The Telemachus Story Archive

Part 7 - Benny
By Hooder

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I got up to all the various kinds of mischief you'd expect while I was in that gang of rockers - and I fed enjoyably and well - but my tastes for leather, bondage and S/M were becoming more refined - and more insatiable. In the end the rocker gangs began to feel tame, somehow. I needed something more... adventurous. I found it in the form of Benny.

I'd actually ended up in Wandsworth Prison, serving a three-month sentence for public nuisance on Brighton beach. I'd been arrested with a whole load of Rockers who had decimated a similar number of Mods with bike chains and assorted sharp implements. It was the first time I'd ever been in a jail but I knew I could handle it - or rather the other inmates - perfectly well. I could even engineer my escape whenever I chose, except that if I did that I'd have to take on another name and identity, which would be a hassle. So I decided to see the three months through. Actually it was very interesting: the place was full to the gunwales with hunky, cropped men and, although I had to operate very carefully, I had a ball.

For the first two months I actually had a cell to myself - very unusual by all accounts - and so the only times I had to fend off violence and unwanted advances from the others were during mealtimes, physical exercise periods, and when I was working in the laundry. With my talents, this wasn’t a problem, and as long as the number of guys wasn’t too large, I could always appear to 'talk' myself out of trouble while actually using gentle mind control to do the job, though it felt odd to be using these techniques constantly to avoid physical contact rather than to attract it. When I needed to feed, it was easy to do - I'd ‘call’ a guy I fancied to the laundry room during a recreational period when there was nobody in it, and make short work of him - then cause him to forget that it had happened. The net result of all this was that none of the guys could actually say they'd had a blow-job from the cutest guy in the prison - because none of them could remember it.

Of course, being a cute boy in a prison is a sure way to get repeatedly raped - and gangs of the inmates tried on several occasions - but by calling one or other of the guards I'd previously had encounters with at the first sign of trouble (I was getting much better at calling), these attempted rapes never got very far.

At the beginning of my final month, I was moved into another cell, which already had an occupant: Benny the Breaker. Exactly what kind of breaking his name referred to I've no idea – though I suspected that bones came into it somewhere. After an initial wrong-footing in my choice of beds (it was the neater of the two so I assumed it hadn’t been used), we arrived at a sort of peaceable arrangement which mainly consisted of his ignoring me. It was funny: although he was trying hard to ignore me, he still couldn’t stop himself from looking at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. When I caught him doing this he’d look away immediately and suddenly become very absorbed in the flaking paint on the wall. This was a shame as I found him very sexy. Physically were were like chalk and cheese - where I was a little under six feet, with a slim but tightly gym-toned, smooth and gently muscled body, he was a giant: he must have been close to seven feet tall, hairy, and built like a brick shithouse. He could have lifted me up and snapped me in two with one hand if I'd let him. His head was shaved with the exception of a thin and quite long pony tail (I guessed that none of the screws had the balls to tell him to get rid of it) and he was hung like a horse. His cock was about the same length as mine but considerably fatter - although not as nicely shaped - and his bull-balls hung between his legs like a pair of satsumas in a sock. He wasn't my usual type, but I wanted him.

There were any number of ways I could have had him, of course - pheromones would have started the job easily (although if they’d spread there'd have been a riot) and I could have controlled him in more or less any way I wanted to. But I didn't want to. I wanted him just as he was: big, muscular, masculine, and full of attitude. I realised I was going to have to use my Vee abilities to some degree - it seemed that there was no way he was going to allow himself to show interest without some help - but I was determined that that help was going to be as little as possible. As it turned out, all I had to use was a bit of acting.

There were constant jibes from surrounding cells, but as the days went on these comments got worse and more frequent:

“Hey Benny, you fucked your cute boy yet?”

“Benny - bend that gorgeous boy over and stick your ten inches up his arse!”

“Screw that pretty faggot senseless, Breaker!”

“Ram it down his throat till it comes out his asshole!”

I noticed that after every one of these, he'd look at me, slightly worried, as if he was afraid I might think he'd actually do that to me. That gave me an idea, and the very next jibe was perfect.

“Hey Benny - a big guy like you could hold a little boy like that down with one finger and fuck him till he bleeds!”

I acted like that had broken me. I crawled onto my mattress, sat in the corner pressed against the cell wall with my arms wrapped defensively around my body, and shivered in silent fear.

