The Telemachus Story Archive

What Did You Do in the War, Gerhart?
By Hooder

What Did You Do in the War, Gerhart?

It was in the latter part of the war when I was recruited into a department of the Waffen-SS. I was 18 years old, and I found myself under the guiding hand of a Commander I shall only call ‘Max’. He immediately took a shine to me.

I knew from the start that Max was different. It was obvious he liked boys rather than girls, and also that he had a powerful affinity for the uniform – the one he wore in our department was the first black leather SS uniform I’d ever seen. The first time I saw it I must have stared – I saw normal ones all the time, of course, but this leather uniform was different, and it did something strange to me inside.

Max was a thin, wiry man with greying hair and glasses which he polished frequently with a small white handkerchief.

Max was also a sadist.

He introduced me one evening to the members of what he called‘the club’. Each of these was an officer or a soldier whom, I realised later,had been selected because of one thing: his specialisation and expertise in one kind of torture or another. Max had arranged for all of them to have similar black leather uniforms, which they wore mostly in the evenings. I hate to say it, but perverted as they may have been, there were some very good-looking men in that club, and to this 18-year old soldier boy at least,their leather uniforms made them fascinatingly intimidating. I found myself wanting to look like them. This, in fact, happened surprisingly quickly – Max inaugurated me into this club that same evening, and in less than a week I had my own uniform. The first time I put it on I hardly recognised myself: it fit beautifully; I looked extremely smart, sexy, and somehow dangerous. And it felt wonderful.

I suppose that in a way I was lucky – much of my time was spent doing paperwork in Max’s outer office and I was able to avoid most of the atrocities they carried out downstairs on a daily basis. The evenings, though, were different: the evenings were entertainment for Max. After dinner we would change into our leather uniforms and, depending on his mood that day,Max would order one or more members of the club to report to a dungeon at 19:00 hours. The ‘dungeons’ consisted of five rooms in the bowels of the building; each one set up for a specific kind of torture. The one I worked in when Max called on me was named DB3.

I know what went on in the other rooms, but I don’t want to talk about it. When I was working they were empty – Max liked to concentrate on one thing at once. In each of the rooms there was a comfortable chair where he would relax and watch. At his side there was a pad, for his persönlicher junge Oliver to kneel on, from where the boy would, when required, and after things had got started, begin to work on him– at first through his leather breeches, and later directly on his naked cock.

At the other end of DB3 was a wooden construction which could be configured as a St. Andrews cross, a spread eagle frame, or a horizontal rack. Once that night’s victim had been brought in and Max had had a good look at him, he would decide which way the restraint would be used. All the victims – at least the ones who came into DB3 in those evening sessions - were athletic, good-looking young men, and as far as I remember every one was German. I have no idea where he got them from – I guessed that they were other soldier boys, like me, but I never recognised them. The restraint would be prepared, and the victims trapped to it.

Once that was done, the two guards that had brought the boy in would leave. Max would nod to me, and I would step forward.

I have said that Max was a sadist. I am a sadist too. Where we differed, however, is that he got off on the infliction of many kinds of suffering, whereas I loved only one specific type: tickle-torture. Inflicting pain of any kind leaves me quite cold – I have never had the slightest interest in it at all – and yet making a helpless victim scream, writhe, and beg through intense, unbearable tickle-torture is what I live for. I really don’t know how I came to have this preoccupation for it, but the older I got, the more it fascinated me.

I have never been able to draw, play a musical instrument, sculpt, or write creatively, and yet in that one talent I am as accomplished as any Michelangelo: I can make pure ticklishness any boy’s single, most devastating weakness. I do not know how it works. I only have to look into a boy’s eyes for a moment, flex my leather-gloved fingers and start on him, and he becomes the most unbearably ticklish victim it is possible to imagine.

Neither am I certain how Max got to know about my obsession for tickling in the first place, but I assume one of the other guys must have told him - we soldier boys would often have play fights and it was not unknown for me to suddenly incapacitate my opponent by tickling him if I was losing. But however he found out, he decided to explore it – as I said, Max was interested in many kinds of things that could be done to helpless victims– and heap pointed me his chief tickle torturer.

I would stand before the restrained boy, and look deep into his eyes. First I would see him noticing my obvious youth, and then taking in my ‘evening’ uniform: the polished jackboots; the non-regulation shiny black leather breeches and tunic with its jagged ‘SS’ runes on the collar and the red armband on the sleeve; the round belt buckle; the skintight, thin leather gloves, the military peaked cap.

