(This is the follow up to my story 'On the Side of the Angels'. I wrote that story some years ago for a competition for a tattoo website. I did not win, but they did publish it on their site. That site has now gone, so I submitted it to Nifty. I like to write stand- alone stories, which is why, from my perspective, it had a definite end. But the site moderator added a note when he published it saying that he was looking forward to the second part. I was about to write to him and tell him there was no second part. But then I had an idea. This is the result of that idea.
If you enjoy this story - or any others - remember that you can only read them if Nifty remains online. For that they need our cash. If we all give just a little, the site won't disappear and take our stories with them).
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In the Company of Angels
Over three years has passed since my first tattoo. Much has happened. Both Steve and I have changed a great deal. Indeed so much has happened that I have had no time to actually take stock of it all and consign the details to paper. I am writing this in that no-mans land between Christmas and the New Year, which is a good time to reflect on things past. Even if, sometimes, it leads to melancholy. Where should I start? I suppose I could start with a description of what I now look like. Or I could relate what has happened to the business. Or I could tell you the painful story of Rosie and Peter. I will cover all three. I promise. And I will tell you about Danny.
As I sit here alone in the dark, with my laptop on my knees and a glass of fine cognac by my side, I wonder if I can hear a loud collective sigh? Are some of you saying 'get on with it; what did Steve make you have done; is your face tattooed?' Well you must be patient. I am a traditional type of storyteller, and I will tell my story in the order in which it happened. Let us start three years ago.
The moment I saw the words 'boot boy' engraved on my back I felt a deep sense of well being. In such a simple way it explained me to the world. With Steve standing beside me, it explained me precisely. We went back to the apartment and stripped. Steve was very excited and I knew he needed to fuck me. And I knew I needed him to fuck me. But I decided to keep him waiting just a little. His cock was rock solid and throbbing with the head sticking proudly out of his foreskin. I could see the gold ring nodding in time with his increased heartbeat. I sat down on the floor and started to put my boots back on. He made a small sigh and then sat very closely in front of me and got hold of his left boot. (I had noticed he always started with the left boot. And so did I). When his foot was in the boot, he pushed the sole into my crotch and started to lace it up. If I was making him suffer, he intended to do the same to me.
When we were both booted he saw no possible reason to wait any longer. He pushed me to the floor on my stomach. He got on top of me and licked my new tattoo the way I had licked his neck. He needed to smell and taste me. Before long he entered me. He was being quite savage, pleasuring himself just as he wanted, without a thought about me. The fuck was hard and deep. After he came inside me he withdrew his cock. He was still panting as he got up. He must have realised just how viscously he had taken me.
"I hope I did not hurt you too much. The site of my badge on your back just made me so horny. I am sorry."
I rolled over onto to my back, put my hands behind my head (mainly in order to keep the tattoo off the floor) and looked up at him standing over me. Remembering something he had said to me before, I said
"I think everyone has to decide for themselves whether or not it hurts. I think it is great. You should try it."
It took him a moment to remember the quote. He grinned at me broadly and raised his foot as if to kick me in the crotch. I automatically moved to protect myself.
"Well if you don't want my boot that is up to you". He turned as if to walk away. I did want it and I reached out and grabbed one and I began to explore those heavy leather towers of pleasure with my tongue and my hands. By now Steve knew just how to use his boot on my body. A great arch of spunk splashed onto my chest. Steve ground it into me with his heel.
A few days later I had reason to remember how I had quoted Steve back to himself.
I had started to work on Steve's books - if you could call them that. He had bank accounts and cash everywhere. There was just so much money. He had been wise enough to put the vast amount of it abroad. But even so there were still tens of thousands of pounds in cash in the apartment. It would not take long for anyone with half a brain who started investigating his affairs to get the whiff of a large furry rodent. An early decision I made was to put money into property. I found a number of apartments and houses where the sellers were quite happy to have the major part of the purchase price in cash or paid discretely from one of Steve's Swiss bank accounts directly into theirs. I saw an advert for a large old house (actually an old rectory) in its own modest grounds in the countryside of Sussex outside London. When I told the owner that I did not have to wait for a mortgage, it was him that hinted at a deal in cash and part payment in the Bahamas where he was going to live. I liked the house and thought it would make a good home for us.
That evening I told Steve. His reaction was the same as to all my suggestions about money. "If you think it is right, it is OK with me. And it would be nice to have a place in the country."
I then said, "I think it should be bought in my name." He gave me no chance to explain why. He threw down the paper he had been reading.
"You little shit. I can see it all. Not only do you want to get your hands on my money, but you want to get your name on the fucking deeds to our home. Then I suppose you will want to act as lord and master and start fucking me. I wondered what you meant when you said the other night that I should try it."
I was stunned by the ferocity of his outburst and the look of anger on his face. But he could not keep it up. He started laughing until tears were rolling down his cheeks. The outburst and then the change of mood had been so fast that I found it hard to decide what he really meant. He came over to the sofa I was on, sat down beside me and put his arm around me.
