Another boring night at the club – then I met Aaron. Tall guy, full BLUF-type leathers: Muir cap, leather shirt and tie, leather jacket, leather breeches and polished leather boots. Not my type of gear, really (scruffy bikers in tight jeans are more me) but the sheer acreage of black leather was impressive. And I have a fetish for black leather, so lots of it is always a good thing. He also had a wicked-looking leather hood hanging from his left hip.
“Hello, boy. I haven’t seen you in the club before.” The tone of his voice suggested that whatever my reply might be, it had better end with ‘Sir’.
I smiled. “Hi. Yeah, first time I’ve been here.”
When he didn’t get a ‘Sir’, I could see him wondering if I was a Top, or just a sub in urgent need of education.
“Hmm. Are you Top?”
“Yep.”
He looked me up and down, frowning slightly. “Hmm. You’re cute for a Top. Nice body, though.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a put-down. “Ta. I’m Sean.”
“Aaron.”
He didn’t say anything for a while, then he reached into a pocket. “I’m having a get-together at my house at the weekend, Sean. If you’re free, it would be good to see you there.” He handed me a card – an actual card with his name and address printed on it in posh script.
Surprised, I grinned at him. “Oh, OK. Ta, mate.” I could easily be free, and this sounded like it could be interesting.
Good grief, I thought, this was more of a fucking mansion than a house. Beyond a pair of gates that would have made Castle Dracula proud, the gravel drive was half a mile long. I parked the bike between a Jaguar and a bright red Lamborghini. There was money here. I rang the bell.
When the oak door swung open it revealed a boy wearing just a collar, motorcycle boots and a pair of bulging leather shorts. He smiled, and led me inside.
About twenty guys were standing about, chatting and drinking, most in black leather. A lot of them were overweight, but there was the odd hunk here and there. Apart from them, there were a few guys in business suits, tight, ripped jeans, or shiny rubber.
They all looked to me like Tops. I’d have expected their subs to have been standing or kneeling with them, but there was no sign of any subs.
Aaron saw me from across the room and navigated his way between the bodies. “Ah, Sean. Glad you could make it.” He led me over to the bar. “You haven’t been to one of these events before, so perhaps I should show you what’s what.” He got me a drink, picked up his scotch, and grinned. “Come with me.” He still had the leather hood hanging at his side, I saw.
We made our way across the room. On the wall were lots of CCTV screens – I counted ten of them: two rows of five. I saw that they all showed naked guys restrained to assorted bondage devices. At the bottom of each screen was a number.
“These are the boys in the playrooms upstairs. The room number is at the bottom of each screen. Later, guests will be encouraged to explore, and to play with them in whatever ways they wish. The rules are the usual: no blood, no needles, and no permanent marks.”
The first screen showed a boy strapped over a wooden horse. His naked arse, at fucking height, was facing the camera so I couldn’t see his head. Ok.
The next one got my attention a lot more: another naked guy, but this one was tied up with rope on a padded table. He was lying on his back, his legs bent and pulled right up so his knees were above his chest. A humbler – a flat wooden restraint with a hole in it – had been fitted around his cock and balls, the wooden slats pressing against the backs of his thighs, keeping his tackle pointing straight up behind his legs. His cock was rock-hard, and he was moaning, like he needed to cum. Mmm… now he would be an ideal subject for edging, I thought.
Some of the other positions the boys were in were interesting, but I was a bit disappointed – I’m very much about gear, and these guys were all naked.
I needn’t have worried. Aaron turned 180 and pointed to the opposite wall. “There’s another ten screens over there. For the gearheads amongst us.”
Even from this distance, those looked like they might be more interesting.
“All the boys are commando, of course. Well, see if there’s anything you like. Play time will begin in twenty minutes. I’ll see you soon. Have fun.”
I nodded. “OK. Thanks.”
He toasted me with his glass, and left me to my own devices.
I walked over to the other screens and peered at them.
The first showed a fit guy in an open leather jacket with a nice pair of naked pecs under it; a studded belt; tight bleached jeans; and bike boots. He was tied to a reclining metal chair with his legs wide apart, and his arms restrained straight downwards. He was also securely hooded. I liked the position – all his sensitive bits were very accessible. The hard cock bulge between his tight-jeaned thighs already looked good, but I thought that a stain from very slowly-extracted spunk would improve them even more.
I felt like a kid in a sweet shop – a quick glance at the screens to come told me there were more horny sights ahead.
