The Telemachus Story Archive

Retribution
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



Retribution

The first time he walked into the 'Eagle', heads turned, conversation stopped, and jaws dropped.

"Fucking hell, who is THAT?" George, a sixty-two year old guy in leather chaps and with a pleasant, homely face and twinkling eyes, stopped - his beer frozen in mid-motion between the bar and his lips - and stared unbelievingly at the boy who had just walked through the door. He pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with a finger.

"Uh?" David, an off-duty motorcycle cop and still in his uniform, looked up from pocketing his change, followed his friend's gaze, and whistled quietly. "Jeez, will ya look at those pecs ."

"I'm looking a bit lower than that..."

David allowed his eyes to travel slowly down the muscular chest and 6-pack stomach of the boy, and they came to a sudden stop at his crotch. "Oh man, I don't believe it." He licked his lips. "Shit, that is something else."

The boy was heading towards the bar, a little lower down the room from them. He was about nineteen or twenty, around 5ft 11, with cropped blond hair, a V-shaped torso, and studded black leather bike boots pulled over faded denim jeans which redefined the word 'skintight'. The sleeves of his white teeshirt were rolled up over his solid biceps - the shape of a cigarette pack visible against the right shoulder - and an inky black barbed wire tattoo ran around the bulging muscle. His round, hard nipples were clearly outlined under the stretched cotton, and the shirt ended in a ripped line some three inches above the waistband of his jeans, revealing defined, suntanned abs and a slim waist. He had wide, black leather bands strapped around his wrists.

The thing that had caused David's disbelief, though, was the bulge between the boy's thighs. The size and shape of a grapefruit, it stretched the faded denim at his crotch like something out of a Joe T drawing. It hung there like a denim-covered fist, the sheer heaviness of it creating deep tension creases in the denim running back to his hips, and it was so three-dimensional that the jeans stretching over the insides of his thighs actually disappeared up behind the bulge lying on top of them.

George followed the zip as it curved, straining, over the enormous mound and disappeared underneath it into the darkness between the boy's tight-jeaned thighs. He wondered how the kid had ever got those jeans on.

"Two short planks," said David.

"Eh?" George wasn't concentrating on his friend at the moment.

"He looks thick."

"David, with a body like that, intelligence is not necessary. A pulse is all that's required."

The boy had a square-jawed face sat atop a muscular neck, and indeed did not look too bright. But shit, was he good-looking: not 'cute' by any means, but his face had the rugged, rough good-looks of a real East-end boy. And as he passed the two friends, their eyes came to rest on one of the most beautiful bubble-butts they'd ever seen. The faded denim jeans gripped the two round orbs in a clench that took the men's breath away. "Perfect. Fucking perfect," breathed David, reverently.

George and David were by no means the only ones who'd noticed the newcomer: the entire clientele of the bar were rivetted to him. Heads turned and eyes swivelled to follow him as he took his beer and stood against the wall on the far side of the room. He sipped the amber liquid slowly and returned the guys' stares with a quiet confidence which spoke volumes: he knew he was the hottest thing they'd ever seen in this bar. He unwapped the cigarette pack from the sleeve of his teeshirt, pushed it open and extracted one of the white cylinders with his teeth in one fluid motion.

A guy in full black leathers appeared by his side. He flicked a lighter and extended it towards the end of the boy's cigarette, smiling. The boy looked at the leather guy for a moment, then blew the flame out with a puff, lit his cigarette from his own Zippo, and turned his head away.

George shook his head admiringly, and he almost applauded.

"That," said David, "is style ."

As the evening wore on, it became clear that the boy was unapproachable. He kept to himself, made no attempt to talk to anyone, and rebuffed advances with a silent shake of his head. But he was by no means completely passive: about an hour after he'd come in, and the place had filled up with denim- and leather-clad men, he grabbed a newly-vacated stool in front of the storeroom door and sat on it. He put his beer on the small shelf by the side of the door, and - tentatively at first - began very sensuously to run his hands over his body. Through dreamy, half-closed eyes he was watching the men watching him, his lips parted slightly in a sexy smile; and his fingertips roved over his nipples, his pecs, down across his hard, flat stomach, and along the outsides of his thighs. Slowly, one hand caressed his shoulder and chest, while with the other he traced over the huge round bulge at his crotch, following the line of the zip and then exploring into the creases at the sides, and over his balls.

