The Telemachus Story Archive

Good Timing
By Hooder

Good Timing

Brak was out of spliffs.

He had lived in CitiBlock 686 for the last three years and he was used to having to go down to the ground floor for things – the internal delivery service always seemed to be out of bloody action. He didn’t mind, because often there was something going on down in the mall that involved the cops, and it gave him a chance to see them close up. Those muscular hunks in their uniforms made him weak at the knees. All that tight, shiny black leather, the mirror-visored helmets, the long black gauntlets, the fuck-off boots, and the restraints they carried on their utility belts… Even just the thought of them was often enough to give him an erection. Cops were his obsession, and the way he dressed - the leather jacket, stretch-leather jeans (cops wore leather codpiece jeans but he hadn’t been able to afford any so far), and heavy boots – were as close as he could get to looking like that obsession. Where the cops had proper restraints in their utility belt – cuffs, hood, clingers, anesthol spray - his contained only a hood he’d made himself.

686 was actually one of the better blocks – there were some that were almost no-go areas, full of Krystal dealers, hookers, rent boys, you name it – and Brak had often fantasised about visiting one, but they were dangerous places. One day, perhaps, when he was feeling particularly horny.

His apartment was on floor 1026, so even the gravlift took a good thirty seconds to get down to the ground. It came to a stop, and the doors slid open quietly. Looking around carefully, he walked out and across the concourse in the direction of his favourite spliff shop, his boots making satisfying clunks on the dirty green and black floor.

Of all the seedy shops in the mall, the spliff shop was the seediest. It was dark, and had corners that were even darker. Before you could get to the counter you had to thread your way through a video game area first, and that was always full of teenage boys who were either – if it was daytime - skiving off school and smashed out of their minds; or – if it was night - keeping out of the way of abusive parents and smashed out of their minds. Brak took a circuitous route between them.

“Hi Thorn. Two packs of Belgian Gold please.”

Thorn grunted in what could possibly have been a greeting.

Brak had no idea how old Thorn was, but the man looked ancient. Parts of his face looked as if they’d originally belonged to someone else, and a deep scar ran from his left ear to the right corner of his mouth. It was a face to frighten children. He pressed a couple of buttons and two packs arrived by some means at the back of the counter within a few seconds.

“Forty-two.” A man of few words, Thorn.

Brak flashed his chip and smiled. “Thanks.” He turned to walk away.

“Hold it!”

He turned back, surprised.


“I just paid you. I flashed my chip.”

Thorn shook his head. “No good mate.”

“What?” Brak quickly looked at his wrist, checking his chip. It was empty. Oh fuck. How the hell could it be empty? He lowered his arm and frowned. Then he put the packs of spliffs back on the counter. “I’m sorry – I don’t see how it could be empty...”

“Yeah right.” Thorn didn’t move the pick the boxes up. “No problem. You wait right there. Cops are comin’.”

“What? But I’ve given you them back.”

“Tryin’ to thieve stuff from me. You’ll pay all right. Bastards like you...”

Seconds later a deafeninging wail split the air. This was followed by an amplified voice, “Clear the area! Clear the area!”, and boys started to scatter at the front of the shop. Before Brak knew what was happening he was the only customer left and he was staring at the shiny leather pecs of two six-foot six, and very clearly male, cops. Under other circumstances this would have been a wet dream, but his brain hadn’t quite caught up with what was happening.

“Chip.” The cop on the left held out the scanner on his leather gauntlet. Brak raised his arm and touched his chip to it.

“Brak Corbyn. Age nineteen. 1026 slash 4, CitiBlock 686, you are under arrest for attempted theft. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

“But I didn’t! I didn’t know my chip was -”

Gauntlets grabbed him and turned him to face the counter. Magnecuffs tightened around his wrists, and the thin, flexible leather restraint hood was dropped over his head.

Startled as he was, the feel of the real police restraint hood pressing over his face was like an electric shock to him. He felt himself beginning to get hard.

The cops’ leather-gloved hands held him tightly as they took him out of the shop and into the waiting van. Once inside he heard the door close, and felt the cops strapping his legs together. His cock got harder and his stretch-leather jeans did nothing at all to conceal the fact.

“Well lookee...”

Brak felt a hand flick his cock bulge.

“The fucker’s getting off on this!”

Under the loose hood Brak’s face was going red.

“You like being tied up, you pervert?”

Brak squirmed in embarrassment.

“And look - leather jacket, leather jeans, boots… Even got a utility belt. What’s he got in it?…”

Hands at his belt. Brak felt one of the pockets being opened.

“Fuck me! A little home-made hood! We’ve got a cop-lover here!”

The second cop leaned closer and whispered. “You like the leather uniforms, boy? You get off on being strapped up? Hooded? Helpless? By real cops?” His voice took on a tone of extreme reasonableness, “We can understand that. Here – we can make it better for you...”

