The Telemachus Story Archive

A Day At The Seaside
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



A Day at the Seaside

“Get the fuck off me, you crazy bastard!”

Denny had arrived and was clearly having an encounter with Tyson. I grabbed my leather jacket and ran down the stairs three at a time. “Awright Denny?”

“Get this fucking dog off me! It’s rabid!” Tyson had one of Denny’s legs between his teeth and was not letting go despite being hit repeatedly with a crash helmet. I stood there enjoying the sight for a while then called the dog off. I could see him thinking about urinating against the boy’s leg, but in the end he decided not to.

Denny’s blond hair was all over the place and he was rubbing his leg. “That fucking animal should be in a zoo,” he said with, I thought, ill grace. I muttered something about Tyson not being the only one.

“Malla not here yet then?”

I started to say no, but at that moment the sound of an illegal exhaust became audible at the top end of the road. I could see a little cloud of blue smoke too. “Yes,” I said.

We went outside, me shrugging my jacket on. Malla came to a stop and switched his engine off. There was a bang like a gunshot. “You should get that seen to,” I said.

Malla growled, and pulled his lid off.

Denny leaned against his own bike and looked down the road. “Where the fuck’s Derek and Fuzz? We said nine o’clock.”

“Wanna tea while we wait?” I asked them.

Malla got off his bike and we turned to go inside – but just then we heard a police siren in the distance. I looked at Denny. He listened for a moment, and then nodded. I ran to the garage door and opened it. Sure enough, very shortly two motorbikes appeared round the corner at unreasonably high speed. They screeched to a stop inside the garage. I closed the door quickly and went back to my bike. Ten seconds later a panda car came round the same corner on two wheels. It slowed slightly as it passed us – the three of us were all pointing madly down the road - then accelerated again as it continued its pursuit. Soon it was gone and we let Derek and Fuzz out of the garage.

It was Saturday, the sun was shining and we were off to do Skeggy. Skegness – Costa de la Grunge. Malla, Denny, Derek, Fuzz and me – our gang. We’d known each other since school. Five teenage rockers with loud, fast motorbikes (albeit in various states of disrepair). We wore tatty, beat-up gear, we hated authority, and we loved giving the finger to middle-class wankers.

Malla was the youngest. He was 17, and he’d only been with us for a year or so. 5’8”, thin as a rake, black hair, ugly as sin. Denny was 18, and the exact opposite of Malla: 6 foot, blue-eyed, long blond hair, and athletic. Rock star looks. He was the pretty boy of the gang – but the one time I’d called him that he’d landed me one. He spent a great deal of time fighting off girls. We thought he might be gay but we knew better than to ask. In any case it made no difference to us whether he was or not. Derek and Fuzz were both 19 years old. Derek was about as average as you can get, with short dark hair; Fuzz was big and muscly. He’d once – unsuccessfully – tried to grow a beard. Hence the name.

Me? I’m Kid. Can’t remember how I got the name but it was a long time ago and it stuck. I’m 20, Six foot, jet black hair, green eyes, slim. We wore the gear we did, not so much as a matter of choice (though we’d have chosen exactly that anyway) but more because that was all we could afford. Our leather jackets were tatty and beat-up. We had several each – mostly got from the second-hand market – some had the odd patch or badge on, some were heavily studded, and some just plain leather. Heavy bike boots, and at least one – usually two – studded leather belts low on the hips. A studded belt makes a very useful weapon in a fight, believe me. All this alone was enough to cause mothers to herd their children in the opposite direction as quickly as possible, but it was our jeans that were the best bit. Some of us could afford leather jeans, and we often wore them - but most of the time we kicked around in faded blue denim jeans. Whether they were leather or denim they were every bit as tatty as our jackets, with rips, holes, chip stains (and worse) and with zips that either didn’t do up all the way or had broken completely and had been made into lace-ups. And it was a point of honour to make sure that they were as skintight as possible, and showed a bulge clear enough to cause elderly ladies to faint at fifty paces and straight guys to feel insecure about their own sexuality. The jeans also felt fuckin horny to wear both on and off the bike. Today Malla and me had our leather jeans on, the other three their denims.

The bikes were all on the road now. I told me mum we were off to Skegness and she told me to make fuckin sure I didn’t get into any trouble for a change. That woman has no faith in me.

Five tight, round arses mounted the bikes, five engines roared into life, and we were off.

