Joey almost skipped along the pavement. It was Friday, Boot Night at the Flying Eagle, and if it was anything like last week it was going to be fucking amazing. He was dressed for it too: leather jacket, rubber sleeveless teeshirt, rubber codpiece jeans, and 20-hole Rangers with yellow laces. His gear shone in the streetlights as he made his way through the deserted backstreets of the city. Fuck, he was horny. He hadn't cum for three days, intentionally saving himself for tonight. It was going to be manic. His cock was semi-hard inside the codpiece, and it felt as if the cool, shiny rubber was trying to wank him off with every step he took.
A shadow. A figure in front of him, blocking his way. Backlit, leather, masked. A sound behind him. Arms grabbing him. A black bag dropped over his head, quickly fastened tight at the neck. His leather jacket pulled down over his shoulders, restraining his arms. Held immobile. Something brushing his bare bicep, and then a sharp prick. Struggling, but held tight by leather-jacketed arms so he can't move. Mouth open to yell, but a hand clamping over it, gagging him through the hood. The syringe being pulled out, and then something - a card? - being tucked into the waistband of his rubber jeans. "For when you want the antidote..." a voice whispering. Held there for a few seconds, then released. Sinking to the ground, legs shaking. The sound of booted footsteps, walking leisurely away.
What the fuck? Joey was breathing fast. He shook his head, dazed, reached up to pull the hood off, and his fingers touched a cord, knotted at the back of his neck. He tried to undo it - he could still hear their footsteps in the distance; if he could get this fucking thing off he could still catch them up - but he couldn't get the knot undone! Swearing, he pulled and pushed, tugging the cord, and eventually trying to tear the hood off his head in frustration. But it stayed put.
Joey took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He found the loose ends of the cord and followed them back to the knot, then carefully pushed them. The knot loosened. In a few seconds it came free and he yanked the bag off his head. But the leatherboys were gone.
As usual, the Flying Eagle was heaving. Joey fought his way to the bar, grabbed a stool as a guy got off it, and ordered a stiff drink. He downed it in one gulp and got another. He was still shaking. What the fuck had that all been about? Apart from the after-effects of the adrenaline rush, he seemed to be ok. He didn't feel any different - at least he didn't think so. He stood up and checked himself. Everything felt as it should do, and he was still horny. What the hell had been in that syringe? He shook his head in bewilderment and took a deep breath. It was Friday night, he was at the Flying Eagle, he felt ok, and there were hunks around. He headed for the back room.
All of the slings were in use so he waited, standing against the wall, watching the action and playing slowly with his hard cock through the rubber codpiece. It didn't take long for a sling to become free, and for leather-jacketed arms to guide him onto it. Joey was always popular at the Eagle - young, athletic, drop-dead gorgeous rubber boys always were. The man was good-looking, in his forties, with piercing grey eyes. He smiled sexily through his short beard as he restrained Joey's arms and legs in position before sliding the all-round zip in the boy's codpiece jeans open.
A lubed finger was shortly followed by a rubber-clad cock, and the man began to fuck him slowly while playing with Joey's nipples. Joey closed his eyes in pleasure - he could feel the man's cock rubbing against his prostate with every leisurely stroke, and his nipples were sending waves of ecstasy to his brain as the guy's fingers twisted and pulled them.
The man's hands slid to Joey's waist and tickled him there briefly, Joey didn't respond, apart from frowning a little, and shaking his head slightly. The man returned his fingers to the boy's nipples.
The fucking became faster - the man was close. Joey didn't usually want to cum so early in the evening, but he was so horny he thought he'd burst. "Make me cum."
The guy let go of one nipple and transferred his grip to the bulging outline of Joey's steel-hard cock through the thin rubber codpiece. He began to wank the boy hard and fast. Simultaneously both of them screwed up their faces and yelled - and the man came into the condom with rhythmic, pulsating throbs which Joey could feel deep inside him.
But Joey wasn't quite there yet - he was close to the edge, but not quite over. His eyes were shut hard in concentration, and his hips bucked up and down in the sling. So close... The man's fingers wanked his cock harder, faster, milking the spunk out of the boy. "Come one.... shoot!" He growled.
But Joey couldn't cum. He yelled and swore and cursed, but it was no good - he couldn't get over the edge.
The man stopped, and removed his hand.
"NO!!! NO!! KEEP GOING! I'M NEARLY THERE!!"
The guy unsnapped the rubber codpiece, spat on his hand, and wrapped it around the naked, engorged shaft. He slid it up and down, gripping the boy's cock and rubbing the flange of the head with each stroke.
Joey was delerious. He was so close...
For another minute the man continued, but by then it was clear that Joey wasn't going to cum. Again, he stopped - and again Joey screamed in protest. "KEEP GOING!!!"
The man shook his head. "You ain't gonna cum, mate. Sorry." He pulled his cock out and, with a friendly slap on Joey's thigh, moved away, allowing another guy to take his place. This one was a younger, fit skinhead, in bleachers and DMs.
The skin unzipped his bleachers and took his dick in his hand, pulling it and stretching it, then bent his head down between Joey's parted thighs, taking the boy's cock slowly into his mouth. He began to suck Joey, while slowly beating his own meat.
Joey moaned with pleasure again: the skinhead's tongue was doing incredible things to his cockhead while his hot wet lips slid up and down the length of the shaft. Then the skin pushed down hard, deepthroating him right down to the balls. His throat muscles milked the boy's cockhead, and his hand was working on his own dick, wanking slowly. After a moment the skin pulled off a little, and set about sucking Joey off expertly with full-length strokes.
Within seconds Joey was on the verge of cumming again. His eyes were staring at the skin's bobbing head, his mouth was open, and he was panting hard. He was going to cum....
But he didn't. Joey thrashed his head from side to side in frustration. What the fuck was wrong? His dick was as hard as steel, he was as horny as hell, he was on the very edge of orgasm, and he was being worked on by a skinhead who knew exactly what he was doing. So why the fuck couldn't he cum?
And then he remembered the injection he'd been given. Surely it couldn't be anything to do with that? The skinhead came with a guttural yell, his white spunk coating the leather sling between Joy's legs, and he applied more suction to the boy's cock and played with Joey's balls at the same time. He was an expert cock-milker, and he was going to make this good-looking, sexy rubber boy shoot.
With that treatment, Joey would normally have lost it instantly and shot his load, but as it was he stayed poised on the brink of orgasm, unable to cum. He screamed in frustration.
Eventually the skin gave up and left Joey lying there hyperventilating, and not knowing what the fuck was going on. "Let me out of here!" He yelled. One of the guys who had been watching released the lad's arms and Joey pulled his feet free of the hanging straps. Grabbing the codpiece and snapping it back into place, he jumped off the sling and walked out of the Flying Eagle, pulling the back zip closed as he did so.
Outside, the air was cold. He leant against the wall and bent forward, grabbing his knees and breathing deeply. Nothing like this had happened to him before. Shit! He straightened up and punched the wall in frustration. He was still as horny as hell and his hard cock stuck out in front of him, stretching the thin black rubber codpiece almost to bursting. With a final deep sigh, he set off back towards his flat.
Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. He looked down, and searched the waistband of his jeans. The card had worked its way down, but it was still there. He pulled it out and held it so that the streetlight lit it. The only thing on it was a telephone number, written by hand. He put it in the pocket of his leather jacket and started walking again.
Within five minutes he was back at the same place where the leatherboys had got him. There was of course no sign of them, but he searched the ground looking for anything that might give him a clue as to who they were. There was nothing.
As he walked on, his cock slipped slightly inside the codpiece. The seam in the centre began to rub his cock-head with each step. It felt amazingly horny. His hand went to his balls and massaged them as he walked along. Fuck, he had to cum.
A little further on he turned a corner and ran straight into another guy. They rebounded off each other and apologised together. The guy Joey had bumped into was cute, sexy, and wearing loose trackie bottoms. Joey's cock got even harder. "Sorry mate," he said again.
"No problem...." The boy's eyes took in Joey's face, his leather and rubber, and settled unbelievingly on the bulge protruding between his thighs. "Fucking shit!" He said. And he smiled.
Thirty seconds later the boy was lying flat on his back in the middle of some bushes with his legs on Joey's shoulders as Joey ploughed his arse. His trackies were around his ankles and Joey could feel them behind his head as he fucked the boy like an animal.
Ten minutes later the boy shook his head. "Please - please stop!" his arse was getting very sore.
Joey was determined to cum. He'd been on the edge again for the last five minutes and was oblivious to anything else - he could think of nothing else but cumming.
Joey blinked, forced himself to stop, then pulled out abruptly. "Oh fuck, I'm sorry mate. It's just that I can't fucking cum."
"Maybe not, but I have - twice. Let me up will you?"
Joey helped the lad to his feet and watched him pull his trackie bottoms back up. He nodded absently as the boy smiled self-consciously and then walked away down the street, wiping his spunk off his trackies with his hand, and also waddling a little. After a few moments Joey jumped up, fastened his codpiece back on, and jogged home.
Throwing his keys down on the table he ran into the bedroom, reached under the bed and got his favourite copy of 'Bound and Gagged' out. Then he ripped the codpiece off, took a handful of lube, and set to wanking while looking at the pictures. God they were horny. A small dribble of saliva ran down from the side of his mouth as he beat one hand up and down his cock while squeezing a nipple with the other. Usually he would have shot his load in about thirty seconds doing this - but once again he reached the very edge of orgasm and couldn't get any further. And his cock was beginning to get sore.
With a yell of fury he threw the magazine across the room. Shit - he was so horny! He'd never been this horny in his life. His hand went to his cock again and started to wank, but there seemed to be a barrier through which he could not get. Whatever he did, however hard he tried, he just could not cum.
Joey got up and had a cold shower. Shivering, he went to bed. But the shower didn't make much difference - he got almost no sleep that night. Time and again his hand would go to his hard cock and he would begin to wank, and every time he got to the point of orgasm but no further. It took every bit of his willpower to stop wanking, because he was so close - so frustratingly close - that his brain could hold only one, overwhelmingly powerful thought: to cum.
He put his hands under the pillow. He lay on his back. He lay on his side. Then he turned over. He lay on his stomach. He willed himself to think about things that were not sexy: the income tax return that he'd forgotten to post; next door's cat that was pissing outside the door to his flat; the biker in those skintight leather jeans he'd seen last week; the CD he'd promised to burn for his sister; that rubber guy he'd seen on the Internet, with that amazing revolving St Andrew's Cross - fuck he wanted to be strapped onto that; the blank DVDs he'd forgotten to buy; that cute boy he'd fucked in the bushes; the skinhead's tongue on the head of his cock; that muscular hunk in black leather breeches he'd seen on his way into the Eagle last Friday; being held helpless and gagged by those masked leatherboys tonight while one of them injected him slowly...
NO! STOP IT! He wrenched his hand away from his cock and lay there almost crying with frustration.
Later, when he did eventually fall asleep, he found there was no escape there either. He woke up in the morning having had one of the most sexy dreams of his life. It had been so unbelievably real. He'd been gangbanged by the horniest group of bikers he'd ever imagined. Half a dozen hunky, muscular guys in studded jackets and skintight, bulging black leather jeans had at first held him down - then later tied him up and gagged him - made him lick their boots and leathers, pissed on him one after the other, then spit-roasted him on their cocks. Heaven.
