I’ve been working on my next book for a while now and have hit a bit of a lull; I’m at that point where I feel kinda “meh” about it (like I often do after the climax…pun intended). It occurred to me that I’m not very good at writing serially, that is, writing a chapter and releasing it to the world. I always want to reserve the right to go back and change things if I find I need to later in the story, but if the chapter’s already published, it’s too late to change things.
They say the only way to get good at something is to practice, and so this is an attempt at practicing writing serially. We’ll see how it goes. As a result, if there are inconsistencies down the road, you know why.
With that, I give you the first entry of “Slave Chronicles.”
After making it through the first couple of chapters, I decided I don’t want to tell this story in “far” past tense. I’d rather tell it like a daily journal. Therefore, I’m changing this first chapter to make it more “it happened today”. I’m also splitting it up into a day-by-day, so there will be additional chapters created and inserted between this one and the original “Introduction: Part 2,” whose name will also change…
For anyone who read the first chapter before this change, well…I wasn’t completely ready to give up the ability to change things, yet. Memo to self: write the first few chapters, get a feel for things, and then start publishing them.
This story is a work of fiction. It is based solely on the author’s imagination and is not intended to depict any real-life event.
I was at the local Leather bar today, bored, sipping a Jack-and-Coke. The bar isn’t what it used to be. It used to be dark, filled with Leathermen, smelled like leather and unchecked masculinity, and had this unseen but definitely palpable energy of Masters on the hunt and slaves putting on their best performance to get caught. There was music, some kind of mostly tuneless thumping that got your heart pumping but that you didn’t dare dance to—I learned this one first-hand, got pulled aside by an older master who gently told me that “we don’t do that here.” Outsiders would have called it seedy, but I called it home.
The new bar is nothing like that. I mean, first off, it’s brightly lit—especially the bathroom, where so many Masters used to put their slaves through their first paces in the safe darkness, trying them out before committing to using them. The Leathermen seem to have disappeared, as if the light drove them away. At the old bar, everybody wore leather. It wasn’t strictly enforced like at bars in other towns, but it was nevertheless the unspoken rule, and people tended to look at you funny if you didn’t have any leather on, or at least some Levi’s, Wranglers, or other working-man’s jeans. None of those prissy $120-a-pair jeans with the knees ripped out when you bought them. We worked our own damn jeans and ripped our own damn knees out!
At the new bar today, I could count the number of people wearing leather on one hand, myself included. The new bar has a dance floor, and the number of drag queens outnumbered the Leathermen by at least 4:1. I don’t have anything against drag queens, but I’m utterly turned off by them; I like guys who act like guys, you know? Suffice to say, gone were the attractive Leathermen watching in the dark, replaced by boisterous, over-made-up men who acted out parodies of women.
I shouldn’t have been there. It was a waste of time, and I should have just stayed home.
But as I was paying for my last drink, I suddenly saw this guy looking at me out of the corner of my eye. I felt my heart jump a little bit; I couldn’t make out who he was or what he looked like, but it was the way he acted that got my attention. Suddenly, all of the noise and gaudiness around me faded. I was back at the old bar wearing my harness, flagging right (that’s indicating that I’m submissive to those not into Leather), and this Leatherman was quietly observing me, confident in himself, sizing me up, deciding whether I was worth his time.
I thanked the bartender and leaned in close to ask him if he knew who the guy checking me out was.
“That’s M,” the bartender replied. “He’s good people.”
I thanked him again and turned to face the man. He’s about six feet tall, on the muscular side of average, with salt-and-pepper-colored hair. I’m guessing he’s probably in his late 40s to early 50s. As soon as I got within a few feet, I could smell the leather bar vest, chaps, and boots he wore. They were well-maintained and presented neatly and matter-of-factly, as if that was the only way they should be presented.
I have to agree.
“Hello, Sir,” I said, careful not to make eye contact—the way I was taught, submissives and slaves do not make eye contact with Doms and Masters.
“Hello, boy,” the man replied. His voice was deep and full of self-confidence, loud enough to be clearly heard but only just. “That’s a nice-looking ass you’ve got. I was just admiring the view.”
“Thank you, Sir,” I replied, smiling but inwardly rolling my eyes. My ass seems to be the first thing everybody notices, and no matter how much I weigh, from 165 to 230, it always seems to attract people. I suppose I should be glad, but I’ve always rather taken it for granted.
“Turn around, boy,” the man instructed gently, making a twirling motion with his finger.
I suppose I was feeling extra submissive. Maybe it was the lack of Leather contact for so many years or just a phase, or maybe his confidence, appearance, and tone of voice just got my attention in ways that most people don’t, but I did as told, turning my back to him and glancing at him over my shoulder.
“Mmm! Very nice,” the man said appreciatively. “An ass like that needs to be put to good use.”
Said every gay man to me ever. I had to admit, I was a little disappointed; I was hoping he had something more original to say. It turns out I was just a little early in expecting it.
“I run a charity Leather group,” he said, handing me a business card. “We auction off Leather and Leather-themed art. An ass like that wearing a nice pair of chaps would make a very nice picture, boy. I want you to come for a photo shoot.”
I looked at the business card. The man’s name truly was simply “M”, and the business was “M Charity Leather.” I looked back at the man. “You’re a photographer, Sir?” I asked.
“No, boy, but I have one I regularly use.”
I frowned. “Just how much charity work does this group do, Sir?” I asked. I had never heard of the group.
“We do four charity auctions a year, and the rest of the year is spent collecting things for the auctions. I think your ass could make a nice addition to our offering this quarter.” He glanced at his watch, pursed his lips, and downed the last of his beer. “And now, boy, I have to go. Think it over and let me know.”
He grabbed a handful of my ass and squeezed, sighed contentedly, and was gone.
I am so nervous right now. My fingers can barely type. I went home, kinda relaxed a bit, and looked at his card. I mean, I’ve modeled before (when I weighed way less), but it was always a private thing; pictures of my ass weren’t going to get sold to people! Still…it is for a good cause…
I started to send him four different texts that I deleted, and then I finally sent him the fifth one. He just responded: “Great. See you tomorrow at 9:00.” He gave me an address.
If the bartender hadn’t said M was good people, I’d definitely have chickened out, but…I think I’m gonna do this. I’ll let my roommate know that I’m going out tomorrow and to come looking for me if I’m not home before night.