I had it made. Fit, handsome, in my mid-twenties, and in the perfect job. At least, perfect for what I had in mind. After only three years since graduating college, a series of lucky breaks and departing mentors had led to my promotion as company controller of a mid-size manufacturing company. And as the guy in charge of handling the money, I knew exactly how I wanted to handle it … with the occasional diversion into a private account in St. Martin, thanks to some creative conversion of foreign currency when dealing with our suppliers and off-shore plants.
After sixteen months as controller, I had amassed a small fortune in the account, while the company just presumed that tough economic times and a low U.S. dollar had hit their bottom line. It was simple, it was clean, and I was set for stage 2. One Friday afternoon on a beautiful spring day, I left the office as if it were any other weekend and headed straight for the marina. My sailboat was nothing grand – the better to avoid attracting attention – but it was more than enough to get me to Belize or Honduras.
No one paid any attention to the handsome, athletic young guy who piloted his boat out of the marina. No one had any idea that the cabin was loaded with my most prized possessions and a few fake passports. And as I anchored that night in a small harbor off the coast of Mexico, celebrated with a bottle of wine and a joint before drifting off into a blissful sleep, I was certain that I had just carried out the perfect crime.
I’m used to waking up with a hangover – that slow hazy return to consciousness where the pain of the hangover sets in before the senses are really aware of their surroundings again. So it wasn’t a surprise to me that I gradually awoke the next morning to sensations of pain and discomfort. At least, it wasn’t a surprise until the nature of the pain and discomfort set in. The pain wasn’t a headache or an upset stomach. This pain that was bringing me back to consciousness was slowly moving down the surface of my legs. First the left, then the right, then the left again. I tried to kick my legs away from the pain, but they wouldn’t move. I tried to move my arms to swat at the pain, but they were held rigidly in place. Confused, and quickly waking from my slumber, I opened my eyes and tried to sit up, but I couldn’t move my body.
My vision was blurry, so blurry that it looked like I was gazing up at four versions of the sun. With the confusion of my inability to move, it took me a moment to figure out that I wasn’t looking at the sun at all, but at four bright lights – the kind that hover over operating tables. I struggled to look around, but my head would not move. Every attempt to move any part of my body was met with complete resistance. My confusion turned to panic. I tried to call out, but no sound came out. Something was jammed into my mouth, pushing my jaw apart, jamming my tongue downwards, and preventing me from making any noise. My heart pounded in my chest as terror enveloped me.
The only part of me that could move was my eyeballs, and I strained to push them to the far sides of my eyes to see something of my surroundings. From what little I could see, I could tell that the room was completely white, it was not large, and I was clearly on some kind of operating table. Had I been injured? Had there been an accident? Had something happened to cause the pain in my legs.
I could just barely make out the tops of two heads – two men doing something to my legs. Were they the reason for the pain, or were they trying to do something to stop it? I had so many questions running through my head and no ability to ask them.
But the pain went on. My left leg. Then my right. Then my left. Never in the same place, as if something was being run along the skin, causing pain in the process, and slowly moving down my shins towards my ankles.
One of the men eventually stood, turned and walked away from the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I could just make out the top half of his body. He was tall and muscular with a strong jaw and close-cropped black hair. He didn’t even glance in my direction as he stepped away from the table. But what caught my eye the most was the gleam of light that shone off of his shirt. It was skin tight and white as snow, and shone as if it were made out of plastic.
“Sir, he’s awake.”
That was all he said. I had no idea who this “sir” was, no idea why he would care that I was awake, and still no idea where I was. What kind of hospital straps patients down to tables, gags them, and clothes its interns in shiny clothing. Then I heard a sound like a telephone handset being set back onto the telephone. Burly shiny guy turned back to the operating table and again I caught a glimpse of the shirt on his muscular torso. It was some kind of rubber, not plastic, and it moved with his body like a second skin. I felt a slight jump in my dick, which surprised me given the circumstances I was in.
