I’d been watching him for eight weeks exactly.
Fifty six days,
One thousand, three hundred and forty four hours,
Eighty thousand, six hundred and forty minutes,
Four million, eight hundred and thirty eight thousand seconds of quiet theft - stealing every glance, every fluid motion of that tanned, young body as it carved through the park like it belonged absolutely nowhere fucking else.
By now the meaty stud must have felt the weight of my eyes. I didn’t give a fuck. I let the little bitch know. Let the knowledge crawl under his soft, tanned skin the way the thought of him had already burrowed under mine.
The kid rode a battered red skateboard, the grip tape worn thin in places, the trucks complaining softly each time he carved. A baggy white vest hung loose over a torso that was all lean muscle and sun-browned flesh, oversized and clearly borrowed blue jeans sliding low on a narrow waist showing me what underwear he had on (Calvin Kleins, typical). His feet were clad in white Vans stained by time and concrete, a shark tooths necklace attached to black cord dangling from his lower lip - I had watched him so much I’d noticed how much he liked to chew on it.
There were other boys out there, pretty enough in their own careless way, but none of them were anything him. None of them made my pulse thicken the way he did.
Five-nine, maybe a fraction more. Bronzed and toned, with bright blue eyes. That thick, floppy fall of blonde hair forever slipping into his face, forever flicked aside with a sharp little twitch of his head. Every time he did it I felt it in my teeth. He distracted me from my book - Nabokov’s Lolita, of all things - until the words on the page blurred into nothing and all that remained was the sight of him, the sound of polyurethane wheels, the low heat of wanting, just wanting.
And oh, how I wanted him. Not gently or tenderly. Not sweetly. There would be no polite kisses at the side of his neck, no making breakfast for him in the morning, with the promise of fresh coffee and scrambled eggs in bed by noon.
I wanted to peel that cocky little skatepunk open and find every soft, unprotected place on him. I wanted to pin those restless hands above his head and learn the exact pressure that would make his spine arch so high the middle of his back might click. I wanted to make him laugh until he couldn’t breathe, squirm until his skin turned wet and helpless, until those blue eyes went glassy with the particular panic that only comes when someone finds the places you never knew could be so sensitive.
Tickling.
Pure, relentless tickling.
The kind that leaves a boy writhing and pink and half-hard without understanding why. Boyish tortures, yes, but mine. All mine.
Weekend after weekend I sat with the hunger coiled tight in my gut and did fucking zilch.
Today was different. Today, on this ordinary Saturday morning, I caught the fucker glancing over. Once. Twice. A third time, longer! It suggested … Interest? Pfft, in little old me?
Then - suddenly - there he was.
The stud rocked the board into motion and came straight for me, wheels humming over the cement. My favorite little skatepunk. Within twenty feet his gaze locked on mine and held. He snapped the tail down, caught the board in one easy motion, and padded across the grass toward me, white socked ankles flashing above those stained Vans, blonde hair falling into his eyes again …
I didn’t look away. I couldn’t. Every step he took only fed the same dark, obsessive certainty that had lived in me for eight weeks:
I was going to get my hands on him.
And when I did, I was going to tickle him until he broke.
The interest was in my pack of cigarettes, of course it was.
I smiled anyway, slow and crooked, and held the American Spirits up between two fingers.
“Seriously?” I said, “You’re supposed to be an athlete, pal.”
He chuckled, lazy and unbothered, “Yeah, yeah. I know,” he took one, pinched it between his lips, and lit it with a borrowed flame, “I don’t smoke smoke,” then he smiled - that bad-boy, slightly feral little grin - and sat down on the surface of the hot cement wall a couple of feet to my left, close enough that I could smell the sun on his skin …
“You’re holding a cigarette,” I say.
He shrugs, “Different thing,” he pinched it between his lips, already grinning, “I only have ’em sometimes. I don’t buy packs or anything. I just steal everybody else’s.”
I sit back, “Very responsible.”
We shot the shit for a few minutes. His name was Deacon. The name settled in my chest like a secret I already owned.
“Yeah, I’ve got a couple of part-timer jobs,” he said, puffing away, “I don’t like to work much. Not with school on.”
“Well, you’re not in school now, are you?” I note, “It’s summer.”
“Yeah, but …” he laughed and turned to me, grinning, a beautiful, devilishly boyish grin, bright white teeth glinting sharply in the full sun as he threw his cocky head back, “Sometimes it seems I’m always in school. It fuckin’ sucks. I gotta mess around, skate, fuck, party … You know,” he took a long drag from the cigarette and leaned back carefully on the wall.
Then, without warning, he bolted upright and peeled off his vest in one smooth motion.
I jumped involuntary and then pretended to fold down a page of my book - I had to do something, anything.
The sight of him hit me like a physical blow. Very lean, tanned all fucking over, the kind that makes the skin look like its buzzing, with a hard, muscled stomach that tightened when he breathed. His upper body was like a work of art, stronger than I’d guessed from the baggy clothes - small, hard, square pecs; heavy, well-rounded shoulders; upper arms that looked like they could hold a struggling body down without effort. He’d be dangerous in a fight. Someone you would be intimidated by. I wonder if I can intimidate him when his arms are strapped tight above his head …
Jesus, I tried hard not to stare. I failed.
He turned and lay on his back, along the walls surface with a contented groan, stretching those blue-veined forearms behind his head. Is he fucking with me? What good did I do to deserve this?
The movement opened him completely - exposing a lusciously moist pair of deep armpits, lined with strong young-male tendons, bursting with exuberant, blonde pit hair that looked soft and dense and perfect for burying fingers in. The skin there was faintly flushed, a little damp from the heat. Vulnerable. Soft. He’s fucking begging me and he doesn’t even know it …
I could have jumped him right then. Could have shoved him flat against the concrete, locked those toned arms above his head, and gone straight for those pits with both hands - digging, raking, tickling without mercy until that cocky grin shattered into helpless, high-pitched laughter. Until he twisted and bucked and tried to close his arms and couldn’t. Until the arrogance drained out of him and all that was left was a flushed, squirming, overstimulated boy who didn’t understand why his body was reacting the way it was, or why I had done such a thing to him. Would his skater friends help, or would they ignore it? Would he scream for help, or would he tear me to shreds with verbal insults? Faggot, asshole, fuck-head?
I had to have him.
“So you don’t have a job?” I tut, “What a fucking slacker.”
He looked insulted, the little flare of pride only making the hunger sharper, “Hey, man, I work. At the Seven Sisters. Pull espresso,” he looked serious for a moment, “Gotta save up money for my new board. Gonna cost me fucking almost two hundred bucks …”
I was stunned - not by the body this time, but by the number, “You gotta be kidding me. How can a fucking skateboard cost two bills? That’s insane.”
Deacon bobbed those narrow shoulders. The motion made the blonde hair in his armpits shift, catch the light, “It’s a custom board,” he was looking off toward his buddies now. Then he lifted very suddenly and yelled something unintelligible at one of them, voice loud and careless, body still half-open, still offering every soft, ticklish place he didn’t even know he had.
I watched him. I absorbed him.
And I began to plot how I would eventually own him.
Deacon laid back down on the wall, lifted his head, and glanced at me.
“You look like one of those frat boys,” he grinned wickedly, “Only older.”
I preferred to take it as a compliment - clean-cut, solid, the kind of face that still looked like it belonged in a house full of rituals and secrets. Cocky little bastard, “Shouldn’t knock fraternities, smartass. You don’t have what it takes to be in a frat,” I adjust my cap, as if I’m proud of something, pulling out another cigarette.
He took a drag of his own and blew the smoke out extravagantly, eyes glittering, “Oh yeah? Like, what am I missing? C’mon. Frat guys are a bunch of chicken-shits. I should know. My sister’s dated enough.”
I lit mine, “Yeah? Maybe you think so, fucker, but the hazing’s tough.”
He snorted, pure contempt, “Oh, okay, hazing. Yeah. Gimme a break. I could handle that shit,” he glanced at me with that same cocky dismissal, then looked away toward his friends.
