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There was a quiet creak of leather as the stallion flexed his arms, wrists pulling taut on the straps buckled securely around him. Every breath was constricted by the band that pressed against his chest, looped around the back of the chair he was sat on, and with his ankles shackled to its legs, there was nowhere for him to go except deeper down into his own mind. Trapped within the dark dungeon, a play room for every sadist's dream, he waited indefinitely, interminably, forever and ever counting in his head until his mind slipped into deliriousness. That's what he wanted, after all, he want Tarzimon to be weak and fatigued from the simple effort of passing time alone. Only then would he break the horse. He had admitted as much when he had invited the stallion back to his place, promising a night he would never remember...

If he could cry out, he would have done, but that had been a quick realisation to a fruitless exercise. The thick gag sat between his teeth, encompassing all his mouth so that only sharp breaths huffed from his nostrils, made any sound that rose from his chest hollowed and blunt. Noiseless, even, to anyone beyond the four walls that closed in on him in the dark. He was a fixture of something living in a room dedicated to his upcoming pain and suffering, the torment promised to him from the blackest black of leather whips and the cold shine of steel, muted under what had been a red glow from fitted bulbs - though they had since been turned off to leave Tarz enshrouded in shadows. It turned the bright red of the gag null, the fluorescent purple of his mane and tail diffused, the pastel brown of his coat bleeding under its glare. It would return soon, he knew that, but until then he was left quietly breathing, quietly slipping between a waking conscious and a drifting trance, wondering deep in some responding sense of himself how long had it truly been since he had allowed himself to be bound to the chair. One hour? Two? More...

It was deeply uncomfortable too, which had been of little concern to begin with. The ache of holding himself almost imperceptibly aloft and upright had not set in until the lights had gone out and sir had slipped away, but slowly, agonisingly slowly, the creep of pain had sunk into his muscles and soaked his bones as the stallion struggled to keep himself sat in the least excruciating position. For the chair had no seat, it was an empty void where a cushion might have been, and constrained to a forced sitting position by his bonds, his weight rested upon his arms and against his thighs, balancing himself in a way no person should for extensive lengths of time. Occasionally his weight would sag, which came as a small reprieve, but then circulation would cut to his legs and soon after he would be forced to lift himself up as best he could. His only mercy was when sir walked back into the room, almost too quietly, slipping towards the bound stallion with ill intent in his mind.

The dormouse, lanky though toned, crept up to the horse with silent footsteps. When he emerged into the halo of light that sunk into Tarzimon's skin like tiny needles, a lulled feeling at first that had now grown to almost agonising discomfort, adding to his already arduous ordeal.

"What's the matter, babe?" He cooed as he stepped forward, paw reached out with one finger to caress the trembling horse's jawline, "Did you miss me?"

Behind the gag, Tarzimon wanted to scream. He wanted to thrash and flail, spit and bite, but the energy just wasn't there. The weasel had left him to tire, to weaken, and then now that he was slipping into futile submission with no chance of ever rebelling, were that even a consideration. Each of the rodent's fingers seemed ordained with some manner of fancy ring, some plain but brutish, others delicately constructed and ornate. The dormouse seemed smitten by his jewellery, for Tarzimon knew from their first encounter over drinks, they had talked at length about all manner of the male's piercings. His ears had stretchers placed through the lobes, big enough to fit a digit through them, his septum had been pierced with a bullish ring dangling through his nostrils and a ladder of three bars intersected his snout the few inches it stuck out, snakebites licked at his lips just to the corners of his sly smirk, and a tongue stud flashed whenever he talked, thick-looking as it danced in his mouth - and those were just the ones you could see. Behind the zippers of his rubber singlet, more suited for gimps than wrestlers, the stallion knew he had equally heavy rings like that which hung from his nose, a stud in his belly button, a lorum topped his balls and adorned his sheath with precious silver, and his cock above all else had the interesting choice of an ampallang through its head that had made Tarzimon doubt whether he'd actually want to sleep with the dormouse.

