The least those guys could have done was haul out their cocks and jack off all over me.
It hadn’t happened, but alone in his bed Drake pictured the sight, both his imagination and his right hand working overtime till the gym towel was soaked and he was exhausted.
So, okay, he was obsessed with getting his hands on what lay behind those jockstraps. The one place he was sure it would not happen was the high school locker room, which he had to visit three times a week, for gym class. The room itself wasn’t much to look at – it was just the basement downstairs from the gym, with rough concrete walls and no illumination except for bare bulbs hanging overhead – but the view was spectacular: the naked bodies of other perpetually horny teenaged boys. Drake tried to be very, very careful not to look at them. When that became difficult, he started the habit of getting to gym class early enough to change up and be on the gym floor before the others even arrived. That left him with the problem of dealing with the locker room after class, when the boys all showered; he handled that by dashing in and out of the shower room, practicing his quick-change act, and beating feet to his next class.
Most of the time, in gym, the rest of the boys played basketball or volleyball while Drake worked out with the free weights. It was unusual to be excused from team sports so often, but Coach Doyle – a big, burly man who always had a five o’clock shadow – took a special interest in Drake. He often watched closely as Drake did his presses, and Drake was pleased to show that he had good form and was building up strength. He tried not to smile, though, or say much during gym class. He especially didn’t want to reveal himself to Coach Doyle, who tended to wear very tight shorts. Another attractive bulge, not to mention hairy legs.
Everything was fine until Marshall Carter came along. A new boy whose family had just moved to the small town, Marshall was assigned to the same gym class. Drake got the shock of his life when he arrived at the gym one day, early as usual, and bustled down the stairs. This time he wasn’t the first to arrive, for Marshall Carter was already there, standing stark naked in the middle of the locker room floor. “Hi!” he said, grinning at Drake and extending his hand. “Just call me Carter, everybody does.”
Drake almost swooned. He had noticed this new boy around school, and had overheard some of the boys on the basketball team admitting – grudgingly, in mumbles and mutters – that Carter had the biggest cock any of them had ever seen. Not only that, but while some of the dark-haired boys were hairy all over, Carter was the first blond boy Drake had seen with great amounts of body hair. It covered Carter’s arms, chest, belly and legs, and it glowed in the light, under the naked bulbs that hung from the ceiling. He was tall, too, and broad-shouldered, his chest and abs well defined.
And that cock . . . Jesus God. It was long and smooth with a slight curve, and reminded Drake of nothing so much as the giant slide at the amusement park. He was ready to buy a ticket and climb on.
He was also scared to death. “I – I can’t stay,” he said, and ran for the stairs. As he pounded across the gym floor toward the exit, he realized he was skipping gym class for the first time ever.
After spring vacation Drake’s schedule changed. Gym was now the last class of the day, three times a week. He was never in a hurry to leave school at the end of the day, not looking forward much to the walk home that took nearly an hour. So after gym class he didn’t rush to get dressed the way he used to. He didn’t have to worry about getting a boner in front of the other guys, for they were the ones who rushed like hell now, eager to get out of school. Now Drake was often the last boy out of the locker room, instead of the first.
Then came an afternoon when Drake was running even later than usual. Coach Doyle had kept him after class a little bit to show him some stretches that would help keep his muscles from aching. In these warm days of spring Drake was so horny he couldn’t stand himself, and it didn’t help to have the Coach, in his famous tight green shorts, standing so close to him. It was a relief to head for the stairs. Maybe he would rush today, jumping in and out of the shower so he could get home, take out his jack-off towel and get it soaking wet.
His plan didn’t quite work out. The shower felt good, the strong jets of water massaging his muscles, and he stood under it for a long time. He had his eyes closed, the water playing on the back of his neck. Then the shower next to his came on and he nearly jumped. He looked over and there was Carter, of all people! Grinning at him as he soaped up his chest.
“Hi!” he said.
