I look at the boy lying on the padded table in the centre of my torture chamber. He is still unconscious - it will be another few minutes before he comes out of the anesthetic. He is beautiful - young, perhaps eighteen, blond, blue-eyed, and extremely good-looking. I squeeze my cock through my black rubber jeans as I gaze at him and think of what I am going to do to his young body in the next few hours.
Time to get organized - he'll be conscious soon, and by that time I have to get him helpless. I strip him, putting his tee-shirt and jeans outside the door, then I move his limbs so that he is in a spread-eagled position and fasten his wrists and ankles to the table with heavy leather restraints. I push a cock-shaped gag between his teeth and strap it behind his head, then consider - should I blindfold him now? It would be good for him to wake up hooded, not being able to see where he was, who had got him - it would make him very afraid indeed. On the other hand, what would he see? With the bright overhead spotlight shining straight down on him not much of the rest of the room will be visible to him, and his first sight will be me - a figure in skin-tight shiny black rubber jeans, bike boots, long black rubber gloves, studs and chains, a leather body harness and a long black leather executioner's mask -standing over him. That appeals to me more than having him wake up blindfolded. I pull on the mask and wait, playing with my hardening cock through the stretchy black rubber.
His breathing changes rhythm - he's coming to. He inhales deeply once, opens his eyes, then squints them half-closed again against the bright light.
He moves experimentally, realizes he is strapped down and, paradoxically, tries to sit up. Then he sees me.
I suppose that roughly translates as 'What the fuck...?'. I remain silent, continuing to squeeze my now fully erect cock through my shiny jeans.
"Mmmmmmmmffffff!!" His eyes are open now, wild and staring.
"That's it - try to move," I say quietly, smiling behind the mask. "You're strapped down, but I like to see a boy struggle. And you'll be doing a lot of that before long."
He doesn't try to reply, realizing it's useless with the rubber gag filling his mouth.
I move closer, and squeeze the shaft of my cock so he can see the steel-hard outline of it beneath the stretchy black rubber. "I suppose you want to ask a lot of questions, like 'where am I', or 'who are you', or 'why am I here', or 'what are you going to do to me?' Is that right?"
He stares at my bulging crotch for a few moments without reacting, then looks at me and finally nods.
"OK - I'll answer those. You are in a torture chamber - doesn't matter where. I am a sexual pervert. You are here because you're straight and I fancy you and I kidnapped you. As to what I'm going to do to you - I am going to torture you. I hope that answers your questions."
He begins to struggle hard, raising his back off the padded table and pulling at the restraints. "Mmmmmmmfffff!!," he yells. He really does have a limited vocabulary.
I stand back and look at him. His body is firm, young and strong - a swimmer's build - tanned and hard. My cock is jerking frequently under the rubber and I can't help squeezing it now and then. "There is absolutely no point in struggling, although I do enjoy seeing a boy writhing in his restraints, and please feel free to shout or scream all you want - there are no neighbours here, and you're gagged anyway.
I take a large glass jar down from a shelf and open it. It contains a strange-looking gunk - a thick, light blue gel which seems to sparkle cloudily in the light. It is, in fact, a suspension of glass fibres in lube. It has taken me years to perfect, and causes the most intense itching you can imagine.
Carefully I put the jar down, and plunge my rubber-gloved hand into it, taking a fistful of the gel. I hold it up and approach the helpless boy slowly. He is staring at me with terror in his eyes, having no idea what the stuff is. It could be acid as far as he knows.
With my left hand I massage his cock - I am expert in this - and it begins to harden slowly in spite of his fear. Soon it is standing erect. I am pleased to see that he is uncut, and the foreskin is loose and long. It will hold a lot of gel.
I bring my other hand down and spread the gel thickly over his genitals, getting it all over his balls, round the back and deep into the crevices at the sides of his scrotum, then I put another fistful onto his cock. I use my free hand to hold the foreskin back while I coat the bare glans with it, then pull the skin back over the end, packing more gel into the tip.
