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crispyoctopusstuff · 14 days ago

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The city lights bled across the grimy concrete facade of the derelict industrial park, painting shimmering, broken streaks on the puddles in the cracked asphalt. Inside one of the sprawling, anonymous structures – Warehouse 7B – two figures moved like shadows, their breath pluming in the cool night air. Connor Preston (as they were often half-jokingly called, their lives so intertwined they might as well share a name) were twenty-five years old, weighed down by student loans, stagnant job prospects, and the crushing reality that 'making it' felt further away than ever.

"Okay, are you sure about this, Con?" Preston whispered, his voice tight with a mix of apprehension and forced excitement. He fiddled with the edge of his worn canvas messenger bag.

Connor, ever the slightly bolder of the pair, gave a tight nod. "Yeah, man. I told you, my cousin's buddy works security here, heard chatter about 'high-value surplus.' Stuff that never hit inventory, just... stored. Probably forgotten about. We grab some, fence it, clear our debts. Fresh start. We gotta do this."

Their 'gotta do this' was born of desperation. Eviction notices, maxed-out credit cards, the gnawing fear of failure – it had all coalesced into this ill-advised plan. Warehouse 7B wasn't Fort Knox, but it wasn't wide open either. They'd spent weeks casing it, observing guard rotations, finding the weak points. Tonight, they'd slipped through a rarely used side door, a small, rusty hatch they'd managed to pry open with a crowbar after disabling a single, old sensor.

12:00 AM. The air inside was thick with the scent of dust, stale cardboard, and something vaguely metallic. Towering shelves stretched into the gloom, disappearing into the high, vaulted ceiling. It was a labyrinth of pallets, crates, and shrouded shapes. A few emergency lights cast pools of weak, yellowish illumination here and there, making the shadows dance.

"Alright," Connor said, his voice a low murmur. "According to Kev's description, it should be in the back section. Section G, palletized. High-end electronics, maybe some prototypes."

They moved cautiously between the aisles, their flashlights cutting narrow beams through the darkness. The silence of the massive space was broken only by their hushed whispers and the soft scuff of their shoes. With each step deeper into the warehouse, the sense of unease wrestled with the thrill of transgression and the glimmer of hope.

Then they found it. Section G. Pallets wrapped in industrial plastic, clearly distinct from the dusty, older stock. A quick slash with a utility knife revealed the treasures within: sleek, expensive-looking drones, high-performance laptops, boxes of what looked like premium audio equipment. Their flashlights played over the items, reflecting back the promise of deliverance.

Faces beaming, the tension momentarily dissolving into sheer, giddy relief, they began to work. Not loading up everything – that would be impossible. Just enough to make a significant dent in their financial woes. As they carefully selected boxes, their hands trembled slightly, a mixture of excitement and the lingering adrenaline of infiltration.

Amidst the electronics, tucked into a box of seemingly innocuous packaging, they found a small, unexpected bonus: a sealed bottle of high-end imported vodka.

"Well, look at that," Preston chuckled, holding it up. "A little liquid courage for the road?"

Connor grinned, the stress of the past months momentarily lifting. "Nah, man. We earned this. A little celebratory shot. We ditch the bottle here, no trace. Come on."

They found a clear space on the concrete floor between two towering shelves. Setting down the few items they'd gathered so far, they uncorked the vodka. The scent was sharp, clean. They passed the bottle between them, taking generous swigs straight from the neck.

"To us," Connor said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "To finally catching a break."

"To solvency," Preston added, a genuine smile finally gracing his lips. "No more ramen, Con. No more dodging calls."

The vodka burned going down, but the warmth spread quickly through their chests. They took more shots, the initial caution beginning to erode under the influence of alcohol and success. The warehouse, once imposing and intimidating, now felt like their private kingdom of stolen possibility.

They talked, voices growing louder, echoing slightly in the vast space. They spoke of their dreams, long deferred. Starting a small business. Traveling. Finally feeling stable, independent. The future, for the first time in a long time, felt within reach. They laughed, leaning back against a cold metal support beam, then eventually just stretched out on the floor, comfortable in the knowledge that they were finally doing something proactive, something that would change their lives.

The vodka bottle was empty now, discarded carelessly nearby. The initial rush of adrenaline was long gone, replaced by a heavy, pleasant stupor. They lay side-by-side on their backs on the cold concrete, staring up into the darkness, watching the faint, dusty light fixtures recede into the gloom.

"Man... this is gonna change everything," Connor mumbled, his words slightly slurred.

"Yeah... everything," Preston agreed, his eyes half-closed. "Finally... gonna be okay..."

Sleep came quickly, a deep, alcohol-induced oblivion, right there on the warehouse floor, surrounded by the fruits of their brief, desperate endeavor.

