By Unowned in NYC
I’m driving home from work with a raging hard-on, knowing my gimp is sitting on the closet floor right where I left him this morning. It’s only been a week since he quit his job, and since that first day, this Monday, barely a moment has passed where I haven’t been throbbing in my pants, oozing precum.
I wonder if I’ll eventually get used to having a gimp, take it for granted, forgetting about him for hours at a time, no longer ready to bust my nut just picturing him.
Almost there. It’s been all I could do to not whip out my dick and jerk off in the car, but I’m waiting until I get home so I can get into my full leather and see the gimp as I shoot my load. Still early spring, so the days are still short. It’s dusk as I take the last turn on to my street. My place sits at a dead end.
I used to leave a lamp on near the front window, to deter burglars, but since the first day I put my gimp into the closet, I’ve been leaving the light off. In his padded sensory deprivation hood, locked in the closet, he won’t be seeing anything, anyhow, but that first day, as I was leaving the house for work, I was about to flip the light on by habit and then realized how much I liked the idea of the gimp in the darkness inside his hood, with the darkness of the closet around him, and beyond that, with the house getting darker and darker as I’m out and about.
I feel like I’m going to cum in my shorts even before I get to the door, fumbling for the key to the front door. On the same ring with all my other keys in the key to the closet. There’s a spare hidden under a rock behind the garage, just in case, but those are the only two keys to that closet.
I get into the house and flip on the light in the living room. My eyes go straight to the closet in the corner of the living room, where the gimp has been since about nine this morning. I decided to give him a real treat and keep him bound in my coat closet, with all my leathers hanging above him, and my leather boots, work boots and sneakers all around him on the floor. That’ll be the arrangement for a while, until I think up other possibilities. The tool closet in the basement is probably next.
All day long, I kept telling myself I was going to savor the moment when I got home tonight, undress, take a shower, make some dinner, maybe call my brother, before using the gimp. I’d already given him a load this morning, so I thought I’d make him really wait for a second one.
But I’m not going to be able to wait. Over time I’m sure it’ll get easier and easier, but for now, I’m a kid with a new toy, and I’ve got to play with it. Now.
I’m out of my work boots, jeans, and sweatshirt. I take off my ballcap and my t-shirt, leaving on just the jock I wore all day today (and yesterday, and the day before) and my sweaty socks, also on their third day of wear today.) The jock is yellow with days of nonstop precum leaking out into it. It’s not safe to leave him all day with my dirty undies or socks stuffed into his mouth, but I did put a rank jock upside down over his face today, so that the crotch just covered his nose and most of his eyes, then hooding him. I would have put in his inflatable gag, with an extra wide breathing tube, but it would’ve been too much of a hassle on this particular morning, as it would have meant hooding him, fucking his throat, taking the hood off him, gagging him, and hooding him again.
I unlock the door, wondering if he can hear the key through the thick padding of the hood, the foam ear plugs I put in his ears before putting the hood on, and the noise cancelling headphones I put on over the hood. We had talked about slowly easing him into the ear plugs and headphones, and letting him get used to just the darkness and long-term straitjacketing at first; but last night as I was jerking off in the middle of the night, with him zipped up in his sleepsack on the floor, I decided it was going to start much sooner than later. Kneeling on the closet floor, already strapped into his straitjacket, with the gag pumped up in his mouth and buckled behind his head securely, he had looked at me with total panic when I stepped away and came back with the earplugs and headphones, protesting as best he could through the gag, shaking his head back and forth frantically.
He had calmed down almost instantly as I put my hand on his head, shushing him softly, ruffling his hair, looking into his eyes, and telling him, “But I really want this, gimp.” Within thirty seconds, his expression changed from fear to resignation, then to calmness, and then finally, he looked up at me with his eyes shining, with that look of total adoration he usually has for me. He nodded his head now, just as vigorously as he had shaken it less than a minute ago.
That look, and that attitude of unquestioning submission, had got me so hard that I had to fuck his throat for the second time that morning, not caring that I was already going to be probably five or ten minutes late for work. I pulled my dick out, swatting his face with it, resting my nuts on his chin, listening to him scream through the gag, wanting it so bad, shaking with frustration in his straitjacket. I could make out “Please SIR, please, please!” from the other frenzied noises. I undid the gag, pulling his face up by the chin with my fingers to look me in the eye.
