It was a hot Saturday afternoon in the middle of July and the tarmac on the Fleur de Lys car park was shimmering in the heat. The bike club was having one of its occasional weekend rides - this one over to the Dingo Cafe up in the Yorkshire Dales. The Dingo was usually knee-deep in sexy bikers on a sunny weekend, and I was looking forward both to the ride and also to ogling a lot of leather hunks when we got there.
I’d arrived at the Fleur de Lys early – we wouldn’t be setting off for another half hour - but there were already eight or nine bikes in the car park. After chatting to a few of the others, I got myself a coffee from the pub and walked back to my bike.
A small, thin boy was sitting on the wall like a spare part, kicking his feet against the concrete - every inch a cheeky little brat, and clearly a wanna-be biker. His hair was mousey-brown, and all over the place - the parting it had once had was already a distant memory. His leather jacket was older than he was, with rips under the armpits, and it didn’t fit him very well (although he’d made an effort with chains and badges), but his jeans most certainly did. They were acid-wash, light blue with much darker seams running up the inside of his legs, and had small turn-ups at the bottom. And they were skin-tight. Now I have to admit that I’ve got a major – and I mean major – fetish for skintight, sprayed-on jeans; so much so, in fact, that they grab my attention no matter who they’re on (I’ve even found myself looking at women in jeans like that, before I realise it’s a woman, that is…) His trainers spoilt the whole effect though – boots would have been better – but he probably couldn’t afford any yet.
I leaned against the bike and sipped my coffee. Out of the corner of my eye I could see he was watching me. I had the sinking feeling that he was trying to pluck up the courage to speak to me.
“Nice bike,” he said at last. It came out as a sort of squeak. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and tried to look manly.
I sighed to myself. I really didn’t want to get into a conversation with him. I just nodded, my attention on the new arrivals. Chris was trying to do a wheelie in a space that was far too small. It would probably end in tears – it usually did.
There was a pause, then the boy asked, “does it go fast?”
I didn’t reply for a while, but then felt I had to answer him. “Fast enough. Hundred and sixty or so.”
“Wow!”
Hoping to discourage any further conversation, I turned away from him slightly and took out my cigarettes.
“Can I have one?”
I looked at him. He was grinning at me. There was a bulge, although it was small, but those jeans really were some of the tightest I’d ever seen; they were absolutely sprayed-on. I wondered how he’d got into them. “How old are you?” I asked.
“Eighteen.”
I snorted. “Yeah right.”
He looked down and sniffed. “Sixteen,” he said, quietly. “Last Monday.”
“You got ID?”
He reached into his back pocket and took out his card. He was indeed sixteen. I offered him the pack. He took one and I lit us both. His coughing fit lasted about half a minute.
For some reason giving him a cigarette had made me feel obliged to talk to him. “You going on the ride?”
He coughed again and shook his head. “Nah. I ain’t gotta bike.”
I nodded.
We smoked in silence for a few seconds. His eyes were on my bullet belt.
“Nice leathers,” he said.
I looked down at my jacket and jeans. They were shiny, tight and sexy. I wore them to show off everything I’d got to the best advantage. No harm in advertising, I always thought. I hooked a thumb over the bullet belt and rested my fingers on my - growing - cock-bulge. I frowned. Now why was that growing? This kid wasn’t my type, he was much too young; I liked big boys. He wasn’t cute - his nose was small and his eyes were too close together - and he clearly had zero experience in just about everything. But I realised that for some unaccountable reason he was turning me on like fuck. I put it down to those jeans.
He jumped down off the wall and put his hands on the handlebars, twisting the throttle and making ‘brumm brumm’ noises like a 10-year old. He leaned over the tank, looking at the speedo. His thigh brushed against my hand and an electric shock of pure lust coursed through me.
He straightened up and leant back against the bike, by the side of me, as if he owned the machine.
More bikes were arriving, and we’d be setting off shortly. I nodded to Chuck as he pulled into the car park, accompanied by the usual cloud of oily black smoke - he and his woman always turned up on a Harley that rattled like it had bricks in the gearbox. On impulse I turned to the boy. “You wanna come on the ride with me?”
He looked like he was going to cry. “I can’t. I gotta pick my sister up at two.”
“Another time then.” For some reason I felt a wave of disappointment.
“Shit yeah!”
Bike engines started, we put our helmets on, and rode out onto the street one after the other. The kid had jumped back onto the wall, and I left him looking enviously after us.
