This story--one of the Warren-and-Bobby stories that will someday appear in the volume Hands of Stone--was originally published in 2007 in a gay erotica collection with the subtle title PORN. Edited by Greg Wharton and Ian Philips for Haworth Press, PORN was intended to be an annual series, Haworth's answer to Cleis Press's yearly Best Gay Erotica. Unfortunately, Haworth was sold to a textbook company that dropped the gay titles like a hot dildo. That was the end of PORN.
Just to show you how things can go wrong, even with a manuscript that has been proofed a hundred times: on the eve of publication I got a franitic email from Greg. "I just noticed," he said, "that at one point Clyde is up walking around, when he's supposed to be still tied to the bed." I had never put in the small detail that Clyde had been released from bondage. I made the change and sent the revised manuscript to Greg in an email with the subject line, "Clyde Is Untied!"
NOTE: In addition to severe, nonconsensual tickle torture, this story contains recreational drug use and unprotected gay sex (in accordance with its time period, the early 1970's.) If any of this offends you, then DO NOT READ.
FLYING CLYDE
I first met Clyde at the Rest Easy Motel, a discovery of Warren’s out on the Interstate. Because the place sat below road level, I could only see its roof till I turned into the driveway, a steep drop that had me reaching for the hand brake. I parked my car, got out, made sure it was locked. There were no other cars around, except for the old Volkswagen Beetle that Warren drove. Being late afternoon during the winter term, it was already getting dark. The motel blended in with the sky—why paint a place like this charcoal gray, with even darker trim? Only one light showed, in a room at the far end. I took a step in that direction, then halted, not sure if I’d heard something—a forlorn sound, half moaning, half sobbing. A sound made by the wind, except there wasn’t any wind. Then suddenly all was as quiet as before.
The room numbers were painted on the doors, and half of the “1” on Room 12 was chipped away. I knocked, and to my left a large finger hooked the curtain aside. Then the door opened. Inside, the humid air held a marijuana haze that I sucked at greedily, out of habit. Proportions seemed a bit off, even for a motel room: the bed was huge—a king—but the table and chairs by the window were small, the table no bigger around than a hatbox. The TV looked small enough to run on batteries.
The biggest thing in the room was the naked guy tied to the bed. I said “Whoa!” as I took in his feet, meaty and huge; his cock, ditto; and his nicely sculpted chest that heaved as he sucked in air like a half-drowned man. The deep reddish-brown of his body hair reappeared in his mustache and sideburns, which by themselves might have marked him as a rocker type. But his haircut was shaped like a cereal bowl, as if it had been done in a farmhouse kitchen with a do-it-yourself trimmer. His lips were very red and, at the moment, stretched so wide I could see his palate.
I looked at Warren, who was naked too, standing by the window curtain. Okay, I was wrong—Warren was the biggest thing in the room. His huge frame made the table and chairs look even more like refugees from a dollhouse. “Jesus Christ,” I said to him, “what have you got here?”
He grinned from ear to ear, which in his case was quite a stretch. “Bobby, this is Clyde. Hey Clyde, this is my friend Bobby. Clyde? Can you hear me?”
It took some effort, but Clyde managed to raise his head enough to look at me. He nodded once, real fast. His general condition, which included sweat, tears and, judging by the streaks on his belly, a couple of orgasms, suggested it was a wonder he was still conscious at all.
I took off my peacoat and tossed it on a chair, which nearly buckled under its weight. “Man,” I whispered to Warren, “he’s a piece of meat. Where did you find him?”
“At the rest stop, where else?”
Having somehow made it to our junior year in college, Warren and I were trying to be good, at least while we were on school turf. That ruled out cruising the men’s room at the Student Union, now that the campus cops had zeroed in on it. The rest area on the highway was the next best thing in terms of convenience. But this latest trysting place that Warren had found…the wallpaper looked like crusty oatmeal, the carpet was the color of tobacco juice, and the bed sheets were either gray or a white that had long ago given up. “How did you ever find this dump?” I asked. “It’s depressing as hell.”
His grin didn’t fade. “It’s the best!” he said. “Nobody ever comes here, and it’s owned by a senile old fairy who can’t hear for shit. He don’t care what you do, as long as you don’t wreck the place.”
“Looks like a Norman Bates setup. Where are the peepholes in the wall?”
“Shit, I don’t care if he is watching. I wouldn’t blame him, we’ve been putting on a show. Right, Clyde?”
Clyde was moaning. He raised his head again. “I swear to God,” he said. His voice was little more than a croak, but his accent was unmistakable—the upstate kind, from one of the farm counties. “I swear to God, if I ever get out of here alive, everything’s gonna be different. No one’s ever gonna tie me up, or get anywheres near my feet. No one’s ever gonna touch me unless I get it down in writing, in advance, that he’s not…he’s not gonna….”
“Not gonna do what, Clyde?” Warren asked.
“You know what!” Clyde’s hands, which were—bigger than Warren’s? Okay, nearly as big—clenched into fists as he threw himself against the ropes, not knowing that his squirming, besides being useless, was sexy in a way that had me unbuckling my belt and unbuttoning my jeans before I even knew I was doing it.
“That’s it, Bobby,” Warren said. “Make yourself comfortable. We’ve got a long night ahead!”
“You hear me?” Clyde was shouting at the ceiling, as best as his hoarseness would allow. “Hear me, God? If you get me out of this, I swear, I’m a changed man! I’ll go to church! Hell, I’ll get fuckin’ married…!”
Warren was cracking up. “You sound real sincere, buddy. I don’t know if God cares for your choice for words, though.”
“I don’t give a shit!” He’d stopped squirming, only his semi-engorged dick still swayed. He raised his eyes toward the ceiling again. “I mean…that ain’t what I mean. I just…I just gotta get out of here alive, in one piece!” His voice was strong enough now that he fairly bellowed: “Get me out of here! Oh God, somebody, anybody, get me the hell out of here and I’ll be a changed man!”
Warren cracked open a beer from a small ice chest on the floor and handed it to me. “You can see why we have to come to a dump like this,” he said. “Otherwise we would’ve had the state cops in here by now.”
“Well, yeah,” I said, throwing my jeans and t-shirt on top of my coat. My dick stood at full attention, like Warren’s. “But you could always gag him, too.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to miss out on any of the shit my man’s got to say! He’s funnier than fuckin’ Johnny Carson.”
I studied Clyde’s feet some more: they were like thick cuts of steak hanging in a butcher’s window. “As much as I sympathize with old Clyde, here,” I said, “I think I need to get busy with these feet.”
“They’re all yours,” Warren said. “I’ll figure out what I’m gonna do next in a minute.”
Clyde was tied down in the best tickling position, his ankles bound together so I could get at both feet at once—the largest feet I’d ever touched. My initial stroking was light, just to prove to myself they were really there.
Clyde’s reaction was immediate. “Oh shit! Don’t touch my fuckin’ feet, please, please….”
Poor Clyde. Begging only made things worse, and he couldn’t keep from begging as his situation got more desperate by the second, courtesy of my fingers playing wildly across his foot-flesh. Another thoughtful touch: Warren had tied Clyde’s big toes together with shoelaces, which in turn he’d fixed to the cords binding his ankles together, so that he couldn’t flex his feet. They could only quiver under my fingertips, like sensitive pets that I couldn’t stop stroking. “Jesus Christ,” I said, “if his feet are this ticklish, what about the rest of him?”
