27 November 1957

        I tried something rather unusual yesterday.

        Even as I write this, it is hard for me to accept that it actually transpired, but my ruined neckties remain on my desk as evidence. Made from the finest imported silks, they now lie beside my journal, stretched and wrinkled and beyond saving. Yet despite their mangled condition, I can’t help but smile as I run my fingers over them, just as I ran my fingers over my policeman’s flesh yesterday in ways that I had never done before.

        I can still picture his face, the way it twisted up as he tried to hold back his laughter. Ah, his laughter. Such a sweet, melodious sound. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I would like to explain in detail how yesterday’s events came to pass. When he first arrived at my flat, I was surprised to see that he had brought his uniform with him.

        “Why do you have that?” I asked.

        He smiled shyly. “It’s Tuesday.”

        “Well yes, but I haven’t sketched you in weeks,” I said.

        “Thought it was about time then.”

        As soon as I ushered him inside and closed the door, my lips were on his. Normally, I’m far more careful, but I found I couldn’t help myself. The fact that he was, yet again, encouraging my craft was deeply touching. I led him through the foyer, my fingers clasping his hair. I removed his coat, tossing it aside, and his nimble hands were soon at the buttons of my sweater.

        We quickly found ourselves in my bedroom, and I began to relax a bit more. It was our retreat, a sanctum further away from the rest of this wretched world, and with it, the prying eyes and ears of my neighbors.

        We could again be ourselves.

        As we explored one another, our lovemaking commenced, just as it always had. Passionate, strong, rhythmic. But it was during this particular session that something caught my attention. I had him on his back. My hands were at his wrists, pinning them against the mattress, his arms above his head. He was thrusting upward into me as I kissed him.

        I drew my lips downward, starting at his jaw, then dropping to his neck. This got him to laugh a few times. The sound weakened me, but it also drove me to keep exploring. I kissed his collarbone, then his chest. When I reached his left nipple, he began to laugh again. I felt him fight against my hold. It was when I began to near his underarm, however, that he protested.

        “Quit that,” he said.

        “What?” I asked.

        “Stop kissing me there.”

        “Where? Here?” I returned my lips to the expanse of flesh beneath his arm.

        My policeman laughed once more, louder this time. He tried to twist himself away from my persistent lips. “Yes, there! Stop that.”

        “My, my, Tom.” I looked up at him. He had gone a bit red in the face. “Are you ticklish?”

        “Just stop.”

        “You haven’t given me a reason why I should.”

        “I don’t like it,” he said, despite his smile.

        “Really? Are you sure?” I released his wrists and quickly lowered my hands into the divots of supple flesh beneath his biceps.

        “No, no!” My policeman actually shouted and yelped before he began to giggle like a helpless schoolboy. I was afraid that his eyes might bulge from their sockets. I relented, but there was something about that grin on his face. Now, I find it difficult to describe. The words “raw” and “bright” and “wild” come to mind. The more I think on it though, the more I find myself settling on “pure.” My policeman’s smile, in that moment, was pure. And so rarely could people like us express joy with such reckless abandon.

        I wanted to see that smile again, and for longer than a mere fleeting moment of amusement. It occurred to me that while Tom and I had made love on numerous occasions, we had yet to partake in something new. Something different. An idea forged within me.

        “I’d like to try something,” I said.

        “What’s that?” he asked, the remnants of his reaction still lingering in his eyes and on his lips.

        “It might require a bit of an open mind.”

        He gave me a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

        I thought for a moment, my eyes surveying the room. They finally came to rest on the bag housing his uniform.

        “Do you trust me?” I asked, knowing full well that he did.

        “Of course,” he said, without hesitation.

        I smiled. “Good. Then get dressed.”

-----

        It took some convincing, but I managed to persuade my policeman to get back into his uniform, helmet and all. I remained fully undressed, smoking a cigarette from my sofa in the parlor, listening to a record play. On occasion, I would hear the sounds of him shuffling into his garments, and I could only imagine what was going through his head. Once he told me he was ready, I reentered my bedroom, smiling at him as he looked up at me from where he was sitting on the bed.

        “Look at you, you bloody copper,” I said.

        “That’s ‘Officer’ to you,” he said.

        “Well, Officer, go on. Get into that chair over there.” I nodded towards the seat at my desk. It was a wooden chair, with a curved back and slats.

