It's frightening the things a guy will do if he's horny enough.
I'd been horny even before I logged onto IRC, but I got chatting to a hot guy who was turning me on like crazy. We were talking about enforced milking. Before long another couple of guys joined the conversation and we all went onto a separate channel I created for the purpose. Unusually, they were fairly local lads, and the one I was chatting with mostly was a skinhead top named Andy.
I was horny, and feeling confrontational, and I made the misake of saying that NOBODY could make me shoot my load if I was really trying not to, and had a good enough reason to stop myself. Of course that immediately got their testosterone going and pretty soon I was getting things like: "Yeah? I could make you fucking cum any time I wanted. No sweat. And there would be fuck-all you could do to stop yourself."
Now enforced milking - making a guy cum against his will - has long been one of my most intense fetishes: the idea of it turns me on like there's no tororrow and the thought of having it done to ME - for real - got my cock hard and oozing precum in my jeans as I sat at the computer keyboard. I wrote back something like: "Ha! In your dreams, mate. Bikers cum when they want to, not to order - and no fucking skinhead like you could make me shoot my spunk if I didn't want to."
"You a biker then, mate?"
"What bike you got?"
"Nice. I got a ZZR1100."
The screen went quiet for a short while, and I was beginning to think they'd all lost interest - but then a message from Andy flashed up on the screen: "Tell you what, mate, if you're so fucking sure I couldn't make you cum, how about betting your bike?"
I could have logged off then. I could have switched off the computer. I should have at the very least said "No", and put up with losing face in front of the three or four lads who were now on the channel. But I didn't. I was so fucking HORNY thinking about being forcibly milked by the skinhead boy, that my balls were conntected directly to my typing fingers and bypassing my brain completely. "Yeah. Ok. Deal," I replied.
I could still have left it at that and got away with it - after all, they didn't know where Ilived, or anything about me. But I was intent on digging myself further and further into the hole I was making for myself.
"Right. When?" He asked.
I suggested today, thinking I could wank myself silly beforehand, and so easily win the bike off the sucker.
"OK," came the reply.
"Let's talk by phone, and then come back onto channel to make it official. What's your number?"
I told him. The phone rang within two minutes.
"Yeah. You really wanna do this?" He had a soft Scots accent - Edinburgh, I thought, although I couldn't place it exactly.
"Oh yeah. I'm gonna get your fucking ZZR, mate."
Chuckle from the other end. "Ok, where do ya wanna do it?"
"Ok. My mate's playroom." He mentioned another part of town, about half an hour away.
"Fine. Now, the rules. There'll have to be a time limit..."
We talked it through, and my extreme horniness was making me very generous. In the end it was agreed that if he could make me cum inside 1 hour, using any technique or equipment he chose, he would win my bike. If at the end of the hour I had not shot my load, I would win his bike. I would not be allowed to see the playroom, or to know where it was (that was good psychology on his part - he knew from reading my website that I was into that sort of thing). I would be met at the rendezvous point and transported by van, to the location where the contest would take place. there would be other guys there to witness the event, and I could bring one with me myself if I wished. Cockily, I declined the offer.
So it was all set. We went back online, created a channel called "#gaycontest", told everyone to go to it, and I typed in the agreed rules. Colin and I both 'signed' it, and just about everyone who was on channel 'witnessed' it.
Now, it was too late - I HAD to go through with it. But that was fine - I intended to wank every single drop of spunk out of myself between now and then, and I knew I was going to win. To be honest, I have very good control - and unless certain very specific buttons are pushed, I can hold myself off from cumming quite easily. I wasn't worried: it was extremely unlikely that they would hit upon those buttons by accident.
I had a few hours, and I reckoned I could get in at least three good wanks before I had to leave for the rendezvous at 5:30. I switched off the computer and moved to the comfortable recliner, unzipped my jeans and began wanking for England.
Behind my closed eyelids, hunky skinheads in tight, bulging jeans did wonderful things to my helpless body, and very soon I was in the throes of a shattering orgasm.
After cleaning up the spunk with a paper towel, I lay back, contented and comfortable in the soft reclining chair.
I was feeling horny again. Leisurely I played with my hardening cock through the thin denim of my jeans. My cock responded instantly - God I was horny. It was unusual for me to get hard again so soon after cumming. I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. Should be able to have another couple of wanks before 5:30. The hands of the clock came into focus: twenty-five to six.
