Date: Wed, 8 Apr 2020 23:43:40 +0200
From: Corey Grant <corey_grant@gmx.com>
Subject: Out of Sight

Synopsis: Max's coworkers would never guess what he's been keeping out of
sight.

Keywords: ass play, chastity, humiliation, mind control, shaving,
watersports, voyeur

Reader feedback is quite welcome. | corey_grant@gmx.com

--------------------------------------------------

Max was starting to get used to the Zoom video meetings that the lockdown
entailed. With pandemic panic sweeping the nation two weeks earlier, Max's
workplace, like so many others, had switched over to remote work.

In some ways, things looked exactly as Max had pictured them when the
changeover was first announced. There was a screen full of the familiar
faces of his coworkers, each of them Zooming in from their respective
homes. Although the typical level of professional appearance that a
corporate office required was not quite there -- a few of the guys had 5
o'clock shadows they probably thought their cameras didn't capture and at
least a couple of his coworkers had children's toys or a pile of laundry
strewn about somewhere in the background -- things looked more or less like
one would expect, given the circumstances.

What Max's little box on that screen showed was no exception.

Like the others, he still appeared dressed for work -- and one would expect
no less for a scheduled office meeting with the boss. Max's sky blue dress
shirt was unexceptional and unremarkable, drawing no special attention
since it was little more than a colour and pattern variation on what
everyone else was wearing.

What might draw attention -- were the viewer so inclined -- were Max's
exceptional looks. Mediterranean blood gave the young man the colour of a
warm tan year-round and provided locks of thick, dark, luscious hair atop
his head. While a touch of a 5 o'clock shadow was always there, Max's
otherwise clean-shaven face nevertheless made that into little more than a
hint of his underlying virility. Not that he needed facial hair to signal
masculinity -- would-be feminine features (like his soft eyes and high
cheek bones) were, after all, well offset by the ruggedly strong jawline
and pronounced Adam's apple his beardless face revealed.

The little box on Max's screen -- the one showing the image captured by the
camera he now faced -- thus showed exactly what his coworkers expected to
see: an ordinary guy (albeit, one you knew was probably quite popular with
the ladies) in ordinary business attire, sitting in what looked to be an
ordinary home workspace (with little more than an off-white wall visible
directly behind him).

And for that, Max was thankful. What he dreaded now more than anything was
that in one of these Zoom video meetings his officemates might see what he
so assiduously worked to keep out of sight.

During this meeting (just as he had been for all of the others), Max was,
much to his embarrassment, only clothed from the waist up.

No doubt the same could probably be said of a couple of his coworkers, at
least in the most general sense. After all, many who now found only the
upper half of their bodies visible took advantage of the benefits
video-calls provided and sat there in their boxer-shorts while otherwise
appearing on camera to be normally dressed for work.

Max's situation, however, was not that of a man lounging around in his
underpants for the sake of at-home comfort. Rather, Max had been doing
these meetings naked from the waist down because, for reasons beyond his
comprehension, he had, since the start of the lockdown, been receiving
mysterious instructions that he found himself powerless to disobey.

It was embarrassing, of course, to be forced to sit through a work meeting
with all of his officemates wearing nothing more than a dress shirt.
However, that paled in comparison to the utter, complete, and total
mortification Max knew he would suffer if his coworkers had any sense at
all of what else rested below waist-level.

Glued to the centre of the office chair on which Max was forced to now
spend his work days was a thoroughly-ribbed and well-contoured 9-inch
rubber dildo.

Sitting on the dildo was mandatory. He could choose no other chair -- the
instructions he had received that first day had been crystal clear on that.

The one small mercy Max was given was that he could lube the sex toy up as
much as he needed to before "taking" his seat.

Clearly, his tormenter was nothing if not realistic and practical. Max,
being straight as an arrow and a wholly unwilling butt-boy, did not have
the good sense to know how to relax his hole to easily receive these new
daily invasions. Plentiful lubricant was the only thing that made it
possible for such a tightly-clenched rear passage to be stuffed as he was
commanded to do.

The indignities hardly stopped there. Perhaps worse than Max's backside now
always being penetrated during his eight-hour work day, his frontside was
doing absolutely no penetrating at all.

Fitting for the "lockdown," Max's cock had also been fully encased in a
chastity cage for every moment of every day for the past two weeks.

Where the copious application of lube had been offered to Max with
practicality in mind, the cage in which he was ordered to imprison his own
cock was not.

