Our senior year in high school he fell out of a tree and broke both his arms. There was also some kind of problem with his back, so he ended up in traction, both arms in casts and held in place above his head.
At the end of a week (okay, I had been busy with other stuff), I went to visit him. He looked incredibly sexy, spread out helplessly in the bed, unable to move. He had on one of those green hospital gowns but they had somehow put it on him backwards, so that instead of opening in the back the opening was in the front. The day I was there the opening was bulging to show a peak of his flat rippling abs.
Everyone has likes and dislikes about what and who he finds attractive, his "type," and these might or might not fairly be called prejudices. For me: give me a blond or a redhead, not a brunette. Blue eyes, green eyes, gray eyes. Never brown. Absolutely no facial hair under any circumstances. Absolutely no chest hair under any circumstances. Skinny is a major plus, bulky beefy bodybuilder is not. Age range fourteen to twenty-four (although I would never mess with someone underage for fear of breaking the law, you could not stop me from looking).
Bob, who was about thirty seconds past his eighteenth birthday, was exactly what I have described. Blond/blue, a bit on the lanky side, virtually hairless. In other words, perfect.
I stood looking at him. "Whoa. How do you manage to eat and go to the bathroom?"
"They've got nurses and orderlies who come around and help out with that."
"Um. Well, how do you manage to ... you know, beat off?"
He closed his eyes and groaned. "I can't. It's impossible. I haven't come in a week. I'm going fucking nuts."
"Gee. It must be really tough getting a boner and not being able to reach down and rub it." I was being incredibly dense. Evil. Manipulative.
"Say!" I chirped brightly. "You know Philip Boyd, don't you? That blond guy in our Advanced Bio class? I saw him yesterday in the showers after gym class, and he's got this really cool tattoo."
I reached down casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and spread open his robe. "It's this kind of lizard dragon thing. It starts right about here," I put one finger on the inside of his left thigh, just above the knee, "and then it sort of twists and snakes up the leg to about here." I swirled the finger slowly up the inside of his leg to just below his balls, and he jumped as if he had been shot. "Fuck!" he blurted out.
I was pretending to be totally oblivious. "And at the top it's got this really cool head that has big eyes that go around in circles, like this." I started running my finger around in torturous circles, right there under his balls.
He had his eyes squenched shut and was opening and closing his hands, where they were restrained above his head, and his mouth was working, showing me his clenched teeth. "Jesus!" he almost screamed.
"Oh, gee. I wasn't thinking. I guess if you're in a bad way, what with not coming and all, it must be tough to have me touching you like that. I won't do it anymore." I took my hand away.
I knew that he was very, very straight, which was a major turn-on for me, and that what I was about to force him to ask me to do was just about going to kill him with embarrassment, which was also a major turn-on for me. I waited for his next move.
Bob rolled his head from side to side. He had a look of despair on his face and was obviously in agony. I noticed that he had developed a hardon roughly the size of the Great Wall of China.
"Guy, I ... don't know how to ask you this," he stammered.
I found this whole scene both wildly erotic and richly amusing, and I had to fight to keep a straight face and not laugh out loud.
Hmmm. Laughter. Starting in the seventh grade and running up into sometime in the ninth grade, Bob and I had fooled around, in a strictly non-sexual way (yeah, right, of course) by wrestling around, and whoever was able to pin the other got to hold him down and tickle him. Bob had been incredibly ticklish, to the point of being horribly embarrassed about how out of control he got when I tickled him, and eventually he said that it was all kid stuff and we should stop. I had not had occasion to tickle him in the three years since but saw no reason why he would have lost very much of his sensitivity; most guys don't until well into their twenties.
Hmm. Something to keep in mind for later. But first ...
"Hey!" I chirped again, even more brightly if such a thing were possible. "I just got this cool stuff called Astroglide. Have you ever used it?" I whipped it out of my pocket. Now, over the years I have used everything on my dick from Jurgens Hand Lotion (stolen from my mom, do they still make it?) to Vaseline Intensive Care to something called Men's Creme that advertises it has been specifically developed for masturbation, to Vicks Vaporub, but Astroglide wins hands down in the beating off category, as it is probably the most slippery substance on the planet and doesn't dry out on you. It feels fucking fantastic.
