The Telemachus Story Archive

Pining for the Fjords
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



Pining for the Fjords

Bjorn sighed happily, then threw the used condom in the bin. After they’d snuggled for a while, they got dressed and went up on deck.

Davey rested his head on his lover’s shoulder. His bruises, both physical and mental, were still there – it would be a long time before they healed completely, especially after Istambul – but with his lover’s help he would, eventually, be back to full health. It had been a wild ride, these last six months. But it was all over now.

With a smile of contentment, he squeezed Bjorn’s bum. The two gazed out over the ship’s railings; the Meditteranean Ocean was deepest sapphire and the warm breeze rustled their hair with gentle fingers. Slowly, they turned to each other, and kissed.

The ship sailed on, towards the setting sun…

... and towards a new tomorrow.

The End

Cory checked the spelling, saved the file, and navigated to the website. He brought up the form, quickly ticked the box at the bottom, and uploaded the story. Then he sat back with a saisfied sigh. Another masterpiece. He often wondered what his old English teacher would say if she’d known how popular he’d become on the net for writing porn.

* * *

“Want another?” Sam was hovering, empty glasses in hand.

“Er… No thanks, Sam, I’m gonna go home and watch mindless television for an hour or two.”

Cory stood up, struggled into his jacket and picked up his car keys. He’d had to park miles away tonight – the traffic round here was getting worse by the day. He nodded goodnight to the others.

It was a warm evening. He turned right out of the pub and set off down Gruntmason Mews (that name was priceless, he thought). This part of town was much as it had been decades ago: the houses had been modernised and the prices had skyrocketed, of course, but the outsides were old. It was just a narrow, bog-standard terrace with ideas above its station.

As he passed a black Transit van parked halfway down, he jumped as a figure in a balaclava suddenly appeared from around the front of it. The man lunged for him and, without thinking, Cory turned to run – straight into two more guys who had materialised behind him. Something dark was quickly pulled over his head and he heard the van door open. Before he could react he was bundled inside and held down while a hand clamped the hood tight over his mouth, gagging him. The last thing he was aware of was the prick of a needle in his arm.

* * *

Cory’s head ached. He opened his eyes and stared: he was in a cell. Three walls of bare stone, one with a small window in it high up, and a fourth of iron bars with a gate in it. He struggled to his feet and tried the gate. It was locked. “Hey!” His shout echoed around the place. Beyond the gate was a corridor and more stone wall. He looked up and down but there was nobody about. “Hey! Anybody! Let me out of here!”

There was no reply. Cory kicked the bars and sat down on the narrow bunk. “What the fuck?”

Some time later he heard footsteps. He jumped up as two guys appeared. They were both dressed identically: tall Doc martens boots, tight bleached jeans, leather biker jackets, and black ski masks.

“What the hell’s going on?” Cory demanded. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“Shut the fuck up.” They opened the gate, stepped inside, and locked it again. One of the guys threw something onto the bunk. “Strip!” He ordered.

“What? I’m not fucking stripping! I want to know -”

He didn’t get any further. One of them grabbed him and held him in an unshakeable choke-hold while the other pulled his jacket off him and started to rip his teeshirt off.

“Ugh! All right! All right!” His jeans had cost him an arm and a leg and there was no way he was going to get them torn. The grip loosened and Cory undressed down to his Armani underpants.

“Everything!”

With a sigh Cory pulled those off too and stood naked.

“Put those on.” He nodded to the bundle on the bunk. We’ll be back.” They picked up his clothes and shoes, turned and left the cell, locking the gate behind them.

Cory picked up the bundle. It was a tracksuit with a pull-on hoodie top – all in shiny black PVC. He frowned at it, and put on the bottoms. They were shiny on the inside as well, and cold as he slid them up his bare legs. He pulled the top over his head and got his arms into the sleeves. Even though it was warm in the cell, he shivered for a moment. The PVC felt strange next to his skin, and crinkled when he moved. Then he noticed that there was a pair of black rubber boots as well, on the floor by the bunk. He pulled them on and was grateful to be out of contact with the rough concrete floor. He sat back on the bunk and did the only thing he could: he waited.

