Leather Jeans

by Seahawk

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© Copyright 2004 - Seahawk - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/m; D/s; leather; bondage; cons; X

Leather Jeans
by Seahawk
Leather Jeans by Seahawk
A dormant fetish leads to a journey down the road to discovery.
A short story by Seahawk.

Manchester weather was up to its usual bad habits – rain west of the Pennines is always more persistent than the drier climate of Steve’s native Leeds. Grimacing at the grey November sky from which a mix of sleet and wet was inexorably falling, he heaved himself from the car and into a nearby shop to ask for directions, vainly attempting to keep his eye on the car. Salford is one of the least salubrious districts of Greater Manchester. Its dubious reputation is widely known. As he enters the shop, he is mildly surprised by the warm smell of leather, unexpected. The shop front bore the legend: “Italian Fashions”, but no mention of leather. 

To be fair, a sales manager in the plastics business might be excused for not knowing that Italy is a centre of leather clothing excellence. Confronted with bright steel racks of leather coats, jackets and other garments made from various animal skins illuminated by harsh lighting from a grubby tiled ceiling, he makes his way to the back of the shop, looking for a shop assistant or someone he could ask for directions. Directions to a small company, well-hidden down a back street. Difficult to find, no, bloody impossible to find. He looses sight of the car. Well, it is locked, he surmised.

No one was at the counter. Strange. A small bell sits on the counter. Steve rings it and waits. Nervously. That smell is comforting though, memories of his grandmother’s gloves spring to mind. The only leather Steve owns is a couple of belts, one from Next, another from Hugo Boss – thin corporate black leather belts ideal for holding up his expensive but nondescript corporate business suit trousers. And shoes, of course. Poles apart from the garments on the racks in this strange smelling shop. Hearing no one approach, he turns to glance at some leather jackets and finds a small rack of leather garments only ever seen being worn by rock stars. The vaguely disturbing atmosphere of the shop combined with the sight of shiny black garments has Steve plucking a pair of leathers from the rail, holding them out and examining them. 

“Couldn’t climb into those, would have to spray them on,” he thinks aloud.

“Yes, probably.” He starts – a female voice. A young woman has entered the sales area very quietly and is standing beside him, much too close for Steve’s comfort.

“Do you like them?” She asks.

Steve flusters, “Em, er, well yes.” Lost for words, caught out. What was he doing here? Oh yes, directions.

She listens carefully. Moves closer to glance at his papers with the address written on it. Very close, he can see fine dark hairs on the back of her neck and smell a subtle musky perfume. She barely comes up to his broad shoulders. Pretty but petite, making Steve feel large and ungainly.

“Easy, they are round the back of this shop, in the next street. You can’t go wrong, it’s just a step. Go down the side alley and turn right. Second double doors on your right. Up the stairs, second floor. Mind the secretary there – a real dragon.”

“Thank you.” He is still holding the hanger and the jeans.

“Would you like to try those on? Fitting room ‘s over there.” She lifts another pair of the rail – shiny, smooth, and heavy. “These may fit you better – what are you? A 34?

Steve hastily returns the first pair to the rail and backing away slightly makes his excuses. Leather trousers was not what he should be thinking about and not for the first time in the few minutes spent in that shop did he wonder what has possessed him to even hold a pair to him to check the length of the leg. Uncharacteristic, definitely. He says his goodbyes and returns to the real world of sleet and dark grey cloud illuminated by orange neon. Dusk was falling and Steve realised that he had been in that shop for longer than he realised. A time warp? Do they exist in this down at heel part of Manchester? He hastens round the corner and to his intended destination. The dragon on the front desk was charming and held out an envelope on his arrival.

“Mr Grimshaw, you are late.” she gently reprimands him. “Mr Dyer, the finance director would have liked to speak to you about this month’s invoice. But, he has had to leave the office for the day.”

Steve opens the envelope and glances at the cheque. For once it was correct. 120 days of invoices cleared, nothing withheld. He hated collecting debts but an order is not won until signed, delivered and paid for. First rule of sales. And the last.

He promises the charming dragon that the accounts will be updated in the morning but he would phone in and confirm payment to take the stop from the account. She smiles in return and points out that unless his account colleagues worked late, his call may go unanswered. Where had the time gone?

“I could pop back on another day”, he suggests. “Do you keep his diary?”

“He is on holiday next week and the week after. Early skiing trip or something. Give him a call tomorrow when you get back to the office, I don’t think it’s a big query”.

Steve returns to his still intact car. Driving to the motorway, he wonders if the city sleet has turned to snow over Saddleworth Moor. The Trans-Pennine motorway was hazardous and congested at the best of times. Once into the slow moving traffic of early evening, his mind dwells on the business of the day. Shiny black leather pushes into his conscious thoughts. Tight, shiny, encasing his strong rugger player’s thighs, sensuous, warm. The warm, almost animal smell seems to fill his nostrils. He thinks about it a little more and is surprised at a stiffening feeling behind his trouser zipper. It’s turning him on. Amazing, he was never aware of any desire for anything remotely unusual in the sex department. Not with his wife who was as conventional as housewives came. Did Steve have a fetish he was unaware of and had lain dormant until today? That brief interlude in the shop had left its mark.

