In my side of the room, I throw my towel into the closet with the dirty laundry. My naked image stares back at me from the full-length mirror on the door. Muscles glow in the warm light. I've been very good about working out regularly and it's starting to pay off. My abs are perfect and chiseled, like a statue. I don't even have to tense up to make them look good. My arms are becoming shapely and my legs show the striations that come from regular jogs through the park. Not long ago, I would've felt strange staring at myself like this; I was raised to be such a proper little boy. Now, I can even look at my own cock get hard. My feet tingle strangely at times like this. they fell, very, very good.
No I will not jerk off now! I've got to study! I stroll over to my dresser, the one Michael gave me after the accident, and stretch into my Levis and red t-shirt. I just leave my feet bare.
The hard mattress feels good as I plop down into my brass bed. Michael gave me the brass bed, too. I should give him a call; he gets lonely out there on the farm, ever since his parents died.
But right now, I've got to study, the exam is next Tuesday.
The place is incredibly warm. Frank always leaves the thermostat on too high, but I'm feeling too good to turn it down.
After an hour, I turn the lamp on. Then the front door opens down the hall. Raucous voices pierce the air.
The door flies open. Frank lumbers in, his curly black hair disheveled. Ol' Clown Face. Always good for a laugh, if nothing else. He's an inch shorter than me, about five eleven, but he's built: big boned and heavily muscled. Hank comes in. Then Brad. The sick-sweet smell of cheap whiskey and stale beer fill the room.
"Figured you'd still be here," Frank says, sitting on his bed. His single cot is on the other side of the room, the dirty side. That cot hasn't been made in weeks and the sheets are so stiff they're about ready to crack. "Got any dope, Rick?"
"No, I don't get paid till next week. I can't afford it."
By now Brad and Hank are resting on the couch, loose and sloppy, like rag dolls. Brad's six foot six frame seems to fill the whole room. His nickname among the guys on the football team is Bull Balls and he wears his pants tight enough to show everybody that the name is well-deserved. Hank is about my height, but more lean and angular: good New England stock. He has a nervous energy; his mind is constantly in motion: calculating, plotting, scheming. The look he's giving me is . . . strange.
"How was the movie?" I ask, shocked by the nervous edge in my voice. Why should I feel nervous?
"It was okay," Brad says, scratching his white-blond head. He pulls himself up and strolls over to my bed. Brad's on a football scholarship and he works out like a fiend, so when his two-hundred fifty pounds of total muscles rests on my bed, it groans. I pretend to keep reading, but I can feel his green eyes bearing down on me.
"Close that book, Rick," Brad says.
"I've got to study!"
Brad grabs my book with his massive hands and slams it shut. When it hits the floor, I can hear the pages splatter open, as if to cushion its fall. Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see Frank and Hank smiling. Brad starts to chuckle and rubs his hands together. Goosebumps pop up on my arm.
"It's been a long time since you and me wrestled," Brad says.
"What! Look I have an exam and.
Brad throws himself on top of me. I curse at him and try to squirm free, but he's too strong. His fingers knead my ribs and I giggle.
"Why, Rick! Your ticklish!"
"Hey, buddy, don't bother to lie to me. I know better!" Brad says.
Suddenly, I feel a thumb in my armpit. I howl and squirm. Brad laughs savagely. Now he's got both of my pits. I'm so busy laughing, begging him to stop, that I didn't notice Hank and Frank get up from their chairs.
Before I know what's happening, Frank and Hank are in the bed with us! Six hands explore my body: armpits, ribs, butt, the backs of my knees. I can't stand it!
"Stop you guys! He he he he ! No more! Plea se!
Hank laughs, "Aw, c'mon! Everybody needs a good laugh! You've been studying too hard!"
Suddenly, Frank grabs my left foot by the heel. The look on his face is wicked. My heart starts to pound.
"Looks like we've been neglecting the best part!" John says.
"You've got such nice, soft, big, feet, man."
Brad holds my legs still while Frank slowly strokes my foot. working his way from the heel up with his nails. I bite my lip. I can't give in.. If they find out how ticklish my feet are, I'm in for it, for sure!
"Okay, you guys. Let me up. Enough's enough." I'm trying to sound casual. Hank's got my arms pinned over my head and Brad's still holding my legs. Oh, God! I can't let my toes twitch! John's using two fingers now and he's teasing the center of my foot, the most sensitive spot! The sensations are crawling up my leg. I can feel my face get red.
Suddenly, my toes twitch.
The guys yell and whoop. I start to giggle. Then Brad starts tickling my other foot!
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Don't! Stop! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Laughter pours out of me! I can't talk. It's all I can do to breathe! Hank holds my wrists with one hand, while the other plays with one armpit, then another.
DON'T! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! STOP!"
"Don't stop? Okay, we aim to please," Frank smiles and steps up the action.
The room swirls around me. I'm so weak, I can hardly hold my head up. My mouth getting dry, but I can't stop laughing! I still struggle; my arms and legs are starting to ache.
"Hey, you guys," says Frank." You must be getting awfully tired of holding Twinkle-Toes down, right?"
"Why don't we make this easy on ourselves and tie him down?"
"Yeah!" Brad says.
Hank grins and nods, ever the prim and proper prick!
My eyes widen with terror. How long are these fuckers going to keep this up!
"You can't! Please, just let me go..."
"Not on your life!" Frank says. "You need this! We've been concerned about you, man. You think too much. You need a few good laughs, doesn't he, guys?"
The guys laugh and nod their heads. Sweat is trickling from my armpits.
Frank smiles that clown smile: Large even teeth. His lips are wide and dark red. He struts out of the room.
