Anton Decker was smiling as he led me down the corridor. “My body of work is quite large, and the sculptures in the smaller rooms are some of my favourites – but what we’re heading to now is my pièce de résistance. You may be surprised.”
Anton created 3D-printed sculptures made from original designs. His works in the gallery rooms we’d already been round had included everything from geometric objects to lifelike dolphins. I’d liked them all, and wouldn’t have minded having a few of them in my own house.
The plush blue carpet ended at an ornate white and gold door. Anton opened it with a flourish.
I frowned. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting – a room full of more displays, cases with objects in them, perhaps – but the soft, cream-coloured walls of the large room enclosed a space that was completely empty except for one, single work: standing on a low plinth in the centre of the polished oak parquet floor, was a life-sized, silver boy.
I gasped. Even from this distance it was clear that the sculpture was meticulously detailed – the figure looked to be in his twenties, beautifully muscled, lithe and athletic, and I half-expected him to come alive at any moment. He stood with his feet apart, one a little further back than the other, the knee slightly bent, and his arms were raised high above his head, one hand gently gripping the opposite wrist at a right angle. The lips were slightly parted, and at his crotch was a smooth silver bulge.
The ornate door had opened onto a mezzanine; a couple of soft armchairs stood with a coffee table between them, overlooking the main room. Anton waved a hand. “Sit.”
We lowered ourselves into the comfortable chairs. Anton stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles.
“Who is that boy?” I was finding it difficult to keep my eyes off the silver statue.
He gazed at me for a few moments, then he said, “let me tell you a story.”
“It took me a long time to build up this gallery – and also a highly successful portfolio of business ventures in the world of art. It was all going wonderfully, but with success came even more, and harder, work. It was getting to the point where there weren’t enough hours in the day to get everything done. Creating these works takes a long time. I have several large 3D printers downstairs, but they’re slow, and I’d already started looking for some kind of assistant, when I met Peter.
“Peter was 22, intelligent, funny, and quite beautiful. Five minutes after meeting him I’d fallen helplessly in love with him. He became my assistant, and then, later, my business partner, and my lover. We got on well together and the gallery went from strength to strength.”
Anton sighed, and looked down. “One night, lying side by side on the bed after a particularly comprehensive and fulfilling session of lovemaking, we got to talking about the stranger turn-ons that people have. He confided that he had a powerful fetish for leather. Not so much the S&M things that usually went with it, but leather itself. The sight of it, the feel, the sound of it creaking, and the smell of it – all of these turned him on greatly. In return I shared with him a secret that I’d told nobody else: that my deepest sexual fantasy was to get a boy restrained helpless, and to tickle him slowly and unbearably. It was a fantasy which thus far I had never actually done to anybody, but one that I thought about every night.
“I’d expected Peter to laugh, or to scoff – something like that. But he didn’t. He was silent for a while, thinking about it. Then he gave a half-shudder. He said that he was excruciatingly ticklish himself, and the very thought of what I’d said made him want to curl up. There was no way he’d be able to stand it for a single second. But then he said that at the same time, the idea was worryingly interesting. He was silent again for a while, and then told me that if I gave him time, he thought he might be able to get to the point of wanting to let me do it to him – if I would like that.
“If I would like that. Oh fuck. I’d fantasised about getting that beautiful, sexy boy helpless and tickling him out of his mind more often than I can tell you. Yes, I would like that.
“He asked me if I had any porn about it, so I opened my laptop and showed him my private folder of pictures and drawings.
“Nothing more was said about it. I assumed he’d forgotten about our conversation, and I didn’t want to frighten him away from the idea by bringing it up again too soon. Life went on. For a while.
“Peter did the accounts, but I was looking them one day when I noticed that the business was not doing so well. Clients were moving away. I talked about it to Peter and he shrugged, saying that it was just the normal cycle of such things.
“But then there was the opening of the Brixton Exhibition. A collection of my new, unseen work. I was excited – I considered some of those pieces my best work so far, and I was looking forward to the public reaction. There was champagne, expensive catering – the full works. We were expecting two or three hundred people for the opening. Sixty-five turned up. I couldn’t understand it. Peter had been called home for the funeral of his mother, so I was on my own. I mingled as usual, but conversations were stilted. I was getting sideways looks, and several times people abruptly stopped chatting as I approached.
