Journal to Hell – Part 03

By rts

male bondage storiesBut 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.

My cock is straining in its confinement, and I shoot my load. My skinhead tormentor releases his hold and stands up, still straddling Jake’s body. He pulls out his cock and jacks off over both of us. Laughing, he smears it over Jake’s head before giving him a solid boot to his butt. The cell door slams, the light goes out. I want to hug Jake, but my arms are still cuffed behind my back. He lies still with his face in my crotch, whimpering and sobbing as the shocks continue, his body reacting in spasms.

I’m suffering in this fucking hood I’ve been locked in since this morning, with the damned tube in my mouth frustrating any attempt to speak. It is a long night, impossible for either of us to sleep.

The light comes on as the cell door opens, the same two skinheads enter, grab Jake by his boots and drag him across the dirt floor of the cell to the squat pit toilet. While one skin attaches a hose to the faucet, the other unlocks the rear strap on Jake’s harness, pulling it down, releasing the steel butt plug from his tormented ass and then unscrewing it from the harness strap, handing it to the other skin who washes it with the hose. He then pushes the hose into bent-over Jake’s butthole and proceeds with the enema, flushing him out several times over the squat pit, each time extending the time Jake is forced to hold the water as he groans in discomfort.

They close the zipper on the butt of his leathers, pulling the leather strap tight and locking the harness. One of the skins holds the rubber muzzle up to Jake’s mouth. I see it has a rubber tube fitted like the one on my hood. He straps it on tight, locking it in place, then both skinheads unlock his lead chain from the wall and pull him out the cell door, his chains rattling as his boots shuffle across the dirt floor.

I am left alone for a while, and then the two skins return. “We are taking your leathers and you to be prepped for your work sentence, but first we must see how well you eat cock.” One skinhead walks over, standing close to me, his boots planted on either side of my hips, opening the fly on his bleachers, pulling his cock out, spitting on his hand, grabbing it, then shoving it into the mouth of my hood. With his other hand grabbing the back of my head, he begins to thrust. I gag. It’s difficult to breathe. I smell his sweat and stale piss as he presses home. He rapidly humps my face, and his salty cum fills my throat. He shouts, “Swallow it all fag boy.”

He doesn’t pull out. Still holding my head tight against his body, he begins to piss as I gag to try to swallow the foul liquid. He finally pulls out as the last stream of his piss runs over my leathers. I am humiliated. I have never drunk piss. I am scared and so helpless.

Both skins now pull off my boots, undo my belt and remove my leather jeans, then my leather jock. They unlock my lead chain from the wall and stand me up. One of them unlocks my cuffs while the other holds me firmly as the other removes my jacket.

They pull me by the chain. One of them is carrying my boots and leathers, and I am trembling in my nakedness as they lead me from the cell outside past some booted cowboys who laugh and shout, “good luck fag,” into another building. There are several skinheads standing around hooting at me as they grab me and bend me over a narrow work bench, spreading my legs and strapping them to the bench legs on one side and repeating this with my arms on the other.

My posture collar limits me to only see the floor. Someone unlocks my collar, and then the lock on my hood. I am warned to not struggle or look up. There skin holds and another begins shaving my head. Someone is probing my butt crack and rubbing something around it that starts to heat up, while someone else is reaching my hanging exposed balls and doing the same around them with the same effect. The heat turns to a burning sensation, and I try not to shout.

I am released from the workbench and taken over to a shower and ordered to clean myself inside and out. The water washes away my pubic hair and butt crack hair. A skinhead says it is permanently removed. I give myself an enema. I dry myself, the posture collar is again locked around my neck, and held by the skinheads while a metal seed-pod chastity cage is fitted over my cock and balls and locked in place. It feels heavy as it pulls down my package.

A smiling skinhead now shows me another “punishment” seed-pod, open, and I can see it is lined with small spikes. He laughs, “Now don’t screw up fag or you get to wear one of these.”