Brak felt the hood tightening. They were pulling straps at the back (he knew there were three of them). The leather pressed more and more tightly over his face until it was squeezing his head. It felt wonderful. His cock was straining the stretch-leather between his legs.

“Wait ‘til we get you back to the station, boy - we know exactly how to deal with boys like you...”

The van slowed, then came to a stop. Brak heard the doors open. Leather-gauntleted hands grabbed him and held him as they marched him, still blindfolded by the hood, into the police station.

After pausing at the desk to register him, they continued down several corridors before eventually coming to a halt. The magnecuffs were released.

“Hands on top of your head!”

He interlaced his fingers over the restraint hood, running his fingertips over the smooth, thin leather. The cops spread his legs, and then searched him – slowly and carefully. The unseen hands moved down his arms and jacket, then under it and over his body. They removed his utility belt, searched over his crotch and slid slowly down his legs and boots. No mention was made of his stonking erection.

“Clear,” said a voice. Footsteps, the the sound of a steel door closing.

Brak stayed in that position for a while, wondering if anyone was still there with him.

He brought his arms down and then, when nobody shouted at him, he raised them again and felt at the back of the hood. The police hoods had a fastening that was quick to click into place, but which required sight to unlock. Three dots had to be lined up precisely on the small lock. Unlike a normal combination lock, there was no click for each position – it was entirely smooth, so you didn’t even know if any of the dots were in a position that would enable the thing to open at all. He knew that it was possible to do it without seeing them, but he also knew that it would probably take a very long time indeed. The hood was not coming off any time soon. The leather still pressed tightly across his face from when the cops in the van had tightened it, and although it felt unbelievably horny, he did loosen them by one notch, so that he could breathe a bit more easliy.

He felt around. Three walls and a barred gate. He was in a cell. There was a bunk, and he sat on it.

A few minutes later the door opened. Footsteps, then the sliding door shut again.

“Stand up.” The voice of one of the cops who had brought him in.

“So, our little cop-lover...” That was the second guy. “Nice jacket...” Brak felt fingers running over it. “Boots, not bad...” He felt a foot push his slightly. “Stretch-leather jeans. Looks like you’re enjoying this...” A hand brushed his obscenely-bulging cock through his jeans.

The first cop had moved away slightly. “And this is his utility belt. With his own hood. Nice...” The voice was sneering now.

The first voice again: “You get off on cops and leather.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of fact.

“And being helpless…?”

That had been a question. He nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said.

Mocking laughter from both the voices.

“Right. Take the hood off, boy.”

Brek raised his hands to the back of the hood and tried to get it unlocked, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Oh, I forgot – you can’t, can you…?” There was more laughter.

Brek felt hands behind his head and light made him squint as the hood was pulled off. When he could see again he found himself looking at the two hunky cops. He drank in the sight of them. Black fibreglass helmets concealed their faces - he could see reflections of himself in the mirror visors. Their tight black leather uniforms shone in the overhead light, accentuating every curve of their muscular bodies; the long leather gauntlets - skintight, and with the cuffs extending halway to their elbows – looked menacing and dangerous; their black-and-grey motorcycle-type boots were big and chunky, with a line of quick-release fasteners down the sides; and the codpieces of their shiny, thigh-hugging black leather jeans were big, bulging triangles between their thighs. He stared at their utility belts – he well knew that the pockets were filled with gear designed to overpower prisoners and get them helpless. He was going weak at the knees at the sight of these two cops – they exuded authority, power, and pure black leather sex.

The cops had been watching him looking at them. The name on the silver badge of the cop on the left was ‘Dyson’; the other one was ‘Chad’. “We turning you on, boy…?” Dyson drawled, his deep voice dripping with ridicule.

Brak swallowed. He was so horny he couldn’t speak.

Chad looked at Dyson. “I think this one’s likely to get violent.”

“Dyson nodded slowly, the reflections in his visor moving up and down. “Yeah. Gotta be careful with punks like this. Better get the jacket.” He pressed a button on the wall of the cell, and they stood watching the boy in silence until a third cop arrived at the door. He opened it, handed Chad an armful of black leather, saluted, and walked away. The steel door closed again.

Chad opened the straitjacket and Dyson grabbed Brak. With well-practised moves they efficiently forced the boy’s arms into the long, closed sleeves.

But Brak fought them. He couldn’t stop himself – it felt so fucking good. He struggled to stop them getting the jacket fastened up. The cops could have overpowered him easily enough, but Chad brought out the anesthol canister and gave the boy a very short squirt in the face. Not enough to knock him out, but enough to make him helpless to fight them.

Brak felt his head start to spin. He couldn’t work his limbs properly; he could no longer stop them. Bastards! His cock jerked in his jeans.

