By the time we go up to my room, the belt feels looser – I’ve lost most of my hardness, I can breathe again without feeling my groin pulse in a knot of sexual tension. While he sorts out the straitjacket’s straps and drapes it over the chair, a mild trepidation creeps up. Apart from the jacket, he’s laying out some coils of rope, even some leather cuffs. They don’t look new.
“Where did you get those from?” I point at the cuffs.
“Bought them off the net, ages ago, but I don’t use them often enough, unfortunately.”
This doesn’t soothe my nervousness. It does help with getting soft. “On second thought, I can’t say I really like the sight of all of this.”
Horton stops fiddling with the gear. “Ah,” he says. “I was afraid we might have rushed things.”
“On the flip-side: I’m flaccid now. Completely soft.”
“That’s no good.”
“Isn’t it? I thought it’d be better for the wank.”
“No, what I mean is that all of this is turning you off. That’s no good. It was meant to be functional – perhaps a bit arousing – but it was meant to keep you from interfering with the wank, by kicking your legs about or hitting me in the face with a knee or so. It wasn’t meant to put you off. I’m so sorry. This is no good.”
“You’re right. Perhaps it isn’t.”
“Would it be an idea just to wank you? No jacket, no cuffs, no rope? Or, if you feel confident enough, you could have your regular, supervised wank.”
I shake my head. “No, not a good idea. The moment I touch my cock, I’ll want to jerk and shoot. I won’t last twenty seconds.” Horton chuckles in response to my smiling, but neither of us can hide some heavy-heartedness. Everything’s still far too complicated. “You do the wanking,” I say, “but perhaps without all the belts and whistles – bells. Bells and whistles.”
“OK then.”
“Good.” I say and nod.
“Perhaps you should strip.”
“Perhaps that’s an idea, yeah.”
I’m laying naked on the bed when Horton takes off the belt. Air moves over my groin again. Convection sucks off some heat. My cock feels cold and shrivelled, uninterested. I don’t want to see it. Horton says I can close my eyes if I feel uncomfortable. It’s strange looking at your crotch to see a guy doing things when you were used to lie on top of long-haired, buxom vixens – so far, he’s only removed the belt, but I know what’s coming. I’ve never been much into hand- or blow- or boob-jobs, but getting them from a guy is, curiously, on the edge of unsettling. The old line in the sand that shouldn’t be transgressed. It’s all silly, really, but it’s carved deep into my being – difficult to reason with. Perhaps time will weather it out. Oh fuck, he’s touching. I look down.
He’s sitting next to my pelvis, his back turned three-quarters to me. His face is hidden by a wide, bouncy lock of hair. He combs it back behind his ear. Red T-shirt, a bit tight; fine arms and shoulders contoured underneath. A cold rush of nerves runs up from my feet. I start shivering. I don’t know why. He’s gentle. It feels good, but I can’t get hard.
“Are you cold?” he says.
“No. Just a bit nervous.”
“So far, you seem to be doing fine, no need to be nervous about cumming, I think. You’re quite soft. Just about floppy.”
“No, I mean, nervous in general.”
He looks up from my cock. “You mean, first time with a bloke and all that?”
“I guess, yeah.”
“It’s not that different, I’ve been told.”
“I know. It’s irrational, but I can’t help it.”
Horton tries. How he tries. He barely breathes. Doesn’t shift the slightest bit on the bed. Self-effacing. I feel guilty, which doesn’t help either.
“You’ll have to do it yourself.” he says. He’s brave enough to break the news I’d been fearing.
“No, it’s no use. Even if I wank it’s not going to work. Not today.”
He caresses my cock, grazes my balls, lets it all flop down, and gets up.
“At least we’ve learned that when you’re too horny, just ask me to fondle you. That should get you back down.”
My mouth tastes bitter. I avoid his eyes and look at my toenails.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. The softness of his voice is a stake through my heart. “Tea?”
“I’ll make it.” I say.
After a second cup, a quiet talk, and him insisting not to worry about it, I decide to keep the belt in my room – he, as usual, keeps the key. I don’t know into which state of arousal my body will drag me once I’ve calmed down. We both spend the rest of the day doing nothing much. I do fuck all – I click on links, don’t read what they lead to, open and close windows, have more bloody non-tea tea, and piss. I piss a lot. Dinner is normal, home delivery, but I can’t shake off a sense of disgust – not at being touched by him, but at my mind’s refusal to allow it. In the middle of the night, sat deep on the toilet bowl, I smother a raging hard-on with a narrow, high-pressure pee, freeze my cock in an ice pack, and cram it into the belt. Horton’s gone on Sunday, visiting his parents. Monday flashes by. Tuesday evening I’m still in the belt. I ask him for an unlock after dinner. He asks me who’s doing the wanking.
