Weekend In the Life of a Motorcycle Messenger

By John Strickland

A Weekend in the Life of a Motorcycle Messenger is a story of one biker's journey into the world of straitjackets and leather bondage. The author, John Strikland is the master of straitjacket stories, with incredible details in the story and the processes of straitjacketing somebody. For those who know their straitjacket stories, this represents one of the best stories in its genre.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291877830

Book preview

Weekend In the Life of a Motorcycle Messenger

Weekend In the Life of a Motorcycle Messenger

Copyright Bound Editions 2014

ISBN: 978-1-291-87783-0

No unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is allowed. It is an offence to do so. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher or author.

This book contains works of fiction. It concerns characters in situations of a fetish, BDSM, gay, sexual, kinky and adult nature. If any of these situations are not for you, or you are not of an age where under local law you are permitted to read such material, please don't go any further or read beyond this point.

All names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Under no circumstances should you attempt to repeat the situations depicted in the contents of this book. They are works of fiction. The contents are presented here as acts of fantasy only.

Chapter 1

He felt good today.  Everything was just right.  It was Friday, the weekend just starting, the weather just right, and he was on his last run.  As a motorcycle messenger, he usually really had to earn his money, risking his life in the thick London traffic, breathing the fumes and getting wet and filthy.  It was seldom that the depressing English climate provided a day like this, - perfect for biking, dry and sunny, but not too warm.  He usually spent the day from head to toe in black oilskins, dirty water dripping off him, cold trickles running down the back of his neck, his hands dyed dark-blue from his soggy black leather gloves, wondering what masochistic drive made him put up with it day after day.

But today was different, he felt good, and he knew he looked good.

It was seldom that he got a run like this, out of town, down country lanes to some prison hospital tucked away out of sight.  A quick delivery, a signature and then he’d be off, free for the weekend.  Perhaps he'd ride the long way back making the most of the bike.  The poor thing needed to spit some soot out after the short stop-and-go journeys in the town.  The mood he was in, he felt he’d show himself off to anyone who wanted to look.  There was nothing accidental about the tight-fitting leather he was wearing.  The jacket was an old favorite, the thick leather shiny with wear, a sheen that only comes from hours and hours of being worn.  His leather jeans fitted perfectly, accentuating well-muscled legs, his six-strap boots scuffed and well-worn.  He knew what he looked like bent over on the bike. He knew his thighs gleamed in the sunlight, and that was the way he meant it all to look, - well-worn masculinity that all looked so natural from the unshaven face through to the short hair. He loved his leather more than he’d ever loved any friend.  His own image turned him on.

This must be it, he thought. On his right was an ivy-covered bank along which a high brick wall ran. Broken bottles were set into concrete along the top. Very inviting! He slowed down, -somewhere there must be the entrance. When it came, he shot past it, the high iron gate set back from the road. He turned and drove up to the railings.

How do I get in here? he thought, wondering whether he really wanted to get in there at all. Opening his visor, he saw a bell with the stupid sign All visitors must ring.

He rang.

He rang again.

Suddenly a voice crackled through a grid near the bell.

Hello?

Special delivery.

Pardon, I can’t hear you!

Special delivery! he shouted. People never understood him with his full-face crash helmet on, but he wasn’t going to take it off, - just get rid of the letter and get away from this fucking place.

Wait, please, I’ll send someone.

At least she’s polite enough, he thought. As a messenger, he sometimes got treated like a piece of shit. He waited. A brass sign that hadn’t been polished for ages read H.M. Prisons.  Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

Fucking Hell, he thought, A nut house! He rang the bell again.

Yes?

Nobody’s come!

Someone’s on their way. It takes time to get down to the gate.

Bloody hell!  he thought.

At last he heard the sound of a car’s engine and heard the gate being unlocked from the other side.  He was confronted by a young man about his own age, dressed in some kind of white uniform. He hadn’t expected someone so good-looking to appear from behind that ominous-looking gate. The man looked taken aback, too, and threw a quick glance up and down the leather-covered figure standing in front of him.

A visitor from space? he asked.

Very funny! Special delivery. Sign here, please. The messenger offered his clip board.

I’m not authorized to sign anything, the warder said. You’ll have to drive up to the office.

Why on earth wasn’t someone sent who could sign for it?

Because we didn’t realize it was a package. The girl on the desk couldn’t understand you and just told me there was someone at the gate.

I’m not so sure whether I want to come in there.

You might like it! said the guy in white smiling. "I’ll