Saddleworth Moor was bleary, bleak and slowly turning white with slushy snow. From here, the M62 winds its way across the Pennines, slowly descending past Yorkshire familiarity, with Bradford, Huddersfield, Dewsbury and Halifax on the big blue signs. The snow thickened but the road remained clear, if bumper to bumper. Slow but steady driving, good thinking time. Just leave plenty of room between him and the car in front and the brain can wander.

Room for thinking and for once not about sales figures, orders, prospects and budgets. No, he was thinking about his two kids, a couple of brats. Spoiled rotten. Because of his good job, they lacked for nowt. His wife had turned inward, he realised. When was the last time they had made love, never mind sex? He thought hard. Hmmm.

He was the provider – roof over their heads in a fashionable estate in Sherburn. She with the four-track to ferry the kids to school and then lunching with other mothers – gossip, gossip. My husband this, mine won’t that and so on. His toes curled at the thought. As long as he brought home the salary and sales commission; she seemed happy to live the lifestyle. Shopping in Leeds or Meadowhall, spending what he earned – holidays and clothes. What did he have to look forward to – his next new company car? How fulfilling was that?

A couple of years ago, thoughts of choosing a new car would have filled him with pleasure but not know. “Mid life crisis looming,” he thought. No, don’t be ridiculous, not at 33. Not even a grey hair. Still, he did wonder where this was all going and experiences like this afternoon prompts that kind of thinking. Those jeans were nice and that dark-haired shop assistant. You would not turn her down, given the chance. A more normal Rugby player’s grin split his face and he laughed for the first time that day. Traffic was easing and the drive would soon be over. M1 was past and snow had turned to drizzle. 

Leather jeans. Should he? For the hell of it? Why not? After all, he spent little money on himself. But what would June say? She would have a fit. It might shake her out of her complacency. It might end in divorce he considered.


The sleet was forming slushy piles on the side of the street when Zoë finally pulled the heavy metal shutters down over the shop windows. God but they are heavy and need oiling. Squeak, rattle bang. Then on with the padlocks and back in through the shop door, locking it behind her to finish for the day. She sighed. That sales guy was different. He would have looked good in those jeans, she realised, good body. Pity, he was like a frightened rabbit, caught in the headlight glare and such a big guy too. At least 6ft and the rest. Bet he is a hand full on home ground but in here? She sighed again and turned to her business partner, an over-made up woman in her mid thirties.

“Fancy him, did you luv?” she purred. Zoë shot her a sharp look. Was it that obvious? 

“No, Carol, I did not” she replied, blushing slightly. Carol was a big boned woman, hands a little too large, slight shadow on her face, looks are deceptive and the leather business was not one chosen by accident. For carol was a TV man and would have had Steve (Mr Conventional) Grimshaw running a mile if he had realised.

“C’mon luv, get cashed up, take the bag to the bank and then let’s go to the club”. By club, Carol meant one with a discreet doorway and interesting equipment behind the closed doors. “I bet you will never see him in here ever again!” 

Zoë was not so keen; the usual club clientele was not what she wanted for company that evening. Still, better than sitting in the upstairs flat, on her own. She nodded.


Two days later and Steve was reconsidering his rash decision of the other evening. Really, what was he thinking? Where the hell did that all come from? It nagged at him. Leather was suddenly on his mind: he noticed younger woman wearing it in town and also how many leather jackets and coats seemed to be worn by people of all ages. He noticed its texture, colour and feel. He imagined himself wearing the jeans with his firm legs emphasised by smooth shiny black, folded slightly at the top of the thighs and the flat jeans style front. “Oh stop it Grimshaw,” he reprimands himself.


“You dress to the left,” Zoë stated in a matter of fact manner. “What?” Steve stood slack-jawed at that one.

“You dress to the left,” repeated Zoë, “look!” She turned him to a long mirror. The jeans were a close fit and to his discomfort, the flat front certainly showed a bulge – bigger than usual. He was aware that trying on the leathers was going to turn him on a little but boy, there was no doubt about which side he dressed on. Blushing slightly, he apologised. 

“Oh don’t,“ laughed Zoë, “that’s the whole point. Jeans are sexy. Unlike that horrible suit you are wearing this morning, with its pleats and all. These make you look muscular”.  They did too. The close fit moulded the leather to his firm buttocks and across his thighs, not too tight but enough. The leather was soft but firm, yielding but clinging.  Like a second skin. The unfinished hems trailed on the grey carpet tiles.

“So, do you like them?” she asked again. Steve gave in to the moment. Showing all convention to one side, his rigid corporate thinking temporarily suspended, he nodded.

“Good,” said Zoë, “because they suit you.” She bends down and takes up the hem on each leg to judge the correct length. “Wear them with boots and try and find something to go with them – polo necks or a round neck top – no patterns. Buy a smart casual jacket – go for solid dark colours, you will look right good.”

She looked at his strong legs again. Zoë liked men with good legs and bums. Obviously he was fit and keeping his belly in check with regular training but it was obvious that business lunches were on the verge of winning that battle. 

