The Telemachus Story Archive

The room on the second floor
By Hooder

The Room on the Second Floor

I squeezed the mop into the bucket and checked the corridor. Spotless. I’d taken this cleaning job as a temp when my last employers had ‘let me go’ (I loved that expression) due to cutbacks. It hadn’t come as a surprise – it had been on the cards for some time – and although this job didn’t pay a lot, it would keep the wolves from the door for the next few months. It had taken me two days to get into the routine; it was mindless work.

The place was run by the council, and housed kids who’d been in trouble, ex-addicts (a few of them not so ex, judging by the needles I found in some of the rooms) and general ne’er-do-wells. The whole place smelled of piss and disinfectant.

My usual routine was sweeping, mopping, and dusting the ground floor corridors and rooms, but today for the first time I’d been asked to do the second of the four floors instead. The rooms were in the same positions on each floor but of course the contents were different, and it felt a bit strange – like I was in some sort of alternative universe for a while; I’d got used to the ones downstairs. I was pleased not to have to do Brian’s room, though – he had some kind of fixation for bubble wrap and mousetraps; sometimes you had to force the door open to get in past the piles of them on the floor; and when you did you took you life in your hands moving them out of the way to clean.

I didn’t often see the residents – they were encouraged to be out when the cleaners were working – but I was halfway through this one room, dusting the wardrobe, when the door opened suddenly and a boy stood there looking surprised.

He wasn’t what you’d call cute, or even particularly good-looking, but fuck me was he sexy. I don’t normally have a thing for skinheads, but this one… shit. Fit, with a No.2 of dark blond hair, a ripped denim jacket, black DMs, and the tightest jeans I’d ever set eyes on. This, you must understand, was back in the days before skinny jeans were fashionable, so it was especially unusual to see jeans that skintight. They were well faded and very worn – especially around the crotch. And I did have a thing for tight jeans.

“Oh. Hi.” He said.

“Hi.” I smiled at him but he was already picking something up from the dressing table. He turned and left without another word. For some reason I could smell strawberries.

I stood there for a few moments with my mouth hanging open and a bulging erection. Fuck me, that boy was hot. I scooted to the door and looked out. He was walking towards the stairs, his hips swaying, his thighs crying out to be touched, licked, and his tight, round bum just begging to be fucked senseless. I closed the door again, went to the window and looked down. A minute later I watched as he walked across the courtyard and disappeared out into the street.

I had never gone through any of the resident’s things before – they’d been of no interest to me – but now I did. I opened the top drawer of the dressing table and found an ID card. Anthony Rose, 19 years old. He was smiling boyishly at the camera in his photo. Anthony. Tony. The name suited him somehow. I pulled the wardrobe door open. There was a single pair of black jeans and a couple of tee shirts. I closed it again thoughtfully. Tony, I decided, was one of the sexiest boys I’d ever seen.

* * *

It was a week before I was asked to do the second floor again. I’d had wanks every single night since that first time, thinking about him. I’d finished the corridor and the first three rooms – the next was his. I opened the door slowly and went inside. The first thing I saw was those faded, worn, skintight, sexy jeans hanging over the back of the chair. I picked them up and felt them. The denim was soft between my fingers. I turned them round in my hands, studying the legs, the thighs, the triple-stitched seams, the arse, and the very faded and worn area at the side of the zip fly. His cock and balls had been there, touching those jeans. I dropped the Yale lock on the door. My cock was ragingly hard. I sat on the bed and held the jeans to my face, breathing in the scent of that sexy, sexy boy. My hand went to my bulging cock and a couple of seconds later I was cumming. With my eyes closed in ecstasy I licked the worn denim as my spunk squirted out into my own jeans. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.

* * *

I was being sent to the second floor more often these days – I had no idea why, but I didn’t question it. I hadn’t been able to get the boy out of my mind. The next two times I did his room there was no sign of those jeans, but the third time they were there. As before, I locked the door, but this time I dropped my jeans to my ankles and lay down on his bed. I held the faded, skinhead denim over my nose and mouth, smelling his sexy boy-smells, then stroked them over my bare legs and thighs, and gripped my balls through them. I was in heaven – and I was very close to cumming. I took deep breaths, trying to back off from the edge, then I put my hand inside the jeans and found the area that would be over his bulge. I enclosed my cock with it and, slowly and carefully, wanked. I must not get spunk on them. But the smells, the images of that skinhead boy in these skintight, faded jeans, and the feel of those very jeans gripping my cock made me lose it instantly. Before I knew what was happening I was cumming. As my spunk arced into the air I pushed the jeans away, off the bed, in panic. I finished myself off with my bare hand.

Trying not to move, I extended my arm and grabbed the roll of tissue I’d left within reach on the floor. Sitting up slowly I mopped up all the spunk I could see – most of it was on my stomach. I threw the used tissues into the black bag. Then I looked down. One single gob had landed on Tony’s jeans – it was in the exact centre of the faded bulge. Oh shit.

