How they got away with calling this evil-smelling, foul-tasting liquid 'tea' was beyond me, but the cafe was on my way home, and so when I'd finished work for the evening I often ended up sitting for half an hour with my crash helmet on the table and a cup of this stuff in front of me. I never drank it, but it was the price of admission for thirty minutes of boy-watching. The 'Lorica' was a 24-hour greasy-spoon whose one redeeming feature was that it was frequented by some very sexy night-time drop-outs. You had to be careful - some of the characters were a bit on the unsavoury side - but months of familiarity with the place had made me wise to the drug-dealers, rent boys and trouble-merchants who were regulars. And I could keep an eye on my bike parked outside the window.
That night the place was fairly full, and there was a boy wearing leather jeans (this was an unusual sight at the Lorica - I was usually the only one in leathers there) when a shadow passed across my face and I looked up as a skinhead sat down opposite me. We did the compulsory 5-millisecond smile at each other, and then he applied what I suspected was all of his available intellect to stirring his tea.
I hadn't seen him come in, which was unusual, as I tended to watch the door a lot - I must have been distracted by the lad in the leather jeans who was getting ready to leave, by the look of it. Oh fuck, what do I do now? Follow the leather lad or stay and chat the skinhead up? I scanned the skin quickly: small, cute, denim jacket (here I dropped my lighter on the floor so that I could bend down and look at his crotch) and faded jeans! Yeah! I decided that the skin was more attractive, so I stayed.
"Oh fuck, that is crap!"
"What?" I said it automatically in response to the explosion opposite me.
"This tea. It's crap."
"Yes I know. This your first time in here...?"
"Hmm," I nodded back at him. "Just be thankful that you didn't try the coffee."
The skin laughed, then took out his cigarettes, and offered me one. I accepted. And that was the start of a relationship, believe it or not - although probably not the type of relationship you're thinking of. Kevin was straight, a hundred percent straight, and that was to become a major issue in my life.
We sat and talked - or rather he talked, I listened. He'd been born in New Zealand; he'd spent the last sixteen years over here; he had a small motorbike; he was out of work, he was broke, and he was being evicted from his flat next week for non-payment of rent. I sat and thought about this for a while and, after dropping my lighter on the floor again, offered to put him up - rent free - while he got himself another flat. He really was very cute.
We arranged to meet at the cafe again the next afternoon. I took him back to my house, showed him the spare room, and he said yeah, he'd like to live here. I hired a van and within two hours he was installed. I put a lock on his room door and gave him the key, but said he was welcome to use the rest of the house as well. He'd got a little 125cc Kawasaki dirt bike, and we put it in the garden behind the house.
To my pleasant surprise, he proved to be both responsible and trustworthy: nothing went missing, and he cleaned up after him whenever he used the living room or the kitchen. He was also a lot more intelligent than I'd taken him to be. I worked evenings, and when I got home we'd sit up most nights into the early hours playing music on the stereo (he tried to get me into ska and I tried to get him into heavy metal, but neither of us succeeded), smoking spliffs, and chatting about all kinds of things. He really was a very cute and interesting boy, and his jeans were faded, and sexy. The more I got to know him, the more I liked him, and the more I wanted him.
One evening - I forget what we'd been talking about - but the subject came up, and I told him that I was gay. There was a stunned silence, and then he told me that he wasn't. He was straight. Shortly after that he went to bed. I wondered if it would have been better not to have told him, but the next day he was fine. Well, I did notice some differences: he kept his distance from me, seemed a bit nervous, and asked me if the key I'd given him for his room was the only one. I assured him that it was, but I said that if he wanted I'd give him the money for another lock and he could change it. He shook his head and said "Nah, that's ok."
It took him a few days to relax again, but - presumably because I'd made no attempt to rape him so far - he fairly quickly got back to normal with me. Our late-night chats continued, About a week later he brought the subject up again.
"So - you're not really gay, are you?"
"How come you fancy guys?"
This kind of question continued all night. I tried to explain as well as I could that gay guys find some - not all - guys sexy in the same way that straight guys find some - not all - women sexy, and that I wasn't turned on sexually by women, in the same way that he wasn't turned on sexually by men. The standard basic course in understanding gays, in fact. I'd been through it before with other lads, and I knew how it went. Of course the question eventually came...