Burly shiny guy sat back down at the side of the table, and soon the pain returned to my right side as well as my left, continuing down my ankles to my feet. For the next few minutes, the pain continued along my feet to my toes, and then thankfully stopped. Although I couldn’t see what they were doing, I could hear noises that sounded like the two men were cleaning up, putting away some kind of devices. I hoped it meant that the pain was over.
Movement of the table sent shockwaves through my body. It was on some kind of motorized hinge, and one of the guys in rubber had hit a switch to make the table tilt upwards to near vertical. As the table moved, the two guys in rubber came into full view. They were both about mid-twenties, probably no older than me, but both were well-muscled – clearly these were not guys who spent their days sitting at desks handling money. I tried to make eye contact with them. Tried to mumble a request for an explanation. Tried to reason with them. But they simply ignored me.
A few moments later, a door across the room opened. A figure in a dark grey business suit entered the room. The pit of my stomach dropped. It was Mr. Spiretti, the owner of the company that I had worked for – a reclusive multi-millionaire who had inherited the company from his father when he was no older than me. Now, in his mid-thirties, he cut the figure of an athletic, aggressive, even ruthless executive. He had a slight smile on his face as he looked me over. I’m sure he could see the fear in my eyes, for I knew by this time that I was not in any hospital, and was probably no longer in Mexico. He knew. He knew everything, and I was fucked.
“I’m going to be brief, because I have some guests upstairs and I don’t want to keep them waiting. When I discovered that you had embezzled a few million dollars from me, I considered calling the police. After all, embezzlement of this size, combined with skipping the country and various other crimes that I’m sure we’d uncover could easily get you twenty years or more. But I realized that sending you off to prison wouldn’t give me any sense of satisfaction …”
A sense of relief swept across me. Perhaps he wouldn’t turn me over to the authorities. Perhaps he understood what it’s like to not have money, to be around those that do, and to want everything they have. Perhaps things would work out somehow …
“No, it would be much more satisfying if I took charge of your rehabilitation myself. So, consider yourself found guilty of embezzlement, fraud, and anything else you care to admit that you’ve done, and sentenced to twenty-five years of solitary confinement here at my compound. These two men are my corrections officers who will be in charge of your confinement. While you were unconscious they already got you somewhat prepared for the experience by permanently removing all of your body hair – trust me, you’ll be glad it’s gone. Your confinement will change whenever I get bored or think of something I want to try. And if you’re imagining being locked alone in a cell somewhere in the basement, try to expand your imagination a bit, because that would be quite boring for me. No, my idea of solitary confinement will be much much more interesting.”
And with that, he smiled a wicked smile, then nodded to one of the burly shiny guys who stepped up towards me. I tried to pull away when I noticed the burly shiny guy lift his arm to reveal a hypodermic needle in his hand, but there was nowhere for me to go. A moment later, a sharp prick in the side of my neck was the last thing I felt before sinking into a deep sleep.
* * *
My return to consciousness was filled with even more confusion than I had felt earlier when I had awakened on the operating table. My first conscious thought was that my entire body was being caressed. It was an odd feeling. I seemed to be lying in bed, on my stomach, arms and legs loosely open at my sides, and yet every square inch of my skin felt like it was being touched. I tried to move, but none of my muscles seemed able to respond. I felt no concern or panic, just that I was probably still half-asleep and dreaming, unable to move the same way you can’t really scream in a nightmare.
But as consciousness returned, I realized that this was no dream. I did have control over my body, it just wouldn’t move because there was nowhere for it to go. Every square inch of my body was enveloped in some sort of casing, some sort of solid material that held me in place. It wasn’t tight. It didn’t hurt. It was just a smooth surface that was like a mirror for my body, perfectly holding it in place and leaving not even a millimeter of movement available for any part of my body. For a brief moment I panicked and fought against the solid bondage, but the only result was a useless surge of energy that ran through my muscles but had nowhere to go.
