It was the start of John’s second week in Hell. He’d skidded on some diesel in the road and driven his motorcycle into a tree. The next thing he’d known, here he was.
It was not actually quite as bad as he’d expected. It wasn’t continuous boiling oil, sulfurous fumes and everlasting fire–the demons and fiends worked an 8-hour day torturing souls and everyone had the weekends off for sight-seeing. Accommodation could have been worse, too–he shared a room with a serial killer who didn’t want to talk about his punishments and there was a reasonable view of the general devastation from his window.
His first week had been a getting-to-know-you kind of time: he was shown around, introduced to various dignitaries (he even caught a rare glimpse of Mephistopheles himself, getting into a hearse) and met his own personal torturer–a fiend named Elmet. There then followed a variety of torments and tortures, to find out what John was most susceptible to. They started out with the usual physical things–foot crushing, bamboo under the fingernails, branding — (the nice thing was that however he was abused, at 5 PM prompt everyone reverted to their undamaged state so they could be worked on again tomorrow), but he reacted no more and no less to these crude methods of torture than did anyone else. Elmet was looking for something better–something personal to John–something he particularly couldn’t take. The fiend found just the thing on Friday afternoon. It was 4:55 PM, almost time to quit, and Elmet had John spread-eagled on a table. He’d been gouging out bits of the boy’s body with pincers and was getting bored. To be fair, John had been screaming quite well, but it just wasn’t right somehow. By accident, Elmet’s clawed hand slipped and a long, bony finger scraped across the boy’s bare sole. The resulting yell and convulsion of the biker’s body had made Elmet pause. This boy is ticklish, he thought. He put the pincers down and experimentally scraped a fingernail slowly down the length of John’s left foot. The ensuing scream caused the demon next door to bang on the wall. Elmet looked at the boy, considering. He reached over and tickled both armpits lightly. Now John was strapped down with good-quality canvas restraints, but his conclusion was so intense that he actually broke the one holding his right wrist. At that precise moment the end-of-day whistle went and all torturing stopped for the weekend. Elmet ran his eyes over the young, hunky body before him. What he saw was not a healthy, 22-year-old boy with a firm, well-muscled body but an infinite number of intensely, unbearably ticklish spots. As he released the boy from his restraints and sent him off with a cheery, “See you Monday,” he realized that this weekend would not be spent as usual watching re-runs of “Baywatch” but in constructing a suitable restraining device and thinking of fiendish ways to make an excruciatingly ticklish–and horny–boy suffer as much as inhumanly possible. Elmet was good at that sort of thing. As he blew out the torches on the wall and left the torture chamber he smiled in anticipation.
When John entered the room on Monday morning he noticed some changes. First off, the walls had been soundproofed. Secondly, there was a large wooden device standing in the middle of the floor. Elmet greeted him. The fiend was looking especially ugly today, John thought. He was wearing a brown Monk’s habit, the loose hood of which hid the back of his bald head, and his ebony-black face seemed particularly grotesque with its sharp, pointed nose and gash of a mouth. John noticed that the fiend had recently filed his teeth.
“Now,” said Elmet, drooling slightly, “we’re going to try something different today. Observe the device.” He pointed to the wooden construction that dominated the chamber. “You kneel on this board here. Your wrists are held high above your head by these metal rings and your tootsies are roped tightly to these rods at the side. Are you with me so far?”
John nodded, although he wasn’t altogether sure about the way things were going; he had seen the look on Elmet’s face when he’d tickled him on Friday. This device would be ideal for that sort of thing.
“This,” he indicated a rod which stuck out at an angle a couple of feet above the kneeling board, “will go inside you. It will help to keep you…” He searched for a word, drooling some more. “…interested in what’s happening.” The fiend gave vent to one of his ear-splitting cackles. He really did have an unpleasant voice, thought John–thin and reedy.
“Very well, on you get.” Elmet helped the boy onto the device, lubricating the rod and making sure it was firmly up his arse. He secured John’s wrists and ankles, pulled up a stool and sat in front of him. Reaching into the voluminous sleeves of his monk’s habit, he produced a length of thin rope which he tied carefully around John’s balls and the base of his cock. He then pulled it tight and fastened the other end to a hook in the floor. The effect of this was to pull John’s already stiffening cock and his balls away from his body. His 8″ cut cock stabbed the warm air in front of him in a disturbingly vulnerable way.
