Solitary 1888

By ty dehner

The desert sun was brutal on my black riding leathers; while they were constructed with venting, the color just absorbed the heat. Of course, the air temperature was 105 in the shade, so riding my Ducati XDiavel Dark on the highway with no shade meant it was hotter than hell! Crossing the desert near the Mexican border on Interstate 8 is a barren wasteland. Just sand dunes, as far as one can see. Occasionally, an ATV blasts through the golden sand out on the dune. RVs are parked at the base of the dunes, as these ATVers spend the weekend out here working up a sweat on their fun machines.

As I watch the sculptured dunes pass from behind the shield on my full-face helmet, I am reminded of the Star Wars movie where Jabba the Hut’s barge was destroyed. Those scenes were filmed in this desert many years ago. Now, the area is filled with guys wearing space-like helmets and heavy gear on their ATVs.

This wasn’t just some random adventure; I had a plan. As I was traveling east on the interstate, I was approaching the state line of California and Arizona after coming from San Diego, where I live. My eventual destination was the southeastern corner of the Grand Canyon state, with a few days in the old town of Tombstone.

Even though I am currently geared up in full modern-day riding leathers, I am a nut about the old West. I’ve always had a thing for the dress of those days, cowboy boots, leather holsters, long duster coats, and they always seemed to wear tight gloves. I go to the rodeo as much as possible, participating in the roping events. I’m damn good at it, having practiced on a few regular submissive boys.

My backyard has a small patch of soft dirt where I put the boys in some boots and Wranglers and have them run around with a bull head with horns. Lassoing them, I drag them down, where they roll in the dirt after being hog-tied. I almost always end up popping my nut as they get dirty, struggling in the bondage, gagged with a bandana. If the boy is one of my regulars, they end up with a load of my seed in their ass, plugged, then sent home in their tight Wranglers.

As my boot shifted my bike down a few gears, I had to slow down as the traffic thickened, crossing over the Colorado River. This mighty river is a fraction of what it once was as it barely reaches its destination of the Gulf of California.

The interstate bridge crosses high over the river, and I look out over the rooftops of the old city of Yuma. There are buildings spread out to the southeast, but there isn’t much to the north of the first city in Arizona.

After crossing into Arizona, I looked for an exit to get gas and take a piss, but I saw the highway sign for the Arizona Territorial Prison. Now, that sounded interesting. I’ve always had a thing for cop and prisoner scenes, having spent a long weekend at the old Academy facility many years ago. There wasn’t much rope used, but damn, cuffing a guy in shackles and tossing him into a jail cell for the night is one of the hottest ways to take control!

Taking the first highway exit, I figured there might be some old-time iron restraints, jail cells, and uniforms to check out in this prison. Coming to a stop at the signal, my booted foot went down on the pavement as I paused to see if the way was clear for a right turn. While pausing, I sucked from the water container strapped on my back. The water was warm, but it did moisturize my mouth and lips. My face is protected inside the helmet, but I still get dried out. Sweat drips from my brow as the hard plastic shell is like an oven as I’m crossing the desert.

The drive to the prison entrance wasn’t far as I parked my bike and checked out the prison exterior of stone and iron that was original construction. This former prison was erected on a bluff overlooking the river beside a train trestle.

Parking my Ducati in a spot by the entrance, there were only a few cars in the lot, meaning this isn’t high on many tourists must see in Arizona. Dismounting my ride, stretching my legs, and standing on my booted feet felt great. Removing my gloves, I unlatched my helmet and pulled it off my sweat-covered head. Having a high and tight haircut allows all the sweat to soak into the padding of my black Ruroc Atlas helmet. A blast of the hot wind swipes my face, but it cools me down as it hits the sweat on my skin. Looking at the exterior of this old prison, I take a few more sucks from the warm water before moving towards the main gate.

After paying my entry fee, the state ranger checked me out in my riding gear. I removed my jacket and locked it onto my bike with my helmet and gloves. He probably wondered about my black t-shirt with the Langlitz Leather logo on the front. Wearing my Langlitz leather competition breeches and Alpinestars boots let him know I was a biker, just playing a tourist today. The Ranger wouldn’t know of my twisted imagination as I looked at him in his khaki uniform and smokey bear hat. I wonder if he would give me a personal tour of one of the cells after hours, using some of the small items I have in my side bag. Handing me a map, the Ranger smiled and looked into my blue eyes. I took the map and admired his dark goatee and dark brown eyes, giving him a warm “Thank you.” As I exited the visitor center, I hoped he might ask me what I would like to do while visiting the prison. Something I wouldn’t hesitate to share with a guy like him.

