Mr Smythe sighed, and put the letter down on the table. “I don’t know what we can do now, Doreen, we’re out of options. We’ve tried everything.”
The letter in question was the latest in a series of complaints from their son’s school, and this one was a final warning. If something wasn’t done about Tommy’s bullying, anger and general lack of self-discipline, he would be expelled within a month.
Mrs Smythe grunted, and marked a place on her newspaper with a finger. “There’s a course here...”
“That boy is a liability. He’s going to end up in prison if he goes on at this rate.” He shook his head in desperation. “What is there left to do?”
Mrs Smythe looked up. “There’s a course here...”
“Doreen,” he compressed his lips impatiently, “He’s been on four anger-management courses in the last two years.” He enunciated it as if he were talking to a six-year old.
“No, Harvey, this one isn’t just anger-management, it’s all about self-control.”
“Self-control? He bloody well needs some of that.” He sighed again. “And where is he?”
Mrs Smythe looked down. “He’s out.”
“Out. Bloody typical.” He flicked the letter across the table. “Go on then, make the arrangements again. But it won’t do any bloody good.”
Tommy was an old hand at these courses. He’d been made to go on many of them, and he didn’t mind – it usually meant he got out of school for half a day. Fifty percent of the time usually consisted of sitting around a table drinking coffee and smoking while they took it in turns to spout on about their ‘anger problems’ and received wisdom and ‘constructive advice’ from the others; and the other half of the time was one-to-one conversations with a resident shrink. It was easy.
These things were usually held in a vacant classroom at some local school or other, or in an office in the town hall – but this one was a private house. Unusually, he seemed to be the only customer there. He looked around the room – it was a large sitting room with a desk at one end. The guy who’d shown him in was sitting at the desk writing notes on a pad. No doubt he was the shrink, thought Tommy.
The guy looked up. He smiled. “Ok. My name is John Matthews – call me John. So, you’re Tommy Smythe.” He waited for some response but didn’t get any. “You’re having problems with self-control, I see. Well, I think we should be able to help you. What, specifically, would you say is your main problem?”
Tommy was silent for a while, then he muttered, “dunno.”
“Hmm. Well let me guess. Do you tend to lose control too easily?”
“Suppose so.”
“Right.” John made a note on the pad. “If someone teases you, does it make you feel like you want to explode?”
“Fuckin right.”
“And you have difficulty in controlling that response, yes?”
Tommy grunted.
John made more notes. “So would you say that your main problem is that you’re overly sensitive to stimulus? That you react forcefully, and too quickly? That you’d like to have more control over your responses?”
Tommy nodded sullenly.
“Well I think we can help you to learn to do that.” He rummaged around on the desk and found a form. “The length of the course is varable – it depends on how you do, Tommy – and your appointments are each weekday evening from 6pm to 9pm. That Ok?”
Shit, evening sessions, so no getting off school. Tommy sighed, but nodded again.
“I’ve already filled this in – it’s a consent form. Read it over and sign it, please – make sure you know what you’re entitling us to do - then we’ll be all set.” He pushed it across the desk.
There was a lot of small print on the form. Tommy didn’t bother to read it, he just signed it.
John took the completed form back. He smiled again. “Ok. Good.” He stood up. “Right, come with me, please, and we’ll get started.”
He led the way down a short corridor and into a white-tiled room. In the centre stood something that looked like the frame of a trampoline – it was a steel frame set vertically into the floor, with attachment points running all around the inner edge. Two other guys were waiting there. It was at that point that Tommy first suspected that something wasn’t quite as it should be – the two guys were both wearing full black leathers.
“Take you tee shirt off, please.”
Tommy frowned at the man for a moment, but then did as he’d been asked.
“Now stand in the frame.”
“What the fuck?”
“Don’t worry, Tommy. You have to be restrained for this. It’s simply to protect yourself – and the operatives – from any sudden moves you might make. You will not be hurt in any way.”
