Since the very first day I started on the internet I have never shown my face. This is not because I’m ugly (I’m not – I’m drop-dead gorgeous...) but because it turns me on like fuck that my victims can never see my face, don’t know what I look like or who this masked leather pervert is who’s working on them. Anonymity (at least my own anonymity) is a fetish with me. It also has the advantage that for all a victim knows, I am his perfect ideal under the leather mask. It’s worked well for a long time. In the days before I was top, it also worked well...
I signed in, and pushed open the swinging doors into the main room of the club. As always, it was very dark, and it took my eyes a while to adjust. I bought a couple of cans of coke from the bar, opened one and, carrying my black Simpson crash helmet, walked slowly up the long room towards the far end. I hadn't been to the 'Backstreet' for a few months, but the place was just as I remembered it - it never seemed to change (which was one reason why I liked it so much) - boots were still hanging from the ceiling; the cage was still there; and so were the large black oil-drums, behind which guys lurked. I was heading for the opposite side of the room to them - the narrow seats which ran along the wall, and which were separated every so often by partitions. I sat in my usual place, a few spaces down from the end wall. I put my helmet on the lower step of the long seats, between my feet, and the coke cans down behind a steel pipe so I could get them easily but where they wouldn't get knocked over, and adjusted my leather mask.
I'd got some interested looks from guys who'd been lounging about as I'd walked up the room, but I wasn't exactly cruising tonight - at least not in the usual way. I was wearing what I always wore to Backstreet: Fieldsheer leather bike boots with steel shin plates; a sleeveless black leather jacket, a rubber cap-sleeved tee shirt which showed off the tattoo on my biceps; bullet belt, and skin-tight, shiny, black, stretch PVC jeans with nothing underneath. Most of the other guys were in leather - a few were in cammos or denim jeans, and some in rubber - but it was unusual to see anyone else in PVC.
Tonight I was on vacation from being a Top. But I wasn't intending to be your usual kind of bottom. I went to Backstreet whenever I was in London - to do one thing, and one thing only. I checked the time - it was almost midnight and the place was filling up nicely. It was time to do it.
I put my crash helmet on my knees, reached into a pocket and took out a blindfold. Unlike most, this one wasn’t black leather – it was grey. I’d chosen it so that it would be more obvious in Backstreet’s extremely dim lighting that I was blindfolded. After double checking where I'd put the drinks, I pulled it on over the leather mask, and put my Simpson lid on over that. Instantly, now that I couldn't see anything, my world contracted to the space immediately surrounding my body. The crash helmet changed the quality of sounds too. I became more aware of the music that was playing, of the low buzz of conversations going on in the room, of the movements of the wooden seat as guys knocked against it, sat on it or got off it. But most of all, I was conscious of the very thin, smooth, shiny black jeans that were clinging to my legs and thighs, cupping my balls, and stretching over the slowly growing bulge of my cock. I knew that I’d be able to feel the very lightest touch through them – that’s why I’d worn them.
Very slowly and lightly, I ran my fingertips across my knees, and then up the insides of my thighs, right up to my balls. It made my legs tingle. Then over the shaft of my cock and onto the sensitive head, teasing it gently - hardly touching - in small circles right on the tip of the glans. This, as always, made my cock jerk to attention, and I could feel the stretchy PVC rearranging itself to accommodate the growing cock underneath. Although I couldn't see it, I could feel that now it was making a really three-dimensional, roundly-pointed bulge between my thighs. I lingered on the tip of it for a while, then continued lightly stroking my legs – right down to the tops of my bike boots - thighs, balls and cock slowly through the skintight jeans.
There were three reasons why I was doing this: first, a very light touch through those thin jeans feels incredibly horny - and I was enjoying the feeling intensely; secondly to prick-tease anybody who might be watching and who might be interested; and thirdly to show them exactly what I wanted them to do to me - and how.
What I really wanted was to be played with lightly and teasingly by a guy in leather or rubber - and with a really light touch – until I couldn’t stop myself from cumming in my jeans however hard I tried. My leather jacket was zipped three-quarters of the way up to dissuade guys from playing with my nipples (I hate that), and the bullet belt was low on my hips - apart from looking sexy and pushing my bulge out more – it made it difficult for them to unzip my jeans, which I didn't want; for me, tonight, it was all about the gear.