I stopped my struggle and tried to collect my senses. My mouth was filled with something. It felt like a mouth guard for sports, except bigger, holding my jaw apart and pressing into my teeth. And something emerged from it and reached deeper back into my throat. I shivered at the thought of what it could be. My nostrils felt similarly stretched, and I realized that tubes were pushed into them, since I could still breathe through my nostrils. My ears seemed to be stuffed with some sort of plugs, yet I had a sense of being able to hear background noise that was somehow nearby. Then I noticed the feeling in my ass. Something was pushed into it. It felt huge, but I really had nothing from my past to compare it with, since things had only gone out, not in, before my recent predicament. And then I noticed my prick. I noticed it because the thoughts about having something buried deep in my ass made my prick jump – or at least attempt to. My dick seemed to be embedded in something just like the rest of my body – surrounded by some sort of restrictive material that prevented it from getting hard and forced it to stay the size of its soft state. The realization that it had nowhere to grow should have convinced my body to stop sending blood to my prick, to let it shrink back and cease its painful push against its barriers. But instead the realization only seemed to make my mind even more insistent on making it grow. I struggled to will my body to leave it be, but I couldn’t seem to relieve the pressure.
It was about this time that I realized that I had opened my eyes as I fought against my restriction, but could see little more than darkness and shadows. And the shadows I could see made no sense to me. My internal sense of balance told me that I was on my stomach, facing down. Yet the bare shadows I could see looked almost like a large bedroom as if I were standing on one side of the room. A large squarish block of shadow sat in the middle of the room and appeared like a large bed. Other shadows appeared like furniture. But rather than accept that I was somehow looking at such things, my mind swirled about in confusion, trying to understand what I could possibly be looking at since I was clearly lying face down. It was like an out-of-body experience, except that the constant light pressure against every square inch of my body made it clear that I was still inside my own skin.
A sudden change in pressure against my back made every nerve ending jump. It felt as though something heavy pushed against parts of the solid material that held me in place, giving the impression that it wasn’t as solid as I had imagined – still too hard for me to push against, but not like concrete – more like heavy foam rubber. I tried to push back against the pressure, but with every square inch of my body entombed in the material, it was impossible for me to get enough force behind the effort to make the slightest difference in its shape. Only my fingers seemed able to make any movement at all, and barely a millimeter at that, and my fingers soon ached from the major effort it took to feel any give at all from the material that surrounded me.
The movement happened again. And with it, I heard a distinctive sigh as if someone had sighed right next to my ears. And at the same time, I thought I detected movement in the shadows that were in front of my eyes.
The confusion was overwhelming. Nothing made sense to me. I tried to remember what had happened to me and whether it could give me any clue as to where I could possibly be. The memory of the operating table flooded back to my mind and sent a chill of fear through my body. Mr. Spiretti. My accuser. My judge. My jailor. He had discovered my embezzlement, caught me redhanded, arranged my disappearance, and then sentenced me to twenty-five years of “solitary confinement” – a punishment to be handed out by his own, personal “corrections officers.”
At that moment, there was more pressure change against my back and ass, another heavy breath next to my ears, and simultaneous movement in the middle of my field of vision. And that was the moment that I realized my situation. The realization put everything together, yet was so unbelievable and horrifying to me that I could not let myself believe it. And yet everything I continued to feel, see and hear simply confirmed this realization. My body shook in terror, except that the muscles could only move on the inside of me since there was no room to shake on the outside. It couldn’t be, but everything told me that my understanding of the situation was correct.
The shadows in front of my eyes were indeed a bedroom. The very large bedroom of Mr. Spiretti. The boxy shape in the middle of my field of vision was his bed, and the occasional movement that I would see was the dark shadow of his body as he shifted in his sleep.
But I was not standing across the room from his bed, as my vision suggested. No, the image that appeared in front of my eyes was some kind of glasses with built-in video screens, secured over my eyes. With every toss and turn of Mr. Spiretti, I was feeling his weight shift against my back. As my sense of direction had known from the start, I was face down, on my stomach … and underneath Mr. Spiretti. Somehow I was under, or inside his mattress.
