They came for him at 3 o’clock Friday morning. He awoke instantly, eyes wide and staring, to the sound of the front door being broken down. Within a couple of seconds he realised what was happening, and leapt out of bed. By the time he was halfway to the door they were coming up the stairs. He cursed and spun round, looking for a way out, but there was nowhere to run. All he could think of was to hide behind the door. He didn’t even make it that far. Four policemen burst into the room, grabbed him and pinned him down onto his bed, their black, shiny uniforms cold against his bare skin.
One of the policeman sounded as if he was running the show. “Anthony James Beresford, you are charged with theft under section two of the Electronic Data Act 2002. You do not need to say anything, but anything you do say will be entered into your record and reproduced in any trial or inquiry bearing on this charge. Bag him up.”
Within seconds Tony’s wrists were handcuffed behind his back, the regulation hood dropped over his head and the drawstring pulled tight. Thus completely helpless, and naked, he was marched down the stairs, out of the flat and into the waiting police car.
* * *
The trial was straightforward and unremarkable – in fact the Judge only took thirty seconds to reach his decision. Although, given that Tony was so transparently guilty there could only have been one outcome, the sentence – when he actually spoke it – sliced into him like a knife.
“Anthony James Beresford, this court finds you guilty of one count of data theft, contrary to section two of the Electronic Data Act 2002, and one count of attempted currency theft by electronic means contrary to section three of the said Act. You will undergo NCS Program 17. Take him away.” The Judge was already reading up about the next case and had forgotten him as Tony was led down to the holding cells.
He had lots of time to think while he sat there on the hard cot waiting to be moved to the NCS Centre for ‘processing’. The first thing he thought about was the bank job. How the hell had it gone wrong? He’d honestly believed he’d got away with it. Granted it was becoming increasingly difficult to hack into bank computers and divert funds, but his plan had been foolproof. Or at least he’d thought it had been. Tony still didn’t know how he’d been rumbled. They never told you how, these days, so that you wouldn’t be able to avoid the same mistake if you tried it again. Lots of things had changed in the last two years – since the great Law Reform of 2002. From little things like those hoods the police carried, for instance (some bright spark had finally realised that if a man can’t see anything it’s so much more difficult for him to fight or to escape, and now they were standard issue – every policeman carried one along with his handcuffs) – right up to the way the courts and the punishment system worked.
By the end of the 1990s the jails were so overcrowded – and it was costing the taxpayer so much money – that something radical had to be done. It arrived in the shape of the NCS – the National Correction Schedule – in September 2002. The NCS reintroduced the ‘short sharp shock’ principle which had been tried in the 1980s for young offenders but which had never really got off the ground, the idea being that the offender was dealt with quickly and intensely, and released afterwards having paid his debt to society without having incurred the long-term costs associated with custodial sentences. The taxpayers were happy, and it worked very well – in fact it had cut the occurrence of re-offending by more than half. And so it ought – because the National Correction Schedule was, not to put too fine a point on it, legalised torture.
The way it worked was straightforward, but cunning: the basic idea was similar to ‘Room 101’ in Orwell’s novel ‘1984’ – the offender was subjected to a punishment tailor-made for that individual, to be as intense and unbearable as possible. In order to determine what that might be, the offender was first subjected to ‘psychometric analysis’ (a euphemism for being connected up to a computer and having one’s mind probed) to find out which ‘procedure’ would be most (cost-) effective in his particular case – i.e. which torture would he be most susceptible to. Although almost anything could be arranged, physical pain (usually in the form of electric shocks), isolation in a sensory deprivation tank, and distress-inducing drugs were the most commonly used techniques.
Tony’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of several policemen who restrained him and led him out to the van waiting to take him to an NCS centre. The ride lasted about an hour, and by the time it was over the van’s faulty rear suspension had given him a numb bum.
He was led down corridors and down stairs, and into a warm room where his hood was pulled off and he was unceremoniously stripped, then weighed and carefully measured all over his body before being strapped into a chair. Tony found himself facing a white-coated technician standing in front of an impressive panel of blinking lights. Without speaking, the man squeezed gel onto various places at the sides of Tony’s head, on his arms, and – worryingly – at the back of his scrotum, and attached small electrodes. Next he spent a few minutes adjusting knobs and dials on the machine, while humming tunelessly, and then he turned to Tony and smiled.
“This isn’t going to hurt, although you may occasionally feel a slight sensation. The machine is ready now – please sit still and breathe easily. It’ll take about ten minutes.” He pressed a button, watched a screen carefully for a few moments, and then left the room.
Tony sat nervously while the machine did its thing – occasionally he would jump as one or other of the electrodes tingled momentarily – and he was very surprised when at one point he began to get an erection. Sadly that didn’t last, and before long the lights stopped blinking and the machine became inert. A couple of minutes later the technician reappeared and printed out the computer’s report. His eyebrows went up as he read it, and he glanced at Tony speculatively before leaving the room again with the printout.
A little later two wardens reappeared, and led Tony away.
Depending on what an offender’s treatment was determined to be, it took varying amounts of time to get things ready. In his case it was 24 hours – time Tony spent in a cell which was the identical twin of the one in which he’d been held, back at the police station. It was routine not to inform the offender what his punishment was going to be, presumably to make him worry as much as possible (although Tony would probably have worried a lot more if they had told him). He read the magazine they let him have (“Skating News” – riveting stuff) and counted the bricks in the walls (947 if you counted the broken one by the ventilation duct), and tried to sleep. But he was a very worried boy indeed.
