Another Warren-and-Bobby story, "Leshy" was accepted for publication in the Cleis Press anthology College Boys, which came out in 2010. But at the last minute the powers-that-be at Cleis pulled the story, presumably because they found it too kinky for their (vanilla) taste. The book's editor, Shane Allison, told me, "I fought for that story, Wayne, I really did," and I'm thinking, "Yeah, right, Shane." But I love Shane anyway.
Note that this story contains severe M/M and MM/M tickle torture and gay sex acts. if any of this offends you, DO NOT READ.
Leshy
Warren and I weren’t exactly scholarship material, so in order to afford school we had to cut down on creature comforts. That meant we shared a monstrosity of an apartment down by the waterfront. The ceilings were too high, the floors were creaky, and the plumbing and the wiring were quirky and dangerous, respectively. The only advantage to the place was that we were alone in the building, the first floor below us standing vacant—because, we said half-jokingly, it had been condemned.
I learned to enter the apartment carefully, setting my knapsack down without a sound, tiptoeing toward the bedroom to get out of my clothes. I never knew when he might launch himself from some dark corner and tackle me to the floor. He’d laugh the way he did, his tongue between his teeth—thhh-thhh-thhh—as he got his hands up under my t-shirt. On one of these occasions I reminded him, while I could still get words out, that he had spent the last seven days tickling me senseless, and even God, they said, had rested on the seventh day. And Warren said that if God had had any sense, He would have given Eve a prick and a hairy chest, so the world could have started out homo instead of straight.
Next thing I knew, I’d be tied to the St. Andrew’s cross that he’d made himself, or to the bed, or the funky living room sofa, or suspended in some way from the ceiling. He’d tie me to the kitchen table, or imprison me in the bathtub with my wrists tied to the faucet. One wild afternoon he chased me naked onto the fire escape, got me in a clinch, and deep-tickled my guts out while I screamed for help at the traffic below. Such traffic as there was, a trickle of jalopies quivering over the cobblestones, didn’t even pause. The drivers probably thought they were hearing the ravings of some derelict. Maybe they were right.
Warren had also fashioned a sling hanging by chains over the bed. It was at the right height so that when I sat in it he could tickle torture my feet. There wasn’t much I could do about it, since he usually tied my wrists to the chains; so he’d keep at it, raking my super-ticklish soles with his fingernails till I was a slobbering mass of nerves.
“You want me to stop, Bobby? You want me to stop?”
“Uhhh…uhhh…uhhh….”
“How about if I let you down and tickle your ribs for a while?”
“Nuhhh…nuhhh…nuhhh….”
He knew what I was saying. Roughly translated, it went like this: if you tickle me any more you’ll kill me. Just the thought of you touching me for one more second makes me want to pass out. Show some mercy, for God’s sake! Flay me alive slowly, soak me in kerosene and light a match, cut my throat with a dull knife…anything, but don’t tickle me any more!
He’d change my position in the sling, lay me face down with my hard prick pressed up against my belly. Jam a vibrator up my ass to tickle my prostate, while his fingers squeezed my sides just above my waistline. The feelings were so intense I could only pant till my mouth was dry. Later he might carry me, limp, to the bathtub, to shave my balls and thighs and armpits.
I was completely his, like anything else he owned: the vegetable brush that I begged him not to use on my feet, the pipefitter’s gloves that wreaked havoc on my balls, or the feathers that devastated the backs of my knees. But he did take care of me. He brought the bottle of Chloraseptic when my throat was raw from screaming, or the skin lotion when he’d chafed my shaved armpits raw. After torturing my navel till I sobbed he would rock me to sleep, not forgetting to ease my aching balls by jacking me off first. A lot of jism got sprayed on the walls, adding to the funk of the place.
Over time I got a clearer picture of the man Warren was becoming: still baby-faced at age 21, with a permanent layer of baby fat that did little to soften the girth of his shoulders and chest, the bone-crushing strength of his arms. His crew cut was a permanent fixture; I couldn’t imagine him without it. His big ears and nose would always have the hard, shiny appearance of Mr. Potato Head add-ons. His grin would always be wet. His chub was literally chubby: his dick looked fat, as if it needed to lose weight. Not that I’d want it to lose a millimeter of its size. When I looked at it and thought, that thing has actually been up my ass and down my throat, I shivered all over.
