The Asylum was a rich man's hobby - but then Michael was a rich man. At the tender age of 22, he'd already managed to become a best-selling author, and he'd also inherited an obscene amount of money from a little-remembered aunt in Australia. Quite why she'd left him anything at all, let alone the tidy sum that had come his way just over a year ago, he had no idea. He'd only met her twice, and those times were when he'd been a little boy.
However, Michael had put the money to very good use. He'd designed and built the Asylum to indulge his greatest weakness: the sexual frustration and torture of young men. Some of these boys, having been introduced by his friends, visited voluntarily, for the sexual adventures the well-equipped facility provided, but the ones he really got off on were those who were brought to the place involuntarily, either unconscious or - much more fun - restrained, hooded, and struggling like fuck. Most of the ones who visited by choice were gay, but the vast majority of the others were straight. It gave Michael great pleasure to pick out a boy - at a club, perhaps, or off the street - have him followed, watched, carefully investigated, and later to have him kidnapped by the Asylum's staff of leatherclad hunks, and delivered there by means that would ensure that the victim didn't know who had got him, or where he was being taken.
The Asylum owned a couple of windowless vans equipped with restraints, gags, blindfolds, hoods, and other gear for subduing resisting boys. One of the vans even had a ventilating machine which was permanently adjusted to administer anaesthetic deliberately slowly, so that the victim had time to struggle, and could feel himself very gradually going under as he tried desperately to fight it. Details like that turned Michael on a very great deal.
Once the victim arrived at the Asylum and the heavy steel doors slammed shut behind him, nobody knew he'd been abducted, he had no idea where he was, escape was impossible, and for as long as Michael wished, the victim was at the man's mercy. And with Michael, mercy was something that was in vanishingly short supply.
Michael liked to think of himself as an educator. His mission in life was to teach victims just how unbelievably horny it was possible for a male to become; how excruciatingly unendurable cum-denial could be when coupled with skillful, constant stimulation; how mind-shatteringly intense an orgasm was when induced under controlled conditions by a pervert with a deep understanding of a boy's needs and how to exploit them. A natural psychologist, Michael also loved to share his own intense turn-on for bondage and sexy gear by conducting experiments in which, by means of conditioning and cum-control, he actually gave boys fetishes. He thought of it as his gift to them - something they could take with them, something that would enhance their sex lives, and which they could enjoy for the rest of their days.
From the outside, the Asylum was an unpreposessing building: a plain, low, white rectangle set in its own grounds - it looked more like some kind of modern factory than anything else - but the inside was a very different story. Within the white-faced exterior walls was a warren of corridors, operating theatre-like spaces, dark dungeons, one-way mirrored windows, and rooms which had very specialised purposes.
Michael sat at the large, smoked-glass desk, reading intently a file on a computer screen, his fingertip occasionally tapping the down-arrow on the keyboard in front of him. When the photograph appeared, the fingertip stopped tapping. Between his thighs, the thin, unlined black leather of his jeans began to rise visibly. "Ah yes," he smiled, "I remember this one. I remember him very well indeed..."
Davy was 19. He had short dark hair and big, startlingly blue eyes with long lashes. His eyes were somehow out of keeping with the rest of his face, which was harder and more masculine. In the photograph he was wearing a baseball cap, a white muscle teeshirt with 3" arms, and jeans that were so loose and baggy that they appeared to be staying up by willpower alone. He wore grey Nike trainers, and a thin necklace made of tiny white shells strung together was tight around his neck. Although he was only 19, his body was that of a 25-year old who worked out a lot: his pecs and abs were clearly delineated through the tight white teeshirt. There wasm't an ounce of fat on him, and he somehow managed to be both extremely cute and intensely boyish at the same time.
Michael's hand dropped to his groin and the fingers started to massage his cock slowly through his jeans - but his eyes never left the computer screen. "Is he here yet?"
Trent, Michael's No 1, nodded. "Yep - we brought him in a few minutes ago. He's in the SD suite.
"We? You helped?"
Trent nodded again. "I thought this one would be fun."
Michael say back in the chair and looked a Trent. Not for the first time he thought how horny the guy looked in the Asylum's uniform. Bike boots, smooth, shiny black leather jeans with a chrome triplex chain belt, leather jacket with the collar up, studded armbands - and all the gear individually made for each operative, so that it fit like a second skin. Like the others who wore that uniform, Trent oozed sex. Michael had designed that too.
"So, tell me how you did it."