The following Saturday there was no bike run, but it was a nice day so I’d been riding round town anyway – I liked to play with the weekend traffic. As I rode past the Fleur de Lys I saw the kid again: he was there sitting on the wall. I pulled in next to him, switched the bike off, and raised my black visor. “Hi,” I said. “There’s no bike run today.” The car park was empty.
“I know. Nothing else to do.”
This was strange - I was starting to get hard again. I didn’t understand it – I wasn’t into boys like him. The words ‘whippersnapper’, ‘imp’, and ‘urchin’ came to mind. He picked his nose and flicked something green onto the tarmac.
I took my lid off and got my cigarettes out. “You want to be a biker when you grow up?” I flicked the lighter.
His face registered the put-down, but then it broke into a grin. “You bet.” He coughed again.
I leaned back against the bike, and looked at him. His heels were gently kicking the wall. I was trying not to look at his jeans, but it was difficult. They clung to his legs and thighs like a second skin - and I found that I desperately wanted to touch them. I also got the strange feeling that he was aware of this. I suddenly wanted to teach the little bugger that wearing sexy, cock-teasing jeans like that could get a boy into all kinds of trouble.
I asked him if he owned a crash helmet. He didn’t. I told him that if he was here at the same time tomorrow I’d bring a spare one and take him for a short spin. His face lit up like his birthday and Christmas had both come at once.
It was clear he’d never been on a bike before: he didn’t know what to do with his hands and he was leaning in all the wrong directions. After five minutes of dangerous wobbling that had taken us alarmingly close to a No 24 bus I stopped the bike at the kerb and turned so I could talk to him. “Ok, your hands. Put your arms round my waist. Good. A bit lower.” His wrists were resting on my thighs now, his hands hovering self-consciously above my crotch. “That’s good. Now relax your hands.” They made contact with my bulge and stayed there. “Keep them there. No need to hold on tight, you’re not going to fall off. Now, leaning. Don’t lean at all – neither into a corner nor the other way. Imagine you’re a sack of potatoes. Just let the bike take you with it. Ok?”
He nodded enthusiastically, but I knew he had no idea what I was talking about. Suddenly I had a thought. I ferreted in my pocket. Yes! The thin leather blindfold was still there, folded in half, from a very interesting meet last week. “Take the helmet off for a minute.”
I blindfolded him, then fastened the lid back up. “Now you won’t be able to see corners coming, so you won’t be tempted to lean. We’ll keep that on for a few minutes until you get the idea.”
His fingers had gone up to the blindfold, feeling it. “Put your hands back around me.” At least he remembered where to put them, and my cock jerked as his fingers touched my bulge. He must have felt that, but he didn’t say anything.
We set off again and things were much better. Unable to see where the bike was going he had no option but to let it take him, and that was excellent. He was so small and light that I could hardly feel him on the back. Blindfolded, he was a perfect pillion.
After a couple of minutes I was conscious of something pressing into my lower back – the boy was getting a hard on! His thighs gripped me tightly, and I noticed that his bare wrists kept stroking over the leather of my jeans. And whenever we went over a bump in the road his fingers would move a little bit more than necessary over my crotch. I smiled to myself. The kid was getting horny.
I stopped again and took his blindfold off. I was slightly surprised that he hadn’t asked me why I was carrying one in my leather jacket – perhaps he imagined that all bikers did…
We rode out of the city and into the countryside. I took us down some tiny, twisty lanes, and also some faster roads and a short bit of motorway, to give him an idea of how it felt at different speeds. He learned quickly. By the time we’d got back into town he was riding very well.
I turned my head and shouted, “Do you have to get back?”
I felt him shake his head. “No!”
“Ok.” I rode home and parked the bike in the garage. We went into the house and I made us cups of tea.
He sat opposite me, smiling slightly. I gazed at him; his ears stuck out alarmingly and his hair was in dire need of attention – it was all over the place. His leather jacket was tatty, and dotted with badges with thin chains running between some of them. He hooked both thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and slid down the chair with his feet crossed at the ankles. I couldn’t take my eyes off his thighs and legs – I had to stop my fingers from stroking the mug I was holding – those jeans were one of the sexiest sights I’d seen for ages.
“So, you wanna learn about being a biker?”
His eyes lit up. “Oh yeah!”
