The Telemachus Story Archive

Mother Knows Best
By Hooder

Mother Knows Best

Mrs Hendricks moved the light on the table slightly so that she could read her magazine better. Then she frowned, lowered it to her lap and sat in thought. ‘What did I do wrong?’ she wondered. Ever since her husband had had an affair and left three years ago, her younger son Billy had become a problem. Last autumn it had been cigarettes. She’d managed to cure him of that by forcing the boy to chain-smoke an entire pack every day for three consecutive days. Billy turned green now even at the mention of tobacco.

But this was a more difficult problem. How do you stop a boy from getting an erection every ten minutes and masturbating five times a day? She knew that boys had to masturbate, but this was unnaturally often. She also knew that she couldn’t apply the cigarettes technique to this – but then an idea occurred to her: perhaps Kevin could. They were both boys, after all.

Billy’s older brother Kevin was, on the face of it, the much more sensible of the two. The lads had always been competitive, and she knew that he took great delight in ratting on Billy whenever possible. She nodded to herself and picked up the magazine again. She’d have a quiet word with Kevin.

When mother summoned me to father’s study I thought I was in for a roasting – that’s usually the only reason the room’s ever used these days, and I suspect that’s because she thinks it gives her more authority – but I couldn’t think of anything I’d done lately to incur her wrath. However, instead of a roasting, she sat me down and, in language which consisted largely of ridiculous euphemisms (I had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing), she gave me a mission. Apparently she’d taken onboard what I’d happened to let slip about Billy wanking himself so often and going around with a perpetual boner (in spite of the fact that she’d scolded me at the time for using words like that). Now, mother wanted me to cure him of this, and she gave me detailed instructions on how to do it. I had to cross my legs as she described what I should do and exactly how I should do it. It surprised me that she seemed to know so much about how boys work.

Thus armed, I began a detailed surveillance of brother Billy. We shared the same bedroom, so it wasn’t hard (unlike his cock, most of the time). I wasn’t sure at what point to begin the ‘treatment’, but that first night I saw the blankets on the bed going up and down and decided that it should be right now.

I got out of my bed and quickly pulled the blankets off his, exposing him. He was lying on his back and beating off like it was going out of fashion. Billy is only a couple of years younger than me, but he’s a lot smaller and nothing like as strong. His eyes opened wide. “What?”

“It has been decided,” I said, “that you are wanking far too much. You go around with a permanent hard-on and mother doesn’t like it. So I have been told to sort you out.”

With that I jumped onto the bed at the side of him, and made a grab for his cock. He started to fight, arms and legs flailing madly, but then he curled up into a tight ball. My hand burrowed between assorted tightly-folded limbs until my fingers found his erection, then I started to wank him off. It was almost certainly the first time in his life that anybody else had done it to him, and he came quickly. I couldn’t see his cock but I felt the slippery spunk all over my hand and the insides of his thighs. When it was over he thought that was it – but I knew differently. I straightened his body, lay on top of him to keep him down, took his cock between my finger and thumb, and resumed rubbing it.

For a moment he just looked at me, not understanding what was going on, but when my fingers found the head, the increased sensitivity of his cock hit him. I clamped my free hand over his mouth just before he could scream. That was the boy’s first encounter with post-orgasm torture, and he found out exactly how intense it was. With him writhing under me on the bed I polished and rubbed his cock head for five long minutes, all the time repeating what mother had told me to: that masturbation is bad. Don’t do it.

Eventually I got off him (I had to turn away and quickly put on a pair of shorts to hide my stonking erection).

Boys our age don’t take long to get horny again, so after I thought he’d recovered sufficiently I dived onto the bed again. He tried to fight me off but he stood no chance: Billy is unbelievably ticklish, so I tickled him into submission. His cock wasn’t completely hard, but I intended that it soon would be. With one hand holding both of his, and my weight keeping him down on the bed, I started to tease his inner thighs, working my hand upwards slowly. He giggled and fought, but there was nothing he could do to stop me. By the time my fingers reached his balls he was as hard as a rock again. I carried on tickling them for a while, enjoying his distress.