Although Max did not know anything about these contraptions -- his sexual
tastes being decidedly of the vanilla variety -- he assumed they must
normally be made-to-measure. Being a show-er, Max's flaccid penis was a
fair sight on its own. The solid metallic tube into which he had been
compelled to cram his member, however, was clearly designed with a much
smaller package in mind. Even though was possible to make it fit, it had
not been an easy task by any means.

The cock cage was not something he could easily put out of his mind. The
thing pinched and squeezed when his dick chubbed up even the slightest
bit. Its metallic material grew cold against his skin whenever his home was
too drafty. And he had to see it every single time he accidentally looked
down or caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, its shiny chrome casing
totally obscuring the much-loved manhood he used to see hanging there.

"Max? Hey, Max? You there, buddy?"

Like so many other times in the past 14 days, Max had done it again: he was
watching his own camera feed so closely (trying to ensure, as always, that
it gave no hint of the shame that sat just out of sight) that he had
completely tuned out what was being said in the meeting.

"What? Oh, sorry... uh, things froze again," Max quickly recovered.

Scanning his screen, Max spotted the video box to which the voice belonged:
meticulously-styled dirty blonde hair, thick-rimmed glasses,
cherubically-plump cheeks, and the ever-present half-smile that never
ceased to irk Max with its air of bemused condescension, Max's eyes zeroed
in on the video feed of Clark, his boss.

"Seems to be happening a lot," Clark added, his eyebrow raised in a hint of
suspicion that Max was simply not paying attention.

There once was a time when the idea of someone like Clark passing judgement
on Max was unthinkable.

Max found it hard enough to work for a boss who was not only the same the
age as him, but who was as much of an uptight Poindexter as Clark was.

Playground politics are hard to forget and Max's instinctive sense of being
king of the lockers was still hard to shake. Whereas, in adolescence, Max
had been a popular jock who could either charm or strong-arm his way into
getting what he wanted, adulthood was proving to be quite a different
ballgame: those nerds whom he had bullied for burying their noses in books
instead of pumping iron in the gym turned out to have many more of the
skills the professional marketplace rewarded.

Clark was no exception. Former boy genius, he had started his tech company
(at which Max now worked) while Max had been struggling not to flunk out of
a business degree program.

Still, what made all this harder to bear was that Clark was not just
another of the "type" that a teenage Max had gotten used to being able to
boss around. Rather, having been a fat and fey kid in Max's hometown, Clark
was, in fact, one of the former recipients of the taunts, black eyes, and
wedgies to which Max had subjected such easy targets for four years of high
school.

Nevertheless, much like how Max had undergone a necessary maturation from
arrogant jock to eager young professional in the time since high school
graduation, Clark seemed also to have changed. Indeed, at Max's interview,
Clark was a confident man and not the cowering kid that Max remembered.
Apparently magnanimous about his former treatment at Max's hands, Clark had
actually seemed pleased to see Max at the interview, was happy to reminisce
about their hometown as though they were old friends, and offered him the
job in the end.

Although Clark definitely seemed to enjoy just a little too much the times
he got to chastise Max (a hint of a smirk visible every time he got to
chide his former bully), he seemed by and large to bear Max no particular
ill will and, as such, Max tried today (as always) to suppress the
deep-seated responses to Clark he had cultivated years ago.

"Yeah, sorry, Clark -- must be a problem with my wifi. I'll look into it
tonight," Max replied, biting back his immediate impulse to tell this dork
just to fuck off in response to that snide remark.

With his most intimate symbol of manhood completely trapped within a
chastity cage and the effigy of another man's dick nine inches up his rear,
it was harder than ever for Max to swallow his irritation and play the part
of a model employee. Still, while Max was not a genius like Clark, he was
no moron either: this job was his meal ticket, paying far more and
affording Max a cushier lifestyle than he could reasonably expect from any
other form of employment.

Kissing ass now and then was a small price for such a pretty paycheque each
month.

"Well, be sure to fix it, whatever the problem is," Clark added
matter-of-factly, clearly not caring what the real reason for Max's lapse
in attention was as long as his employee addressed the issue somehow.

"Sure thing, Clark," Max replied, outwardly nodding in agreement as he
inwardly thought about how Clark's puffy cheeks made his face look
especially punchable.

"Anyway, Max, I don't know how much of that you caught, but I want you to
take over what Fareed was doing on the software marketing campaign," Clark
said while adjusting his glasses.

"Ah, yeah? Sorry, uh, why's Fareed not on the project with me anymore?" Max
asked, scanning his screen now to realize that Fareed was not among the
dozen faces in attendance.

