This story is "semitrue" because it is based on a rather amazing little interchange I once had with a member of our high school swimming team regarding his armpits. The events I describe actually occurred ... up to a certain point. Everything after that is the product of the adolescent masturbatory fantasies I had every night for the next three months. It's up to you to figure out where reality ends and fantasy begins.
Chris was an unusual fellow. We shared a Spanish class in my sophomore year of high school. For some reason Chris was not well-liked. He tended to be high-strung, slightly neurotic, and apt to fly off the handle at a moment's notice. Even his teammates on the swim team didn't like him all that much, although Chris seemed oblivious of this fact. Truth to tell, I didn't even particularly care for him. But he did sit in the desk right next to mine, and more importantly he was a stunningly beautiful young man. He had dark brown hair, piercing hazel eyes, was well-tanned and tended a bit toward the muscular. Naturally I engaged him in conversation whenever possible (anything to look into his eyes) and as is my secret pleasure, I subtly goaded him into an outrage every chance I could get. I seem to have a knack for discovering which buttons to push and Chris certainly had a lot of them!
I also enjoyed getting him to talk about his body, which was an easy thing to do since excessive vanity was yet another of his character flaws. He seemed oblivious of any kind sexual connotation when I did things like dare him to compare biceps. Yes, his were much more muscly than mine, I would concede as I felt and squeezed both of his repeatedly. Yes, his stomach was certainly harder than anyone I knew, I remarked as I sat there feeling his bare abdominals while he pulled up his shirt. I had never seen his legs (though I fantasized about him in his speedo many times) and once dared him to pull up his pants legs so we could compare leg hair.
"You'll win that one," he laughed as I sat with my pants legs pulled up. "We have to shave our legs. For the swimming you know."
I acted stunned. "You shave your legs?" I asked as if I had never heard of swimmers doing any such thing. "Your legs are bald???" I added, letting just a hint of disgust show through.
He was starting to become annoyed. "Yes, of course. All swimmers do it," he snapped. "It reduces friction with the water and you swim faster!"
"God, I suppose you shave your armpits too," I said.
"No we don't shave our pits."
"You do, don't you? Your armpits are bald, aren't they? Don't be embarrassed," I prodded.
Chris was really starting to become agitated. Red in the face, he glared at me. "I do NOT SHAVE MY ARMPITS! SEE!" He lifted one arm and pulled the loose short sleeve down so I could look in at his armpit hair. Oh yes, I looked all right. I peered down his sleeve at the puff of dark hair spreading out at the base of his fabulous bicep.
I looked dubious. "Let's see the other one," I asked. He obliged, lifting his other arm and pulling the sleeve so I could prove to myself there was hair under that arm as well. I gave him a shrewd look. "It looks to me like they've been shaved before," I insinuated.
Really angry now, he lifted both arms over his head. "Look, will you just LOOK??!! I have never shaved my pits!" he shouted. Unable to believe this turn of events, I pulled both sleeves down and had another long look. This time I reached into each sleeve and felt his fine, dark underarm hair myself. I moved my two fingers through the hair, trying to tickle as much as I could possibly get away with, but when I didn't see any reaction, I resorted to couple of quick, wiggly pokes into the underarm flesh itself. "Hey!" he smiled despite himself, pulling his arms down. "No tickling!"
"Well, I guess you're right," I said. "You don't shave your armpits." His answering grin was smug until I added, "But why don't you? You really should you know."
Chris rolled his eyes and threw his pencil up in the air. "I give up!" he groaned, then tried to ignore me for the remainder of the class as the rest of the students began filing in.
It took me three days of careful work after that. Each day I would mention that I heard this high school team or that one shaved their armpits, that every olympic swimmer I had ever seen on television had shaved pits, that swimming coaches claimed the drag due to pit hair alone was rather remarkable, considering, and that I had heard other swimmers--better swimmers--claim it made them feel so much freer and faster with completely smooth bodies. This little show seemed to have an effect on Chris. Truth to tell, I think the idea secretly fascinated him. I had heard that many, many straight swimmers become aroused when they shave their legs. That they find the whole experience secretly very sexy. In any case, on the fourth morning Chris showed up early for class (we were almost always the first two there) and announced he had tried to shave his armpits the previous evening.
"Good for you," I said. "Let's see!" I reached for his sleeves.
"I said I tried to shave them last night. I almost sliced an artery and bled to death."
