Brian is a live-in gardener with a tickle fetish. Powell is the estate's hunky black chauffeur. When Brian decides to explore his kinkier side, he attempts to seduce Powell with terrific results. Another hot gay tickling story from Wayne Courtois!
Capturing the King
by Wayne Courtois
Photo courtesy of MyFriendsFeet
The vast acreage of the Thorne estate was far removed from town. None of the family was left now except for old Mrs. Thorne, attended by nurses who were constantly coming and going from the main house. And no one else lived on the estate anymore—no one but Brian and
Powell.
Brian worked in the greenhouse, maintaining the orchids. It had been old man Thorne’s wish that, upon his death, the exotic plants would be cared for in perpetuity. So Brian had a guaranteed job for life, and free lodgings in what was once the gardener’s cottage. In a way it was a strange prospect for a young man, that he might be living and working in this remote spot for—what, the next forty years? On the surface of it, it didn’t seem like much. But the cottage more than suited his needs; he had even turned one of its rooms into a weight room, with the latest bodybuilding equipment. His trips to town kept him in books and music, and an occasional
man to spend the night with. As comfortable as he was, he had no need to think about moving on.
And then there was Powell.
Powell—first name? Last name? Brian didn’t even know—was also a young man who had only been employed on the estate for a few years, beginning as a chauffeur. But those few short years had brought a lot of change, beginning with the death of old Mr. Thorne and the
declining health of his widow. Since a chauffeur was hardly needed anymore, Powell took on other responsibilities as the older staff moved on or retired. Now he was even handling the estate’s financial matters.
And Powell was, as far as Brian was concerned, a King. A Nubian King.
Sometimes Brian would look at Powell from afar—their daily lives didn’t intersect very much, they even ate their meals at different times—and suddenly realize that he was standing and staring with his mouth open. Where did he come from, this man with the noble bearing and beautiful dark skin? Oh, Brian had been looking at men for a long time, as long as he could remember; but he’d never seen a man who moved like that…his graceful assertiveness was poetry for the eyes. There was Powell, in the black outfit from his chauffeur days, striding down the great lawn to talk to the yard workers who came out from town twice a month. Some of these
guys were sexy, yes, and weren’t shy about taking their shirts off as they worked. But they were nothing compared to Powell.
Once, when Brian and Powell had happened to be in the main house at the same time, Brian had struck up a conversation, none-too-subtly mentioning that the orchid got its name from a Greek word meaning “testes,” because of the way the bulbs looked. “If you come down to the greenhouse sometime, you can see mine,” he said. “My plants, I mean!” Even as he felt his face turning red he kept his eyes on Powell, who seemed to give him a fleeting look—a meaningful one. God, Brian thought, what am I doing? Another time Brian, crossing the grounds on his way to the greenhouse, spotted Powell outside the garage that housed Mrs. Thorne’s Mercedes. The car was of no use to her anymore, but Powell kept it in good condition. Today he was washing the car in the driveway…and he was…naked.
Well, almost naked. He wore black swim trunks—not a Speedo but close to it. And why not, it was a hot day, the hottest day of summer so far. Ducking behind a tree, Brian found he could get a good view of the young man without, hopefully, being seen. Except for his swim trunks and sunglasses, Powell was naked, and he’d perspired enough that his muscular frame gleamed in the sun.
If only I could see the soles of his feet! Brian thought. Then I could die happy.
He watched Powell all through the washing, rinsing, and waxing of the car. In an almost unbearable state of arousal, Brian brushed his hand against his crotch and realized that he had come in his shorts, without knowing just when.
His chore done, Powell walked away. Brian could swear that the barely-glimpsed soles of those feet were winking at him.
One night not long after that, Brian, who had his own car, drove to the nearest gay bar, thirty miles away. It was the kind of place—pool table, dance floor the size of a hand towel— that always seemed larger in memory than it did in reality. But it attracted guys from many miles around, including some just passing through; so Brian usually saw at least a few new faces, all the more so since he rarely dropped by. He was used to the looks he got as soon as he entered— hey, check it out, this guy is hot—and he absorbed them without, he hoped, seeming arrogant as he made his way to the bar while avoiding eye contact with anyone. He needed at least one beer to overcome his shyness.
He’d barely taken a sip when a guy appeared at his elbow, ordering a beer but also cutting his eyes toward Brian, desperate to put the moves on him. After about thirty seconds Brian returned a glance, enough to get the picture. Not a bad looking guy—shorter than Brian, shaved head, dark coating of stubble on his face, slim but well built. Brown eyes that were lively, mischievous. His name was Scott, and during some small talk Brian found out what he needed to know, taking a light, playful poke at Scott’s ribs. Scott jumped.
