Chapter 3

This is when I get proof that tickle torturing is more than just an act for John. While his tongue and teeth lavish attention on my bare feet, I feel his crotch stiffening underneath my body. This is real bad news because the more he enjoys this, the longer my torture will last. This is more than just a job or contractual obligation. He’s having as much fun as the audience. My voice is already hoarse from laughing and screaming, but my night has only just begun.

Once both feet have been equally and thoroughly molested — raped, really — he sits up and blows a raspberry into each arch as a parting gift. Before I even realize what’s happening, his hands are working the fly of my jeans and he has them pulled right off my body. The crowd roars its approval. His hands work their way up my shins and calves and he squeezes above my knees. I flop and thrash around like I’m being held underwater. Laughter surrounds me. Do any of these people think this is as fake as the wrestling? I would not be that good of an actor. The tickling is real and my torturer is loving it as much as the crowd. His hands squeeze at my upper inner thighs and my body bounces a foot off the matt before crashing down. He keeps squeezing there and I’ve never screamed so loud in my life.

Next, he sits me up and pulls off my sweatshirt. It too gets tossed into the crowd. My pale, smooth, scrawny, hairless body is not the type of physique that is usually featured on this stage. The crowd’s reaction is laughter. I flush in embarrassment. The Torturous Tickler pushes me back down. I sneak another peek at the jumbotron to see a large-screen closeup of my round, innie belly button. The crowd’s laughter turns to giggles and ooo’s and ah’s.

But The Torturous Tickler is not ready for my belly yet. He squeezes my sides above my hipbones and I jerk and flail as much as when he attacked my thighs. He keeps at it and I seriously have never laughed as hard in all of my 24 years. When he thinks I might hyperventilate, he switches to drilling and stroking my ribs. All I can do is whip my head back and forth while I scream my fool head off. My whole body is covered in sweat at this point, despite the fact that the air conditioning is on and all I’m wearing is a ski mask and a pair of white boxer briefs. When he shifts his focus to my armpits, which have just a light coverage of peach fuzz (maybe I’ll finish puberty before I turn thirty), the slippery sweat actually intensifies the tickling sensation. It’s natural lubrication.

He scoots himself a bit lower down my body and pulls my boxers down a couple inches to below my hipbones, just above the pubis. He takes a moment to examine my stomach. Here’s thing. So far, this has been the worst tickling of my life, intensified by the humiliation of having an audience of six thousand. I have literally thought I was going to die about twelve different times. But as bad as my feet and thighs and ribs and armpits have been, my worst spot has yet to be touched. My lower abdomen is my kryptonite. Touch me there (or in my belly button) and I instantly turn to jelly. All strength is sapped from my body and I’m just like a weak, helpless little boy. I look him right in the eyes. I use both my eyes and my words to beg and plead with him. I’m hoping for just the slightest ounce of humanity and compassion. I say, “Please. Please! Not my stomach! I really, truly, honestly can’t take that. You will break me. Anywhere else. Even my feet again. Please! Just not my stomach!”

It’s not until I’m through with my pointless plea for mercy that I remember the ring mic. Everyone heard my pathetic begging. The crowd begins a new chant, “STOMACH, STOMACH, STOMACH, MAKE HIM PAY, MAKE HIM PAY, MAKE HIM PAY.” I glance up at the jumbotron again and it’s zoomed in on my lower abdomen from my navel down to the waistband of my briefs with my hipbones jutting up.

The Torturous Tickler shrugs and says, “Sorry dude.” He wiggles his fingers with the crowd and my heart sinks. The wiggling fingers slowly lower toward my captive belly and I’m already quivering in anticipatory fear. He rakes his fingertips lightly across from side to side between the hipbones, where my waistband used to be and I melt. My abdomen quakes and lurches so hard, I’m sure I’ll pull a muscle. Why am I so sensitive there? I honestly think there’s something physiologically wrong with me. I start out writhing, thrashing and screaming, but as his relentless attack persists, my will breaks. There’s actually no fight left in me. Even my laughter is reduced to soundless breathy gasps. He rubs, pokes, prods, massages and explores me intimately. My face is beet red and I can’t see at all through the bleary-eyed tears. After a thorough examination of my belly button, he plunges his tongue into my little innie hole and that jolts me awake.