TWENTY-FIVE TO SIX? That can't be right - Shit! I'd fallen asleep! I bounded off the chair; ran upstairs - stripping on the way and leaving a trail of clothes behind me; pulled on my leather jeans, jacket and boots, raced downstairs again grabbing my keys, helmet, and jacket, and put them on while running around the house to the garage. I gunned the bike into life and set off at full speed, breaking every speed limit on the way to Chadwick Lane car park.
The white van was already there, waiting. There was a red ZZR1100 standing beside it. I locked my bike, removed my hemet, and walked towards the Transit. As I approached, the rear door opened, and I climbed in. Inside the windowless van it was dark and, before my eyes had a chance to adjust, a hood was dropped over my head and my wrists were handcuffed behind my back. I'd had a glimpse of two or three figures before being plunged into blackness, and I had the impression that they were all wearing masks.
I was forced onto a seat facing toward the back of the van, and felt someone each side of me, holding my arms. The fact that I was hooded, helpless, and being held by unseen guys whom - I knew, were intent on making me cum - all conspired to make me even hornier. My cock was rock-hard inside my jeans, and I could feel it forcing the leather out into what must have been an enormous bulge between my legs - but of course I couldn't see it.
Suddenly I felt fingers close gently around the shaft of my cock through the black leather. My knees snapped together in a protective reflex, and I felt them close on the arm to which the hand belonged. The feeling was wonderful - invasive and horny. The fingers squeezed and stroked gently, playing with my cock and tickling my balls. I began to struggle to get away from the teasing fingers - I did NOT want to be made any more horny than I already was - but the guys each side of me held me more firmly in place, one of them clamping a hand over my mouth through the hood, partly cutting off my air and completely silencing the protests I'd begun to make. All of this, of course, turned me on even more.
The van was moving now, and we would soon be at the playroom where the main event would take place. It was at that point that I suddenly became much less certain about the outcome of the contest. It was as if everything they'd done to me so far, and the way they'd done it, had been specifically designed to use my personal turn-ons to get me as horny as possible. The 'abduction', the masks, the hood, the way he was playing with my cock (gently and teasingly rather than hard), even the feel of his hand between my thighs - these were all things that turned me on a lot. It dawned on me that it was possible that these guys somehow knew all my weaknesses, fetishes, and things I couldn't resist. Much of it was all there on my website, and no doubt they'd read that - but my most powerful and irresistable buttons of all were not mentioned there. I prayed that they didn't know them. It appeared that I was going to have my work cut out to win this. For the very first time, losing my beloved motorbike became a slightly more real possibility. I could not allow that to happen - for one thing I couldn't afford another, and being without my bike would be like losing an arm. Oh shit.
No-one had spoken to me so far, but then I heard a voice whispering close to my ear - and it confirmed my very worst fears. "We've got you, Dave. And we've been doing our homework. We know EVERYTHING that turns you on most of all. We know all your fetishes, and all of the little things that get you hard... and h-o-r-n-y..." The hand between my thighs pushed up harder against my perineum, and the fingers teased my cock - gently, lightly, irresistably... I realized that I was opening and closing my legs, squeezing the hand between my thighs. I was not far from cumming already.
Then I had an idea: if I could get them to make me cum now - before we got to the playroom - I'd be in a much better position to resist them there. An orgasm now wouldn't count! As the fingers continued to tease my cock-head, I let myself go. I breathed in the smell of the leather pressing over my face; I told myself I was hooded, helpless, being abducted by guys I didn't know and couldn't see; and that I was going to be tied up and forced to cum by them. I squeezed my thighs together hard and the hand between them - and I KNEW I was going to cum!
"Heh heh," chuckled the voice, "Oh no you don't." The hand was pulled out, the fingers removed from my cock-head, and the guys at my sides pulled my knees wide apart. Instantly the approaching orgasm receded.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
My cock jerked inside my leather jeans, searching for more friction - something to rub it - but there was nothing. I bucked my hips in frustration, but there was no way I was going to be able to cum. The guys knew this, and for the rest of the journey every free hand was employed stroking and tickling lightly over my tight-jeaned legs and balls. The bastards even knew that my armpits were erogenous zones, and forced their hands in there, tickling gently. But they stayed right away from my aching, stiff cock. By the time we arrived, I was so horny I could have screamed.
