I was starting to get a little obsessed with Steve – and this was surprising, considering he wasn’t my usual type. He was a full-on dominant Top, and I’m a Top myself.
He was early thirties, with a solid, muscular build, and wore gear that showed it off. Every time I'd seen him he'd been wearing the same things: a leather baseball cap, a black rubber sleeveless tank, stretched over his torso like a second skin, highlighting the well-defined contours of his pecs and six-pack. Over that, a leather harness, its straps running over his shoulders, emphasizing his powerful arms, and a leather band around his left bicep. His boots were black 14-hole Doc Martens with white laces. They looked like they could do some damage.
Then there were his jeans. Well-worn, button-fly Levis, so tight that the buttonholes were strained into ovals. There were a few small rips, each with a ring of white on their edges where the denim had frayed. His bulge was nice – round, squashed a bit by the tight denim – but for a change, that wasn't what fascinated me: it was his arse. It's usually bulges that get my attention, but Steve's arse was something else: tight, and as round as an apple, with the centre seam running down to underneath his balls, deeply separating the cheeks.
He seemed friendly enough. I’d seen him chatting with guys at the club, but I hadn’t worked up the nerve to talk to him yet. I’m not usually shy; I can walk up to anyone, start a conversation with no problem. But with Steve… it felt different. I got the strange feeling that it was something I didn't want to fuck up. I wanted him, badly, but I couldn't even explain why. He was a hundred percent Top, and so was I. On paper, it was a non-starter.
I stood looking at him that night. He was halfway down the room, lounging back on one of the black leather chairs. His muscular legs were wide apart, and his gloved fingers were interlocked behind his head as he listened to another guy seated opposite him. I was idly imagining our being alone together, and it was making me hard.
Oh come on, you bastard, get up , I whispered to myself. I wanted to see his arse again. While I waited I contented myself by looking at his thighs. They were solid, substantial, and the Levis were doing an excellent job of making me need to feel the muscles they were struggling to contain.
I’d stood in that club more nights than I could count, watching him. Always from a distance. He never seemed to notice me, but then he had no reason to – I look like a Top as well: leather shirt half-unbuttoned; broken-in biker jacket with the collar up; motorcycle boots; tight, lace-up sided horsehide jeans that creaked when I moved. A pair of folded handcuffs clipped to the left side of my studded belt. Subs came up to me often. Now and then I took one home. Most nights, I didn’t. I wasn’t there for them, I was there to watch Steve.
He said something to his friend, laughed, then brought his arms down, and pushed himself off the chair. The loos were at the back of the room and I watched his tight, round Levi-clad arse moving as he walked away from me. I followed slowly, keeping distance between us. The sight was hypnotic and I could feel my cock sliding slowly against the leather of my jeans as it got harder. He had a sexy, very masculine walk, his shoulders dipping up and down slightly with each step.
When he disappeared into the loo I stopped and waited by the wall. After a while he came out, and I followed him back, my eyes never leaving that faded blue denim arse, until I was stood where I had been before.
I’d done it more times than I cared to admit – shadowing him through the room, keeping just enough distance. Honestly, I was surprised no one had mentioned it to him. You’d think someone would've said something: that there was another Top always on his heels, eyes locked on him. But if he noticed, he gave no sign. He moved through the space like he owned it, either completely unaware, or maybe just too sure of himself to care.
It was getting late. The crowd had thinned, the music softer now, the club winding down. I saw him say goodbye to his friend, then head towards the cloakroom. When he came back, he was pulling on a heavy leather motorcycle jacket – thick hide, well-worn, creased in all the right places.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
I knew where Steve lived – close by, and only a couple of streets away from my own flat – and that he always walked home. I’d followed him before, more than once. That night, I did it again. Kept as close as I dared, but far enough back that I could duck into an alley or slip behind a parked car if he turned. He never did. Whether he didn’t notice or just didn’t care, I couldn’t tell.
The walk always gave me eight solid minutes to take him in – watching the flex of his thighs under those tight Levis, the rhythm of his stride, and that amazing arse.
As usual, he turned the corner at the bookies. He lived down the street on the left, right at the end. I carried on walking towards the corner, knowing he'd be passing the laundromat when he came into view again. He always was.
