The Telemachus Story Archive



Fishing for bait

He lifted a corner of the tarp. The cage was still under it. From the entrance of the alley it looked like a covered crate, stored behind some green, black, and metal bins. He opened its door - it didn’t grate or creak. About a month ago he’d chanced upon it, after having a leak behind the row of bins. He’d wondered what it did there. Then, too the door had been unlocked. He’d been back from time to time, tingling with anticipation, trepidation dissolving into excitement when he found it with the tarp in the same position, the corners tucked like he’d tucked them, the bit of cardboard resting exactly where he’d stuck it between the door. The cage wasn’t standard; it was made of heavy, welded steel bars. He hadn’t seen any cameras around - still, he’d always kept hidden deep in a hoodie when he’d had a look at it.

He shot a furtive glance over his shoulder, flung up the corner of the tarp, opened the door, and crept in. His backpack caught on the top of the cage, he crouched lower, closed the door and slid the tarp back, and settled cross-legged onto the plastic covered floor, smiling. He had an hour before dusk set in.

Sitting in the cage made him feel warm and fuzzy, like a kid in the pile of branches they called base camp. With a sigh he took in a deep breath of the warm urban summer air. It smelled of tarmac and industrial cleaner. He kicked off his sneakers and wrestled out off his hoodie and jeans, revealing the rubber catsuit he was wearing underneath. He opened his backpack, took out a modified gasmask, and laid a wad of ropes, cuffs, and belts in front of him. He stuffed the backpack with his clothes, set it aside in a corner of the cage, and slipped back into his sneakers. His cock jerked under the codpiece when he pushed the mask’s inbuilt bit into his mouth and zipped it on. It sat snug around his neck. He ran his hands over the rubber. Fumbling through the tangle of cuffs, angling his head to look through the condensing eye-pieces, he found the collar and strapped it around his neck. He pushed his cock down.

He froze when he heard a noise. He should’ve kept the mask for last - it made hearing more difficult - but he liked the bit filling his mouth and the rubber pressing into his face too much. He kept quiet. The crackling noise persisted. Through a rip in the tarp he could see the cemented floor of the alley dapple with raindrops. The tarp amplified them. He could see no one around.

He’d designed the rope- and strap-work over the past few weeks trough trial and error, under his kitchen table. Simple loops, simple knots, easy to slip into, a bit harder to get out of. Getting his hands into heavy rubber gloves through the cuffs behind his back, knotted in a light strappado to the top bars of the cage, was the hardest part. The collar, roped to the door of the cage, tugged his neck down and he had to work by touch. He wriggled into the second glove, twisted his right arm back as far as he could, and felt the cuff slide and pop over his wrist. He was incapable of immobilising himself any better. His cock was well out of reach. He struggled, tried to get anything to touch it, but with his thighs held by belts to the side bars of the cage all he felt was the static grip of the rubber. He’d enjoy the helplessness for a bit, get off, and head home.

The rain now splattered down in natural white noise. He was cut off from the world, in his rubbers, caught in a cage, feigning to try and get free, a thing waiting for its sordid fate. He wanted to get himself off, but that, he knew, would be the end of the trip. And he wanted to wait for the rain to calm down before going back to his car. Excuses. The longer he stayed in the cage, the greater the risk of being caught. That’d be mortifying. He could always come back.

He struggled against the cuffs, trying to slip into the fantasy again, when he felt a cramp. Reality kicked in - he waited for the cramp to pass. He’d gone soft. He couldn’t hear the hiss over the rain or smell the gas over the rubber. He got hot, felt his legs go, his right hand half-stuck in the cuff, and lost consciousness.

Two men with a scuffed red pallet jack entered the alley, lifted up the cage and its knocked-out occupant, and loaded it into a waiting lorry.

Baiting the fish

“He’s coming round. Shouldn’t you give him another shot?”

“Nah. Do the introductions. We’re almost there, might as well keep him awake.”

