The roadside sign announced ‘Fruit and Nut Capital of America’. Don’t ask me where it was exactly.
I was on my way from Los Angeles to San Francisco and had decided to cut across country from the Interstate highway 5 to the 101 coastal road.
Friends in L.A. had told me I’d get to see some seriously rural farming country, full (I hoped) of lusty rural menfolk.
On the map the route had looked simple enough but that was before the turn-off - in the dry.
But, in the early spring sun on a bike generously loaned to me by my well-heeled and seriously kinky playmates in the smog capital of the world, it felt good to just bimble along off main highways.
Taking it easy around the bends and ups and downs, even when the rain started it was pleasant enough. I’d brought with me from England a newly acquired ‘Radical Speed’ form-fitting lightweight and totally waterproof bike suit, so a few showers were almost a welcome opportunity to wear the suit - big turn-on for me, protective weather gear. The new featherweight suit felt great and I knew it looked good, sleek and shiny black elasticated so it was body hugging whether wearing full leathers or absolutely nothing under it. It had been quite a hit around the LA bars for the first few days of my trip.
Now, because for the next two or three days I planned to be on the road, I was just wearing jeans and a tee shirt under the lightweight but efficient hi-tech plastic covering - near enough to PVC to really turn me on. Together with my seriously chunky British biker boots which I’d carried with me from England I felt ready to make an impression if and when the opportunity arose.
The boots, which were the type with heavy side clasps and metal-edged soles, had played havoc with metal detectors at the airport - but even there, a couple of the security staff had shown more than a professional interest - exploring them in detail for hidden contraband. I think one of the guards had been tempted to try them on. I’d brought them over on previous trips, and they’d attracted some very eventful interest from bikers around the USA - so it was certainly worth the hassle. They were an excellent conversation-opener.
After the first hour along back-roads, the countryside had turned into miles and miles of fruit orchards and not much else. It was then that the heavens opened. We’re not talking about your usual English rain, but torrential, stinging, hard and heavy continuous downpour which reduced visibility to a matter of yards. There didn’t seem to be any houses along the route - just wire fences with signs warning ‘Private Property - Keep Out or else! - Fence electrified’. So when I at last saw the lights of a very countrified little road-side diner, it didn’t look exactly inviting … but at least until the rain let up, even this dump would be better than nothing.
A couple of beat-up pick-up trucks stood dripping in the dirt parking lot, and several other wrecks of cars and trucks littered the back area. Three cheap neon signs promised Budwiser , Millers and ‘Eats day and nite’. I positioned the bike clear of various streams which were washing away the muddy parking area, and made for the steps up to a bedraggled wooden veranda - keeping my helmet on as protection against the rain until I was safely through the solid wood door. My visor steamed up as soon as the warm fug of the interior hit me after the cold rain. I fumbled with the unfamiliar straps of the borrowed helmet and eventually wrenched it off.
It was like a scene from a low-budget movie: tawdry bar with split leatherette bar stools, a few plastic tables in booths, pool table and vintage juke box. The inevitable Country & Western corn-ball music was churning out although the place was virtually deserted. A couple of Norman Rockwell old folks in dungarees were playing a game of pool, a waitress who looked as if she had been hired by Central Casting was appropriately over made-up, over the hill, bored out of her mind and busy working on her nails.
As I stood there with water cascading from my shiny black PVC encased form I must have looked like a visitor from another planet - but the local inhabitants just stared at me for a few seconds and then seemed to retreat into their rustic stupor - as cows might do when grazing in a field.
It was at this moment that the scenario suddenly clicked into a different gear. Out of the Gents toilet emerged the wildest fantasy of many gay men: a solidly built ruddy-faced, tangle-headed young son of the soil. His grin made him totally unthreatening as he mopped at his brawny neck with a towel. To make it sound even more like a masturbatory mind-fest, this chunky young late teenager was wearing rubber hip boots turned down from the knee. I’d fantasized for years over images of American fire-fighters stomping around with their waders turned down, comfortably at home in such gear. And here was this kid, exuding confidence and good will … and he was carrying a heavy black old-fashioned oilskin coat; the stuff that my dreams are made of.
What happened next I could not have invented in even my wildest of dreams. He suddenly saw me, stopped dead in his tracks with the towel arrested mid-rub and exclaimed, “Wow! Where’d you come from? Outer space?” And before I could make any response, he’d thrown the coat down onto a bar stool and was heading straight towards me.
“Where’d you get that suit?” he demanded. “Fantastic! Here, friend, you’re dripping all over Madelaine’s floor and she’ll beat you with a broom.”
With that the kid began to towel down the shoulders of my suit, quickly working down to waist and then moving behind me still rubbing the slick PVC vigorously with his towel. My eyes met those of ‘Madelaine’, who looked up from her nails and without a change of her bored expression said dryly, “Only if getting beat with a broom is your ‘thing’.”
