The Telemachus Story Archive

The Hut
By Hooder

The Hut

Chapel Wood wasn't exactly Hampstead Heath, but it had been known to have its moments. As I pulled up in the lay-by there was one other car there. I switched off the engine and picked up the print-out lying on the passenger seat. It was a posting on an internet group I'd seen a few days ago. I had to switch on the interior light to read it:

Abuse me! 24 year old punk pain pig into leather, rubber, anal, group sex, CP, TT, CBT, BC, SS, nettles, Fiery Jack, baseball bats, stomping, gut-punching.

On Saturday 19th June from 9.30pm I will be in Chapel Wood, timer-handcuffed to a tree, hooded and earplugged. I won't be able to see you, won't be able to hear anything, won't know who you are. The handcuffs will be set to release at any time between 3 hours and 6 hours (I won't know the time they're going to release).

From the lay-by on the north side of the wood, follow the path to the litter bin, go left to the burnt Oak, turn right and I'll be thirty paces straight ahead cuffed to the big Beech tree..

Come and use me - and bring a baseball bat!

I knew Chapel Wood very well, as I used to run in it quite often. There was nobody about as I locked the car, pulled the balaclava mask down over my face, took the bag into which I'd put various assorted items I thought might be useful, and walked into the forest - my black leathers melting invisibly into the lengthening shadows.

Turn right at the litter bin... left at the burnt Oak (many times I'd leant against that tree getting my breath back after a run)... thirty paces - there he was! I think I'd been expecting a crowd - that message on the group page had been on for a week according to the date on it - but there was no-one else there. Just him and me. I stopped at the edge of the small clearing and looked at him, marvelling at both his courage and his stupidity at not only making himself completely defenceless, but telling everyone he was doing so. Well, I thought, as I began circling around behind him, staying well out of his sight in case he could in fact see anything, he was in for a surprise tonight.

He looked dead sexy: he was slim; about 5'10"; wearing a white sleeveless teeshirt with the word "VICTIM" stencilled across the front; skintight bleached jeans which bulged interestingly at the crotch; 20-hole black DMs with white laces; and a chrome-studded black leather belt. His head was enclosed in a tight leather hood - I could see no eyeholes, but I was taking no chances - and his wrists were cuffed above his head over a thick branch. I just hoped that the time-release cuffs he'd got were the same type that I had, because I had a key. I was still too far away to see if they were, but I hoped so, as I didn't have a saw with me.

I stopped some twenty feet behind him, took the duct tape out of my bag, and tore off a length. Then, silently, I crept up to the Beech tree and stood against this side of the trunk. After another look around to make sure there was no-one else about (there wasn't), I walked around the tree until I was standing just behind him, reached around his head and quickly slapped the duct tape over his hooded eyes. Even if he'd doctored the hood so that he could see, I knew he was totally blindfolded now, and that he hadn't had a chance to see me at all.

He amost jumped out of his skin when the tape went on - it was the first inkling he'd had that he was no longer alone - but apart from one initial shout of surprise, he didn't say anything. Neither did I. The first thing I wanted to do was to get him somewhere else - somewhere more private - just in case anyone else turned up intending to use him.

I smiled under my balaclava when I saw that his cuffs were the same as mine. So far, so good. I took the leather cuffs I'd brought with me and locked them onto his wrists - leaving his hands cuffed to the tree for the time being, then threaded a length of rope through the two rings, leaving it loose for the moment but keeping tight hold of the ends. Next I used my key to unlock his timer cuffs, and as he lowered his arms I immediately tightened the rope to pull his wrists behind his back, and snapped a padlock onto the leather cuffs. Only then did I remove his timer cuffs, which I put in my bag. Finally I buckled a collar - with a lead already attached - around his neck.

