by Anomicscenes
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It was still pretty early in the morning when the jackhammer’s rancor startled me awake.
Sitting straight up in bed with my hair doing god-knows-what, I looked around blindly in search of the offending noisemaker until my sleep-addled brain finally registered that the cacophonic din was coming from outside the house. Ya gotta love summers in Beaver. Sure, the kids and families are away for visiting beaches unknown; but PennDot is always just around the corner with their floundering attempts at road repair on the days that you’ve decided to sleep in for a change.
Swinging my feet over the side of the bed, I planted them firmly into the carpeting and rubbed my eyes adamantly. I hadn’t planned on being up at this hour which is why I’d spent the night out with the boys, driving back cold brews until the wee hours. With my wife out on the second leg of her west coast book tour -this time without me in tow, grumbling all the way- I’d planned on taking it easy for the few weeks I’d have only myself as company at the old homestead. To say the least, I’d been looking forward to the alone time for awhile now. Teaching chemistry and introductory engineering to highschoolers had its perks; having summers off definitely proved to be one of the major ones.
Sparing a glance through the vertical blinds, I eyed the crew that had nestled into their work on my section of the street. The three-man team complete with two heavy duty trucks seemed a bit excessive to take care of the potholes that littered the bend that marked the entrance to my housing complex. Admittedly, they were big ass potholes, but for all the racket that was coming from outside, one would expect an entire wrecking crew and fleet of cement mixers to be camped out just beyond my property line.
Smiling a bit ruefully, I found myself half-wishing that there were other families around to also be annoyed at the aural assault as I had been but, like I mentioned before, every single household but mine had absconded to the coast for a little R&R. I didn’t mind the solitude. In fact, I rather enjoyed it, given the screaming adolescents and teens I had to deal with from September to May during the school year. Standing half-naked as I was staring (still blearily, mind you) out at the road crew workers, I decided right then and there that recompense was in order…
Four hours later and still without any foreseeable end to the noise in sight, I decided that a formal inquiry was needed. Stepping out onto the porch to take in the brunt of the summer mugginess, I took stock of three fellows from earlier that were still plugging away on the blacktop since this morning. Plopping myself down on one of the rattan chairs that were spread out in front of the house, I leaned back and propped one bare foot up on the rail before me. The weather wasn’t hot enough to make the jeans and t-shirt I had on uncomfortable, but after 20 years living in southwestern Pennsylvania, I’d become a firm believer in the “no socks, no shoes” policy that was frequently (though casually) enforced by those native to the area. I couldn’t say I envied the trio of orange vest-clad workers in their heavy work boots out on the hot pavement all day. I knew my feet tended to sweat pretty bad in the winter. Hoo boy, their dogs must have been swimming at this point!
Lighting a cigarette, I decided to let my street-mates toil on for a bit longer before I decided to unleash a tongue-lashing on them like they wouldn’t believe. Sooner or later their lunch break was due to come up – maybe I’d say something to them then. Leaning further back into the chair, I reveled in the shade that the porch roof provided. Perhaps I’d mosey on around to the back of the house while I was outside to take a look-see and make sure none of the siding had come loose in the brief summer storm he had the night prior…
Hearing a distant knocking sound, I reached out to brush whatever it was away in feeble protest. Waving my hand about stupidly, I can only imagine what I must have looked like to the lone road worker as he continued to knock on the porch railing in an effort to get my ass up and off the lounge chair. Apparently I’d fallen asleep while I was waiting to “make my move”. Snorting awake, I cleared my throat roughly and eyed my bipedal alarm clock with surprise.
“Hey there, sorry to bother you like this, but it looks like you’re the only one left on this street here and I’m in a bit of a pickle.”
Looking beyond him to the street where he and his crew had been carrying on for most of the day, I noticed that one of the trucks was now gone and, in its place was a telltale orange and white sawhorse. Given that the worker talking to me now was on his own, I assumed that it was both of his buddies that had hopped into the missing truck to get the hell out of Dodge for the evening. Looking back at him I cocked an eyebrow. “A pickle, huh? Looks like the work you boys were doing all days is done. Seems like the rest of your crew had the same impression.”