Trent smiled, he knew that Michael liked to hear the details. "We got him down Needless Alley, two in front, two behind. We approached him - Jamie had the hood open in his hands, I was ready with the cuffs, Geoff with the leg straps. As soon as he saw us his eyes went to the hood. He sorta hesitated for a second then turned and ran - straight into Colin and Geoff. Jamie got the hood on him first thing, of course, and I got his arms cuffed behind his back. Once that was done we could take our time. We played cat-and-mouse with him for a while - hand pressing over the hood, things like that - gradually got him strapped up, carried him into the van, and the doors closed."
"Did he struggle much?"
Trent gave a deep, throaty chuckle. "Oh yeah, he struggled like fuck."
"And in the van?"
"Hogtied him, took the hood off, let him get a good look at our leather masks, then we showed him the gas mask. That's when he really struggled." He chuckled again. "Held him down and brought the mask down real slow. Gave him some gas. Not enough to knock him out, but enough to make him feel it. His eyes were a picture. Wide, staring, terrified - but kinda defiant. You're gonna enjoy this one, I think."
Michael looked at the picture of the boy on the screen again. "Yes," he said slowly, his eyes narrowing with lust, "I think I am."
* * *
They walked down the corridors, Michael stopping to look through the one-way glass into various rooms as they passed. In many of them were boys - strapped down or restrained to some piece of heavy equipment, most of them blindfolded, some hooded, a few staring wildly as their tormentors, each wearing the sexy black leather Asylum uniform and every one with a very obvious erection bulging inside their leather jeans, worked on their victims in accordance with whatever program Michael had decided for each boy. It was the Asylum staff's duty to get the boys more and more horny - usually over a period of six or seven days - but to make sure they couldn't cum. There were eight staff, and they worked a rotating shift system so that no matter what time of day or night you looked through the glass, you would see boys with rock-hard, desperate cocks being teased and stimulated either by the leatherclad, masked staff, or by computer-controlled machines designed for the purpose. Even during the eight hours the subjects were allowed to sleep (suitably restrained to prevent them getting to their cocks) they couldn't get away from the stimulation: small speakers in the pillows of their beds whispered to them quietly about hot wet lips enclosing their cockheads, about cumming, about how much they needed to feel their hot spunk ejaculating from their tormented cocks.
By the time the induction period was over the boys were half insane with a need to cum more intense than they would ever have believed possible. That's when Michael took over and used his unique skill and sadism to take them to places they had never ever dreamed of. When Michael got to work on them, everything that had gone before was as nothing. It was worse than hell, it was better than heaven.
Michael and Trent passed more rooms, turned left at one of the operating theatres, and took a lift down to the lower floor. This underground level housed the Punishment Room (which could be used on the staff as well as on the subjects when necessary, although it rarely was); the staff canteen and lounge; the utility stuff like the generator, boilers, stores etc. and, at the far end, the two Sensory Deprivation suites. Davy was in SD1.
Inside the observation gallery, Michael leaned against the window frame and looked through the mirrored glass. The one-way window was unnecessary right now, as the black rubber hood over the boy's head ensured that he could see nothing anyway. He was wearing a rubber suit which covered every inch of his skin. Spaced at regular intervals along the arms, legs and body of the suit were bands, from which wire cables suspended him horizontally in a tank of salt water at blood temperature. From his mouth twin rubber tubes ran from the hood to a ventilating machine at the side of the tank, supplying slightly oxygen-rich air to him.
Suspended comfortably in water that was the same temperature as his blood, hooded and covered from head to foot in rubber, Davy could feel practically nothing. He couldn't see anything, there was nothing to hear, even the air coming to him from the machine had been carefully filtered of anything that could stimulate his olfactory sense - he couldn't smell anything either. He was in a state that is difficult to describe to anyone who hasn't experienced it: a universe of nothing. In such a state, without any of the stimulus that is constantly bombarding our senses whether we're consciously aware of it or not, the mind quickly becomes hungry - then ravenous - for stimulus. It turns up the gain of the nervous system in an effort to feel, hear, taste or smell something. But it doesn't get it. If a subject is left in this state for long enough, the mind begins to manufacture stimulus itself - hallucinations of all the senses have been known to happen. Eventually, insanity ensues.
But it was not Michael's wish to take the boy that far. Oh, he had every intention of driving the boy insane, but later, and not in this way. He would use the boy's need for orgasm to drive him mad. "How long's he been in there?"
Trent looked at the clock on the wall. "Just under twenty-three minutes."
"Ok. Leave him for another fifteen, then give me a call."
