By @bdsmsubrex
Three months ago, I surrendered myself to Master S, binding my will to his as his submissive. That moment reshaped my existence, filling every corner of my life with purpose, desire, and a profound sense of belonging. But the lockdown, that unyielding global force, ripped us apart. Master S was forced to leave my country, stranded across borders, and I was left with an aching void where his presence once anchored me.
He instructed me to continue my rituals, daily acts of devotion to keep me tethered to him, and to document every detail with photos or videos. I obeyed, meticulously recording each task, but the act felt hollow, a pale imitation of true submission. How do you serve a Master when his eyes cannot see you, when his voice cannot guide you in the flesh? The videos I sent were offerings, but they lacked the weight of his approval, and my heart yearned for the command that only his physical presence could deliver.
This morning, my phone buzzed with a text from Master S, its sharp brevity cutting through the monotony of my day. Be at a specific address by six o’clock this evening. Plugged. Locked in my chastity cage. Collared. My pulse surged, a heady mix of nerves and excitement igniting my senses. Lockdown restrictions still suffocated the city, limiting movement to essential purposes, but Master S had anticipated this. He had enlisted a friend, a man with influence, who owned a company classified as essential. Through this connection, Master S secured an exemption letter, a document granting me freedom to travel without scrutiny. I texted back, my fingers trembling with anticipation, asking if there was anything else I needed to prepare.
His reply was curt, almost cryptic: nothing, just stretch yourself to be ready. Stretch myself? The phrase hung in the air, vague yet heavy with implication. Was this another public play, like the times he ordered me to film myself in compromising positions, exposed for his distant approval? My mind churned with possibilities, but the address he provided was not a park, not a shadowy alley, but a semi-detached house in a quiet residential neighborhood. I opened my laptop, Googled the location, and stared at the image: an unremarkable home, its ordinariness both comforting and unsettling. What could Master S have planned in such a place?
Work was an exercise in futility. My job demanded focus, but my thoughts were consumed by Master S’s command, each word replaying in my mind like a mantra. Meetings dragged, emails blurred into meaningless text, and every task was a distraction from the real purpose of my day: preparing for tonight. My chastity cage, a constant reminder of my submission, felt tighter with every passing hour, my cock straining against the cold, unyielding metal as I imagined what awaited me. Was Master S back in the country? Had he found a way to cross borders undetected? The hope was intoxicating, a flicker of light in the darkness of his absence, though I knew the odds were slim. Six weeks had passed since I knelt before him, felt the weight of his hand on my neck, heard the steady cadence of his voice. The longing was a physical ache, a chain wrapped around my heart, pulling tighter with every day apart. My body betrayed my distraction, my cock throbbing uselessly, forcing me to shift uncomfortably in my chair, my breath shallow as I fought to maintain composure.
By early afternoon, the anticipation became unbearable. I wrapped up my final meeting, the clock barely past three thirty, and decided to leave early. The area was unfamiliar, a part of the city I had not visited in years, and I wanted ample time to prepare, to ensure every detail was perfect. At home, I followed the ritual that grounded me, a series of steps that transformed me from an ordinary man into Master S’s devoted submissive. I showered, the warm water cascading over my skin, soothing my nerves as I cleaned myself thoroughly, inside and out. I worked the training plug in, feeling the stretch as I prepared my body for his will, each moment of discomfort a reminder of my commitment. Then, I switched to the daily plug, smooth and soft, its stretch settling inside me, a constant anchor to my submission. I checked the chastity cage, to make sure I have lube it with silicone oil for the session later, a device that marked me as his, 24/7. The collar came last, I wrap the leather collar around my neck on top of my neck collar, I can’t unlock my chain collar without the key hence I will wear the leather on top, its leather snug around my neck, not too tight, precisely as he preferred, then I lock the leather collar with another padlock. I stood before the mirror, inspecting every detail: the gleam of the cage, the fit of the collar, the subtle bulge of the plug beneath my clothing. Everything was in place. I grabbed my leather collar key, slung the duffle bag Master S had given me over my shoulder, and headed out.
The drive was eerily smooth, the highway a ghost of its usual chaos, the lockdown reducing traffic to a handful of cars. The silence amplified my thoughts, and they spiraled unchecked. Who was I meeting at this house? What had Master S arranged? Was it him, waiting in the shadows, or a stranger acting on his behalf? The plug shifted with every turn, pressing deeper, a relentless reminder of my vulnerability. My cock throbbed in its cage, the metal biting into my flesh, making it difficult to focus on the road. I gripped the steering wheel, my palms slick with sweat, my mind conjuring vivid scenarios: Master S’s stern gaze, his hands binding me; a stranger’s voice, cold and commanding; a room filled with tools—gears, paddles, chains—designed to test my limits. The uncertainty was maddening, yet it fueled my arousal, my body responding with a traitor’s enthusiasm, my breath quickening as I navigated the empty roads.