Drake quickly turned off his shower and grabbed his towel from the hook on the wall. Instead of drying off at the shower room exit, where he would be seen, he went back into the empty locker room to towel down, all the time thinking: Why was it that Carter was also here late? He’d left the gym class with the other guys . . .
“Hey, how you doing?”
Drake spun around, dropping his towel. There was Carter, dripping wet, grinning at him.
“Oh, hi.” Drake bent over and picked up his towel. He would finish drying himself and get dressed in record time.
Carter was toweling down too, but he didn’t face his locker while he did it, he just stood there facing Drake. “Hey,” he said, and Drake noted, for the first time, Carter’s rich deep voice. “I seen you working out with the weights.”
“Yeah,” Drake said, sitting on the wooden bench so he could dry his feet. “The Coach lets me do that.”
“Keeps you in great shape, huh?”
Drake looked up at Carter. There he stood, wincing as he dried the inside of his ear, not even covering himself with the towel. He was the single sexiest guy Drake had ever seen in person. He wanted to stick to his plan, to dress and get the hell out of there, but he couldn’t help looking, just for a few seconds. As Carter used the towel on his chest, arms and legs, his body hair grew resplendent again. His beautiful cock swayed back and forth.
“Hey, you know what?” Carter took a seat on the bench, with about two feet separating him and Drake. “There’s something I’ve always wanted to know about you muscular guys.”
Drake was suddenly aware of himself, sitting there with his mouth open. He looked away, fumbled with the combination lock on his locker. “I’m not any more muscular than you are.”
“Are you kidding? You’ve got a build some guys would die for.” Carter slid down the bench, a little closer, a little more. “Anyway, I was wondering . . . are you ticklish?”
Drake turned around in sheer surprise, and Carter took the chance to reach out and tickle his armpits. “Oh, don’t,” Drake gasped, as Carter’s fingers, thrilling and agonizing, moved down to his ribs. “Don’t tickle me . . .”
“Oh, yeah,” Carter said, grinning. “You’re ticklish, all right.”
Drake squirmed, desperate to get away. He couldn’t stand it, if he were tickled for one more second he would start laughing helplessly.
But Carter’s fingers kept up with Drake’s efforts to escape, they dug into his ribs even harder.
“I can’t take it . . .” Drake’s voice rose in pitch and he broke into laughter, nearly hysterical. To be tickled by a sexy guy like this! Drake was struggling, not only to escape from Carter’s tickling fingers, but to keep his groin hidden. He was growing a hard-on and was desperate to keep it out of Carter’s sight.
“Kitch – kitchy!” Carter was incredibly quick, darting his fingers along Drake’s ribs and sides, down toward his waist.
It was unbearable. He had no choice but to swing one leg over the bench in an effort to get away. When he did, his huge prick swung in the air between them.
Carter stopped, but only for a second. He licked his lips. “Someone’s getting excited.” His hands took up where they left off, darting all over Drake’s incredibly ticklish torso. By now Drake was begging, whenever he could get a word out: “Please stop . . . oh, no . . . oh God . . .”
Carter dug his hands into Drake’s armpits. Weakened by laughter, Drake felt himself falling . . . falling till his back hit the wooden bench.
Now Carter was above him, straddling the bench, still tickling, tickling Drake on his belly and ribcage and underarms. Drake was helpless, he tried pushing Carter’s arms away but it was no use. There was Carter’s grinning face . . . and there, farther down, was Carter’s enormous hard dick nearly touching his own.
“What are you boys doing?”
Trapped as he was, Drake couldn’t look around, but he knew the voice of Coach Doyle.
Carter jumped back, his heavy dick swinging to the left and right.
Drake wanted to jump too, to cover himself, but he hadn’t recovered from the tickling. For now he could only lie where he was, giggling softly as his nervous system very slowly calmed down.
“Oh, I get it,” Coach Doyle said, his voice closer now. “You’ve got a live one, huh, Carter?”