"Kids are at home, wife's a doctor," Clark said. "I'm giving him the rest
of the month off."

Clark made his second statement with kind eyes and a kinder smile -- yet
another reason Max fucking hated the guy.

Max's officemates all loved Clark, considering their supportive and
empathetic boss to be irreproachable. Having to listen to his coworkers
extol the virtues of this limp-wristed dork -- as though he were their
goddamn lord and saviour -- grated on Max's nerves almost as much as Clark
himself.

"Looks like us bachelors are gonna have to pick up the slack," Clark added.

At that, Clark looked into the camera with an uncharacteristically serious
expression, seeming to hold the pose for a moment too long.

Max cleared his throat nervously, hoping that Clark had not caught wind of
information that could cost him his job.

"Uh, right," Max hesitantly replied. "Happy to help."

Max wondered if Clark's comment -- particularly in light of the sudden
seriousness with which he had delivered it -- implied something deeper than
its superficial meaning would suggest. He, after all, had played a part in
why Clark was now also a bachelor.

Trying to put the thought out of his head, Max reminded himself that he was
not the reason Clark's marriage had ended -- he had merely taken advantage
of the opportunity the marital breakdown provided.

Banging Clark's wife for months before she finally filed for divorce wasn't
what ended their marriage, Max told himself.

After all, what woman could resist him? Obviously the long-neglected and
sex-starved Veronica was going to want a piece of a fit fuck-boy like Max
and Max was happy to give it to her, in part because the woman was a
knockout and in part because it made Max feel like things were, at least
when he was bedding her, right with the universe again. Clark might be the
boss in the office, but Max was back on top of the fucking world when he
was plowing Clark's wife behind his back.

"All right," Clark began, shuffling through some papers. "The last point on
the agenda is corporate policy for..."

Max tuned out at whatever Clark was saying, sensing that the meeting would
soon be coming to a close. On the one hand, that was a relief -- it meant
that he had made it through another one of these without anyone catching on
to the humiliating condition in which he found himself. On the other hand,
he knew that only gave him mere moments to complete the task he had been
given for today.

That morning, as had been the case every morning for the past two weeks, he
had received a message with his instructions for the day. They were always
outrageous -- things he would never in a million years ever consider
doing. Yet, day after day, Max found himself somehow powerless to resist
them.

Today's had been an especially revolting instruction for a task he had to
complete while on screen with his officemates.

Reaching for the glass sitting next to his laptop, Max prayed his coworkers
would assume it was a glass of apple juice and not catch on to what he was
now about to drink in front of all of them: a cup full of his own piss.

He struggled to maintain composure -- "just act like you're drinking
juice," he desperately told himself -- as the vile liquid hit his tongue
and went down his throat.

To all viewers, the scene still seemed fairly ordinary: a fellow office
worker downing a glass of apple juice during their collective video
call. To them, there was no reason at all to think that Max was sitting on
a massive rubber cock, leaking out of his own locked up dick each time a
new contour of the dildo pressed against his prostate, and rapidly downing
mouthful after mouthful of his own piss as they all looked on.

Max caught the final words of something Clark was saying as he choked down
the final gulps of his own urine on camera. It was something along the
lines of "same time tomorrow" -- a haunting phrase that reminded Max that
the struggle to avoid any of his officemates from catching on to the
humiliating state he had been reduced to awaited him again in 24 hours.

Video windows disappeared one after another as everyone signed out, Max
wasting no time in turning his own off. He knew he had only a minute or two
to let out sighs of relief and collect himself before the compulsion to
follow his next instruction became too much and he would have to do it.

His moment of brief respite now over -- and his video calls presumably done
for the day -- Max felt the need to obey his orders welling up inside of
him once more. Instinctively, the young man rose from his seat,
involuntarily letting out a shuddering sigh as the silicon monstrosity on
his chair was pulled out of his guts and rubbed its ribbed skin all along
his innards on the way out.

Once standing, Max swiftly made his way to his bedroom and opened the
closet, immediately stripping off his dress shirt and tossing it in the
laundry hamper. Being permitted only to wear a shirt for the duration of
his scheduled video-calls and not a moment longer, Max was now in the state
he found himself most of the time these days: totally bare-ass, with the
exception of the chastity cage that now kept his much-loved dick completely
out of sight `round the clock.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the ensuite bathroom mirror, Max felt all
the more naked thanks to what he saw: not a single body hair anywhere on
his chest, stomach, or crotch.

