The Telemachus Story Archive

Angel In Denim
By Hooder

Angel in Denim

I can not believe that he is in the same room with me. If I had been asked to sit down and write a specification for my most horny, incredible wet dream, it would have not have come anywhere close to what that boy is. I say today's date to myself, to mark it in my memory forever: "April the thirtieth, nineteen ninety-two."

That boy. His name is Steve. He's the same age as me - eighteen - and we're both into heavy metal, although I suspect for very different reasons: he's into the music, I'm into the guys in the bands, and the gear - the leather, the tight jeans, the studs - that they and the boys who go to their concerts wear.

I've known Steve for about six months, although up until tonight we've only ever chatted - well, shouted to each other really - over the record decks at the bowling alley where I deejay. He's there most nights, doesn't do a lot of bowling, just likes to chat about the bands. I've seen him with girls once or twice, so I suppose he's straight - which is a great pity, cos I fancy him more than I've ever fancied any boy in my life. The three things that hammered themselves into my memory when I saw him the first time - in order - were his jeans, his hair, and his eyes.

He's sitting across from me in my living room, knees apart, we're drinking beer. He's leaning back, his sky-blue eyes half closed, his beautiful blond hair falling over his shoulders. It's the longest hair I've ever seen on a boy - goes down to the small of his back - and it's always clean, beautiful. His left arm is resting on the arm of the chair, his hand gripping the beer can; the other is resting on his thigh. He's wearing what he always wears: a tight white teeshirt, a faded denim cut-off over it, covered with patches of bands like Iron Maiden, Whitesnake, Judas Priest... bike boots, and those jeans.

I am eighteen years old, and for as long as I can remember tight jeans have been an indescribably intense fetish for me. They turn me on more than anything else in the world. I have about fifteen pairs of various kinds, and even the thought of them gets me hard - but Steve's jeans are something else.

I run my eyes slowly down his body from his gorgeous face, his kissable lips parted slightly as he breathes; the flawless, smooth golden skin of his neck; over his chest where his pecs stretch the tight white teeshirt under the open denim cutoff; across his flat stomach (Steve is slim - I'd guess a twenty-eight inch waist, about the same as me) to the studded black leather belt with its big chrome buckle; and down to those jeans.

They were blue once, but now they're so faded that in places they're almost white. The only two places where there are any creases at all are at the front of his hips where his thighs meet his groin, and behind his knees - and that's only because he's sitting. Apart from those two places, his jeans are so jaw-droppingly, mouth-wateringly, mind-blowingly, cock-hardeningly skintight that the faded denim is stretched more smoothly than his skin would be if he weren't wearing anything at all.

Steve is not a biker, but he always wears bike boots. That's another thing that attracted me to him when I first set eyes on him. Most boys these days wear trainers or those short baseball boots with their jeans - but Steve wears boots. Bike boots with buckles all the way up the insides, and those jeans disappearing into the shiny black leather. They are so sexy.

My eyes stare at the inside seam of his jeans as it comes out of the boots, and follow it slowly, slowly up his calf, to the knee where it bends and wiggles slightly before continuing up the inside of his thigh. I lick my tongue over my lips as I imagine my fingertips tracing that seam. I can almost feel the warm denim beneath my fingers, as I run them upwards towards his perineum.

His knees are parted about twelve inches, and from where I'm sitting across form him, the seams form a perfect cross where they meet under his balls, the right-angled ones travelling back and up the crack of his arse, and forward to his fly. I follow the forward one, even more slowly. The denim becomes more thin and faded the closer to his cock-bulge it gets. Between the tops of his thighs it's slightly darker, but as it reaches the bulge of his balls it fades and thins beautifully. The three-dimensionality of his bulge makes me swallow with lust - it is perfect. The denim cups his balls like a gentle hand, following and smoothing their contours into an orange-sized, almost perfectly spherical mound between, and forward of, his thighs. His cock is a second, slightly elongated bulge at the top of that, resting at an angle, pointing to his right. The denim is so tightly stretched there that the tension of it is pulling the fly so hard that it can no longer cover the zip - and the metal teeth are clearly visible nearly all the way up its length. The edge of the denim flap is frayed and worn. He hasn't got anything on under those jeans - there is nothing between that faded, thin, skintight denim and his cock - they're so tight and they conform so meticulously to his body that I'd certainly be able to see the edge of any underpants if he were wearing any. And there is a small hole, the denim frayed and white around its ragged edges, at the very top of his right thigh - and I can see the colour of skin through it. I fantasize about inserting a fingertip into that hole, working it in and up, and tickling his balls... There is nothing - just those sexy jeans and then his naked skin. I wonder how it's possible for him not to be permanently hard with that horny denim over his cock. I would be, I know it. I sit there looking at him, and drool.

