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"Oh, no," he snaps at the magically levitating feather.
He is huge, and yet Ply's thick restraints keep him flat on his back.
The cuffs shouldn't be able to overrule his struggles. Clearly, that just doesn't make sense to him.
Blinking at the feather, the expression on his face changes to the adult version of "uh-oh". If he'd knocked a baseball through the neighbor's window, this might be the look. Better yet, it's as if the dude realizes that he's sinking in quicksand. This is definitely not good...
"This isn't... happening," he grunts.
Ply beams at him - or would, if it had a face. They all think that it can't happen to them. Almost all of the howlers say it out loud.
It reviews the security-and-safety checklist, enthralled. All this force, held in check.
The looming, rock-solid gym rat is confused because the restraints are not breaking when he exerts himself. Taking no chances with this one, Ply has straps on top of straps. Upper arms, waist, thighs and shins - and the massive pile snugged tight around the wrist-cuffs is there to send a clear message.
He can hardly even fidget.
The reduced availibility to some spots is necessary - until he gets tired enough...

He kicks again. It accomplishes nothing. So he tries lifting his legs. Then he's pulling at the arm-straps as he lifts. Attempting to spread his legs further apart isn't working either. They just don't move.
All that leather was placed just so, and snugged down the right amount - because of unfathomable experience. For Ply, there is really no moment quite like this one. A chiseled, stripped body is laying exactly where it wants, in a room that's hidden so perfectly it might as well be on another planet. No one's going to find out he's here.
Big hands strain diligently, pulled together and stretched above his head - and even bigger feet are anchored with taut redundancy. A narrow pillow under his enormous calves is lifting his feet two inches off the sheet, so his heels are completely vulnerable too. The tension of four opposing straps is not allowing his feet to go anywhere at all.
There's so much foot to tickle. Times two.

Sweating, gritting his teeth, the bouncer certainly can't be faulted for a lack of effort. He has no idea how many times Ply has laid men out like this, immobilizing them...
 

The sleep-gas was sprayed at his face about twenty minutes ago. He was carried down the alley, up to a fire escape and then through a window that rattled down as soon as he was safely inside. The bouncer floated to the stairs, down to the sublevel and through an ancient fire-doorway with thick iron framing. Ply needed to apply more force than he could've, just to get it closed again.
After cruising through two old tunnels which it had cleared out in spots, it brought him into the playroom. Thick foam was everywhere - even covering the big old fan, which would get put to use when his voice was shot. Two bootlegged power cords were still live, since the wireless buffers plugged into the powerstrips had their green "charged" lights lit up.
Behind him, the door was eased shut - and secured with two fine new locks. An LED lightstrip, high on the wall behind him, had already been charged. Even though it was shining away, Ply had big candles scattered around if they were needed. He'd get to watch the tools and toys...
All set, it thought happily. Extended fun. No one could be troubled by the loudest gales and shrieks and mindless screams of laughter he'd kick out. The room next to his had been relieved of its fan-grate, and all of the ductwork had been stripped out long ago. Enough supplies waited in there to last a good three months.
There was just no telling how many hours of top-jock hysteria he could take. That was ultimately up to the bouncer. His sensitivity, coping mechanisms and stamina would be manipulated for optimal effect.
 

Clear confirmation of why he was selected and prepped was now four inches away from his remarkable feet. Three inches...
When he saw the taut glove-fingers coming, the bouncer fought with the restraints. Absolute determination, as he stared at the animated hands getting closer and closer, changed nothing at all.
The reason he was kidnapped is clear to him now... brought to this unlocatable cell - and thoroughly restrained. He's still wrestling with the truth. His powerful legs are defeated, and his feet are absolutely vulnerable.
Waterproofed satin fingers are now only an inch away!
"No!" he yells. Anger, worry... and pleading, all in a single word.
Ply couldn't be more satisfied. It pauses the gloves about a centimeter from his skin. This is a moment he'll dream about for years. He's an exceptional animal... and careful attention has been given to neutralizing that, and everything he knows change. He'll be steered back into that same intimidating hulkster later - but the first tickle will redefine reality for awhile.
Fear is shadowing his features. His limbs pull like mad. He wails at the ceiling - inarticulate noise, at first, and then earnest pleas for help. If he really can't bust loose, someone just has to break in and get him out of this insanity, right now.
But the door will not move - and the glove-wearing bondage expert has him all to itself, in every sense.
Yes. Two sets of fingers crawl up one side of each sole and down the other.
The bouncer slams back, gritting his teeth.