With my arms around him I turned us both around several times so that he'd lose his sense of direction, and then - pulling him along behind me with the lead, I walked him deeper into the forest. I knew exactly where I wanted to take him. With his wrists cuffed behind him and unable to see or hear a thing he stumbled along behind me, making questioning noises under the hood (there was no mouth opening, only a couple of small holes under the nose for breathing. This was useful as it gagged him quite effectively). Whatever he'd been expecting, this wasn't it - he'd assumed that if anything at all happened, it would take place at the tree where he'd cuffed himself. Now all bets were off, and I knew that he was getting worried. Happily, there wasn't a great deal he could do about it.

Years ago, before Dr Beeching got his hands on the railways, there used to be a small line which ran through the western fringe of Chapel wood. It had been disused for years, but there was a railway workers' hut which still stood in a cutting between the trees. The wooden porch had rotted a long time since, but the stone hut was mostly intact, and I smiled at the memory of childhood days playing in it. It had a beam in the ceiling which was exactly what I wanted, and - assuming it was still there - there had been a small iron table bolted to the floor at one end.

The light had almost gone by the time we reached the hut, but I'd come prepared with a lantern which I placed on the iron table (which I was pleased to see was still there, if even more rusted than I'd remembered it). The lantern gave sufficient light for what I was going to do. By a process which was almost the reverse of that which I'd used to release the guy from the tree, I got him cuffed to the beam. It was not quite as high as the tree branch had been, but that was fine - he'd be able to struggle a little more. In the floor directly between his feet was a rusty bolt which was the only remaining one of four that had at one time fastened a stove there, but which now proved perfect for anchoring a rope to, which I then tied tightly around his ankles. He was going nowhere. I peeled one end of the duct tape away from his hood and inspected the leather beneath closely. It hadn't been tampered with after all, so I removed the tape completely. He looked better without it. I also checked that I could get his hood off fairly quickly if it became necessary - but it was only laced, not locked, so that was ok.

We were alone now, and extremely unlikely to be disturbed at this time of night. My black leathers creaked as I squeezed my hard cock through my jeans, savouring in my mind what I was going to do to him.

I stood in front of him and placed my hands by his sides - an inch away from his teeshirt - my thumbs positioned just under the bottom rib on each side. Had he been able to see, it would have been obvious what I was going to do, and he would probably have been able to move to avoid the worst of it. But that single thickness of black leather over his eyes made him a sitting duck: unable to see what was coming, unable to steel himself against it, and unable to get away from it.

Very slowly, and in a voice loud enough for him to hear through the earplugs and the leather hood, I counted down. "Five... four... three... two... one..." I knew he had not got the slightest idea what was going to happen - he was probably expecting a blow from a baseball bat or a fist in his stomach. But no - this was not going to be quite so easy to deal with. On 'zero' I dug my thumbs hard into his sides and moved them around, pressure-tickling him sadistically.

He shrieked, and threw himself backwards so hard I thought the leather cuffs would break. But they were much stronger than he was, and once he was as far back as he could go he couldn't get away from the tickling. I moved closer and continued to work on his sides. He was shaking his head violently from side to side and screaming into the hood. This boy was ticklish...

I stopped, and stood back watching him. He hung from his wrists for a while, then managed to get his weight back onto his feet. This pain-pig was breathing hard, shaking his head slowly from side to side, and whimpering. I found it amazing how most guys dismissed tickling as something not really worthy of consideration in a serious SM session, and yet how often - although they could take any amount of pain - they couldn't stand being seriously tickled when they tried it. Well this pain-pig was going to experience the tortures of hell before I released him.

I am a strange sort: I'm a heavy sadist, but I'm not really interested in inflicting pain. I've always considered it a bit gross, to be honest. There are far more refined ways of making a guy suffer (slow, inescapable, unbearable pressure-tickling is one of them, though there are many others), and making helpless victims suffer intensely is what I love to do best of all. Psychology - mind games - is a very important part of this kind of thing, and that's why I now stood silently, doing nothing, for a full five minutes. He didn't know where I was (or even if I was still there); he didn't know what was coming, or when. Was that just a one-off? Would the baseball bat or the fist come out now? Or would there be more of that? Please God no... At times like this, a victim's mind is my most powerful weapon against him. And I knew exactly how to use it.

