The Telemachus Story Archive

Part 8 - Axel
By Hooder

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It was very dark, but us Vees have unusually acute eyesight, so I had no trouble seeing everything. The place was awash in black leather. There were lots of guys in full kit standing around, drinking beer or coke, seemingly doing nothing but eyeing each other up. As soon as I walked in almost every one of them looked over at me – and when I took my crash helmet off I saw jaws dropping all over the place. There was nobody standing by the bar at the moment so I bought a coke (the can must have been solid gold, judging from the price they were asking for it).

It seemed that everyone had suddenly developed a raging thirst because when I turned around there were half a dozen guys by my side, all waiting to buy drinks and all turned towards me. I smiled politely at them and took my coke to the long seats that ran along the wall.

I’d hardly sat down when there was a guy standing in front of me. He pushed himself between my knees. He wasn’t unattractive, but I’d already seen many guys I was more interested in. He hooked a thumb in the pocket of his leather jeans and smiled. “Hi.”

I returned the smile, carefully, so as not to encourage him too much. “Hi.”

“You’re new here.”

I nodded, and took a sip of my coke.

More of them were gathering in my part of the room, I noticed. I scanned them: and my eyes came to rest on a very hunky guy in full – and extraordinarily sexy – leathers. He was wearing breeches like the SS had done – but these were shiny black leather ones. I’d never seen leather breeches before, and I very much wanted to inspect them more closely. I sent a suggestion to him.

He moved forward and put his hand on my shoulder. “Hi Paul! Good to see you again.”

I responded like he was an old friend, though he was already looking confused about what he’d just said – we’d never met before. “Hi. Come and sit down.” I shuffled along and made space for him, much to the annoyance of the others who had seemed to be forming a queue.

I turned as far towards him as I could, mainly to exclude the rest and to discourage them from trying to talk to me, and rested my hand on his knee. Those breeches were very thick, solid leather and felt wonderful. I stroked my fingertips over them. This was the guy I wanted. We chatted for a while – I told him I’d never heard of places like this before tonight, and I wasn’t very experienced. His eyes lit up at that and he suggested enthusiastically that we go into the other room and play.

“There’s another room?”

“There is,” he said. Apparently it contained leather slings, wooden stocks, and restraint frames.

I blinked. Was this possible? Times change, I thought.

He didn’t stop there, though. In meticulous and graphic detail he described each piece of equipment and exactly how it would hold me helpless while he did things to my body – and believe me, they were things that you would not tell your mother about.

I wanted to experience this. Oh fuck, I did. Picturing these devices, and what they were for, got me suddenly so abruptly horny that my primal instincts took over and without thinking of the consequences I looked at the guy and released a full load of pheromones at him. Now this would have been perfectly fine if we’d been alone – but I was in a room crammed with horny guys who already had nothing but sex on their minds. As I’ve said before, pheromones are very, very effective, but they’re not at all directional. They radiated away from me quickly – and suddenly there was silence. For about five seconds. Then there was the sound of fifty men falling over the furniture to get to me.

It was far too late for me to do anything about it now, although I tried. I managed to control a couple of them, but the rest kept coming. Hands grabbed me, pulled me off the seat and onto the floor. Then I was covered with guys in black leather jackets, jeans and boots. There were mouths at my crotch, sucking my cock through my jeans, fingers on my nipples, lips crushing mine wetly.

They ripped my jacket off, and stripped me. I was naked on the floor under a sea of testosterone-driven leather guys, every one intent on raping this stunningly good-looking boy.

I was held down, fucked and spit-roasted by everyone (including the bar staff, it seemed), stomped on by black leather boots, sucked and wanked, my tits were squeezed and bitten, spit ran down my face, my head was rammed into assorted orifices and onto hard, horny cocks, and everywhere – everywhere there was black leather.

I’m usually very good at controlling myself but this was too much even for me. These guys knew exactly what they were doing with cocks, and I couldn’t stop them from making me cum- twice – and that is not good.

I knew that this had to stop before I lost control and came again – although I wasn’t sure how it was going to. In the end my abilities did come to my rescue. I sent a desperate command to them all to cum - now! Within seconds, cocks shot their loads over me, or over the floor. I tried like fuck, but didn’t manage to catch a drop of it. Others staggered as they came in their hands or in their jeans; I took advantage of the general commotion to roll out from under them, grab my gear and get it on quickly. By the time I was dressed again most of them had wandered off to recover, deeply confused. I breathed a sigh of relief and tiptoed (not easy to do in motorcycle boots) to the exit. I opened the door, crossed the street and leaned on my bike, exhausted.