Outside, I started the self-guided tour of the grounds. This prison was constructed on a bluff on the banks of the Colorado River next to where the ferry would cross, taking people from the Arizona Territory into California. Opened in 1876, this was the frontier of western America.

I found the artifacts in the museum interesting, especially the old iron restraints and black and white striped prison uniforms. There were histories of some inmates who spent time at the facilities; some were quite handsome, and others would be very disturbing to know. This was not a great place to spend time, and the guards were sadistic in many ways. In those days, being evil was probably a priority in being a guard in the harsh environment of the Arizona desert.

Moving on, there were rows of the original cells with heavy strap iron doors, truly basic bunk beds constructed of iron in small stone cells. Four men would be in a cell, with only a “honey” pot to care for their needs during the night. There was electricity, but that was the only modern convenience the prisoners would experience. Of course, air conditioning didn’t exist, so they must have endured long, sweaty nights in their striped wool uniform. The days were worse as the open space they could be in lacked trees or shade.

When the inmates were locked up at night, the guards often teased their prisoners with scorpions or rattlesnakes tossed into their cells. While I can be very sadistic at times, not sure I could do that to a helpless or bound man. But I can see how the fear and control of the man would make some truly sadistic men find the experience erotic.

The most interesting spot in prison was called the Dark Cell. I could have never imagined such a place would exist in today’s prisons, but things were brutal back then. Ducking as I stepped through the small doorway in the stone wall, there was darkness ahead down a hallway of about twelve feet; only the light coming through the small doorway illuminated the path forward.

At the end of this hall was a large room carved out of a rocky hill at the southern end of the prison complex. The texture on the walls and ceiling was rough, with the floor being dry dirt. There was no smooth concrete or wood used; it was as if it was a cave. A cave carved out by men to imprison other men.

In the center of this fifteen by fifteen-foot cave was a black strap iron grid secured to the ground. Apparently, there was a strap iron cell in the center, keeping the inmate that spent time in this hole locked in the cell, in the cave, in total darkness.

Entering this cave-like space, I could feel the temperature dropping, as the sun and its heat had never entered. But another sensation caused a slight shiver to my skin even though it was under the long sleeve Under Armor shirt I wore and my riding leather pants. There was no sound other than the dirt and small gravel crushing under my Alpinestars Tech 7 riding boots, the black of the boots now covered with dust.

Slowly walking around the perimeter of the Dark Cell, something was happening. I can’t explain it, but I sensed something different in this space. There was nothing I could touch or factually state was going on. I was alone, but yet I wasn’t. Something was in this cave with me; someone was present.

Making my way to the center and the iron grid, I inspected the metal lattice on the ground, pausing when I thought I heard the rattling of chains. It was brief, not very loud, but distinctive. Pausing my steps, there was nothing but silence. Looking around, I was alone.

Lifting my right hand, I reached out to touch where the iron straps would have formed a solitary cell. Strangely, my fingertips felt cold, as if there was truly iron that I was touching and in the cell. Just then, the chains were heard again, brief yet louder. Looking around with my hand still raised, and no one was in this space with me. As the sound faded, I felt a faint pain in my soul. I slowed my breathing hoping to audibly hear something, but there was nothing. Continuing to breathe lightly, the feeling of pain began to mix with a feeling of pleasure. It was strange, a mixture of pain and pleasure.

I slowly moved my gaze around this solitary space. I understood the combination of pain and pleasure, for I had many a man under my control giving them both of these sensations. Being a leatherman, I’ve been on both sides of those feelings. Though these days, I enjoy inflicting those feelings on a bound man, challenging his mind and sexual desires. Even the sound of chains made me reflect on some of the sessions I have had in my dungeon.

But this was different because the sensation was coming from a man who was alone and depressed where he was. Yet, he was feeling safe. Most of all, I was alone in a fucking cave, yet there I was, feeling stronger and stronger as if there was a man with me.

