I'd been watching him for for several weeks now. Gliding by with his buddies he'd be, in a white T-shirt and khaki shorts, baggy, coursing elegantly over the corporate cement. I'd be hangin' out on Saturdays, reading a novel, smoking cigarettes in the late spring warmth, thoroughly enjoying these young studs' skate stunts (until the goddamn corporation cracked down later that year and put up signs and more security to drive them off). Several were quite nice-looking, but one stood out. About five-nine, jet-black hair of average length, heavy-boned frame, and, around his neck, oddly, a very-seventies shark tooth on a black leather cord. The young hunk was broad-shouldered and clearly well-built; he distracted me often from my book (I think I was reading Nabokov's Lolita.)
As I had decided to be more bold with my interest in good-looking, athletic, cocky young men, specifically desiring to explore my paternal disciplinary instincts, and the possibility of persuading one of these smirky, arrogant skatepunks into bondage and boyish tortures, I determined to strike up a conversation with this guy. . .eventually.
Weekend after weekend, the skatepunks did their moves. I did nothing.
But today, I'd noticed him looking over at me a few times, with what appeared to be. . .interest. (Naw, impossible. . .)
Then. . .suddenly, there he was, rocketing his board my way. My favorite
skatepunk. When he got within twenty feet, I saw his eyes were locked on
mine. . .he glided up, snapped the board's end down suddenly, snagged his
chariot up and padded over the grass to me.
The Skatepunk Asks For A Cigarette
Ahhh. The interest was in. . .my cigarette pack. Figures. I smiled anyway. I held up the pack of American Spirits. "Hey, you shouldn't be smoking, pal," I said. "You're an athlete!" I smiled crookedly up at his face, silhouetted against the sun. He chuckled lazily. "Yeah, I know. I only smoke sometimes. Never buy 'em. Only bum 'em." He took a cig. Smiling bad-boyishly at me, he sat down on the hot cement wall a couple feet to my left.
We shot the shit for a few minutes. Turned out his name was Tim.
"Yeah, I've got a couple of part-timer jobs. I don't like to work much. Not with school on."
"Well, you're not in school now, are you? It's summer."
"Yeah, but. . ." He laughed and turned to me, grinning, a beautiful, devilishly boyish grin, his bright white teeth glinting sharply in the full sun as he threw his cocky head back. "Sometimes it seems I'm always in school. Fuckin' shit."
"I gotta fuck around, skate, scoot, party. . .you know." He took a long drag from the cig and leaned back carefully on the wall. Then he bolted up and peeled off his t-shirt.
I jumped involuntarily at the sight of his chest. Very lean, a little more tanned than his face had given away, with a hard, gently muscled belly. His upper body was a lot more muscular than I'd guessed; Tim had a great set of small, hard, square pecs and heavy, well-beefed shoulders and upper arms. He'd be great in a fight, I thought. Jesus, I tried hard not to stare! He turned and lay back along the wall and groaned contently, stretching his blue-veined forearms behind his head, exposing a lusciously moist pair of deep armpits, lined with strong young-male tendons, bursting with exuberant, dark pit hair. I could have jumped him and poked him right there. I had to have him somehow. . .
"So you don't have a job? What a fucking slacker."
He looked insulted. "No way, man, I work. At the Seven Sisters. Pull espresso." He looked serious for a moment. "Gotta save up money for my new board. Gonna cost me fucking almost two hundred bucks."
I was kinda stunned. Not by his looks, suddenly, but by the price. "You gotta be kidding me. How can a fucking skateboard cost two bills? That's insane."
Time shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever. It's a custom board." He
was looking off toward his buddies. He stood very suddenly and yelled something
unintelligible at one of them.
Hooking the Trout
Tim laid back down on the wall, lifted his head, and glanced at me.
"You look like one of those frat boys." He grinned wickedly. "Only older."
I preferred to think of this remark as a male compliment on my clean-cut good looks.
Cocky little bastard. "Shouldn't knock fraternities, smartass. You don't have what it takes to be in a frat." I pulled out a cig.
"Oh yeah? Like what am I missing? C'mon. Frat guys are a bunch of pussies. I should know. My sister's dated enough."
I lit my cig. "Yeah, maybe you think so, fucker, but the hazing's tough!"
He took a drag and spewed it out extravagantly. "Oh, okay, hazing. Yeah. Gimme a break. I could handle that shit." He glanced at me with cocky contempt, then looked away towards his buds.
I pulled myself up against the wall, stretching out my legs. "Oh, yeah, you think so, huh? You're a little smartass, pal. Though you're an awesome skateboarder."
"Awesome? But you're an old guy, so. . ."
"Old? I'm fucking twenty-nine. Old is like, seventy."
"Nobody says 'awesome' anymore." He grinned nonetheless.
"Not true, idjit."
"Whatever. . .you're old enough."
"Oh yeah? Old enough for what? And how old are you?"
He leaning up again, eyeing me quickly, then grinned down at the pavement, taking a long drag off the cig.
"Nineteen." He chuckled insultingly. "Check it out, you sit here and watch us skatin'. I've seen you before here. I've seen you here." He met my eyes directly again, grinned again, then looked off at his buddies.
His gaze was so honest, intent, just for those few seconds. . .it threw me a little. Was he. . .getting at something? Naw, just young male bullshit, I thought to myself. Something in me suddenly decided to go for it, though, and that something started to speak.
"Hey, I've got an idea. You think you're so tough? Listen. How 'bout this." I threw the cig down and stood, crushing it under my Timberland. I turned to face him with a wicked grin.
"You're too lazy to work for your new board? Fine. I've got bucks. I'll offer to buy it for you."
He cocked his head, still lying on the cement and straining his neck to look up at me. He grinned incredulously, then sat up swiftly. "No way. Why?"
"If you can pass a simple test. Say, an hour-long test." I was having a hard time not staring at the luxurious thatch surrounding his navel, black as the fur in his armpits, and about as dense.
"I get enough tests at the 'dub, man. Hey!" Tim turned away suddenly, yelling again at one of his friends. They exchanged looks, and some sort of quick, unintelligible hand signs; he then turned back to me. "Anyway. Yeah. So."
"Not an academic test, dummy," I continued. "But it is. . . a. . . collegiate one." I licked my lips quickly, despite myself, my heart beating harder. I turned away from his painfully handsome face, glancing off towards the guy he'd just yelled at, hoping he'd not seen my intensity. "You think my frat hazing was so easy? I'll put you through the same one I got. For one hour. If you can pass without giving up, the skateboard's yours." I grinned.
He cocked his head again. He actually looked kind of interested for a moment. Then, just as quickly, his eyes turned again to his buds, the thick neck tendons swerving his skull. One of them was yelling something at us. "Cool! Hey, listen, man, gotta go." He jumped off the wall, stuffing his t-shirt into the back pocket of his shorts. He took a few quick, lithe strides across the grass to the edge of the cement, tossed the board back down, and scooted away. But not before turning back, shooting me again that killer grin. "Hey, see ya again, dude."
I was crushed. I went home immediately and. . .well, you can guess
The Next Saturday
We started talking about a mini-riot at one of the downtown clubs the night before. Tim still had six months to go before he could drink legally.
He brought up the subject of our previous little chat.
