He must have moved into the estate recently – I’ve been living there for a year and I’d only noticed him a couple of weeks ago. He was tall and muscled, with a dark blond No 1 cut, and every time I’d seen him he was wearing the same gear: tight bleachers, a studded belt, and high Dr Martens with white laces that contrasted starkly with black leather boots that were so highly polished they almost looked like rubber. A white singlet with ‘Great Britain’ on it showed his muscles off, and I’d seen him a couple of times carrying a baseball bat. He was good-looking, but the permanent frown suggested that getting too close might not be a good idea.
Unfortunately, I was desperately in lust with him.
He seemed to be a loner – at least I hadn’t seen him hanging out with any of the other lads on the estate – but that might be because he hadn’t lived here for long enough yet. I saw that the ones who did cross his path tended to give him a respectfully wide berth.
I had no idea what his name was, but I found myself thinking about him more and more; he was gradually taking over my wanking fantasies - I wanted to lick him all over, run my hands over those tight, sexy jeans and those boots. But every time, after I’d cum thinking about my head in his crotch, or licking his armpits or those DMs, or kissing him, or getting fucked senseless by him, common sense returned and I knew that if I tried to do anything like that I’d end up in hospital.
But I couldn’t get the boy out of my mind. And every time I saw him walking down the road between the high-rises, or leaning against one of the concrete lamp-posts in the sunshine, I’d stop and watch him until either there was a danger he’d see me, or my hard cock was so desperate that I had to go and have a wank. When he walked he oozed sex: his hips and his tight, round arse moved like they were calling to me personally; the bulge between his tight-jeaned thighs was begging to be worked on – sucked, milked, to be unzipped with my teeth…
* * *
It was late and there were few people about. I’d been over at Ronnie’s helping him to get his bike sorted out again – this time he’d lost control on a patch of diesel and he’d wrapped it around a very solid tree outside the park. Even before its encounter with the oak, his Suzuki had been almost as tatty as my Honda – there’s not much point having anything that’s worth nicking if you live on Aylesbury Estate. I locked my bike to the post by the road with the usual three heavy chains, then squatted down and set about straightening out the front of the fairing again. A scrape on the concrete by my side made me look round. A pair of highly-polished DMs were planted there. My eyes moved upwards over tight, bleached jeans, studded belt, white singlet, and I found myself looking up at The Boy. I got to my feet very sharply.
As always, the frown was still there, still threatening – but now it seemed to be directed at me personally. The baseball bat was resting on one shoulder. I swallowed. “Hi,” I said – though I suspect it came out more as a terrified gurgle than anything else.
He moved the matchstick he was chewing to the other side of his mouth and just looked at me.
I smiled, nodded to him, and went to move off, but he took a small step to the side, blocking my path. I had no idea what to do, or to say. We stood there looking at one another, me expecting at any moment for that baseball bat to come swinging at me. He looked down at my bike boots, scuffed leather jeans and jacket, and then his gaze returned to my face. The frown intensified.
“You been following me?” His voice was East-end.
I frowned too. “Following you? No. Why?”
He chewed on the matchstick some more. “I seen you looking at me. A lot.”
Oh fuck. What do I say? I shook my head. “I was just wondering who you were. I noticed you a few weeks ago. Hadn’t seen you around here before.”
He nodded his head slowly. “Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
More seconds passed.
“You live in this one?” He inclined his head to the block.
“Yeah. Third floor.”
“On yer own?”
“Yes.”
“Uh-huh.” He glanced up at the brutalist building, then back to me. “Show me.”
“Show you? Erm - why?”
“Cos I told ya to. You got a problem with that?” He turned the baseball bat just a little on his shoulder.
It seemed I had no choice. “No. No. Well, OK, come on up. I’ve got coffee if you want it.”
No reply. He just looked at me, waiting.
The lift hasn’t worked in living memory, so I led him up the stairs, his boots echoing on the concrete behind me. I thought about apologising for the smell of stale piss, but then I guessed he’d be used to that if he lived on this estate.
When we entered my flat he closed the door behind him and put his hand out. “Key.”
I gave it to him.
He locked the door and put the key in his pocket.
“Sorry for the mess,” I said, lamely.
He walked slowly around my living room, looking at things. He inspected a CD from my small collection, put it down without comment.
Further down the table, beyond a small pile of books, was my laptop. I had to deflect him before he got to that.
“Sit down. I’ll get some coffee.” I blurted out.
