The fuckers have opened a new club down the road from me. I only found out after I saw this prick mincing past my window in enough chains and studs to sink a battleship, Levis, leather chaps, and big boots. The place is called the Deep Water and it's full of posing faggots in jeans that are five sizes too small for them, black leather jackets and fashion bike boots. I'll give you ten quid if any of them has ever ridden a real bike. There's a few that are supposed to be skinheads, a few punks and other minority perversions, but mainly it's leather queens and pretend bikers.
Friday and Saturday nights, around 1 am, the street's full of the buggers leaving the club. I watch them walking down the road in their leather jeans and jackets. At least they don't make much noise – that's the one good thing I can say about them. But it gets me mad. Fucking trash, the lot of them. Now and again I see one looking at my Honda parked outside as he goes past. Just let one of them touch it – ever – and I'll put the fucker in hospital.
A while ago I was coming back from the pub and saw this one coming towards me, eyes on my crotch. I stared at him but it made no difference. "Hello big boy," he said. Then his eyes went to my pecs. "Oh God, those muscles…"
I grabbed the front of his leather jacket and got in his face. "You," I said very slowly, "are a fucking pervert cunt." I kneed him in the balls and left him curled up on the pavement.
I've never worked out, but I don't need to. I've always had a body that women can't take their eyes off. I've got a big, hefty cock, and muscles from years of working on building sites. I can see now why these perverts are always ogling me – I must be a fucking wet dream to them.
At first I mostly ignored them, just sneered when I saw one devouring me with his eyes. Then I got to thinking. I'm used to girls looking at me, but I'd never noticed guys doing that until that club opened and the perverts were around – probably because before then I'd never been looking at guys. Now I was. And I'd become aware of more glancing at me in the street. And these ones weren't so obvious-looking. I'd known that women liked the look of me, but it hadn't occurred to me that I was so sexually attractive to guys as well.
That made me mad. But for some strange reason it also made me feel good. It made me feel powerful. And it made me want to exploit that. I wanted to pricktease the fuckers – get them horny for me, as turned on as all fuck, and then ditch them, preferably with another knee in the balls.
Women most often look at a man's arse. These leather perves did too, but they seemed to be even more interested in crotches. Cocks and balls bulging in tight, tight jeans.
I could do that. I've been a biker for a very long time, and over the years I've accumulated a few leather jackets, and half a dozen pairs of leather jeans. Some of these date back to before I'd done much hard physical work, and I don't wear them any more because, although the waists are still more or less OK, the legs are too tight – I've got a lot more muscle there now than I had in those days. Another reason I stopped wearing them is that they show off my tackle a bit too well. But this was fucking ideal – I'd hang around the street at chucking-out time in those jeans, my bike boots, and my heaviest leather jacket. That should attract them like flies. I stood looking out at the empty road, and I realised I was getting hard at the thought.
The first night I did it, I felt so fucking self-conscious. I'd looked at myself in the mirror before I'd gone out, and it was embarrassing: the bike jacket was an old one, but I still used it occasionally. Very heavy, dense black leather with a big silver zip down the front and two zip side pockets. It was a bit too short and a bit too tight around the waist, but that exaggerated the V-shape of my torso when it was half-unzipped, and really showed my pecs off. And you could see a strip of my solid abs too. I'd never worn it with nothing on underneath before, but I did now.
The jeans were well-worn, thick leather, scratched and scuffed from riding (and falling off) assorted bikes, very smooth with no visible grain. But these had been my very first pair of leather jeans, and I'd looked after them – years of dedicated polishing had resulted in an almost mirror shine. It had taken me a good ten minutes to get into them – my thigh muscles are a lot bigger and a lot more solid than they'd been back in those days – but the worst thing was that for some reason they didn't flatten my bulge like my denims did. It was the size of a fucking grapefruit, sitting there and sticking out between my thighs, and you could see the separate shape of my cock above my balls. I had to have a large scotch to give me the courage to open the front door. But thinking about how much I was going to make those pervert bastards suffer made it all worthwhile. I picked up my crash helmet on the way out – if I carried it, I reasoned, normal people might mistake me for a biker.
