The Telemachus Story Archive

Crime And Punishment
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



Crime and Punishment

To see your motorbike being nicked in front of your eyes and not being able to do anything about it is, I can tell you, one of the most frustrating and rage-inducing things ever. I'd parked it outside, knowing I could keep an eye on it from the upstairs window - but I hadn't counted on being gagged and straitjacketed at the time.

I'd been having a session with my mate Steve, and he'd left me for a few minutes, to go get some lube from downstairs. I could still walk about (although it's not that easy in a heavy leather straitjacket) so I thought I'd check on the bike.

As I looked down into the quiet road outside the house, I saw this boy - could only have been eighteen or so - walk past it. He was carrying a crash helmet, and the first thing I thought was, "fuck, he's cute." Blond, about 5' 8", slim, boyish, and wearing the tightest faded jeans I'd seen for a long time. As I looked at him (my cock was getting hard again at thoughts of what I'd like to do to him) he stopped, looked up and down the street, and back towards the house, then my jaw hit the floor as he jammed the helmet over his head without fastening it up, took a screwdriver out of his pocket, wrenched the ignition lock with it, and then started the fucking bike and rode it away!

I yelled for Steve, but I was effectively gagged. As quickly as I could I ran down the stairs and staggered into the kitchen. He looked up in surprise at my hysterical state. "What's the hell's the matter?" He asked, removing the gag.

A little later we were sat drinking tea in the living room. Steve had calmed me down, and asked me to tell him exactly what had happened, and to describe the boy as clearly as I could. That I was able to do in meticulous detail.

Seeing my bike being nicked had ruined the horny afternoon I'd been having with Steve, and all I could think about was getting that boy onto some of the equipment in my playroom and making damn sure that he would never ever want to steal a motorbike again. Ever.

Steve was quiet for a few moments, and then said: "Would you really like to get him in your playroom?"

"Shit yes!"

"What would you do to him?"

That actually stopped me. I didn't know. I was torn between wanting to torture the bastard - to pump electricity into his balls and hear him scream - and to have sex with him because I fancied the boy so much. I said so to Steve.

He smiled slightly. "Well, if you promise me you won't electrocute him, I'll tell you where he lives."

I stared. "What? You know the fucker? You know where he lives?"

"Oh yes. From your description I know exactly who he is. Don't know his name, but he lives up on the estate."

I blinked, trying to absorb this.

"Tell you what, let's try to get your bike back tonight, then you can plan your revenge..."

* * *

Steve and I were both in our full black leathers - for protection if we needed to fight, and also for concealment in the dark of the night. We were armed with handcuffs which, apart from being great for getting someone restrained quickly, were also excellent weapons - have you ever been smacked around the face with a pair of stainless-steel cuffs?

In the event we didn't need them. "This is the house," Steve whispered. It was 3am, and the two of us were the only signs of life anywhere on the estate. Silently, we propped open the gate at the side of the house, then walked along to the tiny back garden. It was a rubbish tip - but there, apparently unharmed, was my beautiful yellow CBR 600. I snarled when I saw the broken ignition switch, but Steve touched my arm and put his finger to his lips.

There wasn't room to turn it round, so as quietly as possible we wheeled it backwards along the path and out into the road. I wanted to ride it away, but Steve insisted we push it. "You don't have a crash helmet - and the engine would probably wake them up." We wheeled it back to Steve's, and locked it in his garage.

I got a replacement ignition switch the following day, and felt wonderful at having the bike back again. Feeling unusually horny, I spent the afternoon surfing the net for porn - and came across a drawing by an American artist which really got to me. I imagined that boy who stole my bike in the position of the victim in the drawing, and knew immediately that that was exactly what I was going to do to him. Torture and sex, both at once. I switched the computer off, and with a raging hard-on in my leather jeans, set to work constructing a machine.

* * *

It took me several days - I had to visit the DIY store a few times for bits and pieces - but surprisingly quickly it was finished. I struggled carrying it, in pieces, down to my playroom, and set it up in the middle of the room. Now all I needed was someone to test it on. I called Steve.

Steve agreed to help, but he said that it would be me who'd be the guinea pig. He'd strap me onto the machine and switch it on, but I'd be the one to suffer. Fucking tops.

