The black cab pulled to a stop in front of a tall semi-detached brownstone indistinguishable from half a dozen others along the well-heeled street, lit at regular intervals by circular pools of light cast from orange-yellow lights suspended high on metal lampposts.
"Twelve pounds ten, sir," the driver said over his shoulder to the beefy blond in the back seat. BO squeezed a ham-sized hand with some difficulty into his pant's back pocket to get at his wallet, pulled out a twenty and asked the driver for a fiver change.
"Thank you sir, and have a good night," the cabbie called as he drove off, leaving the big man standing alone on the sidewalk. He shivered a little in the cool evening air. The white long-sleeved lycra t-shirt he wore stretched over his mammoth upper torso looked fantastic, but was pretty useless at keeping out the cold. Tits on a bloody nun, he thought to himself. He might as well be wearing nothing for all the insulation the shirt offered. But you don't wear lycra to be warm: you wear it to be hot. And sometimes you have to be cold to be hot, he thought, and a smile momentarily creased one corner of his generous fleshy lips.
He'd deliberately worn the stretchy white shirt because he knew how flattering it was to his 'roid enhanced chest, shoulders and arms, how it hugged and caressed every line and bulge. Before coming out tonight he must have tried on a half dozen tops before settling on this one. First a skimpy spaghetti strap thing with GOLD'S GYM emblazoned across the front. Too California-ish, and it looked wrong without a tan. He was almost white as a ghost after spending the winter here, and you can only carry off the California look with a tan – or at least a fake and bake tan, which he didn't have either. Second, a baggy well-worn hoodie, which he discarded quickly after giving himself a once-over in the full-length bedroom mirror, as it hid all the hard work he'd put into building his body and just made him look fat. No way was he going to make a good impression with that thing hanging on him. He might wear it to the gym, but not on a 'first date.' Then he'd tried a brand-new brilliant white Hanes t-shirt (XXL) right out of the package, which stretched far beyond its tolerances and didn't even cover half his barrel-like distended GH belly, hard and rippled and hairless. Hot, but too trampy looking for a first impression, he thought. He'd also tried on several other lycra tops – short sleeved and no sleeved – before settling on this white one. It was a designer shirt, cut specifically to accommodate the distorted proportions common in really big body builders – space near the neck for bull-like traps, extra material in the shoulders and arms to accommodate his football-sized deltoids and 22 inch arms, a huge chest area to encompass his bulbous, pendulous pecs and hormone-swollen mantits, and extra long length so that even his barrel sized abdomen remained encased.
He'd tucked the muscle-hugging slick white shirt into his custom-made jeans, (XXX wide thighs and XX wide calves on a 36 inch waist, 29 inch inseam) and he wore high shine Corcoran paratrooper boots with thick Vibram soles, which added an extra inch or so to his five foot nine inch frame. In spite of his massive size, he was somewhat self-conscious about his height – he wasn't nearly as tall as many of the big boys in the bodybuilding community, and in fact had started working out nine years ago in part to compensate for this … shortcoming.
So now he found himself all alone, shivering slightly on an upmarket residential street lined with multi-story semidetached brownstones. Although it wasn't particularly late, there was nobody else on the street. Lighted windows, and occasional electronic blue emanations from some, suggested domestic activities inside at least a few of the homes. A dog barked somewhere in the dark, and the hum of traffic came from a motorway several blocks over.
Identical black metal fences abutted the sidewalk all along the street, and each heavy wood doorway was fronted by a short set of stone or concrete stairs. He nervously checked the number affixed to the nearest door against the address he'd copied out on the note he'd crumpled in his big hand. This was it, he thought, and pressed the simple white intercom buzzer. Hard to believe that a major play space lay behind the door but what better place to hide one than in plain site?