I take a deep breath. Now! I thrust myself sideways, away from the guys. They laugh and pounce on me, kneading my ribs, tickling my soles. My laughing and thrashing only make me weaker. Hank and Brad drag me to the middle of the bed. Then they yank off my pants and toss them on the floor. With one fast, hard motion, Brad rips away my t-shirt and pitches it, a shredded rag, after the Levis. All I can do is lie there on my back while these fuckers go to work on me.
Hank is lean and lanky, but incredibly strong! He sits cross-legged, my head between his sinewy leas. He holds my wrists up over my thrashing head with one of his large hands. Claw-like but nimble, his other hand hops from one sweaty pit to another, sometimes tweaking one of my nipples. Brad is sitting on top of me, resting on my knees. His open shirt reveals his massive chest, a chest heaving with wicked laughter as he attacks my ribs.
"Stop! Both of you - hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Oh Shit! PLEASE! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" The room echoes my laughter. With what little strength I have left. I thrash and squirm in a vain attempt to escape this torture! Brad reaches behind him and teases the base of my toes. I yell! It's like electricity, from my squirming toes to my pleading head. It gets so bad, I can't even form words. Just laugh! And LAUGH!
"What's the matter, Rick," says Hank. "Cat got your tongue?"
Frank comes back with some clothes line and a huge, brown paper beg. I don't know where I get the strength, but I lift myself off the bed. Brad throws his full weight right on top of me. He's got me pinned down pretty good while Hank helps Frank tie my ankles together onto the bed frame, then my wrists to either side of the headboard. Brad finally pulls himself off me. Breathing normally again, I look at my captors.
"Why are you doing this?" I say, trying not to let my voice crack from panic and rage. "Why?"
"You need to be taught a lesson," Brad says. "You know what? We didn't go to the movie. I used my fake ID, bought us some whiskey and beer, and went to the park to plan this out."
"We're tired of you acting so high and mighty," Frank says.
Hank cuts in, "We're sick of you always putting us down 'cause we're jocks and our grades aren't good like yours. So we figured this would loosen you up a bit."
Frank laughs and holds up the bag. My heart starts beating wildly again.
"We even bought a few little things, just for the occasion," Frank says, opening the bag.
He takes out three stiff feathers, white with black tips, the kind boy scouts use to make "Indian" headgear. They each take one and smile at me.
"Okay, men," Brad says, ever the team captain. "Take your places!"
Frank stays at my squirming feet while Brad moves up to my middle and Hank goes to the head of the bed.
Brad says to Hank, "Why don't you start the countdown buddy?"
"Sure thing . . . Ten."
"Oh, no, you guys. Don't!"
"Please, I'll help you with exams!"
"No! C'mon! I'll write you term papers!"
"I'll do the dishes from now on!"
"No! No! I'll always take out the garbage!"
"I'll do the laundry!"
"Shine your shoes!"
"I'll buy us all pot!"
"GOD DAMN IT! I'LL SCRUB THE TOILETS!"
"DON'T! I'M BEGGIN' YOU! DON'T! PLEEEEEEEEAASE!"
In perfect synch, they all get me at once! I thrash as Frank mercilessly works on the bell of my foot, then between my toes, the top of my foot and back again, all with that fucking feather! Brad give. my ribs no relief at all and he laughs about as hard as I do! Hank gets both my armpits at once, with his fingertips in one and a feather in the other! And everybody's crotch is bulging, ready to burst out of their Levis! THEY'RE GETTING OFF ON THIS!
I feel the blood rush to my cock. I try to get my mind off what's happening - but I feel like I'm going crazy - all I can do is howl - and feel myself get bigger. Brad grabs my half-hard cock and laughs.
"I think my buddy likes this," Brad says, holding fast to my throbbing meat.
They all stop what they're doing. I can hear them whisper among themselves. By now, tears have begun to pour out of my eyes. The world is a warm, milky haze; the sun is setting. My mouth is wide open and I'm sucking in air with the hunger of a starving man. I've got no saliva left.
I hear somebody pad out of the room. Voices. Brad and Hank mumbling and giggling like little kids. I'm starting to breathe normally again. I feel something - plastic? - brush up against my lips. When I open my eyes, I see Frank's hand holding a small glass of water, a white straw peeping over the top.
I gulp down the cool water, feeling it flow into me in one continuous stream. My aching muscles relax in their bonds. Seconds later, as the last drop pops into my mouth, I feel hands on my feet.
My eyes have cleared up completely by now. With more care and precision than I thought possible from that big bull of a guy, Brad ties my two big toes together with - what are they? - shoe laces! The rest of my toes wiggle, but he just laughs and weaves another lace through the toes of my right foot, then the left. He ties the laces to my ankle bonds. My soles are stretched to the limit. No way to move them! No relief at all!
"No more!" I moan. "Please..."
Hank stares straight into my eyes while this is going on, holding his feather like a weapon over my crotch. Without warning, he plunges it just behind my balls. I feel a shot of electricity blast up my spine! Hank's lips curl as I laugh helplessly. My cock wastes no time; it's totally hard now.
"Hey, Frank," Brad says, "Why don't you help me out! He's got BIG feet!"
"Sure, Brad. Anything to oblige."
They both attack my feet at once. Brad just uses his fingertips, but John's got a soft-bristled toothbrush!
"Goddamn! No! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! AAAAggggggggghhh! Shit, Frank! Chriiiiiiiiiiist! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHARAHAHA! You gotta stop! EEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Stop! STOP!"