The two old guys at the pool table sniggered at this less than subtle innuendo, but my mind was distracted by the kid’s vigorous rubbing around my ass and thighs and in between my legs from behind.
“This suit is magic” enthused the kid, but his strong hands suggested a totally uninhibited freedom from any sexual implications. He knelt behind me to sop up more moisture from where the suit covered my boot-tops. As his hands and the towel explored the bulk of the boot clasps under the shiny elasticated fabric he exclaimed again. “Jeepers, these boots are something else!” - and suddenly he was kneeling in front of me and rubbing down the front of my legs before turning his attention to the side-buckling of the boots, feeling at them through the PVC covering.
With my helmet, I attempted to hide the uncontrollable bulge growing inside my lightweight jeans under the tight-stretched suit, but the boy was still drooling over the bike boots. “Wow! These are something else. I never seen nothing like these!”
Totally preoccupied with his self-appointed task, he took the now sopping wet towel over to the bar and moved behind it, wringing out the towel in the bar sink. “You want something?” he asked ingenuously as he ran an unseen tap.
“Er - coffee?” I hazarded.
“I’d avoid the coffee if I was you,” was his cheerful reply.
“Git out from behind my bar, Darryl,” growled the waitress with no visible sign of emotion. “You wanna beer?”
She aimed the question at me in a tone which warned me not to complicate her life. She was drawing beer before I’d got around to nodding - because Darryl had emerged from behind the bar, adjusting his crotch and stomping over to retrieving the oilskin coat he’d tossed aside on seeing me.
There was now time to take in more details of the youngster as he hung his coat up, wiping off more rain from it in the process. I could now see that his boots had internal straps at knee-level. These kept the heavy boot tops from dragging the boots down his lower legs. He was wearing what locals call ‘Farmer Johns’ which are bib-and-brace overalls. The faded denim fitted tight, perhaps a size too small for this growing lad; was he eighteen yet, I wondered? A wide leather belt cinched in his trim waist and emphasised his solid chest. Denim shoulder straps of the tight dungarees pressed well in over his faded check shirt and broad shoulders.
My eyes returned to his boots as he stomped back to a bar stool. My life-long lust after industrial protective and rain gear was in overdrive, but I was very conscious that one wrong move might get me arrested or into more serious danger in this remote red-neck territory. Madelaine plonked the beer on the bar with a hint of warning that I should put my eyes back in their sockets - or had she noticed the bulge under my suit at crotch-level? I turned away to put my helmet onto a booth table and take the opportunity to pull at my crotch to ease the tension. As I returned to collect the beer, I un-Velcroed a hip-slot of my suit and fished around inside the thin fabric for my jeans front pocket to extract some cash.
“Jeepers! That sure is some suit” said the boy. “Looks real practical. How waterproof is it?” he asked.
“Very,” I said, trying to discipline my mind into a suitably ‘all-guys-together’ mode.
Having thrown a few bills onto the bar I then opened the front zipper of the suit. The elasticated fabric immediately sprung open chest to waist and I indicated to him that my thin shirt was dry. Without any inhibition, the kid moved to stand directly in front of me and feel the inside of the front of the suit fabric. This brought us practically nose-to-nose, but he was intent of confirming that the inside of the fabric was in fact dry. His hands explored further upwards inside the suit to feel under it’s shoulders. Having confirmed that the inner surface was dry, his brawny fingers then felt my shoulders through my shirt, drawing his hands down to confirm that my shirt was dry.
“No sweat,” he confirmed - then added, “I mean, not only waterproof, but the suit don’t make you sweat none inside it.”
But I was sure the sweat was gathering on my brow as this mind-numbingly healthy young animal breathed sweet breath into my face. He grinned a crooked grin; “Them old oilskin coats can have you wetter on the inside than what rain they keeps out - but I don’t mind that sometimes.”
He punctuated this remark with a sudden knowing wink before moving back to a bar stool, saying “Madelaine, hun, put me another beer on my tab would ya?”
“Have one on me” I blurted, and perhaps something in my tone made the waitress reply, “He’s got more’n enough cash to buy his own beer - thank you.”
The ‘thank you’ was added as an after-thought, and her tone was not lost on Darryl.
“You’d think she was my mother, wouldn’t ya!” he smiled.
“Well I ain’t,” she snapped, then added with an arch of a painted eyebrow, “spite of anything any folks around here might say to the contrary!”
The two old guys at the pool table guffawed but she silenced them with a look. Darryl grinned mischievously over his beer. “I should hope not - considering some of the things you and my brother was getting up to when I was a innocent young kid!”
“You was never no innocent young kid, buster.”
She turned her gaze on me. “Don’t take nothing this little shit-kicker tells you for God’s truth, friend. Do not trust him one inch, or his damn brother neither.” The stern gaze cracked into a grim twinkle and the kid rose to the moment. He grinned at me.
“Madelaine and me goes back a long ways - and I mean further back than the woodshed out back here when I was only twelve.”
A wet dish-rag suddenly cracked around the youth’s face and head like a bullwhip, before the waitress turned nonchalantly to busy herself at the back counter.
