A dark place. Stone walls dripping with water, floors of bare earth, torches glittering in wall sconces. No ray of sun ever reaches into this place. A hand: slender, pale as a waning moon, and old - so very, very old - moves in tired but complex patterns over a small table on which lies the Mantrax - a globe of green light, pulsating gently. As the hand traces ever-more complicated patterns over it, and the words of the ancient tongue are recited, the glowing increases, until abruptly the globe is gone. With a deep, ancient sigh, he collapses back into the chair to await that which will return.
* * *
It was as he threw the chewing-gum wrapper onto the floor of the bus that Tommy saw the parcel under the seat in front of him. He stopped chewing, slowly removed his Walkman headphones, and moved it cautiousty with his foot. It didn't feel like a bomb - not that he'd ever seen one - but you couln't be too careful these days. He checked the rest of the bus: there was only one other passenger - an elderly man sitting at the front - then he bent down and retrieved the brown paper package from under the seat. There was something soft inside. Very carefully tearing the paper, he peered underneath, and his gaze fell on something black and shiny. He unwrapped the parcel completely, and said, "wow." It was a pair of black leather jeans. According to a label inside the waistband they were size 26 - his size exactly. "Wow," he said again.
Tommy burst through the front door, called "Hi!" to his Mom, and ran up the stairs. He kicked a pathway through the devastation that was his bedroom floor, and dropped onto the bed, unlacing his trainers at high speed. He tore off his Levis, and started to put the leathers on - but then he stopped, and removed his underpants before pulling the leather jeans on. They slid up his legs sensuously, and by the time he'd zipped them up he had a raging hard-on. He'd never worn leather before, and the sexy feel of it surprised him. The warm smoothness was unfamiliar and intensely erotic under his fingers as he ran them over his thighs and legs.
He jumped up and inspected his reflection in the wall mirror - and gasped. Tommy was small in all departments, even for a fourteen-year old, and he was embarrassingly envious of the sixth -formers' bodies, with their hard muscles and big cocks, in whose presence he was often forced to change for PE, games and showers - but these jeans made his cock look at least as big as theirs! He pulled himself up as tall as possible, broadened his shoulders, and squeezed the outline of his erect cock with his right hand....
... And froze.
The leather jeans seemed to shrink. They gripped his legs, squeezing his thighs, until there was not a single crease or wrinkle anywhere on them. It was as if he was being shrink-wrapped, and then he felt the leather moving across his cock. With a startled cry he fell back onto the bed - and found that apart from still being able to breathe and to move his eyes, he was completely paralysed from the waist up - he couldn't move his arms or upper body at all. Panic gave way to ecstasy as invisible hands began to stroke his thighs, tickle his balls, and play with his cock. He kicked out with his legs, opened them wide, closed them together, bent his knees, pulled them up to his chest - but the unseen hands followed his movements, stroking and tickling, squeezing his balls gently, and rubbing up and down the shaft of his young cock. There was nothing he could do to get away from them - and they were bringing him rapidly towards orgasm. The leather around his legs got tighter and tighter, and seemed to ride up into the crevices at the sides of his balls, separating them from the tops of his thighs. It was the single most mind-shatteringly horny feeling Tommy had ever experienced. With a strangled cry, he shot his load, and felt his spunk pouring into the leather jeans in wave after wave of hot stickiness.
He lay there for a while, conscious of his cock and balls swimming in spunk, totally exhausted. When he'd recovered, he found he could move again. He climbed off the bed, and looked at himself in the mirror. The leather jeans were no longer so tight - they were just as they'd been when he'd first put them on. Slowly he unzipped them and peeled them down, wondering how he could get rid of the spunk in them.
But the inside of the unlined jeans was as dry as a bone. There wasn't the slightest sign of any spunk whatsoever. Tommy stared, motionless, for several minutes.
"Tommy! Dinner!" His mother called from the bottom of the stairs.
"Ok," he croaked, "be right down." Slowly he pulled the jeans off, folded them over the chair, and got dressed again. In bewlidered silence, he headed down to eat.
