The Telemachus Story Archive

No Such Thing As Ghosts
By Hooder

No Such Thing as Ghosts.

"Oh God, I'm stuck!" Mumbled Davy. He was halfway through the window and, in truth, he was stuck. By stretching his legs he was able to touch the wall with his toes, but no amount of pressure with his arms against the glassless window pane would pull him through. The upper half of his body had presented little trouble - the problem was his hips: slim as he was, they were just too wide. Neither could he go back now - he seemed to be jammed solid.

"Oh shit. Now what do I do?" He relaxed for a moment and contemplated his position, trying to grapple with the geometry of the situation. His body was widest from side to side, and the opening was widest along the diagonal, not the long edge. Therefore, if he could twist himself around so his hips were at the corners, and push...

He landed in a heap on the floor, with grazed sides and a bruised elbow, which he rubbed industriously. As he waited for the pain to subside, he cursed Mike, Colin and Paul. It was the last day of term, and the four friends had been chatting idly in the common room. Davy wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but the subject had got around to ghosts. Mike had said that he'd never seen one, but he was sure they existed - an aunt of his had had several encounters with them during her exceptionally long life (she was a hundred and one); Colin claimed to have seen a ghost in Purbeck Street, along the edge of the canal some years ago; and Paul said that he kept an open mind about such things. If and when he saw one, he would believe in them.

Davy had listened to his friends with mounting incredulity and had then thrown back his head and laughed with derision. "You gullible idiots! There are no such things as ghosts - there never have been and there never will be. You've all been reading too much fiction!" He'd looked from one to the other and shaken his head. "How can three otherwise reasonably sensible sixth formers be taken in by crap like that? Beats me. It's about time you all grew up."

Well, that's how it had started. Me and my big mouth, thought Davy. It had been Paul who'd suggested Davy prove he had the courage of his convictions by staying the night in Davenport House, and of course it had been impossible to back out of, once the suggestion had been made.

Davenport House was a rambling old place just outside the town. It had been unoccupied for years, and had a reputation amongst the locals for being the residence of more ghosts than you could shake a stick at. At various times over the years, assorted psychic researchers had bugged the building with all manner of seeing, listening and feeling devices, but none had recorded any unexplainable phenomena. Grumpily they had packed their bags and gone home, leaving the locals winking and nodding conspiratorially to one another. They knew that just because ghosts don't perform to order, that doesn't mean that they don't exist.

Davy climbed to his feet and retrieved the parcel of sandwiches he had thrown through the window before him. The room he had entered so painfully had apparently been a pantry, for in the fast-fading light meat hooks and provisions cupboards could be made out. The floor was strewn with rubbish and the odd empty cigarette packet. Better look round and find a place to stay for the night before the light goes completely, he thought to himself. He had brought candles, but he wanted to keep them for writing, later.

The door from the pantry led into a large kitchen. Still intact, and hanging from a board over the door were the bells which had been used to summon servants to the various rooms occupied by the Master's family. Davy smiled and walked on through the other doorway and into the hall.

The first thing Davy noticed was that the stairs had been wrecked by a chimney stack that had fallen through the roof and upper floors. There was plaster and straw all over the place, and the pot itself had demolished part of the staircase, cutting off the upper floors completely. Oh well, he thought, that at least cuts down the time I've got to spend looking for a place to hang out.

Off to the left of the hall was a gigantic dining room. An enormous solid oak table complete with chairs commanded the centre of the room and, Davy was delighted to see, an actual (although rusted) suit of armour standing against one of the walls! An archetypal set of antlers hung over the massive fireplace (must have been going at a hell of a lick when he came through that wall... Davy smiled at the old joke) and a cobweb-garlanded candelabrum swayed ever so slightly from a heavy chain in the centre of the ceiling. This was the room he'd stay in. He could even eat his sandwiches at the dining table!

Further investigation before the last of the daylight went revealed another room off to the right of the hall, but this old withdrawing room had been stripped or looted, and held nothing of interest.

Davy opened his pack and set out on the table his Walkman cassette player, sandwiches, candles, and the thick ring binder in which he was writing his novel. In his spare time, Davy wrote porn. It had begun last year when he'd found his brother's girlie mags and, after a long session of one-handed reading, he'd decided that the standard of writing was so bad he could do better himself. And, indeed, he had. His regular contributions to a number of magazines now provided him with a pleasant little income. This, his latest work, was a full-length novel which had actually been commissioned by a gay S&M mag, for serialization over twelve issues. The brief had been brief, so to speak: it must deal with leather, bondage and torture. This had been new ground for Davy but, as he began writing the early chapters, he found himself getting turned on more and more by the idea - and, as he had found in the past - what turned him on, invariably turned his readers on.

