Seahawk

Leather Jeans by Seahawk Leather Jeans by Seahawk A dormant fetish leads to a journey down the road to discovery. A short story by Seahawk. Manchester weather was up to its usual bad habits – rain west of the Pennines is always more persistent than the drier climate of Steve’s native Leeds. Grimacing at the grey November sky from which a mix of sleet and wet was inexorably falling, he heaved himself from the car and into a nearby shop to ask for directions, vainly attempting to keep his eye on the car. Salford is one of the least salubrious districts of Greater Manchester. Its dubious reputation is widely known. As he enters the shop, he is mildly surprised by the warm smell of leather, unexpected. The shop front bore the legend: “Italian Fashions”, but no mention of leather. ...

My Wife Won’t Do It by Seahawk My wife won’t do it by Seahawk My wife won’t do it. That is why there is a pile of half-inch chain lying on the bathroom floor. With a dozen padlocks. My wife won’t give me the release that I crave, so I have to make a lone journey of exploration into unknown and forbidden desire and fantasy. For whilst our relationship is close, her heart is not really into bondage games and the effort it takes. ...

Racked by Seahawk Racked by Seahawk [email protected] Water was dripping from somewhere. Drip, drip, DRIP. A steady beat, unchanging, unrelenting. The only sound in the complete blackness of the small cell in which I sat, back against a rough stone wall. Individual grains of stone bore into my skin, harsh, cold, damp. Shifting position did not help. All that broke the sound of water was the clink of chains, the chains that secured my ankles to an iron ring set into the stone floor. Not much scope for movement, with only a couple of inches of slack between ankles and this hateful ring of incarceration. ...

The evening newspaper ran the advertisement. Not any advert one would expect to find in the local paper but one that made me take a second hard look. I habitually read the local paper on the train home every night, preferring to leaf through local car dealership lists and local news for the 25-minute journey. After spending the day staring at computer screens, reading a novel was usually too much. In the summer I gaze at the landscape passing the train window, watching it change from cityscape to suburbia to rural green. On this mild, late spring evening, I nearly missed my train and paper, grabbing the first and catching the second by the skin of my teeth. ...