Glen was face down in the dirt, pressed into the ground by Craig's strong knee. The powerful football hero regularly assaulted the studious sophomore. Otherwise Glen was either liked or ignored by his fellow students at Riverbank High School.
Craig Pasto was the exception. His aggression ranged from merely taunting the younger, smaller teenager to outright beating him. All depending on who was around to see. Even Craig's friends were a little embarrassed to see their hero exerting his superior strength on the quiet youth who was clearly no match for him.
Craig's brawny knee continued to pummel Glen. He snatched at the teen's flailing arms and wrenched them backwards. Glen cried out from deep within. Finally satisfied, Craig hooted in triumph as he hauled his beefy body off his vanquished opponent. He bared his big teeth in a sadistic grin before walking away from his victim with a toss of his curly brown hair.
Glen tried hard to keep from sobbing as he gingerly lifted his aching body from the ground. He stumbled around until he found his filthy eyeglasses, streaked with mud.
Shambling away from the scene of this latest humiliation, Craig resolved that someway, somehow he would have his revenge.
2) Unnatural Ways
Glen's life was an open book to the fortuneteller. Glen was passing the dingy shop in the seedy downtown neighborhood where he had an afterschool job. Sitting on the sidewalk outside the shop, the fortuneteller's hooded, dark eyes stopped Glen in his tracks. His casual remarks indicated an intimate knowledge about many of the facts of Glen's life. Glen accepted the offer of a "private consultation" and followed the fortuneteller inside.
Dim light from no apparent source provided Glen with a glimpse of mysterious objects in every corner of the fortuneteller's dusty room. Objects? Shadows shifted here and there. As if what should have been solid objects were imbued with a kind of life.
The fortuneteller snapped an order at Glen to be seated. Without completely understanding why, he began to pour out the stories of his victimization. How he was bullied by the senior athlete. And how he sought revenge.
The fortuneteller barely nodded. Nothing in this tale differed from many he had heard before. He spoke. It was not a question.
"You seek power over your enemy."
Glen nodded, his eyes brightening in the shadowy room.
"Pay me money.", the fortuneteller commanded. Glen tore his wallet from his pocket and emptied it on the table between himself and the man opposite. Having been paid just then from his work, it was as much as he ever had.
The fortuneteller counted with his eyes. He nodded at Glen. While scooping the money into his hands he informed the youth in a deep, dark voice, of what he wanted to know.
3) Power Play
It was a cool autumn midnight as Glen stood in the grove of trees just beyond Craig Pasto's home. He felt foolish and ignorant as he recalled his visit to the fortuneteller. And all his money gone! In exchange for some ludicrous whispered words being passed off as mystic incantations.
It was no use. That was exactly what he didn't believe. He knew in the deepest part of himself that he now had the power to vanquish his enemy. But having finally come to the point of exercising this new strength, he was frightened.
He had followed the fortuneteller's instructions exactly. From clay he had fashioned a miniature object in the shape of a man. He had imbedded in the clay tiny shards of matter organic to the hated Craig: strands of his hair, clippings of his nails, a scrap of bloody bandage. He had even pasted a tiny photo from the High School paper of Craig's face on the object. Dark mumblings and spells were spoken by Glen. His enemy was now in his hands.
While debating this extraordinary new power and how far he dared to take it, Glen wandered closer to Craig's house. Soon he was circling the building, his mind a muddle of indecision.
Suddenly, he noticed a light in the basement window. The cellar had been fitted out as a gymnasium for Riverbank's star. And there he was, in training for his next glorious triumph.
Rage welled up in Glen. Craig was on a weightlifting apparatus. In the steamy makeshift training room, he was wearing only a pair of gym shorts. Craig could very nearly count each individual muscle of his chest and arms as he strained to raise and lower the heavy metal plates. Seeing this reminded Craig how those same thick arms had crushed and mauled him. How those fists, white-knuckled on the bar, had slapped at him, knocking his eyeglasses off. Even the sheen of sweat glazing Craig's powerful torso reminded Glen of the nauseating smell of the athlete when he had held him close in a tormenting grip.
Something must be done. Craig must be punished--but how?
