“It's just a jump to the left, And then a step to the right…”
“What?”
Rob was dancing as well as singing. “With your hands on your hips, you bring your knees in tight…”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Simon stood there, the pouring rain bouncing off him.
“Rocky Horror. That film.” He spun round in the mud. “Let’s do the T-i-m-e W-a-r-p again.” He pointed to the dark, brooding house at the end of the drive. “The car’s broken down and we’ve found a sinister old house. Just like Brad and Janet in that film. You must know Rocky Horror.”
Simon harrumphed.
Rob had never actually heard anyone harrumph before.
“Come on Rob, stop pissing about. I’m getting soaked.”
Simon stopped dancing and followed his friend down the drive towards the house.
The oak doors were massive. Simon raised the heavy brass knocker and let it drop; a sound not unlike a kettle drum echoed through the night.
There were muffled footsteps, and then – creaklessly (much to Rob’s disappointment) - one of the doors swung open. A youth in Doc Martens, a shiny black tee shirt and equally tight PVC jeans beamed at them. He had a short red mohican. “Hello.”
“Erm – hello. Our car’s broken down and we wondered if you had a phone we could use, please. We can’t get signals on our mobiles here.”
There was a flash of lightning, followed by an ear-splitting clap of thunder.
“You’d better come in.” The punk boy glanced at the sky, then stepped aside.
This time there was a suitably ominous thud as the door closed behind them. They looked around. Suits of armour stood in corners, and stags’ heads gazed accusingly down from the walls.
“Follow me please.”
As the youth led them down a corridor Rob wondered what a punk was doing living in a house like this. They entered a lavish living room and the boy pointed to the phone. “Please help yourself.” He withdrew to the other side of the room as if he knew something about the antique telephone that they didn’t.
Simon picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. He paused, frowned, pressed the cradle up and down a few times, and looked at the receiver. “There’s no dial tone.”
The punk returned to them and tried the phone himself. “Nope. Sorry. The line’s a bit flaky. It stops working during storms sometimes.”
“Good evening.”
The voice came the other doorway where a portly man with grey hair stood. He had a jovial face and was dressed in a smart, formal evening suit. He was smiling. “Let me guess: your car’s broken down.”
Simon swallowed, then nodded. “Yeah, about a mile back. Probably out of petrol.”
The man nodded. “Well, unless you fancy walking five miles to the town in a thunderstorm, you’d better stay the night. We’ll be pleased to have you.”
Simon looked at Rob. “Erm – well, thanks. There’s not much else we can do.”
The man smiled. “Right. Good. That’s settled then.” He looked at the punk. “Martin, would you put some dry clothes in the guest room for our friends please?
“Of course, Sir.” The youth took a long look at Simon and Rob, estimating their sizes, then went out.
“Perhaps you’ll join me in the library for a glass of something while that’s being done. Then, after you’ve changed, there’ll be some entertainment in the main hall.”
“Ok, thanks.”
“Oh, where are my manners?” smiled the portly man. “What are your names?”
They told him.
“Right. Hello Simon, hello Rob. I’m Geoff. Welcome to the Mansion.”
“Fucking hell, this bed’s the size of Belgium.” Rob bounced on it. “Soft though.”
The punk had taken their soaked clothes away, so they were currently naked except for bath towels.
He looked at Simon. “That guy seemed nice. Bit weird, but he knows a good scotch, I’ll give him that.”
Simon didn’t reply. He had opened the wardrobe and was inspecting the clothes that had been left for them. “There’s jeans, tee shirts and combat boots here.”
Rob joined him and together they inspected the gear. “Can you find any boxers?”
Simon shook his head. “Nope. Gonna have to go commando by the look of it.” They sat on the bed as they struggled into the jeans. “Fuck, these are tight.”
“So are these. But they’re stretchy.” Rob fastened the button. “The waist’s Ok though.”
