The Telemachus Story Archive

The Monk's Tale
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



The Monk’s Tale

The fire crackled for a moment as it settled, sending flickering shafts of light around the room. The elderly monk took a sip of wine, replaced the glass on the table by his side, and smiled. His uneven, yellowed teeth were the only part of his face visible in the deep shadows of his hood. "I’m going to tell you a story," he said.

It was a summer afternoon many, many years ago. The monks were going about their daily business – tending the crops, looking after the animals, making wine, or in prayer – when a youth appeared at the gate, begging for asylum. In those days there were barbarians in the north, and they were moving further south. They had put his village to the torch, taken the womenfolk, and killed most of the men. The boy had managed to escape for a while by hiding in a barn, but he’d been discovered and had had to run for his life. He was exhausted by the time he found this monastery. The monks brought him inside. A little time later some men arrived, asking if the monks had seen the runaway, and there was much shaking of heads. "We will look out for him and notify you if he appears."

The men grunted, and went away.

Inside, the monks fed the boy, warmed him by the fireside, then put him to bed. And they marveled at his beauty. He was slim, but firmly-muscled from working on the land, and he was startlingly handsome, with hair the colour of wheatfields, and green eyes like those of a cat.

There was much talk between the monks that evening at supper. Eventually the Abbot knocked on the table for silence. "By now you will all know that we have a guest in our house. I know that most of you have already seen him." He paused. "I have heard it suggested," he said slowly, "that the puer immutatus be invoked." The eyes of several of the monks widened. "The puer immutatus is not something to be taken lightly, and if I speak my heart, I will say that I am of the opinion that it is too early to consider it." The monks looked at each other - some agreeing, some not. "However," he continued, frowning at those who had muttered their thoughts, "I am prepared to take a vote on this, and to bow to concensus, if such there is.” He paused again, this time for longer, and looked from face to face around the table. "Those in favour, please raise your hand."

The vote was unanimous.

The old monk stopped talking for a while, lost in recollection. He took another sip of wine, took out an old, tattered handkerchief and blew his huge hooked nose noisily, then settled back in his chair once more.

The boy was prepared. He was gagged, and two monks took him down to the dungeon, and placed him on the tabula – the slab. Leather straps were tightened around his wrists and ankles, and he was left alone for some time, to allow his mind to disquiet him. The dungeon in those days was more… well-equipped… even than it is today, and the boy looked with dread on the fearful engines and devices which stood there. Many of them dated back to the days of the inquisitio – the inquisition.

You will have have seen that the usual attire of the monks in this monastery is a hooded brown habit. Well, it is not so well known, but every monk of this order also has a second habit of the same design – one which is rarely used, kept specifically for just such a ritual as presented itself now. This habit –the corium de supplicium - was of the blackest leather, and on the inside it was lined with smooth, shiny black rubber. The habit was closed at the waist by a rope of pure white. The single purpose of this special habit was to fan the fires of lust as the smooth, shiny rubber stroked the wearer’s naked body beneath with every movement. In this it was eminently successful.

It also looked extremely intimidating from the outside. As you can imagine, the boy - gagged and strapped helpless as he was to the slab in a dungeon full of devilish instruments of torture - was beside himself with terror. This terror doubled when the door opened and the monks appeared, walking down the stone stairs, each sinister figure clad in black leather robes, his face unseeable in the shadow of his hood. As they gathered around the slab, looking down at him, the boy cried into the gag, pleading with them not to hurt him.

The monks remained silent for a while, their leather habits rustling quietly. At last, the Abbot spoke. He waved his hand, taking in the threatening machines standing around the dungeon. "These instruments you see around you are every bit as fearful as they appear. Each one is designed to cause such excruciating pain that it will break even the strongest man." He looked down at the trembling boy. "You, I think, are not strong." He chuckled, and now his voice was kind. "But my boy, we are not going to hurt you. These devices are from a bygone age and we do not use them any more."

The boy still looked extremely worried.

"No, we will not hurt you. We are not going to cause you the slightest pain. But, we are going to torture you. This is necessary for the puer immutatus , a ritual which has been a part of our monastic order for many, many centuries. Your suffering will bring you closer to Our Lord." He did not mention the erections of anticipation that raged beneath the leather of his own, and of every one of the monks’ habits. "The torture will be slow, and it will be unbearable. It will be applied carefully and with precision, by monks who are expert in its techniques, to cause you the maximum suffering humanly possible."

The boy on the slab was shaking his head in frenzy. "No.. please… I can’t stand torture." But his words were unintelligible through the gag.

