The Telemachus Story Archive

An Inspector Falls
By Hooder

An Inspector Falls

Inspector Earl “Hulk” Whitely was pissed off. He was on his way back to the station after failing completely to get any arrests whatsoever at the club. When he found out who’d given them the dodgy info there was going to be trouble for somebody. Big fucking trouble.

Constable Meakin was concentrating on his driving and avoiding conversation as much as he could – Whitely had a way of winding people up with his sarcastic, sneering innuendos and he seemed to be gunning for anybody at the moment. Best to keep clear.

“Put the fucking blues on, Meakin. We haven’t got all bastard day.”

The lights and siren went on.

A crew-cut on top of a pear-shaped head gave Whitely an odd look, and at the moment this was compounded by the fact that his jaw muscles were working in rage.

“Whoa! Pull up! There!” Whitely had seen something.

Paul heard the siren and looked up. A police car was approaching at speed, its flashing lights streaking the shop fronts with intermittent blue. He wondered who the pigs were after this time. It came to a screeching stop a few yards in front of him and the two policemen got out. One of the officers was short and dumpy, but he recognised the other one straight away – Earl Whitely. He’d had dealings with that bastard before. Six foot four and built like a brick shithouse, he had muscles which his dark blue suit had difficulty in containing. On the odd occasions he wore a hi-viz vest, he even managed to make that somehow look like a piece of working-out kit. By the side of him the dumpy guy seemed like he might blow away in the wind at any moment. They strode up to him.

“Well well well. Paul Covey.” Earl Whitely planted his huge hands on his solid hips and sneered unpleasantly. “How’s your new motor?”

“What new motor?”

The sneer grew. “’What new motor?’” He mimicked in an unpleasantly whining voice. “The black BMW you were seen nicking from Belmont Street this afternoon, that’s what new motor.”

Constable Meakin frowned. He hadn’t heard of a Beemer being nicked today.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t, sonny. Tell you what, let’s go down the station and have a chat, shall we?”

“Fuck off, Whitely. I was nowhere near Belmont street and I didn’t nick any BMW.”

Earl Whitely’s face darkened. “You don’t you tell me to fuck off, you little prick.”

“I’ve been at home all day – this is the first time I’ve been out.”

“And you can prove that, can you?”

“I was on my own.”

“Of course you were. You always were a lying bastard. I’ve been after you for a while, Covey, and this time I’ve fucking got you.”

“Bullshit! This is harassment!”

“Yeah yeah. Hands on the car and spread ‘em.” He grabbed the boy and forced his hands onto the roof of the police car, kicked his legs wide apart and began to pat him down roughly.

“Get off me, pig!” Paul began to turn round. A solid fist hit him in the kidneys. He was forced back into position and the search continued.

“Ah... What do we have here then?” His hand came out of Paul’s pocket with a small plastic bag. In the bag was white powder.

Paul’s eyes were wide. “You’ve gotta be joking! That is not mine! You planted that you fucking bastard!”

Whitely opened the bag, pushed his fingertip into the powder, then licked it. “Oh Paul, Paul, you’ve been a very naughty boy. This is grade fucking-A.” He handed the powder to the Constable who dropped it into an evidence bag while Whitely cuffed Paul tightly and read him his rights.

“Fuck! These cuffs are too tight!”

Ignoring his yells, they pushed Paul into the police car and closed the door. The suspension sank slightly as Meakin got in, and then a lot more as Whitely joined him. The Inspector grinned over his shoulder. “When we get to the station we’re gonna have a nice, cosy little chat.”

Gordon Covey switched off both of his computers and their five monitors, dropped a stack of paperwork into the drawer of his desk, and locked it. He leaned back in his chair and stretched.

“Got anywhere with Davis?” Brendon at the next desk was looking over.

“It’s coming. Managed to retrieve one HD completely. The other’s being a bastard. Twenty-four character password.”

