The Telemachus Story Archive



“Complete waste of time. Complete fucking waste of time.”

Lambert had been muttering much trough the Q&A. One of 4M’s underlings had finished a presentation about SkyB – the latest in vegan, planet-friendly, carbon neutral, 100% biodegradable leather – in one of their fancy glass and mahogany conference rooms, replete with hummus on sourdough toast and avocado/sweet potato soufflés and vegetable crisps and kombucha on the rocks, for a select committee of journalists willing to pen some free advertising for a chemical giant about to save humanity by virtue of commodifying its latest and greatest sustainable invention. A careful if restricted selection of goods – watchstraps, wallets, a pair of blue high-heeled shoes, a phone case – made from their revolutionary SkyB waited for the assembled writers on a table to be inspected, stroked, and oooh’ed at. A scrapbook of finishes, textures, and colours lay resplendent to tantalise their imagination. Not a single question, however, had been answered to anyone’s satisfaction. The PR man had countered any technical question with standard answers, each riddled with all the wrong words: innovative, state-of-the-art, breakthrough, proprietary, patented, and his favourite: “not at liberty to”. Lambert doubted very much that the man knew anything about the product at all.

He riffled though the samples. To his astonishment they felt convincingly leathery. He gave the corner of a dangerous-looking, glistening black sample a tug. It stretched ever so slightly and crept back to its original dimensions – oiled horse-hide, he’d have guessed, had he been pressed for an identification. Other samples he’d seen and felt – over the past two weeks of research into fancy vegan leathers – looked the part but felt, and often were, plastic. The most advanced vleather – as another company had contracted the term – he’d seen, consisted of 90% cactus substrate for 10% PVC and neoprene (or was is polyurethane?). That company was very proud of their achievement. At another startup, another flipbook of samples made out of congealed goo rendered from chitin – intensive aquaculture shrimp shells, and thus very much not strictly vegan – reminded him of plastic. Or chlorinated rubber, if he was to be in a charitable mood. Interesting, in its own right, but no proper leather substitute.

This collection of samples was something else to the point that he suspected they were leather, and this was all an elaborate hoax concocted by management for greenwashing purposes. They smelled like leather. He didn’t dare lick them, but he was sure they’d taste like leather too. While PR had included a picture of the embossing process in one of the slides – just clear enough not to be useless and cropped as not to show anything more than they wanted – the texture and the feel of the samples was as diverse and as electrifying as the real stuff. Some downright had his heart skip a beat. He put the sample-book down when he noticed to his embarrassment that three or four colleagues were waiting in a clump around him to have a go at the book themselves and mingled with the crowd having humus and crisps; the avocado soufflés had long been polished off. Booze was absent. He quaffed a couple of kombuchas – too sweet, but he was thirsty – and chatted with the assembled lot where he’d spotted one or two familiar faces, exchanging theories about this SkyB stuff. Where did the name come from? How was it made? What was that microfelting the PR man had been so evasive about? (Why was he so evasive to begin with?) How could they claim carbon neutrality when they wouldn't grant insight into the production process? Joan – from a reputable newspaper – floated a theory about patent takeover. SkyB had been invented by a spin-off called Flatbreed, she’d picked up. 4M bought the company, integrated it, as they say, and laid off whomever they could lay off. The giant didn’t care about vegan leather. All they wanted were the patents in order to get royalties when an interested party would come along, or they might incorporate certain procedures into their own production process. The claim about royalties was disputed. As if 4M would care about such peanuts. Greenwashing then, she said, pure greenwashing. Cynical but invigorating nodding ensued.

Shame, Lambert thought, as the product was promising. Better than anything he’d seen, felt or smelled so far.


To kill time on the train home he looked up Flatbreed. The financial newspapers, when they mentioned it, also hypothesised patent takeover or greenwashing. No one believed a chemical giant would start a line of vegan leather – something else, something altogether more obscure and vile had to be hiding in a dark corner of that takeover. Lambert couldn’t care less. He’d be interested to try on some jeans made from SkyB, or see how it would hold up under more strenuous use. Shame about the name as well with its insinuations, in his mind, of light blue colours and fluffy clouds. The founding guy and main brain of Flatbreed was rich and retired now, at the blessed age of 26. He saw no point in staying with 4M. He was considering getting himself a cottage in some quiet place, but for now he was happy living in his flat, so he’d said in an interview, in a town a mere half hour drive from Lambert’s place. I’ll visit him on Friday, Lambert decided.


