Torturing Pirates for Treasure

by M. Dupre (lagniappe@fastmail.fm)

*

I refused to tell him.

“Where’s the treasure? You’ll be sorry if you don’t tell me!”

There was no way I was going to tell him, even if he tortured me, which,
of course, it was a dead certainty that he would. There was absolutely
no way that he wouldn’t and I had known that, I think, from the
beginning.

You really don’t have a lot of options when you are spread-eagled on a
double bed, wrists and ankles tightly tied to the corner posts, clad
only in a pair of old, paint-stained gym shorts. Not a lot at all.

Part of torture is anticipation. While you lie there, stretched and
helpless, perhaps subtly testing the knots of the bonds that hold you,
you are wondering what he is going to do to you. If there is pain, will
you be able to hold out against it, or will you fold and tell him
everything he wants to know? And when he looks down at you and smiles,
relishing your helplessness and his absolute power over you, you feel a
little tingle vibrate within you. And you lie there, and wait.

There can also be a little dance between captor and captive. You are
helpless, his property in a way, yet he doesn’t quite own all of you.
Yet. You have something he wants and does not yet have. The information!
You still have a measure of control as long as you have it and he
doesn’t. And often, depending on his tastes, the captor will start the
dance with verbiage.

“Tell me where the treasure is!”

“No. I’m not going to.”

“Then I’ll have to make you tell.”

“I don’t think you can do that.”

“Oh? We’ll see! I know lots of good tortures!”

“Well, torture me then. I still won’t talk.”

“This is gonna be so much fun! Sure you won’t talk?”

“Sure.”

“Then I guess I better get to work!”

Such byplay argues for a sense of imagination, at the very least. Also a
measure of subtlety. Maybe even a sense of fun, for him at any rate!

Being captured by the King’s men and tortured to reveal the whereabouts
of your hard won golden treasure is just one of the many occupational
hazards of the pirate captain. And when the King’s man is your
twelve-year-old neighbor^×well, it’s all in a day’s work.

Twelve-year-old boys are fascinated by dungeons, torture chambers, and
the idea of torture itself. Having an older guy tied up and at his mercy
will nearly always bring this out in a boy. It was pretty clear to me
that I was going to be tortured by my young friend and that there was
nothing I could do about it. Asking him for mercy would just probably
fan the flames, so I resigned myself to what was going to happen. I just
didn’t know exactly what that was. And I will admit that the
anticipation was pretty exciting.

Boys all know the “universal torture”: tickling. His face almost
radiated joy as he worked on my armpits, chest, belly, ribs, and thighs.
I am very ticklish and this torment was about to drive me up the wall. I
begged and pleaded and squirmed but that only made him more
enthusiastic. The concept of mercy or moderation is pretty much unknown
to a boy of that age when he has a real, honest-to-goodness prisoner in
his clutches. He only stopped for a break when he realized that I was
unable to catch my breath and was getting genuinely desperate.

“You gonna talk?” he asked.

“N-n-n-n-o-o-o!” I finally managed to blurt out as I struggled to get
some air back in my lungs. I looked up into a smiling face.

“Good!” he said. “I wanna be able to torture you some more!”

That’s when I tried to use reasonable, adult logic. I told him we had
had a lot of fun and that maybe we should call it quits. No, he said, he
was having too much fun and wanted the game to go on. I tried some other
arguments and they failed, too. Finally, I promised to take him to
McDonalds later if he untied me. I guess it’s a pretty good measure of
his determination that this gambit also failed. I realized that my
plight was hopeless and that he would release me when he was ready and
not before.

It was a hot, humid day and the room was very warm. I had begun to sweat
from the exertion and tension of trying to avoid his tormenting fingers.
He was wearing his usual summer-time uniform of shorts and tee shirt. He
was also barefoot, as was normal for him. After he refused my last ditch
blandishment of Big Macs, he peeled off his damp tee shirt and tossed it
onto the floor. I could see a thin sheen of glossy sweat on his strong
young chest and taut belly.

