Saturday (day one)
They put this amazing heavy rubber suit on me, the only entry was thru the neck hole which they held stretched open as I squirmed myself into it’s well lubricated interior. The suit had attached feet but no gloves or hood, a short zipper sealed access to my bung hole (I would be able to take a dump but had no access to my cock) . They told me as the neck snapped closed tight around my throat that there was no way that I could get myself out of this suit without their help.
They sealed the neck and wrist openings to my skin with some rubber adhesive and told me that the bung hole zipper closure was also a leak proof seal. They said I would have to piss inside the suit as I lived in it for the week that I had agreed to and nothing could leak out. (I was a little uneasy about this but the idea of having no choice in the matter got me hard). It had no gloves or hood they explained, so that I could be wearing my work clothes over it all day as I went to my job sweating inside the rubber covering without anyone knowing unless they could hear the occasional wet squishing noises brought on by the build up of the sweat and piss contained inside the rubber as I moved my body.
Continue reading One Week?
The light comes on, the cell door swings open, another day of hell begins after another miserable night in sweaty leathers with butt plug torment. A single skinhead steps in and says, “Fag prisoner #5, get your butt over the squat toilet and present your ass.” Jake crawls on hands and knees, chains rattling, over the dirt floor and waits by the pit. The skinhead unlocks and removes jakes’s muzzle and the crotch strap from the harness, unzips his butt access and proceeds with the enema.
Looking over at me says, “I haven’t forgotten you, fag, enjoy this.” He then presses a control on the remote box he carries, and my butt plug starts vibrating with a new intensity as my cock tries to respond in the painful constriction of my seed pod.
“Listen up both you faggots, my two mates and I have a plan to get you poor sorry leather fags out of this hell hole and us with you and stick it to that fucker overseer skin and some cowboys. We can get you your bikes, gas and all your personal IDs. Me and my two mates have also been trapped here for months with the same future you all have.
Continue reading Journal to Hell – Part 05
My harness is restrictive, stiff and heavy. The tight crotch cradles my butt and affects my walking. The other prisoners all have shaved heads and look to be around my age and physical build. There are three skinheads walking with us, and each has one of those control-box shockers that seems to control two prisoners. A fourth skin (the one from the gas station) is definitely in charge of the others. All four of them are booted in 20-hole Rangers, dirty Levi’s bleaches held up and pulled tight on their butts by braces and showing significant bulges, mostly stained with piss.
The three in control of us all have zippers down their butts and look to be in their late 20s. The fourth skin (the overseer) walks down the line of us and with a black felt tip writes a number on the back of our shaved heads, from 1 to 6 (Jake is No. 5 and I am No. 6). He gives the order to the controlling skins, “Move these fags out.”
Continue reading Journal to Hell – Part 04
But although he succeeds in opening the snaps on the fly of my leather jeans, he is frustrated and unable to reach my cock and balls as they are tightly contained by my piss-soaked leather jock. He moans, his body suddenly jerks with another shock, and bites down hard on my encased package. As I grunt with the sudden pain, the skinhead re-enters the cell, laughing at the sight. “Great to see two helpless leather faggots trying to eat cock.”
He walks over, straddling Jake and sitting down hard on him, pinning his head tight into my crotch. He shoves a water bottle into my mouth and squeezes, forcing me to gulp down the entire contents. Holding the empty bottle tight into my mouth, he pinches closed the nose holes of my hood, and I struggle for air while Jake is desperately reacting to multiple shocks and his inability to breathe with my wet jock rammed into his face.
Continue reading Journal to Hell – Part 03
Looking around my cell (as much as my posture collar permits), I see several chains hanging down from the ceiling, several eyebolts imbedded in the walls, the floor is dirt, and the air is hot and stifling. I am thirsty. The ball gag is getting unbearable. I’ve been here for a while, maybe 2 hours. I can’t move around much with my collar chained to the wall. I have to piss, and my arms cuffed behind my back are beginning to hurt.