Suddenly, Frank grabs my cock. I feel the soft bristles just under my cockhead! Juice flowing slowly from the tip. Hank's feather is dancing on my balls. Brad plays with my feet with even more energy! My brain feels like it's going to explode! I grit my teeth - I've got to stop laughing!
But I can't!
"Hahahahahaha! I'm gonna come! I'm gonna... AAaggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
I shoot so hard, a drop of jism lands right on my forehead! My chest and stomach are drenched.
"Shit, this fucker came like a fuckin' fountain!" Brad exclaims.
"He'll be even more sensitive now!" Frank laughs, poking my armpits.
So they all start tickling me again. I can't believe I can laugh this much! They go on like this for so long, time loses all meaning. The whole room swirls and grows dark - the bed feels like its swallowing me up.
Finally, when I wake up in the morning, I crawl out of bed. I wince at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror; I look like I've got a massive hangover - eyes unfocused, skin pale as chalk, hair pointed in all directions like a beached anemone. Laughter flies from down the hall, from the kitchen. Right then and there, I start to make plans for my fun-loving roomies. My cock stirs.
I get dressed, sneak out of the apartment with my ten-speed, and head out for Michael's.
Michael Halloran lives on a dairy farm he just inherited. His parents died ins car over Labor Day weekend so he's taken the semester off. I have to ride almost eight miles to get out there, but the day is sunny and crisp with no wind to hinder my progress. Luckily, the roads to his place are paved and in good repair .
I ride up the gravel driveway, past barbed wire fences enclosing the huge pastures where the cattle graze casually, unbothered by my presence. The large, simple white farmhouse shines brightly in the sunlight. The red barn is as silent as the house.
"Hello, down there!"
I stop my bike. Michael is leaning out the window, a big grin across his handsome face. He's toweling his curly black hair.
"Hi, Michael" then suddenly I thought of something. "I guess I should've called first."
"I told you to come any time you care to. Just park your bike and visit awhile!" He disappeared into the house.
In the living room, I plop down on the sofa. The smells of the barnyard are a little more subtle here: hay, dust, fertilizer. I kick off my Nikes under the old pinewood coffee table.
"I'm glad I don't have to remind you to be comfortable in here," Michael laughs, strolling into the room. He's wearing clean overalls with no shirt or shoes.
It feels good to hear his friendly voice. His brown eyes are kind, but alert and his trim mustache seems to embrace his mouth as he smiles.
"You got something on your mind, I can tell. You here to talk about it?" Michael says.
So I tell him all about what happened yesterday afternoon and evening. I tell him everything, leaving nothing out, and I wonder if I've gone too far. But Michael's intelligent face shows concern and I know, as I've known for the two years that we've been friends, that I can tell him anything. His eyes seem to gleam a bit as I continue, but it's probably my imagination. When I've done, he puts his hand on my shoulder.
"Sounds like you friends gave you a pretty rough time," he says.
"And I can't just let this slide. I've got to do something."
"Maybe we should talk to my cousin, Alphonse."
I've never actually met Alphonse Laveau, but I've heard rumors. He owns the town's only authentic Cajun restaurant. At thirty, he's one of the most successful businessmen in the county, having made a fortune in real estate, stocks, and other investments. But the restaurant is his real pleasure. That and a traveling carnival managed by his half brother, Cody. Alphonse's appetite for handsome men was well known, but not spoken of, except in whispers. His mother is said to be a witch in his native New Orleans, as were his ancestors for countless generations. She gave psychic readings and performed exorcisms for the rich and powerful and she is said to be knowledgeable of many a family skeleton. Evidently, she has shared her vast knowledge with Alphonse, her favorite child, and that he has used this information to indulge in unspeakable rituals involving the sons of the wealthy.. The nature of these rituals has never been discovered - none of the participants dared speak of them. I feel uneasy thinking about Alphonse.
After a moment, I say, "What can he do, and why should he care about my problems?"
"He'll help if I ask him to," Michael says. "He's a pretty powerful man, you know. He'll help because it will give him pleasure."
I can't help but notice the strange twinkle in Michael's eyes when he says the word 'pleasure'.
"But the things people say about him.
"Yes, and some of them are true!" Michael laughs. "But he's got a good heart. He's helped me a lot through my trouble. He's helping me manage this place. Even sent over some hired hands. Ill give him a call."
As Michael talks to his notorious cousin on the phone, I feel my heart pound, blood racing through my body. I know that when all this is over, I'll never be the same.
One hour later, we enter the grounds of the Laveau estate. Located in the most remote section of the county, the sprawling French villa is on thirty acres of immaculate grounds. A twelve-foot stone wall surrounds the estate. Huge oak trees are scattered about like sentries guarding against invaders. After parking the pick-up truck, Michael and I stroll over to the massive front door. After ringing the doorbell, a handsome young Hispanic man answers, dressed in a perfectly tailored butler's uniform. His feet are shoeless, with strong, high arches. I try not to stare as he leads us into the parlor.
Alphonse Laveau enters five minutes later and embraces his cousin with genuine affection. Though Alphonse is about two inches shorter than I am, he seems much taller. His face is broad, with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. His wavy dark hair and mustache and nest and give his face a strange feline quality, like a lion in search of food. Alphonse is casually dressed in deep purple slacks and a matching silk shirt. His large, sandaled feet step boldly across the marble floor. When we are introduced, his light brown eyes stare at me with a kind of intense amusement.
"Your friends gave you quite a memorable experience, didn't they?" Alphonse says, laughing deeply.
"Yes," I say. Why do I feel so funny when he looks at me? I'm tingling all over.
