The door squeaks as it opens.
Only one person hears it. He's squirming and yelling for all he's worth.
The glove over his mouth dampens the noise quite effectively - and eight other hands, powerful yet empty, carry him inside.
As soon as his feet clear the opening, they all pause. This is a moment that never fails to delight. It occurs only once...
A glove closes the door. Another turns the lock.
Now we've got you. There's gonna be torturous fun - an overload of pleasure - right here. No chance in the world you'll miss it. We've succeeded in locking you in the cage, and you're gonna roar with all you've got.
They set him down on the bench.
In the dark room, he flails around...
But the gloves yank his clothes off and get the restraints on without any fumbling. The sweaty, lean body is pulled taut, arms straight out from his shoulders and feet side-by-side. Band after band of leather inhibits movement.
None of his shouts and yells penetrate the cell.
Now he can discover why he's laid out.
A flashlight clicks on -
The beam illuminates a feather duster, held in a living cowhide glove.
Seeing it, the captive squeals with fear.
One of his kidnappers brings up a white gallon jug that's topped with a squirt dispenser. Glove after glove floats to it and catches a palmful of glossy lube.
They pair up over the frantic, screaming man to rub each other down...
You're going to endure this. For the next seven, eight, nine hours we'll learn every inch of your body. Intense, serious handling. Then we get to combine the knowledge of your body with our expertise.
Not a thing you can do except live through it, rest up and feel it all over again.
The first few hours did not disappoint.
After he catches his breath again, fingers curl around several trusty spots on his body.
He gets one loud laugh out - more of a yell - and then another. That's it. Then all he can manage to kick out is erratic grunts, groans, strained whining.
Attempting to feel all of the tickling is beyond consuming.
Not ten seconds after they begin, the gloves pause... and stroke him slowly, a little more heavily. Deliberate as they can be.
The level of sensation doubles. Triples. Locking solidly into some whole new exponential world.
He can't manage to keep laughing anymore, and that's got him worried. The immediate change in their technique brought the almost crushing realization that the ticklers can do this all night and still keep him from passing out for a long time.
These hands are talented. That explains why the room had to be soundproofed. It also explains why he hasn't been able to do a damn thing with the thick restraints.
This is going to continue for such a long time that he can't even imagine them quitting. Letting him go.
And with a last few distracted tugs, his body relaxes. Can't thrash, can't roar - and he's got no way at all to make the ticklers stop.
The sensation ratchets up yet again.
All he can do is try to track the effect of all the fingers and hands.
Near the end of the third night, soft cloth touches his right sole.
"No, no, no," he mumbles, barely whispering. The tickling has started back up so many times that he doesn't even jump anymore -
The fingers rake up to his toes, gently, and then reverse direction.
Rough giggling begins, since he just can't keep it inside. His squirming is unenthusiastic. The restraints have taught him that he's not getting away from this.
Another glove cups his left calf.
Weak, quiet laughter is his response.
15feb2007