As I walked slowly down the street in the direction of the club, I could feel the jeans squeezing my thighs, holding the base of my balls and cock firmly, and moving them with each step. The only people about were a girl and a guy walking hand in hand on the other side of the road. They glanced at me but walked on. I cringed inside – even though I was carrying the helmet, I was sure that they'd be thinking I was one of the perverts from the club.
The entrance to Deep Water was a nondescript door in a brick building at the end of the street. I stopped well before I got there, leaned on the wall and lit a cigarette. When I'd put the packet and lighter away I realised I had no idea how to stand or what to do with my arms. I wasn't wearing anything under my bike jacket so I pulled the zip down a bit more – was that too much? Not enough? Fuck it, it'd be fine – and put my hands in my leather jacket pockets. That didn't feel right. Not sexy enough. I took them out and hooked my thumbs into a studded belt I'd found at the bottom of the wardrobe. That felt better. Well, not better, cos it made me feel like a slut, but more like the kind of way I imagined would appeal to the perves.
Shit – a couple of them were coming. I did a self-check: jacket open, leather jeans skintight and bulging obscenely, bike boots, hair carefully messed up to look rough but sexy. I took a drag on the cigarette. Fuck, I was nervous. Get a grip, I told myself.
Both guys were in full leathers, and they both looked like they'd bought them from Fortnum and Mason that morning. One was tall, the other short, and their camp giggles preceded them down the road. They were still a way off and they hadn't seen me yet. I Didn't feel comfortable standing like that and displaying myself so obviously, so I pushed myself off the wall and walked slowly towards them, trying to look like the real, straight, biker I was.
The small one saw me first. I watched his eyes as they opened wide when he noticed my leather crotch, and then traveled slowly up my solid body to my pecs.
His mouth dropped open. "Oh Mary," he whimpered, "The Lord has provided."
The tall one looked too.
We approached each other and they came to a stop a few feet away.
"Oh my." The smaller one was staring lovingly into my eyes. "Where have you been all my life, big boy? You are fucking sex on legs ."
A very complicated mix of emotions ran through me at that point. On the one hand I felt the extreme need to ram his balls up to his tonsils and then squeeze his fucking throat until he shit them out his arse. On the other hand I knew that my devious plan was working well. Perves fancied the fuck outta me. I was, apparently, indeed sex on legs. I was seething inside, but I forced myself to contain my more violent urges.
"You're too late if you're going to the Deep ," the bigger one said, "they're chucking out."
"Nah. Visiting a friend," I muttered.
"Ooh. He's a lucky guy," said the small one. "When you've finished with him, I'm open all hours." He giggled.
"I'm straight, and my friend's a girl." This through gritted teeth.
They looked at each other and giggled again. "Straight. Right. With a bulge like that? And those muscles… But if you are straight, I want you even more!" He shrieked.
I felt an extreme need to pummel the fucking little fairy into a puddle on the pavement.
The bigger one nodded, and they walked off. The smaller one kept looking back at me.
I stood there, trying to get my blood pressure down, half of me wanting to go after them and beat the shit out of them. I took a deep breath. That was probably enough for a first outing. I walked back towards my flat, trying to convince myself that I'd get used to looking like a muscular leather pervert.
I park my bike – it's a shiny black Yamaha YZF-R6 – outside my front window. The disk lock had died a few days ago but I'd got a new one coming from Amazon. And I must remember to check the oil tomorrow, I thought. I bent down, wondering if the street lighting was enough to let me see the level in the little window now.
"That is a nice machine," came a voice from behind me. I straightened up and turned, and saw a guy smiling at me. Leathers from head to toe, of course, but otherwise a lot more normal than those other two had been. This one was not at all camp.
"Thanks. It's quick, " I replied, grudgingly.
"I know. 170 miles an hour. He lit a cigarette and offered me one, but I declined. "Beautiful bike, the R6."
