The Telemachus Story Archive

Taken To The Cleaners
By Hooder

Taken To The Cleaners


Bob sat on the top stair, listening. He hadn't done this before, and he felt nervous, but very excited. Downstairs the front door opened, then closed. He heard the lock being turned. Jim was here! Bob stood up quietly, waited until he heard the footsteps coming up the stairs, then went into the playroom to wait.

It had all been arranged by email: Jim would get changed in the bathroom, put his mask on, then come up the second flight of stairs to the playroom. Bob wanted a cigarette, but there was no time. He sat nervously tapping his fingers on his leather-clad thigh, wondering what it was going to be like. He'd never been cum-controlled before, never found a top who was into that and didn't want to fuck him or inflict pain as well (he wasn't into pain or what he thought of as the other 'usual' SM activities.) This was going to be purely about cum-control. It said on Jim's profile that he was an expert at it, that he loved to play with a victim's cock through his gear for a long time before he got it out and went to work on it slowly and carefully. Bob wasn't sure he'd be able to take it. What would it be like, desperately needing to cum and not being able to? For hours? He'd heard that it could be an intense torture. His cock, stretching his tight jeans out between his legs, jerked at the thought. It was something he'd always wanted to experience.

He heard the bathroom door open, and booted feet coming slowly up the stairs. He was alone in the house with a complete stranger, who was going to strap him down helpless... He swallowed. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea - he knew nothing about this man apart from his email address; he could be an axe murderer for all Bob knew. He stood up shakily. He'd apologise and say he couldn't go through with it...

Oh fuck. Bob's eyes widened and he swallowed again - this time because his mouth had suddenly gone dry with lust: the man was a vision in black leather. His gleaming leather jacket hugged his broad shoulders, and was belted tightly around his narrow waist. Tight, shiny leather jeans followed the contours of his muscular thighs and disappeared into high black leather boots. He wore black leather gloves, and his eyes were the only part of his face visible through the leather mask. When he spoke, his voice completed Bob's melting - it was deep and masculine.

"Hi Bob. Get on your knees."

All thoughts of calling the session off had vanished from Bob's mind. He knelt.

Jim stood with his crotch inches away from Bob's face. "Lick it," he ordered, quietly.

Bob complied, happily. He closed his eyes and ran his tongue ran over the smooth black leather, feeling the warmth from within, from the bulging cock beneath. His tongue followed the contours of the cock, and the round bulge of the balls. The leather smelled wonderful.

Jim placed his hand gently on the back of Bob's head, just to keep it there. "When was the last time you came?"

Jim turned his head slightly so that he could speak. "Wednesday."

"Wednesday - that's six days. Good. So you're feeling horny?"

Bob nodded. That was an understatement.

"Excellent. But let me tell you that you are not horny. You don't know what it's like to be horny. You will find out shortly." He looked around the playroom. "That's the table over there? Looks good. I see you have the restraints set up already." On the other side of the room was a full-length bondage table, with ankle and wrist cuffs already attached. "We'll get to that soon, but first I want you in another position. Stay there." He set off on a slow tour of the playroom, seeing what there was, and where. When he returned he was holding some rope, some straps, duct tape, and a leather bag hood. He tore off a length of the tape, pushed a sock into Bob's mouth, and used the tape to gag him securely, wrapping it right around, then he pulled the hood over the boy's head. He inspected the hood carefully to make sure his victim couldn't see anything. "Lie down." After strapping Bob's legs together tightly at the ankles, calves and thighs, he unclipped the leather wrist cuffs from the table, put them on Bob, and used the rope to hogtie the boy. When he was done, he pulled the hood down well, making sure it was secure, then he knelt down and whispered into Bob's ear.

"I'll be back soon. I feel like having a little look around your house. Don't go away - sucker."

Bob heard the playroom door open, and then close, followed by booted footsteps going down the stairs. He lay in leather blackness.

Minutes went by, and he waited for Jim to return. What was this guy doing? He listened carefully, holding his breath to minimise the sounds inside the hood, but he could hear nothing. Then, he thought he heard footsteps. He waited, expecting Jim to come up the stairs - but that was the bedroom door closing below! The fucker was going through his things! Bob struggled, trying to escape - but the ropes and straps held him securely.

Then he did hear footsteps on the stairs. The playroom door opened and Jim was back. He inspected the restraints and the hood. "Just checking. Can't get out of those restraints? Can't see a fucking thing? Nice and helpless? Excellent." And then he was gone again. A minute later, Bob heard the door to his office opening.

The bastard! Bob was being robbed and there was fuck all he could do about it! He pulled at the restraints, and tried to get the hood off but it stayed put. He screamed into the gag - he had never felt so frustrated in his life. He was helpless. Struggling and fighting against the ropes, he moved across the floor until he bumped into one of the wooden posts he used for vertical spreadeagling. He stopped, breathing hard inside the hood. If he could see where the knots in the rope were, he'd stand a better chance of getting free, he thought, so he rubbed his head against the post, trying to get the hood up off his head. It moved a little way, then dropped back to where it had been. He tried again. This time he got it a bit further, but after that it wouldn't budge. He moved his head around the post and tried the other side. The leather inched upwards slowly - he could see light under the bottom of it now... By continued pushing he got it up further still. If he shook his head hard now he should be able to get it off...