The van slowed, stopped, reversed a short way, and stopped again. The doors opened and I was led out, still hooded and with my arms cuffed behind my back. There were doors, what sounded like a corridor, a short flight of stairs, and then I knew we were in the playroom. A new voice said; "The time starts.... now."
This was it. If I didn't want to lose my bike, I was somehow going to have to stop Andy making me cum for the next sixy minutes. But the bastards had got me so fucking HORNY! I wished now that I'd made more rules to prohibit this. I felt hands unfastening my hood, and then it was pulled off. I was standing in a bright pool of light. There were other figures I couldn't really make out, as they were hidden in the shadows of the black room. The guy who'd removed my hood released my handcuffs, and walked around until he was standing in front of me.
Talk about wet dreams: he was about six feet tall; his pecs were clearly defined under a tight white teeshirt and an open leather jacket; and he was wearing thin leather jeans that most have been at least two sizes too small for him. The leather gripped his thighs like shiny black clingfilm, and the bulge at his crotch was so big that the lace-up fly was having great difficulty holding it in - the eyelets looked as if they were about to tear out under the pressure at any moment, and patches of his cock and balls were visible between the straining leather thong laces. His hard cock lay like a solid, curved steel rod slightly to one side - his jeans were too tight to allow the growing erection to have got as far as his thigh, and the shaft had curved outwards. The resultant bulge was one of the horniest things I'd ever seen in my life. The tops of white socks were visible just under his knees, above tall DMs with white laces. He wore a studded leather belt low on his hips, onto the side of which he now replaced the handcuffs; and his entire head was masked by a black balaclava - only his green eyes were visible through the single slit. I wanted him very, very badly.
He gave me a few moments to look at him, and then said: "strip!"
I took off my boots, jeans, jacket and teeshirt, putting them in a neat pile by my side, and waited for further orders. My cock was hard and there was a single pearly-white drop of precum on the tip.
The wet dream stood gazing at me, then he shook his head slowly and whispered, "I am gonna make you shoot your spunk, boy - and there will be fuck all you'll be able to do to stop yourself, however hard you fight it." He turned his head and nodded to someone in the shadows, and the rest of the room lights were turned on.
I was in the centre of a large - and extremely well-equipped - playroom. The walls, floor and ceiling were all covered in black rubber, and devlish-looking devices hung from hooks, filled shelves, or were stood around on the floor. To one side sat two other guys. Both were masked: one was a man in full leathers - clearly the referee (and presumably the owner of the playroom). His well-polished boots, leather mask, jeans and harness shone in the lights, and he held a clipboard and a stopwatch. By the side of him, sitting on a complicated-looking bondage table of some kind, was a much younger, slim guy. He was naked to the waist, and wearing jeans just as unbelievably tight as Wet Dream's, but of faded, ripped denim. He too wore tall DMs.
Wet Dream spoke again, his Scots accent soft and sexy through the balaclava: "I'm Andy. This," he indicated the man in the leather mask, "is the referee, and it's his playroom. The other guy," he nodded at the bare-chested youth, "is a friend. He's here just to watch me make you cum. Their names don't matter." The two other guys nodded at me once, slowly. "Put your hands on your head."
I did as he said. He stepped forward, and put his arms around me, hugging me. The leather of his jeans and jacket felt cool and very horny against my bare skin, and the cold handcuffs swung against my hips. I breathed in the smell of the leather deeply. But most of all I could feel that incredible cock-bulge pushing into my crotch.
His mouth was almost touching my ear, and I could feel his warm breath as he whispered, so that the other couldn't hear, "We both know that could make you cum right now. I could wrap my hand around your cock and t-o-s-s y-o-u o-f-f..."
My cock gave a jerk in response to his words. But then I told myself - ok, he's read my website, and he knows that certain words make me horny. So what? I'm still not gonna fucking cum.
"... but I'm not going to. Oh no - that would be too easy. I'm gonna get you so fucking horny that I've only gotta breathe on your cock and you'll shoot your spunk. I'm gonna use lots of gear to get you absolutely fucking helpless. And then, Davy boy, I'm gonna toss you off very very s-l-o-w-l-y, so that you have lots of time to know what's happening, to try to fight against it, and to realize that you CAN'T... as my rubber-gloved hand slides over your cock..."
