The Telemachus Story Archive

A Boy's Own Story
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



Life in rural Lincolnshire in the 1960s had, by present standards, the capacity to be extremely boring. However, I didn't get bored - at least not very often. Even though computers and Playstations had yet to be invented, there were plenty of things for a teenage boy to do on summer holiday from school. Like climbing trees, building rafts to float on the river, or watching the brand-new black-and-white television set that my parents had had installed not long ago. Once you got the hang of thumping it in just the right place it usually produced a picture that was watchable. If you squinted.

And then there was the dance at the Drill Hall every Friday night. If you're thinking flashing lights and the latest tracks spun by cool DJs on turntables with speakers big enough to deafen at fifty paces, think again. The Drill Hall was a multi-purpose space used for tea dances, ballroom dance classes, Christmas pantomimes, bring-and-buy fairs, lectures, and lots more. The teenagers' dance on Fridays was just one of the many functions that were held there. It was basically one large room with chairs lined up along the walls and a huge empty space in the middle. There was a stage, of sorts, but no curtains, and most certainly no flashing lights. Music was provided either by an elderly gentleman with a gramophone or, more usually, by a local musical combo - often just a drummer, a bad guitarist, someone on the piano, and a singer. But in those days that was acceptable to us kids - we didn't know of anything better.

By most standards, my parents were very liberal: I was allowed to go to the dance on my own and didn't have to be back home until 9.30pm. At my age, and in those days, that was considerable freedom.

It was a small town, notable mainly for one thing: its cattle market every Saturday and Wednesday. Farmers from miles around would bring their animals to be weighed, tagged and sold by auction. The market area consisted of a couple of large wooden buildings surrounded by muddy, hoof-trodden ground, and beyond them - between them and the Drill Hall - was a labyrinth of brown wooden fences which came up to my head, and which formed corridors and pens for moving and storing the cattle. One of my favourite pastimes was to jump up onto a fencepost and tightrope-walk along the long, rounded hoizontal beams between them. By carefully jumping over the occasional gap it was possible to cover every fence in the system without touching the ground, and I did it often. I also frequently slipped off, and went home with bruises. There were tall hedges between this pen system and the road, and also at various places dividing the area into smaller spaces. The net result was that it looked quite maze-like and was full of places to hide, unseen from the road or from anyone unless they were exploring the place themselves. Great for hide-and-seek (which I also used to play along with some of my school friends).

The summer had been long and hot, and when I came out of the Drill Hall that Friday evening in August it was even warmer outside than it had been in the Hall. It was just after 9 o'clock. My house was only a ten-minute walk away, and I hadn't needed to leave until twenty past, but I'd been bored. The band had been dreadful, and I'd had nobody to talk to as none of my friends had been there that night.

My home was on the other side of the river, beyond the cattle market, and the most direct way was through the pens. I was wearing a teeshirt, plimsolls with white socks, and shorts. At school, when we did PE, we weren't allowed to wear anything under our shorts (no idea why not), and I'd sort-of got used to the feeling, and liked it: the shorts felt nice as they moved against my skin when I walked - so I'd got nothing on under them that evening, as usual. I headed into the cattle enclosures, moving along the corridors and between the fences like a shadow in the night. There was enough daylight left to see by, but in the pens the dimness gave an exciting feeling of danger.

I can't remember what I was thinking about, but I was deep in thought about something or other when suddenly I found myself face to face with a figure that scared me shitless. At first I thought it was a demon of some kind - it was black all over. Not just dark, but black. When my eyes focussed I realised it was a biker. He was wearing a fringed leather jacket, leather jeans, bike boots, leather gloves, and a crash helmet. This was way before full-face helmets were about, and his had an open face, with goggles pushed up on the top, but his features were concealed by one of those black leather facemasks that bikers used to wear a lot. The only bit of him that was visible was the area from halfway up his nose to the top of his eyebrows. I got the impression from his build and the way he was standing that he was not old - probably in his twenties.

My first thought was that I was going to get beaten up. Big boys beat smaller boys up - that was a given. I turned on my heels to run away - and slammed straight into two more bikers who were standing behind me. They were dressed identically to the first one. I'd no idea where they'd come from - they must have been waiting in the shadows. But what on earth for?

As I ran into them, they steadied me, chuckled, and turned me around. I was very scared indeed.

