Mistaken Identity

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!"

Heckles and boos.

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.

I'm actually 5.3". I know this because I do have a complex and I measured myself. And it's not almost average, it is average. But right now, after the orgasm of a lifetime, it's scared, shriveled and hiding. It feels and looks like it's about one inch. Like I'm that young boy again patiently waiting for puberty to happen.

Two of my employees come to my aide. They have four towels. It's humiliating when they each use one to clean my spunk off my chest and out of my belly button. It's even more humiliating when the belly button action begins to bring my "little guy" back to life. Is there any chance these two guys don't recognize me for who I am? The ski mask is still on. If they do, will I ever have credibility with them again? Will they respect me? Do as I say? Or will I become their bitch, despite being their boss? It'll be like Sean all over again.

I wrap myself in the two clean towels and walk out of the arena.

Two nights later:

Dwight and I are eating pizza in our apartment. He's heard the story (everyone's heard the story) but he's the only one who knows it was me under that mask. I've been dubbed The Ticklish Imposter. Considering everything I was put through that night, I could have been named much worse. I'm not a big drinker, but Dwight is on his third beer.

When we're done eating, Dwight hands me an envelope. It's from the ownership of the arena and for a moment I fear that they found out I was the Ticklish Imposter and they're firing me. I rip it open and it's a check for $6,000. I look at Dwight and cock an eyebrow.

He says, "It's your payment for appearing in an event. It would normally be $5,000, but since you had to replace your clothes, your shoes, your cell phone, your credit cards..." he trails off.

I look again at the check and notice that it's made payable to my real name. I say, "Dwight? What the fuck?"

He smiles wide. "Everyone knows it was you. The ownership, John, Allison..."

"You told them all?"

"No! Look, it's not what you think. It was all a set up. Allison and I weren't seeing each other. She didn't go out with The Torturous Tickler either. We made it all up to lure you into what ultimately happened."

"Why?"

"It was all a marketing idea. What if the crowd was surprised by an extra even not on the program? Something different and fun. And funny. Maybe not with two wrestlers. That night was sort of trial run and the crowd loved it. They went crazy for it."

"And you were a part of it?"

"Well, they were brainstorming ideas and they came up with The Torturous Tickler and a regular person. Then I remembered that you used to be ticklish. I didn't think you'd agree to it if we just asked, so we tricked you into participating."

"But it all seemed so real."

"That's what made it even better. And putting that mask on was brilliant. We couldn't have planned that. It felt real to the crowd too."

"I thought you were my friend."

"I am! I was promised you wouldn't get hurt."

"You don't think tickling hurts?"

"No."

"You don't think humiliation hurts?"

"No. Or at least not so much that can't be cured by $6,000."

The money is nice.

Dwight says, "The idea is that you and The Torturous Tickler put on repeat performances once a week. It'll be different times and different nights each week. It'll never be on the schedule. We'll have sellout crowds every night because everyone wants to be there for the bonus show. You two were really cute together."

"Cute?" I'm incredulous.

Dwight sighs, "Look, the money is great. It had to be at least a little fun, right? A little exciting?"

I'd be lying if I didn't admit that it was. At least the ending. But every week? Could I survive that much? Is it worth the money? I tell Dwight that I'll do it. Then I bring him another beer.

Four Hours Later:

Dwight wakes up in his bed but something is wrong. He can't move his arms or legs. He knows he had more beers than he should have, but what is this?

I snap on his bedroom light. He squints at me. I kept bringing him beer. He kept drinking it. When he went to bed and passed out, I stripped him naked and tied him, spreadeagle, to his bed posts. Now he looks concerned.

"Hank?" His eyes haven't fully adjusted yet.

"So, Dwight. You're gonna get your chance to tell me if tickling and humiliation are painful or not. And if you'd do it weekly for $5,000."

His eyes change from concerned to terrified.

I ask him, "Dwight, did you actually run out of the arena the other night or did you stay and watch from the crowd?"

"I watched," he admits.

"So then you know what he put me through. And you know what to expect."

He gulps.

