I'd been popping into the cafe every night after work, for about two months before I first saw him. I worked late, and it was always close to midnight before I bought that first coffee and sat down at my usual table, halfway down, on the left-hand side. My crash helmet went on the seat beside me. The Lorica was right in the middle of the city centre, next to the bus station, only a short bike ride from where I worked. It didn't close until five in the morning, and as well as being a hang-out for drug addicts and minor criminals, it was also used by bikers, and lads who were at a loose end after a late-night rave-up, or who just didn't want to go home. I never picked anyone up from the Lorica – it wasn't that kind of place – I'd just sit and gaze at the boys – and there were usually some very sexy boys to gaze at. After a few weeks some of the regulars started to nod to me, and I even got the occasional smile.
One night a skinhead came in. Late teens, number one cut, Fred Perry shirt with braces, and tight, faded, knocked-about bleachers turned up over black DMs. I watched him as he walked up to the counter, got a coffee, and took it to a table across the room. He wasn't cute, wasn't good-looking at all – but fuck, was he sexy. Those jeans looked like they'd been sprayed onto him, and I couldn't take my eyes off his thighs. He had a slim, tight body, not over-muscled but bulging in all the right places; and he just oozed sex. I desperately wanted to lick him all over. I have a well-developed instinct for self-preservation, however, and so I was careful not to stare at him too openly, or for too long at a time, but from that point on, for me he was the only boy in that cafe.
He was there the following night – and the next. In fact he became just as much a regular as I was. A few times he caught me looking at him, or rather at his thighs (I could see them under the table). The first time this happened, when I looked up to see his eyes on me he frowned, and inspected his crotch to see what I'd been looking at, then returned his gaze to me. But by that time my coffee was taking all my attention. That sort of thing continued to happen occasionally, but he no longer checked his crotch when it did, he just looked away uninterestedly.
It's strange how things happen: I'd lived in the 'village' for a couple of years; even though it's part of the city we call it the 'village' – it's got its own little centre, with a group of shops arranged in a semi-circle facing the 'park' (a triangular piece of grassland about five paces to a side, and containing one tree). The village is some five miles out from the city centre, and so it was a bit of a surprise when I saw the skinhead there one Saturday afternoon. He was sitting on the grass, leaning against the tree, and seemed to be asleep in the sunshine. I parked the bike, walked over and took out my cigarettes. “Want a cig?”
He opened his eyes and looked up at me. There was a short pause as he tried to remember where he'd seen me before, then he nodded and took one. I lit us both and sat down on the grass. “You live round here?”
He grunted and moved his head in the direction of Anders Road. I guessed he had a flat in the tall council block. “I'm in Oxford Road. Number twenty-five. Pop in for a coffee sometime if you're passing.”
He grunted again and closed his eyes. It looked like he was going back to sleep, so with a final, lingering look at his tight bleachers, I ground out my cigarette in the grass and went back to my bike.
Today being Saturday, I wasn't working, so after I'd done my shopping I went home, had a shower, swapped my bike leathers for my tightest, thinnest, sexiest leather jeans and New Rock boots, and settled in for a horny night on the video chat site.
The doorbell rang about nine o'clock. I'd been having a good session with a wickedly pervy guy in Canada and I was as horny as fuck. I ran down the stairs and opened the door. It was the skinhead. He was clutching a carrier bag. “You said there was coffee.”
“Erm... yeah! Come in!”
Back in the living room I shut the computer off and pointed to the settee. “Sit down. Sugar and milk?”
He nodded. “Three sugars.” I went into the kitchen, put the kettle on and spooned coffee and sugar into mugs. When I returned he was leaning forward with his arms on his thighs, looking around. “Nice place,” he said.
“Ta. It's Ok. Been here a while now. What's your name?” I sat down in the chair opposite him. From here I had a wonderful view of those thighs. The inside seams of his jeans were slightly darker blue and I followed them up his legs to a bulge that I was aching to touch.
“Jizz,” he said.
I realised that I was getting hard again, and thought I'd better go and finish the coffee before he noticed. I went back into the kitchen and tried to rearrange things in my jeans so that my erection wasn't quite so noticeable, but the reason I'd put these tight, thin leather jeans on was precisely to make my cock as obvious as possible for the camera on the video chat site. In the end I gave up – wherever I put my cock it showed. Very clearly. And the damn thing was still getting harder by the minute. I chucked the teaspoon onto the draining board and, bulging obscenely, took the mugs back through to the living room. I handed him his and sat down again, with one hand over my crotch. He nodded his thanks, took a sip, then put the mug on the side table. He leant back with his hands behind his head.
“So, what do you do to afford a place like this?” He asked.
“I'm a musician. I work in town. How about you?”
He was silent for a while, then a corner of his mouth lifted. “Oh, this and that.”
The sight of that gobsmackingly sexy boy sitting across from me was making my cock desperate for attention. Although in the kitchen I'd moved it to directly under the zip, to make it as un-noticeable as possible, it had worked its way to the side again and under my hand I could see it thrusting against the thin leather obscenely. There was absolutely no way he could miss it if I moved that hand.
