First the boots. Rubber boots. Then the apron: heavy black rubber, reaches down to the tops of the boots, and straps over my shoulders and around my waist. I love its weight – I never wear anything under it cos it feels so good with my hard cock sliding against it. I’ve had it for years and I’ve tortured many victims in it. The downside is that you can see a bit of my naked arse from the back, but my victims usually have other things on their minds by that point.
And finally the mask. Nothing special; it’s just the one from the Scream movie. It covers my entire head, the eye holes are large, so vision is good, but it still hides my eyes in shadow. I’ve tried several others, but I like the Scream one – it looks scary. My cock is already hardening in anticipation as I step back and inspect my reflection in the full-length wall mirror.
The changing room is quite well-appointed, with wood-panelled walls, lockers, and there’s even a coffee machine in the corner, and a small bar. I’m not going to use the bar – the drinks are too expensive and I’ve already paid an arm and a leg for the day here.
The torture room is less luxurious: naked lightbulbs, a concrete floor stained with the blood of previous victims, and the walls are mottled where some of the thick soundproofing panels have been replaced in the past. The restraint options are: a heavy wooden chair, which is bolted to the floor; an equally heavy, stained table that holds a victim spreadeagled; and the hoist in the middle of the ceiling. I’ll probably only use the table, and anyway the chair doesn’t seem ideal for access.
If I want to move a boy from one piece of equipment to another, I can call for the two assistants to help me. I met them earlier; they don’t speak English, and their knuckles almost touch the floor, but they’re probably good at what they do.
Slovakia is an unpleasant country. It’s not a place I would voluntarily have come to if it weren’t for this. But for some reason backpacking boys do – and even, often on their own. They want to see the world and Slovakia seems to be a required part of that. You’d think they’d know better – have they not seen those ‘Hostel’ films? I guess they reckon they’re fiction; such dungeons can’t really exist. Well, a drink in a bar – if it’s the right bar and if the drink has been spiked – is all it takes for them to find out differently. They wake up not knowing where they are, looking at a bare ceiling, and with a table on the far side of the room full of worrying things they can’t see properly because of the lighting. Strapped down, in a soundproof room. Alone.
Alone, that is, until someone like me comes in to work on them.
In the past I’ve used dungeons back home, but the trouble with England is that the ‘victims’ there are all either gay, paid, or into SM themselves to some extent. For a long time I’ve wanted a wild boy – straight, abducted off the street and most definitely there against his will. It’s difficult to get those in England, and if you do manage it, there’s always the possibility of the law to deal with. Here in Slovakia the British pound goes a very long way, and if you throw enough of it around you can get just about anything you want – including the police looking the other way. Someone who’d obviously seen those Hostel films must have recognised a financial opportunity, and made arrangements accordingly. It’s cost me a great deal, but here, in this strange country, I can do absolutely anything I want to a victim.
When I was shown around earlier it was pointed out that tools are provided (although I could bring my own if I wanted, and in fact I have). On that wheeled metal table in the torture room there are saws, scalpels, axes, needles, knives, hammers, drills, bottles of acid, blowtorches – you name it. Everything your average well-adjusted psycho could possibly want.
From the mirror a torturer in black rubber looks back at me. I’m happy with how I look. The mask, the heavy apron, the boots. It’s gonna scare the shit out of him.
I wonder what the boy will be like. I asked for a cute one, in his twenties if possible. I was notified half an hour ago that he’d arrived, been stripped, and was strapped to the table. He should have regained consciousness some time ago, but leaving him to worry for a while can’t be a bad thing.
Ok. I take a last look at myself, then I go down the short corridor to the torture room.
Oh. Oh yes. He is cute. But I intend to change his face a little.
That face is, right now, a picture of terror, and his dark hair is all over the place. He was moaning when I entered the room, but that stopped when he saw me, and a wail came from him. He begins to shake his head. “No. No. No-no-no-no-no-no. Please. Oh God, no.”
Without speaking I walk to the metal table and pick up a couple of things that are lying between the blowtorch and the bone saw. I go back to him and slowly open the cut-throat razor.
