The Telemachus Story Archive

Home Again
By Hooder

Home Again

Robert was excited. It was three years since he’d last been to London - his annual pilgrimage had been put on hold by the pandemic. But now clubs were open again and he’d booked a train ticket and a night in a bed-and-breakfast in the east part of the city. It had been expensive and he couldn’t really afford it, but fuck it, he thought, he owed it to himself.

He’d never really been very into leather clubs, but he loved the Back Alley; it was dark and seamy and he could do exactly in there what turned him on most of all.

Robert was an experienced top, and at home he usually did exactly the same sorts of things as most other leather tops did, but once a year he had a total break from that, did the 4-hour trip to London just for one night of self-indulgence with a personal turn-on that most guys would probably find strange.

He would put on his thin shiny, skintight black PVC jeans; his bike boots; the bullet belt; a tight black tee shirt and his leather jacket. When he got to the club, before he went into the main room he’d pull on the black leather hood with just eye holes and an open mouth. A leather blindfold would be in his pocket. He would arrive at the club fairly early and, carrying his silver Simpson crash helmet in his hand, he’d get himself a can of coke from the bar, then find his favourite place to sit: in the middle of one of the long narrow wooden benches that ran along the wall. He’d put his crash helmet on the lower board between his booted feet, and sit there, sipping his coke occasionally and watching the guys as they arrived, until the place was fairly full. Then he’d take the blindfold out of his pocket and put it on, reach down and get the helmet, and lower it over his head. From that point on, he could see absolutely nothing – and it was at that point that he always started to get hard.

He would wait, unseeing, for a while, and then he would start to run his fingertips very lightly, slowly and teasingly over his shiny PVC-jeaned legs. They would trace up the outsides and the backs of his thighs, over the tops, and up the insides to his balls. He would tickle the bulge of his balls lightly, then stroke a single finger – hardly touching - over his hard, bulging cock from the base right to the very tip, the feeling sending horny shivers through him. Each time his fingertip made contact with the head, his cock would jerk involuntarily – and he knew that it was very clearly visible through the tight, thin PVC. Now and then he would close his knees tight together and push a hand slowly between his legs, squeezing it tightly between his thighs. When he did this it felt so horny that, even though it was his own hand, he still couldn’t stop himself from moving slightly as if he was trying to keep it out. After spending some time slowly teasing himself like this he would remove his hands, put them both behind his back as if he were restrained, and just wait, doing nothing. He realised that most of the guys there wouldn’t even notice him, that many would find what he did very odd. But he hoped there was one that wouldn’t.

What Robert was looking for was something very specific indeed. The thing that turned him on most of all was a combination of strength and teasing gentleness. One of his deepest fantasies was about being held down or restrained, and made to cum against his will: not forcibly, but - once he’d been got helpless - by slow, gentle, and very light teasing. For some reason that was the one thing he couldn’t fight against and couldn’t resist; and when he was in that state, the lighter and more teasingly it was done, the more urgently it made him need to cum. What he was trying to do by these strange actions in the club was to get all of this across to anybody who might be interested. He also knew that he looked hot in the gear, and that this slow, teasing caressing through his skintight shiny black jeans was prick-teasing of the highest order.

When he’d lived in London, years back, and had come to the Back Alley every week, most nights he’d gone home without having had any success at all. Oh, guys would have tried to play with him on their terms: squeezing his tits, parting his knees wide and standing between them so they could grab and maul his cock and balls – but he always shook his head and thanked them, gently removing their hands. Only on one or two occasions had guys played with him in the way he wanted. But fuck, those times had been worth it. The last time he’d been here, on a Friday night three years ago, that had been one of the best ever. A guy had made him cum in his jeans – very very slowly. He’d clearly been watching Robert for some time and had understood what got him horny: he’d pushed one arm between his legs and up to his balls, then had just kept it there while he’d run a single fingertip, constantly and irresistibly across just the head of Robert’s cock – as if challenging him to control himself. It had taken all Robert’s willpower to enable him to keep his hands behind his back as he felt himself getting closer and closer. He’d started to struggle a little – as much as was possible sitting on a bench – but the guy had kept on relentlessly, very slowly teasing the end of Robert’s cock. When Robert lost it, that orgasm had been fucking amazing and his spunk had pumped out madly into the tight PVC. Afterwards he’d hugged the guy and thanked him deeply. Robert’s fingers had felt a leather jacket and leather jeans; he’d really wanted to see what the guy looked like but the blindfold had made that impossible.