Grimacing slightly, he stared at his bots for a moment before responding. “Yeah, well that’s the pickle right there. Once we wrapped things up on the potholes, Bill & Jim packed up and hauled ass, leaving me to clean up and make my way back to the garage on my own. By the time I had everything stowed away and I was good to go myself, I hopped into my own ride to find a dead battery.”
Nodding and offering him a cigarette, I lit one for myself as he shook his head. “Well that is a helluva situation after being out all day, I’ll give ya that. Don’t you PennDot boys have a number you can call to get a jump?”
Grimacing again, he opted to grab a smoke off of me, after all. “Yeah, well, that’s the real pisser. The radio in the truck is deader than a doornail and I forgot my cell phone at home. Which brings me to why I’m bugging you here. Do you think I could use your phone to call up home base and get someone out here for me?”
Stubbing out my butt, I stood and opened the front door, motioning that the wayward road asphalt slinger should follow me inside. “Well, normally I’d have no problem helping out a stranded individual such as yourself, but with that wicked storm we had last night, the power’s been on the fritz all day. Who knew you could have a brown-out in the middle of suburbia, eh? Given that all the phones in the house are cordless and need power to even check the caller id, I’ve been a bit stuck all day, myself. Here, have a seat and I’ll see what I can do to get you something cold to drink, at least.”
Making sure he was comfortable on the living room couch, I made my way into the kitchen to pour a few glasses of iced tea. After nodding off on the porch as I did, my throat was more than a little parched. Plopping down into the recliner across from him, I marveled at how quickly the overheated worker gulped down the chilly beverage. After a moment, I continued. “Now that I think of it, I might still have an old plug-in phone somewhere in storage out past my workroom. If you don’t mind hanging out and trying to soak up some of the relative cool that’s left in the living room here, I’ll see if I can find it so you can give your boys a call.”
Spirits lifting visibly at the prospect, the man practically yelped in relief. “That would be great. Thanks a ton. No offense, but after spending the day I did outside of your place, the last thing I want to do it hang out for the night.”
Laughing openly, I understood just what he meant. Too bad for him he wouldn’t be leaving for some time yet. Whether he knew it or not. “Oh, no offense taken. My name is Todd, by the way. Todd Kevin Lambert.” Extending my hand, he grasped it firmly.
“Good to meet you Todd. My name’s Pete. But everyone calls me Stinky. Umm, don’t ask.”
Eying him quizzically for a moment, I laughed it off. “Whatever you say, dude. Now just sit back and I’ll see if I can’t find that phone for you.”
That said, I got up to walk to the back of the house. Veering off to the left, I stole down the short hallway that lead to the addition of the house I used as a workroom. I had no intention of looking for a phone and, what’s more, I reveled in the gullibility of my guest. Brown out? Yeah right. The “storm” we’d had last night was hardly as torrential as I’d made it out to be. Apparently the man who was presently nodding off on my sofa wasn’t from this area or else he’d have known I was bullshitting him right from the start. Slipping into the workroom, I hit the fan light above and starting setting up. By the time I had things together, the sedative I’d slipped Pete would have taken full effect and he would be sawing logs, none-the-wiser that he would be acting as my personal plaything for the next few hours. Boy did I love it when my wife was away during the summer…
--
After about ten minutes of getting my supplies together, I figured enough time had passed to allow the rather mild drug to make its way through Pete’s system. Walking back down the hall, I was preparing myself to continue the BS routine if the road worker had somehow resisted the urge to catnap. Much to my delight, no further tall tales were needed. Back in the living room, I found Pete completely crashed out on the couch. Thankfully he’d set his glass down on the side table beforehand so nothing had spilled out of his limp hands, now resting at his equally-deadened sides. Snoring peacefully into his work-shirted chest, I took stock of the sight before me as I decided how best to get my comatose quarry into the awaiting chamber. Standing somewhere between six-two and six-four, Pete appeared to be about my height. Unlike me, however, it appeared that a career in hard labor had not slimmed down the man. I guessed that Pete weighed in at, say, 240 pounds. Not a beached whale by any stretch, but there was a slight paunch to his otherwise bear-tight form. A dark, somewhat shaggy beard rounded out Pete’s face that made me want to place him in his late thirties. To say the least, I was intrigued to see what the rest of his body looked like, beneath his sweaty work gear.
