Nothing is easier than getting lost in a strange city. It might begin with a view from above, through a break in the clouds: unfriendly towers nestled in a loop of highways. From there it takes you down to the ground, carries you through an unfamiliar airport along with the black carry-on bag that is your only anchor to the life you've known. Outside, the street smells of burnt rubber and exotic sweat. You haven't traveled that far but you might as well be in a foreign country, or on another planet.
The cab will take you to the appointed corner, you don't have to worry about that. Yet the ride is disturbingly long; you sit for what seems like many miles, staring through the abused back window at block after block, each one identical to the last. How does anyone find anything here?
Long before the cab finally pulled to the curb, Drake was wishing he'd bought a street map. Confusion set in as soon as he wedged himself into the noontime crowd, all of them wearing sunglasses, all with sweat rings under their arms. He had memorized directions to the bar where he was supposed to meet Nick--Have him drop you off at the corner of Main and Somerset, walk west on Somerset three blocks--but which direction was west? In Manhattan you could align yourself with the compass pretty easily: walking toward downtown, you were going south. Heading toward midtown, you were going north. It was about the only logical thing about New York, but at least it helped.
Probably he could buy a street map at any newsstand or fruit market, but he resisted the impulse and let himself drift with the crowd. There was a hypnotic quality to the sea of bobbing heads, all of them facing away from him, focusing forward, never turning right or left. He couldn't recall feeling this mesmerized at home, as thick as the crowds were there, because he always had some personal agenda urging him along. Now his agenda would be partly, or mostly, or totally that of someone he had not yet met face to face.
Before he knew it he had walked several blocks, without seeing the sandwich board with Jack's Bar written in script. He had to turn around, but it would be so much easier to keep drifting in this direction... what if he just kept on drifting? How many possibilities lay ahead?
When he got tired of musing, tired and hot, he turned around. It took twenty minutes to retrace his steps to Main and go three blocks beyond that, where he finally found Jack's Bar. It looked like a throwback to the seventies, with potted ferns hanging in the windows, and from the outside it seemed very crowded. Drake spent several more minutes on the sidewalk, fighting with himself over whether to go in.
Why did Nick specifically tell him to get dropped off on the corner?
Because that way, no cab driver could testify that he had been dropped off at Jack's Bar.
And why meet at such a crowded place?
Because he would be less noticed in a crowded place. Less likely to be remembered.
He almost turned back. He could easily put this episode behind him, lose any risk of getting in over his head, take the next flight back to New York. Then someone pulled open the bar door, and the air-conditioned draft ruffled his hair, teased the collar of his shirt. Suddenly he had never been so aware of his own body, the body that had always told him what to do. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his sweaty forehead, felt the unbearably hot sidewalk through his sneakers. He pushed through the door.
It was a straight place, with men and women paired up evenly along the bar. Tables toward the back. Drake headed in that direction, aware that a few of the men, straight or not, were giving him the eye. It always happened. They would notice his physique first, then his deep blue eyes, then the faint dimple in his chin. There was a small gap between his two front teeth--nothing disfiguring, it charmed the hell out of guys when he smiled. He usually took it in stride, but right now he was damned grateful for the attention. He shouldn't have felt that he wouldn't be noticed.
Nick sat alone at a corner table. Drake placed him by his ex--marine build and graying crewcut. Dark eyes. Drake had seen those eyes before, in the faces of certain boys and men, appearing out of nowhere, fixing him with The Look--a look that said I know how ticklish you are.
The two men nodded to each other, and Drake took a seat, setting his small canvas bag on the floor. It contained a change of clothes, his personal care items, and the magazine with Nick's ad, its bold headline circled:
MASTER SEEKS TICKLISH SLAVE.
The ad would be a clue, if the bag was found and Drake was not. Is that why he had brought it? Clues would be scarce. He had taken an indefinite leave from work, just for this trip, and had not told anyone exactly where he was going.
The first words out of Nick's mouth were, "You're late," followed by a small, tight-lipped smile.
Before Drake knew it he was stammering. "I... I'm sorry. I d--didn't... "
"I'm sorry, Sir."
Now he was tongue-tied. The voice like a bark, the tight smile. Here was a master of discipline, the real thing, the absolutely real fucking terrifying thing.
"Ha!" Nick smiled for real, his face opened up; he leaned back in his chair and became a friendly guy who liked to have fun. Just like that. "You should have seen your face."
Drake passed his hand over his forehead, wiping away his dark thoughts, and managed a smile himself. "I'm sorry. I think maybe the heat has gotten to me a little."
"Well, relax. Have a beer."
"Thanks, I will." Relieved, he took a deep breath. He was okay, except for his hands, which seemed to be trembling a bit. He placed them on his knees. When his beer came he gulped down half of it, then lowered the mug to find Nick leaning toward him again.
"You're not wearing what I told you to wear," Nick said, with his earlier, tight-lipped smile. "I told you to wear a tank top. Something revealing. And shorts. And sandals on your bare feet."
Drake looked down at his clothes as if he were seeing them for the first time. For some reason he had decided to wear one of his white business shirts, buttoned to the collar, and his brown corduroy jeans and white sneakers. "Sorry," he said, his face reddening. "I just... "
Nick waved a hand. "Ah, forget it. I'm just kidding." He leaned back, his hand resting easy on the back of the chair. But his eyes had that look, and his next words sent a shudder up Drake's spine: "Don't worry, you'll suffer for it later."
Drake took another long drink, if only to avoid looking into Nick's eyes. As much as he had wanted this, had formed fantasies and dreams around it, he was no longer sure he could stay.
Nick seemed to sense his uncertainty, but it didn't stop him from leaning forward and saying, in his deep rumbling voice, "Tell me more about your experiences. The ones that really drove you crazy."
Drake looked around. Already the lunchtime crowd was thinning, they were alone in their corner of the dining room. Maybe if he started talking he would calm down. So he began.
Drake had always been ticklish, always, and from the beginning there were certain boys who could always tell, who would give him The Look. They couldn't wait to get him alone, but most of the time they were satisfied with a few jabs to his ribs, enough to make him giggle. Then there was a cousin he played some tickling games with. But his first taste of real torture was filed in his memory under one name: Rodney Cole.
