The Telemachus Story Archive

The Seventh Day
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



The Seventh Day

The man buckled the final strap tightly around the wrist, his leather gear rustling quietly as he moved, and his eyes glinting through the holes in the black balaclava. He nodded to himself once, satisfied that the victim was now immovably restrained to the dentist chair.

Carefully he put his finger under the codpiece of the thick leather shorts and, one by one, pulled open the snap fasteners. Ignoring the struggling boy’s begging and pleading, he gently pulled the codpiece off, exposing a thick wad of soft cotton wool under it. Using tweezers, he slowly removed the padding, exposing a semi-erect cock. He took a short industrial rubber glove from the table by his side, pulled it on, and poured oil liberally onto it, making it glisten and shine in the overhead lights. He curled the slippery gloved fingers into a shape suitable for gripping and milking a horny cock, and held them in front of the boy’s face. The victim’s eyes were riveted to the shiny gloved hand, and, even though it was nowhere near his cock, he instantly became rock-hard, the shaft jerking in a futile effort to make contact with the oily black rubber.

Today was the seventh day since he had been abducted. For each of those seven days he had been kept restrained in some way. At night he’d been strapped into a leather sleep sack with his hands restrained uselessly to his sides, with cotton wool around his cock; and each day, apart from accompanied (and also hooded and restrained) trips to the bathroom, or breaks for exercise and meals, Balaclava had worked on him with dedicated concentration, repeatedly bringing him almost to the point of orgasm, but then very, very carefully stopping each time just before he was able to cum. In the early stages Balaclava had been cautious, but he’d soon got the measure of his victim and now he was able to keep him a hair’s breadth away from orgasm for as long as he wished.

From the beginning this had been the most unbearable torture the boy was capable of imagining. And it had got worse. And each time it was continuing to get worse. Now Balaclava had only to show him the black rubber glove, or a feather, or one of those devilish soft, pointed brushes, or force a leather hood over his head, or buckle restraints onto him, and he couldn’t stop himself from begging to be allowed to cum. Shit – he was completely straight, not in the slightest bit into leather or BDSM, and he had never looked at another guy with sexual interest before in his life – but now he only had to feel leather against his skin, or see or hear big, muscular Balaclava in his leather jacket and shiny black jeans approaching him and he knew he would do anything the guy told him to if only he would make him cum .

Balaclava chuckled at the boy’s involuntary response to seeing the oily glove, took it off without touching the cock and placed it back on the table. He pulled a leather strap down on the chair and adjusted it so that it held the steel-hard erection pointing exactly vertical. Then he pulled on two pairs of surgical gloves, took a stinging nettle off the table, separated a single leaf, and, holding it carefully in the tweezers, approached the defenseless cock.

The boy moaned and shook his head. “No… please…”

With infinite gentleness, he pulled the foreskin up over the tip of the cock and held it there with one hand while with the other he stroked the nettle leaf carefully over the very tip of the foreskin. Each time the tiny hairs stung, there was a sharp intake of breath and a grunt from the boy. Balaclava continued to stroke the leaf lightly over the puckered skin, getting it from all possible angles, but confining the stinging to the very tip of the foreskin. Several times he replaced the leaf with a fresh one and repeated the process.

Eventually Balaclava was satisfied. He removed the gloves, and took a measuring tape from the table. Carefully, he noted the length of the fully-erect cock, then lifted a strangely-shaped device from the table. It was a large rigid plastic codpiece, covered and lined with thin black leather, and designed to attach to the shorts the boy was wearing. It was adjustable for length, and inside,at the far end, was a single, thin spike of rubber – so extremely soft and flexible that if you touched it with a fingertip you could hardly feel it at all. He placed the measuring tape against the cylinder and adjusted it with precision so that once in place, it would only just touch the tip of the cock.

The boy was moaning from the nettle stings as Balaclava lowered the codpiece over his victim’s cock and attached it to the shorts. He grinned to himself under the black mask – he knew what the little rubber spike would do to the boy.

Balaclava nodded. All done. He took a leather hood – one that he knew felt very leathery and confining as it pressed tightly over a victim’s eyes and face, and pulled it over the boy’s head. With loving care he tightened all the straps, and then closed off one of the three air-holes, so that the boy would feel it more.

With practiced ease, Balaclava released the boy from the chair. Within a couple of minutes he was standing, his hands in thick leather mitts to make his fingers useless, his wrists securely cuffed behind his back, his ankle cuffs joined by an eighteen-inch leather strap, and blindfolded by the black leather hood. During this move, as whenever he changed the boy’s position, Balaclava had never - for a single moment - allowed him the chance to escape.

“I’ll see you later. Feel free to wander around if you like. I’ll leave the door open.” Balaclava left the room.

