I saw the shop as I was riding past on the motorbike. “Jeans Obsession”. Must be new, I thought – I’d never noticed it before, and believe me, it’s the kind of thing I would notice.
After executing a swift U-turn in the high street and giving an Audi driver the finger, I parked in front of the shop.
Disappointment. It was like all the other places around here that were selling designer denim. Jeans, to me, were sexy things; this window was full of un-sexy, pristine, dark-blue trousers that were, to me, intensely yawn-inducing. They were not in the least bit form-fitting, they had creases down the legs that you could have cut yourself on, and they’d been priced by someone who suffered from terminal optimism.
I heaved a resigned sigh and was about to turn back to my bike when I saw a small notice card to one side. “Other lines for the enthusiast. Ask inside.”
Really? Prepared for more despair, I went in.
“Good afternoon, sir.” The shopkeeper had nice muscles under a white tee shirt, and was wearing what I had to admit were extremely well-fitting, faded jeans.
I asked about the ‘other lines for the enthusiast’.
He looked at me for a while, his eyes spending most of their time on my own jeans – a pair I’d bought two years ago when I was in Uni – and which I’d cherished lovingly and had worn just about every day, when they weren’t in the wash, ever since. They had faded and moulded to my shape perfectly (this had started the day I’d got them – I’d read the first five chapters of The Lord Of the Rings while lying in the bath with them on).
“What kind of thing are you looking for, sir?”
I thought for a while. “Hmm. Something very sexy.”
He nodded, and looked at me again “I see. I’m very sure we can accommodate you, sir. If you’ll follow me to the office we can discuss your requirements better there.”
He closed the office door and brandished a tape measure. “May I take some measurements while we talk?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He set about me with the tape. “Is your interest more the front area, or the back, if you take my meaning?”
His hands were around my waist for a moment, then he wrote a number down on a pad.
“Erm – The front.”
He nodded, and measured my hips. “Well, sir, we offer three types: A, B, and C. Type A are jeans that have been worn by volunteers while undergoing prolonged ‘edging’ in them.” He glanced up at me to see if I’d understood. He saw by my startled expression that I had.
The tape was now down the outside of my left leg. “The volunteers are all commando for this, of course. Denim over a cock bulge lightens and then begins to fray when scratched gently, but for a long time. Our workers use many devices for this, and we pride ourselves in producing a natural-looking worn area at the crotch – but one that is still unmissable to those who look for it. With Type A – what we think of as ‘entry level’ – the shading is quite subtle, and several volunteers may be used to produce a pair.
The tape measure was now being pulled tight around my calf. He’d already done the ankle.
I was having difficulty in taking in what this guy was saying. Guys who were edged in them? For a long time? Wow. This was not, in fact, your standard jeans-shop, I realised. At about the same time I also realised that my cock was considerably harder than it had been when I’d come in.
The tape had moved up my leg; it was now above the knee.
“Unlike Type A, Type B jeans are produced by one long and aggressive session on a single volunteer. Our workers are selected for their skill at edging, and we guarantee that only precum will have contacted the denim, nothing more. The worn area is the same as with Type A, but is considerably more distressed.”
I was picturing a guy – he’d have to be restrained, surely, for that kind of thing – strapped down, his hard cock being worked on with ‘devices’ (Oh fuck, I wanted to know what those were!). My cock was clearly on the same page, because it was getting worryingly hard. I’d hoped the shopkeeper wouldn’t notice, but I saw that he already had. He was hot, and the feel of his fingers, which were now measuring the very top of my thigh, wasn’t helping.
“And lastly, there is the Type C. For this, the client is invited to look through our extensive gallery - we have hundreds of guys on our books: many different kinds: masculine men, cute boys, skinheads, punks, leatherguys, bikers like yourself, sir – and choose the one he fancies most of all. Those we show all have exactly the same measurements as the client’s. I’m sure there will be many you will like very much indeed. A meticulous imprint of that volunteer’s package is then created on a pair of skintight jeans by extremely protracted and slow work. I’m sure you can imagine the difficulties here – the volunteer must not be able to move at all, his cock must be kept as hard as humanly possible, absolutely immobile, and in the same place no matter how violently he struggles as every millimetre of his cock – the shaft, the corona, the glans, urethra, frenulum – is explored, stimulated, teased to maintain steel-hard erection, while the tight denim over it is gently and gradually distressed to reveal the shape in minute detail. The balls, of course, are done as well. And he must not be permitted to cum even once during all of this. As you can imagine, sir, it’s a long, slow, and very torturous process.”