I pulled myself up against the wall, stretching my legs out, letting the heat of the concrete soak into the backs of my thighs, “Oh yeah, you think so, huh? You’re a little smartass, pal. Though you’re an awesome skateboarder.”
He flicked some ash off his cigarette and looked at me as if I were an alien, “—Awesome?—”, smoke blew from his mouth as he spoke, You’re an old guy, so, I guess it makes sense …”
“Old? I’m fucking twenty-nine …” I feel my eyebrows flatten over my eyes, “… Old is like, seventy.”
He cackles, my god, what a sound, I can’t wait to produce more of it, “Nobody says ‘awesome’ anymore, man,” he grinned nonetheless, the expression sharp and young and so fucking devastating.
“Not true, idiot.”
“Oh yeah?” This would be the perfect time to nudge him, to poke, to test, but I force my hands into myself and fold my arms across my chest, “And how old are you?”
He leaned up again, eyeing me quickly, then grinned down at the pavement, taking a long drag, “Nineteen,” he chuckled, the sound almost insulting, “Check it out, you sit here and watch us skatin’. I’ve seen you before here. Yeah, I’ve seen you here.”
He met my eyes directly for those few seconds - honest, intent, unblinking - and something in my chest tightened hard. Was he getting at something? Or just young-male bullshit, the casual cruelty of a boy who knows he’s being watched and decides to acknowledge it for sport? I told myself it was the latter. But the darker part of me - the part that had already mapped every soft inch of him - decided it didn’t matter.
Something in me went for it.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea. You think you’re so tough? Listen. How ’bout this,” I threw the cigarette down and stood, crushing it under my Timberland, “You’re too lazy to work for your new board? Fine. I’ve got bucks. I’ll offer to buy it for you.”
He cocked his head, still lying on the wall, straining his neck to look up at me. The motion made the thick, blonde thatch around his navel shift - wispy as the fur in those perfect armpits, dense and inviting. I had to tug my eyes back to his face.
He smirked incredulously, then sat up swiftly, “No way. Why?”
“Because when you get old,” I joke, “You become generous. But, I’m only giving you the money if you can pass a simple test. Say, an hour-long test,” my heart was hammering …
He tutted again, “I get enough tests at the ‘dub, man. Hey!” Tim turned away suddenly, yelling again at one of his friends. They exchanged looks, some quick, unintelligible hand signs. Then he turned back. “Anyway. Yeah. So, no fucking tests, fuck that.”
He’s so dismissive, this will require some work, “Not an academic test, dummy,” I continued, “But it is … A … Collegiate one,” I licked my lips before I could stop myself. The intensity must have shown; I turned away from his painfully handsome face, glancing off toward the guy he’d just yelled at, pretending the hunger wasn’t written all over me, “You think my frat hazing was so easy? I’ll put you through the same one I got. For one hour. If you can pass without giving up, the skateboard’s yours, kid.”
He cocked his head again. For a moment he actually looked interested - curious, almost tempted. Then, just as quickly, his eyes flicked back to his friends, the thick tendons in his neck shifting as he turned. One of them was yelling something, “Cool! Hey, listen, man, gotta go.”
He jumped off the wall, stuffing the vest into the back pocket of his jeans. A few quick, lithe strides across the grass, board snapped down, and he was gone - scooting away with that same effortless grace. But not before he turned back and shot me that killer grin one last time.
“Hey, see ya again, dude.”
It wasn’t a request, or an ask, or even a polite suggestion, it felt like a certainty, like he knew it would happen for sure, and so did I.
He rolled towards me just how he had left.
“Hey,” he said.
I pretended he was an inconvenience, “Oh,” I pause, it’s all about timing, “Hey.”
We started talking about a mini-riot at one of the downtown clubs the night before. Deacon still had six months to go before he could drink legally. Six months of that perfect youth I both craved and despised.
He brought up the subject of our previous little chat like it was nothing, like he hadn’t already sunk his hooks into me.
“A new board. Huh, that’d be cool. Fuck … I so need a new deck. Well, what’s it like? What kinda stupid shit they do to you?”
He was curious, but also clearly a little suspicious now. He jumped off the wall quickly, picked up his board, and started screwing around with it - jumping on it, twisting, staring down at it intently, looking up at me lazily, then returning to total board absorption. Half a boy and half a man. Only nineteen. Nineteen and already so fucking sure of himself that it stung my chest.
I would not let this beautiful, arrogant little shit see how badly I wanted to fuck with him.
I cleared my throat, “Well, if I tell you … That’s kind of dumb.”
He glanced at me, put-off, that quick flicker of contempt I was beginning to hate almost as much as I lusted after it.
“Alright,” I watch him brush away some fluff from his left nipple, god, I equally yearn for him to wear and not wear the vest shoved into the back of his jeans, ‘distracting’ doesn’t cover it, “It’s kind of an interrogation thing. If you can tough it out, you get to join the frat.”
“Uh, yeah, everybody got in the frat, though, you said,” he glanced at me with that gee, I hadn’t realized you’re that fucking stupid look. Suddenly I realized he thought he had me; he was wearing a contemptuous sneer that made my cock twitch. Quickly I put on a confused look, like I was too mentally slow for him. I couldn’t tell if I were, or I was just a lucky verbal stumbler.
I suddenly copped a pathetic, pleading tone, letting him believe he was the smarter one, “But it’s tough! It really was!—”, let the little bastard feel superior. It would make breaking him sweeter.
“Well, you went through it, man. And YOU don’t look so tough,” he laughed mockingly, “So it can’t be that big a deal!” He grinned at me arrogantly, leapt over to me, reached into my front pocket and took out my pack of Spirits like he already owned everything that was mine, “I think I just got myself a new board, dude. Let’s go for it.”
“Sure,” I said languidly, having to focus on speaking normally, even though I stumbled, did he really just take my cigarettes from my pocket, was his hand really that close to my, “Wh-when?” I clear my throat again.
“Right now, dude. You just live up there, right?” He said, pointing and looking up to the beat-up old brick apartment building on the hill behind us, “Just an hour, huh?” He smiled, still looking up at the building, like he was trying to pick out the windows of my apartment.
“Okay,” I nod, “Let’s see if you can handle it.”
I smile, turn, and head towards a dream I was about to make a reality, and he?
He simply followed.
“Okay. I’ve been thinking,” I announce, “I’m gonna change it a little.”
He gawps at me, “Whaddya mean, change it? No way!” He had popped himself a beer and was walking back from the kitchen into the living room - well, the only room of my ratbag studio apartment. Nineteen years old and already treating my place like he owned it.
“No,” I say, “Just because … It can’t be identical. In this case, we’ll make it more of … More of a game. Here’s the gig. I’m gonna give you … How much do you need?”
His lips pause at the neck of the beer, “Like, a hundred and … Sixty bucks.”
I thought for a moment, “I recall you saying almost two bills?”
He looked at me like I was a complete moron, “Well, a hundred and sixty … Is almost … Two hundred…” he blinked, that pretty, vacant little expression that made me wonder how his face would move when he came.
“Okay,” clearly this guy hadn’t been dealing with money very long. I looked in my wallet. I had a fat bunch of tens and twenties, “I’ll give you that much right now. I’ll go get some more beer at the stop-and-rob. While I’m gone, you hide each of the bills …”
“Stop-and-rob,” he giggled and glanced at me, grinning. Then down at his feet, “Uhh, better make it a hundred and eighty, come to think.”
“Huh? I thought you said—”
“—Fucking sales tax,” he jerked his handsome face up. He was still grinning, and now I could see on his big, perfect front teeth that slightly marbly look that guys get when they’re given certain antibiotics in childhood. God knows why, but I always found that kinda sexy. Whatever.
I looked at him, running my eyes quickly, carnivorously over his hot, sweaty body. Jesus. Then I glanced quickly at and away from his moist, corrugated stomach., “What-fucking-ever … Okay … Here’s a hundred and eighty bucks …” I handed him the bills, and at that precise fucking moment Deacon began absent-mindedly stroking his belly again, grazing his fingers through his thatch and even poking a finger into his navel. I thought I was going to have a stroke.
