"Ok boy, let's get down to business. I don't care how big you are or how many competitions you've been in, tonight WE'RE GONNA DO THINGS MY WAY AND YOU'RE GONNA LIKE IT. YOU UNDERSTAND?"
"I understand," BO replied.
HOODER slapped him smartly across the side of the face. "I UNDERSTAND WHAT?"
"SIR, I UNDERSTAND SIR!" BO corrected himself.
"That's better. Follow me."
HOODER picked up a small leather bag standing in a corner of the room and handed it to BO. He then lead BO out through the same door he'd entered a minute earlier and out onto a landing with stairs going both up and down. The down stairs led to the public cellblock/play space in the building's basement; the up stairs led to private offices and playrooms overhead. HOODER indicated to BO that he should head up and followed behind so that he could watch the beefy bubble butt at face level as it swayed up the stairs. Nice. Very nice, he thought.
At the third floor landing HOODER indicated to BO that he should turn left and proceed down the red-lit hall. Almost all the lights in the Cellblock on this side of the Duty Desk were low-wattage red so that LEATHERCOPS and CELLMATES could navigate between spaces and re-enter even dimmer rooms without much loss of vision. From long experience HOODER knew that 304 was at the far end of the hall. When they got there, he pushed open the door and roughly shoved BO inside.
Even before he switched on the dim overhead lights, HOODER knew the layout and details of the room. Like WOLF downstairs, he was one of the original members of the Cellblock and intimately knew every room, toy and resource contained within its walls.
A simple bed, a shelf stocked with fuck towels, lubricant and condoms, several floor-to-ceiling mirrors and a square black leather chair were standard in each of the third-floor rooms, and mirrors lined two walls. These rooms were sometimes rented out to visiting LEATHERCOPs, or those just too tired to go home after a long night downstairs, but usually they were used for play, just as HOODER planned to do here now. Discrete overhead lighting could be used to highlight specific areas of the room, and hidden cameras recorded every activity everywhere in the room.
In addition to this standard arrangement, however, each of the eight third-floor rooms also included at least one 'specialty' item. A metal dog cage. A St Andrews cross. A sling. A small shower/enema setup. This particular room had a sturdy wooden frame with metal eyehooks running up each side and across the top. The wooden frame faced a full length mirror so the person tied up there could see himself in the mirror, and the deep leather chair was positioned to the side so HOODER could sit comfortably for long periods of time and enjoy his handiwork writhing in its bondage.
Yes, 304 was ideal for rope bondage, and HOODER was pleased that the Duty Desk officer had selected this room to accommodated his fetish specialty. He took the bag from BO and casually tossed it on the bed.
HOODER reminded BO that the session was being recorded, in fact, the cameras were already running. Before getting into things any further, he unclipped a leather executioner's hood that covers the face down to just below the cheekbones but leaves the nostrils, mouth and chin exposed.
"Don't be afraid of this," HOODER assured the inexperienced young man standing in front of him. "You can see this will only cover the top half of your head and nothing else, see?" He rotated the hood on his gloved hands so that BO could see for himself how non-restrictive the hood was. "It doesn't cover your nose or mouth, it won't affect your breathing at all, and you can still talk if I ask you to."
HOODER carefully worked the hood over BO's head, then tightened the lacings down the back of the hood so that it sat tight against the boi's face.
"LET ME LOOK AT YOU. STAND AT MILITARY EASE," HOODER demanded. "Eyes forward, back straight, feet apart and hands behind your back," he added just in case BO didn't know what at military ease meant. Bo assumed the position at once and stared at his own reflection in the mirror.
What a piece of work, HOODER reflected admiringly. A shaved, bodacious hard body, beautiful tight skin, naïve and trusting – nice all 'round package and now anonymous and waiting for bondage in a black leather hood. He rubbed his gloved hands under BO's pendulous pecs, over his massive shoulders, down his bulging arms. They don't come much better than this, he thought.