I'm sitting across from the emodiment of my greatest fetish. One of the wonderful things about being so into gear is that, for lots of guys, the absolute turn-on with this boy would be if he were sitting naked, showing his cock or his butt - and there is no chance of that at all - but for me, dressed as he is, in those incredibly sexy jeans, he is the absolute turn-on for me. If he were totally naked he would be less sexy to me than he is right now. He is perfection, and my cock is as hard as a rock just looking at him.

He stretches - and for a moment my heart melts: he looks like an angel. He slides a bit lower in the chair, smiles slightly, and stretches his arms out luxuriously in a motion that defines his pecs and his arm muscles gorgeously. He holds that position for a second or two, then relaxes and opens his eyes. He takes a last swig of the beer, emptying the can, and leans forward to put it on the coffee table between us. "I'm getting drunk," he announces, and burps.

I don't want this to end, but I'm falling asleep here. "I must go to bed," I say. I know he won't stay overnight, but I'm already looking forward to having the most wonderful wank between the sheets, thinking about him. I consciously blink my eyelids twice, like a camera, trying to capture the image I'm looking at right now, for all eternity, for me to enjoy over and over again in future fantasies.

He licks his lips. "D'you mind if I stay?"

It takes a moment for the significance of that question to sink in. Stay? Overnight? Oh shit! With superhuman effort I manage an act of supreme nonchalence. "No, not at all. That's fine." Oh fuck is that fine. That is very fine indeed. I stand up, and so does he.

"Gotta take a piss," he says, and disappears into the bathroom. Even the way he walks is so sexy - his body moves like a cat, or like a boy whose sole purpose in life is to exude sex.

I go to the bedroom and straighten the bed. He is back soon. "There's only one bed," I say, pointing to the double bed, "you can sleep there with me, or I'll get something to put on the floor if you like."

"Nah," he says, taking off his boots, "the bed's fine."

This is all going too fast for me to keep up with. Five minutes ago I was fantasizing about sleeping with this boy and now he's nearly in bed with me. He takes off his denim cutoff and teeshirt, dropping them on the floor. His upper body, now naked, is smooth and hairless, and his pecs are beautiful. He looks like some warrior from ancient times. The black leather belt contrasts wonderfully with his golden skin. I am almost fainting with lust, but I force myself not to look at him, not to drop to my knees and worship his sexy young body. I sit on the bed and remove my trainers, facing away from him so that he doesn't see the erection in my jeans.

I'm not sure whether or not Steve knows I'm gay. We've never talked about it outright, but some of our conversations may have given him the idea. And then there's the fact that whenever he's around me my eyes are glued to his crotch constantly. He probably knows.

And then he slides into bed - and he's still got his jeans on. I suspect that's because he does know I'm gay, and they're insurance for him, protection. Ha! If he knew me better he'd have stripped naked - he'd have been a thousand times safer.

I really should go and have a pee, but I don't want to give him the chance to change his mind while I'm out of the room. I switch the main room light off, strip (I've slept naked since I left home) and get into bed by his side. As I get in my thigh bumps against his, and I feel the brief touch of skintight denim against my bare skin. I am almost cumming already. I reach over and put out the bedside light. The room plunges into blackness.

Steve is lying on his side, on my left, facing away from me. "Goodnight," I say, "sleep well."

"Yeah, you too mate."

I lie on my right side, facing away from him. I don't want him to feel threatened in any way. I'm careful to stay over to the edge, so that no part of our bodies touch. But I am conscious of his weight at the side of me, pushing the centre of the bed down, and I have to tense my muscles slightly to stop gravity rolling me towards him.

My cock is as hard as a rock. I know that if I as much as touch it I'm going to cum. I can not believe that I am lying next to this stunningly beautiful blond boy whom I've fancied like fuck for the last six months, and that his sexy, skintight jeans - the absolute ideal of my overpowering fetish, and about which I have had wank fantasies of earth-shattering intensity - are inches away from me, in bed, right now.

