By bondagegimp

The small cell

Bob leaves the room. I’m completely exhausted, only slowly catching my breath. I’d love to sit or lie down, but I’m still strapped into the frame: the collar holds my head, the plug is still drilling into my hole, my hands are tied behind the bar. The cords from my nipples and balls to the head harness are taut, and every movement of my head causes severe pain. But at least the treadmill is off.

I’d like to see what Bob is doing, but turning my head is completely out of the question. The pain is most bearable when I stand completely still, not moving at all. But I can still feel it, a throbbing pain in my nipples and hole. My balls are the easiest to release. My urethra burns a little from the semen that pushed past the catheter. My legs are shaking from the exertion; I have no choice but to lower myself onto the plug until I’m practically sitting on it, and it’s supporting some of my weight.

Once again, it was an incredible orgasm that Bob painfully forced out of me. When he held my head so tightly, I felt an incredible sense of security, yet at the same time it was incredibly oppressive. It really was like a nightmare, when you’re running away and can’t move. And then all his talking about how I’ll always stay with him, how he won’t let me go. Did he mean it? Was he going to leave me no choice? Was he just going to keep me? Was it a mistake to put myself in his hands again? Bob called it trauma therapy. But really, it was a punishment for my escape and a barely disguised threat. How does he manage to make me horny while doing that?

I really need a break right now. My suit is completely sweaty, I’m done. After my orgasm, I just want some peace, preferably without restraints or with very few. The fact that he’s taking me to his basement now sounds like a threat and a reaction to my escape. He’s locking me up. In one of the cells. I still remember with horror the padded cell where he once tried “therapy.”

I hear Bob behind me, but I still can’t turn around. Bob puts something down, then comes over to me. He touches my nipples very gently, but I still yelp in pain. He gently strokes them with his tongue, then finally loosens the first cord that tightly wraps around the right nipple. As the blood flows back in, the pain initially intensifies. Bob takes the nipple into his mouth and sucks on it, a different, but no less intense pain! Now the same thing happens with the second nipple. At least the pain is slowly subsiding.

Now Bob also loosens the cord that pulls my balls tightly back. Here, too, at first, the pain is stronger, then relief. Bob kneads my balls a little more, continuing to suck on my nipples. Bob also frees my hands from the rod. They’re still in the mittens, but I can now move them again, although I’m still impaled on the plug and connected to the rod by the collar. Bob continues to play with my nipples and balls. I try to push him away. I just want some peace and quiet and to finally be free of the plug. Even if it’s Bob, now he should just leave me alone!

After a short while, Bob actually lets go of me and goes behind me. I can move my head a little again, and I follow him with my eyes. I see him with a black bundle in his hand. As I get closer, I realize it’s rubber, very thick rubber. A few straps hang out of the bundle. Bob stands in front of me and unfolds the bundle. Although I’ve never seen a straitjacket before, I recognize it immediately. A rubber straitjacket made of very thick material. Bob holds it out to me without saying a word. But even though I’m curious, I really don’t feel like being tied up again! I pull my arms behind my back, shake my head, and moan into the gag. Please, no, please just a break!

Bob silently throws his jacket onto the chair in front of me, grabs the remote control, and starts the treadmill. My hands may be free, but the fist mitts prevent me from trying to free myself from the collar. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get off the plug anyway. I look back and forth desperately, searching for a way out. Meanwhile, Bob increases the speed. Not as fast as before, but still a bit faster than jogging. My nipples and balls are no longer affected, but running makes me move up and down on the plug again. My hole is still sore from what the scene before. I whine into the gag, look pleadingly at Bob. He looks at me for a while and then leaves the room. I run and run; my legs are at their limits, but I have no choice. The plug mercilessly fucks my hole. I stare at the straitjacket on the chair in front of me. I can’t take it anymore! Tears well up in my eyes.

