The Writer

In the confines of a tight, dark closet, strictly affixed to an uncomfortable chair and stuffed within the confines of a tiny desk with no leg room, fitted completely in thick, tight rubber on every inch of his body, the Writer was blinded by a brilliant flash of bright light after spending a long time in perpetual darkness. Before each of the Writer’s eyes, they tortured by white on each virtual reality screen within a thick rubber helmet that was secured in place by a bolted closed collar, was a real time video image provided to the screens by the large digital camera affixed to the front of the helmet and set to a high magnification. The lone source of light came from the screen of a large business laptop, set to a high brightness, projecting the clean, empty, blinding white digital image of a blank canvas of paper that filled every available pixel. A small window on the screen had a black background, and it featured a white text countdown from exactly one minute, from the moment the digital camera, the headset, and the laptop all turned on, for the Writer to find composure and began to type.

The Writer tried in vain to rub his imprisoned eyes and only felt the disfiguring mold of the digital camera through his latex-gloved hands, barely able to move his arms in the heavy rubber, and having difficulty feeling his fingers in the tight latex gloves. The Writer attempted to stretch but to no avail as the uncomfortable chair pressed against the solid steel door of the Writer’s chamber, pushing the Writer firmly in place between it and the provided desk that was appropriate for a child to use and not a fully grown adult. Due to the tiny desk’s size, with it squeezed between the brick walls and weighed down, the Writer’s legs were compressed together by the drawer cabinets on either side that were holding the table top up, and the table top itself pushing down on the Writer’s thighs. The table top was made out of a thick wood that at least raised the original height of the desk as it also worked to hold the Writer’s legs down and prevent the Writer from standing up; the only way to stand, the only way to push away from the desk, was the same way to leave, was through the door when it was open.

Sweating and suffocating in latex rubber and in the bondage predicament, the Writer looked at the timer and noted it had less than thirty seconds left on it. The Writer squirmed helplessly in the bondage of chair, desk, and attire. The rubber helmet was bulky and heavy, with most of its weight centered over the face due to the virtual reality headset and the digital camera, along with the collar bolting it in place; the helmet did not allow for any head movement, not laterally or rotationally, therefore the Writer was always facing straight ahead, even as the downward-angled digital camera lens pulled the Writer downward and forward. The ears were meaningless in this situation, and therefore they were plugged up with foam before sealed under a latex hood prior to the installation of the helmet. Speech was just as meaningless, so the latex hood featured no opening for the mouth, was both tight and thick to immobilize the Writer’s jaw, and finally the rubber helmet pressed the lower jaw closed. Within the helmet walls it was padded to minimize sound from entering and leaving the helmet. Although the forced sitting made his feet useless, they were nonetheless placed in latex toe socks and placed in laced tight rubber boots with harden toes that prevent the feet from flexing. The fetish material and the bondage was not his choice nonetheless his prior choices lead to submitting freely to this intense and uncomfortable situation, and agreed to it in order to not be sued for breech of contract.

With just under fifteen seconds to spare, the Writer struggled to place fingers on the flat keys of the laptop. A button was pressed and nothing happened, as the Writer had very little control of the entire situation, let alone the laptop; once the timer expired the Writer could type. The laptop had no other software, no applications, no means to reach an email account or the Internet; it was dedicated exclusively to word processing and was linked to computer elsewhere that would display the Writer’s writing efforts. The laptop’s functions were clearly controlled by the very same computer, and that was controlled by the same individual who controlled the Writer’s chamber, the Writer’s headset, the Writer’s senses, and the Writer’s punishment and reward.

The audience of one the Writer was going to write for was the Publisher, and in less than ten seconds, the Publisher expected the Writer to begin writing an fetish erotic novel. The Publisher’s demands and expectations were simple enough to understand, therefore the circumstances in carrying the demands were made quite clear to the Writer, who had missed multiple deadlines, all the while borrowing money from the Publisher in order to live and allegedly write; without any progress by the Writer, the Publisher demanded payback for the loans. The threat of legal action for over a week did not cure the Writer’s work block that had prevented writing words together to make a sentence, sentence to paragraph, paragraphs to pages, pages to chapters. Thus, the Publisher offered the Writer this remedy as both a penalty as well as inspiration; a gonzo method of motivation, to experience the very subject matter the Writer had claimed numerous times was not difficult to write about, yet writer’s block had easily prevented from being written.

