Randy was every bit as obnoxious and as full of himself as Dick had said. Beer in hand, he was holding forth at the pub table. “So he put stronger clips on my tits – the strongest ones he’d got – and then he twisted them. Then he put his boot back on my nuts and stood on them again. I told him his ceiling needed repainting.”
The guys around the table smiled politely and, out of Randy’s sight, Dick gave me a “see what I mean?” look.
Randy took a mouthful of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So then he tried electricity. I told him to put a fucking battery in it next time.”
Randy was an enormous guy, and he was solid muscle. He must have worked out three or four times a day, I reckoned. His leather jacket was torn and filthy, covered with studs and badges, and on the back of the denim cut-off he wore over it were the words, “Satans Fucker’s”. I guessed that the bike club wasn’t too worried about where apostrophes went. His leather jeans were even more scruffy, with stains on them which were probably best kept at a safe distance. He ran a hand over his completely shaved head, the tattooed scalp glistening in the overhead lights.
“So. Then the wanker tried beating my arse. Paddles, canes, even a little wimpy whip. Could hardly feel the bloody things. Absolutely fucking useless. By the end of it he was knackered and I was still waiting for things to start.” He finished his beer and scratched his balls. “That’s the trouble with ‘leather guys’ - they got no fucking idea how to deal with a real man.”
Randy was the absolute stereotype of the testosterone-filled, straight, hell’s angels-type biker – and yet he was gay. This amazed me. He wasn’t my type at all, I didn’t fancy him in the least, and yet there was something about him that made me want to get the fucker strapped down and… And what? I had no idea. Pain seemed to be what he wanted, but apparently it had little effect on him.
While he went to the bar for a refill Dick leaned closer. “See? Total prick.”
I nodded. But I was thinking.
A couple of weeks later we took Randy to meet a friend of ours, Mike. Mike was a bit odd in that he was the only guy I’d ever known who only has one single turn-on. Actually it’s more than a turn-on: it’s a total obsession.
There is only one piece of heavy equipment in his playroom: it’s a six-foot-square frame made out of scaffolding poles. Running between the vertical side poles are two horizontal ones: one at the top, and another a couple of feet above a small padded platform which is bolted to the floor. There’s a pair of steel restraints in the frame’s top corners, and two more pairs set into the surface of the platform.
Not that Randy could see any of this – he’d been fitted with a particularly heavy black leather hood. The only bit of him that was visible through it was his mouth. Naked, the extent of his tattoos was revealed - he had lots – and his muscles were jaw-dropping; in spite of the fact that he drank beer by the gallon, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. He was one of the most powerful-looking guys I’d ever seen – he’d have looked good on the front cover of one of those body-building or wrestling mags. Everything about Randy was big – including his thick, veined cock and the pair of bull balls hanging beneath it.
Randy had been positioned so that he was kneeling on the padded platform, and at the moment Mike was screwing the restraints down tightly over his wrists, ankles, and just behind his knees. A thick leather strap over his pelvis was secured to the horizontal pole behind him so that he couldn’t move his body.
Dick and I were sitting in a little viewing gallery, which also contained screens for the several video cameras that were installed around the room; Mike always recorded sessions, no doubt for enjoying at leisure later. We wouldn’t be assisting at all – he and his three friends Paul, Jason and Griff worked with him on subjects. The four of them would be doing the business with Randy.
Satisfied that Randy couldn’t move in any direction, Mike nodded to the other three guys from where he was standing in front of Randy. They walked behind the frame, standing to either side of his restrained legs. Nothing happened for a few moments, and then Mike began to tickle the big biker’s abs and navel, slowly and lightly.
At the very first touch, Randy let out a bellow and began to struggle. “What the fuck you doin’? Piss off!” He squirmed under Mike’s fingers.
From behind, Paul began working very lightly on the biker’s armpits.
“Oh fuck. No! Piss off you fucking cunts! Get your fucking fingers outta there!
His muscles bulged as he tried to pull his arms down to protect his armpits, but of course he couldn’t.
It seemed that the pain-pig had a weakness after all - the air was blue and the frame was creaking with his efforts to escape just those fingers on his stomach and that single pair of hands in his armpits.
But if Randy thought that was all that was going to happen to him, he was sadly mistaken. Another pair of hands approached him from behind and Jason started working on his sides. They began, like the others, lightly – but I had a sneaking suspicion that they were capable of much more than this.
Randy’s distress doubled instantly. He was swearing and yelling and struggling in the frame, but the steel restraints ensured that he couldn’t get away from the torment.
