I’m a sub. My purpose in life is to give Tops pleasure - and I’m very good at it. I’m experienced, I’m told that I have a great body and that I’m hot, I have a reasonably high pain threshold, I’m an excellent fuck, my tits are responsive, and I’m good at deep-throat and most of the other usual sub stuff.
I also have a very major fetish for all things black and shiny. No idea why, but leather, rubber - and especially PVC - turn me on like nothing else. Very black, very shiny, very thin – that’s what really does it for me. When I wank, I’m always wearing something like that. The feel of it sliding against my skin makes me cum far too soon. When I go with a Top who’s into the gear as well, and uses it on me, that’s the best thing ever.
So that’s me – I’m a sub.
But very occasionally – once in the proverbial blue moon – a strange kind of pressure seems to build inside me until something triggers a sudden, intense need.
It happened last week.
I remember when hitch-hikers were a lot more common than they are today. I drive a van delivering computer parts from one city to another and I’m on the road every day. I used to see them waiting hopefully at the side of the road almost every trip. I’ve always usually stopped for them unless they look like axe murders; often a bit of conversation makes the journey go a lot faster. Nowadays, though, you don’t see them anything like as much.
But last week, although there hadn’t been any for ages, I got two in one week. The first one, on Monday morning, was a nurse on her way to Lincoln – I dropped her off at the A57 Worksop Road cos I was going further down the M1, to London. She was a Monty Python fan and we had a laugh quoting stuff like the parrot sketch to each other on the way. I had to clear off the passenger seat before she could get in - I spend a lot of time in my van, and so it’s always a mess. The interior light only produces a dim brown glow which is good for absolutely nothing, and there’s junk everywhere: on the passenger seat, on the floor behind it, in the foot wells. I keep meaning to clean it up but it just accumulates. And I had to hide the hood, the handcuffs, and the ropes that have been there since a very pleasant meeting in the woods with a guy a few days ago. I shoved the cuffs and the ropes into the hood and put it out of sight under the seat.
The second hitch-hiker was on Thursday. It’s strange how fate works. Thursday night I was feeling horny so I’d put my leather jacket, my bike boots and my tightest, horniest PVC jeans on, went on to one of my favourite porn sites and settled down with the computer for a nice long, pervy wank. The bedroom is full of leather bike suits (although I’ve never ridden a motorbike in my life); leather jeans and jackets; and assorted PVC sauna suits, trackies, jeans, and other shiny stuff. There’s also a lot of hoods, restraints, and other bondage gear up here.
Anyway, there I was, watching videos, playing with my cock through the tight PVC jeans and getting more horny by the minute; dreaming of being tied up, strapped down, covered in slinky, shiny back gear - when the phone rings.
I picked it up, still staring at a guy chained to a frame and being abused in the most wonderful ways and wishing it were me.
It was Ted, at work. Sudden system failure at an M.O.D place in Sheffield. Normally the Ministry of Defence have their own people to sort out such things but apparently this time we were the closest place that had the part and it was very, very urgent. I was needed to deliver the unit, like now! Could it wait for ten minutes? I asked, (while I put some more normal clothes on, although I didn’t say that) No, it fucking could not! – And why was I not out of the door already?
Shit. I switched the computer off and ran out to the van. Sheffield wasn’t very far and I’d be back in a couple of hours. I wondered what the M.O.D would make of a guy in leather and obscenely tight, glossy black PVC jeans delivering the unit.
I drove to the depot and picked up the item (Ted raised an eyebrow at my gear but said nothing), then I set off. At that time of night there was very little traffic and even the smaller roads before and after the motorway were clear. I made it in record time. It was fun driving through the big, heavy gates and into the complex – I had to show ID three times – but the hot uniformed boy who signed for the delivery didn’t comment about the way I looked (though I saw him notice the obvious bulge in my jeans). I turned the van around and started back.
It was a few miles after I’d left the M1 – only a few minutes from home - when I saw a figure at the side of the road, thumbing a lift. I was still as horny as fuck from my interrupted wank earlier and seeing that sexy guy at the M.O.D., and my cock was hard from thinking about him. I squinted through the windscreen. The hitch-hiker was mid-twenties, not especially good-looking, but there was something about the way he stood, the way he moved, that was deeply, deeply sexy. He was slim but, by the look of him nicely muscled, wearing a white tee shirt, a denim jacket, and jeans with combat boots over them.
