Wade didn’t know what to expect from the lab. He promised himself he wouldn’t touch anything. Robert and Sloan had made no such promise: even on the lift they began to handle him, gently, staring into his eyes as they pressed their hands into his sides. Unnerved, he laughed out of surprise more than anything else. A thought crossed his mind: if these guys had little experience tickling anyone, would they be good at it? A thrill of anticipation coursed up his spine: this wasn’t something you had to learn how to do.
The lab was larger than he expected, taking up a complete floor of the tower. Workspaces and cabinets and shelving stretched on and on, as if a legion of scientists worked here. On work surfaces computers blinked and hummed—the largest computers Wade had ever seen, some of them taking up a square meter or more. Instead of stale chemicals, a heady mix of natural scents filled the air: herbs and spices and mints, flavors of the earth. Passing down a wide aisle, past glass columns filled with pale liquids, strange-looking spigots that produced—what? Gas? Water? Fire?—he was so busy trying to look at everything that he managed to stumble over his own feet. Immediately Robert and Sloan were on either side of him, keeping him upright. Steering him onward, toward his fate.
“This is the Exam Room.”
With its softly glowing consoles it looked no different from the rest of the lab, except that it had a large floating exam table. What kinds of exams did Sloan perform here? Staring at his hosts, Wade backed up against the table and it moved, nudging the backs of his thighs like a pet. There was room all around the table—oh, why not just call it a bed?—for the “examiners” to move wherever they wanted to. The bed lacked restraints, but that didn’t make Wade feel any less nervous.
Robert cleared his throat. “Wade, do you mind if we vid this?”
His response was automatic: “Vid what?” Familiar warmth came to his face, his cheeks reddening. “Oh.”
“It’s an historic occasion,” Sloan said, unsmiling. “There are men who would pay a fortune to be able to watch it.”
Wade’s heart beat faster, he thought he might lose his breath. “Oh….”
Robert shot his husband a look. “That’s not why we want a vid. It’s just…for our own use. As a keepsake,” he added.
Wade sank down onto the edge of the bed. He raised a hand to his eyes. “That’s fine. It’s…fine.”
“Are you okay?” Sloan asked.
They were moving closer to him again. Because Sloan had summoned them, about a dozen thumbnail cameras darted through the air, getting ready to film the scene from their different perspectives. “I’m okay,” Wade said. Though he was nearly overwhelmed by a sense of unreality, as if he might wake up to the real world at any moment, there was a part of him that didn’t care. He stripped, laying his clothes on a chair, setting his sandals underneath it. When he turned to face his hosts they were nude too, and all three of them were erect. “I feel like a teenager again,” Wade said. “Look.” He held out his hands, palms down, so they could see how he trembled.
“We’ll take good care of you, promise.” Sloan patted the smooth surface of the bed in a gesture that was both reassuring and a bit impatient. Wade had to laugh.
“You’ll be laughing a lot more than that,” Robert said.
More lightheaded than ever, from the water, the circumstances, and the overwhelming desire that seemed to tickle the very air of the room, Wade lay down on the bed and stretched himself out. Closed his eyes for a moment, tried to believe he was at home in his own bed, ready for a hot jack-off session and then sleep.
The next time he looked up, Robert was standing over him with a gun in his hand. For a split second Wade saw it, just like they said—his life flashing before his eyes.
Sensing his alarm, Robert stepped back. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess you haven’t seen one of these before. It’s a restraint gun.”
“No, I haven’t seen one before. How—how does it work?”
“Just aim and shoot, and it ‘ties’ a laser beam around you, attaching to whatever surface you’re on. You don’t even feel it against your skin, but you sure can’t move.”
“Do you have to have a permit for that?”
“Yes.” Robert grinned. “I forgot to tell you, I’m a cop.”
“What he means is, he works for the police department,” Sloan said. “He’s a software engineer, not a cop.”
Robert moved around the bed, applying the laser restraints to Wade’s ankles and wrists as he lay in a spread-eagle position. The restraints were similar to the ones Dr. Clement had used, the thin bands of light binding him as securely as any ropes could. After a brief conference, Robert and Sloan decided to add four more restraints, to his legs just above the knees and his arms just above the elbows. When they were finished Wade couldn’t move his limbs, not even a tiny bit. He marveled at how helpless he felt, how defenseless he’d be against anything these men wanted to do.