While not exactly having formed a semicircle around the boy, there was a wall of leatherguys stood drinking and chatting to one another - but whose eyes were on the boy, watching him hungrily as his fingertips stroked gently and teasingly over his crotch.

He began to get hard.

It became evident that the reason his bulge had been so round and symmetrical was that his cock had been lying in a curve down the exact centre of it, beneath the zip. Now, as a single fingertip, tickling over the head, teased it to growing stiffness, his cock - seeking room in which to expand - slid to one side slightly, so it was now under just a single layer of thin, faded denim, and continued to increase in size and rigidity until the stretchy jeans could stretch no more. They gripped it at bursting point, a steel-hard rod which protruded sideways, slightly down, and straining outwards a good five inches from his flat abdomen, fighting against the restraining denim.

More than one mouth was watering at the sight, and hands massaged erections through leather jeans as their owners watched the boy playing with himself unashamedly; white, even teeth showing behind a gentle, sexy smile.

George and David stood to one side, looking with the rest. George was concentrating on the movements of the boy's fingers. After a few minutes, he smiled to himself, and whispered to David, "No problem with that one."

David smiled indulgently at his friend. George was a boy-milker, and proud of it. He was a well-known top around the city, because of his single, obsessive turn-on: he loved nothing better than making helpless, struggling boys, cum. And he usually made sure he took about four hours to do it.

"Yeah?" Replied David, interested. "Yeah. Watch his fingers. See how he keeps stroking underneath his balls? Watch his mouth when he does that. There! See?"

As the boy's finger disappeared beneath the huge bulge and tickled lightly at the back of his balls, he closed his eyes completely, inhaled sharply, and his tongue appeared at the edge of his mouth.

"And watch his legs when he scratches his fingernail across the very tip of his cock..." Moments later the boy did exactly that. As his fingernail scratched the precum-wet denim over the tip of his cock-head, his knees jerked together slightly, and he moaned quietly. It looked to be an involuntary reaction rather than anything else and, as they watched, it happened every time he touched the tip of his cock. "Noooo problem." George smiled, and winked at his friend.

"Shame you'll never get the chance to find out," laughed David.

Just then Joey walked up to the boy and stood between his parted knees, stopping them from coming together. The boy opened his eyes in surprise and looked Joey up and down. Joey was a sexy hunk. He was a popular guy on the city's leather scene: very good looking, well-built, and hung like a horse. He was also a friendly, good-natured guy. He smiled at the boy. "Hi, I'm Joey. What's your name?"

The kid had a kind of lopsided grin on his face - it was clear that he realized that Joey was just about the hunkiest guy this bar had to offer. "Marty," he said.

"Marty," repeated Joey. "Nice name. You want a drink?"

"No." The grin was still there. People were watching and the noise level dropped as they stopped talking to listen.

"You're a good-looking kid." Joey put his hand on the boy's bulging cock and squeezed.

"Get the fuck off me - I'm straight." Not a shout, just a quiet statament of fact. He gripped Joey's hand and pulled, but it stayed tight on his cock for a few seconds before Joey removed it slowly. He remained standing where he was, looking directly into the boy's eyes.

"You're straight? What you doing in here then?"

"I got my reasons." Marty extracted a cigarette from his pack and put it between his teeth. But before he could light it, Joey reached forward and smoothly took it from his mouth. He put it between his own lips and accepted a light from a guy next to him.

"And what might those reasons be, sexy boy?" He asked gently.

Marty regarded Joey for a moment, then tilted his head sideways slightly and chuckled. He lit another cigarette and put the pack back into the arm of his teeshirt. He blew a single, steady stream of smoke into Joey's face. "I like to turn guys like you on."

Joey glanced sideways at the watching crowd. "Well," he said, "I get the feeling you're doing a good job there." He paused, took a mouthful of smoke, and directed it slowly back at the unflinching boy, before turning round and walking away.

