The Telemachus Story Archive

The Politics of Sex
By Hooder

The Politics of Sex

I never used to be a political person. I thought politicians were the scum of the earth: they lie, they’re corrupt, and the only thing that interests them is their own advancement. Privately, if I was anything, I was bit of a leftie – I believed that people should just get on with each other. Racism was not on my agenda. But I joined the British Values Party – an extreme right-wing group. I did that not for the politics, but because a great many of the guys there were sexy skinheads in tight jeans and boots.

I like sexy skinheads in tight jeans and boots. A lot. I spend most of my leisure time on sites that have pictures of them, wanking at the thought of having them tied up helpless in their horny gear and doing unspeakable things to them. I’m not very experienced in that sort of thing – in fact I’ve only ever had a couple of kinky sessions, and they were sort of Bondage 101 - but the idea really turns me on.

It was through one of the skin sites that I saw the ad for the BVP. I suppose I must have been particularly horny at the time, cos I joined them there and then. There was a local branch not far from me and I started going to the meetings. And I came out of them with an erection and fuel for a week’s wanking. There were some fucking hot boys there, and their bulging jeans gave rise to all kinds of fantasies in my mind. I paid little attention to the ranting speeches about sending the immigrants home – most of the time I was bulge-watching.

But it’s strange how thoughts of sex can influence you. Bit by bit I started paying more attention – and what they were saying began to persuade me. Give England back to the whites. It’s our fucking country, not theirs. Damn right! I got very enthusiastic about it all.

My views must have been noticed because I gradually started to rise in the ranks. None of the boys knew I was gay, of course, or that I fancied the arses off most of them – if they had done I dread to think what would have happened, cos anti-gay was a big part of their beliefs (the fact that they were so ultra-straight was one of the things that made them so fucking sexy to me). No, I kept that dead quiet and I was extremely careful; I’m a very straight-acting lad anyway, so it wasn’t difficult. I went on marches, got arrested, went on more marches and organised fights beating up non-whites – in my DMs and bleachers (which were even tighter than most of the other lads’, and I didn’t wear anything underneath them, either). The gear and the adrenaline rush made me feel good, and it made me feel horny. My wanking during the rest of the week was legendary.

Eventually I got close to the top of the tree in our branch and, as I was articulate, good-looking, and - though I say so myself - very hot, I became something of a poster boy for them.

It was after one of the marches. We’d stomped through Hyde Park chanting ‘get-the-fuckers-out’ stuff, and most of the lads had gone home or back to the HQ. I was on my way to the flat. I turned a corner and came face to snout with a group of muscular guys in full biker-type gear, and wearing those leather puppy-dog masks, complete with ears and lolling tongues. I smiled: they looked so cute.

The fist to the solar plexus wasn’t cute, though.

While I was gasping from the punch they dropped a black canvas hood over my head and bundled me into some kind of van. Once they’d got me inside and we’d set off, they took their time tying me up properly.

Oh I tried to fight. I lashed out with my fists and my boots but I couldn’t see a fucking thing and there were a few of them to hold me down so they soon got me restrained on the floor. I was swearing and cursing and threatening all kinds of harm to them but they ignored that completely. In the end I ran out of breath and just lay there fuming.

They didn’t touch me again until the van stopped. I heard the doors open, and then I was lifted bodily and carried inside. They dumped me onto a hard wooden chair of some kind and set about strapping me down onto it. My ankles and knees were tied wide apart, wrists and elbows strapped to the arms of the chair, and another couple of straps went over my chest just to make sure.

There was a short pause, and then the hood was pulled off roughly. I looked around. I was in a bare brick room. I couldn’t see behind me so I didn’t know what was there, but it sounded like a large place. Five guys were stood there, all in leathers, and all in those dog masks.

“Hello Johnny.”

I spat at the guy who’d spoken.

