STORY: A Hell Of A Way To Earn A Living

A Hell Of A Way To Earn A Livingby Hooder

There were three things that made Matthew a very successful rent boy. The first was his cute, boyish good looks, with clear blue eyes, kissable lips and short blond mohican; the second thing was his firm, muscular body - the curves and bulges of which he showed off to best advantage with skintight, ripped leather jeans (which he wore with no underwear), DMs, tight white teeshirt, leather jacket and studded belt; and the third was the fact that every movement, every expression - even the way he just stood - simply oozed sex. He was a natural.

Even though he'd been hustling for some time now, he never tired, as he leant back against the railings, of watching passing guys - and women - glance at him, then do a double-take, and slowly scan their eyes down his tight body, undressing him in their minds. It was not unheard-of for people to walk into lampposts while their attention was on him.

He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket for a cigarette, but his fingers made contact instead with the wad of notes which he'd earned already today. He pulled them halfway out and looked at them, smiling, before returning them to his pocket and taking out the pack of cigarettes. He lit up, and breathed out the smoke contentedly. Life was good.

"Hi."

Matthew jumped as he turned towards the voice by his shoulder - he hadn't seen the man approaching. "Oh hi. Didn't see you."

The man was dressed in very heavy black leathers with a backpack, and wore a black crash helmet through which only his grey eyes were visible. Matthew got the feeling that the man was not young.

"How much?"

"Depends what you wanna do, mate." Whatever he wanted to do, thought Matthew, the price was going to be high.

"I want to tie you up, tease your cock, and make you cum. Nothing else."

"O-kay," said the punk slowly. It would certainly be would be easy money.

"Do you have facilities for bondage?" Asked the biker.

"Oh yeah. No problem."

"So how much?"

Matthew thought for a moment, then decided the figure would still be high. Easy as the money might be, there was nothing in the least bit sexy about this bloke. Even in his leathers - which were unusually thick, and looked more like industrial gear of some kind - he exuded an air of unattractiveness. Normally that wouldn't make any difference - business was business - but Matthew had made a fair amount already today and he really couldn't be bothered with this one. If he hung on for another punter he might get somebody more interestging.

STORY: Of Devils, and Rubber, and Bouncing Boys

This is a older story I came across when I first started to explore kink. Hooder certainly has a lot to do with corrupting this rubber bondage boy's brain!

Of Devils, and Rubber, and Bouncing Boys
by Hooder

Joey almost skipped along the pavement. It was Friday, Boot Night at the Flying Eagle, and if it was anything like last week it was going to be fucking amazing. He was dressed for it too: leather jacket, rubber sleeveless teeshirt, rubber codpiece jeans, and 20-hole Rangers with yellow laces. His gear shone in the streetlights as he made his way through the deserted backstreets of the city. Fuck, he was horny. He hadn't cum for three days, intentionally saving himself for tonight. It was going to be manic. His cock was semi-hard inside the codpiece, and it felt as if the cool, shiny rubber was trying to wank him off with every step he took.

A shadow. A figure in front of him, blocking his way. Backlit, leather, masked. A sound behind him. Arms grabbing him. A black bag dropped over his head, quickly fastened tight at the neck. His leather jacket pulled down over his shoulders, restraining his arms. Held immobile. Something brushing his bare bicep, and then a sharp prick. Struggling, but held tight by leather-jacketed arms so he can't move. Mouth open to yell, but a hand clamping over it, gagging him through the hood. The syringe being pulled out, and then something - a card? - being tucked into the waistband of his rubber jeans. "For when you want the antidote..." a voice whispering. Held there for a few seconds, then released. Sinking to the ground, legs shaking. The sound of booted footsteps, walking leisurely away.

What the fuck? Joey was breathing fast. He shook his head, dazed, reached up to pull the hood off, and his fingers touched a cord, knotted at the back of his neck. He tried to undo it - he could still hear their footsteps in the distance; if he could get this fucking thing off he could still catch them up - but he couldn't get the knot undone! Swearing, he pulled and pushed, tugging the cord, and eventually trying to tear the hood off his head in frustration. But it stayed put.

Joey took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He found the loose ends of the cord and followed them back to the knot, then carefully pushed them. The knot loosened. In a few seconds it came free and he yanked the bag off his head. But the leatherboys were gone.