It was getting worse.
He’d first noticed it six months ago, but lately it had become so bad that it was driving him to distraction. In the end he’d had no choice but to go to see his GP about it.
Three weeks later, after a battery of tests that had produced no helpful results, and the corticosteroid cream that had made no difference at all, his GP had arranged an appointment with a neurologist.
With an increasing sense of hopelessness, Ricky headed there.
“Idiopathic Neurogenic Pruritus.” Dr Michael Morton placed the report of his earlier scans down on the desk and looked at the boy facing him - who currently had his left foot on his knee and was scratching the sole violently.
“Ah.” Ricky put his foot down. He didn’t know what ‘Idiopathic Neurogenic Pruritus’ meant, though he could guess that ‘neurogenic’ had something to do with nervous systems. “Sounds worrying.”
“Pruritus means itchiness, Neurogenic means to do with the nerves, and Idiopathic means we haven’t got the slightest idea what’s causing it.” He chuckled. “You’ll be pleased to hear that it’s not life-threatening, but I would imagine it can be pretty unpleasant.”
“Tell me about it.”
“And it’s just the soles of your feet? Nowhere else?”
Michael nodded. “Well, none of the scans show anything wrong, so I’d guess that it’s just a question of the nerves overworking. They can do that sort of thing sometimes. There are more than seven thousand nerve endings in each foot, so there’s plenty of scope for mischief if they don’t behave.”
Ricky suddenly grunted, leaned forward and scratched his other foot. He’d pulled his trainers off when he’d first sat down (he’d given up wearing socks months ago) and this was the third time he’d scratched his feet since he’d arrived, five and a half minutes earlier. It was probably a good thing that he bit his nails, otherwise the skin of his soles would have been in much worse shape that it was. “So can you do anything? This is driving me nuts.” The voice came from below the level of the desk.
Michael waited for the boy’s head to reappear. “Well, there is one thing we can try it’s an electrical treatment - but there’s no guarantee that it’ll work for you. It has a fifty, sixty percent success rate.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“No, not at all. The worst that could happen is that it doesn’t have any effect on you. The idea is that it kind-of turns down the sensitivity of the nerves.”
“Ok. Well, can we do that please?”
“Certainly. I’ll make the arrangements and send you an email with an appointment.”
“Please, sit down.”
Ricky looked at the examination chair: its base was shiny white, the padding was black, and there was a pair of adjustable stirrups at the sides. It looked brand-new. Slightly nervously, he sat down.
Michael pulled up a stool, and took a black cylinder from the side table. A cable trailed from it, going into a box. He held it up for Ricky to see. “Now, this is the device. It’s called a Violet Ray Generator.” He chuckled. “Sounds like something from a very bad 50s monster film. People usually assume it’s a laser, but it’s actually not. High voltage is generated in that box there, but at a very low current, so there’s no danger to you.” He picked up a glass tube with a ball at the end of it, and fitted it onto the cylinder. “That’s an electrode. Watch.”
The box on the table began to buzz when Michael switched it on. Slowly he brought his other hand up, and when it was close enough a half-inch long, thin spark jumped into existence from the glass to Michael’s skin. It wandered around a little, seemingly at random, reminding Ricky of one of those plasma balls - except that he seemed to remember the sparks in those were pink, whereas this one was white.
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
Michael smiled. “No. Not at all. Here…” He took the boy’s hand and brought the glass electrode close to the back of it.
Ricky jumped as the spark began, but then his eyebrows raised. “No, it doesn’t hurt. Feels strange though - tingles. Feels a bit like a tiny little ant walking about.” He sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
“Ozone. The arcing generates it. But in a ventilated room it’s no problem.”
“Ok, so, shall we give it a try?”
“Put your feet up here and relax.”
Ricky settled back in the chair with his feet in the stirrups.
The gas inside the glass ball was glowing a slightly violet colour and the single white spark bridged the gap between it and the bare sole. Ricky jumped again as the electricity made contact with his skin, but then relaxed.
Michael began just below the bottom of the toes and traced the instrument slowly from side to side across the transverse arch. Immediately Ricky began to giggle. The giggling quickly became uncontrollable laughter and he snatched his foot away. A moment later his mouth opened. “Argh!” Then he scratched the sole very hard indeed, groaning in relief.
“Was that painful?” Asked Michael, frowning in concern.
“No,” Ricky said when he was able to speak again, “but it tickled like crazy.”
“And when you stopped, the itching suddenly came back and a lot more intensely than usual.”
“Oh. Ok. That’s interesting. Put your foot back when you’re ready.”
Ricky gave his foot another scratch and then replaced it in the stirrup.
“Try to keep your foot still if you can. It’s important this spark goes exactly where I need it to.”
Ricky chuckled. “I’ll try, doctor.”