After a few minutes, Bob suddenly appears in front of me again, turns off the treadmill. He grabs the jacket and holds it out to me again. I surrender, stretching my arms forward. Bob slips the jacket over my arms and pulls it over my shoulders. I feel the cold, thick material through the thinner skin of my rubber suit, see my arms disappear into the long tubes that end in straps. Bob stands behind me, first closes a zipper, then fastens a few additional straps that pull the jacket tight. I can already feel the jacket constricting me. I whimper softly into the gag, hoping Bob will still take pity on me. But next, Bob grabs my right arm, threads it through a loop over my stomach, then threads the strap through another loop on my left side. Conversely, he takes my left arm and threads it to the right. My arms are now loosely crossed in front of me. Bob now pulls them firmly back and connects them.

The result is oppressive. It feels like a small, tight rubber prison. I whimper, pleadingly seeking eye contact with Bob. But he just looks at me sternly. “I won’t punish you for escaping. But after an escape attempt, a slave must remain in very secure restraints for a while until he understands with his whole body that he is a slave again.”

After Bob fastens the collar of my jacket and secures all the buckles with small locks, he puts steel ankle cuffs and a very thick, heavy steel collar with a chain on me. When it snaps shut with a resounding “click,” I start to panic slightly. Finally, Bob lifts me up and frees me from the plug. I groan loudly into the gag in pain as the succession of balls is finally pulled out of me.

As I stand in front of him, Bob grabs two straps dangling down the front of the jacket, threads them past my cock on the left and right, through my crotch, and pulls it tight. The additional downward pull makes the jacket even tighter, even more oppressive. I’m afraid Bob will lock me in a cell in the basement like this, but I realize there’s nothing I can do about it.

A tug on the collar and I shuffle after Bob. Bob is still wearing only his tight nylon shorts. From behind, I admire his broad, muscular back and his firm ass, which bulges beneath the shorts and then his strong, broad thighs beneath them. I have enough time to take it all in with my eyes, because the chain between my feet is so short that I can only shuffle slowly. But I can hardly enjoy the view; I’m too worried about what’s to come. On the stairs, I can only take one step at a time, then have to drag the other foot, then the next step. Bob could simply carry me, but he doesn’t spare me the arduous trip down to the basement myself.

In the basement, he leads me through one of the many corridors to a steel door. When he opens it, I see it’s worse than I feared. It’s another padded cell, but this time smaller than the first: less than two meters long, and more importantly, only about one meter wide and less than two meters high. Bob has to bend down as he enters the cell and pulls me inside against my helpless resistance. The floor, walls, and ceiling are again thickly padded. Bob pushes me to the floor and, to my horror, attaches the chain from my collar to an eyelet in the floor, preventing me from sitting up. I can lift my head maybe 30 cm, but no more!

Bob leaves the cell briefly. He comes in with a radio, puts it in the hallway, and turns it up very loud. I look at him, confused. Bob grins. “I want to show you something.” He enters the cell and closes the cell door from the inside – the radio is gone, and there is an oppressive silence. Bob stands over me, watching me, seeing my frightened look. I can see in his pants how excited he is by the situation. He kneels next to me. In the cramped cell, he inevitably presses my face between his thighs.

“As my slave, you will spend a lot of time in this or another cell. It’s important; it will change your behavior. You will slide deeper into the slave role until it becomes your nature. Especially if you’ve done something you need to reflect on, you’ll be locked up here. I know it’s hard for you, but it has to be done. And I wanted to show you honestly over the two weeks what awaits you if you decide to become my permanent slave. And this is part of it! Not least because it makes me incredibly horny to know that there’s a slave chained up here in the basement in a cramped cell, eagerly waiting for me.”

It’s impossible to miss how much this turns Bob on. His cock is now fully erect, pushing out of his trouser leg. The sight is actually very hot, but it’s not turning me on at the moment. My fear of lying alone and chained up in this cell is overwhelming. I can feel tears welling up inside me, Bob continues to watch me intently. Suddenly he stands up, grabs me, turns me onto my stomach, opens the crotch straps of the straitjacket, and lies on top of me. I have a feeling of what’s coming, but I’m also a little afraid. Not only because my hole still hurts from the plug on the treadmill, but also because Bob is a bit rougher than usual, completely driven by instinct. And so he fucks me, powerfully, fast, and hard. Most of all, it hurts me; my hole has suffered enough today. And yet it feels good to feel Bob’s heavy body on top of me.