As expected his eyes stare at it and he starts to yell.
I smear shaving cream over his face and set to work carefully to remove that ridiculous goatee beard. Why do boys wear them? Spoils their looks completely.
Once he realises what I’m doing he calms down a little – or at least he keeps still, anyway. I wipe his face with a towel and gaze at him. “You are a cute boy,” I say slowly, stroking his cheek with the backs of my fingers. “I enjoy torturing cute boys.”
He starts yelling and struggling again but I just look at him, silently. Then I replace the cut-throat on the metal table and pick up the safety razor I brought with me.
I shave his armpits, then I tell him to keep very still indeed, and I shave his cock and balls. He’s got a very nice cock – uncircumcised, I see. Of course it’s completely soft and it looks like it’s trying to hide.
“What are you doing that for?” His voice is shaking and he’s watching me in panic. He raises his head as far as the restraints will allow.
I don’t reply. When I’ve finished and his skin is completely smooth and hairless I wipe him down and put the razor back. Standing by the side of the table, I slowly pull on the gloves. They’re elbow-length black rubber, and tight. I know that, along with the rest of my gear, they make me look even more like something out of his worst nightmare ever.
He’s sweating. “Please. Whatever you’re going to do, don’t. I’ll pay you.”
I smile under the mask. He’ll be promising me more than that by the time I’ve finished with him.
Back at the table, I pick up a large squeezy bottle. It’s one of several I’ve brought with me.
He looks at it in terror. “What’s that? It’s acid isn’t it?”
It’s not acid - it’s actually a thick lube I’ve found that lasts for ages without drying out. I squirt it liberally over his chest, sides, legs, and arms, wiping it carefully over his soft skin. Then I put it down and stand for a moment looking at him. I can see he’s waiting for it to start burning, but of course it doesn’t.
“What was that for?” He asks, realising that it’s not hurting.
Without saying anything I pull the apron up and climb onto the table, straddling his thighs. Leaning forward, I place my rubber hands on his pecs, then glide them down and apart until they come to rest on his sides – my fingers just below them, my thumbs above. I really, really, hope that this boy is responsive. If he turns out not to be, I have some tablets that will help, but if he is, I can use them later to make his torture even worse. I dig my thumbs into his sides hard.
If the straps were not holding him down his entire body would have lifted off the table. As it is, they creak alarmingly, he fights the restraints like fuck, and he screams.
“No! Fuck! No! No! No! Please! I can’t stand being tickled!”
Yes! Oh yes! Perfect!
Not giving him time to recover, I put my hands back on the sides of his chest, make my stiff fingers into claws and rake them slowly down over his ribs. The gloves slide smoothly on the film of lube and I can feel each individual rib and valley as it passes under my rubber fingertips. His body is perfect: he’s fit, there’s not an ounce of excess fat on him, and the lube makes his skin so wonderfully vulnerable to this.
I rake up and down his ribs, first up the centre, then slowly parting my hands until they’re sliding down his sides. It’s a good thing this torture room is two floors down and soundproofed, because the whole place is shaking with his screams. My cock is rock hard and slipping on a film of precum against the shiny, smooth inside of the rubber apron. I need to cum, but I intend to do a great deal more torturing of this boy before I allow myself to do that.
He’s shaking his head like a maniac, and yelling as hard as he can. His muscles are fighting the restraints, but they stand no chance against the thick leather straps. He can’t take it. It is totally unbearable. It has to stop! Now! But he’s helpless. I press harder, my clawed fingers leaving trails in the lube as I torture the boy mercilessly.
I work between individual ribs too, sliding stiff fingers along the valley from the centre to the sides. That works well on him. And there are many ribs to get through. It’s a very long, slow process.
The timing was good: I’d have had to stop very soon anyway – my fingers were beginning to hurt – but he pissed himself, then fainted.
I sit on the restraint chair looking at him, idly playing with my rock-hard cock through the rubber apron. I need to cum quite badly now. I stop playing with it before I do, but the smooth rubber continues to tease it and it’s keeping me dangerously close.