He looked at me and his gravel voice grated: "Hey kid, you don't wanna listen to them fuckers. I wouldn't do anyfink like that to you. Honest."

With perfect timing, another shout sounded along the bare corridors:

“Hey Benny - if you can't handle that pretty boy of yours, lend him to us - we'll show you how to do it…”

With an animal roar he leapt to his feet, went to the barred door and rattled it so hard I thought it was going to come off its hinges. "ANY FUCKER LAYS A FINGER ON HIM HAS ME TO DEAL WITH. GOT THAT, YOU CUNTS?"

There was silence for a long time after that.

I played the defenceless, frightened little kid carefully for a while, and he gradually started talking to me - to reassure me, mostly. I began to respond to his advances, and before too long we had quite a relationship going. Underneath his hard and aggressive exterior there actually lurked a big softie. What really opened him up, though, was when we got onto talking about bikes, and I said I was a biker. So was he - in fact he was a Hell's Angel, and belonged to a South London chapter.

It was during this particular conversation that I caught him looking at me oddly - as if he had only just noticed me for the first time. A kind of dreamy look came into his eyes - a look I recognised instantly. I checked to see if he had a hard on - and the fact that he had both beefy arms covering his crotch as he sat, said it all.

I'd heard all about Hell's Angels, of course, but I’d never met one until now. He laughed when I asked him if initiates were really made to bite the heads off chickens, and he told me that that was bullshit. Experimentally, I steered the conversation around to leather - and his eyes shone as he told me that he'd been in his full kit when he'd been brought here and that it would be waiting for him when he was released. I asked about it and he gave me a loving description of his lace-up leather jeans, his ripped jacket, his steel-toecapped boots and his colours (the sleeveless denim jackets Angels wear over their leathers for special occasions). I seemed to be getting into leather so much these days that even talking about it turned me on – and the thought of Benny in leather was very pleasant indeed. By the time he'd finished, I'd got a hard on too, and I stretched lazily to advertise the fact to him. I made it a very sexy stretch indeed, and I watched as he swallowed hard and his mouth went dry.

I asked him to describe his leather jeans again – in detail. He seemed a bit flustered, but once he’d got started he went on for some time.

“Mmm… I can imagine you in those...” I said, stretching again.

“You like leathers?”

“Fuck yeah,” I purred.

He did everything he could to control himself, and not to touch me. I could see him fighting a battle with himself - but he lost. I took my clothes off, lay on my bed, and patted the space beside me. He looked at me smiling at him, not knowing what to do, and then he finally stripped and climbed on with me. I pulled him close to me and kissed him. He still didn't know how to respond, so I wrapped his huge, muscular arms around me and then played with his balls as he hugged me. He let himself return the kiss, and he really began to get into it, although he was incredibly gentle: it was if I was a fragile thing he was being very careful not to break. I moved downwards slowly, sucking his nipples and licking his chest, then his stomach, until finally my mouth was around his huge cock. I sucked him off slowly and lovingly, giving him a wonderful orgasm and satisfying my hunger at the same time - all with absolutely no special control over him whatsoever.

Afterwards we lay squashed side by side on the narrow bed for a while, silent, just enjoying our closeness, one huge arm protectively around me. A couple of times a guard went by, but apart from a chuckle, nothing as said.

We'd never talked about why we were inside or when we were due to be released, but now I asked him. He was serving a twelve-month sentence for GBH, and was due out a couple of weeks after I was. I said that I'd like to join the Angels. He said he'd like that too, and to leave it with him - he'd see what he could do.

From then until my release, I fed from him a couple of times every night, while causing him to think about what I would look like in a leather jacket, bike boots, and tight leather jeans. I didn't even know if he was married or had a girlfriend (I assumed he was straight, but I wasn't even certain about that) - but the thoughts I implanted in his mind seemed to have a remarkably aphrodisiac effect. I got so used to having his huge hard cock in my mouth and tasting the thick gobs of spunk from it, that by the time the day came for my release, I didn't really want to go.

We'd exchanged addresses and phone numbers, and a couple of days after he got out, I rang him. He said he was busy for the next week organising his life again now that he was out of jail, but did I fancy going for a bike run with the Angels next week, on Friday? Of course I said yes.