Bob doesn’t play around, he orgasms quickly. Perhaps out of pity for me and my abused hole? After the fucking, which was rougher than ever before, Bob stays on top of me for a while. Now he becomes gentler again. He’s relieved the pressure. A lot of things probably came together. My escape confused him too, probably hurt him too. Now he touches me tenderly again. Through the rubber of the mask, I feel him kissing the back of my neck, gently stroking my head. Then he stands up, leaves the cell, but the door remains open. I turn around, stand up as far as I can, watch him go, and gain a little hope.

But Bob is back quickly, throwing something on the floor in front of me. A plug, a diaper, and rubber pants. The plug is from the red series, but significantly thicker than the last one. Bob skipped a few sizes. Discouraged, I fall back onto the padded floor and allow Bob to turn me onto my stomach again, stuff the plug into my hole, and put the diaper on me. In order to pull the rubber pants over them, he has to quickly undo one of the ankle cuffs. The pants are slightly different from the ones I’ve been wearing before. They’re thickly padded and have a hard core in the padding between the legs that prevents me from closing my legs. After securing them with straps around my hips and thighs, he refastens the crotch straps of the straitjacket, tightening them so that they press the plug firmly into my hole, and secures these buckles with locks. Finally, he puts the ankle cuffs back on. The chain is just long enough to allow a little bit of play even with my legs spread.

As soon as he’s finished, Bob kneads my cock a little more, but I can hardly feel it through my thick pants and diaper. Finally, Bob stands up and leaves the cell. I hear the radio in the hallway for a moment, then the door closes again. Silence, absolute silence. How long will Bob keep me lying here? I turn onto my back and look around the cell. It’s the same padding as in the slightly larger cell I already know. The cell is evenly lined with it all the way around: floor, walls, ceiling. The door isn’t visible from the inside. The cell is cramped, oppressively cramped. It increases the already unbearable feeling of the tightness of the straitjacket. Panic sets in. I try to sit up, but the iron collar keeps me on the ground. I manage to raise my head about 30 centimeters, but I can’t support myself and I fall back in resignation.

Lying on my back feels more oppressive. Lying on my stomach quickly becomes uncomfortable with my arms in the straitjacket. And when I touch my nipples, I wince in pain. Lying on my side isn’t very comfortable without a pillow either, especially since my pants keep my legs slightly spread. I toss and turn. Eventually, I stay lying on my stomach, half-sideways. At least for a while, until it becomes uncomfortable. Then back on my back, until the tightness overwhelms me again.

How long do I have to stay here? It was late afternoon when Bob brought me here. It must be early evening now. Bob fed me porridge on the treadmill during the simulated break. That was probably my dinner. He might be eating right now. Watching TV or reading. I hope he won’t leave me lying here overnight. But it didn’t just sound like two or three hours. But a whole night? I can’t stand that. At least I’ve got my panic under control now. Probably just getting used to it. The worst thing right now is actually the collar. It seems so extreme, so heavy, so wide. And so relentless. There’s no play in it anymore. It’s serious. There’s no way you can get the collar off without a key or heavy tools.

It’s not like I’ve ever been able to get other restraints off. But I always thought it would be possible with a few tools and patience. The Segufix could probably even be cut open with scissors, the straitjacket too. Other restraints could be cut open with pliers, bolt cutters, or something similar. Someone could have freed me, I’m sure. But this collar? What could I use to get it off? The chain is so thick, no tool can get through it. Either a key or an expert, maybe the fire department.

It seems so excessive! I don’t have any tools anyway, I can’t use my hands, I couldn’t even get a simple leather collar off. Bob probably aims on that feeling. Being a prisoner, complete hopelessness. No hope of release, no loophole. Acceptance. No doubt. Bob said the time spent in the cell would change my attitude, my self-perception. Seeing and feeling myself as a slave. Unconditional. Without choice. I can feel it penetrating me. Dependence. A feeling of complete dependence. I can well imagine how such experiences, if repeated often, would change my mindset. I can already feel it. Bob’s superiority becomes even more overwhelming. When he stood over me earlier, with his legs spread, it was so clearly noticeable. He up there, confident, strong, powerful. Me down here, helpless, chained in a straitjacket. A feeling of submission.

