Leathermen by Simon Sheppard

Author:Simon Sheppard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 2012-02-10T00:00:00+00:00

Upstairs at Johnny’s place there was no such thing as a warm-up. The bullhide flogger was heavy enough to open flesh, but Johnny wasn’t quite that kind of top. The punk had just enough muscle to make things interesting, and Johnny laid into him with a savage pleasure that doubled when he saw the kid’s lithe frame twist under the first half-dozen strokes. Blackie took it like a chieftain, first pressing his lips together and then gritting his teeth. He tried to look away so Johnny wouldn’t see it, which was too bad for Blackie since there was a mirror in front of the kneeling bench. Not only could Johnny see him struggling to take it, the kid had to look at himself.

He responded by closing his eyes, but another dozen strokes into it they were wide open, his mouth a spacious O as he fought not to make strangling sounds.

Johnny finally got those sounds just a few strokes later, and the way the kid was surging against his straps made the big man want to take a break—not for Blackie’s sake, but for his own. He handed the whip to Jay and knelt down beside the kneeling bench.

There was the tender feeling of the rising whip welts, yeah, as Johnny drew his fingers gently over the punk’s marked back. That had Johnny nice and hard, but that’s not what really did it for him. What did it for him was what he found when he slid his hand down between the punk’s leather-clad thighs and reached around—not like he hadn’t known it’d be there, but still. Every fresh one’s like a new discovery, and here there was plenty to discover.

Blackie squirmed slightly as Johnny felt it, measured it with his hand, slapped it a little. He shut his eyes tight so he wouldn’t have to look at Johnny, wouldn’t have to look at himself in the big mirror that showed Johnny every contour of the punk’s smug face giving way to the surge in his crotch.

With his free hand, Johnny grabbed the punk’s short hair. “Open your eyes,” he growled.

Blackie didn’t, and Johnny pulled and squeezed—hard on the hair, firm on the cock. The punk opened his eyes and looked at himself as Johnny unzipped the leather pants and took out Blackie’s dick.

There wasn’t a whisper of underwear, of course, not even a jockstrap. Blackie was hung, you had to grant him that. Johnny pulled back Blackie’s foreskin and rubbed the head with his fingertips: wet and drooling. Johnny wrapped his hand around the middle of the shaft and began to pump.

Blackie let out a strangled yelp, then a long, low moan. He wasn’t far off; in the mirror, Johnny saw a glistening stream of precum dribble off and streak down to the carpet.

Blackie started to relax in his bonds, and his hips began to move in time with Johnny’s strokes. He stopped resisting, and when he closed his eyes again it was because he was lost in the sensation, not because he was trying to look away.

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