He looks straight into my eyes and continues, "I have a strong sense of justice, Rick. You deserve...satisfaction. I'm in a position to guarantee that you get it."
I just smile. I can't believe any of this is happening! Michael grins and pokes my ribs.
Alphonse motions us to sit on the couch as he seats himself in an over-stuffed chair. He lifts a tiny gold bell from the antique end table and shakes it. A blonde, young giant of a man enters. Like the young Hispanic, he's wearing a butler's uniform. His huge wide feet are bare.
"Bring us some coffee, Wolfgang. My friends and I have plans to make."
Moments later, Wolfgang arrives carrying a silver coffee pot on a tray with lavender china cups. While we talk, he stands and watches me filling our cups when they reach the half-way point. Holding my cup, I laugh at Michael's ideas for Brad's comeuppance. I lay my cup down on the saucer a little too quickly; Wolfgang had been filing it. A small stream of hot coffee hits my pants leg, the sudden flash of liquid heat makes me jump, more from surprise than pain. Alphonse places his cup on the table. His face is cold and still, eyes staring at his flustered servant with fury.
"I Clean," says Wolfgang, whipping a handkerchief out of his pocket
"Hey, that's cool, I . . . 11 and before I can say anything else, Wolfgang is bent over, the sweat poring from his brow. He clutches the handkerchief stiffly and wipes my leg like a man possessed.
"Sorry...very sorry," he stammers.
"Wolfgang," says our host, his voice low and tight.
Wolfgang stops, his lower lip quivers like that of a scared child. My own heart begins to beat faster. Michael giggles. I feel both frightened and fascinated.
"Lie down," Alphonse says slowly. "And place your feet on the coffee table."
Wolfgang obeys, his huge feet are inches away from us. The servant raises his head and looks pitifully in my direction. Out of the corner of my eye. I see Michael rubbing his hands together.
Alphonse rises from his seat.
"Please excuse me," he says, bowing slightly. He grins and winks when he sees the confused expression on my face.
After he leaves the room, I turn to my friend.
"What the hell's going on?" I say.
"You'll find out," Michael laughs. "Don't worry, Alphonse never leaves bruises or spills blood."
Alphonse returns, carrying an antique hourglass.
"Would you mind sitting over there?," he says to me, pointing to the overstuffed chair. "I need to sit next to Michael right now. We'll both need some elbow room."
I move over silently. Alphonse and his cousin are seated before the servant's feet. His head is now flat against the floor, eyes closed tightly. He's mumbling something in German - a prayer?
"Not only did this ungrateful monkey spill coffee on a guest, but he had the audacity to hesitate when I gave him an order! I just can not let such behavior go unpunished; it would set an unfortunate precedent. Don't you agree, Cousin Michael?"
"You're absolutely right. You can't let it go. Not at all." Michael smiles broadly, his dark eyes flash with mischief.
"Therefore, it is my unfortunate duty to administer the appropriate disciplinary action. Will you help me, Michael?"
"Why, Alphonse!" says Michael in mock outrage. "Have you ever known me to refuse to help you out?"
"I knew I could count on you. One hour then?"
"Fine with me."
Alphonse overturns the antique hourglass with great flourish. Both of them begin stroking a foot. Michael starts at the heel while Alphonse starts at the toes. Wolfgang lets out a gasp and bites his lip. He clutches his large hands as his tormentors speed up their action, but his face is tight and reddening. Then Alphonse pushes Wolfgang's toes back and teases the stretched sole. Suddenly, the young German lets out a yell as the pent up laughter explodes from deep within.
"Mein Gott! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!Aaaaaaiiieeeeeeee! P1...ease! Nein! Neeeeeiiinnnnnn! Nooo! Hahahahahahahahahaha!"
I can't take my eyes from them. Alphonse and Michael are laughing now, their victim's screams and pleas for mercy only seem to give them more energy. Alphonse looks up at me, not letting upon that writhing foot for a moment.
"Wolfgang," Alphonse says. "Stretch your arms up over your head NOW!"
His servant obeys instantly.
"Rick, please remove this cretin's upper garments."
"Remove his upper garments," he says irritably. "It's the least you can do if you expect me to come to your aid."
The thought of my roommates getting away with what they did fills me with rage Without a word, I remove the helpless servant's black cost, white shirt and undershirt. His body is remarkably smooth and extremely muscular. I notice slight stubble around his armpits. He's been shaved!
I take care to fold the garments neatly, placing them on the floor next to the chair.
"Rick," Alphonse says. "Tickle Wolfgang's sides and armpits!"
"Hey, I don't know about..."
Without thinking, I place my hands lightly on either side of Wolfgang's stomach. He twitches. I slowly let my hands crawl up his ribs and he begins to thrash, his screams becoming much louder and more desperate. I can feel my cock stiffen. Wolfgang's eyes pop open as I near his defenseless pits. Pleading for mercy with a face contorted with forced laughter, Wolfgang lifts his head and gazes into my eyes as best he can. But I can feel myself grin now, my fingers finding their target. I stroke and tease his sweaty pits. I can't believe how much louder he's laughing now. His body has taken on a rosy glow.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Wolfgang cannot plead now. His face is beet red, wet from sweat and tears, but he doesn't dare lower his arms.
My own heart feels like its going to jump out of my chest. Bound by my tight jockey shorts, my cock strains against its confinement; the pleasure-pain of not touching myself, of not allowing the energy the release it demands, fills my entire body with fire. I look at my captive's crotch; he's as aroused as I am.
"Rick, unzip Wolfgang," Alphonse says, his voice stentorian. "Please."
