By PFC Pflege

Part 1

I first experienced the hot box in the old Training Center, then located in Missouri, now called the Academy, located in Georgia. Back then, the Training Center consisted of a single room in which was a barred cell, just like a prison cell, a padded “cooler”, the infamous chair, and all imaginable bondage devices from mediaeval manacles to wooden gloves. I went many times out there, and Chip, who ran the place, pushed my limits very hard. He had several devices he had made just for me, though, of course, he used them on other guys as well.

One was the platform, which I have seen crop up in movies and elsewhere, but then it was new to me. It was a four by four wooden platform, with padding on the top. It was six to eight inches high.  Rings were attached at all four corners. It was used to punish, to subdue, and to control. I would be forced to kneel, stark naked, on the platform, with my hands chained behind my back. Chains locked my ankles to the rings. Another chain was wrapped around my neck, and the two ends chained to the other rings. Depending on my attitude – I usually arrived at the Training Center with an attitude – the chain around my neck either let me kneel pretty much upright, or was tightened so that my head was pulled way down towards the platform. My first experience with this simple device of horror was the 3rd or 4th time I went out there. I was in my late twenties, only a few years out of the Marine Corps, and what I didn’t know about life wasn’t worth knowing. My cocky attitude gave Chip and his staff a lot of fun.

Chip was gay, but most of the staff were straight. They were active duty military, or local prison guards, who didn’t mind making some money by chaining a faggot up in a cell. You went out there for incarceration and heavy-duty bondage – not sex. Later, as they knew me better, I was allowed to kneel and jerk off while some of the guards watched, a particularly humiliating experience which I never forgot.

Whenever I saw that they had set out the platform, I knew I was in for it. It’s not difficult for 4 guys to chain a naked man’s hands behind his back, and force him to kneel, while one guy chains his ankles. That done, depending on how much I was working my mouth, the chain around my neck either let me kneel normally, or pulled my head way down to the platform. If I worked my mouth a lot either there, or in transport to the facility, I got the rough treatment. Believe me, it’s no picnic being bent over, your head almost on the platform, your hands chained behind your back, and all you can see is your cock swinging between your legs. Nobody gave a damn. The first time they used the platform, I made a lot of demands, but nobody listened. They left the room, locking the door, and keeping the overhead cameras on me. I worked my mouth, and thrashed around in the chains, until I finally quieted down

Begging didn’t do any good, either. John, a regular guard who I got to know well, told me the second or third time I was on the platform, that begging just lengthened the punishment. “We don’t give a shit,” he succinctly explained. “Whether you make noise begging or screaming or whatever, you’re not getting off the platform. You get off the platform only when you shut up, and start to learn to obey orders.” Later he told me he really liked chaining me because it took me a long, long time, every single visit I made there, to learn how to obey orders.

The hot box was another of Chip’s inventions. I am sure others have them, but it was a first for me. The original box sat in the center of the room, in front of the cell, and was four by three, by three… something like that. You could kneel in it, with your head bent forward, but that was all. It was an old ice cabinet, the kind you see at convenience stores, where they sell bags of ice in it. Chip’s modifications including replacing the door with one-way plastic – they could see in, but all I could see was my reflection. I saw my reflection because he fitted a fluorescent tube in the back part of the box, which stammered into life when you closed the door. A simple latch controlled the door, and there was no panic bar.

For the first few times I was locked in the box, I was stripped naked, handcuffed with my hands behind my back, and crawled in on my knees. They locked the door; the fluorescent tube came on; and I watched my naked body slowly melt with sweat. In the early sessions, they blew cigar smoke into the box, and listened to my coughing and choking. Later sessions, they dropped the cigar smoke, and one guard just sat and watched me, as the minutes ticked. In the final trips out there, Chip had installed the box into the wall, increasing the heat, and making it so I could see its light from the cell where I was chained. One session I lost count of the hours I was in the box – about 10 hours out of 14 consecutive hours I was locked in there. Usually sessions in the box were an hour in length, but one time, for John the guard, I stayed in there on my knees for two hours. Between times I was in the box during those horrible 14 hours, I was spread eagled with leather restraints to the bars of the cell, still naked, while I cooled down.

The heat in the hot box was somewhere just below 130 degrees, and became intense. When Chip installed the box into the wall, he also modified my restraints. No longer was kneeling with my hands cuffed behind my back sufficient. In his opinion, it became necessary to manacle me with mediaeval-style manacles, heavy steel manacles. It started with a collar of steel around my neck, from which a chain hung. Further down the chain were manacles, which the guards locked on my wrists, behind my back. The chain continued from my neck to my wrists down to my ankles, where manacles locked my ankles. In these restraints, I was placed inside the new version of the hot box – now located in the wall – for the first time. It was also the start of the horrible 14 hours, during which 10 or so were spent in the box.

