Part 1

The first week of my college semester I met a great guy who hailed from the tiny town of Pella, Iowa; basically a farming community.  He was a typical midwestern farmboy in every sense of the way wrapped in a hot 5’ 10” tight muscled frame.  He had a natural cowboy look about him and you could tell he knew it too, and it was rare for him to be seen in anything other than jeans and western boots from Fall to late Spring.

Whereas Dave was into his boots, I was into sneakers, especially New Balance, and also desert tan combat boots, my so-called winter shoes.   When my sneaks got to that point where they maintained that nice sweaty aroma even when not having been worn a day or two, that’s when they won that special place in my heart.  It wasn’t uncommon for me to wear the same low cut or no-show socks a week straight, or no socks at all just to help ’em get there that much quicker.  Seems I’ve always had a thing for smelly sneaks and socks.  Who knows why certain things make us “tick,” but for whatever reason, that had an effect on me.

Although we lived in different dorms, we spent a lot of time together helping each other with the dreaded required courses we shared, grabbing a beer, and catching the home football games.  Dave has a natural take-charge attitude, and though I wouldn’t consider myself passive, I found myself attracted to his dominant personality.  Practically inseparable, we decided to room together beginning the second semester at my dorm since the rooms there were bigger and a bit closer to most classes than where he was living on campus.

So just before the winter break started, Dave shows up in his Ford Explorer packed with his things.  Just how many pairs of western boots one guy needs I don’t know, but he had enough on hand to wear a different pair every day of the week plus one.  With everything finally in, we had a couple of days of downtime before the three-week winter break started.  Most of the guys on the floor had already finished the semester and left, so there wasn’t much socializing on the floor to be had.  That Friday night we figured we’d just chill for the night and picked up a case of beer and snuck it back into the room.  We just popped open our first beer when Dave got a call from his brother, and about half way through the conversation Dave was nearly doubled over in laughter.  I only got bits and pieces of the conversation being on the one end, but it involved a mutual friend, didn’t he learn from all those other times and couldn’t get out, and what was the penalty?

This went on for another half hour before he hung up the phone and we got back to beer and watching some TV.  Finally I had to know what the hell was so funny and that’s when Dave told me about a buddy of his back home that he and his brother hung out with.  Apparently his brother challenged Justin to a hogtie and Justin lost.  This, apparently, is something not uncommon with midwestern farmboys in Iowa according to Dave. Go figure.

It was then that I had one of those moments of saying something before thinking about what I was about to say, and I blurted out something to the effect of how lame Justin was if he couldn’t get out of a simple rope tie.  The look in Dave’s eyes at that point should have been my warning bell, but something prevented me from really paying serious attention to that.

That’s when Dave told me that I shouldn’t be talking about things I know nothing about.

“Dude, seriously, I’ve played cops and robbers as a kid and it’s not a big deal,” I told him.

At that point Dave stood up, walked right up to where I was sitting and with a serious look in his eyes responded with, “cops and robbers, ooooh, like when you were eight years old and couldn’t tie a knot to save your life, gotcha.  Well bud, us farmboys know how to use a rope and this ain’t the same thing.”

Curiosity, testoterone, beer, call it what you will, but I pushed it even further at that point, telling him that eight or eighteen, it’s no different and that at eighteen one would be better at manipulating ropes than an eight year old, anyway.  Dave laughed and told me again that I didn’t know what I was talking about and said that maybe I need to put my money where my mouth is or just shut up.  That’s when the testosterone, with perhaps some help from the beer, kicked in and I told him that I’d be loose in nothing flat if in the same situation but since we’re without the necessary tools to prove it, he’d have to take my word on it.

At that point Dave said not a word, grabbed his backpack and left the room only to return ten minutes later tossing the back pack at me, almost causing me to spill my beer.

Next thing Dave says to me is “you’re a size ten, right”

“Nine and a half, actually, why?”

Without Dave saying a word, the next things thrown my way were a pair of brown western boots and also hearing Dave muttering something about how these should fit.

“Suit up, cowboy!” were the next words out of his mouth.

I asked what the hell he was talking about and that’s when he told me to open the backpack, which I did and promptly dumped the contents, which had to be 150 feet of rope on the floor.

“Suit up, get the boots on, cowboy, I’m gonna teach you a lesson, and I have the necessary tools as you can see.”

This time his tone was more stern. He couldn’t be serious, I mean we were just bullshitting a few minutes ago about all this, right?   I just sat there a minute thinking that he wasn’t serious, but apparently I took too long and Dave grabbed my left foot, quickly removed my sneaker and before I could even say a word he had the right sneaker off and said we could do this the easy way, or the hard way.

“I got it, I got it!” I said as I pulled on the boots.

“Fine looking cowboy you’d make, hair’s a bit long, but we can take care of that,” he said.

I just laughed at that comment and reminded Dave that I’ve still got a lot of beer to get through and to hurry up with this so that I can show him that my earlier comment about getting out of ropes would be validated.  Just then I saw that look in his eyes again as he grabbed some rope and told me to get my ass on the floor, “belly side down ‘cowboy’!”

Belly side down I was as he promptly sat down over my legs, grabbed my wrists and started cinching ‘em with the rope.  Cinched nice and tight they were as I examined his work as I felt him get off my legs for more rope.  Fuckin A, where’s the damn knots?!

“Having a bit of trouble, cowboy?”  Dave smartly asked.

At that moment I felt the ropes around the boots, more rope went around my thighs and then he sat my ass up and worked on the upper torso before dropping me back down, ‘belly side down’.

I knew at this point all was not good for me, but I wasn’t going to give in, and there was beer waiting for me, after all.

“How you doing, cowboy? Starting to wish you kept your mouth shut earlier?”

Once again I said it before thinking about it and I just laughed and mouthed off.

“Is that all you got, farm boy?” I said.

Just then a bit of fear kicked in when I saw that look in his eyes and another piece of rope on the floor. Wasn’t but a few seconds later and he added that last piece to put me in a hogtie.  Hog tied belly side down I was and Dave stepped back, admired his work for a few minutes, grabbed a beer and sat down on the beat up sofa we had in the room, his booted feet next to my face.

“OK cowboy, I’m gonna give you an opportunity to get out of that, since you’re the renowned expert and all, and I’ll just get a little more comfortable, don’t mind if I pull off my boots, do ya? Though you may not like the smell of my sox.”

That ass actually kicked back and rubbed his socked feet on my face!  Damn, and I thought my socks smelled great after they were let loose from my desert tan boots.  Dave’s booted socks were amazing fresh out of his black harness boots.  Had to quickly focus back on the ropes at that point, getting a hold of his sweaty socks would be another day.

Dave downed one beer and I hadn’t made any progress, he’s starting on his second beer and asks if I’m willing to concede.

“Hell no!” I respond.

“OK, then, penalty phases will start to kick in soon, cowboy…”

By then I was an hour into this mess and still hadn’t made any progress. I wanted some beer, afte rall, we planned tonight as a beer night, so I told Dave that he won and he could untie me.

“You want out, cowboy? That’s fine, first you gotta spend time on my feet with that cocky mouth of yours.”

WTF?!  Did I just hear him correctly?!  “You’ve lost your mind!  I’m not doing any such thmmmp!”

In went Dave’s big toe in my mouth and he quickly bent down to grab the back of my head and keep it in place and quietly said, “cowboy, I’m your only way out of those ropes. Now I’ve got ten toes that you’re going to spend time on as well as the bottom of my sweaty feet. Get used to the fact that right now, this is the way it’s going to be, now get working, cowboy!”

