From: YNKY32A@prodigy.com (Robert Cline)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.fetish.tickling
Subject: STORY: Erik's Revenge (m/m)
Date: 21 May 1995 23:21:17 GMT
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    I did not write this story.  The writer sent it to me in payment for 
a copy of The Request.  I liked it, and although he says it was posted 
before, I had never read it, so I figured some of you out there would 
like it also.  If you have any comments, again they are always welcome, 
and I'll make sure Erik knows how you feel.

Rob



Erik's Revenge

It was my Senior year in High School. Basically I was the quiet reserved
guy, who was known for his random magic tricks in the hallway, the
occasional chorus solo and the one trophy from the talent contest my 
sophomore year. I was bugged by the nerd squad..."show me a trick...show 

me a trick", and I was beaten up and made fun of regularly by almost 
anyone who was threatened by my seeming intelligence. I was no Doogie 
Howser, but I held my own in math class and made my B's and C's on the
general core of other boring classes they taught. 

It was in my English class that I first saw Stan Adams. He was my height,

sandy blond hair that was full of wide roman curls, and the son of my 
English teacher.  He was head of the Key Club, a cheerleader, an "A" 
student, and had the best ass I have ever seen walking down a classroom 
aisle. Numerous times Ms. Adam's would introduce us (we had no classes 
together) as if she thought we should be friends, and each time it
seemed she thought she was introducing us for the first time. I wouldn't 

have minded being his friend, but Stan had no interest in the matter. 
I was beneath him, socially...I guess. And I had no beef with him 'til I 

heard him call me a faggot to his friends in the hall one day. I slunked 

my shoulders and walked on as if I heard nothing. Those days I never
admitted I was gay, and God help those who accused me. And that was what 

started it.  I began thinking of how to set Stan up, get him...something 

that would humiliate him. 

It was August when it happened. Key Club was have some sort of hell week 
or
something...the buzz around the halls indicated that some guys had been
nominated to do something memorable. If they could, they would become 
members. If they failed, they were out. I thought it was the stupidest 
thing I had ever heard of. The year before a group of guys had painted 
the 
mascot horse in front of the school lime green. It made all of the 
newspapers, and obviously earned each member admittance. And now, again, 

it was the weekend for the prank.


That Friday evening ended with a blush of gold and blues dimming the sky
over the trail behind the school. I took this "short cut"  through the 
woods 
more for deviation than shortness of distance, and was about 3 blocks 
into 
the woods when I heard voices. I had stumbled upon the Key Club, or at 
least
the recruits and Stan, out in the woods. I ducked behind a tree close 
enough to hear the conversation but not close enough to be seen, and 
listened.  It only took a few minutes to catch what the intent was. They
were staging a kidnapping. Stan was going to be missing for a day. All in 

good fun of course, but Stan it seemed was not doing it of his own free 
will. "My Mom won't think this is funny" he argued, but no one was 
listening 
to him. He started shouting about something not being fair. And then 
there 
was laughter. A chorus rang out "He's TICKLISH!!!".  Stan barked a plea 
of  
stop to the tree's, but no one paid attention, and while he gasped and 
coughed out giggles, it seems they restrained him. Then one of the 
recruits 
raised an alarm about getting out of there, another puberty bound voice 
squeaked that they should have brought handcuffs, and a third voice said 

the blindfold and ropes were enough, they needed to get going. Rustles of 

leaves filled the air, and then hoots and hollers faded into the distance 

as they rushed away. Stan shouted after them to come back a few times. 
I heard him struggle and then I heard him begin cursing. He cursed the 
school, the woods, the club, specific names of people I didn't know, and 

God, of course. I sat there a full 5 minutes listening and waiting for 
the 
recruits to return, and when the didn't, I stood up and walked slowly 
towards where their voices had been coming from.