As the timer counted down from five seconds, the Writer discovered an opportunity that was birthed by the very circumstances. The Writer would write about this very experience, in the most pure of first person narratives that perhaps anyone had ever written for fiction that was not considered autobiographical. The Writer had to write, for the timer on the laptop screen had reached zero, vanishing to give way to the Writer.

The Writer was immediately given a reason to write the very moment the laptop was freed for use as an electrical shock from the anal plug deep in his ass and from the urethra draining rod inserted in his rubberized cock mutually set off. Plugged into wires that connected to plugs inserted into a lone wall socket in the chamber, wirelessly through a Bluetooth connection with the laptop, under the control of the Publisher through a software application, it was a prolonged punishment that grew more intensely painful every second the Writer did not write. Although mild at the start, the Writer struggled with the shock for a few long seconds before typing. Immediately, the shocking stopped, which caused the Writer to sigh and stop; once again, the shocking was activated. It was quite clear that only work was the Writer’s only means of safety. As the typing started again, the shocking stopped once more.
After completing a sentence and just before starting a new one, the Writer felt the once tortured anus and cock being pleasurably vibed by the anal plug and the blow job cuff that vibed and sucked off the encased cock respectively. The pleasure, much like the pain, was light in their intensities, and grew as the Writer made measurable progress. It became distracting enough to cause the Writer to misspell a word. Upon the grammar error, the pleasure was replaced with one time, whole body electric shock that made the Writer cramp into what passed for as a ball, prevented by the situational bondage. Heart racing from the event, the Writer backspaced over the error and was greeted with again with a low, controlled shock that persisted until the Writer began to type again.

The Writer finished a sentence and stopped to gather what wits had not been fried. Neither pleasure or pain followed the end of the sentence, therefore the Writer had decided, as a means to further this very story that was going to be written, what the extents of punishment and pain were. The Writer’s arms crossed, and after thirty seconds a powerful jolt made the rubber body about leap literally out of seated bondage position. A few seconds would pass, another jolt, even more powerful than the first, painfully caused the Writer’s body to jerk violently. The Writer gritted through the pain and just held down a single key to prevent another jolt. After five seconds of single key pressing, a figurative bolt of lightning forced the Writer to stop, and suffer the milder discomfort of backspacing to get rid of all the letter ‘e’s produced from the single key that was held down. Finished, the Writer counted down before a punishment jolt would strike without work being done to regain composure, unsure if the punishment was automatic or manually controlled. That in itself was the great unknown in such sadomasochistic bondage fetish scenes in which this was one. The Writer backspaced and started once again from the beginning to fictionalize the predicament that was being experienced as a fictional account for at least the Publisher’s amusement.

For the Writer, the beginning started a week ago, as a meeting was called by the Publisher in the very office building that housed the torture chamber the Writer was currently locked in. It was not a meeting in the classical sense, it was list of grievances that were expressed and required to be addressed about the lack of fulfilled promises. The Writer had been a erotic fiction writer that did it as a hobby that desired to write full time as a career, covering subjects beyond sex, bondage, and fetish. The Publisher read the Writer’s works from erotic to non-erotic fiction, and made out a contract for the Writer to provide the Publisher with five complete works of erotic fiction of various types in exchange for publishing one non-erotic work. The Writer’s first erotic novel, demanded by the Publisher, was pure latex queer fiction, to which was successful. The Publisher wanted something similar, but the Writer could not do it; being heterosexual, there were limits to the imagination of straight people. The Writer’s block was more over the subject matter than it was about creativity or burnout.
Alas, as the months passed and no other work could be had, the Writer was left to ask for money from the Publisher, and therefore the Publisher did provide the Writer advances on the potential works. The Writer had to decide, as the block persisted, between paying bills to live or paying lawyers to break the contract. Unfortunately for the Writer, there was a need for money and the Publisher cut it off. The ‘meeting’ was the ultimatum; publish or perish. The Publisher gave the Writer an alternative to losing everything in court. The Writer submitted to the alternative.

After a week of preparation, the Publisher had summoned the Writer to arrive late at night. After the Writer was freed from clothes and experienced an enema, the Publisher had proceeded to install the Writer with the sexual hardware and into the heavy rubber gear. Once it was all completed, the Writer had to crawl on all fours in order to move for there was no power to the rubber helmet’s virtual reality headset and digital camera. The Writer had crawled on hands and knees blind, pulled by a leash connected to the helmet’s locking collar by the Publisher, over multiple floors as means to disorientate the Writer; the stairs were never used, for it was considered too dangerous. The Writer had never experienced any of this before as a person, and psychologically that in itself was far more disorientating than not knowing positional location. It was a lot of things all at once: exciting, scary, embarrassing, arousing, agonizing, pleasant. It was no cheap thrill. It was no expensive venture.

