I was sweltering under my leathers even though there was nothing between them and my skin, and the air was so warm that even the 80mph I was doing on the bike wasn't having much of a cooling effect. God I loved riding this bike. I'd had it for a year and it felt as though it was a part of me, an extension of my body, as I flicked it around the bends, enjoying the satisfaction of finding perfect lines on the quiet country roads. My leather one-piece was unzipped down to the bullet belt at my hips - I'd been lucky so far and hadn't been hit by any large insects there - and the tight leather of the legs felt as if it was laminated to my thighs. The illegally black visor on my new Simpson helmet reduced the sun's glare to a comfortable level and, even though I was hot, I was enjoying the ride immensely.
I was hot in more ways than one: what I'd seen in the reflection of a shop window shortly after I'd left home had been a vision I'd have stopped for, turned round and followed for miles if it hadn't been myself: a sexy biker in skintight studded black leathers, sci-fi helmet, boots and leather gloves, on one of the horniest and fastest production bikes in the world - a shiny black Hayabusa. My cock always got hard when I rode that bike; something about the vibration at high speed I suppose. That, and knowing I looked so deliciously sexy. I took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh of pure happiness as I opened the throttle at the start of a straight which disappeared into the distance.
I knew these roads well, though I hadn't been here for a long, long time. I had a couple of days off from work, and thought it was high time I visited the country town where I'd been born, and where I'd grown up. Actually, I dreaded to think what it looked like now - years can change a place beyond recognition - but for a while I'd had a nagging urge to go see what it was like.
There had been a fair amount of traffic on the road as far as Lincoln, but once I'd turned off for my town the roads had become much clearer. And anyway, slow cars presented little problem on a bike like this: a twist of the throttle and I was past - no need even to drop down a cog.
I knew that at the end of this straight there was a sharp right-hander (by the garage where I used to tie up and play with the owner's son in the storeroom when I was a teenager), then the long gentle drop down (past ticklish Donnie's house) to the beginning of the town. Hoping there were no speed cameras about, I touched 120 mph before I had to slow down and change gear for the corner.
As the bike slowed to around 50, and I leaned it over, something very odd happened. It's difficult to describe, but there was a sudden, sharp crack ! that was completely silent, accompanied by a brilliant flash of light that was black. I know that sounds ridiculous, but that's the best way I can describe how it felt. It only lasted a tiny fraction of a second, but it was extremely unpleasant. I squeezed my eyes tight shut for a moment and shook my head to clear it. I'd barely had time to register it before it had gone, though it scared the hell out of me. I straightened up out of the corner - the bike was fishtailing under me, but I managed to keep it upright - and brought it to a stop by the kerb. Kicking the sidestand down, I got off, and sat on the ground, feeling shaken. What the hell had that been? I looked back along the road, but I couldn't see anything unusual. An old car passed in the opposite direction without incident. I shook my head, took a deep breath, and got back onto the bike. With a final look back, I let the clutch out and headed slowly into my hometown.
West Street was exactly as I remembered it. I grinned as I cruised slowly along, looking at the shop fronts - they'd hardly changed at all in all this time. And there was my old grammar school! A car passed me and I laughed - it was a Triumph Herald, in immaculate condition. My dad used to have one of those. There must be a vintage car show on somewhere today. I rounded the corner and rode slowly into the Market Place. And the grin froze on my face.
I stopped and stared. The Market Place was busy - people shopping or stood chatting like on any Friday afternoon - but everyone was in 1960's costume. And the cars! There wasn't a single one more recent than the mid 1960's! I gazed open-mouthed at the Morris Oxfords, the Austin A40s, the Morris Countrymans... Ha! I got it: somebody must be making a period film! My grin returned as I drank in the sight before my eyes. They'd done a damn good job - even the shops were exactly how I remembered them, down to the tiniest detail. I looked around for the cameras, lighting rigs, but I couldn't see them. Hoping I wouldn't be spoiling some shot, I edged the bike away from the kerb and rode down the little street by the church, where I parked.
It felt good to stand up and stretch. After locking my helmet to the bike and setting the alarm, I wandered up to the Church. The trees around it looked beautiful, and just as I remembered them. I'm not religious in any way, but I love that church - it will always hold special memories for me: of being taken to Christmas services with my parents; of being in the choir; of trying (unsuccessfully) to learn bellringing...
... And of being gagged and blindfolded for the first time in my life.
I smiled as I approached the buttress at the northeast corner - when I was about 14 I'd been walking to the cinema one Saturday evening. The path from my house took me past the church. I hadn't heard a sound, but as I passed that buttress someone stepped out from its shadows behind me and clamped their hands over my eyes and mouth. Whoever it was just held me tight, nothing more. I was scared shitless. I tried to speak, and he moved his hand just enough so that I could. The pure wimp that I was, I said something like, "please let me go - I'm going the the pictures. I promise I won't look back...," and he let me go. That was it - and I didn't look back. But the fact that I remember it so clearly now shows how much effect that had on me. I wish I had a pound for every time I've wondered, in the years since then, who that person was and why he did it. I stepped into the shadows of the buttress and imagined myself walking past - I even held my arms out as if there was an invisible boy there. After a while, I headed back to the bike.
As I approched it, the alarm began to sound and I broke into a run. When I got there the bike was undamaged, and two young lads were running off up the street. I thought about chasing them but decided against it. Kids.
I rode back to the Market Place, and along the High Street towards the crossroads. It felt weird - like I was in some kind of timewarp. I kept a lookout for cameras, but didn't see any. Then I realised that I was being stared at, mainly by men and teenage boys. As I passed one lad, I saw him do a double-take as he saw me, and I distinctly heard him say, "Fucking shit!" as I passed him. In the rear-view mirrors I saw him staring open-mouthed at my receding back.
I was born here in Denfort on July 5th 1953, and I hadn't been back or seen it since the family moved south in the early seventies, so my memories of the place are of the late sixties. And that is exactly how it looked now. I began to get an uneasy feeling, and speeded the bike up a little. I turned right at the crossroads towards the Town Bridge, pulled to a stop above the river, and pushed my visor up. My uneasy feeling suddenly became much more than that. The house where I was born was along the river on the right - from here I could see the gate at the bottom of the garden, though not the house itself - and the town bypass, which had been built in the late 1980s, and which I'd heard had cut the garden in half and had covered a long stretch of the river, was not there.
I backed the bike up a little, did a U-turn, followed by a left into Church Lane. The plaque on the wall with the black line across the middle of it, recording the height the water had reached in the great flood of 1968, wasn't there either. I continued on down to Martins the printers - they produced the Denfort News - and parked up. The reception area inside the printers was a glassed-off booth with a good view of the works. I swallowed. There wasn't a computer in sight, and the sound of Linotype machines filled the air. Linotype machines hadn't been used for ages.
A pear-shaped woman emerged from the door at the side and smiled at me "Can I help you?"
"I'm sorry to bother you, but can you tell me the date, please?"
"It's the fifth."
She laughed. "July, silly."
I nodded, took a deep breath, and asked, "what year?"
Her smile lost some of its sincerity. "It's July the fifth, nineteen sixty-seven. Was there anything else?"
"No. No thank you." I opened the door and left. As I got on the bike I saw her come to the window and watch me ride off, her lips pursed into a disapproving rosebud.
What the fuck was happening? 1967? I stopped around the corner to think. As far as I could see there were three possibilities: (a) The entire town had been given a makeover for some film or something - and that included replacing computers in printers with working Linotype machines; That shockwave or whatever it was I'd passed through back on the road into town had been some kind of a time-warp and I really was back in 1967; (c) I had lost my mind completely. Of the three, the third seemed the most likely. But I felt fine - I felt like I always had. I could remember reading the paper this morning at breakfast, about that ratbag Tony Blair chairing the G8 summit at Gleneagles, and I could remember checking the calendar to make sure I wasn't going to miss any appointments for the next couple of days. The calendar had definitely had "2005" in large letters at the top. So, if I wasn't losing my mind, I must really be back in the sixties. I thought about this, and realised that if that were true, it presented certain problems. Quite apart from how the hell was I going to get back, my cash and plastic would be no use here. And the bike took unleaded petrol - I had no idea if it would run on leaded which, as far as I knew, was all that was available in 1967. Luckily the tank was full to the top, as I'd filled up a couple of miles back.
I was sorely tempted to look around - the chance to see my old town in detail, in the years I remembered it was compelling - but being sensible, the first thing was to see it I could get back. I dropped the bike into gear and rode back up West Street and out of town. I came to the sharp corner before the straight, where the thing - whatever it was - had happened, and rode on. Nothing. I pulled up and waited for some traffic to come past. It was a good five minutes before a car appeared, and it was a brand-new Hillman Minx. The number plate was white on black - AXC 569D. I don't remember the exact year letters, but it was certainly from somewhere in the sixties. I rode on a bit further, then turned around and came back. There was no sign of anything unusual, and no silent crack or black light.
It looked like I was going to be here for a while at least. So - the next thing was to get some money somehow. How the hell could I do that? I had no idea. And I had nowhere to stay. I'd phoned a reservation this morning to the Fleece Hotel in town, but if this was 1967 they wouldn't get it for another 40-odd years. I'd better make sure though.
The man in the hotel ran his finger down the list and shook his head slowly. "Sorry, I've got nobody under that name."
I smiled resignedly. "Ok, well thanks for your help. I've probably got the wrong hotel."
I needed a coffee, but the only cash I had was decimal. This town was still using pounds shillings and pence. I sat on the bike, my mind numb. I didn't know what to do. A bike went past the end of the road - the rider looked sexy. Black leather from head to toe. I could worry about things later. I pulled down my visor and moved off.
I caught up with him on South Street by the public gardens. I didn't think he'd seen me so I overtook him gently. His bike was a newish-looking Triumph Bonneville. I kept a steady pace as we passed the town boundary, and let him overtake me. He whistled as he drew alongside. I could see as little of his face as he could of mine - he wore goggles, a black scarf over his nose and mouth, and an open-face lid. I smiled to myself - full-face helmets like mine wouldn't be around for quite a few years yet. "This baby'll do the ton!" He yelled at me. I nodded silently. "What the fuck is that?" He pointed at my Hayabusa.
I jerked my head in the direction of the kerb and slowed gently to a stop. "Fancy a race, mate?"
He revved the Bonny. "You bet! A quid says I get to Henley Lane first!"
Henley Lane was a little road which forked off this one at the top of the hill, by a stand of trees that we could see a mile or so distant. I knew that there were some sharpish bends first, and then a nice long straight up to the junction. "OK! GO!" I yelled.
He left rubber on the road, and so did I.
When I caught up with him I was still in fifth gear. I pulled alongside him, nodded at him, then opened the throttle full. I've never done that before on the 'Busa, and I never will again - wheelspin at 70 mph is not good. By the time I had to slow down for the Henley Lane junction I was doing just under 160 mph. I coasted to a stop, turned around on the seat and watched him approaching. He was crouched down to offer least wind resistance, and was probably doing close to 100mph. He slowed, then skidded to a stop beside me, paused, staring ahead at nothing for a moment, then shook his head hard and switched his engine off. He turned his head towards me slowly, raised his goggles, and pulled his scarf down. He was gorgeous. "Fuck-king - shit," he said. "What the hell is that bike?"
"I think you owe me a quid," I said, smiling.
He unzipped a pocket and handed me a huge one-pound note. I contained my curiosity and resisted the urge to look at it closely. He kicked the sidestand down, got off the bike and walked slowly around me. "Jeeee-zuz. Are you from outer space?" He ran his fingers reverently along the fibreglass fairing of the bike, then he touched my helmet and the black visor, then touched my leathers. "Are you real?"
I looked closely at his gear. An original Lewis Leathers jacket - a Super Bronx, I thought, though I may have been wrong; jeans of stiff, thick black leather that were far too loose for him, and a studded belt. I could have licked him all over.