He smiled slowly. “And with Type C, a video of the entire session is included in the price, for the client’s later enjoyment.”
I was rock-hard now, and leaking precum. Oh fuck. The thought of all that was wonderful. To have a pair of tight, faded jeans in which a guy I fancied like fuck had been strapped down by dispassionate bastards who were skilled in making guys need to cum but not allowing them to – while they teased and worked on a cock that must be absolutely fucking desperate for release – that was supreme wank material to me. It was only with great self-control that I managed to stop myself from losing it right then and there.
His timing was perfect (if it was intentional, and I’m sure it was): the tape was now carefully measuring my hard cock through my jeans. His fingers felt wonderful.
“Obviously, because of the work involved, the price of Type C jeans is correspondingly the highest of the three types.” He stood back, made a final note on the pad. “That’s your measurements done. Now, pricing.”
He told me the cost of all three types, and my eyes started to water.
“You said that you’re more interested in the front area, but for your information – perhaps you know someone who is into such things – the same kind of system applies for those interested in the rear - jeans that have been distressed with paddles, canes, whips etc. Three Types, A, B, and C, following a similar scheme as for the front.”
He put the tape down on the desk and raised his eyebrows. “So, sir, can we interest you in anything?”
I forced myself to concentrate on speaking. “The edging ones – the Type C you told me about – are certainly just what I’m looking for. But the cost is a bit high for me. Can I think about it for a while?”
“Certainly, sir.”
I tried to get my hard cock into a more comfortable position as I got back onto the bike.
That had been Tuesday. On Saturday I was to be found in the local testosterone containment unit that is the Rat and Ratchet. Its clientele mainly consists of bald, fat guys who get pissed watching the match on the big screen and then throw up in the gutter outside on their way to the Indian take-away. But apart from them, there are occasionally interesting guys – it’s close to the Uni student accommodation, and there’s a biker club not far away. In all the years I’ve been going there, I’ve only once picked anyone up. But it’s the only option around here, so I still go.
Anyway, Saturday. This time it was me who was approached. That had not happened in living memory, so I wasn’t prepared for it. He was dressed identically to me: biker jacket, combat boots, and jeans. And they were tight. Oh fuck were they tight. At first I guessed he might be from the biker club down the road – he looked like he might be a biker – but most of that lot are large, bearded Harley-riders. He was too good-looking for that.
“Hi,” he said, smiling at me.
I nodded at him.
“Seems we’re the only two that don’t give a fuck about football.”
I chuckled. “I suspect you’re right.”
“Can I get you a beer? I’m Dylan, by the way.”
I thanked him and introduced myself. He was looking at me, but I was looking at his bulging denim crotch.
He pushed my pint towards me and took a gulp of his own, then he nodded at my lower half. “You’ve had those jeans for a while, I think.”
I glanced down at them. “Yeah. I’ve looked after these for years. I like jeans. A lot.”
His eyes lit up. “Oh fuck. Really? So do I.” He looked down shyly. “In fact, if I’m honest, I’ve got a bit of a fetish for tight jeans.”
I liked this guy. Long story short: I went back to his place.
As soon as we got in we kissed, and I felt his hands exploring my jeans. He was purring. I was running my hands over his firm, round, buttocks, and we were both as hard as a rock.
Come on!” He pulled me into the bedroom. That boy doesn’t hang about.
I say ‘bedroom’. There was indeed a bed in it, but you had to squint to see it behind the very solid restraint table.
He looked unsure. “Can I tie you up? Are you into that?”
Now, under normal circumstances I would think twice about allowing a complete stranger to get me on an industrial-strength table with black leather straps all over it, but these were not usual circumstances. My cock was yelling at me to do it, and anyway, this guy was hot, and clearly mainly interested in my jeans.
“Go on then.”