Where only two weeks ago the young man had sported a full forest of chest
hair and a minimally-groomed pubic bush, among his first set of
instructions the day the lockdown began had been to shave himself
completely clean all of every last one of the follicles puberty had given
him. It had taken hours to do it that first day -- his electric razor doing
the heavy lifting before the straight-edge razor took over the delicate
work of a close shave all over his body -- but the upkeep now was just one
part of his new daily ritual. Every morning in the shower since that first
day, he was compelled to ensure not one single hair anywhere on his torso
or between his legs could even dream of returning, shaving away every
single one of their attempts to grow back every day.

Seeing himself without hair on his upper body had been strange, but not
necessarily bad. Max had toyed with the idea before, wondering if he would
be more attractive to the ladies with his pecs and abs made more visible.
While he himself had previously decided that he looked more manly -- and,
therefore, more attractive -- with his body hair natural and intact, even
he would now have to admit having his chest and stomach totally hairless
really did show off his muscle definition considerably better.

Yet, where Max could see the positives in the view that the deforestation
of his upper body provided, the razing of everything that grew in his
nether regions was still horrifying to him.

Before shaving his crotch completely smooth two weeks prior, Max could not
even recall the last time he had been hairless down there. He was most
certainly a boy of 11 or 12 when hair had started to grow down there and,
as such, its removal was one of the first things that made him feel like
his manhood was being taken away from him bit by bit.

Of course, the solid metal tube locked around his sexual organs ensured
that Max received that message loud and clear: his "manhood" was not
something he could expect to see again any time soon.

A quick sequence of emotions washed over Max in that instant his eyes
scanned down his reflection in the ensuite mirror: pride at the defined
musculature his bare chest and abs displayed, horror at the boyish
appearance of his smooth crotch, and dread at the metal cage that made him
feel like his most personal part was now no longer really his.

It was upon resting his eyes on the shiny chrome chastity device in that
reflection that Max snapped back to the moment and averted his gaze,
heading back to his desk to finish out his workday.

However, not even that was a simple process anymore.

Max's tormentor had implemented more rules for him to follow as the days
had progressed, the anonymous source of these instructions apparently quite
aware of the changes Max's body was undergoing. Namely, having gone in the
space of 14 days from jerking off once or twice daily and fucking someone
at least once a week to having his genitals locked away 24/7, Max's caged
cock now squirted a steady stream of pre-cum without fail each and every
time something put pressure on his prostate.

The dildo Max was forced to sit on at his desk chair was foremost among the
things that had such an effect on his body. Although his locked-up dick
leaked periodically as he made small movements while seated, he was
guaranteed at least two streams of pre-cum squirting out of it each time he
used that chair: one when he lowered himself onto the sex toy and another
when he lifted himself off of it.

One would think that a man who had just downed a glass of his own piss in
front of his officemates would not greet his current task with such
reluctance. Yet, despite the other liquids Max had had to consume so far
that day, the idea of licking up his own pre-cum off the tile floor still
proved a nauseating proposition.

Still, Max's own feelings on the matter were of little relevance. As per
instructions, he picked his phone up off the desk and opened the app that
had started all of this when it mysteriously appeared on his device two
weeks prior: "Mastr."

That such a small thing could have such a profound effect on his life still
boggled Max's mind. It was the simplest of apps, its symbol being nothing
more than a red M written with clean, straight lines on a grey-black
background.

When opened, its interface was just as minimal. New instructions, when
received, would always come up first, occupying the whole screen the first
time Max saw them. However, with it having been several hours since Max's
tormentor had sent him anything, now the screen was occupied only with two
icons: one, a speech bubble representing the app's text-based messaging
function; the other, a camera symbol that would allow videos to be taken.

Where Max's instructions all came as text-only messages through the chat
feature (keeping Max completely in the dark about who was issuing these
commands, with the young man not having seen the face or the voice of his
tormentor even once), he himself could not type anything there.

As such, he tapped on the camera icon to record his message.

In complete contrast to whoever sent Max his instructions, Max himself
could only communicate through the app via video messages. Aside from just
the sense of vulnerability which knowledge of one-way viewing and listening
would instil in anyone, the situation was made so much worse by the precise
angle Max was required to hold the camera to record all his videos.

Holding it up high to give a downward facing view (capturing his face, his
naked body, his cock cage, and the puddle in front of his desk chair), Max
looked straight into the camera (front view ensuring that he had to see
himself all the while) and, through gritted teeth, reluctantly recited what
he was required to say: "Sir. I will now clean up my mess, Sir."

