Denim jeans can have absolutely no effect at all on me, or can have me slobbering in lust, depending on how tight they are - the tighter they are, the less I can control myself. My ideal is a boy in thin, worn, faded or bleached or acid-wash stretch jeans; jeans that are sprayed-on, and show absolutely everything. Jeans that he can feel everything through, and worn with fuck-all on under them. I go weak at the knees and get an overpowering urge to punish the bastard for using jeans like that to cock-tease guys like me.
And I have a favourite way of punishing such boys...
I met him on a Saturday afternoon in Manchester - he was sitting on a canal wall eating an ice cream. I wasn't cruising, and I wasn't even horny: I'd just left a house from playing with a boy and was walking back to my bike. I'd cum about twenty minutes ago. When I saw him, though, it was as if I'd had some kind of a seizure: I stopped dead in my tracks - I literally froze to the spot. I could not take my eyes off him. I honestly couldn't tell you whether he was good-looking or not, or what he was wearing on the top half of his body (some kind of jacket, I think) but he had on a pair of faded jeans that must have been at least three sizes too small for him. It was as if someone had taken a paintbrush and a tin of faded denim paint - and carefully applied it to his legs, right down to the tops of the black DM boots he wore. When they'd got to his crotch, they'd placed a sheet of very thin, elastic rubber over his cock and balls, and then painted that. To finish, they'd taken a very small brush and painted the seams up the insides and outsides of his legs, in a slightly darker blue. Those jeans really were that tight. My heartbeat began to increase, my cock began to get hard, and I think I stopped breathing for a while. From the waist down, he was my ultimate wet dream.
He was looking down the street to his right and hadn't seen me yet. I managed to pull myself together enough to lean back against the wall opposite him and fumble in my pocket for a cigarette. It was as much as I could do to light it - my eyes just wouldn't obey my brain's commands - they were riveted to his jeans. By the time I'd succeeded in getting the thing alight, my cock was fully hard and he was looking at me. I had difficulty getting the lighter back into my pocket, and remember thinking I must have looked like some kind of prat, but he didn't seem to notice that. I managed to break my gaze away from his legs long enough to see his eyes travel up and down my body, taking in my bleach-blond hair, leather jacket and jeans, bike boots and the crash helmet I'd dumped on the pavement by my side, and what must have been the most obvious expression of pure animal lust on my face. Then he moved his legs - parted his knees slightly further - and my attention was instantly back on the hypnotically compelling sight of those skin-tight faded jeans.
He must have noticed this because my peripheral vision registered the fact that a slight smile had appeared on his face - or perhaps it was the flagpole of an erection which was making my leather jeans bulge obscenely that he hadn't failed to notice. Whatever it was, he was evidently in the mood to play with me for a bit - because he finished the ice cream, and wiped his hand slowly over his tight-jeaned thigh, just to the left of his cock-bulge. The bulge in question wasn't especially big, but it was deliciously separated from his body by the way the stretchy denim had worked its way into the crevices at the sides. Having wiped his hand, he rested it there for a moment and gazed at me. I'd hooked my thumbs into my studded belt and was unashamedly playing with my hard-on through the leather.
He slid off the wall, leaned back against it and stretched slowly and luxuriously - arms and legs in a spread-eagle position, and his pelvis thrust forward towards me. Then he stood up, gave his cock-bulge a squeeze with one hand, turned around and leant over the wall with his legs apart, looking at the canal. The view of his arse and thighs, in those skintight jeans, was driving me crazy. Even though I'm much more into cocks than arses, I had to admit that his was a stunningly sexy sight. Then I noticed his hand - it was between his body and the wall, and was pushing his bulge downwards. From where I stood I could see between his legs to the back of the denim-covered bulge as he pushed it down with the palm of his hand, curled his fingers around underneath and slowly stroked the back of his balls. The sight of his fingers sliding teasingly over the thin denim, framed as they were by the back of his skin-tight jeaned thighs and arse, was driving me crazy.