“Like in the movies,” he said, expanding his chest and doing a little
flex pose.

“Huh?”

“You know, when they take the guy to the dungeon everybody’s all sweaty.
Like us,” he explained.

He left the room then and when he came back he was grinning like a
cheshire cat. He was carrying the little bag in which I stored my
clothespins in the laundry room. I had underestimated him and was now
about to pay for that. Very slowly and carefully he applied a line of
wooden, spring clothespins into the loose skin in from of my armpits and
then down my sides. About six or seven on each side. They stung a little
as they went on, but as I say he was careful that they didn’t bite too
much meat and he released the springs very slowly as well, watching my
face for signs of extreme discomfort all the while. If I grimaced he
would rearrange the pin until I no longer made a face when he released
the spring. After the dozen or so pins were set he sat down on the bed
next to me.

“Good torture, huh?” he asked. “You ready to talk?”

“No!” I answered. The pins were starting to sting more and more with
each passing moment.

“Gets better, doesn’t it?” he asked. His grin told me he knew exactly
what was happening to me now.

The pins were sending a crescendo of stinging pain along my nerves. It
was a dull, insistent ache that seemed to come from deep within my skin.
I realized that I was making a little moaning sound.

“Talk!” he said, leaning over me so that I could feel his breath on my
face. “Tell me where the treasure is!”

I was stubborn. I didn’t want to lose face by giving up and letting this
mere child beat me. I refused. I realize now that I should have given up
at this point, in the spirit of the game. I could have said something
like “I’ll talk! Please don’t torture me any more! The treasure is on
Skull Island behind the big palm tree!” That’s what I should have done,
let him have his victory and be done with it. But I had to be stubborn
and macho. I guess I don’t have to say that there was no treasure, not
even a pretend one. Just telling him where the imaginary treasure was on
the imaginary pirate island would be enough for him to have won the
game. What the heck was I doing competing with a twelve-year-old kid
anyway?

“No! I’ll never tell you anything!”

He leaned even close over me and this time I felt little drops of spits
as he spoke. “Thanks!” he said, almost in a whisper.

“Where…where’d you learn to do this?” I asked him. The pain from the
pins was steady and strong.

“I read about it,” he said simply, without elaboration. I let it drop,
but wondered about it. Did he learn this from his well-thumbed copy of
“A Boy’s First Book of Torture”? Or maybe he took a correspondence
course in “Torturing Information from Captured Pirates.”

“You ready for the next part?” he asked. I didn’t say anything and he
began to remove the pins one at a time. At first there was a sense of
relief and then the pain blossomed and went red and even deeper still. I
cried out with the sudden sharpness of it, I couldn’t help it.

“Ahhh!”

“Good, huh?” he laughed. “Gonna talk now?” I just shook my head and bit
into the pain.

After several minutes the pain subsided. He watched my face the whole
time.

“You’re pretty tough,” he said. “I like that!” I wasn’t sure I like the
sound of that, despite the implied compliment.

Next on the menu was a replay of the tickling session. He started by
climbing up on the bed and straddling my chest. His fingers alternated
between digging stabs and light flutters along my neck and shoulders and
armpits. His sweaty thighs slipped and slid along my equally damp chest
as he pinched and tickled along my upper ribs. I bucked and laughed
uncontrollably and he rode me like a rodeo cowboy, giggling and laughing
all the while.

When I was younger tickling had affected me in this way and it seemed to
be happening again, probably helped along by the feel of his warm,
moist, compact body on top of me. I felt a moment of near panic and
hoped that he wouldn’t notice. I tried to think of something else,
adding or multiplying numbers, doing my taxes, going to the dentist; but
it didn’t work and there was the moment he pushed himself down lower on
my upper body to get at new tickling spots and I saw the sudden spear of
recognition flash across his grinning face. He swung himself off of me
and squatted on the bed, his knees pressing against my side.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing at the unruly tent of my erection with
his finger so close to my shorts that it was almost touching. The
wattage of his grin left no doubt that he knew exactly what “this” was.
I was humiliated and also suddenly and frighteningly aware of the danger
I had let myself into.

