Craig is seventeen going on ten. He’s an infuriating little bastard at the best of times, but now there’s a long thin scratch on the tank of my Kawasaki 125, thanks to him. I’ve told him a zillion times that if he touches that bike I will murder him, but does the little sod listen? As if. He gets onto it in the garage when he thinks I’m not about and bounces up and down making zoom noises and twisting the throttle. It fell over a few days ago with him on it. The only damage was the scratch, but it could have broken his leg.
Time for a wake-up call. I frogmarched him up to the old mill it’s just a ruin really, but it’s in the middle of a field well away from any houses, where no-one would hear his screams.
Craig’s my little brother and I love him. There’s only a year between us, but I’m a lot stronger than he is; I’ve always been the beefy one he’s the resident wimp. I would never do anything to hurt him, but right now that boy was in urgent need of being taught a lesson. And Craig has one glorious, wonderful weakness which, until today, I hadn’t thought about exploiting much at all: he is incapacitatingly ticklish. We’ve had short tickle fights occasionally over the years, but they were just larking about, and they never lasted very long because he really can’t take being tickled he even wet himself once. My intention was, however, that this was going to be very different: this was going to be punishment; it was going to last a lot, lot longer, and with nothing on but his boxer shorts he could wet himself as much as he fucking wanted.
As I watched him strip, I was surprised to find that I was getting hard. The surprise was because I have no sexual interest in boys and certainly not in my brother and tickling has never turned me on in the slightest. I think it must have been pure, abstract sadism that was exciting me: the thought of making the little bastard suffer.
The old mill was clearly being used occasionally: there was a mattress in surprisingly good condition on the floor in one room. I’d spread a plastic sheet over it and it was in the middle of this that Craig was now standing. His usual cheeky grin was tinged with uncertainty about what I could possibly be intending to do to him, but the conviction that his big brother would never hurt him was still allowing that cocky impudence to show through. It was never far away.
Purposefully, I unzipped my bike jacket and took it off, placing it carefully on the floor. “Now, Craig,” I said, “I am going to teach you an important life lesson. You will thank me in later years. You have to learn that if you mess with other people’s property, bad things will happen to you.” I advanced on him slowly. “You will never ever touch my motorbike again....”
I pounced on him, my hands out, reaching. The moment they made contact and my fingers began to tickle him, he yelled and collapsed onto the mattress where he curled up into a tight ball in an hysterical fit of giggling. He was shaking his head violently. “No! Bastard! Fuck off!”
It’s a strange thing: when you tickle someone it’s very difficult to keep quiet yourself however serious you are about making your victim suffer; as he struggled under me and laughed hysterically, I was laughing too.
Kneeling over him, I sought out all of the little brat’s most unbearably ticklish spots. I used my weight to restrain him when I could, and my hands were all over him, tickling him mercilessly. Even when we rolled completely off the mattress at one point, I didn’t stop - I dragged him back onto it and carried on. A few random, desperate kicks made contact, but his struggles were no match for my muscles and weight.
I was fully hard in my jeans now. There was something about having this boy helpless under me, fighting to protect himself while I found ways to get through his defences; hearing his uncontrollable giggling, desperate shrieking and insane laughter as my fingers dug into his sides, tickled his armpits, his feet, his thighs there was something about this that was turning me on like fuck. And I hadn’t expected it at all. I realised that I hadn’t been this horny for ages.
We’d been going at it for perhaps ten minutes when a movement in my peripheral vision made me look up: we were being watched. It was Krzysztof from across the road. He’s Polish, a couple of years older than me, and generally he keeps very much to himself. I was on nodding terms with him, but I didn’t really know him. I suddenly felt very self-conscious about what I was doing, but before I could start on an explanation, he grinned. “You need someone to hold him down, I think,” he said.
For a second I didn’t know how to respond: on the one hand this was a private matter between me and my brother, but on the other the thought of Craig being held down while I tickled him sent a wash of sadistic lust through me. I nodded. “Get his arms.”