“Okey-dokey.” The man crouched in front of the cage. He was wearing a loose-knit navy-blue balaclava. “Hello… Daniel.” he said, looking at the boy’s driver’s license. “You may still feel a bit woozy, but it should settle. Whatever you do: don’t panic .” He laughed himself into a smoker’s cough. “You’re in good hands.” He laughed again. His colleague, wearing a thinner, brown balaclava, leaning against the moving lorry’s wall, chuckled. “I’m Smith and my colleague over there is Smith II. Smith II, as in the Roman numeral two, not too as in too. Although he’s a Smith too.” Smith looked expectantly at Daniel, then made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, never mind.”

“You’re crap at introductions.” said Smith II.

“Yeah. I need practice.”

Daniel, in full blown panic, jerked against the restraints.

“No need to struggle, lad,” said Smith, getting up, picking up a duffel bag from the top of the cage “we’ve changed all of the cuffs. You can’t get out.” Smith crouched in front of Daniel, “And we’re very sorry for you that you came round so early,” he said, laughing and coughing again, “cause there’s a last small adjustment we have to make. You might not like it.” He fumbled into the bag and held a probe-like piece of black plastic, the size of a small beer bottle in front of Daniel. “This has to go into you - I’m sure you know where.” Smith winked.

Daniel shook his head, tugged at everything, and started screaming. The chains rattled a bit.

“I better hit him.” said Smith II.


Smith II gave the valve of a canister attached to Daniel’s mask a single, sharp twist. The boy stopped struggling. “There you go.” said Smith II.

“Now,” said Smith I, showing Daniel the probe, “this little thing is going up your bum. But it’s special. Look.” He squished the soft, hollow probe, put his finger in, wriggled it back and forth, then shook his hand around with the probe latched to it. “It’s stuck. One way thing. Can’t get my finger out. Neat, innit?” He fumbled with his left hand in his jeans pocket, got out a black lollipop-like piece of plastic, and touched the probe. It clicked and fell off his finger. “Let’s get you all set.”

Daniel tried to squirm, but he was weak and hot. He felt Smith zip open the suit over his arse, slather some slippery gunk on it, and push the probe in. Daniel tried to relax and push back, he knew it wouldn’t hurt as much.

“Very good!” said Smith. “We’ve got a natural. Good catch, Smith II, good catch.”

“Thanks.” said Smith II. “Secret’s all in the bait, you know.”

The Smiths steadied themselves when the lorry came to a stop with a hiss.

“One more thing,”said Smith I. “This belt keeps the probe in. You’d be useless if it got out. It might squash your cock and balls a bit, but I’m sure you can live with that.”

Daniel tugged at the restraints while Smith I got him in the belt. He couldn’t move at all. His arse was burning, and he couldn’t shift it away in any direction. His ankles were cuffed into padded steel rings between the bars of the cage, his wrists in his back, and a harness suspended him to the top bars. A thick piece of padding kept his knees from hurting. The mask wasn’t his, he realised. It was heavier and tethered with chains to bars and rings. The bit invaded deep in his mouth, and when he screamed, all that got out was a sad moan.

Smith II opened the lorry’s ramp while Smith I manoeuvred the pallet jack under the cage. The sodium lights cast their eerie flicking shadows through the bars of the cage as he drove it out into an alley. It reeked of piss and fermenting trash. Daniel was shivering. The Smiths counted to three and heaved the cage on top of a pile of pallets - he was facing a wall. He tried to plead.

“It’s all right.” said Smith II. “Here, have another shot. Last one of the evening. I wouldn’t want to fry your brain.”

Then he was alone. After the shot had kept him weak and warm for a while nervous shivers took over. He heard a rustle and tried to look to his left. It was too dark, he couldn’t move his head, and the steamed-up eyepieces of the mask kept him from seeing anything. A slow splashing of pee followed a grunt and a belch, then came a sigh and the zipping of a fly. Another belch receded out of the alley. When all was quiet, he struggled a last time but didn’t get anywhere - and his arse was hurting. He was one the verge of sobbing when he heard the crunching of footsteps.