After a while he jumped up, turned back around and sat on the wall again. He looked at me for a moment, then his eyes dropped to my own bulging crotch and, staring at it, he started to squeeze his cock bulge teasingly. As I watched, the shape of the bulge began to change. It had been fairly round, but gradually it became more pointed slightly to one side at the top. This pointedness continued to increase as the cock underneath got harder and harder. The denim stretched to accommodate the growing erection beneath, until he was fully hard. By this time the boy's faded, thin jeans were stretched to bursting point.
I couldn't take any more - I was almost visibly drooling. With a supreme effort to break the spell I was under, I pushed myself away from the wall, picked up my helmet and went over to him. He jumped off the wall as I approached and, looking back to make sure I was following, led the way to an abandoned warehouse a little further down the street. We picked our way through rubble and into a side room. It was clearly a place he used regularly, as there was an old mattress on the floor in one corner, along with a couple of ropes, some condoms, a pair of socks, and other bits and pieces.
Without speaking, he began to unfasten his jeans - but I stopped him. "Leave those on for a minute", I said, smiling. I reached over and got the ropes, and told him to turn around. He said he wasn't into heavy pain, and I said that's ok, and that I wasn't either. He let me tie his wrists together behind his back, and then I pushed him face down onto the mattress. I knelt over him, bent his knees and, pulling his feet back all the way, used the rope to hogtie him tightly. Then I pushed him over onto his side so he was facing away from me. He looked good enough to eat - but I had other plans for him. Now that he was helpless, I bent down and whispered into his ear, "do you know what happens to guys who use skin-tight, sexy jeans to prick-tease me with?" He started to say something but I clamped my hand over his mouth and answered my own question for him. "I punish them. Do you know how I do that?" He shook his head, now obviously worried at what I might be planning to do to him. "I make them cum in their jeans. I milk them through the thin denim so that they shoot their spunk into their jeans and everyone can see that they've shot their load."
I took my hand away from his mouth. "Oh come on," he said, relieved that I wasn't intending to hurt him, but not at all keen on the idea. "Don't do that - I ain't got nothing on under these and it'll soak 'em."
I smiled. "I know." I reached down and stroked the hard outline of his cock gently. It jerked in response under the tight denim.
Suddenly he thrust himself away from me. "Fuck off! I thought you wanted some proper sex, mate. I don't want just wanking off - let's do something good. Get your dick out and fuck the arse off of me."
My fingers found his cock bulge again and continued to stroke and tease it. "But that's not what I'm gonna do. What I'm gonna do, is make you cum in your jeans, boy."
Again he moved away from my hand. "These are the only jeans I've got with me. What the fuck am I gonna look like with spunk running down me leg?"
"You're gonna look like you've cum in your jeans," I replied, smiling. “But there’s a simple solution: don’t cum.”
"FUCK OFF YOU TOSSER! Let me up. You ain't gonna wank me off in my fucking jeans. I ain't cum for two fucking days and I ain't gonna fucking waste it like this." He tried to get up but it's not easy when you're hogtied. "I ain't gonna fucking cum so untie me and fucking piss off you wanker!"
I moved towards him again and this time forced my hand between the tops of his thighs from behind, and cupped the smooth, round bulge of his denim-clad balls in my fingers. I began to stroke them lightly - hardly touching the denim. However he moved, he couldn't get away from me now, and so I was free to continue working on his cock with my other hand. I stroked up and down the length of it - tickling and teasing it and getting him started on the road towards helpless orgasm.