Fifteen minutes from the destination, my phone buzzed again, jolting me from my thoughts. Another text from Master S, precise and authoritative. Enter the gated porch. Use the provided code. Text him upon arrival. My heart pounded, the instructions sinking into me like a ritual, each step a thread binding me to his will. A gated porch suggested privacy, a controlled space where the outside world could not intrude. I pictured a heavy iron gate, a barrier between the mundane and the extraordinary, a threshold I was about to cross. I repeated the code in my mind, committing it to memory, my fingers itching to punch it in.
I arrived at five forty, the house looming before me under the fading daylight. It was unremarkable at first glance, a semi-detached home indistinguishable from its neighbors, its facade a mask of normalcy. But the gate drew my attention, a stark contrast to the house’s ordinariness. It was not a grill, not a decorative lattice, but a solid metal wall, towering and opaque, blocking any view from the street. It was a fortress, a promise of secrecy, a declaration that what happened beyond it was hidden from prying eyes. I parked, my hands trembling as I texted Master S, the engine idling as I waited, the plug pressing deeper as I shifted in my seat. The cage was a cruel reminder of my submission, my cock straining against its confines, my body alive with nerves and anticipation.
Minutes later, his reply arrived, sharp and commanding, cutting through my spiraling thoughts. Enter the gate now. Strip naked. Place all belongings in the duffle bag. Kneel. Look down. Then, the revelation that stopped my breath: today’s training might involve breath play, impact play, and suspension. My mind reeled, my chest tightening. Master S rarely specified the nature of training, simply calling it “training” and letting the experience unfold under his control. And I was almost certain he was not in the country, his absence a fact I had reluctantly accepted. I texted back, my thumbs hesitating over the screen, my heart pounding. Was there truly training today? Who would be conducting it? Deep down, I clung to a fragile hope, a desperate wish that it was him, that he had found a way to be here, to reclaim me. The longing for him was overwhelming, six weeks of separation a wound that refused to heal.
His response was maddeningly brief, four words that sent my heart soaring and sinking in the same breath: “Enter now. See you.” See you? The phrase was a spark, igniting hope and fear in equal measure. Was he here, waiting beyond the gate? The possibility was intoxicating, my cock throbbing harder in its cage, my body trembling with a mix of dread and exhilaration. I sat for a moment, staring at the gate, the weight of his command pressing against me. This was my choice, my submission, my trust in him. I exhaled, steadying myself, and stepped out of the car.
I grabbed the duffle bag, punched in the gate code, and stepped into the porch. A small pool with a fountain burbled in the corner, its gentle trickle a stark contrast to the tension coiling inside me. The sound was almost soothing, a fleeting moment of calm before the storm. In front of the front door, I saw them: a blindfold, black and unassuming, folded neatly on the concrete, and a piece of paper beside it, crisp and white. I followed Master S’s orders with practiced precision, each step a ritual of submission. I stripped naked, the cool evening air raising goosebumps on my skin, my nipples hardening as the breeze brushed against them. I folded my clothes—shirt, pants, jockstrap—stacking them carefully in the duffle bag, tucking my keys and phone inside, zipping it shut with deliberate care. The plug, cage, and collar were my only adornments now, marking me as Master S’s property, my body bared to the night. I knelt on the hard tiles, the roughness biting into my knees, a sharp reminder of my place. I picked up the paper, its edges cool against my fingers, and read the words written in a precise, unfamiliar hand.
“Greetings, R. Your Master speaks highly of you, praising your devotion and obedience. I hope you live up to his expectations. The blindfold lies before you. Put it on, kneel, and place your hands behind your back.”
