Colin slipped the leather hood back onto its hook, turned the lights off, and closed the door. That had been a brilliant session: the boy had struggled like fuck; he'd fought like crazy, done everything he possibly could to resist, but Colin had still made him cum three times in less than two hours. He'd collected the spunk into a small bottle and had then photographed it in front of the still-restrained boy, to add - humiliatingly labelled with the lad's name - to the "Trophy Gallery" on his website. After that, he'd sent him home on public transport in his spunk-soaked jeans. He chuckled at the thought of the other commuters' expressions when they saw the stains.
Whistling to himself happily, he unzipped his leather jacket, walked along the landing and started down the stairs; he was gasping for a cup of tea. It may have been the bike boots he was wearing, or perhaps simply a lack of concentration - but his foot slipped off the top step and the next thing he knew he was sailing outwards and downwards through the air. He just had time to think: 'this is going to hurt' before there was a quick flicker of blackness, and he found himself seated at a table in an interview room.
Colin turned his head slowly, looking around, his mouth open. What the fuck...? He should have hit the floor by now, and yet he was here - wherever 'here' was. There was a man seated the opposite side of the desk. He was wearing a grey suit, a grey shirt, and a tie that was every bit as grey as the suit and the shirt. His face and hands were flesh-coloured, but somehow more grey. His hair was grey. He was reading a document before him on the desk, and twiddling a (blue) pen in the fingers of one hand. After a moment or two he lifted the pen, and looked up. His face was neither attractive nor unattractive - and his eyes were grey.
"Colin Davidson. That is your name? Birth date May the eleventh, nineteen ninety four?"
Colin continued to stare vacantly, unable to speak. When the grey man repeated the question, he managed, after a few seconds, to nod once. The man ticked a box on the document. He smiled at Colin. The smile was a very neutral sort of smile. "Good. Welcome to Limbo. You can call me Michael."
Limbo? What the hell was this about?
Michael put the pen down, leaned back in his chair and rested his hands on the desk. "I know you're confused. You were in the middle of an accident... ", he glanced down at the paper for a moment, "you were in the process of falling down the stairs, I believe. Well, have you ever seen a film where they freeze the action, like a still picture?"
Colin managed another nod.
"Ok, well that's what's happened. You are, in fact, still in the air halfway down those stairs. At least your physical body is; your ... this is always difficult... your essence, your being - your soul if you like - has been taken out of time for a while and brought here (although you will find that you feel quite as real here as you usually do), where the procedure is that you will undergo an evaluation which will determine whether you continue your corporeal existence or not." The man could see that Colin was not taking this in, and so explained more clearly, "There is going to be a test to see whether you live or die."
The boy found his voice finally: "Test? Live or die?"
"Yes. You're falling down the stairs. You could land badly - break your neck, for instance, or you might just get a bruise or two. You're at what we call a 'critical junction' - you could live or you could die. Usually it's pretty clear-cut as to whether a subject should live or die - it's calculated on things like age, past actions, what you would think of as the subject's 'goodness' or 'evilness' (the formulae for working things like that out are extraordinarily - and in my opinion unnecessarily - complicated), but occasionally the results are too close to the borderline to be conclusive, and in such cases those upstairs order a test. My function - and that of others like me - is, apart from welcoming you here to Limbo, to decide on the nature of the test, and to arrange it. It can be almost anything, but it's always based on some major component of the subject's character." He smiled again. "We arrange all sorts of tests - they're usually moral dilemmas of some kind: to let another person (or animal) live or not; to offer assistance to someone in distress, or not; that sort of thing." He glanced down at the document again and his smile - though still immaculately neutral, showed a glimmer of amusement. "In your case, however, it's a bit more interesting. You have an unusually powerful obsession - and while we know that it has never been intended to cause real suffering of any kind (on the contrary - we realise that it is ultimately designed to give pleasure to your victims, as well as to yourself), it is eminently suitable for your test."
Colin had caught up fast, and he was by now way ahead of the man. His face gradually took on an expression of disbelief mixed with horror. He began to shake his head slowly from side to side. "No...", he whispered.