Nothing suggested this address was any different from its neighbours, but BO knew differently. He'd been directed here by note someone had left in his gym bag back stage at the Mr NorthWest competition three weeks earlier. It wasn't a competition on any 'legitimate' calendar of body building events because there were no doping tests involved and no stigma attached to pharmaceutical regimes. He'd placed eighth - not bad for a first effort – and while he'd only taken home a cheque for 200, he was pleased to even place, given some of the size monsters and freakazoids he'd shared the backstage area with. He'd worked hard for his body, and really appreciated the acknowledgement his placement represented. And the prize money was already earmarked for additional pharmaceuticals through a supplier he'd met backstage – and unanticipated bonus for competing at the event. He still carried the note folded up in his wallet.
LEATHERCOPS and CELLMATES!
The Cellblock is looking for HOT exhibitionists into leather and uniforms (law enforcement, military and paramilitary) who know how to DOMINATE, CONTROL, TRAIN and SUBJUGATE prisoners. Successful candidates will be worshipped and immortalized via Webcasts, DVDs and photosets.
We're also looking for cellmates with a desire to be DISCIPLINED, RESTRAINED, MANHANDLED and CONFINED by HOT men in uniform. Acceptable candidates will be handed over to some of the hottest LEATHERCOPS on the planet in one of the best equipped play spaces in the world.
Contact the Cellblock today! Email a recent photo, position desired and dates of availability to email@example.com or call 555.123.8388 now. We're waiting to hear from you!
Note: Practicing law enforcement officers and serving military personnel are entitled to special consideration. Professional body builders are also entitled to special consideration with proof of top 10 finishes.
He'd found the message on top of his street clothes inside the bag, but really hadn't read it until he got back home, then wondered if somebody had twigged to his secret longing to be bound and dominated. He'd beat off for years fantasizing about bondage and domination, but had done little in the real world to make his fantasies real. Had someone identified him online in spite of his various aliases? Electronic static interrupted his reverie. "Can I help you?" a distorted voice asked through the metal cover plate.
"Bo Sinclair here," he replied. "Yes sir, Mr Sinclair we've been expecting you. Please step inside and wait in the vestibule. Someone will come and get you momentarily."
The door lock clicked open and Bo stepped into a small room that separated the outside door from another inside one. A moment later the door in front of him opened and a vision appeared that cleared up any doubt he might have had regarding the correct address. Holy crap! A young beefy cracker in a military high and tight, Muir cap, short sleeved leather cop shirt and flared breeches stood in the doorway and held out his hand to BO.
"Welcome aboard, Mr Sinclair," he said to BO as he grasped his hand in a firm handshake. "I'm SARGE, did you have any trouble getting here this evening?" he asked by way of small talk to ease some of the obvious tension he felt radiating from BO.
"No sweat. The cab dropped me off right outside the door," BO replied. "I had a printout of the directions you guys sent me, but never had to use them." "That's good. Now if you don't mind, we'll get down to business. We're a little short staffed at the moment, so I'll be signing you in and processing you this evening. Please follow me to the Duty Desk and we'll get you all set up," he said with a smile. He turned and walked back along the corridor to a lighted area at the end of the hall.
BO followed closely behind, and noted the delightful rocking motion of SARGE's ample leather covered ass and thighs in front of him. BO watched the beautiful young bull's ass all the way to the Duty Desk, only looking up again when his guide stepped behind the counter.
"Welcome to The Cellblock, Mr Sinclair. I understand that house rules were explained to you over the phone, but please review this form and initial each page after you've read it. You'll note that we've indicated here on page three that the usual membership fee and nightly cover charge have been waived because of your eighth place finish in the Mr North West competition last month." Ever since its inception the Cellblock had a standing policy that fees were waived for law enforcement officers (LEOs) both active and retired, and for competition bodybuilders and weightlifter who could prove their competitive status.
"Congratulation on your top ten placing, Mr Sinclair, you look like you worked hard for it." Bo acknowledged the compliment with a smile, but kept reading.
"I think you'll find the form pretty much says the same things you've heard already. But read it over carefully anyway. Please also sign on the three lines marked with X's on the final page here, here and here," SARGE said and pointed a beefy forefinger out the lines he meant. He gave BO a few minutes to read over the document and then handed him a pen.
