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Ian couldn't have imagined that his journey would turn into a nightmare, nor that he would end up where he has ended up. His plane ticket didn't say that Hell was the destination. And now he can't even lodge a complaint to the travel agency .
His wife hadn't been able to accompany him due to her own work responsibilities. While he waved her off since his seat in the plane, he planned to see her again in a couple of weeks, which was as long as his business trip would last. Two days after his arrival, his plans were changed drastically. He was in the flat he had rented, resting on the bed while smoking some grass he had bought to an elusive dealer. Ian fell placidly slept with a joint in his hand and he awoke into a cell of the police station.
Some neighbor sniffed the joint through his window and reported the offense. Seemingly, dope is strictly forbidden within those frontiers, and punished with life imprisonment at the best of times. He was lucky by not having been executed right away, the judge mercifully told him. He was promptly moved to that ominous prison where he was supposed to spend the rest of his days. Furthermore, their justice doesn't want outer legislations to interfere with its decisions, and that kind of publicity doesn't favour tourism either, so they have decided to keep him totally incommunicado while he serves his sentence, that is, forever. No matter how much he has begged them to let him contact his relatives. Nor his wife, nor his friends, nor his country Government, know that he is there and will stay for as long as he lives. Every night he feels like weeping, like shaking the bars and shout at the top of his voice that they have no right to steal his life, nor to shackle his body and soul in a place of misery and sorrow. But he keeps a grip on himself and resists the call of insanity. He wonders how many cases like his have been, men deprived of their freedom by some terribly unjust regulation and listed just by "missing abroad".
What's more, things have worsened considerably. Now it is absolutely URGENT to get out from here. His handsome features, together with his athletic build and his bottom, muscled by exercise and suggesting an irresistible texture, attract an unrequited attention in here. And he doesn't now for how long he will manage to keep his asshole safe.
Two days ago, while he was mopping, a task which had been assigned to him for that week, a sturdy convict he hardly knew approached him. In a whisper of complicity, he asked him whether there were guards nearby and, no sooner had Ian opened his lips to answer, the guy pushed a cloth into his mouth, gagging him. Before Ian could react, someone seized him quickly from behind. The first guy bent to grab Ian's ankles and both attackers lifted him in the air, carrying him to some intimate nook where to enjoy his delights in spite of his frenetic scuffle.
Overwhelmed by panic, Ian struggled wildly to break free, though they held him tight and their excitement gave them great strength. His muffled protests were attended by no one, and would not although they could be heard. But they were taking him through a corridor he had already mopped, and the guy who grabbed his torso slipped on the wet floor, falling on his own bottom and losing his grip. Ian managed to get away from the other and made a run of it, trying to give them the slip.
After interposing several corners between his pursuers and him, he rushed into the laundry and hid behind one of the high washing machines. Spitting the cloth out of his mouth, he tried to recover his breath stuck in that narrow gap between the wall and the appliance. However, when leaning on the wall, he felt it giving in and looked back in alarm. To his surprise, the shape of his back was slightly outlined on the wall. The surface was yielding to the touch, almost moldable. When he looked up, he found out a pipe leaking above. Years of moisture had done a conscientious job. Too good for him that the maintenance service wasn't very efficient there. Cheerfully, he pressed his fingers against the softened cement and, applying more pressure, he pushed his hand in. It was as moving it through thick clay, and he took care that only one of his fingertips stuck out the other side of the wall. Then he took his hand out, peeped through the hole and saw what was at the other end: the prison courtyard where the convicts breathed fresh air and took exercise. That meant he had came across an unexpected way out of the building. Even in his excitement, he realized that he would have immediately been spotted if he had tried to climb the wall that separated the courtyard from the street. But vigilance on the outside was surely minimal at night time, when all the convicts were locked into their cells, so he resolved to save that opportunity for then. It was an essential hand to play at the right occasion.
