The Reverend Enoch Davis gave his congregation a final defiant stare and stepped down from the pulpit, shaking his head with righteous sorrow. The whole lot of them were headed for perdition and no mistake. Sinners every last one. Each Sunday he tried to save their souls with graphic descriptions of the torments that were in store for them after the Day of Judgement, but he knew it was a lost cause: there was evil writ large on every face as they filed quietly out of the little church.
Well, he thought as he picked up his wide-brimmed hat, at least he could make sure his own family were saved. And that reminded him - he had to have a serious talk with them.
Outside the sun was shining, and he walked in brooding silence along the dusty track with his wife and his son, nodding distractedly when greeted by other townsfolk on their way back home.
Their small wooden house was neat, clean, and sparsely furnished, with hard wooden chairs and no carpets - just the way he liked it. He opened the door for his wife and followed her inside. His son waited dutifully for them to enter before he too went into the dark hallway and closed the door behind him. Something was wrong, and he was worried: it usually involved him.
The Reverend Davis hung his hat up and scowled. "Peter, go to your room. Elizabeth, come into the parlour - I want to talk to you."
Peter smallowed hard. This didn't look good. As he climbed the creaking stairs to his bedroom he had a sinking feeling in his stomach. He tried to think what he could have done wrong this time. Whatever it was, it looked serious.
"Elizabeth," said the Reverend when the boy was out of earshot, "our son is posessed by the Devil."
"Whatever do you mean, Enoch?" Without taking her eyes off him, she arranged her long black dress and sat down at the parlour table.
"I had occasion to visit the bathroom in the small hours this morning - and when I passed Peter's room, I heard... things."
Elizabeth's poker face took on a look of concern. "What kind of things?"
"Our son was indulging in the Sin of Onan, Elizabeth."
She looked away in embarrassment. "He wouldn't..."
"Oh yes. It was quite clear. I heard it plainly."
"But - not our Peter..."
"Masturbation, Elizabeth. Masturbation." He spat the word as if it tainted his mouth.
There was a silence for a few moments, during which Elizabeth's face went red. "Have you talked to him about it?" She whispered.
"No. I wanted to tell you first." He turned away from her, clasped his hands behind his back and stared out of the small window, a grim expression on his face. "We have a duty to call in the Inspector."
Elizabeth looked up in horror. "No! Enoch - not the Inspector!"
Enoch Davis turned abruptly and thundered: "Yes the Inspector! I will not have sin in this house! The Devil will be driven from this door, wife. There will be no discussion. Bring the boy here. Now."
Wth tears in her eyes, Elizabeth jumped up. Gathering her skirt, she scuttled out of the parlour and up the stairs.
Enoch Davis turned back to the window and whispered a quiet prayer to himself.
A few moments later Elizabeth and Peter appeared in the doorway. Enoch did not move. "Peter, come in here and close the door. Elizabeth, leave us."
Peter looked at his mother worriedly, but she avoided his eyes, biting her lip, and headed off towards the kitchen. Peter waited in silence for his father to speak.
"Onan." Enoch pronouced the word slowly, with equal stress on each syllable.
"Onan?" Repeated Peter, not understanding.
Enoch turned, glowering at the boy. "Yes, peter - ONAN. The sin of Onan. Do you know what that is?"
Peter racked his brain. The name was familiar, but he couldn't...
"Masturbation."
Ah. Oh shit.
Peter was seventeen and, like any healthy seventeen year-old boy, he was permanently horny. He knew very well that masturbation was a sin, and he tried not to - he really did. But it was so difficult not to. He'd lie in bed at night trying to get to sleep and it was impossible with his cock hard and thoughts going through his head. He fought it. He tried his hardest not to touch himself - but the feelings just got more insistent, more urgent as he lay there, until the only way he could get to sleep was to... to do it. And in the mornings it was even worse. So he did it then too. And by lunchtime it was impossible to concentrate on his schoolwork unless he did it. And the afternoons were difficult. He did it in the evenings too. And just now and again at other times. But how on earth did his father know? He was always very careful. when he did it. Very very careful...
"WELL?" Enoch's voice reverberrated around the room.
"I -"
Enoch raised his eyebrows, lifted a finger and held it before him, cutting off his son's reply. His voice was a warning whisper. "Don't you lie to me, boy!" His eyes blazed. "Don't you dare lie to your father." He leaned forward and put his hands on the table, like a pulpit. "I have brought you up for the last seventeen years to be a God-fearing citizen, Peter." His voice gradually became louder, stronger, and took on the long, drawn-out vowels he used when he preached in church. "Satan is everywhere. Satan is in your loins. Satan tempts you. We have to be on our guard every minute of every day. Some of us are strong. Some of us are weak. Satan will find the weak and he will DESTROY THEM!" Enoch suddenly straightened up and, flinging his arms wide, threw back his head and appealed to heaven. "Oh Lord, drive out the Devil from my son! Grant us your protection. Ay-men!"
Peter had a very worried look on his face.
Slowly, Enoch dropped his arms to his sides, and when he spoke again his voice was gentle. "My son, I do not blame you. The Devil is inside you, he is using your body. We must drive the Devil out." He closed his eyes. "You will go to your room now, while I write a letter. When I have finished, you will deliver it to the Holy Inspector."
Peter's jaw dropped. "The Inspector? No! Father! Please -"
Enoch nodded slowly. "I'm sorry, Peter, but it is the only way. Go to your room." His eyes opened, and there was fire in them. "Now!"
Peter cast his eyes downwards. "Yes, father."
* * *
The boy had considered not delivering the letter, but he knew there was no point - his father would know soon enough by the lack of a reply. The Inspector was very conscientious in these matters. A response had come the very next day, in fact, in the form of a letter accompanied by a parcel.