Skeggy, for those who have never been, is a dump. It is, theoretically, a seaside town, but even at high tide the sea is usually only visible through high-powered binoculars. All right, that’s not strictly true, but most of the time it’s a damn good walk before you can get your feet wet. There’s all the usual b&b places – overpriced and with aspidistras in the windows – and the obligatory pier and amusement park. However, Skeggy does have one of the best fish and chip shops on the planet. And cheap too. The pubs are mostly run-of-the-mill places, but a couple of visits ago we came across one down a back street that does real scrumpy – that’s home-made cider. And it’s gorgeous. It’s also fuckin lethal.

Lincolnshire is flat. And I mean very, very flat. From almost anywhere you’re standing you can see at least thirty miles, across unending fields of potatoes, turnips or fly-tipping. The roads mainly date back to Roman times and are therefore as straight as rulers (those Romans didn’t fuck about – you either gave your land to them if they asked you or somebody ran a sword through you), and are therefore irresistible to bikers who like to go fast. The local police know about this, of course, and lurk with speed guns. Happily, however, they’re usually much more likely to go after a solo biker than five tough-looking rockers all together. This quite sensible thinking is reinforced from time to time by beating-up the occasional copper who decides to push the envelope.

We flashed past three speed traps at ridiculous speeds on the way, and nobody came after us. It also helps that our bikes are a little on the dirty side, and for some reason the number plates tend to get most of the crap stuck to them, so they’re actually not that easy to read.

Skeggy loomed. It’s a strange-looking place – lots of the buildings have rounded corners or flat roofs or odd bits that look like they’ve been stuck on as an afterthought. I suppose that was modern architecture in the 40s. We slowed to a reasonable pace and coasted down the main drag to the clock tower. If you go straight on past that you’re in the north sea so we turned left, found a spot and parked the bikes.

We took off our lids and breathed in deeply. There is always a certain smell in places like this – it’s a combination of ice cream, vehicle exhaust, and rotting seaweed. Nothing else like it in the world. We looked up and down the promenade. “What you wanna do first?” I asked.

“Amusement park!” Denny, for all his nineteen years and six feet, is a little kid inside. He was grinning. I shook my head and sighed. It was impossible to resist him. “That Ok with you lot?” The others nodded and we headed in the general direction of the big dipper.

We got sidetracked, though. “Hey, that’s Albemarle Street. That pub’s down there!” Malla has sharp eyes and a good memory where alcohol is concerned.

“Just the one, then. It’s only just past mid-day.”

We were forcibly thrown out at five to one – a few seconds after Fuzz had responded to a woman’s unbelieving stares at his bulging jeans by rubbing said bulge in her face. Malla had downed the complaining boyfriend. Now normally chucking us out wouldn’t have been an easy thing for anyone to do, but it wasn’t a fair contest because by that point we were almost incapable of standing up.

The most sensible thing to do then would have been to sit down and breathe in the fresh sea air until we’d sobered up a bit. But no, we decided to go on the rollercoaster instead. Every one of us threw up, but where everyone but Malla did it in our cars, he managed to lean over the side. When the ride stopped and we staggered off, we saw the elongated puddle of diced carrot on the pavement. Whether it had hit anyone we didn’t stay to find out.

We wandered around for a while until we felt better. It didn’t take that long to sober up a bit, as there was no longer much cider inside us. We ended up sitting on the beach under the pier – between two rows of big black wooden pylons that marched down into the sea. A wicked idea came to me. I knew we’d probably go from here to the chip shop, so this would be fun. When Denny wasn’t looking, I nudged Malla’s foot and made the sign, indicating Denny with my eyes. Malla discreetly let Fuzz know, and Derek had seen anyway. He smiled and nodded silently.

“Ah, Denny,” I said. He looked round at me.

“Hmm?” Poor unsuspecting boy.

“It’s nakking time.”

“Wha-?” He jumped up like he’d been electrocuted and made to run off, but Malla was faster. He grabbed an ankle and Denny landed face down on the sand. In less than a second the others were on him.

“Get off, you fuckers!”

One of the long-standing traditions of our gang is ritual humiliation, and one time-honoured way of accomplishing this is to force one of the lads to cum in his jeans and then exhibit him in as public a place as possible. The reasoning behind this is that it’s good for strengthening your self-control, and that it builds character. It also turns me on like fuck, and never more than when the victim is the good-looking, blond, athletic Denny boy. And the jeans he had on were ideal - he has leathers, but he wasn’t wearing them today. The very faded jeans he was wearing were so fuckin tight you could tell his religion, and they held the boy’s cock and balls in an immovable denim grip that would make milking him almost too easy. The crotch was particularly faded and worn, so it would show spunk stains even better. We all go commando. Always.