He had fully recovered now, and was breathing normally again. I waited a little longer, then carefully positioned my right hand, like a claw, just above his left knee - again being careful not to touch him - ready to grip and massage the muscle through his tight jeans. Suddenly, giving him no warning at all, I gripped hard, rolling the muscle between my thumb and fingers.

He screamed again, and tried to kick - but his ankles were tied to the bolt in the floor and he couldn't get away. He thrashed about, yelling hysterically, but I followed his movements carefully, continuing the unbearable stimulation until I judged the muscle was beginning to desensitise. Then I changed to the other knee. His screams redoubled, the leather hood muffling them somewhat, but they were still very loud in the small space of the hut. They were music to my ears, and spoke directly to my hard, leather-clad cock. Oh fuck, I loved to make helpless guys suffer.

I stopped again, then loosened the rope around the floor bolt a little until there was 4 or 5 inches slack.

This time I waited for a full 10 minutes. And here's an interesting thing - his cock, which so far had been completely soft, began to get hard after about 5 minutes. I smiled, knowing exactly what was going on.

Silently I moved around until I was stood behind him. The height of room was such that the ceiling beam was only just above his head (I had to duck to avoid it when walking around him) and so his arms were slightly bent rather than straight when he was standing up fully. This was good. I flattened both hands, then very slowly moved them up until they were directly under his armpits. Suddenly I pushed them right up into his pits and used my fingers to tickle him there. His reaction was the same as before - he screamed - but also, in trying to close his arms tightly to his body to protect his pits, he pulled himself right up off the floor. This was why I'd loosened the rope at his feet. Armpits become a hundred times more ticklish if you can close your arm over the hand that's doing the tickling - it's in there and you can't get it out - in fact the idea that pits are most ticklish if your arms are stretched high above your head and you can't move an inch, is a complete myth. Believe me, I know these things.

He knew this now, as well. He yelled and screamed and shrieked and tried to kick and turned and writhed. But there wasn't a lot he could do about it. In fact when I removed my hands, I had to pull them hard to get them out, so tightly were his arms gripping them.

I walked round to the front again and grinned - his cock was rock hard and there was a dark patch of precum on the bleached denim. This boy might hate being tickled, but the fact that he had no choice but to suffer something he couldn't stand, was turning him on like fuck.

I used another length of rope to tie his knees together very tightly, then I scratched a single fingernail along the outline of his cock. Instantly his moans of desperation turned to moans of pleasure, and I felt his warm cock jump once beneath my finger. Standing at his right-hand side with one leg behind him and the other in front, I gripped his cock-bulge very lightly with my right hand, and pushed the fingers of my left hand into the warm, moist space between the tops of his thighs, from the back. His moans increased. Then, turning my hand backwards and forwards and burrowing with my fingers, I slowly forced my left hand through between his tightly-tied thighs, while wanking his cock slowly with my right hand. I'd had this done to me by a guy several times, and I knew it felt like a kind of rape. It tickles and feels intensely sexy at the same time - and although it feels so good, you involuntarily try to stop the invading hand. He did exactly that now. But of course he couldn't stop my invading hand. No matter where he writhed and squirmed, my hand continued burrowing its way between the tops of his thighs until my fingers were stroking and tickling the bottom of his balls through the denim, while the other one worked on his cock through his tight, sexy jeans. I could feel the ridge of his cock-head, and I concentrated on that - rubbing it, tickling it, teasing it. The patch of precum was getting bigger, and I knew he wasn't too far away from shooting, so I stopped and withdrew my hand.

A different kind of moan came from him now: a moan of frustration. I smiled again; he would learn exactly what real frustration was, later.

I wanted to try a different technique. So far he'd experienced sudden, unexpected tickling when he didn't know it was coming, but now I wanted him to know what was going to happen, and when. I wanted him to try to fight it.