He didn’t visit on Friday – why he’d thought he’d just stroll into the guy’s place was a mystery even to him – but, through much haggling, some promises, and a very drunk secretary, he got the guy’s contact details. See you on Saturday, their last message read. The guy – Lee was his name – seemed friendly enough. Lambert feared he might have been a bit too candid at a critical stage of their exchange. “Are you into leather?” Lee had asked. When Lambert was lost for a reply, “You certainly seem to,” Lee sent him.

“A bit,” he replied after erasing and retyping the same message for ages, growing more and more conscious of Lee watching him type and erase and type and erase.

“Haha,” came in, and then nothing, until the salvatory, aforementioned “See you on Saturday.”


Lambert had a vague idea of why he’d refrained from wearing any leather on his way tot visit Lee, but he didn’t want to delve too deep into it. He’d gone for absolute neutrality, befitting a serious journalist, he claimed.

After ringing and going up the four flights of stairs, a fully leathered Lee – whom, it turned out, didn’t give a damn about neutrality – grinned at an embarrassingly flustered Lambert when he opened the door. If there had been any doubt in anyone’s mind about whether or not Lambert was into leather – or boys in leather – it was now dead and buried. “Thought so,” said Lee. “You are into leather. Come in.”

“The sofa’s SkyB as well, by the way,” Lee said after letting Lambert in and telling him to make himself comfortable. “Something to drink?”

“Uh, yeah, that’d be nice.”

While Lee was in the kitchen pouring drinks, Lambert had to stroke the sofa. Even up close the grain and feel was that of leather. It smelled of leather. Either they’d found some chemical to make their SkyB smell of leather, or it was its natural smell. Lambert looked up when things went quiet in the kitchen, heard the fridge door close, and furtively licked a patch of the sofa to his right. Just as furtively he wiped it dry. His tongue had felt leather – ever so smooth, butter-like, but thick and resilient (it’s fascinating how much a tongue can discern) – it had even tasted of leather.

Lamber was still sniffing the sofa when Lee handed him a tall glass of some reddish-brown lightly sparkling cold something.

“Kombucha?” Lambert tried.

Lee nodded.

“This is becoming a theme.”

Lee smirked.

“Is there a hidden message or something?”

“There is.”

“Kombucha is in some way connected to SkyB?”

“It is.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Have you ever seen a kombucha culture?”

Lambert nodded.

“It’s got a thick thing floating on top, typically called a symbiotic culture of bacteria and yeast, or scoby, in short.”

“SkyB!” Lambert shouted.

“Right on.”

“So SkyB is nothing but the kombucha thing?”

“Not quite, and that’s where I can’t say too much. Non disclosure agreements, you see.”

“I see.”

“In short Flatbreed – me and some mates basically, but mostly me when it comes to SkyB – hit upon a mixture of cultures that yielded something close to leather. It wasn’t our intention, but I saw some potential. I added some fungus afterwards, tinkered with molecular felting – or microfelting, it’s a matter of terminology, really – and got a rudimentary skein of SkyB. It just needed plain old tanning, and voila, fake, lab-grown leather. Molecularly and structurally speaking it’s close to the real stuff, but made out of mushroom and bacteria instead of animal.”

“That’s it?”

“It is more complex than that, of course; but in essence, yeah, that’s it. And because it’s lab grown, we can tinker with thickness, resiliency, pliability, and even more arcane properties like hydrophobicity and so on. Really flexible stuff.”

“How do you make it smell of leather?”

“Tanning and chemicals.”

“Which chemicals?”

“Can’t tell.”

“Too bad. And the texture?”

“A mixture of drying, embossing, and hot rolling. Not that different from regular PVC-coated fake leather. And finishing. It takes oil and wax like regular leather. Again, molecularly speaking it’s very similar.”