“Ok,” I said. There are moments when you know that the universe is poised to split into two. In one of them I would talk about bikes, about riding, about joining a club, about lots of things like that. We’d drink our tea, I’d take him back to the Fleur, and that would be that. Safe.
But the other universe looked much more interesting. “You wearing underpants?” I asked.
He looked a bit surprised at the question, then nodded. “Yeah, why?”
“Proper bikers go commando.”
Listen, I was the teacher here so I could make up whatever rules I wanted, Ok?
“Get rid of them. The bathroom’s upstairs.”
He hesitated for a second, then jumped up and went up the stairs two at a time. While he was doing that I sorted through my bike boots and found an old pair I didn’t use any more because they were too small. They’d still be a bit big for him, but they might do. A few minutes later he was back, holding his underpants. I took them from him and put them on the floor. The knowledge that there was now nothing between his cock and those skintight, sexy jeans made my heart rate increase.
“Here, try these on.” I handed him the boots. He pulled them on and fastened the straps up. They seemed to fit him ok and they looked a lot better over his jeans than the trainers had done. “You can have those – they’re too small for me.”
His eyes went wide. “Wow! Thanks!” He stomped about, admiring them and kicking imaginary cats. He looked at his pants on the floor, and then at me. “Why commando?” He asked.
Sometimes you have to make up bullshit quickly. “You can feel what the bike’s doing better, so you have better control.” He didn’t look altogether convinced. I smiled. “Also, it feels good. And it looks good.” I stretched my legs out so that my bulge was more obvious.
He nodded. “It feels strange. Sort of sexy.” His eyes were wide and riveted to my bulge.
I nodded. “If you come over here, I’ll show you.”
I sat him on my knees. Where previously there had been no bulge between his legs at all, now there was a very clear outline of a young and hard cock. I ran a single fingertip slowly and very lightly up and down the length of it through his jeans.
“Oh fuuuuuck...”
“See?”
He nodded. “Oh yeah. Do that again. Please.”
I smiled, but ignored the request for the moment. I rested my hand on his thigh. “Now tell me, why do you wear skintight jeans like that?”
He thought for a moment. “Because they look good.”
“You mean because they look sexy,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“And why do you want to look sexy?”
He didn’t say anything, so I answered for him. “To make people want to touch you... play with you…” I ran my fingertip up the inside of his thigh and onto his balls. I tickled them.
He clamped his legs together and fell off my knee, shrieking with laughter. I followed him onto the floor, where he was curled up into a tight ball, still laughing hysterically, shaking his head, and trying to protect himself. Kneeling over him, I tickled him all over – but especially on his legs and thighs. After a while I worked my hand between the top of his thigh and his stomach until I found his cock bulge, and gripped it. His hands clawed at my arm, trying to get it out. My breath was ragged as I worked on him. “If you wear sexy jeans like that you’re gonna get your cock raped in them...” As my fingers slid over his cock-head, he came in his jeans.
I sat back in the chair again, leaving him panting on the floor, a wet patch of boy-cum spreading over his crotch. Doing that to him had very nearly made me cum myself.
“Not fair!” He said, pouting, but grinning from ear to ear at the same time.
“I know.” I replied, sipping my tea. “You cum far too easily. We ‘re going to have to do something about that. If you’re gonna be a biker you’re gonna have to learn to control that cock.”
There was a look of absolutle devilment on his face as he lay there looking up at me. “And you think you can teach me that, do you?”
One corner of my mouth lifted. “Oh yes,” I said. I put my tea down. “Come with me.” I stood up and took him upstairs.
I pushed him onto the bed and stood looking down at him. There was something about the kid that I found cock-hardeningly sexy, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. He had a permanently cheeky look on his face - he was the kind of kid you just knew had dirty knees and a frog in his pocket.
I knelt on the bed, astride his hips. Shit – his cock was hard again. Oh to be sixteen, I thought.
Although I hardly ever used them because there was a much better-equipped play space in the next room, the bed here had restraint points at its four corners, and there was a central ring set into the wall at the head end. I kept some restraints – mainly old leather cuffs that had been superceded by better ones – in the bedside drawers, and I got a couple of them out now. They weren’t all that strong, but they would hold a small teenage boy helpless with no trouble. I leaned forward and strapped the cuffs onto his wrists, then clipped them to the ring above his head. I pulled him down until his arms were fairly straight. His legs were bent, his booted feet flat on the bed.
