The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6

by Jakubowski Maxim

  The feather didn’t stop for a second. “What did you say, slave? What was that you said?”

  “Oh . . . I said . . . I said, ‘Please tickle my asshole, sir. Tickle it all you want, then tickle my balls some more.’ ”

  “I thought that was what you said. Well, you’ll be begging me more before I’m through – begging to get back on the rack again, just to get away from this feather.”

  Sometimes Drake heard these remarks, sometimes he didn’t. He was in the zone, where he spent most of the time these days. He was a tickle slave, taking more punishment than was humanly possible and repeatedly forced to beg for more. Nick muttered and sometimes shouted his threats and demands, and Drake either croaked a response or said nothing; but this was not the real world, not anymore. The real world was a world of pure feeling, often agonizing, always horrifying. In the real world all of Drake’s ticklish nerve-ends spoke to him, it was their voices sometimes bubbling up in his throat, croaking out screams of laughter and begging and pleading. Those poor ribs, those poor armpits, those poor, super-sensitive feet – they cried out desperately as Drake watched, both victim and observer, wondering what in hell could happen next.

  He was only mildly surprised when Marshall Carter appeared – or Marshall’s ghost, or spirit, or whatever these apparitions were that could step out from the shadows of the Torture Chamber at any time.

  Carter was still a well-endowed seventeen-year-old, naked and resplendent in the sun coming through the skylight, illuminating the golden hair on his arms and legs and chest. And his dick, that beautiful hard dick that Drake had once taken between his trembling hands, still swung heavy through the air. “Carter!” Drake said. “I thought you were in California.”

  Carter laughed. “Man, I’ve been all over the world by now. I joined the Navy right out of high school, and I’ve tickled guys in more countries than you ever heard of!”

  “You still look like you’re seventeen.”

  “To you I always will be.”

  “Well, look what’s happening now,” Drake said, shaking his head, involved and yet not involved as Nick’s cruel fingers tickled his bare torso, stretched to the limit on Nick’s rack. “This guy is tickling me to death, you know?”

  “I know, I’ve been watching. Look, Drake, I’m sorry, I’d stop him if I could, but I can’t. I’m just a spirit, to begin with, and then . . . I love watching him work you over. I want him to keep going and going and never stop. Sorry, man.”

  Drake just shook his head. It didn’t matter. His life was not in his own hands anymore: it was in the hands of a tickling maniac, and the odds of his surviving just one more day weren’t too good. “It’s just my fate,” he said, barely able to hear his own words over the sound of Drake, the other Drake, screaming on the rack. “Listen to that. I’ll be even more hoarse than usual by tonight.”

  Carter stared at the rack where Drake was stretched out, his ribs showing in sharp relief. Nick was playing those ribs like percussion instruments as Drake screamed and screamed again. Carter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His hard cock seemed to have gotten even bigger. There were tears in his eyes as he said, “Man, I wish I could tickle you. I wish I could tickle a big load of hot come out of you.”

  Then another voice came out of the shadows. “Me too,” it said. “Hell, yeah, me too.”

  Drake strained to see. “Coach Doyle?”

  It was the Coach, all right – as burly as ever in his tight green shorts, naked to the waist, a silver whistle gleaming from the center of his hairy chest. “Listen, Drake, I’m sorry too. I helped Carter tickle a lot of boys in that locker room after school. It was a shameful thing to do. Afterwards, they were all too scared to tell anybody. So I kept on doing it. I couldn’t help it. You were all so damn ticklish, and so young and strong . . . you bucked like horses. I’m retired now, and I’ll never see a sight like that again.”

  “Well, look, Coach,” Drake said, “here’s your chance to do a good turn. Just get Nick to stop tickling me. Please.”

  The Coach shook his head. “No way. I’m just like Carter, I love to watch. It’s taking my breath away, seeing what he’s doing to you.” He leaned closer to Drake to make his final pronouncement: “You better pray, Drake. Pray that Nick lets you go.” Like Carter, the Coach also had glazed eyes by now, and had to wipe his mouth. “And while you’re at it, son, pray, pray to the Lord God Almighty that I never get my hands on you.”

  In 1979 Drake was living in New York. He had a bachelor’s degree in journalism, an entry-level job in corporate communications at a major bank, and a tenement apartment in the East Village. But mostly what he had was sex. Sex was everywhere – in the bathhouses, the bookstores, the porno theaters and parks. He had sex with more men, in more places, and in more different ways than he’d ever thought possible. And whenever he began to worry that he might be a sex addict, some sizzling piece of male flesh would catch his eye and he would be off, following gladly wherever his dick lied him.

  It led him one night to a porno theater on Third Avenue. He skipped the film and headed directly downstairs to the back rooms, craving the kind of anonymous sex that could only happen in pitch dark, with nothing but the occasional flash of a cigarette lighter to show what – and who – he was doing.

  In the first room, there were waist-high benches along two walls where guys tended to pair off. The other walls were bare except for the men leaning against them, sometimes packed pretty close together. The place smelled of smoke and dirt and come and poppers. It was earthy; it was hot. Drake walked the length of the room letting his hand brush against one taut denim-covered basket after another. Flash went a lighter, a cigarette glowed, a pair of brown eyes sized him up. Drake moved on, feeling the occasional hand against his own crotch. Later on there would be more naked bodies than clothed; he knew enough to leave his wallet at home.

  The second, larger room was just as dark. There were a pair of fake jail cells in the far corner, for guys who were into that kind of fantasy. Drake didn’t intend to make it that far. He stopped, feeling up crotches, and as two guys moved in on him he was so hard he thought he’d burst the buttons on his Levi’s 501s. An open mouth covered his, he tasted tongue and hot breath. A pair of hands worked at those buttons. Near the center of the room was a raised, carpeted platform where a guy could stretch out and get worked over. Drake moved slowly toward the platform, never losing contact with the hands that were groping him. In no time his jeans were around his ankles – he wasn’t wearing underwear – and he stripped off his T-shirt, letting it fall somewhere near his feet. He lay down, letting the raised back of the platform support him, and spread his knees. His long, hard dick was ready for contact and it wasn’t disappointed; one hand gently stroked the shaft while another caressed his balls, and he was sure they were two hands from two different men. Again the hungry mouth, a tongue lapping the back of his throat, and now there were hands on his hairy pecs, sliding down along his sides. When a hot mouth closed over his cock he gave a shout, it felt so good. There were still hands on his chest, roughing up his nipples, and that pair of hands caressing his sides – how many men were doing him? Three? Four? In the dark it was easy to lose count of hands and mouths and cocks. He reached out and found a hard one, began stroking it. Another nudged his left hand, and he grabbed that one too. There were at least four pairs of hands and as many mouths moving over him. The air was filled with hard breathing, moans, and soft, satisfied curses.

  More hands moved in, more cocks. One gently pried at his lips and he took it in, thrilling at the feel of the dick head against his palate. His own dick was slick with saliva and pre-come, and he didn’t know how much more handling and sucking it could take before he’d shoot. The cock in his mouth couldn’t take much teasing at all, a sudden hard thrust and hot cum coated his tongue, dribbled down his chin. If his hands were free he would have caught the last drop and licked it from his fingers. But none of him was free, his hands were full of cock and there were hot impatient h
ands on his arms and shoulders and chest and belly . . .

  But what was this? Something different . . . those fingers moving across his abs. That wasn’t unusual, guys were all the time feeling his abs, worshipping them . . . but this time the fingers were . . . more than touching, they were . . . tickling. Oh God, he couldn’t stand it! Any second he was going to burst out laughing. He squirmed as much as all those hands would allow, praying the maddening sensation would stop. Of course it would, no one was tickling him on purpose, it was just that he was so ticklish . . .

  But the tickling didn’t stop. Helplessly he slid down farther on the bench, and felt a sudden rush of heat to his groin as he realized he hadn’t been tickled in a long, long time. The last guy who had really tickled him to death was Marshall Carter, in high school. Now that was a memory to make the rush of heat to his groin even more intense, and before he knew it he let a giggle escape his lips. Could it even be heard above the groaning and moaning and sucking all around him? He squirmed some more, giggled a little louder . . . he couldn’t help it, the fingers were digging in harder.

  “What was that?”

  “Hey, he’s ticklish!”

  “Where?”

  “Poke him here . . .”

  “Hey, yeah!”

  More fingers moved in, mercilessly probing his abs and sides. He squirmed, he let go of the hard cocks he’d been pumping, but it did him no good: strong hands grabbed his wrists and pulled his arms up, just as Coach Doyle had done so long ago. “No, no,” he cried, already nearly breathless with laughter, “don’t tickle me, don’t!” His legs were pinned down too, there were bodies pressing in on him from all sides. He’d never survive if they all started tickling him. But just as on that long ago day in the locker room, or long before that, when Rodney Cole and the three soccer players had tortured him, he didn’t have any choice. Before long he couldn’t speak, couldn’t plead any more, all he could do was laugh. As scared as he was of laughing, of letting them know just how ticklish he was, he threw his head back and roared hysterically as all those hands attacked his abs and sides, ribs and armpits.

  Maybe it was the darkness – not being able to see his attackers – but he was more ticklish now than he’d ever been in his life. He screamed with laughter as fingers clawed into his armpits and knuckles mashed his ribs. The screams only brought him more punishment: a finger found its way into his navel and twisted and drilled into his guts. His groin was now the property of at least twenty fingers, and his balls were being twiddled like mad. More hands made mincemeat of his inner thighs. No part of him was safe, not even the ticklish spots behind his knees.

  It was only a matter of time – insane time, tickled-to-death time – before they lifted up his feet and he felt, along with everything else, greedy fingers working at the laces of his sneakers. The sneakers were pulled free, his socks nearly torn off, and his jeans were gone altogether. Oh Jesus, don’t tickle my feet! He tried to say it, but his words were broken up by laughter, hysterical laughter that became more hoarse and yet more high-pitched as fingers attacked his soles and toes and the tops of his feet. Soon each breath he managed to take escaped as a high keening wail, and they kept on tickling him.

  Then he heard it again-the same deep, rasping voice that had said, “Hey, he’s ticklish!” and then, “Poke him here.” The voice and the hot breath that came with it was right in his ear, and this time it was saying, “Tell me what they’re doing to you.”

  Was he serious? Drake couldn’t believe it. All he could do was laugh, and if he was able to get a word out here and there, it was to beg for the tickling to stop. Now this guy wanted him to talk. Drake shook his head, his mouth stretched wide with hilarious laughter.

  “If you don’t talk,” the raspy voice said, “then you get this.”

  Now Drake felt something he had truly never felt before, as two fingers – two thumbs, more likely – stabbed deep into his exposed armpits. They were like pile drivers, and the jolt made his entire body stiffen and tore loose a yell from deep down in his throat. All Drake could think, when he recovered enough to form a coherent thought, was that he now knew what electroshock treatment must feel like.

  “Talk to me,” the voice rasped again, “or you get the thumbs.”

  “Oh . . . Jesus . . . please don’t.” It took every effort of will just to get those words out, with so many hands tickling him.

  “What are they doing to you?” the voice rasped.

  “Oh . . . God . . . tickling . . . my feet! ”

  “Yeah? What else?”

  Some generous guys had been free with their pocket lube, and Drake’s groin was now all slicked up. They were slicking up his abs as well, giving a new, slippery feel to the tickling that had Drake sputtering helplessly, he was no more capable of forming words than an infant.

  “What else? What else? Tell me, or you’re going to get it . . .”

  Again the thumbs drilled into his armpits, and again the jolt was so bad that Drake thought his spine would crack.

  So he was trained to narrate what they were doing to him, struggling to get out the words as he also laughed and screamed and begged and panted.

  “Tickling my . . . balls! And . . . oh shit . . . aahhhh, sticking their fingers in . . . my belly button! Hah, hah, hah, can’t . . . stand it . . . Oh my ribs, tickling my ribs, Jesus Christ . . . oh fuck, they’ve got my thighs . . . and . . . what? What are they doing to me . . .”

  They were moving him, adjusting him, lifting his legs. He was their helpless toy, they could bend and flex him however they wanted and he was too weak to defend himself. Lifting and spreading his legs . . .

  “What are they doing to you, what?”

  “Jesus fuck . . . oh no . . . tickling my asshole!”

  Slippery fingers, dozens of them, teased and prodded his asshole, stretching, exploring, poking . . . there was no way he could speak now, his cries were reduced to a pathetic wailing as they twiddled his anus, palped his scrotum, squeezed his thighs, violated his navel . . . and there was still the same steady tickling of his feet, sides and ribs.

  He knew, insofar as he was capable of knowing anything, that it would also come again, the jolt of thumbs screwing powerfully into his armpits . . . and so it did . . .

  And Drake woke, as if from a dream. But the tickling wasn’t a dream. He knew it was real, still happening, might be happening forever. He could hear the high-pitched wailing of his voice, broken by fits of panting. And yet he was distanced from it now. He looked around, and instead of his tormentors he saw only darkness.

  He remembered how, as a kid, he would go swimming in the lake at night, plunging deep under the water, into absolute dark. He felt that way now, suspended, weightless, unable to see anything but his own luminous skin. And all around him, below, beside, in front and behind him, there were little fish. Little invisible fish, all nibbling at his flesh.

  He felt no sense of panic. He could breathe, even here, deep under water; and he would survive, he could let the fish do what they wanted, nibble till there was nothing left of him, as long as he remembered to breathe.

  When he surfaced again his cock was harder than it had ever been, leaking pre-come all over his belly, which slickened his ticklish skin even more, intensifying his torment. He was so weakened by the tickling that he didn’t know if he could escape even if they did let him go; but his sexual response was stronger than ever, and when someone grabbed his cock he yelled, his hips thrusting upward all by themselves. One hand pumped his shaft, a mouth closed over his dickhead, and . . . yes, someone was licking his balls now, and more greedy mouths were licking his soles and sucking his toes . . .

  He could no longer separate the sensations, the sucking and jacking and tickling, the licking, poking and stroking. His body had become one nerve that was being stretched to the breaking point. And just when he felt that he really would break, his groin began to heave, his cock shook, and he came, filling one hot sucking mouth and then continuing to shoot. Every one of his torme
ntors slurped from his cock as if it were a drinking fountain. “Yeah!” they were crying, over and over. “Yeah, yeah, yeah!”

  He didn’t know he could shoot that big a load. His balls had been turned inside out. As the hands and mouths gradually withdrew, he panted and moaned and offered whispered prayers and curses to the dark. Though he lay perfectly still he felt he was falling, tumbling down and backwards, headed toward inescapable fate.

  It wasn’t over. Far from it. Collective male lust was a force of nature swirling through the humid, dusty air, rocking the floor, shaking the walls. A hand raised his head, shoved a bottle under his nose. It wasn’t his bottle of Rush, it was genuine amyl, and it took the top of his head off.

  A familiar raspy voice spoke in his ear: “Wake up! Some new guys have come in, and they’re dying to meet you!”

  It was three o’clock in the morning, and Drake was sitting on the floor outside the back rooms, leaning against the wall by the men’s room door. He had found his jeans and his sneakers, but his socks and T-shirt were lost. Well, he had had to go home shirtless before, he didn’t mind as long as it was warm outside. But it would take him a while yet to fully recover. His eyes were red and swollen from tears of laughter, his throat felt raw, his ribs were sore, the soles of his feet tingled, and his cock, balls and asshole were almost unbearably tender. Every minute or two his spine gave a shudder, and a weak, hysterical giggle escaped his lips, as if they were all tickling him still. Guys walked past him, leaving him in peace but still eyeing him hungrily and muttering to each other about what had happened in the farthest dark room.