By TheBadOne

Chapter One – At Attention, On Display and Isolated

I’m standing at attention. I don’t know what that means for the army, or anyone else for that matter, but when Master has decided that I’m to stand at attention, this is what it means for me.

First, I strip naked if I’m not already. I can’t just throw my clothes in a pile, either. I have to fold everything as I remove it and make a tidy stack, so that it draws out the undressing process longer. My posture is ramrod-straight, every muscle tightly holding me in the most upright possible position. My eyes are straight forward and not to move, even slightly, no matter what else is going on. My legs are apart- only slightly more than hip width apart. Not wide enough that it’s an obvious show of submission, but enough that it’s wider than I’m used to, and he has easy access to every inch of my body. And, I hardly need to add, I’m to keep my lips shut until I’m given permission to make any sort of noise.

It sounds hot, and easy. Which, sure, at first it’s easy. In the beginning you feel your sexiest and most confident in your submission when you are at attention, and master is appraising you- praising you, too, for your successful fitness routine, your painstaking grooming to make sure you’re a specimen both while at play and in the general public. One day he leaves the room while I’m at attention, coming back shortly with a glass of water for himself. A few days later, he’s pulled away from minding you for a business call. He puts you at attention in the corner while he takes a fifteen minute call. You feel like a sexy statue, your erection saluting your master for every second as you focus on your posture.

Then, one day he puts you at attention in the center of the room. He drops a bag of gear next to you on the floor, then pulls a table in front of you and sets a laptop on it. He pulls out leather gauntlets, black combat boots, and an intimidating-looking hood with a built-in gag and posture collar. He takes his time putting each item on, tightening things just so, so that they are as tight as they can be without being overly constricting- the leather feels fused to my skin, like it’s a part of me. The hood takes the most time, like he’s fastening it slowly, methodically, mindfully, drawing each moment out for you as it’s tighter, tighter. As your mouth fills with a silicone pecker so deep you have to concentrate on your gag reflex. As your neck is lifted, lifted, lifted to the top of its range of motion, as high as you can raise it, and then held there by the posture collar. You’re no longer able to salute him with your cock, as it’s been locked in a chastity belt for days now, long enough that it’s begun to feel normal, like you’re not even worried about when the next time is it comes off.

“Dax. I’ve got some errands I have to run, and I’m going to be a couple hours. You are to stand at attention until I return. I’m setting up a livestream on xtube, and I know that my hundreds of followers will be watching you every single minute. Do not falter. Every deviation from standing at attention will be counted, and each will add time to an immobilized isolation session that will begin as soon as I return.”

I’m alarmed, because a couple hours is significantly longer than your longest attention, those 15 minutes as a statue, and even that required concentration. But I’m also not allowed to react- my eyes stay fixed perfectly forward, even underneath the hood. I don’t groan, I don’t inhale sharply, I don’t shift. I receive the command and am trained to accept it- learned to love it and crave it, even when it intimidates me.

“Starting now. Good luck, boy.”

I’m not even restrained and yet I feel like I’ve been locked in intense bondage. But standing at attention is also sort of meditative- I don’t immediately register the passage of time. I have no way to, in the pitch dark, total silence of the room and my hood.

Until suddenly it isn’t silent. The computer starts reading aloud in that almost-real robotic voice, a male.

“TpdNTrtd says, “Wonder how long he’ll last.”

“ColBnd says. “I give him a half hour.”

“TpdNTrtd says, “I wonder how long I’ll last LOL, already stroking.”

You lose your balance slightly, surprised. Master must have set up the computer to read out every comment from the chat room attached to the streaming video.

“TpdNTrtd says, “That was fast! Add an hour to the tally!”

An hour? Master must have explained the terms in the video description. Dax had no idea how long he’d been standing there. He assumed that it couldn’t be less than 30 minutes, but it could also be an hour. But he had at least two hours to wait at attention, if Master returned promptly. He gulps, but it’s invisible to the viewers under his collar.

Comments continue to read out from users coming and going.

“That’s a well trained slave.”

“I’d like to use him.”

“What a total object. Bet he’d do anything.”

Every few lapses of consciousness, he also hears things like:

“Not again! That’s four now.”

“Ha ha maybe he’s not that well trained after all.”

“So hot! I hope he streams the immobilization too.

“You gonna watch that for 13 hours?”

