The village of Upshaw nestled in the Swaledale hills like a hand in a well-fitting glove. It was relatively undiscovered by tourists, and life there went on in much the same way as it had for the last two centuries. The sleepy little streets were patrolled occasionally by the single resident policeman (when he wasn't otherwise occupied sampling Mrs Donaldson's home-made Rhubarb wine), and the locals spent their time either in the fields or in the pub. Life in Upshaw was nothing if not routine. The place itself was like something out of a period novel - there was a small stream with a picturesque bridge, a village green (complete with stocks), and smoke drifted lazily out of the chimneys on the thatched cottages. Crime was unheard of there. It was idyllic, but for a healthy eighteen-year-old boy it was not the ideal place - Gary was bored out of his mind. He'd left school at sixteen, still lived with his parents, and did odd jobs around the village to make a living. Nintendo Game Boys had reached Upshaw - just - but the three programs he had were no longer capable of holding his attention. There was practically no social life at all unless he made the one-hour ride to Halbridge on his motorcycle, and even then there were only a couple of cafes and a single nightclub in the town.
What Gary lacked was girls .He was a teenager - and like all teenagers, he was permanently horny. The local girls held little attraction for him - he'd had the pretty one so often that he was bored with her, and the rest he found repulsive in the extreme.
He hung around with some of the other local lads - there was Peter, and Mike, and Paul, and Jonathon - and together they formed a little gang that got up to minor mischief now and again. It was never serious stuff, but the constable had had to issue warnings and threats several times over the years. The locals tolerated them with frowns, but amused smiles.
It was into this typically English scene that the new family - the Jamesons - arrived. They consisted of Mother, Father, ten-year old daughter Jaqueline, and a blond sixteen year old disaster area called Derek. Like most of the other locals, Gary had watched the Jamesons move in and, like the other members of the gang, had been bitterly disappointed that the newcomers did not include a busty, attractive daughter of fuckable age.
The Jamesons had bought old Rafferty's house near the windmill, which was at the other end of the village from where Gary lived, and so after the first day he didn't see much of them.
It was an unseasonably warm morning in March when Gary had his next encounter with one of the new family. He was down by the milking shed in Bert's farm at the south end of the village, rehanging a door that had been blown off the barn in one of last winter's storms. The door had broken, and had needed an extra bit of wood at the bottom, and it was as he was measuring a piece of oak to fit that he heard the noise. It was distinctly a cough, and it came from behind a stack of milk churns over by the stable, It aroused Gary's curiosity because Bert had gone to Halbridge to deliver some milk, and he'd thought he was alone on the farm.
Quietly he put down the wood, and tiptoed over the yard to the churns. Not even breathing, he peered round the wall formed by the metal canisters, and a smile slowly grew on his lips. There, lying in a den of hay he had obviously constructed over a period of days, was Derek Jameson. He was lying on his back, head propped up on part of a straw bale, and his eyes were closed. But it was what he was doing that amused Gary. His jeans and underpants were round his ankles, and he was wanking his rock-hard little cock like it was going out of fashion.
From where Gary stood, he had a clear view of the boy. Unlike Gary, who was well-built through hard physical work, Derek was small for his age. The youngster's face was screwed up in concentration, his blond hair falling in a fringe across his eyes, one hand played with his balls, and the other beat with manic speed up and down the shaft of his cock. To his amazement, Gary began to get hard as he watched. He gripped his own stiffening cock through his jeans, and played with it slowly. His eyes were rivetted to the younger boy. He had never fancied another guy before, let alone a sixteen-year-old - but the sight of this pretty young boy wanking himself silly behind the milk churns turned him on. It was the speed of the kid's hand that fascinated him - it was almost a blur. Gary had spent years refining and perfecting the art of masturbation, and could make a wank last an hour.
"That's no way to do it," he said.
Derek jumped as if he'd been zapped with a cattle prod. His eyes flew open, his jaw dropped, and he froze in terror.
Gary left his place of concealment and walked behind the churns into the den. He stood astride the boy's trembling legs, smiling and looking down on him. "It's much better if you do it slowly - make it last. He knelt down astride the boy. "Here, let me show you..."
Derek was in no state to protest. He'd been discovered in an acutely embarrassing position, by a boy who was much bigger and stronger than he. He would have expected to be beaten up, at the very least. But this guy, whoever he was, didn't seem to be agressive towards him - in fact the opposite - he was offering to teach him technique.
"Wh-who are you?" His voice came out as a squeak.
