The Telemachus Story Archive

Last Train to Finchley
By Hooder

It was late - the last tube back to Finchley Central. When I got onto the Northern Line at Embankment, I had the whole carriage to myself. I thrust my hands into the pockets of my leather jeans, crossed my legs at the ankles, and settled down to read the adverts. It had been a reasonable night at the club - for a Wednesday - and I'd got my rocks off once with a biker in a dark corner. The trouble with living in Finchley is that it's so fucking far from town. Not having my own transport, I can't bring guys back to my flat easily, and the tube ride home is interminable. I looked at my reflection in the window opposite and smiled at the bulge under the soft leather codpiece of my jeans.

Unlike a lot of guys, I don't give a toss about being seen in public in pervy gear. I regularly ride the tube in my leathers - boots, jacket and jeans (sometimes the codpiece ones, sometimes the studded ones) and I enjoy the looks I get from different people - I'm 20, cute, and get everything from embarrassed sniffs (from elderly ladies mostly) to openly hostile glares from louts who are probably jealous of my looks (I'm very capable of taking care of myself so I don't worry). I also get a lot of guys looking at me with plain, undisguised lust.  These I enjoy most of all. I love prickteasing these guys - you know, stretching slowly and luxuriously, running my fingers lightly over my leather jeans, even playing nonchalantly with my dick through them - and then getting up at my stop, knowing my hard cock and cute tight arse are clearly outlined through the thin leather, and leaving their mouths watering. I've been followed off the train many times, but I know the area very well, all the narrow side streets and the dark turnings, and I'm expert at losing the ones I'm not interested in.

Anyway, back to that Wednesday. I was sat there staring at my reflection, slowly opening and closing my legs and watching the way my cock moved under the thin leather (God, was I horny) when a movement further up the train caught my eye and I turned to look. I don't know how I'd missed seeing them, but in the next carriage - which was also otherwise empty - were three skinheads. They were drinking lager out of cans, and laughing. Although, as I've said, I'm quite handy, I though it best to keep a low profile - there were three of them, after all. By keeping my head down and leaning forward past the end of the seat I could see them quite clearly without running much risk of their noticing me. There were two large ones in their early twenties, and a smaller, cute boy - about eighteen, all dressed identically: Doc martens, skin-tight faded jeans, red braces, and denim jackets over white tee-shirts. They seemed to be getting ready for a fight - the beer cans were all thrown down simultaneously, and the three boys leapt to their feet. For a few moments they stood there arguing and pointing at each other - it seemed that the two big ones were picking on the little one - and then the largest of the three, who had a completely shaved head and a black tattoo behind his left ear, suddenly reached out and pulled the small one's jacket off. He threw it onto a seat while the second skin grabbed the young one and forced him to the floor.

In spite of all this, I had the feeling that they weren't really fighting - that it was actually a friendly thing somehow. The little skin was laughing and shaking his head. He really was an extremely cute boy, with cropped black hair and a beautiful smile, and his skin tight jeans showed a very prominent bulge between his legs. They pulled him down onto the ribbed floor with his head towards me, and I thought they might be going to fuck him, but he was face up and they were making no attempt to undo his jeans. The second skinhead was between me and the others. He grabbed the boy's wrists and pulled them back over his head, kneeling and holding them down onto the floor with his weight. This meant that I could see over him to what the other, tattooed, one was doing. He forced the boy's legs down flat, knelt astride the youth's slim hips, and then - to my utter astonishment - he began to tickle him.

I'd never seen anyone being tickled before - let alone a young, cute skinhead who was being held down - and my cock sprang to full erection in seconds flat. I found the sight of this big hunky skinhead in sprayed-on jeans, tickling the shit out of this pretty young boy while he was being held helpless by the second skin, an amazing turn-on. The tattooed skin was grinning fiendishly as his fingers ran over the kid's armpits, prodded and probed into the boy's ribs and sides, and although I could hear nothing from the next carriage - it was a bit like a silent film with the soundtrack consisting only of rumbles and squeaks and the rush of air past the train as it ploughed its way through the black tunnels - I could see that the kid was shouting and laughing hysterically. He was shaking his head from side to side and struggling so hard the skin sitting on top looked like he was riding a bucking bronco. The boy's screams must have been very loud, because the second skin - the one holding his arms - repositioned them so they were together, then lay on them so he was holding them down with his crotch, and clamped his newly-freed hand firmly over the boy's mouth, gagging him.

