The Telemachus Story Archive

Life in a Box
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



Life in a Box

I hadn’t been in the attic for ages. I’ve always found it very difficult to throw things away, and I put stuff up there in case I might ever want it again. Ninety percent of it is rubbish and I really should go through it and chuck most of it out, but I never do. I’d gone up there looking for some videotapes – I’d bought a VHS player from the market for ten quid on Saturday and I fancied watching some of the old tapes again.

I found them in a cardboard box on top of the wooden chest. God, I hadn’t seen that chest for years. I smiled: there were some memories in there. I lifted the cassettes onto the floor, opened the chest and looked in. My sexual life stared back at me. I didn’t have anything do to for the afternoon, so I pulled up a box and sat down.


The first thing I came to in the chest was a black-and-white photograph; I picked it up. It showed the corner of a church. A stone buttress stuck out at right angles to the church wall, forming a dark recess behind it. I’d taken the photo on one of my visits to my home town years ago, but the significant event had happened long before that; I must have been about ten or eleven years old.

I was excited. It was late November and this was the very first time I’d been allowed to go to the cinema on my own. The film I was off to see was Disney’s “Bambi” - I’d seen it before but I loved it. With enough coins in my pocket for my ticket and an ice cream I set off. The route to the picture house took me through the churchyard and past that corner of the church. It was quarter past seven in the evening and it was very dark. There was a single street light mounted high up on the corner of the infants’ school opposite the buttresses, but this only intensified the darkness in their shadow. As I walked past the church corner I heard a sound behind me. Before I could turn around a leather-gloved hand clamped over my mouth and another over my eyes, gagging and blindfolding me. I almost shit myself. I thought I was about to get beaten up, my money taken. But whoever it was didn’t do anything else; he simply held me there immobile.

After a while I tried to speak. The hand over my mouth loosened its grip a little so that I could get words out. “Please don’t hurt me. I’m going to the pictures.” I knew that if I saw who it was who had got me I would be in worse trouble. “Please let me go. I promise I’ll run away and I won’t look back.” The hands stayed there for a few seconds, then released me. I took off like a rocket, and as I’d promised I didn’t look back.

The film was well into its second half before I began to calm down, but even then I couldn’t concentrate on it. I knew I’d been incredibly lucky – I hadn’t been hurt, and my money hadn’t been taken. On the way home I paused by the buttress, staring into the black shadows, but there was nobody there. I hadn’t expected there to be.

For the next few days I thought about little else but what had happened. Very gradually the memory lost some of its scary qualities and took on a kind of intense fascination. The feel of those leather-gloved hands over my mouth and my eyes; being held helpless… I had a kind of nebulous feeling that I’d wanted it to lead to something more, but at that age I had no idea what that might have been. I was eleven years old, I’d lived my life so far in a small country town and I knew absolutely nothing about sex, fetish or anything else. But for a very long time I couldn’t get that encounter out of my mind, and that corner of the church continued to fascinate me deeply – I got a strange and exciting feeling every time I went past it.

I held the photo and gazed at it. To this day I still thought about that evening occasionally; I wondered who it had been standing there; why he had done it. That was the first brush – however indirect and free of sex – I’d ever had with any kind of bondage, leather, or power play. Carefully I put the picture down.


I picked up a brown leather wallet. It was stiff with age. Inside was one half of a ten-shilling note, cut diagonally, and half of a one-shilling coin. I smiled.

Birmingham. The big city was a hell of a change from the little country town where I’d grown up. I was sixteen, and by then I knew that I was gay. This was a problem as any kind of homosexual act was illegal in those days. But of course it went on, and there were nightclubs which, although not explicitly ‘gay’, were places where gay people gathered. It was in one of those that I met both Peter and Les.

Peter was older than I was, and he became a lifelong friend, and kind of mentor. He was sensible, caring, and I think I learned more from him than from any other guy in my life.

Les was one of the disc jockeys at the club, and I fell for him the first time I saw him. He was a couple of years older than I was, he had shoulder-length black hair, he was slim, and he had more energy than I’d ever known in a single person; he never seemed to keep still.

I’d spent the whole night right next to the DJ booth staring at Les. To start with he hadn’t noticed, but eventually he did. He smiled at me and my cock got hard. I couldn’t stop looking at him – he was the sexiest guy I’d ever seen. After a while, when he’d changed the record, he came out and walked over to me. He smiled again. “Hello. Look, will you stop staring at me? It’s making me nervous.”

I think I went red with embarrassment. “Yes of course. I’m sorry.”

He laughed. “I finish at midnight. Wanna come home with me?”

My mouth dropped open. “Yes!”

“Ok. I’ll see you outside. But for now for fuck’s sake stop staring at me!”

His flat was much bigger than mine. We didn’t bother with tea or coffee - he dragged me straight into the bedroom. That night was the first time in my life that I ever got fucked - and it hurt. But I was willing to put up with anything for him. Later I fucked him, and that was a bit better, but even then I wondered what all the fuss was about with fucking – I thought a good hand job was much better.

I was hopelessly in love with Les – and he with me. I moved in with him. Peter was delighted that we’d found each other and that we were clearly so happy. One night, after Les and I had been together for a couple of weeks, we were in the flat when Peter called round. He said he had something for us, but he wouldn’t say what it was. Just before he left, he presented each of us with one half of the cut banknote and one half of the coin. “These are to remind you that you two are only complete when you’re together. Keep them, and remember these good times.”

I think I cried; Les certainly did. I lost touch with Les a long time ago. I don’t know if he still has his halves, but I have mine.

I stood up to stretch my legs and walked over to the skylight. I peered down into the garden and noted that the lawn needed cutting. And there was a tile missing from the roof. Shit. I’d better get that seen to soon.


The next thing in the chest was a clay medallion: earth-coloured, triangular, and with rounded corners. It had once had a long leather thong threaded through a small hole in the top corner, but that was long gone. On one side of the clay was the deep impression of a stamp: an ornate, Gothic capital letter ‘C’. I turned it over in my hand. On the back was a number: 1028, and below it the words “Catacombs Club”.