Unless the boy was unusually good-looking and Max wanted to watch his face while he was being worked on, I would take the unlined leather hood and pull it over the victim’s head, rendering him incapable of knowing what was going to happen, and thus making him even more vulnerable to the torture I was about to inflict on him. This would not have occurred to me, but Max clearly knew the effectiveness of hooding a victim, presumably from his attendance in the other dungeons.

And then, as my fingers first touched the boy’s defenceless body, I would feel his realisation of what I intended, followed by sheer, unadulterated terror.

My standing orders were to begin slowly, and build up over a period of a quarter of an hour or so, to full, excruciating torture. Smilingly, Max would award me points for making the victim piss himself, but would– un smilingly - deduct points if the subject lost consciousness, even for a few seconds. It was often a case of walking a tightrope between the two.

I already knew a host of techniques that were effective on boys, but with every victim I learned new ones. I approached my duty as a perfectionist – I strove for maximum response through minimum effort on my part. This alone gave me a great deal of satisfaction, but I found that the screams, the helpless struggling, the begging and the pleading also fascinated and rewarded me more than I could have imagined.

Even before I began, my cock was always hard – both from the anticipation, and also from the feel of the leather breeches. At that time my fetish for leather was in its infancy and largely unexplored, but those heavy breeches focused my mind on it greatly – especially as they were unlined. As I worked on a boy my cock got harder and harder. The risk of cumming as the head pressed and slid against the nap of the leather was a very dangerous thing – if I came while I was torturing a victim it was always so intense that it was impossible for me to hide it. My own horniness was the driving force of my sadism, and when I’d cum I was never as effective, and Max was never pleased.

It is a wonderful fact that a boy is unimaginably more ticklish immediately after he has cum – often staggeringly so - and therefore causing the victim to have an orgasm was a highlight of the session, as the torture was always incalculably more effective on him afterwards. This was often done more than once – sometimes at Max’s direct order, sometimes at my own discretion. To do this my techniques would change from the deeply probing fingers intended to cause pure torture, to light, erotic tickling directly on erogenous zones. The boy’s cock would invariably harden, and I would work on it slowly with my oiled leather gloves. I would carefully build up the pressure for orgasm more and more – keeping the struggling, pleading boy on the very edge for as long as possible so that when I eventually caused his ejaculation, it would be as intense as it could be. The fact that this gave the victim the most acute pleasure was an irrelevant side-effect; the important thing was that it made his subsequent vulnerability to tickle torture as unbearable as possible.

Doubtless because of my own personal fetish for leather, I found myself taking every opportunity to stroke my shiny black uniform against his bare skin.

Max always enjoyed watching me make a victim cum, because of the unbearable sensitivity afterwards, and I’m quite sure he noticed my tendency to use the feel of my tunic, breeches and boots on him. It must have been then that he first realised I had a fetish for leather.

As I was edging the boy, Max would open his own breeches and instruct Oliver to work on his naked cock, mirroring as closely as possible what I was doing to the victim. Oliver had better not make Max cum, though, or the boy would find himself strapped to the frame at an unspecified later date (I always enjoyed working on Oliver – his slim, boyish body was helplessly responsive).

When my victim had cum, I brought out my most effective techniques to torture him as mercilessly and as sadistically as I could. The stone dungeon reverberated with insanely hysterical screams from the defenceless boy. This was the most risky time for me: although it got me more horny than anything else, it also tended to involve more movement on my part, and the feel of the leather breeches could make me cum if I wasn’t careful.

I respectfully mentioned this to Max once, suggesting that I should perhaps wear something other than leather breeches, so that they wouldn’t be such a threat to me, or would he at least allow me to wear underpants, please? He gave me his thin smile, nodded, and told me that he would arrange a different pair of breeches for me. But no, I would not wear underpants - none of his club members were permitted them while they were working on subjects; the feel of leather directly on the genitals was character-building, he said.

When they arrived, I found that not only were the new breeches still black leather, but also that he’d had the inside of the crotch area damn well lined with shiny leather as well. That man was a real sadist, I thought.

I hadn’t, up to that point, lost control of myself very often, but with those new breeches it was much more difficult not to do so. On the plus side, for Max, the feel of the sexy, shiny leather sliding over my cock drove me to even greater heights of sadism – but the occasions when they made me lose it and cum, became more frequent. After a session where I hadn’t been able to stop myself, Max would get out a notebook and make a short entry.