Michael resumed tracing the device over the boy’s foot. One of the skills his long medical experience had given him was the ability to read a patient very precisely, and by carefully monitoring the boy’s reactions to what he was doing, he was able to keep the tickling at just low enough a level that Ricky could with some concentration - deal with it.
“You’re still moving your foot a bit more than I would like. Would you object if I put a strap over the stirrup here, to help to keep it still?”
Ricky shook his head. “No, that’s fine.”
Michael reached into the drawer under the table and took out a pair of leather straps. He used them to secure Ricky’s feet to the stirrups.
Again he started to use the device. Although he was still mainly limiting himself to just the top part of the sole, this time he occasionally ventured fractionally further downwards. Each time he did this Ricky laughed explosively and tried to pull his foot back out of the stirrup, but the strap held it there, although he was still able to rotate it left and right, and was doing so wildly.
Michael was very aware that the part of the brain that deals with the sensory input from the feet is directly adjacent to the one that does the same for the genitals - and that prolonged attention to the feet very often becomes erotic. He wasn’t surprised, therefore, to notice after a few minutes that the boy was getting a slight hard-on in his jeans.
Having covered the top of the sole, Michael began to work his way down one side, carefully avoiding the centre which, he knew, would probably tickle much, much more. Even so, the strap on the stirrup was made to earn its keep as Ricky gasped and pulled and desperately flicked his foot from side to side. This movement often accidentally brought the spark onto the middle of the sole, which made things a lot worse. At those moments the room echoed to the boy’s yells and the stirrup straps creaked with his struggling.
Michael switched off the instrument and put it down.
“Hmm. I don’t think this is going to work, Ricky. For the treatment to have any chance of success I need to be accurate with the this. And your foot’s going all over the place.”
“I’m sorry, doctor, I really am trying to keep still, but you wouldn’t believe how much it tickles.” He leaned forward in the chair and scratched his foot violently. “And I can’t believe how much it itches when you stop.”
“I can see it does.” He sighed. “I can’t see this working at all as things are. I’m sorry.”
For a moment Ricky didn’t say anything; he looked like he was going to cry. “Isn’t there anything you can do? An anaesthetic?”
“An anaesthetic wouldn’t help. We’re trying to re-train the nerves and the pathways in your brain that deal with them. Can’t do that if you can’t feel it.”
Ricky sighed resignedly; he could understand that. “Would more straps help?”
Michael thought about this. “Probably, yes, but they’d have to be very restraining.”
“I don’t care. I have to get this sorted.”
Michael looked at the chair. “We’d need some kind of frames to keep your feet immobile. I don’t have anything here at the moment, but I think I have something I may be able to adapt.”
“Possibly. Let’s call it a day for now. I’ll make another appointment for next week and we’ll see what happens.”
“Ok and thank you, doctor. ”
The stirrups looked very different now. Attached to each was a stainless steel construction, bits of which were adjustable. A pair of rubber-covered plates gripped the sides of each foot to prevent any rotation, another steel plate was lowered behind it to make pulling the foot backwards impossible, and a thin, curved rod passed across halfway down the toes to prevent any forward movement. Apart from the tiny part covered by the rod, all of the toes and the bottom of the foot were accessible, and the whole of it was held totally immobile.
Ricky had reported that his left foot the only one that had been worked on at all last time, had actually been a bit less itchy than the right one on the day after the appointment, and Michael had raised his eyebrows. “That’s interesting,” he’d said, “looks like we may be onto something here.”
He looked at the boy. “Are you ready?”
Ricky took a deep breath. “I think so.”
Michael switched the device on. Carefully he applied the spark first to the top part of the sole, and then, as before, started to move it back and forth, very slowly and gradually getting lower and lower.
The giggling began immediately. As before it quickly escalated into hysterical laughter. Even in the metal frame his foot was vibrating with the effort to move it, to escape the unbearable tickling.
Michael was suddenly aware of a very unprofessional feeling: he realised that he was experiencing a surge of sadistic satisfaction every time it tickled the boy. He’d never felt that sort of thing in his life before.
Abruptly Ricky shot forward and clamped both hands protectively over his sole, knocking the device away. A few seconds later he was scratching like crazy.
Michael tilted his head as if to say, ‘really?’
“I think we’re going to need more restraints. I’ll sort some out for next week’s session. Right now, though, you’re just going to have to grin and try to bear it.”
Ricky looked sheepish. “Sorry doctor. I’ll do my best.”
The following week Michael was rummaging in the bag of items he’d borrowed from his friend and next-door neighbour Paul. Paul was a lovely guy; he was gay and wore lots of black leather, and the rumour was that he had a special, well-equipped room in which he did things to helpless guys. Even though Michael was straight he found this idea fascinating, but he’d never asked him about bondage until now. Paul had been very forthcoming, and had gladly lent him a large bag full of everything he could think of that Michael might possibly have a use for.