He ignored me. His hand drifted over the books, lifting the top one to see what the next was, then his fingers stroked over the computer. Slowly, he opened the top of it - and I cringed as the screen came to life. Its wallpaper was a photo of him I’d snapped last week from my balcony.
It was a good photo. I’d taken it with the Canon I’d nicked a couple of years ago, and its zoom lens was excellent. That photo was my favourite; I thought he looked deliciously sexy in it – he was leaning against the side of a car, smoking a cigarette, the thumb of the other hand hooked in his studded belt, the fingers casually resting on the side of his bulge. And he seemed to be looking right at me.
He stared at the picture in silence for a while, then he carried the laptop over to the settee, sat down, and placed it on his knees, standing the baseball bat up next to him. Without looking at me he patted the seat at his side.
My legs wouldn’t work.
His head didn’t move, but his eyes flicked up to me.
I forced myself to sit next to him on the settee. Being so close to him filled me with terror – but also heart-racing excitement. I could smell the boy’s sweat.
Still in complete silence, he clicked around on the computer for a while. Then he opened Photos.
Photos was full of my wank material – stills and vids I’d got from the net. Boys in leather. Boys in tight, bulging jeans. Boys tied up, strapped down, gagged, blindfolded, hooded… you name it. After he’d looked at some of them, he scrolled back to the top. The cursor moved to the first of two folders sitting on the top line. It was named ‘FSB - Originals’.
Nooo… I closed my eyes.
He double-clicked it.
“The fuck…?” He whispered.
The folder was full of pictures of him. I’d taken them either with the Canon from the balcony, or with my phone from he streets. Pictures of him walking, standing, sitting, smoking...
That, on its own, would have been bad enough, but it was about to get much, much worse. When he’d looked through that folder, he opened the second one – ‘FSB & Me’.
I’m good with GIMP – a free version of Photoshop – and I’d taken pics of myself in various positions designed to fit with some of the original photos of him. In the one he was looking at now, he was stood, feet planted apart, hands in the front pockets of his tight jeans, looking down – at me on all fours, licking his left boot. It had been one of my best superimpositions: it actually looked like I was there, doing it. The lighting had, unusually, been perfect and you could not see the joins.
He studied the picture in silence for a while, then clicked through the others. They started off bad and got progressively worse: me with my head buried in his crotch; a badly-done one that was supposed to be me working on his cock through his jeans; the two of us kissing; him rotated ninety degrees and fucking me (that one hadn’t worked at all, but the idea was still all-too obvious).
“FSB?,” he asked, quietly.
My mind raced, trying to think of something innocuous that would fit those letters, but I couldn’t come up with anything. The silence was stretching so I just blurted it out. “Fucking Sexy Boy.”
My eyes were still shut tight, and I jumped at the sound of the laptop being closed.
He turned his head halfway towards me. He’d said practically nothing since we’d first met downstairs, but the silence at that moment was torture.
“So,” he said, finally.
I could think of nothing at all to say. I sat with my eyes downcast.
“Why me?”
There was no excuse I could give for those pictures and I certainly couldn’t tell him that I fancied the arse off him – although he might just possibly have guessed that from looking at them and from the ‘FSB’. I shook my head in misery. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
He stood up, put the laptop on the settee, and picked up the baseball bat. Then he walked through the open doorway into the bedroom and stood, waiting for me.
I forced myself to my feet and followed him, trembling.
With me standing there watching him, he went through the bedside cabinet. A small black rubber dildo, lube, a feather, a leather blindfold, five coils of thin rope, a pair of silver plastic handcuffs. He took the rope out and closed the door.
“Turn round.”
He pulled my hands behind my back and tied them with a piece of the rope. Then he secured my booted feet tight together, and gave me a hard push. I fell onto the floor with a thump.
As I lay there looking up at him, he raised the baseball bat, and lifted one booted foot. It came towards my face. I squeezed my eyes shut as tightly as I could. But after a moment, when nothing had happened and my teeth hadn’t got smashed into the back of my throat, I risked opening them again to a squint.
“You wanna lick my boots do ya? So fuckin lick.”
Quickly, I struggled to my knees and touched my tongue to the boot. It tasted of leather but smelled of polish. Although I was still trembling with fear – that bat could come down any time – I couldn’t believe he was letting me do this; I was exactly where I wanted to be: licking the boots of the boy I’d lusted after for weeks. I licked every inch of those boots slowly and carefully, shuffling around to get to the backs of them and between his feet for their sides.
