The Telemachus Story Archive

By Hooder

The girl signed her name and handed the clipboard back to me with a smile. I gave her a wink, flicked my dark visor down, and headed out to the foyer. The rain was coming down fairly heavily now but I didn’t mind - it was summer, and it was warm. I stowed the clipboard in the pannier, got onto the machine and pressed the starter. The Honda V-twin roared into life and with a quick look over my shoulder I set off down the road. Only one more drop today and I’d be finished.

The wet road was slippery, so I was careful, but it was still possible to weave between the cars quickly. I smiled; there was something about wet bike gear that I found strangely erotic. I glanced at my thighs: the rain made the already highly-polished black leather even shinier, and small rivulets ran down to my crotch in the wind. My cock began to make its presence felt against the confining leather jeans.

There were no spaces on the road outside the newspaper office, so I parked on the pavement. As I went through the door a wave of heat hit me. I lifted the visor and took the envelope out from under my jacket. The guy on reception looked me up and down once - his surprised gaze lingering for a moment on the obvious bulge between my legs - took the envelope, checked the details, and signed his name. With a brief nod, I turned and went outside, glad to be out of the heat.

I let out a deep breath. Work done until Monday. The only plans I had for tonight, other than a shower, were a Chinese takeaway, a beer or three, and some mindless television. But it was still only three in the afternoon. I looked down the street; this was a part of town I hadn't been to for ages; it was not far from where I’d grown up. A smile came as I remembered the happy times of my childhood, and I wondered if the old paper mill was still there. It had been a favourite place to play when I was a kid - unused for years, it had been all crumbling whitewashed walls, iron girders, and bolts sticking out of the floor where long-gone heavy machinery had been anchored. On a whim, I got on the bike and started out towards it.

The rain had stopped now, but the road was still greasy. Five minutes later I turned right and pulled up halfway down a narrow lane. "Well bugger me.” Not only was the old mill indeed still there - it was exactly as I remembered it. A padlock secured a rusted chain on the battered old main gates, and through the wire fencing I could see the boarded-up windows. It seemed like nothing had changed from fifteen years ago when I’d been ten.

I locked the bike, then crossed the road and walked along the fence to the right corner. When I’d come here all those years ago, there had been a hole in the wire a few yards up, which you could reach by pushing through the bushes and weeds at the side. The flora had grown considerably, and it was difficult going, but my leathers protected me from the thorns, the sharp twigs and the nettles. And there it was! In those days the wire had been bent back inside to make a hole just large enough for a small boy to get through, but now it was larger. This was just as well, because I was now a considerably bigger boy. I squeezed through.

The clouds had dissipated and the sun had come out; it was turning into a beautiful day. Puddles of water between the weeds on the cracked paving reflected the blue sky and the red brick of the old building as I crossed the yard, heading towards a door I bet would still not be locked. The door in question was not only not locked, it was standing ajar - and by the look of it, had been for some time. Leaves had blown in, and the rain had collected on the pitted concrete floor just inside.

Ha! The smell! It instantly took me back to my childhood: a mixture of damp brick, a slight whiff of engine oil, and - for some reason I’d never been able to figure - bleach. Although the windows were mostly boarded up, daylight managed to filter into the cavernous interior here and there in streaks which lit up the floor like little spotlights. Pollen or dust sparkled in them like plankton under a microscope, seemingly living only in the beams and nowhere else at all. There was almost complete silence - the far-off sounds of traffic outside were barely audible, as if they knew they had no right to invade this strangely sacred space.

I walked slowly across the huge room to the far side. Although I couldn't see it yet in the harsh, contrasty light - I knew there was a door there leading to a corridor and the old offices. It was there that I’d spent most of my time when I’d been here as a kid.

The door, its once-white paint now peeled, cracked and stained, opened surprisingly quietly, and I padded down the corridor in my rubber-soled motorcycle boots, my leathers creaking softly. The room at the end was the one I thought of as ‘our’ room - it had been there where I’d smoked my first cigarette, and later my first joint; where I’d held court with my schoolmates - I’d been the leader of our gang back then - and it had been in that room where I’d lost my virginity. I smiled at the memory.

The door to the office was closed. It opened with a couple of firm pushes, the ancient hinges complaining noisily, and the base screeching as it scraped across the uneven concrete. I stood, looking into the room. Back then, there had been an old table, which we’d moved here from another part of the building, and four chairs - one for each of us - arranged around it. On my orders, it had always been left neatly arranged, for next time. A slightly buckled grey locker had stood by the cracked sink, and in the corner, on the floor, there had been a large biscuit tin where we’d burnt stuff to heat the room above freezing in winter. Now, the room was completely empty apart from one chair, which was lying on its side by the remains of the sink. I righted it, placed it where I’d always sat on the left of where the table had been, and sat down. After all this time, there was still a slightly darker patch on the floor where the old fire tin had stood.