He picked up a long leather strap, passed it around Ricky’s upper body and under the chair, then buckled it tight. “Ok. Let’s try this.”
The strap was keeping the boy from being able to reach his feet, but that wasn’t the problem now: it was noise. Michael had progressed further down Ricky’s sole, with consequently more violent reaction. This was no good someone was going to come to see what all the din was about.
“I’m sorry,” Michael said, “but if you want to continue with this, we’re going to have to do something about the noise.”
He went back to the bag, moved a pair of handcuffs out of the way, and held up a leather gag. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. Ricky sighed resignedly and nodded.
Things were much quieter after that.
“Ok. Let’s make a start with the other foot.”
So far this one hadn’t been touched, and so it was even more responsive than the first. As before, Michael began by working on the top part of the sole, but soon he progressed to its centre. Even with the gag, the noises were urgent and desperate, but he knew that nobody would come to investigate.
After twenty minutes, Michael noted that the boy’s reactions had become slightly less violent than at the beginning of the session he was beginning to develop a tolerance for it. He stopped, then turned a knob on the box to its next position. The buzzing became angrier. He lowered the instrument.
The strength of the spark was now much greater, and so were Ricky’s reactions to it. He arched his back, and yelled in ticklishness into the gag.
At one point a flailing arm hit the chair controls and it began to flatten out into a table before Michael stopped it and returned it to its upright position. He fastened a pair of leather cuffs around the boy’s wrists and clipped them together behind the chair.
For half an hour he worked on Ricky with the glass ball, its arc of electricity tickling the vulnerable soles insanely. He was enjoying this much more than he should, he thought - the boy’s struggling, his uncontrollable hysterical laughter, the way he was fighting against the restraints all of this was actually turning Michael on, and to a worrying degree. He looked at his watch: this was his last appointment of the day and he had another 30 minutes or so before he would have to think about closing up the unit.
There was something he really wanted to do but should he? No, he knew that he shouldn’t. But he decided to do it anyway. He switched the machine off, pulled the glass ball electrode out, and then - very conscious that he had an erection himself under his white lab coat - he replaced it with a star-shaped one. He almost never used this one mainly because his patients complained that it tickled far too much. He turned the power setting down to its lowest again, and looked Ricky in the eyes.
“Unfortunately, it seems that the more it tickles, the more effectively it’s re-training the nerves and so treating the itching. Your tolerance has been increasing for the last half hour, and so I’m switching to a different electrode. This will probably tickle a great deal more. I’m sorry.”
He knew that he wasn’t sorry at all. He brought the electrode close to the boy’s left foot.
Five trails of electricity came from it unlike the ones from the previous electrode, these appeared to have a violet tinge - each one wandering around independently of the others.
Ricky screamed hysterically into the gag as the device tickled his defenseless bare sole; this was orders of magnitude worse than before. In his schooldays he’d occasionally had his feet tickled by a couple of boys who often picked on him, but this was nothing like that: it was as if the instrument in the doctor’s hand had been purpose-designed for torture. There was no pain involved, but each of the five little sparks tickled insanely and there were five of them, each doing its own thing, wandering around on its own. It was much more than he could bear.
He was struggling and scrabbling frantically with his fingers and they found the buckle of the strap. He pulled it free, and then panting desperately into the gag, he tried to fling himself forward to knock the device away. But his wrists were still clipped together behind the back of the chair and he came to a sudden stop. Michael had removed the instrument. Holding his breath, Ricky waited in dread for the itching he knew was coming, and when it did he screamed and thrashed around and fought like a thing possessed to get to his feet to scratch them now not to stop the tickling, but the itching.
Michael rushed to unclip the cuffs although he’d had to fight a strong urge: and urge not to release the boy, but instead to watch him suffering that itching. Ricky brought his hands forward like bullets and scratched wildly.
After allowing him to finish, Michael replaced the strap, looking at the position of it and realising that the shape of the chair’s curvy sections in its current position made the thing quite unsuitable for bondage. He’d put the big metal buckle at the back because he thought it might hurt Ricky when he struggled if it were at the front of him. More sorting through the bag of Paul’s items produced a pair of thick, stiff leather fingerless mitts, which he secured over Ricky’s hands before clipping the cuffs together again behind the chair back. Now the boy wouldn’t be able to use his fingers at all. He picked up the device and went back to work.
Ricky fought the restraints even more now: apart from the fact that the electric device was tickling intensely, every extra restraint that the doctor had put on him seemed somehow to give him permission to struggle even harder. In a way he didn’t fully understand, the strap, the gag, and the wrist cuffs were actually freeing him at the same time as they were restraining him he felt he could really let himself go and not worry about how he was reacting rather than try to control himself for the doctor.
