The Telemachus Story Archive

Skin Deep
By Hooder

Skin Deep

Marc had been trying to see just how horny he could get himself. Like most nineteen-year old lads he usually had a wank a couple of times a day, but so far he hadn’t cum for a week - seven days, five hours and forty-three minutes, to be exact – and he was loving it. The feeling of wanting to cum all the time was wonderful: his body tingled, he felt so alive, so interested in everything, and he was conscious of his cock every minute of the day. The gear that always turned him on so much – skintight jeans, leather, boots, studs – was, in his present condition, exerting such a powerful hold over him that he had to be very careful he didn’t cum spontaneously whenever he put it on. It was as if the black leather jacket, the bike boots, and most of all the tight, clinging, faded denim jeans which rubbed his cock with every movement all conspired and worked together to make him want to shoot his spunk. But so far his willpower had prevailed, and although there had been a few very close calls over the last few days, he’d managed not to cum. He had a permanent erection in his jeans, and even catching sight of himself in the mirror made things worse.

Tonight would be the biggest test yet. It was Saturday and he was going to the Black Panther. He had vowed to himself that he was only going to allow himself to cum tonight if he found a really hunky guy. Marc was a total gear-head, and although he was a biker, more than anything else he was into skinheads. Leather boys were sexy but there was something about skins, commando in tight, sexy, bulging bleached jeans, that did things to him deep inside. His absolute ideal would be muscular, with sprayed-on bleachers, cropped blond hair, blue eyes. Unfortunately there weren’t many of these about. Still, you never knew – he’d seen drop-dead sexy boys around town many times before now.

There was something else that made it far less likely that he would cum tonight: his greatest fetish, what he was really into having done to him – the thing that turned him on like nothing else in the world – was not what most guys were interested in. Marc had no interest in fucking, he wasn’t into cock sucking, or having his nipples squeezed, or fisting, or having his arse beaten, or piss, or just about anything else that would be going on in the club. No, his one huge weakness was to have his self-control removed – slowly and unstoppably. To be forced to cum while he was struggling like fuck against it, fighting to control himself, to stop it from happening, and to stop himself from cumming. He had no idea why this turned him on so much, or how he’d developed that fetish, but it ruled his life completely. He thought about it every day, searched the internet for stories, descriptions, photos or even drawings of boys being milked against their will. Even the very thought of it made him need to cum.

And the slow-and-unstoppably bit was important; guys all seemed to be too rough: it was rare to find anyone who had the gentle, controlled, frustratingly teasing touch that he craved, or that horny, wonderful gonna-make-you-cum-and-there’s-fuck-all-you-can-do-about-it attitude. If he could ever find someone whose single objective was to make him lose it and cum helplessly in spite of everything he could do to stop himself – and to do it in such a way that he could feel himself losing control gradually, bit by bit, but could do nothing about it – he thought he would fall in love with that guy on the spot.

So Marc was fairly sure that he wouldn’t be cumming tonight – and that was fine. He would undoubtedly see some hot lads at the club, and they would unknowingly provide him with wanking material for days.

It had been ages since he’d been to the Panther. He didn’t really do clubs, but he was so terminally horny today that even the possibility of persuading a hot skinhead to do him in the way that he wanted was motivation enough. After putting a black tee shirt on that he knew showed his pecs off well, he chose his tightest, thinnest, most worn-out stretch-denim jeans. They’d just been washed and so they were even tighter than usual. He struggled to get the ends of the legs over his ankles, and then pulled the jeans up, sliding the thin faded denim over his bare skin with the palms of his hands until there was not a single wrinkle or crease anywhere. Very carefully he adjusted his balls and his rock-hard cock so that it lay horizontally over his left thigh, and struggled to do the zip up. White boot socks next, then his heavy leather bike boots with the steel plates. He closed the four chunky quick-release fasteners and rolled the socks down to the tops of the boots. Next the heavy black leather jacket, with its rows of chrome studs. It felt cool and sexy as he pulled it on and the smell of the leather made his cock jerk. A studded belt went around his waist, and he pushed it down low on his hips so that it made the shape of his cock stand out even more. Finally, he popped the collar of his jacket and looked at himself in the full-length mirror. Oh fuck. Marc was no narcissist, but in his present state, and in that gear, he fancied himself big-time. Good enough to eat, he thought. Grabbing his crash helmet, gloves and keys, he headed out.