Crouching down before him, I grabbed one arm and drew his torso forward and over my shoulder in a mock-fireman’s carry. Grunting as I stood up with him over me, I changed my weight estimate to something slightly closer to 300 as I walked Pete to the back of the house. Because I was always tinkering with things even while away from the job, my wife had suggested we use the mostly-empty addition to the house as a workshop a few years ago. Since then, the “empty” aspect has been swept away in a torrent of woodworking and metallurgical tools. Because of the outlandish racket that I tended to make while working on the odd project, myself, we decided last year to have the space soundproofed, as well. In hindsight, I wouldn’t have loved my wife more for suggesting it.
Kneeing open the door and duck walking in with Pete still sawing logs behind me, I lauded myself for preparing the space ahead of time. Before me was the extra-large work table where I’d played with others many times in the past. Having slipped a tarp-covered padded mat down on top of it a few moments earlier, I was able to pretty much just dump Pete’s body onto the otherwise hardened surface without fear of hurting him or having him wake up ahead of schedule.
Leaving his bottom half hanging off what could now be considered the “foot” of the table, I went to a nearby locker to retrieve the second stage of the operation. Coming back to the table with a pair of tarp-pants in my hands, I unrolled the blue plastic and began fitting the odd bit of couture past his boots and over his heavy denim jeans. Sliding them up his legs, I lifted each one up to shimmy the plastic pantaloons past his butt where I then proceeded to tuck the top of my invention into Pete’s own waist. Making sure the tarp pants were in firmly enough, I made my way to the top of the table and proceeded to drag Pete all the way up by means of grabbing under his armpits and just tugging away. He was a hefty one, that much was for sure. But the lack of friction between the table tarp and his new over-pants made the task a bit easier, overall.
After he was completely up on the table, I stretched his arms out to the sides and slipped his wrists into the leather cuffs I’d attached to the eyebolts that I’d screwed into the undersides of the top two table corners. Tying a bandanna around the top of Pete’s head to effectively block out any and all visual input, it was time now to finish off the additional, um, pants-ing and leg-securing. After tucking the ends of the plastic leggings up into Pete’s denim pants, I clipped the cuffs around his ankles to make sure they stayed put, even with the impending debooting he would soon be experiencing. Wrapping another pair of leather cuffs around the legs of his dual-pants, I secured his restraints to two more eyebolts. Following this, it was now time to wait.
Sitting back to smoke another cigarette, I knew I wouldn’t have to wait long as the roofie I’d slipped Pete (or was it “Stinky’?) was almost as quick to wear off as it was to go into effect, once administered via someone’s drink. A derivative of GHB, depending on the concentration of a few choice chemicals, what was once considered to mostly be a date-rape drug was mine to play with when I had the itch to shanghai a hapless victim to take part in my sadistic play. I was rather proud of the little concoction, but nowhere near as pleased with it as I was the over-pants I’d also come up with.
Now I’m about as straight as they come with regard to sexual preference. I love my wife and can think of no other person (or gender, for that matter) finer to spend my life with. However, there does come a time now and again when I have to get my hands on a man and make him suffer for having a schlong. Yeah, I had one too, I know. The hypocrisy of it all was just delicious. At any rate, when the proverbial itch gets ahold of me, I know that what I need to scratch it is to find a guy, tie him up, and tickle the fuck out of him. Tickling has always been a “thing” for me and, depending on my mood, it rarely mattered what gender was on the receiving end, provided they were ticklish and wouldn’t mind me coaxing a few screaming orgasms out of them while I was in the midst of the deed, so to speak. As to how the pants fit into all of this, well, that’s just me being a bit freaky, I guess.
When I’m able to get my hands on a guy (be him willing or no), I always like to make sure he’s in desperate need before I let him spill his seed for me. To that end, I’ve found that the more sensitive his junk is, the more explosive his release tends to be. To that end, I’ve found that the hotter and sweatier a guy’s cock and balls get, the more sensitive things tend to be, overall. Starting to see the rationale yet? In any event, one day a long time ago I was in a plastic poncho up at Niagara Falls and noticed that, despite the cool spray from the cascading waterfalls around out little boat, I was damn near shedding pounds under the tour-provided slicker for as much sweating as I was doing. With this in mind many years later, it dawned on me that fashioning a pair of pants from a spare tarp might just have the same effect on a guy’s crotch. That it, of course, if there were other elements in play at the same time.