That was when that something clicked inside of me. I suddenly got an overwhelming urge to tie this guy up, to get him helpless, to abuse him in very pervy ways, to use this guy as my sex toy. The feeling isn’t easy to describe: it was a mixture of extreme horniness and almost anger - rage, even – it certainly had the intensity of that. I wanted – needed - very badly to take him, and do unspeakable things to his body. The fact that he was almost certainly straight just made the feeling stronger. I wanted to use him for my own personal pleasure – and any opinions he might have about this were totally irrelevant – although the more I imagined him struggling and fighting against it the harder my cock got. I pulled over and stopped in the lay-by.
He was going to Carlisle, he said. Carlisle? Carlisle is straight up the motorway so what the fuck he was doing out here I had no idea. But that was irrelevant. I looked at the mountain of wrappers and other junk on the passenger seat. There was a litter bin in the lay-by just where I’d stopped. The night was almost pitch black, the only light coming from the van’s headlights. This was good, I thought: he wouldn’t be able to see me very well. Keeping my face hidden as much as I could, I hopped out, went round to the passenger door and opened it (he’d tried, but – thankfully – it sticks unless you do it right), then gathered up the junk and made a couple of trips to the bin to dump it. On the second of these I picked up the hood and its contents from under the seat as well, but I didn’t put those in the bin.
As the boy was getting into the van I dropped the loose hood over his head from behind him, grabbed his arms and got his wrists cuffed behind his back, then bundled him onto the seat and roped his booted feet together. I surprised myself at the efficiency and speed with which I’d done this – he was restrained in the passenger seat and the seatbelt was over him before he’d had much time to react. I know from experience that there are few things that disorient you as effectively as being unexpectedly hooded. By now he’d started swearing and struggling. I thumped the lever to recline the seat fully so that he wouldn’t be visible to other drivers or people on the streets. I hopped back in behind the steering wheel and drove off.
It’s not far to my house from there, but I took a very long way round so that he would have no idea where he was. I even completely circled a roundabout three times on the way to confuse him as much as possible just in case he knew the area.
We pulled up outside my house. He was making a lot of noise and I knew that I’d have to do something about that before I tried to get him out, or the neighbours would probably call the police. So I closed the hood around his neck with one hand and clamped the other one tight over his mouth and nose, holding it there, watching the thin leather shrink-wrapping to his face as he tried to get air. “Shhhh...” I whispered. His breathing got faster. I released the hood but kept my hand there. He got the idea quickly: I could cut off his air at any time and - unless he behaved himself - I would. He nodded, and went very quiet.
After checking that there was nobody about on the street I undid the rope around his ankles, got him out of the van and marched him quickly – still cuffed, still blindfolded by the hood, and still with my hand lightly over his mouth so he remained compliant – to my front door, into the house, and straight up to my bedroom.
I moved my laptop off the bed, pushed him onto the leather sheet, and adjusted the position of my hard cock in my jeans. Fuck, I was horny.
I took the two leather straps that run the width of the bed and buckled them over his body to keep him down temporarily while I got a more interesting hood to replace the one that was on him now. This one was heavy, thick black leather with two small holes under the nose for breathing, and a detachable gag. Holding it ready, I knelt over his chest, pulled the cord to switch the bedroom lights off, plunging the room into absolute blackness, and removed the bag-hood. He started to struggle, to yell and curse me, threatening great bodily harm when he got free if I didn’t let him go immediately. By feel, I pulled the thick hood quickly over his head, getting the gag between his teeth, and, once the leather was over his eyes, I held it in place and turned the lights back on, then laced it up very tightly. His protestations went suddenly quiet – the heavy leather muffled them very effectively, and as the hood got tighter and tighter he was panicking about being able to breathe. I ignored that – he could breathe well enough, I knew.
