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Ticklish
(Part 3) 
by
D_J
 

T.G.I.F.!!!
Today's the day, I kept telling myself excitedly, repeating the thought over and over.
Tom and Marc were in a good mood, too. We rode the morning bus together. Our conversation was animated and happy...

During a break between classes that afternoon, I kept Tom engaged while Marc and Juan "liberated" items from various departments on campus - helpful "supplies" which would facilitate Tom's laughter.
My first thought had been to make it a class project... but Marc maintained that there would be no way to keep it secret from the rest of the college population - students and faculty alike, not to mention the custodians and support staff. The less chance of any interference, the better.
Of course, the biggest reason for discretion was obvious to us all. We simply had to avoid spooking Tom. There was no doubt in my mind that he'd flee at the slightest hint of what was in store... or even a single quick jab to his sides or ribs, right then. Damn, it was finally the big day! Only a few more hours to go... and a concerted, multi-tickler, all-out assault on his sanity would commence.

For me, the benefit of not going public with our plan was part of a much bigger strategy. And as we were talking the night before, after Tom had been dropped off, Marc said something that made me hoot with glee. Great minds, thinking alike - or the noncorporeal at work. At that point, it didn't matter to me, so long as the outcome was assured...
What I learned was that both Marc and I were picturing the night's events - and tomorrow? - as the first of many insane sessions for ticklish Tom. This would be a "dry run", involving a small number of ticklers - and Marc let it slip that he wanted some kind of repeat of that high school tickle-fundraiser, Tom's tickle ride to hell and back. I had to admit that the idea of making that ordeal happen again, without any financial goal or timer there to limit the fun, was fascinating... and yet the ShiziCor hungered for more, and more, as it always did. It had decided that Tom would get more tickling this year than even his most vivid nightmares could deliver.
We had everything arranged, and the clock was tickling...
Oops - I mean, ticking.

Finally. School's out for the weekend!
Tom, Marc and I headed for the cafeteria, with about an hour to kill before the start time Juan gave for his "jam session." Marc thought it best that the college be pretty well deserted before the festivities got underway. About the last variable that remained was the janitorial staff - but Juan had already struck up a friendship with the married couple who cleaned the building we'd be in, and Marc made him go the extra mile and get permission from the music department office so we could stay late. There would be no staff of any kind in there on Saturday. Or Sunday. Midterms were far enough off that Juan didn't expect hardly any music students to be wandering around - long after they'd usually all bolt for the weekend...
It would be just us, and Tom - protected by all that wonderful soundproofing.
The happy shouts of our fellow inmates echoed down the hall as they rushed to get out of the building. Similarly, instructors were just as relieved that the weekend had arrived... racing to beat their charges to the parking lot.
We got snacks from the vending machines, and I managed to take Tom's root beer away from him and trade it for my orange juice. He was going to need all the nutritious fuel he could get. It was getting harder to act casual, as the time drew near - Marc was better at that. Even he looked a bit too excited to write it off to anticipation of a simple party. We looked at each other and both started to grin like thieves, so from then on we avoided eye contact. I was almost giddy, inside, as the minutes ticked away.
It was almost five when Marc shot a lazy look at his watch, winked at Tom and said, "Let's get this show on the road!"

Our chairs scraped the floor as we got up - eagerly - and after hoisting our backpacks, we headed out. Manipulated subconsciously, or maybe just due to our wordless desire to get Tom safely there and inside, Marc and I sandwiched our target between us as we walked down the path. I did enjoy the idea of Tom trying to make a run for it, and being dragged to his fate. Even if I hadn't been burning with anticipation all week, it would be easy to march him inside. That kind of risk wasn't in the game plan, though, and anyway he walked right up to the trap, clearly looking forward to the party - and the bait he'd been promised.
Without the least hint of suspicion (but plenty of suppressed excitement), we all walked into the building, with Marc leading the way. Inside! Going down the hall, further and further into the net... and part of me still hoped Tom would try to run - after all, his best friend on campus was behind him, and surely I could be counted on to watch his back (and, so much more closely, his feet!).