"Nooo, that's no good. I don't want you to be able to see, boy - that makes things far too easy for you."

He hadn't heard Jim come back into the room, and he swore into the gag as the man's hands pulled the hood right down again and then applied duct tape to the bottom to prevent any chance of its removal. There weren't any holes at all in the hood, but thankfully, he found he could still breathe.

"Now, be a good boy and lie still. I won't be too long. I think, finally, you're tied up properly - and you have some very nice stuff down there..."

Bob heard the man leave again. He lay there, fuming impotently for a minute, and then he had a thought. The D rings on the wrist cuffs weren't welded. He'd had a boy here a few weeks ago who had managed to slip one out of the leather strap that went around the cuff... With his eyes closed in concentration, he felt the cuffs with his fingers until he found one of the rings. It wouldn't move - there was too much tension on the rope tying his wrists together. Straining his muscles, he pulled his legs up even further than they had been tied, and forced his wrists closer together. He wouldn't be able to keep this up for very long. His fingers rotated the D ring - it didn't want to move easily - until he felt the gap between the flat ends. Sweating with the effort, he began to work the leather strap between them. It got about halfway, and then his muscles cramped. He yelled with pain and the ring slipped out of his fingers. He moaned into the gag and rolled about trying to relieve the cramp. Finally the pain went, and he tried again - but as soon as he flexed his muscles his body complained agonisingly. He relaxed again, exhausted and beaten. There was no way he was going to get out of... With a sudden release of tension, the strap pulled the rest of the way out of the ring, freeing his left hand.

He tore the tape off the hood and pulled it off his head, then removed the gag - wincing as the sticky tape came away from his skin and his hair. Able to see now, he managed to free himself fairly quickly, and lay on the floor, tired and sore, wondering what to do. There was a stranger in his house, who was at the very least going through his belongings - and very probably nicking them. The sexy, leatherclad bastard. Bob got up, rubbed his aching muscles, and looked around the playroom for inspiration. He was not a fighter, and the six-foot Jim could easily get the better of him. No, this called for subterfuge.

He quickly stripped off his leather jacket, jeans and boots, and stuffed anything he could find into them - and into the hood. He arranged them all on the floor and put the ropes and cuffs on them in an approximation of a hogtie. It actually looked quite convincing, if you squinted - anyway, it would have to do. Next he grabbed another hood off the shelf - the largest, loosest one he had - followed by a pair of handcuffs from the cupboard (it was a good thing Jim hadn't found those, he reflected) and a leather strap with holes all the way along to the buckle. He dimmed the lights just a little - he hoped not enough for Jim to notice they'd been changed, but as much as he dared to make the fake figure on the floor look as if it might be him - then he hid behind the door and waited.

He was beginning to think the man had left with his posessions when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He held his breath, waiting - and shaking.

The door opened towards him. "So, how are we doing? Still there, I see - "

Bob dropped the hood over Jim's head, grabbed one of his wrists and clicked a handcuff around it before the man knew what was happening. A knee in the back sent Jim sprawling, and a wrestling match ensued on the floor - made very unfair by the blindfolding leather hood over Jim's head. He frantically tried to get it off, but Bob grabbed the arm and pulled it with all his strength until he could click the other cuff into place. Then he grabbed the strap and secured the man's kicking legs together. Jim was yelling and swearing fit to bust, but Bob ignored it. With a rope he pulled the man's cuffed wrists to the ankle-restraint point on one of the wooden posts, and used a second pair of steel handcuffs to lock them to it. Jim would not be going anywhere until Bob released him.

Bob sank onto the floor, panting. He wanted to see what Jim had been doing downstairs. On wobbly legs he went down to the next floor, and into the office. To his surprise, everything was as it had been - nothing was amiss. But then he stopped and stared. Something was amiss. The room was clean, tidy. His desk was clear, pens put back into pots, and the computer screen had been polished.

Frowning, Bob went into the bedroom. Boots, jeans, jackets that had been lying around had all been carefully put on hangers and placed in the wardrobe.

The story was the same on the ground floor: no CD players, computers or silverware piled up by the door ready to be loaded into a car. Just tidiness. And the carpet had been hoovered. The kitchen was immaculate, the washing-up done and put away. Even the taps were shining.

Frowning, and double-checking all the rooms on the way, Bob climbed the stairs back to the playroom. Jim had shaken the hood off, but was otherwise exactly where Bob had put him. The man's eyes gazed at him through the slits in his mask.

"I don't understand," said Bob, kneeling beside him. "I thought you were nicking my stuff."