* * *
Tony stood, held between two burly wardens, facing a thin, hawk-nosed man dressed in the ubiquitous black uniform. There was silence for a few moments while the man consulted a file on the desk before him, holding one corner of the pages in a well-manicured hand and then, without looking up, he spoke. “Anthony James Beresford, age 28, prisoner number 163544/229, you have been sentenced to National Correction Schedule Program 17. Allow me to acquaint you with your punishment.” He let the papers fall onto the desk and looked at Tony with narrow grey eyes in which there was an unmistakable glint of pleasure. He continued in a voice which oozed cruelty: “As you may know, offenders are psychometrically analyzed to determine the most effective punishment. Your PA report and recommendation are here.” He tapped the document on the desk with a long fingernail. “It would seem that you are ticklish, yes?”
Tony’s heart actually missed a couple of beats. What? Had he heard right? Ticklish? No, that couldn’t be – they wouldn’t – no – not that – nooooooo….. He realised his mouth was hanging open and that he’d stopped breathing.
“Ah. I see the thought of being … tickled,” he savoured the word lovingly, “causes you some distress, yes?”
Tony didn’t trust himself to speak.
The man got up from behind the desk, walked slowly round it, and perched on one corner facing the prisoner.
Now Tony was a self-confessed fetishist – black and shiny gear had always turned him on – and he usually found the police’s black leather uniforms: the biker-type jackets, the high boots and the tight pants with the studded belt – which held the gun, handcuffs, radio and the hood – very sexy. However, on this man it looked dreadful – and somehow extremely sinister. The jacket didn’t fit him, the boots looked pretentious, and the pants were loose. But much, much more disturbing than all that was the fact that as he watched Tony’s obvious terror at learning that he was going to suffer the one thing in all the world he couldn’t stand – being tickled – the man was getting a hard-on in his pants. This continued to grow as he described in graphic detail what was shortly going to happen to the boy.
“Your treatment will take place in three rooms. In the third of these rooms, you are eventually going to be tickled – but it is the purpose of this punishment system to ensure that the treatment is as intense and as effective on an individual as possible. Now our research indicates that a human male’s level of ticklishness – “again he enunciated the word very slowly, “is at its highest immediately after orgasm.” He leaned forward towards Tony so that their faces were only a couple of feet apart. “So, you will be forced to ejaculate first. That will happen in the second room. This will make you infinitely more … ticklish…” He paused, then frowned slightly as he continued in a concerned voice, “But there is a possibility that you may be able to resist, hold out and not let yourself cum.” The expression on his face now became pure sadism. “That is the function of the first room – to make very, very sure you can’t hold out.” He got up off the desk and sat back down behind it. “It’s quite elegant really – ” He counted off on his fingers: “Room One will make sure you can’t resist Room Two, and Room Two will make you unbearably sensitive to the torture in Room Three. He tapped the report lying on the desk. “Wonderful machine this – we know things about you that you don’t even know about yourself. Weaknesses, turn-ons, fears.. You’re in for a memorable time, Beresford. Very memorable indeed.”
Tony’s first reaction was to smirk – he was a tough jock. He’d been a star footballer and athlete at school; he had a very high tolerance for pain; he was intelligent, and generally well sorted. He was confident he could resist anything they could do to him. His only real weakness was that he was horrendously, incapacitatingly ticklish……
Then every bit of his self-assurance deserted him. It began with a slow shaking of his head, accompanied by a quiet chanting of “No, no, no, no…”, and suddenly blossomed into absolute terror as the full implication of what they were going to do to him, hit him between the eyes. Shit – they were going to strap him down and tickle torture him! He made a bolt for the door. The wardens had been expecting this, of course, and he managed to move all of two feet before they got him restrained again. They had to carry him, kicking and screaming, from the room.
As the guards dragged him out, Tony saw the hawk-nosed man watching him, and masturbating behind the desk.
* * *
The centre of the room was dominated by a large and sinister-looking device. Standing vertically, it was a rectangular table eight feet high by four feet wide and covered completely in black leather. The shape of a spread-eagled body was outlined by small hooks set into the padded surface, and there was a seven-inch diameter hole in the table where the outlined legs joined the outlined body. It was pretty clear to Tony how this table was going to be used, although he had no idea what was going to happen to him on it.
The two wardens allowed him to stand between them for a few moments looking at the device before they forced him spread-eagled against the table, and fastened him down to it with long, elastic bungee cords which they ran from one hook to the next over his limbs, pulling the cord tight between each. The hooks were numerous and closely-spaced, and when the wardens had finished he was held totally helpless, pushed tight into the leather-covered foam. His cock and balls felt exposed and vulnerable hanging through the centre hole, and the bungees over his hips, buttocks and the tops of his thighs immobilised his pelvis to such a degree that he couldn’t move it a single millimetre in any direction.
Then the wardens took a rubber mask which had been hanging from a top corner of the table and pulled it over Tony’s head. It was a full hood, with a moulded rubber face and a long apron of thinner rubber which hung down the neck to his shoulders. From the mouth area there ran a thick corrugated rubber tube which disappeared around the side of the table.
Tony couldn’t breathe! His lungs desperately tried to get air, but the only thing that happened was that the rubber mask sucked inwards and clung to his face when he tried. He began to panic – something was wrong! He was going to suffocate!
Then he heard one of the wardens laugh, and someone must have opened a valve, because cool fresh air rushed into his starved lungs through the rubber tube. One of them slapped him on his bare arse and Tony heard them leave the room. He was alone, and he had never felt so helpless in his life.
Two things happened then that scared the wits out of him: the first was that he felt something touch his cock. A light brush along the entire length of it from base to tip – something soft, like a feather. His whole body went rigid for a moment and he let out a sharp shout of surprise. The brush caused a quick, involuntary jerk of his cock in response. The second thing was that suddenly Tony could see! It took a moment for him to understand that he was looking at the other side of the table – at his own cock and balls poking through the large hole. After he calmed down, he realised that there were two small screens built into the rubber mask over his eyes. He’d been too scared and preoccupied to notice them when the mask had been put in place. They were obviously connected to a TV camera on the other side of the table. There, in detailed close-up, were his cock, balls, and an area of the insides of his thighs. A part of his brain even noticed that the image was in 3-D – the camera must have double lenses. The experience was very unnerving. Tony made his cock jerk once, just to be sure it was, in fact, his own body he was looking at. It was.