Next was a boy in PVC jeans, and a muscle shirt showing well-developed biceps. The wrist cuffs around his leather-mitted hands were clipped directly to a D ring in the collar of his hood, and his legs were strapped at the knees and ankles to the sides of the chair he was sitting on. The shape of his hard cock was unmistakable through the thin PVC. Aaron had said that all the boys were commando, but in this one’s case it was blindingly obvious. I wanted to work on that bulge.
If I’d thought that was horny, the next screen showed something even better. There was no furniture at all in this room, just a large pad on the floor. Lying on his side on the pad was a shiny black vision: a rubber hood was ballooning in and out as he breathed; he was wearing rubber boots; and a long, loose, black rubber macintosh. Creases and folds in it reflected the light where his legs were strapped tightly together at the ankles, knees and thighs. His hands were encased in thick rubber mitts, his wrists were shackled behind his back, and above those, a strap had been tightened just above the elbows to restrain his arms even further.
My cock was instantly hard. I just had to know what he was wearing under all that. I was fantasising that he was naked – and that the macintosh was unlined, with shiny black rubber touching his skin all over. The thought occurred to me that he couldn’t see anything. He wouldn’t know who had played with him, where my hands were going, what I was going to do to him, or when. Oh yes. I made a note of the room number: 13. I intended to pay a visit to that room.
The fourth screen showed a biker in a black crash helmet, leather jacket, leather jeans, white SIDI boots, and leather gloves, also lying on the floor. A 12-inch chain connected his ankle cuffs together, and his wrists were chained to a heavy ring in the floor behind his back. The crash helmet’s dark visor was half-open, and as he turned his head I could see the shine of black leather across his eyes and face through the gap: he was hooded underneath that helmet.
The sight of him lying there, one leg straight, the other bent, restrained just enough to let him struggle like fuck… Oh shit, that was so fucking horny. His leather jeans were sprayed on, and thin enough to show the head of his cock in detail at the end of the rock-solid shaft. His balls made a separate, round bulge below. I needed to cum. And I also needed to lick that leather, and watch him struggling as I raped his fucking cock in those skintight jeans.
There followed a boy in shiny red-and-white nylon football gear. He was tied to a power lifting bench with his wrists cuffed to the tops of the posts where the weights usually rested. Leather straps over his chest and stomach kept him immobile, and his feet were secured to the bottom of the front legs. More straps stopped him from closing his knees together, and there was an enormous tent in his shorts from a very hard cock inside. Even though I couldn’t see his face, he somehow looked cute, and very vulnerable.
I caught the smell of expensive aftershave as a guy walked past behind me, and fingers trailed over my buttocks. I looked round. The guy turned his head towards me for a moment and winked. I smiled at him, but he was walking on. Nice to be appreciated, I thought, going back to the screens.
The bottom row started with a boy wearing nothing but a leather jock. He was restrained to a table, his legs raised and strapped immobile in stirrups, and the soles of his bare feet were facing the camera. The assorted brushes and feathers on the side table suggested that this one was for tickle torture.
In room 17 was a big, solid wood chair with a high back. Strapped to it was a guy in a very well-used, heavy leather straitjacket. The stains on the old, tan leather made it look like it had come straight from some Victorian asylum. His head was enclosed in an industrial-weight hood in the same leather. There were straps all over it, and two of them ran through restraint points in the high chair back, holding it immobile; he couldn’t even move his head. The only things that interrupted the smooth leather over his face were a couple of very small breathing holes at either side. These had irregular dark marks around them, and smaller stains running down from them. He was naked below the straightjacket, and his hard cock was waving in the air. His thighs and legs were restrained with heavy straps to the sides of the chair, and close by stood a table with an assortment of boxes with cables and electrodes. Either this guy was seriously into pain, I thought, or he’d drawn a very unlucky number.
The next two screens showed a punk in New Rocks, ripped jeans and a tatty biker jacket; and then a big guy in tight leather shorts. This one had muscles. As far as I could see, his only restraints were the hood, and the cuffs that restrained his wrists behind his back. Even like that he’d be able to put up some opposition, so I guessed this was a two-on-one room.
In the last one, room 20, was a small, slim boy, naked except for the hood and a pair of shiny red boxing shorts. He was hanging from a hoist by his wrists, his feet only just touching the ground, and shackled very wide apart to rings in the floor. The wide gaps between his inner thighs and the legs of the boxing shorts fascinated me. I felt a strong urge to insert a lightly-tickling hand very, very slowly up the leg of those shorts. I bet the little bugger would struggle like fuck. Mmm…
As I glanced over all the screens again, lingering over my favourites, I realised that my now-bulging cock would be a bit obvious if I turned around. I wondered if I should try to hide it, but then I grinned to myself: this was a sex party, for fuck’s sake.