"Whoa. A new board? That'd be cool. Fuck. . .I need a new deck. Well, what's it like? What kinda stupid shit they do to you?" He was curious, but also clearly a little suspicious now. He jumped off the wall quickly, picked up his board, and started screwing around with it, jumping on it, twisting, staring down at it intently, looking up at me lazily, then returning to total board absorption. Half a boy and half a man. Only nineteen.
Jeez, how was I gonna lead him, handle this. . .by instinct? Sometimes when men are with other men they're trying to swindle, they forget they're men themselves. . .as if the other guy were a foreign creature. . .like a female or something. I remembered this syndrome, and chilled, slowly regaining control.
I cleared my throat. "Well, if I tell you. . .that's kind of dumb." He glanced at me, put-off.
I continued quickly. "Alright, it's kind of an interrogation thing. If you can tough it out, you get to join the frat."
"Well, yeah, everybody got in the frat, though, you said." He glanced at me with that "gee, I hadn't realized you're really not that bright" look. Suddenly I realized he thought he had me; he was wearing a contemptuous grin. Quickly I put on a confused look, like I was too mentally slow for him. I couldn't tell if I were, or I was just a lucky verbal stumbler. "But it's tough! It really was!" I suddenly copped a pathetic, pleading tone.
"Well, you went through it, man. And YOU don't look so tough." He laughed mockingly. "So it can't be that big a deal!" He grinned at me arrogantly, leapt over to me, reached into my front pocket and took out my pack of Spirits. "I think I just got myself a new board, dude. Let's go for it."
"Sure," I said languidly, my heart suddenly throbbing. "Wh-when?"
"Right now, dude. You just live up there, right?" he said, pointing and looking up to the beat-up old brick apartment building on the hill behind us. "Just an hour, huh?" He smiled, still looking up at the building, like he was trying to pick out the windows of my apartment. The strong, well-made fingers of his right hand stroked lazily through the thick fur of his muscled belly.
Minutes later, he was following me down the long corridor to my apartment.
Across the Threshold
"Okay. I've been thinking. I'm gonna change it a little."
"Whaddya mean, change it? No way!" He had popped himself a beer and was walking back from the kitchen into the living room, well, the only room, of my ratbag studio apartment.
"No, just because. . .it can't be identical. In this case, we'll make it more of. . .more of a game. Here's the gig. I'm gonna give you. . .how much do you need?"
"Like, a hundred and. . .sixty bucks."
I thought for a moment. "I thought you said almost two bills?"
He looked at me like I was a complete moron. "Well, a hundred and sixty. . .is almost. . .two hundred. . ." He blinked.
"Okay." Clearly this guy hasn't been dealing with money very long. I looked in my wallet. I had a fat bunch of tens and twenties. "I'll give you that much right now. I'll go out in the hallway. . .no, I'll go get some more beer at the stop-and-rob. While I'm gone, you hide each of the bills. . ."
"Stop-and-rob." He giggled, and glanced at me, grinning. Then down at his feet. "Uhh, better make it a hundred and eighty, come to think."
"Huh? I thought you saidÉ"
"Taxes, man. Fucking sales tax." He jerked his handsome face up. He was still grinning, and now I could see on his big, perfect front teeth that slightly marbly look that guys get when they're given certain antibiotics in childhood. God knows why, but I always found that kinda sexy. Whatever.
I looked at him, running my eyes quickly, carnivorously over his hot, sweaty bod. Jesus. Then I glanced quickly at and away from his moist, corrugated stomach. "What-fucking-ever. . .okay. . .here's a hundred and eighty bucks. . ." I handed him the bills, and at that precise fucking moment Tim began absent-mindedly stroking his belly again, grazing his fingers through his thatch and even poking a finger into his navel. I thought I was gonna have a stroke.
I thought of the really foolishly huge amount of money I'd given him. "Hmmm.....doesn't matter. . .I'll probably get more of it back than he thinks. . ."
"You hide those in the apartment while I'm gone. When I get back, I'll have one hour to get you to tell me where they are. Whatever you've still got hidden at the end of the hour is yours."
"Wait a minute! What if you win some back? Then I won't have enough. I don't know, man." He copped a cynical, bored look. "Maybe. . ." He glanced out the window, blue eyes narrowing. Far below was the the corporate "skatepark". His buddies were gliding along, far below, like wheeled ants. The roar of the freeway drowned out their sounds.
"All right, you bastard. Here. Here's another twenty. That makes two hundred. And I still think I can get it all back from you during our game." I was sure I blushed suddenly, confused, thinking I'd fucked up, that he'd interpret the sudden extra money as desperation to getting him into some sick situation. But my fear was for nothing. His greed (which I should have predicted) won him over immediately, and I realized that, yes, when we're young men, cocky, untested, we think we're immortal, that we can do anything, undergo anything, and come out on top. Always a key technique in manipulating young men: appeal to their greed and sense of omnipotence.
"Cool, man. Deal!" Tim grinned widely and chuckled, again lazily
scratching that taut belly, absently playing with his own teenage male
flesh, which I now noticed was streaked lightly with some sort of grime.
His dark blue eyes shot pleasure at me from under the shock of black hair
falling boyishly over his forehead. He raised his hand in goodbye. "See
ya in a few, bro!" he half-sneered. Turning away, he began looking with
interest through my library. "You read books?", I thought insultingly,
as I closed the door behind me.
As I walked back to my building with the six-pack, I was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of helpless frustration. You idiot. There's no fucking reason he's going to be there, man. You just gave a (nearly) complete stranger two hundred bucks, then left. Like he's gonna be there? I felt like a complete moron; once again, led into stupid horny fantasies by the Mr. Happy between my thighs. As the elevator slowly rose, my stomach sank. And yet. . .as I walked in the door. . .there was Tim, squatting on the floor by a bookcase, a small pile of tomes dumped randomly on the floor. He was holding one, examining the spine. He didn't even look up at me, but said, "Pop me a brew, dude". Arrogant little bastard. . .
I slipped him a bottle and walked into the kitchen, putting the bag in the fridge. As I walked back into the main room, Tim was guzzling his beer thirstily. He turned to me with a new flush of cockiness.
"All done hiding my money. Can't wait to spend it" he said, grinning, chuckling. "Come down there tomorrow and I'll show you my stuff."
Yeah, you'll show me your stuff, you little bastard. "Good enough. All right, let's get you set. Lie down on the bed. On your back. I'll get you tied up."
"HUH?" he drawled. Shit. "Tied the fuck up? Wait a second. You didn't say anything about. . .why do I have to be tied up?"
"Because it's an interrogation game, dummy." I sniffed the air mindlessly, and suddenly caught wind of the tremendous odor this sweaty dude was throwing off from his pits. Not awful. . .just funky enough. REALLY sexy. Yow.
He cocked his head rebelliously and pursed his lips. "How do I know you're not gonna hurt me?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake, it's just a frat hazing. Don't be such a fucking pussy. Don't worry, they didn't hurt us. Remember, I got through it."
"Well. . .okay." He turned tough and sullen. "You do, man, and I'll. . ." He glanced menacingly, crookedly at me. "My friends'll fuck you up real good, man."
"Oh, I'm not gonna hurt you, you fucking pussy."
"Well. . ."
"Oh, I forgot. You gotta strip down to your shorts too. That's what we had to do."