Turning away from the spectacle of the grunting, groaning jock, Glen stepped back from the window. His shoe scraped against a rusted sixteen-penny nail. Glen stared at the nail. His grip tightened around the warm clay in his hand. He shuddered and wrenched his eyes away from the miniature spike.
Just then a feather fluttered by. In the bright moonlight it drifted in a lazy pattern right before Glen's eyes, zigzagging a path to his feet. It was a small, pointed feather, common to any number of local birds.
And so the instruments of Glen's revenge were complete.
Retrieving the feather from the ground at his feet, he crept back to the basement window to monitor the progress of his revenge.
Glen held the feather, so light and insubstantial, in his right hand. In his left was the bewitched figurine. With a casual flick of his wrist he stroked the feather once across its middle.
Craig was pushing to complete a set of reps when he suddenly gasped and released the handles of his exercise machine. The metal plates clanged behind him as he jerked to his feet from the bench.
He pressed his hands to his sweat-streaked abdominal muscles. A strange spasm had passed over him for a second. A little tickle ran over his skin. Was there a fly in the room? Or perhaps a mosquito had grazed his belly.
Craig rubbed at his stomach to wipe away the feeling and began to settle himself back onto the bench. Suddenly, another burst of tickling swept over the muscular ridges of his middle. But this was no flash of sensation. A wave of tingles washed over his belly again and again. Grabbing at his skin to try to quell the gooseflesh, Craig suddenly burst out with a bark of laughter. The tickling had now centered on the knot of flesh that was his navel. It was as if a fluffy plume was being twirled in circles over that sensitive flesh. He began to giggle hysterically. As much from the maddening tickling sensations as from their occurring with no earthly cause!
Craig clamped his powerful hands right over his ticklish belly button, but it had no effect on the maddening sensations exploding there. He had no idea he was so ticklish. No one had ever dared to try it on him before. No one would have been able to!
As suddenly as it had begun, the tickling stopped. Craig was breathing in huge gasps, his eyes wide with terror. He turned round in the small basement room, foolishly hoping to discover a fiendish tormentor causing this insanity.
He grabbed a towel to mop the panic-sweat from his dripping forehead. Just then, a light wisp of a stroke grazed his chiseled ribs.
It's happening again!, Craig's mind shrieked, it's happening again!
Powerful ripples of tickling raked Craig's sides, forcing great guffaws from him. First the left, then right, each side was titillated with relentless thoroughness. Craig clamped his jaws shut, using every ounce of willpower to fight the tickling and to keep from laughing.
He had smothered his maniacal reactions for barely a second when the feathery strokes moved into the tender hollows of Craig's armpits. Craig's self-control was instantly shattered. The deft probing of these secret spots turned his knees to jelly. Unable to support his weight, he crashed to the floor.
Peering through the window, Glen watched as Craig writhed on the floor, his hands flailing out to ward off invisible tormentors. His face was twisted in a demented parody of laughter, a laughter equally mixed with fear.
But no matter how much Glen savored his victory. He never neglected to keep the soft feather flicking over the miniature mannequin in his grasp. Ribs, belly, armpits, neck, he attacked in random patterns until Craig was spinning like a top in reaction to the ever-changing assault.
Glen's thirst for revenge was not yet satisfied. Glaring at his twitching victim his pupils narrowed when he realized he was neglecting two most inviting targets...
With a frightening jolt, the tickling stopped. It took Craig a few seconds to realize this, his nerves were so racked with torment.
He gasped for air, his throat parched from the laughter forced from him. He tried to stand, but was still unable. He lay in a heap, his much-envied muscles useless.
Craig was questioning his sanity, trying to understand the inexplicable, when he felt something. A puff. A whisper. The lightest touch imaginable against the sole of his right foot.
God, no. No, please, not my feet, Craig thought. His heart crashing against his chest wall. I'll go insane!
His eyes scrunched shut in terror, Craig's attention became focused on the sensations beginning to register on the wrinkled pink bottoms of his feet. Size twelve, brawny and broad, his feet looked more like the paws of some animal. They were ripe for torture. He began to flex his soles wildly as the light touches became unmistakable.