I tried to imagine how this was possible. The picture that formed in my head was of someone sandwiched between a mattress and a box spring. But that wasn’t my situation. I didn’t just have pressure on my front and my back. I had pressure against every inch of my skin, from every direction.
And the feeling of his weight, against my backside, did not feel as distant as if there were a mattress between us. It felt as though his body was only a couple of inches above mine, pushing down against my body. I wasn’t under his mattress. I was inside his mattress. I WAS his mattress.
I wanted to scream, and I’m pretty sure I tried, but no sound came out. My body shook from the terror, but it had nowhere to go. The next few hours were spent in some kind of state of shock or denial, refusing to accept my circumstances, and refusing to acknowledge the information that my senses were receiving because it only served to confirm everything I was attempting to deny. I seemed to doze in and out of sleep or consciousness, perhaps in an effort to escape, until some time later (how many hours I have no idea) a light slowly but steadily lit up the room.
The light revealed everything I had tried to deny. I was most definitely looking at Mr. Spiretti’s bedroom, and was most definitely viewing it through some kind of lens or video screen in front of my eyes. Every so often, it would flicker just enough to confirm that it was a screen, not just my eyes. The sound that was next to my ears seemed to come from some kind of headphones or speakers. And the orientation of all of it was at odds with my face down positioning.
A man walked across the room as heavy curtains across the window automatically opened to reveal a sunny morning. The man was probably in his late twenties, tall and fit, cleancut, and dressed in the oddest uniform. It was like a butler’s tuxedo, except that it was skin tight and shone in the light. I remembered the “corrections officers” who had lasered off my hair in the examining room, and the tight white latex uniforms that they wore, and realized that this guy, too, was dressed head to toe in rubber. This guy’s uniform was tight grey pin-striped rubber pants with a nearly obscene codpiece, a tight white rubber shirt, a short black rubber jacket, and black rubber riding boots. From a distance, he would just look like any stereotypical butler (except for the cod-piece and extra hotness of his athletic body). But up close, he was like some image from a rubber porn film.
The butler set a tray down on a table next to the bed.
“Good morning, Sir. Six o’clock.”
On top of the bed, Mr. Spiretti stirred and stretched, and I could feel every movement as a change in weight and pressure in my back and ass. He sat up on the edge of the bed, dressed in expensive looking silk pajama bottoms, and reached for the coffee on the tray while the butler pressed some buttons on a laptop resting on a bureau and then examined the screen.
“Its vital signs appear normal, Sir.”
Mr. Spiretti just grunted and down his coffee.
“It wasn’t the most comfortable mattress I’ve ever slept on, but I guess that isn’t the point, is it?”
“We could certainly add a foam pad to it, Sir. Perhaps next time increase the height by another few inches above the body.”
My sense of reality was entirely lost. My sight and hearing felt as though I were watching a television show, on some screen, where the sound and action were happening in a world entirely separated from my own, and yet they were talking about me, embedded in a mattress underneath Mr. Spiretti, as if it were the most mundane conversation of their day.
“Would you like me to send in the boi, Sir?”
Mr. Spiretti nodded. The butler turned and left the room as Mr. Spiretti downed the last of his coffee, picked up some sort of remote from the beside table, then got up from the bed and approached me – or, should I say, approached whatever camera was sending the video feed to the screen in front of my eyes. He stared into the lens as if staring into my eyes.