 

 

Part 2

Hogtied on the floor, belly side down and Dave’s sweaty socked big toe had invaded my mouth and along with that some specific instructions as to how part of the rest of the night was going to be spent.  After a couple minutes, Dave removed his socked toe from my mouth, took his sock off and placed it right under my nose. The sweat from his feet combined with his leather boots was intoxicating.  He bent down near me and began telling me things that I didn’t know this farmboy had been paying attention to over the past semester.

“You see, cowboy, I’ve been paying attention to some things about you this past semester.  I’ve noticed that you often wear the same no show socks with your sneaks several days, even a week at a time without washing them.  Even saw you a couple times take a wiff of ‘em when you pulled them off, you just didn’t realize that I actually saw you do it.  Seems to me, cowboy, that you have a thing for sweaty socks, and feet too I bet.”

With that I shook my head no in trying to convince him he was wrong, but he continued by telling me that it was cool, because he was going to enjoy having his feet taken care of by me all semester long starting with tonight as he reminded me that the ropes weren’t coming off until he was satisfied with my work.

I admit that the socks and sweaty sneaks were a turn-on, but I never sucked on a guy’s toes or licked the tops and bottoms of a guys feet, this can’t be good, I just knew it.

“Tell you what, cowboy, let’s make you a little more comfortable.  I’ll take you out of the hogtie position, but the rest of the ropes stay on.”

With that he flipped me on my back, sat on the beat up sofa, grabbed his beer and put the bottom of his foot over my mouth.  A quick prodding with his other foot at my nuts and I did what I thought was the unthinkable, licking on an Iowa farmboy’s sweaty foot and toes, and damn they smelled great and the salty sweat off his feet and toes was intoxicating.

Yup, it was going to be an interesting semester!  Apparently satisfied, he instructed me to get belly side down again, which I did and flipped over.  The ropes were finally coming off, and soon I was free, rubbing my wrists of course, but free to get at the beer I wanted more than ever at that point.

With that I grabbed a fresh cold one, sat down on the sofa and started to pull off the boots that Dave had instructed me to wear for the rope challenge.

“Woah, woah!  What you doing there, cowboy?  The boots stay on, gonna make a cowboy out of you yet.  Still think the hair’s a bit long, but we can take care of that.  Besides, those boots look pretty damn good on you, look damn fine in rope as well.”

The last comment was said with that evil grin and stark look in his eyes.  Back to some TV watching and some much needed beer after an eye opening evening, a nice much needed buzz and I was ready to rack out for the night.  I again went to pull off the boots and quickly found Dave squatting down in front of me, looking me square in the eyes and with his stern voice said, “boots stay on!”

“Dude, I’m ready to rack out.  Nobody wears boots to bed,” I smartly said back with a beer-induced sarcasm.

“I wasn’t asking you to leave them on, I was telling you.”

And with the speed of a rodeo calf roper, Dave had me up off the sofa, over to my bottom bunk and flat on my back.  And before I knew what was happening he had ropes going around my booted feet to the corners of the bunk.

“Boots stay on!” was all he said as he looked at me with my booted feet tied spread eagle.

“Now, if you can behave yourself, I’ll not rope the rest of you down, but boots stay on!  You understand me, boy?”

Resigned to the fact that he could easily grab more rope and have my wrists tied before I could even reach one of the knots on either one of my booted feet, I responded with a “yes Sir.”

During the night I periodically found myself waking up, wiggling my toes in the boots, feeling the rope around them and giving them a slight tug.  I found the new sensations pretty damn hot, and Dave’s more pronounced authoritarian tone toward me for some reason just bumped it up a notch.

As with any guy my age, if the wind blows the wrong direction you find yourself popping a boner.  Here I was, half roped to my bottom bunk in my friend’s broken in cowboy boots and I was popping wood at 2AM.  Resigned to the only natural thing for me to do, I quietly opened my fly and, well the rest goes without saying.

“Needing some help with that?” Words coming from Dave’s upper bunk.

I just froze in mid stroke.

“I said, needing some help with that? Dude, I have an older brother and we had bunks, I’d know that sound anywhere.”

In a flash he was out of his bunk and looking at the obvious situation that I was in.

“You didn’t answer me, cowboy, you needing help with that?”

“Uh, no, think I’m good, but thanks,” was all I could come up with during his unexpected arrival.

“I thought we agreed that you would behave yourself tonight, doesn’t look like you’re behaving, cowboy.  But I think we can help you with that lack of discipline,” he said.

I swear it wasn’t but 90 seconds and I found both wrists tied together and secured to the head of my bunk with Dave straddling over me saying, “Let me show you how it’s done, cowboy.”

***

Needless to say, things changed from that day forward.  Dave made sure that my main footwear was his broken in brown cowboy boots that I had been issued that first night.  He issued me my boot socks and determined how many days they’d be worn before washing.  I frequently found myself roped and taking care of his sweaty feet in the late hours when it was time to call it a night from the others on the dorm floor.  I was becoming the cowboy he wanted me to be before I knew it.  And as time moved on, I found myself craving his ropes.  I was enjoying being helpless and under his direction.

It was a Saturday morning during breakfast in the dorm dining room when Dave looked at me and told me that we’re “taking care of that hair of yours today.”  I started to protest, but he looked at me square in the eyes and said, “I wasn’t asking, I was telling you.  No cowboy of mine is wearing his hair over his ears, you’re getting a proper cut around the ears and trimmed up on top and you’ll keep it that way.  Now let’s get going.”

A trip out to the barber shop and I was sporting a proper haircut by Dave’s standards, and I have to admit it looked damn good on me.  We hopped back into his Explorer to head back to campus when we passed by an Army / Navy store and he made a sudden change to stop in.  It was a pretty good sized store, had all you’d expect to find there: boots, camo gear, T-shirts, old military surplus stuff, you name it.

Midway through the store we walked by a glass display counter that had several styles of handcuffs and even leg cuffs on display.  Who knew that you could actually buy this stuff without being a cop?  Dave asked the young guy behind the counter if he could see the set of Smith & Wesson chain cuffs that were in the case.  Dave played with them a bit, ratcheting them through a few times, he had a look in his eyes.  I could tell he liked them.  Have to admit, they did look hot, much better looking and sturdier than the cheap cuffs I bought through mail order when I was in high school.

“Here, try them on,” Dave said as we were checking them out.

Laughing a bit I said, that’s OK.

“I wasn’t asking, I was telling you, now let’s have you try them on.”

Reluctantly, I put my hands out in front so Dave could snap them on, I figured the sooner we got this over with the better.

“Uh uh, behind the back, cowboy.”

I knew I had the pleading “please don’t” look in my eyes, but he just looked at me with that stern look and raised eyebrows and I knew it was a no-win situation.  The sooner I do it, the sooner it will be over I thought, and the next thing I knew, I found myself cuffed behind the back in an Army / Navy surplus store with a few onlookers brandishing a smile.  The young guy behind the counter came around and pointed out to Dave the double locking feature of the cuffs, how nice of him I thought as I rolled my eyes behind my head.

“Pretty sweet,” Dave said, “I’ll take them.  Cut me a better price if I take the legcuffs too?”

The guy gave Dave a 10% discount on both for the double purchase.  The young guy behind the counter told Dave to go ahead and hand him back the cuffs and he’ll put them back in the box for him.

You can imagine my shock when Dave responded with, “That’s OK, he can wear them on the drive back.”

With a chuckle, the young guy finished up the sale and I was walking out of the store cuffed up and back to the Explorer for the ride home.  I had a look in my eyes when Dave turned to me as I sat in the front seat and said, as he held the leg cuffs up.

“Bet you can’t wait to try these on, cowboy,” he said.