It had been a happy time, with David, Timothy, and Zoggie. I wondered what had become of them. Timothy (never, ever 'Tim') was probably a merchant banker or something by now - he'd been the bookish one; Dave had been a tearaway - he was likely doing time; and Zoggie, ha! Zoggie was a geek. He was undoubtedly making money hand over fist writing software for some games company or other. But back then they had been good mates. This room had been MI5's headquarters, spaceship bridges, a dungeon or two, and other fabulous places too numerous to remember.

And this was the room where I’d brought Anne-Marie that evening. Where we’d chatted self-consciously for a while, where I had made my first, bumbling attempts at seduction, and where she'd given me my first-ever (inexpert, but transcendentally wonderful) blow job. Looking back I had no idea now what I’d seen in her - she'd been fat, plain, and a martyr to acne - but still the thought of that very first encounter was making my cock hard. I realised that I was stroking my bulge through the wet leather, and that it felt wonderful.


I nearly jumped out of my skin. I looked up, startled. Standing in the doorway was a boy. He was slim, wearing a grey hoodie, from under the top of which blond hair formed a fringe over his blue eyes; some of the tightest ice-blue jeans I’d ever seen; and chunky white trainers, which were not fully laced up. He was grinning at me.

"Hi. I didn't hear you come in." I realised instantly that was a very silly thing to say, but it had been all I could think of.

"So I can see."

Self-consciously, I jerked my hand away from my crotch, and then wished I hadn't. It was quite obvious that I had a massive hard-on. I replaced my hand, resting it on the leather, and I actually blushed. "Erm…"

The boy laughed. It was a warm, friendly laugh. He came into the room and stood looking down at me for a moment, then knelt down on the concrete floor just beyond my parted knees. He reached into his pocket and took out a battered red-and-white tobacco tin. Carefully, he removed the lid, withdrew a spliff, and lit it. He took a couple of puffs, then offered it to me. He was still grinning, white teeth just visible between his slightly parted lips.

I felt a shiver go through me. After a moment I reached out and took the offered joint. "Thanks."

He watched me as I inhaled the smoke, held it, and blew it out slowly in a cloud that drifted gently upwards.

We enjoyed the spliff in silence for a while, passing it back and forth. At one point the boy reached up and pulled his hood back, then shook his head. His golden blond hair arranged itself into a tousled, spiky mop - but not for an instant did his blue eyes leave my face.

The spliff was working well: I was beginning to feel very relaxed indeed. Suddenly the boy bent forward, and sank his teeth gently into my thigh, just above the knee. He stayed there motionless for a moment, then licked the leather slowly upwards as far as he could reach, before straightening up again. I stared, mouth open. Then he did it again, to the other leg. This time, he stopped licking, and turned his head sideways, resting it on my thigh. I could have sworn that he was purring.

I didn't know what to do - I was alone with a teenage boy in an abandoned building, and I was aware that that could lead to all kinds of unpleasantness - but the kid seemed so… so lovely. I looked down at his face, nuzzling my thigh and gazing contentedly up at me. I didn't consider myself to be gay, but there was something about this kid that was disturbingly compelling. He was, not to put too fine a point on in, fucking gorgeous.

He straightened up again, then scooted back and sat down on the floor with his back leaning against the wall, his legs straight out in front of him. Instantly I could see that he, too, had a hard-on - it was stretching his skintight ice-blue jeans out to almost bursting and he was making no attempt to hide it. His smile got even bigger, and he played with one of my booted feet with his. He rubbed the side with his trainer, squeezed my foot between his, and ran his sole up the steel plate on the front of the motorcycle boot. Then, without warning, he jumped up, got both of my legs between his, and sat down on my thighs, facing me. I drew in a breath to say something, but I didn't get the chance - a pair of red lips came down and kissed me hard.

The boy smelled of - boy. There was no other word for it. A mixture of strawberries and musk and denim - and he tasted wonderful. I had no choice: I returned the kiss. It was slow, sensual, and deep. I felt the boy's hand behind my head, running through my hair and pressing our lips closer together as we devoured each other.

One of his hands found my bulge, and began to massage it - but I grabbed it and removed it. I wasn't that far from cumming. Chuckling softly, he did the same thing with the other hand - and if I kept hold of the first, I couldn't get to that one. I broke out of the kiss. "Don't! I'll cum!"

The kid ran his tongue over his teeth, his smile now pure devilment.

The spliff was making things very difficult for me. More than anything, I wanted to cum holding this beautiful boy, but not yet. "Not yet," I said.

He jumped off, and held out a hand. I took it, and was pulled to my feet. He hugged me, and kissed me some more, then his shaggy head descended as he slowly licked his way down my leathers. He lay down on the concrete floor. His eyes were wide under his blond fringe. "Come here, biker."

I started to lower myself on top of him.

"No. sixty-nine."