But this time, as I rounded the corner by the betting shop, I nearly jumped out of my skin. He was right there. Standing still. Waiting for me. I barely stopped myself from walking straight into him.
"I thought it was about time we said hello."
I froze. My mouth worked, but nothing clever came out. “Erm… hi,” I managed.
His expression was unreadable. "You know where I live. Want a coffee?"
"Erm…" Come on, you idiot, speak to the man in sentences. "Yeah, sure. Thanks."
He turned without another word and started walking. I followed. I’d seen his front door a hundred times, always from the outside. It felt strange actually going through it.
The living room was neat and tidy. Black leather three-piece, art on the walls, in chrome frames, warm and gentle lighting. "Sit," he said, pointing to one of the chairs before disappearing into the kitchen.
I sat.
The mechanical hiss and gurgle of a coffee machine cut through the silence. He returned a few minutes later and put two espressos on the glass coffee table. Then he sat down in the chair opposite and spread his legs. He looked at me with blue eyes, his short dark beard moving slightly up at the corners with a slight smile. "You're Top, yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Completely?"
"Yeah."
"So am I, as you undoubtedly know. So why are you interested in me?"
I had no idea how to reply. I desperately searched around for a lie I could tell him that would explain everything, but came up with nothing. It would have to be the truth, then. "There's something about you. I can't stop thinking about you. You're so… so fucking male. The way you move. The way you look. Your jeans. Your arse."
"My arse?"
"Oh fuck yeah."
His smile widened, just a fraction. “OK.”
He seemed to turn the thought over in his mind, letting the silence stretch. Then, without a word, he took off his leather cap and set it down beside him, running his other hand across his short black hair. The slow sound of his zip followed as he opened his heavy jacket, revealing the tight rubber tank beneath. He leaned back further into the chair, his legs wide, settling in like he had all the time in the world. It wasn’t a casual movement – it was controlled, confident, just this side of a challenge.
This was the closest I'd ever been to the guy, and the lighting was better here than the club. The view was incredible. The rubber top moulded to his pecs and six-pack, and his thighs and bulge looked amazing.
"You want to touch me?"
My breath caught. That had been unexpected. "Can I?"
He stood up, his hands by his sides.
I moved around the coffee table.
His jacket smelled intensely of leather. It felt heavy and sexy as I ran my fingers over it, down the arms, then up under it. I could feel his tits through the rubber. I squeezed them.
Then I reached around his waist and my hands were on that arse. Oh fuck . It felt even better than it looked. The denim was stretched tight over the cheeks, somehow both smooth and rough at the same time. One finger followed the seam deep down between them.
His blue eyes were staring into mine, and there was a slight, enigmatic, smile on his lips.
My cock was hard inside my jeans. I grabbed his arms and squeezed the leather, then went back to his nipples and squeezed them as well. I gripped his bulge through the Levis and found his cock, then scratched my fingernails over the head while I buried my face in his armpit, licking the leather of his jacket.
He gave a short, quiet moan. "You'd make a good sub," he said.
"Not a sub," I replied, my voice ragged.
He pulled me tight to him and rammed his tongue into my mouth. I kissed him back, wetly and deeply. Our hands were on each other's bulges and arses now, him squeezing mine through the horsehide, mine squeezing his through his Levis. And he was quickly getting as hard as I was.
He disengaged from me, grabbed my leather jacket, and pulled me behind him into the bedroom. I barely had time to notice shelves full of gear and restraints, and a bed with steel rings at the top and bottom before he pushed me onto the leather sheet and landed on top of me. We kissed again, then our mouths were everywhere – devouring leather jackets, boots, jeans. I took as much of his bulge into my mouth as I could and worked on it. He was doing the same to me.
One of my fingers had found a hole in his jeans, and under it I felt skin.
"Oh fuck, you go commando."
"Always. Nothing between my cock and these Levis."
I groaned. That knowledge made his bulge even more irresistible now. I ran my fingers over it, feeling the shape of his hard cock. "I've got nothing on under these leather jeans either," I breathed.
He nodded. "Uh-huh."
We rolled over on the bed, kissing and mauling each other for a while, and then he was holding a pair of handcuffs in front of me."You gonna sub for me, boy?"
I smiled, shook my head and grabbed my own cuffs from my belt. "No, boy , I am not. Are you?"
"No fucking way."