I watched him looking me up and down, surprised that he knew that much about it.
"And so are you," he said, slowly. "You are the hottest guy I've seen for a very long time."
I stood up straighter, and pushed my crotch out towards him. I grabbed it with one hand. "Get on your fucking knees," I barked.
To my surprise, he did so immediately. I grabbed his head and ground it very hard into my leather bulge. "You wanna suck that? You wanna get fucked up the arse with it? It would split you in fucking two." As I said that, I realised I was beginning to get hard – and it wasn't just the fact that his teeth were grinding into my cock.
I pulled him up by his leather jacket and spat into his face. "You people make me sick." I held him at arm's length. "Look at you. Those leathers would rip the second you fell off a fucking bike. What are you supposed to be?"
He swallowed. "I like guys in leather. What so wrong about that?"
"How long have you got?" I snarled. In the end I shook my head and pushed him away. "Just fuck off."
He stayed there for a moment, looking at me sadly, then he turned and walked away.
I picked up my helmet, went inside, and dropped onto the settee. Fucking perverts. Making the cunt kneel and then shoving his face into my leathers had felt so good. I was even more determined to fuck with them now – and I liked that feeling very much. My cock was hard. I unzipped my leather jeans and had a good, slow, wank.
I practiced going out in the perve-bait (that's what I called this gear) on the quieter nights. I intended, eventually, to go into the club, where I could really get down to working on them properly, and I realised that if I wanted to do that, I'd have to curb my urges to knock the hell out of them, otherwise by the time I got to the point of going into the place, word would have got around and nobody would come near me. Softly softly was the way to do it. It was going to be a lot more satisfying to seduce them, to drive them insane with the need to touch me, to have sex with me, and then tell them to fuck off as humiliatingly as possible. Whenever I thought about that my cock got hard. I didn't understand it, but I liked it.
During these practice nights on the street, I'd been approached by quite a few guys, and I refined my techniques. I learned how to make myself even more exciting to them than I already seemed to be. Smile – but in a sexy way. Appear friendly, but not too much – stay distant enough to make them want to come to me.
I thought I'd got it. I felt much more comfortable in the gear now (I'd even oiled the crotch of my jeans to make the leather more flexible so that it would show everything even more obviously), and I was confident that my attitude (as it appeared to them, that is) was right.
One Saturday night, about 11pm, I went through the doors of Deep Water.
I'd often wondered what the place would be like inside – done out like a dungeon with instruments of torture hanging on the walls, perhaps? - but it was disappointingly ordinary. A long room with chairs and small tables at the sides, dark brick walls, mostly red lighting. At the far end, a black leather strip curtain which led into a short corridor with the loo through a door off to the right, and then a much more darkly-lit room with tables and frames in it. Guys could be strapped to these, though none were in use the one time I went in. A long bar ran along the wall by the entrance to the club, and I went to get a drink. Fucking hell, the prices! I was going to make this one beer last all night. The barman gave me the once-over and batted his eyes at me. Even the bar staff were in full leathers. I took my change and wandered over to a wall that I could lean against and look sexy, and see all of the room.
It was still fairly early, but the place was heaving. There was a very strong smell of brand-new leather in the air, and also something chemical that I didn't recognise. I held my beer in one hand and hooked the other thumb in my belt with my fingers resting at the side of my bulge.
I didn't have to wait long. A guy moved to the opposite wall and leaned against it, one foot back against the brickwork, his hands in the same position as mine. Late twenties, open leather jacket over a tight white tee shirt, combat boots, and faded blue jeans so tight over a very obvious bulge that they looked like they'd explode any second. His eyes went from my crotch to my pecs, to my face, and back again. Over and over. As I watched him, I saw his cock getting harder and harder inside his jeans. That guy wanted me very, very much.
I stretched, pushing my crotch out towards him, then gave my bulge a slow squeeze. I actually saw his cock jerk. He pushed off the wall and walked across to me. He smiled. "Hiya," he said.