I looked them up and down. Three of the five – the tallest ones – were hunky. I was into tight jeans not leather, but their jackets were tight over their muscles, their high black boots were polished to within an inch of their lives and their thigh-hugging black leather jeans bulged in all the right places. I thought these guys would look better in skin gear, but I had to admit that there was something horny about the way they looked. The other two were smaller, and they didn’t look like they were used to wearing this stuff. Their jeans were too big – one of them by several sizes by the look of it – and their jackets hung off their shoulders. I could tell they’d just borrowed the leathers for today. I immediately tagged those two as probably straight, and were most likely just along to help get me here. I guessed that they’d leave at some point.

The guy – I’ll call him ‘Red’ because his dog-mask included a thin red collar – wiped the saliva off his jacket. He stepped forward, slowly closed his fist and drew it back, then slammed it very hard into my abs. I yelled and screwed my face up, tearing at the restraints. Fuck, that hurt.

“Don’t spit, Johnny, it’s not polite.”

I got myself together and launched another gob at him. It fell short.

He regarded the slowly bubbling little pool on the floor, then looked back up at me. “You’re a fag, aren’t you Johnny.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Huh?” I hadn’t been called a fag before, and I didn’t like it.

He ran a fingertip slowly up my thigh. “Who wears jeans as tight as those if he’s not gay?”

I actually moved the chair several inches in my struggle to get my leg away from his hand.

“As for your politics, Johnny, it might interest you to know that not one of us is white English.” He pointed to each of the guys in turn, “Polish, Jamaican, Pakistani, and I’m Ukrainian. All of us – we’re what you hate most of all in the world, boy.”

I fumed impotently in the straps.

“And it gets worse.” He touched the other two tall guys on their shoulders. “We three are gay.” He said the word with relish: slowly, and tauntingly. “Homosexual. Shirtlifters. Queers. And we’re perverts too – we’re into black leather… and skinhead boys in tight jeans...”

I’d more or less guessed already that those three were gay leather guys – they wore the gear just too well, too naturally. The fact that they were all immigrants had surprised me, though. Red sounded like he’d been born in Croydon. For some reason that infuriated the hell out of me.

There followed a long lecture about ethnicity, equality, sexual preferences, and how my racist views were outdated; how hatred must be Stamped Out. He finished by informing me that what they were going to do to me was in no way fuelled by hatred, but that I was to consider it therapy, to help me see the light - the Right Way.

The BVP creed blinded me. I yelled at him. “You fuckers! You come here to England, skive off our benefits and universal credit, take up space in our hospitals when good, real English people need them, take the best jobs – commit nearly all the fucking crimes - you’re ruining our fucking country. Piss off back and ruin your own.”

Red looked at me for a moment, then sighed. He gripped my balls gently through my jeans with his hand, stroked them for a moment, and then started to squeeze. He didn’t stop squeezing. The pressure continued to build until I began to scream.

One of the other tall guys went behind me, pulled my head back and gagged me with his leather-gloved hand. I felt like I was going to vomit into it. The squeezing didn’t stop.

“You must remember that you’re strapped down to a chair, Johnny. I would be very careful about what I said if I were in your position.” His hand gave a final, harder squeeze, and then he let go.

I gasped in air as the other guy took his hand away. I felt sick.

“Well, you’ve had the talk, now it’s time for your therapy. I didn’t feel any underpants under your jeans, which means you’re trying to look hot. And you fucking do. You’re a sexy boy. Which is why we’re going to enjoy giving you your therapy. You might enjoy it too.” He nodded to the others, one of whom produced a more businesslike leather hood. They got it over my struggling head and laced the back up very tightly. I could only just breathe – and then only by taking slow breaths. After that they unstrapped me from the chair and manhandled me onto what felt like a sling. It moved about as I was laid on it and strapped in.

I heard Red talking to the others, then the door opened and closed. I guessed that was the straight guys leaving. Fingerless leather mitts went over my hands, and my legs were suspended up higher than my head, leaving my arse very vulnerable. I felt a hand go between my legs. I clamped my knees tight together to keep it out but it didn’t work and only made the hand feel more horny between my thighs. My balls were still sore from the squeezing, but the fingers didn’t go to them – they went to my cock. They moved my jeans about until they’d found it, then shifted it across to a more accessible position, over my right thigh. I heard him remove his gloves, then the fingers were back. They teased and wanked my cock until it was fully hard – it didn’t take very long. I was thrashing about trying to get the hand off me but the sling’s restraints didn’t allow me to move very much, and I couldn’t get away from it anyway. All my efforts only made the whole thing sway a bit, and he could easily stop that with his own body.

