Time in the Asylum was generally bad enough, but it was midday that Brian feared most.
It wasn't actually an asylum in the old sense of being a mental hospital – 'The Asylum' was just what the inmates called the place – but it bore a remarkable resemblance in a large number of ways to those old Victorian hell-holes. On maps, and according to the sign on the gate beyond the long, tree-lined drive, it was the "Burton Wood Rest Home", but in fact very little rest went on within its walls. The mature oaks and sycamores hid a ten-foot-high electrified fence from the view of the few people who passed by on the country lane outside, and the heavily-barred windows in the thick, grey stone walls of the rambling building itself concealed a multitude of questionable equipment and activities.
The Asylum was actually a youth detention centre where very naughty boys were sent by the judicial system when it had run out of other options; when it was obvious that sending them to prison again would serve no purpose. Once inside the Asylum's walls, inmates could be forgotten by society, and there was always hope that the treatment they got there would dissuade them from ever being sent back again.
The place was run by Mr George Banks, a former Governor of Brightside Prison. He'd been relieved of that post some years ago after a scandal involving the birching of inmates, and (allegedly, but strongly denied and never proven) equivocal sexual activities. That scandal had reached a couple of minor newspapers at the time, but the authorities had been forced to realise that the man had got results like none before him had ever done. What had not been made at all public was his subsequent appointment as head of Burton Wood. The man thought he'd died and gone to heaven. He began by getting transferred to the Asylum a staff of warders who shared his own views and predilections, and then instituted a regime carefully designed to make every day a living hell for the prisoners. Relatively unmonitored, The Asylum was his playground, and the boys within its inescapable walls were his prey.
None of the inmates had ever set eyes on Mr Banks - whenever he wanted a personal interaction with an inmate, that inmate was delivered by warders to his suite of rooms straitjacketed and blindfolded, and remained blindfolded (unless other more complicated arrangements had been made) until he was taken back afterwards - usually on a gurney because he could no longer walk.
Humiliation was king at the Asylum. Everything was based on humiliation, and the warders were consummate experts at it. This was why Brian detested midday so much: that was when he was milked, and those milkings got to him more than anything else at the place did. The warders were continuously on the lookout for inmates with weaknesses or susceptibilities, and pounced on any they could use. Apart from the birching, bastinado, and other forms of beating so beloved of Governor Banks, isolation, sensory deprivation, sadistic tickle torture – and many even more creative techniques – were used on inmates if it were discovered that they had a special fear or weakness for them.
Brian was a painfully shy boy, and found it difficult to talk about anything remotely personal. Unfortunately for him, though, he was both hunky and good-looking, and there were two warders in particular – Mr Andrews and Mr Simson – who liked fit boys very much indeed.
Most of the inmates - the less sexually attractive ones - weren't milked at all; they were given drugs instead to reduce their testosterone levels and to make them more compliant - but the more interesting ones were milked twice a day, every day, simply because it was humiliating for the boys, and fun for the warders.
The milkings were usually carried out in a boy's cell: two warders would arrive, one would stand impassively inside the cell, by the door, while the boy stripped off his regulation yellow jumpsuit and trainers, lay down on the bed and allowed the second warder to wank him off. It was no big deal, and it was usually over fairly quickly. But Brian had found the idea of forced milkings unbearably embarrassing. He'd fought and struggled and had had to be held down for them. The warders were quick to pick up on this, and word reached Andrews and Simson quickly. They took over Brian's supervision, and the quest to find ways to make his milkings as transcendentally humiliating as humanly possible became a vocation for them.
They had tried lots of different techniques: they'd strapped him down and milked him naked; they'd milked him in a straitjacket; they'd got the smallest, ugliest, most puny kid in the place to milk him… all of which had been successful to a point, but none of these had been quite right: the trouble was that Brian had very good self-control: he could always hold out and stop himself from cumming for far too long. What was needed was something that would make him lose that control easily, quickly, in spite of anything he could do to prevent it. Once they found that, it would be they who could decide when he came, helplessly, into their milking hands – and then what they really wanted was to milk him in full view of all the other inmates. Given this boy's mortifying shyness, that would be perfect: it would be total and complete humiliation.
They thought they'd found it one day when they were using an old leather hood on him – it dated from long ago but there'd been none of the canvas ones left in the locker – and he'd lost control much more quickly than usual. Andrews had found this interesting, and he'd been delighted when a persuasive conversation with the boy's cellmate Curt had eventually revealed that he thought that Brian had a huge fetish for leather. Brian had been known to talk in his sleep, apparently. Curt had been suitably rewarded for this information, and had been moved to a different part of the building. Andrews had smiled to himself; now, thanks to Curt, milking Brian might turn out to be much more interesting, he thought.
