Dean loved this site, and he checked it every Saturday morning. Unlike most of the pervy sites he visited regularly, this one had stories. Often there were some about gear – and just now and then, one about his biggest, all-consuming fetish: smooth, shiny black leather jeans. Even just the thought of leather jeans like that made his cock hard.
Today there’d been an amazing one by an author named ‘TDG’ and the descriptions in it like ‘oily leather saturated with lube’, ‘dangerous’, ‘slippery’, made him need to have a wank there and then. He knew the story was fiction, but he wondered what leather jeans would actually feel like after they’d been soaked in lube. Even though he’d cum only minutes ago, he found the thought so unbelievably horny that he was desperate to find out.
He heated some water and mixed up a large bowl of J-Lube, then removed the belt from his leather jeans and dumped them in, pushing them down well under the surface of the warm, slimy liquid. For the next ten minutes he moved them around, making sure every bit of them was getting well lubed. Then he left them to soak overnight.
He had to have another wank later on; he couldn’t stop thinking about what those jeans were going to feel like. They were unlined – he’d cut the lining out shortly after he’d bought them – because he always went commando in leather so that he could feel the sexy hide against his skin, and especially his cock.
When he put his hands in and felt them first thing next morning he almost came on the spot. “Oh fucking hell,” he whispered. The black horse hide jeans were smooth, slippery, oily, and pure, pure fetish. He cursed that he’d never met a girl who could get off on leather like he did.
Padding naked over the floor, he took the bowl into the bathroom, placed it in the shower, and then lifted the jeans out. They were very, very heavy. Holding his breath, he pulled them on. The slippery, oily black leather slid up over his legs with practically no friction at all – and fuck, they were cold! He pulled them up, forced his hard cock into place, closed the zip and laced the belt back through the loops. Then he stepped out of the shower into the bathroom. His foot went out from under him and he landed on his bum on the floor. “Ha!” He said. “Much slipperiness.” After picking himself up he wiped his feet on a towel and walked towards the bedroom, leaving a small trail of lube behind him on the carpet.
By the time he’d got out of the bathroom he realised that he was going to cum: with every step the slippery black lube-saturated leather was milking his cock more effectively than the mouth of any girl he’d ever been with.
He made it to the full-length mirror in the bedroom just in time to watch his thighs come together, his knees bend, and the bulge of his hard cock jerking as he shot his spunk into the smoothest, shiniest, tightest, most gob-smackingly horny pair of leather jeans he’d ever seen in his life. He felt the spunk shooting out of his cock and oozing down the inside of his thigh as he convulsed, running his hands over that unbelievably slippery black horse hide.
Oh fuck, he thought, that had been one amazing orgasm. He’d soak these jeans in the lube again very soon. When he’d recovered, he carefully took them off; skintight as they were, they were so slippery that they still slid down his legs easily. He wiped the spunk off – it hadn’t soaked into the leather at all, he noticed – then he carried them into the kitchen and hung them over the sink to drip in safety.
The next day they seemed to be almost dry. They were much less slippery than they had been, but they still felt very smooth, flexible, and sexy. He hung them in the wardrobe.
Three days later he looked out of the window. The sky was blue, the sun was shining and it was a perfect hot summer day. A spin on the bike is called for, he thought.
The jeans were much like they’d been before he’d treated them, although the leather did feel smoother. He stripped, pulled them on, then his long white socks, bike boots, and leather jacket, grabbed his helmet and keys, and went out to the bike. Oh fuck, he thought, these jeans felt a lot sexier than they used to.
As usual on summer bike runs, he was naked under his leather jacket and jeans, but he was still getting hot - today was really a scorcher. He decided to head over to a picturesque village ten miles away and sit outside at the pavement cafe with a large ice cream.
After five miles of fast riding – he knew there were no speed cameras along this route and nowhere for speed-trap vans to park - he had to stop at some roadwork's traffic lights that had just turned to red as he’d approached them. This was annoying as they were on a two-mile stretch of perfectly straight road that was ideal for opening the throttle. And then, as can only happen on a summer day in England with not a cloud in sight, the heavens opened and it started to piss down. Dean was panting – he was hot, sweating, and now he was soaking wet as well. He sighed.
The rain stopped as quickly as it had started. He was looking suspiciously up at the sky trying to work out where that deluge had come from, when he heard another bike. A young teenager on a little moped pulled up alongside him. The boy scanned the length of the black 1300cc Suzuki Hyabusa, and then craned his neck to look up at Dean with wide eyes. “Hello big boy,” he said. “Oh fuck that’s some bike. I bet it’s fast.”
Dean smiled. “You have no idea,” he said. “Close on two hundred miles an hour top speed, naught to a hundred in 9.7 seconds.”
“Fuuck… Gonna open it up?”
“Just for you.”
“Yeah!”
The lights changed. Dean revved the bike, dropped it into first and let out the clutch.
The Hyabusa leapt forward like a caged beast that had suddenly found freedom. It rocketed up the road for a hundred yards, then slowed, started to veer to the left, and ran off the tarmac, where it stalled and – still almost upright – settled into the soft embrace of some Rhododendrons. Dean was standing on the road by the traffic lights, his legs and arms still in riding position, and looking very confused.
The thing he’d forgotten about J-Lube is that even when it’s dried out, wetting it makes it slippery again immediately. The rain had done exactly that, and he’d slid backwards off the bike as it had accelerated away.
The teenager looked at the bike in the distance, then at Dean. “Now that is what I call a fast bike,” he said.
Dean swallowed, lowered his arms, and made the mistake of straightening up. It was a mistake because his sweat had done exactly the same thing on the inside of the jeans, and his cock was rubbing against the smooth, oily, slippery black leather. He stared at the boy mindlessly, took a step towards him, then his arm reached out and he shuddered in the throes of orgasm.
The teenager saw the biker stare at him, then his hard cock jerking under the black leather, and he blushed. “Erm… Sorry mate, I’d love to but I got to get home for dinner.”
He twisted the throttle and the little moped sped off down the road as fast as the boy could make it go.