The leather mitts were different though: they seemed to be almost inviting him to try to use his fingers which he could move quite freely inside them - to escape. He could still get to the buckle of the chest strap below the table, but now, although he could still feel it, there was no way he could grip it: whenever he tried, his fingers slid over the smooth, stiff, shiny leather insides of the mitts uselessly. It was incredibly frustrating, and for some odd reason he found it very, very sexy. As the devilish device ran slowly over his feet he struggled and fought, laughed and screamed into the gag, but Michael continued to work on first one foot and then the other, seemingly oblivious of the boy’s suffering.
It may have looked as if Michael was oblivious, but he most certainly was not: each desperate scream - every involuntary movement was causing him great satisfaction. This was first time in his medical career that he’d ever got horny treating a patient. He realised that his cock was as hard as steel inside his trousers as he watched the multiple violet arcs of electricity moving about, tickling the boy out of his mind. At the moment, the machine was set to strength one. It went up to ten. But the best thing was that there was a second setting on the frequency doubler. He hadn’t used this yet, but he knew that the higher frequency would make the device tickle even more a lot more.
Ricky was early for his appointment. On Monday he’d been surprised to find that the ever-present itching had gone completely. For the first time in over half a year he had not scratched his feet once. It had been a day of blissful relief. He’d thought that the treatment had worked. But then on Tuesday it had come back, as bad as ever.
Michael nodded. “You must understand that this could be a long-term treatment. It may take weeks or months before the itching goes altogether. But you’re doing well the fact that things were better on Monday shows that the treatment’s working.”
Ricky sighed. “I thought it was too good to be true.”
The doctor smiled sympathetically. “Don’t worry -we’re making progress. Now, lie back and get comfortable. I’m going to flatten the chair this time it’ll make restraining you easier. Oh, and there might be a few more straps…”
He pressed a button and motors whirred smoothly as the chair became a long padded table, its separate sections closing together. The stirrups had been removed, and instead the steel foot restraints were slotted into place at the bottom of the table itself. Once the boy’s feet had been immobilised in those, Michael tightened straps over Ricky’s chest, hips, thighs, knees, calves and ankles. He pulled the leather mitts over the boy’s hands and strapped them and his elbows down to the sides of the table. Finally the gag was buckled on.
Michael stood back and looked at the helpless figure. He chuckled. “Maybe we should be videoing this and putting it on Xtube.”
Ricky laughed under the gag and nodded.
“Now, relax as much as you can.” He switched the machine on and brought the star-shaped electrode to Ricky’s left foot. The deep violet arcs reached out and the torment began.
Michael worked the instrument slowly over the entire sole of each foot, then turned the power setting up to number 2 and began again. Heavy as it was, the chair began to shudder, and the creaking of the leather straps filled the room as the boy struggled and fought against them. The lower setting of the machine had been bad enough, but this was unbearable.
Michael stopped now and again to let Ricky recover and rest, but then resumed working on him after a couple of minutes. What he had told the boy last time had been the truth: it did seem that in Ricky’s case the more it tickled, the more effectively it was treating the itching although it did make it many times worse for a few minutes after the treatment stopped. He was well used to the ways of wielding the device for treating skin conditions like eczema and psoriasis those were the usual uses for it - but he’d never before intentionally tried to tickle someone with it. Working on Ricky had taught him exactly which techniques caused it do that most effectively, and he concentrated now on working on him to cause the most intense tickling possible. That seemed to be the best for the treatment but it was also, he thought guiltily, exactly what he wanted to do to the boy.
Good God this was making him horny, thought Michael. Surely this couldn’t be right, getting off so much on torturing someone because torture was exactly what this was.
He put the instrument down and looked at the helpless boy. He was waiting for the itching to kick in and it did so almost immediately.
“Now, a quick test…” He’d been wondering whether very gentle stimulation would make the itching worse, in the same way that it usually did with nettle stings. He stroked one fingertip slowly and very lightly just once over the centre of Ricky’s right foot. The boy yelled and every muscle in his body tensed, but the restraints kept him in place perfectly. After allowing a few moments for the itching to develop, he asked, “Does that relieve the itching?”
Ricky shook his head quickly.
“Does it make it worse?”
Ricky nodded hard and fast.
Without taking his eyes off the boy’s face, and without considering the consequences, Michael brought both hands forward and began to stroke his fingertips over the bare soles lightly. He knew that the itching seemed to be at its worst immediately after using the machine, and right now what he wanted most of all was to make that itching as intense as it could possibly be.
Ricky shrieked into the gag and fought the restraints to get his fingers to his feet. There were two separate things going on here: the tickling, and the itching. When the device was working on his soles, either the itching wasn’t there or it was masked by the unbearable tickling, but when that stopped, the freshly-stimulated nerves screamed in pure itchiness. And the slow, light stroking of Michael’s fingertips exacerbated that a thousandfold. The only thing Ricky was capable of thinking about was to scratch as the fingertips stroked and teased lightly all over his hypersensitive soles. He thought he would go insane. And he knew the doctor was doing it intentionally.
