5 th November
Bloody fireworks. Feeling like shit - Vodka, Guinness and sherry do not mix, let me tell you. Sherry? Yeah, I know, but I was given a case of it from a punter the other day. It is impossible for sherry to be consumed on its own without throwing up so I tried it with everything we‘d got left in the cupboard. That was this afternoon. Now I’m lying here with my head under the pillow trying to get away from the damn fireworks and wishing death would come quickly.
It’s been an interesting week. Thursday this guy gets in touch. Wants to book me, but for a session “that could be anything from 5 minutes to an hour long”. I told him I only do hourly rates. He said that he’d expected that, and it was perfectly fine - he’d pay me for an hour even if it only lasted 5 minutes. I was intrigued.
Firstly, he has a major fetish for black leather against his skin – the more the better. Ok so far. Then he explains that he wants me to rape his cock, in leather. Cock-rape? I haven’t done that for a long time. He wants me to make him cum as quickly and efficiently as I can, while he’s fighting against it and trying to hold out for the full hour. Actually, the thought of this turned me on a lot. I dug out a pair of leather jeans I inherited years ago from a Hells Angel mate. They are 42” waist (he gave them to me when he’d got even bigger and couldn’t fasten them up any more). You could get two of me into them.
I hooded the guy, turned the jeans inside out and got them on him, then quickly hogtied him on the floor. Those jeans started working on him straight away - he was already moaning in ecstasy at the feel of all that loose, cool, sexy horsehide leather against his naked skin.
I made sure the jeans were pushed up well into his crotch so the leather was all around his balls, then said, “Time starts NOW.”
He started to struggle in the hogtie. I was kneeling behind him so I forced a hand through between his thighs (an unfair move with hogtied victims cos they can’t get away from it however hard they try), immediately gripped his cock through the loose leather jeans, and started to wank him off hard and fast.
Ha! About five strokes later, amid much loud swearing, he lost it and shot his load into the shiny black leather under my milking hand. He’d lasted exactly 11 seconds.
I was expecting him to complain, but he was over the moon. It was even better than he’d hoped, he said. He’s gonna be a regular customer now.
8 th November
Vomit, bless her little cotton socks, gave me a PVC sauna suit for my birthday. I’d seen them online but never had one. They’re quite sexy. Although the thin PVC warms up to body temperature quickly - and when it does you can’t really feel it any more – but the slightest air current cools it down and then it feels dead horny. Looks great from the outside too. I decided to wear it for a jog out in the countryside at the weekend. Was going great until I caught it on a nail sticking out of a fence. Ripped the entire crotch out. I had to come home holding what was left carefully over my bits. And of course, on the way back I met every fucking person I have ever known. Ever. Trying to hold a conversation with Mrs Trellis from number 24 while you’re acutely aware that your cock could make an unscheduled appearance at any moment is not a good thing. I knew Vomit would be furious with me so I bought a replacement from the local sports shop later that day. She hasn’t noticed it’s a different one so far.
24 th November
Guy wanted to be mummified, and then edged. As always for an edging session, I got him to provide a full and detailed description of how his cock works – what it responds to best of all. His cock head, he said, was the key. Rub it and it’ll make him cum, no question. Sounded good.
My mummification board is a 12”-wide plank of wood, padded and covered with black PVC. At the top and the bottom of it there’s cross-bars that have a ring at each end. Chains from the ceiling hook into these rings, suspending the whole thing.
I put my thickest, most confining, heavy-duty leather hood over his head, then laced, zipped and strapped it up as tightly as possible. The only holes in it are 2 small ones under the nose. It’s great for sensory deprivation.
This guy was in his 30s, and had a great body. His major fetish was tight jeans, and he was wearing a pair of very faded, skin-tight, stretch jeans. He hadn’t cum for four days, and he’d used the bus to get here, so I bet a lot of guys (and girls) had stared open-mouthed at the bulge that showed between his legs.
I laid him down and wound pallet wrap around both him and the board. I covered every bit of him except his head, his crotch and his feet with several layers. His arms were by his sides, separated from the rest of his body in their own layer of wrap, and by the time I’d finished he couldn’t move a muscle, and – more importantly - couldn’t get his fingers anywhere near to his cock.
He’d wanted me to unzip his tight jeans and get his cock out, and work on it directly - but seeing him lying there looking so fucking prick-teasingly sexy in those jeans, I got other ideas. I sat down at the side of him and started to work on him through the thin, faded denim. The first time I touched him he nearly jumped out of his skin.
