The Telemachus Story Archive

Power Exchange
By Hooder

Power Exchange

As he passed the darkened shop window, Dan pulled the peak of his Muir cap down until his eyes were deep in shadow, and then carefully inspected his reflection in the glass. With a satisfied nod to himself, he walked along to the next doorway and down the steps into the leather bar. On the way down he met a biker - crash helmet in hand - coming up. The stairs were narrow, but there was enough room for them to pass if they both stepped to one side. The biker did so, with a smile, but Dan stayed in the middle, taking up as much room as possible. The smile left the biker's face as he was forced into the wall, scratching his helmet on the bricks, while Dan, seemingly oblivious, marched on down.

"Thanks guy," said the biker, shaking his head in disbelief. Dan made no sign that he'd even seen him, let alone heard him.

As always, the level of illumination inside was very low, and Dan knew it would be a few minutes before his eyes adjusted and he was able to see clearly who else was in. With long, confident strides he walked over to the bar, his heavy leather boots clomping on the wooden flooring.

"The usual?" Asked Dave, the barman - a tattooed guy in leather chaps, boots and little else.

Dan nodded curtly without speaking, and picked up the bottle, leaving the right change on the bar top. He turned around and was annoyed to see that his favourite spot by the side of the jukebox was taken. Taking a swig from the bottle in his hand, he moved to stand directly in front of the guy in the rubber one-piece who was occupying Dan's usual position, blocking his view of the club as much as he could. After a couple of minutes the rubber guy moved away, sighing loudly in irritation. Dan smiled to himself, and stepped back, leaning against the wall with one foot up against it behind him. He placed the beer on the jukebox on his right-hand side. From here he could see down the full length of the room, and also, by looking to his left, check out new arrivals as they entered. An added bonus was that one of the few light bulbs in the place was directly above him, and its red glow illuminated him clearly, for everyone to see. He adjusted his keys so that they showed better, then hooked his thumbs in his pockets, letting his fingers fall casually onto the bulge in his black leather jeans, and waited - knowing that he looked hot, hot, hot.

Further down the bar, one guy nodded towards the figure in the pool of red light and said to his friend, "I see Mr Benson's in."

The other laughed at the nickname. "He's always in."

Dan was the archetypal leather top: Muir cap pulled down over his eyes; black moustache; thick leather jacket with chains hanging down from the epaulettes; the jacket open to show his bare, hairy chest; bulging black leather codpiece jeans; high black leather boots with a riding crop pushed into the top of the left one; a large bunch of keys dangling from his left-hand belt loop; and skintight, thin black leather gloves. He did indeed look hot if that was the image you were into - and he was unusually goodlooking too, in a craggy sort of way - but the fact was that Dan was not particularly liked. It was well-known that he was egotistical, vain in the extreme and, judging from reports of guys who had been with him, selfish and cruel to his slaves. He enjoyed nothing more than the infliction of intense, prolonged pain - usually with a bullwhip - and wasn't bothered in the slightest whether his slave was getting off on it. The only thing that was important to him was that he get off bigtime.

But in spite of his reputation, he looked so horny that he still had little problem getting new slaves, and although some of the regulars did their best to warn unsuspecting newcomers, it was rare that he didn't leave without some precum-drooling boy in tow. Still, there was nothing they could do about it, so they just drank their beer and watched, shaking their heads sadly. There was a bit of jealousy in there as well, if they were honest - Dan did seem to get some hunky guys.

The leatherman's eyes had adjusted to the dim light now, and he was scanning the room. The same faces as always were there, of course, and although he couldn't see everyone even from this good position, there was no new meat in evidence as far as he could tell.

He took another swig of his beer and changed feet, putting the other one up against the wall behind him, then extracted a Marlborough from the pack in his pocket and placed it between his lips while his fingers searched for his lighter. Instantly a cropped guy in torn jeans approached him, eyes respectfully lowered, and flicked a lighter, holding it out for the leatherman. "Sir," he said, quietly.

