And Then There Were Two

A word of warning. This story revolves around erotic asphyxiation, often referred to in the context of BDSM as breath play. This activity is dangerous, and this tale must not be considered a how-to guide to safe practice!

But breath play is a thing in the community, and if you really have an inclination to participate, please seek reliable information on how to play as safely as possible from BDSM support groups and clubs. Don't play alone—that's especially dangerous, and above all, keep it consensual.

Oh, and if this warning creeps you out, this story may not be your cup of hemlock, er, tea!

Sincere apologies to those of you impatient for the next episode of Incipiunt Vitae Novae. I've got one in the works, but it's an uphill climb. Also, if you're accustomed to my F/f stories, beware. This one is seriously CF/nm, with more than a whiff of male homoeroticism. Just so you'll know...

*************

It's a long strange trip to the Fantasy Fulfillment Center.

Don't get me wrong. The trip's not all that strange, but the experience is, let's just say, special. And that's not the destination's real name either, just what I like to call it. There's no point looking for it that way. Whatever you find will be something else.

Good thing I already knew how to get here!

For me the trip is indeed rather long. I crossed an international border, then drove considerably further north, deep into sparsely populated countryside where only sympathetic law enforcement takes any interest in what's going on. There's no place to stay nearby, so I took a motel room closer to the border and drove the rest of the way this morning.

I'll return home tonight. Then again, I may not.

And it's not my first time here, though it may be my last, for several reasons.

For one, it's expensive.

****

It may be in the middle of nowhere, but from the front the building looks just like any ordinary suburban clinical facility; a single story of brick, a clear glass entry door in the middle, flanked by wide windows with sills a meter up from the pavement. Lintels an architecturally parsimonious meter above that.

That's it for windows, and the view through those is obscured by venetian miniblinds. The asphalt parking lot has plenty of space, and plenty of potholes, but you don't have to park there.

Actually, you shouldn't.

Down one side there's a parking shed, more like a barn really, with a solid concrete floor. That's where I parked.

It's big. Six stalls, separated by privacy barriers.

The stalls are wide enough for vehicle doors to clear the dividers, so the shed is long, and since the roof slopes down to the back, it's high in front. It puts me in mind of a huge leviathan, with a vast, gaping mouth ready to swallow me up.

Not so far from the truth, I reflected, shivering with deliciously elevated anxiety as I pulled into stall number two.

I'd taken care to be well on the early side, so I was a bit surprised to arrive second. As I started to turn in I caught a glimpse of the first vehicle's occupant, eyes reflecting in his rear view mirror for just a fraction of a second as he glanced up. Once I parked he was hidden behind the divider.

****

About this shed. The barriers extend about two and a half meters up, making for pretty good privacy. They're open at the bottom half a meter or so, and stop short of the ceiling except at the back; elsewhere the structural posts run the rest of the way up to support the roof. The back wall extends all the way down to the concrete.

There are doors through that wall, one for each stall. They open onto a walkway which is protected by another shed roof, this one anchored on its high side to the main building. The other side overhangs the parking shed with plenty of clearance, so the walkway is well lit when it's sunny, like it was this morning. When it's dark or overcast, lights along the building wall keep the walkway from being spooky, though the parking shed can be.

All this is here so we can get to the front door privately, discreetly.

****

So I didn't get out. No one does, until it's time. I knew that the door at the end of my stall would be locked, as would all the others.

Perhaps you can understand why we don't want to run into each other, at least not yet. These dark fantasies blossom best in the shadows, and we'll be most intimately exposed to one another soon enough. Best leave it 'till then. We wait in our cars until we're called.

And if you find the shed spooky, you can use your car's lights. But for me, the spookiness adds an extra frisson of excitement.

****

Today's deadline was 9 am.

It's not a deadline, exactly. We're encouraged to enable tracking on our phones, for the last 30 kilometers or so at least. Arrival 15 minutes early is the norm, and more than 45 is discouraged, since the staff don't want participants losing their nerve. If they see you running any earlier, they'll call you and suggest a place to stop for coffee.