Lambert sat there nodding. “Magic,” he said, eventually.

Lee shrugged. “More like science,” he said. “And a healthy dose of luck.”

Both sat silent for a moment. “But you’re not here for boring science talk, are you? You’ve been fondling that sofa for quite some time now.”

Lambert removed his hand from the leather as if it were burning, giving Lee a solid reason to grin. He got up. “What sort of gear do you fancy?” he said.

Lambert was caught in headlights. This was outpacing all his expectations. He’d come unprepared. He was expecting more samples – larger ones, perhaps a single piece of proper gear, not even a sofa – more tech-talk, more introduction and less jumping right into proper gear after two sips of kombucha. He prattled.

“I’ll get a selection. You’re about my build – slightly bigger – most of my gear should suit you. It’ll be even tighter on you than on me. Hmmm… tighter,” Lee said, purred out the last r, and pivoted on one bulky boot in the direction of a sliding wall behind which hid stack upon stack and rail after rail full of gear. The daylight falling into the room was bright enough to cast a distinct oily sheen on much of the garments – like the dangerous horsehide in the scrapbook. Many of them had creases that betrayed a fat, thick cut of leather. Others draped like silk. Apart from some camo green and burgundy jeans mingled with the odd blue and white-striped racer jacket, most of the gear was black. Lee picked jacket after jacket from the rail, and tossed a few jeans over his shoulder. “Care to give me a hand, or is this enough to begin with?” he asked Lambert, still rummaging. “These may feel weird,” Lee said. “They should feel like nothing you’ve ever felt. Unless you’ve already experienced oily, hydrophobic leather, saturated with lube.” Lambert gulped and scraped his throat. He knew that if he said a single word it would be strangled. He grunted in appreciation, took over the pile of gear that Lee handed him, was certain that the bottom pair of jeans were wet and slippery, and had to brace his fingers to keep the jumble from teetering out of his control. They tossed everything on the sofa.

“These are test pieces I had made,” Lee said. “Proof of concept, to see how SkyB holds up under a sewing machine. And to see how a sewing machine holds up against SkyB.”


“It works. Sews great, apparently, apart from very thin stuff. Tricky to work with. Not surprising. Better to glue that.”

Both looked at the pile.

“Well, go on then, try one on,” Lee said.

Lambert had to pick the oily jeans. The dangerous horsehide. The dangerous, oily, lubed – hydrophobic – and deep black horsehide. Bent over the sofa, fondling the jeans, he extricated them from the rest of the pile, started unbuttoning his jeans, and looked up at Lee, who was beaming down.

“I won’t look,” he said with a smirk, “but only if you go commando. It would be remiss to let your naughty bits miss out on that experience.”

Lambert stared at him with an expression that mixed supplicating puppy eyes with incredulity but still got out a parched “OK”.

The horsehide – let’s call it that – was, like any good horsehide, unbelievably smooth with just a delicate, thin grain; thick but as malleable as much thinner leather yet with a good spring to it. It didn’t feel brittle or dusty or loose like cheap cardboard leather, as thicker hides sometimes can. Lambert rubbed his fingers together: they were dry; the jeans though, felt wet and slippery.

“I was sure these had been soaked in lube,” he said to a wall-facing Lee.

“They feel like it, don’t they? But no, this is just one way of microfelting. And some of that magic sprinkled in. I can’t say more.”

“I don’t need more,” Lambert said, tossed his jeans and pants aside, and – half-hard – started to pull up the dangerous leathers. Not only did they feel wet and freshly lubed, they slid on like they would have slid on had they been wet and saturated with lube. His cock, when he’d buttoned up, throbbed. His foreskin caught onto a patch of pubes, and part of his glans came in contact with the leather. He moaned.

“Something wrong?” Lee said.

“No, well, yes. A patch of bare cockhead just touched the leather.”

“Ah yes. Deadly. Fancy a jacket as well?”

“Still adjusting.”