As he felt himself getting turned on, as he felt my fingertips stroking and teasing over every inch of his bulging cock and balls, he realized that I could in fact make him cum whether he wanted to or not. When he realized this, he started to struggle in earnest. He tried to kick, he tried to to roll over, he tried to get his increasingly horny cock away from my hands in any way he could - but the nice thing about hogtying a boy is that although he's not actually tied down to anything solid, he's got no way to push against anything – particularly if you tie his knees together, which I had - so he just can't move enough to do himself any good. He was making a lot of noise, though - swearing, threatening and even spitting at me - so I looked round for something to gag him with. There was a pair of socks - presumably his - down by the foot of the mattress, so I rolled one up, took the spare rope, and applied myself to getting the sock into his mouth. He saw it coming and clamped his mouth shut. With a sigh, I held his head, squeezed his nostrils closed and waited for him to run out of breath. The moment he opened his mouth I forced the sock in and, having sustained only one bite, got the rope wrapped around his head and between his teeth. I knotted it tightly behind his head.
Now that his shouting and swearing was reduced to a manageable level, I went back to concentrating on those sexy tight jeans. In spite of all of his protesting and struggling, his cock was not only every bit as hard as it had been, but it was also beginning to ooze precum: A small spot of glistening dark blue denim marked the tip of his cock. For a few seconds I knelt back and just looked at him. Although he hadn't known that skin-tight jeans are just about the most intense fetish I've got, he had intentionally used them to turn me on, to get me interested, and to prick-tease me mercilessly. Now it was payback time. Here, lying helpless and horny in front of me, was one of my ultimate sex-objects - a boy in sprayed-on, skin-tight, sexy, bulging, faded jeans - and I was about to make him cum in them. This was as close to heaven as it's possible for me to get. I whispered in in ear, "I'm gonna make you cum, boy. I'm gonna make you cum in those cock-teasing, tight jeans. Struggle as much as you want but I've got you. You're helpless, horny, and I'm gonna make sure you can't stop yourself from shooting your spunk into those jeans." This was as much to turn myself on as anything else. I forced my hand back through between his smooth, tight, faded thighs and onto his balls, and began tickling them while I teased his cock again with the other hand. I let him move about as much as he wanted (or was able to).
As my fingers got him closer and closer, his struggles became more and more urgent. He wasn't capable of much in the way of movement, but he did everything he could - he tried to kick, rolled from side to side. I didn't hold him down, but I kept my hands on his cock and balls from any angle I could - always tickling, teasing and stroking. The patch of pre-cum was getting larger by the second, and I knew he was close now - so I went in for the kill. I gripped the bulging shaft of his cock between my fingers, and slid them up and down the length of it - making sure to give the end of his cock a good rubbing each time, as I knew that it would be work on that sensitive cock-head that would drive him over the edge. He'd taxied to the end of the runway, his engines were revving, and I felt him begin the urgent and unstoppable charge towards lift-off. I tickled his balls, gripped his cock-head firmly and slid the tight, precum-lubricated, stretchy faded denim up and down over his sensitive glans with sadistic gentleness. I could feel his cock warm and rigid through the thin, stretchy jeans, my thumb rubbing over the frenulum with each teasingly slow stroke. Even though his knees were tied together I suddenly felt his muscles flex as he clamped them even tighter, squeezing my hand between them. He arched his back, and with a gagged scream of impotent fury, he came. I continued to milk him, sliding over the spunk which was pumping out of his cock with such force that some of it it was going straight through the thin denim and spreading over the surface in a slippery film under my fingers. The rest of his load, trapped inside his tight jeans, ran down the shaft of his cock, over his balls, down the inside of his thighs, and began to soak into the denim, turning it a dark, wet blue. By the time he was done, his entire crotch and the top of his left thigh was glistening with his spunk. My fingers slowed as he subsided, but continued to move over his jerking cock for perhaps thirty seconds before I took pity and removed them. He lay exhausted on the mattress.
I'd been on the edge of cumming myself since I'd started to work on him, and now I couldn't hold out any longer. I unzipped my leather jeans, and with a few quick strokes brought myself off over him. I carefully aimed my cock so that my spunk landed on his crotch in thick gobs. When I'd finished, I zipped myself up, and carefully rubbed my spunk around so that it soaked the largest area of his jeans as possible. I stood, and looked down at him: the boy lay there looking up at me - a dark, glistening patch over the crotch of his light blue, faded jeans making it obvious to anyone who saw it what had happened. I smiled.