In this case, here in my workroom, “other elements” consisted of a heat lamp I used to dry varnish on some of my woodworking projects which I’d also made sure to place about two feet above Pete’s (now triple-layered) groin. Given the tactile hell I’d soon be putting him through coupled with the heat of the lamp, his man-tool would be swimming in no time. Oooh boy, I just couldn’t wait to slide my hands deep inside to play…
--
Coming to, Pete didn’t so much start awake as he did snort and cough in a manner not unlike I had back out on the porch when we first met. One of the lovelier aspects of my home-concocted sedative was that, once the person who used it was conscious, they still suffered from a faux-intoxication of sorts, much in the same way that those who’d been hit with straight GHB did. In Pete’s case, while he realized that he couldn’t move his limbs and that someone had, apparently, turned out the lights on him, he suffered more from confusion rather than fright.
“Whoa. Wh-what’s goin’ on hu-heeere?” Yep, it was as if Pete had been out for a night on the town, slurred speech and all. Now was the time to “dig in”, as they say…
Rather than taunt in some menacing manner, I often prefer to take the mysteriously-silent route with certain guys and let them draw their own conclusions. To that end, instead of taunting Pete with a slew of sexually-charged banter (most of which he’s probably be ill-suited to comprehend, given his relative stupor), I kept silent & got to work. Wheeling up to the foot of the table he was strapped, I reached below it and grasped the handle that controlled the pneumatic height adjuster. Giving it a few pumps, Pete’s booted feet were up before me and within easy reach in no time flat. Cracking my knuckles, I started in on him.
Personally, I’ve always loved the unlacing process when it comes to prepping my tickle victims. It’s the calm before the storm that, depending on how antsy I let myself become, may or may not take “forever” for the person I’m gracing with my personal attention. In Pete’s case, I just wanted to get at his paws as soon as humanly possible so I could make him squeal and, soon enough, beg me to help him bust his nut. With this eventual explosion in mind, I deftly unlaced the Wolverine work boots that adorned Pete’s paws (marveling a bit when I noticed the size 151⁄2 on the rubber soles) and slipped them off. Woowee! All at once there was no question left in my mind why Pete’s work buddies called him “Stinky”. To say the least, the odor that emanated from the socked peds before me (not to mention the footwear which they had just been occupying moments before) was enough to curl even the most adventurous canine’s nose hairs.
While a little muskiness was right up my alley, I was silently thanking god that I’d had a utility fan installed in the ceiling a few years back for projects that involved noxious chemicals. Reaching back behind me and flicking a wall switch next to the light rheostat, I imagined I could practically see the watery lines of “stank” yep, with an “a”, no less) as they were sucked up and out of the room. Soon enough the aroma would be reduced to a dull roar, much more to my taste.
Growing more impatient by the minute, I decided to use Pete’s namesake to my advantage and slipped off his sweat-moistened socks. Clips holding his tarpped-pant legs firm, I smiled deviously and got up to pay old Petey’s mouth a visit. Still mumbling somewhat incoherently, I balled up one sock and rubbed it in his face, making sure he caught a good whiff of the smell his feet had worked so hard all day to achieve. Gasping in protest, Pete predictably began breathing through his mouth to avoid the nasal offense. Taking my cue, I stuffed the wadded bit of Hanes-wear into his mouth and stretched its mate out fully to wrap around the back of his head and effectively gag the poor, confused boy. Knowing full well that the after effects of the sedative would be wearing off completely in a few minutes, I didn’t fear that my captive mate would panic and start to choke. Rather, I just reveled in his having the opportunity to taste the fruits of his labors as I labored on myself to make him sweat even more. It was a lucky break too that his socks proved long enough to enable me to tie it around his face. Who in their right mind wore over-the-calf sweat socks in the middle of the summer, anyway? Frankly, he had it coming.
Over the years, I’ve become a bit of an expert foot-tickler. Practicing with various implements, I’ve grown to know exactly how to cause maximum stimulation with feathers, brushes, ball-point pens, or just my fingers to draw out the best in my victims. What many professed “aficionados” don’t realize is that the feet, although one of a victim's most ticklish places, tend to desensitize with too much constant stimulation. That said, I’ve learned how to exploit certain spots with alternating rhythms to draw out the best in the paws I find myself working on.
