Four hours later, I’m still hard and my cock and balls are aching like I wouldn’t believe possible. But I’ve managed not to cum and I haven’t incurred any more penalties. As I shift uncomfortably, I reflect that might not last much longer and I might be about to lose another 3 hours. My cock and balls are trapped underneath me and are pressing against a sheepskin rug that tickles them with every slight move of my body. My freshly re-shaved head is covered with a rubber muzzle that has been strapped tightly in place and locked on, over the familiar ball gag. Apart from that and the rubber slave collar, I’m naked.
I groan and feel my chest dip towards the ground and I wince with strain as I stop myself. My hands are behind my back and secured together with padlocked restraints. My biceps have straps around them and they are linked by a strap that has been tightened as much as possible. Restraints are around each ankle and they are locked together as well. Then, my ankles have been pulled up behind me and locked to my wrists, keeping me in a loose hog tie. I am lying on my front, my crotch rubbing against a sheepskin rug. I am keeping my chest off the floor, because below my bulging pecs are 2 press buttons. If I relax enough to drop my chest onto the buttons, a bell will ring – and 3 hours will be added to my time. But if I can keep my chest off the buttons for 45 minutes, I get 6 hours taken off my time.
Easy, isn’t it? I just have to use my muscles to keep my back arched and my chest off the ground. Of course, that’s after a gruelling workout and with a plug in my arse that keeps vibrating at irregular intervals to put me off. I glance up at the clock. 30 minutes done. But my muscles are shaking with the strain and sweat is running off me and matting my hairy body. The sheepskin underneath me is soaking wet and every time I move even slightly, it tickles my cock and pushes me closer to the edge. I groan, my chin trapped in the muzzle and covered in drool from the ball gag. I start to wonder about how long I have left and as I lose focus my chest drops. I pull myself back and try to get back to my original position – balance is tricky enough already. I grunt and pull back, but as I do the butt-plug churns into life again. I jerk and feel my balance go and I fall forward onto the ground and I hear the bell go off.
I hardly care as it means I can relax and I lay there on the sodden sheepskin and groan as my muscles let go for the first time in what seems to be hours. I hear footsteps approaching me and Bob tuts. “Only 37 minutes. We need to build some strength in your core, slave. I think I have something to help that.” He drops a mass of rubber, dripping with straps on to the floor in front of me. “In fact, I think we need to get it on you now.” I’m so exhausted that I couldn’t resist Bob even if I wasn’t restrained. As it is, I lay there passively as he undoes the link between my wrists and ankles, allowing my body to stretch out. He then kneels down, one knee either side of my body as he lifts my torso up to slide the rubber underneath my stomach. Whatever it is, it’s thick and covers me from my hips to my chest. He positions it and then he starts to strap it tightly in place. As he does so, I feel it cinch tightly around my waist. As he secures the straps up my back, I find I can’t breathe as deeply as it is pressing down on my diaphragm. He continues, until the final strap is pulled tight just under my chest, forcing my pecs forward and up. Bob then checks the straps and somehow manages to tighten a couple of them before padlocking all of the buckles shut.
“Much better, slave. That should support your core.” Bob removes the ankle restraints and helps me to my feet, then turns so I can see myself in a mirror. He has just strapped me into a thick, heavy rubber corset. My waist looks 2 or 3 sizes smaller than normal which makes the bulk of my chest and shoulders look even larger. The cups at the top push my pecs forward accentuating their size. “Excellent. Now we just add the boots.” Bob goes and collects a pair of boots and holds them up to me. I blush and grunt desperately into the gag as I try to beg him not to put them on me. He of course ignores me and pushes me into a chair as he works them onto my feet and legs. The boots are rubber and reach halfway up my thighs. The rubber is cross-laced at the sides and as Bob works them onto my legs, my skin is visible between the lacing. They go on loosely, until Bob reaches behind my legs to pull the zip all the way up. He then tightens them with the line of straps that runs down the back of the boots. But that isn’t why I don’t want them on – it’s the 3” heels on them. Adding to the corset, they make me look like some twisted fetishist. Yet inexorably, Bob secures them on me and pulls me to my feet.
I stagger, unused to the heels, but Bob holds me upright until I find my balance. I look down on him now, the front of my legs covered in a coating of black rubber that gleams in the light. Bob reaches down and clips rubber straps hanging from the corset to the top of the rubber boots, helping to hold them in place. “I’ll give you a choice now, slave. You can remain gagged and muzzled, or I can take it off and just leave you in a collar. Grunt once if you want the gag and muzzle removed.” I know there’s some trick to this, but I desperately want this gag out of my mouth, so I make a loud grunt. Bob grins and moves behind me where I hear him fiddling with the muzzle. I feel it loosen and then come off, and then the ball gag is suddenly out of my mouth and I can work my jaw to get the kinks out. To my surprise, he also removes the slave collar. “Thank you, Sir.” “Oh, don’t thank me yet, slave, just let me get the collar.”