Those who don't believe that what goes around comes around, or that 
people
get what's coming to them should have been me that day. And then they 
would believe. As I walked off the path into the dense thicket that the 
Key club 
had set up as headquarters for Stan, I promised myself that if it was as 

good as I thought it was going to be, Stan would be a different guy by 
the 
time I finished. When I finally reached him I found he had been tied 
across three hobby horses that had been nailed together into a makeshift
bed.  He rested horizontally, about 4 feet off the ground. Two long 2 by 
4's
ran along each edge of the hobby horse's, nailed to them, and a wide 
piece 
of ply board had been nailed to the 2 by 4's. Holes had been cut into 
the
plywood at various strategic points on his body. At his wrists, elbows, 
thighs, knees and ankles rope ran through each hole holding him securely 

to the wood frame. He was pulling with his upper body, but the ropes 
were
extremely secure. He would pull for a minute with all his might and then 

stop. And then repeat the task again, but he gained nothing. The ropes 
didn't stretch and he continued to be immobile. In addition, holes were 
at 
each ear, and a bandanna had been pulled through and tied, securing his 
head to the board, and providing an excellent blindfold. On the ground in 
a shoe box beneath where Stan was tied was another bundle of rope, a pair 
of 
scissors, a can of raid, an old paint brush, and a magic marker. Further
inspection also showed that the hobby horses had been tied off to trees 
that 
were surrounding the platform, preventing Stan from unwittingly knocking 

down the whole contraption. He was dressed in a button down collar polo 
shirt, baggy cotton jogging shorts, short white "footie" socks and Nike 
tennis shoes.
        They must have been tying him for quite a while before I came 
upon 
them. And to this day I can't figure out how they got him down based on 
what
I heard but....who am I to question good luck. I stepped up to the 
platform,
about a foot from his head and he heard the leaves rustle. "I knew you 
guys 
would be back!"  he exclaimed, trying to muster all the bravado he could. 

        I leaned over and whispered "you're not that lucky."
        "Who the fuck are you???!?" he shouted, sealing his fate. Since 
I
knew he couldn't see me (it was beginning to get dark anyway), and he was 

helpless I took the advantage. 
        "I hear you're ticklish Stan....is that true?"
        "No. Let me out guys, this isn't funny". It was a command barked 
by
a Key Club commander. 
        "You're not?" I poked his shirt with open fingers in a grasping
motion.
        "NO!!!" He yelped, startled, grinning. "Come on, heh, let me out.
"
        "Stan, you said you weren't ticklish? Where you lying??!?" I ran 
a 
scampering hand to his armpit and bristled the hair there through his 
shirt. 
        A groan bubbled from his mouth (that was now set in a wide grin) 
and
he clenched his jaw, biting back the laughter that should have come out. 
But
it was a game he was playing without ammunition. I slowly began 
unbuttoned 
his shirt from the neck down.
        "Uh...come on...you...you don't need to do that. Please...come on.
"
        His voice had diminished into a weak plea, but I continued until 
I
had gone all the way to his waist, where I pulled the rest of the shirt 
loose from his shorts, popping the last button off in the same motion and 

pulling the shirt wide open on the plywood.  He wasn't a Greek god, but 
his 
chest was smooth and his stomach was almost flat and a gentle stream of 
fine 
light brown hair trickled from just above his belly button down to the 
pubic 
hair hidden in his shorts. 
        In a caressing circular move, I began tickling his sides and 
stomach
with all ten fingers at the same time, insistent on a good response.
        "PP..PPPLEAS Haha ahahaha ahaha ahahahaaha..you can't..
hahahahahahaha
..Pleas...hahahaha STOPPPPPPP!!!"
        I pulled my hands back, happy that I had broken through the 
small
barrier he had put up for an instant. His breathing was in gasps, and he 

strained at the ropes not budging an inch. And I waited until he had 
calmed 
down. "So admit it Stan your VERY ticklish.   Am I right?" 
        "Yyyyes. OK. I'm ticklish. Alright??!?! Please, whoever you are,
please stop."  Now he was whispering the words. Whispering from the 
entrance of a place he didn't like being pushed into. Whispering like a 
convict 
sentenced to life imprisonment for a crime he had not yet gotten to 
commit. 
I loved it.
        "Thanks for being honest", I answered in a gloating tone. "Care 
to
tell me where?"
        "No!... I mean... not really..heh ha..I mean...", he trailed off
realizing he was on thin ice not knowing what was worse; exploratory 
research or confirmation.  "I know...why not just let me up and we'll 
forget the 
whole...thing...OK?"
        I was silent for a moment. And then replied "I have no intention 
of
forgetting this.  Ever. Lets remove your shoes." I repositioned myself by 