I swallowed hard. This was going to be much more difficult than I'd thought. What the hell had I been thinking about to get myself into this?
"Time?" Asked Andy.
"Twelve minutes," replied the referee.
"Come over here." He beckoned me with his head, and I followed him across the rubber floor to a padded St. Andrew's cross, suspended on chains from the ceiling. At the moment it was almost vertical, the ends of the two lower arms resting on the floor, but it looked as if it was adjustable for angle. Andy motioned with his hand that I get onto it, and I lay against the cross, face-up as directed. Then he fastened the straps over my wrists, arms, body, hips, thighs, calves, and ankles - in all I counted twenty-three heavy black leather straps holding me down. When he'd finished that, I couldn't even begin to move a single muscle. He went behind the cross, and I heard and felt a head support being raised into position - it was a thin, padded platform no wider than my head. Another three wide straps went around my head - one over my forehead, the next, which had a triangular hole in it, fitted over my nose, and the third cupped my chin, holding my mouth immovably closed and strapped to the headrest. I was now unable to speak or to move anything but my toes and fingers. He then immobilised my fingers with ten separate small straps which held each digit fully extended, and did the same thing with some kind of device which I couldn't see, to my toes. There was now nothing apart from my eyes, that I could move at all. I have been in many kinds of bondage before, but never in my life had I felt so totally helpless as I did now.
Andy picked up something from the table and brought it over to me. He held his hand up and showed me a black leather hood. I could see it was designed to slip over both the victim's head and also the headrest of the cross, and had lots of straps on it so it could be tightened precisely. He spoke slowly, teasingly. "You like being hooded, don't you?" It was not a question which required an answer. "You like to feel sexy black leather pressing tight over your face, blindfolding you... so you can't see a fucking thing... don't know what to expect... can't prepare yourself for something you can't see, can you?" He lowered the hood and wrapped it around my throbbing cock, then slid it between my thighs and pressed it tight up to my balls. The feeling of the cool, shiny leather between my legs brought me dangerously close to cumming right then, but I shut my eyes and willed myself back from the edge. "That's it, concentrate. But you can't make yourself less horny, can you? Not when there's a sexy skinhead going to milk your helpless cock....."
I groaned, and opened my eyes again. He really was one of the sexiest-looking boys I'd ever seen. This was very unfair - very unfair indeed. He held all the cards: he'd got me helpless, he had a roomful of equipment he could use on me to make me cum - and the only defense I had against it all was my willpower.
But that was, after all, exactly what I'd wanted and fantasized about, wasn't it?
It was. If only my motorbike wasn't at stake. But if it hadn't been, all this wouldn't be turning me on so much. What I wanted was to be made to cum AGAINST MY WILL - for real. And this was certainly real enough. If I lost, I was going to lose something which was easily my most cherished possesion. Much as I wanted to, I COULD NOT LOSE.
He placed the hood over my head - not strapping it up, but leaving it lying loosely over me. The smell of the black leather was heady and wonderful. For some reason I found the fact that it wasn't fastened on very horny and frustrating - I knew it would pull off easily, but there was no way I could remove it, and it still prevented me from seeing a fucking thing. I wondered what Andy was doing.
After a few moments the hood was pulled off again. The young skinhead boy was now standing in front of me - he was blindfolded, and his arms were behind his back. Andy stood behind him, and, looking straight at me, put his finger to his lips in a gesture of conspiratorial silence (as if I could make a sound). Then, slowly, he bent down, reached between the boy's tight-jeaned thighs, positioned his hand, and suddenly grabbed the boy's balls through his jeans. His other hand went around the kid's waist and closed over the head of his cock. The skinhead's wrists were apparently cuffed behind him as he couldn't move them. He bent forward at the waist, closed his thighs tightly on Andy's wrist, and gave a grunt of surprise as the bigger guy started to toss him off. I watched transfixed as Andy's hand pumped the boy's cock, sliding over the tight, thin, faded denim. It was a mind-blowingly horny sight. I was already insanely horny, and watching Andy hand-raping that sexy boy in his skintight jeans made it even worse. The bastard knew exactly how to turn me on.