"You can have your name on all the property if that is best. But I own you and I shall take my rent out of your arse whenever I want." He stopped and thought for a while, and then with a wicked grin on his face said "I wonder if we should have 'Rent Boy' tattooed on your front?" I could almost feel the needle gun at work as he traced it out on my chest with his finger.
I have gone into some detail about this exchange as it explains part of what happened on our next trip to get tattooed. Steve had decided that he just had to get his crotch done, and he told me it made sense for me to have mine done at the same time. I was extremely apprehensive about being tattooed there. To me, being tattooed on my back had hurt, though not badly so. Inking my cock, I thought, must be agony. But I knew Steve wanted it to happen and so there was nothing to be gained by worrying about it. We were looking through the various books and magazines in the tattoo shop. Steve had made up his mind before we got there that he wanted a snake on his cock, with the body and tail swirling around his groin and balls, with the head of his penis being the snakes head, with the big gold ring through the snakes mouth. But it was in the books that we found mine. We both spotted the one that I now have at the same time. It was a cross between a devil and a dragon. So, like Steve's snake, its tail would swirl around my crotch, and its body would come along my cock and balls with its forked tongue on the head. And to crown it all, the dragon had horns. Large gold horns would be pierced through my cock head. We looked at each other. The smiles were agreement and he did not need to tell me that I would not be able to fuck anything when that was in place, whether or not the deeds were in my name.
I would like to tell you that it did not hurt having my cock and balls inked. It was agony. I lay on the same bed I had before, but on my back. Steve sat on the filing cabinet above me with his boots pressed into my shoulders to try to stop me jumping up every time the needle touched me. But in time it was done. I think, for once, that even Steve did not enjoy the sensation of the needle. But he did not say anything and I did not ask. The gold horns had to be made to my size and, as this was a 'special' job, the tattooist recommended someone else to pierce me. At that time I had no other piercings. I did not know what to expect. (Hands up anyone who is reading this and is thinking that it would just be a little prick?) I lay on my back and so could not see much of what the man - who wore a white coat, mask and rubber gloves as if he were a surgeon - was doing. He injected me directly on my cock head with an anaesthetic. I wondered if using an anaesthetic was a bit risky although I was happy to lose any feeling there before he pierced me.
"The doc here was a real doctor once, so he knows what he is doing with the anaesthetic. He just got rather careless hands with some of his male patients and was struck off. So he does this job to earn money. And it means that he can get his hands on the cocks and many other parts of his 'patients' anatomy."
When the job was over - and apart from the first injection I felt nothing - I got up on my elbows to look at what had been done. It was already covered in a voluminous dressing. The 'doc' told me to keep the dressing on until the morning. He suggested that because some blood would have dried and stuck the material to my flesh, that I should remove it in the shower. So the next morning, we both got into the shower and Steve carefully removed the dressing in a shower of water. The area was very sore from the piercing and the tattooing, but the sight of what greeted me was quite unbelievably beautiful. Even though my cock head was somewhat swollen, the gold horns looked massive as they stuck out to the side of my cock and then curved to, at that moment, point at my feet. I say at that moment as my cock quickly filled with blood and started pointing at Steve's snake - which hissed back at me. I had somehow assumed that 'being out of action' meant switching sex off. Not a bit of it. The desire and need were both there. In fact the sight of our newly inked crotches made the want even stronger. We just could not satiate those needs. The next few days were horrible. Far worse than the tattoo and piercing. As soon as we could we both tried to relieve the tension in us with our hands. With careful touches we were able to make ourselves come. But that was all it was. A relief of tension. There was little pleasure in it. It was another 10 days before we felt sufficiently healed to really use and abuse each other's bodies.
I guess, dear readers, that you would like a detailed description of that encounter. Well I am sorry. I have decided to only tell you what is necessary for you to understand my story. I will keep some things - and this is one of them - to myself. But feel free to let your imaginations run wild. I will not be there to tell you whether or not you are wrong.
The money remained a problem. I needed to get a plausible cover for why two skinheads had large wads of cash. We started going abroad to gamble. The trips also gave us an excuse to get some more of the cash out of the apartment. I felt that if we established a profile as heavy gamblers, it would give us a breathing space while I arranged something better. It did not matter if we won or lost. We could claim to have won. Unbelievably we did win. I preferred chemin-de-fer - James Bond with ink. Steve preferred roulette. Overall we made a profit on all our trips.
The first time we flew together in full uniform, we were both strip-searched at the airport on the way out. We delayed the flight by 40 minutes while we both took off and put on our boots. (Our bags were in the hold. Either way the airline would lose time). On future trips the security check was only electronic. I guessed that the security people had tagged us so that we were remembered without the need for a strip search. Maybe it was the sight of my hard on that helped as the security guy (bit of a twink but nice body) examined my boots minutely. He perhaps realised that there was no way that I was going to explode something as beautiful as a 30 hole ranger boot. The lack of security attention helped us further in moving valuables, such as the diamonds and gold coins we also bought, to bank vaults abroad.
