Ricky had handled many cocks before - but he'd never seen one this big.
"Uhh.... nearly there...." he gasped, straining. "Just a bit more... bit more..."
His musclular arms aching with the effort, and with his fingers gripping the heavy cock, he gave an almighty push, and the huge bronze weather-vane finally slid onto its mounting. The magnificent bird shone in the morning light, and Ricky moved back to admire his handiwork...
... And fell straight off the cathedral roof.
Workmen repairing masonry thirty feet below noted with surprise the boy plunging downwards past them, but luckily their tarpaulin stretched between a flying buttress and the nave broke his fall. However, it didn't stop it: after having collected the canvas sheet like a shroud, he continued to plummet, hit the Chapter House roof, slid down it, banged his knee on a gargoyle, and landed very heavily on the grass beneath. For Ricky, the lights went out.
* * *
Dr. James Carroll glanced up from the file in his hand at the sound of the gurney going past, did a double-take, and gasped with disbelief. He held up his hand and stopped the nurse. "May I see this one's sheet please?"
The nurse unclipped the document from the trolley and handed it to her superior. James read the name on the top sheet. Richard Dobson. He looked at the unconscious lad's face again - and now there was no mistaking it: ten years had made little difference to the boy's good looks. It was him. "Ah, I know this young man - he's a personal friend." He scanned the boy's sheet, "hmm - seems to be in reasonable shape considering. Nurse, I want to take charge of him personally. Have him transferred to the research facility immediately, will you?"
"Certainly, Doctor." Ricky had been thoroughly examined and, amazingly, had sustained only cuts and bruises from his fall. He'd been given some pretty strong painkillers, however, and only opened his eyes blearily for a moment as he was moved into the bed in the private room. Within seconds he was snoring gently again.
As James Caroll gazed at the sleeping boy, his heart was pounding inside his chest. He had a look of beatific satisfaction on his face - an expression he quickly erased as the tending nurse finished tucking the boy in and turned around. "Thank you Trish. Richard and I were at school together. He's an old friend, and I want to take care of him personally - so I'll only be needing you today. I've got a meeting this afternoon and rounds this evening, but from tomorrow I'll be looking after him myself. So when you've finished with him in the morning you can go back to the main building. Make sure he's evacuated before you go, please" He smiled at the nurse, who grinned.
"He's a lucky young man. Do you know he fell clean off the roof of the Cathedral? Landed in a tarpaulin and bounced off the Chapter House roof before he hit the ground. And not a single fracture."
"Ah, the resilience of youth."
The nurse left, and the expression of extreme happiness returned to Dr Carroll's face as he stared at Ricky. "Ricky Dobson," he whispered to the sleeping boy. "You and I have some unfinished business, I think." With a final chuckle, he turned and headed for the store room.
It took him a while to find the items he needed - they had never been used before, as far as he knew, but eventually he saw them lurking at the back of a dusty shelf. Clutching an armful of canvas and leather restraints, he headed back to his patient's room, and put them in a cupboard for later use.
* * *
James Carroll looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He was pleased: there was very little chance that Ricky would recognise him. The ten years since they'd last met had been much kinder to the boy than it had to him. That, coupled with the trim beard and moustache he'd adopted only last year practically guaranteed that Ricky wouldn't know him.
He dried his face with a towel, drank the remainder of his coffee, and put on his white coat. Today was going to be interesting.
"Hello Richard. How are you feeling this morning? Did you have a comfortable night?"
Ricky smiled. "Morning doctor. Not too bad, thanks - but I ache all over."
James chuckled. "Well that's to be expected - you did fall off a cathederal roof. I'm amazed you didn't break anything."
"Anything badly wrong with me?"
"No - your worst injury is to your left knee. Some deep bruising there. Everything else is superficial."
"Hmm. That would be the gargoyle."
"Gargoyle? Did you hit one on the way down?"
"Yeah. On the roof of the Chapter House."
Dr Carroll picked up the boy's chart and studied it for a moment. "What you need now is rest - and lots of it. The more sleep you can get the quicker you'll be up and about." He put the chart back and filled a hypodermic from a bottle. "Now I'm going to give you a injection to help you relax. Give me your arm please." He swabbed the boy's arm, injected the liquid, and stuck an elastoplast over the puncture. "I'll be back shortly to check on you." With a friendly smile, he left the boy and went back to his living quarters.