It worked well. Oh boy did it work well. We spent a while adjusting things, and we got it perfect. Steve was all for leaving me on the damn thing for half an hour but I couldn't stand it for more than a few minutes. It was one of the horniest, most amazing things I'd ever experienced - but it was unbelievably frustrating. I needed to cum so badly it hurt. Eventually my gagged pleading got to him and he released me, but the bastard refused to let me cum.

"So," he said when we were back upstairs and I'd calmed down, "the only problem you have left is how you're going to get him into your torture chamber."

"Hmm. Yeah, I've been thinking about that. Any ideas?"

Steve chuckled. "Actually, yes I have."

I rolled my eyes. He would have.

"I've got some good mates on the estate, and some of them know him - much better than I do. While you've been constructing torture devices I've been making enquiries and doing some groundwork. The boy's name is Bradley Forrest, he's eighteen - just. Been in trouble with the law a few times for minor things, and he's agressively straight. At least he often makes bad jokes about gays. Anyway, it's all arranged. Tomorrow night some of my mates are going to grab him on the way to his football practise, and bring him back to your place tied up and hooded so that he won't know where you live. They'll deliver him to your cellar, and they'll call for him again three hours later to take him back the same way. Three hours going to give you enough time?"

I couldn't believe it - Steve had got it all sorted! "Three hours will be absolutely fine. Steve, I owe you one."

"Oh yes," his eyes glinted. "And you will pay one day, my sexy friend, you will pay."

I had no doubt of that at all.

* * *

I followed them down the stairs to the cellar - three big muscular blokes half-carrying, half-dragging a swearing, protesting, fighting boy with a green canvas hood over his head and his hands cuffed behind his back. Apart from Brad, no-one said a word. Holding him tightly, they stripped him and, at my silent directions, got him face-down onto the padded table, where we buckled the thick black leather straps over his arms, legs, and body. Soon he was completely helpless. I nodded my thanks to the guys, and they left us alone.

I checked the machine, and positioned it, ready. The table was big enough to take a man, thickly padded and covered in leather. I'd built it years ago for cum-control and forced milking, but hadn't used it for ages. There was a hole in it, through which the victim's cock and balls were inserted, and I'd spent many a happy hour lying on that table, being milked very very slowly by various people. But in these days of automation, something more was required.

The machine I'd built looked very home-made, but it worked a treat. On the floor was a long, thin tray full of oil, which was kept warm by a small heating element underneath. Above the tray of oil was a 12"-diameter wheel with very soft, wide paintbrushes fixed to it, their heads pointing outwards, away from the centre. An electric motor rotated the wheel, and as the brushes at the bottom dipped into the oil they picked it up, carrying it up, over the top, and back down the other side. The height and the angle were adjustable, and the idea was to arrange it so that the soft, oily brushes stroked very gently over the victim's balls, along the shaft of his cock, and over the sensitive cock-head.

At the moment, Brad's cock was soft, and this wouldn't work until it got hard. So I pulled on some rubber gloves, dipped them in the oil, and set about gently working on his cock.

The instant I touched it his swearing doubled in volume. He was yelling obscenities into the hood, and fighting in the restraints so much that I wondered if they'd hold. But they were thick leather, and a lot stronger than he was. I noticed that he was still able to pull his hips back a little as he tried to get his cock away from my hands, so I tightened the strap over this pelvis even more. That did it - now he couldn't move away at all. The time for talking would be later, and so, still saying nothing, I went back to teasing his cock.

Like most 18 year-old boys, Brad got hard at the slightest provocation, and within seconds his cock was stiffening as my fingers teased it and tickled his balls. Very soon it was fully erect, and I could hand over to the automation.

I raised the machine slightly and turned it on. I'd put a variable-speed motor on it, and I made sure it was set for a very slow speed. Each brush took approximately eight seconds to complete its journey from the base of his balls to the tip of his cock-head - and a couple of seconds after that one reached the end, the next one began its teasing journey over his balls. The brushes were very soft indeed, but I thought they were still touching his cock slightly too firmly - I wanted this to be frustrating in the extreme - so I lowered the device slightly. Yes, that was perfect. I knew exactly how it was feeling for him. Pleased with the results of my handiwork, I went upstairs to make a cup of tea and then to get changed. I reckoned an hour on the machine would soften him up enough for the next phase.