The foot-tickling began to escalate. There was no denying it now. Craig had barely a second to whimper before sobs and giggles were forced from him by the fluttering touches over every inch of his soles. When a probing stroke whisked between his middle toes, Craig shrieked and sat bolt upright jolted by the adrenaline rush. Never before had he felt anything like this delicate teasing of his long, squirming toes. He clutched at his ankles, powerless to stop the intense tickling.
Craig watched in disbelieving horror as the unknown force manipulated his toes, spreading them wide to allow access to whatever invisible instrument was brushing the moist skin between.
Then Craig's eyes started in his head. The sadistic force attacked the center of his soles, scraping tiny circles on the bottoms of his feet. Twisting his neck, he could see fine white lines scratched in the unbearably ticklish flesh. He began to howl a mix of laughter and pleading.
" Ho Ho Ho--no stop!-- I can't -- ha ha ha ha ha--stand it! Not the feet--anything aha ha ha aha ah ah--please, please, let me rest--Ho Ho Ho Ho--what do you want from me!! -- ha hah hah ha ah ha hahahahahahahahahah --- I'M GOING CRAZY!!"
Suddenly, above this cacophony, came thumping knocks against the door to the basement workout room. A man's booming voice shouted over Craig's hysterical laughter.
"Shut the fuck up you little bastard!! You know what time it is? You've got school tomorrow--school and practice. And what's so fucking funny? Shut up or you'll be crying--and I mean now!!"
Desperate to conceal his insanity from everyone--especially his father! -- Craig stuffed the towel into his mouth to muffle the guffaws and shrieks he was unable to prevent. This reduced the noise enough to pacify his father who stormed back to bed. Craig rolled on the floor, a towel jammed in his mouth, his legs vibrating under the demonic tickling. Until, in the blink of an eye, the tickling stopped. Minutes later Craig was slowly rising to his knees, the towel out of his mouth in order to wipe the tears from his cheeks.
From his vantage point, Glen watched the football player try to pull himself back together. He was panting and gasping, staggering around the room on wobbly knees.
All the little tools of Glen's revenge were tucked safely in a jacket pocket.
Glen began to trot back home at a brisk pace. Craig's dad was right. It was too late to be still out on a school night. Glen needed plenty of sleep. He had a big day planned for tomorrow. A big day for him ...and for Craig.
1) A Changed Man
They hardly recognized Craig when he arrived at Riverbank High School that memorable day. It wasn't so much the dark circles under his eyes or the drawn, sickly look on his face. Hell, everybody had seen Craig after one of his weekend-long parties! But no matter how wasted he looked on a Monday, he still walked around the campus as if he was its sole proprietor.
But today he trembled and shook and couldn't go for two consecutive minutes without looking over his shoulder as if he was being stalked.
His football teammates muttered quietly among themselves about the change in their ferocious captain. But none dared ask Craig what might be the problem. That would suggest Craig wasn't the toughest bastard in the whole county. Inconceivable. So they talked about other things.
" Craig, you all together for the assembly this afternoon? It should be a riot!"
"Hunh?", Craig mumbled his eyes scanning right and left for the predators he apparently feared, "What assembly?"
"Did ya forget?", another of his teammates explained, "Two o'clock today the whole school is gonna be there to see us get the championship trophy? How could you forget, man? You're gonna give that speech on behalf of the team!"
A wave of sickness passed over Craig. He had forgotten about the assembly. (Not that he would have gone so far as to prepare a speech. He would have made a few crude remarks and some ungracious thanks. And would have considered his mere appearance "a gift to his fans".)
But there was no way out. At two o'clock Craig Pasto would be onstage in the school auditorium in front of all the students and teachers. In the spotlight, in the cross-hairs.
2) Another Changed Man.
Glen also appeared differently as he arrived at school that day. He was calm and walked with a relaxed stride to his first class. He knew there would be no violent encounters with Craig Pasto that day. He was certain the quarterback would have other things on his mind that day besides picking on Glen. (And in fact when they passed in the hallway, Craig didn't even notice Glen he was so busy looking over his shoulder.) And besides, if there was any trouble, Glen was prepared with a little package nestled snugly in a corner of his bookbag. Instruments of retribution.
