The Thorne estate was remote, its vast acreage far removed from town. None of the family was left now except old Mrs. Thorne, attended by nurses who were constantly coming and going from the main house; and there was no one else living on the estate anymore—no one but Brian and Powell.

Brian worked in the greenhouse, maintaining the orchids. It had been old man Thorne’s wish that, upon his death, the exotic plants would be cared for in perpetuity. So Brian had a guaranteed job for life, and free lodgings in what was once the gardener’s cottage. In a way it was a strange prospect for a young man, that he might be living and working in this remote spot for—what, the next forty years? On the surface of it, it didn’t seem like much. But the cottage more than suited his needs; his trips to town kept him in books and music, and he had even turned one of the cottage rooms into a weight room with the latest bodybuilding equipment. As comfortable as he was, he had no need to think about moving on.

And then there was Powell.

Powell—first name? Last name? Brian didn’t even know—was also a young man who had only been employed on the estate for a few years, beginning as a chauffeur. But those few short years had brought a lot of change, beginning with the death of old Mr. Thorne and the declining health of his widow—to the extent that a chauffeur was hardly needed anymore. So as the older staff moved on or retired, Powell took on more and more responsibility, even handling all of the estate’s financial matters.

And Powell was, as far as Brian was concerned, a King. A Nubian King.

Sometimes Brian would look at Powell from afar—their daily lives didn’t intersect very much, they even ate their meals at different times—and realize that he had been standing and staring with his mouth open. Where did he come from, this man with the noble bearing and beautiful dark skin? Oh, Brian had been looking at men for a long time, as long as he could remember; but he’d never seen a man who moved like that…his graceful assertiveness was poetry for the eyes. There was Powell, in the black outfit from his chauffeur days, striding down the great lawn to talk to the yard workers who came out from town twice a month. Some of these guys were sexy, yes, and weren’t shy about taking their shirts off as they worked. But they were nothing compared to Powell.

On one of the occasions when Brian and Powell found themselves in the main house at the same time, Brian had struck up a conversation, none-too-subtly mentioning the fact that the orchid got its name from a Greek word meaning “testes,” because of the way the bulbs looked. “If you come down to the greenhouse sometime, you can see mine,” he said. “My plants, I mean!” Even as he felt his face turning red he kept his eyes on Powell, who seemed to give him a fleeting look—a meaningful one. God, Brian thought, what am I doing? Another time Brian, crossing the grounds on his way to the greenhouse, spotted Powell outside the garage that housed Mrs. Thorne’s Mercedes. The car was of no use to her anymore, but Powell kept it in good condition. Today he was washing the car in the driveway…and he was…naked.

No, not quite. He wore black swim trunks, not a Speedo but close to it. Well, why not, it was a hot day, the hottest day of summer so far. Ducking behind a tree, Brian found he could get a good view of the young man without, hopefully, being seen. Except for his swim trunks and sunglasses, Powell was naked, and he’d perspired enough that his muscular frame gleamed in the sun.

If only I could see the soles of his feet! Brian thought. Then I could die happy.

He watched Powell all through the washing, rinsing, and waxing of the car. In an almost unbearable state of arousal, Brian brushed his hand against his crotch and realized that he had come in his shorts, without knowing just when.

His chore done, Powell walked away, and Brian could swear that the barely-glimpsed soles of his feet were winking at him.

One night not long after that, Brian, who had his own car, drove to the nearest gay bar, thirty miles away. It was the kind of place—pool table, dance floor the size of a hand towel—that always seemed larger in memory than it did in reality. But it attracted guys from many miles around, including some just passing through; so Brian usually saw at least a few new faces, all the more so since he rarely dropped by. He was used to the looks he got as soon as he entered—hey, check it out, this guy is hot—and he absorbed them without, he hoped, seeming arrogant as he made his way to the bar while avoiding making eye contact with anyone. He needed at least one beer to overcome his shyness.

He’d barely taken a sip when a guy appeared at his elbow, ordering a beer but also cutting his eyes toward Brian, desperate to put the moves on him. After about thirty seconds Brian returned the look, enough to get the picture. Not a bad looking guy—shorter than Brian, shaved head, dark coating of stubble on his face, slim but well built. Brown eyes that were lively, mischievous. His name was Scott, and during some small talk Brian found out what he needed to know, taking a light, playful poke at Scott’s ribs. Scott jumped.

“Ticklish?” Brian asked. Just saying the word “ticklish” brought a flush to his face, and his dick stiffened a bit.

“Very ticklish,” Scott said, almost proudly, as if it showed just how much fun he could be.

He has no idea, Brian thought.

