Page 25 - Leather Blues

Leather Blues 13

boycock. Sweat from his bruised buttocks, naked under the
blankets, moistened the hairs beginning on his balls. He
held himself, stomach down, as he had seen his cousin do so
often the summer before. Once or twice since those summer
nights he had held himself in this way, somehow searching
for what his older cousin had found. But this time the leather
smell, the beating, the thoughts of men who could take it
from the weather and from each other combined to surprise
him. His cock, always soft before, began to harden and rise
in his hands. His heat increased. Sweat drove the leather
smell to his nostrils.
Suddenly he was remembering a story he had read in one
of his father’s Western novels about a ranchhand captured
by a railroad construction crew. The gang had stripped the
cowboy, lashed him with a whip, then done something he
hadn’t understood, and left him, tied up spreadeagle, alone,
arms outstretched and half-conscious in a railroad shed. He
was the cowboy and he was the crew. His heat increased. The
familiar flesh in his fist became exciting and hard. He rolled
over on his back. The jacket creaked as he moved. The sound
of the leather increased as his hand moved instinctively into
the milking motion of a man pumping himself. With each
stroke he solidified more and harder his manhood and his
resolve. He was the cowboy who could take it. He was the
construction gang who could dish it out. He was lean and
muscled and hard. Each stroke moved him farther from his
parents’ house.
The leather-hide smell washed over him, raw as new-
tanned skins, making him one with everything masculine.
He became leather inside and out. He first knew it in the
center of his brain when the leather realization for the first
time went gliding down his spine, gathering whip speed
at the back of his young loins, and sent him thrusting his
bruised butt into the air. The blankets tumbled to the floor.
His cock for the first time sprayed across his belly and hit

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