The Telemachus Story Archive

A Party to Remember
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



A Party to Remember

It was the birthmark that stopped me in my tracks; in fact if it hadn’t been for that small, purple – and, ironically, heart-shaped – splotch on the side of his neck I don’t think I would have recognised him at all. But it was something I would never forget as long as I lived. I watched him from over the top of my computer monitor as he sat down at the desk recently vacated by Paul, who’d left the company last week.

Derek Falkirk. “Bruiser” Falkirk. My heart rate had gone up and I stared at the monitor in front of me, but I didn’t see the spreadsheet on it at all – I saw the point of his shoe kicking me on the ground, and the fist coming towards me, and the ruined homework, and the turd in my sandwich box, and…

Derek Falkirk had arrived when I was in the third year of secondary school – I was just thirteen – and for the following three years he had made my life a total misery. He’d been bigger and stronger than me, although a bit overweight, and very handy with his fists. He’d started out by terrorising some of the second year – forcing them to give him their spare change, stuff like that – but then he’d somehow got the suspicion that I was gay. He was actually quite right, but at the time I hadn’t even been sure myself. I don’t know what had led him to that conclusion – the only thing I can think of was that I was small and weak, or that he’d noticed me looking at some of the other boys – but whatever it had been, from that moment onwards he’d made me his pet personal project.

I was a small, studious boy then: thin, and the very opposite of a fighter. I’d never even been in a scuffle before; I had no idea how to look after myself - it had never been necessary to learn how. But I regretted it. Falkirk was on my case constantly: he’d get me on my own in some lonely corner, he’d put his hand on his hips and pout, asking me if I’d seen any nice arses lately, if I wanted to suck his dick. Twice he actually made me. Then he’d get all masculine, grab me by the balls and demand cash. I always gave him whatever I had on me – but I soon stopped carrying much, and so that was no longer enough for him and the demands for cash stopped. Instead he spent his time thinking of new and ever more humiliating ways to express his hatred of me. I have no idea why he hated me, but he most certainly did. He beat me up regularly, but he was clever: he never did it anywhere that would show on me. It was usually my balls – he would grab them and squeeze, torturing them slowly and mercilessly. Or he would beat my arse with a steel ruler while holding me down with one hand – yes, I was that weak. And he would tickle me. Not playfully, or even erotically, but sadistically, until it hurt me and I was screaming with unbearble ticklishness and pain at the same time.

I couldn’t tell the teachers or my parents – I was too terrified of what he would do to me if I did. So I just had to bear it all.

Happily (for me, at least) another boy got his attention after the first year, and he eased off me a bit – but he never stopped. Not until the very last day of my school life. Leaving that school was the biggest relief of my life.

Now here he was. God, he’d changed. Back then he’d been not exactly fat, but podgy. He hadn’t been bad-looking, but his face had been floppy and too wide. Since those days he’d clearly been working out, though – and working on his appearance as well - because now he was a hunk. He was stunningly athletic: muscles, a slim waist, and his face was a far better shape. As I said, if it hadn’t been for that birthmark I would never have recognised him – and if I hadn’t, I would have fancied him like fuck. It did occur to me that perhaps this wasn’t Derek Falkirk at all, but someone who had an identical mark on his neck, but my suspicions were confirmed almost immediately: George, the manager, came into the office, clapped his hands for attention, and introduced him to us all. It was indeed the same Derek “Bruiser” Falkirk.

In turn, we all went up and shook his hand, giving our first names, but there was not the slightest flicker of recognition from him when we smiled at each other. He had no idea who I was.

I sat down again at my desk, seething.

* * *

I hate office parties. In fact I usually make it a point to avoid them; standing around trying to make conversation with people I have little in common with, while slowly getting drunk is not my idea of a good time. But for this one I made an exception.

I was sticking to beer (the last time I’d been to one of these dos I’d made the mistake of mixing things a bit). Several people from my former departments had recognised me and had come up to ask how I was doing, and a couple of girls - and at least one guy - had definitely flirted with me. In other circumstances I’d have been paying a bit more attention, at least to the guy. But my eyes were glued to Falkirk. He was over on the other side, mouthing off to an attractive girl. I kept watching him and Ronnie, one of my mates. Ronnie was at the bar getting a round of drinks in. For a moment he hunched over the bar counter, then he picked up the three glasses and set off across the floor. As I’d hoped, he went over to where Falkirk was standing, and handed the drinks to him and the girl. They clinked glasses, there was some laughing, and they downed their scotches in one gulp each. Ronnie laughed again, squeezed Falkirk’s shoulder, and made his way over to chat with Dave and Paul.

It was done, I thought. Twenty minutes, Ronnie had said – and he was the expert. I knew nothing at all about Rohypnol, but apparently that’s about how long it would take to have an effect. Apparently this was not the first time Ronnie had used it. I checked my watch.