The cell, the straitjacket, the collar, the gag, the diaper, the plug — it’s crushing me, pressing me to the ground, into the dust. Every minute a little more. The restraints are already hard to bear, but watching how they make me smaller and smaller hurts inside. And at the same time, I can’t get the image out of my head of Bob standing over me earlier. How it turned him on to see me so subjugated. It’s not just pain inside that I feel. There’s also a good feeling, a comfortable, somehow calming feeling of security. A feeling of letting go, paradoxically almost a feeling of liberation. A bit like the ambigious feeling of the diaper that I developed after time.

I just realized I peed in my diaper without consciously noticing it. I just let it go. It’s gotten to that point. I’ve gradually gotten used to it. When I go back to wearing regular pants, I’ll have to regain control not to pee my pants.

Yes, will I ever wear regular pants again? Probably not, if I stay with Bob. It seems absurd to me again now. This afternoon, when I offered the collar to him, when I wished he would put it back on me, I was almost determined to stay. But the brutal “therapy” on the treadmill and now the cell are making me doubt it again. Especially the announcement that this will happen regularly. At least Bob is honest. He doesn’t hide it from me. The cards are on the table, I know what I’m getting myself into. He doesn’t spare me anything, not even the plug. The day was hard on my hole. I still feel a throbbing pain around the plug. But at least it hasn’t moved. Bob had also hinted earlier that I’d soon be ready for his fist. He probably wants to go through with it before I have to decide.

How does it feel to have his fist in my hole? Is it different from a plug? It’s probably another gesture of submission, a demonstration of power. Almost everything goes in that direction. When I was fighting on the treadmill and he sat comfortably in front of me with his legs wide apart, presenting himself with his masculine, muscular body. These images are burned into my memory. Bob with his legs wide apart in the armchair, the electric device in his hand, which he uses to torture me and make me horny. Bob simply turning the treadmill back on because I didn’t want to put on the straitjacket. Bob with his broad, muscular back, pulling me behind him by the chain on the heavy collar. Bob standing over me with his legs wide apart, presenting his muscular legs and his fat bulge. Bob subjugating me with incredible ease and yet so unbelievably superior and sexy.

The images are powerful; they have power over me. Bob doesn’t just subjugate me physically. These images reinforce the bonds or the torture. My desire for him, for his body, makes me weak, allows him to subjugate me; perhaps they even awaken in me a longing for his submission. In any case, my longing for him has grown enormously again as I recall the images. I can also feel some arousal in my cock again.

isolation

Suddenly the door opens. Bob is standing there. I’m torn between hope and fear. Maybe he’s already freeing me? But then I see that he’s carrying something. Now I’m more afraid that he wants to tighten the restraints even further. He kneels down next to me again, still only in his nylon shorts. I try to crawl as close to him as the chain allows and just reach his thigh. Gratefully, I rub my head against him; I need this closeness right now. He strokes me gently, moves a little closer until my head is completely in his lap and I can rub it against his bulge.

“You’ve held up well so far. With a little more training, you’ll become a really good slave!”

He unlocks the collar. Now I’m really hopeful! I take advantage of my freedom and snuggle up to his chest, trying to get as much of him as possible. Now he takes off the head harness and even opens the rubber mask of the suit. It’s a relief. Bob takes a towel and dries my sweaty head. All that remains is the gag, held in my mouth by the foil plaster. But Bob makes no move to remove the gag. Instead, he plays with the thin plaster over my mouth, traces the contours of my lips with his finger, kisses my sealed lips, sucks on them, works them with his tongue. It feels strange, through the thin foil, but I enjoy it. Bob’s head so close to mine makes up for the hours in the cell. With pleasure, I rub my cheek against Bob’s chest, for the first time in a long time without anything in between, just skin on skin.

