I’d noticed a while ago that the ‘For Sale’ sign next door had gone, but I’d missed the new neighbours moving in; it must have been when I was away in Holland at the weekend. But it wasn’t long before I met them - at least one of them. It was in the afternoon on one of the sunniest days we’d had this year; I’d just got back from a spin on the bike, and was making a cup of tea in the kitchen. There was a knock on the front door. I answered it to find a boy in full football kit admiring my motorbike on the drive. “Hi”, I said.
“Oh hi. Nice bike!”
The appearance of cute boys in football kit on my doorstep is not a frequent occurrence, but I can tell you that it’s very nice when it happens. “Thanks. yeah, it is a nice bike.” There was a pause. Eventually I asked, “What can I do for you?”
His expression became sheepish. “I wonder if I could have my ball back please?”
“Your ball? Where is it?”
“Erm… it’s in your garden.” His eyes weren’t meeting mine - they were looking slightly lower, and I thought this was because of guilt, or shyness - but then he said, “nice leathers.”
I glanced down at my leather jeans. “Thanks.” I looked up at him again; he really was very cute. About sixteen or seventeen, slim, smooth-muscled, and very boyish. “Well, let’s go and have a look round the back then.”
He smiled, and ran off.
The football was resting under a small plum tree that has never, in living memory, borne any fruit. I picked it up and carried it to the fence that separates our properties. He looked expectantly at me, but I didn’t hand him the ball straight away. I directed my gaze to his shorts. “You should be careful where you kick that ball - there are people who might want something in return from a boy for giving it back…” I let my eyes rise slowly to his face, and smiled at him, then handed him his ball.
He continued to look at me for a few moments, then grinned and ran off down the garden. “Thanks,” he shouted.
I watched him for a while, then went back inside to finish making my tea.
The next time it happened, the ball missed my head by inches. I was mowing the lawn. He appeared at the fence. “Sorry…”
I turned the mower off and looked at him.
“Do you always wear leathers?” He was sort of frowning and smiling at the same time. I suppose it’s a bit unusual to see a guy mowing a lawn in tight leather jeans and bike boots.
“Yes. I like leather.”
The frown went away but the smile stayed.
“I suppose you want your ball back.”
I turned my head and looked up at the top floor of my house. “You see the right-hand end of the house there?” “Yeah…”
“I have a special room in there full of gear for dealing with boys like you. If that ball comes over here again, you might find yourself in that room. You have been warned.”
His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open.
I just looked at him, then gave him the ball.
He closed his mouth, and swallowed. “Erm, thanks.” He gave the ball a kick towards his house and followed it, a little more slowly than before.
I was away most of the following day, but when I got back in the afternoon, as I was making coffee, I saw the football through the kitchen window. It was lying on the lawn. I went out, picked it up, and took it upstairs into the playroom. I had a shower and changed into my bike boots, leather jacket and the tightest leather jeans I owned, then headed back downstairs. The knock on the door came just as I got to the bottom. “Hello again,” I said.
He was looking decidedly impish. “Can I have my ball back, mister?” The urchin accent was not good.
“Yes, you can, but you’ll have to get it yourself.” I said. I paused for a moment, then added, “it’s upstairs.” I opened the door further and closed it behind him. I sent him in front of me, and we climbed the two flights. His white shorts were exactly at my eye level as we went up the stairs; they hugged his round bum, and I watched their legs alternately opening and closing against the smooth skin of his inner thighs as he went before me. At the top, I told him it was the room straight in front of us. He opened the door, went in, and stopped in his tracks, looking around in disbelief.
The playroom is impressive even to guys who are experienced in such things - to an innocent teenage boy it must be very scary or fascinating, probably both. It’s full of equipment designed to keep the guys who visit me regularly helpless and horny: among the gear in there is a restraint table, a cage, a suspension hoist, an ‘A’ frame, a sling, and two floor-to-ceiling wooden posts for spread-eagling. The shelves and hooks around the black walls have ropes, chains, straps, leather hoods, blindfolds, gags, feathers, rubber gloves and other stuff on them, and there is a motorised dentist chair at the far end - fitted with black leather straps to look as sinister as possible.
“Jesus…” He breathed.
