The Telemachus Story Archive

Double Zero
By Hooder

Double Zero


I check I haven't left anything: my cigarettes, lighter, keys - and that I still have my wallet - and head for the door. Some very interesting guys in the club earlier, but no result tonight. I like the Double Zero - it's a straight biker club, and it can be rough, but compared to the gay leather bars the clientele is a lot more varied. There's everything from glue-sniffing boneheads on their Harleys or self-built trikes; spiky-haired punks in leathers so ripped, worn and tatty that you have to look twice to see it's actually leather; to boy-racers on Japanese crotch rockets, and retro rockers with their thick black leather jeans and studded jackets.

I've been coming here for a couple of years, and I mainly come just to look at the tight jeans and bulging crotches, the muscular bodies, and the cute leatherboys. An hour drinking a few beers and watching the guys horseplaying with each other in the Double Zero never fails to charge my balls for a good wank back at home. Oh I've seen some wonderful sights in that spit-and-sawdust club, and I've even picked up the occasional horny - and straight - biker here before now.

Nothing tonight though. I smile to myself as I leave the club, remembering one particularly sexy guy who was here earlier tonight. Nice. Very nice.

The air outside is cool and I pull up the zip of my leather jacket. The street lighting around here is terrible - but the dark back alleys give a certain sleaziness to the club which I like a lot. The only problem with the Double Zero is usually finding a place to park the bike. Tonight the only spot I could find not already filled with bikes is by the back door of a Chinese restaurant a block away, in a lane so narrow you can just about touch both sides with outstretched arms. I plod down the alley towards it, trying not to walk into anything unsavory on the pavement.

Ah, there's the opening to the lane. I cross the street, not even bothering to look for traffic as the only vehicles around here at this time of night are bikes, and you can hear them coming streets away. I sidestep the remains of a pizza lying on the broken tarmac and turn into the narrow lane.

Shit! As I turn the corner into the alley I hear a hiss, and walk straight into some kind of mist. It's cold on my face and smells of chemicals. My hands come up to my face to protect myself, but my legs give way. Things are getting blurred, and my head is spinning. What the fuck is going on? As I hit the floor my fall is broken by arms reaching for me. I see a glimpse of black leather jackets, and then everything goes dark. There is something over my head. Some part of my mind recognises the feel and the smell - it's a leather hood!

Is this a joke? Some of my mates having a bit of fun? I try to bring my hands up to pull the hood off but I can't move them very well - whatever that mist was is fuddling my brain. My hands are grabbed, forced behind my back, held by strong arms. My brain eventually catches up and decides something is probably very wrong. I start to yell. "OI! What the fuck is this? Let me go! Who are y..mph" That's as far as I get before a hand is clamped very hard over my mouth, pressing the leather hood tightly over my face. I'm sitting on the road, I have very little control of my body - can't move my legs at all - my head is spinning, and I'm being held immobile, and suffocated.

I can't get any air. I struggle and try to kick, but my legs will not do what I want them to. The leather of the hood is shrinkwrapped to my face as I fight for air and my lungs are bursting. In other circumstances I would find all of this an incredible turn-on, but these guys, whoever they are, clearly mean business. There is no roleplaying, no acting here - I am either being abducted, or am about to be beaten up or killed. I stop struggling, and the hand is removed. Blessed fresh air rushes in under the hood. I gulp in the air and close my eyes in relief.

The hood, which up to now has been loose and just dropped over my head, is now being tightened carefully by some means - I can feel fingers on it, holding my head down to get at the back. When it's done, the leather is pulled tight all around my head, and especially tight over my eyes and under my nose. Something has been pushed between my teeth and fastened to the lower part of the hood, very effectively gagging me. I hear the unmistakable click of a small padlock at the back of my neck. I am helpless - unable to see or to communicate anything at all and unable to get the hood off.

The arms pinning my own behind my back lift me up to a standing position - I stagger, my legs still not working properly - and I am turned and then half-pushed, half-carried forwards. I am manhandled onto the pillion seat of a motorbike, and I feel some kind of restraint being fastened around my booted ankles, fastening them to the footpegs of the bike. My thighs close against the hips of the rider in front of me, and my arms are pulled around his waist and fixed there with some kind of cuffs. At least they're not held too closely together.

My head is beginning to clear at last. I reason that these guys are not going to beat me up or kill me - they could have done that in the alley without going to all this trouble - unless they're taking me to a quiet place to torture me at leisure... Best not to think about that possibility. Think positive. Whoever they are and whatever they're up to, this could be fun.