His dick was rigid and there were cold, wet patches of pre-cum all over the sheets - but the three days' worth of spunk that had been churning in his balls was still there - and it was desperate to get out.
With a moan, Joey climbed out of bed. He ate breakfast naked, as usual, and then sat staring at the wardrobe, wondering what it would be safe to wear today. His usual gear for a Saturday was tight jeans with no underwear, which felt wonderfully horny and showed his cock-bulge off; and an equally tight teeshirt which rubbed his nipples beautifully all day. Today though, he didn't think that either of those would be a good idea.
"Shit!" He shook his head hopelessly; he didn't have any gear that wasn't sexy. In desperation he chose his loosest leather bike jeans, and the baggiest teeshirt he'd got. Underpants would be good - but he didn't posess a single pair; going commando was a way of life for Joey.
The leather jeans felt dangerously cool, smooth and sexy as he picked them up, and sliding them up his legs and over his cock made him want to cum. He tried to ignore the feeling and put his combat boots and teeshirt on. The cotton shirt teased his nipples gently as he tucked it into his jeans.
What the hell was he going to do? Surely whatever it was they had given him would wear off before long. He was buggered if he was going to ring that number and beg for the antidote. If things hadn't got any better by Monday morning he'd think about it again.
A ride on the bike in the cold air might do him a lot of good, he thought. He grabbed his leather jacket, helmet and gloves, shoved his keys into his pocket, and felt the card there. He looked at it, not recognising the area code, put it on the bedside table and left the flat.
By the time he got down to the garage he realised that these loose leather jeans had been a mistake; the folds in the leather kept moving against his bare thighs, riding up at the sides of his balls and holding them gently in a soft leather grip while the front of the crotch worked on his cock - it was as if they were intent on wanking him off. He considered changing into some others, but knew that wearing any of his jeans would be equally horny. He threw his leg over the bike and backed it out of the garage, then started it up. The vibrations of the engine were gorgeous and by the time he reached the end of the road his cock was rock-hard again.
Joey got as far as the park before he had to stop. Between them, the feel of the cool leather jeans on his bare skin and the movement of the bike had got him very close to cumming again and his riding was becoming erratic. He sat there wondering what to do. This was impossible. One hand was on the bars and the other was massaging the obscenely-bulging shape of his cock gently throught his jeans - he just couldn't leave it alone. Fuck, he was horny!
He knew then that there was no way he was going to make it through until that evening, let alone Monday. He turned the bike and rode back to his flat at full speed. Trying to ignore the leather working on his cock, he ran up the stairs to his flat, then jumped onto the bed and unzipped his fly. His hand flew up and down the shaft of his cock, he squeezed his eyes closed, and willed himself to cum. He was that close... but he couldn't.
"Arrrgggh!" He beat his head on the pillow, and fought to get his hand away from his cock. Panting heavily, he pulled the phone onto the bed and dialled the number on the card.
'Brrr-brrr....... brrr-brrr.... brrr-brrr...'
"Come on! Pick up!!"
'Brrr-brrr....... brrr-brrr.... brrr-brrr...'
Without his consciously realising it, Joey's hand was back on his cock, rubbing the head. He was on the edge of cumming yet again.
'Brrr-brrr....... brrr-brrr.... brrr - ' There was a click, and then the single word, "yeah?"
His cock jerked in his hand - that voice - did it belong to one of those leatherboys who'd held him and gagged him and injected him? "Please.... please help me."
A quiet chuckle at the other end of the line. "Are you ready for the antidote?"
"Oh fuck yes! PLEASE!"
"It might be expensive..."
"I don't care! How much?"
"I'm not talking about money."
"Please. I need it. I need to cum so bad, man."
"Oh, I know you do." Another quiet chuckle.
Joey waited for the man to continue, but there was only silence. "Hello? Are you still there?" Joey's voice was urgent.
"I don't think you need it yet. Ring again at six this evening. Not a second before or you won't get it." There was another click and the line went dead.
Joey dropped the phone onto the bed and lay back, his eyes closed. NO! How the fuck could he last out until six o'clock? He was desperate. He lay there for a few minutes, forcing himself to keep his hand off his cock, until he had to get up to piss.
It was difficult pissing with a hard-on, and in the end he had to kneel down and hold his cock in the bowl to stop it going everywhere. After that he showered, and tried again to decide what clothes to put on. He couldn't go out anywhere, and if he had to spend today watching the TV, then shorts were probably going to be the best bet.
The mind of a horny human male is a strange thing: it forgets very quickly. When he stepped out of the shower his cock was only semi-hard, and he felt very pleasantly horny - not excessively so, as he had been earlier, but pleasantly - adventurously horny. He sorted through the gear in his wardrobe and saw a pair of Adidas shorts. Black, shiny, and slinky - with no lining. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd cum in those shorts. With his cock hardening at the thought, he grabbed those and put them on. He went to the chest the other side of the room and rummaged through it until he found what he wanted: a pair of handcuffs. He unlocked them, padded through to the kitchen to put the key on the top of the microwave, then went into the lounge, taking a glass of water with him. After placing the glass on the coffee table, he switched on the TV, set the channel, pulled on the shorts, and locked his wrists behind his back. Then he sat back in the reclining chair to watch the football match.
By the time he sat down his cock was already as hard as steel, and was pushing the front of the shorts out into an unbelievable bulge. He squirmed in pleasure on the chair - oh fuck he was enjoying this. The football players in their white shorts looked sexy, and he was loving the feeling of relative helplessness with his hands cuffed behind his back.
Joey was really getting into this, and after a while it wasn't enough. He got up, unlocked his cuffed wrists, took off his shorts, and replaced them with rubber codpiece ones. He pumped almost half a bottle of lube into the codpiece, and snapped it into place, then went back to the chest and got out a rubber blindfolding hood. The only holes in this were two small ones under the nose, for breathing. He took the hood, a gag, and two leather straps back to the lounge, and sat down again. After strapping his ankles and knees together, he fastened the gag tightly in place, put on the hood, then closed the rachet cuffs once more, with his wrists behind his back.
OH SHIT! That felt unbelievable!! He struggled and moved on the chair, his head enclosed tightly by the rubber hood, gagged, unable to see anything, his legs strapped together, his hands cuffed behind his back, and his hard cock squirming against the slippery black rubber with a life of its own inside the lube-filled codpiece.
Within seconds he was back on the edge of cumming. He thrust his hips, repeatedly pounding the head of his cock into the stretchy codpiece, his breath whistling through the small holes in the hood and his sightless eyes staring manically into the black rubber which blindfolded him. He was on the very edge... but he still couldn't cum.
Automatically his right hand reached for his cock, to wank wank wank - but the handcuffs made that impossible. He had to get the key, unlock his wrists, and make himself cummmmmm! He stood up, fell over, and landed on the floor. In his desperation he'd forgotten that his legs were strapped together.
As he tried to reach for the strap buckle, there was a loud knock on the door. He froze.
Oh no! It was Mark - he occasionally came round on a Saturday for beer and football, although he hadn't been round for a few weeks. Shit shit shit!
Joey heard the front door open, and booted footsteps approaching on the wooden floor.
"Joey? You there? I've got beer and oh fuck..." Mark was a punk with a short red mohican. He was a biker, like Joey - but as far as Joey knew, he was totally straight. And he knew nothing of Joey's kinkiness.
Joey fancied Mark like crazy - had done for ages - but he'd never tried anything on because he knew the boy would freak out and probably never speak to him again. Mark always wore leathers, tight leathers - that was one of the things that turned Joey on so much about him - but he'd been living with his girlfriend Terri for months now and from his occasional barbed comments about gays, Joey guessed he was a bit homophobic.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Mark put his black helmet and the six-pack down on the floor and gaped. On the floor in front of him was his mate Joey, handcuffed and with his legs strapped together; hooded; gagged - judging from the sounds he was making; and wearing black rubber codpiece shorts with an erection like a fucking tent-pole inside them. The stretchy black rubber was almost bursting with hard, horny cock. And Joey was humping the chair leg.
Mark didn't know what to do. Should he release him? Or let him finish whatever it was that he was doing? He couldn't take his eyes off that hard cock in those shiny rubber shorts. Joey was clearly doing everything he could to bring himself off. And he was not succeeding.
Mark stood there for a while, smiling slightly. Then he knelt down, and gripped Joey's cock lightly. The helpless boy immediately nodded violently, and made unintelligible pleading noises into the gag. Mark withderew his hand. But when Mark took his hand away, Joey bucked the air so hard that the punk thought he would injure himself.
Then Mark realised that he himself was getting hard. He came to a decision, and reached out again, his fingers closing firmly around the throbbing cock. He began to wank the desperate boy off through the rubber.
Joey's moaning increased until he was screaming into the gag. Mark's hand pumped faster and faster. he repositioned himself so that he could get a better grip, his thighs pressing against Joey's. He bent down further so that with the lad's movements they rubbed against his own cock through his leather jeans. Mark 's hand was a blur on Joey's cock: he worked on the shaft, and then the head, trying to make the boy cum. Suddenly Mark let out a stifled groan and his own spunk shot into his jeans. His body convulsed spasmodically as he came, and his hand slowed on Joey's cock.
Joey was shaking his head and yelling something repeatedly into the gag, but Mark reached around the back of Joey's head and unzipped the hood. Joey's eyes were staring wildly. Spit had run down at the sides of the gag, and it slurped as he removed it. Joey's head fell back to the floor, his eyes closed and his mouth open, gasping for air. "Oh fuck..." he said.
The punk unfastened the straps around the boy's legs. "Where's the key for the cuffs?"
Joey swallowed. "On the microwave."
A couple of minutes later Joey was back on the recliner, gulping beer from a can. Mark sat down on the other chair, trying not to let the spunk inside his jeans make squelching noises. "Do you want to tell me why you were tied up on the floor?"
Joey burped, and wiped his mouth. "It's a long story," he said.
"I'm listening." Mark opened another beer and sat back.
Although Joey knew that Mark was straight, it turned out that the punk wasn't homophobic at all. He'd always assumed that Joey was straight, he said, and so he'd possibly overplayed the straight-boy bit in case Joey had got the idea that he wasn't. Mark proved to be a good listener, and a lot more world-wise then Joey had given him credit for. He told him everything, including the facts that he had major fetishes for leather, rubber and bondage, and that he'd always fancied the punk like crazy. Of everything that Joey told Mark, this last revelation was the only thing that made the punk blush.
"Let me get this right - the only thing this injection seems to do is to make it impossible for you to cum?"
Joey nodded. "But it doesn't stop me getting horny or needing to cum. Far from it - I've been permanently fucking horny since they did it."
A slow smile spread across the punk's face. "Seems like it's turned you into a perfect victim for teasing..." He spread his booted feet wide and stroked his fingers slowly across his leather-jeaned crotch.
Joey's cock was getting hard again in his shorts. "Stop it you bastard. Don't make it worse."