The Black Panther was one of those clubs that ran theme nights. Tonight was skinhead night (which was why Marc had chosen this weekend) but the dress code wasn’t too strict, and as long as you were wearing something suitably pervy there would be no problem getting in – his leather, boots and skintight jeans definitely qualified.

After parking his bike next to a couple of others across the road from the entrance, where the doorman would keep an eye on it, he took off his lid and locked it to the bike, then spiked his hair, pulled the collar of his leather jacket up again and went in.

He bought a coke from the bar and carried it down the long room to the stools at the far end. The place seemed to smell of sex, and even though it was early yet, the club was already beginning to fill up. Over the next hour Marc smiled politely at a few admiring glances and fended off a few guys he had no interest in.

From where he was sitting he had a clear view of the door, so he saw the skinhead as soon as he came in. Marc’s eyes dilated and his cock started to get hard – the boy was a wet dream: mid-twenties, tall, muscular, with cropped blond hair, black DMs, and bleachers that must have taken half an hour to get into. They hugged his legs like a second skin, and the bulge was eye-popping: the brass zip, beneath a fly that was incapable of closing over it, curved around the well-defined round ball which nestled between his thighs, under well-worn, skintight blue-and-white denim. He had a tight white tee shirt on, and over it a black leather biker jacket. Absolute fucking perfection. On his private scale of zero to ten Marc would have given an eleven. He was imagining being hogtied between those solid thighs, struggling to stop this muscular boy from making him cum. He knew that the fight to stop himself from shooting in seconds flat would be amazing. Just imagining that had made his cock grow until it was forming a huge sausage-shaped bulge along the top of his thigh.

The skin was leaning against the wall further up the room, drinking a beer from the bottle. He had a gear bag with him, which he’d put on the floor by his booted feet. Marc finished his coke and walked slowly past him back to the bar, never taking his eyes off the boy.

Their eyes met briefly, the skinhead looking Marc up and down. Was that interest? Marc’s heart was racing. By the time he’d finished buying another coke he saw that the boy had moved off and was going through into the labyrinth. Just before he disappeared he looked back – and Marc knew he’d looked straight at him.

The labyrinth was a warren of small rooms through the peeling black door at the end. He didn’t often go there as that was where the fucking, pissing and gobbing went on – things that didn’t interest him at all – but tonight he was hunting that unbelievably hot skinhead.

It was a kind of maze – little rooms off narrow passageways that turned and twisted through what had probably at one time been a largish warehouse. Many were empty, but some had sweating, heaving leather masters in them, doing various things to their newly-acquired, temporary slaves. Some of the rooms were fitted with slings, restraint tables or bondage frames of one kind or another, others simply had drainage holes in the floor, or had nothing in them at all.

By the time Marc got through the door there was no sign of the skinhead. He wandered up the passageway looking into the rooms as he passed. At a T-junction he tried to the left. Still no skinhead. Backtracking he went to the right. There was a crossroads in the narrow passages here; he’d forgotten just how much of a maze this place was.

After twenty minutes of searching what he was sure had been every room in the place he still hadn’t found the boy but, given the layout it was perfectly possible that he’d missed him while he’d been in a completely different area. He stood looking along one of the corridors, and sighed. Bugger it - where was he?

“Hi, biker,” whispered a voice in his ear, from behind him.

Marc began to turn, but a hand rested on his shoulder, stopping him. “Don’t turn round.” The voice was very male, and very sexy, with an east-end accent. Marc didn’t have to see him to know that this was the skinhead.

“Saw you earlier.”

Marc could feel the boy’s breath on his ear. Despite the groans, laughter and other noises going on around him, Marc was conscious only of that sexy skinhead’s voice.

“Something tells me you’re not really into the things that are going on in here.”

“Yeah, I’m not.” Marc’s cock was threatening to burst out of his jeans.

“So tell me,” purred the voice, “what is it that really turns you on - more than anything else? What’s the one thing you dream about? The one thing that really gets you off when you wank.”

Marc was so horny at the moment that just talking about his fetish would turn him on like fuck. And that skin’s voice was so seductive. So he explained to the unseen boy behind him in delicious detail his deepest turn-on of all.

The voice was silent for a while, then it replied. “That’s unusual - and unusual turn-ons fascinate me. I think we can do something with this one.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezed once. “You need to have your control of if – and when - you cum taken from you, slowly, so that you can try to fight against it, yes? You need to have your resistance broken down, bit by bit – and be able to feel it deserting you, and to know that you can do nothing to stop it. You need a guy who will play with your ability to control yourself – and use it against you. You need someone who knows he can make you cum, so easily, any time he likes - whether you want to or not.”