The bike starts, and I feel the rider's muscles move and the bike jerk slightly as he puts the machine into gear. A crash helmet is pushed down over my hooded head and buckled up under my chin. Everything is suddenly much quieter. We move off. So far not a word has been spoken. I have no idea who these guys are, how many of them there are, or why - or where - they are taking me.

Wind noise and the buzz of the engine is all I can hear. It feels strange being on a bike but not to be able to see anything or to feel the wind against my face. I just hope the rider is good and that we don't come off - I'm attached to the bike and to the rider, so that could be messy. Oh well, there is nothing I can do about that, so I tell myself to relax and enjoy the experience. The bike leans into bends, and I am pushed forwards and back with changes in acceleration direction.

My hands are resting against the rider's stomach - I can feel the zip of his leather jacket, and below it a studded belt. I slowly work my hands downwards, using the bumps in the road to cover the movement, and my fingers come to rest on the curved mound of the biker's crotch. Very lightly, so that - hopefully - through his jeans he can't feel my fingertips moving, I explore that bulge. Oh yeah! These jeans are a type of leather I love: thick, smooth, cold, impenetrable, encasing. I have a favourite pair myself that are very similar - from the outside they feel sexier than any of my others. There is warmth from his body heat in places, but mostly the leather is cold and sexy from the cool air flowing over them. With a single fingertip I slowly trace the bulge down to the beginning of his perineum, feeling the double layer of leather over the zip give way to a single thickness, then I work my way back up again even more slowly, feeling from side to side and building up a mental picture of his crotch in my mind. His balls form a round bulge towards the bottom of the zip and to the left hand side. I tickle them lightly, and also the inside of his thigh - far too lightly for him to feel, but in my imagination the tickling is getting him horny. My fingers continue upwards, searching for his cock. When I find it, I gasp - it's rock-hard. There is a separate, sharply-defined bulge where his cock is stretching the thick but flexible leather outwards, as if pushing it gently into my hand. Throwing caution to the wind I squeeze and caress the shaft, and run my fingernail over the head. I feel his cock jerk urgently in response. This is clearly a boy in need, and I am always happy to help in such a situation. With no further attempt at secrecy, I tease his perineum and massage his balls gently with my left hand, and wank his cock through his leather jeans with my right. After only a few strokes, a sound other than the wind and the engine reaches me: a long, guttural groan of animal lust as he cums. Between my thighs I feel his whole body tense, and beneath my milking fingers his cock dances under the black leather as he pumps his spunk into his jeans, his thighs opening and closing and his knees banging into the petrol tank in his throes of orgasm. The bike slows abruptly for a moment, then resumes its speed as he regains control of the machine. My fingers continue milking for a few seconds - just the head now - slowly and gently, feeing the squish of spunk under the leather as his cock slides around inside his jeans. That long moan of pleasure as he came has been the only response from him. Wishing I could get to my own hard cock to relieve myself, I raise my hands back to his stomach and we continue onwards.

After a further ten or fifteen minutes I feel the bike slowing, then coming to a stop. I have no idea where we are. I hear other bikes pull up nearby, being put on their stands and the engines switched off. The ticking of cooling metal fills the air already fragrant with the smell of hot bikes. Hands grab me, holding me while my cuffs are removed, my arms are forced behind my back, and re-secured there. Then my feet are released and I'm helped off the bike. I feel fingers under my chin, unfastening the helmet, and then pulling it off my head. Even through the leather hood I can feel the cooler fresh air. With one guy in front of me and one behind, I'm propelled forwards. I hit my shoulder against something solid as we go inside. They guide me roughly up a flight of stairs, and into a room. Apart from the creaking of the bikers' leathers and the scuffing of our boots on what sounds like bare concrete, there is silence. We stop, and I wait for my hood to be removed.

It is not. Instead, uncounted hands grab me and hold me as my wrist cuffs are undone, and I am forcibly stripped naked. I feel the smooth leather of the bikers' jackets and jeans against my bare skin as, shivering slightly in the cool air of the room, I'm strapped in a standing position to what feels like some kind of wide ladder. Each wrist and ankle is fixed tightly to a corner and a further strap goes over my stomach to hold me down. I can feel the wide, flat 'rungs' of the ladder digging into my back and legs. I am scared. I try to ask them what they want from me, but the gag between my teeth makes communicating quite impossible.

