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An original story by
Jim Stewart
inspired by a drawing
The ‘Fierce’ Mechanic
New York artist "Joe T.",


His skill soon earned him a reputation when it came to getting the most out of any bike.
‘Fierce’ was the word guys in-the-know would use to describe his abilities – but it also described his reputation for not taking any shit from anybody.

When he’d first landed up in this one-horse town six weeks ago he was in no mood to make friends. His Harley had been almost wrecked when a truck ran him off the road. The local Sheriff’s office had given him a seriously hard time, refusing to file his complaint against the three young guys in the truck. They were ‘kin’ and he was a stranger, a New Yorker and travelling in well-worn bike leathers and scuffed Engineer boots – so, somebody to be suspicious of.

Without the cash to buy necessary parts, he’d been lucky to get work of any sort.
The owner of a run-down old auto repair shop had grudgingly allowed him to store his battered bike and sleep above the office of the crumbing business. Being something of a drunk,  Old Gus, as he was known, had let the garage go to seed. He was content to sit in the office with his cronies and shoot the breeze. More often than not, the ‘Gone Fishing’ sign had been on the door before the advent of this out-of-towner.

His arrival had cause a bit of a stir in the close-knit community. After his initial brush with the local law and the three town-kids in the truck, Brad, as he was now known (the name Bradzinski being too much to handle for the deputy who was first to cross his path), was given a wide birth around the town. He’d stopped going to the local bar. Not so much because he was broke and eager to pay-off the cost of new parts for his bike, but because a few young local heroes thought he was somebody they could challenge with impunity. Half the town, it seemed, was related to somebody who worked for the Sheriff’s Office.

Old Gus had put word around that his new garage hand was good with bikes, but there weren’t many bikes worthy of the name in the locality. Between the shitty auto-repair jobs which were about all that came in, Brad did get asked if he would tune or tinker with a few clapped-out dirt bikes and muddied-up off-road bikes. Glad of the cash on the side – these chores he’d done outside the hours Gus was paying for, and with a minimum of conversation.

Word was certainly getting around, and some of the locals had brought work in to him more out of curiosity than need. Content to be known as Brad – the mechanic (who back in the City was known as Pete) had deliberately refused to give out any information about himself. He was going to be out of there as soon as he could, so was not interested in the women who’d eyed him up, the young hick kids or even the humpy workers from the local gravel pits. All had tried to open conversations with ‘Brad the Hell’s Angel’ in the local diner which was the only place in town to eat. Consequently, he was generally viewed with a mix of suspicion and resentment.


As crap days go it had been the worst so far. At seven in the morning a shitty, clapped-out truck arrived to get working better for a drinking crony of the Boss. The patch-up job was a waste of time, and forget any kind of tip or even a ‘Thank you’. Then the usual back-log of clogged carburettors, leaking gas tanks and finally a disintegrating muffler almost inaccessible under a filthy chassis with a leaking sump.

His borrowed coveralls stank of oil and grease and were sticking to his butt, and he’d dribbled sump oil all over the old-fashioned canvas baseball boots he worked in. But the spares he needed to repair his wrecked Harley had arrived. In the dreary weeks he’d been trapped in this hick town he’d earned enough to cover their cost. If he pitched in tonight and all weekend, he could reassemble his bike and be back in civilisation in two or three days.

As usual around mid afternoon Old Gus, after sleeping off his lunchtime booze, had wandered off for the rest of the day. Casually, as he was leaving, the old man announced he wouldn’t be in tomorrow - because he had an important engagement down by the river. Pete was relieved – because now he could put all the effort into his own bike. He’d more than earned his keep for Gus that day and even tomorrow.

As he cleaned up the space around the bike-stand which he’d rigged for more comfortable working, he cleared back the welding gear and a pile of old truck inner tubes. In happier times these would have stirred his imagination. He’d once even cobbled together a sort of strait-jacket out of whole sections of heavy rubber inner tubes. More like a suit of armour. The smell and feel, the weight and sweat it had generated had been awesome. He and a couple of buddies in younger days had done some serious stuff with challenges that involved endurance. Even today he wondered if he should cut a couple of the tyres into a new set of broad heavy black rubber strips. Cut from the curved inerr-tubes like a spiral, these were great for mummification or for bodybands which had strength but enough give to make them interesting to fight against – or watch somebody else fight against. But the garage had a stash of heavy-duty black rubber clip-on bungee cords, the sort with ‘S’ hooks on either end. Useful for holding something firm while working on it. Also good for fixing stuff onto the back of a bike. When he left, he’d take a few with him. No knowing when and how they might be useful when he was back with his buddies in the City.


The sound of a Harley somewhere close by made him listen. He knew who it was because although new, it was badly tuned. At first he’d wanted to get his hands on it, just to make it run sweeter – but the prick who’d so recently taken delivery of it was a total tosser. Foreman of one of the gangs at the gravel pits, his father actually owned the site. So, thirty something and divorced, he thought he was God’s gift to any local female – and wasn’t above casting his eye over the young kids who hung around the local see-and-be-seen spots.

Big Dunk (Duncan, for God’s sake), was over-paid because of his family connections, and something of a bully with the guys who worked for him. As a local Romeo he also spent a lot of time at the local gym (owned by a cousin). It paid off, because he was built like a brick shit house – and he knew it. His kid brother was one of the three in the truck that started all Pete’s problems, and ‘Dunk’ had gone head-to-head with Pete during his first hours in town. In fact, yet another of Dunk’s cousins was a Deputy in his uncle the sheriff’s department. There was a time when Big Dunk might also have gone into the police, but he could earn more money and would eventually own the gravel pits.

