Most people these days preach the importance of thinking outside the box. It's what gets you ahead in life. But for bondage gimps like me, the world outside the box represents freedom and creative release, which runs counter to our kinky DNA. Gimps need to be stored so their minds are empty, and they are ready to serve when required. Existing (since gimps should strive to do as little thinking as possible) inside the box. Sealed in tight rubber under a heavy straitjacket, and then shackled to the inside walls for good measure, with gas masked head poking out as the only evidence of human existence, is the place where it most truly feels at ease.
In case there were any doubts, being heavily bound, boxed up, stored away and ignored is a huge fetish of mine. Like so many kinks people have, I can trace my latent interests to my youth. I would take advantage of being alone while my parents visited the neighbours, by suiting up in my raincoat and wellies, before removing all my toys from the heavy-lidded toybox, so I could put myself inside. In doing so I was able to shut out the busy world, relax and enjoy the strangely alluring scent of my PVC rain gear, which would inevitably get sweaty, more potent and enticing as time passed.
The only thing missing from those childhood moments of sweaty PVC bliss, was the inescapability factor. I'm not sure I knew that at the time, but after falling into having a range of amazing bondage experiences in my early 20s, my desire to be objectified increasingly became a core part of my fetish identity. This slippery slope into storage life accelerated with a variety of different encounters, such as: 1. Being wetsuited and mounted as a display piece via suspension in a guy's garage. 2. All day placements under bed units in sleepsacks and straitjackets. 3. Overnights in heavily padlocked cages. 4. Multiple stays in some heavy duty bondage boxes, where I ceased to be recognisable as a gimp, simply blending into the scenery of the room, visitors oblivious to my predicament, as they walked past what to them was just a box.
Existing as a stored object is hot, and not simply because of the absolute inescapability of it, nor the intense humiliation felt knowing you are to be used as a drinks stand whilst guys play around you all afternoon (more on that later). When you're gimped and bound up inside a wooden or metal box for any considerable amount of time, be prepared for a lot of sweat and to be smelling rubber around you for days to come. Even with proper ventilation and your head protruding, it can get superbly warm inside, once the sliding bolts secure the walls and the clicks of heavy padlocks herald the start of your time in storage. At this point, it's important to note that staying hydrated during these kinds of experiences is essential, whether that be through periodic feeding via water bottle or, when gas masked or gagged, having the drinking tube connected to a water supply, to ensure the object need not be moved for the duration of its storage. Of course, all that liquid has to end up somewhere. This is what makes rubber is so perfect. It protects the lining of the box by gradually collecting that beautiful mixture of yellow and sweat, which, after some hours boxed away, pools in the feet and legs. It sloshes about your toe socks or waders as you emerge from storage heaven (warning, or helpful tip depending on your capacity for endurance and suffering: saying this aloud on release may result in you being kept suited and immediately re-stored).
I find that most of the heavy sweating seems to come in those early hours of being stored away, as the body acclimatises itself to its multiple rubber coverings within the boxed environment. This is the time where I find wriggle around a lot, futilely testing how well I have been secured, and seeing if I can position my hands to rub myself off. Even if I could somehow manage to achieve such an acrobatic feat, it would only add to my dilemma, as the box naturally cannot be opened from the inside. To release so soon is to suffer, and while that can be enjoyable in its own right, experience has taught me the value of pacing my horny mind for the long road ahead. Besides, storage isn't about gratification or getting off; for me, it's about being kept in place and understanding that good gimps should neither be seen nor heard when not in use.
Of course there will come an end point where you'll be human again; this is reality. Sadly, it is not the every-gimp fantasy, involving the mysterious and well equipped Master tricking an eager rubber sub into becoming his object for life, never to see the light of day again from within a specially made table leg, sofa bottom or wall cavity - truly amazing what wickedly twisted stuff gets us off, isn't it? While it won't actually be forever, at some point it definitely feels like you've been stored forever, which is the next best thing. This is where a gimp's mind teeters on the edge of human cognition. Where the drone-like mindlessness will eventually take over during a long storage scene; the bondage setting it free to be its true self. Transcendence is achieved through the meditative state you enter when the mind has had enough time to grow accustomed to the isolation, occasionally aided by repeated hypnosis tracks or white noise. In this state there have been so many times where I've completely lost a sense of being rubbered and stored away, and just floated with empty thoughts. Then reminded of my predicament by the smell of some aroma through the gas mask port, or when my muffled ears - now finely tuned to the silence of my captivity - suddenly sense a gathering of some sort.
Although I have never attended a sex party, I can say that I have been involved in one, secured away inside a heavy bondage box, set up as a resting place for drinks, bottles of lube and an assortment of toys for the festivities. Although, initially woken from my isolation by the action that afternoon, the blacked-out lenses of my gas mask and plugs in my ears made it near impossible to participate even as an observer. While a few initially enjoyed casually patting me on the head to check there was really someone inside, they quickly left me alone with my unreachable hard on, to play with each other. Relegated to being a present yet ignored figure was one of the most intense kink experiences I have had to date, and it was in that setting that I truly appreciated just how much I needed to be a stored object. Denied participation, my mind soon retreated back inside the box where it belonged.
Ultimately, for me, the biggest thrill of being boxed and stored isn't the bondage predicament itself, nor the blissful floating of the mind that helps to recalibrate the body from the rigours of daily life, it is in knowing that you have become little more than a rubbery incarnation of the Russian matryoshka doll. These dolls are humanoid objects that, when opened, reveal a layered identity, but whose primary function is largely ornamental. While bringing joy to whoever secured you inside, you are not essential to the workings of that person's day, and he need not spend too much time fussing over you, as nobody ever would for the decorative objects in their home. Just like the objects that I threw out of my childhood toy-box to climb inside, I now become a thing of entertainment on occasion, whilst mostly being stored out of sight until required again. That could be an hour, several hours, half a day or even longer. By that time, a good storage gimp has already forgotten itself and so it may as well be forever, as far as I'm concerned.
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