She had not met anyone quite like Steve in a long time. She mixed in the wrong circles. He had an air of innocence behind the corporate exterior, the man with responsibilities and obviously some power and influence but sexually naive. Behind the uncertainty over this new experience she saw a confidence, an arrogance that would quickly re-assert itself once back on his home ground. His arrival at opening time that morning surprised both her and Carol, who was lurking behind a screen. 

She liked him and was inwardly delighted to see him again but how did she take this obviously nervous man, a completely innocent man on the next steps? She had fantasised him wearing one of a dozen leather devices that would look good on him but wondered how he would really react. He obviously likes leather. It was turning him on and that was a good sign. 

The jeans were handed to Carol for the hems to be turned up. Zoë made small talk about the weather, what sport did Steve play and what were his plans for the weekend. At that last question, she reddened slightly, it sounded like a come on. Steve relaxed and chatted to this attractive woman – he liked women and this one was unusually attractive, very striking. She steered the conversation to clothes, discovering that apart from his suits, his wife bought most of his clothes.

“Horrible checked shirts and baggy chinos from Marks I bet,” she thought. 

The leather jeans were the first bit of casual wear he had bought himself in a long time and he wondered not for the first time how his wife would react. He cringed.

Zoë, in the meantime, was thinking furiously. This guy was a square, a bit conventional. He had promise but would he play along? Then she took a gamble: “Do you really like leatherwear?”

“Well, it’s a new discovery but yes, I think I do.”

“Do you want to see some real leather?”

“You mean this is not real? It looks very real to me,” surprise written all over his face.

“It’s real enough, don’t worry. No, I mean some right lovely gear. Here.” she grabbed his hand, “Come and look. You ARE privileged, few people get to see our stock room!”

She steers him round the counter and past a knowing Carol. Though a door into a back room hung with enough leather coats to clothe a city. He noticed some uncut skins, beautiful to look at, in more colours than he imagined possible – red, brown, chocolate, gold, cream and of course, black. A workbench and other equipment stood to one side. An unfinished waistcoat caught his eye.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathed, feeling the uncut skins. “You make all this stuff here?”

“Oh, that’s nothing. Come through.” Into another room. More leather and Steve’s heart did a little trip. It was all black and red. With silver buckles, hasps and studs of all shapes and sizes. Not belts, that was obvious. Zoë held onto his hand. He made no move to pull away, much to her relief.

“This is our other stock room,” she said, heavy with meaning. “An interesting sideline. Seen anything like this before?”

He swallowed: “No.”

“Don’t tell me that your wife does not strap you up in a harness every Saturday night, she teased.

Steve swallowed again. “Um, no. She is not like that.”

“Oh poor you! So, what do you think of our toys?”

To Steve, it all looked vaguely threatening, but with a beauty he could not fathom. Like a dangerous insect – or exotic reef fish – colourful but perilous. The leather smell was powerful, like a sexual musk. A different atmosphere to that in the main shop. He glanced at Zoë and realised that she was the same. Disturbingly beautiful, sexually attractive and dangerous at the same time, completely at home in this uncanny place. She released his hand, wandered to a wall rack and lifted down some items. She handed them to Steve whose thoughts were still developing the peril theme.

“Try them on,” she encouraged him. “Here, let me show you.” Unresisting, Steve allowed Zoë to place each leather cuff around his wrists. The leather was completely different to that in the shop. It was thick, black and the cuffs looked strong enough to hold an Aberdeen Angus bull never mind a six-foot rugby player. Three inches wide and secured with two buckles and a locking hasp. He was getting hard again.  Zoë was also keenly aware of his reactions. He realised that he had made a first step along an unknown road and he was in serious peril.

“Like them, don’t you?” she breathed.

The firm pressure on his wrists was distinctly erotic and causing Steve to become painfully erect. He wondered where this was leading. He should leave now. Before he was in too deep. Zoë started to remove his shirt and tie, Steve protested but weakly. It was going better than she had dared hope. She rubbed her hands across his chest.

“No pressing sales appointments this morning, I hope?”

For the first time in his career, Steve has bunked off for the day, to buy the jeans. To his frustration, he had no further customer visits to Manchester in his diary that would make a casual call to the shop a possibility. Not for weeks. So he had invented some, for the first time in his career. 

“No,” he mumbles, entranced by her massaging of his chest.

“Good,” she smiled, looking him straight in the eyes. She had dark brown eyes and clear skin but a knowing look that suggested that she had experiences beyond anything Steve could claim. There was a new predatory look, one of a wild lioness having caught its prey. She looked hungry. He shivered.

Zoë removed his vest and motioned to him to drop is trousers. “To try on some more of this lovely leather, I think you will need to be undressed,” she murmured.

Steve complied slowly, and was soon standing in the centre of the warm room, wearing nothing but wrist cuffs. She selected a collar from the wall. He recoiled at the sight of it, stepping back and falling over his discarded clothing. In a flash, she was on top of him, placing the band of leather around his neck. He was shocked by the contact of her lithe body and of hard leather, and was momentarily off-guard. He heard the snap of a padlock and felt the restricting band around his throat..