My next idea was a little more complex but would allow us to explain away a lot more of the money. Some of Steve's ancestors had lived in...well let's just say, as who knows who may read this, a non-European country. So I created a great Aunt for him. In many poor countries inventing people - especially white people - is quite easy to do if you know, and bribe, the right officials. We used an 'agent' who obtained her birth certificate and marriage certificate. He invented a whole history for her with letters and old invoices and so on. The agent even got photographs of her doctored into some pictures of Steve's real relatives. She bought holdings in many local companies. Some of them a long time ago! I quite expected to lose about half the money she had invested until she could conveniently die and leave Steve her fortune. Her legitimate fortune. Well one of the companies she owned a large part of found tin - in huge quantities. You might have read about it. The local economy boomed and we more than doubled our investment. Together with the letters from her lawyers informing Steve of her death, were sent the certificates and photos. If Steve were ever questioned, he could show the documents and pictures. And he could quite truthfully say he had never met her or indeed knew of her existence until the letter arrived from her lawyers informing him of her death. The agent added one final touch. He had a magnificent tomb created for her in which, we understand, he had his own mother reburied.
Apart from burning any future earnings from the business, there seemed only one choice to deal with all the cash that kept coming in. Stop it coming in. I told Steve that he should get out of the Marijuana business. After all it was illegal. And while I knew he was very careful, he might still get caught and we would both undoubtedly go to prison for a long time. He was not keen. He told me that if he stopped doing it, there would be no work (and therefore no income) for all the people who worked for him. He felt he had a responsibility to them. He was proud of how he had made people - like Rosie - independent of the state. And he was proud of how loyal they had been to him. Eventually I won the argument. I told him that if we were caught then, apart from sending us to prison, the authorities would also send Rosie and Peter - and everyone else - to prison. Prior to deporting them. And they would spare no effort to find and confiscate the money.
But my clinching argument was to present him with a plan for investing in businesses set up by the refugees so that they could work for themselves. In short time the plants, lamps and generators and all the other paraphernalia of the drugs trade were disposed of. (Would you believe we even managed to sell most of the equipment to a market gardener for a good price?) The 5 houses that we had used were, in short time, turned into two guest houses, two nursing homes and a children's crŠche. All were run by the refugee families that lived in them. They started making a good income for the families and a modest return for us.
We had become legitimate.
I have said before that Steve was an angel. (It was me that had the devil both in me and in my crotch). In order to help more refugees we created a company to help train them to work. It was strange that the refugees never commented on how we looked or shied away from these heavily inked guys in strange clothes and big boots. Maybe they knew that we were, in many ways, just like them. If not outcastes from society, then not quite fully part of it. No better and no worse than them.
Sometimes all the help the refugees needed was with English. Others got training in computing, carpentry, book keeping and so on. If someone wanted to learn something, Steve found a way of getting them trained, and I had to find a way to make our investments pay. Steve felt strongly - and I agreed with him - that the people we helped should repay their debts so that we could help others.
Many of the people we helped to get a skill were good at what they did. And most, because they were keen to make a success in this country, worked very hard. But it was still sometimes difficult to get them work. Racial discrimination was of course an offence. Yet all too often companies chose not to employ foreigners who looked different and had funny names. Then I had an idea. We set up a sort of employment bureau. We employed the people ourselves and just sold their services. Everyone we sent out was called 'Steve' (both men and women). So if a company needed an extra plumber for a day, a week or a year, we provided 'Steve'. They needed a systems analyst - we sent 'Steve'. It worked like a dream. The whole idea was so crazy and yet so simple that it succeeded. Soon, the sheer wackiness of our agency and the consequent publicity it attracted meant that we had more work than we had Steve's available to do the work.
When we were trying to think of a name for an agency I suggested 'The Company of Angels'. And that is what we called it.
I have now raced ahead about 7 or 8 months. In that time my body did not stand still. Usually one evening Steve would tell me we were going to see the tattooist or to see 'doc'. The next day we went and my body grew a little more beautiful. Over those months, I got my arms completely sleeved and the pictures went onto my shoulders. Of course I got the rings through my nipples to complement the designs. Steve decided to get bigger rings for himself, and so his were transplanted directly from his flesh and into mine. The first time, doc wanted to put the ring he had removed from Steve into a dish of alcohol to clean it. I stopped him and he seemed to understand that I wanted it in me with some of Steve still clinging to it.
