Mark shone the torch onto his watch and sighed in exasperation. "Come ON!" He whispered urgently. The blue bar moved infuriatingly slowly across the computer screen, indicating the progress of the files being copied onto floppy disc. Sweat beaded his forehead as he watched the screen. Five minutes - that was all he had left. That's how much longer it would take for someone to get a trace on him. That bar HAD to have reached the end of its box by then - he would not get another chance at this. It had taken him more time than he'd allowed for to get into the system, and he was now running far too close to his deadline for comfort.
The glow of the VDU was the only illumination in the otherwise darkened office, but even that seemed dangerously bright to him. No, he told himself, don't worry - the blinds were drawn, and there was no way anyone could see that light from outside, and anyway he was on the fifth floor. Relax.
He looked at his watch again. Four minutes. The bar didn't seem to be moving, but the floppy was whirring inside the machine, so he knew the data was still being transferred. God, he needed a cigarette, but that was out of the question - the alarms would pick up the smoke in seconds.
What was that? He'd heard something. Mark froze, holding his breath, but there was no further sound. With a quiet sigh he released the air held in his lungs. "Come on... come ON!"
Mark wasn't used to this cloak-and-dagger stuff. He'd been a newspaper reporter for a year now, and this was the first time this kind of thing had happened to him. The strange phone call, the midnight meeting, the unsigned letters he'd received - that had been odd enough, but when he'd begun to make tentative enquiries he'd realised that this could be one very big story indeed.
"CINTEX", he whispered the word to himself quietly in the dark office. He didn't even know what it stood for - in fact he knew precious little at all about what he was investigating. But the little he had found out was seductively interesting. 'CINTEX' appeared to be a Government department of some kind - and a very shady one to boot. His usual sources for such information had remained suspiciously silent about it, and even his infallible - though expensive - unusual source had denied any knowledge of it. More than that, in fact - he'd strongly suggested Mark didn't waste his time pursuing this line.
His single lead had come unexpectedly, and from a close friend. By dint of a 'borrowed' pass, Mark had been able to gain access to this building and the computer in it. But he knew he was on his own if anything went wrong.
The blue bar moved slowly on its way. As files were transferred to his floppy, their names flashed across the top of the screen. They were just numbers, and meant nothing to him.
The second hand was working its way up to the last minute - past the 45 second mark, the 50 - and the screen flashed at him. The copying was complete. His hand, already poised over the disconnect key, stabbed the button hard, and he was off-line. Safe, but only just. The box with the blue bar in it cleared from the screen and Mark was able to see what was underneath it. In black Times Roman, it said,
"C entre for IN terrogation T echniques (EX perimental)"
Mark stared at the words. That was what CINTEX stood for!
"Oh shit," he said. With a trembling hand, he extracted the floppy, and powered down the computer. All he had to do now was to get out - quickly.
The door burst open with a suddenness that almost gave him heart failure. Men swarmed into the room, levelling evil black pistols and barking orders.
"Put the floppy on the desk - NOW!"
"Hands behind your head."
"Lie on the floor. MOVE!"
Mark's heart was pounding as he tried to comply with the conflicting orders. He lay on the floor, face down and felt the barrel of a gun pressed into his ear.
"Stay exactly where you are, and don't move a muscle." The pistol continued to press.
He was vaguely aware of another man searching the top of the desk. "Got it!"
The pistol was removed from his ear, and then, after a moment's pause, came down hard on the top of his head. Before the pain could hit him, Mark was unconscious.
* * *
When he came to, he was very disorientated. He couldn't move, couldn't see anything, and his head felt like there was a pneumatic hammer drill punching its way out. He was tied to a chair of some kind - he could feel the metal arms to which his wrists were strapped, and his feet were resting on some sort of raised platform. he tried to move them but found that they, too, were secured. There was also a strap around his chest and another round his waist, firmly fixing him to the chair. The reason he couldn't see anything was because he was hooded - his head was enclosed in a canvas bag, and he could feel the buckle of a small strap beneath his chin. He had no difficulty getting air - the hood was not tight - but it bellowed in and out as he breathed, and blindfolded him completely.
The next thing he became aware of was that he was moving. It felt like he was in some kind of van - he could feel it rocking. This was confirmed a few moments later as the driver swung round a corner and braked to a stop. There was a brief conversation, muffled by the vehicle walls and the hood, and then the van moved off again slowly, before finally coming to rest.
Doors opened and Mark felt cooler air on his hands. "He's awake," said a voice.
"Good," replied a second man.
The van rocked sharply as the two men climbed aboard. There was the sound of metal fastenings being released, and Mark felt himself being moved. He was in a wheelchair! Outside, there was a pause and a click and a whir of a motor, and Mark felt the tail-lift descend. He threw his head from side to side in an effort to dislodge the hood so he could see, but it stayed firmly in place. One of the men laughed at his unsuccessful attempt and suddenly Mark felt two hands clamped tight over his eyes and mouth. "Don't worry, that won't come off," he growled, obviously enjoying Mark's predicament. "You can't see a fucking thing, can you?"