Andy stopped wanking the boy before he made him cum, and when he removed his hand, the kid's cock was twice the size it had been before. A dark blue patch of wetness was spreading from the tip. He slowly moved his fingers over the tip of the boy's cock-head, while gently teasing his balls with the other hand. The sound of his nails as they scratched over the tight, thin denim resonated deep inside of me, and I could almost feel what the young skinhead was feeling as those nails stroked lightly over his sensitive, horny cock. He was still bent over, but moaning and breathing fast - I knew he was close to cumming.
But again Andy stopped before the boy could cum. His blindfold was removed, and he was sent to sit back on the table again, walking with difficulty with his huge erection stretching his jeans.
Watching Andy standing behind him and working on him through those sexy, skintight faded jeans had made me more horny than ever. I wanted to cum so badly - but I knew that was the one thing I must not do.
Andy went over to the wall, and there was a whirring of electric motors. The cross began to move: the leg end slowly rising and the head falling. As it moved, I saw the young skinhead boy watching me closely. He was opening and closing his knees, trying to get as much friction on his horny cock as possible with his hands tied behind his back. I stared at the creases in the denim at his groin as they formed and disappeared again with each movement, and I could see that although he wanted to very much, he wasn't going to be able to make himself cum like that.
The motors stopped when the cross - and I - was horizontal. Andy walked around to my head and slipped the hood over my head and the headrest. This time he tightened all the straps, one by one, until the black leather was tight across my face, pressing my head into the padded rest behind it. There were, of course, no eyeholes, and not a single ray of light got in anywhere. I tried to move my head, but I could neither shake it nor move it a millimeter in any other direction. The only hole in the hood was for breathing - and I now felt something being attached to it.
I smelled poppers. There was nothing I could do to avoid it, and had to breathe it in whether I wanted to or not. After a few seconds the smell stopped, but I felt myself getting turned on more and more...
I jumped as something touched my balls - something light and soft. It moved over them, probed around behind them, and explored into the creases at the sides. And it TICKLED. I was in another world - hooded, helpless, and hornier than I could remember ever having been before in my life. The soft tickling was replaced by fingers, which were winding something around my balls and the base of my cock, like a cockring. It felt like a leather thong. Then there was something cold and wet, and another winding - this time around my cock, at the top of the shaft. Again the feeling of cool wetness, and then what felt like strings trailing over my hips.
An electical buzzing, and then..... SHIT! - a tingling - but like nothing I'd ever felt before. This was like an army of ants running across my balls, up and down the shaft and over the tip of my cock. It slowly increased in intensity, then stopped at a steady level. It felt like I'd been stung by lots of nettles, but without the pain: it itched like crazy and made me want to rub my cock to relieve it. It also made me want to CUM. I realized that I was moaning into the hood, and trying to writhe - but the leather straps made that quite impossible.
Andy's voice whispering by my ear: "You want me to rub your cock, don't you? Would you like me to grip it and give you a good, hard tossing?"
There was no way I could answer him - either by speaking or by moving my head. All I could do was lie there and take it. My moans suddenly turned to silent screams of lust as I felt something tickle the very tip of my cock-head. Just three light strokes across the very edge of my foreskin - but that was enough to bring me gaggingly close to cumming. I tensed every muscle, and tried desperately to think of something other than that incredible feeling in my cock.
The tickling stopped, and he said, loud enough for the others to hear this time, "See how impossible it is to fight me?"
Without turning, he asked, "Time?"
"Now, d'ya think you can hold out for another 30?" Then he laughed - and I think I heard the others laugh too.
"You're so fucking easy to control, Dave. You're not very good at resisting, are you? You're gonna have to practise. But it's so hard when you're strapped down, hooded, and horny, isn't it?... Let's try again."
This time something very thin and light stroked up to the top of my cock from the base of the shaft. Over and over again it made its maddeningly frustrating journey up my hard cock - and each time it stroked over the very tip, I tried desperately to stop my whole body tensing as my nervous system prepared for orgasm, so that he wouldn't know the devastating effect that playing with the tip had on me. If he were to learn that, I was surely doomed. I screwed my eyes closed in concentration under the leather hood. I HAD to think of something else.
'Two squared is four. Three squared is nine. Four squared is sixteen. Five squared is twenty-five. Six squared is thirty... is thirty si...'