Buoyant by that providential stroke of luck, he devoted himself to manipulating the lock of his cell, so that it seemed to be locked but could in fact be opened from the inside. Last night, his ruse didn't work and he remained trapped into his cell. As a consequence, he had to spend at least another day there, and the two horny guys tried hard to corner him again. Ian had a hell of a day trying to elude them by all means. If he fell into their hands again, he could not expect any help. The guards didn't seem to give a fart about those naughty games among guests; it relieved the predators and soothed the victims, so it had a beneficial effect on prison life after all.
Tonight, Ian has succeeded. The lock has given way and he has managed to leave his cell with great secrecy. The next steps are to reach the fragile wall, pass through it, cross the patio and climb the wall. And he'll tread on the pavement of in the street! Maybe he won't go much further from there, but he hopes to be able to make a collect call to his friend Richard, who is a lawyer and will at once move heaven and earth to take him out of there. The public opinion will be shocked and politics will turn his case into a crusade. Yeah, if only he could let them know of his terrible situation
With that hope in mind, Ian bolts now through the corridor which borders on the cells. His feet are barefoot so as to walk silently as a mouse. A deep penumbra conceals his flee. On turning a corner, he comes upon a dangerous area: a few steps ahead, the floor is illuminated by a gleam of moonlight that gets in through a latticed window. Afraid to be spotted by some guard watching from a higher level, Ian looks for shelter in the shadows. He moves back to dodge the light, expecting to cross that stretch sideways and stuck to the cells. And when he gets near the bars two strong arms seize his slender torso from behind, hugging him firmly! Ian shakes in those arms like a fish out of water, but can't get loose. He is trapped!
"Good evening", a wicked voice whispers in his ear.
Possessed by fear, Ian realizes who is holding him through the bars. A shiver runs down his spine. It's that sinister English guy who addresses everyone a disturbing stare. They call him Boke. He is never released from his cell, as if he were too dangerous even for the rest of that prison fauna. And everybody seems to regard him with respect, or perhaps fear, though the nature of his crimes never comes out in conversations.
A terrible anguish takes Ian over. "NO!", he thinks, "I wanna go out of this damned place, I HAVE to!"
But there he stays, feeling that nauseating breath on his nape and an erection leaning on his tight butt.
"Hey, Boke", Ian whispers desperately, "I beg you, let me go."
"Let you go? Why are you in such a hurry? Stay to keep me company..." He grips in his cuddle that athletic sweetheart, with his perfect build and hard buttocks, who trembles with fear in his arms, breathes labouredly and sweats with anxiety. Boke inhales deeply, savoring that pleasant fragrance of perspiration.
"Please", Ian insists, "I can't miss this chance. Wouldn't you want to leave if you could do it?"
"You know?", Boke says while he twists a finger like a hook, "You remind me of my good friend Mike. I miss him so much since he died. Hmmm I guess I tickled him too hard."
And with that, he slides that finger to Ian's armpit, while he retains him with one arm around his waist. A precise pressure and a quick motion. Ian lets out a gasp and nearly a giggle while he presses his arm against his side, trying to expel that alien presence which has invaded his underarm. That tickles! The teasing finger runs fast up and down his side, abusing every unprotected spot.
"W-wait!", Ian pleads louder than he has intended, "Don't haha-stopppff hehmmmppfff!"
He bits his lips to contain the laughter that is coming up his throat and threatens to give him away. Now there are five fingers dancing along his midsection with an intoxicating sadism. They titillate the skin like hairy-legged insects scurrying along. Poor Ian scuffles and tries hard to muffle his laughing sounds.
"MMMPPPhhaaaffffPPleasepleasfFFFFHAHFHAAHpleaSEhaafffmmfMMMPFFF!!"
Boke pokes his ribcage and holds him tight, working on those ribs despite Ian's efforts to protect them.
"MMMPPPhhhPPaahhammMMMMhehehHepHEHEFFFFF!!"
When that merciless hand squeezes his belly, Ian finally bursts into guffaws of laughter. "BWWAHHAHAHANOhahhaHAHAHAHA!!"
Before long, there are voices and quick steps coming down the corridor in their direction, while Ian is kept there laughing like crazy. Lights are turned on everywhere and the guards don't take long in coming thronging. At first he isn't so sorry for being apprehended, such a great relief it is to be freed from the tickling embrace.
