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RIDE TO GREENVILLE
Fiction by
*****
After the first hour along
back-roads, the countryside had turned into miles and miles of fruit orchards
and not much else. It was then that the heavens opened. We're not talking
about your usual English rain, but torrential, stinging, hard and heavy continuous
downpour which reduced visibility to a matter of yards. There didn't seem
to be any houses along the route, just wire fences with signs warning ' Private
Property: Keep Out or else!: Fence electrified'. So when I at last saw the
lights of a very countrified little roadside diner, it didn't look exactly
inviting - but at least until the rain let up, even this dump would be better
than nothing.
A couple of beat-up pick-up trucks stood dripping in the dirt parking lot,
and several other wrecks of cars and trucks littered the back area. Three
cheap neon signs promised Budweiser, Millers and 'Eats day and nite'. I positioned
the bike clear of various streams which were washing away the muddy parking
area, and made for the steps up to a bedraggled wooden veranda, keeping my
helmet on as protection against the rain until I was safely through the solid
wood door.
My visor steamed up as soon as the warm fug of the interior hit me. I fumbled
with the unfamiliar straps of the borrowed helmet and eventually wrenched
it off.
The picture that met my gaze was like a scene from a low-budget movie; tawdry
bar with split leatherette bar stools, a few plastic tables in booths, pool
table and vintage juke box. The inevitable Country & Western corn-ball
music was churning out although the place was virtually deserted. A couple
of Norman Rockwell old folks in dungarees were playing a game of pool, a waitress
who looked as if she had been hired by Central Casting was appropriately over
made-up, over the hill, bored out of her mind and busy working on her nails.
As I stood there with water cascading from my shiny black PVC encased form
I must have looked like a visitor from another planet. But the local inhabitants
just stared at me for a few seconds and then seemed to retreat into their
rustic stupor as cows might do when grazing in a field.
It was at this moment that the scenario suddenly clicked into a different
gear. Out of the Gents toilet emerged the wildest fantasy of many gay men:
a solidly built ruddy-faced, tangle-headed young son of the soil. His grin
made him totally unthreatening as he mopped at his brawny neck with a towel.
To make it sound even more like a masturbatory mind-fest, this chunky young
late teenager was wearing rubber hip boots turned down from the knee. I'd
fantasized for years over images of American fire-fighters stomping around
with their waders turned down, comfortably at home in such gear. And here
was this kid, exuding confidence and good will - and he was carrying a heavy
black old-fashioned oilskin coat; the stuff that my dreams are made of.
What happened next I could not have invented even in my wildest of dreams.
He suddenly saw me, stopped dead in his tracks with the towel arrested mid-rub
and exclaimed, "Wow! Where'd you come from? Outer space?" And before
I could make any response, he'd thrown the coat down onto a bar stool and
was heading straight towards me.
"Where'd you get that suit?" he demanded. "Fantastic! Here,
friend, you drip all over Madelaine's floor and she'll beat you with a broom."
With that the kid began to towel down the shoulders of my suit, quickly working
down to waist and then moving behind me still rubbing the slick PVC vigorously
with his towel. My eyes met those of 'Madelaine', who looked up from her nails
and without a change of her bored expression said dryly; "Only if getting
beat with a broom is your 'thing'."
The two old guys at the pool table sniggered at this less than subtle innuendo,
but my mind was distracted by the kid's vigorous rubbing around my ass and
thighs and in between my legs from behind.
"This suit is magic," enthused the kid, but his strong hands suggested
a totally uninhibited freedom from any sexual implications. He knelt behind
me to sop up more moisture from where the suit covered my boot-tops. As his
hands and the towel explored the bulk of the boot clasps under the shiny elasticated
fabric he exclaimed again; "Jeepers, these boots are something else!".
And suddenly he was kneeling in front of me and rubbing down the front of
my legs before turning his attention to the side-buckling of the boots, feeling
at them through the PVC covering.
With my helmet, I attempted to hide the uncontrollable bulge growing inside
my lightweight jeans under the tight-stretched suit, but the boy was still
drooling over the bike boots; "Wow! These are something else. I never
seen nothing like these!"
Totally preoccupied with his self-appointed task, he took the now sopping
wet towel over to the bar. The, surprisingly he moved behind it, wringing
it out in the sink. "You want something?" he asked ingenuously as
he ran an unseen tap.
"Er, coffee?" I hazarded.
"I'd avoid the coffee if I was you," was his cheerful reply.
"Git out from behind my bar, Darryl," growled the waitress with
no visible sign of emotion. "You wanna beer?" She aimed the question
at me in a tone which warned me not to complicate her life. She was drawing
beer before I'd got around to nodding - because Darryl had emerged from behind
the bar, adjusting his crotch and stomping over to retrieve the oilskin coat
he'd tossed aside on seeing me.
