Gimp Training, Week 5

Unowned in NYC

It’s been over a month now since my sub became my gimp. While I’m on the job, or out with my buds, the excitement of knowing where he is and how he’s bound, and that he’s not moving until I got home, still keeps me hard through the better part of each day. But the intensity is lessening a little bit, week by week. It’s a relief for me, in a way, because my dick was getting chafed from stepping into the port-a-john to jerk off five or six times a day during those first couple weeks. The other guys had started razzing me about it — was I getting old man’s prostate?  Going to jerk off again?  If only they knew that’s exactly what I was doing.

That first week, the gimp was on my mind practically every second of every day.  Horned up beyond belief, but tempered with a strong dose of concern.  Maybe he’d overheat, or there’d be a fire or a gas leak at the house.  Maybe he’d completely freak out and I’d come home to a zombie gimp, mentally broken beyond the point of what I wanted.  Maybe some freak accident would clog up the air tube in his gag.  The gimp and I had talked about all these dangers and more, in those last couple months leading up to his transformation.   As far as he was concerned, the chances were so remote for any of these possibilities, that  it was a no-brainer.

The potential risks were well worth the reward of him being allowed to truly live as my object.   He didn’t have to twist my arm.  I had just wanted to make absolutely sure he was aware of what he’d be getting himself into, and that he wasn’t off in a fantasy world, unaware of certain realities.  By the time I’d decided I really wanted to do it with him, I wanted to be sure we weren’t going to get a few days or a few weeks into it just to have him try to get out of it or negotiate for something easier.

During the second or third week of my turning him into my gimp, I began to forget about him for a few minutes at a time, or even for a half hour or more,  if I got pulled into a meeting with the foreman or had to call customer service to argue about a bill or something.  When he came back into my mind, it shocked me that I’d been able to forget for even a second. But it was all part of the deal, of his becoming my object.

Now, starting on the fifth week, there are stretches of an hour or two where he barely pops into my mind.  I wonder if eventually he’s really going to just become a possession that I think about only when I need it, out of sight and out of mind while I’m out and about.  Last week, during one of the nights when I had given him some free time out of bondage, and had allowed him to talk freely to me, I mentioned this to him.

“Sometimes a half hour or an hour goes by, where I don’t even think about having you bound up here, gimp.”

“Yes Sir.  Can the gimp express its opinion?”

“Of course, I told you to speak freely.  Respectfully, but freely.”

I was on the couch eating the dinner he’d made for me, fried chicken and mashed potatoes.  A glass of Jack and coke on the side.  He sat on the floor at my boots.  I fed him scraps of chicken as we talked, alternately letting him feed from my fingers, or off his plate on the floor.  I gave him scoops of mashed potato too, but these he ate directly off my boots.  I’d seen videos where Masters had their slaves lick food (or worse) out of the tread under their boots, but it seemed to risky to me.  Who knows what the hell I walk through in any given day?  I want respect, and I know the slave loves being allowed any contact with my boots, but I don’t want a slave getting sick from licking up some nasty mystery substance.  So he ate off the tops of my boots.  He was free from his straitjacket and hood, but tonight I’d told him he’d stay blindfolded all night, aside from his time earlier  in the kitchen cooking for me.  He was doing very well with the blindfold, and although I’d seen him wince when I told him he’d keep it on all night, he hadn’t verbally complained or questioned it.  He knew better.

“It’s only natural that Sir will start thinking about gimp less and less.  Gimp is like any other possession.  When it’s brand new, the owner wants to play with it every day, and can’t stop thinking about it.  As time passes, it’s taken care of and maintained but–”

His voice was trembling as he said this, a mix of fear and horniness.  He hadn’t voluntarily cum in five weeks, but had managed to shoot hands free, bound in his straitjacket in the closet, two day so far while I was at work, and twice more while I was using him.  He was on the edge of cumming pretty much all day and all night.  All the more impressive considering that he’s been in a stainless steel device that inserts into his urethra and keeps his dick contracted to about two inches in length.  And all the more confirmation that he really wants and needs this.  But I had begun to wonder:  even if he started showing signs of second thoughts,  would that sway me?  I thought I might even find that even hotter, having him start to resist and try to bargain for a way out.  It wasn’t a question of if, but when, he was going to beg for release or for a softer version.  Anyhow, I would find out the answer sooner than I thought.