I got off him and sat on the bed by his side. He looked deliciously inviting: vulnerable, but cocky. As I gazed at the kid lying there, his wrists restrained, I realised I felt more horny than I’d done for ages. I just wanted to rape the little bastard. He had a lopsided grin on his face, as if he were challenging me in some way. He was hard again and clearly loving every second of this.
“Ok,” I said. “Now listen. I am going to try to make you cum again. I’m going to do it slowly, so that you can fight it. There’s only one thing that you have to remember: you must not let me make you cum. Do everything you can to stop yourself from cumming. Do you understand?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah.”
I counted to ten, then I launched myself at him. One hand went onto his cock bulge, the other between his legs from underneath and onto his balls. He clamped his knees together again and threw himself to the side, away from me, giggling. I lost his cock-bulge, but my other hand was trapped between his thighs and he couldn’t get it out. I tickled his balls with the fingers.
He was grinning and laughing in ticklishness and pulling himself up the bed, trying to get away from my invading hand, but I knew he couldn’t. I could easily have held him immobile, or pulled him down again, but I wanted him to be able to struggle, so I just followed him up the bed. With my fingers I could feel the bulge of his cock above his balls, so I pushed my hand further in between his thighs and began to stroke the shaft of his cock with my fingertips through the spunk-damp denim.
He was yelling fit to bust, so I gagged him with my free hand, pulling his head back against my shoulder. His eyes were wide above my fingers. My other hand, buried deep in the warmth between his thighs, continued to stroke along the shaft of his cock – I was avoiding the head for the moment as I didn’t want to make him cum yet.
But he came anyway. His body shuddered and his legs jerked as his spunk shot out helplessly into his jeans, joing the first lot.
I carried on working on his cock until his orgasm was over, then took my hands off him. He was grinning again. He closed his eyes and moaned, “oh fuck yeahhh...”
I released him from the cuffs and hugged him. He buried his face in my leather jacket. I sighed. “No control,” I said. “No control at all.” I stroked his hair. “You enjoy that?” I asked.
“Mmmm….” he purred. He raised his head and looked at me. “But you won’t do it next time. I’ll fucking stop you!”
I chuckled and shook my head slowly. “I don’t think so. I can make you cum any time I want.”
“Go on then, try again!”
I was sorely tempted. But I looked at the clock – it was getting late. “Gonna have to take you back. How you gonna explain your spunky jeans?”
“Don’t have to. Mum’s always out – she’s on the game - and my sister’s round at aunt Flo’s. And I’ve got two more pairs of jeans like this - ” An impish smile spread across his face, “ - and they’re even tighter...”
I pushed his head back into my jacket and grinned to myself.
“When’s the next lesson?” He asked into the leather.
I needed to be able to work on the boy with more precision. That meant no jeans. I wanted to edge him. The kid had almost certainly never been edged before – I doubt if he’d ever even heard of it – and I’d never edged a sex-mad sixteen year-old boy before. Judging by the speed with which he’d cum those first two times, I would have to be very careful. Very careful indeed. But the thought of teaching him just how urgently it was possible to make a boy need orgasm, was turning me on like fuck. Boys of that age never think about the possibility of needing to cum very badly indeed but not being able to; if they want to cum, they cum. Period. I intended to give this kid a real wake-up call.
I took him upstairs – not to the bedroom, but to the next door along.
“Now, what’s inside this room might surprise you. But you’ll like it, I think.” I opened the door and we went into the playroom.
The playroom is quite impressive – even to someone who’s used to dungeons. To a completely inexperienced, young teenage boy, it must be like something out of a medieval horror movie. The kid stared open-mouthed as he looked around. At the black rubber floor and walls, the bondage table; the vertical posts with the hoist between them; the cell in the corner; the A-frame, edging table, mummification board and hospital gurney; the dentist chair; and the shelves full of restraints, hoods, blindfolds and gags.
“Fucking hell...” he said. “What do you do in here?”
I went over to the shelf by the leather recliner chair and got some cuffs, then I told him to strip. He took his gear off and stood naked, self-conscious, with his hands hiding his erect cock. I pushed them to the side. “Believe me, I’m going to be seeing a lot of your cock, so there’s no need to be shy.” I turned him around, cuffed his wrists behind his back, and then cuffed his ankles together. I sat down on the recliner. “Over my knees.”
As he bent over me I guided his cock and balls between my leather-jeaned thighs and closed my legs together around them, trapping him there. “Comfortable?”