I said nothing, just watched him as he gazed around the room in silence for a long time.
“Your ball’s over there on the restraint table. Help yourself.”
Slowly, still looking around, he went to the padded table and picked up his ball. Then he turned, and walked back towards me and the door. His gaze drifted down to my leather jeans, where he saw I had a hard-on. His face reddened slightly, and he took a step out of the door. Then he stopped, paused, and turned back towards me. In a hesitant voice, he asked, “wh- what does it feel like to be tied up in there?”
I waited for a couple of heartbeats, then asked, “want to find out?” I could see he was torn between wanting to find out and wanting to be safe. I let him think about it.
I smiled at him. “Come here.” I walked to the two vertical posts. “Stand between them.” He put the football on the floor and let me position him. Leather wrist and ankle cuffs were already attached by clips to the posts. I took his left arm and raised it, then buckled a cuff around it. The same with the other one. Then his feet, pushing them wide apart to reach the cuffs.
“You won’t hurt me, will you?”
I smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.” I took a hood from the shelf and showed it to him. “I’m going to put this over your head.”
“So that you can’t see anything. Makes you feel helpless.” I opened the loose leather hood and pulled it down, gave him a moment for him to realise that he could still breathe without difficulty, and then clamped my hand over his eyes, pulling his head back against my shoulder and holding the black leather tight against his face so that he could really feel it. He struggled in panic for a moment, but then relaxed again.
“But why do you tie someone up like this?”
I whispered close to where his ear was under the leather, “so that they can’t escape, can’t see, can’t get away from my hands…”
“But what do you do to them?”
“I do things that turn them on - and turn me on.”
I stood behind him, and gently embraced him, making sure he could feel my leather jacket and jeans on his bare arms and legs. I leaned close to his head. “How does it feel to be helpless? I could do anything I liked to you right now and you couldn’t do a thing to stop me.” I let him think about that for a moment, then I stepped back again and ran my fingers down the sides of his body: from his armpits down over his shirt to his hips, then on down the outsides of his legs to his football-booted ankles. At the first touch, he yelled in surprise - it tickled - and struggled again. But this time I wanted him to know that he couldn’t stop me. My hands stroked round the backs of his ankles, then I knelt down behind him, and ran my fingers slowly up his calves and thighs, using both hands, and working first on one leg and then on the other, unpredictably. By the time I got to his shorts he was giggling uncontrollably. I stopped for a moment, then, using just one hand, slipped it under the leg of his shorts and moved it slowly and teasingly up his thigh. He desperately tried to close his legs together to keep my hand out - his knees buckled and he was yelling with ticklish laughter. I tickled the inside of his thighs, right at the top, for a while, being very careful not to touch his balls. Even so, his yelling, having gone up the best part of an octave when my hand went up his shorts, now also had elements of something else: animal lust. My cock was as hard as steel in my jeans - having my hand up the shorts of a helpless, struggling, cute teenage boy in football kit is something I fantasise about very often. And right now I was actually doing it. Life doesn’t get much better than this, I thought.
For a couple of minutes I worked on the tops of his inner thighs, following his movements as he struggled, letting him know he was helpless to stop me or to get away from my fingers. By standing on tiptoe in the restraints he’d almost managed to get his knees together, and I made sure he could feel my leather-jacketed arm between his bare legs. Then I pulled my hand out.
“Ok. Now you know what it feels like to be tied up.” I removed his hood.
“Fuck… fuck…” He was breathing hard, and I knew he was as horny as hell and even tough I hadn’t touched his balls or his cock, he wanted to cum.
I smiled to myself, freeing him from the restraints, picked his ball up and handed it to him. “Like I said, be careful where you kick that. You never know what might happen to a boy in a strange biker’s house…”
It was very clear that he didn’t want to leave, but I led the way down the stairs and stopped by the front door. “You might want to cover that up until it goes down,” I said, nodding to the erection tenting his shorts.
He looked down and blushed. Then, with a final long look into my eyes, he ran off, holding the football over his crotch.
