The Telemachus Story Archive

The Hood
By Hooder


He lifted the hood off the coffee table and looked at it. He stroked it slowly, the leather felt rough under his fingertips. This was no off-the-shelf item bought from some fetish shop, made of thin, shiny leather and intended to turn the wearer on. The thing in his hands was nothing like that – there was no detachable blindfold or gag, or pinprick eyes, zips or other gadgets designed for looks. This was a simple, serious device: it had been constructed not for appearance, but as a weapon - to incapacitate, to frustrate, to render helpless and vulnerable. And to do it with industrial effectiveness.

He weighed it in his hands, It was heavy, very heavy. Some of the weight was in its thick collar; a hood only does its job when it's on a victim, and if the victim can get it off, then it ceases to be of use. This one had a welded D-ring which fitted through a steel-reinforced slot on the other side of the collar so that it could be secured with a substantial padlock. The hood itself was made from tan-coloured leather - thick enough to make it almost impossible to cut, but also flexible: it was not interested in causing discomfort – it was interested in control .

He turned it in his hands and ran a fingertip over one of the two air holes. It was clear that although the hood was simple, careful thought had gone into it: the air holes were placed close together directly under the nose so that while they would allow sufficient air for the victim to breathe, they would admit not a single ray of light that would make it as far as the wearer's eyes. Once a victim had this thing lowered - or forced - over his head, he would be plunged into a world of total and perfect blackness from which the only escape was the removal of the hood.

Commercial hoods often had shiny leather on the inside too, so that they felt sexy - but this one did not. The leather had simply worn smooth on the inside - no attempt had been made to appeal to any fetishes the wearer may have - the inside was just smooth, untreated leather. There was no lacing at the back, or adjustments of any kind; they were unnecessary - provided the hood stayed on, it would be every bit as effective whether it were tight or loose.

As he gazed sullenly at the hood he thought of just how much we take for granted our ability to see. It's something we don't think about very often. But of all the senses, the loss of vision - when we're used to being able to see - is by far the most incapacitating and the most devastating. He knew that that is precisely why hoods and blindfolds are used in dungeons and playrooms: because they're so effective. And he knew very well how easily a hood can reduce the strongest, most powerful and muscular athlete - even one who's otherwise completely unrestrained - to a helpless victim, incapable of protecting himself effectively; raging impotently at phantoms that are never where he thinks they are. It enables even a pathetic weakling - if he's cunning - to beat him, restrain him further, frustrate him, tease him, torture him - simply by exploiting the fact that he can't see a fucking thing.

He held the hood in his hands and looked at it with loathing. He'd worn that hood almost constantly for the best part of three months.

It had been after his return from a tour of duty in Afghanistan. As a radio operator he hadn't really seen much action there but even so he'd been glad to be back. A quiet drink in a pub, then back to the barracks. At least that had been the idea. He had no idea who they'd been or how they'd slipped him whatever it was, but he'd started to feel whoozy after the second pint. Halfway across the pub car park the ground had suddenly come up to him and hit him in the face.

He'd regained consciousness in a bare cell. Whitewashed brick walls, a stainless-steel lavatory in the corner, a drain hole in the concrete floor. A bunk was bolted to the floor on one side, opposite the locked steel door with a sliding inspection panel in it and a small rectangular hole lower down. He was naked - his cammos and combat boots had been taken away. He would have expected the place to be freezing cold, but it was comfortably warm.

He looked around and noticed something lying on the bunk. Picking it up he saw it was a tan leather hood with an open padlock swinging from the D-ring. That was his first sight of the thing. He had a headache – probably from whatever drug they’d knocked him out with - and he realised he was hungry.

Some time later he heard sounds from outside the door. The inspection panel slid aside and a pair of eyes looked in. A voice shouted: "HOOD! Put it on, lock it."

He didn't appear to have any choice, and so he pulled the leather hood over his head and clicked the padlock closed. It felt heavy and smelled slightly musty. From under the thick leather he heard the door open and someone come in. "Whenever you hear the word 'HOOD' you will put it on and close the lock. Whenever you are left alone, if the key is in the lock you can remove the hood. You will then push the key through the lower hole in this door. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"Come with me."

He was led out of the cell and marched down what sounded like a corridor and into another room.