Gary's smile broadened at the boy's obvious terrror. The situation strangely appealed to him: a young boy, fear showing in his widely-set big blue eyes as he stared helplessly up at him (God, he was beautiful), powerless to resist whatever Gary chose to do to him, and HORNY. "I'm Gary. Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you. Just lie sfill and learn..." Gently, he pushed Derek's arms to his sides, and took the boy's young cock in his right hand. Very very lightly, he ran his fingers up and down the shaft, hardly touching. Other than his own, Gary's was the first hand Derek had felt on his genitals since his mother had stopped bathing him when he was little, and if the pressure of Gary's fingers had been only a tiny bit more, he would have cum there and then - instantly. But Gary had guessed this, and knew it would take very little to make him cum - and he had no intention whatsoever of letting the kid off so lightly. Oh, no. Young Derek was about to find out the hard way what the words 'sexual frustration' meant.
Gary's fingertips glided over the smooth skin of Derek's cock, starting at the base and stroking upwards to the tip. He made sure that at the beginning of each stroke, when his fingers were at the bottom of the shaft, his palm gave the sensitive tip of the young penis a good rubbing.
Derek was in ecstasy. His head was thrown back, his eyes closed again, and he was breathing fast and deep, with little moans escaping now and then.
Gary grinned as the boy began to thrust his hips up and down, trying to push his cock further and harder into the enclosing hand, and carefully lessened the pressure so that the approaching orgasm didn't get a chance to develop yet. Time to put his other hand to use. Carefully he placed it between the boy's parted thighs, and began lightly to stroke the young testicles. Two things happened: the first, which Gary expected, was that Derek's cock jerked in his hand as the need to ejaculate became suddenly more urgent - and the second, quite unexpected, was that the boy let out a scream of laughter, closed his legs together with a snap, and curled up into a ball, almost knocking the bigger boy over. Gary's hand was trapped between the tightly-clenched thighs, still touching Derek's balls and, although his fingers were now quite motionless, the kid continued to giggle uncontrollably. As an experiment, Gary moved his fingers - and the boy screamed again in hysterics.
"Oh - oh, please, please don't, he bubbled, "that t-t-tickles!!"
Gary realized that his own cock was almost bursting out of his jeans. God, was this turning him on! He leant forward, clamped his free hand over the boy's mouth, and tickled his balls again. Derek instantly convulsed in paroxysms of ticklishness, screamed into the gagging palm, and fought with all his strength to dislodge Gary's hand. He succeeded, and collapsed breathiess. Gary removed his hand from the boy's mouth and gazed at the kid thoughtfully. This called for more serious experimentation.
He looked around. There was a ball of baling twine within reach. He used it to tie the boy's wrists over his head to one of the heavy milk churns, and then to fasten his ankles together. He surveyed his work, and nodded in satisfaction. All he needed now was a gag. He got up and went back to where he'd been working on the door. On the shelf in the barn there were several pieces of cloth. He grabbed a large piece and a strap from a pony bridle, and set off back to the den. On the way across the yard, he noticed a pheasant wing feather lying on the ground, and added it to his collection.
It took only a few moments to stuff a cloth into the now helpless but protesting boy's mouth and secure it with the strap round the back of his head. He looked at him while sqeezing his own cock through the tight denim of his jeans; this boy was his prisoner - he could do whatever he liked to him, and there was absolutely fuck all he could do to stop him. The feeling of power was overwhelming, and he found that it turned him on like nothing else had for years. He gave his cock a final squeeze (he must be careful, he was not far from orgasm himself) and knelt closer to the helpless boy.
Gary enclosed the boy's cock and balls with an encircling finger and thumb, and pulled them out slightly away from his body, holding them isolated and vulnerable. With his other hand he picked up the feather and began to tickle them with the soft but stiff, pointed tip. The gag muffled the boy's hysterics effectively, and the restraints prevented him from moving very far - but even so, his convulsions were so violent that Gary had to use his weight to hold him down. The more the kid struggled and shrieked, the more it turned Gary on, and the more sadistically he tickled the young genitals. He made the feather dance over every square millimeter of the balls, reaching round behind them (especially violent reactions for that), and right up into the tops of the crevices at the sides of the young teenager's balls. He tickled the insides of the thighs, then the fronts, and the backs. He ran the feather up and down the shaft of his victim's rock-hard cock, and spent a long time tickling the sensitive tip.
After a while Gary decided to try somewhere else. Derek protested urgently when Gary began to unlace Derek's trainers and remove his socks, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Soon the kid's bare soles were exposed to the summer air. Gary took the feather again and began to work sadistically on the vulnerable, ticklish young feet.
