Journal to Hell – Part 01

By rts

male bondage storiesI’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.

I tried it on, my vision was restricted but I could see well enough to ride, the nasal tubes felt strange, the mouth tube definitely screwed with my attempts to speak, I could manage some weird sounds with plenty of drool. I could hide the hood by wearing my full-face helmet with the dark visor. I was concerned with having to talk to anyone on the road.

My bike only holds maybe 2.5 gallons of fuel, and that would give me a range of barely 100 miles. I contacted him again expressing this concern, but he assured me that there was a gas station at his location. He then ordered me to call him Sir, and leave the next morning after showing me locking myself into the hood online, and to keep my leather jacket zipped up and gloves on during the trip, no mater how hot it gets.

Eager to get an early start the next morning, I took the bike out to fill up the tank, returned home, took a shower, decided to sleep in my leathers, put on the hood without locking it and went to bed.

I was horny all night with the hood getting uncomfortable. When I got up I pulled on my boots and stood in front of the mirror but held off playing with my cock. I then went online and tried to contact Sir hoping to get an early start this July morning before it got too hot. I tried for two hours before he came online. The first thing he demanded I show him was me the locking the hood. He then ordered me to put on my gloves, drop my leathers, pull my cock out of my leather jock and jerk off before the camera.

He laughed when I shot my load, told me not to clean up but to shove my cock back into the jock and pull up my leathers.

“Now that you’ve cum you should be more uncomfortable as you sweat away in your hides on the road, and you will not open your jacket or remove your gloves or any of your leathers on the trip.” He then signed off.

I grabbed my helmet and a water jug, went out to my bike, getting slammed by the heat (it was now after 10 am and the temp was in the 80s). I pulled the helmet over my hood, kick started the machine, now starting to sweat as the sun heated up my hides, and headed out.

A few miles from my place I took the turn off onto the old country road, the pavement was bad, broken up with stretches of gravel and dirt, I had to slow down, I had thought that it would only be a two-hour ride, but at this pace it would likely take four or more hours.

My harley being a rigid with no rear shocks, I was getting hammered at anything faster than first or second gear. The sweat inside my hood was stinging my eyes, my helmet visor was fogging up, my leathers soaking in sweat as the sun was baking me and the heat from the engine slow cooking my legs. There was no shade on this desert track. I struggled keeping the bike upright thru stretches of sand as I fought to keep from dropping the heavy machine and getting pinned under it. I had to stop several times to drink my water, now feeling miserable in my heavy leathers now soaked in sweat, only self discipline and the thought of pissing off my Sir keeping me from pulling off my jacket. I felt like a prisoner in my gear and really wanted out of it.

The hours slowly passed, it was now after 4 pm, the hottest time of the day, and the road was in better shape. I had used up most of my fuel running in mostly my lower gears, but up ahead I could see a cluster of old buildings, maybe a dozen lining the “main” street. Searching for some gas station I notice a few young cowboys in tight levis and tall boots hanging around looking me over and pointing. I see a few skinheads in tight bleachers and 20-hole ranger boots checking me out. Up ahead there is an old run-down gas station. I pull in as my bike sputters and the engine dies, I’ve run the tank dry. Leaning against the lone pump is a battered sign: “No Gas.” My heart drops, “OH Fuck.” Here I am, stranded, most likely looking like a freak in all my leathers when it must be 100 degrees here and wait till they see me locked in this hood!

According to Sir’s directions, his place should be a short walk behind the gas station. As I get off the bike and walk over to the door of the station I see someone inside. Opening it I am greeted by a tough-looking skinhead, and like the others I’ve seen hanging around, he is wearing tight, piss-stained bleachers and 20-hole boots.

“Take off that Helmet, boy,” he says, and as I hesitate two cowboys from the street grab my arms and hold me from behind, as the skinhead unstraps and removes my helmet. They all laugh when they see my hooded head.

“This leather fag is locked in this hood. Boy, you are in big trouble, it’s illegal in this town for bikers to be wearing full black leathers during the summer, only faggot leather fetish lovers would be so geared up in this heat and that leather hood confirms it.”

I attempt to speak, but my words are more grunts and garbled with this mouth tube I’m trapped in.

“The sheriff is on his way,” one of the cowboys says.

I’m in fear of what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. I keep trying to say Sir but it just sounds like I’m barking. Where the hell is Sir, he can get me out of this I’m thinking.

The sheriff, another fucking cowboy, arrives and pulls my arms behind my back and locks me in handcuffs. “Take him out back, boys, and put him in the block house and get his harley out of sight.”

The block house is a concrete building with a steel door. Pushing me inside, they make me kneel down. The sheriff stands in front of me. “Gag him, boys,” as he hands them a rubber ball gag which they tightly shove into the mouth hole of my hood and strap it on. “For violating the town ordinance of being a biker wearing full black leathers during the summer in town and further flaunting the law by wearing a leather hood, you are sentenced to 30 days leather hard labor, you will be restrained in steel leg and wrist shackles wearing your full leathers and boots 24/7 only getting release every seventh day for personal clean-up, you will be punished for slacking off and poor behavior. Do you understand?”

I shake my head and grunt my protest. “Boys, get a posture collar on the prisoner and take him to a cell and chain him to the wall and leave him in cuffs.”

“Tonight you will be left as you are, tomorrow you will be further prepared,” he says to me.

A tall leather posture collar is quickly locked around my neck a lead chain is locked to it and I am shoved into a small cell. About eight feet square, a squat pit toilet against the center of the back wall with a water tap above it. My lead chain is locked to one of several bolts embedded in the concrete walls, preventing me from standing. There is one caged light bulb overhead, and there are no windows. The steel door with a small barred window is slammed shut, and I am left alone.

I am scared. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Has Sir set me up for this? It’s hot in the cell, I’m still sweating in my leathers that are soaked and heavy with my sweat, my jaw aches with the tight ball gag, there is no comfortable position I can sit in with my hands cuffed behind my back.

I quietly sob and curse my leather fetish that has landed me here, and my cock gets hard.

To be continued …

leather jeans tucked unto my 18-inch westco boots

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