Craig was slumped against the shower wall in the school's gym, the steaming hot water pounding against his beefy nakedness. He had been so jumpy and nervous all day that his clothes were soaked with fear-sweat before lunchtime. He cut his math class to shower and put on some fresh clothes from his locker. (Everyone who saw him in the gym turned a blind eye to Craig's unscheduled appearance. If the star athlete wanted to show up during classes--who would dare to argue? )
Craig's awesome frame lumbered out of the shower room. His huge size 12 feet slapping noisily against the tile floor. Passing the wall-size mirror, Craig paused to study the image in the glass. Drops of water clung to his broad, muscle-capped shoulders. The spray of hairs across his tight pectorals were slick with water as was the trail of hairs sloping over his sharply defined abdominal muscles. And more drops flicked off the enormous snaking male organ that swayed from side-to-side with each of Craig's steps across the locker room.
He had always gloried in his body. He thought of it basically as a gift he had gotten--although he had worked hard to bring it to its current state of "perfection". But now it seemed this hunk of maleness belonged to someone else. Someone who had absolute control over it. And although nothing had happened all day, Craig felt a dark cloud over him, reminding him he had become a puppet. He tore his eyes away from the image of his traitorous body and hurried to dress.
Craig hiked a funky jockstrap up over his round ass and a pair of jeans over that. A phone rang out while he was tugging a pullover in place.
"Craig! Phone!", someone called out to him. Craig froze. Who knew he was here? He shrugged into his team jacket and loped into the coach's empty office where the phone was. He lifted the receiver to his ear, his palms damp. "Hello?"
"Hello Craig. It's your Master." a cold voice spoke.
"My.. what..?", Craig's throat closed up in terror.
"Your Master, Craig. Since last night. I took charge of you last night when you were in your basement. Like this."
A feathery stroke suddenly began caressing Craig's body. A breeze of a touch trickled all along his spine until it flicked between the crack of his muscular jock butt.
Oh, God, Craig thought, it's starting again.
The flicking continued causing Craig to twitch, his skin crawling inside his jeans. Giggles began to burble up out of his throat. "DON'T!" he protested into the phone, "Don't tickle me! I'll do anything!" The stroking stopped and Craig gasped with relief. But there was an ominous silence over the phone.
"You'll do anything?" The voice repeated Craig's plea. "Beg me. Beg me to leave you in peace."
Reflexively, Craig snarled, "Beg you? Shit, Craig Pasto don't beg nobody!!"
Instantly a touch like a vibrating fingers probed into Craig's humid armpits, tickling him fiercely. Craig's defiance collapsed. "OK--OK--I'll beg, I'll beg! Please, don't tickle! Please, please I can't take it! Please -- you win! You hear me--You win!" As quickly as they appeared, the teasing touches vanished.
Craig nearly sobbed with relief. "Is that it? You got what you wanted? You're gonna let me alone?"
"No. Catch you later, dude."
A click. A buzz. Craig was left listening to the dialtone, his clothes soaked with sweat worse than before.
4) In Front of Everybody
The 750 seats of the Riverbank High school auditorium were almost all full. Classes had adjourned for the day so that everybody could see the victorious football team receive the latest in a series of trophies. This time a city councilor would hand out the award. And the local television reporter was there to tape the ceremony. But many of the spectators would have been hard put to pick out the local hero who had led the team to victory. Instead of the brazen leader they were familiar with, their champion QB was the quivering lump perched on a chair on the auditorium stage.
Craig had locked his hands to the bottom of that chair, desperately fighting the urge to bolt from the stage, the school, the town altogether. He just couldn't turn his back on the team like that. They were around him now and he took a little comfort from being surrounded by so many studly guys who treated him as their king. Craig tried to focus his eyes on the podium where some nobody was droning on about the team. Craig eyed the gleaming trophy and waited for his name to be called.
Far from the center of attention, in the darkest corner of the auditorium, Glen was seated. He had chosen one of the few empty rows and was now carefully retrieving the cloth sack from the bottom of his bookbag. He carefully unwrapped the clay doll, and the other items with it.
Nobody noticed his actions. And if they had, he would have seemed to be just another high school boy fiddling with some something-or-other in his lap.
The call came for Craig. He unclenched his grip from the chair and struggled to his shaky knees. Despite the thunderous applause, his own racing heartbeat was all he could hear. That, and his own voice repeating in his mind: Please not here. Please not now. Please not here. Please not now ...