“Take a tour,” Warren said. “You might be surprised.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and let my fingers crawl toward Clyde’s midsection. I didn’t get far, though, stopping at his thighs, which looked ripe for squeezing and tormenting.
“Oh shit, oh God, don’t touch me, oh shit shit shit don’t don’t don’t…!”
A few more squeezes and Clyde’s words were lost, he could only howl. A meaty, muscular man with ticklish thighs…was there anything better in the whole world? Of course my fingers weren’t enough, I had to nibble and lick and suck, too. I went on to his groin, to his deliriously fragrant and sensitive balls that I juggled with the tip of my tongue while nipping either side of his waist with my fingers. His high-pitched squealing was music to my ears, even if it was louder than the Led Zepplin that Warren liked to play at top volume.
I continued my uphill trek, bypassing the huge, engorged dick that I would of course return to later. For now I wanted his torso, all warm, wet, hairy, and firm. I pressed my face into his belly and blew air between my tight lips, making a razzberry that caused his skin to vibrate unbearably. This got him rocking from side to side, insofar as he could; for a moment I wondered if this was what hunting a whale was like, when the creature had been harpooned and the venture became life-or-death on a wind tossed sea. That couldn’t last, for soon he didn’t have the strength to do much more than laugh. I attacked his armpits, longing to hear his howling rise even higher, to finally disappear into the kind of hysteria that can be felt more than heard.
I got a surprise, though. The tortured sounds coming from Clyde suddenly grew deeper, issuing from his gut. His open mouth took a trembling, downward turn, and tears spilled from his eyes. He was sobbing.
Not knowing what to do, I stopped. “Warren?”
Warren’s voice came from somewhere behind me, along with a cloud of fresh marijuana smoke. “For Christ’s sake, Bobby, don’t stop now.”
I never disobeyed him, if I could help it; the consequences could be awful. But I wasn’t about to start in on Clyde again, either, until I was sure he hadn’t totally lost it. As he continued to wail I stroked his hairy pecs. “Shush, shush.” Finally I reached down—why didn’t I think of this sooner?—and took a firm but gentle grip on his cock. Instantly he went from crying to moaning. “I know you need to come,” I told him. “But it won’t be for a while yet. Just…relax.” My fingers tickled their way up to his ribs. He shook his head, grinning helplessly, and burst into a series of high-pitched giggles. Gradually I increased pressure, till his giggles became shouts. Soon he was making so much noise that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see, reflected on the curtains, the flashing red and blue lights that Warren had referred to—state cops, fire department, animal rescue, and what have you. The contact high I was getting from the pot smoke didn’t help; it heightened my paranoia along with my senses. I wasn’t going to stop tickling him, though, not now. I dug my fingers into his armpits again as I spoke directly into his bright red ear: “Don’t worry, buddy, you’ll be okay. I’m just gonna tickle you till you’re broken. You know what that means? It means you’ll get to a point where you just…won’t…fucking…care anymore.” I knew what I was talking about: Warren had broken me about a thousand times.
“You’re doing good, Bobby!” Warren said. I couldn’t tell just where his voice was coming from. He was up to something, but when I twisted my head around I couldn’t see him.
Suddenly he appeared on the right side of the bed. “Hold still, Clyde,” he said. “Hold still, Bobby.”
Hold still: how many times had Warren given me that command? Yet it never failed to surprise me, how just his voice, saying those words, could cause me to lose the use of my arms and legs. I could breathe, and I could move my neck and head, and that was about it. But why immobilize Clyde and me at this juncture, when I was stretched out on top of him like a starfish clinging to a rock?
“Hey,” Clyde said, “this ‘hold still’ shit, that’s how he got me tied up here in the first place. ‘Hold still,’ he says, like he’s fucking Boris Karloff or somebody—and the next thing I know I can’t move my arms or legs, and we’re in this fucking creepy hole in the first place, and I’ve never been so fucking scared in my life. Then he starts tying me to the fucking bed!” He raised his head. By raising mine, and twisting it toward the right, I could just see over his chin to his eyes. “And then,” he went on, “when he’s got me stretched out and tied up so I can’t move a friggin’ hair, he tells me I can move again!”
“I know,” I said, “I know! Will you stop yelling, Clyde, for Christ’s sake?”
“And then…this is the worst part…he starts fuckin’ tickling me!”
I lay my head flat against Clyde’s chest and let out a sigh. I didn’t intend it, but he squawked when my puff of breath rippled through his light brown chest hair.
“Don’t!” he said, giggling. “Don’t blow on my fuckin’ chest hair, man! It tickles!”
“Sorry, Clyde.”
His voice took on a more appeasing tone. “We gotta stick together, buddy. Am I right?”
“I’d say we’re pretty well stuck.” Try as I might, I couldn’t resist fucking with him. I blew on his chest again, sweeping it with a thin stream of air that made the hairs quiver.
He moaned, “Aw, don’t do that…!”
Didn’t he know better by now than to say that? I kept blowing. More and more of his chest hairs that had been plastered down with sweat were drying under my breath, springing to life, playing against his taut, ticklish skin. And it got better: by shifting my head I found I could direct a devilish stream of breath right into his armpit.
“Oh Jesus God!” This time his voice rose in pitch as well as volume. “Don’t fuckin’ do that, not while I can’t move! It ain’t fair!”
“Sorry, Clyde,” I said. “But I’m not really touching you, am I?” I blew another strong, steady breath into his pit.
Clyde let out a scared giggle. “Let me go! Oh God, where is he?”
Silence. Where was Warren? I turned my head from side to side, but he wasn’t in sight. I had the dreadful thought that he could appear at our naked feet any second.
“Where are you?” Clyde called. “Untie me, you fat-assed, jug-eared farmer!”
Now it was my turn to suck in breath. Calling Warren fat-assed was bad enough, but farmer…. In little towns like the one Clyde obviously came from, calling somebody “farmer” was the worst thing you could do. At home basketball games, opposing fans could always make the cheerleaders cry by chanting, “Farmers, farmers, farmers….” So I had to put in a word of caution. “Uh, Clyde?” I said. “I don’t think it’s real smart to be saying things like that, not while he’s got us in this fix….”
“I’ll show him fix. I’ll fix his fucking wagon! Where are you, farmer?”
More silence.
“Oh, shit,” Clyde said. “He’s down by our feet.”
“Yessssss…,” Warren said. Maybe he was trying to sound like Boris Karloff. “I just had a change of plan. I was going to leave you guys like this for a while, just holding still while I tickled both of you all over. But Clyde, here, he’s helped me change my mind.”
A ripping sound. Like cloth tearing, but not quite. I figured it out just as Warren began handling my ankle: it was tape, lengths of duct tape being ripped from a roll. The skin around my ankle grew tight, and I realized, with horror, that Warren was wrapping the tape around it, binding it to Clyde’s shin. “Hey, Warren?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “What are you doing?”
Without speaking, he bound my other ankle, again wrapping the tape around both my ankle and Clyde’s shin. I twisted my head to look at what I could see of Clyde’s face. He was staring at the foot of the bed. “What the fuck are you doing, man?”
