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Solitary 1888

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The desert sun was brutal on my black riding leathers; while they were constructed with venting, the color just absorbed the heat. Of course, the air temperature was 105 in the shade, so riding my Ducati XDiavel Dark on the highway with no shade meant it was hotter than hell! Crossing the desert near the Mexican border on Interstate 8 is a barren wasteland. Just sand dunes, as far as one can see. Occasionally, an ATV blasts through the golden sand out on the dune. RVs are parked at the base of the dunes, as these ATVers spend the weekend out here working up a sweat on their fun machines.

 As I watch the sculptured dunes pass from behind the shield on my full-face helmet, I am reminded of the Star Wars movie where Jabba the Hut's barge was destroyed. Those scenes were filmed in this desert many years ago. Now, the area is filled with guys wearing space-like helmets and heavy gear on their ATVs. 

This wasn't just some random adventure; I had a plan. As I was traveling east on the interstate, I was approaching the state line of California and Arizona after coming from San Diego, where I live. My eventual destination was the southeastern corner of the Grand Canyon state, with a few days in the old town of Tombstone. 

Even though I am currently geared up in full modern-day riding leathers, I am a nut about the old West. I've always had a thing for the dress of those days, cowboy boots, leather holsters, long duster coats, and they always seemed to wear tight gloves. I go to the rodeo as much as possible, participating in the roping events. I'm damn good at it, having practiced on a few regular submissive boys. 

My backyard has a small patch of soft dirt where I put the boys in some boots and Wranglers and have them run around with a bull head with horns. Lassoing them, I drag them down, where they roll in the dirt after being hog-tied. I almost always end up popping my nut as they get dirty, struggling in the bondage, gagged with a bandana. If the boy is one of my regulars, they end up with a load of my seed in their ass, plugged, then sent home in their tight Wranglers.

As my boot shifted my bike down a few gears, I had to slow down as the traffic thickened, crossing over the Colorado River. This mighty river is a fraction of what it once was as it barely reaches its destination of the Gulf of California.

The interstate bridge crosses high over the river, and I look out over the rooftops of the old city of Yuma. There are buildings spread out to the southeast, but there isn't much to the north of the first city in Arizona. 

After crossing into Arizona, I looked for an exit to get gas and take a piss, but I saw the highway sign for the Arizona Territorial Prison. Now, that sounded interesting. I've always had a thing for cop and prisoner scenes, having spent a long weekend at the old Academy facility many years ago. There wasn't much rope used, but damn, cuffing a guy in shackles and tossing him into a jail cell for the night is one of the hottest ways to take control! 

Taking the first highway exit, I figured there might be some old-time iron restraints, jail cells, and uniforms to check out in this prison. Coming to a stop at the signal, my booted foot went down on the pavement as I paused to see if the way was clear for a right turn. While pausing, I sucked from the water container strapped on my back. The water was warm, but it did moisturize my mouth and lips. My face is protected inside the helmet, but I still get dried out. Sweat drips from my brow as the hard plastic shell is like an oven as I'm crossing the desert. 

The drive to the prison entrance wasn't far as I parked my bike and checked out the prison exterior of stone and iron that was original construction. This former prison was erected on a bluff overlooking the river beside a train trestle.  

Parking my Ducati in a spot by the entrance, there were only a few cars in the lot, meaning this isn't high on many tourists must see in Arizona. Dismounting my ride, stretching my legs, and standing on my booted feet felt great. Removing my gloves, I unlatched my helmet and pulled it off my sweat-covered head. Having a high and tight haircut allows all the sweat to soak into the padding of my black Ruroc Atlas helmet. A blast of the hot wind swipes my face, but it cools me down as it hits the sweat on my skin. Looking at the exterior of this old prison, I take a few more sucks from the warm water before moving towards the main gate. 

After paying my entry fee, the state ranger checked me out in my riding gear. I removed my jacket and locked it onto my bike with my helmet and gloves. He probably wondered about my black t-shirt with the Langlitz Leather logo on the front. Wearing my Langlitz leather competition breeches and Alpinestars boots let him know I was a biker, just playing a tourist today. The Ranger wouldn't know of my twisted imagination as I looked at him in his khaki uniform and smokey bear hat. I wonder if he would give me a personal tour of one of the cells after hours, using some of the small items I have in my side bag. Handing me a map, the Ranger smiled and looked into my blue eyes. I took the map and admired his dark goatee and dark brown eyes, giving him a warm "Thank you." As I exited the visitor center, I hoped he might ask me what I would like to do while visiting the prison. Something I wouldn't hesitate to share with a guy like him.