I placed my hands were they had been originally: at his sides. But this time my thumbs touching him very lightly. As I expected, he yelled and jumped back when he felt them, but I just kept them there, resting lightly on his teeshirt, not moving. After a while he calmed down, although he remained very jittery and tense. I did nothing until I felt him relax slightly. Then, very slowly and very gently, I began to move my thumbs in small circles, directly on those excruciatingly ticklish spots below the bottom ribs. At the very first movement, he jumped back again. This time I moved forward so that he was trapped at the extent of his restraints, but kept moving my thumbs gently and slowly. He could deal with this, he decided, and relaxed a little, taking a deep breath. Imperceptibly slowly, I increased the pressure, pushing my thumbs slightly further into the muscle, still moving them in little cicles. Now and again he twitched - I could tell he was willing himself not to be ticklish; to deal with it - he knew what I was doing now. Gradually it became more difficult for him to control himself. Short, sharp noises and giggles escaped occasionally from under the hood as he momentarily lost it, before getting himself back in control again.

These noises gradually became louder and more frequent as I steadily increased the pressure or moved my thumbs to a slightly different spot. He was close to the point of losing it completely. I intended that to happen, but I whispered loudly enough for him to hear, close to his ear, "try to fight it. It only takes willpower, that's all. Try to fight it..."

He shook his head in desperation. "I can't fight it! I can't..."

I increased the pressure slightly and whispered slowly, with infinite sadism, "I know you can't..."

Abruptly, he lost it. His moans turned to a high-pitched shriek again and he thrashed and writhed under my hands, doing everything he possibly could to get away from the unberable torture. Instantly I pressed my thumbs in hard, finding new spots and working on them mercilessly. I didn't stop, but went on and on. He really couldn't stand this. His voice was hoarse with screaming, and his muscles must have ached intensely from the struggling. But it didn't stop. It got worse. I went to town on him, digging my thumbs into his soft sides so hard that they started to ache; sliding on and off his bottom rib; continually exploring for new spots that would be even more unbearable, to make him writhe and scream insanely. He would have some excellent bruises on his sides tomorrow. This was unlike anything he'd experienced before, and he simply couldn't deal with it. He was desperate for me to stop - but here was a victim who didn't know who I was, would never be able to identify me - and I allowed full reign to the sadist in me. I tortured that boy.

He begged and pleaded, and with every scream from inside the hood my cock got harder and harder in my leather jeans. His begging and his pleading was like a hand gripping my cock, urging me on to ever greater heights of sadism. His body bounced against mine as I tickle-tortured his ribs and sides mercilessly. Then a long shriek came from him, and he pissed himself. Warm dark wetness spread from his crotch down his legs, soaking the thin bleached denim of his jeans. I continued until he'd done, then I stopped.

He was totally exhausted, and almost unconscious. I took advantage of this to release him from the restraints and to move him to the table. I moved the lantern, then bent him forward over the rusty iron surface and fastened his wrists to the far end. Then I removed his DMs and carefully unzipped his jeans, pulling them off. I put his boots back on, spread his legs wide, and tied them tightly at the knees and the ankles to the legs of the table.

His still-hard cock hung down vertically below the edge of the table, above them the testicles inside the shaved skin of his scrotum were moving slightly in the changing temperature. I waited until he'd recovered completely from the tickle torture, and then I pulled on my shiny, smooth, black rubber gloves and, taking the lantern with me, went outside.

On the way in I'd noticed some nice hairy, dark-stemmed nettles growing against the wall of the hut. I picked a good handful of the most dangerous-looking stems and took them back inside. I placed the lantern where it would illuminate his cock and balls best, selected a stem from the bunch of nettles and put the rest on the floor. From the stem I pulled off a single leaf, and with surgical precision stroked it lightly over his balls. At the first touch he gasped - the gentle movement tickled - but then he yelled as the hairs injected their histamine into his sensitive skin. Taking no notice of his struggling (other than to enjoy it) I pressed the leaf firmly onto his scrotum, moving it backwards and forwards slightly to cause the maximum number of stings. He screamed and fought the restraints as the nettle leaf stung him repeatedly. I continued to use it until I thought it was depleted, then pulled off another leaf...