There are very few things in this world that are as ticklish as a young boy - and when that boy is tied helpless, gagged, and can't stop a bigger, older boy who is being driven to the heights of sadism by his spunk-laden balls - from tickling the shit out of him, then something has got to give. And it did - suddenly Derek, screaming hysterics into the cloth gag, pissed himself. Involuntarily he lost control and sent a stream of hot, golden liquid showering over Gary.
The effect this had on the older boy was immediate. With a cry of anger, he leapt onto Derek and tickled him everywhere. His hands flew over the boy's helpless body unpredictably and mercilessly. He tickled the armpits; squeezed the muscles just above the knee and further up the kid's thighs; he used the horny end of the feather on the bare soles and between the toes, he tortured the young testicles with the feather, tickled his ribs, and dug stiff fingers into his sides. Instantly he knew he'd struck gold here, because Derek arched his back and shrieked .Of all the places on his excruciatingly ticklish young body, this was his nemesis.
"Okay," Gary said slowly, kneeling astride the boy's hips so that he could get better access to the kid's sides, "so THAT'S where you're weakest. Right, you little bastard, get ready, 'cos this is gonna fucking tickle!"
With a smile of anticipation, he placed his index fingers on the sensitive spots and dug in sharply. The teenager jerked violently beneath him, but Gary gave him no time to recover. He dug in again, and moved his stiff fingers in small circles. Again and again and again he dug and probed, tickling the boy beyond endurance. It was like riding a bucking bronco - the kid was bouncing about between his thighs, kicking and struggling to escape, but he was helpless, bound, and gagged, and at the mercy of a big, strong, horny, sex-crazed teenager.
Gary knew precisely why he was working on the boy so sadistically - and why he was enjoying it so much: the reason was that he could imagine exactly what it felt like. The fact was that he was just as horrifyingly ticklish - if not more so - himself. Throughout his years at school, right up to the time he left, he had been plagued by his ticklishness. It had begun in his first year - his schoolfriends had discovered his one great weakness, that he couldn't stand being tickled. They quickly realized that all they had to do to make him do anything they wanted was to threaten to tickle him. At first he had refused their requests for him to do their homework, or play practical jokes on the teachers - but a few sessions behind the school buildings, held down by two boys while a third worked his sensitive body over (inexpertly, but effectively) had brought him into line very quickly, and he had no choice but to do as they wanted. In his final year there had been a boy named Davis. Davis was a natural bully, and a sadist. He went out of his way to make requests of Gary that the boy would find impossible to meet - and his punishments were the worst ever. Davis tickled Gary because he enjoyed it.
Well now he was in control. He was in the position of having power over another - and he loved it.
As his fingers attacked the boy's unprotected sides, he found himself beginning to make thrusting movements with his hips. His cock, imprisoned in his tight jeans, was rubbing against the rough denim, and there was a fold in the cloth that was in just the right place - it caressed and teased the underside of his glans with each movement. He gazed at the pretty young blond boy that was his helpless victim - the deep blue eyes wide open in fear above the cloth gag - and he suddenly realized that he was going to cum. With a hoarse yell he pumped his hips, squeezing the boy between his knees, and began to shoot. He clamped his eyes shut, and dug his fingers into the boy's sides harder than ever before. His spunk squirted out of his cock in hot white gobs, onto the inside of his faded jeans, making the denim bulge throb rhythmically between his parted legs, while Derek screamed into the gag and convulsed in renewed torment under his hands. As the last drops of cum soaked into his jeans, Gary opened his eyes. A large pair of boots stood beside him. His eyes travelled upwards and he saw that the boots were on the feet of Constable Perkins, the village policeman.
"Now then," said Constable Perkins, "what the hell's going on here then?"
Gary, Derek, their respective parents, and the constable met at Derek's home to discuss what should be done. Luckily for Gary, it had not been apparent to the constable that there had been a sexual element involved on Gary's side - despite Derek's jeans having been round his ankles - since Derek had red-facedly admitted what he had been doing when the older boy had found him. However, for an eighteen-year old boy to tie a kid up, gag him, and then subject him to prolonged tickling was, said the constable, a serious offence. After long discussion it was agreed that it was not something that need concern the courts, and Gary's father suggested that a severe beating with a belt may suffice as correction.
"Noo, noo, y'carnt do that there," said the constable. "Y'see that'd be anutha offence, and I dare say's I'd after report that as been more serious-like than t'other."
Gary's father nodded understandingly, and there was the silence of deep thought all round.