"Do you fancy me?" He asked.
"Yes," I replied, looking him straight in the eyes, "very much indeed."
I knew he'd been expecting that - for some reason I've never been able to fathom, straight guys imagine that if you're gay then you automatically fancy them and are desperate to fuck them senseless. This is true even for the ones who look like the back end of a bus, and even if you'd rather have sex with your grannie than with them. But in his case, I did fancy him rotten.
He asked me what it was about him that I found sexy, and I told him. His cute face; his personality; his hair; his tight, firm little body; his boyishness; his DMs; and his jeans. That started further questions about what I was into - leather, bondage, cock-teasing, cum-control, tickling, and of course skin-tight jeans. It was a lot for him to take in, and there were long silences while he thought about what I'd said, but I think he appreciated the honesty in my answers.
Another thing he found a surprise was that although I fancied him, I had no interest in fucking him. He thought that was the only thing that gays did, and hadn't considered that there may be alternatives.
"So you'd just want to wank me off?"
"Well yes, eventually - and preferably in those prickteasing jeans - but I'd want to play with you a lot before I did that."
He thought about that for a long time. I could hear gears grinding as he readjusted the bit of his world model that concerned gays.
His final question that night, was "but you wouldn't try anything with me, would you?"
"No, Kev, I wouldn't. I don't force myself onto guys, and I only play with ones who want me to. Much as I'd love to get you tied up and tease the fuck outta you before I made you cum, there's no way I'd do it unless you asked me to. So you don't have to worry. You're quite safe."
He nodded, then smiled sort of lopsidedly, and then he went to bed.
Over the following few nights he asked me more about being gay; he'd never known anyone else who was gay, and it fascinated him. He was particularly intrigued by my deepest fetish: tight jeans, and he interrogated me at length on the subject. He'd had no idea that something like that could turn someone on to such a degree - and it was quite obvious that it did, because the subject had only to come up and I sprang a woodie instantly. And the more that cute boy insisted on talking about tight jeans the more I squirmed.
One evening I told him that tomorrow I'd have a lad visiting, to be tied up and played with, so not to go into my bedroom during the afternoon, and to ignore any noises coming from it. I think he would have dearly loved to have watched, but he stayed in his room the whole time.
I had guys visiting most weeks, and Kev got used to it. In the evenings he'd ask me what had happened, and I'd tell him, in as much detail as he wanted. Once, I think he started to get a hard-on at the descriptions, but at that point he got up to go to the loo, so I can't be sure.
A few weeks later, quite unexpectedly, he asked me again if I would ever force myself onto him sexually. I repeated what I'd said before: I said that I although I fancied him like fuck, no, I wouldn't - that I'd grown to like him a lot, that I valued our friendhip too much, and that I only played with lads with their consent. This seemed to satisfy him, and he started talking about something else. The following night he came into the living room in a different pair of jeans. I noticed them straight away, but he didn't mention them. He seemed a bit nervous, and crossed his legs when he sat down. I decided not to say anything about them yet. But I looked. Oh fuck - these were tighter than the ones he usually wore, and more faded and worn. The turned-over legs ended just above his 20-hole oxblood DMs, and I followed the seams slowly up the insides of his legs and thighs to where they disappeared under his crossed legs. They looked amazingly sexy, and I got a hard-on in my leather jeans as I sat there looking at him. I made no attempt either to hide it or to draw attention to it, but I saw that he noticed it straight away. He actually blushed for a moment, but he said nothing. I forget what we were talking about, but it was about something else completely.
As time passed that evening, he gained confidence. First he uncrossed his legs, but kept his hands folded in his lap, covering his crotch; then, a little later he moved them, giving me the first view of his crotch. It was beautiful - the faded denim was worn and thin over a small but extremely inviting bulge. Through all of this my cock got harder and harder, but when he realized that I was just going to sit there and make no attempt to rape him, he gained more confidence still: he stretched out in the chair, displaying his jeans fully.
"New jeans?" I said. "They are amazing."
Instantly he unstretched, and became nervous and defensive again. I smiled, and shook my head. "I am NOT going to touch you, Kev. You know that. But it's fucking horny to look. You are a fucking wet dream."
