scared and yet intensely excited, knowing only that I would be imprisoned from Thursday afternoon until Sunday morning, that the bondage would be extremely tight, but that there was a goal to reach, and that goal was breaking me. There were no outs, no safe words, nothing like that. Master Jack would control the situation from my arrival until my release. I did not know how he planned to bind me, or what he planned after I was broken to his will: it was entirely open-ended, and at his discretion. As I wrote before, he would never do a scene like this with me, or anyone, unless the person had demonstrated the mental and physical will and desire and endurance vitally necessary in long-term bondage.

As before, I denied myself any kind of sex for eight days before I boarded the plane to California, and my sexual desire was definitely peaking when I landed in San Francisco. I changed, in the airport rest room, to USMC sweat pants, a USMC muscle shirt, and my black leather boots I wore at Parris Island, when I was in boot camp. This Marine was ready for combat.

It was a van pick-up with Master Jack driving, and another man subduing me, hog-chaining me, and gagging me with black electrical tape. It was very hot, and I was already sweating like a pig. Nobody said a word; in fact, for the next 56 hours, until ultimate submission, I don’t think a word was spoken to me, or by me. 99% of the time I was gagged anyway, and my mouth free only for short periods at feeding time. In order to enhance my experience, the second man slowly stuffed me, knees first, into a canvas U.S. mail bag. There I lay, hogtied and gagged, sweat streaming off my face; sweat coursing along my body; sweat pooling in the small of my back. I was literally in seventh heaven, with a major hard-on, and the certain knowledge that I had entered the tunnel from which there was no escape until I reached my breaking point, and submitted. I intended to force Master Jack to work hard to break me, and, although I looked forward to the total unknown of what submission would be like, I was tremendously excited about the upcoming – and inescapable – bondage.

Whether Master Jack deliberately chose a route which had a lot of bumps, so that I was bounced up and down in the back of the van, or not, I don’t know, and I never asked him, but the gathered bulge in my jock strap, under the USMC sweat pants, received many good joltings. I loved it. I ate it up. I writhed and twisted and made moaning noises through the electrical tape. I whored with my packed bulge against the steel floor of the van.

Finally we arrived, and I was removed from the mail sack, unchained, except for my hands behind my back, and duck-shuffled into a holding cage, where I was chained to the wire mesh enclosing the cage by my neck, standing up, hands locked behind my back. The second guy, I think his name was Mike, then hooded me with a  heavy leather hood, and I was left alone. I wanted stuff to happen, and thrashed around for a while, until I realized that Master Jack wanted me to wait and wait, until he decided, not me, when we went to the next stage. Most bottoms are bossy, and I am no exception. In this scene, Master Jack brought it home to me early that he was in charge, and I had no say in anything. No code word, no escape word, no fucking nothing. My cock stiffened again, even as sweat coursed down my body, into my ass crack, into the jock strap, making me squirm and twist.

“Take it, you fucking bitch,” I said to myself. I talked to myself a lot during the next 56 hours, mostly about taking it, preparing myself for submission, and, in the final twelve hours or so, desperately trying to hang on as incredibly deep exhaustion, both mental and physical, overcame me. I don’t know whether it makes sense to you, but I know it does to me, and I know it did to Master Jack: I wanted to be forced to submit, but I didn’t want to be forced to submit. This tension is what fueled the succeeding hours, and the incredibly beautiful bondage which awaited me.

I did not know what Master Jack intended. There was no spelling out of “I want this” and “I want that”,  it was a simple contract, which I signed before I came out to California, which, as I remember it, read something like this: “I agree to be a prisoner and submit to any bondage or other means of controlling me, which are chosen exclusively by Master Jack. I agree and understand that I will be broken, and made to submit, and I hereby also agree that there will be no code words or safety words which will release me.” Something like that. Pretty open-ended, leaving all discretion to Master Jack. While I slow was steamed like a vegetable in that holding tank in California’s fantastic heat, I thought of that contract, and thought, Damn, I have really bought it!

Finally the time came to move me to the punishment block or cell, a wooden structure behind Master Jack’s house, with thick walls and roof, designed to muffle screams, and walls covered with neatly arranged chains, ropes, hoods, masks, rubber suits, whips,, in fact, anything you could think of. I had been there before, and knew it well. My hood had been removed, but I was still gagged, and my hands still locked behind my back. I entered the cell, and saw the familiar sights.  At the back of the punishment block, on the left, was a high wooden throne-like chair, with a foot rest, also of wood. Before the throne was a rubber mat. To the right at the back was the cage, in which I had spent so many hours before, and would hours again. And, in the center of the room, its back to a heavy wooden post, was the chair.