"Please don't hurt me..." I whimpered.

The first biker shook his head slowly. "We're not going to hurt you. We're not going to hurt you at all." He gave a sideways nod of his head and they moved me into one of the hedged pens, more out of sight from anyone who may be passing. The ground was hard brown earth, compressed over the years by the hooves of hundreds of cattle. The boys pulled me down onto it. The two who had been behind me lay down at either side of me, gripping my ankles between their booted feet. Each took hold of one of my arms, and held it. Then they gently pulled my legs apart.

The first biker looked around the pen, went over to one side and plucked a long blade of grass from a small clump that was growing there. He brought it back and knelt between my parted legs. For a few moments he twirled the grass between his gloved fingers, looking down at me. I could see by his eyes that he was smiling. "Don't worry. We're not going to hurt you," he said quietly.

That didn't do a lot to reassure me: I was being held down by two strong lads, with a third kneeling over me, and I had no idea what was going to happen to me. I was very, very frightened.

The biker lowered the blade of grass and traced the tip over my knee. In spite of being frightened half to death, I giggled. "That tickles!" I said.

He looked at me for a moment, then said, quietly, "I know." His hand moved again, stroking the tip of the blade of grass around my knee.

I struggled to get away from it, but the boys at my sides held me down. The grass continued to flick around the top and the sides of my knee.

"Bend his legs a bit."

The lads holding me moved their booted feet up a little until my legs were bent, then the biker holding the grass started tickling the back of my knee with it. That was a lot worse, and I was giggling and struggling like mad.

The blade of grass returned to the inside of my knee, and began very slowly to tickle its way up the inside of my thigh. By the time it got to the bottom of my shorts I was in hysterics. I couldn't close my legs together because he was kneeling between them, but I was trying so hard that my knees were gripping him tightly. The feel of the cold black leather of his jacket on my bare skin was electrifying. My cock began to get hard.

"Hold his feet over his head."

The boys released my feet from between their ankles, and while still holding my arms with one hand, used the other to grab my feet and pull them up over my head so that I was bent double, my bum sticking out and the backs of my legs accessible to the blade of grass. But at least my knees were pressed tight together now - that was something, I thought.

The tip of the grass tickled again, starting at the tops of my socks and working its way down over the backs of my knees and down my thighs towards my shorts. I tried to kick, and to escape, but they boys were a lot bigger and stronger than I was, and they held me easily. The biker slipped the grass between my legs and worked it down as far as possible. The tip had gone under my shorts and was tickling the very top of my thigh, close to my balls - and that was worse than anything so far. My eyes were squeezed tightly shut, my body was bucking up and down and I was giggling like a mad thing and struggling like crazy to get away from the tickling.

After a while the biker told them to put me back into the previous position: lying on the ground straight, but with my legs slightly bent. He knelt back between my knees, then slowly reached down, took the right leg of my white nylon shorts between a leather-gloved finger and thumb, and pulled it gently away from my thigh.

I felt myself blush bright red. I knew he could see my balls and my cock - which by now was rock-hard. He was smiling again under that leather mask, as he very slowly pushed the blade of grass up the leg of my shorts, tickling my inner thigh as it went. This time it didn't stop - and when it made contact with my balls I let out a yell of pure ticklishness. One of the boys clamped his gloved hand over my mouth to gag me. The biker ticked my balls slowly and mercilessly, getting into all the nooks and crannies at their sides and underneath. It tickled so much I thought I was going to die.

For a moment he removed the grass, and took both legs of my shorts in his gloved hand, so that they were both pulled away from my thighs. Then he held the grass to the left, pushed it in, and tickled. I saw it coming, and twisted my body so that it couldn't get right in. He laughed, withdrew it, and moved it to the right. I twisted the other way, preventing him from getting it up my shorts. The boys at my sides grabbed my knees and held them so I couldn't twist - but the biker shook his head. "No, let him struggle." Then he added, "but bindfold him."

One of the boys placed his hand over my eyes. I could smell the leather of his glove over my face - and now I couldn't see anything. I twisted to the left - and felt the blade of grass on my balls up the right leg my twisting had just uncovered. It tickled like fuck for a moment, and then it was gone. I moved the other way, and the grass attacked again - this time up the other leg. It wasn't fair - I couldn't see which one he was going to go for. I struggled to get the boy's hand from over my eyes, but he just followed my movements - and the blade of grass was on my balls again.