Even the headlights of Scott’s jeep seemed eager, bouncing in Brian’s rear view mirror as they followed the rough country roads back to the estate. When they pulled into the cottage drive, Scott was the first one out of his car. “Wow,” he said, “you were right, this place really is isolated.”

“Lots of privacy,” Brian said, fitting his key in the lock.

“Great!”

As soon as he was inside, Scott stripped off his t-shirt. Oh, very nice build. Hairy chest, and a treasure trail leading from his navel to the waist of his jeans, which didn’t stay on for very long. Nor did Brian take long to get to the matter at hand; he couldn’t, he was too excited. This was the first time in a while, and he wasn’t going to wait to get to it. As they kissed, greedy with their tongues, Brian let his fingers take nips here and there, at Scott’s rib cage, his sides, up into his armpits. Scott gasped and wriggled, pulled his mouth away from Brian’s long enough to say, “I told you I was ticklish.”

That was the last thing Scott would say for a while, because Brian wasn’t about to stop. His hands moved swiftly, attacking Scott’s sides, belly, ribs and armpits. Scott tried to defend himself, but he was always one step behind Brian’s probing, poking, squeezing fingers. It was easy to steer Scott into the bedroom, where the ticklish young man, nearly hysterical, collapsed onto the bed. Brian was right on top of him. Having mapped Scott’s most tender spots—lower ribs, armpits, sides—he kept at them, his ticklish victim’s high-pitched laughter and squeals of protest egging him on. Straddling his hips, Brian admired the view: Scott’s hairy, helpless torso, big hard dick riding up on his belly…. Scott was still struggling too much for the tickling to be most effective, but Brian knew the cure for that: more tickling. “Oh yeah,” he said, though there was no way Scott could hear him over his hysterical squealing. “I’m gonna keep tickling you, stud, so get used to it. The more you struggle, the sooner you’ll be too exhausted to fight me off…then we’ll really have some fun. You haven’t felt anything yet!”

Scott’s eyes rolled in panic, his fingers clawed helplessly at the air as Brian kept him pinned down. Ribs, armpits, sides…back and forth, back and forth. Plus there were two sweet spots just above his hips…when Brian squeezed there, Scott’s laughter turned to desperate, hoarse panting. His struggling body weakened, he sagged back onto the mattress as the tension left him…even as that was happening, Brian knew, Scott was terrified that his body was succumbing to this torture, and soon wouldn’t be able to struggle at all. “That’s just what I’m waiting for, baby,” Brian said. “Waiting till you’re weak and helpless and can’t move at all.”

When the time came, Brian left Scott lying there, the poor man’s chest heaving, limbs too weak to move on the sweat-soaked sheet. In his dresser Brian found several lengths of soft cloth—they were actually made from old bathrobe belts—and began to tie Scott’s wrists and ankles to the bedposts as the young man stared with anguish and fear in his eyes. When he felt the cloth being fastened around his ankle, he actually managed to struggle a bit.

“What’s that, baby?” Brian asked. “Are you telling me your feet are ticklish?”

More struggling, though it was so ineffective that it was embarrassing—and wonderful—to watch. Brian finished tying off the young man’s wrists and ankles. Scott was squirming, pulling on his bonds, finding that he was indeed trapped and helpless. His cock was harder than ever. He tried to speak, but could barely do more than whisper. Brian obligingly brought his ear close to Scott’s lips.

“Please…please let me go.”

Brian stood up, patted Scott’s shaved head. “I like that, hearing you beg. You’ll be doing a lot more begging before I’m through, I promise you that.”

Over the next hour or so Brian devoted himself to finding out just how ticklish Scott’s shapely, size-10 feet were. Their responsiveness was never less than amazing. After bringing Scott to a series of hoarse, nearly silent screams, Brian said, “Oh shit, this is too good, I have to bring everything out now.” Returning to his dresser, he found the cloth bag in which he’d collected things over time. Feathers, some soft, some stiff. A hairbrush with long, mean-looking bristles. An old toothbrush, a plastic fork…. He showed each of these things to Scott, telling him that they would be used on his feet, even though it might take several hours to go through them all. Scott looked like he could faint, or wanted to.

“Don’t worry,” Brian said, “I won’t hurt you. I’m just going to tickle you, that’s all. Here, let me get you some water.”

After Scott had his drink he was able to speak a bit. “Please…don’t t-tickle me anymore….”

“Oh, you poor baby,” Brian said. “Do you know how it makes my dick ache to hear you say that?”