“There, that’s better”, she cooed in his hear. She nipped it with shiny white teeth and then helped him to his knees. As he was about to stand up again she stopped him.

“Stay boy! Time for some house rules here.” she said. “When I put a collar on you, you call me ‘My Lady’ or Lady Zoë. I hate being called Mistress. You will always keep your head below mine unless I command otherwise. You will do as you are told or I punish you. I know some very subtle punishments. Painful but subtle, so behave.”

Steve looked at her in total shock. He was horrified, appalled at his situation and fascinated – mixed emotions, all at once. His brain whirled in clichés. He had heard of such things like bondage, subjects of ribald teasing in the changing room but he was really lost for words. His mouth opened but no protests came out. He was out of his depth, well and truly in over his head.

“You will be silent too,” she added. “Don’t worry”, she said, as she bent down to him to clip on a lead of shiny steel chain. Kissing him on the nose, much to his shock, she added: “I think you will enjoy this. It’s your first time, that’s obvious” so I will be gentle with you. Stand and follow me.” She tugged on the lead.

He followed, down a fight of concrete stairs, cold on his bare feet. He was acutely aware of his senses, much more than normal. And terrified of what was going to happen next. Yet his curiosity and attraction to this woman was piqued – he had not had the attentions of any female for quite some time – his wife had said she was bored of sex or almost words to that effect. If only she could see him now.

The room was whitewashed, warm and well lit. It was full of strange apparatus made of polished, gleaming wood with steel loops, chains and leather straps. Steel loops and other items were suspended from the ceiling. She steered him to a metal bar suspended from the ceiling. Standing on a stool, she secured Steve’s wrist cuffs to each side of the spreader bar and then pulled on a pulley chain, extending his arms above his head until they were taut. Once she had her prey well secured she examining her catch. He made to say something but she stopped him with a finger on his lips: “I said, be silent.” she reminded him. “Or I throw you out the back door with nothing but a thong on. You are my captive, you lucky man.” 

Looking at his muscular body with traces of last weekend’s rugby bruises fading, she realised that she had caught a real live man, not one of those wimps down at the club. He stood there with his legs together – tightly together, his only protection from hazards imagined and real.

At the same time, his eyes swivelled around the room, drinking in the scene. His cock was painfully hard now and he was completely turned on by the attention. He had never been in such a position before, helpless and defenceless. The array on the far wall did much to emphasise his feeling that he was out of control: Floggers, whips, what looked like old–fashioned school canes and other devices in leather, steel and wood that he could not identify.

“You will get your chance to try some of those.” she teased. “And other things you cannot see. I have some lovely things in my toy box. God, but you have a good body. I will have to think about what I am going to do to it. No tattoos I see, what a blank canvass.” He shuddered at that and made to protest again.

She selected a spreader bar and cuffs from a rack on the wall and secured one of Steve’s ankles, commanding him to spread his legs. He refused to begin with so she ticked one foot. Taken completely by surprise, he moved his legs, sufficiently to shove the bar between them and catch the other foot. He was really in a pickle now and he knew it. She adjusted the pulley again, pulling Steve up so he was on his toes.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “No My Lady.” That was strange thing to say, unfamiliar. The array of implements of torture hanging on the far wall was enough to prompt the correct response.

“Good. I don’t want you falling asleep on me. I am off to get myself a drink and to consider what I will spend the rest of the day doing – with you. Carol will hold the fort. So relax and enjoy yourself. We are going to have a little fun and you might enjoy it.” She runs a fingernail down his spine and just to his buttocks. He shudders and clenches. She does it again and then leaves.

Conventionality kicks in again: “How long are going to leave me like this?” he calls frantically.

She turns and stares. He repeats his question, in panic. This was not the deal. He was an upstanding family man, professional. Captain of his local rugger team. What was this all about? She smiles at him.

“You wanted to try on some leather and this is the price of agreeing to visit my stockroom. “ she reminds him. “Anyway, I think your dick has a different opinion. You are SO turned on, you kinky man. You are loving this. But you need to learn some manners, so…” she selects another item from the wall and stands on the stool again.

“Open wide.”

 He clamps his jaws shut when he sees the gag. He struggles but on his toes as he was, his writhing is quickly defeated.

“You asked for it.” She pinches his nose and eventually he opens his mouth a fraction to breathe. The gag slips in and is secured at the back of his head with a buckle. Steve hears the snap of a padlock.

“Now shush! Enjoy the moment. Your wife would never do this for you!” She departs.

Upstairs, Carol was definitely ear wigging. “You got him!”

“I did you old tart, you owe me. He is lovely, smells nice, he is clean and very respectable. Arrogant MCP though, I will enjoy teasing him just for today. Nothing too heavy. Keep your kinky little mitts off him whilst I am gone. I can’t believe he returned, I have some preparation to do!”


