Taking You Further

He’s strapped down like meat on display. Leather wraps him tight. Every buckle bites. I watch him breathe through the gas mask, slow and steady, until the oxygen thins and his chest jerks for more. He can’t see me. Can’t hear a damn thing but his own pulse hammering inside that rubber hood. I keep the valve half-closed. Each gasp hits me like a secret. He’s hard already, cock standing straight, cut head dark and slick. One finger circles the tip, lazy, then pulls away. He thrusts up at nothing. I do it again. Slower. My other hand rests on his chest, feeling the ribs lift and fall. Every time he tries to move, the straps hold him open. I don’t talk. I just let the mask do the talking—sucking, hissing, starving him for air while my fingers trace the vein along his shaft. He leaks. I smear it around the head. His whole body shivers under the hood. I close the valve one more notch. The room is quiet except for the wet pull of rubber and the tiny, desperate sounds he makes when he realizes how far I’ll take this. How much longer I’ll keep him right here, cuffed, masked, aching, and empty.