“No.”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
“Do I know what a rhetorical question is…?” He said in a strange voice.
“What?”
He laughed. “Something Homer said in the ‘Simpsons’.”
“Oh. Right.” Reaching under my thighs I found his cock – about half of it was sticking out - and started to tease it very lightly with my fingers. His little bum was round, the cheeks moving as he tried to thrust his cock into my hand. “It’s no use trying to fuck my hand – I can control you perfectly like this.” To make the point I gave his cock-head one slightly firmer rub, then took my hand away.
He grunted angrily, pushing his hips down against my jeans. I knew that the feel of the leather around his cock and balls would probably be turning him on (it would me in his position). “Bastard,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Nothing. Didn’t say a word.”
“Good”. My fingertips were now just teasing his balls. “Tell me - what do you do when you need to cum?” I asked.
“Wank.”
“But what if you can’t?”
“What do you mean? I can always have a wank.”
“Could you have a wank now?”
He was silent for a moment. “No, but I don’t need to cum now. Well, I do, but not badly.”
“Oh, you will,” I chuckled. “You will...”
I resumed teasing his cock, keeping my touch very light indeed, my movements very slow. The feel of him moving against my legs was beautiful – in fact the feel of having a horny teenage boy in that position was surprisingly nice. I was not far from cumming myself.
He was struggling now, as his need for orgasm increased. I was being very careful indeed not to let him cum, and every time I stopped working on his cock he howled in frustration.
On an impulse I took a feather from the shelf. I clamped it between my teeth for a moment while I parted the cheeks of his arse with both hands, then held them that way with fingers and thumb. I took the feather and started to tickle the rim of his exposed arsehole. He went ballistic. He giggled and laughed and squirmed over my knees as the feather teased the unbelievably sensitive spot that had undoubtedly never been touched like that before.
“Oh fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!”
I targeted the very centre of the little hole with the pointed end of the feather. This brought more yells of ticklish lust from him. He was learning a lot about his body, I thought.
“Please make me cum!” He wailed. My cock jerked in my jeans.
This was good, but it wasn’t an ideal position to edge him. I opened my thighs. “Get up.”
I moved back in the leather chair, and sat him between my legs, facing the same way as I was. His cuffed hands were touching my bulge. I pulled him back gently so that he was resting against my jacket and I could see over his shoulder. This was better. I picked up a couple of feathers and stroked the tip of one of them gently down the shaft of his cock. It jerked at the touch. “I’m going to make you need to cum more urgently than you ever thought was possible. And when you’re going out of your mind because you need to wank so badly, I’m going to make you need to cum even more.” The feather teased and caressed. His cock was as hard as iron, and he was already fairly close. I worked on the base of the shaft, staying well away from the head.
He moaned as the feather stroked lightly over his cock. As time went on and the stimulus built up, his moans became louder and louder. “Let me cum, you bastard!”
I removed the feather completely.
“Noooooo!”
After allowing a few moments for the frustration to engulf him completely, I went back to working on his cock shaft, and used the second feather on his balls at the same time. At first he screamed in ticklishness, but the noises very soon became moans of lust, and then of need. I felt his fingers behind his back working on my cock through my leather jeans. He was by no means an expert but it still felt amazing.
He was already far too close to cumming, so I stopped and let him cool down for a while. Then I resumed the feathering, this time including his cock-head. I could only do it for a couple of seconds at a time or he would have cum. Very quickly I got the measure of him and it wasn’t difficult to keep him close to the edge. I kept taking him to the brink and then stopping just before he could cum. Every time I did this he wailed and struggled – I had to clamp my legs over his to keep him still – he squeezed my cock hard and did everything he possibly could to make himself cum. But of course he couldn’t. This was something totally outside of his experience – he had never before needed to cum and not been able to do so. And not only was that the case now, but the fiend of a biker behind him was intentionally making his torment as unbearable as possible.
All the while I kept whispering to him. About how bikers can control their cocks. How, if he wanted to be a biker, he must learn to do that. I kept telling him not to get horny enough to need to cum. To think of other things – things that weren’t sexy. But the soft points of the feathers stroking over his balls, up and down the shaft and over his cock-head were, as intended, making it impossible for him to think about anything other than cumming.
By the time I’d been working on him for half an hour he was crying with the need to cum. I stopped and let him rest.
I resumed stroking his cock with the feather. Instantly he was desperate to cum again. After a while I asked him, “do you want to cum?”
