The world around me comes into focus as I wake. I feel exhausted despite having had a deep sleep. I roused dozens of times throughout the long night. My body aching, my muscles on fire from the uncomfortable position that I’ve sorely become used to. I groan through the ache, outwardly exclaiming my displeasure. A large ball gag is fixed firmly in my saliva-saturated mouth, dulling my pathetic mewling. A puddle of drool collects on the leather-coated base of the metal cage I reside in each night. The enclosed space is enough to fit my lithe frame. I adjust my position as best I can. The padded base is one of the little luxuries I have been granted over the past few months. My rubber suit squeaks against the smooth leather. The familiar tone echoing through the room.

The room in question was purpose-built by my partner. What was once a communal house that we shared has now become off-limits, apart from this space I inhabit day after day. Within these walls, I spend endless uncomfortable nights while my boyfriend sleeps soundly in a large king-sized bed. It might sound bizarre for a happy couple to share two separate bedrooms, but what was even more peculiar was the room’s interior.

During the early spring of this year, my boyfriend, assisted by two of his burly, skilful friends, converted our spare bedroom into a perverted chamber used for my daily torment and conditioning. Whatever softness that once existed in the room was stripped away with extreme thoroughness. Carpets taken up, cosy furniture removed, and walls stripped bare. The preparation for my new bedroom took a full week, during which I was not permitted to see until it was complete. I recall my shock and horror when it was revealed to me, sealing my fate.

Months later, I gaze out through the bars of the sturdy cage at the rubber-matted flooring, expertly fitted within the space. It serves a dual purpose as a protective layer for the pools of sweat, lube, and cum that regularly leak onto the floor, along with being an aesthetic choice for this austere and perverted environment. A steady, low red glow fills the room, staining any surface with the same fiery hue. Like an emergency light that never switches off. Luckily, the cage is shaded enough for me to sleep unbothered by the lights. There are no windows anymore, not even the suggestion of one. My only view of the world beyond this room is stripped away. The walls are sealed, layered with dense grey panels that swallow any sound I make. And believe me, my boyfriend loves to cohorse the loudest sounds imaginable out of me. The air in the room feels contained, set to a temperature that allows me to exist in my rubber casing without worry of overheating.

Equipment is scattered around various points of the room. Some of it is decorative, but others are used for my continuous treatment, as my boyfriend puts it. I should refrain from calling him my boyfriend. That dynamic ended long ago when he decided that I fit the role of his full-time pup much better. On the rare occasion I am permitted to speak, I refer to him only as Master,  a mistake that often lands me in various degrees of horrendous punishment. 

A padded surface is fixed to the wall containing numerous hooks neatly displaying my Master’s perverted display of crops, floggers, canes, bondage items, and the dreaded XL cock gag. Tools specifically purchased for my long and arduous punishments that I suffer each day. How I loathed my Master’s delicate selection while I am bound in some form of equipment within the confines of this room.

Beneath the padded wall, a row of black metal drawers houses further items of displeasure. Plugs, chastity cages, restraints, collars, electro kits, and even more horrific gags are methodically labelled in various compartments. It is locked when not in use, so I rarely have a chance to explore the full array of items inside. My mind ponders the possibility of its contents and the mystery of punishing items that I’m not even aware my Master has purchased. I gulp with my gag-filled mouth at the thought.

A row of shelves is fixed to the wall on the opposite end of the room, filled with dog-themed items. Ceramic and metal bowls are arranged neatly on the wooden surface. Various glass bottles with dog motives are used when Master wants to intimately feed me a thick, tasteless gruel. I feel so utterly helpless and humiliated as he unstraps the ball gag, my rubber pup hood resting on his strong thighs as he feeds the teat of the bottle through the muzzle of my mask. Defeated and exhausted, I gulp down the mixture. Whining like a newborn pup.

Various bondage equipment is housed in the room. Metal frames, padded surfaces, adjustable arms and brackets, lockable restraints, tools that are used to constantly bind my futile attempts at escape. Each piece is bolted down and immovable. Every surface is either rubber-coated, black metal, or wrapped in dark, wipeable fabric. Well-equipped to hold me in place. My attention is drawn to the hanging frame and dangling straps.

