David closed the wrought iron gate, went into the office and threw the keys to the shed onto his boss’s desk. The man looked like a slug, David thought, sitting there in his stained white vest, crumbs from the bagel he was shoving into his mouth scattered on the desk in front of him. He didn’t even look up - just grunted, then burped, and turned the page of his newspaper. For him, David no longer existed.
He’d have to get some stuff packed and leave for the South Dispatching Blocks - it was his last day working for the council and he’d already received his next orders. That was unusual: there tended to be a week or so doing nothing between jobs but immediate reassignment happened occasionally. For eight months he’d done nothing but trim verges, plant shrubs that died within two weeks, and rake leaves. It had been mindless work at the best of times, boredom for the remainder. Tomorrow the Great Bloody Al would shuffle him somewhere else.
“Al”. The Great Algorithm. Part of the Program. He wondered how it all worked. Some massive subroutine gobbles data, spits out a new assignment, and there you go? That’s what they say. It could be surprising – probably would. Before his job for the council, in just a year, he’d gone from schoolteacher to binman; then from office job to plane mechanic to packager for a printer, to end up a trader (he’d started OK before things went really bad, yet no-one blamed him, and he’d made some good money). Some shuffles were harsh. When he’d become a teacher, he’d arrived late at the school – he’d got lost – and had been pushed in front of a classroom. It had taken him weeks to be able to get a grip on it and the kids had made his life hell. The bin job afterwards had been a relief. He’d felt a new appreciation for teachers. And binmen. Not so much for clerks or traders.
The way it worked: you got your orders to report to one of the Dispatching blocks, found your room, they put you to sleep with a pill, and you woke up God knew where to begin your new job. Why they had to put you to sleep he didn’t know. The harshest shuffles were the unexpected ones – no warning, and you were expected to jump right into the job. Someone had once become Prime Minister that way. She’d done no worse than her professional predecessor (which, in some cynics’ minds was the whole point of the shuffling system). He wished the Great Algorithm would make up its mind, though, find him some place where he could stay – it needn’t be much. Most people settled, but amongst the unspecialised, at his age, they were rarities. A few escaped the system, went into the underworld, but some claimed that the underworld was managed by the Program too. He didn’t want to think about it. And in the end, what did it matter?
The main road was packed. Traffic trickled. David wished he was on his motorbike, but he’d have to collect it from the Dispatching Block each time – it wasn’t guaranteed that he’d end up in the same one he started out from, and some were miles away. He walked to the tram-station, got home, packed his bag, and took another tram to the South Blocks. He sighed, wondering where he’d wake up tomorrow, and whether there’d be a briefing or if he’d be expected to start from cold.
The Block’s drabness refused to change his uncertainly – its institutional blandness seemed designed to keep him wondering about tomorrow. He went up to room 222 on the 17th floor. The room was identical to all the others he’d been in: off-white walls, narrow bed. The apartment had a different view: last time it had been the motorway’s monstrous south interchange; this time he could see the docks. An evening fog was creeping inland.
On the night stand the green-and-white pill to put him to sleep sat on its little white saucer. What would happen if he didn’t take it? He wondered. Would he get a notification in the morning, telling him to go somewhere, just as planned? Or would they – whoever they are – have to knock him out and get him there? Would the Algorithm factor in his taking the pill or not, adapt depending on his choice? He was not in the mood for experiment or philosophy – the idea of a sleepless night did not appeal. He took a shower, watched some porn for a while, then popped the pill. A few minutes later he was unconscious.
“David Blumenthal, 22, 5’10”, 11 stone. Fit, heathy, no medical conditions. OK, perfect.”
K closed the file, pulled his balaclava down over his face and walked onto the stage.
“Good morning, class.”
The general rumble of conversations calmed down. From the darkened auditorium the hundred or so students, dressed in the same black combat gear as the instructor, switched their phones off and turned their attention to the stage. One of them, K noticed, tried to blow his nose under his headgear. A new one, undoubtedly. He’d get used to it.
“Some of you here are new – thrown in as it were. Don’t worry.” K gestured to the naked David, hooded and strapped down to the gurney in front of him. “This is new material, for all of us. For me too. A black box.”
It was warm in the lecture hall, but David was shivering.