The leather jeans lay across the back of the chair, soft shiny and black. A few minutes later, without any sound, a green light enveloped them. Then, in a heartbeat, they were gone.
* * *
The ancient hands picked up the jeans from the table, and turned them inside out. Words of a forgotten language echoed croakingly from the damp stone walls, and in the feeble light of the flickering torches, pearly-white wetness began to ooze from the leather at the side of the zip fastener. The hands pressed the leather to the wizened face, and a long, pale tongue emerged from between long inscisor teeth, licking eagerly, lapping up every drop of the sticky whiteness as the jeans released what they had soaked up. The tongue searched for more, but it was finished. So little. So very very little. The hands replaced the jeans on the table, and the tongue licked lips which were becoming redder by the second. It was good - very good - but not enough. There was never enough. The figure was now no longer quite so wizened and pale, but he needed more. Back in the old days it was easier, or so it seemed. There was more energy, more life-giving, rejuvenating spunk to be sucked and milked directly from the source. So sad that now he was reduced to this - to sending the Mantrax to deliver what it could to him, drip by drip. Never, never enough. The figure sighed, the hands waved again, and the jeans coalesced into the ball of green light. Once again, hungrily, he sent them out into the world of mortals.
* * *
Eustace needed a fix. He needed one badly, but as usual he had no money. Ok, so it was a corner shop tonight. He knew one across town he hadn't worked before - an all-nighter with practically no security other than a single CCTV camera. He walked into his brother's room and flung open the wardrobe; senseless to wear his own clothes for this. From the rail he extracted a black sweatshirt. "Hey, what's this?" His hand closed around a pair of black leather jeans. "Cool, bro," he smiled. He never wore leather so this was perfect. He pulled them on and went back to his own room.
Something wasn't right. He took the jeans off again, removed his underpants, and pulled the leathers back on. Now why had he done that, he wondered. He shook his head, then put the sweatshirt and his boots on. Shit, he thought, these fucking jeans feel horny. He was beginning to get a hard-on, but he was also starting to tremble - better get that fix pretty soon.
Eustace took the bus over to Milnsbridge, holding the black ski- mask in his lap. With that on, and wearing clothes that weren't his, no-one would ever be able to identify him. The gun in his pocket was a replica, but it usually had the desired effect.
The shop was empty. Taking a deep breath he pulled on the mask, pointed the pistol and strode up to the counter. With one well-practised leap he was over it, and had the barrel of the gun jammed into the shopkeeper's side. "Open the till, now!"
The man, a guy in his forties with greying hair and glasses, was taken completely by surprise. Holdups in Milnsbridge were unheard of - this wasn't America! He hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to do, but the cold steel pressing into his ribs made the decision for him. He tapped the till and the cash drawer opened.
Eustace scoooped up the notes, then began emptying the coins into his pockets. That was a mistake. While his eyes were on the till, the shopkeeper did the only thing he could think of, given that his left arm was down by the robber's crotch: he squeezed the boy's balls - hard. Eustace dropped the handful of coins, expecting the pain to hit at any moment - but it didn't. These leather jeans must be thicker than he'd thought. He jumped back over the counter and was halfway to the door when he felt something happening to his legs. The leather jeans were getting tighter - much tighter. By the time he reached the door he felt as if dozens of hands were stroking his thighs, reaching between his legs, tickling his balls, rubbing his cock - which, he noticed with shock, was fully erect. He dropped to the floor, unable to move his arms, or any part of his body above the waist. His eyes were closed and his legs moved in wild, erratic kicks as the unseen hands brought him closer and closer to orgasm. He could think of nothing else except the mind-blowingly horny feelings of fingers running up and down his inner thighs, across his balls, playing with his arsehole, and jerking him off through the leather. With an animal shout, he came - his spunk pumping helplessly into the jeans as they milked him on the shop floor.
The moment Eustace had jumped back over the counter and made for the door, the shopkeeper was calling the police. Having made the call, he stood, mouth agape and the telephone receiver still in his hand, watching the robber writhing on the floor. Was he having some kind of fit? But then the man saw the boy's cock jerking in the throes of orgasm. He shook his head sadly. He'd heard of many things that turned some people on, but never robbing a corner shop.