This was an error of judgment: it clearly had nothing to do with the treatment; it was pure sadism. Michael pulled his hands away abruptly. He knew he could be struck off for this. He swallowed, then set about releasing Ricky’s restraints. He left the gag until last, dreading what the boy was going to say to him.
The first thing Ricky did was make for his feet and scratch them both manically for a long time. Then, panting with relief, he lay back on the table. When the gag came off he didn’t say anything immediately; he just lay there looking at Michael with unblinking blue eyes.
“Are you Ok?”
Ricky continued to gaze at the doctor. Eventually he nodded. “Yeah. I’m Ok. That last bit wasn’t part of the treatment…”
It had been a statement, not a question, but Michael answered anyway. He shook his head. “No. It wasn’t. I apologise. I don’t know what came over me. That was unprofessional.”
After a while the corner of Ricky’s mouth lifted. “Well, we all have our weaknesses, doctor.”
Nothing further had been said about it, and Michael wasn’t sure that Ricky would turn up for their next appointment.
But he did.
“Are you sure you’re Ok to go on with this?”
Ricky leaned down and scratched his right foot he’d kicked off his trainers as soon as he had come in then he straightened up and smiled. “Yes. The early part of this week there practically no itching at all. Came back again on Wednesday, though.”
He paused, looking thoughtful. “Strange thing…”
Michael waited. Nothing.
Ricky shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Right bring on the torture.”
Michael chuckled, then set about strapping the boy down. He turned the device power setting to number 2, checked on the back of his hand that the five violet arcs were OK, then began to work on the bare soles.
An hour and a half later he switched the instrument off, put it down on the table. Seconds later the itching started. It was obvious when it did, because Ricky began to writhe in the restraints again, and his struggling became more and more violent. Michael knew that after all that extreme tickling on his soles with the machine on its higher setting, the itching had to be worse at that moment than Ricky had ever experienced before - and he longed to torture him now: to stroke and tease all over those soles lightly to intensify it even more. He stood, looking at the boy.
Ricky stared back at him with wild eyes. He’d endured over ninety minutes of unbearable tickling and then, when that had stopped, the itching had returned more intensely than it had ever been before. He would have sold his soul at that moment to be able to scratch his feet. But, after a few seconds, he screwed his eyes closed and then, slowly, he nodded once.
Michael swallowed, and raised his hands. He applied all his fingertips to the soles, and stroked - pouring fuel onto the already agonising fire that was the itching and making it even more impossible for the boy to bear.
Ricky was screaming into the gag and struggling like a mad thing.
After a few minutes Michael withdrew his hands. He knew the itching would continue on its own now and that the source of the boy’s frustration would come mainly from the restraints. This time he had no intention of releasing his hands. He simply wanted to stand there, mesmerised, his cock as hard as steel, watching the boy trying to reach his feet, and not being able to. He wanted to watch him suffer.
It was at these moments that Ricky became acutely aware of the restraints. His whole being longed to grab his feet and scratch but he couldn’t move. He felt the straps holding him down as he struggled. The wrist cuffs rattled against the table as he fought to free them, his fingers sliding uselessly over the smooth leather inside the mitts. It was unfair, and it was absolutely unbearable and yet…
A long time later, Michael released him. As always the boy immediately spent five minutes scratching his feet like crazy. Then he lay back.
Michael raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“Oh fuck,” Ricky whispered, then realised what he’d said. “Oh, sorry, doctor.”
“Don’t apologise, Michael chuckled, “I use worse language than that all the time.”
“That was horrendous.”
Michael nodded. This time he didn’t say that he was sorry.
After a long pause, Ricky shook his head and looked away. “It’s a strange thing. During the rest of the week, when I’m not here, the itching is bad I have to scratch my feet a lot. And after you’ve been using that machine on me, when you stop, it’s a hundred times worse than that. But when you’ve got me strapped down and then you stroke my soles to make the itching worse intentionally, when I can’t do anything about it, its… it’s different.”
“Yeah. It’s - ” He paused, then shook his head again. “Never mind. Ignore me.”
Michael suspected that he might know what it was the boy couldn’t bring himself to say.
“I’m seeing results here,” said Michael. It was two weeks later. “You’re continuing to become more tolerant of the machine. That’s a good thing in that it shows that the nerves are being re-trained, but the downside is that they still need much more treatment to get rid of the itching completely, and they’re responding to the device less now. We’re already at number three on the power setting, and at the highest of the two frequencies this machine will do. I don’t want to turn the power up any further because all that will happen is that it’ll start to become painful, and that’s not helpful.”
