By Wolfero
Nothing healthier than starting the day jogging. Ask Mark Wahlberg, the rapper-model-actor. He does it almost every morning that he is not involved in a filming. He knows he shouldn’t leave home without his bodyguard, but that guy can’t keep up with him and would only delay him. So today he has let him sleep while he goes for a run before going to the gym.
He is quite an stunning sight. His chiselled frame bulges under his T-shirt, stuck to his body by the sweat. His shorts expose his solid legs bouncing as they trot. His handsome features and his captivating eyes are in the shade of his cap. And he is keeping fit that stout body he so much likes to show off.
Now he goes across a park in the outskirts of the city. It’s full of green areas, but they look rather neglected, a gardeners’ forsaken spot. At that early hour, there’s almost nobody around. Mark stops to do a series of press-ups. The feeling of his body vibrating with energy is almost orgasmic, and he indulges on its pure delight.
Then, while his fingertips are grazing the tip of his toes, he stops dead to listen. There are high-pitched voices coming in his direction. When they draw closer, he realizes that it’s just a bunch of kids. They soon come within his sight from behind a grove of locust trees. They are playing cops and robbers with water-pistols. The eldest can’t be older than eleven. It’s notorious that they are playing truant.
Mark greets them with a smile. The kid who is nearer turns around and stands gaping in astonishment on meeting him there.
“Uuaauuuhh”, he exclaims, “You’re that guy from the movies…”
Mark grins. Of course, they know only his actor side. They are too young to remember his Marky Mark days, when he would pull down his pants to the rhythm of his rap songs.
In no time at all, all of them are around him, overwhelming him with questions and requests for autographs. By lack of a decent piece of paper, he soon finds himself signing in creased wrappings they have taken from a litter bin. He would like to go on with his workout, since he is losing heat and rhythm, but can’t refuse. Those children remind him of his own childhood too much. They take him back of the working-class district where he grew up, there in Boston. He looks at them and sees the street hustlers they will become if life doesn’t improve their expectative. He knows it far too well. At their age, he was in need of an idol, someone who came from an equal background but overcame all obstacles to succeed. And now he is exactly in that position.
That’s why, in an effort to be nice with them, he plays along with them for a while. He acts like a robber who has just held up a bank and is on the run. Two of the kids are his partners in the crime. The other two, the policemen, pursue them. They all play hide-and-seek until Mark, who was hidden behind a hedge, finds himself pointed at by two plastic guns. He then puts down his own “gun” and prepares to yield.
“Hands up!”, orders a kid named Charlie exultantly, “You’re arrested!”
“Whatever you say, officer”, he says in mock seriousness.
“Officer Sammie”, the kid says to his companion, ” I want him handcuffed right away.”
“Put your hands back”, demands Sammie, who looks too shy to inspire the authority of his words.
“Yes, sir”, Mark obeys with a smile and a wink of complicity, and he puts his hands behind his back while Sammy proceeds to handcuff him.
He then hears a clack that sounds too real. Something goes wrong. He frowns when he notices the touch of cold steel and what feels like an authentic set of handcuffs around his wrists. With a few movements, he checks that’s so. He is really handcuffed!
“This is no toy!”, he exclaims shaking his hands in a futile attempt to free them. ” Why on earth are you playin’ with this stuff?”
Sammie shrugs his shoulders and looks down apologetically.
Wahlberg starts to sweat. He is thinking of the times he has been arrested in real life. He can’t stand the feeling of being chained, and he had almost forgotten how mad it makes him.
“Where the hell did you get them from?”, he asks Sammie.
“I-I took them from my father’s closet”, the boy stutters; “He’s a cop”.
“OK, I don’t care. Just use the key.”
“I’m afraid”, Sammy mutters while he searches into his pockets, “that I don’t have it here.”