And if someone's running late, they'll hold the show, perhaps as much as 15 minutes depending on the reason, though the offender will get an earful, and perhaps a lot more.

I parked at 8:25, so I anticipated a rather long wait. I rolled down the front windows before I turned off the engine, eager to enjoy the cool spring air, perhaps for the last time. But this morning everyone seemed to arrive promptly; the next participant pulled in five minutes after I did. By 8:45 everyone was here. Just fifteen more minutes, I thought.

Nice thing is, they'll start early if everyone's arrived and they're ready too.

Which is what happened today. I heard a ringtone from stall one right after the last car pulled in.

His car door opened, then closed, followed by a beep-beep. Then the click of an electric lock, and the sound of the door to the walkway opening and closing. They call us in in the order we arrive, so I prepared myself mentally. Three minutes later my phone rang.

'Fantasy Fulfillment' popped up on the screen, just as I'd typed when I created the contact.

I answered immediately.

"Come on in," I heard, in sultry contralto. Then a click.

No need for a 'be right there' from me. We're not expected to reply, just do as instructed.

I didn't bother rolling up the windows. There's plenty of security coverage and it wasn't going to rain. I just got out, went to the door, waited a moment for the lock to click, then walked through, closing the door behind me (though that wasn't strictly necessary; they will close by themselves). I followed the walkway around to the front of the building, where I could see the receptionist through the glass, eyes peering at me over her computer monitor. I hesitated, wondering.

Do I really want to do this?

Am I afraid?

Yes, I was, a little. Maybe. More like nervous, and also excited, far too excited for my own good. So no second-guessing. I didn't want to hold up the show. I stepped up to the door. A second later its lock clicked.

I pulled the door open and walked through; it closed behind me with a solid clunk. I crossed the meter and a half to the receptionist's window.

"Marcus?" she inquired, hardly looking up from her screen.

Not quite your usual receptionist, but no great surprise in a place like this. Seriously goth, spiked collar, black lipstick, dark hair spilling onto her shoulders, and lots of metal on her face and ears. Tattoos covered as much of her neck as I could see. I couldn't see anything below that.

"Yes."

"Side B. To the right."

Door B is glass, but frosted. The lock clicked as I approached.

I went through, into a neatly outfitted office. Light filtered in through the blind-covered window. On my left a built-in desk curved away from me, intercepting the back wall with enough space left over for another door, leading further into the building.

All this was quite familiar. Door A, to the left of the receptionist, leads to a similar office, just mirror-imaged. I've been there too.

An armless straight-backed wooden chair faced the desk.

On the other side, a black-leather-masked woman sat in a far more comfortable-looking black leather office chair, the black relieved by reddish-brown trim which highlighted charming streaks of auburn in her dark brown hair.

Her studded black-leather jacket, zipped two thirds of the way up, covered all but a modest vee of bunched-up black turtleneck, while the mask, which extended below her chin, conspired with the turtleneck and the wide turned-up collar of her jacket to completely obscure her neck. Black leather gloves encrusted with little metal studs encased her hands

She glanced up from the paperwork in front of her.

Only a small triangle of her face was visible, framed by the off-center parting of her hair above and the top of her mask below.

"Sit down, Marcus."

Once I obeyed, she did not seem unfriendly, in spite of my previous history. She might even have been smiling behind that black leather mask, and her eyes twinkled softly behind her glasses. Diamond-studded onyx rings a good two centimeters in diameter dangled from her ears and waved enticingly as she spoke. I couldn't have cared less if they were real or synthetic.

She pushed a form toward me. This was no surprise; I'd read it carefully on my computer a dozen times at least, but I knew it required a physical signature each time. She locked eyes with me.

"This is your last chance to opt out. As you know, there are no safe words. Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?"

I hesitated.

"Does anyone ever opt out," I asked, wondering again if I was really sure, also thinking about how hard it must be to reconcile the complexity of this shared experience with the possibility of last minute cop-outs. Well, it didn't really matter, I supposed, exactly how many of us there were.

"Almost never," she answered.

Looking into her eyes, I knew I would sign, as I had on every previous visit, and I did.

