Chapter 2

But I want this guy naked. I shove his sweatshirt over his head and up to his secured wrists. His bare arms, chest and stomach are now all at my disposal. I usually like a little more soft vulnerability in the belly area but Grant is a true athlete with close to zero body fat. He is all skin and muscles. But all stretched out like this, those exposed ab muscles look ticklish as hell. He has an eight pack that is bulls-eyed by a vertical oval of a belly button. It’s not an outie per se as nothing is protruding, but it isn’t indented either. It’s a flatie. I drill my fingers into his ribs and scribble my way up to his armpits. It’s a good thing we’re pretty well sound proofed back here. Grant is a noisy boy. He must really be enjoying himself because he is in hysterical laughter.

My hands work their way down his sides and stop above the hips where I squeeze and grapple at what is apparently yet another big tickle spot for him.

He screams out, “Nooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!”

Okay, fine. My fingers swipe across his lower abdomen and Grant elevates off the table. I give this spot a full minute, intermixed with belly button play and I wish that I had earplugs. I have succeeded in priming his senses and readying him for what comes next.

The timer tells me I have fifteen minutes left so I begin to undo his jeans. I pull them down to around his knees. His Under Armour boxer briefs are partially tented with his partial erection. Oh, yeah. He’s halfway there and I haven’t done anything sexual yet. I always win, but this is going to be easy.

Sometimes I like to play with my victim for a while; edging a presumed straight boy is always fun. I tease and torment the poor bastard to the brink of his sanity. I make these “straight guys” beg me to allow them to climax. Please let me cum! Please! I lose, okay? Just… Please… Do it! Other times it’s fun to dick around with them until there’s only one minute left on the timer, giving them a glimmer of hope that they can win the game. They never win. I have magic hands and a talented mouth. Sometimes it happens with only ten seconds left on the clock but I always get my man.

What do I want to do with Grant? As I stare down at him, he continues to grow stiffer. Embarrassed, he begins to make excuses. “Your agreement says nothing about tickling. It’s not my fault. Tickling always makes me hard. This doesn’t count.”

I make a tsk sound. “The agreement you signed gives me twenty minutes to do whatever I want. There is a paragraph about foreplay. You can reread it later. In the meantime your stall tactics will not work.”

He strains against his bindings again. He’s desperate because he knows he can’t win. “You’re a cheater!”

How dare he question my integrity. I yank down his underwear and his penis is three quarters of the way erect. We both stare at it. It bobs with his heartbeat as it continues to chub up all on its own.

“Grant, I hardly tickled you and it ended three minutes ago. Your hardon continues to grow like it has a mind of its own. Look! It’s firming up with every beat of your heart. Your brain might be having second thoughts about the contract you signed but your dick can’t wait to get started.”

I decide that I won’t waste time with teasing and edging. Since Grant has chosen to invalidate this whole thing with lame excuses, I figure it’s best to demonstrate to him exactly how “not straight” he is. I am going to bring him to an earthshattering orgasm and do so in record time. And he’s afraid that I’m about to do exactly that.

He’s also afraid that he’ll be left feeling weak and pathetic. Broken and humiliated. But that’s not true. And that certainly is not my goal. Rather, I intend to awaken something inside of him. Something that was already there. He is about to learn about himself.

I drizzle some oil in my hands. He is at full erection now. He is pointing straight up at the ceiling. His cock is throbbing and the tip glistens with precum. Despite having been acting like an ass for these few minutes, Grant is a good looking dude. His swimmer’s build is gorgeous, of course, and his penis is now as hard as any other muscle on his fat-free body. Looking at his at least 6’2″ frame and at least size twelve feet, I would have expected his dick to be bigger. It’s not small, but it’s not huge. It’s actually pretty perfect – my favorite size. Maybe just six inches. Too much bigger than that can be off-putting if not downright scary. Too much to handle. Six inches is manly fun size that I can do whatever I want to.

I grab it and he throws his head back and lets out what I can only describe as a bark. Another five minutes have come off the clock, but that’s fine. My new goal is to make him blow his load in less than sixty seconds. It’s an aggressive goal but I am an overachiever.

I use two hands and slide up and down his oil-slicked shaft. He begins to moan. I use both thumbs to prod and swirl under the tip and along his underside as I continue to stroke. His back arches and his whole body squirms. I give his head a quick polish and he actually screams. I wrap my right hand around his rod and twist back and forth as my hand glides up and down. My left hand fondles his balls while my right hand continues with twists and strokes. I don’t speed up or slow down; I just maintain a relentless pace. I notice his toes curl. His breathing gets choppy. His back crashes down on the table then arches again. I keep going.

He warns me, “Oh my god! I’m gonna cum!”

No shit. He’s just figuring this out now?

“Like right now! I can’t stop it! It’s gonna happen!”