Birmingham had been exciting, but London was an eye-opener. I’d moved there with my job and I’d got a bedsit in Streatham Hill. I’d been able to buy my first motorbike – it was small but it was a bike - and I was itching to get some leathers – over the last year or so I’d gradually come to realise that black leather exerted a kind of hold over me that was strangely difficult to resist – I just hadn’t really thought about it like that until now. I’d often found myself staring at bikers in the street and getting turned on like fuck. So far I’d only been able to afford a pair of PVC jeans – material technology was young then and they were a bit stiffer than leather, but they were black and shiny, and that was what I was after. They were nothing like as tight as I wanted, but I had no idea how to alter them.

I met a guy one night at the Coleherne pub in Earls Court. A leather boy.

The room was full of sexy guys in leather, but this one was a vision. Early twenties, black leather jacket with the collar up, sexy leather jeans, studded belt, leather gloves, bike boots, carrying a crash helmet. And drop-dead gorgeous. His name was Paul. He led the way back to his flat, me following on my bike.

His place was bare: no carpets, little in the way of furniture. We had a beer, and after that he took me into the bedroom. A bed with an iron frame stood there. He lay me down and climbed on top of me. My denim jacket was open and I could feel his leathers through my tee shirt. We kissed for a while and I ran my hands over his jacket and jeans, felt the studs of his belt. My first leather boy - I was so horny I was almost cumming.

“So, what are you into?”

I honestly didn’t know. In spite of having lived in Birmingham and now London I’d done very little apart from fuck, and absolutely nothing that involved leather. I told him this.

He looked down at me. “But leather turns you on, yeah?”

“Oh fuck yes.”

“O-kay,” he said slowly, “let’s find out what you like.” He jumped off the bed and foraged in some drawers. When he came back he was holding several lengths of rope. He tied my wrists and ankles to the corners of the bed, then looked at my PVC jeans. “Those are far too loose.”

“I know. But I don’t know how to make them tighter.”

He chuckled. “Oh I can do that for you. Take ten minutes.”

“Wow! That would be amazing! Thanks!” I’d always wanted some skintight shiny black jeans.

He unzipped me and got my hard cock out. Slowly, in front of my eyes, he pulled on one of his black leather bike gloves, then gently enclosed my cock with his hand.

I closed my eyes in ecstasy; this was the first time anyone had ever touched my cock with leather. I felt myself getting ready to cum.

But he chuckled and took his hand away. “Fuck – leather really does turn you on, doesn’t it…?” He waited for a few seconds and then put the hand back, this time gripping my cock much more gently. Very slowly he began to wank me, but only once up and down, then paused with his hand stationary before doing it again. Each time he did it I nearly came – but it was just not long enough for me to be able to. I began to writhe on the bed, pulling at the restraints. The feeling of being tied up, unable to reach my cock, or to stop him, or to make him do it faster or for longer, was totally unfamiliar – and it was turning me on like fuck.

“Please… I need to cum...”

He just smiled, and said nothing. His hand continued to wank once up and down, then stop. Over and over again.

“Cum whenever you want to...” He said.

“Ican’t!”

He smiled again. “I know you can’t.”

He put the other glove on, and held my balls with it, then resumed the intermittent wanking. The feel of the leather round my balls just made everything worse – much worse. I begged, I pleaded, but nothing I said or did made the slightest difference: his hand stroked gently once up and down my desperate cock, stopped so that I couldn’t cum, and did it again.

After what seemed an eternity he got his own cock out and brought himself off over me. His spunk landed on my shiny PVC jeans. Then he put his gloved hands back around my balls and cock, and worked on me very slowly. I felt orgasm approaching – and this time he didn’t stop. I pulled at the restraints, arched my back and yelled as his leather-gloved hands made me cum. That was the first orgasm I’d ever had with a leather boy - and it was by far the most intense one I had ever had in my life.

Paul was as good as his word – he got a sewing machine out, measured me around the thighs and legs, marked the inside-out PVC jeans, and ran the machine along the inside of the legs. After cutting off the excess material and pulling the jeans back right-side out, he handed them to me.

I put them on and grinned: they were skin-tight and fitted me like a glove!

“Those,” he said, “look much better.

We sat and chatted for a while, I told him about myself and that I’d only recently come to London.

“Been to any clubs?”

I said I didn’t know any. I’d only been to the Coleherne pub.

“Ok. I think you’d like the Catacombs.”

He took me there the next night, and I signed in as a guest. The place was down some stone steps in a cellar, just a block away from the Coleherne. We emerged at the bottom of the stairs into a labyrinth of whitewashed-walled, arched caverns with a concrete floor. The lighting was dim, and in the shadows I was aware of guys in leather standing about, leaning on the walls, kissing, and doing other things I couldn’t make out properly.

“Have fun!” Before I could thank him for bringing me, Paul walked away and left me on my own.

The place wasn’t licensed, so I bought a coke from the bar and took it to a vacant spot by a wall. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness I began to make out the features of guys and to see what they were doing. A few were kneeling, sucking cock or having their tits worked on; many were kissing; one was being fucked hard and fast against a wall; but most were just standing around, watching.

I’d never seen anything like this before and I was fascinated. I must have looked ridiculous: I was grinning from ear to ear - I was eighteen, I was wearing tight PVC jeans, and I was in a leather club in London. I knew I was cute, but it had never occurred to me that other guys might think so, and it always came as a surprise to me whenever someone showed an interest. And so it was when the guy came up to me.

“Hi boy.”

He had a thick black leather jacket on over a white tee shirt; a Muir cap; and the heaviest pair of black leather breeches I’d ever seen. I swallowed hard.

His house was huge, and he had a playroom full of gear – frames, restraint tables, crosses, you name it. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing – within seconds I was strapped down, bent over a low wooden horse, and my jeans had been taken down. I’d been a bit disappointed when he’d done that, to be honest.

He then began to beat my bare arse with a cane.

Ihated it. I yelled, so he gagged me. I struggled to get free, so he tightened the straps. My cock was soft and had gone into hiding.