I hear some noises outside my cell, rattling chains and heavy boots stomping along, someone shouting “move it fags” and a few heavy doors slamming and then the sounds of a key unlocking my cell. The door opens and a leather-clad and muzzled prisoner is shoved inside followed by 2 skinheads, one holding the chain locked to the leather man’s posture collar, the other holding what looks like a remote control box.
“Halt Fag” the one holding the box commands, and he immediately stops. The skinhead looks over at me. “Take a good look you sorry faggot, this is your immediate future.”
Continue reading Journal to Hell – Part 02
I’m a leather-loving biker riding an old rigid harley chopper, always in my boots and full hides. I made contact online with a man with similar interest, exchanging photos, both of us into just living in our leathers all the time. He invited me for a meet-up if I agreed to his conditions. I was to wear only my leathers, my leather jeans tucked unto my 18-inch westco boots, gloves on and naked under the hides except for a leather jock and pack, no other clothes. He would ship me a leather hood with an open lock but no key. I was to put on this hood and lock it while live on camera for him to see on the day I was to head out. I was turned on and agreed to these conditions.
A week later the hood arrived along with a crude map and directions to a small almost abandoned town in the desert about 100 miles down an old country road. The hood was hot, with small ”pepper pot” eyeholes, two small nasal tubes and a mouth hole lined with a rubber tube that would keep my mouth open, making it difficult or almost impossible to speak. The zipper pull down the back would fit over a small lock post, through which I would be able to fit the enclosed lock.
Continue reading Journal to Hell – Part 01
Is anyone out there able to help me? I am stuck here, all my clothing has been taken and I have been left wearing this tight rubber catsuit which I can’t remove, as the entry zipper which runs from the top of the attached hood down my back and thru my crotch can’t be un-zipped past the posture collar that is locked around my neck nor past the thick rubber corset which is also locked around my waist.
I have been trapped in this suit for two days now and the tight rubber has become very uncomfortable and rank with my sweat (fortunately I can at least un-zip my crotch to relieve myself all though I am wearing a locked steel chastity belt shaped to fit around my waist under the catsuit ) I have been living on bread and water and liquid protein which I can just slowly work into my mouth through the small mouth opening in the hood, the stiff posture collar and tight heavy corset make my movements painful and breathing labored.
The attached gloves and rubber boots squish with the accumulated sweat. there is nothing in this room I can use to cut off this suit and it would be impossible to cut thru the thick collar and corset anyway. “He” warned me not to damage the suit in such an attempt or he would never unlock the chastity belt. Leaving me here in this small room two days ago “He” left thru the unlocked door. (“Where would you go dressed like that and without any money, it’s miles back to your place,” He laughed, “you would probably get the crap beat out of you by the local street punks before you got to the end of the block, and if that happened and your suit got damaged you can forget about ever getting out of that chastity belt, boi.”)
Continue reading Unchained prisoner
I am wearing my 20-hole steel toe Rangers with tight black thick leather pants tucked in. The leathers have a removable codpiece, and centered over my butt is a round opening directly placed to give access to my butthole. My upper body is clothed in a tight leather shirt over which I am zipped into a heavy black collarless motorcycle jacket. My hands are gloved in leather gauntlets. I am standing in a very warm underground concrete cell waiting in silence and dressed as I was told to be.
Over my head there is a chain hanging from a pulley. The end of this chain is attached to a hand crank mounted on one wall. The cell is about 12 X 12 feet, windowless with only a steel door for access. I am excited standing here uncertain of what’s to come. I have only met this leather wearing skin online, I wanting to experience an inescapable bondage weekend in full gear, and he wanting to put a booted guy in some uncomfortable restraints getting off on watching the struggle. After discussing the gear I would be wearing, agreeing to be under his total control for the weekend, and he to respect my limits I prepped myself by fasting 24 hrs before our meet and gave myself a good cleanout. Following his instructions I found his place late Saturday morning and let myself in the back door then down the stairs to this underground cell. We had only met online and talked on the phone about our interests and we hit it off.
Continue reading Thirty Hours