"What??? What did you do? How did you... Wait. You did use an electric razor, right?."
"I don't have an electric razor. I tried to use my blade first, but all the hair kept clogging it up, then I tried scissors, but how am I supposed to get the right side? I can't get the scissors to cut with my left hand."
"Oh for God's sakes. I have an electric razor," I said, stunning myself even as I was saying it. "Come over to my house this afternoon and I'll do it for you."
He paused for a moment, a puzzled, unsure expression on his face. I held my breath. I was absolutely certain he would ask to borrow the razor and return it to me the next day instead. But to my great surprise he agreed. I had to run all the way home from school that day to make sure I picked up an electric razor at the drug store and got back to my house before Chris arrived.
It was a sweltering May afternoon. As usual I had the whole house to myself until my mom got home from work at 5:30. I just had time to run into the bathroom, pull the razor out if its box, untangle the cord and stuff it in the cabinet before I heard the knock at my front door. Through the living room window I saw Chris standing outside on the porch in a white tanktop, his shirt slung casually over one shoulder as he waited for me to answer the door. I took a moment to admire the thin sheen of sweat on his beefy shoulders as he stood there. The white, form-fitting tanktop looked very dramatic against his dark, tan skin. I invited him in. He seemed oddly uncomfortable and I offered him a cold lemonade which he gratefully accepted. I tried to make some awkward small talk but finally gave up and indicated he should follow me into the bathroom.
He was staring intently past me as I pulled the razor out of the cabinet, I thought he was just uncomfortable--we weren't actually friends after all--but after a while I began to wonder what was behind me that he thought was so interesting. I shook off the thought and got down to the business at hand.
"Okay, let's see 'em. Raise your arms." Now he had just the tiniest smirk on his face as he raised his beefy arms in the air and rested them on top of his head. I silently cursed myself for not taking the time to put on a jockstrap under my pants, my standard defense against embarrassingly spontaneous high school boners. His fine, dark brown underarm hair was damp with sweat, spread out beneath his biceps and covering almost the entire area of his pits. As I bent closer I could smell the fresh aroma of his man sweat. I tentatively touched one of his hairy patches with my fingers and, seeing no reaction, began rubbing my fingers through the other patch of hair, plastered with sweat over the inside of his pit. I watched hypnotized as a small bead of moisture dripped from one end of his underarm hair and started a long, slow, glistening trail from his bicep down to the smooth hollows below his hair patches.
"For god's sake, what did you do, run all the way here from school?" I asked, regretfully pulling my fingers out of his damp pits. He chuckled and murmured something about the heat but didn't lower his arms as I reached for a towel. "You're too sweaty for the razor, let's dry you up a bit," I said, vigorously giving both of his pits a rubdown with the towel. I grabbed the electric razor. "Okay, come on back to my room."
"Where are we going?" he asked, a puzzled frown on his face.
"This'll be easier if you're lying down. Don't want to nick you after all," I said casually.
As I followed him out of the bathroom, I remembered to turn around to see what he had been staring at. At the top of the wastebasket in the corner lay the freshly opened box the razor had come in. The name "Braun" clearly showing. I grinned to myself as I led him into my bedroom.
When we entered my bedroom, Chris leaped onto my bed and, just like a kid, bounced up and down a few times before coming to rest. He watched me follow him, a huge grin spread across his face, as I sat down on the bed facing him. We were so close I could feel the heat from his skin, and smell the faint musk of his sweat. I placed my hand squarely on his muscular chest and pushed him firmly onto his back, then moved behind him to the head of the bed. He looked up at me still grinning as I took hold of his wrists and slowly pulled them up over his head. "Okay, let's take a closer look," I said casually. The dark curls of fine hair in his pits were damp once more and the hairy parts of his pit skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat. I ran both index fingers slowly over the hairy wetness, taking a few strands of hair in my fingers and toying with them idly.
As I again retraced a slow line from the bottom of his sweaty hair patch up to his meaty tan biceps, he let a light giggle escape and tried to pull his arms down. "Hee hee, that tickles!" I was quick to respond, taking a firm grip on his biceps and pulling his arms more tightly over his head. Then, for good measure, I sat on his forearms, pinning him, then resumed dragging my index fingers along his pit sweat. "You don't think I'm providing this service for free, do you? Out of the goodness of my heart? Ha!" I laughed. "The first shaving of the pits is a trial of manhood, didn't you know that?"
"Hee hee, you're making me laugh, I can't take it," he giggled, squirming lightly under me.