Abruptly, the scene changed. Now, instead of the hole, he was looking at a boy. He was extremely cute: in his early twenties, with black, spiky hair, startlingly blue eyes, the body of an angel, and wearing the tightest white satin shorts imaginable. But it wasn’t all that which got to him – it was the fact that he was slowly twirling a long, pointed feather in his hands – and the gorgeous but frighteningly evil smile on his face as he did it.
“Hello,” he said brightly, “I’m Martin.”
At the sight of the feather Tony immediately felt another panic attack threatening.
“Oh don’t worry – you ‘re not gonna get tickle tortured until room 3. I’m just gonna use this to make you want to cum. By the time I’ve finished with you, Anthony, you’re going to want to cum more than anything else in the world. More than you’ve ever wanted to cum before in your life. More than you ever thought possible. You will beg, Anthony – you will plead. You will promise me anything if only I will let you cum. It’s my job to make you so desperate for orgasm that you think you’re gonna go insane. it is also my job to make very sure you can’t cum.” He smiled that sexy smile again. “And I am very good at my job.”
The scene changed to a wider-angle view of the other side of the table. There was a comfortable recliner positioned beyond it, beside which was a control console and a tray of what looked like instruments of some kind. Tony watched as Martin climbed onto the recliner and got himself comfortable – but it seemed to be in the wrong position for him to reach Tony easily. Then the boy pressed a button on the console and, with a whirring of motors, the table began to lift from the floor, and to rotate slowly towards the horizontal. When it stopped, Tony was at an angle of about 45 degrees – and his genitals were some eighteen inches or so from Martin’s face.
“God I am going to love doing this,” he said with feeling. “It’s not often I get called out to do this kinda thing, and it makes me soooooo horny.”
In the view screens Tony could see him squeezing the bulge in his white shorts with one hand while running the other over the firm muscles of his stomach. As he played with himself, he stared at Tony’s fear-limp cock, and whispered, turning himself on: “You’re gonna be one horny boy in a few hours, Anthony. I’m gonna play with your cock – suck it, tickle it, tease it, jack you off very slowly so you can’t cum. Remember, boy, what’s gonna happen to you in the next room – and remember that if you cum in there, the torture in the third room is gonna be a thousand – a million – times worse for you. Your only hope is not to cum. If you can do that you’ll be able to stand the torture and beat the system. But I’m gonna make sure you can’t hold out against them in Room 2. It’s my job to make it impossible for you to resist them. I’m gonna get you so horny that when they take you to the next room, if somebody was to fucking blow on your cock you’d shoot your load. Yeah….” The bulge in his shorts was now so big it lay like a German sausage along the top of his leg, pulling the leg of his shorts away from his muscular thigh.
“Okay, you ready for this, Anthony? You ready for this, boy?”
Tony saw him select the same feather he’d put back into the tray a few minutes ago, and the view returned to the close-up of his cock and balls through the hole. His cock was still limp, and in spite of the sight of that cute boy in those sexy fucking shorts, Tony didn’t feel in the least bit horny.
But that all changed suddenly, as Martin brought the tip of the feather into contact with the bottom of Tony’s balls. An electric shock of lust ran through him as he ran the feather along his scrotum and up the sides. Tony’s cock jerked in response, and Martin chuckled quietly, “oh yeah, you and me’re gonna have some fun, boy…”
After a few more strokes of the feather Tony felt his cock begin to get firmer. ‘No!’, he warned himself, ‘I must not get horny. The only way I’m going to get through this with my sanity is by not getting horny and by not cumming. I can beat these bastards. I CAN’. He knew this was his only chance, but that boy was an expert. In his hands, that feather became a lethal weapon. It bypassed his voluntary system completely and spoke directly to that part of his brain that dealt with sexual excitement. As the feather teased around his balls and the insides of his thighs, his cock took on a life of its own and, in direct contravention of his conscious orders, began to rise. Very soon it was standing to attention – as solid and as hard as steel – and the boy hadn’t even touched it yet!
The view changed again, now showing Martin lying back on the recliner. With his free hand he slowly unzipped his shorts and freed his cock – which sprang out like a flagpole. He squeezed it a couple of times. Then he took an ice cube from the tray and popped it into his mouth. The scene returned to the close-up of the hole, and after a few moments Tony heard the sound of the ice cube hitting the floor as Martin spat it out. Immediately he leant forward and took the entire length of Tony’s cock into his mouth. Now Tony was by no means under-endowed, but every one of his seven inches disappeared down the boy’s ice-cold throat. Tony squeezed his eyes shut and silently screamed in ecstasy. The feeling was unbe-fucking-lievable. He thought he was going to shoot his load there and then. But Martin knew exactly what he was doing. Remaining perfectly motionless so there was no friction against Tony’s cock, he began to hum. A low bass note, deep in his throat, that sent wave after wave of vibrations up the length of the helpless boy’s dick. It was incredible. Then, with a final strong suck, he pulled himself off the rigid pole – the slurping noise loud in the otherwise silent room.
Tony’s cock jerked and waved in the air, hungry for more attention. The scene in his view screens cut to Martin’s shorts, with the boy’s cock thrusting out of the open fly, a pearly drop of precum clearly visible on the very tip. The bastard was enjoying this.