This game went on for some time. I realised I wasn't quite as scared any more - but I felt deeply humiliated, controlled, and overpowered. And being unable to see, the feel of their leather jackets and jeans againt my bare skin was somehow even more exciting. I just hoped they weren't going to hurt me.

Then the grass was gone. I felt something different: a leather-goved hand working its way slowly up my shorts. The fingers held my balls in a very gently grip.

"OK," said the biker. The lads released me for a moment, and straightened me out on the ground. One of them held my wrists stretched out high above my head, then lay across them. He positioned my hand directly under his crotch and lowered his body onto it. My fingers could feel his thick leather jeans, his balls and the warm bulge of his hard cock inside the leather.

The second boy knelt astride my chest and pushed forward so that his bulging crotch was just touchng my lips. "Lick the leather," he whispered.

At the same time, the biker whose hand was up my shorts holdinging my balls pushed his other hand down inside the waistband, gripped my cock gently, and began to toss me off very slowly. His gloved fingers slid up and down the shaft of my cock, moving the foreskin with them over the tip. My legs weren't being held, and I curled up as much as I could and pressed my thighs tightly together - mainly so that I could feel his leather-jacketed arm between them. The fringes of the jacket were hanging down and tickling my balls and thighs.

It felt like I was completely covered by leatherboys. My fingers were gripping a leather-covered cock, there was another one over my mouth, I couldn't see anything as that boy's leather jeans were covering my face, my bare knees were touching his leather jacket, a leather-gloved hand was up my shorts holding my balls, and another one was forced down the front, tossing me off.

I was squeezing one boy's leather cock, licking the jeans of another, and losing it to the fingers of a third. I came instantly. I was probably a late developer, but that was the first time in my life I ever produced spunk. I felt it squirting out of my cock onto the leather of his gloved hand, and although I'd played with myself on a very regular basis for as long as I could remember, I had never experienced pleasure of anything even remotely approaching that intensity in my young life. I abandoned myself completely to the feel of black leather and bikers.

When I'd finished cumming, the biker withdrew his hand and the other two boys got off me. I was exhausted. The biker was grinning. He held up his hand for me to see, with this sticky white stuff running down the leather, then wiped it onto my shorts.

"Turn over face down, close your eyes, and stay there. Count to one hundred before you get up."

Now that I'd cum, my fear had returned in earnest. I nodded, too frightened to speak, then turned over on the ground.

I heard the boys stand up, and booted feet walking away. Then a hand reached down and gently ruffled my hair. "Thank you," the biker said. Then he, too, was gone.

I stayed there with my eyes tight shut until I'd counted to a hundred slowly, then tentatively opened them and looked around. I was alone in the cattle pen, and it was getting dark. I got up, brushed the earth off my clothes as well as I could, and set off home at a trot.

My mother must have gone spare at the state my clothes were in, but I don't remember that at all. What I do remember is that for a long, long time I could think about practically nothing else but that encounter with those bikers. I didn't wank about it that night - I think I was probably still too shaken up for that - but once my nerves had settled I did start to wank over that evening - and I've continued to do so to this very day.

What I remember most of all about it is the boys' gentleness. I was expecting violence, and they were so very gentle with me. Even when they held me down it was as if they were being careful not to hurt me. No doubt they got off a lot on what they did to me, but it was as if more than anything, they wanted to give me pleasure. And that final "thank you" at the end, as the biker ruffled my hair - that really got to me. I never saw them again.

They say fetishes and sexual turn-ons are implanted in the first three or four years of a boy's life - and by then I was in my teens - but that was without any doubt the most memorable sexual encounter of my life bar none, and the fact that restraint, blindfolds, gags, leather - especially bulging leather jeans - bikers, shorts, tickling, and forced milking are my most intense fetishes as an adult must surely have a lot to do with that encounter.

I often wonder what those bikers were doing there. Who were they? Where were their bikes? Were they gay? Were they into leather? If I could meet those boys again today, I would thank them from the bottom of my heart. They gave me something that has provided me with unimaginably intense pleasure for most of my life and, to a very large extent, made me the person I am today.

And I don't have a single complaint about that.