We were freshmen at the State University. Although randomly paired by computer, we shared the bond of having been on our high school swim teams and were destined to end up on the college team. On that hot day in early September I was sitting sprawled at my desk, trying to cool off and recover from having lugged my two suitcases and one large duffel bag from the bus station, when Bob appeared in the open doorway.

He was carrying a small pile of cardboard boxes that temporarily obscured his face, but I noticed instantly that he was tall, lean, and seemed to have the classic swimmer's body. Broad shoulders narrowing suddenly and breathtakingly to a small waist gave him that fabulous V shape that had begun to absorb more and more of my interest after I had started to fool around with other guys my senior year in high school. His gray sleeveless T-shirt exposed rippling biceps, strong wrists and large masculine hands. His almost microscopic denim cutoffs showed off a pair of long strong well-tanned legs. The feet seemed large but were covered by old running shoes.

It only took five seconds for me to take all that in. I almost held my breath as he stooped to dump the boxes. Having spent the last nine months groping and fumbling with a few attractive guys in my graduating class, I was extremely curious to learn more about man-to-man sex, and having a sexy roommate struck me as a good way to continue my education.

When Bob turned to face me I almost gasped. Gorgeous. Just turned nineteen (I found out later). Smooth, clean-shaven face. Wide, sensitive mouth.

Short straight nose that looked copied from some Greek statue. High cheekbones that would shame a GQ model. Dark blue, metallic blue, Superman blue eyes. And very thick, very blond hair, worn a little bit longer than currently fashionable in the gay bars, parted in the middle and feathered over the tops of the ears. Christopher Atkins's younger brother. Rob Lowe, eat your heart out.

Everything you've always wanted in a sexual fantasy. That is, if you share my taste. Some guys like older men, which is fine. Some guys like hairy bodies, like mine. (I had dark hair, a respectable mustache for an eighteen year-old and a moderate amount of chest hair that fanned across from nipple to nipple and ended up trickling down past my navel into the crotch of my pants.) As far as my desires were concerned, however, a young cute boyish blond who looked as if he only needed to shave twice a month would always turn my head. Partly because that type looked more vulnerable; when such a boy looks at you with those wide blue eyes, he seems to be saying, "Please don't hurt me." And partly because you can reach out and let your fingertips drift slowly down the smooth well-muscled chest from the collarbone to the navel and there's no hair in the way to distract you from feeling the soft luscious young skin of that delectable torso. And here was one moving in with me. Wow.

We traded the usual personal information, as the muggy heat of the small room slowly closed in on us. I said something about how nice a cool shower would feel. Bob instantly agreed. Standing up, he gripped the bottom of his muscle shirt and very slowly proceeded to peel it off. I was transfixed. As the shirt bunched up around his head, covering that exceptionally handsome face, I had a moment to feast my eyes on his stomach, literally rippling with muscles so it looked like one of the old shutters outside our dorm window, on his large firm pectorals that formed bold planes on his well-tanned, perfectly hairless and incredibly gorgeous chest, on his rather large nut-brown nipples which looked as if they had never been touched before, and on his deep muscular hairy armpits, outlined as they were by the same thick straining tendons that were working to pull off his shirt.

Having torn off his shirt, Bob turned away from me slightly to strip away his cutoffs and underwear, revealing the expected broad muscular back, creamy succulent ass and respectable set of cock and balls. However, for some reason that was not yet evident, I remained fixated on his front torso, ribs and armpits. I also found my eyes drifting towards his broad strong feet as he grabbed a towel and strode cockily out of the room.

In the weeks that followed, as Bob and I began working on the swim team and we became more familiar with each other, I found myself obsessed with a peculiar feeling. Something inside me was making me want to dominate him, to pin him down, to overpower him and put him at my mercy. I did not fully understand this, as my casual perusal of various stories and articles in certain hard-core leather magazines had convinced me that I was not interested in inflicting pain or having a "slave" grovel before me and ask to do my bidding. But somewhere deep inside me was a void that could only be filled by having Bob submit to some yet unknown form of sexual torture.