The parcel turned out to be a chastity device, fashioned from metal, and the letter contained detailed instructions from the Inspector's Department for its fitting and use. In silence, and locked in the bedroom with his father, whose back was turned to spare the boy as much embarrassment as possible, Peter put the device on. It was a small, fine-meshed metal cage shaped to take his cock and balls, and with pieces which went around his waist and between his legs to secure it in place. It would not prevent an erection, but it would make doing anything about it quite impossible. After satisfying himself as to the security and tightness of the fitting, Enoch inserted a key and locked the device on.
"It's not hurting you?" Asked Enoch.
Peter shook his head, "No, father".
"Good. Well..." he squeezed his son's arm awkwardly, "come down to dinner when you are dressed again." With a nod to himself, he unlocked the bedroom door and went downstairs.
* * *
The next days were a gradually increasing hell for Peter. The device was padded so it didn't chafe, and he soon became accustomed to the extra weight around his pelvis - but it was not the comfort of the thing that bothered him: it was the fact that he couldn't jack himself off. The first night he managed to get to sleep without too much problem, but the next morning his cock was awake before he was and demanding attention the moment he became conscious. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to think of anything other than sex - but there few things as insistent as a young boy's hormones, and his erection was demanding some action. Finally he got up early and had a cold wash. That succeeded in getting things under control for the time being.
But as the day wore on the feelings came back again and again - and there was nothing he could do about them. As the days went by one by one, it got worse not better, and he reached the point of longing for the Inspector's arrival, because it meant that something different would happen.
For three long days Peter had to endure the chastity device, and then - suddenly, early in the morning of the fourth day - the Inspector arrived. Peter was cleaning his bedroom before school when he heard dogs barking, and the crunch of coach wheels outside. He looked through the tiny window and saw the coach, with its four horses, standing in front of the house. Fastened to the back of the coach was a strange-shaped thing covered in blankets. He rushed downstairs - his cock rock-hard inside its metal prison - and waited at the bottom of the stairs as his father answered the door.
There was a brief conversation during which Enoch nodded his head respectfully a few times, and then he turned to his son. "Peter, go into the kitchen and close the door. Sit down at the table and stay there."
Peter complied, disappearing into the back of the house.
Enoch stood back as two men carried the strange-shaped thing into the house and, after getting directions from the Reverend, manhandled it upstairs and into Peter's bedroom. Then they did the same with a small, but apparently heavy, wooden chest. When they were done, they left with much doffing of hats to Enoch, and a few moments later the Holy Inspector himself climbed down from the carriage and entered the house. With a crack of the whip, the horses and coach set off down the road.
The Inspector was tall, and wore a black cloak whose hem trailed along the ground. Of indeterminate age, he had a handsome face: a strong nose, a sensuous mouth - but his eyes were as cold, as grey, and as cruel as the midwinter sea.
Enoch bowed low. "Your Most Excellent Holy Inspector - welcome to my humble house. Would you care for wine?"
"Reverend Davis," he said, shaking Enoch's hand, "thank you, no. If you would be good enough to show me to the boy's bedroom, and then to my room, I must begin God's Holy Work without delay." His voice was as cold as his eyes.
Enoch bowed again, then lead the way upstairs. "This is Peter's room."
The Inspector nodded, seeing the large object the men had carried in, standing in the centre of the room, along with the chest.
They moved along the landing to the next door. "And this is your room. Ours is a humble house, and I'm afraid the facilities are not what you are used to - "
"Adequate, thank you." He sniffed once as he took in Enoch's and his wife's sparse bedroom which they had turned over to him. They would be sleeping in the parlour for the duration.
"Have you made arrangements with the boy's school?"
"Yes, Inspector. He is excused morning lessons for the rest of the week."
The Inspector nodded. "Now, Reverend, you must understand that I am here to carry out Our Lord's work, and the execution of my duties may cause the boy to make some noise. Rest assured that it will not be cries of pain," he permitted himself a small smile, "in these enlightened days we are beyond that, thankfully - these noises may be the cries of the Devil himself, and you are to be completely deaf to them. Do I make myself clear?"
"Of course, Inspector."
"Good. Please inform your good lady wife likewise. It would be unfortunate if I were to be disturbed during my work. My task is to determine whether Satan is at work in the boy. If he is not, all well and good, but if I determine that the boy is indeed posessed by the Devil, you understand that Peter will have to be removed to my own Department, where the facilities are better for more... detailed... treatment."
"I understand, Inspector."
The Holy Inspector threw his gloves onto the bed and turned, businesslike. "Very well. My stay with you will be for a maximum of four days. I prefer dinner at eight, with wine, and I will begin work each day at seven o'clock. Now, please wait for precisely fifteen minutes, then send the boy up to his bedroom where I will be waiting."
Enoch bowed out of the room.
The Inspector removed his cloak and hung it on a hook on the back of the door. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was clad all in black - a leather jerkin with studs on the pectorals, and tight, shiny leather breeches tucked into knee-high leather boots. Not strictly church regulation wear - even for an Inspector - but only the boy would see him like this: he would be cloaked at all other times. He smiled at what he saw in the mirror, and gave his crotch a squeeze. "Oh Lord," he prayed, "let this boy be a cute one."
In Peter's bedroom, The Inspector removed the blankets covering the object in the centre of the room. It was a wide, raised chair of curious design: the seat was a curved U-shape with the opening at the front; down the legs at either side ran broad pieces of wood, to which were attached many strong black leather straps; and there was a long, vertical metal cage in the shape of an open-ended cylinder at either side of the chair back. More leather straps hung from the device.
He polished the strong oak seat, then opened the chest on the floor, and checked that all his instruments of torture were there and in order. Then, while gently massaging his cock through his leather breeches, he waited.