I spent about half an hour teasing his bulging cock with my fingers, staying on the shaft, to make the head more desperate to be touched. It worked. Assuming this was all leading up to my getting his cock out, he was moaning into the hood and begging me to work on his cock head. I was looking around the playroom for a vibrator when I noticed a feather lying on the floor. It was a small brown one. I remembered having used it on a boy’s armpits a while ago. I picked it up and turned it around so that I was holding it like a pen, with the horny end - which came to a blunt point - facing forward.
I touched it to his cock head and traced small circles. It left momentary trails in the thin denim. The boy took a sharp breath and then moaned like he was cumming.
“Oh fuck! Oh shit! Fuck fuck fuck FUUUUUUUUCK!!!”
Apparently, it was an effective instrument to use on him. He started to writhe, making the pallet wrap creak and the board sway a little. I ran the point of the feather stalk round and round his cock head, and over the tip. Every time I did this his breathing speeded up.
The main problem when you’re edging someone for the first time is that you really don’t know how close they are to cumming at any given moment. The idea, of course, is to stop just before they can cum – but some guys just cum with no warning, and some make a big song and dance about it, with heavy breathing, moans, swearing, squeaks – you name it. I didn’t know what this one would do, if anything, but I’m a quick learner and, more to the point, I’m very attentive. He was getting more and more worried about cumming inside his jeans and his warnings were becoming increasingly urgent, but I carried on. The first couple of times I managed to stop in time by pure luck, but then I began to get a feel for him. He didn’t make any particular sounds as he was getting ready to shoot, but his body sort of tensed slightly. I soon started to recognise this and I began to get him very close indeed to the edge.
I was enjoying this. I can sometimes be very sadistic, and it turns me on to make a guy suffer as intensely as possible. Not pain-type suffering, but the suffering of either unendurable tickle torture or, in this case, the unbearable frustration that being edged causes.
There was a box of plastic toothpicks on the table. One of Vomit’s girls had left it last time they’d used the playroom. I reached across and got one out. They’re about 2” long, and come to a very sharp but slightly bendy point. I tried that on him.
If the feather had been effective, this was much, much more so. It was a lot more precise. I wanted to try it on his frenulum – but although his jeans were very stretchy, I couldn’t get to it as well as I wanted to as their tension was holding his cock against his body. I gripped the shaft and tried pulling it upwards, away from him. The jeans stretched easily. Much better. I closed my fingers around the base of his cock, holding the tight denim around his shaft so that the top half of his cock stuck up perfectly, encased in a skintight, thin, sensitive faded blue layer. I applied the toothpick to his frenulum, just stroking the point gently over it once.
“Ah! Ah! Fuuuuuuuuuuck! Shiiiiiiiiiiiiit! Oh my goddddddddddd!!”
Ha! That was it! After just a few small strokes he was begging me to let him cum. A few minutes later, between yells, he managed to scream that he’d pay me double if I let him cum NOW!! I did actually consider it for a moment, but then decided I was getting off on this too much.
I carried on working on him like that, stopping every time he got close, enjoying his manic struggling and swearing, waiting for a few seconds before doing it again. This went on for a long time – well over the time he’d paid for, but fuck it, I was having a ball.
Time for him to cum. He would be going home on public transport, I reminded myself, and so he would certainly NOT want to cum in his jeans. I took the head of his cock in my hand, leaned close to his hooded head, and said, “I’m going to wank your cock for ten seconds. Don’t cum, or you’ll have to go home in spunk-soaked jeans. If you manage to hold out for ten seconds I’ll get your cock out and milk you into my hand. Your jeans will be clean.”
He shook his head. “No! You fucker! I’m NOT going to cum in my jeans!”
Grinning like an idiot, I began to milk his cock head. I intended to make the bastard cum. The prolonged edging on his frenulum with the point of the toothpick had left him so insanely horny that it only took a few seconds to make him lose control. His whole body tensed and his cock jerked rhythmically in my fingers as a dark blue patch appeared, and started to spread. By the time I finished milking him his entire crotch was soaked with slippery spunk.
With the stain blindingly obvious on the crotch of his jeans, I chucked him out.
Hehe – I’m a bastard, aren’t I?
1 st December
I am going to kill Vomit. Slowly, and with precision.
“Wanna come to a party on Wednesday?” She said.
I looked up from my corn flakes suspiciously, remembering the Great Pizza Fiasco of 2016.
“Don’t worry – it’ll be a hoot. All will be well.”