He’s awake again. I stand up and see him looking at me. He shakes his head slowly. “Please,” his voice is a shaking whisper, “please. No more. I can’t take it.”
“I know you can’t.”
More clawed-hand raking, more work on his sides – just above the hip bones are the best spots on him. He can’t fucking bear it there. His abs are responsive too: stiff fingers jabbing them, sliding over them…
“No. Pleeease. No more.” He is desperate.
I go to the metal table and pick up the electric drill. “Would you rather I used this on you?” I put it down. “Or this?” I brandish the blowtorch. “Think yourself lucky, boy. There’s a whole D-I-Y store here and I can use every bit of it on you if I want to.”
He whimpers quietly.
I hunt around the bottom shelf of the metal table and come back with a spreader bar. His lower legs are already strapped down, but this will immobilise his feet even more. I lock the metal hoops around his ankles, then pick up the hair dryer I brought with me. A few minutes of that and his soles are warm. Sensitive. I pour lube onto them. Crouching by the end of the table, I remove the rubber gloves and run a fingernail down the centre of his left sole.
He screams. I do it to the other foot. Another scream. From the pocket of the apron I take the set of metal talons. Sharply-pointed spikes that fit over my fingers. Then I get to work on his soles.
If anything this is even more effective than the raking of his ribs. My cock is ragingly hard as I drag the spikes over his soft soles. So as not to desensitise them too soon, I spend some quality time working between his toes and base of them. This causes almost non-stop screaming mixed with manic, hysterical laughter. It’s very satisfying indeed. Even with the spreader bar I have to hold a foot firmly as he’s desperately trying to jerk it from side to side to escape the unbearable tickling, but I can do that with no problem.
I work on his feet until my arms begin to ache. I don’t want him to faint again – a victim can’t suffer when he’s unconscious – so I’m careful to keep him as close to the edge of that as I can.
And talking of edging, that’s something else I’m looking forward to doing to him. But there’s going to be a lot more tickle torture before that.
However, right now I have just got to cum. I don’t usually like to do that while I’m in the middle of working on a victim as it makes me less sadistic for a while, but there is a lot of time left and I have the feeling that working on this boy is going to get me horny again very quickly. I retire to the changing room, sit in the chair and bring myself off remembering his face and his screams.
Oh shit I needed that. Usually my cock goes soft pretty quickly after I’ve cum, but when I return to the room and see him lying there helpless, it starts to get hard again almost immediately.
The shaved armpits next, and they turn out to be delightfully ticklish. I don’t do any heavy work on them – armpits rarely respond to that – but light, quick, random stroking is extremely effective on this boy. His yells aren’t so much screams now, it’s continuous, insane, hysterical giggling and shrieking. I want to alternate work on his pits with heavy pressure work on his sides or ribs or knees or abs, but I can’t really do that effectively while he can see where my hands are going.
When I’ve blindfolded him I find that everything I do is more effective. That leather over his eyes makes so much difference: now even a single touch anywhere on his body produces screams, shrieks and fighting of the restraints because he can’t see it coming – doesn’t know where it’s gonna happen next. This is excellent. I get to work on him properly, working unpredictably all over him – and the bastard passes out again. I will have to be more careful.
When he’s regained consciousness this time I continue, rather more carefully. Slightly longer pauses between unseen attacks – and that’s good in itself, cos it gives his mind more time to work against him. I tickle his armpits unbearably, then squeeze the muscles of his inner thighs or just above his knees, then jab stiff fingers into his sides, or between a couple of ribs… Unpredictable, and calculated to torture him as much as possible. His screams are coming from somewhere very deep inside him. He can’t even begin to take what I’m doing to him.
An hour later he’s incapable even of screaming any more. All he can do is suffer.
He passes out again. I’m finding it very difficult not to go too far – a blindfolded, insanely ticklish, helpless boy who can’t can’t stand what I’m doing to him, strapped down so he can’t stop it, can’t get away from it… that gets me so fucking hard. So fucking horny. And it’s far too easy to let him pass out.
I remove his blindfold, then wait for him to come round.
