Saturday, July 10, 2010

Bootboi 01

A light rain fell out of the raw night sky, a mist really, that formed halos around the overhead lighting. David walked out of the booking hall and turned right towards the club under the railway tracks down the street. Ancient brick walls glistened with wet, and water pooled here and there on the worn sidewalk. A late commuter train thundered and screeched overhead. Almost there.

It had been a twenty-five minute journey from home, but he'd reached his destination at last. The trip involved two Tube changes, and he'd been thrilled to hear the echoing thud of his THICK BLACK WESCO Engineers with heavy Vibram lug soles in the tiled tunnels as he moved between lines. In his mind, it sounded nothing like the constant clacking of the thousand shoes around him. His steps were thick and heavy, and carried a special weight.

Knowing that under his long Matrix-style leather coat he wore only a black rubber neck entry catsuit, long leather gauntlets and tall black leather biker boots both excited and scared him. What if any of the commuters surrounding him in the tunnels or on the Tube knew what he was wearing under this coat? What if they knew what he hoped to get up to tonight? It was both thrilling and frightening at the same time, but it felt good.

A drizzle of pre-cum squished inside his catsuit as he walked.

ENCASED IN RUBBER and COATED IN LEATHER, he'd sweated buckets standing in the overheated car as it rushed through the underground, and now that he was outside again he felt the sheen of sweat on his forehead and around his neck instantly turn cold in the chill air. Nice.

He scanned the scattering of motorbikes outside The Hoist, and several leather-jacketed men who stood between them and the doorway, taking last drags on their cigarettes before going in. No familiar faces here, so he made his way into the club.

Music that had been muffled outside became almost physical in the dim interior, assaulting his senses until he grew accustomed to it. He paid his cover charge and checked his leather coat, storing the token and a few bills in small pocket on the inside of the leather band he wore on his wrist. He made his way through the press of LEATHER AND RUBBER COVERED FLESH for a quick scan around the club to look for familiar faces – and one face in particular – but when that drew a blank he made his way back to the front bar and ordered a pint.

He stood against the bar, then looked around for HOODER, the man he'd arranged to meet here last week.

There he was, in a dimly-lit corner leaning against a wall. He nodded towards David, acknowledging his presence, but nothing more. He wore a black Muir cap with silver trim and chain. A brass winged eagle was pinned to the centre of the peak. The bill was pulled down far over his nose which was why it had been so hard to recognize him earlier. He wore Hi-Shine Chippewas, skin-tight leather breeches and a leather police shirt just visible under his PADDED LANGLITZ COP JACKET. He wore a thick Sam Browne belt over the jacket. A LACE-UP LEATHER HOOD hung from a clip on the left side of the belt. The laces ran up both sides of the hood and were tied at the neck. Six snaps held a mouthpiece in place, but nothing covered the eyeholes, even though there were snap fittings to take one. A LEATHER DOG COLLAR also hung from the belt, and a 3 foot length of metal chain looped down the side of his Langlitz breeches. He looked incredible in his gear, and David was very impressed.

He'd worn much the same gear last weekend – including the hood and dog collar hanging from the left side of the belt. David had followed him around the bar like a puppy before eventually working up enough courage to approach him and start up a conversation, saying that he was fascinated by HOODER's big boots and the hood hanging from his belt and wondered what it would take to wear that hood padlocked onto his own head and kneel before his heavy leather boots.

HOODER asked David if he wanted to put it on and go do something with it, but David was nervous about getting together for locked play without a little confidence that the guy was OK.

"OK then," HOODER replied. "I understand not wanting to do anything heavy with a stranger. Tell you what, look me up on some of the sites, check out some of my play buddies and the comments they've posted. If you still want to wear the hood, and worship my boots, let's meet back here next Saturday." So having performed due diligence over the week, David now found himself facing HOODER again, more confident that this was what he really wanted to do.

"On your knees," HOODER growled, and David immediately dropped to the floor. HOODER unclipped the BLACK LEATHER HOOD from his belt and worked it over David's head. He pulled a SMALL BRASS PADLOCK from a zippered panel on his LANGLITZ COP JACKET and snapped it shut on the buckle of the hood.

"From now on you are BOOTBOI, and I will address you only as BOOTBOI for the duration of our time together," he told the hooded victim at his feet. "The padlock's key is back at the Cellblock. You can destroy the hood taking it off on your own, you can wear it home on the trains if you've got the balls for it, or you can come to the Cellblock with me and I can take off the hood there after we've gotten to know each other better and come to an understanding."

BOOTBOI went weak in the knees at these words, fearful of what he had gotten himself into.