The thugs came back later. “You got the top on the wrong way around.”

Cory looked down at his chest. “No I hav-”

“Fucking turn it round!”

Cory took it off, rotated it a hundred and eighty dgrees, and put it on again.

“Better.” The second thug pulled Cory’s arms behind him and tightened a plastic tie around his wrists, while the other one reached out and pulled the top’s hood - which was now at the front - up over Cory’s face, allowing the elastic to snap tight behind his head. They grabbed his arms and propelled him towards the cell gate.

The black PVC was tight across his face. “I can’t breathe!”

“Yes you can. Shut the fuck up.” They frogmarched the sightless boy down the corridor.

When they came to a stop, the accoustics were different – from the sound of their footsteps Cory guessed they were in a larger room. Their hands left him.

“Ahhhh SHIT!” High-pressure cold water suddenly hit him. It roared as it bounced off the PVC suit – and it hurt! He dropped to the floor and curled up into a ball. The water stopped.

“Stand up! And stay fucking stood up!”

Unable to see or to use his hands to help, Cory struggled to his feet. The water came again.

He bounced around as they played the hose over him from all directions for a few minutes, and then they turned it off. He was grabbed again and marched off.

His wrists were freed and strong arms spreadeagled him to some kind of frame. Hands pulled the hood down, and he squinted in a powerful light that was shining directly into his face. The rest of the room was invisible beyond the blinding brightness.

A new voice spoke. This one was quieter, and sounded more educated. “What is the number?”

Cory frowned and shook his head. “What?”

The voice repeated. “What is the number?”

“What number? What is all this? Who are you? What do you want? You’ve got the wrong guy here!”

There was a pause. “Is your name Cory Williams?”

“Yes.”

“Then we have the right guy. Now, what is the number? Believe me, you will tell us eventually, so you may as well tell us now.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. What ‘number’?”

“As you wish.”

A moment later Cory heard one of the thugs walk over and stand behind him. The guy reached around his waist and found the boy’s cock, holding it gently through the thin PVC tracksuit bottoms for a moment, then began to stroke it.

“What the fuck -” Cory laughed in disbelief: if this guy thought he was going to get him hard, he was going to be sadly mistaken. But the hand continued to stroke his cock. The PVC rustled and crinkled with the movements.

Minutes passed. The thug’s touch was gentle, teasing, and relentless. Cory could feel the warmth of the gripping fingers through the suit, and there came a point when he was suddenly aware that in fact his cock had begun to respond -it was getting hard. The thug carried on unhurriedly, until he’d got Cory fully erect under the shiny black trackie bottoms. Then he pulled them down, the boy’s cock springing out into the warm air.

The thug moved away, then the bright light suddenly dimmed as he came to stand in front of the helpless boy. He fitted something around the base of the hard cock. It appeared to be a thin velcro strap with a wire running from it.

“What are you doing? What is that?”

Before the cock had time to go soft, the thug attached a second strap – this one around the head. Satisfied, the thug stepped out of the light.

“What are you going to -” Cory’s words were cut off as a tingling started in his cock. Electricity!

“Now, I have a control box in my hand, Cory,” said the educated voice. “At the moment it is set at number one. This is number two...”

Cory jumped as the tingling became more intense – much more intense. It felt like an army of ants was walking over his cock, and stinging it. It was not unbearable, yet, but Cory was afraid he knew where this was going.

“… and the control goes up up twenty. Would you like to see what twenty is like?”

“NO! Please! Stop!”

“What is the number?”

“I don’t know what the fucking number is! How can I can I get that into your thick skull?”

“Ok.” The voice paused for a couple of seconds, then continued: “There is also a switch on this control box. It’s marked ‘Auto’. It will start at level one, and every ten seconds it will increase the power by one, until it gets to twenty – where it will stay until I switch it off. Now, I’m going to start it. You can stop it any any time you like. All you have to do is tell me the number. Ready?”

NO! NO! I DON’T KNOW THE FUCKING NUMBER!”

“Here we go then...”

The tingling went back to what it had been at first. Cory counted seconds in his mind. The level increased to two. His cock had gone a bit softer again, but level two started to get it erect once more.

