© Copyright 2009 - Outcast - Used by permission
Storycodes: M+/m; plaster; cast; wrap; plastic; tape; cocoon; transported; buried; reluct/nc; X
‘I am disappointed in you, Paolo. Very disappointed.’
Paolo looked at his uncle without fear. He has seen grown men, strong men, shiver with fright facing Don Enrico, but not Paolo. He had been stupid of course. He should have made that drugs delivery last night as his uncle had told him to do; a delivery worth millions is not something to take lightly. Instead, he had become distracted by the blonde bimbo, who had clung to him in the club. Like any hot blooded 21-year old Italian stud, he was easily distracted by his loins. His mind wandered over the events of the night before. How she had flirted with him on the dance floor, cupping his balls and leaving him in no doubt she was offering more. He had taken her back to his apartment, tied her to his bed and fucked her raw for so long that he couldn’t remember how often he had cum. In the beginning she had been more than willing, if slightly uneasy because of the bondage. He distinctly remembered how he had penetrated her every orifice with his manhood; a tool so big it could challenge a donkey’s. She had begged him not to when he had turned her over and lined up the big pole with her virgin arsehole, but he had just laughed and taken her roughly, ramming half his length into her with a single mighty push.
‘You don’t seem to respect me, Paolo, and it is not good for a young man to disrespect his uncle.’ Don Enrico’s voice returned him to the present. ‘I have treated you like a son and given you chance after chance, but you don’t return the honour.’
‘I’m sorry uncle, yesterday evening was a mistake. I do respect you more than any man, please believe me. If you give me another opportunity, I ensure you it won’t happen again.’
Paolo had always known his uncle wouldn’t punish him too badly, not the only son of his beloved sister and his probable heir. This time though, the look in the Don’s eyes was steelier than ever before.
‘You’ve had your chance, my boy. I have lost my patience with you.’ Don Enrico turned to the two heavies near the door. ‘Take him downstairs and let me know when you are ready.’
When his uncle came through the door to the cellar, Paolo was standing in the middle of the cold stone floor. The bodyguards had stripped him naked and shackled his wrists to two chains hanging from the ceiling. The boss sat down in a comfortable chair facing the young man and waved for the gorillas to continue. To Paolo’s surprise they started by wrapping his belly in a thick layer of soft cotton wool, continuing their wrapping up his chest and over his shoulders. Soon he looked as if he was wearing a sheepskin vest. As the thugs behind him prepared the next step of his punishment, Paolo defiantly looked into his uncle’s eyes.
‘You will beg me for mercy soon, Paolo, despite your pride. You’ve always been a proud boy, sometimes too proud for your own good.’
The gangsters wrapped a layer of thick wet bandages around the padding just above his groin. Paolo realised that they were applying a plaster cast over his torso, recognising the material from the time someone had broken his wrist. The person responsible had soon found himself with all four limbs in plaster for the best part of a year. In a series of freak accidents he had broken both legs and both arms three times in a row. It is important to set an example when someone offends you.
Now it was the Don who was making Paolo the example, showing his underlings that nobody was exempt from his wrath. As the cast covering his nephew’s chest and shoulders was finished, he stood up to leave the room. ‘Let’s have lunch while the boy dries up.’ The plaster over Paolo’s belly warmed up as a sign that it was setting, containing the young man’s body. His not-so-secret love for bondage only involved tying women down, never subjecting himself to it. Now he was chained and enclosed himself and feeling gloomy about what more may be planned. As he tried to turn his shoulders, it became obvious that the plaster cast had set as hard as stone.
He had to wait for more than an hour in the cold cellar and he was shivering when the three men came back to finish his punishment. ‘Don’t worry, my boy, you’ll soon be warm enough.’
The minders pushed his legs apart and each started wrapping a leg in layer after layer of clear plastic. When he was covered from ankle to hip, his legs were squeezed together and more pellet wrap was used to fix the two plastic covered limbs to each other. His limp, but still impressive, cock was pushed against his thighs and rapidly included in the smooth cylinder that was his lower body. The wrapping continued all the way over the cast, until they had reached his armpits. Immediately, one of the bodyguards produced a roll of silver duct tape and started to cover the plastic around Paolo’s ankles with the thick tape, pulling hard to make it taut.
The youngster watched how each turn of the stiff adhesive overlapped with the previous ones to create an inflexible cocoon that was holding his legs stuck together. As the shell grew over his knees and thighs, pushing his manhood firmly against his legs, he felt how his cock started to swell. He would never have subjected himself to the role of sub in a bondage game voluntarily, but now that it was imposed on him, the erotic feeling of the restrictions placed on his legs made his tool get hard, with nowhere to go. The sight of his entire body, featureless as a silver dart tapering from his wide chest to his narrow ankles was hotter than imaginable. Fortunately, the attempts of his hard meat to break through the many layers of plastic and duct tape were invisible behind the thick covering.