Bob lets me cuddle for a while. He seems to enjoy it too, kneading my cock through the diaper. It’s a tender, intimate moment. At one point, Bob interrupts by bringing out something small. I only realize it when he turns my head to the side and stuffs something in my ear. It expands in my ear, the sounds become muffled. Earplugs. What are they for? I resist, try to protest through the gag, but he’s already stuffing in the second one.

As I squirm and try to turn away, I see what else Bob has brought, and now I’m really scared. Next to a few small things lies a roll of black tape and a terrifying hood: black leather, thickly padded, with many straps and only tiny holes. I look at Bob pleadingly, whining into the gag.

“Did you think the training session was already over? It’s just beginning!”

I try to sit up, but Bob pushes me down, turns me onto my back, and clamps my head between his thighs. He reaches for something, an oval eye patch, and carefully sticks it on my left eye. He does the same with my other eye. The patches seal everything, but they’re quite translucent. Bob then uses the black tape. He applies several layers over the patches until it’s pitch black. Finally, he wraps two or three more layers of tape around my head to secure everything.

He grabs the mask hanging down the front of his suit. I was hoping he’d take it off for the night, but he only took it off temporarily to stuff in the earplugs and tape up my eyes. He also seems to have just dried my face so the bandages would stick. I protest into the gag, but Bob has already zipped it up and secured it with the padlock. It’s a terrible feeling to have the sweat-soaked mask put back on after such a short break; it’s exasperating.

I already feel completely helpless and exposed, but now I can feel Bob pulling the leather hood over it. The thick padding is already pressing against my head from all sides as Bob zips it up, but then the straps come in, which Bob pulls tight. My head is now wrapped more tightly and thickly than ever before in my life, as if someone had wrapped my head in several layers of foam and then tightened it with straps. I am completely shielded, wrapped in. Everything feels so tight, claustrophobic.

Instinctively, I try to grab my head, want to rip off the hood, but my hands are tied to my body. I tug at the straitjacket in a panic, trying to free myself, but nothing loosens; I remain tied up in a tight package. This makes me even more panicked. I stand up, but Bob pushes me down again, and I feel him trying to close the steel collar around my neck. I had forgotten the collar! Now I fight desperately against Bob with all my strength, and I can briefly free my neck, but Bob easily pushes me back down and closes the steel around my neck. I feel it pressing in the padding of the hood.

I know it’s useless, but I can’t help it; my body continues to resist with all its might. I tug at the collar, kicking my bound feet in the air. Bob lies on top of me, pressing me into the soft cushion with his heavy body until I slowly calm down a bit. He holds my head firmly between his hands. As I slowly stop fidgeting, I hear Bob talking soothingly to me in the distance. I can hear him if I’m completely still, not moving, and Bob is talking right next to my ear. But even then, Bob sounds terribly far away.

“I know this is very difficult for you right now. You have to get through it. To make it a little easier for you, I’ll stay with you overnight. Bob is with you; Bob loves you very much.”

I whimper into the gag. The whole night in this hood? I don’t know how I’m going to get through this! Meanwhile, Bob is playing with the straitjacket, and I can feel his fingers on my nipples. The straitjacket obviously has a zipper here. The suit underneath also has one, and Bob opens the zippers and grabs my nipples. They’re still very sensitive.

I want to turn away, but Bob holds me tight. He touches my nipples very gently, using just his fingertips. It’s electrifying. A completely new feeling, a strange tingling inside me that travels down to my cock. Now I lie there completely still, letting Bob stroke my nipples. It’s very hot for a while. Then the feeling becomes irritating, annoying, and soon after, difficult to bear. It’s not pain, it’s overstimulation. Now I try to escape his fingers again, but Bob presses me back into the padding, continues to gently fondle my nipples, and kisses me on the thick leather hood. Despite everything, my cock finds it hot and gets hard again in the diaper. Every now and then, Bob grabs my crotch, feels my hard cock, and feels confirmed. I feel little through the thick diaper and padded pants, but that little bit contributes to my horniness.

