I'd hoped to find a 4th of July story to post here today—I'm sure I've got one somewhere—but no such luck. On the other hand, I did find a nice story about an American family, if not "The American Family," and that's kind of what this holiday is all about…isn't it? This story appeared in Issue 70 [May, 1999], and refers to a time when pretty much everyone smoked. It comes with a wonderful illustration by the late artist Sean—several readers have asked for more of those—who was always so scrupulous about getting every little detail right.
YOUNG MAN FALLS VICTIM TO THE PERILS OF LEATHER, TOBACCO AND MASTURBATION
My dad is a very
affectionate man. More than most I’d say. My favorite hugs as a young boy were
those I got after he’d been out for a Sunday afternoon ride on his bike with
“the guys.” He’d come in the door, scoop me up and ask, “How’s my little
buddy?” I’d hug him tight and bury my face in his shoulder. Looking back, I
remember the feel, sound and sweaty, smoky aroma of his leather jacket as it
was against my face. As a teenager, I realized my older brother’s jacket
aroused me much the same as dad’s jacket did back then.
Though Kyle was 4 1/2 years older, by the time I was 16, I could fit into most of his clothes. In addition to a pair of serious black riding leathers which were padded at the knees, hips, elbows and shoulders, Kyle also had a standard black leather bike jacket for “street” wear. Both jackets smelled like dad’s: sweaty, musty and smoky.
My dad was strict about not letting us smoke cigarettes until we were 18, though he began at 12 himself. I could count on finding a forgotten box of Marlboro’s in the pocket of one of Kyle’s jackets. Kyle and I shared a bedroom so it was easy for me to sneak a smoke without leaving the house. I began to develop the habit of slipping on one of his jackets when I’d have a smoke. Zipping it up tight and pulling up the collar was quite a turn on for me. The breast pocket bulged with the box of Marlboros inside and the jacket would squeak as I zippered up the sleeves and cinch the belt around my waist.
Masturbatory fantasies that began at an earlier age began to manifest themselves in auto-bondage, for whatever reason. As my experiments developed, Kyle’s leathers played an increasing role.
One Saturday afternoon, after my parents had left for a wedding, seemed like the perfect time for some self discipline. Kyle was out on his bike so the house was empty. I gathered some bicycle inner tubes, ropes, belts and a candle. After stripping down, I put on Kyle’s leathers and set to work. With the metal desk chair positioned in front of the full length mirror on the back of our bathroom door I could easily see myself and reach my supplies on the desk. The candle made lighting the cigarettes much easier than using matches, because my hands were gloved. A length of rope around each ankle secured my booted feet to the outside of the chair legs. A belt went around my waist and fastened to one of the slots that made up the back of the chair. Two belts linked together held my chest to the slats at the top of the back.
After a smoke, it was time to finish the job. A doubled over bicycle inner tube was elastic enough to slip my arms into from behind with some effort. Once I had worked it up to my biceps it held my arms back nicely. This next and last part was always the hardest. How to tie my hands securely? I’ve since figured that part out, but 10 yrs ago… As I struggled with the rope I heard Kyle’s voice from the doorway say, “Let me help you with that.” I never even heard his motorcycle come up the driveway! Christ, I thought, how long had he been there?
He came over and quickly tied my wrists together, securing an end to the rung under the chair. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck as he did so. Fuck! How could I be so stupid to get caught! I’m sure my face was as red as the box of Marlboros in my jacket! I just stared at the floor and didn’t say a thing.
“So, now what’re you gonna do?” I didn’t answer. “Huh?” He hit me on the back of the head.
“Nothing,” I whispered.
“I see you’ve been smoking my cigarettes again.”
“Only a couple,” I answered.
“Bullshit!! There’s 5 butts in the ashtray today!” Christ! he knew all along.
He turned the chair around to face him as he sat on his bed, leaning against the wall. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke in my face. I looked up after a few moments—all he was doing was smiling and blowing smoke rings at me. He offered me a smoke. I said no, but he put one in my mouth and fired it up anyway. I wasn’t used to keeping a lit cigarette in my mouth constantly, so the smoke burned my eyes & nostrils.
“Take it out, please.”
“No, if you’re gonna smoke, you gotta learn to do it like a man.”
“Please untie me.”
“Later—here, have another.”
He replaced the burned down butt with a fresh one which I spit out before he could lite it.
“Alright, if that’s the way you want to play.”
He reached into the desk for a roll of masking tape, tore off a piece and punched a hole in it with a pencil. It went over my mouth with the pencil hole between my lips. More tape held that piece securely in place. A cigarette went in the pencil hole and was held there by little strips of tape so I couldn’t spit it out with my tongue. I refused to draw on it when he brought the lit match up. Pinching my nose shut made me quickly realize that he was intent on this punishment.
“Maybe you’ll think twice before stealing my butts again.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again,” I mumbled through the tape.
How the smoke burned! How my cock ached!
I finished that one, and he replaced it with another. My eyes began to water from the smoke. He lit one for himself and said he’d untie me if I was able to smoke mine down first.
“C’mon boy, better hurry, I’m gaining on you.”
I puffed and puffed ’til I was green and barely made it.
“Okay, have you learned your lesson?”
Yes.
“I don’t care if you smoke, just as long as they’re not mine.”
As he freed me he commented on the “fine” job I did tying myself up. Shit! He’ll see my raging hard on through the leather as he unties me. He told me to put his leathers back where I got them. Fuck! I crossed to the closet, took off the boots and hung the jacket up. I then peeled down the pants and hung them up as well. Trying to hide my hard on, I pulled on a pair of jeans before I turned from the closet.
I couldn’t believe what I saw next! Kyle had pulled his cock out of his jeans and was stroking his own hard on! What a sight: Leather jacket squeaking while he stroked, freshly lit Marlboro clenched in his teeth, stiff cock sticking out of his jeans, feet in black boots.
“Come here.”
I went over to him. He smiled, reached down, unbuttoned my fly and pulled my rock hard cock out of my jeans.
The next thing I knew, his cigarette was thrust between my lips & he was on his knees sucking my cock. A few pumps with his mouth caused my cock to explode and load his gut with my juice. I collapsed to the floor. He straddled me and quickly pumped his own juice all over my chest and face before collapsing himself on his bed. He slept. I cleaned myself and then straightened up our room.
We never spoke about that afternoon again until one recent Thanksgiving when we were both visiting our parents.
My dad had quit smoking a few years before, so we were always banished to the front porch for a smoke when visiting. After a great turkey dinner, Kyle and I went out for a smoke on the porch. Kyle finally broke the silence by saying: “Remember that time when…?”
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