None of the other courses he’d been on had involved either removing his tee shirt or being restrained. He didn’t like the look of this at all, but he had little choice. Reluctantly he stood in the frame and allowed the guys to strap him in a spread-eagled position.
“Excellent. Thank you,” said John. “Now, this will help you to concentrate on things.” The guy behind Tommy lowered a thin leather hood over the boy’s head. It was loose, and he could breathe with no problem, but it alarmed him more than anything had done so far. He wasn’t used to being unable to see, and he suddenly felt very vulnerable. Then he felt a strap being tightened around the neck. It became more difficult to breathe, and much more confining.
“Ok. Now, we’re going to work on your self-control. I want you to remain absolutely still, and absolutely silent. Do you understand that?”
Tommy grunted yes.
His body was tense as he waited for something to happen. What the fuck were they going to do to him? He was aware that one of the guys was standing just in front of him.
Suddenly he felt a touch on his arms, just below the leather cuffs that were restraining his wrists. He jumped.
“Just relax, and concentrate. Remember, stay absolutely still, and silent.”
The fingers moved slowly along his arms towards his elbows. They stroked his bare skin lightly and slowly. It felt like insects walking. Reflexively he started to giggle, and move in the restraints.
“Keep still! And do not make any sound!”
The fingers didn’t progress past his elbows, but coninued to tickle his lower arms. After a while he got used to it a bit and managed to stop giggling. He was also able to keep still.
“Excellent. You’re doing very well. Concentrate.”
Now the tickling fingers did move past his elbows. As they began to work along his upper arms Tommy lost it again and started to laugh, and to squirm.
“Still! Silent!”
It was all very well for John to tell him to keep quiet and still, but it fucking tickled! And this bloody hood made everything more difficult – without any visual distractions he was being forced to concentrate on the tickling fingers, and that was making it tickle even more. “This hood makes it tickle worse. Can you take it off?”
“We know it does. That’s why we’ve put it on you.” They did not remove it.
Tommy was now able to keep himself under control unless the fingers got close to his armpits; when they did that there was no way he could keep still. He’d always been ticklish, and he now realised that it was something he found very difficult to fight against.
The fingers were now poised directly over his armpits. Every muscle in Tommy’s body was tensed with anticipation, and his breathing was fast and shallow. The fingers stayed there, motionless.
“Now,” said John, “this is going to be more difficult. We’re going to do it very slowly, so concentrate and fight the urge to laugh or struggle.”
Together, the two single fingertips stroked over the centre of the boy’s armpits, slowly and gently. He convulsed and yelled. That had tickled unbearably.
“Breathe. Relax.”
The fingers stopped moving. Tommy managed to get himself back under control, although their presence at his armpits made it impossible for him to relax much.
“Good. Again.”
The fingers stroked again. They were still moving very slowly indeed, but this time they didn’t stop.
Tommy shrieked. He fought the restraints, trying to close his arms to his sides. A hand clamped over his hooded mouth. “Shh….” Said a voice close to his ear. He struggled and writhed as the fingers tickled his armpits.
“Fight it! Concentrate!”
He tried. He did everything he could, but it was no good – he coulnd’t stop himself from struggling and yelling in hysterics. The fingers stopped. The boy hung from the restraints, exhausted.
They allowed him a while to recover, then repeated the exercise. First a single stroke, then continuous, but gentle, tickling. Each time Tommy did his best not to react – to keep still, to keep quiet – but he just couldn’t.
After an hour or so of this they took him down from the frame – though they kept him hooded – and stripped him. The boy asked what the fuck they thought they were doing, but was told in no uncertain terms that it was necessary, and that he had signed a form consenting to everything they would do to him. He struggled, but the guys were clearly used to unco-operative subjects, and they got him stripped quickly and efficiently. Tommy wished he’d read that form now.
He was strapped to some kind of table – the padded surface felt shiny – with his hands a foot or so away from his sides, and his ankles cuffed to the bottom corners.