3:45 AM. The sound of methodical footsteps echoed down the aisle, deliberate and unhurried. A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, sweeping over the pallets, the empty spaces, and finally, settling on the two sleeping forms on the floor.

The security guard, a man named Silas, was not on his usual patrol route. He followed a different, private circuit through Warehouse 7B. An undocumented one.

Silas was a man of quiet habits and peculiar tastes. He wasn't interested in catching common thieves for the company. His interest was in specific types of 'inventory' that occasionally stumbled into his domain. He looked down at the two young men, sprawled out, faces slack with sleep and drink. Both dressed in simple, dark clothing, clearly not professionals. Amateurs. Desperate, by the look of them. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. This was perfect.

He knelt beside them, his movements efficient and disturbingly gentle. He checked their pulses, confirmed they were deeply unconscious. Then, he began to undress them. Slowly, deliberately, he removed their shoes, socks, jackets, shirts, pants, underwear. Every last stitch of clothing was carefully folded and set aside. They lay there naked, vulnerable, unaware.

Silas studied them for a moment, his eyes lingering. He then began to position them. He rolled Connor onto his stomach, then did the same for Preston, nudging them closer together on the cold floor. He maneuvered their limbs. Connor's legs were bent, his feet and bare soles guided towards Preston's head, resting on the concrete beside his face. Preston's legs were likewise bent, his feet and bare soles guided towards Connor's head, pressed against the concrete next to his face. He fine-tuned the positioning – their bodies parallel, close enough that their legs were intertwined, their naked backs facing the ceiling, their faces turned slightly inward, pressed against the cold concrete, each with the bare feet of the other friend right there.

It was a strangely intimate, vulnerable, and deeply unnatural pose. Connor's bare soles pressed against Preston's cheek, nose, and mouth area. Preston's bare soles pressed against Connor's cheek, nose, and mouth area.

Silas then retrieved a large, unmarked container from a nearby cleaning closet. It was filled with a thick, viscous, clear substance. It had a faint, chemical odor. He knelt between the two naked, intertwined bodies.

Carefully, methodically, he began to pour the thick slime over them. Starting from their lower backs, moving upwards. He coated their legs, their hips, their backs, their shoulders, their necks, and finally, flowing down over the sides of their heads, covering the back part of their skulls and flowing around the sides of their faces, encasing the sides of their noses, cheeks, and mouths. The slime flowed between their intertwined legs, around their arms tucked beneath them, between their bodies pressed together. It filled the space around their heads, pressing their faces firmly against the concrete, their noses and mouths now firmly squished against the bare soles of their best friend's feet.

As the slime flowed, a faint warmth emanated from it, followed almost instantly by a rapid stiffening. Within seconds, the viscous liquid transformed into a rigid, transparent shell. It molded tightly to the contours of their naked bodies, trapping them exactly as they were positioned. Their limbs were locked, their torsos encased, their heads held fast.

Connor and Preston began to stir. A deep, guttural moan rumbled in Connor's chest, muffled by the slime and the bare foot pressed against his face. Preston gasped, a sudden, panicked intake of air that was cut short, reduced to a gurgling sound as the slime sealed his mouth and nose against Connor's sole.

Their eyes snapped open simultaneously, wide and staring into the darkness. The only parts of their faces visible now were their eyes, framed by the hardened, clear material that encased their heads from the sides, back, and top, leaving only a small window onto the horror.

Horror. Pure, unadulterated horror bloomed in their eyes. They were trapped. Completely, utterly trapped. Naked, intertwined, faces crushed against each other's bare feet by the cold, hard prison that encased them.

Connor tried to scream, but only a strained, muffled gurgle escaped his lips, the sound vibrating faintly within the slime, swallowed by the proximity of Preston's sole. He tried to move, to wrench free, but the slime held firm, an unyielding, transparent coffin molded perfectly to his body. Every tiny movement was met with the rigid resistance of the shell, pressing him tighter into the concrete, tighter against Preston's foot.

Preston thrashed his legs reflexively, but they were encased. His back arched slightly, a desperate, futile attempt to escape the crushing weight and the horrifying sensation across his face. His own muffled cries were thick, wet sounds beneath the slime, indistinguishable pleas for help lost in the sudden, terrifying reality. His nose and mouth were pressed against Connor's sole, the distinct, slightly salty, human smell filling his restricted airways. Connor felt the same – Preston's bare sole a suffocating, alien presence molded against his own face, the texture of skin and the faint scent of foot a terrifying reality against his lips and nostrils.

Their eyes darted, trying to take in their surroundings, trying to understand. They saw the faint shapes of the shelves, the distant emergency lights. They saw the outline of each other, trapped beside one another. And they saw Silas.

