The Telemachus Story Archive

The Collector
By Hooder

The Collector

Erik Olsen carefully stuck the newly-printed label onto the little glass bottle and placed it in the display rack in its proper place along with the other three hundred and forty-six before it. He ran his eyes along the shelves. All the little bottles were identical, but their contents weren’t: most contained varying amounts of a viscous white liquid, but a few had small pieces of paper in them instead. He slid the glass door closed and sat down at his computer. There was a kind of spreadsheet on the screen (an application he had coded himself) and he entered ‘347’ into the first field, then the date, name and details into the others. When it was done Erik saved the file and shut down the machine.

He stared at the blank monitor for a while, drumming his fingers on the mouse mat. On impulse, he fired up the computer again and went in search of porn. He paged through his regular sites until a picture made him stop. It was of an ugly skinhead boy grimacing at the camera and giving it the finger. Braces, white teeshirt, DM boots, and tight faded jeans. Something stirred in him. Ah yes, a skinhead. He hadn’t had one of those for a long time. But the ones he had had, had been so easy. He needed more of a challenge. A thought occurred to him and he navigated to a more political site. The Nasjonalalliansen was not a party to which he subscribed – politics were of no interest to Erik – but fuck, he thought as he scrolled through pictues of their parades, some of those boys were sex on legs. Perfect, absolutely perfect.

It took him a couple of days to do the research and to make the arrangemens, but by the Saturday evening he was ready. He grabbed his keys and set off for town.

“Herby’s” was half-full when he walked in. Keeping his eyes for the moment in front of him he headed for the bar and ordered a beer. Then he allowed himself to turn round and scan the room. There was the usual selection of alcoholics, down-and-outs, thugs and rabble, but he ignored them. His eyes came to a stop at two tables that had been pushed together at one end of the room. A couple of men and four teenage skinhead boys sat there, drinking and arguing They all had cropped hair, but three of the boys were facing away from him, so he couldn’t see them properly. One of the men leaned forward and made a point using his hands. The gesture ended in a pistol shape pointed at another customer. From where he was Erik couldn’t see who had been the target. The rest of the guys laughed.

Next to the two tables a couple were looking uncomfortable. The guy whispered something to his girl and she nodded. They set about finishing their drinks. Erik immediately emptied his own, and bought another, by which time the couple were getting up to leave. He took his beer over and sat down in the freshly-vacated seat.

From here he could see the boys well – and he knew instantly which one was going to be number three hundred and forty eight. Oh fuck yes. He was about eighteen, slim, with cropped blond hair, a white muscle shirt with a red fist on it, brown DMs, and the sexiest bleached jeans Erik had seen for a long time. But more than this, he was attitude on a stick. Erik couldn’t hear what was being said, but this boy’s upper lip was curled, his eyes half closed and his teeth bared in a snarl. His hands were fists on the table. He looked feral. Then, as if fate had smiled on Erik, the boy spat, “...should all be fucking castrated. Fuckin’ poofs.” Erik looked down at his beer, and smiled to himself. Oh yes, this was the boy.

Erik was drinking slowly, but still managed to get through two glasses of lemonade before the skinhead party broke up to head home. He followed them out, at a safe distance, and loitered inconspicuously while they said their goodbyes. One of the other boys gave a Nazi salute, kicked a car – setting the alarm off – and then they went their separate ways. Erik jumped into his car and followed his skinhead carefully.

When the boy turned into Rommensletta park, Erik accellerated and drove round to the far end. He locked the car, and ran through the park gates. In the distance he could see the skinhead walking unsteadily in his direction. The bandstand was well-placed. Erik sat on the steps and waited. He was thankful that this part of Oslo was quiet at night.

As the boy approached, Erik took a plastic bag out of his pocket.


The skinhead turned his head towards Erik.

“You wanna get high?”

The boy frowned. “What you selling?” He had a slight Trøndersk accent.

“Not selling. I was given these. I don’t know much about pills. Any idea if they’re any good? You can have some if you want.”

The boy walked closer and looked at the pills in Erik’s outstretched hand. He picked a couple up and sniffed them, then popped them into his mouth and swallowed. “Anything’s good,” he said. Then he turned and continued walking.

“Ungrateful little fucker,” thought Erik. But mission accomplished. He got up and followed the boy along the path towards the gates. The skinhead’s legs gave way about ten yards from the car. Erik managed to catch him before he hit the ground. A man and woman shook their heads as they passed.