“This is the second part of your treatment, Tommy. No more tickling for today – well not that kind anyway – though it will be part of each session.”
No more tickling. Tommy breathed a sigh of relief inside the hood. He lay there wondering what the fuck they were going to do to him now.
He almost jumped off the table when something touched his cock. A feather-light touch ran around the head. Something cool and smooth went between his thighs and started to play with his balls.
“Hey fuck off! Get your fucking hands off me! I’m straight!”
The feather, or whatever it was, along with the cool fingers, was removed.
“That’s good,” said the gentle voice. We know you’re straight, Tommy, and you know that we’re guys, so you won’t want your cock to react to what we’re going to do to it. Make sure it doesn’t. Control, Tommy, control.”
The feather and the hand came back. The cool – rubber? - fingers teased his balls, and he could feel the long rubber gloves moving against the insides of his thighs. The feather tickled his cock, up and down the shaft, over the head. For a minute it had no effect at all.
And then, to his horror, Tommy felt his cock beginning to stiffen. No! He gritted his teeth, did everything he could to make it go soft again, but his bastard cock continued to get harder and harder no matter what he tried to do to stop it.
“You’re getting hard, Tommy. Control it, boy! Do not let your cock get any harder.”
The feather and the fingers worked slowly and leisurely on him.
A rubber finger and thumb held his cock at the base of the shaft. “You’re not doing very well, Tommy. You’re as hard as a rock – even though you’re straight and you know it’s guys working on you.”
Tommy’s face was red under the hood. “That’s not fair. Nobody can stop their cock getting hard if it decides to.”
“And what about cumming?”
“Fuck! That’s different, mate! Pussy makes me cum – not guys!”
“I see.”
Tommy felt something being dribbled onto his cock. Lube! Rubber-gloved fingers enclosed the shaft. Slowly, they began to slide up and down. Oh fuck, that felt so good. For a moment the boy gave himself up to the wonderful feelings – but then he suddenly realised what was happening. He fought the restraints and yelled. “FUCK OFF!” But there was no way he could get away from the rubber fingers. He forced himself to imagine his mother in the bath, his father in the bath – but those fingers slipping smoothly up and down his cock were like a magnet: they kept ruining his concentration, pulling him back to reality. With a shudder he felt the realisation that he was getting close to cumming.
“Control, Tommy. You have to learn self-control. Fight it. Do everything you can to stop yourself from cumming. Do not cum. Do not cum.”
The rubber fingers neither speeded up nor slowed down; they just kept up their relentless work on his cock. And they got him to the very edge.
“Do not cum...”
Tommy took a deep breath, making the hood cling to his face. His eyes were screwed up in concentration, and he willed himself not to cum. But he was so close, and suddenly the only thing he wanted was TO cum.
Tommy came.
It was one of the best orgasm’s he’d ever had. And the fact that he’d been restrained helpless, and hooded, had made it more intense.
He squinted in the light as the hood was removed, and a sudden sense of acute embarrassment at his nakedness washed over him. He was sat on the table, and he crossed his arms over his genitals.
The two guys in leather were putting equipment away, and John was writing on a clipboard. He looked up and smiled. “You didn’t do too badly for a first session, but there is much work to be done. You will learn self-control, Tommy, but from tomorrow the restraints will be more… creative… and the stimulus will be a little more intense...”
“How was it?” Mr Smythe was sitting in the armchair with a glass of whiskey. He prepared himself for the usual swearing and total dismissal of all these attempts to improve the boy’s behaviour.
Tommy plonked hmself down on the settee. “Oh, you know. It was Ok.”
“Do you think it’s going to do any more good than the others?” Asked his mother in a small voice.
There was a pause. “P’raps we should give it a chance. It might work.”
Mr Smythe looked at his wife with raised eyebrows. That, coming from Tommy, was unprecedentedly positive.
Mr Smythe sipped his scotch thoughtfully.
Mrs Smythe blinked in wonder.
Tommy grinned.