He had only been hooded once before – during Resistance to Interrogation training – and now, just like he had done then, he found it intensely disturbing. He had no idea where he was, who else was in the room with him, what was going to happen to him. He had none of the vital information that his eyes would normally have provided him with, and so he was totally unable to prepare himself for the punch to the abs that suddenly came out of nowhere. He let out a shout, and he lashed out - but his fists connected with thin air. There was a quiet chuckle.

"You're a big, muscular lad. Bet you can take care of yourself. Handy with your fists. Trained in hand-to-hand, no doubt. But it's a bit more difficult with that thing over your head, isn't it?"

Another punch - this time to the stomach. He doubled up in pain.

"That's just to demonstrate that we can hurt you whenever we want. But punching you is too much effort. Electricity is so much easier…"

He screamed as lightening flashed through his left shoulder. A cattle prod, or something similar.

"We can do anything we want to you…" His body jerked as fingers stroked along the length of his soft cock. "… And the thing is, you can't steel yourself against it, can’t see it coming." Another low laugh.

Nothing happened for a while, and then he felt something thin and hard glide over his back, It was removed, and then he screamed as the cane landed with white-hot pain across his buttocks. A second blow - this time on his calves. He fell to the floor and curled up into a tight ball as more blows found the soles of his feet, his thighs, his back, and his shoulders.

It felt like there was only one person doing this. If he could see, he'd be able to avoid the worst of the blows - or at least to tense his muscles so he could take them. And if he could see, he could mash this fucking bastard to a pulp. But he couldn't fucking see. He was defenceless.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" He yelled.

The only reply was more pain. It continued for a long time.

They dragged him back to his cell and he heard the door lock. He felt at his collar – they’d put the key into the padlock. He pulled the hood off and threw it against the wall, posted the key through the small opening in the door, then sat on the floor rubbing his bruises. His whole body hurt.

There was food on the bunk. He sat down and lifted the metal tray into his lap. The tray was cold but the food was hot, and good - and there was plenty of it. So they weren't intending to starve him then. Who the fuck were they? What did they want? And where was he? He could be anywhere - he had no idea how long he'd been unconscious; if they'd kept him that way he could be anywhere in the fucking world. But this wasn't the way prisoners were usually treated. There was warmth, food and, so far, no interrogations. It was possible, he supposed, that some of his mates were playing some kind of sick joke on him, but he didn't think his mates were the kind to have any interest in doing something like that. He couldn't understand it.

He used the lavatory and lay on the bunk. It was comfortable enough, and there was a blanket and pillow on it. He examined the hood again. This also was not the type of thing interrogators used: it was too purpose-made. Usually, a plain black bag or a sack was all that was necessary. This thing was over-the-top. None of it added up. He put the hood down and closed his eyes.


He woke with a start, remembered where he was, and let out a moan. Then he jumped up, put the hood on and locked it, and stood to attention while they came in and took him away again.

He was in the same room as before. His nerves twitched as he expected a blow or an electric shock at any moment, but so far nothing. He stood there, waiting, and feeling more helpless, more vulnerable, than he had ever felt in his life before. He was at their mercy.

"Lie down on the table."

"What table?"

"Ah, sorry - I'd forgotten, you can't see anything, can you…" There was gloating in the voice.

He felt around the space carefully and after a few seconds bumped into something solid with a smooth padded surface. He lay on the table and waited again, expecting pain of some kind at any moment. But when it came, it wasn't pain at all.

Fingers on his cock. "Ugh!" He shouted in surprise, his hands instantly moving to protect himself. The grip on his cock remained.

"Put your hands back by your sides."

He hesitated, fighting the urge to rip the hand off his cock, but eventually he complied.

"Good. Now, you will keep your hands there. Do you understand?"


A finger and thumb began to stroke and caress lightly, starting at the base and moving up along the shaft to the head. Then they returned the same way. He grimaced under the hood - the idea of another guy touching his cock was anathema to him, and the fact that he had no choice but to lie there and allow it, made it even worse. He wasn't into bondage either, but at least if he had been tied down it would have been easier somehow to accept what was happening. He suddenly got a sinking feeling, and a groan escaped from him as he realised with horror that his cock was showing signs of responding to the light, teasing touch: it was beginning to get hard. "No!" This was too much for him and his hands flew to his crotch. He pushed the teasing fingers off and covered himself with his own hands.

A second later a searing shock of electricity arced through his left leg as a prod was fired against his thigh. He screamed and fell off the table. They let him lie there on the floor for a few seconds, then the voice said, gently, "get back on the table."