A stranger. Not Master S. My chest tightened, adrenaline flooding my veins, a cold rush that sent a shiver down my spine. I had done sessions with others before, always under Master S’s watchful eye, his presence a constant reassurance. But this was different, uncharted, a leap into the unknown. Was he here, observing from the shadows? Was this safe, this surrender to a man I had never met? Doubts swirled, each one a sharp edge cutting into my resolve. Could I trust this stranger? Should I submit, baring myself to his will? The fear was real, a heavy weight in my stomach, but it was laced with a perverse arousal, a thrill that pulsed through me. My cock strained in its cage, betraying how much the uncertainty excited me, how much I craved the vulnerability. I thought of Master S, his steady commands, his unwavering trust in me. He had chosen this, arranged this moment with care. I had to trust him, to honor him with my obedience. I set the paper down, its words burned into my mind, and slipped the blindfold over my eyes, plunging myself into darkness. I placed my hands behind my back, my fingers interlocking, and knelt in silence, the concrete cold and unforgiving beneath me.
The blindfold sharpened my senses, the world collapsing into sound and sensation. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, a relentless drum that drowned out the fountain’s trickle. The plug pressed deeper, a constant pressure that grounded me in my submission. The cage was a cruel restraint, my cock throbbing uselessly, each pulse a reminder of my powerlessness. My breath was shallow, ragged, the collar snug around my neck, a silent promise of Master S’s ownership. I was vulnerable, exposed, my body bared to the night and the stranger who awaited me. The weight of that vulnerability was both terrifying and exhilarating, a paradox that set my nerves alight. Time stretched, each second heavy with anticipation, my mind racing with questions. Who was this man? What would he demand of me? Would Master S’s presence guide me, even from afar?
The front door creaked open, a slow, deliberate sound that sent a jolt through me. Footsteps followed, measured and unhurried, the sound of someone in complete control. He circled me, his presence a tangible force, and I imagined his eyes assessing my body, judging my submission, cataloging every detail—the curve of my shoulders, the tension in my arms, the gleam of the cage. The air shifted as he squatted close, his breath warm against my left ear, a faint scent of musk lingering around him.
“I am going to tie you with this rope,” he said, his voice low, deliberate, carrying the weight of authority. A rough, dry rope brushed my thigh, its coarse texture trailing up my torso, then to my neck, grounding me in the moment. “Sniff it.” I inhaled, the scent earthy, grassy, raw, a primal reminder of my place. “Again, boy.” He moved behind me, his right hand gripping my left arm, wrapping across my chest to my right arm, pulling me against him. The warmth of his body contrasted with the cool air, his strength a quiet promise of control. My skin prickled, my breath quickening as he held me, his grip firm but not cruel.
He seized my wrists with his left hand, the rope in his grip, and slowly lifted them. My shoulders tightened, the strain building as he raise my wrists higher and higher, each movement deliberate, testing my limits. The ache grew, sharp and insistent, until I let out a soft “ah,” the sound escaping before I could stop it. “That is your limit?” he asked, holding my wrists at the edge of my endurance, his voice calm but probing. I nodded, my breath shallow, desperate for relief. “I see.” He released his hold on my chest, letting me bend slightly to ease the pressure, then swiftly tied my wrists together, the rope tightening with practiced precision, each knot a declaration of his skill.
Without warning, his hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back with a force that made me gasp. His forearm pressed against my spine, forcing me to straighten, then arch backward, my face tilting toward the sky, my neck exposed. My tied wrists lifted again, higher, the ache returning with a vengeance, a burning pain that radiated through my shoulders. I gasped, “Pain,” my voice barely a whisper, trembling with the effort. “Stay,” he commanded, his tone unyielding, and began wrapping rope across my left shoulder, chest, and right shoulder, each loop precise, deliberate, binding me further. He looped it again, then tugged the rope at my back, pulling my wrists higher, the strain relentless. Another yank on my hair, and a new rope slid across my upper neck, just below my chin, its texture rough against my skin. He tied it behind me, the pressure building before he finished, soft “ah” sounds escaping me as the choke took hold. The position was excruciating, my wrists at their limit, my head pulled back, my neck constricted, my body a taut bow of submission, trembling under the weight of his control.
“Choking or pain, your choice,” he said, his voice slow, close to my right ear, his breath warm against my skin. I panted, sweat beading on my forehead and armpits, my body trembling under the strain, my mind a whirlwind of fear and desire.
He stepped in front of me, grabbed the chest rope, and pulled, the motion sharp and commanding. “Stand up.” The tug tightened the neck rope, lifting my wrists, a dual assault of choke and ache that sent a shiver through me. I obeyed instantly, my legs unsteady, my body swaying as I rose. “Follow me,” he said, guiding me through the door, the rope a leash that bound me to his will. Blindfolded, I stumbled forward, the choke tightening with every step, my wrists straining my shoulders, my pulse pounding in my temples. The air changed as we entered the house, cooler, with a faint musty scent, the floor shifting beneath my feet. A soft, cushioned mat, like those in a gym, absorbed my steps, hinting at a space designed for physical exertion, a place where bodies were tested, limits pushed.