Now, there is a protocol to be followed in this, and things must be done properly. It would be a quick and simple matter to make a lad shoot in jeans like that – whether he’s gay, straight or anything else, being held down and with hands all over his thighs and arse, teasing his balls and milking his cock would very soon make him lose it. But making him lose it is not the whole point. It should be done slowly - slowly enough for him to be able to try to fight it, to feel overpowered, to feel himself gradually losing it, and only then – eventually – to succumb. That way produces the maximum humiliation, which is then made even worse by being paraded in a public place for all to see the fresh spunk stains. Obviously it doesn’t work in leather jeans as nobody can see the spunk.

The guys had turned Denny face-up by the time I got there. Fuzz was sitting astride him; he’d taken his studded belt off and was wrapping it around his head to make a gag. That done, he jumped off, got Denny’s arms clamped tight between his thighs and made sure the top half of the boy wasn’t going anywhere. Malla and Derek had a foot each. They were old hands at this nakking game, and would adjust the victim’s ability to struggle and move so that it was as frustrating as possible for him at any given moment. That left the way clear for me. I looked at the arrangement, then tilted my head. The guys pushed Denny over onto his side. I could now get to the front and the back of him.

I unfastened the button at the top of his jeans, and forced my hand down the back, working it inch by inch under the thin, skintight denim, down the crack of his arse. Further and further in it went, past his arse hole, my fingers moving to work my hand even deeper. Round, under his perineum, until I felt his balls under my fingers.

So far I hadn’t even touched his cock, but it was growing by the second. Now, I gripped it lightly through his jeans and began to tease it.

The poor boy was yelling into the gagging belt and struggling fit to bust - it was taking all of the three guys’ strength to keep him there. Fuzz is a big guy, and provided an immovable anchor point for Denny’s arms, while Derek and Malla were controlling his feet. Our victim was trying to curl up into a ball, but the lads kept pulling him flat again. I looked down into Denny’s blue eyes, and knew why the girls fancied him so much. His long blond hair was covered with sand, and even now, behind the gag he had a cheeky, boyish look.

I glanced up and noticed that several holidaymakers were watching us with disgusted, outraged expressions on their faces – there was one family whose son, who was about our age, seemed to be especially interested in what we were doing to this helpless boy. I winked at him, then ignored them and concentrated on the struggling rocker beneath me. “Control, Denny…,” I said slowly, the fingers of my left hand tickling and teasing his balls under his jeans, and those of my right gripping slightly more firmly now as they stroked up and down the shaft and over the head of his rock-hard cock through the thin, skintight denim. “Control...”

I knew he was close – I felt his cock stiffen even more in my grip. Saliva was running down the sides of his mouth past the gagging belt, and he was swearing at us under the gag. I could have made him lose it whenever I wanted – a couple of firm, fast strokes would have done the job – but I was feeling mean, and I wanted to make him suffer. His eyes began to glaze – he was on the edge, and I knew that now he wanted – and needed - to cum. I eased off a touch, and he shook himself back to reality. We heard him yell “Nooooo!” through the gag, and he made one final supreme effort to escape. He managed to get a foot free from Malla’s grip, and bent his knee over the other leg to try to protect his crotch – but by that time it was too late. I felt his cock throbbing under my hand and, as I worked on his balls and rubbed his cock-head, my fingers started to slip and slide as the spunk pumped out into and through his jeans. Now that he’d lost it, I milked his cock hard and fast to give him the most intense and incapacitating orgasm I could. I didn’t stop until every last drop had been extracted.

“You fucking bastards!” Denny lay exhausted on the sand – his cock was still hard and there was a satisfyingly unmissable dark blue stain spreading over his faded crotch. We released the lad and stood up. “Who’s for chips?” I asked.

The ‘Summer Plaice’ is the chip shop I told you about. Fuckin ace. We went in, hoping we wouldn’t be remembered from last year. We made Denny go in front, and we’d told him that if his hands didn’t stay well away from his crotch we’d put sugar in his tank and he could fuckin walk home.

The place was full of the usual holidaymakers with their screaming kids. As we walked down the room between the tables, we watched the eyes first looking us up and down, taking in our filthy, ripped, and obscenely bulging jeans, and then coming to rest on Denny’s spunk-stained crotch. We found a vacant table, and sat down – stretching our legs out so everyone could get as good a view as they wanted. Denny tried to be a little more discreet until we kicked him under the table.

We ordered fish, chips and tea all round, and the waitress scurried off as if racing for safety.

Thirty seconds later the manageress was standing there, looking like a very disgruntled headmistress. “You can get out, “ she said. “We don’t want your kind in here. Look at the state of you.” Everyone was indeed looking - in fact one lady had put on her glasses and was leaning over to get a better view of the blond rocker’s sticky bulge. Denny noticed, smiled sweetly, and batted his eyelashes at her. She giggled and covered her mouth with a handkerchief.