Warren appeared at the side of the bed, wrapping tape around my wrist where it rested against Clyde’s forearm, binding wrist and forearm together. He did the same on the other side. What a position to be in: I was duct-taped to Clyde, neither our wrists nor ankles meeting, because I was shorter; but his huge dick was jammed up against my belly, right next to my own. I waited, trying not to think of what could happen next. Warren had fired up another joint; a marijuana cloud swept by. Then another.
“Okay guys, you can move now.”
“Warren…what the hell…?”
Clyde exploded into sharp, tortured giggles. And did he move! It didn’t take me long to figure that Warren was tickling his feet. The natural impulse, if you’re tied down and getting tickled, is to buck, as if you could throw off those unbearable sensations. Clyde had regained some strength and was bucking like a bronco, giving me the ride of my life as I lay plastered against him, the side of my face bouncing off his chest. Our dicks were in motion, too, rubbing against each other, his sticky rod poking my belly in a decidedly ticklish fashion. I hollered for Warren to let me loose before I turned into a milkshake.
Of course that was the worst thing I could have done. Warren switched to my feet, using brushes with stiff bristles that dragged intolerably across my soles. Now I was bucking and bouncing against Clyde, our body hair brushing each other’s ticklish spots. With all that stimulation we were getting more ticklish by the second.
“Oof!” Clyde said as I tried to arch my spine, forcing the wind from his belly. “Oof! Oof!”
“Warren!” I screamed, with that little breath I could find. “For Christ’s sake!”
Those were the last words I could speak for a while, for the foot-brushing continued, sapping my strength till it was all I could do to keep breathing while laughing like a hyena. Clyde was laughing, too, a weak, panting, desperate laugh that was directly related to my own ticklish predicament as I squirmed against him, our rods getting harder, slicker, mine poking his belly as his poked mine. It was part of our agony that we needed to come. Meanwhile his sweaty chest hair, which had fascinated me not long ago, was a nuisance now, invading my mouth each time I breathed.
Just when I thought I was going to pass out, Warren stopped brushing my soles. I went limp. Now that the panicky voice inside of me could stop crying that Warren was tickling me to death, it took up that other refrain: I’ve-gotta-come, I’ve-gotta-come, I’ve-gotta-come…. Unfortunately, I knew what was coming next—knew because Warren was lotioning up my soles. They were tender enough that just the touch of the lotion tickled, but that was nothing compared to what would follow. He was going to use the brush that I especially hated, the one with the extra stiff bristles. “Oh Christ,” I said, “hold on, Clyde.”
Exhausted as I was, when I felt those bristles against my soles I thrashed like mad. It didn’t do any good, but I couldn’t help it. My squirming, twitching, grinding and bucking were tickling Clyde to death, and the squirming he did in return poked, pulled and twisted my ticklish nerve ends into ever more hellish configurations. And all the while we laughed, my dick was screaming for help: the friction between us wasn’t enough to give it the release it craved. The whimpering coming from Clyde as our greased poles rubbed together told me he felt the same desperation.
After what seemed like an eternity, Warren quit using the brush. By then I’d lost my voice, all I could do was pant. I lay with my eyes closed, drifting in and out of consciousness. Maybe we’d reached the end, and Warren was finally going to quit. Tired as I was, I knew what I’d do the second I got free: I’d grab my cock with both hands and turn it into the gusher of all time. First, I’d soak Clyde down till he needed a snorkel to breathe. Then I’d coat Warren with cum till he looked like a giant white jelly bean. Only half done, I’d go on to jizz the whole room, starting with those nasty dark corners where the grungy wallpaper met the ceiling. I’d follow up by turning my hose on the bathroom, filling tub, sink, and toilet to overflowing. Hell, I could start in on the parking lot, too, if it came to that. More than half crazy from tickling and horniness, I kept drifting, seeing whole landscapes flooded with my spooge, globs hanging from trees and rooftops like weirdly formed icicles….
I didn’t know how close he was till I sensed the mattress dipping near my right side. I turned my head in that direction and there he was, shockingly near, kneeling at the side of the bed, his elbows on the mattress edge. Grinning, he held up his hands like a surgeon who had just scrubbed up. Only in his case Warren had greased up. What was he going to do with those glistening hands? I began to beg, silently, that he’d leave my ribs and armpits alone. Unfortunately he had something even worse in mind. He shoved those slick hands in between Clyde and me, one palm up, the other palm down, and set his fingers wriggling.
Oh, man, Warren was in heaven—with his hands jammed into that tight space between Clyde and me, his greased fingers could wreck both of us at once. He tickled our bellies and teased our pricks till we were gagging on laughter—the silent, panting kind, but just as hysterical as any hyena howl. And when he accidentally-on-purpose grabbed my aching rod and gave it a tug or two, I drooled onto Clyde’s chest a prayer that it wouldn’t be just a tug or two, but the jacking-off that I was desperate for. Warren fucked with Clyde’s cock, too. I felt it move between us, his giant dickhead against my belly adding to the torment caused by Warren’s fingers. Clyde, mad with desire, rocked back and forth violently a few times, then succumbed to limp helplessness again as Warren abandoned his tool for more tickling.
Some time later, maybe hours later, I had a dream. In the dream I was riding Clyde like a magic carpet, through a clear sky that went on forever. But it was a rough flight, through waves of turbulence that made my teeth rattle. As bad as it was, I couldn’t do anything but hang onto him, as he was hanging onto me, and just hope that we wouldn’t burst into a thousand pieces. After what seemed like an eternity, Warren came along and somehow brought us down to a safe landing. We were back in the grungy motel room. I felt the duct tape being torn from my skin, painful to my wrists and ankles but probably worse on Clyde’s shins and forearms, which had more hair. Freed, I didn’t dare try to roll over till I was sure I was no longer dreaming. It was my stiff cock that brought me back to reality—the kind of reality where I could jump all over it.
Though Clyde and I had pre-cummed ourselves together, I somehow got the energy to unstick myself and roll over. Soon I was lying on my back next to him, in what little space I had. He still seemed gargantuan in size—including his cock, which, newly freed, sprung up from his belly. It was a stunning piece of man-meat, waving as if to an adoring crowd in spite of the exhausted, half-crazed state of its owner. Warren was in the bathroom, running the shower from the sound of it, but I wasn’t going to wait for him. If I told him that I needed a blowjob, or handjob, or something, he’d be likely to say, “Sure, but I get to tickle you for a few hours first.” No doubt that was the deal that he had struck with Clyde, back at the rest stop.
My groin was tender, and my dick, while still hard, seemed numb when I first took hold of it. “Poor thing,” I whispered, spitting in my palm to moisten the dried pre-cum into a workable lube. After a few strokes the old shaft seemed to recognize me, and began to respond to my attentions. “Yeah, yeah!” I told it, spitting and rubbing some more till my cockhead glistened. Now for my favorite jack-off stunt: while pulling on my boner with my right hand, I reached down with my left and gently tickled my balls. “Gently” was the operative word, for those balls were extremely tender, in no mood to be friendly to me or anyone else. Maybe it was my cock, growing happier by the second, that convinced them to join the party, for they soon warmed up to me, too. “Oh, God,” I said, needing to sprawl but not having room for it. “God, God…!”