After a few minutes he noticed that I really, really wasn’t getting off on this, so he released me and hardly gave me time to pull my jeans back up before he chucked me out. I stood outside on the street, my arse smarting, but having learned a couple of lessons: I did not like being beaten; and I should really find out what someone was into before I went home with him. I had to get a taxi back to the Catacombs, where I’d left my bike.

I put the medallion on the floor with the photo and the wallet. In spite of that night, I’d had some dead horny experiences over the next couple of years with guys I’d met at that club.

I went down to the kitchen, made a cup of coffee and brought it back up with me. I’d already seen what was next in the chest and I wanted to spend some time with them.


I reached in and took out a pair of very old leather jeans. The well-worn, almost mirror-smooth black hide still felt unbelievably sexy under my fingers as I stroked them across it.

My PVC jeans were falling apart. I’d recently had a small pay rise so I thought that at long last I could get myself some real leather ones. I took most of my savings out of the bank and set off on the tube to the Lewis Leathers shop.

The overpowering smell of leather was the first thing that hit me. There were jackets hanging around, full racing suits, helmets, goggles, boots… and at the back of the shop was a rack full of black leather jeans. I found the section that was my waist size and looked through them slowly, luxuriating in the feel of the different leathers against my fingers – some were grainy, others not so - and when I came to this pair I knew instantly that they were the ones. There was no question. They were intensely black, very shiny, almost grain-free horsehide and the surface was beautifully smooth. Heavy and built like a tank. They were seriously gorgeous. I took them to the assistant and asked to try them on.

They fitted perfectly – tight on my thighs, just how I wanted them. And they seemed to hold my cock and balls in a leather grip that felt mind-blowingly horny. I looked at the price. It was just about going to clean me out, but I had to have them. I kept them on, tucking them into my beat-up bike boots, and went back out into the shop. The assistant smiled (I wondered if he’d seen that I’d got an erection, but I didn’t care if he had). He put my old jeans in a bag and handed them to me. I left the shop, my wallet much lighter than when I’d gone in.

Those jeans felt amazing. With each step I took the leather caressed my cock, my balls and my legs (I wasn’t wearing anything under them – I’d hidden my underpants in my jacket pocket). I got into the tube train and sat down. I couldn’t stop running my hands over the smooth black leather on my thighs, and my cock was rock-hard. A boy opposite me was watching me with open interest. Suddenly a shuddering breath overtook me and and I came in them. I hadn’t even made it home.

When I did get home the first thing I did was strip completely, lie on the bed and pull the jeans on top of my naked body. I held one of the legs squeezed tightly between my thighs and pressed the other leg over my face, breathing in the smell and loving the feel of the black leather tight over my eyes and mouth. I came again pretty quickly.

I turned the jeans over reverently in my hands. The zip was broken now, the leather was torn at the crotch, they were covered with scars and abrasions, and I couldn’t even guess at how many loads of my spunk they’d had in them over the years. Those leather jeans had made me cum like nothing else; they were the horniest leather jeans I’d ever owned. God, I’d had a hell of a lot of good times in those - there was no way I could remember all the boys I’d played with while I’d been wearing them, but it must have been hundreds.

Carefully, I placed them on the floor.


An envelope was lying on top of what was left in the chest. I picked it up and looked inside. There was a piece of clingfilm there. Even now, after all this time, it made me laugh.

Johnny was the first boy I’d had in my new playroom. I’d only finished building it last week and I was dying to try it out. There wasn’t that much in it – a table I’d fitted restraint points to; a couple of vertical posts for spread-eagling between; and a long, narrow mummification board I’d inherited from a friend. It was padded with black PVC, and had feet at either end.

The session was going well. At that time I’d thought that the only possible dynamic in a playroom was Master / slave, and so I was playing the Master bit up to the hilt: I was stern with him and he called me ‘Sir’. I’d played with him tied between the posts; I’d made him kneel at my feet and worship his Master’s boots and leathers; I’d had him on the table, sucked his cock and made him cum; and now I wanted to try the mummification board. I thought that after a few minutes lying there helpless he’d be good to go again.

I’d bought a huge – really, quite enormous - catering-sized roll of clingfilm for use with the board and now, with the boy Johnny lying face up on the black PVC, I began to wrap it around him.

Johnny was watching me. Suddenly he said, “is that really the best to use, Sir?”

I frowned. “Why?” I growled. I’d been trying to act the experienced Top since he’d arrived, and his questioning my technique was not allowed.

“Well it’s perforated every twelve inches.”

I stared at it. Dammit, he was right. I looked at him. Then I felt a chuckle starting. It became a laugh I just couldn’t control, and soon we were both falling about. There was no point at all in continuing, so we had a beer and I took him home.


I frowned as I lifted a small steel buckle out of the chest. It was attached to a torn piece of leather that looked like it had once been a thin strap. I didn’t remember this at all. Then, as I slowly turned it over in my fingers, it all came back to me. How on earth could I have forgotten that? It had been one of the most important sessions of my life. My cock jerked inside my jeans.

Bill had picked me up at the Catacombs. He was anything but good-looking, but he had a great body and the way he moved was somehow very sexy. He had a house in Battersea – there was no purpose-made playroom, but his bedroom was full of ingenious surprises: wardrobes that folded out into bondage tables; hidden restraint points on the bed; even a light fitting that slid aside to reveal a heavy anchor point for suspension. But although he showed me all these, he didn’t use them with me; instead he just got me hogtied on the bed.

He’d told me that what turned him on most of all was playing with a boy who was doing everything he possibly could to stop Bill from making him cum. Nothing else, just that. I’d never heard of that before, but I quite liked the sound of it (at least it didn’t involve being caned).

I’d never tried not to cum before, but surely I would have no problem at all with that. And it was a fairly loose hogtie, so I could always move to get my cock away from his hands.

It occurred to me when he was tying me up that he hadn’t told me to take any of my gear off – I was still wearing my leather jacket, leather jeans and bike boots. I assumed he’d get my cock out at some point.

He knelt on the bed behind me and started to run his fingers over my leathers. I could see that he’d got a huge erection in his own jeans already.

“Fuck, you’re cute, boy,” he said, as his hands roamed all over me.