After a few minutes, I jumped as I felt unseen hands roughly push my knees apart, as someone stood between them. A heavy hand squeezed my crotch hard, making me wince, and the other hand thrust down my jacket and onto my nipple, twisting. I grabbed the hands, gently but firmly removed them, shook my head a couple of times and said, 'thanks'.
A little later, I felt the seat rock slightly as a guy sat down on my left, beside me. For a while nothing happened, and I continued to run my fingers over my jeans - and then I felt the guy's hand gently stroke the outside of my left thigh. His touch was good, and I had high hopes that this may be the one. Slowly, I reached to the left and felt his leg. Loose denim jeans. I sighed in disappointment - although I couldn't see anything, it was important to me that whoever brought me off was in leather or rubber (or absolutely skin-tight denim jeans). I enjoyed his touching and stroking for a while - but then thanked him, and gently removed his hand.
You may think what I was looking for was far too specific - and you have a point - but it is something that turns me on very much, and I was determined to hold out for a while in the hope of getting the right one. It's a bit like fishing, I suppose...
There were several more I had to decline over the course of the next half hour or so, and I was beginning to think I wasn't going to have any luck - and then it happened. One of the things that makes me very horny is having my legs together - for some reason when they're very wide apart it doesn't feel quite so sexy. Most guys came and stood in front of me, facing me, and pushed my knees apart - but not this one. He must have been watching me for some time, and noticed that I kept squeezing my thighs together, especially when my hand was between them (it’s a reflex I don’t have much control over as it feels so horny), and that when I did this my cock jerked more when I touched it through the jeans. Anyway, I was sitting there with my knees slightly apart. The first thing I felt wasn't the usual hand on my thigh - it was a single fingertip, very lightly tickling my balls. Reflexively I closed my knees together and sighed with pleasure as my thighs closed tightly around a hand. He didn't try to part my knees again immediately, but just continued tickling my balls with his finger - lightly and very slowly. I reached out and felt a naked, muscular arm - so far so good - and followed it to his shoulder, down his body – a rubber tee shirt - and onto..... tight rubber codpiece jeans! YEAH!!! I played with his rapidly-hardening cock through the stretchy rubber sheath, in the same way that I desperately wanted him to play with mine - lightly, teasingly, and working mostly on the very tip. After a couple of minutes, he gently took my wrist and put it behind my back, against the wall - and then did the same with the other one. I didn't need telling twice – as far as I was concerned they were now locked there.
I had no idea who this guy was – whether he was a top or not - but whoever he was he would make an amazingly good one. He had read my perfectly. He played with me and teased me in exactly the ways that turn me on most - stroking my thighs, including the sides and backs, tickling my balls lightly, getting his finger right into the creases at the sides of them, and teasing the very tip of my cock. He let me open or close my legs as I wished, and took advantage of whatever position they were in: if they were apart, he tickled my balls and perineum; when I closed my thighs together he ran his fingertips lightly over the outsides or forced his hand flat between them and squeezed gently. This was fucking perfect.
I was getting very close to cumming, and so I tried to resist – to move my cock away from his fingers. He noticed this, and guessed correctly that struggling against it was something that turned me on like fuck.
I felt him lean towards me. “Don’t cum, sexy biker. I’ll take you home to my playroom, strap you down and play with you all night. But only if you don’t cum now...” The thought of that, of being really restrained in proper facilities while he worked on me like this was something I wanted very, very much indeed. Oh fuck did I want that.
He continued to tease just the very tip of my cock, stroking it lightly with a fingertip and occasionally scratching a fingernail over it (that made me almost pass out with pleasure), following my movements so I couldn't get away from him. The closer I got the more I tried to resist - and the gentler and lighter his touch became.
I’d decided that not only were my wrists restrained behind my back, but also that I couldn’t move my booted feet an inch. This didn’t leave me much scope for struggling, but I moved my hips as much as I could to escape his hands.