There was no doubt that when this room was used as it was purposed for, there was suffering, but the pleasure was not something I would associate anywhere in this prison. There had to be guards that would be brutal to their prisoners, some for sport, others living for their need to be sadistic to their fellow men. It would’ve been a power play for them. Just like some Masters that prey on submissives that put their trust in the Master, only to find out they have been used beyond their limits.

I couldn’t shake the senses flowing through me. I decided I would stay a while to see what was going on in the room, fuck, to see what was going on with me.

Slowly, I made my way to the darkest spot that shielded me from the light coming down the hall. I parked my ass on the ground, protected by the heavy leather of my riding breeches. The sound of my boots sliding inward to my body in the gravel was all I heard in this space.

Something was going on here, a feeling I’d never felt, emotions that weren’t my own but were making my body react. Was this a ghost? Hell, I have no idea, but I was intrigued and didn’t want to leave.

Closing my eyes, I let my body relax as I enjoyed the coolness of this dark room. Hearing the chains again, I could faintly see the iron slats that formed the cell in the center of the room; they were several inches wide, not like the jail cell bars of today. A shaft of light came from the ceiling through a small hole that provided ventilation centered over the cell. The strap iron was on the top of the cage, leaving no way for an inmate to escape. This was a cage in a cave. As a man into BDSM, I thought this was a rather ingenious construction to provide no hope to the inmate.

The sharp sound of the chain being pulled taught brought my vision inside the cage. That is where I saw a barefoot, dirty, and sweaty man struggling; rusted steel ankle cuffs were attached to an iron ring that was part of the iron floor bar keeping whoever this was trapped in this darkness.

As my vision focused a bit more, I saw the man’s other foot, also in steel, moving around as if he was struggling. A moaning was now part of the echoing sound in this lone space, with dirty legs moving as much as they could while in the restraints. Seeing more of this figure, he must be a prisoner of this ancient prison, but why can I see him? How can I see him?

I quickly open my eyes; the space is as it was when I entered, empty. Alone, I sit on the dirt with only the light from the hall breaking the darkness. As I take stock of my situation, I slow my breathing and tell myself that I haven’t seen anything. But still, I can’t explain all that I’m sensing. I did see something, and to tease me, my next breath had the unique scent of sweat and piss in a very light way.

Now that wasn’t there before, and I’m certain no one has pissed in this cave for a long time. I had to know more, I closed my eyes again, and there was more to see. Still very dark, there was a thin, gaunt man with his ankles secured in rusted, well-used iron restraints. Even though his ankles were bound to immovable iron, he also had a ball and chain on his left leg, a little bit of dried blood from where the metal cuff must have cut into his skin when he could move about.

It was next that I could see more of this helpless man. He was dressed only in white but filthy linen underwear shorts that fit him loosely. The man was leaning against the flat iron of the cell with his arms in iron and chains high over his head. His body was dirty, sweaty, and over-tanned, probably because of all the sun these prisoners must endure in Arizona. His beard is dark, as is his uncut curly hair.

The prisoner struggles with the metal that keeps him secured for as long as his jailers want. He was struggling because he was soaked with a stream of liquid. It mixes with the sweat that covers his skin coming from his struggles.

I feel my head moving about with my eyes closed when I notice a set of leather work boots with gray wool trousers. The man wearing the trousers is a Guard, wearing his wool uniform jacket, his badge reflecting a little bit of light. With a sadistic grin, the Guard is pissing on the secured prisoner, who clearly is not wanting to be pissed on. As the Guard’s stream of urine ends, he inserts his cock back into his trousers and looks down at the inmate. “How did you let yourself come to his?”

Ending his struggle, the prisoner is humiliated and feels pathetic. “Sorry, Sir.”

The Guard lifts his booted right foot, forcing it into the prisoner’s crotch, crushing his nuts. The prisoner moans as the pain runs up his body. With his hands in steel over his head, the inmate is vulnerable to whatever torture the Guard wishes to impose. There is a sadistic grin on the Guard’s face as the nearly naked inmate struggles in the chains that secure him; the chains echo in the cave.

“Please, Sir, please, stop, please.” The prisoner pleads as tears roll down his face from the intense pressure on his manhood. The inmate struggles with pain, the iron cuffs pressing into the skin of his wrists as his arms are pulled away from his body with his struggle.

