The Telemachus Story Archive

The Instructor
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



The Instructor

It was the penultimate evening of the Carlton & District LGBTQ Bondage Week – or ‘Gagfest’ as everyone was calling it. There had been seminars, lectures and demonstrations every night, and tomorrow was the Grand Finale: a party with everyone in full gear. Tonight was a workshop about Interrogation, and the organisers had pulled off something of a coup: the visiting lecturer was Warrant Officer Guy Brandon, a soldier who had actually designed and run a Resistance To Interrogation course for the SAS until a year ago.

There were about 20 guys in the room, and they were all dying to see what Brandon looked like – most of them had had wet dreams about the thought of a real soldier talking to them about restraints and what amounted to torture. A hush descended on the room as Gary, the organiser, announced him and he walked onto the stage.

There was a collective intake of breath as Brandon appeared, followed by enthusiastic applause and whistles: the man was hot. His combat boots shone with spit and polish, his hair was cut so short it was no more than a dark shadow on his scalp, and his cammos stretched over his solid muscles – and the round, meaty bulge between his thighs. Brandon was straight as far as anyone knew and, they thought, he fucking looked it. His expression was neutral as he stood in the middle of the stage and pushed the lectern to one side; he had no notes with him.

The invitation to lecture at this gig had been a surprise to him, and he’d been about to refuse – he knew that the only reason they were asking him to do it was because it would turn a roomful of gay guys on like fuck, and at first that had disgusted him – but the more he thought about it, the more the idea actually began to appeal to him: he’d enjoy showing them what a real man looked like and what real men went through. The gay fuckers would probably cream their jeans just looking at him. He’d liked that thought, and in a moment of sadism, he’d decided he’d go commando under his combats – he had a big cock, and he knew the sight of his bulge would make the bastards salivate.

For the first half of the evening he described the SAS course he’d helped to design, and on which he’d been the Chief Instructor. He listed the aims of the course, and then, in graphic detail, went into the techniques they’d used on the recruits. By the time he’d got 10 minutes into this every guy in the audience had an erection. He described the open-water swims, the uphill runs, then the capture of the recruits, the stress positions, the continuous loud noises in the headphones - and the hooded interrogations. He went into great detail about the these, describing the means by which the instructors tried to extract information, at one point indicating the picture of a tilted table on the screen behind him and explaining the way waterboarding worked, and what it felt like. Each recruit had a four-digit number which he must not reveal under any circumstances. The instructors did not know these numbers themselves, but they had been written down and put into envelopes which the instructor would open for confirmation at the point when he was satisfied that the recruit had broken, and had given him the truth. In the vast majority of cases, the interrogators won.

“This course is designed to separate the men from the boys,” he concluded. “It is possible for the recruit to win, to keep his number concealed, but it is also designed to be very, very difficult. We instructors have been through it all ourselves, and we’ve all succeeded. That’s why we were the instructors.” He nodded once and gave the audience a patronising smile as he left the stage.

There was an enthusiastic round of applause.

Half time. There was a general buzz of excited conversation as refreshments were served in the hall’s kitchen. Jerry Anderson, a 28-year old skinhead in rubber bleachers, tapped his mate Danny on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. Danny turned to listen, his leathers creaking as he did so. After a few moments they each talked to others, and those whispered to more.

The second half began with questions. For a while Brandon answered queries about the means of restraints they used, the length of time the recruits were interrogated, and other general topics. Then Jerry stood up and walked to the stage. He had an envelope in his hand.

“You’ve said a lot about how good the instructors are, how unbreakable. There is a four-digit number in here. Are you willing to show us how good you are?”

Brandon frowned. This was difficult. “You haven’t been trained in interrogation. That could be dangerous.”

“So in the field, when a soldier is captured, he’ll always – without exception - be interrogated by someone who is formally trained in it?”

“Well obviously not, but -”

“If you’re worried, we promise not to harm you.”

There was a quiet chuckle from the audience.

Brandon glanced around. He realised that if he refused, he was going to look like a prick. He had no choice. “Very well.” He’d been through much worse, he thought, than these gays could possibly be capable of.