When the level went up to three Cory yelled. “Aaargh! Fuck off you bastards!” This was pain – his cock felt as if it was on fire. But it had stayed half-hard, though he wondered how it was managing to do that.

The level increased to four. Cory shook his head in desperation and yelled. What was twenty going to be like…? Oh fuck. Oh Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!

He didn’t notice any difference between levels eight and nine – he’d been screaming since six. At ten, he passed out.

* * *

When Cory woke up he was back in his cell. His muscles ached with struggling, and he never ever wanted to feel pain like that electricity again in his life.

He spentthe night tossing and turning on the narrow bunk. He was still wearing the PVC tracksuit as that was all he had.

They came for him early the following morning. With his wrists cuffed behind him and blindfolded by the hood pulled up over his face, he was led to a bathroom, where he had to suffer the humiliation of peeing and shitting unable to see and in the presence of the two thugs, who aimed his cock for him and made filthy comments about his technique; then he was led back to his cell where, when the hood was finally pulled down, he saw breakfast waiting. Bacon and eggs, and a cup of weak tea. At least that was better than he’d expected.

After he’d eaten he was taken to a different room. They removed his trackie bottoms, lifted him onto a table, and strapped him down. Only when they were sure he was fully restrained did they pull down the hood, and then they left him alone.

He was lying on a grey padded table in what looked to be an operating theatre. Above the table hung a large light cluster on an articulated arm. He craned his neck to look around, and saw items of what looked like hi-tech equipment standing about. He pulled at his restraints, but there was no way he was going to be able to get out of them. Oh fuck, he thought, this did not look good. He dropped his head back onto the table and thought.

What the hell was all this about? And what was this ‘number’ the guy kept on asking him about? All he could think was they’d got the wrong guy. But when they’d asked him his name, they seemed to be satisfied that he was who they wanted. This number, whatever it was, was clearly important enough to them to warrant his kidnap, imprisonment, interrogation and torture – so, think back: had he come across any number recently that might be sensitive or secret in any way? He went over his recent movements, and the people he’d met lately - but he couldn’t think of anything. For months all he’d done was write at his computer, go down to the pub or the shops, or out for walks. There was nothing there, nothing that he could think of, anyway.

The door opened and the thugs returned. Apart from the ski masks, which they still had on, they’d changed their gear: now they were wearing heavy motorcycle boots, shiny rubber bleachers that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and muscle shirts made out of the same bleacher rubber. Cory realised that one of them – the one he’d taken to be more in charge earlier – was taller than the other. He decided to call this one Tweedledee and the shorter one Tweedledum. He’d also realised that both of these guys were muscled and fit , and for a moment found himself actually fancying them like fuck.

They took white surgical masks from a table and put them on over their ski-masks. That should have looked ridiculous, thought Cory, but actually it looked sexy. And dangerous.

They took up positions at the side of him. “Now,” said Tweedledee, “relax.” Slowly he pulled on a pair of elbow-length thick black rubber gloves, and flexed his fingers. If he’d appeared dangerous before, now he looked like a very pervy, and very deranged, surgeon.

Cory swallowed. “What – what are you going to do?”

Tweedledee placed a rubber hand gently on Cory’s bare thigh and started to move it upwards slowly. The other guy slipped his hands up inside the trackie top, and began to squeeze the boy’s nipples.

Cory grimaced and tried to move away – he hated having his nipples played with. Before long Tweedledum noticed this, and instead moved so that he was standing behind Tweedledee. He reached with both hands around the hunk’s hips and started to play gently with the guy’s rubber bulge.

Tweedledee lubed a black rubber butt-plug and inserted it smoothly into Cory’s arse. The boy grunted in pleasure as it slid home. Then he poured a large gob of lube onto his gloves and rubbed his hands together to spread it, the shiny rubber glinting menacingly in the overhead light. With a finger and thumb of his left hand he encircled the boy’s balls just below the base of his cock, squeezed, and pulled them downwards, holding them there with a steady pressure while with his other hand he enclosed the boy’s rapidly hardening cock in slippery black rubber. He began to move his hand slowly up and down its length. It continued to grow – even with thick rubber gloves on this guy had an amazing touch.