This time I teased his cock lightly for a few minutes, stroking my fingertips gently over it, but then my grip became firmer and I began to milk it. He began to shake his head. “No! Fuck off, Kevin!”

“Shh. Mother will hear. Not that she’ll do anything to help you, little brother...”

I went for the kill, wanking it fast and hard now. His body stiffened, and he shot his spunk for the second time all over my hand. I didn’t stop. I didn’t even slow down. I didn’t change my technique at all. I continued to milk his cock even though he had no more spunk left in him – and he convulsed under me.

Stop! Stop! No! Please! Stop! I can’t take that! STOP!”

With his struggling, his left hand broke free of my grip and caught me a hard thump at the side of my nose. The little bugger also scratched me.

I managed to get his free hand under control again and carried on rubbing his hypersensitive cock until I was satisfied. Again, I repeated the words mother had instructed me to say.

This was all very well, I thought, but doing it to the little bastard had made me need to cum. Then I thought: why not? What’s he going to do about it? So I lowered my shorts, stood over him, and brought myself off with a few quick strokes. My spunk landed on his chest.

The next day I thought about things. Although I was bigger and stronger than Billy, it was still difficult to hold him down while being able to work on his cock how I wanted to. Restraints were needed. Also a gag – he made far too much noise. And some kind of protective gear would be a good idea, to stop the scratches. A lightbulb lit up over my head: my bike leathers. Perfect. They would protect me, and I also loved the idea of putting special gear on to deal with him. Torturer’s uniform. Yes!

Restraints. My first idea had been ropes attached to each corner of the bed, hidden under the mattress where they could be pulled out and deployed easily. But it would be difficult actually getting him tied up while he was struggling – ropes required two hands to tie. Then I’d thought: Cable ties! Nope, still take too long getting the ends through those little holes. I consulted Mr E. Bay and found some second-hand wrist and ankle cuffs. These were not the usual leather ones with buckles, they were wide strips of black velcro with attachment points rivetted in halfway along. Perfect! They’d be very quick to apply and I could probably do it with one hand. Because they weren’t leather they were cheap to start with but I managed to beat the price down even further by telling the guy exactly what I wanted to do with them. I think the idea turned him on a lot. So, restraints were sorted.

The gag was more difficult, but I thought that a sock in his mouth, held there by a rope, would probably do the trick. He’d be restrained by then so I’d have both hands to tie it. Yes, that would work.

All I had to do now was wait until I saw him wanking again. That, I knew from past experience, would not be long.

In fact it was longer than I’d expected. The next night there was no sign of wanking. I lay there in the dark watching him but the little bugger went to sleep.

It was the following evening. He’d gone up to the bedroom on the pretext of doing some homework but I suspected he had other ideas. I gave him five minutes and then sneaked up. He was at it again, and he looked up at me, startled, as I went in. I closed the bedroom door and locked it. Without speaking, I took off my jeans, and slowly put my leather ones on instead, and my leather jacket. Then I pulled the cuffs out from under the mattress, where he hadn’t noticed them. They were already attached to the corners of the bed. It wasn’t difficult to get him restrained – like I said, he’s weak – but my leathers saved me from several scratches and punches as well as a knee in the stomach. When I’d got him gagged as well I stood over him, looking down. “From now on, Billy boy, whenever you see me put my leathers on, you know what I’m gonna do to you...”

His cock had gone soft at first, but when I’d said that it started to get hard again. I took his cock in my hand and began to work on it – slowly and gently. I teased it, tickled his balls and thighs, and very quickly it was as hard as a rock. I reasoned that the more horny I could get him and the more I could make him need to cum without actually allowing him to, the more intense his orgasm would eventually be, and so the more effective the post-orgasm cock head rubbing would be. So I teased everything slowly for ages. Every time his body tensed and I knew he was close, I stopped, gave him a few seconds to go off the boil, and then started again. It was obvious that it had never occurred to him before that a boy could be edged, and he was finding it extremely difficult to deal with.