When he has done, I look down at him. He really is a sexy boy. “Ok. I think you deserve a reward.” The lube I put on him earlier has largely disappeared by now, and I wipe off any remaining spots. I take off the rubber gloves and begin stroking his legs very lightly. In spite of what I said, he’s expecting me to tickle him, but I’m careful not to. My fingertips glide lightly over his silky skin, over the tops of his thighs, up the insides of them. I do tickle his hairless balls, but not enough to draw more than a momentary laugh from him. Back to the insides of his thighs for a while, right at the top, then his balls again. This time I don’t stop. I tease all around them, getting to the back of them as well.
His cock is still soft – he is, after all, strapped down in a real torture room and, even if I haven’t used any power tools on him yet, he’s still terrified. I guess it’s a situation that is not (usually) conducive to an interest in things sexual. But the softness of his cock is something I intended to change. I’m aware that it may take a long time, but I have the patience of Job in such matters and time is not an issue. I begin to play with it, teasing it, encouraging it.
It doesn’t actually take as long as I’d expected. Within perhaps ten minutes his cock shows signs of hardening, and continued (and if I say so myself) expert work on it eventually produces a full erection.
From that point I begin to wank it. Cocks can respond to a variety of techniques – some like only quite specific ones – but I have an awful lot of experience with cocks: apart from using tickling as a torture, my other great passion is using edging as one. I am slightly disappointed when I find that this boy responds in the bog-standard way: the shaft is responsive, the head even more so, and the frenulum is the sweet spot. I’ve found that, often, when a cock is susceptible to something a little out-of-the-ordinary (I’d had one boy whose trigger was the very tip of this cock, and working on that resulted in meticulously precise control). But no matter, I can use the frenulum just as well.
I slow the wanking, and lighten my touch. Now that his cock is interested, I can take my time working on it to get him more and more horny.
The first moan of need happens a few minutes in. I take careful note, and continue a little more carefully. The moans build, his head begins to shake slowly, and soon, there it is: “Please make me cum.”
I vary my technique, stroking the whole cock, tickling his balls, working on the head, sliding the foreskin over it, but always coming back to the frenulum. This is working well, but I think a little lube will help matters.
It certainly does. My fingertips are now gliding smoothly over the increasingly desperate cock, over the glossy head, and the ridge. His hips are thrusting. He is close.
I stop.
The wail of frustration comes. Ah, that first edge. I always love that.
I start again.
This continues for some time, and the longer it goes on the more accurately I can control him: I can get him closer to the very edge and keep him there for longer.
Each time I stop, his suffering increases. In time, it will become a torture for him.
Edging a boy is, for me at least, a two-way thing. The more desperate his need becomes, the more mine does as well. If you’re not careful, it’s very easy to cum yourself when you’re edging a boy out of his mind. And I’m fucking horny – the wank I had in the changing room earlier has made no difference at all.
An hour has gone by. An hour of continuous edging which has become progressively more and more unendurable for him. For both of us, actually, but of course much more so for him. The hornier I get, the more I want to make my victim suffer. I am close already, but there are more hours to come.
I work on his cock gently, teasingly, with the occasional, unpredictable few seconds of faster, firmer milking – to get him immediately to the edge, to let him know exactly how mind-shatteringly wonderful it would be if I didn’t stop this time…
And then, yet again, I stop just before he can cum.
I’ve found in the past that allowing a boy to rest and regroup for a few minutes every hour or so makes the subsequent torture even more effective. So this is what I’ve been doing to him. An hour, or an hour and a half, of continuous edging, a few minutes’ break, and then start on him again.
His voice became hoarse with begging and pleading a long time ago. It’s music to my ears, of course, and I remain completely silent.
I’ve been working on his cock for over four hours now. I handle it extremely lightly – for one thing it would get sore if I didn’t, and for another it makes the torture far more intense: when a boy is that close, and has been for so long, feather-light teasing with hardly-touching fingertips exaggerates the effectiveness more than you can imagine.