Krzysztof dropped to his knees at the top of the mattress, grabbed Craig’s wrists and held them down beyond his head. The boy’s armpits were exposed and unprotected now, and I immediately set to work on them. The volume of Craig’s screams increased markedly as I applied myself to them, and then to the rest of his body. He still tried to curl up, and he could manage it to a certain extent, turning his hips sideways and bringing his knees tight up to his chest, but I pulled his ankles back down and knelt on them. For a few seconds his screams increased even more as now he could protect none of his ticklish places - but then, with a panic-fuelled burst of strength, he wrenched his feet from under me and curled up again.
He was making a great deal of noise. Apparently Krzysztof was aware of this as well, because he transferred both of the boy’s wrists to one of his hands, then calmly reached down and gagged Craig very effectively with the other. As he did this, the boy’s eyes opened wide and seeing Craig being gagged like that made my cock jerk in my jeans.
His lithe, slim body was bouncing on the mattress as my fingers continued to work on him. And then I noticed the bulge in his boxers. Well fuck me, the little brat had got a hard on. A moment later a wet patch began to spread through his boxer shorts. At first I thought he was wetting himself but then I realised that the little sod was cumming! When his orgasm wound down and ended, it was as if someone had grabbed his ticklishness control and turned it up as high as it would go the boy went berserk. He struggled twice as hard, and he was screaming his lungs out into Krzysztof’s gagging hand. Then he pissed himself.
I sat back on my haunches, panting, and looked at him.
“Mmm.” Krzysztof gave a quiet, satisfied groan, removed his hand from Craig’s mouth and straightened up. He held the boy’s wrists where they were for a few moments, looking down at him, then he released them. Now that we’d stopped, Craig was just lying there, trembling, his muscles twitching occasionally.
I wondered why this was turning me on so much. Like most teenage boys I spent a great deal of time watching porn on the net I’d seen the vast majority of perversions going but they didn’t do a lot for me, and long ago I’d come to the conclusion that I was boringly straight. But there was something about making this little bugger struggle and fight against what I was doing to him that was blowing my mind. I asked myself if it would have had the same effect on me if it were a girl, not a boy and no, it wouldn’t. And if it were another boy, not my brother? That was more difficult I wasn’t sure. I didn’t understand it. But my cock certainly did.
And then, as I looked down at him, deep in thought, the insufferable little sod grinned at me. I growled; and it was at that moment that I realised that I very much wanted to do that to him again.
Craig was watching me polish my bike. He eyed the machine critically. “You need another scratch on the other side of the tank to match.”
It was just a couple of days after the mill. I turned around and looked at him. He was leaning against the door frame, with that cocky grin on his face that had always meant ‘come and get me if you can…’
“You are living very dangerously, Craig,” I said, slowly.
His grin broadened even more.
“If you’re not very careful I’ll drag you up to the mill again and give you another good seeing-to.”
“You and who’s army, bro?”
“Me and Krzysztof. He’ll hold you down again while I tickle the fuck outta you.”
He thought about this for a moment, then raised his eyebrows. “Should I go and get him then?”
That was it. I stood up and gave him the killer look. “No, you will not. You will get yourself up to the mill now , strip and stand on the mattress, where you will wait for me.”
He gave me a mock salute and ran off.
Krzysztof was in his garage, cleaning the car. “Hi Krzysztof. I wonder if you could lend a hand with young Craig again? He needs another lesson. I’ve just sent him up to the mill.”
He smiled. “No problem. I’ll see you there in ten minutes.”
I hadn’t been working on the boy for long when Krzysztof arrived. He was carrying a bag. “I brought a few things that might be useful,” he said, taking out a pair of leather wrist cuffs, a gag, and a blindfold. “The gag will keep the noise down, the cuffs will keep his arms out of the way and allow me to tickle him as well, and the blindfold will make things much more difficult for him - he will not know where our hands are going.”
