Captured in Wyoming Chapter 1

Author: lithium500mg
Title: Captured in Wyoming Chapter 1
Date: 15 February 2015

Chapter 1

My trip was going well. The big Yamaha sportbike had cruised up from Oklahoma City in two days, and the Montana border was just 45 minutes away. Ahead of schedule by several hours, I was looking forward to hitting the Alaska Highway early, giving me even more time to remedy any unforeseen delays.

The Big 12 college wrestling season was over for me as, as usual, I didn’t make the conference team. I was as strong and muscular as any of the 157 lb class wrestlers, but Nature had not given me either physical or mental speed, essential at the higher ranks of any sport. I worked as hard as anyone, enjoyed the camaraderie of the team, and just enjoyed being very muscular.

It was a typical hot and humid late Spring day, and I was naked under my racing leathers to adapt. At good speed, this arrangement is comfortable and safe, the heavy leathers conforming to the body and protecting even more in case of an unexpected get-off. It feels great too, and that can take your mind off the sometimes blistering heat coming off the mill and baking your inner leg.

I stopped for a cone at the Dairy Queen in the north Wyoming town and noticed the local cops passing the time, talking with each other, each in his own cop car. It was a 100% chance these were the only cruisers in town. I spotted them glancing my way, and maybe they were just scanning anyone who didn’t permanently belong in town. The state highway had passed by the town, and strangers were few.

After downing a liter of water, I took off north with a goal of gaining another hour on the schedule before making camp in Montana. I was looking forward to a shower and maybe a nap before dinner, the nap to help me forget the vibration that eventually gets into the bones through the handlebars.

Cruising and not yet at full speed, the town cops appeared in my mirror before I got to the town limits, in two cars, and without delay put on their lights. What was this all about? I pulled over. Out of the first car came the donut eater, or that’s what I thought at first. He had a belly, but with it a large frame. He looked like a good ole boy, and looked out of place in a place that I considered the West. But his short-sleeved shirt showed me he was a big powerful dude. His stumpy legs were that of a weightlifter.

Out of the second car came the cowboy cop, a nearly two-meter slim guy in a close-fitting uniform that didn’t hide his gym work.

“May I see your license, Sir,” said Slim? I pulled it out. “From California.” This was not a question, but more of an accusation. “Just passing through?” “Yes,” I said somewhat sharply. I was hot and starting to sweat, not from the cops but from the heat. The sweat pouring off my body and trapped in the leathers. I needed to get moving. And my sockless feet were beginning to swim in their boots.

“Where you goin’” asked Good Ole Boy. This guy probably didn’t have too many books at home, but the first instinct is to answer. I told him of my planned free-wheeling trip alone to Alaska in about 15 words. He conferred with Slim and then, all of the sudden I heard “Put your hands on the car and spread your legs.” I suddenly felt uneasy.

I started to back away. “What’s this all about, Officer?” “Get on the car, boy!” and I did. Hands on the roof, and, with the help of a baton between my legs, spread wide. “Keep ‘em wide, boy.” The sweat was draining from my raised arms inside the leathers as I started to silently question why the cops had stopped me. Was there mistaken identity? Or do they just hate motorcycles or their riders?

“OK boy, gimme your right hand,” and he took it and cuffed it. “Oh shit” was what I was thinking, but I know to keep quiet when the cops are doing their thing. “Gimme your other hand.” I did as my chest fell against the cruiser. Naked under the leathers I felt my dick stirring a little. Two guys in uniform restraining me. I was turned on.

Good Ole Boy checked out the packs on the bike. Slim pulled me off the car by my still-fastened collar, and I turned around and faced him as ordered. “What’s this,” he said, again placing his baton between my legs. “Answer me boy!” he said as he tapped his baton lightly up on my balls. “Nothing Sir.” Instinctively I closed my legs onto the nightstick to protect myself.

Slim yelled “Spread your legs.” I resisted, but slowly opened up, expecting I could trust a sworn officer to act respectfully, or at least mercifully. This time he gave me a little more vicious tap, and I fell to my knees with pain. My face touched the ground as I rolled forward. The tap was just enough to buckle my knees and produce a big lump in my throat. I rolled back a little and lifted up to my knees to see Slim right in my face, his groin purposefully within a few inches of my mouth. Was this an indication of things to come?

Good Ole Boy came back over. “You’re under arrest as a terrorist,” he declared. I found this box cutter in your pack. “This” was a tool used to repair tires on the road. As I started to explain, Slim stepped forward, and my mouth was now solidly in contact with his pants, and speech was, in the least, inconvenient. As he pushed me backwards his groin with its semi-hard dick hit my face. More evidence of the kind of trouble I was in.

G.O.B. and Slim moved a few yards and began discussing something out of my earshot. A minute later, Slim ordered me into the back of the car. “My bike? What’s going to happen to my bike?”

“Get in the car!” and this time the nightstick was on my Adam’s Apple. I obeyed. Slim stuffed me into the back, an accurate description since, wearing the soaked leathers and handcuffs, there wasn’t a graceful entry to the back seat. After the door slammed behind me I spent at least a few minutes righting myself, getting my feet to the floor and trying to sit up straight without screwing up my wrists. I looked out the door to see GOB ride off away from town on my bike. To my surprise, Slim and I followed.

“This isn’t the way to town,” I said, about 5 seconds before I figured out we weren’t going to town, or to jail. For a second I flushed with fear. They were going to dump me in the forest. I started to talk. “I think you guys have made a mistake. I ….”

“Shut up queer. You’ll be OK. Just be spendin’ a few days with us.” The car, with the bike still in sight, pulled off the road, under a ranch entrance, and, about 400 yards later, up to a simple and small ranch house. After GOB got off the bike, he approached the car. He opened the back door, and with Slim’s help, roughly dragged me out until I ended up on the dusty ground at their feet. GOB leaned over and removed the handcuffs. Then they helped me stand up, a feat I could have managed by myself but ever so slightly appreciated.

“Take off the suit,” GOB ordered. “What!?” I thought, but kept to myself. It quickly came to me that I was naked under the leathers. “What are you holding me for?” I was really thinking “What’s going to happen to me?”

“Take off the suit,” and I saw Slim’s baton headed for my groin. “Sir,” I said softly, “I’m naked except for the suit.” Slim didn’t respond, and I accepted the task. Taking off a wet leather riding suit is not easy. I started the process, the first crisis being pulling the top over my shoulders. The protective principle of a suit is to fit tightly, and moisture completes the job. My concentration soon was totally on pulling the thing off, and I was eventually successful in getting stripped to the waist. I paused, and then leaned over to remove the boots. Again, they had to be peeled off, which I did slowly to delay the inevitable, being stripped naked facing an uncertain near future.

The time had come, and I unzipped the legs at the ankle, and eventually rolled the soaking wet and heavy yellow-white-black suit off my legs, standing naked but tired, both from the exertion of removing the leathers, and from the long hot day’s ride. As I dropped the suit, GOB slipped cuffs on one wrist, and Slim on the other. They pulled my hands and arms apart, locked the other half of the cuffs to the car, leaving me standing in cruciform. I was scared, and I was getting hard!