Brian was good to his word, using every tool in his kit on poor Scott’s feet. By the time a couple of hours had passed, Scott was in another world entirely. In this world there was nothing but tickle torture, and whenever it seemed as bad as it could get, there was another level to break through. It was a world of unthinkable torment, outrageous suffering, where a minute could seem like an hour; in that hour he could be tickled to death a thousand times, only to keep reviving to a world of blinding agony. His voice long since destroyed by screaming; all he could do was pant as his torturer found fresh delights in his sexy, helpless skin. Brian was using feathers now, for Scott had been sensitized to the nth degree, and the merest touch of a frond turned his face into a mask of pleading: Oh for God’s sake, kill me, kill me now...just don’t tickle me anymore!

Brian came many times during the night, often without touching himself. The feel of Scott’s ribs under his fingertips, or the sight of his soft soles with the bristles of a brush pressed against them, was enough to give him a spontaneous orgasm. He made sure that Scott had several mind-blowing climaxes also. A lot of the cum landed on his body, which made things more interesting. The hot, sticky cream needed to be removed if it was covering a ticklish spot, and Brian’s technique with tongue or washcloth was its own kind of torture. It was heaven to watch Scott’s panicked expression and listen to his whispered screams as Brian reamed out his navel with rough terrycloth. “That’s right, baby,” he said. “Your ticklish nerve-ends are mine, all mine.”

Sometime toward morning, Brian woke to find himself lying with his toes jammed into Scott’s armpits, his fingers stroking Scott’s feet. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that he had been tickling Scott while he dozed. Maybe he had! Scott was certainly out of it. Oh, Jesus, Brian thought, there’s nothing more fun than a super-ticklish guy who’s been tickled all night! He stepped up his lazy stroking of those soles until Scott began to squirm again. Yeah, this was it, there was nothing better: the totally delirious victim with his wagging tongue and sloppy, involuntary grins…. Scott looked at Brian with eyes that didn’t seem to be able to focus, and when he tried to speak, all that came out was gibberish.

“I’m enjoying this too much,” Brian said. “I’m gonna have to tickle you for a couple more hours, at least.” Crawling toward the head of the bed, he sank into his victim, caressing his abs, tickling the piss out of him. Luxuriating in the madness of it, in the smell of beer-piss, panic sweat, and cum.

At last, sometime after sunrise, Brian untied the restraints. Scott didn’t move. Bringing him a glass of water didn’t help much, he only stared at the glass, was too weak to hold it. “I’ve just about tickled you to death, haven’t I?” Brian asked. He sat on the bed for a while as Scott gradually came back to life, such as it was: exhausted, overstimulated, his flesh mottled as if he were blushing all over. It took him several tries before he could move his legs over the side of the bed and sit up. He sat there for a while, now and then raising a fingertip to touch himself here and there—testing a rib or much-abused armpit, letting go a soft hysterical giggle.

“Try to stand up,” Brian said.

Scott looked at Brian as if he were seeing him for the first time. He had been so immersed in a world of sensation that the real world was registering very slowly; he seemed to be just realizing that he wasn’t tied down anymore. He rubbed one wrist, then the other. Looked down at his poor roughed-up feet on the carpet. Surely he remembered, amid all the unbearable tickling, how his cock had burst like a firecracker time after time? When he regarded his torturer now, it was with a mixed expression of fear and desire. But fear won out. Moving stiffly, he fumbled for his jeans and managed to get them on. He grabbed his shirt in one hand, his sneakers and socks in the other, and walked a drunkard’s path to the door.

“Wait,” Brian said. “Put your sneakers on first…Scott, put your sneakers on!”

Too late. Once he was moving, Scott wasn’t about to stop, even if he did have to walk barefoot across the gravel drive to his car. The gravel bit his tenderized soles, making him yelp each step of the way. When he finally made it to his jeep he took off in an arc that sprayed a good bit of that gravel onto the lawn. Brian watched the jeep’s panicked, erratic spin down the drive, thinking: I know he’ll talk. And probably nobody at the bar will even look at me again. Maybe it’s a good thing, maybe anything that gives me this much pleasure is bad….

But he couldn’t believe that for long. Brian had a computer on his narrow bedroom desk, and a high-speed Internet connection that he paid for himself. Some nights he sat up way too late, looking at pictures and video clips of men bound and tickled. Another curse, this constant barrage of unspeakably erotic images, but they brought him to explosive orgasms as he jacked off with one hand and tickled his balls with the other. Each explosion seemed to engage all the nerve and muscle he had, and he’d sit there afterwards, feeling totally drained, his vision blurred. Jesus, did everybody have orgasms like this?