“Oh fuck! YES! PLEEEEEASE!” It was a long, draw-out wail of need.
“Good. Time to practise your self-control, then.”
I took his cock between my thumb and two fingers, gripped it very lightly, and stroked them slowly up and down over the cock-head. “Fight it. Forget that a biker’s got you helpless and is wanking you off. Don’t cum...”
He moaned at my words. His body was tense; he was trying as hard as he could. Suddenly I gagged him with my leather-gloved hand, and at the same time gripped his cock a little harder and wanked him fast, closing my thumb and fingers over the tip of the head with each stroke. As I’d intended, it made him cum instantly. Hot teenage boy-spunk jetted out of his cock, lubricating my fingers, which glided over the now-slippery head, milking him irresistibly. His scream of pure ecstasy was muffled by my gloved hand over his mouth.
When he’d finished cumming I sat back in the chair. “Do you think you had better control then?”
“No. You bastard.” There was cheekiness in his voice. “You made fucking sure I couldn’t stop myself from cumming.”
“Yep. You have to learn that I can make you lose it whenever I want – however hard you fight it. And there’s fuck-all you can do to stop me.”
He grunted angrily. “Next time it won’t be so easy. You’ll see.”
I ruffled his hair. “I think you deserve a reward.” I unfastened his cuffs, then took him next door into the bedroom. I lay down on the bed and opened my arms. “Do whatever you want.”
He dived onto me, his hands going everywhere. This was the first time he’d been free to do what he wanted to me. He felt my leather jacket, licked it, ran his fingers over my bullet belt, then moved down to my jeans and buried his face in my crotch. His cock left milky trails on my shiny black leather legs. He used his hands, teeth and lips on my bulging cock and before I knew it I was cumming in my jeans.
“Ha!” He shouted gleefully. “I made you cum! Thought bikers were supposed to have good control!”
I pulled him up and put my arms around him. He felt very small. “I came because I wanted to.”
“Yeah, course you did...” He did a good line in sarcasm.
I chuckled. “Next time I think we’ll have to explore leather a bit more.”
“Now?”
“No, not now. I have things to do.”
This boy was insatiable.
There was a club ride that Saturday, and the kid was coming with me. Kid. I realised I didn’t even know his name yet; it had somehow never come up.
It was another beautiful summer day, and about fifteen bikes set off in a long procession through the city streets and out into the countryside. Once clear of town we opened the machines up and settled down to a fast but sustainable pace. Many of the others stayed in convoy, but some – including us – separated from the pack. The kid was riding well behind me; I could hardly feel him. His hands rested on my crotch, and before long the hardness of his young cock was digging into my back. His fingers began to move on my bulge, and I got an erection quickly. He stroked and squeezed, ran his fingertips over the leather on the tops and insides of my thighs, and tickled my balls. He was a quick learner. I felt him lean forward. “Don’t cum,” he shouted over the wind noise.
His fingers had found my cock head. They squeezed and rubbed it. I willed myself not to lose it – but he got me when his other hand burrowed between the tops of my thighs. My spunk pumped out into my leather jeans. I heard him shout behind me: “Ha!”
By the time we got to the biker cafe in Sherburn-in-Elmet the little bastard had made me cum twice. As we got off the bike I felt cold spunk squelching in my jeans. “You are going to suffer for that,” I said. “You made me cum twice.”
He laughed. “Four times. We’ve got the ride back yet...”
We sat on the grass in the hot sunshine, smoking and drinking cans of coke. There were sexy bikers all around us, but the kid’s attention was completely on me. He picked a blade of grass and tickled my nose with it. “Gerroff,” I said. He waited for a couple of minutes, until I was lying back with my eyes closed, and did it again. “You know,” I said to him, batting the grass away, “there are things I can do to a horny boy that will make you very sorry. Very sorry indeed...”
He turned so that his feet were towards me, put his arms behind him, raised his knees, and lay back on the grass as if he were hogtied. He slowly parted and closed his knees. Each time he opened his legs I could see his hard cock moving under the tight denim of his jeans.
“Stop that!”, I hissed. “People will see!” I was getting hard just looking at him.
“I don’t care. I want to be tied up again. I want you to rape my cock. Or try. I’ll stop you next time. No way you will make me cum. You’ll see.”
“As if. I will milk every last drop of spunk out of your balls, boy. I will milk you so dry you will never be able to cum again.”