“But what, gimp?”

“But the owner gets on with his life and thinks of the possession less and less.”

“You’re making me hard again, gimp.”

He’d already been skull fucked when I got home, while he was still in his gimp gear, seated on the closet floor.  So far, I’d still been fucking him at least three times a day, usually in one of his holes quickly before I left for the day, and once or twice at night, sometimes in the middle of the night.  Then too there were nights when I jerked off with him kneeling in front of me, or with my boots resting on his back, making him painfully aware that I was getting off but not letting him have contact with my dick. When I jerked off like this, I’d sometimes let him find the load and eat it up, but something I’d deprive him of even that.  “Fuck, there’s jizz all over my fucking leather jacket, must’ve been ten huge spurts.  I’m gonna wipe it up with a rag tonight.”  He would beg for the cum, if he had permission to speak.  If not, I’d see him silently shaking, very softly whimpering, restraining himself from begging.

“Good Sir.  Gimp wishes it could see Sir and Sir’s hard cock.”

“I’m sure you do.  But you know you don’t deserve that.”

“Yes Sir.”

“I’m not punishing you by making you keep on the blindfold.  You understand that.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Then why are you blindfolded?”

“Because you don’t need me to see anything right now Sir.”

“Good gimp.  And we’re going to keep expanding the amount of time you spend sightless.  If I could keep you blindfolded or hooded permanently, I would.  But you’d become less useful to me.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Only yes Sir?”

“Thank you Sir.”

“Better.  Thank me for what.”

“Thank you for controlling it  so strictly Sir.”

My dick, which had been getting firmer and firmer in my jeans, leapt to full attention when he said that.

I had started slowly edging myself as I asked him questions, and let him answer freely, in detail.

“Any second thoughts this week?”

I’d asked this at least two or three nights every week so far, and he’d always said no, absolutely not.  I doubted this very much.  Eight, nine, or even ten or twelve hours, depending on whether I came right home after work, every single day, straitjacketed, in pitch darkness, in the closet?  Sleeping in bondage ranging from just his hood and handcuffs, to full sleepsack?

“Yes Sir.  But just for one second.  Well, maybe three, four times this week, for a minute or two, gimp did find itself second-guessing the choice it’s made.”

“That’s really it?  Just a few minutes of regret, the whole week?  You don’t have to try to impress me, boy.”  I still lapse into calling him “boy” instead of “gimp”.  He, of course, is never allowed to slip up on that point.

“It’s hard to tell how much time it had these thoughts Sir.  The days blend together, sometimes a whole day seems to go by in an hour, some days the gimp feels like days have passed and you’ve abandoned it.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”  Hot fantasy, anyhow, though I wasn’t going to state that during this delicate moment.

“Okay boy.  So let’s say for maybe five or ten minutes this week you found yourself having second thoughts.  Does that sound about right?”

“Yes Sir, probably.”

“I’ve never done this before, so I can’t say for sure, but I would guess you’re going to have more and more second thoughts, and they’re going to get stronger and stronger.  And then what happens?”

“Then…”  he hesitated, frowned.  I could see the wheels turning in his head, even without seeing his eyes.

“Speak freely boy.  Don’t tell me what I want to hear.  You’re going to have less and less time where you’re allowed to talk to me, as we keep going.  So take advantage of it.”

“Yes Sir.”  But the cat got his tongue again.

“Gimp.  What happens when you start having really strong second thoughts?  That closet is going to start to turn into hell for you, I don’t care how much you love being my object.  And that’s just the beginning.  We haven’t gotten to real hardcore bondage storage yet.  Not even remotely.”

He was shivering.

“Sir–“.  He still couldn’t talk.