Mark laughed and removed his hand. "I'm sorry. I just love to kick a man when he's down." He nodded to the TV. "Who's playing?"
"No idea. I couldn't see the screen too well through that hood."
They opened another can each. "So, what you gonna do? Go to the hospital?"
"Fuck no! Can you imagine? What would I say to them? 'Excuse me, but a group of leatherboys grabbed me and injected me with something so that I can't cum...'?"
"Hmm. What about the phone number? You gonna use it?"
Joey shook his head slowly, "I don't know. Perhaps this will wear off." His hand was back on his cock, stroking it slowly. It felt fucking beautiful. "Oh shit I am so HORNY! You have no idea."
"Ok - well how about we watch the match? Take your mind off it until tonight, then you can ring them. See what they want."
Joey couldn't think of anything better to do. "Yeah, ok. But don't blame me if I jump you and fucking rape you."
They settled down to watch the football. Mark was, however, watching Joey most of the time; the boy just couldn't keep his hand off his cock. The sight of the good-looking, muscular lad playing with a stonking erection through stretchy rubber codpiece shorts was hypnotic. Several times Mark had to hold his beer can on his crotch to cover up his own hard-on.
As the afternoon progressed, Mark found himself getting more and more horny again. Fantasies started playing in his mind, and a couple of times he almost said something, but stopped himself just in time.
Eventually, however, he said, "look, you fancy me, right? A lot. Ok - if you got me tied up, and did whatever you wanted to me, would that make you cum?"
Joey's cock bounced inside his shorts at the idea. It was one of the horniest thoughts he could imagine."Oh fuck, Mark, you'd let me do that to you?"
"Well, no pain - I'm not into pain. And no fucking. I don't do that. But anything else.... yeah, sure. If you think it would help." He took his hands away from his crotch to reveal a big, hard bulge under the leather. "I kinda like the idea..."
Joey dragged Mark into the bedroom and tied him spreadeagled to the bed. After stripping his shorts off, he gagged and blindfolded the boy, then started to lick his leathers all over with a hunger born of sheer desperation. His hands and tongue were all over the helpless punk - feeling his studded leather jacket, his New Rock boots, his spiked belt, and his skintight black leather jeans. With one hand cupping the shiny black bulge of his balls and the other gently stroking the boy's short mohican, he licked and sucked the young punk's hard cock through the thin leather until Mark's moans had reached a volume and urgency which told him the boy was about to cum.
Joey stopped - leaving Mark as close to the edge as he was himself. Quickly, he released the ropes restraining Mark's feet, and dived on top of the boy, pushing his hard cock tight up against Mark's leather-covered perineum. He forced the boy's legs tightly closed with his own, the leather-jeaned thighs gripping his cock - and then, pulling the gag and blindfold off him, stared for a moment at the punk's beautiful face, before crushing his mouth onto Mark's and kissing him passionately while fucking the boy's leather jeans.
Mark protested - he hadn't realised that kissing would be on the adenda - but there was nothing he could do about it, and for Joey, the feel of the boy struggling underneath him only served to fire him even more. His cock pistoned up and down between Mark's tightly-closed thighs, the leather of the lad's tight jeans milking him - and he was staring into Mark's blue eyes as he continued to kiss him. He was fucking the skintight leather jeans of most gorgeous punk he'd ever known, and whom he'd desperately wanted to shag for ages.
Joey had been close to cumming before - in the sling at the Eagle, in the bushes with the boy, on the bed with the magazine, and in the rubber shorts - but at this moment he was closer than he'd ever been in his life - a hair's breadth away from shooting what felt like the biggest load of spunk in the history of the world. But he couldn't cum.
Mark was thrusting his hips in time with Joey's pumping rhythm. He'd given up protesting about being kissed by another boy - it was actually fucking horny - but he wasn't going to cum either. He needed more friction on his own cock.
With a yell of frustration Joey jumped off him, reversed himself on the bed, and - before the punk knew what was happening - rammed his cock into the boy's mouth. At the same time he went to work on Mark through his jeans.
This was too much - being force-kissed by another guy was one thing, but sucking dick was another. "Noooooo!" He spluttered around the hard cock between his teeth - and he started to fight. He kicked and bucked and writhed and struggled under Joey, but Joey's hands were relentless, gripping and sliding the thin black leather over the boy's cock wherever he moved. A hand was between his thighs, working on his balls, while the other was frantically milking him. The room was filled with the sound of grunts, moans, and creaking leather as the two boys - one with his hands tied to the corners of the bed and with both his face and his cock being raped - fought. The punk's struggling and fighting turned Joey on like crazy, like nothing ever had done before, and he became a fiend, obsessed with making the helpless boy shoot his load.
Mark came with a scream. As his dick bucked and throbbed, pumping his spunk out into his leather jeans under Joey's hand, sucking cock suddenly became the only thing to do - and he did it with passionate enthusiasm.
Joey milked every drop out of the boy, his hand slowing only gradually until Mark's jeans were soaked and slippery under his fingers. But he knew that he wasn't going to cum himself. It took the greatest force of willpower to pull out of the punk's mouth, but he did so, collapsing on the bed at the side of the exhausted Mark. "Oh shit, I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have done that."
Mark was silent for a few moments, catching his breath, then he turned his head to Joey - and smiled. "Oh, I don't know," he said, "it wasn't so bad..."
What could easliy have been the end of a friendship, or at least a very awkward post-orgasmic situation, turned out to be nothing of the sort. The two boys went back to the beer and TV, and although Mark was quiet for a while it wasn't because of any awkwardness, but rather that he was thinking. "You know something? I think I could get into bondage with boys." He seemed to realise what he'd said then, because he looked up at Joey and added firmly, "but that doesn't mean I'm turning gay." That had sounded a bit too defensive, perhaps. He smiled lopsidedly. "Perhaps that means I might be bi. Oh fuck, I just love sex - and that was something else!"
Joey grinned. "I gave up labels a long time ago. Just do what you like doing and fuck it."
"Yeah." He raised his beer can. "To sex."
Joey raised his too, "I'll drink to that!"
They took a swig of beer, and there was a pause, then Mark asked, a bit sheepishly, "can we do that again sometime?" He swallowed. "Like tomorrow...?"
Mark stayed as long as he could, but he said that Terri would be wondering where he'd got to. He picked up his crash helmet, and the two boys hugged - perhaps a little self-consciously. "You know where I am," said Joey, and squeezed the punk's spunk-soaked crotch on the way out. "And thanks."
Mark grinned. "See you soon, I think..." He winked at Joey and bounced down the stairs.
Joey closed the door and made himself a coffee. The whole flat smelled of sex. Wonderful. He checked the time: it was half past five - an hour to go before he could ring that number. He'd put the black Adidas shorts back on, and some trainers, and he took his coffee to the lounge. Although his cock was still hard, he'd gone off the boil a little now, and he felt good. There was something to be said for feeling horny all the time, he thought - perhaps he wouldn't need to ring the number after all. He could get used to this. The male mind forgets so quickly...
The football match was over now - he'd no idea who'd won - and he flipped through the channels. There was the usual selection of early evening crap on, but MTV were doing a heavy rock special so he left that on for the time being. He wasn't really into heavy rock music, but the bands did tend to wear outrageously horny gear: skintight jeans, leather, studs, boots... A group he'd never heard of came on - 'Vermin' was their name. The lineup consisted of four of the sexiest guys he'd seen for a long time, wearing gear that would have got them raped had they set foot in the Eagle. The video that accompanied the song was set in a castle dungeon, and consisted mainly of shots of the boys restrained to assorted medieval devices while struggling and writhing lasciviously. While they all seemed to be exceptionally well-endowed, the lead singer had a bulge in his skintight leather jeans that defied description. It was obscene. Whether or not it was artificially enhanced for the video made no difference to Joey - he stared open mouthed at the screen while his hand, inserted up the leg of his loose shorts, wanked like a demon. The blond singer was currently tied to a rack, and was doing his best to mime to the words of the track while several pairs of hands stoked him slowly and sexily. Of course they never actually touched that bulge, but they came very near - closeups of fingers teasing the insides of his thighs being particularly lingering and detailed.
Way before the track was halfway through, Joey was on the edge again. He knew he wouldn't be able to cum, but after the fight on the bed with Mark and with the visuals on the TV, he was physically unable to stop wanking. He tried, but he couldn't do it. It was as if some force had taken over his willpower and was controlling him - he had no say in it at all.
By the end of the track his cock was sore, and his balls ached with unreleased spunk. There was an interview with some other guy on the television now - a long-haired, ugly lad with spots - but Joey's eyes saw only Mark, tied to the rack, struggling and yelling into a gag while Joey teased the gorgeous young punk's body and cock beyond endurance.
Whether Joey would ever have been able to stop wanking as he sat there staring unseeingly at the TV with rock music blaring from the speakers, or whether he would have continued until his cock bled and he passed out, is not clear, because right then the phone rang at the side of him.
Joey jumped as if an electric shock had passed through him. He blinked for a moment as if not knowing where he was or what he was doing, then he let go of his cock and snatched the phone up. "YES?" He shouted.
There was a pause, then a click, followed by a female voice with an American accent. "Congratulations! Your number has been randomly chosen and you are the proud winner of a sports car. To receive your prize, just dial - "
Joey slammed the receiver down. This must be the only time in history that he'd been grateful for an automated call like that. He stood up and pulled his shorts off - the feel of the soft shiny material on his cock was unbearably horny. His cock stabbed the air, pleading for more attention. "Oh fuck fuck fuck!" Was it possible to die from horniness, he wondered.
Urgently, he checked the time. It was two minutes past six. YES! He grabbed the card and dialed the number. After three rings it picked up.
"Yeah?" That same voice. Images of black leather jackets came back to him, of being hooded, held helpless between those leatherboys, while one of them injected him... His cock jumped between his legs.
"It's me. I need that antidote. Please..."
"Do you?" The voice was slow, taunting. "It hasn't been very long. Do you really need it?"
"Oh fuck. Please."
"How much do you need it? How badly?"
Joey was on the point of crying. "I need it bad, man. Sooo bad. I'm going insane here."
There was a pause, then the voice was back. "You remember the place where we got you?"
That phrase 'we got you' sent horny shivers up and down Joey's back and straight to his cock. "Yeah."
"Be there. Ten o'clock tonight. Dressed as you were last time. Alone. And don't fight. You give us any problems, you're gonna be stuck like that for the rest of your fucking life, boy."
"Ok. Ok. I won't fight. I'll do anything you want. Anything..." but the line was already dead.
How Joey had managed to make it through to ten o'clock he didn't know, but somehow he had. At five minutes to ten he was already there, waiting. He couldn't keep still, and he couldn't keep his hand off his cock. He played with its hard shape through the rubber codpiece jeans as he stepped from one foot to the other impatiently. "Come on. Come on!"
A black Transit van turned into the end of the deserted street, its lights off. Slowly it approached. Joey noticed that there was a black leather cover over the number plate, so that he couldn't read it. As, agonisingly slowly, it got nearer, he could see that the windows were tinted black, concealing the occupants totally. There were no windows in the back part of the van.