After a while, Bob lets go of me, closes the zippers, and lies down next to me. In the narrow cell, I’m squeezed between Bob and the padded wall. Bob turns me onto my side, facing him. He puts his arm under my head, using his bicep as a pillow, and presses me tightly against him. I can’t bring my legs together because of the diaper and pants, but Bob puts his leg between mine to support me. The feeling of tightness and imprisonment mingles with a pleasant sense of security and a touch of horniness. Bob soon falls asleep.

I snuggle my head against his chest, even though I can barely feel anything through the thick hood. Still, it feels good how tightly Bob is holding me. Since my escape, I’ve felt a distance between him and me. And as paradoxical as it sounds: the strict restraints, the way he’s now continuing my “training,” I perceive as closeness, in a twisted way as affection. It helps me get through it because I know he wants this for me. Or maybe — because he wants it for us?

I snuggle closer to him, he strokes my head. Yes, what he does to me is hard, sometimes almost cruel. But it’s never random; he always follows a plan. I don’t know the plan exactly, but I notice what his actions do to me. They overwhelm me for a moment, like just now, but Bob always manages to make me feel safe and also horny in the end. That makes it bearable, it distracts me. Like Bob distracted me by playing with my nipples. Because of that, I sometimes almost don’t notice what an intense situation I’m in. Like now. Bob hugs me so tightly that I can barely feel the restraints underneath. He presses my head so tightly into the niche between his biceps and chest that his muscles and the padding of the hood blur together. At first I felt like Bob was another layer of restraints making everything even tighter, now I feel like the restraints are part of Bob’s tight embrace.

It overshadows the strict bondage so much that I barely notice it. Bob does this often; he covers up the bonds with something more comfortable for me, so that I barely notice them. And yet I notice the effect they have on me, how this feeling of being his prisoner is becoming more and more natural to me, how submission turns into a feeling of servility.

The hierarchy that existed between us from the beginning is growing stronger, ever greater. At first it was playful, but it became more and more pronounced. The more intimate things become between us, the greater the hierarchical distance. Or is it the other way around? The more Bob subdues me, the more I submit to him, the more intimate things become between us? Indeed, the more helpless I am, the more clingy and submissive I become. Like now. I need him; I couldn’t survive this without him. And at the same time, the more helpless I am, the more Bob becomes caring, loving. And I long for this loving Bob. And I long for him all the more the more he subjugates me, the more helplessly he wraps me up!

These are strong feelings, very strong feelings, the likes of which I’ve never had for anyone before. And at the same time, my feelings are so contradictory. Love, longing, lust, mixed with fear, admiration, submission. In a few days, I have to make a decision. And I’m so undecided. My feelings fluctuate from one minute to the next, depending on my own thoughts, but also on how Bob is treating me at the moment. How can I come to a decision? I force myself to stop brooding, digging myself even deeper into his muscles, thinking how small I always feel against Bob’s broad chest.

I wake up when Bob moves, pulling his arm out from under my head. I’ve been sleeping very deeply — no wonder after the day’s exertions. But how long? What time is it? I’ve lost all sense of time. I notice Bob wants to get up, but I’m afraid he’ll leave me here alone. I try to stop him, to lie on top of him, but Bob easily pushes me away, grabs my head, and says in my ear that he’ll be right back, gives me a big kiss on the hood, and disappears. The situation is immediately different again. Without Bob, everything is terribly oppressive. The hood, the earplugs, the gag, the taped mouth and eyes — it’s all unbearable. Although I know it’s impossible, I try to sit up but am immediately pulled back by the thick iron collar. The movement also makes the thick plug in my hole painfully noticeable again.

Bob is actually back after a few minutes. He sits down next to me, puts my head on his thigh, adjusts the gag, and I feel mush flowing into me again. Breakfast? Then water, quite a lot of water. “I have to take care of a few things now. I want you to stand it here on your own for a while.” I shake my head violently, begging into my gag. I can’t! I can’t stand it! But Bob stands up. I try to grab him with my legs, to hold him tight, but he leaves. I scream wildly into the gag, shake my head violently, kick my legs. Bob must realize I can’t do it!! I notice him stop for a moment, hesitate? He does something, suddenly something more or less hard lands on me, then again a few seconds later. “That will help you.” And with that, Bob disappears.