As he opened the door to Ricky's room again fifteen minutes later, the first thing he saw was the expression of concern on the boy's face. James smiled to himself. He closed the door quietly - although he and the boy were the only ones in the research facility now - and placed the box he'd been carrying on the bedside table.
"Doctor - something's v-very wrong." Ricky's words were slurred, almost as if he were drunk. He was having great difficulty speaking at all. "I - I c-can't mooove."
"Nothing's wrong. I know you can't move. You're eighty percent paralysed. That's the injection I gave you."
"Because I don't want you to be able to move. I want you to be completely and absolutely helpless for what I'm going to do to you in a short while.
Ricky didn't understand what was going on, but his expression was turning to fright. "D-do to me?"
"Do to you. But first," he pulled up a chair and sat down, "I want to reminisce with you. Do you remember me? You should do - we've met before - many times."
Ricky's eyes searched James' face, but there was no recognition there.
"Cumberworth Grammar School. We were classmates. Well, that's probably the wrong word - we were both in the same class, but we were anything but mates. Do you know what we used to call you? 'Tickler' Dobson. And I was your favourite victim. You were always bigger, stronger, more athletic, better looking than I was - I stood no chance against you." James' eyes narowed with a look of pure hatred. "You tormented me almost every day for over a year - you made my life a total misery, and that of some of the other boys as well. James Carrol. That's me. Remember now?"
While James had been talking, Ricky's mouth had been slowly opening until now he was gaping like a fish. As realization hit him, he closed it, swallowed, and tried to shake his head - without sucess. His inability to move even that much brought home to him the situation he was now in. "I - I - you're n-not going t-to..."
"Oh I am, Ricky, I most certainly am. Do you know, I've fantasized about getting you in a position like this for ten years. And now you're here. Helpless." A quizzical look formed on his face. "I've often wondered if you're ticklish yourself. I have a theory that bullies do to others mainly the very thing they themselves can stand least of all. If my theory's correct, then you are, in fact, probably more ticklish than most. This is a research facility, so let's do some research, shall we?" He opened the box he'd brought in and extracted a set of artist's paintbrushes, and a feather, which he placed within easy reach. "Oh, and please feel free to make as much noise as you want - we're the only ones here." He looked up and down the young man's athletic body, and said the words that had haunted him for a long time: "Now, what shall we do today? Let me think..."
* * *
The changing room was empty but for the three of them. James was shaking as he stood facing Tickler Dobson, the arm of Dobson's neanderthal henchman Doyle around his neck. "This really isn't good enough, Carroll," said Dobson in a matter-of-fact tone. He tapped an excersise book in his hand, which was open to yesterday's geography homework. "I only got a 'C'. What are you playing at?"
"I have homework of my own to do as well, you know." He felt Doyle's arm tighten around his neck unpleasantly.
"No excuses. What shall we do today? Let me think. Hmmm... yes. Take your shoes and socks off please."
James began to struggle but Doyle tightened his grip. "No! Please, Ricky. Not that."
"Doyle, help him please." Doyle floored James, locked him in a powerful scissors with his legs, and pulled the struggling boy's trainers off, followed by his socks. He then pinned the boy immobile with his bare feet presented to the gently smiling Dobson.
Dobson sat down on the floor, gripped James' ankles between his thighs, and began to rake his long nails up and down the boy's soles very slowly. James convulsed, and began to scream in hysterics. "No! N-n-n-no! Oh fuck! Ppppppleeeeaaasseee...... SSSSTTTTOOPPPPPPPP!!!!"
Without pausing or taking his eyes off the defenceless soles under his hands, Dobson simply said, "gag him please, Doyle - this is going to take some time..."
James continued to struggle, writhe and scream in hysterics - but under Doyle's gagging hand, the noise was much less.