They laced up the combats and pulled some equally tight white tee shirts on. Rob looked at their reflections in the mirror. Both boys were moving their bulges around; the jeans felt strange without underpants. “Hmm. We don’t look too bad. Shows our muscles. And feels horny.”
Simon scowled at him.
There was a knock on the bedroom door; it was Martin the punk. “If you’d follow me to the hall, please.” He led the way down the stairs and through the house. The place was enormous. “It’s like the inside of Hogwarts,” whispered Rob, eyeing a statue of a muscular angel holding a feather.
Martin stopped at a pair of large doors. “Go in please. The entertainment is about to begin.” He gave them a small bow and walked off down the corridor.
“After you.” Said Rob.
Simon pushed the door open and they entered the grand hall.
Boys in jeans, leather, PVC, studs, and chains sat or knelt in silent rows, looking at them expectantly. In the centre were two sturdy wooden frames with leather straps hanging from them. Simon and Rob took one look and turned to run.
But their way was blocked by three athletic skinheads who had appeared out of the woodwork behind them. The skinheads pushed the two gently but firmly into the hall and closed the door behind them.
“Good evening. Und velcome to ze entertainment.” The thick German accent came from a small, wiry man with pale eyes behind rimless glasses. He was dressed from head to foot in shiny black rubber. “My name is James, but you may call me ‘Sir’.”
James walked slowly towards them. His smile was not unlike that of a shark coming upon a couple of big, juicy tourists who couldn’t swim very well. “You are just in time for ze entertainment. Und tonight, boys, you are ze stars of ze show.” He nodded to the skinheads and a couple of the senior slaves, who grabbed the two visitors, gagged them, and strapped them spread-eagled into the frames, which were facing each other. The two boys had little choice - it was useless trying to fight, but impotent yells came from behind the gags.
Master Geoff appeared. He’d changed out of the evening suit and now wore full black leather. “I think I’d better take over – James’ accent can be a bit hard to understand sometimes if you’re not used to it.”
He adjusted his Sam Browne belt, then lit a large cigar. “The first thing I should do is assure you that you will not be hurt. We are not in the business of torturing our guests.”
A snigger went around the assembled boys.
“Well, not with pain. Not unpleasant. In fact you will like it. A lot.”
Geoff seemed to have lost direction. James rolled his eyes.
“Right. Now and then we like to have a little wager here at the Mansion. Nothing much, just a few pence here and there, you understand. James here is going to make you both want to cum.”
The eyes of the two boys opened wide. There was silence for a moment and then they both started shaking their heads violently, yelling, and fighting their restraints.
“And,” Geoff continued as if he hadn’t noticed, “the boys here will bet on which one of you two will be the first to beg James to let you cum. It’s as simple as that.”
Almost identical thoughts went through Simon’s and Rob’s minds at the same time: Beg? Beg that rubber pervert to make me cum? As if. Fuck off. Nothing would induce me to beg that fucker to make me cum.
“So, boys, place your bets now please, in the usual way. First, for Simon?”
Some of the boys put their hands up, and James noted them down on a pad.
“And for Rob?”
Rather more hands went up – the consensus was that the smaller, cute boy would break first.
“Ok. Thank you lads. Right. James, over to you.” Geoff took a seat and picked up a glass of scotch.
James stood between the two frames and slowly peeled off his shiny rubber gloves. He regarded each helpless boy for a few moments, then he called to the senior slaves. “Blindfolds, please.”
The boys’ heads were held as black leather blindfolds were fastened tightly over their eyes.
James turned to face Simon. Gently he placed his hand onto the boy’s bulge and stroked it lightly through his thin jeans. Simon’s hips moved urgently as he tried to get away from the hand but there was little room for movement. Occasionally James’ fingers strayed to the balls and inner thighs, but mostly they teased the bulging cock – and, despite the boy’s gagged protests, within a couple of minutes the cock began to get hard.
James nodded in satisfaction, and turned around to face Rob. He did the same thing to him, and was pleased to see the boy’s cock begin to harden almost immediately.