The Guard stops stomping on the balls of his captive, giving him a swift kick in the side, shouting at him, “Silence, you pathic shit. Silence!”

Allowing the pain to subside a little, the Guard stands with his boots firmly planted in the dirt as he looks down upon the dirty, sweat-covered inmate. Crouching down, the guard slowly raises his glove hand, brushing the cheek of the prisoner.

“You know how hard it is for me to see you here like this?” the two men lock gazes as the inmate’s bloodshot green eyes look into the blue eyes of the Guard. As the Guard speaks, the inmate struggles to move more upright to release the pressure on his arms.

“That you have been locked away in this space reflects upon me. Sure, no one knows that you are my slave, but I know in my heart. I understand why you nearly killed MacDonald; he deserved what he got. But your temper put you into this hell hole, fuck wad.”

The inmate adjusts his ass as his dirty underwear starts to tent, with his cock getting hard. As a leather Master, I’ve seen guys get turned on by this situation. That these two seem to have a relationship makes me more interested.

“I was protecting your honor, Sir.” the prisoner whimpers through heavy breathing, still feeling pain from the crushing of his balls and the kick.

“Yes, but you are now here, and I do not have your services in my life, do I?”

The inmate shakes his head no, realizing he has let his boss down.

“Then you fuck with the night guard, Jesus, boy, has all my training you taught you nothing about your position in life. You live to serve the man, not fight with them.”

The inmate is silent momentarily, reflecting on what he did to get his sentence into the Dark Room. Slowly, he lifts his head to his Master, the Guard that keeps him locked up, hesitant to look at this tall man with short dark hair and goatee.

“Guard Roy was abusing that prisoner. Inmate Scott did nothing wrong; he didn’t deserve the beating he was being subjected to.”

The Guard kicks the inmate again, “Who the fuck are you to judge what Roy was doing and to whom. Fuck, perhaps you deserve this space.”

“Yes, Sir.”, he responds through the pain.

The Guard takes a tan leather flogger from the back of his belt, pulls it out, and whips it through the air with a swoosh.

“As it was, you ended up here, and the prisoner is now in the hospital with substantial wounds because of your intervention. No, boy, you need to promise me that when you are released from this cell, you will keep your head down and focus on getting back into my service.” With that, the Guard swings the flogger striking the inmate on his bare chest, causing the inmate to yell.

“Yes, Sir.”, nearly screams his response.

The Guard no longer speaks as he repeatedly uses his flogger to strike the helpless inmate. Being naked allows the Guard to hit many areas of the exposed skin. Feeling the sharp, cutting edge of the leather strips of the flogger on his flesh, the inmate struggles in the chains to no avail.

Surprisingly the man remains mostly silent through the torture he is subjected to. The Guard uses this silence as a challenge to make the inmate scream, so the Guard increases the strength of his strikes, now building sweat on his forehead from under the hat he wears.

I can relate to why the inmate is silent as he wants to make this Guard proud of him by taking all the punishment being given. Screaming to many submissives is a sign of weakness, but they don’t realize that the Master loves it when a slave screams. My cock grows watching the struggling as the submissive wants to run and escape, but he can’t. He knows deep inside that he allowed himself to be put into bondage and become helpless, to suffer all a Master, like me, wants the slave to experience.

No doubt, what I am witnessing happened a long time ago, but here was a Master and slave relationship long ago, before such things became talked about in more liberal circles. The Guard, who is the Master, is working his ass off to train this inmate, the slave, to understand the wrong he has done and the disappointment the Master feels as he sees his slave in a cell where the Guard didn’t put his property.

The fight of the inmate continues as the Guard doesn’t let up on his use of the flogger. Over and over, the leather strikes the bare sweat-covered skin, as welts and light cuts show where the flogger has been. The prisoner can’t hold out any longer as the pain is getting intense with the full-strength flogging; he moans at first, then there are a few louder screams from deep in the gut of the inmate. His tears mixed with the sweat from his forehead, and his eyes clenched in pain.