His eyes turned suddenly matter-of-fact; setting his sensuous lips in a determined pose, he squatted down and lowered his heavy hands to his Reeboks and began unlacing them. "I should probably just get NAKED, it's so fucking hot in here," he blurted. I was kinda startled. Don't worry, pal, I thought, I'll decide when it's hot enough in here to get you naked.
Tim pulled off his Reeboks and blue Docker shorts, revealing the rest of the plaid boxers that had been poking above his waistband. As he stretched back up and breathed heavily, my eyes couldn't help but wander briefly to his groin, where under the boxers lay an obviously healthy, heavy basket. . .cool.
He lay down as instructed. I went into my closet, my heart beating hard again. I didn't want to use my usual bondage stuff. . .prepared restraints, like my fur-lined cuffs, would really get him wondering, well before he was helpless. . .that might set him off.
I grabbed two of my rattier ties, one old leather belt, and seeing I had nothing else, one of my actual quality ties (this better be worth it, man, this is a GOOD tie, I thought to myself), and some old athletic socks. I quickly tied the various pieces of fabric into double-ended noose complexes, such that the ties would attach to the steel Murphy-bed frame, and the soft but strong socks would encircle the wrists and ankles of his powerful limbs.
When I walked back out, I noticed Tim had sat back up and was starting to pull off his left sock. Whoops! Don't ruin it, man. I thought quickly. "Hey! Don't take yer fucking socks off, man! They stink enough as it is." Which wasn't true, actually, but having him keep his socks on would most definitely be part of the whole game. Nothing like tickling a guy through his socks first, so that's he's then totally worried about how much more ticklish his feet'd be if they were completely exposed. He lay back down. I worked carefully but quickly on his ankles, fastening them tautly to the Murphy bed, spreading his legs just enough to allow access to the (hopefully) sensitive inner thighs.
Then I had him hold his arms out in front of him. He looked pretty calm, almost too calm. . .I was desperately trying to figure out his psychology on this whole scene (the mind-fuck maybe being more than half the fun right there, you guys well know). I slipped the athletic-sock nooses over his wrists together, softly but inescapably firmly, so he'd neither be hurt nor able to escape if he struggled. . .IF he struggled. . .shit. . .it better be WHEN he struggled. . .I still didn't know if he were sensitive. . .not only did I crave a seriously ticklish teenage stud here, but I'd really feel like an idiot if I went to all this trouble only to lose a hundred and . . .no, Christ! now it was TWO hundred bucks.
I then pulled his bound wrists behind his head and tied them to the center bar at the head of the heavy steel bedframe.
The twin dark, deep curves of his armpits were exposed again, this time helplessly. "You're gonna touch those teenage pits," I thought, my cock flexing.
Stretched out as he was, his body was even more beautiful, seeing as how his ribcage looked twice as hard and muscled stretched out like that. As I ran my eyes with excited approval over his taut, rugged bod, I realized I was getting an even more-painful hard-on. I went to the kitchen and "rearranged" myself, as I began to breath excitedly. I popped another beer and nervously guzzled half of it. For about half a second I had the oddest feeling. . .the vaguest flush of boredom, that I should let him go, that I'd already won. . .what's with that? I thought, as the moment appropriately passed, and my lust stepped back into the driver's seat.
I then returned to the room where the young skatepunk lay bound and exposed, nearly naked, having no idea he was about to be lightly stroked, deeply probed, and generally and expertly teased into hysterical laughter and submission.
As I approached, Tim pulled languidly at the restraints, testing them, getting "comfortable". I looked at the clock. Seven to three. The dull roar of the freeway distant below my high windows drowned out the sound of his buddies only two blocks away, who had no idea. No idea about where Tim was, or about what was about to happen to him.
"All right, let's get started. It's almost three. We'll start exactly at three. You'll get untied at four on the button."
Tim smiled. "Two hundred bucks an hour is good pay, man. Thanks." He grinned up at me arrogantly, the same clearly contemptuous sneer playing over his handsome face. He was really getting annoying with that. "Come on, big bro', do your best! Let's get this terrible frat boy 'interrogation' on the road!" He closed his eyes and sniggered contentedly, his belly muscles flexing.
I nodded grimly, as if I had a tough job in front of me. I liked his contempt; it would make torturing him easier. I finished the beer (I was drinking a little too quickly, I suddenly realized) and went into the little closet and found my "interrogation" kit.
I brought out the shoebox.
"Whatcha got in there?" He looked at me calmly, but intrigued, still smiling confidently, lazily. Four minutes until three.
"Just some stuff. Same kinda stuff the guys used on me. . .to get me to talk."
"But you didn't talk, right? They let you in the frat. . ." He stretched out against his bonds, flexing his fingers, grinding his heavy limbs and compact body into the futon, the steel springs straining loudly beneath his sturdy young bones and muscles.
"Oh, they let us in the frat. All six of us. But four of us talked. . .a lot. . ..we knuckled under pretty quickly, actually." I grinned down at the shoebox, indulging in memory of that intense day. The laughter, the pleading, the smells of five other naked, furiously sweating young men, laughing and bucking and writhing like baby rabbits under the devilish fingers and feathers of the pledgemaster and the other upperclassmen.
"They let us all in, even though four of us, including myself, failed the test. They just wanted to test us, tease the shit out of us. . .see how tough we were. . .and they DID break us, dude. I was laughing like a fuckin' crazy MOTHERfucker while they tortured us."
Tim looked at me and blinked. Ha. What do you make of that, you arrogant little fucker?
"So, umm, whaddya mean, 'talked'?", Tim said in an uncharacteristically low voice. He had leaned his head forward, and was examining his bound bod.
"What did they interrogate you to get?" Tim was pretty swiftly looking worried. I walked over to the Murphy bed and sat down at the edge, admiring the old-fashioned, half-dump-of-a-1930's-apartment frame, the overly-strong steel more than a match for even the wildest gyrations and thrashings of a strong, healthy kid like Tim. A wicked, more confident grin widened on my face. "I guess I've got to admit. . ..I'm a pretty physically sensitive guy. My older brother saw to that." I laughed evilly.
I looked into Tim's cobalt eyes.
"I'm a pretty fucking ticklish guy, pal. Insanely ticklish, Tim. Jesus! For most young guys, getting tickle-tortured with feathers and stuff is pretty challenging. Especially when they're tied up and helpless. . ..like you are right now."
Tim jolted suddenly and pulled anxiously at his bonds. His handsome blue eyes were fucking BUGGING! A nonchalant reaction from him would've surely been a disappointing sign, but Tim was suddenly clearly freaked, and I was well pleased!
"Wha-wha-whaddya mean, um, ti-ti-ticklish?" He licked his lips and glanced down quickly past his muscular, hairy belly at his sock-clad feet, then back up at me, uncomprehending-like, but. . .comprehending.
I answered him coolly. "Well, the thing was, they told us all this secret stuff, secret frat stuff; y'know, dumb stuff like, secret code words and shit. . ." I grinned at the recollection, looking away from his handsome face and far into a distance. "Secret stuff we weren't supposedly to reveal to any other man, no matter how we were tortured. Guess like in the military, or something."