Dan looked the guy up and down slowly, and found him to be of little interest. He casually blew out the offered flame and lit his cigarette with his own lighter. One side of the cropped guy's mouth curled downwards at the rudeness of the dismissal and, shaking his head at the ill-manners of some people, he disappeared back into the crowd.

Over the next half hour the bar continued to fill up. He emptied his bottle of beer and got another quickly, resuming his position by the jukebox before someone else moved into it. His attention was drawn to the entrance as three more guys came in - they were regulars, and he was about to turn back when he noticed that one of them - the cowboy - had a new tattoo. His bare chest was illustrated with a black bull, whose balls were obscenely huge. Dan looked it over, and chuckled at the grossness of the design.

When he turned back towards the room, he jumped slightly as he found himself looking straight into the eyes of a young boy who was standing directly in front of him.

"Hi," smiled the boy, "This is my first time in here."

It took Dan a moment to gather his wits. "That's nice for you," he finally growled in reply.

The boy could only be eighteen or nineteen at the most - far too young for Dan; he was dressed in skintight, faded blue jeans, trainers, and a bright yellow sleeveless teeshirt, none of which did anything for the older man; he was pretty-boy cute, not masculine and handsome; and he had a slight lisp to his voice. But far, far worse than all of this, the little bastard was showing no respect whatsoever. He was looking directly into Dan's eyes - and, so far, he hadn't used the word 'Sir' once. Dan began to get exceptionally annoyed, but he kept his expression neutral.

"You look hot, mate," said the boy.

Mate? MATE? Dan had whipped slaves to within an inch of their lives for a lot less than this. But he just said: "Tell me something I don't know already... mate." Venom dripped from that last word.

The boy appeared not to notice, however. He was still smiling, and had a confidence that Dan found infuriating. "Fancy a session with a cute boy?" He ran the tip of his tongue sexily over his teeth.

The man thought carefully before replying. "I can't hear you properly," he said finally. "Your head is too high. Kneel." He'd get the kid on his knees, tell him that if he wanted the slightest chance of having sex with him, he would fucking stay in that position, with his eyes closed - and then he'd walk out. There was nobody interesting here anyway; he might as well go home and watch TV.

The smile never faltered, but a tiny frown appeared. "I don't do that sort of thing..." he said, the lisp even more apparent now.

Dan stared at the effeminate little bastard. He couldn't believe this kid.

"...I do this ," continued the boy. Quicky and smoothly, he pushed his hands up inside Dan's open leather jacket, his fingers coming to rest, motionless, right in the man's armpits.

Instantly Dan froze, clamping his arms tight to his sides in an effort to protect his armpits, and a look of pure terror transfixed his face. Tough and heavy as this leather Master was, he had the embarrassing and quite incapacitating weakness of being unbearably, horrifically, ticklish. He hated being tickled - loathed it - but for some perverse reason, whenever it happened to him, it got him instantly hard. There was nothing he could do about it; it wasn't under his control at all, and it had been the bane of his life: when he'd been young, Dan's brother had used it to control him totally; later, in school his secret had come out and had made life a living hell for him. Since moving to the city Dan had been very careful never to allow it to become known to anyone - although a month ago a playful skinhead slave had, momentarily, tickled him in fun. That slave had suffered the consequences of his actions in full - he probably still had the marks from that whipping to this day.

The boy was still beaming into his face, but his fingers were still. Dan knew that the slightest movement of those cold fingertips in his hot armpits would have him on his knees, begging for mercy. He became aware of something else, almost as embarrasing: his cock had given a sudden jerk under the leather codpiece, as those fingers had slid into place. A tricky situation. The jukebox severely limited Dan's escape options, so with a supreme act of willpower he relaxed his face, and growled slowly, "get your hands off me, boy. NOW."

"I don't think so," lisped the boy.

Dan tensed his muscles and prepared to grab the boys arms, pull them down quickly, twist them and force him to his knees - he'd done that kind of move hundreds of times - but even as the idea was forming in his head, the boy just wiggled the ends of his fingers slowly.

"Don't even think about it," he advised.