I got up and pulled my jeans up, then looked at the stain. There was a small but very noticeable darker, wet patch on the denim. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice. Who was I trying to kid? I lay the jeans on the radiator, hoping that when they dried out the stain would have gone. There was nothing else I could think of doing. I got myself together and finished cleaning the room, then put the jeans back over the chair. The stain was still there – I hoped it would have disappeared by the time Tony came back.

* * *

Apparently I’d got away with it – at least nothing was said. Two days later I was sitting in a coffee shop with an espresso in my hand when I saw him through the window. He was leaning against the wall of a shop on the other side of the road chatting to a punk with a bright red mohican. I couldn’t take my eyes off his crotch. From this distance I couldn’t see if any sign of the stain was still there, but I could see the outline of his cock. It was pushing the denim out into a gentle bulge above and to the right of his balls. I was hard again, imagining lying at the side of him, kissing him, running my hands over his thighs and arse, licking the faded denim over his crotch, then turning him over and fucking him through a hole in the arse of those skintight, horny jeans while my fingers gripped his cock through them and made him cum in the tight, faded denim.

I raised my eyes to his face – and he was looking straight at me! Shit! I looked away and drank the rest of my espresso. When I got the courage to look out of the window again both he and the punk had gone.

* * *

Seeing Tony in those jeans again had refuelled my lust. I thought about him most of my waking hours, and I’d even had a dream about him. He was becoming an obsession.

The second floor again. I opened the door to Tony’s room. It always smelled of strawberries in here, and now just the smell was enough to get my cock hard. The jeans were lying on the bed. I clicked the door closed behind me, flattened the jeans out and put a thick wadge of tissues under them, extending to below the crotch. Then I lay on the bed and fucked the sexy jeans. But it didn’t feel right: they weren’t making enough contact with my cock. Throwing caution to the wind I turned face-up and pulled them over me. I inhaled the beautiful boy-smells for a while, then I gripped my cock through those prickteasing skinhead jeans and wanked myself to one of the most intense orgasms I’d ever had. I wasn’t thinking of consequences – I was totally lost in deep and horny lust.

Of course my spunk went everywhere. It was on my somach and chest, on the bed, and on the jeans. There were splatters all over them, and a particularly large gob was soaking wetly into the left thigh. But even when I’d finished cumming, I didn’t fucking care. If I lost this job I would just have to get another. It had been worth it for that wank.

I tidied myself up, cleaned the room, and left the boy’s jeans where they had been, lying on the bed - the dark, wet spunk stains glaring up at me accusingly.

* * *

For the next few days I waited, expecting to be called in front of the boss at any moment for a dressing-down, and dismissal. But, wonder of wonders, nothing happened. I didn’t understand it – surely he couldn’t have missed those stains.

I was working on the second floor again the very next day. I opened Tony’s door. The jeans were hanging on the chair. I lifted them up and looked at them. The stains had mostly gone, but you could still see where they’d been. I dropped my jeans and stood there, stroking them over my body, my eyes closed, visualising that sexy boy as I’d last seen him, talking to the punk. I sat on the bed, then lay down. I held the jeans over my face.

I jumped at the sound of a key in the lock. The door opened. When I pulled the jeans off I saw Tony standing there looking down at me. He was wearing another pair of faded jeans almost identical to these – and every bit as skintight.

I don’t know what I was expecting – outrage, violence, swearing – but he just stood there. “Put them on,” He said.

I swallowed. “Wh- what?”

“Put them on.” He reached behind him and closed the door.

I didn’t move for a while – I couldn’t. Then I pulled my trainers off, removed my jeans, and put Tony’s on. I was a year older than he was, but we were about the same size, and they were as skintight on me as they had been on him. The denim felt wonderful as it slid up my thighs. I struggled to fasten the button, and carefully pulled the zip up, pushing my hard cock to the side. The jeans clung to my legs like a second skin.

“They’re yours.”


“You can have them. I don’t wanna wear jeans with someone else’s spunk all over them.”

I waited, expecting the other shoe to drop, but he just stood there. “You serious?”

He nodded.

I didn’t know what to say. “I – thank you! Oh fuck! Thank you very much. Hey look, I’m sorry -”

He shook his head. “It’s Ok. Just – just use them instead of mine. All right?”

“Yeah, of course. I’m sorry. You’re just so fucking - ” The sentence trailed off into silence.

“You think I’m sexy?” He had a small, crooked smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck yes.”

“So do my girlfriends.”

Right. So he was straight. The prospect of fucking him senseless went out of the window. I got off the bed, put my trainers back on and picked up my own jeans. “No hard feelings? Are we Ok?”

“We’re Ok. Just don’t cum in my jeans. I don’t want your spunk on them.”

“Of course. It won’t happen again.” I collected things together and made my way towards the door, then turned to him. “And thank you. You are an unbelievably sexy boy.”

He was standing between me and the door, and he didn’t move. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want my own spunk on them...” He sat down on the bed and opened his legs. His hand beckoned me to kneel between them.

In front of my eyes was the sexiest bulge I’d ever seen.

I gave him the longest, slowest, most beautiful blow job I’d ever given anyone.

And not a single drop of spunk landed on his jeans.