He swigs at his beer, totally unaware of my perverse focus, his raised eyebrows suggesting he is waiting for me to continue explaining. I cough into my fist and proceed.
“You uh, ahem, hide those in the apartment while I’m gone. When I get back, I’ll have one hour to get you to tell me where they are. Whatever you’ve still got hidden at the end of the hour is yours.”
He burps quietly, “Wait a minute! What if you win some back? Then I won’t have enough. I don’t know, man,” he copped a cynical, bored look and rolled his eyes, “Maybe …” he glanced out the window, blue eyes narrowing. Far below was the corporate “skatepark.” His buddies were gliding along, far below, like wheeled ants. The roar of the freeway drowned out their sounds.
“All right, you bastard,” he has no idea how much spare money I have, I will get him, believe me, “Here. Here’s another twenty. That makes two hundred. And I still think I can get it all back from you during our game,” I was sure I blushed suddenly, confused, thinking I’d fucked up, that he’d interpret the sudden extra money as desperation to get him into some sick situation. But my fear was for nothing. His greed (which I should have predicted) won him over immediately, and I realized that, yes, when we’re young men, cocky, untested, we think we’re immortal, that we can do anything, undergo anything, and come out on top. Always a key technique in manipulating his type: appeal to their greed and sense of omnipotence. Especially beautiful fuckers like him.
“Cool, man. Deal!” Deacon grinned widely and chuckled, again lazily scratching that taut belly, absently playing with his own teenage male flesh. His pale blue eyes shot pleasure at me from under the shock of blonde hair falling boyishly over his forehead. He raised his hand in goodbye, “See ya in a few, bro!” He half-sneered. Turning away, he began looking with interest through my library.
You read books? I thought, insulting him silently as I closed the door behind me.
As I walked back to my building with the six-pack, a sudden wave of helpless frustration crashed over me.
You idiot. There’s no fucking reason he’s going to be there. You just handed a near-stranger two hundred dollars and walked away like a lovesick fool.
Led around Mr. Happy between my thighs …
The elevator rose with agonizing slowness. My stomach sank with every floor. By the time the doors opened I had already started rehearsing the humiliation of an empty apartment, the money gone, the beautiful little bastard laughing about it with his friends.
And yet …
I pushed the door open.
Deacon was still there.
Squatting on the floor by the bookcase, a small pile of my books dumped carelessly around him. He held one open, examining the spine with that same lazy, entitled concentration he gave everything. God, his ass looked good. He didn’t even bother looking up.
“Pop me a brew, dude.”
Arrogant little bastard. Beautiful, sweating, nineteen-year-old bastard who somehow still thought the world owed him everything.
I cracked a bottle and passed it over without a word, then stepped into the tiny kitchen to shove the rest of the beer into the fridge. When I came back he was already guzzling, throat working, a fresh flush of pure cockiness rising in his cheeks.
“All done hiding my money. Can’t wait to spend it,” he grinned, chuckled low in his chest, “Come down there tomorrow and I’ll show you my stuff.”
Yeah. You’ll show me your stuff, you little shit. I’ll make sure of it.
“Good enough,” I said, voice deliberately languid even as my pulse thumped in my neck, “All right. Let’s get you set. Lie down on the bed. On your back. I’ll get you tied up.”
“—HUH?—”, the word drawled out of him, thick with sudden wariness, “Tied the fuck up? Wait a second. You didn’t say anything about - why do I have to be tied up?”
I gulp down any hesitation, “Because it’s an interrogation game, dummy,” I inhaled without thinking and caught it - the thick, warm, unmistakably male funk rolling off his pits. Just ripe enough. The smell of a boy who’d been skating in the sun all day and hadn’t bothered to wash. It hit me low in the gut and stayed there.
He cocked his head, rebellious, lips pursed, “And how do I know you’re not gonna hurt me?”
I scoff, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, it’s just a frat hazing! Don’t be such a fucking pussy. They didn’t hurt us. Remember, I got through it.”
He sipped his beer like he needed it, “Well … Okay,” his voice turned tough, sullen, “You do, man, and I’ll …” he shot me a crooked, menacing glance, “My friends’ll fuck you up real good, man.”
I hold my hands up, “Oh, I’m not gonna hurt you, you little shit.”
“Well …” he cocks an eyebrow, shoots his index finger at me, offers me nothing but silence, which I assume is meant to threaten me, it doesn’t work, if anything it eggs me on to say:
“Oh. I forgot. You gotta strip down to your briefs too. That’s what we had to do.”
Something shifted in his eyes - matter-of-fact, almost pissed off. He set those sensuous lips in a determined line, squatted, and began unlacing his Vans with heavy, deliberate hands, “I should probably just get NAKED, it’s so fucking hot in here,” he muttered.
Phew, I thought, blood roaring in my ears. That could’ve gone two ways.
He yanked off the shoes, then the blue jeans, revealing the rest of the Calvin Klein briefs that had been riding low on his hips. When he straightened and drew a deep breath, my gaze dropped for one helpless second to the heavy, healthy basket filling out the front of his underwear. Thick. Substantial. Exactly what I expected from a boy built like him.
He lay on his back, on my bed, as instructed, crossing his legs at the ankle and running his fingers through his air, fucking adonis.
I went to the closet, heart vibrating against my ribs. No fancy cuffs. Nothing that would look prepared. I grabbed two ratty yet lengthy old plastic wires, an old leather belt, one of my actually good silk ties (this better be worth it), and a pair of white athletic socks. Working fast, I knotted them into three solid double-ended restraints - soft sock loops for his skin, stronger fabric to lock to the steel frame.
When I returned he had sat up and was starting to peel off his left sock …”
“Hey!” Fuck, I sounded too urgent. I repeat myself, sounding a little less frantic, “Uh, hey … Don’t take yer fucking socks off, man,” I snarl, “They stink enough as it is.”
A lie. But necessary. Leaving the socks on was part of it - the slow, psychological build. Tickle a guy through thin cotton first, get him laughing and panting and already dreading the moment those socks come off and the real sensitivity is exposed. He dropped his hands and lay back down without further protest, he even huffed.
I started at his ankles.
Careful. Methodical. I looped the soft sock restraints around each one and drew them taut, spreading his legs just wide enough that the inner thighs - smooth, lightly haired, almost certainly ticklish - would be open and available. The steel frame creaked softly as I secured the other ends. His calves flexed once, testing, then went still.
Next the wrists.
“Arms out in front of you.”
He obeyed, looking almost too chill. That chill unnerved me more than resistance would have. I slipped the sock nooses over both wrists together, tight and snug, but not cruel, then guided his bound hands up and back until they rested above his head. One final knot locked them to the center bar of the heavy steel frame. His armpits opened with the stretch - blonde, damp, fragrant. The tendons stood out clean and strong. Every soft, vulnerable place I had been dreaming about for those four million plus seconds was now offered up, helpless, waiting.
Deacon lay there, stripped to briefs and socks, wrists and ankles fastened to my bed, that cocky mouth still set in a faint, residual smirk.
I stood over him and let the dark, obsessive hunger finally rise all the way to the surface.
The game had started.
And I was going to take my time breaking him.
The twin, lightly haired, deep curves of his armpits lay open again - helpless this time, stretched wide by the bonds, the dense blonde hair slightly matted with the day’s sweat. You’re going to touch those teenage pits, I thought, and my cock flexed hard against the confinement of my jeans.
Stretched out like that, his body was almost obscene in its perfection. His ribcage looked twice as hard, every muscle etched sharper by the tension of the restraints. I ran my eyes over him with slow, excited approval - taut, rugged, arrogant youth laid out for me - the ache in my groin sharpened into something almost painful.
I stepped into the kitchen, rearranged myself with a hiss of breath, cracked another beer and drank half of it in nervous, greedy gulps. For half a second an odd, cold flush of boredom brushed me: let him go, you’ve already won, what’s the point.
The thought died as quickly as it came. Lust stepped back into the driver’s seat and locked the doors.
