How long has it been now? Forty minutes? Not enough. He takes longer than that. No point in disturbing him – he needs more time on his own. Last time he told me he didn’t like the mirror. It’s still there for him to see how fucked he is, how there’s nothing he can do about his suffering. The chair isn’t much to look at. It’s just two by fours held together by too much wood glue, screws and brackets under a sloppy coat of black paint. The padded bits are old leather jeans tacked onto the frame and stuffed with foam out of an old sofa. Waste not want not. The chair doesn’t budge. It’s bolted to the wall and to the floor. Even steroid-heads hooked up to the hand crank can’t get it to creak. The boy downstairs has no chance, at all. It’s not that he’s not muscled, he is. He’s got the cared-for body of a late thirty something who’s hit the gym on and off for half his life, just nothing extreme. Not that you’d be able to see any muscles or fat under the suit and the straps. All boys are equal down there.
It’s often the suit that gets them. (Though the chair, ugly as it is, is popular as well.) The suit seen up close, like the chair, has many flaws. It’s made out of old leather jeans and jackets. (Why do I have so much old leather? Mind your own business.) Two sewing machines later I had something that looked vaguely like those bondage suits selling for thousands, except that mine had more lacing and rivets and straps (and bad seams coming undone – hence the rivets), but those flaws notwithstanding, or perhaps because of those flaws, the right boy knows, when he sees the suit, that he needs it on. It’s guttural. The boy downstairs was no exception. The nice thing about the suit is that once it’s done up tight it’s already restrictive enough that toy restraints would keep your average man helpless. Added to the chair it’s overkill. The thirty or so two inch wide leather straps over the chair are overkill. It’s all overkill, and why shouldn’t it be when you’re into that?
It’s long work getting a boy ready for a proper session. You have to massage their minds, tantalise them with the titillation of hindsight. If you’d let them, they’d have you strap them in, wank them off, thank you sir and please do it again. That’s it. Not that I mind, I’ve done it many times.
The first time the boy downstairs visited was for electrics. He’d dabbled on his own with a handheld box and wondered what it must be like to get juiced by an advanced unit controlled by someone other than him. He’d seen pictures of the chair and the suit, of course, and of boys strapped in or to it, often with wires snaking to their genitals. Electro was a happy pretext. Had he been into tits, he would have asked to have his tits kneaded but still mentioned the chair, just as a suggestion, you know, in passing. We got into a steady rhythm of a session or two a month, some in the chair – just the chair, not all of the straps, sometimes a hood or a muzzle – some sessions in the suit, done up loose to save time, some with no bondage apart from cuffs and a gag. After a handful of scenes, I knew what his cock liked, what would make him cum, what he disliked and didn’t work, what would keep him hard and needy and desperate for as long as I wanted, and where his definite limits lay. I pushed him when we fancied more. He liked it, I liked it, but something was missing and we both knew it.
Electrics are a fiendish thing. It’s a direct onslaught on the nerves, bypassing any need for mechanical stimulation. Sure, neurons will adjust to juice, but it’s different to milkers or vibrators or cunts or hands stroking and kneading and massaging a cock, all of which have their physical drawbacks if you’re after subjecting your boy to ‘too much’ (as they claim). If you twiddle the buttons just right with the electrodes tacked on just right, you can make cocks strain as if they’re being worked over by a thousand hands right after orgasm, but before and without the need for orgasm. Endless, immaculate edging and post-orgasm torture in one. Actually, I wouldn’t call it edging. The boy downstairs doesn’t call it edging either. He says it feels like he’s on the verge of cumming but can’t, not because it’s not enough to cum but because it’s too much to cum. Far too much. Somehow he should cum, he must cum – now – but it doesn’t happen, no matter what he tries. The wiring in his body refuses to answer his pleas, caught in a maze of sensations it can’t process, the walls closing in, ready to obliterate him. Perhaps his body knows that if he were to cum, what would follow would kill him, surely. At the right settings, whatever is making his cock feel like it must burst but also keeps it from exploding has to stop. Do this for long enough and a boy breaks.
Long ago, in the days when you had to wank to grainy thumbnails or inkjet printouts, on one of a professional top’s many webpages, the caption to an image grabbed me like only the rarest of sentences grabs you. That site has now gone, as have the images, and my memory has no doubt mangled the original flash-lit shot, but picture a slanted padded table – decked in grey PVC, I believe –, a solid guy strapped to it with ratchet straps – I think he was in rubber, hands in leather mitts, but I might be wrong – being sucked off by a robojack, its brown-yellow, translucent sleeve tied off with dirty-white, fraying nylon cord to the guy’s crotch and to the straps pinning him to that table. He could not get that sleeve off or make the sucking stop, even if he got soft, even if he’d cum a hundred times. Only whoever controlled the milker held that power. The caption, and I now regret not saving the entire page to one of my drives, said something along the lines of “and the milking continues until the muffled pleas cease.” Until the muffled pleas cease. I had a wank there and then and many after.
