When Do We Start?

Yes please

Come on get the hood on. Now breathe, get the smell inside your head. Fogging your vision. Trapping you inside the beautiful bliss of nothingness. Feel your body being covered in rubber. Tight, secured, trapped. Feel the second skin enslaving you. Drift away, just focus on what you are becoming. You are becoming mine. Go deeper…. 🌀🌀. . . . #rubber #catsuit #gimp #rubberman #rubberguy #gay #rubbergay #gayrubber #gaylatex #latexgay #rubberboy #rubbersuit #rubbermen #latexmen #instagay #latexmodel #rubberfashion #latexfashion #guysngear #gaybeard #gear365 #gearfetish #rubberfetish #skintight

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Love it

Preparation

The sleekness of the rubber is what set it apart for you. There was no escaping it, no turning back when your Owner presented it. His intent was obvious – to make you a gimp.

The suit’s attention to detail meant that it fit exactly what was decided that it should be in a slave uniform. Custom fit for your size, each individual toe held in its own enclosure, starting the process of separating skin-on-skin touch. Your Owner’s fetish for you not experiencing most human contact in the fulfillment of your role meant that no half measure would be taken. Your legs gleamed in the light as you pulled the suit on your powdered frame until your lower half was a sheer black.  Fitting your caged member through the hole in the front was your next task, stretching the material and pushing it through exposed…at least as much as it could be in its prison. Disconnected by the suit from the rest of your body, you try to harden only to be defeated again and again by the unrelenting permanent chastity. With a stifled groan you work the next part of the suit into you, a hard anal sheath keeping you exposed and accessible for the anal play of your Owner’s choice. 

The neck entry nature of the piece allows for a seemless look once you take the time to fit each of your fingers into the attached gloves. No zippers to make it easy to escape, and only the hard ring jutting your throbbing cage out to let anyone know this was anything more than just another rubber drone for use. Now the rubber cuffs, and the posture collar, holding your neck strictly upright and making it impossible to turn without turning your entire body. The control emanating from the gear fills you with butterflies as the collar and cuffs are one by one locked on by the padlocks located on the dresser. It would be impossible to remove the suit without the keys, which of course you never had. Thigh cuffs, ankle cuffs. *click* *click* *click* *click* And now the gag. You stare at the inflatable cock, flaccid as it was, and slowly insert it deep in your throat. You relax as you pump it up, the phallus lengthening and widening until even your well trained gag relax is tested. Tightly, you lock it as well, knowing a loose fit would just mean a more severe punishment. Next, a strict rubber corset, stretching to your pecs, accentuating your curves and preventing loose thoughts by restricting your breathing. *click* with a sound you feel the ability to concentrate on anything else but the next breath fade away. 

You look in the mirror and a controlled object stares back at you with lustfilled eyes. You see your cage rhythmically bounce with the pent up hormones that are forced on you without release. A rubber jock, thicker and harder than the rest of the gear, is slipped on covering the needy but useless toy. Today wouldn’t be any different from the harsh docility programmed into your sexuality. That last vestige of you, of the old you, the free you, screams for release but you know it won’t ever come. You pledged yourself, and this was your reward. 

A button pressed and you kneel, waiting however long it takes for the remainder of the process. The corset and the gag do their job to make the wait entertaining, as each breath demands attention and focus blocking out mundane distractions like personality or desires. A mind of its own, your hole clenches on the sheath still feeling empty while you feel your chastised slavehood twitch with every squeeze. 

Another slave, clad in the black zentai uniform of the household servants approaches and methodically begins the final applications: contact lenses to blur and distort vision to create dependence, firm rubber blinkers to block out peripheral vision, ear plugs to dramatically reduce your hearing, and a thick inflatable plug to fill out the empty sheath. As used to these indignities as your body might be, nothing ever prepares you for the clinical application of plug into your tight hole. Your grunts and groans muffled by the gag you breathe deeply as your hole is stretched by the invader. 

*pump* *pump* *pump* *pump* *pump* 

You try to scream in pain and pleasure as the plug accelerates in size. Your eyes can’t even betray an emotion as the blurred lenses reduce your humanity, but you know even if they could look pleading the drone preparing you wouldn’t be able to comprehend. It had its task and you were just an object for it to complete. The piece de resistance comes next, a molded rubber hood, blotting out even more of your senses, as it fits over your shortly cut hair, and down to the collar. You can’t even hear the *click* as it too is locked on. You are made to stand and walk. To where you have no idea but the pace is far quicker than you would want it to be with the plug pounding your prostate with each step. The drone leads you through corridors and then to a type of garage where again you stand for an amount of time impossible to guess while the drone and some others like it make further preparations. Unceremoniously you are suddenly guided again to another part of the complex where you could see yourself standing on some sort of stage. 

In the audience, you can’t truly discern how many of them there are, nor what is being said by a Man you saw on the stage. The blurry shapes laugh…you think…and you are twirled around for more inspection. 

*pump* *pump* *pump*

  The plug suddenly expands and you scream in surprise as your prostate is thrown into overdrive. If it wasn’t hidden by the jock you were sure that your dick was dripping wildly its precum. You hear laughter, you think, and once again you face the audience, unsure of what to do besides continue to breath and submit. 

Of course, if you could hear what was being said, you might be filled with terror. If you could hear you would certainly be filled with anticipation, dread, and a host of other emotions your conditioned brain could hardly beg you to listen to.

“Going once! Going Twice! Sold!” 

Applause, you’re pretty sure of that. You drip more into the jock and continue to breathe….and obey. 

A fun little dice game. The sub grabs a die out of a bag. Without seeing it, the color he chooses determines which of the six options he gets to experience next. Poppers, rebreather, nitrous, underwear, socks or piss.

Helicopter purring