Remembering my master plan, I smiled back – slowly and sexily. "Hi."
"You are something else," he said, openly ogling my naked pecs under my heavy leather jacket, before enjoying the closer view of my bulging crotch. "Oh fuck, you are so fucking hot."
"Thank you," I said.
"Those jeans are fucking awesome . I don't know whether I want you to fuck me with them on, or to shove my cock between those leather thighs and fuck them while I'm kissing you."
I struggled to stop the feeling of needing to throw up, and forced myself to chuckle. "Why not both?" My cock was rock-hard under the leather now. "Feel my cock. Slowly," I said.
He didn't need asking twice. He reached forward and ran his fingers over the shape of it, along its full length. Then he squeezed it gently, feeling its girth, moved it up and down a little, and teased the head. He was staring at it unbelievingly. "Oh fucking shit. That is all you!"
"It's all me."
"Fuuuck. That is enormous . Oh fuck I need that inside me."
"You think you can take it?"
"I don't know – but I sure as hell want to try. Oh fuck, I want you. Sir. Please."
I turned my head and looked down the room. "Ok. Come see me later – at 12.30. I'll be here."
He was very clearly disappointed that I hadn't taken him up immediately, but he nodded quickly. "Oh, don't worry, I will. Thank you, Sir."
I walked off down the room, aware that these fucking jeans were doing their best to bend my erection with each step. And not only bend it – I have my cock and balls to the left, and every time I put my left foot forward, the oiled leather rubbed over my cockhead. They were trying to wank me off.
I stood at the bottom end of the room, next to the leather strip curtain. Guys were coming in and going out, and sometimes ones coming in would stroke a hand lingeringly over my bulge or thigh. This contact should have made me feel ill, but instead it made my determination to humiliate these queens stronger than ever. It also did nothing to make my cock go soft. One of these actually gripped my cock and squeezed it. He let go and continued through the curtain, then came back.
"God, you're a hunk," he said by way of introduction. "Wanna fuck me?" He nodded to the room through the curtain.
I looked him up and down. Leathers, of course. And chains. And straps. I licked my lips slowly, and gave him my sexy smile. "Oh yeah, but later. If you want, find me at 12.30. I've got a room with a lot more gear in it…"
His eyes lit up. "You got it," he said. He gave my cock another squeeze and walked back into the curtained room.
The next guy didn't even bother going through the curtain. "What you into?" He asked.
I had no idea what to say. "What are you into?"
"Being fisted. And being fucked – especially by a horse cock like that."
I told him OK, no problem, and to find me at 12.30.
I went back to the bar and bought another beer. I'd soon have to re-mortgage my flat at this rate. On the way to the wall I'd stood against to start with, I almost tripped over a punk with bright green hair. He was kneeling at my feet, holding his already leather-cuffed hands out towards me. Keeping his eyes on my boots, he begged me to use him, and to fuck him senseless. I lifted his head and looked at him. Pretty boy, but the eye makeup was a mistake. I made the same 12.30 arrangement with him.
The next was a skinhead. All very male – naked to the waist, tight bleachers. He wanted to suck me off – and, of course, get fucked. Right now. He nodded to the back room. I smiled, and said, "later, I'll take you to my place. See me at 12.30."
By the end of the night I'd collected a further two muscle guys; one trans person in latex; a leatherboy with spiky blond hair; and a guy with a beer belly, in unsuitable running shorts. I was thinking about when I was going to tell them all to fuck off, and my cock had not gone soft once. This was going to be interesting.
At 12.25 I was standing by the wall. One by one the guys came up to me and I told them to wait. The leatherboy was the last, looking very unsure of himself. They'd all arrived now, and they were gathered around me.
I'd put my drink down and was standing with the fingers of both hands resting on my leather bulge. "You all want me." I said, smiling at them one after the other. "You like this fucking big bulge under skintight black leather. You want to lick my muscles, you want me to ram my tongue down your throats and my horse cock up your arses. You want me to fuck you senseless. Is that right?"
The few that weren't salivating, nodded.