Hearing that horny skinhead saying that was already making Marc need to cum very badly indeed. This guy actually understood.

The skin was quiet for a moment, then he whispered, “and there is, I think, something that makes it very difficult for you to control yourself. Something that it would be very unfair to use against you.”

Marc blinked. How did he know? Nobody had ever said that to him before. He had never met anyone who was interested enough to ask – and technique was one of the most important things to him. “Oh fuck. Yes. The -”

“Shh.” The hand squeezed again. “Don’t say anything.” There was a pause. “I’m going to blindfold you. Keep still.”

Hands reached from behind and lowered a heavy black leather blindfold over Marc’s eyes. Leather cuffs were buckled around his wrists and locked behind his back. He felt the skin’s leather jacket brush against his own.

“Come with me.” Marc was guided along the corridor and into one of the rooms. “There’s a chair behind you. Sit down. Put your arms behind the chair back.”

Marcus sat,. He felt his leather jacket being unzipped, and he allowed his ankles to be secured to the legs of the chair and his wrists fixed behind the centre of the chair back. A leather strap went around his chest, then another tight around his waist, and he found that apart from being able to open or close his knees, he couldn’t move.

“Good. Now relax.”

The boy’s voice was one of the sexiest Marc had ever heard, but this was the Panther - and as he waited, he was expecting his balls or his tits to be grabbed and squeezed hard. That seemed to be what everyone did in these places.

At the very first touch of the skinhead’s fingers on his left knee, Marc almost came. The touch was as light as a feather. The fingertips teased gently along the top of his left thigh as far as his groin, and then stopped. Marc gasped. Oh fuck – this guy’s touch was amazing . He’d never felt anyone with a touch like that – it was so fucking light. It was making his skin tingle under the thin denim wherever the guy touched him.

The fingers repeated their motion on the other leg, and then both hands explored behind his knees, and along the backs of his calves. These were not usually erogenous zones on Marc, but the way this boy was doing it they felt indescribably horny. The fingers now worked up the outsides of his thighs, to his hips.

A hand pushed his jacket aside and began to tease his left nipple, squeezing gently. It didn’t stay long though – Marc’s lack of response told the skin that he wasn’t into his tits at all. The fingers explored into his armpit and then into his sides, but being tickled had never really done much for him either.

The hand went back, this time to the inside of his right thigh, just above the knee. It paused. He knew exactly where it was going to go, and he was holding his breath with anticipation.

The fingers began to move, and the hand slowly made its way up towards his balls, the fingertips teasing lightly as they went. Marc’s legs began to tremble, and as the hand got higher and higher there came a point where he was unable to keep his knees apart. They slammed together, trapping the skin’s leather jacketed arm between them. He expected the boy to prise them apart roughly – but no. Instead he allowed them to stay together, his arm tightly gripped, the hand flat against the very top of Marc’s thigh. God, that felt so invasive, and so fucking horny! The fingers reached forward and teased lightly across the bottom of the bulge of Marc’s balls.

Oh fuck fuck fuck ! This guy was incredible! His touch was pure magic. As the hand stayed there teasing his balls, Marc jumped as he felt a single fingertip of the other hand stroke slowly up the length of his cock. The closer it got to the head, the more tightly his thighs gripped the other arm. He wasn’t doing this voluntarily – he just couldn’t stop himself. He had never felt anything as remotely horny as this in his life.

The hands were withdrawn. Marc waited, wondering what was going to happen now. Slowly, his knees parted again, his trembling muscles beginning to relax.

“Now,” whispered the voice, “let’s investigate that cock...” Starting at the base, fingers explored it. They stroked, they squeezed gently – both slowly and then sharply – they worked on it from all sides, all angles through the bulging, thin, stretch jeans. When they reached the ridges, and then the frenulum, Marc felt his heart rate increase. His breathing became faster, more shallow. Small groans of pure pleasure came from him – and these became louder and much more urgent as the fingertips travelled across the cock head. Finally they arrived at the very tip itself. By now Marc was holding his breath. His head was thrown back, his eyes closed tightly under the leather blindfold, and he was in ecstasy. The finger lifted, paused, then stroked once across the very tip of his cock. Marc let out a sharp, urgent breath, his hips trying to thrust against the restraining strap – that had got him dangerously close to cumming.