I know it will be a few minutes before he begins to feel the effects, so next I fasten a leather strap tightly over his hips to keep his body down hard on the table, bend down and release the catch on the small trapdoor in the table top under his arse. I thrust my middle finger into the jar of gel, then insert it gently up his exposed arsehole. I repeat this action - finger in the gel, then up his hole - five times, each time pushing my finger deep into his rectum and coating his prostate with the gel. When I've finished, I unfasten the strap over his hips so that he can struggle - his involuntary movements will intensify the effects a great deal.
Then I go over to the chair, sit back, light a cigarette, and wait.
After a couple of minutes he begins to moan quietly. I know from my experiments in developing the gel exactly what he is feeling. The first sensation he will become aware of is a slight itching on the tip of his cock. This will slowly intensify while other, slightly less sensitive places begin to itch. The itching will slowly build up, becoming worse and worse, until the full effect is achieved in about a quarter of an hour. Long before that, however, he will be half insane with the desperate need to scratch his cock, balls and inside his arsehole. The effects of the gel will last about an hour, after which the sensations will begin to decline - unless more gel is put on, in which case the already sensitized areas will respond much more rapidly - and intensely - to the new coating.
I intend to renew the gel every fifteen minutes. I want this boy to suffer.
* * *
I am a self-confessed pervert. I fancy boys, and love to have sex with them. Unfortunately I'm not at all good-looking, and they never want to have sex with me. And so, I do something useful: I take pretty boys off the street - pretty, straight, queer-hating boys whom I've watched insulting gays (or even worse, beating them up) and bring them here, drugged, where I teach them a lesson they won't forget. I strap them down, coat their pretty young cocks, balls and arseholes with itching gel, and wait till they start to suffer. Oh it's not painful - it's quite delightful actually - more than anything else, the gel makes you want to cum. It makes your cock itch so intensely that you'd sell your fucking soul to have it even touched. What you want more than anything in the world is to be able to jerk yourself off - or have someone else do it. The gel on your prostate makes your arsehole ache for it to be filled - with anything. Your balls itch and tickle, and you seem to be perpetually on the edge of the most shattering orgasm in the world, but you can't cum.
You can't cum...
* * *
I grind out the stub of my second cigarette and go over to the boy. His eyes are open wide, only the whites visible as he pulls and jerks at the restraints in a effort to free himself. The wrist and ankle cuffs are padded, so he won't hurt himself. He becomes aware that I'm there and turns on me the most pitifully pleading look I have ever seen.
"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmffffffffffffff," he says, suffering.
Applying subsequent coats of gel to his cock has to be done very carefully, as a touch too much pressure will cause him to cum. I take a very soft camel hair paintbrush which I keep specially for the purpose, and dip it into the blue gel. His expression changes from pitiful pleading to absolute terror as he watches the brush approach. I coat his balls first, putting on a good thick layer and moving it about so the glass fibres all get a chance to have their effect. Then, starting at the base of the shaft, I apply more gel to his cock. The jerking and throbbing makes it difficult to be accurate, but I brush the gel on lightly and slowly. The red blisters are beginning to appear now - they're small, but intensely itchy, and will become more and more numerous as the new coating begins to take effect. Eventually his cock will be covered in them - each small red blister excruciatingly, maddeningly demanding to be scratched.
As I gently pull the foreskin back I see that the glans is almost completely covered in them already. Being very careful indeed, I stroke the soft brush very slowly over the blisters, laying down more gel on top of them to do its fiendish work on an area already very sensitized. As the soft bristles brush over the bare tip of his cock, I imagine what he's feeling - the movement of the brush must be excruciating - tickling almost more than it is possible to bear, and making the now hypersensitive glans desperate for a firm, hard touch.
I hadn't noticed before, but he's got quite a wide piss-slit. I poke the tip of the brush right into it, gently working the gel down into the upper part of his urethra. That is an added bonus - it will really get to him when the inside of his cock starts to itch as well...