I need to cum again myself – and more urgently than I have done for a long time – but I have no intention of doing so; I’m saving this one for what will come later. Right now it’s time to start on him again. I think I can get him even closer to orgasm if I’m very, very careful…
I know that long ago all thoughts of blowtorches, drills or hammers left his mind; that the only thing – the one, single thing – he is thinking about now is cumming . That’s all he is capable of thinking about. I’ve seen it many times before. If I started a fucking chainsaw up when he was on the very edge, achieving orgasm would still be the only thing on his mind. Male minds are strange. But they are fun.
I need a pee and some coffee. I bring him slowly to another long, excruciatingly intense edge, and stop just before he can cum. Then I get up and go back into the changing room, pitiful wails of frustration following me. I use the toilet, stretch for a moment or two, then sit and relax with a coffee for a while. I don’t want to leave him for too long, but I know that when I go back in he’ll still be desperate.
And indeed he is. The moment I reappear he resumes pleading. I get back to work edging him.
After another hour I can’t wait any longer. It’s getting on for evening now and my cock has been rock-hard ever since I started working on him this morning. Even the wank in the changing room only made a brief dent in its hardness, and the shiny black rubber apron sliding irresistibly over the end of my cock is becoming increasingly impossible to ignore.
But first there is something I need to do. First, I blindfold him again, then I go to the table and pick up a bag I brought with me. The bag is full of nettles; I picked them this morning from outside the building. With gloves on, I take a couple out, break off the stalks so I’m left with some dangerous-looking older leaves (I know they’re the most potent), then take them over to the table. With them rolled around my gloved fingers, and with utmost precision – and being careful not to touch any other part of his skin – I push the stingers into the deepest parts of the boy’s armpits and press, rubbing them slowly, right in the centres of the pits.
The moment they make contact he lets out a scream and starts to struggle. I keep moving them slowly, almost able to see the tips of the tiny trichome hairs breaking, their contents being injected into the sensitive skin – the histamine causing immediate sharp pain, then inflammation and intense itching; the acetylcholine amplifying the nerve signals; the serotonin working directly on the pain receptors. There’s also formic acid, but compared to the other stuff it doesn’t actually do much. The first pain will diminish quickly, but it’s the itching and tingling that I’m after. I’ve done my research on this, believe me.
The leaves’ work is already done. I discard them and prepare two new ones. These I work into the creases of his groin, rubbing them well against the very tops of his inner thighs and the sides of his balls. More screams. I consider doing the ring of his arse as well, but decide not to. Instead, I clean any remaining lube off the soles of his feet and rub two fresh leaves well into them. That produces more screams – but not as loud as when, finally, I press and stroke a single leaf repeatedly across the end of his cockhead.
Those will take a few moments to start working properly so I change my nettle-handling gloves for the long rubber ones (a nettle managed to get me through that rubber once, surprisingly), and then I stand watching him for a while. I know that by now the pain from the initial stings will have just about gone, and the itching will be starting to replace it. I’ve found from experiments on myself that the armpits, groin, soles and cock head are ideal spots for nettles – the initial pain is brief, but then the itching and the tingling really get going. Looks like it is doing, because he’s writhing on the table and yelling fit to bust.
While I’m waiting for those to work I return to the metal table for a moment and pick up the dildo I brought with me. It’s not a large one, but it will do its job. I lube it well, feel underneath him, then carefully and very slowly I insert it. It won’t touch his prostate, but for a boy who (presumably) is not accustomed to having anything up his arse, it will concentrate his mind wonderfully. I also retrieve the two tablets from the pocket of my apron. He was very responsive to tickle torture earlier, so I didn’t need to use them then, but for what I’m going to do to him now, they will be perfect.
He can’t see what I’m doing because of the leather over his eyes, so I’m able to get the tablets into his mouth and make him swallow them before he can stop me. I usually use those tablets to make victims who aren’t as ticklish as I’d like, more so – and indeed they will do exactly that on this boy - but as they kind of turn up the gain of the nervous system generally, they will also make his eventual orgasm more intense as well.
I smile, remove his blindfold, and then hold my shiny black rubber gloved hands up, slowly flexing my fingers. “These rubber gloves are going to make you cum,” I say to him. It’s the first time I’ve spoken for ages.
He’s still moaning and moving about from from the feel of the dildo in his arse and the effects of the nettles – the itching is really getting to him – but now his body reacts to what I said, and to the sight of the long rubber gloves. The last time I used them on him they were inflicting tickle torture of an intensity that was off the scale, and his mind is now transferring that intensity to what they could do to his cock.
I take it in my hand, and stroke it lightly, avoiding the head. A couple of seconds of that is all it takes to get him close to the edge again. He shivers and lets out a moan of pure lust. The sliding of the cool, lubed rubber over his cock produces a different feeling to that of my naked fingers, promising a mind-blowing orgasm, and already his hips are trying to thrust madly. His face is a picture of desperate, urgent need.
“I’m going to make you cum – in an hour or so.”
He scrunches his eyes closed and wails. “No! Please! Make me cum now! Pleeeeease! Oh God, make me cum!”
I begin. Slow, frustrating touches, light strokes, occasional very short milking. I know exactly how to make it as unbearable as possible for a desperately horny boy…
The sight of my black, shiny rubber fingers gliding so slowly over his cock is making me need to cum so fucking badly as well. Not long now. One hour will give those two tablets time to work.
Again, without touching his cock head, and very, very carefully indeed, I bring him to slow edge after slow edge – each one often a fraction closer than the last. He is more animal than human at this stage; drool is running from his mouth, his dark hair is damp with sweat, his wrists bruised from straining helplessly against the leather straps.
The tablets are working: I can feel that his sensitivity has increased a very great deal. From the pocket in my rubber apron I take a test tube. Inside it is a small, soft, pointed feather. Holding his cock firmly at the base with the fingers of one hand, I look at the angry cockhead. It hasn’t been touched since I nettled it and gave him the tablets, and the darker pink nettle rash covers the end. It is very, very sensitive. I tease the tip of the feather lightly over the glans, directly on the rash.
A strange, strangled noise comes from him: I smile – it sounds like he’s on the loo, straining hard. This turns into a yell of pure need. His hips thrust, desperately trying to push his cock harder into the thing that is touching his cockhead, but it’s a feather, so no amount of pushing is going to make much difference. But I still move my hand back with each thrust, to make the stroking as frustrating as possible. Even on an un-nettled cock, with those tablets working on him it would be unbearably horny – but with the itching of the nettles making him need to rub it hard as well, the gentle stroking of the feather is, I hope, completely unendurable. It must be tickling like you would not fucking believe, and at the same time making him want to cum so badly it is beyond words.
I amuse myself doing this for some time, teasing the feather all around his nettled cock head, then I very gently let go of his cock and use the feather on his now hyper-ticklish armpits – more insanely hysterical screaming and writhing on the table. He keeps desperately trying to close his arms to protect his pits, but of course he can’t. Then his groin. The tip of the feather traces lines across his inner thighs, his balls, and then burrows deeply into the nettle-ticklish creases at their sides. He is screaming, laughing, yelling, and struggling to get away from that feather.
Finally his feet. There is an angry red rash on each sole. Perfect. I swap the feather for the metal talons and with infinite gentleness I scrape them lightly but quickly over his soles.
I can only do one at a time because he jerks his feet about so violently I have to hold each one immobile while I work on it. This is probably, so far, the worst of all for him; his feet were ticklish anyway, and now…. Oh fuck yes. I hope the room’s soundproofing is up to the job. I could carry on working on his feet for a very long time, but, even with the tablets, I’m worried he may pass out, so I force myself to stop.
A final half-hour working on his cockhead again, stroking the feather over the shiny glans and the tiny nettle-bumps across the end. Now it’s so incredibly sensitive that even the lightest touch causes a great deal of noise from him, and he often gets so insanely close to the edge that I have to be very careful indeed not to let him cum. Tiny, short strokes, just with the very tip of the soft feather. Each one makes him beg and plead like a madman.
Then I decide it’s time. I hold his cock at the base with one hand, and carefully enclose the entire thing with my other rubber-gloved hand, being careful to ensure that my thumb is right on the frenulum. I pause for a long moment, just holding it very lightly, not moving a millimetre, allowing him to back off from the edge a good way. His eyes are tightly closed, and he’s concentrating with everything he’s got. He’s moaning, over and over, “oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck...” and he’s doing everything he can to push himself over that edge. I transfer my other hand to his balls, teasing them and reaching one finger under him to push and hold the dildo in further, and then I milk that boy. Hard, fast, my slippery black rubber hand flying up and down his cock, the thumb rubbing his frenulum with each stroke.
He’s been edged for most of the day, the tablets are doing their thing, and the nettle stings are tingling and itching like fuck.
He lets out a guttural moan, which instantly becomes a scream of ecstasy as his spunk pumps out of his balls into my milking hands. It covers me, the table, his thighs, some even reaches beyond his feet and ends up on the concrete floor. He is bouncing in the restraints as he cums and cums and cums. I continue to milk him hard as his spunk shoots everywhere.
I extract every last drop of it from his uncontrollably jerking cock. The contractions eventually slow, and then stop.
I blindfold him again. Then I cover both of my rubber-gloved hands with the entire contents of a bottle of lube.
That was his time. Now this is mine. This is what I’ve been waiting for all day. The nervous system of a boy who’s just had a monumental orgasm is hypersensitive, and the tablets and the itching will multiply that many times. I hope that those tablets will also make it more difficult for him to pass out – they have done with victims in the past.
I raise my lube-dripping, rubber-gloved hands, and lower them to his vulnerable, hypersensitive, defenceless body. I work mercilessly and unpredictably on his armpits, his sides, his ribs, his inner thighs, his knees – and I use a brush on the soles of his feet. I am a sadistic demon, moving unpredictably all over him, torturing that boy in his most unbearably vulnerable spots as intensely as I possibly can.
He was screaming at the top of his lungs, but now he can no longer get the breath to scream. Instead a hoarse gurgle is coming from him.
Even without those tablets and the nettle rash he would be in hell, but those are making it even better…
My clawed hands rake over his ribs, making his body jerk and convulse yet again. I increase the pressure even more. I fucking torture that helpless, excruciatingly ticklish boy.
I can no longer hold it – his suffering makes me cum. My cock erupts under the apron, the smooth, slippery rubber sliding over the head. I cum like I’ve never cum before and as I do, I yell with sadism and dig my fingers into his hyper-ticklish sides as hard as I possibly can. Then I collapse on top of him.
I realise that he’s pissed himself again, but at least he hasn’t been able to faint – he’s been fully conscious for every unbearable second of it.
When I’ve got my breath back I stagger to my feet. I can feel my spunk running down the inside of the rubber. Oh fucking hell, that was the best thing ever.
I remove the boy’s blindfold and look at him. “It’s over,” I say.
He doesn’t respond. He still can’t. His muscles are trembling, drool is running out of the side of his mouth, and his eyes are staring, unfocused.
I turn and leave the room. I’ll let the guys know that I’ve finished. They’ll drug him and take him outside. Probably dump him somewhere near the station.
I wipe the apron down, get changed into my usual clothes. The two assistants arrive – they’ve retrieved my dildo and picked up the other things I brought with me. I pack my bag and say goodbye. Oh fuck, that was incredible, I’m thinking. It cost me a fortune, but it was worth every fucking penny.
It’s late evening and what passes for social life in Slovakia is in full swing. It’s a nice night so I walk until I find a small street well away from the ‘recruitment’ areas. There’s a small bar, and music is coming out of the doorway. I decide to have a beer before going to my hotel – it’s only down the road.
“Hi, good-looking.” A guy in a denim jacket and tight jeans smiles and buys me a beer. This must be a gay bar; I hadn’t realised. He’s sexy – I return the smile and thank him. Looks like I might be spending an interesting night here as well.
What the fuck? My head hurts. I’m sitting on a hard chair. I’m strapped to it and I’m naked. I’m back in the torture room – or another one like it.
The door opens. There is a figure. Muscular. He’s wearing a leather jacket and rubber waders over tight leather jeans. And a pig mask. He looks at me through the eyeholes, then goes to the metal table. Picks something up.
He walks towards me.
Oh fuck…