Not far from the greenhouse, at the west end of the Thorne mansion, was a screened porch where Brian often ate his lunch. It was comfortable there, cool and quiet. He never saw a soul as he sat there facing the side lawn and the path that led to his cottage. One day, when he had finished his sandwich and thermos of iced tea, he sat back in his soft vinyl chair, put his feet up on the ottoman, and closed his eyes, telling himself he was only going to rest them for a minute.

He must have dozed off, for when a noise came from the doorway he sat up in a panic, not knowing at first where he was. Blinking, he thought he saw Powell in the doorway. He shook his head and looked again. It was Powell, just standing there, holding a plate covered with a napkin.

“Mind if I come in?” he asked.

For a moment Brian could only stare. It had been so long since he’d heard Powell speak, or even seen him this close. The young man was dressed plainly, in khaki shorts like Brian’s and a light blue t-shirt, flip-flops on his large feet. Once he glimpsed those feet, Brian found it almost impossible to take his eyes from them. “Oh,” he said, collecting himself with great effort, “no, I don’t mind. Please come in.”

Powell sat in an arm chair across from Brian’s. He pulled the napkin from his plate and there was a sandwich, lettuce and tomato peeking out between thick crusts. Powell picked the whole thing up in one hand and took a bite, looking frankly at Brian as he chewed.

Brian was at a loss. Having finished his lunch, he had nothing to do with his hands, which started to tremble whenever he dared glance at Powell’s feet in their flip-flops. The dark brown skin lightened between the toes and down toward the soles, as if nature had found a way to highlight the most ticklish spots. Blushing, Brian looked up to catch Powell surreptitiously licking a spot of mayo from his thumb. That poking of tongue between those shapely lips—holy fuck! He should get up and run, but all he could do was sit helplessly as Powell, his tone so smooth and relaxed, asked if everything was all right down at the cottage.

“Wh-what?” Brian asked, sounding like an idiot to himself.

“I was asking you if everything was all right down at the cottage. I saw a light down there, quite late, a few nights ago.”

Brian tried to speak, but all that came out was a panicked, strangling sound. He cleared his throat and said, “I didn’t know you could see that far from here.”

Powell fingertip grazed the screen. “Look, you can see right down there. At night you can tell if the outside light is on.”

“I…definitely didn’t know that.” And Brian wondered, with a sinking feeling he would not soon forget, if it was possible to hear anything from the cottage as well.

It was as if Powell had read his mind: “I heard something from down there, too….”

Oh shit, Brian thought. How do I explain that I was tickling a guy to death?

“It was the next morning,” Powell said. “Sounded like a car taking off, but fast.”

If Brian was nervous before, now he was ready to faint. “Did you hear…anything else?”

“Nope. Not a sound.”

Powell’s eyes were frank, innocent. Okay, so he wasn’t “playing” with Brian. Still he didn’t dare look into those eyes for too long, for even in their innocence they were deep enough to draw him into secret imagined places that sent chills up and down his spine. He mumbled something about having to get back to work, and hurried toward the refuge of the greenhouse.

Powell got into the habit of appearing on the porch at lunchtime. Brian didn’t know what to make of it, any more than he knew what to make of some of the looks he caught Powell giving him. There the two of them were, sitting over their sandwiches, Brian making a comment about one of the yard workers, what a good job he was doing on the lawn…and when he looked up, Powell was smiling with one eyebrow raised, as if Brian were really talking about…something else. Then the talk turned to other estate matters, and Brian realized what a task Powell had taken on, practically running the place all by himself.

“Let me know,” Brian said, “if there’s anything I can help you with.”

Was that a smile playing at Powell’s lips again? And what was there to smile about?

Everything came to a head when, over the course of two days, Brian was subjected to two sights that just about drove him over the edge.

The yard crew was mowing the lower part of the estate—Brian could hear a mower approach the cottage late one afternoon, when he had just got back from the greenhouse. He was surprised to hear the engine cut off not far from his door. Then the doorbell rang.

It was a young man he had noticed before—a good worker, very conscientious in trimming around the trees and hedges. And he was also—how could Brian fail to notice?—extremely attractive, all the more so when he was standing right there on the cottage stoop, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his wrist. It was one of the hottest days they’d had yet, so he was working without a shirt. And, Brian quickly noticed, he was barefoot too.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, “I was wondering if I could get some water.”

“Of course. Come in.” Brian stepped aside. “Please, help yourself.” The young man stood at the sink drinking his tumbler of water while Brian watched. Oh, how he watched this well-built, half-naked man in low-riding khaki shorts, his big bare feet at right angles to each other on the linoleum. After emptying his glass he filled it again, giving Brian more time to look. That narrow waist leading so gracefully to a slim but powerful-looking chest, that wink of armpit as he raised the glass higher…and those feet.

Brian’s fingers twitched.

