It had been several weeks since James had visited his erstwhile master Malcolm and had had fun in an outbuilding at his house near Bourne, Lincolnshire. They had exchanged e-mails regarding James re-visiting where this was to take place later on during the summer when he would be able to cross the Fens on his motorbike, dressed sexily in his black leather bike suit.
‘I will send you something in the post, boy.’ Was the simple message James received one day.
‘May I ask what it is Master?’ He replied.
‘Don’t be impertinent boy. There will be instructions contained therein.’
Two days later, the package arrived, having been left with one of James’ neighbours, while he was at work. Once indoors he ripped off the wrapping in his eagerness to find a steel chastity device, complete with two small padlocks, and with a typed note, which said
‘Fit this to your genitals boy and return the keys to me by return. I need to be satisfied that you have obeyed these instructions so I will require you to take a photograph of the device in place, which you will then e-mail to me.’
Continue reading Prod – Part 03: Fortnight – Another of Black Knight’s Adventures
I received a message on Recon from my buddy Malcolm from Bourne, Lincolnshire. He described the fun he had had with a young guy a week or so before. The guy’s Recon profile name was “Black Knight” or something similar, he was thirty three years old and had a slim, gym fit body. Apparently, he couldn’t get enough of playing the “sub” or “slave” role, and could take all sorts of punishment. I immediately felt envious and more or less told Malcolm so by return message.
A day or so later he messaged saying that the lad had wanted as much BDSM experience as possible and that he was almost insatiable; the rougher and harsher play the better. Malcolm went on to say that he had suggested to the guy that he contact me, maybe to arrange a meeting. His actual name was James, he lived in Norfolk, and rode a Honda Fireblade. That would be handy for him: I live not far from Kings Lynn, at the opposite side of the Fens from Malcolm at Bourne, so not so far for him to travel.
Just before the weekend I received a Recon message from James, aka. “Black Knight Blade”. It’s easier to relate the exchange of messages verbatim:
Continue reading Prod – Part 02: Black Knight’s Further Adventures
The e mail just contained a set of instructions. They were unambiguous and described everything James had to do upon arriving at his new master’s house, situated in an isolated spot out in the Fens near Bourne, Lincolnshire.
James had chatted to the guy on Recon only once, so a part of him was a bit worried that his new master might be dangerous, might rob him or might permanently harm him in some way. On the other hand, he felt that fizz of sexual excitement that he always felt when he was about to have some BDSM fun with a new man. Judging by the number of friends this new guy seemed to have on Recon, his assessment was that he would be okay, at least as far as his own safety was concerned. His profile did not contain any photographs and stated that he was forty eight years old, some fifteen years older than James.
They had not discussed anything about the type of play James could expect, but whatever it was it would be entirely safe and would not involve any risk of sexual transmitted disease. However, it would prove to be painful.
The instructions said:
Arrive at 1400 on Saturday. Do not be any more than 5 minutes early but on no account arrive late. This is to be the time as announced on your smartphone, which of course will be British Summer Time.
Enter the barn situated to the rear of the house and strip completely.
Fasten your ankles in the steel spreader bar that will be lying on the floor.
Assume a kneeling position with your head down.
Remain in that position and await my arrival.
Under no circumstances speak unless I give you permission.
Continue reading Prod – Part 01
Note: This is a story by Bikermike and slavebladeboi. For the first part by Bikermike, click here. For the second part by slavebladeboi, click here.
Edge Failure Aftermath – Chapter Three – by Bikermike
He pulled the duct tape from my mouth, removed the gag then released me from my wrist chains, one wrist at a time, then He unshackled my aching balls and held me as l sank to the floor, broken and spent.
‘There’s more to come boy,’ He said, ‘Now it’s my turn to come. Get up on your knees and work your tongue over my boots and up my legs, then you will fellate me slowly and properly until I ejaculate into your mouth. If you fail to satisfy me in any way you will feel this…,’ He brandished the now bloodied whip in His hand, ‘…across your arse!’
He must have seen my slight look of horror at the prospect of a further whipping so He said ‘I will fix your wrists and neck in rigid irons and control the speed of your fellating, so you will need to work your tongue to the best of your ability up and down my cock.’ He dropped the whip and left me kneeling while He walked over to the table and picked up a heavy looking rusty solid manacle, with provisions for the neck in the centre of the bar and wrist shackles at either end. At the prospect of once more being shackled immobile, my cock involuntarily hardened once again.
Continue reading Edge Failure — Chapter 03
Note: This is the continuation of a story that was started by Bikermike. For the first part, click here.
