Leather Skin Biker

I’ve found a boot whore in the UK who pays tribute to this SSuperior ARYAN MaSSter on a regular basis. This faggot loves to see me cam in my big Wesco Boss boots and gear. He’s a pathetic inferior faggot who begs to see my boots, and jacks his useless tributeslave cock off watching me in them. So how it works is he pays up first, and then I cam for him. So far, the tribute this boot fag pays is sufficient only for the boots and my heavy black leather gauntlet gloves. No face.

I’m going to send the tributeslave a link to this post.

I’ve found another fucking cashslave to pay tribute to this dominant, SSuperior, ARYAN, MaSSter on a regular basis. I’ve imposed a fagtax on this submissive leatherfag who needs to be humiliated, taken advantage of, and turned into a loser. I found this piece of shit on the soon-to-be defunct Dominants4Cash site, and have him right where I want him. It gets my cock hard when I get the e-mails notifying me that I have received funds from an inferior faggot. Love that.

I’m saving the funds to buy more leather gear. I’m thinking about breeches, a new leather shirt, or some leather jeans with a white or yellow stripe down the legs. I look hot as fuck in leather, and need more. Using funds from these cashslaves to buy more leather for me is a winning system. I help them out by taking their money, and they get the satisfaction of living out their lives as they were meant to live: as submissive, inferior, faggot who need to be humiliated, used, abused, and ruined.

Will keep you posted on developments with this new cashslave. I’ll also soon provide updates on the German cashslave I’ve been cashraping.

See a pic of the inferior leatherfag now.

Those of my readers who have been around for a while may remember my original post about smokedog. The fun part about blogs that I’m learning is that sooner or later, most of the men I write about find the posts I’ve written about them. And the good news is that most of the men really appreciate the fact that I’ve blogged about them. Actually, no one has complained to date. This summer, smokedog found the post I published about him. From publish date to his communique was probably not more than a couple months. This communication, came after a period of non-communication, so his message was welcome.

One thing that I want to clear up right away is that contrary to what I implied in the first post I wrote about smokedog, he was, in fact, not under the influence of any drugs or intoxicants during the play session I described in the post. What appeared to me, the inexperienced smokedog user, as some sort of intoxication, was simply the result of time well spent in layers and layers of rubber sweating and smoking—nothing more, nothing less. I didn’t intentionally misrepresent smokedog’s state of being, but reported what my impressions were at the time. With that clarification on record, I can proceed to tell you about my reconnection with the smokedog this year.

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Since the Chicago Eagle closed at the end of the summer, I’ve been spending more time at Jackhammer (The Hole). I’ve been having some fun there visiting with friends and making new ones. Jackhammer has come a long way since I first patronized the place in 2006. They added “The Hole,” which is the basement bar. It is kind of amazing that it was not until about a month ago that I finally visited “The Hole.” I have to say that I’m glad I did.

It’s an interesting place, “The Hole.” There is a decent size bar, a tub for watersports, a St. Andrew’s cross for flogging and such, and a row of urinals lined up across from the bar. There is a short wall on which the urinals are attached, so men can piss and still see the bar and the crowd, and depending how close other men are, it’s easy to see the men pissing. I really enjoy that feature of the place. There is also a long narrow backroom, which I will say more about later.

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Late last month, I had an opportunity to have dinner with Master David—the dark, sadistic master who lives here in Chicago. The two of us don’t get to hang out together very often, so it was a pretty big deal. I hadn’t seen Master David since over the summer, when I took him to a ball game. The dinner plans fell together pretty much effortlessly, once we found an evening that worked for both of us. He let me choose the restaurant, so I chose a gay restaurant in the heart of Boystown—one where there would be no real restrictions on me, in terms of clothing, demeanor, or PDAs, should those occur. We have had dinner at a few different places over the years, and being in a “regular” restaurant has never stopped Master David from expressing himself. I can recall vividly one time we had dinner at a sports bar/restaurant in my neighborhood, during which he stuck his boot into my crotch under the table, and pushed quite hard while we ate. Ahh, good times, that.