I’m on my bed again. Just in case, the straitjacket hangs open over the back of a chair, inviting me in. Horton gets out the key to the belt, and sits down next to me. The belt comes off. This time my cock doesn’t wait to get hard. I’m wet.
“Perhaps you should get me in the jacket.” I say.
“Anything to make you feel, eh, whichever way you want to feel.”
“I think it might calm me down. A bit like cattle in their squeezing pens. It seems to have that effect on me.”
To my surprise I don’t go soft when he straps me in. I let myself meld with the leather he tightens across my body. When he crosses my arms, holding them and pressing them with delicate determination over my stomach, when he threads the straps through the under-arm loops and tightens them in my back, he squeezes a short, satisfied grunt from me. It catches him as much by surprise as I’m caught by embarrassment. He smiles but doesn’t raise his eyes from the buckles he adjusts, tightens, and shifts.
“I can’t help but notice,” he says “that this jacket does have some effect on you.”
I mumble disapproving nonsense but don’t rebuke him. The affront of being caught red-handed is one I don’t want to acknowledge. His smile deepens. A corner of his mouth opens, shows a thin line of teeth.
“There’s something else I thought of,” he says. “Wouldn’t it be an idea to keep you from seeing the proceedings?”
“What do you mean?”
“To blind you.”
“Might be an idea. How would you want to do that?”
“There are many ways. But what about one of these?” He rummages in his backpack on the chair. I hadn’t seen him bring it upstairs. “A blindfold works just as well, as far as sight is concerned, but this is different, and much better, in many respects.” He shows me a black, leathery thing that looks like a steampunk bag with silver straps, snaps, buckles, and lacing.
“What is it?”
“A leather hood. Does the same thing as a blindfold, but with a few extras. It’s leather, which I think you like. Or are starting to like.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You haven’t stopped straining against the leather. Just listen to you creaking.”
“That’s just the sensation of being held tight.”
“Sure, Mr. Freud.”
“And what other wonders does that hood accomplish, besides blinding? Suffocating someone to death?”
“No, it’s got enough breathing holes – the mouth's even open, a panel just buckles onto it. And even if it didn’t, enough air comes in through the neck – on most models, anyway. As for the advantages over a blindfold? Well, it’s leather – which does nothing to you, you say. It also muffles sounds coming in – you’ll be quite a bit more isolated. And it muffles speech. Which isolates you even more. And if I want to be nasty, I could change the mouth panel for a large gag.” He stops grinning. “Am I overdoing it?”
“You’re reaching that point.”
“You’re still hard though.”
“So I am. Better not squander that, Mr Hunter.”
“So, hood? Or we can improvise a blindfold…”
“Let’s go with your hood, then, as you seem so keen on it.” I shrug. Shrugging doesn’t have quite the same effect in a tight straitjacket.
Horton drops the hood on the bed – it looks small, complicated, and ineffectual – grabs me by the shoulders, turns me facing away from him, and strokes my hair back. He drops the hood over my face – it catches on my forehead – and with a short tug it comes down. My view is reduced to slits. The nose I guess, bits of open mouth.
“I won’t tighten it hard.” he says. I don’t answer.
The hood is cool against my face, a bit clingy, and immerses me in the moist scent of used leather. My focus shifts to my breathing. While Horton adjusts the fit, shifting the leather left and right, getting the nose aligned, cinching the mouth-bit closed, colder bits of hood cling and hold against my skin. He zips it shut from the back. The whole thing hugs my face. “Is that all right?” he says. I nod and hum an approbation. The blinding panel of the hood is padded and soft against my eyelids. When I try to peek, all I see is a thin line of light that seeps up from beneath. Horton fiddles with it. “Tell me if it’s too tight.” he says. It never is. When I try to open my eyes, the leather holds them shut. My vision is gone. I strain against the sleeves wrapping my arms around me, cock my head left and right. Everything moves, yet everything pins me into myself. “Hold still.” Horton says.
“I’m getting needy.” I say.
“Good.”
I feel him tug on laces on each side of my head – first left, then right. He tightens them like shoelaces and ties them off. The leather grips my neck when Horton threads a strap around it. I move my chin forward. “Right. All done.” he says, and slides his hands over the hood. Cool, clinging leather follows his movements, ends holding onto my neck. I swallow. “OK?” he says. I nod. He manoeuvres me onto the bed. I feel him sit down. I push against the straitjacket, try to get my arms down. He caresses my still hard cock from the base up, once. I throw any lingering preconception to the wind, and moan.
For God-knows-how-long all he does is caressing, but I keep quiet. I shift now and then, strain a bit, take in a deep breath, try to reach for my cock – and all he does is glide over it, stroke it. For a brief moment, I reimagine the scene where HH’s fingers glide up, and up, and up again. I’m far from that boiling urgency – this is mellow, fledgling frustration. Jim had been through a long hand- and blow-job by then. Horton has just begun.