“Great”, Mark grunts with irritation. What should he do now? At a police station, they would unlock the handcuffs or cut them, but there isn’t any precisely near. And if he asks a kid to phone the police beforehand, so that they pick him up, someone could spill the beans and there might be a photographer in front of the station, waiting so that he comes out of the police-car, handcuffed, to take the picture that will head an article titled “Walhberg Under Arrest” Bloody appearances. It doesn’t take much to become Hollywood’s laughing stock overnight. Not that his past is a nest of virtue, but he has a clean image to keep nowadays.
“And I guess you have no idea where the key is…”, he asks the kid without much hope.
“Hmm…well… oh, yeah, I remember!”
Mark’s ears sharpen. Could there be any chance of saving himself the humiliation of asking for help?
“We left the key in our secret den!”, the kid explains, glad of recalling.
“And is it far from here?”, Mark inquires.
“No, no. Just five minutes…”
He decides to go with them. It will be quicker that way, and that’s better than waiting while someone could find him there in that embarrassing situation. On the move, he would look just like someone strolling through the park with his hands behind his back, enjoying a lovely Summer morning; he could even whistle to disguise better.
So he follows them along the park, through paths edged by fields of long grass. He looks around nervously, but they are lucky enough as not to run into anyone. With another bit of luck, this nuisance will end up as an anecdote to laugh at.
“Are you very upset?”, Sammie asks him shyly.
“Nah”, Mark calms him down, “don’t you worry. I just lost my temper” He would probably pat the kid’s head if at least one of his hands were free. Kids, he thinks shaking his head. He is feeling quite guilty for scaring them. He should have taken it easier.
But, as they go along, he almost feels flanked by real cops. It’s the handcuffs. He can’t shake off the nervousness. Nor the memories of that time when, after an assault conviction, he was sentenced to serve 45 days in prison at Deer Island penitentiary. Absorbed in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize the looks of complicity some of the kids exchange while they lead him to their home ground.
Their “secret den” turns out to be an abandoned building site on the fringes of the park. It can’t be clearly seen what use it was given originally, or projected to be given. It was probably conceived as a storehouse for garden tools or a changing-room for the park keepers. It looks like some kind of long low-roofed pavilion half-veiled by a thick grove. Inside, it’s rather dusty and full of spider-webbed corners. It seems that only tramps take care of its maintenance occasionally, and they’re not efficient housekeepers.
There are other two kids in there, which makes six in all. These last ones are supposedly guarding the hideaway. When Mark, accompanied by his entourage, comes in, they seem to be taken aback. From behind Wahlberg, Charlie nods as if he had just read their minds. They smile then and welcome the newcomer with great enthusiasm.
“Well”, Mark insists, “where’s the key then?”
“Err… I think it’s in the back room”, Sammie speculates, “Come with us.”
Unaware, he follows them through a corridor to the place they bring their victims to. From time to time, they pick up some boy in the park and bring him here “arrested”. Once in their ground, the poor prisoner realizes that they want to play another game with him, one cruel and tormenting. Never has an adult, let alone a star, been subjected to their particular whims. But now one has just fallen into their trap. He has just needed a bit more of concealment. Now it’s left to see if they can have the same kind of fun with him.
Ardently anxious to find out, Charlie, who walks beside the actor, starts off by lifting up Mark’s T-shirt and slipping one hand underneath.
“Hey!”, Mark exclaims when feeling a most uncomfortable sensation at that side. He starts and jumps aside. That kid has just tickled him!
That has just arisen old memories of when his brother Donnie would tickle him during one of their fights. Donnie would reduce him by straddling him and rubbing his tummy till Marky gave up and begged him for mercy. And it has also reminded him of worse things.
“What d’you think you’re…!”, Marky shouts furious, and then gives a heave because Sammy has tickled him from the other side. Charlie grins maliciously and hurls himself on Mark.
His handcuffed hands can’t protect him from their quick strokes. The boys tickle, on and under his T-shirt, his abdomen in a fast way, giving him a very hard time.