He knew he had no choice; he climbed back up and after a moment, the hand returned to his cock. It continued to stroke and tease, squeezing lightly.

"Part your knees so I can get to your balls."

He swallowed, then forced his legs to part. He felt a hand between his thighs, and he gasped as the fingertips of this one glided, feather-soft, over his balls and erogenous zones, tickling, teasing. He was now being worked on by both hands - and he was quickly getting very hard. The fingers on his cock were now concentrating on the head, stroking and running in small circles over the sensitive glans, and then he felt them begin to slide rather than stroke - Oh fuck, no… Precum! He felt a wave of shame.

The male brain is a strange thing: although he was straight, and hated the very idea of being touched sexually by other guys, what he was feeling was so intensely erotic that his hips began to move, quite involuntarily, on the padded table. The hard-wired desire for orgasm was beginning to make itself felt. Aware of this, he consciously stopped himself humping the table, but he was very much afraid that he would be powerless to prevent it from winning in the end. This was so fucking unfair. He clenched his fists and beat on the table in fury.

Every second, the stroking, teasing, tickling fingers on his cock and his balls were getting him closer to orgasm. He was still at the stage where he could try to fight it, but then the hand left his cock. He heard the sound of a rubber glove being put on, followed by a squish, and then the hand was back. It wrapped its rubber fingers around his cock and started to milk it. The sudden feel of the cool, smooth, slippery rubber sliding quickly up and down his cock on a thick film of lube instantly made him lose it. With a yell, he came - his hips thrusting and his legs quivering. He felt spunk falling onto his thighs as the rubber hand continued to milk him.

Eventually he collapsed back onto the table.

"I think that's all for today," said the voice.

He was led back to his cell, and the door closed with a clang.

He got little sleep that first night; his mind was filled with what had happened to him - the beatings, the touch of other guys' hands on the most private parts of his body, but most of all the unbearable feeling of powerlessness, of being controlled. And whenever he opened his eyes he saw that bastard fucking hood lying there - the one thing that made it impossible to resist them, to fight them. He gritted his teeth: he was damned if he was going to put that thing over his head again.


He was already awake. He got off the bunk and stood to attention in the centre of the cell. The hood was still where he had put it, on the floor beside him.

The eyes gazed through the opening in the door. "HOOD!" The voice repeated.

He didn't move.

The sliding panel closed. A few moments later it opened again and the end of a fire hose was inserted at one side. Eyes watched him as the high-pressure stream hit him square-on. It knocked him backwards onto the bunk but he crawled quickly to one side, The cold water followed him as he lurched around the room. It hit the hood and carried it to the wall. He tried to get to the door - directly under the sliding opening was the one place he would be able to avoid the water - but the force of the jet kept knocking him back.

Finally it was turned off. He picked himself up and shook himself - the entire cell was running with water. It gurgled as it emptied down the drain in the concrete floor. His bunk and the bedding on it were soaked.

"HOOD!" Said the voice.

Shivering and beaten, he picked up the hated device and shook as much water off it as he could. He put it over his head and closed the padlock. It was cold and wet, and felt even more restrictive than before. It was also more difficult to breathe until the air holes cleared themselves. He waited for the door to open, but nothing happened.

They left him alone in the cell - cold, wet, hungry and hooded - for the entire day.

He heard the sliding panel open. There was a metallic sound, and the panel closed again. The key! They had thrown the key in. He felt around on the floor but couldn't find it. He told himself to be logical, and started a controlled back-and-forth search on hands and knees from the door end of the cell to the bunk. He eventually found it under the bunk, and removed the hood with relief. The bunk was sodden so he sat against the wall with his knees to his chest and tried to get some sleep.


He put the cold, wet hood on and they led him out. More beatings - this time with what felt like small, light whips. They stung like wasps. Unrestrained, he ran and crawled around the room trying to avoid the blows, but blindfolded by the leather hood it was impossible to dodge them. He bumped into walls, and into the table, but never once into the guys with the whips.

After hours of this, he was taken - bruised and cut - back to his cell. He removed the hood, posted the key, and ran his hands over his sore body. The bunk had been dried and the bedding replaced, and a large tray of food was sitting on it, He ate it ravenously. After that, he lay down and closed his eyes. The bastards had it all worked out, They held all the fucking cards and there was no way he could see to get out of this. He gave an ironic chuckle: 'no way he could see..' indeed. Then he had a thought.