"'Owever," said the constable, as if continuing his last sentence (which had been some time earlier), "there's summat what could be done, if you all agree toot. There's precedent an' all that for using the stocks as is on the green."
"What do you mean?" Asked Mr Jameson.
"Well now," for the last few minutes the constable had been carefully filling a pipe, and now he paused as he applied a match to the tobacco and sucked it into glowing life - the smell was particularly foul - "back in the days 'afore you was born, if a young person commnitted an offence, he was tried afore the village elders and, if he was found guilty-like, he was locked in the stocks for a bit. The residents would throw rotten fruit and suchlike, and laugh at him. Then he was let loose and sent on his way. Not many reoffended."
The others digested this for a while, then Mrs Jameson said, "but it seems a bit silly to throw rotten fruit at Gary. Anyway, it's March and there'll be no fruit about for months."
The constable nodded slowly, took his pipe out of his mouth, pressed the tobacco down with his thumb and re-lit it. It seemed to Gary that the policeman knew exactly where all this was leading, and was just going through the motions to get there.
"Aye, that's true enough, though come September there'll be plenty of rotten fruit in Mrs Richards' corner shop."
"But," continued the constable in his infuriatingly unhurried way, "there's an old saying - and an old law. 'A tooth for a tooth'."
Gary suddenly didn't like the way this was going.
"And there's anutha one - 'let the punishment fit the crime', if you takes my meaning." Slowly, he looked up from his pipe, his face a picture of innocence.
Gary felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.
"You mean, let the villagers tickle him? " Asked Gary's mother.
"The constable's eyebrows went up and he gazed at her. "Now there's an idea," he said slowly. "I hadn't thought of that." He pursed his lips, as in deep thought. "It has its merits at that. It would certainly fit the crime, and it would be a way to keep all this in the village, so to speak." A thought 'ocurred' to him, and he looked up, eyebrows raised. "The Spring Fete's next week isn't it? We could make a small charge - just a few pennies, like - to everybody who wanted a go, and donate it to the Village Hall Clock Fund. T'would be quite an attraction, I would say."
To Gary's horror, everyone thought that was a wonderful idea. And so it was decided. Gary would 'volunteer' to be put in the stocks for 8 hours, to be let out for ten minutes every hour to go to the toilet or have a bite to eat. No-one other than those present would know it was a real punishment, and a charge of 50p a time would be made for five minutes' tickling. Mrs Jameson would write a sign to go on the bottom of the stocks, and everyone would be happy.
Everyone, that is, except Gary.
There were four days before the fete, and Gary got very little sleep at night. Finally the day arrived. The sun was shining, and everyone in the village had turned out for the festivities. There were marquees, early flower displays, and home-made produce (Mrs Donaldson's Rhubarb wine was, as usual, selling well - particularly to the constable). At l0am exactly, as the Village Hall clock struck nine minutes past four, Gary was ceremoniously led out in ancient wrist irons and chains that had been borrowed from the Village Hall museum, and placed in the stocks. His neck and wrists were held in holes through the 200-year old oak split beam, and his ankles were secured wide apart in the rusty - but still perfectly effective - steel bands. The padlocks clicked shut with dreadful finality. He had been allowed to wear only a teeshirt which had had the arms taken off and the words 'Tickle me' written in felt-tip on the back, and his jeans and trainers.
As Mrs Jameson placed the sign between his spread feet, the villagers gathered round to see what was going on. Slowly at first, and then more quickly a queue formed. The first in line was Derek Jameson. He walked purposefully towards the boy who had subjected him to that unbearable torture behind the milk churns, and whose sensitive, ticklish body now waited - restrained and helpless - for his revenge. Derek's left hand was in his pocket, carressing lovingly the £7.50 he'd broken out of his piggy bank, and had changed into 50-pence pieces.
It took Gary two days to recover. His armpits, ribs, thighs, and legs were bruised from the eight hours of tickling by people who had made up with enthusiasm what they had lacked in skill. And his sides! His sides ached still from the merciless touch of young Derek Jameson.
That day in the stocks had been pure torture. His voice was still hoarse and his throat sore from the laughing and screaming, the pleading for mercy and the begging.
But that had not been the worst humiliation. Oh, no. That had come when he had been released. Weak with exhaustion, he had turned round to greet the laughing faces of the remaining crowd, the front of his jeans soaking.
No, he hadn't pissed himself - he had been careful not to drink enough for that. The wetness soaking the denim of his faded jeans was spunk.
While being tickled in the stocks on that day he had shot his load.