Like his crew cut, nothing inside Warren’s head ever changed much either. He acquired adult skills without ever losing the petulance of a spoiled ten-year-old. You never knew what would happen when he got behind the wheel of a car, or commandeered a shopping cart; anyone who recognized his beat-up VW knew better than to park within a hundred yards of it, and he could single-handedly destroy a supermarket while thinking of something else the whole time. When it came to tickling, eating, drinking, smoking weed, and having sex, he didn’t know when to stop. His was a life force bent, not just on self-destruction, but world destruction. Anyone who got swept up into the maelstrom of his life was never the same afterwards, including me.
Yes, I was getting a clearer picture of the person I was becoming, too. My voice had developed a permanent rasp. I couldn’t shake hands without flinching. I was the colorless, featureless loner who sat in the back of the lecture class. My work-study job, shelving books in the endless, quiet stacks of the library, suited me to a T. When I got off work I would sit at one of the carrels in those stacks and study, looking up from time to time to gaze through a narrow window at the bustling campus scene outside.
And I declared, quietly, that I didn’t have to apologize for my existence.
*****
It couldn’t go on. Warren was insatiable. He’d tickle torture me through the evening, then toy with me all night long. I was so exhausted in the mornings that I stumbled over my own feet on my way to class. I fell asleep twice at my job. And there I would be, when I got home from the library, standing in the doorway of the hovel we lived in, calling out his name, wondering where and how I was going to get jumped.
We had both noticed the strawberry blond who sat in the front row of our American Thought and Language class. Even in the cool fall weather he wore tight blue shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops. When he walked past the window of the lecture hall, the curly hair on his chest, arms, and legs was resplendent in the sunlight, just like the hair on his head. “I want to wrap my fingers around that rib cage,” Warren whispered to me, “and make him plead.” We were at our usual post in the next-to-last row, where it was easy to pick out all the cute guys. Red was the one we kept coming back to, though.
One afternoon, in the middle of class, Warren left his seat, took the broad steps down to the front of the lecture hall, and left through a side door—but not before exchanging a meaningful glance with the strawberry blond. Sure enough, a few minutes later he left too. I was squirming in my seat, picturing what might be taking place in the men’s room down the hall.
Warren was the first to return, stretching his legs to take the steps two at a time. He had barely sat down when the blond came in, too, and slipped into his seat.
Warren whispered in my ear: “He flashed his dick at me at the urinal, so I took him in the stall and we sucked each other off. And guess what?”
“He’s ticklish?”
He nodded. “I got a couple of good squeezes in!”
So I wasn’t surprised when I opened the apartment door one afternoon and there was the blond, naked, sitting in a chair, his arms bound above him, his feet locked in the stocks that Warren had built himself, larger and sturdier than the ones he had introduced me to at a tender age.
What did surprise me was the goat licking his feet.
A real goat. In our living room. Brown and white, with little horns, patiently and thoroughly scraping the blond’s soles clean of whatever Warren had smeared on them, while the blond shrieked hysterically, tears running down his face. A rope led from around the goat’s neck to a leg of the kitchen table, which Warren had dragged into the room; the animal stood there contentedly, one hind hoof on a pair of Warren’s dirty briefs, the other on an empty pizza box. It wasn’t a large beast but its sides bulged, like the dangerously overfed goats at the petting zoo. And there was a smell in the room, a goaty smell, mixing with the tang and garlic of the open pickle jar on the table.
Warren was nowhere to be seen, but he couldn’t have gone far. Sure enough, in a moment the toilet flushed and he appeared in the bathroom door, wearing only sweatpants. I was so mad I couldn’t speak. I just pointed a trembling finger at the goat.
“Don’t worry,” Warren said. “I didn’t adopt him or anything. Just borrowed him for the afternoon. He’s a mascot at the Phi Mu house.”
A frat house? That was typical of Warren, too: he had friends, connections I never knew about. Something was always popping up from someone, somewhere. “You’re fucking crazy, bringing a goat in here!” I said. “How did you even manage it?”
“Well, Lenny here, he’s got a pickup truck, so it was no prob. Getting the little fella up the stairs was the hard part.”
