I hadn’t planned it at all. I was selling a Lewis Leathers one-piece bike suit, and this hunky bike boy had arrived on a blue-and-white Suzuki to look at it. I made tea and carried it into the living room.
“Ok if I smoke?”
“Go ahead,” I said. I smoke myself and there are ashtrays everywhere.
He took out a blue packet of cigarettes.
“What the hell are those?” I hadn’t seen a pack like that for years – nowadays all our cigarettes come in boxes with sickening pictures on them.
“They’re American. ‘American Spirit’. Very strong.” He rummaged in his backpack and produced another pack – this one bright orange. “These are Red Sun. Strongest you can get. I’m working my way up to those slowly...”
I nodded, and rolled up a more normal one of my own. There was something about the way he handled the packs, looked at them – I don’t know, I couldn’t put my finger on it – reverential, somehow, almost as if they were special to him. I continued to think about that.
Upstairs, he inspected the bike suit and tried it on (“nah, no need to leave the room, mate – we’re both guys”). He nodded at his reflection in the full-length mirror. “Yeah, it’s great. I’ll take it.” As he started to unzip it, something on the shelf by the side of the mirror caught his eye. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. It was a leather bag hood. “What’s this?”
I could see him trying to figure out what possible use it could be on a motorcycle. At first I frantically tried to think of something to explain it away, but then I thought ‘what the hell,’ so I’d told him it was a hood, and that I used it in a special room I had upstairs.
“Special room? What sort of special room?
“A dungeon.”
“A dungeon? Fuck I gotta see that!”
I knew he thought I was into tying up women – he was straight, we were both bikers, and so the thought that I might be gay just hadn’t occurred to him.
It had been difficult to take my eyes off him as he’d been stripping off his boots, leather jeans and jacket – he was a sexy boy with an infectious smile - and he looked gorgeous in leathers. The Lewis suit he was buying fitted him like a glove. I watched the bulge in his boxers moving as he put his own gear back on.
The human mind works in mysterious ways. One second I’d been thinking of ways to dissuade this obviously straight boy from wanting to see my playroom, and the next I was planning exactly how I was going to get him helpless, and milk his spunk out of him.
“You really want to see it?”
“Oh yeah!”
“Well, if you want.” He handed me the hood and I took it with me as I led the way up the second flight of stairs. I was going to need it for my plan. I hoped he hadn’t seen the growing erection in my jeans.
We arrived outside the playroom door. “For the best effect, let me put this on you before I open the door.”
He frowned, then shrugged. “Ok.”
I pulled the hood down over his head and fastened the neck strap loosely – just tight enough to stop him getting it off quickly. He felt it with his hands.
“There’s shiny leather on the inside – and it clings when I breath in!”
“Oh yes.”
“Mmm. Feels sort of horny. I bet the babes like this!”
I pushed the door open, guided him inside, and closed it behind us. He stood still, waiting for me to remove the hood. Instead I took a pair of handcuffs off the shelf and quickly snapped one of them onto a wrist.
After that, with him not being able to see anything, it wasn’t difficult to get him restrained enough so he couldn’t fight, and a few minutes later strapped down to the table. I’m well used to dealing with struggling boys who know exactly what’s going on – and this one had no idea. Yet.
He looked good lying there in his leather jeans and thick jacket. I put my leather mask on, zipped it up, then undid his hood and pulled it off.
His mouth opened when he saw my masked face looking down at him, then he looked around. The playroom must be quite impressive to someone not used to such places. He turned his head, his eyes wide as he took in the various bondage frames and restraint equipment lying around; the smaller stuff on shelves and hooks; the black rubber floor; the black walls.
“Fucking hell mate, this is some place!”
I moved round so I was standing beyond his head. “One more thing.” I’d picked up a leather gag and I got it between his teeth before he knew what was going on. I strapped it tightly behind his head, then transferred my attention to his jeans.
He started to struggle in earnest when I undid the top press-stud and began to unzip them, but the straps holding him down to the table were a lot stronger than he was. I worked his boxers down and positioned the elastic waistband under his balls so that it pushed everything up and out, then fastened his jeans up again at the top. I liked the way his cock looked poking out of the black leather.
His cock was soft, but he was straight and I hadn’t expected it to be anything else yet. The gag was muffling most of the sound, but it was still clear that he was threatening me with a very painful death, and his struggling was making the leather straps creak like mad.
I went over to the drawer and took a white disposable dust mask out of the packet. It was just one of those white things with a thin elastic band to go around your head and a bendy metal strip over the top of the nose. I got it onto him – it sat over the strap of the gag with no problem.
His cock was just not interested at all. I took it between my fingers (now that caused a lot of struggling and swearing…) and played with it for a few moments. Nothing.
I looked down at him. I smiled, and picked up a small bottle.
‘Faggot Juice’, one of my mates calls it. Poppers. Guaranteed to turn the straightest straight boy into a grovelling slut. Well, we would see. I opened the black plastic top and dribbled some of the liquid onto the mask. Not too much, just a bit. After re-capping the bottle I resumed playing with his cock.
