By lithium500mg

Part One

Whenever I see a naked steel chain I get hard. I want to feel the cold metal around my wrists, around my ankles, tightly harnessing my chest, cradling my groin, and digging into my ass. I want to feel the torture of a chain-mail chastity squeezing my balls and delivering a shallow catheterization when my dick is undisciplined.

Leather? For me leather is a work uniform. My love of the feel and smell of leather is satiated by professional motorcycle racing where thick cowhide is necessary for safety. On racing weekends I’m encased in heavy, sweaty leathers while riding on pavements hot enough to make French toast. I love the animal skin’s shrink-when-wet behavior that requires peeling out of it after a race day is over. In fact, someone on my team has to help peel it off my chest (I can do the rest). Racing fans with pit passes sometimes seem to enjoy the show of a ripped torso that has struggled to keep the bike upright through lefties and righties, corkscrews, and the heavy traffic aiming for the hole shot.

When my team finished the race at Willow Springs, I headed up towards the Air Force base on my street bike to new Master’s rented home. His shift as an MP at the base stockade ended in about two hours, so I had the place to myself. I stripped off my jeans and T-shirt, went to the crate where the linked steel was stored, and began adding metal to my now naked body.

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