"Plehehease!" the thunder godling cried, seemingly on the verge of hysterics. "Cease this, I beheheg you!"
The Grandmaster might, privately, admit to being a bit mean to his latest prize, what with how ruthlessly he was exploiting the man's seemingly only weakness. Such things were difficult to find on a warrior of Thor's prowess, making his accidental discovery some weeks ago a most fortunate coincidence. That discovery being the location of the one place on the god of thunder's body that had been left soft and untested over his years in battle, made even worse by his time surrounded with the lavish, endless creature comforts of royalty. Thor might no longer be the pampered prince of Asgard, but there was no doubt that some remnants of such a posh upbringing still remained, and that was evidenced no more clearly than in the soft, untouched soles of his feet.
Or rather, previously untouched, he should say. The label of 'untouched' no longer applied because, upon the discovery of just how terribly sensitive Thor's soles were, they had been the subject of quite a great deal of touching. (And how was Grandmaster supposed to resist, truly? Such a pair of wide, meaty feet belonging to an adonis like Thor were seductive enough already, but combined with the knowledge that he was stricken with such dreadful sensitivity? It was as if he was begging to be tickled out of his mind. No matter how much Thor might plead and cry his protests.)
Grandmaster had many methods through which to visit his torturous touch upon his pet's precious soles.
There were the tiny, meticulous strokes he occasionally delivered after entering Thor's chamber in the morning, the barest of touches with only the tips of his fingers, that nevertheless roused his pretty prize to wakefulness with a start, a miserable whine quickly following. It was never too early to indulge himself and make his toy whimper and squirm a bit. (Though it did necessitate Grandmaster to rise at a truly-heh- ungodly hour, which was not something he was fond of doing, so Thor was usually spared from this form of a wake-up call.)
There were the lazy, meandering trails he would trace across them whenever a match failed to capture his interest. With Thor knelt at his side (atop the softest cushion on this side of the galaxy, Grandmaster wasn't a monster), his upturned soles were the perfect distraction with which to pass the time until a more exciting match took place. It was sometimes a struggle to return his attention to the arena, and away from Thor's rippling muscles as he fought to contain his laughter.
There were the quick, furious scribbles he made over them at parties, during which Thor was fetchingly trussed up on his knees and holding a tray of drinks, nothing more than a particularly lovely piece of decoration that every guest couldn't help but lust after. (And how could they not, given that Thor's mandated attire at these events always ensured to be quite small, tight, and flimsy.) Their desire only grew at the demonstration of just how gorgeous Thor looked in the throes of his ticklish agony, Grandmaster's digits on his soles the instruments of pure torture.
Such was not the case at the moment, however. Currently, Grandmaster was in the midst of the unfortunate necessity that was dealing his prize a punishment. (Thor had been a very naughty boy earlier that day, deliberately throwing his latest match in the arena in some petty show of rebellion.) And when it came to such instances, he refrained from laying so much as a finger on Thor's poor, quivering feet.
Rather, after having Thor stripped down and situated in the elevated chair to his liking (that being with his legs extended and ankles locked in a set of stocks, while his wrists were securely cuffed to the arms of the chair), he left the task of tickling Thor's sensitive soles to insanity to his wide array of tools and toys. Currently at work was one of his favorites- which just so happened to be the one Thor loathed and dreaded above all others- a devious array of enchanted brushes that dragged themselves over any target of their master's choosing. The brushes came in various shapes and sizes, all the better to ensure not an inch of their quarry could escape their touch, but were all equipped with the finest, most stimulating bristles that money could buy, such that even a faint stroke was terribly, unspeakably ticklish.
They'd been hard at work for the past half hour, caressing every possible spot on Thor's feet, and pushing the thunder god that much closer to the brink of madness.
"Please, forgive mehehehe!" his perfect prince wailed. "I'll do anything! I cahahan't bear it!"
If Thor's delicious begging wasn't evidence enough as to just how utterly unable he was to handle such fierce attention being paid to his large feet, there was also his frantic writhing in the restraints as the brushes raked over his oiled soles. Not that he was able to writhe all that much, for Grandmaster knew better than to afford his plaything any real range of motion. At most, locked as he was in the stocks and enchanted cuffs, he could do little more than jerk his torso around.
In the midst of his toy's thrashing, however, something caught the Grandmaster's eye. Two somethings.
While Thor's movements might not be doing much to help him escape the brutal ministrations to his feet, they did cause his chest to bounce up and down in quite the enticing manner.
Thor was a large man, his body that of, well... a god, and his chest was no exception. The two thick, rolling hills of muscle beneath smooth golden skin, along with the flushed, stiff peaks of his nipples, the whole of them jiggling with the force of Thor's struggles... How could he have been reserving all of his attention solely- heh- for Thor's delectable feet, when the man's glorious pecs were in equally desperate need of his appreciation?
This imbalance had to be rectified at once.
Slowly, Grandmaster crossed over to stand behind his prize, and instructed the brushes to remove themselves. With a simple gesture, he summoned a mirror to descend from the ceiling, coming to rest right in front of the pair, preventing the Grandmaster from missing the view he'd been enjoying now that he'd changed positions.
From the way Thor had tipped his head back against the chair, breathing heavily, he could see where tracks of moisture had been sliding down his face. His poor little prince tickled to tears, how absolutely precious. He'd yet to say anything, merely panting in the aftermath of such an intense session with his most hated toy. His feet were sporting a charming pink flush from all the brushing, which was mirrored in Thor's cheeks, rosy with laughter. That same flush had made its way halfway down his heaving chest, almost meeting the matching pink of his nipples.