At first I chuckle, his "please," was a command, not a request. What if I say "No"?
"Your hesitation doesn't become you," Alphonse continues. "Are you trying to deny that you want to do it? An honest young man such as yourself should not try to deny his true nature. For what purpose and for whose benefit are you depriving yourself of your desires?" Alphonse's raised eyebrow is punctuated by Wolfgang's continued screaming.
I unzip Wolfgang immediately. His large cock leaps through his open fly. I find my hand probing the inside of his pants. Finding his big low-hanging balls, I ease them out in the open. The German servant has the largest balls I've ever seen. Like his chest, Wolfgang's balls have been shaved and a little extra investigating on my part reveals that the rest of his crotch is hairless.
My index finger lightly touches a ball and it twitches and bounces so much, I start to laugh. My other hand finds his armpit again and, before I know it, I'm playing both sides at once. Wolfgang's heightened screams become a kind of mad ritual chant, with a driving rhythm all their own. His cock sways and bounces wildly. I grab it and start pumping, my own cock is just as hard by now. My free hand jumps from his ribs, sides, and back to his pits again. Alphonse and Michael study me as they continue their fierce foot torture. Wolfgang's hips begin to thrust and his thunderous moan fills the room as his come covers his naked torso.
The torture has ended. I stand and seat myself back on the chair, my head reeling as if I had taken some fantastic drug.
Alphonse snaps his fingers and orders the exhausted servant to rise.
"Take off your pants and put them with your other clothes, Wolfie," Alphonse says.
After the servant complies, he stands before us, his muscular body struggling to find the energy to stand upright.
"For the rest of the day you will perform your duties naked. You will clear the coffee table and tell cook to prepare dinner for three," Alphonse says.
"I don't know if I can stay for dinner . . . say.
But Alphonse waves his hand and smiles, "But I insist, Rick. We're having veal ortalani. No one in the state works with veal the way my cook does. Wayne is a genius."
I nod my head, not knowing if I really want to go through with my revenge after all.
Alphonse turns back to Wolfgang, "And please tell Eduardo to make more coffee and serve us in here. You are to prepare two of the guest rooms. You may leave now. And don't forget to take your uniform."
Wolfgang leaves the room, dragging his feet.
"Please call me Alphonse," he tells me, whispering his own name as if it were a term of endearment.
"I don't know if I can stay overnight. I've got class in the morning and a big exam and..."
"The you must allow me to send my chauffeur to get your books. And a change of clothes."
"Will he mind? It's far from here."
Alphonse laughs, "Patrick won't mind I assure you. In fact, he'll drive you to school in the morning."
"Well, that would be great..."
"Wonderful," Alphonse says, his eyes sparkling.
Eduardo, the servant who had answered the door, arrives with more coffee.
We make plans and laugh for hours, right until dinnertime.
Dinner is exquisite, but I can't eat much; my mind is racing from one thought to another. At one point, Michael reaches over and pats me on the shoulder.
"Everything's going to be all right," he says.
I nod my head and continue eating.
Later, as I lie in bed naked, I caress my body and think of Alphonse.
After an enormous breakfast, Patrick, the chauffeur, drives me to school. Like the other servants I've seen on the estate, Patrick is good looking, well-dressed and barefoot. He's a bit shorter than me, but muscular and well-proportioned, with pale green eyes, black heir, and an aura of energy and self-confidence. At breakfast, Alphonse told me how Patrick would figure into my revenge.
At school, I can think of nothing else all day but Michael and his helpfulness, the mysterious Alphonse and his strange servants, all twelve of them, and our plans. Michael offered many plans, but his idea for Bull-Balls Brad was the best. Alphonse thought of a great punishment for Hank the Puritan Prick. And I though of the perfect comeuppance for Frank, the clown face jerk with the mischievous sense of humor.
My roommates were out playing pool, as I knew they would be, when Patrick went to get my things yesterday evening. They have no way of knowing my connection with Alphonse.
When I go home after school, I hole up in my room and read from Victor Hugo's Les Miserables for my class on the great Romantics. My roommates order a pizza and watch Monday night football in the parlor. At half time, Frank comes into the room, grabs his pipe from the drawer. He glances at me and grins, but says nothing, and leaves quickly. Smiling the whole time, I continue reading for the rest of the evening.
It's only a matter of time. A little less than two weeks.
The Laveau Traveling Mardi Gras opens tomorrow. My roommates are talking about it now and eating spaghetti. It's one of the biggest carnivals in the United States. I just sit quietly and eat while the other guys talk about opening night - Frat Night - and how they can sneak in. I glance up at the clock on the wall. 6:55. Just a few minutes more.
"Hey Stoneface!" Frank says. "You're pretty quiet tonight."
"What's on your mind, boy," Brad asks.
My heart skips a best. What if they're late?
Hank glares at me, steel grey eyes narrowing to slits, and says, "I know how we can find out!"
Wasting no time, dash to my room, the guys at me heels. I latch the door behind me, knowing damn well that it can only delay them a little. But then, I only need a little delay. I hope.
I back away from the door. They're pounding at it like a lynch mob.
"Come on, man!" Frank laughs. "You know we're gonna get ya!"
"Blow it out your ass, Clownface," I yell, surprised at my own volume. My alarm clock reads 6:58.
"You're getting too high and mighty again, Egghead! We mean to teach you some manners," Brad bellows. He even sounds like a bull! "And this time we're not going to be nice about it, right guys?"
Everybody laughs. Except me. Oh God! Where are they!
Suddenly, there's a crash against the door.
"We're going to ram this sucker down!" Brad yells.
