Erik's Revenge



It was my Senior year in High School. Basically I was the quiet reserved guy, who was known for his random magic tricks in the hallway, the occasional chorus solo and the one trophy from the talent contest my sophomore year. I was bugged by the nerd squad..."show me a me a trick", and I was beaten up and made fun of regularly by almost anyone who was threatened by my seeming intelligence. I was no Doogie Howser, but I held my own in math class and made my B's and C's on the general core of other boring classes they taught.

It was in my English class that I first saw Stan Adams. He was my height, sandy blond hair that was full of wide roman curls, and the son of my English teacher. He was head of the Key Club, a cheerleader, an "A" student, and had the best ass I have ever seen walking down a classroom aisle. Numerous times Ms. Adam's would introduce us (we had no classes together) as if she thought we should be friends, and each time it seemed she thought she was introducing us for the first time. I wouldn't have minded being his friend, but Stan had no interest in the matter. I was beneath him, socially...I guess. And I had no beef with him 'til I heard him call me a faggot to his friends in the hall one day. I slunked my shoulders and walked on as if I heard nothing. Those days I never admitted I was gay, and God help those who accused me. And that was what started it. I began thinking of how to set Stan up, get him...something that would humiliate him.

It was August when it happened. Key Club was have some sort of hell week or something...the buzz around the halls indicated that some guys had been nominated to do something memorable. If they could, they would become members. If they failed, they were out. I thought it was the stupidest thing I had ever heard of. The year before a group of guys had painted the mascot horse in front of the school lime green. It made all of the newspapers, and obviously earned each member admittance. And now, again, it was the weekend for the prank.

That Friday evening ended with a blush of gold and blues dimming the sky over the trail behind the school. I took this "short cut" through the woods more for deviation than shortness of distance, and was about 3 blocks into the woods when I heard voices. I had stumbled upon the Key Club, or at least the recruits and Stan, out in the woods. I ducked behind a tree close enough to hear the conversation but not close enough to be seen, and listened. It only took a few minutes to catch what the intent was. They were staging a kidnapping. Stan was going to be missing for a day. All in good fun of course, but Stan it seemed was not doing it of his own free will. "My Mom won't think this is funny" he argued, but no one was listening to him. He started shouting about something not being fair. And then there was laughter. A chorus rang out "He's TICKLISH!!!". Stan barked a plea of stop to the tree's, but no one paid attention, and while he gasped and coughed out giggles, it seems they restrained him. Then one of the recruits raised an alarm about getting out of there, another puberty bound voice squeaked that they should have brought handcuffs, and a third voice said the blindfold and ropes were enough, they needed to get going. Rustles of leaves filled the air, and then hoots and hollers faded into the distance as they rushed away. Stan shouted after them to come back a few times. I heard him struggle and then I heard him begin cursing. He cursed the school, the woods, the club, specific names of people I didn't know, and God, of course. I sat there a full 5 minutes listening and waiting for the recruits to return, and when the didn't, I stood up and walked slowly towards where their voices had been coming from.

Those who don't believe that what goes around comes around, or that people get what's coming to them should have been me that day. And then they would believe. As I walked off the path into the dense thicket that the Key club had set up as headquarters for Stan, I promised myself that if it was as good as I thought it was going to be, Stan would be a different guy by the time I finished. When I finally reached him I found he had been tied across three hobby horses that had been nailed together into a makeshift bed. He rested horizontally, about 4 feet off the ground. Two long 2 by 4's ran along each edge of the hobby horse's, nailed to them, and a wide piece of ply board had been nailed to the 2 by 4's. Holes had been cut into the plywood at various strategic points on his body. At his wrists, elbows, thighs, knees and ankles rope ran through each hole holding him securely to the wood frame. He was pulling with his upper body, but the ropes were extremely secure. He would pull for a minute with all his might and then stop. And then repeat the task again, but he gained nothing. The ropes didn't stretch and he continued to be immobile. In addition, holes were at each ear, and a bandanna had been pulled through and tied, securing his head to the board, and providing an excellent blindfold. On the ground in a shoe box beneath where Stan was tied was another bundle of rope, a pair of scissors, a can of raid, an old paint brush, and a magic marker. Further inspection also showed that the hobby horses had been tied off to trees that were surrounding the platform, preventing Stan from unwittingly knocking down the whole contraption. He was dressed in a button down collar polo shirt, baggy cotton jogging shorts, short white "footie" socks and Nike tennis shoes.

They must have been tying him for quite a while before I came upon them. And to this day I can't figure out how they got him down based on what I heard but....who am I to question good luck. I stepped up to the platform, about a foot from his head and he heard the leaves rustle. "I knew you guys would be back!" he exclaimed, trying to muster all the bravado he could.

I leaned over and whispered "you're not that lucky."

"Who the fuck are you???!?" he shouted, sealing his fate. Since I knew he couldn't see me (it was beginning to get dark anyway), and he was helpless I took the advantage.

"I hear you're ticklish that true?"

"No. Let me out guys, this isn't funny". It was a command barked by a Key Club commander.

"You're not?" I poked his shirt with open fingers in a grasping motion.

"NO!!!" He yelped, startled, grinning. "Come on, heh, let me out."

"Stan, you said you weren't ticklish? Where you lying??!?" I ran a scampering hand to his armpit and bristled the hair there through his shirt.

A groan bubbled from his mouth (that was now set in a wide grin) and he clenched his jaw, biting back the laughter that should have come out. But it was a game he was playing without ammunition. I slowly began unbuttoned his shirt from the neck down.

"Uh...come don't need to do that. Please...come on."