He blushed for the second time that night. "You like looking at me in these?"
"Oh fuck, that is an understatement. When I go to bed I'm going to wank myself senseless thinking about you in those jeans."
He gave a small, explosive laugh, then shook his head in wonder. "I still can't get my head round the fact that you fancy me. I've never thought of myself as sexy. Girls don't seem to think so very much."
"Well you can take my word for it, Kev - to me, you are sex on legs. You're fucking gorgeous - I've only got to look at you and I get a hard-on. And in those jeans and those DMs..." I let the sentence trail off - he could see by my bulging crotch that I meant what I said.
He smiled self-consciously, then to my surprise after a few seconds he stretched out again, and ran one finger lightly over his thigh, in what he tried to make a teasing way. He was a bit too nervous to do it well, but it still had the desired effect on me. In fact, before I knew what was happening - and without even touching my cock - I was cumming in my leather jeans. I tried to do it quietly, and without moving, so that he wouldn't notice, but staying silent and motionless when you're in the throes of an orgasm is not easy. He noticed.
"You haven't... have - have you just cum...?"
When I'd regained control of my body again I nodded. "Yeah," I said. "Sorry."
He started to giggle, then laugh. "Oh wow!" He said. "You really are into tight jeans, aren't you!"
"You have no fucking idea, Kev," I replied.
I think it was at that point that he finally really realized exactly how much tight jeans ruled me - how much the sight of a boy in skintight jeans incapacitated me, overpowered my rational mind, and turned this big, hunky leatherboy into a gibbering idiot with a rock-hard cock. And he was bright enough to realize that actually this gave him a very great deal of power over me, should he choose to use it.
Several days passed before he tried to flex his newly acquired sexual muscles with me again. When he came into the living room that night he was wearing those new jeans again - the first time he'd worn them since my involuntary orgasm - but they were even tighter!
I felt that things were sufficently relaxed between us now, so I mentioned them straight away. "What have you done to those jeans?"
He smiled. "I've tightened them up a bit. Like them?"
My cock nodded before my head did. "Oooohh fuck yeaaahhh...." I must have been drooling visibly, because an impish grin came to his face. He stood directly in front of me, looking down at me, booted feet apart, hooked his thumbs in the front pockets, and allowed his fingers to rest casually on his cock-bulge, which was at the level of my face, and about two feet away. "Get me a cup of coffee."
There was a certain tone to his voice which I recognised. It was the voice of a top - but of an unsure top, coloured with uncertainty - as if he was trying something out. The cheeky grin on his face left the door open for me to tell him to fuck off and to get his own coffee, but the tone of his voice was, I was sure, offering a change in our relationship. I thought quickly. Where did I want this to go? I wasn't sure...
He moved his fingers slowly over those jeans, stroking his cock teasingly - and this time he knew exactly what he was doing. The sight of that cute skinhead's fingers sliding over that faded, tight denim cock-bulge made any decision-making on my part academic. I got up instantly and headed for the kitchen.
Over the next few weeks things developed slowly but surely. A dimmer boy would have exploited his new-found power over me to excess, and the whole thing would probably have fallen apart. But not Kev. Life continued as it had: our late-night chats and music sessions carried on as before, and although he always wore tight jeans, he only put the special ones on now and again, and when he did, he used them occasionally for his own purposes. For instance - and this was the next milestone in our relationship - his birthday was coming up, and he wanted to talk about presents. He had a small motorbike, but he'd never been able to afford any leathers, and he said he'd like a leather jacket. I told him that leather jackets were expensive, but he said a second-hand one would be fine. I said that was still quite a bit of money...
He'd been sitting in the chair, spread out as usual. He looked at me, stood up, and told me to kneel in front of him with my hands behind my back. I did so. He gazed down at me for a while, a thoughtful smile on his lips, then asked me if I noticed anything different about his crotch. I lowered my eyes to it, and my mouth went dry. The outline of his cock was clear under the thin, faded jeans, and under it the round bulge of his balls.
"I've stopped wearing underpants. I like the feel of tight jeans rubbing against my horny skinhead boy-cock." He pronounced the words 'tight jeans' and 'horny skinhead boy-cock' slowly, with relish, knowing exactly the effect they had on me. How I managed not to shoot my load right then and there I don't know, but I succeeded in controlling myself - just.