When Drake was in the sixth grade he was intensely aware of Rodney, a redheaded boy a year or so older. He seemed to be always staring at Drake, and Drake instinctively kept away from him. He would watch from afar, though, as Rodney tickled other boys on the playground, as many as he could grab, quickly rendering them helpless. They tried to struggle but Rodney's greedy fingers made them weak. He would sneak up behind a boy and before the victim knew what was happening Rodney would have his hands inside the boy's shirt, going for his ribs. What happened next, as Drake watched, was always the same: soon the laughing victim would be too weak to stand, sinking to his knees and then flat on the ground. That was when Rodney really had him, because then it was easy to straddle his victim and tickle torture him from his neck to his waist. Sometimes other boys stood around and watched--it was amazing the way Rodney could make kids kick and scream--but no one interfered, because they were all afraid of Rodney and his strong, sure hands.
Watching these tickle attacks always gave Drake strange sensations. He wanted to get closer, to see better, to hear the voices of the victims shrink to a hoarse whisper begging Rodney to stop. Then one day Drake did get closer, hiding behind some bushes as Rodney tickle-attacked a younger boy named Charlie who was spread out on the asphalt right by the school's front door. There was no one else around, classes were over and everyone else had gone home. It was fall, and Drake was surprised to see that the victim was shirtless. Then he realized that Rodney must have stripped off Charlie's shirt, it was lying on the ground nearby. Where did Rodney get such nerve? Maybe the ticklishness of this particular kid egged him on, for Drake had never seen a victim react like this, screaming and screaming until he completely lost his voice, his face a mask of hysteria, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. This is what I've been missing, Drake thought, because I never got this close before. In spite of Charlie's struggles he was no match for Rodney, who was bigger and so quick with his hands and fingers. When he touched--whenever he threatened to touch Charlie's bare belly or ribs or armpits, Charlie would desperately struggle, but it was no use.
Drake leaned forward, closer, his fingers digging among the leaves of the bush to get a better view. He's tickling this kid to death. Drake's own breath was coming quickly, as if he'd been running, and he had a strange sensation between his legs. The very thought of tickling tended to make him tingle all over, and make his penis get hard. The quickening of breath, the excitement he felt now was more intense than ever before.
Then Rodney did something Drake had never seen him do. He stopped tickling Charlie's bare torso and turned around, awkwardly, on his knees, still straddling his victim but facing his feet. The poor tickled boy was gasping for breath, so weak that he couldn't struggle, couldn't even lift his hands off the ground as Rodney unlaced his sneakers. When his socks came off too, Charlie raised his head with a great effort and croaked, "Oh, no! Don't tickle my feet!"
Drake's breath came even more quickly now. He knew of very brief foot-tickling scenes in movies and TV shows, but he had never witnessed the kind of fierce, prolonged foot tickling that he anticipated now. As the victim's pale, naked pale feet began to wriggle in Rodney's hands, Drake felt he might faint.
Charlie's feet were, if possible, even more ticklish than his belly and ribs and armpits. The boy croaked out shouts of laughter, his arms waving feebly as he tried to twist from side to side to escape Rodney's fingers. Sometimes Rodney would tickle one foot with two hands, his fingers moving so fast they were a blur, and sometimes he'd tickle both feet at once, never missing his targets no matter how they wriggled. Now he was taking one foot, bending the toes back with one hand and tickling the sole with the other, sending fresh spasms through Charlie, who had again lost his voice completely and could only gasp. It's only a matter of time, Drake thought. Nobody could stand to get tickled that much. The kid's gonna die or go crazy.
And it did seem like a long time before Rodney finally took a break from tickling Charlie. His legs were probably cramped from kneeling so he moved, from straddling Charlie to sitting by his side. This was Charlie's chance to escape, but he was too weak to try. He lay completely still except for his head moving a little, his chest expanding as he drew in deep agonized breaths. His skin had many marks left from the pressure and friction of Rodney's fingers. His ribs had been tickled so much that each one was outlined in red. Rodney sat and studied his victim, sometimes reaching out a finger to prod a rib or the side of his belly, raising few more exhausted giggles. And for the first time since the tickling began, Rodney spoke to Charlie.
"You know what I think?" he asked. "I think you could be a slave. I think I could make you do whatever I want, 'cause if you don't I can tickle you to death." He shook his head. "You think I just tickled you? That was nothing. How'd you like to get tickled for a whole day?"
Charlie tried to speak, but couldn't. When he opened his mouth only a few gasps came out. Rodney poked him again, and again and again, in his poor abused ribs, and the gasps came more quickly.
"Maybe I'll tickle you some more," Rodney said. "You can't do anything about it. Maybe I need to get back to these feet."
Now Charlie's eyes opened wide in terror, and he managed to croak again, "No... no... don't tickle my feet!"
"Oh shut up, I'm not even touching you yet." But Rodney was getting ready to, he was once again facing Charlie's feet. Drake leaned forward. His penis was stiff, and it hurt when he leaned forward, but he had to get as close as he could to see the kid get tickled again. Unfortunately Drake leaned a bit too far, lost his balance and fell against the bush, making a loud rustling sound.
Rodney Cole looked up.
For a second Drake and Rodney stared at each other.
"Hey, you," Rodney growled.
That was all Drake needed to hear. He ran, taking to the overgrown field behind the school, nearly tripping several times over the dense undergrowth but never stopping, for he could hear Rodney's footsteps crashing behind him. He ran faster than he ever had before, pushing through milkweed and goldenrod, his breath coming fast and hard. Finally he had to stop, when he had no more breath. The thought of what might happen if Rodney caught him made him dizzy.
But Rodney didn't catch Drake. He gave up and went back to the ticklish victim he had left behind, who still had a long afternoon of torment to endure.
Drake could hardly sleep that night, worrying that Rodney would be out to get him now. Drake had spied on him, which was a bad thing to do. Rodney would want to punish him for it. There was only one kind of punishment Rodney gave out, and when Drake tried to picture his own ticklish body at the mercy of Rodney's fingers, it made his breath come hard and fast, and his penis stiffened again. He was terrified and excited in a way he'd never been before.