He bundled the unconscious boy into the back of the car and jumped in. They disappeared down the road.

It had not been easy to get the dead-weight of the lad out of the car and up the stairs of his house on his own, but he’d had good motivation to do so. Once inside, Erik had unzipped the boy’s skintight jeans, peeled them down, and used scissors to cut off his underpants. That done, he’d pulled the bleachers up again and refastened them. Then he’d hauled the skinhead into the playroom, and strapped him down very securely onto the gurney. The boy was face-up, his wrists secured by heavy leather straps to its sides, and he had thick leather mitts over his hands to stop him using his fingers. His legs were bent, his booted feet fastened about 24 inches beyond his crotch, the soles flat on the leather-covered surface, about a foot apart. They were fixed immovably – he wouldn’t be able to straighten his legs, nor move his feet in any direction.

Above his knees was a strange-looking device: Two thin but rigid steel plates, fixed higher up to a chain-driven mechanism which ran inside a slightly downwards-curved rail, were positioned so that the lower couple of inches of the plates were between the boy’s knees. More thick leather straps were fastened over his shoulders, chest, and stomach.

Erik surveyed his work, nodded in satisfaction, and went to get changed.

By the time he returned to the playroom, the skinhead was conscious – and very vocal. He closed the door to the soundproofed room firmly, and let the boy get a good look at him. In the wall-mirror on the far side of the room Erik could see his own reflection: fuck-off motorcycle boots; skintight, sprayed-on shiny, thin black leather jeans which he’d chosen because they showed the bulge of his cock and balls perfectly; a biker jacket; black leather gauntlets; and a black leather mask. Along with the studs and chains, he looked like a demented sexual pervert - which was exactly (a) what he’d intended, and (b) what he was.

At the sight of Erik, the skinhead had gone very quiet. He stared at the shiny black leather apparition with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open – and then the swearing started. He struggled in the restraints, spat, and screamed obscenities.

Erik just stood there, saying nothing, waiting for the boy’s energy to run out. It took a long time, but finally he stopped yelling.

“That’s better. Now, introductions, I think.” Erik moved closer, standing by the side of the gurney. “My name is Johan – well, it’s not, but you can call me that if you like. There are several things you should know about me. First, I am gay.”

At this there was renewed cursing and fighting of the restraints. Again, Erik waited.

“Oh yes, I am gay. But not only that - skinhead boys turn me on like fuck, and my biggest fetish is skintight jeans. And you are a very sexy boy.”

More swearing – this time with threats of extreme violence to Erik’s person. Erik just stood there and waited for it to finish.

“And do you know what I love to do to skinhead boys in tight jeans more than anything else in the world? The thing that makes me most horny?”

Erik had to wait again until the yells subsided.

“No, it’s not to fuck them – I don’t do that. What I love to do is make them cum in their jeans.”


When things were quieter, Erik continued, just as calmly, as if there had been no interruptions at all, “I think of it as a learning thing. Boys like you wear tight jeans to look sexy, don’t you? Well, you have to learn that wearing tight, sexy bleachers like those is an come-on to guys like me just as much as it is to girls. And you also have to learn that jeans like that can be used against you.”

The drool running down the side of his face made it look almost like the skinhead was foaming at the mouth.

“But here’s the thing,” Erik said, “I don’t make boys cum against their will – that would be wrong. I only make them cum if they want me to. If they ask me to make them cum. And I need to be very sure they want me to – so they must not just ask, but beg me to make them cum. See? I’m a very fair sort of pervert.”

“Go fuck yourself. If you think I’m gonna ask you to make me cum you are seriously deranged, fucker. You think a Skinhead would ask a fuckin queer poof faggot pervert to get him off?” He shook his head and snorted.

“We’ll see. Now, let me have a closer look at those jeans...”

The boy’s jeans had been bleached - a long time ago, by the look of them. The darkest blue patches were well-faded, and the bits that should have been white were sort of off-white canvas-coloured. They fit him like a second skin; the only wrinkles visible anywhere were at his bent knees. Apart from that they were perfectly smooth all the way up his legs. There was a darker area on the left-hand side of his crotch, but over his bulge the jeans were very bleached. The horizontal rip that ran across the left knee was clearly from wear rather than fashion.