He was shaking his head trying to get the mask off, but it wouldn’t budge. He couldn’t get away from the poppers, and all I had to do was wait.
I guessed that he’d never come across poppers before – not all that many straights have – and so I was especially interested in how he would react.
It started to affect him in about ten seconds, and he started to moan. By now most of it had either been inhaled or had evaporated from the mask, so I just left it there. Another ten seconds and he was moaning more loudly. And his cock had started to harden. I rolled it between my fingers, stroked it, teased it, and it continued to grow. In less than a minute it had gone from completely soft to fully hard. I knew that the poppers were working on him, eroding his inhibitions, insidiously demolishing his defences, making him – against his will – as horny as fuck...
I dropped some more poppers onto the mask and watched until they started to get to him. When he was feeling the full hit I took the mask off him, then the gag, and pulled a heavy-duty, thick leather breath-control hood over his head. This has lots of straps to make it fit tightly all over, it’s lined with sexy, shiny black rubber on the inside, and a variety of tubes or other things can be attached to the built-in rubber face mask. The blindfold is detachable. I’ve worn that hood before and I can tell you that it’s a very heavy head-trip: you’re enclosed in clinging black rubber, you can’t see a thing - no idea what’s coming – and as well as that, exactly what, and how much, you’re able to breathe can be very finely controlled.
A while ago I picked up a second-hand ventilating machine from ebay, and although the anaesthetic cylinders are missing, a few minor modifications made it perfect for administering poppers or anything else you fancy. I connected it up to the thick leather hood.
His cock was as hard as a rock now. I pulled up a stool and sat down so that I could access it in comfort, and then I applied all my attention to it.
There are many things that I am not good at. But there is one thing that, even if I say it myself, I excel at – and that is edging. I discovered many years ago that I’m a natural, a born edger. For some reason I seem to have a sixth sense: when I’ve been working on a boy for a while I can tell from one moment to the next exactly how close he is to cumming. And I’ve concentrated on perfecting that ability for a very long time. Now, I worked on that biker.
For the next hour or so I repeatedly brought the boy close to the point of orgasm – each time a little closer than the last. Every few minutes I gave him a hit of poppers, and before long I knew I could get him to the very edge whenever I wanted. In the beginning he’d struggled and fought, but now he just moaned and swore every time I stopped before he could cum.
After half an hour or so of doing that, I stood up, searched through the boy’s backpack and found the Red Sun Bold cigarettes. I unfastened the blindfold from his hood and watched as his eyes adjusted to the light and then fixed on me and what I was holding.
Slowly, making sure he could see every movement, I lit up one of the Red Suns and detached the corrugated breathing tube from the ventilating machine. For a moment I put my hand flat across the end, to demonstrate that everything he could breathe was coming through that tube. His eyes showed growing terror as his air supply stopped – but then I removed my hand and he could breathe again.
I waited until he’d breathed out, then sealed the end of the tube again with my hand, and took a long, long suck on the cigarette, filling my mouth to capacity with the smoke without inhaling it. I waited a few more seconds so that he really need to breathe in, then I took my hand away and blew the smoke down the tube to him. His need for air forced him to inhale it all.
I’m not sure what reaction I was expecting – but he moaned and writhed on the table and his cock was jerking up and down so much that at first I thought he was cumming. But he didn’t cum – it was just that he needed to. He needed to very badly indeed.
I’d heard of guys with smoke fetishes before but I’d never actually met one. To this boy the smoke seemed to be every bit as effective as poppers. I wondered if it was because he was high on them that it was turning him on so much, but then I thought, who cares?
After repeating the sequence, with the same result, I reconnected the ventilator and gave him a huge hit of neat poppers. Then, while he was watching closely, I took a further four Red Suns out of the pack, lit them all, and pushed all five cigarettes into the end of the tube. Now he would get the raw smoke of the strongest cigarettes possible, undiluted by having been sucked in by me first.
As soon as the smoke hit him he groaned urgently, and closed his eyes. I felt something land on my shoulder and looked round – the boy was cumming! And I wasn’t even touching his cock. I knew that by the time I got to it, it would be too late and so I didn’t try – I let him have his whole orgasm like that.
When he was done I took the cigarettes out and gave him fresh air. I allowed him to recover, then took the hood off his head.
He wasn’t capable of speech for a while, but then he swallowed, and looked up at me. “Nobody has ever done anything like that to me before.”
“Did you enjoy that?”
He shook his head slowly. “Oh fuck. Oh jeez. I want to stay here for the rest of my life.”
I laughed. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then.
He’s been back many times since then. That boy has had a lot of thinking to do. He’s straight, there’s no doubt about that – he still has sex with his girlfriend - but he says that the sessions he has here, the smoke-induced orgasms, are like nothing he has ever experienced anywhere else. He is totally addicted to them.
For me, the nice thing is that although he visits often, his straight-boy conditioning still forces him to struggle against it. I encourage this by reminding him constantly that I’m a guy, that he’s straight, but that I’m going to make him cum – or rather that I’m going to use his fetish to make him cum. And that there’s fuck-all he can do about it.
He still tries, but that’s the wonderful thing about fetishes – you just can’t fight them.