I chuckled. "Yep, I'm real." I started the bike and checked the road. It was clear. "See you around, mate." I had a feeling I'd be seeing him again fairly soon. With as much acceleration as I dared, I launched the bike back towards town. Conscious of my limited fuel supply, I kept the speed down - but he was still standing there watching me when I passed the town boundary again.
Well, I had some money - if only a pound. That wasn't going to get me very far; I still had to find somewhere to stay for the night. On an impulse, I turned the bike into Bowl Alley Lane and rode up past my old junior school. Kids were piling out of the door - must be 3.30. I'd come back to look at the old place later. From the school onwards the road turned into a sandy path, and I carefully rode up to the gate at the far end. When I was young, a couple of friends and I built a comprehensive tree house in a big Beech tree out of sight of the gate. If it was still there I could say the night in it. I parked and locked the bike behind some bushes and walked to the tree. The house looked a bit smaller than I remembered it, but it was all there, and in excellent condition. With a grunt I hoisted myself up, found the footing, and climbed.
I smiled as I looked around. The tree house was on two floors, with a window and a small table in the top one and a load of cardboard for sitting on in the lower. I explored up the ladder, then came back and sat down on the flattened boxes. It was mid-summer, and not going to get cold at night, so this would do nicely. Rolling myself a cigarette, I sat and thought about things.
It occurred to me for the very first time, then, that my mother and father were alive - mum had died in 1976 and dad ten years later. A strange shudder passed through me. I could see them. I could go to our house and... and what? I didn't know what I would say. But I had to see them. Then I realised that I was here too - a fourteen-year old me. And then the date registered: It was July 6th - yesterday had been my 14th birthday!
I've always been a science-fiction nut, and I've read lots of stuff about time travel. I was aware of all the paradoxes about going back in time (meeting your father, killing him, and therefore not having being born in the first place, and so not being able to go back and meet him... etc etc) but I also kept up on the latest real science. The question, it seemed to me, was whether I was in the same universe as the one I'd left, or a parallel one. If it was the same one (and the latest thinking by physicists was that is not possible to go back in time in the same universe), then my very presence here and everything I'd done since I'd arrived had already changed things for the future beyond repair - but if it was a parallel one, then - assuming I could get back somehow eventually - things might be ok. Things would be very different in this universe's future because of me, but perhaps even that would be ok.
I had to see my mum and dad. As I rode back towards the town centre I tried to think of things I could say when they opened the door. By the time I'd parked the bike and was walking down the path at the side of the river I'd decided simply to ask for directions. One short look would be enough - I wouldn't stay.
I opened the white gate at the bottom of the lawn and walked up the slab path, past the old garden seat where I'd almost electrocuted myself with a train set, to the dilapidated porch (Dad always said that he was going to repair it, but he never got around to it) and the front door. The bell-pull was still there and working! I took a deep breath, gave it a tug and heard the tinkling above the door near the fuseboxes inside.
The door opened and I found myself looking at my mother. She was wearing a white pinafore and wiping her hands on it. She smiled. "Hello."
For a long time I just stood and stared. "Erm, hello. I'm sorry to bother you, but could you tell me how to get to Jarret Street, please?" There is no Jarret Street in Denfort.
She frowned. "Jarret Street?" I could see her thinking. "No, I haven't heard of that. Just a minute." He turned and called out down the hall, "Andy?" Back to me, "Perhaps my husband will know."
A man walked down the hall to the door. "This gentleman is looking for Jarret Street. I've never heard of it."
Dad looked at me, and tilted his head to one side. "Do I know you?"
"No, I don't think so, sir."
He frowned, as if I were someone he used to know a long time ago and he was trying to place me. "No, I'm afraid not. I'm sorry. You could try the police station."
I smiled. "No problem. Thank you both anyway." I stood looking at my parents, then turned away and walked back down the path. I made it to the gate before I burst into tears.
I needed that coffee even more now. One place I used to hang out a lot in those days was a cafe on East Street - the "Cross Keys". When I was fourteen. I was just beginning to discover my sexuality, and even then the sight of bikers - and especially the black leather and tight jeans they wore - held a rapidly growing attraction for me. At that age, of course, I didn't understand what was going on. I turned my head and took a last, long look at my old house, my eyes traveling up to the window of the front bedroom where I was born at 8am that morning so long ago, and then got onto the bike.
I actually rode past the cafe before I realised it - it was so much smaller than I remembered it - but apart from that it was the same, and memories came flooding back. I did a U-turn, and parked alongside a row of other bikes, all vintage machines now: there were Ariels, Matchless, a Grieves, several Bonnys, a BSA, and a Norton Commando, most of them immaculate. My Hayabusa looked like some kind of alien creature next to them. I grinned as I opened the old white door and went inside.
Have you ever seen those films (usually set in Transylvania) where a stranger walks into a pub and all conversation suddenly stops? It was like that. The jukebox on the side wall was blasting out a record I didn't recognise as I walked up to the wooden counter and took my helmet off. "Pie and chips, and a cup of tea please," I said to the woman who was staring open-mouthed at me.
She pulled herself together. "That'll be one and six, please."
One and six? I gave her the pound note I'd won from the biker.
"Haven't you got anything smaller, luv?"
I shook my head and told her I hadn't. She sighed and worked the cash register; it rang a bell as she pushed the levers down hard. Eighteen shillings and six pence change! I'd forgotten just how much a pound was worth in 1967. The coins felt very big and heavy. I put them in my pocket.
"I'll bring it over when it's ready." She slid a large mug of strong tea towards me. I thanked her and took the tea to a table, watched by a hushed crowd of teenage bikers and a few girls. As I stirred my tea I looked at the boys there in the cafe - and felt my cock getting hard. For someone into leather and tight jeans this was absolute paradise. Most of the lads wore leather jackets, about half of them leather jeans. The others wore denim jeans of a colour that I'd completely forgotten about - ice blue - a similar colour to modern stone-washed ones that had faded a lot. And talk about tight! Some of them looked like they'd been applied with a paintbrush and then heat-shrunk in place. A couple of the lads looked like they wanted to come over and talk, but didn't have the bottle. With my blond hair and the tight, shiny one-piece unzipped to my navel I must have looked like something from another world to them.
I scanned the room to find the tightest jeans there, and - despite a lot of competition, found them. My mouth went dry. These were quite literally skintight ; there wasn't a single crease on them anywhere. My eyes moved slowly from his bike boots up his calves, knees, thighs, over a mouthwateringly sexy bulge that was all pushed down to his left-hand side, across his wide leather belt and up his black leather jacket to his face - and found that he was gazing at me steadily with clear blue eyes. He was about 18, with tousled black hair, and a face that was not exactly cute, not exactly good-looking, but stunningly sexy. I dropped my eyes to his crotch, held them there for a moment, then looked back at his eyes and smiled slowly at him.
He blushed slightly and looked away for about three seconds, then back at me.
And then the door opened with a crash and a couple more boys came in. They went over to a mate and muttered something excitedly while pointing to the row of bikes outside. Everyone got up and went outside. My pie and chips arrived and I started on it, waiting for them to come back...
I didn't have to wait long. "Hey mate - is that your bike out there? What the hell IS it?" That was the general meaning of what they said, although about half a dozen of them were asking me at the same time.
"It's a Suzuki GSX-R1300 Hayabusa". I ate a forkful of pie.
"Where did you get it?" "What's its top speed?" "How much was it?"
I put my fork down. "Look, it's an experimental bike and I can't tell you much about it. Sorry."
"What'll it do?"
"One hundred and ninety-five miles an hour."
They stared. "Bollocks," said one boy.
Another voice said, "Believe it, Dekka. I had a race with him and it moved faster than any bike I've ever seen. Fuck me, you've never seen anything like it..."
I looked towards the door and saw the biker I'd won the pound from earlier. We nodded to each other.
I finished my pie and chips while fielding more questions from the lads, then looked at my watch. It was almost five o'clock. I stood up, picked up my helmet (which caused more questions and hands feeling it). "I gotta go. I'll be around for a few days, so see you guys later."
They didn't want to let me go - I was bombarded with questions about the bike, the helmet, and about my leather one-piece. They'd never seen leather so flexible and tight before. Muttering what answers I could, I made my way through the throng and got onto the 'Busa. As I fastened the helmet up I noticed the boy with the tousled black hair and skintight jeans leaning against the wall, on his own and slightly apart from the rest of the lads. He was staring at me with a strange kind of urgent look on his face.
I put my gloves on and started the bike. The sound it made was totally unlike their bikes: quieter and with a jet-engine quality to it, and they shook their heads in wonder. I engaged first gear and was just about to move off when the boy with the black hair pushed his head close to mine and whispered, "39 Foundry Street". Then he was gone.
As I pulled away from the kerb there was a chorus of whistles and cheers. I smiled.
After being surrounded by so many lads in such sexy gear I was as horny as fuck, and I couldn't get that boy with the black hair out of my mind. To me, those jeans of his were lethal weapons. They were the horniest I'd ever seen in my life, and he was one of the sexiest boys I'd ever seen, too - and believe me I am a connoisseur both of sexy boys and tight jeans.
I pulled up by the Market Place, which was much quieter now, and checked the bike's fuel level. It was still practically full, but I must keep an eye on it. I had no idea if the bike would run on leaded petrol - which was all there was available in this time - but I reasoned that the safest thing to do would be to fill up when the tank was only half-empty, rather than run it low. At least a 50/50 mix might do less damage than straight leaded. Once that was gone I'd have no choice but to try running on just the local brew.
I parked up and spent an hour walking around the town looking in shop windows. The butchers had things on display I'd completely forgotten about: haslet, stuffed chine... And the latest thing in Robinsons hi-fi shop was a Bush radiogram. I had an MP3 player in my pocket that was smaller than the pick-up head of the record player in that radiogram.
I wandered down to the river and sat on the bank. The occasional car drove over the Town Bridge, and I remembered when I was very little how my mum used to bring me down here on a Saturday afternoon to watch the traffic. There were so few cars then that it was a novelty to see lots of them together. I sighed and shook my head; things were very different in 2005.
By six o'clock there was almost nobody about. It was like a ghost town. I walked back to the bike, and rode up to Foundry Street. Like the rest of the houses there, number 39 was a terrace. I came to a stop in front of it and switched the engine off. Seconds later the front door opened and the boy was standing there, looking self-conscious and awkward. I pushed my black visor up and smiled at him. He smiled back, and opened the door wider in invitation. I set the alarm, took my helmet off, and walked up the short path towards him.
He closed the door behind us. "Do you want a cup of tea? I'm Mark, by the way."
I looked at him - he was still wearing his bike boots, the leather jacket and those impossibly tight jeans, just as in the cafe. His bulge looked even bigger.
"No, no tea, thanks. Oh, and I'm Nathan." I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed down gently but firmly. When he'd sunk to his knees I held his head and pushed it into my crotch. He breathed in the smell of the leather, then put his hands on the backs of my thighs and ran his fingers over the supple black hide. I let him do that for a while, then pulled his head away gently. "Do you have a bedroom?"
He led me upstairs to a room full of bike posters, bike magazines, models of bikes, bits of bikes, and a single bed. I lay down on it with my hands behind my head, looking up at him. "Do whatever you want," I said.
He hesitated for a moment, then lowered himself onto the bed beside me. I moved over to make room. He ran his hands over my one-piece, then nuzzled his face into my crotch.
"Turn round - with your head to the bottom of the bed," I told him. He did so, and I pulled him into a loose kind of 69 position. He found the fastener at the bottom of the zip of my suit and carefully pulled it up, then eased my hard cock out. He was going to start sucking it, but I held him back. "Not just yet".
I ran my fingers over the skintight denim of his jeans. "Those jeans are incredible," I said. "Tell me why you wear them so skintight." I knew, but I wanted to heard him say it.
Mark was licking the leather over my balls. "Cos they feel good."