* * *
James flexed his fingers, and applied his nails to the paralysed boy's soft soles. The only movement Ricky was capable of was to curl his toes very slightly - he couldn't move his feet a single millimeter in any direction. But the instant James' nails made contact he shrieked. With precisely controlled sadism, James dragged his fingernails up and down the soles, along the base of the toe joints, under the arches, over the heels, and probed between each individual toe. In order not to desensitise the nerves he varied the pressure - sometimes hard, sometimes feather-light. Sometimes he would work just on one foot or the other, sometimes both together - he did whatever his instinct told him would tickle most unbearably at any moment and cause the boy the maximum suffering possible.
And James' instrict for such things was considerable. All through his school life he had been plagued by his horrendous - his excruciating - ticklishness. He'd managed to keep it a secret until his last year at Cumberworth Grammar - until some horseplay with another boy had revealed his ultimate weakness for everyone to see. One of those who had seen, had been Ricky Dobson - for whom tickling was a vocation. Ever on the lookout for any weapon he could use against another boy, the bully had been delighted to find that James' biggest weakness was his own greatest pleasure.
Even without the effects of the paralysing drug, Ricky would have been quite incoherent - but with it, the sounds that came from his throat were completely unintelligible. As James caused his fingers to stroke, scratch, and probe over the helpless boy's feet, or the soft brushes and feather to dance infuriatingly over the unprotected, sensitive skin, an expression of pure cruelty was on his face. This lad had made him suffer almost every day for a whole year, and revenge was very sweet indeed. But this was only the beginning: James had ten years' worth of carefully thought-out revenge to exact on Tickler Dobson. Every scream, shriek, hysterical laugh and hyperventilated entreaty for mercy was music to James' ears. And the boy couldn't move a single muscle. There was absolutely no way whatsoever for him to do anything about it at all. Apart from the drooling, manaical noises issuing from his mouth, there was no way to tell that he was suffering the tortures of the damned. Perfect bondage, thought James - and, for Tickler Dobson, the perfect torture.
It was well into the evening when James finally stopped. He'd had many breaks during the day, but each time only to give the boy's feet a chance to resensitise from the continuous assaults. The paralysing drug was wearing off, and it was time to see to Ricky's toilet. The doctor had him on liquid-only nutrition, so it was only a case of arranging for his urination. Although Dobson's ability to move was returning gradually, he still had to be helped to sit up and supported while he peed into the bottle.
This done, James gave the boy a sadative and tucked him up for the night. He would sleep now until late morning. As a precaution, however, James handcuffed the boy's right wrist to the bed frame. He wanted to get a good night's sleep himself - there was much to be done tomorrow.
* * *
Early the following morning, James entered Ricky's room and got the restraints out of the cupboard. No paralysing injection for him today - oh no - he wanted the boy to be fully able to struggle.
Ricky was snoring quietly, his hair mussed on the pillow and a slight smile on his lips. He also had a raging hard-on - as did James. James reached into the bag he'd brough with him and took out a pair of loose white satin boxing shorts, from which he'd removed the lining. He slipped the boy's feet into them and pulled them up gently. Ricky continued to sleep on. Then James unfastened the handcuff, and began fitting the restraints. First he took two long lengths of chain which he'd bought yesterday especially for the purpose, and attached one to each side of the bed, running from top to bottom. Next he locked a strong leather and canvas cuff around each ankle and another one to each wrist. He clipped the wrist ones to the very top of the side chains, securing the boy's arms to the top of the bed. Lifting Ricky's knees, he fastened the ankle restraints to the side chains at a position such that his legs were gently bent, and only his heels were making contact with the bed. A strong canvas strap over Ricky's stomach would prevent any bucking, and finally, he took from the bag a piece of wooden dowel. It was about two feet long, with a leather strap attached to each end. He parted the boy's knees wide, and strapped it in place. Now Ricky couldn't close his thighs together however much he tried.
James stood back, ran his eye over the restrained - and still snoring - boy and, smiling in satisfaction at his work, went to have a cup of coffee to give Ricky a chance to wake up.
An hour later, Ricky was awake - and yelling. James heard him from his quarters down the corridor - and, although there was no-one else in the reserach wing, thought it might be fun to gag him. He picked up a roll of duct tape and opened the door to his apartment. The yelling from Ricky's room got suddenly louder, and James smiled in anticipation.
"Morning, Ricky. How's my patient today? Good night's sleep? All ready for today's adventure?"