I bent down and unfastened the rope holding the gag, and he spat the sock out. The he looked at me and grinned a bit. "Fucking shit mate - I thought that was gonna be a waste of spunk. I feel like I been raped." He closed his eyes and smiled happily. "Hmmmmm," he groaned. I grinned back, and undid the rope holding his wrists and ankles together. I picked up my helmet and looked at him.
"Next time you prick-tease a biker with those sexy tight jeans, you know what to expect."
He laughed. "I got some tighter ones at home", he said.
I was getting thoroughly pissed off with this skinhead. He'd been emailing me for weeks, and to be honest I wasn't interested. He'd sent me a small, blurry face-pic and he looked like a real thug: squat face with a nose that seemed to have been broken at some time in the past, a no.1 crop, and a sneer. I had no problem with that - that was ok - but his emails had been one-liners, of the "HEY FUCKER IM A FUCKIN SKINHEAD CAN YOU HANDLE ME?" type. No matter how many times I asked him to tell me about himself and what he was into, all I got was "HEY FUCKER YOUR A BIKER IM A FUCKING SKINHEAD WANNA MEET YA" or similar. This didn't seem to be getting anywhere, so in the end I told him I wasn't interested.
I didn't hear from him again for a couple of weeks, and then I got a susprisingly long email from him, as follows (he appeared to have got the hang of the Caps Lock key this time):
Hey Fucker. Read your website about skinheads and you say they cream their fuckin jeans for bikers. This one dont mate. This skinhead is one hot hard and horny fucker. My names ROB and I wanna meet you you cunt to prove I don't fuckin cum for the likes of you. You like tight jeans do you? Well I'll rub yourface in this horny skinheads jeans, fucker. You will fuckin die when you see these jeans fucker. hahaha it'll be YOU who shoots your fuckin spunk when you see my fuckin hard cock strechin this SKIN-TITE denim over my dick. You have NEVER fuckin seen jeans as tite as my bleachers fucker. You can tie me up and do what you fuckin want and there is NO FUCKIN WAY Im gonna cum for a fuckin leather biker. Skinheads rule fucker. You handle me?
I'll be honest, by the time I'd finished reading this I'd got a stonking hard on. Then I noticed that there was a picture attached. It was a full-length shot of him: he was stood with his hands on his hips, head thrust forward, looking straight into the camera. Attitude oozed from the screen. He was wearing a white teeshirt, high DMs, braces, and the sexiest, tightest bleached jeans I'd seen for a long long time. He still looked like a thug, but fuck was he sexy!
I replied to him that same evening, using a slightly more confrontational attitude than I had done in my earlier emails to him. I told him that I had better things to do than piss around with wankers like him; I repeated what I'd said on my website: that skinheads can't stop themselves from shooting their fucking load for a biker; and that if he thought otherwise, I would be only too pleased to prove it to him. I added that it would take so little time, that if he wanted to do it he'd better make it early one evening so that I'd have time for proper session with a biker afterwards.
I'd wanted to make him mad, and it worked. I got a reply in capital letters that was verging on apoplectic - I could almost hear him hitting the keys as he'd typed it. If you took out all the 'fuck's, 'fucker's, and ’cunt’s, there weren't many words left. The few that were left, however, made it quite plain that he would present himself at a time of my choosing, allow me to tie him up in any way I wanted, and do to him whatever I thought necessary to make him cum - and that I could work on him all night if I wanted to - there was no way that a 'FUCKING SCOOTER BOY' like me was going to make him shoot.
I grinned to myself - this might be fun after all.
He was actually a lot smaller in the flesh than he'd looked in the photo. At about 5'7", he had a wiry, hard little body - no bulging pecs by any means, but solid, firm muscle. And he looked even more like a thug in real life.