Ricky nodded. “So is there anything we can do?”
“Well, we could try to make you more sensitive to it.”
“There are a couple of ways I can think of. The first one will force you to concentrate just on the tickling, and nothing else.” Michael chuckled. “This is getting more like an S&M film every time - it’s a leather hood. No eyeholes.”
Ricky smiled. “A bondage hood?”
“You have experience of using leather hoods, I take it?”
Michael had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “Well, no, not personally, but I know a guy who does, and I’ve borrowed one from him. And I’ve had instructions.”
“Will that make it tickle more? And itch more?”
“Yes. Your brain uses more processing power for sight than for any of your other senses, so when that’s removed when you can’t see anything there’s a lot left over for everything else. You can’t taste or smell much in a leather hood, and the thing cuts out a lot of sound, so that just leaves touch. And the principal thing in that department is the tickling or the itching. In the relative absence of other sensory input, your brain will turn up the volume on those. Probably a lot.”
“And… the guy I borrowed it from told me that of all the hoods he has, this one makes you feel the most helpless and given what you told me last time about the effect that the restraints have on you, you might find it interesting for that, too.”
Ricky nodded again, this time slowly. “Do it.”
“You’ll be able to breath fine in this,” Michael said as he pulled the straps tight on the hood. There was shiny black leather on the inside too, and he knew from when he’d tried it at home just how intense it was.
He’d been expecting it to make the boy more ticklish than before - so he’d turned the power and frequency settings down to their minimum again - but he hadn’t thought that the difference would be anything like as much as this. The moment the arcs first touched his sole Ricky let out a shriek and began to fight the restraints. The hood appeared to be working very effectively on the boy.
Michael set about tickling the bare soles mercilessly.
A few seconds later Ricky’s screams reached a peak, and then he fainted.
Michael had been half-expecting this. He checked the boy’s breathing and pulse, to make sure he was Ok, and then just waited until he came round a minute or so later.
“Sorry about that,” he said when Ricky had recovered. “A little too intense perhaps. Let’s try that again.” He went back to work on the boy’s soles, the violet arcs wandering over the skin and tickling intensely wherever they touched. But this time Michael was more careful: he smiled to himself after all, he thought, a good torturer shouldn’t allow his victim the relief of unconsciousness.
The buzzing stopped as Michael switched the machine off. He put it down and waited for a while, aware that the boy knew what was coming next, and giving him time to wonder how bad it would be with the black leather forcing every bit of his concentration onto what he could feel it had certainly made the tickling many times worse for him than previously; what would it do to the itching?
Ricky was moaning into the gagging hood quietly, in an agony of anticipation, his feet demanding to be scratched hard, and for a very long time, with sharply pointed objects.
But instead of scratching them hard, Michael’s soft fingertips touched the bare soles and began to stroke in that light, gentle way that, he knew, would encourage the itching to become as bad as possible.
It had long ago got to the point where any increase in the violence of Ricky’s struggling was no longer noticeable there is only so much you can do when you’re strapped down and the muffled shrieks and screams coming from under the hood were much the same as last time. But Michael knew that another level of intensity had been reached, and again the boy had never before experienced itching like he was feeling it now. As well as the soles, he’d especially worked on sensitising the toes, getting in between them as well really just because he’d felt like it and he thought that might be effective.
It was extremely effective. Again, he stood back and watched the boy writhing. He could not imagine what it felt like to have such unendurable itching, and such a maddening, compelling need to scratch.
He thought about that thing his friend Paul had told him about edging where a guy was made to need to cum very badly indeed, but was then prevented from doing so. He’d never even considered the possibility that a guy could be encouraged to need to cum, and kept right on the edge of it, but then denied the orgasm he craved so badly. Gay guys had devious minds, he decided. He shuddered at the thought of what that would feel like, but he realised that he also found the idea strangely fascinating.
Michael could have stood watching Ricky for the rest of the day, but time was getting on so he reluctantly released him from the restraints. Much scratching ensued.
The boy’s breathing had returned to something approaching normal. “Good grief, that hood is amazing. The difference it makes is unbelievable. It was like my entire being was centred on my feet focused on what you were doing to them.”
Michael nodded. He smiled: it appeared that there was something to this S&M thing after all, he thought.
Two weeks later it was Ricky who seemed to want to up the stakes. “That hood works amazingly well. Is there anything else you can do as well to make it more effective? The itching disappeared for two full days this week.”
Michael had been thinking about exactly that, and had come prepared. “There is one other thing.” He held up a small syringe. “This is a very simple drug. It causes something called hyperæsthesia. Makes everything more sensitive all of your senses. Though again, the only one you’re likely to notice will be the increased sensitivity of your skin.”
“It’s going to make it tickle more, isn’t it? And itch more.”
“I’m afraid so. Yes.”
Ricky nodded. “Do it.”
