The Telemachus Story Archive

Lost Season

Lost Season

They caught me at night, asleep, in late, muggy summer. I hadn't heard them, wasn’t able to catch a glimpse of them before they bagged my head, dragged me out of bed and rolled me in a tough, slippery bag. All I know is that their hands were cold and unyielding. I don't know how they got in or how they got me out of my apartment; nor did I feel any bumping going down the seven flights of stairs. My screaming resonated in the hood and hurt my ears. The only feature during transportation was a sharp click when they suspended the bag. And the hovering. No sharp turns, no potholes, no acceleration or sudden stops. I think I felt another bag bump into me at some point. I couldn't get my fingers far enough through the opening to feel for anything, and the buckle on the hood was smooth and incomprehensible. The hood muffled most sound, and my heartbeat and breathing masked the rest of what I might have heard or recognised. I struggled for a while, tried to rip the bag by stretching my legs, which I knew would be in vain; it was.

I jumped when the humming stopped. The gentle wobble that had lulled me into a doze had stopped too. The top of the bag clicked, and I thought I felt some movement. I screamed in surprise when the bag tipped and I splattered into deep tepid gunk. Breathing became hard and eventually impossible when the slime sealed onto the hood. I flailed, feeling for something to hold on to; I couldn’t find anything.

They'd cuffed me in a stretched, standing position when I regained consciousness. The hood had been taken off, and the horrible brightness of the room hurt my eyes. I was being scrubbed by black, blurry, featureless - I don't know - things, gimps. Rainbowing beams of light pierced around them. My eyes refused to focus or accommodate, and my speech was incomprehensible, even to myself. The room was warm, soothing, and I relaxed. I should've been frightened, but I couldn't be. I kept my eyes closed - doing anything more was useless.

When they’d finished towelling me off, I felt something cool close around my neck, then around my cock. I twisted my neck, but the thing seemed glued to my skin. I fell limp as they unclipped me from the restraints - I didn't even try to struggle free - and brought me to a room where they fastened me to a bunk under a sort of rubbery cover. It hissed and clung my body to the mattress. The lights shut off when they were gone. Only the ring around my cock and the collar gave off some faint, red fading-in-and-out glow through the opaque rubber sheet. I didn’t try to move. I knew I wouldn’t get anywhere.

That was the only routine in that hellhole. The scrubbing and tucking in, and the wakeup and deep-clean: the crap and flush, the liquid food, the oral hygiene, for all of which I remained restrained, always with a hard rubber bit spreading my mouth open, arse plugged. The torture would start when the light on the collar turned green, stop when it turned red.

There was no system to what they did. At first, I’d been terrified when they started fiddling with my cock. I swore and spat at them - it got me gagged and hooded. After a few hours I knew they would keep me from cumming. I didn't think of it as torture then. I considered it some disgusting fantasy of that black gimp thing working on me. A few days in I knew they wouldn't let me cum at all, that the only thing they would do was to make me suffer with my need. When it turned into torture, I screamed and begged them to tell me what they wanted, but they never said anything.

The body bag was the worst; cold, stiff, and claustrophobic - I imagine it as black and ominous, plastic-coated industrial fabric, with a heavy zip and clips. Utilitarian, simple to clean and use, unforgiving, long-lasting. The only time they had to use the collar’s paralysing feature was when I recognised the route to the bags. I was hooded, but one of the turns we took was enough to make me clammy with cold sweat. A deep smell drove me to full panic. Before I could writhe myself into a hernia, the collar hummed. My skin tingled from my feet upwards and I lost control over everything under my neck. They broke my fall, dragged and clipped me to the floor in the bag room. I suspect there was a breach of protocol because a loud buzz went off, stomping closed in, and amidst shrieks, protesting mumbles, and another loud buzz I was left alone. My collar stopped humming and the tingling went away. I could make a fist, although my fingers felt swollen and cold. I felt for the cuffs, but they were - like everything - featureless. I kept quiet. I wasn't alone in the bag room, I realised. The hood wasn't thick enough to muffle the sound of all the creaking bags. Moans and pleas identical to mine filtered through. They swelled and receded in unison. Lone shrieks and wails pierced the constant rustle of twitching bodies straining to get out. I gasped when cold hands - identical to those that snatched me out of bed that night, so different from those that tortured and handled me in the compound - gripped me, uncuffed me, and pinned me to the floor. Soft hands wiped the piss off my legs, and pushed in a bigger plug. Then I was shoved into the bag, face down, arms pinned in their sleeves. I bucked when my cock was sucked through the hole, left dangling under my prison. The plug and the gag inflated, the straps over the bag tightened it to the squishy floor. I was hit by the deep smell and I got hard without any resistance. I started wailing.