Every time they got anywhere close to my crotch I chuckled and moved or rolled over to get them away from me. But scope for movement was limited, and soon I found that it wasn’t that easy to keep away from him. I was watching his hands like a hawk. I also had a rock-hard erection – being played with in these leather jeans was far, far hornier than it had any right to be.

He continued to do this for a while, trying to make it increasingly difficult for me to evade his fingers, and now and again he managed to get a grip on my cock through my jeans. But I was struggling, and I always managed to get away from him.

Then he picked something up from the bedside table. It was a black leather hood. “Ok. You’ve done quite well so far – but I think this is going to make things a bitmore difficult for you. Have you ever been hooded before?”

I shook my head. “No, Sir.”

He laughed evilly. “Good… And don’t call me Sir – I’m not into slaves. Slaves do what you tell them. I like boys who try to resist.

As the leather slid down over my face I worried that I wouldn’t be able to breathe. But once it was in place I relaxed: getting air was no problem – although the hood ballooned in and out with each breath I took. And the inside of it was shiny leather too! The possibility of shiny leather on the inside of a hood had never occurred to me – and it felt indescribably horny. I felt him tightening the strap around my neck, and then his hands were gone. I realised that now, not being able to see where they were or to know where they were going was going to put me at a severe disadvantage.

Fucking hell, it didn’t half... I felt his fingers stroke my cock shaft through the bulging leather of my jeans and instantly moved away – right into his other hand, which gripped it and stroked it once. Shit! Hooding me so that I couldn’t see to fight struck me as a fiendishly unfair thing to do to me – and the idea of that almost made me cum there and then.

For the next hour or so he toyed with me – I knew that he could have made me lose it whenever he wanted, but he intended me to learn exactly how helpless a hood makes a boy. He allowed me to move where I wanted – but wherever I went, his hands seemed to be there. His fingers stroked, teased and tickled my thighs and legs, my balls and my cock. He got to me from all possible – and unexpected – angles. At one point he actually loosened my hogtie so that I was able to move even more – but that only made it more frustrating: I still couldn’t see to get away from his hands. Inside the hood I was sweating with my efforts to keep my cock away from him and for the last half hour it had been leaking precum like crazy. That was also the first time I realised that being able to close my thighs together made me so much more horny than when my legs were restrained wide apart.

“Ok boy – enough playing. Gonna make you cum. And there’s not a lot you can do to stop me...” As he said that, the bastard forced his hand slowly in between my thighs from behind, his fingers working their way gradually further and further in. I squeezed my thighs together with all of my strength to keep the hand out, but I couldn’t – and as it burrowed in deeper and deeper no matter how I struggled, it caused an intense and unbelievably horny feeling of invasion. Now, however I moved, there was no way I could get his hand off me. His fingers gripped my cock head through the leather and – as I yelled, swore and struggled under him – with slow but intentionally irresistible strokes he made me cum helplessly in my leather jeans.

Afterwards we cuddled for a while, and just before I left he gave me that hood as a present.

That session had been the first time that I’d come across any relationship between two leather guys that had not been Master / slave, and I’d realised at that moment that there were in fact other possibilities. To be honest the idea of slaves had never really done much for me; I thought I was much more like Bill in that I loved the idea of a boy trying to resist. He called his struggling boys victims, not slaves. I found that thought seductively sexy.

I had that hood for a long time, and it got a lot of use. I don’t remember what happened to the rest of it, but that buckle is all that’s left. I placed it on top of the jeans on the floor.

My coffee had gone cold so I went and made a fresh one. All these memories were making me horny. As I came back up the stairs I wondered what was next.


A tiny white feather.

I twirled it between my fingers and my cock jerked again in my jeans as I remembered.

My ideal age for a boy is twenties or thirties – guys who’ve been around the block a bit but who haven’t yet got jaded. Normally I have no interest in teenagers as they usually have no idea what they want.

But then there was Jason.

I’d been down to the shop to get some cigs. As usual, I was in full leathers - jeans, studded black leather jacket and belt, bike boots with white socks rolled over the tops. I noticed a boy leaning against the wall opposite my flat, watching me. Fuck, I thought, he’s cute. He had a tatty leather jacket on over a white tee shirt, tight faded jeans and white trainers. When he saw me he walked across the road and stood looking at my motorbike on the drive. “Nice bike,” he said as I approached.

I smiled. “Ta. Yeah, it’s brilliant.” I fished my keys out of my pocket.

“I’ve seen you a lot. I live over there.” He pointed down the street.

I nodded. I hadn’t seen him before. I would most certainly have remembered.

“You wear leather a lot, don’t you? You look good in it.” He smiled – and my knees went weak. His mop of dark hair fell in a perfect fringe over green eyes, and he had lips that were designed for sucking cock. He was fucking beautiful.

“Thanks. Yeah, I like leather. A lot. You like it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.

“Mmmm. Oh fuck yeah.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“I’m saving up for a bike. And for some leathers. Black. Tight. Love some leather jeans like those.”

I looked down at my shiny black thighs and nodded. “Right.”

“Can I feel them?”

I hadn’t expected that. “Erm… I s’pose, if you want.”

He reached out a hand and touched it to the front of my thigh. His fingers stroked the smooth black leather – then they slid slowly round to the inside, just below my balls. The fingers kept on stroking. “Oh fuck yeah,” he whispered.

This pretty boy teasing the inside of my thigh right at the top was getting my cock hard. “You want to be careful doing things like that – someone might tie you up and milk your cock.”

I couldn’t believe I’d just said that! I turned to the door to escape – but he grinned and just said, “Oh fuck yes! Pleeeease...”

I turned back to him. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

He was far too young for me, but then I remembered what I’d been like at that age. I’d wanted it more than I could say. And he was unbelievably cute – especially when he smiled, which he was doing right now. My cock made the decision for me. “Come on then.” I opened the door and we went in.

He stood in the middle of the playroom looking around. “Wow!” He said.

I told him to take everything below the waist off, then to get onto the restraint table on his hands and knees, with his feet hanging just over the end. I strapped his ankles there as wide apart as possible, and cuffed his wrists to metal rings halfway along the table. His bare arse was smooth and hairless below the bottom of his leather jacket, and his hard cock was dangling between his thighs. I took my latest acquisition – the leather hood Bill had given me – got it over his head, and strapped it on tightly. He was even harder by the time I’d done that.