Once the boy was hooded and tightly strapped down, Michael picked up the syringe. It was, in fact, filled with nothing more than 0.9% saline solution it would do nothing whatsoever but he was banking on the fact that the mind and the placebo effect - are very powerful things. “Ok, injection coming up now.” He swabbed the area on Ricky’s left arm, injected the solution, and then taped a small cotton pad over the site.
“You should start to feel the effects very soon. Your skin will become much more sensitive - the soles of your feet especially. They might even start to tingle slightly.” Pure bullshit but, he thought - delivered with casual authority. He prepared the violet ray machine, tested the arcs on the back of his hand, waited for a minute, and then went to work.
Ricky’s insane laughter, shrieks of panic and frantic struggling told Michael that it was, in fact, working well. The violet arcs traced their unbearable paths over the soles as Michael moved the device around, very aware that his cock was rock-hard. The sight of the boy’s mad struggling seemed to be even more wonderful viewed through the horny violet mist of pure sadism that he could feel enveloping him. He turned the power up a notch.
Some time later he flicked the frequency doubler switch as well.
At the end of the session Michael picked up a soft, pointed feather. He thought this might be even more effective than his fingertips at increasing the itching. He waited until he judged that it was at its height, and then he carefully stroked the soft point over first one sole and then the other. He twirled it slowly between the toes.
A high, continuous keening sound began to come from the boy. This was unlike any noise he’d made so far. Michael continued to tickle the feather lightly over his feet.
Suddenly Ricky’s body went rigid. To Michael’s surprise a darker blue stain began to grow at the boy’s crotch: he was cumming. Michael blinked in surprise it wasn’t obvious that Ricky even had an erection.
As soon as his orgasm had finished, the screaming and struggling suddenly resumed - violently.
Michael watched the boy writhing on the table. It looked like the itching was far, far worse than it had ever been. He enjoyed Ricky’s suffering for a long time before he put the feather down, released his restraints, and removed his hood. His hair was plastered to his head, his mouth was open, and he was breathing deeply.
After a while he opened his eyes. He groaned, raised his head and looked down at his spunk-stained crotch. His face began to go red. “Oh fuck. I’m sorry doctor. I didn’t mean to… to do what I did.”
Michael smiled. “Not a problem, Ricky. Do you want to talk about it?”
The boy was silent for a while, then he took a deep breath. “Well, for a start, that injection worked. Oh, did it ever. But the thing is, I think we’ve found the ultimate way to increase my sensitivity…”
Michael frowned for a moment, then his eyebrows went up as he understood. “Ah you mean when you…”
“Yes. After I’d…” He chuckled. “After I’d cum,” he said the word firmly. “I just knew that if you’d so much as touched my feet with that machine I’d have broken every one of these straps. My feet were absolutely tingling with pure ticklishness.”
“Hmm. Yes, of course,” he said thoughtfully. “You’d be a lot more sensitive immediately after orgasm. But tickling you after that… that would be intense.”
“Doctor and apologies for the language you have No. Fucking. Idea . The itching alone was off the scale. Absolutely off the fucking scale. I don’t even want to think what tickling would have been like then.”
“And you’d really want me to work on your feet with the machine after you’d cum?”
Ricky stared up at Michael and nodded firmly. “Yes.”
“Hmm. The problem is how do we make you… cum earlier on? I assume you’re straight and not into bondage. Usually.”
“I’m straight. As for being into bondage, I wasn’t - until I started coming here. You’re a bad influence, doctor.” Ricky grinned.
“Ok, so next time we’ll start with the injection, have a shorter initial treatment session, then go straight to the … teasing… of your soles with the feathers. If that makes you cum again, good I’ll tickle you immediately after that, but I’ll have to be very careful not to let you faint. And it might be an idea if you don’t… cum too often this week.”
Ricky closed his eyes. There was a happy smile on his face. “Oh yes,” he said. “And don’t worry, I won’t.”
After a half-hour of treatment with the star-shaped electrode and the machine’s settings on high, Michael thought the boy was probably as ready as he was going to be. He’d been struggling and laughing and screaming every bit as much as last time. Michael switched the device off and stood looking at him every muscle was trembling with the anticipation of what was about to come. He brought two feathers up and began to tease the skin slowly.
It was strange: although the feathers were tickling the boy’s bare soles, this part wasn’t about tickling at all that had been what the last excruciating thirty minutes had been for. No, this very slow and light stroking was about making the itching as intense and as unbearable as humanly possible. It would do nothing for the therapy, but it was something he and also, he now knew, Ricky needed very badly.