He lit a candle and munched a salad sandwich as he read the latest few paragraphs, then, wiping his fingers on the paper serviette, he put on the headphones (he worked best when being blasted with heavy rock music), turned on the Walkman, picked up the fibre tipped pen, and settled down to a long night's writing.

It was early August, and the summer night was warm - very warm, in fact. Davy had removed his shirt half an hour ago but was still hot. He'd tried to open a window then, but they were all nailed shut. Now, he stretched, took off the headphones, and removed his jeans. The air against his bare legs felt good. He took off his socks, ate another sandwich, and adjusted his cock inside his shorts. The trouble with writing porn, he thought to himself, is that you have a permanent erection while you're working. Even worse, you mustn't allow yourself to cum, because after an orgasm you just couldn't be creative about sex. He picked up the pen again and continued his writing - his cock pushing his loose white shorts out between his legs.

An hour later he was tapping the pen against his teeth, deep in thought. His story was going well, but now he needed a fresh idea or two. In the novel, the victim had been beaten, stretched a little on the rack, had had hot candle wax dropped onto his balls, and had been given mild electric shocks. Still he had refused to give his torturers the information they required. Davy needed a new kind of torture that was at once not too agonising for an - after all willing - victim to stand, but also totally irresistible, in order to bring the present chapter to a satisfactory conclusion.

A sudden movement at the corner of his field of vision made Davy look up suddenly. He was sure he'd seen a face at the window. While he had been lost in his writing, Davy had forgotten where he was, or why he was here, but now it all came back to him in a flash. He put down the pen, took of the phones and walked to the window. Nothing was visible outside. He was just about to turn back, when his heart almost stopped as a huge white moth hit the glass and fluttered there for a few seconds. As soon as he recognised it for what it was, he laughed out loud in relief, called himself a pillock for getting the shakes, and returned to his work.

A little later the cassette came to an end, and Davy reached out without looking, to turn it over. In the middle of the operation he lost his grip on the plastic, and the cassette dropped to the floor. He retrieved it from the dusty floorboards and brushed it off on his shorts. Just then he had the sudden feeling that he was no longer alone. He looked up sharply, let out an involuntary gasp, and dropped the cassette again. There, some eight feet beyond the other side of the table, stood three shadowy figures. They appeared to be monks, and were wearing long, brown, hooded robes.

After a moment of panic, the obvious explanation occurred to Davy and, partially regaining his composure, he laughed nervously. "Nice one, guys. I didn't even hear you come in. I thought you might try something like this. Want a sandwich?"

The figures did not reply. They simply stood there, wringing their hands as if in pain or frustration.

"Oh come on guys, I know it's you. Mike, pack it in. Colin? Paul?" Davy was frowning now. They were a little tall for his three friends. "Look, I took the dare and I'm here. Your joke didn't work, but I'm buggered if I'm gonna let you make me leave before the morning - so either take off those ridiculous robes and I'll show you around, or fuck off and let me get some work done."

Again, the figures did not reply. Davy couldn't see their faces (they were hidden in the shadows of the brown hoods) but those hands... with impossibly long, slender fingers - and they almost seemed to be glowing. Davy stared, fascinated, as the figures stroked one hand over the other as if - yes, thought Davy, that's it - as if they were itching to get on with something, to do something. With difficulty, Davy tore his eyes away from those disturbing hands and, with a shock, realized that now he could see the monks' faces-and he experienced a wave of pure terror.

These were not earthly faces. Neither were they of the hideously disfigured monster type so often seen in Hammer Horror films. No - these faces were strange. The eyes were white, with jet black pupils; the noses were long, slender, and smooth; and the wide mouths leered, their thin lips working soundlessly and drooling saliva slightly at the corners. And, like the hands, the faces were softly glowing, like that luminous paint that clock faces are sometimes done with.

Davy knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that these were not his friends, dressed up to frighten him. Then, with another gasp, he noticed something else - he could see through them! They were not transparent, he could not see things clearly, but rather as if they were made of drably coloured jelly: highlights from the suit of armour behind them were definitely visible.

Davy swallowed. He felt very insecure. "Who are you?"

There was no reply.

"What do you want?"

The monks gave no indication that they had even heard him. Davy stood up, eying the door. He was shaking. His one instinct was to put as much distance between these apparitions and himself as he could, and as quickly as possible. As he slowly edged round the table, they followed him with their eyes. Suddenly the tallest one of the three raised the middle finger of one band with a small flick - and the door, Davy's only hope of escape, slammed shut with a resounding bang. He jumped at the noise, and Davy knew without trying it, that the door was locked and unopenable.

All he could do was wait and see what happened. So far they hadn't harmed him, but the closing of the door did nothing to make him feel happier about the situation.