The smell of the leather pressing over my face, the straps over my arms and legs, the tingling in my cock and balls, the unbelievably horny feeling of whatever he was doing to the tip of my cock....
'..is THIRTY-SIX. SEVEN SQUARED IS FORTY-NINE. EIGHT SQUARED...'
He stopped. "Hmm. You're controlling yourself better than I thought you'd be able to. I think we need to get you a bit more horny."
I knew he was playing with me still - if he'd really wanted to make me cum, faster and harder strokes on my cock-head, coupled with the feeling of cool leather gloved hands between my thighs and on my balls would have done it in short order. But perhaps he didn't realize after all that that was a guaranteed way to bring me off... My determination to hold out found new strength at this thought.
The tingling stoped, I felt the electrodes being removed from my cock and balls, then the hood was unfastened and pulled off. I blinked in the light, and watched as he reached up and pulled down another electrical device, which he slipped over my cock. It came down to just below the head. It was a stainless steel cylinder and looked like a short version of a milking machine. The inside was black rubber. The weight of it pushed my cock down so it was pointing at a forty-five degree angle towards my feet. He pressed a switch and the cylinder began to vibrate. It wasn't as violent as I'd thought it would be, but it felt wonderful. Andy folded his arms and stood back, watching me with those green eyes through the slit of the balaclava. The vibrator was wickedly persistent: the effects of the tingling were building up slowly but mercilessly. I began to squirm - as much as the restraints would allow, which was negligible - and closed my eyes again in order to concentrate.
'Seven squared is forty nine. Eight squared is fifty-six. Nine squared is.... is eighty... eighty ONE! Ten squared is one hundred. Eleven squ... squ.. ELEVEN SQUARED IS ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-ONE.'
I opened my eyes at the sound of his voice. He'd got the young skinhead again, in almost the same position as before, and the boy was in the throes of orgasm. As I watched, his cock jerked under Andy's hand as his fingers slid over the tight blue denim, and his spunk gushed out and soaked his faded jeans. His moans of ecstasy were stifled by the hand clamped over his mouth. Andy milked the last drops slowly out of the still-convulsing boy and then looked at me over his shoulder. He lifted his hand and showed me his spunk-slick fingers. "Spunk. Milked out of a tight-jeaned skinhead boy. Yeah. Can you imagine what it would feel like to cum - now? If I put my fingers round your cock and milked you like I've just milked this boy? Do you want to cum? Do you want me to toss you off?" He chuckled.
Of fuck. To see that boy being brought off like that - being tossed off in his tight jeans by a sexy guy, and having an orgasm which I so badly wanted and needed myself, while that devlish little vibrator worked relentlessly on my cock-head and I was helpless to do anything about it...
'TWELVE SQUARED IS ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-FOUR. THIRTEEN SQUARED IS... IS...' I had no idea what thirteen squared was.
But I was fighting it. I was close to cumming, yeah, but I was fighting it. If I could only keep on fighting it for the length of time that was left... I stared defiantly with wide-open eyes at Andy. I was NOT going to lose my bike. I was going to win HIS bike. I was NOT going to cum!
Andy released the skinhead boy and removed his handcuffs, then stood close by me. "How you getting on with the vibrator? Feeling horny yet?"
I just stared at him. If the head straps had let me, I would have smiled at him.
"Ok. I think it's time to make you cum, boy."
He stood at my side and reached under the cross, adjusting something. Suddenly my legs came together - the cross was apparently jointed. He locked it in place, with my knees lightly touching. For a few moments he idly ran his fingertips over my nipples, armpits, and my bare soles, tickling. My soles and my armpits are both extremely erogenous zones on me, and electric currents of pleasure ran up and down my body. I tried not to let him see the effect this was having on me, though.
He turned, and picked up a pair of long, black rubber gauntlets, which he slowly pulled on. The rubber was smooth, shiny, and sexy. "I'm gonna milk you, boy." He plunged his right hand into a large tub of grease, and came out with a fistful. As he smoothed it over both gloves, gobs of the melting, lubricating grease dropped back into the tub and the black rubber took on a manacing, smooth, slippery liquid shine under the thick layer of lube. My aprehension increased alarmingly as I imagined my cock enclosed in those hands - the smooth rubber slipping and sliding sexily over my horny dick and balls.
"Paul - work on me."