"Oh yes you can," I grinned. "You're a man now, not a little kid. It's time for your trial of tickling!"
His feet and legs were free to kick and struggle. He was much stronger than me and could have escaped at any time. The fact that he didn't, that he remained pinned beneath me squirming and giggling as my fingers made their slow journey up and down his pits, made me bolder. Maybe he was getting into this, I hoped to myself. I grabbed his biceps more firmly then bent my face down close to his right pit. I inhaled deeply, smelling his rich pit aroma, then dared to lick him there, feeling the fine hairs running along the tip of my tongue as I licked up all of the sweat that glistened under his arms. He began giggling helplessly again, kicking his feet a bit more energetically. "Heee hee hee hee, oh please ... hee hee hee, I can't stop laughing."
"How did that feel?" I asked mischieviously, burying my face now in his left pit.
"It almost feels kind of good ... HEEE heee hee ha ha ... but it makes me laugh ... hee hee."
After delicately licking up all of the sweat under his left armpit I began using my tongue to poke and probe into his soft, sweaty pit flesh, moving from one pit to the other, jabbing my tongue into the deep hollows just beneath his hair patches, then running my tongue firmly and rapidly through his brown fur. All the while he squirmed and giggled but made no move to actually escape his pit torture. His erection was plain beneath his thin summer khakis. As it grew from its flacid state it pushed up profoundly against his zipper, like a tent pole. After a few more minutes I relented, letting him try and recover from the bout of helpless giggles which had him under firm control. "I'm sorry ... heeeeee hee hee hee ... I can't stop laughing .... heee hee hee," he breathed, screwing his eyes shut as he struggled to bring himself under control. Finally, taking three deep breaths, he managed to bring himself under control. "Okay," he said. "that kind of felt good. But I can get really ticklish, especially under my arms, then I have to laugh, and I hate that. When you do that, just try not to tickle too much." He must have liked something about it, I mused. His dick was now rock hard under the thin fabric of his pants.
"Do you want me stop?" I grinned.
"No," he breathed "it's nice. Do it some more. Please. Just don't tickle."
I was more than happy to oblige of course and bent once more to my slow, methodical pit licking. When I felt him relax a bit underneath me and even sigh with pleasure, I dared to press harder with my tongue, darting in and out of his ticklish hairy crevice. "Haaa ha ha ... not again ... nooo ... haa haa ha ha ha." He managed to endure this for several minutes until I could feel him begin to struggle in earnest to escape the torment. Like last time, it took him a few moments of helpless giggling after I stopped before he could bring himself under control.
"Very good," I said to him as he lay beneath me. "You took it like a man. I'm proud of you." I started drying his pits with a towel until his pit hair was once more dry and silky fine. "But frankly, I don't know how you'll be able to stand it when I start razoring you. First though, I have to prepare your pit hair." I brought out two combs and started lightly running them through the hair under both of his arms. He squirmed for just a moment, biting his lower lip, obviously trying to make the pit combing as un-ticklish an experience as he could. When I switched to two of my sister's soft hair brushes, though, Chris once more contracted a helpless case of the squirming giggles. I was merciless though, dragging the soft bristles through his pits, concentrating especially on the most tender hairy patches, letting the bristles press in to the bumpy flesh, brushing his pit hair with slow, back and forth strokes. After a few moments his giggles turned to outright laughter and I stopped when he began struggling to escape. I couldn't help laughing along with him in the few moments it took him to regain control. I was having so much fun!
"I think your pit hair is ready now," I told him. With one hand I held onto his left bicep tightly as brought the electric razor out and hovered it mencingly over his exposed pit. He began laughing as soon as I switched the fiendish device on. The evil buzzing sound alone was too much for him. As I brought the razor closer to the first wisps of his pit hair, his giggling turned more panicky and his struggles increased. I of course chose to touch the razor first to the smooth, hairless lower part of his pit so that I could make my slow torturous buzzing way up into his pit hair. Just for good measure I spent a few moments buzzing circles in his lower pit alone.
"Haw Ha Ha Ha Haaaa ... STOP!" he cried. He didn't dare attempt to pull his left arm away, for fear of being nicked, but rather struggled like a demon to free his right. He couldn't seem to manage it though, despite his being far stronger than I. I gleefully buzzed his lower pit a few moments more before pulling the razor away.
"I can't do this if you struggle like that. You nearly pulled your arm free."