In my mind, I have a debate with myself: am I going to try anything? If I don't, he'll feel safe to stay overnight again, and he'll know that he's not going to get raped just because he's sharing a bed with a gay guy. On the other hand, he is there by my side now, and in those horny, unbelievably jeans...

The debate lasts about five seconds. Of course I'm going to try something. But not yet. I will wait until I know he's asleep, and then...

A church clock strikes 1am in the distance. I vow to wait until it strikes 2.

I lie there motionless. On my back I can feel the heat of his body - or is it my imagination? Probably. I visualise him lying there behind me, on his left side, his long blond hair cascading across the pillow, his bare muscular back, slightly curved; the studs on his leather belt making little depressions in the bottom sheet; his round, peach-like arse stretching the faded denim of his jeans skintight; the smooth, creaseless thighs with the inner seams meeting between his legs; the bulge of his balls and horny boy-cock nestling between the tops of his thighs, clad in skintight, faded, sexy jeans...

I fantasise about turning over, forcing my hand between his thighs and up onto that bulge, bending to lick those jeans as I slowly milk him, he moaning with pleasure as his spunk pumps out into his jeans as he turns to kiss me...

I take a deep breath. If I carry on like that I'll cum without even touching my cock. The church clock sounds the quarter-past. Forty-five minutes to go. I can hear him breathing evenly - is he asleep yet, I wonder?

I remember exactly the first time I saw him. I was in the DJ booth at the bowling alley, playing a heavy metal set of records that were popular that week. I'd just cued up the next 45 and looked up to find myself staring into the most beautiful face I'd ever seen. Liquid blue eyes; long, silky blond hair; gorgeous lips... For a moment I wondered if he was a member of one of the bands I was playing - he looked every bit as sexy as some of them.

"Hello," he said. "Have you got any Iron Maiden?"

As luck would have it, the disc I'd just cued up was "Be Quick or Be Dead" by Maiden, and I told him so. He smiled, and said Bruce Dickinson sounded brilliant on that.

We listened to the track, Steve (although I didn't know his name then) laughing and playing air guitar on the solos. "Wanna drink?" He asked when it had finished.

I put a long track on and we went to the cafeteria where we sat and chatted. He told me his name was Steve. I was physically incapable of tearing my eyes away from him - he was like a drug. I can visualise him now, sitting there with his booted feet spread wide, his long legs encased in those killer jeans. He seemed completely unaware of the devastating effect they - and he - were having on me.

After that he was there three of four times a week, and we always chatted and smoked a spliff or two together in the cafe during my breaks. That was how it had stayed until this evening. After I'd finished he was still there, watching me as I put the records away and switched the amps off. He'd usually gone by then, but tonight he'd said he was at a loose end - something about his sister being home and he not wanting to be there. I invited him back to my flat for a beer, and he accepted. It had been as simple as that.

And now I am in bed with him. Oh fuck.

He changes position slightly next to me: as near as I can tell in the dark he's rolled over a little further onto his back and has straightened his right leg a bit, although he is still facing away from me. Is that an invitation? My mind races and my heartrate increases abruptly. I imagine how he is lying, as seen from above the bed, without the duvet on it. It is as if he has moved to make it easier for me to get to his cock.

No, I tell myself, it's just that he's changed position to get more comfortable. I must not read anything into it, and I must wait until 2 o'clock, to be certain that he's asleep. At that moment the church clock strikes half-past one. Oh god, thirty more minutes. I will never be able to last out.

I imagine him standing at the side of the bed, naked from the waist up. I sink slowly to my knees in front of him, my hands coming up slowly and resting on the outsides of his thighs. I can feel the denim of his jeans under my fingers - the warmth from his body. He smells of boy. Lightly I trace my fingers down the outsides of his legs, but then he orders me to put my hands behind my back and to keep them there. I obey instantly. 'use your tongue,' he says quietly. I bend forward and the tip of my tongue touches his cock bulge. I lick along the length of his hardening cock, and I feel it jerk once as it gets harder. The denim is straining under the increasing tension. I lick his cock and his balls through the jeans and force my head between his legs to lick his perineum and the insides of this thighs. 'Enough,' he says. He takes a step back away from me so that I can see him fully, and smiles sexily at me. My heart melts. He begins to stroke his fingers lightly over his legs and crotch. 'Tight jeans turn you on, don't they?' He says. I can only nod, my voice no longer under my control. 'Do you know why I wear these jeans?' I shake my head. 'To get boys like you hard and horny.' He grips his now fully-hard cock and squeezes the shaft. Under the faded denim its shape is now perfectly clear. A single spot at the tip appears, dark and wet - precum. He lays on the bed and runs his hands with unashamed lasciviousness over his body - his pecs and stomach, his legs, thighs, waist, and cock-bulge. I am completely transfixed, unable to look away even if I wanted to. He is sex on legs. He rolls over onto his front and fucks the bed, his round, tight arse bobbing up and down with increasing power; those skintight blue jeans encasing him - a coating of pure sex. Then he turns over onto his side, puts his hands behind his back and pulls his feet up as if he's hogtied, and struggles as if someone is trying to milk him and he's fighting it. He opens and closes his knees, and moans with lust. I am almost cumming watching him. I want to jump onto him and rape him.

