He was standing there looking smug.
Long black hair; green eyes; tight white tee shirt; black leather belt low on his hips; and DMs over the tightest jeans I had ever seen in my fucking life. I had no idea how he’d got into them; it was a complete mystery to me. It must have taken him a long time and a lot of wriggling on the floor.
I couldn’t take my eyes of them. They were old Levis, and the zip fly had been removed and replaced with a lace-up front. It looked like he’d done it himself. There was practically no stretch in the denim, and only a vague mound of a bulge showed. But the way they clung to his thighs and legs – I’d heard jeans described as ‘sprayed-on’ many times, but these were the first I’d ever seen that actually deserved the description; there wasn’t a single crease in them anywhere that I could see, and there was a rip just above each knee. The curves of his thighs and calves were wonderful and the black DMs with the white socks looked horny over the bottoms of the jeans. And I had to make him cum in those Levis – it was what he’d particularly wanted when we’d spoken online.
Another guy in the chatroom had asked me what I was into, and I’d been telling him that two of my absolute favourite things were edging, and making victims cum in their jeans. A lot of the guys there made enthusiastic noises about the edging, but it was generally agreed that the second bit was more unusual – and to them, of less interest. But almost immediately this boy had taken over the conversation – apparently it was one of his biggest turn-ons. He’d lead me into a private chat in short order.
“Can you make any guy cum in his jeans then?”
“Yep, if he’s not wearing anything under them, and especially if jeans turn him on.”
“Well I got a fucking huge fetish for tight jeans and I always go commando. But there’s no fucking way you could do that to me, mate.”
I’d looked at his photo again. “Oh I certainly could - and there’d be very little indeed that you could do about it.”
He’d clearly taken that as a challenge, and I was sure he’d worn these particular jeans to make it as bloody difficult for me as possible.
I focused on his crotch, and realised that I had a problem. There was no way I’d be able to grip his cock – the denim was much too tight. I was used to working on boys in jeans that were at least loose enough to act slightly less like armour. He’d said he wasn’t keen on vibrators, so that was out. The sharply-pointed banjo picks might work through them, but even then they’d only have access to the top side of his cock. The lacing was an ordinary black bootlace, threaded through metal eyelets, with the ends of the lace hidden under the leather belt.
Fuck, he looked hot – and it was very obvious that he knew it. This was a boy who used his body, and his jeans, in a very calculated way, to turn guys on. I felt an almost irresistible urge to touch his legs, to feel those Levis, to worship him. I saw him watching me with a satisfied smile that I wanted to wipe off his face; it was clear that he was well used to reactions like mine.
Well bugger that, I thought, I was not about to let this boy get the better of me.
To be fair, most guys’ jeans wern’t this tight, and most were stretchy enough to enable a cock to be gripped and worked on properly. At first I considered restraining him hogtied or in some other curled-up position – if his legs were bent at the hips that might loosen things at the crotch enough to enable me to work on it better – but they were too tight even for that; it would have made little difference. No, I’d have to think of something else.
I looked at the lace-up fly. It went down quite low, and I had an idea. It would be cheating, in a way, but at that stage I didn’t care. First thing, a gag – because he would undoubtedly complain when I started. I selected one and got it strapped onto him.
“Lie down on here,” I said at last. I positioned him on the restraint table, put the leather mitts and the cuffs on him, and spread eagled him to the shiny black surface. A couple of tight straps around his chest and waist immobilised him effectively. Now he was helpless I spent a while stroking, licking and generally enjoying those sexy jeans. I felt him start to get hard, but the skintight denim would not allow the bulge to show any more than a generalised round bump. I could feel his solid cock through them, but we both knew there was very little I could do to it. And his position on the table was flattening his bulge even more.
I put the banjo picks onto my fingers and spent some time scratching them teasingly over what little areas of it I could get to. It got even harder. After a while I saw a small drop of precum soaking into the denim. But that was not the main thing that I intended to do to this boy. I started to unlace the fly.
As I’d thought he would when I began to do that, he shook his head and yelled into the gag to try to stop me. Tough, there was nothing he could do about it. I opened the fly as wide as it would go, reached in and worked his cock and his balls out. It was not easy – those jeans were fucking tight and his cock was very hard – but eventually, and very carefully, I got everything out. Then I laced the fly back up behind his tackle, threading the lace through twice immediately above and below it to keep it pulled very tight. I stood back and looked at it: a couple of balls with a hard, horny cock waving in the air above them, with what amounted to a very tight denim cock ring gripping everything very firmly. The lacing squeezing the base was making it even bigger and harder, and exquisitely vulnerable. Perfect. I sat down, put a shiny rubber glove on my right hand and lubed it, and then I started to work on him.
Considering how confident the boy had been earlier, it was amusing how easy it was to edge him: I got him there within five minutes. From that point on it was simply a matter of stopping just before he was able to cum, allowing him to back off from the point of no return for a few seconds, then getting him back there again with a few slow, slippery strokes of my black rubber hand. He was so easy to control. I ran the bare fingertips of my left hand over his legs, tickling and teasing everywhere but especially right at the very tops of his inner thighs, and lightly stroking his balls. As I’d been sure it would do, this seemed to make things much worse for him.
He’d been moaning into the gag and moving in the restraints since I’d started, but there was no way he could stop what I was doing to him – and apart from anything else I bet that those jeans gripping the base of his cock and pushing it out like that felt as horny as fuck.
I must have worked on him for a good two hours – I was enjoying myself. Edging seems to get worse the longer it goes on, so for ages the poor boy had been beside himself with the desperate need to cum. Sweat was running down his face and he was moaning incoherently into the gag.
Eventually I stopped, undid the lacing, and waited for a while to make sure he was no longer anywhere near the edge. Then, very carefully, I put everything back inside - this was every bit as difficult as getting them out had been - and laced his jeans up again.
His cock was still rock-hard from the two hours of unbearable edging, and I’d arranged it so that now it was lying across the top of his thigh; a much better position than before. I stroked along the length of it with my fingers, found the sensitive head, and scratched my fingernails over it.
“I said I’d make you cum in your jeans. Ok, now I’m going to.”
As my fingertips rubbed quickly over the head I felt his cock jerk - and then, with a yell into the gag, the dam burst and he came. He was bouncing on the table as I continued to work on it slowly through his jeans. All that edging must have produced a great deal of spunk in his balls because it went on for ages. By the time he’d finished, his entire crotch was wet, slippery, and dark blue. With a final gasp he collapsed back onto the table.
I let him rest for a while, then removed his gag and released him from the restraints.
“You fucker. You wern’t supposed to get my cock out.”
I raised my eyebrows. “When exactly did we agree to that?”
He sighed in frustration, realising that nobody had actually said that I couldn’t get it out. “Bastard.” Then he looked at me and, after a few moments, the frown turned into a grin.
It was a happy – if a much less cocky – boy who left that evening.