I'm really getting into this boy - more so than some of the others, and I decide he needs more gel on his prostate than my finger can apply. I have a special syringe I occasionally use - I don't always use it, but keep it for special occasions when I think the extra intense effects are justified. I take it off the shelf. It's a large glass syringe with a rubber tube instead of a needle, and a widened outlet so the stiff gel will pass easily. I fill it with the gunk and carefully insert the tube up the boy's arsehole. Getting the end of the tube onto the prostate is a bit hit and miss, but it doesn't really matter as the amount I'm putting in will fill his rectum and completely cover the prostate. I push the plunger down slowly and smoothly, watching the blue irritant gel being forced up inside him. He may be able to eject some of it, but by that time it will have coated the sensitive inside surfaces thickly and effectively.
I withdraw the syringe and place it in the washing-up bowl to be dealt with later, then stand back and survey my handiwork. The second coat of gel is working already on his cock and balls - particularly on the glans - and he is in an agony of itching, sexual frustration. He is groaning and yelling around the gag, convulsing spasmodically as his muscles try to obey the urgent, imperative, compelling messages to rub, to scratch, to jerk himself off, being sent out by his brain.
But he is helpless. He is restrained specifically to make that the one thing he can't do. But he can struggle. He can move about, open and close his knees a little, raise his back off the table and twist slightly in the throes of his suffering. He can make all the movements, in fact, which will increase the itching and tickling immeasurably. Not only that, but he can't stop himself from doing it. Oh yes, I know exactly what I'm doing to him.
Time, I think, for a cup of tea.
* * *
It takes me perhaps a quarter of an hour to make the tea, drink it, smoke a cigarette and have a pee (not easy with an erection). When I return, his head jerks up and his eyes fix on me desperately as I close the door. I think to myself: is he ready yet? I consider this for a few moments, looking into his wildly staring blue eyes and listening to his pleas for mercy under the gag. Oh they're that all right, even if all the sound he's making consists of unintelligible "Mmmmfffff"s.
I inspect his cock. It is, of course, fully erect, and as hard as steel. The foreskin is covered with red bumps, and has retracted a little, showing the raised, angry red blisters beneath, on the glans itself. Although it looks very seriously inflamed, I know very well that the gel will cause no permanent harm at all, and in fact that a good washing with soap and water will remove it almost instantly. The blisters themselves will stay around for a day, then disappear without trace. But I also know that while they are there, they are truly excruciating. I smile as I think that tomorrow, after I've let him go later tonight, he's gonna be wanking himself silly until the blisters go. He won't be able to keep his hands off himself until they've gone. It's good stuff, that goo.
I crawl underneath the table and have a look at his arsehole. He's managed to get rid of quite a lot of the goo, but I know from his violent reactions when I gently insert the tip of my finger, that it is still working on him well.
Standing once more, I come to a decision. No, he's not ready yet - he'll take another coat of gel. No doubt he would disagree with me if he could - but he can't. I refill the syringe, and lean over him, holding it where he can see it. "Now then, how're you doing? Does it itch? Does it tickle? How are your balls? Would you like me to play with them for you? Or how about my nice rough hand on your cock - gripping the shaft firmly, stroking up and down hard, and my thumb scrubbing your bare dickhead? Would you like that?"
For a moment I think he's going to faint - but then I realize his eyeballs have rolled up in a kind of ecstasy just thinking about the prospect. He is making wailing noises behind the gag.
"Tell you what, how about another good, thick coating of gel instead? Make you a lot more itchy. Then, later - much later - if you're a real good boy, and beg me to, I might fuck you. Would you like that? A queer leather-clad sexual pervert's cock up your straight young virgin arsehole, rubbing up and down against your prostate, fucking you while I grab your cock in my rubber-gloved hand and toss you off, real hard? It would get rid of that itching, wouldn't it...?"
He is nodding his head furiously. I smile behind the leather hood.
"Yeah? You want more gel?"
