Everyone has heard of Tomas de Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor of the Holy Spanish Inquisition, but in fact the Inquisition was a fairly widespread affair; there were many other groups of Dominicans roaming the country educating those who were faithful to the Catholic Church, and punishing those who were not.
My name is Father Tomas de Valencia, and I was High Inquisitor of one of these groups: the Order of the Black Cross. We wore the traditional hooded tunic of the Dominican order, but without the Scapular, and with the exception of the white Cinture (the rope belt) we were all in black. We were charged with the same duties as all the other orders, including investigating heresy, and of course interrogating suspects.
Unsurprisingly, the Order of the Holy Inquisition attracted some deeply troubled people, and I’m convinced that a lot of them became Dominicans for no other purpose than to attain positions from which they could, quite legally, exercise their sadism. For most of these, their agenda was focused on the infliction of pain – and this of course was legitimised by Torquemada himself, who’d become infamous for overseeing the use of torture; the infliction of pain during interrogations being his own favourite method of extracting confessions.
I’d been a Dominican all my life, and I had no interest in the infliction of pain, my own preferences being rather different – and yet I, too, was very much a sadist.
On my horse Mayfly, I led my group through rolling hills, dense forests (which occasionally gave our wagons trouble), through fields of grass or crops and over small streams. The countryside was quite beautiful in that summer of 1446.
I and my carefully-chosen group were looking for something quite specific. In many of the towns and villages we didn’t find it, and so after the expected bit of preaching (followed by sampling the local beers and wines) we continued on our way.
In the village of Sainte Clairmont, however, I found just what I was looking for in the shape of one Antoine Girard. And a very fine shape he was. From the vantage point of my horse I looked him over slowly.
And I very badly wanted to torture him.
The boy was in his early twenties, with muscles that spoke not only of hard toil in the fields, but of intentional exercise too. He had a slight stubble, jet black hair and deep blue eyes. The sleeves of his snug-fitting shirt were rolled up, revealing strong forearms, and the open neck showed an enticing valley between his pecs; his simple coarse breeches fit him well, the wide leather belt looking good against the brown material; and he wore a confident smile.
The smile was not to last for long. I introduced myself, and we settled our horses and the two wagons. Carefully presenting my usual calm, formal appearance despite my inward excitement, I began to interview the village residents.
Using a procedure that I’d found successful many times in the past, I hinted to each that rumours had come to me concerning the boy Antoine Girard. Nothing specific, you understand, but there was talk that the young man sometimes questioned – or even contradicted – fundamental Catholic beliefs. Had he ever been known to participate in non-Catholic forms of worship? Or advocated religious reforms? I suggested that neighbours or acquaintances may have provided information which would seem to condemn him. Most of the people I interviewed actually liked Antoine, but to a legal ear even some of their answers could be taken more than one way, or twisted to suit my agenda. And inevitably, there were one or two who had a personal dislike of him or a grudge against him for one reason or another. I concentrated on these, encouraging them to speak freely, guaranteeing their anonymity, and they always became more enthusiastic, embellishing their original (fabricated) testimony with more details to stain his character. These I could use directly for my purposes.
After a few hours I had sufficient ammunition at my disposal. I instructed the two guards to arrest the boy and to confine him in the village gaol, which I and my group had taken over. It was private, and it even had quarters where myself and Michael could stay in reasonable comfort. The place was eminently appropriate for what I had in mind.
There were five of us in our group: myself and Michael were the inquisitors, Michael assisting me in interrogations; Jerome and Carlos the guards, who protected us, carried out any arrests and maintained control over the prisoners; and Gabriel was a scribe, taking notes during interrogations, managing paperwork and carrying out administrative duties.
Unlike many of the Inquisition groups, we travelled with very little in the way of heavy equipment. No racks, no branding irons, no iron maidens. The one large item we had was unloaded and installed in the gaol – it was a heavy wooden cross in the form of an X, stained almost black through years of use. Hinged at its base, it could be adjusted for angle. The device looked wonderfully intimidating.
In the initial examination with the subject, basic information about him was gathered, and the accusations were put to him. We left Antoine alone in the gaol after that while we enjoyed the hospitality of the village.