The first thing Red did was make me cum. It was a fast, efficient milking and with no thought for any prolonged pleasure. He worked on my cock quickly through my jeans, his hand moving between my thighs, until I had no choice but to shoot my spunk into them. I could feel it soaking the bleached denim and running down my balls. Then I felt fingers lifting my tee shirt up and putting clips onto my nipples. Now I have to say that I like my nipples played with – but when he released his grip on them and the clips closed, I screamed into the hood. I’d only just cum, so I wasn’t at all horny, and I was a lot more sensitive than usual - and those clips were strong, and evil. It was agony. In a haze of pain I struggled and fought, but nothing else happened for a while – I suspect they were just standing there looking at me, enjoying my suffering. I swore at them but the hood muffled my words. They dropped the front of my tee shirt back down.

I’d never been hooded before. I’ve seen them a lot on the net and sometimes wondered what they’re like. I imagined they’d feel good, and that not being able to see anything would be horny. This one did feel good – but I didn’t want it on me at the moment: right now, I really needed to know what they were doing. More than anything, I needed to see what was going on, what they were going to do next, so that I’d be ready for it - but the fucking hood made that impossible. I swore silently into the leather, feeling worryingly vulnerable.

The initial pain in my tits was beginning to ebb slowly. I felt something at my arse. My jeans jerked, and then there was something cold, moving round slowly. He was cutting a fucking hole in my bleachers! And it was a big one by the feel of it. By the time he’d finished both my arse cheeks were exposed.

There was a pause. I was conscious of the cool air trough the large hole – then I felt what could only be a cock head touching my sphincter. I swore into the hood. My swearing abruptly became a scream as a large cock was shoved roughly, and without any of the usual formalities, into me - without the benefit of lube. It hurt like fuck. I’ve only been fucked once before, and that was by a guy who was doing it so that we both got off on it – and it hurt then. This was pure rape. The cock pistoned in and out hard and fast. I prayed for the bastard to cum so that it would end, but every time he got close he paused for a few seconds before starting again. I don’t know how long it went on but the sling was jerking backwards and forwards for what felt like hours as he fucked the arse off me. Eventually he came inside me and I breathed a painful sigh of relief, thinking that would be it.

But I’d forgotten the other two guys. The second one was bigger than the first – and the last one was the biggest of all. Wide, long, and bumpy. My arse was stretched to the limit and I was full of searing pain. I yelled and fought but it made not the slightest difference. That last one was a bastard: he seemed to know exactly how to do it to make it hurt as much as possible. My arse was swimming with spunk by now, and at least it had lubed things a bit, but even so it was fucking agony. I yelled with each stroke.

Finally – finally – he came. There was an extra hard thrust and he held it there. I felt his spunk pump into me.

They left me for five minutes, panting and moaning and cursing the fucking blindfolding leather over my eyes again, wondering what the fuck they were doing. Then I felt hands releasing me from the sling. I almost fell as they lifted me off it, and they had to support my weight as they dragged me across the floor. My arse was on fire and I was conscious of my nipples hurting as the chain between the clips moved.

They removed my tee shirt completely, strapped my arms high up behind my back, so that my forearms were together and my mitted hands were touching my elbows, then they pulled my bleachers down. I was laid across the knees of one of the guys who must have been sitting on the wooden chair. My cock and balls were between his thighs and I could feel his leather jeans around them. He reached underneath his legs with one hand, gripped my tackle (my cock had shrivelled so much it must have almost disappeared) and held me down by that while, with the other, he started to spank my bare arse.