Once a week, I find myself lying on my back on the padded floor. A thick, 1mm rubber sleep sack is forcefully pulled over my already latex-covered body. The sack is measured to contain my exact frame and fit snugly once it is pulled up over my body. My hands are held in a pair of unforgiving rubber mitts, the cushioned interior making them useless paws before my arms are slipped into the inner pockets of the sack. The compression feels even greater with the combination of mitts and rubber on top. 

Coated in thick layers of rubber, I am held tightly in the sack, a vaguely human shape in glossy black. The back zip is then gradually inched along its tracks before coming to a halt at the base of my neck. Master exerts intense force to close the sack completely, and I can usually hear his effort in grunts. Finally sealed, I am barely able to wiggle my latex-coated toes. The extreme pressure is like a vice. Its pressure is applied from all directions. 

With more exhausted effort, Master positions my limp body beneath the hanging frame. A blindfold is clipped in place over my rubber puppy hood, leaving me completely blind to the world around me. I rely only on my sense of sound and scent to discern what happens next. The melody of chains clanking, clips being fastened in place, and the occasional murmur of exertion from my Master echoes in my ears. This ritual takes place without any communication between us, although this has become a regular occurrence in our dynamic. Since I am gagged, there is little I can do to interact.

Wriggling in my hefty layers of bondage and rubber, my struggle is a futile attempt at some kind of autonomy. My brain and body are already conditioned to accept that there is nothing I can do to fight. At least this ritual will alleviate my achingly hard cock, something I crave morning, noon and night. The chance to cum.

A whirring sound fills the room as my lifeless form is dragged vertically upwards. Within a matter of seconds, the floor beneath me disappears completely, and along with it, my sense of orientation. My body swinging like a pendulum is steadied by the hands of my Master. I’m sure from his view, I look like a sack of meat in an abattoir. Inanimate, powerlessly held by the chains and restraints, awaiting his next move.

I am occasionally left hanging there for a few minutes in complete silence. I’d try to struggle and break free from the layers of thick rubber and bondage, but my futile attempts will earn only a simple, gentle rocking of my rubberised prison. After a few tries, I realise, as I did time and time again, that there is no escape. I have no idea if my Master leaves the room during this struggle or if he retreats to a corner of the room and enjoys my pathetic bid for release. I imagine probably the latter. Picturing him with his rock-hard cock in his hands, a rush of power as I eventually give up and hang in my bonds. I know how much he craves this. To make me his totally submissive slave.

The thump of boots against the matted floor signals the next phase of his perverted plan. One that I eagerly await. A zip located at my crotch is drawn down to reveal my latex-sheathed cock. I can feel it spring forward once the zip has stopped just below my balls. Apart from dressing and cleaning, this is the only time Master caresses my achingly needy cock. Since orgasm is only allowed once a week during these sessions, I am always extremely pent up and whine at his most basic attentions.

As his fingers trace along the length of my dick, the plug in my anus suddenly springs to life and buzzes gently. The gag in my mouth dulls my moans of pleasure as I am assaulted from both ends.

“Good boy, doesn’t that feel so good? I think you really love being my pervy doggy. You won’t have it any other way, would you?”

His question is clearly rhetorical. I know he takes immense pleasure in knowing he has broken me. He has trained me to crave this life. Even if I want to return to normal, I know deep down that through all the torture, humiliation, control and pain, my life as my owner’s playtoy is inevitable. Whether it is the constant training, hypnosis or something more psychological, I have fully accepted him as my Master.

“You’re nothing but a dog-brained slave. If I took out your ball gag, I’m sure you wouldn’t be able to say one coherent word. Your brain is nothing but mush and you live just to serve me.”

It is all true. I know it. Master knows it. My ability to resist has faded each day with the realisation that I am where I belong. His hands on my cock begin to pick up speed as the pleasure intensifies with the buzzing in my anus.

“You love being with your Master. Pleasing me. That’s all you want, isn’t it? To be a good boy and obey every word I say.”

I moan as loud as I can through the ball gag.

“I bet the plug shoved inside you isn’t enough is it? You just want to feel my cock deep in you. That’s what makes you the happiest dog in the world”

Master knows that statement will drive me over the edge, and soon I am cumming with an intense cry of release. My cum shoots into the rubber sheath around my dick. I can feel tears pooling up behind the blindfold as the buzzing begins to decrease. 