Standing at right angles now to both of them, James played with a bulge with each hand, and the cocks continued to grow. Before long the boys’ jeans were stretched out obscenely by the fully-erect cocks under the thin denim.
From a pocket in his rubber jacket James took four pointed metal banjo picks and pushed them onto the first two fingers of each hand. Then he used them to scratch the jeans lightly, directly over each boy’s cock head. Simon let out a moan of lust as the metal points gently and precisely teased his sensitive glans. A few moments later Rob joined in too.
There were quiet slaps as senior slaves reprimanded a couple of lads in the audience who had not been able to resist covertly wanking at the sight of these two sexy straight boys, strapped helplessly into the frames they themselves had suffered in under James’ sadistic hands only too often. They knew exactly what those devilish metal points felt like teasing their bulging denim cock heads, and watching it had been too much for them.
After a while James put the metal points back into his pocket, slowly unfastened the boys’ jeans, and worked them down below their hips. There was a cheer from the watching lads as, one after the other, two hard cocks sprang out and waved in the air. James took his thin rubber gloves and pulled them back on slowly, then he took the shaft of a cock between the finger and thumb of each hand. He closed his eyes as he began to work on them.
Everyone knew that James was seriously perverted, but few people fully understood just how deep that perversion was. James lived only for one thing: to make boys suffer. Not by inflicting pain, but by using something against them that was much more insidious, much more unfair: their desperate need to cum.
To that end he had taught himself to be not only an expert psychologist and an authority on how to exploit the human male nervous system most efficiently, but he’d also spent years practising and honing his skills on screamingly horny boys until now he was feared by everyone in the Mansion. It was whispered that he only had to feel a cock to know exactly how to make that particular boy cum monumentally and uncontrollably. And knowing how to give a particular boy an earth-shattering orgasm meant that he could drive him insane with the need for it.
With his eyes closed, James explored the two cocks slowly, alert to the tiniest response – not only from the cocks themselves, but also from the boys’ entire bodies, and from the sounds the victims made. He could tell just by feel the slightest change in their blood pressure or breathing or heart rate; how much they were perspiring – and all of this through shiny, thin black rubber gloves. He knew at any given moment exactly how close to cumming a boy was; and he was expert at controlling that with almost inhuman precision.
Every one of the lads who were watching had been on the wrong end of James’ skills, whether it was for exhibition edgings, or reward orgasms, or – and they shuddered when they thought of this – for punishment.
As far as James was concerned at this moment the audience didn’t exist – he was alone in his own world. This world consisted solely of two horny cocks in each of which he intended to cause a very urgent need to ejaculate. But he also intended to make that ejaculation impossible – just.
Ah yes. James nodded to himself, hearing a quiet, sharp intake of breath from Simon – this boy liked firm work on the ridge and the frenulum. Rob, on the other hand, was a tip-sensitive. In some boys the very tip of their cock was even more of an irresistible trigger than the frenulum. He especially liked those (his own cock was like that) and he knew that often even the point of a soft feather stroking the urethra, if it were done for long enough, would be sufficient to make such a boy cum violently.
Each of his hands adopted the technique most suitable for the cock it was working on. It was rare that he did more than one boy at once, and he was enjoying this: it was like playing multiple games of chess, something else he was good at.
His fingers had formed an ‘O’ around the ridge of Simon’s cock, stroking the base of the head, the thumb stimulating the frenulum with each movement. On Rob, his hand held the cock very gently while the tip of the first finger just tickled the piss-slit, feather-lightly.
Both boys were already squirming in their restraints, thrusting their hips and moaning into their gags, but James was by no means finished with them.
He let go of the cocks, peeled off his short, thin rubber gloves, and picked up a pair of heavy, industrial black rubber ones. He pulled them on like a surgeon preparing for an operation, and then he enclosed the boys’ balls with the cool black rubber, one hand each, sliding it between their thighs, over the perineum, balls, and up, finally gripping the bases of their cocks firmly.