Conversations resumed, and Marty sat for a while longer before getting up and leaving the bar slowly, an impish grin on his face.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Marty became something of a tourist attraction at the Eagle. He continued not to speak to anyone - the boy would come in, get a beer, take his stool in front of the storeoom door, and proceed to caress his body and play with himself for an hour or so before getting up and leaving by himself. No-one knew where he came from, what he wanted - occasionally a guy would follow him outside and try to pick him up, but no-one ever succeeded: those that tried returning only with descriptions of curt and arrogant dismissals.

Whenever anyone made advances to him, he'd sneer, shake his head and, if he spoke at all, tell them to fuck off - he was straight. Everyone fancied him like crazy, but nobody liked him. In fact, he began to get a reputation for being a conceited, obnoxious brat. But guys still couldn't stop themselves from looking - the boy was just so fucking sexy .

And the gear he wore got progressively more outrageous. His jeans got tighter (if that were possible); sometimes he appeared in tight white shorts, sometimes in obscenely bulging rubber, and tonight he was in full leather: an open biker jacket with nothing underneath, a heavy, studded leather belt, and a particularly pervy pair of black leather jeans. Normally the boy wore skin-tight gear, but these jeans must have been four or five sizes too big for him. They creased and folded all down his legs, disappearing into tall, heavy metal and leather bike boots with straps, buckles and studs on them - but again, everyone's eyes were on his crotch.

To each of his side belt loops there was clipped a thin chrome chain. These ran down his groin at each side, disappearing between his legs, where their other ends connected to a third chain which ran up between his arse cheeks and was fastened to the belt loop at the back. The tight chains pulled the baggy jeans' legs right up into the crevices at his groin, and created a triangle of extremely loose black leather over his crotch, with tightly pulled-in edges. When he'd come in, it had been so loose that - in spite of what everyone knew was underneath it - it had only bulged slightly, but he'd taken his usual place, started to play with himself, and within minutes his cock had grown to full erection inside the loose leather. Unrestrained by his usual skin-tight jeans or shorts, it had been able to take on its full proportions, and now the shiny black leather had been pushed out into a pyramid between his legs - the apex of which stood out a mind-boggling nine inches away from his body.

As the fingers of one had stroked and teased, tickling his inner thighs or running over his huge balls, he slowly circled the base of his cock with a finger and thumb of the other hand. This caused the sides of the leather pyramid to compress, and the full size and shape of his massive dick was outlined clearly under the black leather for everyone to see. The sight was so unbelievably erotic that one of the watching men actually made himself cum while looking at that boy in those horny, pervy, leather jeans.

Once again the boy started to run his fingertips lightly under his balls and over the very tip of his cock. As before, each time he did this his cock would twitch, his knees jerk slightly closed, and a moan of pleasure come from his parted lips. He ran one hand under his open leather jacket and played gently with his nipples; he kept slowly opening his knees wide and closing them together tightly, trapping his hand between the tops of his leather-covered thighs; he moved the loose jeans over his legs and thighs, making deep folds in the leather - the dim overhead light creating hypnotically black canyons and shiny highlights; he gripped the shaft of his gigantic cock with a fist, crushing the leather to its shape, and pumped his hand teasingly slowly up and down its length - the helmet-shape of the head defined clearly as it pushed against the leather with each downward stroke; he ran his tongue over his lips lasciviously, and all the while he wore his usual sexy, dreamy half-smile. To the vast majority of the men in the bar, he was a total and absolute wet dream.

As usual at about this time of night, he finished his beer, got up, and began to walk towards the exit, studiously ignoring the worshipping, hungry gazes of the men who parted like the Red Sea before him. But one didn't move. It was Joey.

Finding his way blocked, Marty came to a stop in front of the hunk, who stood there smiling slightly, his legs apart and his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his tight leather jeans.

Joey regarded the boy for a moment, then cocked his head to one side. "You wanna fuck, or what?"

Marty's face took on its familiar sneer. "Listen, my friend - and listen carefully," he said slowly, as if making a difficult concept clear to an eight-year old. "If I wanted to fuck, I could choose anyone in this room. There's not a single man who would refuse a night with me." Idly, he played with his cock, which - still hard from his playing a few minutes ago - continued to push the loose black leather out into an enormous bulge between his legs. "I will tell you this one more time - " he raised his voice slightly, now addressing everyone, "I am straight. I do not fuck men, I fuck girls. Women turn me on, not men. There is not one man in this room capable of turning me on. Not a single one - " he looked Joey up and down slowly and, with an even bigger sneer still, said, "least of all you. " With that he shouldered past Joey, and disappeared through the door.