The hands are gone now, and I wait there wondering what's going to happen to me. My mind is conjuring morbid thoughts again - are they going to torture me or kill me? My cock, a moment ago hardening at the feel of their leathers, is now completely soft again at the terrifying thoughts. If only I could see. I know there are at least two of them, but there may well be many more. What are they doing? What are they preparing? If I could see what they're doing I could at least have some idea of what to expect. But the hood is there to prevent me from being able to see; to make me helpless; and to make me afraid. And it's doing all of those things very well.

I jump as hands touch me. Leather-gloved hands - first one pair then more, and still more. The bikers are walking around me, stroking my skin, punching me gently, pinching my flesh. One hand slaps my bare arse playfully; another pokes me in the ribs; a third squeezes a nipple. Now and again a hand clamps over my gagged mouth and presses hard, cutting off my air again, but thankfully never for long. They seem to be exploring my body, my reactions, and playing with me. Every time I feel the touch of their leather jackets or jeans against my skin I give a shudder of pleasure - I have an intense fetish for black leather.

After a while they stop, and there is a pause, then I feel myself - and the ladder, or whatever it is I'm strapped to - moving. There is the sound of ropes on pulleys, and the head end begins to lower. It stops, and the bottom rises. Soon I am horizontal.

I can hear them moving about, but they're not talking to each other. I know that's probably so that I can't identify them or remember their voices later. Whoever these guys are they know their business. A new sound: a door opening and then closing. A small door. A cupboard perhaps? Footsteps coming towards me. Then silence.

"AAAAARRRGGGH!!" I scream into the gag as something very hot touches my left nipple. It stays there. The scream dies in my throat as I realise it's actually just the right side of unbearable - it was the unexpectedness more than searing heat that made me scream. But it's still bloody hot though. The pain seems to come in waves: one second it's ok and the next it's more than I can take. On one of these peaks I squirm and whatever was on my nipple falls off onto the floor. It makes an unmistakable sound: a coin, or possible a washer. More footsteps, then another strap is placed over my chest, just below the nipples, and tightened. I move experimentally and find that I will no longer be able to escape the pain that way. Another hot coin is placed on my chest, then one on my left thigh. I arch my back as much as the straps will allow and struggle to thrown the coins off, but I can't move enough. All I can do is yell into the gag.

More hot coins are put onto my body. These are being placed in a circle, on my stomach. The pain builds with each one... I don't know how much of this I can take; individually the coins are possible to deal with, but the effect on a localised area seems to be cumulative. And now, a final coin is put in the exact centre of that circle. I scream out loud - this one is far hotter than the others. No - it is ice cold! It's impossible to express what this feels like. For the first second it felt blisteringly hot, but then I realised it was in fact cold. And not just cold, but straight from the freezer. I am aware of searingly hot coins and the cold one - and it is torture. Strangely though, it is not pure pain. I have never been able to stand intense pain, but I can stand this - just. But the feeling is incredible. Extremes of hot and cold so closely together are producing a... an.. a kind of ache that is both incredibly intense, and also somehow interesting. In the same way that I imagine being tickle-tortured would make you wet yourself with the need for it to stop, you also know that it's not going to kill you or permanently harm you. In a strange way, this is a bit like like that.

More coins are put onto my bare skin - I feel wetness running down from each one, and guess that they've been heated up in hot water. The coins are placed unpredictably along my arms, my shoulders, my chest, pressed and held by leather-gloved hands against the insides of my thighs (these are particularly excruciating). I never know where the next one is going to make contact, nor whether it's going to be a hot one or a cold one. Gradually I realise that in spite of the pain, there are aspects of this that are turning me on like fuck: the deviousness of using coins of different temperatures; the fact that I'm strapped down helpless so that I can't avoid them; and most of all the way that they're using my inability to see because of the leather hood, to make the torture so much more intense. If I could see a coin coming, I could prepare for it, steel myself against it. But as it is, because of that black leather pressing tight over my eyes, blindfolding me wherever I move my head, every contact of a coin on my body is sudden and unexpected and so much more difficult to deal with.

I realise that no more coins are being applied. My body must be covered with them now, but at least they are cooling. With a flash of embarrassment I'm suddenly conscious that my cock is hard.