“Stay,” he commanded, his voice firm, cutting through the haze of my thoughts. I froze, the ropes holding me in their unyielding grip, my body trembling with the effort of maintaining the position. I heard him move, the faint clink of metal, the rustle of something heavy being adjusted, each sound amplifying my anticipation. He circled back, stopping behind me, so close I could feel the heat of his body, though he did not touch me. His breath grazed my right shoulder, steady, controlled, a quiet assertion of his presence. Then, the faint tickle of a beard against my neck, a fleeting sensation that sent a jolt through me, my breath quickening, my heart hammering. The beard vanished, and a new sound followed, the rough whisper of rope being untied, a bundle unravelling with deliberate care.
Another rope brushed my neck, and panic flared, a cold spike in my chest. Not my neck again, I thought, the existing ropes already a constant pressure, choking me with every breath. I did not dare speak, did not dare protest, my place to obey, to trust, unless I had no choice but to use my safe word. The new rope circled my neck, loose at first, its texture coarse against my skin, then tightened slightly as he pulled it upward. Fear gnawed at me, my wrists at their limit, my neck already strained, my body pushed to the edge. How much more could I take? But I silenced my doubts, leaning into the submission, trusting Master S’s design, his meticulous planning. The pulling intensified, slow and deliberate, urging me forward. I took a hesitant step, following the rope’s guidance, my bare feet tentative on the mat. The pulling did not stop, and I froze, unsure, my body trembling with the weight of my vulnerability.
Suddenly, his hand gripped my caged cock, yanking upward with a force that made me gasp. I rose to my tiptoes, instinctively following the pull to ease the pressure, the metal cage biting into my flesh. “Good,” he said, his voice gentle but firm, a quiet approval that sent a shiver through me. He released my cage, but relief did not come. The neck rope held me up, preventing me from lowering myself, its tension unyielding. If I stood flat footed, the ropes, around my neck and under my chin, would strangle me, the choke a constant threat. I was trapped, balanced precariously on my toes, my shoulders screaming, my breath shallow, my body a trembling monument to submission.
“You are leaking, boy,” he said, a smile in his voice, a note of amusement that deepened my humiliation. His fingers brushed my stomach, smearing the precum that had escaped my cage, the touch fleeting but electric. The shame burned, mingling with my arousal, my cock throbbing harder in its confines. He stepped away, his footsteps fading as he left the mat, the sound swallowed by the silence of the room. I was alone, suspended in this predicament, my body a battleground of pain and desire. Relaxing my wrists eased my shoulders but tightened the choke; lowering my feet did the same. There was no escape, no relief, only the choice between pain and breathlessness, each moment a test of my endurance.
Sweat trickled down my back, pooling at the base of my spine, my shoulders throbbing with a relentless ache. My head grew light, the choke stealing my breath, the strain blurring my thoughts. I tried shifting, hoping to loosen the neck rope, to find some sliver of relief, but it held fast, unyielding. Fear crept in, a cold whisper at the edge of my mind. What if he had misjudged me? What if I could not hold this position, my body collapsing under the strain? The thought of failing Master S, of disappointing him, was unbearable, a weight heavier than the ropes. But I pushed it aside, sinking into my subspace, a mental refuge where I could focus on the rhythm of my breath, the texture of the ropes, the steady pulse of my submission. I visualized Master S’s face, his stern approval, and let it anchor me, dulling the pain, softening the fear.
Time blurred, my muscles trembling with exhaustion, the subspace fading as my body’s limits asserted themselves. My legs burned, my calves screaming from the effort of balancing on my toes. My voice was hoarse, weakened by the choke, barely audible. “Sir?” I croaked, the sound pitiful, swallowed by the silence. The neck ropes had stolen my voice, leaving it coarse, fragile. Fear surged, a tidal wave that threatened to drown me. What if he could not hear me? What if he was too far away, in another room, unaware of my struggle? I tried again, louder, the effort unbalancing me, the choke tightening as I swayed. I flailed, my calves screaming as I fought to regain my tiptoes, my breath rapid, labored, the fear of suffocation clawing at my chest. My mind raced with worst case scenarios, each one a vision of failure, of danger, of loss.
