Synopsis: Max thinks he can handle anything -- he's wrong.
Keywords: ass play, buttplug, chastity, humiliation, mind control, voyeur, workout
Reader feedback is quite welcome. | corey_grant@gmx.com
The at-home fitness routines with which FitWit provided Max every weekday were quite different from the after-work gym-going he used to enjoy (that being something he had done for social reasons as much as reasons of vanity). More than that, however, the high difficulty rating Max had been instructed to select each and every time he opened the app meant that the days of doing casual exercise in the gym with his buddies were long gone and in their place had come gruelling workouts and intense physical training more befitting of a professional physique model or a full-time bodybuilder than a reasonably fit former jock like Max.
Still, even with their greater intensity, some of the exercises Max's on-screen FitWit trainers required him to partake in were a welcome escape from his new reality in much the same way as spreadsheets, emails, and memos were during his workday.
Sometimes Max could lose himself in pretending that he was still doing a workout from his old life when he was doing bicep curls and tricep extensions with the free weights that had arrived two weeks prior -- that is, things for which he could stand in one place and which involved only his upper body. Even the pushups Max was required to do with weights on his back were not beyond what the young man could reasonably believe were part of his old life. Although the heaviness of the dumbbells or the required number of reps made the upper-body strength-training exceptionally challenging, it was still within the realm of what Max could consider his "hobby."
Perhaps Max would even appreciate having the opportunity to do these workouts -- gruelling though they always were -- if the circumstances in which he had to do them were different.
Alas, the bulbous buttplug he had to struggle to fully insert into his asshole before each and every workout ensured that Max could not fully lose himself in these activities -- that his mind was always called inevitably back to how these fitness routines were not like the ones he used to do for his own benefit, but rather were now ones that seemed like they were intended to make him into little more than a fit and well-muscled sex object for the sake of someone else's amusement.
Today was no exception.
Rick -- the on-screen trainer whose workout clothes, overall hairiness, and attitude of obvious confidence cruelly reminded Max of how he would have looked to others in the gym only mere weeks ago -- began by taking his viewers through a series of stretches to "limber up." While many of these were innocuous (and, in fact, felt good to Max after a day of rigidly sitting in his office chair, trying not to move too much lest inches of the giant rubber monster on which he sat slid out or jabbed into him deeper), any of the ones that required the young man to rest his rear-end on the yoga mat or on his heels called regrettable attention to the sex toy he had plugging his manhole.
Of course, the buttplug was certain to make its presence known through more activities than just Max's stretches. Squats and lunges -- both of which Rick incorporated into today's particularly difficult workout with added weights positioned on his shoulders -- invariably forced Max's focus onto the thing invading his rear-end. With each downward movement, the previously self-proclaimed "pussy-smashing" young man was made painfully aware of the thing straining against his asshole, struggling to keep control whilst feeling like the buttplug would burst out of him at any moment.
Yet, the sheer size of the rubber bulb inside him -- coupled with the thinness of the neck connecting it to its base and the enduring tightness of Max's anal sphincter -- ensured that that was only ever a feeling, never an actual reality. Despite how the diameter of the buttplugs had made them appear, at first blush, to be unreasonably sized for a back-passage virgin like Max, they proved again to be a practical choice on the part of his anonymous "benefactor": whatever exercise the erstwhile ladies' man engaged in, he would feel the full intrusion of a thick rubber sex toy stuck up his ass until the moment he was expressly permitted to pull it out.
Still, the buttplug firmly jammed up his rear-end was hardly the only thing that prevented Max from losing himself in these workouts.
His total nudity was also a distraction -- albeit, not too much of one on its own.
On the one hand, Max was in the privacy of his own home. Why would it matter if he were naked or not?
On the other hand, the image of FitWit's virtual trainers in front of him always made Max feel like he was working out completely bare-ass in front of a stranger.
Likely, the trainers spoke to the camera with lines like "I want you to do this" and "Watch your form while you do that" to give the viewer the illusion of having a real trainer in the gym. During lockdown, many were no doubt craving that personal attention of a professional guiding them through their athletic activities.
Max, however, hated feeling like they could see him. Rick's constant gazes directly into the camera -- and, by extension, on Max's TV -- instinctively made the highly-exposed young man feel like his utterly naked and newly hairless body was in full view of a guy whose manliness and respectability were firmly intact.
Still, that was something Max could eventually turn his mind away from during his workouts. Despite the initial hot rush of shame and embarrassment that came over his entire body when figures like Rick appeared on his screen, their non-reaction to his actual movements always reassured him that these were pre-recorded videos and not actual people watching the pornographic performance he was giving.