Michael nodded his head once. "Yes. In my opinion this would be the ideal test for you. Simple, easy to arrange (we have to consider our budget) and conclusive one way or the other. Your fate in what you think of as the 'real world' is entirely in your hands, Colin. Or rather, in your cock. The test is quite straightforward, and you already know as much about it as I do: all you have to do is refrain from cumming for one hour. What could be easier? Stand up please."
After a moment or two Colin struggled unwillingly to his feet. His legs felt like jelly. Then the special effects started: the interview room around him gradually morphed into something else: it was now a stone-walled dungeon with torches flickering in sconces, and there were assorted medieval torture devices scattered around the place. The grey man looked at Colin, and narrowed his eyes. "Hmm, yes perhaps you're right. A bit too Hollywood."
The room changed again, this time into a more sterile-looking space with a single large restraint table on one side. The illumination was even, and came from unseen sources. Another observation of the boy's reactions told Michael that this was much more suitable. "Good, we'll go with this."
Without being told, Colin knew the rules, and what he would have to do. He looked the grey man up and down and felt a little relief - this guy did not turn him on in the slightest. All right, he was some kind of angel or demon, and who knew what unnatural powers he had? Therefore he could possibly cheat in some way - but then surely the test would be unfair, and he would say so in no uncertain terms afterwards. And the thick leather jeans Colin was still wearing from his session in the playroom were anything but ideal either for being teased through or for being milked in. Plus, he'd cum only a few minutes ago (over that boy's jeans) and he didn't feel in the least bit horny. All in all, he was becoming more confident about his chances.
This was not to last, however. More special effects happened, and Colin found that he was not in fact wearing his leather jeans any longer, the only things he was wearing were his bike boots, a sexy chain belt he'd had for years, and thin, sensitive, skintight PVC jeans exactly like the ones he made his own victims put on - specifically so that they would be able to feel the lightest touches of his teasing, tickling, stroking, milking fingers on their hard, desperately horny cocks, and so to make it so much more difficult for them to resist.
It got worse. He realised that he was, in fact, horny. Very horny. The bastards.
And then it got worse again - much worse. The grey man was changing too: he was becoming a bit taller, slightly more muscular, and he was becoming less grey. In fact he was becoming black. Within ten seconds the grey man had disappeared and Colin's knees went even weaker than they had been. Facing him was a guy condensed out of every one of his wettest, spunk-filled, spliff-enhanced, perviest wet dreams. The figure - now about Colin's height and build - was wearing one of the sexiest leather jackets the boy had ever seen, with zips, studs and chains, and the sleeves were pushed up to the elbows, giving the distinct impression that the wearer meant business. The jacket was open, revealing a nicely muscled torso and, beneath a studded belt, his leather jeans must have been poured onto him: the thighs and legs were skintight - there wasn't a single crease anywhere - but over the crotch there was more leather, and Colin just knew that if Michael got a hard-on that bulge would be unbelievable. The fuck-off biker boots had chains and rivets and buckles... The figure's hands were encased in skintight, thin black leather gloves, and the long fingers were flexing slowly. But more than all this, it was the shiny black leather mask concealing his face that was turning the boy on: the mouth was covered by a black metal grill, allowing speech but concealing the mouth itself; and the two eye-holes were shaped in a way that conveyed pure sadistic malevolence. Through the holes, clear blue eyes were the only bits of Michael's face that were visible. Colin had an unshakeable feeling that the face underneath the leather was drop-dead gorgeous. He also knew that the guy was grinning at him.
Very slowly, and with a voice that dripped absolute certainty, Michael said, "I am going to make you cum, boy, before the hour is up. And there will be fuck-all you can do about it..."
The fact that Colin knew perfectly well that he was quoting a line he'd used on his own victims more times than he'd had hot dinners did nothing at all to make it less effective on him - his cock jerked in the tight PVC jeans and began to get hard.
The movement was not lost on Michael. "It seems your cock is looking forward to it. The hour begins now. Lie down on the table."
Colin knew that his only chance was not to allow this guy to get him restrained. As it was, he could fight him off, stop him getting to his cock, and so not become dangerously horny. He only had to last an hour, after all. He shook his head. "No way, mate."