Trent nodded. "What are your plans for this one?"
"Good question. Originally I'd thought the usual, but I think I'd like to give this one a fetish. An intense one."
Trent smiled. "Leather?"
Michael tilted his head in thought. "No. I think I'm in the mood for tight faded jeans for this one. Do we have his measurments?"
It was a rhetorical question, as all victims had precise measurments taken first thing when they were admitted.
"Yep." Trent took a sheet from a drawer and handed it to Michael.
"30 inch waist. Nice. Ok - I'll go sort out some nice thin 28s. See you later." He smiled at Trent and walked back through the corridors.
* * *
Still hooded, and with his hands cuffed behind his back, Davy stood in the centre of the room. Michael walked around him slowly, nodding appreciatively. The boy looked gorgeous. He had his white muscle shirt back on, but his trainers had been replaced by leather motorcycle boots. The boots were over the legs of some very faded jeans which were tighter than skintight - they gripped his thighs and calves without a single crease anywhere, and it would have been almost impossible for him to move had the denim not been stretchy. As it was, they followed his every movement as if they'd been sprayed on. The double-stiched seams were almost white and contrasted starkly with the darker blue of the less-faded areas. The ones running up the insides of his legs and thighs drew Michael's eyes to the bulge at his crotch, where the jeans were the most faded of all. The fly covering the zip was pulled half-open by the tension on it as the fastener strained to contain the cock and balls under the thin layer of denim - and Davy's cock wasn't even hard yet.
As Michael continued to walk around the boy, he was almost magnetically drawn to the lad's thighs - the need to touch them, to caress them, to feel them, to tease them in those skintight jeans - was physical. And then Davy's butt came into view. It was beautiful, round, like an apple. An absolutely perfect bubble-butt. The stretchy faded denim cupped the cheeks of his arse like two loving hands, before the centre seam pulled them in sharply, separating them abruptly. Michael followed that seam downwards as it curved round and in to the spot where it met the other seams under his perineum.
Michael's cock was hard, and he was itching to start work on this boy - but it had to be taken slowly. Right now the lad was straight out of Sensory Deprivation, and Michael knew that the feel of the jeans gripping his skin would be both unusual, and intense.
He nodded to the gurney. Trent and Jamie took hold of the boy and got him onto the padded table, secured wrist and ankle cuffs, and strapped him down with his legs raised a couple of feet from the surface, suspended from ceiling chains. Michael nodded again, in approval, and approached the helpless, hooded boy. Trent and Jamie left, smiling.
Davy still had no idea what was going to happen to him. He'd been kidnapped, spent some time in a weird rubber suit where his world had closed in on him, and now he'd been forced to put on some unbelievbly tight jeans and what felt like motorcycle boots and strapped down to a table. He hadn't struggled so far because he knew he'd been outnumbered - and anyway with this fucking hood over his head he couldn't see how many of them there were, where they were, where the way out was, or what the fuck was going on. He suspected there was something perverted and sexual about this, but so far nobody had tried to touch him like that. Just let the fuckers try, he thought. Just let them try.
Davy didn't know it, but at that moment Michael's middle fingertip was poised a half-inch from Davy's cockhead. The shape of his soft cock was unmistakable through the tight, thin stretchy denim, and Michael was enjoying the view immensely. He kept his finger there for a while, not moving, and then he lowered it, stroking just once over the head of the boy's cock.
The reaction was instantaneous. Davy yelled into the hood, and closed his knees together tightly with a snap. Much more movement than that was impossible. Michael's elbow was on the padded gurney, his upper arm between the boy's legs, and when the lad's thighs came together they trapped his wrist between them. Michael smiled, knowing that the feel of something between a boy's upper thighs is horny, and stroked his fingertip over Davy's cockhead again.
Davy tried to kick, tried to lift his body off the gurney, did everything he could to get his cock away from that invading hand, but the restraints made that impossible. While he expended a huge amount of energy fighting and struggling and yelling, Michael's fingertip continued leisurely to scratch over the head of his cock. And Davy's cock began to get hard.
Michael transferred the fingers of his hand to the lad's balls and the tops of his inner thighs, and began to tickle lightly. He brought his right hand over the boy's thigh, onto the now-vacated cock, and began to tease it along its entire length very slowly.
Since the very first touch, the room had been echoing with Davy's yelling, swearing and threatening through the leather hood. "GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME YOU PERVERTED FUCKING CUNTS. AND GET THIS FUCKING THING OFF MY HEAD, YOU BASTARDS. YOU ARE GONNA SUFFER. OH FUCK ARE YOU GONNA SUFFER. GET OFF ME AND GET THESE FUCKING JEANS OFF ME YOU FUCKING CUNT PERVERT PRICKS..."