By the time he’d buckled all the straps I was incapable of moving. I hadn’t expected the gag though – it was a leather one with a bright red ball in the middle of it. I started to protest, but my preferences were not discussed, and it was efficiently applied.
Once he’d got me helpless and silenced on the table he busied himself setting up a video camera.
Oh, I thought, perhaps this guy is not what he appears to be. Was this the old blackmail trick? Well he was going to be sorely disappointed: I was self-employed, so I had no boss to fire me, and there was not one person I cared about in my life who didn’t know: (a) that I was gay; and (b) that I had major fetishes for jeans, leather, and bondage. If he was going to look through my address book and threaten to send the video to everybody on it – or even to put it on the internet – I would wish him good luck with that. I smirked under the gag.
He’d done a professional job with the restraints, I have to say. I couldn’t move any part of me much, and especially not my pelvis. A complicated, very tight – and extremely effective – collection of many straps down there rendered my crotch absolutely immobile in any direction. I couldn’t move it a millimetre. (I must make a note of how he’d done that, I thought, for future use myself.)
I watched Dylan as he finished dealing with the camera. He looked dead sexy, and those jeans fit him like a second skin. In spite of the fact that I was still a bit unsure, I wasn’t worried, and I was beginning to enjoy myself.
At the moment my cock was quite hard – both from looking at him, and from the feel of the straps – and I felt it stiffening even more.
Dylan came back to me and stroked his fingers over the outline of it. It was straining, pushing upwards with all its might against the thin, worn denim.
Looking into his blue eyes as he did that got me even harder.
He slipped something onto his fingers. They were pointed metal things of some kind. Beginning at the base, he started to tease my cock through the jeans.
Wait a minute. Hang on. The guy in the shop had talked about pointed things on cocks through jeans. Was this something to do with that? No, it couldn’t be – I’d met Dylan in the Ratchet. No, now I thought about it, he’d approached me . Hmm. I was getting suspicious.
After two hours of what turned out to be pure, unbearable torture, those suspicions were a bit stronger. The guy may have looked cute and inexperienced, but he was a fucking demon. Oh shit, I was writhing on the table (or I would have been if those restraints had allowed it) and for the last hour and fifty-nine minutes I’d been begging him to let me cum. Except that by now I was incapable of forming coherent words – and even if I’d been able to, they’d have been unintelligible around that gag.
It would have been bad enough if he’d used those bastard pointed things all the time, but no – no, the fucker had to make it worse, didn’t he? Every so often he’d take them off, then tickle my balls and tease my cock through my jeans with his fingertips, squeezing it lightly or running them over the head. He even brushed his lips along its length. Whether this was part of the procedure, or just for his own despicable gratification, I had no idea, but when he resumed working with the ‘devices’, my fucking cock seemed even more eager for them than before. It was, I think, the only occasion ever in my life that I regretted always going commando – steel underwear would have made things a hell of a lot easier to deal with. And he had a particular fascination for my frenulum: he wouldn’t fucking leave it alone, and every time he teased it – no matter how lightly – I yelled into the gag and pleaded for him to let me cum.
He also used other devices. I was too far gone most of the time to recognise what they were, but there was some pencil-shaped thing that he stroked and prodded with, and something that looked like a tiny back-scratcher with several prongs on it. Everything was done gently, lightly, and precisely, all around the outline of my balls and my cock, over the shaft, the corona, and glans – with nothing but a single layer of thin, already-worn denim between me and those fucking instruments of torture. It was driving me mad and it all made me need to cum like fuck.
Then there was the tiny vibrating thing that couldn’t have made the slightest difference to the colour of the denim. He just held it on my frenulum for a second or two when he didn’t seem to be satisfied that I was quite as desperate as he wanted me to be, and that there might be the slightest chance that I could regain my sanity. It worked.
But worse than anything else was the Dremel. I don’t suppose it was an actual Dremel, though it might have been. Instead of the usual disc or grinding thing on the end, the head of this one was a ring of some kind of soft threads than stuck out stiffly away from the centre when it began spinning. And fuck me it was effective. For a start, it tickled. It tickled like you wouldn’t fucking believe. And at the same time it also sent intense waves of pure I-HAVE-GOT-TO-CUM-NOW! down the entire length of my cock. I guess it also worked on the denim, fraying and whitening it. It was unbearable on my balls, but on my cock head… oh fuuuuck. He didn’t ever use it for very long, but when he did, I almost passed out.
