The Harley Riding Slave Trader

Author's Foreword—

This is my fourteenth submission to Literotica and my first contribution to the "Non-Consent / Reluctance" genre. Feel free to vote and comment on this latest offering, as well as visit my profile for my archive of older postings.

Enjoy!

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The Harley Riding Slave Trader

Henry put the dipstick back where it belonged. He wiped his hands on a shoptowel as he made a mental note to put a quart of motor oil in with the tools and emergency supplies. Then he stood back and admired the lines of his classic motorcycle, smiling to himself.

His ride was a pristine 1980 Harley-Davidson Electra-Glide Ultra Classic, factory equipped with a matching sidecar. His now-departed father had bought it new when Henry himself was just ten years old. Henry Senior had laid out a then-whopping $7900 for the top-of-the-line limited edition model, which only saw 289 examples sold. It was rare, it was beautiful with its cream-and-beige color scheme and Henry had flatly turned down a $65,000 cash offer for it. He believed his father's spirit lived within the old motorcycle and he would never let it go. Besides, he had more than enough money to buy Hawaii from the United States government if he chose, just to get his giggles watching lawmakers figure out how to evenly arrange the stars on the new 49-star American flag.

Henry was a slave trader.

It was a vast underground network to which he belonged, and his father had been a slave trader before him. He found the female slaves he traded by advertising for nude modeling. Most times his ads were answered by illiterate skanks, drug addicts looking for enough money to score their next fix, or those who weren't nearly as attractive as they liked to think. But occasionally he ran across a real jewel. Then he would have her sign a contract, have her do some modeling and post the pictures on a secret slave exchange website. The negotiations would begin when an interested bidder contacted him. It was great when he had two or more bidders interested in the same woman—bidding could get fierce.

The women always protested when they discovered they had signed themselves into sexual slavery. But he merely showed them the necessary clauses in the contract they hadn't bothered to read all the way through. That contract ran fifteen pages in length and was deliberately printed in very small number six font to discourage any methodical line-by-line scrutiny. Henry always watched his latest score read through it; most stopped at page three. A few made it to page five before their eyes got tired. One very intelligent woman made it all the way to page nine. That was three years ago as he remembered, and she had drawn a very hefty some from a bidder who liked his sex slaves beautiful, intelligent, impossibly sexy—and completely broken to serve. However, the Contract of Willing Servitude was printed on pages twelve through fifteen and none had ever read a word of it before her signature was affixed.

Once it was affixed, it was of course too late.

Henry pulled himself back into the present and went to the cabinet where the oil was stored. He put that quart in the saddlebag and secured the lid. This was going to be a round trip of about 600 miles and there were no Harley-Davidson garages between here and his destination.

He knew it would be a lot easier on himself and his cargo if he'd simply drive his Lincoln. But his father had used the Harley to make and receive deliveries to and from Torch, and there was no reason not to follow in his footsteps. With the Harley prepped and ready, he went into the house to fetch his cargo.

Her name was Melissa—but he never addressed her by name. She was in her late twenties and utterly magnificent. She had the striking hourglass figure men love, nice and firm breasts, and nicely toned and tapered legs that just wouldn't quit. But as a natural redhead with long and thick tresses that flowed all the way down to her award-winning ass, Melissa also had a temper that just wouldn't quit. Her expressive hazel eyes flashed angry indignation every time he interacted with her. Maybe she didn't like being ball-gagged at all times, except to eat and suck his cock. Maybe she didn't like having her hands bound behind her back 23 hours and 30 minutes a day. Maybe she didn't like the way he kept her naked at all times. Maybe she didn't like the way he admired her lush and freckled body, or spread her legs and fucked her at will. Maybe a lot of things. But Henry had to have her broken to serve and fully trained before her new Master took delivery of her in three months. He had a 97% satisfaction rating on the secret slave exchange website and he wanted it to stay that way.

However, Melissa was proving quite difficult. He had spent just over two months trying to gentle her into the submissive mindset his client expected. Her new Master had already put down a $250,000 deposit on her and men of his lofty status were not denied. His client was the sort of man who made Tony Soprano look like an erstwhile choirboy; one did not cross him—whether by accident or design—and expect to remain breathing for long.

