The Telemachus Story Archive

Small World
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



Small World

To be honest, Danny had had better days. The morning had got off to a questionable start when he'd awoken to find that all that remained of the boy he'd shagged senseless last night was a depression in the pillow. Of the sexy skinhead with the big cock there was no sign. He'd gone - and so, Danny discovered shortly, had Danny's wallet, video recorder, and digital camera.

Nursing the mother of a hangover (make a note: Pernod, vodka and cider - at least in the same glass - are to be avoided in future, even if they are all that's left in the cupboard) he dragged himself naked over to the breakfast bar and sat staring vacantly at the coffee pot for a while. Gradually he became aware of a smell. It was not pleasant, but it was immediately identifiable: Geronimo, his cat, had clearly had an accident somewhere nearby. Listlessly he stood, and, swaying slightly, began to search for the offending pile. The cat was sitting watching him from the top of the bookshelves and offered no help. "Where is it, you bastard?" With increasing annoyance, Danny looked everywhere. He could smell it, but the shit was nowhere to be found.

Danny gave up and put the coffee on. While it was brewing he showered and shaved, hoping it would make him feel more human. If it did, the difference was not immediately apparent.

The theft of his belongings was particularly insulting because Danny was, himself, a rent boy who was not averse to lifting the odd item from his punters. He fumed silently to himself as he pulled on his tightest jeans, without underwear. Going commando was his usual style - not only did advertising pay, but the feel of the rough denim against his cock kept him horny. He resolved to replace the missing video today - and, grotty as he felt, that meant starting work early.

The coffee was ready and he poured himself a cup of the strong black liquid. A couple of Paracetamols and a spliff should do the trick. He downed the tablets, lit up the joint and scanned the flat for anything else that the skinhead might have taken, but it looked like nothing else was missing. At least the bugger hadn't taken his CD player or his music collection. Hmm. A nice bit of Orbital was just what he neded to jump-start his morning. He inserted the CD, switched on the player, sat down in the comfy chair and put on his stereo headphones.

Slowly he closed his eyes, and looked as if he was about to cry. As he pushed the padded headphones over his ears, a brown stain spread slowly down the left side of his neck: he had found the catshit.

* * *

Danny drew in a rasping breath through gritted teeth as the serrated tit clamps bit into his nipples. The pain was unpleasant only for a moment, though, and quickly transformed itself into a sort of horny glow which caused his cock to jerk inside his faded jeans - he and nipple clamps were old friends. He stared into the man's eyes, inches from his own. Those brown eyes were the only parts of the man's body that were visible: the rest of his unbelievably thin frame being concealed behind an unlikely combination of yellow trainers, black rubber tights, a bright red rubber miniskirt, black leather basque with pointy tits, a long silver wig, and shoulder-length black latex gloves with pink Marigolds over them. The entire ensemble was topped off by a WWII gasmask.

Danny closed his eyes and sighed; how on earth had he ended up spreadeagled in a pervert's bedroom doorway, his wrists and ankles roped inexpertly but nevertheless inescapably to rings in the four corners, naked except for his jeans? It was not a good day.

His face screwed up for a second as fingers sheathed in tight, pink rubber washing-up gloves twisted the clamps gently, then released them, giving each a parting tap which sent waves of pleasure/pain through the boy's nervous system. A hand lightly stroked the shaft of Danny's soft cock once through the rough denim. "I do like boys in tight jeans," whispered the deep voice. Danny's cock responded to the touch with a pulse of momentary hardness, but the duct tape holding the man's soiled jockstrap in his mouth prevented any meaningful reply.

The flat, as far as he could see (and all of it except the loo was visible from where he stood) was in an advanced state of decay: unwashed dishes were piled high on the draining board beside the ancient gas cooker (two of whose rings were missing); bits of uneaten pizza on cardboard boxes were scattered throughout; a nest of half-empty bottles stood on one of the wooden chairs; mold-ringed coffee cups vied with overflowing ashtrays for space on the tables and floor, there were piles of used clothing everywhere, and a full-sized rubber Mallard with an orange beak stood inexplicably on the radiator. He stared briefly in dread at a stained and greasy refrigerator in the corner, thankfully noting that the door was closed - the horrors that undoubtedly lurked within did not bear thinking about.

