Gil was ancient – he must have been in his early 70s I suppose - overweight, and not really fanciable, but he was one of those guys with natural charisma: people loved him. He’d been a leather master for longer than I’d been alive, although he didn’t participate himself as much these days. But he was a brilliant facilitator: he held weekends at his house where he’d invite four or five guys who he thought might get off on each other, and more or less let them get on with it, while always being there in the background to make sure things ran smoothly. His house wan’t very big, but somehow there was always space, and the playroom in the attic was well-equipped. People would travel from great distances to come to one of these weekends. I’d been to several of them - always as a sub, although I’m actually usually top - and I’d had some of the horniest sessions of my life there. I’d also met a few subs at Gil’s who had then become regular visitors to my own playroom back at home.
The only problem was location. Gil lived in a little village in the middle of nowhere, in the south-eastern bit of Cumbria. Usually this was not a problem as I rode up there on the bike – but this time its pre-MOT inspection had revealed a bit of play in the steering head. It needed new bearings, and that was not going to happen in time for Gil’s. I’d managed to cadge a lift with a mate who was travelling to Carlisle on business, but I knew I’d have to go back on the train.
It had, as always, been a brilliant weekend. After breakfast and a lazy day spent just lounging around and chatting, I’d taken a bus to the only station anywhere near the place – Garsdale. I don’t know if you’ve ever been there but it, also, is in the middle of nowhere. A few cottages dotted around, and that’s it. It’s a picture-postcard station: two tracks with a signal box, Victorian lamp-posts painted bergundy and white, and a waiting room built of the local honey-coloured stone with a drinking fountain on the wall.
I hadn’t brought any other clothes with me, so I was still wearing my playing gear: fuck-off bike boots, skintight, sprayed-on shiny black leather jeans, studded belt, and a black leather biker jacket. I’d chosen my horniest gear because I’d wanted the other guys at Gil’s to be as interested in me as possible, so when I boarded the bus I wasn’t surprised by the driver’s open-mouthed stare. I didn’t care – I felt good in this gear and it made me horny.
The bus dropped me off and I walked onto the station from the bus stop. It was 17:51, and my train to Leeds was due at 19:22, so I had an hour and a half to wait. I was on the point of shivering - autumn in that part of the world can be cool – but I saw there was a small waiting room, so I headed for it. There was a row of metal chairs set against each of the two side walls, and between them a couple of long, low metal table-like things. I suppose these were for sitting on if all the chairs were occupied, but I guessed it had been a very long time since that situation had occurred at this particular station. They looked, however, also good for putting your feet up on.
At least it was warm in here, so I sat down. I hadn’t brought a book or my phone with me so there was nothing to do. I looked around, read the posters, and realised that my bum was going to get sore from the hard seat before too long. I pushed my hands into my leather jacket pockets and closed my eyes. In my imagination I replayed some of the more interesting sessions I’d had at Gil’s that weekend. One of the guys, Geoff, had been an expert edger and I smiled as I remembered how I’d struggled helplessly in my restraints, begging him to let me cum.
The sound of the door opening startled me. I looked up and blinked: a boy came in. He was in his twenties, in a very shiny black tracksuit top, faded jeans, and white trainers. Three blue stripes ran down the sleeves of the jacket, and there was some kind of ‘X’ logo on the left breast. He sat down in one of the seats on the opposite side of the room with his legs wide apart, looked me up and down, nodded once, then leaned back, interlaced his fingers over his stomach, rested his head on the wall behind him and closed his eyes.
On my private scale of boy-sexiness I immediately rated him an 8.5 (anything over 5, or 2 if I was horny enough, was of interest). He was slim, athletic, with short mid-blond hair, and good-looking. I couldn’t see the colour of his eyes. This boy was straight – I knew it beyond any doubt. I have an almost 100%-reliable instinct about these things, and this one was a dead cert.
Although I’d rated him as an 8.5, his sexy gear brought him up to an absolute 10. I studied him, starting with his trainers: they were clean and white, with black bars running up towards the lace holes. White socks above them, then the faded denim of his jeans. They were ultra-skinny, and hugged his legs. Darker seams ran up the insides, with the stitching clearly visible. At the sides of his knees were the first creases, and both knees had rips, with whiter threads around the edges. From there upwards his jeans were as sprayed-on as mine were; not a single crease anywhere until, as I slowly traced the inside seams upwards with my eyes, they met at a crossroads below his crotch.