Later the questioning began. I’ve conducted very many interrogations in my time, and I have learned how to do it. I am a master of the leading question. Leading questions elicit specific responses which, as the prisoner digs himself in deeper and deeper, usually result in his guilt becoming – seemingly – increasingly apparent.
Understandably, Antoine protested his innocence – of course I knew the boy was blameless – but I had both the expertise and the authority of the Church behind me, and I knew how to use them to my own ends. Threats of harsher treatment made no difference and he continued to deny any wrongdoing.
We took him into the room where the old cross had been installed and showed it to him, carefully not explaining what would happen to him on it. I allowed him to have a good long look at it – and also at the heavy crates and boxes that had been brought in from the wagons (they actually contained our laundry mostly, but as far as he knew they could have been full of dreadful instruments of torture) – then returned him to his original cell and left him to imagine the possible atrocities that could be wreaked upon his youthful body if he were restrained to that device.
Antoine was visibly shaken when we came back, but still stood by his innocence.
I had the two guards remove his clothes and strap him very securely to the cross. The restraints were, by the standards of the Inquisition, unusually comfortable: thickly-padded wrist and ankle cuffs, wide leather straps and a soft base to stand on. This was intentional – I wanted him helpless but comfortable – I did not want anything to distract him from what I was going to do to him.
He looked wonderful naked; his skin shone and with his strong body, fit and muscular, he reminded me of a beautiful Greek warrior.
When the guards had finished preparing him I ordered the cross tilted forward a little on its hinged base so that he was in a more vulnerable and easily accessible position.
The next thing was to get his cock erect. This is not easy when a prisoner is worried about what’s going to happen to him, but given time it can be done, and at his age I knew that horniness would not be very far away. And it wasn’t. After a surprisingly short amount of teasing, his cock was thrusting out at a 45 degree angle from his body.
I picked up the two cock restraints – loops at the ends of thin ropes which attached to the base of the cross – and which could easily be adjusted for length. I pushed the first over his cock, positioning it about two thirds of the way along the shaft, then the second one a third of the way along. Reaching down I adjusted the cords until the boy’s cock was pulled horizontal, then tied them off. I had learned long ago that having tension gently pulling his cock away from his body makes a boy much more responsive.
Something else that increases sensitivity no end is to wind a narrow strip of soft leather around the base of the balls fairly tightly several times and secure it in place. The constant pressure feels like a hand holding them, and keeps the subject always aware of them. In short, it feels horny.
All of this – the tilted cross, the loops pulling the cock down, the leather around the balls – was calculated to make it as difficult as possible for the victim to stand what I was about to start doing to him.
There was one other, powerful, weapon I could use against him: the hood – and I knew that it would intensify things for him a great deal – but that was for later; for the moment I wanted him to be able to see.
I picked up an ornate wooden box with brass hinges and opened the lid. Antoine stared as he saw the long, neat lines of feathers resting on the blue velvet inside. He frowned, then laughed. Feathers? Ha. There was no danger for him there.
I selected a White-Throated Kingfisher wing feather with a softly rounded end, closed the box and moved my wooden stool closer to the cross. Both Michael and I pulled our black hoods up, largely concealing our faces. Then I nodded to Gabriel the scribe and, in silence, I began to work on the boy’s cock.
The Kingfisher feather is one of my favourites to start with, as it has a reasonably stiff edge, and yet a fairly soft tip. The edge is usually very effective when applied to the shaft, or for working on the ridge; and the soft tip is excellent for teasing a sensitive cock-head – at least in the early stages. I used both techniques, changing unpredictably – although of course the boy could see what I was doing – and his cock continued to stiffen.
I worked on him for some time, and he was grunting occasionally, but he doubtless thought that this was all I had in store for him. However, I nodded to Michael, my assistant inquisitor who, until now, had been standing watching closely. He picked up a second feather – a long, slim, curved and very soft one. Crouching down, he began to tickle the boy’s balls with its pointed tip at the same time. Antoine suddenly realised that things could, in fact, get far worse than they had been. He immediately let out a yell of ticklishness, which quickly turned into a groan of pure lust. He threw his head back and the cross creaked with his efforts to get away from the feathers – both of which, while still feeling irresistibly horny, had suddenly seemed to tickle like fuck.
