The Story of Sam


Wayne C.

Getting up from the sofa where he'd been watching a baseball game, Sam opened his front door and found Fred and Jason there. They were two neighborhood guys - Sam guessed they were sixteen, seventeen - who seemed to spend a lot of time just looking for trouble. Sam had never encouraged them to visit, but sometimes they just walked in the door, like now, and made themselves at home.

"Hey, Sam," Fred said, flexing his biceps. He was flexing his muscles all the time, as if he were as proud of his build as Sam was of his own. "Where's Mary?"

"She went into town for the day," Sam said. "Probably won't be back until late tonight."

"Hey, Sam," Jason said, "the phone's out at home. Can I use yours?"

"Help yourself," Sam said. "You know where it is." He got eye contact with tall, dark Jason and thought, this kid's got the devil in him. He turned to Fred and said, "It's hot. Can I get you something to drink?"

Fred swelled up his chest. "I'll have a beer."

That's some chest, Sam was thinking. I never noticed he was such a well-built kid. Well, he is only a kid, but what the hell, why not give him a beer. He went to the kitchen, where Jason was on the phone, and got two cold ones. When he left the room he thought he heard Jason saying, "Yeah, he's a lone," and wondered vaguely what that meant.

Sam and Fred sat on the sofa. Suddenly Sam was feeling very warm. He felt like stripping off his t-shirt, but he was shy about showing his body, not wanting to flaunt his beauty. Well, what the hell. He wouldn't mind showing these guys what a great body looked like. He stripped his t-shirt off and dropped it to the floor, and spread his arms out along the back of the sofa. That feels good, he thought, and while he was at it why didn't he slouch down a little and give his groin some show? There was something great down there, too.

Fred hadn't opened his beer yet. He was slowly shaking the can. "Better not do that," Sam said, "or-" But it was too late. Fred popped the top, and beer sprayed under Sam's arm, soaked his armpit and trickled down his ribs onto his belly. After the initial shock, Sam found himself trapped by the sensation, that had grabbed hold of his body. Christ, he thought, what am I feeling? There was no way to control the laughter that welled up in him. "Hey, that tickles!"

"Sorry, Sam," Fred said. "Maybe I can help."

Sam saw from the look on Fred's face that what he'd done hadn't been accidental, that he was looking for trouble now-or had found it. He reached a hand out, fingers curled slightly, and brought it slowly toward Sam's ribs. Sam was still laughing a little, and it made him laugh more to see this kid reaching out to touch him, holding his hand like someone who was about to tickle you.

"Hold it." Jason stood in the doorway. Fred drew back. Sam groaned, thinking of the strange feeling he'd had, as if he'd actually wanted this kid to tickle him. Well, the feeling had passed, and the beer was drying on its own.

But Jason held up a thick, rough terrycloth towel. Ii, can help," he said, walking toward Sam, spreading the towel across both hands. "I'll dry you off, Sam."

"No," Sam said, but it came out as a kind of laugh.

Jason had that evil look in his eye. "You're not all that ticklish, are you, Sam?"

Hearing Jason say the word "ticklish" sent a spasm through Sam, and without thinking he crossed his arms over his bare torso. "It's none of your business how...ticklish I am."

Jason was standing over him. "I'm gonna dry you off, Sam." Sam lay there, somehow powerless, while Fred pulled Sam's legs sideways, up on the sofa, and got at the head of the sofa to pull Sam's arms back over his head. Startled, Sam almost fell onto the floor, but then Jason was straddling him. He slowly lowered the towel to touch Sam's exposed, helpless body. At the first touch of the towel Sam squirmed. "Come on, Sam," Jason said, "Just take it easy. Take . . . it. . . easy." And the towel came-all the way down, Jason's fingers pushing through it to tickle Sam's ribs.