“Now,” Robert said, “I’m going to bind each of your toes, tying them off to your ankle restraints. That way you won’t be able to flex your feet, and we’ll be able to get between your toes.”
That cold-blooded explanation made Wade draw a sharp breath, but he didn’t object. Using the laser tool, Robert sketched bands of light around each of Wade’s toes, holding them tautly upright and connecting them with the ankle restraints. Again Wade had to marvel at how helpless he was, his soles and toes cruelly exposed. He could even feel the air between his toes! Panic rose in him from his belly to his throat, choking him, convincing him he’d made a fatal mistake by surrendering to these two men who were so strong and hungry. Yet all three of them were enraptured. His throat open again, he breathed deeply. The helplessness of his situation was…so erotic…. As he shifted his pelvis the tiny bit the restraints would allow, the weight of his erection swung around, leaking pre-jism onto the fine hairs of his belly. He moaned, praying silently for the torture to begin.
Wait, now! Suppose—unthinkable, yes, but just suppose—that he wasn’t ticklish after all! A few years had passed since Dr. Clement had tied him down to his exam table, and bodies change all the time. He worried Solution 9’s side effect had finally kicked in, and he wasn’t ticklish anymore.
He opened his eyes, not even knowing when he had closed them. His two would-be tormentors stood on either side of him, breathing heavily through open mouths, chests rising and falling, taut bellies expanding and contracting, their cocks also leaking pre-jism. Their excitement was almost too obscene to bear witness to.
Wade tried to clear his throat. “Listen,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper. “Listen to me.”
Robert and Sloan exchanged a quick, nervous glance. Was their precious victim changing his mind?
“I need to tell you…I’m not ticklish.”
Another glance traded.
“I…lied to you. I’m sorry.”
Robert and Sloan turned to each other for more than a glance. As their eyes held each other’s, the two men broke into wide grins. Sloan turned his grin toward Wade and said, his voice hoarse with desire, “You’re going to pay for that, my friend.”
“Oh, no!” Wade said. “You don’t believe me?”
“No,” Sloan said, and now he and Robert couldn’t keep their laughter in. “Somehow we just don’t believe you.”
Wade couldn’t keep a straight face either. The three of them laughed, out of nervousness and glee, the sense they were embarking on something truly outrageous. As four trembling hands reached out, almost at their own volition, it was up to Robert to say, “Wait. Wait, wait, wait.”
Exasperated, Sloan let loose another peal of nervous laughter. “What…?”
“We have to set up a safe word.”
“Awww,” Sloan said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Do we have to?”
“What do you think, Wade?” Robert asked.
Wade was in a fever—like the others, he couldn’t hold in his nervous laughter, even as he grew short of breath. He wanted the unspeakable torment to begin, and he wanted to run away. He feared for his life, yet craved the worst. It wouldn’t have surprised him if, when he opened his mouth, he spoke in two voices, one willing, one profoundly afraid. But the frightened—or maybe sensible?—part of him won out. “Yes,” he said. “A safe word.”
“How about ‘artichoke’?” Robert asked.
Sloan frowned. “What the hell is that?”
“A kind of ancient vegetable.”
“Okay,” Wade said, not wanting to postpone the inevitable another second. “When I say ‘artichoke,’ you have to stop.” He grinned at Sloan, who looked nearly grief-stricken. “I’ll do my best not to use it, though.”
“All right,” Robert breathed, extending trembling fingers toward Wade’s feet. Sloan’s fingers hovered above Wade’s ribcage. He started the count, and Robert picked it up: “One—two—three!”
If the two of them had never before tickled a man together—a man who willingly offered up his ticklish skin to their desires—then they had learned a lot from their shared fantasies and dreams. Their fingertips picked up where the history of tickling had left off, like voices taking up a song that had waited centuries to be heard.
The results were even sweeter than they’d hoped for: Wade’s skin seemed to leap to their touch as they brought the tickling to an unbearable pitch and kept it there. Bug-eyed and panting, dicks drooling, the ticklers were barely able to tear their eyes away from Wade’s body to glance at each other now and then, lock onto each other’s eyes long enough to affirm that, yes, this was really happening—happening to all three of them—and it would change their lives forever.