I took him into the blackroom, sat in the chair, and gazed at him for a moment. He was as ugly as sin, but he was sexy. He was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket over a tight white tee shirt. His jeans were skintight, and the fly zip curved over a very interesting round bulge, which the tight denim was squeezing against his right thigh.
He sneered at me, his hands thrust into the pockets of his leather jacket. "What you looking at, fucker?" He said.
"You," I said. "You're a horny little bastard. Take your jacket and tee shirt off."
He removed his jacket, pulled his braces over his shoulders, struggled out of the tight tee shirt, and put his braces back into position.
"Ok, come here."
I watched that bulge pressing against his thigh, moving slightly up and down as he walked towards me. It was beautiful.
I stood up and got the leather wrist restraints off the wall hook. When he saw them he thrust his arms towards me arrogantly, inviting me to strap them on. I did so - then put another pair around his DMs. I positioned him between the two upright posts and fastened his wrists and ankles to the restraint points (I had to use extra pear-clips on the wrist cuffs because he was so short).
"Right you little bastard, you wearing anything under those jeans?"
"What if I fucking am? Eh?"
I blindfolded him temporarily, then unzipped his jeans and pulled them down. Taking a pair of bandage scissors, I cut off his white underpants and pulled them out from between his thighs. His soft cock sprang free.
"Hey what the fuck you doin? Fuck off you cunt!"
But it was too late. I put his cock and balls back inside his jeans - intentionally placing them on the wrong side, against his left thigh, and carefully zipped him up again. Then I removed his blindfold, walked back a few paces, and turned around so I was facing him. I put my thumbs in the front pockets of my jeans and allowed my fingertips to run slowly along the black leather over my hard cock. "So, I'm a biker, and you're a skinhead."
"Fuckin right."
"... and skinheads don't cum for bikers. Is that right?"
"Fuckin right again, you fucker."
I smiled under my leather mask. "Well I'll tell you what, skinhead. I'm gonna make you fucking cum, boy. I'm gonna work on your cock, tease your balls, tickle your thighs, play with your tits - I'm going to milk you, boy. And you are going to lose control and shoot your spunk into those jeans – for a biker. You will leave here with your jeans soaking with both skinhead spunk, and biker spunk."
He spat at me, but I dodged it easily. "Fuck you, you tosser. You ain't gonna make me fuckin shoot, pansy boy."
"When was the last time you came?"
"Wouldn't you like to fucking know." He sneered at me again.
I walked around the posts and stood close behind him, my leather jacket brushing his bare back. Carefully I placed my index fingers on his sides, just below his bottom ribs. I had a hunch that this little bastard, with his slim, hard body, was as ticklish as fuck. I waited for a few seconds, then suddenly jabbed my fingers in and moved them around as he collapsed, hanging from his wrists, and struggling and yelling like crazy. "FUCK! FUCK! YOU FUCKER!! PISS OF YOU CUNT!!"
I whispered close to his ear, "I asked you a question, skinhead. When was the last time you came?" My fingers were still in position, and I pressed slightly...
"FUCK YOU! ALL RIGHT! DON'T DO THAT AGAIN!"
"When...?"
"Today. Before I fucking came here. All right you fucker?"
Smiling, I released him. As I unfastened his restraints, I noticed that his cock was no longer completely soft - but whether it was from the tickling, or feeling me behind him, or the restraints, or something else completely - I didn't know. I had originally thought of spread-eagling him tightly, face-up on the examination table - but then I changed my mind. I love to see boys struggling, and I wanted to give him a lot more opportunity to do that if he wanted. So I took him into the spare bedroom next door, and cuffed his hands to the middle of the top of the bed on a short chain. I thought that having that no other restraints - apart from possibly a hood a bit later on - would be interesting.