The atmosphere in the dungeon was nothing like anything Steve had ever experienced before. Chained by the wrists and with is legs stretched by a strong steel bar, unyielding and unforgiving, he could see in the wall mirrors that his balls were hanging down, exposed for all to see, from front and rear. The three-foot steel bar prevented him from closing his legs or clenching his buttocks. There was pressure on his wrists and ankles from the cuffs, his toes were uncomfortable and he could make no noise except for the odd snuffle. He was completely and utterly helpless. Exposed to anything anyone wanted to do to him and he was helpless to do anything. He could not reach the buckles of the cuffs. The lead hung down his back, cold: a further reminder of his predicament. He had submitted to this. Steve normally submitted to nothing, ordinarily. It was amazing that this slip of a girl has seduced him, stripped him naked and chained him in this strange room. And he had not put up much of a fight. There was no way out, not until she decided to let him go. 

His mind wandered to what she was planning. Some of those floggers looked painful. And what was that furniture? Old-fashioned stocks. A whipping bench. And steel rings set in the wall as if to secure prisoners in a dungeon. A steel cage. He then realised that tall wall mirrors were positioned to add to the discomfort of the victim. He could see all round himself, from behind and the sides. He looked (and felt) right daft. He could just see his bum crack opened like he had never seen it before. She could do anything she liked with his most sensitive regions. 

The sense of powerlessness really was a turn on. He was stripped of everything but his thoughts. He vowed to win his release when she returned. Lady Zoë would hear an impassioned plea for his release. Except he was gagged, unable to make a sound beyond a muffled mmmph. No plea he could make would be remotely intelligent.


Zoë had taken particular care over her outfit for the scene she had worked out in her mind. When Steve saw her, and it about an hour later, his breath was taken away. Zoë was not a leather mistress or one that liked to dress in a gothic style with flowing robes and back eyeliner. She chose to tease her men with a tight fitting outfit in shiny latex, sleeveless and ending just above her knees, emphasising her delicious thighs. Boots and long gloves completed the outfit. In her shapely form, the outfit was understated but stunning, showing off a narrow waist, firm arms and creamy glimpses of perfect skin. She wanted to tease Steve with her sexuality whilst submitting him to various tortures. To show who held the power over what he would experience.

It had the desired effect. He was entranced. She came close.

“I bet you would love to get your hand on this,” she flaunted her slim body. “Sorry, luv, but you will not even get the slightest chance. I get to do the handling.” With that she stepped onto the stool and wrapped her arms around Steve’s neck, gently rubbing her latex clad body against his for many minutes, teasing and torturing. He groaned deep in his throat, in frustration, unable to do anything. She paused and ran her hands over his cock and balls, briefly.

“Oh, this is fun.” She giggled. “I really have you! Boy you look really, um, stretched.” 

She giggled again at his expression.

“So what am I going to do with you? Lets see…” she steps back onto the stool and breathes warm breath down Steve’s ear.

“A little torture. Revenge for all those women who have suffered your rugby player’s leering and suggestiveness when you are in the bar after a game.” Steve jerks in his bonds at that one – had she really seen him drunk in the club house bar after a good match? No, impossible, she is guessing.

“So, I could just tie your lovely balls in some rope, hang a weight or two from them, see how much ‘balls’ you really have. Or simply tie them to that ring over there and stretch them a bit.” She paused to let that sink in. “Some bottom play perhaps? Ever been plugged, felt the hard feel of a dildo up your tight little ring?”

At that she ran her hand down Steve’s spine and between his cheeks, passing over his anus as he jerked and muffled, trying to close his legs. Zoë continues to rub a finger firmly up and down his crack, occasionally teasing his genitals from behind. Steve had never experienced those sensations before – feelings that were heightened by his bonds – God, he wished he could close his legs. Zoë continued to stroke for many minutes, in silence while the sensations increased through insistent, relentless massage. She did not push her finger in, time for that later. She added a rubber finger toy to tease further, then grabbed a small rod of plastic, scratching up and down.

Steve was going wild with frustration, unable to stop this abuse of his ring, the intensity building to unbearable levels, his hands straining in their cuffs, his legs desperate to close, straining against the spreader bar in an attempt to protect his most sensitive parts. Just as the tension was becoming really unbearable, she suddenly stopped. 

“Hmm, okay, I think a good beating next if you find that so good.” Stepping down from the stool, she wanders over to the wall rack, selecting a long leather flogger. She had no intentions of using it this first time with Steve, she wanted to tease and torture, not hurt. If he was to return again for more play, she wanted to give him a taste of what could be, not frightened him away forever. The flogger was draped over his shoulders, flicked at his buttocks and wrapped around his head. All the time, she remained silent, just continuing the same routine of relentless sensation, increasing the intensity. Steve was horrified and aroused by the attention. Would it really hurt?

“You really like this, you kinky man,” she teased, “ you are loving every minute of this, you little pervy slut! I should find a butt plug for you.” 

Steve blushed at this and made to protest. Zoë flicked the flogger at his genitals as Steve tried to squirm away. She lashed at his thighs, buttocks and back, gently at first but each blow harder than the last until gentleness was no longer part of the game. Just as he was starting to make noises around his gag, she stopped. Leaving him for a few seconds, she started again, continuing to massage him with the leather flails, pausing for a few seconds every now and again.

Steve was beginning to loose control completely at this intense flogging. Whilst Zoë was careful not to mark his skin, Steve did not know how far she would go. It was a warm, dull thumping sensation which made his skin tingle, all over. It surprised him how much sensation there was and the eroticism was far from abating. The odd flick of leather at his balls kept him on his toes, in more ways than one. If only he could get free.