He had been rest assured that were they to get that far the rodent wouldn't need to fuck him to get him breathless. The horse's curiosity had been piqued.

At the moment, much of his body was hidden beneath rubber, trimmed in a fine delicate yellow ribbing that has hard to make out under the red glow. It did not hide his build however, nor could it cover up the fact that he was almost half Tarzimon's size. His small stature and lean frame did not cut an imposing figure, the stallion had barely even noticed him until the dormouse had abruptly interrupted his conversation with coy but dirty minded colt and proposed he buy him a drink. Jumping in at perhaps just over four feet, the dormouse had proceeded to win the stallion over with a magnanimous charisma and whittled him down into joining him for coffee back at his place. His place though had turned out to be the very dungeon they now resided in. Gone was the charming, gentlemanly man from the bar and in his place now stood the grungy, sadistic dominant thug who, despite his size, now instilled a quiet, pervading sense of dread; a feeling that now churned in Tarzimon's aching body and draining lower and lower until it had filled every inch of him, turning his nerves to ice.

Behind him, the dormouse's tail flicked from side to side, a coil of furless flesh that creeped the horse out as it practically slithered around a leg, the male stepping in so close that his whiskers pricked at the stallion's cheek, whispering into his ear,

"Don't worry babe, I'll get you screaming soon enough."

The rodent slipped away behind him, and for as much as he twisted and turned in his seat as best he could, there was no way he could watch what the male was doing. He was left to wait, teeth chomping into the rubber gag as a way to distract himself from the rapidly approaching new hell that awaited him, his aches now a sudden, distant worry that niggled only in the back of his mind, still ever there but no longer a concern.

Cold fluid smeared against Tarzimon's ass, flinching in the chair as fingers unexpectedly began to pry between his cheeks and push hard into his hole deeper within. There was nowhere to run from them as they surged knuckle-deep, two at first but in seconds the dormouse had begun to force a third alongside them, rotating and prising open the stallion's ass with barely a second thought to his comfort. But that was the point after all, in Tarzimon's addled mind he knew he was not here for his own pleasure but the rodent's. Everything so far had been a detriment to him, and it would continue to be, whether he wanted to or not. Digits were removed, unceremoniously torn from his now lubed, fingered hole.

"Let's see how much of a slut you are, eh?" From behind him, the dormouse's suave voice lulled Tarzimon into some treacherous space between lust and fear. He wanted this, somewhere deep down he knew he longed for the rough treatment, but at the same time, he had no control, no say, and thus far he had been nothing but tortured under the sadist's paws. He was so much bigger than the male, far stronger and cut for the dominant gig, but yet here he was, nothing but a whimpering plaything to be abused under his scrutiny.

Underneath him came the scrape of metal, something shoved its way under the chair and instinct made Tarzimon lift his weight up as high as he could in some desperate drive to get away from whatever the ominous unknown could be. But a paw punched at his gut, the dormouse's size belied by such terrifying strength, as the wind was knocked from his lungs. His concentration broke, his body yielded, and he collapsed downward into the carved hole of the chair. A solid mass probed between his buttocks and the stallion groaned pathetically as he felt something impale him, a hard, slippery object that slammed just as badly into his guts as the dormouse's fist had, only from the wrong side now. It was obvious it was a dildo, that much was clear, but Tarzimon couldn't tell its size or shape, what species it might have been or where it possibly ended, all he knew was that it was in him and he wanted it out. It was only an inch or so, maybe three or four, how could he tell in such a fatigued state?

His pleading moans were met with nothing but an icy glee, the dormouse grinning from ear to ear as he groped at the horse's body whilst he struggled upon the new toy,

"What's the matter? Afraid of a little prick?" His hand reached up to squeeze the horse's cheeks together around the gag, hacking up a wad of spit that plastered straight into Tarzimon's eyes. He laughed as the horse writhed and shook his head, blinking to rid the spit from his face, "That's what they all call me, the little prick. You shouldn't have let me get you that drink. But enough of that, let's get you warmed up..."

