The Telemachus Story Archive

Essays
Part 13 - Tickling
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com

Previous page

Tickling

Unlike most of my other major turn-ons, which I’ve had for as long as I can remember and really had no say in the acquiring of, tickling is something I got into by conscious choice, after an evening of serious thinking. Like Jamie, who you’ll meet in a moment, I was never into pain – it just turns me off – and yet, in my case, I have always been obsessed with the idea of torture. The idea of doing something to a victim that he can not stand, when he’s helpless to stop it, and is on a device or in a position that makes him as vulnerable and sensitive to it as possible… thinking about that just gets my cock hard. So, I decided that tickling would make an ideal torture for me; it’s painless, does no lasting harm or damage, but at the same time can be absolutely unbearable. So I researched it, practised it, and over the years I learned how to do it efficiently and dangerously effectively. The type of tickling most people are familiar with is the feather-light variety; but the real torture is done by deep stimulation of muscles and nerves. What makes doing it to helpless victims even more of a turn-on for me is that I know I wouldn’t even begin to be able to stand it myself - I am horrifyingly ticklish. I get intense, sadistic pleasure from tickle-torturing guys.

Jamie had a problem: he wanted more than anything to be a slave, but he hated pain so much that it completely turned him off and made him lose interest in the whole thing. He'd been with a couple of Masters before, but - for that reason - it had never worked out.

He'd contacted me after seeing an ad I'd put in a magazine, in which I said I was looking for ticklish boys. Tickling was, he said, something he'd never thought of in a sexual context before seeing my ad, but the idea appealed to him a great deal. The trouble was, however, that he was incapacitatingly tickish. He said that although the idea didn't turn him off instantly like pain did, it was something he was sure he just wouldn’t be able to stand. I told him that it sounded ideal to me, and how would he like to try being a tickle-slave?

This was back in the days before I moved up here to Huddersfield, and I lived in a terrace house in Birmingham. One of the reasons Jamie had got in touch with me so quickly was that he, too, lived in Brum - albeit on the opposite side of town.

So, we met - and we got on famously. He turned out to be very slim, with shaggy, jet-black hair, brown eyes, and an infectious (and slightly mad) sense of humour. He also had a healthy love for bondage. I liked him a lot. We sat and talked, drinking tea, and towards the end of the evening I put a proposal to him: he had a week's holiday due, which he could take whenever he wanted, so I suggested he move in with me for seven days, during which time he would be my full-time slave. His duties would include cleaning the house, preparing meals, polishing my leathers, and anything else I told him to do. Failure to achieve my required standards in any area, would incur punishment - and the punishment would consist of bondage and tickle-torture of an intensity and duration to be decided by me. He would not be subjected to pain, or hurt or damaged in any way. He would wear whatever gear I decided, and he would be absolutely forbidden to cum by any means whatever unless it was by my hands. In short, he would be my slave, prisoner and sex toy for one week - with no rights other than those I decided to allow him, and no appeal.

I expected him to want to think about it for a while, but he grinned and accepted immediately. While I'd been listing the conditions of his service, he'd been squeezing his cock through his trackies, and now there was a distinct bulge between his thighs. I wondered if he would feel the same later.

He accompanied me into the study and I typed up a contract. We both signed it, and exchanged copies. It was done, and he was to move in on Monday - that was in three days' time. I'd taken the precaution of writing into the contract that the cum-control began from now - so he had three days of celibacy to get through before we started. He left that evening with a beaming smile on his face and a hard-on in his tracksuit bottoms.

Monday dawned bright and sunny, and by half past ten he'd been installed: the few belongings that he'd brought with him had been locked away where he couldn't get at them, he'd been stripped of his clothes, manacled, and put into some shiny, worn, black leather shorts and DMs. With his wrists joined by locked leather cuffs and a 12" chain, he could still function, so I put him to work doing the washing-up and cleaning the kitchen.

One of the nice things about being self-employed is that, to an extent, I can arrange to do my work whenever I want. There would be several occasions this week when I would have to go out, but for the most part I would be around. I intended to get on with work while he was busy doing domestic things. At least that had been the idea. A shattering crash from the kitchen put paid to that for the morning. Ok - it was only a wine glass he'd broken, but it annoyed me. I had the suspicion that he wanted the punishment, and had broken the glass on purpose. It was time to make him realize that punishments were intended to punish, and not to reward.

I dragged him upstairs without a word, and spread-eagled him vertically in the playroom. As I secured his wrists and ankles to the restraint points, I noticed he had a hard-on under his shorts. It would be interesting to see if it was still there in ten minutes, I thought.

I looked at him for a moment, then shook my head. "You've been here what - an hour? - and you've already broken a fucking glass. This is not some sort of game where you get what you want by demolishing the house bit by bit, Jamie. This is your first punishment. Remember it." I forced a leather gag between his teeth for him to bite down on and to keep him quiet, and strapped it tightly around his head. Then - standing in front of him - I placed my hands lightly on his sides, felt for the right spots just below his bottom ribs, and dug my thumbs in hard.