        A smirk played on his lips. “What are you on about? What is all this?” he said, heeding my instructions.

        “I told you. You need to have an open mind.”

        “I have, I have,” he said.

        I procured the silk neckties from the top drawer of my bureau, and I saw his eyes light up, just as they had when we had first met outside his box. His mouth, however, turned downward with confusion. Before he could ask a question, I held a finger to my lips. “Open mind,” I repeated. “Place your hands on each side of the chair. Right here." I gestured to each side of the back of the chair.

        “Are you going to bloody tie me up?” he asked.

        I felt my heart dance in my chest. It was one thing when it had merely been a fantasy in my head. But now, confronting the notion as reality—I became nervous and nearly ashamed. “Will you let me?” I asked.

        An amused look crossed his face. “What is going on in that head of yours?”

        “Will you let me?” I asked again, grin overtaking me.

        He shrugged. “I suppose.” And he did what I had requested. I bound his wrists to the back of the chair, one at each side so that his arms were pulled back just slightly, forcing his chest forward. I watched his fingers curl and uncurl, and my pulse hastened as I wondered at the soft skin of his palms, which went from white to pink as the indentations of his fingers fled from his flesh.

        “Legs here,” I instructed him, pointing down to the legs of the chair.

        “My legs too?”

        “We can’t have you going anywhere, can we?”

        He chuckled. “I guess not.” He placed his calves on either side of the chair, and I used my ties to bind his ankles to his seat, just above the tops of his boots. “All right,” I said once I’d completed my task. I stood up, a bit winded and took a breath. “Officer Burgess, is it? Shall we begin?””

        “What are we doing?”

        “Are you able to move?"

        I watched him pull against his bonds. I looked down at his feet, his ankles secured to the front legs of the chair so that the bottoms of his boots were planted firmly on the ground. His feet shifted to and fro, but he was unable to free them from the confines of the chair. Finally, he said, “No, I don’t think I can.”

        “Are you sure?” I needed to be certain.

        He shifted around in the seat again, but after a few quiet sounds of protest, he nodded his head and looked up at me. “I’m sure. You’re quite good at tying people up, aren’t you?”

        “My first time, actually,” I said, though I was no stranger to the art of the knot.

        “So, what do you plan on doing with me now?” His question alone sent shivers down my spine. I could feel myself harden.

         “Well, Officer, you may not know this, but I’ve always had a bit of a distaste for the boys in blue,” I said. My voice shook. My throat was tight. I tried to laugh away my nerves as I stepped towards him. He was still looking up at me with such a purity in his eyes that I could barely keep from climbing onto him.

        “Yes, you’ve told me,” he said.

        I lowered my head and glanced at the floor for a moment. “No, no. You’re not supposed to know me,” I told him.

        “What? What do you mean?”

        “It’s theatre,” I said. “I’m playing a part.”

        “A part?” His voice became laced with amusement, and I blushed.

        “Just go along with it, will you?” I said.

        He nodded. “Aye.”

        “So, Officer Burgess.” I cleared my throat and resumed my act. “Since I am none too fond of your demeanor, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands.”

        I saw my policeman ponder my words. I was still very nervous. What if things went awry? What if this made him angry? Or frightened him? I knew how sensitive he was about being caught between two worlds, the law and the lives we led. But the glint in his eye brightened, and he finally said to me, “Yeah? And how do you plan on doing that?”

        This was unexpected. And thrilling. And I grew harder, a weight now bobbing just off of my waist. “Well,” I said, “I’ll show you.” I drew closer to him. I placed my finger under his chin and tilted his head back. His helmet shifted on his head. “Are you ready?” 

        “Do your worst,” he said smugly. Even thinking back to that moment now—it makes my head swim, my hand shake, my pen trail off...

        I proceeded to unbutton his coat. I discovered that he hadn’t fully redressed, but this now worked to my advantage. His tie remained unknotted, his collar open, his braces unfastened. I managed to pull his coat back so that it still rested behind his shoulders and from there, I started to unbutton his undershirt. He grunted and shuffled a bit in his position, but otherwise, he watched me calmly as I worked. In fact, from the manner in which his tongue ran over his lips, I would say that he was probably excited. He didn’t know then what I had in store for him.

        “Now, Officer Burgess, are you going to apologize for being so brutish?"

