Ticklishboy30
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2010
- Messages
- 250
- Points
- 28
(This is a revised version of a story I wrote about 12 years ago.)
Brent Moran sat at the weathered and battered metal desk in his newly acquired office, sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup, and reviewing the files of various parolees he’d inherited from his predecessor, Davis Lockheart. It was his first day as the county’s parole officer, and he was a little intimidated by the overwhelming number of clients. The tall, muscular brunette really didn’t want to be a hard ass and hoped everyone would cooperate. He was thankful that most of the offenders were guilty of nonviolent crimes, so he wasn’t anticipating anything too dangerous thus far. However, despite his youthful appearance, boyish crooked smile, and bright, sparkly light green eyes, the 6’2”, 185 lbs, twenty-five-year-old could be pretty intimidating when he wanted and needed to be.
“Sherryl, hold my calls, I have to go do some home visits.”
The young PO was always nervous about home visits because he never knew how they would turn out. First up was Joey Vann. After getting into his tan 2024 Toyota Tacoma, he looked through the file. Vann served time for multiple DUIs, driving without a license, and selling weed.
About thirty minutes later, Brent reached his destination, and some anxiousness rose inside of him as he stopped for a moment and gazed at the seemingly abandoned dirt road that separated a thick forest of trees. After taking a deep breath, the young man turned right onto the one-lane country drive. Even though he was going slowly, he could hear the gravel crunch under the tires as his vehicle bounced in and out of the many potholes decorating the road.
While driving deeper into the trees, he noticed a number of slender driveways to the left and right, and finally, he reached his destination, which was a dilapidated two-story farmhouse and a shabby barn that had seen better days. Before exiting the Toyota, he checked himself in the rear view mirror, pulled the 9mm Glock and shoulder holster from the glove compartment, and glanced one more time at Joey’s file. He took note of Vann’s stats, the parolee was 22, 6’0”, and weighed 175 lbs.
Carefully, he climbed the five rickety steps that led up to the front door and knocked. It took a few minutes, but finally, the door opened. Brent had to stop himself from gasping, and slightly gulped at the vision of the older, pot-bellied, bare-chested, grizzly bear of a scraggly, disheveled man standing before him.
“What ya huntin’ fer, youngin’?”
The southern drawl and deep gravelly voice matched the redneck, hillbilly look proudly sported by the unknown character. He leaned forward, turned his head to the right, and spat out the chewing tobacco in his mouth, which landed with a sickening splat on the crickety porch. “Dang, missed the spit bucket,” he lazily stated just before his crusty lips smacked together as he scratched his blue jeans-covered ass.
Brent cleared his throat and composed himself. “Brent Moran, I’m here to meet Joey Vann. I’m his new PO.”
“The new PO’s here, Joey.”
The guy left the door open and walked off.
Brent stepped inside and looked around the unkempt living room. Beer and liquor bottles were
strewn all over the room. There were also various articles of clothing, including dingy underwear and crusty socks, which he guessed were responsible for part of the pungent aroma, and finally, in plain sight, on the sticky table in front of the sofa, was a bag of weed and a bong.
“Yer’ the new PO?”
The deep southern voice came from behind Brent. He turned to see an unshaven, barefoot, shirtless guy dressed in blue jeans that looked like Swiss cheese. A strong, musky odor wafted from his body, which displayed a chiseled set of six-pack abs, wild shoulder-length hair, and a farmer’s tan, and he was chewing on a piece of straw.
“Yes, I am. I’m Brent Moran, and I take it you’re Joey?”
“Since I’m standin’ here, in this house, I reckon’ so.”
Neither man made an attempt at shaking hands.
“Let’s get this over with,” Brent said in a no-nonsense firm tone. “Right off, I see multiple parole violations. However, I’m not a hard ass. If you work with me, I’ll work with you, and we can both be happy.”
“Really? What’cha noticin’?”
Brent couldn’t help the slight fidget when Joey inched closer.
“Drug paraphernalia, you have not had a drug test since your parole started, and you haven’t come to any follow-up appointments.”