I jerk my mind back to reality - I almost came then thinking about that. He is breathing slowly and steadily next to me. Is he asleep? I listen for the church clock, but hear only silence. Perhaps I have missed the three-quarters strike... But then it comes. Fifteen minutes left.

I can not wait any longer. Slowly I roll over onto my back, then I freeze, listening for any kind of reaction from him. Nothing. He continues to breathe steadily. He must be asleep.

I count to one hundred and then, making a kind of snuffling noise as if I'm asleep, I roll over slightly more. I've placed my right hand on the outside of my thigh, and my left hand is covering my cock, holding it back so that he doesn't feel it pressing against him. As I complete the change of position I stifle a gasp as my left knee comes into contact with his leg. My hand on my thigh must be inches away from his hip. I stay there, motionless, trying to calm my racing heart - it is beating at about a hundred and trweny a minute now.

Seconds pass. Minutes. I wait. I can feel the radiant heat of his body clearly now, and I can smell him - clean, fresh, with just a hint of musk. It is intensely sexy. To be so close to this beautiful boy in those incredibly horny jeans is doing my head in. An eternity passes.

Carefully I move again, continuing the roll I began earlier. He is even closer to me than I'd calculated - I am lying on my side now, facing him, and my right leg is touching his all the way down. If I let go of my cock it would be stabbing him in the buttock. My right hand is resting on him, just below his hip. The smooth, tight denim of his jeans is under my fingers and all along my right leg.

He doesn't move, doesn't react; he must be asleep. I wait, motionless. I can feel his blond hair in my face - it smells wonderful. I breathe in slowly, my eyes closed in pleasure. If he were to get out of bed right now I would already have material for a lifetime of wanks. But he stays exactly where he is.

Without any conscious command from me, my fingers begin to stroke the denim under them so lightly and slowly that even if he is awake I'm sure he wont be able to feel them moving. But I can feel them stroking over his jeans. Millimeter by millimeter my right hand moves forward. It is now on the very top of his right thigh, and inching agonisingly slowly down and in.

He must surely be able to feel that, but there is no reaction. Gaining confidence by the second, I raise my right hand slightly and move it forward. I can feel the inside seam of his jeans under the tip of my middle finger now. I stroke and tickle the inside of his thigh lightly, pushing my hand between his legs gently and working it gradually up to his perineum. It is there. The bulge of his balls is above it, and my thumb raises to stroke the bottom of his balls lightly. With my hand between the tops of his legs, the warmth of his body around it is wonderful. My thumb is gently stroking under his balls and my fingertips are tickling his thighs.

Slowly I withdraw my hand slightly and with one finger trace the seam forwards and up over the round bulge of his balls. It comes to rest on his cock, and it's as hard as a rock under the skintight denim! I tease along the length of it and tickle the head lightly. I feel it momentarily harden further, then relax under my touch.

My left hand is still holding my own cock back away from his buttock, but now I release it and feel it resting against his jeans. I'm having to concentrate very hard not to let myself cum. While still teasing his cock with my right hand I slowly burrow between his thighs from behind with my left, working the fingers in and tickling his perineum lightly. His jeans feel smooth and warm to my touch. Now I have reached his balls and I tease them while still working on his cock. I am in heaven, and my heart is racing fit to bust.

He groans, and I freeze. He is awake! His hand goes to his zip and pulls the metal fastener down. He gets his cock out and puts my hand on it wrapping my fingers around the shaft. For some reason a wave of disappointment washes over me - I would much rather work on his cock through those sexy jeans; I want to make him cum in them, but if this is what he wants...