There was nothing special about the chair. It was an ordinary aluminum-framed, armless chair, with a padded seat, the kind you see in a thousand Ramada Inn ballrooms or at wedding receptions. A rented chair, a nondescript chair, a chair no one would care about, or even remember. But that chair was the vital key to breaking me and forcing me into submission.

Master Jack guided me to the chair, and I sat down. He freed my hands, and immediately, using heavy manacles, locked them together, not just behind the chair, but behind the post the chair was set against. Then he chained me, starting with my legs, which were chained, and pulled to the back legs of the chair. Then a crisscross of chain over my chest, and locked behind the post. Then, in a really smart move, he passed two chains through my crotch, under my ass, across my hips, on each side of my cock and balls, and padlocked them behind the post.  Those two chains would provide me with a faint sensation, through the coming hours, of masturbating, as I thrust upwards from the chair seat, into the crotch chains, and heaving my chest uselessly against the crisscross. Then I was hooded, not with a heavy leather hood, but with the light, latex kind, which covers the whole head. You can see vague lights through a latex hood, as I am sure you know, but when Master Jack flicked off the switch, closed the door, and left, I was in impenetrable darkness.

Remember I was in a high state of extreme sexual desire to be, once again, in black solitude, hogtied, in effect, to the chair, gagged, and hooded, and that was where I was right now. No longer any planning, thinking about it, or erecting over it. The reality was right now. I was tightly chained into the chair and the post; I was gagged still with the electrical tape; and I was hooded. I heaved, and lusted, lusting as I had never lusted in bondage, my mind screaming with “You’re fucking trapped!”, “You’re fucking finished!”, and similar expressions. And it was true. I was trapped, and, as a Marine and a man, I was finished. It would take a long time, but the end was inevitable. Just thinking of that end made me writhe harder, thrusting upward against the chains in my crotch, rubbing my rock hard cock and my balls against the chains. For hours I writhed, heaved, twisted, and moaned in the chair. The chair and the chains owned my body; the gag and the hood cut off all seeing and speaking. Then I heard the door open.

It must have been Master Jack. He rolled the hood up far enough to get at my gag, which he snipped off, removing the electrical tape. Not a single word was said. He loaded me up with a lot of water – the punishment cell was air conditioned, but still quite warm – and then crammed a wadded piece of cloth into my mouth. It was a piss-soaked rag, folded over and over, and it filled my oral hole. Fresh, hot piss dripped down my throat, as Master Jack took more electrical tape (I could tell by the width of it), and taped the gag into my mouth. He also, and this was a totally unnecessary move, chained my elbows together, as if I wasn’t already totally secured. Then he left.

I dealt with the gag for a long time, chewing on it, tasting the piss, feeling the ache in my jaw as the gag forced my mouth open, and the electrical tape cut across my mouth and face.  I was still in a major sexual high, which only, after long hours, began to diminish, mostly because I was very tired. I hadn’t slept well the last couple of nights, and it was the middle of the night now (or so I guessed), and I was actually nodding off in sleep.

 

Part 2

 

Master Jack reappeared, and released me, or, rather, unchained me from the chair, only to immediately chain me into a hogtie, still hooded and gagged, in the cage. I began to sense what was going to happen to me. I had no idea how long I was in the chair (I later learned that the first session in the chair was eight hours, and that the remaining sessions averaged six or seven hours), but I was keenly aware that I wanted to piss. I spent the next hours crushing my cock into the floor to prevent pissing, and eventually even was able to sleep. Time was slowly meaning nothing. I was totally alone, gagged, hooded, and hog-chained in absolute blackness. I writhed and twisted when I awoke – it had been just a nap – and thought that it was only Friday morning (probably).

Master Jack reappeared, rolled up the latex hood, so my mouth was free, but my eyes still covered. He removed the gag, and made me drink a lot of water. Then he fed me, spooning food into the hogtied Marine, the way someone feeds a baby. When he was done, he gagged me with a new rag, soaked in fresh urine, and taped it in with the electrical tape. It was time for my second session in the chair.

I still had some residual sexual desire after the previous session in the chair, and this kept me going for several hours. I started sweating again, and the new sweat reawakened the old sweat. My Marine Corps sweats were soaking in spots, and sweat trickled down my back and chest.  The chains were again tight, crisscrossing my chest; my wrists were manacled behind the post; my legs pulled back and chained to the post. My muscles were slowly aching, but most of all, I could no longer hold in the piss. Drinking all that water at breakfast made it impossible, and suddenly I was pissing all over myself in the sweats, but the humiliation, plus the chafing of the two chains through my crotch, erected my cock in the piss-soaked jock strap.