At the nine minute and five second mark (fifty-five seconds into my sixty second goal), he shoots his load. And what a load it is. The first spurt happens at the apex of an upward stroke and it actually shoots out of him like a canon landing on his chin. The second spurt is also a rope and it lands on his sternum. The third barely clears his flat navel and the remaining five pulses dribble down my fingers as I continue to milk this athlete dry.

When he has no more left to give, I still don’t stop. Grant’s face is crimson red and he is panting like he just swam one hundred meters. He lifts his head and says, “Okay. You win. Stop now.”

The contract stipulates that I get all twenty minutes no matter what. With almost nine minutes left on the clock, it’s now my play time. It’s post-orgasm torture time. Some guys go flaccid immediately after such a huge orgasm. They can’t help it; their dicks just desperately need a nap. Grant, to my delight, is still rock-hard. I keep stroking.

He grimaces. “I’m serious. Stop it now.”

Knowing he’s big on the legalese I point out that the contract gives me the full twenty minutes.

I polish his head roughly in the palm of my hand and he howls in agony. Tears are streaming down his cheeks when he begs, “Please! Eight more minutes of this will kill me!”

Well, I don’t want a dead body on my hands. I stop polishing. I go back to gentle strokes and he relaxes just a little.

I ask, “Now that you know you’re not a Zero, what do you think your Kinsey score should be.”

I snort, “Fuck you.” I keep stroking him up and down. “Now that you know you’re bisexual, do you feel any different?”

“You cheated. This didn’t count. I am not bisexual. I am a healthy twenty year old man and as such, I get aroused easily. I could get hard looking at pictures of rocks. It’s normal for a guy my age. It was just the physical stimulation. That’s all.”

“But Grant, you and I both watched your dick firm up tick by tick when no one was touching you. You wanted me to touch you. You wanted this to happen.”

His erection is not dissipating as I continue to stroke. I change to more of a massage of his shaft, with some concentrated thumb swirling below the glans. He stifles a moan and bites his lower lip.

“I’m not into dudes!”

I’m sure his protest sounds as hallow in his own ears as it does in mine.

I smile, “No. You just desire that they do impure things to you.”

My massaging gets more aggressive and his toes curl again. “Dude! You need to stop now!”

“I’m gonna cum again!”

“Your right. Boys are gross. That’s obviously how you feel about the situation.”

He has no retort to that because he is too preoccupied having yet another orgasm. I continue to swirl my thumb below his tip while gripping his steel shaft and sure enough… He pulses and releases again. It’s not nearly as much – how could it be? After the previous massive load I’m shocked that there’s anything left at all. When he’s done there are still two minutes left on the clock, but I let it slide. I could torture him, but I think he’s torturing himself enough for the both of us.

Without freeing him from his restraints, I get a washcloth and a towel and I wipe Grant clean of the mess he made. Twice. Did he make those messes or did I? As the timer runs out, right on cue, the connecting door to the tattoo shop opens and Leo walks through.

Grant tries to twist to conceal his naked, and finally limp, form. “Hey! Who is this guy? Let me off this table!”

I grin at Grant, “You know from the agreement you signed that because I won, there is one more thing before I set you free.” I pull up his undies and jeans. “I decide your score and brand you with it.”

He looks horrified. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Grant, this is Leo. He owns the tattoo parlor next door. Your right shoulder is about to get tattooed with a tasteful simple black digit. Hmm. What should I pick?”

“You cannot be serious. This must be illegal. You can’t do this to me against my will.”

“But it’s not against your will. You gave consent by signing the agreement.”

“I didn’t see anything about a tattoo in there.”

I show him the paragraph toward the end of the document.

“Who reads the fine print?” Grant screams.

“Look, Leo is very good. Fifteen minutes and it will all be over. You’ll hardly feel a thing. I just need to decide on your final score.”

“That’s permanent ink!”

“You’ve got a smart one here, Clark,” says Leo. “Mister swimming team dude. This is happening. I’m sure you’ve seen some other guys scattered around campus with black numbers on their shoulders. You are in an elite club.”

His eyes bug out, then recess some in resignation. “Just put a ‘1’ on me.”

“We covered this. You are not a ‘1’. I was going to be generous and give you a three, but you’ve protested so much that you’ve talked me into a ‘4’.”

It takes us a few minutes to convince Grant that he would benefit from holding still and cooperating. This is happening one way or another. It is a small, quick and painless shoulder tattoo and his cooperation will ensure a clean result. He eventually relents. I also explain to him that for my end of our agreement, I will never acknowledge what happened here tonight to him or to anyone else. No one will know from anything I say. People will only know what the number “4” means (and what happened here tonight) if Grant chooses to tell. And no one tells. None of the kids he’s seen with numbers on their shoulders go around explaining the true circumstances of how their tattoos came to be. The best thing to do is to be mysterious and say they’ve been sworn to secrecy in a private club.