His bulge was disappointing – it was just a gentle curve between his thighs, his widely-parted legs pulling the denim fairly flat over it. The jeans were so tight that the flap over the fly didn’t quite meet at the top, and the brass zip was visible. Above it the elastic waist of his jacket made a matt black line between the faded blue of his jeans and the shininess of the jacket. The zip was done up to the bottom of his pecs, then the jacket opened to reveal a thin choker made of small sea shells resting around the golden skin of his neck. It appeared that he wasn’t wearing anything under the jacket. I fantasised that he wasn’t wearing anything under his jeans either.
I couldn’t decide what material the trackie top was made from – it looked to be more rubbery than PVC, but it didn’t quite look like rubber. Whatever it was, it was very black, very shiny, and it was turning me on like fuck. I itched to feel it, to run my hands over it, and I made a mental note to google that logo and get one for myself. Maybe they also did trackie bottoms in the same shiny black stuff; those would be very interesting.
I realised that I’d taken my right hand out of my jacket pocket and had rested it on my thigh. My fingers had been stroking my cock gently through my leather jeans as I’d been drinking in the sight of him, and it was now hard. At the same moment my eyes got to his face. His eyes were a beautiful blue. And they were looking at me.
Shit! I looked away and concentrated on one of the posters again. It showed an idyllic cottage scene that could have been the shire in the Lord of the Rings, with a suggestion that I buy a ticket to visit the Yorkshire Dales. But my mind wasn’t on the poster. I risked a glance back at the boy. He was looking out of a window to my right. There was a small frown on his face, and he’d closed his legs – his knees were now a couple of inches apart. This had relaxed his jeans over his crotch, and now there was much more of a bulge, with the suggestion of a shape under the tight denim. I very much doubted he was aware that the movement had made it possible for me to see a slight outline of his cock.
He seemed to be intent on the view of the countryside through the window so I allowed my imagination to work. I longed to edge that boy for a long time, before forcibly milking him. I could almost feel that faded denim under my fingers as I traced them so slowly up the insides of his thighs, tickled his balls, gripped his cock gently and teased it through those sexy faded jeans…
I was horny, and I decided there and then that I was going to try to get this boy horny as well. I parted my booted feet, and ran the fingertips of one hand slowly over the outside of my skintight leather-jeaned thigh. I did it as if it were an uncoscious, meaningless movement.
He was still looking out of the window, but by the angle of his head I knew that he could see what I was doing perfectly well in his peripheral vision. I was ready to stop the moment he actually looked at me.
He looked at me. I stopped, and gazed innocently at a radiator to his left.
After a moment I resumed stroking the leather, this time slightly more obviously. My gaze was still fixed on the radiator, but I saw him looking. My fingers moved slowly and teasingly over my jeans. The area I was touching moved to the top of my thigh. I was feeling devilish, and loving this.
He took out his phone but he couldn’t concentrate on it; his eyes kept on flicking back to what I was doing. My hand was now stroking lightly over the top of my thigh, occasionally grazing my bulge. He put the phone away.
His head jerked to the side and then he stood up. He walked to what had originally been the fireplace and picked up a brochure from the stone mantelpiece. He took it back to his seat, and started to read. There was an uncomfortable look on his face. He crossed his legs. It looked like a defensive gesture to me.
I lifted my booted right foot onto the edge of the low table, reached under my leg with my hand and began stroking my fingers lightly over the leather on the inside of my thigh. Each time, I took them right up to the bottom of my balls.
He was holding the brochure in his lap, and his eyes were, for the most part, on it. But every now and again they flicked over to me for an instant before returning to the brochure. He was having difficulty stopping himself from looking.
I leaned my knee outward more, moved my hand to the top of my thigh and rested it there, gently running a finger back and forth along the shaft of my cock. The leather jeans I was wearing were not my biking jeans, but ones I kept for sex. As well as being skintight, they were very thin leather indeed. They were not designed to conceal a single fucking thing, and so I knew he couldn’t miss my fully-erect cock bulging obscenely under the leather. I kept stealing glances at him to let him know that it was him that was getting me horny, but my eyes never stayed on him long enough for him to make any objection to it.
Very gradually the ratio between the time the boy spent looking at the brochure and watching my hands changed until he was spending much more time looking at me. Whenever I glanced at him directly, though, his attention was instantly back on the literature.
I slid down the seat a bit and put my other foot up on the edge of the table as well, with my knees far enough apart so that he could see my crotch perfectly. Slowly I parted my knees and then closed them together. Each time, as they were closing, I gripped my cock and squeezed it, looking directly at his crotch. I played with it until my knees started to open again and I knew he’d be able to see my hand properly, then kept my fingers still, my hand just resting innocently on my thigh. I knew that he could tell from my movements exactly what I was doing even though he couldn’t see my fingers for long each time.