“So, Sean, have you had a look at the boys?” Aaron was back.
“Yeah. Wow. There’s some fucking hot ones up there.”
“I’m glad you think so.” He put a friendly hand on my shoulder and walked me to the armchairs. “Now, tell me which ones you especially liked, and why.”
As we sat down I told about him the guy with the humbler holding his tackle back between his thighs. “I could spend a great deal of time working on that cock. Drive the fucker insane. And the one in the rubber macintosh – oh fuck, I want to edge him and make him cum helplessly into that shiny black rubber. Must feel amazing tied up in that gear. That’s one of the horniest things I’ve ever seen.” I thought for a moment. “What else? Oh yeah – the biker in the crash helmet and skintight leather jeans. I wanted to see him struggling like fuck. And the boy in the boxing shorts. Oh fuck. Yes.”
Aaron smiled. “I’m pleased you liked so many, Sean.”
“I noticed that they were all hooded.”
“Oh yes, they’re all hooded,” he said, relishing the word. His breeches creaked as he spread his legs a little. He ran his fingers over the leather hood hanging from his left hip, then his hand came to rest on his crotch, and he idly began to stroke it.
“A subject very close to my heart. We hood the boys for two main reasons.” He looked around the room. “There are always some prominent people amongst the guests – even a few celebrities.” He nodded his head towards a few of the guys in turn. “That one’s a high court judge. See the one over by the wall there in full leather? He’s about as high-ranking in the Metropolitan police as you can get. The tall one by the window – and there’s another one here somewhere – they’re members of the cabinet.” He nodded towards a well-muscled guy in denim. That’s Marty Terrance, the actor. Been in lots of big films. Oh, and there’s Sir Anthony Bell. Does a lot of charity work with homeless teenage boys.”
I’d been looking mostly at the gear (as I always do), but now that I actually scanned the guys’ faces, I realised that I recognised most of the ones Aaron had pointed out; I’d seen many of them on TV.
Aaron was working on his cock bulge more firmly now, and his eyes were slightly glazed. “A lot of the boys upstairs would not be above a little blackmail, believe me. So we make sure they can’t see who’s playing with them, although they’d very much like to. It wouldn’t do for them to be able to identify someone who was abusing them sexually. That would be evidence.”
Aaron was smiling in satisfaction and his hand was squeezing and stroking his growing erection. “The hood is a simple – and extremely frustrating - way to deny them that knowledge. The boys would recognise many of the guests, and it would be very useful to them indeed to know exactly who had fucked them or beat them, or whatever. But the wonderful thing about hoods is that they blindfold you. The boys don’t see the guests beforehand, so they don’t know who’s here and who isn’t – and the hoods keep them in infuriatingly frustrated ignorance.”
Aaron seemed unconscious of the fact that he was now almost wanking himself off through his breeches. “Oh, believe me, those boys would dearly love to know who’s sucking their cock or ploughing their arse. They could make a fortune if they could identify them, so they’d give anything to know. But they’re hooded, so they cant. And they can’t reach the hoods to get them off – although I love to watch them try. That is soooo wonderful.”
It was very clear to me that this guy was worryingly obsessed with hoods.
He wrenched his gaze back to me. “And the second reason is that it makes them horny. Both helplessness and anticipation are powerful aphrodisiacs, Sean. Not knowing what’s going to happen, or when, tends to keep a boy’s cock very sensitive, very hard, and very horny. We edge them all for quite some time before we start, to get them interested...”
Well that would explain why they were all as hard as a rock, I thought.
Aaron seemed to pull himself together. He removed his hand from his crotch, and looked at his watch. “Well, play time will be starting very soon, and I have to go make arrangements. Help yourself to the bar, and have an enjoyable evening in the upstairs rooms. I’ll see you later.” He squeezed my shoulder, and walked off.
I watched him go. Strange man, I thought.
I wanted to keep myself together for this, so I just ordered a lemonade. Glass in hand, I wandered around the room. Guys looked me up and down appraisingly, several smiling and nodding, or whispering a comment to their friends. I returned the smiles; I’d been told many times that I was cute, and I knew that I was fit, and looked good in my biker gear.
The boy in the collar and the leather shorts beckoned me. I went over to him and he led me through a door.