A few minutes later there were footsteps on the stairs, followed by a tentative knock on the door. The Inspector took up position, standing with his legs apart and his hands on his hips. "Enter!" He called.
A very frightened boy came into the room. When he saw the imposing, leather-clad figure before him, he began to tremble.
On seeing the boy, there was a sharp intake of breath from the Inspector. A smile began to take shape on his lips. "Close the door, lock it, and give me the key".
Shaking, Peter did as he was told.
"Now, strip, boy."
Slowly, his cheeks red with embarrassment, Peter took off his clothes. He laid them in a neat pile on a chair by the mirror, and stood facing the man. The dull metal chastity device failed to conceal the erection within it.
"Now let me look at you." The Inspector walked around Peter slowly. When he was behind him, he had to pause to adjust himself in his breeches. This boy was magnificent. He was beautiful. This boy was everything he had hoped for - and much, much more. Muscled from work in the fields; tanned from the sun and the winds; firm; solid; and yet very much still a young boy. And his face - his face - words failed the Inspector. He was gorgeous. Deep blue eyes, long lashes, red lips, and the most silky blond hair he'd ever seen.
The Inspector had walked full circle now. "Very well, let us get that," he nodded at the chastity device, "off you." He produced a key, unlocked the metal belt, and stood back while Peter carefully extricated himself from the cage - not easy to do with a hard-on. Peter passed the device - still warm from contact with his body - to the Inspector, who placed it on top of the boy's clothes.
"Do you wish to relieve yourself, boy?"
Peter wished very much to relieve himself, but not in the way the Inspector meant. "No - no thank you, Sir."
"Very well - so let us begin. Sit in the chair." He indicated the raised one in the centre of the room.
Peter lowered himself onto the strange seat and adjusted himself to get comfortable.
the Inspector bent down and pulled Peter's left leg sideways until it fitted over the wide wooden leg, then he took the lowest leather strap and pushed it through the buckle, pulling it tight and fastening it securely. Carefully he inserted the pointed end into the keeper and pressed it home. Strap by strap he worked up Peter's leg, pulling each one tight - there were three below the knee - immobilising the boy. He did the other leg the same way, pulling it sideways until Peter's legs were spread wide apart, and strapping it in place.
Wider leather straps went over each lower and mid thigh, fastening them down tight; followed by three further ones over the boy's stomach and chest. Finally, the Inspector opened the long metal cages - which were hinged lengthways - took each of the boy's arms, and inserted them, closing the cages over his arms. Each cage fastened with a small but strong hook and eye.
That done, the Inspector pulled up a chair and sat between Peter's widely spread legs. "Now, Peter, you must understand what this is about. I am here to do God's Holy work. It is possible that Satan is living inside of you, boy, and it my Holy duty to determine whether or not this is the case. If it is not, you will be free to go. If I find that the Devil IS in you, however, I will have to take you to my Department's rooms. This will be for an indefinite time, and while there the Devil will be exorcised from your body. The process is similar to what is going to happen to you here, but somewhat slower, and more..." he searched for a word, "... intense." Do you understand me so far?"
"Y-y-yes, Sir." Peter was very afraid - he had no idea what was going to happen to him even here.
"Good. Now, I don't want you to worry - I am not going to hurt you at all. What I am going to do is completely painless. We no longer torture subjects. Let me explain. The Devil - if he is indeed inside you - is in there." He touched Peter's head. "But he has chosen to work his evil through that." He pointed to Peter's cock which, in spite of his fear, showed no sign of softening. "It is my duty to test the Devil. You know about the sin of Onan?"
Peter nodded. Oh yes, he knew.
"Masturbation. Spilling your seed. Well, that is what the Devil wants you to do. But you must be strong. You must not give in to the Devil. If you are pure, you will succeed." He licked his lips, "but it is my duty to tease the Devil, in order to determine whether he is there in you. You understand?"
"Yes sir." This was not what Peter had been expecting. Branding irons had been in his thoughts. But it was going to be painless? Well all right!
"One thing - when you masturbate, which hand do you use?"
Peter lowered his eyes. "My right hand, Sir."
The Inspector nodded, then reached into the chest on the floor and pulled out an hourglass, which he turned over and placed on a special little shelf attached to the side of the raised chair. The sand began to run very slowly through the narrow opening.
Delving into the chest again, his hands came out holding two feathers. They were long white feathers, each with a sharply-pointed tip. Leaning forward a little, he ran the tips of the feathers up the insides of Peter's thighs. He was rewarded with a short, explosive grunt from the boy, and a little jump from his cock.
"That tickles." smiled Peter.
"I know it does."
The Inspector lowered the feathers and stroked them slowly up the sides of Peter's balls.
Peter gasped, and his cock throbbed much more this time. He realized now exactly how vulnerable the design of this chair made him: his cock, balls, thighs - and even his arsehole - were exposed and accessible to the Inspector's hands, feathers, or whatever else he may choose to use on him.
With practised ease, the Inspector teased and stroked the feathers all over the teenager's balls. The pointed tips glided over the fine blond hairs, hardly touching, and sending intense waves of horny pleasure through the boy. Peter squirmed in the straps.
He had never been restrained before in his life, and the inability to protect himself at all or to stop what the Inspector was doing to him, or to get away from the sensations - which were rapidly becoming unbearable - was novel and profoundly disturbing. Reflexively he tried to move his hands to his crotch, to brush away the teasing feathers, but the metal cages which enclosed his arms and held them straight down by his sides made that impossible.
He tried to close his legs together to keep the invading feathers out - but that also was prevented by that fiendish chair.
He watched the feathers intently, following their movements with his eyes - when they went out of his line of sight he could see them in the mirror on the wall - seeing where they were going next and trying to steel himself against it was his only small defence.