It was strange seeing him in a different context to the jail, but he looked even hornier than I’d imagined in his full gear. Over his leather jacket was a cut-off denim one with a large patch on the back with the Hells Angels logo on it. His bike was more powerful than my 250 - he had a 650cc Bonneville – and he looked good on it, his lace-up leather jeans stretched tightly over his tree-trunk thighs. I'd met him at a cafe in the early afternoon and after a chat over a coke (during which he had difficulty taking his eyes off my own leathers) we set off. He hadn't told me where we were going, so I followed him, trying to keep up. He led me out of town and along country roads for ages. Eventually, in the middle of nowhere, he turned into a grass field and stopped. I pulled up alongside him and as I looked around he turned to me, grinning broadly.

About fifteen Hell's Angels and their bikes were lined up along one hedge, all looking at us; and in the centre of the field were four motorcycles, stood in the shape of an 'X', their front ends all facing outwards.

I took my helmet off (Benny refused to wear one) and he told me to follow him towards the bikes standing in the middle of the field. As we walked, he smiled at me. "You better be sure you wanna join the Angels, 'cos you're about to get initiated."

This came as a complete surprise to me - I'd thought he'd forgotten, and I'd intended to bring the subject up again later. I was pleased to see that there was a conspicuous absence of chickens.

"Now nobody's gonna hurt you. Understand? Just go with it, and do whatever they tell ya."

I nodded, feeling a bit insecure as I watched the others closing in on us. Four of them got on the bikes, and another - clearly the leader, stood in front of me. If anything he was even bigger than Benny, with a long ginger beard and a huge waist – his grubby leather jeans could have held two of me. "You're Paul, yeh?"

I nodded.

"Good. Strip to the waist."

I hesitated, then took off my leather jacket and tee shirt.

"Lie down." He pointed at the ground at my feet. I lay down, feeling the short dry grass prickling my bare back. From this position I could clearly see that the big guy was getting a hard on in his loose jeans.

Four of the others Angels approached, each holding a long piece of rope, one end of which they tied around a wrist or an ankle, and the other end to the back of a bike - it looked like I was going to be pulled apart. In this sort of situation my special abilities weren't going to help me much without making things very complicated, so I began to feel a bit afraid - not an emotion I'm used to. But what the hell, I thought - they're hardly likely to kill me, especially as I knew that the leader - and possibly some of the others who had got a close look at me - were getting sexually interested. I suspected that the worst-case scenario was that I was going to get raped. I could deal with that - although it would be a criminal waste of spunk.

When the last rope had been secured, the Angels on the bikes kicked them to life and I was briefly covered in a cloud of black fumes before they moved slowly away from me. I watched the ropes uncurling, hoping the riders knew what they were doing. As each rope reached the point where it was about to become taut, the respective bike stopped, then - on a signal from the leader, they all inched forward together. The ropes tightened until I was stretched firmly, then the riders put their bikes on their side-stands and killed the engines, leaving the machines in gear and so locked in place. I pulled experimentally, but there was no give: I was spread-eagled widely and immovably.

Looking up at Benny, I saw him grinning at me. One of the other Angels passed something to the leader, who bent down - his erection now very obvious inside his scruffy leathers - and pulled the object over my head. It was a canvas sack - a perfectly efficient hood. I couldn’t see a thing.

There was a pause for a few seconds, some whispered commands which I couldn’t hear properly, and then my whole body tensed as I felt a stream of something cold, thick and slimy hit my chest. It began on my left nipple, travelled across to the other one, then slowly worked its way south, zig-zagging across my chest and stomach. I recognised the smell: it was engine oil. Another stream joined it, and then a third. Together they poured over my stomach, then down over my crotch and legs all the way to my booted feet and back again. A hand gripped my waistband, pulled it away from my stomach, and someone directed another stream of oil into the gap. I felt the cold, viscous liquid run down over my cock and balls, pool at my perineum, then begin trickling down my thighs inside my jeans.

That turned out to be just the beginning of the oil treatment - there must have been half a dozen more Angels standing over me with bottles of the stuff because there were several glooping sounds and I was suddenly showered from all directions. Every inch of my body was covered in it, and a whole second container full was poured down inside my jeans. When they had emptied the lot over me, five or six pairs of hands massaged my crotch and thighs, working the oil down my legs until I was swimming in it. I could feel it in the crack of my arse and even sloshing inside my boots. Although they’d mainly avoided my head, some of the oil had gone onto the canvas and the smell of 20/50 was overpowering.

This treatment had given me a raging hard on - there was nothing I could do to conceal it, and it did not go unnoticed. Hoots and wolf-whistles resounded and rough hands grabbed my rock-hard cock repeatedly, sliding it and squeezing it through the slippery, oily leather. That just made things worse: it felt intensely pervy and excruciatingly horny.