The security guard stood over them now, a remote look of satisfaction on his face. He didn't speak, not yet. He simply observed their struggle, the silent, wide-eyed panic.

Silas then bent down. He slid a long, flat trolley, the kind used for moving heavy boxes, beneath their intertwined, slime-encased forms. With surprising strength, he lifted them onto the dolly. They were heavy, a solid block of human and hardened polymer.

As he wheeled the dolly away from Section G, the movement was jarring. Connor and Preston could only watch, their heads still rigidly fixed, their vision largely restricted to what was directly in front of them or slightly to the sides. They were being moved. Where?

Silas pushed the dolly towards the back of the warehouse, past more aisles, towards a heavy, unmarked door they hadn't noticed before. He used a keycard to open it, revealing a room beyond – not a storage room they might have expected, but something else.

The room was smaller, lined with shelves and racks. And on those shelves, on those racks, standing upright or lying on their sides, were more forms. Human forms. Encased in the same clear, hardened slime.

They were positioned identically – naked, intertwined in pairs, faces pressed against each other's bare feet, eyes staring out from their transparent prisons. Some looked dusty, clearly having been there for a long time. Others looked newer. Men. All men. Trapped in two-person slime cocoons, silent and still.

Connor and Preston’s eyes widened further, if that were possible. The horror intensified, a cold, crushing weight settling deep in their guts. They weren't the first. They were just the latest. This wasn’t a consequence of their theft; this was... something else entirely. This was Silas's collection.

Silas wheeled their dolly into the room, finding an empty spot on a metal rack along the wall. He positioned them carefully, sliding them onto the rack, propping them upright so they were standing, facing outwards, side-by-side with another pair in a similar cocoon nearby.

He leaned down, the sound of a can opening echoing unnervingly in the quiet room. He took a long drink, then held up a beer.

"Welcome, gentlemen," Silas said, his voice low and conversational. "A new acquisition. Very... organic. Bit of a shame about the mess, but the final product is always worth it." He chuckled, a dry, unpleasant sound.

He gestured around the room at the other silent figures. "They all had big plans too, you know. Thought they could just waltz in and take what wasn't theirs. But some things... some things aren't for selling. Some things are just for keeping."

Connor and Preston could only stare, their eyes locked on Silas, then darting to the other trapped men, then back to each other. Their eyes burned with unshed tears, with terror, with the dawning, sickening understanding of their fate. Trapped. Forever. Naked, stuck to their best friend's bare feet, unable to speak, unable to move, added to a collection of silenced, paralyzed bodies.

Silas took another slow sip of his beer, watching their horrified eyes. "Funny, isn't it? All that ambition, all that rushing around trying to get ahead... ends with you standing still. Very, very still." He leaned closer. "Don't worry," he murmured, almost kindly. "You get used to the smell eventually. And your friend's foot isn't going anywhere."

He straightened up, took one last look at his new additions, and smiled. "Enjoy the view."

He turned and walked out, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, plunging the room into deeper shadow, broken only by the faint light filtering from under the door crack.

Connor and Preston stood side-by-side on the rack, rigid and encased. Their muffled whimpers and groans were barely audible gurgles through the hardened slime, lost within the room of silent, permanent captives. Their eyes, wide and glistening, were the only windows into the screaming horror of their minds. They had sought freedom from financial hardship, a chance at a better life. Instead, they had found a prison far more absolute, a life of perpetual, silent captivity, bound naked face-to-foot with their best friend, destined to stand forever in the dark, a macabre trophy in Silas's chilling collection. The get-rich-quick scheme had ended not just in failure, but in a nightmare from which there was no waking, no escape, only the silent, unending terror reflected in each other's eyes.

#malefeet #malesoles #permanent slave #immobilized

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crispyoctopusstuff · 14 days ago

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The perpetual hum of Chicago was a constant, familiar backdrop to Ethan Thompson’s life. It was a city he felt he owned, or at least, commanded. He moved through its bustling streets, its high-end restaurants, its exclusive clubs, with an air of effortless entitlement. Ethan Thompson got what Ethan Thompson wanted. And what he wanted, more often than not, were women. Beautiful, intelligent, successful women. He charmed them, seduced them, consumed them, and then, like disposable packaging, he discarded them. There was no malice in it, not to his mind. Just the natural order of things. He was a force of nature, a predator in a tailored suit, and they were simply… opportunities. His conquests were numerous, their stories all ending the same way: his swift, brutal indifference once the chase was over, leaving a trail of bewildered hurt in his wake. He never looked back, never considered the impact. Why would he? There was always a new game to play.