The nettle stings didn’t hurt, but they were infuriating: an army of ants was running around the tip of his cock. But they were also unbearably horny: it felt as if soft, pointed feathers were tickling it constantly. And occasionally, when he moved, a brief but intense electric jolt of pleasure stroked over the very tip of the head. He had to cum! In desperation he moved about blindly, trying to find something to rub his cock against. He found lots of things, but whatever his cock was encased in was too rigid, too thick: he couldn’t get any friction at all. And every few moments that damned thing stroked over his cock head. Add to that the butt-plug that Balaclava had (so gently, but firmly) forced into him earlier while he’d been screaming and fighting against it; and the feel of the black leather hood enclosing his head, pressing tighter with each inhalation – all of this made him feel so absolutely helpless, and more horny than he had ever believed possible.

Up to now, whenever Balaclava hadn’t been working on him, although he’d been restrained, he’d been free from stimulation. These shorts, with whatever it was inside them that was working on his nettled cock head, were constantly stimulating him. But there was no way they were going to let him cum. He sat down with his back against a wall, kept very still, and tried to think unsexy thoughts. But even the tiny movements caused by his laboured breathing through the small air-holes were often enough to make the thing stroke over his cock head. And try as he might he couldn’t stop his cock from jerking – and every time it did that it caused a series of strokes that made him gasp with animal lust. He even – once – tried to jerk his cock a lot, to try to cum in the shorts, but that almost drove him insane with horniness. He did not try that again.

The boy was beside himself with the need for release. He couldn’t bear it for another single minute. He was going mad. He had to do something.

He stood up, gritting his teeth as the thing stroked the tip of his cock like a tiny demon bent on torturing him out of his mind, and felt for the door. Perhaps if he begged and pleaded with Balaclava the guy would finally let him cum.

He had no idea of the layout of the house or of where he was. Balaclava might be on another floor completely, or watching him suffer from a few feet away. He walked forward and bumped into a wall. Turned. Walked forward. Another doorway, the air felt different against his skin. “Hello?” His voice was trembling and sounded strange inside the hood.

There was no reply, but he thought he heard a noise ahead of him. Slowly he walked on.

He gasped in surprise as a leather-gloved hand in the small of his back pushed him forward. Suddenly he was surrounded by leather. It felt like jeans, jackets, racing suits, all hanging and swaying as he staggered to right himself. Unseen hands pushed them onto and over his naked skin. They felt cool, smooth, sexy, and the smell of leather was intense, even beneath the hood. The hands rubbed leather jackets and jeans over his body, Zips rubbed over his nipples, he felt the pointed ends of hanging belts and cold black leather between his thighs and he thought he was going to explode with the unimaginable need for orgasm. “OH FUCK! PLEASE LET ME CUM. I’LL DO ANYTHING. ANYTHING!”

After a while the hands guided him out of the hanging leathers and across the floor. Then they gave him a push and he landed on something soft – a bed. The bed was covered with leather.

First his ankles, and then his wrists were secured with straps to the corners of the bed, and he heard the guy moving about in the room for a while.

Fingers unfastening his hood. Pulling it off. He blinked in the light and looked up. At the end of the bed stood Balaclava – but now he was wearing bike boots; skintight, bulging leather jeans with a studded belt; a studded leather jacket with the collar turned up; and a black leather mask. He was standing with his gloved hands on his hips, and the mask gave him a look of pure sadism. The sight was the horniest thing the boy had ever seen. More than anything else at that moment, he needed to cum feeling that leather guy on top of him, pressing him down, the studs biting into his skin, and as he kissed him through that black leather mask.

It was as if Balaclava had read his mind. He climbed onto the bed and lowered himself slowly onto the boy’s helpless body. He closed his eyes in ecstasy as the guy’s sexy black leathers made contact with his skin. He could feel his leather jeans between his thighs, the bike boots against his feet, the studs of his jacket on his chest, the leather sleeves and gloves on his arms. The masked face was inches from his own. Very slowly Balaclava lowered his head and instantly the boy raised his in urgent response. Their lips met with passion through leather and they kissed.

Balaclava began to rock up and down gently on top of him, making the little, soft rubber spike in the boy’s shorts stroke repeatedly over the tip of his nettle-sensitised cock head. Lightly, so lightly – and yet the boy thought that was the most intense pleasure he’d felt in his life up to this point. He was almost cross-eyed with lust. His need to cum was transcendental.

He broke the kiss and pleaded again, trying to express his unimaginable need for orgasm. He begged. He promised anything – anything at all. He would stay with the guy. He would give him every penny he had and everything he owned. He would be his slave. His property. Anything he wanted - if only he could CUM!!!!.

Balaclava listened to this in silence, gazing into the boy’s eyes. Then he got off the bed, went over to the wardrobe and took out several pairs of leather jeans. He wrapped them around the boy’s legs and thighs, and put more over his naked chest and stomach. The boy began to squirm under the cool leather, the feel of it inexpressibly sexy. Balaclava pulled up a stool and sat down at the side of the bed. Carefully he removed the rigid codpiece from the shorts, and placed it on the bedside table. When his hand returned, it was holding two soft, pointed brushes.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” he said.

He positioned the brushes carefully, smiled under the leather mask, and with supremely calculated sadism, began to stroke the desperate, precum-glistening cock with one of them, and to tickle the boy’s balls with the other.

“And then again, perhaps not…”