He opened his eyes, got off the bunk and picked up the hood. Was there any way he could make holes in it so he'd be able to see while it was on? He had nothing sharp and pointed. He looked around the cell, but again there was nothing. He lifted the hood to his mouth with the idea of biting a hole through it - but the leather was too thick and heavy even to fold over so he could make a hole in the right place - and unless he could fold it he couldn't bite through it. He put a finger on one of the places where a hole would need to be, and tried biting anyway, but the stiff leather just slid under his teeth. There was no way he was going to be able to do it like that.

The padlock! He lifted it off the D-Ring and inspected it, but the fuckers had thought of everything: the end of the metal prong was perfectly rounded… He put the hood on the concrete floor to try boring through it with the lock, but the curved metal part didn't rotate, so the body of the lock was always in the way. He tried opening the lock as far as it would go and sliding the hood into it with the idea of punching a hole through - but there was nothing like enough space in the curve for the leather of the hood to go into; he couldn't even get the collar through. In a rage of frustration he threw the hood against the cell door.

He ate a meal, then later they took him to the room again. He stood waiting, not knowing what kind of beating he was in for this time. Through the thick leather of the hood he could hear occasional indistinct rustling. Something touched his cock: a rubber-gloved hand. His body jerked reflexively. It stroked once and then was withdrawn. Then a brief touch on his arse. Pause. Rubber fingertips stroked the inside of his thigh, then were gone. A gloved hand slid smoothly down his left arm, then another cupped his balls for a moment.

Suddenly he felt a body behind him. It pressed itself against him and he felt the touch of rubber from his shoulders down to his calves. Another - in front of him, pressing his rubber-clad body to his naked skin. This was not tight, thin rubber - it felt like long, loose rubber coats or macintoshes of some kind - and it felt cold, shiny. Rubber arms encircled his waist from behind, the shiny gloved hands finding his balls; the guy in front of him reached down and held his hardening cock in a gentle grip. He was enclosed in rubber, front and back, and he was aware of the smell of it now, too.

"We're going to whip you again - but we're going to make you cum first - because it hurts a lot more after you've just cum." The voice was whispering, taunting. "You can struggle if you want…"

He threw himself to one side and curled up in a tight ball on the floor. They were on him immediately, rubber-booted feet straddling him, gloved hands groping for his cock. He gripped a wrist and pulled it off him - but another one took its place and started to milk him. He turned over, pushed himself away and crouched down, listening as well as he could under the leather of the hood. A rubber hand thrust between his knees and gave his now fully erect cock a couple of strokes before he jumped up and ran until he hit a wall, then sat with his knees tight to his chest, his arms around himself protectively. Suddenly both his ankles were grabbed and pulled out. His cock stabbed the air between his thighs. Rubber fingers found it, gripped the head and began milking him again. As his hands came up to force it off, his wrists were gripped and held - there must be at least three of these guys here, he thought. He kicked, but his ankles were clamped between rubber legs and held immobile. The hand on his cock continued to stroke the head teasingly, bringing him closer and closer to cumming.

With a sudden, superhuman effort, he managed to pull himself free of them. He dived into what he felt was the centre of the room, trying to find the table. Perhaps he could use it to hide under. But he couldn't find the damned thing. As he moved about, rubber hands continually found his cock and stroked it before he could move away.

Then they were on him again. One guy straddled him and went for his cock, but he turned over onto his side to get away from the milking fingers. Where were the others? He didn’t know which way to go. Damn this fucking hood!

He managed to throw off the guy who was sitting astride him, and pushed himself up onto all fours. Suddenly they were all on him. They clamped his arms between their rubber thighs and his feet between their rubber knees, holding him where he was, their rubber macintoshes all over his naked skin. A smooth rubber-gloved hand inserted itself tauntingly slowly between the tops of his thighs from behind, sliding beheath his balls. It took his cock in its lubricated, slippery black fingers, held it pointing straight down, and started to milk him - slowly and frustratingly casually – with long strokes, the thumb sliding irresistibly over the cock head. The guy used two fingers of his other hand gently to seal the air holes in the hood so he couldn't get any air. He panicked, bucking and shaking his head to get the fingers off the holes but they followed his movements - he couldn't get away from them. Adding to his panic, he felt orgasm approaching. He couldn't breathe, couldn’t get away, couldn’t see - and in a blind, animal frenzy he squeezed his thighs together tight around the rubber arm and screwed up his eyes under the hood. He couldn’t fight those shiny, slippery gloved fingers, and the hood ballooned with his scream as he pumped his spunk into the milking black rubber hand.