Now it pauses again. His eyes are huge. What is in store for him here has just been confirmed.
The soft tips of the satin fingers... tickled him.
A single quiet moan - much higher in pitch than his deep voice, slips out of his throat.
It rocks the fingertips, just a little. Possession. Mine. All mine.
"Stop! Stop it," he shouts. "No. Don't -"
The uniquely arousing surplus is beginning. Ply roams, slides, expands the coverage area...

Jerking, bouncing - grunting. Furious eyes.
The satin fingertips glide steadily down... and back up.
Oh, this is just perfect. Making him flail. Soles, inner sides, outer sides, down and up and down and up and down again.
His head joins in the convulsive fit. His arms are stretched far enough that he can't pull or lift them. Immobilized with so much leather, his legs can't change position at all. The feet try to stretch and constrict and rotate. That reflex shows their desperation to get away from the fingers roaming up and down, up and down.
A loud noise - almost explosive - is almost the start of unhinged laughter. His jaws are clamped shut, and the effort to hold back has made his face turn red. Sweat beads on his forehead.
The gloves aren't stopping.

His body springs into action again. This is probably the best fight he'll be able to give the restraints.
Each strap does the job for which it was intended. Wrists remain trapped together, high above his head. And his feet stay right there for their tickling...
Up and down, up and down, up and down. Almost like a lullaby. Conscious scheming can go to sleep now, and the errands than were going to be done tomorrow don't matter any more. Any hope of being rescued from the slippery hands can simply fade away.

The stern, arrogant competence is going too. Now it's time for this musclehead to feel the burn - intolerable, arresting, ever-increasing. Lusty tickling. No logic will save him from this. There is no plea or promise that will shave a single minute off the force-fed delirium...
This is just the job for a barbarian, locked in a physical body and a central nervous system that is at its utter peak.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
"Nnnnf," he sighs through tightly closed lips.
One glove lays its palm down - cool, sleek material - against his left arch.
A truly tortured groan leaks out of the bouncer. It's gleeful. He sounds like he's... seriously amused.
The right fingertips slide up and down. The left ones creep from side to side now, and one glove eases between the base of those toes.
He manages to kick out a loud, wailing objection - face redder than before - and apparently doesn't dare to open his mouth again.
The right glove switches, moving from side to side. Calm fingers. That heel is wrapped now -
"Neeeeeeeeff," he squeals.
It lifts the magical hands away.
His eyes close slowly. Big snort of air. That's the most obvious display of relief it's seen yet.
Giving him five seconds to hope, the captor grips his arches, two gloves each, high and low.
The bouncer throws his head to the side quickly, and back again. "Naaaaaaaaaah! Nah hah hah hah aaaah hah haaah haaaa-aaaaah!"
Purely spontaneous. He looks shocked.
So doomed.

Ply gets the fingertips moving again, pressing in more firmly this time. Up and down, up and down, up and down.
A threatening growl slides up into a shriek - quiet, almost airy - and he chuckles, unable to keep it in. Uncontrollable, ragged sound. His limbs piston and twist.
Wonderful restraints.
When he looks at the animated gloves again, disbelief is clearly battling with his anger. Small things, down there - compared to him - are rocking his world. The restraints hold too fuckin' well. Fingers sliding and petting, magic satin hands squeezing - making him laugh. Caught and restrained... for this.
His eyes look around the padded ceiling, so desperately, and Ply has seen that expression before. He's thinking ahead. This is gonna get so much worse. The gloves will be used more and more effectively. So many more gloves will come, as well as a dozen other tools...
Somehow he finds the composure to yell, long and loud. Then he starts to cough -
Once again it stops the fingers right where they are... until he's taking in good, big breaths, and groaning them out.
Back to it. Tracing side-to-side. Very slowly. Lightly.
"Noooooo aaaah hee hee hee naaah haah haah haaaaaaah huh huh huh huh haaae-eeeee!"
The captor thinks this is the most fulfilling thing in the world.

His gyrations wax and wane. Booming roars, desperate hoots and smutty chuckles are interspersed with cussing and pleading.
Its gloves tickle a larger area now. A thumb slides down the inner side of this foot, and fingers follow the curve of his heel on that one.
At times the bouncer's head flops quickly. More often, though, he's barely shaking it. No, no, no, no.

Fingers continue to trace and rub... and squeeze.
Tears run down his face. Spittle flies, sweat drips - and he can't stop laughing slowly, mindlessly.

Careful raking... up, down, left, right. An endless regression.
The bouncer's demented laughter gets louder again. The hoots and barks are carefree sounds, slurred by the barbaric intensity, confirming why the tickler wanted him down here.
There's also satisfaction in the defeat of all his struggles. A well-laid plan is working out... just ideally. That makes each stroke a huge delight, because it will be followed by thousands and thousands of strokes. The unquenchable excitement in stoked by his reactions, no matter how subtle. It knows quite well how to interpret every cue.