"You've really done yourself proud, BO," he observed aloud. "You deserved to place better than you did." HOODER'ed learned long ago that it never hurts to compliment a sub at first it – makes them more malleable until you've got them under restraint – and it was easy to compliment this one. Damn, he looked good, but he'd look even better lassoed in a couple dozen meters of rope…
For a moment he considered what he should do about the shorts. He wasn't real crazy about them, and wondered how the scene would look on camera if he left them on – or something else altogether. The options were leave them on, go commando,or use the pouch he'd packed for the occasion. Knowing that it was the guy's first time, HOODER figured he'd be more comfortable covered. You don't always look your best when scared, and he didn't want to emphasize the boi's dick if there wasn't much there (and he didn't expect that there would be given the boi's size. He suspected there must have been several pretty heavy-duty 'roid cycles in this BULL CALF's past, and he knew what that tended to do to a man's equipment. No, he didn't want to draw attention to the boi's dick if there wasn't much to show, so that meant no commando. Tightie whities or pouch? The white shorts were too boring – OK that decided it. He rummaged through the bag on the bed until he found what he was looking for and tossed a shiny black lycra posing strap to the end of the bed.
"Take off those dopey shorts and put this on," HOODER commanded, pointing to the skimpy tramp wear he'd thrown there.
BO picked it up. It was sort of like a jock strap, but made of stretchy lycra instead of cotton. Somewhere between practical and trampy, but leaning towards the trampy. It consisted of a small shiny pouch up front and two side straps meant to wrap around his thighs and ass cheeks. Definitely trampy, BO thought. He had to bend over and lift a thick thigh to put his right leg through a lycra strap, then repeat the action for the left leg. He'd turned away from HOODER to do this, thus presenting a great view of his upturned butt with its light smattering of angry 'roid blotches, flawing his otherwise faultless white ass. Even though BO kept his back to HOODER, the leathercop could still see BO's image reflected in the far mirror, giving him a pretty good view of BO's stomach, cock and balls. The placement of the mirror was no accident, and it worked to HOODER's advantage.
BO sported a rounded barrel-like GH belly, easily six or eight inches bigger than his waist, and there was no treasure train at all leading to his totally shaved crotch - hairlessness totally appropriate on a bondage bottom – meaning that he was completely smooth from the neck down - hell, from the eyebrows down.
A smaller than average uncircumcised dick hung down limp between his legs, but even this inconsequential dick almost completely obscured tiny 'roid shrunk balls, the kind of balls you'd expect to find on a young boy, not a man.
But HOODER'ed seen enough juice junkies to know what too many cycles did down there to the big beef boys and wasn't at all surprised to discover this miniscule endowment. Oddly enough, most 'roid boys never acknowledged this shortcoming. They'd tell the world their bicep size or thigh circumference, or whatever, but then remain stonily silent about this size, as though they were oblivious to the importance of this one appendage that shrunk in direct proportion to the growth of everything else. It was like a bargain made with the devil, HOODER thought. You can grow to incredible size everywhere else, but here you will shrink. It was a Devil's bargain almost everybody had to make to achieve muscular monstrosity, and it was oddly erotic on a bottom, especially when combined with a totally smooth and hairless groin. HOODER liked it a lot, in a warped sort of way.
Like the shaved flesh, the baby balls said while I may look like a man on the outside, in my secret places I'm really a total bottom. A HAIRLESS NO-BALLS BONDAGE BOTTOM. It was a physical manifestation of the boi's powerlessness, HOODER thought, in spite of his otherwise well-endowed physical presence. Something not really visible to the outside world, easily seen by a top. HOODER felt his veined meat swelling and pressing against the inside of his leather breeches as he contemplated the big man with the small equipment in the mirror.
Without a word HOODER handed BO a leather cock ring to snap around his negligible package, at least giving him an illusion of size when snapped into place around his boi-balls and cock.
