Captured in Wyoming Chapter 2

Author: lithium500mg
Title: Captured in Wyoming Chapter 2
Date: 20 February 2015

Chapter 2

But let me start earlier. I concluded Chapter 1 when, after a whirlwind of stuff happened, I ended up confused and under restraint, under screwy pretenses. In a few minutes I went from the freedom of the road on a 250 km/h-capable bike to being at the mercy of uniformed law enforcement, thankfully not unattractive. I was naked and cruciform-cuffed to the police car, my bike taken, my sweat-soaked boots and leathers on the ground, and uniformed cops deciding my immediate future in rural Wyoming. I was scared but not scared enough to prevent a boner. Maybe more apprehensive than scared. A 20-year old middleweight college wrestler is so full of testosterone his whole body seems like one great hard-on.

Why wasn’t I really scared? This was not the first time I had been forcibly seized and stripped.

I’m a fair-haired California boy of French Canadian parentage. I was the top wrestler at 139 lb among seven high schools in Los Angeles. This achievement got me a full scholarship to Oklahoma State University, a mistake for them (and maybe me) since it didn’t pan out. Wrestling in California is a tier lower than that in the American Midwest, and making it on strength alone doesn’t work east of the Mississippi river. I was relegated to a partial scholarship and made ends meet at an old cattle ranch that was once part of the Miller Brothers 101 Ranch near Ponca City.

I once got caught by some ranch hands while I was jerking off in an out-building next to the main barn. I had been riding fence all day, had supper in the bunk house, and went to find some privacy to do the deed prior to going to bed. I had just pulled my dick out of my jeans when the boys came in from around the shack and jumped me. They forced me to the ground and, with one’s arm pushing my neck to the ground, stripped me naked, led me to the barn, and tied me to a vertical support. Apparently this was normal procedure for the new boys caught in debauchery.

“We’ll be back in the morning. Learn to control yourself, boy.”

I was forced to stand by means of a wide strap around my neck taken from a saddle and fastened by rope to a rafter well above my head. My hands were tied behind the post and straps around my shoulders and waist kept me mostly immobile. The straps were actually cinches from the saddles. These guys knew ropes, and I wasn’t going to get loose until they let me loose. To keep me quiet they used the tape that wraps and protects horse’s ankles and legs. The ranch folks had me as long as they wanted.

It was late, perhaps 2200 hours. We usually hit the bunks at about 2100 hours and get up just before daybreak. They tormented me a little for the extra hour, had fun jostling my goods a little, and then left for an uncomfortable night to regret my lack of control. After some time (it’s hard to keep time in the dark), I imagined horseflies on my dick, and actually felt a couple of mosquitoes feeding off the thin skin on my scrotum. My legs were pulled around the post, opening up my groin, and I didn’t have enough movement to shake off the bloodsuckers. At least I hoped they were mosquitoes.

More time passed. Then the barn door opened and someone stepped in. I could tell it was one of the ranch hands by the silhouette he made as he entered, but which one I couldn’t tell. It was pitch black again when the door closed. I assumed the best - that he had come to release me - and I was prepared to be grateful. And it started out that way.

He found his way to me, not taking a direct route since dark is dark. The thought occurred to me that he didn’t bring a lamp. Once he found me he fumbled around with the straps around my chest, located my nipples, strangely rubbed my chest a little, then reached around and checked my wrists. I was ready to be let free. Instead, he grabbed my cock and balls, making me jump and try to call out. Neither was possible except for a pathetic jerk and whimper. He started to manipulate my dick which, in spite of my overall discomfort and alarm, began its inevitable search for the sky.

His hands were like sandpaper, like mine were going to be if I spent too much time doing ranch labor. He let go of me and, after a brief pause, started “sanding” my nipples, which were already erect from fear and apprehension. “You like this, college boy?” His palms were moving in a circular motion. I gave an invisible nod. When his hand moved back down to my dick I could confirm what I expected, that it was rock hard, more than ever before. My brain was in conflict with my dick. I wanted to shoot (it had been several days) but I didn’t want my dick sanded.