Like the boots said, Pete’s feet were (if you’ll forgive the crassness) fucking huge! Desiring to work the twin canvases before me to produce some of my best work, I had to hold myself back from digging in with both hands at the same time. Given that I’m a righty, I gently held the toes of Pete’s left foot back with the heel of my left hand and gently tickled up and down his arch with my free fingers. From the instant my nails met his skin, Pete began to struggle and thrash in his bonds. Wailing into his sock-gag like a banshee, the portion of his body that wasn’t being restrained began to arch and pound away against the padded surface of my worktable, each thud seeming to grow heartier and more pronounced when my fingertips grazed over a particularly sensitive spot. Not five minutes into our play and Petey was already in hell. With a wicked smile and eyes only for his captive, tortured footsie, I was in heaven.
Spending just a bit more time exploring the full length of his left arch and heel, I slipped my investigating fingers around to the top of his foot which proved to be rather sensitive in its own right. Not as thrash-producing as the sole, the hairy top of his foot produced lighter giggles from Pete that came in rapid fire, staccato bursts. After a bit of up-and-downing on the tops, I decided to head for some yet-unexplored territory – his toes.
While the sole is definitely my favorite part of a ticklish foot, I did rather enjoy working on the toes, as well. Reaching over to nab up another little invention of mine, I wrapped my free hand around the ball of his foot, occasionally scratching his arch with my thumbnail to keep his attention. Tool in hand, I was ready to get back to work in earnest. A particularly devastating technique on certain fellow with ticklish piggies, the tool I employed was a specially-made device which was the size and shape of a pointed feather, but which was made of stiff leather. I used this to reach right in between the victim's toes and tickle the space between with the pointed end. Alternatively, I could also insert it flat between the toes and use a sawing motion. What’s more, I could also use the point to work on the base of each toe, leaving them to wiggle and scrunch up tightly, still victimized by tickling no matter what defense was chosen. As it stands, Pete seemed to love each and every option, guffawing loudly as each new trial commenced.
Tapering off my assault for a few moments to allow my poor little toy a bit of respite, I marveled at the feet before me, yet again. While all of my attentions had been directed to Pete’s left foot, I noticed throughout his initial ordeal that his right paw seemed to react in a sympathetic fashion. Tease the left heel and the right one trembled. Sweep up and down the left sole and the right one wrinkled and flexed in apoplectic glee. Torture the hell out of the left toes and (you guessed it) the right piggies flailed and wiggled like there was no tomorrow. Who knew that bare feet could be so altruistic?
In addition to the thrashing that Pete’s feet had gone through already, another thing that interested me was just how sweaty his paws remained throughout. Despite the fan being on and the heat lamp being situated well above his knees, Pete’s paws practically dripped with perspiration from all the torture they were going through. While his left sole was pink from all the stimulation and his right was still the pearly white it had started out as, both feet had a light sheen to them from the sweat they’d been producing. Interesting…
Despite the wonder I was experiencing at the sights before me, the fact that I hadn’t yet graced Pete’s right foot with my attentions hadn’t escaped me. It was with this feeling of indebtedness towards the unmolested foot that I leaned forward and again subjected my trapped pal to some much-needed teasing.
Lapsing into a momentary mindset of intense cruelty, I attacked Pete’s right foot with ticklish abandon. The technique I employed this time was to identify the exact center of his naked sole, after which I began the tickling with large circles, slowly reducing them in size with each bark of laughter I produced from my victim. Repeating this process again and again, I grew inexorably closer to that center point, never going for the bull’s-eye until I was damn good and ready. Alternating stops and starts and stealing a few quick heel and toe pad tickles lead Pete into a false sense of security (despite his still laughing his fool head off) that I would avoid the middle of his sole where it was progressively becoming more and more sensitized through remaining untouched. Effectively I was developing the most ticklish part on Pete’s entire body but he was completely oblivious to it.