BO quickly pulled up the skimpy fabric to his hips, adjusted the pouch to cover his chemically-shrunk mini-manhood, and aligned the black straps so they sat just on the edge of his amazing hard butt cheeks. The positioning of the little pouch gave him the illusion of a size that really wasn't there, the suggestion of a bulge that was mostly cock and very little balls. But it was only an illusion of size, and HOODER found this dichotomy exciting. Big man. Little package. No power.
The HOODED LEATHERCOP rifled through the bag on the bed and pulled out about 12 carefully rolled lengths of white rope along the foot of the bed and then unwound one between his gloved hands.
He expertly constructed a rope harness around BO's pecs, shoulders and back, He folded a length of rope in half to find the centre point, draped the two halves behind BO's neck and over his shoulders, then crossed and knotted the two ends about half way down his pec cleavage. Several more practiced moves resulted in a series of crisscrossing patterns that wrapped round his back and under his arms and ultimately framed his pecs in such a way that his HYPER-INFLATED TATAS lifted out and up from his body. HOODER efficiently tied off the last few inches of rope out of sight behind BO's back and stepped back to admire his handiwork.
Fantastic work, even if I do say so myself, he thought. That boi's got enough pecs there for two men. He cupped first one massive pec in his hands, then the other. He squeezed the two together and admired the deep cleft that formed down the centre of the boi's ches. tWonder how many pounds of muscle there are in one of these, he mused. He let the pendulous flesh fall back into place and sighed.
"POSE FOR ME, BOI. SHOW ME YOUR COMPETITION NIGHT ROUTINE," HOODER ordered. "WATCH YOURSELF IN THAT MIRROR, AND LET'S SEE WHAT YOU GOT."
Bo began somewhat hesitantly. It wasn't that he was embarrassed to be seen performing - far from it. He loved being watched as he showed off his beef-fed bull-like body. And it wasn't that he'd forgotten the routine. He'd committed every flex, turn and clench by running through it a hundred times before last month's show both at home, at the gym - and even for pay at private performances in hotel rooms where he'd staged a version of it for paying clients who'd booked him at 200 an hour sometimes just for the presentation alone, no sex at all. So it wasn't like he didn't remember all the moves. No, the problem was that he was having difficulty getting the rhythm right without the right music, and the stuff playing over the room's hidden speakers didn't have the right tempo. Even at home in front of a mirror he'd always performed to the theme from 'The Gladiator' movie, and usually on an IPod everywhere else. Without 'his' music, he was having trouble getting into his groove, and he fumbled over the first few positions while he tried to get the timing right. He wanted to impress HOODER with his performance, to make HOODER like him, and he sweated a little that maybe he might be blowing it.
HOODER was oblivious to BO's opening jitters. He'd turned away to face the padded leather chair and relaxed into it to watch the show, and by the time he gave BO's performance his full attention, the muscle boi was well into his routine and hitting his poses with passion.
He looked beautiful from the back. Hooded head. Wide lats crisscrossed with white ropes, impossibly swollen triceps and forearms, an achingly luscious ass caressed by thin black bands of lycra, Hulk-like thighs and inhuman calves. And his 'crab shot' was out of this world. A grimace distorted his face, making him look like he was cumming, and his neck nearly disappeared into cartoonish traps bulging from the fleshy basketballs on his shoulders almost to his ears.
His pecs belonged on a god. A FREAKAZOID GOD, but a god nevertheless. They were PECS BUILT TO BE ABUSED. You couldn't ignore them, even if they hadn’t been thrust up and out by the position BO assumed for the crab, and by the rope encasing his MAMMOTH MANTITS. He looked like a RENTBOY FANTASY in his buttless black lycra dick sock - and who knew? Maybe that's what he would be after a few more Cellblock sessions.
Meanwhile downstairs, WOLF decided to take it to the empty Officers' Mess. He strode into the room and took up position in one of the high-backed leather director's chairs, positioned his shiny black Dehners up on the two bootstools that came with each chair, and kicked back.