It wasn’t the dousing I’d imagined, but it was still a 21-gun salute of a load—some of it hitting the ceiling, much of it spattering Clyde. If he’d had a chance to drop off to sleep, he was awake now. With his wrists and ankles still tied to the bed, there was nothing he could do to relieve himself, so I swept the edge of my palm across the pools of cum on his belly and groin and used it to grease his still-hard rod into something I could work with. He didn’t make a sound as he watched me stroke him off, his eyes and mouth wide open. Maybe he’d been dreaming of gushers too, or maybe he didn’t need to dream; soon his cork popped, the jizz spouted forth, and damned if a few of his jets didn’t hit the ceiling too. When he was finally spent he shuddered from head to toe, his head fell back on the pillow, and within a few more heartbeats he was snoring. He didn’t even wake up as I untied the ropes binding his wrists and ankles to the bed. No sooner had I finished when I heard the metal rings on the shower curtain rod go zing.
“Hey, Bobby!” Warren called. “Are you up?”
My voice wasn’t in great shape, and wouldn’t be for a while, but I croaked as best I could: “Yeah.”
“Well, come in here and blow me, wouldja? Make it snappy!”
Exhausted, muscles aching, and gummed up with cum from head to toe, I hauled myself off the bed and headed toward the shower.
Warren was dancing under the hot stream that came from the rusty-looking showerhead. He was a sight, his prick standing up as straight as a sapling. “Damn! Hurry up, Bobby!”
“What’s your fuckin’ hurry?”
“I wanna bust a nut down your throat so bad….”
I kneeled in the tub. Its gritty texture wasn’t kind to my knees, but the hot water felt great. Warren slapped my face a couple of times with his boner, then shoved it in my mouth. I sucked like a good boy. Soon I was rewarded with a load that filled my mouth to overflowing. I swallowed about half of it, then expelled the rest when Warren reached down and started tickling my ribs.
“Ahem. Ahem!” That was Clyde, in the doorway, trying to make polite sounds over my squealing. When he had our attention he added, dancing from one foot to the other, “I gotta pee.”
“Go ahead,” Warren said. “I’m just gonna tickle Bobby to death.”
“Oh. Well, I can’t take a leak with you guys in here.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Okay.” Warren stepped out of the tub and, not bothering to dry off, edged past Clyde to get to the door. Clyde stepped up to the toilet bowl, aimed his dick at it, and shot me a questioning look.
“Okay, okay.” In my weakened state it was a chore to get to my abused feet. But before I could even get out of the tub, Warren, who was only halfway out the door, made a move, wheeling around to sink his fingers into Clyde’s sides.
Clyde was one of those guys who can’t stay on their feet, not even for a second, while being tickled. His legs collapsed and he landed on his butt, back to the wall, giving Warren the chance to straddle him while he worked over his ribs. “We’re gonna help you out, Clyde, Bobby and me. We’ll tickle the piss out of you.”
The tickling, and the prospect of being made to lose control of his bladder, had Clyde howling.
“Hey,” I said, “If we’re gonna tickle the piss out of him, let’s get him in the tub.” Warren never thought of these practical things.
“Hokay, Clyde, let’s go!” Through some ingenious tickling and prodding, Warren managed to herd him over to the tub, up over the edge, and onto its gritty bottom. Standing by the faucet, I trapped Clyde’s feet in the crook of my arm and tickled his soles. Warren knelt beside the tub and worked Clyde’s belly and groin—a good bet if you’re trying to tickle the piss out of someone.
Poor Clyde was in agony. The tickling had hardened him up again, which meant it was going to be more difficult for him to relieve himself. As tears rolled down his beet-red face, he managed to squeeze out some words: “Gotta pee…can’t…too hard!”
Warren stopped tickling and gave a heavy sigh. “You’re a hot stud, Clyde, but you’re such a baby!” He took a rag that the motel provided for a washcloth, ran some cool water over it, and wrapped it around Clyde’s dick. “There. Give it a minute and it’ll soften you up.”
Neither of us was tickling him now, but Clyde was still giggling as he tried to pull himself together. Warren’s therapy worked: when he removed the washcloth, Clyde’s dick was flying at half mast. “That’ll make it easier,” Warren said. “And now, like we said, we’re gonna tickle the piss out of you!” I went back to tormenting Clyde’s soles with my fingernails, while Warren found the most sensitive spots on Clyde’s abs and bore down on them. This combination soon yielded results: Clyde shouted, his dick leapt up, and a stream issued forth. He took a long piss, adding some tang to the steam in the air.
****
When it starts to get so late that it’s almost early…and you’re exhausted…and drained of cum…and yet the night still goes on, with the continuous tangling of three male bodies…it’s not always easy to tell what’s happening, let alone remember it all afterwards. I know we stayed in the bathroom for whatever time was left that night. At one point all three of us were covered in lather. Warren got out his razor and shaved my armpits; Clyde fought us, but we managed to shave his, too. Wild armpit-tickling ensued, and I’m not sure who got the worst of it, him or me. There did come that moment, though, later on, when Warren was tickling Clyde’s feet with a brush, and I was squeezing his thighs, and he suddenly went limp. I recognized the peculiar calm that seemed to spread all through him. Through reddened eyes he looked at me and said, with a twisted smile, “Aw, go ahead…go ahead and tickle me to death, you fuckin’ bastards! I don’t care. I just don’t…fuckin’…care anymore.”
We tickled him gently after that, poking and stroking him all over, bringing him to orgasm, then tickling him some more as he moaned in ecstasy. Eventually all three of us passed out, in some kind of configuration on the bathroom floor. By the time we began to stir our aching limbs it was light outside.
****
“You boys head on to the parking lot,” Warren said, as the three of us, in our winter coats, dragged our tired bodies down the breezeway. He had his bag of bondage-and-tickling equipment in one hand, the ice chest in the other. “I’ll return the room key.”
“You can’t go in there,” I said, squinting at the charcoal gray shack. “It’s got a CLOSED sign on the door.”
“That’s okay. I bet it’s unlocked.”
He was up to something, for sure. “I’ll go in with you,” I said.
"Not necessary, buddy.”
That settled it: I was right at his elbow when he opened the door. Dark woodwork, and way too much of it—a Norman Bates setup, all right. The only thing missing was the stuffed birds. They would have been less shocking, though, than what sat behind the desk: the manager, tied to a chair, his mouth taped shut. By the look in his startling blue eyes, he didn’t know whether to be happy to see us or not: were we going to free him, or fuck with him? All I wanted to do was release the poor guy, he’d been sitting like that all night.
“Jesus, Warren! You said this guy wouldn’t cause any trouble for us, and you tied him up anyway!”
Warren looked down at his feet. “Well, I had to be sure, didn’t I?”
“Let him go!”
Warren set down his bag and the ice chest, and we went behind the desk. The manager was an old guy—in his forties, maybe—but not bad looking. Warren looked into his big blue eyes and said, “I got an idea.”
“Warren….” I was about to lose my patience once and for all.
Warren got behind the chair and tilted it back on two legs…all the way, till the back of the chair and the man’s head rested on the floor. This left his feet in the air.
“Warren….”
“Look, Bobby.” With a just a few deft moves he relieved the man of his shoes and thin blue socks. “Look at these feet!”
Okay, yes, they looked like nice feet, smooth and soft. When Warren lightly ran his fingers over the soles, the man squirmed, and muffled, panicky sounds came through the tape covering his mouth. My dick stirred. Already giving in to Warren’s point of view, I wondered if the man could imagine what was going to happen to him. He’d have to have a wild imagination, that was for sure.
