Writers curse

Author: kinkyaussieboi
Title: Writer's curse
Date: 07 July 2019

Writer's Curse

It's my own fault, you see. I certainly had it coming and although the consequences have been difficult to endure, in a perverse way I am a lot happier...scratch that...no, more satisfied is probably the better term of phrase since I was discovered and punished for my actions.

It's not that I set out to torment others, especially John, who I imagine is at work right now, living a normal life that I have been denied these past six months - well, I suppose the situation I am presently in is normal for me now - but I can absolutely see how what I did can be seen in that light and deserving of the lesson I am taught every single day: words actually do have power.

I'm sure you're wondering what on earth this story has to do with this site and when, if ever, I am going to get to the phrase or sentence that takes you from the edge of pleasure to releasing yourself akin to a baptism of white fire, shrapnelling across your chest and turning your freshly washed bedsheets into the collateral damage of your horniness. Please bear with me. For this is exactly what landed me in this seamless rubber suit, these welded shackles, and this cell barely wide enough for me to flex my arms to write about my predicament.

Over the years, I have written a couple of stories for this site designed not only to realise my own desires in print, but to also stimulate others in the same way that stories by the likes of Eckie have given pleasure to me. There was the Rubber Loving series which involved the transformation of one half of a kinky couple into a rubbered and chaste public urinal. Following in this vein, I wrote The Process, well Part 1 anyway. In this story the main character found himself hypnotised against his will into becoming a latex urinal, the victim of a cruel master. It was this story, er mere opening of a story, that led to John turning me into the stuff of rubbery fantasy since it was never completed and I not only neglected to publish the successive parts but I also failed to reply to his messages encouraging me to churn out more writing for his sexual gratification.

Before I continue, I should probably give you a better picture of my present situation. That's what you're really here for, isn't it. I used the word predicament before, which is probably an understatement or perhaps you will agree with John who has repeatedly said it is just what I need since the stories we tell are the realities we most desire for ourselves. The rubber suit is one of those heavy ones with attached boots that resemble a halfway between drysuit and hazmat, the kind that retain the smooth shiny look because it's almost impossible to flex when inside it. The suit is unlined so I can always feel the slick texture of the rubber, which sounds hot in theory but not so much when the crotch has virtually no room to manoeuvre. Of course, it is encased in an additional under layer of latex so it is impossible for any accidents to occur, not that I am in a position to do so since solid metal restraints with even heavier chains have been welded over my rubber wrists and ankles, and these are secured to the sides of my cell.

During the day I am kept inside what you might easily describe as a concrete shoebox, or what I once would have described to potential buyers - seemingly a lifetime ago - as 'neat and cosy', anchored to the slab seat with a detachable writing table serving keeping me from sitting up more than a few inches. It is here that I am writing this story and where I have written many stories over the past six months, part of my penance for cock teasing John and others like him with my previously unfinished narratives.

Of course, he leaves me unhooded during the day because he's not deranged, or devoid of commonsense like almost all the fictional dominants out there (and more than a few ones encountered in reality). But once he returns home from work, and almost always on weekends, I am deprived of sight, sound, and jaw movement by one of those insanely thick hoods you buy at places like Studio Gum. In fact, I am pretty sure that is where he bought the hood he puts on me. Admittedly, it turns me on just thinking about it now, despite knowing my jaw will ache some half an hour of wearing it. When I am lucky, he secures a gas mask over the top and a few deep breaths later my head swims and I momentarily forget the discomfort. But that is only on special occasions as John believes firmly that the life of a gimp is one of suffering and endurance rather than pleasure. I cannot disagree with him there since this is exactly how I created the main characters in my stories, the ones that John became attached to with each read and to whom he needed to find in reality to satiate his sexual hunger.

I suppose you're wondering how John found me. How does a disgruntled reader find an anonymous writer? For some of you, this will be a lesson in protecting yourselves against unwanted attention, while for others - probably quite a few of you - this will serve as a manual for living the fantasy, of becoming the slave so desired in those final seconds before you blow. While I am not going to lie and deny there are not moments I find myself deliriously satisfied, they are but moments. Playing is very different to living when it comes to all of this and just so I don't lead any of you astray (because I would be surely given an extra sentence for misleading a guy into a situation like mine), I want to make clear that I long for the day I am released. Yes, I will be released in another six months so long as I complete all that was incomplete and so long as I submit at least one new story each month. Should I fail, well my sentence is to be extended by a year for every story not written within that time. Suffice to say I have been trying my hardest to write each day, but I manage only a paragraph at best given the incredible thickness of these gloves. Mistakes occur with every press of the keyboard and I am forbidden any errors. So as you can imagine, this is a painfully slow process. This story alone is taking me far too long as John has said yesterday and he isn't even sure he counts it as a story since there's yet to be any action.

