Locker Room Revenge

by

Jack

ropejock@hotmail.com


When I played on my high school basketball team, I guess I used to be a real asshole during practice. I was one of the tallest guys on the team, made a good "center", and always showed a lot of hustle and team spirit. The coach liked that, but several of the guys on the team hated it, thinking I was taking it too far and being really obnoxious. I was always calling guys names and making fun of them when they missed a shot or otherwise goofed up.

One of the best ways I had of needling my teammates was to sneak up on them, especially when they were at the foul line practicing their foul shots, waiting for just the right moment when they were raising their arms to make a shot, and then coming up behind them and, with both hands, grabbing their ribs and giving them a good, hard tickle. They would invariably completely lose control of the ball, and it would even miss the backboard and fly wild into the bleechers or somewhere. I would then pass by them acting nonchalant, and surprised when they yelled after me, cursing and swearing at me. This would sometime degenerate into a shoving match, to the great displeasure of the coach. I can't remember the number of times me and several of my "victims" would have to run punishment laps after practice. So, yeah, they didn't like me very much. But I was a good player, and an asset to the team, so they had to deal with it.

Two of the guys on the team that I had singled out, and who were particularly vulnerable to my tickle attacks, were John and Walt. They were best buddies, lived near each other, and always hung out together. They were both "guards", stood a little over six foot tall, wiry and muscular, good-looking, and very popular with the girls. And, judging from their violent reactins to my tickle attacks, they were both extremely ticklish. John and Walt were juniors at the time, and I was a sophmore, so I guess I was sorta in awe of them, but resented them at the same time. I was never allowed into their "inner circle", so I needled and harrassed them whenever possible.

Once, when I was practicing my foul shots, John came up behind me and played my own trick on me, jabbing into my ribs from behind, and causing me to throw wild. I reacted very violently (I was extremely ticklish, and didn't want the other guys on the team to know of this "weakness".) I started cursing at him, and got tangled up in a shoving match. Walt joined in, and soon, all three of us were rewarded with punishment laps after practice.

We often practiced at night, and this particular night, after we finished our laps, we were the last three left in the locker room. Even the coach had gone home. There was probably a janitor somewhere in the building, but he was nowhere to be seen.

As we started to change out of our practice uniforms, John and Walt were grumbling at me about causing trouble, being an asshole, and making them stay late and have to run laps. I guess they were just about fed up, and they decided to pay me back. They knew from John's earlier tickle-jab at me that I must also be extremely ticklish, and they had obviously put some thought into their upcoming act of revenge.

They must have gotten some rope from a supply closet and hid it in one of their lockers, which were right near mine. I was still dressed for practice, just starting to peel off my sweaty jersey, when they both jumped me, wrestled me down onto my belly, sat down on me, yanked my arms behind me, and tied my wrists together behind my back, painfully tight. They flipped me over onto my back, and I found myself lying on my back on my bound wrists, in a wide open space on the locker room floor, between some benches and a row of lockers. I hadn't removed my jersey all the way, and it was bunched up under my armpits, exposing my chest and belly. It all happened so fast that I hardly had a chance to react or struggle.

John and Walt each straddled one of my legs, started untying my hi-top sneakers and roughly yanked them off, along with my sweat-drenched socks. All this time, they were growling at me and muttering about paying me back, seeing how I would like it, etc.

Once my feet were bare, they took two more pieces of thin rope and tied one tightly around each of my big toes. I was struggling and trying to kick them, but one guy would straddle one of my legs, squeezing it inbetween his powerful legs, while the other guy would tie the rope around the toe. Then they threw the other ends of each rope up over two wide-spread heating pipes up near the ceiling. The pipes were spread apart across the locker room about six feet away from each other, running parallel to my position on he floor. They each grabbed one rope and by pulling hard, began to hoist my feet up off the floor by the ropes around my big toes. I gave a yell and started cursing at them, demanding to be let loose. As they yanked on the ropes, and my feet rose higher and higher into the air, it felt like they were gonna pull my big toes out of their sockets, it hurt real bad. I quickly discovered that kicking and fighting it only made it hurt worse, so I stopped kicking and I used my abs and leg muscles to do a sort of leg-lift, trying to keep my feet in the air, without putting too much pressure on my big toes. (I was size 12 back then, I'm size 13 now.) They raised my feet up about four feet into the air. With the ropes being pulled taut from those wide-spread pipes, my feet were also being pulled in opposite directions, splitting my legs apart and putting a painful stretch on the muscles of my inner thighs. My feet ended up being seperated nearly five feet apart. Once they had my feet up where they wanted them, they tied off the ends of the ropes to some more pipes near the wall. I was trapped in an awkward, painful position, lying on my bound wrists, legs spread, bare feet painfully tied and hoisted into the air by my big toes.

John and Walt snickered at my helpless situation for a minute, calling me names and threatening me. I played the tough guy, giving it right back to them, and threatening them with retaliation. Being in this position, with two against one, really made my considerable competative streak kick in, and I was determined not to come out of this the "loser". After several minutes of this verbal sparring, John and Walt grabbed one of the locker room benches and dragged it over so it was right near my raised bare feet. I finally got the idea of what they might be planning to do, and I gulped.

They both sat down, one on either end of the bench, perilously close to my helplessly raised bare feet. They stared down at me with real serious, angry expressions on their faces, and started asking me if I was ready to stop being such an asshole and needling them so much during practice. I swore at them, started calling them some real foul names, and demanded to be set free.