The man took a device from a table and plugged it into the mains supply. Immediately it began to hum angrily in his hand. Danny's eyes widened in fright as he looked at it - it had a kind of pistol-grip handle, and a teardrop-shaped body, from which protruded a thin shaft with a small, black rubber disc on the end. Slowly, the man approached the helpless boy and, his eyes never once leaving Danny's, touched the rubber disc to the head of the boy's semi-soft cock bulging gently beneath his tight jeans.

Danny closed his eyes and gasped in ecstasy as the vibrating disc sent stabs of irresistable pleasure buzzing through his cock. Carefully, the man kept the disc right on the sensitive head, and within ten seconds Danny's cock was as hard as a steel rod in his jeans. Another ten seconds and he would have had an exquisite orgasm - but after eight seconds the man removed the vibrator and chuckled. He whispered hoarsely,"Like that, do you? Want some more?"

Danny nodded urgently, and the man touched the disc to his cock again, but once more removed it before he could cum. He pulled up a stool and sat down in front of the spreadeagled boy, resting his elbow on his rubber-clad thigh so that he could direct the vibrator comfortably, with accuracy and precision. He touched the disc to the bulging cock-head again, held it there for a few seconds and removed it, leaving Danny writhing with frustration in his restraints. "I can do this all day...." he whispered gloatingly.

At that point there was a loud 'click'; the lights went out and the vibrator stopped buzzing. The man cursed, stood up and looked around in the dim light filtering into the room through the smoke-brown window from the gasworks over the road. "Have you by any chance got a 50p piece in your pocket?"

* * *

Piccadilly was, as always, heaving. Even this late in the year, tourists swarmed everywhere, taking headless pictures of their friends posing embarrassingly in front of Eros or buying tacky plastic souvenirs and unsuitable presents for which their folks back home would give sincere thanks before consigning them to the bin.

His hangover marginally better now, Danny checked his reflection in a shop window, and nodded in relief: it was not evident from his appearance that he felt like shit. Cautiously he tried his sexy smile, and was gratified to see that it still worked. He hooked his right thumb into his jeans pocket and stroked his cock gently through the denim until it was hard. A sharp tap on the window glass from inside startled him, and as he adjusted the focus of his eyes he was alarmed to see a sour-faced woman glaring at him disapprovingly. She held a length of crepe paper in one hand and had pins in her mouth. Recovering, Danny gave his erect cock a squeeze in her direction and wandered off in the direction of Eros.

Time was when a boy could lean on the railings all day and go about his business in peace, but nowadays you had to keep moving or you'd get arrested for importuning. It was harder on the feet, but actually made little difference to the number of punters he got. He'd developed a kind of radar for them, and could tell a potential 'client' at fifty paces. He crossed the road and homed in on a well-trousered gent who was clearly looking for a blow-job. A price was agreed and the man led the way to his Jaguar. A short ride later (and parked behind a disused warehouse) Danny was bobbing up and down on the man's cock while relieving him of several high-denomination banknotes from the wallet in his pants which were around his ankles - a feat he had trained himself to do by touch alone. While this was going on, the man was talking on a cell phone apparently arranging a meeting with 'madame' for later that day.

Walking back towards Piccadilly he popped into a newsagent for some cigarettes - and was outraged to be told that the money he proffered was not valid currency. It had escaped his notice completely that the notes had, apparently, been issued by the "Kiddy Funtime Bank". Cursing creatively he stomped out of the shop and checked the rest of the money the man had given him. All of it was fake. He threw it into a wastebin and kicked it, hurting his foot.