Wanting to get another look at that lovely jiggle (and also just to be a bit mean), Grandmaster ordered one of the brushes, a particularly nasty round one with tiny balls tipping its bristles, to make a wicked stroke up along the length of Thor's left arch, nice and slow.
Whether it was the especially ticklish nature of that spot (and Grandmaster knew that one was a killer for Thor, after the hours he'd invested into learning every weak point on his prize's soles) or the fact that a solitary brush made the sensation more intense and impossible to ignore, Thor positively howled, and resumed his desperate yanking and pulling and yes, there it was, bouncing.
Thor's lovely tits, so perky and pleasingly round, could put any harlot or showgirl to shame. Then and there, Grandmaster resolved that his pet would never cover those perfect pecs in his presence. He'd get special robes and garments that would display them properly, as they deserved. Perhaps not out in public, no. Grandmaster enjoyed flaunting his treasures, of course, but Thor's beautiful bust was for his eyes only.
In the midst of his thoughts and plans, Grandmaster noticed Thor trying to catch his gaze in the mirror. His face was twisted in a rictus of ticklish torment, and utter desperation burned in his eyes. His once more wet, streaming eyes.
"My poor pet," the Grandmaster cooed, bidding the brush to return to the others. Immediately, the tension fled Thor's body, leaving him boneless and pliant in the chair, once more trying to catch his breath. "It's a lot to handle, with feet like yours, isn't it? They just feel so much, don't they?"
"It's too much," was the first utterance Thor managed after a moment, his strength sapped by the laborious session. The face he made at the Grandmaster was the picture of miserable exhaustion. "Anything else... just, please, no more... no more tickling... I can't bear to be tickled any longer, please..."
Grandmaster made a show of considering it, resting his hands on the back of the chair.
"You know you have another thirty minutes of your punishment, Thor." he reminded him. "I can't let you off easy, even with you giving me those big blue eyes."
Thor made a low sound of despair, and Grandmaster let his hands fall to rest, feather light, on the Asgardian's broad shoulders.
"Though, you did say 'anything else'." Grandmaster sighed, fingers creeping lower. "You'd prefer anything over those dastardly little brushes? Your poor feet need a break?"
His prize swallowed thickly, and nodded.
The Grandmaster didn't bother concealing his wicked grin from Thor's view in the mirror. "Then I suppose I can spend some time elsewhere." and allowed his hands to fully envelop Thor's glorious, bountiful bust. (Or rather, what of it he could fit in his palms. Thor's pecs were so great, they exceeded a handful, each.) To his utter delight, Thor gave a full body shudder merely from his fingers brushing over the delicate buds of his nipples.
Had he found another spot from which to tickle Thor to pieces?
"No," the man croaked hoarsely, a whole new flavor of desperation coating his voice. "Wait, not there... I-I beg of you. They're so... sensitive."
Grandmaster couldn't believe his luck. Thor's nipples might just rival his soles in terms of sensitivity. As if the blond beefcake needed to be any more irresistible. He spent a few minutes alternating his ministrations; kneading the lush, firm heft of one pectoral in one hand, and using the other to lightly flick the tight nub of the nipple on the other pec. (He'd be nice, he decided, and only tickle one nipple at a time for the moment. That, and he was finding he quite enjoyed simply feeling the pleasant weight of the man's tit in his hold.) Thor didn't cease his whines and pleas all the while, but there was something different about these than his usual whinging. He sounded... constrained. And he'd yet to laugh even once.
A questioning glance at the mirror provided him a succinct explanation. It was fairly easy to spot, standing up firm and throbbing against the thunderer's abs.
Thor's nipples were indeed woefully sensitive, but not in the same manner as his precious soles. He wasn't gripped with unbearable ticklishness at the faintest brush against the buds on his chest. He wasn't currently squirming because the touches tickled.
Thor's nipples were sensitive, in that to touch them was to wrack him with pleasure. More than he could handle, it seemed.
His toy was currently carrying on about how he'd gladly receive any number of spankings, or bear all the melted wax Grandmaster could find to drip on him, or even submit to the leash and collar he'd purchased on a whim, if only his poor nipples would be spared.
"You want me to leave your nipples alone, big guy?" at the earnest nod and glistening blue eyes he received in response, Grandmaster chuckled. "That's not what your lightning rod is telling me."
Thor's face went red, and this time for an entirely different reason than incessant laughter. Grandmaster sighed. His prize truly was far too cute for his own good.
"Alright," he relented, giving his nipples a final pinch goodbye before taking his hands away. "We can have fun with those another time, I suppose."
He heard Thor give a relieved sigh as he walked back to his previous spot in the room, and once more didn't fight the grin on his face. His prince might be pretty, it was true, but he wasn't always the brightest. Did he think they were done?
He turned around to face his prize, just as his next toy, a set of dull claws that produced tremendous sensation when dragged lightly over the skin, rose into the air at his silent command. He set them to tracing delicate paths up both of Thor's soles, eliciting some lovely shrieks.
And, as the pièce de résistance of the deeply arousing picture Thor was making, he sent a long, soft feather to dance around the turgid length of his cock, producing a whole new array of delectable sights and sounds for his consumption.
"Just thirty minutes to go, my pet." he announced, drinking in Thor's miserable wail and teary eyes with the utmost satisfaction.
It was true, he decided to himself. No shame in admitting it.
He was, indeed, just a bit mean.