I stood behind him and pulled his cock back between his thighs, then I began to tease it. Wearing my leather gloves I held it at the base and stroked my fingers lightly down the length of it. He was moaning into the hood. I guessed that it would take very little indeed to make a teenage boy cum, so I was very careful. Every time I thought he was getting close I stopped. His moans of need and frustration got more urgent every time. I kept changing technique: working on the shaft, or holding the base and teasing just the head, or giving the whole cock one good stroke and then pausing… I rotated my hands, teased his balls at the same time, inserted a well-lubed finger gently into his arse hole just up to the first knuckle (that brought an especially surprised – and then lustful - groan from him. I bet he’d never felt anything in there before).

He was getting desperate. So I thought I’d make it worse. I found a long wooden ruler I’d used when I was making the table. I pulled his cock and balls further back towards me and inserted the ruler behind them, over the backs of his thighs. It stayed there on its own, and kept his cock pointing backwards and very vulnerable. Another forage in the room produced a very small white feather. I’d seen it lying about but I’d no idea where it had come from – it was the kind of thing that was used to decorate stuff. But it would do very nicely.

I tickled his balls with it first – and he went ballistic. I’d never tickled anyone before, and doing that to him was making me need to cum. Watching the point and the edge of the little feather getting into crevices and stroking so lightly over his sensitive teenage balls was fascinating me.

Then I transferred my attention to his cock. All of it proved to be extremely responsive to the feather – but the head especially so. He was cut, and each time I teased the feather over the bare glans he yelled with frustration and need. I’d never heard of the frenulum, but I discovered it on my own that session. Tickling his cock on that spot drove him insane. I was loving this – and it was bringing out a sadistic streak in me I’d never known I’d had.

I continued to edge him like that, making his need for orgasm as unbearable as possible, for over an hour. For most of that time he’d been begging me to let him cum, and towards the end he was almost crying because that need was so urgent. It was a fair bet that he’d never been edged before and so I could imagine it must be pretty intense for the boy.

“You enjoying this?” I asked, pausing the cock head tickling for a moment.

He nodded his head wildly. “Yes! Oh fuck YES! But I need to CUUUUUUM!!”

“Do you want to do this again another day?”

“Yes! Yes! OH FUCK FUCK FUCK YES!!”

“Ok – well, DON’T cum. I like boys who can control themselves. If you don’t let yourself cum, we’ll do it again. But if you do cum, forget it.” I paused for a moment to let that sink in. I’d learnt from my session with Bill that there’s something very horny about a boy trying to stop himself from cumming – especially when things are arranged so that he has no fucking chance...

My cock was so hard it was almost bursting out of my jeans. I slid a slippery finger into his arse, gripped his cock head lightly between a leather-gloved finger and thumb, and began stroking them up and down over the head slowly, on the film of precum. I knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold out for long against that, so I slowed my fingers even more. I wanted him to feel himself losing it bit by bit, and realise that he couldn’t do anything about it.

I felt his cock suddenly harden even more – a sure sign of approaching orgasm – but I kept moving my hand at the same speed. “Don’t cum...” I breathed.

His cock exploded and he yelled as it jerked madly in my hand, his hot boy-spunk shooting out and landing on the table, on me, and on the floor.

For some reason that had turned me on more than a lot of sessions I’d had in the past. Jason and I had many fun afternoons over the next few months – and I found out that those lips were every bit as good at sucking cock as I’d thought they would be.

I put the feather with the other things on the floor and looked to see what was left in the chest.


A sheet of writing paper that had been divided up into 80 squares, each with a number in it, and each had been crossed out. I smiled. I’m a professional musician, and I’d taken a break from my regular playing job when, by a wonderful stroke of luck, I’d been invited to work on the QE2 playing in a 4-piece band, for that year’s World Cruise. Around the world in exactly 80 days. I knew it was going to be the experience of a lifetime – not only getting to go to fabulous places, but getting paid for doing it. The only problem was that just a week and a half before, I’d met Tom. We’d both fallen madly in love, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being away from him. That sheet of paper had been on the wall of my cabin on the ship and I’d crossed off each day, counting down to when I’d see him again.

But that didn’t stop me from enjoying myself while I was on board...

The first time I saw the ship I did not believe its size. ‘Colossal’ does not come even close; it is a fucking floating city . By the time we’d been away for a few days I’d settled in and got the hang of the routine. I was playing every night from 8pm to midnight, but apart from arranging and trying out new songs, the rest of my time was my own – and when we were in a port there were no passengers on board so there was no playing anyway. I had a lot of free time, and I spent much of it exploring the ship. Musicians have what is probably the best position of anyone on board: we aren’t passengers, nor are we classed as crew, so we can go anywhere – in the passenger spaces where the crew are forbidden, and also into the crew quarters and bars where passengers are not allowed. And the crew are hunky – especially the deckies. Not only that but even most of the straight ones are up for it; well it’s either that or their right hand until they get back to their girls at home. It’s perfect for a perve like me. Believe it or not there was even a small gay club just for the crew.

Terry had muscles where no-one has a right to have muscles. Six feet two, slim waist, six-pack, and with a stubble that looked great on him even though usually I hate any kind of beard. I’d noticed him before, working on the lower decks, and fantasised about being held down or tied up by him. He’d seen me watching him and more than once he’d smiled to himself.

I’d brought my leathers with me on board – if only to wear in my cabin at night (although they’d proved useful in New York, but that’s another story altogether...) and one afternoon I was feeling especially horny and thinking about Terry – though I didn’t know his name at that point. I decided to throw caution to the wind, put my leathers on and go look for him.

I stood out on the back of the ship, leaning on the railing looking down at him. He was doing something to a bit of machinery of some kind – oiling it possibly or casting a new spell over it – and eventually he noticed me watching him. He’d never seen me in full leathers before and I saw the surprise on his face. Then he grinned, and returned to whatever he was doing with the machinery. I had no idea if the reason he’d grinned was that he found the sight of me in leathers on the ship ridiculous, or interesting. A few minutes later he stood up and left the deck through a hatchway with those funny long handles all around it.