All I can do is stand there. Another crash. Then another. The latch is stronger than I thought, but it won't hold out for long. Splinters are flying from it.
The door bursts open. They rush in and throw me on the bed, their hands tearing at my clothes. They're making too much noise to notice the sound of the front door opening.
Eleven men, dressed in servant's uniforms, burst into the room. They're barefoot, as usual, but their heads are adorned with black leather masks which cover them down to their necks. They have no trouble overpowering my startled roommates. The smell of chloroform wafts through the air.
"Patrick is in the back parking lot," Eduardo says to me as six of the others begin the process of tying my room mates hands and feet, gagging them, then wrapping the fuckers in full length canvas bags.
"Let's go ahead and take them out to the limo. If anybody asks us, I'll just tell them that this is some kind of fraternity initiation," I say, barely able to hold back my excitement.
As we drive away in the limo, I think about the excitement to come.
Late the next afternoon, Frank begins to wake up. The room is barely lit and his eyes can not focus, though he can sense movement.
Alphonse flicks a switch.
The blazing spotlights, one from the ceiling the other from the floor, makes Frank yelp. He tries to cover his eyes, but his hands are tied. So are his feet. After a few minutes, he is finally able to focus. Now he can see the purple satin tank shirt stretched across his torso and the white and purple polka-dotted clown's pants on his lower body. His ass is on a huge pink satin pillow and his big bare feet are covered with white greasepaint, spread as wide apart as possible and tied securely atop two cushioned poles. Each individual toe is painted with shocking pink nail polish with purple glitter and tied to the ankle bonds, making his soles almost painfully taut. About ten yards all around him are full length mirrors hanging from chains, placed so that Frank can see thousands of images of himself. The look of disbelief on his face has now turned to rage; the top of his head is covered with a lavender Afro -wig and his face is painted like a traditional clown: ghastly white face, enormous red lips painted into a grotesque grin. He looks back over his head. His clown white arms are tied, by the wrists, to two white posts. The purple glitter on his fingernails captures the light mockingly.
"Wh...what the fuck," Frank says, his voice groggy and thick.
"Down here!" Alphonse says.
Startled, Frank's head snaps to his side. Gazing downward, he lets out a gasp, blue eyes wide with horror. Alphonse and I stand about two feet below him, grinning.
"Notice, Frank, that your posterior is firmly secured to a pole. So are your feet and hands," Alphonse says. "This is the last stop at the funhouse. In a few moments, fraternity boys from all over the state will be pouring into this room." He points to the large mock Egyptian vases scattered around the room, each filled with enormous peacock and ostrich feathers. "They'll use these to get a few laughs out of you!"
"You lousy queer, motherfucking, jerk-off, pussy ass, prick-lickin' son of a..." Frank sputters and goes on while we both stand and chuckle. Laughter and hollering are beginning to pour down the hall. The frat boys are near.
Alphonse strolls to the west wall. All the walls are covered with black velvet curtains, except a small part of the south wall where the exit lies. He pulls aside the curtain, opens a door and removes a cardboard sign and an easel. Gracefully, he places it in front of the center pole. Frank hurls a wed of spit at Alphonse and barely misses his face.
Three frat boys wearing Greek letter sweaters swagger into the room. Reading the signs, they holler and whoop like soldiers on leave. Each take an ostrich and peacock feather.
"Hey you guys!" Frank yells. "This is a mistake! I've been kidnapped! That cocksucker..."
A peacock feather brushes lazily against his armpit. Frank grits his teeth. One ostrich feather appears at either foot and dance on his soles. Soon his face is contorted like a lunatic, his mouth stretched to the limit, exposing every tooth in a forced smile. Two more feathers appear at his feet. Three more at his armpit. Five at his sides. Then he explodes.
"AAaaaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhh! Nooooooooo! PLEASE! HAHAHAHAHA! I can't take it! HAHAIIAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!"
About twenty guys are in the room now, laughing at the strange sight. And using those feathers with great skill.
I read the sign again. In bold pink letters, it reads;
I AM THE CLOWN OF VOODOO
GOOD LUCK WILL COME TO YOU!
"Lousy poetry," I laugh.
"It's working, isn't it?" says Alphonse, grinning wickedly.
Frank's hysterical screams fill the room. He tries to move, but the bonds are too secure. Dozens of feathers are now teasing and tormenting his helpless body. I see one guy - a redhead, at least six foot four - stand and survey the room. He begins to walk along the wall and pull the curtains back, until he finds the storage closet.
"I wanted somebody to find it, Rick," says Alphonse.
The tall blond motions over to some of the guys and they help him carry some small wooden ladders out of the closet, as well as small white buckets filled with what look like pigeon feathers.
"The piece de resistance," Alphonse says with a chuckle.
About eight ladders are set up so that a guy can stand on each and be about navel high to Frank.
"Let me go! Please! Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha! This is nuts! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! PLEASE! AAAAiiiiee! NO! DON'T! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
The red-headed guy is at Frank's bulging crotch. He smiles wickedly as he unbuttons the tight fly. Everyone in the room cheers as Frank's fat cock pops out of those stupid pants. The redhead pulls out Frank's balls as the captive laughs and screams his protests. Joining the redhead, a hefty wrestler-type grabs Frank's cock and brings the gentle pigeon feather down on the head, swirling it with agonizing slowness along the edges. The redhead cups the clown's balls in his large hands and teases them with his peacock feather. I didn't think Frank could possibly scream louder, but he does. Tears begin to stream down his face.
Suddenly, Frank's hips thrust upward as far as he can. His head shakes furiously and he shrieks like a demon, sweat flying off his body in every direction. His cum shoots in a thick hot stream and frat boys laugh as they scramble to get out of its way .