However, although his nudity was something Max could put out of his mind, it had a repercussion that made his chastity cage into something uniquely unignorable during his workouts.
Never being permitted to wear trousers, underpants, or even a jockstrap to keep the device in place, it swung around and flailed about in ridiculous, highly obtrusive ways any time Max had to engage in a full range of motion. Not only visually and physically distracting, the loud clinking and clanking of the lock flying up and slapping back down on the solid metal tube in which his dick now spent all of its time served as a prominent auditory reminder of just how intimately emasculated Max was even when developing his macho strength and manly endurance.
The fact that Rick had his viewers warm up with jumping jacks at the start of today's workout had ensured that Max was acutely aware of his cock cage right from the get-go, with his sense of humiliation at what his once-mighty dick had been reduced to instilled into his conscious mind. Throughout today's training, his thoughts were never fully able to escape at least a partial awareness of the attention-grabbing chunk of metal that completely encased the appendage the once marked him as a man.
Even still, in the end, the today's typically humiliating and uniquely challenging training session did the young man a world of good -- in more ways than just the physical.
Panting, with sweat dripping down his whole body and his every one of his muscles sore and aching, Max was struck not by relief at the gruelling workout's end, but rather an unexpected and overwhelming sense of positivity.
When Rick said the words "Good job!" to his viewers by way of conclusion, Max was hit with an unexpected emotion: pride.
Max felt pride.
The shame was still prominently there, yes. Bare-assed, shaved hairless, his cock locked and his hole plugged, Max could not help but feel humiliated, objectified, emasculated...
And yet, bafflingly, the young man also somehow felt pride at exactly the same time.
His workout finished, Max's TV went blank, leaving only the black mirror of its screen to reflect back his own image to him.
Gazing upon himself in that reflection, the former jock felt immensely proud of the physique he was developing -- plump pectorals, bulging biceps, and well-toned abs quite visible even in the imperfect mirror before him. Glistening with sweat, fresh from stretching and pumping every muscle in his body, Max knew that the physical form he now beheld was one that almost anyone alive would either want to have or want to fuck: the kind of body that his best friend had correctly compared to that of "a fucking Olympic athlete."
But his pride was more than that, wasn't it?
It was not just how he looked -- it was how he got there.
Max was proud of what he had endured.
He was proud of what he had survived: two weeks of trials and tribulations that would drive any lesser man insane.
Max could take it. He could take the abuse of going through gruelling workouts almost every single day. He could handle the indignities of constantly stretching his own asshole out with no end of rubber toys. He could withstand two weeks of his sex drive going through the roof and yet not being able to touch his own cock even the slightest bit.
Taking a deep and contented inhale, Max knew in that moment that he could take whatever the world had to throw at him.
Or so he thought.
Quite unbeknownst to Max was that the past two weeks had only been the very beginning. Surviving "phase 1" meant little more than that he was now ready to start "phase 2."
The familiar screeches, beeps, and boops of Mastr jerked Max away from his moment of (both literal and figurative) reflection. Immediately directing his attention to his phone screen, he was relieved to find that the notification was not a dreaded instruction, but rather a welcome piece of information: "Dinner time."
Under any other set of circumstances, the way in which food had been making its way to Max would seem utterly bizarre: since the lockdown had begun, both groceries and fully-prepared meals had simply been appearing on Max's front porch, announced by nothing more than a notification on his phone informing him of their arrival.
Yet, even a few minutes browsing social media had Max accepting this strange occurrence as simply another part of the "new normal." "Contactless delivery" seemed to be all the rage amongst the newly germaphobic general population and, thus, Max thought little of how his sustenance now made its way to his home.
Gathering that his benefactor was the one ensuring that this food made its way to him (all of it being the cleanest of eats, lean proteins and fresh vegetables apparently geared towards aiding him in his physical development), Max grudgingly accepted the "gifts" that kept arriving free of charge (thankful that these ones were at least satisfying things meant for oral consumption and not more perverted toys meant for anal insertion).
Still, it was always with great wariness and apprehension that Max retrieved whatever awaited him outside his front door. He had been fortunate thus far: each time he scampered outside to retrieve a parcel on his porch, no passers-by seemed to be around.
For that, Max was grateful. Just being caught naked by a neighbour would have been bad enough. But, needing at least one hand to collect his parcels, Max was just barely able to cover the shameful chrome tube that now permanently occupied the space between his legs -- to say nothing of how the colourful base of the buttplug still buried in his ass was wholly visible for anyone who caught a glimpse of him from behind to see.
Thus, as always, Max peeked his head out first, rapidly scanning the street in front of his home to see if he could spy anyone around.
