Moving Day!

Well, I got packed quicker than I thought. Rusty Nale has a new address. These doors on this blog will remain open for those who can't find their way.

However, my new lodging is at:



Please don't forsake me - come to my new digs, and bring your friends ... there's room!

And, THANK YOU all for your patience and dedication. Always, Rusty!


Review and/or Purchase Your Copy of My New Book

Sunday, September 6, 2009

It was a beautiful warm, sunny afternoon in November, and we're walking around in downtown Las Vegas on our way back to our room at the Nugget. We'd cut through one of the side streets to look for a particular shop someone had told you about - a leather shop where they make custom-made boots -- and other things.

This was a total surprise for me, because I didn't think you'd actually buy me anything like that; we'd only been together a very short time, but you wanted to do this.

The street is narrow, and has all kinds of shops of various types; mostly adult in nature. It's starting to get dark, and I hope we find it soon before the light show begins on Fremont; I'm anxious to get back to our room and get busy with you. We find a small storefront tucked in between a book store and a tattoo salon. You take my arm and guide me into the store. Three brass bells above the door ring as we enter. The first thing I notice is that it has this smell; you know, the leather smell; only it is so rich and intense; I've loved this scent since I was a small child - it just awakens pheromones within me that overflow. I inhale deeply, as we stand in the tiny shop. A small woman about 60 comes from across the room where she had been sitting at a small desk. I notice all types of leather samples and scraps on a wall, along with a color ring and several sketches. I also notice that this boutique also carries other leather items; including riding crops, whips, floggers, straps, etc. I quickly look away, not wanting you to notice that I had seen them. Of course, you don't care what I saw or not.

"I called last week," you say to the woman. "I ordered some boots for my lady." Your voice is low, smooth, not wavering; and your hand remains firmly on my arm. You hand her your card, and she smiles.

"Yes, I remember, Mr. ... how do you pronounce your name?"

"Just call me, Albert."

"I will need to take some measurements. You said you wished for some hip boots, correct?" You nod, and I look at you in my usual quizzical way. Hip Boots! With my knocked knees? But, predictably, you don't look or request my input; this is your gift to me, and you've taught me never to question a gift.

The shop owner pulls out a tape measure, and immediately gets busy, measuring first, my right foot from my toes, up my instep to my ankle; around my ankle; from the heel up my calf to the back of the thigh; around the calf, around my knee and up the front of my thigh. When she gets there, she pauses, a little longer than necessary, holding my large thigh in her hands firmly. "Don't move," she tells me and she slowly wraps the tape measure around my thigh in two places. She then repeats the process with my right leg. I don't know why I'm feeling so awkward, and my mouth is feeling so suddenly dry. I look at you anxiously, and shift my weight a bit. Suddenly the bitch slaps the top of my thigh through my leggings so hard it stings. I am shocked, and I look at you in disbelief, but you say nothing; just hold my arm even tighter. "I told you not to move!" she murmurs under her breath.

She stands back up and looks in my eyes quite intently, then turns to you. "I have a dummy pair made up out of vinyl; she must try them on, and then that will be my master pattern; I'll cut them from that." You silently nod, and finally release my arm. She looks back at me, brushing the hair off of her face and pushing her glasses up off of her nose, "Take those pants off, and quickly. I've got other customers coming in." I look to you again, hoping you'll have some say-so, or something. I never had custom made boots before, and don't know what to expect. But this time, you just look away, leaving this horrid woman in charge of everything.

Looking around the tiny shop, I see no doors or anything that would indicate a dressing room, and I shrug, looking back at her and again at you. "Where should I change?" I ask, feeling rather feeble.

"Right there, and I said to hurry!" Shocked, I search your face for an answer. Surely you don't expect me to ...

"Hurry it up!" you snap, "She said she's busy!" Shocked and dismayed by your cool response, I don't hesitate, recognizing the tone in your voice. I remove my pumps, and slowly push my skin-tight leggings down to my ankles, holding onto your arm for support as I kick my way out of them. I feel so self conscious in this brightly lit store visible to anyone passing by. Not to mention who may come in at any time.

She then hands me the vinyl pair of faux boots and instructs me to put them on. These were made based on the measurements you had given her over the phone. They fit me like a glove and I cant stop staring at myself in the mirror. "You like them?" she asks.

"Yes, yes ... I love ..."

"I wasn't talking to you!" she snaps. What the fuck? Who does she think she's talking to, and why are you letting her address me like this? But, the grin and knowing look on your face tells me, you're liking this scene, and it is clear that I am the game piece the two of you are playing with.

