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The Only by Casey McKee
Read Part 1
Part 2
In 1979 Drake was living in New York. He had a bachelor's degree in journalism, an entry-level job in corporate communications at a major bank, and a tenement apartment in the East Village. But mostly what he had was sex. Sex was everywhere—in the bathhouses, the bookstores, the porno theaters and parks. He had sex with more men, in more places, and in more different ways than he'd ever thought possible. And whenever he began to worry that he might be a sex addict, some sizzling piece of male flesh would catch his eye and he would be off, following gladly wherever his dick led him.
It led him one night to a porno theater on Third Avenue. He skipped the film and headed directly downstairs to the back rooms, craving the kind of anonymous sex that could only happen in pitch dark, with nothing but the occasional flash of a cigarette lighter to show what—and who—he was doing.
In the first room, there were waist-high benches along two walls where guys tended to pair off. The other walls were bare except for the men leaning against them, sometimes packed pretty close together. The place smelled of smoke and dirt and cum and poppers. It was earthy; it was hot. Drake walked the length of the room letting his hand brush against one taut denim-covered basket after another. Flash went a lighter, a cigarette glowed, a pair of brown eyes sized him up. Drake moved on, feeling the occasional hand against his own crotch. Later on there would be more naked bodies than clothed; he knew enough to leave his wallet at home.
The second, larger room was just as dark. There were a pair of fake jail cells in the far corner, for guys who were into that kind of fantasy. Drake didn't intend to make it that far. He stopped, feeling up crotches, and as two guys moved in on him he was so hard he thought he'd burst the buttons on his Levi's 501s. An open mouth covered his, he tasted tongue and hot breath. A pair of hands worked at those buttons. Near the center of the room was a raised, carpeted platform where a guy could stretch out and get worked over. Drake moved slowly toward the platform, never losing contact with the hands that were groping him. In no time his jeans were around his ankles—he wasn't wearing underwear-and he stripped off his t-shirt, letting it fall somewhere near his feet. He lay down, letting the raised back of the platform support him, and spread his knees. His long, hard dick was ready for contact and it wasn't disappointed; one hand gently stroked the shaft while another caressed his balls, and he was sure they were two hands from two different men. Again the hungry mouth, a tongue lapping the back of his throat, and now there were hands on his hairy pecs, sliding down along his sides. When a hot mouth closed over his cock he gave a shout, it felt so good. There were still hands on his chest, roughing up his nipples, and that pair of hands caressing his sides—how many men were doing him? Three? Four? In the dark it was easy to lose count of hands and mouths and cocks. He reached out and found a hard one, began stroking it. Another nudged his left hand, and he grabbed that one too. There were at least four pairs of hands and as many mouths moving over him. The air was filled with hard breathing, moans, and soft, satisfied curses.
More hands moved in, more cocks. One gently pried at his lips and he took it in, thrilling at the feel of the dick head against his palate. His own dick was slick with saliva and pre-cum, and he didn't know how much more handling and sucking it could take before he'd shoot. The cock in his mouth couldn't take much teasing at all, a sudden hard thrust and hot cum coated his tongue, dribbled down his chin. If his hands were free he would have caught the last drop and licked it from his fingers. But none of him was free, his hands were full of cock and there were hot impatient hands on his arms and shoulders and chest and belly...
But what was this? Something different... those fingers moving across his abs. That wasn't unusual, guys were all the time feeling his abs, worshipping them... but this time the fingers were... more than touching, they were... tickling. Oh God, he couldn't stand it! Any second he was going to burst out laughing. He squirmed as much as all those hands would allow, praying the maddening sensation would stop. Of course it would, no one was tickling him on purpose, it was just that he was so ticklish...
But the tickling didn't stop. Helplessly he slid down farther on the bench, and felt a sudden rush of heat to his groin as he realized he hadn't been tickled in a long, long time. The last guy who had really tickled him to death was Marshall Carter, in high school. Now that was a memory to make the rush of heat to his groin even more intense, and before he knew it he let a giggle escape his lips. Could it even be heard above the groaning and moaning and sucking all around him? He squirmed some more, giggled a little louder... he couldn't help it, the fingers were digging in harder.
"What was that?"
"Hey, he's ticklish!"
"Where?"
"Poke him here... "
"Hey, yeah!"
More fingers moved in, mercilessly probing his abs and sides. He squirmed, he let go of the hard cocks he'd been pumping, but it did him no good: strong hands grabbed his wrists and pulled his arms up, just as Coach Doyle had done so long ago. "No, no," he cried, already nearly breathless with laughter, "don't tickle me, don't!" His legs were pinned down too, there were bodies pressing in on him from all sides. He'd never survive if they all started tickling him. But just as on that long ago day in the locker room, or long before that, when Rodney Cole and the three soccer players had tortured him, he didn't have any choice. Before long he couldn't speak, couldn't plead any more, all he could do was laugh. As scared as he was of laughing, of letting them know just how ticklish he was, he threw his head back and roared hysterically as all those hands attacked his abs and sides, ribs and armpits.
Maybe it was the darkness—not being able to see his attackers—but he was more ticklish now than he'd ever been in his life. He screamed with laughter as fingers clawed into his armpits and knuckles mashed his ribs. The screams only brought him more punishment: a finger found its way into his navel and twisted and drilled into his guts. His groin was now the property of at least twenty fingers, and his balls were being twiddled like mad. More hands made mincemeat of his inner thighs. No part of him was safe, not even the ticklish spots behind his knees.
It was only a matter of time—insane time, tickled-to-death time—before they lifted up his feet and he felt, along with everything else, greedy fingers working at the laces of his sneakers. The sneakers were pulled free, his socks nearly torn off, and his jeans were gone altogether. Oh Jesus, don't tickle my feet! He tried to say it, but his words were broken up by laughter, hysterical laughter that became more hoarse and yet more high-pitched as fingers attacked his soles and toes and the tops of his feet. Soon each breath he managed to take escaped as a high keening wail, and they kept on tickling him.
Then he heard it again-the same deep, rasping voice that had said, "Hey, he's ticklish!" and then, "Poke him here." The voice and the hot breath that came with it was right in his ear, and this time it was saying, "Tell me what they're doing to you."
Was he serious? Drake couldn't believe it. All he could do was laugh, and if he was able to get a word out here and there, it was to beg for the tickling to stop. Now this guy wanted him to talk. Drake shook his head, his mouth stretched wide with hilarious laughter.
"If you don't talk," the raspy voice said, "then you get this."
Now Drake felt something he had truly never felt before, as two fingers—two thumbs, more likely—stabbed deep into his exposed armpits. They were like pile drivers, and the jolt made his entire body stiffen and tore loose a yell from deep down in his throat. All Drake could think, when he recovered enough to form a coherent thought, was that he now knew what electroshock treatment must feel like.