Now he is shaking his head just as violently and moaning despairingly.
"Oh, well if you don't want more gel, I'll have to leave you here like this all night without fucking you or rubbing your itching, tickling cock."
"Nooooooo. Nooooo. Mmmpleeeeeaseffff!"
"Well make up your mind. Which do you want - more gel and get fucked later, or no more gel and be left here all night?"
"More gel and a good hard tossing?"
He closes his eyes and nods twice. I go to work with the syringe, this time putting two lots up him. Then I paint his cock and balls with two separate layers of the gel working it gently into his blistered skin as much as I dare without running the risk of making him cum. I spend a long time getting the stuff down his piss-slit and put extra-thick coats of the sticky goo on his cockhead, getting right under the foreskin and making sure it holds a large amount in contact with his glans. As the soft bristles travel over his cock, tickling him beyond endurance, he arches his back and screams. My cock is stretching the black rubber of my jeans almost to bursting point. I desperately want to cum myself - but I will wait. I am going to fuck that boy senseless later.
I leave him screaming and writhing on the padded table. As I go downstairs, I check my watch. I estimate that the final coat of gel will reach maximum effect in about twenty minutes. So, give him an extra quarter of an hour to get really desperate - 35 minutes. OK - time enough to read the paper.
* * *
It's now nine o'clock - I confess I fell asleep in the armchair. He's had a quarter of an hour more than I had intended, but there you go. I climb the stairs quietly, listening. Yes - I can hear his pitiful shrieks from here. He's ready.
He's so far into his itching, ticklish agony that he doesn't even hear me come in. It's not until I stroke his thigh that he jumps and his eyes slam open. He is frantic. He doesn't know where to put himself. I inspect his cock and balls.
His scrotum is covered with the small red blisters, right up into the crevices at the sides, and his cock is so plastered with them that there are no gaps between the angry red bumps at all. Gently I peel back his foreskin - now even my slightest touch sends him into paroxysms of itchy ticklishness - and I squeeze my own bulging cock at the sight: his precum has run down the entire shaft and made a pool between his legs. The thin liquid hasn't managed to wash away any of the gel, though, I'm pleased to see. It's all there as I left it, doing its tormenting work on his dick head.
He is writhing about, trying to get into a position where the itching and tickling is less, and pulling at his restraints in an effort to free his hands so he can touch his cock, his balls, his arse - and RUB them. But there is no relief. On the contrary, in fact - as I pull the stool alongside the table so I can sit down in comfort, because all this has been only a prelude to what is to come now.
Now, it is time to torture the boy.
I pick up a small black box from under the table and place it by his head. I open it and leave it there as I speak to him quietly, gently. "Boy - I'm sorry, I don't even know your name - I know you are suffering. Everything I have done to you so far has been designed specifically to make you suffer. you never knew anything could itch as much as that, did you? And it tickles, doesn't it? Well now it's time for you to learn your lesson. I've been watching you beating up gays as they come out of the club on St. Anne's Street. I've seen you do it three times. You hate queers, don't you? Well, boy, now one has got you. I've got you helpless and suffering."
He stares at me with wild eyes, his body twitching and convulsing quite involuntarily.
"Oh don't worry, I'll fuck you and toss you off. I'll put my hard, big cock up your itching arse and fuck all the itching away. You'll feel it going in and out, rubbing against your sphincters and your prostate, doing exactly what you're longing for. And I'll toss you off. Oh yes, I'll wrap my rough hand around your tickling, itching cock and rub it hard, up and down the shaft, over the bare glans, until you shoot your load into my hand. I'll do it really hard to stop the itching. You want that, don't you?"
Even before I have asked the question, he is nodding his head frantically.
"But first, I'm afraid I have to make you suffer more - much more.
To teach you what happens to boys who hate queers and beat them up."
I reach into the box and take out one of the items from inside. It is a soft feather.
He stares at it in horror, and begins very very slowly to shake his head. The shaking gets gradually faster and more violent. He is screaming into the gag. "Mmmmmnnnnnnooooooooooogh!"