“Uh… Tommy, I think we better stop now. C’mon, pall, untie me, OK?” I
was close to begging but tried to maintain a little dignity.

“No way!” the imp replied. “You’re my prisoner and that’s how you’re
gonna stay!” He was obviously delighted by the turn the game had taken.

I tried another tack. “Tommy, I am ordering you to release me. This
minute! You understand? I’m not joking, Tommy!” I put as much
responsible adult sternness into my voice as I could manage.

His answer was to reach out and grab it through my shorts. He held it
firmly in one hand, just below the head, and squeezed.

“Unnnnnh!” I couldn’t help it!

“Wow, it’s really big! And hard, too!” he said, as he alternately
squeezed and moved his hand ever so slightly up and down along the
cloth-covered shaft.

“Tommy! I mean it!” I stuttered. Oh, good, I thought, as he took his
hand off of me. But my relief was brief. He knee-walked up the bed and
got between my wide spread legs. I felt his hands go to the sides of my
shorts and raised my head just in time to see him pull down with a
mighty tug on each side of my shorts. I dug my butt into the bed trying
to prevent it, but my shorts descended to just below my crotch where
they couldn’t go any lower due to the angle of my legs. Everything was
now on view!

“Tommy…!”

“Wow, it’s huge!” he said. “And your balls are big, too!” This time the
feel of his hand on my bare skin was hot and electric. I felt his other
hand gently squeeze and fondle my testicles. Simultaneously my brain
registered how wrong this was and how impossibly good his hands felt!

“Tommy…!”

He began to stroke me very tentatively, his hand not slipping over my
skin but rather moving the skin over the hard shaft beneath.

“Tommy…!”

He was off the bed in a flash and into my bathroom. I could hear him
rummaging in the cabinets. I pulled frantically at the nylon rope that
held my wrists to the headboard but there was still no play and the
knots were excellent. The same for my ankles. No give at all. And then
Tommy was back with a bottle of my ex-wife’s expensive body lotion.

Hand jobs are much underrated. Even when I was married I had thought
that a really good hand job was a work of art. I also knew that in some
cultures a hand job was a highly valued experience and not just a
stop-gap, mechanical sexual release as westerners often tended to think
of it. I’m sure the reader is thinking ‘Yes, but that would be a highly
skilled and knowledgeable adult doing the job!’ Before that afternoon I
would no doubt have agreed.

The lotion smelled of vanilla and, I think, cinnamin. The smooth
slickness of it was beyond wonderful. And the hands felt good enough to
start to slay my humiliation, guilt, and fear. It had been so long, so
very long since I had felt any such thing.

“Where’s the treasure, pirate!” my demon torturer demanded.

“Unnnhhhh!” I replied.

“Tell me!” he ordered, not missing a stroke. “I told you I was a
torture-master!” he giggled. (He hadn’t told me any such thing, but I
let it go.) “Talk, or I’m gonna make you spurt!”

That was a sure thing. He was definitely going to make me spurt. And as
the inevitable moment arrived I found myself ridiculously shouting
“Skull Island! Skull Island! SKULL ISLAND! Arrrggghhh!”

In the soggy, gathering tristesse I quietly asked my tormentor to untie
me. This time he complied. He wiped his hands on my still-quivering
thighs and went from corner to corner releasing me. He brought a towel
from the bath room to help me clean myself up. My legs and arms ached
from the strain, as well as the muscle-wrenching tension of an amazing
and lengthy orgasm. He helped to sit up and I rubbed my wrists as I
tried to think of something to say.

“Tommy, I…”

“That was so-o-o-o cool!” he said.

“But, listen to me…”

“It was awesome!” he ignored me. He brushed past me as he walked on his
hands and knees to the center of the bed and flopped over on his back.
He spread his arms and legs in an exaggerated X.

“My turn!” he said. “Let’s pretend I’m this spy and you’ve captured
me…”

THE END.

–

M. Dupre
lagniappe@fastmail.fm

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