I tried to keep my scowl intact, but my anger was fading. The blond’s plight was too hot to ignore, like the blond himself, with that curly body hair that was just made to run your fingers through, not to mention the big slick cock slapping up against his belly as he writhed and screamed under the tickle-torture. His tear-filled eyes were looking at me, begging me to free him from the sensations that were driving him mad. But if he could see me half as well as I could see him, then he could tell I’d sprung a boner in my jeans and was rooted where I stood, my eyes moving from his face to his feet, so expertly fastened to the stocks, toes tied off individually so the goat’s tongue could get between them. “Jesus Christ, Warren,” I said. I had read about this torture, which dated back to colonial America, medieval Europe, maybe even the Roman Empire. The feet of the victim were often soaked in salt water or brine, which accounted for the pickle jar. Goats loved salty stuff, and once a goat started licking it would not stop.
“Pretty hot, huh?” Warren stepped up behind me, reached his hand around to open the fly of my jeans and pull out my prick. He stroked me slowly, and if I was rooted to the spot before, I was melting into it now. I raised my arms up and behind me, reaching for his head, rubbing his crew cut. He took advantage of my raised arms to run his fingers up along my ribs and into my armpits. I doubled over, laughing, and when his hands moved to my waist I sank to my knees, begging for mercy. Soon I was writhing on the floor, helpless and horny.
It didn’t take long to see where things were going, and if I’d been thinking earlier I would have known as soon as I saw the goat. Now Warren’s feet were in among the goat hooves, which retreated as he pulled the animal away. I heard the blond trying to catch his tortured breath, the creak of the stocks opening. It was the perfect time to get up and run, but I could only lie there, paralyzed by fear and disbelief. Warren wouldn’t…he couldn’t…!
Of course in no time I was in the chair, stripped naked, arms tied over my head; and Warren was locking my feet in the stocks while the blond, his face still a mess, used what energy he’d recovered to poke my belly and ribs. I thrashed and writhed as much as I could. Judging by the way the blond had reacted to the goat torture, I was in immediate danger of losing my mind. He was ticklish, all right, but it was a safe bet that I could take his ticklishness, multiply it by 10, and still not reach an approximation of my own. “Warren, no…please…you wouldn’t!”
He bound my toes with twine, which tickled unbearably as he wrapped it twice around each one, just to prolong the agony. By the time he finished I had already screamed myself hoarse. I begged, oh how I begged him to let me go, my stupid tongue on autopilot. But “no” was what he wanted to hear, and sealed my fate as securely as if I had begged him to tickle me, tickle me to death. Then I got the bright idea of appealing to the blond, whose name was—what? Lenny? “Lenny,” I said, hoarse from the toe-tying experience, “tell him to let me go, please! You know what torture it was…and I’m even more ticklish than you, honest! I’m so ticklish I’ll die…!”
Oh, that blond: he sadistic streak was as wide as his grin and as long as his dick, which was close to my right side, thickening, hardening, warning me that I was in for the ride of my life. He stuck a finger in my navel and made like a jack-hammer while Warren led the goat back to the stocks, its hooves tick-ticking on the floor. Then, over the sound of my own panting, I heard a splash, followed by that sour garlicky smell: Warren anointing my feet with brine. Oh Jesus Christ, he was actually going to do it! Excited, the goat made a sound, a gargling bleat.
I prayed that the first touch of that tongue would come quickly, since anticipation itself was a kind of torture. Then again, if I’d known for sure what was coming I would have reversed even that heartfelt prayer. The first touch was unearthly. Every cell of my body screamed NO. I’d fallen through a hole in the world into an alternate reality, one where a goat’s tongue was as lethal as a gunshot, as torturous as the most prolonged bloodletting. Soon I had the sense, as I often did while being tickled, that my feet had grown, burst the confines of the room. Each sole took up half the universe; how else to explain the galaxies of sensations wracking me, shearing off the edges of my nervous system, exposing a fresh, raw ticklishness that was unlike anything I’d known before? And all of it from something so small, so obscenely insignificant, as the tongue of a barnyard waif. I was aware, dimly, that Warren was behind me, running his fingers up and down my sides, ribs, and armpits, while Lenny knelt by my side and tickled my balls; but compared to the goat these were minor annoyances.
It wasn’t the animal’s fault. On the other hand, in Slavic folklore there was a forest spirit named Leshy, who was known to abduct travelers and tickle them to death. Leshy was sometimes described as having the horns and lower body of a goat. Was it possible to believe in these spirits? Having known Warren Stone for most of my life, it seemed possible to believe in anything…even what came next.
