Top floor.

Last room on the right.

Here it was. I knocked. And waited. There was some noise from inside the room, then the sound of the door chain and deadbolt being unlocked.

The door opened.

I was excited, certainly. But there was also a degree of apprehension. After all, I'd never met this guy. He'd contacted me after seeing one of the ads I'd posted to a bulletin board on the net, and had invited me to meet him in his hotel room the one night he'd be in town. We'd exchanged emails for a few weeks, and he seemed okay, but I still had images running through my head of being overpowered, tied up and assaulted--or worse!--and found by the housekeeper the next morning. But the opportunity to tie a guy up and fulfill his fantasies of being "extensively and mercilessly tickle tortured" was just too good to resist. Besides which, I figured, serial murderers don't usually register in the most expensive hotels in town. Do they?

In the picture John had sent me of himself a few weeks earlier, he'd been wearing a sweatshirt and baggy trousers, so I couldn't tell much about his body, and the only description he'd given me of himself was that he was about 5'8" with brown hair and eyes. The man who stood in the open door wearing only a loose-fitting pair of shorts did indeed fit that description.

"John?" I asked. "I'm Dean."

"Yeah," the man said, "thanks for coming. Please. Come in."

He stood back to let me in the room. It was true that John was about my height, but he outweighed me by at least 25-30 pounds. That's not to say he was fat. Quite the contrary. This man showed no signs of ANY body fat whatsoever. His waist couldn't have been more than 30", and his torso expanded into a massive chest and shoulders that gave new meaning to the word "broad." Yes, I know: a man's true worth is inside. But I proudly maintain sufficient shallow superficiality to appreciate incredible physical magnificence as well!

"You'll need to tie me up before you tickle me," he said. "Part of the problem I've had in finding somebody to tickle me is that I can usually get away from them...even overpower them." (Judging from those meaningless, superficial physical appearances, I had no doubt that he was telling the truth!)

"That's fine," I assured him. "I came prepared." He smiled as I opened my case and started taking out my restraint gear. "Why don't you slip out of those shorts, and we'll get started." He did so immediately.

My wrist restraints are about 5-1/2 inches wide, so they extend about halfway from the wrist to the elbow on most men. They fasten with three straps--two that buckle, and one that can accommodate a padlock, and their appearance alone can be somewhat intimidating to a bottom, adding to his feelings of vulnerability and helplessness--and to my feelings of power and control! John watched as I placed the restraints on his warm, firm, muscular forearms. The ankle restraints are similar in design to the ones for the wrists, but are somewhat less elaborate. Once all four restraints were in place, I showed John the vinyl clad steel cables that would be used to secure them to the corners of the bedframe. I explained to him that this is the same type of cable used to secure aircraft to the tarmac during windstorms, and assured him that if they could hold a 777 in place, they'd keep in from going anywhere. I clipped the panic snaps in place, and John was immobilized. I encouraged him to test the cables and restraints, just to confirm for himself that he was, indeed, truly helpless and totally unable to protect himself from being tickled.

As he gave a few tentative tugs against his bonds, I continued to talk. I explained that, as helpless as he was, he would soon feel even more vulnerable, because he wouldn't be able to see what was about to happen to him.

I took a small box from my case. "These," I said, "are called `eye occlusors.' They're actually adhesive bandages for the eyes. Similar to ordinary Band-Aids, but the pads are black to block out light." I peeled the backing from the bandages and affixed them to his face, covering his eyes. The nice thing about eye occlusors is that they prevent the victim from seeing anything at all, but still allow me to enjoy watching his constantly changing facial expressions--every furrowed brow, every frown, every eyebrow arched in fear, anxiety, and anticipation.

"I won't laugh," John said. I wasn't sure then, and I still don't know for sure whether he was talking to me or trying to convince himself, but it really didn't matter.

I removed my boots and got comfortable. This was going to be fun! I knelt between John's spread legs and admired my handiwork. He was probably right. In a one-on-one, man-versus-man contest, he would have easily prevailed. But with just a few pieces of leather and steel cable, this magnificently muscular, powerful body had been rendered relatively immobile and absolutely helpless! Beautifully so! Now, where to begin?

I leaned forward and placed my fingertips gently on the exposed areas of John's forearms. He tensed slightly at my touch. Good. I began slowly tracing the vascular filigree extending from under the restraints and up his forearms. He twitched almost imperceptibly, his mandibular muscles tensed, and I saw his jaw set as I lightly teased and tickled the tender skin on his inner elbows. I've always admired massive biceps, and as I began my excruciatingly slow back-and-forth path up the undersides of his upper arms, dragging a single finger along the depressions between his biceps and triceps, John involuntarily flexed his arms, emphasizing his truly impressive musculature. His head jerked to one side, and he sucked air in through now clenched teeth. That kind of reaction demanded an encore, so I repeated it for the next few minutes. "I won't laugh," John had said earlier, but now he was unable to completely stifle faint giggles. Could it possibly be THIS easy?