“Thanks,” the man said, setting the glass carefully in the sink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “What’s your name?”

“B-Brian.” He nearly ran to the door to open it. “Look, I don’t mean to rush you, but I was in the middle of something….”

“Oh. Sure.” The young man took his leave, flashing a particularly sweet smile at Brian as he passed.

Brian closed the door and let himself sink down against it till his butt hit the floor. He had to do something—something, that is, beyond his immediate goal of beating off while he pictured that young man, the way he had looked standing at the sink. But what, what could he do?

Then there was Powell, the very next day—Powell on the screened porch at lunchtime, finishing his sandwich, swiping at his mouth with a napkin, and extending his foot to drag a footstool close to his chair. Brian was always conscious of those feet—size 12, at least—and how they looked in the flip-flops that Powell often wore. And now he was seeing them, for the first time, without those flip-flops, as Powell slid them off and raised his naked feet to the footstool. The soles of those luscious, dark brown feet were a light brown, almost pink, and Brian couldn’t take his eyes off them. He could do so many things to them, and never get tired….

Suddenly he was aware that Powell was saying something…something important. “I’m sorry,” Brian asked, “what were you saying?”

“I was saying that my schedule’s going to change. I’m going away.”

Away? “Oh, no….”

Powell smiled his crooked, slightly insinuating smile. “Don’t worry, it’s only for a long weekend. This coming weekend, in fact.”

Brian tried to regain his composure. It wasn’t easy, with those feet staring at him. “Well, uh…then you have to come over. For a drink?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Brian felt his face turning red. Was Powell offended? “I just mean, before you leave. Friday night. Come down to the cottage for a glass of wine, why don’t you?” He couldn’t believe he was saying this. He almost giggled, it sounded so unlike him.

Powell thought for a moment. “Well, I do need to tell you about a couple of things that might need handling while I’m gone. Nothing major, but still.”

“Then it’s settled! Eight o’clock?”

At the appointed time Brian had the wine bottle on ice, the two wine glasses that had been gathering dust at the back of his cupboard were washed and ready. He paced the length of the cottage, weight room to living room to bedroom and back, glancing at his watch every few seconds. Five minutes past eight. Now almost ten. He could have opened his front door and stood on the stoop to wait, but didn’t want to seem too anxious. Just when he thought he might have to turn on the TV to distract himself, or else lose his mind, the knock came at the door.

“Hello.” Powell breezed in with his hands in the pockets of his navy blue shorts. His sweatshirt was half unzipped, revealing sculpted pecs. On his feet he wore silver cross trainers with no-show socks—the kind that showed just enough to reveal that they were no-shows. It made no sense, but it was sexy as hell.

“Well, hi,” Brian said. He poured wine for the two of them, though he didn’t know how he could drink any, he felt lightheaded already. “You’re not leaving tonight, are you? I wouldn’t want you to be drinking and driving.”

“No, not until tomorrow.”

“Good. Looks like it’s going to storm soon, too.”

“I hope so. We need the…relief.”

Brian hoped his hand wasn’t shaking too much as he took a large sip of wine. “Your family will be happy to see you.”

“Oh, I don’t have family anymore, really. I’m just going back to the old place to look around. So I can take my time, there’s no one expecting me.”

“No one’s expecting you….” Brian was definitely lightheaded. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t give you your glass…oops!” Wine splashed onto Powell’s sweatshirt. “Oh, I’m so sorry! At least it’s not red wine. But here, let me help you.” Before Powell could move Brian was unzipping his shirt. “Why don’t you slip this off so we can let it dry.” Scarcely believing he’d had the balls to pull it off, Brian draped the shirt over the back of a kitchen chair, then turned to confront the most beautiful male torso he’d ever seen. It wasn’t a matter of working out like a maniac; you had to be born with a body like that. And smooth…did Powell shave his chest and abs? “Please, sit down,” Brian said, his voice husky with desire, warning him that he needed to be cool or he would drive this breathtaking man away. He cleared his throat several times before saying, “I’ll pour you another glass.”

“Sure.” Powell wasn’t shy about making himself at home, leaning back in the large recliner till the footrest popped up. Brian looked forward to getting a better view of his feet, even if they were encased in cross trainers; but Powell surprised him by bending his knees to get at the laces of first one shoe, then the other. Using only his feet, he pried them off, letting them fall to the floor. Then he peeled off the white no-show socks.