“13 hours so far, you mean LOL”

Dax’s brain enters a fog. His eyes are closed, a mercy he allows himself knowing the impossibility of it being detected. His gag reflex gave up long ago- the pecker gag is lodged nearly at his throat, giving him a tickle- a tiny choke, but nothing dangerous. He’s forgotten about the boots and gauntlets entirely, his consciousness isolated in his brain, focused intensely on keeping at attention. Finally, he hears master.

“At ease, slave.”

When he left this morning he called me boy. Now he’s calling me slave. I relax my body into a normal standing position. Master rounds behind me and begins removing the hood. Though the strain is off my body, the aftermath most definitely is not. My heart is pounding, my muscles are aching like they’ve just been through an intense workout- they have been through an intense workout, just not like the ones at the gym.

When I’m at ease, I’m permitted to speak to Master as long as I remember protocol.

“How many mistakes did I make, Master?”

The hood fully off, Master makes eye contact with me.

“How many do you think you made, slave?”

“I didn’t keep count, but the last mention they made in the chat it was 13, Master.”

He tuts. “You really must have blanked out, because just in the last five minutes you made it up to 18.”

“Eighteen!?” I’ve been isolated in bondage for longer than what I just spent at attention, but for like four hours – you wait patiently, probably fall asleep, it’s over before you know it. I don’t need prior experience to know that eighteen hours will be an experience I’m unlikely to forget.

“Eighteen. To be honest I’m a little disappointed in you. I figured we’d get to eight or ten, but eighteen? So I’m sorry for how bad this is going to be for you, but we made an agreement. Or. Well, I made an agreement for us, and you didn’t decline it.”

Master has made it clear that I may decline any order at any time, but that means it’s over and no going back. We have full and regular discussions about boundaries and limits. Master pushes me all the time, intensely, but it’s always within parameters we’ve agreed to. I’ve truly been used and abused and transformed by his ownership of me, but it’s never come close to me wanting to leave.

“This is going to be embarrassing for you, but you’ll be diapered for the duration. I do not intend to clean up your piss nor do I want it on my good leather. To be clear, the diaper is not to turn me on- it’s a punishment for you. Also, because it turns out you need a little remedial training, I’m bringing back the hypnosis recording for you.”

The recording. When Master and I first met, he sent me an mp3 file that I was ordered to listen to around the clock on my headphones. It was his voice, naturally commanding, listing who I was to become. A submissive who craves every order. An athlete- an absolute exhibitionist of one wearing tight lycra gear at the gym, on the edge of decency whilst still obeying the gym’s dress code. A hole, always ready to put my throat or ass to use to service Master or anyone he commands me to (To date, he’s only done it with one person, a friend of ours I had blatantly developed a crush on- for weeks, every time Donovan came over I was ordered to my knees to deep throat him until he came, or else drink a load of his piss. Once Master was satisfied I had had my fill of Donovan, he no longer ordered it, though Donovan did still come over to hang out. Seeing him every time knowing what I had done with him, though now we only interact casually, is both exhilarating and humiliating.

I’m brought to the dungeon, where Master dresses me in a black rubber bodysuit- it fits me tightly and covers me from my fingers all the way to my knees. The fingers are individually separate compartments but all fused to their neighbors, so I can’t move them independently.

I’m ordered to lay down. Before me on the bed is a leather sleepsack, and as I manipulate myself into it- rubbered arms into the leather sleeves, bare legs down the body of the sack, brushing against the smooth, soft leather- master begins the recording in my headphones. Then he laces up the sack.

“Slave, this may feel loose, but I want you to know that you’ll be relieved I was so generous when you start rounding past hour ten.” It does not, in fact, feel loose. “Especially because I’ll be coming back when you have one hour to go to tighten everything as tight as I can make it.”

“As before, I will be livestreaming your effort. The computer will alternate you between the hypnosis and the chat logs. There are no further orders for you- you will not incur any additional punishments during this isolation. I’ll be watching you, and coming in every four hours for a 5 minute sanity check. You will not be released early under any non-life-threatening circumstance, so do not ask or beg at any point, even once, or I will consider it as you declining to continue to be my slave and send you home immediately.” He comes closer to my face, mercifully ungagged or unhooded for the ordeal, only a blindfold, a comfortable one. “I don’t want to do that. I want to keep you as my slave for a long time. So be good.”

He gets up, walks out the door, and pulls it closed behind him.

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Metal would like to thank the author, TheBadOne, for this story!