“Okay boy.  Suppertime is over.  Go brush your teeth.  Keep your blindfold on.  I want you to start learning how to do things like that in the dark.  Use the bathroom, too.  When you come back, I want an answer.  I’m starting to get impatient.  I told you, there’s no right or wrong answer.  Go.  Go brush your teeth.”

I sat back and stroked my meat as I watched him slowly work his way toward the bathroom, his hands in the air in front of him, feeling his way forward.

“Be careful in there,”  I called to him.  “I don’t know what I’m gonna do if you make a mess.” I wasn’t going to do anything, of course, just make him clean it up.  Still, it had a nice sound to it.

He managed just fine with finding  the toothbrush and toothpaste and cleaning himself up.  Meanwhile I brought myself twice right to the edge of cumming, knowing that no matter what he said about second thoughts, the outcome would be the same, both for his future, and for me having a mind blowing orgasm.  His second thoughts didn’t matter.  I hadn’t been completely sure of that until that moment.  I had still thought maybe we’d both get to a point where he’d start bargaining and I’d have a change of heart, too.

He felt his way back into the living room.

“Come on boy, come over.  Master is giving you permission to sit on the couch next to him.”

I was so horny watching him, as he uncertainly, slowly moved around in the dark, finding me, putting his head on my shoulder.  I could smell him breathing me in, the sweat and dust and fumes of the work site.  His dick, not capable of getting even remotely erect, still throbbed down at its root, making the little steel nub of his chastity device twitch around.

I put my arm around him, kissed the top of his head.  We’d never kissed mouth to mouth at any stage of his training, butt I surprised myself now.  I’d never kissed him at all, anywhere.  It seemed I was actually valuing him more and more for the sacrifice he’d been making for me, feeling more protective of him than I ever had, because he truly was now completely at my mercy.

I held him tight, guided his hand to my dick.

“Don’t jerk it, just hold it tight, boy.”

He moaned with pleasure, touching it.

“Now tell me.  What happens when the second thoughts and regrets start getting stronger and stronger.  Do we renegotiate the terms?”

“No Sir.  We agreed, there is no going back.”  His voice trembled and cracked, like he was a nervous hormonal adolescent.    “Master clearly explained to gimp many, many times that it would get harder and harder, and the gimp would start to really suffer and want its freedom back.  But it is aware that that’s not going to happen.  And that is as it should be Sir.”

“Fuck yeah,” was all I could say.  And he could feel how close his statement had gotten me to  point of no return, as he held my dick in his hand.

“Okay, let go of my dick, boy.  I don’t want to cum just yet.”

I squeezed him tight again, then told him to go get his straitjacket and hood.  He had started to reach for the blindfold before quickly realizing that I meant he should go get them while still blindfolded.

Back into his gear he went.  I’d geared him up in the hood and straitjacket so many times, even before he became my full-time gimp, that I could get it all laced up and buckled up on him, right and form fitting, in just a few minutes, second nature.  I could barely stop from having my own touch free orgasm, after the way he’d just answered my question.  I had wondered on and off over the months leading up to this point, about whether or not it was actually right to do this, even with someone who swore over and over that he’d been born for it and would never be fulfilled until he got it, someone who told me that if I couldn’t do it, he would need to find someone else who would.  But the deeper we were getting into this, the more sure I was becoming.

I had just barely finished lacing his hood up and gotten my dick shoved into the mouth hole and down his throat before I blew, a big chunky load that made him gag, dribbling out of the corners of his mouth.

After that night, my conviction became more solid than ever.  He would be pushed and pushed.  There would be no going back.

Tonight, I stop at the Harley dealership after work to look at a  leather jacket I’d been eyeing for a while.  I have two very well-worn jackets, a classic biker  style jacket that’s been with me for at least 20 years, and a Langlitz that I take out mostly for special occasions.  I’ve been wanting a new jacket, a racer style, with the short collar and the broad orange horizontal stripe across the front and the HD logo and bald eagle embossed on the back.  Winter faded out a few weeks ago, and it’s been riding weather every day now.  I’m going to let the gimp worship me without seeing the new jacket at first, see if he can figure it out by taste or feel or smell.  Later tonight  I’ll let him see me in it, just for a few minutes, before I put him away.