I had heard that tickling, on some subjects, and when used as a torture, can be a devastatingly effective method of extracting confessions, but that was not the effect I was after; I simply intended this boy to get very, very horny.
Michael has been assisting me for many years and intuitively knows what I’m doing from moment to moment, so without my saying anything he changed his technique a little, so that it tickled less and became more erotic.
The boy’s cock jerked spasmodically it its restraining loops as I stroked it, and as Michael worked on his balls the occasional growl of horniness escaped Antoine’s lips. I have always been sadly free of any talent – except one, and that is teasing boys’ cocks. I discovered a very long time ago that I have a natural gift for making young men need to cum. It is as if some kind of magic travels from my hand, along the feather and into the victim. It is also the thing that gives me more satisfaction than anything else – to the extent that I can become so intensely focused on what I’m doing that occasionally Michael has to suggest that I stop before the subject goes quite insane. That is always annoying, as the closer to that point I get, the more passionately and lustfully my sadism makes me want to torture him with his need for orgasm.
Antoine was nowhere near that point so far – there had not been time for it to become a torture for him - yet even now, every time we took our feathers away his hips thrust and he moaned for completion. Those moments, when we stop an instant before a subject can cum, are the most precious to me – a wave of pure, merciless carnality sweeps through my entire body, ending up at my cock, as I watch a boy on the very edge of cumming, struggling to achieve that longed-for orgasm, but then incapable of doing so as all stimulation suddenly ceases. And that wave of lust I feel is directly proportional to the degree of frustration he feels at that moment. No, he was not there yet, but I knew that time was one of my greatest weapons: as the hours passed, and we continued to work on him, his cock would become gradually more and more desperate, his need would get progressively worse, and there would be nothing he could do about it. That is the beauty of what we did to a victim.
After an hour or so I sat back, and Michael did too. It pays to give a boy a break for a couple of minutes now and then, as it makes him more sensitive and responsive when we recommence our work. There was already a great deal of precum, and the Kingfisher feather was quite wet at the tip. I took the opportunity to blot the sticky liquid off with a very soft cloth, exceedingly carefully, hardly touching it to the desperate cock head. But even that brought forth much moaning and struggling.
The feather I selected from the box now was a much softer one, and would allow me to get Antoine considerably closer to the edge than I had dared thus far. But with it came with danger: the closer to the edge one brings a boy, the more skill is needed to prevent him from being able to cum. Thankfully, quite apart from my natural talent in these matters, I’d also had a very great deal of practise on terminally horny boys. I had not unintentionally allowed one to cum for many years.
The new feather proved extremely effective. As I teased it along his shaft and then concentrated on tickling the cock-head, Michael crouched down behind Antoine. He carefully parted the cheeks of the boy’s buttocks and applied the tip of his wonderfully mobile tongue (again, years of practise) very lightly to the lad’s arse hole. The soft feather and Michael’s slow licking suddenly brought much more urgent moans of need from our subject. With my free hand I gently and slowly teased his balls as well.
Good technique in this case is all about the slowness. It works on several levels: a boy who has been close to cumming for long enough craves fast, firm milking of his cock – so when he experiences only the direct opposite of that, it is insanely frustrating. Also slow, relentless teasing underlines the fact that he is being controlled, that he can do nothing about it. And it gives his mind ample time to concentrate on each individual stroke.
Michael, in his own way, was every bit as talented as I – even when his line of sight to me was blocked by a subject’s body he knew exactly when I was about to stop, and did so himself at precisely the right moment. Over the years of our working together, he had become almost an extension of my own hands. There had been occasions, when I’d been indisposed or absent for one reason or another, that he had carried out full sessions on his own, and with commendable success.
Antoine was straining at the leather cuffs and straps, partly to escape something that had slowly built up until it had become totally unbearable, and partly just because it felt so good to do so. I was able to bring him far closer to the edge each time now, and every time we stopped, his response was much more dramatic: he threw back his head and yelled. He had begun to beg us to let him cum.
