Craig was going insane. For two days he had been locked up in this prison cell. Oh, it was a very comfortable suite: thickly carpeted, with a soft bed, television and radio, well-stocked kitchen area, books to read, in fact it was extremely luxurious - but it was a prison cell nonetheless. He wasn't bored, and it wasn't the fact that he was locked in here which was driving him out of his mind - it was that he was so fucking horny - and there wasn't a single thing he could do about it.
When he'd regained consciousness after passing out from that searingly intense orgasm he'd had while he'd been strapped to the wall, he'd found himself lying on the bed here in this suite. The first thing he'd noticed when he'd opened his eyes was his reflection in the mirrored ceiling. Staring back at him was a good-looking punk boy with a short blond mohican. All he was wearing was a couple of leather wrist bands - locked on - and a very strange-looking pair of shorts. Each of the leather bands had a slight lump on one side, but apart from that they were featurless. The shorts, however, were very odd - they appeared to be made from thick rubber, and they were padlocked onto him at the waist and at each leg. They fitted very tightly, molding to the contours of his hips - but the most extraordinary thing about them was the crotch: the part covering his cock and balls was solid and rigid - and it was enormous. It protruded perhaps eight inches from his body in a rounded pyramid between his legs. Lying there on the rubber-covered bed, Craig looked down at himself and shook his head in disbelief. "What?" He said.
He lowered his right arm to feel the front of the shorts - and yelled in sudden pain as a very unpleasant electric shock shot through his balls. Quickly he withdrew his hand, and the shock stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Very cautiously, he tried the other hand, slowly approaching his crotch - and the same thing happened. Obviously there was some kind of magnetic device on the wristbands which triggered the electricity. The shock was intense, and there was no way he could keep his hand closer than a few inches from his cock. He closed his eyes and sighed. What were these sick bastards up to now?
Craig was still exhausted from his ordeal on the wall, and not in the least bit horny, but he realised that he wouldn't stay that way for long, and the shorts - ridiculous as they looked - did feel very sexy. He was thirsty, and decided to look around for a drink, so he rolled off the bed....
... and got the shock of his life. Suddenly it felt as if there were ants loose inside the shorts. Something was tickling his cock and his balls - tiny fingers were stroking him lightly all over. He froze and, after a few seconds, the tickling stopped. Still in the same position, on all fours on the floor at the side of the bed, he moved experimentally - and the tickling started again. Drained as he was, he felt his cock begin to respond and harden inside the front of the shorts, and as it did so he could feel it pushing through ... things.... as it lengthened. It was like tiny, thin, flexible rubber spikes. They caressed and stroked his cock on all sides, and got into every crevice of his anatomy underneath the black rubber. It felt delicious.
Slowly, he stood up and explored the suite. The bedroom gave onto a short corridor. To the right was a small but well-equipped kitchen, where he helped himself to fresh orange juice from the fridge; and then he padded back past the bedroom into a lounge. He stood and looked around. Every wall and ceiling in the suite - including the corridor, the kitchen, and this lounge - was completely mirrored. Wherever he looked he saw reflections of himself. And he looked hot. Those shorts fit him as if they'd been sprayed on, and he looked dead hunky with his tight muscular body, six-pack, clear blue eyes and blond mohican. He gazed at himself for a while, and for the first time it struck him that he was, in fact, a very good-looking boy indeed. It had never occurred to him before to consider himself sexy, but now he grinned at what he saw in the mirrors.
The door was - predictably - locked, and he thumped on it ineffectually for a few minutes, swearing at the perverts who had got him here, before giving up and turning back to the room. It seemed he was not going anywhere for a while.
There was a television set in the corner, so he punched the remote and dropped onto the soft settee. His cock was now fully hard, and the little rubber spikes (or whatever they were) seemed to have organised themselves to tickle and tease the most sensitive parts of his cock - there were several rubbing wonderfully against the underside of his glans, more touching the very tip of his cock, and others stroking gently along the shaft. There was one particular one which had caught the very edge of his foreskin and was sending jolts of horny pleasure through his brain. He found himself making small thrusting movements of his hips to keep them moving.