The chains that were holding up Paolo’s arms were unlocked from his wrists and the heavies held them horizontally to the sides. ‘Don’t try anything stupid,’ one of them warned unnecessarily; as if he could try to fight back with his legs tied down so effectively. Within seconds, the plastic was covering each arm from the tips of his fingers to his shoulders. His arms were pushed against his sides and more pellet wrap was applied. Around his hands and his thighs, over his forearms and hips, over his upper arms and chest, over his shoulders all the way to the top of his neck. Paolo realised that his uncle had been right, he was growing very warm inside the many layers of plastic. As expected, the new plastic was followed by another heavy layer of duct tape, and when the youngster looked down, the only visible body parts were his feet sticking out from under the silver cylinder. He had felt hard when they immobilised his legs, but that was nothing compared to the agonising erection that was throbbing inside the cocoon now.
Unceremoniously, Paolo was picked up by the gangsters and laid down on a table. Quickly his feet were wrapped up in plastic and tape, just like the rest of his body. Don Enrico got up and walked over to the table.
‘You better breathe in when they start covering your head.’ The warning came barely in time, as the plastic was already being pulled over his neck and lower jaw. Paolo quickly inhaled as much as the tight cast over his chest allowed him, before a next lap of the kitchen roll was passed over his mouth and nose. The two thugs worked accurately, turning another five or six layers of plastic over his face. While his bodyguards finished up the wrap over their victim’s head and under his jaw, the Don pulled out a fruit knife and sliced through the cover over his nephew’s mouth. As his oxygen starved lungs filled themselves greedily, a second cut created a similar hole under his nose.
‘I don’t want you to die this quickly. Maybe I don’t want you to die at all; that depends on how long it takes before I can forgive your insolence.’
A heavy duty oxygen mask was pushed over his nose and mouth, but Paolo’s fuzzy vision through the many layers of plastic couldn’t distinguish where the thick breathing tubes running off it led to. As far as he remembered there were no gas cylinders in the cellar. At least, the mask didn’t seem to impair his breathing. The inevitable layers of duct tape moved from his neck over his lower face, pushing the mask hard against his face and attaching it immovably. The rigid tape covered his chin, cheeks and nose.
‘Not the eyes, lads. I want to see his eyes and I want him to be able to see what is going to be done to him.’
When the hood of adhesive was finished over his forehead and the top of his head, the small square window of plastic wrap allowed the only view of the young man’s body. Everything else was obscured by the smooth silver cocoon, which was tight enough to show the outline of his athletic frame without revealing any of the details. That was just as well, as the details of his genitals that would have been visible, weren’t something he was eager to show the others. His thumping hard-on, pushed painfully down between his legs was a hidden testament to his excitement at the punishment metered out.
‘Bring out the van, Marco.’
Within minutes Paolo’s rigid body was raised off the table and carried upstairs. He could recognise the features of his uncle’s garage before he was dumped painfully hard into the back of the butcher’s van which belonged to one of his legal businesses. The doors slammed and the van sped away from the house. Paolo’s excitement was slowly dissipating; he still enjoyed the feeling of containment, but he worried about this trip. He had expected to be left in the cellar or maybe displayed as an example in his uncle’s office, but he was going to be taken somewhere, somewhere some distance away.
After what felt like a long time, the van left the motorway and started down a bendy local road. With every sharp corner, the solid cylinder that held the youngster’s prone body rocked violently in the back. The road gave way to a path that became increasingly bumpy and rutted. Occasionally, when the car went through a particularly deep pothole, Paolo would smash his head painfully against the steel floor. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, the van came to a blissful stop.
Paolo couldn’t see anything beyond the ceiling of the van’s hold. The other occupants had left the car soon after it stopped; they had opened the rear doors and taken something out. One of the heavies had suggested he lie still and wait for them, which drew a laugh from his colleague. Since the doors had been closed again, the van had been entirely quiet. The trussed up boy had no idea about the passing of time, was it ten minutes or two hours by now.
Suddenly the rear door of the van opened again and a pair of strong hands grabbed his ankles. He was pulled out of the van and heaved onto the strong shoulders of the two gorillas. Through the plastic he could see the outlines of trees against the blue sky; they were carrying him through a park or forest. He could hear and occasionally feel how they pushed through the undergrowth a good distance away from the van. When he was lowered onto the ground, his uncle came into view, towering silently over his stretched out nephew. One of the heavies seemed to be swallowed by the earth as he jumped down into a hole in the ground. The sudden realisation of what it was his uncle had planned caused a chill in Paolo’s heart. The bodybuilder, who was standing neck deep in the grave, pulled the helpless youngster off the forest floor and dropped him roughly onto the uneven surface of the deep hole. With his stiletto knife he punctured a small gap in the mask and a thin tube was pushed through until it sat between Paolo’s lips. The boy was rolled onto his side and with a few rapid slices, the bodyguard created a gap in the tape and plastic covering between his buttocks. Within seconds he was rolled back onto his rear and the strong man climbed out of the grave.
‘I am disappointed in you, Paolo. Very disappointed’, his uncle repeated. The first time Don Enrico had said those words, Paolo hadn’t been too worried. Now for the first time he realised that even as his nephew he wasn’t safe from the boss’ cruelty and the young man feared for his life. He wanted to plead and cry, but the thick, tight tape that cocooned his body didn’t allow him to open his mouth enough to make himself heard.