This gave me time to take in more details of the youngster as he hung his
coat up, wiping off more rain from it in the process. I could now see that
his boots had internal straps at knee-level. These kept the heavy boot tops
from dragging the boots down his lower legs. He was wearing what locals call
'Farmer Johns' which are bib-and-brace overalls. The faded denim fitted tight,
perhaps a size too small for this growing lad; was he eighteen yet, I wondered?
A wide leather belt cinched in his trim waist and emphasised his solid chest.
Denim shoulder straps of the tight dungarees pressed well in over his faded
check shirt and broad shoulders.
My eyes returned to his boots as he stomped back to a bar stool. My life-long
lust after industrial protective and rain gear was in overdrive, but I was
very conscious that one wrong move might get me arrested or into more serious
danger in this remote red-neck territory. Madelaine plonked the beer on the
bar with a hint of warning that I should put my eyes back in their sockets.
Or had she noticed the bulge under my suit at crotch level? I turned away
to put my helmet onto a booth table and take the opportunity to pull at my
crotch to ease the tension. As I returned to collect the beer, I un-Velcroed
a hip-slot of my suit and fished around inside the thin fabric for my jeans
front pocket to extract some cash.
"Jeepers! That sure is some suit," said the boy. "Looks real
practical. How waterproof is it?" he asked.
"Very," I said, trying to discipline my mind into a suitably 'all-guys-together'
mode.
Having thrown a few bills onto the bar I then opened the front zipper of the
suit. The elasticated fabric immediately sprung open chest to waist and I
indicated that my thin shirt was dry. Without any inhibition, the kid moved
to stand directly in front of me and feel the inside of the front of the suit
fabric. This brought us practically nose-to-nose, but he was intent of confirming
that the inside of the fabric was in fact dry. His hands explored further
upwards inside the suit to feel under its shoulders. Having confirmed that
the inner surface was dry, his brawny fingers then felt my shoulders through
my shirt, drawing his hands down to confirm that my shirt was dry.
"No sweat," he confirmed then added, "I mean, not only waterproof,
but the suit don't make you sweat none inside it."
But I was sure the sweat was gathering on my brow as this mind-numbingly healthy
young animal breathed sweet breath into my face. He grinned a crooked grin;
"Them old oilskin coats can have you wetter on the inside than what rain
they keeps out, but I don't mind that sometimes."
He punctuated this remark with a sudden knowing wink before moving back to
a bar stool, saying; "Madelaine, hun, put me another beer on my tab would
ya?"
"Have one on me," I blurted, and perhaps something in my tone made
the waitress reply, "He's got more'n enough cash to buy his own beer
- thank you."
The 'thank you' was added as an after-thought, and her tone was not lost on
Darryl.
"You'd think she was my mother, wouldn't ya!" he smiled.
"Well I ain't," she snapped, then added with an arch of a painted
eyebrow, "spite of anything any folks around here might say to the contrary!"
The two old guys at the pool table guffawed but she silenced them with a look.
Darryl grinned mischievously over his beer. "I should hope not, considering
some of the things you and my brother was getting up to when I was a innocent
young kid!"
"You was never no innocent young kid, buster."
She turned her gaze on me; "Don't take nothing this little shit-kicker
tells you for God's truth, friend. Do not trust him one inch, or his damn
brother neither."
The stern gaze cracked into a grim twinkle and the kid rose to the moment.
He grinned at me; "Madelaine and me goes back a long ways, and I mean
further back than the woodshed out back here when I was only twelve."
A wet dish-rag suddenly cracked around the youth's face and head like a bullwhip,
before the waitress turned nonchalantly to busy herself at the back counter.
Darryl produced a sizable slate-blue work handkerchief to wipe his face, still
grinning. "She can get real mean sometimes - but she has a heart of gold
- as anybody in the district over the age of eight will tell ya - if'n he's
male!"
Madelaine's shoulders told their own story of refusing to be drawn.
Darryl and I pulled on our beers, each waiting for the other to speak.
"So, where you headin'?" he asked eventually.
"San Francisco," I said, wondering what sort of response this information
might provoke.
"What in this weather, in one day?" was his practical first thought.
"No, I plan to drop by Yuba City and perhaps Monterey and then take my
time up the coast for the next two or three days," I confirmed.
There was nothing wistful about his next remark; "I've never bin outta
this valley excep' with Donny to the annual market in Fresno . We got a good
fruit farm, an' there's more'n enough to keep us busy all year round. This
here's the slow time specially when it's wet. I was taking an afternoon off
to pick up some supplies when my old truck died. I just stood for an hour
outside here in the rain tryin' to fix it."
"Well, at least you were dressed for it," I risked, nodding towards
the long oilskin coat and his boots.