I was as hard as steel in my leather jeans and I saw no reason to hide the fact from him. I made sure he could see it bulging between my legs. He was struggling and making muffled noises, but there was nothing he could do.

When I thought he was horny enough, I wrapped my fingers around his cock and started to milk it. I did it slowly, bringing him to the point of orgasm very gradually, so that he could feel it approaching, while knowing what I was going to do to him immediately afterwards.

The slow milking worked well: his body shuddered, and with the biggest yell yet, he came. I continued to stroke his cock until there was no spunk left, and then I went to work on his cock head. He writhed and struggled and screamed into the gag but I was mericiless. I was loving this. I rubbed all the spots that I knew would be the worst for him, and in the ways that I thought would make it the most unbearable. And again, I recited the mantra: “Masturbation is bad. Do not do it.”

I got up off the bed and stood looking down at him. I suspected that he knew by the fact that I wasn’t taking my gear off that I hadn’t finished with him, that there was going to be another session in a few minutes, when he’d recovered. His head was shaking slowly from side to side and he was moaning piteously. I smiled sadistically at him and massaged my hard cock through my jeans. His eyes fixed on my hand and his own cock started to get hard again.

“You like the way I look in leather?” I asked. “This is my torturer’s gear,” I said slowly. “And I think you’re about ready to be tortured again.”

He shook his head and moaned. I sat astride his stomach, facing his feet, and took his cock in my hand. The spunk from the first time was still not dry on his naked skin. I gathered some on the end of my finger and slid it around his cock head gently. His moans changed to noises of pleasure. Horny little bugger, I thought.

I wanked him off again, but I took a quarter of an hour to do it. By the time I was ready to make him cum he was desperate. The cock head rubbing and polishing afterwards was even more effective than last time: he went ballistic as I worked on his hypersensitive cock.

When I’d finished with him I turned around so I was facing his head, got my cock out and came on his chest again. I’ve always been bigger in the cock department than Billy, and he watched transfixed as I beat off over him.

An almost exact repetition of this happened again the next day.

Then there followed several days of nothing. No covert wanking. I wondered where and when he was doing it, as he most certainly was still doing it. I kept a very close eye on him, and there were long periods of time when we were both in the house and he had time to get horny, but other than seeing him with erections now and then, I didn’t catch him doing anything about it.

This was no good. To be honest I’d enjoyed torturing the little sod and I was missing it. Action was called for.

I took to wearing my bike leathers around the house. And that was it. The little bugger couldn’t take his eyes off me when he saw me in the gear. But still nothing. So when we were alone I started running my hands teasingly over my leather jeans – stroking slowly up my thighs, making the leather creak, and playing with my cock bulge. In fact I did this whenever he was in his line of sight, and whether mother was there or not (though I did it more discreetly if she was).

It worked. I’d see him getting more and more hot and bothered as he watched me – he tried to hide the erection in his jeans and also the fact that he was looking at me, but I never missed it.

This happened a number of times. I smiled to myself, knowing that he was trying to fight it, doing everything he could not to, but the sight of me smiling sexily at him and playing with my bulging hard-on through my leather jeans was too much for him. I knew that he couldn’t resist his cock and sooner or later it would get to him so much that he’d just have to go up to the bedroom and have a wank. Once, while he was watching me – quite openly this time - the boy actually came in his jeans as I was stroking a single fingertip slowly over the head of my leather-clad cock.

And whenever he couldn’t stand it any longer and made an excuse to go upstairs, of course I’d follow after a couple of minutes and there he was, wanking. He’d look at me with those wide-open, fear-filled eyes as I stripped him, strapped him down and went to work on him. And the more I did it to him, the more I got to know what his weaknesses were. I was able to make the post-orgasm torture ever more unbearable for him.

