The Telemachus Story Archive

The Green Door
By Hooder

The Green Door

I’m close to shitting myself.

I sit down on a plasic chair facing away from the green door so I can’t see it. I don’t want to look at it. I make myself take slow, deep breaths to slow my racing heart and to try to make the butterflies in my stomach go away. My heart rate slows slightly but the butterflies are still there.

It’s strange – I didn’t feel as nervous as this when they first brought me to this place; it’s a detention centre like any other, I thought. Ha, I was so wrong about that: it’s run by fucking sadists. The rules are so easy to break it’s as if they designed them that way – and the punishments, well, up to yesterday I’d managed to avoid them, but then that bastard Michael Crickley passed me a mobile phone and two minutes later I was searched. Coincidence? Yeah, right.

The reason they can get away with it is because this place is so high-security: no contact allowed with the outside world at all, ever, for the duration of your term. If it wasn’t for that they would never be allowed to do the things they do. I’ve heard stories from guys, descriptions of what they do to you. The whole institution is run by perverts.

I’m nineteen, and I am straight. I am one hundred percent straight. I’ve fucked lots of chicks, and the missionary position is all I require, thank you. No bondage, no leather thongs, no swinging from the chandeliers, just straightforward, normal, sex. But things are different here. For a start, where else do some of the staff wear pervy black leather uniforms? What other detention centre has a purpose-made torture chamber? (That’s only a rumour I’ve heard, but from what I’ve seen so far I’m all too ready to believe it.)

There’s an extensive list of rules – they’re on four sheets of closely-typed A4 stuck up on the main notice board – and breaking any one of them incurs punishment. The list starts reasonably enough: no mobile phones, no drugs, no fighting etc., but when you get further down there are things you would not expect: would you believe it is illegal in this place to have a wank? Rule number 128 - it is against the fucking rules to cum unless you go through the proper procedure: if you need one you have to find one of the warders in the leather uniforms – the guys call them the ‘SP’, for ‘Sex Police’ - tell him you need a wank, and he tells you to go back to your cell, and that one of his colleagues will be along in a while. Then you wait. This can be all fucking day if they feel like it. When one finally arrives, he straps you down to the restraint points on your bunk and wanks you off with a leather-gloved hand. It is terminally humilating, and often guys are standing outside the open door watching. These bastards control every fucking thing in your life.

There are no girls here. Apparently there is a separate wing across the road for them. Here there are only boys between sixteen and twenty. Horny, teenage boys – boys who, left to themselves, would wank two, three times a day or more. And that is how they control us. The bastards have got it down to a fine art: by regulating when we can cum, they keep our balls full to bursting with spunk – and not only that, but the cunts have ways to make our need more urgent. Three times a day, plus whenever they feel like it, they search us. This is not a simple pat-down. Oh no. You have to stand with your hands on top of your head, legs apart, while two of them run their skintight leather-gloved fingers over your body – under your teeshirt, up your shorts, everywhere. They always pay particular attention to your cock, balls, arse and the insides of your thighs, touching, feeling, stroking, tickling, until they’ve got your cock so fucking hard you’re desperate to shoot. And then they stop and go onto the next boy. I grit my teeth and try to think of my granny in the bath but it doesn’t help. The bastards know exactly what they’re doing.

As for the punishments for rule-breaking, there is no written list of them, and that makes it even worse because you don’t know what they’ll do to you. Like I said, I’ve been here a month and managed not to break any. Until yesterday.

The room is beige. Beige walls, beige carpet. There is one other boy waiting and he looks as nervous as I am. A window on the opposite side of the room gives a view of a brick wall. I’m fidgeting. I stop myself and sit on my hands.

The green door is not the door to the torture chamber. From what other guys have told me, inside it’s an empty room with two padded tables, side by side, in the middle. The guys say that you and another boy are strapped down to them, and then two of the SP work on you – one boy each. Whichever boy cums first is scheduled for the Punishment Room (that’s the torture chamber), and the other boy is let off and sent back to his cell. And the guys say that the two SPs are fucking bastards – they take bribes from the ones that work in the Punishment Room to make whichever boy their mates fancy the most lose it first, so they get him to work on. They make it impossible to fight against, but they do it slowly, so that you can feel yourself losing it gradually, so you can feel that torture chamber getting closer and closer...

