Putt groaned.
"There he is," the happy voice growled.
"Oh, yeah," the lower voice agreed.
A lighter clinked... and a cigarette was stuck between his lips.
As he tugged on the smoke, Putt looked around - and made himself face the facts. The weird shit that Rick talked about was apparently real. His little brother had been getting snagged for a few years now.
I was drugged, Putt thought, and this is probably a secret dungeon. Rick knew about this shit, and two of his friends had been reeled in. The cigarette helped. Wild, mind-blowing shit was gonna start soon. Rick was doing pretty well, though. Despite it all.
He squinted -
Jail cell. Cinderblock, bars. Damn.
Leather straps and cuffs pinned him to a padded recliner-bench. His clothes were gone. A sex-swing hung from chains to his right, there were stocks to his left -
"Fuck," he sighed.
"This dude knows why he's here," the invisible kidnapper boasted. Putt thought of it as the younger biker-wannabe that had grabbed him. Eager, cocky... but the calm one had talked to Putt first. When the drug was kicking in and they had clamped hands he couldn't see around his arms, the lower voice had sorta whispered into his left ear. "It's on now. You got this..."
He was sliding under, seeing more and more grey snow, and it didn't have to say shit. Freaking out wouldn't have done any good. Rick had no doubt that most of the snaggers went out of their way to keep him from, uh, getting distracted.
Putt nodded slowly, and groaned again.
"Big brother," the cocky kidnapper said - and it sounded satisfied as fuck. "At last."
"Quiet," the other voice said. Putt took another long drag.
Something floated around from behind his right side. Even though he'd had a few seconds to prepare himself, his body pulled at the restraints.
The pile of oily leather separated, and split up again.
Four gloves seemed to fill with big fuckin' hands.
Putt shook his head hopelessly.
"Nobody knows he's here," the calm voice said. "He can't move." It paused...
Here it comes, Putt thought. Oh, shit, this is really gonna happen.
"And he's ticklish."
The show-off voice laughed. Totally pleased. Rick had insisted they were "genuine." Into this shit. Obsessed.
He made a face. "Get the work done," he said, "set up the cage and sneak the mutherfucker in there. And then it's on."
Both voices chuckled.
"You got Tricky Rick's ribs, and thighs?" the happy kidnapper teased.
"Aw, hell."
More snickering. "That neck. Whoa."
"High time we got to know his lowlife brother."
"Sounds like you've been good to him, Putter."
One of the magic gloves grabbed his right hand. Long, greasy shake.
That made Putt think hard. "Spying on us."
"Damn... right," the calm snagger agreed.
"Shit -"
"Listen up. Rick's about to win a good chunk of change from a lottery."
"He don't play the lotto."
"Weird, huh? It's in Texas. He's gonna drive out there. Thing is, we got dozens of playrooms like this one around Austin, and west of there. Center of the state."
"And he's due for a looo-ooong vacation," the happy voice cackled.
"He's worth it."
Putt smoked. "I'm not him."
"You could be... just as fun," the smartass shot back.
"Work sucks," the calmer voice said. "She's with that other dude."
"Now, hold on," Pitt complained.
"Am I wrong?"
He blinked a time or two. He'd been spied on. They must've heard - there was a plan in the works to pull Rick into the craziness for a good long while. And not just him, apparently. Aw shit, the only mystery then was why he and Rick weren't on their way to fuckin' Texas already.
"One tough son-of-a-bitch," the younger voice teased.
"Let's see if you got the talent," the other kidnapper said.
"No, thanks."
More laughter.
"Listen, prospect," the voice continued, "we're giving you a workout. And here's the kind of thing we never have to tell anybody - your first howl-fest is gonna last three days."
"So you're gonna be AWOL Monday, from work," the other voice added.
His gut churned. Good news, only three days. Wow! He couldn't imagine going through five minutes of it, though. And this was only the "first" kidnapping.
Doomed, he thought, fuckin' done for. Like Rick - except that his brother did alright, considering. Little dude went after what he wanted.
Between sessions like this, anyway.
Pitt watched a pair of gloves arrive at his armpits, and another set curled just over his lower ribs.
"Smoke up," the low voice said.
"Fuckin' A," the happier one declared, "biker's pinned, and he's gonna be fun."
It was shocking, and yet not at all a surprise, to see the last two gloves set their fingertips on his soles.
He got to exhale the smoke. The cigarette was taken away. Putt looked at the jail-cell bars -
And, sure as shit, the foot-ticklers started to crawl around.
Putt grit his teeth. Kicking and pulling and trying to roll didn't do shit.
"Day after day of this," the sorta-stoned voice chuckled.
He rolled his head. The oily fingers were barely skating around. From what Rick had said, the fuckers were unbelievably good at what they did. Time was totally on their side.
He whined, and fought to stop. Kicked out a big sigh.
"Lots of fun," the more excited kidnapper said -
Gloves gripped his ribs. Light, but full-fingered...
No, he thought, aw fuck.
They crawled toward his back.
