Gregor
It was a couple of months later. I was sat in a cafe reading the paper. The UK was shivering under the longest cold spell for ages, the economy was down, and the rate of deforestation in Brazil was going up faster than ever. Outside it had at least stopped snowing and the traffic was moving, if slowly. I turned to another page and started the cryptic crossword. If this was how the year was starting, then it was not going to be wonderful.
A minute later my senses tingled. There was some guy close by with anunusually powerful fetish for rubber – so strong that it had impinged on my consciousness even though I hadn’t been searching. It was a long time since I’d been aware of anyone with a fetish that strong. I looked around the cafe, and saw a guy carrying a cup of coffee to a table; he was wearing a white hard hat, rolled-down rubber waders, and a bright yellow, hi-viz worker’s vest – but under it I saw the one-piece shiny black rubber suit. The hard hat, the bright yellow vest and the rubber that was visible would have made him look like some kind of sewage worker to most people, I realised. Fairly good-looking, and hunky. For some reason I found him intensely pervy, and intensely sexy. I’d fed well a few hours ago so I wasn’t in need, but already I felt my cock starting to get hard - this was far too interesting an opportunity to pass up, I thought.
I kept looking at him and waited for eye contact. It was a while before he noticed me, but once he had I smiled at him, and I knew he was mine. He looked undecided for a moment, but then he stood up and brought his coffee over to my table.
“Mind if I join you, mate?”
I smiled again and waved an invitation. As soon as he’d sat down I said: “You like rubber, don’t you...” No point in hanging about, I thought.
His face gained a little colour, but he nodded. “Yes.” Then I heard him whisper something but I didn’t understand what he’d said.
I was about to ask him to repeat that, but it wasn’t important.
I searched his mind, and I was surprised by how seriously this guy was into rubber, bondage, hoods, and lots of other S&M stuff. He was straight, single, and had several girlfriends who tied him up regularly, covered in rubber.
I gave him my sexy smile. “Do you have anywhere to go?”
He swallowed, then nodded. “I live not far away from here. I’ve got a playroom.”
We left the cafe and I followed him for ten minutes, crunching through the snow. His house was small, but the playroom in the cellar was warm, and equipped with a restraint table and a wooden chair that I noticed was bolted to the floor. Enough assorted rubber gear to stock a small shop stood or hung around. More was folded on shelves.
“You’d look amazing in rubber.” He took a pair of rubber jeans and a rubber biker-type jacket off a hook and handed them to me. “Try those on. They’re your size.”
I took the shiny jacket and jeans from him, and the idea of feeling these against my naked skin appealed greatly. I stripped and pulled the gear on. It fitted perfectly. He must have a good eye for sizes, I thought. This was the first time I’d worn rubber and oh fuck, it felt wonderful. It was cold at first but I was surprised at how quickly it warmed up. The jeans were tight and seemed to mould around my cock, which was quickly getting hard again.
“Lie on the table, “he said. “I’d love to run my hands over you on there before we do anything else.”
I’d envisaged him lying on the table, not me, but the idea of being worshipped in this gear was seductively attractive. I got onto it.
He looked down at me for a couple of seconds, then he took off the hi-viz vest. His muscles showed well under the shiny black rubber suit.
I thought I heard him whispering again. It continued for some time.
When he stopped, I decided that this wasn’t getting anywhere and so I went to get off the table.
But I couldn’t.
My arms were by my sides, and they wouldn’t move. Try as I might I could not shift them an inch. Likewise my legs wouldn’t work. Or my head. I didn’t like this.
“Hello Justin,” he said. His voice was different somehow: a bit deeper, firmer. He regarded me for a moment. “I’m Gregor. You don’t know me, Justin, but I know you. Or rather I know of you.” He smiled gently. “Remember a while ago, you met a guy called Andrew? An innocent boy. He thought the world of you, and of what you gave him in that session you had together was everything he’d ever wanted, ever dreamed about.” Now Gregor sneered. “But he was nothing to you, was he? He asked you for another session and you just said no. You didn’t care about what it meant to him, or how much he needed it, you just said no. That you weren’t interested in him any more. You just threw him away after you’d used him, after you’d had your fun with him. Said he’d ‘get over it’. That was not a nice thing to do, Justin. You made him hate you. That boy has been obsessing about you for a long time and it’s affecting his work. It’s time to put the right, wouldn’t you say?”