It was just a mild brushing at first, but Sam kept thinking about what might happen. Supposed Jason started getting serious? It made him weak, thinking about it, and that only sensitized him more, and as Jason kept rubbing the towel over Sam's ribs and up into his armpits the intensity of feeling increased. Sam tried to resist laughing but after a couple of minutes of non-stop tickling he couldn't control it. Laughter burst from him, and he thought about what could happen if Jason threw the towel aside and used his bare hands. And what if Fred got into the act? Suppose they tied him down so they could both tickle him at once? Just the thought of that made him shout with laughter.

"Oh, yeah," Jason said, "we're gonna get this guy." He let the towel slide along Sam's belly and down to the floor. He held up his bare hands, fingers shaped into claws, and said in a husky voice, "You see these? You know what these could do to a guy?"

Sam, trying to catch his breath, was hypnotized by the sight of those hands. " could really torture a guy," he said.

Fred laughed, holding Sam's arms tighter.

Jason brought his hands down slowly.

"They call me the 'Torture Master'," he said.

Jason started gently, exploring all the areas that the towel had sensitized, as if he were making a battle plan. Then he began tickling harder, beginning with the spots that were least sensitive. Sam was squirming and laughing, but he felt he could take it if it didn't get worse. Then he remembered that he'd told them his wife wouldn't be getting back till late. He wasn't expecting any visitors or phone calls. These guys could tickle him for up to ten hours! It was a wild thought, put into his head by increasingly wild sensations that had him moaning and groaning. His prick was getting hard, and when Sam got hard there was no hiding it - that cock had to stand out, stand up. The force of his erections had torn jockstraps apart, and sometimes he had to duck into an-alley after getting big on the street, that prick rising like a flagpole in his Jeans, and beat off against a brick wall. And the way he was starting to feel, that giant cock just might destroy his jockstrap and running shorts both. That would scare these guys away.

Or would it?

Soon there was no time to think., his head went haywire as Jason's tickling became harder, relentless, merciless. By the time he was screwing his thumbs into Sam's ribs Sam was protesting and pleading: "No! Oh, no! Please! Don't do this to me! Come - come on, J-Jason - ha ha! No! What are you doing!"

Jason had moved his quick, strong fingers to Sam's armpits, testing all over for spots that would make Sam beg for mercy as he never had before. Sam saw the glazed look in Jason's eyes, saw the swelling in Jason's jeans. Then Sam's cock leaped right through his jockstrap and shorts with a violent tearing sound. Jason backed out of the way to let that stiff cock rise, staring at it in amazement. Then he tore at the front of his jeans, exposing his own super-hard cock. He started jacking off, seeming to work himself up to a quick climax, then stopping short. His cock was as hard as it could ever get, and he licked his lips as he looked all over Sam's body, remembering places. Sam knew the kid was sex-crazed, and a sex-crazed teenager would stop at nothing.

Fred was breathing heavy. "Hey, help me out," he said. Jason went up to him and opened his jeans. Tilting his head back, Sam saw Fred's enormous cock waving in the air, stiffening.

"Oh, yeah," Jason said, his voice trembling, "we haven't even started tickling this guy."

"No!" Sam cried, trying to keep from laughing even though Jason wasn't touching him. "You don't know how ticklish I am!"

"You don't know how ticklish you are either," Jason said, "because you've never been tickled by me before." He began to lower his hands, his fingers shaking.

There was a knock at the door.

Thank God, the torture was over! They would have to let him answer the door, he could get away from them. But neither of them moved immediately. The knock came again. "You have to let me up to answer the door," Sam said. "It'll look suspicious if you don't. It might be my brother."

"You don't have a brother, Sam," Jason said. "Don't you worry, I'll get the door." He got to his feet, took off his t-shirt and walked stark naked toward the door. "Don't even think about getting away. Fred will take care of you."