 

Part 3

The drive back to the dorm wasn’t but fifteen minutes and we scored a parking spot close to our dorm room’s entrance.  I scooted up a bit in my seat so that Dave could access the cuffs to take them off and he just said, “hang on a sec and I’ll get the door for you.”  With that he came around and opened the passenger door and said, “you know those cuffs are staying on until we get to the room, don’t even think of asking me to take them off.”

OK, so I had been getting into our rope play and boot and sock control for a couple months now, but wearing cuffs through the dorm hall back to our room was definitely taking it to a whole new level in my book.  I was going to be seen by several of the guys on our floor, just no way of getting around that, and how the heck does one explain this?

I actually got pretty lucky that nobody was walking down the hallway, that is, until we were about four doors away from our room and we come across Brody, who lives two doors down from us.

Brody, in my book is one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen.  He’s in the Army ROTC program on campus and was just back from a Saturday morning drill, still wearing his fatigues, black military boots and one of those hot, really short sleeved, skin tight Under Armour military colored T-shirts that showed off part of his incredible tribal tatt on his right arm.  It extended from mid bicep up to the round muscular curve of his shoulder.  He’s not tall, but what I’d describe as a fire plug.  Built solid as hell with an incredible smooth chest and very hairy legs.

As we were passing by he gave us the “hey guys.”  Then my stomach dropped when I suddenly heard his boots stop cold, and a chuckle coming from Brody’s mouth followed by a “what the hell’s this?”  Brody came up closer and was checking out the cuffs with some interest and Dave proceeded to tell him that they were the real deal, same as used by law enforcement.

“No shit?  Damn those look tough,” were the next words from Brody’s mouth.

“Yeah, seems my roomie here liked them so much when he saw them that he wanted to wear them home to get the full experience,” Dave said.

Another slight chuckle out of Brody, but I also could feel him physically checking out the cuffs and letting out another “cool cuffs man, they look pretty tough.”

That’s when Dave invited Brody to head over to our room with us and he’d show him the additional purchase made that day, once again pawning it off that it was me that wanted them.

Here I am still cuffed up and Dave and Brody are examining the legcuffs, and it seemed to me that Brody found the new purchases were pretty damn hot, might have been that slight tent in his crotch that I happened to notice.

With Brody in possession of the legcuffs, Dave suggested that since I wanted them so bad, I should try them on since I hadn’t had the opportunity to do so yet, and told Brody to do the honors.

“Come on guys, you’ve had your fun, just uncuff me,”I said.

Brody’s response was that I should at least try them on, and with that he bent down and tried to lock them around my cowboy boots only to discover that they wouldn’t fit over the boots.  Realizing this, he scooted me over to my desk chair, pulled up my jeans a bit and pulled a boot off.

“Damn, dude, you ever wash your socks?” were Brody’s next words.

Dave just chuckled, knowing in advance that these boot socks were on their third day already.  Second boot off and I hear the ratcheting of first one legcuff and then the other.

“Go ahead, walk around, see how they fit,” Dave said with a smirk.

Brody just chuckled, but his eyes were seriously checking out the legcuffs, I’d know that look anywhere.

“Damn, those are tough, dude,” Brody said.

And at that point, I could see the wheels spinning in Dave’s head as he bent down and removed them from my ankles.  Holding them up in front of Brody he said with a somewhat authoritarian tone, “You should try ‘em out yourself, Brody, see what it feels like to walk in them.  You’re a tough ROTC Army boy, should be a piece of cake for a guy like you, have a seat on the desk chair, let’s get you locked up.”

Freaking amazing!  Brody did exactly what Dave said and quietly sat down, and he actually extended his booted feet out before Dave even had a chance to tell him to do so.  The legcuffs looked hot as hell locked up around those military boots, and watching Brody walk around a bit, give ‘em a tug a few times to test their integrity and hearing the chains hit the dorm floor was hot!

“Damn, these are tough, guys! No getting out of these bad boys without a key!” said Brody.

As Brody was checking out the legcuffs, Dave was unlocking my hands from the cuffs, at that point Brody had turned around and was walking back our direction when Dave held up the cuffs in front of him and suggested he get the full effect.  I was rubbing my wrists at that point and totally expected Brody to decline the offer.  My jaw must have hit the ground as Brody, not saying a word, just turned around, lowered his head, and put his hands behind his back, offering them to the Smith & Wessons.  Dave had them double locked in no time and Brody was testing the chains with a few tugs.  With his wrists locked up behind his back, his built chest was a site to behold in that tight Under Armour stretch fiber T-shirt.

Dave walked around the front of Brody and playfully, yet with some strength, gave Brody’s pecs several short jabs and taunting Brody by telling him he’s not so tough now that he’s locked up, and then threw in a “you look pretty damn good in cuffs and shackles Army boy, .natural look on you.”

He gave Brody’s right nipple a little twist followed by a couple light playful taps on his cheek.  “Think you can get out of the cuffs, Army boy?”

“Heck yeah, if you give me the damn keys, dude,” was Brody’s response.

Dave followed that by telling Brody how it was going down as he placed the keys in Brody’s hands.

“Tell you what, here’s the keys.  You have five minutes to get out of the cuffs and shackles.  If you fail, you’ll stay locked up for the next hour.”

I thought this was a no brainer, with the keys, how could you not get out?  What I didn’t take into consideration at the time was that his left wrist was turned outward in the cuff, making it very difficult to try to manipulate the keys into either hole.  Brody failed miserably.  Though he did manage to get one key into the appropriate hole, but didn’t know he had to first turn the key one direction for the double lock mechanism before he could actually disengage the cuff ratchet.  Realizing defeat, but not actually thinking Dave was serious about the hour penalty, Brody turned his back towards Dave, slightly lifting his arms up a bit so that he’d take the cuffs off.  Dave just chuckled and told Brody that the cuffs come off after the hour’s up and to make the best of it.

“I must say, you do look damn good in ‘em, Brody. Yes sir, you look mighty fine in metal restraints, a natural look for you indeed.”

That hour must have gone by very slowly for Brody, but it was torture for me as well, just watching him tug on the cuffs every now and then to check out the chains and seeing his boots locked up in shackles was amazing.  Dave was right, Brody had a great, natural look in cuffs.  As promised, he was released after his hour was up and Dave, with that evil grin on his face, told Brody that he was welcome to spend time in ‘em anytime he wanted.

You can imagine the look on my face when about two weeks later on a Friday night, after returning from a very late library study session, I found Brody sitting cuffed, hands behind his back, on my desk chair wearing jeans, a wife beater tank top and his military boots.  Dave had already left to visit a nearby cousin for the weekend long before I was due back from the library.  Brody gave me the cliff notes of the night: apparently the two of them had been horsing around, Dave got him cuffed and then added the legcuffs running the chain through the bottom support of the chair.  Dave then let him know he had to get on the road, but that I’d be back sometime late that night and he was sure that I’d release him. The keys were with his dogtags around his neck and I set him free.  He noticed me checking out his tribal and suggested I get some ink myself, since I had the look for it.  He even offered to design it for me, he had designed his own as it turned out.

With a slap on my back, he said, “Thanks for taking the cuffs off, it’s been a long three hours locked up.  I was beginning to think that Dave was going to have me in lock up all night.  Oh, and I’m serious about helping you with the tatt, dude.”

With that he headed back to his room.  As he headed toward my door I noticed a familiar shape in his left rear pocket, it seems someone else on our floor has a set of cuffs.

 

To be continued …

 

This story is based on fictitious characters.