Erik pulled up a stool and sat down, making sure his bulge stayed in the boy’s field of vision. “Mmm… Oh yes. Nice and worn, especially around the crotch. And the seams...” He ran a tentative fingertip slowly up the outside of the boy’s thigh from the knee to the hip.

At the first touch, it was as if an electric shock had jolted the boy. He tensed, and fought the restraints again, violently batting the finger away with his thigh. Erik replaced the finger and continued its journey to the hip, following the boy’s limited movements with no problem.

“Get your fuckin hands off me you pervert! You are DEAD, fucker! DEAD DEAD DEAD!!”

“Oh fuck, I love skinhead boys in tight jeans...” Erik bent forward and slowly licked one of the DM boots. The leather smelled wonderful and felt smooth under his tongue. The boy tried to kick with his foot but the solid restraints made that quite impossible. He moved slowly upwards and licked the denim just above the boot. “Oh yeahhh...”

He transferred his attention to the back of the thigh now. Keeping out of the way of the battering knees, he touched the faded denim. “Oh fuck. Those jeans are so worn, so thin, I bet you can feel the lightest touch through those...” Using all his fingers, he tickled slowly towards the boy’s arse. The closer he got to it, the less the boy’s knee movements were able to interfere with his actions. Suddenly, in the middle of the swearing and spitting, a ticklish laugh escaped him.

“Does that tickle? Sorry. I don’t want to tickle you. I want to get your cock hard.”


Using both hands now, one on the top of the leg and one under it, Erik teased and stroked lightly along the boy’s thigh. Occasionally he reached across and worked on the other one as well. By standing level with the skinhead’s waist, he could reach down and work on them with no danger of being got by a flying knee. The boy’s jeans felt warm and soft under his fingertips, and every time he parted his knees Erik could see the inside seams – they were becoming an irresistible temptation. But all in good time.

The boy’s cock was still soft (though Erik wasn’t sure if it was quite as soft as it had been). Using just the very tip of one finger, he stroked across the cock-bulge, where he estimated the head to be. He was rewarded not only by a fresh stream of swearing from the boy, but also a distinct kick from the cock. He’d definitely felt that. Hmm. That was for later. Much later. Now, time to move on, and to employ the technology.

Erik went back to stand halfway down the table. “Now, I want you to part your knees, please, so that I can get my hand between your legs to tickle your balls, and the insides of your thighs.

“FUCK! OFF! PERVERT! You lay a finger on my balls and I’ll fucking kick your faggot HEAD IN!”

“Open your knees please.”

“WHAT PART OF ‘FUCK OFF’ DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?” The skinhead clamped his knees together as tightly as he could.

“You see, I can get in so far...” he forced a hand between the boy’s thighs, “but it’s difficult to do much once my hand is in there.” He removed his hand and this time went in from underneath. “Same from underneath, you see. Can’t get to your balls very easily, and I want to run my finger slowly up the inside seam of those beautiful, sexy fucking jeans… Go on, please, part your knees for me.” One of the bits Erik loved best about these sessions was fucking with his victim’s mind.

The boy somehow managed to squeeze his knees together even more tightly than before.

“Ok, well let’s try this...” Erik pressed a button and there was a whirring sound. The two steel plates began to move apart, forcing the boy’s knees along with them. He stopped the machine when there was a couple of inches of space between them, and slowly put his hand in. “Wider would be nice, please, so that I can really get to your balls.”

The boy was apoplectic. His thigh muscles bulged as he struggled to force his knees closed, but the rigid plates held them apart. His booted feet were immovable, as were his hips, so there was no way he could get a knee out from between the plates. He could open them as far as he liked, but could close them no more than the distance between the plates. And they were moving again. He strained to overcome the machanism, but the device was stronger than he was, and his knees moved slowly further and further apart despite anything he could do to stop them.

“That’s better! Excellent. Thank you.”

His knees were now a good two feet apart. Erik stood at the bottom of the gurney and gazed at the boy’s legs. Brown DM boots, skintight bleached jeans, rolled up to the tops of them. The inside seams were darker blue, and ran up from the top of the boots, tight across the calf, crinkling at the knees under the metal plates, and from there up smoothly across increasingly sensitive and erogenous skin until they met at the skinhead’s perineum. From that crossroads the front one went up and out and turned into the zip which lay to the side of the bleached denim bulge of the boy’s cock and balls, the tension of the denim pressing it to his body and so making the bulge more prominent. Erik had to stop himself from touching it yet - the temptation was almost impossible to resist.