Michael smiled, and listened. The boy's ravings were music to his ears. He pulled his hand out from between the lad's thighs and ran his fingertips slowly over the boy's tight jeans. His waist, his thighs, knees, legs, and as much of his arse as he could reach. At the same time he bent down and whispered quietly, "you are helpless, boy. You can't stop my hands from reaching anywhere I want. I can tease your legs or your thighs or your balls or your arsehole or your cock... and there is sweet fuck all you can do about it."
The boy had stopped yelling when Michael had started to speak, though he was still struggling fit to bust. His knees opened and closed, his feet kicked, but Michael knew exactly the range of his movements and could keep out of contact easily. "Feel those tight jeans, boy. You're gonna get used to those. They are gonna make you horny. Does it feel good when I tease your cock through that thin denim? I could make you cum in those jeans, boy, but you're not gonna cum for a very long time. You're going to want to - oh believe me, you're going to want to cum very badly - but you won't be able to. And in the meantime I can stroke and tickle and tease you until you're balls are as blue as those jeans."
Davy's cock was fully erect now - there had been nothing he could do to stop it getting hard - and it lay like a steel sausage across the top of his right thigh. If the denim had been straining to contain it before, now it was almost at tearing point. But the stretchiness of the jeans allowed the tension in the cock to push it away from his body slightly, making the outline obscenely clear.
Beginning at the base, Michael squeezed the shaft lightly and briefly between a single finger and thumb, moved up a half-inch, and squeezed again. Slowly he worked his way to the bottom of the cockhead, then began again. After a few repeats of this, he reached into his back pocket and withdrew a metal device which was roughly the size and shape of a ball-point pen. He pressed a button on the end, and it began to buzz quietly. With infinite care, Micheal touched the tip of the device to the boy's straining cockhead.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH FFFUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!"
Michael removed the vibrator and switched it off. "You like that? Want me to do it again?"
"FUCK OFF!"
"You sure? Wouldn't you like to feel that vibrating on your dickhead through those sexy tight jeans again?" As he asked the question, he stroked the tip of the boy's cock lightly with a fingertip.
There was silence from the boy.
Michael pressed the button again, and at the sound Davy drew in a sudden breath. His body arched as much as the restraining strap allowed as the vibrator touched his cock for the second time.
"OH FUCK! OH JESUS!"
Michael switched it off. "You see, horny boy, there are things I can do to you which you have no defense against. Fuck all. And this little vibrator is nothing to what I'm going to use on you before too long. He put the device back into his pocket, gave the lad's hard cock a farewell stroke, and left the room.
Jamie was waiting outside; he'd been watching through the window. "Shit, that boy is sexy."
"Oh yes." Michael glanced through the window at the now quiet lad. "Ok, you know the drill. I want you to give very special attention to this one. Full shifts, six days. I think he'll cum easily, so be fucking careful. Hands only, please, and I want you to concentrate on the jeans. He wears them for every stim session, and only for the stim sessions. Use them. Don't let him get used to them - I want him to know that whenever he's made to put those jeans on, it's for sex. But for God's sake don't let the bastard cum."
"Hehe, no problem Mike. We're good at what we do - that's why you employ us."
Michael nodded. "You're right. OK - have fun. I'll see him again in six days. Keep me posted."
* * *
For six days and six nights Davy was subjected to a program of sexual teasing designed to keep his mind on sex at every moment. He was kept either blindfolded or hooded apart from the times when he was sleeping, eating, using the bathroom or allowed to relax in his captive's suite - and even then he was under constant supervision and restrained sufficiently to make it impossible for him to touch his cock. Every day he underwent four main stimulation sessions for which he was made to wear the skintight jeans. These sessions were under the hands of two of the staff and during them he was strapped in various positions and his body was mercilessly worked on by the skilfull operatives. Hands stroked, teased and tickled up his legs and thighs, over his arse, balls, and most of all his cock. His nipples had been investigated early on, but left alone when it was found that they didn't turn him on at all.