Brian had to set down his glass, his hand was shaking too much. There were the feet, propped up right in front of him, almost within reach. The pale, almost pink soles were immaculate, with no trace of callus. They were lovingly tended to, the skin kept soft, smooth… “That recliner goes back another notch,” Brian said, no longer worrying about the huskiness of his voice. Powell wasn’t worried either, he moved the recliner’s lever once more and leaned back into a near-horizontal position. Now Brian had a better view, not only of those gorgeous feet but of Powell’s whole package—his inner thighs, the generous mound of his crotch, those abs, the ribcage expanding above them like a vast, tender structure begging for assault. If only he would raise his arms so that Brian could see his armpits.

And just like that, Powell raised his arms, lacing his fingers together behind his head, the picture of relaxation…and vulnerability. How Brian loved the sight of those armpits, recesses just made for fingers and tongue! He loved the tightly coiled hair in those pits, too, but if he had his way he would shave it off, making that tender skin all the more susceptible to prolonged stroking and poking. Was Powell ticklish? Oh, he had to be! It would be too much of a waste if this body, made for sensual delight, were insensitive in any way. The man was made to be played with.

The silence between them lasted for a minute or so. Powell carefully reached for the wine glass on the table beside the chair, and just as carefully brought it to his lips. Drinking in his nearly horizontal position was difficult, and a few drops of wine spilled from the corner of his mouth. Instinctively he sought them with his tongue, and it was the sight of that tongue, and those wet, parted lips, that drove Brian over the edge—drove him right out of his chair and onto the recliner in one desperate leap.

The chair was sturdy enough to bear both of them, and roomy enough for Brian to straddle his victim without crowding. He went for the ribs first, learning in a fraction of a second the answer to the question he’d spent so many hours pondering: yes, Powell was ticklish, extremely so—oh, dyingly so! At the first touch of his ribs he shouted, bringing his arms down so fast that his elbow clipped Brian in the nose. Unfazed, Brian moved to those abs that were just begging to be prodded. Powell wasn’t about to stay still for any of this, he began flailing, knees and elbows pumping, hands pushing against any part of Brian he could reach.

Brian had known all along that, if Powell proved to be as ticklish as Brian dreamed he’d be, there would be a fight, a prolonged one. He’d get beaten, scratched, bitten and bruised. But the fight was worth whatever it took to bring this man down; any pain that he felt would make it that much sweeter when his powerful opponent finally fell! Summoning all of his own muscle power, Brian moved in, dodging punches and kicks and the more purposeless, panicky flailing of arms and legs; keeping his eyes on that tender ticklish midsection. Finally he managed to pin Powell’s right arm with his knee, and pin Powell’s left arm over his head. Thus Powell’s naked left side was exposed, and Brian took full advantage, his free hand darting from Powell’s waist to his side to his ribs to his armpit…. Powell was so devastated that he lost all self-control, dissolving into helpless, full-throated laughter that was the most beautiful sound Brian had ever heard. Holding Powell’s arm at bay was like trying to keep a bear trap open, but Brian kept tickling, never tiring of grabbing at this meaty, responsive flesh. His persistence paid off as Powell’s great shivering strength began to bleed away. He was just too ticklish to fully resist, especially with his own howling laughter weakening him too. “That’s it,” Brian said. “Give in, baby, let it happen, ‘cause it’s going to happen anyway.” As Powell turned his head to the side and howled, Brian brought his mouth close to his ear and said, “I’m gonna tickle you for a long, long time!”

It couldn’t last forever, though, with them both on the recliner. As much as it held up under their combined weight, it couldn’t stay balanced with so much of that weight pressing against its back, and finally tipped over. Powell did a near-somersault, his feet flying, while Brian managed to land on his hands and knees. The chair was probably broken, the table smashed, and the wine glass had spiraled its contents all over the carpet. But Brian didn’t give a fuck, because one of Powell’s feet was right there, in front of his face; and before Powell could even try to collect himself Brian was on it, clutching that naked foot close, finding that silken sole to be as addictive as it looked. He wanted to tickle it forever, thoroughly, maddeningly, teaching his fingers and nails and tongue to move in strange new ways… As he made that foot his, Powell lay flat on his back and howled, unable to even try to sit up. Brian’s hard-on pressed painfully against the carpet, and that was all right because he knew he was going to come, and come and come…. Powell would, too. One look back gave Brian a good view of the tentpole rising in Powell’s shorts.

Time got away from Brian, as it tended to do when he was tickling. When his fingers began to cramp from attacking the foot, he let his mouth take over, licking, sucking and nibbling every inch of it, deliriously wedging his tongue-tip between the toes. Sweat poured down his face, dripped from his nose. Powell had all but stopped struggling, his laughter grown hoarse. Good, good! He was almost ready for the bed.

