Patrick Colby

Reprinted by permission of the author.
First published in "MACH #21" by Desmodus, Inc.

There is something highly erotic about another man finding your weak spots... spots that will bring you to your knees and make you beg for more unending, unyielding pleasure... spots that before had responded to pain... spots that now respond to slow, sensuous titillation. It is an acquired sexual art form to exercise power and total control over another man without punishment and reward, only with cause and effect.

Remember when you were a kid and your older brother or best friend would hold you down and tickle your ribs or bare feet until you screamed? Remember when you were older that these actions usually led to other explorations into your sexuality? How about the first time that someone ran his tongue through your hairy, sweaty armpit?

Did you shudder? Did you yell? Did you get hard?

I remember. And I carry those first feelings with me to every sexual encounter I have today.

I can remember Greg lying there on his bed in just his underwear He was deeply tanned. The broad expanse of his bronze back tapered to a nice thin waist. His legs were covered with jet black hair, right down to the tops of his long toes. we were studying for finals and I was spending the night at his house. His parents and younger brother were gone so we had the house to ourselves.

I found it extremely difficult to study. Greg kept grinding his crotch against the mattress. I sat cross-legged, leaning against the wall. He'd spread his legs slightly now and then, giving me a great view of the insides of his hairy thighs. Every now and then he would raise his legs up and wiggle his toes. The sight of those hairy legs and soft, smooth soles and toes drove me insane. The little show was torture to me and soon I had to lie down next to him to hide the erection that was tenting out my briefs. We talked and studied for about an hour.

"Ever had a massage?" Greg asked out of nowhere.

"No, uh... I haven't. Have you?"

"No. Want one?"

"Sure," I said. "Do you know how?"

"Kind of, I think," he said, avoiding my direct gaze.

"I'm game. What do you want me to do?"

"Just get rid of that fucking Algebra book and make yourself comfortable in the middle of the bed. I'll be right back." He rolled over on his back and swung up and off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom.

I threw the book on the other side of his bedroom, rearranged my stiff cock in my shorts, and spread out on the bed face down. My heart was beating a mile a minute. I heard him close the bathroom door and listened to the sound of his big bare feet padding back into the bedroom. he dimmed the light, and then I felt him pour baby oil on my back.

It was cold and I jumped. "Relax," he said. My skin was covered in goose flesh. I didn't know if it was the coolness of the oil or the heat from his hands that stimulated me, but it felt so good having him touch me that I really didn't give it much more thought.

With hard, deep strokes he massaged my neck. His touch seemed urgent and insistent that my muscles and mind relax. With each stroke of his warm hands he encompassed more territory, kneading the tension from my neck and shoulders. His ass rested on mine, pressing against me as he used it to gain leverage. Each long stroke up my spine pushed my cock against the mattress until I thought I would loose my mind.

The hot summer breeze that flowed through the open window and the urgency of the moment made me sweat. My skin became more slippery as my sweat mingled with the oil Greg was using for the massage. I could smell my own sweat emanating from my pits, mixing with Greg's scent each time that his relaxing fingers returned to my neck.

In one long stroke, Greg ran both his hands up my spine and branched out at my shoulders and continued up on my arms, forcing his chest against my oil- and sweat-slicked back. The smell of his sweating pits was stronger now and I could feel his hot breath against the back of my neck. I shivered. He held this position briefly before slowly raising himself up off of me. he ran his hands back down my arms, his fingers barely brushing the hairs in my pits, moving down my sides and ending his caress at the base of my spine.

"Now it's time for your legs," he said as he shifted position in between my legs. He nudged my thighs apart with his knees and poured on the back of my thighs. It ran down the inside of my thighs right behind my balls and it tickled all the way. I wasn't sure how much more of this subtle torture I could stand, but I was willing to try.

With even more strength than he used on my back, he began to massage first one thigh and then the other. His thumbs dug deep into my muscles and his fingertips barely grazed my brief-enclosed balls with each stroke. An unintended sigh and moan escaped my lips. It seemed that this was what he was waiting for. I heard him whisper "Yeah..." more to himself than to me. He sped up his hands and his fingers grazed my balls more frequently.