The bastard had even put earbuds in, and I could hear the tinny seepage of 70’s disco music while he was working on me. It was like this was just another job to him. And it probably was, I realised. This had been no chance meeting with a hot guy – I knew now that the bastards at the shop had orchestrated this down to the last fucking detail. I had also found out how they got their ‘volunteers’.
I was fuming. I was NOT going to allow this boy to make me cum.
What the fuck was I talking about? Letting me cum was the very last thing he wanted to do.
No, this was about edging. Merciless, prolonged edging with lightly-scratching, teasing things that had been designed to drive guys mad with the need to cum while their jeans very slowly got lighter and more frayed around the shape of their aching cocks and blue balls.
OK, in that case, I would make myself cum. I’d ruin his plans. Yes!
Except that I fucking couldn’t. I tried. Oh shit I tried. I did everything I possibly could to make myself cum, but the bastard knew exactly what he was doing, and he was too damn good at it. I could not cum.
I realised that I was providing a pair of Type C jeans for somebody.
But hang on, that couldn’t be right – these were my own jeans, not some customer’s. I was confused.
I didn’t have time to think more about it right then, however, as he had the Dremel in his hand, and he was grinning at me as he very slowly approached my cock head with it.
As it made contact, I screamed with ticklishness and gave myself up to needing to cum more than anything else in the fucking world.
And the session went on for a very, very long time. Whenever I thought it was finally over, it turned out to be only a break. Five minutes or so – just enough time for him to have a stretch, for me to get enough oxygen to resume breathing normally, and for my cock to re-sensitise so that when the bastard started on me again it was worse than ever.
By the time he’d actually finished with me, and put the Dremel away for the last time, I was a total, absolute wreck. He stood looking at my crotch from all directions for a while, then nodded as if satisfied.
Then he unzipped my jeans, pulled them down a bit, and gave me the slowest, most indescribably beautiful blow job I’ve ever had in my life. Even though I’d been a hair’s breadth from shooting my load a million times, he managed to make it last for ages. But eventually even he couldn’t stop me, and I came so forcefully that the spunk flooded out of his mouth faster than he could swallow it. It was, let me tell you, a very satisfactory orgasm.
After that he turned the camera off and put the memory card into his pocket.
I collapsed on the table and he let me recover for a bit.
When he released me, I had no energy either to question him or to complain, and I just staggered out of the house. The bastard patted my arse as I left. All he said was, “go to the shop tomorrow.”
“Ah, good to see you again, sir. Come into the office.”
The shopkeeper sat the other side of the desk. “I hope you enjoyed our introductory offer.” He pushed a memory card across the desk towards me. “This is for you. I think you know what it is.”
I looked at the card. It must be the one from Dylan’s camera. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand. “Introductory… Is that what last night was about?”
“Indeed it was, sir. It’s our policy to give a prospective client – one who is, shall we say, not completely sure about making a purchase – a first-hand experience of what a volunteer goes through for us to be able to create a pair of Type C jeans.”
He leaned forward a little, his eyes staring deeply into mine. “Imagine the guy of your deepest fantasies – a guy you fancy like fuck – strapped down, struggling, while slowly being worked on in the way you were, by Dylan, or another of our equally attractive workers, through tight, faded jeans that you are going to wear yourself. The frayed and worn shape of his hard, desperate cock permanently imprinted into the tight, sexy jeans he’s struggled, fought, and begged in. Is that not something you would appreciate, sir?”
He smiled slowly. “Would you like to look through our gallery of volunteers? I’ve marked quite a few guys I think will interest you very much. And you’ll be pleased to know that you’ve been added to our gallery yourself.”
I thought about what he’d said. My cock did too. I looked down at it; the denim was beautifully frayed and worn in the perfect shape of my hard cock. It looked fucking sexy. But I was the only one who had been in these jeans. I wanted some a gorgeous guy had been edged insane in, while struggling and pleading to be allowed to cum.
I still can’t afford a pair of Type Cs – I have the heating bill to pay.
Fuck it, I’ll freeze. “Show me the boys,” I said.