Once, when I was going out with mates on the bike, I saw him looking down straight at me from the bedroom window as I was getting onto the machine in the drive. From this angle I couldn’t see his lower half, but from the way the curtain was moving I knew exactly what he was doing. I smiled to myself: there would be another session when I got home.

But then, after that one, everything went quiet. He’d clearly decided that not looking at me as I sat there teasing the fuck out of him was the best way to avoid unbearable torture. It wasn’t easy for him to keep his eyes off me in my leathers, intentionally cockteasing him – it clearly turned him on so much - but he seemed to be forcing himself to do it.

The treatment finally seemed to have worked. I watched him like a hawk, but he appeared to have been cured. I didn’t catch him wanking any more.

Then one day when I was getting ready to go out on the bike again, I noticed that my leather jeans were not exactly where I’d left them. I picked them up and examined them. They’d been wiped, but there was dried spunk that had been missed, in the seams.

Two days later, after dinner, I looked at him. “Follow me,” I said. We went up to the bedroom and I sat him down. Then I placed my digital camera on the bed between us. I turned it so that he could see the little screen, and pressed play.

The view was from the top of the wardrobe. In the tiny screen Billy came into the room, quietly took my leathers from the chair, carried them over to the bed, pulled his jeans and pants down, and lay down. He pushed the jeans between his naked thighs, put the leather jacket tight over his face and wrapped it around his head, and then wanked himself off. He came in about five seconds. He got up quickly, pulled his clothes up again, carefully wiped the jeans, and put them back on the chair. The whole thing had taken perhaps thirty seconds. That’s what he’d been doing.

I stopped the playback and looked at him. His face was beetroot red.

“So, my little brother gets off on leather, does he?”

He was avoiding my eyes, and saying nothing.

“Ok. You can go.”

He glanced at me unbelievingly, obviously having feared more in the way of reaction, then got out quickly.

* * *

I’d borrowed a few things from my biker mates – one of whom is a bit on the kinky side – and when Billy was out I took them up to the bedroom.

I left it for two days, knowing that the boy would be worrying himself silly, and then I waited until he went upstairs, and followed him. Not saying a word, I closed and locked the door behind me, putting the key into my pocket. I sat down, removed my trainers, then my jeans, teeshirt, and underpants. Naked, I stood and looked at him. Without taking my eyes off his, I picked up my leather jeans and very deliberately slid them on, pulling the zip up over my hardening cock, then my leather jacket, and finally my bike boots. I’d not worn those before when I’d been dealing with him. He noticed the addition, and his look of worry increased markedly. I usually wear stuff under my leathers, and the feel of it now against my naked skin was unusual – and, I have to say, extremely horny.

Then I went to the wardrobe and took out the things I’d borrowed. I lay them side by side on the bed. There were two pairs of shiny black leather jeans, a leather jacket, a narrow, thin leather strap, and a leather hood. The hood was heavy black leather, shiny on the inside, had no eyeholes, and there was a gag that went between the teeth, the only way to breathe being two small holes under the nose. Straps and buckles were for tightening it on the victim’s head. I’d borrowed it from David, he of the Yamaha FJ1200 – he was gay and into things I didn’t want to think about but he was a great guy and always came out on runs with us (I suspect the main reason was that he loved to see us hunky lads in leathers on our bikes, but that was fine with us – he never tried anything on). I hadn’t seen one of these hoods before, and I’d tested it the previous day to see what it felt like. It was intense. I couldn’t see a bloody thing – the hood was intended to blindfold the victim completely, of course, and the shiny leather inside clung to my face every time I breathed in. The feel of it pressing tightly all around my head made me feel incredibly helpless. Not really my kind of thing, but I thought it would be very effective on a boy who clearly got off on leather.