The few kids who walked to school often used the field as a shortcut. The grass and weeds were high but over the years some footpaths had been trampled out. Walking down one of these paths the following morning, Drake felt uneasy. As the path twisted through the brush it was sometimes difficult to see more than a few feet ahead or behind. A couple of times he stopped to listen, but the sounds he heard seemed to come from birds or small animals; they weren't footsteps, after all.
He made it to school all right, but all day he worried, frightened and excited, because Rodney might try to get him after school. Because they were in different grades Drake wouldn't see Rodney until recess, and up till then he tried to convince himself that maybe his nemesis had skipped school. But at recess Drake caught a glimpse of him. Rodney was standing across the playground, near the edge of the field. Drake stood right by the school entrance, near the steps; he didn't dare go far away. But when Rodney turned his head Drake knew, even from that distance, that his worst fears were going to come true. Rodney was giving him The Look.
There wasn't a lot of foot traffic through the field after school, because most of the kids lived farther away and took the bus or rode with their parents. Drake hoped he would catch up with somebody, though--maybe several kids he knew, offering safety in numbers. As luck would have it, though, he was alone as he entered the footpath and didn't see or hear anyone else around. He tried to breathe normally, tried not to think about Rodney's fingers. He tried to keep even the word "tickle" out of his thoughts. But the more he tried not to think about... getting tickled, the more nervous he got, and the word multiplied in his mind: tickle, tickled, tickling, ticklish... Please don't tickle me. I'm too ticklish. Stop tickling me! Stop!
Drake walked faster. He couldn't escape his thoughts, and with every step he took he was aware of his hardening penis. After a while he stopped, for he had been so preoccupied he hadn't kept track of his surroundings, hadn't been listening for treacherous footsteps. He tried to slow his breathing down so he could hear better.
Was that a noise behind him?
In a second it was gone. Probably an animal. He was in that part of the field, though, where he couldn't see very far ahead or behind. He took a step, still listening.
That sound again. A footstep?
Drake kept walking. With every step he took there was a noise behind him. Was it footsteps or not? If only he could be sure! But whenever he stopped walking, all other sounds stopped too. Maybe it's okay, he thought. Maybe it's a friend behind me. But he could not force himself to retrace his steps, to see exactly who else might be on the path. So he started walking again--slowly, then a little faster, then faster still. He could swear that, whatever noise that was behind him, it sped up whenever he did. Terrified, he started running.
And there were running footsteps behind him.
Huhn Huhn Huhn. Drake was panting as he ran across the field with someone right behind him but he didn't dare look. If he could just keep going for a couple of minutes, he'd be home free.
Then he stopped.
It wasn't the sound of footsteps that had stopped him, but a voice. A growling voice.
"Hey, you."
Drake had to turn around.
Rodney had The Look in his green eyes. It chilled Drake through and through.
"Sorry, pal," Rodney said, pushing up his sleeves as he approached, "but you're gonna get it. There's no way out of it."
Drake stumbled backwards. He tried to sound brave. "What are you talking about?"
Rodney shrugged. "Nothing much. You're just gonna get tickled, that's all. You're not scared of getting tickled, are you?"
Drake could barely speak, it was as if he had something caught in his throat. Finally he managed to say, "No... course not. I'm not ticklish." Did he look as scared as he felt?
"I wish you hadn't said that. Now you'll have to eat it." With that Rodney, who was suddenly very close, pushed Drake so that he stumbled once more, then sat down hard on the ground. Before he knew what was happening Rodney had grabbed his long-sleeved t-shirt and was pulling it off over his head. Drake was surprised, as surprised as Charlie must have been, by the feeling of cool air on his bare skin. And he was shaking, not from the coolness but from fear. This couldn't be happening. He knew it couldn't be happening. It was like he was watching somebody else, some other kid being handled by Rodney like a toy, dragged over to the edge of the path, back against one of the few trees that stood in the center of the field, his arms pulled straight up, then his wrists tied together with a long piece of twine Rodney pulled from his pocket. He tied the other end of the twine to a branch, so that Drake was sitting on the ground with his bound hands above his head, completely exposed, his legs straight out in front of him. Rodney knelt at Drake's feet, and Drake sensed the strength and agility of the older boy's fingers right through the canvas of his sneakers as Rodney began to unlace them. If he was trembling with fear before he was quaking now. His cousin had briefly tickled his ribs and armpits, but no one had ever tickled his feet. And he knew his feet were ticklish, knew it every time he put socks on and the cloth sliding across his sensitive soles took his breath away. He couldn't walk barefoot through grass because it tickled so much, and even his mother's living room carpet made his bare soles tingle. So by the time Rodney had removed both sneakers and socks, Drake was whimpering. "It's not fair."
Rodney pulled another length of twine from his pocket. "What's 'not fair,' crybaby?" He wrapped the twine around Drake's ankles, tying them together.
Drake shivered with fear. "You didn't tie Charlie up."
Rodney snickered. "Shows how much you know," he said. "I tied him up, all right. I took him and tied him up at my house. In the garage, where nobody could hear him."
"That's kidnapping!"
Rodney snickered again, wiped his nose on his sleeve. "It was just a game. Poor kid didn't think so, though."
Drake felt faint again. "What... what happened to him?"
"Well." Rodney shook his head sadly. "You notice he wasn't at school today. He ended up in the hospital, poor kid."
For a moment a kind of sparkling darkness passed across Drake's vision, and he thought he might pass out. When he could see again Rodney was crawling toward him on all fours, then getting up on his knees, raising his hands, his fingers wiggling ferociously. He grinned like a demon.
"Now!"
When Drake first felt Rodney's fingers touch his sides, he screamed. It was a scream of pure fear, he couldn't feel anything else yet. But right on the heels of that fear came... the tickling... and oh god Rodney's hands didn't care what they did, they were all over him like wild animals, squeezing his ribs, prodding his armpits, poking his belly... moving so fast that each finger's attack was a surprise, and Drake, laughing hysterically, could only watch Rodney's face through watering eyes. It was the face of evil.