* * *

The extraction of the 50p piece from the right-hand front pocket of Danny's tight jeans had been traumatic. As the man's hand had felt around (he'd had to remove the rubber glove even to get in there) it had tickled . Clearly the man had taken careful note of the boy's squirming because, now that the lights were back on, Danny detected a new - and evil - glint in the man's eyes. The fact that he was now approaching the helpless boy's vulnerable armpits with a dangerous-looking feather gave Danny an additional clue as to his intentions.

Danny had never considered himself to be especially ticklish - or more accurately, he'd never really thought about it at all. Tickling was something that had never seemed to come up in his life. Now, however, he was forced to consider the possibility seriously. And he wasn't at all sure about it. His uncertainty was, however, short-lived - because the instant the tip of the feather touched his armpit and began stroking gently over the fine hairs, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that within a few minutes he would be a gibbering, drooling wreck. He screamed into the jockstrap and with every muscle in his body tried to get away from that unbearable, dreadful tickling.

The man withdrew the feather and gazed thoughtfully at the boy. His free hand disappeared under the red miniskirt and massaged his cock through the rubber tights. "Hmm," his deep voice rumbled from inside the gasmask, "I think we've found your punishment..."

Danny began to panic. Being played with sexually by this deviant was one thing - he could cope with that - but being TICKLED? That was something else altogether. His eyes wide with terror, he watched as the feather came closer again. This time it began at his shoulder, traced down over his chest to his firm, flat stomach, and danced around in his navel. By the time it got there Danny was covered in sweat, and his arms hurt from his involuntary, frantic efforts to escape. But inexpert as the knots were that held his wrists to the corners of the doorframe, he couldn't get out of them. There was nothing he could do. He struggled and writhed, thrashing forward and back and from side to side in his restraints, but there was nowhere he could go - no way he could evade that insanely tickling feather. He lifted himself off the floor trying to lower his elbows to protect his armpits, but the soft, pointed feather found its way deep into them and tickled... tickled... tickled...

* * *

It was three o'clock in the afternoon and Danny was severely pissed off. There had been no takers since the disaster in the Jaguar that morning, and now it had started to rain. Not a downpour, but just enough to make things miserable. He'd got one foot off the pavement, just about to cross Regent Street, when he was almost mown down by a motorcycle. The machine screeched to a stop and the rider lifted his black visor. "Sorry mate. You all right?"

Danny looked at the blue eyes above the rubber mask inside the black helmet; looked at the broad, leather-jacketed shoulders; looked at the tight black leather jeans with the fascinating bulge at the crotch; looked at the leather-gloved hands; looked at the high, black leather bike boots with big chunky buckles all the way down - and went weak at the knees. "Er... yeah, I'm all right, thanks. I think," he said, in a voice that was squeakier than he'd intended.

The biker addressed Danny's tight-jeaned crotch. "Perhaps you could do with a cup of tea?"

Danny pulled himself together. "Yeah - I do feel a bit queasy."

The man produced a spare helmet from a hook somewhere on the far side of the bike and thrust it towards the boy. "Put this on. I live a couple of blocks away."

As they sped over Battersea Bridge, Danny reflected that the man had an interesting notion of distance: this 'couple of blocks' had so far taken them into south London - they were heading for Brighton and showing no signs of slowing down.

Their destination turned out to be a flat on the south side of Clapham Common. A nice place, if a little small. Danny never actually got his cup of tea - within two minutes he was lying face up on the bed, legs akimbo, being fucked hard and fast by the biker who - apart from having unzipped his leather jeans and put on a condom, was dressed identically to how he had been on the bike. It was exactly at the point of climax that the door opened and a very irate - and very muscular - man entered. Danny guessed (correctly) that this was the biker's lover.

The pavement outside the flat was made of granite slabs. Danny could tell this because he was inspecting one at a distance of a couple of inches. Although the front door had slammed closed a moment ago, he could distinctly hear pottery being thrown within. Slowly, he picked himself up and zipped his jeans up. His vision was unclear (doubtless from his contact with the gatepost on the way out) and it was a moment before he realized he was being supported by a friendly pair of hands. He tried to look around to see who was helping him, but a stabbing pain in his head thwarted the attempt. He was conscious of soothing words, and allowed himself to be guided into another flat a couple of doors away from the one he had just been encouraged to leave.