The Abbot smiled, knowing what the boy had wanted to say. "Oh, we intend to make very sure that you can’t bear it – after all, if you could stand it, it would not be torture, now would it? But there will be times when you will enjoy it. In fact, you will enjoy it more than you can bear.”

There was a frown on the boy’s face now. A torture he would enjoy? Surely there was no such thing. But surely any torture was to be avoided, wasn’t it?

"Now, relax, if you can," said the Abbot. He took a pot from above the dungeon brazier. "This is warm, aromatic oil. It will not hurt you. We are going to spread it over your body."

The boy tensed, but the oil was indeed not painful. In fact it felt good as hands gently rubbed it over his skin. Soon every inch from his neck down to his toes had been covered with the warm oil, and his young, muscular body shone in the red-orange light from the brazier and the candles. It had felt strange to have hands touching his genitals, but they hadn’t lingered longer than had been necessary to apply the oil before moving on to his legs and feet.

The monks adjusted their positions around him, and the Abbot closed his eyes. He recited a line or two of Latin – which the boy didn’t understand – and then crossed himself. He removed the boy’s gag, then – ignoring the desperate pleading - nodded once, slowly and deeply, to the others. "We may begin."

Hands descended and began to stroke his skin. Their touch was caressing and, in spite of his apprehension, the boy soon found himself purring with pleasure. But gradually the touch became even lighter, and an occasional giggle escaped his lips: it tickled. The fingers ran over his oil-slippery body, hardly touching, and the ticklish feeling began to mount. He was laughing now, and occasionally gasping as a fingertip found a particularly sensitive spot. The monks seemed not to notice.

But the monks were, in fact, paying very great attention indeed: every slightest reaction was noted meticulously. They were carefully memorising the location of all the places on his body that produced the greatest effect on him. Like a learning machine, the fingers became more and more attuned to this particular boy’s anatomy, and began to produce ever greater responses from him. Soon he was laughing and gasping, his muscles jerking in the restraints as both his level of ticklishness, and also the effectiveness of the monks’ fingers increased. So far, the very light, tickling touches had gone nowhere close to his cock or balls, stopping some inches short – but even though it was not being touched at all, his cock began to stiffen. Again,the monks seemed to pay no attention to it at all.

Before long the boy was squirming and screaming in ticklishness on the slab, but it made not the slightest difference where, or how, he moved – the fingertips were always there, tickling… tickling. There was no way he could get away from them.

The old monk rummaged in the pocket of his brown habit and withdrew an ancient pipe, which he began to fill with tobacco. He lit a spill from the fire and puffed the pipe into life. He smoked in silence for a while, pushed some escaping tobacco back into the bowl, and then continued.

There are two very different kinds of tickling, you see. What the monks had been doing so far was the first kind, but now they were about to begin the second.

Gradually – unnoticeably at first – the fingers began to change their technique. Where so far they had glided over the youth’s skin, hardly touching it, now they began to press slightly harder in certain spots. Sliding on the slippery film of oil, the fingers began to probe into the boy’s sides, his armpits, between his ribs; fingers and thumbs squeezed his thighs, and the sides of his knees; they massaged certain muscles more firmly, more acutely. The boy’s laughter – which had so far been…

The old monk searched for the right words…

...general, continuous, light-hearted even – began to change into something more acute, more urgent, more immediate. This kind of deep, pressure tickling is much, much harder to deal with - as the monks knew very well indeed. But they had no intention of torturing the boy just yet - first they wished to accustom him to the idea. Watching him very carefully indeed, with each monk concentrating only on the reactions his own fingers were provoking, they endeavoured to keep the stimulation to a level that the boy was able to deal with without too much trouble.

At the same time, one of the monks – who had so far not taken part in the proceedings – now took up his position and applied himself to the youth’s cock. His job was to make sure it remained… interested. By lightly stroking it in various ways, his skillful hands kept it fully erect despite the reactions being caused by the other monks.

Both the earlier light tickling and also the more probing type had, thus far, been more in the nature of exploratory work than anything else: the monks were finding out all of the boy’s weaknesses – which spots to work on, and which techniques were the most effective. Once these were discovered, they were intentionally used at a level which remained – just - bearable to the boy.

In the youth’s mind, a strange thing began to happen. Because he could - if he concentrated very hard – tolerate the tickling, the stimulation of the fingers probing his body, and of those teasing his cock, gradually began to mix. There were so many signals assaulting him that they became increasingly indistinguishable from each other, the one enhancing the other, until the boy would not have been able to say which was which. Also, the unfamiliar feeling of being helpless, strapped down by leather restraints, was part of it all for him. It was, in total, pure experience – and it was exciting him greatly.

