Date: Fri, 14 Feb 1997 13:30:51 -0800 From: tantalus Organization: http://www.mailmasher.com pseudonymous service Comments: Please report abuse to abuse@mailmasher.com Subject: REPOST: The Old Bed (b/b) A PRELIMINARY NOTE AND WARNING: The story that follows is a work of imaginative literature intended for the casual amusement of adults over the age of eighteen. It is not intended for minors or for anyone who would be offended by scenes of bondage, sexual play, and consensual make-believe torture between minor boys. THE OLD BED Part 1 By Sean de Roche No question about it: he loved to be slowly and skilfully masturbated by knowing fingers. But it had to be very carefully done so that he didnt come for a long, long time. He thought nothing of lying on the big old bed in the hot upstairs back bedroom for hours while his friend squatted on his heels between his wide-spread legs and stroked and tickled and tweaked and pulled and twisted his slick, hot, oily cock in a thousand different sweet, delicious, torturous ways. Oh, the rapture of it! He would stretch his legs wide apart and lift them off the bed, staring down across the lean tight hardness of his body and enjoying the look of his glistening tensed chest, abdomen, and thighs. Heaven! And his friend had learned just the right way of holding his penis in his fist when it started to spurt, squeezing and jiggling it with just the right pressure, just the precisely right rhythm so as to make his orgasm last and last and last. He was thankful that his friend had been willing to learn these tricks that so greatly magnified and prolonged his pleasure, and that his friend seemed to enjoy giving him pleasure as much as he in turn enjoyed receiving it. After the first few times, he had most often asked his friend to tie him down to the bed and do him especially slowly, especially langurously. He would lie compliant on the big old mattress while his friend went from corner post to corner post carefully lashing his wrists and ankles to the big round posts, pulling him tight against his bounds and tying him off with half-hitch after half-hitch. And once he was tied, a gloriously helpless prisoner, his friend would begin the agonizingly prolonged pleasure-torture of his rigidly expectant cock and ballshis whole restrained body quivering like a single huge tumescence, trembling and pulsing with the tension of almost unbearable delight. And when, after a very long time, the white-hot searing pleasure was allowed him at last, he would lift his shuddering body off the sweat-soaked sheets, bridging himself at heels and head and pumping out the massive convulsions of spurt after spurt onto the sun-browned ridges of his hard stomach. Oh, the magnificent torture of those long blissful afternoons and perfumed summer evenings! Very quickly this daring new game became their absolute favorite. Sometimes he was a pirate, captured by the kings men and interrogated to make him reveal where he had hidden his golden treasure. Sometimes he was the captive of red Indians who delighted in subjecting him to their fiendish torments. Sometimes he was Robin Hood, stretched on the rack of the cruel sheriff and tortured for hours to make him tell when his merry band planned to attack the castle. But always the torture was slow, deliciously skilful, and thick with agonizing pleasure. Time and time again his friend, the cruel torturer, would bring him right to the brink of climax only to stop and deny him the release his tightly stetched body cried out for. And after a minute or so for his fevered lust to cool, the torture would begin again. Over and over he would be brought to the very edge, only to be denied the grail of orgasm. And his inventive and patient friend was as happy to squat between his sweaty, wide-spread thighs and torment him as he was to be the helpless, spreadeagled prisoner. There could be no doubt that he was already an experienced and completely dedicated volupturary, a connoisieur of the delights of forbidden pleasure. And in less than two weeks, on Thursday next, he would celebrate his thirteenth birthday. Not long after he had joined the local scout troop, almost two years ago, one of the older boys had invited him to his house after school one cold February afternoon. The boys mother worked and was not at home. They had the house to themselves, and without needing much persuasion he had sprawled on the sofa in the messy family room and watched Howdy Doody on the television set while the older boy knelt between his legs on the carpet in front of the sofa and sucked his cock until he came. Afterwards, they both took off all of their clothes and the older boy showed him how cooking oil could make for a great hand job. Then they took a shower together and he returned the older boys favors by giving him a vigorous but not very skilful handjob with soap and water under the gushing jets of hot water. And that was his introduction to the forbidden world of extravagant sexual pleasure. Not that they thought of it like this, but the two boys became lovers. The older 14, and he 11. They became experts at the offhand, instinctual duplicity that allowed them to be together and to enjoy each other without others knowing about it. Some may have suspected something between them, the difference in their ages a spur to such suspicions, but no one knew anything about them for sure. Once, he lay on the couch in his friends family roomthe same couch on which he had been orally deflowered several weeks beforeenjoying the feel of the older boys expert hands on his naked body, exploring him from neck to knees in the darkened room lit only by the flickering television set. It was a Saturday night and the older boys parents had gone out to dinner. Once again they were alone in the house. The older boy sat on the floor in front of the couch, shirtless, and ran his hands lightly back and forth across the chest, belly, and thighs of the younger boy, being careful to avoid his very hard penis that bobbed over the tight stomach. After several moments of this the older boy stood up, bent