I feel hands removing the coins. Now they are all gone. I wonder what other devious games these bikers have planned for me. I feel the ladder flex as someone climbs onto it, and then I grunt as his weight lands on top of me. Leather all over. I can feel his leather jacket, a studded belt digging into my stomach, the pressure of his bulge against my cock, his leather jeans all along my bare legs, and his boots against my feet. Then his leather-gloved hands run down my sides. He wriggles slowly on top of me, and for the first time I hear words - he whispers into my ear and it's the sexiest whisper I've ever heard: "This turning you on, leather boy? Is the feel of these leathers getting you hard? You like leather boys, don't you?" Every time he says the word 'leather' he rubs himself against me. Oh fuck that is beautiful.

He closes his legs together, trapping my hard cock between his thighs, and starts to fuck me, his pelvis moving up and down. "Like that?" He whispers. "Like the feel of my tight, sexy black leather jeans milking your cock?' Indeed they are milking my cock - irresistibly. Very quickly I feel myself approaching orgasm - but he stops before I can cum, and hops off. I hear quiet chuckles around me.

Suddenly, unseen fingers are touching me - stroking, teasing, tickling lightly. I have no idea how many pairs of hands there are, but there are lots, and they are all over me. I squirm with pleasure as all those fingertips work on me, every one with a touch as light as a feather. They run up my arms, across my armpits, over my chest and stomach, all over my thighs and calves, along the soles of my feet, between the toes, and at least three hands are working on my cock and balls. In less than a minute I need to cum so badly I can scream - but all I can do is lie here and endure it. Fingers are tickling my balls - it feels like ants' feet running over them - and that on its own would be enough to have me climbing the wall with the need to cum, but there are more fingers on my cock, rubbing gently, stroking, tickling, moving it from side to side, passing it from hand to hand, massaging the shaft and teasing the cockhead. I can feel precum oozing out of the tip, making the gloved fingers slide over my cock smoothly. I have NEVER needed to cum so badly in my life. I'm strapped down helpless, hooded, surrounded on all sides by countless bikers in sexy black leather - every one of them (at least in my blindfolded imagination) a walking wet dream - and they are all working on me. I try to pump my pelvis, to fuck the hand on my cock, but every time I move, the hand moves with me, providing no more friction than before but continuing to tease and tickle my desperate cock so frustratingly lightly. OH FUCK I NEED TO CUM!!!! I NEED TO CUM!!!! I NEED TO CUM!!!!

Abruptly the touch of the fingers changes from silky light to hard. Stiff fingers probe into my sides, the creases of my groin, my armpits, my stomach, tickling hard and mercilessly. I am screaming. I am begging them to stop. My head is thrashing from side to side as sharp nails rake over the sensitive soles of my feet and every nerve centre on my entire body is tickle-tortured sadistically. I have never been tickle tortured before and I had no idea it could be as bad as this. It is excruciating. I can't stand it. I am going to go mad. I plead into the gag. I promise them everything I have if only they will STOP! Oh GOD! Oh SHIT! Oh FUCK!!!!! SSTTOPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My cock has gone soft and I am pissing myself. I feel my hot pee running over my thigh and turning cold as it pools under me on the wide rungs of the ladder. And still they don't stop. I can't take it. My voice is hoarse with screaming hysterically into the gagging hood. I fight for air and the torture continues...

I open my eyes and see the blackness of the hood. I must have fainted. I realise that now I am fully dressed in my leathers again and lying on the floor, on my side, my wrists cuffed behind me once more.

They must notice I'm back with them, as strong arms lift me up and I'm marched out of the room. Back outside I'm put back onto the bike and once again held as they tie me into position. The crash helmet is pulled down over the hood and soon we're off.

As before, the cuffs joining my wrists have a length of plastic tie between them so they're not held too closely, and had I the inclination, I could again explore the rider's leather crotch. But right now I'm too exhausted from the torture. My whole body is tingling from the tickling and my muscles ache from the spreadeagled position. I breathe in the night air as the bike speeds along, wondering where the fuck they're taking me now - and for what? The morbid thoughts of real torture and death are beginning to haunt me again.