This man's entire body is going to be fascinating.
Coherent thought is just about gone. Autonomic impulse-processing is taking the wheel now.
Erratic laughter, but so unhinged! Fitful spasms and twitches - nothing like the sensible effort he put forth earlier to get away. Even the comfort of a decent attempt is beyond him, and the stimulation can lock his awareness onto the overwhelming pleasure.
It tickles his insteps now and then. Heels, too.
And it delights to press in just a little more firmly -
Wild, bawling laughter.
So much better...

Head thrown back, he howls at the ceiling.
Back and forth, up and down, back and forth and up and down.

The feet move more slowly.
They're just hypnotic. No clearer nonverbal messages could be given - stop this, it's impossible to take, no more.
His laughter becomes less urgent, but every bit as committed. The tickler has barely gotten started on the bouncer, and he's already delirious. Smooth contact is everything, easing up and down... up and down... side to side.
At the moment, nothing else matters to Ply. The feet are here for as long as it can possibly want to stimulate them.

He's been reduced to a vacant, snickering primitive. Another success.
The tickler suddenly realizes that fifty-five minutes have gone by. It takes the gloves away, and lets him pant for air... wiping his face with a towel, which doesn't seem to get any reaction at all.
After three minutes, his eyes roam around the room -
It raises four dry gloves over his feet.
There's a delay before he reacts. "Nooo-ooooooooooo..."
More slowly than ever, Ply makes them descend. Did you really try to convince yourself, it thinks tauntingly, that my fingers wouldn't return?
All of his thrashing and shrieking won't stop it from bringing the acetate hands... back down.

The rest breaks have to happen. The bouncer's body is now an uncoordinated riot of desperation. Some guys feel much more impact when the same tickling resumes... after a break. Its fingers tickle a little faster - and at some elemental level, his anatomy knows that it can't escape the utterly consuming flow of sweet tactile input.
An expert inhabits the gloves. There is no guesswork here. Each round is paced, calibrated, very intentionally shredding his defenses. It knows how fierce his need is for the tickling hands to pause, break contact - and stop.
Side to side, side to side, up and down.
Oh, maybe just a little more firmly -
He brays with gusto... gasping, head thrown back, body rigid. But his frame relaxes, and the bouncer shakes his head sadly, almost wistfully. Oh, fuck, if only the fingers would leave him alone!

Almost forty laugh-choked minutes, that time, wracked with miserable glee.
After a six-minute break, he watches a clean pair of gloves take position -
And another.
"Noooooo nooooooo nooooo-oooooo," he moans, throwing his torso around. The bouncer's voice is already hoarse.
It brings another four gloves up, so he can squeal at them... and then they go down, down, down. Yes. Absolutely. These fingers are going to tickle you even more ruthlessly - and you're going to lie right here and feel every second. Your future will be filled with tickling everywhere. There's not a single, solitary thing you can do about it.
One pair gets a grip over his heels.
Here -
Fingers rake back and forth... back and forth. Up on the right foot, and down. Back and forth on the left. Those patterns are swapped.
For a few crazed seconds, he sputters. Then the most inspiring giggles explode from his mouth. Filled with longing, hysteria, despair.
He urinates - forcefully - but his eyes are shut so tight that it's not certain he even realizes what a mess he made.
Towels and wet-wipes take care of the liquid, as fingers stroke from side to side, up and down, up and down, side to side.
Within five minutes, the feet quit trying to move at all.
The bouncer is whooping, over and over and over...

Another electrifying half-hour.
This time, he gets nine minutes to recuperate. Long enough for his eyes to become less vague. They look worried again, so fearful, panicky -
Ply floats a water bottle up, like magic. He startles badly.
You will drink water, it commands silently, and eat whatever I give you. That means less distraction - and more tickling. Anything your body needs will be provided.
I won't have you miss a single scorching minute of the torment.
There's something special dissolved in this water - a drug that enhances blood circulation, all the way down to the capillaries, scalp to heels. There's a side effect which it's confirmed with many captives. Skin and muscles get increased sensitivity to sustained palpation, and the neural impulses seem to engage the brain so much that the bouncer will be incapable of passing out. As long as the intensity of the tickling keeps increasing, he can be consumed by the tickling until exhaustion finally wins.
It's caught a serious weightlifter only once or twice before, and their impressive muscles made their limbs and torso surprisingly ticklish.
His head evades the bottle - for maybe fifteen seconds. With a sigh, and a low whimper... he drinks.