I had displayed a major attitude problem during transport from the airport to the facility. I had been secured with plastic restraints to a gurney, but broke them, and started thrashing in the back of the van, while the guards attempted to subdue me. One of them was a prison guard – it may actually have been John – and he finally pulled off the highway, and came round to help the military guys, who hadn’t had experience with prisoners, subdue me. John quickly found pressure points at my collar bone, which nearly caused me to black out, while the military guards used real handcuffs and chains to hogtie me, then dump me back on the gurney, and chain me to the gurney. I don’t know why they used plastic restraints to begin with.

On arrival, which meant entering a garage area adjacent to the Center, the guards were still angry about my attitude, and John worked my collar bone until I shut up, and one guard thrust a balled-up cloth into my mouth, and taped in place. They wheeled the gurney into the facility, dumped me, still hogtied, or, rather hogchained, on to floor, dragged me into the cell, and locked the gate. They turned out the lights, and left me. The only light was from the hot box, a lurid, white light. It was the first time I had seen the hot box since it had been moved to, and installed in, the wall. I struggled, not hard, fascinated by the light. It was late at night, and I was tired from the plane flight, and being keyed up with excitement, and I was at the start of a 3-day weekend. Already I was half-beaten before it even began.

The 14 hours then began, with me being manacled and shoved, naked, into the hot box. I knelt, facing the one-way mirror door, looking at my reflection. I would see this reflection for ten more hours, before they were finished breaking me with the hot box, and moved on to other forms of bondage and submission. On Sunday, when I flew home, exhausted, I determined to have a hot box of my own.

 

Part 2

 

I had a friend who was handy, and he contrived a box which is still in my basement. The temperature reached approximately 133 degrees, and my friend put a mirror on the door for me to watch myself melt, and cut a window on the side for the captor to watch me. If all the lights in the basement were out, he could see me, but I could not see him.

It was then I met Jeff, and entered into a regular arrangement with him, for him to come out to the house, and bind me with rope to a chair, or hogtie me, or string me up from the ceiling. Or put me in the hot box. All this went fine until one night when everything went wrong. If there was ever a moral to this story, it is to be sure a third person knows what you are doing, when you are playing risky bondage games. I didn’t let a third person know, and it very nearly cost me my life. Here’s what happened, and, if you’re into risky bondage, take my advice and let a third person know. Give them a time frame, and if they don’t hear from you, they should call or come over, or whatever arrangement you make. This precaution is not just when you are with a stranger, but also when you are with a friend. You never know when a guy may get sick, or pass out, or something.

When Jeff put me in the hot box, the scene was pretty much always the same. I put on tight Speedos, and a USMC shirt, with no sleeves. I would then gag myself, using duct tape. I was really, really big on very tight gags, and I would first gag my mouth with layers of duct tape, round and round my head. Then, I would run duct tape from the point of my chin over the top of my head, pulling the jaw really tightly shut. Try it. You can’t make any kind of audible sound.

Next I knelt in the hot box, my back to the door. Jeff would chain my wrists together, and then chain my wrists to my ankles. When he was done, I would slowly hump myself around until I faced the mirrored door. Then Jeff would close the door, and turn the heat on, and sit and watch me. He usually erected and climaxed several times while watching for an hour or so. Seeing me like this turned him on, big time.

The heater was behind my ass, and turned off and on, approximately every 3 minutes. I got so that I knew the count, and at 19 or 20 repetitions of hearing the heater come on, I had had enough. That was about an hour. The other thing was the door. My handy friend had devised it for self use, and had installed a panic bar on the inside, so if I chained myself in there, I could easily escape. If I was monitored, though, he installed at the top of the door two flanges, one on the box, one on the door. Each had a hole in it, and all you had to do was slip a nail into the two holes, and whoever was inside the box would be at the mercy of the guy outside. It worked fine, because Jeff and I had an arrangement, that if I slammed my body 3 times in a row against the panic bar on the door, making a loud noise, he would release me. If I was just thrashing around inside the box, thrusting into the door with my packed crotch, or sliming my sweaty face on the mirror, he could ignore me, and jerk off, watching me thrash and heave.

The night of horror happened on a Friday. It should have been the 13th, but it wasn’t. It was the 12th. Jeff came out, and we ate and drank, and decided it was time for me to go into the box. It was late, maybe 10:00pm. I’d been drinking, and so had Jeff. I stripped, put on the Speedos, and the USMC shirt with no sleeves, and went to the basement. Jeff was already there, doing something with the chains. The hotbox was turned on, its door open, and the light shining.