Billy was looking at these, his eyes wide open like a rabbit caught in headlights. “The implements of torture,” I said. If I’d had a long moustache I’d have twirled it. I picked them up and put them on the chair. “Strip, and get on the bed.”

Nervously he took his clothes off, then lay down. I got the cuffs and fastened him down, then took the hood in my hands. “Lift your head.” Reluctantly, he did so. I was unfamiliar with the thing so it took me a while to get it pulled over his head, the gag in his mouth and all the straps tightened – it had been designed for a slightly larger head than Billy’s. He panicked for a moment, but when he found out that he could, in fact, still breathe, he calmed down. His cock had got harder and harder while I’d been fastening it onto him.

I took the narrow leather strap and very carefully put it under his balls and over the root of his cock. I pulled it tight, but not enough to hurt him. The effect was amazing: it made his cock harder still, and kind of separated it and his balls from the rest of his body. I knew it would feel like a hand constantly gripping him gently. He was moaning into the gagging hood.

Then I picked up a pair of the leather jeans and wrapped the legs around his thighs, pushing the ends right up into crevices at the sides of his balls. This brought urgent gasps from him. I stood on the bed, lifted a booted foot and pressed it gently but firmly down onto his cock. “Masturbation is bad,” I said. “Don’t do it.”

He was moaning and gasping, and his body was squirming under the leather. I thought he was about to cum so I removed my boot from his cock and got off the bed.

There was one other thing I’d borrowed from David, and I’d kept it hidden from the boy. It was a thin black neoprene butt plug. I covered it with lube, then reached under him and found his arsehole. His sruggling increased suddenly as he felt the cold lube, but I worked the tip in, and then, slowly, the rest of it. Once the widest bit had got past the sphincter it slipped in the remaining inch on its own. A startled gasp came from Billy.

I took the leather jacket – it had a long fringe along the arms and over the shoulders – and set about tickling his cock and balls with the leather fronds. His hips were thrusting as the strips of leather stroked over his sensitive bits and I knew he very badly needed to cum. I did nothing else for a while except keep on tickling his cock and balls with the fringe. He was moaning and moving in his restraints, his body curving from side to side, his cock jerking madly, his pelvis thrusting into the soft leather fronds, trying to get more friction. And I also knew that with every movement the butt plug inside him was dong its thing, making his need for orgasm more urgent by the second.

The leather jeans around his thighs would have warmed up by now and he wouldn’t be able to feel them so much so I changed them for the other, cooler pair. I wanted him to really feel leather all over him. As the cool, smooth, leather legs of the jeans slid over his skin and curled around his thighs he gasped and his hip-thrusting got more urgent. His knees were trembling as he tried to grip the leather between them, but he couldn’t – the ankle restraints were keeping his legs wide apart. I teased the sensitive spots deep in his groin with the ends of the legs, and stroked them over his balls, where the skin was pulled tight by the narrow leather strap. Even when I wasn’t touching him the butt plug continued to move inside him and brought fresh squirms and moans of need from him.

He’d been desperate for some time now, and much of the noises he was making into the gagging hood were, I knew, pleas for orgasm. But I had no intention of letting him cum yet. I wanted the little bugger to suffer more.

I took the jeans off him so he was completely naked again, and lowered my body down on top of him. I clamped my hands over his eyes and mouth through the hood, intentionally blocking the air holes for a few seconds. He tried to shake his head violently but I kept it still. I knew the shiny leather inside the hood would be really clinging to his face now. I let him breathe again – there was a whistling noise through the holes as he gasped for air. When he’d got enough, I waited until he’d breathed out fully and then I did it again.

His cock had been dripping precum for ages. I spent some time slowly drying it off with a tissue – that on its own made him thrust hard – and then took the leather jacket again. I thought he was probably ready, so put the jacket shiny-side down over his pelvis, gathered it around his cock, gripped it firmly, and used the black leather to milk him hard and fast.