“That’s my good dog. You’re mine FOREVER”

I recall my regular weekly milking with an intense need. My rod is now locked in a black, plastic chastity cage and strained uncomfortably against the hard shell. I thrust it against the leather base of the dog crate as I reflected on some of the perverse statements Master would say during these sessions. With my hands locked in padded mitts, I prod my locked cock, but it does nothing to quell my aching desire. I give up in exasperation.

There’s no clock, no windows, nothing to suggest the passage of time. I rely solely on the dominant male’s arrival to signify that it is morning. The red dull light is a constant throughout the day and night cycles. Lying in my cage, cut off from daylight and outside noise, I’m reminded that the room isn’t just sealed physically but also conceptually. It doesn’t acknowledge the rest of the house at all. It exists on its own terms, austere and controlled. Leaving me patiently waiting in my own personal jailcell

Out of boredom and a need to distract from my aching cock, I gaze towards the built-in closet. A mirrored surface reflects a section of the bedroom, making the space seem even larger than it is. Behind the panelled doors lies an array of twisted and degenerate items. Instead of the expected neat rows of shirts and coats, the space is stocked with something more deliberate for my role. Rubber suits in an array of designs and colours hang from a high rail. Some are plain black, while others are designed with a specific breed of dog in mind, such as a Husky or a Doberman.

When I am permitted to feel something other than latex or rubber on my skin, I am allowed to wear lycra suits, which dangle next to the shiny garments. Their designs are similar to those of the rubber suits, with a certain canine look throughout. I can’t recall the last time I wore a simple T-shirt and jeans. The thought of it is so foreign to me now. My everyday attire for the past few months has been replaced with only figure-hugging and full-body suits.

A row of shelves above the rail is stacked with cases filled with rubber accessories. Hoods, gloves, socks, and shorts with sheaths, all in a variety of colours to match the suits, are neatly packed away and ready for Master to select as he desires. Several latex hoods sit on purpose-made stands, shaped to the human head but more suggestive of a canine form. Each bears pointy ears along with a protruding muzzle ending in a rubberised snout.

Along with my purposeful array of latex puppy outfits and accessories. More practical items are stored in the closet. Foam knee and elbow pads, along with several bitchsuits formed from thicker rubber than the suits, ensure I’m suited to a life closer to the floor than any chair. The word that springs to mind is helpless. This is the reality of my life now. I’m utterly helpless to what happens each and every day. It’s almost as if my Master’s mission is to remind me of that fact. This prison cell, my Master calls my bedroom, is certainly a symbol of that. Within this space, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, my life of obedience and strict control is constantly administered.

As the room is so heavily padded and soundproofed, I’m caught off guard by the dramatic opening of the bedroom door. My eyes immediately dart towards Master entering the room. I assume his arrival signifies that it’s morning, but for all I know, it could be late afternoon. I stir within the dog crate. I lift my heavy rubber-coated limbs and rise into a kneeling position within the fortified cage. I’m eager for release and the option to stretch my sore muscles. From the low angle, trapped within the cage, I’m unable to get a full view of my owner.

His boots let out a mild screech as they tread across the rubberised flooring. As he nears my caged form, I’m assaulted by an intense aroma that I’ve come to associate with being near him. I’m sure that he wears a particular scent, possibly one that pairs with his natural odour, and amplifies it. I’m unsure of the specifics, but from my perspective, it feels like I’m trained to sniff out my owner. The scent is unmistakable to me as my Master’s conditioned dog. So recognisable the instant that it comes into my airways. A salty, dark odour overpowers the usual aroma in this room of rubber and leather that’s mixed with my own sweat. The scent intensifies the closer I’m allowed to his armpits, cock and feet. His underwear has, in the past, been stuffed over my muzzle, where I’ve had no choice but to huff the fierce smell. I think with regret that, like many of my dark and awful treatments, I’ve woefully become addicted to it.

A loud sound of the crate’s lock being firmly pulled free rings through the padded room. The sound signals my freedom from one prison and escape into another, more extensive one. As they say, out of the frying pan and into the fire. Master carefully opens the metal door to the dog crate and bids me a morning greeting.