There’s one more thing I haven’t mentioned about having my stomach tickled. It doesn’t happen to me when it’s my feet, my ribs, my armpits…nothing else has this affect no matter how bad it is. But my stomach…I can’t help it. I can’t control it. I get an erection. And right now, straddling me, The Torturous Tickler feels my member pressing against him from below. Part of me is glad because this is what makes him leave my poor tummy alone. Part of me is not so glad because when he moves off of me, six thousand people will see the tent I’ve pitched. His eyes meet mine again and I shake my head, no. His smile widens and he nods his head, yes.

With this mask on, I have no identity. I’m not really real to The Torturous Tickler or to the crowd. I’m the nameless, faceless imposter. A villain who must pay for his sins. They don’t want to see my face; that could only ruin the fun. It might actually humanize me. My face is the only skin on my whole body that they don’t care to see. There’s one last other bit that they haven’t yet seen. That’s about to be rectified.

The Torturous Tickler moves off of me and the tent pole I’m now sporting is free for all to notice. And notice, they do. They cheer, like The Torturous Tickler just achieved something special. Like he won the battle. The battle that he actually won before the war even started. He says to me again, “Sorry dude,” and swipes the underwear right off me. He puts the crotch of the garment to his nose and inhales like he did at the toes of my dirty socks. His eyes loll again and the crowd is going crazy as he tosses them to become yet another souvenir. My penis is swaying at full-mast in rhythm with my pulse and pointing straight skyward. The embarrassment is making it worse. I seriously have never been harder in my whole life. My boner is raging. And it’s already leaking pre-cum like a broken faucet. I’m expecting more ooo’s and ah’s from the crowd, but instead I hear laughter. I open my eyes and see the jumbotron is focused on my jumbo dick, but what’s so funny?

The Torturous Tickler says, “Where’s the rest of it?”

More raucous laughter.

“Seriously, is that all you’ve got?”

My cheeks blush like they’re on fire and my lead pole stiffens even more. I’d always assumed Sean was just bullying me when he told people in high school that I was small down there. I never really thought it was true. I’d never had a girlfriend to offer comparisons. But now, just maybe, six thousand people have confirmed that I have a shortcoming.

The Torturous Tickler says, “Let me help you out with that.” He kneels beside me and grasps my manhood.

I haven’t mentioned this yet either, but I am a twenty-four-year-old virgin. This is the first time in my life that someone besides me is touching me there and it sends jolts of electricity through my whole body. Which, of course, the whole crowd finds hysterical. The Torturous Tickler lets go and I continue to bob with the beat of my heart. He announces, “Well folks, it’s rock hard. No room for further growth. That’s as big as it gets. The good news is that it is obviously in fine working order. The bad news is that it can only handle small jobs.”

A sarcastic cheer from the beyond.

He retakes my manhood (or maybe he thinks of it as my boyhood) and my glistening pre-cum provides lubrication. He squeezes his manly calloused hand around my virgin pole and fireworks are going off in my body. The Torturous Tickler says, “Look, he’s at full erection and the tip doesn’t even peek out of my fist! He’s not even a handful!”

More explosions of laughter from the crowd, but I hardly notice. My brain and my whole body are flooded in an ecstasy that is unlike any physical sensation that my wildest imagination could have ever dreamt.

Then he twists his hand a quarter turn and laughter suddenly isn’t the only thing that’s about to explode. He can sense it. He tells the crowd, “I don’t think our little friend here sees much action. One little touch and he’s ready to pop!”

The Torturous Tickler asks, “Should I tease him, or put him out of his misery?”

“TEASE HIM! TEASE HIM! TEASE HIM!”

So he does. Touch, release, touch, release. At one point, he swallows my whole length for just five seconds, but my eyes roll back in my head and I almost lose it. Finally after a good twenty minutes, he grabs me in his right hand and makes concentric circles on the upper underside just below the tip. This is an insane feeling and I try to resist, but I’m also so weak. My whole body is one huge limp noodle. Except for steel rod pointing up to the jumbotron. My hardon rages on. I try to think of toxic waste and garbage dumps and roadkill, but nothing works. Well, something works. It’s like the grand finale at the fireworks show. My body racks and convulses in the most intense orgasm of my life. My first shot flies over my head. My second lands on my bare chest. The third pools in my little innie hole and the fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh dribble down The Torturous Tickler’s hand and into my pubes. My body has post-orgasm shakes and I’m not sure I’ll ever have the strength to stand again.

The Torturous Tickler leans down and whispers again just for me, “Impressive shooting there, little dude. Hey, don’t get a complex about your size. I have huge hands. You’re not big, but your fine. Almost average. You’ve got good five inches there. Nothing to be ashamed of.” He kisses my forehead and leaves the ring.