I licked my lips - I couldn't believe this was happening. My cock was as hard as steel in my jeans, pushing the codpiece up like a tent pole from underneath. I played with it gently, running my fingers over the smooth, rounded, leather-covered tip, knowing I wasn't far away from cumming, but having no intention of shooting yet - this was far too good. I looked at the tattooed skin's crotch, and my eyes opened even wider - the bulge there was fucking unbelievable!  - his jeans were well-worn, very faded denim - almost white in places - ripped at the knees and the tightest I think I have ever seen on anybody. They hugged his muscled thighs as if they had been applied with an aerosol, following every contour meticulously. The braces, in this kneeling position, pulled them up tight into his crotch so that his balls formed a very well-defined bulge, giving the impression that they were wrapped completely in their own tightly-stretched denim, lying separately over his thighs beneath. His cock - a full eight inches of throbbing muscle - lay diagonally across the top of his left thigh. Skin tight as his jeans were, they could not even begin to flatten that rigid rod of horny East-end cock and, as he worked sadistically on the hysterical teenager's ticklish sides, it throbbed and jerked under the thin denim, the veins standing out against the cylindrical shaft and the uncut helmet forcing his jeans out so far from his body that I could have gripped it easily with my hand, my fingers almost meeting behind it. A darker blue wet patch of precum was spreading over the tip.

A sudden feeling of intense envy flooded over me. I wanted to be that helpless boy. I wanted to be held down like that. I wanted that hunky skinhead kneeling over me, his powerful thighs astride me, his bulging, throbbing cock over my face. I wanted to feel that denim-clad dick against my lips, to lick it and suck it through his jeans. I wanted that second skin's tight-jeaned crotch rubbing against my hands holding me down, his hand clamped over my mouth so I couldn't shout for help - and most of all I wanted to be tickled like that.

Before I could stop it, my spunk was pumping out of my cock into my hand. I came and came and came. The white, sticky liquid filled my palm and ran over, down my cock and onto my thighs. It was everywhere. I wiped it on the seat, collecting hairs and small unidentifiable black bits on my hand, and fastened the codpiece back over my still-jerking cock. Shit. I hadn't meant to cum yet. as the incapacitating throes of orgasm subsided, I leant forward again and continued to watch the action in the next carriage.

The tattooed skinhead was climbing off the younger boy. As he did so, the victim's crotch came into view. The boy had a massive erection and the other two skins were pointing at it and laughing. The tattooed one said something, at which the second skin nodded enthusiastically, and the young boy shook his head desperately. The hunky skin grabbed the boy's legs together and threw them over his right shoulder, holding them there tightly with his left arm around them. Still kneeling, he repositioned himself so that his knees were pushing against the boy's arse.With his legs now bent at the hips, the boy's jeans were looser over his crotch and his cock instantly filled this newly available space, stretching the faded denim like rubber, forming a beautiful and easily grippable sausage-shaped bulge in his jeans.

With a grin of pure sadism, the big skin slowly began to force his right hand flat between the tops of the boy's thighs from behind. At this, the victim began struggling with new urgency. He tried to pull his knees up to his chest and to squeeze his thighs tight together to keep the invading hand out, but the tattooed one was far stronger than he was, and pulled his legs back easily. His hand now completely sandwiched between the boy's thighs, he wiggled his fingers experimentally. This brought new paroxysms of hysterical laughter from the kid and, pleased with this reaction, he worked on the ticklish thigh muscles - kneading them and gripping them mercilessly. He wriggled his hand as far up into the tight-jeaned crotch as it would go, his fingertips deep into the crevices at the sides of the boy's balls. From the strength of the teenager's reaction - he arched his back and screamed into the gagging hand - this was evidently a particularly ticklish place, and he exploited it to the full.

The train had stopped at several stations, the doors had opened and closed, but - as usual at this time of night - there had been no-one to get on. It was now setting off from Warren Street. The boys had seemed to be oblivious to the possibility that they might be disturbed, but they were clearly used to this late train - I wondered why I had never seen them before.

After a few minutes, the tattooed one stopped, allowed the boy to relax for a moment, and then - with infuriating slowness - pushed his hand further through between the young thighs and rotated it so that his fingers came to rest on the bulge of the kid's balls - which he tickled for a while, making him kick and struggle with renewed intensity - and then directly onto the desperately horny young cock. The big skinhead gripped it through the boy's jeans and began tossing him off with firm, rapid strokes, sliding the tightly-stretched rought denim up and down over the sensitive glans beneath. He'd hardly got started when the boy lifted his back off the floor, threw his head from side to side despite the hand clamped over his mouth, and shot his load into his skin tight faded jeans. The hunky skinhead continued milking the boy until he'd extracted every drop and then, with the flat of his hand, he moved the young cock about inside the soaking and lubricated denim, sliding it around inside the boy's spunk-filled jeans.