Many arrangements were made.
Brian snarled as he heard the booted footsteps approaching his cell. He would have wanked himself dry so that he had nothing left for them, but they'd thought of that and they cuffed him spread-eagled to the bed every night so that he couldn't.
Since Andrews and Simson had taken an interest in him, unlike the others, Brian was only milked once every other day, at twelve noon. But on those days the torment started for him immediately after breakfast at eight o'clock in the morning.
The booted footsteps stopped outside his cell, the key turned in the lock, and the heavy door swung inwards to reveal the two warders Andrews and Simson. At Burton Wood the warders' usual uniform was black serge jackets and trousers, but these two had reasoned that something slightly more suggestive might have a productive effect on this boy – so when they were dealing with Brian they wore sprayed-on black muscle shirts, combat boots, and bulging, shiny black leather jeans with studded belts. At the ends of their bare, muscular arms, their hands were encased in tight black leather gloves, the fingers flexing wickedly in anticipation.
Brian groaned as his cock grew erect at the sight. It was the same every time, and there was fuck-all he could do to stop himself getting hard. Black leather exerted a hold over him that he could do nothing about - had done for as long as he could remember. He'd bought a motorbike years ago simply so that he had an excuse to wear leather most of the time.
The warders came in and locked the door behind them. "Good morning Bates," said Andrews, the more senior one, "time to get started."
Brian always tried to look elsewhere, but their heavy studded belts drew his eyes like magnets to the well-packed leather bulges below them. "Good morning Mr Andrews, good morning Mr Simson," he muttered sulkily. If the rules had not required a polite reply he would have said fuck-all to the bastards.
They released him from the cuffs and frogmarched him to the bathroom down the corridor where they stood and watched him blatantly as he used the facilities, to make sure he didn't wank. He always stared at the floor to avoid their gaze, face glowing red with embarrassment. When he was showered and dry, they handcuffed his wrists to theirs and, walking with him between them, took him via deserted back corridors to one of the rooms in the building which housed specialist equipment.
In the centre of the room was a long padded restraint table but, as always, Brian's eyes went with dreadful fascination straight to what was lying on it: a black leather body bag, its empty folds glinting wickedly in the light. The warders unlocked the handcuffs, slid the butt plug into his arse, and manhandled the boy into the bag. The inside of it was shiny leather as well and, as always, a thrill of pure fetish lust ran through him as his body slid into the cool, smooth interior. When his arms had been inserted into the internal closed sleeves and the bag had been zipped closed over him, only his head was left exposed - every other square inch of his skin was in contact with leather. They fastened the collar, and strapped his encased body down to the table.
Simson lifted his head and pulled a double-sided black leather mask down over it, tightening the small straps at the sides so that it pulled hard across his face. A leather gag went into his mouth (they usually had to hold his nose to make him open it so they could insert the gag). Now, the only parts of him not covered with leather were his eyes.
Above the table, pointing down, was a large television monitor. For the next hour he was forced to watch meticulously detailed recordings which showed the later stages of the previous times he'd been worked on. For Brian, this was excruciatingly humiliating. But it was also intensely horny; however hard he willed himself not to watch, he couldn't tear his eyes from the screen.
Later the warders returned. They carefully parted the zip fastener over his crotch, and got his balls and his hard, precum-dripping cock out. They cushioned the teeth of the zip tracks with wide strips of leather, and closed it again as far as it would go, so that his genitals stuck out, isolated and accessible. Then they went to work on him slowly with lubed, slippery, leather-gloved fingers.
If that had been the milking, it would have been bad enough. Brian tried everything he could to make his cock go soft, to stop himself from responding to their teasing, tickling, stroking and caressing – but his traitorous cock would not obey him. It jutted into the air, thrusting itself eagerly into their leather hands as they slid up and down the shaft slowly while fingertips tickled his balls unbearably sexily.
But he knew this was not the milking. It was just the preparation, to make his later humiliation all the more exquisite.
Their heavy leather creaked as the warders moved, their muscular thighs smooth and shiny beneath the polished black leather of their skintight jeans. The outlines of their hard cocks were clearly visible as they worked sadistically and frustratingly on him. He was helpless to resist. Occasionally one of them would clamp a leather-gloved hand over his masked face – cutting off his air, or forcing him to breathe poppers. When the glove covered his eyes he was plunged into total blackness and became even more acutely aware of the feel of leather all over his naked body inside the bag; it also made what they were doing to his cock and balls more intense. The poppers controlled his mind: reducing his ability to concentrate, to fight against what those two men in horny leather jeans were doing to him; they made it impossible for him to stop himself from getting insanely horny.