God, I loved this work sometimes…Finally having enough of the teasing dance I’d been putting my boy’s foot through, I decided to go in for the kill. Pausing for a moment to crack my knuckles again, I attacked the center of his sole. Screaming wildly, louder than he had our entire session thus far, Pete’s body tested the limits of my worktable’s restraints. Thrashing about as though he were in the thralls of a grand mall seizure, the laughter I heard coming from behind his gag rocketed up to an insane pitched, almost to the point of going silent on me.
Not wanting to be denied a single syllable of the cacophonic din that I was now creating, myself, I launched a second salvo on his other sole, using both hands at once to make his feet sing with ticklish glee. Pete did not disappoint with my combined assault, to say the least and I reveled in the bizarre sounds I was hearing from the head of the table. It was almost too much for me to tear my gaze away from his bucking form, but I was able to do so for but a moment in order to lean down to begin licking and sucking on his pink toes as they waved about in protest. Screaming into his gag and desperately trying to get his feet away from the unbearable tickling, I savored the taste of his new, clean, tickle sweat. I hungrily slipped my tongue in between his toes without mercy, scraping my teeth across his toe pads. It seemed as though the blitzkrieg assault to his tender peds was causing Pete quite a bit of distress and I was loving every moment of it. Be it from the attention to his toes or soles, Pete was locked in paroxysms of hysterical laughter, squirming about in a tense panic at not knowing when the torture he was being subjected to would stop, or if it would eventually stop at all. That said, it came as a surprise when the wiggling tickle-toy I was happily working on so intently suddenly ceased laughing and all but fainted dead away from the bombardment of sensations he was experiencing below the ankles. In a word, I had tickled Pete comatose. Who’d have thought it possible? It is a gas, this little interest of mine,,,
Using Pete’s lapse into unconsciousness as a breather, myself, I lit a cigarette and massaged my crotch slowly as I rose from the chair. Again, while I’m still technically strait, the opportunity to tickle a guy senseless never fails to get me hard as a rock. With that in mind, I made my way to the middle of the table to see how my tormented compatriot was doing in that department. Moving the heat lamp away for a brief moment, I ran my hand along the tarp pants right above Pete’s crotch. The industrial-strength plastic was pretty warm to the touch but, thankfully, hadn’t heated up to the point where it could be doing the man any hard. Given that the air trapped within his pants had nowhere to escape, I could only imagine how moist things had gotten inside the multitude of wrappers. Pushing down a bit more firmly, I let my fingers do the walking to see if Pete’s interest had piqued like had my own. Sure enough, despite it being three-layers deep, whatever size rod my boy was packing was at least semi-hard from the stimulation I’d been putting him through. I was beginning to like this boy more and more…
It was as I began getting my next few tools ready that Pete came to, again. Denied my chance to use my own, homemade smelling salts on my partner, I decided to exact a little revenge for the denial and wait on the coup de grace a little bit longer. Nostrils flaring and starting visibly, Pete’s head whipped back and forth, trying to seek me out and plead to be let go, despite the many implements that kept him from doing so. Seeking to take advantage of his vulnerability while he was still in a state of relative disorientation, I reached down to his waist and pulled his shirt out of his pants slowly, careful not to inadvertently pull out the tarp with it. Breathing even more heavily now as I rolled the thin, sweat-soaked fabric up past his belly and chest, Pete remained as still as he could despite the panic that was probably running through his tickle-addled mind. I let my fingertips brush across his flank, only to be greeted with silence. Apparently Pete’s tummy was not tickly. A shame, even though the torso was useful to me for one area and one area only.
Tucking the rolled shirt up under his chin, I stared down at his chest and let my eyes wander over the hairy mass before me until I located the burly man’s nipples. Finding them amidst two dark whorls of man-fur, I licked my lips and prayed to the tickle-gods that Pete’s tits were are ticklish as I needed them to be. Reaching out tentatively, I scratched his right nipple lightly and was rewarded with a long, low moan that dissolved into a monotone giggle as I continued investigating. Ooh baby, I was going to have some fun with this one.
Reaching over to his left nip, I lightly grazed its tip with the pads of my fingers and nearly whooped with delight over the high, almost-girlish giggles that came streaming from Pete’s socked mouth. Flicking my nails over it rapidly, I let my other hand join in back on righty and let both sides have a bit of fluttery fun for awhile, licking my lips the entire time as Pete’s nipples rapidly hardened and I was able to see them in their pebbly glory amidst his dark, dark chest hair. It would seem that Pete’s nipples were a prime candidate for some extended attention and I was more than happy to lavish them with it.
