Retirement Party 01

The room waited quietly for the captain to make his appearance. It was mostly dark in here, but hazy tendrils of blue cigar smoke floated through occasional spots of dim red light, suffusing the space with an ethereal glow and scenting the air with the smell of sweet tobacco. Here and there in the darkness a shape moved – not so much seen as sensed in the smoky twilight.

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.

Retirement Party 02

The incoming chief, CAPTAIN SIR, reached into the top case of beer, popped a tab on a can and raised the frothing brew in the air in a salute to the room. "To the captain," he said and the room responded in kind. He handed the cold brew to CAPTAIN JACK and walked with him to two chairs set up on a small plywood platform which had been temporarily set up alongside the medical table. A dais of sorts, although calling this makeshift structure in a basement dungeon a dais might be more than a little pretentious.



A tall wooden chair – rescued from an old church being converted into a community centre – had been set up for him near the medical table in a soft halo of light, and he sat down heavily into the padded seat. It had been a bishop's chair when it was in the church, and looked appropriately royal – ornate curlicues and carving decorated the high back and arms, and its' backrest and seat were lined with rich burgundy leather cushions.

The wood creak as it accepted the old captain's 248 pound frame, but held firm. He looked regal seated here, and he knew it. The king of his domain. The master of ceremonies. A LEATHER GOD. He knew that quite a few of the inmates gathered here to mark his final night as captain were drooling over him, and not a few of the leathercops too for that matter. He was frigging hot and he was in his element. This wasn't going to change after tonight. In the morning he might not be captain any more, but he'd still be one hot fuckker.

A smaller wooden chair sat next to his, and CAPTAIN SIR took his place in this one. It too had been rescued from the church, along with some of the pews which had been recycled into beams, a sling and even a solitary confinement box. The two chairs usually sat in the captain's office upstairs, but they'd been manhandled down here with some difficulty earlier in the day for just this purpose. The two captains, the old and the new, were the guests of honour at this event, and were prepared to watch – or direct or participate in the entertainments if they felt the desire – in the evening's activities.

First on the program was a Synthol demonstration. Several inmates/clients with medical fetish interests had volunteered to be Synthol guinea pigs for the evening, and BIG ANGUS passed his Muir cap in front of this little group of men clad only in small white bathhouse towels tied around their waists.

Each willing participant dropped his locker token into the cap. BIG ANGUS shook the cap to mix up the tokens then held his cap out to CAPTAIN JACK who randomly selected a token and handed it to ANGUS.

BIG ANGUS read the token and then turned to face the waiting line of boys. "165, step forward" he called out, and one of the bois stepped away from the others.

BIG ANGUS looked at the unselected line of towel-clad bois. "Thank you for volunteering for this challenge, but we'll have to find other uses for you elsewhere tonight. Unfortunately, this is the only scheduled medical scene, but I understand some of the men here tonight may require your services in a clinical capacity after tonight's formal activities. For the time being you are to stand quietly and watch only. As usual any sound or movement from any of you will result in punishment for all of you. Is this clearly understood?"

"YES SIR," the bois replied in unison and as one assumed an at ease posture as they had been trained to do - legs apart and hands clasped behind their backs.

BIG ANGUS now turned to the nervous toweled boy chosen by lottery to become a Synthol pincushion.

"You understand the ordeal you are about to undergo and you have willingly agreed to allow this process to be done to you. You have agreed to be held in bondage and injected with Synthol anywhere and everywhere on your body, and you have agreed that this can be done to you for the duration of this dungeon session. Additional consent is neither requested nor required, and where the injections will be made and how large a volume will be injected will be determined by your SYNTHOL MASTERS."

As if on cue, two heavily-Syntholed leathercops stepped into the light beside BIG ANGUS. Now ANGUS was a pretty big man himself – a 50 inch chest and close to 20 inch arms on his 230 pound frame – but these guys were MASSIVE compared to him. Cartoonish huge, in fact.

BRAD wore only a shiny red lycra posing suit and thigh high WESCO laceup boots. With his shaved head and gleaming oiled body, he looked a lot like the famous American Synthol rentboy right down to the BASKETBALL SIZED SYNTHOL-LOADED BICEPS and SHOULDERS. BRAD might still pass for normal – almost. He was just a little too big to be real, and not all of his web audience knew that half of his flex came from a clear liquid pulled with a syringe out of a bottle.

KLAUS on the other hand could never be mistaken for natural. He wore more traditional gear from the waist down tonight – flared black leather Langlitz breeches with a white strip running down the outside of each leg and Dehner cop boots. But from the waist up was another matter. The Sam Browne belt he wore at his waist and over his shoulder protruded out over IMPOSSIBLE PECS, BLOATED BEYOND PHYSICAL REALITY and HEAVY WITH SYNTHOL. PILLOW-SIZED, pecs that could never exist outside a chemist's lab, How could his pec flesh even hold it's shape with this much oil pressing against it? His arms were like BARRELS, losing all distinction between bicep and tricep into a SINGLE MASSIVE THIGH-LIKE DEFORMITY. Long lace up leather gauntlets on each forearm tapered to normal sized wrists, making his whole arms look like SYNTHOL BALLOONS tied to his hands.



Like BRAD, KLAUS thought his look was hot and was proud of the injections he'd undergone to achieve it. Now he was prepared to do the same to a willing vic and see where his size fetish might take him too. Also like BRAD, he thought it would be better to try Synthol options on someone else before he tried them on himself.

Earlier in the evening the two SYNTHOL FREAKS had entertained the waiting men by injecting each other with Synthol. First one would jab a Synthol-loaded hypo into his partner's bloated flesh, then the other would take a fresh stab at his partner, slowly increasing their size into inhuman proportions, each egging the other on to even greater volume.

Shoulders. Deltoids, Triceps. Biceps Pecs. Balls. The Synthol freaks matched injection for injection, and were cheered on by watchers in the room, who gradually grew silent as the men achieved monstrous proportions. becoming more cartoon like than human with each additional shot.

The vic looked fearfully from one SLAB OF SYNTHOL LOADED BEEF to the other. Was this going to happen to him? Is this what he'd volunteered for?? Frack! But at the same time he was excited too. He really did want it, and he wanted to be bound while it happened to him.

As though they were reading his mind, the three leathercops hoisted the towel-clad boi onto the medical examination table and began fastening padded leather restraints around his neck, wrists and ankles. BIG ANGUS roughly shoved a huge leather padded gag into the table-bound boi's mouth and forced it in as deep as it would go before buckling it behind his head. The gag contained a hollow tube in its centre which stood out from the gag about four inches. A similar amount of tube pressed against the inside of his mouth. It was uncomfortable but – almost – bearable.

Out of the corner of his eye the boi could see that somebody was unlocking a glass-fronted cabinet and taking out assorted shiny metal pieces and equipment - kidney dishes, clamps, syringes, needle tips, Synthol vials, MANY Synthol vials - and placing them on a wheeled cart which was then brought over to the side of the examination table he'd been strapped to. BIG ANGUS reached up and turned on a huge overhead examination light that bathed the entire area in a brilliant white light.

CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK.