The Telemachus Story Archive

Part 11 - Gary
By Hooder

Previous page



Gary was a skinhead – and Gary was fit. Very fit. Blue eyes, blond No 1 crop, and very into the gear. According to his text he loved to be fucked, fisted, have his nipples tortured, and be pissed on. Apart from the fucking, those weren’t my biggest turn-ons, but I didn’t care: after all, I could make him be into anything I wanted him to be into.

And so, still a bit unsure of skinheads’ politics but intending to take full control of him and to do exactly what I wanted with him, I met him.

He hadn’t had a webcam, but unusually for that site, he was actually a hell of a lot hotter in the flesh than in his picture. And my worries were groundless: he turned out to be much more about gear and sex than politics. He looked good enough to eat in his white moonstomp tee shirt and red braces under an open, green MA-1 bomber jacket - but the thing that stopped me in my tracks was his jeans. Oh fuck. They were amazing. Skintight bleachers, with turn-ups over his 20-hole, shiny ox-blood Doc Martens, and his cock and balls making a bulge the size and shape of an unusually large avocado squeezed between his thighs.

He smiled when he saw my reaction, and squeezed his bulge sexily. “You want that?” He asked.

I wanted that. I wanted him badly.

It appeared that he wanted me too. We fell on the bed, kissing and pawing. We couldn’t get enough of each another. I didn’t know exactly what he was expecting, but he probably wasn’t going to get it – at least not directly. My head had ended up at his crotch, and I started to suck his cock bulge through those sexy jeans. Oh, that was so fucking good. I’d seen guys in bleached jeans on the net, of course, but I’d never had my hands on them before. The tight denim felt so horny beneath my fingers. I ran my hands over his legs, traced every curve, worshipped that beautiful bulge. Those jeans were something else; they were so much better in the flesh than even they’d looked on his pictures – and they’d looked amazing there. I found them indescribably sexy.

I was as hard as a rock and he’d somehow turned himself around so that he could work on my own cock through my leathers. I kept thinking: ‘how much longer can I carry on doing this before he wants me to fuck him / fist him / piss on him?’ But he showed no sign of wanting to change what was happening. And what he was doing to me through my leathers was turning me on like fuck.

His cock was as hard as a flagpole and I’d got the head of it between my teeth. The bleached denim was dark with saliva and precum, and his cock was thrusting it out towards me. The bulge was unbelievable: above the rounded mound of his balls the solid shaft of his cock was forcing the head hard up against the tight denim, forming a grippable, suckable, teasable and seductively wankable pyramid. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

I’d got one hand around the base of the shaft, pushing his cock down to make it stick out even further, the other between his thighs working on his balls, and I was sucking and scraping my teeth up and down over the head. Like I said, I was exercising no control over him at all, and so before I knew what was happening he was cumming. I cursed myself for not paying attention, but continued to suck. The force of his ejaculation was so great that his spunk actually came through the worn denim - and even through them I got enough to make me very happy.

And all of that with no control at all. After that I did use control – a lot.

The first thing was to get him horny again. I sent him mental suggestions and massaged his balls through his jeans until he was as hard as a rock again. It didn’t take very long. I fully intended to get his cock out and suck him off a few times, but right now I wanted to work on him even more through those gorgeous bleachers.

I made him think that he was strapped down to the bed. But in that position, lying on his back with his legs straight, his tight jeans were pressing everything a bit too flat over his crotch. To rectify this I bent his legs. Yes, that was much better: the denim wasn’t under so much tension now, so his bulge had re-appeared in spades – oh fuck yes. I sat on the bed and teased him until he was fairly close, then I stopped. The bleached denim over his cock was still soaked with his spunk and my saliva, and the round head glistened beckoningly to me. I wanted to edge this boy, and I wanted to use these jeans to do it.

I caused him to see sharply pointed steel claws sprout from the ends of my fingers. Very carefully I touched them to his cock head through his tight, sexy, cum-slippery jeans.

The five pointed talons on each hand, scratching and teasing his balls and the head of his cock slowly through the thin denim proved to be very effective indeed. His head was raised off the pillow and he was staring in trance-like fascination as I drew them lightly and frustratingly over the mound of his cock head, watching the indentations they left in the thin denim. I knew that if you’re into gear, then having that gear used on you is one of the most horny things there is. On his bare cock the talons would have felt completely different, and possibly have been painful, but through those tight, thin jeans each one of the ten sharp points, as it scraped across the denim that was in intimate contact with his cock head, was intense and irresistible. I was also being very careful to work on the very spots that were his biggest sexual triggers, and I sighed to myself happily at the reflected feelings of acute pleasure coming from him. This was driving him so out of his mind with need that I did it for quite a while. Then, I got his cock out and fed.

After that came a long session where I used my lips and tongue to edge him while teasing and tickling his balls, and then another half hour where I made him believe I was fisting him, or fucking him, or pissing on him, or working on his tits. Towards the end I convinced him that I was doing all of these at once (don’t ask me how that would be possible – I’ve no idea). In reality, I was sucking him off madly. He produced two more loads for me.

After the fiasco with Andrew I was especially careful to put everything right in his mind before I eventually let him go.

He was a very happy skinhead when he left.


Two days later I was doing the washing up when the phone rang. It was Gary. Would I like to come to a party tonight? Around six of his mates would be there, all skinheads...

I’d intended to have a quiet night in for a change, but when he added, “and they’ll all be wearing skintight bleachers...” I gave in. I got the address from him and hung up, saying I’d see him there at 10pm.

It was a biggish ground-floor flat in Hammersmith. The door opened and Gary showed me into the main room, where half a dozen skinhead boys – all of them stripped to the waist and all in DMs and sprayed-on faded blue jeans or bleachers - were lounging around, most of them with their booted feet on the coffee table.

I’d barely had time to register the usual looks of lust from them when my arms were grabbed from behind me and handcuffed securely behind my back. This had clearly been arranged, because immediately the boys jumped up and closed in on me.

For a moment I was afraid, and I could have done many things: incapacitated them by causing them all to cum, like I had done in the leather club; or used assorted mental commands on them (I was better at that these days); but I was interested to see where this was going to go. They pulled me into the centre of the room and got me kneeling on the floor. Then, one after another, they shoved my face into their bulging crotches and made me work on them with my mouth. I was not complaining – I was in heaven - if I’d had my hands free I’d have used them on their legs and balls as well.

One of the lads – he had short blond hair like Gary’s – spat on my face, then bent down and grabbed my head. He had a rugged kind of face and he seemed to have a permanent sneer, but that just made him look more sexy to me. He kissed me hard, forcing his tongue into my mouth. I responded in kind, while also sending him the suggestion that the thing he wanted most of all in this world was for me to suck him off. The effect was immediate: he unzipped his jeans, got his cock out and rammed it into my mouth. I made him cum in three seconds, then looked up at him, smiling. “Do all skins come that fast?”

There were hoots all round, and he turned away, zipping his jeans up and hiding his face which, I suspect, was red.

“I fucking don’t.” This was from a big lad whose only hair was a shaved shadow on his skull. He stood in front of me and hefted a huge cock in his hand. “You’ll still be sucking this in an hour, mate.” It went in, and I worked on it.

Five seconds later he was shooting his load. “Fuck!”

I swallowed, sniffed, and looked around at the others. “I thought skinheads could control themselves.” I made one of the others cum in his jeans right then. He staggered as the faded denim turned suddenly darker over his cock bulge, then melted away into the kitchen in confusion.

“Now, if you’ll undo these cuffs, I’ll be happy to work on you all – and maybe I’ll let you hold out a bit longer.”

“Fuck that!” One of the lads yanked down the zip of my leather jacket and opened it. He gripped my nipples and squeezed. At this, the remaining boys closed in again. As if on an unspoken signal they lifted me up and carried me into the bedroom. The handcuffs bit into my wrists as they dumped me onto the bed, and then they jumped on me. There were tongues and hands and boots all over me. My lips were crushed by skinhead mouths, I was spat on again, and they pulled my leather jeans down. I felt a cock enter my arse, and then I was being soundly fucked. Another cock was pushed into my mouth. I didn’t need the spunk, and I considered not letting him cum right now, but then I thought ‘why not?’, and fed anyway.

I’d made several of them cum so far. Then I felt the one who was fucking me shoot. That was another. As usual in a group like this, there was one boy I fancied more than the others. This one had short dark hair, and was standing back watching, drinking from a beer bottle with one hand and gently playing with his cock through his tight jeans with the other. I sent Gary a message. He frowned, then nodded once to himself, walked over and removed my handcuffs.

I rubbed my wrists and looked up at the boys, most of whom had got off the bed and were stood looking down at me. “Now, you lot have no fucking control. I’ve made a few of you cum – one lost it just looking at me.” I looked at the boy who’d disappeared into the kitchen earlier. He turned away. I was feeling devilish. “You want me to show you what control is?” I waved the dark-haired boy at the back to join me on the bed. “Watch and learn.”

He lay down beside me and I turned to him. “What’s your name?” I asked him, though my senses had already told me.


“All right Jason, lie back and enjoy.” I teased his cock through the tight denim for a while until it was fully hard and starting to leak, then I unfastened his jeans and pulled them down. His cock sprang up with youthful vigour and waved in the air.

I looked into his mind and found a strange image in there. Fine, I thought, whatever turns you on, boy. I took one single finger and stroked the tip slowly backwards and forwards across his balls. However, as far as the boy was concerned it wasn’t just one finger, it was a full hand, in a tight black leather glove – and the glove had small spikes on it. And it wasn’t touching his balls, it was gripping his cock fully and wanking it with long strokes from the base all the way to the tip. He saw and felt the gloved hand moving up and down his cock, the pressure of the grip very gradually mounting, the metal spikes digging into the tender flesh more and more, and the leather between them cold and sexy. That had been the strange image I’d found in his mind. He began to breath heavily.

My single finger continued to stroke – hardly touching – but the effect it seemed to be having on Jason was out of all proportion to what I was doing with it. He was thrusting his hips now, and getting close. I knew that he’d very soon start to try to get a hand to his cock to finish himself off, but I didn’t want to restrain him – that would have given the game away too much, I thought - so I was careful not to get him quite that close. I wanted him at the point where it wasn’t obvious, but at which I could make him cum instantly when I wanted.

“Ok. I can make him cum any time I want – just by doing this.”

They looked at my single fingertip stroking leisurely over his balls, and there were a few ‘fuck off’s and an ‘as if’.

I looked at the big skin with the shadow of hair. “Tell me when.”

He nodded slowly. “Ok… Now!”

My finger didn’t do anything except what it had been doing, but the instant the skin said ‘now’, Jason yelled and arched his back as his cock jerked and spunk began to pump out. It arced in the air and landed on the boy’s jeans around his thighs. Jason had felt the gloved hand suddenly grip harder and speed up, the spikes raking his cock and the cold leather sliding over it as the hand milked him helplessly. As I’d intended, it had been impossible for him to resist, and so he’d cum.

The watching skins gasped.

“That,” I said, “is control.”

I had all of the skinhead boys properly during the rest of the evening – sometimes one at once, other times in twos or threes - and it was excellent. I wasn’t going to need spunk for quite a long time. I had to do quite a lot of tidying up in their minds before I left, but it had been a brilliant evening, and a good time had been had had by all, I thought.

I smiled, zipped up my leather jacket, and winked at them as I got onto my bike and rode off.

Next page