The skinhead boy came up behind Andy, reached around his waist with one hand, between his legs with the other, and began gently playing with that incredible bulge. As I watched, Andy's cock moved inside his jeans, the sharply-ridged head forcing the tight, thin, stretchy leather out to accommodate it as it hardened even further in response to the boy's touch.
I saw the balaclava move around Andy's mouth as he smiled - and then he pushed his hand flat between my lower thighs. In spite of my efforts to squeeze my legs together to keep it out, the lubricated rubber slid in easily on its film of grease. Very slowly, he worked it upwards towards my balls. Inch by inch, teasing and tickling with his fingers, it got higher and higher. His other hand wrapped completely around my straining cock, enclosing the shaft in smooth, glistening, slippery black rubber, and he began to slide it up and down the length, milking me.
Although I knew that this technique didn't usually stand as much chance of making me cum as working just on the cock-head did - being strapped down helpless, and watching the boy's fingers sliding sensuously over Andy's leather-jeaned cock and balls at the same time was very, very dangerous. I tried to look away, but the sight of that rock-hard cock being played with inside those skintight leather jeans was too much for me. I have an indescribably intense fetish for tight jeans, and making boys cum in them - and it was obvious that Andy knew this very well. He knew I could not tear my eyes away from them.
By now his hand was nearing my balls. "Time?" He asked, slightly breathless, and his eyes never leaving mine.
"Ah. Fourteen minutes. You've only got to hold out for fourteen more minutes. Think - think you can do that?" His words were getting slightly uncontrolled - I realized that he was very close to cumming himself.
His hand began pumping my cock faster, the slippery rubber glove sliding up and down the shaft of my cock in a concerted effort to bring me off. It felt beautiful - but I could control it. The shaft is nothing like as sensitive as the tip, and it was only when his thumb occasionally slid against the ridge that I felt in danger of losing it. His other hand was stroking my balls hard - also not the most effective technique, as a light, teasing, tickling touch works best on me - and thank heavens his fingers were staying on the front of my balls.
Gradually his actions became less and less co-ordinated. The skinhead boy was going to make Andy cum! Yeah! That would mess him up completely!
"Paul! STOP!" The skinhead froze, and then removed his hands. Andy froze as well for a moment, then - with a deep breath, said, "That was close." He hadn't cum - quite.
Only three minutes to go! If I could hold out for just three more minutes, my bike was safe - and I'd have Andy's as well! Ever since the moment I'd first seen him, I knew I wouldn't in fact take his bike. To have won against that sexy, horny boy would be enough. There was no way I could take his bike off him - I know exactly how I would feel if mine were taken away from me. But of course he didn't know that - yet.
He gazed at me for a moment, then the balaclava moved again. He was grinning. Slowly, his moved his hands - the one on my balls crept higher, the fingers probed up at the sides of my balls and gently gripped. He dipped the other hand back into the grease and, this time not even shaking the excess off, with just two fingertips and thumb he held my cockhead - close to the tip. Then, slowly, he began to slide the foreskin over the end. Up and down, round and round - slowly, teasingly, gently - while grinning at me continuously from under the black balaclava.
At the same time, Paul - the skinhead - replaced his hands and started to play with Andy's cock again. My eyes opened wide in terror - the bastard had been playing with me all this time. He knew exactly how to milk me in the one way I couldn't resist, and he was so confident, he'd left it to the last fucking minute.
His fingers gripped and released my balls...
Ten squared is one hundred.
I could feel the arm of his leather jacket between my bare thighs...
Eleven squared is one hundred and - one hundred and tw- twenty-one.
His greasy, rubber-gloved fingertips slid over the head of my cock - just the head...
Twelve sq- squared is... is.... is one hundred and... one hundred... and ... and...AND FORTY-F-F-F-F-F-FOUR!!
I was strapped down helpless, being milked by a sexy, masked boy, who himself was being tossed off in his skintight leather jeans by a young skinhead while he worked on my desperately horny cock in the one way which he knew I could not fight against...
With a strangled cry, Andy shot his load into his jeans under the boy's fingers - and his cock moved like a wild animal under the skintight leather, jerking up and down as each gob of thick, hot spunk erupted from the tip.
