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?
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!