The invitation to Carol’s wedding had come out of the blue – I’d lost track of her when I moved to Mile End years ago. I hate weddings but I thought it might be a hoot to go to the reception, which apparently was being held in a church hall near the North Circular.
The place was a dump, with a single dusty mirror-ball hanging forlornly from the ceiling and a cheesy band on the stage playing hits of the '90s - but there was lots of booze. I found Carol and we spent a few minutes catching up, then she introduced me to her husband Tyler.
Tyler was fit: twenties, short hair, hard body, and cock-sucking lips. His eyes travelled very slowly up and down me, and came to rest on the bulge in my tight leather jeans. Conveniently, Carol went off to mingle, leaving the two of us to get more drinks, and to chat. He was fascinated by the fact that I was a rent boy. He also wondered how I could possibly get into jeans that were so tight. I said it took years of practise and dedication. And that lube helped.
The second I’d kicked the door of the store room closed he dragged me onto the table in the middle and we were all over each other. He licked my leather jacket, my leather jeans and bike boots like a starving animal; he pulled our faces together and kissed me violently; then he got my cock out and started to suck it. My eyes widened – this was clearly not the first time Tyler had sucked cock. I pulled his tie off, then I stripped him bit by bit until he was naked, his clothes scattered on the floor. While he was occupied with my cock I noticed a bunch of black cable ties on one of the shelves, so I grabbed them, fastened his wrists behind his back and his ankles together. For some reason there was a pair of bootlaces, still in their wrapper, on the floor under the shelves so I wrapped them into a very nice cock and ball harness; the neat black bow knot made his genitals look like some kind of pervy Christmas present.
I pushed myself between his knees, got his legs over my shoulders and set about giving him a slow, sound fucking while working on his cock with my hand and kissing him deeply. We came at the same time and lay there panting.
This was fine, until we discovered that neither of us had anything to cut the cable ties off with. I zipped my jeans up and went in search of a knife or a pair of scissors. Of course there was nothing, anywhere. The kitchen was locked – the party had brought everything with them so they hadn’t needed it (and it probably cost extra). I wandered around looking for something I could use to cut the boy free.
On reflection, I probably should have closed the store room door when I’d come out. There was a distant scream, followed shortly by the sound of someone fainting. Tyler had been found.
I melted into the shadows and left by the back door.
Bonfire night was a fiasco. I thought it was going to be fun when my cute friend Marc said he’d be coming, but a damper was put on proceedings when I found out that Vomit had invited her mum over as well.
Now Vomit’s mum – Alice - is not like Vomit. Not at all. She’s fifteen stones, and most of that is pure muscle. She could lift weights for England. This was actually the first time I’d met her, though I’ve known Vomit for years - and I’d occasionally wondered what her mother made of the daughter with her green hair, black nails, fuck-off biker boots, leather gear and piercings in places you really wouldn’t expect. Alice had unshakable ideas about fireworks: safety must be observed at all times, there would be no loud ones, and once one had been lit, everyone must retire to the next county. To make sure all was well, she’d brought her own, and those were the only ones we would use.
So after an hour of standing in the drizzle watching 2-foot high showers of sparkles, we headed back inside. The excitement of the pyrotechnics in the garden having been almost too much for me, I was looking forward to a few beers - with whisky chasers. But when I opened the fridge there was not a bottle to be seen. Same for the cupboard – nothing. I managed to collar Vomit by the stairs. “Where’s the fucking booze, woman?” I screamed into her ear.
She made urgent shushing noises. “Quiet! She’ll hear you! We don’t drink, Ok? Mother doesn’t approve of alcohol.”
I groaned. Without drinks the rest of the evening was going to be unbearable. “You are going to pay for this, Vomit. Make no mistake.” I shuffled into the living room and flopped down into a chair.
If I’d thought things were bad, they hadn’t even started. My eyes widened in horror as Alice took a snakes-and-ladders board out of her bag and laid it on the table. I looked around desperately for a means of escape.
We all did quite well for a few moves before I landed on a snake. Alice smiled menacingly at me. “Ooh goodie. Take your jacket off.”
What? This could not be true – strip snakes-and-ladders? Vomit was looking daggers at me, and Alice was turning my way, her muscles bulging under her brown cardigan. Marc was just giggling – clearly he was going to be no help. I took my leather jacket off.