        “I don’t think I have anything to apologize for.”

        “We’ll see about that,” I said, and I pulled his shirt open, revealing his beautiful chest. Firm, smooth, unblemished. His nipples dark and large and, in that moment, quite hard. I moved my fingertips to each nipple, and I began to gently tease them.

        “Oi,” he said, before his utterance broke away into heavy intakes of air. He tilted his head back, his helmet shifting further back.

        I pressed my naked body into him. My lips found their way back to his neck, just as they had done on the bed. He tasted of salt and the sea air. He moaned softly as I made contact with his jugular.

        “Apologize,” I whispered between kisses. I continued to tickle his nipples. His moaning and shifting intensified. The sounds he made were on the verge of laughter, like thin ice about to give way.

        “Why should I?” he muttered. It was defiant and it encouraged me further. I smiled and brought my fingers away from his nipples, sliding them up into the flesh of his underarms. “Hey!” he shouted and nearly leapt up into the air, taking the chair with him.

        “My, my.” I said with a laugh. I pulled myself away from him and withdrew my hands. “Looks like we found ourselves a little weakness, haven’t we?”

        My policeman’s eyes went wide with the realization of what awaited him. “Oh, no,” he said.

        “What happened to that confidence you carried just a moment ago?” I asked.

        “Patrick, not that. Please,” he said.

        “Patrick?” I frowned. “Who’s Patrick?”

        “No, Patrick. I mean it. I won’t be able to stand it.”

        “Oh, Officer,” I said, taking a moment to relish in his fear. “That’s precisely the point.” I walked around the chair so that I was behind him now. Often, he was the one who found himself behind me. But in that moment, I had him right where I wanted him—vulnerable and exposed and seated in front. I reached around his shoulders, relishing the warmth of the wool of his coat against my naked chest, and I brought my hands around his biceps, secured at either side of him.

        “Patrick, please,” he said again. It was obvious to me that he wasn’t understanding the point of our little game.

        “Again, Officer,” I whispered into his ear. “I don’t know who you’re on about.” My fingers found their way into the soft hairs of each of his underarms.  

        He hissed and grimaced at first. He shook his head from side to side, his helmet falling away to the floor. When he realized that I wasn’t going to stop, and when I applied just the smallest increase of pressure to his sensitive flesh, I produced the desired result.

        My policeman began to laugh. “Please!” he shouted, though his word was breaking apart in his protest.

        “Please what?” I asked.

        “Please stop!”

        “No,” I said, resting my head on his left shoulder, pressing my chin softly into his clavicle. My cheek made contact with his, and I could feel his smile, his struggle. “No, I don’t think I will.”

        It hadn’t occurred to me just how ticklish Tom really was. As my fingers continued to gently explore his underarms—softly, slowly, in circular motions—my policeman’s laugh grew hearty and loud. He tilted his head away from mine, mouth agape, his teeth bright. He closed his eyes, his nose wrinkling.

        “Oh, stop! Please stop!” he would say through open, rhythmic bellows--ha-ha-ha-ha. I loved the sounds, but I also commended myself for leaving the record playing out in the parlor, which I was certain was now masking the pleasurable plight of my policeman. Otherwise, Rudy would undoubtedly hear from across the hall. And he still believed Tom to be my cousin.

         “Does this tickle, Officer?” I asked, as my fingers scribbled upward into the flesh underneath his biceps and then down along the silky skin on the outskirts of his chest. I watched goosebumps ripple up across his flesh as he tried to twist away from my touch, but my hands were on either side. His laugh intensified. Reckless. Helpless. Still rhythmic and even -- ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. And my heart pulsed with excitement. DUM-de. DUM-de.

        “You know bloody well it tickles!” he shrieked.

        “Well, fine. That’s just fine,” I said with a grin, deciding to give him some respite. I lifted my fingers from the sides of his upper chest and allowed him to catch his breath. “So, are you ready to concede then?”

        The elation that had occupied his face only moments beforehand had been replaced with an adamant frown. “Concede to what?” he said. He was taking heavy breaths.

        “To me, Officer,” I answered him. “Apologize for your barbaric attitude.”

        “I haven’t got any attitude,” he argued, his accent sharp and biting again. Almost boyish, but deep. “It’s you who’s got the attitude.”