Clyde was lingering by the door, which was still half open. I waved him in. “You might as well close the door, Clyde, and lock it. It’s going to be a long morning.”
Just to show you how things can go wrong, even with a manuscript that has been proofed a hundred times: on the eve of publication I got a franitic email from Greg. "I just noticed," he said, "that at one point Clyde is up walking around, when he's supposed to be still tied to the bed." I had never put in the small detail that Clyde had been released from bondage. I made the change and sent the revised manuscript to Greg in an email with the subject line, "Clyde Is Untied!"
NOTE: In addition to severe, nonconsensual tickle torture, this story contains recreational drug use and unprotected gay sex (in accordance with its time period, the early 1970's.) If any of this offends you, then DO NOT READ.
FLYING CLYDE
I first met Clyde at the Rest Easy Motel, a discovery of Warren’s out on the Interstate. Because the place sat below road level, I could only see its roof till I turned into the driveway, a steep drop that had me reaching for the hand brake. I parked my car, got out, made sure it was locked. There were no other cars around, except for the old Volkswagen Beetle that Warren drove. Being late afternoon during the winter term, it was already getting dark. The motel blended in with the sky—why paint a place like this charcoal gray, with even darker trim? Only one light showed, in a room at the far end. I took a step in that direction, then halted, not sure if I’d heard something—a forlorn sound, half moaning, half sobbing. A sound made by the wind, except there wasn’t any wind. Then suddenly all was as quiet as before.
The room numbers were painted on the doors, and half of the “1” on Room 12 was chipped away. I knocked, and to my left a large finger hooked the curtain aside. Then the door opened. Inside, the humid air held a marijuana haze that I sucked at greedily, out of habit. Proportions seemed a bit off, even for a motel room: the bed was huge—a king—but the table and chairs by the window were small, the table no bigger around than a hatbox. The TV looked small enough to run on batteries.
The biggest thing in the room was the naked guy tied to the bed. I said “Whoa!” as I took in his feet, meaty and huge; his cock, ditto; and his nicely sculpted chest that heaved as he sucked in air like a half-drowned man. The deep reddish-brown of his body hair reappeared in his mustache and sideburns, which by themselves might have marked him as a rocker type. But his haircut was shaped like a cereal bowl, as if it had been done in a farmhouse kitchen with a do-it-yourself trimmer. His lips were very red and, at the moment, stretched so wide I could see his palate.
I looked at Warren, who was naked too, standing by the window curtain. Okay, I was wrong—Warren was the biggest thing in the room. His huge frame made the table and chairs look even more like refugees from a dollhouse. “Jesus Christ,” I said to him, “what have you got here?”
He grinned from ear to ear, which in his case was quite a stretch. “Bobby, this is Clyde. Hey Clyde, this is my friend Bobby. Clyde? Can you hear me?”
It took some effort, but Clyde managed to raise his head enough to look at me. He nodded once, real fast. His general condition, which included sweat, tears and, judging by the streaks on his belly, a couple of orgasms, suggested it was a wonder he was still conscious at all.
I took off my peacoat and tossed it on a chair, which nearly buckled under its weight. “Man,” I whispered to Warren, “he’s a piece of meat. Where did you find him?”
“At the rest stop, where else?”
Having somehow made it to our junior year in college, Warren and I were trying to be good, at least while we were on school turf. That ruled out cruising the men’s room at the Student Union, now that the campus cops had zeroed in on it. The rest area on the highway was the next best thing in terms of convenience. But this latest trysting place that Warren had found…the wallpaper looked like crusty oatmeal, the carpet was the color of tobacco juice, and the bed sheets were either gray or a white that had long ago given up. “How did you ever find this dump?” I asked. “It’s depressing as hell.”
His grin didn’t fade. “It’s the best!” he said. “Nobody ever comes here, and it’s owned by a senile old fairy who can’t hear for shit. He don’t care what you do, as long as you don’t wreck the place.”
“Looks like a Norman Bates setup. Where are the peepholes in the wall?”
“Shit, I don’t care if he is watching. I wouldn’t blame him, we’ve been putting on a show. Right, Clyde?”
Clyde was moaning. He raised his head again. “I swear to God,” he said. His voice was little more than a croak, but his accent was unmistakable—the upstate kind, from one of the farm counties. “I swear to God, if I ever get out of here alive, everything’s gonna be different. No one’s ever gonna tie me up, or get anywheres near my feet. No one’s ever gonna touch me unless I get it down in writing, in advance, that he’s not…he’s not gonna….”
“Not gonna do what, Clyde?” Warren asked.
“You know what!” Clyde’s hands, which were—bigger than Warren’s? Okay, nearly as big—clenched into fists as he threw himself against the ropes, not knowing that his squirming, besides being useless, was sexy in a way that had me unbuckling my belt and unbuttoning my jeans before I even knew I was doing it.
“That’s it, Bobby,” Warren said. “Make yourself comfortable. We’ve got a long night ahead!”
“You hear me?” Clyde was shouting at the ceiling, as best as his hoarseness would allow. “Hear me, God? If you get me out of this, I swear, I’m a changed man! I’ll go to church! Hell, I’ll get fuckin’ married…!”
Warren was cracking up. “You sound real sincere, buddy. I don’t know if God cares for your choice for words, though.”
“I don’t give a shit!” He’d stopped squirming, only his semi-engorged dick still swayed. He raised his eyes toward the ceiling again. “I mean…that ain’t what I mean. I just…I just gotta get out of here alive, in one piece!” His voice was strong enough now that he fairly bellowed: “Get me out of here! Oh God, somebody, anybody, get me the hell out of here and I’ll be a changed man!”
Warren cracked open a beer from a small ice chest on the floor and handed it to me. “You can see why we have to come to a dump like this,” he said. “Otherwise we would’ve had the state cops in here by now.”
“Well, yeah,” I said, throwing my jeans and t-shirt on top of my coat. My dick stood at full attention, like Warren’s. “But you could always gag him, too.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to miss out on any of the shit my man’s got to say! He’s funnier than fuckin’ Johnny Carson.”
I studied Clyde’s feet some more: they were like thick cuts of steak hanging in a butcher’s window. “As much as I sympathize with old Clyde, here,” I said, “I think I need to get busy with these feet.”
“They’re all yours,” Warren said. “I’ll figure out what I’m gonna do next in a minute.”
Clyde was tied down in the best tickling position, his ankles bound together so I could get at both feet at once—the largest feet I’d ever touched. My initial stroking was light, just to prove to myself they were really there.
Clyde’s reaction was immediate. “Oh shit! Don’t touch my fuckin’ feet, please, please….”
Poor Clyde. Begging only made things worse, and he couldn’t keep from begging as his situation got more desperate by the second, courtesy of my fingers playing wildly across his foot-flesh. Another thoughtful touch: Warren had tied Clyde’s big toes together with shoelaces, which in turn he’d fixed to the cords binding his ankles together, so that he couldn’t flex his feet. They could only quiver under my fingertips, like sensitive pets that I couldn’t stop stroking. “Jesus Christ,” I said, “if his feet are this ticklish, what about the rest of him?”
“Take a tour,” Warren said. “You might be surprised.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and let my fingers crawl toward Clyde’s midsection. I didn’t get far, though, stopping at his thighs, which looked ripe for squeezing and tormenting.