Copyright © 2010 by Atlanta Stud

 

 

By Mark

Dozens of young males all sat strapped up in thick brown leather restraints. As incoming college freshman, we were all required to take a state psychological exam. It was part of the new initiative to curb underlying issues leading to acting out, suicides, violence, and any other social ill that could conceivably be halted by an exam. The exam had the power to either set you free on to college or to trap you in to a seventy-two hour evaluation hold at the state mental hospital.

Naturally, all exam takers had to be fully restrained, simply as a precaution. If you ended up failing, the orderlies wanted no trouble getting you in to your seventy-two hour initial hold. I had just finished filling out my paperwork in the exam clinic’s in-take area. I reluctantly signed several forms giving the state full permission to commit me involuntarily should they determine that I had failed the exam in any way. There were no appeals. And there were no second opinions.

Having been led in to the exam room by two young male orderlies, who looked more like gym trainers and acted more like school yard bullies, I gazed in shock at all the hot young guys firmly nestled in to test stations. Each test taker was paired by two male orderlies dressed in white jeans and white short sleeve t-shirts. The orderlies wore black leather belts and various leather sneakers. Most of their shoes were black but some were red or white.

The test takers were all at various stages of their exams. Some were just getting placed in to the restraints by their orderlies. Many others were in the process of their exam – struggling to use a computer keyboard and monitor. Finally, a very few were clearly at the end of the process. These guys were either having their test results explained to them or being administered some sort of pill that was supposed to calm them down for being transported away through a back door that apparently led deeper in to the state hospital.

I also noticed something very different. One guy was being released and completely set free from his test and restraints. It appeared strange to me only because it was in such contrast to everyone else who seemed so stuck and hindered. And, I recognized him from senior year. It was James.

James and I had pre-calculus together. He was a total jock but he was also very smart. I didn’t recall exchanging any words with him, but we both knew one another.

As my two orderlies, who barely were speaking anything more than scripted information, led me by both arms towards an empty station, I was able to make out words being exchanged between James and his two orderlies.

“…and that is why we are letting you out of the restraints…” one orderly was saying.

“You are one lucky dude; we hardly ever let anyone out of restraints,” the other orderly added.

“Yeah, these other dudes are in for it,” the first orderly laughed.

As James managed a chuckle, he noticed me being led towards him. My two orderlies planted my ass right down in to an empty test station right next to James. The chair of the station was bolted to the floor and made of some kind of black thick plastic. The chair’s seat was sunken as it slanted down towards the back and the whole of the chair had brown thick leather restraints dangling in every direction.

“Heyy, James!” I squealed.

James nodded, “Dustin, riight?”

I nodded back, “You passed?”

James grinned. The two orderlies grinned as well but quickly changed their expressions to ones of distrust.

“How?” I asked.

James’ orderly on his right immediately clamped his hand over James’ mouth. His hand was thick, fleshy, muscular, and not going anywhere. The orderly on the left of James grabbed hold of James by his arms to steady him and halter any fight. I noticed James was having trouble breathing as the top of the orderly’s fleshy finger was pressed up against James’ nose holes. He had one solid and effective hand maneuver working on James’ mouth.

“Ut, ut, ah,” the orderly with his thick hand over James’ mouth and nose jested. “No giving away secrets. You gotta pass fair and square.”

In probably a smart move, James did not fight the orderlies and simply relaxed in to the hand over his mouth. When the orderlies finally felt comfortable with James, they eased their grips and James gasped in air, settled down, and simply nodded in agreement.

“You’ll do fine Dusty; Just cooperate with the good fellas,” James finally piped.

All four orderlies shared humorous glances. James was led away and one of my orderlies told me that they would need to restrain me for my own protection as well as theirs.

I simply nodded as they placed a thick brown leather belt around my waist, synched it tight, and belted it. They added thick leather locking cuffs to my ankles and wrists. Then they put secondary restraints – similar thick brown leather locking belts – around my calves, thighs, chest, forearms, biceps, and neck. Once these were all on, they returned to my waist belt and placed a lock on it. That was kind of not necessary but they seemed to enjoy that extra lock.

I was completely immobilized to the sunken chair. They then wheeled a small table toward the front of me which contained a large keyboard and small computer monitor. It attached to my chair with an adjustable rod near the floor. They were arguing with each other about which notch to use to hook the contraption together. One thought it should be further away and one liked where it was. In the end, the former won out and the computer was positioned farther away from me than any computer I had ever used.

Once they were confident with their arrangement, they began explaining the exam. It consisted of one hundred multiple choice questions. The test had no right or wrong answers they said. I was supposed to answer with whatever I felt at the time. I was supposed to go with my gut and not think about the questions too long. In fact, there was a ten second limit on each question. If I did not answer in time, the question would be marked incomplete. There were five possible answers to each question. I had to hit the number one key for choice one, the number three key for choice two, the number five key for choice three, the number seven key for choice four, and the number zero key for choice five. I asked them to go over that again as I was very confused. They said they were only allowed to go over the instructions once and gave me a dominant glare of annoyance. They acted like I was bothering their normal flow.

When I recoiled from their reaction, they warned me that inappropriate behavior would not be tolerated.

I said I was sorry.

They finished explaining a few other seemingly irrelevant points about the exam and then asked which hand I would like to use to answer the questions. I was confused.

They both looked impatient and one said, “Choose, or we’ll choose for you.”

Since I am right handed, I said, “My right.”

The other orderly turned and shouted down the room, “We need a left mitt here.” A younger orderly, who seemed to be a subordinate, eagerly ran across the room towards us and produced a black leather padded fist mitten. My orderly grabbed the mitten from the guy’s hand and roughly worked it up over my left hand. The interior of the mitten was cold, soft, and slippery. It fit snuggly over my hand and he strapped it tightly at my wrist and then locked it. The mitten quickly warmed and I felt extremely frustrated with my lack of digit use.

“Billy,” my orderly barked at the subordinate, “You forgot the headgear.”

Billy’s face looked panicked as he raced away and then back returning with a handful of brown leather strapping.

“We’ll need to remove your glasses for the exam,” my second orderly monotonously spoke as he reached up and tugged away my glasses. I could no longer see much of anything as everything simply looked like a blur.

As I tried to argue, “But I can’t see anything now!” the first orderly worked the leather strapping up over my head.

The first orderly responded, “Easy buddy, just relax and go with the flow. This will all be over soon.”

They strapped on a full blown head harness complete with a ball gag that they popped in to my mouth. Straps held it in place and I began to salivate. I could no longer speak.

“Place your right hand on the keyboard and get ready to take this exam. We’ll be reading the questions to you out loud since we do not allow prescription glasses or any other aids. They may give you an unfair advantage. Those are the rules,” the second orderly chimed.

I struggled to remember which numbers represented which choices and outstretched my right arm as close to the keyboard as possible. I was confident that I was near or at the top row of numbers that could be found on any standard keyboard. The problem was that this was not a standard keyboard. It was like a giant clunky dinosaur model. I focused on the fact that James had passed the exam. If he could do it, then I had a chance as well. Worst case scenario, I’d be committed for seventy-two hours, be found completely healthy, and return to enjoying my summer before starting college.

The first orderly clicked a few buttons on the back of the computer while the second orderly grabbed a bundle of papers and began fumbling through them. “This is exam 6B, right?” the second orderly asked.

“Huh?” the other quizzically responded, “Oh, umm, nah 7, 7B man.”

“Oh, you sure?” the orderly flipping through the papers asked before finally settling on a specific page.

The first orderly simply nodded seemingly only half agreeing.

The computer screen began to light up and the second orderly began reading “Question One. I sometimes feel like my parents are meddlesome. One – Angrily Agree. Two – Pensively Agree. Three – Conflicted In Deciding. Four – Angrily Disagree. Five – Pensively Disagree.”