After a second’s respite—I was dimly aware of Warren shoving the animal aside—slosh went the jar of brine, re-soaking my feet. The goat’s tongue, as rough as a cat’s, had scraped my soles enough that the brine actually stung, torment upon torment. The goat resumed its exploration of my feet as though it had never tasted them before. Warren moved up alongside of me, his hard dick bobbing in the air as he took hold of my balls, which he’d shaved the night before. On went the leather balls-stretcher, creating two large, tight orbs of sensitivity. What would come next? Fingers, feathers, or brushes?
But it was worse than that. Warren and the blond each held something now, and as Warren took a firm hold on the leather strap around my scrotum, raising my balls to a convenient angle while my hard cock rode up on my belly, I saw their tools approach the target. It was hallucination time, it must have been, for what I was seeing now were…
Emery boards.
So the demonic scraping of my ticklish feet was not enough. I watched, unbelieving, as the emery boards approached my balls and lightly touched down. They weren’t intended to truly abrade the flesh, only to tickle and torment to the nth degree. So lightly and so ticklingly did those sandpapery surfaces ride my balls…! Then the torturers switched to using the emery boards like miniature paddles, lightly spanking and swatting my tender eggs. By now I was too exhausted to squirm or thrash or even beg them to stop. But my cock was begging, straining upward, longing to the high heavens for release. It needed to be touched as much as the rest of my ticklish flesh needed to escape. Finally Warren took mercy on me, grabbed my drooling member and jacked it till I was shooting to the ceiling, shuddering all over and, finally, passing out.
*****
A splash. Now my face was getting the pickle-juice treatment. No, that didn’t make sense. It was water from a glass that Warren was lightly dribbling me with, bringing me around. I had been released from the stocks, and my arms were at my sides. My feet and balls tingled as they never had before. Having barely enough energy for it, I turned my head to see where the blond was, but it looked like he had gone. What an insult, a guest who suffered and ran! At least the goat hadn’t left—far from it. At some point in the recent past it had released a load of fresh steaming pellets. The stench was ungodly, and there it was again, the numbing anger I’d felt earlier when I first saw the beast in the middle of our living room. Never mind that Warren and his new friend had nearly killed me; it was the fact that he’d brought a fucking goat inside in the first place that made me see red. I looked at him, laughing his laugh, thhh-thhh-thhh. “Warren, God damn it….” Oh, what a pathetic croak. If I spent much more time with Warren I’d lose my voice permanently.
“What?” he asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “You’re not really mad, are ya?”
“Tell me,” I croaked, “at least tell me this. When the goat crapped, did it land in the pizza box?”
“Uh, no…mostly on the floor.”
“Jesus.” Now was the time, the moment for me to tell Warren that our living arrangement was over. I didn’t expect him to take it well—didn’t expect him to take it at all. It wouldn’t sink in that I would actually terminate our living together. I’d have to put it several different ways, and spend a long time explaining what each one meant. Suddenly it was just too tiring, I’d been through too much to go through the exercise. It would be difficult enough to get Warren to understand that the goat had to go, now.
While he returned the animal I cleaned up. I was able to at least sweep the goat shit into the pizza box, and carry it downstairs to the garbage can, wincing as my abused feet took each step. The smell would hang in the air, but only for a while. I had to wonder, finally, if it really was the goat that had made me so mad. I had to allow for the fact, unlikely as it was, that maybe it wasn’t the goat after all.
Maybe it was Lenny.
A few days later I came home to find Lenny literally hanging around, suspended from the ceiling with his wrists and ankles bound together in a reverse hogtie. Warren was tickling his asshole with a long, stiff feather. Poor guy, I knew how uncomfortable it was to be hanging in that doubled-up way, and how vulnerable the asshole was in that position. And oh, that long, stiff feather: even an asshole that wasn’t particularly ticklish would react with gusto to that special tool.
As soon as he saw me, Lenny screamed for help. Did he have amnesia? When I had screamed at him for help he’d added to my torment. So I took up a second feather, and Warren and I tickled his extremely sensitive pucker while he squealed and shouted.
But after that long afternoon, things were never the same. Lenny never appeared in our apartment again. I saw Warren talking to him between classes, though, and wondered if they might be getting together at Lenny’s place, if he had one; that would explain Warren’s ever-increasing absences from home. It also explained why I finally got up the nerve to tell him that I was moving out.