Brendon whistled. “Must be something interesting on it...”

“Well it’s gonna have to wait till tomorrow. I’m done.” He loved his work – the Computer Crime Unit was the best thing ever, and it was one job where being a seven-stone weakling and a nerd didn’t matter at all – neither did his shoulder-length brown hair, or the fact that he liked to wear Jurassic Park tee shirts. But he’d had enough for one day. He stood up, checked his work station, and nodded goodnight.

He was almost out of the door when Joyce on the other side of the room called him back. “Gord – phone call for you.”

“Gordon sighed, walked over and took the receiver. “Yep?” He listened for a while. “Oh shit. When? … Ok. Don’t say anything without a lawyer. Nothing. I’ll see if I can do anything.” He handed the phone back to Joyce and sighed again. “My bloody brother...”

“Dear God what happened to you?” Gordon stood up as Paul came into the living room. The boy’s face was a mess: both his eyes were black and he had bruises on one cheek. There was dried blood under his nose.

“I fell down the station stairs...”

“Right. Those bastards. Who did it?”

“Three guesses.”


Paul nodded.

“Ok. So, tell me exactly what happened.”

As Paul recounted the events in detail, Gordon’s face turned more and more angry. His brother may be a punk, have a bright red mohican and wear tartan jeans and a ripped leather jacket, but he’d never stolen anything in his life, and he’d never been interested in drugs. He, Gordon and a couple of mates had tried one spliff about ten years ago and it had made them both throw up. Neither of them had had the slightest inclination to experiment further with drugs since then. So it was clearly a set up with the cocaine. As for the stolen car, that could only be a mis-identification.

They both knew that for some reason Inspector Whitely had it in for Paul. Over the years the guy had hassled him at every opportunity – frequent stop-and-searches, slow, provocative drive-bys, questioning about all kinds of things the boy had obviously had nothing to do with. It was all very annoying. But this was something else entirely – and it was time something was done about it.

Paul had pleaded not guilty at the hearing, and his trial was set for the fifteenth, which gave Gordon three weeks to plan.

The next morning when he got to work, he began by doing a little research. After a half-hour on the computers, Gordon sat back and tapped a pen against his teeth thoughtfully. It seemed that officer Whitely was not short of skeletons in his closet. Some of them were interesting – and could be productively rattled.

“Do you know any gay bikers?” Gordon took his glasses off and looked at Paul. The blood was no longer on the boy’s face but his eyes were still very swollen.


“Gay bikers. Well, they don’t actually have to have motorbikes, but guys who are into leather, BDSM and all that.”

Paul stirred his tea. “Well, yeah, I know a few.”

He put his glasses back on and checked his notes. “What I need is a slim, young, and very cute one.”

Paul thought for a moment. “There’s Tommy. He’s about 18, and cute as fuck. Lives in Denton Street.”

“Perfect. Do you know him well? Would he be willing to help us?”

“Probably. To do what?”

“Well, believe it or not, our Inspector Whitely seems to be well into the black and shiny. He’s got a profile on a site called Calls himself ‘Solidstud’. According to that, he’s usually Top – but he says he has a secret fantasy of being tied up and controlled by a young leather boy. One who is small and slim and who he could mash to a pulp with one arm behind his back. He wants humiliation. If we could get – Tommy, was it? - to let me take some pictures of him in leathers, and let me use them to reel Whitely in, we’d be in business.”

Paul put his tea down. “You’d make a profile on Leatherstudz and pretend to be him?”


Paul frowned. “O-kay… but then what? Explain.”

And Gordon did.

Hi Solidstud. Names Wizz. Im 18, biker. Wuz interested in yr fantasy. Im a sub boy, but yr sexy & id luv to tie u up & work on u. Id make u beg me 2 let u cum. Interested?

- Wizz.

Hi Wizz. Fuck! Yes! You look awesome in leather on your pics. Perfect. You’re so fuckin cute. I’d let you get me tied up, but do you think you could control me? I’m a very powerful guy, and you look so weak. And you’d never make me fuckin beg to cum. No way.