Leaving his left nip be for a moment, I reached over to a side table and retrieved a small hand drill that I’d prepped with a soft, horsehair brush in place of a traditional drill bit. Passing it to my right hand, I palmed an electric toothbrush in my now-empty left hand and turn both devices on in unison. To say that the combined buzzing sounds had a startling effect on Pete would be an understatement. To suggest that he was ill-prepared for the mechanized assault on his hardened nubs would have been an even greater one. With glee rivaling that which had felt during my attack on his poor widdle feetsies, I launched my attack again, this time with a little help from my friends.
Applying both devices at the same time, Pete’s torso began to thrash like I hadn’t seen it before. Firing off his elation at the stimulation with those same girlish giggles as before, it was a hoot to hear him also moan loudly when I pressed in with the horsehair pad or just skimmed the surface with the toothbrush tool. Apparently, Pete’s tits were more than just ticklish; they were also a major erogenous zone for the hardened road worker. Seeking to put this tidbit of info to good use, I tossed aside the toothbrush and leaned down to take Pete’s right nipple into my mouth. Sucking it firmly, I swirled my tongue around the firm nubbin and glanced down at his plastic-covered junk. Sure enough, whatever I had done to get him half hard before had been amplified by my attention to his torso as the crotch bump before my eyes had doubled in size since last I checked. Petey liked to have his titties played with. Imagine my surprise.
Slipping around to the opposite side of the table, I switched drill hands and took Pete’s left nipple between my teeth, rolling it gently while I flicked its tip with my tongue. Keeping up the horsehair polishing on its mate, this new combo of sensations produced further moans and a none-too-subtle humping motion down south on the boy. Sensing it was time to finish things off, I shut the drill off and reluctantly pulled my mouth away. Rolling both nipples between my fingertips, I pinched the pair once and headed back to the table’s bottom.
Pushing aside the heat lamp for the final time, I picked up a small pair of ace bandage rolls and stopped at Pete’s feet. Slipping a pair of vibrating bullets from my denim pocket, I wrapped them tight against the soles of Pete’s jerking feet, making sure they were tight enough not to slip with the ensuing carnage to come. Leaving him to wonder just what the hell I was doing again at his poor, abused soles, I left him to stew for awhile (about five seconds) befor switching the tiny little pleasure devices on max. The effect was instantaneous and beautiful.
Laughing with renewed zeal and waving his mummified feet wildly, I moved to the center of the table and popped the snap fly on the trap pants, right above Pete’s own zipper. Rubbing his hard-on deeply through the now-sweaty denim, I began to hear moans amidst the laughter and smiled broadly. Holding back, I stepped over to lean down by Pete’s face and whispered into his ear. “Do you want to cum for me, boy? Just say the words I want to hear and daddy will let you cum for him.”
Nodding and screaming yes amidst his tortured laughter, I knew I had Pete right where I wanted him. “Good boy. Now we’re gonna get rid of this gag here so I can hear you tell me how much you love what I’m doing to you. If I hear anything other than you begging me to get you off, I’m going to keep you here for the week as my personal tickle whore. Do we have an understanding, boy?”
Again nodding to the point that I feared his head would pop off, I reached up and loosed the tied sock, pulling out its thoroughly sodden mate while doing so.
“Ooooohhhh Ha hha ahahahhha ha aha ha ahhaaa haaa!!!! M-make meeeee cuuuuummm DAADDYYYY!!!!”
Singing the praise I needed to hear from him, I decided to make good on my promise and moved to his happy place. Sitting down in my wheeled office chair, I rolled to the side of the table for the final time and undid the metal catch on his jeans. Thankfully, as I was busy admiring my handiwork at the base of the table, my face was far enough from his steaming crotch that I didn’t get hit by the monster that sprang from within. At least nine inches in length, the rod that Pete was packing had to be close to two inches in diameter at its base. To say the least, my man had a monster cock! Shiny with sweat, I smiled maniacally and shoved both of my hands deep between his legs, slipping right inside due to the veritable flood of sweat I had had a hand in creating due to the combined efforts of the tarp pants and heat lamp. I was in heaven and soon, so would be Pete.