I was not sure what Steve's ultimate plan for my body was. I did not feel I should ask him. I suppose I really did not want to know. I liked him being in control. On some occasions I thought that he was making me a twin by having me tattooed where he was tattooed. But that was not quite true, because as well as having a collar of bright images around my neck, he made my designs come down my sleeves and onto my hands. I began to wonder whether his plan had been to start at the bottom and work up to my head. But if I was going to have a tattooed face (and I accepted that that was Steve's right) I needed to prepare myself. So once my neck was finished, I decided to ask him.
"You said before that you had always wanted a boot boy with a tattooed face. Is that next for me?"
"No. I was teasing you then. A tattooed face is very horny on some people, but not us."
I would not be being honest if I did not tell you that I was relieved.
I have told you before in my story that Steve, alone, chose how my body developed. That is not entirely true. On one occasion he had to go abroad at short notice to finalise the details of his great aunts estate. (And probably to pay his respects to our agent's mother!) I had other work to do and could not go with him. He was going to be away for a week. The first evening, a wicked thought got the better of me, and I went to see 'doc' alone.
When Steve returned home (we tended to live in the apartment in the week) he came in and shouted his normal greeting - 'dinner, boot boy'. I was sitting on the sofa. When I did not reply he came over to me to see if I was OK. I got up and kissed him. His tongue usually spent more time in my mouth than mine did in his. His tongue invaded my mouth and then froze. He felt the barbell I had had put through my tongue. When he realised what it was, he restarted his probing and I felt his cock rising through his tight jeans. While we kissed, I undid his jeans and got his cock out. I then went onto my knees and took his cock in my mouth. In the next few minutes, I used the metal and my tongue to tease and infuriate his snake. Eventually he pulled my head deeper onto his cock and spat venom down my throat.
I had not been sure whether or not he would be annoyed by my show of independence. I told him it could be removed if he wanted it gone.
"It can be removed? I will have to see what can be done to make it permanent."
I have now gone ahead of my story again. We had quite a lot of skinhead friends who used to come and see us or stay with us. They were our mates and more important to us than anyone else. Indeed one of the reasons I had bought the rectory was to give us somewhere to party and somewhere for them to sleep over. But most of them had no permanent work and occasionally got into trouble. Not serious trouble. Steve, who was the unelected leader of this gang, would not have tolerated that. But silly trouble. Some drugs. Some petty theft. Some minor vandalism. I could see Steve was getting fed up with bailing them out of trouble.
We discussed it frequently. The fact Steve was happy to 'sub' his mates with cash made them less inclined to try to keep a job. We both agreed that what they really needed was work and a target in life. We both knew that prejudice could make it difficult for skins to get work. The answer was not immediately obvious. We could cut off their supply of cash. But they were our friends and a skin does not let his mates down.
On the television news we saw that a couple of dispatch riders had been sent to prison for walking off with the cash they were transporting for a bank. I had always assumed that cash was only transported under tight security. But, as we were to learn, that has got harder and harder to do in a traffic clogged city. And sometimes money needed to be transported quickly. So, on occasion, valuables were moved by dispatch rider. They were not huge sums in banks terms. But large enough for two of the riders to be on their way to prison.
"That's it!" I said. "We will set up a dispatch service. That bank will be looking for a new firm to move their valuables. I know - well I used to do work for - the director of the London area of that bank. I think he fancied me. I am sure I could arrange an interview".
Over the next few days we worked out the plans for the service. We signed up our skinhead mates who would do whatever Steve said, and we even got premises. And having got past the director's secretary, I got Steve and me an interview at the bank. Although he was reluctant, I persuaded Steve that we had better wear suits. We might not get past the front door as well inked skinheads. But Steve's body language made it clear that he did not like wearing the polo neck jumpers I suggested we used to cover up our tattooed collars. This all happened shortly before my hands were inked. Thinking back, it was perhaps wrong of me to persuade him to conform in that way. But then even angels are not perfect! After that meeting we both decided that that was the very last time we would ever conform again. Let people take us as we were proud to be. Thinking back now, I wonder if that was the reason that Steve had my hands inked?
When we got in to see the director, Steve was the model of business efficiency.
"You need a new dispatch rider service and I will provide it. The conviction of those riders has done your banks reputation no good. You need a reliable firm. Mine is it."
"What is your firm called?"
Incredibly we had never discussed a proper name for the company. We just called it 'Skins' for short.
"Skins for hire" Steve replied with no hesitation.
"You are right that I need to find a new firm. But I have to say that in my research so far I have never heard of you."
"Probably not. You will be our first customers".
"Why should I even think of contracting an unknown and untested firm."
"Because we will do it for free. For 1 month there will be no charge. When you have actually seen how good we are, I can assure you that you will contract us". With this Steve passed over the desk a hastily prepared brochure that had a picture of a skinhead (no tattoos showing) sitting astride a lambretta. (I found it a very horny picture!)
"Do I take it from this that 'skin' means skinhead?"
"Would you argue with, let alone try to rob, a skinhead?" Steve managed to say that without the hint of sarcasm in his voice or smile on his face.