By the time the Writer was guided by the Publisher to sit in the poor chair, the time in heavy rubber and bondage had been physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting. The draining affects of such fetishism made the Writer think twice about the situation, although there was no real means to signal that. The Publisher proceeded as plan, having pulled the Writer by leash down a long, abandoned corridor in the basement of the office building, installed the Writer in the office chair, shoved the chair and its occupant into the tight fitting desk and broom closet, plugged the hardware in, closed and locked the solid steel door with the turn of a thick key.

By the time the Writer had managed to write the introduction paragraphs that fictionalized the experience, just as an orgasm was about to be forced out, composure was lost, and a strong jolt was emitted as punishment. The vibrators and sucking cuff had slowly, by design, become more and more distracting as they had become increasingly pleasing. The Writer slowed the progress of the narrative as pleasure increased in order to maintain focus until it was too much and overwhelmed all comprehension. The pain along with the lack of completion compounded the feelings of frustration and added fuel to apprehension, for one the last things the Writer heard before losing the ability to hear was the Publisher warning not to cum.

The momentary rest was over, and so the Writer suffered the pain of sentence and grammar correction. In the current state of affairs, the situation was still difficult to put into words, yet the Writer tried. The pleasure and pain aspects for more differentially different between the Writer and the Publisher. The Writer suffered greatly from both principals that were applied, and over time there just was no difference between the two. The hardness of the cock reflected what had been done to the Writer, and so it was written so into the narrative. The Writer’s discombobulated conscious imagined the Publisher reading what was being typed, enjoying the control over the narrative by having control over the narrator. As the imagination went off the rails at neck-breaking speed, the Writer focused on expanding the size of the audience reading the particular misadventure.

The pleasure of writing such pose made the Writer stop again, however, the pleasure devices themselves continued to milk away. The vibrating butt plug teased the prostate gland, tickling it with its filling size and sonic pulses. The blow job cuff sucked and puffed away at the cock it was attached to, squeezing and rubbing as the internal ring within teased the glans on the underside of the head of the penis. The Writer intentionally started a sentence with a lower case letter, and received no punishment. Luck was pressed and there was more intentional bad spelling and writing errors; the pleasure only intensified. It reached a point which by no means the Writer could string two words together to make any sense as cock throbbed, body ached, and soul was ready. All the Writer could do was sit tight in the bondage chair and convulsed from a massive orgasm. Howling through a shut-closed mouth, the Writer slumped in place, spent by every reasonable measure known to man.

The Writer had reached the apex and all there was now was the descent that awaited all those had reached their goal, the end of the journey. In spite of the feelings of filth and embarrassment, the Writer wallowed within the goo of rubber. All that could be tasted, smelled, and touched was the material prison that allowed nothing from the outside to enter, and keep what was inside in. The Writer rubbed up and down, pleased by the sensation as it provided a slow coming down from the delightful euphoria of bondage bliss. To have become such a thing, to be toyed and teased and tormented as a form of pleasure, for the fun and delight of someone else’s pleasure, was joyfully wrong. The decadence could not be lost at all, and the Writer absorbed that, becoming one with the rubber, submitting to the role as a plaything designed and trained to provide the written word of rubber erotic bliss. This, to the Writer, was satisfactory.

The reality, however, was the Publisher was not satisfied, and thus the Writer was not done. The story was not finished. As the Publisher had given the Writer an incentive for the work done so far, there were still so many more pages to go. The Writer was jolted back to reality, struck by a intense combination of pain and pleasure. The rubberized body locked in place, and upon release the Writer hyperventilated during recovery. Hot, sweaty, and sticky, the Writer dared to type a question, making certain it was perfectly asked with no errors: What do you want?

The torture of electrical shock begun again, although the level of intensity started higher than before. The Writer deleted the question, was struck by a powerful, five second jolt of painful electricity. Screaming through the pain until it was over, the Writer was more breathless after that course of pain than from the pleasure.

The headset viewers within the Writer’s rubber helmet received a brand new image of another computer screen. The black backdrop gave the Writer’s eyes momentary relief from the bright white noise of the laptop screen as white letters slowly appeared as if someone was typing them out with just one finger. The message written had no ambiguous meaning as the Publisher wrote: What do you think?