All through these sessions words were whispered into his ear to keep him concentration on his cock and his jeans. Having in the past prepared many subjects for Michael's fetish experiments, the staff knew exactly how to keep a boy thinking about gear like tight jeans or leather. Between sessions, when he wasn't wearing the jeans, they made him put on loose pajamas which were intentionally as unsexy as possible. Even when he was wearing these, the boy had a hard-on most of the time. By the third day, Davy only had to see one of the masked assistants holding the faded jeans and his cock started to drip precum. When they put them on him, the feel of the sexy denim sliding up his thighs almost made him shoot, and so they had to be extremely careful. Before and after each session, he was made to spend half an hour in a totally mirrored room. Wherever he looked he saw his reflection: a hunky, horny boy in skintight, sexy faded jeans and bike boots - his erect cock almost bursting out of the stretchy denim. Davy was not by nature narcissistic, but the sight of himself looking iike that only served to make his cock harder. In the half-hour before the session, he couldn't stop thinking about what was coming: he could almost feel their hands stroking and teasing his legs, his balls, his cock - and in the period straight after a session, when the leather hood was removed and he would have given his soul to be able to cum, being able to see those jeans that the bastards had used to get him so unbelievably horny, and yet not be able to move or touch them as he was always in heavy restraints in this room, kept him achingly close to orgasm for the full thirty minutes.
Davy knew what they were doing: that they were conditioning him, making these tight faded jeans a sex object to him, a fetish - but he found there was nothing he could do to stop it working. The sexual pleasure he experienced under those bastards' hands, although unrelieved, was more intense than any he'd felt in his life before. He both rebelled against what they were doing, and at the same time he was loving every fucking second of it. Even the bondage and restraints - the hoods, the blindfolds, the gags, the chains, straps and cuffs - were beginning to turn him on bigtime. As the days passed, he was getting to the point where he couldn't imagine sex without being helpless. And he was loving that too.
Even at night, spreadeagled to the bed wearing those dreadful pajamas, images of himself strapped down, and masked, leatherclad tormentors teasing and tickling his cock and balls through those jeans while he begged to be allowed to cum played on the inside of his eyelids. Voices whispered to him from the pillow, talking about the feel of skintight denim over his horny cock, describing in meticulous detail the way the seams ran up the insides of his thighs and the crack of his arse, the way his hard, horny cock bulged - the zip curving around the rock-hard dick inside. They told him he was helpless, controlled, unable to stop himself from getting horny. They explained why he was hooded or blindfolded: to make him even more defenceless, more sensitive, more horny. And they invited him to imagine what it would feel like to cum in those jeans - with fingers stroking his balls and thighs and gripping his cock through the stretchy denim, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing. The unimaginable pleasure of his spunk pumping out into the denim as hands raped his cock in those skintight, sexy faded jeans... Every night he went to sleep with those voices whispering in his ear. His days were filled with sex, and the nights brought no relief.
Davy was a normal, healthy nineteen year-old boy, and even before his abduction into the Asylum, he'd thought about sex a lot. But now, since he'd been in this place, he had been allowed to think about nothing else. His need for orgasm was a constant ache between his legs, but he felt more alive than he could ever remember having felt before. And every stimulation session made that ache worse. The sessions themselves were unbearble torture - but he knew that if he had a choice he would still choose to undergo them. It was a beautiful, addictive torture that was taking over his mind completely.
* * *
"So, how are we doing?"
Davy looked at the guy - he hadn't seen this one before. He was wearing the same leather jeans, boots and mask that the others always wore, but instead of the leather jacket he had on a sleeveless black leather teeshirt. Davy didn't reply.
The boy was in a room he hadn't seen before either, and it worried him. He was strapped down very tightly to an operating table which was surrounded by electronic equipment. His cock was still rock-hard inside his faded jeans, though. Before they'd put the jeans on him they'd attached some electrodes to various places on his body, and the man was now taking the trailing wires and plugging them into the machinery.
"Don't worry, nothing's going to hurt you," the man said. "It's just more teasing, though a bit more hi-tech than you've had so far. Relax."
Michael adjusted the position of the boy's cock so that it lay horizontal along the top if his right thigh, then pulled down the business end of a machine from above the operating table and carefully placed it over Davy's crotch. "Just need to calibrate this thing. Won't take long." He went to a computer screen and tapped a keyboard.
"Uh!" Davy gasped as he felt something move unside the unit attached to his crotch: it felt like tiny fingers exploring. One of the fingers settled on the head of his cock, the others on the shaft. Still more moved against his balls through the thin denim. They stopped, and there was a pause, then they started again. It felt like ants walking over his cock and balls - tiny movements. Gradually the movements became bigger and slower, until his entire cock was being massaged by the mechanical fingers. The one on his cockhead felt amazing - it went round and round and up and down over the stretchy jeans, scratching and rubbing in all the right places. Davy felt himself approaching orgasm - and then it stopped, leaving him poised on the brink of cumming. He screamed in frustration.