He straightened his legs. This made his erection even more obvious. “Go on… Feel my cock through these tight jeans. Rub the end. Try to make me cum, Biker.”
This was too much. I rolled him over onto his stomach to hide his erection from passing bikers. “Come on, we’re going home. And when we get home I am going to deal with you big time, boy.” I got up and pulled him to his feet. We got onto the bike and set off in the hot sunshine.
I had to keep pushing his hands away from my crotch on the way back. I’m twenty-seven, not sixteen - and unlike him, I need a minute or two to recover. But he didn’t give up; his fingertips stroked over the outsides of my hips, my arse, and then the outsides of my thighs. I was getting horny. Soon his hands were back on my cock bulge and he was trying to make me cum again.
We were passing a forest on our right. I saw a small road going into the wood and turned the bike onto it. I parked at the end of the track, got off and, grabbing his arms, frogmarched him into the darkness between the trees.
Still with our helmets on I pushed him to the ground, sat on him and - ignoring his laughing, struggling protests - gripped his bulging cock and, with half a dozen fast and efficient strokes, made him cum in his jeans. But I didn’t let him up. I waited for a minute, and did it again. The next time I had to wait a bit longer, but I milked him for the third time in less than ten minutes. His crotch was running with his spunk.
I got off him and he sat up, grinning. “There,” I said, “Let that be a lesson to you.”
The little bastard stuck his tongue out and looked down. He was hard again.
I sighed and shook my head. We got back on the bike and rode home. I was expecting him to try to make me cum again, but he didn’t – instead he just teased me very lightly with his fingertips. I thought maybe he’d had enough for one day. But he told me later it was because he wanted me to be horny when we got back…
“What’s that?” He was looking at the thing I was holding in my hand.
“It’s a leather hood.”
“What’s it for?”
“It’s for punishing naughty boys like you.” I said ominously. I turned it round slowly so he could see it. “I’m going to strap it tight over your head so that you can’t see a fucking thing. You won’t know what’s happening, what I’m going to do to you – and you won’t see it coming. It’ll make you very helpless, very vulnerable, and it’ll make you very, very horny...”
The kid sniffed. “No it won’t.”
He was spreadeagled between the vertical posts. I turned the hood round, opened it, and brought it down over his head. It was basically just a bag-hood, but with straps that could pull the black leather tighter across the eyes and mouth, and another at the neck which could be used to control how easy it was for the victim to breathe in it. I tightened the straps, apart from the neck one, as far as they would go.
I guessed it was the first time the kid had ever had been hooded, and although I didn’t want to freak him out, I did want him to feel helpless and intimidated. I knew the shiny black leather clinging to his face, and pressing tight over his eyes and mouth would feel very sexy, but it’s easy to get claustrophobic in a hood if you’re not used to them, and I didn’t want that.
Not only did he not panic, but he breathed in deeply, actually making the leather cling more. And I could see it moving over his mouth – he was licking it! I tightened the neck strap another two notches.
Standing in front of him, I put my arms around him and hugged him. His hard cock was between my thighs. I wanted to squeeze it between them, but I didn’t, as I was certain that would make him cum. Instead I put the thin leather cop-gloves on and ran my hands over his naked body. I stroked him all over – not trying to tickle him, but just to give him pleasure. He was moving sensuously in the restraints and purring inside the hood.
But this wasn’t showing him how vulnerable he was. I stood back, out of contact with him, waited a few seconds, then suddenly jabbed stiff fingers into his sides. His whole body jerked, and he screamed into the hood.
“No! No! Please! Don’t tickle me!” His words were muffled through the leather.
I did it again, then wiggled my fingers in his armpits. I squeezed the muscles of his legs just above the knees, and ran a fingertip lightly across the back of his knee, then between his toes. I did it all unpredictably, so he coulndn’t steel himself against it. Every now and again I gave his cock a light stroke, my intention being to keep it hard. I needn’t have worried – it had been as hard as a rock all the time. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember ever having seen it soft. He was yelling and throwing himself around in the restraints, trying to get away from my hands.
I stood behind him, pressing my leathers against his bare skin, then put my arms around his thin waist and crossed them over his stomach. This allowed me to position my fingers over his sides, just above his hip bones. I gripped the sides of his chest with my elbows, holding him still. He was whimpering and moving his body uneasily, acutely aware that two of his most unbearably ticklish spots were directly under my fingertips, and that at any time I could dig them in…
I leaned close to his ear and whispered. “You have been a naughty boy. It’s dangerous to make a biker cum while he’s steering a bike on the road. We could have ended up in the ditch. Now, tell me – what happens to naughty boys?”