As I thought about that I felt my cock stiffening even more. “Oh yeah…” I said.
Craig struggled between us as we got him restrained, and I was aware of sadistic need as I saw him lying there waiting, his wrists cuffed behind his back, the wide strip of leather over his eyes, his body tensed, not knowing when or where we would attack him, or how bad it would be when we did. I lifted my arm slightly and pointed to the side of my waist; Krzysztof nodded. Silently I counted to ten, and then I gave him the signal. Together we fell on him as Krzysztof attacked Craig’s sides, I grabbed both of the boy’s feet and held them immobile, scraping my fingernails over the bare soles mercilessly as he jerked them in a desperate effort to pull them away.
After that it was a free-for-all. Our hands were everywhere, tickling him all over his body. He struggled madly under us, and at one point his knee rubbed over my cock bulge. It almost made me cum. I was unbelievably horny, and I realised that the hornier I was getting, the more it was making me want to make the little brat suffer. I was loving it. The gag had reduced his screams considerably, but he was still managing to make a lot of noise. The blindfold worked wonderfully now that he couldn’t see, he didn’t know which way to move to protect himself, and that made him a lot more vulnerable. And as if that wasn’t enough, it was two strong guys against one smaller, weaker one with his wrists tied behind his back. The phrase ‘shooting fish in a barrel’ was appropriate.
Craig came and much sooner than he had done last time. I was working on his ribs when he gave a long, drawn-out yell, arched his back and shot his spunk into his boxer shorts. After that, it was pure torture for him as we continued to work on him for a few minutes. Even when he wet himself this time, we carried on for a while before we stopped.
Both Krzysztof and I were sweating. I noticed that, like me, the guy also had a stonking erection his jeans were much tighter than mine and it was unmissable. I’d also noticed that this time he hadn’t wanted to stop quite so readily as I had, after Craig had cum.
God, doing that to the little bastard had made me horny. I urgently needed to go home and have a wank.
I’d just finished repairing the door bell a couple of days later when Krzysztof shouted hi from across the road. I gave him a wave. “Hi Krzysztof.” The two sessions with him in the old mill had surprised me on several counts: that he’d shown himself at all that first time and hadn’t just watched unseen from the shadows if he’d been interested; and that he’d been so careful and yet somehow businesslike holding Craig helpless as if he’d known exactly how to do it. I also wondered how come he’d had restraints to bring with him last time.
We’d never spoken very much in the years he had lived opposite, and I was about to go back inside, assuming that he wouldn’t want to talk now, when he invited me into his house for a coffee.
His living room was very different to mine: parquet floor, contemporary-design furniture in teak and glass, plasma telly on the wall, and what at first I thought was a fluffy-toy black cat on the coffee table, but which began leisurely to lick its arse after five minutes of statuesque immobility.
Burbling and hissing came from the kitchen, and then Krzysztof appeared with two double espressos. He sat down opposite. “That was interesting, in the old mill.” He had only the very faintest trace of an accent. “Your brother is very ticklish.” He grinned.
I chuckled. “He is that.” I explained about the scratch on my bike being the reason for that first session there.
“I think perhaps it was not punishment I think the boy enjoyed it.”
“And I also think that, perhaps, so did you. That second time was not so much for punishment…”
For some reason I felt my face begin to go red. I decided to be honest. “I did. And it surprised me.”
He nodded, as if he understood exactly. “Sometimes these things sneak up on us and make themselves known. And often, I think, it is good to embrace them, to explore them.”
He nodded again. “Why not, if it hurts no-one?” We were silent for some time. The black cat stretched elegantly. Halfway through the stretch, however, it fell off the coffee table. It immediately stood up and then walked off nonchalantly as if that had been exactly what it had intended to do all along.
We both chuckled, and then Krzysztof looked at me. “You have been honest with me. I will be honest with you. I also like to tickle boys. I like to see them struggle. To hear them giggle, and scream. To watch them fighting their restraints, trying to protect themselves and not being able to.”