"Is that the only reason..?"
There was a pause, then I felt him shake his head. "No. Cos they look sexy. Show my bulge. Make people want to touch my legs. My cock."
Oh yeah. "And do many people touch you?"
He shook his head again. "No."
"Well I want to. I guided his mouth onto my cock and he began sucking enthusiastically, if inexpertly. "Slowly, Mark, slowly," I said. He slowed.
Inches from my face were the tightest, sexiest jeans I'd ever seen. I pushed my hand between his thighs and tickled his balls lightly. He giggled a little. His cock was hard and stiff, pointing downwards along his left thigh, and flattened slightly by the tension of the tight denim over it. This boy wasn't wearing anything underneath his jeans - there literally wasn't room. With my other hand I began to stroke the shaft and head slowly. He moaned in pleasure.
He was doing a good job on my cock, and I wasn't far from cumming. I continued stroking his cock through his jeans. "You are a prickteaser," I said.
"Whaddyamean?" He said from around my cock.
"Boys who wear skintight, bulging jeans to get other guys horny, and make them want to play with them, are prickteasers."
I increased the speed of my fingers on his cock a little, and concentrated on the head now. "And do you know what I do to boys who use skintight jeans to turn other guys on?" I was breathing faster, very close to cumming now.
He shook his head, still sucking.
"I teach them a lesson. I make them cum in their sexy, skintight, bulging, prickteasing jeans.... Aaaaaah FUCK!"
As I came in his mouth, my expert fingers worked on his crotch, tickling his inner thighs and balls, and wanking his cockhead through the tight, thin denim. A second after I started to cum, I felt his cock stiffen and the warmth and wetness of his spunk squirting out of the tip into his jeans.
We both collapsed onto the bed, and I closed my eyes. That was one of the best orgasms I'd ever had. I reached down and stroked his head. "Now I'll have that cup of tea, Mark," I said.
We sat and chatted for a while downstairs. I'd had no intention of telling him the truth about how I'd come to be there, but in the end I decided it was the easiest way - and if he didn't believe me, so be it. In fact he was surprisingly open to the idea, especially when I passed him my wallet and explained about the credit cards as he looked at them, and how they were used, pointing out the start and expiration dates; and when I showed him some 2005 currency.
"It's like toy money," he said, weighing it in his hand.
"Yeah. I'd forgotten how heavy the old money was," I laughed.
He asked me lots of questions: mostly about what the future was like. For someone who'd been presented with a concept as wildy improbably as a time-traveler, he seemed to have taken the idea in his stride. Finally, he asked what I was going to do, and I told him I had no idea - nor whether I was going to be able to get back.
There was something about the boy that attracted me greatly, and it wasn't just the fact that I found him unbelievably sexy; he was fun, and had a lovely personality. Boys like that, I thought, are rare. To my absolute astonishment I realised the possibility that I could get infatuated with him - so I left before that could happen. We hugged each other in the hall, and he watched me fire up the bike and drive away.
It was 7.30 by the ornate blue-and gold clock suspended from a heavy wrought-iron bracket on the wall of the butcher's shop, and I decided to have another look at my old house. I parked the bike where I'd first put it, by the entrance to the church yard and hoped no kids would interfere with it this time. I kept the helmet on - if I was going to go sneaking around the back of the house its blackness would conceal my blond hair and, together with the black one-piece, I should be able to melt into the darkness if necessary.
I was at the corner of the church when I heard footsteps and humming coming towards me. A young boy was walking up from the square. My heart almost stopped - I recognised him. It was me! I moved silently into the shadow of the church and realised I where I was: the buttress was against my side.
The footsteps came closer, and without thinking I stepped out as the boy appeared, clamped one hand over his mouth and the other over his eyes, and pulled him back into the shadows, holding him tightly against my body. I felt him go rigid, but he didn't try to struggle. I just held him there. It was an inexpressibly strange sensation - there I was, holding a younger version of myself and completing a memory I'd had for years.
The boy tried to say something, and I carefully moved my lower hand, ready to put it back if he yelled.
"Pp..please...." he was shivering with fright. "Please.... Please don't hurt me, I'm going to the pictures. Please let me go. I- I won't look back, I promise."
In spite of the emotion I felt at that moment, part of my mind was curious to try an experiment. I whispered to him reassuringly, "I'm not going to hurt you. You're a very special boy." I removed both hands, and hugged him for a moment. Keeping him facing away from me, I gently took his right hand, moved it behind him, and pressed his fingers against the leather of my crotch. I held it there for a few seconds. "Remember this, little boy." Then I let him go. He ran off without looking back. I smiled, knowing he wouldn't be concentrating on the film very much.
After he'd gone, I closed my eyes and tried to remember my original encounter with the unseen guy all those years ago. I would certainly have remembered if he had put my hand on his crotch and I'd felt leather beneath my fingers, but my memory of the event was exactly the same as it had always been: he'd held me for a short time, then had let me go. No hands on crotches. That suggested to me that I was not in the same universe as the one I'd left - if I were, then surely my memory would have changed. On the one hand that was a good thing: nothing I could do here would fuck things up for the future I knew; but on the other hand it made getting back to my own universe even more problematic. If I did manage to get to my own time at all, how would I know I was in the original universe I'd come from, and not another parallel one? Perhaps it wouldn't matter. With a sigh, and with my head spinning from all these time complications, I continued walking towards the square.
I sat on a fence at the bottom of the garden and gazed at my old house. The lights were on in the living room, and I could imagine my mum and dad sitting watching the old black-and-white Bush Television. My memories, aided by the sight in front of me, came back in more vivid detail than I could ever have imagined possible. The old white gate: the number of times I'd gone running through that, slamming it behind me, on missions that had been so important then, but were lost in the mists of time now. Helping my dad to paint it one summer evening. The lawn I'd dug holes in and turned into a putting green - and the slapping mum had given me when she'd found out...
I stayed there for a long time.
It was too dark to see my watch when I got up and went back to the bike. The church clock struck 10 o'clock and I thought I'd go to the treehouse and get some sleep. See what tomorrow brought.
I managed to climb the tree, even in the almost-darkness, though I did bash my elbow on a branch. I'd taken the precaution of calling in at the public toilets on the way - there was nowhere to go out here, and I didn't fancy wiping my bum with leaves. I settled down on the cardboard and fell to sleep surprisingly quickly.
When I woke up it was raining gently, the drops making loud noises on the wooden house. Blinking the sleep from my eyes I rubbed my stiff muscles and stretched. I was hungry. Nine thirty, Saturday morning. I wondered what I was going to do today.
After an excellent breakfast in the Green Hill cafe (one shilling and fourpence) and I felt a lot better as I made my way down the steps and back to the Market Place where I'd left the bike. There was a small group of kids gathered round it (the 'Busa was the best boy-magnet I'd ever seen) and I had to fend off the usual eager questions, but I was soon aboard and riding off to envious looks. I spent the next few hours visiting old haunts: the cafe in the woods where I'd had several early birthday parties; my old schools; a couple of the dens my mates and I had made in the abandoned quarry or hidden by the tall grass in the riverbanks. It brought a lump to my throat to see those old places again; they had been so important to me then.
One place I was eager to revisit was a disused workers' hut at the side of the railway line. I parked the bike and walked along the little path at the side of the field - and stood looking in amazement. A big black locomotive thundered past slowly pulling a collection of trucks filled with cereals. I'd forgotten there would still be steam trains here! The noise was deafening as it went past in a cloud of black smoke, its wheels clanking over the points. But the thing that really took me back to 1967 was the smell: just like roasting chestnuts. I'd forgotten all about that. I grinned as I watched it clunk majestically away into the distance.
The hut was a small black thing with its door hanging off the hinges and nothing inside except for a broken cast-iron stove. The reason I'd wanted to come here was that all those years ago I'd brought a boy here, tied his hands up to the beam in the ceiling, put my hand up the leg of his short trousers, and tickled him. That was the first time I'd ever tickled anyone sexually, and the first time I'd ever made a boy cum. That lad had been sexy. I closed my eyes and recalled the memory in detail - how he'd squealed, how he'd struggled, and how he'd squirted his spunk into my hand. He'd liked it so much that we'd done it again several times in the following weeks. When I opened my eyes again, I had a hard-on. I wondered how Mark would look tied to that beam; his legs, in those skintight blue jeans, kicking as I tickled the fuck out of him.
By the time I got back to the bike I was hungry again. High as the value of the pound was, the change in my pocket wasn't going to last me forever - and I had to find somewhere better than the tree house to stay. That got me thinking again about how the hell I was going to get out of here and back to my own time. I had no idea. I rode out of town again the way I'd arrived, looking for that black light and soundless crack - but nothing. With a sigh I turned around and headed back into town.
One place I hadn't been to yet was the biker cafe on North Street. It was on the outskirts of town, built in an American style to look like an old railway truck. I hadn't gone into it often when I was young, for fear of getting beaten up by the big boys, but whenever I'd passed the place my eyes had been drawn like magnets to the lads in studded black leather who were always dossing around there.
A dozen or so bikes were standing on the concrete outside - mostly BSAs, Triumphs and Nortons. Knowing I was almost certainly going to get questioned again, I parked the 'Busa out of direct sight behind a hedge before going up the wooden steps and into the cafe.
"And Then He Kissed Me" by the Crystals - one of my favourite records - was blasting out of the jukebox. To my left and right, tables on chrome legs were set by the windows, each with four red vinyl-topped stools arranged around it. A counter with more red-topped stools ran three-quarters the length of the long room, on which sat a highly polished chrome Coke machine with a big glass dome, and a Gaggia coffee machine. I went over, sat on one of the stools and ordered a cheeseburger with chips, and a Coke from a harassed-looking man with tattoos. The Coke arrived immediately, and I paid the man for the meal and took the glass to one of the vacant window seats.
Placing my helmet out of sight under the table, I sipped the Coke and looked around. Oh fuck. There were a couple of girls over by the pinball machines at the end of the room by the toilets, but the rest of the clientele was male - and all but two of them were in full black leather. The two who weren't, wore those sexy ice-blue jeans.
My cheeseburger arrived. I smothered the chips with red sauce, and tucked in - I was starving, and it was gooood. While I ate I scanned the room, looking at the boys and imagining what I would do with them if I got them in my playroom back in my own time. The leathers they wore seemed thicker and stiffer than I was used to, and most of their jeans were loose-fitting. Studded belts were everywhere. Most of the boys had medium-length hair (there were a few with longer hair) parted at the side, and had scarves loosely wrapped around their necks or hanging down over their leather jackets. All wore big chunky bike boots with white socks over their tops. To me, used as I was to state-of-the-art one-piece Dainese-type leathers, these boys looked sort of primitive - and unbelievably sexy. I found myself gazing at one lad's crotch in particular: his jeans were quite loose, but the way he was sitting the leather curved out into what looked like an enormous cock-bulge. I knew it was mostly air inside, but the thought of getting that boy hogtied, gripping his hard, horny cock through that loose leather and bringing him repeatedly to the brink of orgasm - and then stopping just before he could cum, over and over again, made my own cock grow until it was stretching my leathers obscenely.
"Mind if I sit here mate?"
I looked up. A lad with short, wavy hair parted in the middle was stood by my table. His leather jeans were tight , and his eyes were rivetted to my bulging crotch. My radar was blinking - he was gay.
I smiled. "No, course not. Go ahead."
He sat down and put his cup of coffee on the table. It smelled good.
"Those are ace leathers, mate."
"Thanks," I said, pleasantly surprised that he hadn't asked me where I'd got them.
"Never seen leather so thin or shiny. Or as tight."
I smiled. He was cute. "I love tight leather," I said. Well why not? I thought.
"Me too." He paused for a while, then asked, uncertainly, "mind if I ask you a very personal question?"
I shook my head. "Be my guest".
He licked his lips, then leaned a bit closer to me. "Do you ever wear leather jeans without anything underneath?"