"Good," she said, lifting a handsome stainless steel collar from a drawer and sliding it across the desk. "Put this on."

She continued to grip my gaze as I closed the collar around my neck and folded its hasp over the steel loop projecting in front. As I did so she pushed a brass padlock toward me. She didn't need to tell me what to do with that.

The collar was just as familiar as the surroundings.

It's padded on the inside, and surprisingly comfortable. A rubber liner extends slightly beyond the steel's four centimeter width, so the collar's weight rests comfortably on my shoulders, and the polished metal doesn't bite into my chin if I look down. The loop is large enough to accommodate a chain or cable without removing the padlock.

"You look handsome in that," she commented beguilingly. "Very submissive."

I certainly felt submissive, especially moments later when I felt a slight electric tingle, though I expected that too. It went without saying that from then on I'd do exactly as I was told, even without any further restraints.

And along with the paper I'd signed, I'd just given pretty comprehensive consent.

"Take this," she ordered, handing me a pill. She poured a little water from her thermos into a plastic cup, and pushed it my way as I popped the pill into my mouth.

"Go through," she instructed, pointing at the door past the end of the desk. "You're in cell four. You know the drill."

Yes, yes. Get undressed, leave your clothes in bin one, your shoes and belongings in bin two. Make sure to include your phone and car keys. Use the restroom even if you don't feel like you need to, but don't linger. Further instructions are on the wall of the cell. If you're having trouble, someone will be along to help.

She didn't bother with all that. Just, "Oh, and thanks for being prompt this time."

****

So here I am, sitting on a narrow bench in cell four, naked except for my steel collar and the cuffs circling my biceps, wrists and ankles. I'm looking down, down between my legs, past my turgid penis, at my feet. They're spread half a meter apart by a stainless steel rod.

I locked myself in this cell just a few minutes ago.

That is, after getting undressed and so on I walked past the institutional-looking metal door labeled '2' and entered the one marked '4.' The door closed with a classically portentous crash, and locked.

The cuffs were laid out on the bench. Instructions were indeed posted on the wall, including a stern warning to install the cuffs immediately after entering.

The pair joined by the steel rod were, obviously, for my ankles. There were two more pairs of cuffs on the bench, one a bit larger and considerably longer than the other. I didn't need to consult the diagram on the wall; as she said, I know the drill. The larger, longer pair fit around my arms, just above my elbows. The smaller pair go around my wrists.

There were no buckles to deal with. I just folded the cuffs around my limbs and pressed them closed, and they locked with a metallic click.

The spreader I'm looking down at has a short crossbar; ten centimeters front to back maybe, including the rings at each end. Nothing's attached to those rings right now. But I'm thoroughly secured all the same; the cross-point fits over a short post projecting upward from the floor. I pushed the spreader down onto the post and it latched in place.

Yes, I'll be the first to admit, I bound myself. I can't go anywhere, even though my arms are still free. The carbon-fiber-reinforced-polymer, rubber-lined cuffs fit snugly. Once they're on, I've been told, escape is not possible, for even the strongest inmate.

So, escape is certainly no longer possible for me, this time or any time previously. And resistance, while possible, is futile. I stiffen a little as I reflect on that. I'll stiffen a lot more when the erection-enhancing drug I just took starts to take effect. I can already feel it suffusing through my body.

Which is why they get right onto the next step as quickly as they can.

****

The door through which I entered is metal on both sides, but inside it's mostly covered by a large mirror, in which I can stare at my self-bound body, and at the wall behind me. There's a door there too, though it's not so obvious.

I didn't know, the first time I was here, about that double bifold door, the door which separates each cell from the central corridor where the serious action begins. When it opened behind me for the first time, with a powerful pneumatic whoosh, it was a bit of a surprise.

Now I know it all pretty well. The cells run along both sides of the central corridor. Cells one, three and five are accessed through intake office A, two, four and six through office B, the way I came in this morning. That's how they can get everyone in from the parking shed so quickly, without us crossing paths.

