The Telemachus Story Archive

Reward And Punishment
By Hooder

The house had been on the market for ages, and I'd forgotten it was for sale - so when the noise of the removals truck shattered the quiet summer afternoon I peered through the window to see what was going on. I'd lived here for a good few years, and the old neighbours, the Williamses, had been ok. She was a tart and unashamedly tried to hit on me every chance she got, and he had been some kind of store manager, I think. We'd passed the time of day over the garden fence and talked about motorbikes - he'd had an old Norton many years ago. He thought my GSX600 was new-fangled Japanese rubbish.

I didn't want to be thought of as a nosy neighbour, but it was difficult not to watch the stuff being unloaded next door. I made myself a cup of tea and decided to do some work on my website, but curiosity kept getting the better of me and I couldn't concentrate for long without glancing out of the window. What I saw didn't actually tell me very much - it was all the usual stuff - and eventually I forgot about it and lost myself in my work on the computer.

It was much later when I eventually bcame aware if my surroundings again - the second cup of tea I'd made had gone cold, and looking out the window I saw that it was beginning to get dark. What had brought me back to reality was the sound of a motorbike pulling up outside. I jumped up, wondering if one of my mates - Dave or Stuart perhaps - was popping round for a beer and a chat, but I didn't recognise the bike: a big red CBR1000. The rider looked deliciously fit, clad from head to foot in shiny, black leather, and his black Simpson helmet had a dark visor, so I couldn't see anything of his face, but his hair was amazing - long and black, and reaching almost to the small of his back. Not only that, but he was getting off the bike and wheeling it into next door's garden. A visitor? Or - my cock jerked at the thought - was he my new neighbour?

I took every oportunity I could to watch next door over the following few days, but I didn't see him again for ages. At some point the bike disappeared from the front garden, so he must have gone out when I hadn't been looking. I went off to work each day annoyed that I hadn't seen him again, and intrigued about this long-haired guy.

It was Saturday afternoon when I saw him again. I'd got the bike on the drive and was oiling the chain when I heard the CBR arrive. I stood up and watched as the long-haired guy and a woman got off and he wheeled it into their garden. He looked up. "Hi mate," he said from behind the dark visor.

I leaned on the fence and smiled back. "Hello. Beautiful bike you got there. Have you just moved in?"

"Yep". He pulled off the helmet and shook his head to free his hair. Oh fuck, he was gorgeous. My stomach did a flip as I looked at that drop-dead hunky boy. "I'm Ben, and this is Sally."

"Don," I replied. We shook hands over the garden fence, his grip strong. I nodded to Sally. She was tall and slim, with a kind of secretarial air - confident, classy. Lucky bitch, I thought, seeing any chances I might possibly have had with him disappear in a puff of smoke. She smiled - pleasantly but tightly.

"When we've got things sorted you must come round for a drink."

"I'd like that, thanks. And if you need anything, just knock - I'm in a lot." We chatted about the neighbourhood for a while, and about bikes (he loved my GSX) then he and the woman went inside leaving me with a hard on and his bike quietly ticking as the engine cooled in the still evening air.

That was the last I saw of him for a couple of weeks, and I was getting around to thinking it was about time I met him again. One evening I saw the woman, Sally, leaving, and thought that now would be as good a time as any. His bike was parked in the garden so he was probably in. I put on my bike boots, leather jacket, and my sexiest pair of skintight, thin, sprayed-on faded jeans, which showed my cock off in graphic detail, and walked round to his front door. I rang the bell.

Nothing. I tried again, but there was still no answer. The living room curtains were drawn almost together, but I looked through the glass anyway. Through the narrow gap between the curtains I could see the bottom bit of what looked very much like some kind of restraint bench. The light wasn't on in the room, and it was difficult to make things out, but I could see a pair of booted feet tied with rope to restraint points at the bottom corners.

I drew back from the window and blinked. Kinky games were clearly afoot in this house, and unless my imagination was playing tricks on me, that gorgeous man Ben was tied down helpless to that bench.