I tell the guy at the counter, “No bag,  I’ll wear the jacket out,”  as he rings it up.

I put the biker jacket I wore to work this morning into one of my riding bags.  The days are getting longer now.  It’s still not quite sunset when I pull into my driveway, even though I’m home tonight an hour and a half after work is over.

I pull the bike into the garage, revving the engine a half dozen times before shutting it off.  There are four closets in the house, and part of the reason I decided to store my gimp in the one in the entrance way to the house, just off the living room, is that it shares a common wall with the garage.  Before he’d become my gimp, we’d stored him in there a few times, and had figured out that even with his ears plugged under a thick hood, he could still hear the bike rev up in the garage if he was in that closet.  So now that I’m taking the bike to work again, he’ll hear when I get home, which I’ve already found just makes me want to keep him waiting longer and longer.  Knowing I’m home but haven’t come for him in the closet yet.

In fact last Friday I had come home and jerked off for close to an hour to amateur videos, before I ungagged him, pissed in his throat and gagged him again, and then hopped back on the bike to go  the Eagle with Charlie and Dave, staying out until closing time, knowing that the gimp could hear me when I pulled into the garage again around 2 a.m., Dave having come along behind me on his own bike.  Dave sort of knows what’s going on with the gimp, though he doesn’t know the full details.  If the gimp and I actually go all the way to the limits of what we’ve discussed, I’m not sure if anyone can know about it.  If I heard one of my buds was going to objectify his slave the way mine had asked me to do, I might even report it myself.

I’d opened the closet and flipped on the overhead light, revealing my gimp, babbling excitedly through his gag, clearly having heard us come into the garage.

“Holy fuck, that is so fucking hot!”  Dave burst out.

“He can hear the bikes pull up but he can’t hear us talking,” I explained.  “Can you hear us, boy?”  He didn’t of course.  “He’s been like that since I left for the bar,” I lied.  How would he react if I told him the truth, that the boy had actually been like that since nine that morning?

And then it occurred to me that it would only be seven more hours and the boy would’ve been gimped in the closet a full twenty four.  We hadn’t done that.  In fact, we’d only gone twelve hours continuous at any one time.   So that had decided that.  I took the gimp’s gag out and fed him my piss, which I’d held for the last hour or so at the bar, to make sure he got a really big drink.  He would be very thirsty and very hungry by this point.  He lapped it up.  Even before I turned him into my gimp, he’d long ago been trained to drink my piss by the gallon without spilling a drop or choking.

“I gotta go, too,”  Dave said, watching me piss.

“You know where the bathroom is,” I said.  “He’s my urinal, and only mine.  I don’t feel like having other men’s piss inside my boy.”

Dave had whined for another minute or so before giving up and going to the bathroom.  He and I had then fucked around a little bit, keeping our leathers on, rolling around the living room floor.  He  tried to get me in a headlock at one point but Dave always tries the same three moves when he’s drunk, and I always flip the tables and end up pinning him down.  I got him pinned on his stomach and into a pair of cuffs from my jacket pocket practically before he knew what hit him.

Dave is mostly a Dom, maybe 25 percent switch, and, once cuffed, he gets really compliant.  “I gotta piss again,”  I told him, once I had him where I wanted him.  “You wanted to piss in my boy’s throat, but instead you’re gonna take my piss now.”  Dave loves my piss, anyhow.  Any show of resistance he made that night was dumbass  play acting.

I regretted now that I had plugged the gimp’s ears under the hood.  I realized I wanted him to hear me using my friend in the living room.  Something to keep in mind in the future, when I was gearing him up before going out.  On the one hand, I love having his sight and sound totally shut off when I’m not there.  On the other hand, it means taking the hood off and putting it back on him if I want the plugs out but don’t want his gimp time to be over.