No longer having to fight the boy, the cops took their time getting his arms crossed over his front, and strapping the jacket up tightly behind him.

They manouvered the anesthol-dazed boy onto the bunk and, their hands all over him, got more leather straps around his legs, knees and thighs, pulling them tight.

Brak’s head was clearing. He struggled in the restraints – because it felt so indescribably horny. He couldn’t move his arms in the heavy leather straitjacket, couldn’t turn over, couldn’t move his legs. He was completely at the mercy of these two muscular cops. He looked up at them adoringly. And he saw that now their codpieces were bigger than they had been. Much bigger. Their hard cocks were stretching the shiny leather as far as it would go,making enormous bulges between their thighs.

Let me go you fuckers!” Brak shouted. Everyone in the room knew that he didn’t mean a word of it.

Dyson grabbed the boy’s head and forced something between his teeth. He strapped the gag on tightly. “Try shouting now, you little fucking pervert.”

Brak’s eyes were wide as he tried to yell. All that came out was a very muffled squalk.

Chad held up an object for the boy to see. It was a big, heavy, and sinister-looking leather hood. “You liked the restraint hood, I seem to remember. Well if that one got you horny, boy, this bastard will make you fucking cum. ” Between them, the cops held the struggling boy and forced the hood over his head. Unlike the ones carried by cops in their belts, this was designed to punish. The leather was thick and heavy, and there were straps all over it so that it could be tightened hard in all directions to make it as sadistically confining as possible. The shiny smooth leather inside of the hood was designed to cling claustrophobically to the victim’s face. Breathing was possible, of course, but made intentionally difficult.

When the hood was on and tightened up, the cops dropped the boy back onto the bunk, fixed a chain between his ankles and a ring on the back of the straitjacket, and pulled his feet up into a hogtie. Then they stood back and watched him struggling.

“Yeah, struggle boy. Struggle like fuck. Go on, try to get free.” They were both massinging their hard cock bulges through their jeans.

“Can’t see a fucking thing, can you?”

“You’re going nowhere, boy...” Their voices were taunting, mocking.

“You like that, do you? Turning you on, is it? Strapped down and hooded by a couple of beefy cops in black leather?”

“You’re a helpless little leather boy and we’ve fucking got ya...”

Dyson made a ‘lets-go-and-get-a-coffee’ sign with his hand, and they left Brak alone in the cell.

Brak didn’t know they’d gone. But he was in heaven: he was in a police cell, straitjacketed, strapped down, hooded, and at the mercy of two incredibly horny cops in skintight black leather. He thrust his hips – he couldn’t stop himself.

With a deep, gutteral sound that was muffled by both the gag and the leather, Brak came. Straitjacketed, hogtied and hooded, he came like he’d never cum before. Although there was nobody to see it, the bulge in his stretch-leather jeans bucked like a mad thing as his spunk pumped out of his cock. He struggled and writhed on the bunk, restrained by leather and helpless…


He had no idea how much time had passed, but eventually he felt hands unfastening the straps. When the hood came off, his hair was plastered to his head, his face was red and sweaty, and there were marks from where the inside leather had creased against his skin. He was beaming. Dyson reached out and pulled him to his feet. He was suddenly acutely aware of the spunk in his jeans. Stretch leather was a bit more porous than ordinary leather, and he looked down. He was mortified to see a milky white wetness smeared across his crotch.

Dyson must have seen it too. “Have a little boy-accident, did we…?”

Brak’s face was still red – but now from embarrassment.

Dyson raised his head and said in a more official voice, “Apparently there are no charges, Mr Corbyn. Seems your bank had a fifteen-second power outage just when you used your chip. If you’d done the transaction ten seconds earlier or ten seconds later there would have been no problem. You’re free to go.”

Brak didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. On impulse he walked up to Dyson, threw his arms around him and pushed his face into the cop’s black leather pecs. He licked them lovingly. “Thank you,” he whispered.

The cop didn’t quite know what to do. He gripped the boy’s arms to push him away, but then allowed him to carry on licking the leather for a moment before he did so. He straightened up and stepped away.

“Thank you for co-operating with CitiFour Police, sir. We hope you had a pleasant experience with us. Come this way please.”

Dyson accompanied Brak to the main door of the station, then stood and watched for a moment as the boy walked away. He shook his head and smiled to himself thinking that Brak would probably be wanking about today for a long time. He walked back inside, to the cell. As he picked up the straitjacket he noticed something lying on the table – a utility belt with a home-made leather restraint hood in it. The boy had forgotten to take it with him. He picked the belt up and turned it over thoughtfully in his gauntleted hands.

Then he took the hood out of the belt and replaced it with his own police one – he could get another easily enough. Brak would probably cum as soon as he saw what it was.

He smiled again. He and Chad would have to pay the boy a visit to return that belt.

And they would take the restraint van.