The Writer went back to writing the story, picking it back up at the point of being inserted into the cramped room. The pleasure devices became active again, tantalizing the spent cock and tortured anus with vibrations and stimulations meant to be desired by the most kinky of people. A misspelling, a misplaced period, a poor choice of words: the shock filled the Writer with instant regret that grew progressively worse. When it was all corrected, when the poise was perfect and no longer repetitive, the pleasure was enforced. All the Writer could do was write in order to endure what was happening.

In the grander context, as the writing progressed, the Writer was lost within a sea of endorphins that somehow was translated into understandable text. Weariness would seep in and cause a fault; pain soon followed, and pleasure replaced it after correction. The delirium made the Writer hypersensitive to all stimulus as the body was forced to endure the bondage fetish of a rubberist and forced submission. As it all progressed on, the imagination gave way to new thoughts and feelings, of to ensure the Publisher was satisfied with what was written, and what was being done in order to accomplish it. The Writer was constantly edged; close to edge of another climax; close to the edge of insanity. On it all went, the Writer’s body struggling to produce an honest result from what was happening, and all of it grew worse when it was realized that the story being written was nearing its completion. Time was lost and space was unknown, yet the Writer grew more and more frustrated as the words were elusive to continue it. The Writer was dying for more words, more experiences, more of everything. On the other hand, the structure that was written called for it to end. Without another orgasm to satisfy the lust for rubber, pain, pleasure, and writing, the Writer could no longer continue and slumped exhausted in the prison chair.

In a blink of an eye, what had been written on the laptop vanished, leaving behind an empty, bright white screen that hurt the Writer’s tired eyes. The lost of words were a shock; the virtual reality turning off, enveloping the Writer in total darkness, caused the Writer to jump and panic. As agonizing the bright light was, to lose it to an artificial, starless night was terrifying. As the time ticked on, as the minutes felt like hours, the lack of any action filled the Writer with an uneasy dread. What was just as confusing was the determination of what to do next. The Writer was not entirely sure what was missed: the freedom to move about, walk, talk, listen, and feel, or the freedom of being under the Publisher’s control, to be imprisoned in the gooey embrace of rubber, to only experience this as the only world to live in?

Abruptly, the Writer felt a pair of hands slide down the front that belong to someone else; the Publisher, anyone, it was unknown. The intrusion meant the door was open, the Writer could leave if desired even if it meant crawling around in the darkness. Yet, the Writer did not know what to do as the intruding hands continued to probe. Various parts of the Writer’s rubber body was touched, with gentle caresses and vigorous massages. Even through the thick rubber, the nipples were found and played with, made to become as hard, long, and stiff as any cock, testing the integrity of the thick rubber body suit prison. Hands found muscles that never showed through the Writer’s normal clothing; those tissues were worshipped slowly and enticingly.

As the mysterious intruder continued to prove the rubber body, the headset within the Writer’s rubber helmet had turned back on to reveal the black screen of the other computer. As hands teased the inner thighs, a message slowly typed out before the Writer’s tired eyes. Once again, the pace of the typing was methodically slow, as if a single finger was being used to depress the keys on the other keyboard. Meanwhile, the fondling hands teased latex flesh, eliciting an increase in the Writer’s breathing and blood pressure, provoking a new hard on. The masturbation device strapped tight to the Writer’s body was pulled on repeatedly, producing a very rough hand job. The Writer had no idea if the hands belonged to a man or a woman; it mattered not under the circumstances.
The message, perhaps from the Publisher, was finished. It read simply: A good start, a very nice chapter one. But you owe me a novel. Let’s see if I can get a few more chapters out of you before I put you away wet.

The headset was once again filled with the bright white light of the Writer’s laptop. The hands that were groping were removed and the door forced shut and locked, pushing the chair with the Writer in it back deep in the desk. The punishment shock was far worse than any experienced before; all the other times the settings were lower. The Writer learned that for chapter two, things were about to change. As the Writer proceeded to write the first sentence, the shocks of pain replaced the vibrations of pleasure; with every completed sentence did the Writer experience pleasure, but in a short, highly intense burst that lasted mere seconds. Mistakes were corrected out of habit, not out of pain; there was no longer a penalty. If there was a break, nothing happened. The Writers was in a dilemma, spellbound by confusion and an awkward boner. The Writer yearned for something; it was allusive and unreachable, and it was bothering.

The Writer felt the only way to figure it out, to right his ship, to experience an orgasm again, was to continue to write. Inhaling to absorb the rich aroma of rubber for more inspiration, the Writer set grinding teeth as the pain grew. Whatever the Publisher desired was what the Publisher was going to get.