The lift jerked as it hit the ground and Mark was wheeled away. The atmosphere changed as they went into a building, and there followed a long ride down corridors and into an elevator which, to Mark's surprise, went DOWN.
Mark was a very worried boy indeed.
* * *
They'd removed his restraints and put him in a holding cell - a room with bare brick walls, no windows, a hard cot and a very basic lavatory in one corner. He'd paced up and down the small space for ages before finally lying down on the hard cot and trying to sleep. But sleep wouldn't come. He tossed and turned for a while before sitting up and biting his nails - there was nothing else to do.
Food arrive some time later - how much later he'd no idea, as they'd taken his watch - but, like the ability to sleep, his appetite had deserted him. "Mark," he told himself, "you are in very deep shit."
Much later, he fell asleep.
The sound of the door opening woke him abruptly. There were men rushing towards him. They hauled him off the cot, pulled the hood over his head again and frog-marched him out of the cell.
More corridors, and then he was marched through a door into another room. Still hooded, he was roughly stripped naked, lifted onto a padded table, and strapped down spread-eagled. The surface of the table felt cool and smooth, and the straps over his wrists and ankles were thick leather.
"Please, don't hurt me," he said in a small voice. What were they going to do to him? And who were they anyway? Where was he?
He heard the door close, and moment later the hood was removed. He blinked in the bright light, and found himself looking into a pair of brown eyes. He gasped involuntarily - not because of the brown eyes, but because of the rest of the face - with the exception of a slit for the mouth, it was completely covered by a black leather mask.
"Welcome to CINTEX", said the masked man.
* * *
"Sorry about the theatricals," he indicated his full-face mask, "but it's regs. We have to protect our identities."
Mark looked at the man. Although his head was completely hidden by the leather, Mark had a strong impression that he was young - in fact his voice, so far very friendly, sounded like that of a teenager - but his body was definitely that of a man: he was wearing a tight white tee-shirt that stretched over the best-developed pecs Mark had seen for a long time. Beneath that were a couple of inches of tanned bare skin, and then army camouflage trousers tucked into DM boots. There was a prominent bulge in his tight cammos. Mark was completely straight, but nevertheless the fact that he was strapped down helpless and totally at the mercy of that hunky masked figure sent a brief - and completely unexpected - wave of sexual excitement through his body. A frown crossed his face - he would have to think about the implications of that at a later date.
"You can call me Steve," said the boy. He turned slightly away, "these two are Damien and Mike." Two other figures stepped into the pool of light - they were of similar build and dressed identically to Steve. "Not our real names, of course." Steve tapped Mark once on the thigh. "Mike's going to rub some massage oil onto you and Damien's going to give you a little injection now - it's nothing to worry about - and then we're going to leave you for a few minutes. When we come back, we're going to have a nice chat, and you're going to tell us a few things we'd like to know."
While Mike began coating Mark's body with the sweet-smelling oil, Damien filled a syringe, swabbed Mark's arm and expertly administered the injection.
"What is it? Sodium Pentathol?"
"Steve laughed behind the leather mask. " Oh no, that would never do. That's not the way we work at all. It's just a little cocktail we've developed." He thought for a moment, then added brightly, "it'll help you to respond."
Mark didn't like the sound of that, but there was nothing he could do about it. Damien stuck a band-aid over the puncture, and Mike had almost finished oiling Mark's body, and was finishing off his feet. From the neck down, every square inch except the area which would have been covered by a pair of shorts (if he'd been wearing any) had been smeared with the slippery oil. Mark wondered why Mike hadn't done his genitals - he would have enjoyed the feeling.
"Now don't go away. See you in a bit." They left him on his own.
He took the opportunity to look around. He was strapped to a hi-tech stainless-steel and leather padded table in what looked very much like a hospital operating theatre. Although the light shining into his eyes made it difficult to see very much beyond it, he could make out machines and instruments of various kinds standing around - there was even a complete anaesthetic ventilating machine which, in his present circumstances looked particularly sinister. The only sound was a constant, quiet hum. He let his head fall back onto the table and closed his eyes.
* * *
Mark was afraid - he had no idea what these people were going to do to him. Also, he was pretty sure this guy called Steve was gay - the sexy way he dressed, the intense way those brown eyes had looked at him, and there had been something in the way Steve had touched him on the thigh. His reactions to this disturbed him - on the one hand Mark himself was totally straight and, although he had never admitted it to himself, slightly homophobic. He didn't know any gay guys, but felt an instinctive hostility to gays. The thought of being strapped down and helpless to stop a homosexual doing whatever he wanted to him sent unpleasant shivers down his spine. At the same time, however - and probably because he was so very horny at the moment - the bondage, the leather, and the very fact that hewas so helpless and vulnerable at the hands of these masked boys were all actually turning him on. The sudden realisation hit him that he was unbelievably horny. He frowned - now why was that? He concentrated on his body for a moment and became aware that his skin was feeling unusually sensitive. Experimentally, he blew on his shoulder - yes, it did seem more sensitive than usual, or was it his imagination? The injection! What had they given him? An unpleasant thought struck him - were they going to torture him? And was the drug intended to make his body more sensitive to pain? He had never had a very high tolerance to pain, and his blood ran cold at the thought of physical - and, looking at this place, hi-tech - torture.