Michael took a leather hood from a shelf and opened it, holding it ready in his hands. His jeans creaked sexily as he approached the boy quickly. Colin darted away, but Michael sidestepped and continued to close on him. The boy took another couple of steps backwards and came up against the corner of the room. Damn. With one quick movement he bent down and launched himself past Michael's side. As he passed, in one fluid movement Michael managed to get the leather hood over his head and pull the thong tight around his neck. Now unable to see anything, Colin continued to move, changing direction towards what he thought was the centre of the room. He bounced glancingly off another wall, got turned around, and had no idea where he was pointing. His hands flew to the hood and he pulled hard, trying to get the thing off. A moment later he felt fingers on his cock, and instantly lowered his hands to fight the bastard off it - but then the touch was gone and instead he felt the click of a lock being closed at the back of the hood. He raised his arms again to fend Michael off, but there was nothing there. He listened, but heard only silence.
And then a low, mocking laugh. "'The hood is the most effective restraint device known to man' - isn't that what you wrote on your website? You're quite right, it is." Michael's voice became taunting, "You can't see, can you? You can't get the hood off. You don't know where I am or what I'm going to do next. The feel of the leather over your face is making you horny, isn't it...? Helpless..."
The fact that Colin had used those very words on his victims many times, made hearing them in this situation intensely humiliating. The next thing he knew there was a creaking of leather, strong arms enveloping him, and he was being lifted. He tried to fight, but his arms were pinned to his sides and his legs kicked air ineffectually. He felt the cool leather of Michael's jacket and the colder studs against his bare arms. Michael carried him across the room and deposited him on what Colin guessed could only be the restraint table. No! He was not going to let this guy get him restrained! He sat up immediately, his hands resumed tearing at the hood.
Something around his left motorcycle boot - and a second later it was cuffed to the table. SHIT! He could now not get off the table. But apart from that his arms were free and he would do damage with them before he allowed himself to be strapped down. He turned his head, listening for clues as to where Michael was, or what his next move would be. Silence. Damn - if he could see he might have a chance. Suddenly he lashed out with both fists, hoping to catch the guy unexpectedly. His fists met only air. Then another cuff went around his right boot. He expected more silence, more cat-and-mouse, but instead his left hand was grabbed and held as a cuff was quickly and efficiently fastened around his wrist. Slowly but irresistibly the rope pulled the arm until he was forced to lie down on the table. He flailed his right arm around, so that Michael couldn't catch it. An unseen hand gently gripped his hard cock once through the thin PVC jeans, and reflexively he reached down to protect himself. His hand met Michael's, however, and a second later the final wrist cuff was in place. He tried to fight against the pull of the rope, but it was far stronger than he was. He was spread-eagled on the restraint table, and there was nothing he could do to prevent thick leather straps from being tightened over his chest, pelvis, and knees.
He felt the lock being removed, and then everything was light again as the hood was pulled off his head.
Michael was looking down at him, and again Colin somehow knew he was smiling. He noticed for the first time that there was a full-length mirror in the ceiling, and that he could see his entire body, and Michael from above - in it. He was still wearing his bike boots and chain belt, and those PVC jeans were absolutely skintight on him. The bulge at his crotch was enormous - his cock was fully hard; the unfairness of being hooded so that he could be wrestled onto the table so easily had turned him on like crazy.
Michael raised his hands, peeled his tight leather gloves off, and slowly lowered one hand to Colin's thigh. "Remember, boy, just one hour - in fact slightly less now. Do... Not... Cum. If you do, you are dead. If you don't, you live. That should be a reasonably good incentive, don't you think?"
With a touch every bit as light and teasing as Colin's own, he began to stroke the inside of the boy's thigh, just above his left knee. Gradually he moved his hand upwards, running his fingertips gently over the shiny PVC-covered erogenous zones, each finger tracing out its separate pattern of pleasure on the boy's sensitive thigh.
Colin was moaning. The stroking of those fingertips was excruciatingly sexy, and the closer to his balls they got the more intense was the feeling. He recognised that his very own techniques were being used on him, and for the first time he was aware, in an extremely immediate and acute way, of exactly how much the odds were stacked against the victim: strapped down and helpless, Colin's only defence was his willpower - whereas Michael had the freedom to use the many very effective and very dirty tricks at his disposal to erode that willpower and make the boy lose control, not least of which was his appearance. All that black leather; the masked face; the boots; the bulge in those sexy black leather jeans; he was free to tickle and tease the boy's thighs and balls, to work with any implements he liked on his cock (oh god, please stay away from the head...); and he could hood him again whenever he felt that Colin really needed to be able to see - when it would make him more horny, feel more helpless...