Instead he started at the top of the boots. He was in heaven as, slowly, very very slowly, he traced the seams upwards with his fingertips, stroking and caressing, feeling the denim under his fingers, until he got to the steel plates. Then upwards again, beyond them. The higher up the insides of the boy’s thighs he got, the more obviously sexual it would be for him, so the slower he worked – he wanted his victim to realise exactly how helpless he was, and also that being teased like this was turning him on despite himself. Erik kept an eye on the skinhead’s cock, and was pleased to see that it was clearly harder now than it had been: before, the cock bulge had been soft and curved, but now it was slowly straightening as, bit by bit, it hardened under his jeans.

Erik’s fingers were approaching the tops of the thighs. He lingered there for a long time, teasing, tickling and stroking all over the insides, underneath, and the tops, using both hands first on one thigh and then on the other. Finally he arrived at the boy’s balls.

The denim was especially thin and worn here – it was as if the skinhead had intentionally made them that way so that he would feel the lightest touches of Erik’s fingertips. Erik made good use of this. At the first touch to the bulge of his balls, the skinhead yelled and screamed abuse. He spat and struggled – but he was helpless to influence in the slightest whatever Erik wanted to do.

What Erik wanted to do was to take his time teasing, stroking, scratching and tickling his fingertips over the boy’s balls. He knew well from experience that the lightest touches were the most effective, and he used all of his considerable skill on the boy.

Under the bleached jeans, the cock was now as hard as a steel rod. While Erik had been working on his balls, it had hardened fully – and in doing so had stretched the thin, worn denim both up and out. The bulge was now clearly visible as a cock – even the ridge of the head showed – and it had forced the denim over it away from the boy’s body, making it eminently grippable. It was as if it were begging to be touched, rubbed, milked…

“You’re hard. I thought skinheads would die rather than get hard for a queer poofter faggot pervert like me.”


“You can’t really mean that – you’ve got a hard-on. Look. See for yourself.” Erik pointed to the tip of the boy’s straining cock-bulge, his finger millimeters from touching it.

The boy glanced down, grimaced as if he wanted Erik to touch it more than anything in the world - and then with a loud grunt of frustration tore his eyes away and looked up at the ceiling. His knees slammed repeatedly against the steel plates.

Erik went back to working leisurely on the boy’s balls and inner thighs for the next twenty minutes.

“Tell you what,” Erik said at last, “your legs must be getting tired being apart like that. I’ll let you close them if you like.” He reached under the skinhead’s thigh, then up, positioning his hand between the very tops of them, his elbow resting comfortably on the gurney’s leather surface, and the fingers ideally placed for tickling the balls, then he pressed the release button which allowed the metal plates to close together again. The skinhead immediately clamped his knees tight together, his thighs trapping Erik’s left hand between them. Erik knew that his hand there, when the boy couldn’t get it out, would feel invasive and horny. Then with his right hand, he approched the so-far almost untouched cock bulge.

He had been expecting a renewed bout of cursing, threats and spitting, but when his fingertip made contact with the shaft of the cock all that came from the boy was an anguished moan – was that of pleasure, Wondered Erik, or what? The cock bucked under his finger at the first touch, and he stroked slowly up to the ridge of the head. More moans escaped from the skinhead, and he was struggling again – but this time the struggling had an element of cat-like, luxuriating stretching.

Erik teased the cock slowly, and with extreme control. He knew exactly how tight jeans themselves could be made to work on a boy; how thin, tight denim could be made to transmit touch in a way that could feel to the victim even more erotic than stroking the naked skin directly. Tight jeans had been Erik’s most powerful fetish for as long as he could remember, and he had made a lifetime’s study of how to use them.

He lightly scratched his fingernails over the head of the cock-bulge, feeling the smooth friction of the denim beneath them, and listening to the quiet ‘whish’ when they moved. With each and every movement of his nails the skinhead’s body jerked, and a moan came from him. Erik only did this for moments at a time – he wanted to make the boy’s approach towards orgasm very slow indeed. To rush things now would spoil everything.

His fingers slid up and down the stretched denim, over the shaft and up to the head – and then over it. He pushed a finger between the cock and the boy’s body and pulled the rigid cock even further out towards him, stretching the denim so that he could get a better grip on it, right on the ridge. Once there, he moved them up and down a tiny amount, masturbating the boy millimeter by millimeter, this time causing the jeans to move as well, so that they were milking the skinhead.