Hence the road trip. Henry was delivering Melissa to Torch.

He went into the room where Melissa was kept. She looked up, her eyes full of fire as he released the padlocked leather ankle cuff keeping her attached to the bed. "Time to go, slave," he said as he pulled her to her feet. She snarled something but the sound was rendered inarticulate by the huge ball gag plugging her mouth. Rule number eight specified there would be no attempt to speak while gagged—and the beautiful flame-haired fox just wouldn't catch a clue. So he had put the biggest ball gag he had on her; Melissa's lower jaw was just an eighth-inch away from becoming dislocated.

Henry looped his arm around one of hers and guided the struggling and naked Melissa through the house. She fought him with every ounce of her strength. He had managed a little bit of progress in her training; she no longer tried to defend herself by kicking. Four hours of ferocious-yet-fruitless struggling to get away from a very deeply imbedded crotch rope had cured her of that! Henry guessed she thought they were going down to the basement dungeon for yet another training session, so she fought him every step of the way.

Melissa would have gone with him willingly, humbly and thankfully if she could know what Torch had planned for her.

Henry guided her into the garage. He released her to reach for something—and as soon as his attention was diverted, she darted for the door. She frantically searched for the doorknob by feel since her arms were bound behind her. The knob would not turn; the house was secure for the road trip. The only way out was through the roll-up door, and she could neither get to the activation button or the remote control clipped on the Harley's fairing in time.

Henry caught her and dragged her struggling, snarling and naked body to the Harley. He bent her over the sidecar and soundly spanked her with a wood dowel that had been lying nearby. Her freckled and shapely ass was quickly decorated with fifteen red lines made by the swiftly swung dowel as Melissa screeched and wailed into her oversize ball gag. Then he pulled her upright by her fine red ponytail, where she defiantly met his gaze with blazing hatred in her hazel eyes.

"I had hoped I wouldn't need the control rod," he snarled, angry over her escape attempt. "But it seems you leave me no choice. Just remember slave—you brought what's going to happen on yourself!"

He towed her to a workbench and looped a rope around her shoulders. Then it was tossed up and over the roll-up door's guide tracks and secured so Melissa wouldn't fall. The portable air compressor was pulled out from under a cabinet and her left ankle was tied to its handle. Keeping her foot elevated meant her legs were open and her pussy exposed. Henry went into the house.

In a moment, he returned carrying a shaft. Melissa looked at it; the thing looked heavy by the way he handled it. She couldn't be sure but it looked like it had been sheathed in a condom. "This is my control rod," he told her conversationally. "It's almost six inches in length and is three inches in diameter. Since it's made of lead, it weighs about thirteen pounds." He smiled wickedly. "It goes in your pussy."

Melissa looked horrified and started to struggle viciously. Six inches was much too deep for vaginal penetration. Likewise, three inches of diameter would displace her to the extreme, and the weight of it would be very difficult to tolerate! Her vagina would get very tired, very quickly.

He stepped forward to insert it. Melissa struggled with much frantic aggression while defending herself by kicking at him with her free leg, momentarily supporting herself on the air compressor. She landed four good and solid hits when he responded by slapping her pussy. "Hold still!" he snapped. The slap and its sting startled her; he had never done that before. Melissa glared at him with murderously hateful fury, breathing hard as he bent forward again to insert it.

Melissa felt it invade her and she instinctively but unwillingly flexed her pelvis in an attempt to accommodate it. It was by far the largest thing she'd ever had inside her. The blunt end touched her cervix and she flexed her pelvis over and over again, trying to find it a comfortable position. Meanwhile, Henry fetched a length of rope. He quickly folded it in half, looped it around her waist and fashioned a T-shaped crupper rope. The portion of rope running fore and aft between her pussy lips and buttocks was routed through a hole cast into the outer end of the control rod before tying it off. The crupper crotch rope was snug but not punishing; there was no possible way she could expel it with her vaginal muscles. A small part of her liked the displacement, but its weight was horribly hard to tolerate. She hoped he would remove it sooner than later.