Colin moaned again at these thoughts - and then in panic realised that he was not far from cumming! Already! And the bastard's hand hadn't even got as far as his balls! He looked away from the masked face, away from the studded black leather, concentrated on the featureless wall on the other side of the room. He began to calculate numbers: powers of two, and to whisper them to himself. "One, two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four, a hundred and twenty-eight..."
Michael laid his hand very gently flat against the inside of the boy's thigh as his fingers touched the underside of Colin's balls. He stroked them lightly up and down, and around. The fingertips made shallow dents in the shiny PVC which reflected the light for a moment and then were gone as the fingertips moved on.
Colin almost screamed. "Two thousand and forty-eight! Four thousand and ninety-six!" The feel of a hand between his thighs always made him need to close his legs together and squeeze the hand tightly between them - it was an involuntary reflex because it felt indescribably fucking horny. His knees had already started to close, but with a supreme effort of will he stopped them, opening them wide again, because he knew that if he did close them on that teasing, tickling hand, and Michael even touched his cock head, there would be nothing he could do to stop himself from cumming instantly and uncontrollably.
With his legs wide apart, he always felt less horny, and it was so now; after a few seconds he was no longer as dangerously close to the edge.
One of Michael's fingers was exploring deep into the crease at the side of Colin's balls - a particularly erogenous spot on the boy. He placed his thumb in the opposite crease, pushed and squeezed, gripping the root of Colin's cock firmly, wiggling his finger slowly. Colin squirmed in helpless desperation. Looming above him was this masked, intensely sexy vision of black leather, his fingers locked into two of his victim's most vulnerable spots, forcing his cock up to stretch the thin black PVC jeans to bursting point - and his other hand, one finger extended, slowly but unstoppably moving towards the dimpled shininess of his single most overpowering weakness: his horny, sensitive cock head.
Colin cursed himself - he was looking at Michael again! He wrenched his eyes off the figure and frantically began on the prime numbers. "Two! Three! Five! Seven! Eleven! Thirteen! Seventeen! Nineteen! Twenty-three! Twenty-eight - NO! Twenty-nine!..."
When it came, the touch on his cock head was every bit as devastating as he'd feared it would be. But it only lasted a second.
"Is that wall really that interesting?" Purred Michael. "Well, if you don't want to look at me, perhaps it would be easier if you can't look at anything..." A moment later the hood came down over Colin's head again. No, not 'again' - this wasn't the same hood. The first one had been tight and restricting, this one was a loose leather bag, without locks or fastenings. Had his hands been free he could have pulled it off easily. But it did its job every bit as well as the first one had done: Colin's world contracted to blackness as the leather slid down slowly over his face.
The boy swore. Why did he have to have such intense fetishes? Devices that were used make it impossible for a victim to see were one of his most overpowering fetishes - one he most certainly did not need to experience at this moment. He forced himself not to try to get the hood off, nor to lick the leather, nor to move his head about inside it so that he could really feel it - doing any of these things would have made him feel more helpless, and dangerously horny again. Instead, he closed his eyes (something he never usually did when he was hooded), breathed slowly and deeply, and waited for the touch he knew was coming.
The hand was removed from his thigh. Then Colin felt Michael's fingertips sliding across the smooth PVC jeans. They caressed all over his legs between the tops of his bike boots and his groin, stroking lightly on the outsides, the tops and the insides. It felt wonderful - but it allowed Colin to regroup mentally and to steel himself for whatever the bastard decided to try next.
Michael's hands stopped, and then the boy felt fingers on his cock. They gradually moved it sideways, sliding it under the tight PVC, across his abdomen, and continued until it was on the right - the opposite side to the one Colin always had it in jeans. The fingers pushed it down until it would go no further, and then let go. Its natural tendency to spring back, now overcome by the tight jeans holding it there, caused it instead to push upwards against the stretchy PVC. Colin realised that this unaccustomed position also felt very horny, and that his cock felt more vulnerable now than it ever had done before. It was strange - he had known all of these things before, in principle - that's why he used them on his own victims - but actually experiencing them himself, and under such critical conditions, made him aware of just how unfair his sessions with those various boys were. No wonder they always lost control and shot their spunk - the poor bastards stood no fucking chance at all. He tried to move his hips so that his cock would go back to the usual side, but the strap over his pelvis prevented any useful movement and it stayed exactly where it had been put - accessible and supremely vulnerable.