One crisp autumn afternoon, restless and vaguely bored between conquests, Ethan found himself strolling down a less-trafficked side street near the Loop. The air carried the scent of roasted nuts and distant exhaust fumes. His eyes, usually scanning for potential targets, fell upon an unusual storefront nestled between an old bookstore and a dimly lit bar. The sign was discreet, almost clandestine: "Arkane's Curiosities." Peering through the tinted glass, he saw glimpses of leather straps, metal implements, and darkly colored fabrics. A bondage store. A smirk played on Ethan’s lips. This wasn't his usual haunt, but the potential applications… the thought of bringing his particular brand of dominance into a new realm, armed with exotic tools, was suddenly intriguing. He pushed open the door, a small bell jingling above him.

The air inside was heavy with the mingled scents of leather, rubber, and something faintly metallic. Rows upon rows of racks and displays held an astonishing array of items. Whips, paddles, cuffs of every description, elaborate harnesses, intricate masks. Ethan wandered deeper, his initial amusement quickly morphing into a calculating appraisal. How could he use these? Which women would be most susceptible to the power dynamic these tools represented? His mind raced with possibilities, imagining forced compliance, helpless surrender, the ultimate control. This wasn’t just sex; this was about ownership, about bending another person entirely to his will. It was a twisted extension of the ‘game’ he played, and it thrilled him.

He ventured further into the store, following a section dedicated to form-fitting PVC and latex, the kind that clung to the body like a second skin. This led him towards a darker corner, where displays featured more restrictive, less conventionally appealing gear. That’s when he saw it: a mannequin wrapped head-to-toe in what looked like a thick, dark fabric, completely immobile, only the faintest outline of a human form visible beneath the material. Mummification gear.

As he examined the wrapped figure, a voice, low and resonant, spoke from the shadows. "Intriguing, isn't it? A complete surrender of movement."

Ethan turned. Standing there was a man of indeterminate age, lean and tall, dressed entirely in black. His eyes were sharp, assessing, and held a depth that felt unsettling. This had to be Arkane. Master Arkane, the character details had said. The name seemed fitting.

"Master Arkane," Ethan repeated, a casual confidence returning to his voice. "Yes, it is. I was just looking at this... mummification wrap. Looks pretty secure." He gestured to the mannequin. "How hard would it be for someone to get out of this? If they, say, changed their mind?"

Arkane stepped fully into the light, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. "Ah, the question of resistance. A fascinating aspect of such containment. For the right material and proper application, escape is... extremely difficult. Some might even say, impossible without assistance."

Ethan’s mind immediately pictured some woman he currently had his eye on, bound and helpless in that material. The thought sent a shiver of dark pleasure down his spine. "Impossible, you say? That's... interesting."

Arkane’s smile widened almost imperceptibly. "Indeed. So interesting, in fact, that I often find the best way to appreciate its efficacy is through direct experience. I could give you a test ride, Mr...?"

"Thompson. Ethan Thompson." Ethan felt a flicker of surprise at the offer. He was used to being the one proposing things, setting the terms. "A test ride? On me?"

"On anyone willing," Arkane said smoothly. "If you truly appreciate its qualities after experiencing it yourself – the complete lack of agency, the profound stillness – I might even consider letting you have it free of charge. For the discerning collector, understanding the product is paramount."

Ethan hesitated. Him, wrapped up, helpless? It went against every fiber of his being. He was the controller, not the controlled. But the offer of potentially getting this intriguing item for free, and the dark curiosity about the experience itself, warred with his ingrained need for dominance. Still, the thought of a man doing it felt… wrong, somehow. Unseemly. "Uh, is there... is there a woman store clerk who could perhaps assist? I think that might be... more appropriate for a demonstration."

Arkane’s eyes seemed to twinkle with amusement. "My dear Mr. Thompson, I am the sole proprietor, operator, and demonstrator here. Just me." He spread his hands slightly. "Unless you wish to purchase the wrap untested, I'm afraid I am your only guide into the heart of its stillness."

Ethan swallowed. His ego screamed at him to walk away. This felt like losing control already, simply by being put in this position. But the morbid fascination, the thought of truly understanding the experience from the inside before inflicting it on another, won out. He rationalized it as reconnaissance, as research. He would allow this anomaly, this temporary surrender, for the ultimate gain of deeper knowledge for his future games.

"Alright," Ethan said, trying to sound casual, though his voice felt a little tight. "Alright. Just a test, mind you. See what it's like."

"Excellent," Arkane purred, a distinct note of satisfaction in his tone. "This way, please."