There, that was better. Next, his cuffs. I tied long ropes to some leather wrist cuffs, attached the ends to the restraint points in the wall at the top corners of the bed, then released the two straps holding him down, rolled him over onto his front and buckled the leather around his wrists above the handcuffs with the ropes crossed so that when I rolled him face up again they would straighten out. I unlocked the handcuffs and removed them, then turned him face up and pulled each rope in turn until his hands were beyond his head. I tied them there firmly, curled his fingers into fists, and wrapped duct tape around them so that he wouldn’t be able to undo the knots. All of this was made much easier by the fact that he couldn’t see to fight me.
I stood back and looked at him. My helpless boy toy. Oh yes. The rage was burning hot inside me. I could do anything I wanted to him and he was helpless to stop me. I already needed to cum, but I promised myself that it was going to be some time before I did that.
His legs were still free but I needed them that way for now. His jeans were fairly tight, but not sexy enough - I was feeling very pervy. I removed his combat boots, and pulled his jeans and underpants off him. He was struggling but there wasn’t much he could do apart from kick his feet, and as he couldn’t see where to aim, it wasn’t difficult to keep out of their way. I went to the wardrobe and looked through my PVC collection. Ah yes. I took out a pair of PVC trackie bottoms. They were black, glossy smooth on the inside as well as the outside, very shiny, and very thin. By sitting on his legs to keep them still, and closing the air holes in his hood for a while to underline the point, I made him understand that struggling was, at this moment, not required. I got the trackies onto him and pulled them up. They were very loose. His cock was completely soft, of course, but that was fine.
I debated whether to cuff his ankles to the bottom corners of the bed or to tie them together again. I felt like I wanted him to be able to struggle, so after putting his socks and combat boots back on him I cuffed them together tightly and ran a longish rope from the cuffs to an anchor point on the floor beyond the bottom of the bed. He’d still be able to move around a lot, but it would hamper him a lot if he got too enthusiastic.
Now his top half. I went back to the wardrobe and took the trackie top that went with the bottoms. It took some time, but by undoing one hand at a time, I managed to get his denim jacket and tee shirt off, and the top onto him. I pulled it down under him and zipped it halfway up so that it still showed his pecs. And he had nice pecs - very little hair on them, but nice, and his golden skin contrasted beautifully with the shiny black trackie top.
I stood back and looked at him. Oh yes. Black and shiny all over, restrained, hooded, and totally helpless. He’d gone quiet again – I guessed he realised there was nothing he could do.
The rage surged in me. I didn’t want him quiet and accepting – I wanted him resisting. I drew my right arm back and punched him in the abs three times in quick succession. He yelled and tried to curl up completely but the rope stopped his feet before he could. He lay groaning and gasping, his body twisted on the bed, his knees pointing to the side.
I pulled the PVCs down, got a butt plug, lubed it and inserted it. That made him struggle and yell. Oh yes. Next I sat on his legs and took his balls in my hand. The instant I touched them he bucked and fought, trying to fling me off him. I squeezed slowly until he stopped that and was yelling in pain, then released them and buckled a cock strap onto him. I pulled the trackies back up.
When he felt me get onto the leather sheet beside him he tried to move away from me. Everything about him – how he’d been standing, how he moved, how he was reacting - told me that his boy was straight. But I was going to get him as horny as fuck, and by doing things he most certainly didn’t want. But they were going to turn him on like fuck anyway. I knew that he would do everything he could to stop that happening, but I also knew that when you work on a boy’s cock he can’t stop it from getting hard. And when a cock gets hard, it gets horny. It’s not about being gay, or about being pervy yourself, it’s purely an involuntary response. It happens and there’s fuck-all you can do about it. I took a bottle of lube, pulled the PVCs away from his stomach and inverted the bottle over his cock and balls. He gasped as the cold lube ran over his tackle and pooled under his thighs in the PVC. Then I started to run my fingers over his body. His hood and the trackie top first, paying particular attention to his nipples on the way – both through it and under it. His nipples were wonderfully sensitive and I played them for a long time, producing everything from moans of what could have been reluctant pleasure to long, drawn-out screams of pain. My fingers stroked, tickled, squeezed, pulled, and twisted them slowly, making his body writhe under me.
Then down to his legs in those shiny, sexy, black PVC trackie bottoms. I’d worn that pair countless times and I knew that he could feel the lightest touch through them, so I teased his legs and thighs with feather-soft fingertips. Apart from when I’d been working on his nipples, he’d been fairly quiet while I was stroking him above the waist - but the moment I started on his legs he began to struggle and swear. And the higher up I got, the closer to his cock, the more violent his fighting became.