He was looking more uncomfortable by the minute, but he kept on looking at me covertly. Occasionally he turned his head and studied something else in the room, but he couldn’t keep his eyes away from me for long, and they always returned to the fingers teasing my cock bulge.
After a few minutes of this I threw caution to the wind and played with myself a bit more openly. I stroked my thighs – lightly, slowly, and just with my fingertips – and caressed the black leather of my jeans. I was doing to myself exactly what I was fantasising about doing to him. I tickled my balls, and teased the clear and obvious outline of my hard cock.
He still averted his eyes instantly whenever I looked at him, but he was clearly fascinated by what I was doing. His frown had deepened, and I got the impression that he was looking at me against his will.
After a while I got up and stretched, pushing my crotch out so that it was as blindingly obvious as possible. Facing him, I pushed my cock down so that it was lying horizontally across my thigh, then I went to the window on my side of the room and looked out. Dusk was falling. There was a large tree not far away, and I adjusted my position until, in its darkness, I could see the boy reflected in the glass. He was staring at me openly. I stretched again, running my hands over my bum, down the sides of my tight-fitting leather jacket, over my studded belt, my leather jeaned hips and the outsides of my thighs. In the reflection I saw him uncross his legs, and adjust himself. I turned round. His hands were over his crotch and his eyes were riveted to the brochure.
I ambled over to the window on his side of the waiting room and stood, turned slightly towards him, with my thumbs hooked in my studded belt and my fingers resting on my bulge. I stroked it idly and looked out onto the deserted platform. The lamps were just coming on. He was only a few feet away, and out of the corner of my eye I saw him watching my fingers move over the shiny black leather.
As I turned to go back to my seat I gave my cock an obvious squeeze, and caught a glimpse of his crotch before he managed to cover it up. I saw that he’d got a stonking erection forcing itself against the inside of his tight jeans.
I sat down again, leaned back and closed my eyes. Slowly and leisurely I ran my fingers over my thighs; squeezed, rubbed and teased my cock bulge. I used my other hand to tickle my balls; and occasionally thrust my hips a little. Doing this felt wonderful, and there was a smile of sexy pleasure on my face. I’d closed my eyes so that he would feel free to look at me unobserved. Or so he would think. My eyelids were almost closed – but not quite; between them I was watching him. He was staring at me, the brochure sagging and forgotten in his hand. His tongue was playing with his lower lip.
After a while he held the brochure vertically below his crotch to hide things if I should open my eyes, and rested his other hand on the top of his thigh. His fingers weren’t visible – only his wrist and the top of his hand – but I could see that he was playing with the end of his cock slowly. I smiled to myself and worked on my own cock head in the same way that I guessed he was working on his.
The boy was getting horny. He was watching me intently now, and the movements of his hand had become more obvious. I opened my eyes and looked directly at him, but continued to play with myself in exactly the same way. He was so absorbed watching my hands stroking over my leather jeans that it was a few seconds before he realised that my eyes were open. He looked away instantly, and tried to cover his crotch with the brochure – but he dropped it on the floor and the outline of his cock, sticking up like a flagpole and stretching the faded denim between his thighs, was unmissable before he covered it with both hands. His eyes returned to mine, and I smiled at him. His face was going red.
The PA outside announced that the next train to arrive would be the 19:22 to Leeds.
I parted my knees, gripped my bulge with one hand, pulling it out as far as it would go, and held it there. The leather of those jeans is so thin and stretchy that I could almost close my fingers together behind it. It looked like a glossy black dildo in my hand, with the tiniest detail clearly visible. Then I began stroking a single fingertip over just the head. I moved it over the glans, over the ridges, over the very tip, tickling and teasing. Every few seconds my cock jerked in response. I made very sure he could see that.
He was staring at my crotch now, not looking away at all, with a hypnotised look on his face. His left hand was making a nominal attempt to hide his crotch (but failing utterly – he was too busy concentrating on me) while the fingers of his right hand were mirroring my movements on his cock head exactly.
His eyes were open wide and he was breathing fast. Suddenly he gasped, gripped his cock hard, screwed his face up, and came in his jeans. I watched his cock bucking inside them as a warm, dark, wet patch of spunk soaked the tight denim between his legs.
I smiled, leaned back and closed my eyes.
A few seconds later I heard the door open, and when I looked up he wasn’t there. The train arrived and I went out onto the platform. There was no sign of him. I boarded the little multiple-unit diesel and sat down. I had a carriage to myself.
I closed my eyes and grinned. It seemed I hadn’t lost my touch.