“Don’t be a wimp. Here,” Lee said, and tossed Lambert a monstrous jacket made from a similar sort of hide – a biker model weighing twice as much as it looked, with chest flaps and silver press studs, belts and bulky padding. “Strip and put it on – no point in keeping a t-shirt on. Lined with the same material, of course. What would be the point of boring lining?”

While Lambert was struggling into the jacket – Lee was smaller – Lee turned back to the open wardrobe. “What’s your shoe size?”

“Between 10 and 11.”

“What a beautiful coincidence. These should fit.” He handed Lambert a pair of boots – on first sight just shy of his knees – that looked like something out of a sci-fi movie: the leather had a plastic, metallic sheen. “These are SkyB as well. The toughest version we’ve been able to breed. Nearly indestructible. We had them made by a company specialising in firefighter gear. They seemed well interested before 4M bought us out.”

Every move Lambert made got him harder. Bending over to get the boots on, pushing his feet in, straddling to tighten them, rubbing the leather of the jeans flat to get the hems to fit into the boots – every time his cock slid into a frictionless, wet fold in the leather, he bit one of his lips and inhaled reflexively.

When he finally got up Lee stood next to him and stroked the leather flat over his back, adjusted various belts, buckles, and the chest flaps (giving them the compulsory tug and stroke), and ran a hand down the jeans to Lambert’s boots – brisk at first, then he lingered. He crouched behind Lambert and, holding onto his pelvis, his fingers just under his crotch and kneading, started stroking his other hand upwards along his inner thigh.

“No, don’t,” Lambert said with a huff and stepped forwards, out of Lee’s grip.

Lee didn’t answer.

“I’m going to cum. I’m there. I have to hold it.”

“Nothing wrong with cumming.”

“Too soon.”

“I’m sure I could get a second one out of you. Easily.”

Lambert laughed, bent forwards, his hands on his knees. “Even breathing is erotic in this stuff.”

“It is, isn’t it?” With that Lee stepped right behind Lambert, grabbed him by the thighs, stroked up, and ground his bulge against Lambert’s leathered, polished bum. He spooned Lambert and rubbed his cock, got met with a pair of half-hearted objections and a groan. Lambert sagged, huffed, grabbed his cock, and humped. “You bastard,” he said.

“You’re too easy.”

“No, it’s this stuff. It’s irresistible.”

“On the right person it is. Glad you like it.”

“Strange,” Lambert said, “it doesn’t feel much different with spunk in those jeans than without.”

“They’re hydrophobic. Your spunk will only stick to your legs. If you take off the jeans, it’ll just pearl down. Very handy in the rain or if you don’t want to wipe spunk off jeans. Care to try on a different one?”

“In a bit,” Lambert said, and sat down.

“You’re stroking your thighs again.”

Lambert closed his eyes, smiled and let his head lean back against the sofa’s low backrest. “So I am. It’s irresistible.”

“Here, try these.”

“You’re indefatigable.” Lambert took over the jeans. “God, they’re thin. And so light.”

“They should be fairly tight as well. Not as slippery as the other pair, but buttery soft and far more restrictive than they look. They’re not as aggressively erotic, but they have a twisted, dark secret to them. How do you feel like being fondled through leather?”

“Would you be surprised if I said I like it?”

“Not in the slightest. And how would you feel like being strapped down while said fondling took place?”

“I can deal with that.”

“I’ll be in the bedroom, second door to your left down that corridor next to the kitchen.”

“I’ll try to remember.”


Lambert slipped right out of the horsehide, even though it was one of the tightest pairs he’d ever worn. Cum had been smeared all over his thighs, yet the jeans were pristine. The new pair had two zips down the calves – had they not been there it would have been impossible for him to get them on. His cock – still soft – nuzzled into a smooth bulge. There was no zip or buttons, nor could he detect a seam, but two small buckles at the sides allowed him to tighten the jeans around his waist. These jeans were cosy, he thought. He wouldn’t mind lounging in them. (He wouldn’t mind lounging in the horsehide either, he though as well.)


In the bedroom he found Lee clipping ankle cuffs to a leather – or SkyB, presumably – covered bed.

“I think you should slip into this as well,” he said, showing Lambert a t-shirt with a lace up front made from the same light SkyB as the jeans he was wearing. “How do you feel about being blindfolded?”