I went through the entire stem one leaf at a time, applying each to every inch of his balls, and then, selecting a second stem, did the same to his cock. I paid particular attention to his circumcised cock-head, making sure that it was well-covered with the stings. I'm a very patient, precise, and thorough worker, and by the time the bunch of nettles was finished the entire surface of his inner thighs, balls, perineum, and cock were covered in angry welts from the vicious stinging nettles. I even carefully parted his arse cheeks and gave his anal sphincter a thorough stinging. His balls and cock - particularly the sensitive head - had had several applications of the leaves. Nodding with satisfaction, I gathered the exhausted nettles up and took them outside, where I lit a cigarette. A little time was required now, for the itching to develop.

It was a beautiful summer night, and the smell of the trees was wonderful. I sat on a pile of stones and enjoyed my cigarette, the tip glowing warmly against the darkness of the forest. I could hear soft moaning coming from the guy inside the hut. While I'd been applying the nettles - especially to his cock - he'd been screaming, but now it was just moans. He would be screaming again soon. And begging. My cock was hard and demanding relief, but all I would allow myself right now was the occasional squeeze through my sexy leather jeans. I loved wearing these jeans - they made me horny, and that made me more sadistic...

I crushed the end of my cigarette under my boot, then got up and went back inside and inspected the results of my handiwork. It looked good: a nice rash had developed all over which would be unbelievably sensitive and susceptible to the tip of a soft feather. Reaching into my bag I took just such a feather. It was long, curved, and had a sharply-pointed tip. Looking at it, you'd never imagine that such a thing could be an instrument of torture.

Kneeling between his spread legs, I applied the tip of the feather to the base of his balls, stroking it as lightly as I could over the mottled skin. Back and forth, up and down, I made the tip dance unpredictably over his histamine-sensitised scrotum. If I'd thought that he'd screamed before, when I'd been tickling him, that was nothing to the reaction I got now. He shrieked - and if the table had not been bolted to the floor he'd have pulled it over, so violent was his struggling. My cock jumped inside my jeans, and I moved the feather to the sides of his balls, getting right into the crevices at the tops of his thighs. On my own body, those crevices are probably the most effective of all my erogenous zones, and tickling them on him made me need to cum very badly indeed.

I worked on his balls for a long time, and then turned my attention first to his inner thighs, then his perineum, and then his arsehole. The feather worked its unbearable magic on them all - especially his arsehole. I held his cheeks apart with one rubber-gloved hand while I used the very tip of the feather to tickle the puckered ring. It flexed in and out like a mouth trying to suck the feather in as the soft pointed fronds teased and stroked it. The guy's hooded head was thrashing from side to side, and strings of pearly precum were falling from the tip of his cock onto the stone floor. With every touch of the feather his body jumped and banged against the iron surface of the table - he had lost all control of his reactions - and the room resounded with moans of pure animal lust.

So far I hadn't touched his cock. But now I did. Starting once again with the feather, I worked on just the shaft, tickling it slowly. I only had to hold the feather still: the jumping and jerking of his cock with every touch did the teasing and tickling for me. The soft feather stroked and teased every bump of the nettle-rash, causing a tickling and itching that I knew - and hoped - must be excruciatingly intense. His entire cock was one hypersensitive spot. I also knew that this was making him need to cum very badly indeed. For some time now he'd been pleading and begging me to bring him off. His struggling and pleading got louder and more desperate the closer I got to the cock-head, but I took my time getting there. Every so often I'd go back to his balls, or his thighs, or his perineum or arsehole. I wanted his suffering to go on for a long time yet.