down over the couch, and took the younger boy by his elbows. He twisted the smaller boy over on his belly and turned him so that he was kneeling facing the couch with his chest and face pushed down into it. The older boy took his wrists and forced them behind him, holding them with one hand while he reached under the couch and brought out a ready length of cotton clothesline with which he quickly tied the younger boys wrists together behind his back. He could clearly remember the tremendous thrill-rush he felt as the older boy had forced his arms behind him and the tingle of bliss as he felt the ropes tightening mercilessly around his wrists. Then the older boy had turned him over and thrown him onto the couch and taken his cock into his mouth and fellated him extravagantly for what seemed like hours until he had been sure that he was going to pass out from the agonizing delight of an explosive but exquisitely prolonged orgasm. The tying of his wrists had been an incredible magnifier of his pleasure, and he lay panting on the couch, drenched in the hot thick pleasure of being this older boys prisoner and hoping that he wasnt through with him yet. He wasnt. That evening on the couch in his friends family room had opened an enormous door to him, a door that revealed an ornate room full of arcane and previously unknown treasuresforbidden treasures. But he was determined to explore the room, to savor its treasures, and to learn what they might be able to teach him. It was so much more complicated than the searing genital pleasure he received from his friends skilfull, almost cruel, ministrations to his seemingly ever-turgid member. Much more. The thrill he had felt when he first felt his wrists forced behind his back had been deep, cataclysmic, fundamentally shattering. It was the key that had opened the door to the wonderful ornate room and its unimagined treasures. His life had changed on that tattered sofa, and would change even more dramatically on the old oak four-poster in the upstairs back bedroom. THE OLD BED Part 2 By Sean de Roche His scout friend moved away after only a few months and it seemed such a long time before he found another partner. He had been very fearful of even hinting at the games he had so enjoyed with his older friend, but step by careful step he moved into it with a boy his junior by a year and it became easier and less threatening than he had thought it would be. Something about this boy drew him and prompted the risks he took with his hints. He was enormously pleased to find that his probes were embraced rather than rejected, and the other boy's validation of his longing was a tremendous boost to his spirits. His new friend was eager, intelligent, and inventive. He even found himself feeling more than a little fear at this new boy's enthusiastic creativity, but he soon settled into the new friendship and found it even more pleasant and challenging than the former had been. Most of their games were played out on the big four-poster in the upstairs bedroom at the very back of the creaky old house, but sometimes they liked to vary the locus of their secret scenarios. The bathroom, downstairs, had a very sturdy shower-pipe able to support him tied by the wrists with his feet on tiptoe. But it was the only bathroom in the house, and they could only use it for their games when they had the house to themselves and were absolutely certain that they wouldnt be interrupted or discovered. The scarcity of such opportunities made the bathroom a wonderfully special place for them. Even when they were sure they were alone they would lock the door. His friend would order him to remove his clothing one article at a time, starting with his shirt, while he warned him that failure to cooperate would result in the application of persuasions designed to make him talk whether he wanted to or not. Of course, he would always refuse his friends patently hypocritical offers of leniency in exchange for the information, whatever it might be, that he sought from his prisoner. No, he would tell his captor nothing. When he was finally naked he would be ordered to kneel before his friend, who would carefully tie his wrists together in front of him. Then he would be made to stand in the big old iron bathtub while his friend looped the rope or strap over the shower-pipe and draw him up onto his toes. His ankles would be tied also. Once he was suspended from the pipe, the interrogation would begin. Over the time of their relationship his friend had developed an extensive repertoire of persuasive techniques. Usually the bathroom sessions would start with the alternating application of very hot and very cold face-clothes to his chest, belly, back, thighs, and genitals. Mild whipping with one of the clothes would often follow. One method that they both enjoyed required that his feet be tied to the ends of a length of stick in order to spread his legs apart. His friend would blindfold him and then slowly immerse his penis and testicles in a drinking glass full of water and ice-cubes. This would be followed by a glass of hot water. Over and over, and in unexpected combinations, he would be dunked into the glasses. Are you ready to talk? his friend would ask, and when he refused he would feel the very tip of his glans begin to sink into one or the other of one of the glasses. The alternation of heat and cold, and his complete helplessness over which it would be, was blissfully thrilling. But after a time his penis would rise and his friend could no longer immerse it in the glass and had to make do with his balls alone, and when they would tire of this method he would move on to another. Often it would be the use of the ice-cubes from the glass on his underarms and behind his knees and across his chest and slowly, slowly on his cock and balls. And within about an hour from the time they started, or sometimes a little more, still blindfolded, he would hear his friend lathering his hands on a bar of soap and would suck in his breath in anticipation of what he knew was about to happen. Are you going to