After a while Robert had gone home, very happy indeed.

Now he was here again. The club was exactly how he remembered it – nothing that he could see had changed in the slightest. He got his coke and took his position on the bench. There were only two or three guys in – it was early yet. He looked around happily at the black oil drums standing around, the chains hanging from the ceiling, the dim reddish lights, and sighed in contentment. Everything was so familiar. It was good to be back.

Gradually the club began to fill. It was time. Robert drank the last of the coke and placed the empty can at the end of the bench out of people’s way, then he took the blindfold out of his pocket. He put it on, reached down for the Simpson and pulled it over his head, fastening the strap. He sat smiling under the hood, memories of previous nights here more vivid now that he was once again enclosed in leather blackness. As always, his cock began to stiffen.

From the moment he put the blindfold on his world contracted from the whole club down to just his own body and what he could feel with his hands. With the leather over his eyes he could see nothing, nobody. He had no idea if anyone was looking at him, if there was anyone standing nearby.

He sat there.

Occasionally he felt the wooden bench move slightly as a guy either sat down or got up – he couldn’t tell which – at the side of him. When he felt this he would run his fingers out along the edge of the bench, exploring. Sometimes they came into contact with nothing if there wasn’t anybody sitting at his side, but if there was they would feel the outside of leather- or rubber-clad knees. He tried to do this surreptitiously so that if anyone was there they wouldn’t feel it, as he didn’t want to appear as if he were trying to get their attention. Sitting there in the club doing all of this was not easy: Robert didn’t want to look as if he was blatantly advertising what he wanted – although he realised that that was exactly what he was doing. Ideally he wanted to be completely unnoticed by everyone except any guy who understood exactly what he was after. This was, of course, unreasonable – there were precious few such guys - but he did it anyway.

Robert jumped as he suddenly felt hands on his thighs. The fingers squeezed once and then ran up to his crotch. They grabbed his cock and balls roughly. The guy’s other hand pushed Robert’s leather jacket aside and gripped a nipple. They began to squeeze. Robert shook his head, and gently removed the guy’s hands. “Thanks,” he said. The guy went away.

Later he felt someone sit down on his left hand side as a knee brushed his own. There was a pause, then there were fingers trying to work under his bullet belt to undo his zip. Again, Robert dissuaded this.

He was left alone for a while, so he went through another cycle of teasing himself lightly and slowly, then placed his arms behind his back again.

He waited.

Nothing happened for a long time – and then there was a hand between his legs. Reflexively he closed them together, gripping it. Oh fuck, that felt horny. The hand didn’t move; it stayed exactly where it was – and then the fingers began to stroke his balls. Robert wanted to struggle like fuck, to try to get the hand out but also to be unable to – but sitting there on the bench unrestrained, this wasn’t possible. He squeezed tighter, moved his knees one over the other. His hands were clasped together behind his back but he imagined they were tied there, and pulled at the non-existent restraints. Then a single finger teased over the top of his thigh and around the bulge of his cock for a while. After a frustratingly long time the fingertip stroked lightly and slowly up the length of it, making it jerk under the tight jeans. When it got to the head it teased over it, slowly getting closer and closer to the very tip.

Robert knew that he wasn’t far from cumming: gentle work on the head was so devastatingly effective on him that he knew he was in danger of losing it. He was in an agony of indecision: on the one hand this was so perfectly right that he needed to be made to cum exactly like that – but on the other he wanted it to go on for a lot longer. In the end he began to move one arm out from behind his back, to try to let the guy know that he was close.