“Dude, that’s not what the screen says, it’s asking about drug use, err, I mean Tylenol use…” the first orderly informed.

Confused, the second orderly flipped through some pages, “Ah, this is 7D, dick, haha.”

By then a flash emerged on the screen.

“Opps, Ya missed that one Dusty,” the first orderly commented. He then barked, “Read the kid question two man.”

Needless to say, things were not off to a good start. The orderlies kept confusing and arguing with each other and by the time I understood the question, it would already have flipped to the next one. Once I was able to finally figure out some answers, it would have already flipped to the next one. Finally, I started actually putting in an answer although I kept getting confused as to which number to push. Number zero was an answer of five, I remembered. Was seven a four or was nine in there somewhere? Ugh.

As the test continued, the first orderly looked at me with pity and asked, “You ready to give up Dust?” Honestly, I was ready to give up.

The second orderly began taking more and more time to read the questions. The screen started flipping to the next questions before he was even half way through reading them. He started speaking slower and slower until he finally stopped midway through a question and asked, “What do you say I put ya in this second leathery mitt? Just give you a break for a bit.”

“Things would suddenly become much easier for you then, Dustin,” the first orderly added with a smile.

Honestly, I wanted the test to end. I was fairly confident that I was failing and I just wanted for something to go right. At least if they put a fist mitt on my only free hand, something would get accomplished! In some odd way, I could then ultimately succeed in failing! They may not have been able to communicate with me well about the test, but they would be able to restrain well. Right now, nothing was going well.

I was drifting in a daze when the orderly went back to reading questions. I tried to start struggling with the test again. I felt the strong grip of the second orderly’s hand firmly around my right wrist moving my hand away from the keyboard and towards the cool soft leathery fist mitt which was now being manipulated around my hand by the first orderly. They both guided my hand deep in to the mitt and then tightly strapped, buckled, and locked it.

“Sorry bud, but yah failed,” the first orderly informed.

“Yeah, sixty questions to go but you’ve already fucked too many,” the other noted.

I was exhausted and glad the test was over; even if it ended badly, it was over.

The first orderly undid a strap at the back of my head and popped out my ball gag by squeezing my face cheeks together with his hand. As I stretched open my mouth, the other orderly’s finger entered my mouth and placed something on to my tongue. It quickly dissolved and I struggled to swallow the liquid it produced.

“That will help you to remain calm as we prep you for transport,” the second orderly soothed.

My mind became dizzy and I struggled to think. I tried to talk but it was useless.

The two guys began undoing my straps. Then they slowly guided me up out of the chair and in to a red and black wheelchair nearby. They restrained me quickly in to the red leather covered wheel chair with red and black straps I believe were similar to the brown ones of the test station. It was hard for me to see clearly or think much about them. My hands were still in both of the black puffy slick fist mitts, which were now wrapped in to the red and black leather cuffs of the wheel chair.

Soon I realized I was being wheeled through a corridor. Someone popped up out of a seat and began talking to me. After some time, I realized it was James. He was asking me how it had gone and was expressing remorse that I had failed.

I tried to ask him how he had passed. I am not sure how it came out or what words I actually used, but he must have realized what I was saying because he explained:

 

I was in a daze. I noticed my orderlies smiling and even thought I heard them say something about numbers. Something about the more they got admitted the more their paychecks would be.

I became aware of my fist mitts again. They were sweaty and hot by this point. The previous slickness of them was now stickiness against my skin. Just before I fully succumbed in to a deep, peaceful sleep, I heard James shout down to me and the orderlies,

“ T w is t e d T e s t ! ”

 

 

By Lars

Originally published in Drummer magazine

Part 1: Preliminaries

In our introductory correspondence, when the cowboy first used the term, it turned me off. Boot slave. Hell, I craved boots, leather and bondage—even rigid bondage—but somehow I preferred the image of “prisoner” or “convict” not slave. The gay connotation of “salve” was, well, too slavish to suit me. Homosexual slaves, it seemed, service their masters voluntarily, wimpishly, without genuine compulsion. Conversely, prisoners and convicts pulled time involuntarily. Strong and defiant in their chains, they were victims dignified under duress. I would never be his boot slave.

But then I met him, and from his cowboy hat to his levi jacket, to the black leather pants on his long lanky legs and the pointed two-tone boots on his feet, he stunned and impressed me. He was “cowboy,” and his shitkickers somehow accented the whole. Blond hair, a winning smile and friendly manner complete the package. In previous months, our torrid fantasy correspondence had already made us nearly intimate, but I was not prepared for the deep, almost instant feelings that seeing him in leather and flesh produced. Here was a man I could love. Worship?

The few days that followed cemented the initial sensations. Though he was slow to accept me in the role, I found I wanted to soothe him, and serve him in many ways – wanted to hold and massage his lean, firm body, to see him in his leather. I enjoyed the role of taking off his boots (especially his tall aromatic engineers) whenever he changed outfits. Got a rush one morning when he spread-eagled me to his bed, and stood on my chest in those elegant towering oil-tanned black beauties.

A bootmaster by trade, the cowboy had acquired over the years a huge collection of boots. Footgear of all descriptions filled closets throughout the house and in the dark basement—cowboy styles, engineers, lineman and police types. He almost seemed to live for his boots and for the attention others might give them.

The night before I left, we shared a relaxed evening at the local spa, and I slowly disrobed him before we went to the pool—a subordinate rite, lingering long at easing off the engineers. Later that night, before retiring, I asked him to let me take them off again—nothing slow or ritualistic this time, just a simple gesture by one friend to another. He had hoped I would do that, he said, and seemed touched by the simple act. Off his long legs, the boots were warm, and smelled friendly.

We parted the next morning, and I fought my emotions. I wanted him soulfully—had invited him to live with me. But slave? Would any man in his right mind consent to such denigration in any permanent sense?

But then I mused upon several analogies—the way women self-effacingly slough off their name to take on their husband’s; the exchange of rings symbolizing mutual possession (the “ties that bind”), idealistically speaking, don’t all people in love give fully and freely of themselves to each other – in one way or another? In the ferment of my emotions, “slave” and “spouse” and “lover” became jumbled terms. Besides, I did crave bondage. Permanent bondage with a man I loved seemed less and less bizarre.

 

Part 2: Commitment

 

I am now a boot slave—his boot slave. Much later, after months of sharing and evolving, I finally and apprehensively consented to that role, but on one condition: The arrangement must be made irreversible—I would in fact be his prisoner, under his literal physical control at all times, unable to renege on the deal. Proud to the end, I knew I could not live a life of subordination, even to one I loved, if I had to humble myself daily, hourly, voluntarily—like a sniveling peon.

Instead, I would submit once, for good—dramatically, with dignity. I would surrender my body and gain a partner. In a solemn and private ceremony, performed at the remote mountain cabin we’d selected for the prison, the cowboy vowed to possess me totally but inflict no permanent physical damage, to love me, to sustain and comfort me in my bonded discomfort, and—to prevent escape. In turn, I vowed to accept him unconditionally as my keeper and bondmaster, to honor and cherish him—soul and body—to make his environment one of warmth and ease, and to forgive any occasional wanton cruelties on his part, I did not vow to obey him; he would have to restrain me to exact constant behavior. Nor did I vow never to attempt escape; that would have made restraints superfluous, silly. I would be his boot slave, but only if he saw to the fact—carefully so.