Having been one myself not too long ago, I know that teenage boys have rapacious appetites for sex; that they have unbounded curiosity about it; that they are exquisitely sensitive and responsive; and also that - being inexperienced and untrained in self-control - it is ridiculously easy to make them cum. I also knew that he was undoubtedly wanking at this very moment over what had happened upstairs. I went back into the playroom and did exactly the same thing.
The next day was almost a repeat of this one - the ball came into the garden, I took him upstairs - but this time, after I’d got him spreadeagled and hooded, I took the trolley that stands against the wall. It’s a low platform on castors - the sort of thing mechanics use to slide under cars to work underneath them. I hadn’t used it for ages. From the shelf I took a long, curved feather, and a spring clothes pin, then got down onto the trolley. I pushed myself forwards until I was lying between the boy’s legs, looking up at his crotch. His hard cock was pushing the front of his shorts out into a perfect pyramid. Carefully, I pulled one leg of the shorts away from the inside of his thigh, and inserted the feather into the opening. Sighting along the feather, I made sure it didn’t touch his skin at all until it got to his balls - and then I used it to tickle them. Being hooded, he’d had no idea what I was doing, and as soon as the feather made contact he screamed and tried to close his knees together to keep that tickling feather out, but the restraints - along with the presence of my body between his legs - made that quite impossible, and I continued to work on his balls with the tip of the feather while he struggled like a mad thing to get away from it. I moved the point across his balls, using the curve of the feather to get behind them and into the darkness at their sides. He was going ballistic, and hanging from his wrists now, his knees moving wildly, but I had no difficulty keeping the leg of the shorts open and the feather working on his most sensitive spots. I tickled his balls and his perineum mercilessly.
After a while, I moved the feather and began working on the shaft of his cock. I could only see the lower half of it, but I made the feather stroke up and down the shaft, and from side to side as far as I could reach. I worked slowly upwards until the shorts stopped me from going any higher. When I’d moved the feather from his balls to his cock his yells of ticklishness changed to something altogether different. It was clearly still tickling him a great deal, but there was more than that: it was as if the noises he was making were the involuntary, unconscious by-products of extreme concentration. He was focussed absolutely on his cock and what I was doing to it.
I could do with a free hand, I thought, so I picked up the clothes pin from the floor and used it to clip the inner legs of his shorts together. Because his legs were spread so wide, this made a couple of permanent openings I could work up, and I didn’t need to hold it with my other hand. I resumed teasing the shaft of his cock with the feather, and slowly put my left hand up the other leg, tickling his inner thigh. My fingertips found his balls, and I stroked them lightly while the feather was doing its work on his cock through the other leg opening. I was being very careful indeed - I wanted to make sure he couldn’t cum today, but I also wanted to make him need to cum very much indeed. So I used all my not inconsiderable skill to that end. I tickled and teased his balls, stroked and caressed his desperately horny teenage cock, always watching him and listening to him very carefully for the slightest signs that he was going to cum. I also used the shorts themselves, moving the legs, pulling them gently from side to side to move his cock, to remind him exactly how much he was being invaded by my hands and the feather.
That, I thought, was enough for now. I withdrew the feather, removed the clothes pin, stood up, and pulled off his hood.
Again, although he didn’t yet actually have the courage to ask me, his eyes pleaded with me to finish him off, to make him cum. I just smiled at him knowingly. I was quite aware that if I released him from the restraints immediately, his hand would go straight to his cock and he’d be shooting his spunk in seconds flat, so I left him there to cool down for a few minutes before I let him go. He tried to make excuses to stay, but I gently pushed him out of the door and sent him off with his football.
I intentionally avoided him for the next couple of days - I wanted his need to grow a bit. I’d seen him kick the ball over the fence a couple of times and, when that had got no response, climb over and collect it. On the third day I was sunbathing in the garden (in just leather jeans and boots - which is almost naked for me) when the football landed squarely on my stomach. It surprised the hell out of me, and when I saw him looking over the fence I pretended to be annoyed. “Upstairs!” I ordered.
He climbed into my garden and I marched him up to the playroom, collecting my leather jacket on the way and putting it on. This time, I thought, it would be the restraint table. I told him to take everything except his shorts off, and when he’d done that I made him lie down on the padded surface. I cuffed his wrists and ankles to the corners of the table, and then, instead of hooding him, I put on my black leather mask. The mask is intimidating: the eyes and mouth are shaped to give it an expression of disturbingly sadistic pleasure. I wanted him to come to associate that mask with punishment.