“Morning, doggy. Looks like you’re well rested from a night in your cage. How about we start the day?”

I grunt a response as I crawl pathetically out of the cage, my limbs stiff, my body desperate to stretch beyond the confines of the cramped space that I’ve inhabited for the night. The padded kneepads fixed over my rubber-coated knees cushion the hard flooring. From my vantage point on all fours, I’m greeted with the view of Master’s glossy Solovairs. 

I drift back to our first meeting, remembering how the moment my eyes find him, something shifts inside me, an immediate, undeniable pull that sinks deep into my chest and takes hold before I can think, before I can resist. He stands much taller than I do. His frame effortlessly towers over mine. Thick muscle frames him from neck to calf, not exaggerated but unmistakably powerful. I’d come to rely on his strength as he’d often support my weight with almost minimal effort. I love this about him and knew from day one that it constantly reinforces my submissive nature when I’m in his presence.

He takes immense pleasure in dressing to contrast my daily attire. Today, he is simply wearing a white T-shirt, tight enough to trace the definition beneath. Its sleeves hug his large biceps. Smooth leather pants coat his lower half, fitting snugly over his thighs. The leather follows the powerful lines of his legs, tapering down to those heavy boots. Boots which I’d spent a considerable amount of time polishing with my tongue and lips when ordered to by my Owner. The thought sent a shudder through my spine. Everything about him screamed authority and dominance. His presence radiates control before he ever speaks.

The audible creaking of leather fills the room as Master bends down to eye level. He scoops my hooded chin in his leather hands and locks eyes with me. A friendly smirk coats his face. One that appears loving but with dark and perverted intent hidden beneath it.

“Sam…”

My eyes go wide in shock. I couldn’t recall the last time he’d used my actual name beyond referring to me as dog, puppy, slave, and, of course, Sparky.

“I’m sure you know just how much I love you. Not as a boyfriend anymore, I think we both know that has long passed. I know how much you’ve resisted these changes and often doubt my judgment. I’ve done my best to train this particular bad habit out of you and strip away more and more of your decision-making, because I know what’s best for you. Even better than you know yourself.”

A leather-coated hand stretched behind my head, massaging the rubbery material of the mask. Its presence tightens, making it borderline uncomfortable. He watches me intently. Dark, assessing eyes take in the immediate effect his words have on me. Searching for my own sense of weaknesses, shame, and humiliation. Taking such a deep-rooted pleasure in it all. 

“You might not realise, but it’s been six months since I took full control over your life. I made you into the helpless, weak, and submissive object that’s lying here right now. It’s been a long journey for both of us, and I want it to continue and develop even further.”

The last part makes me audibly gulp, even with the ball-gag still lodged in my mouth.

“I know that you’ve struggled a lot and maybe even resent me for the things I’ve done to you. Part of you misses your old life, I’m sure you worry about the independence you lost and the people who’ve disappeared from your life.”

A pang of guilt springs through me as I recall the friends, work colleagues, and acquaintances in my life who surely miss me. Contact broken one day out of the blue. My old life, the one I controlled with my own free will, has so many loose ends that never had a conclusion. I’m sure there was pain there for many people, and I feel responsible for it.

“So I think it’s about time that we changed that.”

I stared intently into his brown eyes in total disbelief.

“I can let you out of all this gear, we can go downstairs and discuss you returning to your old life.”

My heart races. My mind is swirling with the idea that this can’t possibly be a reality after the months of control and suffering I’d endured.

“But…”

I should have known there’d be a but.

“We will sever our ties and go our separate ways. There is no going back from this point. You will return to being Sam, and everything you’ve encountered over the course of our relationship will become a memory.”

I continued to stare into his hazel-coloured eyes, unblinking for roughly a minute. The only noise filling the room was the gentle creak of our collective rubber and leather gear. His words touched the very heart of my being. I can tell by the glint in his eye how deadly serious this all was. 

“You have an hour to think about it. I’ll leave you here by yourself to mull it over. When I return, you can give me your answer.”

With a gentle ruffle of my rubber-coated head, Master rises from the floor and exits the room. I stare longingly as his form disappears into the hallway. The sound of the door being securely locked in place reinforces the isolation I now feel within this empty space. I’m completely dumbfounded by the situation at hand and immediately begin trying to rationalise the predicament that’s forced upon me.