"No," he panted. "I couldn't. I tried but I couldn't. Tickling makes me weak. Really. I hate it when somebody tickles me. It feels like all my muscles have gone limp."
"Oh really?" I grinned. "You mean that once I start up my razor again you're helpless? Completely at my mercy?"
He didn't like the look he saw in my face and started to laugh and struggle once more, attempting to escape before the torture resumed. "Let me up ... Ha ha ha ... I change my mind ... don't ... Ha ha hee hee hee." Mercilessly, I switched the razor on once more and continued my slow, methodical tickling of his lower armpit. His struggling continued, but he didn't seem any weaker to me. He was moments from pulling free when I began lightly tickling the hair of his right pit with the tips of my fingers. "NOOOOO ... AH HAA HAA HA HA HA!" he cried. Sure enough, moment by moment, his struggles grew weaker. Like Delilah cutting Sampson's hair, his tickled laughter seemed to draw all of the strength right from him. Even his desperate kicking grew weaker and weaker until he seemed unable to raise his legs at all. He was as helpless as if I had shackled him to the bed. I switched the razor to my right hand and continued buzzing below his right armpit as I lightly tickled the hair under his left. As his laughter became more hysterical and desperate his struggling ceased altogether. Alternately buzzing one pit and tickling the other reduced him to helpless pleading and begging laughter. He could no longer move a muscle. I even got up off of his forearms for just a moment and sure enough, they were paralyzed over his head. He hadn't even enough strength to lower them. His armpit torture took on a new light. I realized that I couldn't let up even for a moment. I had to continue to force him to laugh. If I allowed him to stop for even a moment he might break free. And I had so much yet to do.
"This is for your own good," I assured him. "Let me finish up the job while you can't struggle free. You'll thank me later, believe me." I smiled again and brought the buzzing razor slowly up to the first patches of his underarm hair, continuing my relentless tickling of his other unshaved pit. Millimeter by millimeter the buzzing razor invaded the patch of hair under his left pit. The higher it buzzed, the more hysterical his laughter became. Finally, when the last wisps of hair were shaved away, I began buzzing the razor over his stubbly pit patch, again and again and again, back and forth I buzzed his stubble. Then I switched to his right pit, making my slow methodical way into the hair patch there while I tickled the stubble in his left pit with my index finger.
Chris had buried his face into his left bicep, laughing hysterically while tears streamed from his eyes. When both pits were completely stubblized I confidently moved from where I had pinned his arms beneath to a position straddling his waist, never stopping his pit torture for a second, lest he manage to regain his strength. His complete and total paralysis amazed me. With nothing at all holding his arms he couldn't manage to move them even an inch, as if his biceps had turned to solid lead. He continued to laugh painfully and helplessly, arms high over his head as I buzzed and tickled his bare pits.
Now something I have learned is that there is no detector on Earth, not in the most sophisticated science laboratories, no device made by man matched the delicate, ticklish sensitivity of freshly shaved armpit stubble. I produced a pair of large, fluffy feathers, often ineffective against even the most ticklish armpits, but against freshly shaved pit stubble they turned into one of the most horrific instruments of torture known to man. Abandoning my razor I used the feathers, slowly stroking up and down his exposed stubbled patches. I could feel his muscular stomach rising and falling beneath me with desperate tickle laughter. Still he was unable to move his arms even an inch, unable to raise the leaden weight of his legs to try and buck me off.
"HAAAA HAAAA HAAAA HA HA HA HAAAA .... HELP ME!!! SOMEBODY HELP MEEEEE!!! HEEEE HE HE HEEE HA HA HA HA!!!" he screamed. I stroked his pit flesh with my feathers for several more cruel minutes, then began the poking torture. I pressed my index fingers repeatedly into the soft stubble flesh, torturously massaging the delicate muscular which lay beneath, prodding my wiggling index fingers deeper and deeper, violating his most ticklish tissues. He whooped out several rounds of scream laughter before falling back to his usual paralyzed tickle laughter. I continued the tickling with my left hand while I reached behind me to unzip his pants with my right. He wasn't wearing any underwear as it turned out. His steel-hard cock sprung free instantly, standing at perfect, erect attention, while I moved back to sit down on it. I loved the feel of his hard cock through the thin fabric of my pants, nestled there just beneath my ass crack.