talk? his friend would ask. No! Never! he would reply, and there would always be ten or fifteen seconds of complete silence while his friend relished the suspense of his captives tense expectancy. And then it would come: the first light, tentative, feathery contact of soap-slick fingers on hyper-rigid cock and tightly tucked balls. His groin was hairless and the hands and fingers had full slippery access to him. His friend was inventive and experimental and had what seemed like hundreds of different ways to apply excruciating pleasure to his throbbing instrument. But always the pleasure would build to the point of imminent eruption and then cease, only to resume and take him again and again to the heights without letting him plunge off the peak. Begging did no good. He could earn an orgasm only by divulging the sought information, however trivial. In addition to the full, long, powerful, piston-like strokes, his friend had a way of holding his raging cock just below the turgid plum of his glans in the tight grip of circled thumb and forefinger while he pulled the taut member out away from his body and slightly down and then drew the soapy fingers of his other hand lightly and tauntingly across his drawn-up balls. It was this method, or a variation of it, that would usually finally draw from him the sought after OK, OK! Ill talk! Ill talk! Please let me come! No more torture! Please! And if his friend was satisfied with the information he gave and with the amount of suffering he had endured, he would give him the reward due to prisoners who finally cooperate with their torturers. He found these orgasms while nearly suspended by his wrists to be especially vigorous and long-lasting. Afterwards, once he had been released and they were back in the bedroom he would collapse onto the bed and almost immediately fall into a deep and exhausted sleep. The basement was another locale for their games. Except that they were fearful of discovery they would have developed the small fruit cellar just off the main basement into a dungeon, a little torture chamber, so perfect was it in its dingy dankness, stone walls, and semi-darkness. But if they could not dedicate the little room to those exclusive uses, they could at least use it from time. It was in this room, with him semi-suspended in a wide standing spreadeagle from the ceiling beam and his legs spread apart almost painfully and tied to the ends of an old broom handle, feet arched up on tiptoes, that they discovered the marvelous variety of uses for clothespins. His friend, whose idea this was, would steal a handful of the little wooden devices from the big bag near the laundry tubs at the other end of the basement and test the strength of their springs on himself before applying them to his helpless prisoner. He would march rows of them radiating out from his prisoners armpits, pin some to his ear lobes, and others on the tender skin on the inside of the upper arm. But best and worst of all, he would slowly and tauntingly apply a row of them to the loose skin from behind his balls to just beneath his acorn. How long he would leave them there and in what order he would remove them depended on his whim. They were an excruciatingly savory prologue to one of his friends copiously lubricated, cruelly creative, and impossibly drawn out handjob-tortures. The Pendulum was another discovery made in the fruit cellar. A weight would be tied either to the shaft of his prick or around both cock and balls and swung back and forth. Much better than the single weight was a small woven basket suspended by a thong and slowly filled with potatoes from a pile in the corner while it was swung back and forth in a slow heavy arc between his tensed and straining legs. Candles, too, were another inspiration of his friend. Small candles, not only used for light in the little dungeon, but passed slowly back and forth, closer and closer to each hairless armpit and to his chest and crotch as well. By accident they discovered the persuasive potential of carefully dripped hot wax, but they also realized immediately that this was a method best applied to a prone subject and the candle-wax torture was thereafter saved for when he was stretched on the big bed. Once his friend talked him into trying complete suspension and tied his wrists together in front of him and made him stand on two old bricks until he had tied his arms over his head to the beam. Then his friend removed the bricks and he swung back and forth hanging entirely from his wrists, his feet not even brushing the cold stone floor of the room. His friend, in a characteristic burst of impromptu creativity, quickly looped a bootlace around the tip of his cock and used it to swing him back and forth under the beam. But this method was far too realistically painful and not nearly slow enough for their mutual tastes and was almost immediately abandoned. But they always returned to the big oak bed in the upstairs bedroom. It was their refuge, their sanctuary of privacy and safety. However attractive other locales may have been, it was the place to which they always returned. It seemed that the best and most excruciatingly prolonged, luxuriously delectable sessions took place when he was tightly and helplessly staked out on that big bed, his sweat glazing him so that he looked for all the world like a rain-slicked renaissance bronze of an trimly athletic young slave-boy, a sculpture fit for the private garden of a kinky Florentine noble. And it was in this room and on this bed that he learned to fully appreciate his friend and came to understand his wanton essentiality to him. His friend was a year younger and almost a full stone lighter than he, but the other boys brilliant, uninhibited creativity and playfully perverse curiosity fit perfectly with his own powerful desires and he was grateful for their inseparability, their mutual trust, and the wondrous accident of their heretical and perverse friendship. That they also shared a strong and growing affection for each other was a bonus that they both appreciated. [End of Part 2]