In spite of that, after a while I realise that I am in fact still unbelievably horny. My hard cock is pressing against the arse of the rider, and suddenly another exploration of his leather jeans seems like an interesting idea. I move my hands down, wait for a negative response - nothing - and begin to tease his cock and balls. It feels different to the last time - these jeans are much softer and a lot looser. Oh fuck, it's a different rider. Oh well, I've started so I'll finish, as they say. My fingertips run over the soft, sensitive black leather of his jeans, feeling the folds and creases over and under his crotch. I know he can feel the lightest touch of my fingertips through this incredibly soft leather. These jeans really are loose. I feel his cock getting hard. It continues to grow under my teasing fingers - and continues.... and continues! Fucking shit, that is one big cock! By the time it's fully hard it has tented his jeans out into a bulge that reaches almost up to his navel! The leather jeans are so loose over his crotch that I can grip it perfectly through the leather with my fingers and thumb actually meeting behind it - and the leather is still loose enough to wank it effectively. I thrust my left hand between his thighs and work on his balls while I set about pumping that enormous cock through his jeans. My hand moves up and down the shaft slowly, sliding the leather with it, and on each stroke I can feel the ridge of his glans as my index finger slips over his cockhead. Each time it does this, I can feel his thighs tense, and press against the bike's tank.

I lean forward against the rider's back, inhaling the sexy smell of his leather jacket and squeeze his hips between my thighs. His studded belt presses into my stomach. My hand carries on wanking him very slowly.

"Faster!" He growls, the wind almost carrying his voice away, and the hood and helmet muffling it. I smile to myself, grip his cock a little harder, but slow my hand's movements even further.

"FASTER, YOU CUNT!" He raises himself slightly from the seat, and tries to pump his hips, but the riding position makes this impossible so he sits down again.

I tell myself that it might be safer to do what he wants and not to fuck around too much, so I suddenly speed up my hand, my grip sliding along the huge cock from the base to the tip of the head quickly. The fingers of my other hand have worked their way deep into the folds of leather at the sides of his balls and are gripping the root of his cock where it disappears into his body, squeezing and relaxing repeatedly. On an impulse I move my hand off the shaft, work his cock forward inside his jeans until it is pointing straight at the handlebars and, holding it there with the thumb of my left hand, work just on the tip of the cockhead, sliding the leather over it in a back-and-forth circular motion as if I am opening and closing a tap very quickly, while also squeezing and moving my hand up and down. He begins to cum immediately. As soon as I feel him start to shoot I push down hard, so that the soft, flexible leather molds to his cockhead, sealing the opening in the tip, while continuing to move my fingers in exactly the same way. I know that the extra pressure now needed for his spunk to escape will intensify his orgasm many times. There is a momentary pause while the pressure builds up, and then an explosion happens under my fingers. As I continue to work on his cockhead I can feel each individual gob of spunk as it forces its way past the leather I'm pushing down hard against it. His orgasm goes on and on and on.... Suddenly I am thrust hard against him as he hits the brakes. The bike leans alarmingly to the right, wobbles, then straightens and we are off again. I take my hands off his cock and push myself back on the pillion seat. That must have been one intense orgasm.

The bike is slowing now, stopping. Traffic lights again perhaps? No, he switches the engine off. Where the hell are we? I want to plead with them to take the hood off, let me go, not to hurt me, but I'm gagged. Once again I hear the other bikes pull up and stop, and after a few seconds I'm taken off the machine. Blind and helpless and still with the crash helmet on, I'm pushed forwards. This time there are no stairs, and as we go in I hear the sound of voices and the clink of glasses. Oh no, surely they wouldn't take me to one of the leather bars? Not trussed up like this. Under the hood my face is red with embarrassment as I'm led across the floor - but at least now I'm thankful that I'm hooded: nobody will know who I am. I pray that the bikers don't take the hood off me.

Hands remove my crash helmet, I'm led forward once more and held tightly as my wrist cuffs are taken off, then I'm turned round, pushed back against a post of some kind, and my arms cuffed again behind it. There I'm left.

All around me I can hear the sounds of conversations, the clink of bottles, muffled rock music, and all around me I can smell leather. I guess I'm in the 'Galaxy' bar - it has posts here and there - but thinking about it I realise that in fact most of the gay leather bars do. Then it hits me - the music is rock, and the gay bars never play rock music, but rather dance. I'm back in the Double Zero again! It has posts too. Oh fuck. There would have been a certain feeling of safety if I'd been on one of the leather bars, cos not a lot can go on in there - but in the straight DZ, with its inevitable dopeheads, misfits and general psychopaths, anything can happen - and sometimes does.

Suddenly I feel a hand. It pulls the zip of my leather jacket down, forces its way inside and squeezes my right nipple sadistically. I wince in pain and shake my head, yelling into the gag. After a final squeeze, the hand is removed - the owner chuckling quietly.