The new Harley Classic Special had appeared on the scene shortly after Pete’s wreck. No doubt about it, it was a deliberate gesture of contempt for Pete, and the whole town knew it. Same with the new leathers; Dunk was suddenly strutting around town in immaculate, expensive leathers from Langlitz and knee-high boots which Pete recognised as Wesco ‘Boss’ 20 inch hi-leg. The top-of-the-range jacket, armoured pants, vest and even chaps if you please had been paraded deliberately when Pete was on his way to or from the diner or grocery store. Big Dunk’s cronies sniggered as openly as they dared, but Pete knew he could not win – so didn’t play their games.

The sad-sounding Harley continued to putter around nearby streets, but Pete set his mind on unpacking his newly arrived replacement parts. He would spend every waking hour fixing his own Hog and get the hell out of this hick town. He thought of the buddies back in Queens, and the satisfaction he got from the games he played with them; games which would have made some of the local studs he’d noticed in passing, piss their pants or cum in their jeans. He didn’t know which and wasn’t interested in finding out.

All set to drag the dismantled remains of his old Harley  (what model???) out onto the clamp-stand, he heard the noisy bike stop outside the garage. That prick Dunk surely wouldn’t ask his help after the part he’d played in fucking him over at the Sheriff’s office? Was he just pulling a power-play, because he knew Pete was eager for extra cash to get his own bike back on the road? The mechanic waited as he heard the clump of new boots somewhere just out of sight of the big old garage doors.

When Big Dunk made his appearance, the street-wise Pete had to suppress an embarrassed smile. At home his buddies would have unleashed a chorus of cat-calls and wolf-whistles. This wanna’be Biker, in his shiny new pants and big butch boots was stripped to the waist except for the skimpiest of leather vests. Not that his well-defined torso wasn’t a sight to make some hearts flutter (both male and female), but the contrived image complete with freshly groomed short-cropped hair and pristine bike gear provoked something near to pity in the experienced biker. But, what happened next removed any sense of anything but rising anger.


This prick, this small-town big-man, this power-conscious, image-conscious jerk  … smiled a not particularly believable smile and told Pete that Old Gus had said that any work that needed to be done on his new machine could be done immediately. So, would Pete take a look at the brakes which weren’t acting ‘just right’.

Pete kept his cool and behaved as employees are supposed to behave to a well-connected customer. It was close to closing time and he’d take a look at it in the morning, he said.

Still smiling the customer replied “Right now”, and after a tense silence the mechanic said ‘No’ – to which the customer did not reply immediately. He glanced around at the wreck of the old Harley waiting to be repaired and his smile, if anything, became brighter.

“I thought you were eager for work so you can get what’s left of your bike back on the road. I know you blame me, or at least my kid brother, for your problems. Well, I’m here to offer opportunity for you to earn some extra pennies by doing me just a little favour” .. and still Pete didn’t spring forward and crack the guy’s head open with a wrench.

“Thanks – but no thanks,” said the mechanic carefully, “There’s other jobs on the books before I can do anything for you. Sorry.”

“Do anything for me?” asked the still smiling would-be customer. He flexed his hard-to-ignore pecs and apparently unintentionally, rolled his flat abdomen which made the crotch of the tight leather pants make a noticeable thrust. “What would you like to do for me? – or to me?” An edge on the voice warned of danger and a determination to exercise his advantage. He continued:

“Word is out around town that you’ve been less than friendly to some of our more favoured females who might have liked to get to know you better. I hope you’re not one of the them Paedophiles or whatever? By whatever, I mean the sort of man who might be a danger to the younger guys in our community. But I’m sure not. I’ve heard good things about the work you’ve done for two or three of my workers. Well, now it’s time for their Boss to sample your skills”.

He held the mechanic’s eye and dared him to hold out against him. Electricity crackled in the air between the two men.

“I can be a useful person to have as a friend around this town,” Dunk smiled, “ … as you’ve already discovered. I think if you could be persuaded to co-operate on this, it could be very rewarding – in one way or another,” he added with an air of deliberate ambiguity.

“In what way?” asked the mechanic, trying to keep the grim edge out of his voice.

“Like free use and access to the gym down the street. My cousin owns it and I know he’d love to have you spend time there – working up a sweat. One or two of the other regulars have expressed an interest in your capabilities in a work-out room”. The smoothness of tone ended in an abrupt, “Fix the fucking bike!”

Instead of strangling him Pete moved towards the door grimly, saying “What’s wrong with it?” It almost choked him to walk up to this latest model Heritage Springer - classic styling, exposed-spring front suspension,  fishtail mufflers,  wide white-walls, twin-cam 88B engine - all the accessories including studded leather saddle-bags for fuck's sake!  All shining and unscratched on it’s side-stand like it was still in the showroom.

“Brakes. Just need a little adjustment.”

“Is that all? Isn’t that something you can do?” asked Pete, genuinely surprised.

“I’m the sort of person who’d rather pay others to do things, rather than get my hands dirty – if you know what I mean.” The remark was loaded and both men knew it. Pete knelt in front of the front wheel.

“Grip the brake,” he instructed.

Slowly and smiling, Dunk walked to the bike, spread his impressive bi-and-tri-ceps outwards from his  chest until the leather vest almost disappeared into his armpits. Gripping the right handlebar he leaned sideways across the bike keeping his thrusting chest towards Pete – all the time smiling down at him.

Aware of this, the mechanic kept his attention on the brake disc. “Just needs bleeding” he said, without looking up into the smug eyes above the deliberately expanded chest.

“Brad. Brad! … that is the name your known by here, isn’t it? I’d much rather you do it for me” purred the determined challenger. Releasing his grip on the bike, he stood full height and moved so that the crotch of his leather pants was directly in front of the kneeling mechanic’s face.