Darryl produced a sizable slate-blue work handkerchief to wipe his face, still grinning. “She can get real mean sometimes - but she has a heart of gold - as anybody in the district over the age of eight will tell ya - if’n he’s male!”
Madelaine’s shoulders told their own story of refusing to be drawn.
Darryl and I pulled on our beers, each waiting for the other to speak.
“So, where you headin’?” he asked eventually.
“ San Francisco ,” I said, wondering what sort of response this information might provoke.
“What in this weather - in one day?” was his practical first thought.
“No, I plan to drop by Yuba City and perhaps Monteray and then take my time up the coast for the next two or three days,” I confirmed.
There was nothing wistful about his next remark. “I’ve never bin outta this valley excep’ with Donny to the annual market in Fresno . We got a good fruit farm, an’ there’s more’n enough to keep us busy all year round. This here’s the slow time - specially when it’s wet. I was taking an afternoon off to pick up some supplies when my old truck died. I just stood for an hour outside here in the rain tryin’ to fix it."
“Well, at least you were dressed for it,” I risked, nodding towards the long oilskin coat and his boots.
He grinned. “Like I said, you can get plenty wet inside one of them old coats. But they’re great when you need to tend trees in the pissing rain hour after hour. I always keep a couple of sets in the truck - but today the truck’s fucked.”
“Language!” interjected Madelaine, “Did you call Donny and is he on his way to get you?”
Darryl suddenly was looking a bit sheepish as he admitted; “Well, er, Donny ain’t answering the phone.”
“Why not? He can’t be out working in this weather. I know you two's both crazy, but … in this weather?” reasoned the waitress.
“Well, no, but he - er - just ain’t pickin’ up the phone,“ said the youth with a tinge of embarrassment.
And I speculated on what brother Donny might be getting up to.
“So what’ya gonna’ do, Darryl? “ insisted the waitress, “Sit here and drink yourself stupid - stupider?”
The youth was beginning to buckle under her insistence.
“No! I thought I’d wait ‘til Tommy Lee or somebody’ud stop off here on their ways home after work - and they’d give me a lift.”
“You thought!” scoffed Madelaine, “That’ll be the day. Well I can tell you, if Donny has to turn out in this weather to come looking for you, young feller, I wouldn’t like to be in your shoe - boots!” she added for emphasis.
Silently I thought how I’d just love to be in his boots.
Darryl was getting defensive. “Well he won’t come lookin’ for me, neither - an’ that much I do know - so there! An’ if I do wanna stay and have another drink I will - and some of the guys will stop by here - eventually!”
He drained his glass, resolutely.
“Err … “, I started, my mind racing, “How far and in which direction … ?”
The kid looked at me, his worried brown eyes suddenly brightening. “You mean, on your bike? Gee, I never been on the back of a bike - my Momma wouldn’t never … “
“Well, when the rain lets up a bit,” I hazarded, because it was still bucketing down beyond the veranda.
“You got your suit and I got my coat and boots,” urged the kid enthusiastically. "I never pay no mind to rain, not when I’m dressed for it.”
A kindred spirit I thought - my mind racing with an enthusiasm to match his own. But there were practical considerations - including how old this kid was.
“I - er -,” I began, “I don’t have a second crash helmet and … “
“I got a good head-cover in my coat pocket - the best - and it’s only two miles, mainly off-road. An’ if it comes to that, you won’t see no local police out in this weather, no sir!” He then laughed excitedly. “An’ even if we did, the Sheriff’s office and me’s had a sort of understanding for a lot’o years. If they don’t give me no grief I don’t give them none. I know a few things about Sheriff Macklin not exac’ly playin’ by the rules - things he would not like talked about, no sir - ‘cos my cousin Jake’s a Deputy, so I know. An’ I knows things about our Jake too! Things that’d make your hair curl - wouldn’t they, Madelaine?”
“Don’t you involve me in none of your fuedin’ - you an’ Donny’ll one day push your luck too far with Sheriff Mac.”
“Yeh! Fun though, ain’t it”!
Madelaine’s eyes told their own story of past run-in’s between this tough young kid and the local law, as he returned his pleading eyes to me. #
“My truck's just plain dead, so if you wouldn’t mind giving me a ride on your bike and getting me home I certainly would be in your debt - an’ it would certainly be a welcome opportunity - riding a bike, I mean - an’ it won’t take you much outta the way you’re heading.”
The eagerness in those luminous eyes was impossible to resist - and the prospect of a ride in the rain with this hunky youth clinging on behind me - him dressed in his heavy oilskin coat … !
The sober side of my brain told me that even with no serious prospect of it turning into anything more - this would be a ride to remember. Irresistible.
I drained my glass and plonked it down.
“OK, grab your gear. It’s still pissing down.”
“Language!” intoned Madelaine automatically as Darryl started to haul his boot-tops up his muscular thighs and clip them onto tags attached to his leather waist belt.
