Gromet's PlazaBuried Stories


by Outcast

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© Copyright 2022 - Outcast - Used by permission

Storycodes: M+/m; encased; buried; catheter; buttplug; sendep; trick; cons; X

This story involves a scene of a man getting buried alive. In the real world, this is exceedingly dangerous, so do not try this yourself – or don’t blame me if you do it and it goes wrong.

“How much space does a person need to live, do you think?”

Leon frowns lightly and puffs his cheeks. “Minimum? About 1500 square feet? A lounge or two, bedroom, en suite, dressing room, sauna …”

I smack the back of his head, knowing that he understood my meaning perfectly well.

“What is the absolute minimum to survive for days, weeks even? I could easily live in a wardrobe, I am sure, if I was fed and there was a way to use the toilet. I could stand up and stretch when needed, only lying down would be difficult.”

“It is easy enough to try,” Leon says. “I’m happy to force you to empty the store cupboard and lock you inside it for the weekend … But that’s not what you were getting at, is it?”

“I was thinking smaller,” I confess. “A place where I couldn’t stand up in, or even sit up. Barely enough space to move my limbs.”


My heart is beating rapidly. I nod apprehensively and excitedly. “Something like that. A place where I could only lie down and wait for you to release me.”

“Is that what you want? Truly?” He grabs my crotch and finds me throbbing. “This thing answers that question already, Baby. I’ll cobble something together for a trial run.”

The box is beautiful – Leon showing off his skill as a craftsman, my lover has never “cobbled anything together” in his life – made from smooth thick oak with dove-tailed seams. A lid that fits so snugly it is almost airtight, with stainless steel clasps holding it firmly in place. It has taken a month to make, but I am sure that it will last a lifetime and we will use it often enough to make it worthwhile.

“Do you want to try it? I hope I got the measures right.”

I don’t doubt he did, because he took them at least half a dozen times over the weeks, but I do want to try how it feels. I slip off my shoes, my socks, then just continue with my T-shirt and pants. Hesitating for a moment, Leon breaks my dithering, “might as well take those off as well,” he says nodding at my boxers, “because that is how you’ll want to dress when you use it in earnest.”

I do as he says, displaying that once again, the thought of spending long periods of time in close confinement is enough to get me hard. I step into the crate and carefully lie down. My feet touch the footboard while my head is an inch away from the top. My broad shoulders, the result of years of rowing in school and university, barely fit between the solid sides and because the box narrows towards the bottom, my ankles have no more than an inch or two of sideways movement either.

“I suggest you practise breathing through the tube until you are comfortable with it.” There is a diving snorkel sticking through the headboard. “You won’t need it now, but if we ever were to place the box in a less hospitable space…”

I know he means burying it, and my manhood twitches in excitement. Two minds in harmony. I push the mouthpiece between my lips.

“Get used to breathing in through the mouthpiece and out through your nose into the inside of the box. It will stop you rebreathing the fouled air you’ve just exhaled, even when the breathing tube is very long. I am going to close the lid, knock three times if it is too tight.”

The heavy oak board crunches as it is pushed into place, fitting so tightly that there is no light entering through the seams. I lie still listening to the sound of the metal clasps securing the lid. Until Leon decides to take them off again, there is no chance that I could escape from my confinement. The coffin’s wood is too heavy, the thing is too well constructed to break out, the latches too strong to force the lid from the inside. 

My cock throbs heavily from the knowledge that I am completely at Leon’s mercy now.

Unthinking, I lift my head and immediately bump my nose into the wood. About an inch of space between my face and the lid. My forearms have about 3 inches between my legs and the sides, and they can move around my hips and belly. When I try to bring them up to my face, though, they won’t pass between my chest and the top of the box. 

Such a tight fit. My legs can wriggle and bend a bit, my arms can move around near my waist, but around my upper body it is almost perfectly tight with only my head able to move left and right. I lie back and relax, unable to force an exit, dependent on Leon’s goodwill. I concentrate on my breathing. Occasionally I shift my weight or move my head, but otherwise I have no space for any movement – and I am enjoying it. 

