A Day In Hell

the moment i walked into Mark's den i could tell i was in for much more than i had bargained for. between the den and the study was a large, open, double-sized entry way cut into the wall. i immediately noticed that four big, heavy eye-hooks had been screwed into it's frame at each of the four corners. there were four lengths of heavy clothesline running through each of the loops in these eyehooks. four thick leather straps hung from one end of each of these ropes. the ropes were threaded through the hoops and then fed to winches which had been installed into the top and bottom at the midpoints of the doorframe. the straps nearest the floor were fed to the bottom winch and conversely, the straps near the ceiling to the top winch.

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Tickled Yuppie

My name is Peter Berg. Christopher is one of my closest and kinkiest friends in the world. We've known each other for a lot of years but recently we got to know each other a little better. We're both twenty six years old. I have light brown hair, brown eyes, and a pretty muscular body from working out pretty regularly at the gym. I'm five feet ten inches tall. Christopher is slightly shorter than me. He has dark brown hair and dark brown sad looking eyes. His body is pretty lean from all the hours he spends on the exercise bike he owns.

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Tickling Joey D.

I could tell you where I met Joey D., but the name escapes me. Names are not big at this place to begin with. I never used my real name, and Joey never said the rest of his. If even that much is true.

More important than Joey's name was his price. Cash only, no gifts, checks or plastic. To those of you in the know, this marks Joey as not exactly at the top of his profession. Fine. The first class boys demand kid glove treatment, and I had rougher handling in mind.

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Tim, The Ticklish Skatepunk

I'd been watching him for for several weeks now. Gliding by with his buddies he'd be, in a white T-shirt and khaki shorts, baggy, coursing elegantly over the corporate cement. I'd be hangin' out on Saturdays, reading a novel, smoking cigarettes in the late spring warmth, thoroughly enjoying these young studs' skate stunts (until the goddamn corporation cracked down later that year and put up signs and more security to drive them off). Several were quite nice-looking, but one stood out. About five-nine, jet-black hair of average length, heavy-boned frame, and, around his neck, oddly, a very-seventies shark tooth on a black leather cord. The young hunk was broad-shouldered and clearly well-built; he distracted me often from my book (I think I was reading Nabokov's Lolita.)

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How Ticklish Is Tony?

I saw him late one afternoon in my local supermarket. Just a shade over average height and very nicely put together He was striding cockily down the aisle in front of me, clad in a tightly fitting one-piece wrestling suit that clung to his small ass and accented his long lean legs. He didn't have a T-shirt on under the suit, so that it's narrow straps and scooped-out armholes revealed the broad shoulders and rippling muscles of a truly fit athlete. A cap of jet-black hair covered his well-shaped head. The way he carried himself said arrogance, macho cool and raw sex appeal. I knew that I had to have him.

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