John was getting nervous. Being mutilated with pincers was one thing, but being tickle tortured was something else altogether. He prayed that that was not what was going to happen–he was not sure he could take it. Ever since he’d been little, John had been painfully aware that he was unbelievably ticklish. He had been known to punch people who had playfully tickled him in the mouth–quite involuntarily–it was a reaction he had no control over. He was so inconceivably, incapacitatingly ticklish that even the thought of being tickled caused him to curl up into a tight ball to protect himself.
Elmet knew this. He had spent part of his weekend researching into the ticklish aspects of his victim’s past life and he had carefully designed this piece of apparatus to make him as devastatingly vulnerable to this unbearable torture as possible. When he’d completed the construction he’d sat in the Satanic Library swotting up on techniques of Tickle Torture. It was not something he’d had any experience of but fiends–even more than demons–are quick and studious learners and instantly became expert in their chosen field. They also have powers they can call upon which can assist them immeasurably in their work.
John moved experimentally to find out just how much he would be able to protect himself if his worst fears proved to be true. It was not a lot. His arms were held immobile and the only part of his anatomy he could move was his pelvis–and every time he did that, the rod rode in and out off his arse, making him extremely horny. He would watch the fiend closely, monitor his every move so that he would be prepared for whatever he might do.
Elmet had thought of that, too. From the folds of his habit he produced a strip of black leather. “You know what’s going to happen to you, don’t you? I’m going to tickle you.” The fiend cackled insanely as John’s worst nightmares became fact and he shook his head in desperation. “And you need to see, don’t you? You need to be able to see where my fingers are, don’t you? Well,” he dangled the strip of leather in front of John’s face, “can you see through black leather? Imagine how much worse it’s going to be with this leather blindfolding you…” He shrieked a cackling laugh. “Here–feel it.” The fiend wrapped it round the boy’s cock, which jerked in response. “It’s going to make you so much more ticklish–and horny.” Elmet took the leather and, in spite of John’s pleas for mercy, tied it over his eyes. The leather was extremely thin and molded itself to the contours of his face, cutting out all light and blindfolding him completely.
John was already on the verge of losing it and he hadn’t even been touched yet. “Please, Elmet. Look–what you were doing with the pincers was unbearable. Please do that. This is silly. Whoever heard of tickling as a torture? Anyway, I’m not very ticklish. You’ll be wasting your time. Honestly. Let’s go back to the branding irons. Please. Don’t do this. Please.”
Elmet grinned. “Well, tell you what–we’ll try it for a few hours and see how it goes. Who knows, you might like it!” He sat on the stool again and waited, enjoying the sight of the hunky boy’s body quivering with dread. He had no way of knowing when–or where–the torture would start. Suddenly, he dug stiff, bony fingers into John’s sides, just above the waist. He probed and wiggled them.
Unfortunately, in Hell it’s not possible to faint, otherwise John would have done, then, instantly. As it was he let out a shriek that tested the newly-installed soundproofing to its limit. Every muscle in his young body tensed and he used every ounce of his strength to escape from his restraints. Elmet had constructed the device well, though, and it was far stronger than John was. The fiend’s fingers walked slowly upward toward the boy’s armpits. John was shaking his head violently. “No! No! Please, not the armpits. I can’t take it.”
Elmet cooed softly, “You’re not supposed to be able to take it. If you could, it wouldn’t be torture, now would it? Remember where you are. This is Hell, after all.” He tickled John’s armpits mercilessly and the boy convulsed, involuntarily moving his pelvis back and forth on the rod. When Elmet had built the device, he had paid particular attention to that rod. He had studied John’s internal anatomy, taken precise measurements, and made the rod so that as it moved in and out it rubbed very gently against the boy’s prostate gland–not enough to make him cum (it was vital that it didn’t do that), but just enough so that it would keep him intensely horny, indefinitely.
The fiend’s fingers wandered over John’s sensitive body, finding every nook and cranny that was unbearably ticklish, and tickling every single one. He worked unpredictably so that the boy never knew where he was going to be attacked next, and alternated slow, sensuous teasing with bouts of merciless torture tickling.