“Ticklish?” Brian asked. Just saying the word “ticklish” brought a flush to his face, and his dick stiffened a bit.
“Very ticklish,” Scott said, almost proudly, as if it showed just how much fun he could be.
He had no idea.
Even the headlights of Scott’s jeep seemed eager, bouncing in Brian’s rear view mirror as they followed the rough country roads back to the estate. When they pulled into the cottage drive, Scott was the first one out of his car. “Wow,” he said, “you were right, this place really is isolated.”
“Lots of privacy,” Brian said, fitting his key in the lock.
“Great!”
As soon as he was inside, Scott stripped off his t-shirt. Oh, very nice build. Hairy chest, and a treasure trail leading from his navel to the waist of his jeans, which didn’t stay on for long. Nor did Brian take long to get to the matter at hand; he couldn’t, he was too excited. As they kissed, greedy with their tongues, Brian’s fingers took nips here and there, at Scott’s rib cage, his sides, up into his armpits. Scott gasped and wriggled, pulled his mouth away from Brian’s long enough to say, “I told you I was ticklish.”
That was the last thing Scott would say for a while, because Brian wasn’t about to stop.
His hands moved swiftly, attacking Scott’s sides, belly, ribs and armpits. Scott tried to defend himself, but he was always one step behind Brian’s probing, poking, squeezing fingers. It was easy to steer Scott into the bedroom, where the ticklish young man, nearly hysterical, collapsed onto the bed. Brian was right on top of him. Having mapped Scott’s most tender spots—lower ribs, armpits, sides—he kept at them, his victim’s high-pitched laughter and squeals of protest egging him on. Straddling his hips, Brian admired the view: Scott’s hairy, helpless torso, big hard dick riding up on his belly…. Scott was still struggling too much for the tickling to be most effective, but Brian knew the cure for that: more tickling. “Oh yeah,” he said, “I’m gonna keep tickling you, stud, so get used to it. The more you struggle, the sooner you’ll be too exhausted to fight me off. Then we’ll really have some fun. You haven’t felt anything yet!”
Scott’s eyes rolled in panic, his fingers clawed helplessly at the air as Brian kept him pinned down. Ribs, armpits, sides…back and forth, back and forth. Plus there were two sweet spots just above his hips…when Brian squeezed there, Scott’s laughter turned to desperate, hoarse panting. His struggling body weakened, he sagged back onto the mattress as the tension left him…even as that was happening, Brian knew, Scott was terrified that his body was succumbing to this torture, and soon wouldn’t be able to struggle at all. “That’s just what I’m waiting for, baby,” Brian said. “Waiting till you’re weak and helpless and can’t move at all.”
When the time came, Brian left Scott lying there, the poor man’s chest heaving, limbs too weak to move on the sweat-soaked sheet. In his dresser Brian found his soft restraints—they were actually made from old bathrobe belts—and began to tie Scott’s wrists and ankles to the bedposts as the young man stared with anguish and fear in his eyes. When he felt the cloth being fastened around his ankle, he actually managed to struggle a bit.
“What’s that, baby?” Brian asked. “Are you telling me your feet are ticklish?”
More struggling, though it was so ineffective that it was embarrassing—and wonderful— to watch. Brian finished tying off the young man’s wrists and ankles. Scott was squirming, pulling on his bonds, finding that he was indeed trapped and helpless. His cock was harder than ever. He tried to speak, but could barely do more than whisper. Brian obligingly brought his ear close to Scott’s lips.
“Please…please let me go.”
Brian stood up, patted Scott’s shaved head. “I like that, hearing you beg. You’ll be doing a lot more begging before I’m through, I promise you that.”
Over the next hour or so Brian devoted himself to finding out just how ticklish Scott’s shapely, size-10 feet were. Their responsiveness was never less than amazing. After bringing Scott to a series of hoarse, nearly silent screams, Brian said, “Oh shit, this is too good, I have to bring everything out now.” Returning to his dresser, he found the cloth bag that held his collection. Feathers, some soft, some stiff. A hairbrush with long, mean-looking bristles. An old toothbrush, a plastic fork…. He showed each of these things to Scott, telling him that they would be used on his feet, even though it might take several hours to go through them all. Scott looked like he could faint, or wanted to.
“Don’t worry,” Brian said, “I won’t hurt you. I’m just going to tickle you, that’s all. Here, let me get you some water.”
After Scott had his drink he was able to speak a bit. “Please…don’t t-tickle me anymore….”
Brian shook his head. “Oh, you poor baby,” he said. “Do you know how it makes my dick ache to hear you say that?”