“Ok.” As if on cue, several guys left their seats and walked up. At the back of the stage there was a restraint table that had been used in a demonstration last night, and two of the guys pulled it over. Some of the others were holding ropes, cuffs, and other equipment. One of the guys whispered the number into Brandon’s ear. He repeated it twice.

They told the soldier to lie on the table, and set about restraining him to it. One guy produced a canvas hood and pulled it over the man’s head.

Jerry turned to the rest of the audience. “David has given Warrant Officer Brandon a four-digit number. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to try to extract it from him. We’ll see how good SAS instructors are.” He pulled up a chair and sat down.

The excited murmuring in the hall died down quickly.

“What is the number?”

The soldier gave only his name, rank, and service number: “Guy Brandon. Warrant Officer Class 2. 25232301.”

Jerry smiled. He reached his hand out and slowly lowered the zip of Brandon’s combats. Immediately the man began to shake his head and swear, but Jerry ignored him. He reached inside and drew out the man’s balls, and a large – and very presentable – cock. It was soft. “What is the number?” He repeated.

Brandon was still swearing. Slowly and gently, Jerry rolled the cock in his fingers. For several minutes it remained soft, but the skinhead wasn’t worried - he had a great deal of experience with cocks - and eventually the boy felt the first reluctant stirrings of interest. He stroked the warm, soft skin and brought his other hand up to tease the man’s balls. For a while the cock remained quiescent, but then it began to stiffen slowly. As it did, it occasionally it gave a jerk. There was quiet laughter and the odd catcall from the audience when this happened.

Brandon was beside himself. “This is not -” A hand came down over the canvas hood and cut off the rest of the words.

Jerry was enjoying himself. His fingers slowly stroked and teased, encouraging the cock to enlarge. It did so very gradually in spite of anything the guy could do to stop it happening. The boy guessed that the straight soldier’s face was red with embarrassment under the hood. Muffled sounds were coming from him.

After a few minutes the cock was fully erect in Jerry’s fingers. It was a big one. He began to wank it slowly all the way from the root to the head. Someone offered a bottle of lube, and when Jerry nodded, poured a good amount over it. The skinhead’s hand now slid much more easily over the hard cock.

Jerry nodded to the guy who was gagging Brandon. The hand was lifted. “What is the number?”

“Guy Brandon. Warrant Officer Class Two. 25232301.” This came out through gritted teeth, interspersed with groans and grunts. The hand came back down over the man’s mouth.

Jerry had actually been a sub for most of his life. His main turn-ons were being played with – and occasionally fucked – by guys in leather or skintight bleachers. He’d spent more hours than he could remember tied up helpless and being edged, and this had made him something of an expert in the activity. But more and more often these days, he found that his experiencewas being put to use as a top – and this was fine by him: it turned him on blind either way around. It seemed that more guys were getting into being edged, and he was becoming well-known for being very talented at it.

At the moment he was concentrating on Brandon’s cock. The foreskin had retracted and the shiny purple head glistened with lube in the stage lights. He ran his fingers lightly over the newly-exposed bare glans, and gasps of reluctant pleasure were coming from under the canvas hood.

Brandon was nowhere close enough yet, but he would be soon, thought Jerry. His fingers continued to work slowly on the increasingly horny cock. For a moment he considered lowering the man’s combats and inserting a finger in his arse – that usually made guys want to cum more urgently – but then he decided not to; the sight of this soldier in his full combats, with just his cock and balls sticking out, was too horny.

More lube was poured, and the fingers worked on the cock head. Jerry smiled as he saw the first drop of precum appear at the tip. He rubbed it lightly around the tip.

“What is the number?”

The other guy moved his hand away from the hood to allow Brandon to reply.

“G-Guy Brandon. Warrant Officer C-class Two. 2523 - 23 - 01.” This time it had been much more difficult for the man to get the words out. His concentration was shot, Jerry realised.

The hand went over the helpless guy’s mouth again and the slow wanking resumed – Jerry was now gripping the whole cock a little tighter and stroking along the full length more seriously.

After a few seconds Brandon’s hips began to move. They started to thrust in time with Jerry’s movements. The man was fucking the skinhead’s hand.

Jerry was watching the soldier like a hawk. His hand continued to wank the now-straining cock, and then, abruptly, he released it completely.

Brandon moaned under the canvas and humped with his hips more urgently for a moment, before settling back onto the table.