I wait, my body tense, expecting at any moment another touch, another pain. When the touch comes it is not painful, but I scream anyway. The hand gently cups my crotch, the fingers massaging my cock through the leather. I get hard almost instantly. The fingers continue to work on my cock, alternately rubbing, squeezing and releasing. They wander up and down the shaft, and play across the head. I am almost cumming... The strength gradually goes out of my legs and I slowly slide down the post to the floor. The hand follows me down, teasing, rubbing, squeezing. I am going to cum in my jeans...

The hand is gone. DAMN! DAMN! DAMN! I plead into the gag for him to finish me off, but there is no response. He's probably no longer there.

I imagine how I must look: a helpless, queer biker, hooded, cuffed to a post, doesn't know where he is, who is there, what's going to happen to him. A helpless biker with a raging erection in his jeans, sitting on the floor, quite probably in a pool of beer. Total humiliation. And do you know what? I don't care a fuck. I am so horny I could scream. I don't care who does it, but please, someone, MAKE ME CUM! My cock is hard inside my jeans, and every movement makes the leather rub over my cock...

I open and close my legs, pump my hips, trying to make my leather jeans milk me. I try lots of different positions and movements trying to get enough friction from the leather on my cock to bring myself off - I don't give a flying fuck what I look like - and find that if I bend my legs, press my knees together very tightly and hump my jeans like crazy it almost works. I don't care about the laughter and the jeers that begin as the others see what I'm doing - I'm getting there. Slowly, I'm getting there.The leather rubs over my cock with each thrust, almost hard enough. I speed up. I'm kneeling on the floor fucking my jeans like a whore while the assembled rabble - I can hear they've gathered round me now - whistle and jeer and throw insults and yell "Come on leather boy, you can do it..." at me. I'm almost there - I'm almost cumming - when arms lift me up and make me stand again. I'm so close that I carry on fucking my jeans, but in this position they don't rub over my cock as much. I SCREAM my frustration into the hood, which brings a chorus of laughter and more insults. I can't fucking cum.

What's happening? I can feel someone at my feet. A rope or a strap is being tied around my legs, restraining them to the post. Another goes around my thighs, a third around my waist, and a final one around my chest. I can't move.

Fingers at my waist unbuckling my belt, then slowly and carefully unzipping my jeans, undoing the press stud fasteners at the top. My jeans are opened, pulled down as far as the strap will allow, my cock and balls on display for everyone to see. More whistles and now comments about the size of my dick. I redden again under the hood. The air feels cool on my cock.

Another pause. What the fuck is going to happen? I need to cum so badly...

I nearly jump out of my skin at a touch on the tip of my cock - as light as a feather. Just one. My cock jerks in response, bringing a fresh round of laughter. There - again! Right on the very tip, a feather - it has to be a feather. The touches become strokes, and get closer together. Now it's continuous. teasing, tickling, the feather stroking and caressing so lightly across the very tip of my horny, desperate cock. I've never felt anything like this before: I am so unbelievably horny that my cock is super-sensitive. The touch of the feather is sending electric jolts of unimaginable pleasure through me. Normally I need to stroke the whole shaft and head in order to cum, but right now I am so beside myself with the need for orgasm that I could cum just from that feather stroking alone. I thrust my hips - and am rewarded by having another strap fastened painfully tightly around my pelvis, preventing even that last little movement which remained to me. I cannot move an inch in any direction now. And the feather is back...

It teases, it strokes, it tickles around the head and over the opening in the very tip. Every touch, every little movement of that feather causes my cock to scream for release, to be allowed to cum. The feather wouldn't even have to move - the involuntary jerking and dancing of my cock at every touch of it is enough to keep it going on its own. But the feather does move, running around the head as if it knew exactly which spots to stroke, which to tickle, and which to tease in order to make my need to cum as screamingly unbearable as possible. Every muscle in my body is tensed, and I am shaking. Although I am gagged, I plead, I beg into the leather - but nobody can hear me. The feather is now working on that spot where the ridges under the head come together on a cock. I know that I am going to go out of my mind. This is as bad as it can get.