“Wh - what’s that for? It’s scary.”
I didn’t answer him. Instead, I climbed up onto the table and sat astride his hips. I could feel his cock, already hard, pressing into my perineum. The boy stared in nervous fascination up at this masked leather fiend who had got him tied down and who was going to do - what? - to him. He had no idea what was coming.
“This is for hitting me with the football..” I leaned forward, quickly pushed my fingers into his armpits, and started to tickle him. He instantly clamped his elbows tightly to his sides, trapping my tickling fingers in his armpits, and screamed, but I wasn’t worried: soundproofing the playroom was one of the first things I’d done when I’d moved in. After a few moments I transferred my fingers - and more to the point, my thumbs - to his sides. He was yelling and bucking under me, but my weight kept him from moving very far. I worked on his ribs, his abs, and kept returning to his armpits and his sides which, as with most guys, were by far his biggest weakness. I tickled him for quite a while like this, and I was loving every minute of it. He was hyperventilating, struggling like fuck, and screaming fit to bust.
Eventually I climbed off the table, let him recover for a while, then directed my attention to his feet. Turning away from him, I inserted his left ankle between the tops of my leather-jeaned thighs and gripped it there tightly. Using both hands, I began to run my fingernails over the sole. He yelled, kicked, and pleaded, but he couldn’t get me off his foot, nor was his kicking a problem through the leather of my jacket and jeans. His foot was pressing against my hard cock bulge and every time he moved his foot, it got me more and more horny. I caused him to move it a lot - and I only stopped when I knew I was dangerously close to cumming.
I repeated this with the other foot, and I noticed that in between the kicking, he was running the bare sole of his free foot over the back of my jeans and jacket. I smiled to myself. Then I stood and looked at him. He was breathing hard, and sweating. I’d expected his cock to be quite soft after that tickling - but it was as hard as a rock in his shorts. I shook my head in wonder.
Enough hard tickling. I took off my mask. Time for some softer work. I hooded him, then went to work on his legs, stroking the outsides, the fronts and the insides of his thighs, working my way slowly upwards. I wasn’t trying to tickle him - though he did giggle a lot, especially when I got close to his shorts - I wanted to get him horny. Very, very horny. I teased the golden skin, running my fingertips lightly over his increasingly erogenous zones, getting closer and closer to where his thighs disappeared under his shorts - but as frustratingly slowly as I possibly could. I worked on him like this for some time, getting him more horny by the second.
Gently, I reached up the leg of his shorts, wrapped my fingers around the base of his cock, and pulled it out of the leg, lifting the shorts over it. I loved the way that every time my hand went inside his shorts he gasped. The tension of the shorts held his cock pointing directly at me. The head - which I had yet to touch - was glistening with a film of precum. It was time, I decided, for some serious edging. I brought feathers, lube, and black rubber gloves from the shelves and placed them on the table where I could get at them easily. Then, pulling up a stool, I sat down at the side of the table, rested my elbows on the padded surface, and prepared myself for some very precise and careful work on his cock.
First, I took a particularly soft feather and stroked it slowly all over the shaft, right up to where the head began, using another feather on his balls at the same time, but too slowly to tickle him. When I started doing this he began to moan quietly inside the hood. The moans increased markedly when I changed to a stiffer feather for his cock. As the point and the edge of the feather stroked over the shaft, his cock jerked upwards repeatedly, and more precum oozed out of the tip. I knew he desperately needed the head of his cock working on, but I wanted to make him wait for that. I used all kinds of things on him: the edge of a piece of tissue paper; small, soft brushes; the leather feather (a feather-shaped piece of stiff black leather with a sharp point); and my fingertips. I encircled the shaft and stroked up and down infuriatingly slowly and lightly, I teased it, blew on it, licked it. For some time I’d been very close to cumming in my jeans - working on this boy was the horniest thing I’d done for a very long time.