He guided her over to the sidecar, amused by the way Melissa instinctively walked on tiptoe because of the heavy shaft trapped in her cunt. "By the way," he said as he readied a blindfold, "it's covered with three condoms so you won't get lead-contact poisoning." He grinned. "You're welcome."

Melissa glowered at him, sullen and unamused as Henry noticed a lot of the fire had disappeared from her eyes. Maybe I should've used the shaft on her sooner, he thought. He helped her step into the sidecar and sit down.

She watched as he fastened a non-factory seat belt over her lap; he watched as she squirmed around in a desperate hunt for a comfortable position. "I see my control rod has taken a lot of your combativeness away," he observed, his tone dry. She made no comment as he then buckled a set of leather restraint cuffs to her ankles. Melissa wondered where they were going—not that it mattered. A naked woman in a motorcycle sidecar would certainly be noticed before they got to the end of the block. Somebody would surely call the police and she would be freed, while Henry was tossed in the hoosegow!

Her hopes of that were dashed when he spread a leather windtarp over the sidecar. He slid it down, put her head through the hole and snapped each of the thirty snaps to hold the edges to the body. Melissa was completely covered from the neck down. Still, she didn't worry. Somebody should be alarmed to see a sidecar passenger with a huge red ball gag in her mouth!

The last of her hopes for discovery by a passerby disappeared when she saw Henry made a full-coverage helmet ready. It was one of those expensive models shaped like a bell with a four-inch-tall slot to see through. The plastic visor over the slot was tinted quite dark. Melissa didn't offer much resistance as he blindfolded her and settled the helmet into place. He stood back and looked her over.

Only two inches of her neck and some of her red hair were visible. The black leather blindfold worked in combination with the darkly tinted visor; no one could tell she was blindfolded without getting right up close. There was no way for the casual observer to tell the sidecar carried a naked, restrained, ball-gagged and blindfolded woman intended to be some billionaire's sex slave. Satisfied, Henry pressed the button on the remote and the garage door started up.

The Harley was started. The classic Electra-Glide gently rocked fore-and-aft as the 80-cubic-inch Shovelhead V-Twin engine warmed up, making that wonderfully traditional Harley sound in the process. After three minutes, Henry squeezed the clutch lever and stepped on the shifter. The transmission went into first gear with the Harley-typical crunch/bang. He eased the clutch out and drove the beautiful classic motorcycle into the sunshine. He stopped in the driveway, punched the door remote again and watched in the rear view mirror as the door rolled down. Satisfied that the safety device would make it roll back up again, Henry eased the clutch out and motored sedately down the street. Neighborhood kids waved as they cruised by.

Soon they were southbound on the Interstate. Henry paid attention to traffic as Melissa paid attention to the shaft buried deep in her nest. It pressed relentlessly on her cervix and was most uncomfortable! Every little bump and ripple in the road caused it to lurch upward within her. She rocked her hips side-to-side every so often, trying to get the weight to let her have a moment's peace. The shaft had sapped a lot of her strength and will to resist; it was quite tiring just to have the thing sit inside her.

Henry glanced at the helmet now and then as the miles rolled by. His human cargo didn't look left or right; no surprise since she was blindfolded behind the tinted visor. She also didn't struggle against her restraints to keep from angering the heavy shaft impaling her. He would feel any of her struggles telegraphing through the Harley if she made any—yet she made none. Henry smiled to himself, making a mental note to tell Torch of his discovery.

They stopped for gas two hours later. Henry had a bottled water and a Hostess apple pie, but there was no way to provide for Melissa without being discovered. The refueling stop lasted just ten minutes before setting off for the next leg.

Melissa heard cars and trucks going by but saw none of them. Rescue had been a mere three feet away more times than she could count, but she could do nothing to make a signal for help. She knew she could struggle with every muscle she had in the hopes of making the Harley-Davidson sway around in the traffic lane. This might give a cop reason to think Henry was driving while intoxicated and pull them over. Her stepdad had been a motorcycle buff and she knew this machine and its sidecar weighed about 900 pounds, and there was no way she could exert enough struggling force to deflect their path. Besides, the lead dildo would surely make its displeasure known if she tried.