It came to a stop with its rear end level with him, and Joey waited. When nothing happened, he tried the door on the passenger side. It was locked, and there was no response from within. The van moved forward a few feet. Joey pulled the handle on the back door and it opened. He climbed inside and closed the door, plunging the interior into complete and utter blackness. Immediately there was a 'thunk' as the door locked, then he felt the suspension rise slightly as someone got out - no doubt to uncover the number plate. After a few seconds it settled again, the front door closed, and the van moved off.
A light came on inside the van, and Joey found that he was sitting on padded black leather which covered the whole inside of the van - floor, walls and ceiling. The smell of leather was incredible. The compartment was empty except for some shelves on one wall, and he saw a hood, some handcuffs, straps, ropes, and other things neatly arranged on them.
A quiet click, then the voice, through a speaker somewhere: "Take one of the straps, and strap your feet together tightly around the ankles. Tell me when you've done that."
Joey moved closer to the shelving, and fastened the strap tightly as he'd been told. "Ok," he called loudly, "I've done that."
"No need to shout. Now, take the handcuffs, and fasten one round your right wrist. Leave the other one open. Tell me when you've done that."
"Now the hood. Put it on, lace it up tightly, then fasten the collar with the padlock. Tell me when you've done."
Joey took the hood off the shelf. It was a thick black leather hood with no holes anywhere except for breathing. He knew that once that was locked on him, he would be helpless. Should he do it? Would they know in the front if he didn't?
"Stop looking at it and put it on."
Joey jumped. They could see him. He looked round for the camera but couldn't find it. With a deep breath he pulled the hood over his head. As his fingers tightened the laces in the back, the black leather settled around his head, pulling tighter and tighter across his face. He could breathe ok, but he couldn't see a fucking thing. He pushed the locking post through a hole in the collar strap and inserted the little padlock. Last chance. Do I lock it? He wondered. What choice did he have? The padlock closed with a tiny click. That was it. "Done," he shouted. His voice was deafeningly loud in his ears.
"Now cuff your hands behind your back."
Joey did so. The steel was cold against his wrists.
"Good boy. Now just relax and enjoy the ride. I see you've got a hard-on - cum if you want to." The speaker clicked, cutting off humiliating laughter from the front.
Joey lay on his side on the padded surface, his hooded head filled with the horny smell of leather; unable to see anything; not knowing who had got him or where they were taking him; handcuffed and helpless; and with his cock trying desperately to burst out of the thin, stretchy rubber codpiece. One part of his mind was worried at his situation - furious even - but another part was loving every second. The van drove on, with its helpless, horny captive squirming in the back.
Joey heard the door open, and felt hands reaching for him. After being lifted bodily out of the van and strapped into a wheelchair, he was pushed away from the van and into a building. Even through the thick leather of the confining hood, he was aware of the changes in accoustics - and he could feel temperature differences through the rubber jeans. His cock was as hard as a steel rod and he would have sold his soul to the devil just to be able to cum.
After a short time they came to a stop. The straps were released, and he was manhandled off the chair and onto some kind of short, padded table. Strong arms held him while his handcuffs, jacket, boots and socks were removed, leather cuffs were fastened around his wrists and ankles, and his midsection was strapped down to the table. His arms and feet were lifted, and secured to restraint points that seemed to move somehow - he couldn't work out how they were arranged.
Once he was fully restrained, he felt the padlock released, and the hood was taken off. He screwed up his eyes in the sudden bright light, then squinted up at the four leather-masked faces looking down at him. They were smirking inside the masks, and the operating-room lighting cluster high above the table created bright spots of reflection in their shiny black biker leather jackets and jeans.
"What do you want?" Joey asked, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and extreme sexual excitement.
They didn't reply. Instead, with a quiet, evil laugh, they just walked out of the room, leaving him lying there, on his own.
Joey looked around. He appeared to be in some kind of operating theatre - the walls and ceiling were stark white, there was a sink over on the far side, with medical-looking glassware standing on it, and the big, beige lighting unit on its articulated arm snaking out from the wall. Apart from that, the room was empty.
He examined his restraints. He was lying on a leather-covered table about three feet long, strapped down to it at his chest and pelvis with wide Velcro straps. His ankles and wrists were raised a couple of feet above the level of the table, the leather cuffs around them clipped to the ends of separate metal bars, which hung, suspended at their mid-points, from a longer, heavier bar running parallel to the table. This in turn hung from a single, heavy central ceiling chain. Joey frowned, wondering what the purpose of this complicated arrangement was. It was a similar position to being in a sling.
He didn't have to wait very long. Soon the door opened, and the four guys returned. They had changed their gear - instead of their thick leathers they were now wearing skintight rubber jeans, waders, and black rubber devil masks with horns. Elbow-length rubber gloves glinted wickedly on their arms - the gloves were fingerless, which for some reason unsettled Joey - and above their naked torsos the shiny black rubber devil masks leered at him. One of the men was wheeling a small trolley, but Joey couldn't see what was on it.
They gathered around the table, two on each side, and looked down at him. "What do we want?" said one of the rubber devils slowly, answering Joey's question from before as if there had been no break, "ahh, that would be telling..."
Very lightly, they began to stoke his body. Eight hands - forty fingers - began to glide over his naked skin, his thin rubber jeans and teeshirt so lightly he could barely feel them. Fingertips caressed and prodded gently, as if searching for something. There were fingers sliding along his arms, exploring into the crevices of his elbows, teasing his armpits lightly, stroking his shoulders, his neck, ears, nose, chest, stomach and sides - while other hands were roaming teasingly over his abs, his calves, the backs of his knees, up his thighs, across his lower back, which was raised slightly off the short table, the cheeks and the crack of his arse, his perineum, over his aching balls, and along the length of his precum-drooling cock to the very tip of his cockhead. There were fingers everywhere - far too many to keep track of - stroking and teasing so lightly it was as if they were feathers.
Joey closed his eyes and gave himself up to the wonderful sensations. It felt beautiful. He'd been hard and horny again for some time, but this was something else - he felt the very first signs of what he knew would be the most earth-shattering orgasm of his life begin to stir between his legs.
At first, he just lay there and enjoyed what the devils were doing to him, but after a while he found that he couldn't help but move - and it was begining to tickle. Now Joey wasn't in the least bit ticklish - if he had been, he'd have been hysterical long before this - but this constant, relentless feather-light stroking was getting to him gradually, sensitising his skin somehow. It also felt amazingly sexy, and somehow demanded movement from him. He stretched lazily in his restraints, and noticed that because of the arrangement of suspended metal bars, as one foot moved up, the other moved down. Interesting, he thought, but hardly important.
As the gentle tickling and teasing continued, the fingers seemed to be finding more spots that made him move: the backs of his knees and calves especially appeared to be becoming more sensitive, ticklish even, making him automatically try to move away. And when a hand slid lightly up the inside of his thigh he found himself closing his knees together to grip it, to feel it there between his legs.
They didn't try to limit his movements at all, in fact it was almost as if they'd been expecting it. Then Joey realised that this complicated arrangement of metal bars was in fact ideal for allowing a victim to struggle but not get anywhere - he could move a lot, but there was absolutely nothing to push against or to get purchase on; he couldn't even lift himself up bodily off the table because of the two wide straps holding him down.
The fingers were not only finding more and more ticklish spots, they also seemed to be homing in on more and more intensely erogenous areas. As well as tickling more, it was feeling more and more horny every second. The fingers found places that seemed to be connected directly to his cock. Those first, fledgling signs of momumental orgasm-to-come had gained a little weight, a little urgency, like a tiny snowball that is thinking about eventually becoming an avalanche which destroys an entire town.
The rubber devils were tireless. They just kept on stroking very lightly, teasing his skin either directly or through the thin black rubber of his teeshirt and jeans, and there came a point where Joey giggled. It wasn't a proper giggle - more a kind of involuntary, jerking, cough - but that was the start. From that point on things became progressively worse, and quickly. He began to struggle more. Struggling was necessary now: to get away from the increasingly tickling fingers; to express the hardening intensity of his building horniness; and to go with it - to live it. And the more he struggled, the more necessary it became.
Those shiny black rubber devil-faces gazed down with their fixed expressions of infinite sadism while he kicked, closed his knees together when they tickled the insides of his legs, opened them wide when they tickled the outsides, bucked, writhed, twisted, shook his head, moved his arms. They paid not the slightest attention to his struggling, simply following his movements with their hands, tickling and teasing unstoppably. There was nothing he could do to get away from them: when he moved one foot the other moved in the opposite direction; if he pulled his left arm down to keep the tickling fingers out of that armpit, his right arm went up, exposing the other armpit; if he pulled them both down, his feet rose and the devils would tickle the backs of his legs and his knees - making him pull his legs down sharply, and so exposing both armpits again. None of his struggling made any difference - the rubber devils just carried on doing what they'd been doing all the time - no more and no less. It was rapidly becoming unbearable from two directions at once: Joey was on a rollercoaster of spiralling horniness and ticklishness and there was not a fucking thing he could do about either one.
Joey was discovering that ticklishness is a very strange thing: you can be not ticklish in the slightest to start with, but once it kicks in - if it does - it tends to escalate like a chain reaction. There is nothing you can do to stop it, no amount of willpower can control it - it builds and builds faster and faster until you are a helpless, nervous wreck, screaming and fighting and yelling yourself hoarse.
He'd been fairly quiet to begin with, then gradually his moaning and giggling had grown until he was alternating between laughter and noises of animal lust - but now, when he badly needed to lift his pelvis, to thrust his poor, desperate cock into their hands, to be wanked firmly to orgasm, he found it was too late for communication: when he tried to beg them to make him cum, the words found themselves queuing up behind hysterical laughter and shrieks of ticklish, sexual frustration - and they couldn't get out.
There were fingers tickling the insides of his thighs; tickling his balls; his arse; his nipples, his ears, his armpits, his arms, his legs... and his cock. Oh fuck, the fingers on his cock. One of the devils had claimed Joey's cock for himself, and was teasing the shaft and around the head so lightly Joey wanted to scream!
DO IT HARDER YOU FUCKING BASTARD!!!!
But only the incoherent babblings of someone going slowly insane escaped his lips. He was no longer in control of his body. He could no longer communicate, keep still, or control any aspect of his responses. He was a puppet and they were pulling the strings, making him jerk and writhe on the table uncontrollably.
That snowball had gathered force and was now rolling down the hill like an express train. There was nothing that could stop it - and yet it was still gathering momentum. Joey needed to cum more than he had ever needed anything in his young life before.
For someone who wasn't in the least bit ticklish, and who had never given tickling a second thought as a serious activity, Joey seemed to be responding to it intensely. And yet the rubber devils hadn't really been tickling him properly - all they'd been doing was stroking his body steadily, unremittingly.
But now they stopped. One of the devils took a device from the trolley. It was a long, slender stainless-steel tube, curved slightly. He lubed it up, opened the rear zip in Joey's rubber jeans, found the boy's arsehole with a gentle, probing finger, and slipped the vibrator slowly inside. He positioned it carefully, then closed the zip again, leaving just enough gap for the thin wire which was attached to the device.