It wasn’t the end of our relationship, though. Warren and I had been together, after all, since he first discovered how ticklish I was, back when we were ten years old. It just meant that our relationship was taking another turn—one that would bring me even more mind-blowing adventures than having my soles tickle-tortured by a goat’s tongue.
Note that this story contains severe M/M and MM/M tickle torture and gay sex acts. if any of this offends you, DO NOT READ.
Leshy
Warren and I weren’t exactly scholarship material, so in order to afford school we had to cut down on creature comforts. That meant we shared a monstrosity of an apartment down by the waterfront. The ceilings were too high, the floors were creaky, and the plumbing and the wiring were quirky and dangerous, respectively. The only advantage to the place was that we were alone in the building, the first floor below us standing vacant—because, we said half-jokingly, it had been condemned.
I learned to enter the apartment carefully, setting my knapsack down without a sound, tiptoeing toward the bedroom to get out of my clothes. I never knew when he might launch himself from some dark corner and tackle me to the floor. He’d laugh the way he did, his tongue between his teeth—thhh-thhh-thhh—as he got his hands up under my t-shirt. On one of these occasions I reminded him, while I could still get words out, that he had spent the last seven days tickling me senseless, and even God, they said, had rested on the seventh day. And Warren said that if God had had any sense, He would have given Eve a prick and a hairy chest, so the world could have started out homo instead of straight.
Next thing I knew, I’d be tied to the St. Andrew’s cross that he’d made himself, or to the bed, or the funky living room sofa, or suspended in some way from the ceiling. He’d tie me to the kitchen table, or imprison me in the bathtub with my wrists tied to the faucet. One wild afternoon he chased me naked onto the fire escape, got me in a clinch, and deep-tickled my guts out while I screamed for help at the traffic below. Such traffic as there was, a trickle of jalopies quivering over the cobblestones, didn’t even pause. The drivers probably thought they were hearing the ravings of some derelict. Maybe they were right.
Warren had also fashioned a sling hanging by chains over the bed. It was at the right height so that when I sat in it he could tickle torture my feet. There wasn’t much I could do about it, since he usually tied my wrists to the chains; so he’d keep at it, raking my super-ticklish soles with his fingernails till I was a slobbering mass of nerves.
“You want me to stop, Bobby? You want me to stop?”
“Uhhh…uhhh…uhhh….”
“How about if I let you down and tickle your ribs for a while?”
“Nuhhh…nuhhh…nuhhh….”
He knew what I was saying. Roughly translated, it went like this: if you tickle me any more you’ll kill me. Just the thought of you touching me for one more second makes me want to pass out. Show some mercy, for God’s sake! Flay me alive slowly, soak me in kerosene and light a match, cut my throat with a dull knife…anything, but don’t tickle me any more!
He’d change my position in the sling, lay me face down with my hard prick pressed up against my belly. Jam a vibrator up my ass to tickle my prostate, while his fingers squeezed my sides just above my waistline. The feelings were so intense I could only pant till my mouth was dry. Later he might carry me, limp, to the bathtub, to shave my balls and thighs and armpits.
I was completely his, like anything else he owned: the vegetable brush that I begged him not to use on my feet, the pipefitter’s gloves that wreaked havoc on my balls, or the feathers that devastated the backs of my knees. But he did take care of me. He brought the bottle of Chloraseptic when my throat was raw from screaming, or the skin lotion when he’d chafed my shaved armpits raw. After torturing my navel till I sobbed he would rock me to sleep, not forgetting to ease my aching balls by jacking me off first. A lot of jism got sprayed on the walls, adding to the funk of the place.
Over time I got a clearer picture of the man Warren was becoming: still baby-faced at age 21, with a permanent layer of baby fat that did little to soften the girth of his shoulders and chest, the bone-crushing strength of his arms. His crew cut was a permanent fixture; I couldn’t imagine him without it. His big ears and nose would always have the hard, shiny appearance of Mr. Potato Head add-ons. His grin would always be wet. His chub was literally chubby: his dick looked fat, as if it needed to lose weight. Not that I’d want it to lose a millimeter of its size. When I looked at it and thought, that thing has actually been up my ass and down my throat, I shivered all over.