The guy had been right - oh fuck had he been right: the beating that followed was made a hundred times more painful by his having cum. The contractions of his orgasm had barely finished when the guys were off him, and setting about him with those devilish little whips. Over his gasps for air, he could still hear their rubber gear rustling and creaking as they raised their arms to strike him. Occasionally he found a pair of booted feet and hung onto them, pleading for mercy - but mercy was not forthcoming. They laughed as they caused him intense – but carefully controlled and administered - pain. Once his hand, flailing in the air, made contact with one of the guys' crotches - and he felt a hard, horny cock under rubber jeans…


They led him into a different room this time. Although he could see nothing, he could tell by the acoustics that it was a much larger space. At least the hood was drying out.

"The key is on the floor." There were footsteps, then the door closed and locked.

He unlocked the hood and took it off. And stared.

He was in a room the size of a warehouse, and it was like a set from a science-fiction film, or like something from that 'Crystal Maze' show on the TV: There were pieces of sharply-pointed metal at odd angles; bars suspended across spaces; holes in the floor with spikes in them; and a few yards in, pieces of black rubber hanging down. The room was well-lit, and a bright yellow line ran over the black floor, leading into the maze.

"The way to freedom is at the end of the line, Just follow it." The voice came from a loudspeaker above his head.

Cautiously, he followed the line into the maze, being careful to avoid the spiked metal. The strips of rubber slid over his body and closed behind him as he stepped over a hole in the ground, up two steps, and round a ninety-degree corner to the right. A nasty-looking electrode had been in the straight-on direction. More rubber - this time at crotch level - brushed teasingly over his cock as he turned sideways to get through the narrow passageway. He had to bend down to get under a steel bar that was suspended across the passage, and then he saw that the yellow line on the floor ran over a bright blue square - in the wall at the side of which was a leather boxing-glove on a substantial spring.

The passage narrowed slightly, continued for a few feet, then he came to a crossroads. The yellow line went straight ahead. He walked on.

A large sheet of thin rubber suddenly fell on him from above, and he fell over, hitting his head hard on one of a series of protruding blocks. The rubber felt cool and oddly erotic. He got it off him, and stood up. He'd thought that the yellow line had been pointing straight ahead, but it was leading off to the left, He must have got turned around while he was dealing with the rubber.

He followed the line to the left and then to the right, avoiding obvious traps, then he came to an area where the maze changed: there were no more holes in the floor or steps up and down, from here on there was a forest of what looked a bit like sharpened turnstiles: vertical scaffolding poles to which were attached horizontal spikes of various length. Most of them were steel-coloured, but a few, seemingly at random, had red tips. There were three ways into this metal maze. The yellow line took a zigzag path between the spikes, and he had to step over them, lean over or bend down at various times to avoid them. He received minor stabs from several of the steel-coloured ones, and found that the red ones were electrified. The first zap he got, on his left knee, caused him to jerk backwards onto more of the spikes.

He followed the yellow line past many other routes – most of which he could see led to other junctions or dead-ends, and eventually he came to another curtain of the rubber strips. He cautiously parted them to find himself in a room with a large window and a door which clearly led to the outside world - trees were visible through the thick glass of the window. The door was padlocked. Above it was a green illuminated sign: "EXIT". The hood lay on the floor by the door.

"So, now you know the route through the maze to the exit." The voice was through a speaker again. "HOOD!"

He sighed. He might have guessed it would not be so easy. He pulled the hood over his head and locked it. They took him back to the room he'd started from.

"Now all you have to do, is get through it hooded …" The voice whispered that last word with unmistakeable sadism.

He felt his way forward very slowly. He remembered that the first strips of rubber marked the real entrance to the maze, and he only managed to spike himself once on the metal before he got to them. The rubber slid sensuously over his skin and he stopped, trying to recall what was next. A couple of steps straight ahead. He started forward - and his foot found empty air, then he yelled as blunt but painful spikes dug into his bare sole. He'd forgotten the hole in the floor. He crawled up the steps, and stood up - he remembered some more unpleasant spikes at knee-level. Very, very slowly he made his way forward. Electricity shot through his body as he walked into the electrode. He yelled in pain, then turned right, and felt the passageway narrowing. He shuffled sideways and gasped as rubber caressed his cock and thighs.