Now Drake was screaming, filling the air with screams, filling the sky, until everyone in the world must hear him being tickled to death. When Rodney finally stopped Drake's body went slack, as slack as it could with his hands still tied over his head. He took in a bushel of air and let it out, feeling his lungs move against his mauled ribs.
He sensed dimly, with tears and sensations clouding his vision, that Rodney was no longer leaning over him. Oh thank God! But he didn't have to look far to see where Rodney had gone.
He was down at Drake's feet.
Before he knew what he was doing Drake was talking, his voice so hoarse it was little more than a croak. "Hey, Rodney? Don't tickle my feet, okay? Look, I'll do anything you want." He struggled against the twine binding his wrists and ankles. " I'll even help you tickle other kids. I mean it. We could do it together, we could be a team... "
Rodney looked at Drake, looked him in the eye, but his smile was not promising. "Sounds like you think your feet are ticklish."
"No!" Drake almost screamed again. "No, no, they're not! So don't touch them, okay? Please, Rodney, don't, okay?" Drake twisted to his right and left as far as he could, but it was no use, he could barely move at all. He looked up to the sky and saw, as clearly as if it was written across the blue, that he was lost. There was no use begging, or promising, there was nothing he could do. His body went slack again, and to his surprise a sound come out of his mouth. It was a giggle.
"What's that?" Rodney asked. "You think this is funny?"
He still hadn't touched Drake's feet, but he was so close... Drake giggled again, he couldn't help it. Fear itself was tickling him. "Please, Rodney, don't... "
"You do think this is funny!" With that Rodney drew his fingernail right up the center of a bare helpless sole.
Drake's whole body convulsed, and he was giggling again, so fast he could hardly breathe. "Please... ha ha... don't... oh ho ho... n--n--no, Rodney... aha ha ha... "
"Well, since you think this is so damn funny, I guess I'd better get to work."
"No! Hahahaha stop... "
And Rodney did work on Drake's sensitive feet as he screamed with laughter again, his voice high-pitched, hysterical. Rodney explored and tormented the soles of those feet, then the tops, then the toes and the spaces between the toes. Just when it seemed like Drake couldn't possibly laugh or scream any more, Rodney would find a new ticklish spot and lovingly torture it with his fingertips and nails. He finally stopped only when he had to shake out his hands and stretch his fingers. Drake still croaked out hysterical cries and laughter.
"C'mon, I'm not touching you right now," Rodney said.
Drake couldn't help it, he couldn't calm down, not ever.
Rodney got up and stretched his legs. "There's one thing I forgot to tell you," he said.
Drake gulped air, tried hard to control his breath, but it was as if his body no longer belonged to him, he couldn't tell it what to do.
"I forgot to tell you," Rodney said, "that there was soccer practice this afternoon, and it should be getting over right about now."
Drake wasn't looking at Rodney, he was looking at his poor tormented feet. He could swear they were still being tickled, that the air itself was tickling them. As for what Rodney was saying... what did soccer practice have to do with anything?
"Some of the guys will be walking home," Rodney said. "They should be cutting through here any second now."
"Guh... guh... " He could only croak now. He was trying to say, Good! They'll help me! They'll cut me loose!
"I told the guys that we'd be here," Rodney said. "They sounded real interested."
They'll kick your butt, Rodney! You won't be tickling kids to death anymore!
"I told them," Rodney said, "that I was pretty sure you were ticklish."
Slowly it dawned on Drake what Rodney really meant. "No... "
"Oh, yeah." Rodney got to his feet, dusted off the knees of his jeans. "I think I hear them coming now."
"No!" Drake couldn't hear much over his own breathing. But he tried to hold his breath and listen, even though his lungs still ached for air.
And there was someone coming. Footsteps... more than one set of footsteps kicking through the brush, stomping toward the path.
And voices. Deep voices. Older boys, older than Rodney.
Drake tried to roll from side to side. "Let me go, Rodney. Come on."
In another second they broke through onto the path. Three high school freshmen, still wearing their red shorts and white t-shirts from soccer practice.
"Hey!" one of them said. He had hairy legs, and the beginnings of a mustache. "What have we here?"
"Looks like Rodney's been up to his old tricks." This second boy, shorter with blond hair, had an evil grin.
"Oh, yeah!" This was the darkest boy, the hairiest boy, his chest hair curling up around the collar of his t-shirt. He rubbed his hands together. "Looks like kind of a ticklish situation!"
The boys laughed as if that was the funniest thing they'd ever heard, and Rodney laughed too. "He's all warmed up for you," he said.
"Yeah, we can see that."
Drake wondered what they meant, but when he tried to move, to squirm around, he knew. His dick had gotten hard, and as his brown corduroys slid down a bit it was even more obvious. There was a little tent where his lap should be.
"How big is a sixth-grader's dick, anyway?" the hairiest boy asked.
"Gets bigger when he's tickled, I bet," the blond one said.
Drake kicked, or tried to. "Leave me alone!"
The boys came closer... and closer. They were laughing, mocking him, Awww, leave me alone! He watched in horror they stood right above him.
"Please," he said.
Awww, please! Pretty please!
And then they were on him.
The three soccer players tickled Drake's belly, sides, ribs and armpits, while Rodney tickled his feet. Drake laughed, screamed and cried. He couldn't struggle with eight greedy hands on him, each of them working to drive him crazy. And though he stayed aware, agonizingly aware of the punishment inflicted on his ticklish body, the wild sensations filling his head made him wonder, after a while, if all of this was really happening or if it was some kind of dream. It had better be a dream, or else he might not survive. With so many strong hands driving at him his body just might break in half. But even if it did... even if his body broke in half, and then into more pieces, his tormentors would just keep tickling--tickling the pieces into more and more pieces, until they had tickled him to dust.
In his specially equipped Torture Chamber, Nick had Drake tied to a St. Andrew's cross. He was naked, except for a leather cock ring and ball stretcher, and there was a ball gag in his mouth. His body glistened with sweat, for Nick had been tickling him for about two hours. Neither man had been able to keep track of the time; to Drake it was more like two hundred hours, while Nick, in a trance, felt they had just got started on a long, long journey.