         “Oi, copper,” I tsked. “Wrong answer, I’m afraid. What a shame.” This time, I showed him less mercy. With my chin still resting on his left shoulder, and my arms still around him from behind, I struck his underarms with much more force. I pressed the pads of my fingers pressed into the muscles of his chest and tickled him again. I could feel him tense up and he was immediately thrust into fits of heavy laughter again.

        “No! Patrick, no!” he yelled, clearly failing to fully immerse himself in his role. He tossed his head back, which gave my lips more access to his lovely neck. He was beginning to perspire. I nibbled at his flesh again, which evoked more moaning amidst his forced amusement. The sweet, sweet sound. I enjoy writing it out, remembering the distinct tempo of it --

        Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha --

        I squeezed him tighter as he continued to twist away from me in a futile attempt to avoid my touch, and I lowered my hands onto his stomach, also flat and firm.

        “Oh, no! Oh no, stop! Please stop!” yelled my policeman. He tried to lurch forward, but he could only, barely, bend into my touch, the binds of his wrists holding fast and preventing him from curling up. The heels of my palms were perched on the bottom of each of his lowest ribs, while my fingers kneaded their way into his stomach below, my index fingers in particular finding their way into his belly button, the others splayed out above his waist. “You’re driving me mad!” he screamed, his laugh pitching -- HA-ha-ha! -- Loud, then soft and pulsing -- HA-ha-ha -- then, jarring, and desperate, shifting into another sound -- ha-ha-HA-HA!

        “Am I, Officer? Am I driving you mad?” I teased him. His trousers were still on, but I could see his own hardness mounting at his waist. I remember telling myself to remain disciplined in my craft. In due time, I reminded myself. In due time.

        “Yes!” said my policeman. “This is too much! Patrick! Please!”

        “Okay, okay. Hold on,” I said, and I gave his hip bones a few gentle pinches which caused him to buck upward from his seat. “I’ll let you catch your breath.”

        “I don’t think I can take anymore,” he said. He was panting like an old dog. His perspiring was intensifying, most evident at his hairline.

        “Can you not?” I asked, kissing his flushed cheek. He was so warm. I burrowed the cook of my nose into the soft skin at his left cheek, my eyelids gently caressing his. I kissed him again, my lips hard and fast on the supple flesh above his jaw, and this made him chuckle. A short release of air. Gentle. My heart -- DUM-de, DUM-de.

        “I really can’t. This is like torture,” he said. His voice remained deep, almost like the croak of a frog.

        “It’s meant to be,” I reminded him. “I’m punishing you.”

        “What for?” he asked again, and this made me laugh. Sometimes he was so simple, but in the very best way. Innocent. Curious. Open to exploration.

        “For being a bad bobby,” I said, and I made my way around the chair again so that I was in front of him again, facing him. I yearned to disrobe him further, but not before diverting my attention to another spot on his body, a spot that had me very curious. My eyes fell upon his boots.

        “But I’m not a bad bobby,” he said.

        “That’s for me to decide now, isn’t it?”

        “Patrick, for god’s sake. Can’t we be finished? You’ve had your fun.”

        I gave him an inquisitive glance. “Are you not having fun?”

        “Not really, no.”

        “Your trousers say otherwise.” I gestured to his hardness.

        “That’s not from the tickling,” he said, almost defiantly.

        “Ah.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “Well, tell you what. If you can endure just a little more, I’ll make sure it’s worth your while.”

        This intrigued him, as evidenced by the new expression on his face. “And how will you do that?”

        “I’ll make sure that is taken care of.” Again, his hardness became the focal point of our conversation.

        Again, we spent a few moments in silence as he considered my words. The soft jazz in the parlor played on. I glanced towards the bedroom window. The curtains were drawn, but gray light was still streaming through. It had started to rain, I thought.

        “What else do I have to do?” said my policeman.

        I smiled. “I’ll show you.” I knelt forward and we kissed again. I noted how desperately he took me in, how each meeting of our lips was like a breath of air for him, sustenance. I went behind him again and grew rather amused watching him tense up, as if he believed I were going to tickle him in the same manner as before. Instead, I instructed him to lift his feet from the ground and relax. “I’m going to lean you back, all right?”

        He tilted his head all the way back so that he was looking up at me, though upside down. “What do you mean?” he asked.

        “I’m going to lean you back. Onto the floor.”

        “What bloody for?”