I was wanking furiously again. This was one of the sexiest things I'd ever seen, and my balls were already full of spunk. I was close to cumming, and rapidly approaching the point of no return. This was unfortunate timing because, while I was staring glazedly at the skins (who were now getting up and being mock-beaten-up by the young one), they saw me. By the time I realised they were looking at me, it was too late - at that exact moment I started to shoot. As they were standing, I was now as visible to them as they were to me, and what they saw was a boy in a studded leather jacket, bike boots, tight leather jeans with the codpiece undone, cupping his balls with one hand and wanking hard with the other, staring straight at their bulging crotches - and hot white spunk fountaining from his cock.

For a long moment they stared open-mouthed at me, frozen in mid action, their 'fight' forgotten but fists still raised, motionless - and then the tattooed one began to smile. He put his arms round the other two and led them in a deep bow, as if acknowledging the applause of an audience who had just witnessed a stunning performance. Now I am not given to blushing - but I felt my face redden and for once I was totally lost for something to do. I smiled back self-consciously and fastened the codpiece up again. Although these skinheads were very unlikely to be the hard-core fascist type, they were almost certainly straight, and it's been my experience that straights caught in horse-play with each other - especially by someone who is probably gay - can be extremely aggressive. Finchley Central - my stop - was the next station luckily, and I mentally planned my escape. The doors would open on the other side to where I was sitting, and the exit was to the right. Shit , I would have to walk past their carriage to get out - there was no other way. They could easily block my escape if they were quick off the mark. From Finchley the train continued on to High Barnet, so there was a chance they would stay on board when I got off. I would have to play it by ear and be ready to run very fast - not easy in these jeans.

The skins seemed to have dismissed me - they had sat down and were laughing among themselves again. So far so good. Abruptly the darkness outside the windows disappeared and bright lights flashed past as the train emerged into the station. It slowed to a stop, there was a long pause, and the doors opened. I glanced at the skins from the corner of my eye - they were fighting over a newspaper and making no move to get off. My racing heart slowed slightly as I stepped down onto the platform and walked, as nonchalantly as I could, past their carriage. As I passed their door I half-expected them to come rushing out, throw themselves on me, kick me to the ground and beat me to pulp - but they didn't even shout at me. I could hear their voices, laughing and joking, and then fading as I walked on, unmolested.

As I turned into the exit, I took a last look back along the train. The platform was empty. I breathed a sigh of relief and continued down the corridor towards the escalator. As I stood on the bottom step I heard the doors close and the train move off. I was safe.

The moving staircase carried me slowly upwards towards ground level, and I replayed in my mind the events I'd seen on the train. My cock began to harden again inside my jeans. The sight of those skinheads working the little one over was going to provide fuel for many beautiful wanks in the future. Although I was safe now, I sort of half-wished they had come after me.

The cold night air made me zip my jacket up further as I set off down the empty street. It was only a few minutes' walk to my flat if I went direct, and there seemed no reason to take a devious route.

The flat was warm, thanks to the central heating, and I planned to take a Scotch with me to bed and have another wank while the memory of those skinheads was fresh in my mind. I went for a pee, then into the kitchen for a glass, poured the drink and walked into the bedroom. I started to reach for the light switch.

"Hello little leatherboy - you're cute."

The glass slipped out of my fingers as I saw the tattooed skinhead lying on my bed - one leg straight, the other bent at the knee, and playing with his enormous, bulging cock through his jeans. There was a movement at my side, and the young skinhead stepped out of the shadows and grabbed me. I turned and ran - right into the other one who was standing behind me. I was sandwiched between them for a moment, then they twisted my arms behind my back and forced me to my knees, facing the bed. They switched the light on.

"Two lessons, little leatherboy," said the tattooed one. "Make sure make sure the train doors are closed before you think you're safe, and always lock your door properly - yales are a piece of piss to open with a bit of plastic." He waved a credit card at me. "So," he played with the edge of the card against his teeth, "you like the idea of skinheads with bulging cocks holding you down, tickling the shit out of you and making you cream your fucking jeans do you, you little cunt?"

I swallowed hard, and finally nodded.

"That's good," he said, standing up and putting his hands squarely on his hips. He really was unbelievably hunky. "-cos that's just what you're gonna get."


The End