The fingers of his free hand were now running all over my jeans, but he never stopped - relentlessly and very very gently - rubbing the tip of my cock. Then, he leaned close to me again and whispered, "Fight it. Fight it, boy. Don’t... let... yourself... cum...”
I had no idea what this guy looked like, and he had no idea what I looked like. For him, I was an anonymous biker who clearly had a major fetish for the sexy gear I was wearing, and who could be controlled very easily through it. For me, he was a sexy guy in rubber jeans, who was trying to make me lose control and cum.
My hands were behind my back, I was blindfolded, and being very slowly teased in skintight shiny black PVC jeans, right on single spot that was my biggest weakness: the very tip of my cock-head, by a guy in tight rubber jeans, who I knew was determined to make me lose it, and whom I couldn’t fucking see. I was actually in no restraints at all and yet I felt very helpless, and very controlled. It was too much. Every one of my buttons was being pushed hard.
Suddenly he forced his other hand flat between the tops of my thighs, just under my balls, while using a fingernail to scratch continuously over the tip of my cock through the skintight, sensitive PVC. That did it. I couldn’t hold it – I was helpless to stop it: I threw my head back and gasped. My cock bucked under his fingers as I shot my spunk uncontrollably into my jeans.
He continued gently working on my cock head until I’d completely finished cumming, then he leaned close again. “Too bad. You lose.” Then he was gone.
I do love going to Backstreet. It's a very strange thing to do in a club, perhaps, but it’s something that turns me on like you wouldn’t believe. I don't get down to London very often, so I only get the chance to do it now and again. For me, it makes a very nice change from being a Top :-)
The meeting had been arranged for 7pm, and it was now 6.58. I pulled into the lay-by, switched off my lights, and killed the engine. Apart from the ticking of the cylinder block as its temperature began to drop in the cold November air, there was silence. This was a fairly quiet road, and the traffic was light.
Although it was a cold night, I was as warm as toast; I had a loose black leather motorcycle oversuit on over my usual full bike leathers. I felt warm, protected, and very horny.
At precisely 7 o'clock I heard a motorcycle approaching. The light appeared, and the rider pulled in alongside me. Without speaking, he nodded his recognition, and rode off. I kicked the bike engine to life again, and followed him. In the brief time he'd been alongside me, I'd seen a pair of eyes under a black balaclava, through the visor of his silver Arai lid, and a totally black leather-clad body. He looked very sexy.
When we'd first started to correspond, he'd refused to send me a picture of him, or to tell me anything about himself at all. Then he'd written asking me to get hold of a cassette recorder, and to tell him - on the tape - all the things that turned me on. I'd written a list, and spoken it onto the cassette for him, then mailed it to him at the accommodation address which was the only one he'd let me have. I thought he probably liked to listen to things like this while he wanked.
We rode for a while, and he led me along side roads, eventually pulling to a stop at what I assumed must be his house. Once inside, I removed the oversuit. He put my Simpson helmet on a chair, then showed me a steel ladder fixed to the wall, and going down to a dark, unlit cellar. He blindfolded me, then guided me down the ladder. At the bottom I felt a hard - possibly concrete - floor beneath my booted feet, and from the acoustics I guessed the room was large - stone or brick.
Pushing me against a wall, he attached cuffs to my hands and feet, and spread-eagled me against it. After a few moments - and unexpectedly - my blindfold was pulled off. I squinted - there was a brilliantly bright spotlight shining directly into my face, and the room seemed to be half-full of mist. I could hear a quiet hissing sound coming from somewhere – presumably a machine that was producing the fog.
He allowed me to look around. I was securely fastened to a bare brick wall, and in the blinding glare of the bright light, all I could see was motes of dust floating in the fog in front of me. I couldn't see him, or the rest of the cellar room at all. I stared out into a surreal, light-filled but unknown space.
Suddenly, he stepped part of the way into the light beam. His shadow was three-dimensional: reaching out towards me through the fog, the edges swaying with his every movement. He was a totally black silhouette, with light radiating around him - sinister, unseen. Slowly he approached me, and when he got near enough I could see by the light reflecting back off me and the wall behind me, that he had something in his leather-gloved hands. He still had the silver crash-helmet on, and his eyes were pools of white against the black balaclava. It was turning me on like fuck that I was being prevented from seeing his face, of knowing what he looked like, who this leather biker was. I needed to see his face – but I couldn’t.