After a brief pause Nick began again, digging his strong fingers into Drake's sides as he screamed helplessly. When he could organize a thought, when it was possible to put one word after another in his mind, it always came out the same: He's tickling me to death! His heart was pounding so, he couldn't last much longer. Would he even have the strength to beg when Nick removed the gag for "begging time," as he had done twice already? Please Nick no more I can't take it you're killing me oh God stop. I'll do what you want, you can fuck me, I'll suck your dick, anything oh God oh please stop. Take my wallet, my credit cards, keep my clothes, throw me out on the street naked, anything! I'll be your slave for the rest of my life I swear to God...
And at that point Nick said, "You're right there. You will be my slave for the rest of your life... which might not be long."
During his next lucid moment, Drake wondered why he had to endure the ball gag. As Nick had promised, his loft was in a building that stood off by itself in an old warehouse district; no one could hear Drake laugh, scream and beg for mercy. Then he realized that the gag was just part of his torment, making him feel more helpless.
He wondered, too, at his body's capacity to take punishment. How come it didn't shut down, why didn't he get numb after a while? How much could his nerve-ends take? If his body could last this long, it would no doubt outlast his mind, which was swimming, fading in and not-quite-out of consciousness. As Nick attacked his insanely ticklish armpits, Drake even thought, as he twisted his head toward a far corner of the room, that there was someone else there... someone he recognized, though he couldn't at first put a name to the figure that stepped forth from the shadows. It was a young guy... just a kid, though big for his age. He had red hair and green eyes, a striped polo shirt.
It was Rodney Cole.
Oh God, I'm going insane!
Rodney looked around, not knowing where he was. If he saw Drake, he gave no sign. Drake struggled but could not move an inch, couldn't make a sound except for the hoarse screaming stifled by the ball gag.
Rodney! he thought.
To his surprise Rodney looked at him, his eyes narrowing. Surely he recognized Drake, even after all these years; he knew what was happening, could see what Nick was doing to him.
Rodney, help me! He's tickling me to death!
Rodney came closer. He looked from Drake to Nick's trancelike expression and quick strong hands, then back to Drake again.
Rodney!
Rodney could hear him, he knew it. He could hear his thoughts! Rodney, I'm begging you, make him stop...
Rodney came closer, till he was nearly touching Nick's shoulder. His eyes were dreamlike as he shook his head sadly at Drake.
"I'm sorry, Drake," he said. "I'm really sorry. But I can't stop him from tickling you."
Why, why, why?
"I can't help it, Drake," Rodney said. "I love watching him do it. I love it too much. I can't make it stop."
Nick obviously did not hear the visitor's voice, or see him as he turned around to reach for one of his tools, a powerful vibrator with a rotating head of firm but feather-like bristles.
Drake's eyes widened. Oh no... not his balls... not again!
It was true, the head was approaching his tautly stretched balls, and Rodney was doing nothing to help him!
But wait... over in the corner, where Rodney had first appeared... someone else now stepping forth. And another, and another.
The three freshmen soccer players who had helped Rodney tickle Drake on that afternoon so long ago. Like Rodney, they hadn't aged, and they still wore their red shorts and white t-shirts.
You guys, help me! He's tickling me to death!
At first, like Rodney, they didn't seem to know where they were. But they soon focused on Drake. Their mouths were open as they stood there, staring.
Help me, you guys!
One after another the three boys shook their heads.
"I'm sorry," said the one with the brown eyes.
"Yeah, I'm sorry too," said the blond, not bothering to hide his cruel smile.
"Me too," said the hairiest one. "We're sorry we can't stop him. But we love it too much. We have to watch... and watch!"
Where did you guys come from? Are you real?
Rodney shook his head sadly. "Not real enough."
By the time Drake was sixteen and a junior in high school, he was certain of one thing: he was gay. He had grown, filled out in more ways than one, with hairy balls and a dick that hung low, and he was horny a hundred percent of the time.
His teachers had him pegged as a daydreamer, but at least his daydreams were practical. Rather than worry about how he had become a fag, or fretting about what would happen when he grew older, he focused instead on one immediate concern: as much as he handled his own hard cock--he was probably the secret jackoff champ of the world--when and how was he going to get his hands on somebody else's? He had never touched another guy, not in a sexual way, but he wanted to so badly it made his fingers ache as well as his balls.
At night he lay in bed with an old gym towel clenched by his side, summoning up thoughts that made the sheets rise and his dick start leaking. (He always put out a lot of what he would later learn to call pre-cum.) He often pictured that afternoon in the field with Rodney and the soccer players. What had filled him with shame at the time, when they had finally left him alone and he had struggled to make it home in his weakened state, was that the older boys had opened his fly to expose his little hard dick, making fun of it while they were tickling him. It was too humiliating to think about--until recently. Nowadays, as Drake teased out images and feelings from the assault, he kept seeing those older boys and how excited they had been, their shorts stretched out in front of them till they looked ready to burst. Swollen crotches had bobbed and weaved above Drake as those bastards kept changing positions, each of them making sure he got a chance to tickle every inch of Drake from his neck to his waist. Their hairy hands had darted in and out of sight, their hairy legs had brushed against him ceaselessly; and as their shorts stretched and twisted some more Drake had glimpsed the taut white pouches of their jockstraps.
The least those guys could have done was haul out their cocks and jack off all over me.
It hadn't happened, but alone in his bed Drake pictured the sight, both his imagination and his right hand working overtime till the gym towel was soaked and he was exhausted.
So, okay, he was obsessed with getting his hands on what lay behind those jockstraps. The one place he was sure it would not happen was the high school locker room, which he had to visit three times a week, for gym class. The room itself wasn't much to look at--it was just the basement downstairs from the gym, with rough concrete walls and no illumination except for bare bulbs hanging overhead--but the view was spectacular: the naked bodies of other perpetually horny teenaged boys. Drake tried to be very, very careful not to look at them. When that became difficult, he started the habit of getting to gym class early enough to change up and be on the gym floor before the others even arrived. That left him with the problem of dealing with the locker room after class, when the boys all showered; he handled that by dashing in and out of the shower room, practicing his quick-change act, and beating feet to his next class.
