The Telemachus Story Archive

Sore
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



Sore

Wednesday, 8:32 pm

The black taxi cab came to a stop in front of the hotel, the snow making cracking noises as it compacted under the tyres. For a few moments it moved slightly on its suspension, and then a door opened and two young men with large backpacks climbed out. The taxi moved off down the narrow street.

“Jeez, it’s cold!”

“What d’you expect? It’s December and this is England.”

“The bastard could have had the heater on.”

They hefted their backpacks onto one shoulder and stomped through the white mush to the front door, shook the snow off their boots and went inside.

A small reception desk stood to one side of the dimly-lit lobby, but there was nobody around. They dumped their backpacks on the floor. The taller of the two boys hit the old-fashioned thump-bell on the counter, and they stood, breathing on their hands as they waited. At least it was marginally warmer in here. After a minute he hit the bell again.

A door behind the reception opened and a wizened old man with half-frame glasses perched on a sharp nose ambled out. He looked them up and down over the top of his glasses. “Good evening. You’ll be...” He squinted at a ledger on the counter, “Mark Davis, and Paul Whittaker…?”

“That’s right.” Jeez, this old guy looked like something from a Charles Dickens novel.

The old man took three keys from a board on the wall and placed them on the counter side by side. He nudged the third one until it was perfectly aligned with the other two. “If you will sign the register please…?” A gnarled hand turned the ledger so that it was facing them, and he watched closely as they each signed their names.

“Thank you. Your room is on the ground floor.” He raised a stick-thin arm and pointed to the other side of the lobby. “The self-catering rooms are down the corridor there.” He handed the boys a key each, “These are the keys to your room,” and then gave the third to Mark. “This one is for the bathroom. It’s on the third floor. Please ensure that it is locked when you’ve finished.” A small cloud of dust blew upwards as he closed the book and placed it back under the counter.” Something that could possibly have been an attempt at a smile creased his ancient face – but the smile, finding itself in unfamiliar territory, vanished quickly. “Enjoy your stay.” He disappeared through the door.

“O-kay,” said Mark slowly, “we seem to have arrived in the nineteenth century somehow. Let’s go get warm and get something to eat. I’m starving.”

They picked up their backpacks and headed off across the lobby.

The hotel wasn’t exactly lit by gaslight, but it might just have well have been; two dim, bare bulbs hung from the ceiling in the corridor, each casting a pool of sickly yellow light which succeeded in highlighting the cobwebs, but failed to illuminate the way to any noticable degree.

Their room was surprisingly large: two single beds stood along one wall; an area with cheap, compact armchairs and a writing desk occupied the centre of the room; and a sink, gas cooker, fridge and two small cupboards were at the other end. The fire escape door appeared to be screwed shut.

“Oh wow! Luxury!” Paul, an athletic boy with short dark-brown hair and a heavy Australian accent, threw his backpack onto one of the beds and sat down on the edge of the mattress. It compressed about a millimeter under his weight. He thumped it with his fist. “And board beds. Good for the back. Everything’s been thought of.”

“Oh stop complaining.” Mark had a Canadian passport, though he’d lived in Australia since the age of two, and he was excited to be in England. He’d met Paul at Uni in Melbourne and this European tour was the first time he’d been to Europe. He ran his hands through his shaggy blond hair and began unpacking food from his backpack and putting it into the cupboards and the fridge. “Beans Ok?” At twenty-one, he was a year older than Paul and had, by default rather than choice, somehow become the leader.

“Bring it on!” Smiled Paul.

After a meal of beans on toast, canned fuit and a bottle of Chiraz Mark had picked up before they’d left Stratford-upon-Avon, they smoked a spliff or two and debated what to do for the evening. Paul wanted to go out and look around London straight away, but Mark shook his head. “We’re tired and it’s fucking cold out there. Let’s get to bed and make an early start in the morning.”

After peeing in the sink rather than go looking for the bathroom, they went to bed.

* * *

Paul picked up his torch from the bedside table and shone it on the clock. Half past two. Apart from the distant sound of traffic filtering through the window there was silence. The beans had been at work and he realised he needed to use the toilet. Neither of them ever wore anything in bed, so he searched around on the floor until he found his jeans, and pulled them on. He collected the bathroom key from the table and quietly let himself out of the room.

