Saturday, 20 May 2017

Biker for Sale


Reb couldn’t believe it. He was being sold. So that’s how the fat little greaser planned to get rid of him – and make a neat little profit. Reb should have thought of something nasty like that.
Nothing he could do about it, though. After a very long ride, the truck had finally arrived. Where? Reb didn’t know, but it was definitely south of the frontier – he’d heard nothing but Spanish spoken. By then, he was weak as a kitten, and the welcome committee – a couple of mean looking hombres – had had no trouble stripping him naked, chaining him and putting him in a holding cell. It looked like a regular prison cell, and maybe it was, South of the border, anything went. A week or so had gone by, with Reb been given just enough food and water to keep body and soul together but not enough to get his strength back. He had to get that from a dog bowl on the floor, after kneeling down for what felt like a couple of hours. At first, he had tried to resist but his captors had beat him with some sort of zap wand. Reb had soon given up the fight.
Then, a few hours ago, they had come to the cell and shaved his crotch. Then they had put a sort of ring on his cock and balls, they had secured his arms in some kind of sheath, gagged him with a ball gag right out of a fetish catalog and put a collar and leash on him. He had been allowed to sit on the bench in his cell, which by now was a privilege – most of the daytime he had to stand up, chained to the wall. Something was about to happen…
And it did. After a while, the guards had come back, but there was someone with them. Incredulous, Reb recognized the fat little truck driver, whom he hadn’t seen since his arrival. He was dressed all in white, looking quite dapper.
“You see, gringo, here I am again. Are you happy to see me?”
All Reb had been able to manage for an answer was a grunt muffled by the ball gag.
“Ah, I guess you do not like this place very much? Well, I have good news for you. You’re going to leave it soon.”
He took the leash and pulled on it.
“Get up.”

Then Reb had been led through long dark corridors to a big room where a dozen men were sitting on chairs. A bright light was shining on him and the fat driver. He could just about make up the silhouettes of the men and the smoke of their cigars. The fat driver was giving a little spiel in Spanish. All Reb could understand was “mean hombre” and “biker”. He was talking about him – although Reb didn’t feel very mean just then. He wanted this to be over, this whole humiliating charade. But at the same time, he feared what was going to happen next. What was he going to be bought for?

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