"Fuck off, Carroll. Get me out of these things." He rattled the restraints. "You know that you are fucking dead, don't you?"
"I hardly think you're in a position to threaten me at the moment, Ricky." He took a long, pointed feather from the box and twirled it menacingly in his hands. "Now, what shall we do today? Let me think..."
* * *
Dobson was chatting to his other goon, Walton, when James was brought into the locker room by Doyle, who had the boy's arm twisted painfully behind his back. Doyle threw James down into the centre of the floor and stood by the door to prevent escape.
Dobson finished what he was saying to Walton, taking no notice of the boy's entrance, and then, after a slight pause, turned to look at the shaking lad by his feet. He sighed and shook his head. "I don't understand it. It's not as if my requests are unreasonable: three pounds a week is not a lot - certainly not to someone whose family is as well-off as yours, Carroll. So why all this bother?"
James knew there was no point in arguing, but he was furious. "I'm not giving you my fucking money. I don't get that much, and three pounds is a lot to me."
Dobson shook his head again. "You're going to have to learn," he said gently. "So - what shall we do today? Let me think... ah yes, I know. Doyle, Walton, take him over there and strip him, then put these on him." He handed Walton a pair of white PE shorts.
It was useless struggling, but he put up a fight anyway and got a black eye for his trouble. Soon he was naked but for the shorts which were much too big for him. Dobson nodded to the wall bench and the two goons sat James down between them. Clearly they'd been told exactly what to do, because without a word, each grabbed an arm and, clamping one of James' knees between their legs, pulled his thighs wide apart.
Tickler Dobson knelt between James' knees and, with a flourish, produced a long, pointed feather from behind his back. He flicked the tip of the feather "Now you see it...." then he slowly inserted it up inside the left leg of the boy's shorts, and began to tickle his balls. "Now you dont," said Dobson - but his words were drowned out by James' hysterical laughter.
* * *
"Now keep very still, or this might tickle..." Very slowly, James slid the feather into the space between the leg of Ricky's shorts and his bare inner thigh - being very careful to touch neither. The position of the loose shorts didn't make access very easy, but Ricky was as still as a statue - staring in terror at the disappearing feather, and expecting at any moment to feel it tickling his balls. He was holding his breath, and a drop of sweat ran down at the side of his right eye.
James held the feather a quarter of an inch short of the boy's balls, then, just as slowly as he had inserted it, took it out again. He frowned. "Hmmm - these shorts are making it difficult. Let's try this." He bent down and picked up a clothes pin from the bag, and used it to clip the two legs of the shorts together between Rick's widely parted thighs. "That's much better."
Again the feather advanced, and again Ricky watched it in horror. "Oh please, man - don't do this. I can't stand being tick--- AAAAAAAARRRRGGGHH!!!! Oh shit! No. Please. No. No. Not there! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
The tip of the feather had been guided to the exact centre of the back of Ricky's scrotum, and there it made contact. With sadistic delight, James caused the feather to tickle all over Dobson's balls - up and down the sides, into the sensitive groin creases, round the base of his cock - and Ricky was in a paroxysm of uncontrolled hysteria. He laughed, he screamed, he begged, he threatened, he pleaded - but James took not one iota of notice. "You enjoying this, Ricky? Is this turning you on?"
"Heheheheh - NOOOOOOOO! No! No! Stop - please STOP!!!! Hahahahehehe...."
James continued conversationally, without breaking his strokes, "but you're getting a hard-on, Ricky boy. Look at that!" He allowed the feather tip to travel once, slowly, from the base of Rick's cock up to the tip. His cock jerked and bounced inside the loose shorts.
"Oh fuck don't do that! Please. I'll do anything. Anything you say. I can't stand it! PLEEEEASE!!!!"
James went back to working on the boy's balls and inner thighs. He rested his elbows on the bed - both to improve his accuracy in wielding the tickling feather, and also for comfort - this was going to be a long session.
Over the next three hours James tickle tortured the boy continuously, with short breaks only when Ricky fainted, or when James' arms began to ache. After each break, he went to his task with renewed enthusiasm. Ricky had had a raging erection for the entire time, and precum had been oozing out and soaking his shorts for hours - even though James had been very careful not to touch the cock itself again after that single stroke earlier.