The TV came to life - and Craig stared. There on the screen was a huge, muscular skinhead, built like a brick shithouse and as ugly as sin, and with a badly-executed and obviously home-tattooed barcode across his forehead. He was strapped to a strange wooden chair. Its seat appeared to be the back two-thirds of a wooden toilet seat, and each of the skinhead's legs - spread very wide apart - were strapped in five places to the legs of the chair. The chair back reclined at an angle, and the boy's arms were secured with thick leather straps to the back legs of the chair, which ran down from the top of the backrest. It was a very odd design - but Craig saw that it held the big lad immobile, and in an extremely vulnerable position. His arse, balls and prodigious cock (which was strainingly erect) were all devastatingly accessible to anyone who wanted to play with them. A leather thong had been wound several times very tightly around the base of his cock and behind his balls, pushing them forward even further and making the veins stand out on the throbbing shaft. The circumcised cockhead was bulbous and purple, and threads of thick precum hung from it like syrup.
The skinhead was gagged, but from the murderous look on his face, the spit running down from the leather gag, and the way his muscles were straining with the effort to escape, Craig could see that he was not a happy boy.
The camera pulled back then, and a second person came into view. Dressed in a white uniform similar to a dentist's, this man was middle-aged, balding, and could have been the original nine-stone weaking. The skinhead could have picked him up with one enormous arm and flung him out of the window without any effort at all. The man pulled up a chair and sat down between the huge, muscular boy's widely-spread legs. He made little effeminate noises as he gathered together items into a tray which he set down on a small table beside him. The look in the skinhead's eyes was pure, unadulterated hatred.
The thin man pulled on a pair of black rubber gloves and then, carefully selecting two long feathers, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. With intense concentration, he touched the first feather to a precisely-targeted spot just behind the flange of the cockhead and stroked it gently round and round, and then applied the second to the back of the bull balls, tickling there at the same time.
The skinhead went ballistic. Even though the chair legs were splayed to give extra stability to the device, the whole thing shuddered and rocked as he thrashed and struggled in his restraints. Every one of his huge muscles bulged and strained in his effort to escape what the thin man was doing to him, and he threw his head back, yelling and swearing into the gag.
It was clear that this was not the first time the thin man had worked on the skinhead - he knew with horrifying accuracy the lad's most vulnerable spots - and Craig wondered how long the boy had been strapped there, enduring what was obviously for him, unbearable torture. On and on it went, the thin man teasing and tickling those two spots mercilessly and continuously. Occasionally he would lean forward, grip the base of the huge cock with one rubber-gloved hand and, gently pulling it towards him, lightly lick the precum from the engorged cockhead with a thin, mobile tongue. Whenever he did this, the skinhead would whimper and make pleading noises behind the gag.
Craig suddenly realised he was as horny as fuck again. He found the sight of that powerful skinhead, helpless and being driven out of his mind with nothing more than a couple of feathers, by that thin wimp of a man intensely horny. That was the first time Craig wanted to cum. While watching the screen, his hand automatically went to his cock - and the shock brought him back to reality with a start.
That had been two days ago. Since then, apart from going to the bathroom (he'd found a bell-push with which he could call the perverts who would restrain his hands behind his back, hood him, and take him there) he'd worn the shorts non-stop - and he'd been constantly hard and horny since then. Everywhere he looked were images of boys being teased, tickled, and brought off, shooting their spunk in pearly arcs onto their stomachs - all the magazines and books in the suite had pictures and stories of it; the 'radio' played non-stop soundtracks of boys being tortured and milked and, even when he could stand it no more and switched the radio and the TV off, there were his constant reflections in the mirrors. And if he left the TV off for too long it came on by itself, showing more scenes of bikers, punks and skinheads being strapped down, raped, tormented, tickled, sucked off, and having volcanic orgasms.
It was the evening of the second day, and Craig didn't know where to put himself. The fiendish spikes inside his shorts, which he'd loved to start with, were now pure torture. The rigid, rubber-covered metal front was full of precum, and he'd tried everything to get himself off. He couldn't rub his cock against anything - the solid front made that impossible; he couldn't get his hands to his cock, or get the shorts off; there wasn't enough friction from the spikes to let him cum no matter how much he thrust himself about - in fact the smaller the movements he made the more effectively they seemed to tease him - but they constantly teased and tickled his cock and balls, keeping him close to orgasm and driving him insane.
He was lying on the floor, one leg in the settee and the other on the coffee table when they came for him. Three silent, masked, leather-clad men (he wondered if one of them was the same man as that first time, whose mask he'd shot his load over) gagged him, hooded him so he couldn't see anything, cuffed his wrists behind his back, and marched him out of the suite and along corridors. They entered a warm room, and Craig felt his shorts being removed. At last! They were going to let him cum! He was placed onto a padded table, strapped securely in place, the hood was removed, and his head was fixed so he couldn't move it.