"Oh, God," Frank says weakly, his face looking even paler than before. "I'm sure glad that's over..."
The redhead chuckles as he lightly scrapes his nails around Frank's belly.
Alphonse and I can hear Frank's laughing, teary and futile pleas for mercy as we casually stroll out of the funhouse.
"Where's Hank?," I ask.
"Just outside the freak show," Alphonse says. "I intend to contact Guinness and have him put in the Book of Records. He's really quite extraordinary."
"Wolfgang played with him a bit last night. Seems he's the most ticklish of your room mates."
Somehow, I knew it. That stern front he always puts on. The look on his face when he was showing me absolutely no mercy during my torture. All to hide his secret vulnerability.
It's strange. I'm beginning to feel sorry for him.
Alphonse's eyes study me. I try to stare back, but I can't.
My pace quickens.
"Surely, you're not regretting any of this, are you?", he asks.
I keep walking.
"You may feel a twinge of guilt, Rick, but you can't deny that you're enjoying this," he says.
His voice is so assured, so calm. I want to slug him.
"They really did a number on me. They're getting what they deserve!" I say. My voice sounds louder than I mean it to.
"Of course! But you are getting a great deal of pleasure from all this. As well you should."
"What they're getting is only right!" I say. "It's justice!"
Alphonse's eyes grow wide and his mouth stretches into a huge grin. His laughter fills the air like a song. He throws his large head back, the lights from the rides and exhibits playing with his chestnut hair while his whole being sparkles. As loud as this crowd already is, guys are turning their heads at this spectacle. Alphonse pays them no notice.
At first, I'm angry, but I can feel myself begin to smile. Then the laughter bubbles up from someplace deep inside. Alphonse puts his muscular arm around my shoulder and draws me to him. We amble towards our destination with the ease of old friends.
Patrick and Wolfgang are standing guard on either side of a small tent near the entrance of the freak show. Crude canvas paintings of a bearded lady, the man with alligator skin, a midget hermaphrodite, and others are flapping in the breeze behind them. A crowd of rambunctious frat men are gathered around the tent, asking the guards questions which are coldly ignored.
We stand on a small knoll to the side of the crowd: a great vantage point. Alphonse waves at the guards. They each nod and pull up the front and sides of the tent with slender ropes. From the back, Wolfgang brings forth a sign which reads:
THE MOST TICKLISH MAN ALIVE.
Hank is livid! His face is boiling red as he curses the guards and threatens the crowd. I laugh. He's in no position to threaten anyone.
He's wearing a pointed Puritan style hat, tight brown pants and his big bare feet are stuck through some padded stocks. He's barechested and, even though the air is getting a bit chilly, I can see that he's sweating bullets. His wrists are tied behind his head.
"What's that small table in front of him?" I ask.
"Thirteen electric toothbrushes. Soft-bristled, of course. They're connected to an adapter." Alphonse says.
An electric hum pierces the air. A murmur in the crowd.
A big burly guy in a football jersey holds an electric toothbrush high in the air. It makes a slow descent towards Hank's writhing foot.
"GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME, YOU FAT FUCK! SHOVE IT UP YOUR MUSCLE-BOUND ASS! NO! NOOOOOO! AAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Hank's whole body twitches madly, as if he's in an electric chair. His laughter brings applause from the crowd. Wolfgang and Patrick gesture to some of the guys, encouraging them to join in the tickle-torture.
Pretty soon, toothbrushes are over Hank's body like bees on a honey jar. Guys unable to get a device use their fingertips. Others use feathers from the funhouse.
"So many are paying attention to Hank that they are forgetting the freak show!" says Alphonse. "0h well, that's show biz!"
Hank's shrieks get louder and louder. Much more hysterical then Frank.
" NO! PLEASE! HAHAHA! NO MORE! AAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Both of Hank's ears are being poked with pigeon feathers. I see a blonde guy with a runner's build take the tip of his tooth brush and swirl it like a swizzle stick in the clear plastic glass of lemonade he's holding. The glass is full of ice. Many of the other guys whoop and follow suit. Hank's thrashing is even wilder now as his sensitive body is assaulted with the ice-cold brushes.
"Nobody seems to be paying any attention to his crotch," I say.
"Too small, I imagine," Alphonse says. "Though I'm sure someone will get to that later. Now, would you like to go to visit dear Brad?"
I nod and follow Alphonse.
"You know, it's really too bad that we didn't do this in the springtime. As it is, we just have to use old, toothless cattle instead of cute little calves. But we'll not lack for entertainment, I assure you." Alphonse says.
Listening to Alphonse tell of the elaborate preparations he made for Brad, I almost feel guilty for putting him through so much trouble. But his amber eyes shine so, his hands gesture everywhere like a conductor, and his voice his crackles with so much energy that I know he loves this as much as I do.
Ever since mid-way through Frank's punishment, my erections are getting harder to control. I just adjust my cock so that it sits up against my lower belly. I act casual so Alphonse won't notice.
All around us, the carnival is going full tilt. The rides, games and exhibits are all jam packed with handsome frat guys from all over the state, bussed in just for the occasion. Every light seems as bright as it can be and Alphonse's face glows with pleasure with the sights around him, the infectious energy in the air, the loud carny music. But when he speaks about Brad's punishment, the twinkle in his eyes grows even more mischievous.
"Just wait till you see it!" Alphonse exclaims boyishly. "It's by far my finest achievement this evening!"