The instant it closed, the fucking lights went out as a hood was dropped over my head. There was a short hiss from somewhere, followed by a strong chemical smell under the leather. While hands held the collar tight around my neck, others grabbed me – and after a couple of seconds my legs gave way. I suddenly felt like I was very stoned: my balance was gone, I couldn’t co-ordinate my limbs, and I had no strength in my muscles. Each time I breathed in that chemical smell, I felt the leather clinging to my face. A distant part of my mind was telling me that it felt horny.
After a few more seconds the collar was loosened and I could breathe fresh air. The hand stayed there, though, ready to close it again if there were any danger of my strength returning. I wasn’t unconscious – I knew what was happening – but I was powerless to stop them from stripping me naked, and taking me back through the main room (I heard cheers and whistles as we passed through). They half-carried me upstairs.
A door closed behind me. There was some quiet, urgent whispering, and then the hood was pulled off and efficiently replaced with another one. I didn’t get a chance to see anything because they’d turned the room lights off while they did that. After the straps had been tightened I heard the lights go back on. This hood was heavier than the other one. I was conscious that my head was clearing.
Next, I was laid on a padded table. It was cool against my naked skin. My arms were restrained to the sides of the table, then my legs were pulled up and tied together almost touching my chest. A chain supported them from above somewhere. I remembered the position – it was one of the first rooms I’d seen on the screens. Sure enough, a hand closed around my cock and balls, and pulled them back between my thighs. Then I felt the wood of the humbler as it was locked in place.
On the screen, that position had looked very vulnerable – but it fucking felt ten times more so actually being in it. I don’t know if it was a residual effect of the drug they’d sprayed into the hood earlier, but I was fucking horny. My arse was accessible, and my cock and balls were held pushed back, pointing up behind my thighs, clamped inside the tight ring of the humbler. My cock felt enormous, and harder than I could remember it being for a long time. Someone stroked it a few times, and believe me that felt good. After that, they left me. I heard the door close, and I was alone.
At least I assumed I was alone, but there was leather over my eyes and I couldn’t see anything. There could still be someone in the room with me. I couldn’t know. Nor could I identify which of the guys had got me and brought me up here – the bastards had made sure that I hadn’t been permitted to see them.
A few minutes later I heard footsteps. The door opened and my senses went to full alert.
Nothing happened for ages. This was unbearable – had someone come into the room, or had they just looked in and then closed the door again? I realised I was tingling all over in anticipation.
I almost jumped out of my skin as leather-gloved fingers gripped my right nipple. They squeezed for a moment, but, when they saw that that only produced grunts of pain, they stopped, then did it more gently. This was better. I purred.
A leather finger touched my unprotected arse hole. Dead centre. A wave of lust went through me, and I think I heard a quiet ‘aha’. The finger went away for a moment, then came back colder and slipperier. It worked its way in, and explored. I closed my eyes in pleasure under the leather hood, and I felt my cock jerking as he bent and straightened the finger, and rotated it. It was making me need to cum.
Another gasp as a hand wrapped around my cock, hardly touching. I could feel the cool leather of his glove around it, and instinctively I tried to thrust into it. But he just held me gently and followed my movements, which – although it made fucking it a totally useless effort – at the same time caused me to need to cum even more urgently.
The finger up my arse was withdrawn and the hand around my cock went away. A few seconds later I yelled as something hard slapped my buttocks. A paddle? I didn’t know what it was, but it hurt like fuck. I can enjoy some pain when I’ve been worked up to it gradually, but this was sharp and sudden.
Whoever it was, however, seemed to be reasonably good at reading a guy, because he didn’t do it again. Instead, he stroked the shaft of my cock with a finger and thumb. Oh fuck, this was more like it. I couldn’t stop myself from groaning in pleasure as his fingers made their way slowly up the shaft. When they got to the head he let go, paused, then gripped my whole cock, and wanked it rapidly for about two seconds – I moaned in sudden, urgent need - then the bastard let go again.
He re-inserted the finger into my arse. Now, if there is one thing that makes me need to cum very badly, it’s feeling something in my arse while my cock’s being worked on. I threw back my head and howled into the hood.
I heard another quiet chuckle. It seemed that this guy had found my weaknesses, because he settled down to exploit them. He did nothing but repeat a cycle: milk me hard and fast for a few seconds, suddenly let go, wait just long enough for me to back off from the edge, then do it again – over and over and fucking over. And all the time, his finger was teasing the inside of my arse.
