A regular, almost hypnotic, boom-boom-boom beat of a Trance track filled the void between the muted lights, but over and around this music you could clearly hear the creak of leather, the clink of metal and deep muted voices in the darkness. There were men in the room, although how many and exactly where was impossible to say. A sense of anticipation filled the air. They knew he would be here soon.
A motor whirred into life somewhere outside the room and a low rumbling in the walls grew louder. A faint light glowed along a three-foot section of floor and then the motor stopped with a muffled metallic whump. A panel opened in the wall and light flooded into the room from an overhead bulb in the small one-man elevator platform controlled by a numbered keypad with a code known only to one person.
It wasn't a bright light by any stretch of the imagination, but it almost seemed so to waiting leathermen in the dimness. All eyes – leathercops and inmates alike - turned towards the luminous ruby rectangle and the board-shouldered figure in a peaked Muir cap who stood momentarily silhouetted in the elevator doorway.
More than just his shoulders were broad. Standing over six feet tall, the beefy uniformed man almost filled the elevator car. The BULLCOP was built like a truck and below his PENDULOUS PECS he sported a MASSIVE 'ROID GUT that threatened to burst his buff-coloured leather CHP uniform shirt. He stood with his legs apart – as wide apart as he could in this small space – for practical purposes to help keep his balance as the private elevator descended from his office three floors overhead, but the position also reinforced his NATURALLY DOMINANT ROLE, and only incidentally displayed his lower torso to best advantage .
His MASSIVE THIGHS, as powerfully built as tree trunks, stretched to their limit his matching leather CHP breeches with their distinctive blue-and-yellow stripes caressed the outline of each leg and ran down into his thick Vibram-soled 17 inch 12 EE big black WESCO BOSS BOOTS. A man who DEMANDED WORSHIP. A UNIFORM-CLAD DEMIGOD. A LEATHERCOP. A LEADER OR MEN. CAPTAIN JACK.
Shadows cast by the overhead light on the peak of the captain's Muir cap hid most of his features, leaving only his mouth and strong, clean-shaven chin visible. A slight smile shadowed one corner of his mouth as he slowly surveyed the room and his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Like the light in a submarine, the dim red light overhead helped make the transition from 'regular' light to dungeon light a little easier.
CAPTAIN JACK smiled to see his fellow LEATHERCOPS gathered here in his honour. It was his last night as the Cellblock captain after 18 months in the position, and this was both his retirement party and the christening of the private play space he'd had built in an unused space behind the old dungeon in the Cellblock's basement.
The dungeon next door – affectionately called the Catacombs - had been the main feature of the Cellblock since the 'block's inception, and over time the space had built up quite a reputation in the leathercop community as the place to play because of its authenticity, the amount of equipment available, and the caliber of the men who made use of the space, both as leathercops and inmates.
The old catacombse had taken up just about half the basement. The other half – this half - had been an old coal burning boiler room and coal storage area that had long been abandoned – maybe a hundred year ago – but nothing had ever been done with the space until now. CAPTAIN JACK had had the room cleaned out right down to the bare walls and created a playspace entirely to his specifications. Hoists, winches, benches, cells. Dog cage. Eye bolts along walls and floor. Toys suspended from walls. Everything he wanted in a private space meant for his use alone.
The general entrance between old play space and new was through a transition area, now an open bathroom to the right with a toilet, exposed shower and tub sink, and a padded solitary confinement cell to the left. There were no openings at all in the solitary cell, except a small eye-level peephole and a slot near the bottom of the door through which food could be passed.
A heavy sliding panel separated this private space from the more public, but served the same basic purpose: it was both a playroom and a cellblock, well stocked with restraints, equipment and a wall of six cells made of cinderblocks with authentic steel bars and locking doors for incarceration purposes. The private elevator – linked directly to the captain's third floor office and home-away-from-home– made getting to and from the private space that much easier for the captain – one of numerous perks for the office holder.
Because he'd planned the room and paid for its furnishings, CAPTAIN JACK knew there were hooks permanently fixed into the concrete walls and ceiling beams, a series of pulleys and hoists just overhead, and a seriously twisted collection of bondage tables, crosses, chairs and medical equipment scattered around the room, but in the current light only a fraction of these furnishings were visible. That was fine with the chief: he could navigate his way around the room in total darkness if he had to. It was, after all HIS space.
After tonight, this playroom within a playroom was to be the private domain of CAPTAIN SIR, the new chief, and whoever he authorized to use it, but for this one event, it was appropriate to let all the Cellblock staff break-in the new space.
He could see all manner of men standing before him in and around pools of light – some in full light, others in shadow – but all men he knew and most he admired. These were his buds, his play partners and his worshippers, and he was glad to share this evening with them.
"Gentlemen, let the games begin!" he said and carried two 24 packs of beer into the private playroom and unceremoniously dropped the refreshments onto a white medical table in the centre of the room. A cheer went up from his men, and you could almost feel the anticipation rising. The captain turned away from the table and faced the room. "Seal the door, MR ANGUS," he commanded, and immediately a heavy metal panel at one end of the room rumbled closed along its metal track and then stopped with a heavy clunk as it slid home against the far wall.
BIG ANGUS the guard positioned by the door, pulled down on a rocking steel arm bolted to the centre of the panel and six three-inch bolts shot out from the top and bottom of the door into matching slots in the ceiling and floor, locking the watertight panel into position. He then rotated an old metal wheel set at chest level above the rocking arm, freezing it in the down position so that the bolts remained in place. SAGE ANGUS then took a padlock and chain from a wooden box on a shelf near the door, threaded it through the spokes on the wheel and metal bar so that neither could budge, then snapped the brass padlock home, joining the two ends of the chain together and sealing the room shut. The only padlock to this key was on the key ring hanging from CAPTAIN JACK's belt.
Locked in. There was no getting out of the captain's private brig until the whole locking process was reversed, and everyone knew the captain had no plans to give up his key until the next day. What happened here tonight happened all night, no exceptions, no outs, and all participants knew it. It was going to be a night to remember.
CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK.
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