One Sunday, immediately after lunch, I was drifting into a nap when Bob told me that he was going off to see a casual lady friend, one whom he might end up bringing back to the room because she had unsympathetic roommates. In a rare show of candor he admitted that he did not really get much physical pleasure from any of these women he had been randomly dating, but he felt sure he would come across somebody sooner or later who would stimulate him sexually. I nodded groggily and sank into sleep.

It must have been over an hour later that I woke up to find myself lying on my left side, my face to the wall, while behind my back came subdued sounds of struggling and suppressed giggles. Immediately seized by curiosity and frustrated horniness, I froze and listened intently. The unknown girl was saying, "Oh, come one! It can't be that bad!"

My roommate was gasping and giggling and saying, "No! Don't tickle me! I do not want to be tickled! After the sounds of a brief but intense struggle, during which I assume he grabbed her wrists, he continued in a soft voice, "You don't know what it's like to be tickled when you can't do anything about it. It's torture! I am really super ticklish. Back when I was in high school, before my two older brothers went off to college, they used to wait until I took my shirt off at night, then they'd grab me and hold me down and tickle me until I thought I'd die. It was especially bad all along my sides and up under my arms. One of them would sit on my feet and the other would hold my hands back behind my head and they'd really get me good. They loved to tickle me because they knew it drove me nuts."

Hearing this story absolutely electrified me. I felt an incredible heat spreading all through me, an intense sexual excitement of a degree hitherto unknown to me. Every cell of my body was tingling. My cock was so hard that I thought it might break off. Bob and his lady friend slithered off the bed, rearranged their clothes and left the room. In the meantime, I tried fantasizing having my extraordinarily delicious blond hairless roommate helpless in front of me and tickling him until he writhed and laughed uncontrollably and begged for mercy, and I creamed in my pants without even touching my cock. By accident I had stumbled on the secret weakness which would subjugate my incredibly attractive swimmer roommate and make him my helpless slave.

The following Saturday afternoon, when most of the guys on our floor had gone home for the weekend, fate delivered my victim into my hands. Because it was still early in the season and still quite warm, I was studying on my bed in cutoffs and Bob was writing at his desk clad only in his bright red Speedo swimsuit. He had been acting restless and energetic ever since lunch, and suddenly he jumped up, threw himself on the floor on his back and said, "Goddam, I need a workout! Come on, Tommy, hold my feet and I'll do some sit-ups."

I was only too eager to cooperate. I sat on his ankles, effectively pinning his bare feet beneath me, and firmly placed my own strong hands on his muscular legs. Slowly he started to do sit-ups, showing me a wonderful view of his smooth muscular chest, causing those unbearably beautiful muscles on his gut to ridge up and smooth out with pulse-pounding regularity. But what really made my head swim, what really set the butterflies jumping in my own gut, was the sight of his armpits: The effort he had to make to jerk his torso forward and upward each time was straining the tendons at the base of his thick muscular arms and causing those exciting secret armpits to deepen and outline themselves, almost as if they were begging to be exploited. I ached with the desire to release his legs and plunge my fingers into those erotically inviting pits.

After a short while, however, Bob claimed that he was bushed and needed a rest. Reluctantly I released those warm strong calves and watched him climb onto his-bed and sprawl onto his back. He stretched slowly and languorously, spreading his legs out and stretching his arms above his head, straining his torso in the process and revealing both ribcage and armpits to my hungry eyes, and I had to suppress a moan of lust. Then, helped no doubt by the beer he- had enjoyed at lunch, he fell into a very deep sleep.

I was bewitched and electrified. In a matter of seconds I knew what I was going to do. It was Saturday afternoon and nearly everyone on our floor was either home for the weekend or out goofing off. I threw the lock on our door and dove into my closet, where I came up with a length of nylon clothesline I had bought last week in preparation for an Oktoberfest tug of war game planned by one of the fraternities I was interested in. My pocket knife soon cut the clothesline into four equal lengths.

Moving ever so gently so as not to disturb Bob, I spread his arms and legs out to the four corners of his bed so that he was spread-eagled on his back. Then I used the four pieces of rope to tie his hands and feet securely to the legs of the bed. The end result was that he slumbered peacefully, absolutely naked except for his red Speedos, while stretched out securely and helplessly with his sides and armpits fully exposed.