He found himself lying on an operating table in a room with lots of complicated electronic gear standing around. One of the men wheeled a table towards him, on which was an Apple Macintosh computer with an unusually large monitor. He carefully applied lube to Craig's hard cock and then, slowly and precisely, slid a thick black rubber sheath over the entire organ. A metal device screwed to the table held it - and his cock - in place and immobile, and wires and tubes ran from the end of the sheath to some machinery under the computer. The second man was sticking small electrodes to various places on Craig's body: his nipples, the sides of his head, and his perineum; and the third was attaching larger ones to the soles of the punk's feet, his armpits, the insides of his thighs, and to three places on his scrotum.
There was apparently a hole in the table, as the first man then went underneath, and Craig felt a lubed device being gently inserted into his arse hole. He knew from his experience on the wall what that was, and he moaned into the gag as he felt it press lightly against his prostate. By now Craig had given up swearing at the fucking perverts - it made no difference, and anyway he was gagged. He contented himself with planning their downfall when he got out of their clutches - long, slow, painful revenge was foremost in his mind.
The men had apparently finished preparing him for whatever it was they were going to do to him now. One of them switched on the computer and waited for it to boot up. The screen came to life and showed several different sections, with displays similar to an E.E.G. machine - Craig could make out his heartbeat and breathing in a couple of the windows, but the rest meant nothing to him. The man pulled a large TV monitor down and positioned it above Craig's head - it filled his field of view and, as he couldn't move his head, there was nothing else to look at. The screen was black at the moment.
He heard a couple of the men leave, and the remaining one using the keyboard. Suddenly the TV monitor lit up, and he was looking at the huge skinhead again. He was still strapped to that strange chair, but it was obviously much later than the last time he'd seen him. Sweat covered his body, it looked as if he'd pissed himself at some point, and drool had run down from the leather gag and pooled on his chest. The thin man was nowhere to be seen.
Craig jumped as he felt movement around his cock. A gentle, pulsating sucking had started, and small rubber fingers were rubbing - seemingly at random - along the length and over the end of his cock. Gradually, over a period of a few minutes, Craig became aware that the movements were becoming less random, and were homing into the kind of stimulation which turned him on most. The fucking computer was learning! It must be sensing his responses, his level of horniness, and adjusting its technique accordingly, he realised. OK, so he was in for a monumental orgasm. He could handle that. He grinned and relaxed to enjoy the show.
The computer was indeed learning. It was also being kept advised of how close to orgasm he was at any second. The software had been developed by John and Adrian, two of the masked men, and could be either the ultimate jack-off machine, or the most horrifyingly effective torture device imaginable. It was to this latter mode that it was now set.
Blissfully ignorant of this fact, Craig watched the screen. The thin man had appeared again - naked now, his puny body ridiculous with no clothes on, and his long, thin cock hard and waving in the air. Now, however, he had an assistant. The assistant was not weedy at all - he was a hunk - and wearing the perviest rubber gear that Craig had ever seen: black shiny waders, into which were tucked very loose rubber jeans, a rubber jacket, and a long black rubber cape, open at the front. On his arms he had elbow-length, shiny, thick black rubber gauntlets. As Craig watched, the thin man pressed a switch and the wooden chair to which the skinhead was strapped rose on a motorised platform until the boy's cock and balls were at the level of the thin man's chest. This time, he selected a feather and a small vibrator, and went to work on the skinhead's cock - touching the vibrating rod lightly and intermittently to that spot just beneath the cockhead, while tickling the back of the boy's balls with the feather. At the very first touch, the skinhead screamed into the gag, and he strained with every muscle to escape or to make himself cum. But the thick leather straps held him helpless.
The assistant stood close behind the thin man, and began to caress the puny body with his rubber-gauntleted hands, pressing himself against the man's back and legs, so that he could feel the hunk's rubber all around him. His hands stroked all over the man's body - the thin chest, his sides, the stomach, the insides of the man's thighs, and reached through between his legs to grip his cock.
The skinhead was desperately trying to close his legs, to get away from the unbearable tickling and teasing of his cock and balls, but couldn't do a thing. Every time the vibrating rod touched that sensitive spot his enormous cock heaved and bucked and throbbed in unspeakable ecstasy - but the thin man was an expert and sadistic torturer, and always removed it before the big lad could cum, going back to tickling the huge, freely-hanging balls with the soft, pointed feather.