The dormouse returned to Tarzimon's field of view, a small remote in his paw, and with a small twist of his fingers, the stallion felt the toy inside him begin to move. Slowly at first, as if it was just some subtle confusion, until it became too obvious to ignore. Inch after inch slid their way into his ass and he squirmed, unable to get away and his bound body forced to sit and endure the toy as it entered him. Deeper it worked until he swore the hard rubber was going to burst into his abdomen, pushing him to the very limits of his capacity. His eyes went wide, rattling his head from side to side trying to get the rodent to pity him, but the dormouse just smiled, licking his lips and clicking that tongue over the metal. Eventually the toy yielded, the whir of the motor retracting, and the dildo began its downward descent out of him. It pulled back to just its first inch, still occupying his hole but at the very least leaving him not feeling overfull.

But then of course it came back, faster than before, and it drove itself into his bowels once again. He performed the same squirms and pleading shakes, but the dormouse just didn't care. If anything he relished the sight of Tarzimon struggling so pitifully, frustratingly banging at his bindings, sobbing in moans as the toy fucked him coldly and steadily like any machine would. The piston pushed and pulled the toy, the dormouse stood and watched, and the horse could do nothing but suffer as the large dildo, immaculate and indiscernible except for just its unfeeling yield, worked his guts over.

"Good bitch," the dormouse sneered, the remote now forgotten given that the machine could work on its own devices. He moved off again out of the light and abandoned the stallion to his new torment. Not leaving the room though, he was fetching something else, a faded shadow moving in the bloody pitch, and Tarzimon did his best to watch what he was doing, though his focus was drained by the dildo reaming his guts back and forth.

When the rodent reappeared, in his paws he held something that confused the stallion, until it clicked in his head what the dormouse intended to do. It was a clear, medium sized plastic bag, something perhaps from a hardware store, industrial-looking and made of thick, durable plastic. It had barely a wrinkle in its pristine surface, and folded with only a soft rap of plastic skittering against plastic. In the dormouse's other paw was a sturdy, heavy belt. His eyes connected these two objects together in a way that terrified him, only to be then confirmed by the male's vicious grin splitting across his muzzle, red light casting in his eyes an almost demonic presence. Once more, in some vain attempt, he shook his head again, but again there was no room for negotiation with the male. The bag was opened and thrust over his head. The belt followed quickly, then snapped shut and buckled with a yank.

Tarzimon began breathing the stale air.

At first there came no panic. Just an instilled curiosity and bemusement as he now existed inside a clouded bubble of artificial design. The toy fucked his ass and behind the gag he moaned as if nothing were the matter, nostrils flaring and taking small, tentative breaths of the enclosed space. But seconds passed and soon it began to become apparent the true danger now lurking right in front of his face; the bag began to buckle, sagging inwards with soft crinkles, as Tarzimon drank in what oxygen remained.

Still there was no desperate fear that set in. Now it turned to a cold realisation as the situation became much more pronounced. His breathing, unbeknownst to him, was getting shorter. He didn't quite feel it at first, but when his chest began to ache and it felt as if he were trying to breathe through syrup. That was when he figured he was depleting what little air there truly was left. It was only when the bag drooped into his immediate line of sight did he struggle in the chair.

When he found that even drawing breath caused his throat to sting and his chest compressing, that was when Tarzimon moaned in terror. Any air he could take, came through the two holes of his snout, the gag affording him not even a slither of a gap to take in extra. All he could do was wheeze through his nose, the sound so ghastly and crude that it disgusted even himself. He could see beyond the plastic the form of the dormouse just stood there, watching him, enjoying him suffer, all the while he suffocated agonisingly slowly, compelled to breathe by the very urge to stay alive. The vicious cycle looped back on itself, forced him to gasp, only to steam ever onwards to asphyxiation.