“Oh yeah, me an’ the other boy had an understandin’. He didn’t come here or
make me go there an’ I didn’t do anythin’ to him.”
Brent was amazed at this guy’s brazen attitude.
“Well, Joey, I’m not like the last guy, and if you don’t comply with the guidelines
I will have no choice but to revoke your parole.”
“That’s what the other guy said the first time. It wasn’t long ‘fore he changed his mind. I reckon you’ll be needin’ a lesson too,” the detestable young man said. He chuckled and added, “It’ll be fun breakin’ a big ole’ stallion like you.”
“Are you threatening me? That’s it, your parole is officially revoked.”
While his visitor reached for his phone, Joey quickly put the taller man in a choke hold and tightened his grip, cutting off the air supply. He grunted and smiled as the guy struggled and tried to get free, but was unable to escape, and after a couple of minutes, the muscle-toned body crumbled to the grimy floor. The homeowner dragged his captive down to the basement, where he removed the brunette’s clothing, leaving him in just his green boxer briefs, pulled the unconscious man up and onto a sturdy wooden table, and restrained his wrists and ankles with rope that was tied to the table’s legs. Then, the redhead sat in a chair, gazed at his helpless victim with a devious smile, then packed his bong, and took a nice, long hit.
Brent came to with Joey’s mug staring at him.
“Yer’ awake, we can make that agreement,” Joey said, taking a sip of his beer.
“We certainly can, we can agree that you’re going to let me go, and are going
back to jail for this shit,” Brent replied as he struggled with his bonds.
“If’n ya think that’s gonna happen yer’ dead wrong, bud.”
Brent was starting to get a little nervous and was sweating, not knowing what was going to happen. He’d never been in a situation like this before.
Joey slowly walked around the table, letting the suspense build.
“I ain’t gonna hurt ya’ Brent, I find pain ain’t always best.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“I got my ways a’ makin’ fellas submit to my demands.”
Brent looked questioningly at his cocky captor.
“See, most guys think they’re invincible and can’t be controlled. It’s that way a’ thinkin’ makes ‘em forget about the most simple and childish weaknesses.”
“What’s that, no cookies and milk?” Brent sarcastically replied as he continued to struggle
with the rope holding him.
“The best way to make a man or boy squirm is ticklin’ ‘em,”
Ten, dirty, long nails wiggled and pressed into the warm flesh covering the rib cage. Much to the tickling country boy’s surprise, the only reaction was the captive smiling while jumping a little from side to side.
“I think you need to rethink your theory,” Brent said confidently.
Joey chuckled as he glared and cracked his knuckles.
“Playin’ tough, huh, well I ain’t scared of a challenge.”
The tickler dug all his fingers into the fleshy spot just above his prey’s hips. and then moved up into the deep pit hollows.
Unfazed by the tickle assault, Brent acted like this was just a relaxing massage. “Hey, can you massage my back? It’s been giving me a little trouble,” he asked with the biggest smile on his face. It did tickle him that his lack of response was unnerving his tickling captor.
“Ya think yer funny? Try this for a massage,” Joey growled. He kneaded the man’s inner thighs, like a baker kneads dough.
“Oh, fuck yeah. Dude, I bet you had a lot of massage requests from the guys in the slammer.”
Brent chuckled because his client was becoming increasingly frustrated.
“I will break yer’ fuckin’ ass. I ain’t near done yet.”
With a bear-like growl, the redneck raked his nails rapidly over the soft, bare soles.
“Heh, I Gotta say, you’re awesome for doing this, man. My feet were starting to itch a little. Scratch down towards the heel.”
Brent was having a blast and totally getting into playing with Joey’s mind.
“Just wait, I’m gettin’ my secret weapon an’ then I’ll make ya squeal like a stuck pig,” Joey stated just before running upstairs.
Brent noticed the rope snagging on the table and pulled at it until he was free. He quickly rubbed his wrists and ankles, then grabbed his gun and waited in the shadows.
The homeowner came back down carrying a wide wooden brush and gasped when he didn’t see his captive.
Brent emerged and touched the barrel of his Glock to the back of the slightly younger man’s head.