“Restraints. Yeah. How come you had those to bring to the mill?”
Krzysztof smiled, and put his coffee cup down on the table. “Come. I have something to show you.” I followed as he led the way upstairs.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it was nothing like the room he took me into. There were shelves filled with ropes, straps, cuffs, and other devices; and in the centre of the floor stood a restraint frame that looked like it was configurable into many different positions. I think my mouth was hanging open as I looked around.
Krzysztof smiled at my expression. “It’s nice to have a hobby,” he said.
“What do you do in here? I asked, slightly dazed.
“Many things. But mainly it is for tickle torture.”
“Tickle torture…” I knew the term from the net, but this was the first time I’d come so close to it.
Krzysztof walked to the frame in the middle of the room. “Imagine Craig on this.” He pointed to different parts of it as he explained. “He kneels on here, restraints around his lower legs keep his feet still… And his wrists are held tight above his head on the hoist here so that he cannot move. This way is good - almost every inch of a boy’s body is available. The arms, the armpits, the back, ribs, sides, hips, arse, thighs, genitals, knees, legs, feet, soles, and toes. And he can’t get away from your hands however much he tries. I like to spend time to discover those places where a boy really cannot stand being tickled, and then work on them -very carefully, very effectively, and for a long time.” He smiled. “I like to make a victim feel very, very helpless. Making a boy helpless and making a boy feel helpless are not necessarily the same thing.” He looked at me, seeming to be considering something for a moment. “You know, if you ever feel like having another session with Craig, you are very welcome to use this room. We could all have a lot of fun, I think. The facilities are much better than at the mill and the walls are soundproofed. No-one will hear his screams…”
The thought of subjecting my own brother to torture in a purpose-made room like this should have been anathema to me, but it was not. On the contrary, in fact: the idea was getting me very hard indeed. I smiled at Krzysztof. “Thank you. I think I might take you up on that offer.”
He wrote his phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to me.
It was several days later. With no subtlety whatsoever, Craig had been angling for another session at the mill: he’d been even more cheeky than usual, and several times he’d done things that were clearly calculated to invite punishment. But I’d let it ride for a while; I didn’t want to run the risk that working on him too often might devalue the turn-on for both of us. That was something, I thought: that first session had been intended to be actual punishment it had been meant to be a one-off that he would remember with a shudder, and would do anything to avoid a repetition of and it had been a gob-smacking revelation to me that it had in fact turned both Craig and me on so much. The boy clearly loved being held down and tickled he’d cum twice from it without anything even touching his cock and he’d especially seemed to get off on being gagged, as well. As for me, getting the little bugger helpless and tickling the shit out of him had turned me on like I would not have believed possible. Until recently Craig would have been the very last person to have figured in my wanking fantasies, but lately they were almost exclusively about tickling him. I wanted to get him even more helpless, and tickle him even more unbearably. And I wanted to do it now .
I phoned Krzysztof. Oh yes, bring the boy over, he said. I could hear the grin in his voice. I told him we’d be there in a few minutes.
For some reason I fancied wearing my bike leathers for this session. I didn’t really know why, other than that I was beginning to think of what I wanted to do to Craig as torture, and black leather seemed somehow appropriate for a torturer to wear; almost a uniform, or power armour. I know that probably sounds daft but the thought of it appealed to me just then. I’d almost got my leather jeans done up when on an impulse I took them off again, removed my boxers, and put the jeans back on. I don’t have a fetish for leather as far as I know, but unlike the other sessions, this felt more sexual to me somehow; I knew I would get hard very hard and I found the thought of my cock rubbing against the inside of the thick, stiff leather strangely interesting.
Craig looked me up and down when I got downstairs. “You going out on the bike, bro?”
I turned towards him. “No,” I said, parting my booted feet and putting my hands on my leather hips, “I was thinking of torturing you.”