But he hadn't finished. "Do you think my cock looks better with nothing between it and these tight, faded, sexy jeans?" He was really laying it on.
My mouth was too dry to answer, but I nodded a lot.
"Look at my DMs."
I did so.
"Would you like to touch them?"
My hands started forward automatically.
"Don't you fucking touch me unless I tell you you can, you queer bastard!" His voice was threatening. That was the first time he'd ever called me anything like that. I put my hands back instantly.
He continued, his voice soft again. "Would you like to feel my boots, lick them, then run your fingers slowly up my legs, feeling the tight denim under them? Tracing the seams up the inside of my thighs? Stroke my balls? Play with my cock under these tight jeans, knowing I can feel everything through them...?"
I was incoherent, and getting very close to cumming.
"Don't you dare fucking cum." He was getting to know me very well.
I moved my knees apart to try to stop the approaching orgasm. I also tried to look away from the skinhead's crotch in front of my eyes - but I was physically unable to do so. Even so, I managed again to stop myself from cumming.
"Now, look up at me. Don't you think that a black leather jacket would look good on me? Black leather and tight jeans on your cute skinhead boy?"
He'd called himself 'my' skinhead boy! My heart beat wildly in my chest. With difficulty, I swallowed, and managed to croak out, "Yes. Oh fuck yes." Then, I added, 'Sir."
He smiled. "Oh there's no need to call me 'sir' - but just take a good look at me, and remember how you feel right now."
I allowed my eyes to travel slowly down his sexy, slim body from his face to his dark red boots and back up again to his crotch.
"And that black leather jacket...?"
"You've got it," I said.
"There's a good boy. Now, just using your right hand, get your cock out and get ready to wank yourself off. But don't start until I tell you."
I unzipped my leathers, and gripped my cock.
"I want you to imagine these are your fingers..." He ran both hands slowly over his thighs, then gripped his cock with one hand and tickled his balls lightly with the other. He started to get hard.
My cock exploded before I even started to wank it, spunk flying out and missing his leg by inches. One burst landed on his left boot, forming a puddle and running down the toecap.
"Lick it off," he ordered.
I'd never licked spunk up before, but I lowered my head to his left boot and closed my eyes in ecstasy as my tongue made first contact with the smooth, dark red leather. That was the first time any part of me had actually touched the boy. I licked it reverently, cleaning up the spunk first, then continuing to lick the rest of his boot slowly and thoroughly, feeling the lace holes rough against my tongue, and loving the smell of the polish and the leather. He knew I'd finished cleaning the spunk off ages ago, but he allowed this small, controlled contact to go on until I'd licked the entire boot from bottom to top, and was about to start on the other one.
"Ok," he said brightly, sitting down again and grinning as if nothing unusual had happened, "now let's get back to the music."
He was able to switch it on and off like this with a skill far in excess of his experience. It amazed me - he was a natural.
I found a leather jacket in his size at the second-hand market the following Saturday and on impulse, also bought a pair of glossy black stretch PVC jeans for him. I didn't know if he'd like them - they weren't exactly skinhead gear - but they were mainly for my own benefit. Well, 'benefit' might not be the right word, I thought as I ran the sewing machine along the inside seams, reducing the width of the legs to what would be an obscenely skin-tight fit on him - if he wore these at all I didn't know if I'd have the strength of will necessary to control myself.
His birthday arrived, and I gave him the packages, telling him to unwrap the jacket first. His eyes lit up at the sight of it and he tried it on there and then. It fit him fine, and he looked stunningly horny in the shiny black leather. Then I handed him the jeans. "Er, I got these for you. You probably won't like them, but I thought you might look... good... in them." My voice trailed off as he tore the paper off them and held them up.
"Oh wow," he said. "What are they? They're not leather."
"No, they're PVC. Stretchy."
"Are they tight?"
"It'll probably take you half an hour to get into them," I grinned. I told him they weren't for riding the bike in because they were very thin. "I got them mainly in case you wanted to wear them when we're alone here." That didn't come out quite as I'd intended, but he looked at me and winked.