Straightening up, he walked straight into the steel bar across the passage. It caught him full in the face and his nose stung like hell.

What was next?

He stepped onto the blue square and the boxing-glove - which, he discovered, was weighted - slammed into his solar plexus. He doubled up in pain and staggered sideways into an electrified fence. He didn't recall having seen that, he thought, when he was capable of thinking again. He continued on.

The passage was narrowing again. He remembered this – it was a crossroads, and he must go straight on.

Suddenly he staggered as the floor began to revolve. He was on a turntable. It took several seconds for him to right himself, by which time he had no longer any idea which way he was facing.

The turntable stopped, and he started forward very slowly.

The boxing glove got him again. He’d gone back the way he’d come. He turned around and went back to the turntable, which started to revolve again as soon as he stepped onto it. Bastards.

When it stopped, he inched forward, not knowing which way he was going now. Something touched his ankle. By the time he realised it was a tripwire it was too late: something heavy hit him in the stomach, and as he doubled up his head came down onto a projecting beam of metal. Even cushioned by the hood, he saw blinding flashes of light. Carefully he crawled back to the turntable, and tried a different direction.

It occurred to him that crawling was good - he thought most of the traps were intended to get him when he was standing up, Perhaps he could avoid some of them by staying closer to the ground.

Either they were looking, or there were photocells of some kind, because he crawled into five traps: two electrodes; two moving spikes; and some kind of motorised pincers, before he decided it was better to take his chances on his feet after all.

He came to a T-junction, and decided it was probably better to try to get back to the turntable rather than continue down either of the new passages. Moving as slowly as he could, he backtracked until he felt the edge of the turntable beneath his bare feet. He’d tried what he’d thought had been straight on, and he’d tried to the right, so this time he set off to the left – or what he thought was the left – he was so disorientated now that he could easily have been going in any direction.

The falling rubber sheet took him completely by surprise. He fell over and floundered around trying to get it off him while its folds enveloped him with cool smoothness. The rubber glove that had milked him flashed through his mind and in spite of his situation he felt a sharp stab of excitement in his cock for a split second - but it was soon gone. He got the rubber sheet off and stopped to think. Unless there were more than one of those, he recalled that the yellow line had gone off to the left from there. He felt with his hands, found the passage junction, and turned left. By feeling with his toes, he avoided a couple of holes in the floor, but then stubbed his toe on a step. He found the right-hand turn and thought he should now be at the start of the forest of metal poles.

He remembered them all too well, and knew that there was no way he was going to be able to avoid a great deal of pain here, whatever he did. He gritted his teeth, then suddenly he punched the wall in fury and tore at the hood. If only he could fucking see! But he couldn’t get it off, and the leather over his eyes, inanimate and dispassionate, continued to do what it had been designed to do: blindfold him completely.

He sat down on the floor. There had been three ways into this part – he seemed to remember that the yellow line had zigzagged first to the right and then to the left, so he’d start to the right. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward.

Without being able to see, it was fucking impossible. The only way he could find the way was by feeling where the spikes were with his hands – and the shocks from the electrified ones were not only painful, they caused his body to jerk – often into more of the spikes. He tried using his head, as the leather of the hood insulated him from the shocks, but he couldn’t get fine enough information about the position of the spikes that way. And he didn’t just have to find the one way through – this thing was a maze with alleys through the spikes leading to false junctions and to dead ends.

After half an hour he came to yet another forced stop. He had no idea where he was, what direction he was facing. The exit door might be feet away from where he was – or he could be the other side of the maze entirely.

His body hurt all over: he had cuts and bruises, and his muscles were quivering from the frequent shocks. He sat down and put his hooded face in his hands. He was totally lost. He would never get out of this death-trap. He raised his head and screamed at the top of his lungs: 'YOU FUCKING BASTARDS! FUCKING BASTARDS!"

After a while they came for him and led him out of the maze and back to his cell.

He removed the hood and was about to post the key through the opening in the door when he had a thought: what if he closed the padlock now, so that he couldn’t lock the hood on with it? He had the key, so they would have to show themselves by coming into the cell. He pushed the lock closed, then lay down on the bunk and slept..


“I can’t lock it on – the padlock’s shut.” He waited.

Another key was thrown into the cell.

So much for that idea.

