Rubber Reboot 1

Chapter 1: The Table 

The first thing Barry knew was pressure: knees folded to chest, wrists cuffed to ankles behind him, the posture collar locked so tight his chin could not dip. The second thing was heat. The rubber lining the underside of the dining room table had warmed to blood temperature hours ago; now it clung like a second, wetter skin. He breathed through dime-sized holes drilled along an acrylic lid, each exhale fogging the glass for a heartbeat before the vents sucked it away. Above him, the room glowed amber. 

Thanksgiving. Year Five. 

Mack’s voice rolled in, muffled but unmistakable. “Drinks are served, gentlemen.” Boots rested on hardwood. Ice clinked in glasses. Barry counted heartbeats instead of minutes; counting days and years had long since stopped making sense. It is Master Mack’s furniture, the thought arrived, neat and prepackaged. Furniture does not count. 

A shadow fell across the glass. Mack’s palm, broad and ringless today, pressed flat above Barry’s face. Two taps—quiet, object—and then it was gone. The chastity cage encasing Barry’s cock and balls answered with a dull throb, steel biting into swollen flesh that had forgotten how to harden. A single bead of precum slid along the rubber, slightly lubricating the otherwise tacky lining. 

The guests made themselves at home in a heady rush of cologne, male musk, and leather. Nine men—three couples and one throuple—regaled each other with stories of sexual conquests and alcohol-heightened one-upmanship. Someone’s boot heel settled, casually unaware, on the table directly over Barry’s left cheekbone. Barry tasted silicone through his gag plate, drool running down his chin and pooling on his rubber-coated sternum. It does not mind, he reminded himself. Tables do not mind. 

Mack lifted the electric knife. The blade whined alive. Turkey fat dripped onto the table, the scent sliding through the vents and making Barry salivate even more. Every vibration of the knife traveled through the table into Barry’s spine. Mack deliberately angled the tip, making three sharp taps against the plate. The noise reverberated through Barry’s empty head. Clink. Clink. Clink. Barry’s hips bucked, an involuntary response to pleasure he no longer understood. His cuffs rattled. The guests laughed, thinking it was part of the show. 

“Mack, love the centerpiece this year,” one said, leaning close enough to see the rubber prisoner through the foggy acrylic. “Commissioned?” 

“One of a kind,” Mack answered. “Took years to train.” 

Laughter roared. Dinner was served. Glasses rose in a toast Barry couldn’t hear clearly; Mack’s muffled baritone disappeared beneath the chorus of male voices. A boot kicked underneath the table, startling Barry enough to scrape against his leg irons. The bird disappeared, slice by gravy-drowned slice. 

After dinner, the group migrated downstairs to the den, and before long, football cheers leaked up through the floorboards. Finally, Mack returned alone, lifting the acrylic lid just enough to slide in a dog bowl—cold stuffing, congealed gravy, and a single cube of cranberry sauce. Mack’s rough hands removed Barry’s gag and pushed his face into the bowl. Barry lapped without hands, knowing all too well that food was never a guarantee. Mack watched, one hand idly stroking the bulge in his slacks. 

“Good table,” he murmured, almost tenderly. “One more year and you’ll be perfect.” 

Barry had barely eaten half the food in the bowl when Mack wrenched it away and fitted the gag back in place over his mouth. The lid closed, and the dining room lights dimmed to night-mode LEDs the color of a bruise. The house quieted. Barry’s rubber cooled, contracted until it squeaked against itself. Somewhere beyond the walls, Mack’s phone screen glowed—a shirtless torso framed by a Bali sunset with the caption: Wish you were here already. 

Barry drifted in the dark, his mind looping a single image: the empty chair at last year’s Thanksgiving table where “Barry” had once sat, napkin folded, wine glass half full. The memory felt borrowed, like a photograph of someone else’s life. 

Hours or days later—the passage of time had long since liquefied—the playroom door creaked open. Fluorescent light stabbed down. Barry blinked dust from his lashes. The St. Andrew’s Cross and the sex swing were gone, replaced by a plain steel dog crate. Barry’s rubber suit was long overdue for a shine, and his gag had carved crescent-shaped indentations into his cheeks. 

Mack crouched, keyring rattling. The padlock on the crate clicked open. 

“It’s time,” he said. 

Barry stared at Mack’s boots, then at the rectangle of daylight streaming through the basement window, impossible and blinding. The word for outside had been deleted years ago.