Arkane turned and walked towards a door hidden behind a velvet curtain. Ethan followed, a growing unease simmering beneath his manufactured nonchalance. They entered a corridor that wasn't visible from the main store floor. It stretched away into dimness, lined with doors on either side, each numbered sequentially. As they walked, Ethan became aware of sounds filtering from behind the closed doors: low, rhythmic whimpers, deep groans, soft, strangled moans.

Ethan's steps faltered. His blood ran cold. This wasn't just a storage area; it felt like… something else entirely. He stopped, his eyes wide, looking from door to door. "What... what's going on in those rooms? What are those sounds?"

Arkane paused, looking back at him with an expression that was hard to read – perhaps pity, perhaps something colder. "Ah, yes. The residents. Please, don't be alarmed, Mr. Thompson. Those are merely... individuals who have discovered a profound sense of peace and purpose within these walls. They are here by their own choosing, finding liberation in permanent service. They want to be here, truly." His voice was smooth, reassuring, yet the inherent creepiness of the situation, combined with the sounds, made Ethan’s skin crawl.

Despite the unsettling explanation, something in Arkane's calm demeanor, coupled with Ethan's desperate need to intellectualize the fear away, managed to partially calm him. Permanent service? Choosing it? It was bizarre, but perhaps it was just some extreme kink he didn’t understand. As long as it wasn't forced on him.

He took a deep breath and nodded, forcing himself to continue. "Right. Okay. Just... clients."

"Exactly," Arkane said, resuming his walk. "Clients who have found their... calling."

They stopped before a door marked "157." Arkane opened it and motioned Ethan inside. The room was small, Spartan, furnished only with a single, low bed in the center, a few hooks on the wall, and some cleaning supplies in a corner. It was clinically bare, lacking any warmth or personality.

"Please, Mr. Thompson," Arkane said, closing the door behind them. The subtle click of the latch echoed in the quiet room. "To properly experience the wrap, one must be unencumbered. If you would, strip off your clothing."

Ethan’s unease spiked again, but he was already here. He’d committed himself (mentally, at least) to seeing this through. He peeled off his Italian loafers and socks first, feeling vulnerable instantly without footwear. He then unbuttoned his expensive shirt, shedding it onto the floor, revealing a toned physique built in high-end gyms. His trousers followed, leaving him standing in only his designer underwear.

Arkane's gaze lingered on him for a moment, that faint smirk returning. "Excellent. Now, to enhance the sensory experience, to ground you in your own body while restricting its movement, I have found a small addition can be quite effective." He reached into a pocket of his black coat and produced a small, cylindrical object. It was a buttplug, smooth and dark, tipped with a slightly rounded end, and Ethan could see a subtle tremor running through it – it was vibrating. "This pulsating little item," Arkane said, his voice low, "can add a unique dimension to the stillness." He held it out. "Care to try?"

Ethan’s mind reeled. This was escalating quickly. But the part of him that was inherently hedonistic, the part that sought new sensations, even potentially humiliating ones in the context of this "test," found itself saying, almost against his will, "Yes. Alright."

Arkane’s smile widened. He took a step closer. "Very good. Just relax."

Before Ethan could fully brace himself, Arkane smoothly moved behind him. A cool touch, a moment of pressure, and then the smooth, vibrating plug slid into his anus. Ethan gasped, a complex mix of shock, slight pain, and a strange, intense wave of sensation washing over him. The pulsing vibration deep inside was powerful, immediate, and utterly unexpected. His breath hitched. His cock, despite the fear and confusion, began to stir, hardening rapidly against his stomach. He felt a flush spread across his chest.

"See?" Arkane murmured, his voice right behind Ethan. "A grounding anchor. Now, for the main event."

Arkane produced the mummification wrap. It was heavy, elastic, and strangely cool to the touch. He began to work, wrapping the material tightly around Ethan’s ankles, then his legs, moving upwards with practiced efficiency. The wrapping was swift, firm, leaving no room for maneuver. Ethan felt his mobility disappear, limb by limb. His hips, his torso, his shoulders – all were encased in the dense fabric. It felt incredibly constricting, like being vacuum-sealed. He tried to shift, to wriggle, but the wrap held him fast. Only his neck and head were left free, along with his quickly swelling penis and balls, which had been left hanging exposed below the increasingly rigid wrapped form of his body.

Arkane finished wrapping his neck, leaving only his head exposed, then carefully secured the material, ensuring it couldn't be loosened. He turned to face Ethan, his smirk now full and undeniably cold. Ethan stood there, a dark, wrapped statue of a man, completely immobile except for his head and the throbbing, erect cock and balls hanging below him. He could feel the intense vibration still coming from inside him.