"Talk to me," the voice rasped again, "or you get the thumbs."
"Oh... Jesus... please don't." It took every effort of will just to get those words out, with so many hands tickling him.
"What are they doing to you?" the voice rasped.
"Oh... God... tickling... my feet!"
"Yeah? What else?"
Some generous guys had been free with their pocket lube, and Drake's groin was now all slicked up. They were slicking up his abs as well, giving a new, slippery feel to the tickling that had Drake sputtering helplessly, he was no more capable of forming words than an infant.
"What else? What else? Tell me, or you're going to get it... "
Again the thumbs drilled into his armpits, and again the jolt was so bad that Drake thought his spine would crack.
So he was trained to narrate what they were doing to him, struggling to get out the words as he also laughed and screamed and begged and panted.
"Tickling my... balls! And... oh shit... aahhhh, sticking their fingers in... my belly button! Hah, hah, hah, can't... stand it... OH my ribs, tickling my ribs, Jesus Christ... oh fuck, they've got my thighs... and... what? What are they doing to me...."
They were moving him, adjusting him, lifting his legs. He was their helpless toy, they could bend and flex him however they wanted and he was too weak to defend himself. Lifting and spreading his legs...
"What are they doing to you, what?"
"Jesus fuck... oh no... tickling my asshole!"
Slippery fingers, dozens of them, teased and prodded his asshole, stretching, exploring, poking... there was no way he could speak now, his cries were reduced to a pathetic wailing as they twiddled his anus, palped his scrotum, squeezed his thighs, violated his navel... and there was still the same steady tickling of his feet, sides and ribs.
He knew, insofar as he was capable of knowing anything, that it would also come again, the jolt of thumbs screwing powerfully into his armpits... and so it did...
And Drake woke, as if from a dream. But the tickling wasn't a dream. He knew it was real, still happening, might be happening forever. He could hear the high-pitched wailing of his voice, broken by fits of panting. And yet he was distanced from it now. He looked around, and instead of his tormentors he saw only darkness.
He remembered how, as a kid, he would go swimming in the lake at night, plunging deep under the water, into absolute dark. He felt that way now, suspended, weightless, unable to see anything but his own luminous skin. And all around him, below, beside, in front and behind him, there were little fish. Little invisible fish, all nibbling at his flesh.
He felt no sense of panic. He could breathe, even here, deep under water; and he would survive, he could let the fish do what they wanted, nibble till there was nothing left of him, as long as he remembered to breathe.
When he surfaced again his cock was harder than it had ever been, leaking pre-cum all over his belly, which slickened his ticklish skin even more, intensifying his torment. He was so weakened by the tickling that he didn't know if he could escape even if they did let him go; but his sexual response was stronger than ever, and when someone grabbed his cock he yelled, his hips thrusting upward all by themselves. One hand pumped his shaft, a mouth closed over his dickhead, and... yes, someone was licking his balls now, and more greedy mouths were licking his soles and sucking his toes...
He could no longer separate the sensations, the sucking and jacking and tickling, the licking, poking and stroking. His body had become one nerve that was being stretched to the breaking point. And just when he felt that he really would break, his groin began to heave, his cock shook, and he came, filling one hot sucking mouth and then continuing to shoot. Every one of his tormentors slurped from his cock as if it were a drinking fountain. "Yeah!" they were crying, over and over. "Yeah, yeah, yeah!"
He didn't know he could shoot that big a load. His balls had been turned inside out. As the hands and mouths gradually withdrew, he panted and moaned and offered whispered prayers and curses to the dark. Though he lay perfectly still he felt he was falling, tumbling down and backwards, headed toward inescapable fate.
It wasn't over. Far from it. Collective male lust was a force of nature swirling through the humid, dusty air, rocking the floor, shaking the walls. A hand raised his head, shoved a bottle under his nose. It wasn't his bottle of Rush, it was genuine amyl, and it took the top of his head off.
A familiar raspy voice spoke in his ear: "Wake up! Some new guys have come in, and they're dying to meet you!"
It was three o'clock in the morning, and Drake was sitting on the floor outside the back rooms, leaning against the wall by the men's room door. He had found his jeans and his sneakers, but his socks and t-shirt were lost. Well, he had had to go home shirtless before, he didn't mind as long as it was warm outside. But it would take him a while yet to fully recover. His eyes were red and swollen from tears of laughter, his throat felt raw, his ribs were sore, the soles of his feet tingled, and his cock, balls and asshole were almost unbearably tender. Every minute or two his spine gave a shudder, and a weak, hysterical giggle escaped his lips, as if they were all tickling him still. Guys walked past him, leaving him in peace but still eyeing him hungrily and muttering to each other about what had happened in the farthest dark room.
"Never saw a guy get that kind of treatment... "
"Did you see how ticklish his feet were? Jesus!"
"Never saw a guy cum like that, either. Fuckin' puddles on the floor!"
Drake tilted his head back against the wall, sighed, shuddered, and gave in to a few seconds of soft helpless laughter. When he opened his eyes again he found he was being cruised. A man leaned against the wall opposite him, a ruggedly handsome older man with a beard, an open shirt and a hairy chest. Under any other circumstances Drake would be interested, but for now he could only smile and shake his head ruefully: thanks, but no thanks. Still the man stayed where he was, openly studying Drake as though he were an anatomical chart. Drake tried to think of something to say, something not too unfriendly that would make it clear he wanted to be left alone. Before he could think of anything the other man spoke.
"How are you feeling?"
Somehow it was no surprise to hear that deep, raspy voice again...the voice of a tormentor. "Y-you," Drake stammered, "you were the one... that made me talk to you... "
"Ha! I did more than that. I started the whole thing!" The man's brown eyes gleamed, teeth showed white above his black beard. "You were great."
Drake pressed back against the wall. He felt naked under that gaze. At the same time his cock, which had so recently been wrung dry several times, began to stiffen. The two looked at each other for a very long time until Drake finally said, "Wh-what do you want?"
The man stepped forward, drawing a card from his hip pocket. It was the size of a business card, but it was a personal card, with the name Emmett D'Arcy and an address in the West Village.
"Just look me up," he said. "When you're ready."
A few weeks later Drake showed up at Emmett's apartment. It was on the eleventh floor of a high-rise off Eighth Street, more than a few notches above Drake's funky East Village tenement. As he nodded to the doorman and announced himself, and as the doorman called Emmett's number, Drake found himself wondering if Emmett had hot-and-cold-running men at his place. In which case Drake had already been marked as a trick. Normally confident, he wondered why that should bother him this time. His finger actually shook as he pressed the elevator button. His phone call to Emmett had been brief, Emmett saying only, "Be here at eight." No mention of tickling. But as Drake began his ascent, startled by his own reflection in the elevator's mirrored wall, he knew full well what he was doing: for the first time ever he was deliberately stepping into a situation where he could get tickled to death.