It was while I was sat drinking my tea and reading the paper some ten minutes later that I heard the moaning and swearing coming from downstairs. I put the paper down, picked up my tea and took it down to the cellar with me. The wheel was turning, the brushes were stroking along his steel-hard cock, and he was yelling - pleading.

"PLEEEEEASE!!! I CAN'T STAND IT!!! MAKE ME FUCKING CUM YOU BASTARD!!!!!"

My cock jumped in my jeans and sprang to full erection in seconds. I wished he wasn't still hooded, so that I could see his cute, sexy face - but that would come later. For now it was enough for him to suffer. I sat down comfortably to enjoy the show, and looked at my watch. Twenty minutes down, forty to go. He was going to be one very horny boy by the time the hour was over. I watched as the soft brushes dipped into the warm oil, carried it upwards, stroked it so slowly along the length of his precum-oozing cock, the soft bristles springing upright after leaving the tip of his cock-head. Every time a brush got to the sensitive head, his cock jerked. As I sat there looking, I was thinking idly that if I were really mean I could pour some chili sauce into the oil... But it wasn't pain I was after with this boy. Oh no. I wanted him to suffer greatly (and this was only the beginning of his suffering tonight) but in a way that was both unbearable for him, and also a turn-on for me - and I wasn't into inflicting pain. Teenage boys are usually very easy to get horny, and what better thing to use against this teenage boy as a torture than his need to cum? His desperate, urgent, compelling need to cum - when he couldn't cum ?

It was actually me who didn't last the hour; after 45 minutes I couldn't stand it any more - I needed to work on him. By this time he was hoarse with pleading, swearing and yelling, and he needed to cum more than he had ever needed to cum in his life. The thing about boys like that is that they've never been in a position before where they need to cum badly but can't. Doesn't normally happen. So, never having experienced it, they have absolutely no defence against it.

I went upstairs and got changed. The hood was going to come off him soon, and I wanted him to see a total masculine, leather pervert. Masculine so that there was no doubt in his mind that it was a guy doing this to him; and leather because I wanted to plant associations in his mind between black leather, helplessness, and the most intensely frustrating, horny experience he'd ever had.

When I came down from the bedroom I looked at myself in the hall mirror. Tall black leather boots; skintight, shiny black leather jeans (the ones that made my cock bulge out obscenely between my thighs); a studded belt; leather jacket with the collar turned up; leather fingerless gloves; and a black leather mask. I'm not in the least bit narcissistic, but looking at my reflection in that mirror made me hard.

Down in the cellar I adjusted the lighting, then unfastened the drawstring of the canvas hood and pulled it off his head. His spiky blond hair was a bit flattened, and he clamped his eyes shut in what, for him, was the impossibly bright light - but close to, he was even more beautiful than I'd remembered. He was fucking gorgeous. And seeing that boy helpless on the table in front of me was wonderful. My cock got even harder in my leather jeans.

My shiny, bulging leather crotch was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes, as it was a few inches from his face. He stared at it for a moment, looked up at my masked face, then spat onto the fly of my jeans.

I smiled under the mask. "Lick it off," I said, moving slightly closer.

"Fuck you, you fucking pervert. Get me off this fucking thing you fucking cunt."

In full view of him I carefully licked the middle finger of my right hand, then leaned over him, spread the cheeks of his arse apart with my other fingers, and just touched it to his arsehole, holding it there. "Lick it off," I said again, quietly.

"Get your fucking hand off my fucking arse you bent bastard queer fucker!"

"Lick it off," I repeated, slightly increasing the pressure of my finger on his arsehole.

I didn't want to push my finger into his arse - mainly because I was afraid it would probably make him cum, and that was the very last thing I wanted. So I went to the shelves and returned holding a dildo. This was by no means the biggest I had in that room, but it would have brought tears to his eyes all right. To underline the point, I tore open a sachet of lube, and poured it onto the black rubber cock, then placed it in position on his ring. "Lick it off," I said, still quietly.

I could see the wheels turning in his head. To a straight boy, his arse is even more sacred than his cock, and I knew there was no way on earth he would want it even touched, let alone fucked with an eight-inch black rubber dildo. But battling against that was the abhorrence of licking another guy's crotch. It was a terrible decision for a straight boy to have to make. I was sniggering under my mask. To hurry his decision, I applied a little more pressure to the dildo. The tip slipped just inside the ring of his arse.