Each time his hands worked on me I got so fucking close that I knew I was going to cum this time – but then came the unbearable frustration of the orgasm being denied, when he let go. When I was a sub I used to get edged now and then, but never like this – it was so fucking relentless, and the periods between the edges were only a few seconds. This guy certainly knew how to drive a guy nuts.
This was bad enough, but then something started tickling my nipples at the same time. How the hell was he doing that?
I jumped as a hand pressed down over my leather-covered eyes. There were two guys in here with me! I cursed this fucking hood; I couldn’t see what the fuck was going on.
I lost track of how long they kept working on me, one guy edging me mercilessly while the other one teased and sucked my nipples. I’d been desperate to cum at the beginning of all this, but by now I was fucking drooling.
Eventually he let go of my cock for the last time, and took his finger out of my arse. I very nearly came as that finger came out.
There was a pause, the sound of grunting, and then they both came over me. I felt hot spunk land on my thighs and my chest. After that, the fuckers walked out, leaving me still desperate to cum.
I was alone again. I think. Perhaps I wasn’t – how could I fucking know?
Later, the door opened again and I was cleaned up, released from the table and taken into another room. They put a stretchy cockring onto me, and then I felt something cool and smooth brush against my skin for a moment. I was forced into a rubber macintosh and it was closed over my naked body. I gasped as the cold black rubber slid over me. Exactly like the guy I’d seen on the screen downstairs. My earlier fantasies had been on the nose: indeed this was shiny on the inside, and I was naked under it. They pulled rubber boots onto me, strapped my legs tightly together over the macintosh in three places, and secured my arms behind my back. After buckling the strap around them just above the elbows, they lowered me to the floor.
There was more quiet whispering for a moment, then the hood was pulled off. I still saw only blackness: they’d turned the room lights off again. A loose rubber hood was pulled over my head, replacing the leather one. They positioned it and tightened the straps. I felt the thing moving as I breathed. Then they left, no doubt turning the light back on, on their way out.
I pulled against the restraints, making the rubber rustle around me, but the straps around my legs, thighs and arms made anything more than impotent struggling impossible. It was difficult even to turn over. I jerked my head to try to dislodge the hood, but of course it just moved with me, enclosing me in shiny black rubber. It was loose and thin, but if anything that made it even more frustrating. I’d been hooded before – many times – but here at this place it was different somehow: this felt a lot less consensual. And that, for some reason, made it feel a damn sight more horny. I was covered all over in rubber, and they’d got me fucking helpless.
Apart from leather, rubber is my other greatest fetish, and here I was, hooded with it, and feeling it sliding over my naked body with every movement. I was still tingling from what the guys had been doing to me in the previous room, and I could feel the cockring gripping my cock and balls. I was horny. Fuck, I was horny.
A few minutes later I heard the door open, then close. The floor vibrated slightly as someone dropped down to kneel beside me, and then there were hands all over me. They stroked the macintosh over my naked skin, gripped my tackle through it roughly, and squeezed. Fingers found the opening, slid inside, and pinched my naked nipples, squeezing and rolling. That hurt like fuck. My tits can be very interesting if they’re used gently, but this was not gentle, or sexy, and it was fucking unbearable. Unlike the earlier guy, though, this one didn’t stop. My yells of pain had no effect.
He got tired of it eventually. His hands ran up and down my legs – even over my boots – then came back up to my arms, chest and the hood. They clamped it tightly to my face, covering the air holes, making it impossible to breathe. I struggled and fought, but they stayed there.
Before long my lungs were fighting for air, but the hands were sealing the rubber to my face. I started to panic – my chest was tight and I felt a visceral sense of terror. I fought the straps, but they held me immobile, and his hands were clamping my head, keeping the hood airtight. I wasn’t far from passing out when the hands were removed and fresh air whistled through the small breathing holes as I gasped for breath. Then they returned, and it all happened again.
I know a lot of guys get off on breath control, and I’d often wondered about it myself, but this was terrifying. It was as if my body was screaming and fighting on its own, with no input from me.
At last he stopped doing that, and lay full-length on top of me. Whoever it was, he was a big guy – I could feel his large stomach – and fucking heavy. I was still short of breath, and his weight on me was doing nothing to help. His mouth was on the rubber hood, licking it, and I could hear slobbering sounds. Then he rolled off and started with the hands again all over me. He was rough and uncoordinated as he pressed, squeezed and kneaded my body through the rubber.
