A Scout Story

 or, 

HOW MY BEST FRIEND TIED ME UP TORTURED ME NEARLY TO DEATH WHEN I WAS ONLY 
TWELVE-YEARS-OLD

By Harlan Stewart

There must be something almost genetically compulsive about boys "starting 
stuff" with each other thru tickle games, back rubs, and don't-you-dare-move 
(we called it "Statue") ploys. Like so many others, my first sexual contact 
with another person was in a two-man puptent. The difference, maybe, was 
that when I came that first, gloriously terrifying, time my dick and my 
friend's hands were covered in suntan lotion and my hands were tied behind 
my back.

That night (it was at a two-night camporee) we had played Capture-the-Flag 
with the other troop we had camped. I don't know about your scout days, but 
we would play a "variation" of C-the-F when we could get away with it. When 
a prisoner would be taken during the game, instead of taking them to a 
prison-base and leaving them there (as the rules state you're supposed to 
do), we would try to ...uh...persuade them to tell us where their team's 
flag was hidden.  This was great fun and nobody ever got hurt, nor snitched 
to the adult leaders about what was going on. I think it was a conspiracy 
between us as a result of boys' universal fascination with the rituals of 
dominance and submission and the necessity to prove that you are "tough."

Anyway, after lights out, my friend and I were messing around in our tent, 
just as untold millions of other boys have in the course of time. As I 
remember we were arguing about the klutzes on our team who had captured a 
prisoner from the other team but failed to get him to tell where the flag 
was and then let him get away.

	"I coulda made him talk, I bet!" my friend whispered.
	"Yeah?" I taunted, "How would you've done that, Mr. Expert?"
	"Easy, I'da tortured him, that's how!" He gave a particularly ominous 
empasis to the word torture.
	"Yeah, well, they tried that and it didn't work!"
	"Well, they don't know the really good tortures that *I* know!" he said. 
(We were under the lights-out rule of quiet, so we had to keep our voices 
down to strangled whispers.)
	"Baloney!" I scoffed.
	"You wanna BET?" he said, in the time-honored huff that boys will assume 
when their honor is impugned.
	"Bet what?" I sniffed.
	"I bet I can make *you* give up!" he taunted.
	"No way!"
	"Bet!"
	"No way!"
	"Bet! Chicken! Cluck-cluck-cluck!"
	"OK, Whatta we bet?"
	"Just that I can make you give up!"
	"OK, but for how long. Ten minutes, OK?"
	"Naw, fifteen at least. OK? Gotta be at least fifteen minutes."
	"All right. But if you *don't* make me give up then I get to do it to 
*you*! OK?
	"OK, I guess. But you're gonna LOSE, sucka!" he chortled.
	"We'll see," I said. "Now what?". He was rummaging around in the near dark 
of the tent, searching through his knapsack. Finally he came out with a 
length of cotton rope, like we used for our knot-tying practise.
	"Turn over" he ordered.
	"What for?" 
	"I gotta tie you up, of course!" he said, as if it were the most obvious 
thing in the world.
	"No way!" I protested.
	"C'mon, everybody knows you gotta tie prisoners up when you're gonna 
torture 'em!" he whined.
	"Well, OK. But not too tight. Promise?" 

I had, after all, agreed to the bet and I was also starting to get the 
slightest bit interested in just what he was going to do to me. I wasn't 
afraid, just curious. I rolled over on my sleeping bag and he hopped over 
and straddled my butt. It was a hot night and we were already in nothing but 
our underwear briefs. I felt him take my wrists and lift them up onto my 
back, cross them, and start to tie me with his rope. Almost against my will 
I realized that it felt pleasurable, in a kind of weird way, to have him 
sitting on me and tying me up there in the near darkness of the tent. It 
only took him a couple of minutes to have me securely tied. The atmosphere 
in the tent had changed somehow; there seemed to be something else there 
with us, some new thing that had just been born.

After he had me securely bound I felt his hands start to explore my back and 
shoulders. Light, teasing, flicks of his fingers were all over me. They 
didn't tickle exactly, but they seemed to be sensitizing my skin, making it 
almost tingle from his light and feathery touches. I could feel little 
tremors of my own muscles sometimes when he would touch a sensitive spot.

	"Give up?" he asked, while he continued brushing his fingers over my back 
above my tied hands.
	"Are you crazy?" I asked. "This is *nothing*! You've lost this best, 
buddy!" I said.

He didn't say anything, but scrambled off my butt and squatted next to me on 
the sleeping bag, his bare knees against my right side. Now he began the 
same light, back and forth brushing strokes on my legs, working from my 
ankles up to my upper thighs. He spent more time on my thighs and the 
strokes were begining to tickle just the slightest bit. He paused after a 
minute or two.

	"Now you gonna give up?" he asked.
	"Don't be silly!" I said, and he started on me again. 

This time he worked his fingers up around my butt, back and forth just at 
the edge of my briefs. Every few seconds he would run his fingers down onto 
my inner thighs and it did seem to me that I was more sensitive there. But 
then he stopped.

	"Spread your legs," he ordered. Somehow the command made me uneasy, wary.
	"Why?"
	"Don't ask questions! Just do it!" Wonder of wonder I complied and spread 
my legs.
	"Wider!" he ordered, and I spread them wider. I could feel the canvas on 
both sides of the little tent with my bare toes. "That's better," he said, 
and resumed his slow tickling strokes.

But this time he was confining his fingertips to my inner thighs, going down 
as far as he could reach and then back up and across the backs of my legs 
just below where my briefs covered me. After a minute or so I felt him reach 
up and fold the elastic band of my briefs down two or three times, baring 
more of my lower back.