“Oh shit, oh God, don’t touch me, oh shit shit shit don’t don’t don’t…!”
A few more squeezes and Clyde’s words were lost, he could only howl. A meaty, muscular man with ticklish thighs…was there anything better in the whole world? Of course my fingers weren’t enough, I had to nibble and lick and suck, too. I went on to his groin, to his deliriously fragrant and sensitive balls that I juggled with the tip of my tongue while nipping either side of his waist with my fingers. His high-pitched squealing was music to my ears, even if it was louder than the Led Zepplin that Warren liked to play at top volume.
I continued my uphill trek, bypassing the huge, engorged dick that I would of course return to later. For now I wanted his torso, all warm, wet, hairy, and firm. I pressed my face into his belly and blew air between my tight lips, making a razzberry that caused his skin to vibrate unbearably. This got him rocking from side to side, insofar as he could; for a moment I wondered if this was what hunting a whale was like, when the creature had been harpooned and the venture became life-or-death on a wind tossed sea. That couldn’t last, for soon he didn’t have the strength to do much more than laugh. I attacked his armpits, longing to hear his howling rise even higher, to finally disappear into the kind of hysteria that can be felt more than heard.
I got a surprise, though. The tortured sounds coming from Clyde suddenly grew deeper, issuing from his gut. His open mouth took a trembling, downward turn, and tears spilled from his eyes. He was sobbing.
Not knowing what to do, I stopped. “Warren?”
Warren’s voice came from somewhere behind me, along with a cloud of fresh marijuana smoke. “For Christ’s sake, Bobby, don’t stop now.”
I never disobeyed him, if I could help it; the consequences could be awful. But I wasn’t about to start in on Clyde again, either, until I was sure he hadn’t totally lost it. As he continued to wail I stroked his hairy pecs. “Shush, shush.” Finally I reached down—why didn’t I think of this sooner?—and took a firm but gentle grip on his cock. Instantly he went from crying to moaning. “I know you need to come,” I told him. “But it won’t be for a while yet. Just…relax.” My fingers tickled their way up to his ribs. He shook his head, grinning helplessly, and burst into a series of high-pitched giggles. Gradually I increased pressure, till his giggles became shouts. Soon he was making so much noise that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see, reflected on the curtains, the flashing red and blue lights that Warren had referred to—state cops, fire department, animal rescue, and what have you. The contact high I was getting from the pot smoke didn’t help; it heightened my paranoia along with my senses. I wasn’t going to stop tickling him, though, not now. I dug my fingers into his armpits again as I spoke directly into his bright red ear: “Don’t worry, buddy, you’ll be okay. I’m just gonna tickle you till you’re broken. You know what that means? It means you’ll get to a point where you just…won’t…fucking…care anymore.” I knew what I was talking about: Warren had broken me about a thousand times.
“You’re doing good, Bobby!” Warren said. I couldn’t tell just where his voice was coming from. He was up to something, but when I twisted my head around I couldn’t see him.
Suddenly he appeared on the right side of the bed. “Hold still, Clyde,” he said. “Hold still, Bobby.”
Hold still: how many times had Warren given me that command? Yet it never failed to surprise me, how just his voice, saying those words, could cause me to lose the use of my arms and legs. I could breathe, and I could move my neck and head, and that was about it. But why immobilize Clyde and me at this juncture, when I was stretched out on top of him like a starfish clinging to a rock?
“Hey,” Clyde said, “this ‘hold still’ shit, that’s how he got me tied up here in the first place. ‘Hold still,’ he says, like he’s fucking Boris Karloff or somebody—and the next thing I know I can’t move my arms or legs, and we’re in this fucking creepy hole in the first place, and I’ve never been so fucking scared in my life. Then he starts tying me to the fucking bed!” He raised his head. By raising mine, and twisting it toward the right, I could just see over his chin to his eyes. “And then,” he went on, “when he’s got me stretched out and tied up so I can’t move a friggin’ hair, he tells me I can move again!”
“I know,” I said, “I know! Will you stop yelling, Clyde, for Christ’s sake?”
“And then…this is the worst part…he starts fuckin’ tickling me!”
I lay my head flat against Clyde’s chest and let out a sigh. I didn’t intend it, but he squawked when my puff of breath rippled through his light brown chest hair.
“Don’t!” he said, giggling. “Don’t blow on my fuckin’ chest hair, man! It tickles!”
“Sorry, Clyde.”
His voice took on a more appeasing tone. “We gotta stick together, buddy. Am I right?”
“I’d say we’re pretty well stuck.” Try as I might, I couldn’t resist fucking with him. I blew on his chest again, sweeping it with a thin stream of air that made the hairs quiver.
He moaned, “Aw, don’t do that…!”
Didn’t he know better by now than to say that? I kept blowing. More and more of his chest hairs that had been plastered down with sweat were drying under my breath, springing to life, playing against his taut, ticklish skin. And it got better: by shifting my head I found I could direct a devilish stream of breath right into his armpit.
“Oh Jesus God!” This time his voice rose in pitch as well as volume. “Don’t fuckin’ do that, not while I can’t move! It ain’t fair!”
“Sorry, Clyde,” I said. “But I’m not really touching you, am I?” I blew another strong, steady breath into his pit.
Clyde let out a scared giggle. “Let me go! Oh God, where is he?”
Silence. Where was Warren? I turned my head from side to side, but he wasn’t in sight. I had the dreadful thought that he could appear at our naked feet any second.
“Where are you?” Clyde called. “Untie me, you fat-assed, jug-eared farmer!”
Now it was my turn to suck in breath. Calling Warren fat-assed was bad enough, but farmer…. In little towns like the one Clyde obviously came from, calling somebody “farmer” was the worst thing you could do. At home basketball games, opposing fans could always make the cheerleaders cry by chanting, “Farmers, farmers, farmers….” So I had to put in a word of caution. “Uh, Clyde?” I said. “I don’t think it’s real smart to be saying things like that, not while he’s got us in this fix….”
“I’ll show him fix. I’ll fix his fucking wagon! Where are you, farmer?”
More silence.
“Oh, shit,” Clyde said. “He’s down by our feet.”
“Yessssss…,” Warren said. Maybe he was trying to sound like Boris Karloff. “I just had a change of plan. I was going to leave you guys like this for a while, just holding still while I tickled both of you all over. But Clyde, here, he’s helped me change my mind.”
A ripping sound. Like cloth tearing, but not quite. I figured it out just as Warren began handling my ankle: it was tape, lengths of duct tape being ripped from a roll. The skin around my ankle grew tight, and I realized, with horror, that Warren was wrapping the tape around it, binding it to Clyde’s shin. “Hey, Warren?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “What are you doing?”
Without speaking, he bound my other ankle, again wrapping the tape around both my ankle and Clyde’s shin. I twisted my head to look at what I could see of Clyde’s face. He was staring at the foot of the bed. “What the fuck are you doing, man?”
Warren appeared at the side of the bed, wrapping tape around my wrist where it rested against Clyde’s forearm, binding wrist and forearm together. He did the same on the other side. What a position to be in: I was duct-taped to Clyde, neither our wrists nor ankles meeting, because I was shorter; but his huge dick was jammed up against my belly, right next to my own. I waited, trying not to think of what could happen next. Warren had fired up another joint; a marijuana cloud swept by. Then another.