"But the facts are these –" I counted them off on my fingers, "One: I'm a real fucking biker. Two: I'm straight, and this horse cock is for real cunts – women's cunts, not cunts like you. And three – and read my lips: I... fucking... hate ... perverts. So every one of you can go fuck yourselves sideways."
I really really wanted to beat every single one of them unconscious, but I had enough sense to realise that, in fact, I couldn't do that here. So I sneered, shook my head in disgust, then I spat at them and walked out of the club.
Oh shit that had felt good. The original plan had been to do a lot more to them, but still, the looks on their faces when their total leather wet dream had humiliated them, then turned to walk away, leaving them drooling, had been priceless. My cock was harder than ever as I left the club.
I didn't make it back to my front door. Halfway down the street, these fucking jeans got me. I was so unbelievably horny, my cock so fucking hard, and the leather was so fucking relentless, that my legs buckled and I came, my eyes staring unseeingly at the sausage rolls in Greggs bakery.
Squelching, I staggered the rest of the way, shut the door, and dropped onto the settee with the box of tissues.
The sun was shining the next day so I went for a ride on the bike. Being a Sunday in summer, the roads were thick with traffic, and I love playing with traffic. In the evening there was a good match on the telly so I stayed in and drank too much.
Monday morning, time for work. Yawning, I put my bike leathers and lid on, and went out to the bike.
My bike wasn't there.
In its place, on the concrete and weighted down with a brick, was an envelope.
I don't know if you've ever had a motorbike stolen, but it's a very intense, and a very unpleasant, feeling. I stood looking at the vacant space which should have been occupied by my beautiful Yamaha. I was in a daze. I bent down and took the envelope, then went slowly back inside. I ripped it open and read the printed note:
"28 Denby Road. 12.30 this afternoon. Wear your club gear."
The note was signed 'Yamaha YZF-R6'.
I read and re-read the note, turned it over, looked in the envelope, but there was nothing more.
Oh fuck.
I phoned work and told them I was ill. Be in tomorrow, I hoped.
I took my bike gear off again. The cum stain inside the perve-bait leather jeans was still visible from Saturday night, but I didn't care. I squeezed into them, put my bike boots on, took my teeshirt off and pulled my heavy leather jacket on. I took a deep breath, collected my crash helmet, and walked to the address on the note. It was quite a way away, and I felt self-conscious to start with – I hadn't been out in the daytime wearing this gear before. But by the time I got there I was as horny as hell, thanks to those fucking jeans working on me. I had to stop a couple of times on the way to re-arrange things down there surreptitiously.
Denby Road was orderly, affluent, quiet. Number 28 was marginally larger than its neighbours, but otherwise unremarkable. I rang the bell. The intercom by the door crackled. "Come in and lock the door behind you. Instructions are inside. Leave your helmet on the table." There was a click and then silence.
I was in a small lobby with another door in front of me, and a chair sat at the side of a small wrought-iron table. On the table was a pair of handcuffs and a leather blindfold. A piece of A4 paper had the instructions.
Put the blindfold on, cuff your wrists behind your back, and wait.
I didn't like this. But what choice did I have? They had my fucking bike. I put my helmet down, then buckled the blindfold over my eyes, trying to position it so that I could see under it, but the black leather went too low and there was no way I could see a fucking thing. In total darkness I clicked the cuffs around my wrists, and waited.
A few seconds later I heard the door open, and hands grabbed my jacket. I was led into the house, forward quite a way, right, and then left. We came to a stop, and my blindfold was removed.
I was in a large room. There were shelves full of perverted bondage gear on the walls, and a tall X-shaped cross standing on the floor. It had straps on it.
Looking at me were some of the guys I'd told to fuck off in the club, plus a few – heavy-looking – others.
"It's our straight biker boy," said one of them. One of the muscle guys - full leather, heavy boots.
"Look," I said, "I'm sorry about the other night. I -"
"Oh, there'll be plenty of time for apologies later. None of us are going anywhere and we have lots of time." He unlocked my handcuffs. "Now stand against the cross."