The Inspector knew this, but for the moment was happy with Peter's watching. Later, the boy would be blindfolded - and that would make a very big difference to his reactions. For now, he was content to let the boy do what he could to minimise the torment. His own cock was fully erect inside his breeches, and the soft leather carressed it with every move he made. He'd had these breeches made to his own design - the legs were very tight, but the crotch was cut so that the leather was loose over his cock and balls. The result of this was that when sitting, the folds of leather worked gently on him, making him horny, adding to the fire of his sadism, and therefore driving him to make his victim suffer even more; and when he stood up, his hard cock would stand straight and proud away from his body, pushing the leather out into a shape which was impossible for the victim to miss.
A pearly drop of precum appeared on the tip of Peter's cock, and the Inspector smiled. He was beginning to get to the boy. He looked into the deep blue eyes, and a wave of sadism swept through him. He dropped one of the feathers and instead used his fingers to stroke the teenager's sensitive balls, tickling them lightly all over. He knew it was really too soon for that, but the sight of that beautiful, sexy boy strapped helpless in the chair and completely at his mercy drove all patience from his mind. He HAD to break this boy: he wanted him in his own chamber, where he could be alone with him for long periods of time, and where the facilities for tormenting a horny teenager were almost limitless; and where he could call upon assistants to help him with his work - many pairs of expert hands working on the boy at once would be excellent.
The Inspector checked himself: much more thinking like that and he would be cumming in his breeches, and it was FAR too early for that. He retrieved the feather from the floor, lowered his head slightly for a better view, and targeted the boy's arsehole. The curved wooden seat of the chair was designed to spread a victim's cheeks so that the pink hole was easy to work on. He brought the tip of the feather up and centered it on the ring. Then, as lightly as he could, he touched it to the boy's supersensitive sphincter and ran it in circles around the hole.
Never since he was out of diapers had Peter's arsehole been so much as touched by anything other than his own hand when in the bathroom - and the sensation of having it tickled with a feather was unexpectedly - and blindingly - intense. He closed his eyes and yelled. His muscles flexed as he tried to lift his arse up to get away from the feather, or to clench his cheeks together somehow to deny it access, but the design of the chair and the tight leather straps over his thighs and legs prevented the slightest movement or relief from the unbearable tickling. It felt unbelievably horny. He squeezed his eyes shut and before he knew it he was begging. "Please..."
"Yes, Peter?" Said the Inspector gently, continuing to tickle the boy's hole with the tip of the feather.
"Please - I need to... I need to..."
"You need to what, Peter?" The feather gently tormented the boy, and now the Inspector began to tickle the sides of his balls with the second feather at the same time - right up in the creases where his ball sac joined the top of his thighs. He ran the tip of the feather along first the left one, then the right.
Peter tried to thrust his hips, but the restraints made that impossible. He needed to CUM! But he couldn't tell the Inspector that.
But the Inspector knew. "You want to -" he'd almost said 'abuse yourself', but that would not make the boy any more pliable. He needed him to think he was on his side, and understood. "You want to rub your cock, don't you? You want to get your hand around your cock and pump it up and down. Can you imagine how good that would feel?"
Peter groaned. Oh yeah, he could imagine - he could imagine.
"You must be strong, boy. You must realize that that may be the Devil speaking to you. It may be the Devil who wants you to do that. If it is, you must resist him. Fight him. Do you understand?"
Peter nodded. This was impossible.
The Inspector started to work on the base of the young cock. So far it hadn't been touched, and he knew that its virgin sensitivity would be the key to breaking the boy's will. In his experience, he knew that it was the first session which was usually the one that got the results. There was about half an hour left on the hourglass - he intended to tickle the boy's cock slowly from the base to the very tip, taking the full thirty minutes to get there, so that at the first testing, the teenager would be incapable of fighting against it any more. His cock gave a throb inside his leather breeches - he would soon have this beautiful boy totally at his mercy in his own torture chamber - and the things he would do to him there would drive the lad insane.
The sand ran slowly into the lower half of the glass, and the feathers worked their way, millimeter by millimeter, up the shaft of Peter's desperately horny cock. The boy couldn't keep still: he thrashed and struggled in his restraints, but he was powerless to evade the fiendish torment. He cried with lust and groaned in anguish as the tickling got slowly nearer and nearer to the supremely sensitive head of his cock. He had never felt anything like this in his life before. He needed to cum more than anything else in the world. He didn't care if it was the Devil or not - he just NEEDED TO CUM.
The Inspector also needed to cum - very badly. As he worked on the boy's cock, making it jerk and pulsate with every slightest movement of the feathers; as he listened to his victim's whispered pleading as he increased the boy's compulsion to cum; as he watched his victim struggling and writhing in an agony of lust, his own cock was demaning orgasm. In all his years as an Inspector, working on boys posessed by Satan, he had never had such a gorgeous, sexy, muscular youth at his mercy. And the Inspector was a sadist - he loved nothing better than making a helpless boy suffer like this.
The feathers were now at the base of the boy's cockhead, tickling along the ridges where it joined the shaft. Drool ran down the sides of Peter's mouth, and his blue eyes were wild - wide open and staring at the pointed tips of the white feathers as they did their fiendish work on his frantically jerking cock. Most of the time the Inspector was actually holding the feathers still, and letting the involuntary pulsations of his cock torment him as its motions caused them to stroke against it.