I smiled to myself. He was getting there. Gradually.
There had been no questioning so far. That would come a little later, when we had made things even more persuasive for the boy.
And I thought it was time to make progress in that direction.
I put the feathers down and flexed my fingers. I’d discovered to my extreme pleasure early in my explorations of this cock that, like some boys, Antoine had a very great weakness – and I intended to exploit that weakness to the full.
I placed my fingers on his balls and began to tease them, leaned forward and used my tongue right on the very end of his cock-head. It’s another thing I’m exceedingly good at, and it’s difficult to describe exactly how infuriatingly lightly I can do this. My lips form a gentle seal around the ridge, and the very tip of my tongue caresses the bumps of the urethra and the area of the bare glans immediately adjacent to them.
On most boys it’s the frenulum that is the key to their soul – stroking that makes them want to cum more urgently than working on any other spot. But a few are much more sensitive right at the end of their cock, and with these, it’s often the case that work just on the very tip creates an exquisite urge to cum – an even more powerful need than the frenulum does on the others. Antoine was, I had discovered, one of these tip-sensitive ones: the slightest work just there was resoundingly effective, and much more so than anywhere else. That was the weakness that I had been delighted to find earlier. Every time my tongue stroked feather-lightly over or around the two little bumps, an urgent, strained moan of lust was wrenched from him. An added – and not inconsiderable – bonus is that with this technique, a boy’s approach to ejaculation is far slower than otherwise. This results in his eventual orgasm being much more violent and intense – and because he can feel that this is going to happen, it very strongly reinforces his need to cum. But at the same time, unfortunately for him, that very slowness of approach allows me far more precise control over whether he cums or not.
It is a technique which I’ve found to be both intensely frustrating to such a boy, and also to give me meticulous and precise control over his approach to orgasm. I was very careful not to get him too close, though, because I knew that at this very moment Michael was inserting an oiled middle finger slowly into the boy’s arse hole in search of the prostate.
Seconds later the expression on Antoine’s face told me that he’d found it.
Michael began to massage it very gently, leaving me free to concentrate on the cock in front of me.
A sequence:
1. A very few controlled, slowly teasing strokes over and around the very tip until I feel the boy’s muscles begin to tense as he prepares to cum.
2. Make the strokes even slower and lighter as he inches even closer.
3. Remove my tongue from it at the last possible moment, just before he is able to cum.
4. Hold the cock with my unmoving lips until he’s stopped screaming, begging, and fighting the restraints.
4. Allow just barely enough time for him to back off far enough from the edge, and then…
5. Repeat.
This sequence went on for some time.
It is not a tenable situation for a boy to be repeatedly brought to the very edge of orgasm, held at that point, and then for the very stimulation that had got him there to be suddenly withdrawn so that the orgasm is unreachable. And of course all torture is based on putting the victim into an untenable situation. Michael and I were using the boy’s increasingly desperate need for ejaculation against him, intentionally and sadistically. And for me (and also, I knew, for Michael – it was, after all, the very reason why he was my assistant), that was the most satisfying thing in the entire world. It was why I had used my position as a Dominican Friar carefully to select my like-minded group and to roam the countryside in search of muscular, good-looking, horny boys. And to torture them.
Antoine screamed in frustration, his muscles flexing and straining as, yet again, I removed my tongue from his cock-tip, and Michael’s finger froze. I sighed in pleasure – I could do this all day. But my back was beginning to ache; it was time for a break.
The locals were hospitable. They had to be - they feared the Inquisition. I and my group were plied with beer and food in the local hostelry, and women were produced for our entertainment. Being of another persuasion, we politely declined. Boys were offered, but none was as interesting as young Antoine – although Jerome and Carlos, the two guards, did take the opportunity to go off with one rather hunky lad. I smiled; he would shortly have an ecstatic smile on his face – Carlos and Jerome worked well together.
Back at the gaol it was time to intensify things a little. It didn’t take long for us to get the boy back to the state he’d been in when we’d left, and we spent the next hour working on him as we had done before our break.
