By Anonymous

A chance meeting at a local sauna sparked a conversation that uncovered our shared secret: a deep craving for heavy bondage. I admitted I can’t recall a time without this pull, a need so strong it drove me to years of stupid and reckless self-bondage experiments that cheated death but I was still hooked. He shared his own tale, voice hushed, eyes distant. His first taste came with an older woman who bound him in rubber and leather restraints, her head-to-toe latex igniting a lasting obsession. After they parted, he bought his own rubber gear in secret, experimenting alone until a self-bondage accident went so wrong it scared him so bad he locked his gear away. Neither of us sought romance or sex—just the raw intensity of bondage. We knew the risks of going solo, so we built a partnership grounded in trust to explore this together. One chance meeting gone right.

It’s 9 AM, and the room is set. A glossy black rubber sheet hugs the bed, anchored to the frame were 13 straps that would hold him in place. An electric blanket beneath and three infrared lamps above cycling 30 minutes on, 30 minutes off, would keep him warm.The air carries a faint scent of rubber and silicone lube, sterile yet heavy. A bag for the piss tube hangs discreetly by the bed, and my tablet displays real-time data from his Bluetooth oxygen sensor and heart monitor. A large bag of electrolyte hydration drink hangs on a small stand, its tube connected to the bite gag for when he needs a drink. Everything is prepped, negotiated and tested—this is his fourth session, and thinks he is ready for a 10-hour plunge, from now until 7 PM.

He stands by the bed, hydrated and anxious. I’ll be his tour guide or trusted stranger not his top, Sir, Master or dominant. We have been bonded through months of coffee shop talks and shorter sessions. I silently go through my pre-flight check list, gear, duration, monitoring and signals. He knows the protocol—two grunts for attention, three for a small problem, four or more for immediate hood removal to talk. I’ll stay vigilant, eyes on him and his vitals, ready to intervene if necessary.

The gear waits, arranged like a ritual. First, the full-body catsuit, thick natural rubber, glossy and tight. I help him slide in, feet first. Silicone lube coats his body and the suit’s interior, we start the easing in process, it’s slow, deliberate. His toes settle into thick rubber socks, each digit snugly encased. The suit compresses his legs. His cock and balls fit into the anatomical sleeve, piss tube attached, functional yet contained. His arms slide into the sleeves, fingers filling the rubber gloves. I zip it up his back, sealing him in a glossy second skin. Inside, the rubber grips him, warm, heavy, a tight cocoon that is safe yet intense.

Next, the sleep sack, heavy natural rubber, built for total restraint. I spread it open on the bed, and he lowers himself in, the lube inside squelching as he settles. His arms slide into internal sleeves, locking them against his sides, no chance of escape. I zip it from ankles to chest, the rubber tightening like a full-body embrace. His legs are pinned, his body encased. The sack’s D-rings align with the straps to the bed frame.13 points, ankles to shoulders, each strap carefully adjusted. He’s immobile, secure and safe. A flicker of doubt hits him—can I endure ten hours?, goes unsaid.

Time for the hood, it is thick natural rubber, a custom-fit. Padded patches blind him, plunging him into darkness. Soft earplugs are inserted deep into his ear canal shutting off all sound from the outside world. A gag silencing him, with access to liquid when he bites. The hood is then secured over his head then the final strap to the D-ring on his head.

I check his vitals—pulse steady, breathing clear. No words from him he is now on his journey. Darkness engulfs him his breathing the only sound. Time blurs—minutes then hours?

The first hour is calm. The heat lamps and blanket cycle 30 minutes on, 30 minutes off, wrapping him in warmth. The rubber amplifies every sensation—pressure, heat, confinement. I watch the tablet: oxygen steady, heart rate normal but slightly raised. He floats in the cocoon, the rubber a second skin, both comforting and heavy. His thoughts drift—work, finances, next weeks schedule then nothing, just the void of being held, trapped. He tries counting breaths to gauge time, but it slips away. He’s in the zone and sinking deep.