And it didn't take long, once they were seated on Emmett's white sofa, once they had had a drink of Scotch. All of a sudden Emmett lunged, and Drake, who had been sitting half turned toward him, was easily caught off balance. He gave a shout, and then Emmett's hands were everywhere, not only tickling but undressing him at the same time, so that before he knew it he was buck naked on the white carpet, screaming with laughter and begging for Emmett to stop.
It didn't take long, either, for Drake to discover that Emmett was also ticklish, and that he could freely take revenge on his tormentor. It was a new experience for Drake to tickle a man to feverish exhaustion. Recalling how Emmett had drilled his thumbs into his armpits, Drake learned the technique also, saw how he could make Emmett's body go limp, his eyes roll upward, his jaw slacken as he panted deliriously. He also learned how to make Emmett scream by applying the bristles of a hairbrush to his lower back.
They spent a year testing each other's limits, mostly on weekends. Sometimes they would stay in Emmett's apartment from Friday evening through Sunday night, naked the whole time, ordering in Chinese food when hunger overtook their desire to play. They grappled and stumbled and rolled through every room, from one end of the apartment to the other. Drake tickled Emmett's ribs on the dining room table while Emmett's feet kicked over half-empty cartons of Kung Pao Chicken and Beef Broccoli. In the kitchen, Emmett learned which gourmet utensils worked best on Drake's feet. When they tired of all the other places, they tumbled into Emmett's extra large bathtub and literally tickled the piss out of each other.
The joys of bondage soon followed. Drake suggested it first, remembering how Rodney Cole had tied his wrists and ankles. Emmett balked, till Drake reminded him of how, in that back room in the basement of the porno theater, he had been as good as bound, kept immobile by many strong hands. Emmett owed it to him to at least give it a try. And so their mutual torture reached another level, and another and another, as they learned the most ingenious ways of rendering each other helpless and vulnerable. The bondage naturally led to role-play—the interrogator and the spy, the leatherman and the delivery boy, the older brother (Emmett) making his younger brother suffer for telling a secret.
The sex that they had, jacking or sucking each other off, was great, but it was the tickling that they took to greater and greater extremes, till there was nothing they would not do to each other to slake their thirst for stimulation. On a Monday morning Drake would move trancelike through his day at the bank, where he was now an Assistant Vice President, his head filled with images of the night before—how, for example, he had hung by his wrists from Emmett's ceiling, naked and gagged and blindfolded, while a vibrating butt plug threatened to split his ass open and Emmett tickled his dickhead with a felt-tip pen in one hand and a camel's-hair brush in the other. This was Emmett's favorite game, and he could spend hours at it. With the felt-tip pen he wrote multi-volume novels on Drake's knob; with the brush he re-created an impressionist's entire life's work, paying special attention to the piss-slit and rim of that German helmet.
Though he always craved being tickled, no matter how excruciating it was, Drake also couldn't get enough of tickling Emmett. He saw their relationship stretch on for many years to come, as they found more and more outrageous ways to violate each other's ticklish skin. Strange as it was, he also felt he was in a relationship that many men could only dream about.
Then, one night, it was over.
The two of them were having dinner in a restaurant on Second Avenue near Twelfth Street. It was something of an upscale restaurant—for that neighborhood, anyway—with modern décor, lots of pastel colors and intimate lighting, and it had become one of their favorites. It was to be a typical Friday night, Drake filled with relief that the work week was over, and looking forward to releasing his tension through screams of laughter.
But everything changed when Emmett leaned over the table, nearly upsetting his wine, to say, "I've got something to tell you."
"Okay." Drake was glad to listen.
"I'm leaving New York."
Drake looked Emmett in the eyes. After a few seconds he realized he was holding his breath. Forcing himself to relax, he asked, "You mean, you're going on a trip?"
"No. Not a round trip, anyway." Emmett seemed to be receding, part of him shutting down, leaving Drake alone already. "As you know, I've been very unhappy."
No, Drake had not known that Emmett had been unhappy. How could he have known? They never really talked about anything but bondage and tickling. And that, according to Emmett, was part of the problem. Who were they kidding—they didn't really have a "relationship" at all, there was nothing between them beyond the physical. Well, Drake wondered, what was wrong with that, as long as they were both enjoying it so much? It wasn't just that, Emmett explained. He had grown tired of living in New York, period. So he had arranged with the head office of his corporation for a transfer to the West Coast. It would be a step up for him. A great opportunity: a chance to start over.
Drake just stared at Emmett—at this hot, sexy guy who had made so many of his fantasies come true, who had helped him discover new fantasies, new intensities of feeling. He had been staring openmouthed at Emmett for so long that his throat was dry; he took a sip of white wine, but it tasted bitter now. "You mean, it's over between us?"
Looking back, he would see how stupid that must have sounded. Of course it was over, had been over for some time, Emmett had just been going through the motions. And Drake, who had been so busy being tickled into a hundred different states of consciousness, had never noticed.
He folded his napkin, placed it beside his plate, got up and left the restaurant. He would never go there again, though he would pass by the place many times and feel a chill each time he saw its name. The place was called Tempus Fugit.
He wanted to see Emmett at least one more time before his departure, but it was no use. Emmett wouldn't even talk on the phone. Finally Drake was so desperate that he sneaked into Emmett's building, taking advantage of a shift change at the front desk, and made it to the elevator and up to Emmett's floor. But something had gone wrong. Either Emmett had had to leave earlier than expected, or had given Drake the wrong date in the first place; the apartment was empty, the door was open and the white carpeting which Drake had known so well was being cleaned. Drake backed down the hallway, turned when he heard a door opening behind him. The neighboring apartment had been owned by a gay couple, whose raised eyebrows and knowing smiles Drake had encountered many times: apparently some of the sounds issuing from Emmett's apartment weren't lost on them. But they no longer lived there either, and the man who opened the door to pick up a small package on the mat looked unfamiliar. For a split second that didn't matter to Drake, he was so close to just walking up to this disheveled-looking stranger in a blue bathrobe and asking, Hey, will you tickle me? He saw it happening in his mind, saw how easy it would be. He would take his shirt off in the hallway, clasp his hands behind his head, expose his ribs and armpits. Go ahead. Make me feel it. Give me a rush. Go crazy. He actually took a few steps in that direction until the man, package in hand, frowned at him, then shut the door.
I'm lost, Drake thought. I'm lost; I'm lost.
"So that's my story."
Drake had calmed down a bit while telling Nick about his "tickling life," even if Nick's stare from across the table had made him a little self-conscious. Now he was relieved to stop talking for a while. The waiter set a fresh beer in front of him.
