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Black Leather Cops and Revenge – Part 2

By Alex Ironrod © 2021

PART TWO – INITIATION

With my violated and beaten ass and aching arms, I made it back on my bike to my apartment in town. I pulled off my high black boots, stripped off my once shining leathers and took a long hot shower. It didn’t wash away the memory of my rape and I brooded in silence. What could I do alone to get my revenge? How could I get close to the leather-shirted Sergeant Tyrell and learn his tricks and his weaknesses?

Gradually a plan of action emerged. I would join the Highway Patrol and become a motor cop. With luck and careful planning, I could meet Tyrell again and I would take it from there. After all, I knew all about bikes; I’d been riding them for almost ten years, and my three-year military experience should count for something. I gave up my computer sales job and got ready.

I spit-polished my boots until they gleamed, put on a fresh pressed shirt and pants, slung my leather jacket round my shoulders, walked into the nearest Highway Patrol station – and signed on. It was easier than I dared to hope, with my existing background paving the way. Soon after I was called up to the Academy for training.

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The Speed Trap – Part 04

By Rubrpig

The routine settled on to the three of us by the end of the first week in the jail. By then my brother and I had decided that no one had investigated my disappearance. Each day was spent in the cells and at night at the dungeon serving the troopers.

They continued to put a lot of effort into breaking our Sir but we were able to keep him from giving in by talking with him during the day and calming him down and keeping him focused on staying strong. We had met and formed a triad while we were under going specialized training in the Marines when we had been undergoing specialized training when we were assigned to recon unit.

One day about a week into our sentence, the three of us were dragged from the cells and taken to the shower area. The corporal ripped off our prison uniforms and boxer shorts and tossed them into a laundry bin. We were glad to be out of them as we had been wearing them for just over a week and they reeked of sweat, and cum. We were told to shuffle over to the shower area.

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The WORC Program – Part 02

By Joshua Ryan

I woke up pretty slowly the next afternoon. Mike wasn’t there. He must have seen how passed out I was and figured it wasn’t safe to get me up. He was probably at his office. Maria had left some coffee and a tray of croissants and fruit and little slices of ham—very tasty, despite her being a bitch. I gradually recalled what had happened the night before. I was just as mad as I was then, thinking about those mean things Jerry had said, and how he’d taunted me. And what I’d agreed to do. I’d agreed to become a workie! How did that happen? How could that possibly have happened? I was confused . . . . And at that moment, my phone went off. Jerry, of course. Why not?

“Carson? Mike’s not there–I guess I can talk to you. You remember what we talked about last night? Vaguely? OK. I called the guy at WORC that I mentioned last night, and he was free for lunch—actually, I think he always is. Some people are. So I fed him some drinks and he said sure, you can be a workie. Just like we planned.”

“Uh . . . ” I said.

“I left him a couple minutes ago. It’s all fixed up. All you quote need to do unquote is write something on social media about how great the WORC program is–great, but demanding. I know you won’t do that, and he knows that too. But it’s all set up. You’ll have your two days as a workie.”

“I . . . uh . . . .” Long pause.

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It’s Good to Be the Boss

By ty dehner

You wake up to the smell of the leather gloves on your hands as you do every morning, thinking how good it is to be Boss. Rolling over, you find your property just the way you want it to be — encased in a hood and leather straightjacket. You like that you allowed it to be lying next to you and find it nice and warm this morning. Lying on your back, you look at the ceiling and spend a moment thinking of how good your life is as the Boss of your kingdom and the property you own. Without thinking, you find yourself gently stroking yourself with your leather-gloved hand.

Turning your head and looking at your helpless property, you push it over and climb on its back. You hear a slight moan coming from the encased head, and you smile a bit. As you settle atop your property, you hear the locks jangle a bit and tug on the straps that you secured a long while ago.

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