I touch the feather to his balls and begin to stroke it slowly over the inflamed scrotum. He immediately goes rigid and lets out a scream such as I have never heard. I tickle his balls with the feather - round and round, over the front, to the back, and push the pointed end deep into the coating of gel at the sides of the scrotum. He is beside himself. He rages and struggles, fighting the restraints, fighting the insanely tickling sensations the feather is causing.
It's no good, I can't wait any longer - with infinite sadism I tickle up the shaft of his cock, lingering on the blisters, stroking them lightly and quickly - short, tickling strokes. His cock is jerking - he can't keep it still. But he knows what's coming next.
The feather is, by now, soaked with the gel, and I'm after a somewhat more intense effect for his glans anyway, so I discard it and take another object from the black box. This is a small brush. Its bristles, while still quite soft, are rather stiffer than the camel hair brush. I am going to have to be very careful indeed with this. He is extremely near to orgasm, and a careless stroke will send him over the edge. I do not want that to happen.
I touch the tip of the brush to a large red blister on the end of his cock, and scratch it briefly. Ahh - yesss - he screams and fucks the air madly. I will use lighter strokes, to make it even worse for him. I run the bristles lightly - hardly touching - across the head of his cock, tickling and scratching the inflamed, blistered glans. He goes totally berserk. He is writhing and struggling, yelling and screaming through the gag as I work on the tip of his cock.
I amuse myself like this for a long time. My cock is almost bursting out of my jeans, and I can feel streams of precum running down between my legs. The slippery liquid lubricates the rubber jeans and my cock slips and slides inside them in the most wonderful way. I am desperate to squeeze it, to rub it, to bring myself off, but I channel this need into working on the boy with precision and skill.
I take another feather from the box and apply it to his balls as I run the bristles of the brush over his cock. I know the kind of thing he must be experiencing, although I have never felt this intensity of sensation myself. I tickle his cock and balls maniacally, the feather and brush flying over his hypersensitised genitals. Streams of precum have been running out of his piss-slit for ages now.
I talk to him as I work. "Let's get right in here with the feather
- yes, that tickles, doesn't it? Now let's tickle your cockhead with the brush again. Ahh - oh yes, that's really making you squirm. How'd you like me to rub sandpaper over you cockhead? Feel the roughness rubbing your cock hard. Yeah? I just bet you would. You'd do anything if only I'd rub your cock hard, yeah?. Well let's tickle it instead... Yeah - get the point of that brush right into that piss-slit - and tickle.."
The poor boy is suffering as much as it is possible for him to suffer. There is nothing now that I can do to make it worse. So I keep doing what I have been doing - tickling, tickling, tickling...
I decide that is enough, and put the instruments of torture back into the box. I replace the box on the floor, and, being extremely careful not to let him escape - in fact he is far too weak to cause any problems there - I disconnect his ankle cuffs, refastening them to the chains of the electric hoist, which are held apart by a leg spreader. A further pair of cuffs go around his thighs, just above the knees, and he is ready.
The hoist purrs into action at my press of the button, and his legs raise onto the air. I stop the motor, and remove the now-superfluous bottom half of the padded table (it's actually in three sections - the head end comes off as well). He is still spread-eagled, but his arse is slightly raised, and just beyond the edge of the table. He is in perfect position for fucking. He can't close his legs, or rub his cock against anything.
I go to the top of the table and remove the rubber gag from his mouth, simultaneously pressing a hidden switch which starts a concealed video camera. Everything now is being recorded, but of course he doesn't know it.
Although he is still writhing on the table, and gasping, he is otherwise silent for a moment as he stares at me. Then, unable to stand it any more, he speaks. "Please - stop the itching. I'll do anything. I'm sorry - I'll n-n-never hassle qu - gays again, ever, I promise. Please, please, rub my cock. Oh God, my cock. Rub it. Rub it. For God's sake RUB IT!! And my arsehole - please, put something up it, and rub it on the inside. I can't fucking stand it. Please. PLEASE.