At this moment Pete knew he was lost. This man would push his advantage all the way – and so he yielded. He dropped his eyes and said “OK,” determined not to witness the gleam of triumph in his opponent’s eyes. “Wheel the bike into the workshop, I’ll help you guide it onto the clamp-stand.”


Walking into the garage the mechanic left the biker to collapse the foot-stand and wheel the bike into the shaded workshop. The neat little steel ramp on which a bike could be clamped firm without damaging it, stood ready.

As Pete turned to a tool rack he instructed “Front wheel comes through the stand and then the back clamp flips up to hold it steady. See the lock?”

“Got it” said Big Dunk as Pete turned with a small wrench in one hand, and knelt again before the front wheel. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind sitting astride, you can flex as I test the cable.” – and Dunk flexed.

As he approached the bike he flexed his arms and chest and abdomen. Before lifting one heavily leathered leg and boot over the bike he flexed his knees for the benefit of the kneeling mechanic. His shining crotch arched as his knee settled him astride the gleaming bike.

“These are new,” he said “but the guy at Langlitz advised buying them tight so they can wear in.” He hitched the heavy belt at the low waist. “Tight!” he said as he thrust a hand down inside the pants and adjusted his tackle, smiling down knowingly at Pete as he did it.

This time Pete didn’t look away. “I bet the leather feels good” he conceded.

“It all feels good,” glowed the man in the saddle, running his hands over shiny thighs and stretching the heavy cleated boots forward because the bike stand now held everything rigid. “These are great, aren’t they.  Lot of lustful looks when these are out on Main Street, I can tell you.”

A boot edged it’s way in the direction of Pete’s knee. “Just feel the quality of those soles – and those buckles. Go on – feel them?”

Embarrassed, Pete reached out with one hand and laid it on the toecap of a boot. The wearer shifted the other boot forward until both were stretched either side of the front wheel. He had to lean back to push the boots forward. He gripped the pillion and lifted his hips slightly, the leather creaking against the saddle and the leathered legs and boots reached towards the kneeling mechanic. Pete deliberately put down the wrench, and his other hand reached for the other boot. His two grimy hands now felt around the feet and sole of the unscuffed boots.

“Don’t they feet great!” insisted Dunk as he brought his hands forward and slid them down his leather legs to his knees. Pete’s hands moved from the ankles of the boots up their long, tough leather length to where two pairs of buckles held them tight above the calves. Dunk’s hands moved towards the boots and Pete, seemingly without intention, kept his hands just out of reach of the seated biker.

“When I first saw you and your bike, I realised that was something I wanted to have. A bike and leathers. Never given it any serious thought before; a bike and biking buddies. Not that there’s many likely candidates in this sad town. I guess you hang out with some weird characters where you live. New York is it?”

Queens” said Pete, seeming to accept this questioning.

“Yes. Bradzinski, was it? Bradzinski – Queens. Yes. My cousin showed me the file. Police always run a check on anybody involved in a local ‘accident’. He was quite impressed by your record. Not that it matters to me, of course – but it’s not something to get noised around the town. Your secret’s safe with me,” he smiled.

The mechanic considered his options – and his hands stayed on the boots as he raised his gaze directly into the eyes of the other man.

“You like the idea of Big City bikers – taking no shit from anybody – getting into fights with other bike gangs and spick punks. Hell’s Angels – but not angels at all, right. You like the idea of ruthless hard-men who obey no rules – welcome a no holds barred rough and tumble?

The thick boot ankles squirmed at the thought, and the shirtless man leaned forward across the handlebars, seeming to consider how to continue. “Tough – streetwise - ex-con” he said, eyes locked with those of the kneeling man. “I like to know who I’m dealing with – and I’m used to bringing the best out in the men around me. Demanding the best effort. The gang who work the gravel with me know how to knuckle under, believe me. If you play your cards right, Bradzinski, I could make the rest of your stay in this township … shall we say, interesting.”

Pete slowly removed his hands from the other man’s boots – and rubbed them on his own oil-stained thighs, thoughtfully. “I’m sure you could,” he said quietly.  Then, he licked his lips and seemed to reach a decision about the possibilities on offer. He nodded, and repeated  “I’m sure you could … ”  but his sentence seemed to be left hanging in the air, somehow incomplete - and the other man picked up the hint.

“On you’re first day here in the Sheriff’s Office, you were calling my cousin Jake, sir. You kept your cool very well. I would think you’re not used to calling people, sir ... except in jail.”

“That took a great effort, calling that dip-shit deputy, sir.” Pete’s eyes held those of the man towering above him. And after a pause Dunk allowed himself a smile.

“Yes, Jake is something of a dip-shit – but more likely to get his shit-dipped into – if you follow me. When we were kids I was always the one making the running. Play your cards right … Brad … and we might have some high-old times together. Strictly on my terms, you understand. That’s how it’s always been and that’s how I like it. Are you gonna fix that fucking brake?”

“Yes, sir!” said Pete with sudden resolution, “I’m going to fix everything.”

Big Dunk sat back, satisfied and Pete, after a brief pause, turned his attention back to the brake disc. “This operation might put a bit of strain on that vest,” he said suddenly, looking up – “ … being so tight . Might be better without it?” The upward inflection made it a respectful question.

Holding the mechanic’s eyes, the seated figure eased his way out of the skimpy vest; not an easy move as brawny arms both strained back to drag the vest off square shoulders. Big Dunk knew the full expanse of chest viewed from the worm’s eye view must look impressive. He took his time – while the kneeling man maintained his subservient attitude. Pete then reached up, offering to take the vest.

