The Telemachus Story Archive

The Cycle
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



The Cycle

D47 opened his eyes to the same view that he’d seen for the last – how long had it been? He didn’t know. Crumbling brown stone walls, earthen floor, pieces of metal jutting up out of it at odd angles here and there. As always, he tried to move, tried to escape – but he was held immobile by the machine. He couldn’t see himself but he knew exactly what he looked like because there were many others like him, trapped in identical machines mounted to the walls, in a line all around the circular cavern. He couldn’t see all of their bodies as parts of their machines covered much of them, but he saw that they were all muscular young men. A couple had tattoos on their arms. He wondered who they were. Or who they had been.

As usual when he came out of a sleep period his memories were fragmentary. He had the feeling that some of them would become clearer as time went on, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted them to.

Bacon and eggs. He could taste bacon and eggs at the back of his throat and he realised that he was being fed breakfast. Nothing he could chew or swallow, just a change to the mix of chemicals and drugs he was permanently connected up to by the tubes that ran from the works of the machine into various parts of his body. He wondered why they even went to the trouble of providing any taste sensations at all – it probably wasn’t necessary.

Exercise would come next, he knew. He spent his life restrained in his machine, and without exercise his muscles would atrophy. But he knew he had a good, muscular body – he could feel it whenever he tried to struggle against the restraints holding him. And he knew that he would struggle again today, later.

Sure enough, the exercise began. Every time, it felt horrible at first, but he soon got used to it and even came to enjoy it. A group of muscles would contract rhythmically for a few minutes as the machine sent electrical impulses to them, then it would go on to another group. It always began at his neck and went down his body bit by bit to his toes. When it was over he felt like he’d just run a marathon.

A marathon. Now where had he got that from, he wondered? This was a rest period after the exercise, and as his body relaxed, his mind wandered. Memories came to him piece by piece, but they never included his name. That was kept out of his reach. He knew he was D47 because he was between D46 to his left and D48 to his right. D. Did that mean there were at least another three caverns – A, B, and C - like this one, full of restrained guys? And why not E, F, G…?

He felt the evacuation tube enter his arse. It gave no pleasure, but it was necessary to get rid of waste.

The Apocalypse was always the first memory to return. He could never remember what it had been (did the machine intentionally keep that particular memory from him as well?), but he did know what it had done. Civilisation had been almost wiped from the face of the planet by something. A war? An alien invasion? No idea. But something had happened. Something very bad. After that there was nothing in his mind until he’d found himself here, restrained to the machine.

No, that wasn’t quite true. Very occasionally he had glimpses of moments in that period. A house in the city; being dragged, struggling; being drugged, struggling. Then no more struggling.

But those bits of memory came and went. He wondered if the machine was controlling whether or not he remembered them – it controlled everything else about him. He tried to focus on that house. It had had white walls, and a garden. Yes. There had been--

He was brought back to the present very abruptly - the Cycle was about to start! He shook his head. Oh yes… No! Not again. Please. Start! No!

He knew that the same thing was happening to the other guys in their machines at the same time as it happened to him, but there was nothing to see. He could feel the tube around his cock begin to inflate, to move into position. Whatever devices were down there were hidden by the fibreglass covers – all that was visible was a large, egg-shaped bulge at every crotch. The bulges gave no clue to the devilish things that worked under them.

D47 closed his eyes as his cock and balls were gripped firmly by something, his hard cock being pulled downwards as it stiffened quickly to full erection between his legs, and the tube settling into position. It always managed to get into exactly the right place – he wondered if it was the same position on everybody or if adjustments were made for each individual cock. He supposed that must be the case as not all cocks were the same size, for a start. And he would have thought that they responded to different techniques, too.

The tube felt wonderful, as always. He held his breath, waiting for the drug to be injected into him.

It happened, and he exhaled slowly, groaning in pleasure, his eyes half-closed. He could feel his cock-head tingling expectantly, longing for the devices to start on it; his nipples becoming more sensitive – the rubber fingers holding them preparing to move, to squeeze - and his arsehole was waiting, impatient to receive the stimulator.

With a smooth motion it entered him – the lube always made it cold at first but it very soon warmed up – and it stopped in the usual place. Then came the pause – twenty seconds of intense anticipation, during which he held his breath, his heart rate began to climb, and his body ached with need – and then the stimulation began. First the thing in his arse pulsed and vibrated; next, whatever was on his nipples started to work on them in the most perfect ways imaginable; and last – but most overpoweringly of all - the tube began to move up and down over his cock. Small, cunningly-positioned things teased and tickled the head while the main tube milked him slowly, and sucked. He could hear a quiet squelching noise coming from it.

As always, it brought him to the edge of orgasm slowly, and then – as he knew it would just before he reached the point of cumming – it stopped. He screwed his eyes up and ground his teeth, trying to make himself cum, although he knew the machine wouldn’t let him. It was bad enough the first time, but he knew that this cycle would repeat twenty-five times over the next hour or so, and that by the end of that he would be half-insane with the need to cum, and tearing at the restraints in an agony of frustration to get his hand to his cock.

He wondered if the machine had been programmed to torture them like this out of sadism, or if the unendurable edging was intended somehow to increase the quality of the spunk that was eventually extracted from their desperate, achingly horny cocks. He suspected the latter – he could see no reason why the designers would have expended energy and time to torture them if it wasn’t to their advantage; if the bastards didn’t get something from it.

He could never stop himself from counting the cycles, though he knew full well that it probably made things worse.