Eventually it was time to get to work on his cock-head. I held the base of his cock gently in my rubber-gloved fingers, to keep it still so that I could work on it in the slow, precise way that I knew would be the most unbearably effective, and the most difficult for him to deal with. I knew very well that he already needed to cum more desperately than he'd ever needed to cum before - that he'd sell his soul if I'd only grip his cock firmly and rub the head a few times - but I handled his cock like the most fragile, thinnest piece of fine crystal - gently, so very gently, hardly touching...

I traced the feather around the ridge of the head, over the engorged, precum-wet glans, tickled the piss-slit and worked on the frenum. I was merciless. This was sadism of the purest form - no pain at all, but every careful, gentle stroke of the feather was designed to cause that helpless, insanely horny victim the very maximum possible suffering. This is where the whole thing really started for me - up to this point everything had been preparation. He needed to cum more than anything else in the world - and I was not only going to make it impossible for him to cum, but I was going to make that need progressively worse and worse until he knew he would go mad.

By now the nettle stings would, I knew, feel like an army of ants walking about. It would be itching like fuck, and every touch on the irritated skin would be magnified many times. He would desperately want his hands free so that he could rub and wank and relieve the dreadful itching and the need to cum. But his hands were securely tied to the table.

I concentrated now on the whole of his cock, using a second feather to tickle his balls at the same time. There is a lot to be said for just one intense source of stimulation, like the tip of a single feather - it's something a victim can concentrate on (in fact when he's hooded and earplugged he's forced to concentrate on it) - but when you add a second or third stimulus as well, the victim's mind can no longer fix on just the one, and when it tries to keep track of what's going on where, it gets easily overwhelmed. The result is often a rush of horniness which it is totally impossible to control. This proved to be exactly the case here. As the first feather tickled his cock-head and the second one worked carefully on the back of his balls, he began to hyperventilate. His struggling in the restraints reached a new height of violence, and he began to cry as he screamed, yelled, begged, and pleaded. It was much, much more than the guy could take. He'd clearly had no idea just how unimaginably, overpoweringly intense and urgent the desperate need to cum can be in the human male, if sadistically encouraged by an expert.

I lost track of time. I wasn't bothered about time at all. I was in heaven. I'd got this guy to the point that I'd been hoping for all along: insanely desperate to cum, and quite unable to do so. He must have kept thinking, "this must be the end - it's got to stop now - he can't carry on any longer..." but it wasn't, it hadn't, and I could. Oh yes I could. And how. The feathers continued to tease, to tickle, to torment him; they worked on his shaft, his perineum, his arsehole, his thighs, his balls, and most of all they worked on his inflamed cock-head. it went on for a long, long time.

Much later, I put the feathers away, and coated my shiny black rubber hands with lube. With infinite care I pushed the very tip of my index finger into his anal sphincter - just the tip - and went to work on his cock with my other hand. Very slowly, very lightly, the smooth black rubber glove slid repeatedly down the length of his cock from the very base to the head - my fingers closing gently over the tip with each stroke. His cock bucked angrily with every pass, and his hips were thrusting in and out as much as the restraints would allow, as he tried to fuck my hand. Now and again I just held his cock, my hand not moving at all relative to it, but just following the thrusting movements of his hips. That can be the most frustrating thing ever, because although you can feel the hand around your cock, no matter how hard you try to fuck it, there is absolutely no friction at all.

Gradually I worked my finger further into his arse until I felt his prostate. I'd have to be careful here, because rubbing that would make him need to cum a lot more. I massaged it gently, working my finger round and round, while just stroking the shaft of his cock and his balls lightly with my other hand. His crying was now full-on sobbing, and his pleading and begging was piteous. Now and again a short fit of pure rage would overtake him and he'd thrust his hips like mad and yell obscenities at me through the leather hood - but the only bit of me that took any notice was my cock.

I could work as lightly - if not more lightly - with my fingertips as I could with feathers, and I always preferred it because through the rubber gloves I could feel his cock responding to each sensual touch, each teasing stroke. My lubed fingertips made sadistic, torturous love to his cock-head; they took him to new heights of need which he'd never imagined his body was capable of. By the time I decided that he really couldn't take any more, he was very close to passing out.