Abruptly Tony was looking at the hole in the table again. Martin’s shoulder momentarily obscured the view as he leaned forward and reached for something, then his hands were back, holding a long strip of wet leather. He found the centre of the strip, and placed it behind the base of Tony’s erect cock, then he formed it into a cockstrap, crossing the two ends underneath and behind his balls, back up to where he had started, and around again a few times. Finally he pulled it tight – Tony’s freshly-shaved genitals making it easy for him to position comfortably – and tied it off behind his balls.
It made Tony’s cock feel huge to him – big, sensitive, horny and exquisitely vulnerable. Again Martin reached for something, and wetted it in his mouth. When it came into view, Tony saw that it was a rubber cup about the size of an egg cup, with a small weight attached to the base of it. He placed it carefully over the end of the helpless boy’s uncut cock and squeezed the air out. When he released it, the cup grabbed Tony’s cockhead and drew it into the cup, sucking firmly. He gave it a swing, and took his hands away. Tony groaned in pleasure: the feeling was wonderful – like a mouth sucking and swinging on the end of his knob. The weight turned the slightest movement into a shuddering tingle of pleasure. This device on its own would have been enough to keep him hard and horny indefinitely – but Martin now had two hands free to work on him in other ways.
He began by stroking Tony’s thighs very lightly. He sought out every nook and cranny – gently pulling the boy’s balls away from his thigh and running the pointed end of a strip of stiff leather up and deep into the usually-hidden crevices at the sides of his scrotum, then around behind his balls, along his perineum and up the crack of his arse, teasing the rim of his arsehole by pulling the cheeks apart with the first and third finger of his hand, so exposing the pink hole, and using his second finger – the one between the other two – to tickle round the rim. This made Tony’s cock jerk so much that the rubber cup fell off, and he had to re-apply it after wetting it again. Martin’s touch was silkily teasing – light, slow, and infinitely frustrating.
He sat back, and Tony watched as Martin slowly jerked his own cock. There was now so much precum that it had run down the shaft and was lying in a pool and slowly soaking into his shorts. “OK boy,’ he drawled, “gonna have to blindfold you for this…”
Tony wondered what he meant until his view screens went off. His universe suddenly closed in as he was plunged into inky rubber blackness. If he’d felt helpless before, now it was much, much worse. He didn’t know what was coming – couldn’t see to prepare himself – and he panicked again. He struggled with all of his strength, pulling against the restraints, and trying to withdraw his cock from that damned hole – but the cords holding his body tight to the table were far stronger than he was, and they kept him immovably pressed into position. An evil laugh from the boy told him that he was getting off on his prisoner’s helplessness and panic. With an effort of will Tony got himself under control again and managed to relax, listening to his breath whistling in and out of the rubber tube.
And then Tony couldn’t breathe. The bastard had closed the air valve again. He fought for breath, but got nothing at all – then, when he was sure he was going to pass out, Martin opened the valve just a bit, and Tony drew air – screamingly slowly – into his lungs. If anything, this was even worse than not being able to breathe at all. Tony yelled “You bastard!” into the mask, not knowing or caring if the boy could hear him or not. Then he could breathe again.
Suddenly he felt his cock and balls enclosed in something cold and slippery. He knew it was Martin’s hands, but they must be in something – rubber gloves! Lubricated rubber gloves. The boy’s fingers slid smoothly and lightly over his straining cock (Tony would have thought that his panic at the lack of air would have got rid of his erection, but it was even harder now than it had been before). They glided over his balls and between his legs, and then Tony felt a cool, smooth, slippery fist enclose the whole shaft of his cock. It remained motionless for a few seconds, and then began stroking firmly – but so, so slowly – up and down the length of it. Every bit of Tony’s concentration was centred on the feeling of that lubricated, rubber-gloved hand sliding up and down over the steel-hard solidity of his shaft. He willed Martin to speed up – just a little – just enough to let him cum. He was so near. If he really tried, he reckoned he could cum before the boy realised what was happening. Yes! He could feel it beginning – yes! – yes!! YE…….
Martin let go and chuckled quietly. “As I said, I’m good at my job.”
Tony felt like kicking the boy in the balls. Shit shit shit shit SHIT!
Martin removed the suction cup, and began to play with Tony’s freshly-exposed foreskin.
Tony’s foreskin was, without doubt, the single most erogenous spot on his entire body – one of his favourite ways to make himself cum was by squeezing, stretching and pulling it. It’s difficult to describe – especially to someone who hasn’t got one – just how intensely pleasurable it could be. Now Martin started to work on it: he squeezed it over the tip of his cock, rubbed it round and round over the sensitive glans, licked the edge of it with his tongue, stretched it out and stroked it slowly – until again Tony was on the very edge of orgasm. This time he KNEW he was going to cum. There was absolutely no question. Tony opened his mouth and began to scream, “YEEEEEESSSSSSS!!!!!!”
But Tony didn’t cum. Yet again his cock was waving in the air, untouched. He tried to thrust his hips, to make his cock-end touch something – anything. A single touch would unquestionably have made him shoot his load – but there was nothing. Tony was hyperventilating, his breath whistling madly in and out of the rubber tube. He couldn’t stand this – he was going to go mad. At least it couldn’t get any worse.
Then the screens lit up again and Tony saw Martin lying back, jacking himself off. He picked up the feather with his free hand and ran it lazily over the tip of Tony’s straining cock as he brought himself close to orgasm.
“You a horny boy yet, Anthony?” He asked, more to himself than to Tony. “You wanna cum? You want me to suck you off, boy?” He leant forward again and took Tony’s cock gently into his hot mouth, playing with the end of it with his tongue.
This instantly brought Tony to the edge of cumming again, and the helpless boy squeezed his eyes shut in concentration. “STOP IT!!” He yelled. He mustn’t get this close! He tried to picture unsexy things – his landlady in the bath, Margaret Thatcher, anything – but it was no good. An increasingly urgent rhythmic motion made him open his eyes to look again – it was Martin jacking himself off. He let Tony’s cock fall from his mouth nanoseconds before his prisoner would have shot his load, and he smiled – his eyes almost closed.