"Please Sir, take me to the Cellblock with you," BOOTBOI begged through the TIGHT LEATHER HOOD LOCKED TO HIS HEAD. The snap-on mouthpiece had no interior gag, so his voice was only slightly muffled by the leather and in no other way restricted. The restraint was more psychological than physical – although the brass padlock did limit what he could do in the 'real' world. He could speak through the hood, but knew better than to say more than necessary.

"You asked for this," HOODER chuckled. "Remember you asked for it."

HOODER roughly pulled his hooded boi across the bar and out into the chilly night. The earlier mist had turned into a heavier rain, but that didn't make much of a difference to HOODER in his THICK BLACK LANGLITZ GEAR, or to the rubber encased boi. BOOTBOI hardly gave a thought for the leather coat he'd checked – hopefully he could come back and pick it up again another day. Hopefully.

HOODER walked down the row of muscle bikes and took a spare black helmet from one of the big Harleys lined up there and helped BOOTBOI work it into place over the padlocked leather hood. It fit fine, as HOODER knew it would. This was not the first time somebody'd worn it with a leather hood underneath.

He snapped the visor down over the face opening, and now BOOTBOI was a totally anonymous thing. As you might guess from his name, HOODER got off on faceless, anonymous subs and enjoyed the look of his handiwork standing submissive in front of him. Might be a fun night, he thought.

He mounted the bike then waited while the hooded and helmeted boi clad only in a black rubber catsuit, leather gauntlets and tall WESCOs worked his way onto the pillion. After he was sure BOOTBOI was in place behind him and felt his arms around his waist, he started up the dark Harley. The bike growled into gear and HOODER pulled out onto the road.

It was a fantastic feeling riding through the midnight streets of the city wearing only a black rubber catsuit, WESCO boots, leather hood and helmet, holding firmly to the leather-jacketed figure in front of him. He felt exposed – almost naked - as though everyone around him could see him literally wearing his fetish on his sleeve. This was not at all like the covert train trip down here, covered in a long coat and attempting to 'pass'. This was in-your-face fierce:

Rain spotted the helmet's plastic visor and splashed against his BODY-HUGGING BLACK LATEX CATSUIT. Headlights and streetlights shone off his TOTALLY ENCASED BODY. The roar of the engine filled his ears and the vibration of the machine between his legs rippled through his body as they roared together across the city towards The Cellblock.

BOOTBOI clung firmly to HOODER's waist and watched the thinning traffic around them as they left the congested core and its glass and metal towers behind and raced through mile after mile of rain slick streets. As near as he could tell, nobody gave his black rubber gear even a second look, mistaking it for racing gear or maybe a leather suit. Even when they stopped at traffic lights from time to time, the faces in the cars around him gave him no more than a passing glance. What looks there were seemed to be reserved for HOODER's OVERSIZED LANGLITZ GEAR.

No part of HOODER's flesh was exposed either. From the neck of his black helmet to the soles of his Hi-Shine Chippewas, he was completely encased in THICK BLACK LEATHER. He'd rolled up the collar of his TIGHT-FITTING LANGLITZ PATROL JACKET, and zipped it right up to the top to keep out the wind. His FLARED BLACK LEATHER RANGERS fitted snugly into the top of his 17" Chippewas, and he gripped the powerful bike's handlebars with hands encased in LARGE BLACK-LEATHER GAUNTLETS. A BLACK LEATHER KNIGHT. MASULINE. AUTHORITATIVE. IN CONTROL.

He weaved through the night-time streets with confidence, and BOOTBOI relaxed into his SUBMISSIVE ROLE. HOODER seemed to be a man he could trust to take charge.

This was almost as exciting as riding the Tube in his gear – maybe even more so, because now his head was LOCKED IN AN ALL-ENCASING LEATHER HOOD under the dark-visored helmet – something he'd never have gotten away with on the trains – and he was clinging to the hard body of a big man wearing a COP-STYLE ZIPPERED LANGLITZ JACKET AND BREECHES and HIGH DOMINEERING BOOTS.

He felt the bike suddenly gear down as HOODER turned onto a side street. The Harley's roar dropped to a low growl as it crept halfway down another lane and turned into a yard surrounded by a very high wooden fence. Still seated, HOODER walked the bike up to a small outbuilding – maybe a tool shed or small garage - where three bikes were already parked. He maneuvered the heavy machine into line with the others, kicked the stand into position and shut off the engine. The silence was almost deafening after the 40-minute bike ride and BOOTBOI's ears throbbed with the engine's echo, filling the void left by the cooling motor.

"Welcome to The Cellblock," HOODER said as he stepped off the bike and pointed towards the house before them. He helped his passenger from the bike and lifted the helmet's visor so BOOTBOI could see where he was.


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