‘You seem to have realised that you are to be buried alive. The breathing tubes will run from the mask to the surface, one to breathe in through, the other to exhale; they will provide you with unlimited fresh air. Next to you there is a two gallon tank of water with some sugar and salt; you can drink from it through the straw in your mouth. The water and air will keep you alive for a long, long time; maybe long enough for me to forget my anger, if you drink sparingly. Once I think you have learned not to disrespect your betters, we will return to dig you up. That can be in a few days time, it can be in a week, or two, or even three months; maybe you will still be alive when we get here, maybe you won’t. We are in a forest, well off the beaten track. Even the small, virtually unused path that we followed to get here is 50 yards away. Nobody will find you by accident. Hopefully we can find it back ourselves in due course.’
‘Fill it up.’
Paolo struggled with his bindings as the first shovelful landed on his legs, but the thick layers of plastic and tape were far too strong for him to get anywhere. Both gorillas were now shovelling rapidly and the weight of the dirt that was building over his legs increased quickly. Despite the insanity inducing fear, the young Italian was growing hard again when the sand hit his cock for the first time. The idea that he would be buried deep inside a deserted forest under five feet of sand was causing both blind panic and complete elation. The fact that it may well be for the remainder of his short life was making those feelings only more powerful. Through the plastic over his eyes, he could just make out the high mountain of turf that was now covering his legs. Don Enrico was looking down on him, unmoved by his pleading eyes. The workers had obviously been instructed to keep his face free for as long as possible. They kept piling more sand onto Paolo’s legs from where it would cascade down over his chest and later his neck in small landslides. At his feet, where the mount had almost reached the rim of the grave, the weight felt like it was crushing him.
Suddenly, the dirt shifted again and ran over his plastic covered face. Paolo wanted to scream in fear as the daylight disappeared under a layer of sand. The next shovelful of earth landed on his face, immediately followed by the next. The youngster was holding his breath as the reality of his situation hit him properly. The continued thumps, as more heavy soil was thrown on top of him, were telling him how far he was removed from freedom. The sounds died away when he was buried deeper and deeper, and Paolo couldn’t distinguish when they finished with him and left. He was going to be alone and helpless in his grave for a long time.
The pressure of the sand on his legs, arms and face was immense. Only his chest and belly were protected by the plaster cast, which was just as well, as he wouldn’t have been able to breathe if he had had a tonne of soil pushing down onto his chest. The heavy ground all around him was holding him more immobile than ever. He had been able to struggle against the plastic and tape before, wriggling and slightly bending at the hips and knees. Now he was pushed hard onto his back, only able to think and breathe. The feeling of utter vulnerability was overwhelmingly exciting. He desperately wanted to cum, but the uncomfortable position of his thick hard manhood pushed down against his thighs and the fact that he was completely immobile prevented any relief. For a short while he tried to buck his hips in an attempt to rub his engorged member against the plastic, but the containment was too strong to get any useful movement. When he gave up any hope of an orgasm, he was half an hour into his punishment; things would only go downhill from here.
Silently Paolo cried and begged his uncle to come and rescue him. He was cold to his bones, his body heat slowly sapped from his body by the cool ground that enveloped him. The crushing weight of tonnes of soil that were pushing down onto his soon-to-be corpse felt increasingly like a vice tightening ever so slowly. The weight couldn’t be increasing, but it seemed to nonetheless. How long had he been here? There was no way he could know, but it must be more than two weeks, probably three and maybe even a month since the landslide had pushed over his face. His water had run out a while ago and he his mouth felt parched. The maddening mix of fright and elation had lasted only a short while, only to be followed by an overwhelming terror. He had panicked, knowing he would die aged 21 in a lonely grave far away from everyone he loved.
The panic has passed too of course, followed by physical and mental numbness and occasional agonising pain in his compressed limbs. Sometimes he had thought he heard voices, or he felt the pressure on his body lift and he screamed for joy, knowing he was about to be saved. The resulting devastation when he realised he had imagined the sound or the shifting weight, would push him through a new cycle of excitement at his continued bondage, followed by panic and despair. Finally after what felt like a month underground he had accepted the inevitability of death; he wasn’t resigned, he wanted to scream and fight and beg, but he knew that it was going to come soon.
Five foot above, Marco held his ear next to the breathing tube sticking out from the hard ground, the only visible sign of Paolo’s burial.
‘He’s still breathing, Boss.’
Don Enrico had a decision to make. It was only 9 days since he had buried his nephew alive, intending to leave him for two whole weeks. He didn’t want to kill the boy, though; he didn’t want the hassle with his sister. Besides, he liked him, the youngster reminded his old uncle of how he had been himself: young, proud and ill-disciplined. That hadn’t hurt the young Enrico when he had deposed his grandfather from the top job, but he couldn’t allow Paolo to rise against him.
Still, 9 days of underground hell should be enough to tame anyone.
‘Dig him up!’