Now it was time for the cock head. He was circumcised, and the purple head had been demanding my attention for ages. I chose a medium-soft feather and, holding the base of his cock with the fingers of one hand, I stroked it gently - just once - over the head. His body arched, and he moaned in pure ecstasy. His hips thrust forward, trying to push his cock head into my fingers - but they were no longer there. I gave him a few seconds to cool down, then repeated the procedure. The results were the same. I released the base of his cock and picked up the second feather, then tickled his balls with it while at the same time stroking the first one over the head of his cock. His moaning increased rapidly and I stopped immediately, before he could cum. That had been very close. He screamed in frustration and need, and banged his arse repeatedly against the padded leather table. Carefully, I got him to the edge again, and once more I stopped before he was able to shoot. He was on the very edge, and I was beginning to be able to read his responses and noises - that is the secret to edging, as it’s one of the very few ways you can tell how close a victim is. His frustration was increasing each time I got him to the edge, and I knew that it would take less each time to push him over the chasm into orgasm. But I wanted to get him even closer.
The thing about teenagers is that they don’t know that they can be edged - they’ve never thought about the possibility of being made to need to cum more urgently than they’re capable of imagining, but also to be intentionally prevented from achieving that one thing they need more than anything. It’s something completely outside of their experience. But this boy was learning exactly how insanely frustrating - and how insanely horny - edging could be.
For a long time I worked on his cock with all the sadistic skill and precision I was capable of, repeatedly bringing him to the edge and then stopping, and soon I was able to get him very easily to the point where a single touch on the head would have pushed him irresistibly over the edge into the orgasm he craved with every nerve in his body. His muscles were tensed, he was holding his breath, he knew that this time, this time he would cum. There was no question about it. But again I stopped just that little bit too soon, and left his cock stabbing the air, desperate for something - anything - to touch it. He screamed in frustration. It was so unfair to use a boy’s need to cum against him. It was pure, unbearable torture - and each time I did this I felt a rush of pure sadism.
I put the feathers and other items back on the shelf, and waited until he’d gone off the boil, then I carefully put his cock back into his shorts. I unfastened his ankle restraints, attached a two-foot rope to each, and refastened them to the table. This was so that he could struggle, and close his legs together. From the shelf next to the feather I took a long, black, shiny rubber glove. I put it on, and stroked the cold rubber along his thigh. “You feel that rubber glove?”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“That long, shiny black rubber glove has one single purpose. Any idea what that purpose is?”
He shook his hooded head.
“I’ll give you a clue. It’s called ‘The Milker’.”
He shook his head again. Oh the innocence of youth, I thought.
“It makes helpless, struggling boys cum.”
I saw him swallow.
“Now, listen very carefully. Do you like being in this room?”
He nodded his head.
“Good. Do you ever want to come back into this room again?”
For a few moments he was still incapable of speech. Finally, he breathed, “Oh fuck yes. Yes. Please…”
“Ok. Well, you can - if you don’t let me make you cum in the next five minutes. And you’re going to have to fight the Milker, cos I’m going to use it on you.” He couldn’t see it, but the black rubber glove shone evilly in the playroom lights. “If you let me get this hand up your shorts I’m going to wrap these rubber fingers around your cock and make you cum helplessly - and there will be nothing you can do to stop yourself. And if you let me do that you will never come into this room again . Do you understand?”
“Please… Don’t. Please.”
“Do you understand?”
The boy nodded slowly and reluctantly. “Yes,” he whispered.
“And that hood is blindfolding you so that you won’t be able to see to fight.”
He moaned under the black leather.