I opened my pack, and took out the hood. This is a device made from shaped brown leather, constructed so that the shiny side is within. Perhaps that makes it look a little strange from the outside, but it also makes it much more effective on the victim. It covers the whole head and neck down to the shoulders, and has many straps with which it can be tightened until it clings to the victim perfectly, the smooth shiny leather sealing to his skin. It has no eyeholes. It does, however, have an open mouth, so that the boy can speak, and confess (and occasionally accept an Inquisitor’s hard cock). Its functions are to render him unable to see, and so to heighten his fear of what is to come; to create an intense feeling of helplessness and vulnerability; to force his mind to concentrate on nothing but what is being done to him, and therefore to make those sensations much more acute. The constant awareness of the leather tightly enclosing his head also makes him much more conscious of the fact that he is restrained, controlled.
I knew that this would make the boy reach orgasm much more quickly if I wasn’t very careful, but what Michael and I were going to do to him next was going to necessitate even more care on our part not to allow him to cum unexpectedly.
We began. I wrapped the fingers of one hand around the base of Antoine’s balls, exerting a gentle but unrelenting downwards pull on them, took his cock in a firm grip around the top of the shaft, and began to milk it quickly, my fingers running over the ridge and frenulum with each stroke, and my carefully-positioned thumb rubbing irresistibly over the very tip of the head. At the same time, Michael stroked the boy’s prostate more persuasively than before.
This, of course, drove Antoine to the edge in seconds flat. He emitted a strangled, urgent moan, and pounded his hips as much as the tight leather strap over them would allow, because he knew that this time he was actually going to cum – and we stopped. It had only been scant seconds.
The raging distress caused by the sudden cessation of this this fast, hard, proper milking – which was exactly and precisely what the boy had craved for interminable hours – was unbearably acute. He was beside himself with a need and a frustration the intensity of either he had never experienced before. He screamed, yelled, begged, wailed, and threw his head from side to side.
For the first time, I asked him for his confession.
The head shaking eventually became a violent one of negativity as the most acute compulsion to cum ebbed slightly. “No! I’m innocent!” He yelled.
We allowed him to back off a little further from the edge, and then carried out another couple of seconds of hard, fast milking before once again stopping just too soon.
All our work over the preceding hours had done its job: when he’d been brought into this room his cock had been soft from the fear of what was going to be done to him, and now he was a rutting male animal almost incapable of thinking about anything but achieving orgasm.
I (and also, I was perfectly certain, Michael – although I was unable to see him behind the boy) had reached that part of the proceedings that was our raison d’etre . This was what we lived for, why we searched the land.
He and I both knew that we could very easily, at any time now, have made things so acutely unbearable for the boy that he would have given us a ‘confession’ purely so that we would allow him to cum. But we did not. Instead, very carefully we kept him marginally short of that point, allowing him to retain just enough of his sanity to be able to keep protesting his innocence, and so allow us to continue working on him like this for much longer.
Time passed – at very different rates: quickly for us because we were enjoying it so deeply, but for Antoine, every minute seemed like an hour because it was torture he found so impossible to stand.
Again and again we would work on his cock and his prostate irresistibly, stop a split second before he could cum, wait for him to recover, and repeat. Even had he not been hooded, what we were doing to him would have been intolerable, but having his head tightly enclosed by blinding leather, and so being forced to focus on what he was feeling, to the exclusion of everything else, made it a thousandfold harder for him to bear.
I kept asking him for his confession, and he kept forcing himself to refuse. Each time, I smiled to myself, made sure my fingers were well-lubricated by his copious precum, gripped his balls and his cock, then quickly and efficiently milked the struggling boy to the edge again.
I knew that very soon Michael would suggest that the lad had had enough, so I did it just once more, this time risking getting him closer to orgasm than ever before.
“Confess!” I commanded, “and I’ll let you cum.” Again, we stopped abruptly.
Antoine screamed . He fought the restraints. It was too much; he broke. “I confess!” He yelled. “I am a heretic! I do not acknowledge the Catholic Church! IN THE NAME OF GOD LET ME CUM! ”
I glanced at Gabriel the scribe, who was busy writing it down.
Leaning forward, I took the cock into my mouth, and sucked it hard, my tongue rubbing quickly over the piss slit. Michael’s finger resumed massaging the boy’s prostate.