The stairs were at the end of the corridor; and they groaned as he walked up them. Round the landing at the top and up the second flight. Another corridor opened up before him. By the light of one of the dim bulbs he found the bathroom and inserted the key.

It was a large room. Black and white tiles on the floor, a Victorian sink, a bath with a complicated water geyser above it, and in the corner on the far side of the room a white porcelain toilet with a black seat and an ornate, cast-iron cistern above it with a hanging chain. At the side of the door was a tall cupboard with louvred doors. He walked over to the toilet, dropped his jeans and sat down.

He stared at a poster on the wall. Entitled “The Broad and Narrow Way” it appeared to show the route to heaven on the right, and to hell on the left. He laughed as one of the unforgivable sins of humanity depicted on the left-hand path – along with drinking, gambling and cavorting with loose women - was “Sunday trains”. The images on the poster started to blur a bit. He must be falling asleep. He finished what he was doing, wiped himself, but then found that he was incapable of standing up.

The room was going round. That last spliff had been a mistake, he thought. His eyes closed.

When he opened them again he was still sitting there. His head was thick, and he felt exhausted. He stood up, fastened his jeans, and looked around the bathroom. Then he peered into the bowl of the toilet – just clean water, so he must have flushed it, though he didn’t remember doing so. He washed his hands and, on the way out of the room, looked inside the tall cupboard. It was empty. Walking unsteadily, with the denim of his jeans rubbing unpleasantly on his cock, he went back to bed.


Thursday, 8.15 am

Mark got up first in the morning. He made tea for them, then took the key and went upstairs. Paul dozed for another half hour.

When Mark returned he flopped down hard in a chair.

“You all right?” Asked Paul.

“Yeah. I think so. I just feel knackered. Must have fallen asleep.”

By the time Paul had made breakfast, the boy seemed to have recovered. “Ok,” he said, “where you wanna go today?” The snow had almost gone – there were only small patches left here and there. The sun was shining and London beckoned.

* * *

By the time they got back to the hotel it was 11pm. “My feet hurt,” said Paul as he kicked his trainers off. The two boys stretched out in the armchairs and lit spliffs. After looking at the pictures they’d taken today on their digital cameras, and criticising each other’s photographic skills, they got ready for bed.

“Where’s the bathroom key?” Paul was searching on the table. “Ah - got it,” he said, and headed upstairs.

Mark got into bed and opened a London A-Z.

A little later he put the book away and settled down. Soon he was asleep.

Paul returned much later. He fell onto his bed with a groan and was unconscious in seconds.


Friday, 9.46 am

Mark was washing up the breakfast dishes. “I think we better go easy on the spliffs for a bit,” he said as Paul poured the coffee. “ I was seriously fucked up last night.”

“Yeah, me too. That is some heavy shit.” Paul put the coffees on the table and sat down.

“Hmm. I feel Ok this morning though. How about you?”

“Feeling good,” said Paul. “Actually I’m horny. How about we go find some pussy?”

Mark made retching sounds, and Paul laughed. “Or in your case, some cock.”

Mark smiled. “That’s not a bad idea. Pass the A-Z.”

One of the reasons he’d been looking forward to this holiday was the possibility of getting inside Paul’s pants. He’d fancied the boy for ages but he seemed to be boringly straight. However, Mark reasoned, in a few weeks touring around Europe together there would have to be some opportunity. He intended to make sure there was.

In the event they looked for neither pussy nor cock; instead they got sidetracked by riding the London Eye, and spent the rest of the day doing very touristy things around the West End. An horrendously expensive meal at a restaurant made them vow never to eat out in London again. Ever.

* * *

They got back to the hotel mid-evening. Paul opened the door to their room and went in. “Be with you shortly,” He said. “Gotta pop upstairs. Make coffee.” He walked off towards the staircase.

* * *

Mark took a sip of cold coffee and grimaced. He looked up and frowned – where was Paul? He’d been gone for ages. He put his book down and went out to check on his friend.

Paul was sitting on the top step of the first flight. He was staring straight ahead. As Mark approached, he seemed to come out of a dream. “Hi,” he said.