They arrived at their hotel. It was located on a section of historic Route 66 and had been in business since the early 1930s. It had been a "no-tell motel" back in the day, which had a single-car garage attached to each bungalow. Men stepping out on their wives could—and did—drive right into their unit's garage to keep snoopy eyes away. As such, Henry could take his naked sex slave trainee into their room without being noticed.

He tied her to the toilet so she could take care of her business before ordering take-out Chinese from a local delivery joint. Henry fed her as he ate his own meal; Melissa pleaded between bites for the removal of the shaft. The pleading was ignored and she became more and more insistent. Finally, he picked up her ball gag and wordlessly glared at her, his meaning obvious. Melissa decided to silence herself before he did it for her.

At nine o'clock, Henry ordered her to her knees for his pre-bedtime blowjob. She performed better than expected, hoping he would be impressed enough to finally remove the weighty shaft bedeviling her pussy. It had been lodged inside her for better than seven hours. Henry climaxed, Melissa swallowed it down without hesitation and licked him clean, per standing orders. He was indeed impressed, so he rewarded her by letting her have a rinse of mouthwash before putting her ball gag back in place. Then he secured her spread-eagle to the bed as Melissa watched with fervent hopefulness—she needed that damned shaft taken out of her slot! Her hopes were dashed when Henry climbed into the other bed and settled in.

He was asleep within twenty minutes. Melissa slept restlessly, however, annoyed and tormented by the heavy shaft. Her vaginal muscles were instinctively trying to expel the invader and were very sore; she was ready to walk over glowing coals if that was what he needed to agree to remove it!

They got up at eight the next morning. Henry tied her to the toilet again as he prepared the Harley for that day's travels. Melissa again requested the control rod's removal between bites of their breakfast, doing so with great respect in her tone and demeanor. Her words merely reminded him that he's forgotten to gag her again after breakfast. The huge red ball gag was eased into her mouth and the black strap buckled snugly under her fiery red ponytail. He ignored the wounded look in her eyes as he secured her within the sidecar.

They set off. The sun shone brightly as the classic Harley ran flawlessly. An hour later, they turned off the Interstate and headed south. They were in the very flat and desolate plains of western Texas and there was literally not another soul for miles. They motored down the lonely road at forty miles per hour.

Finally, Henry saw a white speck in the distance. He smiled; Torch was right on time and right where he should be. It took ten minutes to arrive at the white speck, a used Ford Aerostar delivery minivan. The painted-over logo of a defunct catering service could be seen if viewed from a certain angle. Henry wheeled up to within fifteen feet of it. A lanky man climbed out as Henry shut down the V-Twin.

The men shook hands. Then Henry took the other man to the sidecar and removed Melissa's helmet and blindfold. "Oh man!" Torch breathed, impressed. "I love redheads, man. They're rare, beautiful and such a challenge!"

Henry was helping her up as Torch was speaking. "This one will indeed give you a challenge. I had to use the control rod on her." He gestured for Melissa to put her foot on the upper rim of the sidecar. Torch watched as the crupper crotch rope was untied and the control shaft withdrawn from her pussy. Having been entombed in her nest for twenty-four hours that she knew of, Melissa sighed with grateful relief.

She was led over to the minivan. "Got a familiar face here ready for her new Master," said Torch as he opened the read doors. Henry and Melissa looked inside.

Restrained to a metal folding chair bolted to the cargo area's floor was a beautiful mid-twenties brunette woman. Her eyes were dark brown and nicely large, her breasts were full and firm, and her flesh nicely toned and suntanned. She was also ball-gagged and naked, but she did not look annoyed, scared or worried about her fate as Melissa did. Torch hopped in and released her from the chair. She climbed down with Henry's help since her arms were held behind her back in a full-length leather single sleeve. "It's good to see you again, Marissa," Henry said happily as Torch removed her ball gag.

"And it's good to see you again too, sir," said Marissa with respect, her Southern honey-child accent making Henry's cock twitch. "I missed you."

Henry traced his fingertips over a breast as he pulled down his zipper with the other hand. "Show me how much."