Juan was there, and right on schedule. All smiles. Of course, Marc and I probably looked pretty manic at the point too... He greeted us enthusiastically and pushed a heavy door open. Practice Room #4 was too small for what we had in mind - and Tom deserved nothing but the best...
We stood in a hallway, short but wide. Emergency exit to the left, chairs and tables lazily stacked to the right. The doors were insulated - and across the hall was our destination. Yet another thick door, with black construction paper over the windows... and Juan was opening the door for us. Even better, that door swung in, not out. No simple body-slam would open Tom's portal to ticklish hysteria - unprecedented, feverish laughter.
A little dizzy from the hunger to get busy on some exceptionally rewarding soles, my mouth was dry as I watched him cross the threshold. On the wrong side of a door that locked, and oh yeah, there would certainly, literally be no escape for him now. Not a chance. And he didn't even know yet how totally doomed he was.
Tom took a couple more steps, further in, and I stood between him and freedom, insuring the night would be a laugh-fest and not a disappointment - for us all. There was no way he'd get past me - hell, he wasn't leaving a single riotous minute earlier than we intended.
As I walked in, a light caught my attention - it was the sign over the door, which Juan had just turned on. Red capital letters said RECORDING - DO NOT ENTER.
There was yet another door. Too good to be true! But I remembered the sign. This was a terrific studio, then. The real thing. Marc paused, pretending to shift the weight of his backpack... so Tom would be the first one to reach the final door. As he did, Juan kicked a rubber doorstop over from the corner -
Yes. Tom was reaching for the door handle - and it was locked.
"Hey," he said.
I knew that any of our student ID cards would open the door (and the card reader was hard to make out in the relatively weak light), but Juan was supposed to do the honors. We wanted our "guest" to think that only a relatively small group of people could open that inner door. Marc looked back, and frowned. I did the same - and saw Juan down on one knee, facing the door. What the hell?
Then I saw his right hand, shoving the doorstop into place. I felt excitement and anger - now that we were all in the entry area, there was no real chance of Tom making it out that door. But I got a real charge out of seeing that doorstop, wedged into position - and imagining a panicked dude making it to that outer door, maybe daring to hope, and pulling on the handle, tugging again and again, perhaps even seeing the doorjamb and figuring it out just as hands grabbed his arms and forced him back inside...
"The door," Tom said - and his tone was not good to hear. Not at all. Confused, and not nearly as relaxed. I centered my weight squarely, just in case he decided to bolt -
"Errrr... Shoelace," Juan said quickly, standing up. Tom turned and looked at him.
Marc rolled his eyes. A flash of despair came over me.

"Oh," Tom finally said. He bought it? A shoelace. Retying his shoe in that dim, crowded space... Maybe the ShiziCor deserved some credit for Tom believing that.
"Sorry," Juan said meekly, grinning at Tom as he nudged past. "Patience, patience..." He hurried to swipe his card through the reader, and the chime sounded -
At last. No more doors. Juan led the way, this time. I stared at Tom's head as he moved forward. You're going in, I thought triumphantly. You, dude, are goin' down...
There's no way to describe how much I enjoyed watching the simple finality of the door closing by itself, innocuous and silent. Locked.
All systems go.

I hung back near the door, guarding it, and looked around the room. It was quite a bit larger than the room where Marc got hold of Juan's feet. Track lighting illuminated a podium, where a conductor apparently might stand, and a circled object covered with a sheet. Chairs, music stands and three digital cameras on tripods surrounded... the hidden ambulance stretcher.
We all watched Tom take it in. That delightful, mystified expression - yeah, he recognized the shape of the gurney, alright -
Another man moved in.
"Welcome home, Tommy!" Bud said, stretching out the last word with the ease of long practice. His voice was crazy - I mean, he couldn't have sounded more extroverted, or more dangerous. Maybe it was pure joyful excitement. The dude was a loose cannon...
He wasted no time grabbing Tom's hand and pumping it furiously.
Oh, Tom was just thunderstruck! His mouth hung open... and he kept staring at Bud's face.
"I'll bet you're wondering where the band is. Right? The musicians?" that booming voice teased, as Bud kept hold of Tom's hand.
Tom nodded dumbly, completely flummoxed.
"Oooo yeah. And the musical instruments. Do you see them? Huh, Tom?"
Thoroughly dazed, moving almost drunkenly, the guest of honor scanned the room again.
"Well, look down. Look down, man, and then you'll see the instruments that going to be played." Bud's voice grew gentle, yet it was still mocking and unshakably assured.