He grinned. "Like I said, you can get plenty wet inside one of them old
coats. But they're great when you need to tend trees in the pissing rain hour
after hour. I always keep a couple of sets in the truck, but today the truck's
fucked."
"Language!" interjected Madelaine, "Did you call Donny and
is he on his way to get you?"
Darryl suddenly was looking a bit sheepish as he admitted; "Well, er,
Donny ain't answering the phone."
"Why not? He can't be out working in this weather. I know you two's both
crazy, but - in this weather?" reasoned the waitress.
"Well, no, but he - er - just ain't pickin' up the phone," said
the youth with a tinge of embarrassment.
And I speculated on what brother Donny might be getting up to.
"So what'ya gonna' do, Darryl?" insisted the waitress, "Sit
here and drink yourself stupid - stupider?"
The youth was beginning to buckle under her insistence; "No! I thought
I'd wait 'til Tommy Lee or somebody'ud stop off here on their ways home after
work and they'd give me a lift."
"You thought!" scoffed Madelaine, "That'll be the day. Well
I can tell you, if Donny has to turn out in this weather to come looking for
you, young feller, I wouldn't like to be in your shoes - boots!" she
added for emphasis.
My mind raced to how I'd just love to be in his boots.
Darryl was getting defensive. "Well he won't come lookin' for me, neither.
An' that much I do know, so there! An' if I do wanna stay and have another
drink I will - and some of the guys will stop by here - eventually!"
He drained his glass, resolutely.
"Err … ", I started, my mind racing. "How far and in which
direction?"
The kid looked at me, his worried brown eyes suddenly brightening. "You
mean, on your bike? Gee, I never been on the back of a bike. My Momma wouldn't
never …"
"Well, when the rain lets up a bit," I hazarded, because it was
still bucketing down beyond the veranda.
"You got your suit and I got my coat and boots," urged the kid enthusiastically.
"I never pay no mind to rain, not when I'm dressed for it."
A kindred spirit I thought, my mind racing with an enthusiasm to match his
own. But there were practical considerations including how old this kid was.
"I, er," I began, "I don't have a second crash helmet and …
"
"I got a good head-cover in my coat pocket - the best - and it's only
two miles - mainly off-road - An' if it comes to that, you won't see no local
police out in this weather, no sir!" He then laughed excitedly. "An'
even if we did, the Sheriff's office and me's had a sort of understanding
for a lot'o years. If they don't give me no grief I don't give them none.
I know a few things about Sheriff Macklin not exac'ly playin' by the rules
- things he would not like talked about, no sir - 'cos my cousin Jake's a
Deputy, so I know. An' I knows things about our Jake too! Things that'd make
your hair curl - wouldn't they, Madelaine?"
"Don't you involve me in none of your feudin'. You an' Donny'll one day
push your luck too far with Sheriff Mac."
"Yeh! Fun though, ain't it!"
Madelaine's eyes told their own story of past run-in's between this tough
young kid and the local law, as he returned his pleading eyes to me: "So,
if you wouldn't mind giving me a ride on your bike and getting me home I certainly
would be in your debt - an' it would certainly be a welcome opportunity -
riding a bike, I mean - an' it won't take you much outta the way you're heading."
The eagerness in those luminous eyes was impossible to resist, and the prospect
of a ride in the rain with this hunky youth clinging on behind me, him dressed
in his heavy oilskin coat … !
The sober side of my brain told me that even with no serious prospect of it
turning into anything more, this would be a ride to remember. Irresistible.
I drained my glass and plonked it down. "OK, grab your gear. It's still
pissing down."
"Language!" intoned Madelaine automatically as Darryl started to
haul his boot-tops up his muscular thighs and clip them onto tags attached
to his leather waist belt.
My eyes were on him as she continued; "Thanks feller. His brother keeps
him on a tight leash. I wouldn't like to see him get into no trouble."
Perhaps there was a word of warning in her statement. But my eyes were fixed
on the swirl of oilskin as the brawny kid climbed into the old-fashioned heavy-duty
fabric of the voluminous coat. My mind was racing. I was initially disappointed
that the coat didn't have the sort of metal clasps which had always excited
me on American fire-fighter's coats (I'd always had a lustful eye for detail
on such gear). But this coat had substantial snap-fasteners. These were all
closed in seconds, the kid being so familiar with the process. Then, from
a deep pocket of the tent-like coat he produced a solid-looking leather strap.
This he skilfully wrapped around his waist and tightened it to keep the coat
from bellying out. Obviously he was totally at home in the massive garment,
and I reminded myself that men who regularly work in such gear were seldom
turned on by it.