My eyes were on him as she continued. “Thanks feller. His brother keeps him on a tight leash. I wouldn’t like to see him get into no trouble.”
Perhaps there was a word of warning in her statement. But my eyes were fixed on the swirl of oilskin as the brawny kid climbed into the old-fashioned heavy-duty fabric of the voluminous coat. My mind was racing. I was initially disappointed that the coat didn't have the sort of metal clasps which had always excited me on American fire-fighter’s coats (I’d always had a lustful eye for detail on such gear). But this coat had substantial snap-fasteners. These were all closed in seconds, the kid being so familiar with the process. Then, from a deep pocket of the tent-like coat he produced a solid-looking leather strap. This he skilfully wrapped around his waist and tightened it to keep the coat from bellying out. Obviously he was totally at home in the massive garment, and I reminded myself that men who regularly work in such gear were seldom turned on by it.
My mind strayed back to him saying earlier that he kept a couple of such coats in his truck - and wondered if I could wear one for the ride to his place, just for the hell of it. But, by this time he had also produced a pair of long and heavy industrial rubber gloves. These he deftly pulled on and tucked them well up inside the wide coat sleeves before closing the inner cuffs of the coat tight to seal in the gloves.
The process of getting rain-proof continued as the oilskin head cover he’d mentioned emerged from the seemingly bottomless coat pockets. This complicated device had a peak (bill as the Americans call them), and fitted tight around the outside of the high coat collar, where snaps fastened it at the back before two more secured cross-over flaps snug across his throat as a seal against the rain. A second flap higher up the hood was then snapped with some effort tightly across his lower face until only two glistening brown eyes twinkled back at me.
Dragging my mind away from this oilskin packaged young God, I zipped up my suit, closed the high tight collar and grabbed my helmet and gloves which were still inside waterproof mitts. Darryl was out of the door before I had time to thank the waitress, who eyed me quizzically before my head disappeared into my bike helmet. I beat a hasty retreat and found Darryl, all black and glistening from boots to hooded head, standing beside the bike in the still torrenting rain. I could sense his eagerness to climb aboard, but I was still finding my way into gloves and mitts. I then had to raise my visor and ask (shout) to him, “Which way?”
From behind the wall of heavy oilskin which covered his mouth he yelled back, “One mile,” as he indicated the road ahead with the wave of a rubber covered hand, “then left for a ways. I’ll signal you with a tap on your shoulder when we get there - indicate right or left as we go from there.”
I nodded, snapped the visor shut and lifted my heavy boot over the bike. I felt him hesitate before climbing over to settle behind me. The rain drummed down on us both as his hands slid tentatively around my waist. I felt his rubber legs finding the pillion stirrups behind my boots and, as the engine roared into life, I felt strong arms grip tighter around my waist and press into my tense stomach.
We were on our way - and the rain drummed down harder.
It was a cautious ride. My lifelong lust for men in leather and heavy-weather gear has allowed lots of opportunities. But, after too many good experiences, it’s easy to forget that outside the main urban centres, life can be dangerous for somebody who pushes their luck. During the tension-filled bike-ride into nowhere, I gave my self several warnings. This kid had an older brother, and both were well known within a close-knit community which does not necessarily play by the rules.
What was it this kid said about the local Sheriff not always sticking to the rules? … and his young cousin being a Deputy. One false move and I could be in deep shit - and maybe not get out of the County in one piece. I’d often wondered what it might feel like to be tarred-and-feathered.
So - drop the kid off - and get on my way, tempting though he was.
After we’d turned off the main road, a dirt road wasn’t as bad as I’d expected - and the gate-posts of a fruit farm looked well maintained, in fact quite prosperous. What came as a surprise was the distance from the entrance past straight rows of newly planted trees before a substantial old homestead came into view through the rain. At the gate into the yard the kid hopped off the bike, opened the gate and signalled me through. A pen of cackling geese kicked up a menacing racket as Darryl closed the gate impervious to the downpour. Standing grinning and glistening, his rubbered hand beckoned me to follow him to a small barn. This he opened and I coasted the bike in. All wrapped up in his belted coat with storm headgear and boots all running with water, he looked terrific. Once inside he pulled the door closed behind him, but there was still plenty of light. #
Relieved to be out of the rain and away from the noise of the geese, I wrenched off my helmet. My suit was awash but I knew that inside I was dry except that my dick was sticky. He just stood there. He spread his arms wide and revolved slowly like a man on a cross. He seemed to be exhilarated by the bike ride. Perhaps the kid knew he looked great. Perhaps he was just glad to back home and dry.
I smiled as I climbed off the bike and set it on it’s stand - but suddenly my blood ran cold, because a few feet off the floor I saw hanging two other oilskin-coated figures arms also spread wide, each dangling from a rope and pulley. Rubber hip boots hung beneath each of these apparently crucified figures. Quickly I looked back to Darryl, but all I could see were his shining eyes framed in the oilskin storm helmet. He continued to hold his arms out wide at shoulder height as he walked towards me.
