Date: Fri, 14 Feb 1997 13:30:51 -0800
From: tantalus <tantalus@mailmasher.com>
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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]