Jerry nodded to himself: he was learning the guy’s responses. This one was easy, he thought – but then straights often were; especially ones who’d never experienced being edged before.

Again, the skinhead’s hand enclosed the cock and began to work on it, but even more slowly. And again, after a few moments, he let go of it.

The reaction this time was much more urgent. The soldier gave a loud moan, and tried to find the fingers with his cock – which was now as hard as iron - so that he could fuck them.

Jerry waited until Brandon had relaxed again, then repeated the exercise. Three times he did this and then, on the fourth, instead of enclosing the whole cock with his hand, he took only the head between just a finger and thumb. Holding the shaft motionless at the root with his other hand, and pushing it slightly down, he stroked up and down the glans from the ridge to the piss-slit and back.

The soldier moaned plaintively and tried to fuck the fingers.

Again he stopped. As he knew it would do, each time he did this Brandon’s body tensed more violently: the frustration was becoming increasingly unbearable with each repetition.

Jerry leaned forward and took the cock between his lips. He took the entire length slowly, sucking gently and teasing his tongue around the head with each stroke.

This brought renewed yells from his helpless victim. The guy gagging him had to follow the desperately shaking head with his hand.

The skinhead knew that the man was on the very edge again, and so he released the cock, causing a wail of anguish to come from under the canvas hood. He repeated this a few times, then he looked up for a moment and nodded at the bottle of lube. The other guy poured it, and Jerry went to work on the head again manually, the tips of his fingers now slipping even more easily over the shiny glans.

The guy whose hand was over Brandon’s mouth was expecting to be asked to move it for the questioning again, but Jerry didn’t look at him; the skinhead was clearly not ready to ask the soldier again yet.

Brandon’s hips were thrusting, and he was moaning into the gagging hand. Every now and then he gave an extra hard push, but Jerry was very careful not to let him get quite enough friction to cum. He released the cock and watched as the man writhed in the restraints. Then, after a few seconds, he started on him again. With his hand positioned beyond the tip of the cock he touched his thumb to the glans, his other fingers on the ridge the opposite side, and rotated them back and forth. Immediately Brandon began to thrust again.

Another few moments without stimulation to let the soldier calm down a little, then Jerry poured more lube onto his hand and wrapped it around the entire length. As soon as it touched, Brandon pushed his cock into it, but Jerry loosened his grip so that it slid through his fingers with practically no friction at all.

Brandon wailed.

The skinhead tightened his grip just a little, and stroked twice up and down the full length.

Right on the very edge of orgasm, the soldier arched his back, his muscles quivering in tension, but then he fell back onto the table with another loud moan of frustration as the grip was released.

Over and over this was repeated: slow strokes, release, wait. Slow strokes, release, wait.

Jerry nodded to the guy at Brandon’s head, and the gagging hand was removed.

“I will let you cum if you tell me the number.”

Brandon was having difficulty speaking. After a few seconds of anguished moaning, he managed to get his name, rank, and service number out.

Jerry replaced his hand on the guy’s cock and continued.

Slow strokes, release, wait. Slow strokes, release, wait.

After a few more repeats of this, Brandon began to nod his head. Jerry signalled and the gagging hand was removed. The skinhead indicated to the guy not to gag him any more.

“Please. Please. Please let me fucking cum!”

“What is the number?” Jerry asked.

“Two-four-eight-three!”

Jerry considered this for a while. Was that the real number? He didn’t know why, but he had the feeling that the guy was trying it on. “I don’t think so,” he said finally. The hand began to move again.

Slow strokes, release, wait. Slow strokes, release, wait.

The skinhead knew that each of these repetitions was getting Brandon right to the edge – he was aware of the cock stiffening each time, the man’s balls raising, the muscles tensing, and the breathing suddenly stopping – all in preparation for orgasm. But this soldierwas proving so easy to control, and he had no intention of allowing him to cum until he was satisfied that the guy had given him the real number. He brought his other hand up and began to tease the sensitive balls at the same time.

Each time he stopped, Brandon’s yells of frustration, now no longer muffled by the gagging hand, got louder, longer, and more urgent.

“What is the number? Tell me and I’ll let you cum.”

The soldier’s eyes were screwed up in concentration and his teeth were gritted. He tried to get his name, rank and service number out but he couldn’t even do that.