Brian got to his knees and reached for Powell’s other foot. He pinned his victim’s ankles between his knees, which gave him both soles to work on at once. If one of those soles was heaven, then the sight, smell and feel of both of them together nearly made Brian faint. His determination and sex drive got his fingers going again like mad objects crisscrossing that flesh, as Powell’s roars grew almost pathetic, hoarse and straining. He’d reached that wonderful stage where it took all of his energy to try to draw enough breath to keep his insane laughter going: if Brian was a tickling machine then Powell was a tickled machine, unable to do anything but express his ticklishness and then, finally, surrender totally to it….

That time was coming. Exhausted and trembling, Brian released Powell’s feet only when his knees began to ache from his crouched position. Turning, he saw the nearly naked length of Powell sprawled, delirious, on the carpet: a vision too lush, too sensual, too fucking hot to be true. But if this was a dream, then he was going to live out every precious second of it. He crawled toward Powell’s upper body and, lying on his side, pressed his fingertips into Powell’s armpits and let them play. Powell responded with a grin of pure agony, and laughter so shrill, so hysterical, that Brian felt a mighty heaving in his midsection, his cock pulsing in his shorts, shooting out cum.

When he recovered, he brought his voice close to Powell’s ear. “Can you hear me?”

Powell’s crazy grin kept coming and going. He was panting like a dog now, and seemed unaware that, for the moment anyway, he wasn’t being tickled. “Listen to me,” Brian said. “Are you listening? Listen, or I’ll tickle you to death right now!”

Powell’s eyes opened wide. He seemed unsure of where to look, as if Brian’s voice could be entering his confused mind from anywhere. When he turned his head and found Brian’s face right there, his eyes opened even wider and he began trembling. “Don’t worry,” Brian said, wishing he hadn’t made that tickle-to-death remark: Powell was in too fragile a state for that. It was too much to believe, that the once strong and all-capable Powell, who managed the estate practically all by himself—the Powell who had brazenly displayed his body while washing the car, who had propped his bare feet so confidently in Brian’s face—was now reduced to a panic-stricken mass of lethally ticklish flesh. “Don’t worry,” Brian said again. “You’ll be all right as long as you do exactly what I say. Do you understand?” Powell nodded, but his eyelids drooped as if he might succumb to exhaustion now that his tickling torment had ceased. “We need to go into the bedroom,” Brian said. “You’re too heavy for me to carry, you have to get there under your own steam. It’s not that far, so start crawling.”

Powell just looked at him, an overwhelming question in his eyes: Are you gonna tickle me to death?

“I said, start crawling.” Brian returned to those ribs he now knew so well. There were two spots, one on either side of the ribcage, that could make Powell do anything. He’d fucking fly to keep those spots from being touched. All he had to do now, though, was crawl, and so he managed, under the threat of rib-torture, to haul himself up onto his hands and knees. “That’s good, now get moving,” Brian said. Powell stayed stuck in position. “Or else,” Brian added, considering that the tickle-to-death threat had been necessary after all. With an agonized grunt Powell began to move forward. They made an enjoyably strange procession, one man on his hands and knees, the other beside him on his knees, his fingers floating just above the other’s ribs. Then the sight of Powell’s rump in the air was too tempting for Brian to resist; he slid his hand under the waistband of Powell’s shorts—not an easy feat, since those shorts were tightly stretched as they were by the big man’s boner—and let his finger play with Powell’s ass-crack. Powell halted, arched his back—in terror or pleasure? “Has a man ever touched you there before?” Brian whispered. “Tell me you like it, please tell me you like it.” Powell lifted his rear, making it easier for Brian to find his asshole. Brian’s finger slid deep. He lowered his head to kiss Powell’s spine.

“We’ve got a lot more to do,” he said.

Powell was flat on his back in Brian’s bed, his mouth open, staring at the ceiling. Using his soft ropes, Brian had fastened his victim’s wrists and ankles to the bedposts—but only after removing his shorts and micro briefs—and now stood and stared, his mouth watering. “You’ve got the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen.” That fully erect staff strained halfway up Powell’s belly toward his chest. A hard rain spattered the window, reminding him of Powell’s earlier remark about relief. “You’ll get your relief, and soon,” Brian promised. “But first…you guessed it….” Naked, Brian crawled onto the bed. He would have to get to those feet soon, but now there was this glorious midsection, made more accessible now with the shorts gone. He tested the slick, smooth area under Powell’s navel. “You shave here, don’t you?” Reaching for his handy bottle of oil, Brian anointed his fingers and let them play all over that groin, not forgetting to tease and torment his navel also. Powell, unable to talk, could still release that weak, shrill, hysterical giggling that was like an aphrodisiac. Brian closed his eyes, reveling in it, moving his hands up to Powell’s sides, then toward his ribs, then back down again, to his powerful but ultra-ticklish thighs. When it was time to pay attention to that gorgeous dick and heavy hanging balls, Brian oiled up both his hands and went to it. Powell, reduced to panting again, tossed his head wildly on the pillow. The tension gathering in his loins gained force, until at last he shot great streams of cum that nearly hit the ceiling. Brian’s arm, face, chest, and shoulders were soaked, as were Powell’s belly and chest. Using a hand towel, Brian mopped up as best he could. “That was quite a load, my friend. But I don’t know if you’re aware of this: ticklish guys tend to be even more ticklish after they shoot.”