Fuck, what I’m witnessing is hotter than hell, so raw and primitive. I feel my cock growing down the leg of my leathers, the pre-cum allowing a bit of friction on the satin lining of my breeches. This is all a vision. I must keep my eyes closed to see, but the feeling and sounds are real. Hearing the chains rattle as the inmate struggles against them, now begging for the flogging to stop. The iron manacles locked on the prisoner’s wrist are cutting into the skin, which has to add another spot of pain to deal with. Yet the inmate’s tattered underwear is tenting even more.

The Guard seeing the hardness of his inmate’s manhood, turns his flogger between the legs of the inmate. Not being easy, he strikes the inmate’s hard cock and his unprotected balls repeatedly. The inmate can hardly catch his breathing as he is in pain from his welted skin, the iron pulling his wrists, screaming for mercy that the Guard has no intention of giving.

I so want to reach inside my leathers and stroke myself, but I don’t want to open my eyes and perhaps lose this vision that I am experiencing. The last thing I want to deal with today is some tourists entering this space and finding a biker jacking off to nothing but an empty, dark cave.

With the screams echoing within this cave-like room, the Guard strikes the inmate with all his might three more times, moving from his crotch to his chest, then tosses the flogger to the ground. Planting his hands on his hips, the Guard smiles intensely as he watches the sweat and piss-soaked inmate catch his breath, the screams from his dry throat ceasing and going limp in the chains that keep him secure.

Looking down at the inmate, his slave, the Guard speaks, “Fuck boy, this brings back the great times we have had. I will ensure I have a set of these iron restraints made just for you when you get home.”

With his head bowed forward, nearly lifeless, the inmate doesn’t respond as the Guard steps around the chained prisoner, the sound in the room being the heavy breathing of the inmate and the ground crackling under the Guard’s boots. Seeing the spent man stretched out and marked before him, the Guard reaches for the crotch of his uniform pants, adjusting his hard pecker. Gently kicking the inmate in his side, the Guard commands, “Look at me, boy.”

Weak from the torture he has experienced, the inmate slowly lifts his head to lock his eyes on his Master. Seeing the man in the gray wool uniform towering over him, the prisoner tries to smile to please the man who has just tortured him.

Smiling back, the Guard lowers himself to the inmate, lightly sliding his leather-gloved hand across the inmate’s chest. The smooth leather cools the welted skin as it glides on the drying sweat and pisses. “You did good, slave.”

The glove hand of the Guard continues down the chest, over the stomach, and slides under the waist of the underwear that the prisoner wears. Grabbing the inmate’s hard cock, the prisoner shutters to the touch, breathing deeply to the pleasant touch. That touch turns into a strong grip as the Guard squeezes the cock with a firm grip of his glove, which causes a different sensation as the pleasure turns to pain.

I couldn’t believe I had witnessed something so sexual while sitting in the darkened space. This Guard was really creative in his ways of controlling the prisoner, at the same time showing the captive how helpless he was.

Tugging the underwear down, the inmate’s hard pecker springs forward with a sheen of pre-cum coating the head and shaft; the Guard uses the pre-cum for lube as he tightly grabs that cock. With a wicked, sadistic grin growing on his face, the Guard slowly slides his grip with the black leather gloved hand up and down the inmate’s hard dick. This increases the prisoner’s breathing as he finds pleasure in the pain he still feels on his burning skin.

“Been a while since you’ve been able to feel being a man, hasn’t it, slave?”

With his eyes glazing over with ecstasy, the inmate nods that it has been a long while as he moans with pleasure at the touch of his Master’s hand. The chains rattle as the prisoner struggles to position himself to get the maximum pleasure from being sexual. The Guard pistons the slave’s cock quickly for a long moment then stops. This drives the inmate crazy as he struggles against the iron and the chains that keep him secured. The inmate pleads, “Oh, Sir, please let me shoot my wad.”

The Guard slaps the hard dick with his fingers, creating pain for the inmate to endure again. The prisoner moves violently as the wonderful sensual feeling disappears and the pain returns.” I heard about this device that I think would work wonders with you, slave.”, notes the Guard.

“Some of the guys were talking about it a few days ago. They use it on male prisoners to keep their sexual desires in check. It is called chastity, and it is a metal cage that covers your cock and balls so that you can’t do anything to get yourself excited.”

The inmate moans a bit, thinking about having his manhood encased in a cage while, at the same time, not being able to shoot his sperm whenever he needs to.