“You wanna cum, Anthony? But you can’t, can you? You’re helpless, strapped down, controlled. I can cut off your air, I can blindfold you, I can make you cum – so easily. So fucking easily. Imagine your cock deep in my throat. Sucking. Sucking. Or my fingers playing with your foreskin, and tickling your balls. You’d cum, boy. Oh, you’d fucking cum all right – you’d shoot your spunk into my hand or my hot mouth, you’d be fucking helpless to stop yourself. You’re so close… so close…. but you can’t, can you? You can’t make yourself cum – and anyway you know that you mustn’t. You don’t know whether you want me to make you cum or not, do you? But the next room’s gonna make you cum. You can struggle all you want, fight against it till you’re blue in the face but you’re gonna cum, Anthony – you’re gonna cum. You think I’m hot? You think I’m a sexy boy? Would you like to kiss me? Fuck my face? Feel my hot lips around your cock again, milking you? While you suck my beautiful hard cock…? Would you like to see me cum? See me cuuuuummmm…..!!!”
As Tony watched, Martin arched his back and his cock jerked and throbbed as it squirted thick hot gobs of spunk into the air. Seeing that cute boy cum nearly made Tony shoot – so nearly. But not quite. He closed his eyes in desperation. He wanted to cum so badly, and seeing Martin shoot his load – seeing him get the relief Tony so urgently needed – made his torture exquisite.
Tony struggled in frustration, cursing the bonds that were holding him down, cursing the rubber mask, and the table with the hole in it that made him feel so vulnerable – so fucking horny! – but most of all Tony cursed that cute, sexy boy who knew so exactly how to push his buttons.
At least, he thought to himself, now the bastard had cum he’d have lost some of the sadistic motivation that had been driving him to make Tony suffer so much.
Martin pulled the recliner closer, and adjusted it until, when he was lying back, the end of Tony’s cock was touching his face. Then, relaxing, he lazily took the head of the boy’s dick between his lips and caressed it softly. He slid his hot, wet lips over it, hardly touching, while his tongue teased the tip slowly – so very slowly – gently parting the foreskin and stroking the naked, sensitive glans beneath. In this comfortable position, Martin could continue to do that to the boy all day if necessary.
After a few seconds of this Tony was gnashing his teeth in frustration. It was the most wonderful, horny experience he’d ever had – but he couldn’t stand it. He needed to cum more than he needed anything else in the world.
After a quarter of an hour he started to drool inside the rubber mask.
He held onto what little control he had left for as long as he could – but after twenty minutes, he broke completely. “PLEASE! Please make me cum. I’ll do anything you want. PLEEEASE – MAKE ME CUM!”
When this elicited no reaction from Martin, Tony tried threats, and then began to promise the boy more and more. “You can have my car if you let me cum. Martin? Please? You can have my house. I’ll GIVE you my house. Just let me cum. PLEASE? You can have everything I’ve got. EVERYTHING I’VE FUCKING GOT! JUST MAKE ME FUCKING CUM YOU BASTARD CUNT!!!!!!”
Finally, Martin did respond – he started to tease and tickle Tony’s balls at the same time, with a very soft feather. Tony screamed then – he reverted to some baser animal state. He struggled against the restraints, tried desperately to thrust his immovable hips, and made unintelligible noises for a long time. His entire body was one enormous cock, and there was one, and only one, reason for him to continue living: to achieve orgasm.
How long that continued Tony had no recollection. At some point Martin had removed the leather thong from around Tony’s balls, and he vaguely remembered Martin’s cumming again – Tony thought it was twice more – before he’d finished with the delirious boy. Then the wardens were unfastening his restraints.
As they took him off the table they tied his wrists together behind his back with a plastic tie. They were careful to keep his legs apart – to stop him from making himself cum on the spot. Tony heard Martin shout after him as they half-dragged, half carried him out, “Remember, Anthony, whatever you do, don’t let yourself cum….”
As he left the room, the sound of the boy’s laughter rang humiliatingly in his ears.
* * *
The wardens took him into the middle of the second room, and held him there for a few moments so that he would go ‘off the boil’ slightly, and then they left. Even after they had released him, Tony still remained motionless, not trusting himself to move a muscle, for fear of cumming. He stood with his eyes closed in concentration, willing himself further and further back from the unthinkable precipice of ejaculation to which he was so dangerously close. After maybe half a minute, he let out a deep sigh of relief – he thought he was safer now. He opened his eyes and tried to focus, his mind still not functioning properly after the treatment he’d just received. He appeared to be in some kind of exercise room – all the walls and the floor were padded with rubber. Suddenly a voice behind him startled him so much he literally jumped.
Tony spun round. ‘Oh no,’ he groaned. He was looking at a total and absolute wet dream. Physically, the boy fitted Tony’s deepest sex fantasy so perfectly that he felt himself getting close to orgasm again just looking at him. The lad was eighteen or nineteen, big and muscular; his head was shaved, except for a two-inch-wide strip of blond hair down the centre, and there was a ring though his nose. He was stripped to the waist, wearing chunky bike boots into the tops of which were tucked skin-tight leather jeans which clung to his long legs – apart from behind the knees and at the sides of the smooth, round bulge of his cock there wasn’t a single crease or fold in the shiny black leather. A coiled snake was tattooed on his right bicep, and he had the best-developed pecs Tony had ever set eyes on.
He lowered his head, fixed Tony with an unblinking gaze from his deep blue eyes, and smiled sexily, showing a perfect set of white teeth. Then, very slowly, he said: “I’m gonna make you cum, Anthony.” The way he said that sent a shiver of lust through Tony’s body. The punk’s voice bypassed his brain entirely and spoke directly to Tony’s balls.