There were too many of them, and so, reluctantly, I did as I was told.
He put what I first thought were stiff leather gloves over my hands, but they had no fingers in them. Then thick leather cuffs went on around them. Tight. I realised I wouldn't be able to use my fingers for anything. One of the heavies clipped the wrist cuffs to the top of the X, while another strapped my booted feet to the bottom of it. More straps went around my elbows and knees, and a tight one around my waist.
I'd seen the blond leatherboy watching this with the others, and he got first pick. He elected to work on my bulge. He started to lick, bite and fondle my cock through my jeans. One of the leather guys was next; he pushed his hands up under my jacket, found my nipples, and began to knead them. The first guy I'd met that night kissed me with a great deal of enthusiasm. It was not pleasant.
With his head in the way I couldn't see who was where any longer, but before long my jacket had been unzipped and opened, and there were hands all over me – stroking or licking my tits and naked torso, my thighs and legs through my leather jeans. Guys were taking turns kissing me, licking and doing everything else.
I thought I was going to vomit. My cock had been completely soft until someone unzipped my jeans and took it into his mouth. I looked down and saw that it was the blond leatherboy. I yelled at him to get the hell off me, but he took no notice. The main reason I was livid with the little bastard, was that my cock was liking it. It started to get hard. In fact it got very hard. That boy had, I thought, had a very misspent childhood. To say he was talented was an understatement. Where the other guys were mauling me, to this one it seemed to be a labour of love. His tongue was doing gentle, cunning things that I wished the girls I went with knew how to do. Although it was the very last thing I wanted, I was getting horny again.
After a long time of this, someone must have said something because they all moved away from me, and my restraints were unfastened. They got me off the cross, and stripped me completely. For a while they just stood around admiring my naked body and my cock, then they put me back onto the cross. I didn't see any more because someone dropped the leather blindfold over my eyes again.
Something cold and slippery was spread over my hard cock, by what felt like a leather-gloved hand. There was a pause, then my cock was guided into what could only have been an arsehole.
Fucking, bastard, queer fucking PERVERTS. I tore at the restraints. I was going to be forced to fuck a guy. No. No way. No fucking way. The tip of my cock was resting against the arsehole, and, with relief, I felt myself begin to soften.
Then there were lips against mine and fingers on my chest. They stroked my abs, my pecs, my nipples, and explored all the way up to my armpit. And the lips kissed me gently. A voice whispered, "just relax. You're helpless. You're strapped down, you can't see anything, you can't do anything about it, so you might as well enjoy it."
I recognised the voice: it was the leatherboy. I did not want to relax, and there was certainly no way I was going to enjoy it. I tried to move my hips to stop my cock going in, but the end was already between the cheeks and I could not get it away. The guy pushed back and his sphincter muscles slid slowly over the ridge. In spite of myself, I gasped. That had felt a bit like going into a girl – but different. I swore as I felt my cock get fully hard again instantly.
A long sigh came from the owner of the arsehole. "Oh fuuuuuuck."
He started to fuck me – or rather he fucked himself using my cock. Faster, Harder. The leatherboy continued to kiss me, to tease my lips, to stroke my skin. Every time his fingers made it as far up as my armpit, I must have made some sound, or moved in some way, because he gradually spent more and more time stroking there. He wasn't tickling it – his fingers were moving very slowly – he was just gently caressing it, deep in the armpit. And, to my surprise – and very much against my fucking will - it was turning me on like fuck. I think I was moaning.
What with what the boy was doing to my top half, and the feeling of the unknown arsehole gripping my cock as it pumped up and down, I was getting dangerously horny. And I hated it. The very thought of fucking another guy made me want to puke. But even more than that – in fact, the thing that mad me fucking furious – was that my cock was as hard as a fucking rock and and… and that, physically, it felt good .
When the guy got off my cock I breathed in relief. At least that was over. Now what would the fucking perverts do to me?