“Alright, Joseph, you’ve had your fun, now we’re gonna have a nice, long discussion, all about the way things are gonna change for you. Get your hands behind your head, and slowly walk upstairs.”
Joey gulped and complied.
Brent kept his weapon trained on the trembling man as he told the former captor to head for his bedroom.
“How’d ya get free, and how’d ya resist the ticklin’?” Joey asked as he was forced onto the bed and hogtied.
“I know all about your ticklish hold on Davis. I’m not ticklish, and even though I love the way it feels, it doesn’t make me laugh, and that’s why they gave me Lockheart’s cases.”
“Damn, yer’ the first guy who didn’t break from the ticklin’,” Joey said as he tried to get free.
“Another thing about me is, I love to tickle, so I’m gonna have fun while you and I come to an understanding. First, you’re going to get your life together.”
“Like hell you can’t make me…”
“You sure about that, country boy?”
Without warning, Brent’s nimble wiggling fingers found a temporary home in the helpless guy’s deep, hairy, sweaty pit hollows, and instantly, the bedroom filled with boisterous, shrieking laughter. “You are one very ticklish guy,” he stated while chuckling. “You will not interrupt me, and let’s get rid of this hair.”
“Fuck you! I ain’t cuttin’ my hair.”
“Who said anything about you having anything to do with it?”
Joey squirmed and struggled while his former captive was gone. When the muscular guy returned with a pair of scissors, his eyes widened, and his attempts at breaking free were vigorously renewed, and despite his best effort to dodge the attempted grasp, Brent grabbed his hair. A puppy-like yelp came from his mouth as his head tipped back, exposing his throat and Adam’s apple, and the locks were pulled into a taut ponytail. He closed his eyes, and in what seemed like the blink of an eye, his shoulder-length hair now reached the nape of his neck, and the rest lay in a pile on the floor.
“Ya’ll are crazier than a chicken with its head cut off, ya fuckin’ bastard.”
“That’s better. While we’re at it, let’s shave off this hideous beard and mustache.”
“No way! Ya’ ain’t gonna…”
Brent cut off the hysterical rant by wiggling his fingers between the slightly visible ribs, and loved hearing another hysterical fit of uncontrolled laughter. “I’m sorry, what was that, Joey?” he asked, putting his hand to his ear.
It wasn’t long before there was a baby-faced, clean-shaven country boy glaring at his smirking parole officer.
“You look much better, and not like a mountain hermit.”
Brent stood at the foot of the bed, surveying his prey.
“You will get a job and keep yourself and your house looking presentable, and this includes keeping your feet clean. I don’t care if you drink or smoke cigarettes, but you won’t be publicly intoxicated.
“The hell ya’ say, I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”
Brent sat down at Joey’s dingy, and grimy bare feet. “Whew, Joey, when did you last shower or at least wash your feet? This is just completely unacceptable.” He went to the bathroom and shortly returned with a bucket of hot, soapy water and a bristled scrub brush.
“You creep, get the hell away from me.” The helpless redneck squirmed like crazy and broke out into a sweat.
“I will not accept dirty or rank feet from a tickle slave.”
Joey’s ankles were untied from his wrists, then his feet were placed in the soapy water, and slowly the brush was lightly scrubbing all over his wiggling soles and toes. “Oh shit, not my dang feet, ya’ jackass. I’m too ticklish there.” He bounced up and down on the mattress and rocked back and forth as screaming laughter flowed from him.
Brent giggled as he slowly tickled his client’s feet and toes with the brush and his fingers.
“Do we have an agreement that you’ll report to me regularly, pass drug tests, get a job, and be my personal tickle toy while you’re on parole?.
“Ok, ok, I give you win. I’ll do everything.” Joey managed to say as he fell back on the bed, limp, exhausted, and soaked with sweat.
Joey got a job working on a neighbor’s ranch, and he discovered that it was perfect for him because he’d always loved horses, and he found that he was a natural at working with them. He and Brent grew closer, becoming honorary brothers, and often spent time together. The redhead even accidentally found a slightly ticklish spot in Brent’s lumbar region while giving him a massage after a long horseback ride on one of the ranch’s trails.