I gaze at him for a few moments. He'll have to do better than that. "I'm not sure what you want. Do you want me to tickle it some more?"
"NO! Please - ," he swallows hard, then remembers what I said I would do to him if he were a good boy, earlier. "Please - fuck me. Put your cock up my arsehole and fuck me - and toss me off. PLEASE!"
I frown, as if puzzled. "But you're straight. You know what I am - I'm gay. I'm a queer pervert in leather and rubber. I'll do those things to you if you really want me to, but are you sure? Tell me again - what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to FUCK me up the arse. Please - I'm begging you. FUCK ME AND TOSS ME OFF - PLEASE!"
I hesitate for just a moment. "Well, OK - if you're sure..." I stroke my finger lightly, just once, along the shaft of his cock.
He screams: "FUCK ME! FUCK ME! FUCK ME!"
"Ok, Ok, I'll fuck you." I sigh resignedly for the camera, and take a condom from the shelf. This is no ordinary condom - its outer surface is covered with hard rubber spikes, very close together, and each with a sharply-pointed tip. I unzip my jeans and my cock leaps out, free at last.
I remove my long rubber gloves, and replace them with others - the left one has spikes similar to the condom, but slightly sharper ones, and the right is covered with very short horse-hair bristles.
I position myself between his legs, ducking under the spreader bar, and gently insert the tip of my cock. I feel it go past the outer sphincter and a gasp of pleasure is wrenched from the boy. I freeze.
"No - No - keep moving. Please! Fuck me! Fuck me hard!"
I thrust in, past the second sphincter and push hard. My cock goes in all the way to the balls. The boy screws his face up in absolute ecstasy as the hard rubber spikes rub against the membranes and prostate which the gel has tormented for so long. But he needs more.
My left hand grips his balls, and my right wraps tightly around his cock.
I fuck him with animal passion as I rub his balls and stroke his cock hard and fast. The stiff horse hair scratches the blistered skin and my thumb scrubs hard over his bare glans. I increase the pressure and speed as I toss him off; I fuck him more violently, my studded cock pistoning in and out of his arse; and I scratch all around his balls with my rubber-gloved left hand.
With a scream of animal lust that would have awoken any neighbours if I'd had any, he begins to cum. In spite of the restraints he arches his back and howls as his hot, sticky thick spunk pumps up through the inflamed urethra and out of the end of his cock. He cums and cums and cums - I begin to think it's never going to stop. My hand, my arm, the table and the floor are covered with hot pools of spunk as he thrusts his cock in and out of my hand, and his arsehole up and down the shaft of my own dick. I start to shoot myself, and the movements of his arse milk me as helplessly as I'm milking him.
Eventually his flow of spunk decreases and stops. He collapses on the table, totally exhausted, and I pull out of him, my condom overflowing with cum.
I wipe myself down, put my cock back inside my jeans and zip myself up. "Is that what you wanted me to do?" I ask.
He does not reply.
I switch the hidden camera off, rewind the tape and turn on the monitor, which is placed where he can see it. "If you've got the strength, there's something I want you to look at - just in case you ever think of going back to your old ways." I run the tape and he stares, unbelieving as he hears himself beg this masked, leather-clad gay SM guy to fuck him. He watches with open mouth as the waves of spunk shoot out of his cock and my hips pummel against his arse.
When it's finished, I say, "I'll do you a copy if you like. I can mail it to you - 37 Beak Road, isn't it?" (I checked the wallet in his jeans during one of my tea breaks earlier)
"N-no, er - thanks, that won't be necessary. I'm done with queer bashing."
"Pleased to hear it. Now, the blisters will go away in a day or so.
Have a good wash when you get home and you'll be fine."
He nods, broken, and closes his eyes.
I take the opportunity to hold the chloroformed cloth over his face until he goes under.
Now I'll take him back where I found him and look for another boy for tomorrow.