The Killer Wore Leather: Chapter 1


In the conference room behind Bitsy and her army of volunteers, Earl Stemple, producer of the Mr. and Ms. Global Leather (and Bootblack) Contest, stared at the logistics board and checked off boxes as voices reported to him over the headset he wore crookedly. A Bluetooth earpiece was stuck over his left ear; the radio headset was adjusted so one earpiece was on his right. His tight blue Levi’s were marked with different colored inks, as he would absently wipe the markers across his waist or thighs as he toggled the talk button for the headset or searched for his holstered cell phone. A stocky yet surprisingly agile man, he went back and forth from charts to laptop and conversation to commands, his thick fingers twirling the dry erase markers or stabbing at keyboards as necessary. Twelve half-drunk cups of coffee were scattered over the large conference table, all of them his.

“Tell the dungeon crew we need a spanking bench in the Seneca Room by ten A.M. tomorrow. They can have it back later.” Click. “Where’s our shuttle from the airport? Have him call in please.” Click. “What do you mean, there’s no hospitality suite? It’s room 2001! Call Roger at the front desk; they should be setting up coffee service in there now.” Click. “Send all contestants to the Oneida Room; tell them to see Boy Jack. No, the other Boy Jack. Send any judges to me in the main office. Where is the other Boy Jack, anyway? I got arrivals stacking up!”

Earl sighed and shook his head, circling a few names on his board. As usual, important people were missing. That was the problem with any event managed by a volunteer staff; people giving their time mostly felt it was theirs to take back as well. Not that he was a volunteer; he had the honor and curse of being the sole paid staff member of the Global Leather empire, consisting of the contest(s) and fetish ball, the souvenir sales, and the Global Leather Foundation, which gave modest amounts of money to several well-chosen modest charities. Estimates of how much he made were often wildly off base, as his regular hate mail would attest. Just this morning, he’d gotten a message on KinkyNet, the largest pansexual online space for the BDSM crowd. It read, in typical online style, “u suk! Bloodsucker making millions off the community, u shuld give tkts to people who cant afford them not everyone is rich like u. titles r shit.”

Yeah. Titles are shit, but you want a free ticket, you ass. Millions! Wouldn’t that be nice? They complained at the registertion and contest fees and the prices of the T-shirts, but they never wondered how much money it cost to get a hotel in midtown Manhattan, purchase event insurance, cater dinners, rent stage and dungeon equipment, fly in dozens of famous names, and feed hungry judges and contestants. Plus, he had to staff and supply the hospitality room full of free snacks and drinks for volunteers, instructors, entertainers, and print thousands of flyers and brochures and schedules…speaking of which…

“Bitsy, did the schedules come in yet?” Click.
“Yeah, we just got ‘em now!”
Last minute changes, of course, due to the flakiness of some of the instructors. Earl scratched his scalp under thinning sandy hair. It was probably best that the person originally scheduled to teach “Dark Fantasy Role-playing” decided to stay home because he was having a panic attack. Earl made a note to take that name off the potential invite list.

“Earl! We got a problem,” crackled a voice over the radio headset. “Dr. Westfield never made his flight.”

The keynote speaker? “Repeat that?”

“I just heard from Greg in the van. He’s at the airport. Westfield was not on the flight we booked for him! What should he do now?”

“Tell Greg to continue the pickups.” Earl clicked a few times and called his judge and special guest wrangler, Boi Jack. “Jack! Where are you?” He muttered more curses and called Bitsy again. “Bitsy, I can’t find Boi Jack. The other one! Would you call Westfield and find out where he is, he missed his damn flight. If he needs help rebooking, can you handle that?”

“Sure, Earl, in my spare freaking time!”
“Well, can you at least send someone to find her?”
“Hey, you! One badge per person—no, your damn service dog doesn’t need one! What part of person didn’t you understand? And I need a runner to find Jack!” She abruptly clicked off, which was fine, since it gave his ear a rest. But he needed Boi Jack. Because any minute now, assuming the previous airport run to JFK was on time and the volunteer tasked to drive out to Newark was also on time, his biggest headache was about to walk in the door. He stared at the furious red arrows added to his master chart and wondered how on earth no one noticed that Ravenfyre and Steel would be arriving at the same time.

“Lick it. Kiss it.” The words came in whispered breaths and the smell of anise and leather and, sadly, the strange, medicinal scent of industrial cleaners. But Boi Jack never minded the intrusion; the leather was the thing, and the leather was molded around two strong legs and an inviting bulge between them, and a belt wrapped around her wrists, and the slick, soft texture against her lips and tongue as she worked her way from calf to knee and then to thigh.

The exploration had started with the traditional boot kiss, but Boi Jack was never one to leave a kiss by itself, and privacy was going to be at a premium soon, so why not go for it? When sexy Skylar gave her the cruise of death, why not take advantage of a master key that could unlock the classrooms? They could hear the thuds and bangs and shouts of the vendors loading in, but behind this one door, they were alone for as long as they could manage it.

“Yeah, you want it, you bad boy. You hungry, naughty boy. Come on up nice and slow and see what I got for that sweet mouth.”

Jack eagerly zoomed in to the package pressing against the button fly of the soft leather jeans and tongued against the waiting treasure, forgetting the bondage on her wrists as she tried to hug one leg, tried to work her own legs around a calf, rub herself so nicely against Skylar while Skylar whipped that tasty bit of…

“Hey, Jack? Jack? I think your phone is ringing. And your radio has been blinking for a while. Do you need to check that?” Dammit, dammit, dammit! Jack sighed, shook the belt off her wrists and looked at the time. Then, she paled and almost fell forward into Skylar’s legs. “Oh Em Gee! I am so late! I am so dead! They’re gonna kill each other! Oh Em Gee!”

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