Wrong. A second feather makes contact with my balls and begins to tease around and around, working on the front, the sides, and reaching round to the back. I almost faint with pleasure, with frustration, and most of all with pure, concentrated need. The guy behind me presses forward and I feel his leather jeans against my hands. I recognise that crotch - the folds, the creases, the enormous cock inside that loose, very soft black leather. It is rock hard again, and I grip it between my fingers and thumb. There is someone at the side of me as well - he leans close and whispers so that only I can hear: "can you feel his leather jeans behind you? Can you feel that hard, horny cock inside that sexy black leather? Do you wanna feel mine again. leather boy?" I'll never forget that sexy whisper - it's the boy who laid on top of me on the ladder in the room earlier. He opens my leather jacket, pulls my teeshirt up and my jeans further down, then stands in front of me, wrapping his leather-jacketed arms around me under my jacket and pressing himself against my naked skin. The guy with the feather positions my cock, the boy closes his thighs tightly around it, and the feathering resumes on the tip of my cock which is sticking out at the back of the boy's thighs.

The feel of the biker's body pressing against me, his leathers against my skin; the feel of the hard cock in those loose, sensitive jeans in my hand behind me; the feel of the boy's leather-jeaned thighs tightly enclosing my cock; and the unceasing, gentle tickling of the feather - which is now working just on the very tip - are all too much for me. With a scream of ecstasy I cum. My balls empty themselves - the spunk surely saturating the tickling feather, and jetting out with such force that it must be covering everybody in the room. Wave after wave of inexpressibly intense pleasure course through my body as I cum and cum and cum... While I'm cumming a remote part of my brain registers the fact that the guy behind me is also shooting his load in his leather jeans again under my twitching, milking fingers.

I am not released. The straps stay in place, the hood stays on, and I spend another hour or so in that same position - during which I am played with like a toy and milked a further three times by unseen, different guys with leather-gloved hands. Now I am kneeling on the floor in exhaustion, my legs, jeans and boots covered in my spunk. My humiliation is complete.

Eventually I feel the straps being undone. It must be late - judging by the voices there are far fewer people here now. My body is stiff and I put up no resistance as my jeans are fastened up again, my teeshirt roughly straightened and my leather jacket zipped up. The air outside is much colder now as I am guided onto the bike. This is a different bike - it has a backrest for the pillion. Again my hands are loosely cuffed around the rider's waist, the helmet is fitted over my head, and we set off.

To be honest I am tired and hungry and stiff - and not in the least bit horny. But even so, my hands wander downwards slowly to the rider's crotch. Oh wow. These are the tightest leather jeans I've ever felt. The biker's balls are warm and I can feel every little detail of his cock as it lays across his thigh, the tight jeans holding it immobile. I rub a single fingertip lightly over the cockhead and immediately feel it engorge and the shaft harden. What the hell, go for it. I tease and stroke his cock and balls lightly, running my fingers up the length of the shaft and over the head. Already he is close to cumming - I can feel it in the tension of his body. I grip his balls with one hand, his cock in the other, and quickly bring him off in his jeans. I smile to myself - these straight boys have no control when they're being tossed off in leather. I suppose it's because it's such an unfamiliar sensation - the fact that they wear such sexy leathers must mean they're into the gear, but their girlfriends never use their leather-fetish on them to make them cum. That's a shame, I think.

As the bike roars through the night air I replay in my mind the events of earlier that night - and find that even after all of that I'm getting hard again.

I hit the rider's back as we come to a stop, and I open my eyes. I must have fallen asleep on the pillion. It's a good thing I'm tied on - at least I couldn't have fallen off. I'm taken off the bike. My wrists are fastened behind me - rather more loosely than before - I'm propelled forward and taken for a five-minute walk, then arms hold me tightly as, first the helmet and then the hood, are removed. A gloved hand covers my eyes so that I don't get the slightest chance to see anything, and then something loose and black is dropped over my head. It smells of plastic - it's a fucking bin liner! It comes down to my waist and they fasten it there with adhesive tape - I can hear it being torn off the roll. I wait for my wrist cuffs to be removed, but instead I feel a pat on the back, a brief squeeze of my cock bulge, and then I hear several pairs of booted feet walking away. "Hey! You gonna let me out of these cuffs?" I yell. There is no reply. They have gone.