“This boy got a bit of a rude awakening this morning, I’m afraid. Like some of you, he’s new to this. Some people have all the luck – no studying or practising for him. Unlike you.” He looked at the naked body on the gurney. “All I know is his name – let’s call him Davy for our purposes. He’s young, fit, healthy, and fucking terrified. He doesn’t know why he’s here or where he is – he doesn't even know where here is. He was brought here and prepared by SAS, and you know how they operate – even their uniforms are black leather, and if you ask me, tighter than strictly necessary.”
There were chuckles from the audience.
“He can’t hear us or see us. He has no idea what’s going to happen to him. You may think this is gratuitously sadistic – and it is – but it serves a purpose: he’s in exactly the same situation as a subject who would be brought to you for interrogation.”
K turned back to the students. “This part of the course is about perception. As interrogators, the control and manipulation of a subject’s perception is one of our most powerful and useful tools. Whether we’re intending to use pain, or intense pleasure, or any other type of coercion, effective control of his perception can intensify stimulus more than you can imagine.
“Now, the most important quality an interrogator must have is focus. When we’re working on a subject we must apply every bit of our attention to what we’re doing and to his reactions to what we’re doing. Learning not to get distracted is one of the most difficult things.
“Ok. So we have our subject. He’s been lying there for some time, can’t move, can’t see anything, ear plugged so he can’t hear anything. He can’t smell anything, can’t taste anything. Try to put yourself in his position.” K turned back to the helpless boy on the gurney. “Try to imagine what he’s conscious of. He’ll be aware of the padded surface under him, though the vinyl will have warmed up a long time ago so he won’t be able to feel it much by now. He’ll be very conscious of the hood. It’s tight enough so that it doesn’t move on his head, and smooth on the inside so as to provide as little stimulus as possible to his face. Wherever he moves his head, the hood feels the same. He’ll be conscious of the leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles, but they’re padded – again to reduce stimulus. Sometimes we use warm water tanks for more total sensory deprivation, but that’ll come later in your course.
“Now, that’s what he can feel. But what’s going on in his mind? He’s terrified. He’s a bundle of nerves. Looking at him from outside it’s difficult to realise how totally cut off from everything he is. You look at him and he’s in this room, lying on a gurney, on this stage. I’m standing here talking to you, you’re sat there listening. All very normal. But he doesn’t know any of this. As far as he knows, he could be anywhere. He’s intentionally been prevented from knowing. He’s in his own, black world. For all he knows he could be about to be vivisected. He doesn’t know where he is, who we are – or even if we are - or what we intend to do to him. The fact that he’s been hooded and ear plugged will tell him that he’s been intentionally prevented from knowing those things. And he’ll have asked himself, why would that be? We would hardly have done that for fun - “
Someone in the back row made a comment and there was laughter.
“Well, most of us wouldn’t.”
More laughter.
“No, he’ll have come to the obvious answer: to make him more vulnerable to what we’re going to do to him. And knowing that will work on his mind to make him even more terrified. It’s a positive-feedback loop, and if it’s left to do its own thing for long enough he’ll get to a point of maximum terror, and then slowly start to back off from it when nothing actually happens to him. So, the control of fear is important, and for that, timing is also important. Start on him too early and you don’t allow his mind to work on him for you; leave it for too long and you pass the point of maximum effectiveness.”
The use of phones and laptops was not permitted in the lecture theatre, so pens scratched in the auditorium as the students made notes.
“Getting the timing right comes with experience.” K walked to the side of the gurney. “I think that he’s been marinating in his own juices for long enough.
“Now, if I were to touch him anywhere, what do you think he’d do?” K picked up a sharp pencil and hovered it over David’s chest. He looked back up into the theatre. “Anybody?”
A hand went up near to the back. “He’d jump, Sir.”
K pricked just under the left nipple. David screamed, thrashed around - so much that the gurney actually moved a little on its castors - and started trembling and wailing.
“A bit more than a jump, I’d say. Because of his partial sensory deprivation, all his senses have collapsed into his body. All that is left is his skin and his mind, and both are working against him. His brain has turned up the volume on his senses to try to get some input, and so the slightest touch – something that would be nothing to him if he could see what what going on, could see it coming – causes a very intense reaction indeed. So anything we do to him in this state is going to be much, much more effective than it otherwise would be.”
K took a feather and traced it over David’s left armpit. At the initial contact the boy’s body left the gurney and he shrieked into the hood, struggling and writhing in the restraints. When the feather didn’t stop, the shrieks became uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. The students laughed too.