We had left the closet door open after looking in on the gimp, and I kept staring over at my possession as Dave, cuffed on his knees, did his best to deep throat me.  He’s always been lousy at sucking cock.  Not that anyone would remotely approach the expertise that my gimp has now reached in serving my dick.   After five minutes of Dave lazily, sloppily trying to get me half way down, I pulled out  of his mouth and jerked off his beard, bringing myself to a really quick climax  looking at my gimp, exploding the second I decided that Dave and I would be crashing in my bed, and the gimp would be staying in the closet until the next morning.

Friday’s events are on my mind as I come into the front door tonight, my mind already half made up that I’m going to piss in the boy, feed him a bottle of muscle milk, and then ignore him until nine or ten.  But even before I open the door I hear the low, faint moaning.  A pitiful sound comes to my ears as I open the door, a kind of misery I’ve never heard.  He’s been crying for so long that he’s gone hoarse.  Even through the gag I can hear this.  He sniffles repeatedly, too, like someone does after a very long all-out crying jag.  My dick goes from semi hard to hard, and I wonder if this means I’m a hardcore Dom or a psychopath.  Either way, it doesn’t bode well for this slave.  I take his gag out and kneel down next to him.

“Sir, please, mercy, please Sir,” he gasps, between sniffles.  Yeah, he’s probably been crying for a good hour or more.  I rub his hooded head reassuringly, pull his straitjacketed body to mine in an awkward embrace.  I feel him start to calm down immediately.

“Can you hear me, boy?”  I know the answer already.  I’d ear plugged him yet again that morning.  I really don’t want him out of the jacket and hood yet, but if he’s having a truly bad trip I’m going to have to consider it.  It’s only been five weeks.  Still, let’s see if I can calm him down and keep him geared.  I help him to his feet, then guide him to the living room, sitting him down on the couch.  I rub his hooded head, caress his naked thighs, hold him against me reassuringly.

“I can’t take it, Sir, please,” he whimpers; then corrects himself immediately.  “Sorry Sir, it meant to say, gimp can’t take it Sir.”   I just keep holding him to me, sensing that he’s coming down from whatever panic he’d been in.  Still, after a minute of me holding and soothing him, he still whispers, “Please Master.  Just ten minutes out of this gear.  Please.  Five minutes.  One minute.  Please Sir. Please.”

I get up, start slowly removing his hood.  He knows to keep his eyes closed when it first comes off, to allow his eyes to adjust to light.  The jstraitacket will stay on, whether he likes it or not.  I take the earplugs out, then hold his head between my hands, looking into his face.

“Were you crying, boy?”

“Yes Sir.”

“It’s what we talked about last week, huh?  It’s getting harder.”

“Yes Sir.”  His eyes well up with tears again.  I stroke his hair with one hand, caressing his face with the other.  His expression suddenly changes, at first I think because he’s being soothed by my strong show of affection, but then, as I see his eyes moving around, I realize that he’s noticed the new jacket.  I had completely forgotten about it for a minute.

“You’re noticing Master’s new leather, boy?  You have permission to speak freely.”

“Yes Sir,” he sniffles.  “Very nice.  So fucking handsome Sir.  The most handsome man in the world, and even more so when Sir wears leather.”

I guide him down onto his knees.  It won’t be as hard to calm him down as I thought for a second there — just the sight of me in my new jacket will pacify him, it seems.  He and I both know that there aren’t going to be any such consolations offered six months, a year from now.  I step back from him and let him take it all in.  The way his eyes worship me always drives me wild, although there will be less and less eye contact in his future.  I walk around the room so he can take me in from all angles in my new gear.

“Now open up, boy, I know you’re thirsty,” I say, stepping up in front of him, unzipping my jeans.  He swallows my piss expertly, as always, moaning with pleasure.  Yeah, he’s back in the zone, fully.  He keeps his mouth open wide as I shake the last few extra drops off.  I go to the kitchen, come back with a bottle of Muscle Milk.  I take him back to the couch, sit him down, let him sip from the bottle a little at a time.  I bring a second bottle.  He hasn’t eaten in ten hours.  This turns me on, to my amazement, nurturing him like this.  I don’t regard him as anywhere near my equal, and certainly not as a real man — nor a real gay man or a real straight man — because that’s not what he is.  But he’s actually becoming more and more precious to me every day that he’s my gimp, in a new way, in a way I’ve never experienced in any other ordinary relationship.