Loud gasps and urgent thrusts had come from the two victims at this. He held the cocks for a while, then let go. He poured large quantities of lube onto each glove, rubbed them together, and repeated the exercise.
His hands disappeared between the boys’ thighs and his middle fingers found their arseholes. There were gagged yells as the slippery, smooth rubber slid inside. Crouching down now, James worked on their prostates gently for a while, making sure that they could also feel the heavy rubber of the long gloves on the base of their balls, on their perinea and inner thighs.
When he was satisfied, James stood up, took the gloves off and put the thin ones on again. He teased his fingers over the full length of the now lubed (and also precum-dripping) cocks, tickled the balls, and played with the cock heads - rotating his hands, and sometimes using his fingertips independently to work on various spots. He smiled to himself – perhaps he should have been a concert pianist.
Five minutes passed, and then James let go of the cocks. He looked at Master Geoff. “I sink zey are ready,” he said. “Ve should let them cool for a vhile. For von minute.”
Master Geoff had been ready for this and started a stopwatch.
At the end of the time he nodded. “Ok. Seniors, remove their gags.”
“Und ze blindfolds too, please.”
Geoff raised his eyebrows. “Blindfolds as well?” James must be very confident, he thought.
“Ja.”
The two senior slaves unfastened the leather gags and blindfolds and took them away. The boys didn’t yell. They looked uncomfortable, and drool was running down from both of their mouths.
“Ze cooling down is so that zey have more control of zemselves. Perhaps.” He gave a little smirk. “Ze vager begins now. Ze first boy who begs me to make him cum.”
The boys followed his hands with their eyes as his fingers returned to their cocks, again making the ‘O’ around Simon’s, and tickling the very tip of Rob’s. James looked back and forth from one boy to the other as he worked slowly on them.
Simon began to shake his head slowly. When he spoke it was as if he were forcing the words out. “No. There’s no way I’m gonna fucking beg, you pervert.”
James just smiled, his thumb stroking the frenulum slowly while the ‘O’ of the first finger moved back and forth over the ridge.
Rob was quiet, and James could see that he was concentrating hard, trying to control himself. The finger on the tip of the boy’s cock continued to stroke very gently just over the twin bumps of the piss-slit.
Simon couldn’t understand it - fuck, this was better than when he did it himself.
Rob was squirming. “This is unfair,” he wailed. “Not on the end, please…”
“Oh yes,” whispered James, “just on the very tip , because that’s where you can’t stand it…”
James was very well aware that he could have made either boy cum whenever he wanted – all it would take was just a little more pressure on the frenulum, a little faster rubbing on the tip – but he wanted to be fair for once: he was trying to work as equally as he could on each boy, and he had no intention of allowing either one of them to cum.
Both Simon and Rob were thrusting their hips now, moving in the restraints, their eyes glued to the rubber-gloved hand working on their cock. Simon was still shaking his head; Rob was licking his lips constantly.
“FUCK!” Simon threw his head back suddenly. “Make me fucking CUM you cunt!”
James smiled. “You must beg. You must say ‘I beg you to let me cum’.”
The boy forced himself to shake his head.
“Ok. No problem.” James continued to work on the cock, using all of his skill to edge the boy.
The only sounds in the main hall were the creaking of straps, and the panting and groaning of the two boys.
A continuous, low moan began from Rob; it built up in volume and rose in pitch. “Please. I have to cum. Make me cum. Pleeease.”
James smiled again and shook his head. “You know vat you heff to say.”
Again, the only thing that could be heard was the desperate moaning of the boys as James kept them both a hair’s breadth away from orgasm. The moans became louder and louder; more and more urgent. A minute passed.
Then, suddenly, Simon broke. He made a sound like he was crying. “All right! All right! I can’t fucking stand it! I fucking BEG you. MAKE ME CUM!”