I looked calmly at him. Indulgently, even. Big brother to little brother look. Then I looked down into the box and slowly pulled out my prized tickler: a good-sized seagull feather, in really good shape. Spines still stiff, tip still soft. Perfect to start freaking out a nineteen-year old, cocky-ass, near-nude skatepunk.
"Thing was, nothing they told us to memorize, but not to tell, was real." I straightened up my posture. "Just a bunch of made-up shit. Just so they could torture us. Tickle-torture us." I began twirling the feather between my fingers.
Tim was staring hard at the feather, not EVEN blinking. You woulda had to have seen that look, you guys. . .Jesus. Priceless.
He said one word. One long, drawn out word, in a low voice. "No-o-o-o."
I cocked my head, smiling. "Whaddya mean, no-o-o-o-o-o?"
He blinked now, staring at the feather, then catching himself, efficiently changing demeanor. "I mean, no, (clearing his throat) um, yeah, I see what you're saying. But I'm not. . .you know. . ." he chuckled gamely, "uhhh, sensitive, ummm, y'know, uhhh, th-that way."
I looked down at the feather and dramatically and slowly drew its long whitish edge along my left palm. Christ, would that tickle on a young man's belly. (And had, in fact; on my former roommate of six months back.) "You're not what, you mean?"
"Not. . .huh? No, like, I mean, uhhh, Chris man, I, uh, mean I'm not, I'm not. . . you know, like. . .I'm not, heh heh, like, (*gulping*) ti-ticklish, m-man." He grinned nervously and gulped again, having said the magic word. Ah, Lord. I just wanted to hear him say it again. (Please, Tim, say again the word "ticklish".)
"Huh? You're not. . .what?"
Again he stuttered. And blushed. Excellent. And as I stroked my eyes along his belly, up between his taut pecs, and up to his baby blue orbs, he blushed deeply and gulped again. That time he must have caught it. . .he had to have fully realized by the look I must have been wearing that I wanted his unbelievable body BADLY.
"You're kidding! Not ticklish? A studly, athletic young guy like you? Shit! Too bad, man. Goddamn it, I guess I'm gonna lose the money. Shoot. Guess I should just untie you and let you have the bucks, dude." I stared back into his dark blue eyes. "Shit, I thought for sure I'd had you. I thought for sure you'd be fucking ticklish as hell."
He relaxed totally and suddenly, letting out a strong sigh of relief. "Yeah, sorry. Wow. Guess I win. Sorry, guy. Ha ha." The bedsprings creaked as he relaxed.
"Yeah, man. . .I mean, it woulda been great to check out your stomach. . .and those pits! Seemed to me that a little teasing there, with this feather, for instance, would drive you wild, drive you outta yer fuckin' mind. But if you say so."
Oh Christ. It was gonna happen. And since teasing is the key to this scene's excitement, I teased. I continued to wear my disappointed loser's look as I put the big feather down on the bed next to the firm flesh of his tanned right side and moved down to his right ankle and began to undo the slipknot, while I continued to mutter mock-angrily about the money I was supposedly going to lose.
"Yeah, those guys tickled us fucking half to death to get us to spit up the secret info, just to see if we were the kinda guys who'd crack. And, as I said, most of us were!" While I continued to slowly undo the knot holding his left leg firm, I paused. . .
"But you never know. " I brightened up a bit, dropping his ankle. "Y'know, Tim, you just might be more sensitive than you think." I stopped for a second, looking off into near space dramatically, like a dummy thinking hard; I then refastened his ankle. "Before I untie you, I might as well test your reactions, just to see if you're at all ticklish. . .like maybe with this feather here?" Again I picked up the feather that I'd placed just inches from his ribcage. I was grinning stupidly.
I climbed up on the bed and straddled his hips snugly. He tensed immediately, and looked terrified again. "I mean, you never know, man." His sharply clear blue eyes stared straight into mine. That neatly sculpted, all-American face, with some of that proud beauty of a German Shepherd. The youth's breath ragged, expectant. Beautiful. Deer-in-headlights look. Waiting breathlessly.
Doomed. . .
The Tickle-Torture Begins
"I think I'll start right about. . .here. . .right over your lower stomach. Let's just see what happens. Let's just see what happens when I stroke this feather over your stomach."
I slowly brought the white tip down over Tim's rock-hard belly, turned the point downwards, and, at long last, began to stroke him. One stroke, two, three. . . The little feather danced lightly over the fur and down under, onto the smooth skin around his navel. The kid tensed, and his stomach trembled; as I continued to stroke, his powerful abs spasmed in little involuntary jerks.
"Ahhh. . .ahhh. . ..uhhh. . .uhhhnnngggghhhh. . ..guh. . .guh-huh. . .huh-hu-huh. . .ahhhhh. . ..haha. . ..heh. . .heh-heh. . .."
"No! Ahaahahaha. . .stop, I. . ."
I drew the tip slowly across the edge of his boxers. Tim began to tremble harder as the feather got closer to his soft groin skin.
"No-oo-oo. . .ahhh. . ..no. . .no. . .you don't have t. . .t..taahhh. . .to do this. . .I'm. . .not. . .ahhh. . .ticklish, c'mon, you. . .ahhhhahah. . ."
"Well, I don't know, buddy. You seem to be having kind of a hard time here. You sure?" I copped the loser look again. "Or are you just trying to get my hopes up? C'mon man, that's mean! I really don't have the two hundred bucks to lose!" I straightened up, adding indignance and outraged pride to my rising voice. "I've got to get some of that money back! Jesus, you told me you only needed a hundred and sixty anyway!"
I put the feather down. He relaxed slightly, still staring up directly into my eyes, slightly mesmerized, panting.
I began moving my fingertips, all ten, over his beautiful torso. Feeling him up lightly. God, it was great. His smooth young skin, his rock-hard belly, completely mine. Like probing the surface of a trampoline made of veal. Nothing he could do to stop me from lustfully stroking him. He jumped at this new stimulation, and yelped a little, squelched it quickly and twisted involuntarily. I could feel his solid thighs trembling underneath my butt. I decided immediately not to overload him with sensations. . .clearly I had at least a reasonably ticklish guy here. . .better to give him the hope that I'd be a lame or lazy tickler, and he'd be able to keep his cool. Better to torture him psychologically as well, and give him hope of escape, if he'd just be able to keep his cool!
Under the goofy-green plaid boxers, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a quick glimpse of. . .movement.
"Well, not much reaction there, really," I lied, like I was blind. I examined his thickly-furred little navel. . .the same belly button he'd been stroking himself just fifteen minutes before. . .with a single finger tip I stroked all around it, dipping down into it a couple of times, then back out, still stroking his taut flesh, loving the smooth feel of his helpless young male skin, as well as the light tickling of his belly hair on my fingerpads.
"Ahhhh. . .huh. . .huhuhhhh. . ." He gasped and twitched excitedly. Yep, ticklish navel. Under my hand I could clearly see the boxer fabric moving. . .forming into. . .a solid, thickening shape.