        “Don’t you trust me?”

        “Normally, yes, but—”

        “And don’t you want your reward?”

        He sighed, nostrils flaring. “Fine.” As he relaxed, I carefully lowered his chair backward, making sure to guide him down gently, allowing gravity to do most of the work. I squatted as I drew closer to the floor in tandem with him, his face coming to rest just below my exposed sex. The sight made him grin. “Hello there,” he said.

        I looked down beyond my hardness to meet his eyes. I placed my hands on my hips. “Don’t you get used to this view,” I said. I nudged his scalp with one of my toes.

        "Oi!" He turned his head away from me.  I stepped around him and returned to the base of the chair. His feet were now in the air, still secured to the front two legs of his seat. “Where are you going?” he asked. His voice grew louder as I disappeared from his view.

        I folded my legs and sat, bare bottom on the rug that ran beneath my bed. A piano and trumpet sang from my record player in the other room. I suddenly craved another cigarette but decided against it. We would hare one after our little game, I thought. “Tell me, Officer,” I said, my eyes scanning the bottoms of his boots, “are your feet just as sensitive as the rest of your body?”

        “My feet?” he said. I watched him tilt his head up to try and look at me, and I allowed him to meet my eyes for a moment before I ducked away behind the shelter of the upturned seat.

        “Yes,” I said, patting his boots before I untied them and removed them, unleashing a faint, musky aroma of a light day’s work. It was not an unpleasant smell, merely one that was notable. I thought of the smells of lovemaking and perspiration that normally filled the air when we clashed together. Obscene. Passionate. Raw. “Are they?” I asked again, peeling the soft stockings from his feet only a few moments later.

        “I’m not sure,” he said, and his answer sounded genuine.

        “Let’s find out then, shall we?” I asked. I had never paid much mind to my policeman’s feet before, so it was rather odd, having them at my full attention now. But I had to admit, they were quite beautiful in their own right. Like the rest of his body, the flesh that comprised the bottoms of his feet looked smooth and soft, more pale than the rest of his body, a whitish beige color. His toes were long, with perfect curvature, from big toe to little toe. His nails were well cared for. I couldn’t wait a second more. I itched to touch him. I extended my fingers and pressed them into the expanse of skin that ran along the insides of his feet, the whitest, softest part.

         “Whoa, wait.” My policeman spoke immediately. It was fascinating watching the foot flex away from me. His toes curled, and long wrinkles formed along the top of the foot’s underside. It was as if it was suddenly its own organism, dancing in response to my command. Just as his whole torso had twisted away from my touch before, so too was his foot trying to twist away from me now. “That’s sensitive,” he said.

        “I can tell.” I said. “Let’s see how sensitive it really is." I started to lightly tickle his right foot first, watching with amusement as it continued to dance for me.

        “Stop!” he said, and then the familiar sounds of his tormented amusement followed -- ha-ha-ha-ha.

        “Why would I stop when I’m enjoying myself?” I said. I dug the nails of my fingers into the flesh beneath his long toes. It was pillowy, similar to the skin of his cheek, just as warm, but far smoother.

        “Oh, god!” shouted my policeman. I dragged my nails down to his heel, and the foot flexed back away from my touch, my policeman’s toes arching away in unison. “Stop! Oi! Not there! I don’t like this,” he said, laughing still. His words broke away and then reformed between choppy waves of hearty bellows.

        “Your laugh says otherwise. Tell me, Tom,” I said, finally breaking character, “is your other foot just as sensitive?” I reached over with my left hand and started with the same spot as before -- the inside of his left foot. Soft, ribbed with wrinkly skin and the faint surging of veins underneath. Warm with perspiration and white, untouched by the sun.

        “No! Not the other foot!” my policeman protested. I heard him thump his head back on the rug. I peered around the chair and smiled at the sight of his gaping mouth, his quivering jaw. His eyes were shut again, and his hair, wet with exertion, was untamed and wild.

        “Oh yes, Officer. Both of your feet are now mine to torment,” I said. My hands acted in unison, mirroring one another as my fingers explored the sensitive skin of the undersides of his feet. I began my expedition at the bases of his big toes.