A second figure stepped into my field of view – and it was Andrew. His hair was back to its former colour, and he didn’t look as good in his black leather suit as Gregor did in his rubber one. The lights reflected off its glossy black surface as he moved closer, bending down over me. “Andrew and I have been friends for many years,” he said. Then he reached out and touched my hand.
Instantly I knew. I gasped: this guy was a Vee. I’d fancied him as soon as I’d seen him – but the moment he’d touched me, I didn’t. At all. Questions flew through my mind: how did Andrew know another Vee? And why couldn’t I move? I was an expert at mind control so I should be able to resist him if I really try. I should be able to. But I couldn’t.
He smiled. “You’re wondering why you can’t move. Why you can’t resist me, aren’t you…? I am very good at control. You are going nowhere. You are going to suffer for a while, my friend.”
“And you’re also wondering what kind I am. Should I tell you?” He turned to the boy. “Should I tell him, Andrew, or let him wonder?”
Andrew snarled. “We are going to milk you, Justin. Over and over. We’re going to extract your spunk until you are weak. And then Gregor is going to feed: he’s going to suck your blood until you’re very nearly dead.” Saying that had clearly given the boy great satisfaction.
So Gregor was a haemavore. Oh shit.
I was aware of more whispering that I couldn’t understand.
This was bad. And there didn’t seem to be a thing I could do about it. I tried to get into Andrew’s mind to change things, make him let me go - but I couldn’t. There seemed to be a barrier around it.
Gregor smiled at me. “Oh no, no, we can’t have you doing that. I think you’ve done enough interfering with this boy’s mind for a while, don’t you?”
If Gregor could prevent me from getting into Andrew’s head, I thought, then he really was good. Suddenly my fear increased a lot. I knew it would be pointless to try to explain that I’d been honest with the boy for his own good – because I’d thought that would be best for him , not for me. I knew they wouldn’t listen, and so I said nothing.
“Shall we begin?”
More whispering. I could hear the voice, but try as I might I couldn’t understand what it was saying.
A rubber hood of some kind appeared in Gregor’s hand. It came closer and closer. I couldn’t move any part of my body an inch in any direction so all I could do was watch as he raised it, and then slowly and tauntingly pulled it down over my head. I’d thought it was a physically real hood, but when it began to shrink-wrap itself over my face I knew that it wasn’t. There were no holes at all in it – nothing for eyes, nothing for the mouth, and there were no breathing holes in it either. It clung to me like a second, rubbery skin, making an airtight seal around my neck.
I couldn’t breathe! My body was reacting violently, but still I didn’t move an inch on the table. Then, after a few moments I realised that in fact I could breathe – but the feeling that I couldn’t stayed, and would not go away. Another mind-game – and a panic-inducingly effective one. Desperately I willed myself to relax; told myself that the hood was not real, that I could breathe fine; but the urgent, compelling conviction that I couldn’t get air remained. Eventually I managed to control it slightly, but not by very much. My heart was pounding.
Fingers on my cock bulge. Fear had made it soft, but soon I felt myself beginning to harden again. I fought to stop that, but it did no good: my cock continued to stiffen until I could feel it stretching the rubber jeans out between my thighs. I felt more vulnerable at that moment than I had ever done in my life before.
Andrew chuckled. “Nice. It’s the other way around now, isn’t it? You would do anything to stop us from making you cum, wouldn’t you… But you can’t, can you…?”
For a brief moment I found the thought of struggling against being milked – and ultimately being helpless to stop it however hard I fought against it – extremely horny. I knew now exactly what turned the boy on about the idea. It was all about control, pure control. But the thought didn’t last very long. I knew that a few ejaculations would be very dangerous indeed to me. This could not be allowed to happen.
More of the whispering. I could hear it through the hood. But then of course I’d be able to, I reminded myself – the hood wasn’t really there. The whispering continued to come and go at various times throughout the whole ordeal.
The fingers were teasing lightly all the way up and down my cock through the thin latex. Unlike on most guys, on mine there was no one spot that was a lot more sensitive than the rest – even the shaft was almost as responsive as the head – but that bastard Gregor must have done something in my mind because I realised that every time the fingertip touched the head it felt many times more intense than it should have done. Shocks of ecstasy jolted through me each time the finger stroked it, and I could feel my cock jerking uncontrollably under the thin rubber.
My arms started to move. Of their own accord they slid upwards over the padded table surface until they were stretched out beyond my head. I did everything I could to stop them but it had no effect whatsoever. My legs parted, and then I felt heavy straps being buckled over my wrists and ankles. Again, I had no idea if they were real, but the question was academic: whether they were or not, they would do their job of holding me down. I realised that I could move again – and I struggled. Not, I knew, that it would do me the slightest good.
A buzzing. I really needed to know what that was – but although the hood wasn’t real, the seemingly physical black rubber stretched tightly over my face made sure that I couldn’t fucking see what it was. I cursed it. And I wished to hell that the feeling of not being able to breathe would go away.
The buzzing was a vibrator. The moment it touched the head of my cock bulge I arched my back and yelled into the hood. I had never felt anything like that before. It was exactly on the new, sensitive spot, and it made me need to cum like nothing had ever done. Panicking again, I madly grappled for my ability to stop myself from shooting – but it was as if that ability had been plucked from my mind. It wasn’t there. I was totally defenceless.
I felt myself preparing to cum. I felt the floodgates getting ready to open, my spunk pushing up hard against them. But that’s as far as it got. The cunt had put a cum-block on me. I was suspended just short of orgasm and there was fuck-all I could do about it. I writhed on the table and screamed into the fucking hood.
The vibrator was removed. Very gradually I came down, panting and trying to get air. They let me recover for twenty seconds and then they did it to me again.
I lost track of how long this went on – there were ten, fifteen repetitions, perhaps – and then there came a time when the vibrator wasn’t removed, but the cum-block was.
“Ok, Justin,” said a voice dripping with venom, “let’s see you stop yourself from cumming now...”
I couldn’t. I shook my head and yelled as I felt my precious spunk pumping helplessly into the rubber jeans as I came and came.
“That’s one.” In my present state I wasn’t sure whether it had been Gregor or Andrew who had said that.
I felt a hand teasing slowly between my thighs. It reached under me, found a zip and pulled it down. Then lube was inserted, followed by a thin, curved dildo of some kind. I struggled uselessly to keep it out. The fingers moved it around until it was exactly on my prostate. I closed my eyes under the hood – I’d never had that worked on before but I knew from my victims exactly what it could do. Experimentally I clenched my pelvic muscles just once – very gently - and groaned as sparks of horny pleasure coursed through my body from the damn thing.
“Do it to him again, with that in him...” Andrew’s voice was gloating.
They held the vibrator to the head of my cock again, making me struggle and my muscles clench – and each movement caused the dildo to shift inside me. I was being forced to need to cum from the inside as well as from the outside now. I got to the block much faster this time, and it was even more intense and unbearable than before. I had never needed to cum so much in my life.
More edgings, then another helpless orgasm.
More whispering.
Suddenly I was very acutely aware of the restraints holding me down; of the rubber hood blindfolding me and gagging me; of the slippery, shiny black rubber jeans over my legs and body and sliding over my cock with the slightest movement in all the spunk; of not being able to breathe; of the bastard dildo working on my prostate; and most of all, of my total and absolute helplessness. I’d also developed a full-blown fetish for black rubber, and for breath control - and every one of these things seemed to be turning me on like fucking crazy.
I was perfectly well aware that it was Gregor and Andrew who were making my mind work against me like this, and who had intentionally made each and every one of these things become a sexual trigger that would turn me on like fuck, but that knowledge didn’t detract from the effectiveness of them in the least.
This time the cunts didn’t edge me at all – they just made me cum again. Because all of those things were triggers that were working on me now, it was violently intense. That had been the third orgasm. When I was capable of thinking, I was getting very worried indeed.
I’d already cum three times, and I knew that another one would really start to be threatening to me. I’d been very aware of this anyway, but now this vulnerability seemed suddenly to burn itself into my brain with renewed forcefulness. I knew what was happening: Gregor was strongly reinforcing my already desperate need to avoid any more ejaculations.
But that was not the only thing he did: I abruptly found myself longing for Gregor and Andrew to use all of my new weaknesses – all of those things that he’d made compelling sexual triggers - against me to overpower me and to make me cum against my will. I needed to struggle against the straps holding me down; to gasp for air as the the hood suffocated, gagged and blindfolded me; to move on the table with the indescribably pervy feeling of my cock sliding inside the black rubber jeans; to know that there was nothing I could do to stop the dildo from working on my my prostate – I needed to feel all of these things making me helpless to hold out against them.
On the one hand they had made me desperately need to do anything to stop them from making me cum, and on the other they had caused everything to make me want to cum more than anything else in the world. And they weren’t even using the vibrator on me yet.
Because of that, the next set of edgings were indescribably worse even than the ones that I’d endured so far. Everything they did to me from here on was more effective, and Gregor knew that full well. And we both knew how intense my orgasm would be when I did cum. It was life-threateningly dangerous, and it was hopeless. It was also monstrously unfair, but even that unfairness was fucking turning me on.
The fourth orgasm was earth-shattering. I thrashed around on the table as I came, struggling and fighting to get free, and because it felt so good to resist. The rubber jeans around my crotch were full of spunk – it was bubbling and running over my balls and down the insides of my thighs.
When I came down this time I realised that I was still alive, but that I was unbelievably hungry, and also very much weakened. I wondered how many more it would take to finish me off.
“I think one more should do it.”
I groaned, shaking my head in desperation.
“Only one?” Andrew sounded disappointed.
“We don’t want to kill him.”
“I wouldn’t fucking mind.”
“No, one more.”
They did it again. This time Andrew joined in. He tickled my balls, squeezed my nipples, ran his hands over my rubber-covered thighs, but it didn’t add a lot to all the overpowering things that were already working on me. I writhed, I struggled, I swore, I fought, I screamed, I summoned every bit of willpower the bastard Gregor had allowed me to keep, but even though I knew it might very possibly kill me, I still couldn’t stop myself from cumming helplessly, fighting for air, my brain battered by exquisite ecstasy, as the vibrator on my cock head milked my life-spunk into the rubber jeans yet again, joining the lake that was already squelching inside them.
I could hardly move. My head was spinning, I felt heavy, very, very weak, and ravenously hungry. I couldn’t even swear at them when the hood disappeared. But at least I felt that I could breathe easily again. I’d cum five times.
They were looking down at me. Andrew reached to my crotch and I thought he was going to try to make me cum again, on his own – but instead his fingers just slid the rubber over me. Liquid sounds came from inside it. “All that spunk. And you can’t get to it, can you, Justin...” He laughed quietly.
“Enough.” Gregor undid the zip of my rubber jacket and pulled the side away, exposing my left shoulder. Even in my present condition it occurred to me to wonder: can one Vee suck another’s blood? Would it do him any good? I knew very little about how haemavores worked, but he was clearly intending to do it, so presumably it would – unless his intention was just to weaken me further.
He parted his lips wide for the first time, and I saw his sharp canines; they were a good deal longer than mine. The last time I’d been bitten on the neck had been by my Dominic, a very long time ago, and the thought uppermost in my mind was sorrow that this time it would be done by such a despicable Vampyre as this Gregor. I could no longer even bring myself to call him a ‘Vee’; I wanted nothing to do with him.
It hurt. Much, much more than when Dominic had done it. I could only stare at the ceiling in pain as he fed. When he’d finished he threw me back onto the table like a dish rag he had no more use for.
“Perhaps the next time a boy opens his heart to you, you will have a little more respect for him.” He wiped his mouth, then he hissed at me: “Sleep.”
The last thing I heard was Andrew’s voice. “Fucker.” He spat.
*
I was lying in a pile of trash, by some bins – thankfully in my own clothes again. The ground was wet and there were small piles of dirty snow here and there with rubbish embedded in them. I was too weak to move, and I felt sick with hunger. I lay there staring at the rubber wheel of a bin for a long time.
After a while I managed to stand, and stagger, light-headed, into an alley. I’d lost a lot of blood, I was cold, and I needed spunk more than I’d needed it since that day my transformation had ended, back in Venice. I didn’t care how I got it, but I needed spunk. My main worry was that I didn’t have enough strength left to get it.