Eustace managed to escape before the police arrived - by the time the shopkeeper had collected his wits the boy was climbing shakily to his feet and brandishing the gun again. He ran home through the back streets, his cock slipping and sliding in the lubricating lake of spunk inside the leather.
Or at least it was to start with - by the time he'd got halfway back, there wasn't a drop of spunk to be felt there.
In his room, Eustace tore the jeans off, emptied the money out of the pockets, stared for a moment at the bone-dry leather, then hurriedly hung them back inside his brother's wardrobe. He lay on his bed, shaking, until his need for a fix drove him out again onto the streets.
In his brother's room, a soft green glow could be seen for a few moments coming from the wardobe door which Eustace had left ajar. In a few moments it was gone.
* * *
The jeans gave up their spunk in opalescent globules, each of which was licked hungrily into the ancient mouth. As always, it was good, but not enough. The hands turned the jeans right side out again, and folded them neatly on the table. He gazed at their shiny blackness. If only he could leave this place - go out again into the world and get his sustenance from the source instead of enduring this bare existence licking the life-giving spunk second-hand from the Mantrax. But he could not leave - not until a mortal, of his own free will, came to him and offered himself. But how could that happen? He shook his head. The life of one of his kind was a lonely one. His kind - he chuckled at the word - 'Vampire'. Mortals had no idea that there were as many different kinds of Vampire as there were different kinds of birds - each type needing their own special kind of sustenance. Only the ones who drank blood got the publicity - and bad publicity at that, which reflected on all of them. That fucking VIad had started it all. He should have been impaled at birth on one of his own stakes. Taking on an alter-ego like a Transylvanian Spiderman - "Count Dracula" indeed. The fool had been no more a count than he was. And look at what that had done to the rest of them. Hunted, persecuted - life was bad. As he positioned his hands for the ritual, he thought, for the thousandth time, how unfair it all was. His kind was a subset of the Vampire clan and, as it happened, one who threatened the life and well-being of no-one. On the contrary, in fact - he brought pure, unadulterated pleasure. Not only that, but when food was in plentiful supply, the life of a Vampire was better than that of a mortal - so much better. He leaned forward and recited the words. The green glow swallowed up the jeans and took them - wherever. Again he shook his head. How the mighty fall, he thought, how the mighty fall.
* * *
It was Mark's big day. The slave auction was going on upstairs in the playroom, and soon it would be time for him to do his party piece. As he oiled his muscular body, he reflected on his life here with Don, his Master. Mark had been Don's full-time slave now for over a year. It had been great in the beginning, but lately his Master seemed to be getting tired of him. He seemed to do nothing but organise events for this or that good cause (tonight was for the Terrance Higins Trust - a worthy cause indeed, but Mark wished Don would spend a bit more time with him - and less with other slaves).
He checked his watch, which was Iying on the dresser. Ten minutes. He had his orders which, as usual, he would carry out to the letter. Put on the leather jeans that were hanging in the cupboard, then the harness and boots; present himself at the playroom door at the stroke of midnight - hooded, and with his hands clasped behind him; be led in and tied to the wall; be inspected and pawed by the guests; be stripped; and perform his act - cumming on command (usually to a spoken countdown by an especially honoured - and generous - guest). It would be the high point of their evening, the sad bastards. Cumming on command was something Mark had been able to do for years; he had no idea how he did it, but he just had to think about it and it happened. It never failed to delight the assembled throng. When he'd done that he'd be sent away, still hooded and not having seen anyone, and left on his own again until God knows when they'd all gone home and he could have the honour of sleeping on the hard floor at the foot of his Master's bed. Life was getting predictable and very dull.
One of the worst things about these events was that, in order for him to produce a spectacular ejaculation with lots of spunk, he was made to go without cumming for a full week beforehand.