- Solidstud.

Yes i’m weak. But dont care how strong & muscly u r cos when yr strapped down yr muscles wont help u. I know i’m cute. That will make u wanna cum. Make it easier 4 me. Ill make u beg. U wont be able to stop me. Free friday.

- Wizz.

Bring it on! Friday is good, after 5pm. Where are you? Got a place with equipment?

- Solidstud.

ok. Friday 5.30. come to 54 Adrea road. Lookin forward 2 it. got a playroom. Gonna tease your cock till you beg.


Earl Whitely drove his black SUV slowly down Adrea Road. He was looking at house numbers. 50… 52… 54. He pulled up, killed the engine and checked his appearance in the rear-view mirror. He unfastened another button of his leather shirt to show off the cleavage between his magnificent pecs even better. His cock was already half-hard at the thought of being tied up by this gorgeous leather boy. Glancing up and down the quiet street to make sure he was not observed, he hurried to the door and pressed the bell.

Wizz was even smaller and thinner than he’d looked in his pictures. And he had a leather mask on – only his eyes showed.

Whitely’s cock jerked at the sight of the boy standing there in the shadows, holding the door open.

“Tholid Thtud? Come in.”

He was perfect: a small, thin, weakling that Whitely could flatten without raising a sweat. He even had an effeminate lisp. The thought of such a huge, strong, muscular stud like himself being got helpless and controlled by such a camp little faggot – such a drop-dead cute, sexy, little leatherboy faggot – was making him very horny indeed.

They went upstairs and into a small but well-equipped, and well-lit playroom.

“Why the mask?” Asked Whitely.

“I’ll take it off later. Like the idea that you can’t thee my fathe. You know I’m cute, and you want to thee me. And tho I’m not going to let you – yet.”

“You little bastard.” For some reason Whitely found this idea horny.

“Ok. Lie on the table.”

Whitely got onto the padded table.

“And this ith going on until I get you helpleth.” He pulled a leather hood down over the man’s head.

“Bastard,” muttered Whitely. But he was grinning in horny anticipation under the leather.

Wizz spent the next ten minutes restraining the huge stud to the table with thick ankle and wrist cuffs, fingerless leather mitts, and strong leather straps. The last thing he did was to raise the man’s booted feet and clip the ankle straps to chains that hung from the ceiling.

Finally he was done. “Try to get off.”

Whitely’s muscles bulged under his tight leather uniform and he kicked his feet impotently as he strained to get free, but the straps were more than strong enough to hold him helpless.

“Good.” He pulled off the leather hood and dropped it onto the floor. “Gonna make you beg me to let you cum, big man.”

“No fucking way, boy. No little fuckin wimp like you’s gonna make me beg.”

“ We’ll see. Now, while I’m working on you I want you to tell me all the time what you’re feeling, what you want me to do, and what you’d like to do to me. Think you can manage that, thtud?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Ok.” Wizz went to work. He began by running his fingertips over the helpless man’s body – starting at his shoulders and working his way slowly down to his boots. Whitely was wearing a full, tight, police uniform, but in shiny black leather. His muscles bulged everywhere – those of his thighs were enormous.

Whitely’s eyes were fixed on the boy’s masked face. “Get on with it. Work on me. Make me beg if you can, faggot.”

Wizz pulled the man’s uniform shirt out of his trousers, pushed his hands up under the soft, thin leather and over his huge pecs, his fingers coming to rest on the protruding nipples. He squeezed.

Whitely inhaled and closed his eyes. “Oh fuck yeah, “ he growled. “Work those fuckers...”

Wizz obliged. He squeezed and twisted, increasing the pressure gradually until his fingers couldn’t do it any harder. The man was writhing in pleasure under his hands.

“Mmmm… oh yeah. Harder. Twist ‘em...”