The Inspector glanced at the hourglass - the timing was going to be spot on. He raised the feathers an imperceptible amount so they were now tickling over virgin cockhead. He liked using feathers, as they were safe. Whatever happened, he must on no account actually make the boy cum. It must be completely voluntary: the victim must do the deed himself when his arm was freed - so that it was clear that it was the Devil that made the boy bring himself off. Timing was therefore of the utmost importance - the inspector would free the teenager's right arm at that moment when he judged his victim was incapable of stopping himself. With feathers, there was (usually, although it had been known to happen) no way that they would provide enough friction to cause an orgasm. What he must do was get the boy so compellingly horny and in need of release, that when the sand ran out and his hand was freed, he would not be able to stop himself from finishing off what the Inspector had so conscienciously worked towards. That would be clear and unequivocal evidence that Satan was at work in the subject, and the Inspector's work would be done. Done, that is, until he got the boy strapped down in the Department's well-equipped chamber for the prolonged and excruciatingly horny exorcism procedure - a procedure which he had designed himself.
There was only a very little sand left in the glass now. He could release the boy's arm at any time he wished before the sand ran out, but he may not leave it longer. The Inspector's feathers had reached the tip of the boy's cock - the most uncontrollably horny and sensitive spot on his entire young body. The Inspector was very pleased to see that Peter was not circumcised - the edge of the foreskin of an uncut boy was usually an extremely productive spot for torment - and also the bare glans would be so much more sensitive.
Holding the teenager's cock very gently and carefully at the base to keep it still, the Inspector ran the soft point of the feather over the very tip of the cock - over the piss slit and the edge of the foreskin. He glanced up at the boy's beautiful face. Sweat was running down his skin, and he was making unintelligible noises. The Inspector knew that he had never been so desperate for anything in his young life as he was for orgasm at this moment in time.
The sand ran out, and immediately the Inspector unfastened the small catch holding the metal cage over Peter's right arm together. He pulled the boy's arm out, then let go. "Your hand is free, Peter. Try to fight it - fight against Satan - but do what you must."
Peter's immediate reaction was to grab his cock and bring himself off with fast, furious strokes. But halfway there, his hand stopped. He made a fist and beat it against his thigh. "NO! I must NOT!" His face was screwed up in his effort to fight his hormones - hormones which had been encouraged and nurtured sadistically by the Inspector. He remained motionless for several seconds, then he opened his eyes and looked at the Inspector. "Sir," he said in an unexpectedly steady voice, "I do not have Satan inside me, and I will not succumb to you."
The Inspector waited - it was always possible that the boy would suddenly change his mind - but after a minute he knew he had failed this time. He forced a smile. "Very good, boy. Very good. But the Devil is insidious. I have more weapons against him in the chest. Weapons he will not be able to resist so easily." 'Weapons you will not be able to resist, boy,' he thought to himself.
Peter frowned. "Is the test not over, then, Sir?"
"Over?" The Inspector chuckled. "No, it is hardly begun. There are three one-hour cycles like this one in each session, and you will have two sessions every day - one in the morning and one at night - for four days. THAT is the test. If at the end of the four days you have been able to resist me, you will be free."
Peter closed his eyes in despair. Four days? Two sessions per day? Three hours of torture each session? How could he fight that? But he HAD to fight it. He knew what would happen if he failed.
The Inspector refastened Peter's arm in the restraint, and turned the hourglass over. "Very well, shall we continue?"
* * *
Elizabeth looked up sharply from her crochet work with distress in her eyes. There had been occasional noises from Peter's bedroom before, but this was different: it was a long, drawn-out wail of pure anguish. The boy was suffering greatly. "Oh Enoch..."
Reverend Davis glanced up from his book, then put it down on his lap, keeping his finger on the page so as not to lose his place. He sighed. "Elizabeth, the boy is not being hurt. The Inspector assured me that he would feel no pain."
"But that wail..."
"The Inspector is doing God's Holy work, wife. It is not going to be easy for Peter, but it has to be done. Now go back to your crochet and try not to listen. It is the Devil screaming, not Peter."
Elizabeth compressed her lips and tried to focus on her work. The howl from upstairs had tailed off into silence now, and the only sound in the parlour was the ticking of the grandfather clock.
* * *
The device which had produced the noise was nothing more than a leather thong which had been soaked in oil, and which the Inspector had been drawing slowly back and forth just under the ridge of the boy's cock head. In the teenager's excessively horny condition, it had brought him closer to cumming than anything the Inspector had done before - in fact the man had had to stop using it abruptly, in case the boy had actually cum. But he hadn't - and the Inspector exploited Peter's closeness to the edge of orgasm by using the feathers once more on the back of his balls, and on the supremely sensitive piss-hole of the youth's cock. This brought more struggling and groaning from the young victim, which in turn fired the Inspector to new heights of sadism. So far, he had remained fairly silent while working on the boy, but he was now so horny himself that he began to goad his victim verbally.
"You really think you're going to be able to fight it, boy? This is the second cycle of the first session. There is another cycle after this one, and then this evening we will do the whole thing over again. Then six cycles again tomorrow, and six again the day after that, and yet it STILL won't be over - another six hours of torment on the last day." He enveloped the base of the boy's cock gently with his fingers, and squeezed lightly. The expected involuntary throb of response was immediate and urgent. He smiled, and adjusted his breeches: he was in danger of cumming himself - something he must not allow himself to do until the last session of the day. His own horniness was what made him work most sadistically and effectively on a helpless boy.
He went back to tickling the desperate cock with a single feather. "Of course I could make you lose control any time I wanted to. I could make you cum, boy - so very, very easily. There wouldn't be a thing you could do to stop yourself. If I wrapped my hand around your cock, squeezed, and rubbed my finger over your cock head you would shoot your seed in spite of anything you could do to prevent it. But I mustn't do that. It must be your hand that does it. All I can do is to make you incapable of resisting. You think that what I'm doing to you now is bad? There are things I can do to you that will make it much worse - that will make you beg for your arm to be released so that you can let Satan have his way..."