He was holding a leather hood like I had never seen before. It was big, thick, and heavy, totally covered with metal studs, and with sinister-looking black leather straps hanging from it. There was also a thin electric cable dangling from the back, which I didn't like the look of one bit. He still hadn't uttered a word - and in silence, he reached up and, despite my struggling to avoid it, got the thing over my head. Once more I was plunged into absolute blackness. I felt the straps being fastened - one over my eyes, another over my mouth, a third under my chin and over the top of my head, and a final one around my neck. I could breathe only through the small holes under my nose - apart from that I was encased totally in thick black leather. My head felt strange every time I moved it, very heavy.
I could hear absolutely nothing (which increased my feeling of helplessness and vulnerability more than I'd have thought), but I felt him take the electric cable at the back of the hood and plug it into something. I was getting seriously worried at this point, but I was inescapably restrained to the wall, and couldn't stop him doing whatever he wanted to me. This was frightening, but also very horny: my cock was so hard that my leather jeans were straining with the pressure of it. I was sure that the bulge between my thighs must look amazing.
He left me to sweat for a while, and then I nearly jumped out of my skin as I heard a voice in my ears. There must be a pair of headphones built into the hood, and the cable must have been for them. Suddenly I realized that I recognised the voice - it was my own!
"I love not being able to see anything..."
The tape paused, and I felt his hands running over the hood, pressing it even tighter over my eyes.
"Being helpless," my voice continued (I could just hear the ticking of the clock in my living room), "Unable to escape, or to get away from someone's hands..." It was almost two months since I'd recorded this tape for him and I couldn't remember exactly what I'd said on it.
He put his arm around my waist and pulled me towards him. The cuffs dug into my wrists, making me very aware of my helplessness. I yelled as he kneed me in the balls – not hard, it didn't actually hurt - but the unexpectedness of it made me yelp, and being so vulnerable made me sweat. It brought home to me in no uncertain terms that there was nothing I could do to stop him even if he were an axe murderer - and I wouldn't even be able to see the blade coming towards me. God, did I feel helpless.
The tape resumed: "I love being tickled, hard and deep..."
Oh no. I began to sweat even more as I felt his fingers slowly unfastening my leather jacket. His hands undid the belt at the bottom of it, slid the zip down slowly, and pushed it apart. I consoled myself with the thought that very few guys really know how - or where - to tickle someone effectively, and that it would be all right.
"My most ticklish spots are my armpits, my knees, and just below the bottom ribs, at my sides. Having stiff fingers dug in there and moved around while pressing hard drives me mad and makes me want to cum. I can't stand it, but it is soooo horny..."
Oh for fuck's sake - go on, tell him everything, why don’t you? I screwed my face up under the mask and the hood in terrified anticipation as his fingertips sought out the exact spots. The bastard held them there, just stroking gently over my thin tee-shirt, for ages. I was holding my breath, expecting him to dig them in any moment. I was ready with a scream. But nothing happened. I felt his fingers begin to slide out again, and I relaxed.
Then, suddenly, they were back. They jabbed hard - right in the exact spots. He pushed his thumbs in and rolled them around in circles - and I did scream! Boy, did I scream. My whole body convulsed. I am incredibly ticklish at the best of times, but there - spread-eagled to the wall, unable to protect myself, not knowing what was going to happen to me, unable to see a fucking thing - I was a hundred times more susceptible to it than usual.
I begged him to stop, but he kept on and on and on. I writhed in the restraints, cursing the hood, swearing at him, pulling on the cuffs, trying to kick - but I was completely, totally helpless. I couldn't do a thing to stop him. It was pure torture and I didn't know how long it was going to continue.
Eventually he stopped - then did it again. This went on for what seemed like hours. His fingers went to every one of the spots I’d listed on the tape. They also explored my body and found a hell of a lot more. And when he found one he worked on it, and added it to the list for coming back to later. My sides, abs, stomach, ribs, armpits, knees, thighs – he found every fucking one. I did everything I could not to give them away but there was nothing I could do to stop my body from reacting violently to each one.