"Very interesting," Nick said. "That's not the whole story, though. You've been active since then."
"Yeah, that's true. I've met a number of guys through the ads. Had some wild times." Just the thought of some of the things he had been through sent a shiver up his spine. "I think I've got nine lives, like a cat. And yet... I keep looking for something more prolonged. More intense."
"Ever since Emmett you've been strictly a bottom?"
"That's right. I can't really say why. It's just... " Drake shrugged. "I just really want it. Even though I can't stand it."
"Sounds good to me," Nick said. He pulled some bills from his wallet, threw them on the table. He nodded toward the small canvas bag by Drake's chair. "Is that all you brought with you?"
"That's it."
"Well, you won't need many clothes. In fact, you won't need any."
Most of Nick's walls were covered with his paintings, and they made an instant impression on Drake as he stepped into the huge studio. All of the paintings were of men—specifically, naked male torsos. No heads, no arms, just a multitude of well-developed chests and abs in all sizes and colors. There was nothing conventional about them, though. They were torsos caught in motion, twisting and stretching, muscles strained to the limit. It didn't take Drake long to realize that they represented the bodies of men under torture. As he stared, open-mouthed, Nick laughed.
"I've got a freshly stretched canvas with your name on it," he said.
They moved on to where, Drake was told, he would be staying. It was a room partitioned off from the rest of the loft, but still a huge room, with a skylight that brilliantly illuminated its furnishings: various tables, platforms and racks, a half dozen St. Andrew's crosses tilting toward the floor at different angles, a chair that might have come from a dentist's office. One wall was perforated with hooks that held every kind of restraining device.
"Everything but a bed," Drake said.
"Oh, you won't need one of those. You'll be much too busy."
There was a bed, though, or at least a cot, in what Nick called the Recovery Room. One of the few rooms in the loft with its own four walls and ceiling, it had originally been a large darkroom, back when Nick had gone through a phase of sketching and painting from photographs. (By now, he explained to Drake, he always worked from memory, having become a genius at memorizing a man's body, right down to the number of hairs on each nipple.) When Nick had redone the darkroom as the Recovery Room he had installed a cot and added a toilet, sink and shower—complete slave quarters.
After the brief tour they returned to the Torture Chamber, where Nick's first order to Drake was to strip naked. "And make it fast! We got a lot of work to do!"
Drake thought, I'll never get out of here alive.
Drake was in the Recovery Room when another man from his past appeared: Emmett D'Arcy.
"Well," Drake whispered, "I thought I'd never see you again."
"Why would you think that?" Like Carter, Emmett was also naked. "I've never stopped thinking about you."
"Huh!" Drake turned his head to the side. He may have slept for a while, or maybe not. When he looked up again Emmett was still there. "So what do you want?"
"I just want to say that I'm sorry." Emmett stepped forward gingerly, as if the floor were cold on his bare feet. "I'm sorry I left when I did."
"You went to California, just like Carter. I see a pattern here." Drake tried to turn over onto his side, but his ribs were sore; he tried lying on his belly, but his belly was too ticklish now, it couldn't take contact with anything, not even a sheet. So he rolled over onto his back again.
"I've missed you, though," Emmett said. "In particular I've missed your laughing, screaming, and begging. I still fantasize about tickling you to death."
Drake chuckled again. "Well, your fantasy's coming true, only it's not your fantasy anymore, it's Nick's."
Emmett came closer. His cock was painfully erect, begging to be touched. "That guy is something else. He's a fucking genius."
"Ha! Some genius... I won't last a month in this fucking place."
"Well, you've already been here a month, but I can see where you'd lose all track of time. You've been so... busy." With that Emmett wiggled his fingers at Drake, and Drake laughed. His laughter, even his chuckling of a moment before, had a different kind of sound now, at least to him. It sounded just a little... depraved. More than a little crazy. Something like Nick's own laughter.
"I don't suppose," Drake asked, "that you could... get him to stop? Just for a day or so? Let me catch my breath?" He held out his hand, which passed right through Emmett's image.
"Oh, hell, no." Emmett said. "Sorry, Drake, but I'm having such a good time, watching. I like seeing everything Nick does to you, because to tell you the truth, I'd like to tickle you myself right now."
"Greedy spirit," Drake said. "I think you're actually drooling."
Emmett wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Believe me, Drake," he said, "if I ever get my hands on you again, I'm never letting go."
Drake was in a kind of elevated sling, on his belly, his wrists and ankles chained together. For the past couple of hours Nick had been tickling his asshole and scrotum. Among many other tools he had some long, delicate wires, extremely supple, that were excellent for this kind of detail work. For the past hour at least Nick had been wearing his hearing protectors, Drake's screaming was even louder than usual.
Finally Nick decided to rest for a minute. He took the earmuffs off. Drake had stopped screaming and was panting heavily.
"You know," Nick said, "I've got a problem."
Drake knew what he had to say. His voice, when he finally found it, was no more than a croak. "Yes, Master? What is it?"
"Well, you see, I've been wanting to tickle you till my heart's content. But even though I've just about tickled the last living drop of shit out of you, my heart's not content. I must have a very big heart, don't you agree?"
With all his strength Drake summoned his voice again. "Yes, Sir."
"What I'm going to do," Nick said, "is invite a couple of friends over. Young guys. Hispanic. Real fucking maniacs. The kind who don't know when to stop, if you know what I mean. Straight guys, but they'll do anything to get their rocks off."
Drake's thin, reedy voice trembled. "Yes, Sir. Whatever you say, Sir."
Raul and Pedro showed up sometime later. It might have been noon, or it might have been the middle of the night. Drake, who was stretched on the rack, wouldn't know. All that Nick had allowed him to know, for at least the past several hours, was the terrain of his own ribs. It was frightening terrain, with peaks and valleys of excruciating tenderness, vulnerable to many, many different kinds of assault. Drake thought, insofar as he was able to think, that he would never make it through this parched land, his ribs were like the rippling sand dunes of the desert, a desert without end.
Then Nick showed mercy, just for a minute. Or maybe he was just answering the door. Suddenly there were other voices in the loft, out in the studio. The visitors were so loud Drake guessed they were drunk, or high, or both. Then again it was hard to tell about voices, his own screaming had impaired his hearing.
"How's it hangin'?"
"Great to see you, man. You look fucking great."
"Where's Juan?" Nick asked. "I haven't seen him lately."
The two newcomers collapsed in a fit of giggles. "Oh yeah... Juan!"
"Hee-hee-hee... it's not funny, really, but—hee hee... "
"You see, man, Juan, he's in the hospital."
"Christ, you guys didn't break his arms, did you?"
Another laughing fit.
"No, no, man... it's not... hee hee... "
"It's not that kind of hospital!"
"Shit," Nick said, "you guys are something else. You mean...?"