I returned to the room where the young skatepunk lay bound and nearly naked, completely unaware that he was about to be lightly stroked, deeply probed, and expertly teased into hysterical, broken laughter and total submission.
As I approached, Deacon pulled languidly at the restraints, testing them, settling in. I glanced at the clock. Seven minutes to three. Far below, the dull roar of the freeway swallowed the distant sounds of his friends - only two blocks away and utterly ignorant of where he was, or what was about to be done to him.
“All right. Let’s get started. It’s almost three. We’ll start exactly at three. You’ll get untied at four on the button.”
Deacon smiled up at me, that same arrogant little sneer curling his handsome mouth, “Two hundred bucks an hour is good pay, man. Thanks,” he grinned, “Come on, big bro’, do your best! Let’s get this terrible frat-boy ‘interrogation’ on the road!” He closed his eyes and sniggered, abs flexing in lazy amusement.
I nodded grimly, as if the work ahead were somehow distasteful. I liked his contempt. It would make torturing him easier. I finished the beer too quickly and went to the closet for my “interrogation” kit.
The shoebox.
“Whatcha got in there?” He still looked calm, intrigued, confidently lazy. Four minutes until three.
“Just some stuff. Same kind of stuff the guys used on me … To get me to talk.”
“But you didn’t talk, right? They let you in the frat …” he stretched against the bonds, flexing his fingers, grinding that compact, powerful body into the futon until the steel springs complained beneath him.
“Oh, they let us all in. All six of us. But four of us talked … A lot. We knuckled under pretty quickly, actually,” I grinned down at the box, remembering. The laughter. The pleading. The thick, animal smells of five other naked, furiously sweating young men bucking and writhing like trapped animals under the devilish fingers and feathers of the pledgemaster, “They let us all in even though four of us - including me - failed the test. They just wanted to test us. Tease the shit out of us. See how tough we were. And they did break us, dude. I was laughing like a fucking crazy motherfucker while they tortured us …”
Deacon blinked. Good. Let the first crack appear.
“So … Um … Whaddya mean, ‘talked’?” His voice had gone uncharacteristically low. He lifted his head, examining his own bound body as if seeing it for the first time, “What did they interrogate you to get?” Worry was blooming fast now …
I sat on the edge of the Murphy bed, admiring the heavy old steel frame - more than strong enough for the wildest thrashing a healthy kid like him could manage. A wider, more confident grin spread across my face.
“I guess I’ve got to admit … I’m a pretty physically sensitive guy. My older brother saw to that,” I looked straight into those sky blue eyes, “I’m a pretty fucking ticklish guy, pal. Insanely ticklish. For most young guys, getting tickle-tortured with feathers and fingers while they’re tied up and helpless is … Challenging. Especially when they’re tied up and helpless … Like you are right now.”
Deacon jolted. He yanked hard at the restraints. Those handsome blue eyes went wide, almost bulging. A nonchalant reaction would have disappointed me; this pure, sudden freak-out was perfect!
“Wha, whaddya mean, ticklish?—”, he licked his lips, glanced down past his muscular, toned belly at his sock-clad feet, then back up at me - uncomprehending and yet, already, comprehending.
I answered coolly, “They told us a bunch of secret frat stuff. Code words. Dumb shit we weren’t supposed to reveal no matter how we were tortured. Like the military, I guess.”
I looked at him with deliberate, big-brother indulgence, then reached into the box and slowly drew out my prized tickler: a long, perfect seagull feather, spines still stiff, tip still soft. Ideal for starting the slow ruin of a cocky, near-nude nineteen-year-old skatepunk.
“Thing was, none of it was real. Just made-up bullshit so they could torture us. Tickle-torture us …” I began twirling the feather between my fingers.
Deacon stared at it without blinking. The look on his face was priceless - genuine, dawning horror mixed with disbelief.
He said one word, drawn out and low.
“Fuck.”
I cocked my head, smiling, “Whaddya mean, fuck?…”
He blinked, caught himself, tried to recover, “I mean … Fuck … Yeah? I see what you’re saying. But I’m not … You know …” He forced a chuckle, “Uhhh … Sensitive … Um … That way.”
I drew the long whitish edge of the feather slowly across my own left palm. Christ, the thought of that same stroke on a young man’s bare belly … “You’re not what, exactly?”
“Not … huh, I mean … I’m not … I’m not …” he gulped, smiled, tried to be casual, “… I’m not ticklish, man.”
There it was. The magic word, stuttered and blushed out of him. I wanted to hear it again. And again. And again …
“Huh? You’re not … What?”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Ticklish.”
Nice.
As my eyes traveled deliberately up the trail of blonde hair on his stomach, between those taut pecs, and locked onto his, he gulped once more. He had to have seen it then - the look I was wearing. The open, hungry want for every inch of that unbelievable body.
“You’re kidding. Not ticklish? A studly athletic young guy like you? Shit. Too bad, man. Goddamn it, I guess I’m gonna lose the money. Shoot. Guess I should just untie you and let you have the bucks.”
He relaxed instantly, a strong sigh of relief leaving him. The bedsprings creaked, “Yeah, sorry. Wow. Guess I win. Sorry, guy.”
“Yeah … It woulda been great to check out your stomach … And those pits. Seemed to me a little teasing there with this feather would drive you wild. Drive you right out of your fucking mind. But if you say so …”
I set the feather down on the mattress inches from his tanned side and moved to his right ankle, beginning to undo the slipknot while muttering mock-angrily about the money I was about to lose.
“Those guys tickled us half to death just to see if we’d crack. And most of us did,” I paused, still working the knot. Then I dropped his ankle and brightened, “But you never know, Deacon. You just might be more sensitive than you think …”
I refastened the restraint with deliberate care, “Before I untie you, I might as well test your reactions. Just to see if you’re at all ticklish … Maybe with this feather here?”
I picked it up again and climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips snugly.
He tensed at once. Terrified. Those clear blue eyes stared straight up into mine - neatly sculpted all-American face, proud as a purebred, breath already turning ragged and expectant.
Deer in the headlights.
Doomed.
“I think I’ll start right about … Here … Right over your lower stomach,” I announce, “Let’s just see what happens. Let’s just see what happens when I stroke this feather over your stomach, hm?”
He peered over his chest and shook his head, “You really don’t hafta …”
I lowered the white tip of the feather with deliberate slowness until it hovered over Deacon’s rock-hard stomach.
Then, at long last, I let it touch him.
One stroke.
Two.
Three.
The little feather danced lightly across the blonde, barely there trail of fur and down onto the smoother skin around his navel.
The kid tensed at once. His stomach heaved in. As I continued the gentle, relentless stroking, those powerful abs began to pulse in small, involuntary jerks.
“Mnn,” he bit his lower lip, “You’re wasting your time, man,” he seemed to breathe quicker, his tummy squeezing in, out, in, out …
I drew the tip slowly across the waistband of his briefs. Deacon began to tremble harder as the feather drifted closer to the soft, vulnerable skin of his groin.
He kept peering down, as if willing the feather away, “Come on, man, I, I told you,” he twisted his waist, rather suddenly, to the right - I move with him, lifted also as he tries to move under me, “I’m not ticklish!” He said again.
My eyebrows raise, “Well, I don’t know, buddy. You seem to be having kind of a hard time here. You sure?” I put on the disappointed-loser face again, “Or are you just trying to get my hopes up? C’mon, man, that’s mean. I really don’t have the two hundred bucks to lose,” I straightened, letting indignation and wounded pride color my voice, “I’ve got to get some of that money back. Jesus, you told me you only needed a hundred and sixty anyway …”
I set the feather aside.
He jellied a fraction, still staring up into my eyes, slightly mesmerized, those teeth leave that plump lower lip.
Then I began moving all ten fingertips over his beautiful torso - light, exploratory, proprietary. Feeling him up. God, it was exquisite. That smooth young skin, that rock-hard belly, completely mine. Like probing the surface of a trampoline made of living veal. Nothing he could do to stop me from stroking him with pure, lustful ownership …
He jumped at the new contact, let out a small yelp he quickly smothered, “—Hey!—”, and twisted involuntarily beneath me. I felt the solid muscles of his thighs trembling under my weight. I decided at once not to overload him. I clearly had a reasonably ticklish specimen here. Better to let him believe I might be a lazy, half-hearted tickler - better to torture him psychologically as well, to keep dangling the hope that if he just stayed cool he might still escape unbroken.