I let him rest for a while, then re-lubed the gloves. I took his cock in my hand again, and listened for a few moments to his moans of despair, then I leaned over him - my leather jeans pressing against his bare arse and legs - and whispered into his ear: "I am going to make you cum like you've never cum before..."

Once again I started to work on his cock - just as gently, just as lightly as before. I inserted my finger into his arse and began to fuck him with it, rubbing his prostate with each stroke. Carefully I watched his balls for the slightest sign of approaching orgasm; I wanted this to be as intense for him as possible. Slowly I brought him up to the edge of orgasm again, backed off, did it again, backed off - and then did it a final time. I knew he was on the very brink. My fingers slowed almost to a stop. He was holding his breath, not moving an inch, poised on the very edge of an abyss so bottomless he was almost afraid to achieve the thing he wanted so inexpressibly much: orgasm.

I gripped his cock fully with my rubber-gloved hand, paused for an eternity, and then very suddenly began to wank him firmly and fast, with a milking action, my hand sliding up and down the full length of his cock. At the same time I scrubbed his prostate with my fingertip.

With a scream that reverberrated around the stone hut, he began to cum. I was ready, and instantly I slid my hand up to the end of his cock, and pressed my rubber-gloved thumb tightly over his piss-slit, closing it off as much as possible. With the rest of my hand I squeezed his cock, milking the head and the upper part of the shaft slowly and firmly.

Thick jets of spunk forced their way past my thumb and spewed all over the place: on the floor, on his thighs, on my leather jeans. His body bounced against the table, his head thrashing from side to side, and that scream went on and on until he had no air left in his lungs. His cock fought my hand, bucking and jerking in my rubber grip, as I continued to milk him slowly. The obstruction of my thumb pressing tightly over his piss-slit increased the intensity of his orgasm enormously, as each already madly-pumping gob of spunk had to overcome considerable resistance in order to get out - and this increased both the pressure in his cock and also the stimulation to the tip of his cock-head as it forced its way to freedom. It also made his orgasm last a lot longer. It went on and on and on...

My rubber hand made squishing sounds as it slipped and slid in the fountain of hot, sticky spunk erupting insanely from his cock. Even when the flow eventually began to subside, I continued milking him at the same slow rate, extracting every last drop of spunk brom his balls. I didn't stop until he'd collapsed back onto the table, unconscious.

After wiping my hands, I loosened his hood, and then removed it. I released him from the restraints, laid him carefully on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back, and stuck a piece of duct tape over his eyes. Then I waited for him to come round.

After only a minute or so he swallowed, took a deep breath, and groaned. He was awake. I placed a hand reassuringly on his chest. "You ok?" I asked.

He licked his lips - there were marks on his face from the hood - "Oh fuck..." was all he could manage to say.

I chuckled. I helped him back into his jeans, and laced his DMs up for him, then got him to his feet. After gathering up my bits and pieces, I led him back to his Beech tree. All the way back he was asking, "Who are you? How can I get in touch with you again? Please! I've got to know. That was the most incredible thing I've ever experienced. Who are you? Can I see you again?......"

I smiled but kept silent.

Back at the tree I put him back into the same position he'd been in when I'd found him, using his own timer cuffs (which had released at some point while I'd been working on him and which I reset for one hour). Standing out of his sight behind him I removed the duct tape and quickly laced the hood back onto his head. I looked at my watch - it was just after two o'clock. I'd been working on him for the best part of four hours. I didn't expect anyone else would turn up now.

He was still pleading for me to tell him who I was, how he could get in touch with me again, but I didn't say a word. With a final squeeze of his cock through his jeans, I left him.

As I approached the litter bin I saw a figure coming towards me from the direction of the road, and I hid behind a tree as the guy passed.

He was a big, muscular, ugly skinhead - and he was carrying a baseball bat.