For a good ten minutes, I simply stroked him all over real lightly, all along his thighs, his muscular, thick hairy calves, down to the tops of his feet, and stopping there, guessing that if I went an inch further. . .then I started back up. I was having so much horny fun just touching this muscled punk all over, I didn't want it to end with a sudden hysterical cave-in on his part, which would undoubtedly happen if I stayed in any one spot too long. His whole beautiful body was now all goose-bumped, shaking subtly but electrically; his excited, ragged gasping turning me on like all get-out; and as I turned round again from his feet to face him, now it was obvious: he had a full fucking hard-on. His snugly-hidden prick pressed out arrogantly, sideways, against the fabric of his boxers. Ouch! It seemed to me like a painful position for a cock to be in, especially one as healthily-sized as his clearly was, pointed off to the side like that, raising its head hard and wet against the fabric like the nose of a puppy under a blanket. I had a hard time taking my eyes off it, and he saw my constant, practically lip-licking glances down at it, but I said nothing, nor of course did he.
I had a new idea. He still hadn't laughed really hard out loud, and could still make the case that he wasn't really ticklish. Could I make his body arch up off the bed without making him giggle or cave in?
"All right, my tough-ass little pledge. Let's try some new spots."
"OKAY! No PROBlem," he gasped faux-confidently, still staring, but now smiling widely, idiotically, his eyes big as hubcaps. "This is still. . .haha. . .kinda. . .huh. . .dumb. . ."
"I'll test you here, along the very bottom of your ribs, towards your back." Tim licked his lips quickly and squirmed. I straddled him again (Jesus, man, drop the hard-on, or I'M gonna lose it!) and reached my fingertips down to where his moist sides met the skewed, sweat-dampened fabric of the bedsheets.
With a gentle but rapid stroking of just my fingernails, I moved along his sides, from his lower abdomen all the way up to just under his hairy armpits. It took only a few rapid, efficient trial runs before Tim was gasping again as before, his blue eyes steeled hard, but my premonition had been right: he began to arch his back to pull his body away from my dancing fingertips. As he gradually arched up, holding himself off the bed slightly, I moved my fingers just so under his back and kept up the stroking, and sure enough his trembling increased. Now he began to emit little groans as he desperately raised his back up even farther.
After a minute of this, I had his back completely bowed. His upper body rested on his rear shoulder muscles, and his butt was held to the bed by my straddling weight. I now used my fingertips to continue tickling his back, and used each thumb pad to reach up and brush his ribs. Oops. "GAH. . .gah. . .uhhhhHA. . .huuuh. . .ahha. . .haha. . .gnhhh, hnnh, hnnnhh hnnnhh." He suddenly started trembling and gasping a whole lot more, and his face broke out into an even wider, tortured grin. His eyes, which had been directed towards the ceiling, fixed at some spot like he was trying to meditate away my caresses, clenched shut. He was just about to lose it, and as my hands moved back down his torso, my thumbpads gently lapped at his soft, taut skin as I ran them just under his shorts. "GAH! HA! HA!" he blurted suddenly. Writhing strongly, he started to giggle steadily, and out of the bursting plaid bag of his boxers suddenly jutted the fat tip of his thick prick. I pulled my hands away and he fell, tired with effort, back down hard on the bed. Oh my god.
Over six inches, velvet plum head all slick with his juices, which the elastic had just tautly drawn in a wet film over his sensitive, swelling cockhead. He trembled, growling like a tomcat. His shorts had just missed jacking him off! (Oh God, I must be tripping, this is so good!, I thought.)
"Well, I haven't been very successful. But you're obviously sensitive to some extent." I grinned fake mutual buddy-embarrassment as I glanced at the several wet inches of him that were exposed, then back into his eyes. He was breathlessly turned on, blushing furiously, choking in and out short, hard breaths, embarrassed by getting a hard-on in front of another guy; he stared at me wide-eyed again, and oddly, it seemed with some sort of. . .boyish awe..
"Until your woody popped out just now, I was gonna let you go. But now I think. . .I deserve another chance to get you to laugh and break down. Though you're obviously a real tough guy, maybe I can tickle the location of at least a ten-spot out of you."
I glanced at the clock-radio. Already fifteen minutes had passed. Damn! Time was going too quickly! There was no way I would relent on my promise to untie him precisely at four. I'm used to guys taking me at my word, and I wasn't gonna break it now for anything. . .not even for the prolonged enjoyment of Mr. Tim, nor certainly just to get my bucks back.
"I'll make you a deal. I think you're right. I think you're tougher than I was, too tough to get you to submit. How 'bout this for a deal. I'll continue to probe you. The minute you lose the hard-on, I'll consider myself to have lost, and I'll untie you. That seems fair to me."
The air was faintly sharp with the salty Clorox odor of his precum. I started to feel kinda faint. It's really hard for me in a situation like this not to immediate slurp that clean, young, boyish juice, to feel the sturdy buck moan and writhe helplessly as his velvety cock is stroked and licked by my supereager tongue. Always wondered why I've been so weak for the taste of man-juice. . .eventually attributed it to growing up in a small, southern Cal beach town, spending every possible hour swimming or body-surfing as far out as possible, beyond the reach of help. . .occasionally, caught helplessly in a wave, gulping down warm salty water. . .But Tim's climax would come later. . .right now, we had a lot more ticklish investigations for him, a lot of robust masculine laughter to coax out of his tautly-muscled ribs and armpits. . .
"Think you can do it?" He said nothing, but kinda shrugged as best he could within his strong, soft bonds, still staring stupidly.
I was now impatient for him to break down and admit his ticklishness. I got two Q-Tips and decided to try a technique I'd long wanted to. I began to stroke them over his stomach again, but this time I was not going to go lightly. When he tensed and gasped again, I kept up at his navel, drawing slow circles with one,. while stroking with the other in random, difficult-to-predict patterns. With one Q-tip, I decided to explore the inside of his rather large, deep navel, just to see. As I wriggled it around there, Tim suddenly began to gasp and giggle desperately. I stopped immediately; obviously I could break him there in his navel. Gradually I moved up his ribs a few inches, then down one. As he watched me, squirming slightly and grinning again, I wanted him to see where I was aiming. Where the Q-Tips were going. So he'd freak. 'Cause that's where I would take him down. I somehow knew it. And it's my favorite spot to torture these super-masculine guys in. No man can resist this spot. I think Nature bred it into men as a place for maintaining male hierarchical structure, a place where guys could discipline each other with erotic overtones while causing no pain. A male-bonding spot.
The deep, muscled, moist, darkly-hairy crevices of the armpits.
As he stared intently at me, nervous, squirming, alert as a guard dog, I'd glance at his pits. Then I'd move the Q-tips up his ribs again. Then down one inch. . .then another grinning, evil glance at his pits, then. . .another evil glance at his pits, then slowly back up. . . About three or four glances back and forth at his armpits, and he got the picture. Tim knew exactly where the little Q-Tips were heading. And now, finally. . .he really started to squirm, and started, finally, to REALLY giggle.
"Hahaha. . .heheehh. . .ahhhh. . .gah. . .hahaahh..hehhee. . .nawhhhahahaha. . .nawwwhhhh. . .c'mon. . ."
"Whatsa matter, man?" I asked, smiling. I paused for a couple seconds, just to tease him. He calmed slightly. I then continued, grinning wildly. Tim continued to gradually break down, picking up again with the shuddering and steady giggling. Finally, I knew that he knew that I knew, and that it was all over with the pretend-teasing. His deep-voiced, thoroughly masculine giggling was now continuing unabated, and the giggles now openly began to turn to outright laughter; for the first time, his arms began jerking really hard against his bonds. "Ha haha haha hahahahaaha. . ..hahahaha. . .ohhhaaa. . ..no, I. . .hahahahaahaaa HAhahahaha. . ."
