Rubber Cellar

Author: FRGLEE
Title: Rubber Cellar
Date: 14 March 2010

Whenever I go to the kit-store my heart begins to throb to the sight and warm smell of the piles of old, well-used rubber-gear heaped on the floor and hanging on hooks against the damp black walls of the cellar. A great jumble of frogman’s suits, gasmasks, gloves, boots and macks all streaked with the outpourings and orgasms of previous inmates.
From a great pile of thick suits I picked out one that I thought should fit. These suits are hell to get into as the whole body must pass through an expanding neck-seal. Once inside, you can’t get out again without a strong helping hand to wrench the rubber over the shoulders.
After a long hot struggle I was inside the body-hugging casing of the frogsuit and my fast expanding shaft fell out of the porthole cut in the crotch of it.
I sorted through a pile of boots until I found a huge pair and slimy inside and slid easily over the rubber of the suit. I pulled on a pair of armpit length rubber gauntlets, a hood for my head and an amyl smelling mask that made my head spin.
Around my hard protruding genitals I fitted a well used latex sheath to protect my cock and balls against the forthcoming torture they would have to endure. I say protect because all this gear and this place belong to an expert in rubber and bondage. He often invited men to subject themselves to his pleasure; the experience was always mind-bending, but usually they came back for more — as I have done many times before.
His cellar was divided into several rooms equipped to contain a dozen or so men in various harnesses and restraint devices for sessions that lasted well into the night or even all weekend.
When you arrived you never knew how long you would be constrained or how often you would be required to produce the white stuff he demanded of your prick and balls.
I was now ready, fully kitted for action, anonymous beneath the thick black rubber gear covering me from head to foot.
The session must have started in the room next door because the gasmasked heavy breathing and stench of poppers was already penetrating the air.
I gave three knocks on the adjoining door — the signal that I was ready to enter the bondage chamber ...
The door opened and he stood there in the dim light, his rubbers wet with sweat and already dripping with some poor sod’s massive ejaculation.
I stepped inside and the door was padlocked behind me.
Spread-eagled on an upright rack in front of me, the victim who had discharged his pent up load across the mac and boots of our interrogator, his body cased in rubber, his massive arms and thighs manacled by heavy chains to the rack bolted to the wall, his body still pulsing from the draft of the amyl filled gasmask, his prick still dripping with oil and the last drops of his thick orgasm.
The tense muscles of his great spread-eagled thighs slackened beneath the rubber of the suit, a slow ecstatic moan came from his mask, his shaft remained erect, held by a cockring tight round his prick and balls. It would not be long before he would perform again. He was too well endowed to be left alone for long and our captor would not let this one go until every drop had been drained from his swollen balls.
Leg irons were being fastened round my boots, then my arms then my arms wrenched back and handcuffs snapped around my wrists, a draft of amyl filled my gasmask as I waited to learn my fate.
A great hook on the end of a length of chain was lowered from a pulley from the roof of the chamber and hooked onto a central ring on my leg-irons.
He winched my boots slowly into the air as I was forced to fall back onto the floor; slowly but surely my feet were hoisted above my head until I was completely upside-down suspended in mid-air. He took a butt plug from the table and through the suit’s anal port rammed it, greased, up my arse.
He took a long catheter and lubricated it with his gloved hand and as delicately as his hands could manage eased it through the slit in my sheath, into the urinal opening of my penis, deep ... he pushed it ... until a flood of urine was released flooding over his boots down onto the floor.
This was the treatment I had hoped would never be dished out to me. It meant I would have to remain plugged and cathetered most of the night, unable to move in whatever position I was placed while everyone else had all the fun. His mind was set only on the great hunk of the spread-eagled rubber slave and the pleasure of drawing the spunk from that great prick and balls.
I was lowered from the roof onto the floor of the chamber. I was relieved. No one could stay up there for long — it made your head ache as well as your prick and arse.
He opened the door of an upright iron chamber and pushed me into it, slamming the door and bolting it. There was a large port for my head and a small one for my sheathed genitals. I was to be an observer of his wild fantasies until he chose otherwise.
Turning from my cell he opened another door at the side of the room, and from it crawled another totally rubber covered man, his boots manacled to a chain at his wrists. He was hauled onto a bench at the side of the room and fastened down with more rusting chains and lengths of rope until he was unable to move an inch. A large dose of poppers was dropped into the man’s mask and he began to fight the chains and ropes, but all to no avail. His shaft stood tall straining against the tight sheath as his interrogator plunged his hands into the bucket of lubricant at the side of the bench. The squelching of the drenched gloves against the latex sheath made the spread-eagled figure raise his head to watch through the misted lenses of his gasmask.
He wasted not much time on him, determined to draw him out as quickly as he could. Another dose of poppers and a series of violent jerks and a tall spurt of thick sperm shot from the erect sheathed penis. He jerked violently as a second spurt shot high in the air.
The heat was getting unbearable and we were all sweating like pigs beneath our frogsuits.
The door to the next chamber opened and I could just make out the rubber clad figure I had dreamed might be there — the mate of the owner of all this. He always wore the same boots and his favorite thick black rubber apron. He was a bastard of the first order and hated my guts. In the room with him I could see two frogmen bound together, masks joined by tubes so that the poppers got to them at the same time. It would take a long time before they could climax together, so he would at least concentrate on them and not bother me — just yet.
It was going to be a long hard night of hot sweat, piss and spunk and there were going to be some aching shafts by the morning. I must be crazy to let myself in for this little lot.