Craig lurched to the center of the stage followed by the hundreds of pairs of eyes. Nearly everyone he knew was in the room, and the rest would see the snippet of videotape being ground out by the local TV news.
His mouth moving and saying who-knows-what, Craig was on the knife edge of awareness of every muscle in his body, hoping that the dreaded tickling sensations would not appear. Suddenly, a shudder ran down his spine. Oh God, was it starting?!
No, only a trickle of sweat skidding down his back.
Sputtering his "thanks", Craig felt a flutter behind his kneecap. Oh no, this is it! This is it!
No, only a stray thread from his jeans.
He was down to the "end zone" of his chatter, and grasped the gleaming prize. "So to all of ya who been such big supporters of me and the guys..." Craig froze. The sudden stop focused all eyes on him. Craig sputtered. And then, to everyone's amazement, he began to giggle. A high, girlish sound the likes of which nobody had ever heard from the macho athlete. They saw him clamp his jaw shut and edge away from the podium.
But he hadn't gotten two steps away when Craig dissolved into waves of screaming laughter. His knees buckled and the football trophy clanged to the floor out of his lifeless grip.
Craig's husky body was being assaulted by unbelievable tickling sensations. As if the torture of the night before was some kind of test to find out the most sensitive areas of the athlete's skin.
From the back row, Greg's hands were working on the fetish doll with the skill of an experienced sadist. He was making his victim twitch and jerk in full view of the entire audience. He was wrenching hideous laughing screams from Craig's powerful lungs.
Craig felt the maddening touches circling his belly. Feather-light, they rolled along his middle and then leaped up to prod his tender armpits. Craig was unable to keep silent, and between guffaws tried to placate his invisible tormentor with pleading.
"Please HOHOHOHOHO don't tickle--please, sir I can't--HAHAHA HAAHAHAH I'm begging you--I can't stand to be tickled--HOHaohao Oh! OH! - PLEASE DON'T !!
Glen attacked the tender skin behind both of Craig's knees until the team star's tormented joints buckled and he crashed to the floor. He rolled about like a madman in the center stage spotlight unable to thwart the attack on his vulnerable areas.
Glen laid aside the feathers to use his nimble fingers on the warm clay. Craig's ribs were massaged fiendishly, and he laughed until he thought his breathing would stop.
In his tickle-tortured delirium he thought that if he could just get his clothes off he could wrench the invisible fingers off his poor abused ribs. Craig yanked his shirt off. And, between tortured pleas for mercy, he began to drag his pants down.
This sudden shocking display of flesh galvanized the others on the platform. At first standing slack-jawed in amazement, the others finally took action. Taking charge, the coach of the football team ordered his boys to hoist the hysterical Craig off the floor. They carried him, half-naked and laughing and crying, through the side of the auditorium to the adjoining gym. Craig's desperate pleas rang out over the heads of the silently stunned audience who would never forget the sight they had seen.
5) Jungle Law
Glen swiftly packed up his torture kit and sped around to a different entrance to the school gym. He didn't want to miss a second of what was to happen next.
The gym was arranged for a basketball game with banks of bleachers surrounding a center court. Glen hid himself beneath a section of the bleachers and watched the unfolding events through the wooden slats.
And what a sight he saw! Craig was shirtless, his massive torso exposed. His blue denim jeans were bunched around his knees revealing his worn jockstrap and the round ass it framed. Craig was carried bodily by five of his burly teammates. One was each carrying a limb while the fifth supported Craig's squirming middle.
Disoriented by his ordeal, Craig fought against his teammates.
Panicked by their captain's maniacal behavior, they wrestled him to a bench on the sidelines which was bolted to the floor. The coach ran off to locate the team doctor. The five players were left to guard their captain. But Craig's violent struggles continued until they decided it was safer to restrain him.
Ropes were found and soon the half-naked captain of the champion Riverbank High football team was lashed to a bench by his teammates. Panting and sweating, the five athletes looked down at their chief.
Now, in certain all-male primate social structures the leading male is obeyed only until such time as he shows weakness. The leading male is not "liked" or "respected". He is only feared. Once the source of fear is gone, he is targeted for destruction.
Looking down at the quivering mass of jelly that had been their captain, the team recalled his long-standing obnoxiousness. His egotism. His cruelty. His glory-hogging.