Yes, we exchanged wedding bands, but not your usual adornments. After I knelt and kissed his tall, spurred cowboy boot, I fastened two boot chains around each ankle – and kissed them (not for the last time). The bootmaster then lifted from the floor a wide, heavy iron belt, which was connected to the back by a long chain leading to the ceiling beam. He gently but firmly clasped the cold band around my waist, closed it as snugly as possible on my muscular midriff, then aligned the six small holes where the two bars overlapped at the front. I was ready to be riveted into the belt. He reached for the hammer, and picked up the rivets—puny devices, I thought, to guarantee lifetime bondage—to irrevocably bind a relationship. Then he turned the gaze of his friendly water-blue eyes on me, an asked once more if I were truly prepared to become his unconditional possession. I said nothing, but knelt again and kissed his boots and boot chains. Whereupon he kept me to the floor by roughly propping one of his boots on my neck, his spur scraping my chest, as he hammed the rivets into the belt—quickly, solidly, with authority—like an expert blacksmith. The metallic sound was conclusively final, good to the ear. The cowboy’s boot and sense of weight and power felt good on the neck. Done, he lifted his boot, knelt and inspected his work, then filed down the head of one rivet that protruded too much. Done again, he smiled broadly—almost devilishly—and helped me to my feet, my new belt chain clanking. He slapped my leathered ass hard, and wise-cracked, “Boot slave, how do you like it?” I liked it—especially the way he slapped my ass.

Later that night, after many drinks, he consummated our vows and ceremony, and confirmed my new status, in a way unanticipated by myself. First, he bound me firmly, hand, foot and torso, then blindfolded me. I heard him building a fire at the cabin’s hearth. Minutes passed, and he plied me with more libations, and soothed me with touches. Then, suddenly, he gagged me tightly and without warning branded me on the shoulder. In searing pain, I moaned and reflexively struggled against the ropes and gag. He hugged me – reassured me – told me I now wore his initials. After a few moments, he released the gag, kissed me, held me, said he loved me, said I’d make a good boot slave, said he’d make a good bootmaster.

 

Part 3: Seven Years

 

It’s dawn at the cabin where our partnership was consummated some seven year ago, and here I am, still wearing that tight belly-belt. My leather, iron-belted torso lies spread-eagled onto a large bed piled high with used boots—cowboy boots, engineer boots, logger boots, tall boots, short boots, clean and dusty boots, black, brown and tan boots—you name it. The rawhide securing my outstretched arms and booted feet is pulled tight, so those boot heels beneath my muscular frame made for uncomfortable sleeping during the night. But damn if the aroma ain’t great, musky, smelly, oily, from all the guys who’ve molded the shitkickers. No real shit left on these “bed boots” though; the bootmaster likes his boot slave better than that.

Before he left last night, after our usual intimacies, he prodded my nose with his own tall cowboy boots – let me bite the toes, taste the leather. Then he smiled his handsome, angular smile, took the boots off and rested their tops over my nose for better inhaling of that exciting, musky, sweaty odor. Then he tied them both round my neck, a cradle for the head. Thus, during this long night, of all the tough boots near me, under me, his I smelled and savored first and most. I thought of him, as the boot leather creaked when I strained to shift position slightly, tried to get more comfortable. He also left another “personal memento” for my sake – one of those boot chains I fastened to his ankle seven years ago, now adapted as a bit for my mouth, cinched tight and padlocked at the back of my head. All this: standard operating procedure by the bootmaster for his prisoner.

Any minute now, his lanky frame will amble through the door, his body fully leather like mine, his legs and feet encased and swaggering in brawny footgear – probably tall cowboy types again, with clanking spurs. He’ll saunter to my bed, and playfully roll the spurs over my chest before kissing my ear, then easing out my bit—his bit—kissing my lips, giving me water. Sometimes, if unhurried and particularly affectionate, he’ll hand-feed me breakfast, while leaving me spread. Then he’ll massage my muscles, untie my hands and rub the wrists where the bonds have bitten pretty deeply, kiss the indentations, or bite them softly. When my hands are fully free, I’ll hug him even before my legs are released – ask him never to let me go.

A damn stupid remark, that—considering the rivets, belt and long chain, I haven’t left this comfortable cabin for nearly 3000 days now. Boot slave that I am, I spend my days servicing the broken-down brogans that come to the cowboy at his boot shop in town. Got all the necessary equipment here to re-sole, stitch and repair all the boots west of the Mississippi. More than anything, I dig just cleaning up the fuckers – shining the dress types with pungent waxes, working to a mellow polish; oiling and waterproofing the work boots with earthier-smelling liquids, renewing them for more sweaty work by lusty guys. Nearly every day, the bootman throws a couple dozen new prizes my way, and every day I refurbish them. Occasionally I foul up, or get sullen and lazy, and get a whipping for recompense. But that’s happened only six or seven times in all these years. I’m too damn good at my work—I like my work. And despite appearances, the cowboy’s no sadist. He’s both bootmaster and soul brother.

No sadist maybe, but damn if he don’t crave heavy bondage—just like his prisoner. After breakfast, I’ll pull on the boots he’s picked out for me that day, then he typically claps huge heavy shackles on each ankle – stops to admire the shackled result, rubs the leather, maybe smells and licks them a little, then yanks he connecting strand to keep me off balance, literally. Often, he’ll continue by threading a heavy additional chain form one boot up through a hasp on the side of my iron belt, on up to my neck, which he’ll encircle two time sin he’s feeling ordinary – three times if he’s felling horny – then down my chest through a hasp on the opposite side of the belt on the down my leg to the second boot. He’ll padlock the ends of the chain to both boot irons, of course, and then fastens the biggest padlock of all to the loops of neck chain – staring at me happily as he forcefully pushes in the shackle, leaving me a huge, ponderous pendant dangling down on my jacket. One whimsical day, he laughed as he chiseled my initials onto the padlock –B.S.

On those spunky days when he loops that third ring round my neck, he’ll usually add manacles for my hands too—or even handcuffs (ever try shining boots with cuffed hands?). Occasionally, he’ll load down one or both ankles with 50-pound balls and chains, to slow my day down considerably. When he’s finished, he always slaps my ass, tells me I’m looking good, tells me to work that good ass off during the day, or he’ll find his dusty whip. Yep, the cowboy’s a heavy metal man.

On those days when the morning dawns softly, when our breakfast talk has been especially warm or raunchy, when he’s feeling really aggressive, macho or lusty, that’s he hauls out the “heaviest metal” of all—a massive iron head cage, complete with detachable metal bit-gag. He always kisses me slowly and meaningfully before he locks it, rough, on my neck, then forces in the bit, and locks it too. The weight of the cage tortures on my already chained neck, and the bit-gag chafes my tongue and mouth cruelly. But this boot slave still manages to do his good day’s work with the old dusty, dirty boots. Seems I’m happiest in that cage, really. Wearing it shows we’re still soul brothers, the main man and me. Still exploring and developing.

On “light metal” days, the cowboy might leave me free except for the belt and ceiling chain. Or frequently he’ll content himself with locking his boot chain bit back into my mouth, so that all day long I’ll be grinding my teeth on my “wedding gift” to him, thinking of him and his smelly boots as I work at my bench. Give me long enough, and some fine year I just might bite the damn thing all the way through—either that, or wear my teeth down instead.

At the end of each day, I line up all the boots I’ve cleaned and repaired for inspection, stand attention and salute when the bootmaster makes his grand entrance, stomping heavily in his own brogans of the day. He struts and grins in his easy masculine way, gives a perfunctory look at my consistently good work, maybe facetiously complains about a blotch in the polish here or there, then comes close and wraps me his his creaking leather-jacketed chest—two leathermen enhancing each other—and asks how the day has gone. If I’m locked into a bit, out she comes so I can answer—and kiss him. Then comes lots of touching, and—usually—removal of any “heavy metal.” Then supper.