I hadn’t completed more than two strokes before he started to cum. My hand flew up and down his cock as he pumped his spunk into the leather. I could feel his orgasm peak, then subside – but I didn’t stop, didn’t slow down. I continued to milk his cock every bit as fast after he’d finished cumming. I’d never experienced post-orgasm torture myself but I could imagine very clearly just how bad it must be. The fact that I was getting off so much on doing it to him should have made me feel guilty, but it didn’t.

He yelled and screamed into the hood, but the gag muffled almost all the noise. I leaned closer to his head. “Masturbation is bad. Don’t do it,” while my hand carried on working on his cock. “Or I’ll use black leather to torture you,” I added.

He didn’t even start to go soft – and in less than two minutes I’d made him cum again.

Butstill I didn’t stop. I worked on his cock head particularly now, my fingers causing the leather of the jacket to rub it all over. I especially made sure my thumb worked on the hypersensitive frenulum. He was screaming into the hood.

I moved the jacket around so that fresh, cooler leather was in contact with him, pushed it up onto his balls and tight between the tops of his thighs, and carried on working on his cock.

The boy came for a third time. It took longer, but he came. I felt the leather jacket slide more easily on the fresh spunk. I leaned forward again and repeated the words as I rubbed his cock head mercilessly.

The poor boy was in an agony of hypersensitivity now. He was struggling and yelling and the bed was bouncing on the floorboards.

I removed the jacket and looked at his cock. It was bright purple, but still as hard as a rock. Could I go for a fourth orgasm, I wondered. Why not?

I removed his hood. His hair was plastered to his face and his eyes were wet with tears. I knelt astride his head and pulled it up, pushing his mouth into the bulging leather of my crotch. Holding it there by gripping it between my knees, I leaned back a bit, reached behind me, found his cock, and began teasing it and his balls gently and lightly with my fingers. His eyes were looking up at my face and I saw adoration in them. I slowly brought him to orgasm for the fourth time. As he came he pushed his face harder into my bulging leather jeans and licked them. There was very little spunk now. When it was over, and without taking my eyes off him I rubbed his cock head as usual, and every bit as sadistically. He was so super-sensitive now that I had to hold his head down and gag him hard with one hand while I was doing this.

I got off the bed. Billy was exhausted (as was I) – but unlike him, I was still screamingly horny. I started to unzip my jeans but he shook his head. “Please Kevin, undo my restraints.”

I unfastened the cuffs, and he sat up. “Lie down,” he said. I lay down. He ran his hands over my leathers, then gripped my cock and started to wank me slowly. The leather of my jeans is fairly thick, and they’re lined, of course – they are biking jeans – but he pushed my cock around until the head was under the thinnest part. Then he worked on it through the black hide.

As his fingers stroked, squeezed and scratched over my cock head, I came in my jeans. It was one of the best orgasms I’d had. Perhaps there was something to this leather business after all, I thought. While he was doing this he was brushing my leather jacket with his lips, licking it, and kissing it. It occurred to me at that point that perhaps this ‘treatment’ mother had suggested was not quite working as intended.

Gradually, as the days and weeks passed, all pretence at me catching him wanking and punishing him for it fell away. We’d seemed to have come to an unspoken arrangement. When he was feeling horny he’d go upstairs, strip, lie on the bed and simply wait for me. When I felt like it, I’d march him upstairs and strap him down whether he wanted it or not. I’d had to return the hood and the rest of the stuff to Dave and the others some time ago, but I’d bought a piece of black leather and – with Billy’s willing assistance – made a hood for him of our own. It wasn’t brilliant but it did the job: it blindfolded him and we’d made it with the shiny leather on the inside so it pressed tight over his face. A narrow leather strap was easy to find, and a replacement butt plug came from Amazon. We experimented with different kinds of restraints, different positions, and different things to do to him – the post-orgasm torture was only used now and then (he still couldn’t take it, but it appeared that he liked it nevertheless).