I swear those dice were rigged. In less than twenty minutes all that was standing between me and total nudity was my leather jeans – as usual I had nothing on under them - whereas the others were only down one item or so. I rolled the dice very carefully – and of course I landed on another fucking snake.
Throughout all of this Alice had been ogling my increasingly naked body over the top of her pink glasses and now she was positively gushing. “Bad luck, my boy. Off with those wonderfully tight jeans.”
For a boy who makes his living from his body, I was suddenly excruciatingly self-conscious. No way was I going to take my jeans off in front of Alice. I started to shake my head.
Large as she was, Alice could move like lightening. “Get him!” She, Vomit, and Marc all jumped on me, grinning like fiends. I’ll spare you the gory details, but basically Alice held me down while Marc raped me and Vomit took the photos. It is not an evening I wish to remember.
An interesting evening. The guy had asked me if he could wear his Star Wars costume. I said sure, no problem. He arrived with a large suitcase and spent a good half hour in the bathroom getting changed. I was impressed. It was one of those white storm trooper ones, and it looked brilliant – and, I have to say, dead sexy. I’d been expecting the usual hallowe’en-type printed cotton and cardboard sort of thing but this was the real deal.
His voice was a bit muffled from under the heavy mask, but the pride in it was unmistakeable. “It cost six hundred and ninety-nine pounds”, he said, “and ninety-nine pence.” I raised my eyebrows when he told me where he’d bought it: a high-end bondage and fetish shop. I hadn’t known they did this kind of thing.
Nice to have that much money to spend on something like that, I thought. Extremely carefully, I put leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles, and tied him to the bed. Then I looked down at him and frowned. He’d said that he wanted to be fucked and then milked, but there wasn’t a single square inch of his skin visible. I was going to have to remove bits to get at him at all.
I felt around underneath him – there seemed to be catches of some kind at the back but I couldn’t get to them. I unfastened him, turned him over so he was face down, and secured the cuffs again.
I looked at the catches. “Have you worn this suit before?”
“No”, came the reply. “Today’s the first time. Only got it yesterday.”
I could see that the catches holding it all together would have closed easily enough, but closer inspection revealed that they required some kind of small triangular key to unlock them. I’d seen the same kind of locks on that shop’s straitjackets and hoods. “Do you have the key with you?”
“Key? What key?”
We had a problem. I explained the situation to him. “I could get a small screwdriver and try to open them with that...”
“No way! This cost me seven hundred quid!”
Right. I thought for a moment. “Are you wearing anything underneath that?”
“No.”
Hmm…
“Well, I can’t get at your cock, but I can still make you cum.”
“Not in this suit!”
I’d had enough fucking about. “Ok, no problem. Don’t cum then.” I got the vibrator, and using a leather strap I secured it so that the business end was pressing against the shiny white bulge. Tied down to the bed like that, however he moved there was no way he could get away from it. I turned it on, sat back and watched.
Even through the rigid plastic, the vibrations got him in the end. It took much longer than it usually would have done, and for every one of those forty-five minutes he was yelling, swearing and struggling like fuck to stop himself from cumming in that expensive new suit..
I smiled. It was strangely satisfying to make a struggling storm trooper lose it.
I was banished from the house yesterday morning while Vomit got Christmas dinner ready. “Be back by two or your balls are history,” she’d said. “And listen. I’ve invited an old friend of the family. He’s a vicar so please try to behave yourself. He doesn’t know what you do for a living. Think you can do that?”
Oh god, another fun-filled afternoon loomed. Under a cloud of mounting depression, I went for a walk.
But then things took a turn for the better. I was leaning on the railings overlooking the river, watching the ducks swimming between the plastic bags when I felt the railing move as someone else leaned against it. I looked up. He was in his early fifties, greying hair but not at all bad looking. We smiled and nodded, then turned our attention to the ducks.
Thirty seconds passed.
“How much?” He asked.
“Fifty quid,” I said.
As we climbed the stairs he told me exactly, and in detail, what he wanted me to do to him. His bedroom was an Aladdin’s cave of equipment: ropes, cuffs, hoods, you name it. There were restraint points all over the place, and I made good use of them. Very soon I’d got him kneeling at the bottom of the bed, his ankles cuffed in place and his arms roped to the head end, and I was laying into his arse with assorted paddles from a handy dispenser he’d placed for my use.