He sighed in desperation. He wished he'd never heard of CINTEX. In his wildest dreams he'd never thought that this sort of thing could exist within a government agency. Sure, he' d known there was this classified unit whose very existence was denied by every official he'd talked to - that was what had made him start his investigation in the first place - but what did they do here? The name suggested research into alternative interrogation techniques, and he couldn't think of one which wasn't either mentally or physically painful.
And now here he was - strapped helpless to an operating table and about to be interrogated by the very unit he had been investigating.
His thoughts were interrupted by Steve and his two mates coming back into the room. "Feeling OK? Straps not too tight?"
Mark wasn't sure if this was a serious enquiry or not, so he chose not to respond.
"There are a couple of things you should know before we begin, Mark - first, that all three of us are gay, and second that we enjoy what we do - especially when we're working on a cute, hunky boy like you." As he spoke, Steve snapped on a pair of tight, thin, black rubber gloves.
A steely look crossed Mark's face. Just as he thought - they were fucking queers. He turned his head away in disgust. 'Shit,' he thought to himself, 'if only I didn't feel so damned HORNY.'
At a nod from Steve, Damien switched on a wall-mounted tape machine, presumably to record the interview. Mark watched the 10" spools slowly rotating.
"Ok - to business," said Steve. "Let's start with your client. Who were you copying the files for?"
Mark continued to watch the revolving tape spools. He said nothing.
"You poor boy - you must be very horny. He placed his rubber-gloved hand lightly on the helpless boy's right thigh.
Mark jumped as if five hundred volts had shot through him. The faggot had touched him. He was prepared to feel the shock of revulsion - but instead all he felt was an intense wish that the leather-masked boy would move his hand up, grip his cock and jerk him off.
"Tell me Mark, are you ticklish.....?"
* * *
Mark's eyes opened wide in unexpected terror. No - they couldn't be serious. TICKLING? Oh God no! Not that!
It was as if Steve had read his mind. "Oh yes, Mark. Tickle torture is one of the alternative interrogation techniques being investigated by CINTEX, and it's turning out to be a very effective one - which is nice as I started the TT section."
Mark was really worried now. He had always been excruciatingly ticklish, even as a small boy - a fact that had caused him extreme embarrassment on a number of occasions - and he'd never been tickled by experts before. He had the distinct feeling that these three were very much experts. But surely not everyone was ticklish? There again, he couldn't imagine a department getting funded if only some of its victims were susceptible to its methods.
For the second time, Steve appeared to be reading his thoughts. "Of course not everyone's ticklish to start with, but that injection we gave you 'll take care of that."
Mark's curiosity got the better of him. "What was it?"
"That was liquefied ticklishness - sensitivity in a syringe. It's a cocktail of quite a few things - mainly Nicotinamide and Serotonin. Took us five years to perfect. And if you were ticklish to start with, you're really in for the ride of your life."
Steve picked up a long, pointed feather and twirled it in his hand, then chuckled. "Actually we don't tend to use feathers very much - although for a couple of techniques there's nothing to touch them." He stroked the tip gently over the tip of Mark's cock, just once.
The boy's reaction was violent. Mark tensed in his restraints, clamped his eyes shut and let out a yell of animal lust. His cock jerked up and down and precum oozed out of the piss-slit. Almost immediately he got himself back under control and lay still, but it was too late - the look in Steve's eyes told him what they both already knew: that Steve could make Mark's body respond in any way he wanted - and that there was nothing Mark could do about it.
Steve smiled under the mask. "I think you're about ready." He put the feather down and positioned his hands at either side of Mark's waist, a couple of inches above the hip-bones. "Now remember," he said, "you can stop this any time you want - just answer whatever question I've asked you. Do you understand that?"
Mark's features were set in an expression that said 'do your worst'. He said nothing.
Damien wheeled the ventilating machine close to the head of the table, adjusted some valves and picked up the black rubber mask. Its corrugated tubes trailed back to the machine sinuously. Carefully, he placed the mask over Mark's nose and mouth and held it in place. The rubber bag began to inflate and deflate as the helpless boy breathed.
Mark's eyes were wide with fright. A muffled "Nooooo..." came from under the mask. He tried to move his head from side to side to dislodge it, but the boy held it in place over his face.
"Don't worry, we're not going to put you to sleep. That's the very last thing we want to do. You're breathing Oxygen - actually oxygenated air. It'll keep your nervous system operating at maximum efficiency."
After a few moments the boy removed the mask. Mark was beginning to feel light-headed, and his body tingled all over.
"The first question," said Steve, his hands still poised at Mark's sides, "is: How did you learn about the existence of CINTEX?"
Mark stared at the ceiling. He was frightened, but determined.
Without warning, Steve jabbed his stiff fingers into Mark's sides. He pushed them in, felt around for the exact place, and moved his fingertips to and fro quickly, stimulating the nerve centres deep below the surface. His years of experience ensured he got the precise spot first time.
Every muscle in Mark's body tensed, he arched his back, and let out a shriek that was half a scream and half a howl of hysterical laughter. God, that tickled like nothing he could have imagined!