Without a word he reaches behind him, removes my left hand from between his thighs and replaces it with my cock, then squeezes his thighs closed tight around it. I begin to wank him and to fuck his jeans. I am so close - I kiss his neck gently in the dark while the skintight denim of the sexiest jeans I've ever seen milks my cock. We both cum in seconds.

I reach to the bedside table and take the towel I always keep there (thank goodness it's clean tonight) and pass it to him. He wipes the spunk up as best he can, then zips imself up. Not a word has been spoken. We separate in the bed. There is silence, and it is as if nothing has happened.

It takes me a long time to get to sleep, but eventually I'm waking up and it's morning.

Steven is quiet. He gets dressed, puts his boots on, collects his things and with a neutral nod, says goodbye. As he heads for the door I can see the stain of spunk on his jeans. He is gone.

He is not at the bowling alley tonight. I do my sets, pack the gear up, switch the amps off, and go home.

I look for him every night for the rest of the week, but he doesn't come.

I tell myself Steven is a straight boy, he was horny, what I did to him in the bed got him more horny, and he needed to cum, so he let me wank him off. But he hadn't needed to put my cock between his thighs and let me fuck those jeans which he knew turned me on like nothing else. It seemed to me that as well as being intensely sexy, that action had been kind, caring. I am at a loss to know how he feels about that night.

When I arrive at the bowl tonight there is a parcel waiting for me in the booth. I unwrap it and there nestling in the brown paper are those jeans - still with the dried spunk on the crotch and between the thighs. There is no note. I wonder what this means. Has he given me them as a present because he knows I love them so much and that they remind me of him? Or has he sent them to me to be rid of them because to him they are soiled with the memory of something he regrets doing? I do not know. I wear them to work every night. They fit me perfectly - every bit as well as they fitted him - and I feel constantly horny in them. I've used them to wank many times, but they are clean now.

I hear nothing of him for weeks. And then, tonight, I look up from the decks and he is there. I can only see the top half of him over the booth, but he is smiling uncertainly. He looks as if he's ready to run. "Hi Steve," I say, grinning. "Got time for a coffee?" He asks. I put a long track on and come out of the booth - and I see all of him for the first time. He is still wearing the bike boots, the white teeshirt and the denim cutoff, but he has a new pair of jeans. Like his old ones that I'm wearing they are skintight - but these are shiny, thin, black leather. If I'd thought he looked sexy in the denim ones, that is nothing to how he looks in these. The sight of him takes my breath away and gives me an instant hard-on.

"Those look better on you than they do on me," he says, and runs a finger briefly across my thigh. We order coffees and sit in the corner of the cafe. He lights up a spliff. I can see he has something to say to me, but that he's finding it difficult to put into words.

"That night I stayed with you made me think about a lot of things," he says, avoiding my eyes and staring into the coffee cup. I wait, saying nothing. "Look, I'm straight," he glances up into my eyes and then away again immediately.

"I know you are," I say.

He is silent for a moment. "But what you did - I mean how you like tight jeans..." I am smiling gently, encouragingly, but I just wait for him to find the words. He passes me the spliff and I inhale deelpy. "Oh fuck, tight jeans do something to me too. And the way you do things through them... I like that. A lot. Never done that before - girls don't get into them like that."

I nod slowly, showing him that I understand, but that I'm not pushing him. "I know," I say.

"So if you want," he looks at me again, frowning, warning, "now and again," he says, to let me know it's not going to happen very often, "we could... we could play around a bit." His eyes are back on the coffee cup, and he is blushing very slightly.

"That would be great," I say quietly. He looks at me again, still frowning. "No kissing, no fucking - none of that shit. Understand?"

I smile. "I understand. Just a bit of fun in skintight jeans." He stays looking at the cup for a while, then raises his eyes. He isn't frowning any more. A smile forms on his beautiful lips. "Yeah..." he says.

Just a bit of fun in skintight jeans - with the most beautiful, sexy boy in the city. I can handle that, I think to myself. Oh yeah, I can handle that.

"Wanna come back for a beer tonight?" I ask innocently, handing the spliff back to him. My cock is threatening to burst the zip on my jeans.

His hand disappears below the table. He is squeezing his cock through the thin leather. The smile slowly transforms into a grin.

"Oh yeah," he says.