Space was made on a worn settee, and he was gently placed onto it. Tea appeared shortly, and he drank it gratefully. So far, he hadn't seen this Good Samaritan, who was now pottering in the kitchen area of the small - and exceptionally squalid - flat. He gazed at the devastation surrounding him - and his eyes fell on a glittering, brand-new, fresh-out-of-the-box video recorder. It was standing on top of a pile of clothes, and looked so new it probably hadn't even been plugged in yet.

Without further thought, Danny carefully put the cup and saucer down, stood up, swayed a little, and homed in on the device. He picked it up and made for the front door...

... Which, unfortunately, was locked.

There were steps behind him, a blow on the head with something that felt like a water geezer, and when he came to he was being tied up in the doorframe by the Technicolour deviant with the pointy tits, who had presumably dressed for the purpose (or at least Danny hoped he had - the thought of someone wandering around Clapham looking like that normally was deeply disturbing).

* * *

The man carefully removed his Marigold gloves, exposing thin, latex-covered fingers, which he now flexed before applying them to Danny's ribs and sides. If the boy had thought the feather had tickled, this was horrendous by a different order of magnitude. The man's hands were a blur, moving sadistically over his entire upper body - one second they were tickling his armpits, the next they were jabbing into his waist, working themselves between his ribs, prodding his stomach or tickling his navel. Danny had never in his life experienced anything so excruciating. He was almost unable to get enough breath to feed his continuous shrieking and screaming into the gagging jockstrap. At one point the man threw off the red rubber miniskirt with a flourish, revealing the enormous bulge of his rock-hard cock under the thin, stretchy rubber tights - which he proceeded to wank through the rubber until he came.

Danny breathed a deep sigh of relief - perhaps now that the man had cum, he would be released.

To Danny's amazement, the man removed his gasmask, opened a small door in the side of one of his pointy tits and extracted a plastic bag of while powder. Within minutes he was snorting a line of coke which, to Danny's annoyance, he did not offer to share. It was exactly what Danny could have done with at that moment. Never before had the boy seen Coke snorted through the nose-holes of a black latex mask, but the man showed such expertise in the feat that it was clearly not the first time he'd done it.

The man raised his head, breathed in deeply, and sighed in pleasure - then he put the gasmask back on and carefully replaced the plastic bag and its contents back inside the pointy tit, closing the little door gently.

He looked at Danny. "Now, where were we?" Hands began once more to tickle torture the helpless boy - now with renewed enthusiasm.

* * *

The left-hand corner of Bertram Smale's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. For him, that amounted to a grin - and Percy knew it. "Hundred quid. Done!" They shook hands, Percy's limp one engulfed by Bertram's hairy paw.

Percy inspected the machine. "I still think you can get these down the market for eighty."

"Rubbish. And if you can, you can bet your life they're nicked. This one's kosher. You have my word as a genleman on that."

Percy considered this for a moment - 'gentleman' was not a word which, in his opinion, described the man sitting oposite him; but there again, this machine did look good. "I'll give it to my son. He's wanted one for ages." He nodded, and put the video recorder down.

"I'll go get your stuff."

Bertram Smale looked around the room; he thought he ought to be used to it by now, but every time he came here it disgusted him anew. How anyone could live in these conditions was beyond him.

Percy returned and handed a small plastic bag to Bertram, who inspected it, and nodded. Like magic, it disappeared into his pocket.

"By the way, how's that sexy nephew of yours?"

"Poggy? No improvement. You want him? I'll send him round. Thirty quid to you." "Hmm. Might be fun..."