My mind strayed back to him saying earlier that he kept a couple of such coats
in his truck. I wondered if I could wear one for the ride to his place, just
for the hell of it. But, by this time he had also produced a pair of long
and heavy industrial rubber gloves. These he deftly pulled on and tucked them
well up inside the wide coat sleeves before closing the inner cuffs of the
coat tight to seal in the gloves.
The process of getting rain-proof continued as the oilskin head cover he'd
mentioned emerged from the seemingly bottomless coat pockets. This complicated
device had a peak (bill as the Americans call them), and fitted tight around
the outside of the high coat collar, where snaps fastened it at the back before
two more secured cross-over flaps snug across his throat as a seal against
the rain. A second flap higher up the hood was then snapped with some effort
tightly across his lower face until only two glistening brown eyes twinkled
back at me.
Dragging my mind away from this oilskin packaged young God, I zipped up my
suit, closed the high tight collar and grabbed my helmet and gloves which
were still inside waterproof mitts. Darryl was out of the door before I had
time to thank the waitress, who eyed me quizzically before my head disappeared
into my bike helmet. I beat a hasty retreat and found Darryl, all black and
glistening from boots to hooded head, standing beside the bike in the still
torrenting rain. I could sense his eagerness to climb aboard, but I was still
finding my way into gloves and mitts. I then had to raise my visor and ask
(shout) to him, "Which way?"
From behind the wall of heavy oilskin which covered his mouth he yelled back;
"One mile," as he indicated the road ahead with the wave of a rubber
covered hand, "then left for a ways. I'll signal you with a tap on your
shoulder when we get there, indicate right or left as we go from there."
I nodded, snapped the visor shut and lifted my heavy boot over the bike. I
felt him hesitate before climbing over to settle behind me. The rain drummed
down on us both as his hands slid tentatively around my waist. I felt his
rubber legs finding the pillion stirrups behind my boots and, as the engine
roared into life, I felt strong arms grip tighter around my waist and press
into my tense stomach.
We were on our way and the rain drummed down harder.
Episode Two
It was a cautious ride. My lifelong lust for men in leather and heavy-weather
gear has allowed lots of opportunities. But, after too many good experiences,
it's easy to forget that outside the main urban centres, life can be dangerous
for somebody who pushes their luck.
During the tension-filled bike ride into nowhere, I gave my self several warnings.
This kid had an older brother, and both were well known within a close-knit
community which does not necessarily play by the rules.
What was it this kid had said about the local Sheriff not always sticking
to the rules? - and his young cousin being a Deputy. One false move and I
could be in deep shit, and maybe not get out of the County in one piece. I'd
often wondered what it might feel like to be tarred and feathered. So, drop
the kid off and get on my way, tempting though he was.
After we'd turned off the main road, the dirt road wasn't as bad as I'd expected.
The, gate-posts of a fruit farm looked well maintained, in fact quite prosperous.
What did come as a surprise was the distance from the entrance past straight
rows of newly planted trees before a substantial old homestead came into view
through the rain. At the gate into the yard the kid hopped off the bike, opened
the gate and signalled me through. A pen of cackling geese kicked up a menacing
racket as Darryl closed the gate, impervious to the downpour. Standing grinning
and glistening, his rubbered hand beckoned me to follow him to a small barn.
This he opened and I coasted the bike in. All wrapped up in his belted coat
with storm headgear and boots all running with water, he looked terrific.
Once inside he pulled the door closed behind him, but there was still plenty
of light.
Relieved to be out of the rain and away from the noise of the geese, I wrenched
off my helmet. My suit was awash but I knew that inside I was dry except that
my dick was sticky. He just stood there. He spread his arms wide and revolved
slowly like a man on a cross. He seemed to be exhilarated by the bike ride.
Perhaps the kid knew he looked great. Perhaps he was just glad to back home
and dry.
I smiled as I climbed off the bike and set it on its stand.
But suddenly my blood
ran cold, because a few feet off the floor I saw hanging two other oilskin-coated
figures arms also spread wide, each dangling from a rope and pulley. Rubber
hip boots hung beneath each of these apparently crucified figures. Quickly
I looked back to Darryl, but all I could see were his shining eyes framed
in the oilskin storm helmet. He continued to hold his arms spread wide at
shoulder height as he walked towards me.
Again I looked back to the two other hanging bodies, and only then realised
that these were no more than two coats hanging with long horizontal bars through
their sleeves, each with a pair of waders slung beneath them. They hung close
to a small hay-loft, a platform about ten feet off the ground in the wooden
barn, just the sort of place I'd read about in Larry Townsend's fictional
tales of rural S&M and highly charged sex. I struggled to banish such
imagery from my mind as young Darryl tugged at the face-flap of his helmet.
He indicated the hanging oilskin coat-and-boot sets. "These things get
mildew if they're not dried off. A couple of hired help use them out of season.