After his frustrated attempt to run away, Ian is taken straight away to the governor's bureau. Ian is sat on a chair, still recovering his breath, and his imagination is really busy anticipating how his behavior will be penalized. The governor, which doesn't look very happy for having been awakened, makes his entrance and the questioning starts. They ask him questions in their oriental accent, and he tries to convince them that he did not have any preconception as to how to leave the prison. He still resists revealing his ace, despite the fact that now his movements will be severely restricted and a getaway impossible. However, he was afraid to be to be trashed up and, as a matter of fact, they don't even push him hard. He is treated almost with delicacy. That is scary. It creates the impression that they are paving the way for something so terrible that it makes superfluous any previous suffering.
Finally, they conclude the questioning and lead him out of the bureau. Without addressing a word to him, two guards escort him to the pavilions while the governor follows them. There are murmurs in the cells, and the other jailbirds look at Ian from their cages. By the expression in their faces, anybody would assume that he is being taken straight to the electric chair.
Ian walks with one guard at each side and, at a given spot, they grab his arms strongly despite the fact that he has not resisted so far. Although he can walk perfectly on his own, it doesn't look like a good idea to contradict them, so he lets himself be guided until they stop in front of a cell. Something is terribly wrong. He had thought they were taking him back to his cell, which was enough reason for anguish, but now, with a sudden awareness, he realizes what is coming of him. It's Boke's cell.
While the governor takes out the keys, Ian begins to struggle mightily, almost as an instinctive reaction to the fate he has just envisaged. The guards keep their iron grasp on him and prevent him from running away. He shivers with fear and pleads to be released. The awareness of the situation strikes him like a punch in the stomach. He is Boke's prize for having captured him, and Boke is responsible for infringing Ian his punishment. That is why they haven't hit him; they didn't want to cause him any pain, so that it didn't distract him from the excruciating sensations he is about to undergo.
"No, please, I'll talk!", he exclaims while the key is introduced in the cell lock.
"I'm sure about it ", the governor agrees, opening the barred door.
"No, WAIT!!! I was planning to escape through a weak wall at the laundry! Believe me, it's the truth!"
"Very interesting. We'll take care of that flaw right now." At a gesture from the governor, the guards drag the prisoner towards the open cell. He shuffles his feet on the floor and thrashes about.
"I promise I will never try to escape again! Please, I promise!"
The governor nods and pats his cheek as he passes besides him. "After this session, I'm SURE you won't try to escape again", he affirms while the good Ian is forced in. Boke is waiting inside, very still, and very happy to receive that fresh ticklish meat.
"Lay him on the bed", he asks the guards as he pats his mattress.
With a big effort, they do as they have been told. They lay the squirming Ian on his back and take out two sets of handcuffs. Boke sighs when Ian is about to slip away from them, but finally he is overpowered, and both his hands handcuffed to the bed frame over his head.
"Shall we tie his feet too?", one of the guards asks the cell host.
"No, thanks, I like them to kick out."
The governor puts his head in to check that everything is in order and says: "In the morning we'll pick him up... or what is left of him." With that, he and the guards go away, locking the door and leaving Ian at the mercy of that psychotickler.
For a while, Ian scuffles like a kid with a tantrum. He realizes they haven't gagged him; they want the other prisoners to hear his screams as a kind of lesson for anybody who may get ideas about escaping from there. Boke turns a deaf ear to his victim's protests and sits besides him on the mattress.
"Sssshhh", he hisses while stroking Ian's hair, "If you scream so much now, what will you leave for later?"
He wants his guest to be comfortable. So that the handcuffs don't hurt his wrists with his struggles, he slides a handkerchief between each wrist and the steel grip.
"Boke", Ian implores, knowing anyway that all negotiation is doomed to failure. Boke answers him by patting his tummy, which starts at the touch. Then he saddles Ian's stomach, trapping his pelvis between his legs. He rolls up his sleeves and begins to play warm-up exercises with his long fingers. There's a feather tattooed on the back of each hand. Ian trembles and shakes his head in a desperate negation of cruel reality.