Joey stood exactly where he was, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. Then he blinked, looked over towards the bar, saw George and David there, and, with a suddenly thoughtful smile on his face, went over to them. "George," he said, tapping the man gently on the elbow, "a word in your shell-like, if you please."

A short conversation later, the three men rounded up the regulars and the landlord, and an impromptu meeting was held. There was much smiling and nodding of heads.

* * *

David shook his head and ran his fingers through his neat beard. "Macs are a lot more stable. You've only gotta fuckin look at a PC the wrong way and it freezes up." As usual, he was in his full biker cop gear - it was always popular at the Eagle.

Brian - a tall, slim boy with a mohican - smiled, closed his eyes and shook his head. He was leaning back against the bar on both elbows, the rings through his nipples clearly visible through his teeshirt. "Just compare the software that's available - when did you last see 'Opera' running properly on a Mac?"

"That's only because there are so many idiots using PCs that the market is..." David stopped abruptly. "He's here," he said. While talking to Brian, he'd also been watching the door. He reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a small black box.

Marty was wearing faded denim jeans similar to the ones he'd worn the very first time he'd come into the Eagle, but these were more faded, ripped at both knees, and as tight as his own skin. They were tucked into engineers boots, and he had nothing on under his studded leather jacket, whose collar was turned up. He looked good enough to eat.

By now the barman knew what he drank, and when he got to the bar the opened bottle was waiting for him. With the slightest of nods, the boy took the bottle to his usual stool and sat down.

Unnoticed by Marty, the barman went to the door, locked it, and put the 'closed' sign up.

For ten or fifteen minutes the boy just sat there, gazing calmly around the room, the sexy half-smile on his lips as usual. Everyone knew the routine by now - he'd drink his beer, go get another one, resume his seat, and a few minutes later the show would start.

This time was no different. He took a swig from the new bottle, placed it on the shelf by the door, half-closed his eyes, and began to run his fingers teasingly over his tight-jeaned thighs. Within minutes his cock was as hard as a rock. Although these jeans were skin-tight on his legs, they were not quite so tight around the crotch, and so his cock was able to harden fully. The shaft ran horizontally across his left thigh as far as his hip, and the head stretched the faded jeans away from his body at his side into a bulge that was just aching to be played with.

Lightly, his fingertips traced the outline, lingering on the cock-head and moving in little circles. His other hand was up under his leather jacket, caressing his pecs.

"Fucking little prickteaser," said someone next to David.

David smiled. He lifted the box to his lips again and said, "Ok - any time you like."

With no warning, the door behind Marty opened wide, a leather hood was dropped over the boy's head, his arms were grabbed and cuffed behind his back, and he was dragged into the storeroom. The door closed.

A cheer went up from the crowd - they'd been expecting exactly that - and in a few minutes the game would be on. The men cleared the space between the jukebox and and the far wall - this was the space where the strippers did their acts every other Friday. Leaning against the back wall was a St. Andrew's cross, and in front of it was a boxed-in bondage table with a padded leather top. These were mainy for decoration - but they did get used occasionally, after hours.

There were muffled shouts and swearing from the storeroom, and then the door burst open again and out came the boy, being half dragged, half carried by four hunky leatherguys - one of whom was Joey. Marty was hancuffed, gagged, and blindfolded, and hobbled by a short chain to stop him kicking.

They forced him face down onto the bondage table, and strapped him down. His denim-clad bubble butt was gorgeous: firm and round, and squeezed into skin-tight, faded demin jeans, it was almost a perfect sphere, divided sharply in two by the triple-stitched seam which pressed deeply between his cheeks.

By previous arrangement, Joey was in charge of proceedings. At a nod of his head, one of the other three guys pulled the boy's blindfold off, then they left Joey alone with the boy. Marty turned his head towards the crowd and glared ferociously at them, swearing incoherently into the gag. He struggled and fought against the straps and chains holding him down, but succeeded only in making himself a more attractive target for their lust.