"Let's start with a nice visual inspection," I say. "Nicely tanned skin, but your tan line is shocking. You really should sunbathe in the nude, Dwight."

"Hank, I--"

"No. This is happening." I continue my visual inspection. "I'd say you're about 6' 2" and maybe 230. I checked your shoes already. Size 13 and decent amount of funky odor."

I've only just begun, but I can't help noticing that his dick is starting to twitch. With each mention of his tan line, his measurements, the musk of his feet -- each statement cause an upward tick in his member. This is going to be even more fun than I thought.

"You've got some nice arms and legs there Dwight."

Another tick higher.

"Your pecs are nicely formed."

Another bump.

"Some would say your abs need work. They are not washboard ripped. Me personally? I like a little soft vulnerability in that area."

That one gave him three ticks up and he's more than halfway to fully erect now.

"Your 34" waste is 5" bigger than mine, but you're not flabby. You're just a big strong guy, Dwight."

Another tick up.

"Everything is proportional."

Bump.

"You obviously manscape. You are well-trimmed everywhere."

Two more ticks.

"Your innie is deeper than mine but it's still super-cute."

That did it! He's fully erect and I have yet to touch him.

I make a tsk, tsk sound. "Dwight, I'm not sure you even reach 7". On your large frame you look like you've got a little Lincoln Log down there."

I didn't think it could, but that made him even harder still. His eyes widen when I pull out a cloth tape measure. He shudders and gasps from my touch as I roughly measure him up.

"6 3/4 inches, Dwight. Everything being proportional I think my 5.3" on a 5' 9" frame beats your 6.75" on a 6' 2" frame. What do you think?"

He flushes a crimson red, "Let's call it a draw."

"Fair enough." I spend the next ninety minutes tickling Dwight's body in very much the same ways The Torturous Tickler tickled me. Dwight howls in laughter through his tears. When he's not screaming, that is. When I'm finished, he still has a raging boner. I look at it at smile. But he surprises me with a nod.

He says, "Please. I need you to do it."

So I do. Of course I bring him to the edge, only to stop short and frustrate him multiple times over about thirty minutes, like The Torturous Tickler did to me, but then I get serious. I start working him without letting up and I can tell he's immediately close. Now it's my turn to shock him. I let go again, but this time, not to tease him. I take him in my mouth. I'm surprised when I have no trouble taking his whole length in, with my lips down to his base. Teasing aside, he's actually a big guy. I massage my tongue all along the underside of his steel shaft and his whole body is vibrating in waves of glory. It's only seconds before he explodes in my mouth, surge after surge. I try, but I can't take it all. Some dribbles on his belly.

I get towels and clean up the small mess I made. Then I untie him and he just lays there. He doesn't jump up or grab me or punish me. He just looks at me. Eventually he asks, "So are still going to do it or were you lying to me before?"

I say, "I don't know."

He takes my hand, "I have an idea. A proposal. If you say yes, then every night that you give to The Torturous Tickler, the next night you get to do what you just did to me."

I laugh, "You don't have to--"

He cuts me off, "I want you to." He squeezes my hand harder, "I mean, I really want you to."

I feel a twitching in my pants. I glance down and his dick is coming back to life too. I was truthful about why I never had a girlfriend in high school or the first two years of college, but what about the last four years? If I'm honest with myself, I've been in love with Dwight this whole time.

He squeezes my hand harder and pulls me into the bed next to him, his now partial erection lying between us. He says, "Hank, I think I like you."

I don't leave his bed again for a long time.

Four weeks later:

It's been going really great with Dwight. I think we really might love each other. It's Friday night and I get home from work excited for the weekend. Dwight has a huge smile on his face. He says, "I have a surprise for you."

I don't love surprises. "What's that?"

"We have a weekend guest. Turn around."

I turn and Sean, my old childhood friend/tormentor walks out of my bedroom with a big stupid grin on his face.

Oh shit. Is Dwight my protector or will he be joining in on the torture? Or... After ten years is it finally my time for revenge? I have Dwight on my side now. Maybe all three of us will take turns being tied to the bedposts. No matter what happens, this should be a fun weekend.