I keep an eye on the big gas station just south of town. Plenty of drifters there.
Some of them are busted for vagrancy and held in my detention facility. No neighbors close by. They work off their sentences, while I keep 'em amused. Giving me attitude means longer and longer sentences.
He walks in from the road. Long hair, full leathers. Maybe coming from the diner across the street - but it isn't open this late...
Right away, I notice the way he's walking. Like every step hurts. One leg isn't favored over the other. It's more like his feet ache, and that definitely looks familiar.
But he's also in a big hurry to get inside. There's a particular... intensity visible around his eyes.
I know that expression too.
When he heads right for the bathroom, I'm sure.
He locks the door, and slams his back against the wall. One hand digs for a cigarette sticks it between his teeth, moving like a tool dedicated to the purpose.
But his other hand claws at the zipper of his leather pants. Unzipping carefully - for the usual reason. No underwear.
His cock is fully erect. He grunts uncontrollably as it pops out.
Wasting no time, his fingers start rubbing his testicles.
When the lighter has been put away, that hand gets a tight, careful grip on his shaft -
And he chuckles.
Weak, raspy voice. But he just can't help it.
His fingers start to move, and he laughs. Fighting hard to keep it quiet, but... the more he gets into it, the harder he laughs.
I know what that means.
The next two or three minutes are riveting. Desperate to finish, roaring harder and harder - as quietly as he can. The urges are solidly opposing each other. His hands move faster and faster. He's tensing up - and he freezes, starting to double over. The need to laugh makes it impossible for him to continue. Sweat begins to drip off his nose.
But he forces himself to go on. Howling, almost inaudibly. It's taking everything he's got to keep from laughing harder, as he thrusts...
He's been conditioned well.
The cigarette falls to the floor as his mouth opens wide. Choking back the roars that want to get out. He shoots without grunting even once. Fierce, desperate spasms.
Judging from the output, he hasn't had the pleasure of doing this for awhile.
After he cleans up the mess he made, and washes his face, he looks in the mirror. Haunted, worried eyes.
I let him get back outside, and light another cigarette. One or two badly needed drags...
Then I grab his arms.
"No," he whines. Instantly tense - and resigned. Here we go again.
He doesn't really start fighting until he sees the rope. But I've already got his wrists behind his back. "Lemme go - I can't take any more! I can't - no more tickling! Nooo..."
Then I get the gag in place, nice and tight. That's enough information. As I tie his arms and legs, I wonder who's been working him over. It looks like this is going to be a phenomenal catch.
No one else is outside, so nobody knows he's leaving with me.
I drag him over to the van. As soon as he sees it, he gets wild. An all-out effort to keep from being tossed inside. It's the struggle of those who know how inconceivably savage their future will be. Probably he has his reasons for not liking vans - I wonder how he got a ride to this neck of the woods?
He watches the door pop open. Last chance to get away...
In he goes. I slam the door hard, and hogtie him.
I start the van, and take him away.
When we're out past the farmhouses, I pull the gag.
"No! No no no aw please, please... I can't take any more... Not today..."
Today?
"You can't - I, they... they just let me go. You can't... Aw, please don't. Not again..."
How unlikely is this? Apparently he gets sprung from a ticklish predicament, walks over to the gas station - and immediately jerks off. Maybe it's been a while since he'd been allowed the satisfaction. And then I pick him up.
If he was laughing that hard during the very respectable load he just shot... right now he's even more ticklish than usual.
I step on the gas.
Not even ten minutes later I get him into his cell, lock the door, and pull off his leathers.
Well, huh. He has a new tattoo on his right arm. A huge black feather, healing up nicely.
Many thick straps catch his limbs, and tug...
I pin him to the vinyl mat, arms together and overhead, legs together. To start. Steadied in all directions. Stretched tight, and ready for awesome, manic torment.
I hold his head up and make him drink about a half-liter of water.
Then I pick a scarf, and tie it back over his eyes. After a moment's consideration, I put the gag back too. He yells into it and flops a few more times and then just lies there, shivering. Helpless. Doomed.
How glad he must have been, a half-hour ago, to be free. Done with this unbearable stimulation.
And then the tickling begins.
I take two feathers to his nipples. He goes into motion, screeching his head off. So exquisitely ticklish. All these spots to dig into.
Such as... his knees. I pick up four small brushes and send two underneath, and two on his kneecaps. Scrubbing at a good clip.
His head flies back and forth. The muffled roaring gets louder.
And I fill up four thick satin hands. Full-scale blitz on his sides.
He convulses once - twice -
The laughter stops. Oh, he's conscious. Just too overwhelmed to laugh. This is always preferable, since he can stay awake much longer. Fewer breaks will be necessary.
Two more feathers are put to use, dusting his thighs...
I tickle him hard for two and a half hours.
The long day catches up with him, and he fades out. I'm not surprised.
He'll get all the sleep he wants here. My level of tickling will demand it.
The only thing I don't know yet is when I'm going to cut him loose.
24jan2002