By hour three, around noon, it gets tough. The sack’s weight, the internal sleeves pinning his arms, the relentless compression—it’s intense. His legs twitch, D-rings rattling faintly. His chest heaves, rubber creaking with each breath. Sweat pools inside the suit, slick with lube, the heat is comforting. He’s blind, deaf, immobile. His mind races—“How long? Am I trapped forever?” Time stretches, each second endless. He bites the gag’s tube, sipping the electrolyte drink, grounding him briefly. He holds back from grunting, breathing deep, clinging to our plan.

By hour five, around 2 PM, he’s struggling hard. The heat lamps cycle off, but the blanket keeps him warm. His body jerks, shoulders straining against the sleeves, head shifting in the hood. The D-rings hold tight, the bed solid. He moans through the bite gag, a raw, guttural sound, not pain but intensity. The tablet shows his heart rate spiking, breathing ragged, nearing panic. This is the time you feel utterly alone. Did something happen, is he injured or ill? Panic is starting to set in.

I place my hand on his chest, firm, steady. His heartbeat slows, breaths calming, no grunts needed. I lift my hand, returning to the tablet, vitals stabilizing. The touch anchors him — “He is there,” he thinks, panic easing. The rubber still grips, but he can bear it, the journey continues. Time warps, minutes or days? Too confusing so he surrenders.

The final hours, from 4 PM, are brutal. His moans grow louder, desperate, a steady hum filling the room. His body jumps, muscles tensing, D-rings clinking as he thrashes within the sack’s limits. The internal sleeves keep his arms locked, forcing surrender. It’s not panic—it’s release, his defenses crumbling. I monitor closely, but no grunts. His walls are crumbling, he now faces buried emotions—grief, fear, shame, with no escape. The rubber is a womb and a prison. Time vanishes, only struggle remains, his moans a wordless cry for release from himself.

By 6 PM, the moans soften, replaced by shuddering breaths. He’s raw, exposed, breaking but not yet broken.

At 7 PM, the session ends. I remove the straps one by one, the sack loosening. I unzip it slowly, rubber peeling back, revealing the glossy catsuit. The hood comes off, his eyes blinking, dazed in the dim light. I remove the bite gag and earplugs. Tears stream down his face, deep sobs shaking him. I pull him into my arms, holding him against my chest, no words, just presence. He clings, crying harder and harder, the dam has broken, I stay silent and steady.

When his sobs ease, I guide him to the shower, his steps unsteady, body flushed from heat and intensity. Steam rises from the hot water, the bathroom warm. He leans against the tiled wall, exhausted. I help peel off the latex catsuit, the hot water loosening the rubber’s grip. Starting at his shoulders, I work the suit down, the glossy material sliding off his arms, then his torso, the lube and sweat washing away. The suit clings at his legs, but the hot water helps, and I ease it off his feet, leaving him bare. I grab a washcloth and soap, lathering under the hot stream, cleaning his skin thoroughly—arms, legs, groin, head, every inch scrubbed gently but efficiently, the lube and sweat rinsing clean. The hot water soothes him.

This shower, two men together, is intimate but not sexual. It’s earned trust breaking past the usual male guardedness. He stands, relaxed against the wall, eyes half-closed, letting me care for him. It’s a quiet bond, no labels needed, just human connection. Tomorrow, we’ll keep some distance, but the tie remains, deep and real.

I rinse him clean, water running clear, and shut off the shower. I dry him with a soft towel, head to toe, unhurried. His skin is warm, alive. Back in the room, fresh sheets on the bed, I offer fruit, crackers, water. He eats slowly, hands shaky. I prep the bed and guide him to lie down. He talks, spilling fears and shame, voice raw. I listen, hand on his shoulder, saying only, “Thank you for trusting me.”

I dim the lights, pull a chair close, and watch as he drifts to sleep, breathing slow. I’ll stay a while, in case he wakes needing to talk. The session’s done, but the moment lingers—a connection, a gift, a glimpse of his core.

Next week, my turn.

Metal would like to thank the author, who wishes to remain unknown, for this story. It is shared here with his permission.