What to do? I should have gone back to my house, and called again another time. That's what I should have done. But of course that's not what I did do. I went back to the front door, knocked quietly on it, and pushed it open. "Hello? Ben?" I called. Perhaps 'called' is the wrong word there - it was actually more of a whisper. The door to the living room was ajar, and I pushed it open a little further, silently, and stuck my head round. I stared - the room was a well-equipped dungeon.

It was certainly Ben, and he was certainly tied down to the table - and very securely at that. He was wearing his full biker leathers, and a heavy, thick black leather hood with no eyeholes. The fly of his leather jeans was open, his balls resting on the shiny black leather, and his cock - fully erect - stuck up, stabbing the air with its hardness. Silently I entered the room. I was very familiar with the hood he was wearing - I had an identical one myself - and I knew that not only did it blindfold the victim completely, but it also cut out a great deal of sound too. I knew that he had not heard the doorbell, my knock, or my call, and in fact that he had no idea that I was here. With a start that was made partly of guilt and partly of excitement, I realised that I could do anything I wanted to this guy and that he would never know who it was that had done it to him.

By the side of the restraint bench was a small table on which were an assortment of interesting things: a couple of feathers, some lube, a vibrator, rope, handcuffs, and other items. I checked through the gap in the curtains for the woman - there was no sign of her - then took one of the feathers and began to tickle the head of his cock. At the first touch he jumped as if he'd been electrocuted, then began to squirm and groan into the hood. I took the second feather and applied it to his balls, tickling them lightly. Tickling and cum-control have always been something of a speciality with me, and I'm very good at both, if I say so myself. But usually my victims are gay, and it's all fully consensual; there was something about this situation - a helpless straight biker at my mercy who's unfamiliar with my techniques, and has no idea who is working on him - that was supremely horny. Ben would obviously assume it was Sally who was tickling his cock - but I was about to make it quite plain to him that it was not.

His hands were tied to the top corners of the bench. I moved closer to his right hand, and touched my tight-jeaned thigh to his fingers. He stopped moving about, then began to explore the denim with his hand. His fingers travelled across, and then up my thigh - and onto the bulge of my own rock-hard erection. The moment he realised what it was he began to struggle in his restraints, but he was gong nowhere. I resumed my place by his hips and continued working on his cockhead and balls with the feathers.

I don't know if it was because he realised that he was being worked on by a guy, or if it was that despite the fact he was being worked on by a guy he was still helpless to do anything about it - but from that moment on his cock got harder and precum began to appear. I bent down and slowly licked the precum off the head with my tongue, teasing his cock and stroking it and his balls gently with my fingertips. His hips began to thrust up and down against the bedsprings and his moaning got louder and more urgent.

Cum-control is something I've been into for a long time, and ages ago I developed a talent for knowing how close to cumming a guy is at any moment. I brought Ben to the edge of orgasm over and over again, always stopping just before he could cum. And I was getting off on this too - I ran my hands over his leather-clad legs and thighs, licked his jeans and his jacket, tickled his balls, slipped my hand inside his leather jacket and played with his nipples. He was so beautiful that it was all I could do not to cum myself as I worked on him. Then I found out he was ticklish. I love tickling guys, and I'd pressed my fingers experimentally into his sides just to see what, if any, the reaction would be. He went ballistic. His whole body arched off the bench, and he fought against the restraints with all his strength, shaking his head violently from side to side.

A good indication of whether someone likes something is the state of his cock, and I watched Ben's closely. I'd expected it to start to go soft - at which point I would have stopped tickling him and gone back to the other things - but it seemed to get even harder. With my cock practically bursting out of my tight jeans I climbed onto the bed and sat astride his hips, then went to town on him. I slipped my hands up under the waist of his leather jacket, worked them slowly right up to his armpits and tickled them sadistically. Then I brought them back down again, tickling his sides all the way down as they went. I worked on his sides with stiff fingers, reached back and squeezed the muscles just above his knees, then moved back so that I was kneeling between his legs and could work on his inner thighs, groin, and abdomen. The bench rattled with his struggling and attempts to escape - and it was while I was tickling his inner thighs and his balls, that he came. Without my even touching his cock, great gobs of spunk flew into the air and landed on the black leather of his jeans, running down in hot, sticky streams between his legs.

