This story explores a childhood fantasy realiz; and is an experimentation in writing fiction on my part. Readers' opinions definitely welcome.
James - A story by nick.
For readers who don't live in Britain or otherwise don't know, I'll begin with a brief explanation on "chav". Chavs are a subculture throughout the UK, characterized by modified cars, bad music and casual alcoholism.
The part I'm most interested in is the boys; who always wear tracksuit bottoms and tops, trainers, vests, thin plastic coats, variations of the above and more. As well as acting "well hard, pal", some of the sexiest boys I've ever seen were chavs. And, some of them were pretty small and innocent, which just makes them ripe for the juicy picking.
Less talk, more story.
This is the story of James Upton. And me, of course. James was a chav in the year below me at school. He was a cheeky, rowdy, insolent troublemaker, and pretty much very antisocial. He was also seriously cute; small, blonde, deep blue eyes, devilish grin, toned arms, sexy tan, firm little bubble butt, delicious thighs, just the right amount of puppy fat. Also, despite being a fair bit smaller than me, he sported a big bulge he liked to show off at all times. He especially liked his pair of tight grey tracksuit bottoms, which clearly defined the arc outline of his tremendous, girthy prick for all to see.
It was the school summer holidays, and I was a tall, thin fifteen year old with a natural athletic build, not very much built by practice or excersize, with a love of books and a habit of unfiltered Pall Mall cigarretes. I was easily bored, even though I had a number of friends. Hanging out in the town I lived, I saw James a lot. Mostly, he was being an asshole.
To me, it was easy to see he badly needed power, constantly, and would attempt to seize it at every oppurtunity. With this in mind, and with a raging bisexuality and passion for the forbidden fruit, my desire to chain him up, torture him, humiliate him and rob him of every last shred of power he had and make him submit. It grew beyond a fantasy and into the dangerous confines of a need.
I had also a means. My parent's roomy sub-basement, soundproofed thoroughly by thick concrete, spacious and with all the industrial equipment (wall chain hooks, ceiling runners, winches, tables perfect for bondage) needed for any good torture chamber, all conveniently provided due to my house's former credentials as a pub. Completely unused, too. All I needed was a few extra supplies, courtesy of a bank card and the internet.
Whips, Chains, Ropes, Oxygen Deprivation Masks, Incense Burners; all that good stuff. However, my proudest purchase was a metal suspender frame, it fixed to the industrial runners on the roof. Attatched by a mechanism that meant that it could be spun at any angle were two more metal bars, like a fork stretching outwards. These suspended a rectangle frame with rounded egdes (kept in place by two more handlebar mechanisms, that could lock in place). The rectangular frame had tie hooks for arms, legs, head and extra ones, all of which were on rails and could be assembled anywhere. And, the metal frame was on rails so it could move up and down on it's supporting forks from being over six foot in the air to resting all the floor.
Needless to say, I was a fairly decent pickpocket.
I bought a lot more to play with, but they'll come up in the story.
I had Motive and Means, and for a few days after completing my holding pen for James, I became listless, believing that I may not get a chance to have James where I want him.
That changed when my parents announced that they were going to take a "second honeymoon", or something, without me, if it was okay to leave me home alone for two weeks. My grandparents lived up the street, and I'd report there from time to time and eat meals I didn't make myself there.
It was so perfect I nearly cried.
Well, only kidding. But, I was very pleased indeed.
All I had to do was bring James to the party.
His house was quite near mine. He had to pass by my street to get home. One night I went out with some friends and went home early, laying in wait with some equipment and a lot of nerve in an alley near my house. It was 45 minutes until James passed. I was immediately in action.
I dived on his back and shoulders and he fell to the ground, yelling "Fuck". He was on the ground and I was immediately rubbing my growing hardon against his buttcrack so he could feel it. He started panicking and swearing like crazy, but I quickly had him ballgagged. By this point he was threatening me (muffled) and writhing. Still humping his taught ass through his tight tracksuit, I tied his hands behind his back. Working blindly in the dark, I quickly applied something of my own invention, a cross between a weight bar and a pair of handcuffs. The bar sat between his legs and held them spreadeagled open. His dark skin was covered in a thin patina of sweat, and his panic was beginning to subside. His breathing was heavy in his nose as he began to tire and, as I supported his weight with one arm wrapped around his stomach and the other massaging his growing boner, he melted like butter in my arms and completely relaxed, squirming gently to my light stroking of his upper body. I pinched his nipple and ran it through my fingers. He moaned audibly and leant his neck contently against mine, breathing deep, heavy sighs of pleasure onto my neck. I picked him up and carried him down the darkened street.