There's a dozen more for fruit picking time." The kid pulled off the
helmet and shook out his tousled curly hair. He looked flushed and adorable.
His innocent exuberance was breathtaking.
"Great ride! Did your suit keep the rain out?" he asked. "This
coat did, although I built up a good honest sweat in it. Always do."
His rubbered fingers ripped at the leather belt which was now sodden and difficult
to release from its sturdy buckle. He pulled it free and suddenly cracked
it like a whip towards me. The soggy leather made a sharp sound. The kid,
grinning, twice more demonstrated how he could make the belt whistle and snap.
I smiled and set my crash helmet down on the bike before removing my sodden
mitts, pulling the leather gloves off with them. He had dropped the belt and
was opening his long coat.
"Jeeze, it's hot inside here! Come inside and feel." And before
I realised what was happening he had walked up to me and closed the coat around
the two of us. Pressing my dripping PVC suit close to his denim-covered chest,
he wrapped his arms around me in a bear hug, grinning into my face.
"There's room enough for two in here! I just love the feel of oilskin
and plastic. It makes me so H.O.T. Me and my brother wear it a lot'a the time,
even when we don't need to sometimes," he said as he continued to hold
me trapped inside his coat. "And this suit o'yours is somethin' else."
"Er, don't you think we ought to go in and meet your brother? Let him
know you're home," I asked.
"Oh, he knows I'm home. The geese are our watch-dogs. He will have heard
them, and he's used to waiting until I'm good and ready before I gets home."
With that statement he released me and began to remove his coat. My suit had
wetted his denim bib-and-brace overalls above his waders. I noticed for the
first time a considerable bulge at his crotch. He seemed to be totally unaware
of it as he grinned at me. He then held up the great black coat in two hands
and playfully shook it towards me. Water splashed in my direction. I was completely
waterproof apart from my face, which was suddenly wet. He shook the coat again,
like a matador goading a bull. Was he inviting me to retaliate?
I decided on a diversionary tactic. "Can you still buy that kind of coat?
You don't see anything like that in England."
"That where you come from? I guessed it was from somewhere funny. Yeh,
sure you can buy 'em. If you want one, we get 'em on a discount."
I looked towards the two hanging coats. "I can see that. They look good
up there," I said.
"They feel even better," he replied moving towards a third hanging
bar. It was a piece of steel scaffold pole with two metal loops welded about
a foot apart at its centre. Two chains attached the bar to a single pulley
rope. My practical mind immediately wondered how the waders were hung from
inside the two coats I could see.
He seemed to hesitate while unhooking the bar to hang his still dripping coat
on it. "You wanna try it on before I hang it up?" he asked, laying
aside the bar and offering the coat.
I was tempted, but still determined not to push my luck too far with this
innocent. His elder brother was somewhere around.
"Come on," urged the kid. "It's still warm! These damn things
can get real stiff when they're cold, I can tell ya'. But then they can get
you hot real quick. Try it on. I think you'll look good in it specially over
that suit. That will really cook up a storm."
The rain hammered down
on the tin roof of the barn, and my brain was in overdrive, as was my cock
inside my pants. It was too much to resist and, as he continued to hold up
the coat, I slipped first one arm and then the other into it. He was quick
to start closing the collar, and then the other heavy-duty press-stud fasteners
down the front. The snaps at waist and crotch level pressed hard into me as
he forced them closed. After stooping to close the lower fastening on the
long coat, he picked up the leather waist strap.
"Here," he said, "this keeps the front from getting in the
way when you're working."
I was about to refuse the offered belt when he commanded; "Hold your
arms out wide to the sides so when it's belted your arms ain't restricted."
I did as ordered, and grinning broadly into my face, he reached around me
and slipped the belt into its buckle, cinching the strap tightly. The thick
oilskin gathered into deep folds which the kid's workman-like hands quickly
evened out.
"Don't lower your arms yet," he said, and from nowhere produced
another strap which he deftly wrapped around me at armpit level. When this
was cinched to his satisfaction, he ordered; "Now lower your arms. See!
That keeps the coat snug and the sleeve-ends well up when you're working in
the rain. But you should have gloves on too, o'course."
He was busily peeling off the long industrial gloves he'd been wearing and
didn't seem to notice my protests that I'd got the general idea. Holding out
one glove for me he insisted. "Come on, it's well slickered up with my
sweat. Push your hand down into it."
His enjoyment of the situation was impossible to resist, so I complied first
with one hand then the other. He easily manoeuvred the long rubber gloves
up into the wide sleeves of the coat, almost up to elbow level. "Them
coats are quite something, ain't they," he enthused.