A beer and a half later, I saw Ronnie approach Falkirk again. They chatted for a while, then moved together outside into the fresh air. Paul and Dave had disappeared a few minutes ago and, as I pushed the door open and walked into the street I saw them in the car, pulled up by the kerb. I kept my distance, watching.

It all happened very calmly and smoothly. Falkirk staggered a little, just once, Ronnie put his arm out to steady him, saying something to him; Falkirk nodded slowly, and Ronnie opened the car door and helped him to get into the back seat. I walked quickly to my own car.

* * *

The wonderful thing about Rohypnol (so Ronnie had assured me) is that while leaving the victim completely aware of what is happening to him, it makes him almost incapable of doing anything about it. It also causes partial amnesia, so the victim can’t remember much – certainly not any details. All this was just as well, because the powerful, muscular form of Derek “Bruiser” Falkirk was at this moment securely strapped, spread eagled, between two sturdy wooden posts in a mate’s playroom. My friends Paul and Dave, both wearing masks supplied by the playroom’s shelves, stood behind him – as did I. I was not masked.

After a pause to let his situation sink in, I walked slowly around until I was stood in front of him. He blinked at me. He and I were both dressed almost identically – though my jeans were more faded and much tighter than his, my teeshirt was black whereas his was white – and mine didn’t shown the six-pack that his did.

“Hello Derek,” I said.

He frowned. “Who are you?” His speech wasn’t as slurred as I’d expected it to be, and I hoped the Rohypnol was working as well as Ronnie had said it would.

“My name’s Phil. Phil Jackson.” I waited for some kind of recognition, but it wasn’t coming.

He just nodded. “Why am I tied up?”

“Ah, well that’s the thing. You don’t remember me, do you?”

He shook his head.

“Queen Elizabeth’s Secondary School. Year three. I was the gay boy. I was the boy you picked on every single day.”

He frowned again, then things seemed to click. He laughed. “You’ve changed. You were an ugly little bastard then. You’re – you look ok now.”

“Thank you, Derek. You’ve changed a bit as well. But I want you to remember how things were back then. I want you to remember what you did to me. Think you can do that for me?”

He frowned again. “That was all a long time ago...”

“Yes it was. But I have a very, very good memory.” I reached down, grabbed his balls, and squeezed. Not playfully, but hard. He screamed. “I want you to remember the playground – that bit where the end of the wall hid it from prying eyes. Remember that?” I squeezed again, harder. It’s a good thing this room is soundproofed, I thought.

There were tears in his eyes, though he wasn’t crying. I would make him cry later.

I opened the bag I’d brought with me and took out a metal ruler. “Remember this? It’s not the same one, of course, but it looks the same. Now, you used this on me through my school trousers didn’t you? But I was young and sensitive then, and we’re both older and stronger now, aren’t we? I want you to know how it felt for me. So let’s have your jeans down, shall we?”

He struggled against the resraints and swore at me as I unfastened his jeans and pulled them down as far as his spread legs would allow. Then I also pulled his underpants down. I rolled his teeshirt up so it stayed there, walked around behind him and looked at his naked butt. It was shaking.

I took careful aim, and with every bit of strength that I could muster, I applied the metal ruler to his bare arse. He threw his head back and bellowed in pain. A red mark appeared where the ruler had made contact. Again and again I struck him, trying to get the ruler in exactly the same place each time so that the effect would be cumulative and it would hurt him as much as possible.

I returned the ruler to my bag, stood in front of him, gazing at him for a moment, remembering my schooldays, then closed my right hand into a fist, and punched him as hard as I possibly could in the solar plexus.

He tried to curl up, but the restraints wouldn’t allow that. He remained defenseless and vulnerable, just as I had been years ago. I did it again. And again.

“You see what it’s like when somebody does things like that to you and you can’t fight back? Ah yes, you liked to knee me in the balls, didn’t you…?”

He shook his head, pleading, but I was immune to pleading. My knee connected soundly with his testicles and he almost vomited.

I leaned back against the corner of the table and watched him suffering, and then – slowly – recovering. I waited until he was almost back to normal. Then I suddenly realised that I had a hard-on in my jeans. “Boys – get him onto his knees please.”

Paul and Dave unfastened Falkirk’s wrist restraints, forced him to his knees forward of the posts, his feet still spread apart uncomfortably, and cuffed his wrists behind him. They stepped back to watch again (and, I thought, probably to make sure I didn’t kill the fucker).

I stood close to his face, the bulge of my hard cock obvious through my tight faded jeans. “Lick it.”

He hesitated for a few moments, then, with his face screwed up in distaste, began to lick my cock bulge. I think that this was harder for him to deal with than any of the beating had been so far. I hoped so, at least.

When he’d had a good go at licking my jeans, I took a step back and slowly unzipped them. I unfastened the top press-stud, and pulled them down just enough so that my cock and balls fell out clear of the zip. He was shaking his head. “Please, no...”