Thankfully, he eventually tired of this as well, and I breathed a sigh of relief as he left. I lay there panting and trying to recover.
It was five or ten minutes before the door opened once more. I hoped to God it wasn’t him again. I strained to hear anything, but the hood dulled much of the sound, so I jumped as a finger stroked over my thigh.
This was not the same guy – this touch was light and teasing. It ran slowly up my thigh, around my crotch, not touching anything there, and upwards. The finger came to rest in my armpit. It burrowed in, and flexed. Normally a finger in my armpit would have me screaming in ticklishness, but this wasn’t like that at all: the rubber made the feeling completely different, and he was flexing it slowly, in a controlled, deliberate way. For the first time I realised that my armpits could actually be erogenous. It felt surprisingly horny.
The finger stayed there, but now it stopped moving. His other hand went to my crotch. Gently and carefully, it felt around until he found my cock. In spite of the cockring, it had gone fairly soft from the previous guy’s efforts, but now it was hardening again rapidly. The fingers moved down, stroked over my balls lightly, then pushed in deep between my thighs, taking the loose rubber with it. They stroked and tickled my perineum, the very tops of my thighs, and my balls.
There were acres of macintosh over my crotch, and by now my cock was fully hard again, so it was pushing the loose rubber out into what felt like a huge pyramid. I could feel it lying gently on the end of my cock. The hand stroked upwards over my balls, along the length of the shaft, and came to rest on the head. A thumb and a finger held it carefully, just on the corona, while another one began to stroke lightly across the tip. At the same time his other finger started to tickle slowly through the rubber deep in my armpit again. The two together blew my fucking mind – it felt indescribably horny.
I needed him to grip my entire cock firmly and wank it quickly. Cumming like that, hooded and strapped helpless in all this rubber, would have been amazing, and I’d have lost it in seconds flat. But he didn’t do that. Instead, he continued to hold my cock head softly, and stroke that single fingertip over the tip.
I was so fucking close to cumming. I fought the straps, moaned into the hood, pleaded for him to wank me faster and harder. His response was to do it even more lightly. This was driving me mad.
He took his hands away, and teased my entire body through the macintosh, stroking it and sliding it over my naked skin. I could feel the rubber touching my cock and I did everything I could to fuck it, to make myself cum. But nothing I did was enough.
He knew this. I know the bastard knew this. Every now and then he’d go back to holding my cockhead and stroking the tip. That got me even closer every time, but it was not how I wanted to cum. I could feel the most epic orgasm a firm grip and a quick wank away, but he made sure it never happened. Just that gentle holding, and teasing strokes over the head.
Then he leaned forward and covered the hood’s air holes. Not roughly, like the previous guy, but carefully. I tried to shake my head – I did not want a repeat of that panic attack – but I couldn’t get away from his hand. After eight or ten seconds, though, it was gone, and I could breathe again. He waited until I’d got my breath back, then he did it again.
He repeated this half a dozen times – and because I’d learnt that he wasn’t going to keep me without air for as long as that other fucker, I started to get into it. I still struggled like fuck – I needed to – but this time it felt horny; I felt helpless, and very, very controlled.
There was a pause, and then his hand closed slowly around my entire cock, creasing and folding the rubber macintosh as it did so. I held my breath – that had got me to the very edge of cumming. I tried to fuck the hand, but the moment I started, the hand let go. He did this to me again and again.
The bastard cockring was on his side too – the fucking thing was making my cock feel huge, vulnerable, and sensitive – and it was doing its damnedest to make me need to cum.
This time, he used two fingers and a thumb to hold my cockhead, from above. Very, very slowly, he stroked them from the ridge up to the tip, and back down again. I think he must have lubed the macintosh there because the movement felt very smooth.
This was too much. I was so fucking close . I pleaded with him to let me cum as I struggled against the straps and the horny rubber, and did everything I could to get the fucking hood off. I needed to know who this guy was – his touch was amazing and I wanted to see him again. In fact I wanted to move in with him.
But, just as the hoods prevented the boys from being able to identify any famous people who may be working on them, they were every bit as effective at stopping them from knowing who was giving them a fucking wonderful time.
I felt him settle himself into a more comfortable position, then the hand was back on the ridge of my cockhead, holding it gently from above, just like before, and stroking up and down over the head very slowly and lightly. But now, his other hand was buried deep in the rubber between the tops of my thighs again, the fingertips tickling my balls.