After supper is my most relaxed time. If the cowboy’s busy, I’m almost always left free to read, watch TV, listen to music. Often, we share the full evening together, sometimes in the company with reliable, selectively invited to our rustic retreat—small parties, really. I serve the beer and snacks, but more like a co-host who happens to wear an iron belt than like a slave. Sure, the cowboy sometimes trusses or chains me up for the benefit of the onlookers—maybe—for hours—but even then he brags on my, shows me off, shows no disrespect. And he lets none other touch me—not ever.

My favorite times are poker nights. A gambling boot slave? Yes sir. The boss pays me a model piece-rate for my labors, so I always have a little “boot money” put aside—mainly for gambling, but also for personal items such as replacing the levis he frequently knives through in order to get to my ready rump when he’s really horny and in a hurry. Sometimes, when the cowboy’s strapped for cash but obviously has a good hand, I urge him to raise the ante with my body—release me if I win. “No deal,” he grunts. Other times, when my pot’s gone, I try to raise the ante by promising my body to him sexually in some particular way. No deal there either, naturally. And he’ll pull my belt chain to emphasize the point one more time.

There are bad times, too. The cabin has windows which afford serene views of the distant mountains. I miss the out-of-doors, and often get depressed for that reason, especially when the bootman himself is morose or treats me distantly. In one such mood, five years ago, I think, I took my shoemaker’s hammer and other small tools and tried severing the chain connecting my belt to the ceiling beam. But it was too heavy and strongly forged to give way. When the cowboy discovered my clumsy effort, he was more sullen than enraged. Ordering me to the floor, he cuffed my hands at the back, roughly hogtied my boots to my hands, pulled them both back tight to my neck, gagged me—and left me that way, with only occasional relief to prevent limb paralysis, for a week or more. All that time—silence. Without his moral support and reassurance, the constant stress and pressure eventually became excruciating. I made muffled moans and screams through the gag. My mind wandered. I broke. When he released the gag to feed me one morning, for the first and only time in these seven years I begged for mercy. Hours later, he came back and lay his hand on my rump; I knew he had relented. Realist to the end, though, he first welded an even stronger and heavier chain from the belt to the ceiling beam, then struck off the older damaged one. Only then did he release my other restraints and gag. I cried, resisted the urge to kiss his boots, but held onto his legs. He touched my shoulders, then walked away. It took weeks, of course, for the bootmaster and the boot slave to regain full respect.

I’ve learned two things during these seven years: Punitive bondage become unbearable, but bondage “laced” with affection brings ecstasy. Whenever my soul brother is in an intimate mood, he aggressively and bossily subordinates me into myriad forms of heavy restraint—rough, tough action—for hours. Total immobilization, gags, chains, ropes, hoods, suspensions, contortions, endurance tests. He indulges in variants of rape fantasies, and acts them out while I’m struggling, heaving helpless. He craves the fantasy—and reality—of conquest. And I luxuriate in the indescribable sensation of tightness, pleasant pain, of danger—facing an unknown, unable to resist, unable to move or even to cry out. When he stimulates me, as he usually does, I wonder how something can hurt and yet feel so good. Even at his most domineering, he maintains his upbeat, humorous personality. The tighter he trusses me up, the more he likes what he sees and feels, I know that, I like that.

Sometimes, just to prove he’s boss, the bootman leaves me rigidly bound, chained or gagged for a day or two, keeps me guessing, keeps me peering into the fearful unknown, makes me feel especially vulnerable—then grateful—when he finally releases me. The troubling thing is, these “heavy” interludes have grown more frequent lately. Paradoxically, the closer we grow, the longer he possesses me, the rougher he treats me—the more I wear the sensuous head cage, the fewer evenings I’m free to read and relax. Deep down, I think he gets his rocks off by fantasizing keeping me immobilized 24 hours a day—every day—but balks at the brutal reality that would entail for me, and the heavy responsibility it would mean for him. Scare me a little.

Actually, this intuitive sense of future danger adds zest as well as fear to our relationship. We are both aware, I think, o f the ominous undercurrent. But for now, our rapport is golden. After our sexual intimacies most every night, the mood is especially mellow. As he spreads me one more time, taut and tight, we are at peace with each other—soft rubs, soft words, eye-to-eye exchanges. By fastening me each bedtime hour, he confirms our ties, literally, one more time. In his own mind, perhaps, he feels lucky to own and possess a boot slave as efficient, hard-muscled and generally loyal as the fellow he binds to this bed of boots. It probably never occurs to him that I own him too, in a way—just as surely as he knots his rawhide thongs round my wrists and booted ankles; as surely as he ties his personal sweaty shitkickers, complete with spurs this time, round my neck, leaving me with his manly scents and creaking clanking sounds all night; just as surely as he positions his boot chain-bit in my mouth one more time, pulling it super-tight and locking it at the back of my head. When he’s finished, he looks down with satisfaction, stands, rests his boot socks on my neck a little, then stoops and rubs my tight chest gently, slaps my thigh hard. He sits nearby, pulls on another pair of elegant shitkickers, and leaves his boot slave without a word. No words needed. He’ll be back.

 

Part 4: Darkness

 

The sun’s now risen over the eastern mountains, I can see the view from my boot bed where I’m still tethered, patiently waiting for my captor to come release me on this beautiful, promising morning. He’s later than usual—went to town last night—hope all’s okay. Not only are my muscles tight from all-night immobility’ my iron-belted stomach tells me breakfast is past due. Where is he” Maybe I can nap a little-kill some time.

Shortly after dozing, I woke with a start. He stood at the foot of the bed, looking sheepish. Slowly, a little nervously, but with some rhetorical flourish, he announced that he’d decide to retire me from the repair business—turn me out to pasture—promote me, in a way, to indefinite “rest” and inertia. He’d found a new boot slave in town, but I would always remain his number one and favorite underling.

I’d soon see.

Instantly, I saw my doom clearly. Our increasingly serious and sever bondage partnership had finally reached its denouement, its logical conclusion. My wrists suddenly throbbed from the rawhide binding them to the bed

After releasing me for the last time from the bed of boots, the cowboy next loaded me down with most of his “heavy metal” gear—leg irons, connecting chains through the belt to the three-strand collar, my B.S. padlock. Only this time, he added a new and most important feature—wide manacles that dangled by short chains from the back of the collar. He pulled each arm high behind my back and locked the gloved wristed with the manacles. The pull and pressure on my neck was both intense and erotic. Next, using a-cutting tool, he severed the belt chain so as to leave only a four-or five-foot section still dangling from my waist. Then he led me hobbling out of my cabin prison of seven years, moving slowly across the corral to an adjacent barn. There he escorted me down a long narrow, stair, turned, made  proud masculine bow, waved a jacketed arm grandiloquently, and invited me to step through a cell door into a small dungeon.

The room was dimly illuminated by one small window near the high ceiling, and the floor was strewn with straw and dozens of old, musty boots—“a fitting mattress for my favorite boot slave,” commented the cowboy approvingly, sincerely. Moving with dispatch, he took the end of my shortened belt chain and spot-welded it to the large ring bolt on the floor. Visibly excited, he turned his gaze on my bound figure, massaged my pinioned arms, already sore, rubbed my rump and crotch softly, and told me he’d always wanted to bring me to this special place and keep me here. We’d already made bondage history together, but now we’d explore the outermost limits. He promised to maintain his vows of partnership, still keep me in good health, comfort me in my bonded discomfort.