“Where you been? Your coffee’s cold.”

Paul blinked. Then seemed to shake himself. “Strangest thing. I’m knackered again. Got no energy at all. I’m sore, and my balls hurt. Must be coming down with something.”

Mark frowned. Perhaps that spliff was having longer-term effects. “Go lie down. I’ll be with you shortly.” He carried on up the stairs.

He sat gazing at the poster on the wall. He hadn’t needed to use the toilet, but he’d dropped his jeans anyway before he’d sat down – it was automatic somehow. He’d wanted to be alone to think - there was something not right here, but he had no idea what it was. Gradually he became aware that he was getting whoozy. There was something about this bathroom! He stood up – and fell over. Suddenly there seemed to be someone else in the room with him – a young man. His last thought before he lost consciousness was that the guy was not bad – not bad at all.

He was sat on the toilet and the poster was gradually coming back into focus. He was exhausted – and he ached. He managed to stand up, and staggered to the door. Supporting himself on the wall at first, he made his way slowly to the stairs, then took them one at a time, carefully.

Paul looked up as he came in. He frowned. “Hey – are you all right?”

Mark sat down. “Give me a minute.” He put his head in his hands. After a while he looked up. “There is something about that bathroom. Every time we go in there we come out exhausted – and sore. I’m sure I lost consciousness up there just now, and I’m damn sure there was a guy in there with me.”

“A guy? Ha! In your dreams.” Paul laughed.

“No, seriously. Early thirties. Not bad looking too.”

Paul shook his head. “Didn’t you lock the door?”

“Yes I locked the door. But he was there. And why do we always feel knackered when we come down from there?”

“Hmm. Good point,” said Paul. “So what can we do?”

Mark looked up. “More coffee, I think. I have a plan.”

* * *

The clock on the bedside table read 11pm.

“Right. Let’s go.” Paul opened the door and went out, holding it open for Mark, who tiptoed through as quietly as he could. He locked the door and walked normally towards the stairs. Mark followed quietly. They knew the bottom flight creaked, and so they’d practised stepping in unison – both at exactly the same time. As they climbed the stairs, Paul coughed, sniffed and made other sounds, to try to cover up the noise of more than one pair of feet on the steps.

Walking as one, they made it up the second flight and to the bathroom. They went in. As quietly as he could, Mark got inside the tall cupboard and closed the door.

Paul sat down on the toilet. After 30 seconds or so, his eyes began to close.

The louvres on the cupboard door were close together and didn’t afford a very good view of the room. Mark heard a sound, and then a shadow passed between him and the window. He adjusted his position slightly and then he could see Paul. Someone was squatting down in front of him. The figure moved and he saw that it was a teenage boy. The boy had some kind of plugs in his nose. And he was cute.

Mark realised that he was feeling as horny as fuck. Whatever was in the air must be getting to him even though he was on the far side of the room. He shook his head to clear it and peered out between the louvres.

Mark watched, fascinated, as the boy fitted some kind of device over Paul’s cock. Seconds later he saw it begin to move slowly and make sucking sounds. It was a fucking milking machine!

The boy pulled on a pair of long black rubber gloves and began to tease Paul’s balls with his fingers.

Inside the cupboard, Mark realised that he was very, very horny.

Twenty seconds later The sounds of the machine changed and it was obvious that Paul was in the throes of orgasm. He was breathing fast.

When it was over, the boy held a rubber mask over Pauls face for a few seconds, then removed it and switched the milking machine on again.

After a while Paul had a second orgasm.

This sequence was repeated one more time – but now the boy had reached underneath and was encouraging things with a finger. Paul had been given three orgasms in less than ten minutes.

The boy removed the machine, extracted a small cylinder of milky liquid and, tipping his head back, drank it in one gulp.

Mark was getting more whoozy, and he felt screamingly horny. He needed to have a wank. He watched as the teenager gathered his equipment, and then he was gone – Mark didn’t see how or where.

After a few moments he carefully opened the cupboard door. The boy had gone. Paul was sat on the toilet, eyes closed. Quietly, Mark let himself out and quickly went back downstairs. He needed a wank.

Lying on the bed, he came gallons. It took three tissues to get it all.

Paul came in an hour later. He looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.