“Okay guys, you can move now.”
“Warren…what the hell…?”
Clyde exploded into sharp, tortured giggles. And did he move! It didn’t take me long to figure that Warren was tickling his feet. The natural impulse, if you’re tied down and getting tickled, is to buck, as if you could throw off those unbearable sensations. Clyde had regained some strength and was bucking like a bronco, giving me the ride of my life as I lay plastered against him, the side of my face bouncing off his chest. Our dicks were in motion, too, rubbing against each other, his sticky rod poking my belly in a decidedly ticklish fashion. I hollered for Warren to let me loose before I turned into a milkshake.
Of course that was the worst thing I could have done. Warren switched to my feet, using brushes with stiff bristles that dragged intolerably across my soles. Now I was bucking and bouncing against Clyde, our body hair brushing each other’s ticklish spots. With all that stimulation we were getting more ticklish by the second.
“Oof!” Clyde said as I tried to arch my spine, forcing the wind from his belly. “Oof! Oof!”
“Warren!” I screamed, with that little breath I could find. “For Christ’s sake!”
Those were the last words I could speak for a while, for the foot-brushing continued, sapping my strength till it was all I could do to keep breathing while laughing like a hyena. Clyde was laughing, too, a weak, panting, desperate laugh that was directly related to my own ticklish predicament as I squirmed against him, our rods getting harder, slicker, mine poking his belly as his poked mine. It was part of our agony that we needed to come. Meanwhile his sweaty chest hair, which had fascinated me not long ago, was a nuisance now, invading my mouth each time I breathed.
Just when I thought I was going to pass out, Warren stopped brushing my soles. I went limp. Now that the panicky voice inside of me could stop crying that Warren was tickling me to death, it took up that other refrain: I’ve-gotta-come, I’ve-gotta-come, I’ve-gotta-come…. Unfortunately, I knew what was coming next—knew because Warren was lotioning up my soles. They were tender enough that just the touch of the lotion tickled, but that was nothing compared to what would follow. He was going to use the brush that I especially hated, the one with the extra stiff bristles. “Oh Christ,” I said, “hold on, Clyde.”
Exhausted as I was, when I felt those bristles against my soles I thrashed like mad. It didn’t do any good, but I couldn’t help it. My squirming, twitching, grinding and bucking were tickling Clyde to death, and the squirming he did in return poked, pulled and twisted my ticklish nerve ends into ever more hellish configurations. And all the while we laughed, my dick was screaming for help: the friction between us wasn’t enough to give it the release it craved. The whimpering coming from Clyde as our greased poles rubbed together told me he felt the same desperation.
After what seemed like an eternity, Warren quit using the brush. By then I’d lost my voice, all I could do was pant. I lay with my eyes closed, drifting in and out of consciousness. Maybe we’d reached the end, and Warren was finally going to quit. Tired as I was, I knew what I’d do the second I got free: I’d grab my cock with both hands and turn it into the gusher of all time. First, I’d soak Clyde down till he needed a snorkel to breathe. Then I’d coat Warren with cum till he looked like a giant white jelly bean. Only half done, I’d go on to jizz the whole room, starting with those nasty dark corners where the grungy wallpaper met the ceiling. I’d follow up by turning my hose on the bathroom, filling tub, sink, and toilet to overflowing. Hell, I could start in on the parking lot, too, if it came to that. More than half crazy from tickling and horniness, I kept drifting, seeing whole landscapes flooded with my spooge, globs hanging from trees and rooftops like weirdly formed icicles….
I didn’t know how close he was till I sensed the mattress dipping near my right side. I turned my head in that direction and there he was, shockingly near, kneeling at the side of the bed, his elbows on the mattress edge. Grinning, he held up his hands like a surgeon who had just scrubbed up. Only in his case Warren had greased up. What was he going to do with those glistening hands? I began to beg, silently, that he’d leave my ribs and armpits alone. Unfortunately he had something even worse in mind. He shoved those slick hands in between Clyde and me, one palm up, the other palm down, and set his fingers wriggling.
Oh, man, Warren was in heaven—with his hands jammed into that tight space between Clyde and me, his greased fingers could wreck both of us at once. He tickled our bellies and teased our pricks till we were gagging on laughter—the silent, panting kind, but just as hysterical as any hyena howl. And when he accidentally-on-purpose grabbed my aching rod and gave it a tug or two, I drooled onto Clyde’s chest a prayer that it wouldn’t be just a tug or two, but the jacking-off that I was desperate for. Warren fucked with Clyde’s cock, too. I felt it move between us, his giant dickhead against my belly adding to the torment caused by Warren’s fingers. Clyde, mad with desire, rocked back and forth violently a few times, then succumbed to limp helplessness again as Warren abandoned his tool for more tickling.
Some time later, maybe hours later, I had a dream. In the dream I was riding Clyde like a magic carpet, through a clear sky that went on forever. But it was a rough flight, through waves of turbulence that made my teeth rattle. As bad as it was, I couldn’t do anything but hang onto him, as he was hanging onto me, and just hope that we wouldn’t burst into a thousand pieces. After what seemed like an eternity, Warren came along and somehow brought us down to a safe landing. We were back in the grungy motel room. I felt the duct tape being torn from my skin, painful to my wrists and ankles but probably worse on Clyde’s shins and forearms, which had more hair. Freed, I didn’t dare try to roll over till I was sure I was no longer dreaming. It was my stiff cock that brought me back to reality—the kind of reality where I could jump all over it.
Though Clyde and I had pre-cummed ourselves together, I somehow got the energy to unstick myself and roll over. Soon I was lying on my back next to him, in what little space I had. He still seemed gargantuan in size—including his cock, which, newly freed, sprung up from his belly. It was a stunning piece of man-meat, waving as if to an adoring crowd in spite of the exhausted, half-crazed state of its owner. Warren was in the bathroom, running the shower from the sound of it, but I wasn’t going to wait for him. If I told him that I needed a blowjob, or handjob, or something, he’d be likely to say, “Sure, but I get to tickle you for a few hours first.” No doubt that was the deal that he had struck with Clyde, back at the rest stop.
My groin was tender, and my dick, while still hard, seemed numb when I first took hold of it. “Poor thing,” I whispered, spitting in my palm to moisten the dried pre-cum into a workable lube. After a few strokes the old shaft seemed to recognize me, and began to respond to my attentions. “Yeah, yeah!” I told it, spitting and rubbing some more till my cockhead glistened. Now for my favorite jack-off stunt: while pulling on my boner with my right hand, I reached down with my left and gently tickled my balls. “Gently” was the operative word, for those balls were extremely tender, in no mood to be friendly to me or anyone else. Maybe it was my cock, growing happier by the second, that convinced them to join the party, for they soon warmed up to me, too. “Oh, God,” I said, needing to sprawl but not having room for it. “God, God…!”