Now it was time for dinner. In Ricky's case this consisted only of a nutritious liquid meal, followed by an undignified urination into the bottle by means of a rubber tube. Afterwards, James left the boy while he went for a meal of his own.
It was five o'clock when James returned. He was carrying the bag again. First he tore off a length of the duct tape and stuck it firmly over the struggling boy's mouth, effectively gagging him; then he took a pair of long black rubber gloves out of the bag, and slipped them on without a word. Standing at the side of the bed, he immediately plunged one hand down inside the waistband of the boy's shorts, and the other up the leg. The rubber gloves had come straight out of the refrigerator, and Ricky Dobson screamed into the gag and fought against the restraints holding him down as the icy, smooth rubber fingers wrapped themselves around his cock and balls. The presence of the shorts made the feeling of invasion intense, and Ricky's cock immediately began to get hard once more. The rubber warmed up quickly, and soon the initial cold shock had given way to extremely erotic feelings. Ricky's cock was again as hard as a rock.
James knew the boy needed to cum - he was thrusting his hips up and down as much as the restraints would allow - but he had absolutely no intention of allowing the boy the relief of orgasm. He continued to massage Ricky's cock and balls for a few more seconds, and then removed his hands. As he did so a loud moan of frustration came from the gagged boy.
He took the gloves off and, using a pair of bandage scissors, carefully cut the shorts and pulled them away. Once again completely naked, Ricky's cock stabbed the air like a sword. Precum shone in pearly strings as it fell in slow motion onto the bed between his thighs.
James took a length of leather thong and wrapped it carefully round and round Ricky's cock and balls like a cockring, pulling it tight. This would serve the dual purpose of keeping his cock very hard and horny, and also making it extremely difficult for the boy to cum. Next, he fastened a thin rope across Ricky's body at the base of his cock, so that the tension of it held the erect dick a couple of inches past vertical, pointing slightly down towards the bottom of the bed. In this position he knew it would feel most sensitive, accessible, and vulnerable.
Dr Carroll worked long into the night on the boy's desperately horny cock. He tickled it with feathers, tiny soft-bristled artist's brushes he'd shaped for the purpose, cotton buds, and - most devastatingly of all, he found - the edge of a single piece of soft tissue; he stroked the shaft and the head lovingly and slowly with his fingers; he enclosed the throbbing organ in slippery black rubber-gloved hands dripping with lube; he ran a well-oiled leather thong around the ridge and see-sawed it backwards and forwards; he worked the foreskin slowly backwards and forwards over the sensitive head; he pulled the skin back and tickled the inner walls of the piss-slit with the tiniest and softest brush that he had - all the time teasing and tickling Ricky's balls, perineum and inner thighs. He used every bit of his considerable skill and medical knowledge to increase the boy's already unbearable need to cum more and more. But each time he saw the tell-tale signs of approaching orgasm, he stopped abruptly and waited for it to subside before continuing to torture the desperate Ricky.
Dobson was beside himself with the need to cum. For hours he'd been brought repeatedly to the very edge of ejaculation, only to be denied the longed-for release. His stomach muscles ached with the constant involuntary thrusting of his hips, and he fought the restraints continuously. From under the duct tape gag came a constant stream of stifled moans, begging and pleading, swearing, threatening, and pitiful crying. As James' hands gently and irresistably worked on his cock, repeatedly offering him the longest and most intense orgasm of his life, but always withdrawing the offer at the last possible second, Ricky thought he was going to go insane. This was the worst - and the sexiest - thing that had ever happened to him in his life, and he couldn't stand it.
He was there yet again: on the very brink of cumming - a single firm stroke across the head of his cock would have sent him plunging into the sweet ecstasy of orgasm - but yet again this was not only denied him, but made a thousand times worse by the unendurable tickling of his foreskin and piss-slit by the soft bristles of that infernal brush. This was transcendental torture.
James removed the brush and watched with intense satisfaction at the helpless boy pumping his hips in a futile effort to bring himself off, and moaning pitifully into the gag. He replaced the implements of torture in the box, took off the rubber gloves, and smiled. "I think that's enough for today."