Now or never. Very lightly, VERY fucking lightly, while I stared at his handsome face to catch every sensation therein registered, I slowly moved the one Q-Tip right up to the tautly-tendoned threshold, the dark entrance to his right 'pit, and let it hesitantly sniff at its sensitive quarry, the deep, dark Realm of the Hairy 'Pit. Tim tensed and gulped, and closed his eyes again. Then I let the other Q-tip trace a light, dancing line to the edge of Tim's other 'pit. He continued to giggle and writhe mindlessly. And I began the decisive, stud-breaking strokes.
Ever so slowly, I directed the cotton tips, in a back-and-forth little dance, over the Maginot Line of his tendons, then suddenly and swiftly down, directly down the ticklish slopes into the deep secret wells of his 'pits.
"AAAHH! AAAAGH!! AHAHAHAHA, AHAHA, HAHAHAAAAHHH!!!"
And in two seconds Tim lost it entirely. Bucking wildly, he began screaming and laughing uncontrollably. Licking my lips, unbelieving my luck, I stroked and stroked the Q-tips throught the helpless, doomed pits, the hairy pits which were betraying him, revealing his decisive, boyish weakness. "AHAHAHAHAHA, ahh, f-f-u-hahaHaHaHAHAHAAA, oh, sh-shi-shi-hahahHAHAHAHa, uhhhahHAH..AHAHAHAHAHA!!!" He was laughing so hard, going so crazy, so wildly ticklish in his armpits he was, and so giddy was I, that I started laughing too. I continued for about one minute. Then I dropped the Q-Tips, and the pretense that I might not break him, and, still laughing excitedly myself, plunged my fingertips into his sopping, deep hollows. He continued to scream and laugh, but even harder, louder now, thrashing his head up and down against the pillow, trying hard to say something that was getting choked off in his now-hysterical laughter. "What's this, buddy?" I taunted him. "What's this?"
After a couple of no-holds-barred tickling minutes, I chilled a bit, though still lightly tickling him there in his 'pits, and he cooled down enough to begin breathlessly pleading.
"PLEA-EA-EA AHAHAHAHA -EA-EA-SE ST-ST- AHAhahahahah. . ..stop! It. . .hahahaha, c'c'c'mon, it. . ."
"It what?" I laughed.
"AAHHAHAHAHA, OHHH. . .AAHAHAHAHAH, AAAUUUGGH! GOD, STOP ahahahahHAHAHA!"
"FINISH THE SENTENCE, Tim. It 'what'?" I stepped up the light scraping of my fingernails in his armpits. "Say it, Tim."
"OKA..HAHAHAHA, Ohhhh, OKAY hahahahaHAAHAAAAAAHHH, it TICKLES!", he bawled out.
"And I thought you said you weren't ticklish." I drew my wet fingers from his 'pits, and stroked him lazily all over his ribs and hard stomach. He continued to giggle and buck as his voice returned.
"AAAAUGH hahahaha-a-a-a-hhhhh, ahhh, I, (*nngghh*) haha, heh, adMIT it, okAY? Hahaha, oh, ohhh, uhhhh, sh-shit, don't, don't. . .don't TICKle, dude, haha, please. . . I'm totally ticklish there, man! Don't! D-d-haha-DON'T, man, oh please, haha, it TICKLES, dude, haha, STOP!"
"Where? Your 'pits? You mean. . .up here?"
Tim jerked and began laughing nervously, his eyes wide. "Oh! Ohhh-ha, haha, hahaHAhahahhh, I. . .ah-hah, d-don't HAHAhaha tickle me, haha there, ummmmnnnnggggghahahahHAHAHAAAAgh, oh, no, ahhh, AHHHHhhh, pt-hee-hee, ahhh, no! Please, man! Oh, oh fuck, haha, god, just. . .mmmnnnggggghahHAHAHA not, NO, c'mon, fuck-HAHA-fucker, NO, not, HAHAH in my, not, NO, NO, NO, dude, hahahahhhhh, NOT IN MY PITS! Please, God! Ahahahaha, oh, not, ahahahah, oohhhohoha, please, not THAT!"
All that pleading, as I swept my tickling fingers up and around his writhing upper bod, closer and closer to his sensitive hollows, and quickly back in, back into his dripping pits, driving him crazy wild again.
And now, to get my money back. . .
The REAL Struggle Begins. . .
Tim gulped for breath as I let his pits alone to move down to his feet.
"Where. . .where're ya. . .hey, no, hahaha, no, NO, NO-O!"
"OKAY!! I already admitted it!! I lied, haha, I'm a fuckin' dick, haha, heh heh, ohhhh. . ."
"NAWWWW, AHahahaHAAAH!!! AAAAGH! AUUUGH! PLEAse man, I. . .HAAAAHAHAHA!"
"Yes, you fucking lied to me!" I grinned punishingly down at him. "You lied!!! You unnnncoooolll little bastard!"
His thick white athletic socks were now giving off clouds of that familiar, acrid, but totally erotic locker-room odor.
"So let's test your feet, buddy. You ticklish here, too, like in your 'pits?"
His feet were leaping half-assed, like chained trout, the assumedly-sensitive soles hidden by his socks. Only temporary protectors, my friend, I guarantee you.
I pulled off his right sock, and he continued to giggle and squeal, knowing full well what was coming.
"You about ready to tell me where you hid any of the money?"
"NO! Ha ha, uh, hhhaaa, haa, I mean, I don't remember, no, hahahaha, PLEease!"
"You can't remember? That's hardly plausible." I wiggled my fingers and brought them closer to pink, moist sole. He instantly jerked his tanned, hairy calves against his ankle bonds.
"I mean, ha ha, you've got me, ha ha ha, man, kinda freaked out!"
"Oh, you don't remember? Maybe this'll remind you!" While pulling off his left sock with one hand, Tim still giggling and begging, I raked his right sole with my fingernails.
"AAAAAGGGGHHHHH HAHAHA, HAHAHAHA, OH GOD, AHAHAHAHA!!!"
He starting bucking high off the bed, without my weight to pin him, and he was shaking his handsome head back and forth hard while I tickled on, scraping both his soles with my fingernails. Drops of juice flew off his manic prick as it slapped hard, repeatedly, against his lean belly. With time passing quickly, I was determined to tickle some of this teenaged punk's money ( I mean, MY money!) back from him. So I just kept it up. . .just kept tickling his beautiful, soft, sensitive feet while gales of deep, masculine laughter erupted from his deepest guts. He started having a little trouble breathing, so I immediately slowed down and let him catch his breath substantially, hoping he'd give in. . ..when he didn't, and was OK again, I started up again with the tickling, and he naturally started up again with the hysterical bucking and howling. He looked like a sleek dolphin trying to leap over a barrier.
Just when I suspected that he secretly LIKED being tickle-tortured,
and I thought, "Jeez, what if I CAN'T get him to succumb. . .Christ, I
can't be out two hundred bucks!", he yelled between wild yelps, "OKAY!!