“I am trying to find someone to order one from or make it for you. It ain’t like it is something in the Sears catalog. Though they do sell them for women.”

The Guard takes his other hand, rubbing the inmate’s shaggy head of hair like a dog, “But you’re no bitch, are you, slave?”

The prisoner shakes his head as the Guard rubs it, “No, Sir.”

“Fuck right!”

With that, the Guard increases the speed at which he is jacking off the prisoner. Forgetting the pain of his flesh, the inmate starts to move to the other spectrum of pleasure once again, the tingling in his cock, the churning of his sperm climbing towards its release.

“Yea, slave. When you have completed your sentence, you’re pecker is going to be locked in metal for the rest of your life. I am going to fucking own every aspect of your life. You’ll go from this prison to being my personal prisoner.”

The inmate moans more as his breathing intensifies as his Guard gets deep into his mind, thinking of never being unowned or free again. This man, this Master, will control everything, even when the slave is allowed to use his manhood. Sweat is being released all over the inmate’s skin as the cave is getting warmer, heightening the sexual pleasure the prisoner is achieving.

Moving his other gloved hand, the Guard places it over the inmate’s lips and nose, gagging him while controlling his air intake. The inmate can only smell the well-used leather that the Guard wears. As the Guard presses against the prisoner’s face, he is cutting off the air of his slave, which causes the slave to struggle for dear life in the chains that keep him secured to the iron cell.

“You understand now; I control everything about you, fucker.”

Pressing his glove hand tighter, the inmate fights the iron more. “Everything fucker.”

With his last available breath, the prisoner screams into the glove as his pecker fountains the white sperm to the cave ceiling, shooting out like a geyser. The Guard laughs heartily as I can’t believe what I have witnessed. As I gather my senses and open my eyes, I see I had taken my dick out from under my riding leathers and just shot my load. As it oozes down my softening dick. I quickly shove my manhood back into my pants and zip up, knowing I must clean up later. I close my eyes again to see what that Guard might do to the prisoner.

The Guard is sitting next to the inmate as the prisoner catches his breath from the intense sexual release he has just been given. “You know it hurts me greatly to see you imprisoned like this slave. You are supposed to reflect upon me, and if the men in this prison knew you were my property, they wouldn’t let me forget it. I think, in a way, you might suffer more if they knew.”

“You also fucked up, and you needed punishment for what you did. I hope you are learning your lesson here, as when you return home, your ass will be striped so badly that you won’t sit for a week.”

The Guard grabs the inmate’s chin tightly, then stares him down. “You fucking understand what I’m saying, slave?”

The prisoner nods with hesitation that he does understand, deeply knowing that the man sitting next to him will follow through with no mercy. That is the life the slave has accepted.

Pushing the slave’s face away, the Guard stands, brushing the dust from his uniform. Stepping to the foot of the inmate, the Guard notices the cum drying on the outside and staining the dirty white linen underwear. This makes the Guard smile and chuckle. “I’m afraid you will be suffering at the hands of the guards in the coming days.”

The inmate looks at the Guard with a questioning look?

“You have two days on your sentence in this dark room, but when they see your dried sperm, they will think you are enjoying yourself in this solitary confinement.”

The Guard taps the inmate’s foot with his boot. “Imagine what they will come up with to let you enjoy being helpless.”

Pausing for effect, the Guard smiles, “I wish I could watch what they do to you.”

Moving towards the gate to the cell, the Guard lets himself out and slams the door behind him, the heavy iron crashing together and reverberating in the dark space. The inmate looks toward his Master, his Guard, with pleading eyes, soaked in sweat and piss. That catches the Guard’s eyes briefly, causing the Guard to pause with some hurt in his heart to see his slave in prison, but also feeling a bit of erotic growth in his pants as his cock likes the sight of his slave in chains.

But he is on duty, and that is a priority right now. As the Guard opens the door that leads into the hall that goes outside, light fills the room, allowing the inmate to see the full iron cage he is secured in, the cell inside a windowless earthen room. The door closed, and darkness returned.

The prisoner’s emotion turns to frustration and anger as he tries to break free of the iron that keeps him in an uncomfortable position, his arms secured over his head.