"Aw. Tom, you look a bit... well, freaked!" Bud observed. "What's the matter? Are you still confused - about the musicians? You're in the right studio - and the musicians... Well, that's us, pal... All four of us, and our forty talented fingers!"
Tom's head moved from side to side, so slowly. Bud's right hand came up, and he waved his fingers in Tom's face, leisurely "tickling" the air. "Count 'em, man. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty fingers!!" He took hold of Tom's hand again and brought his other fingers up, waving them also near Tom's eyes. Tickle, tickle.
With a groan, Tom did his best to swing around... and saw Marc's fingers wiggling at him. All of us. Bud chuckled, and it was a perfectly inhuman sound -
With another look down, at his prized feet, Tom finally closed his mouth - the awful truth was clearer, it seemed - and then he swung wildly at Bud's head with his free hand. Marc moved like a cat, grabbing Tom's arm before the punch landed.
Bud flinched - and said, "Ohhhh," nearly laughing as he made a mocking sound of concern.
"Before we begin," Juan goaded, "we've got to get the instruments all set up."
"Ready to play," I growled.
"Yeah. Out of their carrying cases - from under all the... protective coverings," Juan sighed.

A second or two later, Tom's stupor vanished. "Noooooooooooooooooooo...," he wailed loudly. Ducking to the side, as he was being stalked by two zealous maniacs - with another one blocking the door... there was only one outcome.
All Bud had to do was turn, and Marc quickly seized Tom's left arm. It was almost as if they'd practiced the moves. They had Tom under perfect control, with his arms reefed up against his back. I seriously enjoyed the show, as they goose-stepped him to the stretcher. It could hardly have been more thrilling, as Juan pulled the covering sheet off dramatically...

When they had him right up close to his bed for the evening, I moved in quickly, seeing what kind of help they were going to need next. I bent down and hit Tom behind both knees at once, and scooped his legs up when they buckled, swung 'em over - and wham! I sat down on his shins immediately, so he wouldn't kick.
Tom yelled once, louder, and kept on cussing, groaning, and putting up as much fight as he could. I had to wonder if he really did understand, already, what the soundproofing meant. Maybe he grasped it that quickly... being in one of the worst possible rooms on the whole campus, for a uncontrollably ticklish dude. He might as well have been a mile underground. And his body was rapidly learning what his intellect must've already known... We were overpowering him, and he was going to end up solidly immobilized, because we were going to make him laugh and howl and roar tonight. There was no other possibility, anymore. He was in our clutches - and we were committed to seeing that Tommy would get the most intense tickling since that inspiring fundraiser the year before.
You can do better than that, a friendly voice whispered in my head.

As soon the "instrument's" arms were pushed down against the gurney, Juan hurriedly buckled the stretcher seat belts - three of them, pinning Tom's lower legs, waist, and chest. Then he pulled the shoulder straps over and latched them to the chest belt. Wordlessly - we all worked like a longtime team at this! - Juan took my place straddling Tom's legs.
I pulled each belt and strap as tight as I dared. And I absolutely loved doing it. That much closer...
Tom's upper body wasn't going to shift around very much. His armpits were positively inviting. But - first things first! I pulled his t-shirt up and over his head. It was no great surprise that Tom fought even harder, then... but Bud and Marc kept their grips.
I reached under the stretcher and pulled out some triangular bandages I'd prepared two days ago. They were folded to make a wide strap, with a noose of sorts. That entrapped Tom's wrist, and then I pulled the bandage good and tight, securing it to the frame of the gurney. With a strength I didn't know he possessed, Tom nearly threw Marc off - and it was the time to fight, most of all, because when I finished his goose was definitely cooked. Both Marc and Bud's faces were red with the effort.
No matter how motivated Tom was, though, or how impressive his resistance became from all the deranged panic spurring him, we pinned his other hand again. I caught it and pulled the bandage taut. There.

With his wrists pinned to the tubular metal framework of the stretcher, his hands were staying far away from any place he might want them to be. I doubled up the bandages, and the second set went quicker. He twisted and snapped his arms, but we got him. Definitely.
Two more bandage "nooses", looped around his elbows, pulled them toward the side frame. Now his sides were as open as they could be. Armpits, hips... Belly, and his pecs too, so ideally vulnerable. Wide open!
Bud and Marc watched Tom fight for a few more seconds, with their hards ready to pin him again. Then Bud looked over at Marc, and Marc saw that. They grinned, and gave each other a hard "high-five."
That was amusing - but my attention was distracted when Juan unbuckled Tom's belt and loosened his pants. His boxer shorts were tugged down an inch or two, so his belly was completely exposed. With Bud and Marc only too glad to help out, Tom's pants were eased down past his hips -
And I don't know if I could've been any happier as I took Tom's shoes off.

Oh, did he put up a fight. Pointless, of course, but I had to admire that level of persistence. It made peeling off his socks all the more provocative, even as he curled his toes, trying to fight me the only way he could.
Ignoring his pleas and demands, I looked from his sweaty, apprehensive face to those tantalizing arches... and sat down in his lap. Juan nodded and started loosening the belt over Tom's legs. Bud and Marc peeled his pants off, and used more bandages to anchor Tom's knees to the side rails.
Two bandages, for each ankle, kept them staked down at the corners of the stretcher, about twenty inches apart. His inner thighs were no safer than his armpits now... and those intriguing feet were hanging just off the end of the gurney. While I gave each of the belts another test, Bud checked the bandages.
We were ready to make music.

In addition to the stream of noises Tom had been making, he'd managed to inflict some damage. We'd kept him from kicking us, but he managed to punch me in the ear, scratch Marc's neck... and leave teeth marks in Bud's cheek. All of us had his spittle on our faces, mixed with our own sweat. Not one of us held it against him - hell, I knew I would've fought just as hard if the tables had been turned.
Puffing, out of breath, we studied our handiwork. Smiling, we high-fived each other, and Marc popped open a cooler. We quenched our parched throats with chilled beers. As we recovered our breath Tom continued to test his bonds, occasionally whimpering from the knowledge of what was soon to come. He wasn't going to get loose. Finally, we'd eliminated any possibility of Tom evading the intense marathon we'd planned - far longer than the fundraiser, and just as memorable.

Bud was as fired up as any of us. I was surprised to see him here. "Why didn't you tell me?" I thought-spoke to my invisible partner-in-crime.
It's more fun this way... don't you think?, it thought back to me, with the usual inexhaustible amusement. Surprises are waaaaaay more fun than knowing everything in advance!!
"I guess so," I grumped, "but you could have clued me in... How'd he find out about this anyw-"
Now, don't get pissy with me, the ShiziCor taunted - as it ran ghost-fingers down my soles, and gave me the lightest poke high in each armpit.
I yelped - and everyone stopped to look at me. I sheepishly looked down at my shoes, shuffling my feet a bit, saying nothing.
I suggested to Marc, the ShiziCor continued on, ignoring my sudden interruption, that a little class reunion was in order. He had no trouble at all tracking down Bud... after I just happened to supply a phone number and email address... The noncorporeal laughed heartily at its own joke.
When it laughed like that, I wanted to cringe...
When Marc called to recruit him, he leapt at the chance for an encore tickle session with his former best bud.

Just then, Juan's cell phoned trilled. He answered it, said "Cool!" and hung up. "Film crew is here!" Juan announced, heading for the door.
"Film crew?" Bud said, grinning.
"Yeah, I recruited some guys from the electronic media program."
"Any of whom could balk, and try to stop us," Marc complained. He hadn't been too keen on the idea, but I sided with Juan that time. "Rat us out -"
"No danger of that," Juan replied airily, disappearing through the door.
A minute later he was back with four second-year dudes. One had a big gear case, and the others brought in fourteen-inch video monitors. Handshakes, introductions all around...

Tom kept writhing and tugging. Maybe he couldn't help it. The camera operators seemed to be completely unfazed. That pro attitude...
"You guys good?" Juan muttered - and the editor gave him a thumbs-up from a good twenty feet away. The other guy was wearing a headset... so clearly Juan had some kind of radio too.
With our identities disguised, we leaned over the stretcher (that came naturally enough, since it was hard to see each other's eyes) and started lifting our hands -
"Guys - move slow," Juan said to us. "Just for this... opening shot. It's great. Keep leaning. It's like a ceremonial thing. Aliens... heh. Menace him with your fingers."
Bud and I started to chuckle as we complied. We did look like a team of soulless tormentors ready to methodically, exhaustively work on our captive, dispassionately unfazed by the distress caused by our descending hands.

There were no more preparations left unfinished.
We'd done all the work. Now it was time to play.

As we came closer, Tom's breathing sped up. He was on the verge of hyperventilating... and we hadn't even started yet.
"Hey," Marc said. I looked up, but he was talking to Juan. "You did good." Yeah, Marc was definitely happy.
Juan smiled his "winningest" smile back. With a gesture at Tom's midsection that was both graceful and diabolically casual, Juan asked, "May I have the honor... of getting things rolling?"
Bud nodded immediately - he'd done the honors enough times, and had Tom all to himself when they were younger - but Marc and I looked at each other. So I wasn't the only one who wanted to go first, get the laughter started, and begin that intense exploration of Tom's ticklishness. Well, Juan had busted his ass to make this happen, in this terrific room...
And besides, the pause was delaying Tom's hysteria that much longer. "Go for it," I finally made myself say.
"Do it," Marc mutters. Then, in a louder, jovial voice: "Any last words, Tommy boy?"
"Please..." Tom whispered earnestly, turning the word into a low whine lacking any hope at all.

Juan stepped over the gurney and lowered himself onto Tom's legs. He moved his hands up at a tauntingly slow pace - for Tom's "benefit," I thought. And then I remembered the cameras. Juan was giving them time to track his fingers... as they landed, and started to crawl.
"Pleasepleasepleasepleasedon'tpleaseplease...," Tom babbled.
Gently, Juan traced Tom's groin creases, and supra-pubic area - that swath of skin between the belly button and the upper border of Tom's pubic hair.
Inside my head, the ShiziCor growled a mighty sigh of relief. This area, on Tom's body... has never been tickled before. The tone of voice it used was unbearably... stern, as if some huge oversight was finally being corrected.
His pathetic pleading was suddenly cut off by a vigorous shriek of laughter.

Pure panic gave him new strength to buck wildly, wanting nothing more than to push Juan's hands off. That wasn't going to happen. The calm fingers continued to trace up and down the joints of Tom's legs, slow ticklish patterns which paused periodically so his fingertips could poke and probe more deeply...
Tom giggled hysterically, battling his bonds - giving us another fine little shriek whenever Juan prodded.
"Nonononononononoooooooooo..."
And that raving noise Tom made changed into some other frantic language as Juan's fingers raced back and forth through Tom's pubic hair and the skin above it.
Marc and Bud quietly took up positions at Tom's jerking feet. I started to move, then, longing to attack those legendary feet, held in place and waiting. There would be plenty of time, I told myself firmly. My chance would come.
Maximizing the taunt, they waited for Tom to see them. His head flew up, squealing at one suited tickler, and then the other, back and forth quickly -
They nodded - and expertly swept their fingernails up and around his bare soles.

Tom actually bounced the stretcher off the floor and slammed it back down - yelling torrents of laughter two octaves higher than before, now that giggling just wasn't enough.
The image on the monitor of Tom's hysterical head was extremely rewarding. The editor switched to a shot of his right foot, being steadily tickled... then the left foot. And the first camera had panned down, watching Juan's fingers -
"Get in here, man!," Marc shouted, over din of Tom's gut-wrenching roars.
"What are you waiting for?" Bud crowed.
I still wanted to start on those insanely ticklish soles... both of them. But when it came down to asking or demanding for the other guys to move, I wimped out. But I swore I'd get my chance, and it would be absolutely unabbreviated... and instead I stepped to the head of the stretcher, looking down at Tom.
When his tear-filled eyes were looking up at my mask - the featureless faceplate which would register no awareness of his delirium - I inserted my cruel fingers into his pits.
Tickling... tickling... tickling.

Tom whipped his head back and forth, and pounded the stretcher mattress with it. The reaction seemed completely automatic, and perhaps it was a desperate attempt to distract himself from the ticklish fire scorching his hypersensitized skin. Clearly, his focus wasn't going anywhere, even if his attention hadn't been firmly controlled by the ShiziCor...
It occurred to me (or maybe it was told to me) that all of the events since Tom was bound had quite successfully heightened his apprehension. The tickling which swamped him was even more unbearable now. We were as committed to it as Tom currently was, in his way...
One camera or another slowly circled us. I become lost in the fine art of... turning up the heat. Sometimes one of my fingers would pause, and try an earlier movement in the opposite direction, or with more pressure. Guided.

So I had no idea how long I'd been there when I heard a quick whistle. Marc cocked his head - get down here. He didn't have to tell me twice!
He shifted over... and caught the frantically curling toes. Each of his fingers bent one toe back a little. Bud snickered, nodding his head.
I now had the entire hairtrigger right sole, all to myself! The relief of petting that arch was enormous.
Bud's hands were already taking advantage of the trapped toes, so I mirrored what he was doing. Now that Tom couldn't curl his feet at all, we had full access to the fleshy, soft and succulent skin just beneath and between his toes. So we dug in -
Tom's voice wasn't high, really, so it hardly seemed possible that his shrieks could go even higher, in pitch, but suddenly they did.
On the central monitor, I saw my hands doing their fiendish, torturous work. I felt like waving to the camera, except that the amount of tickling force would've dropped temporarily as I did. The image changed - and I saw Tom's face again, huge, red, drenched in sweat, rivulets of tears running down his cheeks, mixing with the snot which bubbled from his snorting nose. Hair plastered against his forehead.
His eyes, which had been tightly shut, suddenly opened wide. Already he had a faraway, utterly deranged gaze. All of that intelligence was... taking a break. Tom's stare darted around, looking for help which wouldn't come, trying to see the hands on him and seemingly trying to force himself not to look at them, too. Sometimes they moved so fast it seemed, remarkably, as if his eyes were vibrating.
He squealed even louder, noticing something -
Bud was opening a bottle of baby oil. Huge bottle.
Tom managed to force out a piercing, raspy whine of protest... just before he watched Bud squirted oil all over the soles Marc held so tightly. Then my fingers were soaked.
And Tom let loose with perhaps the finest scream of laughter I've ever heard.
Ah, yes.

The oil reduced the friction between my finger pads and Tom's skin to near-zero, even as it pushed the envelope of his hysteria, multiplying the impact of the sensation into indescribable, fathomless new levels. Bud passed the baby oil to Juan and immediately resumed his skillful fingerwork on Tom's left sole.
Juan generously filled his left palm with oil, set the bottle down - and rubbed his hands together. The oil pattered down on Tom's abs, his chest, arriving only a few seconds before the eager, slippery fingers.
Still trapped, Tom's body slammed back and forth, longing to get away from the hands that rubbed oil up his ribs, into each armpit, down again, across his stomach - carefully filling his belly-button.
Tom gibbered at us, looking and sounding less sane than ever. When Juan started a watchful survey of the oiled body at his disposal, the strained laughter came barking out again...

"Time," someone was saying.
All the time in the world, I thought to myself. How perfect is this...
But the back of a fist tapped my arm, and kept doing it. I finally looked over - at Bud.
"Time out," he panted, gesturing with his head.
Oh. Tom was giggling like a machine. Definitely bugshit...
We'd been going at it for almost forty-five minutes.
The camera guys put everything on 'pause' and stepped over to the beer cooler, chattering to each other. Definitely happy to be there. Enjoying the show.
We pulled off our hoods - all of us dripping with sweat, ourselves. We sat around Tom and drank.

It must've been a good ten minutes until Tom finally wound down and stopped laughing altogether, as the residual phantom sensations faded and left him alone.
I got up and lifted his head, bringing a cold beer to his lips. His throat had sounded raw, and he drained the bottle with devoted haste.
"More," he croaked.
"Tickling or beer?" Marc teased.
Tom shuddered.
"Both, coming right up," Bud snickered.
The ShiziCor made a quick sound, to get my attention...
Juan was reaching into Tom's underwear. I knew (because it told me, wordlessly) that it had control of Juan - and he did have a dreamy look on his face. Borrowed, his hands eased Tom's member out.
"Nooooooo," Tom wailed, catching on. His voice was scratchy -
Lesiurely, Juan picking up a paintbrush which had been used on his own soles several days earlier, drew back the foreskin of Tom's uncircumcised organ... and started to swirl the brush across the edges of Tom's glans, then along its underside, so gently.

He was rewarded soon enough. Tom's dick came to full attention, no matter how much he fidgeted and begged.
Bud handed me another beer, and I made Tom drink it. After he was done, he groaned - but it was a different sound, alright. Lusty...
"Does that feel good, Tommy?" I whispered.
"Mmmmmm-mmmm," Tom responded, apparently too far gone to censor himself at all.
"Want it to... keep going?" I cooed again.
Tom shook his head immediately. His face looked pained, annoyed - and it was clear he wanted this gross violation to stop, which made sense. Then he moaned again - pure lust. He did want Juan to stop, and he didn't. The brush-work felt good - but in a bad way!
"Oh. You want it to stop, then?" I pressed.
Juan increased the tempo of his stroking - skillfully edging Tom closer to orgasm. Pausing irregularly - until Tom looked again... and moaned, a hungry sound we all recognized.
The brush moved again, and stopped, and restarted. Maddening.
"Keep g-going," Tom finally said.

Those words were stammered (the first time) but about three minutes later he became much more insistent, in spite of himself. Longing for it -
"That's it," Marc said teasingly. "You want to cum, don't you?"
"No," Tom barked - while nodding his head. So confused, there.
"Sure you do."
After a pause, Tom started nodding again, slowly, as if he wasn't going to stop until the climax was over and done with.
"And then what?" Bud said.
"Huh?"
"Want me to tell you... what happens to your ti- uh, the scale of your ticklishness, Tommy... after you cum?"

He blinked, a few times. And boom - solid fear took over. Yeah, Tom finally caught on. "Please... please... don't do this to meeeeeeeee!"
Juan's expert manipulations were moving everything right along. It was obvious enough, already, that the usual result was on its way. Picking up a finer, wolf-hair paintbrush - one with just a few hairs on it, for the most detailed work - Juan inserted its tip into the opening of Tom's penis... and twirled it.
Arching, with a mighty grunt, Tom was already sweating off the beer I'd just given him. He longed to move more than he could. That was obvious. His hands wanted to be somewhere else... perhaps, at that moment, helping Juan give him relief?
Suddenly Juan pulled the brush out and set it down.
Tom definitely had a more frantic expression when he noticed. "Nooooooooooo... Not now, I mean, this far... Don't s-stop, c'mon, don't do this, don't stop n-now!"

"But Tom," Juan advised - with a amusing note in his voice, very matter-of-fact - "Listen up. If you orgasm, your sensitivity will go through the roof! Man, it'll be a hundred, maybe even a thousand times worse."
"That's true," echoed Bud solemnly.
"And you know what'll happen then," Marc smiled blissfully, picking up the thread.
"We'll have to start tickling you... all over again," I promised.
"After all, it would be wrong of us to make you even more ticklish, and not do something about it," Juan added, picking up the wider brush again. He continued polishing Tom's knob, ruthlessly driving him to distraction... and forcing him to ask for "help", in the form of the ejaculation he craved.
It was perfectly obvious that he wanted that relief, even though he was troubled by the certain knowledge that the impact of the tickling would only be amplified, even more unbearable.
Worse yet? It didn't seem possible, perhaps, but he must've said that to himself already tonight. Wrong again. It was a certainty, however unlikely it appeared to the weary, raving Tom. He had no idea yet how much the ShiziCor knew...

Juan upped the ante by using his tongue - and amazing restraint, though his smile did get bigger. After a strangled yell and a few more groans, Tom was babbling to himself.
Finally, Juan eased back gave Tom a big smile. "Well?"
When he realized there would be no more assistance until he responded, Tom pounded his head into the mattress. "Bastards!" he screamed at the ceiling.
"That was rude," Marc said.
"Very rude!" I agreed.
"An apology is in order, I think," Bud said thoughtfully. "And especially to Juan... He's the only one willing to help you out, after all. If it weren't for the multiplicative effect on your ticklishness, there is no way in hell we'd get you off - er, let Juan get you off, that is. It's just too weird otherwise."
Marc was fighting not to laugh as Bud continued his lecture. "Having done some very personal research in this area, with my girlfriends supplying me with quite likely the most intense orgasms ever, my own considerable ticklishness went off the freakin' scale."

"And," Juan leered, "Since I don't like your attitude, I might just leave you alone - there." He pointed. "All... night. Got it? If you don't want that, you're going to have to ask very nicely. Pretty please with sugar on top, let me cum."
Tom gulped, and closed his mouth right away. No apology was forthcoming...
So Juan shrugged and bent back down. He kept Tom on the edge with judicious application of the feather-soft brushes, his fingers, and occasionally his tongue.
"Don't forget - you have to ask for your tickle follow-up," I reminded Tom.
His eyes were glazed over, but he looked at each of one us for some sign that we weren't serious...

The rest of us started another beer.
Ohhh, how Tom wanted to cum! No one, much less a gay guy, had ever teased him into such a hypersensitive state - and kept him there. Juan was one cool customer. No matter what excitement might've been inside, he really seemed as though he was prepared to work on Tom for hours without allowing him to finish up.
"Maybe you could use a little reminder of why you're here," Marc said. "And what your enhanced state of ticklishness is, now." He looked right at me, and pointed quickly. Tom's feet.
Yippeeeee!, I thought, abandoning my beer in my rush to comply. The ShiziCor giggled at my transparency. I didn't care - kneeling at the foot of the stretcher, I took hold of Tom's toes and folded them back, stretching the skin of his bare soles taut. Using the day's whisker-growth and my darting tongue, I rubbed and licked the arches of his helpless feet.
Despite his secure bindings, he just about turned the stretcher over, and Juan with it. That's how strong his reaction was...
After maybe fifteen seconds, Marc waved at me - to stop. Juan immediately revved it up, on Tom's tool.

"Pleeeeeeeeze," Tom begged.
"We're waiting for that apology," Bud reminded.
Tom had an amazed expression on his face, as if he couldn't believe what he was saying... but he took a deep breath. 'OK, OK, you win, I'm sorry... I'm sorry I was rude."
"And?" Bud prompted further.
Juan tweaked Tom a little more.
"Please, please, pul-ease, Juan," he whined, "please let me cum."
"And?" we all chorused.
"Uh..." He fought back a sob. "Tickle me... T-tickle me 'till I pass out," Tom said tearfully.
Some of the camera guys started to applaud.
Without any further hesitation, Juan went into high gear - and pushed Tom over the edge.

Tom went rigid as wave after wave of orgasm - surely the most intense one he'd ever had, considering what a straight-arrow he was - washed over him.
Juan kept pumping for all he was worth. The thrusting continued, hardly even fading...
Without waiting for it to end, I resumed tickling his right sole. Marc latched on his left foot, and Bud dug into his pits.
Tom's wailing vocalizations were truncated by his shrieking laughter... as the tickle sensations began to compete with, and then horrifyingly surpass the orgasmic quaking from his loins.
The climax wasn't winding down!
There's no way, the ShiziCor informed me proudly, that he gets to pass out yet. Not by a... long shot.

The tickles had to be a million times worse than before. Off the scale - and his body kept seizing up from a sensory overload that just wouldn't end.
We had found an irresistible synergy that wouldn't have been possible for a single tickler or two, not even three... but four of us - well, five, counting the ShiziCor, and including Tom's efforts made it six! - we held him right there, caught in an orgasm without precedent while we kept on remorselessly, relentlessly, unremittingly tickling him, tickling him, tickling him...
 

by D_J

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24sep04