Although his ankles were strapped together he could still kick both at the same time, but he couldn’t do it very effectively, and the long rope limited how far he could move them; by staying higher than his waist I could avoid getting hit. But it seemed that the thing he was interested in most of all was keeping his cock – which I hadn’t even got to yet – away from my hands. His urgent struggling took him all over the place: curling up, then straightening out; violently turning away from me, then back again; he even turned completely face down at one point. That was good, I thought – it would re-coat the inside of the front of the trackies and his cock and balls with the lube. But however desperately he tried, wherever he moved, he couldn’t get away from my hands for long. Even when he was face down I could get my teasing fingers under him and still work them up closer and closer to his cock – and I could tell by the sounds he was making that the backs and the insides of his thighs – which I could get at easily - were very ticklish and very erogenous anyway, so I tickled and teased them mercilessly. I could have secured his feet to the bottom of the bed as there are restraint points there as well, but I wanted to see the boy struggling, fighting against what I was doing to him.
My hands had reached the very tops of his thighs now, and I moved my fingers onto his balls. I could feel them slipping and sliding inside the smooth, lubed PVC as I teased them mercilessly. I knew that the strap I’d put onto him would be making both his balls and his cock even more sensitive than usual. His struggling reached a new high at that point and I had to keep getting at them from different directions as he threw himself around. I brought my other hand over as well and stroked his cock. And – partly, no doubt, because of the strap - it was no longer completely soft. He yelled into the hood and threw himself onto his side away from me, trying to get away from my hands, but I followed him and continued to stroke the shaft gently. I squeezed and tickled it tauntingly. At any time I could have held him down with my body weight and wanked him until he came, but I wanted to do everything very slowly so that he could feel himself getting turned on, feel his cock getting harder, and know that he was incapable of doing anything about it in spite of the fact that I was a guy. I wanted him to feel helpless, controlled, and I also wanted him to feel the smooth, shiny PVC against his body.
He was shaking his head and cursing around the gag in the leather hood. I couldn’t hear what he was trying to communicate, but I had a very good idea. It was so horny watching him fighting to get away from my hands, and being unable to do so for long before my fingers found his cock again and resumed teasing it, that I almost came in my jeans right then. Playing those cat-and-mouse games with his cock through that pervy gear was something I was really, really getting off on. I gripped the shaft and slid the slippery black PVC up and down over it, teasing the head with a finger each time. He was exhausting himself with the struggling – that hood doesn’t allow that much air in and out through its small holes, and you can’t get any from around the gag – so he had to slow down to rest occasionally. Each time he did this I took the opportunity to work more precisely on his cock head, finding the sweet spot and rubbing a thumb over it gently. And his cock was getting harder and harder.
But then the struggling and swearing would begin again: he’d resume fighting to keep my hands off it, and it would be back to following his frantic movements and working on it wherever I could get at it, and from whatever direction. I knew the butt plug was helping me from inside him too - it would be making itself felt every time he moved – and that the strap gripping his cock and his balls was making it even more difficult for him to stop himself from getting turned on.
I knelt astride his knees and sat on his legs, my weight keeping them down. Now I could get at his cock perfectly well. He was fully hard and I knew that he was torn between the humiliation and instinct to get away on the one hand, and the increasing desire to cum on the other. The front of the loose black trackies was tented out into a huge triangular bulge, the top of the round cock head clearly visible as it stretched the the thin, shiny PVC. I gripped it with one hand and wanked it slowly along the full length of the shaft, while with the other hand I worked just on the head with my fingertips. He was pulling at the wrist restraints, and I could feel his legs tensing and moving under me, but his struggling was less. I smiled to myself. His cock was winning the battle in his mind.
I got off him and stood looking down at him for a while. I wanted to give him time to go off the boil. By the time I started on him again he’d cooled down a lot and the instinct to struggle and the determination to get away from me reasserted themselves immediately. He writhed on the leather sheet, doing everything he could to get my fingers away from his cock and his balls. I could feel precum in my leather jeans and I knew I was not going to be able to last out much longer.