Steve's fingers worked on his sides mercilessly. Then, they stopped abruptly, and began walking up the sides of his ribs towards the boy's armpits. This brought fresh laughter from Mark, who twisted and turned in his restraints, trying to get away from the boy's hands. Once at his armpits, Steve changed his technique suddenly from hard, stiff pressure to light, teasing strokes - the tips of his fingers hardly touching the skin as they tickled in and around his victim's sensitive pits.
Mark convulsed on the table. He tried by an effort of will to make himself not ticklish - but he felt more sensitive than he had ever felt in his life. he screamed, thrashed about and tried to get his arms down to protect himself - but that was the one thing the restraints were designed to prevent his doing. His wrists were strapped to the table high beyond his head and his pits were accessible, vulnerable and completely unprotectable.
Steve was an expert tickle torturer. His recruitment to CINTEX had been a choice - either work for the government or go to jail for tying up and tickle torturing boys. Some people were serial killers - Steve was a serial tickle torturer. The possibility of actually being paid for doing the one thing he loved more than anything else in the world, had been irresistible. He'd founded this department and, in the six years he'd been here, had trained Damien and Mike to use tickle torture with almost the same degree of expertise as his own. It was a matter of pride to them that their department was now one of the most effective in CINTEX.
"Tell me, Mark. How did you know about CINTEX?" Steve's fingers were alternating between the boy's sides and his armpits. Mark was fighting his restraints and screaming hysterically. To allow him to be able to speak, Steve stopped tickling and let his fingertips glide slowly and gently over Mark's oiled skin.
Mark grabbed lungfuls of air and his hysterics subsided. "Please," he gasped, "no more. I - I can't take it."
"Tell me then, Mark - How did you know about CINTEX?"
"I - I was doing a report for the paper." He swallowed, his breathing still fast. "Torture in America. I needed some files from SIM. A friend hacked into it for me. While I was trying to find them I came across a reference to CINTEX. I - I had no idea what it was. I should have left it alone - but I didn't."
Steve's hands had moved down Mark's body when he'd begun talking, and had been teasing the insides of the boy's thighs slowly while he'd been speaking.
Mark's eyes were closed, and his hips were gently thrusting up and down. It was almost hypnotic: extremely sexual, and felt wonderful. Far from turning Mark off, the tickle torture had made him incredibly horny again. After the unbearable tickling, the exquisite feeling of Steve's fingers sliding over his erogenous zones had overcome his homophobia for the moment, and he surrendered himself to it without conscious thought. He opened his eyes and looked at the leather-masked face over him. The brown eyes gazed into his in a disturbing way. Briefly, the thought crossed Mark's mind that he'd like to get to know this boy better - but the realisation of what he was thinking snapped him out of his reverie and he banished it instantly. He moved his hips, this time trying to get away from the invasive touch near his private parts. The far-away look vanished from his face.
Beneath the mask, Steve smiled to himself - he'd seen this mixture of responses so many times before. "Okay, that's good. Now I need a name, Mark. Who hacked into the SIM mainframe for you?"
Mark looked as if he was about to cry. "I can't tell you that. I - I CAN'T. Please - please don't ask me. Please."
Steve's voice was gentle. "I need to know, Mark. You have to tell me."
Steve nodded to the other boy, who placed the rubber mask over Mark's face again.
Mark shook his head slowly in desperation. "No... No... Please."
At a nod of Steve's head, Mike attached stainless steel plates to fastenings in the table either side of each of Mark's feet. They stood vertically, and prevented the boy from moving his feet from side to side - now he could only move them forwards and back, and the position of the straps made even that movement extremely limited. He took two devices that were the size and shape of feathers but which were made of stiff pointed leather, and began to run their sharp ends over the oily bare soles.
At the first gentle stroke, Mark started to giggle. By the time both feet were being worked on, he was hysterical again. "No! No! Please - No! For God's sake! I-I-I can't stand it - Heeheheheaargh! Eeeeee! Hahahaha!!"
Steve's hands moved to Mark's knees and began to squeeze the muscle sharply either side, just above the kneecap. He knew from personal experience that done properly, this was one of the most excruciating tickle torture techniques - and he knew exactly how to do it properly.
Mark was bouncing up and down in his restraints, screaming and shrieking insanely. It was more than he could stand. He thought he was going to go completely mad. This was worse than having teeth extracted. The thing was - it didn't hurt, it wasn't pain, but it was totally unbearable . He had to stop it - NOW! He would have done anything to stop it - but he couldn't speak! There was nothing he could do to end this torture. His entire body seemed to be tuned to experiencing ticklishness. Actual pain would have been welcome - it would have given him something else to deal with, to take his mind off this excruciating torture. He laughed and shrieked, gasped for breath, yelled and screamed till his lungs felt like they were going to burst - and it didn't stop. It went on, and on, and on.....
If only he could faint. Please, he prayed, please let me faint...
"Now Mark, what was the name?"
Mark's body was shuddering. He was still incapable of speech - and he could feel Steve's fingers still there on his knees, ready to start again....