As it was passed down to him he took it, almost reverently. Folding the silk lining inside until only leather showed, then folding it smaller – he slowly pressed the leather to his face to smell it as the seated figure looked down on him.

“Smells good – leather” said the mechanic, putting the vest aside before getting down to the real business at hand.

“Now … sir … ” he began, “I need you to grip the two grips … please.”

The naked torso spread wide to take firm grips on the two rubber sheaths. The mechanic watched with what seemed to be appreciation.

“Now flex the front brake  trigger - please.” Pete’s eyes went down to the brake disc. “Flex it again – now stop – now – firmer grip on both grips - really lock your palms round them – like you were giving somebody a really good time.” The kneeling man smiled up, and the seated man enjoyed the sensation at his fingertips. “Now, can you see this bleed cap?” asked the mechanic? … and Dunk leaned his naked chest flat down across the tank to peer over the handlebars. “Keep your hands on both grips” instructed Pete, “and keep an eye down here,” he insisted, pointing between the front calliper. “Shit, I need a smaller wrench – don’t let go - and keep your eye on that bleed valve.”


Dunk did precisely as told, and so he didn’t see the thick bungee strap with hooks on either end on until the tough rubber was down across the back of his neck, under the headlamp and back up again, dragging his chest tight against the bike; his thick neck pulled down by the industrial strength rubber and steel hooks.

His hands, still gripping the handlebars were now higher than his chest, elbows even higher and well bent. In his shock, it took time to release his grip and start to feel for the hooks that held the bungee cord in place. This delay allowed just enough time for Pete to start wrapping another bungee cord around elbows, as hands groped blindly for the hooks holding the neck. Elbows were soon forced together and being dragged down behind the naked back. Three wraps, and still the rubber strip was long enough to hook the two hooks low on the bike frame, one on one side and the other on the opposite side. A third strip of rubber soon held the waist tight to the saddle and Big Dunk was belly down, ass up and legs too disoriented to do any damage. The clamp-stand held the bike firm and three simple bungee straps held the powerful wanna’be biker strapped to his own machine.

His yelling and cursing went unnoticed by the mechanic, who was busy hauling first one and then the other high-legged boot forward to anchor them to the fork over the front wheel. Rising from his knees, he was now in a position to survey his handiwork. He was turned on,.watching the writhing form, the flexing straps which promise hope of escape but always draged the naked body back down against the bike. The uncomfortable position of legs forward and chest forward and arms pinioned backwards, inescapable even without the wrists fixed was all great to watch. Pete took time to savour the situation – and speculate on how he would respond if it were happening to him. There had been times …

But the mechanic dragged his mind back to the present, and walked calmly away to the workbench. Dunk strained his head upwards against the rubber to yell “What the fuck you think … ” but he stopped at the sight of the roll of wide duct tape in Pete’s hands. Desperately he struggled as he felt one wrist being circled. But strain as he might, he could not see to evade the winding of the tape. With elbows tightly pinioned it was no contest, however much he tried to resist. Wrists were soon solidly bound together by the unbreakable tape.

Dunk’s mouth had not been as busy during this battle of the wrists, but now he was ready to open his mouth wide and recommence his yelling … when the crotch of Pete’s greasy coveralls loomed close to his face. A hand lifted his chin painfully against the tug of the double rubber strap which dragged his neck downwards. The crotch pressed closer to the angry face, which was then slowly and deliberately embedded into the fabric and whatever lay beneath. After a couple of provocative thrusts, the crotch drew back and a voice from on high said quietly:

“Now is the time to keep quiet, Duncan.”

But Big Dunk was in no mood to keep quiet. He opened his mouth to speak and it was immediately filled with a small ball of some kind and tape was circling his jaw and chin around the back of his head.

“Oh, Duncan, Duncan, you pushed your luck and your luck ran out.”#


Phase Two

In the silence that followed, Pete realised he was not in the least excited. That surprised him. He was deadly calm. In spite of the potential danger of the un-planned situation he’d suddenly created, he felt only a sense of extreme … calm (no other word for it).

Looking down on the helpless, now silent figure - what stirred in his memory was the sense of slow-motion he’d experienced when any situation in his life had taken an unexpected turn – and a problem had to be dealt with. This situation needed to be dealt with. Big Dunk needed to be dealt with. Here was a challenge to be met, a situation to be handled efficiently and imaginative.

The expert fixer of motorcycles had spent his life inviting challenges. It had always been his nature to solve problems, take risks, push the edges of experience – yes (face it) invite trouble and get a kick out of it. Almost in a state of suspended animation, the mechanic stood over this new unexpected  … problem to be solved.

Disconcerted by the silence and lack of action, the trussed figure suddenly renewed efforts to struggle free of the flexible but deceptively efficient bindings. The bike was rock solid in it’s stand. The rubber straps had ‘give’ but no amount of muscle-power was going to break them or dislodge the hooks. The powerful jaw and neck lunged and thrashed as far as the rubber would allow – but was always dragged back to the original position. There was no slack to be gained.

Pete knew about gaining slack. From his earliest awareness of Harry Houdini, and his boyhood enthusiasm for rough-and-tumble physical games, he’d practiced the skills necessary to extricate himself. He’d invited challenges, relished the risk and discomfort of failing to fight or trick his way out of predicaments which only a few of his buddies had learned to enjoy. Elements of capture, restraint and escape if your opponent lacked the skill or determination had excited Pete’s imagination since before he could re member. Before political correctness complicated boyhood fantasies of Cowboys and Indians; and even though the War in Vietnam had taken the edge off military combat scenarios, Pete had forever been one of nature’s risk-taking, luck-pushing Adventurers. Sticking his neck out and to hell with the consequences had always been the name-of-the-game for him – and it took a lot to force him to give up a struggle. And at this moment Big Dunk was by no means ready to give up his struggle. Pete became aware that the trussed man was still fighting his bonds, sweat now glistening on the massive shoulders and upper arms, water running off the short-cropped head and brawny neck.