"By signing this form you indicate that you are of legal age, and that you are here of your own free will. You also indicate that you agree to abide by all Cellblock rules and conditions, and that you will not hold the Cellblock, its agents, officers or staff liable for any injury or damage caused to you or your property while you are here, and you agree not to record images of yourself, others or the Cellblock or its furnishings while you are in the Cellblock. You further agree that the Cellblock, its agents, officers and staff are authorized to record, copy and distribute images recorded on the Cellblock premises with Cellblock equipment in any way they see fit. Every effort will be made to preserve your anonymity unless you waive your right to privacy. Do you understand what I am asking you to sign?"
"Yes Sir," BO replied as he scribbled his signature over and over again. SARGE took back the signed form and checked over each page to make sure each was properly initialed and the last page signed in all three places. He placed the signed form in an in tray on one side of the Duty Desk, then pulled open a drawer under it.
"What name will you be using here tonight, Sir?" SARGE asked politely. "My legal name is BEAU, but everybody just calls me BO," replied the oversized bodybuilder in the shiny white lycra top.
"Yes, sir." SARGE rifled through the opened drawer until he found the white plastic letters he was looking for and snapped them onto them into the centre line on a black plastic bar. "Please stand in front of the white screen and hold this name card in front of your chest. A little higher please. No smiling please. That's it." Click, and a sudden flash of light sent blue sparkles into BO's eyes.
"Thank you, BO, SARGE said, reaching out a hand to take back the name bar."This picture will be attached to your form and kept on file for reference purposes."
"You can proceed now to the locker room. Strip down to your skivvies and footwear, and then lock your street clothes into one of the empty lockers. You should find padlocks on all available locker door. Please call out my name when you're ready to proceed. This way, BO," he said and buzzed open the door to the right of the Duty Desk. BO pushed open the unlocked door. He found himself inside a locker-lined room with a standard wooden bench along the opposite wall. There was a plain white door at the far end of the locker room, and two other doors to his left and right in the middle of the room. On the left hand door in small black letters was painted the word "Gym" and on the right hand door "Officer's Mess. No unauthorized admittance." The word "Officer's" reminded him that there really might be officers here tonight and caused a shiver of excitement to course down his spine.
Only a few of the locker doors were shut and padlocked; most stood ajar. He randomly picked on of the open lockers and threw his wallet into the upper shelf. He then used the bench to get at the laces on his boots - no easy task given the size of his thighs and the tight fit of his jeans -pulled them off, then got to work on peeling off the denim pants. Finally he was left standing in his white lycra shirt, tightie whities and a fresh pair of white socks. "Like a virgin," he thought to himself. OK, maybe not. He hung the jeans from a hook inside the locker, the put his feet back into the shiny black Corcoran paratrooper boots and laced them up. He then got to work on wriggling out of the body hugging lycra shirt, putting on quite a show in the process. Although he didn't know it, he was being recorded by several discrete cameras positioned around the locker room. And the feed was going to SARGE at the Duty Desk who was responsible for capturing and storing all Cellblock video feeds tonight – and to a screen in the small Officers Mess on the other side of the duplex where two LEATHERCOPS sat watching BO get down to basics.
"That's one hot fracker," observed one of the leather uniformed men. "No kiddin' – and that ass is as sweet as they come," his bud replied, admiring the double mounds wriggling on screen as BO tried to work the shirt up and over his immense shoulders. Only his shaved white thighs were exposed. His feet were clad in black boots topped by rolled down white socks, his ass was wrapped in white cotton briefs, and most of his upper torso and all of his head and arms were lost in wriggling white lycra that seemed to mummify him. A Kodak moment if there ever was one. You just knew this image was going to make it onto the Cellblock's website.
It being a Thursday, only two LEATHERCOPS were 'on' tonight - HOODER and Sarge WOLF Mack who sat at a little table in the Officer's Mess watching an overhead monitor showing BO erotically striptease for them. WOLF meditatively sucked on a thick glowing cigar.
"Can't wait to get my hands on those tits," HOODER observed. "You can have the tits after I finish with that white boy's ass," WOLF replied, blowing out a blue haze of cigar smoke.
The LEATHERCOPS had agreed to a coin toss for fist dibs on the beefy shaved bondage novice standing by the lockers in nothing but high shine lace up Corcorans and tightie whities.
