The Telemachus Story Archive

This Hasn't Quite Worked out
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



This Hasn’t Quite Worked Out

It was always him. Whenever they needed somebody interrogating they always assigned him. Why? Brandon didn’t consider himself any better at it than any of the others, but he always got the fucking job. It wouldn’t be so bad if he actually enjoyed inflicting the pain, but he didn’t especially. He sighed and threw the file down on the table. A twenty-one year old English lad this time. It was somebody else’s turn. Something was going to have to be done.

It was that afternoon when he’d been out on his bike that the idea had come to him. He’d stopped at some lights and caught his reflection in a shop window. He looked dead kinky in his tight black leathers and on the big Honda, he thought. Although he was a biker and wore leathers, he wasn’t especially into them (although Dave always liked him to keep his leather jacket on to start with…) He smiled to himself as he let out the clutch and moved off from the lights. The idea was beginning to take shape.

He spent the rest of the day thinking about it. It had started with just the leathers, but by the evening he had it all sorted out. He chuckled – after this they’d never ask him to do interrogations again.


Brandon nodded to the two squaddies as they left the room. The expressions on their faces had been priceless, but then he knew how odd he must look in his full bike gear and with his head covered by the black leather mask he’d borrowed from Greg. He turned his attention to the hooded figure strapped to the chair. The electrics machine stood on a table at the side. For once it wouldn’t be getting used, but he’d leave it there – it would be something for the boy to look at when the hood was removed. He moved the stool closer to the chair and sat down.

“Name?”

The black cotton of the hood moved. “What the fuck you want? I already told ‘em everything.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I need names. To start with, the name of your supplier.”

“What you fucking talking about?”

Brandon sighed. “Do you know where you are?”

There was no reply. He knew that the boy had no idea where he was – the squaddies always made sure of that.

“You are in a room, and you are about to be interrogated. By someone who is very good at it.”

“Fuck you.”

Bandon looked at the guy for a few moments and then leaned forward and pulled off the hood.

The boy blinked in the bright light and looked at Brandon. His eyes opened wide and then he laughed. “What the fuck are you man? A leather gimp?”

Brandon nodded slowly. “Do you like pain?”

The boy didn’t reply. His eyes followed Brandon’s gaze to the electric shock machine with its cables on the table.

“That is fucking illegal.”

Brandon nodded again. “Yes, it is. But it works. It works so well. Leaves no marks. You don’t know where you are, what this place is, who I am. So who are you going to complain to? What are you going to tell them? No bruises to show them. Nothing.”

The boy was looking less sure of himself now.

“What is your name?”

After a while the boy answered. “You already know what my name is. Dale. So why you asking me?”

“Address?”

“Fucking look at my file. It’s all in there, fucker.”

“I want to hear you tell me.”

“12a, Third Crater on the Left, the Moon.”

Brandon was silent for a while, then he slowly began to unfasten the boy’s jeans. He pulled them open, ignoring Dale’s swearing and struggling, took a pair of scissors from the table and removed the boy’s underpants. The surprisingly large, soft cock settled in a new position.

“Now,” Brandon straightened up on the stool. “You have a choice. I either attach the electrodes to your cock and pump volts through it, or I play with it. Which would you like?”

“Play with it? What are you, a fucking gay gimp?”

“Decide.”

Dale looked at the electrics machine. The thought of it being used on his cock was not pleasant. “Whaddya mean, ‘play with it?’”

“Decide.”

The boy’s eyes travelled back and forth between Brandon’s masked face and the machine. “All right, fucking play with it.”

Brandon nodded. He took the boy’s cock in his leather-gloved hand, and began to stroke it slowly. Nothing happened immediately, but then he wasn’t expecting it to. His other hand went between the boy’s thighs and started to tease his balls.

It was a couple of minutes before Brandon felt the first stirrings of interest. The cock began to get hard as his fingers stroked gently up the shaft and over the head.

“Don’t know what you hope to fucking accomplish,” said Dale, uncomfortably. “I ain’t gay and no fucking gimp’s gonna turn me on, fucker.” His words were defiant, but it seemed that his cock had other ideas.

Saying nothing, Brandon stood up and went to the shelves. When he came back he was holding several things, including some thin rope and a blindfold. He fastened the blindfold over the boy’s eyes, and wrapped the end of the rope carefully around Dale’s balls and cock several times. Pulling the other end tight he tied it off to a restraint point on the floor between the boy’s feet. The rope kept the hard cock pulled forward.

Sitting down again he picked up the lube and poured it over the cock head. It ran down the shaft gloopily and dripped onto the chair. He changed his leather bike gloves for a pair of black nitrile surgical ones and then he applied himself to the cock.