Like his crew cut, nothing inside Warren’s head ever changed much either. He acquired adult skills without ever losing the petulance of a spoiled ten-year-old. You never knew what would happen when he got behind the wheel of a car, or commandeered a shopping cart; anyone who recognized his beat-up VW knew better than to park within a hundred yards of it, and he could single-handedly destroy a supermarket while thinking of something else the whole time. When it came to tickling, eating, drinking, smoking weed, and having sex, he didn’t know when to stop. His was a life force bent, not just on self-destruction, but world destruction. Anyone who got swept up into the maelstrom of his life was never the same afterwards, including me.
Yes, I was getting a clearer picture of the person I was becoming, too. My voice had developed a permanent rasp. I couldn’t shake hands without flinching. I was the colorless, featureless loner who sat in the back of the lecture class. My work-study job, shelving books in the endless, quiet stacks of the library, suited me to a T. When I got off work I would sit at one of the carrels in those stacks and study, looking up from time to time to gaze through a narrow window at the bustling campus scene outside.
And I declared, quietly, that I didn’t have to apologize for my existence.
*****
It couldn’t go on. Warren was insatiable. He’d tickle torture me through the evening, then toy with me all night long. I was so exhausted in the mornings that I stumbled over my own feet on my way to class. I fell asleep twice at my job. And there I would be, when I got home from the library, standing in the doorway of the hovel we lived in, calling out his name, wondering where and how I was going to get jumped.
We had both noticed the strawberry blond who sat in the front row of our American Thought and Language class. Even in the cool fall weather he wore tight blue shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops. When he walked past the window of the lecture hall, the curly hair on his chest, arms, and legs was resplendent in the sunlight, just like the hair on his head. “I want to wrap my fingers around that rib cage,” Warren whispered to me, “and make him plead.” We were at our usual post in the next-to-last row, where it was easy to pick out all the cute guys. Red was the one we kept coming back to, though.
One afternoon, in the middle of class, Warren left his seat, took the broad steps down to the front of the lecture hall, and left through a side door—but not before exchanging a meaningful glance with the strawberry blond. Sure enough, a few minutes later he left too. I was squirming in my seat, picturing what might be taking place in the men’s room down the hall.
Warren was the first to return, stretching his legs to take the steps two at a time. He had barely sat down when the blond came in, too, and slipped into his seat.
Warren whispered in my ear: “He flashed his dick at me at the urinal, so I took him in the stall and we sucked each other off. And guess what?”
“He’s ticklish?”
He nodded. “I got a couple of good squeezes in!”
So I wasn’t surprised when I opened the apartment door one afternoon and there was the blond, naked, sitting in a chair, his arms bound above him, his feet locked in the stocks that Warren had built himself, larger and sturdier than the ones he had introduced me to at a tender age.
What did surprise me was the goat licking his feet.
A real goat. In our living room. Brown and white, with little horns, patiently and thoroughly scraping the blond’s soles clean of whatever Warren had smeared on them, while the blond shrieked hysterically, tears running down his face. A rope led from around the goat’s neck to a leg of the kitchen table, which Warren had dragged into the room; the animal stood there contentedly, one hind hoof on a pair of Warren’s dirty briefs, the other on an empty pizza box. It wasn’t a large beast but its sides bulged, like the dangerously overfed goats at the petting zoo. And there was a smell in the room, a goaty smell, mixing with the tang and garlic of the open pickle jar on the table.
Warren was nowhere to be seen, but he couldn’t have gone far. Sure enough, in a moment the toilet flushed and he appeared in the bathroom door, wearing only sweatpants. I was so mad I couldn’t speak. I just pointed a trembling finger at the goat.
“Don’t worry,” Warren said. “I didn’t adopt him or anything. Just borrowed him for the afternoon. He’s a mascot at the Phi Mu house.”
A frat house? That was typical of Warren, too: he had friends, connections I never knew about. Something was always popping up from someone, somewhere. “You’re fucking crazy, bringing a goat in here!” I said. “How did you even manage it?”
“Well, Lenny here, he’s got a pickup truck, so it was no prob. Getting the little fella up the stairs was the hard part.”
I tried to keep my scowl intact, but my anger was fading. The blond’s plight was too hot to ignore, like the blond himself, with that curly body hair that was just made to run your fingers through, not to mention the big slick cock slapping up against his belly as he writhed and screamed under the tickle-torture. His tear-filled eyes were looking at me, begging me to free him from the sensations that were driving him mad. But if he could see me half as well as I could see him, then he could tell I’d sprung a boner in my jeans and was rooted where I stood, my eyes moving from his face to his feet, so expertly fastened to the stocks, toes tied off individually so the goat’s tongue could get between them. “Jesus Christ, Warren,” I said. I had read about this torture, which dated back to colonial America, medieval Europe, maybe even the Roman Empire. The feet of the victim were often soaked in salt water or brine, which accounted for the pickle jar. Goats loved salty stuff, and once a goat started licking it would not stop.
