Rubber Reboot 2

Chapter 2: Where Will it Go? 

Catch up on chapter 1 if you haven’t already…

The crate lid lifted with a metallic sigh. Fluorescent light knifed down, and Barry’s eyes, used to blindfolds and blackout sclera lenses, watered instantly. The crate’s latex lining peeled away from his knees with a wet kiss. Mack’s hand closed around the posture collar and hauled upward. Barry’s legs had forgotten their job; joints popped like cheap plastic. He sagged, rubber squeaking against rubber, until Mack braced him against the playroom wall. 

“Stand up, object.” 

“It tries, Sir.” 

The voice that came out was gravel dragged over glass. It had been so long since the gag had allowed more than a hum. 

Mack’s fingers found the buckle at the nape of Barry’s neck. The gag plate dropped to the floor with a clatter, its silicone insides slick with saliva. A silver strand stretched from Barry’s lower lip to the floor, snapped, and pooled. His jaw hung slack; the hinge screamed. He swallowed and tasted blood where the bit had rubbed raw. 

Next came the suit. One slow, deliberate tug at the zip, and the teeth parted with a hiss. Mack peeled the rubber downward like a second skin reluctant to leave its host, revealing pale, sweat-slick flesh beneath. Barry’s shoulders emerged first, then the ridge of collarbone, and rounded shoulder blades that hadn’t seen daylight in years. Mack’s palms followed the path, pulling the rubber away from Barry’s chest, thumbs brushing nipples so long compressed they peaked instantly. 

Mack worked dispassionately, like a mechanic stripping a carburetor. With a tiny Allen key and an unceremonious click-pop, he removed Barry’s chastity cage. The steel ring behind Barry’s balls released, and his cock, indented with the cage’s grid pattern, flopped out. Cool air hit the head, and it twitched, an alien, involuntary movement. 

Mack pushed the suit lower, catching on Barry’s hips before Mack hooked his fingers under the waist and dragged it down in a single, possessive glide. The latex bunched at his thighs, then knees, until Mack knelt and stripped it off entirely—ankles, arches, and toes—leaving Barry naked and shivering, every inch of him raw and newly born under the playroom’s unforgiving light. 

The plug was next. Max leaned Barry over, gripped the base, twisted once, and pulled. The suction broke with a lewd schlorp. Barry’s empty hole gaped, a sudden, hollow ache that climbed his spine like a cold hand. 

The posture collar was last. The leather had pressed against Barry’s skin for so long that when it finally came off, a ridge of raw flesh circled his throat. Mack tossed everything into a trash bag without ceremony. 

A canvas sack landed at Barry’s feet. Inside were a pair of grey sweatpants, a white Hanes T-shirt two sizes too big, and a pair of foam flip flops. “Put these on,” Mack ordered. 

Barry stared. The concept of on required sequencing he no longer processed. Mack sighed, knelt, and threaded Barry’s feet through the pant legs himself. The cotton scraped against his bare skin like sandpaper. When the waistband snapped against Barry’s hips, the absence between his legs yawned wider. No cage, no plug. Just cloth, and air, and the terrifying possibility of choice. 

Mack steered him by the elbow to the full-length mirror bolted inside the playroom door. The glass was cracked in one corner, spider webbed. Barry looked. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut, eyes flat and black, crescents carved where the gag had lived. The body had shrunk from years of storage and rubber encasement—calves like broom handles, ribs countable. His skin was surgical white and fish-belly soft. 

Barry’s right hand rose without permission and hovered over the soft cock dangling between his legs, the first voluntary touch in half a decade. His skin was hypersensitive; the lightest brush sent a spark up his spine. His knees buckled. Mack caught him. 

“Where is it?” Barry whispered to the reflection. 

“Right there,” Mack said. “That’s you.” 

The name Barry floated up from somewhere deep, rusted and foreign. He tried it on his tongue and tasted metal. 

Mack tied the trash bag containing Barry’s suit, cage, collar, and plug, then handed it over to Barry. Then Mack marched him through the house, past the den where the football game had roared, past the dining room where his display table sat. A manila envelope waited on the granite countertop. Mack slid it across. 

“Five grand. Bus pass. Key to 4B. Map’s inside. You leave tonight. Do not come back.” 

Barry’s fingers closed around the envelope. Paper cut his thumb, and a bead of blood welled up. He stared at it, fascinated. The map was printed on cheap copy paper: a red line from Mack’s cul-de-sac to a downtown grid, two miles of walking, then another 82 minutes by bus. The year in the corner of the page read 2029. Barry’s mind skipped, unable to subtract. 

Mack’s phone buzzed. The lock screen lit: a shirtless torso slick with sweat, Bali sunset behind it, heart-eyes emoji. Lance. Mack silenced the call, but not before Barry saw the name. 

“Where will it go?” Barry asked. The pronoun came out automatically. 

Mack’s jaw worked. For a moment, the mask slipped, betraying something soft and exhausted underneath. Then the door to the foyer opened and suburban night air rushed in, cool and scented with ozone and dead autumn leaves. 

Barry stepped over the threshold. The flip-flops slapped concrete. Wind hit his bare arms; gooseflesh erupted, and his nipples spiked beneath the T-shirt. The sky was too big, star drunk, no ceiling anywhere. Behind him, the door shut with a final click that sounded like a bone breaking. 

Mack closed the door and then thumbed the call. Lance answered on the first ring. 

“Well?” his tinny voice barked. 

“It’s done,” Mack said. “He’s gone.” 

There was a beat of static. “You sound like you just euthanized a dog. Snap out of it.” 

Mack exhaled and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Seven years, Lance. I built him into—” 

“Into baggage,” Lance cut in, sharp as a collar snap. “If you want me, you have to get rid of all that baggage. I’m not a side dish, Mack. Book the tickets or don’t, but stop whining.” The line clicked dead. 

Outside, the porch lights carved circles of gold across the subdivision, and the sidewalk stretched ahead, cracked and silver under pale moonlight. Barry clutched his trash bag full of gear in one hand and his envelope in the other, squinting to read the map in the dark. Halfway to the bus stop, a row of sprinklers hissed alive. Water arced across the lawns. Barry froze, waiting for punishment, but none came. The droplets slid down his skin, tracing seams and pooling at the waistband of his sweatpants. A car swept past, casting headlights over him. Barry halted mid step, arms at his sides, waiting for a command that never arrived. The driver never slowed. Never even acknowledged his presence. 

After an hour of walking, he arrived at the bus shelter, plexiglass scarred with graffiti. The bus hissed to a stop, doors folding open. The driver, a woman with purple braids, barely looked him over. He surely wasn’t the strangest sight she’d seen even tonight. “Cash or pass?” 

Barry opened the envelope. Tucked inside a collection $100 bills was a token the size of a debit card. He pulled it out and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw “METRO” stamped across it. He offered it to the driver, but she silently smacked the fare box with the heel of her hand. Barry fumbled with it for several seconds until the driver, short on patience, snatched the pass from his hand, swiped it through the scanner, and handed it back to him with a transfer slip. Barry shuffled to the back as the bus lurched forward. Through the window, the suburbs disappeared. 

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