He attempted to take smaller breaths, even holding out and willing himself not to draw air, but then the pain in his chest became too much and he couldn't help it. Frightened he snorted, the bag sucking into him now, moulding around his twisted face and masking with condensation to his skin. Damp fur met damp plastic and he sweltered inside the breathless prison, crying and shrieking behind his gag as gasp after gasp began to escape from him. He flailed in his bindings, his head throbbing and feeling nothing but splintering agony as his body slowly faded away.

Only when he felt the belt ripped open by the dormouse, the bag gently peeling from his face only to then be torn off likewise, did he suck in air for merciful respite. He was greedy, breathing as hard and as deep as he could, filling his burning lungs with the sweet salve of oxygen. His face was a sweating mess, tears streaked down his cheeks, and his nose hurt from breathing too much all at once. Sensation slowly ebbed back to his body, but it felt numb, the toy working an endless hole into him, boring deeper and deeper but providing no relief, keeping him forever on edge.

"Not bad," the dormouse sniggered, "You lasted just under three minutes, so let's try and do better than that, okay?"

Tarzimon didn't have a choice as the sticky, clammy bag, shook to be reinflated, was once again pulled over his head and sealed shut by the belt. The leather pushed hard on his throat where it cut through the plastic, buckled perhaps a hole too tight along its length, but the stallion could at least feel the air whistling through his nose. It was difficult to breathe though, and already he could see the tiny droplets slithering across the outer edges of the bag, his waste becoming his own doom once again.

This time he tried to conserve his breaths, wanting to meet the dormouse's orders and last even longer if it would grant him some reprieve from the torture. Whenever he had to breathe, it was shallow and short, and he savoured every little he could, holding everything back until it pounded at his chest and made his head swell all over again just to contain it. He had no idea how much time passed with that, only knowing how much his ass ached from being constantly pummelled, the speed and force now increasing as it tried to spear him wide open. Tarzimon shuddered, weakly whimpering as he knew, sooner or later, the horrible fear of the bag suffocating him would happen again. His eyes, tired but frantic, watched as the plastic began to ever so gently close back in around him.

Sudden pain stabbed at his gut. Though he couldn't physically double over, Tarzimon nearly vomited at the pain. A sharp, raging sting radiated from his stomach, and he breathed hard as all the air was forced from his lungs, and panting he tried to recover from the shock.

The dormouse had sucker punched him, that much was clear, but he had forced a cascade reaction that now left Tarzimon with the terrifying predicament of whether to hold, suffer the excruciating pain in his gut, or to breathe, relieve the immediate discomfort, but then be forced to endure and suffer being without air for even longer than he'd intended.

Calling it a 'choice' was misguided. Tarzimon didn't even know he had chosen before he'd even realised there were options. He sucked in breath after breath as he mewled in agony, recuperating his strength and resettling back into the chair, but when the fog of pain had cleared, he was greeted with the fog of barely transparent plastic closing in around is eyes. Like a living being, it latched onto his face as he found himself struggling to find any air, stale or otherwise, and it gulped down his nostrils and truly blocked off whatever airway he had left. He had to snort hard through his nose to get the bag off him, but it only wasted what precious little he had left, his lungs burning as he took another drag of carbon dioxide. Then the bag sucked back in, glued to his nose and plastered all across his face, a second skin that seemed so intent on suffocating him.

Desperately, weakly, he moaned, begged, sobbed behind the gag as he could breathe less and less. His chest hurt, the world grew dim, and he no longer even knew if the dormouse was even there. Had it been three minutes? It felt like a lifetime, then it felt like barely three seconds, and then it felt as if there was no time left at all. Tarzimon, shaking and screaming, thrashed in the chair as the bag now refused to even leave his head, his face trapped behind a veil of plastic, and truly he had run out of air. There was nothing left to breathe, no fraction of gas inside the bag to fill his lungs and provide him some waning comfort in his agony.

He cried for release. But it had only just been two minutes and fifty seconds. The horse still had a few more seconds to go.