"Okay okay okay, so we tickled him a little too much. That's the breaks."
"Yeah. Hey, he'll be okay in a few months. Maybe."
"Well, in the meantime," Nick said, "I've got somebody you guys can practice on."
"Fuck, man, we don't need no practice."
Nick led his visitors into the Chamber and turned up the lights. Drake trembled with fear, and with the humiliation of being presented naked to strangers.
"This is Raul," Nick said, "and this over here is Pedro," exactly as if he were introducing buddies at a card game.
"Hey!" Raul said. "Dude looks kind of wasted." Raul looked like the older of the two. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail, his otherwise handsome face bore acne scars, and like his brother he wore a pencil-thin mustache.
"Muy guapo. Sexy little fucker," Pedro said. He was the handsomer one, his hair cut short, above the ears, his build a bit broader. And who was Juan? The third brother, probably, the youngest one who always got picked on because he was ticklish. Drake flashed on some of the older brother/younger brother role-plays he used to have with Emmett.
"You've got some new shit since we were here last," Raul said, standing before the rack with the vast selection of toys. "What the hell is this?"
"It's a powerful vibrator," Nick said, "with a special attachment: a rotating brush with feather-like bristles." He swaggered over to the rack, grabbed Drake's tightly stretched balls and raised them up, exposing the super-sensitive skin between Drake's scrotum and asshole. "Fire that bad boy up," he said, "and stick it right here. In about five seconds he'll be blubbering like a baby."
"Sounds hot to me." Raul approached with the toy, already vibrating and spinning.
Drake licked his lips and began begging. "Don't touch me, please don't touch me, can't you see what he's been doing, he's been tickling me to death, make him stop, make him stop, I'll do anything for you, you can fuck me, fuck me up the ass or in my mouth, fuck me all night long if you want to, I can make you feel good, I can make you cum over and over... "
"Jesus Christ, this guy's a talker, ain't he?"
"I love it when he writhes like a whore," Nick said. "That's what I've turned him into, a slave and a whore." He put his face close to Drake's, took his victim's chin in his hand. "I haven't even fucked you yet, I've had too much fun tickling you. I take care of you, though, don't I, slave? When your cock is throbbing and your balls are swollen I give you a good milking, don't I?"
"Yes!" Drake nearly screamed, though it wasn't strictly true: Nick also denied orgasms when he felt like it. "Yes, Master, you're the best milker, you milk me dry! Milk me now, please, milk me all night long if you want to, I can cum over and over again... "
"Aw shit, you just don't want to be tickled. Come on, Raul, bring that monster machine over here."
Pedro ran his tongue over his lips. "Maybe we can fuck him later on."
When Drake woke up, or was at least aware of his surroundings, he found that he had been moved. He was now chained to a St. Andrew's cross—not a wooden one, but one made from something hard—plastic? fiberglass?—and waterproof. The cross stood in the middle of a huge rubber mat. He took this to mean that they were going to tickle the piss out of him, as Nick had done many times already. But where were Nick and his two friends?
They hadn't gone far. They came from the direction of the kitchen, each carrying a large bowl. Each of them was also naked, which surprised Drake. Pedro and Raul were even sporting leather ball stretchers and cock rings, and by the size of their erections it was clear they were having a good time. Big erections on brown bodies, how Drake had used to love sights like that.
"Hey," Nick said, "the slave's recovered. About fuckin' time. We got work to do."
The bowls were filled with steaming water. On a corner of the mat Drake now saw that three straight razors and three cans of shaving cream had been laid out. Immediately he started babbling again.
"Don't shave me please don't shave me please, you don't want to do that, why don't you fuck me, fuck me with your big dicks... "
"Blabbermouth is at it again," Raul said. "Let's get started."
"We may as well start with that beard he's grown, it interferes with tickling his neck," Nick said. "Everything else from the neck down comes off. We'll leave that fine mat of hair on his chest, though, for aesthetic reasons."
Raul shrugged. "Fuckin' artist."
Of course it tickled when they applied the shaving cream, and the scraping of the straight razors made him delirious. Soon the cool air on his naked armpits, abs, and groin was tickling him. His balls felt as if they had just been hatched, as tender and vulnerable as baby chicks.
"I can't believe you, Nick," one of the brothers was saying, Drake was too dazed to tell which one. "You should have shaved him long before now, man. Makes a big difference, if you really want to tickle a guy. We used to shave Juan all the time. Didn't we, little brother?"
"I keep telling you, I'm not your fucking little brother."
Nick grabbed the water bottle and shoved it at Drake. "Open your mouth. Hydrate."
Drake sucked cool water from the bottle. It felt so good on his parched tongue.
"Take some more," Nick said. "I've got another bottle here. And maybe one more."
"What's with all the water?" Pedro asked.
"I was just thinking," Nick said. "As long as we've got him on the rubber mat, let's oil him up and tickle the piss out of him."
The next time he came to his senses, Drake could tell by the color of the sky through the skylight that it was late afternoon. They had been tickling him for—how long? A night? A day and a night? Drake felt that his body, as smooth and slippery as a newborn's, had been violated in every way.
Gradually he flashed back on some of the things Nick and his friends had done. At one point Nick and Raul were feathering him on his neck and behind his ears. At another point Raul and Pedro were teasing his nipples with tweezers. Oddly enough he had never found his nipples to be very ticklish, but those nipple nips had him babbling again, begging Raul and Pedro to let him suck their dicks, anything to end his torment. That was a mistake, for the two decided to write down everything Drake was saying—writing it on his abs with ballpoint pens. The more they wrote, the more Drake babbled, and the more they wrote, giggling all the time.
Sometimes he managed to escape, to the cool dark waters of the midnight lake. Suspended under the surface, he surrendered to the friendly, unseen fish nibbling away at him. In turn they reminded him to breathe, they helped him remember how.
Now it was feeding time. Nick untied Drake and ordered him to the kitchen area. Drake obeyed, crawling weakly toward the bowl filled with the usual crumbled hamburger meat. The other three men were in the room with him, and as soon as he finished eating the tickling would begin again, so the key was to eat as slowly as possible. If he could make it last... nibbling smaller and smaller amounts... but he was too hungry. He couldn't stop himself from wolfing down his food in just a couple of minutes.
The tickling began as it usually did, with the huge white feather dusting his inner thighs. When he tried to roll away he saw Nick and Raul both had those long, whiplike feathers. No direction was safe, but still he tried to roll, curling himself into as tight a ball as possible. It was like a crazy sports event, with the two torturers batting Drake across the floor with their feathers. It hardly mattered where they touched him, he gave a hysterical yell every time. Finally he collapsed, face down, belly to the floor, which gave them the opportunity to sweep the feathers all over his back, from his neck to his ass-crack, and then down, to the backs of his thighs and knees, the soles of his feet.