Outside, I started the self-guided tour of the grounds. This prison was constructed on a bluff on the banks of the Colorado River next to where the ferry would cross, taking people from the Arizona Territory into California. Opened in 1876, this was the frontier of western America. 

I found the artifacts in the museum interesting, especially the old iron restraints and black and white striped prison uniforms. There were histories of some inmates who spent time at the facilities; some were quite handsome, and others would be very disturbing to know. This was not a great place to spend time, and the guards were sadistic in many ways. In those days, being evil was probably a priority in being a guard in the harsh environment of the Arizona desert. 

Moving on, there were rows of the original cells with heavy strap iron doors, truly basic bunk beds constructed of iron in small stone cells. Four men would be in a cell, with only a "honey" pot to care for their needs during the night. There was electricity, but that was the only modern convenience the prisoners would experience. Of course, air conditioning didn't exist, so they must have endured long, sweaty nights in their striped wool uniform. The days were worse as the open space they could be in lacked trees or shade. 

When the inmates were locked up at night, the guards often teased their prisoners with scorpions or rattlesnakes tossed into their cells. While I can be very sadistic at times, not sure I could do that to a helpless or bound man. But I can see how the fear and control of the man would make some truly sadistic men find the experience erotic. 

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The most interesting spot in prison was called the Dark Cell. I could have never imagined such a place would exist in today's prisons, but things were brutal back then. Ducking as I stepped through the small doorway in the stone wall, there was darkness ahead down a hallway of about twelve feet; only the light coming through the small doorway illuminated the path forward. 

At the end of this hall was a large room carved out of a rocky hill at the southern end of the prison complex. The texture on the walls and ceiling was rough, with the floor being dry dirt. There was no smooth concrete or wood used; it was as if it was a cave. A cave carved out by men to imprison other men. 

In the center of this fifteen by fifteen-foot cave was a black strap iron grid secured to the ground. Apparently, there was a strap iron cell in the center, keeping the inmate that spent time in this hole locked in the cell, in the cave, in total darkness. 

Entering this cave-like space, I could feel the temperature dropping, as the sun and its heat had never entered. But another sensation caused a slight shiver to my skin even though it was under the long sleeve Under Armor shirt I wore and my riding leather pants. There was no sound other than the dirt and small gravel crushing under my Alpinestars Tech 7 riding boots, the black of the boots now covered with dust. 

Slowly walking around the perimeter of the Dark Cell, something was happening. I can't explain it, but I sensed something different in this space. There was nothing I could touch or factually state was going on. I was alone, but yet I wasn't. Something was in this cave with me; someone was present. 

Making my way to the center and the iron grid, I inspected the metal lattice on the ground, pausing when I thought I heard the rattling of chains. It was brief, not very loud, but distinctive. Pausing my steps, there was nothing but silence. Looking around, I was alone.

Lifting my right hand, I reached out to touch where the iron straps would have formed a solitary cell. Strangely, my fingertips felt cold, as if there was truly iron that I was touching and in the cell. Just then, the chains were heard again, brief yet louder. Looking around with my hand still raised, and no one was in this space with me. As the sound faded, I felt a faint pain in my soul. I slowed my breathing hoping to audibly hear something, but there was nothing. Continuing to breathe lightly, the feeling of pain began to mix with a feeling of pleasure. It was strange, a mixture of pain and pleasure. 

I slowly moved my gaze around this solitary space. I understood the combination of pain and pleasure, for I had many a man under my control giving them both of these sensations. Being a leatherman, I've been on both sides of those feelings. Though these days, I enjoy inflicting those feelings on a bound man, challenging his mind and sexual desires. Even the sound of chains made me reflect on some of the sessions I have had in my dungeon.

But this was different because the sensation was coming from a man who was alone and depressed where he was. Yet, he was feeling safe. Most of all, I was alone in a fucking cave, yet there I was, feeling stronger and stronger as if there was a man with me.

There was no doubt that when this room was used as it was purposed for, there was suffering, but the pleasure was not something I would associate anywhere in this prison. There had to be guards that would be brutal to their prisoners, some for sport, others living for their need to be sadistic to their fellow men. It would've been a power play for them. Just like some Masters that prey on submissives that put their trust in the Master, only to find out they have been used beyond their limits. 