* * *

The skinhead with the big cock was very pleased with himself. He'd sold the video he'd nicked from that sexy blond boy, to his uncle for thirty quid. Not only that, but he'd got another fifty from the kid's wallet, and intended to take some filthy pictures of himself tonight with the digital camera. He'd spent all afternoon choreographing each picture in his head (which took brain power he could barely spare while walking at the same time). Uncle Bert was freaky - he'd once found a pile of gay mags under Bert's bed - along with a pair of frilly knickers, some handcuffs, and a bottle of poppers. Someone that old shouldn't do things like that.

But now the skinhead had a favour to do for Uncle Bert. He checked the address on the piece of paper, squinted at the door in front of him and, satisfied, knocked.

* * *

Danny had no idea how long this went on - it was a nightmare that just would not end. Each time he thought the man was going to finish it, he would begin again in some new, devious, and even more unbearable way. And the strange thing was, that although Danny was hating and loathing every second of it, his cock was as hard as a rod and was oozing precum into his jeans like it was going out of fashion. He realized with a start that this unbearable torture was turning him on like fuck. God, was he horny!!

Thus far, the man had hardly touched the boy's cock - but now he knelt and slowly peeled down Danny's tight jeans. Because of his spreadeagled position, they would only go down as far as his knees, but that was quite enough to expose his inner thighs, perineum, hot, sweaty balls, and the achingly horny cock which was now stabbing the air in front of the man's gasmasked face.

Taking a Kleenex tissue in one hand, the man began to tickle the very bottom of the boy's balls with the corner of it. Instantly Danny threw back his head, yelled into the gag, pulled as far as he could away from the man and tried to close his legs together as far as possible. This was more unbearable than anything he had done to the boy so far. Not only did it tickle enough to drive him insane, but it also made him want to cum so badly he could taste it.

There was a knock at the door.

"Bollocks," said the man. "Won't be a minute - now don't go away." He stood up, hastily readjusted his cock to a more comfortable position, removed the gasmask, and threw a green PVC cape over himself to hide his pervy clothes. Danny watched in wonder as he went to answer the door still wearing the latex mask.

Because the front door opened towards him, he couldn't see the caller, and he could only hear the pervert's half of the conversation.

"Oh hello" (Pause) "What?" (Pause) "Oh right. Um... I'm a bit busy right now. Can you come back later?" (Pause) "Ok" (Pause) "Ok. Bye." (Pause) "What? It's treatment for my acne."

He closed the door, put the gasmask back on, and picked up a new sheet of Kleenex. "Now, my ticklish young thief..."

The man was an artist with a Kleenex. He used the edge of the sheet to get deep into the creases between the boy's crotch and thighs, working on an area that was so ticklish and erogenous that it made Danny want to faint; he rolled it into a loose cylinder and slid it sadistically over the boy's throbbing cock, sliding it up and down over the shaft and the ridges of the engorged cock head until Danny was thrusting his hips like an animal in his attempts to bring himself off; he folded it into a tight, pointed spill, parted Danny's arse cheeks and tickled his hole with the tip of it. Always, though, he returned to the helpless boy's cock and balls. He tickled and teased them with Kleenex, feathers and fingers until Danny thought he would go out of his mind.

While he was doing this, the man pressed his thighs together to make his cock bulge stand out further and easier to grip, took hold of his own cock through the rubber tights and brought himself off again - but this time he did it slowly and carefully in full view of the horny boy. Gripping the shiny black latex-covered cock head between just thumb and finger, he gently rubbed it back and forth - the thin, elastic rubber stretching like a black condom over the bloated helmet - until, with a sudden further enlargement of the head, the man's spunk erupted from it in unstoppable gobs. Each individual pulse caused the latex to balloon away from the tip of his cock, before the rubber contracted again and pumped it away down the outside of his shaft and over his balls. Again and again the quick cycle repeated as the man came and came and came.

Danny watched, hypnotised, and moaned pitifully as the rubber-covered cock jerked in the throes of orgasm. He wanted so badly to feel the ecstasy and relief that the man was feeling right now. The man's eyes never once left Danny's as he milked himself in full view of the boy. He knew Danny was desperate to cum, and was getting intense sadistic satisfaction from torturing him like this.

