The Telemachus Story Archive

The Unsuitable Suit
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



The Unsuitable Suit

SJ flipped over the pages of the file in his hands, a sour expression on his face. "This is no good," he said, shaking his head slowly, "no good at all."

Marsden was worried; His Head of Depatment's office always worried him - it reminded him of the principal's room at his old school and he associated it with pain, mostly in the rear end. He fiddled nervously with the pens in the pocket of his white lab coat.

SJ dropped the file on the desk. "This project has gone way over budget, and for what? It doesn't work."

"Erm... it doesn't work as intended, Sir…"

The project had looked good in the early stages; J-10 was a nano-fabric which had been a promising candidate for Field Suits: it was immensely strong but thin and extremely flexible, so providing excellent physical protection, but its main selling-point was that it could – in theory - completely eliminate the need for the unwieldy heads-up display visors which agents currently had to wear, by translating input from their GPS, infra-red, and other sensors into tactile feedback. An agent wearing a J-10 suit would quickly develop an intuitive ability to read that tactile information coming from the suit – he would soon find that he simply ‘knew’ what he needed to know without having to divert his attention to visual displays.

SJ picked up the file again, adjusted his glasses and in a gravel voice, read aloud from the top of the first page: "Report on the use of Fabric Sample J-10 as a Tactile Enhancer in Specific Virtual Reality Environments, with particular reference to Field Suits." He dropped the file again and looked squarely at Marsden. "Does it work as a Tactile Enhancer in Specific Virtual Reality Environments, with particular reference to Field Suits, or doesn't it?"

They both knew the answer to that - it was in the report. Marsden sweated - it had been his pet project after all. "Um, well, not exactly, Sir, but -"

"What possible 'but' could there be? It doesn't fucking work!"

Marsden raised a hand tentatively, as if about to ask permission to go to the toilet. "Sir, it's true that it hasn't yet been possible to make it come up to expectations in that direction, but the very reason for its failure makes it of possible use - possible very effective use - in another of our departments."

SJ took off his glasses, leaned back in his chair, and sighed. "Do tell," he said.

The look of fear on Marsden's face turned to one of embarrassment. "Well, Sir, J-10 has some pretty amazing properties, and it would have been perfect for the VR application had it not been for one thing."

"Go on," said SJ.

"Well, the only problem - and the reason that report states that it was a failure - is that... is that -"

"Get on with it man!"

"Yes Sir, sorry Sir. The thing is, none of the operatives could wear it for long enough because it... because it tickled unbearably."

SJ frowned. "What do you mean it 'tickled'? Does the stuff itch?"

"No Sir - well, not exactly. The material itself doesn't itch, in fact when you put it on it feels quite ordinary, a bit like a thin rubber catsuit would feel. The problem is that for some reason - we don't exactly know why yet - it seems to transmit pressure sensations to the nerves in the skin in the wrong way. Everything tickles. Every touch, from the lightest stroke to a firm grip. It converts everything into sensations of tickling."

"Tickling?" said SJ, "pfft! They can get used to it."

"Erm, apparently not, Sir. We currently have three test volunteers under sedation, recovering from wearing it. And two of them are supposedly not ticklish at all. It was impossible to calibrate the VR instruments once they were wearing the suits, because every time the technicians touched them they collapsed in hysterics. It really is very strange."

SJ considered this. "I hardly think 'strange' covers it," he said finally. "A Tactile Enhancement suit that can't be worn is not going to be much use, now is it? Eh?" A gloomy silence descended for a while, then he sighed. He removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. "So, how can we rescue this project? You said something about it being of use to other departments..."

Marsden swallowed. "Well Sir, one possibility is that... that Interrogation might be interested."

"Interrogation?" SJ thought about this for a moment, clearly unconvinced. But there again, who knows? "Hmmph. Well, let us hope you’re right, for your sake Marsden. A lot of money has gone into this."

"Yes Sir," Marsden looked down.

"Close the door on your way out."

Marsden jumped up and exited quickly. He was very glad that was over.


The prisoner walked forward with stiff and cautious steps. In spite of his being a Class 1 security inmate - as all the residents of this facility were - only one warder was necessary to accompany him. He prisoner looked like something out of an SM magazine: he was wearing a one-piece suit of some rubbery material with legs that ended just above the knees. It was so stretchy and skintight that at fist sight it appeared that his naked body was covered with shiny black paint. Only on close inspection did it become apparent that this was not, in fact, his skin: his cock and balls, squashed a little as they were by the stretchy material, gave the game away. His head was enclosed in a heavy leather hood, the padded ear-surrounds of which contained a pair of phase-cancellation headphones, which reduced all incoming sounds to silence. The only things the prisoner could hear were the sounds of his breathing, and of his body as they reached him by bone-conduction. His wrists were cuffed behind his back, but otherwise he was unshackled - the hood on its own was completely effective in making it impossible for a prisoner to escape: he could see or hear absolutely nothing.