Out of the corner of my eye, beneath the tight Calvin Klein briefs, I caught a quick, unmistakable movement.
“Well, not much reaction there, really,” I lied, as if I were blind. I examined the faintly furred little navel - the same belly button he had been absently stroking himself only fifteen minutes earlier. With a single fingertip I circled it, dipped into the hollow a couple of times, then resumed stroking the taut flesh around it, savoring both the smooth helplessness of his young male skin and the light tickle of belly hair against my fingerpads.
He gasped and threw his head forwards, “—Dang! Quit it, man—”, yes! A ticklish navel. Under my hand the brief fabric was clearly shifting, swelling, forming into a solid, thickening shape …
For a good ten minutes I simply stroked him all over - lightly, almost lazily - along his thighs, his muscular, thickly haired calves, down to the tops of his socked feet, then back up again. I was having so much horny, possessive fun just touching this muscled punk that I didn’t want it to end in a sudden hysterical collapse. His entire beautiful body was now goose-bumped, shaking with a subtle electrical current. His ragged, excited gasping was turning me on beyond reason. And when I finally turned back from his feet to face him, it was obvious: he was fully hard. That snugly hidden prick pressed out arrogantly sideways against the fabric of his boxers, the head already wet enough to darken the cloth. It looked almost painful - healthy, thick, forced into that awkward angle, the tip pushing up like the nose of a puppy under a blanket. I had difficulty tearing my eyes away, and he saw every lip-licking glance, yet neither of us spoke.
I had a new idea. He still hadn’t laughed hard enough to lose all deniability. Could I make that body arch clean off the bed without letting him giggle himself into total surrender just yet?
“All right, my tough-ass little pledge. Let’s try some new spots.”
“Okay, man, whatever,” he gasped, faux-confident, still staring, but now smiling widely, idiotically, eyes big as hubcaps, “This is still… SO … like … Dumb…”
“I’ll test you here, along the very bottom of your ribs, towards your back,” Deacon licked his lips quickly and squirmed. I straddled him again - Jesus, the hard-on pressing up against me was going to make me lose control if I wasn’t careful - and reached my fingertips down to where his moist sides met the skewed, sweat-dampened sheets.
With a gentle but rapid stroking of just my fingernails I moved along his sides, from lower abdomen all the way up to just beneath those hairy armpits. It took only a few efficient passes before he was gasping again, blue eyes steeled, but my premonition had been correct: he began to arch his back, trying to lift his body away from the dancing fingertips. As he gradually bowed upward, holding himself off the mattress, I slipped my fingers farther under and kept stroking. His trembling increased. Little groans escaped him as he forced his back even higher.
After a minute of this I had him completely arched - upper body resting on the rear of his shoulders, ass pinned to the bed by my weight. I continued tickling the exposed back with my fingertips while my thumb pads brushed the undersides of his ribs …
“—GAH… gah! … Uhhhh-HA! … Huuuh … Ahha … Haha! … Gnhhh, hnnh, hnnnhh hnnnhh!—”
He suddenly trembled harder, gasping, face breaking into a wider, tortured grin. His eyes, which had been fixed on the ceiling as if trying to meditate the sensation away, clenched shut. He was right on the edge. As my hands slid back down his torso, my thumbs gently lapped at the soft, taut skin just under the waistband of his shorts.
“—GAH! AH HAHA!—”, he blurted it out, writhing strongly, and the giggles finally broke free - steady, helpless, unmanageable - out of the bursting cotton of his brieds, the fat, slick tip of his thick cock suddenly jutted. I pulled my hands away. He collapsed, exhausted, back onto the bed.
Oh my god.
Over six inches of velvet-plum head, already shiny with precum that the elastic had dragged into a wet film across the sensitive, swelling glans. He trembled, growling low like a tomcat. The shorts had almost jacked him off by themselves. Oh God, I must be tripping - this is too perfect, I thought.
“Well, I haven’t been very successful. But you’re obviously sensitive to some extent,” I grinned with fake mutual-buddy embarrassment as I glanced at the several wet inches of him now exposed, then back into his eyes.
He was breathlessly turned on, blushing furiously, choking on short hard breaths, clearly mortified at having sprung a full hard-on in front of another man. He stared at me wide-eyed, and oddly, with something that looked almost like boyish awe.
“I, I don’t know why, what,” he appeared clueless, “What, why, I …” I help him out …
“Until your woody popped out just now, I was gonna let you go. But now I think … I deserve another chance to get you to laugh and break down. Though you’re obviously a real tough guy, maybe I can tickle the location of at least a ten dollar bill out of you.”
I checked the clock-radio. Already fifteen minutes gone. Damn. Time was moving too fast. There was no way I would break my promise to untie him at exactly four. I am a man of my word - even when that word stands between me and the prolonged destruction of Mr. Skatepunk.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I say, “I think you’re right. I think you’re tougher than I was - too tough to get you to submit completely. How about this: I’ll continue to probe you. The minute you lose the hard-on, I’ll consider myself to have lost, and I’ll untie you. That seems fair to me.”
The air was faintly sharp with the salty, Clorox scent of his precum. I started to feel light-headed. In a situation like this it is almost impossible for me not to simply lean down and slurp that clean, young, boyish juice - to feel the sturdy buck moan and writhe while my eager tongue works him. I’ve always been weak for the taste of it; maybe it goes back to growing up in a small southern-California beach town, spending every free hour swimming or body-surfing far beyond the reach of help, occasionally caught in a wave and gulping warm salt water.
But Deacon’s climax would come later. Right now there were far more ticklish investigations still waiting - robust, masculine laughter to be coaxed out of those taut ribs and deep armpits.
“Think you can do it?”
He said nothing, only shrugged as best he could within the soft, inescapable bonds, still staring stupidly.
I was growing impatient for the full break. I took two Q-tips from the shoebox and decided on a technique I had long wanted to try.
I began stroking them over his stomach again - but this time I refused to stay light.
When he tensed and gasped I stayed at the navel, drawing slow circles with one while the other traced random, unpredictable patterns. Then I decided to explore the inside of that rather large, deep navel just to see.
As I wriggled the cotton tip inside, Deacon suddenly gasped and giggled desperately. I stopped at once; I could clearly break him there if I wanted. Gradually I moved the Q-tips a few inches up his ribs, then down one. As he watched me, squirming and grinning again, I made certain he could see exactly where I was aiming. Where the Q-tips were headed. So he would start to freak. Because that was where I intended to take him down. I somehow already knew it. And it has always been my favorite place to torture these rebellious types. No man can fully resist it. I sometimes think Nature designed it specifically for maintaining male hierarchy - a spot where one man can discipline another with erotic overtones while causing no actual pain. A pure male-bonding vulnerability:
The deep, muscled, moist, blonde and hairy crevices of his armpits.
As he stared at me, nervous, squirming, alert as a guard dog, I would glance at his pits. Then move the Q-tips higher along his ribs. Then down an inch …
Another slow, evil glance at his pits. Another. Slowly back up. Three or four deliberate looks, and he understood. Deacon knew exactly where the little cotton tips were going. And now, finally, he really began to squirm - and to giggle in earnest …
“—Hahaha … Heheehh! … Ahhhh … gah! … Hahaahh… hehhee! … Nawhhhahahaha… nawwwhhhh … C’mon, man!—”
“—Whatsa matter, kid?” I asked, smiling. I paused a couple of seconds just to tease. He calmed slightly. Then I continued, grinning wildly. The breakdown resumed - shuddering, steady giggling that soon tipped into outright laughter. For the first time his arms jerked hard against the bonds.