Then, without warning, one of the monks did something with his hands, and it was as if someone had swept an invisible arm across the surface of the table: sending the candles, sandwich box, Davy's book - everything - crashing to the floor. The candles went out, but there was an eerie pale light illuminating the room. The book, Davy noticed, landed neatly, still open to the same page.

The next thing he knew, Davy was levitating! In panic he looked down at his feet - there was no mistake - they were two inches off the floor, and rising. He flailed his arms and legs, but to no effect; he continued to rise steadily until his bottom was level with the table top. Then he began to rotate. In a few seconds he was horizontal and moving towards the table. Gently, he came to rest face up, lying full length on the solid oak table. He was not in any pain, but he found he no longer had any control over his arms or legs. He tried desperately to grip the sides of the table with his hands, but they simply would not obey his commands - they remained obstinately by his sides. Then, suddenly, they did move - but it was not by his doing. Slowly, his arms moved away from his sides, up past the level of his shoulders, until they came to a stop, almost touching, stretched out above his head. At the same time, his legs straightened and moved down the table an inch or so. Davy felt a gentle but firm tension in his body, as if he were being pulled and held down by two people. it was not an unpleasant sensation - so far, he reflected.

Up until this point, the monks hadn't moved from where they stood. But now they glided silently over the floor towards him. To his utter astonishment, the smallest one continued to glide right through him and the table, and came to rest the other side of him, then turned round so that Davy was now between them, looking up at their faces. They exuded an aura of pure wickedness as they leered down at him. These beings were evil, Davy told himself.

They were smiling with their crooked mouths, running thin, pointed tongues over their black lips. Davy struggled to get free of whatever it was that was holding him, but all he could do was raise his back off the table a few inches - all further movement was impossible. He was terrified. Perhaps they were going to eat him. And then a thought occurred to him: the small one had already passed right through him and the table, so it seemed that they couldn't actually touch him. Relief flooded through his body and he relaxed a little. They were just trying to frighten him, that's all. OK - he could deal with that.

Then one of the monks touched him. A thin finger brushed his bare knee and ran down his calf to his ankle. Davy yelled with surprise. So much for that theory.

Davy, in common with all teenage boys, suffered from two weaknesses: firstly that he was permanently horny - he spent most of his waking life with a hard-on; and secondly that he was helplessly ticklish. For as long as he could remember, he had been totally, unbearably, unbelievably ticklish. He was so ticklish that even the threat of being tickled would instantly cause him to hug himself defensively and start giggling.

The monk's finger paused at Davy's ankle, traced a line down the side of his foot, and moved lightly across the bare sole. Davy began to laugh. "No - no, please don't do that. Don't tickle me." He shook his head pleadingly.

Slowly, the monk withdrew his hand and, one by one, the three figures rolled up their sleeves. Actually they pushed them up, exposing thin, hairless arms. Suddenly, Davy felt the tension that had been holding his body flat against the table top release slightly. He tried to move, and discovered that he could, but only very, very slowly. It was as if he were immersed in thick treacle. Then, the monks raised their hands in front of the boy's face, and wiggled their fingers. Davy groaned, and began pleading again. He knew exactly what the sign language meant. Fingers wiggled like that mean just one thing: I'm going to tickle you....

The middle-sized monk moved down to the end of the table and began to run his fingers over the sensitive soles of Davy's bare feet. Because of Davy's attempts to jump off the table, his feet were now six inches above the wooden surface, and still moving very slowly to the right. The shadowy, hooded figure tickled the teenager's feet - the thin, slender fingers slipping easily between the boy's toes, searching out all the nooks and crannies that were the most vulnerable. Davy was in hysterics. He laughed and giggled and spluttered, in between trying to beg the monk to stop.

The other two monks were watching the boy's reactions with relish. They were leering more than ever now, their thin mouths grinning evilly. Monk number two began to caress Davy's hands, doing similar things to the palms and between the fingers, as the other was doing to the boy's feet. Davy had never been tickled on his hands before, and the sensations were excruciating. He tried desperately to get away from his tormentors, but it was as if he were in one of those dreams where all your movements are in slow motion. His attempts at escape had by now carried him to the edge of the table, and he was in danger of falling off the side, but to his further amazement, he did not begin to drop - he was levitating again, moving sideways off the table and right into thin air. The monks followed him, numbers one and two still working on his hands and feet. The third one still watched.

Davy was drifting slowly towards the fireplace now. Monk number two began to direct his attention to the boy's wrists, and on, slowly up his arms. Davy was trying to curl himself up into a ball, to prevent their getting at his more sensitive bits but, the two monks, sensing this, gently gripped his ankles and wrists, and slowly pulled him straight again. Then they let go and went back to their tickling, picking up exactly where they had left off, except that Davy had rotated ninety degrees, and now had his right shoulder towards the floor.