I'll HA HA SHIT TALK!! HA ha ha SHIT MOTHER hahaha FUCK I'll TALK!!! HAHAHAHAH!!!"
I immediately stopped stroking his warm, still-twitching feet, and held
them in each hand, massaging them firmly, to take away the ticklish sensations.
He moaned in relief, and fell back on the bed. I was overcome with affection
for him. He grinned nervously at me, out of breath, and said, really quickly,
breathlessly, "Okay, man, there's one in that book over there, on the end
of the shelf. . .the black one, with the swastika on it!" I glanced over
where he was looking. It was my copy of Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.
I grinned back at him, half-surprised that he wasn't pissed or terrified.
. .he sure was playing along with this game. . .almost suspiciously well.
. ..I grabbed the book and opened it, and sure enough, a ten-dollar bill
fell out. A hundred and ninety bucks to go. . .but only 35 minutes. . ..
Tim Is Rendered Naked
I let my boy calm down again.
"You're still rock-hard, man. So you lose. And that means you're gonna lose your shorts. And that means more places for me to explore. Like. . .with THIS feather!"
Tim clenched his eyes shut again and laughed uproariously, shaking his head back and forth vigorously, even though I wasn't tickling him. Although I was holding up for his contemplation a doozy of a tickler: a four-inch, narrow, sharply-pointed little feather, bright green, that I'd gotten off the tail of my dead parrot a couple years before.
"NO-O-O-A-HAHA HA heh heh. . .Oh God, please don't. . .please don't. . .FUCK, ahahaha, take off my. . .Oh my god, ohmigod, omiGOD please, man, no. . .I. . .I. . ."
"Whatsa matter, Tim? You afraid of being naked?" As soon as the word "naked" escaped my lips, Tim's agonized giggling suddenly increased in volume and tempo. Cool. Do it again, Tim.
"You afraid, dude? What d'ya think will happen, Tim, if you were totally NUDE," (more sudden jerking and hysterical laughter), "right now, completely naked and HELPLESS?"
As I cruelly drew out the hiss in 'helpless', my skatepunk plaything heaved his heavy bones hard against the taut sock bonds, making the steel frame creak under his robust musculature. He was laughing and pleading almost as much as if he were being tickled. I was tickling him just with my words, with just my tongue.
I took from the box a small pair of scissors and began to very slowly, very carefully, cut the fabric from his hips. Again his struggling increased, and he began cursing furiously. Slowly, slowly I lifted the fabric from over his incredibly erect penis, slowly, uncovering each inch of the nearly-seven which composed his thick shaft, down to, finally, as I gasped internally, a very fat scrote, heavy with unusually large, juicy balls. Yep: a breeder! Better get this buck to the fuck-pen! Right away the air was choked with the strong scent of his ballsweat. Tim was giggling forlornly, his eyes shut now, and he was just blushing like a motherfucker. A very nervous, devilishly handsome young skatepunk, ticklish and helpless, now finally and completely nude.
I had to touch it. I grinned, shot him a mischievous glance he couldn't see, and slowly and gently seized his meat. With the soft pad of my right thumb, I rubbed the wet front of his cockhead. Tim jerked and shuddered, pulling at his bonds, his torso bucking violently upwards, his eyes springing open. He moaned long and extravagantly. "NNNNGGGGHHHHHHGH! OH! ohhh, man, . . .I. . .ohhh. . .I'll. . .n-no don't, don't. . .I'll. . .ohhh, oh christ I'll fucking, nnngh! come. . .ahahaha. . ..I'll fucking co-o-me, man, if you don't stop. . ..st-hey HEY, no, NO, NO, man, what're, hey, NO, c'MON, man, not that, DON'T, hahahh, you CAN'T, hee hee, ha, oh HAHA haha HA. . ."
He'd just caught sight of my hand as I moved the sleek parrot feather slowly towards his heavy, odiferous scrotum. The heavy, hearty odor of fresh teenboy musk continued to waft up, thoroughly rank; a serious turn-on. I noticed that his ballsac was looser than most guys'. An excellent thing: his balls were so big and ripe that there was no way his body could pull them inside his groin to hide them from the approaching torture. I reeled with lust, and suddenly, inexplicably, kinda felt weirdly violent, and started fucking barking at him.
"I'm gonna tickle your balls, man! I'm gonna fucking tickle your BALLS, Tim! And you can't stop me! Unless. . ..unless you tell me where you've hidden the rest of the money!" I was going nuts, feeling increasingly giddy and out of control, as if I were 16 again, playing these games, though at that time less-sophisticated versions, with my buddies out in the fields and treehouses of my youth. My own turgidity was quite painful, trapped inside my shorts.
"NO, NO, please, ah ha, NO, not my balls, man!" Tim was laughing agonizingly, laughing and laughing endlessly, repeating, "No, no, please!" like a mantra, bucking and arching his back, squirming like a madman, thrashing his handsome face back and forth on the pillows. "You can't, dude! Ha ha, you WOULDN'T!"
Oh, yes, I WOULD.
When I finally grazed the feather against his balls, the result was electrifying. Tim in an instant torsioned his whole body into a twisted spiral, a good foot off the bedsheets, and he was so ticklish there that he couldn't even laugh! He was completely desperate to avoid my tickling him THERE, desperate to prevent my tickling him in the very origins of his youthful and exposed masculinity; I had to climb back on top of him, onto his legs, to pin him enough to keep contact between the feather and his heaving scrotum. Again I eagerly stroked his spread balls, and this time he heaved his thighs wildly, bucking my surprised ass clean off the bed. Amazing, amazingly stronger than I'd imagined. Nothing like a husky teenage male for wild strength.
As I picked myself up off the hardwood (unfortunately) floor, he giggled and gasped hysterically, his dark blue eyes open and wide, the size of blimps, a freakish, acid-trip grin contorting his breathless face. "Not my balls, man, please, I can't take it! Please, man, I'm begging you, ha ha, anywhere but my balls! That's uncool! That's, hahahaha, uncool, man! It. . .it. . .aha. . .it tickles so much, man, please, I'm fucking BEGGING you, ahahahAHAHAHA! Please! Please, heh heh ha, not there, DON'T!!!"
Uncool? Calling me uncool? Fuck you, you little bastard! You're in no position! Embarrassed a little at having been thrown to the floor, and determined to break him completely, I strode into my walk-in closet and got out two sturdy belts. . ..quickly (time still running out fast!) fastening them around his upper thighs and then the ends to the steel bedframe, Tim swearing now, half pissed-off and really nervous, cursing profusely, for the first time REALLY seeming vulnerable, realizing my own anger and my crazed dedication to intricately torturing his ball-sac. . .I climbed back aboard quickly, and returned the tip of the feather to the most vulnerable square inches on his body. . .I musta been sucking in air more raggedly than even he. . .I didn't know I could get quite this turned on. . .he began shaking fearfully, losing control again, and laughing desperately amidst fearful pleadings in a high-pitched, boyish voice while he clenched his eyes shut again, trying to shut away the inevitable. His strong fingers jittered helplessly in the air behind his tightly-bound wrists. I danced the fiendish feather's tip lightly against a tiny patch of skin on his right testicle, and then I let it go completely apeshit, attacking his whole scrotum.
Then the screaming began.