Pete laid a calming hand on a writhing shoulder – and the struggling subsided. “Save it, buddy, there’s a few hours ahead before anybody comes looking for you. A lot can happen in the time … and the party isn’t over until somebody sings a song I want to hear”.

With that, Pete walked across to the big sliding door of the workshop and began to close it. Dunk strained to see what was happen and, was just able to see the mechanic putting the ‘closed’ sign in the office window – and, as an after-thought, find something else and put that against the window.

“Gone Fishing.” Said Pete by way of explanation. “Gus is off on one of his trips.”

Pete closed the tattered window blind so the only light was through the skylights.  “Just you and me, buddy,” he said, walking back towards the bound figure. “Just you and me for as long as it takes.”

From the pile of old tyre inner tubes he picked up a hefty one and began to fold it neatly until it was a compact roll. He then hauled the back of his captive’s waist-belt upwards and packed the roll of rubber between the leather-covered crotch and the bike seat.

Belly-down along the bike, naked to the waist with leather legs pulled forward - left his tightly bent ass now raised in the air almost six inches. Above it, pinioned elbows pulled down even tighter, the taught rubber straps fixing both body and legs to the sturdy machine – and strong but powerless fingers flexed uselessly above shiny black buns .

Pete’s hand explored them, feeling around the mounds - and under, deep under the crotch to find the base of the fly. The gagged figure squirmed angrily.

“Calm down!” advised Pete, “I’m just assessing the potential”.

He fetched a second inner tube and used it to raise the ass further, which added strain to the waist strap and provoked desperate if muffled protests. Pete swung his leg over the back of the bike and sat tight behind his captive. He positioned his crotch close against the immobilised ass, moving it up and down to gage the height. By planting his feet on the ramp either side of the bike he could stand -  which brought his crotch into contact with the hands captive beyond the taped wrists.

“Just need to explore the possibilities, Dunk buddy. Get the ass nice and accessible – and I decided not to tape your fingers (at least not yet), so you can enjoy a feel around my crotch. Can you feel that?” he asked as he undulated his greasy coveralls against the trapped fingers.

Swinging his leg back off the pillion, the mechanic now walked around the bike to bring his crotch close against the top of the perspiring head. Again a hand raised the chin against the downward pull until all the gagged face could see was crotch.

“There’ll come a time when you’re desperate enough to have the gag off, to knuckle under and do what ever I tell you to do. A nice juicy mouth, open, ready and willing – because if you’re not willing I’ll find alternatives that will soon make you more willing to co-operate. I’m a mechanic – and I have a few tried and tested little devices – all quite easy to make up.

There’s a lot of junk around this workshop which will, I’m sure, excite my creative imagination. A hose for your butt; a funnel for your mouth; good strong waterproof tape to wrap your dick so it will direct it’s spunk or piss wherever I decide it might do the most good. Because one of the things I’m going to do for you, new buddy – one of the many favours I’m going to do for you – (because, if you’ll look on this as a learning experience … you’ll thank me for it later) – I going to turn you into a real biker. A real hog-rider. Not some pussy-assed wanna’be. You’re going to know what it takes to feel as well as look … (and even smell) like a biker. A real old-style ‘Greaser’. Smell that hand,” he said, suddenly clamping his grimy palm over his captive’s nose. Unable to resist, the trussed man breathed heavily. The other hand panted firmly on the back of his head, both hands massaged and rubbed around. The hand from the hair was then held under the nose.

“Smell that scent-stuff you got on your hair? That’s got to go. No self-respecting Greaser uses hair gel. Axel grease is a biker’s body deodorant. Once it gets into the skin it’s hard to get out. So I’m gonna make sure it gets well worked into your body, your head, your cock-and-balls ... the soles of the feet and up the crack of your ass. I drained a sump this morning. There’s a can of thick black sump-oil with your name on it. When I’m finished with you, buddy, you won’t know yourself.”

Sudden desperate, angry writhing erupted and the standing man smiled down.

“That’s good, buddy! I like to see a bit of spirit. Nothing turns me on better than to watch a man with some spunk putting up a good fight, even when the odds are stacked so heavy against him. You keep up the struggle – it’ll make the next few hours really worth while for me. If you can out-smart me – if I’m dumb enough to give you any loophole – you grab at it, man. I’ll respect you for it – but I’ve been playing major league man-to-man sex games since I could get my dick hard – or anybody else’s dick hard. You ever had a good hard cock up your ass? – or in your mouth? Well, there’s a first time for everything – and sometimes the first time is the most memorable. And tonight, buddyboy, I’m going to give you a night to remember.”

With the adrenalin now pumping, Pete started to take stock of what he might need and in what order he would jump his new playmate through which hoops. He needed time to prepare. He circled the stretched and straining body bent double astride the shining Harley.

“You look real uncomfortable there,” he observed, “and I need easier access to the more interesting regions of that impressive body. I can’t wait to get my hands on all those delicious parts – and check them out – and put them to the test. And, for starters, I need you to know that I’m very skilful when it comes to handling even the toughest and most determined of ‘play partners’, willing or unwilling. That’s part of the fun for some of my regular bondage buddies – putting up as much of a struggle as I allow them. In your case – we’ll start easy – but, I promise you, it will get as difficult as I think you can deal with. Just how far and how fast, is something it’ll be interestin’  for us both to find out. So – I need time to round up some extra stuff and I think you could do with a breather.”