Cory groaned in pleasure: this was wonderful. The feeling of the butt-plug in his arse, the rubber gloves on his cock, and the sight of Tweedledee having his cock teased by the other guy in those skintight rubber bleachers…

He watched Tweedledum’s hands in fascination as they worked slowly and teasingly on the other guy’s bulge. It had changed from its earlier almost spherical shape, to a fascinating outline of a huge, hard cock lying over his left, muscular, thigh and stretching the rubber bleachers to what must be almost bursting point. Even though Cory did not have a fetish for either rubber or leather, he found the sight one of the horniest things he’d seen for a long time.

He suddenly realised that he was about to have an explosive orgasm.

But he didn’t. Tweedledee stopped, and took his hands away.

Cory yelled in frustration – he’d been so close! Another couple of seconds and he’d have cum.

Tweedledee closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the feel of Tweedledum’s fingers on his cock bulge. Then he opened them and got back to business. His rubber-gloved hands started to get Cory close again.

This time, when he stopped, Cory had been even closer. He struggled in his restraints. “No! Don’t stop – I’m cumming!”

Tweedledee chuckled behind the masks. “I don’t think so.” His fingertips tickled just the glans, very lightly. “We’re going to be doing this for a long time...” He started working on the desperate cock again.

“Shit! No! PLEASE! Let me cum!”

It had been even worse this time. Tweedledee, it seemed, was something of an expert at edging. The longer he worked on the boy the better he got, and the closer he could bring him before stopping. His hand moved slowly over the boy’s slippery cock, the smooth rubber gliding on a film of lube and precum.

Cory was right on the very edge now – held a hair’s breadth away by gentle movements of the masked guy’s fingers.

“Would you like to cum?” Asked Tweedledee, stroking just a single fingertip lightly, teasingly, over the very tip of the desperate cock head.

Cory’s body was shuddering – it was as tense as a bowstring; he was so close he coulnd’t speak at first. Then he managed to splutter out a piteous “PLEASE!”

“What’s the number?” The finger continued to stroke slowly, holding him on the brink of the most intense, longed-for orgasm – and then the hands were removed completely. The guy’s cock jerked in his rubber bleachers as the most heart-rending wail of unimaginable frustration erupted from the boy.

Cory writhed in the restraints, frantically humping fresh air, trying to bring himself off – but he couldn’t. “I don’t KNOW!”

Tweedledee smiled under the ski mask. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He counted to thirty, then returned his fingers to the boy’s hard, horny cock.

* * *

The torture continued, again and again. Time had long ago ceased to exist for Cory, but eventually Tweedledum’s gentle teasing had been too much for Tweedledee, and he’d cum in his rubber bleachers. The sight of the guy having the orgasm that Cory longed for with every fibre of his being - the cock jerking and throbbing and pumping hot spunk out into the skintight, shiny, stretchy rubber under the other guy’s milking fingers - had made the boy scream with frustration. When, shortly after this, they stopped, he had begged them to continue, to finish him off. He had never known frustration as unbearable as what he’d felt at that moment.

But they’d stepped away, taken off masks and gloves. And the bastards hadn’t even let him cum. He’d been so wound up by the relentless edging that they’d had to leave him alone for an hour to recover. Then they’d brought him back to the cell. He was wearing the full trackie again – his still-hard cock tenting the shiny PVC out - but they’d left his wrists cuffed behind his back this time. The unbearably acute horniness he’d experienced while he was being edged had gone, but he still would have wanked himself senseless if he’d been able to. He couldn’t get the image of Tweedledee in those rubber bleachers out of his mind.

Much later the two had reappeared – this time in full black biker leathers. They pulled his hood up and took him away again.

* * *

He didn’t know if this was one of the rooms he’d been in before, as they kept him hooded. He was strapped face down over what felt like a small table, his feet on the floor and his arms cuffed down to the legs.

He heard them moving about for a while, and then he grunted as a cock was thrust into his arse. The guy fucked him hard for a while, his leather jeans slapping against his bum with each deep stroke - and then light returned as his hood was pulled down. The first thing he saw was Tweedledum’s leather jeans with his hard cock protruding from the open fly. The cock was coming towards him. It was forced into his mouth and he was soundly spit-roasted.