I’m frozen with shock, then I feel with my legs to see if Bob is really gone, but he seems to be gone. I can feel it on the cushion, which is noticeably pressed down whenever he’s standing somewhere. How long will he leave me lying here? He can’t do this! I feel tears in my eyes, despair. But what did Bob throw at me? How can that possibly help? My curiosity grows stronger.

Because of the iron collar on the chain, my head only has a radius of movement of about 30 centimeters. My arms are completely useless in the straitjacket. My feet are tied together but otherwise not attached anywhere. I use them to feel for the objects and find one. With some effort, I manage to bring it to my head. I can hardly feel anything through the thick hood. I notice that it has harder and softer parts; it must be about 20 by 30 centimeters. I search for the second object with my feet and bring it to my head as well. It seems more or less identical. What is it, and how is it supposed to help me? Suddenly, a smell hits my nose, and I suddenly see a picture. It’s Bob’s high-tops, the basketball sneakers he wears so often.

How does Bob get the idea that this would help me? I’m not particularly into sneakers, Bob knows that, and especially not the smell. So how is that supposed to help me? And yet I’m rubbing my head against the sneakers right now. If my arms were free, I’d clutch the sneakers and press them to my face. I sat or lay under Bob’s desk often enough while he worked, admiring his legs, usually in shorts, and of course his muscular lower legs, the athletic socks, the sneakers that reached just above the ankle, a bit padded at the ankle, yellow and black, and quite enormous. I remember being amazed at the size. Size 12 or more for sure. Still fairly new, but already a few wrinkles. He probably works out in them sometimes.

I smell them specifically. From the outside, they smell of leather and rubber. I remember a situation a few days ago. I was tied up under Bob’s desk while he worked. Bob wore these sneakers and occasionally played with them on me. At some point, he also clamped my head between his feet. That’s when I smelled that scent. And instantly, I pictured that scene. His shoes on my head, the view from below of his thighs.

I continue to run my nose over the sneakers. The smell changes at the opening. It’s the typical smell of new sneakers after they’ve been worn for a few weeks. Where do I know that smell from? Yes, I remember, a few hours later in the same scene, Bob took off his shoes and continued to play with me with his feet, which were only in his socks. It felt really hot on my body. Only in socks were his feet softer, more supple than the shoes; he could even knead my cock a little with his toes. But then he also played with my head, sliding his feet in their socks over my hood, holding my head between his feet, and repeatedly holding them over my nose. The hood only had nostrils, so I had to breathe through my nose and couldn’t escape the smell of his socks and feet. I kept turning my head away because I didn’t like the smell, but Bob just laughed and repeatedly stroked my nose.

“You’ll learn to love the smell!” he told me at the time.

And yes, that smell can now be smelled in the sneakers. I still don’t like it, but I remember Bob’s feet in his athletic socks, his large feet, their shape with the balls of his toes, the heel, and then the transition into his muscular lower leg, behind which his thighs disappear into his sweatpants. I see myself, bound in rubber under the table, looking up, admiring what I see, as far as I can see Bob, about up to his belly button, the rest of him hidden by the table.

The smell brings this image very vividly to life. I smell the opening of the sneakers again. It makes me horny. I feel my cock getting hard again in the diaper. I turn onto my stomach, lie so that a bulge of the padding on the floor is in my crotch, and rub my diaper over it. I put my head into the sneakers, smell them, and now look for a bulge where I can rub my nipples. They are still sensitive, the touch hurts, but my horniness prevails.