"Almost complete," Arkane said, his eyes fixed on Ethan’s exposed groin. He produced another device, one Ethan had only seen in diagrams or explicit videos. It was a milking machine, designed to fit over the penis and balls, connected via a series of tubes. "And now," Arkane said, his voice taking on a clinical, almost cruel edge, "for a little extra incentive to stay still and... cooperate."

He carefully fitted the milking machine over Ethan’s hard cock and full balls. The device enclosed them completely, sealing around the base. A low whirring sound began. Ethan felt a strange sensation of suction, combined with a gentle but firm squeezing motion on his balls. The grip tightened, the vacuum increased, pulling at his cockhead. It wasn't painful, not exactly, but it was intensely stimulating, invasive, and utterly humiliating in his current state. He saw a clear tube leading from the device, connected to a small glass vial resting on a nearby table. The vial was empty, waiting. A wire was also connected, presumably controlling the pulsating rhythm.

Ethan watched, horrified, as the machine worked him over. He tried to scream, but only a choked whimper escaped his throat, muffled by the wrap around his neck and the sheer terror seizing him. He couldn’t move a muscle below his neck. He tried to squirm his upper body, but the wrap was too tight, too secure. His eyes were wide, fixed on the milking machine, on the tube, on the empty vial. The vibrations from the buttplug combined with the sensations from the machine were overwhelming, creating a bizarre, agonizing climax of fear and unwanted arousal. He whimpered and moaned, the sounds involuntary, joining the faint chorus echoing from the hallway outside.

Arkane gently guided the wrapped and machine-attached Ethan towards the low bed. He laid Ethan down, rigid and helpless, on his back. Then, Arkane produced subtle restraints from beneath the bed frame – wide leather straps – and quickly secured Ethan’s wrapped form to the bed, running them over his chest and legs, anchoring him completely.

The test run was over. The true terror kicked in.

Arkane stood over him, his face losing the last vestiges of its polite mask. His expression was cold, hard, filled with a simmering rage that Ethan had never seen directed at him before.

"Ethan Thompson," Arkane said, his voice no longer smooth, but sharp, cutting. "Do you recognize the name Ariana Mitchell?"

Ethan froze, as much as he could in his state. Ariana Mitchell. He vaguely remembered her. Pretty, smart, dated her for a few weeks last month. Got bored, stopped calling, deleted her number. Just another discarded opportunity. Why would this man—

"She is my daughter," Arkane stated, his voice laced with venom. "You met her. You charmed her. You promised her things, made her believe... and then you threw her away like trash." His eyes bored into Ethan's, filled with a cold, implacable justice. "You came walking into my store today, Mr. Thompson. My store. A place dedicated to control, to possession, to turning people into objects owned by another's will. You, of all people. Fate has a twisted sense of humor."

Ethan felt a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated horror crash over him. Ariana Mitchell’s father. This wasn't a test drive. This wasn't research for his games. This was the endgame. For him.

"You asked how hard it was to escape this wrap," Arkane continued, his voice chillingly calm now, the rage banked but potent. "For you, Mr. Thompson, it will be impossible. And you asked about the sounds down the hall? They are indeed men who found their purpose. But their purpose is not chosen. It is assigned. Just like yours has now been assigned."

Ethan whimpered louder, a strangled sob catching in his throat. His eyes darted frantically, pleading, terrified. He tried to shout, to beg, but only the weak, desperate sounds escaped.

"You treated women like objects," Arkane said, a grim satisfaction touching his lips. "You used them, controlled them, took from them, and discarded them. Now, you will know precisely what that feels like. You will be an object. Owned. Used. Profited from." He gestured to the milking machine, now steadily working away, drawing fluid from Ethan’s pulsating cock. "You will be a permanent resident of room 157. You will be Master Arkane’s milking slave. Your purpose will be simple: to produce, and to exist."

Ethan’s whimpers turned into desperate, animalistic cries. He thrashed weakly against the restraints, the wrap holding him immobile against the bed. Tears streamed from his eyes, wetting the edges of the wrap around his face. The sounds he made – the cries, the moans, the strangled groans of pure fear and despair – echoed in the small room, joining the faint, rhythmic sounds from the hallway outside. He was one of them now. Permanently.

Arkane stepped back from the bed, his expression final. "Enjoy your new life, object 157."

He turned and walked towards the door. Ethan watched him go, his heart hammering against his ribs, the milking machine continuing its relentless work, the buttplug still vibrating deep inside. He could only make sounds, helpless, trapped, utterly undone. The click of the door locking from the outside was deafening in the sudden silence left by Arkane’s departure.

Ethan was alone, except for the machines attached to him, the wrap holding him prisoner, and the horrific sounds coming from the other rooms. His frantic whimpers, moans, and groans echoed in the locked chamber. The combination of terror, humiliation, and the sheer physical stimulation from the devices became an unbearable pressure. He squirmed, he cried, he pleaded silently in his head, but the milking machine simply kept working.