I heaved and lunged in the chains, making noise, but no progress towards freedom. I heard the door open, and I knew Master Jack was there. I knew he could see that I pissed my self, and the humiliation of being seen like that, stiffened my cock. Master Jack took some kind of L-shaped piece of wood, and shoved one end in my crotch and under my ass. The top end he then chained to the chest chains, thus imprisoning my cock and balls tightly in my crotch. I showed off by fucking the wooden L, or trying to, lunging forward, feeling my balls and cock up against the rigid board. The door closed, and I was once again alone.

This pattern became familiar to me. After six or seven hours in the chair, I was released to be hog-chained again in the cage, and gagged with a new, piss-soaked gag. For days after the throat.

I was beyond caring. It was only Friday afternoon or night (my guess) and I was physically and mentally exhausted. I had been fed and given lots of water, but I had not been able to sleep very much. This was the intention. Master Jack was pushing me harder than I had even been pushed; he was doing this only because I had endured Black Solitude #1. So I was transferred from the cage to the chair, left for six or seven hours, now with the wooden L a permanent part of the bondage. I was repeatedly gagged and re-gagged, so that the taste of urine was permanent: hot, acrid urine.

I was fed at, I guess, Friday night, in the cage like before, then chained again to the chair. This was the third chaining, and I wasn’t even half way through the ordeal. Interestingly, unlike Black Solitude #1, I experienced no panic attacks, those screaming, mind-numbing panics when you feel: I MUST GET OUT OF THIS, and thrashing and heaving uselessly until the panic slowly subsides, and your mind and body submit, once again, to the unbreakable chains. What happened was a slow, incremental destruction of my will, and my manhood. During the third or fourth time in the chair, I literally submitted to the chains, this time heaving up into them, trying to inflict new pain on my aching muscles and body.

I did not realize until much later, after the session was over, that, by submitting to the chains, I had gone past the point I had reached in Black Solitude #1. It was like sliding down a gentle slope, when, suddenly, the slope’s angle increasing, and you now hurtle towards the bottom. The chains taunted me, mocked me, and they took on a definite, fiendish character. I thought that, somehow, if I submitted to the chains, they would somehow loosen up, and be more lenient. They didn’t, and right then, as if on cue, Master Jack reappeared, and, quite unnecessarily, chained my elbows together, and added two chains, one to each thigh. I would have laughed out loud if I hadn’t been gagged with that piss-rag. I heaved against the new chains, feeling the new ache in my upper arms and across my thighs. I even slept.

The rest of the night, if it was Friday night, was spent in the cage, hog-chained as usual. The following morning, I was permitted to use a portable toilet to shit and piss, but I was gagged and hooded while I did so, even though my hands, obviously, were free. I was permitted, after the gag was removed, to eat like an ordinary prisoner, except my eyes were still hooded, by Master Jack rolling up the latex hood. Then it was back to the chair.

I knew, somehow, that it was Saturday morning, and, at most, I had two more sessions in the chair. The submission to the chains on Friday continued on Saturday, but I wasn’t aware, until looking back later, that I was submitting more than physically, more than mentally, but my manhood was slowly, inevitably submitting.

Saturday’s first session was a living Hell. The chains, mocking and taunting me, seemed as if they were on fire, burning my body and my muscles. Master Jack added two new chains, over my shoulders and under my arms, locking my upper body more tightly to the post. These chains dug into my collar bone, causing new pain in the already totally exhausted body. But then Master Jack did something even crueler, which intensified my living Hell. He removed the old gag, hell I was used to being re-gagged, and gagged me with another freshly piss-soaked cloth. He taped my mouth, and then, using more tape across my mouth, he taped my head to the post. It was incredible. I did not believe I could be chained so tightly: legs, thighs, crotch, wrists, elbows, chest, under arms and over shoulders, now my head was taped to the post. The jaunting, jeering, gloating chains mocked me, taunted me, and cruelly held me. I felt grubby and filthy. My facial hair had grown since Thursday’s arrival, and scratched under the tape. My USMC sweat pants were soaked and clammy from the time I had pissed on myself. I am sure I must have been stinking, too. But most of all, I was finally tasting defeat. Even if I begged Master Jack, the next time he removed my gag, nothing would stop the manhood-destroying exhaustion and incredibly tight chaining. Master Jack had created a personal Hell for me to suffer in, a personal, living Hell of aching, throbbing muscles, and total mental and physical exhaustion. I thrust my balls and cock up against the damn wooden L, but there was no arousal.