John was cursing the blindfold. If only he could see. If he could see, he might just possibly stand some slight chance of being able to prepare himself for the torture, alleviate it slightly. He willed himself to be able to see through the blindfold — but that thin strip of leather made him more helpless, vulnerable and ticklish than all the rest of his restraints put together. He tried to shake it off, but wherever he moved his head there was no way he could shift it. Once he managed to lift it very slightly by pushing it against his bicep, but Elmet saw at once and, with a cackling, “Now, now, that’s naughty,” he pulled it back down so the boy couldn’t see a thing and tied it tighter.
Lunch break came and Elmet shared the usual hot coal sandwiches with the boy. John wasn’t hungry. He was still shaking. The fiend was very pleased–this torture was proving extremely effective.
The afternoon was what Elmet had been looking forward to. Not once during the morning had the fiend touched John’s cock and balls. John had had a rock-hard erection or the whole time and was desperate to cum and this afternoon it was time for some genital tickling to get the helpless boy really horny. Elmet produced a feather and made himself comfortable on the stool. He closed his eyes, recited strange words, and called upon powers to assist him. Instantly two disembodied hands appeared, and three more feathers. The hands, unseen by the blindfolded boy, positioned themselves at John’s unprotected sides, two of the feathers readied themselves by his bare feet, and the other two at his armpits. Without warning, the tickling began.
Gently at first, the fingers probed into John’s sides and the feathers began their work on his feet and armpits. Within seconds, John was in hysterics. He squirmed and struggled as much as his restraints would allow and screamed at the top of his lungs. The feathers worked themselves between his toes, or turned and dragged their horny ends across his soles; the disembodied hands dug their fingers into his ribs and sides, hitting the boy’s nerve centres bang on and stimulating mercilessly. The other pair of feathers were stroking gently across his armpits, round and round, in and out, driving the boy crazy.
Elmet cackled and directed his attention to the spunk-filled balls and the eight inches of vulnerable, unexplored, sensitive, ticklish boycock that swung helplessly above them. He used the feather in his hand to tickle the testicles, getting right into the crevices at their sides, and reaching round to tickle the backs of the balls as well. With his other hand, he used just one long, tapering finger on the very tip of the desperate young cock, moving round and round over the bare glans and up and down across the piss-slit.
John was in an ecstasy of hysteria and horniness. He swore, pleaded, begged, threatened, screamed, shrieked, laughed, cried and struggled violently against his restraints. The fiend ignored his cries completely and the only effect the boy’s struggling had was to make him even more horny.
In common with all fiends and demons, Elmet possessed a power that enabled him to cause his victim the very maximum suffering possible: he could feel exactly what John was feeling, but to a much attenuated degree. This meant two things–first, he knew precisely where and when to tickle the boy for the most intense effect; and secondly–he knew at any given moment how close he was to orgasm. As his fingers stroked and caressed the aching cock, sometimes working on the very tip, sometimes gently enclosing the entire shaft, squeezing lightly, or stroking up and down the full length, Elmet could feel exactly what John was experiencing. In this way he could keep the youth a hair’s breadth away from shooting his load. He could keep him on the very brink of orgasm–and still make it impossible for the boy to get the relief he so desperately craved.
The main problem when someone else gives you a hand job is that because every individual does it in his own particular way, it’s never quite right–you could always, in fact, do it better yourself. However, because Elmet knew exactly what his actions were feeling like, he was doing exactly what John would have done himself if he had been trying to bring himself off–the only difference being that if John had been doing it he would have brought himself off instantly, whereas the fiend was making very sure that the boy couldn’t cum.
John was almost delirious. He had been horny many times during his life, but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that it was even possible to be this horny. The hands tickling his sides and the feathers working on his feet and armpits were driving him insane. His whole body, every square inch of his anatomy, was one big ticklish area. The chamber reverberated to his shrieks and screams. His voice was hoarse with screaming, his throat sore with laughter. For hours, pre-cum had been oozing out of the end of his cock, dripping stickily down to form a puddle on the floor. The fiend’s fingers slipped and slid over the lubricated glans, the feather did its ticklish work on his unprotected, vulnerable balls.