I didn’t then know what those notes were for, but my suspicions grew when, a few weeks later, a second replacement pair of breeches arrived. I found that on these, not only was the inside leather over the crotch even more highly polished, but small folds and creases had been introduced into it, to rub over my cock head.

These breeches were even worse. They drove me to make my victims suffer even more, but they also made me cum far too often. This seemed to amuse Max.

One morning a man arrived in the office. I was required to strip, then to get myself hard. With Max looking on, the man proceeded to take all sorts of extremely intimate measurements of my body. At one point I was ordered to bend over, and more measurements were taken. No explanation was given, and the man went away.

The following week I received a complete new uniform that I was ordered to wear for all torture sessions in the future. This consisted of a tight black leather SS tunic with shiny leather on the inside as well – and I was instructed to wear it directly over my bare skin – and yet another pair of leather breeches. These were tighter than the previous ones and they had the thinnest, shiniest leather I had ever seen all over the inside – right down to the ends of the legs. Those small folds and creases to rub my cock head were still there, but also leather thongs had been incorporated to tease over my balls. And that wasn’t all: there was a raised, smooth, roundly-pointed leather nub positioned between the cheeks of my arse. As long as I remained stationary it wasn’t too bad, but any movement caused the tip of it to press against my sphincter and to stimulate it. When I wore that new uniform I felt as if my entire body was being gripped and teased with black leather, and every time I moved I could feel those small thongs inside stroking my balls or getting between them and the very tops of my inner thighs, and that damn leather nub working on my arse hole. You have no idea how overwhelmingly – and underminingly - horny all that felt for a boy with an awakening leather fetish.

The first session in the new uniform was both the best and also the most disastrous: the leather sliding against my body made me so uncontrollably horny that by the time I’d been working on the victim for ten minutes I’d already caused him to piss himself twice, and to pass out once from overstimulation – immediately before I came myself. From the sounds I heard coming from Max, sitting on the chair behind me, I guessed that he too had had one of the best orgasms ever.

I assumed that the intensity of Max’s climax had come from his watching the boy’s suffering, but I was wrong. What had excited Max so much was seeing that fiendish leather uniform he’d designed for me make me lose control so easily. From that point on, the searchlight of Max’s attention swung ponderously away from the victims, and onto me.

He had me in his private office one day. “Gerhart,” he said, that thin smile on his lips again, “you are losing control of yourself altogether too much these days.”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry Sir.” I replied, carefully avoiding his eyes.

“Therefore I have arranged a training programme for you. You will present yourself in DB3 twice per week – on Mondays and Thursdays at eighteen hundred hours. I will carry out your instruction personally.”

“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.”

“Oh, and you will not ejaculate by any means at other times. Do I make myself clear?”

I swallowed, and nodded again. “Yes Sir!”


I saluted smartly, turned and left. Oh shit. Not allowed to cum on other days? I didn’t know how I was going to cope with that – I usually wanked at least twice a day.

The ‘training’ turned out to be not training at all. Max had realised just how powerful my fetish for black leather was – and that, of course, was something he shared in spades. I’m convinced that he fancied me – and to have at his disposal a good-looking youth with an incapacitating weakness for leather was, I’m sure, irresistible to him.

On every one of these ‘training’ sessions Max would strap me to the frame – stripped to the waist but in my new breeches. He would stand in front of me, look deep into my eyes and, in his quietest and most dangerous voice, he would say very slowly and very distinctly, “you will not allow yourself to ejaculate. Do I make myself clear?”And then the bastard would slowly stroke and tease cold black leather over my naked upper body, finding all the spots on me that were the most vulnerable and responsive to it. He usually configured the frame for spread-eagling so that he could reach my back - and also my armpits, which he found to be particularly susceptible to the touch of leather.

When he decided that this had got me dangerously horny, he would transfer his attention to my crotch. Very slowly, he would move my bulging cock around inside my breeches, knowing that the secret folds and creases hidden inside the leather were rubbing gently over my hard, desperate cock head. That sadistic smile would be playing over his lips as he watched me battling against what he knew very well was a compelling and rapidly mounting urge to cum, aware that I was desperately fighting to obey his order.

