The Telemachus Story Archive

Part 9 - Andrew
By Hooder

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I opened the playroom skylight and looked out. It was unbelievable – there were fireworks everywhere: my house was on a hill, and the entire horizon was lit up. Midnight, the year 2000. A new millennium starting. I shook my head in wonder – I couldn’t believe that I was two hundred and twenty-seven years old. A lot had happened to me in that time – and most of it had been good. Two hundred and nine years since I’d first met Dominic – over seventy-six thousand days, and I’d thought about him on every single one of those days. A familiar feeling of sadness swept over me briefly; after all this time the main thing that I had left was the idea of him: photography hadn’t been invented back then, and the only image of the man I’d loved was a charcoal sketch I’d done the first week I’d met him. It was brittle and so yellowed with age that you could hardly see what it was any more. But I still had a mental image of how he’d looked. Time had blurred that mental image a lot around the edges, as it had done the sketch. I wondered again how accurate my memory of how he’d looked was after all these years. And for the millionth time I wondered where he was, what he was doing, whether he was still alive. I’d gone back to using my real name, Justin – I’d thought that enough time had passed by now for the chef and the Bruges police to have have forgotten about me.

I closed the skylight, and went back to cleaning and airing the playroom – I’d been travelling in Australia for the last year or so and the house had been empty while I’d been away. I hoped the playroom would be getting some use again very soon.

The reason I’d gone to Australia was that I’d had a call from Carlo in Berlin. He remembered I’d been asking about Dominic, and a Vee he knew in Sydney had said that a friend of his had told him that someone who could have been the one I was looking for had been there a couple of weeks ago. This was, I realised, extremely vague and nebulous, but I didn’t have any choice: if there were the slightest change that I could find Dominic, I wanted to go. So I’d hopped on a plane and gone.

I’d stayed there for almost a year, searching, inquiring, looking everywhere I could. But Sydney is a big city, and Australia is a big country. I found nothing, heard nothing. Another dead end.

But the Vee I’d stayed with was a nice guy, and I’d made more friends. I liked Australia, though it was a bit too hot, a bit too bright for my eyes – even with sunglasses – and there were animals and plants there that seemed intent on doing you in at the slightest opportunity. In the end I reluctantly gave up and returned to England. I wondered if I would ever find Dominic again.


The internet had been a revelation. I’d heard about computers ages ago, but it had been a long time before I’d actually got around to seeing what they were about. By the time I had done, they were everywhere and doing everything, it seemed. I’d bought myself one and within a week I’d been surfing the net with the best of them. And later, when the more pervy websites had appeared, things had really taken off. It was amazing – every fetish you could think of was there, and you could take your pick from all the guys who were into it. I’d had to ration my time on the thing, because I’d been in danger of getting addicted at first – but the novelty lessened a bit eventually and it became just a useful tool for getting in touch with interesting boys. And there were some very interesting boys out there.

I mainly concentrated on leather-related guys as I was seriously into the stuff and most of the things that went with it - although tight jeans, PVC, uniform, boots, sports gear, tickling, gunge, and a few other topics had their moments as well. I’d bought a webcam, because I’d found that although guys still found me attractive in photos, whatever it was that compelled them to want me worked much, much better on cam.

At the sound of the doorbell I closed the computer, pulled my leather mask on and went to the front door.

The boy who was visiting me had actually cum several times while we’d been chatting online. His name was Andrew. He’d said I was the hottest guy he’d ever seen. I’d heard that a lot, but this boy had been particularly adamant about it. After he’d calmed down a bit and I’d asked him what his deepest, darkest sexual fantasy was, he’d told me that his biggest one was of being an unwilling, struggling and resisting spunk-donor. That was a new one on me – someone who wanted to try to stop me from making him cum – and I found it fascinating. He’d smiled and said, a bit sadly, ‘But I don’t think I’d last ten seconds with you...’ I’d told him no problem.

When I opened the door he looked very much as he had done on cam: early twenties, light brown hair, not bad-looking, and a very nice body. I was wearing full black bike leathers and, at the moment, my mask: I didn’t want him cumming before I’d got him upstairs.