"D-d-d-d-d..." SHIT - he couldn't get the fucking name out. He took a deep breath and willed himself to relax, then tried again. "D-d-d ... DEXTER. P-P-Paul D-Dexter. H-he works for... for the FBI. L-Los Angeles." He shut his eyes, and felt Steve's hands gently moving up his thighs. This time one of them came to rest on his balls. The hand stroked slowly, teasingly, sending waves of pleasure through the helpless boy. His cock dribbled more precum and waved in the air, beckoning Steve's hand to touch it, to rub it, to make it fucking CUM!
"Good. That's better. You see how easy it is?" He continued to massage Mark's balls gently, sending Mark into ecstasy.
"Now, next question: who got you into the SIM centre? Was it Dexter?"
Mark shook his head. "Guy called Walters. Works there - Accounts."
Steve's hand moved upwards to the very base of Mark's cock. Electric shocks of pure lust coursed through the boy's body. He thrust his hips in an effort to get Steve to wank him off, but the fingers remained motionless, gently gripping the bottom of the desperate shaft.
"Ok - so far so good. You're into SIM, but you still need access to the mainframe. You need passwords. How did you get those?"
Mark had been dreading this. There was no way he could reveal how he'd got into one of the most closely-guarded computers in the country. But he knew he couldn't just refuse to answer. He couldn't take more tickle torture. He'd have to lie - make up something to satisfy them. "It was Walters. He got me the passwords from another guy. I don't know his name. I really don't."
Steve removed his hand gently. He gazed at Mark, considering this. "And when was this?"
When? Does it matter when? - thought Mark. "Last Friday."
Steve's eyes looked sad. "But that can't be right, because they change the passwords every day." He nodded to the boy with the oxygen mask again, and as it was held over Mark's face, Steve said, "and you were doing so well."
This time was worse than anything Mark had experienced so far. The boy at the end of the table worked on his feet, concentrating on the toes, having found that Mark was particularly ticklish there. He used the pointed end of the stiff leather to get between them and tickle right down in the crevices. Mark scrunched his toes up to try to keep the devilish instrument out but it was no use. Toe by toe, Mike worked his way along, staying just long enough between each pair to cause the maximum stimulation possible. Mark screamed with ticklishness.
Damien, after replacing the mask on the ventilating machine, tickled Mark's armpits expertly with his fingers; and Steve worked on his sides and knees, using pressure techniques mercilessly.
After a couple of minutes Mark was drenched in sweat, and totally exhausted from hysterical laughter, screaming and howling, and his manic efforts to free himself from the straps that held him immobile. It was impossible for him to get enough breath to feed the screams and shrieks the torture was compelling him to make, and his whole body vibrated like a guitar string with pure ticklishness.
And through all this torture, his cock was still rock-hard. In fact he was much more horny now than he had been at any time since his capture. A single firm stroke would have brought him off - he knew that without question. While he struggled and writhed, screamed and laughed, a tiny part of his mind wondered what it was that was turning him on so much about all this. Here he was - a straight, red-blooded male with no sexual interest in boys or men at all, strapped down helpless and being tickle tortured by three homosexual perverts in black leather masks - and he was getting off on it like he'd never done in his life before. Was it the bondage and the domination - that he was being controlled, manipulated against his will? Was it the very fact that it was gay guys who were doing it to him - was he in fact gay himself and never knew it? He dismissed that possibility because he knew he just didn't fancy guys. Was it simply because he was so horny that anything would have turned him on at this moment? Again, no - that didn't feel right. Was he falling in love with Steve? Come on - he was a guy, and he hadn't even seen his face for fuck's sake! He just didn't know what it was - but he did know that he was both hating this and loving it at the same time.
Mercifully, the torture stopped again. Steve allowed him time to recover, then asked again, "Who got you the passwords? Tell me, Mark. We haven't STARTED to tickle you yet. This can go on all night - and tomorrow - and...."
"A-A-ALL RIGHT! I'll t-t-t-tell you." Mark knew he just had no choice. He fought to get his breathing back under control, then sighed, knowing he was beaten. "Nobody gave me the passwords. Well, not directly."
Steve tilted his head questioningly.
"It was a program. A mate of mine at Microsoft gave me a program - it's called a Mayfly. When the computer you're trying to get into asks you for a password it starts running, and kinda works like somebody picking a combination lock. I don't know exactly how it works, but it sort of listens for the clicks as it moves the cylinders - it tries thousands of combinations a second until it gets the right one. It also somehow disables the system that only lets you try twice before locking you out. That's how I got in."
Steve remained silent, as if wanting more.
"Goddard. Mervyn Goddard at Microsoft. That's his name." Mark closed his eyes in defeat.
Steve nodded slowly. "All right. That's good. You deserve a reward for that. I'll give you a break for a while - but there are more questions, you do realise that."
Mark nodded. He opened his eyes as a shadow passed over them and didn't have time to react as Steve's masked face came down - and through the black leather, the red lips gently kissed him on the mouth.
It was the most beautiful thing Mark had ever experienced.
* * *
Mark was very confused. He was straight - he had never felt sexually attracted to another man before in his life - and yet when Steve had kissed him, he had returned the kiss. What was happening to him? He had never felt like this before - and it worried him. Oh, he knew all about the so-called 'Stockholm Syndrome' - where a torture victim often became emotionally involved with his torturer - but that couldn't be happening to him. Could it?