Erik had been keeping his left hand stationary between the boy’s thighs – but now he started to move it, and used the fingers to tickle his balls as well. Urgent moans came from the teenager when he started doing this, and he struggled to get the invading hand out from between his legs. Erik smiled as he realised it had been some time since the threats and spitting had stopped.

He looked at the skinhead’s face. It was screwed up in concentration. Suddenly Erik stopped. He froze both hands, and waited.

One second…


“Mmm… Don’t stop.”

Erik tickled the very tip of the cock head for a moment, then stopped again.

“No. Go on. Go on.”

He stroked the denim-covered balls lightly and squeezed the boy’s cock once, briefly. It jerked urgently under his hand.

“Go on! Don’t stop!”

Leaning down, Erik ran his tongue and his teeth lightly and slowly up the length of the cock, loving the feel of the denim and knowing there was nothing at all between it and that horny cock under it. A moan of pleasure came from the boy. He straightened up and started to work on his helpless victim again with his fingers, slowly and gently, but relentlessly. The skinhead’s pelvis began to thrust. Erik counted to three and then stopped again.

“NO! GO ON! GO ON!!!!” This time they were yells.

He reached down and picked up a small vibrator. This thing had made more boys lose it than he’d had hot dinners. He switched it on and held it an inch above the straining cock-head. The boy looked down when the buzzing began, frowning, and followed it with his eyes as it so slowly approached his bulge. Erik held it a hair’s breadth away from the tip of the cock for a few seconds, touched it very lightly to the bleached denim - and then took it away again.

The skinhead let out a yell of pure lust. He had never felt anything remotely like that on his cock before and it was unbe-fucking-lievable! “YES! YES! FUCKIN DO THAT AGAIN!!!!”

Erik obliged. Another one-second contact and then off.


The boy was very close to orgasm, Erik knew, and from here on he must be very careful indeed. He used the vibrator another ten times, for only one second each time, with at least thirty seconds between. The last couple of times he tickled the boy’s balls at the same time.

Now the skinhead was struggling for real again – but this time to get his hand to his cock to bring himself off. That fucking pervert kept getting him to the edge of cumming and then stopping. And that fucking machine felt incredible! It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before and he couldn’t handle it. It felt so fucking amazing he couldn’t begin to describe it. He needed to cum so badly, and yet the fucker would not let him.

Quickly, Erik put the vibrator down – the boy was too close now to make it safe to use on him - another second’s contact and he would cum. He immediately started to work on the cock bulge with his fingers instead. There was something about the feedback he got from direct contact that enabled him to control a victim much more accurately. There was a darker, wet patch all over the cock-head now where precum had oozed out, and Erik knew that it would make any touch feel even more acute. He concentrated on that area now. While his left hand – still clamped tightly between the boy’s thighs - worked on him from there, the fingers of his right hand stroked and scratched across the boy’s desperately needy cock-head through the precum-slick jeans.

The teenager was thrusting his pelvis as much as the leather straps over him would allow, and fighting the restraints with every muscle in his body. He had to cum. Oh God, he HAD to cum!

Erik worked on the cock, spending most of the time on the wet, slippery head, but also stroking up and down the shaft, squeezing it sharply and quickly, rubbing the palm of his hand over the boy’s horny bulge. He was so close to cumming himself – all he needed was to hear the boy beg.

“Remember what I said at the beginning. I’ll make you cum if you want me to, but you must beg me. You’re a straight, homophobic skinhead. I’m a gay leather pervert who gets off on boys in tight jeans. If you really want to cum, beg me to make you cum in your tight, sexy jeans.” As he was talking, Erik was stroking the boy’s cock-head slowly, keeping him right on the brink of orgasm.


“Not good enough. You don’t need to cum badly enough yet. I’ll work on you a bit more...” He pushed the fingers of his left hand tight into the boy’s perineum. He got fingers and thumb either side of the balls, and worked them in until they were gripping the very base of the steel-hard cock. In those warm depths, he squeezed firmly but gently. His fingernails were slowly scratching again across the sensitive tip of the cock. Suddenly he felt the boy’s cock begin to stiffen even more, and he froze everything. That had been the sign of imminent orgasm. But he had stopped in time – just.