“No? If you remember, I said exactly the same thing. Did you listen to me?”

He continued to shake his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“No, you’re not. Not yet. But you will be.” I took my cock in my hand and pushed it against his closed lips. He refused to open his mouth.

“Boys? Your assistance please...”

Dave walked up behind Falkirk, reached over his shoulders and took a nipple between the finger and thumb of each hand. He squeezed and rolled.

Falkirk let out an agonised groan, but still wouldn’t open his mouth for me.

“Harder, please.”

Dave obliged.

“AAAARGHH!!”

I pushed my cock into his mouth. “Suck it, you bastard. And if I feel any teeth, your tits are history.”

He sucked. Actually, he was quite good for a beginner. I thrust my hips gently as he worked on my cock. “Use your tongue as well.”

He used his tongue.

I was getting more and more horny. I let him get me fairly close, then pulled out. “Not bad. A bit more practise and you’ll make a good cock sucker.”

I went behind him and lowered the electric hoist enough to clip his wrist restraints to it, then started it going up. This was the classic strappado position, so I’d have to be careful not to get it too high – I wanted to hurt this fucker, but I didn’t want to dislocate his shoulders. When his rising arms started to become painful he struggled to his feet, and his wrists continued to go up. I stopped it when it just began to make him bend over.

“Now, what else did you do to me back then? It’s a long list, isn’t it? Oh yes, there was one thing...” I pulled a couple of black nitrile gloves from a box on the table, snapped them on and covered them liberally with lube. Slowly I spread more lube over his sides, ribs, thighs and knees. With glistening drops falling stickily to the floor, I looked at him. “Do you remember this…?” I placed my hands on his sides and dug my thumbs hard into the soft flesh just above the hips, jabbing and moving them in small circles.

He went hysterical. “NO! PLEASE! DON’T TICKLE ME! I CAN’T STAND IT! No – I REALLY CAN’T STAND IT. NO!!! PLEEEEEAAASSSSEEEE!!!!!!!!!”

I worked on his sides, his ribs, armpits, and just above his knees, digging my thumbs in, squeezing and kneading the muscles there and working my way up the insides of his thighs. It was as if electric shocks were passing through him: his body convulsed and he was very soon gasping to get enough air between shrieks and screams as he desperately tried to get away from my hands. But I followed his movements, allowing him no relief.

In the end I stopped because my thumbs and fingers were exhausted, otherwise I would have continued to torture him for much, much longer. He had reacted very satisfyingly to everything I’d done to him so far, but I wanted him even more sensitive, more vulnerable.

I got Dave and Paul to put him back in a normal, slightly more comfortable spreadeagle between the posts, and to drop a loose hood over his head. Standing behind him, I applied more lube to my nitrile gloves, reached around his waist, and enclosed his cock. I had no idea if I would even be able to get him hard, let alone make him cum – which was what I wanted – but to my surprise his cock began to stiffen after only a few minutes of gentle teasing with my fingers. Soon enough, it was fully erect and stickling straight up. I wasn’t interested in making this particularly pleasurable for him, so I set about milking him steadily but firmly. I encouraged him to want to cum by tickling his balls lightly with the fingers of my other hand.

After a remarkably short time I heard increasing groans from under the hood, and then his cock was bucking under my fingers as he shot his load.

Without wasting a second I ripped the hood off him, returned to my position in front of him and, with slightly recovered fingers and thumbs, resumed tickle torturing him as hard as I could. With his body hypersensitive and any possibility of eroticism gone after his orgasm, the torture was now every bit as unbearable as I’d hoped. Much more so than before.

For the next half hour I worked on him in many ways – tickling, beating with the metal ruler, slapping his balls and cock, twisting his nipples – all with intensely satisfying results. Eventually he could hardly stand. Dave and Paul took him down from the posts, and lay him face down across the restraint table. While Dave fucked him and Paul made him suck his cock, I sat on the small table, recovering.

Eventually it was over. The boys pulled him up off the table. “Hey, look at this!” on the black padded surface of the table, exactly where Falkirk’s cock had been, was a puddle of spunk. “The bastard came again while he was being fucked and sucking dick!”

I reached into my bag, took out my phone, and snapped three photos.

* * *

I set the computer to boot up and sipped of the dreadful office coffee while it did so. My thumbs still ached from last night, but I was happy. Even when Falkirk arrived I was happy. Now I’d find out if everything Ronnie had said about Rohypnol had been accurate. Falkirk’s body must have hurt and ached everywhere – and indeed, when he finally appeared, he was walking much more slowly and carefully than he had done before. He eased himself gently into his chair and looked around the office. His eyes fell on me. He frowned, stared for a moment, then looked down.

I’d loaded the three photos onto my computer and I thought about sending them to his desk right now - but then I changed my mind and decided to keep them for a rainy day. You never knew when something like that might come in useful...