The Telemachus Story Archive

Holiday Plans
By Hooder

Holiday Plans

The party looked like it was going well. Through my bedroom window I could see people swimming and splashing each other in the outside pool, and Bennet in his uniform outside the garage, sponging the Tesla down. It was father’s fiftieth birthday, and everyone we knew had been invited. But I was sulking. My parents were going on a 6-week cruise to Bermuda shortly and the bastards weren’t taking me. Claire had looked at me and frowned in motherly concern.“Your exams are coming up soon, and you have to be here to study. Look, Aunt Brenda and Uncle Bert have arrived! I must talk to them – and there’s Uncle Ted as well! Haven’t seen him for ages.” She went out and closed the door.

Huh. All those‘uncles’ and ‘aunts’. And I bet that most of them were no bloody relation at all. I turned away from the window, blew out my cheeks and pulled my tee shirt off - even for the middle of July it was hot; this heat wave had lasted for two weeks so far and it was showing no signs of abating. I was thinking about joining the guys in the pool – although the indoor one would be even cooler – but then I saw a figure on the lawn looking straight up at me. I didn’t recognise him, and he was dressed most oddly: he was wearing a black tee shirt and jeans. His jeans were even tighter than my own, and they looked like they were made of leather. The sunlight glinted off them and they looked thick, hard, and protective. He had a leather jacket over his shoulder and on his feet were big, chunky boots with straps and buckles and studs. For some reason I found this fascinating. He looked like a motorbiker. I glanced down the gravel drive and yes, there was a bike. A big shiny black one. When I looked back down he was walking back into the crowd.

Mother knocked on the door and came back in. She went over to the dresser and retrieved her purse from where she’d left it. She pouted. “Craig darling, you should be downstairs enjoying yourself, not up here on your own.”

I smiled. “I was just about to come down. I’m so hot. I came up here to cool off.”

I could feel her eyes roaming over my naked chest. “You are getting to be a big boy, Craig.”

Something about the way she’d said that made me feel uncomfortable; I felt somehow naked under her gaze. I turned away and picked my tee shirt up from the bed. “I’ll be down shortly, mother.”

She lingered there for a few moments before leaving. “I remember when you were little and I used to bathe you,” she said wistfully. Then she chuckled lasciviously. “You were a big boy then too.”

Oh God. I was grateful that she couldn’t see my red face, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I heard the door close. Mothers can be terribly embarrassing at times.

It seemed even hotter down on the front lawn than it had been in my bedroom. There was a soft wind blowing but it did nothing to relieve the heat, and the grass was beginning to turn brown here and there. Hettie, our maid, came up to me and I smiled at her. I took a glass of iced juice from her tray and helped myself to some canapés, even though I didn’t feel remotely hungry. I ambled around, chatting occasionally to guests. I wasn’t exactly trying to find that guy I’d seen from upstairs, but I was curious to know who he was and what he looked like closer – he’d seemed very different from all the rest of the boring people here.

There was no sign of him. Perhaps father would know who he was, but father was holding court to a group of friends by the gazebo and I wasn’t about to disturb him. My curiosity was getting stronger. I even walked through the garden maze.

I found him in the centre, leaning back on the bench by the fountain that hasn’t worked since 1993, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. His arms were hooked over the back of the bench, his biker jacket on the seat by his side. The sunlight reflected off the shiny black leather of his jeans in a way I found quite disturbing. He smiled, as if he’d known I’d come, and had been waiting for me.

He moved the jacket to the other side to make room and I sat down on the bench next to him, feeling very self-conscious for some reason. Anyone else would have commented on the weather, on the heat, but he said nothing; he just sat there with that gentle smile on his face as if he were waiting for me to say something, do something.

I was finding it difficult to keep my eyes off him. I’d seen guys in leathers before, at a distance, but this was the closest I’d ever been to one and it was doing something strange to me inside. He was very good-looking – he reminded me of a young version of the actor Ewan McGregor. Spiky dark brown hair, short stubble, and a face that seemed to be permanently on the point of grinning.

“Are those leather?” I asked – and instantly regretted having asked such a ridiculous thing: they were obviously fucking leather.

“Yep,” he said. He parted his knees slightly

I was conscious of stirrings between my legs. I laughed in embarrassment but didn’t move.

I badly wanted to touch them, but I couldn’t. Instead I sat frozen to the spot, unable to move. His jeans had leather lacing all the way down the outsides of the legs, pulling them tight over his thighs. I’d never seen anything like that before.

He chuckled, then lowered an arm and stroked a finger slowly over his thigh. I watched in fascination at the little moving depression it left in its wake. The sight sent shivers up and down my spine. Nonchalantly, I put my hands in my lap to hide my growing erection.

He stretched, the heels of his heavy boots making crunching noises in the gravel. The leather jeans creaked. “I hate parties,” he said.

I felt I had to say something. “Me too.”

“Tell you what: why don’t we sneak out and go for a spin on the bike? Have you ever been on a motorbike?”

I shook my head. “No. Never.” But if I was honest the idea appealed greatly – to get away from these boring people, to feel the air rushing past me, but most of all I was imagining sitting close to this guy on his machine. “Do you think we could?”