I tug at the steel collar, seeking the resistance of the chain, similar to the straitjacket and the leg irons. I don’t want to free myself; I want to feel the restraints. I feel Bob in the restraints, his strict, firm hand. I rub my head against the floor, feel the tightness, the padding, the straps, feel Bob tightening the straps once again, pressing me against his chest. Then the smell returns. I continue rubbing my diaper against the padding, playing with the plug in my hole, trying to fuck myself by pushing it out as far as the straps allow and then pulling it back in. This is still a bit painful, but also stimulating. But it doesn’t help; the stimulation is too weak. I just get hornier with no hope of relief.

Frustrated and exhausted, I give up. I use one sneaker as a pillow, the other one right in front of me so I can smell it. Great, Bob has brought me this far! I’m lying here in cruel bondage, locked in a small padded cell in the basement, but I’m getting horny because Bob threw his shoes at me. Fuck, I think this is going exactly as Bob planned. My desperation drives me into his arms. He is turning me into his toy, molding me to his liking.

Bob must have been observing me getting excited by his sneakers! That must have amused him. I gave him the spectacle he wanted. It confirmed his plan. Damn. And now the horniness is subsiding. My bladder is full. The hood is becoming oppressive, claustrophobic. I have to concentrate. Or let go. Accept it. My bladder has already let go again. Involuntarily and without paying attention, I just let it go.

As for the rest, it’s not so easy to let go. I’d like to be relaxed, to accept that I’m Bob’s prisoner here for as long as he wants me to be. In my head, I can do that now. I know he’ll let me out at some point. But my body is resisting the restraints, it wants out. Above all, the hood, which wraps so tightly and thickly around my head, triggers strong defensive reactions, which are further intensified by other restraints. Again and again, I instinctively want to grab the hood or stand up, and each time I do, I become even more aware of how helpless and trapped I truly am. Then panic sets in. It’s always the same thing, but I can’t fight my instincts. I just have to be careful not to let them overwhelm me and quickly get it under control.

But the training of the last few days has helped. I’m managing to control myself better, even though Bob intensifies the situation a bit each time, adding another challenge. Or two, three! This time, it’s really a lot — the straitjacket, the cell, the hood, the collar. Each of these alone would have driven me to panic two weeks ago, but now I manage to regain control again and again, albeit with difficulty. The hood is tight and stuffy. I wouldn’t be able to get through this without Bob’s sneakers as a distraction. I finally manage to keep myself under control enough to relax a little, even doze off.

A kick abruptly rips me awake. I jump up with a start, the collar yanks me back harshly. At first, I’m completely disoriented: the hood, the straitjacket, the leg irons, the situation overwhelms me. I react in panic, kick, scream. I’d forgotten the gag, too, and the scream triggers a cough. I try again to stand up, again the collar pulls me back. It takes a while until I’m somewhat in control again. It doesn’t help that I’m kicked several times. Is Bob back? Why is he so rough? He kicks me in the crotch — luckily, the diapers absorbs it a bit. Nevertheless, I curl up. He takes advantage of the position, bends down, and presses hard through the diaper on the plug until I moan and writhe, but he sits on my legs. With his other hand, he presses my head to the floor so that I can hardly breathe.

After a short while, he lets go again, goes to the zippers over my nipples, opens them, grabs my nipples, and twists them painfully. What’s wrong with Bob?  He has never been unnecessarily rude before. As I scream into the gag again, he sits on me, takes one of the sneakers, and presses the opening onto my hood. I can only breathe through the shoe now; the smell is too strong, unpleasant, too much! I try to turn my head away. Then I hear a voice in my ear.

“Come on, don’t be such a wimp, that’s how you need it! You love your Master, I saw how lovingly you look at him… Then don’t be such a wimp when you breathe his sneakers! Oh, how I’ve longed since that part to have you lying there in front of me like that again, so helplessly at my mercy!” Even through the earplugs and the two hoods, I recognize the voice. It’s Jad.

To be continued…

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The story is a mixture of different fantasies. Some scenes I have experienced myself in a similar, usually somewhat more harmless form. Some scenes came to my mind when I saw photos or videos of sessions, and some scenes were inspired by stories I read here or elsewhere on the internet. However, the feelings I am describing are to a large extent what I have actually experienced.

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Romeo: bondagegimp

Recon: bondagegimpSTGT