In the last few years I’d fitted a substantial play space up on the top floor of my house. It could be changed from a modern playroom into a medieval dungeon, an operating theatre, a padded asylum, and lots of other things. At the moment the main section was just a bare room with restraints on shelves and one sturdy vertical spread-eagle frame in the middle of the floor with sinister black leather cuffs hanging from it. It was lit dramatically by a ceiling spot. As he stood staring in dreadful fascination at the frame, and I stood looking at him, I sensed that he was nervous - but that he was also very excited indeed.

“You are not gong to get me me on that,” he whispered.

I smiled to myself, but said nothing.

For a long time Andrew had yearned to struggle and fight against being milked. It was his deepest and most enduring fantasy. He wanted to have strong willpower, wanted to be able to resist for a long time – but he was depressingly well aware that in reality it was in fact very easy to make him cum. He’d never had that fantasy realised – this was the first time he’d been with anyone who was interested in doing it. I decided to give the boy exactly what he wanted. I put a cum-block on him there and then, just in case.

Gently, I changed a few things in Andrew’s mind. First I planted a memory of his being grabbed from the street, hooded and brought here in a van, so that he didn’t know where he was. I temporarily erased his memory of our having arranged this session on the website, and firmly put in place the knowledge that the masked leatherboy who had got him had one unshakable intention: to make him cum – by whatever means necessary and however hard he struggled against it.

I reinforced the horniness of this idea for him (not that it needed much), and I also made absolute his determination not to let that happen. He was unsure about his willpower, I knew, so I sent him the idea that it was a lot stronger than it actually was. Finally I gave him a temporary – but powerful - fetish for black leather.

After allowing him a few moments for his mind to adjust to these changes, I smiled behind my mask. “Do you know where you are?”

He seemed confused for a second, then he shook his head. “No.” He was looking at me with renewed interest – that would be his new leather fetish, I thought.

“No, you don’t, do you...” I said slowly. “I am going to extract your spunk, Andrew. You’re going to be helpless to stop it, so be a good boy, get on the restraint frame and just let me do it, yeah?”

He shook his head again, more firmly this time. “No. That’s not going to happen, mate.”

I decided to make things a little more difficult for him – so I took my mask off and gave him a slow, sexy smile.

The usual reaction happened. His eyes dilated and he gasped. “Oh fuck...” He whispered.

I stood in front of him and reached down. His cock was rock-hard inside his jeans. Immediately he moved back. “Get your hands off me.”


“Fuck off. I’m not stripping for you.”

I intended to use many of my special abilities on this boy during the session, and there were a couple of ways I could do this: either I could make everything seem realistic to him – pretend to make him groggy with gas and then strip him, for instance; or just do them and erase his memory afterwards. I decided on the latter as it was easier. I didn’t actually paralyse him, but I slowed him down a lot, so that it was like he was moving in thick treacle. I could see him struggling against it as I removed his tee shirt, jeans, underpants and trainers, but with the mind control he was far too slow to be able to stop me. Soon he was naked. I cancelled the slowed-down suggestion.

“H – how did you…?”

I smiled again. “I have many ways of controlling a resisting boy, Andrew,” I said. His cock, hard and leaking, was waving in the air in front of him. “I am going to make you cum. You can fight against it and struggle as much as you want, but I’m going to make you cum. Several times. I intend to extract your spunk and I’m gonna make sure that there is nothing you can do to stop me.”

Although, as I’d known they would, the words had turned him on like mad, he backed away further and clasped both hands protectively over his genitals, still shaking his head. “Fuck off! You’re not getting my fucking spunk!” In spite of this his eyes were telling me that he longed to touch me, hold me, kiss me, and - more than anything else - to get milked helplessly by me.

I pointed to the restraint frame. His head shaking intensified. I sighed, picked up a leather hood and slowly approached him with it in my hand.

“What’s that?” He asked nervously.

“It’s to use on uncooperative boys,” I said gloatingly. “It’s a blindfolding hood. Makes it a lot more difficult to resist because you can’t see, and you can’t get it off...”

“You’re not getting that on me.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No! Fuck off!”