But more lube was applied, and another one took his place. Fuck! Was I going to be forced to go through every one of these cunts? The prospect horrified me. I yelled and cursed and struggled and pulled at the restraints, but I learned that perverts know what they're doing when it comes to bondage: they'd strapped my arms and legs to the cross in just the fucking places that I needed to move, and that strap over my waist prevented any side-to-side movement.
It was the same thing with the next guy. As soon as my cock slid in it got hard and I got horny. Very horny. In fact this time, I got fairly close to cumming. I fought the feeling back, or tried to. Little leatherboy was still kissing me very very gently and slowly, his lips soft against mine, and teasing my armpit (he'd swapped to the other one now). I'd been tickled there before – Emma had a thing for tickling me. It got her wet but did nothing at all for me apart from irritating the hell out of me – but what leatherboy was doing was different. Very different. He wasn't tickling it, but making love to it with his fingertips. If only the little cunt would stop doing that, and kissing me like that, I'd have a better chance of stopping myself from getting so fucking horny.
When this guy got off, leaving me very close to cumming, I suddenly realised what they were doing: they were fucking edging me with arseholes. I knew about edging – one girl I went with would spend ages teasing my cock with her fingers and her mouth, being very careful not to let me cum, before she'd let me fuck her. But this was different – with the girl, I always got so worked up that I'd eventually fuck her whether or not she was ready. Here, I had no damn control over it at all. My arms and legs were restrained to the cross with leather straps that were even stronger than I was. And another thing my horniness was doing to me: I couldn't see anything because of that damn blindfold, and so I was forced to concentrate on what I could feel.
The result of all this was that every time an arsehole fucked my cock, I got closer and closer to cumming – and I couldn't do a fucking thing about it. Oh, I tried. I tried everything. Nothing worked. I'd make myself think of the most unsexy things possible, but the feeling of my cock gripped tightly, ploughing in and out, along with what that little bastard leatherboy was doing to me up top, made those unsexy thoughts last about one second. Then I was back to moaning like a fucking slut. I swore at myself for letting myself be so damned easy to manipulate – the cunts had made sure that I couldn't control my thoughts or my fucking dick. When I got out of this, I was going to kill these fuckers very slowly indeed.
It kept on, arsehole after arsehole. Every time I got close to cumming, the current fuckee would pull quickly off my cock, and another one take his place. How the fuck did they know exactly when to do that? I suspected that the leatherboy was letting them know somehow. And it wouldn't have been so bad if I'd been starting from the same place each time – but I wasn't: every approach to orgasm was quicker, closer, more compelling, more urgent than the last one. I was determined that I was not going to cum like this. I suppose that guys can be forced to cum even if they don't want to – say by hard, fast wanking (although I'm only guessing here) – but this was different. I knew what they were doing. They were trying, very gradually, to make me want to cum more and more. They were probably waiting for me to lose control completely and beg them for orgasm. Well, the fuckers were going to be disappointed. No fucking way was I ever going to do that.
I have no idea how long this went on, but I must have got through all the ones who wanted to be fucked by my horse cock, because the leatherboy took his lips away. "My turn now," he whispered.
A pause, more lube – lots this time - and then I felt him move into position. Unlike the muscle guys, leatherboy was small and slim. He'd never be able to take my cock, I thought. For some reason, I didn't want to hurt him as much as the others, but fuck it, it was his funeral.
Very slowly, he pushed himself onto my cock. He kept pausing, with a grunt or a groan, but then he continued. It took a while, but finally it was all the way in to my balls. He rested there for a while, and I felt his hands feeling behind him, over my body. His fingers stroked over my six-pack softly, then the little cunt found my balls and started teasing them. His body started to move as he began to fuck my cock.
His arsehole was tighter even than any of the others had been – and it seemed to fit my cock a thousand times better than any vagina ever had done. I could feel the coolness of his leather jacket against my skin.
I'd been strapped down by leather perverts – the kind of people I hated most in this world – and I'd been forced to fuck the cunts. That was the most humiliating fucking thing I could think of. I cursed them and pulled at the restraints, tried to get that fucking blindfold off me, but I couldn't do a thing that made the slightest fucking difference.