where his feet were secured. His club mates had done an excellent job, 
positioning the feet about 2 1/2 feet apart. 
        "You better get out of here, my buddies will be back any minute 
and
when they do they will kick..."
        But he never finished. With one hand on each shoe I yanked the 
heels
down and up. He tried curling his toes, but it didn't help, the shoes 
pulled 
free and went flying into the scattered leaves. I began tickling the 
bottom 
of his footies as lightly and deviously as I could. He began to giggle in 
a 
high pitched voice, pulling in a lungs full of air, moving his head back 
and 
forth in the slight motion that it could, and giggling some more. He 
tried to form words but they were lost in the stream of uncontrollable
laughter from his mouth. 
        "AAAAhhhhh hahah ahhahah ple hahaha ayou ha a nonononon 
hahahahhahhhhhahahaha if you haha hee hee hahahh on no hahahah Please 
nohahahahahah quitha ahahaha h ah ah Oh god....on no hahhaha.."
        I pulled the footies off and continued my torture on his bare 
feet,
raising the pitch of his giggling about two octaves. I went on for about 
ten 
minutes, until he stopped making any discernible sound and all that came 
out 
of his mouth was a thin sliver of rushing air. (To this day I have never 

seen anyone laugh that hard).
        While giving him a moment to cool down, I extracted the footies 
that
were now on the ground, and balled them up. Taking the extra rope from 
the 
shoe box, I fashioned a make-shift gag by wrapping the middle of the rope 

around the socks and tying it tight. 
        Seeing Stan was finally caught up on his breathing, I shoved the
socks into his mouth. He started to resist, but then It seemed he bought 

into the idea. I wrapped the rope behind his neck, doubled it back over 
both sides and tied the rope directly over the socks and his mouth. 
        It was only after he was gagged that I dared continue. I picked 
up
the scissors and cut away his baggy shorts. He gave muffled cries once he 

realized what was happening, but I shouted for him to stop wiggling or 
he'd 
get cut, and he calmed down.  He had on bright red fruit of the loom 
jockey 
underwear, that was drenched in pre cum from his extended dick. I tickled 

his balls through the underwear and his whole body shuddered as his cock 

strained. I toyed with him for about 15 minutes in this manner. I was 
sure 
that the look on his face was of one who has gone crazy. Finally another 

ounce of courage surfaced and I cut away the underwear as well. The trail 
of 
hair on his belly did indeed run all the way to his pubic hair. I ran my 

finger lightly across the top of this private area of hair and he began 
squirming wildly - trying to thrashing about, but unable to move.  I got 
the 
paint brush from the shoe box and used one hand to brush his balls, and 
the 
other hand to stroke his pubic hair. He moaned, his cock jutted, and 
through 
the gag he began to laugh. Long hearty laughs spewed forth from him 
muffled 
by the gag. And then, without warning, he climaxed. I was so startled I 
stopped, and I think he was equally as surprised, but he shot across his 

chest and face, covering himself in cum.
        I grabbed his dick and began jacking slowly. He howled as I 
continued
pumping his sensitive dick, shuddering and straining. With my other hand 
I 
spidered up and down his inner thighs and knees. Ten more minutes of 
tickling and he was hard as a rock again.  I cut the sleeves on his shirt 

lengthwise and down his sides, and pulled away the cloth that once was a 

preppy polo shirt. Stan lay completely naked on the board.  Circling back 

around to his head, I removed the gag and tickled his armpit, full force.

        "Stop! Nohohohohohohohohoh STOP hhhehe hee hee hee 
aaahhhhhhahhahahahahah" He laughed and laughed and laughed. 
        Finally, I lowered my pants and shot my load onto his face and
chest. 
        We both paused for a moment. Darkness had taken over the woods 
and
in the distance I heard a car driving on gravel. Someone was returning to 

check on Stan!  I gathered his clothes, stuffing them into my nap sack, 
along with his shoes and the gag I had made. I started back toward the 
school...away from the car...and then a final thought occurred to me. I 
went 
back to the shoe box, extracted the magic marker and wrote on Stan's 
stomach  "BRUSH THE TOP OF MY PUBIC HAIR, IT DRIVES ME CRAZY" which was 
punctuated  with an arrow pointing to the most sensitive area I had found.
 I bagged the marker and ran back towards to school. Once I reached the 
edge of the forest  I stopped and listened. I heard numerous voices 
exclaiming "HOLY SHIT!!!",  "Oh My God!", "Look At this"...and as Stan's 
uncontrolled giggling began I  knew my revenge was complete. 
        None of the pledges were allowed in Key Club that year for some
reason, and no one at school ever talked about it....But I know what 
happened, and sometimes when someone at work gives me a hard time, I pull 
 out those sliced up red jockey shorts and remember that I may get 
retribution if I just wait long enough.  Care to cross me?