His eyes opened wide, then he grinned. “Yeah?”
It was amazing I realised that wearing my leathers in this unfamiliar context was making me feel powerful, and was actually making me want to torture him even more. The feeling was deeply sexy. “Yeah,” I couldn’t help smiling. “Come with me.”
He’d assumed we’d be going to the mill again and was surprised when I took him across the road instead. Krzysztof led us upstairs without a word. We stopped outside the closed door of his special room.
“I think the boy should strip here, before we go in,” said Krzysztof.
I liked the idea. “And he should be blindfolded first as well.”
Krzysztof smiled and held up the leather strip. “I thought so too.”
We guided Craig into the room and stood him in front of the restraint frame. Leather cuffs now hung from the hoist, and the straps were in place, ready and waiting to hold a victim helpless.
Craig’s mouth dropped open as the blindfold was removed and he stared at the restraints in front of him. He looked around, taking in the room and what was in it.
Krzysztof pointed to the padded surface. “Kneel on here.”
He buckled the cuffs around Craig’s wrists while I fastened the straps over the boy’s lower legs and behind his knees. With a whirr the hoist rose until his arms were above his head. I noticed that already Craig’s cock was hard in his boxers. Mine was getting that way too, and the leather over it felt good - even more so than I’d expected.
“Now,” said Krzysztof, holding something black and shiny in his hands. “A blindfold is good, but a hood makes a boy much more helpless, and much more ticklish. Believe me, I know these things.” He pulled it over Craig’s head and set about fastening the many straps on it. When he’d finished, it clung tightly over the boy’s face and around his head. Craig had quickly found that breathing was not a problem, and the bulge in his boxers had abruptly got even bigger as the hood had gone on.
We waited in silence for a while.
“Can you see anything?” Asked Krzysztof slowly. Before Craig could answer he jabbed a stiff finger on each hand hard into the boy’s sides just once, directly under the lower ribs.
Craig screamed into the hood, and his body convulsed. He shook his head. “AARGH! No. Please… I can’t see! This isn’t fair!”
“No, it is not. This is good.” Krzysztof picked up a couple of feathers and handed me one. We began to tickle the boy with the tips of them, unpredictably, all over his body. I’d never done this to him before our past tickle-fights and the sessions at the mill had been about digging fingers in and frenetic tickling. This was very different: it was slow, intended to give him time to feel each stroke and to drive himself mad wondering where the next one would be. And it was very effective he was squirming, his slim body twisting as we stroked the soft feathers over his skin.
“Lend me your hand please.” Krzysztof directed me to hold one of the legs of Craig’s boxer shorts stretched away from his thigh. “Some of a boy’s most ticklish places are up inside here…” He bent down, sighted up the open leg, and carefully inserted a long white feather. As the pointed tip made contact for the first time Craig shrieked and struggled to close his legs together. But the straps made that impossible. The feather traced a slow, zigzag path across the top of his inner thigh, his balls and then very slowly up the length of his cock. It had barely got to the head when the cock began to jerk rhythmically as Craig came.
Krzysztof continued to tickle the boy’s cock head with the tip of the feather until his orgasm was finished and he was hanging from his wrists, exhausted.
“He comes very quickly. You should perhaps do something about that a training program would be fun. But now an orgasm is too good to waste when you are tickling a boy. Together…”
As Krzysztof began to tickle-torture him hard now, not with feathers but with stiff, probing fingers, I joined in enthusiastically. He was standing in front of Craig, working on his thighs, knees and abdomen; I reached around the boy from behind, raking my clawed fingers up and down his ribs and working deep into his sides. Oh fuck yes, this was what I really wanted. Feathers were all very well a nice apéritif but for the main course it had to be unbearable fingers.
Craig had only just cum - he was hypersensitive and hyperticklish and we took full, sadistic advantage of that. Krzysztof even moved the hoist up further to stretch him so that he could move even less. For several minutes the room resounded with hysterical screams.