The warder carried a small radio microhone in his hand. He raised it and barked: "Stop."

The prisoner came to a standstill at the sound of the warder's voice in his headphones.

"Rotate left....... stop! Continue forward." Their course had been been going to take them too close to the corridor wall, but it was now corrected. Nothing - nothing - must be allowed to touch the prisoner.

The warder had had special training in navigating such hooded prisoners, and did it with considerable skill. It was like steering a radio-controlled model car with voice commands.

They entered a room in which more warders and operatives were waiting, although the prisoner had no idea of his surroundings. "Stop," ordered the warder into the microphone. He instructed the prisoner to move slightly to the left, then forward a few inches. When the prisoner was in the correct position, he said: "kneel on the box in front of you." The prisoner did so carefully, and a technician tightened heavy leather straps over his bare calves and ankles, securing them to the fixed, padded box. He took great pains to ensure that nothing touched the prisoner's legs above the knee, where the shiny black suit began.

Two warders unlocked the prisoner's cuffs - which were also beyond where the arms of the shiny black suit ended - and lifted them, fixing them to a hoist above his head. Then the technician who had strapped the man's lower legs in place took two foot covers made from the same material as the suit and, holding them with special stretchers, placed them over the man's feet. He removed the stretchers, and the material snapped elastically onto the prisoner's feet, covering them completely up to the ankle. The now shiny black feet, protruding beyond the edge of the box, could move very little.

"Prisoner secure, Sir!" barked the technician, and at a nod from Daniel - the chief interrogator – they and the warders marched out of the room. The last one handed the microphone to Daniel on his way past.

The two assistant interrogators stood impassively as Daniel looked the prisoner up and down. The helpless man didn't know it, but he was about to become the first guinea pig in a test of the latest weapon in MOD’s armoury.

Daniel approached the prisoner, unbuckled the bottom half of the leather hood, and lifted it away. Although now the man's mouth was free and he was able speak, the remaining part of the hood, which came down to below his nose, and had breathing holes in the leather under the nostrils, would continue to blindfold the prisoner. This, together with the fact that he could hear nothing but what came through the microhone in Daniel's hand when it was switched on - and even then could not locate the source of the sounds by stereo - ensured that the prisoner didn't know at any time where he was, how many people were with him - if any - or where they were.

Daniel pressed the button on the mic, and spoke into it. "Interrogation of prisoner 1292846 commencing. Time: zero zero."

The prisoner started slightly as the new voice came over his headphones.

"1292846, you are being held under section 9(3) of the Prevention of Terrorism Act 2005. You know the details so we can skip that. Now," he paused for a moment, "we have reason to believe you are aware of the whereabouts of one Abu Mocati. He is wanted by Her Majesty's Government, and you, my friend, are going to tell us where we can find him. We want his location, the location of his bomb factory, and the names of all associates."

The prisoner raised his hooded head and spat. The gob of saliva sailed past Daniel's face and landed on the floor. "Rot in hell you fuckin wanker. I tell you nothing." His voice was that of a young man in his early twenties, and he had a slight Birmingham accent.

Daniel moved further to the side, to avoid any more spit. His lips moved up slightly at one corner."Tell me, 1292846, are you... ticklish?"

"Haaaa! Hahaha! You fucking stupid English pig! Ticklish? Is this the new torture? I’m quaking in my boots." To underline his point he began to shake in mock-fear.

Patiently, Daniel allowed him to finish his theatrics and then he said into the microphone, "remember, you may stop this interrogation by giving me the imformation I require, any time you wish. Anything else you say will be ignored." He nodded to the two assistants, who moved to stand one behind and the other in front of the sightless prisoner.

The two operatives, Simon and Brian, had both undergone special training in the interrogation of subjects wearing the new ‘T-suit’ - which is to say that, at the British taxpayers' expense, they had learnt how to tickle-torture helpless victims as efficiently and as effectively as possible. But although they had practised (quite illegally) on some inmates of high-security psychiatric prisons during the course of their training, this was the first time they had used their newly-acquired expertise in the field.

Brian knelt on one knee directly in front of the prisoner, and in one slow motion ran the fingertips of both hands simultaneously down the ribs of the restrained guy. Even having experienced victims' responses before, both Brian and Simon both jumped at the violence of the prisoner's reaction to that light stroke. He convulsed, then a split second later, he yelled.

"AAAHHHH FUCK!!!!"

Not giving him time to regroup, Brian began stroking the man's thighs while Simon, from behind, began to work on him as well, lightly running his fingers up his sides and over the helplessly exposed armpits.