Taking a small pocket-knife from his coveralls, the mechanic approached the face of the suddenly fearful Dunk. Opening the knife he aimed it at his victim’s face, and suddenly clamped the other arm around the head in vice-like grip. His captive screamed in real terror behind the efficient gag.

“Hold still!”  he ordered. “Don’t struggle and you won’t get hurt,” Then with a delicate twist of the razor-sharp knife, he pierced first one and then a second small hole in the tape over the mouth, either side of the rubber ball which was holding the teeth slightly apart.

A moan of fear and relief escaped from the now less totally gagged man. He was on the edge of sobbing or pleading. Saliva dribbled from the newly pierced holes.

“Hang in there good-buddy! I’m not going to harm you or scar you. I may mark you up a little, but nothing you can’t live with … but I don’t want you giving way under the pressure. I want you fighting fit and fighting back. That’s what pushes my buttons – a little fear – but a lot of anger”. A hand suddenly face-slapped the taped cheeks and jaw. Wack! Wack! In two directions. “I prefer you angry, buddy.”

With that, he walked away, leaving Dunk with eyes filled with tears from the unexpected blows – but a sudden welling up of anger lifted him onto another level of determination to survive this ordeal. He threw himself against the tantalisingly flexible bindings, grunting more audibly through the punctured tape wrapping, saliva flying.

“That’s more like it!” said Pete, returning with a handful of rope. As he stooped before the front of the bike he talked into Dunk’s face. “The competitive spirit. The determined opponent. Desperate but determined to survive, that’s my kind of situation. Competitive power games. I’m going to jump you through some hoops buddy-boy – and you’re not going to enjoy them – at least, not at the time. In the future you may beat off over them. I know I will – but I’ll be in a position to beat off during them”.

As he talked, Pete was attaching a rope to each of Dunk’s boots separately, and releasing them from the front wheel of the bike. Suddenly with a deft move over the back of the helpless victim, both heavyweight boots were dragged back and upwards and being tied together. Instinctively, the leather-covered knees began to jerk but already the boots were lashed together and being dragged upwards, rendering them powerless. In effect, Dunk was now hogtied, faced down on the Harley (Appropriate, thought Pete as he made off the ankle rope to the pinioned elbows).

Again Dunk began to thrash around as much as he bonds would allow, and the mechanic watched appreciatively. It was just the sort of thing he loved to watch – and regretted that he had no video camera to capture the spectacle for future enjoyment – but there was work to do. He knew there was a small canvas sack somewhere – and soon found it. Returning to his victim he showed it to the helpless figure.

“The is only a temporary measure while I move you to a more comfortable position – at least, a position where you can survive for longer – and I can get at you more easily to have my wicked way with you.”

With that the bag slid over Dunk’s head and he began to panic. Was there enough air? The cord was tightening around his neck! Was the bastard trying to choke him? – or suffocate him? His neck was  suddenly loose from the bike – so was his waist. With his legs still bent, was he going to fall off the bike! – so, suddenly refrained from any sort of struggle. But now his ankles were loose from his elbows; he was lying flat along the bike. A twisting movement and the rubber pinion straps holding him chest-down on the saddle, tightened – and then loosened. His boots hit the floor and strong hands dragged him upright.

His feet felt as if they were not part of him they were so numb. He couldn’t breathe comfortably and the bag stank of oil and dust. He was now on his feet – and there was some movement between them. He was hobbled and being urged to walk. Shuffle, shuffle. Strong hands insisted he move forward or fall. His pinioned arms and taped wrists made any resistance impossible and if he struggled he’d fall or perhaps get another whack across the face. That had hurt – or had it hurt his pride more than the actual blow? He’d boxed and his face could stand up to getting punched around, at least by the leather of boxing gloves. Leather – he could feel his boots and knees inside the tough pants. In his reeling mind, his crotch suddenly took his attention. He was suddenly aware of his crotch -  tight inside the pants. He wasn’t hard – but the heat and pressure from lying on his stomach – and it was sticky inside – had he cum? – or been leaking pre-cum. He knew he hadn’t pissed himself. What was happening now? In the darkness he tried to concentrate on what was going on – somewhere beyond the bag over his head.

His arms – still pinioned were being roped against something – a pipe. More rope – criss-crossed around his naked shoulders – which were hard back against some sort of frame. The painfully tight rubber pinion strap which had cinched his elbows for so long, was relaxed and rope around each bicep soon held him even tighter against the pipe. Pete’s hands, which the hooded man had felt moving around his upper body suddenly were no longer there – but his boots were being tugged-at – apart. He tried to shift them, but inside the sturdy boots he could not sense precisely what was happening. Then suddenly the bag was off and even the dim light in the workshop hurt his eyes – for a while.

Still gagged,  wrists still bound with tape – he was otherwise lashed by rope to a solitary horizontal pipe behind his back, just above elbow height. He’d seen the pipe many times in the workshop. Now he stood helpless, laced to it, wrapped with several layers of crossed ropes. He could only just see his feet – and they were tethered to strong metal eyelets in the floor. Boots not uncomfortably far apart – but roped efficiently and going nowhere. He stood helpless – and somewhere beyond his mental distraction, he only just heard the departing mechanic say:

“Be right back. I need more tools for THIS job.”