Wade howled and, when he could get words out, begged for mercy. He begged as he had begged Dr. Clement—not thinking of words, just letting them go, an automatic stream of supplication. The safe word lay at the back of his throat, and he struggled with all his might not to pitch it forward—the moment might come when it would burst out of him on its own, like the promises that burst from him now along with his pleading, the things he would do if the torture would only stop, how he’d make them feel, sucking their cocks, fucking them blind. He’d be their sex slave forever, if only…! The futility of it—he was already their slave, as helpless as an insect that couldn’t even bite—exhilarated all three of them. As Wade screamed with laughter his torturers laughed too, with similar abandon, not caring how they sounded, not caring about anything except what their hands were doing, and how much more they could do.
Later—much later—Wade begged for death. “Kill me, if you’re going to kill me! Just don’t—torture me like this!”
That was when Sloan grabbed his cock and, after a few short strokes, shot a load that soaked Wade’s belly and the chestnut hair on his chest. Robert followed suit, the force of his jism explosion nearly knocking him off his feet. Then the two torturers dove headfirst toward Wade’s towering erection. It took only a few seconds for their mouths to coax forth a geyser of jism.
When he had caught his breath, Robert said, “Now we have to clean you up.”
Wade didn’t have to be told what that meant: his torture would continue. Not that the cleaning part wasn’t true. Semen had to be scrubbed from nearly every part of his body, and they did a thorough job, using prickly washcloths that drove him mad, especially when they reached his feet. When they had got him washed and dried and totally delirious, they began to shave him. Wade didn’t mind his body hair, rather liked his furry legs and chest; but all three of them were curious to see how much more ticklish he would be with all the hair gone.
Robert and Sloan were expert at shaving male bodies, using old-fashioned metal blades. First they had to lather him, and without even discussing it they shifted into a role-play wherein the shaving was taking place in a clinical setting, and Wade’s “attendants” didn’t know he was ticklish. As they lathered his thighs he squirmed and said, in a voice raw from laughing, “Please be careful, I’m ticklish!”
“Don’t be silly,” Sloan said. “There’s no such thing as ticklishness.” As if to prove it he began massaging Wade’s balls.
Wade erupted into a peal of giggles. “Oh, don’t tickle my balls!”
“The subject’s hallucinating,” Robert said. “He thinks his thighs and his balls are ticklish.”
“I wonder where else he thinks he’s ticklish?” Sloan asked.
“We’ll have to find out....”
(TO BE CONTINUED)
The lab was larger than he expected, taking up a complete floor of the tower. Workspaces and cabinets and shelving stretched on and on, as if a legion of scientists worked here. On work surfaces computers blinked and hummed—the largest computers Wade had ever seen, some of them taking up a square meter or more. Instead of stale chemicals, a heady mix of natural scents filled the air: herbs and spices and mints, flavors of the earth. Passing down a wide aisle, past glass columns filled with pale liquids, strange-looking spigots that produced—what? Gas? Water? Fire?—he was so busy trying to look at everything that he managed to stumble over his own feet. Immediately Robert and Sloan were on either side of him, keeping him upright. Steering him onward, toward his fate.
“This is the Exam Room.”
With its softly glowing consoles it looked no different from the rest of the lab, except that it had a large floating exam table. What kinds of exams did Sloan perform here? Staring at his hosts, Wade backed up against the table and it moved, nudging the backs of his thighs like a pet. There was room all around the table—oh, why not just call it a bed?—for the “examiners” to move wherever they wanted to. The bed lacked restraints, but that didn’t make Wade feel any less nervous.
Robert cleared his throat. “Wade, do you mind if we vid this?”
His response was automatic: “Vid what?” Familiar warmth came to his face, his cheeks reddening. “Oh.”
“It’s an historic occasion,” Sloan said, unsmiling. “There are men who would pay a fortune to be able to watch it.”
Wade’s heart beat faster, he thought he might lose his breath. “Oh….”
Robert shot his husband a look. “That’s not why we want a vid. It’s just…for our own use. As a keepsake,” he added.
Wade sank down onto the edge of the bed. He raised a hand to his eyes. “That’s fine. It’s…fine.”
“Are you okay?” Sloan asked.