It wasn’t the dousing I’d imagined, but it was still a 21-gun salute of a load—some of it hitting the ceiling, much of it spattering Clyde. If he’d had a chance to drop off to sleep, he was awake now. With his wrists and ankles still tied to the bed, there was nothing he could do to relieve himself, so I swept the edge of my palm across the pools of cum on his belly and groin and used it to grease his still-hard rod into something I could work with. He didn’t make a sound as he watched me stroke him off, his eyes and mouth wide open. Maybe he’d been dreaming of gushers too, or maybe he didn’t need to dream; soon his cork popped, the jizz spouted forth, and damned if a few of his jets didn’t hit the ceiling too. When he was finally spent he shuddered from head to toe, his head fell back on the pillow, and within a few more heartbeats he was snoring. He didn’t even wake up as I untied the ropes binding his wrists and ankles to the bed. No sooner had I finished when I heard the metal rings on the shower curtain rod go zing.
“Hey, Bobby!” Warren called. “Are you up?”
My voice wasn’t in great shape, and wouldn’t be for a while, but I croaked as best I could: “Yeah.”
“Well, come in here and blow me, wouldja? Make it snappy!”
Exhausted, muscles aching, and gummed up with cum from head to toe, I hauled myself off the bed and headed toward the shower.
Warren was dancing under the hot stream that came from the rusty-looking showerhead. He was a sight, his prick standing up as straight as a sapling. “Damn! Hurry up, Bobby!”
“What’s your fuckin’ hurry?”
“I wanna bust a nut down your throat so bad….”
I kneeled in the tub. Its gritty texture wasn’t kind to my knees, but the hot water felt great. Warren slapped my face a couple of times with his boner, then shoved it in my mouth. I sucked like a good boy. Soon I was rewarded with a load that filled my mouth to overflowing. I swallowed about half of it, then expelled the rest when Warren reached down and started tickling my ribs.
“Ahem. Ahem!” That was Clyde, in the doorway, trying to make polite sounds over my squealing. When he had our attention he added, dancing from one foot to the other, “I gotta pee.”
“Go ahead,” Warren said. “I’m just gonna tickle Bobby to death.”
“Oh. Well, I can’t take a leak with you guys in here.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Okay.” Warren stepped out of the tub and, not bothering to dry off, edged past Clyde to get to the door. Clyde stepped up to the toilet bowl, aimed his dick at it, and shot me a questioning look.
“Okay, okay.” In my weakened state it was a chore to get to my abused feet. But before I could even get out of the tub, Warren, who was only halfway out the door, made a move, wheeling around to sink his fingers into Clyde’s sides.
Clyde was one of those guys who can’t stay on their feet, not even for a second, while being tickled. His legs collapsed and he landed on his butt, back to the wall, giving Warren the chance to straddle him while he worked over his ribs. “We’re gonna help you out, Clyde, Bobby and me. We’ll tickle the piss out of you.”
The tickling, and the prospect of being made to lose control of his bladder, had Clyde howling.
“Hey,” I said, “If we’re gonna tickle the piss out of him, let’s get him in the tub.” Warren never thought of these practical things.
“Hokay, Clyde, let’s go!” Through some ingenious tickling and prodding, Warren managed to herd him over to the tub, up over the edge, and onto its gritty bottom. Standing by the faucet, I trapped Clyde’s feet in the crook of my arm and tickled his soles. Warren knelt beside the tub and worked Clyde’s belly and groin—a good bet if you’re trying to tickle the piss out of someone.
Poor Clyde was in agony. The tickling had hardened him up again, which meant it was going to be more difficult for him to relieve himself. As tears rolled down his beet-red face, he managed to squeeze out some words: “Gotta pee…can’t…too hard!”
Warren stopped tickling and gave a heavy sigh. “You’re a hot stud, Clyde, but you’re such a baby!” He took a rag that the motel provided for a washcloth, ran some cool water over it, and wrapped it around Clyde’s dick. “There. Give it a minute and it’ll soften you up.”
Neither of us was tickling him now, but Clyde was still giggling as he tried to pull himself together. Warren’s therapy worked: when he removed the washcloth, Clyde’s dick was flying at half mast. “That’ll make it easier,” Warren said. “And now, like we said, we’re gonna tickle the piss out of you!” I went back to tormenting Clyde’s soles with my fingernails, while Warren found the most sensitive spots on Clyde’s abs and bore down on them. This combination soon yielded results: Clyde shouted, his dick leapt up, and a stream issued forth. He took a long piss, adding some tang to the steam in the air.
****
When it starts to get so late that it’s almost early…and you’re exhausted…and drained of cum…and yet the night still goes on, with the continuous tangling of three male bodies…it’s not always easy to tell what’s happening, let alone remember it all afterwards. I know we stayed in the bathroom for whatever time was left that night. At one point all three of us were covered in lather. Warren got out his razor and shaved my armpits; Clyde fought us, but we managed to shave his, too. Wild armpit-tickling ensued, and I’m not sure who got the worst of it, him or me. There did come that moment, though, later on, when Warren was tickling Clyde’s feet with a brush, and I was squeezing his thighs, and he suddenly went limp. I recognized the peculiar calm that seemed to spread all through him. Through reddened eyes he looked at me and said, with a twisted smile, “Aw, go ahead…go ahead and tickle me to death, you fuckin’ bastards! I don’t care. I just don’t…fuckin’…care anymore.”
We tickled him gently after that, poking and stroking him all over, bringing him to orgasm, then tickling him some more as he moaned in ecstasy. Eventually all three of us passed out, in some kind of configuration on the bathroom floor. By the time we began to stir our aching limbs it was light outside.
****
“You boys head on to the parking lot,” Warren said, as the three of us, in our winter coats, dragged our tired bodies down the breezeway. He had his bag of bondage-and-tickling equipment in one hand, the ice chest in the other. “I’ll return the room key.”
“You can’t go in there,” I said, squinting at the charcoal gray shack. “It’s got a CLOSED sign on the door.”
“That’s okay. I bet it’s unlocked.”
He was up to something, for sure. “I’ll go in with you,” I said.
"Not necessary, buddy.”
That settled it: I was right at his elbow when he opened the door. Dark woodwork, and way too much of it—a Norman Bates setup, all right. The only thing missing was the stuffed birds. They would have been less shocking, though, than what sat behind the desk: the manager, tied to a chair, his mouth taped shut. By the look in his startling blue eyes, he didn’t know whether to be happy to see us or not: were we going to free him, or fuck with him? All I wanted to do was release the poor guy, he’d been sitting like that all night.
“Jesus, Warren! You said this guy wouldn’t cause any trouble for us, and you tied him up anyway!”
Warren looked down at his feet. “Well, I had to be sure, didn’t I?”
“Let him go!”
Warren set down his bag and the ice chest, and we went behind the desk. The manager was an old guy—in his forties, maybe—but not bad looking. Warren looked into his big blue eyes and said, “I got an idea.”
“Warren….” I was about to lose my patience once and for all.
Warren got behind the chair and tilted it back on two legs…all the way, till the back of the chair and the man’s head rested on the floor. This left his feet in the air.
“Warren….”
“Look, Bobby.” With a just a few deft moves he relieved the man of his shoes and thin blue socks. “Look at these feet!”
Okay, yes, they looked like nice feet, smooth and soft. When Warren lightly ran his fingers over the soles, the man squirmed, and muffled, panicky sounds came through the tape covering his mouth. My dick stirred. Already giving in to Warren’s point of view, I wondered if the man could imagine what was going to happen to him. He’d have to have a wild imagination, that was for sure.
Clyde was lingering by the door, which was still half open. I waved him in. “You might as well close the door, Clyde, and lock it. It’s going to be a long morning.”