At one point I felt myself cum in my leather jeans, and moments later I saw Krzysztof grab his own cock bulge and bring himself off too.
We began to make frequent use of Krzysztof’s room, and each time I learned something new from him. On the next session he showed me how lube spread all over the victim’s body increased the effectiveness of the torture many times especially when our fingers were encased in smooth nitrile surgical gloves. They glided over the lubed skin, slipping between the ribs, or over bare soles, or into unprotectable armpits so easily, bringing hysterical screams of unprecedented urgency from the boy. Another time he lubed Craig’s body very well all over, and zipped him into a one-piece black latex suit before restraining him; then we both worked on him with nitrile-gloved hands that were themselves covered with more lube. In that session, I think Craig screamed more desperately than he’d done at any time so far - he also came in the suit three times.
The bondage and the positions we put Craig in varied too and it became apparent to both Krzysztof and to me that the more restraints we got him in, and the tighter those restraints were, the more it turned the boy on. As we made him progressively more helpless, he came earlier and earlier. The leather or rubber hoods we strapped onto him became thicker, tighter, more constricting; the gags more effective until they rendered him totally silent and completely unable to communicate at all; the restraints immobilised his body, his feet and his head to a higher degree each time.
This added restraint began to limit access to his most responsive spots, but those few that were left became more and more ticklish. By the time we’d been having sessions for a few weeks Craig would often be put into the lubed latex suit, hooded with two hoods - a thick rubber one first and then a tight leather one over the top of it; he would be severely gagged; have stiff leather fist mitts over his hands which were then inserted into the arms of a straitjacket; a harness buckled very tightly over the top of that; and then pinned down to the frame with far more immobilising straps than were necessary. The restraints were so over the top that the boy was completely incapable of moving any part of his body an inch. His feet and his latex-covered legs between the many pairs of restraints holding them down - were just about the only parts of him left to which we had access. At Krzysztof’s suggestion we even put heavy motorcycle boots on him, so that after he’d got used to their being on and we slowly unbuckled them and removed them one by one, his soles felt even more vulnerable and ticklish than they would have done otherwise.
All this of course made Craig continue to cum very quickly but now Krzysztof and I no longer stopped or even slowed down when he shot his spunk. His first orgasm became the signal for us to begin loosening the restraints so that we could reach those parts of him that were really unendurable when we worked on them. The tight enclosure and restraint was what made Craig cum, and the tickling that came straight after that was the torture that Krzysztof and I really got off on, and which Craig had no option but to lie there and take.
We’d start by loosening the straitjacket a little, allowing us to get our fingers up inside it, into his sides and onto his lower ribs. We’d work on those through the thin rubber suit, our shiny black fingers sliding smoothly across the latex, for a long time. This was devastatingly effective on the boy just after he’d cum his sides and ribs had always been his biggest weaknesses, and the combination of the lubed rubber and our nitrile gloved hands were calculated to make them even more so.
We also no longer allowed him to wear his boxer shorts, of course. His cock and balls would consequently be available when we opened the suit - but not yet; that was for later. Right now, the feel of the lubed rubber slipping and sliding over him as he tried to struggle encouraged him to need to cum.
Gradually the restraints would be removed - they had done their job: they’d made Craig have two orgasms at least so far. The harness came off first, then the straitjacket, and gradually many of the leather straps, keeping only the ones that were the most effective at holding him helpless. We would unzip the latex suit enough to let us pull his cock and balls out. As more and more of his body became accessible we would take full advantage of this.
I said that Craig had no option but to lie there and take this post-orgasm torture, but the little bugger loved it. He couldn’t even begin to stand it - he screamed, writhed and struggled to get away from it - but he was loving it at the same time: he always came again just from this unbearable tickling, with nothing at all touching his cock.