"Damn it, Boke, listen to me!!"
"I am all ears", he affirms, but he really seems to be all fingers.
"C'mon, we're compatriots! We're like brothers far from home!"
Then Boke rolls up his captive's T-shirt and lays his hands on Ian's tender goosepimples, which are itching with anticipation. Before proceeding, Boke spends some time pawing him, petting him, as if to decide where he is softer.
"I can help you to get out of here!", Ian insists, "We can work together on a plan and we'll".
"Ssssshhhh", hushes Boke, "Resign yourself"
He then tickles the palm of Ian's right hand, at its very middle. The reaction is instantaneous.
".h-ha -HAhah Stop, STOP!!!" But Boke is far from stopping. It's just the beginning. With one hand he presses Ian's forehead and with the other tickles his neck, teasing with passion his Adam's apple. Ian feels laughter flooding his mouth, making his teeth vibrate, as those frisky fingers stroke him gently. He writhes and begs incoherencies before laughter drowns them all.
"Hahaha, ha,ha, ha,he,he,he, he heeehaaa, haha, hahahaha, plehaha, PLEAHAhaHA!!
He cackles even louder when Boke starts teasing his abdominal muscles.
A demon expression covers Boke's face while he applies his fingers to the task. The abstinence from tickling has made him wild and uncontainable.
"Kitchy, kitchy, cootchie, coo", he mumbles, "Oh, my ticklish boy..."
He expertly caresses that smooth skin that flinches under his fingertips. It's quite clear that he is a connoisseur. He knows where to touch and how. He runs his fingers up and down, kneading him like clay, lingering and increasing the speed or the pressure when his prey shrieks the most. He explores those helpless armpits with refined touches, and then he squeezes that belly, as if Ian were a soft toy which laughs when you press him there. A roar of laughter is the forced answer. Ian goes wild, contorting like never before, jerking and splitting his sides with laughing. He exerts himself with futile efforts to free himself, moaning and groaning among the gales of laughter that saturate his mouth. A thread of saliva slips from his lips, which he cannot keep closed. Unable to escape from that suffering, his body shifts back and forth with hopeless movements.
"NOOOOOOHAhahHA, hanono, plahayhahehheheee, ehehehe HA, HAHAAA!!!!!!" He pants, laughs, moans, laughs! His face reflects the most intense grimaces of torment. He feels defenseless and abused while thrashing desperately, like a chained eel. He can't stop wriggling and lashing out frantically with a desperate kicking on the mattress. Boke goes on tickling that handsome virile body who kicks out frantically and shakes violently his torso up and down, as much as the grip allows him to do so. Ian's whole body twitches and quivers in time to the strokes, and his hysterical complaints are not attended at all.
"AhhaHaHa Ha haHAHAHEHEHAEH Plhaplesssshaahahahaha!!!!!!"
Without a break, merciless fingers scrabbling fiercely and torturing that delicate tissue, looking tenaciously for the most sensitive spots of his anatomy. Between gales of laughter and the occasional screech, Ian grunts and gives out pitiful moans, gasping for breath as a man suffocating. An intense fatigue takes over his members, and he feels he's gonna break in two by laughing so hard. His face is red, with eyes so wet that he doesn't know where the next tickle is coming from. His body bathed in sweat shakes spasmodically, his skin wet and shining. His penis, well drenched with sweat, vibrates with spasms and oozes droplets of semen in spite of himself.
At that point, Boke decides to make use of his toothbrush in order to gain access to places where his fingers can't reach. For instance, the inner part of Ian's navel. The toothbrush bristles are soft by the use and do a good job in there, judging by the way his captive shrieks and squirms in hysterics.
"HAH,HAH,HAAH,HA,NNHA,HA,HAHAHAHAHAHAH,HA,HEHEHEHEHEHEEEEEE!!!!!"
Boke rubs and rubs and rubs, forcing exhausted guffaws out of Ian. Minutes later, he changes tactic and turns his back to the prisoner, sitting astride on his shins to immobilize them. When he attacks the sole of his feet with his fingertips and the toothbrush aid, Ian screams like a pig in the slaughter-house.