So, yeah, you guessed it. To "teach me a lesson" and to make me agree to alter my obnoxious attitude, they simultaneously reached out and started to tickle my bare feet with their fingers. The second that their wiggling fingers made contact with my tender soles, I yelled, and tried to pull my feet away. Big mistake. The pain I felt from the ropes tied around my big toes, as they were jerked and pulled, made me yell out in pain and frustration. But coupled with the incredible ticklish sensation, I soon found myself giggling and trying to hold back the reaction.

John and Walt, seated comfortably on the bench, were all business. They seriously concentrated on each doing the best job they could with tickling the helpless foot in front of them. After a few grueling minutes of nothing but my cursing, sputtering, and trying not to laugh, the interrogation process began in earnest. They each took turns, asking me the same question, over and over, never stopping the relentless tickling of my soles. "Are you gonna stop being such an asshole?" "Are you gonna stop being such an asshole?" Soon, I was going nuts, laughing and squirming around and swearing at them. When the tickling got so intense that I really couldn't stand it, I would try to move my feet away from their tickling fingers, but it would pull on my big toes and put them in excrutiating pain. And they just kept going and going, never letting up, never stopping the questioning.

They kept up the tickling, one guy on each one of my feet, for a long, long time. Their rough fingers would scrape lightly across my arches, under my toes, across the tops of the toes, down the sides of my feet to the heels, and back to the arches. The random patterns, and the fact that each foot was feeling a different stroke and tempo from a different fiendish tickler, was excrutiating. I was starting to lose it. I was soon gasping for breath, sweating like a pig, and nearly choking from the gulps and laughs escaping from my throat. Every time I tried to move my feet, the pain shot through my big toes. And soon, my ab and leg muscles began to get sore and tired from the exertion of tying to keep my legs raised and all the considerable weight of my long legs from being suspended by the ropes around the toes. I really felt trapped, but I was still being very stubborn, and refused to answer their repeated question.

I remember thinking briefly about the games we used to play in the neighborhood when I was a kid. Me and my little buddies would play Cowboys and Indians, or Spy vs. Spy, and there was always lots of capturing, wrestling, tying to trees and telephone poles, and "torture". Often, the torture would take the form of tickling. But back then, they were innocent games played with buddies. Now, I found myself in a real situation, at the mercy of guys I didn't particularly like or trust, and who definately didn't like me.

After what seemed like ages, with my endurance and stubbornness being severely taxed, and the non-stop tickling and repeated questions really getting to me, I felt myself really starting to weaken. By this time, I was laughing and gasping for air, with all thought of trying to hold out against these two guys and maintain some composure long gone.

They must have sensed that I was close to "giving", because they suddenly changed their tactics. John jumped up from the bench and, straddling my belly, sat down hard, knocking the wind out of me. Walt slid over to the middle of the bench, and using both hands, took over the constant tickling of both of my trapped and helpless bare feet. John, perched on top of me, leaned down with his angry face close to mine, and really started laying it on. He took his hands and began brutally digging in to my helpless ribs, tickling them roughly, and making me nearly scream with the intense sensation. My jersey was still pulled up around my upper chest, giving him free access to my defenseless ribs. He started asking me how I liked being tickled, and if I was ready to agree to stop pestering them during practice. Feeling John's full weight bearing down on me, pressing my body even harder onto my bound wrists, was excrutiating. I was gasping for air, laughing uncontrollably now, and trying to beg them to stop. And all the while, Walt kept up the relentless tickling of my feet. Once, John reached his fingers up into my armpits, even with my arms pressed tightly to my sides, and began brutally tickling my pits, which caused me to buck and squirm even harder. My ab and leg muscles finally gave out, and I felt the entire weight of my legs being suspended from those damn ropes around my big toes.

They had me. They knew it, and I knew it. And yet, their sadistic attack went on and on, not giving me a chance to breathe or even to beg for mercy. I remember being surprised at how sadistic they could be. I have never since underestimated how tough and brutal it can be when you are "playing" with a tough jock.

I eventually lost it completely and, totally exhausted and humiliated, my whole body just sagged, the "fight" totally knocked out of me. They sensed their victory, and stopped the tickling. I was sweatiing and gasping as John asked again: "Now. Are you gonna stop being such an asshole?" I had no choice. Between gasps, I quietly answrerd, "Yes". They asked a few more times, just to be sure, and their victory over me was complete. I had to promise again and again that I would be a "good boy", and they even made me apologize for screwing around with them. I was totally broken, totally humiliated.

Satisfied, they left me there for a while while they quickly changed back into their street clothes. My body and especially my big toes and legs were aching badly. Then came back, lowered my feet to the floor, untied my toes, flipped me over, and untied my wrists. I lay there, exhausted, as they left the locker room. As I eventually picked myself up and headed for a long, hot shower, I was too exhausted and sore to even think about getting any revenge on them.

But their plan worked. From then on, I steered clear of them in practice. My attitude did change, and I knocked off the horsing around, the tickle-attacks, and the constant needling. I always fantasized about getting back at them, but the opportunity never arose, and then the event started to receed into memory. We never spoke about it after that, but we would always eye each other warily whenever we passed in the hall or practiced or played ball together.

That was my first real introduction to cruel bondage and sadistic tickle torture. For years, whenever I thought about that experience, I would shudder and try to forget about it. It wasn't until years later, when I became interested in bondage, tickle torture and S/M, that I would think about that night in the locker room, and kind of admire how effective it was. Maybe that's why I'm so "into" it now, playing out tough-guy challenges with other jocks.


Jack
ropejock@hotmail.com


www.ropejock.com