As he lay there he heard, through his delirium, someone leaving the room—the no-nonsense sound of Nick's bare feet slapping the floor. Going to take a leak, probably, and why not, Raul was taking care of Drake, wielding both feathers, giving him more than he could handle. But Nick had only left to get a tool, for as soon as he came back he shoved a greased vibrator up Drake's ass. He recognized the feel of it very well: it was the kind with a dog-leg crook in it, designed to stimulate the prostate to the max. Nick cranked it up, and Drake's dick began to stiffen. The vibrator did it every time, but Nick knew another technique too: tickling Drake's lower ribs, just the lower ones, always made him spring a boner. So he straddled Drake and dug in. The combination of vibrator and rib tickling had his slave moaning and howling at the same time. When it got too painful to lie on his engorged dick, it was all Drake could do to get up on all fours. Nick stayed with him, not missing a stroke.
Soon Raul and Pedro both got into the act. They knelt on the floor behind Drake and started squeezing the backs of his thighs. That got Drake moving—anything to get away!
It was a mad procession, Drake crawling across the floor on all fours while Nick, still straddling him, kept up the lower rib tickling and the brothers followed on their knees, squeezing his thighs and calves. Drake didn't know which was worse, the tickling or the horniness raging through him. They crawled along, all four of them, as Drake howled and moaned and pleaded. His balls ached; his dick was on fire. "Stop! Let me jack off, please, please!"
"You know you're not allowed to do that," Nick said. "Now move! I like playing horsey."
They made several circuits of the wide kitchen area. The faster Drake tried to crawl, the harder he got tickled, while the vibrator buzzed his prostate till he thought he'd die from horniness.
They didn't stop till the vibrator's new batteries wore out.
"Oh, shit," Nick said. "I should have brought some spares. Well, I could stand to stretch my legs." He stood up, and when Drake looked over his shoulder he got a glimpse of Nick's enormous rod, which, like Drake's, looked ready to burst. When the brothers got to their feet it seemed a wonder that there was enough room in the kitchen for these four throbbing hard-ons.
"Please jack me off," Drake whimpered, rolling from all fours onto his back, just like a dog. "Please, please."
Nick looked around. "What the hell?" He stomped around the kitchen, shaking his head. "Jesus fucking Christ, look at this! Pecker tracks all over my floor!"
"I'm sorry, Sir," Drake whined. "Honest to God I'm sorry, Sir, but you know I always put out a lot of pre-cum, Sir, especially when"
"Shut the fuck up!" Nick drew his big toe across the yellow tiles, tracing long strands of pre-cum. To Drake's great relief he sounded less angry when he spoke again. "Okay, this is what's going to happen. You're not getting any relief yet, jack-off boy. Instead you're going to keep crawling. And you're going to lick up every bit of that jism, till this floor is shining again."
Tears of frustration rolled down Drake's cheeks. "Please, Sir... " He looked to Raul and Pedro, to see if they might help him, but the two men were off to the side, playing with each other. They had glazed expressions on their faces as they stroked each other's long, brown, uncircumcised dicks like a couple of adolescent boys discovering sex for the first time.
"I'm bigger'n you, why don't you admit it," Pedro said.
"You got a dog dick, man. Butt-ugly. No wonder you like to stick it up butts."
"Shut the fuck up. Just stroke that fucker, stroke it!"
"Oh, and one more thing," Nick told Drake. "I'm not going to waste any more batteries on you right now, but while you're crawling around I'm going to be torturing those ribs!"
It was a losing game. The more Drake licked up pre-cum, the more he put down, especially with Nick having no mercy in his tickling. He rubbed his slave's lower ribs like Aladdin rubbing his lamp, and the pulsing sensations shot through Drake in two directions, to his brain and his cock. He licked and leaked and laughed, laughed and leaked and licked. Nick's dick was leaking too, his pre-cum pooling up in the small of Drake's back.
Finally he collapsed, gasping, begging for water, parched from licking up sticky jism. As a rule Nick responded to these requests—a dehydrated slave was no fun—so he reluctantly went to get the water bottle.
Thank God! A precious moment of rest! Trying not to make a sound, Drake slowly rolled over onto his back. His worry now was that the two brothers might take a fresh interest in him while Nick was gone. He tried not to draw attention to himself, not to look at them directly. But a thrill of fear shot up his spine when they appeared in his peripheral vision. Their cocks were harder than ever, and they wanted to come so bad they were panting. Drake prepared himself to grovel, beg and promise them anything, whether it was within his power or not.
But they were distracted by Drake's dick. "Jesucristo, look at that thing!" Pedro cried.
"One hefty pinga." Raul looked just a little crazy, standing there with his mouth open, drool leaking from one corner. Both of their dicks were drooling, too: more work for Drake.
Nick returned with the water bottle, and Drake was greedy with the cool, sweet water. It helped him get his voice back to nearly normal, and he made use of it, babbling again. "Please sir let me come, I'll do anything you want, anything you want for the rest of my life... "
"You're damn skippy," Nick said. He looked at Raul and Pedro, who were in a state almost as bad as Drake's. "Okay," he said, "I'm not usually a democratic guy, but what the hell, let's put it to a vote. Should we let this slave get some relief? My vote is, hell no. What do you guys say?"
Raul and Pedro were in a daze, and yet so agitated they couldn't stand still. Sex hung in the hair like an impending storm, and it was time to seed the clouds. "Hell, yes!" they both said. Raul added, licking his lips, "We all gotta shoot, man, or we're gonna die."
Pedro turned towards Raul. "I shoot bigger loads than you do, admit it."
Raul rolled his eyes. "Madre di dios, who invented brothers!"
"Okay, okay, okay," Nick said. "Let's organ grind." He found a jar of lube in a nearby drawer, screwed off the lid and swiped a generous amount on his dick, then tossed the jar to the brothers.
Drake had his hands on himself, and he was rolling, twitching and squirming across the kitchen floor. It felt so good he couldn't stand it, handling his own cock, controlling his own orgasm for the first time in—hell, he didn't know how long. He didn't need any lube, his dick was so slick he could hardly keep a grip on it. His hips were thrusting, back arching in convulsions of lust, and even when he banged his head against a cupboard drawer he didn't stop stroking, making love to his dick with both hands, he had never loved it so much.
"That guy's a fucking maniac," Pedro said, though he was no less wild, reeling across the room as he jackhammered his dick to death.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Raul said. "This is the hottest ever, man!" He stood still with his feet planted wide, using all his energy on his slick dick, pulling it one-handed with twists of the wrist that that were skillful, long practiced and, judging by his moans, excruciating. He didn't spend much time looking around, he was so fascinated by his own hand-and-dick machine.