He gazed at Steve, who was smoking a cigarette and chatting to the other two boys. What did he feel for this man? Steve was a self-confessed homosexual, and very obviously sadistic - he was enjoying torturing Mark. Leather and bondage certainly turned Mark on - had done for as long as he could remember - and he found something decidedly erotic about being strapped down helpless at the hands of someone who would normally be a sexual threat rather than a sexual object - but there was somehow more than this. Mark found the idea of this whole place, what these boys were doing to him, and particularly Steve as an individual - horny. And that disturbed him.
Steve chuckled at something one of the boys said, then put his cigarette out and turned to Mark. "Now then Mark, just a couple of more things we want to know, then it'll be all over."
A stab of panic went through Mark's body - he didn't want it to be all over. Somehow, in some way he couldn't put into words, he wanted to take this further. This was ridiculous - he couldn't stand the torture they were inflicting on him, and yet he didn't want it to stop.
"What were you going to do with the information on that disc? Who's your client, Mark?"
Mark hesitated. "I'm not going to tell you," he said finally.
Steve did a slight double-take. "Oh-ho! Why do I get the idea you're enjoying this?"
Mark grinned but said nothing else.
"Well, I think we can make you talk. Are you still horny?" He picked up a feather and stroked it gently up the shaft of Mark's dripping cock.
Although Mark didn't reply verbally, his body answered for him as his cock jerked violently and his hips thrust up and down.
"I see you are. That's good - because there's a slightly different kind of torture that I think will be effective."
The other two boys took up position at either side of his helpless body. The oxygen mask was held in place for a while, and once again Mark's body began to tingle in anticipation.
Steve's hand went to the crotch of his tight cammos and squeezed the shaft of his rock-hard cock beneath the thin material. "I think for this we're gonna have to blindfold you."
Mark began to struggle as Mike picked up a black leather hood and tried to get it over his head. He didn't want this - he wanted to see Steve as he worked on him. His restraints notwithstanding, it took both the boys to hold him still enough to get the hood in place. Darkness descended as the cool black leather pressed over his face, blindfolding him completely. As they released him, he thrashed from side to side in an effort to get the device off his head, but it was fastened on securely and wasn't about to budge. He lay still. The only hole in the hood was for his mouth - apart from that, leather enveloped his head totally, and not a single ray of light was visible. He felt more helpless and vulnerable than ever. They could do anything they wanted to him and not only could he not stop them, he wouldn't even know what they were going to do until it was too late. His whole body tingled with sexual excitement.
After a few moments he felt something cold touch him on the outside of his thigh, followed shortly by light pressure. It felt as if something was being stuck to him. A wave of alarm went through him - electrodes! They were going to give him shocks! He waited, trembling, but no more were attached. Perhaps it was only some kind of monitoring device. He began to relax again, but remained worried until his guess was confirmed a few moments later when a soft, rhythmic clicking sound began. It was a monitor of some type.
"Now Mark," Steve's voice was slightly muffled in Mark's ears, but he could still hear him Ok. "I want you to think carefully about your present position. You are straight. You're a heterosexual young man - girls turn you on, not boys. We three, on the other hand, are gay. We're ho-mo-sexual. He said the word with relish. "And we've got you horny, and helpless. Not only are we gay, but we're the very worst kind of gays - we're kinky, and we're sadists. We love to make boys suffer - we especially love working on good-looking, blond, straight boys like you." There was a pause, then Steve added, "you've got a beautiful cock."
Mark almost jumped out of his skin as he felt something brush over the very tip of his dick. The unexpectedness of it really got him. Damn this fucking hood, he said to himself.
Then something soft stroked up his left side, over his ribs and down to his navel. Almost simultaneously something else touched the inside of his right thigh and moved upwards towards his balls. Feathers! They were using feathers on him. It didn't exactly tickle - at least not in the same way as it had when they'd been working on him before - but it was indescribably erotic. He realised his body was bucking up and down and had to make a conscious effort to stop it.
The feather on his thigh had reached the very top, and tickled right into the crevice at the side of his scrotum, reaching deep inside the crease and teasing the sensitive skin there. The other one had worked its way up to his armpit and was tracing ever-decreasing circles, homing in slowly on the exact centre of his pit.
Suddenly a third feather began stroking his cock. It began at the base, and travelled slowly and tantalisingly up the engorged shaft, teasing and tickling. His cock responded by jerking around, desperate for a firmer touch. Mark noticed that the clicking sound had also been increasing in frequency for the last few seconds - in fact, since the boys had first touched him.
The feather at the top of his thigh was moving again - and a jolt of erotic ticklishness zapped through him as it touched his naked balls, the tip stroking gently over the sensitive sac. Then there was a cool, rubber-gloved hand between his thighs. It carefully encircled the top of his scrotum, and gently squeezed the balls down until they were held tightly against the covering skin. Now the feather was applied again - and this time ittickled! At the first, unexpected touch Mark let out a hoarse grunt, which turned to staccato cries of ticklishness and lust as the feather began to stroke round and round across the tightly-stretched skin. He had no idea that his balls were so ticklish. Instinctively he tried to close his knees together against the tickling, but the straps held his legs immobile. This inability to protect his most sensitive parts from even such a gentle assault made him feel intensely helpless.