I should have known better, but I said yes.
It started off well enough – that is, we arrived at the flat. After that point it all went pear-shaped. I’d no sooner got in the door than I was jumped. Hands cuffed behind me, leather hood over the head, collar and leash attached. And we hadn’t even got into the main room yet. My promises to Vomit of painful, prolonged torture if she didn’t release me immediately went unheeded, and she led me into the room where the party was. I spent the entire night unable to see anything or anyone, being pawed by all and sundry, and being used variously as a table, a drip-mat (judging by the state of my leather jeans afterwards), and a mannequin for the demonstration of male sexual anatomy. And the worst thing - the fucking worst thing - was that for the entire evening I didn’t get one bastard drink. The only redeeming moments were the two occasions when I was sucked off.
I spent the next couple of days sulking in silence, planning Vomit’s downfall. Again.
The opportunity presented itself at the weekend. Vomit goes to the gym on Saturday afternoons (it’s a lost cause, believe me). While she was away I hacked into her computer (her password is “Password” - she thinks the uppercase ‘P’ will make it unbreakable…) and sent emails to the gang. Attached to each was a picture of her I’d been saving for just such an occasion: the redoubtable Vomit being pissed on by assorted (and anonymous) people. It was, in fact, that very occasion 5 or so years ago that made her realise that she hates being pissed on. I said that she would be at home and the door would be open to any and all who wished to relieve themselves on her; that she would protest loudly, but that’s all part of the turn-on for her; that she’d been especially fantasising lately about being tied up helpless and sucking guys off - when she wasn’t gagged. I closed her laptop with a sadistic grin.
How does she do it? How does she fucking do it? The appointed time arrived, and I was lurking innocently in the kitchen when the gang arrived. They didn’t go for her – they headed straight for me. Frogmarched into the playroom, stripped, strapped down, and soaked by all – including the venomous and despicable Vomit.
I hate that woman.
24 th December
Ding dong merrily and all that. It’s Christmas again - where do the months go? I’m being careful this time. I don’t have a good record with Christmases. Last year I was lusting after Damien, and Vomit snatched him away before I could break her legs. Tonight I have a date with a gorgeous boy called Ariel and Vomit does not know. All correspondence with him has been on my own solidly password-protected computer. The files are hidden 6 folders deep, and they have misleading names. There is no way she could know. I leave at midnight.
I was mugged walking across the park. Well, that was the intention, but it turned out slightly more interesting than that. This lad – couldn’t have been a day over 18 – is suddenly in front of me with a knife. Now I can handle myself, and I knew that I could take him, but he was seriously hot. I got my phone out and started to pass it to him – and while his attention was on it I suddenly grabbed his knife-hand, got it in a wrist lock and forced it backwards. He yelled, dropped the knife, and then fell to the ground. I followed him down, got really close to him, and pushed my other hand inside his jeans. My fingers found his cock and started to play with it.
He struggled for a minute, but I kept staring into his eyes. He was quite beautiful. Gradually his struggling lessened, and his cock began to harden. I gave him a very sexy smile, pulled his head towards me and kissed him.
The poor boy didn’t know what to do – I don’t think he’d been expecting his mark to disarm him and kiss him on the grass. I released the wrist and he writhed underneath me, feeling my leathers and kissing me back hard. I continued to work on his cock under his jeans, and after a while he took a very deep breath, and came.
I smiled again, picked up the knife and left him in a puddle of spunk. I’d also lifted sixty quid from him.
When I finally got there, Ariel turned out to be even better than his pictures. Hunky in the extreme. And an utter bastard. I don’t know what it was he put in my drink but before long I was pleasantly whoozy. A little later still, his every suggestion was exactly and precisely what I wanted to do most of all.
From that point on the only memory I have is a single image: a room with lots of plastic sheeting about and one of those kids’ inflatable paddling pools in the middle.
I came to lying under the statue of Isaac Newton in the park. I squidged when I sat up. Every square inch of my leathers was saturated with gunge – and I mean soaked. I shambled home in the dark, cold and slippery and wet and fuming. It’s going to cost me a fucking fortune to get this crap out of my gear. Bastard.
25 th December
I surfaced around mid-day. My gear from last night lay in a glistening pool of slime on the floor where I’d dropped it, but at least the shower had made me feel relatively human again.
The smell of roasting turkey was wafting from the kitchen and my stomach rumbled. I got out of bed, put some clean clothes on – a red tee shirt, some tight leather jeans, a studded belt, and combat boots – and went in search of food.