Spotting no one out front, the still-sweat-covered, bare-ass, "fucking Olympic athlete" started his usual movements to most swiftly and efficiently retrieve whatever awaited him, quickly hopping out onto his porch and making towards the edge where things normally sat.
So intently focused on the task at hand, Max did not notice in the slightest the figure sitting in the patio chair on the other end of his porch until it spoke.
"Looking good, Max."
"Jesus Christ!" an utterly caught-off-guard Max exclaimed, nearly jumping out of his skin at the sudden surprise of seeing a heavy-set stranger mere feet away from him, the man's features hidden behind a medical mask. "Who the fuck are you?!"
"Hmm?" the man replied, the eyebrows above his thick-rimmed glasses knitting in confusion. "I didn't think memory loss would be a side effect..."
"Listen, buddy, you'd better get off my property before I call the cops," Max bellowed, trying to assert an imposing figure despite how unimposing his nudity and hand-covering-crotch stance otherwise made him appear.
"Ah, come on now, Max, don't be ridiculous," the strange man replied, getting up to his feet to match Max's height and walking towards him to close the distance (suggesting that Max's attempts to appear imposing were not effective in the least). "This is my property."
Max's eyes were darting between the stranger and the open front door the man was about to block, weighing the choice between standing his ground in his present circumstances (naked, cock-locked, butt-plugged, potentially trapped outside) or simply retreating (an uncharacteristic approach for Max, to say the least).
Leaning towards the latter, Max inched towards the safety and security of his home while trying to maintain his bravado: "`Your property?' Jesus, buddy, I don't know who you are, but --"
"Oh!" the stranger exclaimed, interrupting Max. "It's the mask, isn't it?" he asked, gesturing towards the fabric that obscured everything from the bridge of his nose to the base of his chin.
The man removing the covering from his face, Max froze and dropped his jaw in surprise (both at who he saw and at how fearlessly this person was acting towards him).
"Clark?!"
With his characteristic half-smile and warm-hearted tone, Clark gave Max a decidedly uncharacteristic reply: "You can close your mouth, Max. I won't need to take a leak for a while."
Max snapped his mouth shut, the expression on his face quickly turning to one of revulsion. "A leak...? What the...?"
"I mean I'm going to piss in your mouth, Max... just not quite yet," Clark replied with a wink, his ever-present smirk adding a degree of apparent self-satisfaction at what he just said right to his former bully's face.
"Piss in my mou... What the ACTUAL fuck, Clark?!"
Apparently forgetting his nudity (and the shame his hand was hiding) as well as the typical demeanour of deference he showed to his current boss, both of Max's fists balled at his sides and he took a step forward towards Clark, muscle memory returning him to the position his body took back in the days he regularly gave this former boy genius black eyes.
Caring not for the consequences, Max roughly pushed his boss to the ground, the other man falling back into Max's home.
"Whoa, whoa, calm down, big guy," Clark said, barely managing to break his fall. His head now level with Max's crotch, he tilted it slightly and added, "Or should that be `big boy'?"
"Oh, that's it!" an infuriated Max angrily replied, raising a fist in preparation for something he had long wanted to do again: punch Clark right in his stupid, smiling face.
Scrambling to his feet and moving backward away from his would-be attacker (and further into Max's house), Clark raised his hands in a de-escalating gesture. "Okay, okay, I can see you don't want to talk now," Clark began, madly reaching for something in his pocket. "But don't worry, I'll be sure to explain everything once you're ready to be a good boy again."
Stepping in to close the gap between himself and Clark, Max barely had a chance to take in what the bespectacled man now held in his hands (a phone on which he was furiously typing) before his attention was completely and totally redirected to something else: the dial-up screeches and R2D2 beeps and boops of a Mastr notification coming from the phone he had left in his living room.
Immediately abandoning everything else he had been doing, Max urgently ran past Clark to find the source of the sound, unable to resist the absolute imperative to receive the instructions that awaited him.
Where once Max had been someone that everyone would have seen as king of the world -- a charming jock other guys looked up to, a cruel bully lesser men feared, a virile stud women desired -- in the second he had to process the order he read, utter dread overtook him as he realized how completely and utterly fucked he now was.
Hearing Clark humming an irritatingly up-beat tune from elsewhere in his home, it dawned on Max that he was at his former victim's mercy.
Clark was not just his boss; he was Max's master.
Whatever defences the once-jock, once-bully, once-stud still had fell away completely as he himself fell to the ground, having read just one single word on his screen: "Sleep."
Thank you for reading. This point -- the reveal of who Max's master is -- is as far as I'd planned this story out when I started it. That said, I am not ruling out a continuation that chronicles the "happy couple's" time together in lockdown. So, as always, reader feedback is welcome and encouraged. | corey_grant@gmx.com