“I don’t see why not.” He stood up, picked up the jacket and pulled it on, his leather crotch level with my eyes, mere inches from my face. “Come on!”

Nobody even noticed as we walked to the bike. It was a big black thing, shiny and huge. I could smell petrol and something else – polish? - as we approached it. It was ticking gently in the heat. He took a black helmet off the seat and put it on – it even had a black visor – and then he unlocked a second, silver, one from a thing at the side and pulled it gently over my head. It felt strange and heavy, but as it settled into place it was comfy. His fingers fastened the catch under my jaw, he smiled at me, and then his grinning face disappeared behind his black visor as he pulled it down.

I watched his jeans tighten even more over his arse as he swung his leg over the bike. He started the engine and the machine growled deeply. I managed to get onto the pillion seat, looked down to find the foot pegs and placed my feet on them. I had no idea what to do with my hands.

He turned his head towards me. “Try not to lean when we go round corners. Imagine you’re a sack of potatoes. Put your hands on my sides. Ready?”

I nodded. The leather of his jacket was almost hot enough to burn my fingers as I gripped him. The bike jerked as he put it into gear and we set off, the gravel of the drive crunching beneath the tyres.

He rode the bike slowly to the end of the drive and out of the village, but once we were on the country road he opened the machine up a bit more. We probably weren’t going very fast but it felt to me that we were doing a hundred miles an hour. The warm air, scented with wild flowers and trees, rushed past me – I could feel it on my bare hands and through the open visor of my helmet. It made my tee shirt and jeans flap and vibrate. It felt wonderful. Less than eighteen inches in front of my face was the back of his helmet, then the nape of his neck, the edge of dark brown hair, an area of golden skin above the collar of his jacket, and then the expanse of shiny black leather that was his back. I studied the creases and folds at his armpits, the row of chrome studs across his shoulders. For a moment I fantasised about leaning forward and licking the leather; kissing it; smelling it; sucking the silver studs one by one. I frowned, that was a strange thought to have.

I realised with a start that my cock was hard and because of our position it was touching the back of his arse. I carefully scooted backwards a little, hoping I wasn’t going to fall of the end of the bike. But then he braked for a corner, and Newton’s First Law pushed me forwards into him. I think my face went red: he must have felt my cock! I slid back again as we came out of the corner and he accelerated.

The fields and dry-stone walls were rushing past and the grass at the side of the road made streaky patterns as I looked at it. We went over a bump in the road and it knocked my hands down his sides to his hips. I felt his studded belt, and then the folds at the tops of his leather jeans, where his hips were bent. Another shock of something coursed through me. I knew that all I had to do was move my fingers down a bit more and forward, and they would be on the smooth, tight leather of the outsides of his thighs, above the leather side lacings. I wanted to so very much, but I couldn’t.

Why not? I reasoned that I could excuse it by saying it was a more comfortable position for my hands, that I’d gained confidence on the back of the machine. I was in an agony of indecision.

It was as if he had read my mind. I felt a gloved hand take mine, lift it, and place it deliberately on the top of his left thigh. The hand returned to the handlebars. After a few seconds I put my other one on the other thigh too.

For a while I just rested them there, motionless, incapable of moving them. The leather beneath my hands felt hot, smooth, and gorgeous. My little fingers were resting on the tops of the lacings. I moved them a tiny bit, feeling the metal eyelets with the leather thongs going through them, poking my fingertips into the holes between the lacing, stroking them over the thicker black leather. I half-expected him to stop the bike, scream at me for being a pervert, and leave me there in the middle of nowhere – but he didn’t. The world didn’t end. I wondered if he’d felt my fingers move, and decided that perhaps he hadn’t. I stroked them again – and the other fingers too. Lightly, tentatively. I knew that he must definitely have been able to feel that – but again, he didn’t react.

It was undoubtedly the fact that my cock was hard and almost bursting out of my jeans that gave me confidence, but my stroking increased. My fingertips glided over the smooth black leather of those sexy biker jeans. They stroked the tops of his thighs, then the outsides. I ran them down further until I felt the tops of his heavy boots, caressing the buckles I found there.

It occurred to me that in the positions we were in, I could do almost whatever I wanted to him, and he’d be able to do very little about it (other than stop the bike, pull me off it and beat me up, of course). He had to keep his hands on the bars, he couldn’t close his knees together or get away from my hands at all. I’d never had thoughts like that before and it almost startled me that I was having them now.

I ran my hands slowly back up the outsides of his thighs, over his belt, and onto his jacket. The front of it was cooler than his jeans. I felt the zip, stroking the end of one finger up and down the teeth. I held the slider and moved it down a little way, then back up again. I pushed my fingers under his collar, stroking and feeling the leather between them, I felt the chrome studs along his back. I put my arms around him and hugged him. A hand left the bars for a moment, gripped my wrist and squeezed, before returning to control the machine.