I let him fight against it as much as he wanted. I got him down on the floor and allowed it to become a long wrestle, eventually forcing the hood over his head and locking it on. Now that he couldn’t see anything it was much easier to get him on the frame – although he still fought like hell. His blindfolded struggling was made even less effective by the fact that much of the time he was trying to feel my my leather-clad body with his hands.

He looked good helplessly spread-eagled in the cuffs. I took his hard cock between my leather-gloved fingers and started to work on it.

This session was a bit different to usual: what I wanted to do was set up a cycle where I’d very gradually get him close, then strengthen his resolve not to cum - and also his belief that his willpower was strong enough to enable him to control himself - and then make it seem as if he’d succeeded. Again and again, getting him closer each time. Apart from anything else this would give me plenty of opportunity to do lots of different things to him. To find out exactly what those things would be, I searched his mind for everything that he’d fantasised would turn him on most of all in a session like this. Then, one after another, I used them against him.

It worked brilliantly. Twelve times I ‘tried’ to make him cum and ‘failed’ - each time taking him a little closer to orgasm than the last - before ‘trying’ something else. I worked on his nipples, stroking, teasing, licking and sucking them; I used several different dildos and butt-plugs on him - some of them electric ones that sent irresistible pulses into his prostate; I used his intense fetish for leather against him, letting him feel my bike gear against his bare skin, my boots sliding over his naked legs, stroking another pair of leather jeans gently and teasingly between this thighs, over his cock and balls; I tickled him in ways that found erogenous zones he didn’t even realise he had; I attached a vibrator to his cock, set to its slowest and most frustrating setting while I whispered to him that a sexy biker boy in tight black leather had got him restrained in the most vulnerable position possible and that he was going to be helpless to stop me from extracting his spunk; I forced blindfolding and gagging leather hoods over his head at various times, mentally reinforcing his feeling of helplessness every time I did that; I kissed him when he wasn’t hooded – or just kept my lips a frustrating millimetre out of the reach of his, smiling sexily; I stared into his eyes and ran my fingers slowly over my leather-clad body; I teased my own hard bulge through my shiny black jeans; I worked on his cock in just the ways that I knew made it the most impossible for him to control himself; I sucked it gently and used my mobile tongue to make him need to cum. In short, I pushed every one of that boy’s buttons, very carefully and very efficiently.

Through all of this I made each thing I was doing to him the most exquisitely wonderful thing he’d even known. I made extra fingers work on him at the same time as my own, I used pheromones and played with his mind to give him more intensely horny pleasure that he had ever experienced in his life – but all the time I kept him well short of cumming, and made it seem to him that he was able to resist me and that it was his willpower that was enabling him to stop himself.

It was I who gave in first. All of this had made me so horny that I knew that if I didn’t stop soon I’d cum in my jeans. So I removed his hood and let him watch as I knelt down in front of his cock. I looked up at him and smiled. “Ok, boy. You’ve resisted me so far. But now I’m gonna make you cum. I’m gonna get your spunk and there will be nothing… you… can… do… about… it.”

I cancelled the cum-block, and removed his willpower completely, replacing it with an overpowering feeling of pure and abject helplessness. Then I took his cock into my mouth, and I fed.

He thrashed about on the frame, his body jerking as his hot spunk gushed uncontrollably into my milking mouth. In terms of both quantity and quality it was superb. I made him horny again and sucked him dry a second time – and then a third.

Before he left I reinstated his memory of where he was, how he’d got here, and how we’d chatted on the website, and erased all the surprise he’d had when I’d used my abilities – they would now seem normal and unimportant to him, and he wouldn’t think about them. He was beaming as he staggered out of the house.

That had been an interesting session, I thought. Very interesting indeed. I’d got off on a lot on turning him on so much, and I knew that it had been the realisation of everything the boy had ever wanted. As I tidied up and put things away, I wondered who I’d have in the playroom next, and what kind of session it would be.

But either I’d miscalculated, or Andrew had been more resistant to my mind-control that I’d thought. I realised a few days later that I’d got myself a stalker. Both the session and I had, apparently, left such a deep impression on him that he had become obsessed with me. He sent me messages every few minutes: I was the best thing that had ever happened to him, he was so desperate for another session that he was going out of his mind. And this time I would NOT get his spunk. I even thought I saw someone that could have been him hiding behind a bin on the other side of the road one day when I glanced through the window. When I looked again, the shadow had gone.