The devil then took something else from the trolley: a wide leather belt with some kind of block on the front. He passed the belt under Joey's lower back and buckled it over his pelvis tightly. He went to the trolley again, and came back with another vibrator - this one was bigger, pistol-shaped. He snapped it into place on the block in the centre of the belt. This block must have been a type of joint, as it allowed the vibrator to be moved from side to side, up and down, backwards and forwards. He positioned it so that the business end was resting lightly on the flange of Joey's cockhead through the rubber codpiece. Another wire trailed away from it back to the trolley.
The rubber devil looked at the others, then nodded. He switched on the current to both vibrators.
Joey howled. He strained against the velcro straps, trying to thrust his pelvis, to fuck the vibrator. The tube in his arse was sending mind-bendingly horny waves of ecstasy into his prostate and the machine on his cock was milking him with devastating efficiency. Even if he'd wanted to get away from it, he couldn't - it was atached by the belt to his pelvis, and moved wherever he moved, staying right in position on the head of his cock. The sensations in his cock and his arse would have made him cum in seconds even at his least horniest - but in his present condition they were totally, mind-shatteringly devastating. He was on a new plane of sexual arousal - one he had never in his wildest dreams imagined could possibly exist. The snowball was no longer a snowball - it was a force of nature on the final straight to devastation.
Then, simultaneously, the eight hands, the forty fingers, began to tickle the boy. Not stroke slowly, not carress, not glide - but torture. Stiff fingers probed deeply into the Atemi points on his sides, at the bottom of the ribs, and stimulated; they squeezed the muscles above his knees like talons; they raked fingernails across his bare soles and got between his toes; they attacked his armpits; they clamped his head and ran feathers over his lips and nose; they tickled his balls through the sensitive rubber with sharp-nailed fingertips...
Joey screamed. He struggled and writhed and kicked - to no effect whatsoever. Never ever had he for one moment believed that it was possible for a human being to need anything as much as he needed to cum at that moment. He was poised on the very brink of orgasm - the vibrators were working on his prostate and his cock intentionally to make him cum; the devils' fingers were stimulating his nervous system in ways which he'd never known were possible, and which fuelled and fed that need to cum directly; even the restraints he'd been put in - where he could struggle and move, but to no effect - were designed to get him as horny, and as frustrated, as possible. And yet he could not cum.
The avalanche reached its destination. It hurled itself with unimaginable force - and was met by an invisible, impenetrable barrier. The irresistable force met the immovable object: Joey HAD to cum - but Joey could not cum.
When the human body is subjected to stimulation which is both prolonged and unendurable, it eventually escapes in the only way it can: into unconsciousness. But before that happens, changes occur. The victim is never quite the same afterwards. Joey first pissed himself, then passed out on the table. The rubber devils switched off the vibrators, checked the boy carefully, then left the room.
The second session was worse - much worse. The devils returned later (Joey had no idea how much time had passed) and began work on him again. This time they had a better idea of his tolerances, and they kept him conscious for much, much longer.
By the third session, they had the measure of him exactly. From that point on he was never allowed to escape into unconsciousness. The sessions always took the same form: gentle stroking, cock and ball tickling, fingers gliding up the insides of his thighs, over his body; then a short pause while the vibrators were adjusted, followed by insistent, compulsive milking and sadistic tickle-torture mixed with extreme stimulation of his most erogenous zones - the number and intensity of which seemed to be increasing every time. By the time they finished with for the day, the boy no longer knew the difference between tickling and erotic stimulation - it was all erotic stimulation now. Through all of this, the devils had said not a word, had answed no questions, had responded to no pleas or threats. It was as if Joey were totally voiceless.
They put him to bed in a straitjacket, in a padded cell. He was strapped down, and blindfolded. His body jerked spasmodically, but these involuntary movements became less and less until, finally, he fell asleep, completely exhausted.
Although Joey had no way of telling the time, it felt very early when they woke him up, and gave him a breakfast of orange juice, cereal, toast, marmalade and coffee. He was still in the straitjacket, so they fed it to him by hand. After dealing with his toilet, they took him - hooded - out into what felt like fresh air. A long leash was attached to the collar of his hood, and he was made to walk round in large circles for excersise. He couldn't see where he was going, and it was difficult to keep his balance in the restraining jacket, but he managed. After fifteen minutes of this, it was back to the operating theatre and the day's torture began.
The routine of the sessions was exactly the same: gentle stroking followed by tickle-torture and milking without the possibility of orgasm, but the boy's perception of them changed as time went on. What had been insanity-inducing, unbearable torture was gradually morphing into something else. Oh, it was still insanity-inducing, it was still unbearable, and it was still torture - and he fought against it even more violently, strapped down on the table, than he had done earlier - but now it was becoming somehow fullfilling. It was as if a part of him was not only adapting to it, but was coming to need it. Even in his (comparatively rare) lucid moments, he didn't understand what was happening to him.
Finally, something different happened. It was at the beginning of the last session: the rubber devils lifted his head, pulled a heavy, thick black leather hood over it, and fastened it very tightly, cutting off his sight, his hearing, and his little remaining ability to communicate. They did it very slowly, very deliberately, inching the black leather down over his eyes and face bit by bit. Why? Why were they so fucking teasing about everything they did? It gave him time to think, though, and he wondered just how much difference being hooded would make. The way they did it gave him the impression that they knew it would make things a lot worse - and that worried him.
The session continued as usual with the gentle, light, teasing strokes he'd come to expect - but now he realised that being unable to see or hear anything made it all unbelievably more intense. He began to hyperventilate. If this first part was so much more acute, what was the torture going to be like? He began to shake his head slowly from side to side in terror, knowing beyond any doubt that he would go totally and completely insane this time.
The teasing and stroking continued, the fingers on his thighs and his balls and his cock coaxing him gently but irresistably up that mountain of sexual arousal - at the top of which was the heart-stopping precipice, and beyond that the beautiful, exquisite, ecstastic fall into orgasm. But he knew that once he got to that precipice he would get no further, although the evil rubber devils would sadistically push him as hard and as efficiently as they could, knowing he couldn't fall over the edge however frantically he wanted to.
But there was nothing he could do about it. He was strapped down, hooded, helpless. He had no control over what they did to him, and so his only option was to give himself up to it. But how could he give himself up to something that was unendurable? And the thing that made it so unendurable was that he was so indescribably horny.
And the teasing fingers seemed to be concentrating on his erotic spots this time - which were now all over his body: his sides, the soles of his feet, his ribs, his neck, his ears, his thighs, his stomach, his abs - as well as the usual ones of his cock and balls. A tiny part of him registered this change, but it was a small voice in the remotest part of his brain that was still sane.
And then he heard a sound - a swishing noise like a radio tuned between stations. And then a voice. He knew that hearing voices was sometimes a symptom of schizophrenia, and his terror increased by leaps and bounds - but then he realized that what he was hearing was white noise; there must be headphones built into the hood. The voice was very quiet, whispering. He couldn't make out what the voice was saying because it was so quiet, and the teasing fingers working on him were demanding all of his concentration. But the tone of the voice registered with him: it changed constantly - at times it coaxed, at times it sneered, at times it was humiliating, and it was seductive. He found it intensely sexy. His cock was sticking vertically up from his body, the engorged head with its single eye twitching and moving under the thin, stretchy rubber codpiece like a thing posessed in search of something to rub against - but the rubber devils controlled very carefully what it felt. And now, it was intended to feel only the lightest, most frustrating and infuriating feather-soft touch possible. Not enough - but it was intended to be not enough.
Then the fingers stopped. The white noise was gone, and the voice was silent. Oh no. He knew what was coming next. But when? Before, he'd been able to see when they were about to start the torture. Now he was blindfolded by the hood, could see nothing. He panicked. He kicked and struggled, shook his head from side to side, rubbing it against the padded table, desperately trying to dislodge the hood - but it stayed exactly where it was, the black leather following his every movement, pressing over his eyes, so that he couldn't see, making him vulnerable, helpless...
Suddenly his mind exploded with lust. The vibrators hummed and pulsed deep inside him and on the head of his tortured cock. At the same time the forty fingers went to work on him, expertly and sadistically probing, squeezing and stimulating all of those wonderful places. Instantly he was on that precipice - on the very edge. This was far, far more intense than it had ever been before - the hood forced his mind to focus and concentrate on his sense of touch, and so magnified it out of all proportion. He really knew that he would lose his mind this time. Every inch of his body was an erogenous zone, and every single one was being worked. It was the most excruciatingly exquisite thing he'd ever experienced.
And then the voice was back. But now it was louder, and he could hear exactly what it was saying.
You're helpless, boy. We've got you. You've no idea where you are, or who we are. We've got you restrained in the most horny position you can imagine, where you can struggle and push and kick and writhe under the torture and none of it - nothing you can do - will do you any good. You can't get away from our hands however hard you try... We've got you hooded. That's so that you can't see, don't know what's coming, can't fight it when it does. And it's also to make you feel so fucking helpless... And can you feel our fingers working on you? Tickling your sides and your feet and your ribs and your thighs and your knees...? That makes you need to cum even more, doesn't it? You want to cum. You want us to tickle torture you more, harder, so that you can cum. You NEED to cum.
Can you remember what it's like to cum? To have a hand grip your cock and wank it? Hard? Fast? The thumb riding over that sensitive cockhead... Fingers tickling your balls, the insides of your thighs... Getting you closer and closer... Fingers digging into your sides, tickling your ribs, your knees, nails scraping over your sensitive feet, getting in between the toes, tickling, tickling, tickling... The torture of unbearable tickling forcing the spunk in your balls to shoot up you cock and pump out of the tip... Can you remember what it feels like when the spunk shoots out of your cock? That wonderful, beautiful moment when thick gobs of hot, sticky spunk burst out of your horny, throbbing cockhead? Can you remember what it feels like to cum? Can you imagine what it would feel like to cum NOW? With forty fingers working on you, tickling you INSANE? Do you want to cum now? Do you want us to suck you off? Suck you in our hot wet mouths till you shoot your spunk? Do you want us to milk you? Do you want us to torture you harder and harder until you CUM????
Joey was delerious. He was kicking and struggling with everything he'd got - because that made the torture worse, made the tickling even more intense. He was nodding his head violently and shrieking "YES! YES!! I NEED TO CUM! TORTURE ME HARDER. PLEEEEASE TORTURE ME!!!!!!!!!" over and over into the leather hood. The voice continued speaking to him, and the boy continued struggling and shrieking - and he didn't even notice when they held his left arm immobile and injected him.
Then the rubber devils really went to town on him. Their clawlike hands targeted every one of his by now perfectly-known spots, and raked and dug and probed and gripped and stimulated with maximum efficiency. Bruises developed under his rubber teeshirt on his abused ribs and sides where the devils' relentless, merciless fingers worked. His body jumped and jerked on the table as if he were being electrocuted - but he yelled inside the leather hood for more, more, more. One of the devils removed the vibrator, ripped off the codpiece, wrapped his rubber gloved hand around the boy's cock-shaft and began wanking it - very slowly at first, but then speeding up a little. At the same time he lowered his rubber-masked head, taking Joey's cock-head into his mouth and began to suck, using his tongue on the very tip.