I hadn’t been spanked over a knee since I was ten. I’ve been tied up and paddled gently once, yes, but not that. It was excruciatingly humiliating, and I had no idea a hand could hurt so much. And he spanked my bare thighs as well – if anything that hurt even more. I yelled into the hood with each stroke but whenever I struggled too much he just gripped my cock and balls harder. The position they’d tied my arms in kept them out of the way and made sure I couldn’t defend myself.

The spanking continued for some time. Through it, I was told repeatedly and in different ways that racism was a Bad Thing and that I really should consider readjusting my mental picture of the world. But the words floated over me – I was too absorbed in the pain of his flat, leather-gloved hand on my already sore arse.

He stopped. The arm that had been holding me by the balls now went over the back of my thighs and around them to hold me down very tightly and keep me still. The other was pressing down very firmly on my back. I wondered why - and a few seconds later I found out. There was a loud swish, and I screamed into the hood as a cane bit hard into my arse cheeks. One of the other guys was clearly wielding it. Like I said, I’ve been paddled before, but the guy had done it more as a change from other things we’d been doing, and gently; I’d never been caned before - and believe me it is agony. It came down with full force again and again, right over my arsehole, with pauses between the strokes to let the pain build. I was beside myself. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t stand it. But the caning continued. It went on and on. I thought it was never going to end. The third guy had to help to hold me down and I almost crushed my balls between his legs as I struggled on his knee to escape that dreadful caning.

At last it stopped. I was dumped unceremoniously onto the floor. Underneath the leather hood I was actually crying, it hurt so much. They tied my feet together and made me kneel up, then they removed the hood. I was so embarrassed at how my face must have looked that I turned my head away from them. But Red – it had been him sitting on the chair – gripped my chin and pulled it to face him. He pointed at his shiny, high leather boots. “Lick them.”

Still sobbing, I licked the man’s shiny boots like a fag. After a bit he made me lick the soles too.

My head was lifted and shoved into his crotch. I could feel his cock, hard and stiff through his jeans. The smell of leather was in my nose. The nipple clips were pressing against the seat of the chair and sending spikes of pain through me whenever they moved. His hand went to the back of my head and he pushed it hard between his thighs. I yelped as my nipples were crushed even harder against the wood. He unzipped his jeans and got his cock out. I sucked it, then those of the other two guys, their puppy-dog masked faces grinning down at me, the pink tongues at the sides of their mouths. None of them came, and they kept passing me from one to the other for ages. My knees hurt – in fact I hurt everywhere.

My jeans were down by my ankles and I could feel my cum from earlier, still sticky, on my skin. Red bent forward and took the chain of my tit clips between his fingers. He moved it up my chest as far as it would go, then down again until it was taut. Up and down slowly. I screwed my face up at the pain.

“You see,” he whispered, “this is the kind of thing that happens to sexy skinhead boys in bulging, tight jeans, who think we should all be chucked out of the country. You’ve got to expect this kind of thing, Johnny.” He gave the chain a single, hard tug that made me yelp.

They let me lie down on the floor again and rest for a quarter of an hour, then they lifted me to my feet. Without the hood on I could see now that this was a very well-equipped playroom. Frames and restraint devices stood around on the black rubber floor. I’d occasionally had fantasies of being with a sexy skin boy in a place like this – and in other circumstances I’d have been very happy to be here. But not now. Now right now.

Red unfastened my ankles, pulled my bleachers back up, shoved my cock and balls inside, and fastened them up. I saw that there were a few drops of blood on them – no doubt from the caning. My spunk that was soaked into the denim felt ice cold. They took me over to a wooden frame shaped like an ‘A’. I was restrained onto this, my arms down the sloping sides, body resting against the frame’s wide leather straps (thankfully none went over my nipples or arse). More straps were tightened over me, my thighs were secured to the cross beam, and my feet were cuffed, wide apart, to the board at its base.

A simple wide strip of leather went over my eyes to blindfold me. He tied it tightly and pulled it down until he was sure I couldn’t see anything. I heard them take their masks off, and then, one after the other, they kissed me hard and roughly. Their hands forced my head forwards, their lips crushing mine and their tongues forcing their way into my mouth. Stubble raked over my skin like sandpaper. That wouldn’t have been so bad, but each one pressed his body hard against me, crushing the nipple clips with his leather jacket. Fire coursed through me every time.