We finally stand before the final tent. It's also the largest tent. Alphonse had, of course, given specific orders to his staff that nothing was to begin until we arrived. His reputation for swift and terrible retribution guaranteed strict compliance. A crowd had grown outside, the rowdiest we've seen this evening. I recognize some of them from the other two exhibits.
We stroll past the guards and enter.
In the center, a giant pit has been dug. Filled with lowing cattle from Michael's ranch, the pit was covered with the kind of safety net acrobats used in circuses. And Brad is tied, stark screaming naked, in the center. Spread-eagled, his limbs were securely tied to the net with black bonds. The contrast with the white net made Brad look even more naked, somehow.
"You pair of lousy shits!" He yelled, spitting his words out like venom.
Alphonse smiled. "Kindly go fuck yourself, my good man."
Alphonse strolls around the periphery of the pit and inspects the posts, making sure the net is secure. Every five feet or so, a trash can is brimming with children's water pistols. Instead of water, Alphonse had them filed with milk and honey ("Gives the scene a Biblical aura," he told me earlier).
"You'll never get away with this!" Brad spits. "I'll tell the police."
"I'm the richest man in the county. I am the police!"
"Think you're smart, don't you? Well, I'll...Aghhhhhhhh!" A cow licks the back of Brad's knee, savoring the salty sweat. Brad tries to buck and kick. All in vain.
Alphonse glances at his watch.
"Now," He says to me.
The guys begin to file in. Brad's struggles become really desperate now. His huge cock flops around like a thick, tormented snake. The cords of his muscles tighten. The first stream of milk lands square in his right armpit. An immense pink tongue laps it up, lazily.
"No!" Brad yells. "No!"
His sides are drenched with milk. An army of tongues gather on either side of him, ignoring his tight giggles. When the tongues begin lapping up the nourishment on his soles, Brad's giggles turn into guffaws.
"This is fucking perverted! STOP! Hahahahahahahahahaha! Oh man! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAHAHAHA!,,
The whole tent is filed with not only Brad's laughter, but all the frat guys - at least two hundred of them. All around, groups of three or four young men are poking the ribs or attacking the armpits of a helpless fellow frat member.
"Looks like we've started a new college fad," says Alphonse.
Brad's cock is standing straight up now. Cows are licking those famous bull balls of his. His laughter is mixed with great moans. About twenty streams of milk converge on his crotch. The cows lap it up furiously.
"Get these things away from my nuts! Hahahahahahahaha! OH GOD! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The air is thick and hot with the sweat of so many bodies. Sweat drips from everyone's brow. And everywhere I look, crotches bulge. Including my own.
Brad lets out a bellow. His cock explodes with a hot stream of his manhood. It seems to last forever. Silence falls on the tent .
But the cows keep licking. In seconds, exhausted giggles flutter from Brad's mouth. Cool milk once again begins to cover his body. And his screaming laughter becomes louder than ever.
We leave the tent.
Alphonse and I drink expensive champagne in the limo. The full moon casts wonderful shadows over the countryside and the drink goes straight to my head.
We arrive at the Laveau estate just after midnight. I'm totally exhausted; Alphonse had taken me on every ride, sometimes twice. I can still hear my own screaming laughter as we ride the Tilt-a-Whirl and see my companion's dark auburn hair fly behind him during the most intense parts of the rollercoaster.
Patrick opens the door for us and we enter. Suddenly, a thought occurs to me.
"Where's Michael?" I ask.
"He helped set up most of the scenes, at his own request. Right now, he's probably having your friends transported back to their place. That is, after members of my staff give them all a nice scrubbing, from head to foot. I encouraged my servants to take their time."
My God! I hadn't even thought about that? Where am I going to go now? I can't live with my old roommates.
"You'll live here, of course," Alphonse says, quietly, but firmly.
"Oh no! That's crazy..."
"Why not? You're bright. Intelligent. You'll earn your keep by supervising my staff. I'll authorize you to use the proper discipline whenever necessary."
"You mean...tickle them..."
"I don't think I can do that."
Alphonse roars with laughter. I can feel the blood rush to my face, my jaw clench.
"Please don't be angry!" Alphonse says. "But I'll never forget the sight of you trying to hide your erection - doing anything to hide your true feelings. And from one who can truly accept and appreciate you! Incredible!"
I just stand there. Alphonse grins.
"The job I offer you has no strings. You can set your own hours. Perfect for a student! You don't have to go to bed with me. Though, of course, you will never regret doing so."
"What the hell do you mean! I..."
"Really, Rick, this is getting to be quite tiresome. Are you going to look me in the eye and say that you do not want to make love with me?" Alphonse raises his thick brows quizzically. "I know you've never been with a man. Or a woman for that matter. And that you would love to get the tickling of your life. And get a chance to tickle me in the bargain!"
I turn my back on him. Hot tears stream down my face. He stands in front of me now and lifts my head, his eyes full of concern. I feel his hot tongue in my mouth.
I close my eyes. The wind rattles every window in the house as Alphonse carries me to his bedroom.
We spend the entire evening tying each other to the enormous brass bed with black satin cords. Our laughter bounces against walls covered with Dali and Degas originals. As the morning light creeps in through fine lace curtains, we lay at each others feet, exhausted, covered with gleaming sweet.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a small Art Deco statue of Diana on the nightstand. She stands proud and erect, a spear in her left hand, a stag to her right. I can just read the inscription:
ALL ACTS OF PLEASURE ARE MY RITUALS
"I had that added on," says Alphonse. "It's an old Pagan saying."
I crawl up and kiss Alphonse. We embrace and knead each other's ribs. The room grows brighter and brighter with our laughter.
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