By Keith Steeclif
“Great!” I said, “Thanks for volunteering. Did your mother tell you about the Haunted House?”
“A little, it’s like a walk of horrors or something?”
“Yes, we have several little scary sets and the actors, like you, will perform in the various scenes. People will pass by to watch, but we’re not jumping out at people or anything. Don’t want to give anyone a heart attack.”
“And what will I be doing?”
“Well,” I said, pretending to read my clipboard. “We need someone to be the prisoner in our dungeon scene. We have a rack and a torturer will pretend to be stretching you on the rack while you scream.”
“That’s sounds pretty easy.”
“Great, why don’t you go upstairs. In the first room on your right there are some costumes and a dressing room. Pick out something that looks like prisoner clothes and meet me back here.”
Logan returned in a few minutes. To my joy, he’d picked a pair of torn up pants and t-shirt. The shirt was little more than a few pieces of cloth barely staying together. I was right, Logan did have an incredible body and he didn’t seem shy about showing it off.
“Who will I be working with?” he asked.
“Me, actually,” I said, taking off my coat to reveal the torturer’s outfit underneath.
“Good, what do I have to do?”
“Come with me,” I said.
I took Logan to the dungeon room. It was a small room roped off with a velvet cord. There were chains on the wall and fake rats scattered about. In the center of the room was a large, fully functional rack.
“All you have to do is lay there,” I said, pointing to the rack. Logan sat up on the table without a pause and laid down. When I moved over to the side, he offered his wrists to me to strap him to the table.
“This is really well made,” Logan said, trying the restraints after I’d secured them to his wrists.
“Thank you,” I said, moving to strap in his ankles, “a local carpenter made it for us for free.”
Once Logan was secured, I slowly turned the wheel. The ropes tightened until I’d pulled him spread eagle of the table. I locked the wheel and stood back to admire my work.
“Good,” I said, noticing the deep recesses of Logan’s armpits as his arms were stretched out wide. I moved to the doorway to look from the angle of the customers.
“How’s it look,” Logan asked, lifting his head to look at me between his outstretched legs.
“Good,” I said, “but I don’t think those shoes quite fit in.” Logan was wearing the shoes he’d come in. “Do you mind if I remove them.”
“No, not at all,” he said.
I took off Logan’s shoes and said, “The socks are going to have to go too. They’re too white and clean.”
“Okay,” he said.
I slowly peeled off Logan’s socks. I snuck a peek in his shoe, he wore a size twelve. As I bared his feet, I saw how perfectly shaped his size twelve’s were. Logan had beautiful feet, with well lined-up toes and meaty flesh. He had a high arch that screamed for attention.
Tucking his shoes and socks off in the corner, I came back toward the end of the rack.
“Oh, you have a fuzzy,” I said, and picked at an imaginary piece of lint at the base of Logan’s second and third toes. Logan wiggled his toes and giggled.
“A little ticklish are we?” I said. Then I tickled his right sole lightly, “Kitchy, kitchy, koo.”
Logan laughed softly, wiggling his foot about.
Moving around to the side of the rack, I said, “Well, I guess I’ve got you in quite a ticklish situation,” and tickled his armpits. Logan laughed loud and thrashed about on the table. I tickled his armpits for a few seconds and then stopped.
Once Logan was able to stop laughing he said, “Now that’s what I call torture.”
I wanted to tickle him a bit more, but the patrons started to file through the Haunted House.
For the first fifteen minutes, I pretended to stretch Logan on the rack, while he screamed for help. I watched his muscles flex and tense as he pretended to be trying to break free of the rack.
After fifteen minutes, I said, “People don’t seem too interested in our display. They hardly stay for a few seconds.”
“I guess a guy getting stretched on the rack isn’t enough for the kids today.”
“Wait, I have an idea,” I said, “I’ll be right back.”
I ran out to the trunk of my car and returned to Logan spread helpless on the rack.
“If they want to see real torture, why don’t we give it to them?” I showed him the stiff turkey feather that I’d brought back with me.