“Enjoying this, aren’t you? Surprised? Is it not fun, being dominated by a woman?”

Steve squirmed at that one.

“A big strong man like you.”

Pause. Slap, slap.

“Now a slut, tied, chained and panting for a flogging or to have his bum tickled!”

Slap, slap.

Steve was panting around his gag. He moaned to be let free.

“I tell you what. I am in the shop for the afternoon, but I am not letting you go just yet. I have not finished with you. I could tie you to a chair and park you in the shop front, but that would be a little cruel even for me.” Zoë was in fact capable of cruelty beyond that but time enough to push the boundaries.

“So you are to be left to consider your position. I could simply leave you hanging here and plug you up with a vibrator. Hmm that would be fun. I have one here with a remote.” Steve’s eyes bulged as Zoë fondled him again, briefly. With those slender hands in soft latex gloves.

“No, I think some simple bondage for you. Some rope and chains. Chains fit for a slave.”

Zoë gave him another five minutes of massage before moved away from him to prepare a bondage table. Three silver chains were clipped to hooks in the ceiling beam above the table, which was raised on small pneumatic jacks. All but one chain reached the floor. Steve watched, in fascinated horror. Zoë returned to release his ankles from the spreader bar.

“Now, don’t try anything silly,” she giggles. “To ensure your submission, you collar is locked on. Anyway how far would you get outside with just that on?”

Steve had no intention of leaving. He was aroused, fascinated by this lovely creature and curious about how it would end. He had given bondage games a passing thought in the past but knew June would not be up to it. He grinned to himself at the thought. Zoë released the pulley and unclipped Steve’s cuffs from the chain. He stretched and rubbed stiff muscles. Little did he know that what he was to experience would test him to the limit of his endurance and strength. Had he known, his attitude may have been a little different.

“Lie down on the bench, on your back.” Steve complied.

“Legs up!”

Steve raised one leg so he was bending at the waist. Zoë padlocked the ankle cuff onto one chain, as far up as she could and motioned for Steve to raise his other leg. She secured Steve’s wrists to each side of the bench with a length of rope. Once again, he was completely helpless. A new device was introduced to Steve, a parachute. This was clipped securely around his scrotal sac, beneath his very hard and throbbing penis. The fit was tight, firm but not uncomfortable.

With that, she took the third length of chain, a fine silver one and pulling it tight she clipped it to the parachute chains.

She untied his wrists next and indicating for him to sit up, she locked the loose ends of the leg chains to his wrist cuffs, as far up as she could.  Zoë then pushed him back, which tightened the chains and extended his arms. Once secured, she lowered the table slightly, the effect was to raise Steve’s rear into the air slightly and suspending him from ankles and with his arms locked into a stretched position with just his shoulders resting lightly on the bench. The pressure on his balls was excruciating, the chain attached to his sac was short. Secure in the ring of leather, his balls were pulled out and up. She slipped a spreader bar onto the long chains, just above his ankles and clipped it in place, ensuring that he could not close his legs. Finally, she slipped a blindfold over his eyes.

“How does that feel?” she asked him, as she ran her hand up and down his very stiff penis, teasing him to the edge.

He whimpered around the gag, trying to plead for some relief.

“You are here for the afternoon, so don’t struggle. Time for you to confess your kinks and fetishes. I want to know about your fantasies later so here is time to think about them.” She laughed at his obvious discomfort. “See you later duck!”

Steve was really stuck for words. He quickly realised that to struggle for release only increased the pressure on his genitals. Any way, he was locked into the cuffs and locked onto chains with no way out without keys. By pulling on the chains with his arms, he could relieve the pressure and that was as far as it went. The chains were implacable and impersonal, shiny and relentless, a symbol of his new found status: Sex slave. He groaned at that one. What would Lady Zoë want of him next?

The afternoon passed very slowly for Steve. He was stuck and alone, in complete silence and blind. Enforced inactivity for a man of action was torture alone without the chains and pain. His mind was concentrated on his situation with no room for stray thoughts. His muscles ached at first with the strain then his arm muscles began to scream with the effort of supporting himself. Slowly, he gave up the fight; the pressure on his genitals was re-established, as intense as ever, relentless, releasing endorphins that washed through his system in a way that rugby training never managed. He began to drift, helpless, a man of responsibilities, and a decision-maker, in control (normally), powerful and decisive; now reduced to being chained like a slave.

He was jerked back by Zoë returning briefly to check on him. She massaged his penis back to a full erection, judging the edge, then wandering back out of the room. He screamed in frustration through the gag, so pumped full of unfamiliar endorphin rushes. He struggled briefly.

Eventually, the end came after several more visits. Steve had drifted away on a wave of erotic pain, bitter-sweet emotions that finally relaxed him so he was no longer fighting his bonds. The pain in his genitals had settled to a dull sensation, dulled by chemical rushes, only intensified by Zöe’s visits when she teased and tugged at him, heightening the tension and frustration. This pain felt oh so good and it was this discovery that shocked Steve the most.

