The Telemachus Story Archive

Punishing Francis
By Hooder

Punishing Francis

Francis had been one of my slaves for over a year. He’s responsive, and fun, and I like him a lot as a person. His main turn-ons are inescapable restraints that make him feel as intensely helpless as possible, and obeying his Master completely. He really gets into this, and I’ve often taken advantage of it by ordering him to do some very humiliating things. He doesn’t get off on the things themselves, but on doing them because I’ve ordered him to - his puppy-dog eyes always searching for signs that he’s pleased me.

That evening I was a bit pissed off. Not with him, but in general. I’d ordered something in the wrong size off the net, and this morning one of my computer discs had died, taking a whole lot of work with it. I tried to put these things out of my mind while I was playing with Francis, but they still left that general, nebulous feeling of being pissed off.

I’d been working on the boy’s nipples, something that always gets him going. They turn him on like crazy, but he’s not really into pain and can’t take very much work on them. His cock was as hard as iron and - very unusually for me – I suddenly felt mean. “Right, boy. Don’t cum. I order you not to cum. You will be punished if you do.”

His eyes lit up at the order and he nodded. “Mmph ssph,” he said, which is gagged-speak for ”Yes Sir!”

I transferred one hand to his cock and began to wank him off exactly in the way he loves best, but very slowly. After a while I could see him getting worried, but I continued to stroke his cock. He began to moan and to shake his head.

The volume of his moaning suddenly increased, his eyes widened and, as I’d intended, he came. It had been grossly unfair – I knew this boy very well, I knew precisely how to make him cum if I wanted him to, and I also knew there was nothing he could do to stop himself.

As always when he failed to obey one of my orders for some reason, he looked as if he was about to cry. He never did, but it looked that way.

I wiped his spunk off my leather gloved hand and released him from the A frame. “Cell,” I said. He padded over to the cell and went in, closing the door behind him, then sat in the corner.

Punishment. I looked around the playroom for inspiration. There were several things I knew he hated: being fucked; having his tits or cock-head worked on after he’d cum; electrics; and being tickled. My eyes came to rest on the mummification board. I hadn’t used that on him for a very long time. An idea began to form in my mind. I didn’t know if it would work but it was worth a try.

The central bar of the mummification board is a long, 8 inch-wide board padded with leather. There are shorter arms at right angles at the top and bottom, with ring bolts in them, and the whole thing hangs from these on the ceiling chains. From the top end of the central bar two more supports extend for the arms - the angle of these in adjustable - and I set it so that his hands would be a couple of feet away from his thighs.

I set it up, then looked over to the cell. “Come here.”

He walked over and stood in front of me, his eyes fixed to my bike boots.

I put one of the tighter, thicker leather hoods over his head and strapped it on, having removed his gag as the hood would muffle his speech quite effectively anyway. Carefully I guided him onto the padded board, placed his arms flat on the supports, and took a roll of pallet wrap. I made sure his feet were close together and pointing vertically, and then, beginning at his ankles I wound the plastic as tightly as I could around him and the board, making my way up very slowly so that I left many layers over him.

I continued wrapping him tightly up to chest. “Breath in about two thirds of your lung capacity, and hold your breath,” I said. I wrapped the plastic tightly over his chest and armpits. “Ok. Breathe normally.”

After tearing the wrap I did each arm separately, down to – and including – his hands. Being careful not to cover the air holes in the hood, I did his head as well, but not quite as tightly as I’d wrapped the rest of his body as I knew that too much pressure over the face would become uncomfortable very quickly.

Standing back, I surveyed my work. Every square inch of him was covered very tightly with the pallet wrap and he was incapable of the tiniest movement. “Try to move,” I said loudly, so that he could hear me through the thick hood. He squirmed but only succeeded in rotating his feet the smallest amount. I tied his big toes together with a short leather thong to stop that.

Somewhere in the playroom there were some plastic safety scissors – the kind of things kids use for cutting card. I knew I had some, but I’d no idea where they were – they hadn’t been used for years. I searched for them, picking up the stainless steel bandage scissors on the way. I found the plastic ones in one of the drawers. Then, very carefully, I began to cut holes in the pallet wrap over Francis’ body. “Don’t worry, I won’t cut your skin,” I told him. I used the plastic scissors to pierce the plastic, and then poked the blunt blade of the bandage scissors through it and enlarged the hole slightly with them. Soon I had cut holes at the boy’s armpits, his sides, just above his knees and at the sides of them. I pulled his cock and balls up through the larger hole at his crotch, and then I sat down in the leather chair and waited for twenty minutes to let him enjoy the sensory deprivation he loves so much, and to wonder what punishment I was going to inflict on him (although I’m sure that the positions of the holes would have given him a clue).

I got up and began to get him to full erection again.

“You came when I had specifically ordered you not to.”

A quiet moan of contrition came from under the hood.

“And so I am going to punish you. I am going to tickle torture you.”

Francis is excruciatingly ticklish. I’d tickled him in play a few times, but never for very long as he can’t stand it and it makes his cock go soft. He struggles and yells like fuck. I’d never used it on him as a punishment before, but right now I felt like making the little bastard suffer. Not because he’d cum when I’d told him not to – I’d made sure he couldn’t stop himself – but just because I wanted to take my frustration out on someone. I knew this was not a good motive, but right now I didn’t care about that. I’d done worse to him before and he’d continued to come back for more.