He put the feather down, stared into the boy's beautiful eyes for a moment, and then reached into the chest. From it he lifted a square of thin black leather which had been gathered in at the sides, to form a sling-shape. From the gathered sides there hung a small strap and buckle. The Inspector showed it to Peter. "Satan makes use of many things to distract you. Watching me at work is one of them. This will deny you that distraction and make it much more difficult for you to resist."
He stood up, and Peter's eyes widened at the sight of the Inspector's cock thrusting the leather of his breeches out into an obscene bulge of lust between his thighs. "You're enjoying this." He said, realising for the first time how much the man was getting off on torturing him.
"It is a necessary part of my work. Something I have to endure," the Inspector replied. He placed the folded leather over the boy's face and strapped it tightly in place at the back of his head. It came down to below Peter's nose. The Inspector was sorry that he would no longer be able to see those gorgeous eyes, but the blindfold would increase his victim's vulnerability many times. He sat down again, glanced at the hourglass - there were about ten minutes of this session left - and began work again with the feathers. Now that the boy was blindfolded, it would be even easier to make him cum accidentally. He would have to be much more careful.
To his horror, Peter found that the Inspector was right: being unable to see him, or what his hands were doing, forced him - unwillingly - to concentrate on his sense of touch. Every stroke of the feather seemed now more magnified: many times more unexpected, and more intense.
The Inspector was experienced in the techniques of torture - he exploited Peter's inability to see what was coming by working on him unpredictably. A touch on the side of his balls; a stroke across his cock head; a tickling of his arsehole; a soft caress on his inner thigh, right at the top... he worked so that every assault was unforseen, unprepared for, and consequently more difficult for the boy to deal with. Peter's muscles flexed and strained at every touch as he struggled ineffectively in the restraints of that fiendish chair, he groaned and yelled into the blindfolding leather. He had never felt so helpless in his life. And he had never felt so unbearably horny.
The Inspector began to work intensely on the boy's cock head now - the time was almost up. He looked at the hourglass and was shocked to see that the sand had run out already. He cursed silently. Should he continue? The boy couldn't see the glass, so he wouldn't know the time was up...
With a sigh, he released Peter's right arm and watched in hope - but his victim only beat the air with his fist and yelled "NO!!!!". Peter managed to control himself, and shook his head. "I will NOT do it!"
The Inspector knew he had mis-timed it. He cursed again quietly.
The third and final cycle of the morning session had been much worse for Peter. The effects of the unbearable cock-teasing were cumulative: he'd begun this hour even more horny than he'd started the previous one. The Inspector had used different instruments on him - one of the most difficult for Peter to bear had been a thick brush with bushy, soft camel-hair bristles the centre of which had been cut back to form a cock-head shaped indentation. By placing this very lightly against the end of the boy's cock and rotating it slowly, the Inspector had caused the boy to struggle and yell frantically.
Another Devilish device which had produced excellent results was a piece of soft, shiny calfskin. Wrapping the boy's balls and the shaft of his cock in its folds, while leaving the tip of the head exposed for treatment with another small, finely-pointed brush had almost driven the teenager mad with lust.
But at no time had the Inspector felt that the boy was broken. At the end of the hour, Peter had once again been able to control himself and not touch his cock. On the one hand the Inspector was disappointed, but on the other he had this evening's session to look forward to - and he knew that he'd get the boy eventually. He always did - horny teenage boys were incapable of withstanding the four-day test. It was as simple as that. He had designed the test that way: to be quite impossible for them to win.
He unbuckled the blindfold, then set about releasing his captive. He forced his voice to be neutral. "Excellent. You have done well, Peter. But we will see what happens this evening."
Peter stretched. His muscles were exhausted from his constant struggling, and he had a headache from his intense concentration.
He stood quietly while the Inspector fitted the chastity device onto him and locked it.
"Now go and get ready for school. I'll see you tonight."
"Yes Sir," replied Peter.
* * *
School was a total waste of time: he couldn't concentrate on anything for more than thirty seconds, and his cock refused to go soft inside the metal cage. It became so painful that on three occasions he had to excuse himself and go and pour cold water on it - but even then it returned to full erection within minutes.
It was a strange kind of torture - on the one hand it was quite unendurable, but on the other the feelings generated by what the Inspector did to him were inexpressably exquisite. What fascinated him even more, though, was that it wasn't just the things themselves which the Inspector did that were turning him on. There were other things too: the feeling of helplessness, of being strapped in that chair, unable to stop the torture or to control it in anyway; the fact that the blindfold made it so much more difficult to resist - and the thought that the Inspector knew that so well, and that's why he'd put it on him; the sight of the Inspector's cock, hard and horny itself and bulging in his black leather breeches; and - possibly most of all - the knowledge that this wasn't really about whether or not the Devil was at work in him - it was a straightforward battle of wills between him and the Inspector. Peter realized that he was just a healthy, horny, seventeen year-old boy and that his willpower was his only weapon against the man; whereas the Inspector was experienced and skilled in the techniques of making a boy want to cum - techniques which he knew Peter was not equipped to deal with.
And Peter was held restrained, blindfolded and helpless in a chair that had been specifically designed to make it impossible for boys to fight against those very techniques. The Inspector held all the cards - it was so very, very unfair. And, Peter realized - his cock once again as hard as a rock - it was that very unfairness of it all that was turning him on more than anything else.