“Whahaha STOP how dare hah…let me!!”, he roars while he struggles and tries to keep them away from him. But they prod at his mid section, filling his throat with involuntary laughter. When he tries desperately to protect his stomach from one boy’s assault, the other attacks from the other side, and he can’t but burst out in giggles.
The other kids contemplate the scene in ecstasy, fascinated but hesitant. Never before a grown-up like him has fallen into their hands and been abused by them. And now one, handsome and charming, is being subjugated and tortured by two of them. They long to take part, but are afraid of reprisals.
Marky’s efforts to shield himself make him lose his balance and fall backwards, with his bottom landing on the ground. Charlie and Sammy rush to force him to lie down with their fierce attack of tickles.
Once knocked down, the other kids make up their minds and join the game. They pounce on him and won’t allow him to raise himself. They lay hands on him and tease his delicate skin with their eager fingers. Marky throws his head back and laughs. He writhes and strives to keep away from his body those merciless hands, that work in unison to drive him crazy. Sixty fingers slipping under his clothes to tease his skin, to play with it. They pull his T-shirt up to his body-builders chest while he contorts and cackles in shame.
“HEHehehaha ENOUGHAHAHAhehpleaseboysdonHEHEEE…!!”
Then there is a metallic clicking on the air. One of the kids has a rather rusty pair of scissors in his hands. Marky panics. He thrashes furiously when the scissors come near his body, but there’s nothing he can do. While the others poke his ribs and reduce him to a squirming mass of guffaws, the boy with the scissors slips his T-shirt open, exposing his upper body to the warm summer air.
Those naughty devils just go nuts on seeing all that flesh at their disposal. The six of them taunt him in a frenzy. His chiselled frame, tummy, ribs, neck and nipples become the aims of their wild caresses. They even find their way under his arms, which he can’t stick completely to his sides due to the position of his handcuffed hands. He obviously tries to fight them, but the torment is stealing his strength away from him. He can’t but wriggle into their ring of unbearable touches.
“NhahaHAAnHNOdontdohistomeeeHEEHEHEHAHEEEahgghgghhh…!!”
His face is soaked in sweat and laughter tears, and contorted in poignant grimaces. He seems to be ticklish everywhere. He is just a toy in their hands, manipulated to their will. The humiliation is extreme for the sturdy male. They drag and drag their fingers up and down his hairless tummy, rippled with muscles. He cringes and bucks wildly.
There is a moment when so much anguish helps him to sit up halfway. It seems that he is about stamping his feet and is propelling himself to jump up. But twelve hands tickle him ruthlessly, rubbing, kneading his bare torso. For some moments, he tries hard to stand up despite the agony. Impossible. With an uproarious guffaw of doom, he his laid down again, and the soft palms of their young hands redouble their task. They have never tickled such a big prize and will not let it go on no account.
The boys also put his robust legs to the test, stroking the back of his calves and thighs with his fingers and some keys. They even sneak under the shorts to dug their fingers into the tender flesh of that sensitive area, which makes him buck frantically. Two of them are struggling mightily to yank his trainers off. Horrified, he exerts himself to kick them away, but they keep coming back persistently, while the others keep him busy enough. He flips his feet when his trainers are finally pulled off. His socks follow soon.
“NOOOHOHOHOHOOcmonheHEHEhletheheheletmegopfffheHEHAHAaAAHAHAHAAA…!!!”
Not many people know he’s that ticklish. And he hasn’t been worried about that since he served that 45 -day jail sentence at Deer Island, an experience he has credited for changing the direction of his wastrel life. What he hasn’t told is the vexations he suffered there after his cellmate casually found out that weak spot of him. The word went round the prison and soon everybody threatened him with tickles. He had to comply with every convict s caprices to avoid being mercilessly tickled by them. He became their office-boy for all: undesirable tasks, errands, hand-jobs… etc. He was called “Kootchie-Kootchie-Marky” until the last day of his sentence. They even tried to get him into trouble with the guards, so that he was reprimanded and kept longer in there. After being finally released, he decided that never ever would he come back there, and he reasserted his resolution by building his physique in a sturdy way. He would be strong, and never again as vulnerable as he had felt. But, Oh, misfortune of those who suffer from a ticklish skin. It can’t be corrected that easily. And nobody told Mark that, although he had hardened his muscles, his skin was still smooth like a baby’s.