I stopped, turned, then lay down at his side, my face inches away from the denim-covered bulge. I didn't know if it was the spliff, but everything was pin-sharp, crystal-clear. The seams on the boy's jeans that ran up the insides of his legs were darker than the rest of the light blue denim, and each stitch was clearly defined as my eyes followed the seams up, past his knees, up this insides of this thighs, over areas that got progressively more deliciously sensitive, more erogenous, to his perineum - a dark, shadowed crossroads where the seam from the back, and the one going to the zip fly, met. I couldn't stand it any longer. My head moved forward, and my tongue - and my fingertips - found the seam. They caressed and teased the inside of his thigh lovingly, moving upwards millimetre by millimetre. Ahead was the smooth, round bulge of his balls, and above that, outlined in sharp relief by thin denim stretched to within a millimetre of its life, the boy's rock-hard cock. Already, I saw, the denim was darker at the tip, where precum had leaked out. My tongue worked on his thigh, my fingers teased and tickled the smooth balls. At that moment, although it was something I’d never done before - or even, in my wildest fantasies thought about - I was in heaven.

At the other end, he had been working on my bulge with an expertise that belied his youth: he'd licked and bitten, stroked and teased - but had always stopped before I'd got too close. And it was a very fine line: I was nearer to the edge than I could remember being for a long time. Now and again my hips - quite involuntarily - would thrust in an animal effort to bring myself off, but always his mouth, or hands, would no longer be there. For me it was the most exquisite torture imaginable. But the point was approaching where I would no longer be able to hold back and would have to get my own hand to my cock and bring myself off. I knew I wouldn't be able to stop myself.

But it didn't get that far. The boy rolled away and stood up. He sat I down in the chair, then he knelt on one knee and removed the lace from one of his trainers. Holding it stretched between his hands and grinning impishly, he moved behind me and used the lace to tie my wrists together behind my back. When that was done, he parted my knees and knelt down between them. Slowly, he unzipped my leather jeans and carefully extracted my rigid cock from within. The fact that I never wore anything under leather helped considerably. “Mmm.. commando,” he said. Then, gazing all the while into my eyes, he began the slowest blowjob that was humanly possible. The boy's lips and tongue caressed my cock from the root to the tip, up and down, in wet, slow-motion. Every time they ran over the cock-head a tremor of pure lust shot through my body from the top of my head to my toes. I was screamingly close to cumming - but somehow the kid seemed to know exactly how close I was, and every time I tensed for the shattering orgasm I knew was milliseconds away, he backed off from my cock, tickled my balls gently with his fingertips, and smiled that killer smile. Now and again he stretched up, and kissed me slowly and lovingly, and I drowned in those blue eyes..

I was beside myself. I needed to cum so badly, but this boy would not let me. The lace around my wrists may have been a D-I-Y restraint, but it was no less effective for that - I could not get my hands anywhere near to my cock to finish myself off. I was completely under the control of this beautiful boy. No words had been spoken for some time, but now I was desperate. Hoarsely, I whispered, "please - you must let me cum."

He kissed my cock-head. "Do you really want to cum?"

"Oh fuuuuck yes. Please." My voice was a hoarse whisper.

"Ok." He stood up, went behind me, and pressed his bulging crotch into my hands. My fingers found his rock-hard, denim-covered cock, and started to work on it through his jeans. He bent down over my shoulder and kissed me deeply, his hand closing around my glistening cock. He began to stroke it, slowly, rubbing his thumb over the head. Within seconds I was cumming. My spunk arced upwards and splashed back onto my leather thighs and the floor as I let out a primal scream of ecstasy which was only partly gagged by the pressure of the boy's lips. Time seemed to stop - all I was conscious of was pure orgasmic pleasure, and a pair of gorgeous blue eyes staring into mine.

I sagged in the chair, my cock still jerking spasmodically in the boy's now stationary hand. The lace was biting into my wrists and the chair was hard. But that had still been the best orgasm I’d ever had.

He untied my wrists, and watched as I zipped myself up again. Then he pulled me to his feet and hugged me, kissing me again.

"What about you?" The boy hadn't cum yet.

He just smiled and shook his head. He whispered, "thank you," and then he was was gone.

I stood motionless for a second or two, thinking that he would come back, that he'd popped outside the door for some reason - but he didn't come back. I rushed out of the room but the corridor was empty. I searched in all the offices, but the boy had gone. Fuck fuck fuck. "Hello!" I shouted. My voice echoed down the deserted corridor and off the peeling walls, but there was no reply. The only sound at all was the distant traffic - far off, in another time, another place.

I returned to the office to get my helmet and, after a last look at the old room, made my way slowly out to my bike. I unlocked it, climbed on, and turned it round. I sat, looking at the old mill. I was exhausted. That place had held a lot of happy memories for me. Now it held one more.

With a deep sigh, I started the engine, lowered my visor, and rode into the traffic, heading for home.