This continued for some hours, with short breaks every now and again to allow the boy to recover and to resensitise. During these hours, the probing, squeezing, and massaging had become gradually more and more intense and more refined – but the monks had been careful to make sure that the boy’s cock had been kept fully hard all of the time. By the end of this phase, the monks could, if they wanted, cause extreme reactions by the use of a single finger – but still they made very sure that everything was kept within the boy’s limits.

The Abbot called for the hood – and the monks breathed a collected sigh of pleasure. This was the signal that it was time for the torture to begin.

The hood was a simple black leather bag with a cord at the open end which could be tightened around the victim’s neck. After turning the bag inside out, so that the shiny side was on the inside, he pulled it down over the boy’s head - tightening the cord around his neck sufficiently so that the youth would be very aware of the leather restricting, enclosing and blindfolding him as it ballooned in and out with each breath. So far, you see, the boy had been able to watch everything that was going on. He’d been able to see the fingers, where they were going, and when. Although it had tickled very much, very little had come as a complete surprise to him. But the monks were devious. They wanted to make him even more vulnerable and sensitive than he had been, and they knew very well that once he was unable to see what was coming, everything they did to him would be more acute, more unbearable; and that unable to see past the black leather over his eyes, his attention would be concentrated on what he could feel. In using a hood to make their victim more susceptible to the torture, the monks knew exactly what they were doing.

A fresh pot of warm oil was spread over the boy’s body, and the monks flexed their fingers.

Now, there was no concession made; not only did they no longer try to keep the tickling at a bearable level – they aimed for exactly the oppposite: to make this as utterly unbearable as possible. Under their habits, the monks’ cocks were as hard as iron as they rubbed against the cool black rubber which was designed to keep them horny . The monks began to work sadistically on the helpless, ticklish boy.

At the first touch of their fingers the boy screamed. This was like nothing he had ever experienced before. And it got worse and worse. The fingers now knew every one of his most vulnerable spots and they worked on them mercilessly. Although each monk was concentrating mainly on what his own hands were doing, and the responses they were eliciting from the boy, he was also attuned to the others, and adjusted his technique so that taken all together, the monks amounted to one finely-honed, many-handed instrument of torture whose single objective was to make the boy suffer as much as they could.

Indeed, the torture was so intense that on many occasions the boy pissed himself – but the monks were experienced enough not to allow him to pass out and thereby obtain relief in unconsciousness. But – wonder of wonders – his cock did not go soft. The monk who had responsibility for that part of the victim’s anatomy was a supreme expert on boy’s cocks. It had become apparent decades ago that he had a natural talent in that field, and he had been honing his skills over the long years since. And, like the other monks, when he began working on the boy he also began learning. He knew by now every technique and little trick that turned this boy on most of all. Throughout the torture he had worked carefully and with expert skill, and had succeeded in keeping the youth hard, as part of everything else that was being done to him.

Because of the skill of the monks, as before, in the youth’s mind, all the stimulation had coalesced into one continuous stream of experience. Although there was no pain, it was agonisingly unendurable - but it was also inexpressably, intensely horny.

More hours passed, and the torture continued unabated. The monks were tireless, fired by sadism as the cool black rubber inside their leather habits stroked and caressed their bare thighs and legs, and teased their raging, erect cocks, and as they made the helpless youth scream and writhe under their hands on the stone slab. And the hornier they became, the more intensely, the more madly they worked on the boy.

The old monk inspected his pipe. It had gone out. He reached for another spill, lit it, and touched it to the tobacco, blew out a stream of smoke. For a moment he was silent, then he pointed with the long stem of his clay pipe. ‘I see that at least one part of you likes my story...’ He chuckled; the chuckle turned into a cough. ‘Now, where was I?’ He smiled again – this time to himself, in recollection.

A strange thing was happening in the boy’s mind. The torture had been going on for hours now, and as I said, all the different stimuli had, for some time, been slowly coming together. The probing fingers were still unimaginable, unbearable torture, but his cock had been worked on so skillfully that for the boy the whole ordeal was permeated with pure horniness. His mind was so confused now that the more intensely the monks worked on him, the more it made him need to cum.

And he did need to cum – quite badly. But so far this had been about torture by tickling. Now, however, the monks were about to enter the final phase of the ritual: a phase in which that need to cum was the most important aspect of all.

The old monk carefully refilled his glass and sipped the wine. He sighed in appreciation, then continued his story.