“Ok. Five minutes. The time starts now. So fight me!” I lunged, and almost got my hand between his thighs, but he slammed his knees together and turned away from me, curling up into as tight a ball as his restraints would allow. From behind him I began to work the black rubber fingers between his legs and upwards, knowing that if I got it more than halfway in, there would be no way he could stop me from getting it in fully - then I could work it up his shorts, onto his cock, and it would all be over in seconds. But he turned again, trapping my hand between his thigh and the table top. The bulge of his shorts was stickling straight up now, and with my free hand I lightly stroked a fingertip across the tip of his cock head through the precum-wet cotton. He yelled, and turned towards me for a moment, then kicked and straightened up, before turning quickly away from me again. Both of my hands were free now. I slid my ungloved hand between his knees and parted them, immediately getting the rubber glove between his thighs again and straight up the leg of his shorts. I released his knee, and he clamped it tight down to the other one - but he was now gripping my rubber gloved wrist between his thighs. I knew there was nothing he could do now, so I decided to make it last as long as possible. Slowly I worked my hand up until I felt his cock through the glove. I enclosed it very lightly indeed - hardly touching - with the smooth black rubber, and used the tip of my first finger to stroke very very slowly and lightly over his cock head. He was bucking and yelling, doing everything he possibly could to get my hand out, but it was easy for me to follow his now very limited movements, and continue to rub his cock head slowly and irresistibly. It only took a couple of seconds - teenage boys are so easy - and then I felt his cock erupt in what must have been easily the most unbelievably intense orgasm of his life. His hips thrust and he screamed as his hot spunk pumped uncontrollably out of his cock and into his shorts.
I continued to hold the shaft and rub the head while his spunk jetted out of his cock and his body convulsed. He was squeezing my arm very tightly between his legs, and with each pulse of his ejaculation his thigh muscles tensed even harder. Eventually the power of the orgasm eased, and the last drop of spunk dribbled slowly out, then I gently withdrew my hand, though his thighs were still gripping it tightly, as if he wanted it to stay there forever.
I pulled his hood off, and saw that he was crying. “What’s wrong?” I asked, concerned. “Did I hurt you?”
His blue eyes were wide open, looking at me. He shook his head. “No. But I can’t come back again.”
I smiled. “Would you have liked to?”
He nodded - very slowly, and very positively.
I sighed. “Well, you failed. You have no self-control.”
He looked totally dejected. “I know,” he whispered.
I unfastened his restraints, and sat down in the armchair. Quietly, I said, “come here.”
He came over and sat in my lap. I pushed his head gently against my shoulder and stroked his hair. We sat in silence like that for a while.
“Your self-control needs working on,” I said at last. I rested my hand on his thigh and played idly with the fine hairs there - he really was one of the sexiest boys I’d seen for a long time, but there was no reason I should let him know that. Injecting as much doubt as possible into my voice, I continued, “I suppose… no….” I paused, drew another breath and began again, grudgingly. “I suppose, if you want, I might - might - be willing to give you some training. But I warn you - it would involve being hooded and strapped down helpless to just about all the gear in this room, teased, tickled, edged and milked repeatedly until you have no spunk left in those balls. There would be many fights against the Milker,” I nodded to the rubber glove lying on the restraint table, its shiny film of spunk seemingly mocking the boy, “which I will intentionally make impossible for you to win. You will become addicted to shorts, to leather, and to being helpless.”
It was all I could do to stop myself laughing - his face had changed, at my words, from abject depression to bright-eyed, grinning joy. “Oh please! Pleeeeeeaaaaaase! Yes Yes Yes!!” He threw his arms around me and hugged me.
I noticed his cock was hard again. Would I be able to keep up with this boy, I wondered. I hugged him back.
That was over a year ago now. He no longer kicks the ball over the fence - at least not on purpose - he just comes to the front door and demands to be taken upstairs. He’s seventeen now - and if anything more sexy than ever - and what has the year’s training accomplished? Absolutely nothing at all. No, that’s not true - there have been changes: his self-control is not only no better, it’s even worse than it was before. Now, everything seems to make him need to cum: all I have to do is stand there in my tight leather jeans and his hand goes to his cock. The sight, sound or feel of leather gets him hard. Shorts of any kind get him hard; restraints or hoods get him hard; if he sees me in the leather mask he instantly curls up into a ball to protect himself, giggling ticklishly; and I only have to mention the Milker, or show him that rubber glove, and he’s begging me for a fight. He’s yet to win one of those, but I cheat. I know exactly how to push his buttons (but then I carefully created those buttons for the very purpose), and I use every one of them against him unfairly and shamelessly. I must have milked a few gallons of spunk out of that struggling, sexy boy, and he is insatiable.
We’ve extended the training for another twelve months. It’s hard work, but it’s a nice feeling to know that I’m helping in the sexual development and character-building of this country’s youth. Who knows? I may even get a grant next year.