The clicks from the monitor had now run together so that they made a sort of continuous creaking sound and, as the boys worked on him, that creaking became a low note, and began to rise slowly in pitch. Its ascent quickened when the boy teasing Mark's cock reached the glans and started to tickle it lightly.
Mark couldn't keep still. It was as if his body was no longer under his conscious control - it was bouncing up and down in the restraints, his hips thrusting as if he was fucking someone madly.
"Put that on him." Steve's voice. A moment later Mark felt a wide leather strap being fastened over his pelvis and pulled very tight. Now he couldn't move his hips at all.
Something else was being done: his cock - which had been pointing towards his navel - was gently pulled vertical, and some kind of metal ring was fixed around the base. It must have been attached somehow to the table between his legs, as it pulled downwards and kept his cock vertical and immobile. He could no longer thrust his hips, and even when his cock jerked it didn't move very much.
They began again - teasing his cock, his balls and his thighs with those frustrating, tickling feathers. They danced over his skin, hitting all his most sensitive erogenous zones dead on. Now that his cock was totally immobilised, they could work on it with precision - the tip of the feather reached into the piss-slit with absolute accuracy, tickling round and round, or stroked over his bare glans or the edge of his foreskin, getting him nearer and nearer to orgasm - and there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't get away from it - and, worse still - he couldn't bring himself off.
The pitch of the sound from the monitor was now very high and still climbing. The feathers tickled over his thighs, his balls and his cock, and Mark was in paradise. In his wildest dreams he had never imagined it was possible to be so horny He thought he'd been horny earlier - but this was something else completely. At this moment, everything was turning him on - the fact that he was helpless and couldn't move; the hood enclosing his head, pressing over his eyes tightly and blindfolding him with the sexy feel and smell of shiny black leather; the knowledge that he was in a government interrogation centre and being tortured by three pervy, masked, sadistic gay boys in tight, bulging cammos; that one of them - Steve - was a hot sonofabitch that he fancied like fuck; and of course the things they were actually doing to him. All this was turning him on like crazy.
As he lay there, immobilised and helpless while they teased and tickled his most sensitive bits, there was only room for one thing in his mind. His entire universe was focused on it - the urgent, desperate, compelling need to CUM. Nothing else in all the world mattered. He HAD to CUM.
The tone from the monitor reached a new high. He was on the very edge of orgasm. One more stroke...
And then they stopped.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! DON'T STOP - I'M ALMOST CUMMING!"
There was silence for a few moments, apart from the tone which held for a moment, then slowly began to drop in pitch.
"Oh, we know you're almost cumming," said Steve slowly. Even though Mark was blindfolded and Steve was masked, Mark could tell the boy was smiling cruelly.
Mark tried to struggle, but he couldn't move. "For God's sake, let me cum. PLEASE!"
In response, an oily rubber-gloved hand gently wrapped itself around Mark's desperate cock. Very, very slowly, it began to jack him off. Up - down - up - down - up - down. The cool, smooth rubber slid around his desperate cock on the thick film of slippery oil, and the feeling was incredibly horny.
The tone began to rise again quickly. As the pitch increased, Steve's hand slowed down until, finally, it stopped completely just as Mark again reached the edge of orgasm. Not moving, it held the boy's cock gently in its grip. The tone held steady for a few seconds, then began to descend. Immediately Steve brushed his thumb lightly over the tip of Mark's cock, just once. Instantly the tone rose again.
Under the hood, Mark was cross-eyed. He was holding his breath, frozen with the expectation of the shattering, explosive climax that was milliseconds away...
... But it didn't come.
The hand remained motionless, waiting for the tone to begin to go down. When it did, another brush with his thumb instantly brought Mark back to the edge of orgasm again.
Unable to hold his breath any longer, Mark gulped in lungfuls of air - then froze again as Steve, with just one movement of his thumb, offered the boy a glimpse of the indescribable pleasure he could give him by pushing him gently over the edge into the ecstatic abyss of orgasm - if he chose to do it
This was the most excruciating torture imaginable. It wasn't pain, and it was totally unlike the tickle torture had been earlier. This was a torture of frustration. He had been led by the hand to something he wanted more desperately than he had wanted anything in his life - shown it, allowed to see it, feel it and almost touch it - and then he had been very carefully denied it - and they could do that to him as often as they wished. These guys were pure sadists.
"I can keep you here like this all day if you like - there's no way you can cum unless I allow it. And I can even make it worse..."
Steve's hand had been stationary for some time now and the monitor tone - which Mark had realised some time ago gave an auditory indication of how close to orgasm he was - had gone down considerably. He was still not far from cumming - a single firm stroke would have easily done the trick - but further than he had been for some time. Now, he felt something else: the other hand was back between the tops of his thighs. it encircled his balls and began to pull them gently downwards, away from his body. At the same time, there was a whirring sound and his legs - which until now had been spread wide, started to close together until his thighs gripped the boy's rubber-gloved hand between them. The cold rubber felt beautiful against his bare skin, and the fingers moved teasingly, massaging his balls and the insides of his thighs. The tone began to rise. Mark shook his head slowly from side to side in desperation - even without his cock being touched, that felt so fucking sexy. He knew there was no way he could possibly hold out against that.