The torture in the bag made me plead and beg more than any other torture. There would be just enough stimulation for despair to kick in. Soft brushes circling my foreskin, cool slippery sheaths held over my cockhead, following every movement, a warm grip just holding my cock and doing nothing more. One cold lick so slow that it would leave me panting from pushing into the bag. A finger drawing circles over my lubed cockhead. Vibrations, massages, tingling bands constricting the blood flow. I thought of fingers and brushes and tongues, but I didn’t know what was doing the torture. It seemed too diverse to be a machine, but too mechanical to be one of the gimps. It didn’t matter. The torture was that I never got close to cumming. If anything, it made me crave the tangibility of the torture of the edge. When they let my cock go soft I felt precum ooze out, when they got it hard, more precum was squeezed out. I was leaking my way to exhaustion. The routine scrubbing that followed was torture too - every nerve ending had become erogenous - so was the rubber sheet on the bed. The ring on my cock was torture. The enema in the morning was torture. That glow of need would always linger for at least two days. It turned anything they did into arousal.

The only other breach of protocol happened as I was being drained. It was the closest I’d ever come to orgasm in that place. I’d had three consecutive days of the bag. By the end of the second day, my body stopped moving - it froze. I drooled and wept in the bag but couldn't move - I couldn’t even faint. The torture was by no means more intense; it was the sheer length and fierceness of the build-up of desperate need that froze my body. I wish that third day had been a haze, but it wasn't. Everything was crisp. When they restrained me to the draining chair, the day after the third bag, I was nothing more than a neurotic and begging mess. I knew what would happen: one of the black ones would edge me and work on my prostate until thin cum oozed from my cock. It wouldn't grant me any relief, only made me crave orgasm more. I'd been drained one drop at a time that time, nothing more, which was worse than the thin stream, and we were reaching the point where he would stop to let my cock go soft, which they did every few hours. I was once again frozen in hell - the closeness to the edge made my entire body clench. They worked to keep me in that state. My body, like predictable clockwork, would soon give up its next drop of cum, and I wouldn't get to feel any of it. I stared at the ceiling - I couldn't stand watching them work on me, I hated seeing myself reflected and distorted in their mirror-like visors - when I felt it happening. He must have been reckless. Instinct took over: my eyes shot to my cock, I bucked and groaned, teeth clenched into the rubber bit. Panic showed in black’s motions as he jerked away from my cock. The same loud buzz went off. Two red ones, armoured, stormed in, and dragged out the cowering black one. I still strained to get orgasm going, but all that promising twitch got out was a short, feeble stream of thinned cum - two, perhaps three drops’ worth. I wailed, bashing my head into the padded chair. The door slid open, another black one came in, strapped my head in place, and finished me off in a dozen more hellish, single drops. I fell asleep during scrubbing.

I got more bags after that incident, and they started eking out their drainings over several days. Later they shot the cum out of my flaccid cock with an electric probe up my arse - it felt like a painful pee. The edging after that made me long for the bags. Then I started leaking cum in the morning, during the crap-and-flush-routine, and they dispensed entirely of any draining. Days filled with bags and endless edges.

It was the click that woke me up. I was balled inside rubber, not glued under the sheet. I recognised the wobbling. This time my hands were in some sleeves, and I was gagged and hooded. I screamed again when the sack tipped, and swore when I hit hard floor with my shoulder. I didn't hear them leave - my gut told me they had. There was no buckle on the hood, only a heavy zip tie around my neck. Cloth was stuffed in my mouth over the hood, fixed with another zip tie. I grappled the fabric hood off, leaving the two ties on my neck and in my mouth.

I was in my apartment.

I got up to the kitchen to get scissors. The plants on the sill were green. The dishes had been done. The days on the calendar had been crossed out well into December. I looked through the window. A winter sun flickered low through the dark morning skyline. I stared at it - my first sun in months - took pair of scissors out of the cutlery drawer, and cut off the cable ties still around my face.

(V 2020)