"All right! I'll lick it you cunt. But when I get out of here your balls are history." Underneath the bravado in his voice I could hear the sound of defeat. This time. There would be other battles this evening - I was counting on it.

I moved into range again and watched as he licked what remaining spit there was off my jeans. I made my cock jerk a couple of times while he was doing it.

"That's a good boy," I said. I bent down to inspect the machine. His cock was still rock-hard, and the brushes were still doing their frustrating job on it. Leaning on the table near his head, I looked into his eyes. "Have you any idea why I'm doing this?"

He didn't reply.

"No? Ok, I'll tell you. On wednesday night you stole my motorbike."

At that the colour drained from his face. "Your bike?"

"Yes, my bike. A bright yellow CBR 600. That was my bike. I watched you steal it. You were carrying a black crash helmet, you sat on the bike then forced the ignition with a red screwdriver which you took out of your left pocket, and you skidded on the way up the hill, going over a manhole cover."

He spluttered something, but then realized there was in fact no answer to that.

"And so you're here. You're here to be punished. By the time I've finished with you, you will never want to steal another motorbike again."

"Oh please, please... I needed the money. I got no fucking money mate. Let me go. Please?"

"Oh no chance of that mate. Oh no. You are cute, I'm gay, I fancy you like fuck, and I am going to enjoy myself playing with you, teasing you, torturing you. And the best thing you can do is to do exactly what I say when I say it. Otherwise that virgin boy-hole of yours is going to get fucked - and I will apply electrodes to your balls. Comprendez?"

"What do you want me to do?" He said in a small voice.

"For the moment, I want you to lie there and suffer."

I got under the table, and adjusted the device a little to that the brushes didn't touch his balls any longer, only his cock. I also reduced even further the pressure of the bristles on it - now they were hardly touching as they ran along his hard-on. I lay comfortably facing upwards at the side of the machine, slid my fingers up both sides of his balls and began to tickle them and the insides of his thighs. I have always been gifted with an incredibly light touch, and as my fingers glided softly over his balls, he howled. It was a strange noise, a keening wail of unbearable, animal frustration.

I kept that up for a while, then got out from under the table. He looked so beautiful lying there, the black of the leather straps contrasting with the lightness of his skin, and the sprinkling of golden-blond hair on his legs. His slim waist and broad shoulders, his muscular arms, the curve of his back and the round compactness of his arse...

I climbed onto the table and lay full-length on top of him, my leather in contact with every inch of his back, legs and arms, and my hard, leather-covered cock pushing against his arse. I reached around his head and clamped my gloved hand over his mouth, gagging him. "You've been got - by another boy. And there is fuck-all you can do about it," I whispered into his ear. Then I kissed his neck gently. He was making noises - calling me obscene names, I supposed - but my gagging hand made whatever he was saying unintelligible.

It was when I took my hand away that I realized the noises he was making were in fact moans of sexual pleasure. Each time I moved on top of him, he moaned and sighed. I grinned - perhaps leather and bondage were what he'd been wanting for years.

I climbed off the table, and got some feathers from the shelves. Sitting down on the stool at the side of the table I started to tickle him: running the feathers down his spine, over his legs, the cheeks of his arse, his arsehole, his arms - everywhere that was accessible to me. I did it so lightly the tips of the soft feathers were hardly touching, as I knew that would sensitise his skin a lot. He continued to moan, but more quietly than before.

I put the feathers down and went to work with my fingertips instead. Beginning at his hips, I walked my fingers up his sides to his armpits, pressing gently at first, but then the next time, harder. He started to laugh and squirm in his restraints, and this turned me on a lot, so I did it more, reaching under his chest to get between his ribs each time. And then I went to work on his sides. Boys' sides are often excruciatigly ticklish, and Brad's were no exception. He screamed as my stiff fingers poked and prodded, stimulating the muscles and nerves with small circular motions just below his bottom ribs. He fought against the straps holding him down, yelled blue murder, and laughed hysterically - but I just carried on, ignoring the noises he was making and his desperate begging for me to stop. I was alsmost cumming in my jeans tickle-torturing this gorgeous, sexy, helpless boy.

Eventually I stopped and, after checking his cock again (tickling sometimes makes a boy's cock go soft - but his was every bit as hard as it had been) I stood again near his face. "Use your teeth - GENTLY - on the head of my cock through the leather, boy."