I felt myself getting closer, my nervous system gearing up for orgasm – but it was happening far more slowly than if he’d been wanking me like I always did it to myself: gripping my whole cock firmly and milking it fast and hard.
I knew he could tell I was getting close – my body language must have been unmistakable (not to mention the desperate pleading) – but he continued to do exactly the same thing. Nothing more, nothing less.
I sucked air in quickly to make the hood cling to my face; I needed to feel even more helpless. His hands carried on doing what they had been doing, but the closer I got to cumming the slower the strokes of his fingers over my cockhead became. Soon I was on the very edge – a single hair’s breadth from orgasm – and his fingers were hardly moving; just sliding so fucking slowly up and down from the corona to the very tip.
I felt orgasm begin. My muscles began to jerk and shudder under the tight straps, and my hips were thrusting as hard as they could. I was losing control of my breathing and I was praying for him to grip my cock and wank it hard, but he just continued doing exactly the same thing. Slow, gentle, teasing strokes, over just the head of my cock.
Like everyone else, I suppose, whenever I cum there’s a rapid build-up, then the point where I lose control and start shooting my spunk, along with blinding pleasure for a few brief seconds, until it fades. This was nothing like that. Nothing at all like that. The build-up was a lot slower, for a start. I was holding my breath now, my muscles tensed as tight as guitar strings as I felt the edge approaching slowly and gradually. The pleasure I was feeling was getting off the scale.
Then the fingers between my thighs suddenly pushed forward and gripped the base of my balls tightly through the black rubber of the macintosh – and that triggered everything. With an animal roar, I started to cum. I felt total abandonment as my spunk began to shoot out into the rubber.
I could feel each individual burst of spunk as it pumped out of my cock, running down the shaft onto my balls, making the rubber slippery wherever it touched. But even when I was in the throes of full orgasm, he didn’t change technique at all – just slow, gentle strokes up and down over the cockhead. I could feel each individual one acutely. And the way he was doing so little – his fingers were hardly moving, for fuck’s sake, but it was making me struggle and fight and bounce around manically – that really got to me. I felt a strange combination of white-hot fury at how he could make me lose it so completely, so fucking easily - and also complete, utter, and delicious helplessness.
I usually consider an orgasm to be excellent if that intense pleasure lasts for five seconds – but because of the way he was doing it: that relentless but slow, teasing moving of his fingers, this one went on and on. For fucking ages. It was as if that rubber grip around my balls was driving my spunk up, under pressure, into my cock; but it was also as if those gentle fingertips only allowed a single desperate gob of spunk out, and then – despite the pressure behind them - denied any more until the next slow stroke released another. And each one was pure, intense, acute pleasure.
This probably all sounds like gibberish, but it’s the only way I can describe it. Let’s just say that it was way, way beyond wonderful.
Even when I knew my balls were dry and I’d shot the last of my spunk, the slow contractions went on, in time with his stroking fingers. He only stopped when my yells of pleasure had died away completely and I’d collapsed back onto the pad, my body still jerking. I prayed that he wasn’t into post-orgasm torture, because my cockhead felt horrendously hypersensitive.
He didn’t seem to be, thank goodness.
I lay there, panting under the hood, my body tingling all over. Who was this guy? I needed to know. He was un-fucking-believable. I cursed this damn hood.
“Please,” I whimpered. “I need to know who you are. That was fucking amazing . Please. I need you to do that to me again. Who are you?”
Silence for a moment, then I heard a soft laugh. After that, he left me, with the rubber sliding deliciously over my cock, balls and thighs on the thick film of spunk.
They came for me later, cleaned me up again, dressed me in my own gear and changed my hood for yet another – this one was a cloth one. As before, I wasn’t given a chance to see who the guys were.
They took me to an echo-y place that sounded like a bathroom, and I heard the door close as they left. The hood was fastened tight and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get it off. I could hear a quiet, fast, ticking. My fingers felt around the neck strap, and came to some kind of a block at the back. Ten seconds later there was a click, the ticking stopped, and the neck loosened slightly. I pulled the hood off. I’d been right: I was in a bathroom. I examined the hood, and the little timing device that had released it. Sneaky bastards. Just enough time for them to disappear so I still wouldn’t know who they’d been.
I took the hood with me and went back down to the main room. There were fewer people here now – the others were probably still up there with boys, I guessed. I looked around at the guys drinking and chatting; I was desperate to find the one who had made me cum. I had to find him. I’d never cum as gobsmacking wonderfully as that before in my life.