HOODER fished out a coin first out of a zippered panel in his padded Langlitz cop breeches. "Your call," he said, tossing it into the air and then slapping it onto his arm with the other hand.
"Tails," WOLF called out. HOODER pulled back his hand, exposing the old Queen's profile.
"HOO YAH!" HOODER exclaimed and pumped a fist in the air. "Tough luck, Bro, but your loss is my gain. Expect you'll be joining us in an hour or so after I bust his bondage cherry," he said with a laugh. "Meantime, you'll just have to watch it on screen like everybody else. At least you see it live – nobody outside sees this footage until it gets edited for the web site."
HOODER stood up and unclipped one of two leather hoods from a belt loop on his breeches. "Help me get into this thing, will you?", he asked as he worked his favourite face-hugging black kid leather hood over his head and into place on his face, adjusting the eye holes, nostril grommets and mouth opening to line up properly.
WOLF adjusted the black leather thong that ran in a series of X's from the crown of the hood down to the neck. Starting at the top, he tugged each X tight, pulling the leather mask even closer to HOODER
's face. He tied the two ends of the leather thong together with a double knot when he reached the last X, and stepped back to admire his handiwork. HOODER made some final adjustments to the leather over his face and turned to face WOLF.
"Well, whaddya think?" he asked. WOLF looked his partner over carefully from head to toe and tried to see him as a stranger might for the first time. What he saw was a FACELESS LEATHERCOP.
The man before him wore a long sleeved leather uniform shirt with NY City Police patches on each shoulder and gold piping at the collar and seams. A thick Langlitz Sam Browne belt ran through the epaulette on one shoulder across his chest and attached to the waist on the opposite side of his flared Langlitz breeches with a gold stripe running down the outside of each leg and into his WESCO WOLF BOOTS. The leather hood fitted snugly into the shirt, and left almost no skin exposed at all, just his hands. And when HOODER took a pair of fine leather gloves from the other epaulette and worked his fingers into each glove and fastened the wrist snaps shut, there was no flesh exposed at all. He really was a TOTAL LEATHER COP now, from the top of his LEATHER FACED HOOD to the toe of his THICK BOSS BOOTS. AN INTIMIDATING LEATHER-ENCASED UBER LEDERCOP.
What WOLF saw was a leather covered cop, anonymous, intimidating, maybe even a little frightening if you didn't know the man wearing it. A great look
for domination. WOLF thought.
Sarge "WOLF" Mack wasn't too pissed that he'd lost the toss. Though he enjoyed breaking in a virgin as much as the next man, he knew he'd get what was coming to him shortly.
"Bud, do whatever you want with those fancy ropes of yours, but I'm not gonna give you any better ideas, fukka, as this COP's gonna try 'em first" WOLF laughed, throwing a few punches in HOODER's direction.
The masked LEATHERCOP ducked out of the way of the oncoming fist, despite the hood's limits, and landed a 1-2 on the WOLF's chest, bouncing off the impenetrable uniform hide and underlying muscle bulk.
"SARGE? I'm ready now SARGE," BO called from the locker room, his voice picked up on the overhead mikes. The Duty Officer stepped into the room and gave BO a once over. Yes, he was ready. SARGE pressed an intercom connected to the Officer's Mess and asked for tonight's LEATHERCOP to come in now. Less than a minute later, HOODER stood in the locker room doorway.
BO looked the MUSCLE HEAVY HOODED LEATHERCOP up and down and liked what he saw. A DOMINANT BOOTED FIGURE covered in HEAD TO TOE LEATHER, faceless under a tight-fitting soft leather hood with eye and mouth openings and small grommets at the nostrils.
"BO, this is HOODER. He is your control for the duration of your stay here at The Cellblock. Do what he tells you to do and everything will be fine. Fail to comply in any way, and, well, let's just say you don't want to find out what happens if you disappoint him.
SARGE turned to HOODER and said in a formal voice: "HOODER, this is BO. Please take control of your prisoner. He's been assigned room 304. Please take him there now."
CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK.