The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6

by Jakubowski Maxim

  Drake walked faster. He couldn’t escape his thoughts, and with every step he took he was aware of his hardening penis. After a while he stopped, for he had been so preoccupied he hadn’t kept track of his surroundings, hadn’t been listening for treacherous footsteps. He tried to slow his breathing down so he could hear better.

  Was that a noise behind him?

  In a second it was gone. Probably an animal. He was in that part of the field, though, where he couldn’t see very far ahead or behind. He took a step, still listening.

  That sound again. A footstep?

  Drake kept walking. With every step he took there was a noise behind him. Was it footsteps or not? If only he could be sure! But whenever he stopped walking, all other sounds stopped too. Maybe it’s okay, he thought. Maybe it’s a friend behind me. But he could not force himself to retrace his steps, to see exactly who else might be on the path. So he started walking again – slowly, then a little faster, then faster still. He could swear that, whatever noise that was behind him, it sped up whenever he did. Terrified, he started running.

  And there were running footsteps behind him.

  Huhn Huhn Huhn. Drake was panting as he ran across the field with someone right behind him but he didn’t dare look. If he could just keep going for a couple of minutes, he’d be home free.

  Then he stopped.

  It wasn’t the sound of footsteps that had stopped him, but a voice. A growling voice.

  “Hey, you.”

  Drake had to turn around.

  Rodney had The Look in his green eyes. It chilled Drake through and through.

  “Sorry, pal,” Rodney said, pushing up his sleeves as he approached, “but you’re gonna get it. There’s no way out of it.”

  Drake stumbled backwards. He tried to sound brave. “What are you talking about?”

  Rodney shrugged. “Nothing much. You’re just gonna get tickled, that’s all. You’re not scared of getting tickled, are you?”

  Drake could barely speak, it was as if he had something caught in his throat. Finally he managed to say, “No . . . course not. I’m not ticklish.” Did he look as scared as he felt?

  “I wish you hadn’t said that. Now you’ll have to eat it.” With that Rodney, who was suddenly very close, pushed Drake so that he stumbled once more, then sat down hard on the ground. Before he knew what was happening Rodney had grabbed his long-sleeved T-shirt and was pulling it off over his head. Drake was surprised, as surprised as Charlie must have been, by the feeling of cool air on his bare skin. And he was shaking, not from the coolness but from fear. This couldn’t be happening. He knew it couldn’t be happening. It was as if he was watching somebody else, some other kid being handled by Rodney like a toy, dragged over to the edge of the path, back against one of the few trees that stood in the center of the field, his arms pulled straight up, then his wrists tied together with a long piece of twine Rodney pulled from his pocket. He tied the other end of the twine to a branch, so that Drake was sitting on the ground with his bound hands above his head, completely exposed, his legs straight out in front of him. Rodney knelt at Drake’s feet, and Drake sensed the strength and agility of the older boy’s fingers right through the canvas of his sneakers as Rodney began to unlace them. If he was trembling with fear before he was quaking now. His cousin had briefly tickled his ribs and armpits, but no one had ever tickled his feet. And he knew his feet were ticklish, knew it every time he put socks on and the cloth sliding across his sensitive soles took his breath away. He couldn’t walk barefoot through grass because it tickled so much, and even his mother’s living room carpet made his bare soles tingle. So by the time Rodney had removed both sneakers and socks, Drake was whimpering. “It’s not fair.”

  Rodney pulled another length of twine from his pocket. “What’s ‘not fair’, crybaby?” He wrapped the twine around Drake’s ankles, tying them together.

  Drake shivered with fear. “You didn’t tie Charlie up.”

  Rodney snickered. “Shows how much you know,” he said. “I tied him up, all right. I took him and tied him up at my house. In the garage, where nobody could hear him.”

  “That’s kidnapping!”

  Rodney snickered again, wiped his nose on his sleeve. “It was just a game. Poor kid didn’t think so, though.”

  Drake felt faint again. “What . . . what happened to him?”

  “Well.” Rodney shook his head sadly. “You notice he wasn’t at school today. He ended up in the hospital, poor kid.”

  For a moment a kind of sparkling darkness passed across Drake’s vision, and he thought he might pass out. When he could see again Rodney was crawling toward him on all fours, then getting up on his knees, raising his hands, his fingers wiggling ferociously. He grinned like a demon.

  “Now!”

  When Drake first felt Rodney’s fingers touch his sides, he screamed. It was a scream of pure fear, he couldn’t feel anything else yet. But right on the heels of that fear came . . . the tickling . . . and oh god Rodney’s hands didn’t care what they did, they were all over him like wild animals, squeezing his ribs, prodding his armpits, poking his belly . . . moving so fast that each finger’s attack was a surprise, and Drake, laughing hysterically, could only watch Rodney’s face through watering eyes. It was the face of evil.

  Now Drake was screaming, filling the air with screams, filling the sky, until everyone in the world must hear him being tickled to death. When Rodney finally stopped Drake’s body went slack, as slack as it could with his hands still tied over his head. He took in a bushel of air and let it out, feeling his lungs move against his mauled ribs.

  He sensed dimly, with tears and sensations clouding his vision, that Rodney was no longer leaning over him. Oh, thank God! But he didn’t have to look far to see where Rodney had gone.

  He was down at Drake’s feet.

  Before he knew what he was doing Drake was talking, his voice so hoarse it was little more than a croak. “Hey, Rodney? Don’t tickle my feet, okay? Look, I’ll do anything you want.” He struggled against the twine binding his wrists and ankles. “I’ll even help you tickle other kids. I mean it. We could do it together, we could be a team . . .”

  Rodney looked at Drake, looked him in the eye, but his smile was not promising. “Sounds like you think your feet are ticklish.”

  “No!” Drake almost screamed again. “No, no, they’re not! So don’t touch them, okay? Please, Rodney, don’t, okay?” Drake twisted to his right and left as far as he could, but it was no use, he could barely move at all. He looked up to the sky and saw, as clearly as if it was written across the blue, that he was lost. There was no use begging, or promising, there was nothing he could do. His body went slack again, and to his surprise a sound came out of his mouth. It was a giggle.

  “What’s that?” Rodney asked. “You think this is funny?”

  He still hadn’t touched Drake’s feet, but he was so close . . . Drake giggled again, he couldn’t help it. Fear itself was tickling him. “Please, Rodney, don’t . . .”

  “You do think this is funny!” With that Rodney drew his fingernail right up the center of a bare helpless sole.

  Drake’s whole body convulsed, and he was giggling again, so fast he could hardly breathe. “Please . . . ha ha . . . don’t . . . oh ho ho . . . n-n-no, Rodney . . . aha ha ha . . .”

  “Well, since you think this is so damn funny, I guess I’d better get to work.”

  “No! Hahahaha stop . . .”

  And Rodney did work on Drake’s sensitive feet as he screamed with laughter again, his voice high-pitched, hysterical. Rodney explored and tormented the soles of those feet, then the tops, then the toes and the spaces between the toes. Just when it seemed like Drake couldn’t possibly laugh or scream any more, Rodney would find a new ticklish spot and lovingly torture it with his fingertips and nails. He finally stopped only when he had to shake out his hands and stretch his fingers. Drake still croaked out hysterical cries and laughter.

  “C’mon, I’m not touchi
ng you right now,” Rodney said.

  Drake couldn’t help it, he couldn’t calm down, not ever.

  Rodney got up and stretched his legs. “There’s one thing I forgot to tell you,” he said.

  Drake gulped air, tried hard to control his breath, but it was as if his body no longer belonged to him, he couldn’t tell it what to do.

  “I forgot to tell you,” Rodney said, “that there was soccer practice this afternoon, and it should be getting over right about now.”

  Drake wasn’t looking at Rodney, he was looking at his poor tormented feet. He could swear they were still being tickled, that the air itself was tickling them. As for what Rodney was saying . . . what did soccer practice have to do with anything?

  “Some of the guys will be walking home,” Rodney said. “They should be cutting through here any second now.”

  “Guh . . . guh . . .” He could only croak now. He was trying to say, Good! They’ll help me! They’ll cut me loose!

  “I told the guys that we’d be here,” Rodney said. “They sounded real interested.”

  They’ll kick your butt, Rodney! You won’t be tickling kids to death anymore!

  “I told them,” Rodney said, “that I was pretty sure you were ticklish.”

  Slowly it dawned on Drake what Rodney really meant. “No . . .”

  “Oh, yeah.” Rodney got to his feet, dusted off the knees of his jeans. “I think I hear them coming now.”

  “No!” Drake couldn’t hear much over his own breathing. But he tried to hold his breath and listen, even though his lungs still ached for air.

  And there was someone coming. Footsteps . . . more than one set of footsteps kicking through the brush, stomping toward the path.

  And voices. Deep voices. Older boys, older than Rodney.

  Drake tried to roll from side to side. “Let me go, Rodney. Come on.”

  In another second they broke through onto the path. Three high school freshmen, still wearing their red shorts and white T-shirts from soccer practice.

  “Hey!” one of them said. He had hairy legs, and the beginnings of a mustache. “What have we here?”

  “Looks like Rodney’s been up to his old tricks.” This second boy, shorter with blond hair, had an evil grin.

  “Oh, yeah!” This was the darkest boy, the hairiest boy, his chest hair curling up around the collar of his T-shirt. He rubbed his hands together. “Looks like kind of a ticklish situation!”

  The boys laughed as if that was the funniest thing they’d ever heard, and Rodney laughed too. “He’s all warmed up for you,” he said.

  “Yeah, we can see that.”

  Drake wondered what they meant, but when he tried to move, to squirm around, he knew. His dick had gotten hard, and as his brown corduroys slid down a bit it was even more obvious. There was a little tent where his lap should be.

  “How big is a sixth-grader’s dick, anyway?” the hairiest boy asked.

  “Gets bigger when he’s tickled, I bet,” the blond one said.

  Drake kicked, or tried to. “Leave me alone!”

  The boys came closer . . . and closer. They were laughing, mocking him, Awww, leave me alone! He watched in horror they stood right above him.

  “Please,” he said.

  Awww, please! Pretty please!

  And then they were on him.

  The three soccer players tickled Drake’s belly, sides, ribs and armpits, while Rodney tickled his feet. Drake laughed, screamed and cried. He couldn’t struggle with eight greedy hands on him, each of them working to drive him crazy. And though he stayed aware, agonizingly aware of the punishment inflicted on his ticklish body, the wild sensations filling his head made him wonder, after a while, if all of this was really happening or if it was some kind of dream. It had better be a dream, or else he might not survive. With so many strong hands driving at him his body just might break in half. But even if it did . . . even if his body broke in half, and then into more pieces, his tormentors would just keep tickling – tickling the pieces into more and more pieces, until they had tickled him to dust.

  In his specially equipped Torture Chamber, Nick had Drake tied to a St Andrew’s cross. He was naked, except for a leather cock ring and ball stretcher, and there was a ball gag in his mouth. His body glistened with sweat, for Nick had been tickling him for about two hours. Neither man had been able to keep track of the time; to Drake it was more like two hundred hours, while Nick, in a trance, felt they had just got started on a long, long journey.

  After a brief pause Nick began again, digging his strong fingers into Drake’s sides as he screamed helplessly. When he could organize a thought, when it was possible to put one word after another in his mind, it always came out the same: He’s tickling me to death! His heart was pounding so, he couldn’t last much longer. Would he even have the strength to beg when Nick removed the gag for “begging time”, as he had done twice already? Please Nick no more I can’t take it you’re killing me oh God stop. I’ll do what you want, you can fuck me, I’ll suck your dick, anything oh God oh please stop. Take my wallet, my credit cards, keep my clothes, throw me out on the street naked, anything! I’ll be your slave for the rest of my life I swear to God . . .

  And at that point Nick said, “You’re right there. You will be my slave for the rest of your life . . . which might not be long.”

  During his next lucid moment, Drake wondered why he had to endure the ball gag. As Nick had promised, his loft was in a building that stood off by itself in an old warehouse district; no one could hear Drake laugh, scream and beg for mercy. Then he realized that the gag was just part of his torment, making him feel more helpless.

  He wondered, too, at his body’s capacity to take punishment. How come it didn’t shut down, why didn’t he get numb after a while? How much could his nerve-ends take? If his body could last this long, it would no doubt outlast his mind, which was swimming, fading in and not-quite-out of consciousness. As Nick attacked his insanely ticklish armpits, Drake even thought, as he twisted his head toward a far corner of the room, that there was someone else there . . . someone he recognized, though he couldn’t at first put a name to the figure that stepped forth from the shadows. It was a young guy . . . just a kid, though big for his age. He had red hair and green eyes, a striped polo shirt.

  It was Rodney Cole.

  Oh God, I’m going insane!

  Rodney looked around, not knowing where he was. If he saw Drake, he gave no sign. Drake struggled but could not move an inch, couldn’t make a sound except for the hoarse screaming stifled by the ball gag.

  Rodney! he thought.

  To his surprise Rodney looked at him, his eyes narrowing. Surely he recognized Drake, even after all these years; he knew what was happening, could see what Nick was doing to him.

  Rodney, help me! He’s tickling me to death!

  Rodney came closer. He looked from Drake to Nick’s trancelike expression and quick strong hands, then back to Drake again.

  Rodney!

  Rodney could hear him, he knew it. He could hear his thoughts! Rodney, I’m begging you, make him stop . . .

  Rodney came closer, till he was nearly touching Nick’s shoulder. His eyes were dreamlike as he shook his head sadly at Drake.

  “I’m sorry, Drake,” he said. “I’m really sorry. But I can’t stop him from tickling you.”

  Why, why, why?

  “I can’t help it, Drake,” Rodney said. “I love watching him do it. I love it too much. I can’t make it stop.”

  Nick obviously did not hear the visitor’s voice, or see him as he turned around to reach for one of his tools, a powerful vibrator with a rotating head of firm but feather-like bristles.

  Drake’s eyes widened. Oh no . . . not his balls . . . not again!

  It was true, the head was approaching his tautly stretched balls, and Rodney was doing nothing to help him!

  But wait . . . over in the corner, where Rodney had first appeared . . . someone else now stepping forth. And another, and ano
ther.

  The three freshmen soccer players who had helped Rodney tickle Drake on that afternoon so long ago. Like Rodney, they hadn’t aged, and they still wore their red shorts and white T-shirts.

  You guys, help me! He’s tickling me to death!

  At first, like Rodney, they didn’t seem to know where they were. But they soon focused on Drake. Their mouths were open as they stood there, staring.

  Help me, you guys!

  One after another the three boys shook their heads.

  “I’m sorry,” said the one with the brown eyes.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry too,” said the blond, not bothering to hide his cruel smile.

  “Me too,” said the hairiest one. “We’re sorry we can’t stop him. But we love it too much. We have to watch . . . and watch!”

  Where did you guys come from? Are you real?

  Rodney shook his head sadly. “Not real enough.”

  By the time Drake was sixteen and a junior in high school, he was certain of one thing: he was gay. He had grown, filled out in more ways than one, with hairy balls and a dick that hung low, and he was horny a hundred percent of the time.

  His teachers had him pegged as a daydreamer, but at least his daydreams were practical. Rather than worry about how he had become a fag, or fretting about what would happen when he grew older, he focused instead on one immediate concern: as much as he handled his own hard cock – he was probably the secret jackoff champ of the world – when and how was he going to get his hands on somebody else’s? He had never touched another guy, not in a sexual way, but he wanted to so badly it made his fingers ache as well as his balls.

  At night he lay in bed with an old gym towel clenched by his side, summoning up thoughts that made the sheets rise and his dick start leaking. (He always put out a lot of what he would later learn to call pre-come). He often pictured that afternoon in the field with Rodney and the soccer players. What had filled him with shame at the time, when they had finally left him alone and he had struggled to make it home in his weakened state, was that the older boys had opened his fly to expose his little hard dick, making fun of it while they were tickling him. It was too humiliating to think about – until recently. Nowadays, as Drake teased out images and feelings from the assault, he kept seeing those older boys and how excited they had been, their shorts stretched out in front of them till they looked ready to burst. Swollen crotches had bobbed and weaved above Drake as those bastards kept changing positions, each of them making sure he got a chance to tickle every inch of Drake from his neck to his waist. Their hairy hands had darted in and out of sight, their hairy legs had brushed against him ceaselessly; and as their shorts stretched and twisted some more Drake had glimpsed the taut white pouches of their jockstraps.