“Ah, Sean. I hope you enjoyed yourself.” It was Aaron. He put a hand out and I gave him the hood.
“Oh, fuck, it was amazing,” I said.
“First time you’ve been able to see anything since we hooded you in that room over there, I think.”
“Yeah. That was… devious.”
“Devious. Oh yes. I trust you’ll forgive the little subterfuge – a new boy, especially one with a body as fit as yours – is always of interest to the guests.”
He folded the hood and put it in a pocket. I noticed the heavy leather one was still hanging by his side. I was beginning to think that it was a badge of his fetish. As that thought came to me, his fingers began to stroke it.
“I have to confess that I’d told them you were going to be available.” He smirked. “Did you enjoy anything in particular?”
“Aaron,” I said, a little breathlessly, “I understand why you hood the boys – for security and so that they can’t blackmail anybody – but what if a guest does something to them that is so fucking amazing that the boy needs to see that guy again? Wouldn’t that be a special case? I need to know who that last guy was who played with me. Please.”
A slow smile began on Aaron’s face and his hand went from stroking the leather hood, to his crotch. “Although I organise these events, I don’t participate directly myself. I get my satisfaction in other ways. I have a strange turn-on, Sean: frustration. What I get out of these evenings is knowing that the boys are desperate to know who has worked on them. They’re very aware of the kind of people who attend, but they never know who’s present at any given event. Just think of the amount of cash they could extort from these famous people if they knew exactly who it was who’d abused them. It would be staggering. Careers and reputations would fall, headlines would be written, scandals would ensue. The more desperately a boy needs to know, the more it turns me on. But, as I said when we chatted earlier, we hood the boys to prevent them from knowing.”
I noticed Aaron’s cock was hard in his leather jeans, and, as it had done earlier that evening when he’d been talking about hoods, he was squeezing his bulge.
“I understand that. But he was amazing. Do you know who he was? Please tell me, Aaron.” I was desperate.
“Oh yes, my boy, I know exactly who he is. He’s a guest here quite often. Lives in London. You want to know who he is.” Aaron was working faster on his bulge now and staring at me intently. “You need to know very badly who he is, don’t you… So badly. But you couldn’t see through the hood, could you… ”
I could tell that he wasn’t far from cumming. “Please Aaron.” I wasn’t beyond begging.
“Oh, that must be maddeningly frustrating for you,” he said, intensely. “So unbearably frustrating. Oh fuck yes….”
Aaron gave a stifled grunt, and wobbled slightly as he came in his leather breeches. After recovering for a few moments he winked at me, turned, and walked away.
I stood there seething, my fists clenched. The bastard. The absolute fucking bastard . He wasn’t going to tell me – and the cunt was getting off on that.
I scanned the room, looking for the guy. I would fucking find him. The overweight ones I dismissed immediately – the guy who had made me cum so wonderfully had not been overweight; I knew that somehow, even though I’d never felt his body against me. Of the others, a hunky guy in a biker jacket and tight, ripped Levis glanced at me. Oh fuck, I hoped it was him – but there was not the slightest recognition, and he resumed chatting to his friend.
There was a slim guy standing against the wall, by himself. Could it be him? I had no idea. I stared at him, willing him to look at me, in case there was any reaction, but there was nothing.
He could still be upstairs, I thought, playing with another boy. I ran to the monitor screens. The pad I’d been lying on was empty, and most of the other boys had gone too. Of the ones who were still there, the guys playing with them were clearly not who I was looking for.
He might well have gone home by now, I realised.
Shit. This was hopeless; there was absolutely no fucking way I could guess who it had been. If Aaron got off on frustration, then I must be the best victim he’d ever fucking had. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. I saw him glancing at me occasionally, smiling, enjoying my frustration.
It was getting late, so with a sigh I reluctantly made my way outside. The Lamborghini had gone but the Jag was still there. The air was warm and I was conscious of my cock aching as I fastened my crash helmet and fired up the bike.
I turned it towards the drive and sat there for a moment with the engine vibrations thrumming through my cock. I was thinking about that session. That had been something else. Whoever the guy had been, he’d known exactly how to make boys cum, and in the most stunningly intense way imaginable. I didn’t care if he was a film star, a police commissioner, or a fucking shelf-stacker – I needed to find him again. Perhaps Aaron would invite me back to another of these events. But even if he did, I knew I’d stand no more chance of find out who that guy was. Aaron would take great delight in making fucking sure of that.
Bastard.
I revved the bike hard, released the clutch, and screamed off down the drive in fury.