Wizz worked them as hard as he could, until he started to get cramp in his fingers. He removed his hands, searched around the playroom and found a pair of particularly evil clamps with a chain between them. He undid the guy’s leather shirt completely, pushed it to the sides, and carefully placed a clamp on each nipple. The chain lay across the huge muscular pecs. Whitely groaned as they went on. “Oh fuck yeah...”

The big guy’s hard cock was tenting the front of his leather uniform trousers out. Wizz held the shaft and began to wank it slowly through the leather. At the same time he gripped the base of the man’s balls and squeezed.

Whitely was in heaven. He was straining against the straps. “Oh fuck. You little wimp. If I wasn’t strapped down I’d force that cock down your throat and make you choke on the fucker. I’d bend you over and fuck your arse till you passed out. That cock would split you apart, faggot.”

Wizz’s fingers continued to work on Whitely’s cock. It was getting even harder. He reached down under the table and picked up a vibrator. It was white, with a round ball at the end. It buzzed when he switched it on. Very gently he touched the vibrating end to the bulge of the man’s cock-head.

Immediately Whitely threw back his head and let out an animal groan of lust. “Oh fuuuuuuuuck….”

Wizz took it away, waited for a few seconds, then put it back. Each time he did this the big man groaned and writhed in the restraints. His hips started to thrust. Wizz removed the vibrator.

“Put the fucker back, wimp, and leave it there.”

Wizz ignored him and carried on touching it to his cock for a few seconds, then taking it away.

He switched the vibrator off and put it down. Reaching up to the man’s chest he placed a hand flat on each of the nipple clamps and pressed hard.

“AAAARRGGHHHH!!!” Whitely’s body convulsed with pain. “Fuck!”

Wizz took the clamps in his fingers and twisted them. Hard, but not too hard.

“You little fucker. Give me a second...”

Wizz stopped twisting.

Whitely took a deep breath. “Ok – go for it!”

Wizz twisted again. Much harder this time. He rotated the clamps backwards and forwards, making the man scream.


Wizz let go of the clamps. He carefully lowered the zip of the man’s trousers, parted the leather and extracted his cock and balls. Given the sheer size of the man he’d expected a horse cock – but in fact it was laughably small: the balls were big and heavy, but the cock was thin, and not very long. It would not have looked out of place on a fifteen-year old. Wizz was amused to see that in fact it was half the size of his own.

He pulled on a pair of black nitrile gloves, then looked at the cock in front of him. More access was required. He unfastened the belt, undid the top button, and pulled the man’s leather trousers down as far as they would go. Lubing up his gloves well, he applied one of them to the precum-dripping little cock that was stabbing the air before him.

With slow, slippery strokes he slid his shiny gloved fingers up and down the engorged shaft. Each time, Whitely thrust his hips into the hand, trying to fuck it. But the tight leather strap over his stomach made much movement there impossible – and anyway, Wizz had no intention of allowing him to cum like that. Not yet. He released the cock.

“Fucker! Make me cum you little faggot!”

He brought the man as close to the edge as he dare, then again took his hand away. With the other hand he reached between the man’s thighs and found his arse hole with a finger. He pushed it inside, and moved it in and out experimentally.

Whitely’s face was going purple. “Oi! Get your fucking finger out of there! No fucking wimp plays with that !”

Wizz removed the finger and looked at the shelves. He took a six-inch long, curved black dildo and lubed it up. It had a silvery metal tip. Then, ignoring the big man’s apoplectic yells of rage, he pushed it firmly all the way in.

Clearly the man wasn’t at all used to having something up his arse. He yelled and struggled, pushing to eject it, but without noticeable success. Wizz nudged it a couple of times, bringing louder protests from the helpless guy. Then he took a grey box and connected two wires from it to the pair of contacts on the base of the dildo.

Whitely looked down but couldn’t see what the boy was up to. The initial pain when it had been inserted had lessened now. “What the fuck you doing? Get that thing out of my arse! NOW!”