He hadn’t moved at all while I’d been doing this, and he waited until I’d completely finished. When I had, he lifted me bodily and threw me onto the bed. He climbed on as well, knelt astride me, looked down at me for a few moments, then he gripped my head and rammed his bulging crotch into my face, hard. I gasped as the tight denim came down over me and the smell of him filled my senses. He pushed harder, the bulge of his cock forced against my teeth.
After a while he threw my head back onto the pillow, moved back down the bed and dropped on top of me. I could feel his powerful thighs in those tight jeans pressing against my hips. Again he grabbed my head; he forced his mouth against mine and kissed me with a ferocity that bruised my lips. After that he turned me over, ripped my leather jeans down, and fucked my arse like a stallion. It hurt like hell, as did his hand clamped hard over my mouth, twisting my neck so he could watch me.
I hadn’t seen his cock, but I was painfully aware that it was big. I’d been fucked before, but never like that; it was like having a wild animal on my back – I could hear a bear-like, guttural grunt each time he thrust his cock mercilessly into my arse. If he hadn’t been gagging me, my yells would have filled the room – as it was, I was moaning into his hand as I was rammed down into the bed with every pummelling drive of his hips.
Eventually, with a growl and the hardest, deepest, longest thrust yet, he came. I felt the boy’s hot spunk pumping into my arse. For a brief moment he collapsed onto me, and the bed was still. But then, almost immediately, he pulled out – roughly. He zipped up, and left me on the bed with my ankles and wrists still bound, while he went back into the living room. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but I could hear him moving about. I guessed he was looking to see if there was anything worth taking. There was a long pause. Eventually I heard him unlock the flat door, and then it closed.
Silence.
He’d gone. I groaned, and turned painfully onto my side; I felt like I’d been pummelled half to death. He’d made a good job of tying my wrists, and with my body complaining every time I moved, it took me twenty minutes to free myself. I lay on the bed, thankful that I was still alive, but I felt bruised and my body ached all over, especially my arse. I staggered to my feet and fastened my leather jeans up, then made my way into the living room.
Nothing seemed to be missing. I made a coffee, sat down carefully, and closed my eyes. I stayed like that for some time. I had never been so comprehensively fucked in my life.
After a night’s sleep I felt better, though my arse still hurt, so I spent the day doing nothing, watching the telly. Today I’ve been round at Ronnie’s most of the time, helping him with his bike – it’s actually running again, though assorted bits are hanging on by the skin of their teeth - and when I got back to my flat, I felt horny. This was the first time since before my encounter with The Boy – I hadn’t felt the least bit frisky until then.
I made myself a coffee, and fired up the laptop. I’d sent a couple of emails on it yesterday, but I hadn’t opened Photos since The Boy had been here. Even as I clicked on it I felt an echo of the fear from two days ago.
I blinked. There was a new text file there, at the side of the ‘FSB’ folders. It was named with just an ‘*’. I opened it.
ur fotoshopping’s fucking crap. call me. U want photos? u’ll get REAL photos. of every fucking thing I do to u. thats if u think u can handle a real ‘FUCKIN SEXY BOY’.
His phone number was at the end.
* * *
I’m still aching, and my arse still hurts even now.
I close my eyes and remember kneeling at his feet, licking those boots, feeling the white laces sliding past my tongue. I imagine gripping his bulge, his cock hard under the tight bleachers; kissing him, his lips crushed against mine again; being fucked by him, overpowered, tied up and helpless so he can do whatever the fuck he likes to me and I can’t stop him, his muscular body thrusting as he shoots his spunk into me… He is so fucking hot.
I look at the picture of him. He is so... fucking... hot.
But even as my hand is stroking my cock, I’m remembering the fear as I saw him standing next to me by the bike. The absolute terror as he stood over me – just there in the bedroom – with that baseball bat in his hands and that boot coming towards my face. The pain of being fucked by him.
Am I willing to pay a price as high as that? Am I willing to risk my fucking life for that boy from the estate?
I reach for the laptop, re-read that text file.
My finger hovers over the DELETE key. An age passes.
I push the key, deleting it – along with his phone number.
I start to wank again. I know that when I cum, sanity will return and I won’t think about him. Until the next time I’m horny. Then, I know, I will.
I look at my desktop picture of him. My eyes travel slowly up and down his beautiful, sexy, body. Those boots. Those jeans. That bulge. That face – he’s looking straight into the camera as if he knows I’m helpless to resist him.
The message is gone, but I have his number on my phone.