He just whimpered. I prompted an answer with a sudden but gentle increase of pressure on his sides.
“Ah! No! Please!”
I repeated the question. “What happens to naughty boys?”
“They get punished.”
“They get punished.” I dug my stiff fingers into his sides and moved them in small circles. His body convulsed and he screamed into the hood. I followed his movements – he was hanging from the wrist cuffs now - tickling him mercilessly for a few seconds, and then stopped. Teenage boys are wonderfully ticklish. I waited until he’d straightened up again. “So, now you know one way that bad boys get punished. Don’t do it again.” I suddenly had second thoughts about this, remembering how exquisite it had felt as his fingers were milking me from behind through my leather jeans. “At least not when we’re going fast. Ok?”
He knew very well that I’d loved it. He blew a raspberry into the hood. I dug my fingers into his sides again.
“Yes! Ok! I’m sorry!” He yelled.
Like fuck he was sorry. I removed my hands and hugged him. “Your punishment isn’t over yet. I’m going to get part two ready now.” I left him there and started moving equipment about noisily in the playroom, perfectly aware that he couldn’t see what I was doing and that the sounds would make him desperate to know. This was good. I pulled out the restraint horse and organised the straps, then released him from the posts and bent him over it. With his arms and legs secured to the device’s legs, he was totally helpless. His cock was pointing downwards between his spread thighs and pressing against the padded surface of the horse. Precum glistened on the tip. His little round bum stuck up, unprotected and vulnerable. I stood at the side of it and raised my leather-gloved hand.
I said: “Say after me:” And then very clearly and rhythmically, “I Must Not Mis-Be-Have When I Am Out With You.” I put equal and distinct emphasis on each part. As he repeated the words I spanked his bum with my open hand once on each syllable. I didn’t do it hard, but that wasn’t necessary – I had no intention of causing him pain, just of making the lesson sink in. At the first spank he yelled – more in surprise than anything else, but then when he realised I wasn’t going to hurt him, he recited the words like a good boy.
“Again.”
“Again.”
Even though I was putting very little force into the strokes, his bum was distinctly red by the time I’d finished. I leaned against him and stroked his hooded head. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
He said something but it was muffled by the leather over his face. I guessed it was probably just as well I hadn’t heard it. I looked at his cock – it was, of course, rock-hard, and the precum was now dripping slowly off the end. I touched a fingertip to the frenulum and rubbed it lightly. He moaned. I didn’t stop – and seconds later he was convulsing in the restraints as my fingertip made him cum, and gobs of spunk were running down the side of the horse.
I released him and gently lowered him onto the floor pad, then unfastened his hood. He blinked in the light, looked at me, and stuck his tongue out.
I laughed – I couldn’t stop myself – he was impossible. I grabbed him and kissed him, pushing his tongue back in with mine. He responded as if he’d been waiting for me to do that for ever: he crushed me to him, closed his eyes and kissed me back with teenage passion.
I realised at that moment that I was getting very hooked on this kid. Very hooked indeed.
I still don’t know what his name is. He’s ‘Kid’ to me, and I’m ‘Biker’ to him. That seems to be enough for both of us. We’re addicted to each other – I can’t get enough of him and nor can he of me.
I take him for rides on the bike. I tickle him, edge him, fuck him. I spank him (he really loves that), I tie him up, strap him down, hood him, put him in a straitjacket. I suck him off. I kiss him and cuddle him. But what he loves most of all is when I rape his cock – make him cum in his jeans while he’s struggling like fuck trying to stop me. He really gets off on that.
He makes me laugh - and he makes me cum far, far too often. He can not get enough of all of this. He’s still just a little brat, but he knows exactly how to get what he wants. He knows he can get me horny with nothing more than a look, or by making his permanently-hard cock jerk under his tight, sexy jeans – and then I’m helpless to stop myself from taking him up to the playroom and indulging my wildest fantasies on him. And those fantasies are exactly and precisely what he wants himself. It’s uncanny. It’s the best sex I’ve ever had with anybody.
He’s a lot more experienced now, but he still looks like a waif with a frog in his pocket.
He’s not my type. I like big boys.
But I’m his Biker, and he’s my Kid.