Ricky, his eyes wide, shook his head violently. James reached down and pulled the duct tape off. The boy was so far gone in his need to cum that he didn't even react to the pain of the tape coming off. "PLEASE - YOU'VE GOT TO MAKE ME CUM. PLEASE!!!"
James chuckled. "I don't think that's a good idea. You need rest, Ricky. Big day tomorrow."
"PLEASE! MAKE ME CUM YOU FUCKER!!"
"It's important you get a good night's sleep. I'll see you in the morning. Pleasant dreams." With that, he left the room.
* * *
Ricky didn't get much sleep that night, but when James returned the next morning, he was snoring. After waking him, feeding him and draining his bladder, Carroll inspected the bruises from his fall (which were almost completely healed now), then went to the door and wheeled in a trolley full of stuff Ricky couldn't identify.
What's that?" He asked suspiciously.
James ignored the question. He went to the door again and pulled in a large machine on castors. This Ricky did recognise - it was a ventilating machine. Three different-coloured gas cylinders were visible at the back, and along with much tubing, valves and gas-flow meters, a sinister black rubber facemask hung from the side.
James positioned the anaesthetic machine by the side of the bed, then began preparing the gases. He unhooked the facemask and, clamping the boy's shaking head with one hand, slowly brought it down over his nose and mouth. He'd set the gases for a very slow induction - he wanted Ricky to have lots of time to feel himself going under, to be able to try to fight it.
Ricky held his breath and shook his head, but there was no way he could get away from the sweet-smelling gas. After a few seconds he had to breathe, and drew a lungful of the anaesthetic with a gasp. Before long his head began to spin, and he stopped struggling. James removed the mask for a few seconds, to bring the boy up slightly so that the induction would be prolonged, then pushed the rubber mask back firmly into place. The last words Ricky heard before he slowly lost consciousness, were "Now, what shall we do today? Let me think..."
* * *
The old cricket pavillion wasn't used any more, except for storing odd bits of sports equipment, as the new cricket pitch was at the other end of the playing field. James had been frogmarched there, however, by Doyle and Walton, and was now once again facing Tickler Dobson. This time the bully wasn't satisfied with the Maths homework James had done for him.
"What are we going to do with you Carroll? Eh? Look at this." He thrust an excersise book under the boy's nose, and James' eyes focussed on a large letter 'C'.
"I'm not much good at Maths - why didn't you get somebody else to do it for you? You got an 'A' with the Biology I did for you." "Not good enough, Carroll. Not good enough. Tie the little shit up."
Within minutes James was hogtied on the floor. Having come straight from football, he was wearing his sports kit.
"Blindfold him and gag him please." Walton covered James' eyes and mouth tightly with a scarf, then Dobson handed out small handfuls of powder to the two goons. "You know what to do. Get on with it."
The two heavies spread the powder under the tied boy's shirt and into his armpits; they took off his socks, poured powder into them and replaced them; and Doyle took great delight in carefully applying most of his powder inside James' shorts.
When the job was done, Dobson attached a short chain from a bolt in the floor to the ropes tying James' hands and feet behind his back to keep him in place on the floor, and set a gas heater on full pointing at him, but well out of his reach. It was summer and quite warm anyway, but Ricky wanted James to sweat.
"I have work to do, Caroll, but I'll send someone back later to release you. Have fun." With that, the bully and his goons left.
As James got warmer and warmer, he began to sweat - and the itching powder started to work. He spent an afternoon of pure hell - needing to scratch the increasingly unbearable itching all over his body. No movement he could make helped in the slightest and he writhed in itching agony on the floor. By the time Doyle came to release him, he was half mad.
* * *
When Ricky woke up he panicked. He couldn't move a muscle, couldn't see a thing. He was encased in hard blackness, and he was cold. He yelled.
A small aperture opened over his eyes and James' face moved into view, looking down at him. "Hello. Welcome back." A hand appeared, holding a mirror and, as the hand scanned the mirror up and down his body, he saw that he was in a full-body cast. Every inch of him was clad in hard, unyielding plaster. He groaned. What was this all about?