Vomit was bending over, looking into the oven. “You put on weight? Your arse looks big,” I said. “Is there anything to eat around here?”
“Good afternoon and fuck off.” She straightened up and turned round, brandishing the turkey-baster like a machete. “You” she punctuated the word with a stab in my direction, “have a little job to do before you get anything to eat.” The baster moved; it was now pointing to the cleaning cupboard. “There’s a mop and bucket in there. You will take them and clean whatever crap you brought in last night off the fucking floor. People are coming round for dinner at two, and if the floor isn’t spotless by then you will be fucking dismembered. Do I make myself clear?”
There was a trail of gunk from the front door to my bedroom. I don’t know what that stuff is made of, but it took more scrubbing to get it off than I’d have imagined possible. And where it went over the carpet it was even worse. By the time I’d finished it was almost two.
There were six of us at the table. Vomit was sat at one end, with Saggy Sue next to her on her right. On her left was Timbo Bell (I fancy the arse off him but the bugger’s straight), with me next to him. Opposite me was a vision: Ben, a boy I hadn’t seen before. Nineteen or twenty; shaggy blond hair; blue eyes you could lose yourself in; pecs to die for under a shiny black PVC tee shirt; and leather jeans even tighter than mine. Between us at the end of the table was Ratty. We don’t talk about Ratty.
As usual, Vomit dominated the conversation, with everyone else waiting for her to take a breath in the hope of getting a word in. I didn’t have much to say as I was concentrating on how Ben’s red lips moved as he ate, and fantasising about them doing something altogether different. I noticed him moving his feet for some reason under the table, but didn’t think anything of it.
It was halfway through the main course when I felt something between my thighs. I looked down. It was a foot. A bare foot. And it was working its way slowly up to my bulge.
By the time it got there I’d realised that the foot belonged to Ben. He was staring at me intently while eating his dinner and massaging my cock through my leather jeans. I admired his ability to multitask – I’d probably have dropped sprouts on the table if I’d tried to do that.
Things were looking up. I didn’t know who this gorgeous boy was, but he was clearly interested in me. And believe me, that was a Good Thing.
Dinner progressed well, though I was having difficulty concentrating on the food as Ben’s foot was doing wonderful things to my cock. I was as hard as a rock.
The first sign that all may not be as well as I’d hoped was when Ratty told – not asked – Ben to pass the salt. Ben’s attention instantly snapped away from me and he breathed “Yes Sir,” as he handed it to Ratty. Shit and damnation – it seemed that the boy Ben was the dreadful Ratty’s slave. The foot was gone and it stayed away.
When dinner was finished we moved to the armchairs. I wasn’t surprised when Ben knelt at Ratty’s feet. How the fuck does a guy who looks like Ratty – back ends of buses don’t come into it – get a delicious boy like Ben? I was contemplating the unfairness of the world when Ratty leaned over to me conspiratorially.
“Ben likes you. You like him?”
I perked up. Perhaps I had a chance with the boy after all. “Oh yeah.”
Ratty smiled. (When Ratty smiles, small children scream and dentists get erections). “You can play with him if you want. I like the idea of you both subbing to me.”
Doing things to the boy Ben was one of the most wonderful things I could imagine; but the thought of touching Ratty - even in a hazmat suit - was enough to make me feel ill. I considered the options.
Ben was looking at me longingly. Then he smiled, his lips parted and he ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth. Slowly and sexily.
This was too much. “Right. Yes. Ok.” Life is a bitch.
It actually wasn’t so bad. Ben turned out to be very good at edging me, and he kept me so close that I even got into sucking Ratty’s cock. We spit-roasted the boy; Ratty strapped us both down and worked on us with, I have to say, some expertise; and we ended up with me sandwiched between them – me fucking Ben and Ratty fucking me.
As Christmases at our place go, this wasn’t a bad one.
26 th December
Boxing Day. Three things have come to light today, and they are responsible for my current position: in bed, buried under the duvet, and – as is not infrequent – seething. First, that spawn of the devil Vomit had videoed Ratty, Ben and me at it in my bedroom. She’s carefully edited out all scenes with Ben, and has left only me being topped by the hideous Ratty, and is holding the video over me for future use as blackmail.
Second, my mobile phone is knackered. I’d forgotten it was in the pocket of my leather jeans – the ones that are currently festering in a pile of slime on the bedroom floor.
Oh yes, and third, that bastard Ratty has given me crabs.
I am never going to do fucking Christmas again. Ever.
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