Like many boys, the only sexual pleasure the youth had known up to then had been from his right hand: quick masturbations that were very soon over. But now he had already learned that other stimulation could be exciting – and he was about to learn something else too: that needing to cum could be a torture.

Imagine, if you can, such a boy being kept intentionally ragingly horny, frustratingly close to the point of cumming – but never allowed actually to cum – by many skillful and experienced monks in black leather, all working on him at the same time. It was something he had not only never experienced before, but it had never even occurred to him to think was even possible. Well the monks knew all about this. They knew about it very well indeed. And now they proceeded to do it.

They reduced the level of tickling a little, and the monk in charge of the boy’s cock began to edge him. He was totally focussed on the cock, a frown of intense concentration on his face. Slowly – so slowly - he brought the boy closer and closer to the point of orgasm. And then, with a slight movement of his head which the others knew to look out for, he stopped abruptly, and instantly the other monks removed their hands from the boy.

The youth had not expected them to stop. For a moment he thought it was some kind of mistake, and shook his head inside the hood. But when they didn’t start again to finish him off he howled like a wolf at the moon. ‘NO! NO! NOOOOOO!’

The monks’ cocks all jerked in unison as the boy tried desperately to cum, but couldn’t. This was as close to heaven as any of them were likely to get on Earth. Precum ran down the smooth black rubber inside their habits as they prepared to repeat the exercise.

Once again, the monk took the youth’s cock gently between his fingertips and began to work on it slowly. He knew now how firmly, how fast - and precisely where - to stroke it to bring the boy irresistibly up to the edge. The others began to probe and squeeze his slippery body again, their fingers finding all his most unbearably responsive spots. The youth writhed insanely on the slab. But he got closer and closer to cumming once more – and again, when he was right on the edge, they stopped. It was much worse than last time; the effects seemed to be cumulative. The industrial-strength tickling on its own had been unbearable enough, but this was torture of a different kind – now his own desperate need to cum was added to the torment – and it was a devastatingly powerful drive indeed.

The monks began to work on him again...

I don’t know how long they kept this up – for the boy, time had lost all meaning, all relevance. The only thing he was capable of thinking about now was his need to cum. And everything they were doing to him – everything – made that need worse. What had previously been intolerable tickling had now become intensely erotic, fuelling his need for orgasm almost as much as what was being done to his cock. It felt so unbelievbably wonderful every time while they were getting him closer and closer to orgasm – but then, at the very point when he was on the edge of the most monumental orgasm of his young life, they stopped, so that he couldn’t cum. He screamed and yelled and begged, but it made no difference. He was very rapidly going insane.

Eventually the Abbot made a sign. A guard by the dungeon door opened it, and a small figure appeared, framed in the light from outside. He walked carefully down the stone steps, his leather habit swaying and rustling quietly, the white rope swaying with each step, and stood waiting, slightly behind and to the side of the first monk he came to. The light of the flickering brazier illuminated his face for a moment – he was a young trainee monk.

The others – all of whom had been close to cumming themselves for hours – concentrated on the slippery boy again. The one in charge of his cock worked on it very, very slowly indeed, bringing the youth up towards the edge again. When he was satisfied, he removed his hands for the last time and stepped back. His job was done.

The monks now worked on the boy a little more gently: their fingers still probed and squeezed, still brought tormented screams from their victim, but their touches were not full torture any more. The youth writhed on the slab – as before, mostly in ticklishness - but now also in pure animal lust.

At the same time the young trainee reached out and felt for the cock of the monk he was standing closest to. He found it, and gripped the head gently through the leather habit with one hand. The other hand pushed the rubber between the man’s thighs from behind until the boy’s fingers were gently gripping the monk’s balls through it. With just a couple of slow strokes he brought him to a knee-buckling orgasm. When he had recovered, the monk walked unsteadily to the side of the dungeon and stood quietly, while the young trainee moved onto the next monk, to repeat the procedure.

Two by two the hands were removed from the boy’s body as the monks were milked by the young trainee. Those that remained on the oil-slippery skin continued to work on him with gradually increasing intensity.

There were only two men left now – the Abbot and one other – a tall, thin monk. The trainee’s hands slowly milked the tall one until, as all the others had done, he shot his spunk into the rubber. He removed his hands from the boy and walked away, leaving only the Abbot.

His pipe had gone out yet again. He considered relighting it, but then placed it on the table and lifted his wineglass instead. He emptied it in one gulp it and poured out the little that remained in the bottle. Lost for a moment in the sight of the flickering firelight shining through the ruby-red wine, he smiled at a memory.