"Yes, I like them quite well. You do good work. I think she will look delicious in these no matter how I have her." You're talking to her directly, and I'm feeling invisible, void as the two of you discuss me as if I were a new sofa.

"Did you decide on the leather, Albert?"

"Yes, red kid, white calves leather, and pearl snake skin. Three pairs." I don't like red kid, but it's not my decision, obviously. The two of you stand there staring at me as I shift from one foot to the other, half naked in a leather store in the middle of Vegas. My pink lace boy cut panties feel as if they've abandoned me too, and I've never felt more self conscious. "Do you have the other item I requested in the email?" you ask her.

"Oh, yes, Albert. Yes, I have it right here." She turns and goes back over to her little desk; behind it there is a hidden panel I had not noticed before that opens up a small storage compartment from which she produces a long, thin riding crop. My heart leaps.

Gulping back my breath in fear and anticipation, I begin to shiver as I stand there in the store with you, who clearly has gone mad, and this woman who gives me chills just looking at her. She walks back over to us, and gives me a strange grin, and hands you the crop. It's long and thin, with a fine looped end. "Here," she says, "try it out." I gasp in protest, and start to move away from the center of the room, but you grab my arm quickly and yank me back,holding me steady.

"No, I'd rather you show me how it's done, since you made the implement."

No, no, no ... I implore you with my eyes; please don't let her use that thing on me; not her; not here!

"I'll hold her steady, and you can give me a tutorial." Both of you laugh like idiots, and I am sufficiently mortified by the nasty predicament you've created. Heartbroken, you take both of my hands in yours and force me to bend over there right in the center of the store.

"Very well," she laughs, "It will be my pleasure." And before I can say anything, quick as a flash, she sends the crop sailing in a circle above her head, landing on the back of my thighs like a lightning bolt. I am shocked; not expecting to feel the first blow on my sweet spot, and grit my teeth, refusing to give her my pain.

"I seemed to miss that technique, will you give her another, please?"


Swish! Crack! Ohhh, it landed right on the same spot again, as did the next and the next - five of them, and I groan, slightly swaying before you.

"Give her 20, please. I want to see if the product can stand up to her stubborn ass."

"Please, please, Albert, don't let her ..." I speak out loud, imploring you, and you raise my hands to your lips kissing my fingers lightly.

"Hush, sweet pea. Don't you want me to buy this for you too?"

"No, no, I don't ... Owwww!" Without ceremony, the old cow begins going to town, sending four more blows to my upturned bottom; two on each cheek. She stops just long enough to raise my panties up through he crack of my ass so my naked behind is fully exposed. No, no, please, no ...

Just then, the moment is interrupted by the jingling of the brass bells above the front door. Hell! A customer has come in. "I'll be right with you," she tells them. I just need to finish this fitting."

Fitting, my ass - no pun intended! I can't see the new guests, but I can tell it's a man and woman because I can hear them murmuring together. I am so embarrassed and humiliated. But, I hold my position, only now, the woman spreads my legs wide apart, and changes her mind about the panties, jerking them down to my ankles, forcing me to step out of them.

Again, without ceremony, she begins assaulting my tender backside with such a fury I shriek in agony. She has no pattern or rhythm; just out and out whipping, over and over, I cry out as the crop tears into my burning behind again and again like the a spark that travels to the end of a fuse, igniting, burning and exploding. My tears are futile, and I press my head against your chest, as she continues to crop my swollen backside. With every blow, I can feel my globes jiggle helplessly. At 20 she does not stop, and I beg you to make her end it, feeling my knees go weak, and you release my hands, cradling my head against your chest, nodding to her to continue.

She sends 10 more to my hips and thighs, finally ending on the sweet spot again. My sobs are pitiful, soaking your shirt, as I moan in agony. By now, I cannot tell if my tears are that of humiliation, pain or both. When she stops, she places the crop on the glass counter, ignoring my crying, she begins to write up a receipt.

"The three pairs of boots will be ready on Friday; the crop goes with you tonight. You may write a check for $4750.00; pay me cash or use a credit card."

Immediately, she turns to the other customers, standing politely off to the side, "May I help you?"

"Yes, we spoke on the phone," the gentleman says. "I inquired about some custom boots - thigh high boots, for my wife."

Through my tears, as you begin to tenderly redress me, I eye the couple, and envy the beautiful petite woman with the downcast eyes.

"Ah, yes, I remember you," she tells the man. "You were here last year too, weren't you?"