Horsing Around In Class


Lyle Blake


I had a roommate in military school who was really good-looking and really sexy. Also constantly sexed-up. Hell, both of us were full of cum up to our ears. All the time. No matter what we did to take care of it. Me, I was beating off like a madman, sometimes four or five times a day, and I was sure Brian was too. Hey, we were fifteen, what would you expect?

He had light brown hair and big green eyes, an unusual combination that gave him a striking look. A cute little turned-up nose with a handful of freckles sprinkled over it. He was tall and slender and had pretty good muscles for his age. He liked to lounge around the room in nothing but this silky pair of running shorts slit up the sides, a sight that I found almost unbearably erotic.

And he had another habit that was driving me out of my mind. He liked to wait until I wasn't looking and then jump on me and wrestle me to the floor. He called it "horsing around" and it amused him because he was a lot stronger than I was and always ended up on top. I had to use every bit of my concentration not to get hard when he did it. I started to spend all my time brainstorming about ways to get back at him. It would have to be something really good, something to make him squirm and beg.

He had this absolutely perfect, smooth, hairless, slightly pink, unblemished skin and a sweet, eatable mouth, and it all had me carrying a constant boner for him.

And then he delivered into my hands the instrument of his own destruction.

"It's really weird," he said, "If I'm the one who starts it, like if I'm wrestling with you? It's not a problem. I'm in control. But if the other person is in control? I lose it totally. Last week I had a date with my cousin's sister, you know, over in Hunter School, and the second she touched me I came in my pants. I just can't ... I can't ..."

He stammered and blushed vividly and the crimson color ran down from his hairline into the collar of his shirt.

"I'm really sensitive to the touch," he whispered. "Sometimes if somebody touches me when I can't control it, it's the most incredible agony, it's the most ..." He stammered again and wriggled his young firm body.

My brain was afire with divine light. I saw before me the prospect of the perfect torture. "Hey, Brian, are you trying to tell me that you're ticklish? That you're really, really ticklish?

He stared, his mouth open. "N--naw, noo, I'm not t-t-ticklish, that's kid stuff. All I'm sayin' is that ... sometimes ... well, um, gee ... you know, sometimes when somebody touches you somewhere, it's just really ... you know?" He wiggled his body again, as if remembering a past experience. And as for me, my erection was absolute steel.

My time came very soon. Every day we had study hall, and the cardinal rule was that absolute, complete silence was the unbroken condition. An officer was seated in the room and maintained an overview of the students. Violation of the silence rule meant severe demerits and possible denial of holiday privileges.

On the day in question, it was still early fall and very warm weather and Brian was wearing shorts and a thin T-shirt and sandals. He ended up sitting opposite me at a small table. The officer in charge that day happened to be the strictest, most bad-ass nasty vile gangster in the whole school, and there was no question that any violation of the silence rule on his watch would bring down doom and destruction on the head of the miscreant. I looked at Brian and grinned.

He had no clue about what was about to happen. Lazily he leaned back in his chair and stretched and yawned. He kicked off his sandals and flexed his toes and pushed his long legs out under the table. Then he playfully started kicking me under the table.

Slowly but surely I reached down and grabbed both his bare feet and pulled them up into my lap and wrapped my knees around them, firmly and irrevocably trapping them within my reach. He goggled at me. "What are you doing?" he mouthed silently.

"Horsing around," I mouthed back.

I put a finger to my mouth, reminding him that under no circumstances whatever could he make any sound whatever. Then I moved one hand down to his left foot.

I stroked my fingertip up his sole and he jumped as if I had stabbed him with an icepick. His lips parted and I saw that he was clenching his teeth. I stroked his sole again.

"Stop it!" he whispered hopelessly. "Cut it out!"

I started using both hands to deliver slow, deadly, unrelenting swipes all along the smooth soft pink surfaces of both his feet, and I thought he was going to shit himself. He was gripping the edge of the table in front of him and his eyes were bugging out of his head and he was jerking and trying desperately not to make a sound. I could feel his legs tensing and bulging and flexing as he worked to pull his sensitive feet out of range of my ruthless fingers, but he was helpless and doomed and damned.

Now I was using all ten of my fingers, crawling like spiders around the balls of his feet, the base of his toes, creeping into the spaces between his toes, tickling the living daylights out of him, and he was biting his lip to keep from squealing, going nuts from not being able to make noise. Finally he took both his hands and smashed them over his mouth and sat there shaking, moaning and leaking soft giggles, rolling his eyes in fear in the direction of the officer at his desk, and I took mercy on him and stopped.

"Just horsing around," I whispered with a smile.

At the end of study hall, when we stood up to leave, I saw that he had come in his shorts.

Lyle Blake