"Got it." Michael turned and looked at him. "This is a fun machine - you'll like it. It can make you cum soooooo easily. It can make you cum in your jeans over and over again until your balls are dry." He picked up a stand with a box on the top and placed it by the boy's right hand, adjusting its height so that it was level with Davy's fingers. "See this box? There are two buttons. The top one is STOP - press that and the machine will stop. The bottom one is CUM. If you press that one the machine will make you cum in your jeans. Ok?"
Davy nodded. Finally, he was actually going to be allowed to cum! YESS!!
Michael made a final, careful adjustment to the position of the box, then straightened up. "Ok - have fun. I'll be back later." He switched the machine on, and walked out of the room.
The ants were back. Tiny fingers walked and scratched over the bulge of his cock and Davy closed his eyes in ecstasy. As before, the movements slowly got bigger, more insistent. The helpless boy began to moan - he could feel the beginnings of orgasm. Over the next sixty seconds the feeling grew and grew until he knew he was going to cum. He squeezed his eyes shut in concentration, preparing for the biggest orgasm of his life.
The machine stopped with a mechanical click.
Davy opened his eyes wide, staring. "NO! NO! - Carry on! I'm almost there!" But the computer had decided otherwise: the mechanical fingers were still. He wasn't going to cum. "OH FUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK LET ME CUM!"
As if in response, the movements began again. Once more they brought him to the edge - and once more they stopped a hair's breadth away from allowing him the orgasm he needed so badly.
Davy couldn't take this - it was too much. In desperation he jabbed his finger towards the control box, aiming at the "CUM" button. But the box was half an inch out of reach. His wrists were fastened securely with thickly padded leather cuffs to the operating table and no matter how he strained, he couldn't quite reach the button. The big red plastic square with the word "CUM" on it filled his vision - but he couldn't fucking reach it. The bastards. The fucking perverted, sadistic bastards.
He thumped his head back down onto the table in an agony of frustration. And the mechanical fingers began again...
They tickled his balls and worked on his cock through his tight jeans with cold, dispassionate efficiency. All Davy could do was lie there, staring up at his reflection in the mirror on the ceiling over the table. And every time the computer got him to the edge he screamed, struggled and jabbed his finger manically at the CUM button on the control box.
He yelled for the assistants to come back, to stop this unbearable torture, but his voice, cracking with desperation, reverberated around an empty room. No-one came to rescue him.
On the other side of the one-way glass, Trent, Jamie and Michael watched. All three had their hard cocks in their hands, and were stroking them slowly. "Oh I fucking love this job," said Jamie. The other two nodded in agreement.
* * *
How long they'd left Davy on that machine he had no idea - time had ceased to have any meaning for him, and the only thing he had been capable of thinking about was cumming. But eventually the man had come back and switched it off. That night in bed Davy had got very little sleep.
Today he was back in the same room. He didn't know it, as he'd been hooded before they'd brought him in - but as they strapped him down to the operating table again he realised. By that time it was too late: they'd got him helpless. "No, please, not again. I can't take it."
Michael pulled off the boy's hood. "That wasn't very fair yesterday was it? Putting the control box out of reach," He chuckled. "This time I promise you'll be able to reach the controls, and that they will work. It's a different control box, though." He placed a keypad by the boy's right hand. "Press a few buttons - make sure you can reach it this time."
Davy jabbed at the numbered buttons.
"Ok, I think we're all set to go. All I have to do is enter the code, and all you have to do is remember it and punch it in when you want to cum. I've set the machine so that when you've cum it will stop." He bent over the top of the keypad. "Right, a nice easy five-digit number. Watch closely..."
Jamie, who had been standing at the other side of the operating table, moved forward and clamped his leather-gloved hand over the boy's eyes.
"NOOOO!!!!!!!" Davy struggled to get away from the hand and see the number as Michael entered it on the pad but, with an evil laugh, Jamie kept his hand there, blindfolding the lad so that he couldn't see anything.
"Ok, it's all set." Jamie removed his hand and Davy swore. "YOU FUCKING CUNTS!"
"Don't forget the number - just punch it in and you'll cum. See you later."
The ants crawled over his cock again. Davy was beside himself with rage. The fingers got him closer, closer - and stopped. He punched buttons until his finger hurt, but he didn't know the combination. And the machine continued to work on him...