It felt a bit oversized, but so did my dick inside this wrapping of oilskin
over PVC. But he was right, it was quite a trip. I tested what movement was
left to me in the restrictive coat. It felt, smelt and even sounded great
as I flexed my shoulders within its confines and pushed against the inside
of the wide sleeves with my elbows. My PVC suit slid around against what I
now realised was unlined oilskin. I suddenly regretted that I wasn't wearing
rubber waders as the kid stood watching me, his legs well apart in his high
rubber hip boots. I looked down to where my shiny PVC legs showed below the
duller fabric of sticky oiled canvas.
"See. It ain't restrictive," said Darryl, "not unless you want
it to be," he added, his weather-beaten face grinning from ear to ear.
This remark had made me look back up at him suspiciously. "What do you
mean," I asked.
"Well sir, me and my brother sometimes have a bit of fun with a new hand
by slipping the pole in the sleeves while they're wearing the coat for the
first time. "
"The pole? What, the hanging pole?"
"Yes, indeedy," the kid chortled. He turned away and picked up the
nearby pole. "See, the sleeves are wide enough. If you tell 'em to hold
their arms out sideways when you're putting the belts around. They need to
test if they have enough arm movement like you did. So, hold your arms out
straight sideways."
"Now wait a minute," I started but the kid was thoroughly enjoying
the moment.
"Go on! Hold your arms out and I'll show you how easy it is to - come
on now!" he insisted and somehow I knew I was going to let him show me.
I raised both arms sideways and allowed him to start to slide the five foot
long metal pole into one sleeve. It travelled easily up the arm and across
the shoulders inside the loose coat. I even raised the opposite arm so the
pole could run smoothly into the opposite sleeve until, cuff-to-cuff my arms
were held rigid.
"Ain't that great!" crowed the kid. "These coats is so tough
you can't even rip 'em apart. You try."
And I did try, because my arms were totally immobilised by the pole. I attempted
to bend my elbows but the fabric held. I tried tilting one arm down and the
other up, but it would take more than that to slide the pole out. I flexed
again, and by now my cock was rampant and I gave it all I'd got in an attempt
to get free.
Behind me, I could hear the kid laughing with delight at my gyrations. "That
looks great! Give it all you've got," he encouraged. I was just about
to start trying with one hand to slide the pole back up one sleeve, when from
behind me I felt the kid attached first one of the chain snap-hooks dangling
from above onto the centre of the pole and then the second, both inside the
collar of the coat. These would now prevent me from sliding the pole out,
and I was tethered.
"See!" I heard him say, "The coat is tough enough to even hang
somebody from it."
I felt the chains tighten against the pulley rope and the pole rose until
the coat was held taught under my wide-spread arms. I bent my legs to test
the fabric of the coat and was able to hang my full bodyweight from it until
I straightened my legs again.
"OK, let me down now, Darryl," I said, trying to keep any tone of
panic out of my voice.
"Aw, c'mon," he complained. "It's only a bit of fun. I thought
as you'd like to see how we do it. You said you like these coats. With a couple
of extra straps, around the tops of each arm and the pole and they can fix
you good - and with less strain on the coat if you're hanging in it for a
couple of hours."
From behind I felt a strap circle my arm close to the shoulder, then one on
the other side. I was ready to start getting firmer with my demands for him
to let me loose when a brawny hand from behind my head clamped itself over
my mouth. A voice close to my ear spoke soothingly; "It's only a game
we play, me and my brother. My big brother. But we don't like a lot of hollering
and argument," and then the hand relaxed and freed my mouth.
"Come on, Darryl," I insisted. "Let me loose - please."
No reply from behind me.
"Darryl! Enough is enough!" I repeated more firmly.
"Yes, indeedy. Enough is enough complaining!" and I recognised the
sound of adhesive tape being ripped from a roll. The wide tape was across
my open mouth before any sound escaped from me, and it was twice around my
head and wrapping my face from nostrils to the point of my chin in seconds.
After that I felt him tape first one of my thickly gloved wrists to one end
of the pole. And there was nothing I could do to prevent the same happening
to the other.
My legs and booted feet were all that were left free of restraints, and I
should have anticipated that my movement would attract the attention of this
rural con artist who had well and truly suckered me.
Some sort of efficient spreader bar was between my ankles and being tightened
around each boot before I sensed it happening. Obviously this was a process
he was familiar with. Despite any resistance from me, the bar was then somehow
lengthened to force my heavily booted feet apart until they were practically
off the ground. Silence fell, and the only sound was my restricted breathing
behind the tape which immobilised my mouth and cheeks.
Darryl appeared in front of me, grinning delightedly. His ruddy face still
looked like the face of an innocent, but a new taunting edge was now in his
voice; "How ya' doin' feller? Enjoyin' the game so far?" he asked.