Enjoying it enough that I am rock hard, my cock pushing against the oak lid. My hands find my manhood and I gently rub and squeeze myself for the age that Leon keeps me locked up. I don’t want to cum, this is after all only an extended trial run. 

Two and a half hours it is, before he releases the clasps and lifts away the heavy wooden lid – although it might as well have been 10 minutes, or a whole day, so disorienting is the lack of reference. The light in his workshop as I sit up is blinding me.

“How was the fit, Sir?”

“Very good, my dear fellow,” I play along, “perhaps a tad spacious around the waist and the head.”

“If Sir would lie back, while I get a tape measure; we can certainly do something about that.”

“The box version 1.1 is ready, baby. How about we do a trial run soon, a proper one that takes a few days?”

“The Williams project is about to finish and after that I have time on my hands.”

I’m a freelance graphic designer and alternate between periods of frantic activity and indolence. As Leon is an architect and we both work from home, we have set up the top floor of the house as a studio; one end for Leon and the other, smaller, end for me.

“Perfect timing then. I suggest you stop eating solids three days or so ahead of the big day. I’ve sorted out urinary catheters, but I don’t want to create a drainage hole for the other end. How long do you want to be locked up? A long weekend to start with?”

“A week, I think.”

That raises Leon’s eyebrows. “Sounds like a long time for a first attempt, but it is up to you.”

A week and a half later, I dropped my clothes in the laundry basket and pad naked to the spare bedroom. I’ve subsisted on nutritious drinks and coffee for the past four days to ensure my gut is completely empty as I go into lock-down mode. The box, unchanged at first glance, on the outside at least, sits on the bed. 

“There’s a catheter in the bathroom, do you know how to insert it?”

I gesture that I’ll manage; it can’t be that difficult. 

It isn’t. Unpleasant, yes, but not hard. I can’t help wondering whether I will be able to get hard despite it. Then I start thinking of the restriction Leon is going to impose on me for the next week and, combined with some hand action, that tells me that getting erect is not going to be a problem.

“Ready? Oh my, you are looking forward to this!” I smile sheepishly at being caught with my big cock standing rigidly to attention.

Leon strips back the lid and shows the modifications. “There are now two blocks sandwiching your head to stop you turning it. Your ears should not touch the walls, just. I’ve also added a two to three-inch thick insert to the lid, which will lower the space inside the box between your bellybutton and your ankles.”

He notices as I smile at the large oval cut from the centre of the newly added block.

“Yes, I’ve made sure you can still get a hard-on,” he smiles back. “Finally, there are dividers between your hips and your arms creating two slots just wide enough for your arms. Let’s get you into position.”

“What’s the metal thing?” A heavy clasp of some sort is screwed into the bottom of the coffin, roughly where the tops of my thighs will be.

“A surprise.”

I step into the box and carefully sit down. There’s only an inch of spare room for my hips between the new dividers.

“Let’s get the catheter tube through here … duct tape over the hole to stop light getting in. Urine bag on the end, and it’s flowing already, good! Now gently lie back. How’s that?”

My head neatly fits in the much smaller space now. Half an inch on either side, leaving me almost no freedom to turn it or wriggle it. I lower my forearms into their own recesses, so narrow that my hands can only fit vertically with the fingers almost straight. 

“Amazing! The freedom I had is almost all gone.”

“That’s the plan. Now, I’ve also changed the mouthpiece. It still functions normally most of the time, but if you bite down and suck, you block the airflow and draw up liquid from this bottle. I’ll keep it filled with nutrition.”

I try as he says and am rewarded – if that is the right word – with a mouthful of the chocolatey shake that is the least unpleasant of the flavours available. To think that some hospital patients are on this stuff for months on end. Perhaps I will be too in the near future.

“This here is your alarm.” He pushes a lighter-sized object between my right hand and the divider, my thumb is on a button. “It sets off an alert on my mobile. I’ll release you asap when you press it. Give it a go.”