Fingers on his balls again, stroking gently. He got ready with the prime numbers. Then the hand moved to his cock. Slowly and irresistibly, it stroked up the shaft repeatedly, and even though it always stopped short of the cock head, the touch was so intense that each unbearably delicious caress pushed him closer and closer to the edge of the bottomless pit of orgasm. Being unable to see anything because of the hood only made the sounds of the leather jeans creaking, the chains rustling, and the stroking of the fingers on his cock louder.
Then a single fingertip on his cock head. It traced around the bulge of the head, and across the very tip. Now a finger and thumb, stroking, squeezing, rubbing the head lightly all over...
The head of Colin's cock was the single most sexually sensitive spot on his body - much more so than the shaft, working on it was usually a guaranteed way to make the boy cum. But, in spite of the excruciatingly horny feeling those fingers were causing, with a supreme effort of will Colin somehow forced himself to relax in his restraints. He knew that the slightest attempt to struggle or to move away from the fingers would make him lose it. He was NOT wearing skintight, sexy black PVC jeans, he was wearing purple cord trousers. Flares. The hands on his cock belonged not to a horny masked bastard in studded leather but to his neighbour Sandra - an elderly lady with a liking for gardenias.
The fingers moved over his cock head. They slipped and slid over it, squeezed, rubbed and teased. And without warning Colin convulsed and yelled as Michael's other hand slid quickly up between his thighs and came to rest with the thumb at the side of his balls, the fingers on his perineum. They gripped the top of his thigh firmly. Involuntarily Colin closed his knees together, squeezing the hand tightly between his thighs, and a wave of intensely horny pleasure coursed through him - then realised what he was doing. "NO!" He forced them apart again; as wide apart as he could. He conjured a new picture into his mind: Sandra naked, in the bath, taking her false teeth out and putting them in a glass...
Fuck! That had been close! Too close. But the boy realised that in fact the hood was actually helping him - had he been able to see Michael just then it would have been impossible for him to have imagined the image of Sandra so clearly, and the sight of that sexy bastard, plus the work on his cock head, would have made him cum, no question.
Michael's hands withdrew, and Colin felt straps and ropes being adjusted. His legs were pulled together and a heavy strap fastened tightly around his knees, keeping them closed tightly together. Moments later the hand was back, forcing its way flat between his thighs. The fingers began to work on his balls, and the other hand was back on his cock. For a moment Colin thought that was going to be the end of it, but then he found that with his knees strapped together it didn't feel as horny as when they were free and he had to fight not to close them. That's it! Fighting against it - that was the key! Instead of trying to fight against what the bastard was doing, try just going with it...
The fingers worked on Colin's cock all over, teasingly. He knew that if Michael gripped the whole thing in his hand and just wanked it, fast and firmly, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from cumming - but he didn't do that. Instead he continued to work on it with fingertips. He tried different techniques and different positions, but few caused Colin to panic - except once, when a single finger was stroking in small circles just underneath the head, he felt his spunk getting ready to erupt, and if the bastard had carried on for another few seconds it would have done - but Michael had moved on to try somewhere else. Ever more un-sexy images of Sandra were coming easily to the screen of his imagination now, too.
Michael pulled the hood off Colin's head, and climbed onto the table, his knees astride the boy's legs. He put his hands on his hips and gazed down at his helpless victim gloatingly.
Colin looked up. The sight of Michael kneeling over him, in that black leather and mask - a devil intent on just one thing: to make him cum - was too hypnotic to resist. The blue eyes stared back at him. And then a movement lower down caught the boy's attention. Michael's cock was fully hard, and it was pushing his leather jeans out into a bulge that made Colin's eyes water. The leather was looser over the crotch, and the erection was pushing the creases out into a shape that made the boy want to lick it, suck it. But more than anything, he wanted to get that fucking guy helpless, grip his cock tightly and wank it fast and hard to make the bastard himself cum helplessly. He would dearly love to teach Michael an unforgettable lesson for wearing those sexy, prickteasing leather jeans.