And he wasn't finished with the boy yet. When his orgasm was over and he'd milked the last drops from his cock, he applied himself again fully to Danny's craving genitals. He now intended to teach the helpless youth exactly what it felt like to be really desperate to cum...

* * *

Later - whatever that might mean. The skinhead thrust his hands into his pockets and wandered off, not knowing what to do now. Then an unusual thing happened: an original idea formed in his head. His eyes lit up and he set off with more purpose now - towards that sexy blond boy's flat. On the way, he idly wondered if wearing a rubber mask would cure his own acne.

A half-hour later he was relieving Danny of his CD player. He rejected the stereo headphones on the grounds of hygiene, but collected a carrier-bag full of high-quality leather and bondage gear.

He carefully locked the door behind him on the way out.

* * *

Danny was in a transport of anguish. Ne had never, ever in his life NEEDED to cum as much as he needed to at this moment. For what seemed like hours, the pervert had applied himself wth horrifying expertise to making Danny need to cum more and more and more. He had interspersed this cock teasing with the most excruciating tickle- torture, and the combination of the two had worked on Danny with manic effectiveness. His head was thrown back, his hands were fists in the restraints, his face was contorted with unbearable frustration of not being able to cum, and his muscles were shaking with the effort of struggling.

The pervert, however, simply smiled behind the latex and the gasmask, and continued to torture the boy methodically.

At long last, the man stood up. He pulled Danny's jeans back up and carefully arranged the boy's cock so that it was pointing slightly downwards under the tight, stretchy denim - and on the opposite side to where it had originally been (he'd found that always helped to make a boy horny). Satisfied that it was in a suitable position for what he had in mind, he went into the kitchen and returned brandishing a three-inch, slightly rusty, nail.

Danny's eyes widened in terror. What the fuck was this madman planning to do to him now? For fuck's sake it was only a video recorder - not worth mutilating someone for.

The man produced a black plastic bag with "Iam's Cat Food"' on the side, and slipped it over Danny's head. He gathered the loose bottom in his hands, and then clamped them tightly around Danny's neck. The bag inflated as he breathed out, then stuck closely to his face as he inhaled the smell of dried cat food. After a couple of breaths he started to panic - but the man removed his hands and loosened the bag with a chuckle.

What the fuck? Danny was so incredibly horny that even that bit of suffocation had turned him on! Jeez, he thought - this is bad.

The pervert gripped Danny's cock through his jeans and pulled the stretchy denim around behind his cock so that it formed a faded blue sleeve, every minute detail of the throbbing dick beneath visible in stunning detail. Carefully, he applied the point of the nail to the base of the boy's cock, and trailed it slowly upwards along the shaft. When he reached the cockhead, he scratched it repeatedly over the ridge, before continuing slowly upwards towards the tip.

Danny was not breathing. His mind was in overload. Because the black bag was still over his head he couldn't see what the man was doing to his cock - although he suspected he was usung that nail - but whatever it was, was THE most exquisite sensation he had ever felt. Inexpressable waves of ecstatic pleasure shot up him as the point of the nail scratched lightly up his aching cock. He was just about to gasp in a breath when it reached the ridge of his cockhead - and he went weak at the knees at the feeling. A low, gutteral moan escaped his lips.

With maddening slowness, the man drew little circles on the thin, faded denim which was the only thing that stood between the head of Danny's cock and the sharp point of the nail in his hand.

Eventually he reached the very tip, where the tiny twin mounds of the boy's piss slit stretched the worn denim especially thin. With infinite care, the man slid the point of the nail onto them, and moved it across them in varying directions. His touch was incredibly light. After a few moments he felt what he'd been waiting for: Danny's cock suddenly grew in stiffness under his restraining hand - the boy was about to cum. Instantly, he stopped - and for a timeless moment, Danny was held suspended on the very edge of orgasm.

Danny was beside himself. "PLEASE! OH FOR GOD'S SAKE! DO IT! FUCKING DO IT! MAKE ME FUCKING CUUUUUMMM!" He was insane with frustration and need.