As I moved teasingly toward his exposed, vulnerable armpits, his twitching, squirming, and struggling became more insistent. John's brow furrowed into a determined frown, and I thought I heard an almost inaudible, "no!" just before my fingers began their circling descent toward the center of his pits. John's head jerked back, his teeth bared; the veins in his neck swelled, and his entire body stiffened in one final, futile attempt to avoid laughter. With my fingers still maintaining their light, persistent, nonstop feathering of his pits, I suddenly dug my thumbs into his upper ribs. John exploded into laughter, now no longer even attempting to hide his struggling. He thrashed as much as the restraints would allow, but the steel cables held.

For the next several minutes I enjoyed tormenting John's pits and ribs, using the lightest possible touches on the pits and applying somewhat firmer pressure on the ribs. I varied the techniques from side to side and location to location, sometimes poking his ribs and sometimes raking my fingers along them, keeping him off-guard and unable to foresee or prepare for the next assault. I also occasionally returned to his arms unexpectedly, repeating or altering my earlier tactics. John laughed and jerked and laughed and screamed and laughed and pulled at the unforgiving restraints, but he couldn't escape my untiring fingers. It wasn't that I got bored with John's arms, pits, and ribs, but I only had a limited amount of time and wanted to explore one of my favorite tickle targets--the abdomen and waist! I gradually tickled my way down John's ribcage, then stopped.

I waited--silently.

John relaxed a bit, catching his breath. I had no way of being sure, but I strongly suspected that John's abdominal muscles were going to be exquisitely ticklish. I focused on the clearly defined perimeters of his six-pack abs, poised my hands, and using a combination of frantic scratching, light grabbing, and moderate pressure, I ATTACKED! John screamed and began thrashing even more violently than before. To hold him in place, I wrapped my arms around his waist and held him close to my chest. I've always delighted in nibbling on abs, and John's were firm and delicious, especially with my fingers digging into the sides of his waist as he screamed and struggled and fought in vain to escape. Since my arms were around him, though, his thrashing simply carried me along! My fingers sought out and found the forward edges of John's pelvic bone and probed mercilessly, sending him to new heights of hysteria. Another technique that proved quite effective was probing his waist or pelvic bone on one side while nibbling on the other, thereby freeing one hand to torment his ribs and pits as well!

Eventually John managed to yell out, "STOP! STOP! PLEASE STOP!" Since I was actually ready to begin my next strategy anyway, I tickled him for a few more seconds, then took a break.

"What's this word `stop?'" I asked. "I don't recognize it. It's not in my vocabulary."

John gasped, catching his breath.

"It means I want you to quit," he said. But then he added, somewhat sheepishly, "but don't take it too seriously."

"Oh, don't worry!" I replied. "I have no intention of stopping. You may beg all you want, of course. I actually rather enjoy hearing my victim beg for mercy. Won't bother me at all." It was reassuring to have consent confirmed, though, and I was actually pleased that he still hadn't used the safeword I'd given him before we started. My next initiative was to test his thighs, knees, legs and feet. I do so enjoy grabbing the thighs of an unsuspecting victim, especially one who has never experienced that before. Few people, it seems, have ever considered the thigh particularly vulnerable to tickling, and maybe that's one reason it's so effective. John proved to be most susceptible to squeezing just above the knee, and light, feather strokes on the backs of his knees drove him wild.

When I threatened to tickle his feet, John begged me--quite genuinely and sincerely, I think--not to do so. Of course, that was my cue to proceed as planned! I was only mildly disappointed that his feet did not seem to be as devastatingly ticklish as I would have hoped, but his torso was entertaining enough to keep me from losing interest. After exploring his legs and feet, I returned to John's abs, waist, ribs, and pits.

I had been ignoring John's hard-on throughout most of the session, but since time was running out, I decided to focus on it for a while.

"You know that you're allowed to cum whenever you want," I said.

"I am?"

"Sure. Go ahead." He was still tied spread-eagle, of course, unable to come near touching himself.

"But I can't do it like this."

"Okay. I'll just keep tickling you until you do."

"NO! PLEASE...."

"Oh. You need some help? Okay." I took several artist's brushes and feathers from my case and began lightly teasing. John tensed and squirmed and begged. It was fun holding his cock upright with the thin handle of the artist's brush and dragging a feather across and around the vulnerable glans. Never enough pressure to prompt a release, just enough to keep him on the verge. At one point I wrapped my hand around his shaft, barely touching the skin, moving my hand up and down in the same motion that, with more pressure, might have granted him release that he so desperately wanted. But it was more fun denying him that pleasure while threatening to continue doing so for hours.

But it was also getting late. John's plane had not arrived until 9:00 PM, and we didn't get together until after 10:00. My workday effectively starts at 5:30 AM, so after a couple of hours, it was time for me to get home. I removed John's eye patches and released him from his restraints.

"I had no idea it could be so intense," John told me as he gave me an extended bear hug.

I have a feeling John slept very well that night.

I know I did.