“You’ll get no food here,” the manageress was in full flow now. “Get out, go back to whatever rock you crawled out from, and then have a wash. Her eyes opened wider and her finger wagged with sudden realisation. “I remember you from last year!” She looked as if she wanted to say more, but couldn’t find the words.

Malla squinted at her, his eyes travelling over the ample breasts beneath her black and white uniform. “No fish and chips then?” He asked innocently.

“No fish and chips!”

“Well how about a fuck, then?”

The manageress almost fainted. Her face went first very white, and then very red. She huffed and pointed to the door. She screamed: “Get OUT!”

We stood up. I was behind Denny and, when he’d turned so he was facing the lady who’d been looking closely at him, I put my arm around his waist and slowly squeezed his bulge. A strange look came into her eyes. I think she’d had an orgasm.

We found another chip shop and were a little more discreet there, as we were by now very hungry. But we still got looks. And those looks make it all worthwhile.

Afterwards, on the way back down the road, there was a minor set-to with a bunch of youths who disapproved of our dress-sense. In the end they agreed that although it may not be the height of fashion, it was practical: the one that was still standing was missing a tooth and rubbing the indentations the studs had left in his face.

While this had been going on I noticed the boy from the beach – who had observed Denny’s nakking with interest – standing on the other side of the road watching us. I gave him another wink.

We decided to give the cider pub a miss this time, and settled for pop and an ice cream from a van on the front. We were leaning against the railings when I saw the beach boy again. He was still watching us. I mentioned this to the others, but said don’t look. Derek made a suggestion and we smiled.

Ice creams finished, we wandered off back towards the cider pub. We had no intention of going in. Before we got there we split up – Malla and Derek went into a shop to get some cigs; Denny and me continued down the street towards the pub. Just before we turned the corner into a narrow alley, I ran my fingers lightly over Denny’s tight, round bum. The short alley leads into a quiet courtyard behind the pub – it’s only used for deliveries. We walked to the far corner, and waited.

A few moments later the boy from the beach appeared around the corner. Close behind him were Malla and Derek. They brought him to us and we formed a circle around him. He was shitting himself. We closed in.

We left him lying on the ground, his jeans round his ankles. They and his tee shirt were soaked with our – and his own – spunk. At one point Malla had produced a black permanent marker from his pocket and we’d all taken it in turns to write assorted literary gems such as: “Had by Rockers”, or “Rockers made me cum,” all over his skin. Denny had even signed his name on the boy’s still-hard cock. As we left him I looked back – he was staring up at the sky with a very happy grin on his face.


The ride back home was notable only for the Ferrari driver who played silly buggers with us on the A1; he was clearly trying to impress his girl, and for a couple of miles he messed with us: getting close behind and flashing his lights, overtaking and slowing down in front of us, generally being a prick. In the end he got tired and zoomed off. But we saw his car at a filling station, and we pulled in. He’d just finished using the pump, and before he could get the cap locked back onto the tank we closed in on him. We didn’t actually touch him – we just surrounded him so that other people wouldn’t see what we were doing. He thought better of trying anything on with the five of us standing so close to him. He could do nothing but watch, and he was almost crying as Derek and me took turns pissing into his tank. We both really needed to go, so there was quite a lot. I have no idea what piss does to a Ferrari engine, but it can’t be good.

The following week we’d all been invited to a mate’s wedding. James was a bit posh but he was all right. Another friend from our school days. We’d all put on our best gear – that is, the jeans with the fewest oil stains on them – mine were an old pair of sky blues. And only one studded belt.

Fuzz said he was feeling sick and he’d join us later if he felt better, so Denny, Malla and me went in. We sat in the back row, which was empty apart from us. Halfway through, a hand suddenly clamped over my mouth from behind. The bastard Fuzz had returned. Arms pinned me in place on the pew, and Denny smiled at me as his fingers found my cock bulge. He leaned close to my ear. “Payback time,” he whispered.

There was fuck-all I could do, and they made sure it didn’t take long. Exactly when I started to cum, I was released, and the gagging hand was removed. The silence of the church was shattered by the sound of a rocker having an orgasm in the back row. Heads turned, faces frowned in disgust, and the vicar almost fainted. James grinned.

When the service was over I was kept in place until everyone had filed out, so they could all get a good view of the dark, dark spunk stain against the light sky-blue of my jeans. Heads shook and things were muttered, but I was used to reactions like that. I sat there with my legs spread, smiling.

This, of course, means war. We’re off to Whitby next week, and I’m already making plans.