This went on for the rest of the day. At 5 o’clock the hooter sounded and all work stopped. Elmet caused the disembodied hands and the feathers to disappear and removed the boy’s blindfold. John was desperate. “No! No! PLEASE–YOU CAN’T STOP NOW–MAKE ME CUM! FOR GOD’S SAKE MAKE ME CUM!!!”
Elmet shook his head slowly. “For who’s sake? God can’t hear you, sorry. I might let you cum tomorrow–or Wednesday–or a week on Thursday…” He shrieked one of his cackling laughs. The fiend released John from the wooden restraint device and smiled evilly (which, for him, was easy to do). “Same time tomorrow, please.” As John was leaving the chamber, Elmet called after him, “Oh, and don’t try to bring yourself off–I’ve put a holding spell on you. Don’t want to waste all that lovely spunk I’ve been building up all day.”
John ran back to his apartment, flung himself on the bed, took his cock in his hand and began to jerk himself off. Within seconds he was on the verge of cumming – but he couldn’t! He beat his cock desperately, but he couldn’t cum. No matter how hard, how fast, he tried, he just could not cum. With a scream of frustration he punched the bed and cursed Elmet’s name. His cock, rock-hard and aching for release, rubbed against the sheets. Again he tried, and again he failed.
That night he got no sleep at all. Every couple of minutes his hand went to his cock and he tried to bring himself off. It was no good. He spent the night with a permanent erection. His cock begged him for release. Whenever he moved, whenever he turned over, opened or closed his legs, his cock made its urgent need known again. By the morning he was almost mad with lust and frustration. On Tuesday morning he arrived at the chamber an hour early. Elmet did not seem surprised to see him.
The morning was a repeat of the previous afternoon. Lunchtime came, but John insisted the fiend didn’t stop. Elmet made some comment about Union rules but carried on torturing the boy anyway, out of the goodness of his heart. John was not allowed to cum on Tuesday.
On Friday morning Elmet announced that he was going to let John cum. He tickle tortured him for an hour or so and then brought the boy off by using a small, soft brush on the tip of his victim’s glans, tickling the boy’s balls with two stiff feathers and causing the disembodied hands to tickle his feet, sides and armpits very gently and teasingly.
The boy’s orgasm was the longest and most shatteringly intense he had ever experienced. It went on and on. Thick, white gobs of hot, sticky spunk, which had been encouraged and built up so carefully, but which had been so sadistically denied release for so long, exploded out of his cock like water from a fire hose. Elmet carefully collected every drop. The boy’s reaction was so violent that at one point the fiend wondered if the restraints were going to hold him–but they did.
Eventually it was over. John subsided, a quivering, shuddering wreck. His body relaxed for the first time in ages. He waited for the fiend to release him.
But Elmet did not release him. Ten seconds after the last drop of spunk had been milked from his throbbing cock, the torture began again.
This was a hundred times worse than it had ever been. Having just had the most intense orgasm of his life, the boy was at his most sensitive, his most ticklish, and Elmet was not going to let that hypersensitivity go to waste. Oh, no. The feathers tickled, the fingers probed and prodded and the torture went on–and on.
Today was Friday. By 5 PM John was once again half insane with ticklishness and the urgent need to cum. He faced a weekend of constantly needing to bring himself off but not being able to, followed by another week of pure torture at the tickling hands of the fiend.
After a while it settled down into a routine. Elmet had decided that the boy’s torture would be worst if he was made to cum on a Thursday morning. That way, by Friday evening he was at his most desperate for orgasm and had to get through an entire weekend of unrelenting frustration and three more days of tickle torture before he had any relief.
John came to fear Thursdays more than any other time. Although the orgasms were the most wonderful thing he could imagine, the tickle torture immediately afterwards was horrifying to think about. His only relief came on Christmas Day. Elmet removed the holding spell on Christmas Eve until work resumed on Boxing Day. Christmas Day was the only time he ever got any sleep–and even then he didn’t get much as he spent most of the day jacking himself off.
In odd moments he contemplated his fate. He had been in Hell for just three years now. Unlike some of the other poor souls, he had a fixed sentence–he would not be here forever. At the end of his time he would go to the other place to spend the rest of eternity in paradise.
How long had he got to go? Every week Elmet put the spunk he’d milked out of the boy into a container. When that container was full, John would be free to go.
The container was a bottle.
It was ten feet in diameter.
And one mile high.