"I suppose not." I was astounded that someone, who was clearly intelligent, could buy such a bogus argument as that. A skinhead could just as easily be shot, stabbed, frightened, bribed or intimidated as anyone else.
"But a firm with no reputation could be a terrible risk. It is a risk I do not think the bank can afford to take. I am sorry"
"We are trying to give these people not only a job, but also a sense of purpose in life. Does your bank have no social conscience?"
I was beginning to wonder if I should have put Steve in a dog collar rather than a polo neck. The director looked hesitant. Steve pressed on.
"How much money is on the road at any one time? A hundred thousand pounds?" The director indicated that that was of the right order.
"Then my parent company will deposit a quarter of a million pounds as surety with your bank. We will require interest of course."
"And what is the name of your parent company?"
"The Company of Angels."
That he had heard of. The way the firm had helped refugees settle in, and the whole idea of "Steve's" had become a major news item during that summer's news desert.
"Skins for hire from the Company of Angels", the director said out loud. "Your logo on our annual report would do the banks image no harm." It was downhill from there. We got the job.
Steve set about the new venture with his usual enthusiasm and eye to detail. He got new Lambretta scooters painted with the company name ('Skins for hire from the Company of Angels') with the now familiar Angel logo. He ordered new Skinhead gear. Our riders were all to be dressed the same. And they were always to be smart. To my slight disappointment, the riders decided on 20 hole black rangers rather than the 30's that Steve and I always wore. The only individual thing they were allowed was the colour of their laces. And in time even that was dropped, when the riders decided to make laces an indication of rank - rather like Judo and Karate belts. Riders had to earn the right from their peers to move to the next colour.
Steve instructed them in detail how to act. They were to call everyone - absolutely everyone -'Sir' or 'Mam'. It was a brilliant tactic. While their appearance might have caused alarm to some customers, the politeness, attitude and efficiency of our skins soon made them popular. People seemed to start looking at the people rather than the uniforms or the bold tattoos and piercings.
I could go on. But sufficient to say that the venture was a success. The bank actually gave us a formal contract after two and a half weeks. But there were always funny incidents. One morning one of our mates (called Dave) came in and put 500 pounds on my desk. He had not returned to HQ the night before. But that happened when deliveries had to be made late. And some customers paid in cash. So it was not the money that was strange. It was the large amount of it. I asked him what it was for.
"You know that lawyer I had to deliver those papers to. He decided that 'Skins for hire' meant more than just a delivery service. He wanted a bit of rough and I was happy to oblige".
"I hope he was happy with your service."
"You know what it is like. The old ones always moan the loudest." I think he gave me a slight wink as he said that.
From then on he got the nickname 'tart'.
As the business expanded we needed to get more riders. That was not easy. We were insistent that they all be skins; that they all be male; and that they be gay or very gay friendly. Otherwise they would not fit. All those conditions were not necessarily in line with current employment law. So we did not advertise for staff. We found people mainly by recommendations from our existing riders - many of whom did an initial close contact interview with the potential applicants! The ones we enjoyed taking on most were those who were not already skinheads. Their 'initiation' became the excuse for a great party. I will relate only one occasion to you, but I am sure you will get the idea.
A new rider called Ricki had been selected and he was brought to the rectory blindfolded for his initiation. Once inside, the others stripped him. His old clothes were burnt in the big open fire. When the blindfold was removed he found himself surrounded by 10 skinheads in full gear. His cock went solid and unashamedly he started to play with it. That was not allowed. Steve and I had got a collection of sex toys at the rectory. (We were serious collectors you understand, and I only tried them out, when Steve forced me to). I fetched the head and arm restraint, which was two pieces of heavy metal forged together with a hole for the head and one for each wrist. He was put in this device so that his arms were securely held alongside his head at shoulder height. His cock was dripping like a tap by then.
The clippers were bought and his hair was removed. Just as Steve had done to me, that meant all the hair on his body. If our riders later wanted to let it grow back, they could - except of course for their heads. But our new riders always started hairless. When Ricky was bent over to have his arse shaved, his hole looked rather too inviting for Dave - whose cock was always well primed. He got his cock out and speared Ricky. The others shouted 'fuck' 'fuck' fuck' as Dave shagged him. When Dave had shot inside him, Ricky kept bending over. He clearly wanted another. Three others shagged him before the spunk was expelled from his own body. In time his new uniform was brought to him and he was dressed in it. A new skin for hire in the company of angels.
A year after the business started, Steve said he wanted to find a way of thanking everyone for the hard work they had done to make the business such a success. No two people could agree what form the celebration should take. It was decided that everyone would put their proposal on paper - unsigned - and leave it in a box in the office. At the next group meeting Steve brought in the box. He said he would draw one submission out and that would be what how we would celebrate. He pulled one out, unfolded it and read it. Then he re-read it. He looked up and read it out aloud.
"All Skins for hire staff will be fitted with nose rings."