They say that a man’s resilience will let him become accustomed to almost anything, but that Saturday morning’s (or afternoon’s, I am not sure) session in the chair, with that cruel gag binding my head to the post, took me close to the ultimate goal of submitting and destroying my manhood. I know only a few other guys who are into this kind of bondage, one I used to chain in an extremely tight hogtie, and then, over the hours, add more and more chain, until the sheer weight of chain defeated. We email now and then, but the common epiphany we all have is that, sometime during the long-term bondage, that body you admire in the mirror, those muscles you are so proud of, are now your manhood’s enemy. The exhaustion of mind, body, and spirit will reduce you from a proud Marine to a complaining sufferer, and then your submission to your Master is total and complete. This was the goal Master Jack was working towards, and this was the goal he was slowly achieving.

Sometime late in the session, I achieved exaltation. Every long-term bondage guy knows what I am talking about. It is a feeling of sheer abundant joy, and I have no idea what its source is nor why it happens. I do know that Master Jack came in, right at that moment, and, sensing he was going to release me, I shouted “No, no!” as loud as a muffled grunt could be. He knew instantly what was happening; he knew I was exalted. I heard the door close, and my cock went rigidly hard as I heard the key turn. Chained up as I was, I couldn’t possibly escape, but Master Jack wanted me to hear the sound of the key locking me in, just as he wanted me to hear the snap of a padlock or manacles. In total exaltation of spirit, I heaved and lusting, moaning as loud as the gag would let me, and thrusting my crotch into that wooden L. I know Master Jack could hear me, because I knew that the punishment block was wired for sound, so he could track my noise, or silence. The exaltation and the rock hard erection went on and on, until, very suddenly, I fell asleep.

I awoke to Master Jack releasing me, and I crawled over to the cage, where he hog-chained me, spoon-fed me, and made me drink lots of water. I knew it was late Saturday afternoon, or early Saturday evening. I was on the last lap of an incredible long-term bondage. As if recognizing this fact, and believe me, Master Jack knows men, so I am guessing he was on the journey with me, step for step, sensing every foot of the way what state I was in, he took a short chain, padlocked it to the manacles around my wrists, and pulled it up, padlocking the other end to one of the bars in the cage’s top.  I was thus tightened in the hogtie, unable to roll, hooded, gagged, and chained. I was so far beyond exhaustion that I did not even feel the aching muscles much, but was actually looking forward to Saturday night’s final session in the chair. I had no doubt at all that I would be returned to the chair. I slept, this time hard.

 

Part 3

 

Master Jack woke me with the sound of the door opening, and yes, I was returned to the chair. However, I was not given a new gag, and my head was not taped to the post. It was bondage pretty much identical with the very first chair session, way back on Thursday night. No thigh chains, no elbow chains, but he did add the underarm, over shoulder chains. It was the final session, and it was relaxed in comparison with the crescendo of ever tightening chains in previous sessions. I knew the hours were slowly ticking down, and I knew Master Jack had some kind of plans for me, after the long-term bondage was over. We had discussed, generally, what I was looking for, but he had a free hand to decide when, where, how, and what. I slept in the chair for a while, and then was returned to the cage, hog-chained, but without the chain to the upper bar. The sodden gag had now been in my mouth twelve hours or so; my face was scratchy with my growing beard, and I still wore the piss-stained sweats. I slept fitfully, wanting to submit to Master Jack, but not knowing what he had planned.

The 56 hours were almost over, when Master Jack entered the punishment block, and released me. He left the door open, and California’s bright sunshine filled the room. Fresh air cleared the pungent stench of dried and reawakened sweat, and I was allowed to eat without a hood or gag or chains. After I had eaten, Master Jack silently indicated a cardboard box, and I stripped stark naked, folding and stowing the clothes and boots in the box. He then led me over to where the wooden throne-chair stood, with a wooden foot-rest, and a long rubber mat before it. I did get a chance to look at the chair where I had spent 32 or 35 hours chained up. It had returned to being an ordinary Ramada Inn-type chair, and the chains heaped around it were innocent of the fiendish qualities I had given them, hours earlier.