“Now listen boy,”  I say, letting him kiss and and tongue bathe and breathe in deeply the new leather as we sit side by side on the couch.  “I am going to let you out of that straitjacket later tonight or tomorrow morning.   But only because it’s my decision, do you understand?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Shit is going to start getting real now.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Next time you start to freak out, you just tell yourself, my Master is not going to keep me in bondage forever.  I will be released.  I just don’t know when.  And also, you can think about what happened in your mind when I took your hood off and you saw me in this new jacket.  When you get weak like that, you’ll just  need to visualize me and tell yourself, this is all for him, not for me.  Picture me with by buds, picture me on the bike, at work, whatever, and let it calm you down.  Do you get it, slave?”

“Yes Sir, absolutely Sir, thank You Sir.”

“You are a gimp.  You need to know that when I opened that closet door and heard you crying, I was very concerned.  But I also got very, very fucking hard.  As your owner I would’ve had every right to just shut that closet door again and spend the night out here dicking around, or go out again.  Or fuck your throat and leave you in there crying with my load in your throat.  Or taken you out of the closet and put you into an added layer of bondage.  Really give you something to cry about. ”  His chastity-locked nub of a dick jumps up and down as I keep talking.

“When I choose to show mercy to you like this, and nurture you, it’s my choice.  You’re not entitled to it.  Ever.  You don’t deserve it, and you know that.  Any free time I let you have, any second out of immobile bondage, is a gift.  You know you don’t deserve it.”

“Thank you Master, thank you so much Sir,”  he gushes.

“Good gimp,” I say, and then begin putting his earplugs back in.  He registers a look of shock, but acceptance.  Just before I squeeze the second earplug in, I say, “I’ll take you out for a couple hours free time, either later tonight, or tomorrow.  Eventually I will not ever tell you when you’re going to be released from bondage, you will just endure it. And one more thing, you’re going to stay blindfolded during free time again tonight. So take a really long good look at Master, cause the hood is going back on.”

I put him back on his knees and stand over him with his hood in one hand.  I muss up his hair again, semi playfully.  His eyes move hungrily all over me, meeting my gaze, trying to burn my facial expression into his retina, taking in my new leather, visualizing my dick behind my jeans, licking his lips as his eyes move down to my boots.

I open up the hood and go to place it down.

“One more minute to look at you, please Sir, you look so amazing Sir, please.”  He keeps pleading even as I put the hood on him, even as I lace and buckle it up, but by the time his head is fully encased in the thick puffy leather, he’s gone quiet.  His head slumps forward, resigned.

I lead him into the bedroom, and bend him over the foot of the bed, lubing his hole up with my finger.  This will be my first time fucking him with my new leather  jacket on.  His hole almost immediately, practically sucking my dick deep into him.  I ease into him for the first few thrusts but lose control after that, beginning to slam deep and hard, feeling my cock head hitting his prostate, the headboard of my bed banging loudly against the floor in rhythm to my pounding him.  He moans in pain for a half minute and then surrenders completely to getting fucked, beginning to pant and moan.  I wonder if there will be another puddle of his cum at the edge of the mattress after I’m done.  As I get close, I push his hooded head down into the mattress hard, muffling his moans, sealing the mouth hole of his hood, cutting off his air.  He doesn’t fight it, in fact it seems to make his hole open up more for me. I’ve always been a quiet type when I fuck, but since he’s become my gimp the sex has been so amazing that I’ve started groaning and shouting out when I cum.

“FUUUUUUUCK!”  I unload in him, flip him over quick, so he can get his breath back.  Yep, he’s made another little puddle of cum at the edge of the mattress.  Going to have to figure out a way to control his cumming.  He seems to be able to do it more and more regularly even with the harsh device I’ve got him in.