Then, salvation. His left arm wrapped around me from behind, his chest pressing against my upper back, his belly against my bound wrists, his warmth a lifeline in the darkness. He raised himself slightly, his body easing the tension on my arms, loosening the neck rope’s choke, a small but profound relief. I nearly sobbed, my body trembling with gratitude. His other hand worked at the neck rope, untying it with steady precision, the pressure easing as he pulled it away. He guided me downward, his arm strong and sure, letting me stand flat footed, my legs trembling as they adjusted to the new position. The relief was overwhelming, a wave that washed away the panic, leaving me raw and exposed.
“Sir, I am sorry, I,” I started, my voice still weak, coarse from the choke, but something pressed against my mouth, cutting me off. I flinched, instinctively trying to close my jaw, but he paused, wrapping his right arm around me, his grip steady. His foot nudged my left knee forward, and my exhausted legs buckled, unable to resist. He caught me, lowering me to a kneeling position, my butt resting on my heels, the mat soft beneath me. His knees pressed mine together from behind, his beard brushing my neck as he leaned close, the sensation sending a shiver through me. “Shhhhh,” he said, a long, drawn out sound, his voice a command wrapped in calm. He pinched my nose, pulling it upward, forcing my mouth open, and I gasped, “Ah,” the sound involuntary. Something was stuffed inside, a sock, its scent overpowering, musky, undeniable, a raw assault on my senses. I gagged, muffled protests escaping as I tried to pull away, my body twisting, but his grip was unyielding, his strength an anchor that held me in place.
“Deep breath, relax your throat,” he commanded, his voice firm, leaving no room for defiance. I struggled to comply, my gag reflex kicking in as he pushed the sock deeper, its texture rough against my tongue, its taste bitter and intense. He paused, letting me adjust, his hand steady on my jaw, then continued, each push testing my limits, stretching my endurance. My sinuses burned, my eyes watering, my breathing forced through the sock’s stench, each inhale a labored struggle. Finally, he was satisfied, covering my mouth to keep the sock in place, his palm warm against my lips. Another layer followed, a second sock, stretched tight across my face, its fabric coarse as he tied it behind my head. I protested, shaking, my muffled cries swallowed by the gag, but he tugged the neck rope, a sharp choke silencing me, a warning that defiance was not an option. “Be good, boy, then I will release your neck,” he said, his voice low, close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
I hesitated, my mind racing, a storm of doubt and fear. Did he know my safe sign? Would he respect it, honor the boundaries Master S had set? The layers of socks multiplied, another added, then another, each one tightening the vise around my breath, making every inhale a struggle, the musky scent overwhelming. My focus shifted, my world narrowing to the act of breathing, each labored gasp a victory. The neck rope loosened, a small mercy, and I sighed, the sound muffled by the gag, barely audible. He chuckled, noticing, a low sound that sent a shiver through me. “I like to see you like this, boy,” he said, his voice thick with amusement, ignoring my muffled grunt, my desperate plea for relief.
“Now I will help you lie down,” he said, his arms guiding me to my left side, his strength steady, controlled. As my shoulder hit the mat, a sharp pain shot through me, a lightning bolt that made me cry out, the sound muffled by the gag. He paused, his hands still on me, assessing. “Would you like to lower your hands?” he asked, his voice calm, almost gentle. I nodded frantically, my body screaming for relief, my shoulder throbbing. He gripped my wrists, adjusting the ropes, and I felt a flicker of hope, a belief that freedom was near. But he stopped halfway, the ropes still binding me, the relief incomplete. “You thought I would release you, did you not?” he said, amusement coloring his voice, a quiet taunt that deepened my despair. I tilted my head, a soft cry escaping, a muffled plea for mercy. “You will be a good boy,” he said, his tone final, a declaration that left no room for negotiation.
My heart sank, a heavy weight in my chest. What did “good boy” mean? What trials would I have to endure to earn his approval, to prove myself to Master S? The ropes, the gag, the cage, they held me, unyielding, their grip a mirror of my submission. Fear, pain, and desire swirled together, a tempest that consumed me. My cock throbbed in its cage, a traitor to my fear, pulsing with a need I could not deny. Master S had chosen this, had crafted this moment with care, and I was his to mold, his to test. The stranger’s hands, his voice, his ropes, they were extensions of Master S’s will, and I surrendered to them, my body trembling, my soul laid bare in the darkness, with his scent filling my every breath.
To be continued
In next part…
“Your Master has granted me the permission to break you, boy.”
Metal would like to thank the author, @bdsmsubrex, for this story and welcome him to the Prison Library!