Drake was not thinking clearly, but he had to get up, try to escape. He struggled to sit, and was nearly upright when he got the shock of his life. Coach Doyle had grabbed his wrists and pulled his arms upward.
So far Carter had not said a word to the Coach. He had not even tried to cover himself. And instead of retreating he was straddling the bench again, reaching out for Drake . . . the Coach held on to Drake’s wrists, pulling them up, totally exposing Drake’s vulnerable belly, sides, ribs and armpits. “Oh, God!” Drake hadn’t experienced anything like this since Rodney Cole had tied his hands over his head. Soon he was shouting hysterical laughter, no longer caring that his hard dick rode high on his belly as Carter tickled and tickled him.
It didn’t help that the Coach was now coaching. “Get his ribs, Carter!” he cried, tightening his grip.
Carter worked his way up from Drake’s ribcage to his underarms, those deep pits now stretched wide. Drake heaved and bounced on the wooden bench as Carter attacked those pits. Through tears he could see Carter’s evilly grinning face, and when he tipped his head back he could see the Coach’s face also, with the same evil smile.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Carter said. He stood up, and his dick was standing up too, harder than before, nearly touching his belly. But instead of coming closer he turned away, facing the foot of the bench.
Oh, no, not the feet . . . Drake wanted to beg for mercy, but he was too busy catching his breath.
“That’s it, Carter!” The Coach’s low, deep voice was filled with urgency. “Let me see you tickle those feet!”
It was simple, so simple for Carter to trap Drake’s ankles in an armlock and begin to explore those bare ticklish soles.
“Oh, no . . . don’t do that . . . please don’t . . . I can’t stand it . . .”
Pleading not only didn’t help, it actually encouraged his tormentors. Yet Drake couldn’t stop begging, his life was at stake. How much at stake he very quickly learned as Drake raked his fingernails up and down those trapped soles. Drake threw his head back and roared. It was full-throated, panic-stricken laugher, completely hysterical. He swayed back and forth in ticklish agony.
Finally he managed to squirm completely off the bench, his butt hitting the cold cement floor. Carter lost his grip, and the awful foot tickling was over. But the Coach tightened his grip on Drake’s wrists, and now Carter was on him as he lay back on the floor, more vulnerable than ever. Carter tickled Drake where he knew he was most ticklish, but there were other ticklish spots to find, ones that Drake had never thought of. Carter tickled Drake’s belly and abs, then reached farther down to tickle his groin, fingers working busily in the pubic hair on either side of his huge boner. Drake couldn’t believe what was happening. And that wasn’t all: Carter’s fingers explored more, tickling, tickling till they were on Drake’s sensitive balls.
“That’s it! Get those balls, Carter! Work ’em!”
Drake’s balls were large, low hangers, and Carter got them, tickling them, tickling under them and between Drake’s legs, as Drake howled and bounced helplessly on the floor, each move he made only exposing him more to Carter’s searching hands. Carter was even able to reach partly under Drake so his tickling fingers found Drake’s asshole. The surprise of it made Drake lift his knees, unintentionally inviting a full assault.
“Tickle that asshole! Come on!”
That was how the tickling went, all in between Drake’s legs from his asshole to his balls and back. Through a haze of delirium Drake was learning what it was like to surrender the secret parts of his body to the pleasure and amusement of men.
After what seemed like hours, the Coach finally released Drake’s wrists, and his aching arms fell to the floor. He lay there panting.
The Coach looked at Carter, who was kneeling on the floor, his cock fully erect, and then at Drake. He shook his head in wonder. “Jesus, you’re hung like horses, both of you.” He took a few hesitating steps toward the stairs. “All right, I’ll let you boys finish this by yourselves.”
Drake lay on the locker room floor in a post-tickling trance, helpless as a baby, his body seeking to recover from a million jolts and violations, his mind not yet reconnected to reality. He moaned, he tossed his head from side to side as if he were still being tickled, and in fact he could still feel Carter’s merciless fingers. He wasn’t surprised when he opened his eyes and there Carter stood, watching him, taking in the indisputable fact of their two huge, aching erections. Even the Coach had said they were both hung like horses.