Very gently and very slowly he stroked the fingers of one hand up and down the shaft, the black glove quickly becoming shiny as they glided on the film of lube.

Dale’s breathing had changed slightly: it was a bit faster and more shallow than it had been. He was getting more uncomfortable about this all the time. “Is that it? A fucking hand job? Jeezus...”

His cock continued to harden. When it got to the point of becoming obvious, Dale began to squirm, trying to move away from Brandon’s fingers.

Most squaddies are not good for very much, but these knew how to restrain a guy efficiently for interrogation. There were relatively few straps over Dale’s body, but they had been very carefully placed to render any movement impossible. The boy struggled to get Brandon’s hands off his cock but there was no way he could do that. The fingers continued to stroke slowly up and down the shaft.

As his cock got harder and harder, Dale became more and more infuriated. “Get your fucking hands off of me, motherfucker.”

Brandon smiled to himself under the leather mask – it seemed he was beginning to get to the boy. He had only been using one hand so far, but now the other one joined it, the slippery black fingertips teasing the cock head. They slid around it, tickling the glans and the frenulum while the first carried on stroking up and down the shaft.

Dale was panting now. His tongue came out and he licked the corner of his mouth. Between breaths he was mumbling, “Mother… fucker… get off my… fucking… dick...”

Brandon took his hands away.

Immediately the boy’s body tensed and he threw his head back. “Don’t fucking stop!”

Brandon waited for ten seconds, then resumed working on the boy’s cock.

He stopped again.

“Fuck! Fuck fuck FUCK!” Dale was trying to thrust his hips backwards and forwards but the restraints prevented much movement. “Fucking wank me off if you’re fucking going to!”

For the next thirty minutes this cycle repeated. Each time Brandon removed his hands, leaving the boy on the edge of cumming, Dale swore more loudly and more urgently. During all this time Brandon had not said a word.

The hand stroked the shaft. Shiny black fingertips moved all over the bare glans. They stroked occasionally over the frenulum. They carressed and teased. Now and again one hand would tickle the boy’s inner thighs and balls while the other just held the cock lightly, still – but they always returned to the increasingly desperate cock.

Dale was beside himself. Edging was something that Brandon was very good at – it had been something of a speciality earlier in his life; he must have edged hundreds of guys before he met Dave (though this was the first time he’d done it at work), and skills like that are not easily forgotten. He knew that this one needed to cum so badly it was probably the only thing he could think about.

This time he didn’t take his hands away completely. One finger remained, stroking over the boy’s cock head infintely lightly. Dale was on the very edge of cumming.

“The name of your supplier,” said Brandon quietly.

Dale thrashed about on the chair. He threw his head from side to side. “Make me fucking CUM!”

Brandon removed the finger, waited for a while, then started again with both hands.

This was the way it went for the following thirty minutes. Get the boy to the edge, stop, tease the head very gently while asking the question. Brandon knew it was only a matter of time. He’d found out long ago that the effects of edging are cumulative – that it gets worse and worse the longer it goes on until there is absolutely nothing in the world that is more important than achieving that longed-for orgasm. On an impulse he lowered his elbow so that the boy could feel his leather jacketed arm between his thighs. He wasn’t entirely surprised to feel the thighs try to grip his arm.

The boy broke. As the finger stroked lightly and slowly over the hypersensitised cock head, the boy yelled, “ALL RIGHT! ALL RIGHT! FUCK!” The finger continued to tease the glans slowly as the boy, gasping and panting, spilled every bit of information Brandon wanted.

When he had everything, Brandon removed the finger and repositioned it directly on the boy’s frenulum. The fingertip began to stroke up and down every bit as slowly – but this time it didn’t stop.

Dale’s breathing began to speed up alarmingly. It got faster and faster, every muscle of his body tensed. Suddenly it stopped altogether. There was a full two seconds of absolutle silence, absolute motionless – and then, with a slow groan that got louder and louder until it was an animal scream - Dale came. His body convulsed as desperate gobs of spunk jetted out, landing on Brandon’s leather-jeaned thighs.

Brandon’s fingertip continued to move just as slowly, just as gently, until the last drop of spunk had been ejected. Then it gradually slowed, and stopped.

When the blindfold came off the boy could not meet Brandon’s gaze. His face was red – party from exertion, but mainly from humiliation.

“That,” said Brandon, “was one of the best orgasms you will ever have.”

He sat down at the desk and turned off the recorder, then buzzed the squaddies back in.

They looked at each other, mouths open, when they saw the spunk, but they knew better than to speak. Between them they took the exhasted boy out.


“What the fuck?” Brandon stared at the communication in his hand. Apparently the brass had been impressed.

He was now permanently assigned to interrogation.