I lit a cigarette and watched the other guys – a couple of them were interesting, but nothing like as horny as he was.

“Got a spare fag, mate?”

I jumped and turned round. He was standing next to me. I smiled and gave him a cig. He told me his name and I told him mine. He finished his shift at four o’clock, and I was welcome to have a beer with him in his cabin if I wanted.

I wanted. Oh yes, I wanted.

I never got that beer. Well, he opened a couple of bottles and handed me one, but it never got drunk. He took his tee shirt and jeans off, pulled me onto the narrow bunk on top of him, and wrapped him arms and legs around me. I thought he was going to squeeze me to death.

“Tits.”

His hand pushed my head down to his left nipple. I sucked it.

“Harder.”

I used my lips as well.

“Harder!”

I used my teeth. I sucked it, chewed it, squeezed the nub against my top teeth with my tongue. He was groaning with pleasure. Then he put my hand onto his other nipple and I worked on that as well.

Working on nipples is something I’d never had much experience of, but I’m a fast learner and I very soon got a feel for exactly what he wanted. He’d put his hands under his back as if he were tied up, so I took my belt out of my jeans and strapped his wrists together with it. He’d have been able to get free easily if he’d wanted, but it was the thought that counted. I was lying on his legs so he was fairly helpless under me.

I could feel his hard cock pressing against my thigh. I took it in my mouth and sucked – but this was not what he wanted.

“Squeeze it between your thighs so I can fuck your leathers.”

Ok. I did that, and went back to working on his nipples while his pelvis thrust under me. I could feel his cock sliding between the tops of my thighs and I gripped it as hard as I possibly could. His back arched and he started to cum. I really went to town on his tits – I’d have been screaming in pain if that were being done to me – but he was loving it. It seemed to go on for ages and he was making a lot of noise; I was worried that the guy in the next cabin would wonder what the fuck was going on in here.

Finally he collapsed and closed his eyes. Then he started to snore. The bastard was asleep and I hadn’t even cum. I retrieved my belt and left. So much for being tied up by the hunkiest deckie on the ship. Oh well, it had been fun.

The old Catacombs club had long since closed its doors, but there were others to take its place (though none, for me, ever had that same exciting atmosphere. Perhaps it was me that had changed). I’d been able to afford a nice flat in Fulham now, with a dedicated playroom, and I’d somehow become quite well-known as a Top who was into things that were a bit different from the usual stuff. Things like edging; cock-rape (which was basically what Bill had introduced me to); and most of all, gear – and keeping it on. For a change, guys started seeking me out rather than the other way around. I had quite a few regulars, and new ones were appearing all the time. I seemed to get quite a few total beginners – and a fair number of straight boys too, who were into bondage and leather - probably because they knew that I had no interest in fucking them and just wanted to be tied up and played with.

It was through one of these straight boys that I got into tickle torture.


I reached into the chest and took out a single sheet of tissue paper. It was discoloured in the centre.

Ricky was 22. He was athletic, and one of the horniest boys I’ve ever known. He made it quite plain that he was straight, and that his arse was off limits. This was the first time he’d ever let another guy tie him up. The trouble was that he had a massive fetish both for feeling helpless, and for shorts – to the extent that he found it difficult to cum unless he was wearing them. He had a regular girlfriend, but he’d never mentioned this to her – he knew that she’d think it was weird. Their sex was Ok, he said, but he longed for something else a bit more exciting and… pervy. He told me that he often tied himself down to the bed as much as he could by himself to wank – but that it wasn’t enough: he didn’t feel helpless.

Before he arrived I’d put my mask on – black leather, with eye and mouth holes. I reasoned that if he was straight, perhaps not being able to see my face would allow him to get turned on more.

I listened to what he was saying as we sat drinking a beer downstairs. I told him that I loved getting boys helpless in any kind of sexy gear, and that I hadn’t played with anyone in shorts before, but that the thought was turning me on a lot. He’d brought four different pairs with him – I’d asked him to bring ones that being played with in would turn him on most of all. He said that those were the ones he found horniest, but that the choice was mine. I looked at them and chose a pair of shiny black running shorts. They were not tight, but I thought they would look very sexy on him.

They did. He was spread eagled between the vertical wooden posts, and looking good enough to eat. To be honest I didn’t really have much idea of what I was going to do to him, so I used logic. He’d told me that the things that turned him on most were being made to feel helpless, and shorts. So if I did things to him that worked on those two fetishes, then it should turn him on a lot.

I started off by stroking my fingers over all the parts of his body that were not covered by his shorts - the area that was, I did not touch at all. I did this for quite a while, to try to implant in his mind the idea that the area under his shorts was somehow protected.

After I’d been doing this for some time I began to work one hand slowly down under the waistband, and the other hand slowly up under the leg. It worked like a charm: as soon as my hands began to invade that protected space he started to squirm, and his cock began to get hard. Very soon he was fully erect and the front of his shorts was tented out into a horny, black, shiny pyramid.

I considered hooding him, but decided it was too early for that – and in all probability he had never been hooded before - so I blindfolded him instead. Everything I did to him now was unexpected, so I knew he’d be much more aware of his helplessness. That turned out to be a very good move. It seemed that he was unbelievably ticklish – and although that hadn’t mattered quite so much when he’d been able to see, the fact that now he couldn’t see intensified that tickling much, much more. For a while I thought that this was an unwanted effect, and I tried to make my touch a little firmer so that it didn’t tickle so much - but then I noticed that whenever it actually did tickle, he seemed to be getting off on it big time. He’d giggle and protest like fuck, but his cock told me otherwise – and cocks do not lie. Every time I tickled him his cock jerked and got even harder.

Ok, I thought, this has possibilities. The only guy I’d ever tickled before had been the boy Jason, and then only his cock and balls, as part of edging. This was a whole different thing. I experimented by tickling him very lightly, with feather-light strokes, and also with hard, probing fingers in his muscles. It was that harder work that seemed to be getting to him - the harder I tickled him, the more horny he got.

I needed to make him feel even more helpless for this – and that meant the hood.