A hand slid inside the coat, and strong fingers explored my crotch. With that
he grabbed and squeezed my balls painfully through my thin PVC suit, and from
behind the tape I let out a yell.
"That's what I like to hear! You should hear the way brother Donny hollers
when I'm working him over - which I often do. He may be five years older'n
me, but he likes it when I tie him down and make him mad - but I know he likes
it really because he often allows me to take control and push him to his limits
- and beyond."
Darryl began to press his rubber booted legs against my stretched body, rubbing
himself against me and forcing me backwards off balance until I hung from
the bar and my boots were off the ground but he kept talking into my face;
"Ever since we was kids, we knew what had turned my Daddy on. And he
would wallop us, yes sir. And us kids soon learned between us how to give
and take pain. Not beating always, but slow and deliberate uncomfortableness.
It toughens you up. My cousin Jake was another 'un who could take it as well
as dish it out. And soon as he was old enough he couldn't wait to join the
Sheriff's department to share in Uncle Mac's particular sort of devilment.
Donny and me'd been giving Jake some serious toughening up since we was all
knee-high. An' poor Jakie-boy, now he's a genuine enforcer of the law, he's
even more fun to tie down and for us to challenge his authority."
The caressing hand was forcing its way between my thighs and exploring the
PVC covering of my ass. A strong finger was trying to insert itself despite
the elasticated PVC covering. I flinched and writhed within the limits of
my spread-wide arms and tethered feet. Darryl suddenly stepped back a little,
leaving me to regain my balance.
"Well, I guess it's
time to introduce you to Donny. He's in the loft just above us and he's bin
hearing some of the goings on down here. But he ain't bin in no position to
come down and introduce hisself - since early this morning, in fact, when
I strapped him to a cot up there. Cos, you see, we take it turn-and-turn-about
to get creative. Ever since we first found where our Daddy hid the books he
got by post - from San Francisco . That Larry Townsend has a lot to answer
for, all them hot stories about carryings-on in barns and bunk-houses. When
you told me you was on your way between Los Angeles and San Francisco I had
an idea you might know a thing or two about such things. So, … " said
the kid moving to the cleat which tied off the rope connected to the hanging
chains, "I'll take you up so's you can meet Donny. He's had a nice fat
dildo up his ass and big rubber plug in his mouth (both mail order from San
Francisco) for the past few hours, and his cock and balls are locked into
a neat device that switches itself on and off at unpredictable times and can
drive you crazy. He loves it."
The kid now held the rope ready to pull on it, but he moved closer to me;
"And you're gonna love it, too. Us country folk may not travel to Los
Angeles or San Francisco or London England, but the Internet is a wonderful
educational tool. And we hay-seeds ain't bad at inventing our own little variations
on what you city perverts get up to."
With that, he pulled on the rope and this tough kid had no problem with lifting
my full bodyweight. I realised that with a double pulley block rig, he had
total control and, although revolving slightly, my crucified carcass was hauled
up until my feet were level with the edge of the hay-loft.
I could no longer see Darryl, but I now had a grandstand view of a hunk of
a man in army coveralls, efficiently strapped down to a narrow metal cot.
Gagged and totally immobilised, his crotch was encased in a metal contraption
with a wire running from it to an electrical socket on the wooden wall. I
pictured myself as I dangled there, arms sticking out rigidly on either side,
encased in heavy black oilskin coat with leather straps at waist, chest and
around my upper arms, and PVC clad legs fixed wide apart, heavy bike boots
clamped by an iron brace.
From the cot, the gagged man lay staring at me; his tough masculine weather-beaten
features straining sideways against a high leather collar which immobilised
his neck, to get a better look at me. Suddenly Darryl was up in the loft,
grinning. Standing there in his denim overalls and still glistening rubber
waders pulled thigh-high, he looked like the modern equivalent of a juvenile
delinquent action comic hero rather than villain.
With glee he introduced us; "This here's my brother Donny. Donny this
here's somebody from London, England. I brought him for you to play with -
that is, after I've had my own kind'a fun with him - 'cos I aint gonna let
you loose for at least another couple o'hours. "
Donny was obviously not happy with that information, because suddenly his
strong square face contorted in rage and every part of his impressively muscular
body fought against leather straps. But, from work boots to the seriously
high neck brace, every joint in his body was efficiently held captive. Darryl
watched his brother's genuinely furious efforts before turning to where I
hung just clear of the platform; "I like it when he gets mad! What are
you like when you gets real angry? Perhaps we shall have to find out."