The third monk, who so far had not taken part in the proceedings, followed the first through the tableŸ, came up behind the hovering boy, and gently placed his thumbs on Davy's sides, and his fingers on his lower ribs. His aim was accurate to the millimetre, and as he went to work, Davy emitted a shriek that surely must have been heard for miles around.

They tickled every inch of the boy's body except for the area covered by his shorts. His hands, arms, armpits, feet, legs, toes, ears - everything. Davy lost track of time completely. He had no idea how long they worked on him, but it seemed like it was never going to end. Many times he wished he could faint. What they were doing to him was pure torture. He had been totally incoherent for a long time: he laughed, shrieked, giggled, coughed, spluttered - he was out of his mind, and totally and completely hysterical.

He had been drifting towards the fireplace, but before he got too close, one of the monks arrested his motion, and then set him slowly turning. It was a complicated rotation, being a slow head-over-heels spin coupled with a rotation about his longitudinal axis. The compound effect was very disorientating for the boy. The three figures were standing round him, and as various parts of his body slowly passed the monks, their long, tapering fingers searched out every vulnerable spot with inhuman accuracy. The tiny part of Davy's mind that was not occupied with trying to cope with the merciless tickling, reflected that these beings must certainly have been masters of their craft in life - but in their present form, it seemed they were not limited to guessing which ticklish spots would cause the maximum stimulation at any given second - they knew.

Their fingers were everywhere. They made parts of his body that, even on Davy, were not especially ticklish, send screaming messages of stimulation to his brain. The walls reverberated to his shrieks, hysterical laughter, and pleas. He would do anything they wanted, if they would only stop. Davy wasn't sure exactly when, but sometime during all this, he was suddenly aware that he had one of the biggest erections of his young life. Eventually, he passed out.

When he regained consciousness, he was in a different position. His head was some twelve inches off the floor, and he was suspended face up, at an angle of 45 degrees, with his feet in the air. his ankles were touching, and his arms were straight, by his sides. It's strange how quickly the unbelievable becomes ordinary, for he showed no surprise that he was floating, apparently unsupported in the middle of the room. He tried to move, but the treacly kind of bondage had gone - he couldn't move a muscle. Also his body was showing no inclination to drift anywhere. He tried to speak, and found that he could move his facial muscles - and turn his head - with no trouble. There was no sign of the monks.

Davy lay there, remembering the unbelievable tickling he had received at the hands of his tormentors. As he thought about it, his cock became rock-hard again inside his white shorts. He hadn't realized that being tickled was such a sexual turn-on for him. What he longed for more than anything else just then, was a good wank. At that moment the monks appeared. They simply faded into existence where they stood - two on the left of him and one on the right.

Instantly, his body began to tingle and, if there had been some meter connected to him which registered his ticklishness, it would have gone off the scale again. "N-no, please... n-n-no more. I can't s-s-s-s-stand it-t-t."

The monk on Davy's right held his hand up for the boy to see,the long fingers straight and parted. As Davy watched in fascinated apprehension, some of the fingers grew! Slowly, before the boy's eyes, they got longer and longer, then they started to flatten out. They became thinner, and more tapering. Suddenly Davy realized what was happening, and he moaned with fear, as he tried with all his strength to escape. The metamorphosis was complete: the first finger and the little finger on the fiend's hand were gone - in their place there had sprouted long, thin, tapering and flexible white feathers. With an evil grin, the monk revealed his other hand -it too was equipped with identical instruments of torture. The feathers were long and curved, and ended in a sharply pointed tip.

Davy became aware that his arms, which had been tightly by his sides, were now moving. They remained straight, but his hands moved outwards, away from his body until his arms were spread at right angles. The boy fought with all his strength to stop them, but they simply would not respond to his commands. As they came to rest, the monk approached the teenager's armpits with the feathers. Davy watched with mounting terror as the pointed tips came nearer and nearer. He willed his level of ticklishness to drop, but the only effect that had was the reverse of what he wanted. He thought he would faint when those feathers came into contact with his bare armpits.

Unfortunately he didn't, but he wished he could. The monk began on the outside of his armpits, stroking lightly, gently and rhythmically and at just the right speed. Instantly the boy convulsed with hysterical laughter. Then, millimetre by millimetre, the fiend began to close the feathers together, homing in on the centre of the boy's armpits - the most unbearably ticklish spot above the teenager's waist.

Davy was completely and utterly helpless - the hooded figures had got him totally at their mercy. The boy's cock was rock-hard and leaving damp patches on his shorts. He thanked God that they weren't working on that particular part of his anatomy - although at the same time, he longed to feel pressure against his cock, just enough to enable him to cum. He was desperate for that.