He looked down at his cock - hard and glistening with oil, each vein standing out in sharp relief against the lighter skin. He was so horny he'd almost cum when he'd been oiling it - that was the only time he was allowed to touch it - and that would have been fatal. Sighing, he opened the cupboard to get the jeans. Strange, there were two pairs hanging there - there had only ever been one before. He recognised the usual ones, but the other pair were beautiful. He took them out and held them up before him. Mark had never seen leather like this: they were paper-thin, and stretchy - almost like rubber. They were incredibly shiny, and seemed to mould themselves to his body as he held them against him. A present from his Master? Must be. Obviously he was being given the choice of which ones to wear tonight, and his decision was instantaneous. He pulled them on, marvelling at the way they slid up his bare legs. He'd loved leather all of his life, but he'd never felt jeans as sexy as these. He zipped them up, put his boots on and tucked the jeans into the tops, put on the harness, and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes opened wide, and his mouth fell open. He looked absolutely STUNNING! The thin leather hugged the curves of his body like clingfilm, and his cock and balls looked as if they had been shrinkwrapped into the jeans. Every tiny detail was visible with meticutous clarity.
As he looked at himself, it occurred to him that there was something odd about the way the leather was behaving. Leather - no matter how thin and flexible - just didn't work like that. It was as if....
He jerked as he remembered the time. Ouickly, he took the hood and ran up the stairs to the playroom. Standing outside the door, he heard the guests laughing inside, as he zipped up the hood and stood, enclosed in leather blackness, waiting to be taken inside.
He was barely in time. The door opened, and his Master gripped his harness. "Wow, where'd ya get those jeans? Fuck, Mark you look like a million dollars. Do it right, boy - do it right."
He felt himself being led into the warm room, then chained spreadeagle to the wall. There were gasps of admiration and lust from the guests as they saw him standing there in those tighter-than -skintight, horny, shiny black leather jeans.
"Gentlemen," Don's voice took on a theatrical tone, "the main event: my slave Mark. Some of you have seen him perform before. The others will surely have heard of him. This boy will cum - to order - for whoever bids highest. Remember it's in a good cause, so be generous. Before the bidding starts, you're invited to look him over, feel him, play with him, try to make him cum. He can control his orgasms like no other slave in the country. He has had no orgasm for seven days, and he is as horny as fuck. You can squeeze his cock, jack it off through his jeans, torture his tits - do what you like, and he won't cum. Not until I say he can - and then he will be stripped, and he will cum without touching his cock, on a countdown from one of you lucky gentlemen. There is no-one who can control his own orgasm as well as this slave. And, as you can well see, he has a cock to be proud of." Don reached down and gave Mark's cock a single short squeeze.
Instantly Mark tensed. To him, blindfolded by the hood, it seemed that the jeans came alive. They got tighter and tighter, squeezing his legs and thighs. The leather seemed to be almost liquid - it felt as if it was flowing around his cock and balls, even probing up inside his arsehole. He clenched his teeth in concentration as feelings of ecstasy built up and up as the jeans sought out his erogenous zones and worked on them. Leather hands caressed his thighs, tickled him behind his knees (something that always turned Mark on like fuck for some reason); soft fingertips ran across his balls, gently squeezing, teasing and tickling; a cool, smooth finger was up his arse, massaging his prostate - impossible! - a hand seemed to grip the shaft of his cock at the base; and, most horrifyingly irresistable of all, it felt as if leather fingers were rubbing his foreskin back and forth, round and round, over the very tip of his cock - in exactly the secret way he always did it when he jacked himself off, and in precisely the only way that was guaranteed to make him cum.
He struggled in his restraints, but each time he moved his legs it made it worse. He was getting closer and closer to orgasm and there was nothing he could do about it. In spite of what he was feeling, Mark knew that there was no-one touching him, and that it was the leather jeans that were milking him. He gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut and did everything he could to stop himself - but the jeans were doing every single thing to him that would make it impossible for him to control himself. With a moan, he reached the point of no return - and then he abandoned all his efforts, and screamed with pure animal lust as he shot his load into those horny, milking leather jeans.