There was silence for a while, and then a cheer went up. So on the following Saturday night, at the rectory, we each got in the chair one by one and were fitted by doc with a heavy nose ring, Steve and me included. They looked and felt pretty hot. (This is another occasion that you must fill in the blanks with your own imagination.) But the magic did not last very long for everyone. Some wore sleepers some of the time and only wore the big ring occasionally. Some just left them out and let the hole heal. Steve soon stopped wearing his. But Steve loved me to have the big ring through me nose. One day I wore the sleeper for one day too often and Steve decided that I would have it fixed so that it was permanent. From then on, the heavy ring became a permanent and magnificent part of me.
Soon after that I got Steve's last choice of a tattoo for me. (Although who knows what Steve may think of in the future?) We were preparing new advertising material and someone suggested that one of the pictures should be a skin with our Angel emblem on his back. Steve took 'picture' to mean tattoo and decided it would be on my back. So under the words 'boot boy', I was tattooed with a large angel - our company logo. It was done only in black ink outline. Just as it appears on all our posters. The angel covered my back with its wings wide open.
It was at the 'Skins' HQ that Danny came into our lives. One of the silent alarms went off in the garage when Steve and I were working late. We went to investigate and found a boy of about 16 - Danny - with his cock out, a discarded ranger boot between his legs, pulling the flesh for all he was worth. He heard Steve laughing before he actually saw us.
"A friend of yours there Phil".
The boy froze and went bright red. Steve was completely cool, about it.
"When you have finished, make sure you clean the mess up and come and see us in the office". Steve led me out and we left the boy alone.
When we got back to the office, I asked Steve why he had just left him tossing off in our garage.
"Did you never get caught wanking? I did and was made to feel terrible about it. People made me think I was a complete pervert." (He looked hard at me and I managed to stifle both the quip on my lips and the smile.) "He is only doing what comes naturally - even if he does have a boot in his crotch." He loved having a dig at my love of his big 30 hole rangers.
Danny knocked on the door and rather sheepishly came into the office.
"How did you get in here?"
"I sneak in before everyone leaves and leave in the morning after the first people arrive. I don't steal anything."
"You have been sleeping here? Have you got nowhere to live?"
Over the next few minutes Danny told us how he had been caught by his parents naked on the bed with a schoolmate. His father had thrown him out. He had come to London and lived on the streets. He had spotted this place and crept in one day when it was raining hard. And for the last few days he had been back every night.
We took him with us to the apartment. He had a bath while we prepared him some food. And he slept on the sofa bed that night.
Steve looked troubled. When I asked him why, he told me that he had been thrown out by his father when he was 16 for much the same reason and had had to live on the streets. It had been a miserable time for him. He said he could not let Danny go through all he had gone through. He might not survive it as Steve had. He had to help him.
"Look he is not some stray dog that you can just take home."
"Well what do you suggest?"
I suggested we sleep on it.
I was awoken the next morning by somebody climbing over me. It was a naked Danny. He lay down between Steve and I with his arms around Steve's neck and went back to sleep. I think that made up Steve's mind that whatever anyone said he would keep him. I have told you elsewhere that Steve (and indeed I) were not turned on by people of his age. So nothing sexual happened. But Danny was a boy who needed affection. Both Steve and I took pleasure in giving this boy both the affection he craved and the start to his adult life that might have been denied him. We unofficially adopted Danny. He became part of our lives. Steve made him go to college to continue studying. And he made him help out at the garage after college. Steve, in all important respects, became his father. (What did that make me?). Danny even sometimes called us 'pops' - although he usually only did this when he wanted something. Steve encouraged Danny, scolded him, praised him, bullied him and worried about him. So, if the truth be known, did I. Danny was a normal boy of his age and he had very strong sexual needs. So Steve also worried about his boy friends.
One of the great joys for Steve was when Danny announced that he wanted to become a skinhead. I guess living with us and working with the business made that inevitable. I understood how he needed to feel one of the gang. I stood by and watched as Steve carefully shaved Danny. He was only going to do his head. But Danny had often seen us both naked and thoroughly shaved. He knew that he wanted the whole job. We went and bought Danny his first pairs of tight skinhead jeans (which he quickly poured bleach over to make them patchy), and his first pair of boots. He chose 30 hole rangers, like us, of course. We became a rather strange family. But a very close and happy one. Danny liked our tattoos and piercings. He was fascinated by them, and liked to play with my horns when we all lay in bed together. But he never expressed any interests in having anything done to his body. Which is probably as well as I do not think Steve would have agreed. Fathers can be very strange.
And so Danny emerged as our fully-grown skinhead son.
Although Danny demanded - and got - affection from us, it became obvious that he liked sex to be rough. We often found him fighting with the riders. (Danny had quickly become their mascot. His favourite chore was cleaning their boots while they were still wearing them). He did not care who won the roughhouse sessions as long as it was rough and tough. If he won, he would be as brutal as he could be with his opponent, shoving his cock in their mouth or up their arse or just pissing on them. If he lost he expected to be treated just as roughly. None of his boy friends lasted very long probably because of his roughness. But there was absolutely no malice in Danny. He just liked rough sex.