“I have no intention of speaking to you on a regular basis, but I had a feeling that I’d get a kick out of explaining to you just where you are right now. In case you haven’t figured it out, you’re embedded into a poured foam rubber mattress, completely surrounded by a rubber material that might seem almost soft if you were to stick your finger into it, but is completely immovable if you push a flat surface like your arm against it. There are video goggles in front of your eyes that are connected to this camera, and headphones over your ears. That thing invading your mouth is holding feeding tubes that reach into your stomach, oxygen tubes for your lungs since you can’t expand your chest very much, and a drainage hole underneath you in case you throw up or drool too much. The thing in your ass is a tube that will permit my assistants to clean you out once a day. There are also a series of monitoring devices since, despite what you might believe, I don’t want you to die in there. No, I want to make sure that you experience every single day of your twenty-five years in solitary confinement, just aware of enough sight and sound on occasion to know your situation and stay completely aware and sane. Oh, and your penis? You might have noticed that you have no urge to urinate. We did a small bit of surgery when you first got here – a few clips here and there to inactivate the muscles that close off your bladder. Your piss will just drain out in a constant drip from now on, into whatever drainage tube your penis is confined in, eliminating the need for an internal catheter. It’s much better this way for long-term confinement. Trust me. Oh, and don’t get used to watching me sleep. This was a special treat. Most of the time, the camera and audio will only be on so that you can watch yourself get fed and cleaned, occasionally so that you can see the empty silent room during the day, filled with nothing but furniture like you, and even more rarely, for a moment like this. You need to understand that you are no longer a person. You are no longer even a person embedded inside a mattress. No, you are a mattress. Mattresses do not make noise, and mattresses do not struggle. If I am ever woken from my sleep because I hear you moan or try to scream, or feel any sense of struggle, I will hit this remote control …”
And with that, he hit a button on the small remote, sending painful shockwaves through my testicles. I tried to scream, but I’m not sure anything actually came out.
“So, if you want to avoid that feeling in the future, learn your role as a mattress. You need to learn to accept your bondage without attempting to move within it, and to remain silent at all times. It is only with acceptance of your new role, and compliance with my rules, that you will eventually find a sense of happiness in serving as inanimate objects for my pleasure.”
And with that he flicked his fingers, signaling to someone across the room. A man had entered the room on his hands and knees. I got the impression that he was a young man, but there was really no way to be sure from the view I had through the camera, as he was completely covered in black rubber. From the top of his head to his toes, only his eyes, lips, cock and (as I learned shortly) asshole were uncovered. Following the direction of Mr. Spiretti’s fingers, the “boi” (as Mr. Spiretti had called him) crawled over to Mr. Spiretti and pulled down his silk pajama bottoms to reveal an already hard cock. He swiftly took it into his mouth and sucked enthusiastically. Mr. Spiretti ran his hands across the boi’s rubber-covered head and thrust in and out of his mouth. After several minutes of this, he pushed the boi’s head away and pointed dismissively towards the bed. The boi instantly crawled onto the bed and lay down on his stomach with his legs spread wide apart. I could feel the weight of his body pressing down against mine.
My head was spinning, still trying to process everything Mr. Spiretti had said to me, trying to accept the complete immobility that prevented me from moving any muscle as anything more than a twitch, and trying to comprehend the concept that my life had become a near-permanent experience of total isolation. The pit of my stomach twisted from fear while my dick inexplicably tried to grow in its confined space. I couldn’t figure out why? Was I just turned on by the image of the rubber-clad boi writhing on the bed above me, opening his ass cheeks to invite Mr. Spiretti to join him, or was I somehow turned on by the concept and reality of being immobilized perpetually inside a foam mattress.
Before I could spend too much time dealing with this swirl of thoughts, Mr. Spiretti climbed onto the bed on top of the rubber boi. The weight from them both pushed down against my entombed body, increasing the pressure of the total rubber bondage that surrounded me and increasing my body’s urge to make my cock grow erect. I watched through the video lenses as Mr. Spiretti plunged his hard cock into the boi’s ass with one thrust. He rested his body on top of the boi’s, and then began to move his cock in and out. As well as feeling their weight on top of me, I could feel each thrust, as the rhythm of each thrust caused the tube inside my ass to shift slightly, in and out, as if it were fucking me as an extension of Mr. Spiretti’s erection.