Colin tried to look away as Michael's right hand, a single finger extended, moved towards his PVC-covered cock, but he was incapable of tearing his eyes from that leather-clad figure above him. The fingernail touched the base of Colin's cock shaft and began to scrape gently up it. At the same time, Michael's left hand came down to his own bulge, and he began to wank himself off very slowly, his cock clearly visible at the end of each stroke through the black leather. As his hand moved his jeans creaked and the studs on his jacket glinted in the light. Colin knew that there was an expression of extreme, gloating sadism on the face under the leather mask.
And then the scraping stopped. Colin watched as Michael very carefully undid the zip on his PVC jeans. With meticulous care he pulled the boy's cock and balls out of the opening, making sure that the edges of the zip didn't touch his skin. When he took his hands away, Colin's cock, which was harder than he could ever remember having seen it before, was pointing angrily up over his abdomen. The Michael took his gloves out of his pocket and slowly pulled them on again; the leather was smooth, shiny, and skintight. "Now," he whispered, "let's have a closer look at that cock..."
He placed one hand flat on Colin's abdomen, then slid it down slowly, pushing the boy's cock first up to vertical, and then further - until it was pointing at Michael's face. The fingers and thumb curled round and nestled deep in those creases at the sides of Colin's balls. With his right hand Michael lightly enclosed the shaft of Colin's cock, and began to slide up and down very slowly indeed. The leather of his glove glided over the precum-glistening shaft smoothly and silently. Again, though, he stopped short of the cock head every time. Up - down - up - down, slowly and silkily the fingers moved on the desperate cock.
In the ceiling mirror Colin had a clear view of those leather-gloved hands working on him. He knew he was very close to cumming. He also knew, from having edged and milked so many of his own victims that, when you're close enough, however absolutely determined you are to resist, NOT to let yourself lose it, there comes a point when your mind flips, and the overwhelming need for orgasm obliterates all thoughts of resistance totally. You go from doing everything possible to stop yourself from cumming, to doing everything possible TO cum - no matter what the consequences might be; consequences go out the window when you're in that state. He was acutely aware of what was at stake here - whether he lived or died - but even so, if he allowed Michael to get him to that point, he knew that all would be lost - his animal instincts would bypass his conscious brain completely and his defences would disappear in a puff of smoke, instantly and completely, and he would embrace the inevitable orgasm with his entire being. It was taking every bit of his concentration not to let himself get there, and each stroke of Michael's leather fingers was eroding that concentration. He closed his eyes in the hope that not seeing Michael working on him so leisurely, might make it a bit easier. But the mind is a treacherous thing: without sight to occupy his brain, he couldn't stop his concentration from zooming in even more to the unbelievably intense pleasure of those fingers on his cock. And, quite irresistibly, they were getting him closer every second...
It was so fucking unfair: he was in his own personal heaven - everything was perfect - but he had to deny himself the one thing he wanted more than anything else - more than he had ever wanted anything in his life before: the shatteringly intense ecstasy of the orgasm he knew he would have at Michael's hands.
The fingers stroked gently, slowly, up, down, up, down... Then they left the shaft, and the leather softly closed around the most sensitive spot on the boy's body - his single biggest weakness: his cock head. They didn't move; they just held it. A quiet moan came from Michael. "Time to make you lose it, boy. Try to fight it..." The leather fingers started to move on his pre cum-lubricated cock head...
Colin stared manically at the masked face above him. He was strapped down helpless; his steel-hard cock was being worked on by the leather-gloved hands of the sexiest guy he could possibly imagine; his own fetishes and his own techniques were being used against him; he was being controlled as easily and as irresistibly as he regularly controlled the boys he had helpless in his playroom... And instead of wanting to fight against it, now he wanted - needed this leather god to make him cum. He knew that any second now he would be incapable of preventing himself from jettisoning all thoughts of Sandra, of prime numbers, and abandoning himself to what he knew was coming: the most inexpressibly wonderful orgasm of his life.
Michael abruptly looked up, and froze. His fingers stopped rubbing, He stopped breathing. Colin was suspended a hair's breadth away from orgasm for a moment - and then, as suddenly as if a switch had been flipped, he realised that he was wearing his thick leather jeans again.
Michael looked down at the boy under him. Surprise showed in his blue eyes. "Well, it seems you won. The time is up. That was a bit of bad planning on my part..."