As he looked at the punk he felt his resolve weakening again. He wanted – longed for – that beautiful, sexy boy so much that he was on the verge of screaming “oh fuck it” and flinging himself at the punk. But then the door to the third room caught his eye, and the knowledge of what unbearable horrors lay beyond it – horrors which would be unthinkably worse if he allowed this boy to make him cum – pulled him up short. He stood there shaking his head pitifully, caught in what was, for him, the ultimate dilemma. He was like a computer that had locked up – frozen – torn between two absolutes: the driving, urgent, compelling NEED to give himself to this unbelievably hot punk, and the realisation that that was the one thing he must not, under any circumstances, do.
The blond punk smiled again and slowly walked towards Tony. Tony couldn’t move – confronted with this vision straight out of his deepest fantasies, his legs had turned to jelly. The punk stopped a couple of feet away and hooked his thumbs in his belt. He nonchalantly stroked one finger along the top of his cock bulge as he watched Tony devour him with his eyes.
The boy’s motorcycle boots fastened up at the sides with thick leather straps and steel buckles. His leather jeans were skin-tight – the thongs laced through the eyelets running down the outsides of his legs had been pulled as tight as they would go, and the leather clung to his legs like a second skin – as if it had been sprayed on from an aerosol. The jeans sat low on his hips, and the heavy studded leather belt contrasted with the bronze skin of his firm, slim waist. Tony noticed that he had one of the regulation hoods attached to the side of his belt. The bulge between his legs, rather than displaying the usual sausage-shape of a cock under the leather, was round – as if a grapefruit had been pushed down the front.
He reached into his back pocket and took out a large sachet of lube. Tearing the corner off with his teeth, he poured the thick liquid onto his cupped hand, then, bending his knees outwards, smeared it thickly on the insides of his thighs and under the bulge of his cock. His eyes never left Tony’s face while he was doing this.
Tony’s mouth was dry. These people had certainly done their homework. Apart from the fact that this boy was physically as near to Tony’s idea of sexual perfection as made no difference, they were also using what was probably his single most intense fetish – skintight, bulging black leather jeans – against him. He knew beyond any shadow of doubt that there was nothing between that covering of thin, tight black leather, and the punk’s delicious, hot cock. He watched the boy’s hand spreading the slippery lubricant over the inside of his thighs – just at the top, right under the bulge of his cock and balls – making the smooth, polished black leather even shinier. Tony stared, hypnotized, and totally unable to look anywhere other than at that slippery, inviting, lube-slick leather.
Smiling teasingly, the punk stepped closer – he was now almost touching Tony. He reached with one arm around Tony’s back and pulled the boy towards him. Slowly, his strong arms forced Tony down onto the floor. He laid Tony out flat, the boy’s tied wrists sinking into the thick padded rubber, and knelt astride his waist. Then he lowered his head and stroked his mohawk lightly across Tony’s face. Tony closed his eyes and breathed in the fresh, clean smell of the boy’s hair. Raising his head again, he looked directly into Tony’s eyes. “I’m gonna make you cum, boy,” he repeated. ‘These leather jeans’re gonna milk you dry,’ he whispered.
He lay on top of Tony, guided the boy’s cock between the tops of his thighs and closed his legs tightly, enclosing the throbbing organ in boy-warmed leather. He smiled again, and then, wrapping both arms around him in a tight embrace, he kissed Tony deeply.
If Tony had been asked to choose from a hundred of the sexiest boys in the world, he would probably have chosen this one; he had never felt so overwhelmingly physically attracted to anyone before. The feel of the punk’s strong arms around him; his mouth against Tony’s, kissing deeply; and the feel of those lubricated, slippery, tight leather jeans enclosing his cock – all these things were just too much for him. Involuntarily, he began to thrust his hips, fucking the boy’s jeans.
The punk pulled his head back just far enough to see Tony’s face. “Yeah, that’s it, fuck me, boy,” he whispered. “Feel those tight leather jeans sliding over your cock, milking you. You can’t stop yourself. You’re gonna cum…”
Tony screamed to himself silently – NO! I MUST NOT CUM!!! – and made one last superhuman effort to control himself, and to stop himself cumming. He squeezed his eyes shut, stopped thrusting his pelvis, and struggled in the punk’s muscular grip, trying to hold on to the tiny bit of control he had left.
The punk felt Tony’s last, desperate effort to resist, and grinned down at him. ‘Oh no you don’t.’ He tightened the grip of his thighs, then crossed his booted feet and forced them between Tony’s so that the boy could feel his leather jeans all the way down the insides of his legs. At the same time he pistoned his hips, sliding his lubricated thighs up and down the full length of Tony’s desperate cock, jacking him off with the boy’s most intense fetish object – his leather jeans – even though Tony wasn’t moving a muscle. The blond punk crushed the boy’s mouth with his and raped it with his tongue.
That was too much. Tony instantly began to cum. His body exploded with the most shatteringly intense orgasm he had ever experienced in his life. He stared unseeingly into the punk’s blue eyes as volts of ecstasy stabbed into his brain in a torrent of pure pleasure. Tony came and came and came – he thought it was never ever going to stop. His hot spunk, bottled up and sadistically denied release for so long fountained up between the punk’s thighs and fell back in heavy, thick puddles on the shiny black leather. He shuddered and jerked like a puppet on a string as the boy’s tight jeaned thighs milked him dry.
Eventually his convulsions finally slowed, and then stopped. The punk released the hood from the side of his jeans, smiled at Tony, and kissed him gently once. “You lose,” he said. Then he slipped the hood over the boy’s head and picked him up in a fireman’s lift. “It’s torture time,” he whispered, and carried the boy over his shoulder into the third room.