That squeeze seemed to make everything I’d done all right. I grinned and, as if I’d been granted full permission, resumed running my hands gently over his leather-clad body. I moved my hands back and tentatively felt the smooth, tight black leather over his arse. His bike jeans had no back pockets and so the smoothness of the hide was unbroken. There was a horizontal seam higher up and I traced this towards the centre where my fingers felt the leather being pulled in between the cheeks. His arse was round and smooth.

There was one place I hadn’t touched, though. I’d kept my hands away from the insides of his thighs, or further up. That place was, to me, out of bounds – even though he didn’t seem to mind at all what I’d been doing. But I wondered what it would be like, to feel the bulge between his legs. Would it be hard, or soft? What would the leather there feel like beneath my fingers? The thought was becoming an obsession. I was battling with myself: should I find out? Would it really matter? He’d been fine with my feeling him in all those other places. No, that was too much. He’d beat me up at the very least, and probably tell my parents.

But my hands had been everywhere else. Why not there? I told myself that I probably wouldn’t ever get the opportunity again. Coming to a decision I moved one hand tentatively forward and inwards across the top of his thigh, aiming for his leather bulge.

Gravel crunched under the tyres and with a start I realised we were back on the drive. I’d been so engrossed that I hadn’t noticed we’d been on the way back. I pulled my hand away sharply.

He brought the bike to a gentle stop, kicked the side stand down and turned around towards me, lifting his black visor. “Home. Hop off.”

I staggered a bit as I got off the bike – my legs had kind of set in position.

He unfastened my helmet and I took it off. I watched his hair slowly jerking back up to its spiky state as he removed his. He was grinning at me. “So, how was that?”

I was embarrassed, knowing that he’d felt my hands all over his leathers during the ride. “That was amazing.”

“I bet, if I tested you, you’d have no idea where we actually went, would you?”

My face must have gone very red.

He was still grinning at me. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s fine. Felt good.” He looked down pointedly and I followed his gaze. There was the clear shape of a very hard cock in his jeans. Then his eyes went to my own, which was also very obvious. “Yeah, I see you enjoyed it as well...”

I felt my face going red. I covered my erection with my hands quickly, and he chuckled.

He put out his hand. “I’m Dean, by the way. Brother of your mother’s niece Cathy.”

I shook it. His grip was firm. I knew ‘Aunt’ Cathy, but I hadn’t known she had a brother.

“Now, I understand that Clair and Daniel are off on a cruise next week, but you’re staying here. I was thinking: you need someone to look after you, keep you out of mischief.” He leaned against the bike. “Yeah I know Hettie’s there,” Hettie was our maid, “but she can’t really take you out for rides on the bike.” He smiled slowly at me. “Or look after other needs that boys have...”

I blinked. Was he talking about what I thought he was talking about?

“Oh yes, I know all about boys’ needs.” He ran a hand slowly over his shiny black thigh. “You like leather.” It was a statement, not a question.

I swallowed. Looking at him standing there in that gear, that black leather, those bulging jeans, the boots, the studded jacket, smiling sexily at me, made me realise with an almost physical shock that I fucking did. It did something to me that I’d never believed was possible. Leather was something I’d never consciously thought about in sexual terms before, but now that I was doing, I knew without any doubt that it had been there, waiting to ambush me for a long, long time. And I also realised that I fancied this guy like fuck.

“I have lots of leather. Jeans, jackets – I think you’d look good in those.” He paused, then looked up into my eyes. “ And we could stop by occasionally at my house. I have other things there that I think you’d be very interested in.” He was gazing at me speculatively, as if weighing me up. “Stuff specially made for looking after a boy’s needs...”

The silence stretched out between us. I was having difficulty processing all of this. ‘Specially made for looking after a boy’s needs’? What on earth could he be talking about? Whatever it was, the very thought of this biker using it on me made my legs weak.

“Oh fuck,” I whispered.

A corner of his mouth lifted and he nodded as if in confirmation of a fact he’d been certain of. It was as if he’d known from the moment he’d first seen me looking at him – before even I had.

“Ok. I’ll have a word with your parents. They know me. They’ll be fine about it.”

A frown must have appeared on my face, and again it was as if he’d read my mind. He looked down at his gear. “Oh don’t worry – I don’t wear this all the time. Claire and Daniel know the respectable me. I just wear tight black leather when they’re not looking.” He laughed.

I glanced over at the front lawn. People were still partying wildly. I didn’t want to go back there just yet. And I was very conscious of my cock, hard in my jeans. “Do you live far away?”

He looked over the fields. “Three miles over there. Two minutes on the bike.”

“I’d like to see your house – and that ‘stuff’ you were talking about.”

“I thought you might.”

“Can you show me now?”

He chuckled, then looked across at the people in the garden. “I think they’ll probably be wondering where you are before long.” He turned back to me. “Don’t worry – once your folks go off on their holiday I’ll have plenty of time to show you that stuff. It’ll still be there, and it’ll be waiting for you.”

He put his helmet on, got back onto the bike. “See you soon. Until then, enjoy thinking about it.” He gave me a grin, lowered his black visor and started the engine.

I watched him ride off, and smiled to myself. Six weeks with that leather biker all to myself.

I couldn’t wait for my parents to go to fucking Bermuda.