The door won't surprise me today. They know that I've finished applying my cuffs, by the miracle of CCTV. And the clock's ticking. So as soon as someone's available to process me, the door will open with a whoosh. Before I have a chance to catch my breath a gorgeous goddess-captor will seize my arms, cross my wrists behind me, and fasten my cuffs together.

But that hasn't happened yet.

With my arms still free, you might suppose I could try to prevent her from doing it. But the shock collar is a powerful incentive to cooperate. Not to mention that I cannot move my feet.

Not to mention that I'm looking forward with eager anticipation to being bound more strictly.

I might consider resisting simply to experience being subdued, but I won't. I tried that once before, and got nothing more than a very unpleasant shock for my effort.

So I can confidently predict that very soon my arms will not be free. My wrists will be joined and cabled to the bench before you can say Jack Robinson, though I'm not sure why you would!

Why the urgency?

Well, in another five minutes, ten at the outside, the urge to masterbate will become almost beyond resisting. But by the time I reach that point, I won't have to resist. I'll be able to struggle all I want in frustration, watching myself grow rock hard, and I won't be able to do a thing about it.

I won't even have to fret about orgasming inadvertently.

Because there's one more item on her todo list.

No points for guessing where the climax control collar goes. But this is no ordinary cock-ring, for sure. What an extraordinary achievement of micro-engineering!

It doesn't look so remarkable, just a two centimeter wide plastic ring, split into two halves which hinge together. A little thicker than you'd expect, until you learn how much technology's packed inside. She can install it reaching around from behind, or step over the bench to face me; whatever she prefers.

She'll position the lower half of the ring under my rapidly engorging shaft, nestling it against my abdomen just above my scrotum. Then she'll fold it closed.

Click.

It will take her half a second. And I won't have to worry about it coming off. It won't be that tight, but the sweat-proof contact adhesive is 100% reliable.

How does it work?

It starts with ironclad surveillance.

CCTV doesn't do the system here justice. It's absolutely state-of-the-art. In addition to its mundane security functions, sophisticated biometrics-based image processing stands ready to identify incipient orgasms with near-total reliability, even at room-spanning range.

If it detects one, it informs the offender's ring immediately.

The rubber lining rapidly inflates, throttling off ejaculation. But even reaching that point is unlikely, on account of the paralyzing electric shock it administers at the same time.

It's pretty unpleasant, and gratuitously humiliating, but it's remarkably effective, believe me. Once that ring's in place, I won't be coming before it's my turn. Oh, and by that miracle of advanced image processing, she'll know exactly what size to bring!

And then she'll be done with me, for the time being at least. The doors behind me will close.

I'll be left to stew for however long it takes for the remaining participants to get to their cells, get their wrists bound, and have their wayward members corralled. Probably not more than ten minutes, given the efficiency of parallel processing.

Then things will quiet down. Fifteen more minutes will go by. Then they'll begin assembling the execution coffle.

So bear with me, please. In a minute or so, as soon as my wrists are secured and my cock's collared, I'll begin my tale. The wait I'll be facing won't be so very long, but it feels like forever, so to pass the time I'll recount what went down the last time I was...oh oh, here goes.

WHOOOSH

The doors behind me folded open to reveal, in the mirror, the first of my glorious goddess-captors.

Her cocked-back coffee-au-lait face announced haughty severity right off the bat. So splendidly threatening!

Straight black hair, lightly slicked behind her ears and tied behind in a bun, framed her lofty forehead. Neatly trimmed eyebrows arched high over deep-set brown eyes flashing muted ferocity from behind sheer black eyelashes. Her narrow mouth and pursed lips bore a vaguely sadistic frown.

Oh, my, I thought. This was shaping up to be a serious ride.

A black satin-leather catsuit rounded her magnificent bust, clinging seamlessly to her body, subtly telegraphing her nipples, boldly flaunting her bulging biceps. The leather corset cinched around her waist, augmented by a wide studded-leather belt, pressed her breasts up to consolidate a menacing facade. Another belt and a pair of studded armlets glistened in the overhead lights, and her wide collar with three rows of buckle-holes presented not a whiff of submissiveness, merely confirming the invincibility of her armor.

She brandished a heavy leather strap-paddle.