Then Steve's hand started to move again, slowly up and down the shaft of his cock.
Within seconds Mark was back at the edge of orgasm.
Everything stopped. Mark let out a scream of frustration. This was more than he could take.
"Don't forget, Mark - you can cum any time you like. Just tell me what I want to know."
Mark had actually forgotten that he could end this. "ALL RIGHT!!" He yelled, "ALL RIGHT!! I'LL TELL YOU!!"
Steve's hand was motionless, waiting.
Mark could hardly speak. "The guy's called Bartok. I don't know if that's his real name, but that's all I've got. I don't know how he found out about what I was doing - Walters or Goddard or somebody must have told him. Whatever - he offered me $10,000 for information about interrogation research."
"How and when were you to get it to him?"
"D'ya want to cum, Mark? Want me to jack you off?" Steve slid his hand lightly up the shaft of the boy's cock. "Want Tony to tickle your balls again while I grip your cock hard and jack you off? Make you ejaculate? Make you shoot your spunk? Imagine how that would feel Mark, my fingers sliding over the head of your cock, your hot spunk shooting all over my tight cammos"
Mark groaned. It was no use. "Tomorrow morning, 3am, at the fountain in the park. Simple exchange." He told Steve everything - there was now no point in holding anything back at all. When he'd finished, he was glad - now it was all off his mind.
"Okay! You did it!" Steve laughed. "Get ready for the best orgasm of your fucking life, boy."
The hand between Mark's legs began to move again, teasing his balls and tickling his thighs. Steve started jacking him off once more, again very very slowly. The tone gradually rose in pitch.
Then Mark felt the wet heat of Steve's mouth as it enclosed the head of his cock. The boy's tongue played over the tip and around the piss-slit, then began to suck hard.
Mark both felt and - via the monitor, heard - himself approaching orgasm again. The boys took him to the edge, held him there for a good ten seconds, and then firmly pushed him - strapped down, hooded and helpless - over the precipice and into the bottomless pit of orgasm.
At the very instant he started to cum, the third boy jabbed stiff fingers into Mark's sides, tickling him hard and mercilessly. Mark screamed, as the unexpected torture added to and intensified his orgasm.
His spunk - hot, sticky, and insanely desperate for release, jetted up through his shaft and exploded from his cock in thick, powerful bursts. Steve's hot, wet lips rode up and down the shaft, his mouth sucking and his tongue working on the glans as the boy's spunk hit the back of his throat with such force he only just managed to keep up with swallowing it. It went on and on and on. Mark let out an ear-splitting, animal howl of ecstasy and his body began to shudder uncontrollably.
Steve milked him dry, and ended by massaging the end of his cock very gently and slowly with his tongue until the boy's convulsions subsided and he lay still again.
Damien removed the hood and stroked Mark's forehead affectionately, then he and Mike left, leaving him alone with Steve.
Steve switched off the tape recorder, then did something at a table off to the side. When he returned to Mark's side, he was holding a hypodermic syringe. He paused for a moment and gazed at Mark. "God, you're beautiful," he whispered.
Mark eyed the syringe. "What are you going to do to me now?" He asked.
Steve sighed. "This will put you to sleep. When you wake up you'll be back home."
Mark felt like crying. He knew he would never see Steve again, and he desperately wanted to - but he didn't know how - or what - to say. "Look - this, this has all made me think a lot. About myself. I - I..." he closed his eyes. "I think you - you're..." He screwed his face up, trying to get his emotions under control, then his eyes opened as he felt the needle go into his arm.
Steve was smiling gently under the mask. "When you wake up, you will be at home. Sleep well, beautiful boy." Then, for the second time, he bent over Mark's helpless form and they kissed deeply - Steve gazing into Mark's clear blue eyes until they closed and the boy went under.
* * *
Mark opened his eyes blearily. His restraints were gone and the bed was soft and comfortable under him, but his vision was still blurred. He lazily moved himself back into the spread-eagle position and closed his eyes again, trying to recreate in his mind the feeling of being helpless on the operating table. In his imagination the masked face of Steve was looking down at him. His cock hardened immediately and he groaned - he had never felt attracted to another man before in his life, but he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he was in love with Steve. The thought that he'd lost him - that he would never see him again - was almost too much to bear. He didn't know where he lived, or how to get in touch with him. A tear fell down his cheek, and he sobbed.
He heard a footstep, and his eyes shot open. He raised his head and gasped. There, standing framed in the doorway, wearing the same cammos, boots and tee-shirt as before, but without the mask, was Steve. His brown eyes, set in the most beautiful face Mark had ever seen, grinned at him.
"I told you you'd be at home when you woke up. Welcome to my home."
Mark whooped as Steve launched himself onto the bed and landed on top of him.
They hugged each other and kissed for a very, very long time.