K removed the feather. “That reaction may have given you the idea that this boy is ticklish. Not necessarily. He may not be ticklish at all under normal circumstances, but strapped down, hooded, and as vulnerable as he is after having had so little sensory input, the moment I touched that feather to his armpit his mind latched onto it - grabbed it because it was so ravenous for any kind of stimulus – identified what kind of stimulus it was, and provided the reaction that goes with the perception of being tickled.”
K’s eyes moved down the boy’s body. He smiled. “And talking of perception, the more perceptive of you may have noticed an additional reaction...”
There was silence in the auditorium for a moment as heads moved to see better, and then there was a growing chuckling, which turned into raucous laughter. The boy on the gurney was getting the beginnings of an erection.
“A large component of this course is about reading your subject, and a good interrogator will take advantage of and exploit things that come out of that reading. Let me try something...” He applied the horny end of the feather to the sole of the boy’s right foot. There was another shriek, and the foot was jerked away to the side immediately. K stroked it over the sole again, then applied it to the other one. He held this foot immobile and continued to tickle it with the feather.
There was more laughter from the students as, despite the boy’s desperate thrashing and screaming, his cock visibly rose until it was almost fully erect. Now it was sticking straight up between his thighs. K let go of the foot and put the feather down on the gurney. He turned to the audience. “This course isn’t only about pain – though pain is, of course, a very useful weapon – especially the fear of pain, which is actually often more effective than the pain itself; how to exploit that will be in the course next week.Pain is easy. This course is as much about subtlety. You may wonder what relevance something like subtlety has in our unit. But we’re concerned at the moment not only about what makes someone talk – talk is often worthless under indiscriminate duress – this is about reading your subjects and applying the right stimulus, the right motivation to that individualso that the information you get is good information. It’s an academic exercise in a sense, but we’ve found – by trial and error – that it works. Reading bodies makes you better at what you do. And if it doesn’t, well, chances are you’ll get shuffled into some other unit.”
K moved to the side. “First row, onto the stage please. You’re going to have a go, and I want every one of you work very lightly, very gently, two at a time, on different spots. It’s your job to find which places he’s most susceptible to. You can use your fingers, or there is a box of feathers here. This isn’t necessarily about tickling – although we’ve already established that it’s something that is particularly effective on this boy. Be creative.”
Eight students shuffled onto the stage and each picked up a feather.
“First two please. He’s all yours.”
K stood at the side of the stage, watching the students carefully. He could tell almost straight away which of them were going to be no good at all at this without further individual training. On his clipboard were two columns. He made a note of their names in the first column and told them to sit down, replacing them with students from the next row. He listed in the second column those who seemed to show particular talent or whose touch was especially effective, then he replaced them too. Through all of this David continued to scream, struggle and writhe on the gurney – and his cock stayed at full erection.
The bell rang just as the first three rows were completed, and K called a halt. “Good timing. We’ll continue tomorrow with a new subject - this one is no longer uncertain about what’s going to happen to him.” K glanced at his clipboard. “Ok. That’s all for today. See you tomorrow morning. Oh, and please leave quietly – there’s an examination going on in C47.”
The auditorium emptied as the students filed out, whispering and giggling about the boy with the hard cock. A few glanced back over their shoulder for another look on the way to the exit.
A couple of guys from SAS – the Subject Acquisition Squad - arrived, their bulging, body-hugging black leather uniforms and silver utility belts shining in the lights. They always reminded K of kinky superheroes.
“Give this one a light meal and see to his toilet, then take him to D30, please. You can collect him at...” K looked at his watch, “… twenty-two hundred. And keep him in FR.”
“Yes, Sir!” The two guys gave each other what K suspected were delighted smiles under their leather masks. Keeping the boy in FR - full restraint - during meal and toilet meant keeping him helpless and prevented from knowing where he was - and that meant that they’d be able to use assorted other SAS tech on him. They liked doing that.
“Yes Sir.” They pushed the gurney off the stage.
K chuckled. It was always good to see guys who loved their jobs.
D30 was one of the smaller interrogation rooms. It was usually used for individual training, but it wasn’t scheduled for use this week. When K arrived he was pleased to see that Davy was securely strapped down to the room’s padded table. He noticed that the boy had a different hood on. Like most of the hoods used by Interrogation it had no eye holes, but this one had a detachable gag. K knew that Davy was ear plugged under it. He smiled and shook his head – the SAS boys clearly suspected what was going on, as the hood was tight, thick black leather. K recognised this one and knew that it was also lined on the inside with smooth leather. The feel of it against his face made it not the best for sensory dep, but it would be making the boy feel excruciatingly helpless.