“Got a cigarette?” He asked.
Shit. They were on the table by the computer. I'd have to get up to get them. Then, quiet suddenly, I thought: oh fuck it, let him see. So what? I stood up and fetched the packet, then stood on front of him while he took one and I lit them. This time, when I sat down again, I didn't cover my crotch.
He must have noticed, but he didn't say anything. He lay back on the settee and gazed at me, squinting occasionally with the smoke.
“So, what bike you got?”
“Honda. CBR600.”
He nodded. I had no idea whether he knew what a Honda CBR600 looked like.
We smoked and drank our coffee for a while without saying much, and I went to make another mug. When I got back he was holding the carrier bag. “Do you mind?”
I frowned. “Mind what?”
He indicated the bag. “Glue.”
“Oh.” I'd never seen anyone sniff glue before. “No. Go ahead if you want.”
“Want some?”
I shook my head. “No thanks.”
He smiled slightly, made the end of the bag into a circle in his hand, then put it to his mouth and inhaled deeply. The bag collapsed inwards until it was empty of air. He opened it and repeated the process. Then he put the bag down and looked at me. After a couple of seconds his eyeballs moved upwards until all I could see was the whites, and he fell back onto the cushion. Then he started to slide, very slowly, off the settee. I rushed over to push him back onto it before he fell off completely. I laid his head on the cushion at one end, and lifted his booted feet up so he was lying on his back. His arms flopped helplessly. It was the first time I'd touched him, and a shiver of excitement ran through me. This was my chance. I had no idea how long the effects of glue lasted, but it was bound to be at least for a few minutes, I thought.
I looked at his legs. Those jeans – skintight, faded bleachers. Those thighs, that bulge...
If I wanted to do anything, I told myself, it was going to have to be NOW!
My hand hovered an inch away from his thigh... My heart was racing and my cock was demanding action. But what if he came out of it...?
I gave in. My fingers dropped to his thigh and I traced them up the inside seam of his leg. I could feel the warmth of his body beneath my fingers. Oh fuck, that felt so gooooood. I lowered my head and licked the denim. It smelled of boy. I closed my eyes and breathed it in, and moved my hand up onto his bulge. I could feel his cock – soft, but unmistakeable – under the thin denim. My fingertips ran over the head and I could feel the ridge... My cock jerked at the realisation that he'd got nothing on under those jeans! I checked his face: he was still well out of it, and looked like he would be for some time. Oh fuck – to hell with it. I devoured his legs with my mouth and my hands, rubbing, squeezing, teasing, tickling, licking, sucking. I pushed my hand up between his thighs until it nestled in the warmth of his perineum, and tickled his balls with my fingers while I scraped my teeth over his cock bulge. And that bulge was growing! His cock was getting hard! Was that possible while under the influence of glue? I had no idea – but it was most certainly happening.
My fingers found his zip, and I very carefully pulled it down. I reached in, gripped his cock, and gently worked it out. He was almost fully hard now, and it swung in the air so fucking invitingly. I licked my lips, opened my mouth, and took the entire length into it. I sucked it slowly at first, my lips sliding over the shaft, my tongue teasing the head. Slurping noises filled the room as I worked on that sexy skinhead's cock. I let myself go completely: my hands were all over his body, stroking his abs and pecs, caressing his boots, but always returning to his thighs, feeling his jeans, running up the inside seams, tickling his balls, making love to his tight, sexy skinhead bleachers. Oh god, that was so good...
Suddenly I realised that he was cumming. I concentrated on working on his balls with my hand and on the head of his cock with my mouth as I swallowed repeatedly, trying to keep up with the quantity of spunk that was being pumped out and into my mouth. Then suddenly, as I worked on that wet dream of a boy, my body convulsed as I came in my jeans. I could feel my spunk running down my thigh as it jetted out uncontrollably into the leather. For a few seconds I lost the ability to move, so intense were the convulsions, and then, with a shuddering breath, I regained control of myself. I looked at his face: his eyes were still only whites. Quickly and carefully I put his cock back into his jeans and zipped him up. I'd done it!
I went into the bathroom and cleaned myself up. My leather jeans were soaked with spunk on the inside, and would need proper cleaning later, but for now everything looked Ok.
When I got back to the living room Jizz was sat up again. He had a slight crooked smile on his face. I searched for any indication that he was aware of what had happened, but apart from possibly that smile, I couldn't see any. “Right, I'm off,” he said. I saw him down the stairs and to the front door. “Thanks mate,” he said, and then he was gone.
Back upstairs I collected up the coffee mugs and was about to take them into the kitchen when I saw the carrier bag on the floor under the settee. I picked it up. Glue. I opened it and took a cautious sniff. Nothing. That was odd. I put the coffee cups down and opened the bag properly to look inside. There was glue in there all right – but it was still in its tube, and the tube was brand new, and unopened.