Dan's whole body jerked at the movement of the boy's fingertips, and his muscles tensed once more, but this time in terror. "All right, all right," he whispered urgently. He was conscious of his cock hardening in his jeans, and he willed it to go soft again. "What do you want?" No growl thig time, and the expression on his face was pleading.

A couple of the regulars looked over to see what was going on - it was unusual to see Dan talking to a young boy like that one, and the man had a very odd expression on his rugged face.

"What do I want? Well, a cigarette would be nice for a start." He removed his fingers from Dan's armpits, grinning as the leatherman shuddered at the movement, and just stood there.

Free now of the threat of unbearable tickling, Dan pulled himself together. "You little fuck," He growled in a low, dangerous voice. "You think you can..." The last words of that incompleted sentence were squeaked from a half-kneeling position - to which Dan had instantly collapsed when the boy's fingers had darted to the leatherman's side, his thumb pressing just below the bottom rib.

Dan stifled a scream. His sides were his nemesis. When he was a young teenager his brother had once held him down and tickled his sides with both hands, digging his thumbs sadistically into the soft flesh under his ribs. In quick succession, Dan had screamed, cum in his shorts, and passed out while pissing himself. He still shuddered at the humiliation whenever he remembered that.

The boy removed his thumb, but leaned close to Dan's ear and whispered: "Be very careful what you do, big man. I know lots of places like that on a guy's body, and I can get you whenever I want." He smiled again. "Now stand up, and give me that cigarette."

Dan climbed to his feet unsteadily. Slowly, keeping hs elbows as close to his sides as possible, he reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette for the boy. He held out the lighter for him to take, but the boy made no move towards it.

"Light it for me."

Dan swallowed, and looked around to see if anyone was watching. To be seen lighting a cigarette for a boy like this would do his reputation no good at all. To his horror he saw that several of the regulars were looking at him, and one or two more were starting to glance their way, prompted by nudges and whispers from the others.

The boy made a movement with his hand towards Dan's stomach, and the man almost dropped the lighter. He gasped, and quickly flicked the flame into life, holding it obediently for the kid. The boy's fingers hadn't even touched him that time, but even the threat of being tickled was more than Dan could handle. "What's your name?" Asked the boy, puffing the cigarette to life. His eyes never left Dan's face.

"Dan." He put the lighter away quickly, hoping no-one had seen.

"Hi Dan."

The sound of this little bastard using Dan's name made him want to smash the little fucker's teeth down his throat.

"I'm Steve, but you can call me 'Sir'."

Dan almost burst out laughing. Of all the fucking cheek. He'd hang up his whip before he called any man 'Sir' - least of all this piece of shit.

"Did you hear me?"

"Yeah, you piece of fucking crap, I heard you."

Steve dropped his cigarette on the floor. As he bent down to retrieve it, his finger and thumb grabbed the muscle just above Dan's left knee and, with pincer-like force, squeezed hard. He let go instantly and continued the movement of picking up his cigarette as if nothing had happened, but by the time he had straightened up, the air was filled with a high-pitched scream from the leatherman. Dan's hands shot to his knees to protect them and he bent double.

A small group of the regulars was forming near to them now, and Steve - feigning surprised concern - put his hand on Dan's shoulder to support him. "You ok man? Got cramp?" He asked, so the others could hear him.

Dan straightened up, a look of pure hatred in his eyes, and nodded. "Yeah... yeah, cramp." He shrugged the boy's hand off his jacket.

"Are you all right now?" Steve asked.


Their eyes locked for a moment, and Dan got the message. In a very quiet whisper, he said, "Yes.... Sir."

Steve smiled. "That's a good boy..."

This was intolerable - but there was no way out as far as Dan could see.

The group of guys watching them had become a semicircle now, and more were joining them by the second. The red light above Dan's head illuminated the scene beautifully.

"Kneel," said Steve quietly.

Oh no. Dan stopped breathing. People were watching now. He couldn't do that. "Please...," he begged the boy in a whisper only the two if them could hear.

Steve waited, doing nothing.

In an agony of embarrassment, Dan slowly got to his knees in front of the boy.

Steve rotated Dan's Muir cap so until the peak was facing backwards. "Lick my crotch."