The feathers were now in the exact centre of Davy's armpits, and the tickling was pure torture. He thought he would go mad if it didn't stop soon. Abruptly, the monk did stop.

Relief flooded into the boy, but it was short lived, for Davy became aware that he could no longer move his head. It was as if he was completely encased in a block of plastic - any movement, apart from his eyes, was impossible.

The monk straightened up, and brought one of the feathers close to the boy's face. The hooded eyes opened wide, and the ghost licked its lips with anticipation. Slowly, the monk applied the tip of the feather to the rim of the boy's nostrils - first one, then the other. It was absolutely unbearable. The feather flicked and stroked, slipping inside occasionally, but mainly lingering on the rim. Davy's eyes silently pleaded with his tormentor to stop, but the spectre paid no heed to the boy's distress. He wanted so badly to scream - but he couldn't even do that.

After a few excruciating minutes of this, the monk transferred his attention to the teenager's lips. If anything, this was even worse. Davy was in an agony of frustration - he longed to rub his nose, and scratch his lips with his teeth. He didn't know how much longer he could stand this without going completely mad.

For a long time, the monk worked on various parts of Davy's face, neck, ears and eyes. He even caused the boy's mouth to open wide so he could tickle his tongue and the roof if his mouth. This was unbearable. Finally the fiend withdrew the feathers, and left Davy to recover for a few moments. The boy was in a state of nervous exhaustion.

Now the three monks began tickling the boy all over again, but this time they seemed to be paying more attention to his legs and feet. By now, Davy was a complete jelly. They had released their hold on his head - he could move it again easily, and now he was wildly shaking it from side to side and yelling hysterically as they worked on his bare feet, in between his toes, the backs of his knees, and his thighs up as far as his shorts. He was as horny as hell, too. He felt more ticklish now than he would ever have believed it was possible for a human being to be.

His legs were still held immobile, close together - which at least prevented their reaching the young boy's most acutely sensitive and vulnerable areas of all: his upper thighs, perineum, and genitals. With a final bout of unendurably frenetic tickling, the monks stopped, stood back a little, and looked at him.

From his position at 45 degrees to the horizontal, and his head low down, the monks loomed over him, darkly hooded and menacing. Suddenly, words formed in Davy's mind. They were not sound, but they were more than thoughts. He knew it was the monk 'speaking'. For some reason, the effect didn't particularly startle him.

"Your legs will move now."

Davy found that he could indeed move his legs, but the rest of him remained helplessly immobile.

The middle-sized monk glided forward and displayed a wickedly long, curved, stiff feather. Unlike the earlier ones, this was not a part of the fiend's hand, but was being gripped normally by the thin fingers. More words formed, softly, coaxingly: "Open your legs, so that we may tickle your boy-parts..."

Davy clamped his legs together and drew his knees up to his chest, desperately trying to keep them away from his cock and balls. There were places under his shorts where he could even tickle himself - so what these sadistic experts could do there didn't bear thinking about. He shook his head and pleaded pitifully. "Pleeeeaaasse... no, not there - no, please, I'll - I'll do ANYTHING you want, but please, please no - don't, not there...."

The monk leered malevolently and slowly stroked the tip of the wicked4ooking feather with his fingers. "Open your legs. Expose your... sensitive... ticklish..... boy-parts for my feather..."

Very slowly, Davy's knees began to part. He fought with all his strength to keep them together, but whatever unearthly forces the ghosts were using, they were far stronger than he was. At the same time, his legs started to straighten slightly.

When the movement stopped, his knees were about eighteen inches apart, and although still bent, much straighter than they had been. The legs of his loose white shorts lay against the front of his thighs, but hung a good three inches away from him at the back. He was again powerless to move, and completely helpless. His rock-hard young cock was straining at the cotton of his shorts.

Without taking his eyes off the boy's good-looking face, the monk lay the feather flat against the front of Davy's right thigh, just above the knee. As it made contact, Davy jumped, and giggled convulsively. He began pleading again.

Ignoring the teenager's cries for mercy, the monk began to move the feather. With maddening slowness, it inched upwards - the stiff, pointed tip zigzagging backwards and forwards across the youth's thigh, hardly touching the fine sprinkling of golden hairs. Between bursts of giggling, the young boy watched the snaking feather with a dreadful fascination, as it approached the line of his shorts. Davy knew that line was a barrier -beyond it lay incapacitating, unendurable, ticklishness. But also beyond it lay indescribably delicious feelings and, ultimately, orgasm: longed-for relief for his throbbing, horny young cock.

The tip of the feather paused its upward journey for a moment, tantalizingly, at the leg of the boy's shorts - then it slipped gently underneath.