When he finally stopped, I was hanging from my wrists, panting, trying to get enough air through the small holes in the hood to satisfy my tortured and exhausted body.
After a time I recovered, and when I realized he was not going to do that any more, I was able to relax a little. My cock was even harder than it had been before, and I desperately needed to cum - although I can’t stand being tickled like that, the feeling of helplessness and the complete inability to control it or stop it are intensely horny things.
The leather of my jeans was wet and slippery from my precum, and slid over my cock-head with every little movement - but there was no way I could bring myself off, although I wanted to very badly indeed.
The tape resumed. "I’ve never tried breath control, but..."
Oh shit. OH FUCKING SHIT. No. Please - I can't... Suddenly I couldn't get any air. His hand was clamped over my mouth, covering the air holes and pushing my head back against the wall. I held my breath for as long as I could, and then I panicked, thrashing my head from side to side. He followed my movements with his hands, easily keeping the holes covered, and my lungs were desperate for air. Then he released me, and I gulped in fresh air as fast as I could - which was not fast enough by half. It took me a minute or two to get a grip of myself, by which time he had covered the holes again. This time, it must have been just with his fingertips, as his hand was not over my mouth. If anything this was even more frustrating, as it underlined just how easy it was for him to control me completely. I was on the point of blacking out by the time he took his fingers away. I hung from the restraints, my chest heaving.
There was a pause, and I wondered what the hell would happen to me next. I smelled rubber for a moment, and then felt a mask being held over my nose and mouth. Suddenly I was breathing some kind of gas - it reminded me of hospitals, and was not unpleasant at all. After a while he took the mask away, and I wondered what the gas was supposed to have done - and then my legs gave way and everything turned upside down. I hung from my wrists, and then I started to laugh. It wasn’t funny, but I couldn’t stop laughing. And I felt wonderful. There were fingers on my cock bulge, rubbing gently, and everything was all right with the world. I had never experienced Nitrous Oxide before.
The effects didn't last long, and I was soon standing on my feet again, and still desperately horny. The mask came back, and I smelled the familiar reek of poppers. I knew very well what that would do to me, and so I struggled against him - but he clamped my head still and kept the rubber mask over my face - I held my breath but eventually I had no choice but to breathe the fumes in. As I knew it would, my world became unreal, I could hear blood pounding in my head, and within seconds my level of horniness increased ten times. I desperately wanted to cum. Fingers were still teasing my cock bulge through the leather, running gently up and down the length of my cock shaft and over my balls.
Again the mask came back. I did everything I could to get away from it, but the biker was enjoying himself. He would allow me to wrench my head to one side away from the mask, and then press it against my hooded face and follow my movements, teasing me and forcing me to breathe it. Again and again he did this, and soon my head was swimming and my cock felt enormous - his fingers sliding over the leather made my need for orgasm intense.
The mask was removed, and the tape came back on again.
"I love being forced to cum in my leather jeans, and the spot to work on is the head of my cock..." said my own traitorous voice into my ears.
He gave me another huge hit of poppers, and I heard a loud buzz - even through the thick leather of the hood - and then I felt a vibrator on my cock. In a haze of popper-enhanced horniness, I just abandoned myself to my senses. I struggled, yelled, tried to get my cock away from the vibrator - but again the bastard followed every move I made, keeping the insistent, irresistible thing on my cock-head through my leather jeans, where he knew full well I would be helpless to fight it. I was fastened to the wall and I couldn't get out of the restraints; I couldn't see a fucking thing through the black leather hood; I couldn't get away from the vibrator, and I was so horny I could scream.
I came. The vibrator extracted my spunk with cold, irresistible efficiency, in on one of the most intense orgasms I have ever had.
Afterwards, I think I passed out for a short while. At any rate I don't remember his removing the hood or releasing me from the wall. The next thing I knew I was lying at his feet, licking his bike boots. He hugged me to him, and I hugged his legs. "Oh fuck, thank you" I said. He was still wearing the balaclava with the silver crash helmet over it. I never saw his face, never knew who he was.
And that was brilliant.
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