“—Ha haha haha hahahahaaha … Hahahaha! … Ohhhaaa … No, I … Hahaha-haahaaa HAHAHA! Hahahaha! …”
Now or never. Very lightly - very fucking lightly - while I stared at his handsome face to catch every flicker of sensation, I moved one Q-tip right up to the tautly tendoned threshold of his right armpit and let it hesitantly sniff at the sensitive entrance, the deep realm of the hairy underarm.
Deacon tensed, gulped, closed his eyes.
Then I let the second Q-tip trace a light dancing line to the edge of the other pit. He continued to giggle and writhe mindlessly. And I began the decisive, stud-breaking strokes.
“—Hahaha AGHAAAAHAA! AHAHAH! Ahahaha, oh, oh man, c’mon, ahahaha, ahahahaha ahahahaha!—”
Ever so slowly I directed the cotton tips in a back-and-forth little dance across the Maginot Line of his tendons, then suddenly and swiftly down - directly down the ticklish slopes into the deep secret wells of his armpits.
“—AAAHH! AAAAGH! AHAHAHAHA, AHAHA, HAHAHAAAAHHH! STOP, BRO, C’MON!—”
In two seconds Deacon lost it entirely. Bucking wildly, he began screaming and laughing uncontrollably. Licking my lips, almost unable to believe my luck, I stroked and stroked the Q-tips through his helpless, ticklish armpits - the hairy underarms that were betraying him, revealing his decisive boyish weakness.
“—AHAHAHAHAHA, ahh, f-f-u-hahaha-HUH-ahaha-AHAHAH-Ahahaha-ck! Oh, sh-shi-shi-hahah-HAHAHAHA! DUDE, uhhhah-HAH … AHAHAHAHAHA!—”
He was laughing so hard, so wildly ticklish in those armpits, and I was so giddy with triumph that I started laughing too. I kept at it for about a minute. Then I dropped the Q-tips, abandoned every pretense that I might not break him, and - still laughing excitedly myself - plunged my bare fingertips into the sopping, deep hollows.
He screamed so loud I thought his friends down below might hear, laughing even harder, louder, thrashing his head against the pillow, trying to force words out through the hysteria.
“What’s this, buddy?” I taunted, “You wanna say something?”
After a couple of no-holds-barred minutes I eased off slightly, though my fingers still moved lightly in the pits, and he cooled just enough to begin breathlessly pleading.
“—PLEA-EA-EA AHAHAHAHA-EA-EA-SE ST-ST- AHA-hahahahah … Stop! It … Hahahaha, c’c’c’mon, it …”
“It what?” I laughed, combing my fingernails through his armpit hear politely.
“—AAH! HAHAHAHA, OHHH … AAHAH-AHAHAH! AAAUUUGGH! GOD, STOP ahahahah-HAHAHA!—”
“Finish the sentance, Deacon. It ‘what’ …?” I turned the combing into scraping, “Say it.”
“OKAY! … HAHAHAHA, Ohhhh! OKAY! Gaahahaha-HAAHAAAAAAHHH, it TICKLES!—”, he bawled.
“And I thought you said you weren’t ticklish,” I drew my wet fingers from his pits and stroked lazily over his ribs and hard stomach. He continued to giggle and buck as his voice returned.
“Hahahahaha-a-a-a-hhhhh, ahhh, I, nnngh, haha, heh, ad-MIT it, al, alright? Hahaha, oh, ohhh, uhhhh, sh-shit, don’t, don’t … Don’t tickle me,, dude, haha, please … I’m totally ticklish there, man! Don’t … d-d-haha-DON’T, man, oh please, haha, it TICKLES, dude, haha, STOP!”
“Where? Your pits? You mean … Up here?” I returned, scribbling, scraping, gently, that’s all it took, five fingernails in each armpit …
Deacon twisted to the left, then right, then left, then right, repeating the twist fast, speedy, his elbows clapping, his eyes wide, “Oh! Ohhh-ha, haha, hahaHAhahahhh, I … Ah-hah, d-don’t HAHA-haha tickle me, haha there, ummmmnnnnggggghahahah-HAHAHAAA-AGH! Oh, no, ahhh, AHHHHhhh, pt-hee-hee, ahhh, no! Please, man! Oh, oh fuck, haha, god, just … MmmnnnggggghahHAHAHA not, NO, c’mon, fuck-HAHA-fucker, NO, not, HAHAH in my, not, NO, NO, NO, dude, hahahahhhhh, NOT IN MY PITS! Please, God! Ahahahaha, oh, not, ahahahah, oohhhohoha, please, not THAT!—”
All that beautiful, broken pleading while I swept my tickling fingers up and around his writhing upper body, closer and closer to the sensitive hollows, then quickly back in - back into the dripping pits - driving him crazy all over again.
And now, at last, to get my money back …
Deacon gulped for breath as I finally left his ruined pits and moved lower - down the length of that toned, sweat-slick body toward his socked feet.
“Where … Where’re ya …” he began to kick his legs, “… Hey, no-OKAY! I already admitted it! I lied, haha, I’m a fuckin’ dick, haha, heh heh, o, okay, alright? …”
“Yes, you fucking lied to me,” I grinned down at him, pure punitive pleasure curling through my voice, “You lied. You unnnn-coooolll little bastard …”
His thick white athletic socks were now giving off slow clouds of that familiar, acrid, utterly erotic locker-room scent - warm, sharp, the smell of a boy who had been skating hard in the sun. It went straight to my cock …
“So let’s test your feet, buddy. You ticklish here too? Like in those pretty pits of yours?”
His feet were already curling in half-hearted, frantic little twists - like chained trout - soles still hidden by the thin cotton. Only temporary protection, my friend. I guarantee you that …
I sat over his right ankle, pinning it further into the mattress. The socks knotted around his ankle were firmly attached to the wire I’d lashed to the bottom of the bed. With my ass now on his shin, he could barely move his head.
“—Nn, no, please, don’t not my ff, c’mon man!—”
I couldn’t see him from where I sat, but I could feel the lunge of almost every limb as I gently stroked his socked sole, allowing the gentle touch to send bamboozled surges up into his body, causing him to gasp, pant, wince and huff as he bounced and cackled on the surface of the bed. See, this is the kind of socked foot tickling I was referring to earlier, I could hear in his wheezing how much he DIDN’T want that sock to come off …
I made the little fucks nightmare come true. I peeled off the right sock as quick as I could - he kept giggling and squealing, using his toes to try and catch the material, already knowing exactly what was coming - he, of course, failed, and the sock left his foot swiftly.
“You about ready to tell me where you hid any of the money?”
“—NO! Ha ha, uh, hhhaaa, haa, I mean,” he is constantly bouncing, all five of his right toes curling into a tight scrunch, “I don’t remember, no, hahahaha, PLE-ease!—”
“You can’t remember? That’s hardly plausible,” I wiggled my fingers and brought them closer to the now-exposed pink, moist sole. He instantly tugged those tanned, toned calves hard against the ankle bonds with such strength they creaked.
“—I mean, ha ha, you’ve got me,” he gagged on his own breath, swallowed it down, “Ha ha ha, man, kinda freaked out!—”
“Oh, you don’t remember? Maybe this’ll remind you …”
While I yanked the left sock free with one hand - Deacon still giggling and begging - I raked the nails of my other hand slowly, deliberately, across his right sole.