Why had they put up with it? He wasn't so tough. Any one of them could take his place!
Craig was beginning to come to himself. The tickling had stopped once he had been carried from the stage. He could breathe again. And, best of all, his pals were watching over him.
But questions, in snarling voices, began to be flung at the captive quarterback.
"Hey, man, what the fuck is wrong with you?!"
"Are you goin nuts?"
"Is this a dumb fuckin joke you think is funny?"
Craig was speechless. How could he try to explain what was happening to him? And, anyway--why the fuck should he? Who was in charge here--him or them?! He decided to set them straight--immediately!
"Untie me. NOW!"
"Wait up, Craig. You tell us first what happened. Then we'll see if we should let you up or get you a fuckin straightjacket! "
This argument circled until Craig realized he would not be let go until he answered. He was shocked by the look of rage in the eyes of his "pals".
"Guys", he began, "I can't really explain it. It's like--since last night--I was having these .. these.. attacks of a feeling. It... like... well... tickles!"
"Tickles!", Chuck Braden echoed incredulously. Chuck had his eye on the QB position and was nearly as beefy as Craig. "You mean to say a tough bastard like you went insane out there because of a little tickling? A little kitchy-koo had you crawlin' on the floor like a fuckin bug? I can't believe it. Let's see."
"WHAT !!" Craig bellowed, "I'LL FUCKIN KILL YOU!!"
Chuck's sinewy paws approached Craig's exposed ribs. The strong fingers began a gentle rub. "Craig, this tickle? Like this--me pokin' your ribs? How about this little touch in your sweaty pits? This enough to breakdown the Super-Jock? "
"No! Please! Chuck.. heehee oh no ! Please don't! Come on, dude, gimme a fuckin.. HO HO HO HO HO ! oh man .. DON'T TICKLE ME!!"
But Chuck kept right on. He was exhilarated to finally have big, bad Craig under his thumb. He kept right on assaulting his former chief--just to see him squirm.
Monkey see. Monkey do. Within seconds the other high school hunks attacked the quivering Craig.
Off came his sneakers. Off came his socks. Off came his jeans. While Chuck tickled away at Craig's washboard middle, two others took command of Craig's giant feet.
"I bet this'll really drive him crazy!" One of them cried gleefully. "If the Captain is sobbin' from a little rib-ticklin, Let's see him freak when we massacre his feet!"
They took strong grasp of Craig's twitching toes and pulled them back in unison until the broad pink soles were taut. In tandem the two football fiends dragged a single finger up and down the soles of Craig's hypersensitive, immobilized feet.
Working away with relish, the five tickle torturers had their victim screaming in no time. But they topped his agonized cries with an improvised war chant.
From his vantage point beneath the bleachers, Glen was dizzy with the outcome of his revenge. Seeing his enemy Craig being tickle-assaulted by his merciless teammates was a greater punishment than he could have expected.
But seeing the undressed victim writhing beneath his virile tormentors, gave rise in Greg's mind to another refinement of cruelty.
He cradled the clay fetish in his hands. Glen thrust his index finger between his lips until it was warm and wet. Then he ran the fingertip over the groin of the clay fetish doll.
Suddenly, through the agony of the gang-tickle, Craig felt a new sensation blossoming beneath his jockstrap. a silky warm wetness enveloped his huge cock. From stimulated to swollen in seconds. The heated pressure continued until Craig's rigid cock had burst out of the rubbery pouch and lay drooling pre-cum into Craig's navel.
"Holy shit!", one of the ticklers cried when he saw the vivid stalk thumping against Craig's belly. The four guys stood staring, fascinated to see their captain's dick in full erection. And they were shocked when, in response to Glen's insistent frigging, it erupted sperm all over Craig's hairy chest.
Craig smirked and spoke to the guys. "A faggot." He chuckled and began undoing his pants. "I knew it all along. C'mon guys, let's give the fag what he wants...."
That night the evening TV news in Riverbank began with a videotape of a shocking occurrence at a sports award ceremony at the local high school. Craig Pasto, the team captain had gone berserk while accepting his latest trophy. Drugs were believed to be involved, although Pasto had apparently disappeared and couldn't be reached for comment...