The room was totally soundproof, and there was no-one else in that wing of the facility - but if there had been someone listening, he would have sworn the prisoner was being electrocuted. Deafening screams and the sound of violent struggling filled the room. The screams came and went, being interspersed with insane, hysterical laughter as Brian's fingers stroked gently up and down the fronts and backs of the man's thighs, and Simon tickled his upper body lightly but mercilessly. It was as if this new material made its wearer the most insanely ticklish person possible – even the lightest strokes were unendurable, and heavier, probing action was converted into unspeakable torture.

The prisoner was screaming, laughing, and hyperventilating, completely unable to deal with the excruciating sensations his nervous system was receiving from the suit. But he was determined not to break, and managed to get out the odd “Fuck off, pigs” between screams.

Daniel watched the operatives at work, with a knowing smile on his lips. He had one further refinement up his sleeve – one which he was very sure would break this prisoner. He held up his hand for them to stop. He switched on the microphone. "It’s an interesting suit, don’t you think?” He said slowly. “And it has many possibilities..." He nodded to Brian.

Brian insterted his hand between the man's parted thighs and, very lightly, began to tickle his balls.

"AAAHHH!!! NO NO NO!!! NOOOO!! YOU FUCKING QUEER BASTARD AAAAAAHHHH! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!! NOOO! STOP!!! SHIT!!! GET YOUR FUCKING - HAHAHEHEHE - HANDS OFF MY---HEHEHEHEHEHEHE!!! SHIT! FUCK FUCK FUCK BALLS YOU CUNNNNNNN HAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!"

Brian’s other hand went to the prisoner's rapidly hardening cock and, gripping it gently through the thin rubber material, began to masturbate him.

From behind, Simon used one hand to pull the prisoner’s arse cheeks apart, and with the other he started to tickle the man’s exposed arsehole very lightly.

Hysterical laughter, screams, curses and unintelligible noises were coming from the helpless man as he thrashed about in his restraints, and he was straining against the straps to try to close his knees together. But he couldn't – Brian’s arm was carefully positioned between them as he continued to tickle the guy’s balls and wank him off slowly. The shiny black cock was rock-hard now and stretching the fabric of the suit out into an obscene bulge. This only made it easier for Brian’s fingers to grip it and to milk it.

The suit converted every touch to unbearable tickling – and nowhere more so that on the already extremely-sensitive areas of his cock and balls. But as these were also the most erogenous spots on his body, his brain interpreted the signals it was getting from here as purely, intensely sexual.

Consequently, within seconds he came, his cock jerking and pulsing in the most mind-shattering orgasm he’d ever experienced. Beneath the thin, rubbery material of the suit it was possible to see each separate gob of spunk as it erupted violently from the tip of his cock.

Daniel waited until the guy’s orgasm was completely over, then motioned Simon and Brian to stop. He spoke into the mike: "Now, let’s see if you can still resist, shall we?" He nodded again, and this time the two agents set to work in earnest.

Simon transferred his attention to the man’s feet. He dragged his fingernails across the arches, worked on the heels, and made very sure that the toes didn't escape treatment. This alone sent the prisoner into paroxyxsm of hysteria - but when Brian jabbed his stiff fingers into the guy’s sides and went to work with them, probing deeply into the muscles there, or gripped just above the guy’s knee and squeezed hard, rolling his thumb around in circles, the torture became something else entirely. Immediately after orgasm, and with his hot spunk still running down his balls, the prisoner was exquisitely sensitive to tickling - and that fiendish rubbery suit was compounding that ticklishness unthinkably. Disorientated, hooded, deafened, tied, strapped and helpless, the man suffered tickle-torture that was totally, absolutely and completely unendurable.

He had been able to withstand pain: days ago HM Government - in the guise of two masked devils in another bare room - had applied elecricity to sensitive parts of his anatomy, and he had screamed then too. But he had been victorious against the heathen pigs. He had told them nothing. But this was different. There was no pain at all - but the tickling worked on him in a way that he couldn't take. This was unimaginable hell.

He opened his mouth to tell them what they wanted to know, to stop this torture - but found that his mouth was already open, and that he couldn't get the words out between the laughter and yells and pleading and screaming. He was going insane, and he prayed for unconsciousness.

They stopped. But not for long. Suddenly and unexpectedly (damn this fucking hood!) their hands were back. This time they were all over his body - stroking, gripping, squeezing, massaging - things that, without the suit, would have been nothing, nothing at all - but the rubbery J-10 nano-material translated every touch into pure, unbearable ticklishness. The young prisoner struggled and writhed under their fingers, yelling himself hoarse, laughing himself almost unconscious - but they took not the slightest notice.

When the hands stopped, and a second before they would have begun on him again, he managed to scream: "ALL RIGHT! STOP! STOP! YES! I WILL TELL YOU!!! STOPPPPPPPP!!"

Daniel pressed the button on the mike. "Time: zero, twenty-six. Statament from prisoner 1292846." He, Brian and Simon were silent as the prisoner, hanging exhausted from the hoist, his hooded head bowed in defeat, gave them every bit of the information they wanted.