All the other lights in the basement were turned off. I knelt inside the hotbox, facing the back wall, as usual. Jeff chained my wrists, padlocking the chain, and then chained my ankles to my wrists. I started to move around, in order to face the door, but he stopped me. He next chained my elbows together, and then ran a chain around the back of my neck, down my chest, through my armpits, and padlocked the ends to the chains on my elbows and wrists and ankles. My cock went instantly, solidly, and insistently erect. It was the best damn chaining Jeff had ever done.

I humped around (the floor of the hotbox was foam rubber, thank goodness) until I was facing the mirror door. I could see myself, but I could not see out through the door, or through the small window in the side, where Jeff would watch me. He turned the machine on, and the heater kicked in. The heat blew on my ass, but I was enough inches away from it that it didn’t burn. The hotbox heated up, and the heater went off. 3 minutes later, it came back on again.

I lusted into the mirror image of myself that I saw in the door. I was tightly gagged with duct tape, and Jeff had done a cock-stiffening job chaining me. I was kneeling, a prisoner and a captive, watching myself slowly melt. The heater came back on, and more heat poured into the box. My handy friend had installed a thermometer inside, so I could see what the temperature was. It was a balmy 120 degrees. I lusted, thrusting my erection, packed into the Speedos, into the mirror door. It opened, and Jeff shoved a bottle of poppers under my nose. He closed the door, but then almost immediately re-opened it. Using duct tape, he taped two poppers bottles to the panic bar, having removed the caps. Then he closed the door. What I did not know was that he left the basement, went upstairs, and started drinking.

It was the best damn session in the hotbox, ever. I had assumed Jeff was seated outside, watching me, so I performed for myself and for him. My cock was rigid in the Speedos, and I crushed it up against the mirror door. I writhed, and thrashed in the heat, and watched my body slowly start sweating. It was really neat to see myself chained and gagged and sweat making dark stains in my USMC shirt. The heater had clicked on and off, about 12 times, and the temperature in the box was hovering at 130 degrees. The poppers filled the box, and drove me crazy. I could just lean over enough to take a solid hit, and I did that often.

The heater clicked off and on, and my mind automatically tracked the count, the way you can tell how many times a clock has struck, even if you don’t count the strikes consciously. I became dimly aware of the absence of Jeff. Even though I could not see him, if he were there, I sensed, somehow, that he wasn’t. But my mind was fucked up with poppers, and my cock was massively hard, and the heater had clicked on only 14 times. I lusted.

The lusting began to fade when I realized that I was alone. I sensed it. Maybe when Jeff was seated at the little window, watching me, I could hear him jerking off, or moving about, but now I had a sense of complete void. The heater had clicked on for the 18th time, and it was time to leave the box. I slammed my body into the panic bar three times, making enough noise for anyone to hear. I knocked off one of the poppers bottles, which spilled onto the floor, soaking into the foam rubber. The atmosphere in the hotbox was thick with poppers, particularly from the spilled bottle. And I was becoming dizzy. Sweat was now pouring down my body in streams, and the temperature, according to the thermometer, was now at 133 degrees. Breathing was becoming difficult because the poppers had filled my nostrils, and I sucked air greedily – at the same time, sucking more poppers into my system.  I could not scream or shout, because I had tightly gagged myself with tape, locking my jaws together. My body was tightly and irrevocably chained. The door was locked with that little nail, and no matter how hard I slammed against it, it would not open.

The heater clicked on. It was now its 26th time for being on, and I panicked, a huge, desperate, body-consuming panic, heaving and pounding against the hotbox walls and door, slamming into the little window, slamming my body with all my force into the mirror door, desperate, panic-stricken, my mind constipated with terror. Minutes passed, and the heater clicked on again, number 27, number 28, number 29, far longer than I had ever gone.

Then I heard the telephone ring. It rang four times, and stopped. The caller was persistent, and rang again. I heard Jeff answer.

“Hello?”

And then, “Oh it’s you. Yes, I am leaving soon.”

Long pause.

“I don’t know where Dan is.”

Long pause.

“Oh wow, he might be in the hotbox.”

And down Jeff came, falling over his own feet, to release me from the closest thing to Hell I have ever experienced.

Jeff had chained me, then locked me in the hotbox. He had taped the poppers bottles on the panic bar, so he wouldn’t have to open the door to give them to me. Then he had gone upstairs, and drank until he passed out. Only because his boy friend called to see why he was late getting home, did Jeff wake up. Otherwise, he would have slept through the night, and some time, during that night of horror, I would have finally, slowly, in terror-stricken desperation, died, and died in a coffin of my own creation, the hotbox.

 

THE END

Metal would like to thank the author, PFC Pflege, for sharing this experience and thanks also to Master Jack of Bondagezine for sharing this for posting here.

IMPORTANT: It is never — and I mean NEVER — a good idea to leave someone gagged while unattended, or to leave someone in severe bondage like this while unattended or to drink a lot of alcohol before or during bondage play.

—Metal