I chuckled. "I never wear anything under my leathers." I was getting very horny indeed. I added quietly, "I love to feel my cock sliding against the black leather. I've got some jeans at home that bring me off when I'm walking along if I'm not careful..."
He gave a sort of quiet moan. "Oh yeah..."
"Your jeans are the tightest I've seen since I've been here," I said.
He smiled."Yeah. I wish the lads wouldn't wear them so loose."
In for a penny, I thought. "Oh I don't know," I said, gazing at a particularly inviting crotch on the other side of the room and imagining my hand closing gently around the stiff cock inside, "It's often easier to milk a boy in loose leather jeans..."
He frowned, clearly not familiar with the term, then his mouth opened and he stared. "You... you mean..." His voice dropped to a whisper, "toss him off?"
"Uh-huh," I smiled. "I'm an expert at milking boys. I can make them cum quickly and helplessly - or very, very slowly..."
He swallowed. Clearly this kind of straight talking was not a common occurrence in 1967. After a while, I felt his knee touch mine under the table. "Would you like to... milk... me?"
"Oh yeah," I said, "I'd like that very much. There are quite a few other things I'd like to do to you as well"
He smiled nervously. "I know a few more lads who would like that too..."
"That's fine with me - as long as they're boys, and they're in black leather or skintight jeans I'll be happy to tie them up and milk them."
"Tie them up? You do that?"
"It's necessary. When a boy needs to cum badly enough he'll do anything to bring himself off. You have to tie them up so they can't."
He swallowed again. "Give me a minute." He got up and talked to first one, then to a second lad in the cafe, separately and quietly. When they looked over at me I hooked my thumb in my bullet belt and stroked my fingers slowly over my bulging cock. After a few minutes he brought the other two over and they sat down at my table.
"This is Gareth, and this is Paul," said the boy. "Oh, and I'm Stu, by the way."
"Nathan. Pleased to meet you."
Gareth was hot: short black spiky hair, open leather jacket, and leather jeans that creaked wonderfully. The other lad, Paul, was slightly older - probably in his early twenties - with brown hair, blue eyes and a ferret-like face. His leather jacket was zipped right up, and it was covered with chrome studs. He wore two studded belts, and his leather jeans had a double row of studs down the outsides of the legs. The bulge between his thighs was the biggest I'd seen here.
Gareth leaned towards me across the table. "So is it true that you like to tie lads up and nak them?"
"Nak?" That wasn't a term I'd come across before.
"Nak. Jack them off."
I smiled. "Amongst other things. I like to suck a boy's cock, or fuck him if he likes that... but my favourite thing is to get a lad helpless - tied up, gagged, blindfolded, and then to tease him and tickle him to the edge of cumming, very slowly - and then stop. Over and over again. And the thing that turns me on most of all is making a boy cum in his jeans - especially if he's struggling like fuck to stop me."
Paul frowned. "Why would anyone not want to cum?"
I smiled. "Are you ticklish?"
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"Simple question - are you ticklish? If you were tied up helpless and couldn't stop it, and someone who was expert at tickling boys was working on you, would you be ticklish?"
"Oh fuck. Yeah. Very. Why?"
"Because I am dangerously good at tickling boys. And if you knew that the moment you let yourself cum, I'd tickle-torture you slowly, unbearably and mercilessly, while the other lads watched you writhing and begging, would you still let me make you cum?"
"No fucking chance, mate!"
"Well that's what I do to boys.
Gareth leaned forward. "How do you tie them up?"
I thought about it for a moment. "Depends what facilities there are. Spreadeagled to a bed, or to a frame of some sort, or to a motorbike... or just hogtied on the floor. I love hogtying lads - they struggle like fuck in that. And I like them blindfolded."
"Why?" Asked Stu.
"Several reasons: they can't see to protect themselves; it makes them feel a lot more helpless; and it's humiliating." I looked at the three of them. "Stand up for a second, will you please?"
They hesitated for a moment, then stood up. All three had rock-hard erections in their jeans. "OK, thanks," I said, smiling. "Just checking." They sat down again, looking a bit embarrassed.
An idea occurred to me. "I'll tell you what I'd like to do to you three. I'd like to get you hogtied, side by side, and then work on you to make you cum in your jeans. The one who loses control and cums first will get tickled for ten minutes afterwards; the second one for five minutes. The one who holds out the longest won't get tickled at all. After all that, if you want to, you can get your revenge on me." I smiled.
"Deal," said Gareth immediately. "Piece of cake. I got good self-control."
The others nodded. "Let's do it!" Said Paul.
"I'm looking forward to working on you, you bastard," said Stu, slowly. "Anybody who gets lads tied up and blindfolded to toss them off needs teaching a fucking lesson."
Gareth looked at me. "We can go to my place - there's rope there, and plenty of space."
"Ok," I said. "Let's go." Then as an afterthought, I said: "and there's one condition - no questions about my bike. Ok?"
They frowned, not knowing what the hell I was on about, and nodded. "Ok."
It turned out that Stu didn't have a bike of his own, so I took him on the back of mine - much to his delight and the envy of the others.
Gareth's place was a flat in the same street where Mark, the boy in those impossibly tight denim jeans, whom I'd met yesterday - lived. In fact it was only a few doors further up the road. I parked the 'Busa beside Gareth's Bonny and Paul's BSA, and followed the lads into the house. Gareth's flat was the whole first floor of the small house, up some creaking stairs, and through a door which he apparently didn't keep locked. He was right - there was lots of space. He got some rope out of a cupboard and handed it to me. I trussed the boys up one by one, on the carpet of the living room - booted feet tied tightly together, wrists tied behind their backs, and then pulled their legs up behind them and knotted the ropes tightly together. "Are the neighbours in?" I asked.
Gareth shook his head. "Only old Mrs Pike, and she's as deaf as a post."
"Good. No need to gag you then." I stood with my hands on my hips looking at the boys at my feet - with my fetishes, they were a perfect vision: three helpless, sexy, horny boys in black leather, and I was going to make each one shoot his spunk into those leather jeans. "Now, blindfolds..." I looked around and found a couple of black scarves hanging by the door, and a leather facemask - the type that goes over the nose, mouth and chin for biking. I tried that on Gareth - it worked perfectly; he wouldn't be able to see a thing - and then had a very unfair idea. For Gareth's benefit, I made sounds like I was tying the scarves over the eyes of the other two, but in fact I didn't. They would be able to see, and Gareth was the only one who couldn't. Stu and Paul smiled, and turned over so they could see what I was going to do to Gareth.
I knelt behind him, and ran my fingers lightly over his jeans. The leather was shiny, and very loose over his crotch. I could slide his hard cock easily from side to side under it. I tickled his balls and inner thighs for a while, making him moan quietly with pleasure.
After a few minutes I transferred my attentions to Stu. His jeans were tight, and I couldn't move his cock about inside them, so I worked on his balls with one hand and scratched my fingernails up and down the shaft and over the head of his cock with the other. I squeezed it and rubbed it. This boy was close to cumming already, so I moved to Paul.
Paul had a hungry look on his face. He'd been watching everything and that had got him very turned on. He knew it wouldn't take much for me to make him cum, so when my hand approached his crotch, he tried to roll over to get away from it but I pushed his knees roughly and rolled him back, then thrust my hand between his thighs and grabbed his cock through the thick black leather. "Get off my cock you fucking bastard!" He yelled, but he couldn't get away from my hand. I knew I could make him cum in seconds if I wanted - a few firm strokes would do it - but I had other plans. I stopped before he came, took my hand out, and went back to Gareth.
Gareth's hard cock was tenting his jeans out into a huge pyramid between his thighs. Knowing the boy couldn't see anything, I silently positioned my fingers around - but not touching - the head of his cock, and then, suddenly, I gripped it and rubbed the leather over the sensitive head. "Don't cum," I said. "Remember - you have good control..." He swore and rolled over fast, his cock slipping out of my grip. I pounced on him, holding him immobile with the weight of my body, and found his cock again with my hand. "Gonna make you cum in your jeans, boy," I whispered, "and then I'm going to tickle the fuck outta you." I had the shaft of his cock in my hand, and I placed my thumb over the head, then I milked him fast and hard through the black leather. He was almost there - I could feel it - but he was resisting like fuck. I moved so that I could get at his balls as well, and tickled them with my other hand. He rolled over again, away from me. Perfect. I grabbed his cock with one hand and worked the other between his leather-jeaned thighs from the back. He pressed his thighs together as tightly as he could to keep it out, but it burrowed its way in inch by inch until my fingers touched his balls. Then I worked on his cockhead mercilessly, gripping it hard between my fingers and sliding the black leather up and down over it until I knew he was on the very edge of cumming. Suddenly I pulled off him and went back to Stu, leaving Gareth struggling and swearing.
I brought Stu to the edge again, then did the same to Paul. "OK." I said, "you're all three close - now let's see who can hold out against me..."
I got Stu's cock in one hand and Paul's in the other, and worked on them very slowly and lightly for a while, keeping them close, but being very careful not to let either of them cum. Then I returned to Gareth.
I positioned my hands, then attacked, gripping his balls with one hand and the whole of his cock with the other, and using the loose leather jeans to milk him. I could feel the bumps and ridges of his hard, horny cock moving through my fingers as the black leather slid irresistibly and smoothly on a film of precum up and down his cock. "FUCK YOU, YOU BASTARD!" He yelled, and came into his jeans. I continued to milk him until he was dry.
"Gareth's cum." I said. Then I turned to the others. "It's between you two now."
Watching me work on Gareth had kept Stu and Paul very close to cumming, and as I took their cocks into my hands, Paul came immediately. Stu followed a couple of seconds later, and I was in heaven as I felt their cocks jerking and their hot, sticky leatherboy spunk shooting helplessly into their sexy leather jeans beneath my fingers.
I gave them a minute to recover, then I untied Stu. "Well done," I said to him as I undid the ropes. "You held out longest - just. Now, help me torture Gareth."
We knelt over the blindfolded boy facing each other, me at the hogtied biker's feet. I unzipped Gareth's jacket. "OK," I said to Stu. "you work on his armpits, sides and chest; I'll take his legs, thighs and stomach. And dig those fingers in - especially on his sides. Go!"
Stu attacked the boy with enthusiasm. He was a natural, using the lad's inability to see, to get him from unexpected directions. I smiled as I got to work on Gareth's knees, squeezing the muscles above them and spidering my hands up the fronts of his thighs. I worked my fingers into the folds of leather behind his knees, and then got him right up the sides of his balls, tickling furiously. Those spots seemed to be some of the most unbearably effective on him - until I dig my thumbs into the creases of his groin. Until then he'd been struggling and swearing and laughing hysterically, but when I did that he went ballistic, yelling and screaming. "Gag him," I said, worried about sounds being heard from outside. Stu clamped his hand over the helpless boy's mouth, and I got my hands into the pockets of Gareth's leather jeans to make it even worse when I worked on his groin.
After ten minutes exactly I called a halt, untied Gareth, and stood up. He was shaking. "You fucking bastards," he said slowly, but he was grinning. We went over to where Paul was still tied up. He had a hard-on again from watching us work on Gareth. "Hang on," said Gareth, "you didn't fucking blindfold them!"
"That's right. Only you."
"You unfair cunt. I'm gonna get you for that."
"We have Paul to work on first. Stu, you do what you did before, but just his armpits - and keep him gagged. Gareth, take his sides. Ok, let's tickle the fucker!"
We set to work on Paul. I explored all the places I had on Gareth, and found that Paul's weakness was the insides of his thighs. "Gareth, can you keep his knees apart please?"