“Huh? What the…?”

Daniel strained to look behind him.

“A stupid fuck in a… cage?”

The voice was slurred. Daniel rattled at the chains and tried to speak. He knew it wouldn’t matter.

“With his hole, opened up… and at just the right height? What’s this shit?” The man giggled. “Stupid fuck. Wanting to be raped eh? Well…”

Daniel heard a belt, a zipper, a retch and spit, and a minute later, with a grunt from the man interrupting his own dirty talking, felt his arse stretch deep into sharp pain. Daniel screamed. “Fuck, you’re tight.” said the man, jerking into the probe, then groaning. “Aaaw yeah. Sweet ‘n tight. Haven’t had a pussy like yours in years.” He groaned again, longer, and slammed into Daniel’s arse. With a choked sigh he stopped moving. Daniel felt him throb. “Thank you, wild stranger,” said the man with a burp and a hiccup, “for this wonderful fuck.” He giggled and pulled back. “What the…?” Daniel felt the probe tug, the belt kept it in his arse. It burned. “What the fuck?” The man’s voice got tighter. “Will you get off… Fucking hell - what? - get the fuck off me, you fucking…!”

“Oh shut up.” Daniel heard Smith II say.


Smith II knocked the man out with a dry hit under his ear and bent him over the cage. He reached for the probe with the lollipop, and after the click let the man slide out and drop to the ground, thick cum smeared over his cock and dribbling out of the probe.

“Nothing.” said Smith I, prodding the body with his boot. “I wouldn’t even trust him for spare parts.”

“No. He’s crap. Let’s bin him.”

They hauled the man away from the cage, opened one of the bins, and dumped him in. They left with Daniel screaming for them.

This time he was sobbing when he heard a snort right behind him.

“No idea what you’re doing,” said the guy, “but wrong neighbourhood, friend.” He got his cock out, spat in his hand, lubed up, and got himself hard.

Daniel winced when he felt the probe smash into him. He gritted his teeth into the bit and decided to try and make the best of it. The probe pounded into his prostate, the rubber suit was slick with sweat. He couldn’t get hard because the rubber and the belt holding the probe were keeping his cock down. He was strapped in a cage, couldn’t get out, couldn’t scream for help, and it was terrifying. He lost grip on the fantasy. His arse was burning. He cried.

The man groaned, sighed, and then swore like the previous one when he couldn’t get his cock out.

“Let me help you.” said Smith II, knocking the man unconscious and releasing his cock.

“Good catch.”

“Oh yeah. Scruffy, good looking, youngish. Rough. Look at that! Expensive tats. And muscles!”

Smith I whistled. “With a few tweaks, worth a fortune. Do we wait for another one?”

“I wouldn’t.” said Smith II, shaking his head, “It’s 4AM. Town’s waking up. And our bait could do with a rest, I think.”

Daniel snivelled.

“Yeah.” said Smith I, “Let’s get him out. I’ll get the pallet jack. Give me a hand with the fish, will ya?”

“Sure. I’ll hit cageboy first.” Daniel heard the hiss of the canister. The gas filled his mask. He turned hot and weak. “Well,” said Smith II, “back to square one with you. If you hurry you’ll get yourself out of the cage before the bins are emptied.” Daniel felt his legs cramp and went out.

When he came round, he noticed that the cage was covered with a tarp. He was tied up with his restraints, wearing his mask. His arse twitched and throbbed, but the belt and the probe were gone. With a bit of struggling he slipped out of the cuffs. In a few minutes he was free. His jeans and hoodie were in his backpack. He didn’t bother getting them on, flung open the door, got out, and lifting the corner of the tarp, looked if he hadn’t forgotten anything. He got out his keys, ran for his car, and skidded off.

(V 2020)