My cock ached as it struggled to enlarge, but there was no way I could possibly will it down while that tube pushed in and out of my ass. The thought of getting fucked in the ass was never one that I had entertained beyond the occasional crude joke that guys tell when they want to make fun of gays. But here I was, embedded in rubber, getting fucked up the ass by a tube, driven by the thrusts of my former boss fucking his boi-toy on top of me … and I was starting to enjoy it. The feelings in my ass started to become pleasurable, and then they started to radiate out from my ass. My skin seemed extra sensitive against the casing of the mattress, and though my dick throbbed painfully in its narrow enclosure, I was more turned on than I had ever been. I tried to thrust my penis deeper into the rubber, hoping I could somehow enlarge the tiny space it was in, but nothing could budge. Still, that didn’t dampen the increasingly pleasurable feelings that coursed through my ass and out to the rest of my body.
The sensations in my body were as if I were being fucked, but the vision in front of my eyes was as if I were watching from across the room. It was like some bizarre out-of-body experience. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the overwhelming sensations. The tube moving in my ass. Every inch of my body covered by unyielding rubber entombment. My cock straining to get erect inside its restrictive space. My mouth pried apart by a molded bit with tubes snaking into my throat. As Mr. Spiretti’s thrusts became deeper and more insistent, the tube in my ass pushed deeper in tandem while the hoarse breathing of their fucking echoed next to my ears. Finally, despite the pressure that kept my cock from growing erect, or perhaps partly because of it, my body shuddered as much as the rubber form would allow and I shot my cum into the hole below my dick that drained away my dripping urine. The intensity of the orgasm was like nothing I had ever experienced before. The inability to move seemed to make every muscle fight more strenuously for the ability to express the orgasm, and I must have let out an involuntary moan from the orgasm, for before the orgasm was even complete there was a painful shock in my balls, swiftly bringing me down from the euphoria. I gazed into the video goggles to see Mr. Spiretti clutching the remote in one hand as he pumped his cock into the boi, growling like an animal as he came into the boi’s ass, and seemingly driven to the orgasm by the knowledge that he was simultaneously sending shockwaves through my testicles. I was barely aware of Mr. Spiretti’s body collapsing onto the boi’s, barely aware of his exit from the boi’s ass, and barely aware of the loss of pressure on my back as they both climbed from the bed.
For the next half hour I drifted in and out of some kind of emotional shock. The realization that I had been entombed inside a foam rubber mattress as the first phase of a quarter century of “solitary confinement” combined with the trauma of having had my ass raped by a metal tube, shoved in and out by the momentum of my jailor’s thrusts into the ass of his boi just inches above my back, combined with horrific shocks to my balls, left me incapable of processing what was going on around me. The fact that my cock had struggled to grow erect and then shot a load inside the confines of its rubber bondage made it all the more confusing. I barely noticed Mr. Spiretti return from his bathroom freshly showered, dress in a fine suit, until he stopped in front of “me”, the lens, and spoke to me for what would be the last time for a very long time.
“After I leave, your corrections officers will be in for your once-a-day enema and your morning feeding. That tube you undoubtedly feel inside your ass connects to a port at the foot of the mattress allowing them to clean out your ass. They will also be injecting a protein shake into your stomach through the tube that snakes down your throat, as well as whatever else they want to inject into your stomach for nourishment or fluids.”
His smile as he said “nourishment” and “fluids” made it pretty clear to me that much of my morning meal would be coming from the cocks of my corrections officers and not from a protein shake blender.
“But don’t get too comfortable in there. At some point, a few days, weeks or months from now, whenever I get bored with this situation, you’ll drift off to sleep one day and wake up in a new situation. Perhaps plastered inside the wall below my bathroom with the urinal drainage pipe stuffed into your mouth and your cock draining back into the sewer. Perhaps sealed inside a table in my dining room. Perhaps embedded inside a custom made recliner in my study. Perhaps encased in a steel covering that turns you into a statue for a fountain in my garden. Or perhaps stored inside a large grandfather clock, with the chimes every hour triggering electrodes attached to your genitals. The possibilities and my imagination are endless.” He turned to leave, then paused. “Isn’t this so much better than spending twenty-five years as Bubba’s prison bitch in a crowded state pen?”
Part of me wanted to agree.
Metal would like to thank RbbrStorage for this story! You can read more from this kinkster by clicking here.