The fingertip went away and Marc felt his knees being gently parted. “Keep your legs open.”

His balls were now the focus of the guy’s attention. The fingers teased and tickled them through the thin, sensitive, faded denim, exploring under the bulge, and deep into the creases at their sides. He also worked on the very tops of the insides of Marc’s thighs, and his perineum. His legs were trembling again and even though he had been told to keep them apart it was taking all his concentration to stop himself from closing them around the invading hand. He desperately wanted to grip that arm, to feel it between his legs. He hadn’t realised until this moment how unbelievably horny the feeling of a hand between his thighs was.

And there was something else: Marc had never been played with for very long in his jeans – he’d always had them taken off, or at the very least his cock released into the air – and he was surprised at how horny it felt being worked on through the sexy gear. He wondered when the skin would undo the zip and get his cock out.

The hand continued to stroke across his balls slowly, but Marc felt the skinhead lean closer to him.

“Now,” said the voice, “Listen carefully. I live not far from here. I’ve got a very well-equipped dungeon in my house. It’s full of gear designed to keep boys like you horny and vulnerable while I work on them. I quite like the idea of taking you back there, getting you helpless, hooding you, and spending three or four hours playing with your cock. And then – after a few minutes for you to go off the boil – making you cum excruciatingly slowly and helplessly while I watch you trying to fight against it. And believe me, biker, you can fight against it as much as you want but I will make you cum, and there will be absolutely fuck-all you can do about it.”

Oh shit. This guy was perfect. The thought of being worked on by that skinhead for three or four hours, of being milked by a boy who was intent on making him lose it – and who knew exactly how to work on him - and fighting like fuck to stop himself from cumming but not being able to... Perfect. Marc could think of nothing on this earth that he wanted more.

“If you want that - if you want a few hours of edging, and then to be milked helplessly while you’re doing everything you can to hold out, and struggling like fuck in leather and restraints to stop yourself from cumming, control yourself now - don’t let me make you cum...”

Oh fuck, Marc wanted that. The voice said nothing more. The fingers returned - one hand went between the boy’s legs and gripped the sides of his balls gently through his jeans with fingers and thumb, digging deep into the crevices at their sides; the other – just the single fingertip again – began to work on the cock head.

Shit! Marc’s knees closed tightly, trapping the arm between his thighs. He struggled to get the fingers from his balls – the grip felt far too fucking horny – but he couldn’t get away from them. If the chair hadn’t been bolted to the floor it would have been rocking around all over the place. As it was, the leather straps were creaking as he struggled to get away from the skin’s hands.

The fingertip was slowly stroking his cock, occasionally up and down the shaft but mainly running across the ridges and the head. Every now and again the finger and thumb made quick, gentle squeezes up the entire length of it.

Marc was beside himself. He hadn’t cum for a week, and now he needed to cum so badly, but he must NOT cum! Not if he wanted this for hours, strapped down properly in this sexy fucking skinhead’s dungeon.

A finger and thumb were gripping the base of Marc’s balls, and now the guy used the other fingers as well on the balls themselves to tickle and tease them. The one on Marc’s cock had moved upwards until now it began stroking over the very tip of the head – and it didn’t stop.

The very tip of his cock head was Marc’s nemesis. This was what he had been going to tell the guy before he’d stopped him. It was hypersensitive, and his most intense orgasms always happened when he made himself cum by wanking just on the tip of the head. Other guys never had the patience to explore and to find out just how overwhelmingly compelling a trigger this spot was for him – but this guy had recognised its irresistible power after only a few minutes of exploring his cock – and not even directly, but through his jeans. And now, as the finger slowly worked on it, Marc realised exactly how incapable of resisting he was.

He knew that this bastard had no intention of taking him home; that he was determined to make him lose it and cum, here and now – and knowing that was turning him on like crazy. Well he’d show the fucker: he would not fucking cum!

Marc’s face was screwed up in concentration as he fought to control himself. He must not let himself cum! Nearly every day of his life he watched porn about boys being forcibly milked – usually hard and fast, often with their cocks pulled back between their thighs - while they were gagged and blindfolded and struggling and yelling and trying to get away from the hands that were raping their cocks – but this was different. It was so gentle, so slow… he had all the time in the world to fight it, to will himselfnot to cum. The finger was moving so slowly over the very tip, playing with him, playing with his self-control. It was saying “go on then, let’s see you stop yourself...” The thin denim enclosing his cock seemed to be working against him too, amplifying the tiniest movement, making it feel even more horny than if it were being worked on directly.