“—FAAAAH-GGGGHHHHH HAHAHA! HAHAHAHA! OH GOD, AHAHAHAHA!—”
He bucked high off the bed the instant my weight was no longer pinning him, handsome head whipping side to side while I scraped both soft, sensitive soles without mercy. Drops of clear juice flew from that manic, leaking prick as it slapped repeatedly against his lean belly. Time was bleeding away too fast; I was determined to tickle some of this teenaged punk’s money - my money - back out of him. So I simply kept going. Kept raking and stroking those beautiful, soft, devastatingly ticklish feet while gales of deep, masculine laughter tore up from the bottom of his lungs …
“—OH MAN PLEAAAAAAAAA-AHAHAHAHAH-AHAHAHAHAHAHA OH MAAAAAA-AHAHAHAA-AAHAAAHAHAAAN this is, this is KINDA weir, weird the FU-HAHAHAHA-HUHAHAHAHAAHACK no this isn’t COOL? DA-ahahaha-AHAHAH-ahahamn!—”
He started to struggle for breath. I eased off just enough to let him drag in a few desperate lungfuls, hoping the relief would crack him. When it didn’t - when he only lay there gasping and still stubborn - I started again. The hysterical bucking and howling resumed at once. He looked like a sleek dolphin trying to leap a barrier he would never clear, the bed shaking, rattling, his eyes wide and unblinking, his feet always twisting, curling, spinning, scrunching, his legs kicking …
Just when the dark, greedy part of me began to wonder whether the little bastard secretly liked being tickle-tortured - just when the ugly thought surfaced, Jeez, what if I can’t get him to break … Christ, I can’t be out two hundred bucks - he suddenly yelled between wild yelps:
“—OKAY! I’ll HA HA - SHIT - TALK! HA ha ha SHIT MOTHER hahaha FUCK I’ll TALK! HAHAHAHAH—”
I stopped at once.
Both warm, still-curling feet were caught firmly in my hands; I massaged them hard, pressing the sensitivity out of the soles, giving him the mercy of firm pressure instead of torment.
He moaned in pure relief and collapsed back onto the mattress. A sudden, unexpected rush of affection washed through me -twisted, possessive, almost tender.
He grinned up at me nervously, still out of breath, and blurted the words in a rapid, shaky stream:
“Okay, man, th, there’s one in that book over there, on the end of the shelf … Th, the black one, with the swastika on it!”
I glanced where he indicated. My old copy of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. I grinned back at him, half-surprised that he wasn’t furious or terrified - he was playing along with this game almost suspiciously well. I crossed the room, opened the book, and a single ten-dollar bill fluttered out onto the floor.
One hundred and ninety left to reclaim.
And only thirty-five minutes remaining …
Add ‘Deacon Is Rendered Naked’ with visual and text above …
I let my boy calm down again, just enough.
“You’re still rock-hard, kid. So you lose. And that means you’re gonna lose your panties,” I declare, “And that means more places for me to explore. Like … With THIS feather.”
I held up the doozy for him to see: a four-inch, narrow, sharply pointed little feather, bright green, salvaged years ago from the tail of my dead parrot, now its residence was my shoe box of tools.
Deacon clenched his eyes shut and laughed uproariously, shaking his head hard even though I wasn’t touching him yet - pure anticipatory hysteria.
“—NO! NO-AHAH! No, NO, … Oh God, FUCK, please don’t … Please don’t … FUCK, what is wrong with you, man! Ahahaha, take off my … Oh my god, ohmigod, omi-GOD please, man, no … I … I …”
“Whatsa matter, Deacon? You afraid of being naked?”
The instant the word left my mouth his agonized giggling spiked in volume and tempo. Perfect. Do it again.
“You afraid, dude? What d’ya think will happen if you were totally NUDE—” he began to thrash around, giggling so much I could see dribble at the corners of his mouth, “—right now, completely naked and HELPLESSSSS?”
I drew out the hiss in helpless like a knife. My skatepunk plaything heaved his heavy frame hard against the taut sock bonds; the steel frame groaned under the surge of robust muscle. He was laughing and pleading almost as if the feather were already on him. I was tickling him with nothing but my voice, my tongue, the promise of what was coming …
I took the small scissors from the shoe box and began cutting - very slowly, very carefully - through the fabric at his hips. His struggling intensified; furious curses spilled out of him in a steady stream, “—You FUCK, sick fucker, mother FUCKER!—”, inch by inch I lifted the ruined briefs away, slowly uncovering every thick, veined inch of that nearly-seven-inch shaft until, at last, the heavy, fat scrote came free - unusually large, juicy balls already drawn tight with arousal …
A breeder, no question. The air thickened instantly with the strong, rank scent of fresh ball-sweat. Deacon giggled forlornly, eyes squeezed shut, blushing like a motherfucker - a nervous, devilishly handsome young skatepunk, hyper-ticklish and now completely, helplessly nude.
I had to touch it.
I grinned, shot him a mischievous glance he couldn’t see, and slowly, gently wrapped my hand around that thick meat. With the soft pad of my right thumb I rubbed the wet, swollen front of his cockhead.
Deacon jerked hard, shuddered, yanked at the bonds; his torso bucked violently upward, eyes flying open. A long, extravagant moan tore out of him.
“—NNNNGGGGHHHHHHGH! OH! ohhh, man … I … Ohhh … I’ll … N-no don’t, don’t! … I’ll … Ohhh, oh christ I’ll fucking, nnngh! Come … Ahahaha … I’ll fucking co-o-me, man, if you don’t stop … St-hey HEY, no, NO, NO, man, what’re, hey, NO, c’MON, man, not that, DON’T, hahahh, you CAN’T, hee hee, ha, oh HAHA haha HA …”
He had just caught sight of the sleek green feather drifting toward his heavy, odiferous scrotum. The hearty musk of teenaged balls continued to rise, thoroughly rank and seriously intoxicating. His sac was looser than most; those big, ripe balls had nowhere to hide. I reeled with lust - sudden, almost violent - and started barking at him like an excited dog.
“I’m gonna tickle your balls, man! I’m gonna fucking tickle your BALLS, Deacon! And you can’t stop me! Unless … Unless you tell me where you’ve hidden the rest of the money!”
I was giddy, half out of control, sixteen again in the fields and treehouses, only this time the game was infinitely more sophisticated and the stakes deliciously higher. My own cock strained painfully inside my shorts.
“—NO, NO, please, ah ha, NO, not my balls, man!” Deacon laughed in pure agony, laughing and laughing without end, repeating, “—No, no, please!—”, like a desperate mantra while he bucked and arched and thrashed that handsome face side to side on the pillow, “—You can’t, dude! Ha ha, you WOULDN’T!—”
Oh yes. I would.
When the feather finally grazed those heavy balls the reaction was electric. Deacon torsioned his entire body into a twisted spiral a full foot off the sheets; he was so ferociously ticklish there that for a moment he couldn’t even laugh - just silent, desperate, full-body panic. I had to climb back onto his legs and pin him just to keep the feather in contact. I stroked again, eager, and this time he heaved so hard he bucked my ass clean off the bed. Amazing strength - nothing like a husky teenage male for raw, wild power …
I picked myself up off the hardwood floor. He lay giggling and gasping hysterically, bright blue eyes wide as blimps, a freakish acid-trip grin splitting his breathless face.
“—Not my balls, man, please, I can’t take it! Please, man, I’m begging you, ha ha, anywhere but my balls! That’s uncool! That’s, hahahaha, uncool, man! It … It … Aha … It tickles so much, man, please, I’m fucking BEGGING you, ahahah-AHAHAHA! Please! Please, heh heh ha, not there, DON’T—”
Uncool? Calling me uncool? Fuck you, you little bastard. You’re in no position.
Embarrassed at having been thrown, and now determined to break him completely, I strode into the walk-in closet and came back with two sturdy belts. Time was bleeding away. I fastened them quickly around his upper thighs and locked the ends to the steel frame. Deacon swore continuously - half pissed-off, half terrified - cursing with real heat for the first time, finally sounding truly vulnerable as he registered my anger and my absolute dedication to the intricate torture of his ball-sac.
“—FUCK you, FUCKER, what the FUCK, fuck, man! DON’T, man, DON’T? FUCK! FUCK?—”
I climbed back aboard and returned the feather tip to the most vulnerable square inches on his body. I was breathing more raggedly than he was. I hadn’t known I could get this hard, this sick with lust. He began shaking with pure fear, losing control again, laughing desperately in a high, boyish voice while he clenched his eyes shut against the inevitable. His strong fingers jittered helplessly behind the wrist bonds.
I danced the fiendish feather lightly against a tiny patch of skin on his right testicle - then let it go completely apeshit, attacking the entire scrotum without mercy.