* * *
Struggling and screaming into the leather hood – knowing what was about to happen to him, but helpless to do anything about it – Tony was carried into the third room like a condemned man going to the gallows. This was it – the room in which Tony was going to be tortured – and Tony could see nothing of it at all.
Unseen hands took him from the punk’s shoulder and lowered him face up onto a surface. His legs were held straight out in front of him, and he heard motors whirring nearby. A few seconds later he felt something hard but padded grip his ankles. Then what felt like small straps were put across the joint of each big toe and tightened. At the same time someone removed the plastic tie binding his wrists. As he rubbed his wrists he heard a door close. When nothing further happened for a few moments, he tentatively raised his hands and pulled off the leather hood.
He found himself in a very strange situation: he was alone, in a wide, but very short room. It was just as long as the table he was lying on – and his feet disappeared through two holes in the wall at the end of the table. He tried to move, but the holes clamped his ankles comfortably but immovably. Tony could hear movement on the far side of the wall, and realised that the bit he was lying in was a sectioned-off part of a larger room. Apart from the wall holding his feet, he was otherwise unrestrained.
The efficiency with which they’d moved him was such that it had been less than a minute since Tony had had that incredible orgasm with the punk. His balls ached and he felt totally drained – as if not only every last drop of spunk had been milked out of him by that gorgeous punk boy, but as though somehow even more than that had been sucked from him. He felt as if he’d been connected to a vacuum cleaner.
Tony lay there for a few moments, waiting, dreading the door opening again and his torturers arriving – and so when the first touch came, it was totally unexpected.
And Tony screamed.
The bastards had gone for his most incapacitatingly ticklish spots first of all: on the other side of the wall, his torturers were working on his feet. As well as their talented fingers, they had an array of instruments at their disposal: brushes; q-tips; dry ball-point pens; feathers; pointed strips of stiff leather – plus lots more – and they used them in a non-stop assault on his size 12 feet.
Tony was beside himself with ticklishness. He writhed on the table, sat up, beat his fists on the metal surface – but nothing he did made the slightest difference. The straps across his big toes, securing them to the other side of the wall effectively immobilised them completely – he couldn’t move them an inch in any direction. The most he could do was to curl the rest of his toes slightly, and that did him no good at all. What made it worse was that apart from his feet, he was unrestrained. He could move his body wherever he wanted – but he couldn’t get away from the horrendous tickling of his feet.
He thought he was going to go insane. This was a thousand times worse even that he’d imagined it would be. Something stiff and pointed slipped between the tops of two toes and, with a sawing motion, slowly worked its way downwards. At the same time something was tickling his heels unbearably, while someone else worked on his arches, and yet another drew designs on his soles. He screamed, shrieked, laughed, cried, gasped for breath, beat his fists impotently on the table, yelled through the wall, begged and pleaded. They took not the slightest notice.
The boys in the first two rooms had done their work well. Martin, the dark-haired one had got him hornier than he’d ever been in his life – so horny, in fact, that when they’d taken him off that table a single brush against the end of his cock would have made him shoot his load. The blond wet-dream punk could have made him cum with a single finger – but holding him, kissing him, using his tight leather-jeaned thighs to milk him – that had been like using a steam roller to kill a fly. The earth-shattering orgasm that all this treatment had produced had so sensitized his nervous system that, had he been connected up to some kind of ticklishness meter, he’d have fused the thing.
He writhed in ticklish agony as they continued to find new ways of torturing his helpless feet. At one point he vaguely registered the fact that he was lying in wetness, and that he’d pissed himself.
It went on and on.
Eventually, after what seemed like hours, they stopped. Tony lay back on the table, his body covered with sweat and jerking uncontrollably, expecting them to start again at any second.
But then Tony felt the small straps across his big toes being removed. Moments later the door opened and the two wardens reappeared. The wall separated and the two halves retracted into the ceiling and the floor, and through dazed eyes Tony saw for the first time the larger part of the room. It looked like a padded cell – all the surfaces were covered with very thick, soft, slightly ridged padding. As the wardens moved Tony into the centre of the room, the wall closed up again behind them and, with a final chuckle, the wardens left, closing the door behind them.
Almost immediately it opened again, and four figures entered. The first was black-haired Martin, and he was followed by the blond punk from Room 2. Two more boys Tony hadn’t seen before came in next – one was very cute, the other was more hunky – all of them were dressed identically – bike boots, leather jeans and jackets, and protective helmets – but in addition, they also wore mirror-black carbon-fibre body armour over their jackets. They formed a circle around Tony, who turned slowly like a cornered animal, not knowing what was going to happen.
Then a fifth figure entered the room. Tony gasped in terror – it was the hawk-nosed man. Unlike the others, he wore no armour or helmet. He took up position apart from the others where he could watch, and issued a terse command. Instantly the four boys closed in on Tony. Their actions had clearly been pre-arranged, as the two new boys grabbed Tony, forced him to the floor and held him down while Martin and the punk began to tickle him. Tony screamed in hysterics immediately – this was far worse than being strapped down. He fought, struggled, and tried desperately to defend himself, but he was a naked boy against four in leather, boots, helmets and armour, and he stood no chance. One would go for his sides or ribs while another squeezed his thighs just above the knees – or two would hold his arms high over his head so a third could tickle his armpits. Wherever he could put himself, hands could still reach his most ticklish spots.
They would allow him to curl up into a ball, and then one of the boys would force his hand between Tony’s thighs or tickle his feet, or dig stiff fingers into his sides, or force a hand between his upper arm and the side of his chest and work it slowly upward towards his armpit again – tickling, tickling, tickling. It was pure, unadulterated torture.
At one point they stood in a circle and passed him around from one to the other, each one tickling him in a different spot. At other times all four of them would work on him simultaneously.