I was about to get on it when I saw a figure propped against the wall further down. A door opened beyond him and loud, fast and very discordant music came out for a moment. When I realised what I was looking at my eyes opened wide. He was like no other boy I’d ever seen. His shiny black gear had studs everywhere , and his hair was a single one-inch wide bright yellow strip running from front to back. Apart from the startling hair he looked a bit like an idealised Rocker from years back, but even then, very different. He had wide, spiked arm- and wrist-bands; an open, torn leather jacket covered with badges, patches, studs and small chains, two studded leather belts, low down on his slim hips; boots that weren’t motorcycle boots but which had more studs and spikes and chains on them than you could shake a stick at; and jeans that were blacker, shinier and tighter than any I had ever seen in my fucking life. They looked like they had been sprayed onto him. I was so transfixed by them that I had to hold onto the bike for support - he was sex on fucking legs.

Even had I not been hungry from having cum twice inside the club, I wouldn’t have had any choice. I walked along the street until I was a yard away from him. “Hello,” I managed to croak. I sensed that his name was Axel. For some reason I found that very sexy, and it seemed to fit him perfectly.

He looked round at me, and the usual expression of disbelief appeared on his face.

“I am going to have indescribably pervy sex with you,” I stated flatly, while sending him a variety of suggestions that, I really hoped, would make him amenable to the idea.

It did. Without taking his eyes off me he pushed himself away from the wall and began walking quickly down the street. I followed him very closely.

His flat was a total mess. He threw assorted things (including a cabbage, I noticed) off the bed, and I pulled him down onto it. We kissed passionately and hard. But not for long: I was desperate to have a much closer look at those jeans, and I very badly needed his spunk. When I got there I frowned – they were not leather, and yet they were very black and very, very shiny. They were skintight: tighter than any I’d ever seen – there wasn’t a single crease anywhere - and they were also very much thinner than leather. I took the outline of his cock gently between my teeth and worked on it. It grew quickly to full erection. So far he had not said a word. The sight of that hard boy-cock under those skintight shiny black jeans made me need to cum again very badly indeed. It also made me even hungrier. I undid the zip, and was disappointed to see that he was wearing underpants. I got his cock out of them and began to suck it.

He shook his head. “Use your hand.”

This was unusual. Everybody prefers a blow job to a hand job, I thought. But apparently not him. Ok, that was no problem. I wrapped my fingers around it and began to milk him, but ready to catch everything in my mouth. Hungry as I was, I forced myself to start slowly, to build up the quality of the spunk. The boy was moaning quietly and moving on the bed shamelessly. Gently I looked inside his mind, finding out exactly what he liked best, and how he liked his cock worked on. With most guys the head is one of the most responsive bits, but with this boy it was even more so than usual: he wasn’t circumcised, and it seemed that it was gentle friction of the foreskin sliding over the glans that did it for him. Also the end of the foreskin itself was unbelievably sensitive. I adjusted my technique, working on just the head very slowly now, concentrating on teasing it with just a finger and thumb, and tickling the end of his foreskin with each stroke. As soon as I started to do this his moaning suddenly became much more urgent and he began to thrust his hips. He was getting very close.

I debated whether to stop him from being able to cum for a while, but I was so hungry by now that I got him straight to the very edge with long, slow strokes, held him there for just a few seconds, and then pushed him over.

He arched his back and came. I sealed my lips around the tip of his cock, stroked the ring of his foreskin slowly with the tip of my tongue, and swallowed the beautiful spunk – and swallowed, and swallowed. He came gallons. I’d never known a boy produce as much spunk – and I could taste that the quality was even better than I’d hoped. He was bouncing on the bed, thrusting his hips and groaning in extreme pleasure. I took every last drop, and very soon I began to feel a bit stronger.

This boy, in that gear, was one of the sexiest I’d ever seen, and now that my urgent craving had been satisfied for the moment, I wanted more of him. And those jeans were doing something to me I couldn’t describe, or even understand. Their sole purpose, it seemed to me, was to get whoever saw them horny and make them want to have sex with him. And for some reason that made me want to punish the little fucker for wearing prick-teasing gear like that.

Thus far I had used very little in the way of control on him – it hadn’t been necessary once I’d got him onto the bed; he’d seemed more than happy for me to go to work on him. But now I immobilised him, and put a cum-block on him. He began to struggle and ask me what the fuck was going on, what the fuck was I was doing, but I ignored him. I pulled his jeans down, cut off his underpants with my penknife, and fastened the jeans back up again. I knew it would be a waste of spunk, but for some reason, more than anything I longed to make the bastard cum in those fucking jeans.