He collapsed in hysterics, shaking his head wildly from side to side, screaming around the gag, and hanging from his wrists - all strength in his legs gone instantly.

Normally, I would then have stopped for a few seconds, given him time to recover, and then carried on gently - but I wanted him to know what a punishment was. I kept the pressure on, and moved my thumbs around, stimulating the muscle and sliding my thumb off his bottom ribs - a spot which is, if you're the least bit ticklish, one of the most unbearable places possible.

His reaction tested the restraints to the limit: he struggled and fought, screamed and yelled, thrashed and twisted in ticklish agony as I calmly but mercilessly tortured him. I worked on his sides, his armpits, and his knees - making him suffer in an intense, but controlled, way. About eight minutes in, his muscles suddenly went rigid, he held his breath, and then yelled louder than I'd heard him so far. The little bastard had cum - and I hadn't even touched his cock.

It took me by surprise - victims very rarely cum through tickling alone (it's not unheard of, but a boy has to be very seriously turned on by being tickled for it to happen) - but when I realized what had happened, I smiled to myself. He was going to find the next couple of minutes very different, now that he'd just cum.

I didn't stop what I was doing - I continued tickle-torturing him at about the same level, but his reactions were now something else: whereas before, his yells had been a mixture of hysterics and turn-on, now they were inhuman shrieks of pure terror and pleading for me to stop. It was difficult keeping my hands on him as he was struggling and thrashing about so much, so I stood behind him, crossed my arms over his chest - hugging him to me - and used my fingers, where they naturally came to rest on his sides. Now, held in my unbreakable embrace, he couldn't get away from me however hard he tried.

He was no longer getting off on this - in fact quite the reverse. At last, this was true punishment for him.

He was learning a very valuable lesson: that tickling could be both an incredible turn-on, but also an intense torture. I drove the lesson home with the last two minutes of serious work on his sides and ribs, then relented and stopped. He collapsed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to get enough oxygen to recover. I removed the gag, and looked at him. He really was an attractive boy, tied up helpless like that.

"Enjoy that?" I asked.

When he could speak, he closed his eyes. "Oh fuck. It started off wonderful, but as soon as I'd cum it was fucking unbearable."

"Oh yeah, I know it was. So - now you know what it's like to be tickle-tortured. From now on, if you're good, I won't make you cum before I tickle you. But if you're a bad boy, Jamie, you get milked quickly and efficiently immediately before I torture you."

This was something he hadn't thought about before: that I was able to make tickling either a wonderful turn-on, or an unbearable punishment simply by making him cum first - or not. Watching him, I knew exactly what he was thinking: 'ah, but you can't make me cum if I don't want to...'

I didn't say anything, but I smiled to myself. Proving to him that, in fact, I could was something else I was looking forward to.

The next day passed without breakages, and also without his cumming again. The house had never looked so clean and tidy. I amused myself by putting increasingly hindering restraints on him, to make it more difficult for him to work - but, even so, he managed far too well. That evening I had no real reason to punish him, so I gave him a few hours of extremely erotic tickling - designed not to punish, but to make him unbearably horny. When I put him to bed (on the floor at the foot of my bed), it was in the leather chastity shorts, and handcuffs. I didn't want any nocturnal emissions. - at least not voluntary ones.

In the late morning of Wednesday I had to go out for a few hours, and I wanted to leave him in something interesting while I was away. I locked a thick, black leather hood onto his head and put the key in my pocket. The only opening in the face was a 1" diameter hole over the mouth, so he wouldn't be able to see a thing. Next, I put his hands behind his back and put boxing gloves - reversed - over them, locking those in turn to chains from his collar. Then I said goodbye, and left.

When I returned about three hours later, he was nowhere to be seen. I called, and looked in every room but I couldn't find him anywhere. And then I glanced out of the window into the back garden. Luckily, the garden was shaded from prying eyes by trees and hedges on both sides. He was there, destroying the flower beds with his booted feet, feeling around hopelessly with his gloved hands, and trying to find his way back into the house. He was pointing almost exactly the wrong way, and actually heading for a small pond.

I rescued him and led him back inside. How the hell he'd got out the back door I will never know - it wasn't locked, but he'd had to turn the doorknob to open it. I debated whether to appear angry or not - a few crushed flowers were neither here nor there, but he could have got into trouble if he'd fallen into the pond, I suppose, although it was only about six inches deep. The fact that he hadn't done anything else for a while that warranted punishment made my mind up for me.

"You idiot! What the fuck were you doing wandering around outside in boxing gloves and a hood? What if someone had seen, or you'd fallen into the pond? And just look at the flower beds!" I'm not much of an actor, but he seemed to get the idea that I was really annoyed. He hung his head and kept silent. I sighed in exasperation. "Come on," I said. Leading him - still hooded - by the collar, I took him upstairs.