	"What are you doing?" I asked him.
	"Shut up!" he said, and, strangely, I did.

He worked on my lower back for quite a while. My skin would tremble 
reflexively slightly when he hit certain spots. After a while he asked me 
again.

	"You ready to give up?"
	"No way! I like this!" I teased him.
	"Maybe this will change you mind!" he said.

I felt his fingers trace down over both my buns and then across the backs of 
my thighs and down across the sensitive skin of my inner thighs and then 
before I knew what was happening he was lightly raking two fingers back and 
forth acorss that sensitive spot between balls and anus!

	"Hey, cut it out!" I protested.
	"Shut up!" he repeated. "Ready to give up?"
	"N-n-noo! But don't do that! Stop it, OK?" The tingling was growing 
stronger down there.
	"Give up then!" he taunted.
	"No! I won't, but you shouldn't be doing...that!"
	"Who says? You're my prisoner and I can do anything I want!" He swirled his 
fingers faster. "Feels weird, don't it?" I had to nod my head, but didn't 
say anything. The feelings his fluttering fingers gave me were becoming 
very...interesting.

He stopped talking and seemed to be concentrating on what he was doing to 
me. He swapped hands and used the other hand to do what its fellow had just 
been doing. Then he took a break and went back out to my inner thighs, 
followed by some quick strokes all along both thighs from butt to back of 
knee. Then a pause and after a few seconds I felt fingers on me there behind 
my nuts again. I think I made a little gasp or moan this time and I felt him 
lean down across my back, bringing his mouth close to my ear.

	"Give?"

For some reason my throat felt tight and I didn't answer, didn't think I 
could, but just shook my head from side to side. My eyes were closed. Weird 
phrases were running through my mind. 'Cary's torturing me' I heard my brain 
saying to itself. 'I'm tied up and Cary's torturing me!' Sometime around 
this time I realized that I was hard and that I was hunching myself ever so 
slightly against the jumble of sleeping bags under me. Ohmygod! What if Cary 
had seen it? What if he knew what I was doing? And then it seemed so clear 
to me that, considering what he was doing to me with his fingers, there was 
no way he could NOT know what I had been doing. I felt like I was blushing 
now, but I also felt like I didn't care.

Cary's fingers had stopped their fiendish work and I opened my eyes to look 
up at him over my shoulder from where I lay with my left cheek flat against 
the sleeping bag. He was looking down at me, I was sure that if I could have 
seen it clearly his face would have been full of disgust and derision. He 
would tell the rest of the troop what I had been doing and my life would be 
over!

	"Turn over," he said, very quietly, barely a whisper.

No! I couldn't do that. I just *couldn't*! But I did, I put my legs together 
and rolled over onto my back, lying on my bound hands.

	"Spread your legs!" he ordered. I did it, feeling the canvas against my 
feet again. A tiny sprig of moonight spiked into the tent from the 
buttoned-up front flap and I could raise my head and see the wet sheen of my 
sweaty chest and belly. I could also barely make out the bulge of my 
jockeys. I dropped my head back on the sleeping bag just as Cary's fingers 
started to slide and seem to almost vibrate across the moist cotton of my 
briefs over my rigid penis. He knew! He knew, and he was...touching it 
through the cloth! The first feel of his fingers on me was a sudden deep, 
tingle inducing, shock. A blast of pure, filthy-dirty sensation. He lightly 
pinched that spot just in front of the glans between his thumb and 
forefinger and then twisted them slowly back and forth.

	"Unnnh!"
	"Good, huh?" he whispered. 

He was at my waistband then, fingers under it on each side and pulling down. 
Shamelessly, I raised my butt and let him pull my briefs down, even putting 
my legs together to help him get them off. Then he was nuzzling his knees 
between mine and I spread my legs again, raising them and pointing the toes 
in an extremity of obscene muscular tension as he settled down in a squat 
between my wide spread legs, his knees against my inner thighs. From behind 
him, on the floor of the tent, he produced something, a tube it looked like, 
popped the cap, squeezed something that went *splut* into his palm and the 
tent seemed to fill with the aroma of coconut, sweet and heavy. Sun-tan oil! 
Then both hands were on me there: sudden, warm, slick, tight, rubbing, 
squeezing! It was the most wonderful feeling I had ever felt in my whole 
young life up to that point. I didn't care who knew, what they thought, what 
they did! This was...wonderful!

	"Good?" Cary repeated, as he worked.
	"Unnnnnh!" I answered, too loud.
	"Shhh!"

It didn't take long. While his left hand worked gently on my slick, 
tightly-tucked up balls, his right steadily took me there with strong, long 
strokes while I held my breath. I didn't have much to give up, but what I 
had I squirted up along my chest and onto my chin in one or two strong 
mini-geysers that subsided quickly into weak dribbles.

	"ANNNNNNNH!"
	"SHHHH!!!"

I felt his greasy left hand clamp over my mouth while he continued to work 
his right up and down on my spasming dick. Oh, god! I was going to die! It 
was too strong! I. Was. Going. To. Die! But finally it was over. He released 
my mouth. And then after some slow, gentle strokes he released my prick, 
too. There was silence in the tent now, save for my gasps of pent up breath. 
And then Cary leaned down and whispered to me.

	"Give up?" he said. And we both started to giggle.

=========

OK, there is my little memoir. It would be great to hear from you, if you 
enjoyed it or, even better, if it kindled memories of your own. I have a few 
other such memory tales, and if there is any demand for them I would try to 
write themup and post them. Please write me at 
harlanstewart@REMOVEmail15.com. You know what to do with the REMOVE.