After a few minutes of repeated ball tickling, he abruptly stopped and began to journey down my legs. I moaned. He continued to kneel between my legs as he massaged my calves. He picked up my leg and, bending it at the knee, placed it against his chest. My bare foot rested against his face and I could hear him sniff my foot as he rubbed his face against my instep. He poured some oil on my foot up by my toes and let it run down the sole of my foot slowly. Using both hands he stopped the oil just before it dripped off my heel and began to massage my bare sole. I nearly went through the roof. My feet are so sensitive and Greg's touch was feather light. the slightest touch from his all-too-skilled fingers made me gasp and giggle slightly. It was electric. My cock was harder than it had ever been and he hadn't even touched it!

Separately he massaged each foot. Half with maddeningly light strokes and half with deep, relaxing long strokes. He paid special attention to each of my ten toes, pulling them and spreading them apart. He ran his fingers between and around each toe. After spending a long time on my feet, he retraced his steps back up my legs. I was actually trembling now, and the first time that his fingertips brushed against my cloth-covered balls, I shot without ever touching my cock.

That evening was the first of many nights like that between Greg and me. Each time that we were together we explored further into our sexuality. Eventually, we stumbled upon bondage.

It was during those times, when Greg had me tied up or vice-versa, that I realized I had passed the point of no return. I had crossed the bridge from just fooling around to intense sexual manipulation. And it was there that I stood, never looking back, but feeling the heat of the fire against my back as my bridge of innocence burned behind me.

When I finally finished college and went out to live on my own, the memories of my times with Greg burned deep within me. It was rather frightening moving to the West Coast and seeking out people for sexual adventures. Doing it with my boyhood friend was one thing, but trusting a total stranger was quite another.

I had a few experiences of getting the shit beat out of me while with someone who mistook my interest in bondage as an open invitation to simultaneously indoctrinate me into heavy SM. Now, in retrospect, I've found that safety is the responsibility of both parties and scenes like that are fine and safe with effective communication and executed by competent and capable hands. But my passion still is bent towards those who have mastered the fine art of maddening titillation, and mastery in conjunction with bondage.

Mastery... the act of exercising controlling power... the condition of being controlled. Exercising control is as important to the master as the channeling of the control is to the bottom. What if suddenly tonight, your master changed the rules? Changed his method of control. Would your mind know how to respond? Probably not. You've grown accustomed to the pain, your body responds in accordance with the intensity and severity of it. But what if the methods of control are altered?

Those same nerves that transmit the biting sting of a whip are also the identical nerves capable of transmitting the touch of a feather, finger or tongue. Consider what it would be like to be strung up by your arms with your legs spread wide and secured. How long could you take a feather or a greased finger lightly stroking the exposed lips of your asshole without ever filling it? Would you ejaculate or lose your mind first if your balls, expecting the confinement and weight of a stretcher, were subjected to just you master's fingernails trailing lightly over your wrinkled sac, over and over again?

You start to sweat. Your mind wrestles with the change in tactics. You silently beg him to whip you, or yank your balls... anything, just stop this unbearable torture when, suddenly, you feel his warm, wet tongue slowly teasing the hair in your pits, encompassing at times you nipples. Once used to the sharp gnawing of clamps, you dealt well with the feeling of their knifelike sting. Now you must deal with a slow, torturous lapping of flesh against flesh. prolonged, it can be more formidable than steel against tender flesh.

Your master's route continues down your torso. Tongue and fingers of a free hand available to explore, tease, prod and stroke your tender and delicate ribs and back. He traces the dripping paths of your sweat as it runs slowly and unendingly down your sides. He never takes the fingers of his other hand away from slowly stroking your balls.

Across your hips with his fingers and you buck and jerk. It's getting harder to take.

This is different. The hair on your legs stands up as his fingers slowly stimulate the follicles to erections of their own. Your feet shake as he slowly raises his nails over your insteps, then you spasm when the reach the soles of your feet. All the while that other hand of his is continuing to torment your now-contracted nuts. You swing in your bonds, unable to detach your thinking or free your helpless body from his unending, erotic torture.

Maybe you don't really want to get free. Your cock is hard. Why? There is no pain. No verbal humiliation. Only continuous, unbearable, light stimulation which you are helpless to terminate.

Finally, with muscles straining against your bonds and a weak voice, you beg. You cry for him to allow you release. You are shaking. Your cock is dripping shamelessly, long transparent strands of juice. You feel like you have ejaculated again and again. he has controlled you once again. No pain. No earning the right as you remembered it for ejaculation. He will drain you, Anytime, Anyplace, Long, Slowly...

Master and slave. Controlling and being controlled. Mastery.

Patrick Colby