Wizz looked at the LEDs on the box, adjusted a couple of knobs, and turned it on.

The man gave vent to a curious sound: it started as a scream of surprise, modulated into a bellow of rage, and then, gradually, became a long, drawn-out moan of astonished pleasure. He had never had his prostate stimulated by an electric dildo before.

Wizz kept the level fairly low to start with – it could easily make a guy cum if you weren’t careful, and he didn’t want Whitely to cum.

With the LED blinking on the box on the table, Wizz went back to the man’s nipples. He took a clamp in each hand and rotated them back and forth. He knew that by now they would be hypersensitive, and that the slightest touch would be much more intense than earlier. Whitely’s face was screwed up in pain, but he was not complaining. Wizz knew that the prostate stimulation would be making everything feel hornier, so he increased the pressure.

Very soon he reached the man’s limits. With a final twist he removed his hands. Whitely needed to be made even more horny.

Opening a small fridge Wizz took out a bottle of poppers. He poured a good amount onto a cloth and held it over the man’s nose and mouth. Whitely put up a nominal struggle to get away from it, but he had no choice but to breathe it in, and soon Wizz was sure that he must be feeling the effects well. He took the cloth away and, after turning the dildo up a notch, went back to working on the man’s cock.

Whitely was squirming and writhing on the padded table. His hands were fists in the leather mitts, and his muscular body was straining with effort to escape from the restraints – more just for the feel of it than really to try to escape. Wizz just continued to stroke up and down the rock-hard erection with his lube-slippery hand, while at the same time massaging the man’s heavy balls. The man’s eyes were fixed to the boy’s, his face screwed up and his eyelids half-closed. A continuous moaning came from him: “Make me cum you little leather boy. Make me cum, cute boy. Make me cum you little bastard...”

Wizz concentrated now with both hands on the man’s cock. One encircled the shaft, gripping it firmly and moving up and down slowly, while the other enclosed the head with the fingers, rubbing over the glans, around the ridges and stroking the frenulum with precum- and lube-smooth nitrile-gloved fingertips. He reached down and turned the electric dildo up another couple of levels.

Suddenly Wizz felt the cock stiffen under his hands. He released it immediately and turned the dildo off.

“Nooo! Nooo! You FUCKER! Keep going! I’m CUMMING!!!!”

But Wizz knew he couldn’t cum. He waited for a few moments, switched the dildo back on at a higher level, and then went back to working on the cock.

Three edgings later, and with the power in the dildo increased another two levels, the man broke.

Please! Let me cum! I’ll do anything you want! I’ll suck your cock! I’ll be your whore! I’ll be your slave! Pleeease!!! Make me cum! I beg you, leather boy! I’m fucking BEGGING you! LET ME CUM!!”

Wizz edged him again.

“Oh fuck! I can’t stand it! I have to cum!” He was staring manically into the masked boy’s eyes. “You’re humiliating me. I’m a leather whore. I always have been. You control me. Cute boys in leather control me. Completely. Please!” He shut his eyes and yelled, “I BEG YOU! LET ME FUCKING CUMMMMM!”

With one hand on the dildo controls and the other on Whitely’s cock, Wizz now set himself to concentrating hard. After five more edgings, during which he increased Whitely’s need for orgasm so much that the man was convinced he was going to lose his mind completely, he was satisfied that he had a good enough feel for the guy’s responses to do what he wanted to do now.

Much more slowly than before, Wizz brought Whitely to the very edge again. He knew the man was a single stroke away from cumming. The dildo was on high, and every muscle of the guy’s body was humming - tensed in preparation for what was going to be the most amazing orgasm of his life.

Carefully, and with scientific precision, Wizz stroked his finger and thumb one final time, very lightly, over the head of the desperate cock. As he’d intended, that was enough, and with a yell Whitely began to orgasm. Immediately Wizz switched the dildo off and removed his hand completely, leaving the man’s cock touching only fresh air.