His voice had diminished into a weak plea, but I continued until I had gone all the way to his waist, where I pulled the rest of the shirt loose from his shorts, popping the last button off in the same motion and pulling the shirt wide open on the plywood. He wasn't a Greek god, but his chest was smooth and his stomach was almost flat and a gentle stream of fine light brown hair trickled from just above his belly button down to the pubic hair hidden in his shorts.

In a caressing circular move, I began tickling his sides and stomach with all ten fingers at the same time, insistent on a good response.

"PP..PPPLEAS Haha ahahaha ahaha can't..hahahahahahaha...Pleas...hahahaha STOPPPPPPP!!!"

I pulled my hands back, happy that I had broken through the small barrier he had put up for an instant. His breathing was in gasps, and he strained at the ropes not budging an inch. And I waited until he had calmed down. "So admit it Stan your VERY ticklish. Am I right?"

"Yyyyes. OK. I'm ticklish. Alright??!?! Please, whoever you are, please stop."

Now he was whispering the words. Whispering from the entrance of a place he didn't like being pushed into. Whispering like a convict sentenced to life imprisonment for a crime he had not yet gotten to commit. I loved it.

"Thanks for being honest", I answered in a gloating tone. "Care to tell me where?"

"No!... I mean... not really..heh ha..I mean...", he trailed off realizing he was on thin ice not knowing what was worse; exploratory research or confirmation. "I know...why not just let me up and we'll forget the whole...thing...OK?"

I was silent for a moment. And then replied "I have no intention of forgetting this. Ever. Lets remove your shoes." I repositioned myself by where his feet were secured. His club mates had done an excellent job, positioning the feet about 2 1/2 feet apart.

"You better get out of here, my buddies will be back any minute and when they do they will kick..."

But he never finished. With one hand on each shoe I yanked the heels down and up. He tried curling his toes, but it didn't help, the shoes pulled free and went flying into the scattered leaves. I began tickling the bottom of his footies as lightly and deviously as I could. He began to giggle in a high pitched voice, pulling in a lungs full of air, moving his head back and forth in the slight motion that it could, and giggling some more. He tried to form words but they were lost in the stream of uncontrollable laughter from his mouth.

"AAAAhhhhh hahah ahhahah ple hahaha ayou ha a nonononon hahahahhahhhhhahahaha if you haha hee hee hahahh on no hahahah Please nohahahahahah quitha ahahaha h ah ah Oh god....on no hahhaha.."

I pulled the footies off and continued my torture on his bare feet, raising the pitch of his giggling about two octaves. I went on for about ten minutes, until he stopped making any discernible sound and all that came out of his mouth was a thin sliver of rushing air. (To this day I have never seen anyone laugh that hard).

While giving him a moment to cool down, I extracted the footies that were now on the ground, and balled them up. Taking the extra rope from the shoe box, I fashioned a make-shift gag by wrapping the middle of the rope around the socks and tying it tight.

Seeing Stan was finally caught up on his breathing, I shoved the socks into his mouth. He started to resist, but then It seemed he bought into the idea. I wrapped the rope behind his neck, doubled it back over both sides and tied the rope directly over the socks and his mouth.

It was only after he was gagged that I dared continue. I picked up the scissors and cut away his baggy shorts. He gave muffled cries once he realized what was happening, but I shouted for him to stop wiggling or he'd get cut, and he calmed down. He had on Bright red fruit of the loom jockey underwear, that was drenched in pre cum from his extended dick. I tickled his balls through the underwear and his whole body shuddered as his cock strained. I toyed with him for about 15 minutes in this manner. I was sure that the look on his face was of one who has gone crazy. Finally another ounce of courage surfaced and I cut away the underwear as well. The trail of hair on his belly did indeed run all the way to his pubic hair. I ran my finger lightly across the top of this private area of hair and he began squirming wildly - trying to thrashing about, but unable to move.

I got the paint brush from the shoe box and used one hand to brush his balls, and the other hand to stroke his pubic hair. He moaned, his cock jutted, and through the gag he began to laugh. Long hearty laughs spewed forth from him muffled by the gag. And then, without warning, he climaxed. I was so startled I stopped, and I think he was equally as surprised, but he shot across his chest and face, covering himself in cum.

I grabbed his dick and began jacking slowly. He howled as I continued pumping his sensitive dick, shuddering and straining. With my other hand I spidered up and down his inner thighs and knees. Ten more minutes of tickling and he was hard as a rock again. I cut the sleeves on his shirt lengthwise and down his sides, and pulled away the cloth that once was a preppy polo shirt. Stan lay completely naked on the board. Circling back around to his head, I removed the gag and tickled his armpit, full force.

"Stop! Nohohohohohohohohoh STOP hhhehe hee hee hee aaahhhhhhahhahahahahah" He laughed and laughed and laughed.

Finally, I lowered my pants and shot my load onto his face and chest.

We both paused for a moment. Darkness had taken over the woods and in the distance I heard a car driving on gravel. Someone was returning to check on Stan! I gathered his clothes, stuffing them into my nap sack, along with his shoes and the gag I had made. I started back toward the school...away from the car...and then a final thought occurred to me. I went back to the shoe box, extracted the magic marker and wrote on Stan's stomach "BRUSH THE TOP OF MY PUBIC HAIR, IT DRIVES ME CRAZY"which was punctuated with an arrow pointing to the most sensitive area I had found. I bagged the marker and ran back towards to school. Once I reached the edge of the forest I stopped and listened. I heard numerous voices exclaiming "HOLY SHIT!!!", "Oh My God!", "Look At this"...and as Stan's uncontrolled giggling began I knew my revenge was complete.

None of the pledges were allowed in Key Club that year for some reason, and no one at school ever talked about it....But I know what happened, and sometimes when someone at work gives me a hard time, I pull out those sliced up red jockey shorts and remember that I may get retribution if I just wait long enough. Care to cross me?


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