* * *
Davy floated in black nothingness. He was back in the Sensory Deprivation tank. He'd no idea how long he'd been in there this time, but although he was aware that he was covered in black rubber, he could swear that he could feel tight faded denim around his legs. It had worked its way up into the creases at his groin, separating his genitals from his thighs in a stretchy bulge that itched to be touched, played with, rubbed . Phantom fingers ran up and down the inner seams of the jeans, tickled over his thighs and under his balls, and tormented his cock. Voices whispered - he couldn't make out a single word, but their message was clear: you need to cum in your jeans - but you can't...
The boy slept, or thought he did.
Jeans. Skintight, faded jeans. The feel of his naked cock rubbing against denim. Davy was sure he was going insane.
* * *
He must be insane - he was in a padded cell. The walls, floor, the inside of the door and even the ceiling were covered in soft grey padding. There was no window. As usual, he was wearing the jeans, but this time he was barefoot and naked from the waist up. His wrists were cuffed behind his back and the cuffs were attached by a short length of chain to the back of a leather collar around his neck. He'd tried lying on his front and humping against the floor, but the padding was far too soft - he could not get enough friction to cum. At his crotch, a darker blue area was wet with precum. He was so horny he could have cried. Oh shit, how he needed to cum.
The door opened. The man and three other assistants came in. Davy stared. They were all masked as usual, but instead of the leather jeans they always wore, each one had on a pair of skintight faded denim jeans similar to his own. From his position sitting on the floor, he looked up at four tight-jeaned crotches that bulged to bursting point with hard, horny cocks and, just like Pavlov's dogs, he drooled.
The men moved until they were standing in a circle around him. One bent down and removed his handcuffs and collar, throwing them into a corner out of the way. For the first time in what seemed like months, Davy was free of restraints. His hand went to his cock - but was intercepted before it got there. "Hehe, no, I don't think so," chuckled the guy.
They stood the boy up, and passed him around between them, at all times being careful to keep his hands away from his cock. Their fingers ran over his arse, stroked his legs and thighs, got between them and tickled his balls. One or other of them was always holding him, while the others teased him - keeping his hands behind his back or his legs open or blindfolding him - whatever they thought was most frustrating for him at that moment. They ended up with Davy on the floor again in the middle of them.
"Do you want to cum?" Asked Michael.
Davy whimpered. "Yes. Pleeeeeeease."
"Ok - show me how you'd like me to make you cum." He nodded to Colin, who sat on the floor with his legs and crotch within easy reach of the boy. "But do it slowly..."
Davy was staring at Colin's thighs and bulging crotch like a deer caught in headlights. Tentatively he reached out a hand and touched the faded denim above the guy's knee. The feel of the jeans under his fingers was like an electric shock to him. His fingers began to move. They traced out patterns on the blue material, tickling and teasing and moving upwards slowly. Fascinated, he watched the small depressions following his fingertips as they glided over the tight jeans. He came to the inside seam and caressed it lovingly, sliding his hand up it to Colin's perineum. As his hand reached the top, the guy closed his legs, trapping the boy's hand. Davy felt the warmth there, and sighed at the sight and the feeling of skintight jeans enclosing his hand. He could wait no longer. He pulled his hand free, gripped Colin's cock through the stretchy denim and began to milk him.
It only took a few strokes from this gorgeous, sexy boy's hand, and Colin came. Hot sticky wetness spread quickly from his cock, soaking into the jeans as Davy's fingers continued to milk him dry.
With a deep sigh of pleasure, Colin finally removed the boy's hand. "Oh yeah," he said quietly, smiling.
"One down, three to go," said Michael, "then it'll be your turn." Colin stood up and moved to the side, to watch.
Jamie knelt astride Davy's chest and leaned forward, pushing his bulging crotch into the boy's face. At the same time Trent and Geoff lay on their backs at each side of the lad, trapping his feet between their booted legs and pulling them apart. They each took one of Davy's hands, and closed his fingers around the outlines of their cocks. Michael knelt between Davy's parted legs and began teasing and tickling up the insides of the boy's thighs and over his balls.
Davy needed no instructions. Surrounded by skintight jeans, with his hand on two steel-hard, denim-clad cocks and with another one being forced between his teeth, he went to work. His fingers flew over Trent and Geoff's crotches, feeling their jeans, squeezing the shafts of their cocks and working on the heads. His fingers darted between their thighs and stroked their balls, and his teeth scraped gently but insistently over the faded denim cock against his mouth.