I rolled him over onto his front – his arms crossed above his head - removed the strap holding his booted ankles together and cuffed them to the bottom corners of the bed.
Then I pulled the PVCs down to his knees, took out the butt plug (another loud yell from him), and got my cock out. I’m not, myself, all that into fucking – I much prefer getting fucked - but I wanted this boy to know that I was controlling him completely. And for a straight, being fucked by another guy’s cock is about as bad as it gets.
He knew exactly what was happening. He yelled and cursed and fought, but he was properly restrained now and he couldn’t do a thing about it. I lubed my cock, pulled his arse cheeks apart and pushed the tip against his arsehole. He went ballistic, shaking his head and swearing into the gagging leather. It was music to my ears and he felt my cock stiffen even more.
I stayed there for a while, letting the realisation of what was about to happen really sink in - and then, with a single firm thrust I drove my cock into him. Oh fuck, that felt good. His head lifted and he screamed in pain – my cock is substantially longer and thicker than that butt plug. I began to fuck him slowly. Very gradually, over a full minute, his head lowered until it was resting sideways on the leather pillow again. His breathing was fast, and his body twitched under me. I knew that the initial pain was gradually subsiding and that he was beginning to become aware of the real feeling of being fucked. I’ve been on the receiving end more times than I can count over the years, and although I don’t fuck guys myself very often, I know the exact techniques for making it either pleasurable or very painful. I was in two minds: part of me wanted to ram into him and hurt the fucker, another part wanted to make him get off on it. I knew that if I rammed into him I’d probably cum immediately, so I came down on the pleasurable side. Although I was getting desperate, I made myself ride him fairly gently, with slow, long strokes, trying to get his prostate at the end of each one.
I must have been doing something right because before long he started to groan quietly and to move with me – not away from each thrust as he had been doing, but into it. I’d been supporting my weight on my elbows so far, but now I lowered myself onto him, making the PVC top crinkle under me. His firm, warm, tight body felt wonderful, and I could feel him much better now. I reached up with one hand and stroked his face through the hood, then sealed the two air holes with my fingertips. His head jerked up and I felt urgent, quick heaves as he tried to inhale but couldn’t. I kept them there for a while, then opened the holes and felt his breath rush out on my palm as he gasped for air. I did it again. And again. I ran the fingers of my other hand over his PVC top and reached under his hips to find his cock. It was rock hard and slippery against the leather sheet with all the lube from when the PVCs had been over it. I held it but didn’t wank him, instead just gripping it gently while I fucked him.
I couldn’t hold out any longer. I felt orgasm approaching so I sealed the hood’s air holes tight and rammed my cock in to the balls. I fucked him fast and hard. My cock exploded and I felt each intense, beautiful contraction as my spunk pumped out into him. He couldn’t breathe. His head shot up again but I kept my fingers sealed over the air holes as I continued to fuck him until my orgasm had ended.
When I released his head the air whistled as he gulped in air. I collapsed on top of him. That had been one good fuck.
The strange thing is that I still felt horny. My cock usually goes soft fairly quickly when I’ve cum, but this time it was still as hard as iron. I pulled out of him, cleaned it, and with great difficulty, managed to get my tight PVC jeans zipped up over it.
I turned him face up again and looked at him. That hood had a panel over the mouth, with the gag on it, and could be removed separately while still leaving him totally blindfolded. I smiled.
For this, I was going to have to edge him. I pulled the loose trackies back up over his hips, emptied more lube into them, and sat astride his head. I reached behind me and found his cock, then started to wank it very slowly, feeling it slipping, sliding and squelching in all the lube.
My fingers were gripping his cock shaft and sliding the loose trackies up and down. I could feel every little bump on his warm, hard cock through the thin PVC. It was a good-sized cock, and the ridge of the corona stopped my fingers at the top of each stroke. He was so horny at the moment that he wasn’t really struggling any more, although his body was tense - as if he suspected that I was going to try to make him cum, and was getting ready to fight again.
I changed the position of my hand. Now I got his cock from above the head, my fingers and thumb gathering the loose PVC and gripping it around the ridge. I slid the PVC over the cock head, closing my fingers over the tip each time. Very slow, very gentle.