The man smiled to himself and then - with a sadistic sneer - he scraped the sharp point of the nail with cruel hardness across the boy's sensitive cockhead. Again and again the point scratched into the thin denim, indenting it deeply with each pass.

Danny SCREAMED. Under other circumstances, what the man was doing to his cockhead would have hurt like FUCK - but at this moment the pain was transformed into pure, unadulterated ECSTASY. It was the most exquisitely horny thing imaginable. Instantly he started to cum - and as the point of the nail continued to scrape sadistically across the most sensitive spot on his entire body, he came and came and came. He could feel his hot spunk gushing out of his cock, soaking his jeans, changing the feel of the nail as it now slid smoothly across his cockhead.

STILL the nail scraped, and STILL Danny continued to come. By now there was no more spunk left to come out, but his cock kept on jerking in his jeans. It was like he was having a multiple orgasm of some kind: the bondage, the pain of the nail on his cockhead, the feeling of the slippery wet jeans around his cock, fuck it - even the smell of cat food in the bloody plastic bag on his head - it was all somehow conspiring to turn him on like nothing ever had before. Danny stared into the black plastic, his mouth open in a - now silent - scream of pleasure.

Gradually the feelings subsided, and Danny hung limp and drained in the restraints. The man released him, and dragged the exhausted and unprotesting boy into the living room. After checking outside briefly, the man pulled him through the door and dumped him, now unconscious - or nearly so - on the pavement.

* * *

Bertram Smale smiled as the door closed behind him. He'd got a nice amount of coke for the video machine, and was going to make another thirty quid out of setting up Percy with that good-for-nothing nephew of his. He walked fifty yards down the road, and rang the bell of a house with a red-painted door. He was pleased to see that there was no longer a motorcycle parked outside.

"It's open," called a sultry voice from within, and Bertram entered.

Pushing his way past a collection of crash helmets and leather gear lying on the floor, Bertram went into the living room where, lying back seductively on the settee was a large nun with a beard, in a rubber habit. She looked stern, and gripped a riding crop meaningfully in one hand.

"Have you been a naughty boy, Bertram?"

Bertram's eyes fell to the floor. "Yes, madame," he whispered.

"Well in that case I must deal with you, mustn't I? Ryan won't be back for hours." The nun smiled. "And did you get me the leather straitjacket?"

"Yes madame. It's in a box under the seat in the car. It was a bit more expensive than I'd originally thought, I'm afraid..."

The nun's sighed. "Oh dear. How much?"

Bertram spread his hands. "Three hundred and fifty. But the quality is superb."

"Hmph. Well, I want it. Anyway, you can get it later. Right now, bend over that chair."

Bertram Smale bent.

* * *

Danny groaned. He must have passed out. Slowly he opened his eyes, and a sudden awareness of a stabbing pain at the tip of his cock brought the events of that afternoon back with a slam. He groaned again and tried to get up. His wrists hurt, every muscle in his body hurt, and he had a headache. Carefully he stood up and sat on the brick wall. He grimaced, and cupped his hurting crotch in his hands. The bastard. The fucking bastard. But that orgasm... oh fuck, that orgasm...

And then he saw it: the Jaguar parked across the road - E428 COK - he'd remember that registration number as long as he lived. It belonged to the bastard who'd slipped him the bogus cash.

Nursing his sore crotch with one hand, he made short work of the car's door lock and looked around inside. Shit - there was absolutely nothing he could nick. Hang on - what was that? There was a box of some kind stuffed beneath the driver's seat. He couldn't reach it from the front so he opened the back door and climbed in, closing it behind him in case anyone came along.

The box was heavy, and it was difficult to extract. He was just pulling it out when the front door opened and the car shifted as someone got into the driver's seat in front of him.

"Aaah! Fuck!" Bertram shifted the weight on his sore bottom as it made contact with the leather seat, and closed the door.

There was nothing Danny could do but stay crouched down in the back, and within moments the car set off at high speed down the road.