"SThehhehhehehhhehhehehhehehAAARRGGGHHAHAHAHEHEmmmMMMPFFHAHAHAJajaplesssHAHAAAHEEHAhaha... HAJAJHAAAAAA...!!!!!!!"
It seems he is being butchered alive instead of being tickled. His feverish anguish knows no bounds. His throat burns and he coughs, choking with his own laughter. His toes wiggle in the air with the maximum frustration. Uncontainable for longer, a stream of urine runs down his thighs, soaking the mattress. After torturing his poor feet, Boke alternates strokes all over his body, tickling to the last pore of his sensitive skin. Through that agony beyond endurance, Ian gets lost in convulsions of laughter. He feels like dying, but only passes out. And even unconscious, he cannot get a break. His dark nightmares are full of tickles, which make him squirm even in dreams. He is awoken by actual tickling on his tummy when his torturer decides that it's time to come back to the hard reality. Ian sobs and the process is repeated. His hoarse guffaws become impossible to be reproduced. This time he throws up, and goes on cackling while vomit runs down his chin.
Any torment ends up by becoming endurable if the body gets too used to it. Boke takes care it doesn't happen to Ian's body by massaging sometimes his overloaded nerves. Ian lets out laboured moans while he receives those unrequited attentions and, when he less expects it, the massaging fingers become tickling, snatching a deranged laughter from him.
Boke pulls Ian's briefs down to his knees and sits between his legs, in the gap between the shorts and Ian's groin, which he tickles beyond exasperation. He concentrates his efforts on the coccyx, that sensible bone which can't endure to be touched at all, but also tickles passionately Ian's cock and balls.
Ian gives off guttural sounds of impotence under the atrocious torture, like a rabbit trapped in a snare. He shakes violently while his rump and manhood are tickled. The shorts at his knees hinder his kicking, and his torturer's strategic position keeps his legs open, exposing his most intimate skin. His tortured shaft is rock hard and thus hypersentive to the rubbing. His torso arches up and down, and, taking advantage of a moment when it's up, Boke slides a pillow under his back so that he can't protect his bottom from what's coming. With a quick movement, he squeezes the toothbrush into Ian's asshole, scrubbing in there fiercely. Ian surpasses the paroxysm of desperation. He even loses control of his sphincter, soiling the blanket with dregs while he drowns in his own nervous laughter.
The other jailbirds can't but listening the uproar which echoes through the whole prison. Some cross themselves, others cover their ears with their pillows. And the most sadist ones toss off. Harsh words through the darkness, and somebody's hands shaking him. Ian can't but wake up moaning pitifully. The morning light illuminates his own cell, on whose bed he lies.
"Get up, you slacker", the guard orders, "You've got floors to mop."
Ian feels totally miserable. His body aches all over and his skin prickles as if he had been caressed with sandpaper. It's like a hangover of unwonted proportions.
"That's what you'll get next time you think of leaving us", the guard warns him with a guffaw, and goes out leaving the door open so that the tenant can go and fulfill his duties. At first, Ian thinks it's beyond his strength to get up, but necessity forces him to do so. He needs to drink water to replace the liquids his sweat, tears and efforts spent last night. His throat is so dry and sore that even clearing it hurts. It takes him a great effort to raise himself, since he is as weak as a baby and can hardly stand on his feet. A sudden dizziness is about making him desist, but he knows that the guards will come to drag him along if they pass and find him in bed. And on top of that, a hell of a combination: an attack of hiccups, together with the stiffness all over him.
He comes out to the corridor and staggers towards the kitchen. He finds no one on his way, at that time everybody is out in the courtyard. However, on turning a corner, he runs into the two guys he has been fearing for the last days. One of them purses his lips in a kiss and shows him the cloth they used in their frustrated attempt. Ian is extremely weak, too much as to even think of running a few steps. Before grabbing him and lifting him in the air, they introduce the cloth into his mouth, though it's not necessary, since he is hoarse and even unable to beg in whispers. While they carry him to a private place, he quietly sobs, though no tears come out of his dry eyes; he spent them all last night.