I couldn't contain myself any longer: I got my cock out and with a few fast strokes shot my own load of spunk over him. Oh fuck, that felt so good.

The reality of the situation came back to me smartly as the throes of orgasm died. I replaced the feathers on the table, put my cock away and got out of the house sharpish. I was lucky - there was still no sign of the woman.

That night I had a wonderful wank, lying on my bed, my eyes tightly closed, replaying the events of that afternoon on the screen of my imagination.

The next day was Sunday. I usually stay in on Sundays and work on my website, and sometimes one of the lads will come round for an hour or two of chat, beer, bondage and slow milking. I was deep into the computer when the doorbell rang. I saved my work, jumped up and opened the door, expecting Dave, Stuart, Bob or Andy to be standing there. It wasn't any of those. Three bikers in full leathers and dark-visored crash helmets forced the door open, pushed me back inside as they came in, and locked the door behind them. In about twenty seconds - and without a word - they got me gagged, hooded, my wrists cuffed behind my back, and my legs roped tightly together. Then I was lifted up and carried bodily next door.

By the time they removed the hood, I'd been strapped down to the bench, and could only look up helplessly at the helmeted figures standing over me. They gazed at me for a few moments, and then the door opened again and they moved back respectfully. It was Sally. But Sally didn't look like she had done the last time I'd seen her - she was wearing a black leather basque, fishnet tights, and heels that could put your eye out at ten paces. She was holding the end of a leash, on the other end of which was a collar. The collar was around Ben's neck. He was naked, hooded, and on all fours.

Sally led Ben to the side of the bed. "Stand," she ordered. He obeyed instantly. With a flick of her head she instructed one of the other bikers to remove Ben's hood. It was a complicated thing, with straps and buckles, a zip, and press-studs, and took a while to get off, but eventually the long-haired biker stood looking down at me. Good grief, he was so beautiful. He had a gorgeous body, and his cock, although soft at the moment, was perfect.

Sally turned her attention to me. She was holding an evil-looking riding crop, whose tip she traced lightly down my chest. "So - Don, isn't it? - Did you enjoy torturing my slave yesterday?"

I thought furiously. He had been hooded, and she hadn't been here, so neither of them could possibly know it had been me who'd played with Ben. I frowned, and tried for a look of total outrage. "What the hell are you talking about, woman? What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

I can be a good actor when I try, and I'd expected that performance to dent her confidence - but she just smiled, and shook her head. She walked slowly to the wall at the side of the window, raised her riding crop and tapped the large, unconcealed CCTV camera fixed to the wall there on a steel bracket. "You don't think I would go for coffee with my partner in the next street and leave a slave hooded and tied up in my new dungeon and with strict orders not to cum without being able to keep an eye on him, do you? There's sound recording as well if you want to hear it."

I closed my eyes and groaned. How could I have missed that fucking camera?

Sally walked back to the bed and looked down at me pityingly. "It had been three weeks since Ben had last cum, and it was going to be another two. But thanks to you that's ruined. Oh well, what's done is done." She pursed her lips and sighed. "Well, come on boys. Have fun with him, Ben." With that she turned and left the room, followed by the bikers.

Alone with me now, a slow smile began to spread across Ben's face. "I may not be the most experienced person in these things," he said, "but it seems to me that when somebody enjoys doing something evil to another guy, it's often the case that the thing he enjoys doing is something that he can't stand himself. You wouldn't be ticklish yourself, by any chance, would you?"