Jim smiled, lopsidedly. "That's exactly what you were supposed to think." He chuckled at the boy's puzzled expression. "Bondage only becomes effective when you want out of it. You wanted out. I wanted you to feel helpless. Not just tied up, but really fucking helpless. That was going to be stage one. Stage two would have been the cum-control, right there on the floor - that's where I like to do it - when you knew you were helpless." He glanced down at the strap around his legs. "But it didn't work out like that, did it? I must be getting old - my knots aren't what they used to be."

Bob was mortified. He felt so guilty. Jim was sound, and had wanted to give him an intense, horny time - and he'd ruined it. "Oh there's nothing wrong with your knots. The D rings on the wrist cuffs aren't welded and I slipped one out."

Jim tutted to himself. "I knew I should have brought my own restraints."

Bob shook his head. "But why have you cleaned up? It's immaculate down there."

To the boy's surprise, the man blushed. "You'll laugh," he said, "but doing housework in someone's house while he's tied up helpless and hooded, turns me on like fuck. It's just a fetish."

Bob got the keys to the cuffs and released Jim. "I ruined it. I'm sorry."

"Well... one of those things."

"I suppose the cum-control's off then, now...?"

Jim rubbed his wrists and sat up, then unbuckled the strap round his legs. He looked the boy up and down. He paused, thinking, for a moment. "Nah, let's do it. As long as you trust me now!"

"Oh I trust you," laughed Bob. The man pulled Bob's face close and kissed him through his leather mask. "And there are fist mitts over there!"

"Ok, I think we'll have you on that table now, seeing as you went to the trouble of getting it all ready. You sure there's no tricks to it?"

"Oh no. You get me on there and I stay there all right."

He strapped Bob down very securely to the table and moved the buckles of the arm straps away from prying fingers - even though the thick leather fistmitts would have made any interfering impossible. At Bob's suggestion he got a proper gag from the shelves, earplugs, and a lockable hood which fitted over the gag, with holes for breathing. When he was finished, he stood over the boy. "Now, tell me - could you get out of that? Be honest!"

Bob could hardly hear anything at all because of the thick, tight hood and the earplugs, and Jim had to repeat the question, shouting. He shook his head. There was no way he would ever get out of this; he knew that he was not going anywhere until Jim released him.

"Good. So let's try this again, ok?"


Jim yelled into the boy's ear: "I said let's try this again, ok?"

Bob wasn't sure what he meant, but he nodded anyway.

He felt the man's hands on him. Fingers stroked his hard cock lightly through his leather jeans. "You horny, boy?"

"Mgphhh..." moaned Bob. He was as horny as fuck.

"Goooood," said Jim slowly. He squeezed Bob's cock and it jerked under the leather in response.

There was a long pause, and then the fingers were back, teasing, stroking. He'd worn these particular leather jeans because Jim had told him he wanted him in the thinnest possible leather so that he'd be able to feel everything through them. He groaned as the man's fingers teased slowly and lightly up and down the hard shaft. He was already not far away from cumming. But the man stopped.

Minutes passed, then the hands were back. One of them tickled the boy's inner thighs, and then his balls - while the other made feather-light love to his cockhead through the thin, stretched leather. Bob was getting desperate - he was so close to cumming, but couldn't fucking make it. The bastard was intentionally not giving him enough friction.

This continued for a long time - Jim would get Bob close to cumming, and then stop. There would be a long pause - during which Bob could sometimes, through the floor, feel the guy walking around (once he thought he heard the sound of something heavy being put into a bin bag) - and then the teasing would start again. Bob was in heaven. He was tied up, couldn't move, he was hooded, he coudn't hear a fucking thing. He had no idea what Jim was doing or when the next teasing would start - or where. He felt very very helpless.

After an hour or so of this, Bob needed to cum so badly he thought he'd burst. The long pauses between the teasings were impossible. And Jim hadn't even got Bob's cock out yet. If he could get Bob this horny through his leather jeans, what the hell could he do to his naked cock? - That was going to be the torture all right.

There was another pause, of quite a few minutes this time, and then Jim's hands were back, releasing him from the ropes and mitts.

"Thank you. I've enjoyed myself," said Jim close to Bob's ear. "The key to the hood is somewhere in the bathroom. It'll probably take you a while to find the key - enough time for me to get away, anyway. Take care."

"Mhphh - huh?"

He heard the sound of bin bags being lifted, followed by the playroom door closing and booted feet clomped down the stairs, moving quickly.

Bob waited.


He waited some more.


He felt his way to the door, opened it, walked carefully down the stairs, and into the bathroom. It took him ten minutes to find the key - it was on the floor behind the sink - and he breathed in deeply as the hood and the gag came off. He walked out onto the landing. "Hello?" There was no response. "Jim?" Silence answered him.

Then a dreadful realization hit him. Taking the stairs three at a time he ran up to the playroom.

All his gear - his straitjacket, the hoods, the restraints, the toys he'd saved up for over the years - every single piece of equipment that could be moved, could be stolen while a victim lay helpless, earplugged, hooded and strapped down to a bondage table - every single thing, was still there.

And the room was absolutely spotless.