Brent Moran sat at the weathered and battered metal desk in his newly acquired office, sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup, and reviewing the files of various parolees he’d inherited from his predecessor, Davis Lockheart. It was his first day as the county’s parole officer, and he was a little intimidated by the overwhelming number of clients. The tall, muscular brunette really didn’t want to be a hard ass and hoped everyone would cooperate. He was thankful that most of the offenders were guilty of nonviolent crimes, so he wasn’t anticipating anything too dangerous thus far. However, despite his youthful appearance, boyish crooked smile, and bright, sparkly light green eyes, the 6’2”, 185 lbs, twenty-five-year-old could be pretty intimidating when he wanted and needed to be.
“Sherryl, hold my calls, I have to go do some home visits.”
The young PO was always nervous about home visits because he never knew how they would turn out. First up was Joey Vann. After getting into his tan 2024 Toyota Tacoma, he looked through the file. Vann served time for multiple DUIs, driving without a license, and selling weed.
About thirty minutes later, Brent reached his destination, and some anxiousness rose inside of him as he stopped for a moment and gazed at the seemingly abandoned dirt road that separated a thick forest of trees. After taking a deep breath, the young man turned right onto the one-lane country drive. Even though he was going slowly, he could hear the gravel crunch under the tires as his vehicle bounced in and out of the many potholes decorating the road.
While driving deeper into the trees, he noticed a number of slender driveways to the left and right, and finally, he reached his destination, which was a dilapidated two-story farmhouse and a shabby barn that had seen better days. Before exiting the Toyota, he checked himself in the rear view mirror, pulled the 9mm Glock and shoulder holster from the glove compartment, and glanced one more time at Joey’s file. He took note of Vann’s stats, the parolee was 22, 6’0”, and weighed 175 lbs.
Carefully, he climbed the five rickety steps that led up to the front door and knocked. It took a few minutes, but finally, the door opened. Brent had to stop himself from gasping, and slightly gulped at the vision of the older, pot-bellied, bare-chested, grizzly bear of a scraggly, disheveled man standing before him.
“What ya huntin’ fer, youngin’?”
The southern drawl and deep gravelly voice matched the redneck, hillbilly look proudly sported by the unknown character. He leaned forward, turned his head to the right, and spat out the chewing tobacco in his mouth, which landed with a sickening splat on the crickety porch. “Dang, missed the spit bucket,” he lazily stated just before his crusty lips smacked together as he scratched his blue jeans-covered ass.
Brent cleared his throat and composed himself. “Brent Moran, I’m here to meet Joey Vann. I’m his new PO.”
“The new PO’s here, Joey.”
The guy left the door open and walked off.
Brent stepped inside and looked around the unkempt living room. Beer and liquor bottles were
strewn all over the room. There were also various articles of clothing, including dingy underwear and crusty socks, which he guessed were responsible for part of the pungent aroma, and finally, in plain sight, on the sticky table in front of the sofa, was a bag of weed and a bong.
“Yer’ the new PO?”
The deep southern voice came from behind Brent. He turned to see an unshaven, barefoot, shirtless guy dressed in blue jeans that looked like Swiss cheese. A strong, musky odor wafted from his body, which displayed a chiseled set of six-pack abs, wild shoulder-length hair, and a farmer’s tan, and he was chewing on a piece of straw.
“Yes, I am. I’m Brent Moran, and I take it you’re Joey?”
“Since I’m standin’ here, in this house, I reckon’ so.”
Neither man made an attempt at shaking hands.
“Let’s get this over with,” Brent said in a no-nonsense firm tone. “Right off, I see multiple parole violations. However, I’m not a hard ass. If you work with me, I’ll work with you, and we can both be happy.”
“Really? What’cha noticin’?”
Brent couldn’t help the slight fidget when Joey inched closer.
“Drug paraphernalia, you have not had a drug test since your parole started, and you haven’t come to any follow-up appointments.”
“Oh yeah, me an’ the other boy had an understandin’. He didn’t come here or
make me go there an’ I didn’t do anythin’ to him.”