I pushed my fingers into the holes I’d cut at his armpits, and started to tickle him.

He screamed into the hood and the plastic wrap creaked with his efforts to get away, but there was absolutely nothing he could do. Mummification is one of the most completely immobilising kinds of restraint possible – which is exactly why I’d chosen it. My fingers tickled unbearably in his armpits.

I let him recover for a moment while I put on the ten steel talons I’d got off the net some months ago. These slip onto the ends of the fingers, and they come to fine points. Then I went to work on his feet. The points of the talons scraped over his soles and he went ballistic. His feet were trying to thrash from side to side to escape them, but the tight plastic wrap, along with the thong that was tying his big toes together, prevented almost all movement, and all he could do was suffer and yell. The balls of the toes themselves proved to be very responsive, and I spent a long time tickling them, but it was the soles that got the most reaction: I only had to so much as touch them and his body jerked. Scrape over them and he almost wet himself. I realised that I was enjoying this a lot. Perhaps I was a sadist, I thought.

The muscle above the knee didn’t work very well – to be effective it needs to be squeezed, and even with the hole there it wasn’t really possible to do this – but inserting fingers through the plastic at the sides of the knees and tickling behind them caused much yelling.

Now I myself am not very ticklish. People have tried and, in the main, they’ve failed. But even on me there is one place I can’t stand: my sides. Hard jabs there reduce me to a quivering jelly. I’d saved Francis’ sides until last because I suspected that they would be the most difficult spots of all for the boy to deal with. I inserted a couple of fingers through each hole, and stroked his skin lightly. “Now, Francis my boy. So far this hasn’t been too bad, has it? But I think that now it’s going to get a lot worse. Remember, this is punishment, and in future when I tell you not to cum, you Do. Not. Cum.”

I pushed my fingers hard into his sides and moved them about in the ways that I imagined it would be most unbearable if it were being done to me.

It’s a good thing the playroom is soundproofed, because he shrieked. I could feel every muscle of his body tense as he desperately tried to get away from that unendurable torture. For a moment I wondered if the layers of plastic were going to hold him – they were creaking and straining as he did everything he could to move – but they continued to restrain him every bit as tightly as they had done. There was absolutely nothing he could do; he was completely and utterly helpless.

I hate to admit it, but I was really getting into this. I changed to using my thumbs, so that I could increase the pressure. The hole was large enough to allow me to work from just under his bottom ribs down to his hip bone, and I kept changing the target, to make the torture more effective. The loudest screams seemed to come from sliding my thumbs off the bottom ribs and deep into the soft flesh just below them, so I concentrated things there.

The boy’s cock had been soft since he’d first got onto the board, but to my amazement it began to get hard as I watched. I thought he hated being tickled – after all, that was why I was doing it – but his cock continued to grow before my eyes.

He was still screaming, still writhing, still suffering, but he was now as hard as a fucking rock. I didn’t understand this at all. I got the scissors and made the holes a bit bigger, and now I could torture his sides with fingers and thumbs, as hard as I possibly could. I have worked on other subs who are really into heavy tickle torture, but I’d never done it as hard as I was doing it to Francis at that moment. I was amazed that he hadn’t fainted or pissed himself.

And then, to my utter astonishment, spunk was shooting out of his cock. I wasn’t even touching it. He was cumming. I carried on working on him until his orgasm was finished, and then I stopped. He lay there panting hard, trying to get breath, so I cut the wrap over his head and took the hood off him.

It was a while before he could speak coherently – he was just moaning, ‘Oh fuck...” over and over.I waited for him to recover.

Finally, after a good three or four minutes, he looked at me. “Oh shit. That was… amazing,” he said.

I shook my head. “I thought you hated being tickled.”

“So did I. But -” He swallowed, and took a couple of breaths. “But when you’ve done it to me before I could struggle and move. Like this I couldn’t move a fucking millimetre. Oh God, I felt more helpless then than I’ve ever felt in my life.”

I knew the boy was seriously into restraints, but I’d never have imagined they could have had this effect on him. “And you’ve never cum without your cock being touched.”

He laughed. “I know. That’s never happened before. Ever.”

It’s a damn sight quicker to get someone out of pallet wrap mummification than it is to put them into it: I slid the bandage scissors along between his body and the padded surface and a Francis-shaped plastic mould lifted off easily. I helped him to stand, and then sat him on the board. “Did you enjoy that, then?” I asked.

He smiled, thinking. “Not to begin with. God, I hated it at first. But when you started on my sides that was...” He shook his head, trying to find words, “un-fucking-bearable – I’d have broken the fucking board to get away from your hands if I’d been able to - and it was then that I really realised just how fucking helpless I was.”

It was unusual for Francis to swear so many times in one sentence, and that told me, probably more than anything else, how intense it had been.

“So,” I said, smiling at him, “it looks like I’m going to have to cross tickling off the possible punishments list.”

He smiled too. “And add it to the rewards list...”

We hugged, and went down for a large scotch.