Nick, on the other hand, kept looking from one man to the other. He didn't make a sound as he pumped his enormous circumcised rod, but his tight-lipped smile seemed to assert that he was still in control somehow, the master of what each man in the room was feeling.
"Ah... ah... ah!" Drake's legs were shaking uncontrollably, his heels drumming the floor. "I'm gonna... " As he shot his whole body recoiled, he was at the mercy of his own thrusts, the power of his loins jolting him backwards across the floor. And all around him a hot rain fell.
After that it didn't take the others long. Raul and Pedro were also shaking so bad they had to drop to their knees. Only Nick remained standing, his eyes closed now, his tight-lipped smile long gone as his mouth hung open, screaming soundlessly as his cock gushed like an open fire hydrant. He bent over, jacking upward, taking several spurts on his chest, then sprayed the room. The brothers came at the same time, jerking and lurching across the floor like deranged puppets. Drake got soaked as streamers of cum flew over him from three directions.
Afterwards they lay sprawled as if dropped from a great height, left with no energy to move their twisted legs. Totally wasted, Drake finally raised his head to see Nick sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, smoking a cigarette. Nick was frowning, concentrating, creating his next move. Whatever it was, it would not be good.
"Hey, help me, man." It was Pedro, who had landed on his belly and was just now stirring. "Help, I'm stuck to the floor!"
Raul laughed wildly. "You think you got problems, man? I think I accidentally tore my dick off!"
Nick had left his chair and was surveying the room, shaking his head. "I've had my share of free-for-alls in orgy rooms, but I swear I've never seen so much cum in my life." Not surprisingly, his gaze settled on Drake. "Okay, you know the drill. You're going to clean up every square inch of this floor. With your tongue. Then you're going to clean us up, too. My chest hair is so stuck together it fucking hurts to breathe, and these guys are looking pretty raunchy too."
Thank God, thank God, none of them tickled Drake as he worked. They were probably too tired. As for licking up cum, Drake considered it part of his repertoire. His seasoned palate could distinguish among the four kinds of jism he was slurping from the floor: his own always had a strong, spunky odor but its flavor was mild, a little on the sweet side. Nick's, which he had also tasted before, was more stringy in consistency, its flavor slightly bitter, like ale. It had no strong smell at all. The other two types—he didn't know which was Pedro's and which was Raul's—were much alike in taste, neither very bitter nor sweet, and real spunky-smelling like his own; but one was much thicker and almost opaque, reminding him of the beaten egg whites they used for fake cum in porno flicks. Then there were the many spots on the floor where two or three or four kinds of jizz had blended together—reeking cum cocktails, each with its own twist.
While the slave worked his three tormentors sat in straight-backed chairs against the wall, watching him. Smoking cigarettes and mumbling. Plotting, no doubt.
All the licking, lapping, and scouring coated Drake's face with spunk from his nose to his chin, but when he was finally finished the floor looked good. Well, it still needed washing, but at least nobody was going to slip and break his neck. Eager for praise, he looked to his Master.
"All right, you piece of shit," Nick said, "don't look so goddamned proud of yourself. You've still got work to do."
Pedro leaned across his brother to speak to Nick. "Listen, Nick, man, just let me get a shower. I'm filthy with this shit."
Raul waved a hand in front of his nose. "You sure are, man. You reek."
Pedro turned to his brother. "I don't know if I want to do this shit, man, what he's talking about doing next."
"Well, all right," Nick said. "Tell you what. Since we took a vote earlier, let's do it again." He raised his right hand. "I vote for the plan just as I described it. No changes. How about you, Raul?"
Pedro shook his head at his brother. "No, man," he said softly. "We really don't want to do this."
But Raul, wearing the same tight-lipped smile as Nick, raised his right hand.
Nick barked at Drake: "Get the hell over here!" He took the water bottle from the counter. "I filled this up again. Hydrate, and rinse your tongue real good. Then go to the sink over there and wash the jizz off your face, you fucking whore."
When Drake had followed orders he reported back for duty. Nick explained the rules. "You're going to lick the dried cum off all three of us, starting with me."
"Yes, Sir."
"That's all there is to it, except for one additional rule that must not be broken. You are not allowed to tickle any of us while you're doing it. Accidentally or otherwise."
"Yes, Sir."
"If you disobey and tickle any of us, even for a second, you'll pay the consequences. Each man you tickle will get you all to himself for three hours. And it won't be pretty."
"Yes, Sir!"
"Let's move in to the next room, where we can spread out."
The next room, of course, was the Torture Chamber. Only Pedro hesitated to go in.
"I'm first," Nick said. He hopped up on the exam table. "I'm just going to lie here with my arms at my sides. I've only got cum on my chest, so it shouldn't take long. Now get over here!"
Soon Drake was up to his nose in coarse, matted chest hair. He moistened it till it was no longer stuck down and the jizz was a funky soup warmed by Nick's body heat. Drake had to suck on that fur to really get the cum off. The male stink of cum, hair, and sweat went to his head—it reminded him particularly of Emmett—but he was very careful not to hurt his master. As far as tickling him was concerned, he didn't worry. Nick saw ticklishness as a weakness, a failing of masculine stoicism, and if his body had ever had that quality he had willed it out of existence, or at least disciplined himself so that he would never show it, no matter what. There were a couple of dicey spots when Drake got near his armpits, but Nick only twitched slightly, making no sound.
When Drake was finished Nick sat up and rubbed his chest all over. "That's better," he said. "Now, who wants to go next?" He had to yell, for Raul and Pedro were off in a corner, arguing.
Raul looked over. "I'm next!"
"Fuck no!" Pedro shouted. "I'm next."
"Little brother, you're getting to be a pain in the ass."
"I'm telling you for the last time, I'm not your little brother, shithead. I could kick your ass in half a second!"
"I wish you ladies would stop bickering," Nick said. "Have you both got your periods at the same time, or what?"
Pedro put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Look, man, I'm sorry, okay? It's just that... I don't want to go last. I don't want to have to wait that long." He looked as if he might burst into tears.
"Tough shit. I'm the older brother, so I get to choose." He shoved Pedro's hand off his shoulder.
Pedro wiped the about-to-cry look off his face. Now he just looked grim. "It's not always gonna be that way," he said.
Raul had cum all over his inner thighs, groin, and belly. He preferred to sit on the edge of a straight chair for his tongue bath, leaning back with his lower body thrust forward. He grinned at Drake. "Remember, man, you're not gonna tickle me one little bit, or you'll live to regret it." He spread his legs so that Drake could get between them.
It was not the best situation to be in. As human beings, Raul and his brother were pieces of shit, but viewed strictly as naked males they were damned fucking hot, in a broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, big-dicked kind of way. And Raul was in a sexy position, offering up his caramel-colored thighs, groin and belly, including that prize cock. Drake prayed that Raul wasn't ticklish, because he didn't know if he could control his own movements, trembling as he was with both fear and lust. Very carefully he moved in between Raul's legs.