The canvas sack was pulled off my head and I squinted against the bright sky. Twenty or so faces were grinning down at me. I was lying in a lake of oil, my leather jeans were glossy with it, and it was still running down them in streams and onto the blackened grass beside me.

Benny knelt down and unfastened my jeans. He peeled them down as far as my widely-spread legs would allow, and then grinned – he’d clearly had an idea. He picked a single, long blade of grass from a clump the oil had missed, near my right ear. With a slow, sadistic smile, he twirled the blade between thumb and finger - then he ran it slowly over my balls, and up the full length of my cock.

I jumped as if an electric shock had run through me. It tickled like crazy. Surely this wasn’t part of the usual ritual? I thought. Whether they had planned they'd do this, or whether it was improvised because of my violent reaction (I am excruciatingly ticklish) - I don't know - but as one, the Angels each picked themselves blades of grass and set to tickling every exposed square inch of my body with fiendish enthusiasm. Nothing escaped: my nose, ears, cheeks, neck, shoulders, armpits, arms, elbows - even my hands – my nipples, chest, sides and stomach, all got tickled unbearably.

I struggled, I screamed, I laughed, I giggled, I cried, I pleaded with them to stop - but they kept right on. A couple of them were working on my thighs, balls and cock, and I'd never felt anything like that before - ever. You must understand that by my nature I am always 'top' - that is, it's always me that takes the active role in sex play. This was the first time I had ever let myself be overpowered, restrained, and played with. And then something extraordinary happened - I came. I didn't even feel it building up and I had no time to stop it: before I knew what was happening my spunk was flying into the air in great arcs which landed on some of the Angels’ boots, or dropped in fat splashes to mix with the oil on my stomach and jeans. My eyes were closed in ecstasy – I hadn’t cum as intensely as that for a long time, and it was mind-blowing. I was dimly aware of delighted hoots and laughter from around me.

When I'd come down, they stopped tickling me, thank God, but they showed no signs of releasing me. This could be a problem: Having just shot such a big load I knew that before long I was going to be very hungry, but in my present position there would be little I could do about it. I was also aware, though, that it wouldn't become debilitating for a while - especially if I didn't do anything energetic - so I decided to go with it and see what happened.

The leader intoned some ritual words, and then the Angels took their time pissing all over my upper body and (now thankfully waterproof) jeans. At least it washed some of the oil off. When they’d finished and shaken their cocks dry they released me. I put my leather jacket back on (though the bastards wouldn't let me wipe any of the oil or piss off), then they presented with a cloth patch – the colours - with the Angels’ chapter on it, and that was that. After a quick chat to the leader and general back-slapping all round, we went our separate ways. Benny and I walked back to our bikes, his arm around my shoulder and my feet sloshing in pools of 20/50. With every movement my now very heavy jeans slid and slipped against my hips, my legs and my cock on the layer of oil inside them. I had another erection by the time we got to the bike.

I led Benny back towards my place for a clean-up and a beer. We got a couple of miles down the road before I flagged him down, and sucked him dry three times in the woods. Working on him in his leathers was every bit as wonderful as I’d imagined it would be.

That was my introduction to Hell’s Angels. They had a lot of bad press in those days, but most of the ones I knew were great. I made some friends, and I had a lot of fun.

And I also seemed to have developed a fetish for oil inside my leather jeans.


I’d been in London for quite a while now. My house was feeling more like home, and my playroom was getting plenty of use. I’d hung with the Rockers and then the Hell’s Angels from time to time, and I’d had lots of sex with horny bikers. During that period of time I’d become even more expert at using my abilities – most of the boys I’d had were straight, and so I’d had to use control almost every time.

But then late one evening, exploring the smaller streets on my new, black and much more powerful 750cc motorbike, I discovered something it had never even occurred to me could exist: leather clubs. Well, one of them anyway – but that was enough. It was in Mile End, and called the ‘Black Alley’. I’d been following a particularly horny-looking biker for a quarter of an hour and he’d finally come to a stop in a narrow street and parked opposite a plain, dark door. He’d opened it without knocking, and gone in. I’d sat there, watching and waiting - and was gob-smacked to see other leather-clad guys going in. None of them had arrived on motorbikes, but they were wearing leather gear that just had to be designed for sex. I couldn’t believe it.

So I parked the bike and went in.

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