Eventually, Steve was released from the parachute falling back with a sigh of relief, his arms pulled taut and straining. She firmly massaged his seemingly bruised and tender genitals. This time it was different, he felt a smooth silky sensation as she rubbed a lubricant over and around his balls. She increased the sensation on his erect penis, bringing him to the edge and then back, sometimes running a latex-clad finger over his tip, sometimes around and over his anus. He was too tired to struggle.

“Lie back and take it, luv.” She whispered in his ear, quite unnecessarily. Five minutes of intense activity was all Steve could take, he came with force, considerably more so than in the past. She continued her ministrations for another minute before stopping. She left him.


The price for his adventure went beyond the cost of his new jeans. The experience left him bruised and physically worn for a few days after, enough for him to put in a very lack-lustre performance on the rugby field and for June to stare at him intently and comment that he was overworking. Overworking!

It was not Zoë that finally released him from his bonds. Carol appeared with keys and a designer bag in yellow containing his new jeans. Steve realised that there was something masculine about Carol’s hands as he was released but was too tired to care at that point. It came back to him later that Carol was definitely strange. In a deeper than normal voice (for a woman) Carol had informed him that Lady Zoë might demand his presence again and he was to be alert for her command which may be by email, telephone or some other method of communication. He was to comply. He decided that he would, as melodramatic as the message had been, respond to her wishes. During his enforced period of thinking time, he realised that the experience was the most intense and erotic he had ever known. He wondered how he was going to deal with the pain.

Zoë did command his presence, twice before Christmas and once in the January after. The scenes were as intense as the first but all very different. One involved the promised vibrating butt plug, inserted as he was chained to the ceiling beam, rising on his toes to try and defeat the relentless silicone invader. Finally his anus opened to admit it, stretching as the wide part was pushed gently but firmly past his sphincter and into the space beyond. It felt huge as his muscles closed around the neck.

“Relax!” Zoë had demanded, “It’s only a small one. For training I will use some progressively larger ones later!” He groaned at that and the sensations that were to stimulate him for most of the day. What he did not realise is the more he struggled, the more he resisted Zöe’s attentions, the more she loved it. Playing right into her hands and pushing her into top space, driving her to consider more and more torture that could elicit similar reactions.

After Christmas, she played a torture game with him, strapping him to a chair and fitting the dreaded parachute. He was blindfolded but not gagged. She brushed different materials on his skin and demanded that he identify them. A wrong answer would see weights added to his parachute. Correct answers earned a reward or so he thought because as he identified silk correctly, Zoë applied a clip to his left nipple. He screamed with the sudden pain of it.

“That’s your reward,” she explained. “You ARE a pain slut, that IS what you crave, isn’t it?”

 His concentration was soon well offline as he rode the endorphin rush of pain from nipples (clamped and weighted), parachute weighted by a kilo of cold metal and the application of clothes pegs to various parts of his erect penis (clipped on around the top of his foreskin).

He was left for several hours until released by the ever-present Carol, whose masculine hands brushed over his testicles, nipples and penis as he was relieved of the weights and clamps, one at a time, shooting a fresh stab of pain as circulation was restored. He considered it strange to be released by a TV man, part of the game of humiliating the submissive male. In real life he would not wish to be touched in such a way by another man, no matter how erotically. But here, in this room, dungeon or whatever it is called, it seemed quite normal, even desirable. Certainly erotic, and he was ashamed of his body’s reactions that left little to the imagination. The corruption of Steve’s strait-laced MCP attitudes was progressing.

The premature end to the adventures came one afternoon in February. Well, shortly afterwards to be precise. For Zoë, in a mood because of the bad weather, rain and lack lustre business in the dead time after Christmas was not prepared to let a submissive test her authority. For Steve, making the mistake of riding a wave of euphoria right into the shop after securing a huge order, paid the price for not being as attentive or obedient as he should. Zoë finally secured him over a bench, gagged him with an inflatable gag that stretched his mouth out of shape. She flogged him with a black rubber flogger that stung and brought red blotches to his back and buttocks. She swapped it for a plastic flogger of thin flails that really made Steve yelp through his gag. She moved onto school cane and lexon cane, finally pushing him over the edge into deep sub space at the cost of red welts over the back of his legs and backside. Welts that would not disappear in a couple of hours.

She threw the cane to one side, grabbed a bright purple dildo shaped plug and pushed it hard into Steve, tying it firmly into place with a thin rope before storming out. Steve remained tied in that position for the remainder of the day, being released by Carol who seemed to take more than would be considered a reasonable time over removing the butt plug. Steve was horrified over the marks on his body. How the hell would he hide these from June? Zoë was nowhere to be found in the shop.

So his wife found out about his more unusual sales appointments in Salford. Barely had he removed his shirt when undressing for bed that night when she spotted the marks. Turning his back to the light she examined them closely.

“What on earth?” She exclaimed. Steve tried to squirm out of her grasp but she held his arm firmly. “Steve…”

“Um,” was about as far as he got before she slapped him hard on the face, twice.

“You stupid bastard!” she yelled at him. “Get out” out, out, OUT!” 

