The Telemachus Story Archive

By Hooder


I look at myself the mirror. The highly-polished boots come up to two inches below my knee, with no straps or buckles to break the perfection of the pristine black leather. My breeches are also black leather, and almost as shiny as the boots. They are skin-tight on the thighs, and show the curves of my body clearly. A crisp leather shirt; black leather tie fastened in a half Windsor knot; and a Sam Browne over my right shoulder clipped to the plain black 2-inch belt. I brush a speck of dust from my shirt, and nod; all is as it should be.

I pick up the mask and put it on, settling it into position carefully. I’ve tried many masks over the years but I always come back to this one: plain black leather; it is almost featureless – even the eye and mouth holes are practically invisible because of the fine black metal mesh under them. The whole aspect is one of almost robotic, faceless, expressionless blankness. However, the angles of the eye holes, in conjunction with a pair of equally barely-noticeable black leather eyebrows slanting down above them, exude an almost subliminal aura of sadism.

I inspect my reflection again, critically. I am of the old school: in my opinion, standards should be upheld and one should strive to appear smart and presentable no matter what one is doing. This, to me, is just as true if one is chairing a board meeting as it is if one is interrogating a subject.

The final touch, of course, will be the gloves; I always take them with me and put them on while the subject watches me.

For some time you have been restrained naked on the operating table in the interrogation room at the other end of the corridor from here; you have no idea where you are(though you will undoubtedly assume that you are still in a government facility), nor what is going to happen to you, but your worst fear is that you are going to be tortured. You don’t know how, or when, or by whom, but you know why. You are meeting me because you have not proven sufficiently forthcoming to my colleagues who have questioned you already. I suppose I am a kind of last resort – well, not exactly last, as there are other options, more unpleasant for you still, if you manage to hold out against me – but when information is required for the sake of national security, a range of increasingly coercive measures is employed.

There is currently only one light on in the room – a bright spotlight directly over your head. You can see nothing outside of that narrow pool of light.

In a few minutes, when you first see me, many things will go through your mind: first you’ll notice that I’m wearing black leather. When someone is about to torture you, what he is wearing would probably not be one of your most immediate concerns, but in this case it is unusual, unexpected, and therefore worrying. Leather is intimidating – it has many associations which are useful to me in this situation - and thought has gone into making it even more so: the high, polished boots speak of authority, control, coercion; the breeches are shiny, conveying the idea that the wearer is meticulous about his appearance. Breeches are not traditionally worn skin-tight on the legs, and the fact that these are, is itself unsettling. Why are they so tight? Is the man a sexual pervert? If so, he may - God forbid - get off on what he’s planning to do to you. And that, of course, opens up even more worrying possibilities.

The formality of the leather shirt and tie implies a cold, businesslike attitude that will be deaf to negotiation, pleas or begging; the Sam Browne belt hints at military expertise. His entire appearance, in fact,suggests very strongly that he is both experienced and dangerously expert at what he does.

At the same time, you will notice my mask. The operatives who have already questioned you were wearing masks, of course; you were not surprised – that is standard procedure – but they were plain black ski masks. Mine is very different. It does more than simply conceal my face: aided greatly by the sadistically slanting eyes, it sends a clear message that the rules have changed considerably – that now, physical duress is on the cards.

Because of the mask,you can’t identify me; you will know that whatever I do to you, you will never be able to point at me and say, ‘it was him.’ This frees me to do anything to you. Also, because you are unable to see my expressions, your fear will cause you to imagine that it is the worst possible at any given moment. The fact that I have deliberately chosen to wear such a mask informs you that I probably do not have your well-being at heart, and its calculated, inhuman featurelessness, allowing not the slightest reading of the expression beneath it, and therefore denying any knowledge of the wearer’s intentions or motivations, is purposely as unsettling as possible.

Before very long you will wonder why a guy in what is overtly kinky black leather is doing working in a government facility anyway. It will occur to you that perhaps this place isn’t government after all. You’ve been moved, hooded and drugged so much over the past days that you have no idea where you are. And if this interrogation has been outsourced, then there may be no rules at all. You will find this extremely worrying.

With a final check to see that I am smartly and properly dressed, I pick up the gloves and walk down the corridor into the interrogation room.

You hear the door open and close, and then my footsteps, but I know that I am beyond the reach of the single light in the black-walled room. I stand there for a while, watching you. The operating table is currently rotated to its vertical position, its top panel - behind your head - dropped. You are staring in my direction, desperate to see me. At this point subjects usually begin to make noise. The odd one or two show excessive and clearly artificial bravado - swearing, hurling abuse, even threatening; some whine, repeating the line that they have no information I want; but most of them simply plead to be released, or desperately want to know what is going to happen to them. I remain silent. I am well-practiced at ignoring a subject’s voice, even when he’s screaming.