K put the collection of feathers he’d brought with him down on the side table but saw that there were already some there. He looked at what other items the SAS guys had supplied and grinned; those boys were indeed pervy.
Davy had recovered from his earlier experience and was once again trembling in fear, not knowing what was going to happen to him now. He thought that he was in a different room to the one he’d been in before – it was a bit warmer here - but he could be wrong. The guys who had fed him and put him on the toilet had done unnecessary things to make him feel controlled and helpless, and they’d been wearing leather - they’d intentionally let him feel their gear now and then - and he’d suspected that the bastards had got off on it all. He wondered how the Program had recruited them. Did it know what turned them on? It seemed to know everything else.
K found a note from the SAS guys on the table. He picked it up and read it. His eyebrows raised. Ah. That explained the leather hood, then. He looked at the boy on the table, who was still quivering in fear, and went back to his room.
K wasn’t used to wearing leather – when he wasn’t in his usual black combat uniform he wore jeans and a muscle shirt – but the shiny black gear looked – and felt - good. The unit had a room full of assorted gear for use by interrogators if they decided that a subject had a weakness for something specific, and from the well-equipped leather section K had taken a full biker kit, including a spare pair of leather jeans.
He closed the door to D30, put the spare jeans down, and approached the table. Picking up a soft feather he touched the very tip as lightly as possible to the bottom of the boy’s left pec. Davy didn’t react. K lifted the feather and did it again, touching individual hairs. Davy started shifting on the table. K knew that the boy probably thought it was an itch. He stopped for a moment, and then started again. This time Davy realised that it was intentional stimulus, and began moving more urgently and groaning into the hood.
K hovered the feather over the nipple, then lowered it and teased the soft tip around the nub. The boy moaned louder, and began to squirm slowly on the table. He took the feather off, moved closer and gently slid the thigh of his leather jeans against the boy’s naked leg. Davy let out a gasp and goosebumps appeared where the leather had touched him. His cock moved and slowly began to grow.
K went to the bottom of the table and touched the feather to the boy’s left sole. Davy yelled, and reflexively jerked his foot away. K waited for a moment, then touched the sole again. Another yell, another jerk. This time K pressed his leather-jacketed arm against the skin. The jerk started, but then stopped. Instead the foot moved slowly back, so that the leather stroked across it. The boy’s cock got much harder, very quickly.
K smiled. He leaned across Davy’s legs, so that he could feel his leather jacket on them, then touched the feather to his hard cock. It jerked madly, got even harder, and the boy yelled again.
K stood at the side of the table and stroked the feather over the sole once more. The reflexive jerk came, but it was not as panic-fuelled as before. Using a second feather on the boy’s cock at the same time, K continued to tickle the bare sole. A giggle started under his hood. It gradually became louder, more intense, turned into a laugh, until it became hysterical. Davy was clearly willing himself not to move the foot, but after a few seconds the tickling overcame his control and it jerked away again.
In succession, K stroked the feather quickly over the boy’s right armpit – then his left thigh, behind his right knee, the toes of his right foot, his neck, his balls, his left elbow. Davy was now screaming and struggling on the table. Because of the hood he had no idea where the next unbearable touch was going to be, and because of the sensory deprivation it was all much, much worse than it otherwise would have been.
K took the spare leather jeans - still cold from the store room. He’d reasoned that as it appeared that the feel of leather turned the boy on, then he’d be much more aware of it - and for longer - if it were cold. He used one of the legs to stroke over the boy’s body. At the touch of the leather Davy let out a loud moan. His body arched in intense pleasure.
K teased the leg slowly up the inside of Davy’s thigh. The hard cock was dripping precum now. He pushed the rest of the jeans onto the boy’s stomach, thighs and pelvis so that his cock was a pink island in the sea of cold, black leather. Then he tickled the head with the feather.
Davy arched his back again, pushing himself into the leather and trying to fuck the tickling feather. K continued to tease the head, the tip of the feather sliding on the film of precum over the glans, back and forth from the piss-slit to the frenulum.
The boy’s body tensed. K removed the feather, and watched as Davy vibrated on the table for a moment, then relaxed back onto its shiny black vinyl covering with a loud whimper of frustration.