Of course, on the appointed day, there were logistics to be worked out. We are both working professionals, and are both quite busy during our work hours. And since Chicago is a city, we have several options for getting to the restaurant, where to meet, etc. The key in this case was that I really wanted us to both be able to enjoy a few drinks before, during, maybe even after dinner without being irresponsible and driving. Normally, if Master David picks me up and he drives, then he limits his alcohol intake. I was hopeful that in this case, he could get buzzed, along with me, instead of being the designated driver. With that objective in mind, there was the question of how best to get together and get to dinner. Options included cabbing and public transportation. During the negotiations about the how, Master David was commuting home from work, so he could get ready for dinner. I had taken off work a bit early, so I would have time to get ready and have some time to spare to relax with a drink and a little weed. I wanted to be uninhibited and relaxed with Master David at dinner. He likes me relaxed, open, and buzzed. If I go beyond buzzed, and enter the state that I call “kind of fucked up,” so much the better, in his opinion. So while he was commuting home, I was working on the fucked up part fairly enthusiastically.

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I’ve decided to be very up front about one of my fetishes and put it on the table for my readers and anyone who happens to find my blog through other blogs, word of mouth, and search. I’ve really discovered my fetish for cashslaves and cashrape through recent experience with the German cash ssklave. I’ve found that every time the German cash ssklave sends me funds, it makes my cock hard. I want to see more of that.

I definitely need more leather gear, including more boots, full leather SS uniforms, officer coats, skin gear, and Nazi gear. I know I was born to wear that kind of gear, and want more of it.

Subhuman cashslave maggots who get off on sadistic use, abuse, torture, humiliation, degradation, dehumanization in exchange for tribute should definintely contact me. Sieg Heil!

I’ve found a Web site that caters to my fetish. You can view my profile on the site at http://dominants4cash.ning.com/profile/LthrSSkinBiker

Visit DOMINANTS4CASH

When I ordered our first round of beers at the bar, I noticed a tall, nice looking “older” man leaning against the far wall, near the doorway to the Clubroom. It turned out that I would run into that man later in the evening. We made eye contact at the time when I first arrived with my slave, but I didn’t realize then that there would be more communication with him that night.

Since the first pass through the Clubroom and the backroom really didn’t offer much to stimulate the senses, I decided that after a while me and my slave would make another pass through to see if things had picked up any in the back. As it turned out, the backroom had become much more full in the time since I first checked it. I decided that this time we’d stick around a bit back there in the dimly lit compartment. Since I love head so much, I decided that I’d unzip and let my slave suck on my cock a while. I always love that, public or non-public head. So in no time at all, the handsome daddy-type I’d spotted early in the evening appeared out of the corner, apparently interested to see what me and the slave had going on.

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Me and my slave made our return to the Chicago Eagle in June. It had been over a year since our last visit. The nice thing about taking a break from a regular hangout is that it’s almost as if you are the new kids on the block again. There is an opportunity for other pigs at the bar to perceive you as new and exotic. Of course, we remain, as always, a bit exotic. But the new is not always the case. So it was refreshing–for us, for them, for the night.

As luck would have it, it was old home night at the Eagle that sultry June evening. boy mick was at the bar, as was boy kyle. Me and my slave remain friends with boy mick and boy kyle to this day. W/we don’t play anymore, but we’ve retained a good friendship with them both. Not only were two of our old friends there, but Jim, the manager, was on duty, and happy to see us. There were also assorted friends of boy kyle’s whose acquaintance I had made previously. It was good to see those friends of kyle’s again.

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There is a slave who I found through a Craigslist ad over the summer. He does not live in Chicago, but travels here on business from time to time. He also travels abroad on business. I made plans to meet him at his hotel near O’Hare to use and abuse him. He expressed certain hard limits, which I acknowledged before the planned meeting. This slave is into bondage and humiliation. He is the type of slave who enjoys a nice heavy boot on his neck, holding his face to the floor. The fact that he is German feeds right into my whole fetish milieu, what with my skin orientation and such. German blood is German blood, and something told me that I could appeal to his respect for power by exercising mine.

At the time of the  proposed meeting, work commitments on my part kept me from being able to meet the German slave. These things happen sometimes. I’m not generally one to flake on a play date or first meet, but in this case circumstances were just beyond my control. And since I don’t yet have sufficient number of slaves to pimp out and/or cashrape, I still have to work for a living. As many of my readers know, I work hard, and I work some long hours. So the proposed meet date just didn’t work out. Read more