But sand it he did, just the tip. It hurt enough to make me squirm and keep me off the edge. Natural lubrication, however, made it bearable. When it stopped, things got still. I heard a little rustling. The ranch hand was stripping down. Then it got quiet again, for seemingly a long time. It was still silent when I something touched my dick, I jumped, and then figured out it was his tongue. My sky-dick had begun to point south, and now it perked up again. I should have been alarmed that a guy was doing this to me, but somehow it made it great. He stood up and hugged me, and I could feel his bare chest and legs against mine.

When he went back down, it was all good. His mouth was all over me, and I got off big. I slumped against the post to which I was bound, and fell asleep. When I woke up it was time to go to work and the boys let me loose after a few minutes of demeaning banter. I just wanted coffee and grub. I never found out who gave me the blow job. I didn’t jerk off at the ranch again.

But I didn’t mean to digress, so back to Wyoming.

The good old boy, the GOB, announced “We’ve got work for you while Homeland Security checks you out. No sucking off the County here, California boy.” I know a little about the Patriot Act in the US that allows expanded detention without charges. These guys could hold me on trumped up pretenses such as “suspecting” me of planning a terrorist act, or even just suspicion of being a non-citizen. There was nobody around to complain to, so I kept quiet. My spread-out arms were getting tired, the cuffs were hurting, and I was just hoping to get my junk covered for a start.

Slim, the tall lean cop, moved in front of me, took a second baton from GOB, placed the first under my groin and the head of the other at my mouth. “Open up.” I resisted, but a light tap of my balls (if there is such a thing) convinced me. I opened up. “You can suck on this.” With the other nightstick in my groin, I did so, and pretended I enjoyed it. No boner now. I was angry and annoyed and not even scared. I had lost the novelty of restraint.

I was saved by the police radio, calling Slim and GOB to duty. They conferred a bit, then opened up the back of the squad car, pulled out some hardware and a big canvas bag, placed some ankle-cuffs around my neck for a makeshift collar, ankle-cuffed me, released my outstretched hands cuffed to the car, and re-cuffed them behind my back. They led me naked hobbling into the house, offered me some water, which I accepted with relish but awkwardly since it was more or less poured down my throat. We continued out the back of the house towards a shed, more like a small barn. Before we got there, they steered me into a gravel area and ordered me to piss.

You might think that such an order would be easily filled, but the male plumbing can sometimes decline to operate under duress. I focused and tried to ignore the fact that I was performing for two guys who were holding me steady under the armpits. They even shook me (as a kind of joke) and that made it more difficult. But eventually I got it right and was appreciative of the opportunity, such as it was. We headed to the barn.

You might also think that all this time I would be demanding explanations. It doesn’t work that way. Whenever I started to ask questions like “What’s this all about?” I got pushed to go faster and had all my attention on hobbling without the ankle cuffs rubbing against bone, on staying upright, and on not paying attention to the pain of my bare feet on rough ground.

With all that metal around me, I knew I wasn’t going to get free, a little like when the guys gang up on the losers for fun after a wrestling match. When they do that, you can expect something unpleasant like wintergreen burning your dick and balls while you are duct-taped naked to a bench in the locker room, sometimes the women’s locker room. With these rural cops there was no knowing what goes on. I needed to escape.

Slim held me by the arms while GOB went into the canvas bag, pulled out one of those heavy hoods they use to control unruly or mentally-unstable prisoners, and pulled it over my head, fastening the straps and locks. I tried to resist, and after GOB brushed the nightstick to my groin, accepted a gag. Now not capable of seeing, I was led to another out-building where my collar was attached by chain to a post, and my legs were uncuffed, spread open and tied to a section of pipe. They propped me up against the post, and left me alone.

I could move a little. While my arms were behind my back, they weren’t around the post so I could change my position a little. With my legs splayed open I couldn’t get up off the floor, so I made the best of it and tried to find the least uncomfortable position. It was as they had left me, propped up against the post.

I remained like this for a little while, and then fell asleep. I was exhausted from the tension, the day’s travel, and everything else. Before I went out, I thought a little about my position, literally. My bare butt was on the bare ground and I was defenseless against even insects, but I didn’t feel too bad. I was beginning to have mixed feelings of my position. My dick was rock hard.