Craig was mesmerised - this was the horniest thing he'd ever seen. All right - it was fucking queers, and he was straight - but there was something about the image of that enormous, strong, muscular, ugly skinhead helpless and being teased to insanity so effortlessly by such a wimp of a man that made Craig want to cum! And the hunky assistant's rubber was so fucking pervy! Craig was getting close. The rubber fingers working on his cock seemed almost to be in synchronisation with the images he was watching - It was almost as if he were experiencing exactly what the skinhead was feeling. He prepared himself for the orgasm of a lifetime.
But the computer had other ideas. By now it had learned exactly how to stimulate this victim's cock and prostate to produce the absolute strongest responses. Electricity poured into the boy's prostate at a level which varied from second to second, to make him need to cum as urgently as possible; the small rubber fingers inside the sheath rubbed gently and irresistibly over his hypersensitive glans, rotating unpredictably and gently jacking him off with inhuman skill; the whole rubber sheath sucked and slurped his cock shaft like a talented whore, and the large electrodes on his armpits, the insides of his thighs, his balls, and the soles of his feet tingled and tickled wonderfully. However, at the same time sensors monitored Craig's level of arousal, and the machine was set to torture mode. It would not allow him to cum.
Craig's breathing had speeded up - he was close. God, it felt fucking amazing! He was indescribably horny! Another couple of seconds and he'd shoot the biggest load of spunk ever. He hoped it wouldn't fuse the machine.
Closer - closer -
Then everything began to slow down - the rubber fingers, the sucking, the pulses of electricity through his prostate - slower and slower...
"YES! - YES!!!!!!!" Craig was holding his breath - he was a heartbeat away from the orgasm of his life...
The computer continued to slow everything down. The fingers were sliding slower and slower over his cockhead; the sucking strokes were becoming longer and longer; the electricity on his prostate had almost gone...
"Oh God - I'm gonna CUMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!"
Then, suddenly, everything stopped completely. The sucking, rubbing, pulsating - it all stopped. Even the monitor went black.
Craig was suspended on a plateau of ecstasy that made his experiences on the wall pale into insignificance. His eyes were screwed up tight, his mouth open behind the gag in a silent scream, every single muscle in his body rigid......
.... but he couldn't cum.
His eyes still shut tight, Craig drew a deep breath and screamed with frustration. He struggled and tried to thrust his hips, but movement was impossible. Gradually he came down, and started to breathe again.
Then the computer started the cycle again.
Suddenly Craig knew what he was in for. This machine was irresistible - and programmed not to let him cum. It would bring him repeatedly close to orgasm, and then stop, leaving him on the edge and unable to cum every time. A shudder passed through him. He knew he couldn't stand it - but at least it couldn't get any worse.
In that, he was quite wrong. The computer was still learning. That first time it had erred on the side of safety and halted the stimulation well away from the ejaculation point. As it became more and more familiar with this victim's responses, it could get him closer and closer every time - until.......
Craig realised what it was up to on the fourth cycle. Each time seemed to be more intense, and left him hanging ever more impossibly close to orgasm. The cunning little rubber fingers stroked and rubbed, sliding irresistibly over the punk boy's cock head - one had even found the piss-hole and was very gently caressing the edges of it. If it had been moving faster, that one alone would have been sufficient to bring him off. The pads on his balls tingled and tickled and buzzed, sending waves of pleasure up his body. Craig was helpless in the machine's embrace.
By the eighteenth cycle the computer had enough information about him to keep him the absolute minimum distance away from orgasm indefinitely. Had it been programmed to, it could have done this, giving him no respite at all, and keeping him continuously at that point where a single touch anywhere on his genitals would have triggered an unstoppable orgasm - and it could have kept him there forever, or until he suffered heart failure.
However, it continued its cyclic operation - bringing him to that point, holding him there for twenty seconds or so, then backing him off until his heart rate dropped to a reasonable level. But after that, it would begin again. And it would continue this forever - unless someone pressed the space bar on the keyboard to shut it off.
But there was no-one in the room any more. There was only the unstoppable, untiring machine, and its helpless, suffering victim.
He tried to keep his eyes off the monitor screen over his head, but it was impossible not to watch it. The images of the helpless skinhead were turning him on like nothing had ever done before. Now, the hunky assistant was unzipping his rubber jeans, getting his rock-hard cock out, and rolling a black rubber condom over it. He thrust it powerfully into the think man's arsehole and started to fuck him slowly. Then he pulled the cape right around the man, so he was totally enclosed in black rubber, and reached around and played with the man's balls while he fucked him. The feel of the rubber against his skin, and the hunky assistant's gloved hands sliding around his balls was driving the thin man to greater and greater heights of sadism with the skinhead, and he used his tongue on the tip of the lad's cock while tormenting him with the vibrator and tickling his balls with two feathers held in his left hand. The skinhead was in paroxysms of frustration.