“You’re gonna wear the ear plugs and the headphones for your Master today, gimp? You have my permission to speak.”
“Yes Sir, thank you Sir,” he replied, licking his lips, his eyes moving back and forth from my eyes to my dick, twitching just a few inches in front of his mouth.
“Good gimp,” I said, and then put the expanding foam earplugs into his ears, being careful to get them in really deep and press them into his ears as they slowly expanded.
“Can you still hear me, gimp?”
“A little bit, Sir.”
“Don’t worry boy. I’ll fix that.” I grabbed his sensory deprivation hood, a beautiful black leather model that we’d had custom-tailored to his face and head. We’d had the inside lined with black leather, too. Why not go all out, seeing as how the gimp was going to be spending most of his waking — and sleeping — hours wearing it. Anyhow, he had paid for all his own bondage gear. Although my job is manual labor, it paid better than his office job (that is, his former office job) so it’s not that I was being cheap. Of the two of us, I could’ve more easily afforded the gear. It had been another sign of his consenting to his own slavery. I knew he’d spend a lot of time in his bondage thinking about how he was sealed up in gear he’d bought at his own great personal expense.
“Plus it’s better if Sir spends all that money on new leathers,” he had said, “not gear for the gimp.”
The hood has no eyes, of course. It’s slightly puffy, but with an extra thick cushion of padding over the sides of the head, for the ears. There are two grommet holes at the nose, and a very wide mouth opening, not just so I can feed him my piss and fuck my loads down his throat, but also to allow the hood to go on with the gag threaded through the mouth opening. The hood has an attached collar, laces on the back, and three leather straps to allow it to be completely tightened around the skull after it’s laced up. I’d done a lot of careful research about keeping the gimp safe, however, and knew that the hood shouldn’t be pulled completely skin tight for all-day wear.
As I’d laced it and buckled it up, he’d been shaking like a leaf, moaning and breathing heavily as if he was about to cum himself. Who knows, maybe he will eventually start cumming in his chastity device. He’s only been locked in for three weeks so far. There’s been lots of oozing, but no hands-free ejaculation yet.
Now I stand in the doorway looking down at the gimp, just where I left him this morning. No, he has no idea I’m standing here. He’s breathing calmly, slumped into a corner near my motorcycle boots, my other leathers hanging directly over him. Can he smell my gear inside the hood? I have lots of ideas for the future, but today is his fifth day just like this, seated on the floor, hooded, straitjacketed. I haven’t started securing him down any further yet. That’ll be the next phase. I clear my throat loudly; there’s no sign that he hears it. I raise my voice.
“Master is back boy.”
No response. But he startles as I touch my hand to his leather head. He almost says “Sir”, but bites back the word, remembering that he doesn’t have my permission to speak. Such a good gimp. He is wildly excited, though, his breath suddenly quick and shallow, panting, sitting himself up onto his knees from his resting position, coming forward uncertainly and awkwardly on his knees to find me. I put out a hand and rest it firmly on top of his head, giving a little firm push. Stay.
I try again, in a louder voice. “Can you hear me, boy? You have my permission to speak.” No response. He’s been in a world of total darkness and complete silence all day. I need to fuck his skull again, hear him gag, make him choke and drool. But I’m going to shoot in probably about ten thrusts, I’m so excited, so it may not get to that point. He’s got an excellent gag reflex, learned from hundreds of hours of having me ream his throat or just hold him down as he kneels between my legs.
I stop just before taking the headphones off and seeing if he can hear me with just the hood and earplugs in. I decided to leave everything as is. I pull the boy’s collar with one hand, my arm around his back with my other arm, helping him stand. I lead him out into the living room, put him back on his knees, in front of the t.v. He wants to talk to me so badly. He’s shaking in the straitjacket, again breathing like he’s about to cum from the excitement. I go back to the closet, slip on a pair of my chaps, put on my motorcycle boots, then grab one of my leather jackets and pull the zipper all the way up, buckling the belt in front.
Since the boy has become my gimp, I’ve started getting in to my full leather again every chance I get. I’d gotten pretty casual about wearing it around the house before, most nights not wanting to go through the extra time and effort of putting it on, preferring a t-shirt and jogging pants. But as of this week, I love being in my bike leathers again — while the gimp is in his gimp leathers.