I removed Ricky’s blindfold, got the heaviest, most confining leather hood I had, and opened it slowly in front of his eyes. Then I pulled it down over his head and strapped it on. When you’ve got that on you, your head is gripped tightly, shiny black leather pressing over your face blindfolding and effectively gagging you, and you really know you’re helpless.

Then I started to tickle him. Gently at first, but with gradually increasing intensity. And I’m not talking feather-touch here – I was finding all his weak spots like his sides, his stomach, knees, thighs – and working on them with hard, probing fingers. He was screaming into the hood, and fighting the restraints that held him spread eagled between the posts. Occasionally I’d attack his armpits – and that made him shriek in hysterics.

He could move too much. I pressed the button to lower the electric winch, unfastened his wrists cuffs and secured them to the hoist. I raised it until he was fully stretched with his arms high over his hooded head. Then I went back to working on him. Now he could move far less, and there was no way he could get away from my hands.

And I used his shorts too. Every now and again I’d grab his cock through them, or get my hand up the leg, tickle his balls, pump his cock. Whenever I did that he’d yell and try to close his legs together.

But most of the time I worked on his muscular, athletic body. He had no way to know where my fingers were going to attack him next, and the hood forced his mind to concentrate on what he could feel.

At one point I was stood behind him, my fingers probing deep into his sides (an excruciatingly ticklish spot on him) – and he suddenly came in his shorts. His body started to jerk spasmodically and for a moment I thought he was having a fit. He wasn’t having a fit, he was having an orgasm. An intense one, too.

I would have finished him off by hand, but by the time I realised what was happening, his orgasm was just about over. I walked round in front of him, pulled a tissue out of the box, and wiped the spunk off his thigh. Then I released him.

Afterwards, downstairs over another beer, we talked about it and he told me that he’d never cum before without his cock being worked on, and that he’d never experienced an orgasm like that before in his life – it had been like his whole body had been on fire. He’d felt indescribably helpless, and all the time I was working on him he could feel the shorts teasing his thighs and his cock. He had hated the tickling, but the fact that he couldn’t see it coming, couldn’t stop it or do anything about it had turned him on like mad. He said that it had been totally mind-blowing.

I didn’t tell him that I’d also cum, in my jeans, while I’d been tickle torturing him. I remembered that when I’d been ticking and edging Jason, I’d felt sadistic – but working hard on Ricky had multiplied that feeling of sadism many, many times. I smiled – I knew now that I was seriously into merciless tickle-torture. I never stopped learning about myself.

Ricky returned many times after that. He said that his sessions with me even made the sex he had with his girlfriend better because he kept imagining he was tied up in my playroom and being tickle-tortured out of his mind.

I sniffed the tissue in my hand, but by now it didn’t smell of anything. I placed it on the floor.


Very carefully, I lifted a leather Muir cap out of the chest and held it tenderly.

I was living in Birmingham again, but – as it turned out - not for long.

At that time (the world was young and dinosaurs walked the Earth) the Internet hadn’t been invented yet. Apart from clubs and pubs, the only other good way to meet gay gays was to put an advert in one of the little magazines like ‘Gay Galaxy’ - there were several of them. Then you waited for a week or two hoping that someone would reply to you. However, the world was about to change.

I’d recently bought a new-fangled thing called a Commodore 64 ‘computer’. Apart from playing games on it, you could plug your TV into it, and by means of a device that emitted the most unusual noises – squawks and twitters mainly – you could also plug it into your phone line. For 1 penny a minute you could connect to something called ‘Prestel’ and leave messages for people in dedicated rooms. And there was a BDSM room! You couldn’t chat to guys in real time like you can now, but you could leave a message and the other guy would leave you a reply. I got in touch with someone named Dave. A few weeks later we met for the first time – but it was quite a while before I saw his face.

I’d been booked to play a gig in a town only a few miles from where Dave lived. Peter, my friend from Birmingham, took me there in his car. I did the gig, then we drove to a village close to Dave’s home, to a field in the middle of nowhere. Peter wished me luck and drove off. I’d changed into my leathers and it was midnight.

This had all been arranged. I was to stand a few feet into the field and wait. I was going to be abducted and kept for the weekend, not allowed to see Dave’s face at all. That’s what I’d asked for.

I stood and waited. It occurred to me that if Dave didn’t turn up I was buggered – I didn’t know the area at all and somehow I’d have to find my own way back to Birmingham.

There was a sound behind me and suddenly what light there was went out as a leather hood was dropped over my head. I was bundled into the back of a car, tied up, and we drove off. After a while we came to a stop and, still hooded, I was led on a leash along a winding path. I felt branches brushing past me. Then I was told that there was a tree that bent away from me in front of me, and to lean forward against it. He handcuffed my wrists around it and said that he was going to leave me there for a while to think about things. If I wanted to go on, Ok, but if not he’d un-hood me and we could go and have a cup of tea. I heard him walk away.

I was standing there leaning over the trunk of the tree, handcuffed to it, my cock as hard as a rock. I had no idea where I was – I could have been in the middle of a traffic island for all I knew.

After what seemed like ages I heard someone approaching, and I hoped it was Dave. It was. I said yeah, I wanted to go on with it. He led me back to the car and we drove for another twenty minutes with me hogtied in the boot of the hatchback.

I hadn’t seen this house then, and I had no idea how bloody high it is. The bastard led me round to the back door, which is one floor lower than the front door is, and led me up stairs. Up one floor. Up another. And yet another. I thought I was in a fucking lighthouse. Finally we came to a stop and into a room.

He tied me between vertical posts and played with me, then he suspended me in a leather harness (I felt like I was flying), and played with me. He put me in so many different positions and on so many different bits of equipment that I lost count.

Eventually I was standing with my arms tied above my head and he was working on my nipples. I was desperately trying to get off on it but my nipples have never given me anything other than pain. So he began to massage my cock and to kiss me through the thin hood.

Although the plan had been for me not to see him at all during my stay, I was desperate to know what this man looked like. In a small voice I asked him if I could see him.

I heard him whisper, “Thank fuck for that.” He pulled the hood off and we saw each other for the first time. He was older than I was, but gorgeous. Apparently he liked me a lot too. We spent almost every minute of that weekend in the playroom.