Every forty-five minutes or so, the hawk-nosed man would bark a command, and the boys would stop. They would lie Tony on his back, the punk kneeling astride his head, gripping it with his knees and grinning down at the boy while he forced Tony’s face into his leather-clad crotch, and the others holding him immobile, ready for the hawk-nosed man to kneel between Tony’s legs, insert a rubber-gloved finger up the boy’s arse hole and masturbate him to orgasm quickly and efficiently. Each time this happened, Tony did everything he could to stop himself from cumming, but each time the man’s finger unerringly found his prostate and – together with his expert jacking of the boy’s cock – made the exercise academic.
And each orgasm made the torture ten times more unbearable.
Tony lost count of the number of times he passed out – but each time he came round, the torture would begin again. He pissed himself several times and his throat was hoarse with screaming.
Tony had thought that this was as bad as it could get – but after his second orgasm, the boys held him while the hawk-nosed man, grinning sadistically, slowly lowered one of the regulation hoods over his head and pulled the drawstring tight. Now, blindfolded by the thin leather, Tony couldn’t even begin to defend himself. If he’d thought it was bad before, the torture was now unimaginably worse.
The boys changed their technique, to take advantage of the fact that he couldn’t see anything. They worked on him unpredictably, from unexpected angles and directions, sometimes not touching him for many seconds, to allow his own brain to torture him by not knowing where the next unbearable tickling was going to come from. Of course, when it did come, they always made sure it was devastating.
Tony was beyond laughing, screaming, begging. The noises he was making into the leather hood were no longer human. He knew he was going to be a gibbering wreck for the rest of his life.
There was a pause, and his hood was removed. Martin lay down, and then pulled Tony on top of him so they were both lying face-up. The punk pulled Tony’s arms high over his head, cuffing them together so he could hold them there with just one hand, and a third boy clamped Tony’s ankles between his leather-jeaned legs. Martin placed his hands carefully on Tony’s sides, and then, suddenly, they all went to work on him.
Tony screamed as Martin’s stiff fingers jabbed and probed into the muscle just above his hip bones, and as the blond punk tickled Tony’s armpits – one with his free hand and the other with his mohawk hair. At the same time the cute one of the new boys went to work on Tony’s ribs and abs while the hunky one, whose legs Tony’s were tightly held between, kneaded the muscles above Tony’s knees and scraped sharp fingernails over the boy’s bare soles.
This was the worst it had ever been. Tony prayed he would pass out – but he didn’t. Covered in sweat, he screamed and struggled, but to no effect. The boys were tickling him everywhere. In the midst of this, Tony became dimly aware that the hawk-nosed man was standing over them, masturbating – and a few seconds later splashes of hot spunk landed on his chest, thighs, and genitals as the man came. His face was a mask of sadistic pleasure as he watched Tony being tortured on the floor at his feet, and his moans of ecstasy were drowned out by the boy’s screams of hysteria. With shuddering groans, the man’s contractions slowed, and he quickly zipped himself up and left the room.
Moments later the boys released Tony and, with sighs of exhaustion and chuckled comments from one to another, left as well. The blond punk turned, and winked at Tony before he left.
Tony lay there alone, quivering, on the padded floor, covered with sweat and spunk. He was physically and mentally exhausted. He jumped when the door opened a little later, but the wardens who entered assured him it was all over. They took him away for a cup of tea and a lie down.
* * *
A shaft of late afternoon sunlight shone through the window, fought its way between the almost-closed curtains, and cut the study into two like the blade of a golden knife. On one side of it stood a desk cluttered with books, discs, notepads, dirty coffee-cups, a pair of unwashed underpants, and a PC. On the other side, sitting in the murky darkness, a boy doodled on piece of paper that was already filled with drawings. Similar pages littered the floor around the chair. The ball-point pen was putting the finishing touches to a head – it was that of a youth, with a ring through his nose and a blond mohican haircut.
The boy threw down the paper, sucked the end of the biro for a few moments, and sighed deeply. For the last few days he’d been listless, unable to concentrate, and had hardly eaten anything. He could only think of one thing.
For the thousandth time, he looked across at the computer screen. On it was the logo of the First Bank of America, and below that the heading “Accounts”. One account was highlighted. At the bottom of the screen was a box containing the words “Anthony James Beresford. New balance = $100,000.00 Please press RETURN to confirm”.
Slowly, the boy got up and walked over to the machine. He extended his index finger, looked at it for a moment, and then placed it gently – almost lovingly – on the beige ‘return’ key. One single push on that key, and he would have committed a major crime – and, as he had not even tried to cover his tracks when hacking into the bank’s mainframe, the police would be here within the hour. However, if he were to push the ‘escape’ key next to it, the change of balance would not be entered, and he could continue his life without fear of punishment.
He stroked the surface of the key lightly, hardly touching the plastic. His finger moved gently from the one key to the other – back and forth – ‘escape’, ‘return’.
After a while his finger stopped above one of the keys and, with quiet determination, he pushed it all the way down.
On the computer screen, the message “Change aborted. Balance = [sterling]997.00” With a sigh, the boy switched off the computer and began to tidy the room.
* * *
On a different computer screen a similar message was being displayed. This time, however, the amount was not the same. It read “Anthony James Beresford. New balance = $500,000.00 Please press RETURN to confirm”. A finger hovered for a moment over the ‘return’ key, and then firmly pushed it. A new message came up: “Change confirmed. Balance = $500,000,00.”
A hand reached across the desk and switched off the Line Tag Generator – a piece of electronic gear that would convince any tracing equipment that the call had originated at Tony’s computer. The owner of the hand withdrew it and massaged his erect cock through his leather trousers.
He looked up at the punk and smiled thinly. “You owe me one,” said the hawk-nosed man.