He was lying half under me, his leather jacket fully open. I brought my fist back and punched him hard in the stomach.
"FUUUCK!"
As he curled up I got one of my cuffs around his wrist and wrenched it up to the top of the bed. It locked into the steel ring there with a click. The other arm took more effort – he was recovering now – but I got it fastened to the same ring, this time using his own cuffs. He was not going anywhere, so I hopped off the bed and searched the shelves. I was looking for ankle cuffs but I couldn't see any, and I was in far too much of a rush to spend time looking, so I came back with a handful of leather straps and some rope.
He was a powerful guy, but I'm no weakling either, and he had both wrists cuffed to the bed. I managed to control his struggling and kicking by getting on top of him and wrapping an arm tightly around his legs. I held them there while I got his booted feet strapped together, then a rope through the strap down to the bottom ring. I pulled the rope until he was stretched out, his wrists and feet restrained to the centre of the bed at the top and the bottom.
Hurriedly, I looked on the shelves again, and this time I found what I wanted: duct tape and a pair of scissors. First thing I did was gag him well with the tape. He'd been yelling and cursing, but now he was a lot quieter.
I forced him over, face down on the bed. His round arse in those tight Levis looked good enough to eat against the black leather bedsheet. With the point of the scissors I carefully made a small hole in the jeans, and then cut a vertical slit in the denim over his arsehole, just at the side of the centre seam. I put my fingers into the slit and pulled. It ripped wider. He'd shaken his head, yelled into the gag and tried to turn over again when he'd realised what I was doing, but I was kneeling astride his legs, so there was nowhere he could move.
Quickly, I unfastened my belt and leather jeans, and wrenched them down. I spat onto my cock, and pulled the new hole in his jeans wide. His head came up and he let out a loud, gagged yell as I entered him.
My cock went in all the way in to the balls. I could feel his jeans against the bare skin of my legs and hips, and the firm muscles of those round arse cheeks under the rough denim.
I reached underneath him, found the warm bulge of his hard cock, and gripped the whole thing. I held it, not moving my hand at all. Then I started to fuck him. Slowly – I wanted to make this last.
My cock rode in and out of him, and I closed my eyes. I was in heaven. My thrusting was making him move on the bed, and his jeans-covered cock slid through my hand. Like me, Steve wore fuck-all under them – so it was a fair bet that the feel of denim sliding against his cock turned him on. Unlined leather certainly did that to me. So I began to close my fingers and thumb together over the end of his cockhead with every thrust. When I came, I was going to make damn sure he did as well.
I would have thought that I'd have cum very quickly indeed – I was fucking the amazing arse of the guy I'd been ogling for weeks, after all – and in those horny fucking Levis. But I found that I was able to pace it. The threat of orgasm was always there, coming in measured waves, but whenever it got dangerously close I was able to slow down, keeping it just far enough away that fucking this arse felt like the horniest thing I'd ever done in my life, but also, so that I could still make it last. At the bottom of each thrust, when my cock head was deepest inside Steve, I could feel the denim of those jeans, rough and masculine, pressing and sliding against me, and the seams rubbing against my skin.
Steve was moaning continuously into the duct tape gag. His head was to the side now, his eyes closed.
And his body was moving against mine. I hadn't noticed that at first, but now I did. When I pushed in, he pushed back. I gripped his cock bulge harder, scraping the denim over the head with every stroke. If someone had been doing that to me in these horsehide jeans I'd have lost it ages ago – leather has that effect on me. Either this guy didn't cum easily, or he was trying to make it last, like I was.
I became aware of approaching orgasm again and I slowed my thrusting to make it back off, like I'd been doing before. But this time it wasn't having it. Even though I concentrated like fuck, it continued to get closer, and I knew that I couldn't do anything to stop it now – whatever I did, I was going to lose it.
So I speeded up, ploughing into the guy with everything I'd got, my hips and my balls ramming against his Levis with every thrust. My fingers were still gripping Steve's cock through his jeans, and I could feel the ridge and the tip of the head sliding past them each time I pistoned into him. With a yell I began to cum.
A long, low moan began in his throat, then rose in pitch – and as my spunk shot into him, he came in his Levis. I could feel his cock jerking madly inside them and my fingers slid over it on the film of spunk that was being forced through the denim.