And then, it happened. An involuntary, agonizing climax wracked his body. A flood of semen pulsed from his cock, sucked instantly into the tube connected to the milking machine, visibly filling the small vial on the table. He had come. For the first time in his life, he had come not from pleasure, but from a hideous fusion of fear, objectification, and mechanical violation.

Through his tear-blurred eyes, he saw Arkane must have left something next to the vial. A small, printed label, stark and clinical. He strained his eyes to read it. It said: "Property of Arkane. For ingredient processing. Batch E-157-1." Below that, in smaller print: "Destination: Lube - Future Customer Use."

The final, crushing weight of his fate settled upon him. His own essence, harvested like a commodity, destined to facilitate the pleasure of strangers. A profound, sickening wave of realization washed over him. How many women had he used? How many had he made feel like disposable objects, their emotions

#mummification #male slave #trapped #mummified #permanent slave

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crispyoctopusstuff · 2 months ago

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crispyoctopusstuff · 2 months ago

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The scent of old hockey equipment and stale maple syrup hung heavy in the air, a truly Canadian aroma that permeated the house in Thorold, Ontario. For Mackey, a gangly 20-year-old with perpetually messy brown hair, it was home. Until now. Until Carol, his mom, started dating Robert. And now, until this.

He stood awkwardly in the living room, his worn-out Vans scuffing against the polished hardwood floor. Across from him, equally uncomfortable, stood Kevin. Kevin was a picture of forced composure, his jaw tight, a polite smile plastered on his face that didn't quite reach his eyes. At 22, Kevin was taller than Mackey, broader, and with a perfectly sculpted haircut that screamed “effort.” Mackey felt a surge of resentment; Kevin looked like he belonged in a furniture catalogue, while Mackey looked like he belonged… well, under a bed. Which, as fate would have it, was exactly where he was headed.

“Boys,” Carol chirped, her voice brimming with an optimism that felt entirely unwarranted. “Isn’t this wonderful? You’re going to be brothers!”

"Stepbrothers," Kevin corrected smoothly, the word hanging in the air like a cheap air freshener.

Robert clapped a hand on Kevin's shoulder, a forced heartiness in his voice. "That's right! And to make this all work out, you boys will be sharing a room. Get to know each other! Build some camaraderie!”

Mackey and Kevin exchanged a look that could freeze Niagara Falls. Sharing a room. The thought sent a shiver of dread down Mackey’s spine. He could already envision Kevin meticulously organizing his side of the room, lecturing him on cleanliness, and judging his taste in music. He wanted to scream.

The next few weeks were a blur of wedding planning, awkward dinners, and forced smiles. Carol was in a frenzy of lace and floral arrangements, while Robert seemed content to let her handle everything. Mackey retreated into his video games, and Kevin disappeared into the gym.

The wedding was a saccharine affair, complete with a heart-shaped cake and a cringeworthy first dance. Mackey stood stiffly beside his mother, feeling more like an extra than a member of the family. Kevin, on the other hand, mingled effortlessly, charming relatives with his easygoing demeanor. Mackey hated him a little more with each handshake.

Then came the inevitable: moving day. Mackey’s cramped single bed and battered desk were crammed into the spare bedroom, dwarfed by Kevin’s sleek, minimalist furniture. The room suddenly felt smaller, suffocating.

"So," Kevin said, breaking the silence as Mackey wrestled with a tangled mess of ethernet cables. "This is it, huh?"

Mackey grunted in response, shoving the cables under the bed. "Yep. This is it."

Days turned into nights, and the initial awkwardness morphed into a tense truce. Kevin kept his side of the room immaculate, while Mackey’s side remained a chaotic landscape of discarded clothes, empty energy drink cans, and gaming paraphernalia. They coexisted, but barely spoke.

One night, Mackey, exhausted after a particularly brutal online raid, crashed into bed and was asleep within minutes. Kevin, restless and bored, sat at his desk, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. He glanced over at Mackey, sprawled out on the bed, his mouth slightly open, snoring softly. An idea, mischievous and undeniably cruel, sparked in his mind.

He crept over to Mackey's bed and crouched down, his fingers hovering over his stepbrother's bare feet, which stuck out from under the covers. Kevin smirked. He couldn't resist.

He tickled Mackey's soles.

Mackey groaned and shifted, pulling his feet away. Kevin tickled them again, harder this time. Mackey stirred, his eyes fluttering open.

"Knock it off, Kev," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

Kevin ignored him and tickled him again, laughing softly.