As I said, it’s all very nice to have appreciative boys cum in your chair. It’s all very nice to edge them for a while in the suit and let them blow their loads, but that’s where it ends. The muffled pleas cease but too soon and for the wrong reason. The set-up, for what I get out of it, is a lot of work. It took me a while to see it as a long term investment. With time, the right boy would contact me, would ask for the ride of his life, and would be made to ride it out until his muffled pleas cease. Perhaps he’d seen a similar caption and had a wank from the other side.
Getting a boy into the suit and onto the chair, when they know they won’t be let out, to me, is a lone towering peak in the vast landscape of lesser erotic heights. When I lace up someone for a quicky, we chat and joke. When I strap them to the chair, much the same. When I strapped in the boy downstairs, he was silent. It had the gravitas of ritual. You don’t speak or joke during rituals. He knew what was coming. When we spoke to each other, it was functional and hushed. Eye contact was rare and unintentional. He’d gone through the same four months earlier, the first time I strapped him up properly, but then the importance of ritual hadn’t yet settled into him. He was flirty as I laced him up. When I got him out an hour later he swore that he would never let me lace him up again. Within six weeks he’d asked for more. And now again. The titillation of hindsight.
This time too I could see a mix of intense arousal and fear in his eyes as I helped him into the suit and wired up his cock. I had him sit in the chair, put the padded mitts and boots on, tightened the suit’s lacing, and pinned every inch of him under the belts. I stroked his hair back, slid on the gasmask, and strapped it down to the headrest. He didn’t even try to struggle. He strained a bit. He was comfortable and nodded, as much as the restraints allowed – that’s how it starts. When the juice started flowing, he closed his eyes and frowned – the introspective, concentrated, apprehensive frown of someone dealing with budding suffering and readying themselves for what is coming.
The gasmask is for my benefit. I don’t restrict his breathing. I don’t feed him gas. There’s no need for that. The mask has one purpose: it only allows me to see his eyes through its circular, steamed-up lenses and nothing more. The suggestion of his suffering is what I want. More would spoil it. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and it’s true. They also say suggestion is worth more than a thousand images, and that’s true as well. The mask isolates his eyes, the very essence of his suffering, like a picture frame isolates a painting from its surroundings and turns it into a world on its own. Perhaps I’m old fashioned.
I control the electrics from upstairs. I know what works. I don’t need much feedback any more. I monitor him – a grainy, ill-lit black and white webcam thumbnail – from my computer screen. I hear his breathing and moaning and groaning and pleading through the same screen when I turn the volume up. I leave it on low most of the time. I don’t want to see or hear more. He’s on his own, which is part of what he craves, but even if I were monitoring him in 4K and stream it to the world, it wouldn’t cross his mind that he’s being watched. Overstimulation is the ultimate dissociative. The world outside no longer exists.
He was loud twenty minutes ago, after which he started sobbing. He screamed for it to stop ten minutes ago. He wasn’t addressing me. Those screams were for his own benefit. I know his fits by now. He hasn’t cum and he’s not going to. I dial down the juice. He hates that. He can’t take it. He really can’t. You should hear him. If his head weren’t strapped to the headrest, he’d bash it until he lost consciousness, but if I go down now and he sees me, I’m going to get the pleading – or worse: glowering – eyes, and that’s not enough. One more cycle.
He’s ready. It takes him a few minutes to register that I’m standing in the dark of the doorway, looking at him, massaging my cock. He’s still hard as a rock in the soaked vet-wrap. The electrodes haven’t moved, neither has his cock, pinned down to the chair in between his legs. Nothing is worse than electrodes moving mid session. Now he’s seen me he starts pleading. He should know better. I suppose it’s instinct that made him aware I was looking at him. He’s struggling not to get sucked back into his own hell. He has to force his eyes on me. That gaze is the last connection he has to the outer world. I see him lose control. He closes his eyes and grunts and frowns – he’s clinging to the last bit of sanity he thinks he’s got left. Come on boy, frown again and look at me. You can’t take this. You’re well past the point where your suffering has to stop. He tries to move his head down. He shifts imperceptibly in the suit. He doesn’t dare move, but his body forces him to. He pushes his head back into the headrest, whimpers, and frowns like only those well beyond despair frown. I catch a glimpse of one of his eyes tight shut, one of his furrowed eyebrows, misted through the gasmask’s lens. He whimpers and jerks. His tiniest movements make the suit and straps creak, the only other sound in this cellar. He forces out an airy squeak – ‘please’ I assume –, opens his eyes and offers me a pleading look in muffled, unreal silence: the exact, dripping wet stare I came down for. He can’t see me smile or melt. Two breaths later his frown collapses back into horrified concentration. I go partway up the stairs, where I see the chair only up to his clasping mitts, and to another one of his sorry whimpers, his foggy, one-eyed stare of pleading despair burnished on my mind, I cum.