Again I looked back to the two other hanging bodies - but then realised that these were no more than two coats hanging with long horizontal bars through their sleeves, each with a pair of waders slung beneath them. They hung close to a small hay-loft, a platform about ten feet off the ground in the wooden barn - which was just the sort of place I’d read about in Larry Townsend’s fictional tales of rural S&M and highly charged sex. I struggled to banish such imagery from my mind - as young Darryl tugged at the face-flap of his helmet.
He indicated the hanging oilskin coat-and-boot sets. “These things get mildew if they’re not dried off. The hired help use them out of season. There’s a dozen more for fruit picking time." The kid pulled off the helmet and shook out his tousled curly hair. He looked flushed and adorable. His innocent exuberance was breathtaking.
“Great ride! Did your suit keep the rain out?” he asked. “This coat did - although I built up a good honest sweat in it. Always do.” His rubbered fingers ripped at the leather belt which was now sodden and difficult to release from it’s sturdy buckle. He pulled it free and suddenly cracked it like a whip towards me. The soggy leather made a sharp sound - and the kid, grinning, again demonstrated how the belt could whistle and snap.
I smiled and set my crash helmet down on the bike before removing my sodden mitts, pulling the leather gloves off with them. He had dropped the belt and was opening his long coat.
“Jeeze, it’s hot inside here! Come inside and feel.” And before I realised what was happening he had walked up to me and closed the coat around the two of us. Pressing my dripping PVC suit close to his denim-covered chest, he wrapped his arms around me in a bear hug, grinning into my face.
“There’s room enough for two in here! I just love the feel of oilskin and plastic. It makes me so H.O.T. Me and my brother wear it sometimes, even when we don’t need to,” he said as he continued to hold me trapped inside his coat. “And this suit o’yours is something else.”
“Er - don’t you think we ought to go in and meet your brother? Let him know you’re home,” I asked.
“Oh, he knows I’m home. The geese are our watch-dogs. He will have heard them - and he’s used to waiting until I’m good and ready before I gets home.”
With that statement he released me and began to remove his coat. My suit had wetted his denim bib-and-brace overalls above his waders - and I noticed for the first time a considerable bulge at his crotch. He seemed to be totally unaware of it as he grinned at me. He then held up the great black coat in two hands and playfully shook it towards me. Water splashed in my direction. I was completely waterproof apart from my face, which was suddenly wet. He shook the coat again, like a matador goading a bull. Was he inviting me to retaliate?
I decided on a diversionary tactic. “Can you still buy that kind of coat? You don’t see anything like that in England.”
“That where you come from? I guessed it was from somewhere funny. Yeh, sure you can buy ‘em. If you want one, we get ‘em on a discount.”
I looked towards the two hanging coats. “I can see that. They look good up there,” I said.
“They feel even better,” he replied moving towards a third hanging bar. It was a piece of steel scaffold pole with two metal loops welded about a foot apart at it’s centre. Two chains attached the bar to a single pulley rope. My practical mind immediately wondered how the waders were hung from inside the two coats I could see.
He seemed to hesitate while unhooking the bar to hang his still dripping coat on it. “You wanna try it on before I hang it up?” he asked, laying aside the bar and offering the coat.
I was tempted, but still determined not to push my luck too far with this innocent. His elder brother was somewhere around.
“Come on,” urged the kid. “It’s still warm! These damn things can get real stiff when they’re cold, I can tell ya’. But then they can get you hot real quick. Try it on. I think you’ll look good in it - specially over that suit. That will really cook up a storm.”
The rain hammered down on the tin roof of the barn, and my brain was in overdrive - as was my cock inside my pants. It was too much to resist and, as he continued to hold up the coat, I slipped first one arm and then the other into it. He was quick to start closing the collar, and then the other heavy-duty press-stud fasteners down the front. The snaps at waist and crotch level pressed hard into me as he forced them closed. After stooping to close the lower fastening on the long coat, he picked up the leather waist strap.
“Here,” he said, “this keeps the front from getting in the way when you’re working.”
I was about to refuse the offered belt when he commanded. “Hold your arms out wide to the sides so when it’s belted your arms ain’t restricted.”
I did as ordered, and grinning broadly into my face, he reached around me and connected the belt into it’s buckle and cinched the strap tightly. The thick oilskin gathered into deep folds which the kid’s workman-like hands quickly evened out.
“Don’t lower your arms yet,” he said - and from nowhere produced another strap which he deftly wrapped it around me at armpit level. When this was cinched to his satisfaction, he ordered “Now lower your arms. See, that keeps the coat snug and the sleeve-ends well up when you’re working in the rain. But you should have gloves on too, o’course.”
He was busily peeling off the long industrial gloves he’d been wearing - and didn’t seem to notice my protests that I got the general idea. Holding out one glove for me he insisted. “Come on, it’s well slickered up with my sweat. Push your hand down into it.”