A cheer went up from the audience.
James applied just the tiniest bit more pressure to the fingers of his right hand – and Simon came. Spunk shot out in spurts, one after the other. They coated James, and some landed on Rob’s thigh.
Rob broke then, too. “Oh fuck. Make me cum, man. I’m begging you.”
James slowed his finger on the tip of the boy’s cock, then removed his hand. “No, I sink not.”
A long, drawn-out wail escaped the boy’s lips. “Pleeeeeease.”
James wiped the spunk off his rubbers with a towel and bowed to the applause of the audience. Then he joined Geoff at the table and accepted a glass of Laphroaig.
“Well done, James. You deserve that.”
“As always, it is my pleasure.”
“Why didn’t you let Rob cum?”
“I like his cock very much. I vould like to vork on him more – in private…”
Geoff laughed. “Ok. You deserve that too.” He stood up. “Boys, settle down. Now, those of you who thought Simon would break first, one extra reward milking tomorrow.”
A very loud cheer.
“And those of you who didn’t, one missed milking.”
The groans were loud.
“Quiet! Or you’ll get a punishment edging from James instead.”
You could have heard a pin drop.
“Make me cum! Make me cum!” It was fifteen minutes later, and Rob was still terminally horny from the edging in the main hall.
He was now in James’ private dungeon, strapped kneeling in an all-fours position on a padded table, and held immobile by a stainless-steel frame above it that made any movement of his pelvis impossible. His cock was pulled back between his thighs and held there, almost horizontal, by a small padded support under the base of it. James was sat on a leather stool, leaning forward. He made a tiny adjustment to the large jewellers’ magnifying glass that was attached to the frame; through it, he could see the whole cock – the glans shiny and coated with precum – in meticulous detail. This restraint, James had found, was the most perfect position for a tip-sensitive boy: it held the cock immobile with all parts accessible, increased its sensitivity – particularly of the head - and made it feel supremely vulnerable.
“Oh I shall make you cum, boy. Heff no fear of that. In three, four hours perhaps.”
Rob wailed.
James’s voice became even more gloating. “I like cocks like zis. I know exactly how to vork on zem, and I heff many little toys that you vill like – toys especially designed for vorking on ze very tips of boys’ cocks.”
He picked up a strange-looking device. It had once been a sonic toothbrush, but the brush head had been replaced by a thin, soft feather. With infinite care he positioned its pointed tip directly above the two little bumps of the boy’s piss-slit. A quiet buzz could be heard as he turned it on. His own cock was as hard as a rock inside his rubber jeans as, smiling cruelly, he moved the feather forward and touched it to the inside of the bumps. James sighed in pleasure; torturing a horny boy was his personal heaven.
“I took the liberty of taking your car keys from your jacket last night and having the vehicle refuelled,” said Geoff. “It’s waiting on the drive for you.”
Simon nodded, but neither of them spoke. He and Rob turned and staggered slowly to the front doors. Each felt as if he’d been pulled through a hedge backwards.
“If you’re ever in the neighbourhood again, pop in. Any time,” smiled Geoff.
Martin held the door open and they plodded exhaustedly to the car.
“What happened to you last night?” Asked Rob.
Simon shuddered as he started the engine and they moved off down the drive. “I don’t want to talk about it. It involved Master Geoff, two skinheads, some boots, and a lot of black leather.”
Rob nodded. “Fucking perverts. The lot of them.”
“What about you?” Asked Simon.
“That bastard fiend in the rubber worked on me for fucking hours.”
They came to the end of the drive and stopped.
“Yeah. I’m glad we’re out of there.”
“Me too.”
“They should all be fucking locked up.”
“Yeah. The whole lot of them.”
“Perverts.”
“Bastards.”
They sat in silence for a while, staring at the greenery on the other side of the road. The rain had stopped, but everything was dripping.
“Wanna go back?”
Rob nodded. “Yeah.”
“Me too.”
They turned the car around.