I decided to begin with the vibrator, to get his cock nice and hard. That thing is fiendish - I have yet to meet a boy on whom it has no effect at all, and it will bring most lads to the point of orgasm in very short order. It's one of the few things that I can't resist myself. I plugged it in and sat astride the skinhead's knees to hold him down for the time being; the struggling could come later.
Now that I'd removed his underpants, the only thing between his cock and the business end of the vibrator was one thin layer of tight, bleached denim. I aimed the device - and then, staring into his eyes - I touched it very lightly to the head of his cock and held it there. For about two seconds there was no response - and then he began to hum: a long, single low note which turned into a groan, and after that a strangled gasp. He frowned, screwed up his eyes, and bit his lip. It was blindingly obvious that he was fighting getting a hard on - and losing.
I removed the vibrator and looked down. The bulge was now considerably larger than it had been, and the shape of his almost fully-erect cock was very clearly visible under the thin, well-worn jeans. I carefully worked his cock down his thigh, so that it was straining against its natural tendency to point upwards - I knew that this would both make it more sensitive, and also cause it to bulge outwards more, making it increasingly vulnerable to the vibrator. The fact that I'd put his cock back on the wrong side would also make him much more conscious of it and give him the feeling that he was being controlled.
I used the vibrator on him again, repeatedly sliding the disc along his shaft and over his cock-head, right to the tip. Each time it slid off the end, he gasped and closed his eyes. This skinhead was beginning to get horny.
After a while I put the vibrator away and got off his knees. Now it was time for some hand work.
All through this, he had made surprisingly little noise: apart from the moans and gasps brought on by the vibrator, he'd just been sort-of muttering quietly under his breath most of the time (there were lots of 'fucks' and 'fuckers' again). - I'd also noticed that his eyes had been glued to my crotch practically all of the time. I thought I'd give him a better view.
I knelt astride his head, gripping him with my knees - my feet flat against the wall - and played with my cock through my leather jeans, I squeezed it, moved it up and down, ran my fingertips over it, and teased the head. I could see him watching every movement of my fingers. I leaned forward and grabbed his cock, squeezing the shaft. As I gripped it, I felt it jerk under my fingers, and he started to swear at me.
"You fucker. You think you can make a fucking skinhead cum? No fucking biker does that, you cunt. Fuck OFF!" With that he threw his body to the side, dislodging me in the process. I slid off the bed. His movements were limited by the fact that his wrists were still securely fastened to the top of the bed, and he wasn't going anywhere. He'd ended up curled into a ball, lying on his left-hand side. I got up, and dived onto him, getting one hand onto his cock. I started to wank him, but he moved again, turning face down on the bed. I thrust my hand between his legs and gripped his cock again, continuing to wank him. He squeezed his thighs together but couldn't do much in that position, so I pulled out and let him move once more.
For the next ten minutes or so I played cat-and-mouse with him, running my fingers teasingly over his legs and thighs, always trying to get to his cock to wank him more - but he watched my intentions carefully and parried my movements, swearing and cursing and calling me a fucking cunt.
I was enjoying this immensely, but the whole thing was much too fair. I picked up the hood and pulled it down over his head, stifling his curses and blindfolding him. Now he couldn't see where my hands were. Better.
Whatever position he got himself into, I followed, teasing and tickling his tight-jeaned legs and thighs all the time. It was a lot easier now that the leather over his eyes made it impossible for him to defend himself - and whenever an opportunity presented itself, I got my fingers on his cock and carried on the wanking, working mostly on the cock-head. My hands were all over him - he couldn't get away from them. I got him from unexpected angles and unpredictable directions, tickling his balls, legs and inner thighs, and always - always - homing in on his hard, precum-dripping cock and milking him through his tight, bleached jeans.
I was in total heaven. My own spunk had been demanding release for a long time, but I wanted to continue playing with this sexy skinhead for a bit longer yet.