        “Patrick!” he shouted. “Bloody hell!” Then laughter. More thumps of his head. The feet flexed away from me, as did the toes, which seemed counterintuitive in my opinion -- merely allowing me to further explore the bottom of his ticklish toes. “Please stop!” he begged. Then -- HA-HA-HA. Loud laughter. I started to wonder if the record player would be enough to mask his pleas.

         My fingers traveled across the ridge beneath his toes to the outer parts of his feet, just below his little toes. His feet responded as I imagined they would. Toes curling now, each foot flexed inward, pointed towards one another. As I dragged my fingers downward in the direction of his heels however, they again arched outward. Such a delightful and strange dance. I began to wonder how I would respond if I were in my policeman’s predicament. I wondered at my own sensitivity. Would my feet do the same?

        “Patrick, please!” he shouted -- HA-HA-HA -- and my heart kept pounding with excitement -- DUM-de, DUM-de.

        “I’m not finished quite yet,” I said. I was viewing this almost as an experiment now, or maybe from the perspective of an artist. Yes, that was it. I had become an artist. My policeman’s feet, already beautifully sculpted and soft, like potter’s clay, white like marble or stone, had become my medium. Next, I excavated his rounded ball-shaped heels. Spherical and supple and the least wrinkled. He seemed very sensitive here. His rhythmic laughter steadied out -- still loud, but not as erratic as it had been when I had been tickling his long, animated toes.

        “You’re driving me mad!” my policeman said. “You’ve gone mad!”

        I ignored him, suddenly finding myself yearning for the desperate, untamed responses that his toes elicited. So, I returned to them, backtracking on my journey as both of my hands dug into their undersides.

        “Patrick! I can’t take it! I can’t! I can’t take anymore! Please!” There it was. The begging. The pitch of his frantic laughter -- HA-HA-HA -- my writing it out pales in comparison to the actual sounds I heard yesterday. God, how thrilling it was. Music. A symphony. It still plays in my head, like a record that needs no repeating.

       I noted how his toes, each acting as their own organism as well, bent and flexed under my touch. The skin between each one was softer still, but taut, like webbing. I enjoyed the feeling of this webbing beneath the tips of my rounded nails and I watched he started to wiggle his toes now. I heard more thumps of his head against the floor, and I started to worry that he would hurt himself. I checked in on him again. His mouth was still open, top row of teeth shining brilliantly, even in the dull gray light of the early afternoon.

        “I’m going to shout ‘murder!’” he managed to say through his laughter.

        “I’m almost done,” I said. I was harder than ever now, and I was indeed ready to reward him. But I found my curiosity leading me into a territory I had never considered before. As I watched his toes dance and dance, I noted how round and plump each one was. Like little fruits, I thought. And suddenly, I found myself yearning to taste these fruits, nibble on them just as I had done with the flesh of his neck. I knew that I needed to take advantage of my policeman’s helpless position now or it would never happen. And so, gently, with some trepidation, I leaned forward, opened my mouth, and took in his four smaller toes. I consumed them, but just barely, allowing the wetness of my though to drown his long, bulbous digits.

       “Oi! Oi!” I heard him yell. “What are you doing?” Though there was some surprise, even anger, in his tone, but it was quickly lost to the sounds of sudden, manic giggling, similar to the noises he had made when on my bed. As I let my teeth touch down with the greatest of care around the tips of his toes, I allowed my tongue to run across them. Again, salty. Supple.

        “Get my bloody foot out of your mouth!” he shouted, but his command was merely lost to more laughter. As I continued to taste and nibble at his little toes, I brought my other hand back to his left foot and, as I did with my sketched subjects, my portraits, I traced deep, precise lines into his pillowy flesh. This was sheer agony for him. His laughter increased further. It was desperate and wild.

        “Murder!” he screamed. “Help!” And all the while -- HA-HA-HA-HA.

        “Okay, okay,” I said, breaking free from whatever spell I had found myself under. As much as I was enjoying his suffering, I could not risk my neighbors reporting anything. Fortunately, I knew that most of the residents were out at this time of day, either at the shops on High Street or at work. Still, I wasn’t a fool. I’d had my fun. And he’d gone through enough.

        Almost.

        “Bloody hell.” My policeman sounded once more like a dog dying of thirst. Deep, heavy breaths. Quick and succinct. “That was…”

        “I’m finished,” I assured him. “How was that?"

        “Bloody awful. Torture,” he said again. “That was…” Again, he was unable to finish his sentence. His intense breathing continued. It reminded me of the sounds he made during our lovemaking.