Most of the time, in gym, the rest of the boys played basketball or volleyball while Drake worked out with the free weights. It was unusual to be excused from team sports so often, but Coach Doyle--a big, burly man who always had a five o'clock shadow--took a special interest in Drake. He often watched closely as Drake did his presses, and Drake was pleased to show that he had good form and was building up strength. He tried not to smile, though, or say much during gym class. He especially didn't want to reveal himself to Coach Doyle, who tended to wear very tight shorts. Another attractive bulge, not to mention hairy legs.
Everything was fine until Marshall Carter came along. A new boy whose family had just moved to the small town, Marshall was assigned to the same gym class. Drake got the shock of his life when he arrived at the gym one day, early as usual, and bustled down the stairs. This time he wasn't the first to arrive, for Marshall Carter was already there, standing stark naked in the middle of the locker room floor. "Hi!" he said, grinning at Drake and extending his hand. "Just call me Carter, everybody does."
Drake almost swooned. He had noticed this new boy around school, and had overheard some of the boys on the basketball team admitting--grudgingly, in mumbles and mutters--that Carter had the biggest cock any of them had ever seen. Not only that, but while some of the dark-haired boys were hairy all over, Carter was the first blond boy Drake had seen with great amounts of body hair. It covered Carter's arms, chest, belly and legs, and it glowed in the light, under the naked bulbs that hung from the ceiling. He was tall, too, and broad-shouldered, his chest and abs well defined.
And that cock... Jesus God. It was long and smooth with a slight curve, and reminded Drake of nothing so much as the giant slide at the amusement park. He was ready to buy a ticket and climb on.
He was also scared to death. "I--I can't stay," he said, and ran for the stairs. As he pounded across the gym floor toward the exit, he realized he was skipping gym class for the first time ever.
After spring vacation Drake's schedule changed. Gym was now the last class of the day, three times a week. He was never in a hurry to leave school at the end of the day, not looking forward much to the walk home that took nearly an hour. So after gym class he didn't rush to get dressed the way he used to. He didn't have to worry about getting a boner in front of the other guys, for they were the ones who rushed like hell now, eager to get out of school. Now Drake was often the last boy out of the locker room, instead of the first.
Then came an afternoon when Drake was running even later than usual. Coach Doyle had kept him after class a little bit to show him some stretches that would help keep his muscles from aching. In these warm days of spring Drake was so horny he couldn't stand himself, and it didn't help to have the Coach, in his famous tight green shorts, standing so close to him. It was a relief to head for the stairs. Maybe he would rush today, jumping in and out of the shower so he could get home, take out his jack-off towel and get it soaking wet.
His plan didn't quite work out. The shower felt good, the strong jets of water massaging his muscles, and he stood under it for a long time. He had his eyes closed, the water playing on the back of his neck. Then the shower next to his came on and he nearly jumped. He looked over and there was Carter, of all people! Grinning at him as he soaped up his chest.
"Hi!" he said.
Drake quickly turned off his shower and grabbed his towel from the hook on the wall. Instead of drying off at the shower room exit, where he would be seen, he went back into the empty locker room to towel down, all the time thinking: Why was it that Carter was also here late? He'd left the gym class with the other guys...
"Hey, how you doing?"
Drake spun around, dropping his towel. There was Carter, dripping wet, grinning at him.
"Oh, hi." Drake bent over and picked up his towel. He would finish drying himself and get dressed in record time.
Carter was toweling down too, but he didn't face his locker while he did it, he just stood there facing Drake. "Hey," he said, and Drake noted, for the first time, Carter's rich deep voice. "I seen you working out with the weights."
"Yeah," Drake said, sitting on the wooden bench so he could dry his feet. "The Coach lets me do that."
"Keeps you in great shape, huh?"
Drake looked up at Carter. There he stood, wincing as he dried the inside of his ear, not even covering himself with the towel. He was the single sexiest guy Drake had ever seen in person. He wanted to stick to his plan, to dress and get the hell out of there, but he couldn't help looking, just for a few seconds. As Carter used the towel on his chest, arms and legs, his body hair grew resplendent again. His beautiful cock swayed back and forth.
"Hey, you know what?" Carter took a seat on the bench, with about two feet separating him and Drake. "There's something I've always wanted to know about you muscular guys."
Drake was suddenly aware of himself, sitting there with his mouth open. He looked away, fumbled with the combination lock on his locker. "I'm not any more muscular than you are."
"Are you kidding? You've got a build some guys would die for." Carter slid down the bench, a little closer, a little more. "Anyway, I was wondering... are you ticklish?"
Drake turned around in sheer surprise, and Carter took the chance to reach out and tickle his armpits. "Oh, don't," Drake gasped, as Carter's fingers, thrilling and agonizing, moved down to his ribs. "Don't tickle me... "
"Oh, yeah," Carter said, grinning. "You're ticklish, all right."
Drake squirmed, desperate to get away. He couldn't stand it, if he were tickled for one more second he would start laughing helplessly.
But Carter's fingers kept up with Drake's efforts to escape, they dug into his ribs even harder.
"I can't take it..." Drake's voice rose in pitch and he broke into laughter, nearly hysterical. To be tickled by a sexy guy like this! Drake was struggling, not only to escape from Carter's tickling fingers, but to keep his groin hidden. He was growing a hard-on and was desperate to keep it out of Carter's sight.
"Kitch--kitchy!" Carter was incredibly quick, darting his fingers along Drake's ribs and sides, down toward his waist.
It was unbearable. He had no choice but to swing one leg over the bench in an effort to get away. When he did, his huge prick swung in the air between them.
Carter stopped, but only for a second. He licked his lips. "Someone's getting excited." His hands took up where they left off, darting all over Drake's incredibly ticklish torso. By now Drake was begging, whenever he could get a word out: "Please stop... oh, no... oh God... "
Carter dug his hands into Drake's armpits. Weakened by laughter, Drake felt himself falling... falling till his back hit the wooden bench. Now Carter was above him, straddling the bench, still tickling, tickling Drake on his belly and ribcage and underarms. Drake was helpless, he tried pushing Carter's arms away but it was no use. There was Carter's grinning face... and there, farther down, was Carter's enormous hard dick nearly touching his own.