His unspoken question was answered when the hand disappeared, and came back a moment later holding four empty bags. "Itching powder," explained James. "But not the crude stuff you used on me - oh no. This is much more effective. However, sweat activates it, just like the stuff your goons poured over me in the cricket pavillion. You're feeling a bit cold now aren't you? That's because the plaster is only just finishing setting. Very soon you'll warm up a LOT. And when that happens, you'll start to itch. Boy, will you itch. You'll want to scratch very, very badly indeed. But you won't be able to, will you?" He smiled a smile of pure, unadulterated cruelty. "And I've put a LOT around your cock and your balls. It's inside your ears, your arsehole - it's everywhere.
"I have to do rounds today so I'll be gone for a while. I'll pop back in a few hours and see how you're doing. Have fun." The aperture disappeared and Ricky was plunged into blackness again. Already he didn't feel so cold - in fact he was becoming comfortably warm.
Fifteen minutes later he was very warm.
Thirty minutes later he began to sweat.
Forty minutes later he began to scream.
An hour later he had the most intense orgasm of his life.
* * *
Ricky Dobson hesitated, then pressed the doorbell. A few moments later the door opened and he found himself looking into the bearded face of James Carroll. "Uh, hi. Can I come in please?" James led the way to the living room and they sat down.
Ricky was clearly very nervous, and didn't know how to begin. He sat there for a long time staring at the carpet and looking embarassed, and finally he said:"Uh, Carroll - James - I can't... you know... function any more."
James waited for him to continue but there was only silence. "I'm not sure I follow. What do you mean you can't function any more?"
"You know, when I'm... you know..." he shifted uncomfortably in the chair, "when I'm... wanking, or having sex. Since what you did to me at the hospital, the only way I can... you know... cum, is if I imagine I'm being..."
The silence lengthened. A slight smile settled on James' lips. "Tickled?" He suggested.
"Yeah. Daft, isn't it? I just can't seem to cum or even get turned on unless I'm thinking about being... being tied up and... and tickled - and even when I do think about it, it's not the same as having it done to me. I haven't had a decent orgasm for weeks. I'm desperate."
"I see." James had no intention of making this any easier for the boy, and there was another silence.
"So - so I was wondering..." Ricky had been avoiding looking at James, but now he turned his blue eyes up to the man and there was a desperate unspoken pleading in them. "Is there any way you could... if I came round here now and again, could you... could you..."
"You want me to strap you down helpless, tickle torture you, tease your cock till you're out of your mind, and then - very slowly - make you cum, don't you?"
The instant James uttered the words, the bulge at Ricky's crotch doubled in size. The boy cast his eyes downwards again and, almost inaudibly, whispered, "oh fuck, yeah."
James fought to control his expression - a wide grin was threatening to break out. "Well," he said, seriously, "I don't know."
With a rush the boy said, "I'll pay you."
James shook his head. "That won't be necessary. You say you can't cum without this?"
Ricky shook his head, "not properly."
"And how often would you want this - ideally?"
James considered, and concealed his growing erection with his hands. "Well, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll ring you occasionally and tell you to come round here."
Ricky's face lit up like a beacon. He beamed. "Yeah?" But then his face fell again. "'Occasionally'? How often? What'll I do in between? I need this - oh fuck I need this bad."
"You'll never know when I'll call - I work odd hours, and it could be any time of the day or night. And if you're not in when I call, or you're not here within half an hour, you'll have to wait till next time."
Ricky thought about this. It was the best offer he was going to get - but he knew he'd spend his life sitting by the phone waiting for it to ring. "Can't you - "
"Take it or leave it."
"I'll take it. Thank you, James."
"But understand that I will torture you. You may be here overnight, all day, or just for an hour. But I will torture you."
"That's what I need."
James stood up. "Ok - well seeing as you're here we may as well start. Come with me."
Ricky jumped up and followed James into a room the like of which he'd never seen before. It was a dungeon. He was locked into a cage, and left on his own while James disappeared for a few minutes. When he returned, Ricky gasped. James was in full black leather, complete with boots, harness, and Muir cap. "I never knew..." he said.
"There's a lot about me you don't know," said James, "and from now on you address me as "Sir!"
"Yes, Sir!" Ricky's cock was threatening to burst out of his jeans.
James stood outside the bars of the cage, looking down at the boy. In his hand was a long, wickedly pointed feather. "Now, what shall we do today?" He said. "Let me see..........."