Logan’s eye’s grew wide, “No, you wouldn’t.”
“What’s the matter, a big strong man like you afraid of a little tickling?”
“For me, there’s not such thing as a little tickling.”
“Well, you know what they say, you have to give the customer what they want.”
I moved to the end of the rack and started to twirl the feather around Logan’s right sole. He was hysterical in seconds. I tickled his toes with the feather and Logan went completely nuts.
“No, please, Haa haa haa. Please stop,” he begged between screaming laughter.
People came by the room and stopped at the velvet rope. They watched as I tickled Logan’s feet with the feather. Logan begged me to stop and begged the people to help him, but they thought it was all part of the act. They lingered for a bit and then moved on as more people were trying to see what was going on in the room.
“We’re a hit,” I said to Logan as I stroked the feather up and down his left sole. Logan was laughing so hard now, he couldn’t respond.
The crowds continued as I tickled Logan’s feet without mercy. He was incredibly ticklish and the slightest touch of the feather was sending him into hysterics. Occasionally, I would forgo the feather in favor of my fingers so I could feel the wiggling flesh of his bare soles as I tickled them ruthlessly.
After tickling his feet for many minutes, I heard someone at the door say, “Tickle his armpits.” I looked up. It was a handsome young man, perhaps 25 or 26. He’d been in one of the first groups to witness my tickle torture and he was still here. Obviously, he was enjoying the show quite a bit.
“Ah, a fellow torturer,” I said as I moved up to Logan’s side. Logan was out of breath and panting.
“It seems we have a request,” I said.
“Please, no more. Please, not the feather.”
“Not the feather? Oh, perhaps you would enjoy the feel of my fingers in your armpits more.”
“No! Please. No more tickling.”
“I’m sorry, my friend, but they call this torture for a reason.” I reached out to his helplessly exposed armpits.
Logan went crazy. He was laughing hysterically, thrashing about on the table but unable to get away from my tickling fingers. I moved from armpits, to ribs, and back to armpits. Logan was laughing so hard that tears were rolling down his cheeks. I looked back at the door and large crowds were still working there way past, stopping to watch me tickle Logan silly. The young man was still there in the front, mesmerized by the scene.
For the next hour and a half, Logan was my helpless tickle victim. I tickled his ribs, armpits, stomach, feet, and toes until he was red faced and exhausted. Finally, when the crowds were starting to wane and the Haunted House was about to close for the final night, I said, “Well, I think that’s enough tickle torture for one night.”
Logan was breathless, but after a minute or two, he said, “Let me out of this thing, you son of a bitch.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, sounding hurt.
“What’s wrong? You just tickled the shit out of me for two hours and you’re asking me what’s wrong.”
“It was all part of the act. I thought we were just pretending here.”
“Maybe you were pretending, but I really am ticklish as hell. You were killing me. I was begging you to stop.”
“I thought that was all part of the act. You mean you really didn’t like it?”
I undid Logan’s last restraint and he sat up on the table.
“Hell, no, it’s like you said, they call it torture for a reason, even if it is just tickle torture.”
Logan got up and fetched his shoes and socks.
“I’m really sorry,” I said, “I thought you were just playing along.”
“Well, I wasn’t,” Logan said and stormed out of the room.
I had to surpress a little smirk, because as Logan stomped out, I noticed that the young man was still standing in the doorway.
“Sorry,” I said, approaching the man, “I didn’t know he was so upset. I thought maybe he’d stay and let you tickle him a little bit.”
“Oh, I don’t want to tickle him,” the man said.
“You don’t? But you were here all night.”
“Yeah, but I’m not interested in tickling that guy. I was just wondering how somebody gets a job like his.”
“Well,” I said with an evil grin, “I am currently taking auditions for next year’s Haunted House.”
“Really?” said the man.
“Yes, and by the way, the rack is mine. So if you get the part, we have a whole year to rehearse.”
There were more than werewolves howling that Halloween.