Brent was amazed at this guy’s brazen attitude.
“Well, Joey, I’m not like the last guy, and if you don’t comply with the guidelines
I will have no choice but to revoke your parole.”
“That’s what the other guy said the first time. It wasn’t long ‘fore he changed his mind. I reckon you’ll be needin’ a lesson too,” the detestable young man said. He chuckled and added, “It’ll be fun breakin’ a big ole’ stallion like you.”
“Are you threatening me? That’s it, your parole is officially revoked.”
While his visitor reached for his phone, Joey quickly put the taller man in a choke hold and tightened his grip, cutting off the air supply. He grunted and smiled as the guy struggled and tried to get free, but was unable to escape, and after a couple of minutes, the muscle-toned body crumbled to the grimy floor. The homeowner dragged his captive down to the basement, where he removed the brunette’s clothing, leaving him in just his green boxer briefs, pulled the unconscious man up and onto a sturdy wooden table, and restrained his wrists and ankles with rope that was tied to the table’s legs. Then, the redhead sat in a chair, gazed at his helpless victim with a devious smile, then packed his bong, and took a nice, long hit.
Brent came to with Joey’s mug staring at him.
“Yer’ awake, we can make that agreement,” Joey said, taking a sip of his beer.
“We certainly can, we can agree that you’re going to let me go, and are going
back to jail for this shit,” Brent replied as he struggled with his bonds.
“If’n ya think that’s gonna happen yer’ dead wrong, bud.”
Brent was starting to get a little nervous and was sweating, not knowing what was going to happen. He’d never been in a situation like this before.
Joey slowly walked around the table, letting the suspense build.
“I ain’t gonna hurt ya’ Brent, I find pain ain’t always best.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“I got my ways a’ makin’ fellas submit to my demands.”
Brent looked questioningly at his cocky captor.
“See, most guys think they’re invincible and can’t be controlled. It’s that way a’ thinkin’ makes ‘em forget about the most simple and childish weaknesses.”
“What’s that, no cookies and milk?” Brent sarcastically replied as he continued to struggle
with the rope holding him.
“The best way to make a man or boy squirm is ticklin’ ‘em,”
Ten, dirty, long nails wiggled and pressed into the warm flesh covering the rib cage. Much to the tickling country boy’s surprise, the only reaction was the captive smiling while jumping a little from side to side.
“I think you need to rethink your theory,” Brent said confidently.
Joey chuckled as he glared and cracked his knuckles.
“Playin’ tough, huh, well I ain’t scared of a challenge.”
The tickler dug all his fingers into the fleshy spot just above his prey’s hips. and then moved up into the deep pit hollows.
Unfazed by the tickle assault, Brent acted like this was just a relaxing massage. “Hey, can you massage my back? It’s been giving me a little trouble,” he asked with the biggest smile on his face. It did tickle him that his lack of response was unnerving his tickling captor.
“Ya think yer funny? Try this for a massage,” Joey growled. He kneaded the man’s inner thighs, like a baker kneads dough.
“Oh, fuck yeah. Dude, I bet you had a lot of massage requests from the guys in the slammer.”
Brent chuckled because his client was becoming increasingly frustrated.
“I will break yer’ fuckin’ ass. I ain’t near done yet.”
With a bear-like growl, the redneck raked his nails rapidly over the soft, bare soles.
“Heh, I Gotta say, you’re awesome for doing this, man. My feet were starting to itch a little. Scratch down towards the heel.”
Brent was having a blast and totally getting into playing with Joey’s mind.
“Just wait, I’m gettin’ my secret weapon an’ then I’ll make ya squeal like a stuck pig,” Joey stated just before running upstairs.
Brent noticed the rope snagging on the table and pulled at it until he was free. He quickly rubbed his wrists and ankles, then grabbed his gun and waited in the shadows.
The homeowner came back down carrying a wide wooden brush and gasped when he didn’t see his captive.
Brent emerged and touched the barrel of his Glock to the back of the slightly younger man’s head.