Slow strokes, release, wait. Slow strokes, release, wait.

Brandon managed to control himself through three more approaches to the edge, but then on the fourth, it suddenly became more than he could stand. He screamed into the canvas. “Z-zero-one-five-seven!”

Was that the right number? Should he let the soldier cum, or was the guy lying again? To Jerry, this had the ring of truth about it. He decided to chance it. He gripped the desperate cock and with fast, firm strokes, he brought the soldier off. A collective moan of pleasure swept through the hall as great arcs of spunk shot through the air and landed between the guy’s legs on the table top. Brandon’s body thrashed in his restraints and he screamed as he came.

When the soldier’s orgasm was over, and he had collapsed back onto the table, his breathing having slowed down again, the canvas hood was removed. Jerry picked up the envelope. He looked at Brandon. The man’s face was beetroot red and sweat was running down his face. The skinhead opened the envelope and read the number. “Zero-one-five-seven.” He looked at the soldier again, and smiled. “You lose.”

There was wild applause and cheering from the assembled crowd.

After Brandon had been released, he rushed off the stage before he’d even put his cock away. Many of the guys in the audience used the tissues they’d grabbed in the interval to clean themselves up, and after a while the hall began to empty.

Jerry found Brandon in the dressing room. The soldier had his head in his hand. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, pulling a spare chair over. “You did well. You held out a lot longer than most guys would have done – even gay guys. You should be pleased with yourself.”

Brandon looked up, but couldn’t meeting the skinhead’s eyes. “That is not a technique we tend to use in the field,” he ground out.

Jerry chuckled. “Perhaps you should. Surprisingly effective, as you’ve found out.”

Brandon grunted. He remained silent for a while, then he did look at the boy. “You’ve done that a lot then? Is that something that gays do?”

“I’ve done it a lot. I’ve had it done to me a lot too. I wouldn’t have lasted half the time you did, believe me.” He grinned. “It’s something a lot of gay guys do – and some straights get their girls to do it to them as well, though I’ve heard they’re nothing like as good at it as guys; I guess you have to have a cock to know what it feels like. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of edging.”

Brandon exhaled. “When I have sex, I fuck.”

“You should get out more. Experiment. You can get some intense orgasms like that.”

“Hmm. So it would seem.” He was silent for a long time, looking down at his combat boots, leaning forward on the chair with his elbows on his thighs. Finally he raised his head a little and gazed at the boy’s rubber bleachers. Then he met the skinhead’s eyes again. “You -” he stopped, thought, and started again. “Would you be willing to teach me how to do that?” The moment he’d asked the question he looked away again in embarrassment. It looked as if he was biting his tongue.

“Certainly. If you like. I’d be happy to.”

It was a while before Brandon said anything else, then he turned towards the boy again. “Would I work on you, or you on me?”

“Both. You have to know what different things feel like from the receiving end, and then practise them on another guy’s cock.”

The soldier winced at the thought of touching a cock, but then he nodded. “Would I need to be restrained again?”

Jerry smiled. “It’s impossible to edge someone unless he’s helpless. You‘ve got to be unable to get away from it, or get to your cock; you’ve got to be unable to control it at all.”

Another pause, then Brandon nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. That applies to a lot of other techniques.” He gave a short chuckle, and then added, “although not being able to get to your cock is not usually important.”

Jerry picked up a pad from the dressing room table and found a pen. He scribbled his phone number on it and handed it to the soldier. “Give me a call when you want.”

The man looked at the number. After a long time, he nodded.

Jerry stood up. “You never know, this might be a useful technique to know in your line of work.”

One corner of Brandon’s mouth lifted slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, it might.” He looked up at the boy again. “And even if it isn’t, it might be fun.”

Jerry smiled, and left him there. He’d broken a real soldier – not only a real soldier, but an instructor in Resistance to Interrogation.

And not only that, but a fucking hot one.

And not only even that! He was going to be able to get this this hot, straight soldier strapped down regularly, edge him out of his mind again and again – and have him do the same to him.

Jerry was whistling as he left the hall. Who’d have guessed? The Carlton & District LGBTQ Bondage Week had actually produced something interesting.

There’s a first time for everything, he thought.