Craig prayed for unconsciousness. He prayed for a power-cut. But most of all he prayed for orgasm.
How long this went on he had no idea. It could have been hours, days, or months. Inside the rubber sheath his cock was jerking and throbbing with a compelling, imperative need to cum - and it seemed to go on forever. His whole body was demanding orgasm - NOW!!
Unseen by Craig, the door opened and two masked men entered. They stood and watched for ten minutes, their hard cocks outlined clearly inside their tight leather jeans - and then one of them went to the computer and pressed some keys. The stimulation backed off, paused for thirty seconds or so, and then began again. But now the machine was running a different program.
Under the monitor, Craig watched as the assistant detached himself from the thin man, and knelt between his legs. He took a fistful of lube and reached up, enclosing the man's rock-hard cock with his slippery, smooth, rubber-gloved hand. Then he began to jack him off. The thin man adjusted the vibrator, slowing it down and decreasing its intensity, and then held it against the skinhead's cock - in just the right place beneath the glans. The skinhead began to moan, then struggle, as the vibrator brought him very, very slowly towards orgasm.
Inside the sheath around Craig's cock, the fingers started to rub and stroke again. Not fast, in fact very slowly. The suction matched their movements, the larger pads tickled, and the prostate stimulator came into synch with everything else. Craig began the long, slow, final approach to orgasm.
On the screen, the thin man held the vibrator in place, not tickling the boy's huge balls any more, but letting it do its work slowly and excruciatingly. The skinhead got nearer and nearer to cumming - moaning, shaking his head slowly from side to side and foaming under the gag.
Craig knew that this time they would let him cum. The machine felt different. Eyes staring, he watched the screen, not even blinking.
The assistant was pumping the thin man's cock now - the black rubber sliding up and down the full length of the shaft. Then he suddenly gripped the man's balls with his other hand, and the man closed his legs around the hunk's rubber-clad arm. That made him begin to cum. Small gobs of rust-coloured spunk fell out of the tip of his cock and dribbled to the floor while the thin man's body jerked uncontrollably. But he kept the vibrator on the skinhead's cock.
Craig was near - God, was he near - but it was so fucking slow! He knew he was going to cum this time, and every nerve was tingling with anticipation - but he wanted the machine to speed up, not slow down, as it was doing. He squirmed in his restraints as he neared the edge of orgasm for the hundredth time. He was exhausted from hours of overstimulation, but all of his concentration was centred on what was being done to him. He whimpered as orgasm approached - so close - so close.........
The big skinhead was about to cum - his cock head suddenly enlarged, his balls moved upwards visibly - and the thin man slowed the vibrator down even more. Now it was hardly moving at all against the boy's most sensitive spot - and the skinhead was in an agony of need. He thrashed in his restraints, gurgled and fought with all of his strength, but the vibrator continued to buzz ever more gently, slowly and coaxingly. His approach to orgasm was like a ball rolling up an incline, in slow motion - as it got higher and higher, it got slower and slower...... but it still went up.
Craig was experiencing exactly the same thing. The fingers in the sheath were now hardly moving against his cock. He was at the very apex. He could not get closer to cumming. The machine held him there for what seemed like an eternity - and then......
With an animal roar and a convulsion which threatened to break every one of the leather straps holding him down, the skinhead passed the point of no return. His huge cock took on a life of its own, and the thin man had to hold it against the vibrator as it jerked and jumped about. The piss slit opened, and torrents of thick white spunk pumped out with a velocity that was unbelievable, showering the thin man and his assistant in hot, sticky cum. The lad shuddered and shook in his restraints, and his spunk continued to arc through the air.
Craig came. The fingers had almost stopped completely - and then the one on his piss-slit stroked once, firmly, across the very tip of his cockhead. That was enough to trigger the most violent orgasm he had ever experienced. Immediately the rubber sheath began sucking with renewed vigour, the fingers began to move quickly, and the prostate stimulator buzzed with electricity. Craig's body vibrated and danced on the table as he shot his pent-up load of spunk into the hungry rubber mouth of the machine.
It went on and on and on, and the computer milked him dry.
For the second time in his life, Craig experienced pure, mid-shattering ecstasy - and, his face contorted and with every single muscle as rigid as steel, he plunged into unconsciousness.