Tease and Denial of Breath

J’s already sealed in black rubber when they wheel him in. Two white coats—Dr. Tech, Dr. Graves—strap him down to a steel table. Wires snake from a monitor straight into the black tube of his gas mask. A thick cock-ring vibrator clamps around his shaft, ready to hum. On the wall, a digital clock counts seconds in red: 15… 10… 15… 10. Air hisses in for fifteen seconds; the vibrator thrums to life. J’s cock jerks inside the rubber. Ten seconds and the line goes dead. The vibrator stays on, louder. No oxygen, just the relentless buzz drilling through his shaft. His lungs burn while his balls tighten. The mask’s kaleidoscope lenses turn the room into splintered light, so every number on the clock swims and fractures. He can’t tell when the next gulp will come. They keep him there until he’s dripping and desperate. The rubber creaks with every twitch. He never gets the last stroke he needs—just fifteen seconds of oxygen, ten seconds of helpless, throbbing need. When the doors open, a few rubbered patients shuffle in to stare. Dr. Graves offers no commentary, only the steady rhythm of the machine. Then the visitors leave, the lights drop, and J is alone, still counting, still denied.