Max kept the camera on his face as he knelt down and bent over to floor
level, the video capturing him licking up his puddle of pre-cum off the
floor.

The recording was clear evidence of his total obedience, his actions taken
without hesitation. Nevertheless, the fact that he would not choose to do
this of his own volition was still easy to determine, a look of disgust
carving itself deeper into his features with each flick of his tongue.

Having completed his task, Max was quick to stop the recording, not wishing
to capture any more on camera than the absolute minimum of what he was
ordered to film.

Getting back up to his feet, he pressed the little arrow in the lower
corner of his phone screen to send off the video to whoever had forced him
to record it.

He did not wait for a reply, but quickly proceeded to take care of what he
knew he needed to do next.

Returning his phone to its place on his desk, Max got to work lubing up the
9" of rubber onto which he now had to impale himself now just to do his
everyday office job.

Having sufficiently coated the dildo with plentiful lube, he reluctantly
turned around, spread his cheeks, and attempted to find the best alignment
to get the thing to go inside him.

10 minutes and 4" into his struggle (even after two weeks, the penetration
was time-consuming for someone as tight and unwilling as he was), Max heard
a sound that he had grown to dread.

A mix of the discordant screeching of a dial-up modem and the beeps and
boops of R2D2, Mastr's now-familiar notification noise was something that
Max quite literally could not ignore.

From the very first day Mastr had started to control Max's life, the young
man knew this was no normal sound that the app produced. It was not just
that the sound was unusual, its sequence of glitchy computerized tones not
forming any familiar tune or pattern. Rather, it was more so the response
he felt in himself that convinced Max that something about the sound itself
was central to why he was now behaving as he did.

That first morning in lockdown, Max had been in the middle of shaving his
face in his ensuite bathroom when the app first screeched, beeped, and
booped at him from where his phone still sat on his nightstand. Struck with
an immense sense of urgency, Max had immediately dropped everything
(shaving foam still covering half his face) and had run to his phone on
instinct.

The sound no doubt had something (if not everything) to do with how and why
Max was compelled to follow the orders that came through Mastr. On the
morning in question, the strangeness of feeling so driven to immediately
see what his phone was doing was quickly followed by Max's first compulsion
to carry out the full set of instructions he saw when opening the
app. Bewildered and not knowing why, Max had then gone back to the bathroom
to finish shaving his face and then, without missing a beat, immediately
began the task of meticulously removing from the rest of his body the thick
and manly hair that had covered it.

But those screeches, beeps, and boops were something other than just
priming for instructions because, even now, Max felt a desperate need to
direct all of his attention to the source of the sound even when no
instructions were found there.

His eyes darting to the screen that had just lit up, he saw the familiar
symbol of the Mastr app and a message reading only "Good boy."

The stoic countenance of concentration Max had managed to maintain
throughout the first half of his impalement gave way to an angry sneer upon
seeing the message.

Those were undue words of humiliation.

The messages from his tormentor needed only to be instructions -- they
didn't have to be such unnecessary condescending remarks, like referring to
a full-grown man like himself as a "Good boy."

However, much to Max's embarrassment, the look of opposition on his face
was not all his body produced in that instance. As it turned out, a curve
of the contoured dildo also happened to press right against his prostate in
that moment and he was suddenly aware of his useless dick simultaneously
squirting out yet another stream of pre-cum on the floor in front of him.

"Fucking... fuck... fucking fuck, fuck, fuck!" a now-enraged Max muttered,
his ever-intensifying situation of subordination and humiliation pushing at
the limits of what he could endure without losing his mind completely.

Still, even in that moment of attempted manly rage, Max could not prevent
himself from continuing in the task of jamming 9" of rubber all the way up
his rear-end, his hands still pulling his ass cheeks apart to fully receive
the dildo as his facial cheeks grew red and flustered.

Just as the final inch made its way in and Max let out a sigh of relief (as
well as another massive squirt of pre-cum, much to his chagrin), the
familiar sound and image of an incoming FaceTime video-call appeared on the
screen of the MacBook in front of him.

Naturally, he reached out to decline the call; however, Max's slippery
fingers did not obey.

Not even realizing he had mistakenly clicked the green accept icon, shock
and surprise overtook Max when he suddenly found himself looking at a
smirking face on the screen in front of him.

----

Thank you for reading. Your feedback is always welcome. |
corey_grant@gmx.com