Until that moment, I had merely been worried. But now, I was suddenly terrified. I can not bear even to think of being tickle tortured myself. I get goosebumps, start to hyperventilate, and panic at just the idea. I am not ticklish - 'ticklish' implies a degree of susceptibility. Mine is absolute. Lying there strapped to the bed, I couldn't beg, I couldn't plead, I couldn't do anything - my terror was such that I was incapable of moving or uttering a word.

I don't know if Ben could read the intense fear on my face, but his smile broadened considerably. "I do hope you didn't have any plans for the rest of the day, Don - cos this is going to take a considerable length of time, and you are going to suffer for every second of it."

He climbed onto the bed and sat astride my hips as I had done to him - then, slowly, his fingers reached for my helpless, sensitive body.


* * *


It's late. It's dark outside and my Master will be back any moment. I hope this written account meets with His approval. If it doesn't, I will be punished as only he can punish me, and the thought of that makes me want to curl up and hide, screaming, in a dark corner a million miles away from Him. Have you any idea what it's like to be controlled totally and absolutely in thought, word and deed by someone - for the simple reason that of all the people in this world He knows better that any exactly what your weaknesses are, and has the terrifying skill to use them against you with the most devastating effectiveness imaginable? Ben and I are roughly the same height, similar build, and in a fight I may well be able to get the better of him - but it is as if he holds a remote control to my nervous system. All he has to do is to press a button and I am incapable of stopping myself from responding. There are two buttons on that remote control: one is labelled "Reward", the other "Punishment".

Reward is his beautiful, athletic leather-clad body, to lick, kiss, make love to, get off on in so many beautiful ways. And his cock. Oh God, his cock. To suck, to be fucked by, to play with, to worship - either through those sexy black leather jeans or naked. His body is a drug to me and I am totally hooked. I cannot live without it. I am rewarded sometimes, if I have been good, if I have done something that he approves of, or just if he's feeling like it.

I love him.

Punishment is something else. Punishment by him takes me to a world that is somewhere else - a world in which He uses restraints, ropes, cuffs, hoods, gags, blindfolds, to make me helpless and to hold my writhing, screaming body in the most vulnerable positions possible; a world where I am alone with a torturer who has gone to great lengths to explore and get to know my nervous system and its weaknesses in such meticulous detail that he can make me faint or piss myself with a single fingertip pressed in just the right place, at just the right time; a world in which he takes my ticklishness to greater heights than even I could have ever imagined and then, when it's at its utmost peak, tortures me to insanity - mercilessly and sadistically.

I hate him.

I am a slave to this man. I have never been a slave before. My life is no longer my own. It's a strange arrangement: I am Ben's slave, he is Sally's slave. I have no idea what she does to him or how she controls him, what hold she has over him, if any, and I am not allowed to know. Is he her slave voluntarily? It is certainly not voluntary with me - I have no choice; he controls me totally. I get hard instantly just thinking about him - that long black hair, that beautiful face, that muscular body, those stunning blue eyes, those lips, that smile, those thighs encased in skintight black leather jeans, that cock... that cock... But more than anything I get hard because I know what he is capable of doing to me. He has only to look at me, run a single fingertip over the shiny black leather outline of his cock, and I am at his feet. It is not a conscious movement, it just happens.

Reward and Punishment. The reward is so great, and the punishment so horrifyingly unbearable, that I have become conditioned as irrevocably as a lab rat. And He knows this. He knows this so well.

I hear his bike outside. He is here. My cock is hard. I pray that when he reads this he will reward me.


* * *


"Fourth paragraph, fourth word - there are two 'p's in 'opportunity'."

It is 8:32pm. Master is in the dungeon preparing the equipment. I think i am going to be sick. Normally He would let a typo like that pass, but i think He is either in a bad mood or just feels like torturing me. I can't take it. My legs are jelly. I will never be able to stand. He will have to drag me to the dungeon. Oh God please make him change his mind. Please please please please please. My mouth is dry. I can't swallow. Torture. Torture.

I look down, and my cock is as hard as steel.