I felt it was time for my final secret weapon. With some difficulty I strapped first one of my parent's vibrating back massagers to one hand, the another one onto my other hand, being careful to keep up a constant torture poking of at least one of Chris' armpits. The sensation must have been beyond anything a human being could imagine, my vibrating fingertips entering both of his exposed pits and digging into his tortured underarm flesh, digging and squirming mercilessly. He managed another long, desperate scream for help before succumbing once more to helpless tickled laughter. After 10 minutes or so of tickling his pits, I freely moved down his rock hard torso, tickling his ribs and squeezing his sides. His arms were still over his head, as though pinned by some invisible force. He was helpless to prevent me from taking hold of his hard cock and massaging his rigid dickhead with one vibrating hand while tickling his protruding ribs with the other. I moved off of him and, from the side, resumed rapid fire tickling of both pits with one hand while massaging his pulsing cock head with the other. I squeezed his vibrating cock head relentlessly, using his precum as a lubricant to bring him torturously close to orgasm, while forcing him to laugh hysterically with the other.
He was like a helpless ragdoll under my ministrations. I had no trouble turning him over on his stomach while I again straddled his waist and gave him a tickle torture back massage, digging my vibrating fingers into the taut cords in his back, turning a normally pleasurable experience into something endured in one of the lower levels of hell. He couldn't move, could only laugh as I vibrated into his sides, squeezing the tender muscles there without mercy. I was free to do what I wanted to his body. He would laugh until he died if I decided never to stop, he was paralysed and helpless. Finally I turned him once more on his back and continued my horrific stimulation of his engorged cock head until, with a single laughing moan, Chris shot his pulsating load of jism. A huge, gooey white load of cum which splattered the wall at the head of the bed. Ha! I wasn't finished yet. To Chris' unbelieving horror, I didn't release his cock head but continued squeezing and massaging it even after the last drips of cum oozed out. He began screaming continuously now, still unable to move his arms, but suffering unbearably as his post-orgasmic cock head was stimulated beyond his ability to endure. It kept throbbing and pumping under my firm grasp but I only laughed and kept squeezing and rubbing it with one hand as I dug my vibrating fingers into his stubbly pits with the other.
I had a lot of fun with Chris's helpless body after that. He remained unable to move even after I ceased the tickle torture. I let him lay on his back, arms over his head, as he giggled uncontrollably. Like undressing a doll, I pulled the tank top off over his head and removed his shoes and socks and pulled his pants off as well. I enjoyed watching his tan, naked body, paralyzed on my bed as he giggled the last of his hysteria away. I ran my hands over his strong biceps and cupped each bulging pec in each hand. I tickled his wide, dark nipples cruelly, instigating another bout of hysterical giggling which once more clutched his muscles into helpless weakness. He certainly didn't care for it when I ran my vibrating fingers lightly over his hairy balls and began to scream once more as I played with his toes, vibrating first his pinky toe then moving my way up to the big toe. Even his deep navel was not safe as I probed it with a vibrating index finger. He lay helpless for forty five minutes at least as I did whatever I wished to his helpless limp body. He was totally aware of what was happening to him but was far too weak to move in any way to protect himself. It was an afternoon to remember.
Yes, he wanted to beat me up. I had no choice but to threaten to tell his teammates of his paralyzing weakness. Red faced and angry beyond words, he left my house that day as afternoon turned into evening. But interestingly enough he agreed to let me shave his pits again when his fine brown hair grew in once more. He could certainly do without the tickling, as he told me, but it turned out he enjoyed having his pits licked and his naked body worshipped. Not to mention he seemed to have become addicted to the sensation of my vibrating hand gripping and massaging the head of his enormous cock. But, as I explained to him sadly, nothing is without its price. I waited to tell him this after I tickled him once more into limp helplessness of course. He gets what he wants, but I'm rather demanding myself when it comes to what I want. We spent several hot afternoons together that last year of high school.
As a footnote, I did end up letting his swimming teammates in on Chris' secret helplessness. The day I watched from the bleachers as ten speedo-clad studs clustered around Chris's weakly helpless body as they took turns tickling him under the arms was a memorable one. He lay on the hard cement around the pool, arms over his head, unpinned but unable to move, laughing helplessly as several pairs of hands poked and prodded his armpit stubble. I did begin to feel vaguely guilty after the first hour or so of this. Apparently not guilty enough though, to keep me from writing to the captain of a certain swim team at a certain midwestern college where Chris just happened to be enrolled after High School. If only I could be there to see it. God, I can be such a bastard at times.