They were moving closer to him again. Because Sloan had summoned them, about a dozen thumbnail cameras darted through the air, getting ready to film the scene from their different perspectives. “I’m okay,” Wade said. Though he was nearly overwhelmed by a sense of unreality, as if he might wake up to the real world at any moment, there was a part of him that didn’t care. He stripped, laying his clothes on a chair, setting his sandals underneath it. When he turned to face his hosts they were nude too, and all three of them were erect. “I feel like a teenager again,” Wade said. “Look.” He held out his hands, palms down, so they could see how he trembled.
“We’ll take good care of you, promise.” Sloan patted the smooth surface of the bed in a gesture that was both reassuring and a bit impatient. Wade had to laugh.
“You’ll be laughing a lot more than that,” Robert said.
More lightheaded than ever, from the water, the circumstances, and the overwhelming desire that seemed to tickle the very air of the room, Wade lay down on the bed and stretched himself out. Closed his eyes for a moment, tried to believe he was at home in his own bed, ready for a hot jack-off session and then sleep.
The next time he looked up, Robert was standing over him with a gun in his hand. For a split second Wade saw it, just like they said—his life flashing before his eyes.
Sensing his alarm, Robert stepped back. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess you haven’t seen one of these before. It’s a restraint gun.”
“No, I haven’t seen one before. How—how does it work?”
“Just aim and shoot, and it ‘ties’ a laser beam around you, attaching to whatever surface you’re on. You don’t even feel it against your skin, but you sure can’t move.”
“Do you have to have a permit for that?”
“Yes.” Robert grinned. “I forgot to tell you, I’m a cop.”
“What he means is, he works for the police department,” Sloan said. “He’s a software engineer, not a cop.”
Robert moved around the bed, applying the laser restraints to Wade’s ankles and wrists as he lay in a spread-eagle position. The restraints were similar to the ones Dr. Clement had used, the thin bands of light binding him as securely as any ropes could. After a brief conference, Robert and Sloan decided to add four more restraints, to his legs just above the knees and his arms just above the elbows. When they were finished Wade couldn’t move his limbs, not even a tiny bit. He marveled at how helpless he felt, how defenseless he’d be against anything these men wanted to do.
“Now,” Robert said, “I’m going to bind each of your toes, tying them off to your ankle restraints. That way you won’t be able to flex your feet, and we’ll be able to get between your toes.”
That cold-blooded explanation made Wade draw a sharp breath, but he didn’t object. Using the laser tool, Robert sketched bands of light around each of Wade’s toes, holding them tautly upright and connecting them with the ankle restraints. Again Wade had to marvel at how helpless he was, his soles and toes cruelly exposed. He could even feel the air between his toes! Panic rose in him from his belly to his throat, choking him, convincing him he’d made a fatal mistake by surrendering to these two men who were so strong and hungry. Yet all three of them were enraptured. His throat open again, he breathed deeply. The helplessness of his situation was…so erotic…. As he shifted his pelvis the tiny bit the restraints would allow, the weight of his erection swung around, leaking pre-jism onto the fine hairs of his belly. He moaned, praying silently for the torture to begin.
Wait, now! Suppose—unthinkable, yes, but just suppose—that he wasn’t ticklish after all! A few years had passed since Dr. Clement had tied him down to his exam table, and bodies change all the time. He worried Solution 9’s side effect had finally kicked in, and he wasn’t ticklish anymore.
He opened his eyes, not even knowing when he had closed them. His two would-be tormentors stood on either side of him, breathing heavily through open mouths, chests rising and falling, taut bellies expanding and contracting, their cocks also leaking pre-jism. Their excitement was almost too obscene to bear witness to.
Wade tried to clear his throat. “Listen,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper. “Listen to me.”
Robert and Sloan exchanged a quick, nervous glance. Was their precious victim changing his mind?
“I need to tell you…I’m not ticklish.”
Another glance traded.
“I…lied to you. I’m sorry.”
Robert and Sloan turned to each other for more than a glance. As their eyes held each other’s, the two men broke into wide grins. Sloan turned his grin toward Wade and said, his voice hoarse with desire, “You’re going to pay for that, my friend.”
“Oh, no!” Wade said. “You don’t believe me?”
“No,” Sloan said, and now he and Robert couldn’t keep their laughter in. “Somehow we just don’t believe you.”
Wade couldn’t keep a straight face either. The three of them laughed, out of nervousness and glee, the sense they were embarking on something truly outrageous. As four trembling hands reached out, almost at their own volition, it was up to Robert to say, “Wait. Wait, wait, wait.”