As well as being a physical barrier, they were a psychological one. As soon as the feather began to disappear up under his shorts, he felt an overwhelming feeling of violation - as if he were being raped. This feeling, along with the fact that he was being held immobile and helpless, compounded his ticklishness to the point that anything moving against his upper thigh would have had him in fits of hysterical laughter - but this long, curving, stiff feather, being wielded by the hooded fiend who was an unearthly master of his sadistic art, was a purpose-made instrument of torture. It had been fashioned in hell by experts, to a very rigid specification - to cause maximum unbearable stimulation to this particular teenage boy's thighs, balls, and cock.

It did exactly that. The feather going up the leg of his shorts tickled so much that he actually wet himself. As this happened, the three fiends, together, sighed with satisfaction. Davy's face was screwed up as if in pain. He was in an agony of ticklishness, as the tip of the feather caressed the top of his thigh. The air was rent with his screams, and pleas for the torture to stop.

Abruptly, the monk withdrew the feather. So far, he had worked only on the front of the boy's thigh. The inside of the thigh, and the testicles themselves, were the next target.

Because of the youth's face-up position, his shorts were laying against the front of his thighs. This limited somewhat the monk's ability to get at the most sensitive areas of all. Gently, the fiend blew at the shorts. The cotton moved away from the teenager's skin at the front and the insides, pulling the shorts legs tight to his skin at the back - and when the monk stopped blowing, they stayed there. Looking up the leg of the youth's shorts, the boy's balls and inner thighs were in full view. Also the rigidly erect cock was clearly visible, its sensitive tip showing pinkly as it stretched tight the wet cotton of the shorts: the only - hopelessly inadequate - protection the teenager had against the torture this master of tickling was about to inflict.

The monk spent a long time working on the insides of Davy's thighs - beginning just under the boy's shorts, and getting progressively higher. It tickled both thighs, spending varying amounts of time on each alternately. Although Davy was incoherent during this, the monks apparently thought that the boy was able to minimise the torture to some small degree, by being able to see which thigh was about to be worked on - for one of the other two fiends glided over to Davy's head and made a movement with a bony hand. In the air above the teenager's head there slowly faded into view a hood. It was a heavy device of thick black leather, the only openings being an air hole at each side. Gradually it descended. Davy felt his head gripped immobile again, and was helpless to stop the hood as it came nearer and nearer. He knew that once they got him in that, all would be lost - his helplessness would be complete.

Like the feather, the hood was made to measure just for him. It slipped over his head, stifling his cries and pleas, and laced itself up tightly at the back and sides, until it encased him like a second skin. It was made of two thicknesses of leather - the outer was thick and stiff, while the inner was thin, soft leather, with the shiny side inwards. It clamped to his face as he breathed in, and for a few moments he panicked, until he realized that the only way he would get enough air was to breathe slowly. If he tried to breathe too quickly, the small air holes closed and cut off ventilation completely. There was an overpowering aroma of new leather and, as the thin inner skin moulded itself to his facial contours perfectly, gagging and blindfolding the boy, he experienced a feeling of deeper and more complete helplessness than he had ever felt in his life before.

Once again, the feather began its journey up the inside of his thighs, but this time it didn't stop there - the stiff, pointed tip worked its way between the side of his balls and the top of his thigh, searching out the nooks and crannies that are among the most sensitive spots of all on a male teenager's body.

The feather seemed to have a life of its own. Under the skilful direction of the sadistic monk, the tip twisted and turned, stoked and caressed, teased and tickled, tickled, tickled...

Under the leather hood, Davy was almost turning blue. He could only breathe slowly, and yet his body demanded that he snatch lungfuls of air in order to cope with the intolerable tickling he was undergoing. As soon as the hood had been put on him, his head had been released from its invisible grip, and now he was shaking it from side to side in a desperate effort to dislodge the blindfolding black leather - because he'd discovered that it had two major effects: firstly it increased his level of ticklishness many times, as he couldn't see where, or when, his body was next going to be assaulted; and secondly, the feeling of being blindfolded, gagged, and totally helpless was turning him on like fuck - he was now so horny he would have sold his soul to be brought off. He was desperate to cum.

A new level of excruciating sensations hit him as the monk began working on his testicles themselves. The feather flicked from front to back, across and down, tickling the sides, the front, and the back of his balls. The constantly-changing curvature of the tormenting instrument allowed it to reach eveiywhere. Again and again, Davy thought he was going to faint - but the monk, knowing, by some unearthly means, exactly what the boy was feeling, invariably paused just in time to prevent the youth's finding relief in unconsciousness. The tickling went on.. and on... and on... and on.

Davy thought that there was no way on earth that things could get any worse now - but he was wrong. One of the monks moved a hand, and invisible fingers gripped Davy's shorts and, with one movement, ripped them off his body. The hard boy-cock, freed of its white cotton restraint, sprang out, rigid and solid; pre~cum glistening on the tip. It waved in the air, as if searching for something - anything to rub against. The three monks moved closer, fingers extended, mouths watering.