"Well I think I'll try them out." He disappeared with the jacket and the jeans up to his bedroom.
While he was getting changed I wandered around the living rooom and the kitchen like a teenager waiting for his first date. My cock was hard already, and I felt ridiculously nervous. What if he didn't like them?
I heard his booted feet coming down the stairs, and sat down. The door opened and he came in.
I don't know what I'd been expecting, but the sight that met my eyes made my jaw drop. He looked unbelievable. He was wearing the leather jacket with nothing on underneath, and the collar turned up; his black DMs; those black PVC jeans with the legs rolled up to just above the boot tops; and a double-row studded leather belt round his hips. I wanted to rape him. He was my idea of a perfect, cute leatherboy.
"Get a pair of handcuffs, some rope, and a hood with no eyeholes," he ordered.
I took the stairs three at a time.
When I came down he'd moved the coffee table out of the way to make a space on the floor.
"Listen very carefully. We're going to do something here, but you are NOT going to touch me. Understand? You are not going to touch me - not even once - whatever happens. And you are going to do exactly as I say. Is that clear? Can I trust you?"
"Yes. Quite clear. And yes, you know you can trust me, Kev."
"Ok. Give me the key to the handcuffs."
I took it out of my pocket and handed it to him.
"This is to say 'thank you' for the jacket and these jeans." He took the things I'd brought down from upstairs, and sorted them out. "Ok. Lie down here on your front."
I did so - my hard, precum-oozing cock feeling like a steel rod pressing into the carpet under me.
"Arms behind your back." He snapped the handcuffs around my wrists, then tied my ankles together with one piece of the rope and used another piece to complete the hogtie, pulling my feet up to my wrists. I didn't complain, although I knew that the tension on the cuffs would become painful before long.
In my position face down on the floor I couldn't turn my head enough to see him, but then he pushed me over onto my side, and stood so I could look up at him. The shiny black PVC jeans gripped his legs as if they were sprayed on (I'd guessed the tightness exactly right with the sewing machine) and the stretchy black material moulded itself around his thighs, cock and balls with mouthwatering perfection. His boots towered over me, and his cute, boyish face grinned delightedly down from above the black leather jacket. I had no idea what was in his mind, but whatever he was planning to do to me, it was ok with me. I couldn't think of anything he would do, that I wouldn't want...
... Except what he did.
"Do I look sexy?" He asked.
"Fucking drop-dead beautiful," I replied with difficulty.
"You like looking at me in these skintight black PVC jeans?"
"Oh fuck. YES!!!"
"Good. You like making boys cum in their tight jeans, don't you, you queer bastard?"
"Yes yes YES!"
"I bet you'd like to make me cum in these..."
"Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Pleeeease Kev..."
He chuckled. "Well... I'm going to cum in these skintight jeans." He reached down, took the leather hood, and pulled it over my head. "But you're not going to be able to see it."
"Nooooooooo!" I struggled and tried to get the hood off but - inexpert as he was with knots - he'd done a good job, and there was no way I could either get free or get the fucking hood off my head. I heard him kneel down beside me, and then I heard the creak of the PVC as he gripped his cock through the jeans and began to wank himself off close to my ear. This was pure torture: there was a fucking beautiful, wet-dream skinhead boy in leather, boots and skintight black PVC jeans - a boy I wanted so desperately to kiss and whose cock I wanted to rape - cumming in his jeans inches from my face and I couldn't fucking see him! I'd been hooded before many times in my life, and I loved it - but this time I cursed that black leather that was tight over my eyes, blindfolding me. I needed to see him so much I could taste it.
"Ah... fuck... yeeeaaahhhh...!!" Shit - he was fucking cumming!
It all went quiet for a few moments, and I was almost crying with frustration inside the hood, imagining his beautiful cock jerking in the final moments of orgasm, his spunk running down his balls inside those jeans, his hand slowing, and a look of happy satisfaction on his face.
Then he pulled the hood off me and I saw him grinning at me. He gripped his knee and ran his thumb over it repeatedly, making the PVC creak rhythmically. That was what I'd heard - the little fucker hadn't cum at all - he'd faked the whole thing! His grin broadened and became a laugh as he watched realization sink in.
"You bastard!" I was grinning too now.