I couldn't shake the senses flowing through me. I decided I would stay a while to see what was going on in the room, fuck, to see what was going on with me. 

Slowly, I made my way to the darkest spot that shielded me from the light coming down the hall. I parked my ass on the ground, protected by the heavy leather of my riding breeches. The sound of my boots sliding inward to my body in the gravel was all I heard in this space.

Something was going on here, a feeling I'd never felt, emotions that weren't my own but were making my body react. Was this a ghost? Hell, I have no idea, but I was intrigued and didn't want to leave. 

Closing my eyes, I let my body relax as I enjoyed the coolness of this dark room. Hearing the chains again, I could faintly see the iron slats that formed the cell in the center of the room; they were several inches wide, not like the jail cell bars of today. A shaft of light came from the ceiling through a small hole that provided ventilation centered over the cell. The strap iron was on the top of the cage, leaving no way for an inmate to escape. This was a cage in a cave. As a man into BDSM, I thought this was a rather ingenious construction to provide no hope to the inmate. 

The sharp sound of the chain being pulled taught brought my vision inside the cage. That is where I saw a barefoot, dirty, and sweaty man struggling; rusted steel ankle cuffs were attached to an iron ring that was part of the iron floor bar keeping whoever this was trapped in this darkness. 

As my vision focused a bit more, I saw the man's other foot, also in steel, moving around as if he was struggling. A moaning was now part of the echoing sound in this lone space, with dirty legs moving as much as they could while in the restraints. Seeing more of this figure, he must be a prisoner of this ancient prison, but why can I see him? How can I see him?

I quickly open my eyes; the space is as it was when I entered, empty. Alone, I sit on the dirt with only the light from the hall breaking the darkness. As I take stock of my situation, I slow my breathing and tell myself that I haven't seen anything. But still, I can't explain all that I'm sensing. I did see something, and to tease me, my next breath had the unique scent of sweat and piss in a very light way.

Now that wasn't there before, and I'm certain no one has pissed in this cave for a long time. I had to know more, I closed my eyes again, and there was more to see. Still very dark, there was a thin, gaunt man with his ankles secured in rusted, well-used iron restraints. Even though his ankles were bound to immovable iron, he also had a ball and chain on his left leg, a little bit of dried blood from where the metal cuff must have cut into his skin when he could move about. 

It was next that I could see more of this helpless man. He was dressed only in white but filthy linen underwear shorts that fit him loosely. The man was leaning against the flat iron of the cell with his arms in iron and chains high over his head. His body was dirty, sweaty, and over-tanned, probably because of all the sun these prisoners must endure in Arizona. His beard is dark, as is his uncut curly hair. 

The prisoner struggles with the metal that keeps him secured for as long as his jailers want. He was struggling because he was soaked with a stream of liquid. It mixes with the sweat that covers his skin coming from his struggles. 

I feel my head moving about with my eyes closed when I notice a set of leather work boots with gray wool trousers. The man wearing the trousers is a Guard, wearing his wool uniform jacket, his badge reflecting a little bit of light. With a sadistic grin, the Guard is pissing on the secured prisoner, who clearly is not wanting to be pissed on. As the Guard's stream of urine ends, he inserts his cock back into his trousers and looks down at the inmate. "How did you let yourself come to his?"

Ending his struggle, the prisoner is humiliated and feels pathetic. "Sorry, Sir."

The Guard lifts his booted right foot, forcing it into the prisoner's crotch, crushing his nuts. The prisoner moans as the pain runs up his body. With his hands in steel over his head, the inmate is vulnerable to whatever torture the Guard wishes to impose. There is a sadistic grin on the Guard's face as the nearly naked inmate struggles in the chains that secure him; the chains echo in the cave. 

"Please, Sir, please, stop, please." The prisoner pleads as tears roll down his face from the intense pressure on his manhood. The inmate struggles with pain, the iron cuffs pressing into the skin of his wrists as his arms are pulled away from his body with his struggle. 

The Guard stops stomping on the balls of his captive, giving him a swift kick in the side, shouting at him, "Silence, you pathic shit. Silence!"

Allowing the pain to subside a little, the Guard stands with his boots firmly planted in the dirt as he looks down upon the dirty, sweat-covered inmate. Crouching down, the guard slowly raises his glove hand, brushing the cheek of the prisoner.

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Read the full story in The Metalbond Stories

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