I wondered what to do. He was a lovely boy - good-looking, sexy, and the session had been excellent – but I’d moved on and was looking for other things now; I didn’t really want it to become a regular arrangement. It had been fun, but there was still so much more for me to explore. In the end I agreed to meet him one more time – not for a session, but just to talk, that’s all he wanted to do, he said. It would at least provide an opportunity for me to place some more realistic suggestions in his mind, I thought, and to stop this obsession with me.

He looked different when I opened the door. His hair was now jet black, like mine. He was wearing full biker leathers and motorcycle boots, like mine. Apart from our faces, he looked like a clone of me. And I have to say that he looked very good like that.

The first thing he did – before I’d even got the door closed - was to throw his arms around me, hug me, and kiss me passionately.

I let him carry on for a few moments, then I gently pushed him away. “Come in,” I said, closing the door.

“Can we talk?”

Even though he’d said in his message that he only wanted to chat, I’d still suspected that he’d want to go straight upstairs, and I was ready to refuse - but apparently he did only want to talk. I led him into the living room and we sat down facing each other in the comfy chairs.

He looked down and fiddled with his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I’ve been a pain sending you so many messages. But you did something to me. You’ve changed me somehow.” He looked up into my eyes. “I can’t get you out of my mind, Justin. All I can think about is you, and trying to stop you from getting my spunk. I think about it all the time.”

I opened my mouth but he raised his hand.

“Please, let me finish.” He looked back down at his hands. “I know you did things to me – psychological things, I mean. And I know you tried to erase them before I left.”

I blinked. He shouldn’t be aware of that. He should not be aware of that.

He looked up again and smiled. “It’s Ok. Don’t worry. I know most of the things you did and that’s fine. This fetish for leather, for instance. I’m very happy with that.” He chuckled. “Very.”

He still had that? That fetish had been intended to be temporary. I thought I’d removed it before he’d left.

“And making me think I’d been abducted, and not knowing where I’d been taken, and convincing me that I could resist you. That was all incredibly horny, and thank you for them. But I know you did them.” He paused. “I guess you used hypnosis. That’s interesting, because a friend of mine’s a clinical hypnotist and he’s training me to become one myself.” He smiled at me again. “And fuck, you’re good at it.”

“Ah.” I didn’t know what to say, and I wasn’t sure what I could do about it. This had never happened before.

“Do you like me?”

That was a strange question, I thought.

“Do you think I’m sexy?”

“I think you’re a lovely boy. You’re good-looking, and yes, you’re very sexy.”

“I know you’re not in love with me, Justin, but -” He took a deep breath. “Do you think you could ever love me?”

I had not been in love with anyone since Dominic, not really in love. I’d felt very deeply indeed for Phillipe, and there had been a few others in the years since then, but Dominic had been my only one true love. I looked at Andrew, sitting there gazing at me adoringly. He was, as I’ve said, a lovely boy – but I knew, sadly, that I could never fall in love with him.

I took a breath myself, and shook my head slowly. The only course was honesty. “No, Andrew, I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

I don’t know if I’d expected him to burst into tears, but he didn’t. He smiled resignedly, and then nodded. “That’s what I thought. Ok, well, can we at least have some more sessions like that last one? Please? I need that so much you would not believe .”

I knew that if I gave him any more sessions it would only make things worse. “No, Andrew, I’m sorry. We can’t.”

He looked at me sharply, and frowned. “Why not? Don’t you fancy me?”

“Like I said, you’re a good-looking boy. But more sessions would only make it worse for you, increase your addiction to me. It was fun, but it was a one-off. You’ll get over it before long.”

“Get over it?” He looked confused for a moment. “You’re not interested in me?”

I decided to be brutal. I thought it would be best. “No, Andrew. I’m afraid not.”

“And that’s it?”

I didn’t say anything.

He blinked, looked at me for a moment, then got up, turned and walked out of the house, slamming the door hard behind him.

I stayed there, thinking, for quite a while.

But it seemed to have worked: the messages stopped and I didn’t hear from him again.

As it turned out, in view of what happened later, I could probably have handled that better...

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