Then the screaming began …
Deacon’s body tried again to buck me off, but the leather belts and plastic wires held him impossibly tight; I rode every wild writhing. He was mostly just screaming now - high-pitched laughter tangled inside full-throated, raw screams. Swift waves of shudders ripped through his muscled frame. He clenched his eyes, threw his head back, mouth open so wide I could see the late-afternoon sun glinting off the fillings in his molars. He was lost in pure ticklish agony, slamming his head repeatedly into the pillow, every decisive vulnerability exposed. I kept the feather moving - light, then firm, never stopping - making him mine while I muttered half-delirious threats.
“—Can’t stop me, can’t fucking stop me, you ticklish bastard … I’m gonna tickle you to death, you handsome little!—”
I leaned down until my face was inches from those thrashing balls, inhaling the wild-animal odor, watching the sparse hairs part under the feather’s tip. Everything slowed into a slo-mo haze of visual overload and continuous laughter soundtrack. A small voice inside whispered, Go for it. It’ll never get this good again.
I was gone - might as well have eaten a fistful of mushrooms. Nausea from the pure rushes of lust rolled through me so hard I actually lost my own erection for a moment. There was nowhere for him to escape the contact. I traced the feather from his balls up the full length of that thick cock, then along the deep grooves where thigh met pubic tendon. The laughter and hysteria never paused - at one point, I looked up, past his erection and caught him glaring down at me - mouth stretched open, pulsing laughter from his neck, eyes wide and wet, nostrils flared, cheeks pink, silent madness, looking me right in the face.
I tickled the underside of the sac too, thrusting the feather repeatedly toward his hole; new bursts of sweat flew off his shining body as he thrust that impressive erection uselessly toward the ceiling within the limits of the leather.
I noticed his laughter went ragged, as if his teeth were always clenched, another glance up and I could see his shark tooth necklace, caught in his mouth, he was too far gone to spit it out, I grinned and left it there …
At intervals I reached down with my free hand and gripped that plump, hard cock, pumping him slowly and firmly while the feather never left his balls. Every time I closed my fist around him the shaft swelled even thicker; unreal animal groans of pleasure erupted right through the laughter. More precum welled and spilled; I licked it from my fingers again and again, reeling.
The testicle-tickling had already done its work earlier; now the clock was the real enemy. Seventy dollars reclaimed in twenty minutes, but extracting each bill separately had burned too much time. At 3:45 I realized I had only fifteen minutes left with this beautiful body. He instinctively trusted that I would keep my word and release him on the dot; that quiet faith decided me. The remaining minutes would not be spent chasing more cash. They would be spent simply playing with him - specifically with the one place I had only teased before - and getting him off.
I stripped the rest of my clothes and climbed back onto the bed, settling between his still-spread legs. Instead of returning to the pits or the balls, I took his left foot in both hands. His sole was faintly damp, the skin soft and pink from earlier abuse. Deacon’s eyes widened with tears the moment he understood where my attention had gone, all five toes scrunching up as he dribbled into his collarbone - he wanted to beg, to plead, but he was forgetting how to talk, until he realised he needed to SHOUT.
“—NO! NO. NOT THE FOOT, MAN - FUCK - NOT THAT ONE, PLEASE.—”
I ignored the protest. With deliberate, obsessive care I began working the left sole and the row of toes. This foot was different. Worse. Hypersensitive beyond anything his balls had offered. The lightest fingertip circle across the arch made him jolt as if electrified. A slow drag of my nail under the ball of the foot ripped a high, startled shriek out of him. When I closed my lips around the big toe and sucked while my fingers fluttered along the tender undersides of the other four, the reaction was instantaneous, so much so it made me jealous of the white Vans footwear unlaced beside the door …
Deacon’s whole body arched clean off the mattress. That thick cock slapped hard against his stomach once, twice, three times, and began to pulse in frantic time with every stroke. But the sound that tore from his throat was no longer mere laughter.
“—AHHH—NO—FUCK—HELP—HAHAHAHA—STOP, PLEASE, SOMEBODY—AHHHH!—”
I kept the pressure exact and merciless: not enough to let him black out, but relentless enough that the ticklish fire in his left foot fed straight into his cock like a live wire. Every slow lick between the toes made his hips jerk violently; every firm press of a fingernail into the soft center of the sole dragged another raw, panicked shriek from him. The left foot was simply too much—more devastating than the balls, more precise, more inescapable. His free right foot curled uselessly at the other corner of the mattress. The left one stayed trapped in my hands, toes curling and uncurling in frantic, desperate spasms as the dual sensation of extreme tickle and rising orgasm tangled inside him.
“—PLEASE—HELP ME—IT’S TOO MUCH—AHHHH—FUCK, MY FOOT—STOP, I’M BEGGING—HAHAHAHA—NO, NO, NO—”
Affection - twisted, possessive, almost tender - flooded me. I locked that left foot against my chest and continued licking, sucking, scraping, never giving the nerves a single second to recover. His shouts climbed higher, cracking into pure shrieks, then into broken cries for help that no one outside the apartment would ever hear.
3:55. Five precious minutes left.
I shifted higher, stretching out on my stomach so that my mouth could reach his cock while my fingers never stopped their assault on the places that destroyed him most. I licked a long, wet stripe up the underside of that thick shaft, then took the head between my lips and sucked hard, tongue pressing firmly against the sensitive spot just under the glans. At the same moment I drove both hands upward - one set of fingers plunging deep into the dripping, hypersensitive hollow of his left armpit, the other pinching and rolling his right nipple hard between thumb and forefinger before switching to rapid, merciless flicking.
Deacon’s scream was more of an uncontrollable howl, the kind insane patients in mental asylums in movies offer you when they’re at their limit. He bucked so hard the bed frame rattled. I edged him deliberately: sucking deep, then pulling off to squeeze the head and kill the rising orgasm while my fingers continued the merciless torment - scraping and digging into the soft, sweat-slick pit, then switching to the other armpit, then back to both nipples, twisting and tickling without pause. Four times I brought him to the very edge. Each time his bound arms jerked violently against the restraints, trying and failing to close those vulnerable hollows. Each time a fresh rush of precum flooded my tongue. Each time his voice broke into higher, more desperate shrieks and cries.
Then I stopped teasing.
I took him to the root in one long swallow and moved my fingers to his taint, scribbling the soft pad of flesh with all ten of my fingernails. Deacon’s orgasm hit like a detonation. A low-throttle guttural groan tore out of him, then climbed instantly into those freakish, monkey-like screams men only make when the climax is truly overwhelming - only this time the screams were tangled with pure ticklish panic. Hot, clean, seawater-salty cum flooded my throat in thick pulses. His feet spasmed, his toes curled hard, then splayed, then clawed again as every wave of the orgasm was amplified and twisted by the unrelenting, extreme tickle. I swallowed every drop, milking him with tongue and throat while I continued the slow, wicked, inescapable strokes across that ultra sensitive taint until the last tremor left him and his cries finally broke into shattered, exhausted whimpers.
Only then did I ease my hands away from the skatepunk’s body.
He lay wrecked, chest heaving, left toes still twitching and curling faintly in residual curls. Tears of pure overstimulation stood in the corners of his eyes. I glanced at the clock.
4:03. Nobody’s perfect. Add visual above, and text.
Deacon curled into a fetal position and actually began to drool a little, completely wrecked. I rolled him onto his stomach and began affectionately kneading those taut shoulder muscles.
I got back about a third of my money. Deacon was left with enough - added to what he had already saved - to buy his new board. I was proud, in a dark, proprietary way, to watch him work his elegant lines on it through the rest of that spring and into summer.
And that was not the last of my experiences with Deacon.
We became fairly close friends despite the age difference. I played an extra big-brother role in his life. And speaking of big-brother roles, I ended up tickle-torturing him twice more - both times after he was old enough to drink legally - when I taught him pool and he made stupid drunken bets he inevitably lost. He also became rather aggressive about collecting those expert blowjobs whenever he was between girlfriends, which suited me perfectly …
Interestingly, he later introduced me at a coffeehouse to some of his skateboarding friends. A couple of them - especially his beautiful red headed buddy Dirk - led to some very interesting bondage experiences of their own.
But those are stories for another time …