He didn't need further persuasion this time. He raised his head, took the end of my cock into his mouth through my jeans, and scratched his teeth along the leather gently and carefully. I could have sworn that he was enjoying it. His eyes kept running up my leather jacket to my masked face, then back down to my bulging crotch, and he looked like he was in heaven.

After a few minutes I took a chance. "Ok, do whatever you want to my crotch." I got ready to jump back if he bit, but he didn't bite. He thrust his face into it, licking and sucking on the black leather like it was what he'd wanted all his life. He licked along the outline of my cock, sometimes using his teeth very gently, licked my balls, probed his tongue into the creases at my groin, his saliva running down my thigh. I put my hand behind his head and forced it hard into my jeans. "Yeah! Suck my cock, boy!", I growled. He groaned in ecstasy, suffocating in the black leather.

I was in imminent danger of cumming as his blond head worked on my crotch so I stepped back. He closed his blue eyes for a moment and gave a little moan, then opened them again. There was a look of total pleading in them. "Please make me cum," he said.

After buckling leather cuffs around his ankles, I snapped a handcuff around his right wrist, then unfastened the straps holding his arms down to the table. Quickly I pulled his arms behind his back and clicked the other cuff into place. He hadn't tried to resist - not that he'd had much chance. He began to shake his head when he saw the hood in my hands. "No, please - I want to see you."

I was about to move him, and I wanted it to be as difficult as possible for him if he chose to resist - so I pulled the blindfolding hood over his head and tightened the drawstring, then unbuckled the remaining straps. "Get off the table." I ordered, helping him off. Making sure that nothing touched his cock, I moved him so that he was standing between the floor-to-ceiling posts, and spread his feet so that I could clip the cuffs to the restraint points at the bottom of the posts. Before unlocking his handcuffs, I put leather cuffs around his wrists, and roped them through the upper eyelets on the posts so that when I released the metal cuffs I could pull his wrists up with the ropes and he wouldn't be able to fight. Soon he was spreadeagled vertically, and secure.

Standing in front of him, I took off his hood. "Please let me cum," he said again.

Slowly, I removed my fingerless gloves, and replaced them with skintight black, shiny, leather police gloves, pulling them on with slow, considered intent, and locking his eyes with mine as I did so. A quiet moan escaped his lips. God, I thought again, that boy is so fucking beautiful.

I stood closer, saying nothing, his cock inches away from my crotch. As if I'd given him a command, he didn't move a muscle; didn't try to move back away from me, nor towards me - although I suspected that he badly needed to feel my leather jeans against his cock. I lifted my right hand and clamped it over his mouth. His eyes closed for a moment, then opened again to watch me. Very slowly, I moved my face closer to his, then kissed the back of my gloved hand - long and gently. If my hand hadn't been there I would have been kissing his mouth - something I desperately wanted to do.

"Lick the leather," I said, taking my hand away from his mouth and holding it in front of his face. He hesitated for a moment, then reached forward and licked. He not only licked, but pulled each finger individually into his mouth and sucked them one by one.

"Good boy," I whispered. I lowered that hand and wrapped the wet leather fingers gently around his cock. As they curled around the hard shaft I felt it pulse in my hand. I must be careful - he was very close to cumming. I just held his cock, not moving my hand at all. After a few seconds he couldn't stand it any more, and began to thrust his hips, trying to make himself cum in my gloved hand, but I was ready for that. I simply let go, leaving his cock stabbing the air.

After three repeats of that he got the message: if he didn't move, we could continue - altough he had no idea what was going to happen. He allowed me to hold his cock gently in my hand without moving. Very slowly, I moved my leather-masked lips towards his, while slowly stroking his cock. As soon as he realized that I was intending to kiss him, he pulled his head back. I let go of his cock.

We did it again, and then a third time. I knew he was fighting an internal battle with himself: he desperately wanted my hand to move on his cock, and I think he really wanted me to kiss him - but a vestige of that straight, macho shit still remained: he was male; I was another male. He would not kiss another guy.

But I was determined to make him lose that battle. The fourth time he didn't pull back. He closed his eyes as if he was about to take some dreadful-tasting medicine, and let me kiss him. At first he didn't respond - but then, to my absolute delight, he opened his eyes and kissed me back. In fact very soon he was devouring me. I felt a bit guilty about not letting him cum there and then, as a reward just for that kiss, but then I reminded myself that this bastard had stolen my pride and joy - my motorbike - and my intention was to make him suffer.