His moans turned to yells, and then to screams so I looked around for a gag. I found a nice leather one and strapped it tightly onto him. The arse beating continued. I kept and eye on his cock, which I’d pulled back so it was pointing straight down, held in place by the end of the mattress, and it was hard and dripping, so I knew everything was Ok.
I spread-eagled him face up and blindfolded him. Then, as he’d suggested before we started, I made patterns on his bare skin by dripping hot wax from a candle. The closer I got to his cock and balls the more he got turned on. I got through a couple of candles, and by the time I was finished his genitals were completely covered with hard, white wax.
Now normally, before continuing, I would have removed the wax very carefully. But no, he wanted it beating off with a short cane. He struggled and yelled as I did it, but his cock sprang up, phoenix-like as the cracking wax released it.
Onto the fucking. Again, nothing was straightforward with this guy. The grey canvas straitjacket and hood looked like originals from some asylum, and they’d taken ages to strap onto him. His ankles were cuffed, wide apart, to chains attached to rings in the ceiling over the bed, and he had a spreader bar between his knees just to make sure. No less than six leather straps were holding his upper body down to the bed. This was all fine, but to my mind the bright orange tutu he’d insisted on wearing spoiled the effect.
I put a condom on, lubed it up and began to fuck him hard and fast.
Even as tightly restrained as that he managed to bounce around a lot – and I heard a running commentary coming from inside the hood. “ My arse hurts! My balls hurt! I can’t move! And I’m being fucked by Mr. Quelch!”
I frowned. Mr. Quelch? Who the hell was Mr. Quelch? I shook my head and continued to piston into him.
When I came he yelled, “Yes! Fuck me hard, Mr Quelch!”
This was weird, but I’d had weirder. As per my instructions, once I’d cum I gripped his cock under the orange tutu and brought him off quickly.
I hummed as I walked back towards our flat. It was one thirty and I was only ten minutes from home so I watched the ducks again, smiling. I had an unexpected fifty quid in my pocket.
“’Appy Crimble mate.”
I looked down. I have no idea why, but young boys seem to find me irresistible. I nodded at him. He had an angelic smile.
“Cor, are those jeans leather? They’re tight! Can I feel ‘em?”
“Yes they are, and no you bloody can’t. How old are you, thirteen?”
The little bastard stuck his tongue out, then punched me in the balls and ran off.
When I’d got my breath back I wandered back home. Vomit poked her head out of the kitchen, cigarette in the corner of her mouth. An inch and a half of ash was somehow defying the laws of physics by staying on the end of it. “Clear the table, then move your fucking rubbish off the chairs and wipe the spunk stains off the seats.” She disappeared back into the steam. I did as requested, then sat down.
A few minutes later the doorbell rang. Vomit, now sans apron and fag, came in. Behind her was the vicar, in a grey suit and clerical collar.
The moment he saw me his face went the colour of beetroot. There were still some marks around his nose from the hood, but at least you couldn’t see the remains of the wax or his glowing arse. And thankfully there was no sign of the tutu. I shook his hand, and winked at him.
A small figure appeared behind him. “I am not thirteen – I’m sixteen. Tell him, grandad!”
I blinked. It was the brat I’d met by the river. Sixteen, eh? Well in that case… He’d wanted to feel my leather jeans, so I would let him – I would sit on his face and gag him with them while I tickled the little bastard insane for a couple of hours. Punch me in the balls, would he?
The conversation at dinner was mainly boring - however, there was one highlight. Vomit speared a roast potato and turned to the vicar. “By the way, do you ever hear from your old Bishop these days, the one who retired - Mr Quelch?”
After the damp squib of bonfire night, I told Vomit that I was going to get the fireworks for New Year’s Eve. I’d met Jake Mad-Eye Davis in the pub and he’d said that he’d get me some ‘really good, fuck-off’ fireworks. I thought that would be good.
I probably should have been suspicious when I saw that the labels on them were stuck on with sticky tape and were hand-drawn, but hey-ho, a firework is a firework, yes?
No. There is now a crater in the back garden, a hole in the guttering, and a space where the shed used to be.
Gotta go – the nurse is here to change my dressings.
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