As it turned out, the universe was not completely against me that day. Sitting on several layers of cardboard in a doorway a bit further down the alley was a homeless guy in old clothes and a moth-eaten bobble hat. I must have looked like a zombie as I lurched down the alley and collapsed gratefully to my knees in front of him. Just that short walk had exhausted me. Would I still have any of my powers left? I wondered.
Apparently I did. Life seemed to return to his dull green eyes for a moment as he stared unbelievingly at my face, then he unzipped his fly. Without a word I forced myself to move, took his cock into my mouth, and fed. I got two meagre loads from him, then I crumpled in a heap onto the concrete.
This time when I came to, although I was still very weak indeed, I felt a little less queasy. The homeless guy had gone. I stood up slowly – and almost passed out. My head was spinning. I staggered and righted myself, and caught my reflection in a grimy window. I looked terrible. Where was I? Could be anywhere. A red bus went past on the main road so I knew I was still in London.
It took me three hours to get home. On the way I fed from a middle-aged street musician I managed to get into a maintenance room in the subway, and an athletic skater boy in a small park. The teenager gave me four loads in the bushes. The first two had been especially good. I left him exhausted but happy. By the time I got to my house I was actually beginning to feel a bit better, although I was still extremely weak.
I showered, ate – a great deal - and then sat down to think. With the skater boy I’d tested most of my abilities and they all seemed to be working Ok. I wondered why Gregor had not taken them from me permanently. And then I thought: he was a haemavore. As far as I knew, their telepathic powers weren’t anything like as good as semenivores’. But they’d been very effective when I’d been strapped down to that table. I remembered Andrew telling me when we’d had that talk at my house that a friend of his was training him to be a clinical hypnotist. That friend must be the bastard Gregor. Both of the guys were hypnotists - so they must have been working together, using hypnotism, and perhaps that wasn’t as strong, or worked differently. I thought back, and remembered the whispering. I hadn’t been able to make out what the words had been, but then they’d undoubtedly prevented me from hearing them properly. I bet those had been hypnotic suggestions of some kind. That might explain it. Who knew? Not me.
And Andrew. I hadn’t intended to make an enemy of him when he’d come back to have that talk with me. I’d done what I’d been able to for him, to make him understand that I really wasn’t interested in more sessions with him, but that his obsession with me would pass. I thought I’d done my best for him. Apparently not.
I was feeling sorry for myself. Still, it was over now. I hoped I would see neither of those two again, ever. But I also hoped that Andrew would be all right.
That cunt Gregor had extracted a lot of blood (I hoped it had made him very, very ill), and I knew it would take a while for my body to replace it, so I didn’t do anything demanding for the rest of the evening. Instead, I stretched out on the settee and went to sleep, thanking the gods that the day was over.
I slept for a long time, but when I finally awoke I felt fine. I filed the whole ordeal under ‘experience’ and put it away where I wouldn’t have to think about it any more, and made myself an espresso.
*
Life got back to its usual more enjoyable self quickly. I explored Scotland, then spent a few months travelling in Switzerland, Croatia and southern Italy. As I’d planned, I arrived in Venice on my birthday, May 3rd , intending to visit all the places Dominic and I used to go to. At 3 o’clock I found myself on the Calle della Madonna, where I’d first met him – where I’d been walking when he stopped me and asked me if I’d take him home with me. My eyes filled with tears and I leant against the wall feeling so utterly heartbroken that I knew I couldn’t stay in Venice any longer. I’d intended to visit all the Vees we’d known there, but I didn’t. Venice wasn’t the same without Dominic; it felt like an empty shell. At that moment, so did I.
I went back to England.
*
We were into the second decade of the new millennium and life was good. I was over two hundred and forty years old. Prime of life. I may have been ancient by human standards, but I was enjoying all the modern technology: especially my computer – how on earth did anyone manage without one? I wondered. I surfed the pervy sites most nights, and something that was increasingly attracting my interest, was skinheads. I’d seen a lot of them on the sites, and I’d initially been wary of them – I’d lived through World War II and the Nazis after all – but times were very different now, and their gear fascinated me. Even at my advanced age I’d never actually met one, and I thought it was about time I corrected that oversight immediately.
Gary provided the opportunity – and I got my first chance to investigate tight, bulging bleachers at very close quarters...
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