He forced the boy's legs apart and jammed his lower arm between them, using it like a spreader-bar against the insides of his knees. Now I could work on Paul's thighs and he couldn't close them together. I kneaded the muscles, working my hand up and down; I tickled his balls, and on an impulse I gripped his cock and started to wank him again. When Paul came for the second time, Stu was tickling his armpits with his free hand, Gareth was sadistically probing his sides with his free hand; my left hand was working on the muscles of his inner thighs, and my right was milking him. It took all of our combined strength to hold the boy down; he was screaming and writhing so violently. When he came his entire body went rigid, then he collapsed back onto the carpet.
"Ok, that's enough," I said. Gareth didn't want to stop, but I made him. We untied Paul, and helped him up to a sitting position.
"Oh fuck," said Gareth, "that was something else."
Stu blew out a breath. "You're not kidding."
"How about a cup of tea?" I said.
Gareth looked at me and smiled slowly. "Erm, I think we have a little unfinished business..."
"Oh yeah," Paul nodded. "Revenge..."
Me and my big mouth. Why the hell had I said they could return the favour on me? "Perhaps later o..."
Before I could finish, Gareth jumped me. "GET THE FUCKER, LADS!"
I was underneath a pile of sweaty boys in spunky leathers, and I couldn't move. Somehow one of them got my feet tied together, and then they grabbed my my wrists. "Onto the bed!" They lifted me bodily and threw me onto the double bed, then - inexpertly but nevertheless inescapably - tied me spreadeagled to its corners.
Gareth rummaged in a drawer and produced a black bag. "Made it myself to keep one of my helmets in," he said. They held me while he got it over my head - it was a loose fit and I could breathe ok - but I couldn't see a fucking thing. "Ok lads, let's leave him to worry while we have that cuppa tea."
They left me lying there, listening to the kettle being boiled, cups clinking, and tea being drunk. Then I heard them whispering to each other. Damn this bag over my head. I tried to work it off but I couldn't. What were they doing?
I found out soon enough. They started by running their hands all over my body, feeling the leather one-piece. A few moments later this turned to gentle, erotic tickling and teasing. A hand was running up and down my cock; another was tickling my balls; someone was teasingly stroking my inner thighs; there were fingers on my chest and sides and stomach - and then, unexpectedly, at some unseen signal from one of them, they started to tickle me hard and unbearably. One of them was kneeling astride my head, and suddenly the blindfolding bag was pulled off and instead I found my face pushed into the pillow by a jeather-jeaned perineum. The leather smelled wonderful. Whichever boy it was, the underside of his cock bulge was resting on my mouth.
Being tickled is something I can't stand, but it's also something that makes me cum very quickly if it's combined with work on my cock. And that's exactly what the lads were doing to me. Fingers were rubbing my cockhead through my tight leather suit while the others tickled the life out of me.
Apparently I wasn't struggling enough - the spreadeagled position made that fairly impossible - because I felt the ropes on my ankles being undone. With this extra freedom I was able to kick and move much more - but they held me down, allowing me to move my legs when they wanted me to be able to, and holding them immobile when they didn't. My instinctive reaction was to curl up into a tight ball, and they let me do this occasionally, but then pulled my legs down again so that someone could get their hand back onto my cock or between my thighs. It was like struggling in treacle - I felt I should be able to protect myself but they made very sure I couldn't. The effect of all this was to make things a thousand times worse for me. The tickling was excruciatingly intense - I was yelling and laughing and begging them to stop - and I felt myself rapidly approaching orgasm. I was quite sure they had no intention of stopping when I came, and the thought of this torture being continued after an orgasm scared the fuck out of me. So I tried to avoid cumming: I did everything I could to get away from their hands; I willed myself not to get close. And the effect of that was, simply, to make me cum. Being milked when I'm trying to stop it has always had the reverse effect on me - it makes me lose control immediately.
With a hoarse yell, I came. could feel my cock pumping spunk into my leather one-piece as I struggled and fought and worked on the leather crotch of whoever it was that was sitting on my face with my tongue and teeth. It was a shatteringly intense orgasm.
To my complete surprise, they did stop after they'd milked every last drop out of my throbbing cock - but they didn't untie me. They left me lying exhausted on the bed while they chatted for a while. Soon Paul and Stu left, each smiling at me and saying see you again soon.
Gareth closed the door behind them, then came to the bed. He pulled up a chair, sat down and lit a cigarette. He looked down at me thoughtfully, and blew a plume of smoke towards me. "Want some?"
I nodded, and sucked at the cigarette while he held it between my lips.
"So," he said, after a while. "You're a bit of a mystery, aren't you?"
I looked at him but didn't say anything.
"That bike of yours. What is it?"
I groaned inwardly. "It's experimental. I can't tell you anything about it, I'm afraid."
"'Experimental'? Hmm... Doesn't look like anything I've seen before. And this helmet," he picked up my Simpson and inspected it. "What's it made of?"
"Fibreglass," I said.
"Fibreglass? That's not possible. I know about such things, believe me. What is it really?"
"It is fibreglass."
"Hmm. We don't seem to be getting very far here." He got up, unzipped his leather jacket and took it off, then pulled off his teeshirt. He had a beautiful body, and his skin contrasted wonderfully with the black of his leather jeans. He was a very sexy boy indeed. He stretched luxuriously, then ran his fingers slowly and teasingly over his crotch and thighs while looking at me with a sexy smile on his face. I felt my cock getting hard again. There was a cupboard at the side of the room, and he rooted in it, coming back with a Pifco vibrator in his hand. He plugged it in and held it up for me to see. "Ever seen one of these before?"
I nodded. I had one almost identical to it. Mine had made more boys cum helplessly than I'd had hot dinners.
He switched it on and the room was filled with an insistent buzzing. Sitting down again, he leaned forward, rested his arms on the bed, and touched the vibrating head to my cock for a moment. I closed my eyes and moaned. My cock stiffened to full erection in seconds at the irresistible touch of that thing. I was well aware that if he kept it there I would cum very quickly. "Tell me, do you fancy me?"
"Oh fuck yes," I groaned.
"You like leather jeans, don't you...?" He touched the machine to my cock again for a second.
"You like boys, don't you?"
"Oh fuck yes."
"And you like sexy boys in shiny, horny, studded leather jeans, don't you...?"
"If I said you could do anything at all that you wanted to me, what would that be?" The vibrator touched my cock again.
"Oh shit." I gazed at him sitting there, at his sexy face, his muscular young body, his black leather jeans... "I'd - I'd kiss you and lick you all over and bury my face in your leather jeans and get your cock out and suck you off..."
"You can do all of that." Another touch of the vibrator. "I'll let you do that. I've got a pair of leather jeans with a hole in the back so you could fuck me in them if you wanted - you could fuck a sexy biker boy in leather jeans... You could tie me up, gag me, do whatever you want to me..." The devilish vibrator made contact again. My cock was straining inside my one-piece and I badly needed to cum again. "You can do whatever you want to me. All you have to do is answer my questions - in full, and truthfully."
He kept the vibrator on my cock a little longer this time and I knew I was very close indeed.
"So. let's start again, shall we? Where did you get that bike?"
I closed my eyes and sighed. I was going to have to tell him - he could sit there all night and torment me with that fucking vibrator - and after all, I'd already told the boy in the impossibly tight jeans yesterday. "Ok, I'll tell you - but I warn you, you will not believe me."
He nodded slowly. "Try me."
"I bought the bike at a bike shop in Leeds."
This was the one. "August, 2004." I looked at him. "I'm from the future, Gareth."
He gazed at me, his head tilted slightly to one side, then nodded. "That's better," he said. "Go on. Tell me everything."
I told him the whole thing: how I'd got up that morning in 2005; decided to go for a ride to Denfort and see my old home town again after all those years; I told him about the black light and the silent crack as I entered the town; I told him everything I'd done since I'd been here, and that I had no idea how I'd got here or how I was going to get back. All through this he kept touching the vibrator to my cock. It made it difficult to concentrate, but I managed.
When I'd finished he blew a long breath through puffed-out cheeks. "That is some story." He switched the vibrator off and put it down. "But I've seen your bike and that is certainly not from now." He shook his head. "I may be mad, but I believe you. Gareth unfastened the ropes holding me to the bed, then got a couple of bottles of beer out of the fridge. He handed me one. I was still as horny as fuck from the vibrator, but the beer looked very inviting.
"Have you got a razor I can borrow?" I had a stubble that was getting irritatingly long.
He pointed to a door. "In the bathroom. Help yourself. Have a shower if you want - looks like you could do with one."
I grinned and put the bottle down. "Now that is a wonderful idea. I'll have the beer when I've done."
While I was sat on the loo I heard Gareth talking to someone on the phone.
After making use of the facilities and a hot shower, I felt a lot better. I picked up the beer and sat in one of the armchairs looking at Gareth. He'd put his leather jacket back on over his bare chest and looked even sexier. "So, are you gay?" I asked him.
"Gay? Oh you mean queer. Queer, straight, bi - whatever. I just like sex."
"And you're into leather?"
"Are many of the lads in the cafes like you?"
He took a gulp from the beer bottle. "Some. There's a few 'gay' ones, but even most of the others'll play, if you get them on their own. A lot of them like being tied up. Not many of 'em would say they're 'into leather' if you asked them, but half of 'em have bikes so they can wear the gear rather than the other way around." He chuckled. "There's one or two who wear the gear and don't even have bikes."
"Like Stu." He finished his beer and lay back on the settee, looking at me. "You're a fucking sexy guy for your age."
"I met myself yesterday. Fourteen years old."
"Ha. Did you play with yourself?" He laughed.
"Hey listen. A mate's having a bit of a get-together tonight. Thought you might be interested."
"What kind of get-together?"
"Queer. Bikers, leatherboys, that sort of thing."
"Are you going?"
"Nah. My girlfriend's coming round tonight." He smiled lewdly.
"Ok, thanks. Where is it?"
"Little street at the back of the railway station. Used to be a warehouse but they're making flats out of it. Well they were, but they've run out of money for it. Only one of the flats is occupied - and the guy who lives there uses some of the empty space for playing. Has these parties now and then. Can't miss the building: it's got an old rusty crane outside. Anyway you'll see the bikes. Things usually kick off about 11-ish."
I looked at my watch: it was just after 6. Thoughts of the hard floor in the treehouse surfaced. "Don't suppose you know anyone who could put me up for the night? I've been sleeping in a treehouse and it's not good."
"Oh if you go to the do tonight you'll find someone. No problem."
I raised my eyebrows. "Oh. Ok. Thanks."
"What you using for money?"
I told him about the race with the biker and that I'd won a pound.
"That's not gonna last you very long. Tell you what, take me for a spin on that bike of yours and I'll give you a couple of quid to be going on with."
I smiled. "You sure?"
"Well ok then!"
We grabbed our lids and headed down to the bike. He cooed over it and stroked it lovingly. "It looks like some kind of bird of prey."
"It's called a 'Hayabusa'. I think that is some kind of bird of prey in Japanese."
What's its top speed?"
I told him.
"Fuck me! Jeee-zus!"
We cruised out of town and headed towards Gosden - a town some twenty miles away. The road was originally a Roman road, and I knew there was a 10-mile piece of it that was ruler-straight. I also knew that the National Speed Limit hadn't come in yet - there was no speed limit outside the 30 zone. I kept the speed down until we got to it, then I opened the 'Busa up full and prayed.
In spite of having had the bike for a year, I'd never red-lined it before. I did then. Two-up, we got to 186 miles per hour on the straight. When we slowed down to a more reasonable speed at the end of the straight Gareth let out a yell of exhilaration. "YEAAAAHHH!!!" He squeezed my waist.
We got to the outskirts of Gosden and I turned around. "Gonna have to take it a bit easier on the way back," I shouted over my shoulder, "this bike uses a kind of fuel you don't have here. I'll have to mix your petrol with it sooner or later, but I'd rather it was later. Don't know if it'll fuck the bike up."
He gave my waist a short squeeze in understanding, and we rode back to Denfort at about 80. About a mile before the beginning of the town, he dropped his hands to my crotch and played with my cock through my leathers for a while until we passed the "Welcome to Denfort" sign. We pulled up at his flat and he looked at his watch. "That was brilliant! Thanks. I'm gonna have to get ready for Carol, so see you later." He put a five-pound note into my hand.