And that brings me to the final part of my story. One day, about a year ago Rosie came to see us at the apartment. She was greatly distressed and in tears.
"It's Peter" she said. We had seen less and less of Peter. I don't think we had deliberately cut him out of our lives, but he seemed to get other friends and we seemed to have other things to do.
"Peter moved away 3 or 4 months ago. We kept rowing and it was disruptive for the other children. I did not like the people he was mixing with. They're a bad lot. I came home this afternoon and I found Peter in the house. He was going through the drawers. I keep some money in there and he was actually going to rob me. He looked terrible. He has lost a lot of weight and is very pale. His eyes are all small and bloodshot. He ran out when he saw me. But he dropped this." She handed Steve a piece of folded paper. He unwrapped it. I think all three of us knew what the white powder in the folded paper was.
"I will deal with this Rosie. Don't you worry about it. Phil, drive her home." Steve went out into the garden and paced around. The next day he told Danny that he could go to Australia. Danny had been asking for weeks to join up with a friend from college who was backpacking there. Steve had consistently refused. That morning he told him he could go. He said that he had got a good deal on a late availability seat and that he was flying out that evening. Danny was excited. I tried to talk to Steve about his abrupt change of mind, but he was in no mood to discuss anything. He went down to our sex-toy museum (read playroom) in the cellar. Later that day he took Danny to the airport. He refused to let me go with them to see Danny off.
Near midnight, I heard a screech as the car stopped in the drive and I heard a number of raised voices. I went to the door and found Steve and two of our skin mates dragging a guy, with a blanket over his head, towards the house. It had to be Peter. They bundled him past me and took Peter down into the cellar. I followed and found Steve securing a steel collar around Peter's neck. The collar was fixed by a heavy chain to the wall. Peter's clothes were dirty and torn and he was bleeding from his nose and from around his mouth. There had clearly been a fight. I looked at Steve's boots and saw blood and mud on them, which took me back to how we met. Peter was screaming and trying to pull the collar off from around his neck. Steve went up to the friend that had hero worshipped him only months before and punched him in the face.
"I am going to keep doing that until you shut up." Peter stopped shouting and tried a different tactic.
"Steve you are my friend. What are you doing? Is this some Christmas prank?" It was a week before Christmas.
"In this Christmas prank, all you are going to be getting is cold turkey."
"What do you mean? Cold turkey? I do not take drugs."
"Good. Then you won't mind staying down here and celebrating Christmas with us."
Peter started screaming and once again started frantically pulling at the neck collar. Steve punched him in the stomach and Peter doubled up on the floor. Steve thanked our mates who had helped him and they left.
I looked around. Within the area Peter could reach, there was only an empty plastic bowl, an empty plastic bucket, a plastic bucket full of water and some styrene cups. Steve took me by the shoulder and we left Peter alone. Over the next few days Steve spent a lot of the time with Peter in the cellar. He took me down sometimes, but I was never allowed to be there alone.
It took a full day before Steve could get Peter cleaned up and his cuts treated. Peter was by now naked. Steve had taken a blow up bed down to the cellar. And I was shocked to see Peter curled up on it holding his stomach and crying like a baby.
"Look Steve, we must get a doctor. He could die on us."
"No doctor. It is cold turkey. If he dies, he dies." Once again, Steve was not about to take any argument from me.
Over the next few days Peter's condition got a little better. He still spent most of the time curled on the bed. But he had stopped crying and he had started eating a little.
His improvement continued. Peter took him upstairs with his head and arms in the device we had used on our new recruit, for a bath. He began to talk. His self-pity was quite revolting. Yes he had been taking coke. It was not his fault. He had been led into it. He would never touch the stuff again. Would Steve just let him go? He had learnt his lesson. Even I was not taken in. Steve told him that when he began to co- operate he would get more freedom. Steve set him to do some physical exercises. He was still very thin, but the exercise brought some colour back to his face and body. And the tattoo around his forearm, of which he had once been so proud, began to come alive again.
We thought we had turned the corner. But we were wrong. Steve allowed Peter some clothes now that he stopped sicking up over everything. That morning he took him upstairs for a bath without being restrained. He escaped in our car. By the time we could get the other car from the garage, he had a lead on us. We went to Rosie who took us to some of his former haunts. We found him in the third one in a drug- induced stupor. I had to restrain Steve from attacking Peter's 'friends' with the aluminium baseball bat he had brought with him. To this day I do not know whether that was another of my mistakes. We bundled Peter into the car and took him back to his cell.
We faced him the next morning. He was contrite and sat with his head bowed as if he truly were ashamed.
"What am I to do with you?" There was no answer from anyone.