There was something different about Carter, it took Drake a few seconds to focus on what it was: Carter was holding out his hands and they were shiny, even in the dim light of the locker room. He had put something on them, they looked wet and greasy. Drake thrust his hips upward, or rather they thrust themselves, his need was so great. He was going to die very soon if Carter didn’t touch his cock, and before he knew it he was begging, breathlessly pleading as he had done when Carter was tickling him: “Please, Carter . . . touch me . . . take my cock, take it in your hands . . . jack it, jack me, jack me off . . .”
When Carter’s fingers finally closed over that hard-on that had been throbbing for so long, Drake felt he might pass out. His body moved through no conscious will, writhing, thrusting as Carter pumped his cock with both slippery hands. Drake watched his cock being worked on and he wanted it to last, it felt so good and looked so hot, but he was too excited and knew that in a few more thrusts he would come. So he braced himself for the explosion that sent great jets of come into the air and all over his belly and chest. He didn’t know it was possible to come so hard and so long, he was gasping for breath again as he pumped out still more come that flowed over Carter’s hands.
Carter stood up, his own great hard cock rising into the air again. He touched himself, lathering Drake’s come all over his huge red dick, another sight unlike anything Drake had even imagined. His body acted again with a will of his own, propelling Drake up onto his knees. He reached out for that cock and began pumping it with both hands. It was the first time he had touched another cock, and it was even better than he’d imagined, the cock huge and rock-hard and yet still somewhat pliable, the thin slick flesh pulsing between his fingers, first the shaft and then the head, then back again, slowly, and again and again. Drake rolled the fat dickhead between his palms like a Boy Scout trying to start a fire, while Carter moaned and cursed aloud, it felt so good. Then Drake went back to stroking, pulling, yanking on that shaft that he didn’t take his eyes off for a second. And when Carter came, great spurts of come splattering across Drake’s face like warm gravy, Drake was laughing – not from tickling this time but from sheer joy. He laughed and laughed as he pumped Carter completely dry.
After that long afternoon in the locker room, Drake had wondered if Carter would be willing to fool around again sometime – like the very next day, if possible. But fate had other plans. Carter didn’t spend much time on any one boy; he wanted to tickle as many guys as possible. He methodically moved through the junior class until he had had every single sexy ticklish guy. No one really spoke about it, but there was an understanding among them that they all knew what it was like to “stay after school
with Carter”. Drake never heard any mention of the Coach in these mutterings and mumblings.
At the end of that school year, Carter and his family left town as quickly as they had come. They moved to California, someone said. Drake was left horny and adrift, not picking up any vibes from other boys that they might be interested in tickling him to death.
Nick kept Drake tied up in different positions throughout the day and night so that his muscles wouldn’t get too sore. He put skin lotion on his slave so he wouldn’t be tickled raw, and gave him throat spray so his throat wouldn’t get sore from laughing and screaming – though over the past several days Drake’s voice had shrunk to a croak and he didn’t know if he’d ever speak normally again. When it was mealtime Nick released him from the St Andrew’s cross or the rack or the stocks or the chair, hooked a leash onto the dog collar and led Drake on all fours to the kitchen area of the loft. Drake’s food bowl would have something like crumbled hamburger in it, and he would eat greedily till the end of mealtime. The end of mealtime was always the same: Nick would sneak up behind Drake with a feather, an enormous white plume, and without warning plunge the feather between Drake’s legs. He would tickle his tender inner thighs; his cock, kept perpetually hard by a leather cock ring; those balls, stretched for tickling; and that asshole, which was even more feather-sensitive than those balls. Before long Drake would collapse in a giggling heap. “Oh don’t,” he would croak finally, “don’t tickle my asshole anymore, please . . .”
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6 Page 28