He unfastened my restraints, then told me to get up and stand to one side. He took my place on the floor, tied his ankles together with one piece of rope and used another around his knees, pulling them tight together. Then he snapped one cuff onto his left wrist, and left the other one open. He took the leather hood and pulled it down over his head, then lay on the floor, put his arms behind his back, and snapped the free handcuff around his other wrist. I stared at this gorgeous skinhead in a leather jacket, DMs and skintight black PVC jeans, tied up, hooded and helpless at my feet.
"Enjoy the sight," he said through the hood, "and cum if you want."
Oh fuck yes! I unzipped my leather jeans and got my cock out. I looked at him lying there, unable to see, unable to get away - I could do whatever I liked to that boy right now and he couldn't do a fucking thing to stop me. Except that I couldn't fucking touch him! I fixed my eyes on the shiny black bulge between his thighs, imagined myself kneeling down, kissing him through the leather hood... if he'd been one of my usual 'boys', I'd have got his cock out, and sucked him off - but with him what I really fantasized about doing was humiliating him and punishing him for prickteasing me with those jeans by tickling his balls with one hand, gently gripping his cock with the other, and slowly tossing him off in those same skintight, sexy jeans he used to torture me with visually.
The thought of that, and the sight in front of me was too much for me: I started to cum before my hand had begun to move on my cock. My knees buckled and I only just managed to stop myself from falling over. My spunk fell in huge white pools onto the carpet by his side. It went on and on, but eventually the flow slowed, and stopped. I fell to my knees, exhausted.
After a few moments' rest I pulled off his hood, took the handcuff key from the coffee table where he'd put it, and released him from his restraints. He sat up and rubbed his wrists, smiling lopsidedly. "Did you enjoy that?" His eyes came to rest on the wet puddles of spunk soaking into the capet. "Ah, I see you did."
I wanted to hug him, to kiss him, but I had to make do with a very sincere, "oh fuck - thank you, Kev."
The weeks passed. The thing I came to realize was that although he liked me, he wasn't doing these things because of that, but rather out of an apparently purely scientific experiment in control: he wanted to find out how much he could humiliate this big, strong - but queer - biker. He loved the fact that he could control me totally, and that his jeans effectively overrode all my higher brain functions. The sight of skintight jeans on almost anybody reduced me to helplessness - but on him - oh shit, I was complete putty in his hands. Over the next few weeks he coldly and calculatedly refined and sharpened his weapons: our late-night chats became largely about tight jeans, and what in particular about them turned me on so much; he'd show me pictures in magazines of heavy-rock, skinheads or punk boys in jeans, and ask me to make comparisons between them and explain why. It was as if he was trying to home in on the essence of my fetish: to distill it and concentrate it. I didn't think to wonder exactly why.
I found out a lot about my fetish myself during these explorations, and it seemed that what was at the very centre of it, what turned me on most, was a combination of tightness and bulge, and a perceived vulnerability in the boy wearing the jeans: the more skintight they fit around his thighs, but at the same time the more easily it looked as if his cock could be gripped through them and he could be wanked off in his jeans, the more incoherent I became when presented with the image. Whether the jeans were leather, PVC or denim didn't appear to be as important as I'd thought. This was all very interesting from an academic point of view, but the little bastard was gathering information to use against me, although at the time I didn't quite realize it.
It was after he'd been living with me for about ten months that things began to change. He told me to stop having boys round, and he took control of my orgasms - I wasn't allowed to cum except when he told me I could. I was perfectly happy with both of these things, although as I usually wanked a couple of times a day I found not cumming so often very difficult. It also made me permanently horny, and even more helplessly susceptible to him - which of course was exactly what he intended.
He'd change into his leather jacket, tightest jeans and biggest boots as soon as I got home, and our late-night chats became more 'formal': I was required to wear whatever jeans made me feel most horny (and, surprisingly, most 'top') for them; I was sometimes told to sit on the floor at his feet; his general tone became more authoritative; and he began to touch me - the rule was that he could do whatever he liked to me, but I had to sit or stand with my hands behind my back or behind my head and I may not touch him at all.