Realizing how secure he is, the prisoner ceases his struggle, slightly turning his head to where I was sitting. For a moment, I believed our eyes met, making a connection, for I felt the shivers from the touch of a human hand rushing through me simultaneously. With his pleading eyes, his dry voice called out, “Help me.”

Being so tuned to the vision I was seeing, I was startled when I heard another voice echo in the room. “Excuse me, I didn’t know anyone was in here.” said the young man standing just inside the doorway as another man stepped from the hallway.

The prisoner disappeared as I opened my eyes quickly.

“No, that is ok. I was taking a rest because it is so cool in here.” I was impressed with myself with how quickly I came up with such a lame excuse for sitting in this space. Hurriedly I brought myself to standing as I wiped the dirt from my leathered ass.

“It is certainly cool in here!” the stranger responds, looking around the secluded space.

Gathering my wits and checking my crotch to ensure I wasn’t exposing any of my sperm from my experience, Good thing I had shoved my cock back into my pants in time!

I centered myself on my booted feet. The two men were handsome; one was Hispanic with a sharp edge, high and tight cut, and the other was a Black guy with a shaved head and a sleeve of ink down his right arm. In an instant, I knew they were Marines, probably from Marine Corps Air Station Yuma on the other side of town.

As I gather myself, I glance back to where I witnessed the vision of the Guard and prisoner. There was a warm sensation over my shoulders that caused me to pause and my cock to start to grow again. The sound of these two Marines walking in the gravel broke my attention.

As they walked about the space, I admired these two jarheads; the shaved-head jarhead was wearing a pair of beat-up brown square-toed cowboy boots, Wranglers, and a red hanky hanging from his right back pocket opposite his Skoal ring. I chuckle, for if he only knew what was running through my mind seeing that red hanky. His gray Under Armor t-shirt was tucked behind his big, silver belt buckle with a beat-up Dodge Ram hat on his head. The other Marine wore camo shorts, a black RVCA t-shirt that defined his well-built body nicely, and black Vans on his feet.

As I move towards the tunnel, the shaved head Marine speaks to his friend, “Can you imagine being alone in here for a long time! It would be freaky.”

I looked toward the two as they were looking at me, then back to where that prisoner of long ago was chained. Then I smiled, looking back at the Marines. “Yes, it would be freaky!”

They smile, then I add, “If you guys are MPs, you think you could have fun with a space like this?” I can’t believe I can be so bold sometimes.

“How did you know?” they look at me after looking at each other, surprised that this biker in leather would know that they are MPs while in their civies.

I wink and smile. Waving, I make my way out of the Dark Cell, momentarily pondering if I might find some bondage fun with a couple of Marines in one of the cells. I shake my head, “Naw.” I sigh under my breath.

Stepping into the bright Arizona sunlight, my emotions were mixed as I spent a long time in that space, feeling the intense presence of that Guard and his prisoner. Was it my imagination, or was it real?

Returning to my ride, I put on my jacket, helmet, and gloves, glancing back at the exterior prison walls. Straddling the Ducati and starting it up, I heard the familiar throaty engine thumping. I could have sworn I heard the chain’s sounds again as I looked at the gauges. Looking around, I saw nothing.

Backing out of the parking stall, I put my ride into gear, and as I headed back to the interstate, there felt like someone was on the back of my bike. Hearing the chains slightly through the rumble, I felt comfortable, like someone was putting their arms around my waist.

I saw my helmeted head with the mirrored shield in the rearview mirror. There was nothing, fuck, this was the edge of the desert with no person in sight; I smiled and pushed forward onto the highway.

© Copyright 2023 ty dehner All rights reserved.

You can visit the author at his own site,


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7 thoughts on “Solitary 1888”

  1. Another great story – I was picturing myself as the chained up prisoner in the cage. Cant believe how excited i got at the thought of being chained with my hands above my head as the guard pisses over me. Then when he told the prisoner that his future was permanent lifelong chastity it took me to somewhere else

  2. Tremendous atmosphere created withing that cave. You can almost smell the piss and sweat as clearly as the biker saw it..

    I wonder how long the sensation of having a pillion will last.

  3. Brilliant story – could almost feel the temp dropping as he walked into the cell alone, but not really alone,

  4. Maybe just maybe it was the author Ty Dehner s birthday recently . GREAT job Ducati and Marine boys hmmmm

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