“Ok,” Lambert said.


“Fine. Not my favourite, but I can deal with it.”

“I think you should deal with it.”

He dropped it over Lambert’s head when he was done lacing up the t-shirt.

“So comfortable,” Lambert said.

“Isn’t it? This one has an open mouth, and largish nose holes. You should be fine.”

“Do you have an ulterior motive, picking an open-mouth hood? Or are you just concerned about my breathing?”

“Yes,” Lee said.


Lee coaxed him to the middle of the bed and brought his wrists to the assorted cuffs.

“Those feel gorgeous.”


“Again. It’s all SkyB here.”

“I’ve still got my old leather gear,” Lee said, “but I hardly touch it. Except for one pair of jeans I’m very fond of. The rest is all SkyB.”

“Must have cost a fortune.”

“Not really. If you discount the cost of the machinery. And R&D.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“In that sense all novelty stuff is expensive. The good thing about SkyB is how easy it is to scale up production.”


“Yeah. I can’t say much more than that, but imagine brewing kombucha in shallow trays and harvesting the skins that form on the surface. Like that. Then felt the stuff, tan, and that’s it. There. All done. Try struggling a bit, see how it feels. No pinching?”

“No pinching.”


Lambert yelled.

“This is a single fingernail, running up your cock.”

“Fuck,” he said, “I dread to imagine what –” Lambert yelled much higher.

“These are four or five fingernails running up your cock and balls.”

“That leather, it – fuck, I don’t know – it amplifies whatever you do.”

“It amplifies soft touch, yes. Special felting procedure. The fibres focus even diffuse stimuli. Like a finger, for example.”

“That is a finger?”

“It is.”

“It feels like the tip of a pointy feather.”

“Shall I try a feather?”


“I may have to gag you for that.”

Lambert nodded. Lee hopped off and back on the bed.

“SkyB muzzle, with small silicone gag. Comfortable?”

Lambert hmm’ed.

“Now, brace yourself for the feather.”

Lee touched it repeatedly to the base of Lambert’s frenulum which, although covered in thin black leather, was not difficult to differentiate from the rest of his cock. At each contact, Lambert jumped, as did his cock, held in place by the infuriatingly thin, touch-focussing leather. Thirty seconds later he started humping. Lee could see Lambert’s heart beat in the engorged cockhead. He was holding his breath now; Lee slowed down the poking and twirled the feather down every few pokes, gave Lambert’s balls the odd flick. Lambert whined.

“You really are easy,” Lee said.

Lambert mumbled.

“Not fair? Of course not. That’s what restraints are for. Ten more minutes of this, and I’ll get the feather duster out.”

Lambert shrieked.

“Yes, you heard that right. Feather duster. Now be quiet and suffer.”

Lambert squirmed too much to Lee’s taste. He added thigh straps and a wide belt over his stomach. “Much better.”

Lee resumed the poking and flicking. Lambert got out a drone.

“Let you cum? Perhaps with the feather duster. Seven more minutes.”

Another shriek.

“Yes, seven. Or shall I make it – I don’t know? – twenty? I can do twenty.”


“You’ve just cum. Well, twenty or thirty minutes ago, in the horsehide. You can wait another few minutes.”

Lee started stroking his chest, made little circles around Lambert’s nipples, and followed the base of his pecs from armpit to sternum and back. “Feels about as intense as the cock-work doesn’t it?”

Lambert whined, humped aggressively, and, as clear as the gag allowed, begged to cum.

“No. Not yet. Here. What do you think of this?”

Lee dropped the feather between Lambert’s thighs, started stroking the length of his cock and balls through the leather with a full hand, bent over to lick and nibble on his right nipple while with his other hand he stroked around his other nipple.

Lambert made clear what he thought of it by humping in increasing resonance with the bedsprings. To every hump he added a groan. Every few groans he had to swallow hard. He swallowed again when Lee rid him of the muzzle and gag.

“Please let me cum,” he said.

“Predictable as well as easy.”

“That leather is fiendish. Your tongue… I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Focussed, slippery, obstinate wetness?”

