The Devil’s Playground_(1)

The Devil’s Playground

By

Randy MacAnus

Copyright 2019 All Rights Reserved By The Author

————————————-

The owner of the Harley dealership couldn’t believe his luck. While he was perfectly happy selling Harleys to rich middle aged executives who wanted to play biker, it was a rare thing to see a hot little 18 year old walk in with a serious intent to buy. He figured if he played his cards right, he’d have both the commission and that tight little ass, despite the kid clearly being rich and straight.

“You’re only just eighteen, and you don’t have any credit. Your daddy may be rich, but unless he co-signs, or you pay cash, I can’t sell you the bike.”

“Not a problem,” said the arrogant, privileged little shit. “Since I turned 18 today, I now have my own trust fund from my grandparents. My father might’ve never allowed me to have a bike, but he doesn’t get a say, anymore. Shit, he’ll never even know! I’ve moved into my own place, so he’ll never see it. Or me. I’m done with my asshole family. Prep that baby, give me a price, and I’ll do a wire transfer for the full amount.”

This was getting better by the minute! Since the little dickhead never even looked at the price, the Dealer charged him list plus $5,000. The stupid kid just looked at the number, and went online to do the transfer. The Dealer let him use an office computer. It had a keystroke logger, so the Dealer now had the boy’s account information and password.

“We have a shop with gear in the back. If you’re going to ride a Harley, you might want to be wearing something more appropriate. Khakis, a polo shirt and sandals don’t exactly offer a whole lot of protection. Besides, other bikers would probably laugh at you,” the Dealer confided to the boy. “If you like, I’ll help you pick out what you need to both be safer and look good on a bike.”

“Hey, thanks! You’re all right!”

The Dealer managed to keep a straight face. He set the kid up with a nice, tight set of leathers. Black, of course. (The leather pants were tight enough to ride right up the boy’s ass crack.) Plus saddle bags, biker boots—the works! And, because he was sure now, that he was going to own the kid, he cut him a deal. He only charged him double.

“I’m guessing you want the biker chicks checking you out and coming on to you, right?”

The kid blushed and grinned.

“Not to get too personal, but what kind of underwear do you have on?”

“Boxers.”

“Yeah, that’s great for everyday, but not under leathers. The chicks go for a tight well-formed ass. And as you have one, it’s in your interest to show that off. You either need to ride commando, or you need to wear something less baggy. Commando, you’ll sweat a lot. I’d suggest these.”

He handed the boy what amounted to a leather G-string, with absorbent filling in the pouch. The boy looked at it wide-eyed. He had always dressed in a preppy manner. Then again, he had always just worn what the servants had given him to wear. He took the G-string.

“You can put your regular clothes in the saddle bags. We have a changing room in the back. If you have a problem with any of this stuff, just let me know, and I’ll come back and help you out.”

The kid went into the changing room, never suspecting that the Dealer had cameras set up in there, and would be shooting video and stills of him. The boy quickly stripped off his clothes, revealing a tight, toned little body to the cameras.

His name was Reginald Baxter the fourth, but everyone called him Reggie. He was a pretty blue-eyed blonde, with delicate features, nice definition from working with a personal trainer, and a truly fantastic ass. He was 5 foot 9 and 140 pounds, with no excess body fat, and almost no body hair. Just pits and pubes. He didn’t even shave yet. And because he was an arrogant jerk, had attended an all-boys prep school, had lived a life strictly regimented by his father, and was clearly a homophobe, he was a virgin. The Dealer didn’t know that for a fact yet, but he suspected.

The Dealer had taken his measurements, so everything fit like a very tight, form fitting glove. The Dealer was very pleased with what he saw on the video monitor. He emailed some naked pics of the boy to several friends, asking for comments and suggestions, as to what to do with him.

While waiting for the answers to come in, the Dealer put his detective to work, finding out whatever he could about Reggie. Then he took the boy out back to his training track, to teach the boy how to ride.

The kid looked very hot and oddly, vulnerable in his leathers. The face of the pretty blue-eyed blonde was at odds with the shiny black leather he had been basically poured into. He wore no shirt, as one had not been sold to him. His jacket was open. The Dealer had told him that was ‘biker style.’

But instead of the usual hairy chest, muscular torso, and maybe a pot belly, the Dealer saw the toned, defined and slender hairless frame of a boy. And mounted on the big Harley, he looked over-matched. Trying to be a ‘big boy’ before his time.

It turned out the boy had used a tiny portion of his allowance a few months back, to learn to ride on a friend’s dirt bike, and get his motorcycle endorsement. So getting him up to speed took a lot less time, than the Dealer had anticipated. Once the kid had shown he could safely ride, the Dealer went back inside to check his email. Reggie continued to practice.

The detective had concluded, that with the boy having burned all his bridges, with family and school friends, and with him living in a paid-for condo, no one would miss him anytime soon.

Then the emails started coming in from the bikers he’d sent emails and pics to. The suggestions were exactly what the Dealer would have predicted. The consensus was, “Send him to The Devil’s Playground.”

This was a biker bar roughly in the middle of nowhere. It had been a large farm, before an Agra-business bought up the surrounding farmland. The big house still sat on a 40 acre plot, with a barn and other out buildings.

The barn had been converted into a biker bar. The various out buildings were set up as play rooms, which could be rented out by the patrons. The house’s kitchen and dining room continued their traditional functions, providing comfort food at a reasonable price. The bedrooms could be rented out by the week, day or hour.

The house had a large underground bomb shelter, built during the 1950’s by a paranoid farm owner. It was now used to train and hold newly taken sex slaves. Some were kept by their original captors. Some were sold, usually at auction. And while most of the slaves were girls between 16-25, pretty boys were always welcome.

While there was a county Sheriff, there was no other law enforcement in the region. And the Sheriff was a regular. The regulars were a mixed bunch. No one cared about orientation, or gender identity. No one cared who was a rich weekend rider, and who basically lived on their bikes, or in a trailer somewhere. Anyone into power sex and bikes was welcome—as long as they payed their bills.

Most of the girls didn’t even know they were slaves. They viewed themselves as ‘biker chicks.’ They were usually picked up hitch hiking. Many of the teens were runaways or throwaways. Most had at least one tat. They viewed themselves as trading sex for food and shelter.

They viewed it as survival sex, so the man they were with didn’t particularly matter. They accepted that they would be whored out by their man, and traded when he wanted fresh meat. Most didn’t know they were actually being bought and sold by the bikers.

But some of the girls, and nearly all the boys were there against their will. These had not had an interest in belonging to a biker. Few had tats. Most were teens and good looking. And most were, after training, sold at auction, rather than to a biker. These were kept separate from the others. In the bomb shelter.

The Dealer returned to the training track, and watched Reggie ride for a few minutes. He was learning quickly. As small as he was, relative to the big bike, the Dealer figured that sooner, or later, the kid would drop the bike or crash. As pretty as he was, the Dealer didn’t want him maimed or crippled. He’d bring a good price if he was still in one piece. So the Dealer decided not to wait.

“You’re doing well Reggie. I’ve got a suggestion though. Before you go off on your own, why don’t you join me for a day ride. There’s a biker bar, about two hours ride from here. It’s all two lane road, with almost no traffic. Anyone on a bike is welcome. They won’t card you, and if you get drunk you can rent a room for the night, and come back tomorrow. I’m going there for the weekend, so you can keep me company on the ride, and if you have questions or problems, I’ll be there to help.”

Reggie, not being the sharpest tool in the shed, (although he was definitely a tool,) thought this was great.

“Any chance there will be biker chicks there?”

“Count on it!”

“I’m in!”

So off they rode.