The antidote began its work, breaking down the chemical that was preventing him from being able to orgasm. It worked slowly but effectively inside him, and there came a point where the number of receptors in his brain that were still blocked was only just sufficient to stop him from cumming - and the chemical continued to work...
Joey was screaming, thrusting his hips as much as the straps would allow, to push his cock into the sucking mouth and wanking fist, opening and closing his knees to grip the devil he could feel between them - on the edge of both orgasm and insanity.
He didn't know whether he was in hell or in heaven - either way, he thought he was going to die. His brain was saturated with stimulation. He couldn't take another millisecond of this unbearable torture. He was incapable of thought, he didn't know where his body started or ended. He was a tortured consciousness floating in a universe of ticklish / sexual ecstasy. It could not continue...
The chemical in his brain released the receptors one by one... slowly, steadily...
And then he began to cum. His body froze for a second that was as long as creation. In the pitch-black universe that was his existence, a pinpoint of light appeared.
The receptors in his brain continued to be released, and now there were only a very few left that were still blocked...
The pinpoint of light blossomed, growing into a flaming sun... a nova... a supernova...
The last molecule of the restraining drug fell to the action of the antidote. His brain was now clear of the original chemical...
... and then came the Big Bang that had started everything. He was in the centre of a fireball of sexual release that consumed him totally. With a violence that was so intense it would have been pain in any other situation, the boy's spunk erupted from his cock into the gently-sucking mouth of the rubber devil with a force and a volume that almost made the devil choke. Gob after gob of white-hot spunk flew out of his cock, hit the back of the devil's throat and was swallowed. The straps holding Joey to the table groaned with the strain of keeping him down and the metal bars above him rattled as he convulsed in the longest and most intense orgasm of his life.
Joey opened his eyes slowly. He groaned. His cock hurt and his balls ached. He looked around - he was back in his flat, stretched out on the bed. Groggily he sat up, grimacing at the pain in his sides and ribs. He pulled off his rubber teeshirt and inspected himself in the mirror. His entire chest and abdomen was a mass of bruises from the hands of the rubber devils. He walked slowly into the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee.
He had no recollection of how he'd got back here, he wasn't even sure what day it was, and he had no idea of the time. Taking his coffee through to the lounge, he turned on the TV and called up a text page. It was ten thirty, Sunday night. He sat down on the recliner, closed his eyes and massaged his cock gently. What had all that been about? Who were those rubber devils and why had they done what they had done to him? Perhaps he would never know. He felt somehow different, as if he'd been through some kind of catharsis, but he didn't know what it meant. He replayed events in his mind - the leatherboys, the injection, the van, the table with the straps, the rubber devils, the torture... the torture... the tickling... the tickling... Shaking his head in confusion, he settled down to watch TV, until he fell asleep.
The following couple of weeks were busy at work, but Joey couldn't get the events of the weekend out of his mind. His cock, although still a bit sore for the first few days, got hard at the first thought of what had happened to him, and he had to shake himself often to keep his mind on his work. His Friday nights at the Flying Eagle were good, and he found that someone only had to touch him lightly or stroke his skin gently for him to be instantly transported back in his mind to lying on the short table, being tortured so horrifically / deliciously. He was now extremely ticklish, and jumped out of his skin if anyone looked like they might do that to him. Sex was good - in fact it was better than before the weekend. His whole body seemed more responsive, more alive, and he had many new erogenous zones. He was happy. Almost.
On the third Friday after the weekend he was getting ready to go out, and just snapping the rubber codpiece in place on his jeans when there was a knock on the front door, followed by booted footsteps on the wooden floor. "Hiya!" It was Mark.
The punk looked stunning: he had the New Rock boots on as usual, and was carrying his black crash helmet, but apart from that he was dressed completely in rubber. Skintight rubber jeans - codpiece jeans identical to the ones Joey himself was wearing, he noted with amazement - a heavy studded belt, a shiny black rubber teeshirt, and a spiked rubber collar. Joey's mouth hung open - and his cock was hard inside his jeans at the sight of that gorgeous, sexy punk boy in rubber.
"Hello Mark! What're you doing here? I was just off the the Eagle. Care to join me?" He laughed, knowing that the straight punk wouldn't dare set foot in such a place.
Mark smiled. "Erm, no thanks. Actually, " he put his helmet down carefully on the table, "I wanted to have a chat with you. You got time?"
Mark was ten times more sexy than anything he'd be likely to get at the Eagle tonight - he remembered with cock-hardening clarity the fight he'd had with the boy on the bed three weeks ago. This was the first time he'd seen him since then. "For you, I've always got time, beautiful boy. I was only going to the Eagle cos I didn't have anything better to do. Now I have."
Mark blushed, but grinned. They got beers and sat down. "So, what happened about that injection? Are you cured? Did you ring the number in the end?"
Joey told the lad everything from beginning to end. Mark listened, not interrupting, until he'd finished. "Wow," he said at last. "That's heavy. How do you feel about it all?"
Joey considered. "Well, I wish I knew what it was all about, for one thing. Lack of closure and all that."
"Also," Joey paused, wondering quite how to put this next bit, "Sex has been good - I've got sexy spots all over my body now that I never had before and orgasms have been brilliant."
The punk leaned forward in his chair. "But...?"
Joey chuckled. "There's always a 'but', isn't there?" He sobered and gazed at the carpet. "I don't know - it's as if there's something missing somehow." He looked up at Mark. "Don't get me wrong - what they did to me was torture, plain and simple - there's no other word for it - and I hated it. Couldn't take it, couldn't deal with it."
"But...?" Mark said again.
"But I want it again. Oh fuck I want it again. Every time I have sex with a guy I will him to start tickling me. Hard, mercilessly, sadistically - when I'm strapped down helpless, hooded, and can't do a fucking thing to stop it." There, he'd said it. What the hell would the punk make of that?
Mark sat there for a while without speaking, then said, "how much do you need it Joey? How important is it to you? Really?"
Joey exhaled through his nose. It was a long, sad sigh. "I think about it every time I have sex with someone. I can't think about anything else. I need it. I know this sounds like something out of a bad 'B' movie, but I don't think I'll ever be complete again without it."
Mark smiled. "Show me where your gear is."
"Your bondage gear."
Mark spreadeagled him to his bed, and pulled the black rubber hood over the boy's head. He knelt astride Joey's hips and started to stroke his body, very gently.
Joey closed his eyes under the hood and moaned softly in pleasure. The punk's fingertips tickled lightly all over his body, finding all his sensitive spots one by one, teasing there for a while, then moving on to the next. The punk was good, thought Joey. Very good. When he got to his inner thighs, balls and cock, Joey began to thrust with his hips, needing to cum. Oh fuck, this was so beautiful. It was what he'd wanted and longed for since that weekend. "Harder, Mark,' he said breathlessly. "Tickle me harder. Torture me."
Mark chuckled. "All in good time, all in good time, Joey." His fingers continued to glide across the smooth, muscular, rubber-clad body beneath him - lightly, teasingly. They traced patterns on Joey's balls through the rubber codpiece, and moved on to the shaft - and then the head - of his cock.
"Oh fuck fuck fuck!" Joey was in heaven. He just wished he could see Mark working on him, though. He was so horny right now that a single glimpse of that gorgeous, sexy punk boy would make him shoot. But he couldn't.
Marks fingers stopped. Joey held his breath. What was going to happen? He dared to hope...
Suddenly Mark turned into a demon. He tickled the boy hard and fast. His fingers were everywhere - on his legs, his knees, his thighs, his chest, his armpits, his stomach, his cock... They poked and prodded, squeezed and stimulated mercilessly.
Joey screamed, arched his back and shot his load into the rubber codpiece instantly. His body shuddered and convulsed in the most intense orgasm he'd had since that weekend. He knew beyond doubt now: that was what he wanted. That was what he needed. That was what he couldn't live without.
Mark's fingers slowed, and then stopped. He hadn't even been touching Joey's cock when the boy had cum. And neither had he been touching his own cock when he had cum. Glistening, semi-transparent spunk was running down his rubber-jeaned thigh from under the codpiece.
They collapsed together on the bed, and Mark pulled the hood off Joey. Then Mark put his hand behind Joey's head, pulled him close and kissed him.
"Oh fuck. Oh Jeez... Oh shit!" Was all that Joey could manage to say right then. After a while he breathed deeply. "That was... that was... there are no fucking words to describe what that was. Thank you, Mark. Oh God, thank you Mark."
The punk released Joey from the bed, cleaned himself up and left, promising that they'd see each other again soon. "Have you still got that number?" He asked, as an afterthought, on the way out of the flat.
"Yes, I've still got it."
Mark nodded, then winked and jogged down the stairs, bouncing as always. The punk always bounced, thought Joey, closing the door with a grin; he was a bouncy sort of boy. Oh shit, am I falling in love with him, he wondered, as he settled down to the TV. The Eagle had lost its appeal.
Joey had a lot to think about, and spent every available moment thinking about it. He picked a boy up on the Wednesday evening, and they made out in the lad's bedsit. The boy was cute and sexy, and the two lads came in each other's mouths at the same time, something Joey absolutely loved to do - but his mind wasn't there. It was a universe away, where all he could do was kick and struggle helplessly, and where he was being tickle-tortured out of his mind.
Friday at the Eagle was fun, but ultimately no better. It was strange - he was having better sex than ever before, but somehow it wasn't satisfying. At the time it felt good, his body was alive and tingling, but afterwards there was an emptiness, a meaningless to it all.
At night, in his flat, Joey would sit staring at the blank television screen, playing with his cock slowly, lost in a world of memories. Some of the wanks he had while playing back that weekend on the screen of his imagination were wonderful - even better than the sex he was having with others.
His work was suffering too. It didn't really matter that much - he was only a photographer's assistant, and that didn't call for much in the way of thought - but he was worried about it all the same.
It was Friday again, but he didn't really want to go out. At this rate he'd become a recluse, he thought, but the Flying Eagle no longer held the attraction for him that it once had done. He finished his beer, wondering what Mark was up to and whether he should ring him - he hadn't seen him since that amazing session on the bed, and he needed another. Badly.
He reached for his phone book from the table, and the card fell onto the floor. Picking it up, he gazed at it thoughtfully. His cock was suddenly rock-hard. He knew what to do.
'Brrr-brrr....... brrr-brrr.... brrr - brrr'
Joey turned the card over in his fingers nervously.
The sound of that voice almost made him cum in his jeans.
"Hi. Erm..." He realised he had no idea what to say. "Oh God, I need another fix," he blurted out eventually.
There was a pause at the other end of the line - and then, gently, the voice said, "Tonight - same time, same place. Don't be late." The line went dead.
He replaced the receiver, closed his eyes,and sighed. It was like a drug, he thought, but more complicated. Lots of drugs made you long for them, need them - but what other drug was both wonderful and unbearable at the same time when you took it? He honestly didn't know if he could stand another session of the torture he was asking for - but he had no choice. He had no coice at all.
"You know the routine," said the voice through the speaker. "I don't think we need the ankle strap and the cuffs, though - just the hood on its own'll do. You're not gonna try to run away, are you?"