Let's fix that by exploring the how, where, and when since we have already identified the who, the what, and the why. It was quite a long time after I had posted The Process - Part 1 when John found me, by pure luck really (lucky for him, unlucky for me). A friend of mine had played with John while at an event in London and when John expressed his desire to rubberise and hypnotise guys like in my story, this friend casually mentioned me as the author. It wasn't long before John tracked me down on Twitter and began to strike up conversation, expressing his like for photos of me as a gimp, drone, pup, etc. He's a good looking guy and had some pretty amazing videos on his account so I responded. When a guy writes things like this it's hard to resist:

"Your rubber hood all tight against your head and the gas mask suddenly pulled tight over the top, the total sensory explosion of latex filling your nostrils and coating your tongue. You whimper that you're not entirely sure now but the rubber closes you in and you let out a groan of sudden pleasure. The reality has yet to sink in that you're nothing but a rubber object. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. So sweet and blank out."

Or this:

"Your brief awakening is cut short by a sudden rush through the filter and you drift back off into a deep sleep. When you awake again you find yourself glued into a new rubber suit. Your forever skin of slick black rubber will always reveal you to be what you've dreamed of becoming. Sure, there will be moments where you'll stare out of your plastic lenses longing for life beyond the rubber but this simply cannot happen. The suit is too thick to break out of and besides, your cell is secured with a door far heavier than you could ever push open even if it was unlocked. If you're lucky, one day I might even place you inside my perspex box and fill the cavity with a clear latex resin that will transform you into little more than a display in a shop window or as an installation at a club. You'd love that, wouldn't you."

It was a statement, not a question. And naturally I had typed a definite YES! as my cock spewed itself all over the rag I kept for these kinds of online conversations. After some weeks of this level of chat, we agreed it would be fun to meet in person and "live out" - his words - all that we had discussed. Fast forward to entering his apartment, all seemed normal as we laughed and talked dirty over a couple of beers, he in a latex jockstrap and waders, and me suitably dressed in one of his rubber catsuits bought for the subs that came over to "entertain and delight" - again his words - him. After examining my dilated pupils and relaxed posture, which exposed my beer buzz, he ordered me to clean up the rubber waders he was wearing and which I admit I was desperate to taste. Each lick up from the toe to the tops of each boot caused jolts to pass through my drunk, horny body. I savoured the experience for some half an hour, encouraged by his pleasurable sighs and compliments of my tongue's excellent coverage. Eventually, he pulled my hair up towards the jockstrap, which was struggling to contain his excitement. It didn't take long before I received twice the daily recommended intake of protein and he ruffled my hair as he declared "good boi." After a few minutes of him regaining energy, he ordered me to remain still and he went into another room, which he exited holding a gas mask hood with an attached collar. As quickly as I had swallowed before, he had me breathing rubbery air as promised, the sound of the padlock clicking shut advising me that I would be in it for some time. In that moment, my cock led me back to John's previous chat about sweet smells and blanking out. As if reading my thoughts, he asked if I was okay before revealing a small cloth which he dabbed with poppers. I would have exploded then and there, except the rag wasn't soaked with any of my favourite scents.

Waking up when you are sealed in a heavy suit, hooded without sight, and body captive within a sleep sack is not as hot as you might think. The first seconds are quite terrifying and I thought I was suffocating. As though he had done this before, John was stroking my body and instructing me to breath slowly. Within a minute I was a lot calmer and my hard on returned, buoyed by the realisation I had been knocked out for real. A head rush is a poor way to describe that feeling; it was as though someone had hooked my veins up to a generator and power flowed through every circuit of my body. But that feeling dissipated when, through the limited sound the thick hood permitted, John informed me that like my rubber encased body, my fate was sealed. He explained how I had cock teased him for years with my unfinished stories and how I would now receive the punishment owing the crime that had taken place. I was to be sealed into heavy rubber and shackled for the duration of my sentence, lasting one year. I bucked against my rubber bondage for some minutes, my muffled screams eliciting laughter from John, who let me struggle until I tired myself out. And just like his boner-causing chats in the lead up to us meeting, he followed through with the next stage of my transformation. The rag was applied again and when I came to I would find myself very much like I am now.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. So sweet and blank out.