        “I’m sorry,” I said slowly, “if it was too much.”

        He didn’t respond right away, and this made me nervous. Finally, he said, “Well?"

        I furrowed my brow. "Well?"

        "Where's my reward?" he muttered. It was weak and yearning.

        I smiled. “Is that all you care about?”

        He started to laugh again, then began to cough. “Hey, I deserve it, don’t I? For letting you nearly kill me?”

        “Nearly kill you?” I uncurled my legs and stood, but as I rose, I got in another quick tickle on his foot and this made him yelp.

        “Yes!” he shouted.

        “Did you realize you were so sensitive on your feet?” I asked, walking back over to where his head was resting on the floor.

        “Not at all. It’s bloody awful not being able to move.”

        “Yeah, sorry,” I said. “Relax.” I squatted down, bringing my exposed sex close to his face again and with a mighty grunt, I lifted him up and forward, bringing the chair back to its rightful position. I watched as my policeman patted the undersides of his feet against the carpet, and he curled and uncurled his fingers again.

        “So?” he asked, after we spent a moment listening to the record play, the tapping of the soft rain against the glass of the bedroom window. “What now?”

        I gave him a smug look of my own. “Now,” I said, kneeling before his waist. His legs were forcibly spread due to the position in which I’d bound him. “Now why don’t we get these trousers off?” I said. My eyes traced the length of his torso, from his hardened nipples down to his belly button. I had visions of our very first time together, he on my sofa in the parlor all those months ago. So hesitant. Yet so hungry. I opened his trousers and freed him, pulling them to just below his knees.

        He was indeed still very hard, despite all of his protests. His sex twitched once exposed to the open air. I marveled at its beauty. Its size. The veins around its shaft. The way the bulbous end, already pink with the blush of blood, seemed to reach out to me. I looked up at him. He was eyeing me with such softness, but the hunger was there too, just like it had been during our first encounter. His brow was stern. His hair fell over his eyes. “Go on then,” he whispered.

        I smiled. Did he believe that he was suddenly in control? As I’d told myself earlier, unbeknownst to him, I was not quite finished with him yet. He, on the other hand, wanted so desperately to be finished. What cruel irony.

        I had tried his underarms, his chest, his stomach, his hips, and the bottoms of his beautiful feet. But this was a place about which I was still curious--my policeman’s sex. The length of it. The forbidden skin beneath it. How would he react if I treated him here the way I’d managed to treat him everywhere else? I did not take him in my mouth like I had done with his ticklish toes. Instead, I reached forward and toyed with the underside of his sex with my fingertips. The skin was spongy and swollen and my touch caused him to shift backwards in his seat, recoiling.

        “No. Patrick. What are you doing now?” he asked, but his tone told me that he already knew.

        “I’d like to try one more thing, my ticklish Tom,” I said.

        He laughed uncomfortably as I drew my fingers down into the soft seam of flesh that ran towards his anus. As he shook and twisted his body, the length of his sex bobbed around. An amusing sight. “You’ve had enough,” he protested.

        “Aye, but you haven’t,” I said. My other hand entered into the expanse of his most private area. The supple crevices of darker skin between his sex and his thighs called out to me. My fingers became like spider legs, skittering along his flesh.

        “Patrick!” Tom’s schoolboy giggles returned. But no, these delicate little noises were simply not enough. We were on the verge of finishing. Together. I needed a climax worthy of its name.

        My hands transformed. From spiders to claws. Pincers. Four fingers on each hand curled up around the outer tops of my policeman’s meaty thighs and my thumbs pressed their way into the inner portion of muscle just on either side of his throbbing sex. This placement of my hands alone was enough to cause a stark jolt to crash through his entire body.

        “Oi!” he yelped. It was a good sign. I looked up at him and we both knew what was next. "No," he said as if that would do anything at all.

        “Yes,” I said, and I struck. My mighty pincers pinched and kneaded his mighty thighs in tandem. My grip was firm and fast, but gentle. 

        And my policeman screamed out. It was a glorious sound. A cry of agony that was not pain, but panic and pleasure crashing together. His legs spasmed and he pulled his body forward, but again, he was unable to draw his legs inward or curl up in defense. My neckties continued to perform admirably, keeping his wrists and ankles in place.