The Abbot was, in those days, the most devout – and sadistic – man ever to hold that position at the monastery. Even more dangerously, he was the most expert at the torture by tickling. He had made a lifetime’s study of it, and had practised it at every available opportunity. As the young trainee took up position behind him, the man’s hands began to work on the helpless boy with consumate skill and sadistic enthusiasm. The boy shrieked. His body thrashed about in the restraints, he begged and pleaded into the hood, but the Abbot was deaf to his entreaties for mercy. The fingers homed in exactly on all of the boy’s weaknesses, probing relentlessly and with much more pressure than before.

Under the leather hood the boy was going out of his mind. This was far worse than it had been even when they were all working on him. Each touch now was more specific, more acute, more unbearable. He knew that he was going to go quite mad.

The trainee was working on the Abbot’s cock through the leather and rubber, but the man was resisting: he wanted to continue torturing this boy for much longer yet. The closer to cumming the trainee got him, the more sadistically the Abbot worked on the boy. His fingers were now on the youth’s sides, the thumbs pushing deeply into the muscles just below the rib cage – spots that he knew were the boy’s absolute nemesis. His thumbs dug in repeatedly, moving in small circles and causing the boy to scream with each movement - more desperately than ever before.

But the boy’s cock was still as hard as iron.

The trainee was worried that he was not going to be able to make the monk cum – and that would surely be something for which he would be punished. So he renewed his efforts. He moved his hands so that the man would feel fresh, colder rubber against his bare thighs and balls, enclosed the man’s cock completely with it, and milked him hard and quickly through the shiny black leather. The fast, rhythmic sound of the leather creaking between his legs was loud in the dungeon. In spite of his best efforts to hold out, the Abbot lost it. He began to cum. As his spunk shot out into the rubber enclosing it, he worked on the boy’s sides as manically and as hard as he possibly could.

With a scream that must have been audible for miles, the boy came. He came from the torture alone – nothing had touched his cock for many minutes. At that moment something had clicked in his mind and the exquisite, unbearable tickling had been transformed into pure sex – exactly as if the most talented fingers in the world had been working on his cock. He arched his back and screamed a scream that went on and on as his spunk arced into the air and landed on the table, the Abbot – everywhere. He continued to scream until his balls were empty – and then he lost consciousness. The Abbot staggered as the trainee milked the last of his spunk out, and then collapsed onto the floor.

It took several days for the boy to recover, and he was permanently changed afterwards. When he masturbated it was never satisfactory unless someone was tickling him.

The old monk chuckled.

You only had to come up behind him, press your fingers into his sides for a few seconds and he would have an orgasm. He had undergone the puer immutatus – that means the ‘changing of the boy’ - the psychological adjustment which makes a boy need torture. A great many boys – including all the monks at the monastery when they were younger, along with many random boys who passed by, or through, at one time or another – have undergone the ritual. It is the order’s way of bringing them closer to God. At least that’s the excuse. It may be heretical of me to say so, but of course it’s much more to do with the monks getting off on it.

But that boy grew up to be one of the happiest monks at the monastery. He officiated at many of the rituals, first as trainee; later - as his skills improved - as a torturer; and finally as Abbot. And of course, that boy was me, as you probably guessed.

The Abbot checked the bottle to make sure it was empty, and put it back on the table.

Now you know what the puer immutatus is all about. It is an extreme ordeal. Some of the boys – only the odd one or two, actually – have, sadly, spent their days since their ritual in rocking chairs in locked rooms. They shudder occasionally, and now and again they scream. But most come out of it with something that enhances their lives in the monastery. And much pleasure. Oh yes, much pleasure.

The Abbot turns his hooded gaze on you and looks into your eyes.

“So, now you know what to expect, my pretty boy. Do you think you’ll survive? Ah, of course, it’s difficult to speak with that gag in, isn’t it…?”

He laughs, stands up, moves the chair and table out of the way to the side of the dungeon, and takes off his bown habit. Under it is another – of shiny black leather.

You stare, terrified, as he calls the other monks in, and they take their places around you.

The brazier fire, in the centre of the dungeon, crackles.

NO! NO!! They don’t understand! You’re too ticklish! It’s your biggest weakness! Being tickled has always been your worst nightmare!

You are shaking. You are already pissing yourself. You know beyond doubt that there is no way you will live through it. Already, you want to die - and they haven’t even touched your young, horrendously ticklish body yet.

The Abbot recites something in Latin, then he removes your gag, and you start to beg, to plead.

He smiles down at you, then crosses himself. There is hunger in his eyes. “We may begin...” He says.