His enjoyment of the situation was impossible to resist, so I complied first with one hand then the other. He easily manoeuvred the long rubber gloves up into the wide sleeves of the coat, almost up to elbow level.
“Them coats are quite something, ain’t they,” he enthused.
It felt a bit oversized, but so did my dick inside this wrapping of oilskin over PVC. But he was right, it was quite a trip. I tested what movement was left to me in the restrictive coat. It felt, smelt and even sounded great as I flexed my shoulders within it’s confines and pushed against the inside of the wide sleeves with my elbows. My PVC suit slid around against what I now realised was unlined oilskin. I suddenly regretted that I wasn’t wearing rubber waders as the kid stood watching me, his legs well apart in his high rubber hip boots. I looked down to where my shiny PVC legs showed below the duller fabric of sticky oiled canvas.
“See. It ain’t restrictive,” said Darryl, “not unless you want it to be,” he added, his weather-beaten face grinning from ear to ear.
This remark had made me look back up at him suspiciously. “What do you mean,” I asked.
“Well sir, me and my brother sometimes have a bit of fun with a new hand by slipping the pole in the sleeves while they’re wearing the coat for the first time."
“The pole - what, the hanging pole?”
“Yes, indeedy,” the kid chortled. He turned away and picked up the nearby pole. “See, the sleeves are wide enough. If you tell ‘em to hold their arms out sideways when you’re putting the belts around. They need to test if they have enough arm movement like you did. So, hold your arms out straight sideways.”
“Now wait a minute,” I started but the kid was thoroughly enjoying the moment.
“Go on! Hold your arms out and I’ll show you how easy it is to … come on now!” he insisted and somehow I knew that I was going to let him show me. I raised both arms sideways and allowed him to start to slide the five foot long metal pole into one sleeve. It travelled easily up the arm and across the shoulders inside the loose coat. I even raised the opposite arm so the pole could run smoothly into the opposite sleeve until, cuff-to-cuff my arms were held rigid.
“Ain’t that great!” crowed the kid. “These coats is so tough you can’t even rip ‘em apart. You try.”
And I did try, because my arms were totally immobilised by the pole. I attempted to bend my elbows but the fabric held. I tried tilting one arm down and the other up - but it would take more than that to slide the pole out. I flexed again, and by now my cock was rampant and I gave it all I’d got in an attempt to get free.
I could hear the kid laughing with delight at my gyrations. “That looks great! Give it all you’ve got” he encouraged. I was just about to start trying with one hand to slide the pole back up one sleeve, when from behind me I felt the kid attached first one of the chain snap-hooks dangling from above onto the pole and then the second, both inside the collar of the coat. These would now prevent me from sliding the pole out, and I was tethered.
“See!” I heard him say, “The coat is tough enough to even hang somebody from it.”
I felt the chains tighten against the pulley rope and the pole rose until the coat was held taught under my wide-spread arms. I bent my legs to test the fabric of the coat and was able to hang my full bodyweight from it until I straightened my legs again.
“OK, let me down now, Darryl” I said, trying to keep any tone of panic out of my voice.
“Aw, c’mon,” he complained. “It’s only a bit of fun. I thought as you’d like to see how we do it. You said you like these coats. With a couple of extra straps, around the tops of each arm and the pole - and they can fix you good - and with less strain on the coat if you’re hanging in it for a couple of hours.”
From behind I felt a strap circle my arm close to the shoulder, then one on the other side. I was ready to start getting firmer with my demands for him to let me loose when a brawny hand from behind my head clamped itself over my mouth. A voice close to my ear spoke soothingly.
“It’s only a game we play, me and my brother - my big brother. But we don’t like a lot of hollering and argument,” and then the hand relaxed and freed my mouth.
“Come on, Darryl,” I insisted. “Let me loose - please.” No reply from behind me. “Darryl - enough is enough!” I repeated more firmly.
“Yes, indeedy. Enough is enough complaining !” and I recognised the sound of adhesive tape being ripped from a roll. The wide tape was across my open mouth before any sound escaped from me, and it was twice around my head and wrapping my face from nostrils to the point of my chin in seconds. After that I felt him tape first one of my thickly gloved wrists to one end of the pole. And there was nothing I could do to prevent the same happening to the other.
My legs and booted feet were all that were left free of restraints - and I should have anticipated that my movement would attract the attention of this rural con artist who had well and truly suckered me.
I was unable to look down and, because of my thick bike boots, I could only sense something heavy being taped securely around one ankle - but when my second ankle was dragged aside I knew it was another steel bar. Efficiently and determinedly strong hands bound tape around the bar and my boot. Obviously this was a process this kid was familiar with. Even out of sight behind be I could sense the exhilaration of this brawny hick. - and felt the suspension rope tighten, but only very slightly until my boots were lifted slightly free from the ground. I began to revolve - until the grinning face came into view. He walked slowly towards me stopping my swing, and his hands spread wide to reach each of my two taped wrists and then his strong fingers interlocked with my rubbered fingers, clamping onto them as he breathed into my taped face.