Once he was satisfied that I was a hair’s breadth from orgasm, he would stare hard into my eyes again and, in his most threatening voice, he would repeat the order not to ejaculate. Then – still gazing into my eyes - the unspeakable bastard would use the very lightest and tiniest strokes of his fingers imaginable through the leather right on my cock head. All my muscles would tense and my face would contort with effort as I desperately struggled to resist the relentlessly mounting pressure with everything I’d got. But he made very sure that I couldn’t stop myself from shooting my spunk into that gently milking, shiny black leather.

Although I fought against it frantically with every ounce of my strength and concentration, he knew very well that my fetish was far too compelling for me to be able to resist it, and it became his mission to find increasingly devious and frustrating ways of using leather to overcome my self-control. These sessions caused me some of the most wildly intense and wonderful orgasms I have ever experienced, but they also made me disobey a direct order. And the disobeying of orders was punishable.

The punishments could have been much worse (I lived in dread of being strapped to that frame and tickle-tortured myself – but, thank god, that never happened). They usually turned out to be relatively minor, even though they were a pain in the arse: cleaning the privies, or extra hours working in the office, things like that. But the feeling of being forced, so unfairly, to disobey my superior officer was beginning to get to me, and to my surprise I found that it was turning me on - as (though I hated to admit it to myself) was Max. The knowledge that the sadistic, leather-clad bastard was purposely using my greatest weakness and fetish against me was far more motivating than the thought of the punishments; more and more it strengthened my resolve not to let him make me cum the next time. I vowed to fight it, and I vowed to win; I would show him that it was I who was master of my fetish, not the other way around - I was determined that I would not let the bastard make me lose control ever again.

But every time, as he ordered me not to cum, with that sadistic smile on his thin lips, and then worked on me so frustratingly slowly, my cock sliding through the slippery precum and with those damn folds and creases gently rubbing the head, I was powerless to stop it. Session after session he broke me and made me shoot my spunk helplessly into leather while he smiled in cruel satisfaction at my pitiful attempts to resist. And every time he did it I found myself experiencing an extra, intense frisson of pleasure: it was the unfairness of it – it was clear to me that he got off on intentionally making me incapable of obeying his direct order, by using the one thing on me that turned him on so much, and which he knew I could resist least of all: black leather.

I dare not wank, even in secret – the possibility of ending up strapped down in one of the dungeons was always an unspoken possibility, and far too great a deterrent – and so, as Max had undoubtedly intended, the fact that I didn’t cum on any other days kept me as horny as fuck all the time, and it got to the point that even the thought of the next‘training’ session with him was enough to get my cock hard and leaking precum. Putting the breeches on for the session had to be done very slowly and very carefully indeed. Max was not the best-looking of men, but there was something disturbingly sexual about him, and by the time he’d strapped me to the frame and I saw him standing there in that dangerous shiny black leather SS uniform - and knowing exactly what he was about to do to me - my tongue was already hanging out.

In the early day she had made me cum relatively quickly, but as the sessions had progressed he’d realised two things: the first was that by giving me more time to fight against it he could greatly increase the humiliation and frustration I experienced when I finally lost control. The second was that I really couldn’t stand being kept right on the edge without being allowed to cum. All males find this difficult, but for some reason with me, it was absolutely unbearable torture. It drove me insane. His discovery of that delighted him greatly - Max was always interested in unbearable tortures.

And so, to enable him to do both of these things, he had made it a point to learn to recognise my responses. He became very good indeed at knowing how close I was at any given moment – and that meant that, if he was careful, he could torture me for as long as he liked, keeping me right on the very edge but making very certain indeed that I couldn’t cum. He was well aware that was something I really couldn’t take, and so the bastard would do it for hours at a time, knowing full well that the longer it went on, the worse it got. Only after that interminable torture would he give me the order, and then – with tiny movements of his fingers moving the leather so slowly over my achingly horny cock head while he watched me desperately trying to fight against it – a groan of sadistic pleasure would escape his lips as I inevitably lost control and my spunk pumped helplessly out into the leather breeches.

Now that I had become Max’s personal project, my duties as tickle-torturer had been passed to another soldier – a boy about the same age as I was,and who had, apparently, shown a great deal of talent. I didn’t know this boy, but he was very blond and very beautiful. It was I, however, who was the real focus of Max’s attention at the moment.

Occasionally he would have me stripped completely and then, with me in no restraints at all, get the other members of the club – all commando in their shiny leather uniforms – to play cat and mouse with me.