Before I can react, Bob pulls a thick rubber collar around my neck. This is heavier than the normal collar and wider – nearly 8” wide and with a cup that supports my chin. I recognise it as a posture collar, as Bob tightens it and straps it tightly closed, forcing my head to look slightly up at the ceiling. I hear him padlock it closed. He then takes rubber straps hanging from the front and back of the collar and secures them to the top of the corset. “There. Now, don’t you look like the perfect slut, slave?” I have to agree – heavy posture collar, corset under pushed up pecs and high heeled boots. And my cock and balls standing out erect in front of him. Just to remind me, he pushes the remote control and makes my butt plug vibrate. He then released my arms, leaving the wrist restraints and bicep straps in place. “Now, off to the kitchen. You can help prepare dinner.”
I totter downstairs struggling to keep my balance in the unfamiliar heels. Stefan is in the kitchen chopping vegetables and he laughs as I come in. “Fuck me, look at the big hairy top now.” He leans forward and runs a hand over my pecs. “I think Bob should get you shaved you know, you’d look a lot better without all this hair.” I try to ignore his jibes. “Sir, I’ve been told to help with dinner.” Stefan nods and I’m soon peeling potatoes. He then moves me onto more vegetable prep and I realise we’re cooking for more than three people. I wait as long as I dare before asking, “Sir, are their guests for dinner?” “Yes, slave, there are and we are cooking for them. So get working as we only have a couple of hours to go.” I’m happy staying in the kitchen so no-one else can see me like this, so I carry on working. It’s not easy. The corset makes it difficult to breathe, the high heels make walking tricky and the posture collar makes it difficult to see what I’m doing. On top of that, my cock is stuck out in front of me and the way it keeps rubbing against things make me realise how close I am to losing another day. But somehow I maintain control and I hear the doorbell go and realise we are close to serving dinner.
I can hear muttered voices from the lounge and then they move into the dining room. Bob pops his head round the door – he is now wearing a full leather uniform. “Stefan, we’re ready for the soup.” Stefan nods and starts to fill a heated tureen. He then hands it to me. “Serve the soup, slave.” I blush but realise I have little choice, so I carry the tureen into the dining room. As I do, the conversation stops and the 6 men with Bob turn to face me. I know them all. All of them are Tops and Masters from the local scene. And here is me, one of the biggest Tops they know tottering into the room in corset, collar and heels and with a huge erection waving around in front of me. One turns to Bob and claps and soon they’re all applauding. Bob nods at me to serve the soup and I go from man to man, filling their bowls and enduring the strokes on my arse, the way they flick my cock and the comments about my slave clothing. I’m blushing bright crimson by the time I go back to the kitchen and I stand there, leaning against the wall, willing for the day to be over.
But soon the plates need clearing for the main course and I endure another round of humiliation. As I’m stacking empty bowls up, one man grabs me around my constricted waist and pulls me onto his lap. I can feel his cock through his leather jeans pushing against my arse and he makes several jokes about me wanting him. I manage to stand up and, only staggering slightly, make my way back to the kitchen. There I pick up the main course and return to serve it. As I’m about to leave, one of them sticks his booted feet in front of me. “You spilled soup on my boot. Clean it, slave.” I look at Bob, who nods. Gingerly, I go down to my knees and I bend over to lick the soup splash off of his boots. I go to stand up and he rests a crop over my shoulders. “While you’re there, lick the whole boot. Both of them, in fact.” I keep licking, the taste of leather and polish deep in my mouth and nostrils. As I do, I feel the plug in my arse whirr into life and my cock starts to leak precum. The man laughs, “All it takes is a head-shave and this so-called Master shows what he really is.” The room bursts into laughter and then, almost worse, they ignore me as I finish licking his boots. I leave the room with their conversation going on behind me.
The dessert and coffee goes in much the same way, with me enduring the verbal abuse and totally on display for these men. Finally, they leave for the night and I stand in the kitchen doing the washing up. Stefan has disappeared somewhere and I don’t hear Bob until he is stood right behind me. He presses close up against me, the warmth of his leather against my skin and rubber. “You did well tonight, slave. I know you hate this clothing – so do I. But you needed to understand that you will do whatever I want you to do – and you will enjoy it.” I don’t reply, just washing the plates and hoping that my cock will go limp. Bob runs his gloved hands across my shoulders and reaches around me to tweak my nipples. My cock jumps at the touch. Bobs arms encircle my waist and he grips me tightly before his gloved hands slide over my cock. My poor cock can’t resist this and it only takes a few strokes before I cum, spurting jizz into the washing bowl. Bob chuckles. “ Another day, slave.”
I groan and lean against the sink, my own hands reaching down to clean my cock. As I do, I feel him unlock the padlocks on the collar and corset. “Let yourself out, slave, then go to your cage.” I pull the collar and corset off, then work my way out of the boots. I then head up to the playroom and as I approach the cage, I see the slave collar lying on top of it together with a padlock. I strap it tightly around my neck, lock it on and then get into the cage. I know my place. I’m asleep before Bob comes in, and I briefly wake as he locks the external padlock, sealing me in overnight.
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Metal would like to thank lthr_jock for this story!