Joey wasn't so sure. He needed this, but he knew he couldn't stand it. "I think it'd be safer if I put the cuffs on," he said.
The voice chuckled. "Yeah, perhaps it would..."
The smell of leather in the van was beautiful. Joey pulled the hood on, laced it up as tightly as he could, and locked it. Then he cuffed his hands behind his back and settled down for the ride. His mind was in a turmoil: what had he let himself in for again? He couldn't take it - he knew he couldn't. He was learning just how intense ambivalence could be.
Holding his arms to guide him, they walked him blindly forward. When he felt the ambience change as they entered the building, he was grateful for the hood and the cuffs - they made escape, and any change of mind, quite impossible.
"Get onto the table, it's right behind you."
He lost it when they sat him on the short table and unlocked his handcuffs. The smell of the room, the feel of the table, the rattle of the metal restraint bars when one of them touched them - "NOOO!" He jumped off the table, pulling at the hood, trying to get it off his head, feeling blindly for the door, trying to escape...
They grabbed him, turned him around quickly, disorientating him even further, then released him, laughing quietly as he blundered around, unknowingly moving further away from the door, allowing him to discover for himself that as long as that hood was on him, blindfolding him, there was no way he could find the way out. They even had to step out of his way a couple of times.
Eventually he sagged to the floor, beaten by a single thickness of immovable leather over his eyes. He was almost crying in frustration, pulling futilely at the hood. But his cock was as hard as a rock in his rubber jeans.
"Finished? Shall we get on now?" They pulled him to his feet and strapped him, unresisting now, onto the table. He whimpered as they removed his boots and socks slowly, deliberately... He shook his head from side to side as they fitted the wrist and ankle cuffs and raised them, clipping them to the metal bars above him. Not until they'd got him completely helpless this time did they unlock and remove the hood. And by that time, of course, it was too late.
He blinked, then gasped: the four devils stood around him, their shiny, black rubber glinting in the light and their horned faces leering malevolently down at him. The instant he saw them he involuntarily tried to curl up into a ball to protect his ticklish body - but all he succeeded in doing was to make the metal bars rattle again. The restraints held him in place: accessible, vulnerable, and helpless.
There was no light, feathery teasing this time. No gentle stroking. No gliding of soft fingertips over his body - the forty fingers descended together and tortured him. The room reverberrated with his screams. Without their touching his bulging, rubber-covered cock even once, he came in five seconds - and it was mind-blowingly wonderful.
This room was in a different part of the building; he had no idea exactly where, as they'd hooded him again to move him. But now the hood was off and he looked around. It was a kind of lounge with easy chairs, a music centre on one wall and a small bar at the far end. The rubber devils were back to being leatherboys now, with their biker gear on and black leather masks.
Joey had almost recovered, but his breath was still coming in short, shallow gulps.
"Relax," said one of the guys.
Joey brought his breathing under control, but his heart was still racing. There was nothing he could do about that until it settled down on its own. Although they no longer had their devil-masks on, even being in the same room as these four guys - knowing what they could do to him - affected him intensely.
"So," said one of the guys, "I think it's probably time to explain a few things. Yes?"
Joey swallowed, and just nodded, not trusting himself to speak yet.
"Ok. For a start, let me introduce myself. I'm the owner of this place." He made a wide sweeping gesture with his hand. "It's a lot bigger than you think. Perhaps one day you might see more of it. I am in the enviable position of having a lot of money. A lot. And one of the nice things about having enough money is that you can indulge your fantasies."
Joey sat, listening, although it was not easy to keep his eyes off the man's bulging crotch under his tight leather jeans.
"We four are all bikers, and we have something else in common: we enjoy intense sex. Two of us started this - we got together a while ago to conduct an experiment. An experiment which involved taking certain, selected boys like you and seeing if it were possible to -" he seemed to be searching for a word, "to change them a little, to make them suitable for recruitment. Perhaps 'change' is the wrong word: we showed them what was possible. It was then up to them to decide if they wanted to join us. You are our latest guinea pig."
Joey tried to understand. "You tickle-torture all of these boys?"
"No - tickling is just one thing we do. We do many other things as well. But each is tailored to a specific victim."
"So why tickling with me?"
"Because it was something you weren't into at all; something you dismissed - if you ever thought about it at all."
"How did you know?"
"We have our methods," was the only answer he gave.
Joey thought about all of this. He felt that he should feel outraged, furious that he'd been the guinea pig for a sexual experiment without his consent or even knowledge of it. But he didn't. He felt controlled, and excited. He wanted more than anything to be one of these guys. They knew more about sex than he would ever know. "So what happens now?"
"What happens now is that we take you home."
Joey frowned. "Is that it?"
"Yes. It's all down to you now."
"What do you mean?"
But the man just smiled behind his mask.
That smile was the last thing Joey saw before the guy behind him dropped another of the cloth hoods over his head again, cuffed his wrists, and he was taken back to the street where they'd picked him up. Joey cursed as he rubbed his wrists where the handcuffs had dug in and then struggled with the knot securing the hood. Why did they have to tie these so damned tightly? By the time he got it off, the van had gone. He put the hood in his pocket to give back to them for next time.
The first thing he did when he got home was to ring the number - he needed to talk to them again. What was he supposed to do? How could he become one of them? But the number just rang and rang - nobody picked it up. He tried and tried for days, but there was never a reply now. With a sinking feeling, he replaced the receiver yet again. Now he couldn't even get in touch with them at all.
What does a boy do, who needs to be tickle-tortured? He scanned the adverts in sex mags, went online, and over the next few weeks made dates with tickle-tops. But either they were no good at it at all, or those few that were, were nothing like sadistic enough. Even so, it had been good. Trouble was he was cumming so fucking quickly. He had only to be tied down and see hands approaching, intent on tickling him out of his mind, and he'd shoot his load right there and then. And he discovered that being tickled after he'd cum was a very, very different thing. He daren't even think about what would have happened if the devils had done that to him: he'd be in a padded cell by now, gibbering.
Mark came by a couple of times during those weeks, once just to say hello as he was passing, but he couldn't stop - and once to tie Joey up and tickle-torture him. That had been incredible - but short. Screaming into the gag and writhing helplessly as the punk dug his fingers expertly into Joey's sides and ribs, Joey had shot his load in seconds. It was always the same: when he wanked on his own, or had non-tickle sex, he took the usual time to cum, but it was deeply unsatisfying; whereas when he was being tickled, his orgasms were shatteringly intense, but it was always too fucking short.
The weeks went by, and Joey didn't know what to do. He needed the devils. Oh fuck how he needed them. He kept ringing them for weeks, but there was never a reply. In the end he gave up.
Mark bounced in and put his crash helmet down. He sank into a chair and opened two beers, passing one to Joey. "Wassup mate? You look like you've lost a fiver and found a penny."
Joey sighed. How to explain? Leaning with his elbows on his knees and staring at the carpet, he told Mark what was wrong. He told the punk everything: how he'd looked in magazine adverts and online; how he'd made dates with guys and got tickled, but how every time he came too quickly, before the torture had even got going, and how horrendous it was to be tickled immediately after you'd cum; how ordinary sex didn't do it for him any longer; how even wanking , for fuck's sake, didn't do it for him any longer. And he told Mark that he didn't know what he was going to do.
Mark listened to all this quietly. "Why don't you ring them again?" He asked.
"Nobody answers any more."
"Ah." He put his beer down. "Fancy a session?"
Joey smiled at the boy, but shook his head slowly. "You're lovely, Mark - and thank you. But I know how it would end."
"You'd cum, and it would be wonderful. What's the problem?"
"It would last approximately thirty seconds. With you , you sexy, gorgeous punk, a lot less."
Mark blushed again. "Oh come on. I'm horny." He opened his leather-jeaned legs to reveal a massive hard-on bulging between his thighs. Then he smiled sexily and said, slowly, "I'll tickle-torture you to death, boy..."
Joey's cock responded instantly. He sat there for a moment longer, then jumped up, grinning. "It's no good, I can never resist you, Mark."
They disappeared into the bedroom.
It took six minutes for Mark to get Joey tied to the bed, gagged and hooded - and seven seconds for Joey to cum once the punk started to tickle him hard. "Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck ," Joey wailed, after Mark had removed his gag to give him air, "that was incredible - but it's never fucking long enough!"
"Don't think it's over, Joey-boy - I haven't cum yet. I want my kicks as well..." And with that he started to tickle the helpless boy again. But not hard, just gently. Even so, Joey's body was hypersensitive, and the lightest touch was unbearable, unerotic.
"Please stop! Stop! I can't take that."
Mark stopped, and released the boy. "I see what you mean," he said. "Come on, if you've got enough energy left, give me a hand-job."
They swapped positions, Joey tying the punk to the bed and, lying beside him, started to wank him slowly through his leather jeans. After a while, Mark asked him to release the ropes tying his feet. "That's better. Now try to make me cum, you fucker!" His wrists were still tied to the bed, but he suddenly curled up into a ball so that Joey couldn't get to his cock.
"Oh you want to fight, do you?" Said Joey menacingly. "All right then, punk, go for it. I'm gonna make you cream your fucking jeans, boy, and there's fuck all you can do about it..."
He dived onto the punk, forcing one hand between the lad's tightly-clenched thighs and onto his balls. Mark yelled. "No fucking way you gonna make me cum, you bastard!"
"Yeah? You think so?" Joey pushed his other hand between Mark's leather jacket and the front of the thigh that was pressing against it to protect his crotch, and grabbed the boy's hard cock through his jeans. He began to wank hard and fast, never letting the punk get away from his fingers wherever he struggled, raping Mark's horny cock. After about six strokes, the boy came, with a scream. His body convulsed under Joey as he filled his leather jeans with punk spunk. "Oh fuck oh fuck oh FUCK! YEAHHHHHHHH!!!!"
"Looks like I'm not the only one who cums too quickly!" Laughed Joey.
They lay there for a while until Mark had recovered, Joey gently running his fingers through the punk's short red mohican.
"Oh fuck, Mark, you're beautiful.
"So are you," said the punk.
Mark blinked. Had he heard right? "And sex with you is something else. If I didn't know myself better, I'd think I was falling in love."
"I know exactly what you mean, " replied Mark. He pulled Joey's head towards him, and they kissed.
Joey padded up and down the carpet in the lounge like a caged lion. He didn't know what to do. Mark had said he'd see him again soon, but he always said that and often it was weeks before he turned up again. And he was in love with the punk. Also his problem was still there: he came far too quickly with tickle-torture, and other sex just wasn't enough for him. Oh shit!
The ringing of the phone startled him. He picked it up. "Hello?"
"Yeah?" said the voice.
Joey's cock hit the ceiling. "Oh fuck. I've been trying to ring you for the last god-knows how long."
"Yeah?" said the voice again. "Why's that?"
At that moment, it became clear to Joey - crystal clear. He knew exactly what he wanted. Calmly, and with absolute certainly, he said, "I need the antidote."
There was a pause, then "Very well. You know the routine." The phone went dead.