The guy caught the arm as it came out, held it, and then pushed it back behind him again. He held it immobile for a moment to make it clear to Robert that he was to keep it there, then went back to teasing his cock. But he seemed to have got the message: now he did it much, much more gently and more slowly. The finger was just tickling over the head of Robert’s cock. But this was even worse: this incredibly light touch was going to make him cum – he knew it.

The guy stopped. He leaned close to Robert’s head. “Can you see anything?”

Robert knew that in the dim club lighting it was impossible to see properly what was under the helmet. He shook his head. “No. Blindfolded.”

“Good. Stand up.”

Robert stood, and the guy led him between the men and out into the club lobby. “Cloakroom?”

“Yes. A backpack.”

The cloakroom guy knew which it was, and handed it over. They left the club.

It felt very strange – and very horny – being led along the street in the cold night air, not being able to see anything. Robert was grateful that at least the crash helmet concealed the leather hood and the blindfold under it. He could hear what he thought was the creak of leather as the guy walked by his side.

After a couple of minutes they came to a stop. He heard a car door opening and he was guided towards it. “Get in.”

Robert hesitated. For all he knew this guy could be an axe murderer – but his hard cock decided for him: he sat in the car. The door closed, the guy walked around and the car rocked as he got in as well. Arms pushed Robert forward and handcuffs were fastened around his wrists. Then they set off.

The ride was quiet and smooth, but Robert’s heart was racing. He was conscious of his breathing inside the helmet, and also that he was as horny as fuck: when the guy had stopped working on him in the club he’d been a hair’s breadth away from cumming, and there was a great deal of spunk in his balls that really wanted to get out.

They rode for some time, and then the car slowed, turned, reversed, and finally came to a stop. The guy guided Robert out, and there was the bleep of the locking mechanism, followed by the sound of a garage door closing. A hand gripped Robert’s arm and he was led inside a house.

It was warmer in here. They went into a different room, and there was the unmistakable smell of leather. Robert felt himself pushed against something that swung slowly as he touched it. His handcuffs were removed. “Lie down.” He was carefully guided onto a leather sling. Stiff, fingerless mitts went over his hands, cuffs were buckled around his wrists, and they were pulled up beyond his head and secured there. Thick leather loops were passed over his boots, tightened at his ankles, and these were clipped to something above so that his feet were comfortably suspended with his knees bent. He tried to straighten his legs but the restraints didn’t allow quite that much movement. Finally a strap was tightened over his stomach to keep him in place. So far the guy had hardly spoken at all, and this didn’t change.

There were fingers on Robert’s legs. They began to stroke, to tickle and to tease with a feather-like touch, starting just above his boots and moving very slowly upwards. Robert could feel absolutely everything through the thin, sensitive PVC. He began to groan. His cock was bursting out of his jeans and it very badly needed attention. But the fingers avoided it completely. They teased his legs and his thighs, his perineum and his balls, but they didn’t even touch his cock. His arse was right on the end of the sling, and the position gave the guy complete and easy access to him from above and from below.

Now his hands were stroking over all of Robert’s body – his leather jacket, his arms, his sides and hips. They unzipped his jacket, pulled his tee shirt up, and the guy leaned over him. He gasped as he felt on his naked chest not the leather he’d been expecting, but smooth rubber. Hands stroked up his sides and into his armpits. They caressed his nipples very lightly, but didn’t squeeze.

The guy pulled Robert’s tee shirt down again and fastened his leather jacket up. Robert’s thighs were relaxed, his knees a couple of inches apart when a hand went between them. He gasped, his knees closing involuntarily, his thighs squeezing tight around it and trapping it between them, but it worked its way slowly upwards towards his balls. The fingers found them and began to tease – and the other hand now touched his cock. A finger and thumb traced their way along the length to the end, then began sliding slowly up and down over the head – the finger over the top, the thumb over the frenulum – but hardly touching. Oh fuck, that felt unbelievably horny. Robert felt his spunk getting ready for release – but the fingers stopped and the arm was removed. There was a pause, Robert could hear the guy walking around, and then he was back. He heard the click of a camera shutter. A few seconds later, another. One hand came back, teasing up the inside of Robert’s thigh, across his balls, and up his cock to the head, while more photos were taken.