“Something like that, yeah. If you did that to my cock, I’d cum within two licks.”

“But that’s not what you’re going to get. Thighs with the feather duster, that’s what you’ll get.” Lee hopped off the bed. “I think I’m going to work just on their insides until you explode. It may take an hour or two, especially if I stop when you’re getting close.”

“Please don’t do that.”

“Don’t you think it’d be worth it?”

“I need to cum now.”

“All boys need to cum now . That’s why they let themselves be strapped down. They know, deep down, that they need that need to cum, that they need that need far more than that orgasm. Deep down you’re all sluts.”

“How about you?”

“I’m a slut as well, but right now you’re the one strapped down, and I’m the one making you need to cum. Don’t you think I’m needy as well?”

“Not as needy as me,” Lambert said, with a distinct edge of childish complaint about unfairness.

“Feather duster?”

“No, please.”

“You’ll love it. I promise.”

“No,” was his reply, more plaintive than antagonising.

“I take that as a resounding yes.”

Lee straddled Lambert’s hooded face, unzipped, stroked his cock to even fuller erection, got his cock against Lambert’s lips, said “suck,” propped himself up his elbows at either side of Lambert’s sides, and started fluffing the duster over his thighs and cock to much shrieking and gurgling. Lambert couldn’t coordinate struggling and sucking, and when his head shot up to catch a glimpse of his groin – useless but built in endeavour – Lee’s cock shot down the wrong side of his throat.

“Concentrate,” said Lee as Lambert coughed while cock-gagged. “If you get me to cum – a long, drawn-out, fulfilling orgasm following an expert blowjob – I’ll consider letting you cum as well. With the feather duster, but without too much edging. Deal?”

Lambert gurgled, but his lips and tongue started exploring Lee’s cock with more earnest.

“Good boy,” Lee said. While Lambert did OK given the circumstances, Lee enjoyed admonishing him. “Concentrate. More tongue. Variety, you lazy fuck. Mind your teeth. Right, that’s two more edges. Mind your teeth, I just only said. Three edges.”

“No please.”

“No talking. Four more edges.” He removed the duster when Lambert, holding his breath, started humping. He whined. “That’s one.” He dappled over Lambert’s balls, nothing more, with the very tip of the feathers. Within a few minutes, a huffing Lambert froze and keened. “Don’t stop sucking. An edge is no excuse. That’s two.”

“Please,” Lambert gasped after working Lee’s cock out.

“One more please and I’ll increase your edge count by ten. You’ve got two more to go. For now. Now suck. So far you’ve been doing an execrable job. I’m not saying I’m not deliberately trying to foil your feeble attempts at getting me off – I am – but still. I’m sure you can do much, much better. Yeah. That’s it. Thaaat’s it. And now with the feathers working your cock … aaand … you’re crap again. Five more edges. And no more cock work. Just your balls and thighs. I’m sure the leather is saturated with your precum anyway. Should feel good all by itself.” He took Lambert’s cock with two fingers and slid it back and forth about an inch or so to test his theory. There was no resistance or friction, and this wasn’t the oily horsehide.


“That’s ten more. You’re sopping wet, like a true slut. You just love being edged. Don’t deny it.”

With the feathers only over his thighs, Lambert managed to concentrate. When he reached an edge and knew Lee would stop feathering him, he concentrated on the cock in his mouth and worked on it in all the ways that made Lee purr. The concentration somehow mellowed his need. After another edge – he’d long lost count – while he was slopping up Lee’s cock deep and with lots of tongue, Lee jerked out of Lambert’s mouth. Both froze for an instant. Even the creaking of the straps and Lee’s gear sounded like leather, he realised.

“Oh fuck, no, too close,” Lee said, plunged his cock back into Lambert’s mouth, said “Finish me off,” but started cumming before he’d ended the sentence with a long moan.

Lambert lay humping while Lee caught his breath and stuffed his slimy cock back into his jeans.

“I’ve lost count of your edges,” he said while stroking Lambert’s chest.

“One more.”

“As if.”

He got off the bed. “Have you ever cum by being brought to the very edge with just a single feather?”