And now that truth is cruelly being confirmed by those kids. The soft palms of their young hands perceive and abuse his most sensitive spots. There are boys straddling his shins to prevent him from kicking too much, while their hands go for the soles of his feet. There are fingernails gliding across each sole with fluid movements that make his guffaws sound louder.
The squirmy Marky struggles fiercely to no avail. It doesn’t matter that he is older and obviously stronger. Now he is utterly powerless. Tickles leave him weak, as if Samson were gradually deprived of his hair, and the kids are taking full advantage of his weakness.
“HEHEHHEHEHEHSTOPPFffheHEHstoHAHAhahhaHAHHAHHAHAHAH!!!”
“Sammy!”, Charlie calls; he has to shout to be heard over the shrieks of laughter, “Go and bring the other things!”
But Sammy is possessed by the insatiable yearning to tickle and tickle, so Charlie has to push him hard to get his attention.
“Hurry up, you jerk!”, he hastens him.
Sammy obeys reluctantly and runs to the entrance hall of their hideaway. On the way there, he goes rubbing his erection.
And talking about erections, you should see Marky’s. Not that he is enjoying at all. At least, not in a consensual way. But the constant tickling and stroking, as well as his severe helplessness, give him a hard-rock cock, that also lets out a spurt of urine from time to time. The kids contribute to this hard-on by patting, rubbing and occasionally, squeezing his bulging shaft through his shorts. He thrusts his hips up with an excruciating frustration.
“HHAHAHffffUuckkffhhehehHOHOIIlldoanythihehehNOOHEHEHEHEHEHhohoooo !!!”
Between blurred eyes, the spasmodic Marky finally spots a gap in their ring. A spark of hope! With a yell, he gathers his last strength and rolls towards that flank, knocking down the kids that were on top of him. They weren’t expecting it and he manages to go a bit far. Now all depends on standing up at one go, without the help of his hands. He stumbles but succeeds and, before they react fast enough, he is on the run. Heading for the exit, he escapes at full speed, as if his life depended on it (which is probably so).
Sammy is coming back from the entrance hall, carrying what he has been asked for, when he hears an almighty uproar coming in his direction. Mark is sprinting towards there, followed closely by the other five lads. Sammy then drops everything and prepares to intercept him. His usual shyness has faded away, giving way to a resolute fixation to stop that man, to retain him there and tickle the shit out of him.
When Mark flashes past, Sammy jumps and gets hold of one of his legs. He clings to it with arms and legs, like a monkey to a branch, hindering him from walking, let alone running. Marky tries desperately to kick him away, but the kid hugs his leg with such a possessive force that it is impossible to get rid of him.
“Please, please, PLEASE!!!”, Mark blubbers while he struggles frantically to advance.
It’s only a few seconds before the others catch up with him and siege him from all flanks. A forest of fingers closes around him. Mark bursts out in exhausted giggles, moans and pleads, trying to resist them by all means. But his means are far from adequate. Sammy, still grabbing his leg with one arm, uses the other to tickle his robust waist. It doesn’t take them long to overpower him again and bring him down to the ground, where he yelps and writhes like crazy. By now he is laughing really hard again.
Where were you going, Marky? They’re no through with you yet. Oh, no, they’re far from through, believe me.
They kootchy-koo him with great sadism, and now they make use of the things Sammy had gone to pick up. Among that stuff, there is another set of handcuffs, which they lock around his ankles so that he can’t run from them again, and also to keep him more helpless. Once they have prevented him from kicking, they pull his shorts down to his knees and find, to their delight, that he’s wearing no briefs. They laugh at his swollen manhood and tease it with a large paintbrush, which they also apply to his groin. When its bristles reach his sphincters, his reaction is explosive, switching his hips back and forth violently.
“HEHEHEPLEEEAASSEEHEEHHEHEHE !!!”
He sobs, howls and squeals deafeningly, with too high-pitched sounds to come from such a masculine throat. That’s music to their ears. Some climb up him, straddling his bare torso to retake work on his mid section. They make use of… a feather duster! He is beyond hysterics. It is long since he has emptied his bladder there, but he does it a second time. The quills of a comb stroke the soles of his poor bare feet as if they scratched a musical instrument. His chained feet hop a St Vitus’s dance on the floorboarding. His body is all spasms and guffaws. His dangling shorts hinder them from reaching his thighs, so they cut them with the scissors.
They tickle him all over. Six against one, six lads against a ticklish adult. They’re overexcited, beside themselves, intoxicated by their unquenchable yearning. They’re gonna KILL Him! There’s no way they’re stopping now. But he is no longer able to fight for his life and can only he beg incoherently and laugh inarticulately.
A new sensation, even more cruel than the others, is added to the ordeal when they begin to tickle him with stinging nettles freshly cut from the park. He reaches his limits and surpasses them by far. And they tickle, tickle, tickle, tickle him.
“BWAAAHAHAHAGGGHnnooohahahDonnieeeeheheheDOONIIEEEHEHEHEEEEEE !!!!”
With a violent jerk of his hips, he finally cums while he goes numb and everything goes dark for him…
He couldn’t tell how long he has been unconscious. For a while, he couldn’t even tell if he still was. He remained motionless and then began to get up whimpering. He could hardly rise to his itching feet.
He had been left alone. They had probably thought they had killed him, got scared and escaped. At least, they had taken the handcuffs off him. They had also taken the torture instruments, supposedly to get away with any evidence of their crime.
How Mark, nude and weak as a baby, managed to get home, is another adventure, involving a collect call, a taxi and an armful of foliage.
Regarding his young torturers, he decided not to sue them. They deserved to go straight to a remand centre, or to a lunatic asylum for that matter, but he was terribly ashamed of the situation he found himself involved in. What was he gonna say anyway, that some kids kidnapped and tickled him almost to death? It would have been a new humiliation to tell it, and he didn’t dare to think the outcomes of that story being aired. Without much thought then, he opted for consigning all to oblivion.
A couple of weeks later, Wahlberg is already recovered from the incident, apart from some recurrent nightmares that will probably haunt him for the rest of his life. A relax therapy of saunas and Jacuzzis has left him fresh and renewed. He has done without massages though, since it will be long until he can endure somebody’s hands approaching him.
He is at home one afternoon, rehearsing in private the lines of his next movie, when the porter of his building rings his bell. He brings an envelope. He knows that mail for Wahlberg has to undergo a security procedure, but the nice kid who brought it insisted so much… The word “kid” is enough to give Marky goosepimples, but he just thanks the porter and takes the letter from him. After locking the door, he rushes to tear the envelope and pull out its content.
The pictures just take his breath away. It’s he surrounded by hands, he writhing and thrashing, he laughing at the top of his lungs … So they also had a camera. He hadn’t seen it through his tears, nor heard the clicks over his own hysterical guffaws.
He slowly sits and takes his hands to his face. He realizes he is trembling. If he checked in a mirror, he will probably find he is also blushing. The shame overwhelms him. This is the end. He won’t ever be able to raise his eyes again. What sensationalist magazine will be first in laying its hands on the negatives? In his shaken mind, he can even read the headline: “Kootchie-Kootchie-Marky”
But there is something else into the envelope. It’s a message in an infant handwriting:
“Hi, Marky.
We miss you a lot. We had such a good time with you. That was a lark! Do you like the pictures? We promise not to show them to anyone if you visit us from time to time. Just drop in. You know where to find us…”