Joey picked up a jar of thick lube, inserted a finger in it, and held it up for everyone to see. Then, he lowered his hand and pushed it slowly between the denim-clad, bubble butt cheeks and into the boy's arsehole. Apart from getting Marty helpless, another thing they'd done in the storeroom was to cut a hole in his jeans for precisely this purpose.

The boy went ballistic. He fought and swore and screamed obscenities at them - but the finger continued to disappear until it was in up to the knuckles.

Joey massaged it in and out for a while, then withdrew it and wiped it on a towel. Next, he faced the audience and, like a stripper, slowly unzipped his leather jeans. There was a cheer and several gasps as his big, fat cock found freedom and waved around in the air. He produced a condom and slowly unrolled it over the rock-hard dick, then climbed onto the bondage table and, with a wide grin, and after a moment's dramatic pause, plunged it into the helpless boy's arsehole.

Marty screamed, and his body went rigid for a few seconds. Then he went back to fighting the restraints. Drool was running down the side of his mouth from under the leather gag.

Joey set to work, fucking the boy slowly and expertly. His shiny black leather-clad bum rose and fell rhythmically, and Marty had no alternative but to endure it. In fact, after a short while - although still swearing and complaining madly - he himself began thrusting his hips as much as the tight restraints would allow.

Joey fucked the boy for about ten minutes, chewing on the collar of Marty's leather jacket, before exploding in a monumental orgasm and thrusting his cock as deep as possible. At the same time, the boy screwed his eyes up tight and, throwing his head back, screamed into the gag.

The crowd applauded and whistled.

Joey withdrew from the boy, removed the condom, and zipped himself up. The three other guys returned, released Marty from the bondage table, and began strapping him tightly to the St. Andrews cross. With his arms spread wide above his head, his leather jacket opened completely to reveal his magnificent chest and abs.

As they stood him up and turned him to face the crowd, a chorus of whisles and laughter went up - spreading quickly from the bulge of the boy's cock-head, and turning the faded denim dark blue down his thigh was a huge wet patch of spunk. Marty, the straight boy no man in that bar could turn on, had cum in his jeans while being fucked by Joey.

As he noticed what the others were looking at, Joey laughed with them, then shook his head at the boy and tutted in mock disgust.

Marty - his face as red as a beetroot - looked as though he was desperately trying to shout some kind of excuse, but the leather gag prevented his words from being heard.

With Marty strapped tightly to the cross, the four guys lifted it - and him - and layed it down on the floor. They dragged it into the centre of the room, and the crowd formed a circle around the helpless boy.

Unnoticed at the side of the room, George quietly emerged from under the far side of the bondage table. He had been lying there under the table for the whole time Marty had been strapped to it, concealed from the crowd by the panel on the front, where - working through the large hole in the table top and the boy's tight, thin jeans - he had applied his considerable talents to the lad's two most uncontrollably responsive spots: his cock-head, and the back of his balls. With an expert skill acquired from years of milking willing - and unwilling - boys, George had teased, stroked and rubbed the boy's hard, horny cock until he'd got him to the very edge. Then, keeping him there with tiny tickling stokes to his inner thighs and his balls, he'd waited until he heard Joey start to cum before so easily administering the coup de grace and, with a couple of firm rubs over the boy's desperate cock-head, forced him to lose control and shoot his spunk into his jeans - giving him, in the process, one of the most shatteringly intense orgasms of his life.

But the crowd didn't know Marty had been milked; they assumed that being fucked by Joey had made him cream his jeans. Neither Joey nor his fellow conspirators were about to tell them - and the leather gag was making quite sure that the boy couldn't either.

George made his way to the cross on the floor, and knelt between the boy's spread legs. Carefully, he unzipped Marty's jeans and - with some difficulty - pulled them down as far as they would go: about halfway down his thighs. The boy's gigantic cock sprang out, glistening wetly with cum. There was a general intake of breath and mutters of disbelief of the sight of that huge dick. No longer concealed behind denim or leather, its true proportions could finally be appreciated. He took it in his hand, applied the other to the boy's balls, and began to jack him off slowly, working mainly on the head.