"That's a lot of money," I said.
He smiled and tapped me on the top of my crash helmet. "Worth it. It's not every day I get to ride on a bike from the future. Don't worry about it."
I thanked him, and watched him open the house door. He turned before he closed it. "See you about. Have a good time tonight."
I nodded, pulled my visor down, and rode off.
A glance in the tank told me it was about half-full; probably a good time to risk filling up. I had about three hours to kill before the 'do', so I found a petrol station and was about to help myself when I remembered that in these days it wasn't self-service. "Don't suppose you've got any unleaded petrol, have you?" I asked the attendant.
He frowned. "Unleaded? That's American isn't it? Nothing like that. Just diesel or four-star."
"Ok. fill her up with four-star then please."
Thankfully he wasn't a talkative type. All he said was "ta," when I paid him. Taking a deep breath, I switched the bike on and pressed the starter. The engine kicked into life just the same as usual. I listened for odd sounds, but everything seemed ok. I made a mental note to keep an eye on the temperature gauge in case it started running hot.
From then on I took things very easy on the bike. No more races or speed demonstrations for boys - no matter how sexy they were, I told myself. I went back to the Cross Keys Cafe on East street and ordered a meal. The place was half-full of very interesting lads and I felt my cock getting hard again. It still had unfinished business from Gareth's vibrator. Most of them didn't take much notice of me - it was almost dark outside, and I'd parked the bike down a side alley so it didn't attract quite so much attention - but halfway through my fish and chips, Mark, the boy in the impossibly tight jeans, from yesterday, came in. He saw me immediately and sat down opposite, smiling. "Hiya Nathan," he said.
It was worryingly good to see him again. "Hi Mark. How's things?"
"Ok ta. You going to the warehouse tonight?"
I blinked, surprised for some reason that he knew about it. "Yeah, thought I might go take a look."
His grin got bigger. "Great!" He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but then had thought better of it.
He looked down for a moment, seemingly embarrassed, then his eyes flicked back to my face. "Well... You probably wouldn't want to, but..."
"WHAT?" I laughed.
"Well, would you take me there as your boy?"
"My boy? What would that mean?"
"Oh nothing much - you know, take me on your bike, you could put a collar and chain on me if you like, do things to me there..." He fizzled out and his face went red.
I thought about it. It might be good to have someone who knew the place, and also I liked the idea of having such a sexy, gorgeous boy in tow. But... "I could do that, Mark, but I might see some other guys there I'd want to play with."
"Oh that's ok. No problem." His eyes dropped again. "If I'm honest, I just want to be seen with you, and that bike. And I want to be with you. "
I smiled at him. "Ok, I'll take you. But don't get territorial about me, ok?"
"Don't think you own me or that I have any obligation to you when we're there."
"No, that's fine. Just arriving with you on that bike would be enough." He paused and smiled coyly, "I'll wear those sexy jeans - they're skintight , remember? Nothing underneath but my hard, horny cock. And if you happen to feel like playing with me in them..."
I gave him a lopsided smile. "You, boy, are a prickteaser."
"Yep," he beamed, "so you said last time, as you were making me cum..."
"Ok. I'll pick you up at 10:45. That ok?"
"See you then!" He got up and went to the counter, ordered himself a burger and a coffee, then took it to another table, letting me sit by myself. I noticed, though, that he sat so that he could see me. In fact although he tried hard to conceal the fact, he never took his eyes off me once until I'd finished my meal and left.
There's not a lot to do in a town like Denfort at 8 o'clock at night - even on a Saturday - I sat for a while looking at my old house again, then went and got a drink in one of the pubs. Sitting there in my leathers I attracted a few curious looks from the locals, but thankfully nobody felt the need to talk to me.
At 10:45 I rode up to Foundry Street to pick Mark up. He was already waiting for me at the front door. His hair was combed into a fringe and he looked delicious in his tight white teeshirt, leather jacket, and those prickteasing jeans tucked into fuck-off bike boots with white socks rolled over the tops. "Hiya," I said. "Get on." As he pulled his crash helmet on I noticed he'd got a studded collar around his neck, to which was attached a length of chain. The chain disappeared into his jacket.
The bike rocked as he got onto the pillion seat, and I felt his arms go around my waist. He hugged me.
I drove slowly through town to the railway station. "Turn down here," said Mark, pointing to the left. I saw the rusty crane ahead, and then about a dozen bikes parked in a yard. Their owners were stood around chatting and watching the new arrivals. I brought the bike to a stop at the end of the line of bikes and killed the engine.
"Hi Mark. What the fuck is that?"
Mark beamed as the lads gathered around the Hayabusa. It gleamed menacingly black in the glow of the single streetlight. He introduced me to everyone. I knew that the only three names I would remember were Chas and Mike - either one of whom I would have cheerfully got on my knees for right there and then and licked their leather jeans - and Froggy, a small, cute boy in tight white jeans. I instantly got an irresistible urge to tie that boy up and rape him very slowly indeed. It looked like it was going to be an interesting night... Someone handed me a bottle of beer, and we stood around chatting for a while in the warm July evening. I fended off the usual questions about the 'Busa with the 'it's experimental' line. A couple more bikes arrived , and after a bit there was a general move into the building and upstairs.
The guy who lived in the flat here was named Chris. He was a stereotypical leather queen - fiftyish, in chaps and a Muir cap - but he seemed nice. He told us to help ourselves to the beer in the kitchen, that the playspace was on the next floor up, the loos were through that door, to have a good time, and please not to break anything.
To Mark's delight I took the collar chain out of his jacket and led him upstairs. The space was extensive: a single large room with brick walls, concrete floors, and dim red lighting. Old settees and armchairs were scattered about here and there, and between them and along the walls stood several items of gear for playing: A St.Andrew's Cross, a bondage table, a couple of horses of different types, and various other devices I couldn't see properly from where I stood. Ropes, chains, whips, paddles and assorted toys were displayed in a cabinet near the door.
I sat down in an armchair and made Mark kneel between my knees, facing away from me, pulling him back so he was leaning against my crotch. I got myself comfortable, then extended my right arm and reached down so that I could tease his cock through his jeans. It was already hard. We stayed like that for a while, watching the others moving about, chatting to one another, and getting scenes organised.
I'd noticed Froggy - the deliciously cute boy I'd seen downstairs when we arrived - wandering around on his own. I really wanted to play with him, but for the moment I was stuck here with Mark. Mark was moaning and wriggling gently between my thighs as I played with his bulging cock, and for a moment I considered being cruel and making him cum so that he'd lose interest for a while, which would free me to go after Froggy. But I didn't have the heart. Mark was lovely, and from our earlier encounters I'd got the impression that nobody much wanted to play with him. I hugged him for a moment with my free hand, the fingers of my other hand continuing to scratch and tease his cock through the skintight denim of his jeans. And then I felt him thrusting his hips. I froze my fingers, but it was too late - the boy was cumming. Knowing there's nothing worse than fingers that stop just when you've started to cum, I gripped his cock and rubbed.
"I'm sorry, Mark," I said to him when he'd finished shooting, "That wasn't intentional. I didn't mean for you to cum just yet."
He looked up at me and beamed. "That's all right. No problem. Thank you. That was wonderful." He adjusted his position, then turned around to face me. He looked up at me - his blue eyes as black as coal in the dim reddish glow of the room. "Go and find somebody else. I'll be here for you if you want, later."
I felt a lump in my throat. "You sure? I don't mind staying with you - in fact I'd like that a lot."
"Nah. You're new here. Go and play. I'm happy watching."
I looked at him.
He nodded. "Really."
I smiled, lowered my head and gave him a kiss on the lips. We got up, and he took my place in the chair. "I'll see you later. Don't you dare go away. Ok?"
He laughed. "Don't worry, I won't."
I got myself two bottles of beer from the kitchen and wandered slowly back, looking for Froggy. I found him over in the corner, leaning against the wall with his ankles crossed, watching a guy tied to a horse getting his arse beaten by Chris, the one who lived in the flat downstairs. Froggy was about eighteen, as cute as a button with jet black, short curly hair. His heavily-studded leather jacket was open to the waist, and he was wearing mouthwateringly tight white jeans with bike boots over them. I hadn't seen a boy wearing white jeans for years. I went up to him.
"Hi Froggy, I'm Nathan. Like a beer?" I offered him the second bottle.
His eyes flicked to me, and he looked like a startled rabbit for a moment, then he smiled. "Hi. Thanks." We both took a glug from our bottles.
"You're the one with that amazing black bike, aren't you?"
I nodded. "Yeah." Then, without further ado I put my hand at the back of his neck, pulled him to me, and kissed him deeply. His eyes closed and his tongue explored my mouth. We wrapped our arms around each other and kissed for a long time. It felt beautiful to be holding and kissing that gorgeous boy. I couldn't understand why he'd been on his own.
Eventually we came up for air. "You on your own?" I asked.
He dropped his gaze and nodded.
"I'd have thought a beautiful boy like you would be prime real estate in a place like this."
His lips formed a quirky, rueful half-smile. "They all know I'm not into very much of the stuff they do here."
"Ah. Do you like sucking cock?"
He didn't reply. Instead he knelt down, and buried his face in my crotch. I felt the zip of my leather one-piece being slowly pulled up from the bottom, and then gentle fingers carefully getting my cock out. A second later warm lips engulfed it. I looked down at the top of his curly head moving backwards and forwards for a few moments, then I closed my eyes and lost myself in pure pleasure.
Froggy worked on me slowly and leisurely, his hands caressing my balls while he sucked my cock. He brought me to the edge several times, and each time I stopped him before he could make me cum.
The guys next to us finished playing, and left the horse vacant. I pulled Froggy up, put my cock away, then guided him to the horse. "Bend over it," I said.
"But I'm not - "
I put my hand over his lips. "Don't worry. I'm not going to beat your arse, fuck you, or do anything you won't like." I smiled at him. He hesitated for a moment, looking deeply into my eyes, then positioned himself over the horse.
The horse was really just a short padded table with restraint points for arms, thighs and legs, and a strap which went over the victim's back to hold him down. It was intended for fucking or fisting, as it kept a boy's legs spread apart and presented his arse in a most vulnerable position. But it would also be perfect for what I intended to do to him. I fastened him down tightly, and inspected him. His white denim jeans were well-worn and thin, and stretched even more tightly over his thighs and arse than they had been earlier. I followed the triple-stitched seam down where it separated the cheeks of his bum, to his perineum. Bending down a little, I could see the firm, round bulge of his balls and - above that, thrusting stiffly along the top of his left thigh - the bottom edge of the outline of his cock.
I reached between his spread thighs, and traced two fingers lightly along the bulge of his cock. I couldn't see what I was doing, but I could certainly feel it all right. It jerked in response to my touch. Reaching a little further in, I gripped his cock and worked it a bit more towards the centre. Because his body was bent at the waist, all the tightness of his jeans was across his arse and the backs of his thighs - when I'd finished moving it, his cock was sticking forward an inch or so below the bottom surface of the table: hard, horny, accessible, and exquisitely vulnerable to the teasing I was intending to inflict on it.
The boy was moaning, clearly loving the feeling of being so helpless. He was struggling slowly against the restraints holding him down - more, I knew, to revel in that helplessness than to escape.
I ran my hands over the back of his jacket, feeling the studs and the shiny black leather sliding against my fingers. I pushed one hand up under the jacket and gently explored with my thumb around the soft spot under his bottom rib, at his side. At one point his body jerked - even though I was hardly pressing at all - and I knew I'd found the spot. I leaned close to his face. "Are you ticklish?" I whispered.
"Yes!" He replied urgently. "Very!" Please don't..."
