Story

Forlorn Hope – Part 05: Things Fall Apart

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By DR754

Today is Monday, August 8, 1967.

I’m scribbling this entry on toilet paper in a cold, dark holding cell in the Franklin County Jail in Hampton, Iowa. You see, it turns out the “town museum with the bars on the windows” I was wondering about, was actually the county jail. Built in 1880, or so they told me.

And I, a fugitive from justice, was dumb enough to park in the jail driveway. Fucking brilliant.

You see, shortly after drifting off to sleep, I was rudely awakened by a burly man in a “Correctional Officer” ballcap, rapping his nightstick on my car window. I tried to shake him off, but the message was clear – open up or else.

Uh oh. This is a problem. And where the fuck did a correctional officer come from?

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Story

Forlorn Hope – Part 04: The Road Ends Here

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By DR754

male bondage stories Hampton JailToday is Monday, August 8, 1967.

So far, so good. In fact, I had a brainstorm about halfway through South Dakota – what if I changed into my uniform? It’d break the description they had of me from court, and even though I wasn’t law enforcement, what cop is even going to pull over, much less question, a man in a federal ranger outfit?

Working around the handcuffs made things just a bit awkward, but I felt comfortable, almost confident again wearing my greens. I made it all the way into Minnesota without spotting a single trooper, then turned south down Highway 65 at Albert Lea. Corn, corn, corn, and more corn – but I didn’t care about corn, I cared about cops, and there were none to see.

As I entered the one-horse burg of Sheffield about midnight, I glanced at the gas gauge – damned near E. A couple lights were still on at a Casey’s gas station, but how to pay for it? My wallet had been tapped out back around Sioux Falls.

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Story

Forlorn Hope – Part 03: Men Plan, Gods Laugh

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By DR754

Today is Sunday, August 7, 1967.

Blasting through empty stretches of Wyoming just after daybreak, I plotted my next move. This whole “escaped convict” thing is a little more complicated than I thought. It’s not like I regret my decision to run, but I can’t just keep running forever – my only hope is to find somewhere to run to.

Deep in my soul, a shred of conscience took the opportunity to be heard.

Come on now, you’re smarter than all this. Do you really think they won’t catch up with you? You could just pull into the nearest sheriff’s office and give yourself up, you know. End this madness now. You might still have a chance to cop a plea. Tell them you were scared, say you just snapped and went insane at the thought of going to prison. They can’t hang you for that, can they?

I briefly contemplated the thought. But my mind kept returning to what I knew awaited me at the Idaho State Penitentiary. Even if I escaped the gallows, what would I get for almost killing a cop? Another 10 to 30? Plus, what, five years for escape?

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Daily Thread

Jesse is hung from the bondage cross and whipped

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At Dream Boy Bondage, Jesse can’t believe what is happening to him. Hanging by his wrists and ankles, strapped to a cross, not even a foot off the ground, is tormenting his body in ways he didn’t think possible. Every muscle in his body is fatigued and straining. He must lift himself up to breathe, but his muscles give out and he collapses, forced to hang from his wrists, over and over. The loincloth around his hips droops so low that his pubes and top inch of his cock are visible. The man torturing him pulls up his loincloth – presumably to hide his cock, so that what is about to happen to him can be televised – then, he whips his chest and stomach. Still, after a few lashes, the loincloth is ripped off, exposing his beautiful cock, and the whipping resumes. His tormentor strokes his straining muscles, appreciating the warmth of his pain, then leaves him to suffer, naked and alone, for hours.

Jesse is hung from the bondage cross and whipped

See the video at Dream Boy Bondage

Title of this video:

JESSE STONE – Political Prisoner – Chapter 5

Dream Boy Bondage Jesse Stone