Steve's solution, a few days later, surprised even me.
"You are a worthless shit who has let down not only your Mother but me as well. I know if I let you go you will be back on drugs in the time it takes to find a dealer. You have got no backbone and no discipline. But I am going to teach you some discipline. I am going to take you to pieces - bit by bit - and then I am going to put you back together again. In the first instance, you are going to serve me and Phil and everyone else who comes here. You will do exactly what you are told or you will be severely punished. If you are good, you can earn small rewards. But they will be small and very tough to earn.
Peter was again naked and Steve told him that he was to stay naked. A new heavy steel collar, without the chain, was put around his neck. It was about 2 inches wide and seemed to have been designed to be uncomfortable. Steve explained that it contained a radio transmitter. If he ever chose to escape we would quickly be able to find him, and bring him back. And punish him.
Steve made sure Peter quickly found out what punishment meant. He carried a small whip, with which he beat Peter at the slightest excuse. He allowed no hint of how much he loved Peter to show, even though I knew how much he did. Love was the reason he was doing this.
After he found Peter helping himself to some vodka (all drugs were off limits to him) he fixed heavy weights around his balls. They pushed his balls down and made them go bright red. And Peter found it difficult to walk. He made him keep them on until the next morning. Steve kept them in full view in the house so Peter would not forget them. Another time, he attached clamps with sharp serrated teeth to his nipples.
But Peter began to respond. His body began to fill out again. And he actually seemed to stop resenting serving us. I suppose servitude had given him a purpose in life. If not much of a purpose. Steve really was reconstructing him. Rosie was allowed short visits, although they seemed to upset both of them.
When neither of us could be at the rectory, we got a mate to baby sit him.
In some ways I suppose that I should not have been surprised at what happened next. At the end of January, Danny returned. I said earlier that he liked his sex as rough as possible. It was as if he had a cruel streak, although we were both quite certain that his viscous ways meant nothing. He took every opportunity to torment Peter. We came back to the rectory one evening when Danny had been baby-sitting Peter, and found Peter in a doggy position with Danny's cock up his arse. He did not stop fucking him when we came in. He had often seen Steve and me enjoying each other. So none of us bothered very much about such things. When he had shot his load he made Peter lick his cock clean, even as Steve and I watched
"What do you say?"
"Thank you, Master."
Over the next few days it became obvious that Danny had spent the time since his return from Australia exercising his sadistic streak at Peter's expense. And Peter clearly liked being the centre of Danny's attention. Peter began to rush the chores that Steve and I set him to do, so that he could spend time with Danny. He would sit at his feet and lick his boots or act as his footstool. He did everything Danny instructed. And usually with a broad smile on his face. In around 10 days, Danny had seemed to have had far more success at rehabilitating Peter than Steve and I had had in over 6 weeks. But that gave us one new worry. Might Danny eventually get bored with this new toy?
Steve allowed Danny to take Peter out sometimes. One day when they returned, Peter did not immediately take off his clothes as he was expected to when he entered the house. Danny instructed him to remove his clothes. He turned his back on us and removed his shirt. In the same gothic letters that emblazoned my back was the word 'Slave'.
As he pulled down his jeans, inked across the top of his arse, in the same, but slightly smaller letter, was the word 'Danny'.
"I have taken ownership of him, pops."
And that was that. We handed over full responsibility and control of Peter to Danny. And Danny had given us our friend back. Both Peter and Danny had found what they each needed. Peter had found someone to handle the difficult world out there for him. Danny had found someone of his very own that would give him the affection he craved and who would relish the pain Danny liked to inflict on him. We had become a larger and even stranger family.
Over the next few months we let Danny and Peter take control of 'Skins for Rent' on a day to day basis. We kept an eye on it as members of the board. But Danny had a proven flair for running that business. And with Peter to support him they made a great team. Steve and I concentrated on the main work of 'the Company of Angels'. Danny and Peter stayed mainly in the apartment by the river while we stayed mainly at the rectory. But as families do, we got together quite often.
A month or so later, Steve and I had had a late night and consequently we awoke very late the next morning. I got up and left Steve in bed. I had a shower and was standing naked in front of the mirror when Steve came in and stood alongside me. I was looking at my inked arms, from the designs on my hands, complete sleeves going up and over my shoulders, right round my neck and down my chest, with those magnificent swirls around my gold pierced nipples. I looked at the ring through my nose. I looked at the dragon in my crotch. And the mere sight of those horns always made his head rear up. I turned slightly to look at my back. To look at the Angel and at the place that it had all started - the words 'boot boy.'
"Steve, if I really beg can I have another tattoo? Just one."
"What do you mean?"
"I would like your name tattooed across the top of my arse. The same as Danny had done to Peter.
"That would look ridiculous. It would look as if your Angel was called Steve."
It was my turn to smile.
(Comments or criticisms are always welcome to guy_in_boots@hotmail.com)