Wizz reached up to the chain connecting the nipple clamps, wrenched them off, and twisted the now madly-sensitive nipples as hard as he could.

Whitely shrieked in agony – while at the same time thrusting hysterically to get friction on his cock – and, when he couldn’t, he howled as the torturously frustrating and powerfully acute disappointment of a disastrously ruined orgasm overwhelmed him. His cock jerked sluggishly up and down, and instead of gobs of spunk shooting victoriously into the air, a small, sorry, trickle of liquid oozed lazily out and slid down the shaft in pathetic little dribbles. His hips were thrusting frantically, desperately trying to force his cock against something, but there was nothing there to touch it. He fought the restraints and wailed in abject, wretched misery.

With sadistic pleasure, Wizz watched the man suffer until he finally flopped back onto the table in anguished, unsatisfied defeat.

The boy looked over to the other end of the room, and gave a thumbs-up sign. “A moment...”

Ten seconds later a large monitor on the far wall came to life. The screen was split into two views - the left showing a close-up of Whitely’s head, the right a longer view of all of him including his cock, his raised legs with his leather ‘uniform’ trousers round his knees, and the end of the black dildo sticking out of his massive arse. There was a click, and then, in glorious surround-sound, the room was filled by the unmistakable voice of the man begging to be the masked boy’s whore.

Wizz nodded, and the screen went dark; the sound stopped. He gazed at the helpless man, whose cock was now much less hard than it had been. “It’s all there, Inspector Whitely. The whole session. In high definition.”

Whitely had gone very pale. “What do you want?” He whispered.

Tell me, do you remember a boy named Covey? Paul Covey?”

Whitely closed his eyes. Then he nodded.

“Did you really find that cocaine on him, or did you plant it?”

Whitely swallowed. “I -” He shook his head, then tried again, his voice barely audible. “I put it there.”

“Once more, please, louder, and smile at the cameras.”

“I planted the cocaine on Paul Covey.”

“And you accused Paul Covey of stealing a car - a BMW...”

He sighed in defeat. “I made that up.”

Wizz looked over towards the screens. “Get that?”

A small red light above them blinked once. Wizz nodded.

“There’s a good boy. In about ten seconds, that video – along with your confession – will be on its way by email to a safe location. At four pm tomorrow, it is going to be sent to every fucking newspaper I can think of. You will not only lose your job, but with the publicity it’s going to generate, people a lot higher than you in the force will have no choice but to make very sure that you are prosecuted. How do coppers do in prison? Do the other inmates look after them well? You’ll probably see some old friends in there… And when you eventually come out, your entire sorry little life will be ruined. You will never be able to get work or show your face again. And I don’t think many of the guys on Leatherstudz will be too interested in you any more.”

Whitely felt as if he was going to vomit. In a small, shaking voice, he asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“Glad you asked that. First thing tomorrow morning you will go to your police station, and you will whisper to your superior officer that you planted the cocaine on Paul. You’re very sorry. You will be the subject of an internal enquiry, and you’ll probably find yourself on traffic duty in Little-Hampton-on-the-Wold for the next five years. But that is probably all. It’s your choice. If Paul doesn’t hear by four o’clock tomorrow that all charges have been dropped, watch those front pages.”

Whitely didn’t even have to think about it. “All right. Yes.” He nodded. “I’ll sort it.”

“You had better, officer Whitely, you had better...”

The leather mask was hot, and Gordon was sweating as he took it off.

“The lithp thuith you.” Paul was grinning at his brother.

“Fuck off.” Gordon threw the mask onto the table and flopped down into the chair.

“One thing,” said Paul, frowning. “Where the fuck did you learn how to edge someone? And come to that, how do you know your way round Peter’s playroom as well as you do?”

Gordon chuckled. “With some things,” he said, “its probably better not to ask...”