Fifteen seconds later K repeated the exercise – and got the same results, but the frustrated whimper was now a loud, urgent groan and was accompanied by shaking of the hooded head. He smiled. If this were a real interrogation, he knew, the boy would be begging to be allowed to tellK anything he wanted to know after another ten minutes of this. No pain necessary – just slow, unbearable edging reinforced by the use of the boy’s fetish. The fact that leather turned him on so much made him exceptionally easy to control.
K wasn’t gay, and he had no idea if Davy was. But he knew how to exploit a subject’s weaknesses, whatever they were. He was expert at it, and it gave him deep sexual satisfaction. He knew how both male and female nervous systems worked, and exactly how they could be manipulated. This boy was ticklish, and he was into leather. Tickling on its own appeared to turn him on a lot, but combined with the feel of leather on his skin it apparently blew his mind completely.
K loved his work. Teaching classes was, thankfully, only a rotation thing – he’d be back to really working on subjects next month, and that was what he liked best - although there was something interesting about explaining to students how to make subjects as vulnerable to interrogation as possible.
But for now, he had an unusually responsive subject on the table in front of him. He took the leather jeans and gently enclosed Davy’s cock and balls with them. Immediately the boy started to fuck them, but K made sure he couldn’t get enough friction from them to be able to cum. His hands went to the boys armpits and he tickled him mercilessly, Then his sides, thighs, feet and legs. Davy was screaming into the gagging hood, and bouncing up and down on the table at every touch, but his hips continued to thrust into the leather jeans whatever K was doing to him.
K had seen this many times before: there often comes a point where all the individual and separate stimuli merge into one. It could be excruciating pain, excruciating fear, or in this case the excruciating need for orgasm. When that point is reached, almost anything you do to a subject just increases that need – and if the things you’re doing to him are turn-ons for him anyway, it can drive him insane.
K turned the jeans so that fresh, cool leather was touching his skin over and between the boy’s thighs, then took two feathers and used them with sadistic pleasure on his cock and balls. He ignored completely Davy’s moaning and obvious begging under the leather hood, and continued to tease and tickle him there for a long time. It gave him so much satisfaction to know he could control this boy so easily, and with so little effort. A single movement of the feather made him gasp and moan and thrust, every little stroke made him need to cum more urgently.
But now K wanted more. He sat astride the boy, put on a pair of black nitrile gloves, and covered them very liberally with lube. Davy let out a yell as he felt the man’s leathers lower onto him. K positioned his lubed hands, and then raked his fingers hard up and down the boy’s ribs.
Davy screamed. His body thrashed in panic and he tore at the restraints as K dug his thumbs in. He pressed them hard into the boy’s sides, moving them about and probing sadistically.
Davy gave a huge scream, his hips lifted K off the table, and he came. Spunk jetted out of his cock behind the man who was torturing him. K ignored it and continued to work on him every bit as sadistically, his clawed fingers again raking hard up and down the boy’s now-hypersensitive body. He didn’t stop for ten minutes.
When K got off the table, Davy was still screaming, his body still jerking madly.
That had been a lot of fun. He looked at his watch – it was twenty-one fifty-three. The SAS lads would be coming for the boy before long. He tidied the room up a bit, and cleaned the spunk off the spare leather jeans. Fuck, after that he needed sex. His girlfriend Deb wasn’t going to be around tonight, so it was going to have to be a wank.
There was a knock on the door and two SAS guys arrived. “Finished, Sir?” One of them asked.
“Yes.” K thought for a moment. “When’s he due for return?”
“Oh-nine hundred tomorrow.”
K nodded. “I suppose you lads’ll be having a bit of fun with him tonight?”
The guys paused. “Erm…” They knew they weren’t supposed to.
K smiled. “Mind if I watch?” There was something about the way the SAS lads used excessive and unnecessary measures on a subject to control him, that at that moment, appealed to K’s cock very much indeed. Those boys were perverts and sadists. Just the thing. He’d be able to watch and wank to his heart’s content from behind the one-way glass window.
The guys looked up. “That would be fine, Sir.” He chuckled. “As long as you don’t criticise our technique.”
The ceiling was still cracked, though the cracks were in different places to last time. Morning greyness was seeping through the window.