As if reading my mind, he shifts on the bed, takes my cock in both hands, and starts squeezing bits, gauging my reaction. He repeats motions, studies my movements – I try to conceal any hint of interest.
“You’ve started leaking.” Horton says.
“Have I?”
“You have.” With that answer, he starts sliding my foreskin over my cockhead. “Feel that?” he says. I give in to a tentative hump. “So you do. I like it when boys are easy to read.”
“Boys?”
“Argot. You’re a boy now.”
“I see.”
He lingers on the cockhead. I need another little hump, and disguise it as general straining in the straitjacket. The effort alone relieves some of the tension, but he follows the concealed hump with ease. His fingers don’t stop their probing – soon they latch onto tender bits. I gasp. “What do you mean,” – I have to swallow first – “by easy to read ?”
“Speak up,” he says. “I can’t hear you through the hood.”
“What do you mean,” I enunciate, but even I can hear that I mumble – a thin flap of leather strapped to the hood in front of my mouth is all that is needed to sabotage talk – “by easy to read ?”
“Easy to read? It means that it’s easy to see what your cock likes and what doesn’t work on you. Makes it easy for me to know what I have to do to make you horny.” He continues to rub circles under my cockhead. “You do realise you’re humping, don’t you?” he says.
I nod. Horton doesn’t answer. “Yeah.” I say. I sound thirsty. My throat’s gone dry. All my abs contract when, together with squeezing the underside of my head in circles, he starts fondling my balls, goes up, grips the base of my cock, and wanks it with infuriating synchronisation. The rubs and wanks interleave. The pressure up my cock doubles – triples. I have to let out a long, gasping fuuuck . I can’t hold it in.
“You like that, don’t you.”
“No, it’s dreadful.” I mumble.
“Of course it is.”
He finds spots I didn’t know my cock had. Pressure points that make me tingle with need, unnatural positions he holds it in that scream for hard wanking – but he keeps it slow, deliberate, and light. I need more. I allow myself another urgent hump and grunt. Nothing happens, he follows. I tug against the sleeves, push down hard in brusque jerks. Horton gets up, rummages in his backpack. I’m tempted to flip over onto my stomach and grind my cock in the bedsheets. I’ll be a good boy and let him to do whatever he wants. He threads something over and around my arms. A ratchet tightens me into the bed. Next are my ankles, cuffed, pulled wide, tied down. This is all getting a bit much. I go for it.
“Question.” I say.
“Yes?”
“Do you, by any chance, have one of those gags you mentioned earlier lying around in your backpack?”
“What?”
“Do you have a gag in your backpack?”
He loosens two buckles on either side of the hood, takes off the padded panel over my mouth, and presses something cold against my lips. I release my jaw and a smooth, wide piece of – I don’t know – slides in. It shifts as he attaches it to one buckle, then plunges in deep, pressing hard against my teeth and lips and the back of my tongue when he tightens the other – the pressure settles when he lets go of the buckle and shifts the panel. I can’t even mumble any more. I’m lost.
“Right,” he says. “That was your little indulgence, now I’ll have mine.” He strokes my inner thighs, I feel him lean in and lie on one of my legs, bathe my cock in moist air – his lips seal mid-shaft. All I can do is want more. He’s so gentle. So delicate. So unnerving. He takes great pains – or pleasure – to keep me far away from cumming. The warm wetness on the top of my cock and the dry stroking of my balls are two distinct worlds joined by sheer want. The knot at the base of my groin is unravelling. His lips tease out the strands, he dissolves them with licks, wide and slow. With the knot undone, my entire pelvis is now impatient for orgasm. For a few licks I imagine Horton’s head doing the unspeakable – I try to look down, but hit the blindfold. I need a hump.
It’s an open mouth that I’m fucking – I catch a bit of tongue on the bottom of my cock, hit the palate with the tip, a tooth with the shaft – a chuckle squashes any hope of imminent relief. Horton grabs my balls, tugs them down. I groan. “Getting needy?” he says. I come straight up with a answer, but the gag reduces my wit to spit and grunts.
“I need more!”
“What?” Horton says.
I look down, hump hard, and moan – that he should understand, the little twerp.
“Oh, ‘more’. That’s what you said.” he says.
Still humping, I hm-hm in urgent assent.
“I don’t think so.” he says.
He’s enjoying this. His grip on my balls tightens enough to stop my humping. The tongue is back. He’s getting it inside my foreskin, pushes it back. Oh fuck – it’s twirling, circling around the slit. After a dozen of its rounds, I no longer care about my balls and I jerk up. He dodges, tugs down harder, grips my cock at the root, and twirls more. I cannot get used to it. My entire cock starts burning. It builds into a long wave – I control it for a while, I observe it from a distance. In a few licks, my control slips, the subjugated wave waxes, peaks, crashes through my body, the burning gets intolerable, and I strain, hump, need. It doesn’t relent.