I removed his hood and gagged him securely. Not bothering to remove his boots or boxing gloves, I tied his wrists to the top of the bed frame, and his ankles to the bottom, stretching him well out. Then I plugged in the vibrator - I intended to make him cum as quickly as possible, so that the following ten minutes of tickling would be the real punishment I wanted it to be.

The instant he heard the buzz of the vibrator he began to shake his head wildly. I'd used the device on him the previous night - just for a few seconds - and even in that short time he'd got dangerously close to cumming. He knew exactly how irresistible it was.

"No, PLEASE. Don't make me cum first. PLEASE." Although his words were unintelligible around the gag, I knew exactly what he was saying.

Ignoring him, I stroked the vibrating disc slowly around his cock-head. I could see his cock lengthening and hardening by the second. He struggled and thrashed about in his restraints but he was helpless to get away from it, and in less than half a minute his spunk was pumping out into his shorts. I kept the fiendish thing touching his cock-head until he was totally spent.

I pulled on some nitrile gloves, poured lube all over him, then knelt between his legs and went to work on him. For a full ten minutes I tickle-tortured Jamie: slowly, methodically and without the slightest regard for his screams. I worked on his sides, raked my slippery, stiff fingers up and down his ribs, attacked his armpits, kneaded the muscles on the insides of his thighs and at the sides of his knees.

At the end of it, the little bastard had almost passed out with screaming, but had a hard on again. I took him in my arms and hugged him, stroking his hair gently. "You really must learn to behave," I whispered.

I refused to let him take the shorts off, and he spent the rest of the day squelching around in his spunk. This apparently turned him on (I had yet find something that didn't...) because he still had an erection at nine o'clock in the evening, when I allowed him to have a shower and made him clean the shorts.

The rest of the week passed in similar fashion: every day he managed to find offences to commit which were not actually destructive, but which would give me cause to punish him. I was perfectly aware that he was doing this, but I didn't mind in the least - it gave me the opportunity to torture him for longer and in more unbearable ways. But the more intensely I punished him, the more the little bugger got off on it. By Sunday, I was punishing him three times a day, and the torture sessions were almost as long as the breaks between them. I was loving every minute of it, but it was tiring me out.

I needed some kind of restraint which would make him more vulnerable, more accessible, so I devised a low platform for him to kneel on. The platform was in the shape of a rectangular letter ‘C’, the gap being just wide enough to enable it to slide around one of the vertical wooden posts in the playroom. Jamie knelt on the platform with his back touching the post, his bare feet cuffed immovably either side, and his wrists shackled to the hoist high above his head. In this position, the only bits of his body I couldn't get at to tickle were the fronts of his knees, the middle of his back, and his shins - everything else, including the soles of his feet (which turned out to be the most ticklish places on his entire body) - was accessible and un-protectable. This became the standard piece of equipment for his punishment sessions, and it was extremely effective.

The last session of the week lasted over two hours. In this time I made him cum once before starting; he came again - spontaneously - fifteen minutes later; then again after an hour; and yet again a quarter of an hour before we finished. The whole session had been the heaviest we'd yet done - but I made that final fifteen minutes pure hell for him: I worked on every single one of the spots which I'd found, during the course of the week, to be the most totally unbearable for him.

At the end of the two hours he was a total wreck. I pulled the hood off his head (it had left red marks around his eyes and across his face where the straps had been tightened), and removed the leather gag, wiping away the lake of spit which had dribbled out from the sides of it. His hair was matted to his head with sweat; there was a lake of his spunk on the padded platform and huge pools of it beyond, on the rubber floor; there were bruises on his sides, ribs, thighs and the sides of his knees from where I had worked on him, and he looked absolutely shattered. But the very first thing he did when I took the gag out, was to reach forward as far as he could, and kiss me. It was the first time he'd done that, and it took me by surprise. I hugged him carefully, and returned the kiss.

Well, the week turned into a couple of months. He went to work in the mornings and returned at six. Things settled down to a routine - all pretence of 'offences' and 'punishment' was dropped, and I simply did what we both wanted most: every evening I tied him up and tortured him. He couldn't get enough of it. I was concerned that his bruising would get too bad, but he wouldn't let me stop. In fact I called a halt for a couple of days when I thought he looked a bit the worse for wear, but he didn't like that. Although we resumed for a while, eventually I said it had to stop - at least on a regular basis - when I really did think his bruises needed time to heal.

After a discussion about it, he moved out, but continued to visit a couple of times a week for a long time.

Finally, he met a guy on the bus one day and fell hopelessly in love. I didn't see him again for a while, but he called me often. Sadly, Jamie and the guy broke up some months later, and within a week he was sitting in my living room again. He wanted to live with me permanently, but I too had met someone, and was getting ready to move up here to Huddersfield.

For old time's sake, I took him upstairs and gave him one last, very intense, session. Then we hugged each other, and parted. After that night I never saw him or heard from him again. I often wonder what became of him.

 

Next page