The bastards. I tug at the cuffs but they are not going to move. Feels like they're those plastic cable ties. At least my wrists are not held too close together. Perhaps if I can get this fucking bin liner off... I struggle but it's no good, I just can't reach the front where it's stuck to me. I have a thought. I kneel down, bend my hips, and try to work the cuffs down past my arse. After a bit of struggling they slip down so they're behind my thighs. In the distance I hear the sound of bikes starting up, and then riding off. There is no way I'll be able to catch up with them now. I sit down, and try to get my feet through. They won't quite make it. Working by feel, I unfasten my bike boots and take them off, then try again. Yep - my feet slip over the cuffs and my arms are at the front. I pull the adhesive tape and rip the bin liner off. I breathe in the air - it feels so good to be out of the hood and to be able to see again. I look at my watch - it's almost 3am - it was around 10 when I first left the Double Zero. Nearly five hours in that hood. Fuck. My hair is sticking to my head. I look around - I'm standing next to my bike and there is a stanley knife on the seat. Smiling, I pick it up and use it to cut the cable ties off my wrists. Free at last. I put my bike boots back on, unlock my helmet from the bike, and breathe a sigh of relief as I get on it, start it up and head for home.

The air is cold but refreshing as I ride back to my flat. Fuck, I'm going to be dead tomorrow - I'll call in sick and not go to work. Not a problem.

Back at the flat I have a badly-needed pee, make myself a coffee, and lie on the bed. I stare at the ceiling and think about the events of that night. Who the hell were those bikers? I have absolutely no idea. Were they gay mates of mine having a laugh? Ok, a few of my friends might not be beyond the odd practical joke, but none of them would do anything like that. No way. So were they from the DZ? They must have been. The fact that those three I brought off on the bike rides came so quickly suggests to me that they were straight - in my experience straight boys lose it very quickly when they're worked on by a gay guy who knows how to make use of their fetishes - but if so, why? And what about that room with the ladder on pulleys? Not the kind of thing your average gay boy keeps in the bedroom... Had they found out that I'm gay, that I'm into leather? If so was it a punishment of some sort? Surely they'd have beaten me up rather than set something like this up. And when they took me back to the club, if it was the DZ, why did none of the psychos try their luck with me? Looking back, the whole thing was a lot more gentle and sexy than it could have been.

I drink my coffee and shake my head. I don't know. I suffered pain, I was tickle tortured, cum-controlled, humiliated, and milked four times. Who were they? Why did they do it?

I have not the vaguest idea.

What I do know is that I want to see that boy who lay on top of me again. And the one with the big cock. And the three bikers I milked in their jeans on the bikes. Oh fuck do I want to see them again. That was the most scary - and the most horny - night I've ever had in my life.

* * *

Frankly, I am terrified. But I'm also incredibly excited. This is the first time I've been back to the Double Zero since it all happened, three nights ago. I pause outside the door, take a deep breath, and go in. My eyes take a while to adjust to the dim lighting as usual, and I head straight for the bar, looking neither to the left nor the right. I get a beer and take it to my usual spot by the cigarette machine where I can see the whole room. Are the guys looking at me differently? Is that boy with the mohican laughing at me or at something his mate just said? I feel my face start to go red as I see the two posts - one either side of the centre of the room. Which of those posts was I strapped to? I light a cigarette and will myself to stop blushing.

To my right I see a young biker. He's wearing leather jeans that are dead sexy. They're tight, and have a lace-up fly. I imagine touching them, running my hands over his thighs, my fingers stroking his bulge, tickling his balls, getting him hard, tossing him off in those jeans. And then a thought occurs to me. I smile to myself. The bikers who got me the other night kept me hooded, so that I wouldn't be able to identify them - couldn't know who they were. But they'd forgotten that not only am I gay, but I am also into leather jeans like nothing else. I am a connoisseur of leather jeans, an expert in cock bulges. I can look at a leather crotch and know exactly what it will feel like - whether the leather is smooth or has a grain; is tight or loose; whether it's thick, thin, soft, hard... The feel of the leathers worn by those three boys I milked in their jeans on the bikes, and the other one who lay on top of me - are imprinted indelibly on my memory. I know with absolute certainly that if I see those jeans again I will recognise them immediately.

My face is no longer red. With a smile of satisfaction I lean against the cigarette machine and leisurely begin to scan the guys here tonight, one by one. I stare at their crotches, imagining my fingers milking their cocks through the leather. I will find them. It may not be tonight, or this week - it may take a while - but eventually I will see them - and I will know. And I will not show the slightest sign of recognition. None at all.

And when I know who they all are, I will plan my revenge.

And this time I will not let them cum so quickly. Oh no. This time I will make it very slow.

Very slow indeed...