        “Oh no! Oh! Oh!” It was all he could say. So helpless and forced to endure my touch. His head flew back, hair tossing about like the wild mane of a lion. His body was wracked with the sensations that my hands, with their pincer-like movements, were inducing upon his fleshy legs. “Stop, Patrick! Please! I’m begging you!” The last word in his sentence transformed into a strange hooting noise that nearly mimicked the call of an owl.

        I increased the frantic nature of my technique, lightly pinching and kneading up and down the length of his open legs, from his knees, which seemed to cause much more of a desperate reaction, to the meatiest portion of his thighs nearest his throbbing shaft.

        “Help!” he started to say again as he laughed and moaned. “Help me! Murder!”

        “None of that, Tom! You’re going to alert the neighbors,” I whispered harshly. In spite of my warnings, however, I continued to tickle and torment the sensitive flesh around the underside of his shaft again, digging my fingertips into the dark, hairless crevices with much more intent the second time. This caused him to arch upward from the seat once more, higher this time, so much so that he nearly flashing me a glimpse of his hole.

        “Then stop! Patrick! I’ll die!” he begged.

        “Not before you get your reward. Isn't that what you wanted?” I said, and though it was quite difficult given the erratic nature of his movements and the manner in which his sex was thrashing about, I opened my mouth and I managed to catch him inside me.

        “No! Not like this!” he said, his panicked shout becoming a surprised, jagged moan. 

        He was already wet. I could feel the moisture of his inflamed head upon my lips and tongue, which I threaded along the veins of his shaft. And as I began to pull back, pursing my lips around the girth of him, I returned my pincer-like hands to his thighs and struck a third time.

        Tom screamed and laughed and moaned, torn between worlds of agony and desire and pleasure. “Oh, god! This is the end of me! I know it is!” he said, though this, of course, was not entirely coherent at the time. His laughter and bellows crackled through his speech as he twisted and thrashed, pulling and pushing his sex in and out of my mouth at random as he tried to dodge my tickling fingers.

       I could not reply to him. But I knew that he was correct. It would indeed be the end of him soon. He never lasted long once he was inside of me, a result I imagined that stemmed from his need--our need--to repress ourselves so often. When we came together in private, we unleashed the energy that was always on the brink, barely at bay. My hands leapt from his thighs to his hips, and this caused my policeman to squeal again. My ticklish piglet. My sensitive boy.

        I am hard now as I write this, and I fear I will not be able to finish. But I must!

        Every laugh. Every moan. I still hear them. I can still feel him inside of me, the girth of him. The density of him, rolling around my tongue, shrinking away and then ramming forward into my throat. The taste of him, of his essence. So salty and warm.

        I remember being lost in him, in his laugh, just as he was lost in me and the movements of my hands...

​

        Oh!

​

        My Tom... My... policeman...

​

        I remember... the record stopped playing in the parlor. When the silence consumed us, I released him. I released him from my tormenting, tickling fingers and then he released inside of me. His crazed, manic plight was replaced with a terrible, rushing moan and then it was all over.

-----

        The rains fell into the early evening.        

        We shared a cigarette in the parlor, just as I had planned, and we talked for awhile. I massaged his shoulders, hands and feet. Soft. Sensitive. Later, he fell asleep in my arms for a while, no doubt exhausted from what I had put him through. When he awoke, we finished waiting out the seaside storm together, reminiscing over the events of the afternoon.

        "I'd like to see how you like it," he said following my teasing at his expense.

        I smiled, still a bit curious to see how my own body would react, how my physical being would respond in its separation from my mind, my ability to control my movements, the sounds rising up out of me. "Maybe one day I'll let you try," I said.

        We kissed.

        I called him my 'Ticklish Tom,' and he told me that such a pseudonym would never be allowed. And then we laughed and we held one another at the threshold between our private world and the public one...

        It's always so, so hard to let him go.

​

​

        ........

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​

        As I close the page on this recollection, I fear that a regret has crossed my mind. I've read this now a few times, and I cannot keep it here, with my other thoughts, my other entries. This memory... this afternoon... it is far more raw than anything else I've written in this journal. Far more, shall I say, for lack of a better term...uncharacteristic. 

        I've resigned to place these pages elsewhere. 

       

        Somewhere near to me, but separate, a moment hidden away in time.

 

        For my eyes and my eyes only...