Leather Jeans · Part 1 (1/2)
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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 o
Leather Jeans · Part 1 (1/2)
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