One thing it did do for me, was to make sex with Jenny, my girlfriend, much more interesting. I was just so much more horny (probably because I was thinking what I was going to do to Billy next time). But it was a completely different kind of sex: with her, it was just sex, pure and simple, whereas with Billy I could give free reign to my recently-discovered and wonderfully satisfying sense of sadism. There was just something so unbelievably horny about getting the boy helpless and vulnerable, and pushing all his buttons to make him suffer as acutely as possible; something that was pure sex about forcing him to cum against his will. And he fucking loved it. I could never do anything to hurt him, but making him squirm was heaven. I loved to see him struggling, hear his gagged yelling into the hood, seeing the leather pulling tight across his face with every breath, knowing that he was feeling helpless and so indescribably horny. And using leather jeans and jackets on his naked body to make him need to cum even more turned me on like you wouldn’t believe.

I became expert at edging Billy. Torturing him like that made my cock demand release, and drove the boy more mad with frustration and need each time I did it.

After I’d worked on him, he’d make me cum. At first he just wanked me off in my jeans while I was kneeling on the bed, but then he started to suggest other things. After much experimentation – we even tried fucking, but there just wasn’t enough leather involved - he’d found the thing that turned him on most of all. And fuck, it turned me on every bit as much. I’d lie on the bed as if I were hogtied – I had to stay in that position and not use my hands at all, and my eyes had to be closed so I couldn’t see anything. Then he’d slowly work one hand between my the tops of my leather-jeaned thighs from behind while I tried to stop it going through (I didn’t have to act – it tickled so much and felt so invasive that it took every bit of my willpower to keep my hands behind my back and not use them to grab his wrists. I just couldn’t stop myself from squeezing my thighs tight together and struggling like fuck, doing everything I could to get away from him); when he’d worked that hand through far enough he’d grip my balls with his fingers gently and tickle them through the leather while he slowly wormed the other hand between my hips and my stomach and got to my cock with it from the front. The feel of it getting unstoppably closer and closer to my cock got me so horny that I could scream. Then he’d work on my cock through my leather jeans until I lost control and shot my load under his relentlessly milking fingers. The boy wasn’t interested at all in playing with my naked cock, he just wanted to make me cum in my leather jeans.

I remember thinking that he would make a very good Top. Lying there, pretending to be hogtied and hooded, curled up with my hands behind my back, eyes shut tightly, while he worked one teasing hand between my thighs and the other past my stomach and onto my cock, and being milked like that while I was struggling like mad – it felt like I was bring slowly raped somehow. It occurred to me to wonder what it would feel like if I really were hogtied and hooded, and really couldn’t stop him, but I couldn’t bring myself to suggest it. Even so, there was something so fucking horny about being milked like that, that before long I began to want it and need it more than I did sex with Jenny. In the end she and I parted company and I was able to devote all my sexual energy to the boy.

The funny thing is, I’m not gay. It’s not the fact that Billy is a guy that turns me on so much, it’s what we do. I had no fetish for leather, but now I can’t get enough of it and I can’t imagine sex without it. I have no idea if Billy is gay, or whether it really makes any difference – he has simply developed a major, incapacitatingly powerful fetish for black leather. And I’m getting there too – when he forces me to cum in my leather jeans it’s a thousand times more horny than wanking my naked cock.

And then, just as an experiment, and at Billy’s suggestion, we tried it one day with me actually strapped down and hooded on the bed, and him in control. To give him his due, he could have made me suffer greatly and unpleasantly for everything I’d done to him over the past months, but he didn’t. He edged me tied down on the bed in my bike jeans until I was cross-eyed with the need to cum. But the bastard didn’t let me. He made it worse and worse for an hour, then he hogtied me properly. Now that I was really restrained, and blindfolded by the hood so that I couldn’t see anything even if I wanted to, it was all unbelievably so much more intense. Now I didn’t have to keep reminding myself that I had to act as if I was helpless – I really was! I struggled like fuck to keep his hands out and to stop myself from cumming but now there was absolutely nothing I could do to control it. And when he made me lose it and cum in my jeans it was the best fucking thing I’d ever experienced. He told me afterwards that at last he’d found exactly the thing that he wanted to do to me. I was right about him being a closet Top.