Over the months Andrews and Simson had got to know Brian very well. They knew what worked on him and what didn't, and most importantly they knew what made him need to cum very badly indeed. They could make him struggle, or moan, or beg, or make him hump his hips so that the butt-plug rode in and out inside him, and with just a few careful and precisely-timed strokes they could get him to the very edge of orgasm, again and again. And they took great satisfaction in doing all of these things.
This torment went on for hours. The videos had stopped long ago, but Brian was no longer thinking about them. He was in his own world of sexual torment, his eyes fixed to the two guys in their combat boots, tight muscle shirts and those fucking incredibly horny, lickable leather jeans as they edged him out of his mind. The warders would bend down frequently and whisper into his ear:
Andrews: "Getting horny, boy? Wanna cum?"
Simson: "Want me to stroke my skintight leather jeans over your horny cock?"
Andrews: "Only us three know what's going on here. The rest of the boys have no idea. And you can't tell them, can you?"
Simson: "We'll make you lose control in seconds, boy. Like we always do…"
Andrews: "Do you know what the other boys call you? 'Hair-Trigger Bates'. Ha!"
Brian tried to ignore the jibes, but they got to him. They got to him big time. His face was red under the leather mask.
They continued working on him until half past eleven. Then they took the mask off him, released him, carefully cuffing his hands so that he couldn't reach to make himself cum, and returned him, naked and with his desperate, precum-dripping cock leading the way, through the back corridors to his cell so that none of the other inmates ever saw him being taken away or being returned.
Back in his cell, Simson stood behind him holding him tightly. Brian was acutely aware of the guy's leather jeans against the backs of his legs.
On the wall of the cell was a locked, floor-length plexiglass case. In it, displayed as a constant, humiliating reminder to the boy, was a leather gag; a black canvas hood like the ones that the institution used on the inmates as a matter of course – although completely opaque, they were light-weight and loose, and were just pulled down over a boy's head to make him easier to control when he was being moved from place to place – and one of the yellow jumpsuits that were regulation wear for the inmates.
Andrews took the gag, forced it between Brian's teeth and fastened it securely.
Next came the jumpsuit. From the outside it looked identical to all the others, but the inside of this one had been specially lined with shiny black leather. Brian's cock left a trail of precum on it as the warders watched him put it on. He closed his eyes as the sexy leather slid up his naked body. Andrews smiled evilly as he coated the inside of the crotch with lube, then pulled the zip closed up to the neck. He stood back and inspected the boy, then nodded – there was no way to guess that it wasn't one of the usual jumpsuits.
The canvas hood too was not as it appeared: it was lined with leather as well. A narrow flap, also with leather on the inside, fastened with Velcro over the eyes.
Brian could hear Simson's jeans creaking as the man's muscular arms held him while Andrews pulled the hood over his head. As it settled into place he felt the sexy coolness around his face, and when the flap was fastened to blindfold him, it completed the black leather enclosure of his entire body. From the outside Brian looked no different to any of the other inmates, but the cunningly hidden leather inside the suit and the hood immediately began to work on him. The edging torment had made him as horny as fuck and his cock was as hard as iron as it slid against the lube-slippery leather interior of the crotch.
Andrews and Simson handed him over to two other, conventionally dressed, warders who marched him down towards the main hall.
Even the movements of his body as he walked between them in the leather-lined jumpsuit continued the edging: he knew he'd be able to cum if only he could hump the suit for a few moments, but they were careful to give him no opportunity to do that. But as he walked, the feel of his cock sliding inside the suit kept him frustratingly close.
They took him onto the stage and restrained him facing the empty hall.
At twelve o'clock the doors opened and all the inmates were herded in - each one hooded and with his wrists cuffed behind his back. When their hoods were removed they all took their places on the long forms set out for them, although some - the ones who had been birched or who had had CBT, or other painful treatments, used on them - had difficulty sitting down. As always, there quickly developed a general air of expectancy; this ritual humiliation of Brian Bates was a welcome break for the boys, and good – if usually brief – entertainment. They placed bets with each other on how long he would last today.
Brian had been strapped to a St. Andrew's Cross in the centre of the low stage. Through the hood he could hear taunts and jeering insults coming at him non-stop from the other boys.
"Gonna hold out today Brian? No fucking chance, faggot!"
"Look at that cunt's fucking hard-on. Can't wait to feel a guy's fingers on his cock."
"Which of the screws d'ya fancy then? Eh?"
"Master Bates! Master Bates! Master Bates!"
One of the warders quietened everyone down. "Shut the fuck up!" There was instant silence.