They watched as the monk ran the feather repeatedly up the boy's aching shaft from base to tip. Davy convulsed, and his cock jerked urgently - frantically. This was too much for the poor boy. "Pleeeease," he wailed pitifully into the hood, "pleease let me cum." The fiend then withdrew the feather and waited for Davy to calm down a little.

Davy gasped as he felt himself rotating. Now he was at the same angle, but face down. As his legs were still slightly bent, his arse was now in a perfect position for their ministrations. He felt his cheeks being gently pulled apart, exposing his vulnerable and sensitive arsehole.

The monk applied the stiff tip of the feather expertly to the boy's anus. He began by tickling the young coccyx, the running the tip down the crack of the arse and round the ring itself, spiralling in to the exact centre of the darkly pigmented hole. Davy was completely out of his mind. His cock was jerking frantically at every touch of the feather on his arse, and his anal sphincter was contracting in time with it. The boy was torn between the sensations of pure lust and horniness generated by the stimuli, and the unendurable, unmitigated tickling of it.

Davy had no idea how long this went on, but it felt like hours. Finally it stopped. The monks actually glided away for a short distance and just watched, but the teenager, helpless and cut off as he was inside the blindfolding black leather, continued expecting and anticipating strokes from the feather. Because of the degree of tickling stimulation he had received, his reflexes would not allow him to relax. He continued to jerk defensively at every imagined touch on his hypersensitive body. After a while he did, gradually, begin to relax. At this point, the three fiends moved back in for the final part of the torture.

Suddenly Davy was free. He felt the grip which had been immobilizing him released. Although he continued to float in the air, he could move his arms and legs as much as he wanted.

Unseen by the hooded boy, the figures moved. One positioned himself near Davy's shoulders, the second at his feet, and the one with the feather stayed by his pelvis.

Without warning, they began. Simultaneously they tickled his armpits, his feet, and his sides. The teenager shrieked into the leather, and struck out - but his arms and legs went right through his tormentors as if they didn't exist. But they could touch - and tickle - him. Hysterically he twisted and writhed, curling up into a ball, but wherever he moved, they followed, tickling. He brought his arms tight against his sides, but those thin, slender fingers were still in his armpits - he couldn't escape them. He kicked out with his feet, but with unearthly speed, the fingers of the monk followed every movement - raking their nails across his bare soles, tickling between his toes. The monk in the middle changed unpredictably from working on his sides, to his balls, to his arsehole. And every few seconds he would feather the boy's desperate cock - usually at the tip.

It became clear that not only could these fiends tell just where Davy was most sensitive and ticklish at any given moment, but they also knew exactly how close to shooting his load he was from second to second. Consequently, they kept him on the very edge of orgasm - repeatedly bringing him to the very brink of ejaculation, and then denying him the relief he so desperately needed.

His frantic movements were causing him to tumble and twist in the air, as he writhed to escape the torture. He could hardly get enough air, the black leather hood pressing tightly over his eyes, nose and mouth. The monks followed his every move, tickling every inch of his body - unpredictably, teasingly, mercilessly. They continuously monitored his physiological and psychological states, causing the absolute maximum stimulation at every second, that his body could take. Occasionally - when it was necessary - they paused, to allow him to recover a little, before they relentlessly continued. The tickling went on and on. Davy thought it would never stop. His cock ached for orgasm. He had never in his life felt as horny as he did now.

Suddenly, in the leading monk's hand, there appeared an oddly-shaped thin, flexible black rubber bag. Immediately small drops of condensation began to dot its smooth shiny surface, because it was cold. With a quick movement, the monk placed it over the boy's cock and balls. Again, it was made to the teenager's exact dimensions, and it encased both his balls and the throbbing shaft loosely, but completely. Inside, at exactly the right places, there were ribs that gripped the engorged cock head, and small nodules that tickled the very tip of the young boy's hypersensitive penis.

As the cold rubber slid round him, Davy arched his back and emitted a howl of pure animal lust. Simultaneously, the second monk inserted a slender finger in the boy's arsehole and gently pushed it home. Without a pause, the three fiends went to work.

One began tickling the soles of his feet; the second started to massage the boy's prostate and to tickle his balls, and the third pulled Davy's cock back, away from his body, gripped the head through the thin black rubber, and began tossing him off.

Even if he had used every ounce of his will, Davy would have been utterly helpless to stop himself cumming. As it was, he wanted to cum more than anything else in the world. At that moment, everything came together: the feeling of absolute helplessness at the hands of these fiends; the tight black leather hood, blindfolding him and gagging him, and making it difficult for him to breathe; the overwhelming ticklishness of his whole body; the fact that he could move as much as he wished, but he could't defend himself from the hands of these experts; the tickling of his feet; but most of all the indescribably sexy feeling of his cock and balls in the cold black rubber bag as the monk's gripping fingers tossed him off.