“Pretty hot, huh?” Warren stepped up behind me, reached his hand around to open the fly of my jeans and pull out my prick. He stroked me slowly, and if I was rooted to the spot before, I was melting into it now. I raised my arms up and behind me, reaching for his head, rubbing his crew cut. He took advantage of my raised arms to run his fingers up along my ribs and into my armpits. I doubled over, laughing, and when his hands moved to my waist I sank to my knees, begging for mercy. Soon I was writhing on the floor, helpless and horny.
It didn’t take long to see where things were going, and if I’d been thinking earlier I would have known as soon as I saw the goat. Now Warren’s feet were in among the goat hooves, which retreated as he pulled the animal away. I heard the blond trying to catch his tortured breath, the creak of the stocks opening. It was the perfect time to get up and run, but I could only lie there, paralyzed by fear and disbelief. Warren wouldn’t…he couldn’t…!
Of course in no time I was in the chair, stripped naked, arms tied over my head; and Warren was locking my feet in the stocks while the blond, his face still a mess, used what energy he’d recovered to poke my belly and ribs. I thrashed and writhed as much as I could. Judging by the way the blond had reacted to the goat torture, I was in immediate danger of losing my mind. He was ticklish, all right, but it was a safe bet that I could take his ticklishness, multiply it by 10, and still not reach an approximation of my own. “Warren, no…please…you wouldn’t!”
He bound my toes with twine, which tickled unbearably as he wrapped it twice around each one, just to prolong the agony. By the time he finished I had already screamed myself hoarse. I begged, oh how I begged him to let me go, my stupid tongue on autopilot. But “no” was what he wanted to hear, and sealed my fate as securely as if I had begged him to tickle me, tickle me to death. Then I got the bright idea of appealing to the blond, whose name was—what? Lenny? “Lenny,” I said, hoarse from the toe-tying experience, “tell him to let me go, please! You know what torture it was…and I’m even more ticklish than you, honest! I’m so ticklish I’ll die…!”
Oh, that blond: he sadistic streak was as wide as his grin and as long as his dick, which was close to my right side, thickening, hardening, warning me that I was in for the ride of my life. He stuck a finger in my navel and made like a jack-hammer while Warren led the goat back to the stocks, its hooves tick-ticking on the floor. Then, over the sound of my own panting, I heard a splash, followed by that sour garlicky smell: Warren anointing my feet with brine. Oh Jesus Christ, he was actually going to do it! Excited, the goat made a sound, a gargling bleat.
I prayed that the first touch of that tongue would come quickly, since anticipation itself was a kind of torture. Then again, if I’d known for sure what was coming I would have reversed even that heartfelt prayer. The first touch was unearthly. Every cell of my body screamed NO. I’d fallen through a hole in the world into an alternate reality, one where a goat’s tongue was as lethal as a gunshot, as torturous as the most prolonged bloodletting. Soon I had the sense, as I often did while being tickled, that my feet had grown, burst the confines of the room. Each sole took up half the universe; how else to explain the galaxies of sensations wracking me, shearing off the edges of my nervous system, exposing a fresh, raw ticklishness that was unlike anything I’d known before? And all of it from something so small, so obscenely insignificant, as the tongue of a barnyard waif. I was aware, dimly, that Warren was behind me, running his fingers up and down my sides, ribs, and armpits, while Lenny knelt by my side and tickled my balls; but compared to the goat these were minor annoyances.
It wasn’t the animal’s fault. On the other hand, in Slavic folklore there was a forest spirit named Leshy, who was known to abduct travelers and tickle them to death. Leshy was sometimes described as having the horns and lower body of a goat. Was it possible to believe in these spirits? Having known Warren Stone for most of my life, it seemed possible to believe in anything…even what came next.