After a while I walk slowly into the light. You gasp as I appear, your breathing rate increases, also your heart rate. I allow you to look at me, knowing the things that are going through your mind. I walk slowly around you, inspecting the body I am shortly going to begin to work on. My victims (I should not call them that, officially, but privately that’s how I think of them) are always male, always fit – I am of sufficient rank in the department that I can agree, or decline, to work on any subject as I wish. I stand up straight, my booted feet smartly together as I look at your muscles, rendered useless to you by the inescapable restraints; I observe your cock – as always, limp – your defined thigh muscles, your firm abs, your pecs.

By now you are beginning to panic properly. You yell, you shake your head, you pull at the restraints. I am not concerned about the noise you make, as this purpose-built interrogation room is completely soundproof. But even so, I will gag you soon; by rendering a victim unable to communicate, it removes his only way of begging for mercy – and, importantly, the possibility of his having any control whatsoever over his situation - and that is a very powerful way of causing despair and helplessness. It is also puzzling to a subject who knows that he is there to be interrogated – how can he give information if he is gagged? And if he is not about to be interrogated, then what is it about?

Torture is a complicated thing. The anticipation of it can be every bit as panic-inducing as the actuality, and so care and psychology are employed to make this as effective as possible.

I stand in front of you where you can see me perfectly, I take the gloves and I pull them on slowly, one by one. The gloves are, like the rest of my uniform, black and shiny; but these are of the thinnest possible leather, and they are so skin-tight that it takes some time – and some care – to get them on. While I am doing this my eyes do not leave your face. You can’t see them under my mask of course, but victims somehow always know that I am watching them closely. The blank blackness of the mask with its unsettling eyes is, I know, adding to your anxiety and terror.

I take the gag from a shelf and, standing behind you, get it between your teeth and strapped on. As expected, you struggle, and so this usually takes time, but by pulling your head back and sealing your nostrils so that you are forced to open your mouth to breathe, it can be done relatively easily with practice – and of that I have a great deal: I have done it hundreds of times. You could, of course, have been gagged from the very start, but forcibly gagging you is a good way to demonstrate that I can control you easily, and also it draws your attention to the gag specifically and starts you wondering about why I’m using one on you.

The constant stream of desperate pleading that has been coming from you so far is now reduced to unintelligible moans.

I walk around you to the front, noting the increasing panic that your inability to communicate is causing, and watching the sweat of terror running down your face.

From the shelf at the end of the room – out of your sight – I collect something and bring it back. After a moment to allow you to wonder what it is, I hold it up so that you can see it clearly. It is a black leather blindfold, padded on the inside so that it will seal perfectly over your eyes. Your instinct for self-preservation kicks in, sending a sudden start of realisation through you that you will desperately need to know what’s happening– what I’m about to do to you - and for that you will need to be able to see. As you look at that device it’s blindingly obvious that it is intended, purposely and specifically, to prevent you from doing exactly that. The inference is clear: any torture that is already unendurable while you can see, will be unimaginably worse if you can’t.

After allowing time for all these things to go through your mind, I move to stand behind you. If a victim struggles more to avoid having this put on him than he did to avoid being gagged, I know that he has realised just how effective it will be.

When I’ve got it positioned and strapped in place tightly, I raise the panel behind your head, then press a button which rotates the motorised operating table to horizontal. I hear you gasp as the unexpected movement begins.

With another long look at you I leave you there for a while, allowing time for your terror to build. A victim’s own mind is my most powerful ally; it will work on you whether you want it to or not.

When I return, I know that you can hear my booted footsteps, my leathers creaking as I move. I put more lights on – you can’t see them, and they make it easier for me – and I move about the room, making noise as I collect what could very possibly be instruments of torture, and put them down on the tables around you. You wince with every clank of metal. I want you to wonder what these instruments of pain look like. I will very probably not actually use any of these things on you, but you don’t know that. I’ve put them there mainly for the sounds they made; to increase your terror.

Finally, I go round the restraints that are holding you helpless, tightening every one even further. You gasp as each one grips you harder. You are now totally incapable of movement.

Very often it is about now that a victim pisses himself for the first time. I smile: it won’t be the last time. But it doesn’t matter: the table is waterproof and there is a drain in the floor under it.

At this point I lean close to you and ask you, in a quiet and calm voice, if you wish to give any information – before anything else is done to you. If you nod, the gag will be removed and you will be interrogated; if we find that satisfactory, your ordeal will be over. If you do not… you have no idea what will be done to you.

Under other circumstances the logical course of action would be to consider your options – but you are restrained in a soundproof room, gagged, blindfolded, and helpless; unknown tortures await, with unseen implements wielded by a faceless - possibly sadistic - torturer in black leather. You don’t know what it will be, or when it will start, or how long it will continue.

Before very long, you will make your decision.