Obviously, the idea of freedom feels extremely attractive to me. I yearn for my old life. The luxuries of getting to eat my favourite food, decide my own wardrobe, socialise with friends and, more than anything, regain the control I so desperately crave. But to trade everything I have now for that liberation. Is that what I want? The conflicting thoughts enter my head. My life has forever changed the fateful day that Master made me HIS full-time dog. I’m no longer the same person I once was. I had been altered to become a twisted addict to Master’s attentions, cruel treatment and his moments of blissful reward. I picture my life alone in the world, outside of this room, without any form of protection. Stripped of everything and re-exposed to the harsh and hostile. 

A feeling washes over me, smothering yet comforting like a heavy blanket, and it is the love I hold for my Master. Despite everything he subjects me to, I love him. Maybe I love him even more now that I am his property rather than his boyfriend. I idolise him, adore him, and live to please him. There is no hurdle or challenge he sets before me that I cannot overcome. Dare I admit it, I crave it when he does.

The gear, the domination, the pleasure, the twisted rhythm of our daily routine, it all calls to me. I want it. I need it. I can’t survive without it. I strain against my cage at the thought of it all, and the question rises unbidden in my mind: what have I become?

I rise from the floor onto my padded knees and crawl towards the door. Instinctively, I remain on all fours, not realising that standing on my two legs is even an option. Before I reach the fortified door, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a floor-to-ceiling mirror, fixed to the wall.

The reflection staring back at me has become all too familiar, a sight that I frequently gaze at in awe. A mixture of emotions wracking my rubber-coated frame. My outfit was hand-picked the night before. Instead of plain black, I am dressed in a custom suit modelled off a Dalmatian. Black spots slapped sporadically across smooth, white rubber. Although there were parts to my outfit that dulled overnight, the surface still has traces of the shining solution that Master massages into my rubberised body each night. A thick custom hood is fixed across my face. My eyes are the only human aspect of me that remains.

Padded mitts coat my hands into useless blobs. Specifically-designed paw-boots encase my feet. A large, prominent collar wraps around my neck, its lock closed shut to prevent any possibility of removal. Dangling firmly in the centre is my name tag, reading ‘Sparky’. It reinforces my identity, a mark of my Master’s property. I often hear it jangle, the sound, although sometimes irritating, fills me with so much joy. Its presence is a steady comfort. Can I really trade it all?

Roughly an hour passes, after some intense reflection and internal debate. Each item within the packed playroom evokes a memory and feeling from my captivity. The door finally opens, as light spills in from the hallway. Beyond it waits the outside world. Air that doesn’t carry the scent of sweat and rubber, space that doesn’t confine me, a life where I exist again as ‘Sam’. I remain on my knees in anticipation next to the cage. I feel the weight of the decision settle into my chest. Freedom is right there. All I have to do is speak up.

Master comes to a halt with roughly a meter of distance between us. A level of calm about him for such a serious moment. 

“I take it you’ve come to a decision?”

I nod, my collar and tag jingling as I do so.

I try to match his gaze, but it’s so intense that I feel myself submissively focus on his lower half.

“Well since you can’t tell me your answer, if you choose to stay, then come to me. I’ll take you in my arms. Every inch of you will belong to me, and I’ll make sure you’re shown that every day for the rest of your life. But, if you choose to leave, stay where you are, turn your back to me and I’ll release you from your collar and gear and that’ll be it. Everything will be over. Nod if you understand”

I nod.

I take a breath and gaze at the walls of the room. For the first time, they don’t feel like a prison. They feel like an embrace. They carry His presence, the echo of His voice, the certainty of belonging. This room is where I am seen, where my purpose is clear, where love, although twisted and consuming, is still so undeniable. The outside world offers endless possibilities, but none of it bears His name. None of it promises the devotion I give so freely, or the quiet peace that comes from surrendering choice itself.

So I rise from my knees and close the gap between us. Not out of fear, not because I am forced, but because I choose to stay. I choose the confinement because within it is Him, and without Him, the world feels vast and hollow. The walls settle back into place, and with them comes a calm certainty. I remain exactly where I belong.

“Good boy”