Master Jack helped me into a wet suit, the kind scuba divers use, which covered my body from my neck to my feet. He guided me to a face-down position on the mat, my head towards the throne-chair.  He fastened leather restraints on my wrists and ankles, and using thin chain, hogtied me, very, very tightly. With rising sexual excitement, I knew my ultimate submission was near. I whored with my cock into the rubber mat. I watched as Master jack brought over the bowl, in which he had recently pissed, watched as he swirled a cloth in the hot urine, watched as he gagged me again, and watched him unroll more black electrical tape to complete the gag. The sunshine was fierce and the day was already hot. I was sweating like a pig, sweat all over my body, all over my filthy body, but I was rock hard. Master Jack did not hood me, and I guessed he wanted me to see the throne-chair and its footrest.

I began to see what my submission was going to entail.

I had a long wait, alone in the punishment block, with the door open, and California’s heat filling the room, and making me sweat in the rubber suit. But, finally, Master Jack appeared in Army fatigues and long black leather boots, which came up over his thighs. They were tightly laced, and spit-polish shiny. He unchained me, and helped me get out of the rubber suit, then he sat in the throne-chair, his boots on the footrest. I stood awkwardly, stark naked, sweaty and stinking, with four days’ growth of beard.

“Kneel”. It was the first spoken word between us since Thursday.

I knelt, my hands automatically locking behind my neck. There was no need for any other command; I shuffled on my knees down the rubber pad to Master Jack’s boots. I am a rich, arrogant, proud guy, a Marine. Now I was stark naked, filthy and sweaty, on my knees to an Army sergeant, and starting to lick his boots. All the hell of the previous days was the foundation of this scene: arrogant prick Marine, naked, kneeling before Army, dressed in full fatigues. There was no going back, and no desire to. Keeping my hands locked behind my neck, I began licking Master Jack’s boots. My mouth, recently so full of his hot urine, now tasted leather and leather polish. I spread my knees, so Master Jack could clearly see my hardening cock, and my balls, swinging between my legs. This was not humiliation; this was degradation.

It took a long time to lick Master Jack’s boots. At some point, he released his cock, and was stroking its hard shaft while he watched me, on my knees, licking his boots. Up and down, up and down, my tongue coursed along the leather, my tongue becoming caked with boot polish. I licked between the laces; I licked around the back, as far as I could reach. All the while I kept my hands locked behind my neck, with the degrading submission, forced upon me by the long hours of chained black solitude, hardening my cock. In my head was the mantra “Arrogant prick Marine submits to his Army master”.

I finally finished licking Master Jack’s boots, while he stroked his cock. I knelt back on my haunches, when he put one boot on top of the other, showing the sole and heel. I didn’t need an order. Once again my hands locked behind my neck, and my tongue licked the sole and heel of each boot, slowly, reverently, the prick Marine on his knees before his Army master.

The finale was beautiful, by anyone’s standards. Master Jack told me to take the piss bowl, in which he soaked the piss gags, and put it between my legs.

“Piss in it,” he commanded, “then drink it. Hold the last of it in your mouth without swallowing, while you jerk off on your knees.”

It took me a while to get some piss up, but finally I did, and pissed into the bowl, still about one quarter full of Master Jack’s urine. I drank the urine, on my knees, the arrogant prick Marine drinking his and Master Jack’s urine, and then held the last consignment in my mouth. Filthy, humiliated, and totally degraded, I masturbated towards my Army master, spurting my ropes of cum at his feet. He didn’t need to give an order; I knew I had to eat my own cum, and I cleaned Master Jack’s rubber pad of my jism.

After showering, I was aware that it wasn’t over. I wrapped a towel around my waist, and went into the front room of the house, where Master Jack was reading the paper.

“Sir,” I said.

Without a word, he got up, and followed me outside to the punishment block. He resumed the throne-chair, and I knelt, dropping the towel, so I was naked, and this time caressed and kissed his boots, over and over and over. He had brought lube with him, and flipped it onto the floor, beside me. I was grateful for that, and used it to lube my cock, starting a slow masturbation, while kissing my Army master’s boots. I spurted again, and lusted into it, on the rubber mat. My degradation was complete.

I flew home later that day, with a feeling of incredible cleansing, purification, and exaltation. I often think of that experience, but, just as equally, I think of Master Jack, whose skillful work with me, his knowledge of my limits, and his expertise in reading men, made it possible.

 

THE END

 

Editorial note from Metalbond: Everyone has to make their own decisions in terms of what they consider safe play. I don’t mean to preach, but in my opinion it is NEVER a good idea to leave someone gagged while alone. Having said that, I hope you enjoyed the narrative above, which was sent from Master Jack over at Bondagezine.

 

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