His muscles were straining, he was breathing fast, his whole body was tense, tingling, and he was so close to the point of losing it. He found himself pleading. “No…please...” He so wanted to go back to this guy’s dungeon. He must not fucking cum now.

In just the few minutes that this skin had been working on him, the boy had found the one technique that Marc couldn’t resist. The finger continued its slow, leisurely stroking across the very tip of his cock.

“Bastard! Not there!Pleeease. Don’t do it there! I am not going to fucking cum!!!”

The fingers carried on doing exactly what they had been doing. Marc’s cock head felt more sensitive than it had ever done in his life before – he was convinced that right now he would have been able to feel the touch of a feather on it – even through his jeans. The precum soaking the denim felt cool as the fingertip slid slowly over it, sending waves of pleasure more urgent and acute than he had ever known through his young, muscular body - and gradually and relentlessly breaking down his willpower.

He could feel himself losing it. Bit by bit, closer and closer. Although he was doing everything he could to make himself less horny - trying to visualise the most repellent things imaginable – this hunky guy, working on him so slowly and leisurely, was stopping him from concentrating on anything but what was being done to his desperately sensitive cock.

His thigh muscles were straining, gripping the arm so tightly that the left knee had slid over the right in his effort to get the teasing fingers off his balls. But they stayed there, working on his bulge through the skintight, faded jeans. He pulled at the wrist restraints, desperately trying to get free so that he could get that finger off his cock head and the arm from between his thighs.

The steel hardness of his cock was forcing the stretchy denim away from his body and allowing the fingertip even better access to the head. It ran over the piss slit, around the head, and back to the very centre of the tip leaving electric waves of ecstasy in its wake.

Suddenly Marc’s body tensed even further. He was helpless – blindfolded, tied to the chair, and he couldn’t stop this sexy fucking bastard from making him lose control.

With an animal roar, he started to cum. The fingertip didn’t change its technique one bit, but continued to stroke and scratch slowly over the tip of his cock as his spunk pumped out into the thin stretch jeans that were holding it in their grip. His cock bucked up and down under the denim and his body convulsed as he came in his jeans under the single, slowly stroking fingertip. He rocked on the chair, but the guy’s hands followed him, maintaining their gentle, teasing work as he came, and came, and came, milking him slowly and helplessly in his tight faded jeans. It was unbelievably intense, and it went on for much, much longer than Marc’s usual orgasms.

The movements of the fingers slowed in time with the recession of his orgasm until they were motionless, the skin’s arm still tightly gripped between his thighs. The fingertip on his cock head occasionally stroked once, which sent unbearable shivers of over-stimulation up his body. Eventually even that stopped and Marc was able to relax, and release the guy’s arm.

“Oh, you came...” The voice was quiet, mocking.

“Ohfuck.” He was gasping for air. “ Oh fucking hell. Oh Jesus .”

A soft laugh was the only reply.

It took Marc a while to recover, but eventually he sat up straighter in the wooden chair. This boy was unbelievable – he was the sexiest guy Marc had ever encountered, and he desperately wanted more sessions with him.

He felt his ankles being untied, then the leather cuffs were removed from his wrists. His hands went up to remove the blindfold, but the guy stopped him.

“Wouldn’t it be more humiliating for you never to know who’d made you lose control so easily?”

He shook his head. “I need to see you. Oh God I need to see you.”

The blindfold was lifted off.

The guy was thin, in a leather jacket, boots, and loose Levis. And he was in his seventies. He was almost bald – what little hair he had was white – and he had a craggy, liver-spotted, wrinkled face. If Marc had passed him on the street he would not have given him a second glance – and if he’d had to rate him on his private scale he would have given him a score in the minus numbers.

He stared at the guy. There was absolutely nothing about the appearance of the man that was the least bit sexy, and Marc was having difficulty connecting what he was seeing to the absolute heaven he had just experienced.

No hunky, muscular skinhead. Not even a hot leather boy. Marc shook his head slowly, then he swallowed. “Oh fuck. You are what I’ve been searching for, for a very, very long time.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “Am I?”

“Fuckyes.” Marc threw his arms around him and hugged him. “Thank you.Thank you. You have no idea what you have done to me. I need to see you again. And again. And again. You are my deepest, darkest fantasy. You are my wet dream.”

Over the boy’s shoulder, the old man smiled.