The boy knew, however, that each orgasm would only make the torture that followed it progressively more unbearable, and that the more often he came the more this would be the case, and so - usually after his second or third orgasm - he would actively try to stop himself from cumming again because now he really would be terrified of what it was going to be like afterwards. That was when we would start to work on his cock. We’d discovered that thick, heavy, shiny industrial rubber gloves, when they were cool and well-lubed, were irresistible to the boy. Feeling the smooth rubber enclosing his balls, slowly sliding up and down his cock and gently over the head, made him lose it in short order. And on the rare occasions when he actually seemed to be succeeding in controlling himself, Krzysztof had demonstrated that fingers lightly and slowly tickling his armpits - or hovering threateningly over his sides - while his cock was being worked on was guaranteed to push him, kicking and screaming in impotent fury, over the edge. And after that, his ticklishness would be completely off the scale.
This developed into a game that I discovered particularly appealed to my sadism and which Krzysztof really got into as well. It became a battle between us, Craig against the two of us. A very unfair battle, which we made quite sure that the boy couldn’t win. Each time we would make it last longer, encouraging him to fight against cumming, giving him false hope now and then by slowing down the slippery rubber-gloved fingers that were working on his cock head. We would taunt him, reminding him exactly how horrendous the torture was going to be if he let himself cum. But we knew that all we had to do was grip his cock a little harder and speed up the stroking for only a moment; just doing that was guaranteed to defeat his self-control utterly and he was completely helpless to prevent it. Sometimes it was I who worked on his cock, sometimes Krzysztof, while the other one pressed thumbs gently into his sides or stroked his armpits lightly and slowly with teasing fingertips grinning as we watched the boy trying to fight against it, and knowing full well that he stood no chance.
And after that third or occasionally, even fourth orgasm, Craig was ticklishness incarnate. The slightest touch anywhere on his body would make him writhe and scream incoherently. But we didn’t just touch him. Oh no. That was when we gave full reign to our sadism and tortured that boy to insanity.
It was that working on Craig in that hypersensitive state - that always made both Krzysztof and I lose it, whether we’d cum earlier or not. In that final part of the session, with Craig hooded and helpless, screaming into the gag and writhing so desperately under our hands, we both came in our jeans every time. I’d taken to wearing rubber shorts under my leathers to contain the spunk, and after each session there seemed to be more of it. And those orgasms were, without doubt, the very best I had ever had.
When it was over, and we released Craig from the restraints, we’d all sit or lie there for a while, exhausted. Exhausted but very, very content.
I can’t speak for Krzysztof, but I still have no idea why tickling that boy turns me on so much. The more over-the-top helpless we get him, the more incapable of taking it he is, the more it makes me want to torture him.
And Craig? I asked him if he wanted us to stop doing it to him if he wanted me to stop taking him over there, to stop strapping him down and to stop tickle torturing him. I told him that I loved him and that I didn’t want to do anything to him that he didn’t want. He looked at me for a moment, then he said that if we ever stopped doing that to him he would break my legs.
And so it continues. And the strange thing is, it’s not getting old for any of us. We think up new positions to get Craig in, new techniques for tickling him, new restraints to put him in. He still fights like fuck to stop me from forcing him to have that final orgasm that he knows will make him so unimaginably, horrendously ticklish, but both Krzysztof and I have become extremely expert with that boy’s body. We both know exactly how to demolish his self-control whenever we feel like it; and we also know how to draw it out, so that he has a lot of time to feel himself losing it bit by bit, and know that there is fuck-all he can do about it. That is one of the things that turns me on most of all. And he knows what is waiting for him when he does cum that final time: tickling of a degree that will, temporarily, drive him quite insane.
I repaired the scratch on my bike long ago, but each time I get onto the machine I look at the tank. That scratch had a lot to answer for.
Lovingly I stroke the place where it used to be, noticing with a satisfied smile that I’m getting hard again. I think about putting my leathers on, remembering how they make me feel now. I think about my ticklish little brother.
Is it too soon for another session, I wonder?