I've been tickling boys for a long time, and I found out years ago that when you find a supremely, unbearably sensitive spot - one which, if you worked on it properly, would have the boy screaming and writhing and pissing himself and begging you to stop - there is a way of teasing that spot, of stroking it, of massaging it gently, which can become intensely erotic. The boy knows exactly what it would do to him if you pushed your finger in and pressed it hard; the threat of unbearable torture is always there, but the fact that you're both aware of the power you hold in that finger, that you could exploit that weakness at any moment you choose - but don't - transforms the helpless boy's breathless, eye-squeezing dread and anticipation into something else entirely: the gentle movements of your thumb over that exquisitely ticklish spot send shivers of sexual control; of pure helplessness; and of dangerous, but intense pleasure to the victim. That is exactly what I did to him now: while moving my thumb over that spot on his side, I tickled the underside of his balls with my left hand.
It took him a few minutes to convince himself that I wasn't, in fact going to tickle torture him, and when he did finally realise that, his moans became deeper, and he let himself enter into the sensations that were coursing through him. I knew he was feeling something he'd never experienced before in his life. My left hand found the same spot on his other side and worked on that too for a while - I wanted him to feel more helpless and controlled than ever before.
After a while I removed my hands, and transferred my attention to his crotch. I could feel the wetness of precum on his jeans at the tip of his cock as I lightly ran my fingers across it. I squatted down behind him and began to tickle the bulge of his balls and the insides of his thighs with one hand while, pushing my right hand further through, with the palm upwards, I bent my wrist forward as far as it would go, and gently enclosed the head of his cock with my thumb and first two fingers. I slid them off the tip of his cockhead, my fingers closing as I did so, then gripped the head again lightly, and repeated the procedure. His cock felt hot and firm, and the denim of his jeans was worn and thin there - I knew he could feel the lightest touch through it. Sliding my fingers over the curves of this helpless, sexy boy's cock and balls in those tight while jeans, feeling the heat of his horniness, the wetness of his precum, and hearing his increasingly urgent moans, I badly needed to cum myself. But I intended to show Froggy just how effectively a boy's need to cum could be used against him as a torture in its own right. Not painful at all, but totally, insanely unbearable.
I continued teasing his cock - working on the shaft and the sensitive head - and also tickling his thighs, the backs of his legs, his perineum and his balls - for a long time. Often I felt his young body tense as he approached the edge of orgasm, and every time that happened, I stopped just before he could cum.
I don't know how long I carried on doing that to him - it must have been over an hour - but at one point I became aware that we were being watched by a group of lads who'd gathered around us. Over the last sixty minutes Froggy had been more and more desperate to cum, His struggling against the restraints had become real efforts to escape, to get his hand to his cock so that he could finish himself off, and now he was writhing on the horse, begging me to let him cum, and his crotch was wet with natural lubrication. I looked around and saw half a dozen lads watching - some of them had their cocks out of their leather jeans, and were wanking slowly. One boy had his arms around another's waist and was milking him from behind. I dismissed them from my consciousness and concentrated on teasing Froggy to insanity.
Eventually I felt that the boy couldn't take much more, and the straps and restraints holding him down must surely be getting painful by now. I stopped working on him, pushed my hands up inside his jacket again and found those two excruciatingly ticklish spots. As I moved my thumbs gently over them, I leaned close to his head and whispered. "Do you want to cum, sexy boy?"
He was almost incapable of coherent speech. "Yyyyyyy.... yyyye..." He nodded his head violently.
"Well, I think you're going to want to try not to cum, Froggy. Can you feel my thumbs on your sides?" I pressed them a tiny bit harder. His body jerked in response, and he nodded his head again. "If you cum in the next sixty seconds, I am going to tickle torture you out of your fucking MIND."
He was shaking his head now. "No......... No please don't. PLEEEASE. I beg you. I can't stand that...."
"I know you can't - that's why I'm going to do it. You can't even stand it before you've cum. You have no fucking idea how much worse it's going to be after you've cum."
"Because I love torturing boys." I gave his sides a final press, then removed my hands. "So, Froggy, concentrate. You have sixty seconds. Struggle as much as you like, scream all you want - but whatever you do, whatever you do, don't let yourself cum..."
I loosened the straps holding his thighs to the horse until there was a few inches of slack in each one. He couldn't get anywhere near closing his thighs together, but he'd feel as if he could. I love to see a boy struggling. Then I squatted down behind him again, and began doing what I'd been doing: tickling his balls and thighs with one hand, teasing his cock with the other. By now I'd learned his responses quite well, so when the stiffening of his muscles told me he was about to cum, I backed off a little. I wanted him to fight it. He was struggling and pulling at the restraints fit to bust and yelling "NO!" over and over. The poor boy was, as I'd intended, terrified of being tickled after he'd cum, but at the same time desperate to shoot.
With a final warning whisper, "don't let yourself cum..." , I gripped his cock-bulge between my thumb and fingers, stroked it very lightly and slowly for a few seconds - and then suddenly, while again tickling his balls all over, gripped it hard and slid the precum-soaked denim of his jeans up and down over his cock-head with a speed and firmness that was intended to make sadistically sure the boy lost control instantly.
It did. He was straining against the straps, shaking his head violently from side to side, and screaming "NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!" Then his cock erupted and the spunk I'd been so carefully building up for the last hour burst out of his cock in uncontrollable, helpless gobs. It soaked his jeans, forced its way through the denim onto my fingers, ran down his thighs - and still I kept on milking his cock. I didn't even begin to slow down until he'd finished cumming and he'd collapsed, exhausted, onto the padded surface of the horse.
A spontaneous round of applause broke out from the lads gathered around us and there were calls of: "Nice one!", "Well done!", "That made the bastard suffer!"
I whispered to him as he lay panting on the horse, terrified of the torture which I'd said I'd inflict on him. "It's your lucky day, Froggy - don't worry, I'm not going to tickle you."
I released him from his restraints and sat him down in the armchair I'd been in earlier. "You ok?" I asked.
He opened his eyes and nodded. "You are a cruel, heartless and sadistic cunt," he said. "I think I love you."
I laughed, and tousled his curly hair. "And you, Froggy, are a deliciously sexy and responsive boy. I enjoyed that a lot. See you again, I hope." I squeezed his cock bulge and made my way towards the kitchen for a glass of water. As I turned, I saw Chas and Mike - the two other lads I'd noticed outside when we'd first arrived - they were standing side by side, feet apart, arms folded and staring straight at me. Both were dressed like many of the bikers in the cafe had been: leather jackets, studded belts, and loose, thick black leather jeans with bike boots and white socks. My cock, still primed from the treatment I'd just been giving Froggy, stood to attention in my one-piece at the sight of them.
I made eye contact as I passed them, then went down to the kitchen and filled a glass from the tap, drinking it down thirstily. I put the glass back on the draining board, turned, and found myself face to face with the two lads. I couldn't get past them unless they moved.
"So, think you're a top, eh?" Asked Chas darkly.
I considered this for a moment. "Well, you saw what I did to young Froggy. What do you think?"
"We think you're a fake," said Mike. "Get on your knees."
I tilted my head to one side, a half-smile on my lips. "And what exactly makes you think I'd do that?" Actually, being on my knees in front of those two boys in those sexy leather jeans was a position I would like very much - but someone once told me I should never give in too easily.
"Because you would love to lick our bulging, leather crotches. The crotches of real tops."
I lowered my gaze to those parts of their anatomy and studied them for a moment. "Well they do look good. If you asked me really nicely..."
Chas jumped forward and grabbed my arms, forcing them behind my back. Mike put his face inches from mine and sneered. His hand squeezed my cock. "You're gonna suck us off. One after the other. And we are going to have some fun with you."
"You can't afford me," I smiled.
"We know about you. We know that leather turns you on like fuck; that jeans are your biggest fetish; that you'll do anything for a boy in sexy jeans." His hand was stroking my cock slowly. "Back at our place we have more shiny black leather and skintight jeans than you could fucking imagine. Jeans and leather are our thing too. Now - we can do this the easy way: you can come back with us now - or we can do it the hard way: we'll fucking drag you back with us. Up to you."
I remembered Mark. "I came here with a boy - "
"Yeah we know Mark. Don't worry about him, he'll be ok. It's not his first time here."
I looked around the kitchen, but Mark wasn't there. What the hell - I'd told him he didn't have any prior claim on me. Still, I felt shitty about leaving him without telling him; and to be honest I was worried about the lad.
As if he'd read my mind, Mike said, "Right now Mark is sixty-nining Geoff upstairs by the cross. They'll go back to Geoff's, I should think."
I thought for a moment, then nodded. "Ok, you fuckers, lead on."
We went down to the bikes, and I followed the two lads through the empty streets. We headed past the Market Place and out along North Street past the biker cafe, now in complete darkness. A bit further on we turned right into a kind of housing estate, and then right again down a narrow road, finally pulling to a stop outside a house with a garage at the side. Chas opened the garage door and we rode in, killed the engines. I was curious that neither of the lads had commented on the 'Busa.
Chas led the way through a side door into the house, Mike was behind me. The moment the door was closed behind us something black was pulled over my head and arms grabbed mine, cuffing them behind my back. I yelled, and was rewarded by a punch in the solar plexus. I doubled up, and they dragged me forwards. I knew the punch hadn't been as hard as it could have been, but it had still knocked the wind out of me. I gasped for air inside the hood.
Hands forced me to my knees, I heard a zip being undone. The next thing I knew, the bottom of the hood was pulled up a little to expose my mouth, and a cock was thrust into it. I had no choice but to suck. I made the lad cum quickly. That cock was replaced with a second one. This one also came in less than a minute - and then a third one was pushed in. Whoever that one belonged to rammed it into my mouth to the balls, making me gag, but he too succumbed to my sucking and tongue-work quickly. Hands pulled the hood off me - and I found myself surrounded by seven rockers, all in leather jackets and leather jeans. All of them except Chas and Mike had crash helmets and scarves masking their faces. My cock suddenly got very hard again.
Roughly, they pulled me to my feet and released my wrists. "Strip!" Ordered Chas.
While I was taking my gear off, the door opened again and another rocker came in, pushing a boy in front of him. This boy was blindfolded and his hands were tied behind his back.
"Mark!" I gasped.
"Nathan?" His voice was full of fear.
"Shut it. Strip!"
I finished stripping, and Chas threw a pair of ice blue jeans at my feet. "Put those on."
I picked them up and stepped into them, pulling them up my legs."They're too small!" I said.
"Try harder, fucker."
By sitting on the floor and heaving with all my strength I managed to get them on and the zip done up - though it was in danger of bursting at any moment.
"Put your boots back on - and that." He threw me a leather jacket. I put them on.
"That's better," said Mike, cuffing my wrists behind my back again. He took a wide, studded leather belt and wrapped it around my head twice - over my eyes and over my mouth, opening my mouth and forcing it between my teeth. Then he buckled it tightly at the back. I was blindfolded and gagged. I felt hands moving me - first forward into another room, and then sideways a bit. There was a rattling of chain, then someone grabbed my left foot and raised it a couple of feet in the air. A click, and it was fastened to the chain. I was standing on one leg, the other raised and fastened to the chain which was apparently hanging from the ceiling.
"Good," said a voice - I think it was Chas. "Now, listen very carefully, top. You're gonna get nakked by seven horny biker boys in leather jeans and leather jackets. Those jeans you're wearing are mine, and I do not want spunk on them. If there is spunk on them when we've finished with you, young Mark here is going to suffer greatly. We'll cut a hole in those jeans of his, hold him down, and then, one by one, the seven of us are going to fuck the shit out of him in those tight, sexy jeans. Do you understand that, top?"
What could I say? What could I do? I said, "please don't hurt the boy."
"Oh we'll hurt him all right - we're a bit short of lube here." There was general laughter.
Suddenly there were hands on me. Hands everywhere, feeling, groping, stroking over my body. Hands down the outsides of my legs, on my chest, stroking my back, my arms... Then running up the fronts of my thighs, the insides, tickling my balls...