I glance across at the boy sitting opposite me. He looks a touch younger than I am. He’s wearing what we all wear: grey teeshirt, white shorts, white socks and grey trainers. He’s avoiding my eyes; he knows that it’s me against him. Whichever of us cums first will be heading for the Punishment Room. Ha! He’s got a hard-on. Perhaps I have a chance. My own cock is soft – my nerves have seen to that. But if what the guys say is true, the bastards the other side of the green door are experts at making us boys cum. Although my cock is soft now, I haven’t had an orgasm for two days and I know that, although I’m straight, at the first touch of those hated perverts’ fingers it will betray me completely.

There are many, wildly differing stories of what the torture chamber is like and exactly what they do to you in there. Some say they beat you with paddles, canes, whips; although I have to say that I’ve never seen any marks on the boys when we’re in the showers, so that makes the beatings stories doubtful. There must be some dire order not to tell what happens in there, as there are no definitive accounts, but most stories tell, not surprisingly, of organised, controlled, sexual abuse. It’s said that the room is full of heavy equipment that’s designed to hold you helpless and in positions that make you as vulnerable as possible. They say that the first thing they do is strap you down to one of those, fuck you – first one and then the other - and make you suck their cocks.

When they’ve done that, they force a leather hood over your head so that you can’t see what’s going to happen, so that you can’t protect yourself, and to make you more vulnerable, more helpless, and – once they start working on you – more fucking horny. They say that they attach some kind of sensor to you that tells them from second to second exactly how close to cumming you are, and then that they work on you, stroking your skin, teasing and wanking your cock with smooth rubber-gloved fingers or – some say – an irresistable computer-controlled milking machine, keeping you a hair’s breadth away from cumming. But they never let you cum. Not yet. They make you want and need to cum more that you would ever believe was possible – and when you’re screaming with the need, when you think it can’t get any worse and that you’re going to go mad, they do make it worse: they get you a little bit closer to the edge still. And it goes on and on and on. But however much you need to cum, they always make very sure that you can’t.

The guys don’t say how long this goes on for. They probably have no idea, cos time would be meaningless if you were that desperate. But eventually they stop working on you just long enough to tell you that they’re going to milk your cock, and that when you’ve cum, you’ll be punished with electric shocks, but that the level of the shocks will depend on you: they’re going to set a countdown timer for 100 seconds, and start it. Whatever the timer reads when you cum is the level of shocks you’ll get – 100 if you cum immediately, 50 if it’s counted down to 50, no shocks at all if you last out for the full 100 seconds. So the intensity of the shocks they’ll give you will depend on how long you can hold out without cumming. Of course you’re hooded so you can’t see the timer, and they can say it reads any fucking time they like.

But what chance does a teenage boy have anyway? The bastards know you were horny before they started; they know that they’ve been expertly edging you insane for god knows how long, and they know that now you’re a hearbeat away from cumming. They push a finger up your arse, grip around your balls, pull your cock forwards and go to work on it with rubber gloves slippery with lube, milking you irresistably. You cum. Of course you cum - you can’t stop yourself. You can’t prevent it. You’re helpless to control yourself. And then the torture starts.

I look down, and stare at my shorts in terror – my cock is as hard as a rock. The other boy has seen it and is grinning. Why? Exactly what, thinking about being strapped down, hooded, edged and milked helplessly, has got my cock hard? I’m straight, I’m not into guys, or bondage, or hoods, or being edged or milked with rubber-gloved hands or… I’m getting even harder.

The boy opposite stretches his legs out. I can see up the leg of his shorts. His cock is as hard as iron. He sees me looking and smiles, knowingly.

“You been here before?” I ask.

His smile widens slightly. He nods his head. “Oh yeah...”

He seems confident, and now he doesn’t look nervous at all. I’m wondering which of us is more fanciable. Which will the SPs in the next room force to cum first?

It’s as if he’s read my mind. “Mmm… you are so cute,” he says. “Mr. Collins loves cute, blond boys.”

“Mr. Collins?”

“Runs the Punishment Room.”


We sit in silence for a while, and then the green door opens. Two boys come out. One of them has a raging erection, the other has spunk stains all over his shorts. That one does not look happy.

A tall, hunky guy in the full black leather SP uniform stands in the doorway. He looks as us. “You two,” he says.

I stand up unsteadily, swallow, and follow the other boy through the green door.