As fate would have it, the instant I finished securing Bob to the bed he woke up. After flexing the muscles of his arms and legs in a futile effort to move his body, he directed his gorgeous blue eyes at me and demanded, "What's going on?"

I pretended to chuckle. "Well, Bob, last Sunday when you had your girlfriend here in the room I sort of woke up and eavesdropped on the two of you. I thought it was real cute!"

Either he didn't remember the topic of conversation last Sunday or he was trying to play it cool. "So?"

"So ... I thought it would be funny if I tied you up while you were asleep and took a sexy Polaroid of you so I could give it to her."

He visibly relaxed. "Oh! Well, that's sort of stupid in my opinion, but go ahead! Let's get it over with so I can get out of these ropes."

I deliberately hesitated. "You know, there was this one other topic of conversation I overheard that afternoon which I found really interesting. It was when you were telling her how you were really super ticklish and how you couldn't stand being tickled because it drove you nuts."

His look of smug relaxation fled from his face, to be replaced by one of ill-concealed horror. "Wh-what do you mean?" he croaked.

"Well, to be perfectly honest I was only half awake, but I could have sworn I heard you telling her that you were unbelievably ticklish and that being tickled when you couldn't do anything to stop it was incredible torture for you."

He blinked and swallowed hard, while obviously trying not to look sideways at the places on his bed where his hands and feet were securely tied. "Uh ... well, Tommy, why are you asking me that?"

"Oh, no special reason. Except I never really ran into anybody who was that incredibly ticklish and I was just curious as to whether it was true. You know." I was so casual and bored it was unreal, but just to keep him wired I came and sat down on the edge of his bed and started flexing my long fingers.

Bob made a superhuman effort to speak normally. "Well, Tommy, to tell you the truth I'm really not ticklish at all. I just told her that last Sunday because she was starting to mess around with me and I didn't want her to be all over me. You know?" He gazed at me in forlorn hope.

"Oh. You're really not ticklish at all? Is that so?" With studied casualness I stretched out my right hand, index finger extended, and touched the tip of it to his well-muscled stomach at a point to the right of his navel and just below where his ribcage stopped. Moving with painful slowness I let my fingertip trace an invisible line from the navel over to the bottom of the ribs, then ease up along his left side until it was bouncing from rib to rib.

When I got almost up to his armpit, I noticed that all the muscles in his arms were straining and bulging, as if he were striving to pull his arms free of their bonds, and his lips were drawn back into a hideous unnatural grin, showing me his clenched teeth. I changed direction and started my fingertip moving ever so slowly back down his ribcage on that side, and I saw him start to bite his lower lip.

"You know, Bob," I said with forced cheerfulness, "it's a damned good thing you're not ticklish, because what I'm doing to you would drive some guys out of their minds. I can remember one time at my high school when this one really unpopular guy got caught near the football field after dark by some of the school jocks, and they started to do this to him. It made him a basket case."

I lifted both hands and, straddling him so that I was sitting on his lower abdomen, I used all four fingers and the thumbs of both hands to gently stroke and caress every individual rib in his sides, working my way ruthlessly up from his pelvic girdle to the smooth patches of skin just below his armpits. This was surely almost too much for him to bear. I could feel his body fighting to respond to this intense stimulation; it was trembling as if an electric current were running through it. He was panting in shallow gasps that made his sculpted chest rise and fall rapidly, and even as he continued to bite his lower lip I thought I heard a stifled whimper. My fingers dug in a little harder on his obviously sensitive sides.

Bob was trying desperately not to show me how ticklish he was, but by this point it was a losing battle. His long lean swimmer's body was twitching and writhing beneath my ass, absolutely against his will, his arms and legs were straining futiley against their bonds and his mouth was working in a grimace beyond his control. As much as he tried to suppress it, helpless giggles began to escape his lips. Within a matter of seconds, as my ruthless fingers continued to explore all along his sides, he was convulsed with uncontrollable laughter.