There were sounds of equipment being moved. After a minute the guy was back, and started working on Robert again, with both hands. Every couple of seconds there was the click of the camera, from his left-hand side; Robert realised that he must have put it on a tripod and set it to take pictures automatically.

“Do not cum,” the guy whispered close to Robert’s helmet. “When you cum it’s over. I chuck you out. If you want this to go on for a long time, do not cum.”

One hand went back between the tops of Robert’s thighs, and a single finger of the other hand began to tickle across his cock head. The touch was as light as a feather,and the strokes were no faster than one a second.

“Do not cum.”

Robert’s face was screwed up in concentration under the blindfold, the hood, and the helmet. The position he was in, on the sling, was dead horny: he could move, but the thing wouldn’t let him go very far. Also, he knew that this slow, teasing work on the end of his cock would make him cum far more easily than if the whole thing had been gripped firmly and wanked fast. There was something about slow, relentless teasing just on the head that he was incapable of resisting. It was his deepest fantasy. He struggled in the restraints but that only made it all even more horny. It was much worse than if he’d been strapped down immobile and totally unable to move an inch.

He could feel his muscles tensing with the approach of orgasm, and he knew that he’d be helpless to stop it. He did everything he could to get the finger off his cock: he threw himself about, making the sling rattle on its suspension chains, he twisted, he opened and closed his knees. But he couldn’t get away from it: the finger always found his cock head and resumed the stroking – no faster, no harder – just teasing, gentle strokes over the end. And every time he moved he was conscious of the other hand between his thighs. It felt deliciously invading. He couldn’t get it out, and the fingers were teasing his balls.

It was absolutely perfect: he was restrained in a position that allowed him to struggle, but he was helpless to get away from the hands. And there was determined strength in those hands as they followed him relentlessly, staying on his cock and his balls wherever he moved. But the wonderful thing was that the guy wasn’t wasn’t wanking him hard: his finger was just stroking and tickling his cock head through the sexy PVC jeans - infuriatingly slowly, infuriatingly lightly, infuriatingly tauntingly. The guy seemed to be intentionally making Robert fight a battle in his mind - and it was also as if he knew exactly how to make him lose that battle.

There was nothing Robert could do – and he felt himself starting to cum.

He bounced around in the leather sling like a demented thing as he came. His cock bucked and jerked madly inside his jeans as his spunk shot out helplessly into the thin, sensitive PVC under the teasing fingertip. It was all of his wettest dreams come true.

When Robert had finished cumming, the guy left him there and went into the other room for a few minutes. When he returned he guided Robert off the sling, out of the house and back into the car.

He stood in the cold night air, his backpack over his shoulder. A hand put something into his, then squeezed his arm. A whisper close to his head: “thanks, sexy guy.” The car door closed and Robert heard it drive away.

His hair was matted as he took off the helmet, the blindfold and the hood. Thankfully the street was deserted. He was standing outside the club again. He opened his hand and found a thumb drive. No doubt some of the pictures the guy had taken were on there. Smiling happily and waddling slightly in the sea of cold spunk at his crotch he made his way back to the B&B.

His house was cold when he got home, and the first thing he did was put the heating on and have a shower. After that he fired up his computer and inserted the thumb drive.

There were lots of high-quality images. His shiny black thighs and bulging cock being teased and tickled, his thrashing about as the finger made him cum. The only bits of the guy that were visible in any of them were the occasional rubber-jeaned leg, or rubber-jacketed arm. Nothing else. It had been a perfect realisation of one of his deepest fantasies and he badly needed to contact the guy again – but Robert had no idea who he was, what he looked like, or even where he had taken him.

He gazed at the pictures, and got his cock out for a much-needed wank. Tomorrow it would be back to the fucking and the sucking that he usually did. And he enjoyed those a lot.

But whenever he felt the need, now he could look at the pictures and remember in detail one of the most horny fucking nights of his life.

Tomorrow he’d book his tickets for next year.