"What are you boys doing!"
Trapped as he was, Drake couldn't look around, but he knew the voice of Coach Doyle.
Carter jumped back, his heavy dick swinging to the left and right.
Drake wanted to jump too, to cover himself, but he hadn't recovered from the tickling. For now he could only lie where he was, giggling softly as his nervous system very slowly calmed down.
"Oh, I get it," Coach Doyle said, his voice closer now. "You've got a live one, huh, Carter?"
Drake was not thinking clearly, but he had to get up, try to escape. He struggled to sit, and was nearly upright when he got the shock of his life. Coach Doyle had grabbed his wrists and pulled his arms upward.
So far Carter had not said a word to the Coach. He had not even tried to cover himself. And instead of retreating he was straddling the bench again, reaching out for Drake... the Coach held on to Drake's wrists, pulling them up, totally exposing Drake's vulnerable belly, sides, ribs and armpits. "Oh, God!" Drake hadn't experienced anything like this since Rodney Cole had tied his hands over his head. Soon he was shouting hysterical laughter, no longer caring that his hard dick rode high on his belly as Carter tickled and tickled him.
It didn't help that the Coach was now coaching. "Get his ribs, Carter!" he cried, tightening his grip.
Carter worked his way up from Drake's ribcage to his underarms, those deep pits now stretched wide. Drake heaved and bounced on the wooden bench as Carter attacked those pits. Through tears he could see Carter's evilly grinning face, and when he tipped his head back he could see the Coach's face also, with the same evil smile.
"Hey, I've got an idea," Carter said. He stood up, and his dick was standing up too, harder than before, nearly touching his belly. But instead of coming closer he turned away, facing the foot of the bench.
Oh, no, not the feet... Drake wanted to beg for mercy, but he was too busy catching his breath.
"That's it, Carter!" The Coach's low, deep voice was filled with urgency. "Let me see you tickle those feet!"
It was simple, so simple for Carter to trap Drake's ankles in an armlock and begin to explore those bare ticklish soles.
"Oh, no... don't do that... please don't... I can't stand it... "
Pleading not only didn't help, it actually encouraged his tormentors. Yet Drake couldn't stop begging, his life was at stake. How much at stake he very quickly learned as Drake raked his fingernails up and down those trapped soles. Drake threw his head back and roared. It was full-throated, panic-stricken laugher, completely hysterical. He swayed back and forth in ticklish agony.
Finally he managed to squirm completely off the bench, his butt hitting the cold cement floor. Carter lost his grip, and the awful foot tickling was over. But the Coach tightened his grip on Drake's wrists, and now Carter was on him as he lay back on the floor, more vulnerable than ever. Carter tickled Drake where he knew he was most ticklish, but there were other ticklish spots to find, ones that Drake had never thought of. Carter tickled Drake's belly and abs, then reached farther down to tickle his groin, fingers working busily in the pubic hair on either side of his huge boner. Drake couldn't believe what was happening. And that wasn't all: Carter's fingers explored more, tickling, tickling till they were on Drake's sensitive balls.
"That's it! Get those balls, Carter! Work 'em!"
Drake's balls were large, low hangers, and Carter got them, tickling them, tickling under them and between Drake's legs, as Drake howled and bounced helplessly on the floor, each move he made only exposing him more to Carter's searching hands. Carter was even able to reach partly under Drake so his tickling fingers found Drake's asshole. The surprise of it made Drake lift his knees, unintentionally inviting a full assault.
"Tickle that asshole! Come on!"
That was how the tickling went, all in between Drake's legs from his asshole to his balls and back. Through a haze of delirium Drake was learning what it was like to surrender the secret parts of his body to the pleasure and amusement of men.
After what seemed like hours, the Coach finally released Drake's wrists, and his aching arms fell to the floor. He lay there panting.
The Coach looked at Carter, who was kneeling on the floor, his cock fully erect, and then at Drake. He shook his head in wonder. "Jesus, you're hung like horses, both of you." He took a few hesitating steps toward the stairs. "All right, I'll let you boys finish this by yourselves."
Drake lay on the locker room floor in a post-tickling trance, helpless as a baby, his body seeking to recover from a million jolts and violations, his mind not yet reconnected to reality. He moaned, he tossed his head from side to side as if he were still being tickled, and in fact he could still feel Carter's merciless fingers. He wasn't surprised when he opened his eyes and there Carter stood, watching him, taking in the indisputable fact of their two huge, aching erections. Even the Coach had said they were both hung like horses.
There was something different about Carter, it took Drake a few seconds to focus on what it was: Carter was holding out his hands and they were shiny, even in the dim light of the locker room. He had put something on them, they looked wet and greasy. Drake thrust his hips upward, or rather they thrust themselves, his need was so great. He was going to die very soon if Carter didn't touch his cock, and before he knew it he was begging, breathlessly pleading as he had done when Carter was tickling him: "Please, Carter... touch me... take my cock, take it in your hands... jack it, jack me, jack me off..."
When Carter's fingers finally closed over that hard-on that had been throbbing for so long, Drake felt he might pass out. His body moved through no conscious will, writhing, thrusting as Carter pumped his cock with both slippery hands. Drake watched his cock being worked on and he wanted it to last, it felt so good and looked so hot, but he was too excited and knew that in a few more thrusts he would cum. So he braced himself for the explosion that sent great jets of cum into the air and all over his belly and chest. He didn't know it was possible to cum so hard and so long, he was gasping for breath again as he pumped out still more cum that flowed over Carter's hands.