Feeling his almost nude muscular young body bucking and twisting below me, as he howled and moaned helplessly, turned me on as I had never been turned on before. I decided to play with him psychologically, so I stopped tickling him and let his gasps and giggles subside.

"Gee, Bob, I guess you're more ticklish than you thought. But that's probably because I was working you over on your sides. You couldn't possibly be that ticklish on the bottoms of your feet."

"No! Tommy, please don't! What are you doing?"

I reversed my position so that my back was to him and scooted down to the foot of the bed where his feet were bound and helpless. They were a tickler's fantasy: broad, smooth and totally at my mercy, without any calluses to protect them from my stimulation. I attacked them both at the same time.

As I raked my fingernails gently along the soles, Bob's body stiffened and thrashed again. It only took a few seconds before he was shaking with laughter as before. I paid special attention to the base of the toes and the edges of his feet, stroking those sensitive areas over and over again until Bob started to shake his head from side to side like an animal being submitted to unbearable torture.

"Stop! Please stop! Tommy, please stop! I can't stand it! Please! Stop!"

I did stop eventually, but only for one reason. I had been saving the armpits for last. I returned to my previous position, sitting straddled over his gut, my cruel hands poised in the air above his still twitching torso.

Bob was fighting for breath. He looked at me with fear and pleading. "Tommy, please don't tickle me any more. It's one of those things that I just can't stand."

"Obviously," I chuckled mischievously. "But before we stop this little game, there's one more thing I want to try. I have to find out how sensitive you are in your armpits."

If possible, his look of alarm grew more intense. "No," he moaned, "not my armpits. That's where my brothers used to get me the worst. Please don't. I can't stand it."

I lowered my hands until the fingertips were within an inch of his armpits. "Gee, I can't decide where to start. Maybe that soft smooth patch of skin just under the armpit above the ribcage?"

He continued to beg. "Tommy, please don't. Anywhere else. Any-where except under my arms."

"There's one thing I've been wondering about," I said with soft menace. "What do you think would happen if somebody started tickling you when you couldn't do anything to stop it, and he kept right on tickling you without ever stopping, tickling the shit out of you without any kind of mercy, tickling you until You thought you were going to die?" He groaned again.

Using just the tips of my forefingers I started to draw small circles on the hairless area just under the pits on both sides. Bob kept talking, but now his words were broken by uncontrollable giggling.

"No ... ah, don't. Please, I'll--ah--Tommy, please don't!"

Next I traced the outline of his armpits, running my fingers all along the straining tendons, taking a temporary side trip to stroke the smooth triceps as they fought vainly against the bonds, then dipping back down to slide deep into the armpits themselves.

Bob burst out laughing again as my fingers became feather-light, caressing his most vulnerable area, playing with the damp blond curls, stroking back and forth, back and forth without stopping. It had to be the most intense sensation, the most exquisite torture my roommate had felt in years, since his brothers used to fool around with him. Apparently he had gotten even more ticklish as he approached the end of his boyhood.

He was still trying to beg me to stop, but now he was laughing so hard that I could hardly understand him. His firm smooth body struggled desperately beneath me as he gasped and howled. Obviously he was at the point where he absolutely could not stand any more, and I kept on tickling him. Because he was tied and helpless, there was nothing he could do to stop me. There was nothing he could do but take it.

I was so turned on that I lost all sense of both time and place. If the dorm had caught on fire I would not have stopped. Subconsciously, I must have always wanted to tie and tickle a helpless guy, to get him totally at my mercy and drive him crazy, to tickle him until he was nuts. Bob was pulling and pulling at the restraints but he couldn't budge. I continued to drive him wild in his armpits, which now seemed so incredibly sensitive that I started to think I could tickle him to death.

Then suddenly I rocked back a little bit and felt something hard beneath my ass. I looked down in amazement to see that his cock was rock hard and straining to burst out of his tight swimsuit, the purplish head sticking out of the waistband and leaking copious amounts of pre-cum juice. Despite the unbearable agony of being tickled against his will, Bob was terrifically turned on. It gave me an idea.

I stopped the tickle torture and thrust my hands up into Bob's face. He was in hysterics and didn't even notice as I took my long thick middle finger on each hand and pushed them into his gasping mouth.