Fingers on my crotch. They found my cock again and began to tease it gently. My damned cock seems to be oblivious of anything else – and even in spite of my pain it began to respond and get hard. Bit by bit it grew under the teasing until it was fully erect, and was stretching my jeans out to bursting – the head tight against the thin denim as if it was begging for attention. Twenty other fingers stroked and tickled my body: over my legs through my jeans, up the insides of my thighs, my perineum; they reached under to my balls, across my bare back. Thankfully they left my arse alone. This was better. The fingers stroking me so erotically seemed to dull the pain in my arse and nipples. I was getting horny.

The guy in front of me continued to work on my cock until I was very close to cumming. Then he stopped. A few seconds later he began again. Over and over he brought me to the point of orgasm and then stopped just too soon. The feel of the other guys’ fingers stroking over my helpless body just made it worse. I needed to cum.

“Please,” I whispered, “make me cum.”

Nothing changed. I was repeatedly brought to the edge and then denied release. And it was getting worse each time. I was fucking my jeans, fucking the teasing, tickling fingers on my cock head, trying to make myself cum – but I couldn’t.

Then there came a time when the fingers didn’t stop. I threw back my head, thrust my hips like a rutting animal, and shot my spunk into my jeans for the second time. And fuck, that was a good one. But the fingers didn’t stop: they carried on milking me even though my orgasm had ended – but they changed their technique. Working on just the head now, they gripped it hard and slid the rough denim over the now-hypersensitive bare glans sadistically. I squirmed in agony at the unbearable feeling. Then I felt a very large butt-plug being forced up my arse. I tried to clamp my muscles closed to protect my battered hole, but it was rammed in relentlessly. Apart from hurting like hell itself, it made what that bastard was doing to my cock ten times worse.

The nipple clips moved as fingers took the chain between them. I shook my head in mounting panic – I knew what was coming. The hand paused for a dreadful moment, and then yanked hard, pulling both clips off together. I screamed. The pain was unimaginable. I was allowed to suffer that for a few seconds, and then, while my cock head was still being worked on and the butt-plug was searing my arse, some cunt began to torture my tits, squeezing them hard, pulling and pushing them, twisting them, and rolling them between his fingers. As the blood rush back into my nipples, the already-unbearable pain increased exponentially. I thrashed, shrieked and begged under their hands.

After an eternity of suffering, the fingers let go of my tits and my cock. I screamed again as the butt-plug was wrenched out, and hung on the frame panting and moaning piteously.

I heard them put their masks back on. They released me from the A-frame, got me back into my tee shirt, then hog-tied me tightly on the rubber floor. When my blindfold was pulled off all I could see was three pairs of shiny boots standing over me. I was still gasping and moaning from the pain in my tits, my arse, and my cock.

One of them – not Red, but one of the others – had a black felt-tip pen in his hand. He bent down, rolled me onto my back, and spent some time writing something on my tee shirt, then he stood up again. All three guys got their cocks out, and they very carefully pissed all over me. It soaked my jeans and tee, it splashed over my head, into my eyes and ears, in my mouth, up my nose. I lay there on the floor spluttering and gasping, coughing spray out of my mouth, and I stank of urine. Every square inch of me was completely soaked. I heard it gurgling down a drain somewhere close to me.

The three guys shook the last drops of piss off their cocks, and then started to work on them. They got hard, and one by one they wanked themselves off over me. Spunk landed everywhere – though mostly on the bleachers over my crotch. When they were finished they did themselves up, untied me, put rubber gloves on and hauled me to my feet. I was in no condition to fight them. They gagged and blindfolded me with duct tape, pressing it down well and wrapping it tightly around my head, then dragged me down to the van. I felt a plastic sheet under me this time – no doubt to keep their van clean. The stench of piss was thick as we drove off.