When the Inspector had stood up, his well-developed torso clad in the studded leather jerkin, leather boots up to the knee, and his cock bulging straight out from his body under those tight, shiny black leather breeches, Peter had felt an overwhelming desire to somehow give himself to the man. it was a feeling he had never experienced before with anyone. He knew what would happen to him if he failed this test: he would be taken to the Inspector's dungeon and tortured with equipment and in ways that would make this current torment seem like a picnic. For an instant, he considered intentionally letting himself fail - the prospect of prolonged treatment at the hands of the Inspector in his own torture chamber had an almost irresistably seductive hold on him. But then the thought passed, and was replaced with an even more iron determination not to give in. This was personal. It was between the Inspector and him. "Do your worst, Inspector," he whispered to himself through gritted teeth, "I can resist you. I will resist you."
* * *
The Inspector turned the hourglass over. Peter was strapped into the chair, the leather blindfold covering his eyes. "Now, let us continue..."
It was the beginning of the second session. Peter had had a bad day at school, being unable to think of anything other than the next session and the continuing fight against this cunning and Devilish man. The moment he had walked into the bedroom and had seen the Inspector standing there with his leather breeches already bulging with the anticipation of working on his helpless victim, Peter had almost cum on the spot. But he smiled as he allowed himself to be restrained again - he was more determined than ever not to let this man break him.
At the first touch of the feather on his straining cock shaft Peter closed his eyes behind the blindfold and exhaled a long breath of pleasure. He cleared his mind, and concentrated on conjuring images of the most un-sexy kind he could.
It didn't work. He'd known it wouldn't - each stroke of the feather wiped out the images like a blackboard eraser. It overcame his resolve so easily that he grimaced in anger at this man's ability to control him.
The Inspector continued to tease the boy's cock with the feathers for a few minutes, getting him back towards the level he'd been at during the last session - and then stopped. This was all very enjoyable and interesting, but he longed to have the boy fully in his power - for an unlimited length of time. There was so much more he wanted to do to this beautiful victim. He yearned to see the youth's muscles flexing and straining under much more interesting restraints: while strapped down to or locked into the frames, tables, horses and other equipment in his own workshop, while he and his assistants tormented the helpless boy out of his mind - and while the talented fingers of David, his favourite assistant, worked cunningly and slowly on the Inspector's own cock. This, more than anything, caused him to produce his best work on a victim.
It was time to get results.
The Inspector cast his eyes over the remaining contents of the chest - he was looking for something as yet unused, which would break the boy. His questing gaze came to rest on a small leather strap. He smiled. Possibly... just possibly. It was doubtful whether the teenager had ever before felt the unrelenting, erotic hold of a cockstrap around his genitals. He picked it up and carefully wrapped it around the base of the boy's cock and behind his balls.
He buckled it tight, then - using his fingertips - began his teasing and tickling again - now working exclusively on Peter's swollen penis. He stroked up and down the length of the shaft, teased around the ridges of the glans, and carressed the boy's foreskin-covered cock head lovingly. As he worked, the cock grew in size, the bulbous head slowly opening the foreskin wider and pulling it back.
Peter drew in his breath sharply. He felt as if his balls and the base of his cock were being held in a firm, unbreakable grip - but both of the Inspector's hands were being used on his cock. What on earth was holding him? It felt wonderful - and made his cock more sensitive than it had ever been before, and it felt huge . The Inspector's fingers worked so lightly they felt like gossamer drifting teasingly over his cock. He needed firm friction on it. Involuntarily, he began thrusting his hips, trying to drive his cock into the tormenting hands. This was far worse than anything he had felt so far. Under the leather blindfold he gripped his tongue between his teeth, and moaned loudly, trying to concentrate; trying to resist the fiendish things the Inspector was doing to his cock.
The Inspector sensed a change in Peter's responses. He smiled - the cockstrap was getting to the boy. Time to move in for the kill. Without missing a beat, he transferred his left hand to the teenager's arsehole, and began tickling the pink ring very lightly. With his other hand, he teased and stroked the boy's balls - his fingertips gliding over the soft blond hairs. Then, bending his head down, he took the swollen head of the lad's cock gently between his lips. Carefully, he used his mouth to pull Peter's cock away from his body, increasing its sensitivity to the maximum, and then - gripping the head lightly in his hot mouth - slowly bathed the very tip with his tongue while sucking very gently. He closed his eyes at the taste of sweet teenage precum.
He knew exactly what he was doing to the boy - and he knew that, finally, he'd got him. If he were to release Peter's arm now, the boy would, without question, be unable to stop wanking himself off in an uncontrollable frenzy of need. But the Inspector didn't release his arm. Instead, he continued to slide his lips slowly over the sensitive, horny head of Peter's cock, and to tease the very tip with his tongue. He wanted to make the boy suffer even more. But he was careful. His lips and tongue were hardly moving.
He knew that the boy was teetering on the edge of orgasm, and that one movement too fast, or too firm, would send him over the brink. But he was an expert at this and, now he KNEW that Peter was there, he could keep the boy on the edge for a while longer.
Beneath the blindfold, Peter's eyes were as far upwrds as they could go: only the whites would have been visible. His whole body was trembling, vibrating with electricity. He was poised on the brink of orgasm, and his entire world consisted of the warm tongue on the tip of his cock. Drool ran out of the corner of his mouth, and soft, incoherent noises came from his throat. He was in heaven - or hell.
The Inspector decided not to push his luck any further - he could not afford to take the chance of making the boy cum. Also, he was far too close to cumming himself. His cock was a raging animal inside the leather of his breeches, and he needed relief almost as urgently as his victim. Very carefully he released the boy's cock from his mouth. He removed his hands, stood up, and immediately unfastened the restraint holding Peter's right arm.
Peter felt the metal cage open, and knew that he was now able to reach his cock. His hand shot out and wrapped around the shaft - but then he froze. He was fighting the biggest battle he had ever fought - and it was with himself. He would not succumb to the Inspector's inhumanly unfair torture.
But he had to cum.
But he WOULDN'T.