I dutifully press the button and hear an urgent beeping that will be hard to ignore.

“Perfect. If you hold the button for five seconds the alarm stops.”

It does indeed…

“Finally, your surprise.” 

Leon produces a big dildo, and hands it to me. It is long and heavy, carefully crafted smooth oak with a thick layer of varnish. The base curves round in almost 90 degrees and ends in a metal catch. I realise that it locks onto the clasp in the coffin, further immobilising my torso.

“I hope it isn’t too large. Do you want to try it in?”

In answer, I lift my legs and present my backside. With lots of lube and more than a little force, the fat head pops into me. I writhe as Leon slowly pushes it in, deeper and deeper, probing his way into my gut. 

“Okay, lower your legs now and lie down flat.” The last couple of inches of wood are forced in when a heavy clunk tells me that the metal latch has engaged. The dildo, now solidly attached to my prison, locks my pelvis down and once the lid is put on my coffin, there is no way I will be able to move off the huge invader.

“Almost midday on Saturday. I will close the lid now and, if all goes well, you’ll not be able to get out until noon next Saturday.”

Again, I watch the lid being heaved into place, cutting off all light. I hear the clasps being fastened over it, locking me up again, but this time for real. When all has gone quiet, I try out my new and improved home. I try to bend my legs, but they’ve barely moved when my knees are stopped by the lid’s lowered ceiling. I try to push up my loins, but the fat dildo leaves me with absolutely no movement to my lower torso.

This really is tight. An inch of movement here and there, but hardly anything at all. My feet can rotate a bit and my arms can move up and down in their slots, but all with very little effect. I really can only lie straight flat on my back and try to survive.

The feeling of the alarm in my hand reminds me. I work it towards the tips of my fingers and flick it away into the gap next to my leg. I am almost nauseous with fear when I do it, but this is about helplessness and endurance. Being able to summon help is not part of my plan.


In the dark quiet of my coffin, time has lost all meaning. I was rock hard for a while, but with my arms separated by the dividers and my torso immobilised by the solid dildo, I was unable to do anything about it, and my hard-on slowly waned. Until I would try to move, encounter the restrictions of my confinement and immediately get erect in excitement again.

I doze at times, and wake as my attempts to turn over onto my side are thwarted. My arms and hands move as much as the coffin allows; my legs twist and shift a little, but for most of the time I just lie still and enjoy the knowledge that I am as tightly contained as realistically possible. I drink my drink and breathe through the snorkel. I doze and I lie and wait. How long have I been now? A couple of days probably. Or maybe not. 


I shield my eyes from the piercing light, and slowly re-engage my limbs while I tell Leon how it feels to be so helpless and restricted.

“The only regret is that I could not feel how tightly I was held, except when I tried to move. When I was lying still, I could have been lying in a ball room, for all I knew.”

Leon nods, “I see your point. Let me have a think about that. Perhaps we can improve on it for next time. There is going to be a next time, I presume?”

“Oh yes!”

‘The next time’ comes three months later. I am ready, have just completed a massive project and am mentally and physically exhausted. I am in need of a period of restoration, a long period of minimal exertion. A period genuinely buried in our backyard.

The coffin looks no different from last time: the same size, the same dividers. 

“You will see what I plan to do,” Leon says, “but trust me when I say that you will be tight.”

He hands me a pair of VR goggles and earphones, the snorkel, and with everything in place, he pulls a plastic bag over my head.

“Lie back,” I hear over the earphones and I do as I am told. The goggles show the room, the coffin, my body prone inside it. “Which will it be, ten inches like last time or this new 12-incher?” Leon is holding up two dildos to the camera. “Ah stupid, you cannot reply of course. I’ll assume you’ll want to try your newest toy.”

I obligingly lift my legs, in trepidation seeing the sight of the wooden pole, but still eager to feel it immobilising me utterly. Inserting it all the way up my bowels takes an age, but when it slots home, I am rewarded by an amazing feeling of fullness that stops me moving my torso completely.