Davy sat up, and grimaced. Oh fuck - he ached all over. The memory of what had happened to him yesterday came flooding back and he started to tremble. His ribs, thighs, and sides hurt from the hard tickle torture, his arse hurt from the fucking he’d had by the guys who’d moved him; his nipples hurt; his cock was sore from the milking machine or whatever it was they’d used on him; and his head ached from the drug they’d chloroformed him with before they’d brought him here.
He put his head in his hands, his mind racing with what they’d done to him. It had been both the most terrifying, and also the most mind-blowingly horny thing he’d ever experienced in his life. Part of him wanted to be as far away from that table as possible; another part of him desperately wanted to be back on it, hooded and helpless. It had been the first time he’d ever been restrained, or hooded, or tickled, or edged. The sheer intensity of it had made the question of whether he’d loved it or hated it somehow irrelevant. But he realised that he needed that intensity of sexual experience again. Badly.
He pulled himself to his feet, collected his bag and went home.
He hadn’t been back five minutes when his phone pinged. No! What? He was ordered to the South Dispatching Blocks again – tomorrow. This was almost unheard-of; there were usually several days between jobs, but this was the second time it had happened this week. The Algorithm clearly needed maintenance.
He didn’t even unpack his duffel bag.
This room was even more run-down than the others. The ceiling wasn’t just cracked, it was discoloured too. He took the pill and slept.
Davy opened his eyes, and frowned. Well, this was different. The ceiling was beige. It wasn’t cracked, either. He raised his head and looked around. There were dark green lockers standing against the walls, and the bed was wider and more comfortable than usual. And he was naked. Where the fuck was he? He wondered.
The green-and-white pills sometimes made him horny – and so it was this time. He lay back on the bed, the memory of being strapped down to that table a couple of days ago still incandescent in his mind, and started to wank. He came in seconds.
There were no tissues about so he wiped it onto the bedsheet. His phone on the night stand by the side of his watch caught his eye: it was blinking. He picked it up.
He checked his watch: 10:03. Carefully he stood up and looked round for something to wear to the showers. A set of black combats with his name on an attached badge hung in the locker, along with a black balaclava. He took them out and held them over his crotch as he opened the door, saw the showers at the far end and padded down the black floor towards them.
It’s amazing the difference a shower can make, he thought. He felt much better. Back in the corridor, he could smell bacon somewhere and he realised he was hungry. He had time if he was quick, and so he set off in search of breakfast, his combat boots echoing off the walls. The canteen was almost empty, just a couple of guys in the same black gear chatting over coffee at the far end. They were wearing their balaclavas, but rolled up to leave their mouths uncovered, so he did the same.
Back in his room he picked up his phone and checked the message again. Lecture Theatre LT2. He had no idea where that might be, so he thought he’d better try to find it straight away.
Whatever this place was – and wherever it was -it seemed to be a substantial complex; long corridors with cryptic signs on doors stretched off in all directions. After a few minutes he gave up and asked a passing guy.
“Up a floor – stairs are down there. Take the blue corridor and it’s at the end. And lower your mask.”
Davy thanked him and pulled his balaclava all the way down.
The theatre was large with a raised stage at the far end and rows of comfortable chairs. He sat down in the fifth row. This must be a briefing for his next job, he guessed, but he didn’t know what job required black combat uniforms. And usually briefings were a bit smaller-scale than this. Oh well, he’d find out soon enough.
People started to arrive and soon the place was echoing with conversations and the bleeps of phones. He was surrounded by others in the same black uniforms – they were all guys, he thought – though it was sometimes difficult to tell with the masks.
After a few minutes the lighting changed and a man walked onto the stage. He was dressed identically to them. The conversations around Davy died down and the phones were put away.
“Good morning, class. Welcome to those who are new today – you’ll just have to catch up as best you can. The rest of you will remember our subjects this week. We have the last one for this part of the course today.”
Subject? What was this? Davy didn’t understand.
Two masked guys in tight, shiny black leather uniforms wheeled a gurney onto the stage. Davy felt his cock jerk – and then a sudden shock of deja vu went through him. He knew exactly what their leather would feel like. He’d felt it two days ago.
“Ok. All of you except the newbies who have joined us today have had your first encounter with one of them. You’ve been observed, and those of you who are still here have done fine so far. So it’s just the ones who’ve joined us for the first time today. Put your hands up, please, so I can see where you are.”
Davy, along with two others, raised his hand.