Antoine screamed again, his hips thrust violently, and the dam burst. What felt like gallons of hot, pent-up, boy-spunk pumped into my mouth so fast that I could barely keep up with it. I sucked him dry.
After I’d called for the guards to release him, Michael and I immediately retired to our separate quarters to relieve ourselves of our own burden of spunk. I can’t speak for Michael, but it was one of the best orgasms I’d had for a long, long time. I am an old man, but torturing muscular boys has kept me young, you may believe me.
The sentencing was carried out in the village square the following day. In theory I could legally have gone for anything up to, and including, burning at the stake (although that would have got back to the Pope in short order and questions would have been asked) – but obviously I had no intention of doing anything like that to the boy. All three of us were well aware that he was innocent: that the evidence had been fabricated, and that he had confessed under torture because we had made very sure that he would. Although that by no means implied leniency, one thing I was not about was causing suffering (except, of course, the suffering of intolerable sexual ecstasy). What Antoine had endured had been more than he’d been able to take, yes, but at the same time (and, I imagined, despite what he would say if you asked him at this moment) the boy had experienced the most acute and pure pleasure, and for the longest time, of his young life.
I sentenced him to a fine of five reals (one real would buy a simple meal). This was a fairly nominal amount, and seemed acceptable to everybody.
Business concluded, we all retired to the hostelry for refreshment. Antoine, I suspect, had gone home to recover. I noticed Jerome and Carlos sneaking off with another lad.
The following day we received formal thanks from the village elders, packed our gear and continued on our way. Perhaps there would be another fit boy in the next settlement, who would struggle satisfyingly on the cross while we worked on his hard, horny cock.
It was three weeks later. We’d stopped at a few villages and had been received with the usual hospitality, but without finding another suitable subject for our attentions (although Carlos and Jerome had done whatever they do with a couple of young men on the way). I’d been entertaining myself with thoughts of Antoine – I was finding it difficult to get him out of my mind; he had been the most perfect victim I’d had for as long as I could remember.
We were a mile or so short of the settlement of Holyvale when I heard a horse approaching at speed from behind us. I raised my hand and we came to a stop. Turning in my saddle I saw a brown mare pull up in a cloud of dust. It trotted alongside me. To my astonishment I saw that the rider was Antoine.
“Thank God, I’ve found you at last!” He ducked his head in respect. “May we talk, sir?”
“Of course,” I replied graciously. I told the rest to stay here, then led Mayfly at a slow walk off the pathway and into a grass field.
“Sir. Excuse my impertinence, but what you did to me in Sainte Clairmont…”
I was ready for some protestation of unfairness, of injustice, and I started to prepare a suitable reply. But no, that was not what he wanted to say.
“That was the most wonderful thing, sir. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. It was - I was -” He seemed flustered, unsure how to put things, or how I might react when he did. “I – I was wondering, sir, if I could accompany your group. I know I’m not a Friar, but perhaps – if you would consider it – I might be available whenever you wanted a boy. To torture me like you did before.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “Well, this is unexpected, Antoine.” I considered for a moment. “The Holy Inquisition seeks out unbelievers and heretics. You have been interrogated, you confessed, and you were sentenced. You have paid your due and I trust that you will embrace the Holy Mother Church from now on. Your trial is over.”
I paused, watching disappointment develop on his face.
Then I smiled at him. “However, there is nothing in the order’s rules that says anything about what I do in my spare time. I accept your offer. On the understanding that I – we – will make you suffer greatly, but from now on, for our own pleasure. And our pleasure can take much to satisfy.”
“Yes, sir! Oh yes sir! I understand that! That is exactly what I want! Thank you sir!”
I nodded. “You will have to share with-” I was about to say Jerome and Carlos, but immediately thought better of it, “- Gabriel, until we can sort out accommodation for you in the wagons.”
He nodded, thanked me again profusely, and we rejoined the others.
Things were looking up. There may indeed be another fit, hunky boy at the next village, and if so Antoine would have to amuse himself as he could while we worked on that boy.
But if not, the black cross would not go unused.