The skinhead screamed. “NOOOOOOO!!!!! KEEP GOING!!!! I'M GONNA CUMMMMM”

“I don’t think so. I can keep you on the edge for as long as I want. Shall we go again?” He repeated the procedure, concentrating hard on the fingers of his left hand, alert for the sudden stiffening that would signal the onset of orgasm. That stiffening came again. He stopped.

Again. And again.

The thing about edging like this was, Erik Knew, that the effects were wonderfully cumulative. It wasn’t just the same feelings over again each time – the compelling need to cum got worse and worse the longer it went on. Erik suspected that eventually the victim would go mad, but he had never got that far with a victim. Yet.

The boy was yelling, screaming, crying tears of unbearable frustration. He couldn’t stand it. He had never realised how intense the need to cum could be, because he had never been in a situation where he was unable to cum when he needed to. This was torture. There was no other word.

Once again the fingers started to move. He could feel them between his thighs, and on his cock, getting him closer and closer to cumming. There was nothing he could do to control it. He couldn’t get this fucker to let him cum. And the worst thing was that all his ideas about skinheads and gays were going out the fucking window. He no longer cared that it was a poofter pervert rubbing his cock and working on his balls. It felt so fucking good. Fuck – even the leather straps holding him down felt horny. His entire world was now nothing more than the end of his cock – and he HAD TO FUCKING CUM. No matter what – HE HAD TO FUCKING CUM!


The fingers stopped again and left him hanging helplessly on the very edge of orgasm. He screamed and beat his mitted fists against the table and tried to wrench his hand free – just one more single touch on his cock would make him shoot…

The fingers tickled his balls. “You know what to do...”

But that was the one thing he could not do. Even now, in the agony of needing to cum so badly, he could not beg a gay guy to make him cum. Not a gay guy, and not in his tight, sexy skinhead jeans. Not these skintight bleached jeans he wore to show off his bulge and thighs and look so fucking horny...


Yes! Erik’s cock erupted – hot spunk pumping out into the black leather. At the same moment he started to work on the boy again – moving his hand between his thighs, tickling his balls, gripping the slick cock-head – but this time milking it relentlessly and irresistibly .

The air in the playroom was split by an ear-shattering scream as the boy started to cum. It was as much as Erik could do to keep his fingers on the head, the desperate cock jerking and bouncing under the skintight jeans as hot boy-spunk pumped out uncontrollably. The skinhead was yelling and writhing in his restraints as he came, his eyes focussed on nothing. Erik continued to milk the boy’s cock dry through those sexy bleachers, which were now blue-grey under his fingers, and shiny with cum.

Eventually it was over. He collapsed back onto the leather surface, exhausted.

Erik took a piece of the absorbent paper and wiped it slowly over the wet bulge of the boy’s jeans, soaking up spunk. When it was saturated, he put the paper into a little bottle and put that into his pocket. Then he looked down at his victim. “You,” he said, “are a very sexy boy. Remember though, that wearing jeans like that has its dangers...”

The skinhead, for once, had no words. On the one hand he’d just had his cock raped by a gay pervert, but on the other, it had been the horniest experience of his life. He just lay there groaning in satisfaction - the afterglow of a volcanic orgasm written on his face.

“Now, I have to get you back to the park. You’re gonna have to take another of these pills, I’m afraid.”

The boy shook his head. “I won’t say anything. Honest.”

Erik smiled under the mask. “Sorry, Can’t take the chance. Can’t let you know where I live.”

“I’m not taking a fucking pill.”

Erik picked up the vibrator. “You either take this pill or I’ll use this on your cock head again. And you’ve just cum – it’s not going to feel quite the same...”

“Fuck off. I ain’t taking th…. FFUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKK!! AAARGH!! STOP!!!!!! I’LL TAKE IT!!!”

“Hmmm. I thought you might.”

Erik Olsen stuck the new label onto the little glass bottle and placed it in the display rack in its proper place along with the other three hundred and forty-seven before it. He ran his eyes along the shelves. All the little bottles were identical, but their contents weren’t: most contained varying amounts of white liquid, but a few had small pieces of absorbent paper in them instead. This latest one was one with paper in it. He slid the glass door closed and sat down at his computer. He entered ‘348’ into the first field, then the date, name and details into the others. When it was done Erik saved the file and shut down the machine.

What next? A biker, perhaps. Yes, it had been a while since he’d had a biker...