After a second’s respite—I was dimly aware of Warren shoving the animal aside—slosh went the jar of brine, re-soaking my feet. The goat’s tongue, as rough as a cat’s, had scraped my soles enough that the brine actually stung, torment upon torment. The goat resumed its exploration of my feet as though it had never tasted them before. Warren moved up alongside of me, his hard dick bobbing in the air as he took hold of my balls, which he’d shaved the night before. On went the leather balls-stretcher, creating two large, tight orbs of sensitivity. What would come next? Fingers, feathers, or brushes?
But it was worse than that. Warren and the blond each held something now, and as Warren took a firm hold on the leather strap around my scrotum, raising my balls to a convenient angle while my hard cock rode up on my belly, I saw their tools approach the target. It was hallucination time, it must have been, for what I was seeing now were…
Emery boards.
So the demonic scraping of my ticklish feet was not enough. I watched, unbelieving, as the emery boards approached my balls and lightly touched down. They weren’t intended to truly abrade the flesh, only to tickle and torment to the nth degree. So lightly and so ticklingly did those sandpapery surfaces ride my balls…! Then the torturers switched to using the emery boards like miniature paddles, lightly spanking and swatting my tender eggs. By now I was too exhausted to squirm or thrash or even beg them to stop. But my cock was begging, straining upward, longing to the high heavens for release. It needed to be touched as much as the rest of my ticklish flesh needed to escape. Finally Warren took mercy on me, grabbed my drooling member and jacked it till I was shooting to the ceiling, shuddering all over and, finally, passing out.
*****
A splash. Now my face was getting the pickle-juice treatment. No, that didn’t make sense. It was water from a glass that Warren was lightly dribbling me with, bringing me around. I had been released from the stocks, and my arms were at my sides. My feet and balls tingled as they never had before. Having barely enough energy for it, I turned my head to see where the blond was, but it looked like he had gone. What an insult, a guest who suffered and ran! At least the goat hadn’t left—far from it. At some point in the recent past it had released a load of fresh steaming pellets. The stench was ungodly, and there it was again, the numbing anger I’d felt earlier when I first saw the beast in the middle of our living room. Never mind that Warren and his new friend had nearly killed me; it was the fact that he’d brought a fucking goat inside in the first place that made me see red. I looked at him, laughing his laugh, thhh-thhh-thhh. “Warren, God damn it….” Oh, what a pathetic croak. If I spent much more time with Warren I’d lose my voice permanently.
“What?” he asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “You’re not really mad, are ya?”
“Tell me,” I croaked, “at least tell me this. When the goat crapped, did it land in the pizza box?”
“Uh, no…mostly on the floor.”
“Jesus.” Now was the time, the moment for me to tell Warren that our living arrangement was over. I didn’t expect him to take it well—didn’t expect him to take it at all. It wouldn’t sink in that I would actually terminate our living together. I’d have to put it several different ways, and spend a long time explaining what each one meant. Suddenly it was just too tiring, I’d been through too much to go through the exercise. It would be difficult enough to get Warren to understand that the goat had to go, now.
While he returned the animal I cleaned up. I was able to at least sweep the goat shit into the pizza box, and carry it downstairs to the garbage can, wincing as my abused feet took each step. The smell would hang in the air, but only for a while. I had to wonder, finally, if it really was the goat that had made me so mad. I had to allow for the fact, unlikely as it was, that maybe it wasn’t the goat after all.
Maybe it was Lenny.
A few days later I came home to find Lenny literally hanging around, suspended from the ceiling with his wrists and ankles bound together in a reverse hogtie. Warren was tickling his asshole with a long, stiff feather. Poor guy, I knew how uncomfortable it was to be hanging in that doubled-up way, and how vulnerable the asshole was in that position. And oh, that long, stiff feather: even an asshole that wasn’t particularly ticklish would react with gusto to that special tool.
As soon as he saw me, Lenny screamed for help. Did he have amnesia? When I had screamed at him for help he’d added to my torment. So I took up a second feather, and Warren and I tickled his extremely sensitive pucker while he squealed and shouted.
But after that long afternoon, things were never the same. Lenny never appeared in our apartment again. I saw Warren talking to him between classes, though, and wondered if they might be getting together at Lenny’s place, if he had one; that would explain Warren’s ever-increasing absences from home. It also explained why I finally got up the nerve to tell him that I was moving out.
It wasn’t the end of our relationship, though. Warren and I had been together, after all, since he first discovered how ticklish I was, back when we were ten years old. It just meant that our relationship was taking another turn—one that would bring me even more mind-blowing adventures than having my soles tickle-tortured by a goat’s tongue.