And why on earth did they want the spunk? What did they do with it? There must be something very valuable in it because all this machinery represented a considerable investment for somebody. And who was that somebody? He was allowed no recollection of who or what had abducted him and in all of his time here he’d never seen any living thing apart from the other victims in their machines on the walls. Not even a mouse had ever appeared, running over the junk-littered ground. Occasionally the routine was interrupted for a while – presumably for maintenance or repair of the one of the machines – but the bastards always made very sure they couldn’t see anything - the damn blindfolds came down and didn’t retract again until the repair crew or whoever it was, had gone.

He wondered why he was still sane; surely a guy needed recreation, variety of experiences... But they seemed to have made these things no longer necessary. He didn’t long for them at all. The only thing he longed for – and dreaded in equal measure – was the Cycle.

All of these thoughts occurred to him at other times, never during the Cycle. Whether this was military or alien technology, the stimulation of his body was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Once the Cycle had started the only things he was capable of thinking about was the intense, ecstatic pleasure; the increasingly urgent, compulsory need for orgasm – and, in the later stages, a compellingly powerful determination to resist. He had no idea why they wanted him to try to resist – after all, they made damn sure that never succeeded. They could have made him docile, accepting of it all, but they hadn’t: they made him need to fight and struggle, to do everything he possibly could to stop the machine from getting his spunk. He often wondered why. Perhaps that, too, increased its value somehow. He doubted that they would do anything at all just for fun. He guessed he would never know.

But right now he wasn’t capable of thinking any of these things. He was staring, glassy-eyed, at the other guys on their machines, and he was in a world of desperate, intense, unbearable need.

The machine was on its fifteenth cycle. Ten more to go. As always at this point, with a quiet mechanical hum the blindfold came down over his eyes, moulding to the contours of his face. He hated the way it lowered so slowly – it was so unnecessarily fucking taunting, as if the machine was playing with his dread of it. It felt like soft, flexible, slightly sticky leather and it fitted him perfectly – he couldn’t see a single ray of light however he moved his head. And he did dread this moment – it was so fucking unfair: now that he couldn’t see, now that he was isolated in his own private world of blackness, he was forced to concentrate every bit of his perception on what he could feel – and that made everything the machine did to him from that point on many, many times more effective, and maddeningly irresistible. It also made him incandescently furious that this technology could control him so easily. The blindfold removed most of his ability to fight against the machine, but at the same time it also caused him to want to fight against it even more. A small part of his mind told him that this was intentional: it had been designed to do exactly that - and the fucking infuriating thing was that it did.

He stared, wide-eyed into the blindfold. Oh God in Heaven he needed toCUM!

Twenty-five! His overloaded brain barely had time to register the number before his concentration was wrenched back as the stimulation began again. His eyes were screwed up now, his teeth were gritted, drool was running from the corners of his mouth, his fists were clenched as he fought mentally to stop himself from cumming, and physically to get free of his restraints. To deprive this inhuman machine of his spunk – just once. That would be enough. To have won.

The tube around his cock did not hurry; it did its work infuriatingly slowly, sucking gently and sliding up and down the length of his cock, its interior nubs rubbing over exactly those places that made it the most difficult for him to resist. The thing on the end stroked and tickled the tip of the head; its delicious, irresistible teasing reminding him at every moment exactly how easily the machine could control him, how powerless he was to fight it, and bringing him to the very edge of orgasm for the twenty-fifth time. He fought the restraints in seething fury, but they held him helpless.

From across the cavern there came a yell – and then a second – as other guys came. More followed. D47 didn’t hear them, he was lost in his own individual world of overstimulated ecstasy. With a roar of unbearable pleasure and of equally intense frustration, he felt himself begin to cum. The devices squeezed his nipples, vibrated on his prostate, sucked, tickled and teased his cock relentlessly until - as they always did - they overcame his raging resistance completely. His willpower shattered into pointed, piercing spikes of need, and he yelled and cursed as he shot his spunk into the tube in powerful jets as it cunningly speeded up, so that he was helpless to prevent every last drop being milked out of his madly jerking cock. He moaned and writhed as his balls were systematically and irresistibly drained. Not until well after the machine was satisfied that all his spunk had been completely extracted did the blindfold retract – and then it did so with what always sounded to him like a despicably self-satisfied, smirking little noise.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, floating pleasantly in the warm glow that enveloped him after every extraction. These times were wonderful: he felt that he had accomplished something important and satisfying, and he was happy. He realised it was probably bottled happiness from more drugs being pumped into him, but he didn’t care. For a moment he wondered again where the tubes were taking his spunk, what became of it. And then he slept.

Later there was another exercise period.

And a little later still, the Cycle began again.

* * *

He blinked, then gasped in terror.

“It’s all right. Lay still. Take deep breaths. You’ll be all right in a moment.”

A young man in a white lab coat was straightening up after having lifted some kind of helmet off his head.

He swallowed, then sat up. Everything had come back to him. His name was Incys Gyll, he was twenty-three, and he was an under-secretary in the Ministry of Damage. It was his birthday today.

“We hope you enjoyed your trip. Have you finished, or will you pay for further time?”

Incys’ mind was filled with the cavern, the machine, and the Cycle. His hard cock throbbed in his jeans. He came here as often as he could afford to since he’d discovered this program, and he’d been saving up for today as a birthday present to himself. He had enough for two more goes.

“Again,” he said, breathlessly.

The young man nodded, swiped his currency chip, lowered the helmet and switched the machine back on.

* * *

D47 opened his eyes. The view was the same as it always was. The others, trapped in identical machines mounted to the walls, were in a line all around the circular cavern. Muscular young men. A couple had tattoos on their arms. He wondered who they were. Or who they had been.

With equal parts of longing and dread, he waited for the Cycle to begin.