He lost track of time. The days turned into weeks; the weeks into months. His waking hours consisted of torture of one kind or another. They beat him in many and varied ways; they tortured his nipples; they fucked him; they put electric dildoes up his arse; they cut off his air until he almost blacked out; they even tickle-tortured him (that was one of the most unbearable things of them all), and not once did they restrain him with anything other than the hood. But because of the way they did these things - the way they always exploited the fact that he couldn't see - he was helpless to prevent any of them.

And every time, now, they milked him before they tortured him – milkings made intentionally impossible for him to resist by slippery, lube-slick rubber gloves sliding over his cock head, wielded by unseen sadists in rubber boots, rubber jeans, and cold rubber macintoshes. And every time, as they started to work on his cock, they carefully explained that the reason they were going to make him cum was specifically so that the torture that immediately followed would be even more unbearable. He did everything he could think of to stop them getting to his cock, to stop himself from cumming – but hooded as he was, it was so easy for them to make sure that he couldn’t.

That hood - he lived in that hood. The only times he was not locked in it were when he was in his cell. After all this time he didn't know where he was, who they were, even how many of them there were. He had only heard one voice, ever. And he still didn't know what they wanted. There was no way he could even try to escape: he was either locked in the cell - and there was zero chance of escaping from there - or he was blindfolded by that fucking hood. He may have been led many times past open doors to freedom while being taken from one room to another, or even have passed tables with piles of keys to his cell on them and a six-foot neon sign saying “PLEASE TAKE ONE” - but that fucking hood made sure he didn't know where they were, couldn't see them. It was a devilish - and, he had to admit, brilliant - way of controlling a prisoner.

Months later, something very different happened one night. When he was taken back to his cell after a late-night milking and beating – both of exquisite intensity - and removed the hood, he found a second hood on the bunk, This one was much flimsier. It was the kind of cheap tat you can find in some fetish shops: thin, shiny black leather, and a fitting for one of those tiny padlocks that can be opened with a paperclip. Such a padlock was provided with this one.

"Put the black hood on and lock it."

He complied. Even though it was thin and cheap, it did the job - he couldn't see a thing, though an occasional streak of brightness came through the side stitching.

The door opened and he was led out, Down a longer corridor in a direction he hadn't been before, and - wonder of wonders - out into the open air. He was pushed into the back of a van, and the doors closed. One of the guys was in there with him.

He was either going to be released, he thought to himself, or they were going to get rid of him.

The van drove for half an hour, then came to a stop. The doors opened and he was guided out, Grass beneath his feet. There was the sound of something hitting the ground by his side.

"Sit down." Said the voice.

He heard footsteps, the van door close, and the sound of it driving off.

He waited.

"Hello?" He had no idea if he were alone or not.

The only sound was of an owl hooting nearby, He waited.

Nothing happened. He stood up. The cool air against his naked skin felt very strange.

Tentatively, he reached up to the little padlock and pulled it. No beating followed, and he received no electric shock from a prod. He pulled it harder. He got both hands on it and wrenched it so hard that not only did the lock open but the metal post came off as well. He pulled the hood off and found himself in a park of some kind. A three-quarters moon was high in the sky and there was a large pond a hundred yards away with sleeping or softly-quacking ducks on the bank. Apart from the ducks, he was alone. A few feet away lay his combat boots and cammos, and on top of them was the hood. The open padlock – with the key in it - gleamed in the moonlight. He picked the hood up, looked at it, drew back his arm and, with a snarl of fury, aimed at the pond. But then he stopped, He put it down, got dressed, and took the hood with him as he walked away.

He held the hood in his hands. He stroked it slowly, feeling the leather under his fingertips. Once a victim had this thing locked on, he would be plunged into a world of total and perfect blackness from which the only escape was by the removal of the hood. It reduces the strongest, most resisting and muscular athlete to a helpless victim incapable of protecting himself. He can be beaten, teased, or tortured - simply by exploiting the fact that he can't see a fucking thing.

He still had no idea who the men were who had taken him; nor where he’d been held, but then hoods were all about denying information, so that seemed right to him somehow.

He held the hood in his hands and looked at it with loathing.

Then he pulled it over his head and clicked the padlock closed.

He opened his rubber macintosh and ran his hands over his rubber jeans - over his legs, up his muscular thighs, and onto his bulging crotch, He gripped his hard cock through the black rubber. Within seconds he was convulsing in an intense orgasm.

Tomorrow night he would go out hunting again, in full gear, and find a victim for a proper session.