Inside the leather hood, Davy was in another world. He threw back his head - abandoning himself to the feelings of ecstasy as electric shocks of pure pleasure coursed through his entire body. He wriggled and writhed, opening and closing his legs as the monks worked on him.

In a few seconds Davy was on the edge of orgasm. The monk's fingers continued to slide up and down over the sensitive young cock, the bumps and grooves in the cold black rubber cunningly milking the helpless youth.

The spunk which had been building up in Davy's balls since the tickle torture began, and which had been denied release so many excruciatingly frustrating times, was now not to be stopped. It welled up in the teenager's testicles - then, with unbridled force it drove up inside the engorged shaft, past the glans, and burst through the hypersensitive tip in floods, and into the waiting black rubber bag.

As the hot, sticky spunk fountained out of the boy's cock in pumping bursts, wave after wave of intense, excruciating pleasure ran through Davy's body. He screamed in ecstasy.

After what seemed like hours, the flow of cum gradually began to lessen. The monk carefully milked every bit of Spunk Out of the throbbing cock as the boy slowly subsided and grew still. A single last drop of pearly white spunk oozed out of the tip. Meticulously, the monk collected it with the edge of the rubber bag so that it ran down inside to join the rest. Then, reverently, he held the bulging bag aloft, and faded from sight. The second monk withdrew his finger from the boy's arse and also disappeared, leaving one remaining ghost alone with Davy.

Impatiently, as if wanting to join the others as soon as possible, the remaining monk caused Davy to drift back to the table top, where he landed with a soft thud. The monk waved a finger, and the boy fell into a trance. The hood unfastened itself and floated into the monk's waiting hand. He was just about to fade out of existence with it, when he apparently had second thoughts. The monk smiled slightly, and threw the hood across the room, where it landed neatly inside Davy's sandwich box. Then he was gone.

After a while, Davy sat up. His eyes were glassy and not focussed on anything. He got off the table, picked up the things that had been swept onto the floor, replacing them in their original positions. He closed the sandwich box. Then, still staring vacantly before him, he put his clothes back on, sat down at the table, laid his head on his hands and fell into a deep sleep.

When he awoke, it took him a few seconds to remember where he was, and what he was doing here. It was daylight outside, and his watch told him it was 9:05am. Blinking sleepily, he stood up - and grimaced. His body ached all over - but nowhere more so than his cock. With a blinding flash, the events of the night came back to him. Three hooded, fiendish monks had tickle tortured him for hours. Then he looked at the table. Everything was where it had been. He frowned. Had he been dreaming? No way - and yet...

His novel lay open before him at the current page. He re-read the last few paragraphs. Suddenly he smiled, and snapped his fingers. He had it! The perfect torture to inflict on his fictitious victim - tickling! That must have been it - too much writing of porn, and in an eerie old place like this, had made him dream. And what a fucking dream! His cock was getting hard again at the thought.

Later, at home, he lay on his bed writing the ending of the torture scene on his book. It was perfect. Satisfied, he closed the ring binder with a flourish and stretched out. His thoughts returned, for the hundredth time, to last night in the old house. It had left him with a great yearning - a longing to revive that unendurable torture. He decided that he would go to the house again tonight. Would the monks be there? Would he dream again? If necessary he would go to the house every night until he did. He needed what they had given him - his whole body ached still, but now it was a different kind of ache: one which could only be relieved by long, slow, merciless tickling.

He was hungry. Well, he had one sandwich left. He opened the plastic box and put his hand in. It touched not bread, but leather. A shock went through him. His heart thudded as he picked up the black leather hood. It hadn't been a dream! It had been real! The monks had been there - and they had worked on him! Now he was certain - he would be in that old room when the sun went down.

Carefully, he put the hood on, lacing it tightly at the back and at the sides. The smell of the leather brought back the feelings of last night vividly. His cock jerked to full erection, and he breathed in slowly, closing his eyes as the shiny leather pressed over his eyes, nose and mouth. A thought occurred to him. No - mustn't cum now, it'll spoil the session tonight.

Slowly, he unfastened the hood and slipped it off his head, blinking now in the light.

He opened his eyes - and a smile slowly spread across his cute face - for there, at the side of his bed, were three hooded figures. He understood. He had the hood. As long as he kept it, they would know where to find him, and every time he put it on, it called them. It called them to an inexhausible supply of what they needed most - young, fresh boy-spunk.

Eagerly, the monks glided towards him, arms outstretched - long, slender fingers working. They were going to tickle him - tickle him - tickle him.

And, having called them, he was helpless to stop them.