Tim's body tried again to buck me off him, but the taut leather belts around his thighs held him impossibly, and I was able to ride his wild writhings. Now I was nervous because he was merely screaming. . ..lots of high pitched laughter, surely, but mostly just full-on fucking SCREAMING. . .swift waves of shudders rippled through his muscled, bucking frame, and he clenched his eyes shut and threw back his head on the pillow, his yelling, laughing mouth so far open that I could see the dark glint of the slanting late-afternoon sun off the fillings in his molars. Tim was lost in ticklish agony now, slamming his head hard repeatedly against the soft pillow, his decisive vulnerability exposed, the most sensitive spot revealed. . .and I continued to tickle him there, on his helpless balls, continuing nonstop, making him mine, stroking the feather now lightly, now firmly against his helpless gonads. "Can't stop me, can't fucking stop me, can't, you ticklish bastard, I'm gonna tickle you to DEATH, you handsome. . ." I leaned down, my face just inches from his balls, inhaling the wild-animal odor, watching his ball-hairs part at the touch of the feather, everything in slo-mo visual and out-of-control laughter soundtrack. . .a little voice inside me said, "go for it, it'll never get this good again. . ."
I was out of it, I might as well have eaten a fistfull of 'shrooms. I was also getting some serious nausea from the pure rushes of lust. . .I felt pretty sick to my stomach. . .so much so that I actually lost my hardon. There was no way he could move far enough to prevent the feather's contact. . ..I then moved the feather on a little track from his balls up the length of his prick, then along the grooves where his thighs gave way to powerful tendons on either side of his robustly-thick dark pubescape. The skatepunk's laughter and hysteria continued unabated.
I tickled the underside of his balls, too, thrusting the feather repeatedly through to his asshole, and he continued to go wild, new bursts of apeshit sweat breaking off his shining body as he industrially thrust, within the limits of the leather bonds, his impressive erection towards the distant ceiling.
I only stopped, just for a brief minute, when I noticed that the shark's tooth thing had flipped up in his writhing and gotten caught in his mouth. He was too out of it to spit it out, so I took care of it.
At times I reached down and gripped his cock in my other hand, pumping him slowly and firmly while still relentlessly stroking his balls with the feather. Every time I'd grasp his plump, hard rod, it would swell achingly, unreal groans of animal pleasure erupting loudly amidst his wildly sexy laughter. Yet more prespunk oozed out, and I'd again and again lick that delicious juice off my fingers, reeling.
I got another sixty bucks off him (two twenties and two tens) via the testicle-tickling, which was by far the most effective interrogation technique even when I used my fingertips and then my tongue to stroke and tickle them, techniques I didn't think would tickle as much as just more thoroughly hornitize the dawg. . .but it worked. I got another ten when I returned to his extremely ticklish armpits. . .but having to get each bill separately was taking up too much time, even though he'd given up seventy bucks in twenty minutes. I suddenly wondered if he was milking this (so to speak) for all it was worth. . .he was skillfully manipulating the situation to his benefit. I felt a surge of affectionate (though rueful) respect for his cunning, and realized with a start as I looked at the clock. . ..3:45. . .I had only fifteen minutes with his beautiful body before he was free! I also realized that he instinctively believed me, that he really believed I would release him exactly when I said I would. Another surge of respect welled in me, and I realized there was no way I could disappoint him, betray his trust; the remaining ten minutes would be more enjoyably spent simply playing with him and getting him off. . .time to suck that thick young prick spiring up from its root in the fat cum-filled balls. That'd be worth. . .what. . .at least a hundred bucks. . .besides, he'd amply earned it.
I stripped off the rest of my clothes and practically leapt onto the bed beside him. I kissed and licked his sensitive nipples while he cursed and shuddered, moaning loudly, turned on massively, at least several loads of come backed up in him, overdue for release. I buried my tongue in his left pit, and he went ballistic, squealing with high-pitched, boyish laughter, the sweat still pouring off his body. I gave in now to my strongly affectionate feelings towards him, holding his trembling body tightly against me while I continued licking his roasting, sweating flesh with my tongue. My eyes closed, lost in lust, I reached for his prick, clumsily jabbing the head with my thumbnail. Tim jerked harshly and yelped in mild pain. Ouch! (Jesus! Sorry, man. . .fuckin' clumsy. . .goddamn!) But half a second later, no damage. . .I was gripping his thick shaft, slowly pumping it, while Tim moaned and repeated, "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, I. . .ohhhhhh", thrusting his sweat-slick, muscular thighs up to push his meat repeatedly through the lusciously slick circle of my fist. I was dumbfounded at the flow of juice he was producing. . .it rolled in an endless slick stream from his cockhead, coating my hand. My own five-incher lay, near bursting, along his right thigh, my balls resting on his knee.
Now it was just 3:55. . .five precious minutes with my horny captive. Five minutes to spend savoring my victim's blue-balled boner.
I laid down on my stomach, my head between the far-spread, marble-hard thighs of my beautiful young athlete. I began licking and sucking his balls, not to tickle them, but to drive him fuck-wild, while Tim groaned, whined, and cursed contently, completely lost, as I was, in pure enjoyment. I took each huge plum in my mouth, hungrily licking off as much of his musky scrote-sweat. I licked up and down his shaft. . ..and finally, after teasing him by sucking him hard, my tongue pressing really firmly against the near-bursting purple head and pink shaft, then, when he was about to spurt, pulling off and squeezing the head firmly to kill his rising orgasm, causing him to curse and buck angrily, vigorously again. . .after four or five times doing that, torturing him with frustration, I finally began taking him repeatedly to the root, while he screamed and bucked . . .no teasing now, pal, just hard-core, serious cock-sucking. . ..then. . .inevitably. . .the ordeal was over as Tim began that low-throttle, guttural male groaning signifying pure lost ecstasy, then the hot rushes, delicious, hot, clean, pure male juices pouring over my tongue, deliciously salty, like hot sea-water. Tim bucked up and down off the futon powerfully, the orgasm charging through him like meat lightning, his roaring and swearing growing and turning suddenly to those freakish monkey-like screams that guys emit when they're having a TRULY overwhelming orgasm, his prick pulsing and swelling rhythmically against my tightly pressing tonguemeat. I let not one drop of Tim drip free.
I untied him, at 4:03. . .well, nobody's perfect. He twisted into a fetal position, and actually began to drool a little, so out of it he was. I maneuvered him onto his stomach, and began affectionately kneading his taut shoulder muscles.
So I got back about a third of my bucks. . .and Tim was left with enough money, added to what he'd saved, to get his foxy new board. I was proud to see him working his elegant moves with it during the following waning weeks of spring and on into summer. . .
And that wasn't the last of my experiences with Tim. . ..because we became fairly close friends, despite the rather significant age difference. I think I played an extra big-brother role in his life. And speaking of big-brother roles, I ended up tickle-torturing him twice more, both times after he was old enough to go drinking, when I taught him how to play pool, and he ended up making stupid drunken bets on the games, which he'd lost. Tim also became rather aggressive about getting those expert blowjobs when he was between girlfriends, which also made me quite happy.
Interestingly, he also introduced me, at a coffeehouse, to some other guys, some of his skateboarding (and other) friends, with a couple of whom, like his beautiful blond buddy Dirk, I had some very interesting bondage experiences.
But those two stories are for another time.