Colin released his breath in one great gasp. "No! Please! Make me cum!"
"But the test is finished. You won."
"I don't care! Please - do this for me!"
"I'm sorry, I can't do that." Michael released the boy from the table.
The instant the last cuff was unfastened, Colin bounded off the table, pulling Michael to the floor. He sank to his knees, then bent down and held Michael's bulge in both hands, took the shiny leather-clad cock into his mouth and started to milk it with his tongue, lips, and teeth. Michael started to moan. Almost instantly he felt the cock stiffen, and then - after a pause that seemed to last forever, the leather began to pulse in his mouth as wave after wave of hot creamy spunk pumped out violently into it. While he milked Michael dry, he reached inside his jeans for his own cock and - while still licking and sucking on Michael's throbbing cock bulge - Colin finally came. It was a volcanic orgasm, and Michael lay there unmoving until the jerking, sweating, shuddering body of the boy slowly collapsed in a heap on top of him.
They lay there for a while, in silence. At last Michael raised his hand and stroked Colin's head. "Well that's never happened before. I'm not sure how I'm going to write this up for the paperwork..."
Colin sat up slowly, grinning. "I'm afraid that's your problem," he said.
"Hmm."
The special effects returned, and Colin found himself once again seated opposite the grey man in the interview room. Michael ticked some more boxes on the document, then stared at the large, empty area at the bottom of the page. He put the blue pen down and sighed. "Oh I'll do it later." He gazed at Colin and, although still carefully neutral, there was an unmistakeable expression of wonder in his eyes. "A moment." He opened a drawer in the desk, took out a telephone, and lifted the receiver. He waited. "Yes. I have a request - would you put a D47 on Timeline..." he read a very long number from the top of the document. "Yes I know it's irregular." Another pause. "Thank you." He put the phone back into the drawer and closed it.
He smiled, and for a split second his aura of neutrality slipped a little – there was an unmistakeable satisfaction in that smile. Then he was back to his usual grey, businesslike self. "Well, that's it. Nice to meet you, Colin. have a good life."
Colin stood up and they shook hands. The boy couldn't get the image of Michael in studded leathers and mask out of his mind. He longed to meet that Michael again, but as he looked at the grey man he knew it would be useless to ask - the man was already inspecting the next document.
"Right. How do I get out of here?"
"It'll happen automatically in a few moments."
"Oh. Ok. Well, See you again, I hope."
The grey man didn't look up, but he smiled.
The air rushed past Colin and he landed at the bottom of the stairs with a bump that knocked the breath out of him. After a moment he very carefully sat up, checked himself, and then grabbed the newel post and pulled himself to his feet. He'd have a bruise or two, but apart from that he was fine. He needed that cup of tea even more now.
In the kitchen he filled the kettle and switched it on. Yes, it was an old kettle, but it was stretching coincidence to breaking point that it chose that precise moment, when his hand was still touching the metal, to short out. Colin didn't even feel the shock - and the next thing he knew he was back in the interview room. But this time there was no grey man. Looking back at him with blue eyes through the slits in the leather mask, and seemingly unsurprised, Michael smiled. "Hello again. You really should get that kettle seen to."
It took Colin a second or two to realise what had happened - again. "Another test?" He was nervous about the stakes once more.
"Well not quite. It occurred to me that I couldn't go on asking for D47s on you, and I rather enjoyed our last meeting; it's something I would like to do on a regular basis - I have quite a few ideas for things which will destroy your willpower completely. So I have a proposition: there must indeed be another test, but shall we say the best of three? And on a weekly basis?"
Colin thought for a while, then narrowed his eyes. "Do I have any say in this arrangement?"
"Absolutely. We can negotiate the terms."
"Hmm. Best of three, you say. Ok – but I want an option for extending that. A lot, in fact. And, every time I win one I get to do what I like to you."
Michael ran his fingers over the bulge of his already-hard cock. "Mmmm. We have a deal. Stand up please."
The room was the same as before, but the restraint table was different - this one looked much more complicated. When Michael went to the shelf, Colin saw that there were now dozens of leather hoods there, and some of them looked dangerously – and worryingly - interesting.
"Get onto the table."
Colin shook his head. "Make me, you bastard."
“Oh, I was so hoping you would say that...”