With that he reached across the void and grabbed me by the leather belt at
my waist and swung me towards the edge of the loft floor. He'd judged the
height well when hauling me up. My boots were just low enough to hit against
the edge of the loft platform. By sheer muscle power the kid dragged me onto
the platform. When I found my feet I was able to stand up - as long as Darryl
kept me from swinging back off the platform. Obviously this was a procedure
he'd done many times before, because hanging from a handy beam was a metal
hook on a short rope. When this was attached to the rope I'd been dangling
from, I could now stand and not swing back off the platform. The spreader
bar between my ankles was wide, but just above my head, the hook kept me upright,
if uncomfortably off-balance.
Darryl had moved away
and was dragging a small metal table towards me. I stood there, arms stretched
wide on either side, breathless behind my taped mouth.
Having positioned the table contraption (because I could now see that it had
eye-bolts attached at many points and some straps), he stooped down and with
practiced efficiency, screwed two of the table legs to metal anchor points
fixed into the wooden floor. He looked up at me with a smile.
"You're not so tall as Donny. When he's bent over and strapped to this,
his ass is well in the air so I need to stand on that small box to fuck him.
I guess with you I won't need no box." He winked and walked towards me.
"But with that suit of your'n under that heavy coat, the ass fucking
will have to wait for another time, tomorrow perhaps." He had unclipped
the hanging chains, and with brawny hands supported me as he urged me forwards,
the rigid bar between my ankles forcing me to push one boot at a time or fall.
With arms braced outwards by the pole across my shoulders and down each sleeve,
I had to go where he guided me. Soon I was standing crotch against one end
of the solidly constructed table. The top of it measured no more than two
foot by three, and my spread boots were outside the table legs. Unable to
look down, I felt first one and then the other ankle somehow fixed to the
table legs. Behind me I heard Darryl walk away.
My eye caught that of the immobilised man on the cot. The table had been positioned
so he was able to watch me, and our eyes met for a long moment, before a sudden
pumping and electrical buzzing at his crotch distracted his attention. The
milking device (which I had lusted over in a sex toy catalogue) had sprung
into action. I watched the desperate writhing of this rugged rural specimen
as he was forced closer and closer to orgasm. Again his muscled body fought
against the many leather straps and his imprisoned neck lurched painfully
from side to side.
I suddenly realised that Darryl was standing just behind me also watching
his brother. Conversationally to me he said; "I wonder how many times
he's been forced to cum since I first switched that thing on five hours ago."
And with that, Darryl strapped one of my knees to the table upright, and then
repeated the process on the other. I was in no position to comment or put
up any resistance, so I just stood watching the bigger man dealing with yet
another electrically induced orgasm and the after effects.
Eventually his eyes connected with mine again, and this time somehow we shared
a moment of strong rapport.
But, from behind me I suddenly felt a leather collar circle my neck. It was
perhaps not as tall as the neck brace Donny was strapped into, but it forced
my tightly taped chin and cheeks upwards. It had two if not three buckles
to keep it snug around my throat, and a metal click informed me that Darryl
had now attached something to the front of it. I soon knew what this was,
because he had moved around to the other end of the small table to face me,
a leash rope in his hands. Smiling into my eyes, he slowly pulled on the rope,
forcing my neck forward so that I had no option but to bend forwards over
the table, my arms still spread wide. His great brown eyes sparkled as my
gagged face was dragged closer and closer to his crotch. The table top was
short enough to leave my head beyond the end of it when my chest was on the
table. Straps fixed me to the table top before a hand lifted my chin even
further. The denim bulge flanked by the tops of his rubber hip-boots now pressed
itself against my taped mouth.
"See what I mean," I heard the voice above me say, "no need
to stand on a box to face-fuck you. Donny may need to bend his knees a bit.
Perhaps he will fuck you one end while I fuck you the other. Toss a coin to
see who gets to fuck which end first. But o'course, we'll first need to strip
you outta that coat, and that suit of your'n cos I wouldn't like to damage
it. In fact, I can't wait to try it on. An me and Donny'll enjoy showing you
just how good we are at keeping somebody well helpless all the time we're
workin' on 'em. We've had years of practice"
All the time he was talking, Darryl was grinding his denim crotch against
my face provocatively. "But no real damage. Don't worry none about that.
Just a lot of show-and-tell - and hard action both in the barn here and out
around the farm. An' you may get a chance to show us what you like's best.
Fo'example, I just love to watch Donny get fucked. And he has sometimes invited
somebody to do their worst with me - so it's all good honest turn and turn
about - which is only fair."
Suddenly, the denim crotch moved aside, and now I was almost eye to eye with
Donny on his cot. His face behind the efficient leather cover of his stuffed
mouth, had changed. His brown eyes were smiling - and his smile, even when
gagged, was as delicious as that of his kid brother.
It was at that point that I decided, even if I never got to San Francisco,
my journey might have a happy ending.
THE END
Jim Stewart.
May 2006
http://www.houdini-connections.co.uk/4-info/pubs/storylines.htm