But he must .
NO!
YES!
The Inspector couldn't believe that the boy was still able to resist. He thought he'd got him to the point where he was helpless to stop himself from cumming - but Peter's hand still was not moving.
He couldn't touch Peter's cock any more now that the lad's hands were free, but then - on impulse - he walked quickly to the other side of the chair, while unlacing his breeches. He pulled his cock out, then released Peter's other arm, grabbed his hand, and moved it gently onto his own raging erection.
Peter gasped. He thought he'd almost got himself under control, and then he felt his other hand being released - and placed onto the Inspector's cock.
Peter knew before he did it that he was signing himself into the Inspector's hands, but he was simply incapable of stopping himself: he gripped the Inspector's straining cock.
Suddenly, the deliberate, calculated UNFAIRNESS of it all got to him: a test which, in order for him to pass it, cunningly forced a healthy, horny teenage boy to fight against his own sex-drive; the total helplessness of being strapped to a chair which was carefully designed to render the powerful muscles of his body useless, to prevent any defence against the torture, and to hold him accessible and vulnerable to it; the fiendishness of blindfolding him to make it more difficult for him to resist; the skilfull way the Inspector worked on him, teasing and tickling his cock and balls beyond endurance; the way the Inspector looked - intimidating and impregnable in his studded black leathers; and the fact that the Inspector somehow knew that the feel of his own cock would be the thing that would break the boy, and make him lose control.
Peter's will broke. He couldn't stop himself: he gave a strangled cry, and his hands began to move. Simultaneously, he began to jack himself and his torturer off. Within five seconds both he and the Inspector began to cum. The Inspector gripped the top of the restraint chair for support as, in unison, his and the boy's hot white spunk shot out into the air. Peter screamed at the intensity of his orgasm, and the Inspector screwed up his eyes and clamped his own lips together in order not to make just as much noise as the boy. Together they came, and came, and came.
The Inspector's supply of spunk ended well before Peter's and, opening his eyes, he watched, smiling in triumph, as the teenager continued to empty his balls into a slippery puddle on the floor between his feet. His hand carried on wanking the inspector long after the man had stopped cumming - sliding over the spunk-lubricated head in mindless, compulsive, jerky movements as, with his right hand, he milked himself dry.
Finally it was over. Peter collapsed in exhaustion, his hand now resting immobile on his thigh.
The Inspector wiped himself down with a cloth from the chest, laced his breeches back up, and composed himself. Then he unbuckled the leather blindfold from Peter's head. He had expected an expression of fear - he had seen it so often on the faces of his victims when, inevitably, they lost the battle against his skillful manipulation of their sex-drive and realised what was now going to happen to them - but Peter was crying. Tears rolled down his face.
At first the Inspector thought it was sorrow that he had failed - sorrow that he was harbouring the Devil inside him - but when Peter's eyes opened, they were blazing. The boy was furious.
Peter was indeed furious: he was furious with himself for having allowed the Inspector to control and manipulate him so ridiculously easily. Why on earth had he given in? He could have stopped himself - couldn't he?
The Inspector somehow managed to force a look of infinite sadness onto his face. "Peter, it is my duty to inform you of my determination. You are indeed posessed by evil. This," he pointed to the boy's cooling pool of spunk on the floor, "is unequivocal proof that the Devil's hand is at work in you. I will make arrangements for your transfer to the Holy Inspector's Department immediately. You may clean yourself, and then you are to stay in this room until my coach returns."
Peter had stopped crying now. He looked up at the Inspector with large, wet blue eyes and smiled gently. The effect was stunning. "Inspector," he whispered.
"What is it, boy?"
"Please - kiss me."
The Inspector's mouth dropped open. He looked at the irresistably beautiful boy still held helpless in the chair, and hesitated for about two seconds before bending down and kissing him deeply.
After a few seconds, Peter suddenly Peter pulled away. His smile now had a very different quality to it. "You are as posessed by the Devil as I am, Sir. Was it not your cock in my hand? Is that not your seed on my thigh?" He nodded to the Inspector's spunk, running down his leg. "This 'test'," he pronounced the word with venom, "was designed to be impossible to pass. How many other boys have you got into your clutches like this?"
The Inspector gaped, speechless - but Peter wasn't finished. "You were right: I am weak - or, rather, I WAS weak. But now I know your methods, and never again will you be able to make me do that against my will. Take me to your dungeon. Do your worst. You will fail, Sir. I FUCKING DEFY YOU! "
The Inspector closed his mouth. Then he smiled - and it was a very cruel smile indeed. "You are much more seriously posessed than I had imagined," he said, thoughtfully. He gazed at the boy, who had just issued a challenge to him beyond his wildest dreams. "This is going to call for very long-term, and very intense treatment indeed."
Peter continued to stare defiantly at him.
"And if you think that you are going to be able to fight me in my 'dungeon', as you so eloquently call it, you are very much mistaken." The Inspector leaned close to Peter's face and dropped his voice to a whisper. "We are going to torture you insane , beautiful boy. We are going to strap you down and blindfold you and gag you and work on you slowly and very, very carefully. You will beg us to let you cum. You will sell us your soul if only we will let you cum. And we will - eventually. I and my assistants will milk you dry occasionally, just to remind you how wonderful it is. Then we will start on you again. There will be no mercy, Peter. No mercy at all ." He gazed at the boy for a few more seconds. "The Devil - like our Lord - works in mysterious ways." Then, after adjusting his cock inside his breeches, he put on his cloak and swept out of the room.
When he was gone, a slow change came over Peter's face. The beginnings of a small smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. Gradually, the small smile became a large smile, and then a grin. He chuckled. Then he laughed, and punched the air. "YES!" he yelled.
But he yelled it quietly.
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