He started to moan into the gag and to shake his head slowly from side to side. I knew exactly what was going on in his mind at that moment: he wanted to cum badly, but he knew that I was a guy – and so he was not going to let that happen. But the need to cum was getting worse and worse…
I worked on his cock head, concentrating on his responses and the way his body was moving – I wanted to get him almost to the point of cumming without actually allowing him to do so. After about a minute of this I felt his hips begin to thrust as he tried to push his cock harder into my fingers to get more friction. He was getting nicely close. I slowed my hand and made my grip more gentle but carried on stroking him. His thrusting became gradually more urgent. I moved my fingers to just the very tip of the cock head now, sliding them gently and teasingly over the PVC, tickling it. His moaning was loud, his head moving from side to side. The boy needed to cum.
I let go of him – smiling to myself at the moan of frustration that came from him - unzipped my jeans and got my hard cock out, then unfastened the mouth part of the hood. His lips were very red and he ran his tongue over them when the gag came out from between his even, white teeth. I pushed the end of my cock against his mouth.
It took him a moment before he realised what it was – and then he spat, and jerked away to the side. “FUCK OFF! FUCKING PISS OFF YOU PERVERT! I AIN’T SUCKING NO FUCKING COCK.”
I smiled, and resumed teasing with my fingertips. The threat of my cock at his mouth had re-awakened his need to struggle, but a few moments of working on his cock head a little more firmly brought him under control again, and it wasn’t long before he was back on the edge. I stopped, and put my cock back against his lips. Again he jerked his head away, and he clamped his mouth shut very tightly.
I went back to working on his cock.
This was repeated four times, but by the fifth he’d got the message: if you want relief, you will suck cock. This time, when my fingers stopped, leaving him again just short of cumming, he yelled in intense frustration, and then, reluctantly, parted his lips. I pushed my cock into his mouth, and resumed tickling his cock head. I still had no intention of letting him cum, but I wanted him very close.
I kept my hips still, not thrusting at all. For a while his head remained motionless, nothing moving – but then, as my fingers worked their magic on his cock, teasing it on the edge of orgasm, he began to suck mine. Bit by bit he got more adventurous until, after a few minutes, he was sucking my cock like a fag, and using his tongue. I smiled, and began to thrust into him.
The thought that I’d got this straight boy so that he didn’t know where he was or who I was, hooded, tied down and helpless, in shiny black PVC gear; the feel of his hard, horny cock desperate for release under the thin slippery trackies beneath my fingers; and that I was mouth-fucking him, was turning me on so much that I lost it right there and then. I’d intended to make it last a lot longer but I shot my load into his mouth as he sucked me. I rammed my cock in up to his tonsils as I came. He gagged, and spunk ran down his chin.
I pulled out and re-fastened the mouth piece of the hood. I looked at him again; imagining the sheer humiliation he was feeling: he’d been fucked by a gay pervert, and then he had sucked that pervert’s cock and had swallowed his spunk. There was only one thing left to complete his humiliation – for that gay pervert to make him cum uncontrollably.
I wanted him to get off on being made to cum by another guy more than he’d ever got off on anything in his life before. That, I thought, would be the supreme humiliation for a straight. Might make him think about a few things for a while too. It seemed to me that he’d been struggling even more than I’d have expected, and I began to think that he was actually getting off on the resisting. Ok, then, we’d do it like that.
I unfastened his ankle cuffs, rolled him onto his side, and lay behind him. We were lying on our left sides, and I pressed myself tight against him so that he could feel my still-hard cock inside my jeans against his arse through the thin PVC. I pushed my left arm under him and found his balls, and reached very slowly over his hips with my right hand towards his cock. I could hear everything sliding on slippery lube under the thin PVC.
He’d had time to cool down and regroup a bit since I’d edged him. I knew he could feel my right hand approaching his cock, and he knew what I was going to do – that I was going to make him cum – and that having that done to him - especially in pervy gear like this shiny black PVC - was the final brick in the wall of humiliation. Although his feet were no longer restrained he wasn’t struggling any more at the moment. But I suspected that he would start again shortly: even after all I’d done to him so far, when I actually started to work on his cock I was pretty sure that he would try to resist. He’d gone off the boil again - horny as he still was, he was nowhere near cumming at the moment, and his straight instincts would be there waiting, ready to kick in again in a final attempt to retain some vestiges of dignity and self-control. And if I was right, and he was in fact getting off on resisting, then that also would fuel more struggling.