I worked on his cock through them with my teeth and then my fingers. The hardness of it was stretching them out, so I could grip it well. I concentrated on the head, right at the tip. The jeans were so thin that I could feel the end of his foreskin through them, and I worked on it too. The shiny material was straining, tight and rounded over the head of his cock, and it reflected lights from the room almost like a small black mirror. Concentrating on just the head, knowing it was his most vulnerable spot, I stroked it, licked it, tickled it, rubbed it, gently scraped my pointed canines over it, all the time holding the base of his cock down firmly. I knew this was not something he’d ever had done to him before, but I also knew that the reason he wore those jeans was because they also turned him on, and in his most pervy moments he’d occasionally fantasised about cumming in them – even though in those fantasies it had been a girl doing it.

This time I edged him mercilessly. Everything I was doing to him was intended to make him need to cum more and more desperately – and yet I knew that with the block on him he couldn’t. He was writhing on the bed, struggling in the incorporeal restraints I’d got him in, his face a mask of need. I continued to edge him repeatedly, giving him the briefest breaks to back away from the point of orgasm before I resumed working on him.

Finally I could wait no longer. My own cock was as hard as steel in my leathers. “You’re gonna learn that wearing sexy fucking jeans like these to pricktease people can be dangerous… I’m gonna make you fucking cum in them,” I panted.

Although he was shaking his head, he was also moaning with animal lust.

I released the cum-block and, with a single finger and thumb sliding the foreskin right over the end of his cock head through his jeans, I nudged him over the edge. The very tip of my own cock isn’t as specifically sensitive at the tip as his was, but the reflected feelings coming from him were exquisite. I wished for a moment that mine was like that.

He suddenly started to struggle like mad, and his cock bucked like a wild animal as he shot his load under my milking fingertips; the thin, tight, shiny black jeans showing every separate gob of spunk as it pumped out into them.

FUUUUUUCK!” He yelled, his body thumping on the bed.

I milked every drop out of him before I stopped working on him. It was a shame to waste it all, I thought, but it was worth it – my need for it wasn’t quite as great at the moment as it had been. He collapsed back onto the bed, exhausted.

I looked at him, and stroked my fingers through his strip of yellow hair. He was a good-looking boy with deep blue eyes. It was, I realised, the first time I’d really looked at his face. Fuck, he was sexy. My cock was still hard and I badly needed to cum. Bugger it, I thought. I turned him over and immobilised him again, got the penknife out of my leather jacket again, and very carefully made a hole in the back of his jeans. I unzipped my leathers, spat on my cock and pushed it through the hole into his arse, then I began to fuck him.

He’d been shaking his head and moaning, “nooo….” I fucked the boy slowly, enjoying every thrust. Then I reached underneath his hips and found the bulge of his cock. Either it was still hard or it had got hard again – whichever, it didn’t matter. I gripped the head and started to work on it again as my own cock pushed in and out of him. Fucking this boy like this was turning me on like crazy, and his hard cock felt unbelievably horny through those shiny, jeans. I clamped my free hand over his mouth and gagged him with it, then released all of his restraints. The moment he felt them go he started to struggle – but I knew it wasn’t to get me off: he was struggling just because it felt good to struggle under me.

I was on the edge. I speeded up my hand working on the end of his cock and, with a huge thrust into him, I came – and, for the third time, so did he.

We both collapsed in a heap on the bed - he groaning quietly, me panting.

After a while we separated and lay there together. He looked at me.

“Are you an alien?” He asked, quite seriously.

I chuckled. “No, I’m not an alien. I’m just very good at hypnosis.” The old hypnosis explanation worked more often than not.

His blue eyes were gazing into my own. “Well you can hypnotise me whenever the fuck you like.”

Later we had a beer and he rolled a spliff. I’d never had one before but I’d heard about them and I’d always wanted to try one. I was disappointed to find that, it seemed, cannabis has no effect on me at all. Well, I thought, you can’t have everything. I asked what punk was about and he told me – anti-authority and anti-corporate feelings seemed to play a large part, along with ‘underground’ music, whatever that was. I realised that I still had much to learn about British subcultures.

I left him enough money not only to replace the jeans I’d made a hole in but to pay for at least another couple of pairs. I asked him about them, and about his hair. He was amazed I’d never heard of punks before; they’d been around a while, apparently. The jeans, he said, were ‘PVC’. Polyvinyl something-or-other. Plastic, basically. I made a note to get a few dozen pairs as soon as possible. As I went out I turned and sent him a suggestion that he would never, ever, want to wear underpants under tight jeans again.

The night air was fresh outside, and I realised that the net result of this whole evening had actually been negative: what with the club earlier and the punk just now, I’d lost a lot more spunk than I’d gained. But fuck, it had been worth it. I’d discovered leather clubs; Punks and PVC jeans, and I’d had one of the sexiest boys ever. I was going to have to find more of all of those.

But right now I was hungry. I got on the bike and set off in search of more horny cocks.

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