Now Nick and Pedro, who had just had a private conversation, quickly and silently approached Raul's chair from the rear. Nick had a finger to his lips to warn Drake to be quiet, but he had no time to react anyway as the two men grabbed Raul's arms, pulled them back behind the chair and bound his wrists tightly together.
"Hey, you fucks! What the fuck are you—" Raul grimaced, he struggled to get his wrists free, but it was no use. He couldn't even move enough to sit up straighter, meaning that his vulnerable parts were still exposed to the max and he could do nothing about it.
"Go ahead, slave!" Nick yelled. "What are you waiting for?"
Oh God. Drake ducked his head and, having no choice, touched his tongue to Raul's inner thigh.
"Ahhhhh, you bastard! You tickled me!"
Drake reared back. He hadn't even got any cum off yet, and already he was in trouble.
"That's three hours with Raul, slave," Nick said. "Well, don't sit there looking stupid, get back to work."
Nearly swooning from fear, Drake got back in between Raul's legs. Afraid of returning to the spot he had just hit, he tried a little ways further up, near but not quite touching Raul's heavy balls.
This time Raul really yelled. "AHHHH, YOU BASTARD! YOU TICKLED ME AGAIN!"
Drake started babbling, with tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you know I don't mean to, I'm trying not to... "
"That's six hours with Raul," Nick said.
"What?" Drake was so startled his voice, what was left of it, spiked up an octave. "You said it was three hours per guy!"
"Three hours per guy, per tickle," Nick said. "Can't you remember the rules? They're simple enough, for Christ's sake."
"No! No!" Tears rolled down Drake's cheeks. "You can't!"
"Oh, sure we can," Nick said. "Don't worry, I've got a calculator."
As it turned out, it was Raul who had miscalculated. Knowing full well how ticklish he was, he had gone along with the game on the assumption that he wouldn't get tickled much, just enough to get the slave to himself for a serious amount of time. But the stress Drake was under—terrified of tickling Raul, and dying to tickle him at the same time—was so great that, when he accidentally tickled Raul's balls and he yelled again, and Nick said, "Okay, that's nine hours with Raul," Drake snapped. He'd never survive nine hours with Raul, so what the hell! He leaned into his work, letting his tongue take off like a whirligig all over Raul's thighs, balls, dickhead and belly. Unable to resist the stimulation, that thick brown dick was growing hard again, as Raul yelled a blue streak of cusses, insults, and escalating threats.
"AAAH, YOU BASTARD! YOU MOTHERLESS PRICK, YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS! OH JESUS, DON'T DO MY BALLS LIKE THAT! I'LL GET YOU BACK A THOUSAND TIMES OVER, YOU CUNT!"
Nick was highly amused by Drake's transformation into a ruthless tickling machine. "It's kind of hard to keep score," he said, "when the tickling never stops!"
"AHHHH, NICK, YOU SICK FUCK! CALL HIM OFF, YOU PUSSY! HE'S YOUR SLAVE! AHHHH CALL HIM OFF OR I'LL KILL HIM, I SWEAR TO CHRIST! MAKE HIM STOP OR I'LL KILL YOU TOO, MOTHERFUCKER!"
"Maybe you should gag him, Nick," Pedro said.
"Naw. It doesn't matter, nobody can hear him. Besides, it's amusing."
Raul did not take kindly to this. At the moment Drake was stretching his navel with his fingers and reaming it with his tongue.
"AHHHHHH I'LL AMUSE YOU, YOU DICKLESS TURD, I'LL AMUSE THE SHIT OUT OF YOU WHEN I GET OUT OF THIS! I SWEAR TO GOD!"
"Take it easy, big brother," Pedro said. "I'm going to help." He crossed over in front of Raul, standing just behind Drake. Surprising everyone, he reached down, grabbed Raul's ankles and pulled his legs up, spreading them wide. "How about a little asshole play? I happen to know it's a bad, bad, weak spot."
"PEDRO, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL TORTURE YOU TO DEATH! I KNOW HOW TO DO IT, TOO!"
Pedro looked grim. "Funny, that's exactly what you told Juan, just before you put him in the hospital."
"VETE AL DIABLO, THAT WASN'T ME, THAT WASN'T MY FAULT! IT WAS BOTH OF US!"
During this exchange Drake moved to a slightly better position. It was true, with Raul's legs pulled up like that Drake had easy access to his ass.
"PEDRO, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? AHHHH YOU BETTER NOT TOUCH MY ASSHOLE YOU FUCKIN' PERVERT, I'LL HUNT YOU DOWN AND KILL YOU, YOU FREAK... AHHHHH!"
Drake's tongue had hit the mark. Raul's tight little never-been-fucked asshole was easy to tickle, he only had to stick his tongue just slightly in and Raul was writhing and yelling like never before.
"AAAAHHH NICK YOU SHITSTAIN, YOU CALL THEM OFF OR I'LL MAKE YOU REGRET THE DAY YOUR MOTHER GOT KNOCKED UP IN A WHOREHOUSE, YOU'LL BE EATING MY SHIT THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, YOU SCUM-SUCKING FAGGOT!"
Drake stuck his tongue a little farther in. It was so easy, and the taste was tolerable. Also—what the hell!—he reached up and started tickling Raul's sides.
That got him. In a few seconds Raul was gasping for breath. His hard dick prodded his belly, coating it with pre-cum. Soon he was on the verge of blacking out, his eyes about to roll up in his head.
"Hey Raul," Nick said. "I've got a proposition for you. We'll turn you loose, if you promise to behave."
Raul only gasped and moaned.
"I'll show you. Slave, stop tickling him!"
Drake obeyed.
"Okay, like I was saying, you have to promise... "
"I PROMISE I'LL CUT YOUR DICK OFF AND MAKE YOU EAT IT, AND THEN I'LL SHOVE YOU BACK INSIDE YOUR MOTHER, YOU—"
"Okay, okay, okay!" Nick said. "Slave, you'd better tickle him some more. Come to think of it, why don't all three of us tickle him. I'll get that vibrator we were using in the kitchen."
"OH, NO! MADRE DE DIOS, NO! YOU FUCKING BASTARDS, YOU'LL KILL ME!"
"Well, okay then...?"
"I'll behave," Raul said. He looked as if he might breathe his last any second. "I swear, I won't hurt anybody."
Read Part 3
Wayne Courtois lives in Kansas City, Missouri. He holds an M.F.A. from the Writing Program of the University of North Carolina—Greensboro.
email Wayne Courtois
email Casey McKee
Ten Apologies © 2001 Wayne Courtois
The Only © 1999 Casey McKee
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