And before Sam could even try to escape Fred swung around and was on top of him, all over him, pinning Sam down-completely with his muscular, shaking body. He used force alone to reach every part of Sam's body, getting at the most sensitive spots and squeezing in a way that made Sam shout. In spite of his strength Sam couldn't do anything but feel more and more helpless, more and more out of his mind with this brutal, almost painful tickling. Someone had to come through the door to help him, he'd be saved any second. But the seconds lasted as he reeled in and out of consciousness under this incredible assault, Fred's hands tickling him everywhere at once. "Help!" Sam shouted, out of breath. "H-help me! Whoever you are! Ha ha ah, ohhhhhh, ohhhhhh, this...guy! Hee hahahaha, he's oh God tickling me! Help me!"

But no one came to help him. Instead he heard deep voices whispering; and when he managed to see through his tears he couldn't believe what he saw: there were five new guys surrounding him. This made a total of seven. They weren't doing anything. Weren't they going to help him? Couldn't they see that he was losing his mind?

What if they just stood around and watched?

What if they all joined in?

"We haven't even tickled his feet yet," Jason said. "Let's check out these feet."

And Sam felt, along with everything else, his sneakers being tugged free and his socks stripped from his ticklish feet, and knew that they, maybe all seven of them, were going to tickle his feet. There were hands on his feet now, bending back the toes, stretching the soles taut. . . and Sam shouted in a new frenzy as those wild fingers attacked.

Soon Sam barely heard, over his own hysterical shrieks, Jason's voice. It sounded like something out of a dream:

"We're gonna have a real good time with you, Sam. All of us. And we're not gonna waste our strength holding you down. So we're gonna tie you down. We'll take you into that dining room and tie you down to that table. And we'll tickle you and do anything else we want." He gave an evil laugh. "You just might get tickled to death."

Suddenly the tickling stopped, and when Sam had managed to catch his breath he said, "You won't do it...I won't let you...I'll fight you..."

"You won't be fighting, Sam. Because before we move you we're gonna tickle you helpless."

And immediately Sam felt hands all over his body, finding the most ticklish spots, digging into him until his body was stiff and arched and tears streamed down his red face.

By the time Sam was tickled helpless he was far from reality. Sensations had filled his head completely, and he barely knew when they were dragging him to the table because at least three of them were tickling him as they dragged him. They tied his legs spread-eagled to two corners of the heavy table, then tied his wrists together and tied them to the light fixture overhead. Then hands fell on him, all possible combinations of hands. In his half-crazed state he could tell when there were two hands, or four hands, or six; when there were more than that his body was one solid bloom of unendurable torment. Some of them were using all their young energy to squeeze his ribs and dig their nails into his soles, while others stroked him more gently in an agonizing, teasing way. For a moment his vision cleared so he could see the kid who was tickling his ribs in a wild, excited way, and he saw a naked body with one of the biggest hard-ons he'd ever seen. This guy's hands were jerking like crazy all over Sam's chest and ribs, and his thighs were shaking, and it wasn't long before he was prodding that thick cock into Sam's side. Soon all of these incredibly built, sex-crazed guys had stripped and were rolling and poking and stroking their rock-hard, dripping cocks all over Sam's body.

Suddenly there were two hands on Sam's cock, which was the wettest and hardest of all, and two more hands playing with his balls and stroking between his legs. There were hands tickling his arms, armpits, ribs, belly and feet all at once. As the guys got more excited, their tickling became even more intense. All the tickling sensations Sam felt seemed to be gathering force in his cock, which was being stroked to the bursting point. Then came a shock, as someone came up behind him and shoved a thick feather along his spine.

Sam came, shooting as he'd never shot before. His cock was a fountain of cum, pulsing with ecstasy all along its length, while the shaking, moaning, lust-crazed guys forced every drop of cum out of him and brought themselves off, thick ropes of cum shooting up Sam's sides.

Then he fainted.