I held it up and sort of fiddled with it and pretended to accidentally flip open the cap and squirted a hefty squirt onto Bob's chest. "Oh, gee, I'm really sorry. Here, let me brush it off you." I reached down and started to lightly, gently, relentlessly rub both his nipples.
Bob parted his lips and let out a roar of pleasured surprise, while I thought his eyes were going to start out of his head. Again I had to fight to keep a straight face. I'm always amazed at how many straight men have no idea what a hot erogenous zone their nipples are, while for us gays it's one of the first things we find out about ourselves.
"Listen," he moaned. "I know that guys are not supposed to touch each other, but you .... you ... I have to have some relieve here. Is there any way you could ... oh god, I don't know how to ask this ..."
"Gee," I suddenly said, "I've seen you in the showers, but I never noticed what nice big veins you have on your cock." I reached down and slowly traced up and down one, and he acted like someone in an electric chair.
"Say, Bob," and at this point I never stopped touching him, moving my finger up and down his cock and using the other hand to continue to tease back and forth from one nipple to the next," "uh, what did you want to ask me?" I looked down at his grimacing face and waited for his response.
Bob was shuddering all over, as if an electric current were running through him. "Listen. I ... I ... I need a helping hand here."
I knit my brows and put on my deliberately obtuse mask. "What ... You mean, like, giving you a drink of water?" All the time my right forefinger was moving relentlessly up and down his shaft and my left forefinger was working his nipples. I was Evil Incarnate.
"NO! I mean I gotta ... I gotta ... fuck, I mean I gotta come. If I don't come, in the next three minutes, I'm gonna be a basket case!"
My face twisted into a knot of puzzlement. "Well, yeah, I appreciate you bein' hard up and everything, but I don't see how that's possible. I mean, you can't do yourself becuz your arms are in traction, right? And there's nobody else here but me. I mean, it's not like there's some girl here to give you a handjob or something." My fingers continued to move, in a casual almost absentmindedly way on the most sensitive parts of his body, and he wiggled like a snake.
He turned his head to one side in bitter shame and flushed blood-red all the way from the roots of his hair down to his nipples. "Listen, guy, you gotta help me out. You gotta get me off! You gotta just use your hand, like it was on yourself, plain and simple, and help me out here!"
"Oh! Really?????" I somehow managed to supply enough intonation in that word to express at least all five question marks. "I never thought you were that kind of guy."
He found it impossible to meet my eye. "Well--well, I--I'm in a really bad way, and I--I gotta come, if it doesn't happen I think something really bad might happen to my body--I'm serious, man, if you don't help me out here I'm gonna ...Well, I think I might die or something." He stared at me with these gorgeous blue eyes about the size of the moons of Mars.
"Oh! Well! In that case!" Now that I had forced him, fiendishly, to say it out loud, it was as if a switch had been turned and the chamber was flooded with light. "How would you like to try this stuff?"
I dumped a huge dollop of the Astroglide onto his exceptionally beautiful, well-cut cockhead and slowly, excruciatingly started to move my fist up and down over it. Immediately he started to moan, "Mmmmm, mmmmm." It was so loud that I thought it was going to bring a nurse in. After about thirty seconds, he had graduated to "Ohyes ohgod please, ohyes ohgod please, ohyes ohgod please," which he kept chanting over and over as some kind of magical mantra.
When, to my experienced eye, he was pretty much on the brink of exploding, arching his back, working his mouth, his fingers opening and closing, his ability to form recognizable words gone to the wind, his eyes squeezed closed, I did a horrible thing. I stopped.
His eyes, of course, sprang open. "Oh, man, you can't stop now! You can't stop! You can't!"
I smiled. "What do you mean, I can't stop? I just did."
He threw his head from side to side, and I thought I saw tears in his eyes. "You gotta finish me off, or I'll fucking die! What do you want? I'll do anything! I'll pay you!"
My smile became a wolfish grin. "Oh, yeah, you'll pay me. But it'll be on my terms. Okay, let's go."