* * *

The skinhead always had great difficulty with phones. They required a hand-eye co- ordination of which he didn't have a lot. Squinting and mouthing the numbers, he punched the keypad with careful violence. There was a click, and he was connected. "Erm hello. It's me.... yeah... look, can you pick me up please?"

* * *

Bert's car phone rang. "Oh shit, not now," he said, groping at the switch. "Hello... oh hello Poggy. What you want? I'm busy.... oh fuck where are you?... Oh all right. Wait there, I'll be with you in ten minutes." He broke the connection and swore.

Thankfully, whoever it was that the man picked up, got into the passenger seat without looking in the back of the car. Danny peered around the driver's seat and his eyes widened - it was the fucking bastard skinhead who'd nicked his video! And not only that, but the cunt was telling the man that he'd just been back and got the CD player as well - and bondage gear. It took all of Danny's self-control not to start screaming. He crouched down, fuming as the skinhead went through the carrier bag, inspecting each item in succession. Even his digital camera was there!

"How did you get on with Percy?"

"He was busy - told me to come back later."

"Hmph. Well it IS later now. I've got to call at a place a couple of doors away - forgot to leave something there earlier - but I want the cash before I deliver it, so you can try him again now."

They rode in silence for a while, and then they slowed and stopped. Danny was amazed to see that the car was now parked in the same place as it had been when he'd broken into it. What the fuck was going on? The man and the skinhead got out, the central locking clicked, and Danny watched with open mouth as the man went to the house Danny had been chucked out of by the biker's lover, and the skinhead went to the Technicolor Pervert's place.

Alone now, Danny collected the box from under the seat, his CD player and the carrier bag from the front passenger seat well, and slipped out of the car.

At that moment a motorcycle roared to a stop outside the house, and the very same biker who'd fucked Danny briefly but senseless got off and made for the front door.

Danny was about to move from his position behind a pillar-box when the deviant from two doors away came out of his house carrying the video recorder and strode purposefully to the same door which both the man and the biker had entered. Danny noticed that he hadn't locked his own door when he came out, and an idea occurred to him. Carefully hiding his belongings under the Jaguar, he ran across the road and into the pervert's flat.

Locking the door behind him, he looked around - and was amazed to see the skinhead with the big cock tied up in the doorframe where Danny had been earlier. The boy was gagged and blindfolded, and Danny smiled. Working quickly, he searched the flat for anything he could nick - and grinned when he came across a significant stash of coke inside the rubber Mallard. He picked up entire bird and stuffed it into his jacket. There was nothing else worth nicking, and so he opened the front door a crack to check the coast was still clear. There were sounds of violence coming from two doors away, and he recognised several voices:

Pervert: "Ryan! Put that video down. It's a present from me! No! Don't do that, he's a nice man..."

Crash as of electronic equipment hitting human head.

Jaguar Man: "Ouch! You fucking biker bastard, that hurt."

Biker: "How long you been fucking this creep, eh?"

Biker's lover: "It's not like that!"

Biker: "And whose is this fucking nun's outfit? Eh?"

Danny smiled and closed the door again. He had a few minutes by the sound of it. The skinhead with the big cock was struggling helplessly in his restraints, wondering what was happening. Danny looked around the flat. He collected a piece of coarse sandpaper, the three-inch nail, a particularly evil-looking pair of tit clamps, and a heavy wooden paddle.

Just then there was another click and the lights went off again. Danny smiled. It didn't matter. For what he intended to do to this fucking skinhead, he wasn't going to need electricity.

* * *

Danny pushed the rubber Mallard into the carrier bag and retrieved everything from under the car. Shouts, screams and crashes were still coming from the other house, and he set off to walk to the nearest tube station.

Then he thought "oh fuck it", stopped, went back to the Jaguar, put his belongings - and the heavy box (what on earth was inside it? He hoped it was worth a new video recorder) - back inside the car, hotwired the ignition, and - chuckling happily - drove off.