"When we got talking at that cafe, I hoped you was turned on by oilskins and the like - because I sure am - and so is my brother Donny. As he turned and stomped away in his heavy hip boots the only sound I could hear was my restricted breathing behind the heavy industrial tape which immobilised my mouth and cheeks.
“How ya’ doin’ feller? Enjoyin’ the game so far? he asked. A hand slid inside the coat, and strong fingers explored my crotch. “Yep! I guess you’re enjoyin’ this little situation. From the start in the bar I thought you might be somebody we could interest in our little games. In fact, I’m durned sure you know a thing or two that’d keep Donny and me well amused. So - play your cards right, buddy, and we might all have a whale of a time together.”
With that he grabbed and squeezed my balls painfully through my thin PVC suit, and from behind the tape I let out a yell.
“That’s what I like to hear! You should hear the way brother Donny hollers when I’m working him over - which I often do. He may be five years older’n me, but he likes it when I tie him down and make him mad - but I know he likes it really because he often allows me to take control and push him to his limits - and beyond.”
Darryl began to press his rubber booted legs against my stretched body, rubbing himself against me and forcing me backwards off balance until I hung from the bar and my boots were off the ground - but he kept talking into my face.
“Ever since we was kids, we knew what had turned my Daddy on. And he would wallop us, yes sir. And us kids soon learned between us how to give and take pain. Not beating always - but slow and deliberate uncomfortableness. It toughens you up. My cousin Jake was another ‘un who could take it as well as dish it out - and soon as he was old enough he couldn’t wait to join the Sheriff’s department to share in Uncle Mac’s particular sort of devilment. Donny and me’d been giving Jake some serious toughening up since we was all knee-high. An’ poor Jakie-boy, now he’s a genuine enforcer of the law, he’s even more fun to tie down and for us to challenge his authority.”
The caressing hand was forcing it’s way between my thighs and exploring the PVC covering of my ass. A strong finger was trying to insert itself despite the elasticated PVC covering. I flinched and writhed within the limits of my spread-wide arms and tethered feet.
Darryl suddenly stepped back a little, leaving me to regain my balance.
“Well, I guess it’s time to introduce you to Donny. He’s in the loft just above us - and he’s bin hearing some of the goings on down here. But he ain’t bin in no position to come down and introduce hisself … since early this morning, in fact, when I strapped him to a cot up there. Cos, you see, we take it turn-and-turn-about to get creative. Ever since we first found where our Daddy hid the books he got by post - from San Francisco . That Larry Townsend has a lot to answer for - all them hot stories about carryings-on in barns and bunk-houses. When you told me you was on your way between Los Angles and San Francisco - I had an idea you might know a thing or two about such things. So, … ” said the kid moving to the cleat which tied off the rope connected to the hanging chains, “I’ll take you up so’s you can meet Donny. He’s had a nice fat dildo up his ass and big rubber plug in his mouth (both mail order from San Francisco) for the past few hours - and his cock-and-balls are locked into a neat device that switches itself on and off at unpredictable times and can drive you crazy. He loves it … ”
The kid now held the rope ready to pull on it, but he moved closer to me. “ … and you’re gonna love it, too. Us country folk may not travel to Los Angeles or San Francisco - or London England - but the Internet is a wonderful educational tool - and we hay-seeds ain’t bad at inventing our own little variations on what you city perverts get up to.”
With that, he pulled on the rope and this tough kid had no problem with lifting my full bodyweight. I realised that with a double pulley block rig, he had total control and, although revolving slightly, my crucified carcass was hauled up until my feet were level with the edge of the hay-loft.
I could no longer see Darryl, but I now had a grandstand view of a hunk of a man in army coveralls, efficiently strapped down to a narrow metal cot. Gagged and totally immobilised, his crotch area was encased in a metal contraption with a wire running from it to an electrical socket on the wooden wall. I mentally pictured myself as I dangled there, arms sticking out rigidly on either side, encased in heavy black oilskin coat with leather straps at waist, chest and around my upper arms - and PVC clad legs fixed wide apart, heavy bike boots clamped by an iron brace.
From the cot, the gagged man lay staring at me; his tough masculine weather-beaten features straining sideways against a high leather collar which immobilised his neck, to get a better look at me. Suddenly Darryl was up in the loft, grinning. Standing there in his denim overalls and still glisteneing rubber waders pulled thigh-high, he looked like the modern equivalent of a juvenile delinquent action-comic hero rather than villain. With glee he introduced … “This here’s my brother Donny - Donny this here’s somebody from London England - I brought him for you to play with - that is, after I’ve had my own kind’a fun with him - ‘cos I aint gonna let you loose for at least another couple o’hours."
Donny was obviously not happy with that information, because suddenly his strong square face contorted in rage - and every part of his impressively muscular body fought against leather straps. But, from work-boots to the seriously high neck brace, every joint in his body was efficiently held captive. Darryl watched his brother’s genuinely furious efforts before turning to where I hung just clear of the platform.
