All posts by Bikermike

Story

To Defile

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By Bikermike

Defile (transitive verb) to befoul; to pollute or corrupt; to violate (Chambers 20th Century Dictionary 1983 edition)

I walked round, assessing what needed to be done. How long would it take? What instruments would I need?

I gave a few prods and punches to the object hanging there in the middle of the room. I suppose it could be described as a perfect specimen of masculinity, secured by chains from its wrists to an electric winch attached to a beam across the ceiling. It was naked except for a tiny pair of red lycra shorts that left very little to one’s imagination: if its penis became erect the shorts would be of little use as far as modesty was concerned.

This boy (for that’s what he was) was, I suppose about twenty five, six feet four with a swarthy complexion, zero crop hair and with about a week’s beard growth on his face. He also looked as though he had spent every day for the last eight years in the gym.

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Story

Crucifixion

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By Bikermike

I knew that I’d deserved it. Sentenced to eight hours on the horizontal cross. I started to psyche myself up for the torture that was to follow. I also thought back to my misdemeanour that had brought me to this.

Master had brought six of his mates round from the leather bar. As his sub I was instructed to kneel naked before them and fellate each in turn. I was made to kneel on sharp sticks with a concrete weight placed behind my knees so that the joint spread out. (‘Knee spreader,’ my master called it). As always, my wrists were secured behind my back with cable ties. I was never permitted to orgasm during these ordeals. Master would wank me brutally if I had pleased his guests. If I hadn’t, I would get a beating or worse.

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Story

Bike

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By Bikermike

‘As your punishment for not being able to make me come boy, you will try to excite me by my watching you on the exercise bike that I’ve modified!’ Master said with a chuckle.

I had been kneeling, naked before Master with my wrists cuffed behind my back for twenty minutes working my tongue and lips round his cockhead without success. This was despite him working the back of my head with his hands up and down, sometimes gently, others aggressively. Throughout this ordeal, my own cock remained rock hard.

Master’s body was what every slave would wish to serve: he was mid- forties, gym-muscular but stocky, wearing only a leather body harness and sporting a massive ten-inch erection.

He pulled me up by my ear and dragged me over to the exercise bike. ‘Here boy; see how I have modified the seat,’ he explained, ‘that spike will fit up your arse. It shouldn’t hurt as you sit on it as it’s no wider than a pencil. Your wrists will be fixed to the handlebars as you can see, with these solid manacles, which I’ve welded to the bars. You won’t be able to get off the seat because…’ he pointed to a heavy-looking metal bar hinged to one side of the seat ‘this bar will fit round your waist and will be locked in place.’ He released my wrists from the handcuffs. ‘Now get on it!’

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Story

Cards

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By Bikermike

The “game,” if it could be called as such, was very straightforward. It consisted of an ordinary pack of playing cards; fifty-two in total, if you do not count the jokers. The pack is shuffled and four cards are dealt from the top of the pack and the face value of this fourth card is noted. Another four are dealt and again the face value of this card is added to the previous value. All the cards are dealt in groups of four and the values of each fourth card added to the rest. There are fifty-two cards, therefore the whole pack requires thirteen groups of four cards. The value of the ace is of course one, the jack eleven, queen twelve and the king has the value of thirteen.

A mathematician would be able to calculate the odds of each sum total of the thirteen cards, but I am no mathematician so I estimate the average total would be in the order of

52 x 6.5 divided by 4 = 84.5

These were the rules explained to me by someone whose profile I was fascinated by on Recon. He went on to say that we would meet at his place, not too far away; either he or I would shuffle and deal the cards (it wouldn’t matter who) and note the final value, then the pack would be shuffled again and we would then pick a card each. The one picking the higher face value would then be given as many strokes of the belt as the total score of the thirteen sets of four cards.

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Story

Iron

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By Bikermike

I parked the bike up just outside the guy’s door and rang the doorbell. I waited for a minute or two and thought, ‘Is he going to answer? Have I wasted a fifty mile journey?’ Then the door opened suddenly.

‘Hello, come in!’ the guy said. I entered and he closed the door. ‘Get your gear off!’ he commanded, ‘I’ll be back in a minute as I need a pee.’ He disappeared into the hallway.

I glanced round the room and noticed a solid wrist and neck bar, standing ominously in the corner, propped against the wall. I took my bike gear off, then my T shirt, pants and socks and stood there completely naked.

The guy returned and said simply ‘Put your wrists up so I can fit the bar!’ I did as I was told and in no time I was fixed in the contraption.

‘Hmm!’ the guy said as his hands explored my chest, nipples and abdomen. ‘Bit hairy! I like that!’ He fondled my hardening penis and cupped my balls in his right hand. ‘You said you liked a bit of tit play. Now tell me what you don’t like!’

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Story

Brothers

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By Bikermike

It was my own fault; I should never have contacted them on Recon in the first place.

My life is now one of abject slavery, a pain-slave to three lads, the oldest of which is twelve years my junior.

I have to report to them every weekend and undergo degradation, torture and humiliation for the full forty-eight hours. I am forced to do this through blackmail. However, there is always a frisson of enjoyment on my part: I’ve always fantasised about being a slave, especially to younger men.

Each Friday I turn up at their house and once let in I have to strip naked. The oldest gives me my ‘uniform,’ which consists of a tight butt-plug, which he inserts brutally; a steel collar, a ball and chain attached to my right ankle and a heavy steel ball-stretcher or a scrotum shackle.

I am then forced to fellate each of them in turn: failure to please results in a flogging across my arse or back, the number of lashes depending upon the whim of the flogger.

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Story

Cellar

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By Bikermike

I must say that I can look back to what happened to me some six years ago with a degree of fondness and if I am honest, more than a soupçon of a sense of security. Strangely enough, I can remember verbatim the early conversations we had in the first few days of my captivity. Whether it was because of the shock of something terrible and new I have no idea. The following six years I remained as this guy’s captive seemed like a blur of memory; akin, I suppose to what some might refer to as “institutionalisation.”

I was eighteen and was hitch-hiking home from the city centre one night in the pouring rain. I cannot remember the type of vehicle that stopped; perhaps a Range Rover. The driver – I suppose in his forties and of stocky but muscular build reached over to let me into the passenger’s door. ‘Where are you off to, mate?’ he enquired. I explained that I lived a further ten miles up this particular road and would thankfully appreciate a lift, given the horrible weather. I climbed in and put on the seat-belt.

I can remember the guy rummaging in his glove compartment and pulled out a small box of what I supposed were peppermints: something like “Tic-Tacs.” ‘Here! Have a mint, mate, it’ll warm you up!’ he said as he shook two into my hand. I thought the taste was a bit odd – pepperminty but also bitter.

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