I collapsed onto him, exhausted and panting hard. After a while I pulled my cock out. His body relaxed under me. I slid to his side, and we lay like that, my face buried in his black hair. He smelled good.
Now, this was the awkward time – and possibly the dangerous time too. I was going to have to release him, and then God knows what he would do. He was about the same size as I was, but he was more muscular, and so probably a lot stronger. He could probably beat me to a pulp. But there was nothing else for it. I pulled my leather jeans up again and buckled my belt, then undid the straps around his feet, and unlocked my handcuffs from his wrist and the ring. I couldn't release his other arm because I didn't know where the key to his own cuffs was.
He turned over on the bed, a long breath sighing through his nose, then pulled the duct tape gag off slowly with his free hand. The spunk stain at his crotch was still slowly spreading. He got the handcuff key from his pocket and freed himself.
For a while he just lay there looking at me, silently, his expression unreadable. Then he said, "I need a stiff drink."
We sat in the living room, with large scotches. He hadn't said anything else since the bedroom. Now his elbows were on the chair arms, he was holding his glass in both hands and looking at me over the rim. "That was a very dangerous thing you did," he said. "I should break your fucking legs."
"I know." I looked down. I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself."
We sat in silence for a while.
"First time I've ever been fucked," he said.
"Really?" That surprised me. It had been my experience that most guys – whether they turn out to be subs or tops – get fucked fairly early in their sexual careers.
"Yep."
"Did you like it?"
He took a sip of scotch, ran his finger around the rim, raised it to his lips, and licked it. He looked at me. Eventually, he said, "do you think I did?"
Awkward. Be honest. "Yes. I think you did."
"I always thought it would hurt like hell the first time."
"It didn't?"
"Nope." He fixed me with his blue eyes. "If you want to know, it felt fucking amazing."
"Really?"
"Ooooh yeah," he said, very slowly.
"You don’t look very happy, though."
"Well, for a start, if it got out that I like being fucked, it's going to do my reputation no good at all." He stretched his legs out under the coffee table. His feet were close to mine now.
"But it's not just that. I'm going to have to do some serious thinking. Not only had I never been fucked, I'd never even been tied up before, and I'd never been made to cream my fucking jeans before, either. And I liked all of them. Very much. Too much. And that is worrying."
"There are lots of guys who do both – top or sub when they feel like doing one or the other," I offered, a bit lamely.
"Yeah. I know. That's never been me, though. Looks like I'm not who I thought I was."
Silence again.
"And another thing. I always wear Levis cos I think they look hot. Turns the subs on. Shows my arse off."
"You can say that again."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "Thank you. But the thing is, those jeans have been there touching my cock all the time. I knew I liked the feel of them, but I never even guessed how good it feels to be made to cum in the fuckers."
Oh, I knew exactly what he meant. "Leather has the same effect on me."
He inclined his head towards my lower half. "Talking of which, those are horny fucking jeans."
"Yeah. I know."
"And you look fucking good in them. If I were a sub, you are exactly the kind of guy I'd be looking for." His gaze rose to my face again. "But I'm not a sub." He paused. Then he said, "well, not for anybody else."
I wasn't quite sure what he meant. Did he mean just that he'd been forced to be sub this one time, or that he might be willing for me to top him again?
He grinned lopsidedly at my confused expression, and I felt his foot knock against mine. "We could do that again – sometime in the future – if you want." The grin broadened. "Say like tomorrow?"
My face broke into a grin.
A finger pointed at me. "But preferably without the sucker punch."
"Yeah, sorry about that," I whispered.
He gazed at me for a while. "You're a fucking sexy guy," he said. Then he glanced at the clock. "Fuck!" He straightened up and downed the last of his scotch quickly. "I have to be up in the morning and it's nearly morning now, so fuck off outta here."
"Right. OK." I put my empty glass down on the table and stood up, heading for the door.
"Hey, before you go –" He pulled me into an embrace and kissed me deeply. Then he put his head back and looked at me. "You owe me for a pair of Levis," he said.
"Put it on my tab."
He grinned. "Does that mean you'll be coming back?"
I raised my eyebrows, considering. "Might do," I said.
I opened the door, squeezed his round arse, and began to walk away.
"I don't even know your name," he said before I'd got very far.
I paused, tried my best to hide a grin, and turned back towards him.
"It's 'Sir'," I said.