Putt sucked in air and bellowed. "Naaaah haaah haaah haah hah huh huh nuh nuh!"
The ticklers whooped and laughed.
He shook his head, cackling like crazy.
Magic fingers sank into his pits.
Thrashing around, wailing laughter full-bore, trying to bounce - didn't bother 'em at all. The fingers traced and dragged. It was amazing, which was more of a surprise than he expected.
Biker's stuck right, and he's got this weakness.
Putt roared and howled.
None of the gloves dug in, really. They would - mutherfuck! - and he felt easy grips inside his legs, along his neck. Gliding around his belly.
Fingering his taint.
Wrapped around his cock!
More gloves. This was mind-blowing. Beyond fascinating... Way too much. Rick had said that, and he'd seemed sad. That made sense now.
He couldn't laugh enough. The restraints were holding just fine, dammit.
The fingers were slowing down...
Putt made himself open his eyes, not wanting to.
There were six gloves targeting his feet.
"Boom," the low voice said.
His feet were on pleasure-fire. It was, weirdly, too fuckin' great.
More, he thought crazily. Aw, wow...
They had his number. Covering his feel - soles, sides, between his toes. The damn cuffs held him real good.
Putt howled. All-out.
Then he couldn't keep laughing or moving.
Familiar feel -
Cigarette. Between his lips. Ah. He sucked in.
"Rick's brother," the low voice sighed. "Done in, just as easy."
"Noooooo," he wailed.
"He's a goner," the happy kidnapper said.
"We step it up, over and over and over. This one's ours, too."
"Awright."
The sensation got deeper, or bigger, as it went along. Too overwhelming.
Putt smoked out of habit - old experience - but trying to tug or howl or complain was just derailed.
Fingers everywhere. Doing him in, alright. Just getting started.
"Drink," the casual voice said.
He blinked tears away. A beer bottle. Gonna get me drunk, he thought. Well, of course...
After a little sip, Putt swallowed okay. Drank a few more pulls. The sweet fire was all over him, and under. Patient fingers waited to nuke him. Unbelievable. It tickled more than it had at first, and they sure as hell weren't gonna stop.
"Huh," he exhaled - and then had to giggle. Bumfuck crazy. "Hooooo. Tuh... tell m-me."
"Tell you what?" The cocky voice asked.
"Huh... How lll-luh huh hah hah haaa-aaaw..."
"How long?" That was the calm voice. He nodded. "So far, about fifteen minutes."
Putt froze. Stared at the ceiling. It had felt like hours. Oh, no.
The taunting voice laughed and laughed -
Fingertips got busy. Both feet. Faster, and firmer.
He bounced his head on the pad and squealed insane laughter.
Another cigarette was tapping his lip. He took it.
Incredibly deep, solid warmth inside. Way too much pleasure. He was hard as a rock too. Putt looked around, chuckling out smoke. Dungeon -
A table had been pulled up to his feet. Fuckin' covered with tickling shit. Feathers, brushes, little rubber picks, shoe-polishers, bottles and tubes of lube.
He wailed laughter at the collection of tickle chaos. Shook his head.
The lower voice snickered.
Gloves got back to it, slow and solid, all over him.
Putt slammed his head back and closed his eyes.
He smoked. Tried to roar his laughter. Even that wouldn't have been anywhere near enough. No pulling or twisting or pushing did jack-shit to strain the bonds.
His body was waking up more and more...
There was a blitz under his arms. All kinds of fingers.
Knees. Aw, hell...
His ass. Lower back. Hips.
Gloves under his thighs were holding him up.
Fuckin' biceps were even ticklish.
Those fingers kept on rockin' as his neck was explored. Oh, wow.
Shins, calves. Solid coverage. Absolutely insane.
His whole belly, then his whole sides...
And smaller things whisked around his soles. Serious reaction to 'em - oh, he barked laughter, and looked.
They were toothbrushes? Softer than he expected. Custom tickling shit. He laughed right at 'em, and at the leather straps trapping his toes. Then he let his head roll around. Laughed, and laughed, but the more important thing was to feel.
Spread out - toes, sides, insteps. Four brushes, then six. Far more stimulation than Putt could possibly track.
Couldn't do a damn thing to stop 'em.
Drinking, again. Autopilot. Cool water. Another smoke hung above his belly.
"One hour gone," the low voice said.
He was soaked with sweat. Way too alive, his skin. Everywhere. This was mind-blowing. The cell looked the same. Locked in, secret tickle-room. Fuck...
At least sixteen gloves hung around him. They looked sorta impatient.
That was the first hour, Putt thought - and started to cackle. Oh no, dammit, all weekend of this? Insane already. Revved way up... his ticklishness. That sling would let 'em get everywhere at once. Much more handling, under, all sides. Sure as shit.
Bristles snuggled against his heels - and his pecs.
He shook his head -
And they were off again.
After he squirmed and hooted for about a minute, the laughter was too hard to do.
Putt's next cigarette came to his lips, and it was already lit.
jan2020