“The next day I stared at the headlines. Instead of commentary about my new work, I read: ‘Gay Gallery Owner a Pervert’. That was not the worst of them, let me tell you. I couldn’t believe it. It was all there: my secret was out for all to read, along with a couple of the slightly more family-friendly pictures from my private folder.
“I didn’t see Peter again. He’d gone. On closer inspection I found that he had really done a number with my computer. I suppose he must have seen my password from when I showed him the pictures. Anyway, not only had he been very creative with the accounts, but he’d also put some lawyers to work on the business. The art portfolio was gone, presumably transferred by some legal sleight-of-hand to his own, newly established, enterprise. All I had left was the gallery.
“At first I was heartbroken. That Peter – the love of my life – would do that to me. But that feeling changed. Oh did it ever. I wanted revenge. In the days that followed, that feeling grew, and I wanted revenge more, and more, and more. I seethed.
“I would have been incapable of doing it myself, but I knew people who knew people, and it was arranged that Peter would go on holiday to Turkey. All records show that he went there. But of course he never left this country. In fact, he has been my guest downstairs for a while now.
“Anton turned his chair a little and smiled at the silver statue. “That took long time to make. The day Peter was brought here, he was lightly sedated and held in that position while I used my Obsbot camera to take a 360 of him. Then Polycam to process the footage, a lot of manual tweaking and scaling, and it was ready for the Markforge continuous fibreglass printer. I’d never used it for anything quite as big before, but I think it turned out well.” He nodded slowly, then he pressed a button inset into the coffee table. To my surprise, the statue in the middle of the room descended into the floor. For the next few minutes Anton sat there silently, smiling at me enigmatically, not answering any of my questions. Then the silver boy rose again. Anton pushed himself to his feet. “Come, let’s take a closer look.”
I followed him down the stairs into the main room and across the wide open space to the plinth. As I approached, I noticed that the statue’s surface, which had looked like smooth silver metal, had subtle seams in it here and there. They had been invisible from further away, and even up close they weren’t obvious.
Anton smiled again, and pressed one at the back of the statue’s left knee. My mouth opened wide as he removed a section of the fibreglass. Underneath it, there was skin. “The statue is hollow. It locks together seamlessly in two vertical halves. When it went downstairs my assistants put Peter inside it. We don’t have to sedate him very much, just enough to stop him struggling. He’s inside it now and he should be coming out of the sedation any moment. Let’s test that.” He reached into his inside pocket and withdrew a feather. Carefully he stroked it over the naked skin at the back of the knee. A scream came from the boy inside.
Anton gave a soft moan of satisfaction. “The print was constructed to his precise dimensions, then scaled just enough to allow it to be lined with leather. The boy likes leather – it makes him horny. The shell fits literally skintight over every inch of his body. He can’t move a millimetre in any direction in there. The ultimate restraint. He stroked the feather again, and there was another scream.
“There are 18 removable sections. Among the more interesting are the armpits, ribs, sides, abs, thighs, knees, and the soles of his feet – though he has to be laid down for that.”
He turned to me. “Now, although it turns me on like nothing else to tickle him, I am not an expert in tickle torture. You are. That’s why I’ve invited you here. I would like to hire your services. I want you to spend two weeks here – there is a guest bedroom I think you’ll find very comfortable.
“I want you to torture this boy insane, every day, for two weeks.” He pointed to the statue’s crotch, and I saw that what I’d thought was a continuation of the shell was actually a pair of silver-coloured speedos. He flicked the elasticated waistband. “Everything there is accessible, so you can make him cum as often as you think is most effective – I understand that tickle-torture is much more difficult to deal with immediately after orgasm. The floor is waterproof and there is a drain in the event that he pisses himself – which I hope you will make him do frequently.” He looked the silver boy up and down slowly, and the expression on his face turned much, much darker. “I want you to make this boy suffer. ” Just as quickly as it had appeared, the sadism was gone and he was smiling at me again. He raised his eyebrows at me questioningly. “Is this all good with you? Here is a cheque in advance, which I trust you will find acceptable.”
He handed it to me and I found it very acceptable indeed. I would have thought that he’d be able to see from the bulge of the raging erection in my leather jeans that all was good with me, but I nodded anyway. Everything was indeed good.
When Anton had said that the boy was excruciatingly ticklish, it had been something of an understatement: I only had to touch his skin – with a feather, or with my fingertip – and he screamed inside the rigid fibreglass shell. But I did more than just touch his skin. I used every bit of my considerable experience and skill at tickle-torturing boys on him. It was strange at first – I’m used to victims struggling and fighting manically against the restraints when I work on them – but the statue hardly moved at all. There was no way for Peter to make it move. Not a single one of his beautiful muscles was of the slightest use to him. All he could do was stay in that wonderfully vulnerable position, his armpits and all his other most sensitive areas exposed and accessible, clamped immobile by leather-lined, steel-rigid, fibreglass.
I would remove the sections, usually one at a time, slowly, and the moment he realised what I was doing he would panic. The sounds he made became considerably louder and more urgent as he learned what I was capable of doing to him. After removing one, I would wait a while for dread to build in him, before I began to work on the exposed area.
The first time he pissed himself was when I’d removed the sections covering his sides. These were quite large openings, and allowed me to probe deeply into the muscles with stiff fingers. I’d only just started when he yelled in desperate hysterics and piss erupted from his cock. I went to work properly on his sides, but stopped after only a few seconds as he’d passed out.
I did not allow that to happen again; in fact over the days I became expert at keeping him just this side of unconsciousness.
Every one of the areas revealed by the removable sections was wonderfully responsive, and he frequently reached the point where nothing more than tapping the shell somewhere made him lose it.
Even though I was unable to see his face, and there was almost no movement from him, over the days I learned his reactions, discovered the most effective and unbearable ways to work on him. Before long even the sound of my booted footsteps approaching the plinth made him whimper and tremble. Had he been in more normal restraints, I’m sure he would have wrenched them until they broke.
During all of this, while I was working on the boy, Anton would sit in a comfortable armchair he’d placed a few feet from the plinth. He would slowly sip cognac, and even more slowly wank himself off every half hour or so, catching his spunk in tissues he took from a very large box. He never offered advice or criticism, never uttered a sound except quiet moans of satisfaction.
Like most tops who are into tickle-torturing victims, I am embarrassingly ticklish myself, and wouldn’t last five minutes on a restraint table. The thought of this boy, trapped inside a fibreglass shell with shiny black leather pressing all over him and unable to move a fraction of an inch while a sadistic expert worked on his most unbearably vulnerable spots, made me need to cum very badly. I found it practically impossible to work on him for long without losing control and cumming, so after our first session I’d taken to wearing a condom inside my leather jeans. It saved cleaning the spunk out of them – but even so, more than once I had to change it halfway through as the thing was full.
As for making Peter cum, it was easy. A few minutes with the feather on his balls and cock would get it hard quickly; then soft fingers, hardly touching, would build up his need until he was desperate for orgasm. I always made this as protracted as possible, as I know that the more intense an orgasm a victim has, the more hypersensitive it makes him immediately afterwards. I had to be even more careful not to let him pass out then.
Anton had provided a black leather blindfold for me to use on the boy. As Peter was unable to move his head at all, it was rarely necessary for preventing him from being able to see what I was about to do to him, but I found that he was often even more responsive with it over the eye openings in the head shell. I guessed that it made him feel even more helpless though, as his cock often got hard even when I was working on him, it may have been the now-total enclosure in leather. Either way, I began to use it on him more. And it seemed to be even more effective if he could see my hands approaching very slowly with the thing. I imagined how it must be for him – every one of his senses that wasn’t being forced to concentrate on the torture, was blocked by black leather: he could hear very little inside the padded fibreglass head shell; he couldn’t see anything; he could smell only leather; and feel only leather.
Peter was pissing himself every session now – often more than once. He must have been hoarse from the screaming, yelling, hysterical laughter, pleading and begging.
At one point I idly wondered how much spunk Anton and I had ejaculated during those two weeks – it must have been gallons. I was getting paid, very handsomely, for doing something I would have handed over money to be allowed to do. Life was good.
I often used the spunk I extracted from the boy as lube when I worked on his sides, knees, or raked my slippery, clawed, rubber-gloved fingers down his ribs. If I ran out, I simply took his cock in my hand and got some more. He must have realised that allowing himself to cum made everything afterwards much worse, and he must have been fighting it, but there was no way he could stop himself from cumming – I made very sure of that.
One thing I noticed over the two weeks, was that his cock was soft for shorter and shorter periods. It seemed that being tickle-tortured – although still being every bit as unbearable – was beginning to turn the boy on. I’m not sure this was something Anton wanted, but we talked about it and it was clear that the guy wasn’t worried. “As long as he continues to suffer, that’s all that’s important,” he said.
And the boy was suffering, there was no question about that. I’d imagined that I would have to work progressively harder on him to get the same reactions, but this was far from the case. If anything, I had to do even less. Even gentle fingertips, simply resting on his sides or armpits – or anywhere else for that matter – would make him panic, have him sobbing and trying to shake his head inside the restraining shell. And if I so much as moved them, the room immediately reverberated to his screams and begging. It was all very satisfactory.
All good things, however, have to come to an end. Far too soon the two weeks were up. Anton and I were chatting over dinner on the final night.
“You have done superbly,” he told me. “You have done everything I could possibly have hoped for. I thank you very much indeed.”
“Anton,” I said, “believe me when I say that it has been a pleasure. For me, this has been the most fulfilling two weeks I’ve ever had. I wish I could spend more time with Peter – and with you.” I’d grown to like Anton.
He smiled ruefully. “Yes, I too. But Peter must come back from his holiday in Turkey. I’ve retrieved all the material he had on me, done what damage control I can. His rampage is at an end. He will be returned to his home. I’ve had quiet words with him.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “I think it’s extremely unlikely that he will tell anyone at all what really happened to him.”
I left the following morning and went back to my work. Every night, as I lay in bed, I re-lived torturing that beautiful boy. I wish I had had the chance to see him in the flesh, but I hadn’t. I had many wonderful wanks.
I picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hello again. This is Anton. Are you by any chance free this evening for dinner? I would like to talk to you.”
I got a hard-on as soon as I stepped into the gallery. Anton led me to the dining room and we were served dinner.
Half way through the main course one corner of his mouth lifted. “Peter has been in touch with me. I won’t bore you with the long story, but it seems that normal ,” he enclosed the word with air quotes, “sex no longer has the same appeal to our young friend. He actually misses being tortured out of his mind, if you can believe that. He thinks about it every day, wanks over it at night. And especially about you.”
I stared. This was not what I’d expected.
“Bottom line: the boy needs to be worked on by you again. Not in the statue – even he doubts that he could stand that again - but strapped down somehow (he mentioned assorted positions). Now, I can see two options: one, I give him your phone number and you two can come to whatever arrangement you like – that’s if you even want to – or, two, I will build a dungeon downstairs. I’m sure you could give me advice on that, and you can visit whenever you want and work on the boy here. I have to confess that option two would be my own favourite – I would enjoy watching very closely indeed.” He speared a piece of steak with his fork and looked back up at me. “So, what do you reckon? Take all the time you need to think about it.” The steak disappeared into Anton’s mouth.
I thought about it. For approximately three seconds. “Option two sounds like an ideal arrangement to me.”
He smiled.
Oh fuck. The first time I saw Peter in the flesh I almost came in my jeans. I’d known his body was beautiful, but his face was even more so. The knowledge that I’d tickle-tortured this stunning boy for so long blew my mind.
But now he was standing between two vertical posts, his wrists and ankles spread-eagled. His body was trembling with fear – but also, I knew, with need. I adjusted my painfully-hard cock in my leather jeans, pulled on a pair of industrial rubber gloves, and spread large amounts of aqueous cream over them. They would slide over his skin, the rubber fingers getting between his ribs, probing deep into his sides, gripping his thighs and knees, invading his unprotected armpits, seeking out his most ticklish places. Making him scream, yell, laugh maniacally in uncontrollable hysterics. They would make him beg for it to stop. They would make him beg for mercy. He would plead to be allowed to cum, while knowing what an orgasm would do to his already impossible level of ticklishness. And this time I would be able to see his beautiful face while I made this sexy, muscular boy suffer.
Anton had got himself comfortable in the new dungeon. He looked around at the many different frames and restraint devices that were now available to me, and then pulled a new box of tissues closer.
He was going to need them.