With that, the ‘Fierce’ mechanic padded away on greasy sneakers, and Big Dunk heard the rickety old wooden stairs to the old store-room above the office, creak

“Tools? What tools – what job?” the gagged and helpless Duncan asked himself silently,



In any good drama, a break in the action can heighten suspense. As Big Dunk watched the mechanic pad away in his stained baseball boots, there was nothing to do but wait for whatever was going to happen next. When he heard the rickety wooden stairs creek he knew his captor was now upstairs in the old storeroom above the office. He’d learnt from local gossip that Old Gus was letting him sleep up there – but for years it had been just a junk space. What ‘tools’ could be up there?

He flexed his naked chest and felt the ropes rub. He flexed muscles independently, something he was used to doing to impress the chicks – or create an intentional effect at the gym. No rope slackened. Three simple knots were in view, but all were out of reach, even of his teeth. Teeth! He was gagged. The rubber ball behind his teeth and efficiently immobilising his tongue. A squash ball, he wondered, absently.

He exercised the considerable muscle-power of his upper arms, but the pipe was rock solid and the roping efficient. Biceps bulged as shoulders wrenched from side to side. Dunk wished there was a mirror. In the gym, he and his cousin Tommy, were a good advertisement for the benefit of concentrated effort. Together they spotted one another, encouraged and provoked to greater effort – always challenged each other. They’d been kids together and always competitive. They’d shared some good times.

If Tommy could see him now, roped and muzzled with tape, would he leap to his defence – or laugh like fuck and sit back to watch what happened next? He was a born voyeur. Running a gym was the ideal profession for Tom. He liked to watch tough men pushed to their limits.

Now, young Jake and a couple of others: that would be a different story. This predicament was a serious breach of the law – but how would Officer Jake see it? Dunk had always had a weight and age advantage over his cop cousin – and had sometimes used it unfairly, painfully and much to the kid’s resentment. Still, it had made him a tough little fucker, but if Jake and one of his buddies found ‘Big Dunk’ in this predicament, would they recognise their advantage? It wouldn’t be the first time they’d abused their position and made the most of the power that came with the badge. Usually, some poor sucker who had no way of fighting back. In fact, Dunk had aided and abetted in some unconventional police activity – just for a laugh – and because he wanted to know what sort of thing cousin Jake and his buddy deputy occasionally indulged themselves in. Pulling over some unlucky traveller passing through the township, they’d cuff him on some pretext – then drive him, not to the station, but somewhere secluded. They had ways of persuading any traveller that this was no place for strangers. Dunk had been delighted to see that young Jake’s way of abusing a stranger was to do to him things Big Dunk had been doing to several of his ‘kin’ for many years.

The idea that suddenly, he might be in line for some sort of pay-back, not only from this stranger – but from his own ‘kin’ if the situation got out of hand … was interrupted when he heard the sound of heavy boots clumping down the wooden stairs.

The Intermission was over.




A good mechanic knows the advantage of having quality tools, and preparing the space so the job in hand can go forward smoothly. So, that was his first objective.

Second, to earn a reputation for being an expert (a ‘Fierce’? mechanic) you not only need to know what you’re doing, but from the start, convince people you’re going to do a really efficient job. That he was looking forward to.

There’d always been something of the performer in this kid from Queens. His image, he could adjust in the blink of an eye: Mister Nice Guy or Hard Bastard. He’d always found it easy to be who he needed to be to get the best out of any situation. A knack of reading an opportunity and adjusting to play the hand to his best advantage, was why Power Exchange game-playing was something else he was expert at.

But, as somebody who could never resist a challenge, he got more kick out of a satisfying struggle than an easy win. He preferred to compete where there was a chance of losing – because, at times, losing to a good opponent can be a lot of fun.

And now his excitement level had risen. As soon as he started to pull on his leathers for the first time since he’d hit this shit-hole of a town, the adrenalin started flowing. He was in performance mode. Not only his beat-up heavy leather jacket and pants, but a seriously lived-in leather shirt that he loved to feel next to his skin. The image was enhanced by the battered Engineer boots, one pants leg pulled down over, the other hung-up on the top of the high boot, leaving the buckle showing. He was after major visual impact. The bandanna knotted around his neck was something of a cliché, but it was grey and black (he wondered if the colour symbolism would be lost on Big Dunk)  and taking it off his sweaty neck to use as a gag during an ‘encounter’ always turned him on.

Earlier today inside his coveralls, he’d worn his usual support-jock – but under leather, direct contact with the un-lined pants was essential to the character. Especially around his crotch these pants had, over the years, naturally acquired quite a personality of their own. But, the well-used jockstrap, was in his jacket pocket; another of the ‘tools’ he intended to use on the problem about to be taken in hand.

The rest of his ‘tools’, always with him when travelling, completely filled one of his old leather saddle bags. Such a wide range of skills and enthusiasms as this expert enjoyed, could benefit from having precisely the right ‘tool’. In his hand now, as he prepared to make his entrance back onto the scene, was the sagging leather bag, stuffed to bursting with the necessaries he used with such skill and efficiency.


The dramatic impact was exactly as intended:  The classic Sixties-style Biker: Forget John Travolta in ‘Grease’, forget Brando – think early Physique Pictorial ‘rough trade’ fresh off the streets of Brooklyn or Los Angeles.

His captive audience stared (what else could he do?) as this embodiment of male fantasy smiled a wry smile, rattled the bulky saddle bag before dumping it heavily between the well-tethered but too-shiny and too-new boots.

“Can’t do the job if you don’t got the tools – my Daddy used to say.”

And so began a conversation that was strictly one-sided …


“Now, where do we begin? Let’s discuss this situation.

The way I see it, you’ve got yourself a reputation as something of a local hard-man. You enjoy throwing your weight around, specially with folks in no position to fight back. But, I’ve heard and seen enough around this shit town to know, although a lot of folks are ‘kin’ to you, you couldn’t exactly call many of them friends.