This touching started with gentle stroking of my leather jacket or boots, but within a couple of days progressed to full-on teasing of my cock and balls through my jeans which, given the fact that there were long periods between my orgasms now, became total torture. To have a cute, sexy boy whom you fancy madly - and wearing gear chosen specifically to exploit your deepest fetishes - tease your cock slowly and gently through your jeans and not be allowed even to touch him, is an exceedingly frustrating thing. It became even more frustrating as he learned how to make it more difficult for me to cum spontaneously (keep my knees apart); and even more humiliating when he discovered that he could make me cum in seconds whenever he chose - and whether I wanted to or not - simply by holding my knees together, forcing a hand between my thighs, and rubbing the tip of my cock-head through my jeans. Using these means, he made me totally unable to control my orgasms.
It was a slightly odd, reverse master/slave situation: he wanted me to feel as top as possible with him - but that was clever. He knew that what really got me horny, what I really fantasized about, was doing things to him rather than the other way around. He knew perfectly well that I could - and given the chance would , in seconds flat - wrestle him into restraints, get him helpless, and rape his mouth and cock like the lust-filled animal he'd carefully turned me into. What he wanted was to encourage these feelings as much as possible - to concentrate them and make them more acute by wearing gear which made him as close to a perfect victim for me as possible, and which made me want to fucking rape him - and also by having me wear gear that made me feel horny, powerful, and very top. It was the fact that he - a cute, sexy skinhead boy victim - could control a big strong leather biker top like me that he got off on. And the more effectively he could control me, the more helpless he could make me with the least effort, the more he liked it. He constantly strove for perfection; it was his mission in life at that time.
In persuit of this goal, he began the 'project'. This was to be a pair of jeans, for him to wear, which would reduce me to jelly, totally and completely. He talked quite openly about this, and told me that it was his intention to use them to rule me absolutely. He wanted me to be able to think about nothing else while I was at work, other than getting back to him and seeing him in those jeans. He wanted me to beg him not to wear them, so that I could get on with the other things in my life. He wanted me to have constant fantasies about touching him, licking him, kissing him, fucking him, sucking him, and tossing him off in his jeans while he was tied up helpless, struggling but unable to stop me.
Even just talking about this with him made me want to cum. He made sure that whenever we discussed it, I was at least a few days into a no-cum period, which was grossly unfair as consequently my part of the conversation came directly from my balls rather than from my brain.
We discussed the various merits of leather, rubber and pvc for these jeans, but ultimately decided on faded denim, as it would be easiest to sew - and any jeans he got for the purpose were going to need substantial alteration to meet the new requirements.
I was permitted to touch him to take measurements (and I actually came once while doing that even though the little bastard always brought me off immediately before any measurements were to be taken) and gradually the jeans took shape. They'd started off as a very faded, thin pair we'd got from the second-hand market. I removed the crotch area and, basically by trial-and-error, and using extra denim taken from another, identically faded and thin pair, designed a new front for them. This was very much like the front of codpiece jeans, but had the zip running down the centre like ordinary jeans do - although this one was silver, and exposed, with no flap over it. The skintight denim continued right up his thighs to the creases at the sides of his groin, then turned abruptly forward in a cup-shape which perfectly held his balls, and continued in another separately-shaped piece which allowed his cock to position itself naturally in front, making the most drop-dead sexy, accessible, vulnerable, grippable, wankable bulge I had ever seen in my fucking life.
We changed the loops to accept his two-inch studded belt low on his hips, tightened the thighs and legs even further, and cut the legs off so they ended with a small roll-up just above the tops of his DMs. When we'd finished, there was not one single crease of any description anywhere on those jeans except behind his knees - and then only when he bent them. They fitted him like a second skin - and I knew all too well that they were unbelievably thin and sensitive: he would have been able to feel the touch of a fucking feather tickling his balls or running up the length of his cock - and that a firm grip of his cock through those jeans, a few strokes of my hand, and the little fucker wouldn't be able to stop himself from shooting his boy-spunk helplessly into the skintight denim...
When we'd finished them, he put them away and didn't wear them or let me see them for a while. At the same time, he stopped wearing his leather jacket and big DMs, went back to wearing the not-so-tight jeans he'd worn when he'd first met me, but made me cum more often. Up until then he'd brought me off - or told me I could cum - about twice a week, but from then on he made sure I came at least three times a day, and I had to do it myself, when he wasn't in the room with me.