Two of the wall-mounted monitors in the Mess played feeds from the cellblock/playspace set up in the basement below , where tonight's subs and guests mingled, mixed and played unless and until called upon. Looking over tonight's 'buffet', WOLF selected the most muscular specimen: a compact bubble-butted junior pro - the spitting image of Jeff Long. wearing number 27 on a tag pinned to his white jockstrap.
WOLF buzzed the intercom button on the table next to him to reach the Duty Officer at the front desk.
"Send up number 27, SARGE."
"Yes, Sir," SARGE answered almost immediately. He'd been watching video output from every Cellblock camera feed on small monitors at the Duty Desk all evening whenever other duties didn't require action on his part. He was a big time voyeur, and didn't mind at all working the night shift if it meant he got a chance to satisfy his need to watch leathermen doing it. He liked to watch other men at play almost as much as he liked to be watched while he played. A significant number of online Cellblock vids testified to that particular fetish beyond a doubt.
WOLF watched the bulked-up musclepup with the farm boy face jump into action on screen and make his way out of the Cellblock playroom downstairs.
"DOUBLE JACK D," WOLF barked, as the pup entered the Officer's Mess. The boi walked quickly to the mini-bar, fixed the required drink and brought it to WOLF on a tray.
He scurried back to the bar, opened a large glass-fronted humidor, located WOLF's rack, took one out, prepared it and then brought it back to the waiting flat-topped big-veined Officer.
Boi 27 knelt to the side of the chair, and proffered the requested cigar. He then lit a match and held it out for the ARROGANT COMMANDING LEATHERMAN. WOLF leaned into the matche's flame, sucked it into his Casablanca several times until the fragrant dark tobacco started to glow, then leaned back, blew out a cloud of sweet, blue-hued smoke into the air above his head, and casually pointed at his leather-encased crotch with his free hand. He simply assumed the boi would follow his command without any additional instruction, and he wasn't disappointed.
The boi shuffled between the cop's muscle-stretched breeches and highly- polished Dehners and knelt before the protruding, shining leather snap-on pouch. The MUSCLECOP looked down on the boi from his leather throne through a blue haze, and nodded his chin in the direction of his codpiece. Immediately the sub worked opened WOLF's cod, and found himself staring at a hard-veined 8 incher. He eargerly took the HOT COP TOOL in his mouth and started polishing the pole with his lips and tongue.
WOLF totally disregarded the mouth on his tool and turned his attention back to the monitor displaying BO's on screen posing routine. He grabbed the skull in front of him and shoved it full on to his meat, feeling his COPCOCK throbbing insistently in the skull's mouth. The digital image moved on from the Crab Shot to a Most Muscular, then Side Tricep, then Double Rear Bicep, just like BO had done at the Night Show.
Dang, that was one hot BB upstairs, WOLF said to himself. No wonder PROSECUTOR slipped this puppy a Cellblock flier backstage at the MR North West competition.
He cupped the kneeling skull before him and forced it up and down on his THROBBING VEINED NIGHTSTICK. Hot as it was to watch that boi posing upstairs, he wanted some DICK ACTION NOW, and if it wasn't happening on screen it was gonna happen here. He grunted his satisfaction to the enthusiastic boi who looked up longingly at WOLF's commanding arrogant face, largely hidden in shadow by the brim of his gold rimmed Muir cap, taking pleasure in just being here, servicing a LEATHERGOD.
Onscreen and upstairs, BO bowed after his final pose and stood stock still.
"Good boi. Excellent work. Now let's try some special posing with a little custom detailing. I think you're gonna like it. Stand in the centre of the frame over there."
BO positioned himself in the exact centre between the two wooden uprights and stood at ease with his legs apart and hands behind his back and waited patiently for what would happen next. He didn't have long to wait.
CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK.