"Fucking hell mate, what happened to you?" Denny looked up from his egg sandwich and stared at the lad who'd just staggered in through the door.
Ben was a mess: his face was covered with blood, his white teeshirt was ripped, exposing bruises and scratches over his chest and stomach, and his bleached jeans were caked in mud. The boy flopped down onto the settee next to Denny and put his head in his hands. He groaned. "What d'ya think? Fuckin Scab."
Denny turned the TV off and passed Ben a towel to clean himself up with. "You're dripping blood all over the carpet. Mam'll fucking kill me. So what happened?"
Ben winced as he wiped his face. "Ouch that fuckin hurts. Bastard jumped me down the lane. We have gotta do summat about that fuckin prick."
It wasn't the first time local skins had been beaten up by Scab, and he was becoming a nuisance. He'd arrived on the scene a month ago, and seemed intent on making his mark. Until then most of the skinheads in the area had been matey - they all knew each other - but now there was a danger of their becoming divided: those who follwed Scab, and those who didn't.
Trouble was that Scab was a one-man army. For a start he was a big guy - fourteen stones of solid muscle and not an ounce of fat on his body; secondly he knew how to fight, and he fought dirty; and thirdly he was obsessively homophobic. Denny had no idea whether any of the local skins were gay - it didn't bother him one way or the other - but it appeared to bother Scab. From the gossip on the streets and the victims he targeted, it looked like anyone who showed the slightest signs of possibly being gay was on his list. These signs could be the most unlikely things: a boy who was particularly good-looking, or one who wore his jeans skin-tight, or anyone with a piercing... and that list included many of the local skin population.
Denny sighed. "Yeah I know we gotta do summat. But what the fuck can we do? Scab needs teachin a lesson he won't forget in a hurry." He sat back and thought. "Let's get a few guys round and talk about it."
Ben sniffed, and wiped at a bloodstain on his jeans. "Yeah," he said.
* * *
The meeting was held in the church. It had been deconsecrated and scheduled for demolition five years ago but nobody had got around to knocking it down yet, and the skins used it mainly as a place to doss around in and to bring girls to fuck. It hadn't been easy to get the word around without it getting back to Scab or his followers, but as Denny looked at the assembled faces, he was satisfied that there were no spies amongst them - many of these lads had been victims of Scab anyway. Denny had asked around, explaining the problem, and had gathered together all of the skins who were either gay, or gay-friendly - and with only one or two exceptions, that accounted for the vast majority of the area's skinheads.
"Ok," he said. "This is about that fucker Scab. We gotta do summat about the prick before he kills us all. Any suggestions?"
There was silence for a few moments, then Daryl, a small lad in a black MA1 jacket shouted, "let's do the fucker. Kick his fuckin head in good. Real good."
There was general approval at this, and Daryl grinned. But then Wizz - a good-looking boy with short black hair - stood up.
"No," he said. "We have to do something better than that. If we just kick the fuck out of him, he's going to be worse still when he recovers. No," he shook his head, thinking, "what we have to do is humiliate him in front of the rest of us. That would be a lot less easy for him to recover from."
"How do you mean?" Asked Denny.
"I don't know. Let me think for a minute..."
"I still say we should kick his head," said Daryl, pissed off that his idea had been discounted. He looked at Wizz - at his tight, bulging jeans, his leather jacket, and his blue eyes. Daryl resented him - he was so good-looking and so fucking sexy. That one's gotta be gay, he thought.
"Ok," said Wizz, "how about this....?" He talked for a couple of minutes, staring in thought over Denny's head. When he'd finished, there was silence for a moment, then gradually chuckling, which turned into laughter, and whoops of approval.
Denny nodded, smiling. "Yeah. that would sort the fucker out," he said.
Even Daryl had to admit that the idea had interesting possibilities, and he noticed he'd got a hard-on in his jeans.
* * *
The interior of the old church was lit only by three bare 100-watt bulbs which had been wired in years ago from the streetlight outside, by an enterprising skin who was an electrician. A double door, which was currently standing wide open, led out to a yard behind the church, and thence onto a quiet backstreet of the city. At present some thirty lads in jeans, combats, MA1s, DMs - and all with short hair (or shaved heads) - were sitting or standing around quietly in groups waiting for the entertainment to begin. Most of them clutched cans of lager.
To a solid wooden beam which had long ago supported the font cover, there was attached a hoist, its ropes hanging down, the pulley at the bottom swinging slowly. Under this, a platform had been constructed by piling pallettes on top of one another on the floor, and a couple of strong steel screweyes had been driven into the top, This was the stage on which the evening's main event would take place.
The relative hush was abruptly broken by the screech of tyres outside, and a white van turned sharply into the yard from the road. As it came to a stop the back doors were thrown open, and four skinheads - holding a violently struggling, massive boy between them - piled out onto the tarmac. Some of the other skins closed in, and helped to carry the captive into the church and up onto the platform. As they roped his wrists together and attached them to the hoist, Scab glared out across the heads of the assembled boys, with a look that could have curdled milk at fifty paces. He swore, spat, bit, and also kicked - until a couple of the skins, holding his feet, got more ropes around his ankles and tied them securely to the two screweyes, pulling his feet apart and effectively immobilising him.
Scab was emormous. He looked like a bodybuilder: his jeans were faded almost white in places, and enlosed thighs like treetrunks. Above the waist he'd been wearing only a faded denim cut-off, its sleeveless arms exposing biceps that were pumped and bulging - but now even this had been ripped off him. His waist was slim, and his flat stomach rippled with muscles, above which his pecs cast deep shadows from the bare lightbulbs. Standing there stripped to the waist, with his arms pulled high above his head, and with his shaven head, he looked for all the world like something out of a 'Mad Max' movie. And he was not a happy bunny. "YOU WILL FUCKING REGRET THIS!" He bellowed, his bull-like voice echoing off the stone walls.
Denny took a roll of silver duct tape and, while two other lads held Scab still, stuck it over the boy's mouth, wrapping it round and round his head. That effectively silenced him, and now his furious curses were reduced to groans and grunts from under the gagging tape. He fought the restraints, struggling and pulling with all his considerable strength, but they held him easily.
Wizz climbed up onto the platform and faced the quiet, expectant crowd. He cleared his throat. "This piece of shit behind me," he announced, "has been causing us a load of fucking trouble. He's appointed himself judge, jury and executioner, and he's been beating up any of us he thinks might possibly be gay. Now I happen to be straight, but I don't fucking care whether one of my mates has sex with girls, boys, or fucking sheep - makes no bloody difference to me - if he's a mate, he's a mate. As long as he doesn't cause trouble, that's no problem. We don't need pricks like this, and we're gonna teach the fucker a lesson he's not gonna forget in a hurry."
The watching skinheads cheered He nodded to another boy who had been standing at the side of the platform, and who now climbed up onto it. He was an athletic youth in leather jeans with 20-hole DMs pulled over them, and a tight white teeshirt. His head was shaved at the sides, and down the centre was a blond mohican strip, cut to a No 2. His blue eyes twinkled in the light as ahe grinned at the crowd.
Wizz moved over on the platform to make room. Behind them, the raving figure of Scab continued to yell into the gag and pull uselessly at the ropes. "Most of you know Simon." There were good-natured jeers, whistles and cat-calls, in response to which Simon grinned and raised his middle finger to the lads. "What some of you probably don't know is that Simon is gay."
There were cheers and wolf-whistles to this piece of news, and a voice from the back called out: "he can have me any time!"
"All right. Now then," continued Wizz, "Simon is, apparently, a bit of an expert at two things: first," he looked a bit embarrassed for a moment, and Simon took over.
"What Wizz is trying to say - and failing," he began, before sidestepping a good-natured kick at his balls from Wizz, "is", he contined, laughing, "that I know how to tickle guys till they go insane, and I know how to milk them in the most fucking irresistable ways possible."
He got various reactions to that - more whistles, catcalls, cheers, and a lot of hands air-wanking in front of him. Grinning, he continued. "So we're gonna tickle torture this bastard behind me, and then we're gonna make the piece of crap cream his fucking jeans in front of us all."
Great cheers went up at this, and Scab went as ballistic as his resraints would allow. Simon continued, loving every minute of this. He turned half towards Scab, who was glaring daggers at him. "So, big guy, you are gonna scream tonight. You are gonna struggle and writhe and you are gonna want very very badly to be somewhere else. And then, you are gonna cream your fucking jeans for a queer faggot skinhead. I am gonna fucking milk you, you bastard - and every one of these guys is gonna watch you lose control and shoot your spunk inside those tight, sexy jeans. And then we're gonna put you back in the van and take you back to your own patch where your fascist mates will find you with your jeans soaked with spunk, and a little note for them to read. That OK with you, Scab?" He spat the boy's name.
Scab threw himself at Simon in complete fury - but the ropes holding his wrists above his head and his feet apart on the platform held him helpless, and he knew he wasn't going to get out of these restraints.
Tickled? They were going to fucking TICKLE him? Ha! He didn't consider himself especially ticklish, so that was no problem at all. Let them do their fucking worst - he would stand there and glare at the fuckers until they got tired. As for making him cum - they had GOT to be joking! That was the very last thing he felt like doing. What he felt like doing was breaking every single head here - starting with this fucking Simon. Oh fuck, he hated queers. Couldn't they see he was doing them all a fucking service? Cleaning the area up, getting rid of the perverts? One thing was for sure - when they eventually let him out of these restraints and took the fucking damned tape of his mouth, there were going to be a lot of sorry fucking skinheads around here. Today or next week - it didn't matter. He looked around the crowd, committing faces to memory - he was going to get every fucking one of them.
Simon had gone to stand behind Scab, and Wizz left the platform. The entertainment began.
* * *
Scab's eyes opened wide in surprise, and then he bellowed into the gag and his body tensed - every single muscle straining at the ropes - as Simon gently positioned two fingers, one each side, under the boy's bottom ribs and suddenly pressed hard, moving them about slowly. Scab had never in his life felt anything like this before. It wasn't pain - he could deal with pain - but it was absolutely, totally, UNBEARABLE. His entire body reacted purely automatically to escape the intense, unendurable stimulation as Simon tickled him. He tried to pull his arms down, he tried to twist away, he tried to tense his muscles against the tickling - but everything he did seemed to make it worse. So he tried just to stand there and take it - but he couldn't do that either: every little movement of Simon's fingers caused him to jerk around in the ropes like a fucking puppet. He had no control over it at all. And THAT was intensely humiliating to him. And what made it worse was that while he was jerking around uncontrollably, Simon wasn't even breaking a sweat - he just stood there with a cruel smile on his face, gently moving his fingertips. Scab felt like a fucking puppet - jerking and dancing around in response to Simon's fingers - and he couldn't do a single thing to stop himself.
Simon kept working on his sides for a few minutes, until Scab was hanging from his wrists, his muscular spasms making his legs no longer capable of supporting him. After a while, Simon stopped and leaned very close to Scab's ear, whispering so that only he could hear it: "not so easy to fight is it?" He chuckled. "And I haven't even STARTED yet." Slowly, he walked his fingers up the boy's sides. With every step, the muscular boy winced, and twisted in his restraints, trying to get away from the boy's hands. Given the limited amount of movement which Scab's tightly-stretched position allowed him, Simon followed his movements with ease.
The first time Simon's fingers stroked deeply but gently into the muscular youth's armpits, Scab thought he was going to pass out. Oh fuck it TICKLED. He twisted and fought and yelled into the gag - there was simply no way he could stand this a second longer. But he had no choice: the ropes held him helpless and vulnerable, and totally at Simon's mercy. And Simon HAD no mercy. His fingers sliding on a film of sweat, he tickled in and around the sensitive pits without stopping for a moment to give Scab time to recover. Because Simon was standing behind him, Scab couldn't see him - and Simon took advanage of this fact: occasionally, unexpectedly, a finger would dig into Scab's side - under the bottom rib, where he'd worked on him before - and this would bring an intensely satisfying scream, along with renewed violent struggling, from the helpless boy.
While all this was going on, the assembled crowd had closed in around the platform for a better view, and there was a constant barrage of whistles, jeers, insults and taunts from them as they watched the big skinhead's humiliation.
"Go on fucker, suffer..."
"Fight it you bastard - it's only fucking tickling..."
"All those fucking muscles aren't helping you a lot now, are they, eh?.."
"You gettting a hard-on, big boy?" "Do ya like being worked on by Simon? Do ya fancy him?"
The realization struck Scab like a bolt of lightening, and he looked down at his crotch, praying it wasn't true... but it WAS true: his cock was getting hard! "NO! FUCKING NO! OH FUCKING SHIT! NOOOOO!!!!!" This was the worst thing that could possibly happen.
As the watching boys saw the bulge in Scab's jeans getting bigger, a resounding cheer went up. "Ha! He's gettin off on this! He's a fucking queer as well! Ha!!!!"
Under the duct tape, Scab went as red as a beetroot. Never in his life had he been more humiliated than he was at this moment. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. The ropes held him there, facing the crowd of skinheads who were jeering, laughing, and gesticulating at him, and his fucking cock was getting harder by the second. For fuck's sake - he was being tickled, and by a self-confessed bloody gay skinhead - and it was turning him on! What the hell was going on?
Simon's fingers had left the boy's pits, and were now stroking lightly and very gently over his entire upper body - over his pecs, around his nipples, down his sides, over hs stomach, up his back... and although it was still tickling Scab like crazy, it was also bloody horny. His cock continued to stiffen, pushing his jeans out further and further in spite of everything he could do to stop it.
Then Simon crouched down behind the boy, and began working on the big, muscular legs. Considering that Scab reckoned tight jeans were a sign of gayness, his own were skintight. He had to wear stretch jeans because, with so slim a waist, he couldn't get any normal ones that were big enough to contain his massive, powerful thighs.
With one hand on the outside of the big youth's left thigh and his other hand on the inside, Simon slowly ran his fingertips up and down between the knee and the crotch. Then he did the front and the back - and discovered that Scab was intensely ticklish on the backs of his legs. Exploiting that newly-found weakenss to the full, he worked on the skinhead's thighs lovingly, tickling through the single thickness of skintight, faded, thin denim, causing the boy to struggle and yell, jumping about on the platform in ticklish agony. Then Simon paused, frowning. He stood up, and thrust a hand under the waistband of Scab's jeans. "Ha! Thought so! He's got fuck-all on under his jeans!"
The crowd yelled at this. "You kinky fucker!" Shouted a boy near the front.
Scab's calves - as far down as the tops of his DMs anyway - proved equally fruitful, and Simon went to town on him for the next ten minutes, tickling him all over his thighs and legs. Scab was drenched in sweat now, and breathing hard to keep up with the unbearable stimulation he was having to endure. His cock was stretching the denim out into a humiliating bulge between his legs, and the lads were loving every minute of his suffering.
Then, between his thumb and fingers, Simon gripped the sides of the muscle just above Scab's knee, squeezing it hard and then releasing it, over and over again, in rough, jabbing movements. This caused one of the biggest reactions yet from the helpless boy: he threw his head back, bellowed into the gag, twisting and struggling in his restraints like a thing demented. Simon grinned sadistically and, placing his other hand on the boy's side, he worked on two of the skinhead's most unbearably ticklish places together.
Scab was almost apoplectic with sheer fury and ticklishness. He had never in his wildest dreams considered that being tickled could be such a TORTURE. He couldn't stand it. He was going to go insane. He couldn't take another single second of this. But there was nothing he could do to stop it. If only they would try to HURT him - pain was no problem for him - but this was something else entirely, something completely beyond his experience, and he didn't know how to deal with it. Nothing he did made it any easier, and it was EXCRUCITATING. He screamed, twisted, struggled and danced around on the platform in front of the jeering, yelling crowd in resonse to the tiniest movements of Simon's expert fingers.
After some more general tickling over Scab's upper body and legs, Simon stood up, and took a swig from a can of lager which Ben handed to him. Then he stood astride the tied boy's right leg, and began to tickle Scab's bull balls through his tight jeans. They were huge - two perfect spheres causing the denim to stick out in one enormous bulge with a clearly-visible division down the middle, under the seam. Simon's fingertips tickled and teased over them so lightly they hardly touched the denim - but the boy's reaction told him that he could feel every single stroke. The immediate effect was to cause Scab's cock to grow to full erection - what they'd thought had been fully hard before, now turned out to have been only about halfway there.
The jeers and insults gradually quietened to stunned, awed silence as the full dimensions of Scab's cock became clear. It was ENORMOUS. A fat torpedo shape under the clinging jeans, it lay across the top of his right thigh, and it didn't end at the side of his leg - it continued, forcing the stretchy denim out by the boy's hip before the confining jeans, fighting to contain it, forced the head to curve downwards a couple of inches, where it ended - the ridged helmet visible in meticulous detail for all to see.
Carefully, Simon ran the tip of one finger slowly along the underside of the monstrous cock from the base to the tip. The huge dick jerked once inside his jeans, causing them to stretch even further out and then stay there. Using a finger and thumb now, Simon gently stroked the head a few times - and was rewarded with a patch of precum which suddenly appeared, staining the faded jeans a darker blue at the tip of his cock.
The watching boys were loving this. Many of them were openly playing with themselves, and a couple even had their cocks out and were wanking seriously.
Scab did everything he could to get away from the teasing fingers on his cock, but the fucking ropes held him fast. This was unbearable humiliation - for him, Scab, to be got hard and horny by a fucking pervert gay boy - and in front of everybody - it was more than he could bear.
And then it got even worse as Simon put his other hand between the tops of the boy's thighs from behind and tickled the back of his balls at the same time. Scab tried to close his legs together, tried to struggle free of the teasing, tickling hands, tried to WILL his cock to go soft - but it was no good. The feelings were beyond his ability to control - he was as horny as fuck.
Simon had another swig of lager, and then set about tickling the boy unpredictably all over his body. The more Scab struggled, the more sadistic Simon became. His hands were everywhere - on the boy's armpits, his sides, ribs, chest, stomach, thighs, calves, knees, balls - and on his hard, horny, precum-dripping cock.
Scab was exhausted - the ropes were hurting his wrists, and every single muscle in his body ached from his constant struggling. But it was impossible for him to rest, or to keep still. Simon's fingers worked on every one of his most unbearably ticklish spots, and kept on teasing his cock. He was so fucking HORNY. But there was no way - NO WAY - he could possibly allow this pervert to make him cum in front of all these lads. That was, simply, not an option.
Simon nodded to Wizz, who produced a camera from his pocket, and positioned himself at the edge of the platform, directly in front of the struggling youth. He sighted through the viewfinder, and then switched the flash on. When everything was ready, he nodded back at Simon.
"Ok, big boy," Simon whispered into Scab's ear, "let's see you stop a gay boy from making you cum in your fucking jeans..." He placed his fingers around the skin's bulging cockhead, stetching the denim even more, so that his finger and thumb almost met behind the head (its circumference was too large for them actually to meet), and then began slowly sliding his hand up and down over the sensitive cock-head. Scab must not be circumcised, Simon thought, because the stretchy jeans slid easily back and forth - they must be gripping his foreskin and moving it with them. Even better. At the start of every stroke Simon could feel the deep ridge at the base of the helmet press against his finger, and at the top of each movement, his grip closed over the tip of the jerking, precum-lubricated head.
He was intentionally working the boy's cock slowly - he wanted Scab to feel himself gradually getting nearer and nearer to cumming; he wanted the boy to try to fight against it; then to realize that he couldn't; and he wanted very gently to push the big, muscular skinhead over the edge and - if possible - to make him cum with one single fingertip, right on the tip of his cockhead. That way, the boy's orgasm would be shatteringly intense, and he would produce the maximum amount of spunk possible.
Sweat was running down Scab's body - his skin shone in the lights - he was shaking his head violently, yelling into the gag, and he still continued to struggle although he was exhausted and he knew it was useless anyway. He just couldn't help it.
Simon knew that Scab was very close to shooting, but the boy was fighting it. He just couldn't get him to the edge - so, unseen by the watching crowd, he placed his other hand on Scab's arse, felt around, and pressed hard with his thumb right on the boy's arsehole. At the same time, he pushed his fingers under Scab's perineum and lightly tickled the back of the bull balls. That was it - Simon felt the skinhead stiffen - and immediately he released his grip from the engorged cockhead, and used a single fingertip to scratch over the very tip. He nodded again to warn Wizz.
Back and forth the finger scratched, right over the boy's piss-slit - and Scab was in an agony of frustration. He could feel himself on the very edge of cumming, and he was using every ounce of his concentration to stop it happening. But Simon was tickling the back of his balls, pushing into his arsehole, and working on the very end of his cockhead - and there was nothing he could do to hold out against it. He fought like fuck - he just COULDN'T let himself cum, not with all these skinheads watching him - but he felt himself slowly losing control. It wouldn't have been so bad if the bastard was gripping his cock hard and wanking him off fast - but this single finger on his dick was so fucking FRUSTRATING. He was losing it... losing it....
With a yell that echoed off the stone walls even through the gag, Scab began to cum. His cock stiffened inside his jeans, then started to jerk and dance around under Simon's finger as his spunk pumped helplessly out of his tormented cock. Like everything else about the boy, Scab's ejaculation was immense, and powerful. The creamy-white spunk shot out of his cock with such unstoppable energy that it forced its way right through the thin, skintight denim that was tightly stretched over the end, and ran down the outside of his thigh in gooey gobs. As it moved it soaked into the jeans, turning them a dark blue.
Wizz fired off a whole series of shots with his camera, the flash strobing slowly as the helpless skinhead came and came and came under Simon's slowly scratching fingertip. And still the boy continued to cum. His whole body was wracked with orgasm, and he fought the restraints with a ferocity that made all his struggling so far look like nothing.
Eventually the pulsing flow of spunk slowed, then stopped. With a final groan, Scab collapsed in the restraints, hanging from his wrists. Satisfied that he'd milked the skinhead dry for the moment, Simon said, "OK - let's get him down."
Working quickly, several lads helped to untie the boy's hands and feet, and they carried him - now beyond struggling or fighting - onto the floor. "Right," grinned Simon,"the fucker is all yours."
Yelling with enthusiasm, the skinheads piled onto Scab, hands - inexpert but nonetheless effective - tickling him all over his body. He writhed on the floor, held down by a dozen or more bodies, in an orgy of tickle torture and more milking. Fingers reached for his exhausted cock, and within seconds it was getting hard again. Unable to stop it, Scab struggled as best he could while he was held down and milked again.
And then a third time.
His faded jeans were soaking with his own slippery cum - and then, as a final insult, half a dozen of the lads wanked themselves off over him, covering him with huge splatters of spunk. By the time they had finished with him he was a total mess.
Denny fastened Scab's hands together behind his back with duct tape, and the lads carried him back into the van. There, a boy produced a tin of gloss paint and a small brush, and carefully wrote across the massive chest: "I've been milked by gays and I loved it". They placed him carefully on his back so as not to smudge the paint before it dried, three of the skinheads got in, and closed the doors. The van drove off - more slowly than it had arrived.
Even now, Scab found that his ordeal wasn't over. The skins with him in the van were his three most recent victims. They had volunteered specially to ride with him. As the van set off, Ben smiled at the exhausted, muscular youth lying helpless on the floor.
The van wasn't really high enough for the three skins to stand up properly, but they still managed to draw their booted feet back.
Ben's was aimed squarely at the massive skinhead's balls.