This is how they revived him. They tied his arms down this time, tied his ankles together and raised his legs toward the ceiling. This exposed his asshole completely, and he came to with a new, paralyzing fear that they were going to touch him there. "No, don't!" he said, though they were only teasing that sensitive surface slightly, stretching it a little, preparing it for what they were going to do. "Don't, don't, don't," Sam said, though they were not really tickling him. It was the anticipation of what they could do that had him jolting, laughing.

A long white feather appeared in front of his face. And another. And another. Soft, full, diabolical touching him, just hovering where he could see them. Then they disappeared. He knew where they were going. They were going to tickle his asshole with feathers. He quaked and shuddered and begged them for mercy.

But they still weren't tickling him. Not yet. They were being quiet. Too quiet. Sam lay still, listening to his own breathing. Was the torture session over at last? Were they going to let him go?

The feathers passed in front of his eyes again, slowly.

More silence. Sam began to think they were touching him with light strokes that he barely felt, but he wasn't sure. Then he felt them again - or did he? He struggled against his restraints. Were they going to do it or weren't they?

He thought he saw the feathers again, just below his field of vision, but he wasn't sure. He groaned and twisted helplessly against the ropes that held him fast. The anticipation was getting to be too much. He lost hope that they were going to let him go; they were going to keep tickling him, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. So let them start already! End this agony of waiting!

"G-go ahead," Sam said.


"What did he say?"

They moved closer around him. Sam saw hungry faces. He could only hope to get it over with. "Go ahead," he said again.

"Go ahead with what, Sam?"

"You want us to do something, Sam?"

"What have you got in mind, Sam?"

He could barely see, between his legs, a feather poised to attack his vulnerable asshole. The suspense was unendurable. He said what he'd thought he never would say to them:

"T. . . tickle . . . me."

"What was that?"

"What did you say, Sam? Speak up."

He knew they were going to make him repeat it. "Go ahead and do it. If you're going to do it, do it."

"Do what, Sam?"

He shouted: "Tickle me! I know you're going to tickle me, so do it! Tickle me!"

Seven voices at once started talking about tickling. "Tickle him? Tickling? He wants us to tickle him...Maybe he doesn't know what he's in for...but he asked for it, yeah, he's asking for it.

Jason's voice rose above the rest: "Get him!"

Sam had no way of knowing what it would feel like to have a feather touch the tender virgin flesh of his asshole. The shock came barreling up his body into his head. He tried to fight but could not escape from the wracking sensations that had him screaming and screaming beyond control, leaving him not enough breath or coherence to beg them to stop, to tell them that he would do anything if they would only stop.

At the same time there was a great heaving urge in his loins. And when an active, greedy tongue began tickling his asshole he came, feeling hot cum shoot along his body just before he passed out.

He did not know, as he slowly became conscious again, how long he had been out. He longed to return to that blissful state of unconsciousness again, but sensations were dragging him awake once again - not along his poor tortured ribs, armpits of belly, not between his legs, but where his feet were tied together down at the end of the table. There was only Fred at his feet, Fred alone tickling his feet, but God what sensations! Sam came fully awake, determined not to show that this foot-tickling was driving him mad; but when Fred saw Sam opening his eyes he stepped up his attack. He was getting to know Sam's large, tender feet very well - the high arches where a light touch made Sam gasp, the sensitive spots at the base of Sam's toes, and of course those taut, ticklish soles that responded so violently to Fred's feathers. No wonder Sam couldn't keep quiet any longer.

"Stop! Oh stop! Please! Ha ha ha ha...not there! Anyplace but there! Hee ha ha ha ha no, no...oh God stop tickling me! Stop! I can't stand it! Oh my feet, oh my God, somebody make him stop!"

"Listen to me, Sam," Fred said. "You stop yelling now, just for one minute." He stopped tickling, and very slowly Sam got quiet again, catching his breath. "What I'm gonna do,

Sam, is tickle you...And his fingers were moving now, teasing those feet..."and I'm gonna keep tickling you until you come."