I was able to say nothing. I was excited as well as terrified. Instinctively, I knelt and kissed his boots and boot chains. In response, he lifted me, tongued my ear, gagged me with his boot chain-bit, tied his old pair of tall engineers round my neck, closed and locked the massive solid iron door, and left.

I was horribly alone in a new, permanent home. The same leatherman who, long ago, refused to become a boot slave—his boot slave—had come a long way.

Though he never exactly announced it, it became clear after a week or so that the bootmaster not only intended to keep me forever chained to the floor of this new home, but rigidly restrained as well. My gloved hands stayed in their wide manacles, secured high at the back below my collar’ my bit-gag stayed tightly in place, day and night. Sometimes he left my shackled legs otherwise “free: so that I could, with effort, stand and walk a few metallic paces around the ring bolt. Other times, the main man clapped rigid bar-irons on my boots, keeping my ankles constantly one foot apart, and preventing any movement except a labored crawl. Other times, he hogtied my leg irons to my hands and neck, the tightest position of all. No I’d never escape—my friend had kept that portion of his seven-year old vows for certain. I had become a hopelessly immobilized black figure, always “resting” on the floor of boots, always smelling the good old leather—cinched fast and waiting for my soul brother.

Or so I then thought.

I every situation, there are—there must be—compensations. The cowboy always smiled when he entered my dungeon, bragged on my endurance, admired my bound physique and leather, fondled me affectionately, rubbed my aching and still-powerful but now impotent muscles, applied salve to the sores, developing from my permanent fetters, lingered with me often, propping his boots on my encumbered torso while shooting the shit about eh day’s events outside my dungeon world. And, as always, he not infrequently made love to me—returning favor for favor. I was the greatest, he said, and I believed him.

One day this “ultimate bondage” reached its outermost limits. For reasons never explained, the bootmaster sent his new slave to feed me—a handsome young man, pleasant enough, but obviously one of those serfs who obey without compulsion (he dragged no iron). The peon could have abused me, and this vulnerability angered and disgusted me. I refused his food. When the cowboy next visited and released my bit, I cursed him for his betrayal of trust. In return, he instantly lashed my bound body with his wide belt, the punished me further by forcing a leather hood over my head—the type with detachable gag, air holes for the nose, but no eye openings. He laced and locked it so tight at the back it gave me an immediate headache. I’d wear it for a week, he promised harshly as he jerked on the laces. Though punished, I took satisfaction in the fact that his sniveling lackey came no more.

Chalk up one victory for this otherwise helpless boot slave, but one won at a very high price. For during my week of punishment, my erstwhile soul brother grew to like his boot slave in that somber, painfully tight black helmet. Apparently, my wearing it dehumanized me in his sight, made him feel more comfortable coming to my cell daily, seeing nothing but smooth glistening ebony from head to toe, my leather creaking, the chains clanking, but otherwise nothing but a quiet, robot-like object licking his boots or lapping water from the bowl between his legs. He had put me in hoods before, of course, but never in this conductive dark-world dungeon setting of ultimate bondage. Hooded, my eyes no longer connected with his, no longer softened him with love. The hood was a fateful catalyst for our final step in our long voyage together.

When the punishment week ended, he removed the hood as promised, applied eye-drops to my caked lids, held me somewhat tenderly by the shoulders as we sat on the floor. He smiled his incomparable smile, apologized for sending his new slave to fee me, and then added that he had bad news. In the leather hood, I turned him on—compulsively, obsessively—made him yearn for his morning and evening visits here, made him more than ever want my tongue, reaching out from that mysterious black helmet, to service his dick daily, while he rubbed my smooth leathered head with his hands. Every night for the past week he’d tossed in his bed, nearly sleepless, consumed not only by these thoughts, but even more by the powerful and compelling idea of locking the hood on my head forever. I was already permanently enclosed in heavy leather form shackled neck to shackled boots. He would now complete the envelopment, and encase me forever in sensuous black hide from head to toe. And one thing more” To complete the metamorphosis from man to object, I was never to speak to him again, even when ungagged. He told me all this in a warm, friendly fashion, still holding me by the shoulder, and looking me straight in the eyes wistfully. When done, he added softly, “Please forgive me.”

A poignant picture—two buddies and lovers of long standing, both booted and garbed in sexy leathers, both in their physical prime, one full of life and in total command, asking his counterpart, bound or shackled hand, foot, waist and neck, for forgiveness. Not permission. Forgiveness. I searched his blue eyes for what I recognized would be the last time, fought my impulse to beg; also fought the impulse to forgive. I could not forgive. Nor could I hate, not even now. Instead, I shifted forward slightly from my seated position, my leather creaking and my neck chains making metallic sounds, and I brushed his neck lightly with my lips.

Dignity under duress? You bet your boots.

After my mute, ambiguous gesture, the cowboy’s eyes momentarily mirrored a deep sadness. He stroked my hair fondly one more time, nuzzled my ear with his tongue one more time, fixed his watery blue eyes on mine one more time. The last thing I saw was the quickening glint of triumph in those blue eyes as he slowly and dramatically pulled the hood back down over my head—the final step. Then he laced it tighter than hell, padlocked it, bragged to me he’d lose the key, yanked my collar chain to the floor, kicked my bound ass hard, stood on me—and joyously proclaimed that I was the best damn boot slave ever—his perfect possession. Then he knelt by me, grabbed my crotch, opened my zipper, quickly helped me share the ecstasy of his triumphal moment. As he brought me to climax and maybe understanding, I felt him unloading his powerful driving force on my boots—my shackled boots. Spent, he then slowly hot-tied those shackled boots to my arms, put the gag into the hooded head of his slave, kicked me again, then clanged the cell door shut emphatically.

From that pint forth, my world would be one not only of immobility but also darkness. Deprived of sight, speech and nearly all movement, I had, in essence re-entered the womb. The only continuing sense remaining to me was that of smell through the small air holes which barely permitted me to breathe. In a short time, I learned to hone that precious skill to the point where I could, without difficulty, detect one pair of sweaty dungeon-floor boots from another. Even when my legs were hog-tied or otherwise heavily restrained (as they usually were, now that I was safely hooded and depersonalized), I managed to squirm around the dungeon a little, sniffing the boots, imagining how they felt to the touch, imagining how they’d look on the handsome guys who once wore them. I’d crawl as far as my belt chain permitted—that umbilical cord in this tomb and womb of darkness and constriction. A boot slave smelling boots on his narrow dungeon floor. Yes, this ultimate bondage. A spectator viewing the scene from high above might well have imagined a smooth, dark, metallic-banded embryo, struggling spastically, worm-like, to find some elusive food within his uterine environment.

Can I long survive this tiny world of limitations? Can blind, mute and paralyzed men still live and love? When the bootmaster visits, I can still savor his resonant voice, still lick and lust after his aromatic boots, his leather chaps, his dick. Still get hard when he rams his member up my rump. Still relax to the many softnesses of his touches and massages. Does he still smile at me?

 

THE END

 

This is another story by Lars from Drummer magazine, also involving serious locking metal restraints. This one, which appeared way back in 1984 in Issue 77 of Drummer, is much longer. Since Lars is deceased and Drummer magazine went out of business long ago, I figure I can get away with posting it here on Metalbond. In fact, I think it would be a shame NOT to share this story, as it is such a hot one. I will be posting it here in four parts, starting tonight and then continuing every other night.

Special thanks to my friend Yossie for digging “Boot Slave” up from the vault, and thanks also to my friend Nycbondageswitch for his invaluable help with getting the text ready.

Oh, and if anyone else out there has any other similar stories in their own personal porn vault, definitely get in touch with me!

—Metal