My own orgasm hit me like a sledgehammer - I'd felt it approaching, but the sight of Andy starting to cum in his jeans triggered it instantly. I was absolutely helpless to stop it. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" But it was too late. My spunk shot upwards and fell back onto my stomach in four - five - six - - - seven - - - - - eight pearly globs.
"Fifty-nine minutes and thirty-five seconds. I declare Andy the winner."
I had lost. For the first time in my life, I had been milked against my will. There had been nothing in the world I could do to stop myself cumming. I had had the horniest session and the best orgasm of my life, but I had lost my CBR900. Had it been worth it?
Post-orgasm reality hit me hard, just then. I realized that I no longer had a motorbike. My life revolved around that bike - I couldn't imagine being without it. What the fuck had I done?
Andy returned the cross to its near-vertical position and unstrapped me. He held me up and took me over to a chair. "So, I believe I am now the proud owner of a Honda Fireblade."
I hung my head in defeat and stared at the floor. "Yes," was all I could manage.
There was silence for a few moments, and then Andy said, wistfully, "be nice if I could ride a bike." there was no trace of a Scots accent - in fact now it was decidedly East End.
I looked up in surprise, and he pulled the balaclava off.
I stared open-mouthed. "You!"
'Andy' was in fact not Andy at all. Andy was Geoff. I hadn't seen Geoff for at least five years - but he'd topped me many times years ago, in some of the mest sessions I'd had. He'd clearly been working out since I'd last seen him - he looked nothing like I remembered him, except for his face. I'd always fancied him like crazy.
"Me. And this is Paul, my other half." He pulled the skinhead boy to him and they kissed briefly but hard. Looking back at my uncomprehending expression, he laughed. "I've known Michael here for ages and we're staying with him for a week. We were on his computer yesterday and I realized who you were. Thought it might be fun to wind you up a bit..."
"You get to keep your bike. The ZZR you saw is Michael's. Neither of us would know what to do with a motorbike."
"But... but -"
The three guys laughed then. Michael put the clipboard down and came to join us. He remained masked. "It was Geoff's idea. We were talking about your little fetishes and turn-ons and he said he knew from years ago exactly how to make you cum - so when you bet that he wouldn't be able to make you shoot we decided to take you at your word."
"But if I'd won...?"
"You wouldn't have got the ZZR - it's mine, not Geoff's," Michael chuckled.
"Shit! Well I'll tell you - the moment you took the hood off me and I first saw you, Geoff - I knew I couldn't take your bike off you. So you'd have kept it anyway - even if I'd won - and even if it had been yours... This is getting complicated."
We all laughed then - me mostly with relief. For the next hour or so we chatted, smoked and drank tea, catching up on old times. We exchanged email addresses, and vowed to keep in touch.
It was time for me to go. I got dressed, and asked for directions back home - I had no idea where I was, after all.
"Oh no you don't," said Geoff. He grabbed my arms and held them while Michael cuffed them behind my back, and Paul dropped the hood over my head. Once again in leather blackness, I was led down to the Transit.
* * *
Just over a week later, I had an email from a 'Lthr1250C@aol.com (I'd never heard of him before) He said he was intrigued my my website, and that one of his biggest turn-ons had always been enforced milking - making guys cum against their will. From his description he sounded fit enough - he was 46, and 100% top. He said he realised that I was usually top, but would I consider making an exception for him, as he was very into practically everything I talked about on my site, and it was very unusual, he said, to find guys into some of those turn-ons. In particular, he said, he loved a challenge.
I replied expressing extreme interest, and the next day received another mail from him. He proposed a straight contest, to be held over just thirty minutes, in either my own or his playroom - that he could make me cum against my will. He was so sure that he could make me shoot, that he was willing to bet his brand-new Pentium computer on the outcome. Was there something vaulable to me I would be willing to bet?
This guy knew nothing about me apart from what he'd read on my website. He didn't know about the secret little buttons which, if pushed, would make me squirt my spunk on demand. Thirty minutes? I couldn't lose.
I hit 'reply', and then gazed at the screen, gently playing with my cock which had, in the last thirty seconds grown to full erection.
"Yes," I typed. "My motorbike."
I shook my head slowly, then placed my finger over the 'delete' key. There was no way I was going to risk that again. Not even to be strapped down, hooded, teased, played with and tossed off...
...while I was helpless and fighting against it...
I blinked, looked down at the keyboard, and calmly pressed 'Send'.