For a straight, I suspected, being forced to cum helplessly by another guy was almost as bad as being fucked. And being forced to cum in slippery, lubed fetish gear was even worse. But the feel of shiny, smooth stuff like PVC, or rubber, or leather, especially when lubed, is totally irresistible to most cocks – whether they’re straight or gay. I didn’t think for a moment that this boy had the slightest fetish for the gear, but I also knew that the feel of it sliding on his cock it would make his struggle not to cum in another guy’s hands as difficult as possible.
My fingers reached his hard cock and began to play with it. He was shaking his head slowly, and making quiet noises into the hood; I’m sure he was moaning, “no… no… no...” over and over again. But I knew that he was getting more and more horny by the second.
It seemed that he did too. As he got closer, I knew he realised that if he didn’t do something about it very soon, orgasm was only going to be a question of time. As I’d thought he would, he began to struggle again. He tried to get my hand off his cock. Gradually, as he got progressively closer, his struggling became more urgent. As it increased, and became more violent, I gripped his cockhead more and more firmly, and speeded up the moment of my hand to match it.
He could feel orgasm approaching now, and his fighting reached a frantic peak: he knew that if he didn’t get my hands off his cock soon, he would cum. As his body writhed in my gripping arms I pushed my iron-stiff cock bulge against him even harder, teased his balls with my fingers and milked him hard and fast. My hand slid up and down his cock as he twisted and fought to get away from it. Our bodies bounced on the leather sheet – one second I was at the side of him, the next his struggling had pulled me on top of him, then back again – but my grip didn’t waver and I raped his cock, sliding the slippery, lubed PVC over the horny head and rubbing his frenulum to force him to him lose it.
Suddenly his body went rigid – and then he yelled and gave a mighty thrust with his hips, pushing forward into my hand, and I felt the heat of his spunk as it erupted into the thin trackies. I felt the PVC ballooning under my fingers as each individual jet of cum was forced out into them. I gripped him tight and continued to milk him every bit as hard and fast as he came. I counted nine violent contractions before they finally began to slow. My hand slowed too, and I extracted the very last drops of spunk out of him. Even when he’d finished I continued to work on his cock - gently and slowly now - knowing that as the blind heat of orgasm receded, he would become acutely aware that he had been forced to cum by another guy – and that it had been fucking amazing. By not stopping the gentle, slow stroking I was making his humiliation as bad as I possibly could.
He collapsed onto the bed, the air whistling through the holes in the hood. I could tell that that had been one hell of an intense orgasm for him.
He made no complaint as we lay side by side on the bed for a while, one of my arms around him, holding him gently, and the fingers of the other lightly caressing his softening cock.
Eventually I released him, removed the cock strap and got him back into his jeans, but not his underpants; I wanted him to be very aware on the way back of what I’d done to him, and the feel of the rough denim over his cock - together with the extra bottle of lube I’d poured in, and also the feel of his fucked arse - would, I thought, probably do that. I cuffed his wrists behind his back with a cable tie, swapped the hood for a black plastic bag – with the lights out so that he couldn’t see anything while I did it - and took him down to the van.
Again I used a very circuitous route, and parked in the same lay-by where I’d found him. I’d closed the neck of the plastic bag with sellotape just a bit – not enough to make breathing difficult, but enough to make getting it off slightly more tricky, so that I’d be able to drive away before he could. Then, once he could see again he’d find some sharp edge to cut the tie around his wrists – the corner of the litter bin would do it – and that he’d be good to go before very long at all. As for his lube-soaked jeans, well, he might have a problem explaining those.
The last thing I did before I left him was to grab the back of his head, pull it towards me and kiss him through the plastic bag. To my astonishment he kissed me back. Hard. I smiled. In spite of himself, it appeared that the boy had had a good time.
I got into the van and drove off. I felt intensely satisfied.
I’m a sub. I like being tied up and abused. My role in life is to give Tops pleasure. But now and then – just very, very occasionally – I need to release the pressure. It probably won’t happen again for ages.
But when it does, some other poor fucker will suffer.