Kneeling down, I gripped the base of his cock and his balls in my hand, and licked the tip of his cock with my tongue. I would have sucked his cock properly, but I knew that if I did he would cum in seconds flat. So instead, I opened my mouth wide, pulling the leather of my mask with it, and slowly took as much of his cock into my mouth as I could - making sure it didn't touch the sides at all. Once it was in, I gently closed my lips around it and pulled my head back very very slowly indeed, while tickling the very tip of the head with the end of my tongue.

From this position I couldn't see his face, but he was making some very strange noises. The fact that he hadn't tried to pull his hips away from me told me that they couldn't be noises of disgust, or protest, and when I got to the end of his cock and released it, I looked up. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, and his tongue was stroking over his upper lip in utter lascivious abandon. "Oooooh fuuuuuuck..." he breathed.

I smiled to myself and repeated the excercise, very slowly and gently so that he couldn't cum. When my lips had slid off his cock-head I stood up facing him and gripped his balls gently with my leather-gloved hand. "You horny?"

"Oh ffffffuuuckkk!"

"Do you need to cum?"

"Oh man, my balls ache so bad. Let me cum, pleeeease."

"You stole my motorcycle, you bastard. My beautiful CBR - you stole it."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you? I don't think you're sorry enough yet." I took a couple of long feathers from the shelf and pulled up the stool to sit down. I put one of the feathers down and used the other on his cock. He was uncircumcised, but the hardness of his erection had pulled the foreskin right back so that the glans was fully exposed. I stroked the tip of the feather back and forth over the glossy purple head, first concentrating on the ridge at the base, and then gradually working my way up towards the tip.

His moaning gradually increased both in volume and also in passion. With my right hand I stroked and tickled my own bulging cock through my jeans - and slid my fingertips lightly over the shiny black leather of my thighs, balls and perineum, opening and closing my legs, trapping my hand between my tight-jeaned thighs - and he was almost salivating watching me. His eyes followed my fingertips over the leather, and short, quiet, desperate noises escaped his lips.

"If you were untied, what would you do to me?"

He swallowed, his eyes still rivetted to my hand as it stroked over my crotch. "Put my arms round you, put my cock between your thighs, pull you tight to me, and fuck your jeans till I cum. And fucking kiss you, you bastard."

"Shame you're helpless then, innit?" I picked up the second feather and, with one now in each hand, I used them to tickle the back of his balls, and his piss-slit. This torment turned out to be a new order of magnitude for him: he was no longer capable of keeping still, and he thrust his hips forwards hard in the forlorn hope of getting more stimulation on his cock - enough to end this torture and make him cum.

But I was controlling precisely the amount of stimulation he could get - I made very certain that it wasn't enough.

He was almost sobbing. "I can't stand it! For fuck's sake make me cuuuuum!

I glanced at my watch - good grief, was that the time? Time flies when you're having fun - the guys would be back before long. "You want me to make you cum?"

"YEEESSS!!!"

"Good," I said, and continued to tickle his cock and balls with the feathers. "Tell you what - I'll fuck you, then I'll let you cum. Ok?"

I don't know what I'd expected him to say to this - probably to tell me to fuck off or something, but what he did say surprised me.

"YES! FUCK ME! FUCK ME! PLEASE!!!!" His blue eyes were wide and pleading.

I stood up, slowly unzipped my jeans and got my cock out. I held it in my hand, slowly moving the foreskin back and forth over the head. I was very close to cumming. "You want me to fuck you, boy?"

His eyes were fixed on my cock. "Yes," he said, more quietly. "Please."

I tore open a condom and carefully rolled it only my cock, then lubed it well from the sachet I'd used earlier on the dildo. Without speaking, I stood behind him, put more lube on my finger and gently worked it into the opening of his arsehole, then positioned my cock so the tip was pressing against his ring. I reached around his head, gagged him with my gloved hand, and pulled his head back onto my shoulder. Then, as slowly and as gently as I could, I pushed my cock in.

I had to pause after the head had gone past the outer sphincter, as it very nearly made me cum there and then, but after getting myself under control, I continued. It pushed its way smoothly past the inner muscle, and then it was in. I thrust slowly in as far as I could go.