Those sessions were orgies of black leather: there were leather-clad hunks sliding against me,their hard cocks bulging in unlined leather breeches as they passed me around between them, my naked cock rubbing against black leather thighs, bulges, boots, tunics. Often two or three of them would hold me down on the floor while others worked on me in various ways. Of course I was putty in their leather-gloved hands. Max enjoyed watching me trying to resist them, and would even take bets on how long I could hold out without cumming. It was never very long. He would reward me on the vanishingly rare occasions that I lasted for more than a minute or two, or if I managed to make one of the others cum before I did; and he would reward them if they made me lose it in a particularly devious or frustrating way - he kept notes and would often use these newly-acquired techniques on me himself at a later date in our ‘training’ sessions.

Sometimes, if he was feeling particularly sadistic, he’d instruct them to get me hooded first so that I couldn’t even see to defend myself against them. He’d had a special leather hood made for me (of course, the bastard had had it lined with shiny, clinging black leather on the inside as well) and he had been very pleased to find that it reduced my self-control even more – a lot more – to the extent that the first time he’d put it onto me, the feel of the black leather pressing tightly all over my face had made me cum immediately. Although he’d cursed me, he must have been secretly delighted, because from then on he strapped it onto me for almost every session. As it was intended to do, the blindfolding black leather made me even more vulnerable, horny and helpless in those cat-and-mouse sessions, and he took great delight in watching me trying to fight those laughing, jeering men - who knew exactly how to use their leather uniforms on me-and also that clinging leather hood, in my desperate effort not to let any of them make me cum.

On one occasion it was just me and another guy. I’d been hooded as usual, so I couldn’t see who it was, and I heard Max wanking himself as the guy played with me. I could feel the guy’s leather breeches and tunic, his boots. He had the most wonderful touch I have ever experienced. While I was cumming between his leather thighs, he kissed me through the hood. Unusually, afterwards Max unstrapped the hood and removed it. I saw that the person who had made me cum was the new soldier boy who’d taken over my tickle torture duties. The thought of having been kissed by that beautiful, shining blond youth made me go weak at the knees.

The training sessions with Max continued for a long time, but rather than gaining self-control, I found that I was losing it more quickly every time.

* * *

And then suddenly one day, the war was over. Things were disbanded, documents burnt, DB3 and the other torture chambers cleared and then abandoned, and people fled in all directions.

I have no idea what became of Max – it would be interesting to know.

Max was a sadist, and he was guilty of abuses I don’t want to think about. But he was also responsible, in very large part, for developing my leather fetish – and also for giving me a second one: that of being forced to fight to stop myself from cumming. Those two things have given me a very great deal of intensely-focused pleasure over the years, and I will always be grateful to him for that.

I, and the beautiful blond soldier boy – his name is Reinhard – bought a house in England shortly after the end of hostilities, and he gave me a third love: of being tied up and tickled myself. Up to then, I had spent my life avoiding that like the plague – I am horrendously ticklish (I suspect that’s one of the reasons I’ve always got off so much on mercilessly tickle-torturing others:because it’s something I wouldn’t even be able to begin to take myself) – but Reinhard began very gently with me. At first. But every session with him got slightly more intense. I still couldn’t take it, but the very fact that I couldn’t take it began to turn me on.

Reinhard has always been excruciatingly ticklish himself – but he loves it: nothing makes him cum more intensely than being tickle-tortured – at industrial strength. And of course I’m expert at that. For old times’ sake I sometimes wear my special leather uniform when I’m working on him, but not often as it always makes me lose control of myself far too soon. He also loves being fucked, and I do that as well – often.

The boy doesn’t have a leather fetish, but he loves the fact that I do – and there is little that turns him on more than using it against me. Our sessions like that are very similar to what Max used to do to me in those ‘training’ sessions – but knowing that it’s now my beautiful soldier boy doing it to me makes me even less able to resist.

Both Reinhard and I are getting older now, but we still drive each other out of our minds with pleasure when we play together, which is often. He’s still beautiful, and he always wears his shiny leather SS uniform when he’s working on me.

Yes,I’ve done things in my life that I shouldn’t have done, but then haven’t we all? I’m willing to face my creator in the knowledge that I always did my best to avoid being involved in most of the real unpleasantness that did permanent harm to people. And I’ve given at least one person a very great deal of love, and a very great deal of intense pleasure.

Had it not been for the war, and for what I did in it, Reinhard and I would never have met.

And for that, at least, I will be eternally grateful.