Date: Fri, 1 May 2020 23:55:17 +0200
From: corey_grant@gmx.com
Subject: Out of Sight 3

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

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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