Now, stop me if I’m wrong, but you get a kick out of certain things – physical things – things that even good-ol’bad-ol’boys find embarrassing to admit to being turned on by. Am I right?

Well, let me tell you, new buddy, some of those carryings-on - which I suspect you bin readin’ about in the sort of magazines you won’t even admit you know the names of – are games I have been playing for a lot of years – sometimes with the people who invented them.

Does that surprise you? Me hiding my light under my bushel for the last six weeks – after some of the ‘overtures’ that have been made by certain folks? Does the fact that I’m an expert player of seriously kinky games scare you - or excite you? It should do both! So – tell me. Come on, buddy-boy, you can nod. You can shake your head! Simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Has the idea of man-to-man game-playing like you’ve read about in magazines … how shall I put it delicately? … tempted you?


Scare you?


Get your dick hard?


Good!! And you’ve beat off over back issues of Drummer magazine, haven’t you.


And Bound and Gagged magazine?


And you’re even a subscriber to B&G on line – under a false name.


That was a long shot. How about the Academy or Jail Training Centre site?


Well, at least I can still spot a potential player when I see one. Can be dangerous when you make a mistake.

But - when it was my ill-luck to get stuck in this one-horse town, your behaviour to me on the first day told me a lot of things about you. Things you’d like to think nobody will ever find out.  But, because I’ve been round the block a few times, I never willingly get involved with wanna’bes who are angry because they can’t suppress their natural instincts. They’re dangerous! If they’re too shit scared to stick their heads above the parapet – it takes a special kind of masochist to step in and give encouragement.

But you stepped in today, didn’t you, buddy-boy? You decided to try your hand at being one of those big bad Top Men in the fantasy photo-shoots. Well – I’m glad you did, my friend – because, although you blew it big-time – you put a boot on the first rung of the ladder – and, lucky-old you, I was here to show you how things really work. Are you a good learner?


Oh my! Then I guess, getting you used to learning may be our first little object lesson. Think about this … in the circumstances, are you ready to learn from me?


Second time of asking: Are you ready to learn …



Let me put it another way … would you like me to punch you in the gut, hard? Because that’s what I’ll start doing instead of slapping you if you don’t start thinking a little more clearly. Do you want that – a full knuckle punch in the gut?


Then you’ve learned something. That wasn’t so difficult, was it. You can learn – and you will learn, believe me. That’s what this whole situation is about. I will teach you lots of different ways to make a man knuckle under – extreme and painful ways when necessary - and you will learn how to enjoy pleasing me by doing every God-damned thing I tell you to do without question or hesitation. The alternative is for you to learn how to survive serious discomfort. Of course, you might even enjoy putting up some resistance – and I’ll enjoy that, too.

But for now – you’re in no position but to humour me and do as I tell you. Think about the alternative, and tell me you’re going to be sensible.


Right, let’s get this show on the road!


Lots to show. Lots to tell. But before we get started I really do need you to look less like a dummy out of the Pleasure Chest window. We could start with an all-over massage with axel grease – and as a mechanic we’ll discuss some serious body modifications when you get to know me better. But for now I need you looking and smelling less like the Avon Lady and a little more like – me.




You want air, good-buddy? Breath leather air.


Breath man-sweat air! It won’t take long to get you feeling (and smelling) a bit more raunchy. Have you come in your jeans yet? (NO RESPONSE) I asked you a question, fuck-face. Did you come in your jeans yet?


I must be losing my touch. It’s time you did – you haven’t lived till you lose you load in your leathers. Friend of mine is an expert at forcing guys to shoot inside their leathers – like it or not – behind thick walls of leather or rubber.




Well, at least we’ve learned something. You like to get sucked. And do you suck as well?


Have you ever sucked a guy?


Not ever?


Not never, ever ever? Not even when you were a kid? Not even with cousin Tommy


Poor Tommy, the queen of the gym? I’m sure he’d love you to – but then, you probably know that and you’ve been a sadistic bastard all your life – haven’t you. Haven’t you?


And you’ve never, ever ever sucked dick?


Well, there’s a first time for everything – and I can promise you – I’ll teach you to do it right. But, in the meantime you have a nice sticky crotch which is a beginning. Next time I might use a piece of sand paper on the outside of your fly – that’ll start getting those nice new leathers looking a bit more lived in. I promise not to use the sandpaper inside, on your dick – well, not unless you really piss me off. Although, there’s a lot of talk about chastity belts and how to stop guys getting off without permission – and a well applied piece of sandpaper is a chastity device that costs nothing!


It’ll be interesting to see how long before I can make you cum again – and how many times. That’s certainly on the agenda – but lot’s to show and tell and discuss along the way. We have time. Oh, we have time, good-buddy. We have the time –we have the place – although I think I should just stage manage a few things. Not enough room to swing a cat with all this junk around - i you’ll excuse the pun. Is that a pun or an innuendo? It may interest you to know that I am not as dumb as I make myself look – and I don’t require you to agree to that!

Where was I? Space. Let me tell you a little about play-spaces. Now a bike on a stand can be as very useful piece of equipment, as you already know – but an unnecessary expense. An old iron fuel pipe like the one you’ve become so attached to was a fortune bonus – but Gus has a useful stash of scaffold poles and clips over there. One of my first projects is to augment the fuel pipe. I’ll talk you through some alternatives as I expand on your current predicament. Good to change positions from time to time during a long scene. Keeps the circulation going – and you’ll also learn how to transfer somebody from position to position without allowing any possibility for resistance or retaliation. ….




PRINTED VERSION ENDS WITH … “More to be written!”


An illustrated booklet of correspondence with the Artist explores
pictorial storytelling. See web page STORYBOARDS