Brian was good to his word, using every tool in his kit on poor Scott’s feet. By the time a couple of hours had passed, Scott was in another world entirely. In this world there was nothing but tickle torture, and whenever it seemed as bad as it could get, there was another level to break through. It was a world of unthinkable torment, outrageous suffering, where a minute could seem like an hour; in that hour he could be tickled to death a thousand times, only to keep reviving to a world of blinding agony. His voice long since destroyed by screaming, all he could do was pant as his torturer found fresh delights in his sexy, helpless skin. Brian was using feathers now, for Scott had been sensitized to the nth degree, and the merest touch of a frond turned his face into a mask of pleading: Oh for God’s sake, kill me, kill me now...just don’t tickle me anymore!
Brian came many times during the night, often without touching himself. The feel of Scott’s ribs under his fingertips, or the sight of his soft soles with the bristles of a brush pressed against them, was enough to give him a spontaneous orgasm. He made sure that Scott had several mind-blowing climaxes also. A lot of the cum landed on his body, which made things more interesting. The hot, sticky cream had to be removed if it was covering a ticklish spot, and Brian’s technique with tongue or washcloth was its own kind of torture. It was heaven to watch Scott’s panicked expression and listen to his whispered screams as Brian reamed out his navel with rough terrycloth. “That’s right, baby,” he said. “Your ticklish nerve-ends are mine, all
mine.”
Sometime toward morning, Brian woke to find himself lying with his toes jammed into Scott’s armpits, his fingers stroking Scott’s feet. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that he had been tickling Scott while he dozed. Maybe he had! Scott was certainly out of it. Oh, Jesus, Brian thought, there’s nothing more fun than a super-ticklish guy who’s been tickled all night! He stepped up his lazy stroking of those soles until Scott began to squirm again. Yeah, this was the best: a totally delirious victim with his wagging tongue and sloppy, involuntary grins…. Scott looked at Brian with eyes that didn’t seem to be able to focus, and when he tried to speak, all that came out was gibberish.
“I’m enjoying this too much, buddy,” Brian said. “I’m gonna have to tickle you for a couple more hours, at least.” Crawling toward the head of the bed, he sank into his victim, caressing his abs, tickling the piss out of him. Luxuriating in the madness of it, and the smell of beer-piss, panic sweat, and cum.
At last, sometime after sunrise, he untied the restraints. Scott didn’t move. “I’ve just about tickled you to death, haven’t I?” Brian asked. He brought a glass of water, but Scott was too weak to hold it. Brian sat on the edge of the bed for a while as the young man gradually came back to life, such as it was: exhausted, overstimulated, his flesh mottled as if he were blushing all over. It took several tries before he could move his legs over the side of the bed and sit up. He sat there for a while, now and then raising a fingertip to touch himself here and there—testing a rib or much-abused armpit, letting go a soft hysterical giggle.
“Try to stand up,” Brian said.
Scott looked at Brian as if he were seeing him for the first time. He had been so immersed in a world of sensation that the real world was registering slowly; he was still getting used to the idea that he wasn’t tied down anymore. He rubbed one wrist, then the other. Looked down at his poor roughed-up feet on the carpet. Surely he remembered, amid all the unbearable tickling, how his cock had burst like a firecracker time after time? When he regarded his torturer now, it was with fear and desire mixed. But fear won out. Moving stiffly, he fumbled for his jeans and managed to get them on. Grabbed his shirt in one hand, his sneakers and socks in the other, and walked a drunkard’s path to the door.
“Wait,” Brian said. “Put your sneakers on first…Scott, put your sneakers on!”
Too late. Once he was moving, Scott wasn’t about to stop, even if he did have to walk barefoot across the gravel drive to his car. The gravel bit his tenderized soles, making him yelp each step of the way. When he finally made it to his jeep he took off in an arc that sprayed a good bit of that gravel onto the lawn. As Brian watched the jeep’s erratic spin down the drive, he
realized that Scott would probably talk. Yes: at the risk of embarrassing himself, he would warn other guys away from Brian and his particular kink.
Maybe that would be for the best. Maybe anything that gave him that much pleasure was bad. Brian couldn’t believe that for long, though. He had a computer with a high-speed Internet connection on his bedroom desk, and many nights he sat up late, looking at pictures and video clips of men bound and tickled. The barrage of unspeakably erotic images brought him to explosive orgasms as he jacked off with one hand and tickled his balls with the other. Each explosion seemed to engage all the nerve and muscle he had, and he’d sit there afterwards, feeling totally drained, his vision blurred. Jesus, did everybody have orgasms like this?
PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER
Enjoy the story? Please let our authors know by commenting below. It rewards their hard work and encourages them to write more!