Mark was concerned. “Are you Ok?”

“I think so. God, I feel fucking done in. I was sitting on the toilet and I must have passed out...”

“Yeah I know. Drink this and I’ll tell you what happened.” He handed Paul a glass of scotch.

Paul listened, mouth open, as Mark told him what he’d seen from inside the cupboard.

The boy shook his head unbelievingly. “I don’t remember any of that.”

“No, neither did I, but I think it’s happened to both of us – several times.”

And three orgasms? Usually it takes me all my time to have one.”

Hmm. There’s something in whatever he pumps into the air in the bathroom. I was as horny as fuck and when I got back here I had a monumental fucking wank.”

So, what do we do?”

Tomorrow morning we go in search of fetish equipment. An army surplus shop should do.”


Saturday, 4.05 pm

“I feel ridiculous.”

“So do I. But it should work.” Their voices were muffled by the black rubber gasmasks as they made their way back up the stairs once again.

Paul sat down on the toilet. Mark was close to the door, wedged between the side of the louvred cupboard and the wall, as far away from the gas or whatever it was as possible. They were listening carefully. Suddenly Paul raised his finger. There was the quietest hiss. A minute later a section of the wall at the side of the sink opened and a boy stood there. He was holding the milking machine and rubber gloves. He froze when he saw Mark and Paul with their eyes open – and looking at him - then he turned and ran.

They managed to get through the secret door before it closed and, pulling their gasmasks off, followed the boy down a short passageway and into what appeared to be a storeroom. Mark threw himself at the lad and got his arms around him. They went down in a heap on the floor amid piles of rope and boxes. Paul landed on top.

* * *

The boy was tied to a wooden chair with three of the ropes that had been lying around.

“Now, who the fuck are you and what the fuck have you been doing?” Paul’s face was inches away from the boy’s.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said, sadly.

“Try us. Or your balls are history.” Paul held a clenched fist over them.

“I need spunk.”

Mark laughed. “So do I, but I don’t get it like that.”

“I told you you wouldn’t understand.” The boy looked thoroughly dejected.

Mark thought that made him look even more sexy. He coughed. “Paul, how about you go and make us some coffee. I think I know how to handle this.”

Paul turned an angy face to Mark and was about to say something, but thought better of it. He gave the boy a final glance and then, with a sigh of exasperation, went out the way they had come in.

Mark was alone with the boy. He looked at him. He was in his teens, and very good-looking. His mousy hair fell in a fringe over his eyes. “I want my spunk back,” said Mark. He knelt down, unzipped the boy’s jeans, and got the teenager’s cock out.

A wild look came into the boy’s eyes. “No! No! For fuck’s sake NO!!!”

There was a roll of duct tape on the shelf. He tore a long strip off the roll and used it to gag the boy, who continued to protest violently. Then he knelt down again, took the hardening cock into his mouth and began to give the frantically struggling lad a slow, thorough blow job.

The boy came – but his cock didn’t go soft, so Mark carried on. His eyes were closed as he concentrated on extracting another load of spunk.

The boy came for a second time.

Mark frowned. The cock felt different. The boy had stopped struggling some time ago. Mark opened his eyes and looked up.

He screamed.

There, tied to the chair, was the wizened old man who had signed them in that first night.

* * *

Mark and Paul had stuffed things into their backpacks as fast as they could. They passed through the lobby at high speed. Thankfully there’d been no sign of the old man.

“Oh fuck.” Mark jumped up and down trying to hail a taxi. “Where shall we go?”

“I don’t fucking care, as long as it’s a long way from here.”

A taxi stopped and they piled in. “Where to?” Asked the cabbie.

Scotland,” said Mark.

They settled back in the taxi on the way to the airport.

I think a couple of days alone together somewhere very, very quiet. With this.” He held up a bottle of yellowish liquid.

What the fuck’s that?” Paul squinted at it.

Have a sniff.” He took the top off and held it under Paul’s nose.

Doesn’t smell of anyth… whoa!” He looked down in surpsrise. He had a stonking hard-on. “It’s that gas, isn’t it.”

Mark’s eyes twinkled. They might not see much more of Britain, but who cared? There were going to be interesting times ahead for the two of them.