“Good. Well, your job is to find the subject’s susceptibilities, his weaknesses – both the physical spots on his body and also the best techniques for using on each.” K did the pencil poke again and told them why the boy reacted to it so violently, as he had explained to the new students that had appeared every day this week. “So, onto the stage please. Two at a time to work on him. Off you go. Remember: focus. Attention to responses.”
The realisation hit Davy like a brick. His mouth fell open and he began to shake, his eyes wide with terror.
Davy was the last of the three onto the stage. He stood with shaking legs and watched, and as he saw the hooded boy begin to writhe and struggle on the gurney as the two new students before him began to explore his body.
Davy told himself to calm down; that he was on the other side now. He took deep breaths and got himself under control again. He was safe, he told himself; he was on the other side. Nobody was going to do anything to him.
He stared at the guy with the clipboard. Was he – the instructor – the one who had done those things to him wherever they’d taken him later that day? He had no idea. The tight leather hood and the earplugs had ensured that he’d had no idea who it had been. He looked at the guy. He was solid and muscular. Davy somehow knew that it was him – although he had no evidence at all to support that. He closedhis eyes and remembered how it had felt when he had been working on him. Oh fuck. He could feel his cock getting harder. Shit, what was happening to him? He’d been terrified a moment ago and now he was getting turned on like crazy.
K signalled one of the students to leave the stage, and gestured for Davy to begin. He took up a position by the gurney, doing his best to hide his erection in his combats. He looked down at the hooded head. The guy was pissing himself in fear. Davy wanted to say, “don’t worry, you’re not going to be hurt,” but then he thought no, he did not want to reassure him at all - he wanted him to be afraid, so that the work on his defenceless body would be all the more terrible for him.
He started on the guy’s inner thigh.
K watched for a while, looking at the name badges on the students’ uniforms, then went to make a note on his clipboard. He frowned, and stopped with his pen poised. David Blumenthal? The name seemed familiar. Wasn’t that the boy who’d been the subject a couple of days ago? It was. K looked up again, watching him work. This Davy was a natural. K remembered him well now; he thought about when he’d had him strapped down in D30 that evening, what he’d done to him and how extraordinarily responsive he’d been, how satisfyingly the boy had reacted to everything, and how he’d cum while K had been tickle torturing him. He also remembered the three wonderful wanks he’d had that night while he’d been watching the SAS boys using their pervy, hi-tech toys on him. He made a special note against his name.
“David, a word please.” The other students were leaving the lecture theatre and it was growing quiet.
David turned around and walked back towards the stage. “Sir?”
“Did you enjoy what you were doing up here?”
David nodded, looking up at the man in the black balaclava. “Yes, Sir. I think I could really get into it. A lot. But where exactly is here? What is this place?”
K chuckled. “This is Interrogation. We’re an autonomous unit attached to the State Intelligence Services.”
Davy nodded. That explained a lot.
“I was watching you. Your technique is basically very good, but you need more training. When I see someone promising, I sometimes give them private instruction. Would you be interested in that?”
Davy’s cock jerked in his combats – but he felt a shiver of the terror again. His mind was whirling. “Yes Sir, I would,” he said.
K nodded. “I might be able to persuade the authorities to assign you a permanent position at this unit. You’d have to work hard, though – and it would also mean being on the receiving end whenever I thought it was necessary. I could also introduce you to the SAS – what they do might very possibly appeal to you too.”
“The SAS?”
K told him about the Subject Acquisition Squad – the ‘pervy boys’ as they were known in the other units - what they weresupposed to do, and the extra things they sometimes liked to do.
Davy’s cock was almost bursting out of his combats.
“But that’s for later. We’ll see how you get on. Are you interested then?”
Davy was nodding violently. “Oh fuck – sorry Sir. Yes, Sir. Very.”
“Ok then. I’ll see what I can do. Right now, report to T19.” That was the SAS processing room, but the boy didn’t need to know that. “And tell them that K wants you prepared in D30 for nineteen hundred hours.” K smiled to himself, then added, “And say that they have a free hand.”
Davy grinned and thanked the instructor, then turned and walked out of the auditorium. He closed his eyes. “Yes,” he breathed.
As K watched Davy walk away, he found himself looking at all the places on the tight, slim body that he knew were the boy’s weaknesses. It was an occupational habit.
He turned, picked up his pen, and left the stage, smiling to himself. He was going to enjoy this evening.
An evening which, he fully intended, was going to be the first of many.