“I like it when he gets mad! What are you like when you gets real mad? Perhaps we shall have to find out.”
With that he reached across the void and grabbed me by the leather belt at my waist and swung me towards the edge of the loft floor. He’d judged the height well when hauling me up. My boots were just low enough to hit against the edge of the loft platform. By sheer muscle power the kid dragged me onto the platform. When I found my feet I was able to stand up - so long as Darryl kept me from swinging back off the platform. Obviously this was a procedure he’d done many times before - because hanging from a handy beam was a metal hook on a short rope. When this was attached to the rope I’d been dangling from I could now stand and not swing back off the platform. The spreader bar between my ankles was wide, but just above my head, the hook kept me upright if uncomfortably off-balance.
Darryl had moved away and was dragging a small metal table towards me. I stood there, arms stretched wide on either side, breathless behind my taped mouth.
Having positioned the table contraption (because I could now see that it had eye-bolts attached at many points and some straps), he stooped down and with practiced efficiency, screwed two of the table legs to metal anchor points fixed into the wooden floor. He looked up at me with a smile.
“You’re not as tall as Donny. When he’s bent over and strapped to this, his ass is well in the air - I need to stand on that small box to fuck him. I guess with you, I won’t need no box.” He winked and walked towards me.
“But with that suit of your’n under that heavy coat, the ass fucking will have to wait for another time - tomorrow perhaps.” He had unclipped the hanging chains, and with brawny hands supported me as he urged me forwards, the rigid bar between my ankles forcing me to push one boot at a time or fall. With arms braced outwards by the pole across my shoulders and down each sleeve, I had to go where he guided me. Soon I was standing crotch against one end of the solidly constructed table. The top of it measured no more than two foot by three, and my spread boots were outside the table legs. Unable to look down, I felt first one and then the other ankle somehow fixed to the table legs. Behind me I heard Darryl walk away.
My eye caught that of the immobilised man on the cot. The table had been positioned so he was able to watch me, and our eyes met for a long moment - before a sudden pumping and electrical buzzing at his crotch distracted his attention. The milking device (which I had lusted over in a sex toy catalogue) had sprung into action. I watched the desperate writhing of this rugged rural specimen as he was forced closer and closer to orgasm. Again his muscled body fought against the many leather straps and his imprisoned neck lurched painfully from side to side.
I suddenly realised that Darryl was standing just behind me also watching his brother. Conversationally to me he said, “I wonder how many times he’s been forced to cum since I first switched that thing on five hours ago.” and with that, Darryl strapped one of my knees to the table upright, and then repeated the process on the other. I was in no position to comment - or put up any resistance, so I just stood watching the bigger man dealing with yet another electrically induced orgasm and the after effects.
Eventually his eyes
mine again, and this time somehow we shared a moment of strong rapport.
But, from behind me I suddenly felt a leather collar circle my neck. It was perhaps not as tall as the neck brace Donny was strapped into, but it forced my tightly taped chin and cheeks upwards. It had two if not three buckles to keep it snug around my throat - and a metal click informed me that Darryl had now attached something to the front of it. I soon knew what this was, because he had moved around to the other end of the small table to face me, a leash rope in his hands. Smiling into my eyes, he slowly pulled on the rope, forcing my neck forward so that I had no option but to bend forwards over the table, my arms still spread wide. His great brown eyes sparkled as my gagged face was dragged closer and closer to his crotch. The table top was short enough to leave my head beyond the end of it when my chest was on the table. Straps fixed me to the table top before a hand lifted my chin even further. The denim bulge flanked by the tops of his rubber hip-boots now pressed itself against my taped mouth.
“See what I mean,” I heard the voice above me say, “no need to stand on a box to face-fuck you. Donny may need to bend his knees a bit. Perhaps he will fuck you one end while I fuck you the other - toss a coin to see who gets to fuck which end first. But o’course, we’ll first need to strip you outta that coat - and that suit of your’n cos I wouldn’t like to damage it. In fact, I can’t wait to try it on. An me and Donny’ll enjoy showing you just how good we are at keeping somebody well helpless all the time we’re workin’ on ‘em. We’ve had years of practice”
All the time he was talking, Darryl was grinding his denim crotch against my face provocatively.
“But no real damage. Don’t worry none about that. Just a lot of show-and-tell … and hard action both in the barn here and out around the farm. An’ you may get a chance to show us what you like’s best. Fo’example, I just love to watch Donny get fucked - and he has sometimes invited somebody to do their worst with me … so it’s all good honest turn-and-turn-about … which is only fair."
Suddenly, the denim crotch moved aside - and now I was almost eye to eye with Donny on his cot. His face behind the efficient leather cover of his stuffed mouth, had changed. His brown eyes were smiling - and his smile, even when gagged, was as delicious as that of his kid brother.
It was at that point that that I decided that
if I never got to San Francisco - my journey might have a happy ending.