As if they'd rehearsed, as many of the crowd as could get to the cross knelt or squatted down around the helpless boy, and went to work on him - and themselves. Fingers ran over every accessible inch of his beautiful body - squeezing his nipples, tickling him, teasing his balls, his thighs, his calves. The boy's gag had been removed, and two guys were talking it in turns to kiss him deeply. Someone else was licking his face, and there was even a mouth sucking his balls. Guys were all over him. And all through this, George's hands continued to work on his cock, irresistably encouraging him towards another humiliating orgasm.

Having at their mercy this hunky, arrogant, sexy boy who'd prickteased them all for so long was too much for many of the guys around him: they pulled out their cocks and began to wank themselves off over him. At Joey's suggestion, the hands and mouths were withdrawn from Marty's body, and everyone knelt or stood to take aim at the kid.

One of them came, shooting spunk over the boy's chest, then a second scored a direct hit on his nose. The gooey white liquid ran down to his mouth and he started to spit to keep it out.

More of the men came, and before long the helpless, struggling, red-faced boy was being rained on with spunk from all directions. It went in his hair, on his face, in his mouth, his ears; it coated his chest, his nipples, his arms, his thighs, his jeans...

When the front row of guys had finished cumming, they moved away so that others from further back could replace them, and the barrage continued until everyone in the bar - including the barmen - had shot his load over the frantically struggling and yelling boy.

George's hands were covered with badly-aimed spunk, but he didn't care - he was having the time of his life. For the last ten minutes he'd been keeping Marty on the very edge again - this boy was so easy to control, he thought to himself - and as the last drop of spunk fell from the last guy's cock, he asked for a countdown.

As one, the crowd yelled: "Ten - nine - eight - seven - six - five - four - three - two - one... ZERO!"

Marty screwed up his face in a surpeme effort to stop himself shooting - the pure humiliation of being controlled so easily was too much to bear - but George was an expert, and at that precise moment his sroking, rubbing fingers made the terminally embarrassed boy cum again. Marty yelled in fury as he felt himself pushed helplessly over the edge. His spunk shot up into the air in huge thick gobs, arced over and hit him squarely in his own face. Sticky white globules dribbled down, forming little bubbles over his nostrils, and seeped into his mouth - which he'd had to open in order to breathe. It continued down his neck and joined the rest of the pools of spunk which had now joined together to form a thick viscous film covering most of his body and making his jeans look like a map of some strange, wet, blue-and-white planet. He was a total mess. Someone suggested they should all piss on him to clean it up, but the landlord vetoed that idea.

The totally exhausted boy was released; allowed to pull his cum-soaked jeans back up and to clean his face; sat on a stool by the bar; and supplied with drinks. People left in ones and twos, all either patting Marty on the back or giving him a goodnight kiss - which he had no strength left to resist.

Joey pulled up a stool and gave the boy a cigarette. David and George were standing next to them.

"Don't let it get to you, Marty," smiled Joey. "Just the lads having a bit of fun. But I hope you realise that prickteasing guys like us is a dangerous business. You got what was coming to you."

"Fuck off," Marty said despondently. He took a deep breath, then shifted his weight on the stool, grimacing. "You've got a fucking big dick."

Joey chuckled. "Yeah, I know. Not as big as yours, but it can still teach a boy a thing or two."

"Who... who was it... under the table? Him?" He pointed to George.

George nodded, grinning, pleased with himself.

Marty nodded once, his eyes on George's face.

"Right, I gotta go," said Joey after a while, "work tomorrow. See you guys later." With a wave, he left.

The bar continued to empty, and soon there was only Marty and George left.

"Well, I better be off. Don't suppose we'll be seeing you in here much any more," said George.

"I don't think so," replied the boy. He got up too, and screwed his face up as his cold, slimy jeans adjusted themselves around him.

Marty looked at George. What he saw was a middle-aged man in full black leathers, glasses, and receding hair. A slow smile spread across his face. "You doin anything tonight? Or tomorrow? Or the day after...?"

George paused, blinked, then smiled. "I think so." He paused, then put his arm around the gorgeous, hunky blond boy. "I think," he said, as they headed for the door together, "that I'm gonna make you cum, and cum, and cum..."