I’d fallen in love again, and so had he. The second time we met, at my house in Birmingham (I’d already put it on the market) he gave me that Muir cap. Inside there is a small pocket with a piece of card in it. On the card is written the first lines of one of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

We agreed that we’d take things slowly and not do anything precipitate. Three weeks later I’d moved to Yorkshire (with a houseful of belongings in a 3-ton truck) and was living with him. The relationship I had with him turned out to be the longest I’d ever had in my life.

Although I wasn’t into the slave thing, he was. In the early days I was his slave. This worked Ok for a while, but it soon became clear that although we loved each other madly, we each needed different things sexually – he was into CP, fisting, fucking, and I wasn’t. I was very into gear, and tormenting helpless victims – he wasn’t. So we came to an open-relationship arrangement that was extremely successful. We each had our own boys in the playroom. There was never any jealousy at all – we were happy with each other and neither of us wanted anyone else emotionally.

I gazed at the Muir cap. It was a bit too small for me, and I’d never really been into that kind of look – but that cap was one of my most treasured possessions.

The Internet had arrived now, and that made finding boys much easier. I constructed my own website – it was tiny at first but it steadily grew until it was quite big. There were lots of photos, essays about different gear-related turn-ons and fetishes, and a lot about what turned me on personally. Guys started to get in touch with me through it and the good thing was that they already knew what I was and what I wasn’t into before they contacted me.

From the very beginning I decided that I would always be masked on the Internet, and that I would never reveal my real age – there would be no pictures of my face whatsoever. This was mainly because I’m very turned on indeed by the thought that however much he wants to, a victim can’t see what I look like, can never know who it is who is working on him. But it also turned out to be one of the best ideas I’ve ever had for another reason entirely: I’ve been told that I’m not bad-looking, so I’m not worried about that, but every individual has his preferred physical ‘type’ - some are into beards, some hate them; some like cute boys, or rough guys with craggy faces – young guys, mature guys… the list is endless. By always wearing the mask, it enabled a victim to fantasise that the leather guy working on him was the best-looking guy in the world. And as my figure has always been fairly athletic, I could also be almost any age a victim wanted me to be.

This anonymity thing was also excellent for abductions...

The last thing I came to in the chest was another photograph.


This photo showed the corner of a narrow country lane with a stone wall beyond some compacted earth where vehicles had turned round.

Philip had got in touch with me wanting to be abducted. He was into leather and bondage, but hadn’t done much more than that. My partner Dave wasn’t into that kind of thing so I mentioned it to my friend D. He’s straight, but said he’d love to help. D is a biker too.

We planned it all out carefully. I’d sent Philip a map and told him to get a taxi to drop him off on the previous corner of the country lane and to walk onwards down the road.

I went on my bike, D on his, which he hid further down, out of sight. I parked my bike by the stone wall, and got D to crouch down as if he was fiddling with the engine. He was in leathers and had his crash helmet on. I walked back down the lane a little way, then climbed over a low stone wall into the edge of a field. We waited.

The taxi arrived and dropped Philip off. I saw it turn and drive off and, through a gap in the wall, I watched the boy walking towards me. He went past, heading for what he thought was me and my bike that he could see on the next corner.

When he was past me I quietly climbed back over the wall and sneaked up behind him just as he arrived at my bike. I grabbed his arms, D jumped up and dropped a crash helmet with a completely blacked-out visor over his head. I jumped onto my bike and, though Philip was struggling like fuck, D got the boy onto the pillion seat and we cable-tied his wrists around my waist. D quickly gagged him with duct tape, and then I set off towards home with D following us on his bike.

When we got to the house we drove into the garage and I closed the door. Between us D and I manhandled the boy through the inside door and up the stairs to the playroom. We got him restrained to the posts, and then D nodded silently and left. Bondage was Ok with him, but I knew he didn’t want anything to do with gay sex.

It turned me on a lot knowing that Philip didn’t know what either of us looked like, and had no idea where he was. I spent a great afternoon and evening edging the boy, using leather on him to get him horny again each time after I’d made him cum, gagging him, blindfolding him, hooding him, strapping him to different bits of equipment, teasing him, milking him, fucking him, and generally abusing his helpless body. He loved every second of it, and came four times in a few hours.

When we were finished I blindfolded him with duct tape, took him down to the bike and drove back to where he’d been dropped off by the taxi. I took the cuffs off his wrists and secured them together with more duct tape (not very tightly), then took off on the bike. I knew it would only take him a minute or two to free his hands and then get the tape off his eyes, but that would be enough for me to get away without him seeing me or the bike.

He sent me a message the following day saying that had been a fantasy come true, and thanking me a lot. He said he’d be wanking over that for a long time.

That was the final thing in the chest - I’d stopped collecting memorabilia around that time.

I smiled. My playroom has been many things over the years: a torture chamber, a medical facility (the motorised dental chair is great for that sort of thing), an interrogation room, a headmaster’s office, a spunk-extraction lab, a superhero villain’s lair… and lots more. Very occasionally I’ve been strapped down in there myself while another top has tied to break my self-control and make me cum.

I stood up, stretched, then put everything back into the chest, in the right order. I looked at the things lying there – my sexual life in a few objects. I’ve had a bloody good time, I thought. And not only that but I’ve introduced a lot of boys to the possibilities of leather sex of various kinds. I nodded to myself - all in all, I was very happy with how my life had gone.

I picked up the box of tapes, put the light out and went downstairs. Time for a shower, then dinner. After that I’d put a tee shirt on, my tightest, shiniest leather jeans, the studded belt, my bike boots, skintight cop gloves, leather jacket, and finally my black leather mask. I had two boys visiting this week – the first was coming this evening - and if tonight’s session with him turned out to be as horny as the last one had been, it was going to be a very long session indeed.

I smiled to myself - giving helpless, horny boys intense sexual pleasure is still the most brilliant thing I can imagine. I love it – it’s what I live for.

Those guys whose spirits live in that chest upstairs have, to a large extent, made me who I am. They taught me what I like doing to boys, and how to do it.

Thanks, guys.