Michael wondered whether it was the tickling or the intense itching that the boy craved most when he’d just cum. He didn’t know. He wanted to be able to tickle the soles for a long time after the boy came if he came. Repeatedly, he stroked the feathers very briefly and then lifted them off. Even with so little stimulation or perhaps because of so little - he’d only just completed the third stroke when Ricky came. As the boy fought the restraints, his body jerking up and down in the leather straps, Michael picked up the device, turned the settings down to their lowest, and waited until the orgasm was over, the machine buzzing, the glowing electrode ready and waiting.
The moment Ricky’s convulsions had stopped, Michael touched the angry violet arcs to the very top of the boy’s right foot for less than a second. Ricky’s whole body tried to arch in the restraints. He did it again. And again first to one foot and then to the other. He ran the machine down the side, across the heel, and back up the other side. He caused the little arcs to get between the toes, and then he worked on the most ticklish parts of all on the boy’s feet: the centre of the soles, trying never to keep it on for long enough to allow him to faint though from the desperate, panicky shrieks that were coming from him, he was never far away from that. Ricky’s hooded head was thrashing from side to side, the black leather sucking close over his face with each breath; he was tearing at the restraints, and doing everything he could to pull his feet back, away from that unbearable tickling. But the restraints held him helpless, the hood forcing him to experience every nuance of that torture in exquisite detail.
Eventually Michael forced himself to stop. The tickling had been stunningly effective, and he was impatient to see how intense the itching it generated would be. Just as the tickling had been intensified by the post-orgasm sensitivity, so would the itching. It would be devastating, he thought. And horrendous as he knew it would already be for Ricky, he was going to make it much worse still. Without thinking about it he opened his lab coat and trousers, and got his cock out. With one hand he wanked himself very slowly and, with the other, he stroked the soft feather over the sensitive, itchy soles. He got it between the toes, he worked on the heels, the arches everywhere. Very slowly, very lightly, to make that itching more dreadful than Ricky could possibly imagine. His eyes were fixed on the helpless, struggling boy.
With a long scream, Ricky fainted and at almost exactly the same time Michael’s legs buckled as he came. He tried to catch the spunk in his hand, but much of it went on the floor.
As soon as it was over he grabbed some tissues and wiped up the mess, then fastened his clothing back up. Satisfied that everything looked normal, he released Ricky and waited for him to come round.
It seemed as if that session had broken some kind of barrier, that it had removed any remaining qualms that either Ricky or Michael may have previously had about discussing it in detail, because Ricky admitted that he thought of the whole thing as torture, and that he loved the idea of that. In fact he loved almost everything about it: the restraints, especially the hood: apart from the thing itself feeling so horny, the knowledge that it - like the injection - was intended to make him more vulnerable to the torture blew his mind. And the fact that Michael was, as a neurologist, supremely qualified to make the itching as unbearable as possible, and was doing that to him intentionally oh shit, that was amazing. It wasn’t so much a sexual turn-on, he said although there was an element of that as well (especially just before he came) - but it was still an unbelievably powerful thing.
On hearing these frank admissions from the boy, Michael told him his own: that he had erections every time he worked on him, and that he’d actually cum himself watching Ricky fighting the restraints and struggling to reach his feet in this latest session.
Ricky nodded, then smiled. He didn’t seem particularly surprised.
Michael inspected the boy’s soles. “How was the itching this week? You haven’t scratched since you’ve been here today.”
“It’s gone. For the first time there was nothing at all this week.”
“Oh! Has it? I was going to say ‘excellent’, but perhaps not. What do you think about that?”
“Well it’s a hell of a relief not to be scratching my feet every few minutes every day my life’s going to get back to normal, thanks to you.”
“Do you think it’ll be permanent?” Ricky asked.
“I don’t see why it shouldn’t be.”
Ricky thought about this. “So we should probably stop the treatment then?”
Now Michael was quiet for a while. Eventually he said, “Do you want to?”
Ricky grinned. “I never realised there was such a difference between want and need,” he said. “I don’t want to be tickled like that ever again. I don’t want to feel that indescribable itching again. I can’t take them. I can’t stand either of them. But I need them both. I need them so fucking much. Have you any idea what I mean?”
Michael nodded slowly. “Yes. I think I might.”
“So no, I don’t want to stop.”
Michael smiled. “Neither do I.” He held up the hood. “So, shall we see if it comes back?”
Ricky stared at the leather hood. Suddenly his left foot itched madly. Without thinking about it he leant forward and scratched it hard. “I think it’s already come back.”
“Good…” He picked something up from the table. “Now, this is an interesting drug I’ve come across.”
Ricky stared at the yellow oval tablet in the doctor’s hand. “What does it do make me more ticklish?”
Michael chuckled. “No, I think you’re probably quite ticklish enough already.” His smile turned into one that was a little more sadistic. “But this will make it impossible for you to faint. You realise what that means…?”
Ricky closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “Oh fuck. I realise exactly what that means. You, doctor, are evil.”
He opened his eyes and grinned. “Bring it on.”