Dan closed his eyes and prayed that a large hole would open up in the floor and swallow him. When the hole wasn't forthcoming, he pushed his head forward slowly and buried his face in the boy's jeans. He considered biting the fucker's dick off, but those dangerous fingers were hovering far too close to him. Seething, Dan sucked on the hard boy-cock under the tight faded denim.

There were a couple of whistles and a lot of laughter from the regulars - every guy in the club was now gathered around them, watching. Even Dave the barman was standing on the bar to see what was going on, his naked cock swinging in the warm air.

Steve let the crowd continue to enjoy the sight of the heavy leather Master licking and sucking a cute boy's jeans for a few minutes, then knelt down himself. With absolutely no warning, his hands flew to Dan's sides, his fingers raking over the leatherman's ribs and the thumbs pressing in under them sadistically. Dan let out a shriek and collapsed onto the floor, curling up into a tight ball. The boy moved one hand to one of Dan's knees, and kneaded the muscle hard through the leather, a couple of inches above the kneecap. Dan howled, and straightened up, trying to get the knee out of the kid's reach. Steve, anticipating exactly that reaction, used Dan's movement to get his hand into the man's armpit, his fingers tickling madly.

Dan could stand pain - pain was easy - but this was totally unbearable. And then - to his absolute horror - it happened again: he felt warm piss running down his thighs. The crowd whooped and whistled as the hard leatherman pissed himself, the yellow liquid running away from him across the wooden floorboards.

By now Dan was thoroughly broken: he would have done anything, promised the boy anything, if only he would stop the unbearable torture - but Steve was by no means finished. He worked on the leatherman mercilessly, his expert hands everywhere. He tickled Dan's thighs, his pits, his chest, his stomach, his sides, his abdomen; his fingers sliding into openings in Dan's defences from all angles as the hysterical man screamed and struggled on the floor, flopping about like a fish out of water. Steve wasn't even raising a sweat, but Dan's black leather jacket and jeans creased and creaked as he writhed helplessly under the non-stop onslaught of Steve's attacks in front of the cheering, whooping crowd. Dan's muir cap came off, and rolled across the floor.

In spite of the unbearable torment - or rather because of it - Dan's cock had become rock hard, and with a sharp popping sound, three of the press-studs holding the leather codpiece in place snapped open, the leather no longer capable of containing the raging erection inside it. The steel-hard cock burst out of its leather prison, seemed to gather its strength for a moment, and then - to the hysterical delight of the watching crowd - began jerking up and down rhythmically as Dan came, gobs of hot white spunk arcing up into the air. Steve continued working on the leatherman's sides, making sure he stayed on his back so that everyone could see the fountain of cum shooting helplessly out of his cock, without so much as a finger touching it. Dan's screams and yells of ticklishness suddenly changed to bull-like bellows as his leather-jeaned arse bounced off the floor in the throes of a shattering orgasm; his keys jangled, and the heels of his boots beat a tattoo on the wooden floorboards. Thick, sticky spunk landed with small plops on his black leather-clad thighs, and trickled down in white streams to pool on the already piss-wet floor.

The crowd was cheering, whistling, laughing, and applauding madly. Steve stood up, turned and, grinning broadly, took a bow. Then, with arms clapping him on his back, he made his way through the crowd to the other end of the room, where a skinhead, wearing only boots and bleachers, sat alone on a bar stool.

"Thank you," said the skinhead, handing the boy a beer. He pushed a folded £20 note into Steve's pocket.

"Never worked on a guy before, but I think they react better than women!" Chuckled Steve, his lisp now completely gone. "If you ever want my services again, just let me know,"

"Oh I think that's probably done the trick. I doubt if we'll be seeing him in here again for a while."

At the other end of the room Dan had picked up his cap and, with a face red with humiliation, was making a hasty exit from the club, trying to fasten his cum-slick codpiece back in place as he negotiated the stairs.

The skinhead turned back to the bar and ordered another beer. Even in the dim light, as he reached across to pick up the bottle, it was possible to see the month-old whip marks on his back quite clearly.