I could have held him down, gripped his cock through his jeans and probably made the bastard cum whenever I wanted to - but I loved this teasing - I loved watching him struggling and trying to get away. The hornier he got the more he swore and cursed me - he now realized that this biker could , in fact, make him cum, and that he was going to have to fight with everything he'd got to stop me. Trouble was, he couldn't see, couldn't move enough to get away, he was as horny as fuck, and getting closer to losing it by the second. It was obvious he was turned on by leather, and being restrained, and even the hood seemed to be getting to him: he kept sucking the leather into his mouth and biting it.
Eventually he ended up on his knees, his head resting on his hands, and his arse stuck up in the air towards me. I jumped onto his lower legs to keep him in that position, pushed his knees further apart, then very slowly reached between his thighs, and gently gripped the head of his cock. I scraped my fingernails over the bulging, thin denim, teasing the sensitive head, then - after a pause - I gripped it fully and began to milk him hard and fast. Instantly he forced his knees together, rolled over onto his side and tried to get my hand out by curling up into a ball. But this time I was ready for him. My hand stayed exactly where it was, and I continued to milk him. There was no way he could get his cock away from my hand this time. Plus, his curled-up position made the denim of his tight jeans slightly looser over his crotch, and it was easier to wank him off. As I moved my hand, the bleached jeans slid up and down his shaft, and the rough denim scratched over the end of his cock-head.
I knew he was about to cum, so I pulled his head against my chest, clamping my free hand over his mouth, pressing the black leather tight across his face and cutting off his air. I whispered into his ear, "I've fucking got you, boy. I'm a fucking biker, and I'm gonna make you cum, skinhead. Go on – stop me, boy - stop yourself cumming if you can. But you're nearly cumming now, aren't ya? Gonna make you cum, boy. This biker's gonna fucking milk you. You're a skinhead and you're gonna cream your fucking jeans for a biker, boy. There is fuck all you can do to stop yourself. I have fucking GOT you..."
His swearing had been getting progressively louder and more obscene - and then, with a scream of rage, he began to cum. My hand was pumping his cock, and as he started to cum, it began to jerk around so much that I almost lost my grip of it. I could feel the hot spunk erupting from his cock head, making his skintight, sexy jeans wet, slimy and slippery, and his body convulsed in the throes of orgasm.
I didn’t slow down at all as he finished cumming - I continued to wank him, and even when he was spent, I didn't stop - I wanted him to be in no doubt whatsoever that he'd been fucking milked by a biker. I continued to rub his now hypersensitive cock – especially the head, watching his struggling and swearing. I was loving every second of it. I kept that up for a minute or so, then rolled him over so that he was lying on his back, and removed his hood. I stood over him, my booted feet astride his calves, unzipped my leather jeans and got my cock out. There was a dark blue, wet patch of cum on the right-hand side of the crotch of his skintight bleached jeans, which was still spreading as I watched. With a few rapid strokes I was on the edge of cumming. I held myself there for a moment, looking at the exhausted skinhead, his face a picture of defeat. His braces had come off his shoulders and were twisted around his waist, and those blue-and-white bleached jeans clung to his legs and thighs like a second skin. The bulge at his crotch was prominent under the spunk-shiny denim, his cock lying heavily along his thigh. Taking careful aim, I brought myself off, and showered white spunk down on his jeans. The first big four gobs landed squarely on the centre and right-hand side of his crotch, and the others fell in a curved line down his leg, the last few splashing wetly on his knee. The spunk slowly soaked into the denim, the pearly globules changing to dark blue splotches as I watched.
I got off the bed, wiped myself down, and zipped up. Then I lay down on top of him, with my weight pressing him down into the bed, and stared into his face - my masked eyes inches from his. "So tell me, boy," I sneered at him, "do skinheads cum for scooter boys ?"
"You fucker," he said. But he was smiling.
I chuckled, thinking about him making his way home on the bus. Anyone seeing those jeans was going to know exactly what the stains were.
And I had a feeling he was proud of them.
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