“Do yo think you could cum with a single feather?”

“I could cum with half a feather.”


“I could cum by humping.”

“We can’t have that. I’ll tighten the straps. Try humping now. Yes. Much better.” Lee twirled the eider feather between two fingers. “I’ve never tried this,” he said. “It may not work.”


He had to gag Lambert five minutes in. Ten minutes in he got the boy to an edge that could have blossomed into orgasm, had he given Lambert one more stroke or had Lambert humped and strained, but both remained as motionless as they could. “I’m getting tired,” Lee said.

“So am I,” Lambert spittled through the gag.

“Time to make you cum then.”

Lee applied the eider feather to the rim of Lambert’s cock. Within seconds he saw it swell. He twirled it over the edge of the foreskin. Lambert’s belly sank and chest rose; his clenched fists turned white. In the middle of a long upstroke along his shaft, Lambert screamed. Lee didn’t speed up the stroke, but once he’d arrived at the frenulum, he kept the feather there and gave it the tiniest of side to side flicks. Lambert humped and humped. Spunk jetted in between the leather and his cock. Lee could see the spray and the spreading of cum as little globs that briefly ballooned the leather out. When he resumed the lazy the upstrokes, Lambert started giggling. Lee kept him giggling for some time. He couldn’t tell, several minutes in, whether Lambert was cumming again or not. He put the feather aside, nuzzled Lambert’s warm groin, inhaled deeply, and gave his softening cock a few licks. Lambert moaned. “I don’t think I could cum a third time,” he said.

“That wasn’t my intention.”

After he got the hood off and undid the straps, both had a deep look into each other’s eyes. No kiss materialised, perhaps for the better.

“You may want to spend the night here,” Lee said. “It’s late. I’ve got a spare bedroom. I’ll show you the shower.”


Breakfast was a simple affair. Lee didn’t like elaborate food in the morning. Lambert had donned his regular clothes.

“I thought you might have slipped into something more pervy,” Lee said. “The sofa’s still full of unexplored gear.”

“Didn’t know if that’d be fine with you.”

“Course it would’ve been.” Lee smirked. He got up, told Lambert to get rid of his jeans (and knickers), went into the kitchen, and handed him a warm bundle of goo-like blackness. “Put it on, quick.”

The bundle unfolded into a slimy – but curiously dry – pair of tights. Lambert struggled into the jeans as fast as he could. True to their word, they were tighter than any he’d tried on, yet his ankles cleared the hems which, unlike leather and much more like rubber, had stretched and then moulded to his legs.

“This isn’t SkyB?”

“It is. Another special felting. Much more stretchy, under certain conditions. And the inside, as you may feel, is slippery. The outside, not so much.”

Lambert rocked his hips. The leather had his cock hard in seconds. “It’s still getting tighter,” he said.

Lee nodded. “It’ll get tighter until it’s reached body temperature.”

When they’d finished breakfast – Lambert had been rocking his hips throughout – Lee told him, though he didn’t want to be rude, that he had things to do. So had Lambert. He gathered his stuff, still humping and stroking his thighs at every occasion, and, with some regret, sat down on the sofa to get out of the SkyB tights. As much as he pulled, the hems wouldn’t budge. “How do you get them off?”

“I’ll let you figure that out.”


“There’s a trick.”

Lambert shook his head. “Don’t get it.”

“They were hot when you pulled them on. That’s when they’re stretchy.”

“But how do I get them hot again?”

“Many possibilities: microwave, oven, volcano … you choose. Come on, get packed, I haven’t got all day. Neither have you.”


“Look for a nice quiet patch in the full sun. Or take a hot bath. Go to a sauna. You’ll get out of them. Eventually. If you want to.”

Lee handed him his stuff and his regular jeans, and pushed him out. Lambert, flustered, staggered down the stairs, in just the tights and a hoody. He got his sneakers on, fished his keys out of his pocket and walked to his car, half dazed. He didn’t notice the general staring.

“If you really can’t get them off,” he heard from four floors above, “I’d be glad to help.”

He nodded. “OK. Thanks, I guess,” he shouted back, and drove off.