Steve retreated to the hall before realising that a fuller retreat might be in order. Hell, this was a right pickle he was in. How could he explain all this? He paused that the bedroom door to catch what he thought were the sounds of June weeping. Should he go in? No, better leave it until the morning. Grabbing a wrinkled shirt out of the laundry basket, he left the house.

June paused from her muffled laughter to catch the sound of the back door closing. Oh god but he is priceless. Was he so stupid that he had thought she had not guessed? She had, weeks ago. To begin with, June had taken her best friend and shopping companion, Mary, into her confidence.

“An affair?” Mary had exclaimed, getting the wrong end of the stick.

“I thought so. He was lacking in energy, pre-occupied and then I found a bag in the boot of the car – from an Italian leather clothing shop in Manchester.”

Mary looked interested.

“It was a pair of cut Italian leather trousers, really beautiful. I did not know Steve had it in him. He never buys clothes. But leathers! Then I checked the web site and it was enough to make your eyes water.” Carol had played a trick on Steve by handing him his new jeans in a bag that had the bondage gear site written on it and not the usual shop address.

Mary goggled and then laughed. 

“Your Steve is normally such a wuss! Leather jeans, oh, you don’t think…”

“What do you think? A fetish? Looking at that web site, even you would be shocked at the stuff.”

“I would love to see him in them,” said Mary, “in chains. Very sexy!”

June shot her a look. “I think someone, somewhere in Manchester HAS seen him in them, and in chains. He has some rub marks on his wrists. Not from training can tell you. Bruises and friction burns, yes, but not like those on his wrists.

Mary laughed and then bit it off when she saw the look on June’s face.

“This is serious, June,” she gasped in mock horror. “Your Steve’s into the scene? Probably too ashamed of his fantasies to tell you.”

The plotting that followed, between two close friends in a discreet corner of a Leeds coffee shop would have put Steve’s hair on end. But June knew she needed proof before putting the plan into place. Mary had been in the scene for years and had talked at length to June about her interests after June discovered some unusual items during a casual visit to June’s house. Steve was completely unaware that his apparently staid wife was sharing some interesting experiences with her best friend over coffee.

June smothered another giggle, worried about disturbing the kids. Now she had proof and ammunition. In a cupboard was a box of things Mary has chosen with her on a shopping trip. A shopping trip with a difference. Mary loaned her a few of the more expensive items. “Better to see how things go before you invest any real money.” she said.

When Steve returned furtively to the house the next morning to shave and shower before driving to work, he found June sitting in the kitchen. Partially out of sight behind the table was a large box with a black cloth over it. It was not that that caught his attention but the clothes she wore – a tight Spandex dress in black with a slight sheen to it. It emphasised her body. Then he noted the expression on her face. Not just of anger but of hunger. He had seen that look before but never in his own kitchen.

“Morning,” he bluffed.

“Just shut it Steve, and get on your knees.” He looked surprised. “Time for a quick chat, but I am doing the talking. Now then, I know. That’s it. Why could you not tell me of your desires?

Steve goggled. He was not been aware of these ‘desires’ or any other until a few short weeks ago. Even then, he was unsure.

She stepped forward and grabbed his hair. “On your knees! Payback time. I think you owe me an apology and a debt. The apology is easy, the debt is not. The debt will take some working off. All these years of crap sex when all the time you have been getting your rocks off on leather, whips and bondage.”

She removed the cloth from the box to reveal a steel cage sitting on small casters. Big enough to hold a man. Just big enough. Certainly not a pet cage, Steve realised with growing apprehension.

“Get in!” she demanded.

“Oh my god,” he thought. He made to protest. She kicked him, painfully, in the back of the legs.

“Darling, are you going to do as you are told or do I have to…” June brandished a thick cane.

“No, no,” he gasped, completely taken aback at this transformation. As the door clicked shut behind him, he considered his steel prison. The bars were three inches apart with steel loops. All coated in a black rubbery material he noted.

“Now undress and push your clothes through the bars.”

“June…” he protested.

“If you want out of there at some time this year, you had better do as you are told.” He complied with difficulty in the confined space.

“Now give me your hands.”

He pushed them through the rather narrow bars of the cage. June wrapped a length of dull black chain around his wrists and pushed a large padlock through the links. In the confined space, he was uncomfortably kneeling on the hard floor in a crouching position. June passed the cane through the bars behind him and scratched the end between his cheeks, teasing him briefly.

“I am having a small gathering of friends for coffee,” she informed him as she pushed the cage on its casters into the living room. “I think my latest piece of furniture will cause a stir. They all might want a piece. I shall leave some canes nearby should any of them want to prod the tiger in its cage.”

Steve flushed at the thought. He found it humiliating to be pushed around his own home in a cage by his wife. To be displayed naked and unshaven, caged and bound, in front of her coffee morning friends was so completely horrifying that he was overwhelmed with remorse for his behaviour and begged for forgiveness.

“Oh give over, it’s a blessing in disguise. The perfect excuse I have been wanting all these years to bang you out of your complacency. So get used to it, my love, this is just the start. Now I have to get ready for my guests.” With that the cloth was thrown over the cage and Steve was left uncomfortably to consider what exotic torture his wife may have in store for him.