Leon begins to fill the coffin with sand, fine white sand streaming down between my legs, filling the empty space around me. He places a box over my chest and stuffs the arm openings.

“To keep the sand away from your chest. It wouldn’t be good if there was no space to breathe.”

Sand fills the space around my arms, the space around my head, around my belly and hips.

“Wriggle your limbs back and forth a bit, to help the sand settle.”

I do as I am told and watch as Leon adds more sand to fill the space that the settling sand has left. Finally, the lid is lifted on the coffin and for the first time, I can watch myself get locked away. The metal clasps pull the lid down tight, squeezing the sand around my body. The goggles switch off and I suddenly find myself alone in the dark, utterly immobile in the tight embrace of the sand. Between the hard wooden box, the compacted sand around me, and the massive dildo in my gut, I cannot move an inch, not a fraction of an inch.

When the goggles switch on again, they show the garden and the 4-foot-deep hole I dug yesterday in a secluded corner. He is going ahead with the burial! We’d agreed on it, but I was never sure that it would really happen. I am only now starting to realise how helpless I am like this, how vulnerable I will be under a couple of feet of dirt. After a while, a trolley carrying my coffin comes into view, pulled by Leon, pushed by an unknown man. 

“This is Aaron, whom I met online,” Leon tells the camera. “He has a fetish for live-burial and has offered to help me today.”

I cannot feel how I am pulled off the trolley and dropped into the pit, but I can see it happening on the screen. It is weirdly disconnected, as if it isn’t really my burial that is happening. The guy starts shovelling the dirt back into the hole. Leon places the bottle of food in a plastic crate next to the grave.

“I will come feed you every day; the catheter tube drains straight into the sandy ground underneath you, so that doesn’t need my attention. There is nothing stopping you staying in there for a long time.” 

After ten minutes, there is no sign of my grave, other than the freshly turned soil, the plastic crate and the breathing tube sticking a foot above the surface. Underneath the ground I’m completely immobile, tightly contained and rock hard. For the next month I will be utterly at the mercy of my boyfriend.

The camera is still running as they go back inside, Leon chucking it on the sofa where it gives me a weirdly angled view of the sitting room. Leon must have forgotten to turn it off, but I am grateful to have the connection with the outside world for just a little longer.

Leon comes out of the kitchen and places two glasses of red wine on the coffee table. The unknown guy, Aaron, walks into view, topless showing off a beautifully sculpted physique. He sits next to Leon and leans over him, wrapping his arms around my boyfriend. They kiss, slowly and intensely.

“I understand why you wanted to get rid of him.”

“Hmm, I do feel bad about it, but we couldn’t go on.”

“Don’t feel bad, he is where he wants to be now.”

Leon sighs with a mix of regret and relief. “Yes, I know you’re right, he has wanted to be buried in total immobility for ages.”

“And now he can enjoy it for the rest of his life…”

Aaron bends over Leon again, his fingers unzipping his fly.

“Fuck, it that still on?” Leon gets the camera and switches it off properly, bathing me in total pitch-black darkness.

My mind is a whirlwind of emotions. Fear, betrayal mostly. Buried like this forever? Completely immobile, never able to move again, the huge wooden cock inside my arse for the rest of my life? But excitement too, excitement that I am helpless to stop them, unable to get out. Excitement that this nightmare is also the dream I have fantasized about all my adult life. I am so hard, harder than I’ve ever been in my life, but completely unable to help myself get off.


Leon closes his zip, while Aaron puts his shirt back on. 

“Do you think he bought that?”

“It will have caused doubts, I am sure. Even if he doesn’t really believe it, it will play on his mind for the rest of the month he will stay buried.”

Aaron grimaces with excitement. “Bloody hell! A month buried in complete isolation; just the thought is making me hard. Hannah is going to wonder what she did to deserve all the sex she’ll have this month. I’ll come over on the 12th for the digging up. Can’t wait to hear how he fared.”



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