Now this was something he could deal with, he thought. Oh yes. He wasn’t sure whether this was supposed to be more torture, or if they were just doing it for their own fun. Either way it was fine with him.

They had good control, he had to give them that: every time they got close to cumming they’d slow down until the feeling had receded, then go back to full thrust. It went on for a long time.

Finally, though, Cory had had enough. He waited until he knew they were both close, then used his tongue on the cock in his mouth, and squeezed the muscles of his arse tight. Both guys lost it and shot their loads into him. ‘Got you, you bastards,’ he thought.

* * *

Another night; another breakfast; another supervised, sightless crap.

They took him back to where they’d spitroasted him and strapped him over the small table again. This time he could see it: the table was steel, padded at the top, and bolted to the floor.

But now it was not about spitroasting. For an hour they took turns beating his arse with paddles, repeatedly asking him what the number was. Cory was not into pain – he hated it - and before long they seemed to realise this, as they kept the level of punishment much lower than they could have done.

At some point they moved another small stand over, lifted Cory’s bare feet and secured them tightly to it. Then Tweedledee took a long cane from a box. He stood to one side and began to beat the boy’s bare soles with it.

The pain was excruciating.

The guy reduced the force a little. “You can stop this. Just tell us the fucking number!”

Cory sobbed. “I do not know the number!”

The door opened. They stopped, and Tweedledee went to see what was up. When he came back he whispered to Tweedledum for a moment, then they released the boy from the tables and took him to an office – this time they didn’t pull the hood up.

A man – one Cory hadn’t seen before - was there, waiting for them. He nodded to the two guys. “Thank you. Leave us please.”

The man was older, with greying hair. Cory immediately recognised his quietly educated voice – he had been the one in the electrics room, asking him about the number. This must be the head man.

“Cory. Sit down.”

He sat on the bunk, only too happy to take the weight off his beaten feet.

“You’re a writer, yes?”

Cory nodded.

“And you entered a story called ‘Love Boat’ for a competition on the ‘Phemius’ website, yes?”

Cory frowned. “I put the story up there, yes, but I didn’t enter any competition.”

“Well, actually, you did. Did you not see the special promotion note by the accept-terms button?”

Cory thought back, remembering uploading the story. “No, I just clicked it, same as usual. I don’t think I really looked.”

“Ah. Well, all stories that month were entered in a competition. You won the prize for the mystery/romance section. The prize was a five-day cruise in the Norwegian Fjords.”

Cory now had a new frown on his face.

“There seems to have been a bit of a fuck-up. Your prize was assigned to the winner of the BDSM section, and vice versa. He got yours, and you got his. The BDSM prize was a re-enactment of the story he wrote. It was called ‘The Interrogation’.” The guy looked uncomfortable. “We can only apologise.”

Cory stared for a moment, mouth open. Then he nodded slowly. “I see. So what was this ‘number’ they kept asking me for?”

“One – eight – five – two – two. It was supposed to have been given to him before he arrived here, and the idea was that our guys had to interrogate it out of him.”

“I see,” he said again. “Well I want you to know that I have not enjoyed these past few days.”

“I can completely understand that, and we apologise.” He paused. “Your cruise is still available for you, if you’d like it.”

Cory thought for a moment. He’d never seen the fjords. “No electric shocks?” He asked suspiciously.

“No electric shocks.”

He thought about it. Finally he nodded, then sighed. “Ok.”

The guy unfolded two sheets of paper. “Just sign here, and here – this one is acceptance of the cruise and… this is an undertaking that you will not take legal proceedings against either the owner of the the Phemius website, or Fantasy Realisations – that’s us.”

“If you want me to sign that waiver, I have a condition.”

The guy raised his eyebrows. “Oh? What’s that?”

“That Twee – that the taller one of your two thugs comes on the cruise with me. Same cabin.”

The guy thought for a moment, chuckled. “That can be arranged.” He adjusted the wording on the form, then looked up. “Is there anything else?”

Cory smiled slowly. “Yes. Tell him to bring his rubber bleachers and muscle shirt with him...”