Exasperated, Sloan let loose another peal of nervous laughter. “What…?”
“We have to set up a safe word.”
“Awww,” Sloan said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Do we have to?”
“What do you think, Wade?” Robert asked.
Wade was in a fever—like the others, he couldn’t hold in his nervous laughter, even as he grew short of breath. He wanted the unspeakable torment to begin, and he wanted to run away. He feared for his life, yet craved the worst. It wouldn’t have surprised him if, when he opened his mouth, he spoke in two voices, one willing, one profoundly afraid. But the frightened—or maybe sensible?—part of him won out. “Yes,” he said. “A safe word.”
“How about ‘artichoke’?” Robert asked.
Sloan frowned. “What the hell is that?”
“A kind of ancient vegetable.”
“Okay,” Wade said, not wanting to postpone the inevitable another second. “When I say ‘artichoke,’ you have to stop.” He grinned at Sloan, who looked nearly grief-stricken. “I’ll do my best not to use it, though.”
“All right,” Robert breathed, extending trembling fingers toward Wade’s feet. Sloan’s fingers hovered above Wade’s ribcage. He started the count, and Robert picked it up: “One—two—three!”
If the two of them had never before tickled a man together—a man who willingly offered up his ticklish skin to their desires—then they had learned a lot from their shared fantasies and dreams. Their fingertips picked up where the history of tickling had left off, like voices taking up a song that had waited centuries to be heard.
The results were even sweeter than they’d hoped for: Wade’s skin seemed to leap to their touch as they brought the tickling to an unbearable pitch and kept it there. Bug-eyed and panting, dicks drooling, the ticklers were barely able to tear their eyes away from Wade’s body to glance at each other now and then, lock onto each other’s eyes long enough to affirm that, yes, this was really happening—happening to all three of them—and it would change their lives forever.
Wade howled and, when he could get words out, begged for mercy. He begged as he had begged Dr. Clement—not thinking of words, just letting them go, an automatic stream of supplication. The safe word lay at the back of his throat, and he struggled with all his might not to pitch it forward—the moment might come when it would burst out of him on its own, like the promises that burst from him now along with his pleading, the things he would do if the torture would only stop, how he’d make them feel, sucking their cocks, fucking them blind. He’d be their sex slave forever, if only…! The futility of it—he was already their slave, as helpless as an insect that couldn’t even bite—exhilarated all three of them. As Wade screamed with laughter his torturers laughed too, with similar abandon, not caring how they sounded, not caring about anything except what their hands were doing, and how much more they could do.
Later—much later—Wade begged for death. “Kill me, if you’re going to kill me! Just don’t—torture me like this!”
That was when Sloan grabbed his cock and, after a few short strokes, shot a load that soaked Wade’s belly and the chestnut hair on his chest. Robert followed suit, the force of his jism explosion nearly knocking him off his feet. Then the two torturers dove headfirst toward Wade’s towering erection. It took only a few seconds for their mouths to coax forth a geyser of jism.
When he had caught his breath, Robert said, “Now we have to clean you up.”
Wade didn’t have to be told what that meant: his torture would continue. Not that the cleaning part wasn’t true. Semen had to be scrubbed from nearly every part of his body, and they did a thorough job, using prickly washcloths that drove him mad, especially when they reached his feet. When they had got him washed and dried and totally delirious, they began to shave him. Wade didn’t mind his body hair, rather liked his furry legs and chest; but all three of them were curious to see how much more ticklish he would be with all the hair gone.
Robert and Sloan were expert at shaving male bodies, using old-fashioned metal blades. First they had to lather him, and without even discussing it they shifted into a role-play wherein the shaving was taking place in a clinical setting, and Wade’s “attendants” didn’t know he was ticklish. As they lathered his thighs he squirmed and said, in a voice raw from laughing, “Please be careful, I’m ticklish!”
“Don’t be silly,” Sloan said. “There’s no such thing as ticklishness.” As if to prove it he began massaging Wade’s balls.
Wade erupted into a peal of giggles. “Oh, don’t tickle my balls!”
“The subject’s hallucinating,” Robert said. “He thinks his thighs and his balls are ticklish.”
“I wonder where else he thinks he’s ticklish?” Sloan asked.
“We’ll have to find out....”
(TO BE CONTINUED)