I went back to my handwork on his tool, taking my time, but within less than a minute his mouth, his nostrils, and his eyes all became about thirty times their normal size and his body became a whirling dervish and almost lifted me up to the ceiling and his moans turned into a hurricane and all this white, hot, sticky stuff spurted all over my hand and wrist and his stomach and chest and throat and face.
I gave him a couple of minutes to regain his composure, while his chest leaped wildly up and down and his eyes went in and out of focus. Then I asked the deadly question.
"Hey, Bob. Are you still as ticklish as you used to be?"
The moment Bob heard the word "ticklish" his face turned the color of snow and his eyes glazed over in fear. Over the years I had seen many expressions on his face, but on that day I saw a new one: absolute panic.
"No, no, oh, no. I outgrew that years ago." The words were tumbling out of his mouth.
"Really? Are you sure? Because some guys, even tough guys like you, are a lot more ticklish than they think they are. They forget about how ticklish they are, because nobody tickles them anymore. When's the last time anybody tickled you?"
He goggled up at me, obviously frightened out of his wits. "I don't know."
Slowly, implacably, I rose from where I was sitting on the edge of his bed and straddled him, sitting on his legs and completing the bondage that held him helpless. "Well, I think we need to do a little experiment here."
His lips worked in and out as he flexed his arms, testing the strength of the bonds binding them above his head. "Wh--what--why are you doing this?"
"Well, I just gave you a special treat, so now it's my turn to have a special treat. And, I have to tell you, back when we used to fool around and wrestle around and the winner got to tickle the loser, I got a big kick out of making you squirm because you were so fucking ticklish. The only problem was, since I had to use one arm to hold you down, I only had one hand to tickle you with. A real downer. For three years I've been dreaming about getting you in a situation like this, where I can use both hands at one time."
"NO! I'M NOT TICKLISH ANYMORE! DON'T DO IT!"
His face was now covered with drops of sweat as big as bumblebees.
I reached for his flat rippling stomach, still covered with the cum from his violent orgasm, and slowly used the fingers of both hands to scrape up and down the vulnerable muscles there.
If he had not been restrained, he would have gone straight up through the ceiling, and as it was he almost bucked me off and through the window. He squealed (there's no other word for it) and wriggled as if having a fit.
"Hey, Bob, how are your armpits?" I remembered that they were his hot spot, his worst, most ticklish area.
"Stop! Please, stop, you can't, c'mon, be a pal!"
"But you just told me at least two times that you're not ticklish anymore, so what's the problem? I mean, you're a grown man, you're eighteen, how could you be such a pathetic wimp that you can't handle somebody touching you? I'm only going to rub around inside your armpits for about fifteen minutes. What's the problem?"
He was now hysterical, and I wasn't even tickling him at the moment. He was jumping and bucking under me and jerking at his restraints and banging his head up and down on the pillow. I reached down to his pits.
I was in heaven. It was obvious that Bob was every whit as ticklish as he had been in junior high. It was also obvious that it was absolutely impossible for him to lower his arms to protect himself. And I knew his secret weakness, his most closely guarded secret: that being tickled under his arms drove him insane and pushed him over the edge into a place where he laughed and cried uncontrollably.
Because of where he had broken his arms, his casts only ran from his wrists up to his elbows. I looked at his biceps, which were long and thin and bulging as he struggled to get out of his bonds. I reached up and started drawing small circles on the spots where his biceps merged into his armpits.
His mouth enlarged to roughly the size of Kansas. "Aaaaaaaaagh! Aaaaaaugh! Aaaaauuuugh!"
Then I moved down into the armpits and he screamed like a girl. He sounded like Fay Wray in KING KONG. He shook his head from side to side, scattering sweat and tears and cum.
I stuck to my promise and worked on his pits for about fifteen minutes. I could tell that he was trying to beg me to stop, but he was laughing so hard that he couldn't talk. I got a real roller coaster ride as his body jumped up and down, absolutely out of his control, and watching his face as he screamed and laughed was a true delight.
When I finally stopped, I grabbed both his ears and pulled his face up to mine and kissed him full on the mouth, and the look on his face at that point was priceless.
I paused in the doorway on my way out and said, "Thanks, Bob."
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