“Please.” I mumble.
“What, ‘please’?”
He’s circling the pads of my cockhead with his thumb, holding my cock up and away from my body, cupping my balls. My foreskin slithers, his thumb slithers – all is dripping in spit and precum.
“Please make me cum.”
“Make you cum?”
“Yes please. I need to.”
“Let me have a look.” he says. He fumbles around, and goes back to his hellish rubbing. “Any idea, how long this has been going on?”
“No.”
“Guess.”
“Far too long. Two hours.”
“Don’t be silly.”
If he could just stop rubbing the underside of my cockhead. I shift to the left, jerk to the right. Twist and fight inside the creaking jacket. The padded leather absorbs all my efforts.
“Guess again.” he says.
The burning has spread to my groin. Each rub bastes it with the genital equivalent of hot sauce. I need dousing. Milk! Yoghurt! Cum! Buckets of it!
“An hour!” I scream.
“No.”
I start sobbing, as fake as it can be, but it’s a relief, of sorts.
“Guess again.”
“Stop doing that, please.” I talk into the gag as if it weren’t there.
“Doing what?”
“Oh God.”
“Guess.”
“Please stop. Stop rubbing. OK, OK. Fifty minutes.”
“Fifty minutes?” he says.
“Yes.”
“No. Try again.” he says.
“Fuck. Tell me. Fuuuck.”
“Just over thirty. You’re far from a hour.”
“Stop it.”
“One more suckle.” he says. “Then we’ll see what we can do.”
The one more suckle is worse than the circling thumb, worse than the tongue-twirls. It’s full-on overload. Orgasm is fighting to break free. He’s dangling the keys to its shackles and cage right in front its desperate little face, out of reach, and tosses it a dull file instead – the tongue slobbers, tortures, teases languidly, paced to inflict suffering. There you go, he gloats, get yourself free. You have permission. I file away at the cuffs, strain, shriek.
“Please! Please stop!”
With a wet pop he stops. I’m sure he wipes contented slime off his smirk while watching my cock twitch and throb. He leans over, and gets the gag out. “That was thirty-eight minutes.” he says. “Twenty-two to go if you want to cum.”
I swallow “Gentle then. This is too much.”
“That was gentle.”
I huff. “It was torture.”
“I didn’t even edge you once. Do you want me to edge you once? Just to give you an idea. Think of poor ol’ Jim. He’s gone through much, much worse.”
“Another time.”
“Shall we continue?”
“I need a break. My cock’s on fire.”
“You need more practice.”
“What?”
“If we did this more often, you’d be able to take it. No problem.”
“But now I need a break. Seriously.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. “Alright. Do you want the hood off?”
“No. It’s fine.”
“OK.” he says. I’m sure he’s smiling.
He gets up and squeezes out the thin grunt that goes with a full-body stretch. I strain against the cuffs and ratchets – the burning in my groin is mellowing. A wet pressure is taking its place.
“Open up.” he says. The cold, slimy gag slides back in. My cock jerks in disgust.
The early twenty-two minutes are bearable. He strokes, kneads, fondles, caresses – some tongue gets me near to begging, but he reads me. Too well. He’s getting me close, cups up my balls, wanks rapidly under the head. I can feel cum shift. It’s coming. Oh fuck. He stops. Shit. Buds that had almost sprung to flower drop off like rotten fruit. I’m left hanging there somewhere, then collapse into needy muck.
“Oh fuuuck!”
“That is an edge, albeit a mild one,” he says. “Shall we do it again?”
“Don’t–” I say, but he’s already doing the quick-jerk. I know how it’s going to end. Here I am, ready to cum, while more rotten fruit splatters down, and I’m left hanging, dangling with my legs over a puddle of frustration. I pull up hard to get off, strain, squeeze, but it’s no use. I too fall down – a perfectly polished marble egg, unhatched, lying in the brown goop. I catch my breath.
“Right,” he says. “Time for the load of your life.” He jerks. My cock swells. I’m tugs away now.
“No! Stop!” I scream. I hate myself.
He stops, waits – I’m throbbing in his hand in static, near-orgasmic agony – he lets go. His motions are unsettled. He caresses my thighs.
“Something wrong?”
“Could you get the gag out?” I say, stressing gag and out . A string of drool runs down my neck.
“Sure.”
The straps press in, and it slides out.
“What’s wrong?” he says.
“Nothing,” I say, huffing. “Nothing at all. Sorry if I scared you. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine. There’s just something – just a vague hunch – that I’d like to give a try.”
(I 2021)
Next page