The van stopped. I was lifted out, dumped on the ground, and quickly but efficiently hog-tied again, this time with more duct tape. I felt one of the guys bend down over me. It was Red – I recognised his voice. “If I were you I would seriously re-think my political affiliations. This sort of thing can happen more than once, believe me.”

I felt his hand stroking over my arse, It felt gritty, and wet. A few seconds later a wave of unimaginable pain washed over me. The bastard had put salt or iodine or something on to make the cane wounds sting again. Oh fuck, it was agony. I writhed on the ground as I heard the door close, and then the van drive away.

They’d left me this time with my knees taped together so I couldn’t even turn over. All I could do was lay there in extreme pain. The stuff he’d put on my arse lasted a long time.

I had no idea where I was, only that the ground beneath me was hard, cold, and damp. I also didn’t know what time it was, but it must be evening - the march had finished at 4 that afternoon, and I’d been with the leather guys for a few hours. I struggled to free myself, and I tried to work my tongue between my lips and the tape, but they’d done too good a job. They’d stuck my fingers together with it too, so that I couldn’t undo the rest of the duct tape. I couldn’t see, couldn’t shout for help, and I was going nowhere. I lay there moaning, and hurting. My tits felt like they were on fire, my cock was still sore, and my arse ached and smarted from the fucking, the spanking, the butt-plug, the caning, and the iodine. The outside air was cold on my skin through the hole. I stank of piss and my bleachers were soaked in spunk – my own and that from the three guys.

Time passed. I must be in a quiet part of town, I thought, as there didn’t seem to be anybody about. Nobody to help me. A couple of times I heard footsteps in the distance and I yelled into the gagging duct tape, but whoever it had been didn’t hear me. Didn’t notice me.

Later, I heard a door open, and what sounded like booted feet on concrete. Someone said, “What the fuck…?”

They walked around me. I heard them sniffing. “Fucking hell, he stinks.” A hand pulled the front of my tee shirt down a bit. “BVP is full of gays,” said a voice, as if he were reading. “I fuck skinhead boys and suck their cocks. I get fucked by Pakkies.” He let go of my tee. “What the fuck?”

“Hey – look at this!” That was from a different guy. They moved behind me, and no doubt saw my bare arsehole sticking out of the hole. They’d be able to see the cane marks too, and the gunk my arse had been smeared with.

The duct tape was pulled off my eyes. Ratt - an ugly skinhead - was staring at me. I saw the door of the BVP headquarters behind him, and I knew where I was: I was in the little car park at the side of the building. It was empty. “Fuck me, it’s Johnny.”

They lifted me up bodily. “Get the fucker inside.” Then to me: “We need to fucking talk, mate.”

Bad as it looked, I managed to get out of that. I told them exactly what had happened to me, what those guys had done. That I’d had no choice. They were all for finding those leather guys and causing them great distress. But as the bastards had gone to great lengths to make very sure that I couldn’t see who they were or where I’d been taken, that probably wasn’t going to happen.

Things calmed down and got back to normal until one meeting a month or so later. Some guy was droning on about the revolution and I was miles away, my eyes fixed to a particularly bulging cock in skintight jeans to my right, fantasising about what I’d like to do to the good-looking boy who owned it. I’d even got a bit of a hard on. A sharp voice jerked me back to reality. It was his. “What you fucking looking at?”

I raised my eyes to the face of the skin whose bulge I’d been mentally licking, and saw that he was staring straight at me, and that he was frowning. His eyes then went from his own crotch to mine. I wasn’t fast enough – he saw my erection.

Of course I was chucked out of the BVP, but not until after a group of skins had had some fun – they’d done much worse to me than the leather guys had. I ended up in hospital with two broken ribs and couple of missing teeth – and a much sorer arse than the first time.

I’m not political any more. I stay well away from it. If I’m honest I was never into their ideas anyway; it was only the sexy boys who I was interested in.

But I’ve found some fascinating pictures on a site – they’re guys who are into German SS uniforms – black leather breeches, trench coats, SS armbands, helmets and other very horny things. They’re not political. I’m thinking of joining them. What could go wrong?