Cupping his sack with my left hand, I massaged his huge balls in earnest as I tickled the fuck out of his taint with my right hand. Screaming with renewed vigor, Pete apparently hadn’t expected that I would be teasing his junk prior to getting him off. Oh well, sucks to be him.
Pulling my left hand free, I began stroking the heavy shaft greedily, taking his head in my mouth and swirling my tongue around it as I kept tickling his nuts with my other hand. Pounding his now, surely, bruised ass against the table top, I pulled my right hand out and two-fisted Pete’s rod, stroking up and down until I decided he’d had enough pleasure and went back to the two-handed tickle assault on his scrotum. Mewling pathetically and laughing amidst his moans to get him off, I decided to go the long route and make him cum the way I wanted him to. Picking up the horsehair drill again, I turned it on to mid-range velocity and began polishing his knob which was rapidly becoming purple from the stimulation it had received thus far. It was at this point that Pete began bucking again and, given the plans I had for my free hand, I had to resort to hopping up on the table to straddle his thighs to help him hold still.
Grasping his dick in my right hand, I slowly began to stroke it as I kept up the apple-polishing. This was gonna be a gusher, I knew it right from the start. Pressing the pad more firmly into his swollen mushroom cap, I v-ed the fingers of my right hand and began stroking just beneath the crown of his dickhead. From a great deal of practice on both myself and past guests, I discovered that this form of stimulation proved to make for a long, slow release of one’s pent-up spunk. Slowly rubbing the hyper-sensitized glands, I stayed the polishing course and waited for the inevitable.
After about 20 minutes of this treatment aided, mind you, by the copious sweat which still adorned Petey’s peter, I knew it my oversexed, overtickled road worker friend was ready to burst. Pulling the rotating brush away, the over-the-top moans I’d been hearing slowed but a fraction as the tickling came more fully back into the picture when my hand met his balls for the last and final time. Frigging just beneath his cockhead like there was no tomorrow, Pete let out an animal roar and blew out a load that could only be described as monumental in its proportion.
Screaming like a madman, Pete’s pulsating pole blew his seed out again and again until it seemed there was nothing left for the poor boy to let fly. It was as I thought this that the final burp of man juice seeped out and fell to the blue plastic mat on top of him and he immediately passed out again, for the third time. Smiling and my accomplishment, I glanced back at Pete’s wrapped feet and noticed how they continued to twitch and squirm, despite their owner effectively being down for the count. Hopping off the table, I noticed that a good bit of Pete’s spunk had landed on my own pants. In the main, however, close to 90% of the frothy goodness had collected on the tarp, pooling here and there into a veritable lake of jism. That is, of course, all of the cum that had not shot up and stuck to the ceiling…
Unsure as to just how long Pete would be out during this latest nap period, I quickly cleaned him off and untied him. Following this, I took him out the back door and carried his now-slightly lighter ass to his truck and unceremoniously left him the cab of the vehicle. In doing so, I also made sure to leave him a DVD copy of our time spent together on the dashboard. On the disc itself, I had written a short note that if he ever felt the strange yen to discuss our time together with anyone (say, the authorities), I would make sure the production we’d both had a hand in would be sent to his home, his garage, and across the infinitely-reaching arms of the internet. As to any fears I might have had about my own face being seen on the little home movie. Well, let’s just say that the cameras were strategically placed to avoid catching anything I didn’t want them to see.
Ringing his garage from a store-bought cell phone, I informed whoever it was that was at the front desk that one of their trucks had been outside on my block for most of the day and I was starting to worry. After being informed that they would send out a big rig wrecker (whatever the hell that was) to pick it up, I decided that my job had effectively come to a close and it was time for a late supper in town. Granted, “town” in this sense meant a locale about fifty miles away, I wasn’t surprised to find the PennDot truck its operator, and even the orange and white sawhorse missing by the time I got back home, much, much later that night…
What did surprise me, however, was the note I found slipped underneath the leg of the rattan chair I’d been sitting in earlier that day. Unfolding it and nearly tripping as I read it on my way into the house, it said –
“Next time, do I get to tie you up?”
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Man, do I love summers when the wife’s away…