Griff knelt down behind the table and began stroking his fingers gently over the the biker’s bare soles. This really made him yell. He couldn’t keep still. His toes curled up, his muscles were flexing, his body was jerking and he was doing everything he could to wrench the restraints out of the frame and out of the platform. But the steel was much, much stronger than even he was. There was a small raised block either side of each foot, designed to prevent him from getting his soles away from the tickling by moving them sideways, as the ankle restraints held his feet down tightly between the blocks.
His huge cock had, so far, been completely soft. But then Mike began to tickle his low-hanging balls. Despite his ear-splitting yelling, his cock slowly began to get hard. Bit by bit, inch by inch, the purple head raised itself until the impressive cock was standing to full attention between the meaty thighs.
It would have been bad enough for poor Randy if the session had consisted of just this alone, but at a nod from Mike the guys changed up a gear. Now the fingers in the armpits moved faster. They tickled all around the pits and dived into their centres unpredictably; the hands at the sides began to probe stiff fingers into the muscles just below the bottom ribs, finding those unbearably ticklish spots and working on them hard; and the soles of the feet were subjected to fingernails raking across them. Mike continued to tickle the biker’s balls.
If Randy had been fighting before, now he was absolutely manic. Sweat was running down his body; he could not even begin to stand what these guys were doing to him. He screamed, he cried, he shrieked like a girl. His body was bouncing up and down in his desperate need to get away from this unbearable torture – but in spite of this his cock was as hard as a rock.
The fingers worked on him skilfully and cunningly. They never allowed one spot to become desensitised: they moved around so that they were always causing the maximum torment possible. These guys knew exactly what they were doing, I thought.
Randy was yelling so hard and so continuously that he was finding it difficult to get enough air. The guys were somehow aware of this, though, and kept reducing the torture now and again just long enough for their victim to regroup before laying into him again.
The massive cock was as hard as iron – and so far nothing had touched it; Mike’s fingers just kept on tickling those big bull-balls lightly. All around, getting to the back and the sides of them as well.
Then they all stopped. Randy was breathing fast, his huge chest heaving. His muscles were twitching, expecting another onslaught at any moment.
From a table behind them the guys each took a couple of feathers. Griff passed two between the poles to Mike.
As one, they began to tickle Randy’s bare skin with the feathers. They ran up and down his arms, paying special attention to the insides of the elbows; into his armpits; over his pecs and abs and into his navel; up and down his back; all around his thighs; his calves, feet and toes. A hand even parted his buttocks and tickled the rim of his hole – and that really made the big biker scream. Every accessible inch of his bare skin was teased, caressed and stroked. He found this even more impossible to deal with than the fingers had been. Their earlier work had sensitised him, and the change from hard, probing fingers to gossamer-soft strokes from the feathers was unbearable. He yelled, he cursed, he laughed hysterically and writhed in the restraints. He begged and pleaded for them to stop.
“Please! For god’s sake stop! I can’t stand it! Oh shit. Jeezus… STOP!”
Mike now applied one of his feathers to the biker’s balls, the soft point stroking unbearably lightly over the heavy ball sac, teasing and tickling. The other feather he stroked slowly up the length of the huge cock.
Randy’s body tensed visibly. He held his breath.
The feather made its way slowly up the shaft of the cock, over the ridge, and then the engorged, shiny cock head. He flicked it once over the very tip, then took his hand away.
Randy let out an animal roar, and spunk erupted out of his cock. The biker’s yells filled the room as he came, his muscular thighs flexing rhythmically and his whole body convulsing in the restraints as his powerful orgasm took hold of him. With nothing at all touching it now, his cock jerked madly up and down as spunk pumped out in great gobs, splattering Mike and falling in pools on the rubber floor.
His orgasm over, Randy collapsed, hanging from the restraints.
I thought that would be the end of it. I was wrong. Mike immediately gripped the now hypersensitive cock head and began rubbing and polishing it mercilessly. At the same time the other guys dropped their feathers and began tickle-torturing the helpless biker even harder than before - their fingers digging sadistically into every one of his most unbearably ticklish spots, fingernails raking and scraping across the soles.
Randy found out what it’s like to be tickled mercilessly immediately after you’ve cum. He pissed himself – and then he passed out.
It was a couple of weeks before I saw him again, in a different pub. He nodded when he saw me, but looked uncomfortable. I went over and sat down. “Hey,” I said.
“Hi.”
I tried to chat to him but the conversation was mostly filled with silences. After a few minutes he said he had to go.
I suppose it’s difficult when you think you’re strong, powerful, invincible – and then you’re brought down by a ridiculous, un-manly weakness you never knew you had. Randy is ticklish – unbearably, horrendously ticklish. But that’s not the worst of it. Not only is he ticklish, but he’s discovered that it makes him cum like nothing else.
I’m not sure how he’s ever going to live that down.