Powell’s head was thrown back, his eyes closed. Had he passed out? That was doubtful; probably he just hadn’t recovered yet from what might have been the most powerful orgasm of his life. Brian settled down at the end of the bed, next to an enormous, ticklish right foot. “I have to get out my tool kit,” he said, “very soon.” He was considering getting it now when the noise of the storm distracted him. Rain was striking the window with disturbing force. “What…?” Brian rose and approached the window. Was it his imagination, or did something bounce off the sill?

Hail. It was hail.

The greenhouse.

A wave of panic washed over him, even as he told himself not to worry. The greenhouse was old, with glass panes that weren’t as hail-resistant as the newer plastics; but it would take tennis-ball-sized hail to inflict any damage, and nothing like that was happening here. Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off the windowsill. What if the hail got larger? And…face it, even the word hail was enough to jangle his nerves when he thought of the plants. “I have to go,” he whispered. “I’ve got to check.”

Powell, exhausted from hours of overstimulation, had fallen into a kind of toe-twitching sleep, as if he were still being tickled but at a low enough intensity to allow for a much-needed escape from consciousness. Brian looked at the magnificent man with tears in his eyes: would he have to let him go? He couldn’t leave him here, restrained, while he checked on the greenhouse…or could he? “I’ll be right back,” he whispered. “I promise.”

The hail had already stopped by the time he’d pulled on his jeans and t-shirt, but still he had to go, to check for damage. The thought of smashed panes and damaged plants made him sick. As he ran through the grass it crunched underfoot, confirming that he hadn’t just imagined the hail. At the greenhouse it took several tries for him to fit the key in the lock. He’d never been here in this state, barefoot, his half-erect cock pressing against his jeans in the unfamiliar freedom from underwear. At last the lock opened, he stepped inside and touched the dimmer switch. He had hosed down the floor before leaving for the day to help keep the humidity high; that water had vaporized and there were no fresh puddles on the floor. Good. A quick scan of the roof and floors showed nothing amiss, but he had to be sure. He took a flashlight from the utility closet, to get a more detailed look at the corners. Only after obsessively scanning the whitewashed glass again and again was he certain no breaks had occurred. He allowed himself to relax a bit, feeling some of the tension drain from his shoulders as he leaned against a potting bench. Now he looked at the plants that had been silently observing him all this time. They often reminded him of the Roethke poem that described orchids with their “loose ghostly mouths.” That image reminded him of Powell, too, in his tickling-crazed state. Brian had to get back, he’d been gone too long.

Running again through the grass that was already losing its odd texture now that the hail was melting, he cursed himself for leaving the cottage in the first place, but what else could he have done? He burst through the front door, didn’t bother to close it behind him as he crossed the living room in four leaping strides into the bedroom. What he saw put a lump in his throat. He staggered against the straight chair by the window and sat down hard.

Powell was gone. He’d managed to work free from the restraints, which now hung from the bedposts like silent rebukes.

Brian’s life was over—his life at the estate, anyway. He’d never be able to face Powell after this. With a sob he launched himself across the room to land flat on the bed, burying his face in the pillow, drinking in Powell’s scent. He grabbed handfuls of sheet, still damp with the man’s sweat, and squeezed the fabric till his hands hurt, as if he could wring from it the very essence that was Powell.

When a knock came from the front door, Brian’s heart nearly stopped. He saw how bad things could be: Powell had not only left, he’d called the police. “Come in!” Brian shouted. Go ahead, take me away.

Like so much of what had happened during the night, this didn’t seem real: it was Powell standing in the bedroom doorway. He wore only his shorts, and his skin still glistened from exertion. And he looked younger, somehow—as if, in this cottage, he had been taken back to his first experience of how powerful sex could be; as if he had found in his tormentor an unexpected source of wonder. Almost shyly, he pushed a leather tote bag across the threshold with his bare foot.

“I had to get some things,” he said, “if I’m going to stay here a while.”

 

© 2006 Wayne Courtois - Contributor's Bio