Geoff came first, with a yell. His body jerked at Davy's side as the boy milked him. Seconds later Trent followed, his cock erupting in hot white spunk. Having dealt with those two, Davy pulled his arms back and used both hands to work on Jamie's jeans. While his mouth continued to milk the guy's cock, his fingers tickled his balls and ran over his thighs. The feel of the skintight denim was heaven.
With a roar, Jamie came. Davy felt the spunk jetting out of the man's cock. It soaked quicky into the denim, and Davy's mouth worked hard, trying to suck the spunk right through the jeans. By the time he'd finished, Davy's mouth and lips wre coated with stickiness.
Jamie stayed there for a while, and Davy breathed in the starchy smell of spunk. After a while the man climbed off.
"Just you and me left, boy," smiled Michael. "Tell you what - if you can make me cum before I make you cum, we'll release you. Take you back to where we got you. But if you cum first, it's back to the machine for a few days. How about that?"
Davy swallowed hard. The machine. There was no way he could possible last out another minute of that thing - he would go totally insane. He knew it for a fact. But he was so fucking HORNY that he was sure a single touch of the guy's fingers on his cock bulge would have him shooting instantly. "No, please. Make me cum."
Michael shook his head slowly. "Oh I'll make you cum all right..." He dived onto the boy, one hand closing around the lad's cock, the other going between his thighs. Davy struggled away from the man's hands - but the other guys were onto him, holding him. Not tightly, but just enough to impede his movements. A leather-gloved hand was clamped over his mouth, another over his eyes. He wasn't completely helpless, but he couldn't see - and every time he moved, hands slowed him down, got in the way. He curled up into a ball, pressing his legs tightly together to protect himself - but hands gripped his knees and very slowly forced them apart about six inches. Then Michael's hand tickled its way slowly up between his thighs and took the boy's cockhead in a very gentle grip. Davy was almost cumming, but the hand remained motionless.
Then the fingers started to move. Very very slowly, they began to milk, sliding up and down over the horny boy's cock head. At a signal from Michael the others released the lad's knees, and he instantly curled up into a tight ball again - but this time Michael's hand was on his cock. He was still gagged and blindfolded by Geoff's leather-gloved hands, and the fingers on his cock continued to milk very slowly. Suddenly they gripped hard, the speed abruptly increasing. Michael's wrist flexed as his fingers flew up and down the boy's cock, tossing him off in his jeans.
With a scream that even Geoff's gagging hand couldn't silence, Davy came. He bounced around on the padded floor as Michael's hand continued to work on his cock, extracting every last drop of spunk. His jeans were soaked already, and there was no sign of it stopping. It went on and on.
Eventually Davy collapsed. The assistants let go of him, and all except Michael stood up. At each of their crotches a dark blue stain had spread. Davy had uncurled, and lay on the floor, completely exhausted. Michael's hand still continued gently to massage the boy's cock - which was still hard.
"So - do you lose?" Asked Michael.
"Please don't put me back on the machine...."
"I said that if you came first, back you'd go."
"Noooooo... PLEASE."
Michael stood up, and grinned. There was a dark blue stain at his crotch too. "Hehe," he chuckled, "I came before you did."
* * *
Davy's breath caught in his chest and his heartrate soared for a couple of seconds when the biker roared past. He followed the rider with his eyes: leather jacket, bike boots, and tight blue jeans. He had no idea how long this newly-found fetish was going to last - it had been a couple of weeks since they'd taken him back in the van and dropped him off in Needless Alley. Michael had said that it depended on Davy and what he did with it: that if he indulged it, it would probably become permanent - but that if he forced himself to ignore it, it would most likely fade. It was a strange thing: tight jeans - even skintight ones - on girls had little or no effect on him, but he only had to set eyes on a guy in bulging jeans and he sprang an instant erection. What was he going to do - ignore it or indulge it?
As he walked home from the shops he knew exactly what he was giong to do. He had no idea who those bastard perverts had been or where they'd taken him; he resented having been used and controlled, humiliated, changed by those fuckers. He wasn't gay, and it was HE who was in control of his body, his mind, not those kinky gay cunts.
He stopped in the park and put his shopping bag down on the wooden slats of a seat, then reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. It was almost impossible to get them out of the pocket in jeans that were so skintight. Finally he managed it, and sat down, lighting the cigarette. He glanced into the bag at the side of him. In it were some handcuffs, a leather hood, and an A-Z map of the city. He'd never been to a leather bar before - tonight would be the first time. He just hoped that some of the guys there were wearing skintight jeans.
At the thought, his cock got hard.