I am fed, served some sort of liquid protein drink. A rubber muzzle with mouth tube like Jake’s is shoved over my mouth and locked on. I am then taken back to my cell and again chained to the wall but not shackled. It’s a long day sitting on the dirt floor, staring at my locked seed-pod and hating being naked, missing the restrained, encased feeling of my leathers. The thought of being in them all the time starts making me hard, but the painful steel contains my cock. I can reach the water tap and the pit toilet, so I can dribble my piss out the drain hole in the pod into it.

The hours crawl by. I wonder if Sir actually is a real person? Or have I and the other five leather men been targeted by our fetish and lured here to be prisoner laborers for some sicko? The hours drag by before I finally hear the skinheads ordering the prisoners shuffling with rattling chains in the hallway outside the cell. The door opens, and Jake is pushed in and pulled to the opposite wall to be chained for the night. His mouth muzzle is not removed, so he is unable to speak to me.

We are left alone. I crawl over to him. “Jake, I’m Dirk,” I say as I wrap my arms around him, my lead chain pulling tight on my collar. I kiss his muzzled face, and I run my hands over his imprisoning leathers. Lifting his arms, he drops the chain from his wrist shackles over my head and down my back, pulling me tight. He is sweaty and tired from the day’s hard work. Moving his hands down my naked back, he manages to probe my anus with a gloved finger, his dirty leathers pressing into me as I enjoy his smell, only wishing that I too was in my leathers.

The light goes out, and we both fall asleep, holding each other.

The sudden light wakes us as the two skins come into the cell.

“Morning fags, time to get working.” They roughly pull us apart. One of them drops my boots and leathers and a harness plus a set of shackles at my feet while the other preps Jake for his daily enema. I pick up my leathers, now heavy, being riveted together into a one-piece suit with the word “prisoner” painted in yellow on the back of the jacket. I see the new brass zipper up the butt and the added ring on the jacket zipper for locking me in. It’s a bit of a struggle pulling the jeans on and working my seed-pod through the open crotch. I pull the jacket on and zip it closed.

The skinhead quickly locks in to the front D ring only collar. He hands me a pair of wool work socks, and I pull on my boots, tucking my jeans into them. He then gives me a pair of leather gauntlets to put on before he locks the wrist shackles over them. He quickly secures leg irons around my boots and then fits me into a very heavy leather harness containing a metal battery pack attached to the back. He has to unlock and remove my seed-pod to fit my cock and balls through the cock ring attached to the harness strap, and wasting no time he manages to squeeze my cock and balls back into the seed-pod and lock it closed, then pulling the thick strap from the cock ring thru my crotch over my butt pulling it tight as he buckles and locks it to the back of the harness.

My cock is fighting for room in the damn seed-pod. I am having mixed feelings, enjoying the restraint of my leather gear and harness, great to feel the leather on me, yet realizing I was now a prisoner in my gear for the future, my fetish fantasy darkly realized. Holy crap, I am truly fucked! The final moment of fear hits me when the skinhead shoves the rubber muzzle over my mouth with its attached tube fitting into it and I can no longer speak, my eyes tear up.

Jake’s lead chain is locked onto the front of my collar, and we are pushed from the cell, down a hall where the other four prisoners are waiting, three chained together and Jake is chained to the last one. The six of us now shuffle outside, and the desert sun hits us and my leathers are heating up. All the others’ leathers are filthy and show much hard wear. I stick out in my almost new shiny hides.

Fuck, this is just the first day of my supposed 30-day sentence

To be continued …

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2 thoughts on “Journal to Hell – Part 03”

  1. Any story featuring use of a depilatory cream gets me hard, permanent deplilation gets me throbbing and the thought of being locked up long term with the addition of extreme electro just makes it perfect. I would love to find myself in this position – only thing missing is the insertion of a LONG flexible sound or electrodes fitted permanent to the balls so the electric shocks would be felt so deep – would be so severe.

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