The leatherboy's arse was gripping my cock so tightly, and I could hear him moaning in pleasure. I realised with alarm that I was slowly getting close to orgasm again. This could not be allowed to happen. I tried to get his fingers off my balls, cos that wasn't helping me at all, I did everything I could, but it was useless. I felt myself getting closer and closer. I squeezed my eyes shut under the leather and screamed: "I AM NOT GOING TO FUCKING CUM YOU BASTARD FUCKING CUNTS!"
Even when I'd been close before, I'd managed to stop myself from humping my hips – but now I realised that I was doing it. The strap at my waist was creaking as I thrust my pelvis. I was fucking the boy, and his tight arse was milking my cock.
I came inside him. I tore at the restraints and yelled as I felt my spunk spurting into the boy.
After they'd let me wind down, he got off me, my blindfold was removed, and the restraining straps unbuckled. My legs felt weak and I staggered for a moment before I got myself together. I stood in front of the cross, rubbing my wrists.
I was informed that many of the guys had taken both photos and videos of the proceedings. It didn't surprise me.
"So, I hope you've learned that that's what happens to bigots like you. I hope you enjoyed your afternoon."
I had not enjoyed my afternoon. The very thought of being forced to fuck guys still made me want to throw up. But it could have been worse – at least my own arsehole was still virgin.
One of the muscle guys was holding something out to me. "Now, put those on, please." He handed me a pair of thin leather jeans.
What was this? I thought they'd finished with me. I looked at the jeans and frowned. "These aren't mine."
"No, they're not. But you'll probably want to wear those rather than go home naked."
"Huh?"
"Just put them on."
I pulled the jeans on. The waist was fine, but the legs were very tight. He handed me my boots and jacket. "Now those."
I finished putting the gear on. The jeans felt unusual when I stood up – unlike with my own thick ones I could feel coolness from the outside air through the thin leather. Especially at my thighs, and my arse. My cock bulge was quite obscene in them.
"You look good in those. I'll have your own jeans delivered to you tomorrow. You can think of those –" he nodded at the ones I had on, "as a present. Now, you'd better be on your way."
I frowned. "What about my fucking bike?"
"Ah, yes, your bike – I'd forgotten about that. It's out the back . Follow me, I'll show you."
We all went through the outside door into the dusk. My bike was parked there in the back yard by a wide gate that led onto a road.
But the Yamaha had an addition: glued to the seat was a long, black, rubber butt-plug. It was already lubed.
"It's stuck with Araldite, so I wouldn't try pulling it off – it would probably bring the rest of the seat with it. Now, on you get."
The heavies closed in on me, and 'helped' me onto the bike. They held me while they positioned everything, and my eyes watered when they pushed me firmly down onto it. I yelled as the thing slid into me through a hole in the jeans that had clearly been put there for the purpose. After the first bit had gone in, my arsehole seemed to close around it. Oh fuck, that felt weird. It hurt at first, but then settled down to a feeling of constant pressure in my arse. Except when I moved. Then I knew about it.
So much for my virgin arsehole, I thought.
"Now, ride carefully."
Desperate to get away from these people, I started the engine. And my eyes opened wide. The vibrations were going right up the dildo into my arse. As I put the bike into gear, I tried to think of something to shout at them – some ultimately scathing, insulting put-down that would make them regret having messed with me before I rode off in an impressive cloud of burnt tyre rubber – but not a thing would fucking come to mind.
My eyes fell on the blond leatherboy. He was looking straight at me. I'm no good at lip-reading but I could swear he mouthed, "thank you." Then the little bastard winked at me.
I looked at him for a moment. Then I released the clutch and rode out of the car park onto the street slowly, feeling totally beaten, and more humiliated than I had ever felt in my life before.
I didn't, actually, go straight home. I'd intended to, but I went for a ride first.
A 30-mile ride, as it turned out. And over some very rough road.