About the Author:
Alex Ironrod is the writing and play name of a mature British Leatherman, who grew up in the North of England, but who has lived for many years in Southern California. His boots and leather fetishes, so prominent in his tales, go back to his teenage years.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
“Here, take these. I’m through with them.” I flung the leather posture collar and the flogger onto the metallic counter of the office in the gay motel where we’d been staying in Palm Springs. And I stormed out of the door, leaving the owners staring after me. But I was free, I thought. Paul Everest was suddenly free to go wherever he wanted. True, I had only the clothes I stood in and very little money, but I had the keys to the car, and I’d leave him behind. The first question was: where would I go? Over the past three years I had become used to having decisions made for me. I had been taught to obey and serve – and it had been a thorough training. It was hard to believe I would leave the Master with whom I had spent so much effort and agony. I thought back to the day we first met – so casually. It seemed a lifetime ago. It had all started on a fresh spring Sunday afternoon in Los Angeles, and I needed a break from the graphics I’d been working on over the weekend. It was a special design job, and it certainly helped to pay the rent. Still, I was more than interested when my work buddy Peter called me on my cell. “Hi. What’re you doing?” “Nothing much – trying to get this job finished. Why?” “Well, I’ve got two invitations to this fund raiser in Silverlake. Should be lots of leather and hot bodies galore. So get your chaps and harness on, and I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.” “Oh, I dunno, Peter. I need to keep working.” “Hey, a couple of hours off will relax your mind, and you never know who might pick you up there. Plenty of heavy hitters, I’m told.” “OK, but only for a short tour around. I can get to show off my new chaps, but I guess I’d better cover my ass, if it’s an upscale affair.” I didn’t really know Peter all that well. In the small business we both worked in, he’d stood out – only 5’ 7”, but well-toned muscles and a strong leather fetish, too. We rarely talked about his private life, but we’d gone cruising once or twice in the leather bars in Silverlake; he’d been fun and we’d enjoyed being bottoms together. The fund-raiser was being held in a restored house of the Craftsman style – well preserved and manicured. There was even a valet service for Peter’s Taurus and my spirits lifted. We waved our invitations and looked around. The main swirl of activity was in the garden area, and the sun felt warm on my chest. I paraded around, showing off my muscles and my covered bubble butt.
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