Not long after -
Two, four, six gloves start back in. Fascinated fingers move due to Ply's obsession.
"Nuh huh huh huh yyyy-you can't. Do this," he rasps. "Nnnn-nuh huh huh hah huh nnnn-not fuckin' k-kidding, here." He looks around the room wearily.
Blinking laugh-tears away, he manages to snag a deep breath, and then another. "Let me go, get help, I mean... dammit, this isn't my deal. I can't do a thing here, dammit. This isn't w-who I am! Look at me. No fuckin' way. Magic, superhuman... tickling. I can't... Listen, alright? I can't handle... this."
Oh yes, you can -
It gets a wild idea. Leaving the gloves stock-still, inches away from the targets, the tickler zips up to the ventilation duct. Up, out, over to the west, down the alley...
The back window of an insurance agency opens easily. A closet is there, filled with office supplies. It grabs three things, and races back to the bouncer.
Just behind the gloves, he watches a ream of copy paper approach the grate. After it's quickly torn open, a smaller number of sheets is rolled and slid through the grate. Ply brings a roll of duct tape to it from the storage room. It drops a red permanent marker, uncaps the black one it just stole -
And the invisible tickler makes a sign for its prey.

He gulps as the top sheet of paper is picked up and turned so he could read it...
 

 
"You can't," he whispers, shaking his head, shocked through and through.
His tormentor is even more satisfied.
Carefully amped-up hysteria is coming to him, right here, for a loooo-ong fuckin' time.
Every minute of bouncer-tickling depends on keeping him completely unable to budge. Kept in a place where no one can hear him laugh as loud as he can... immobilized this thoroughly, despite his muscles - well, his ticklishness is going to increase dramatically and steadily, for so many days and nights. That is its specialty, and he's an incredibly healthy man.
His keeper has no doubt at all - the first drug hasn't fully kicked in yet. It's been driving him bonkers for less than three hours, and Ply is already thinking that there is no set limit to his ticklishness. The coming months will be perfect for confirming that.
It sets ten fingertips on each sole. More are ready to join in.
Four gloves take hold of his pits and ribs.

He's out of control. Unbridled squirming, completely contained. Squealing is overrun with full-throated gales of laughter -
"Morrrrrr-re," he squeals, face locked in a big grin. "More guh... gloves, more, no, how many... d-days... I can't... duh... do anything, aw f-"
The bouncer laughs so much harder, suddenly, that he couldn't really make noise.
Tears blur his eyes, but he squints at the written order which has been taped to the foam over his head.
On his torso, Ply has slowed the gloves down. Relentless, ceaseless tickling. It's snuck six gloves into play, all over his feet. Another pair is tracing around his crotch.
Twelve hands and counting, now. The bouncer can take so many more fingers...

Twenty-five minutes of involuntary bliss, five minutes to rest -
And now it parks four of the gloves over his meat.

Thirty fingers cover every sensitive spot it's found on his soles so far. They're applied with enough energy and force to make the big musclebound bouncer-man bray and keen and ramble - truly unhinged "happy" sounds now.
His armpits are provoked continuously, efficiently.
A small brush sweeps lightly from left nipple, right nipple, belly-button.
And whenever he squints through the tears, he watches the magically filled gloves tracing his shaft, scritching his balls, sliding around the tops of his thighs.
After nine minutes, he locks up, squirts... and nearly passes out from the increased sensitivity everywhere.
It pauses each finger... until the bouncer groans a few times, ready for more. Then another pair of gloves is brought to his lower ribs.
Light and easy sexual stimulation is resumed. That keeps him conscious. His laughter sounds even more strained now. And yet he's alert enough to peek at its, uh, handiwork.
Yes, it thinks happily, my prisoner, oh yes, right now they're dusting your glans again... and your ass-crack, and your taint. I trust you haven't forgotten these twenty tireless fingers - down here!
Oh, he's perfect. Just laughing and writhing like a madman.

Eighty minutes, that round.
Fifteen minutes to rest...
Oh yes, I am, it laughs to itself. See? Uh-huh. Six more gloves - and that makes eighteen.
Two begin spider-walking up his ribs, and down. Top-to-bottom, up and down. up, and down. A pair explores his hips firmly, and the others dig under his knees.
They get him thrashing again.
Feet, crotch and armpit tickling resumes. The brush is set aside for now, and three others are set down alongside it, out where he can see them.
He squirms and laughs - completely overrun with the sensation.

But that lasts for seven more minutes, and he starts to relax. He's quieting down. The laughter dwindles. Becomes irregular. Unconsciousness is not on the way yet...
No, the magnitude of the sensation has grown. Another level of impact has been reached. More gloves and toys will be added for each round. Men who respond to a careful overload by relaxing in the way the bouncer has - well, they rarely have a maximum.
 