I twisted, hopping on one foot, trying to get away from the hands on my crotch - but I couldn't see where the hands were or where they were going next. I'd move in one direction to get away from them only to deliver my hard, aching cock directly into the waiting fingers of another of the rockers, who'd tease it and rub it before I managed to escape from him, and into the hands of another...
They were playing with me, I knew. But that knowledge didn't help me at all; I was getting slowly but relentlessly closer and closer to cumming. I could feel their leather jackets, and I could hear their leather jeans creaking as they moved. This was a particularly devious form of restraint, I thought: I could move, but I couldn't close my legs together to protect my cock, couldn't see where my tormentors' hands were coming from, and couldn't use my arms.
"OK. Stand back." It was Chas' voice, I think. The hands left me, and I stood there waiting, not knowing what was going to happen. Suddenly, a hand forced its way quickly under my perineum, gripping my balls, and another locked onto the bulge of my cock. I squeezed my thighs together as much as I could, but the hand was there and I couldn't get it out. At the moment the fingers on my balls were not moving. The ones on my cock, however, stroked very slowly over the head. A voice whispered in my ear...
"Now then, top , if you cum, young Marky-boy is gonna get raped by seven rockers. So you'd better not cum, my friend..."
The fingers on my balls began to move, tickling, exploring deep into the crevices at the sides, stroking the very tops of my inner thighs. I stifled a giggle of ticklishness, squeezed my thighs together even harder, and tried to turn, to get away from the hands. They didn't try to stop me at all - but they followed me. Wherever I moved, they stayed there, tickling my balls and moving slowly over my cock-bulge.
The voice whispered again: "don't cummmmm........."
Then, suddenly, the fingers were milking me,. They slid up and down the full length of my cock, gripping and rubbing the head with each stroke. The skintight jeans were clinging to my legs and thighs, making every touch of the lad's fingers more sexy, more irresistible; I was blindfolded, helpless to resist, and I knew I was surrounded by sexy rocker boys in studded black leather...
With a yell, I started to cum. My leg buckled beneath me but waiting hands broke my fall, lowering me to the ground as the boy who was milking me continued to work on my cock and balls, making sure I couldn't hold a single drop of spunk back. I felt it soaking into the ice-blue jeans, and although I couldn't see, I knew a dark blue-grey wet patch was spreading over my crotch. His fingers didn't stop until my cock had started to go soft - and then they slowly squeezed any remaining spunk out of my foreskin and into the jeans.
I felt my left foot being released from the chain, then hands pulled me up to a kneeling position. The belt around my head was unbuckled, and I squinted in the light. I looked around for Mark, expecting to see him being forced to the bed to be raped - but he was stood with his ankles crossed, his arms around the shoulders of the two rockers at his sides, and he was beaming down at me. After he'd enjoyed my look of stunned confusion for a while, he helped me to my feet. "Enjoy that?" he asked, laughing.
"Just something I arranged while we were at the party. Thought you'd enjoy that."
"This is my brother Dave," he patted one of the rockers on the back. "Unfortunately straight, but he'll do anything for a laugh. So will the rest of these layabouts."
Several of them gave him the finger, but they were smiling.
"You bastard," I said. "Someone punched me in the fucking ribs."
Dave wiped his sleeve over his mouth. "Yeah, sorry bout that. Was a bit hard." He coughed. "Maybe."
I chuckled. Chas and Mike took me to a settee and sat me down, handed me a bottle of Coke. "You suck cock well," said Mike. "Chas gave a satisfied sigh. "Oh yeah..."
"Hang on a minute", I said, "who was the third one I sucked? The one who rammed the fucking thing in?"
Neither replied for a minute, then Chas said, "you will never know..."
I kind-of liked that, actually. I looked around at the rockers who were stood chatting and drinking from beer bottles, wondering which one of them I'd sucked off. To be honest, there wasn't a single one of them I wouldn't have sucked voluntarily - and enthusiastically. I smiled. "That's fine with me."
The rockers left shortly after that, and after I'd peeled off the ice-blue jeans and got back into my own gear, I asked Mark if he wanted a lift home. He smiled and nodded. "You're not mad at me then?"
I pulled him to me and kissed him hard. "Nope. That was fucking horny. But if you ever find yourself in 2005, you'd better watch your back, mate."
We said goodnight to Chas and Mike, and I took Mark home. He turned to me on the doorstep. "I hear you've been sleeping in a treehouse. You wanna stay here tonight? Only got one bed, so you'll have to share, if that's ok?"
I smiled. "That's one of the best offers I've had all day."
Mark wanted to lie naked in bed with me in my full gear. He was all over me; we kissed and hugged and I sucked him off very slowly a couple of times. It was lovely, but I was aware that my feelings for the boy were getting a bit more than I'd intended. When we eventually got to sleep the room was beginning to get light and the birds had started singing outside the window. I fell asleep to the sound of a milk float rattling down the road.
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was the cute, boyish face of Mark smiling across at me. Then I realised that my cock was hard, and that his hand was around it, stroking it gently. "You'll kill me," I croaked.
"You're beautiful," he said. Now it's a very long time since I've been called 'beautiful' by anybody - and never by a boy as gorgeous as Mark. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything. I kissed him.
"You can stay here again tonight if you want. And tomorrow. In fact," he dropped his gaze and looked serious, "I'd like you to move in. I want to be with you, Nathan. Alwa-"
I put my finger over his lips. "Mark, I want you to know some things." I spoke very slowly. "Firstly, you are a very beautiful boy. Secondly, I've been fighting myself for the last twenty-four hours not to fall in love with you. I could do that very easily." I kept my finger on his lips. "But I can't stay here, Mark. No - I don't mean I can't stay here in this house, I mean I can't stay in this time. I don't belong. I have my own life in my own time. Somehow, I have got to find a way to get back there."
His eyes were moist, and I could tell he was struggling to stop himself from crying. He raised his hand and gently moved my finger away from his lips. "But I love you," he whispered. "Nobody has ever liked me, not in the way you do. I'm too much of a wimp for the other guys. I don't belong here either. Please stay with me. Please..."
I hugged him close. This was breaking my heart. I couldn't tell him how much I wanted to stay with him. I couldn't tell him how much I loved him. I felt his young body shaking against me as he sobbed - and I felt tears running down my own cheeks onto the pillow.
"I can't, Mark. I can't." I was shaking my head, partly to emphasise that I couldn't stay with him, but mostly at the unfairness of the world. I knew that if I stayed I would never be able to settle down - I'd always be waiting for that black light, that silent crack! And if it came, when it came, he would be more dependent on me than he was now. No, I corrected myself, that's not the reason. The real reason was much more selfish: that when the black light came it would separate me from a boy I had grown to love with all my heart. I couldn't face that. Better to go now, while we could both heal.
"If you can't stay, then take me with you."
I closed my eyes. "How can I do that? I don't even know how I can get back myself, Mark." I stroked his back. "No, it's better if I go now."
He straightened up in the bed, looked at me with tear-streaked eyes, then he pulled me to him and kissed me.
He kissed me for a very, very long time.
I sat on the bike, he stood by my side. We'd said goodbye upstairs, but it was as if there was a chain tying us together, not letting us part. I wanted to give him something to remember me by, but I had nothing with me. Then I remembered - I had the MP3 player in my pocket. I took it out.
"Mark, this is the only thing I've got with me that I can give to you. I want you to have it."
He looked at it and shook his head, dazed, not understanding what it was.
"It's called an 'MP3 player'. It plays music - like a record player, but a lot smaller, and it's got no moving parts. Twenty-first century technology. See this button? That switches it on. Then look at the little screen there. You'll see the titles of the records in it. The button moves the selection forward, that one back. When you find a tune you want to play, just press this. I handed it to him, along with the tiny headphones. You put those on, over your ears, and you'll hear the music."
He held it, but he was still looking at me. He was having difficulty standing up. "Look, Mark, concentrate. Do you understand how to work it?"
He nodded. "Yes - move the tunes backwards or forwards with these buttons, play with that one."
"That's right. When you've finished with it, switch it off here - because it's got batteries inside that won't be made for another forty years, Once they're dead, you won't be able to replace them." I swallowed, looking into his big blue eyes. I had to go.
"Where will you go?" he asked in a small voice.
"I don't know. Far away from Denfort. I have to find my way back somehow."
"I love you," he whispered. Tears were streaking down his face.
"Remember me when you play music on this," I said. "Here, play something now, while I go." I put the headphones carefully on his head, and pointed to the 'play' button. Then I started the engine and slipped the bike into gear. Crying openly now, Mark pressed the button.
I screamed. It was much worse this time than last. The black light blinded me, the soundless, deafening crack! scythed through my brain. I was dimly aware of falling off the bike, and something very heavy and very painful landing on top of me.
When my head had stopped ringing and I opened my eyes I found myself lying under the bike on the road. I looked up through the gap between the fairing and the front wheel, but Mark had gone. I heard a screech of brakes, then a pause, then a worried voice. "Help me lift the bike off him."
Grunts, and then the weight was lifted from me. "His leg's broken, I think."
"Don't move him. I'll call the ambulance." A beep. A voice talking on a phone.
My head cleared. I moved experimentally. Things hurt, but nothing screamed at me with pain. My chest hurt more than anything. I pressed gingerly, looking for broken ribs. Nothing.
Slowly, I stood up. "I'm ok, I think. Thank you. I don't need the ambulance. I must have blacked out. Thanks so much for your help."
The woman on the phone frowned. "Are you sure? Wouldn't it be safer to go for a check-up?"
"No, really, I'm fine. Thanks again. I'm sorry to have troubled you."
"Well, if you're sure."
The man who had lifted the bike looked me up and down. "Looks all right to me. Take it easy for the rest of the day." He got into a Ford Focus and left. The woman gave me a concerned smile, then drove off in her 4x4.
"I will. Thank you again."
I walked over to the wall by Mark's front door and sat down on the step. I was back in my own time.
I looked up and down the road; Foundry Street was much the same: the terrace houses were still there, though most had uPVC window frames now and satellite dishes on the walls. And the street was full on both sides with parked cars. I could hear the traffic on West Street - a never-ending stream of cars, HGVs, vans...
Slowly, with aching arms, I took my crash helmet off, then turned and looked up at the window of Mark's room - or rather the room where Mark had lived. I got up, walked to the front door, and put my finger on the doorbell. And then I stopped. What were the chances that Mark still lived here after forty years? And if he did, would he even remember me? I hadn't got the bottle to risk that. No - it was better not knowing. I lowered my hand and, with a deep sigh, went back to the bike.
With the bike in first gear, but the clutch held in, I looked up at the window again, remembering the night spent in Mark's arms and waking up to find his hand around my cock and his boyish face beaming at me. I closed my eyes and sighed again. I could still taste him on my lips.
The town had changed a great deal since 1967: the bypass was there, and it was hideous. I didn't go to look at my old house again - I didn't want to see what had become of it. On an impulse I thought I'd go see if there was anything left of the treehouse, or if other kids since then had used the tree. I rode up past the school and stopped. The sandy path beyond it was now a tarmac road leading to a housing estate. All the trees I knew had gone.
As I rode out of the town along the busy roads a huge emptiness welled up inside me; I just couldn't stop thinking about Mark. I wondered what had become of him; was he still alive? He'd be 56 years old now. I knew that even if I ever found him I'd still have lost him - the boy I'd known and loved had gone forever. Yes, I admitted to myself that I had fallen in love with him - hook, line and sinker. I hadn't felt that way about anyone for a very, very long time. Oh God, I wanted him back.
The Hayabusa purred between my thighs - it didn't seem to have suffered from the odd fuel mixture. Minor roads gave way to major ones, and then I was on the motorway.
With a silent salute to the boy in the impossibly tight jeans, I raised my head, moved into the outside lane, and opened the throttle wide.