"Suck my fingers," I ordered. He lay there helplessly sobbing for breath, glaring at me in genuine bewilderment. "Bob," I ground out between gritted teeth, "either you suck my fingers or I'm going to start tickling you again. And this time I'm never, ever going to stop. I'm going to tickle you from now until next spring unless you do exactly as I say."

Immediately he obeyed, sucking for all he was worth. Although I had never thought of my fingers as an erogenous zone, the sensation of his moist hot mouth working on them made my rigid cock tingle. As soon as I thought my fingers were wet enough I pulled them out.

"Now let's see how you like being tickled in a new place. took the balls of my middle fingers, now slick and moist from his mouth, and very gently, very slowly began to rotate them on his large soft nipples. As the teasing massage continued, I saw that I was right about thinking his nipples were probably sensitive. He went back to moaning and twitching, but now there was a difference. I could tell he liked this. I could tell he liked it a lot.

His nipples got very erect. Using fingers and thumbs I playfully tweaked them, which caused a gratifying increase in his writhing. I decided he was getting hot enough for me to move into the final phase of our game.

I started running my fingertips up and down over his crotch on either side of his cock, which was almost bursting through the stretched material of his Speedos. And although I kept coming very close to his cock, I never touched it. Instead I stroked and teased and tickled the soft skin just below his navel and all along the inside of his thighs. Then I tickled the fabric right under his balls.

By now Bob was moaning and groaning quite loudly and moving his crotch up and down under my slowly drifting fingers. "Oh God, Tommy. That feels so good. I never knew--oh wow--Touch me. Please touch me."

I grinned and played innocent. "What do you mean, Bob? I am touching you."

"Oh! Ohhh! You know what I mean. Take it out. Take it out and play with it. Please."

I whipped out my pocket knife, the same one which had done its work on the clothesline, and holding the cloth stretched tight in the right places I slit it along both legs so that I could pull off the swimsuit without untying his legs. His cock, a big gorgeous hunk of pulsating meat, bounced and lay on his muscular stomach. It twitched and throbbed as I moved my hand close to it. I could feel its heat, and it could undoubtedly feel the heat of my hand.

Again I gently stroked and tickled the skin of his groin, moving all around the straining cock without ever touching it. Bob was going crazy. "Come on, man. Jack me off. I'm hurting bad. I need to come so bad. Please jack me off."

Finally, after he had begged a little more, I reached out and ran one fingertip down his cock from the tip to the base. He moaned again. This teenage hunk was about ready to explode. I could tell that he was already close.

I wrapped one fist around his cock and pumped him twice, with excruciating slowness. As my fist returned to the base of his cock the second time, his lips parted and he emitted a long drawn-out cry of extreme pleasure, halfway between a groan and a sob.

Now was my time to move. I bent my head and started to lick his cock, using my tongue in long slow swipes to cover the hot rigid flesh, making it slick all over. My tongue and lips closed wetly over the sensitive head, and when I proceeded to gobble my way down the shaft I thought Bob would go through the roof. His moans were closer to hoarse shrieks now and were coming in short bursts. "Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!"

That well-muscled body, now flushed and sweating, was bucking wildly again. I held on and gave him the most sensuous blowjob I knew how to, making sure I took the time to pull off, fan that monster with my hot breath and lick and nibble the head some more.

It couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes, considering how steamed up he was, before his groans hit a higher pitch, his body stiffened and he erupted into my mouth. It was smooth, creamy and delicious. There was so much of it that I couldn't swallow it all letting a liberal dollop of it leak from the corners of my mouth and drip onto the achingly beautiful ridges of muscle on his heaving gut.

My closing brainstorm was brilliant. As Bob wound down, letting his head loll to one side and relaxing all his muscles into helpless jelly, I remarked, "You know, I just remembered reading once that some guys' skin gets super sensitive to the touch right after they come. Some guys are so sensitive that they can't even bear to be touched. I wonder what it's like to be tickled after coming?"

He was pleading with me as I scraped one fingernail down his cum-covered stomach. I had him screaming in three seconds. I didn't think I'd have any problem in getting him to help me come the way I wanted to. But that's another story.