Good single tailed whips are not cheap and this one was not even close to cheap. I was no expert in these things when I purchased my first one but took a deal of time to find out what I could and get advice from those who knew. I ended up with what I thought was the perfect beast. Actually beauty and beast. The craftsmanship was exquisite, perfectly balanced from end to end. I could grip it and feel the power running down its length, almost feel the pain it could unleash in the sub’s muscles or, if I wanted, the gentle kiss of the leather as it stroked the skin of whoever was tied stretched in front of me.
I stepped behind the boi, judging his reactions as he turned his head slightly to follow the sound of boots on concrete. I’d play him for a while, let him think it was all I had before showing him reality.
It took very little effort to bring the tip of the leather into contact with his shoulders, the merest arm position and wrist action. He winced, no noise. A few more and his breathing became more obvious but still no other noise from his throat. Small red lines began to appear on his summer tanned back, hardly noticeable really. I positioned my feet for a better balance and swung my arm. This time it made an impression. He obviously had decided to clamp his jaw shut but the Hmmmmph he made showed me that he was feeling more than the kisses he’d been given so far. A few more, I left about 20 seconds between each one.
Continue reading Edge Failure — Chapter 02
I contemplated how I had failed as I hung there naked, my wrists in heavy metal shackles suspended from the ceiling; my balls stretched taut by a steel ring, connected to a chain attached to the floor. Thus, my body was fixed there in a tight X shape, my ankles being about three feet apart. There was to be no “stopword”, no release, just the enevitability of a severe beating. l was rock hard and awaited my fate.
I had failed the “edging” test: He had bet me, on the pain of a flogging, that I would ejaculate before an hour of His edgeplay had expired. I will narrate here more or less what happened.
We had met in a nearby bikers’ caff several weeks before. Somehow, our conversation had turned to sex, our fetishes and our perversions. I had confided that I liked man-man sadomasochism; fifty-fifty dom or sub. He told me that while he had “subbed” on a few occasions He considered Himself to be mainly a “top”. He certainly looked the part: He rode a Fireblade and wore a leather race suit that exactly matched the bike’s paintwork. As always, He sat outside the caff with His leathers undone down to His navel, exposing His muscled chest and occasionally allowing a glimpse of His pierced nipples. At six foot four, I somehow could not imagine Him ever “subbing” for anybody!
Continue reading Edge Failure — Chapter 01
Nick and Trev often met at the bikers’ cafe to exchange general bike talk, or more often than not, a talk about their sexual adventures. These included tales and anecdotes concerning their experiences and desires in the world of male-to-male bondage and sadomasochism. They had experimented together on a few occasions; once or twice within a group of three or more men. However, Trev had a regular BDSM ‘partner’, whom he called Roger and sometimes referred to him as his Master, while Nick had to make do with whoever he could find on Recon and who also lived within a reasonable distance.
One hot day during the summer both men met at the cafe and spent several minutes ogling other male bikers, some of which were posing minus their leather bike jackets and T shirts exposing their muscled torsos. Nick said ‘I sometimes fantasise about life in a borstal; y’know, how it was several decades ago when the gaolers wouldn’t hesitate using canes and the birch to maintain discipline. I have read accounts of boys who had been birched and abused, which have really turned me on. Wouldn’t it be great if you and I could somehow live that fantasy for a weekend? Punishment and birching and all?’
Continue reading Borstal Boys
To call Matt a thief or a burglar would be putting it a bit too extreme: really he was an opportunist collector, a scavenger; particularly where the items that he collected were by and large, those that belonged to someone else.
He was also a bit of a loner. At twenty, he really didn’t have very many friends, preferring his own company. He spent time either in his bedroom with his computer or else, when the weather wasn’t raining, out exploring alleyways or paths, seeing what items caught his eye, things that he would like to possess himself.
One decent summer’s day, when the weather was hot and humid Matt decided to explore an area of Norfolk that was accessable by pushbike some ten miles distant from his home. He set off, rucksack on his back, until he came across a lonely looking wooded area that seemed to be criss-crossed by footpaths. Taking a path he followed it until the path ran adjacent to what appeared to be old tumbledown brick barns. Dismounting his bike he climbed over the low, rusty barbed wire fence, intent on exploring the buildings. he pushed open a rotten barn door that squealed on its hinges and entered. Inside he found an assortment of old abandoned farm implements, a rusty plough, an obviously seized-up tractor and several battered and rusting metal drums.
Continue reading Trespasser