The door at the end of the hall opened, and two more warders entered. As always, it was Andrews and Simson. The assembled boys had only ever seen them in the black serge uniforms they were wearing now; they had no idea that the two warders worked on Brian's helplessly leather-restrained body every other day, and even less that they wore muscle shirts and kinky black leather jeans while they were doing it.
The warder standing by Brian unfastened the Velcro and removed the flap from over the boy's eyes, making sure that the audience couldn't see the leather inside it.
Brian was eternally grateful that the hood concealed the redness of his face. He closed his eyes yet again at the sight of all the other inmates staring at him. His cock, which had been as hard as steel until a moment ago, was visibly softening with acute embarrassment before the eyes of the mocking audience. However many times they did this to him it never got easier – in fact it got worse every day.
Andrews and Simson walked very slowly, side by side, towards the captive boy. His eyes opened at the sound of their footsteps – he was incapable of not watching them. He couldn't stop himself from thinking about what they looked like in those black muscle shirts and horny leather jeans when they worked on him in the mornings. He knew exactly what was coming – and in the time it took them to get to him, his cock had risen again to rock-hardness. It tented the front of the loose jumpsuit out as the head slid and then pushed against the hidden, lubed leather inside. The warders both smiled slowly as they saw his eyes riveted to their skintight black leather gloves. Oh fuck, the sight of them made him need to cum.
They stood on each side of him. Carefully Andrews undid the bottom of the zip and extracted the boy's cock and balls. Cheers went up from the audience at the sight of it. Slowly and deliberately, in full view of Brian, the warder poured lube onto his finger. He rubbed the finger and thumb together, the black leather glove glistening in the light, then took Brian's cock between them at the base, making sure everyone could see exactly what he was doing.
He whispered into the boy's ear so that no-one else could hear. "Feel that leather all over you, Brian? On your cock? It's gonna make you cum - and there's fuck all you can do about it."
Simson stepped forward and gently enclosed Brian's balls in his leather-gloved hand, as, very very slowly, Andrews slid the finger and thumb up and down the hard cock.
As he always did, Brian fought with himself like fuck not to cum, not to give these fuckers the satisfaction. He commanded his body not to respond to the slippery leather sliding along his cock. But the bastards had spent all morning edging him, and apart from over his eyes, leather was touching his entire body. Shiny, horny black leather that he could feel every time he moved, and every time the hood clung to his face when he breathed in.
But nobody else could see it. None of the boys watching him knew that he had an overpowering fetish that the bastards used against him every fucking time to make him the laughing stock of the place. None of them knew that he'd been edged insane for hours before this, or that there was leather sliding irresistibly over his naked skin. And he was gagged so he couldn't tell them.
The fingers stroked over the head, and he gave himself up to the irresistible, indescribably horny, black leather all over his body, and to Andrews' milking leather fingers. He came, helplessly.
His face went crimson under the hood. The fucking cunts had done it again. As always, he was mortified. His eyes shut tight in unbearable humiliation, his body convulsed in the restraints, and spunk arced into the air as mocking cheers went up from the crowd.
The boys were catcalling, whistling, making wanking movements with their hands. "You got no fucking control."
"You give guys a bad name, Bates."
"Twenty-to-one he doesn't last ten seconds tomorrow."
"Hair-trigger Bates!"
Brian's head shot up, his eyes flaming. For a brief moment his shyness left him completely and he yelled into the gag. "I do have control! These fuckers edge me for hours before this! I've got a fetish and they use it against me! There's leather all over me right now , for fuck's sake!"
But he knew that the gag would reduce his shouts to unintelligible grunts that nobody could understand. As far as they were concerned an inmate in a canvas hood and a yellow jumpsuit had been made to cum with just a couple of strokes of a finger and a thumb by a warder nobody in their right mind could possibly fancy.
And Brian knew that the day after tomorrow they would do it all again. The bastards would wear those sexy black leather jeans and boots and muscle shirts and gloves that they knew made him so fucking horny, and they'd get him strapped him down on the table with black leather all over him and they'd very carefully use it to make him long for orgasm so badly that he would sell his soul to be allowed to cum.
And at mid-day he would cum – again – right here, in front of everybody.
And they'd probably make him lose it even quicker than they had done today.
He'd often imagined telling the other boys what the warders did to him, exactly why he couldn't control himself. But he knew he could never bring himself to do that; if the other boys knew that he had a leather fetish it would be more humiliation than he could bear. It would be even worse than this.
One of the inmates had been assigned spunk clean-up duty, and he shook his head in disgust as he walked past Brian.
Hair-trigger Bates.
With what they did to him, that's exactly who he was.