There was, as I said, something about being milked by him that position: hogtied and hooded, that was addictively horny. One day, while my cock was rock-hard thinking about it, I found on the net some very thin, sensitive, tight leather jeans that had no lining at all. No good at all for biking, of course but, I thought, perfect both for having my cock worked on through, and also for prickteasing the boy. My bike jeans were thick; these were extremely thin leather, and skin-tight. They clung to my thighs and showed my cock bulge in alarming detail. And with my leather jacket and fuck-off bike boots they looked amazingly sexy. I wore them for the first time one day when mother was out and Billy and I were downstairs. He took one look at them and his eyes lit up.

“Fucking hell. Where did you get those?” He reached out and ran his fingertips lightly over my hard cock. The touch felt so amazing that I nearly came on the spot – my knees actually trembled. A sadistic smile appeared on his face. “Come on big brother, let’s see how long you can last in those.” We went upstairs.

Oh fuck. It was as though, when I’d been wearing my bike jeans, my cock had been encased in cotton wool. But through these, I could feeleverything – the very lightest touch - and they removed almost every bit of my self-control. And the bastard realised this very quickly indeed. His technique changed – he still got at me in the same way when I was hogtied, forcing his hand through between my leather thighs while I was struggling like fuck to stop him, but when his fingers reached my balls and my cock, instead of hard, firm wanking, his fingertips just tickled and teased over the thin leather. That’s all it took – he could make me cum with a single fingertip now. And he got very, very good at it. He knew very well that the very last thing I wanted was to cum too soon, and so the bastard teased me with my ability to fight it, to stop myself from cumming – and there was fuck-all I could do about it. His gentle, slow teasing of my cock through those jeans always made me lose control much, much too quickly. I couldn’t fucking stop myself however hard I tried. If he saw the slightest sign that I was actually managing to win the fight to stop myself from cumming, all he had to do was grip my cockhead through that thin leather a little bit more firmly and wank it a tiny bit faster. A couple of strokes like that and I was pumping my spunk out helplessly. I just couldn’t stop myself. The control he had over me in those jeans was intensely frustrating, and terminally horny.

Now, things are diametrically opposite to how they started out: I bought Billy some leather jeans of his own for his birthday a while ago and he looks amazing in them. He sits there teasing the fuck out of me until it’s me who can’t stand it any more. And of course as soon as I go upstairs he’s behind me. He straps me down and hoods me (we’ve got a proper hood now – just like Dave’s) and works on me until I’m begging the boy around the gag to let me cum. The feel of leather on my skin makes it worse, as does the butt plug. Then he hogties me and makes me fight against cumming. I want it to go on for hours but the little bastard delights in intentionally making me lose it far too fucking soon. And there is something about being controlled so easily by a boy who is younger, smaller and weaker than I am that is itself frustratingly horny. I never knew orgasms could be so fucking intense and so gobsmackingly fulfilling.

Sometimes I ask him if he’d like to be strapped down himself, like we used to, but he just looks at me, shakes his head slowly and smiles, running his fingers over his cock bulge. Then he takes me upstairs. Every time we go up there I swear to myself that this time I’m going to hold out. He’s a boy and I will not let the little sod make me fucking cum. Not before I want to. Not this time.

But the little bastard knows exactly how to make damn sure that I never, ever succeed.

So that is our life now. Billy is a leather Top boy and I’m his struggling, swearing, resisting victim who can’t fucking control my orgasms under his milking fingers however hard I try. It’s fucking brilliant.

And it’s all because of mother.

I wonder if I should thank her.