Carter stood up, his own great hard cock rising into the air again. He touched himself, lathering Drake's cum all over his huge red dick, another sight unlike anything Drake had even imagined. His body acted again with a will of his own, propelling Drake up onto his knees. He reached out for that cock and began pumping it with both hands. It was the first time he had touched another cock, and it was even better than he'd imagined, the cock huge and rock-hard and yet still somewhat pliable, the thin slick flesh pulsing between his fingers, first the shaft and then the head, then back again, slowly, and again and again. Drake rolled the fat dickhead between his palms like a Boy Scout trying to start a fire, while Carter moaned and cursed aloud, it felt so good. Then Drake went back to stroking, pulling, yanking on that shaft that he didn't take his eyes off for a second. And when Carter came, great spurts of cum splattering across Drake's face like warm gravy, Drake was laughing--not from tickling this time but from sheer joy. He laughed and laughed as he pumped Carter completely dry.
After that long afternoon in the locker room, Drake had wondered if Carter would be willing to fool around again sometime--like the very next day, if possible. But fate had other plans. Carter didn't spend much time on any one boy; he wanted to tickle as many guys as possible. He methodically moved through the junior class until he had had every single sexy ticklish guy. No one really spoke about it, but there was an understanding among them that they all knew what it was like to "stay after school with Carter." Drake never heard any mention of the Coach in these mutterings and mumblings.
At the end of that school year, Carter and his family left town as quickly as they had come. They moved to California, someone said. Drake was left horny and adrift, not picking up any vibes from other boys that they might be interested in tickling him to death.
Nick kept Drake tied up in different positions throughout the day and night so that his muscles wouldn't get too sore. He put skin lotion on his slave so he wouldn't be tickled raw, and gave him throat spray so his throat wouldn't get sore from laughing and screaming--though over the past several days Drake's voice had shrunk to a croak and he didn't know if he'd ever speak normally again. When it was mealtime Nick released him from the St. Andrew's cross or the rack or the stocks or the chair, hooked a leash onto the dog collar and led Drake on all fours to the kitchen area of the loft. Drake's food bowl would have something like crumbled hamburger in it, and he would eat greedily till the end of mealtime. The end of mealtime was always the same: Nick would sneak up behind Drake with a feather, an enormous white plume, and without warning plunge the feather between Drake's legs. He would tickle his tender inner thighs; his cock, kept perpetually hard by a leather cock ring; those balls, stretched for tickling; and that asshole, which was even more feather-sensitive than those balls. Before long Drake would collapse in a giggling heap. "Oh don't," he would croak finally, "don't tickle my asshole anymore, please... "
The feather didn't stop for a second. "What did you say, slave? What was that you said?"
"Oh... I said... I said, 'please tickle my asshole, sir. Tickle it all you want, then tickle my balls some more.'"
"I thought that was what you said. Well, you'll be begging me more before I'm through--begging to get back on the rack again, just to get away from this feather."
Sometimes Drake heard these remarks, sometimes he didn't. He was in the zone, where he spent most of the time these days. He was a tickle slave, taking more punishment than was humanly possible and repeatedly forced to beg for more. Nick muttered and sometimes shouted his threats and demands, and Drake either croaked a response or said nothing; but this was not the real world, not anymore. The real world was a world of pure feeling, often agonizing, always horrifying. In the real world all of Drake's ticklish nerve--ends spoke to him, it was their voices sometimes bubbling up in his throat, croaking out screams of laughter and begging and pleading. Those poor ribs, those poor armpits, those poor, super-sensitive feet--they cried out desperately as Drake watched, both victim and observer, wondering what in hell could happen next.
He was only mildly surprised when Marshall Carter appeared--or Marshall's ghost, or spirit, or whatever these apparitions were that could step out from the shadows of the Torture Chamber at any time.
Carter was still a well-endowed seventeen-year-old, naked and resplendent in the sun coming through the skylight, illuminating the golden hair on his arms and legs and chest. And his dick, that beautiful hard dick that Drake had once taken between his trembling hands, still swung heavy through the air. "Carter!" Drake said. "I thought you were in California."
Carter laughed. "Man, I've been all over the world by now. I joined the Navy right out of high school, and I've tickled guys in more countries than you ever heard of!"
"You still look like you're seventeen."
"To you I always will be."
"Well, look what's happening now," Drake said, shaking his head, involved and yet not involved as Nick's cruel fingers tickled his bare torso, stretched to the limit on Nick's rack. "This guy is tickling me to death, you know?"
"I know, I've been watching. Look, Drake, I'm sorry, I'd stop him if I could, but I can't. I'm just a spirit, to begin with, and then... I love watching him work you over. I want him to keep going and going and never stop. Sorry, man."
Drake just shook his head. It didn't matter. His life was not in his own hands anymore: it was in the hands of a tickling maniac, and the odds of his surviving just one more day weren't too good. "It's just my fate," he said, barely able to hear his own words over the sound of Drake, the other Drake, screaming on the rack. "Listen to that. I'll be even more hoarse than usual by tonight."
Carter stared at the rack where Drake was stretched out, his ribs showing in sharp relief. Nick was playing those ribs like percussion instruments as Drake screamed and screamed again. Carter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His hard cock seemed to have gotten even bigger. There were tears in his eyes as he said, "Man, I wish I could tickle you. I wish I could tickle a big load of hot cum out of you."
Then another voice came out of the shadows. "Me too," it said. "Hell yeah, me too."
Drake strained to see. "Coach Doyle?"
It was the Coach, all right--as burly as ever in his tight green shorts, naked to the waist, a silver whistle gleaming from the center of his hairy chest. "Listen, Drake, I'm sorry too. I helped Carter tickle a lot of boys in that locker room after school. It was a shameful thing to do. Afterwards, they were all too scared to tell anybody. So I kept on doing it. I couldn't help it. You were all so damn ticklish, and so young and strong... you bucked like horses. I'm retired now, and I'll never see a sight like that again."
"Well, look, Coach," Drake said, "here's your chance to do a good turn. Just get Nick to stop tickling me. Please."
The Coach shook his head. "No way. I'm just like Carter, I love to watch. It's taking my breath away, seeing what he's doing to you." He leaned closer to Drake to make his final pronouncement: "You better pray, Drake. Pray that Nick lets you go." Like Carter, the Coach also had glazed eyes by now, and had to wipe his mouth. "And while you're at it, son, pray, pray to the Lord God Almighty that I never get my hands on you."
Read Part 2