His body tensed as my cock entered him, but then relaxed. I was pleased - it didn't seem to be hurting him too much. My plans had changed a lot since I'd first thought about what I would do to him if I got him in my playroom: now, I didn't actually want to hurt this boy at all. I wanted to make him feel incredibly good.

Slowly at first, and then faster, I started to fuck him. Our bodies moved together to a single rhythm, and I felt him licking the leather of the glove over his mouth. He was moaning quietly into my gagging hand.

There is a mirror on the other side of the playroom, set at an angle so that anyone in his position between the posts can see himself. I looked into it now - and the sight of that beautiful, helpless, gagged boy I was fucking, made me cum. With a growl of ecstasy I closed my eyes and thrust hard into him as far as I could. My cock jerked inside him as my spunk pumped out into the condom. I was in total heaven, fucking one of the sexiest straight boys I'd ever seen in my life.

I thought the intensity of my orgasm inside him might make him cum, but it didn't. When I'd recovered enough to function, I pulled out of him carefully, disposed of the condom, and put my cock back inside my jeans. Then I stood in front of him again. For a couple of minutes I tickled his cock and balls lightly with my fingers, then I held his head between my hands. "If I release your hands now, do you give me your word that you won't fight me? Because if you do, those electrodes are still waiting."

"I won't fight you," he said. And for some reason I believed him.

I freed his arms, but left his feet cuffed to the posts. Then I smiled under the mask. "Ok, put your arms round me. Feel my leathers, boy." I placed his cock between the tops of my thighs and squeezed my legs together as hard as I could.

He wrapped his arms around me, hugging me to him, and started to fuck my jeans. Then he kissed me - hard. I held his head and kissed him back. My cock was already getting hard again. Within a couple of seconds he started to cum. His whole body shook, and he almost collapsed on me as the intensity of his orgasm overwhelmed him. I supported his weight, still kissing him - although he was unable to concentrate on cumming and kissing me at the same time. I held him until he'd finished.

It occurred to me that once he'd cum, he might well become hostile again - boys do that often - but I needn't have worried. What happened next was the last thing I'd expected: he smiled at me, then held my leather-masked head and kissed me again - gently and lovingly.

"You're not going to fight if I release you?"

He smiled, closed his eyes, and shook his head.

I thought about it for a moment, then removed his ankle cuffs. He sat down on the floor between the posts and sighed. "Oh fuck," he whispered, "that was something else."

I knelt down facing him and he let me take him in my arms. We stayed there for a while.

We were still there when the guys arrived. I heard them coming in through the front door, and picked up the hood. "I'm sorry, but I've got to get this on you."

He nodded. "Ok."

We were standing, Brad naked, hooded and in my arms when the lads came into the playroom. They stared in surprise.

"All ready," I said. We helped him back into his clothes, and they took him away.

* * *

"So, was revenge sweet then?" Steve finished off his coffee and put the cup down on the table. We were sitting in my living room.

I thought about it, then shook my head. "It might have started out as revenge, but it didn't end up that way."

"But you had a good time with him?"

"Oh fuck, 'good time' doesn't even come close. I'm in love, Steve."

He smiled with one corner of his mouth. "Ah," he said.

We sat in silence for a while. "So," said eventually, "what happens now?"

I took a sip of tea. "Well, I know where he lives, but he dosn't know where I live. I think I might go and sit on the bike somewhere on the way to his football practise next Wednesday. I'll take the spare helmet, just in case he wants to come for a ride."

"The blacked-out one?"

"The blacked-out one."

"Do you think he will?"

I was quiet for a minute, then I smiled. "I think he might."

We didn't say any more until I'd finished my tea, then Steve stretched. "Ok - now, there's a small matter of payment that you owe me."

"Payment?" My face was a picture of innocence.

"I think you said you owed me one for getting you two together."

"Did I say that?"

"You did."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Ah."

"So, what do you want?"

"I think I'd like to see this machine working again. An hour, I think."

"An hour? No! That's inhuman!"

"Get your arse downstairs, boy. Now."

We stood up, and I went over to Steve, and hugged him. "Thanks, Steve."

He shook his head in resignation. "Bloody bottoms."

"Hey, who're you calling a bottom?"

"You! Just because you have one eighteen-year old boy it doesn't make you a fucking top."

The argument continued as he chased me down the stairs.