I stand him up, then put him on his knees facing the bottom edge of the bed.  I guide his tongue to his puddle of jizz.  He knows what to do when he finds it.  But he licks too half-heartedly, so I push his face into it.  After I’m satisfied that the puddle has been cleaned up to my liking, I guide him back up onto the bed.

I’m now drenched in sweat.  I  unzip my new jacket but don’t take it off. He must be hot, too.  I turn on the big rotating fan next to the bed, making sure it’s aimed so that we both get the breeze.   I lay back, spent, about to fall into one of those post-cum naps.  I pull him against me, letting him snuggle as best as he can  in the straitjacket.

I don’t know how much time passes, maybe half hour, maybe an hour, but when I wake up again, he’s snoring beside me.  I take my arm from under his leather encased head, and get quietly out of the bed.  He snores on.  I pull his sleepsack out from the closet, laying it out next to him on the bed.  I roll him onto his side.  he starts to wake up.  As he comes to, he realizes what’s happening as I tuck his feet and legs into the lower part of the sack.

“Sir…”  He wants to complain, to request that I don’t sleepsack him. “Sir, please….”

I zip the sack up from the toes to the neck.  “I’m afraid Sir, please.”

I pat his head again.  That’s all the consolation he’s getting this time.  I told him he’d get free time tonight or tomorrow morning.  Tomorrow morning it will be.  He won’t be released even to clean himself tonight.   One night doesn’t matter so much, as I discovered this past Friday when he spent the night in the closet.

“Please Master.  I can’t take it.  Sir please.”  He is starting to reach a panic state again.  My dick jumps, hearing his resistance.  I leave the room, going to the closet where he was stored just recently.  I had left his inflatable gag on the floor.

He starts sobbing when I push the gag into his mouth, screaming into the gag as I lift his hooded head off the bed to buckle it on tight behind his head.  I inflate the gag with several pumps.  He still screams, but now it’s barely audible. Inside the sleepsack, still in his straitjacket under that, he does his very best to thrash around.  The thrashing is brought to a minimum as I lace the sleepsack up, and then buckle the half dozen belts around him, top to bottom.

After our tender moment in the living room, and his nap, I had actually thought he’d welcome the sleepsack.  Doesn’t matter.  Now he’s realizing  that I’m serious about what I told him.  Behind all that thick black leather a gimp is slowly, painfully being brought to a new level of acceptance.

He has to tire himself out sooner or later, but the muffled screaming and sobbing goes on, and his struggles inside his layered bondage appear to be far from over.  I flip on the overhead light in the bedroom so I can get a clear video on my phone.  I stand over him, getting my rock hard dick into the shot, keeping his totally cocooned, struggling, moaning body in the shot, too.  The video is less than a minute long, a minute from the time I start recording him to the time I blast my load all over the sleepsack.  He’ll clean all that off with his tongue some time tomorrow morning, after it’s dried to a hard crust.  I send the video to the gimp’s cell phone.  Right now he’s struggling in his bonds, but couldn’t have felt my cum bathing his leather encased body.  Next time I allow him cell phone access and he opens the video, he’ll see how hard I just got, watching his struggle, see the fountain of cum it drew out of me, so soon after I had already fucked him, and he’ll realize that there’s really no going back now.

To read the first part, click here

Metal would like to thank the author, Unowned in NYC, for this story!

Note to readers: The first part is called “Gimp Training, Week 1” and the second part is “Gimp Training, Week 5”


8 thoughts on “Gimp Training, Week 5”

  1. a very well thought out dialogue of a real life development of a true gimp and it’s Master. Hopefully there will be a follow up chapter to this as the journey continues. Thank You.

  2. Excellent story – dialogue very reality based – anyone who has been in that panic place can appreciate the power of the panic – that only a wise and experienced Master can overcome.

  3. Excellent story and the level of detail makes it very believable. I really hope the author continues as I’m so keen to know if it’s possible with the right training to actually go as far as creating the perfect gimp.

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