What the guests saw was a Master's hand give his slave's cock a single, short squeeze, and the slave instantly start to cum. The same slave, that is, who could control his orgasms to the extent that no-one could make him cum whatever they did to him. He struggled briefly against his restraints, and then every guest watched as the slave's clearly-defined cock suddenly became harder, and then start to buck and jerk under the film-thin, clinging black leather. Mark's cock was lying across the top of this left thigh, and as he came, the gobs of spunk could be seen shooting out of the tip of his cock, making the smooth, thin leather balloon and pulse across his thigh as each thick wad forced its way between the boy's skin and the tightly-stretched leather of the jeans. Rivulettes of spunk could be seen running down the inside of his thigh as the week's pent-up gism continued to pump out of the slave's swollen, throbbing cock.
When it was over there was a short silence, then the laughter began. Roughly, Don unfastened Mark from the wall and pushed him out of the room. "You little cunt," he whispered, brutally wrenching off the boy's hood, "you're finished, you worthless little shit. Get your things and get out of my fucking house."
Mark heard through the roughly closed door his ex-Master begin to make apologies. He didn't wait to hear more. With a smile on his face, he bounded down the stairs.
* * *
Once more the old hands reached out and picked up the jeans. The fingers caressed the soft leather, and he remembered how fine a figure he used to look wearing them, as he tortured his helplessly restrained slaves to ever greater heights of pain and rapture before sucking their hot, sweet spunk out of their pleasure-wracked bodies. Happy days - but long ago. As he turned the jeans inside out, he frowned as he noticed something. This time, it seemed, the jeans had come back with a note attatched. Written on the white label in the waisband were the words "I NEED YOU!!", and what appeared to be a telephone number. The phone number was useless to him, of course, as there had never been a connection to this house - but still....
He examined the label for a while, and then, shaking his white-haired head, he began to recite the ancient formula. As soon as he had begun, he knew this was going to be different. The pearly drops appeared from the leather in greater numbers than he had ever seen. Soon, not only the inside of the crotch, but the entire thighs of the jeans were coated with them. With unusual trepidation, he slowly touched the tip of his tongue to the first drop. It was so ravishingly sweet that he closed his eyes and almost dropped the jeans. Eagerly he licked all the spunk off the leather - and as he did so, his hands became firmer, his body stronger, his face younger. This time, there was enough! By the time he had finished, he looked like a different person. Tall, straight, broad-shouldered, dark-haired and intensely handsome. Should he? With only a moment's hesitation, he stood, and plunged his feet into the boots which had stood by the fireplace, unused, for a long, long time. Smiling gently, he sat down again, closed his eyes, and concentrated. He sat there for three hours, not moving a muscle, and then he opened his eyes. There was a tentative knock on the door. He stood, parted his booted, leather-clad legs, and called, in a strong, masculine voice, "Enter!"
* * *
It is a perfect sybiosis: The Master gives me all I want - all I could ever want - and more. He uses powers I could not have dreamed of, to torture me daily. He is devious, sadistic, and inhumanly merciless - and I am in a paradise I have longed for all of my life. Before I met him, I did not know the meaning of the words 'control', 'pain', or 'pleasure'. The caress of his whips, clamps, impaling and crushing devices; the suffocating, clinging hoods; the feel of his fingers on my body; and more than anything else those indescribably horny, skintight, black leather jeans - which he uses now to make orgasm quite impossible for me to achieve, but at the same time he causes their invisible hands to squeeze, tease, tickle and toss me closer and closer to that fiendishly witheld goal - while he abuses and tortures my body. In return, I give him what he needs, too: my spunk. He milks me every three days - strapped down to one of the tables, or the rack. He starts to play with me at 8am. By mid-day I am out of my mind with the need - the compelling, driving, mind-bendingly urgent need - to cum. But it's not until midnight that he strips me of the jeans, takes my aching, desperate cock into his mouth and sucks my spunk from me. Each time he milks me, the ecstasy is so intense I think I'm going to die.
But I know I can't, because now I am one like the Master. Eventually I will go out into the world myself - to feed - and, in doing so, give pleasure beyond the capacity of any mortal to imagine.
For I am a Vampire.