“Alright, Joseph, you’ve had your fun, now we’re gonna have a nice, long discussion, all about the way things are gonna change for you. Get your hands behind your head, and slowly walk upstairs.”
Joey gulped and complied.
Brent kept his weapon trained on the trembling man as he told the former captor to head for his bedroom.
“How’d ya get free, and how’d ya resist the ticklin’?” Joey asked as he was forced onto the bed and hogtied.
“I know all about your ticklish hold on Davis. I’m not ticklish, and even though I love the way it feels, it doesn’t make me laugh, and that’s why they gave me Lockheart’s cases.”
“Damn, yer’ the first guy who didn’t break from the ticklin’,” Joey said as he tried to get free.
“Another thing about me is, I love to tickle, so I’m gonna have fun while you and I come to an understanding. First, you’re going to get your life together.”
“Like hell you can’t make me…”
“You sure about that, country boy?”
Without warning, Brent’s nimble wiggling fingers found a temporary home in the helpless guy’s deep, hairy, sweaty pit hollows, and instantly, the bedroom filled with boisterous, shrieking laughter. “You are one very ticklish guy,” he stated while chuckling. “You will not interrupt me, and let’s get rid of this hair.”
“Fuck you! I ain’t cuttin’ my hair.”
“Who said anything about you having anything to do with it?”
Joey squirmed and struggled while his former captive was gone. When the muscular guy returned with a pair of scissors, his eyes widened, and his attempts at breaking free were vigorously renewed, and despite his best effort to dodge the attempted grasp, Brent grabbed his hair. A puppy-like yelp came from his mouth as his head tipped back, exposing his throat and Adam’s apple, and the locks were pulled into a taut ponytail. He closed his eyes, and in what seemed like the blink of an eye, his shoulder-length hair now reached the nape of his neck, and the rest lay in a pile on the floor.
“Ya’ll are crazier than a chicken with its head cut off, ya fuckin’ bastard.”
“That’s better. While we’re at it, let’s shave off this hideous beard and mustache.”
“No way! Ya’ ain’t gonna…”
Brent cut off the hysterical rant by wiggling his fingers between the slightly visible ribs, and loved hearing another hysterical fit of uncontrolled laughter. “I’m sorry, what was that, Joey?” he asked, putting his hand to his ear.
It wasn’t long before there was a baby-faced, clean-shaven country boy glaring at his smirking parole officer.
“You look much better, and not like a mountain hermit.”
Brent stood at the foot of the bed, surveying his prey.
“You will get a job and keep yourself and your house looking presentable, and this includes keeping your feet clean. I don’t care if you drink or smoke cigarettes, but you won’t be publicly intoxicated.
“The hell ya’ say, I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”
Brent sat down at Joey’s dingy, and grimy bare feet. “Whew, Joey, when did you last shower or at least wash your feet? This is just completely unacceptable.” He went to the bathroom and shortly returned with a bucket of hot, soapy water and a bristled scrub brush.
“You creep, get the hell away from me.” The helpless redneck squirmed like crazy and broke out into a sweat.
“I will not accept dirty or rank feet from a tickle slave.”
Joey’s ankles were untied from his wrists, then his feet were placed in the soapy water, and slowly the brush was lightly scrubbing all over his wiggling soles and toes. “Oh shit, not my dang feet, ya’ jackass. I’m too ticklish there.” He bounced up and down on the mattress and rocked back and forth as screaming laughter flowed from him.
Brent giggled as he slowly tickled his client’s feet and toes with the brush and his fingers.
“Do we have an agreement that you’ll report to me regularly, pass drug tests, get a job, and be my personal tickle toy while you’re on parole?.
“Ok, ok, I give you win. I’ll do everything.” Joey managed to say as he fell back on the bed, limp, exhausted, and soaked with sweat.
Joey got a job working on a neighbor’s ranch, and he discovered that it was perfect for him because he’d always loved horses, and he found that he was a natural at working with them. He and Brent grew closer, becoming honorary brothers, and often spent time together. The redhead even accidentally found a slightly ticklish spot in Brent’s lumbar region while giving him a massage after a long horseback ride on one of the ranch’s trails.