At ten o'clock the van picked him up. He lay in the back, once again hooded and cuffed, thinking. What he'd asked for was another dose of the original drug they'd given him - the one that prevented him from being able to cum. That was the only way he would ever again be able to experience the prolonged, excruciating torture his whole body craved. That drug was the antidote to his problem. He knew that, as with any drug, it had side-effects: he would be permanenely horny - at times insanely so - and he would be completely dependant on the devils to counteract it with the second chemical in order to cum. But it was worth it. He had no choice.
He was strapped to the short table again, but this time he'd got on himself, unhooded. He raised his arms and legs and waited for the leatherboys to fit the restraints onto him. Once he was secured, the chief leatherman looked down at him. There was a hypodermic syringe in his hand. "Are you sure - very sure - you want this? You know what it will do. You will not be able to cum again until we administer the counteragent."
"I know that. And yes, I am sure I want it." Calm as he seemed, it was taking a supreme effort of will, seeing those leather-masked faces over him, not to scream with ticklishness right there and then - but he was, for the moment at least, in total control of himself. He was very aware, though, that that would not last long. If they had been wearing the devil-masks, he wouldn't have been able to lie there without screaming.
The leatherman swabbed his bicep with an alcohol pad, inserted the needle of the syringe and pushed the plunger slowly home. He pulled it out and put it on the trolley. "We'll see you very soon," he said. They left him alone to contemplate his fate.
Later, the door opened and the rubber devils were there, standing around him, two on each side for maximum access to his helpless body. They waited, watching him struggling and yelling and shaking his head impotently in terror. Then their hands, and the tortures of hell, came down on him.
When Joey came to, he found himself sitting on a chair in the other room. He lifted his head, opened his eyes and screamed. Sitting in the other chairs were the rubber devils. But they didn't make a move towards him, they just sat there, all four of them, watching him. He jumped out of the chair like it was on fire, and ran to the door. But it was locked. He sank to the floor, trembling, and fighting off non-existent hands. After a few minutes, when the devils hadn't moved, he peered around the edge of the chair he was hiding behind. They just sat impassively, still watching him.
"Come and sit down, Joey. We are not going to touch you."
He was still hyperventilating.
"Deep breaths, slowly."
He tried to get his breathing under control, and eventually succeeded. Very slowly, ready to run at the first sign of movement from the devils, he advanced inch by inch around the chair and sat down slowly on the edge of it.
The head devil chuckled. Joey jumped out of his skin, but then calmed down again.
"You have passed stage one. And you deserve a reward." Said the devil.
The rubber devil on the far right slowly raised his hand - paused when Joey jumped again - and then pushed the devil-mask up and off his head. Underneath was the leather mask of one of the leatherboys. The eyes sparkled through the holes in the mask, and the mouth smiled. His hands went up again, unzipped the mask, and took it off. It was Mark, his short red mohican a bit flattened by the two masks.
Joey's mouth dropped open. "Mark?"
"Long story." He looked questioningly at the head devil, who nodded. "Mark, this is Terry."
"Terry? Terri? " Terri was a man? Joey felt like his head was caving in.
Mark nodded. "Yes, that's Terry. This is where I live."
Joey's face fell. Oh no! He was on the verge of tears. He was in love with Mark, and Mark belonged to Terry.
"Joey, come here. It's ok, you're safe in this room."
Shakily, Joey stood up. He walked slowly forward, as did Mark. The punk looked into the boys' eyes, then put his arms around him and kissed him. "I love you," he said.
Joey was confused. "But Terry..."
"Terry is the best friend I have. He is also the person who's made it possible for you to fall in love with me, and me with you. And for our sex together to be the best ever."
Joey looked at the man, and saw that he was smiling behind the devil mask.
"Put each other down before the rest of us throw up," he said. The two boys sat down again.
Mark threw a can of beer to Joey. "I was just like you. They got me just like they got you. Months ago. But with me it wasn't tickling, it was cock-rape: struggling and fighting against being milked."
Pieces began to click together in Joey's mind. The fights on the bed, the speed with which Mark had cum every time he'd been wanking him like a demon with the leather-clad punk struggling and fighting against it on the bed...
"I can't have the best sex without it now, just like you can't without being tickled. And, like you, I cum far too fast." He looked at the head devil, "but Terry has the answer to that, doesn't he, Joey?"
"You have the injections too?"
"Yep. And when I'm on it I can't cum either. And believe me, that is mind-blowing. But I haven't been on it for a while, cos I've been on assignment with you."
"Oh fuck," was all that Joey could think of saying.
"I went through exactly the same process as you, being tortured here - can you imagine what it's like to have exactly the kind of sex you most want in the world, done to you by experts, and not be able to cum? Struggling and yelling and hooded and helpless and having everything done to you that is exacly right and being on the edge of cumming - but you can't cum?" He laughed then. "What am I saying? Of course you can. You know precisely what it's like!"
"But you're so good at tickle-torture..."
"I've always had a good touch, but it's one of the things they teach us here."
"Oh yes - we're all expert at whatever each of us has been conditioned to. There are four of us at the moment, so that's four areas of expertise we have. The other ones are breath control, electro, and Atemi."
"Pressure points. Pain. One of us gets off on that bigtime." He grinned, "well they're usually used to inflict pain, but some of them can be used very effectively for tickle-torture as well... And we had to learn tickle-torture for you - so that's five areas of expertise now." He grinned. "We hope to make it more."
Joey was having difficulty - firstly because it was so much to take in, and secondly because his cock was demanding attention urgently and making it hard to concentrate.
"Don't worry - it'll all become clear when you join us," said Terry.
"I can join you?"
"Yep. Well, as a probationer. For the time being you'll stay living where you are, but any time you want to come here - for torture, or to cum, or just to be sociable, all you have to do is ring that number - yes, we'll pick the phone up again now," he laughed, "and we'll send the van for you. For the time being we can't allow you to know where this facility is. But when you've passed stage two, you can move in here with Mark if you want."
Move in with Mark? If he wanted? Oh fuck he wanted.
"Stage two?" Joey shook his head in bewilderment.
"Stage two, in your case, is learning to need to be tickle-tortured immediately after orgasm."
Joey instantly curled up on the chair into a protective ball. It wasn't a conscious decision - just the thought of being worked on by these rubber devils after he'd cum was almost enough to make him faint.
Terry laughed. "Oh don't worry - eventually you'll wonder how you ever did without it." He beckoned Mark over to him, and produced another syringe. "You want this?" He asked the punk.
Mark looked at Joey, who was slowly straightening up again. He ran his eyes down from the boy's face, across the muscular chest under the rubber teeshirt, and down to the rock-hard cock stretching the boy's codpiece jeans out between his thighs. Mark licked his lips, and held his arm out. "Oh fuck yes - I want it," he said.
Terry stood up, and injected the punk. "Another thing," he said, glancing at Joey, "we'll want you to come here at least once a week for training, too."
"Well, Mark tells me you're good at it already, but if you want to learn the most efficient and effective ways to blow Mark's mind when you're having sex, and how to torture him with it..."
"Right..." He said slowly. The punk appeared to be a little nervous now. "I think I'll be here a lot more often than once a week for that," he said with an evil smile. "I'm gonna be your fucking nemesis, Mark. You're going to have nightmares about me, punk."
Mark swallowed. "Oh fuck," he said, quietly. He wasn't smiling any longer.
"Excellent," said Terry. "Ok - while that injection's beginning to work, let's show Joey around the place. He took his devil-mask off, revealing the black leather one underneath - which he did not remove - and led the way to the door. He swiped a card through the lock reader, and they went out into the rest of the building.
Joey was permanently horny again. There were times when it was a pain, and times when it came close to getting him into trouble - but it felt wonderful. And anyway, he knew that all he had to do was pick up the phone if it got too bad. He spent a lot of time at the facility (they hadn't even told him if it had a name yet, and if so what it was), mostly training and practising in the four other techniques. He saw Mark often, but only when the boy was tied up and struggling like crazy, as Joey - sometimes along with the three others, and sometimes on his own under supervision - went to work on him. Well, there were other times he saw the punk, but then all he could see of the boy's beautiful, sexy face was his blue eyes through the holes in the rubber devil-mask - and to be honest, he had other things on his mind at those times, because that's when he was being tortured himself.
And that torture got worse. Much worse. Now, he was brought to orgasm more often - and the tickling didn't stop. Little by little, scream by scream, shriek by shriek, his world of sexual torture opened up to him more and more. Kicking and writhing insanely under the hands of the sadistic rubber devils, with his cold spunk lying in pools around him, Joey discovered sexual ecstasy above and beyond anything he'd experienced so far. Orgasm ceased to be the end of sex - and became a doorway to a completely new universe of sexual euphoria. But it was a universe of indescribable ticklish agony.
One day Terry took his devil mask off, and then removed his leather mask as well. He was a good looking guy with a short beard and piercing grey eyes. Joey had the strange feeling that he'd seen him before somewhere, but he couldn't remember where or when. "Congratulations, Joey. You've made stage two. Whenever you're ready to join us properly and move in here with Mark - if you still want to, that is - let me know."
Mark ran across the room and hugged Joey. They kissed long and hard. Both boys were on the no-cum drug at the moment, and both boys had erections you could hang flags off.
Joey thought for a moment. "How about in three hours?"
"Three hours? Certainly, if that's what you want. But why three hours?" Asked Terry.
"Have I completed the training for working on Mark?"
"Well, in that case, if it's ok with you Terry, I'd like to have three long hours with Mark, alone." The last time he'd played with the punk alone, with nobody else around, had been in his flat all that time ago.
Terry smiled, but Mark was edging behind a chair. "Yes, I think that's a good idea. Use whichever room you want."
Mark was shaking his head.
Joey reached to the table and took a mask off it. It was not a devil-mask, but a shiny black ski-mask - the punk had been conditioned to those in the same way as Joey had been conditioned to the devil-masks. Slowly, he pulled it on. Mark was almost crossing his legs with fear and anticipation.
"You want help getting him there?"
Joey nodded. "Yes please. I think we'll use the dungeon." There was an elastic bungee-frame there that was ideal for what Mark was into...
All four of them grabbed Mark and carried him bodily, kicking and screaming, out of the room.
Joey gave up his flat and moved in with the devils and Mark. He kept his job at the photographic studio - he could concentrate on it fine now, even if he did always have a hard-on in his tight jeans. He seemed to have become more popular with the female receptionist, too, not that he took the slightest bit of notice of her - and at least he was in the darkroom most of the time and didn't often have to meet the clients.
He was happier than he'd ever been in his life.
Joey - a goodlooking, muscular rubber boy. Mark, a bouncy, gorgeous young punk with a short red mohican and big blue eyes. Two boys madly in love with each other, each of whom knew the other's every single weakness, fetish and turn-on, and each of whom knew exactly and precisely how to torture the other to ever-increasing heights of sexual ecstasy.
Two boys who could not cum.
"Now," said Terry one day, sometime later, "I think it's time to move on."
Joey, strapped to the short table, looked up as the four slowly pulled on their rubber devil-masks. The conditioning was deep: at very sight of those masks his heartrate increased, and his breathing came shallow and fast. "M-move on?" He croaked, his entire body tingling with pure, uncontrollable ticklishness.
"Yes, move on." Terry chuckled. It was not a pleasant sound. "I think you're ready for stage three...