After a few weeks of this, he stopped me cumming completely. I'd got used to cumming three times a day - and then suddenly nothing. A couple of days later he started teasing me - both visually and physically: he began wearing his tighter jeans again, and during our late-night chats would kneel between my knees, keeping them wide apart, but running his fingertips lightly over the insides of my thighs, tickling my balls and perineum, and teasing my cock while grinning up at me with his big blue eyes.
During this teasing I occasionally caught a different look in his eyes as he gazed up at me - one I hadn't seen before, and one I daren't even let myself think about.
My return to the lust-filled, sex-crazed animal I'd been a few weeks ago was fast and complete. After a further week of this - still without having been allowed to cum once - I was seriously considering rape. I didn't think I could stand one more day of this. Then one night I got home, and he was nowhere to be seen. I found a note on the coffee table, telling me to change into my lace-up front leather jeans (they were the tightest and horniest leather jeans I'd got) then to come back down, stand by the side of the chair, put the blindfolding hood on, and wait.
I got changed in record time and stood, staring into the black leather of the hood, waiting. After a couple of minutes I heard him come in. The door opened, then closed, and I felt his booted footsteps walking across the floor past me. There were some other sounds which I couldn't identify, and then finally he said "Take the hood off". I took it off.
I found myself looking at a vision of pure sex - Kev was standing in front of me smiling sexily, his DMs planted wide apart, his leather jacket open, his thumbs hooked in the belt loops of those jeans. The fingers of one hand were playing gently with the studs of his belt, and those of his other hand were resting gently on the outline of his cock, which was as hard as a rock. I had never in my entire life seen anyone who came close to looking as beautiful and as sexy as he did then. For a long, long moment I literally could not tear my eyes away from that boy. And I knew then that I was desperately, hopelessly, in love with him.
And then I saw the others standing behind him: two other skinheads in MA1s, bleachers, and DMs. They were masked with black balaclavas, and they held baseball bats.
Kev took a couple of paces towards me, then said: "kneel."
I was totally powerless to resist him. I knelt at his booted feet. One of the other skins snickered but I didn't care. If they were going to beat me up - kill me even - I wouldn't have cared about that either, as long as I could just look at my beautiful Kevin.
There was a pause for a moment, as if Kevin were mentally photographing the scene - then, without taking his blue eyes off me, he said, "Ok lads."
The other two walked towards me, raising their baseball bats high. Their steel-toecapped DMs gleamed in the light.
There were tears in my eyes. I whispered, "Kev, I love you."
The bats came down, and I didn't even flinch.
Outside, the daylight had almost gone. A few late birds were still singing in the garden, and I heard them clearly. I felt the pile of the carpet through my leather jeans. I could smell the leather from the skins' boots and from my own jeans - it was as if all my senses were sharper, clearer. But all of these were as nothing compared to my vision. Kevin standing there, still smiling at me, still stroking his hard cock through those sex jeans.
The baseball bats stopped an inch from my body. I hadn't moved a millimeter.
"Fuck me Kev, he's real!" Said the skin on my left.
"Jeezus," said the other one. "You're fucking right, Kev. You're fucking right!"
Kevin nodded slowly, his face now serious. "Thanks guys. Now piss off," he said, still not taking his eyes off me.
The two skins left together, shaking their heads and laughing incredulously. I dismissed them from my mind. It was as if they had never existed.
Kevin stood there looking at me for a moment, then dropped slowly to his knees in front of me. His beautiful eyes were now level with me and I stared into them. He wiped a tear away from my eye with a thumb, then he smiled tentatively, and said, "I had to be sure."
I nodded slowly, and smiled, understanding for the first time. "I know."
He held my head gently with his hands, without saying anything more for a while, and then, after several false starts, he mouthed the words: "I love you."
I blinked back tears. I was so unbelievably happy.
"Oh fuck, I love you so much, man," he said, his voice soft but stronger now. "I've loved you for a long time. Longer than you know. But I've never... I've never..."
I leaned forward, put my arms around him, and kissed him.
After a very long time, he whispered into my ear: "for fuck's sake tie me up and make me cum in these jeans, biker..."