As I lay back in the recliner and start stroking my dick, very carefully teasing myself, trying to postpone shooting for as long as I can, he starts moving his head around, trying desperately to figure out where I am, what’s going on, why his throat and ass aren’t getting filled with my piss and my cock yet. I decide that if he speaks without permission, I’ll undo the little square flaps on the front of his straitjacket and put some really harsh pincer clips on his nipples. Nipple clamping isn’t erotic play for this one; his nipples are sensitive, but he finds any stimulation there unpleasant. When he’s got nipple clamps on for me, the pain is real. I pull my hand up off my dick just before I pass the moment of no return. I’m so turned on, having just decided he’s not going to get my dick at all tonight. Later, when he has free time, if he asks about it, I’ll just say, “Maybe later. Don’t ask again.”
The previous four nights of the week, I’ve fed the gimp my piss as soon as I enter the closet, and then either skull fucked him, or led him to the bedroom, still in his gear, and pounded his ass while he’s bent over the bed, and then released him so he can make our dinner, stretch, work out a bit with the weights in the basement. He gets three hours free every night, for now. That’s week nights. On weekends, he gets two three-hour breaks out of bondage per day, at times of my choosing. A fair amount of his free time is taken up with his house chores, making my meals, doing his exercises — I don’t want him to get unhealthy or shrink into a totally tiny, weak specimen. I’ve allowed him to speak freely with me every night, for the full three hours the first night, and at least an hour every night since.
Just to think, the boy had to spend the last year or more slowly convincing me to do this to him. Already after just one week I can’t imagine life without a gimp. Everything will remain consensual, and we won’t push this into any territory where he’d become physically or mentally broken. But as I lay back in my recliner, zipped up in my bike leathers, looking at him, I fantasize just keeping him in his straitjacket and hood permanently, for the rest of his life. Never removing the hood to tell him what’s going to happen. He’d figure it out. There’d be days and days of screaming, pleading, crying, sometimes through his gag, sometimes ungagged so I could jerk off while listening to him.
The straitjacket and hood would become his lightest, everyday mode of bondage. I imagine pushing him beyond the breaking point, keeping him in forms of extreme immobilization for longer and longer periods; having other slaves service my sexual needs, as this one just becomes a secret plaything for me to keep bound, in the dark, in silence. I pull my hand off my dick again just before I shoot, but I’ve gone just a second too far this time, and one small dribble of cum pulses out and onto my jacket.
I’m going wild with my fantasy, thinking about how I’d feed him, how I’d keep him phsyically fit, without having to ever remove the gear. Would he have to have the hair on his head permanently removed if he was going to be hooded forever? Would he realize what was up, if I took him to a place to have that done? Could he stay sane after he had come to accept what I’d done to him? Would he love me and adore me for doing it? Would it matter?
For the third time in ten hours, I blast out a massive load. My eyes haven’t left my gimp for one second. The two loads this morning went down the gimp’s throat, one while he was still in his sleepsack and hood, before I removed him to make breakfast, shower and stretch, the second right before I locked him in the closet and went to work. This one shoots everywhere, the first spurt going over my shoulder, the next several coating my jacket. The last bit that oozes out gets into my front zipper and all over the buckle and in the holes of the jacket’s belt. I decide not to totally deprive the gimp tonight — he’ll get the cum off my jacket.
Still in the leather, I go to him, stand over him, rub the hood which will now become more and more his face, with each passing day, and put a finger in his mouth, signalling for him to keep it open. He seems to get all my nonverbal commands. That’s a good sign.
I undo the belt on the front of my jacket. He thinks he’s getting dick, of course, but doesn’t pull back or give any indication of surprise as I feed the end of the belt into his mouth. He finds the cum and licks it up ravenously. It has been ten hours since he ate, I guess.
I guide him to the couch, put him back on his knees, and lay back, guiding him to where each and every spurt of my load, already getting thick and sticky, has landed. He moans and moans as he licks the cum off the leather. It takes him a while to lick it out of the zipper, but neither of us is in any hurry.
He always did love to see me in my leather. But from now on, me wearing my leather is something he’s going to have to picture inside his black hooded world, most of the time. Eventually, who knows, maybe all the time.
To read next part (week 5) click here
Metal would like to thank the author, Unowned in NYC, for this story! If you like this story please leave a comment.