That’s when something snapped in Mackey’s mind. He was done. Done with the forced pleasantries, done with Kevin’s judgmental stares, done with feeling like an unwelcome guest in his own home.

In a flash, he was awake, adrenaline surging through his veins. He grabbed Kevin, his fingers digging into his testicles and cock, squeezing with a force that made Kevin gasp in pain. A bead of pre-cum began to form on the tip of his throbbing member.

Kevin yelped, his eyes wide with shock and pain. "What the hell, Mackey?!"

Mackey didn't answer. He tightened his grip, relishing the feeling of power. He dragged Kevin down onto his own messy bed, ignoring his struggles. He scrambled under the bed, his fingers searching for something he'd stashed away weeks ago.

He found it. A pair of his most worn-out, sweat-stained socks, the kind he’d worn during marathon gaming sessions, the kind that could clear a room with their stench. He shoved them into Kevin's mouth, gagging him.

Then, with a triumphant grin, he pulled out his prize: a latex Vacbed, bought online after weeks of obsessive research. It was his secret weapon, his twisted solution to his Kevin problem.

Kevin thrashed in his grasp, his eyes wide with terror as Mackey wrestled him into the Vacbed. He flipped the switch, and the machine whirred to life, slowly sucking the air out of the bag, encasing Kevin in a suffocating layer of latex.

Kevin's struggles became more frantic, his body contorting against the constricting plastic. The Vacbed was designed to be confining, but Mackey reveled in the way it molded to Kevin's body, painfully highlighting every curve and crevice. He watched as Kevin's face turned red, his eyes pleading.

Mackey climbed on top of the Vacbed, positioning his bare feet directly over Kevin's now fully erect cock and balls, sealed within the latex. He began to grind his soles against the sensitive flesh, giving Kevin a vigorous footjob.

Kevin whimpered, the sounds muffled and distorted by the latex. He bucked against the pressure, his body wracked with a strange mix of pain and pleasure. Despite himself, he couldn't help but cum, over and over again, the wet warmth spreading inside the latex prison.

After what felt like an eternity, Mackey stopped, his legs aching. He climbed off the Vacbed, leaving Kevin trapped, suffocating, and completely humiliated.

He dragged the Vacbed, with Kevin still inside, under his bed, shoving it into the darkest corner. He leaned down, his face close to the latex.

"Remember the minute you bugged me?" He hissed. "That was the moment you sealed your fate. You're never getting out, Kevin. Never having your freedom again."

He left Kevin whimpering beneath the bed, his muffled pleas for forgiveness lost in the stagnant air. Mackey climbed back into bed and fell asleep, a sense of unsettling satisfaction washing over him.

The next day, Mackey forged a letter, expertly mimicking Kevin’s handwriting and signature. In it, Kevin claimed he couldn't accept their new marriage and was moving out to find his own place. Carol and Robert were heartbroken, but they accepted it, unaware of the dark secret hidden beneath Mackey’s bed.

Life went on. Mackey played video games, hung out with his friends, and even started dating a girl from his English class. He lived his life as if nothing had changed, but beneath the surface, a dark secret simmered.

Kevin, meanwhile, remained trapped in the Vacbed, squirming, whimpering, begging, pleading for freedom. His cries were muffled by the latex, unheard by anyone but Mackey.

Mackey would often sit on his bed, playing online games, knowing Kevin was just inches below him, completely helpless. The thought filled him with a twisted sense of power. He had his own personal slave, hidden away from the world, completely at his mercy.

One day, a strange desire crept into Mackey’s mind. He wanted to know what it felt like to be trapped, to be at someone else’s mercy. He wanted to experience the fear and helplessness that Kevin had endured.

He pulled the Vacbed out from under the bed and, without hesitation, climbed inside with Kevin. Their soles of their bare feet were in each other's face, a grotesque parody of intimacy. He flipped the switch, and the machine whirred to life, sucking the air out of the bag.

As the latex tightened around him, a wave of panic washed over Mackey. He tried to turn off the machine, but his fingers fumbled with the switch. It wouldn’t budge. He was trapped.

Karma, it seemed, had caught up to him.

He screamed, but his voice was muffled, lost in the constricting latex. He looked at Kevin, his eyes filled with horror. Kevin’s eyes reflected his own panic, his own fear.

They were both trapped.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. No one came looking for them. The house remained silent, filled only with the faint whirring of the Vacbed and the muffled sounds of their desperate pleas for freedom. They were both slaves now, trapped together, forever, under Mackey’s bed, with no one to hear them scream. The Canadian air of syrup and hockey sweat now held the stench of their slow, agonizing demise. Their fate, sealed forever in latex.

#malefeet #suffocation #suffering #permanent slave

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