"No!" Sam-cried. "No, d-don't, oh stop. . . I can't, can't come anymore! Ahhhhh, ohhhhh, no!"

"I'm gonna keep tickling you till you come," Fred said, "That's all there is to it." And he took a thick, fuzzy pipe cleaner and twisted it between Sam's toes. "I'm gonna tickle all in between your toes. I'm gonna use my fingers, my tongue, these feathers, and something else." Sam could not see through his tears but he heard what sounded like the click of a ball-point pen. And a deep hard line of sensation had Sam screaming again as the pressure of that ball point moved slowly down the center of his sole, and up again, slowly...and down again. . . .

And the assault didn't stop, not even for a second. It was only Fred tickling his feet while the others watched, but he seemed to be doing the work of all of them. Sam tried wildly to control himself so he could speak, to make Fred understand that he couldn't come anymore. It might be hours before he could get hard again, and if this tickling lasted for hours it would be the end of him. "I won't stop until you come," Fred kept saying. "I want to see you come, Sam."

And it seemed like hours, it seemed that his feet had felt all the tickling torture in the world, until Sam started getting hard again. In slow motion, as Fred tickled and tickled and tickled, Sam's cock rose higher and higher. Then there were two more hands on him, pumping his cock up and down as Fred kept tickling...and miraculously Sam came again, shooting even harder than before, almost passing out again but struggling to hold on, dying to know if they were finally going to set him free.

Fred moved away from Sam's feet, and for a moment all was quiet. Then Jason appeared at Sam's side with two feathers, which he gently laid down on Sam's stomach, drawing them ever so slowly across that ticklish flesh as Sam tried to suck his stomach in, to twist, to do anything to escape that incredible stimulation taking his breath away, making him shout with new energy..."Not my stomach! No! Jason, please! I can't take it anymore!"

"Guess what I'm doing, Sam?" Jason said. "I'm tickling you till you come, all over again."

And that was what each of them did, each choosing a part of Sam's helpless flesh and working it over, no matter how long, until a crazed, screaming Sam came again, and again and again. By the time they were through they had emptied his bladder too, soaking Sam's legs and belly with piss. At strange moments Sam seemed to be able to step back and observe this scene, this poor tortured guy being tickled to death by seven horny guys who were themselves coming, coating his body with cum over and over. At other times the full ferocity of this torment overwhelmed him and he was screaming again, screaming as well as he could in a voice that long since become hoarse. And he knew that, if they ever stopped, he would never be the same again.


That was the cry that sounded when the lookout spotted Sam's wife's car turning into the street.

Within a few minutes they pulled on their clothes and were out of the house, leaving behind a Sam still tied to the table, still gasping and choking out laughter as if they were still tickling him, as if he'd be feeling these sensations for the rest of his life.

He was barely conscious of reality when Mary came through the front door.

"Sam! What has been going on here! Oh, Sam.

Sam tried several times to speak. Through swollen eyelids he saw Mary approach the table. He knew what she was seeing, he knew that the smell of male sex in the room was overpowering. Finally he managed to speak: "These guys . . . young guys. . seven of them...tickling wouldn't believe it...hours and hours..." That was all he could say for the moment. He just lay there exhausted.

"Sam, oh Sam honey, did you say they were tickling you?"

When he could speak again he tried to tell her: "My ribs, my feet, under my arms, and everywhere else. They were all tickling me, all at once . . . no, Fred was tickling me first. No, it was Jason. The last thing I remember they were working me over one by one..."

"Well, Sam." She seemed to be sniffing. "It's obvious that other things went on too." There was a hard frankness in her voice as she said, "I want to know how many orgasms you had."

" least ten." He lay wondering why she wasn't laying a cool hand on his forehead.

On the floor was one item they had left behind - one soft, white feather. Mary picked it up, looked at it, and looked thoughtfully over her husband's naked body.

"Why, Sam," she said, coming closer, "Just think...I never even knew you were ticklish."

Wayne C.