Forty minutes.
He manages to ejaculate again.
The remainder of that round is slow, light tickling. This lug isn't fainting yet.

Forty-five minutes...

He has the audacity to shake his head, the least little bit, at twenty lube-smeared rubber gloves.
Now, it thinks sternly, you're going to learn about the kind of tickling that you were made for.
It's going to take time to get him up to he-man levels of stimulation.
Bouncer Tickling Academy has an enrollment of one. The master level of tickling is his coursework, and his instructor holds all the keys.
One hundred strong fingers find their marks.

Half an hour in, he isn't even moaning or growling.
Trying to "go in and hide?" It knows that trick. This is the last unconscious effort to find a way to turn off his sensitivity. His brain, at the request of a body under an avalanche of petting, is trying to ignore the signals shooting up from everywhere. If redefining the tactile responses are something he could do, that probably would've happened already.
It knows how to make sure that coping mechanism won't work.
The gloves are pulled off... and six feathers ease down his shaft. Another pair covers his scrotum.
Slowly, he starts to move. And cackle.
Up, and down, staying in alignment... Soft edges, getting him off.
The bouncer's eyes open up. Weak screams of laughter pour out.
Yeah, it usually works. A solid override. This man's subconscious attempt to cope is defeated. Balls and cock.

After three minutes, the gloves descend.
One grabs each of his shins. Six of them cover his sides, eight lay claim to his legs, and it sends a pair to his ass.
They start squeezing. Greasy latex, mystical strength.
He writhes slowly, cackling his guts out.
The feathers are taken away. No climax for him. Not yet.

It kneads and fondles him for almost ninety minutes.

At the end of that break, it brings a spray bottle to his feet. The mixture is a secret kept from humans...
But it tingles.
Not only moisturizing the skin, but increasing the vulnerability to a certain rousing contact.
From the first spritz, the bouncer is snickering.
When the time the bottle leaves, he's nearly hysterical. Eight gloves hang around those targets.
The toe restraints are brought and eased on. Roaring at their touch, he manages somehow to look, shaking his head wildly...
There. Now his feet are set for even more fun.
He shakes his head at Ply's gloves, whooping and hooting...
And when it's sure he's paying attention, those oiled fingers start to land.

It keeps the pace slow and the pressure fairly light.
One hour and two minutes.
 

After twenty minutes of resting, water and an energy bar...
Feathers tease his meat for a good, long while.
When he's moaning steadily, it takes four gloves, spreads their palms and fingers on his stomach, and rides back and forth.
Whooping, he can't follow through on the next cumshot yet.

Then, the fingers are all over his torso. It covers his armpits, polishes his ribs, and teases his surprisingly ruddy pecs.
The bouncer's arms twist a little in their bonds, staying caught.
One glove after another starts easing around his sides, and down his legs again -
And all around his neck.
The profound level of his fever ratchets up yet again.

Forty-seven minutes.

It's such a complete delight to trace his sides with light fingertips... and hear the coarse, imploring laughter. There is great victory in continuing to stroke, no matter how much he tries to twist or lunge away.
A hundred light fingertips, everywhere, move him back into that level of deeper concentration.
 

He sleeps with the thickness of total exhaustion.
Not three nights ago, Ply first discovered him... by the back door of a club. He was definitely enjoying that cigar... and admitting to the owner of the club that the guy who stole his girlfriend is still the star of grisly revenge fantasies. Everything reminds him of her, so he doesn't really want to be around. Better for all of them, probably, right? He's fighting the urge to hide out in Nashville for awhile - but he'd hate to cause trouble for his boss. That beefy black kid who's been hanging around is ready, wanting his shot to be a bouncer, probably worth a try. Shit, why not? If I get drunk enough I could just... take off. Disappear.
Astounding. Just too perfect.

The fuzzy protection of unconsciousness is fading away. He yawns, and blinks. Eyes... widening. Looking around wildly.
Thick cuffs hold his arms up, and his feet are strapped outside the sling.
Wake up, animal. Ultramarathon time. Let's go.
One of the three cigars it found in his car has got his attention now. Ply floats it slowly to the floor, a meter away from his side. The bouncer can howl and bark and hoot at it for a while. Something this familiar will goose the impact even more. If he gets through one of these cigars without dropping it, as the slow tickling keeps coming, it'll get him a couple boxes.
Eight brushes land and move on his soles.
His begging lasts for a few seconds, and then it's obliterated by the need to hee-haw like a mutherfuckin' maniac.

22sep19