I shut off the ignition and heave a big sigh. Trees everywhere. Crickets, and no other noise. This is excellent.
Time for another smoke. Even this feels like a treat here.
I pick up the carton and get out of the truck, wanting to take a look around before unloading everything. Can't even see the road from here.
Turning back around, I start walking to the cabin -
Hey, Buck.
My head whips around.
Nobody there.
I don't recognize the voice. It didn't seem like... spoken words, really. I take another drag and force myself to act calm.
Ready?
Damn. There's nobody in sight. I'm hallucinating the voice or something.
That gets me walking again. Coming around the corner, I'm so glad to see the door. It seems like I'll be safer once I get inside, which is stupid 'cause there's nothing threatening me. There's enough light coming down through the trees to make it obvious. I'm okay. But I don't waste any time getting the door unlocked.
So it's open, and as I swing it out I take a big ol' drag. The weak daylight shows me wood plank floors, a staircase to the right, and the bed. I kick out smoke and start walking in -
Why is the bed right here, in the living room?
There's a leather web hanging from the rafters, off to the left. My eyes go right back to the big leather cuffs and straps just laying there on the oily rubber sheet, up by the corners. No pillows. A thick steel bar runs between the huge bedposts near the foot of the mattress.
I smoke, trying to figure it all out. The bed should be upstairs. There's a loft -
For you.
I'm fucked.
It becomes obvious, so damn clear, that I'll never even make it to the stairs. Kitchen, bathroom, couch... all out of bounds. No fuckin' doubt.
This bed is ready - just for me.
I have no fear inside me, though. None at all. Pain is not on the agenda here. This is a mystery, but I'm going to find out what's going on soon enough.
Inside my head, the voice starts to laugh quietly.
I listen to the chortling in my head - easygoing, even relieved, somehow male.
Standing there with the keys in one hand, a carton of smokes in the other and a cigarette still hanging from my mouth, it seems like I can't do anything about this situation except think.
Wrong cabin. That would explain it. But the key worked.
This is the right weekend... the same day I had planned to arrive. But here's the bed - wide, with a solid old frame, set up pretty close to the only door.
The next thing that will happen is that I'll get dragged over to it. While I'm not quite inside the cabin yet, there's somebody - a presence - behind me. Zero chance of slipping past and making it to my truck. No doubt about that.
While the biggest question should be "why", or even "who", I'm preoccupied with simpler things. For example, the bed was set up here by the same joker who laughs at me, in my head, and blocks my escape. If I looked behind me, there wouldn't be anything to see... but the only direction I'll be moving is inside. Down. And I really can't figure out how I'm so certain of that.
It's a happy voice. The bed's ready, I'm here now, and very soon the fun will begin.
I'm getting curious about what's coming. The bed frame and the restraints look serious... Compared to straps and cuffs I've seen in the movies, these are about twice as wide. Heavier. I don't think I'll be able to break 'em. All that work, getting toned up - it seems like it won't help me at all now.
Another long drag, then, thinking about the rest of the afternoon, and tonight, and Saturday, and Sunday. Stuck there. I should be afraid, but I'm not. There's something so certain about all of this - like it's happened before.
Setting up the bed took some effort. That probably wasn't the only prep work... and then I had to be lured out here. Or anybody - no. I reject that right away. Not knowing how I can be so sure of that, the point wasn't to stake out whoever was handy. I rented this place three weeks ago, drove almost three hours to get out here.
The carton slips out of my hand. Out of reflex I make a grab for it, before it falls...
Hanging there, then rising a little - and now I watch it float away slowly.
That sorta wakes me up. Looking behind my back, I get one last solid look at the trees and the bare dirt path which leads up to the cabin. All normal. No visible reason I can't just back up and leave - but there might as well be a brick wall, because I fuckin' know I won't be allowed to get even a single step further away from that bed.
So I'm automatically getting one more tug before I take the cigarette and drop it, grinding it out on the doorstep... and some other impulse has me following the carton. One step inside, then another.
My smokes are cruising toward the kitchen. There's a squeaking sound behind me. I make it one more step before turning, again, to watch the door close.
There's enough light from the windows, for now, and I look over at the bed. Another cigarette would help, 'cause I've got that fear all the way through me that comes when you're right on top of the scary thing and there's no time to worry about it. My smokes and my lighter are right here in my shirt pocket... and I got the weirdest feeling that I wouldn't be allowed to finish a cigarette just now. Getting one out seems to be asking for confirmation of that. Invisible something-or-other, that set up the bed down here, and those cuffs.
At some point the voice stopped laughing at me. I'm not sure when.
Slowly, calmly, I walk my ass over to the bed.
This is not what I want to do. If I put up any kind of resistance... that would make invisible hands latch on, or worse. No doubt in my mind. Not the kind of thoughts or fears I usually run with, and not not even fuckin' necessary here because I don't seem to be able to stop walking. That scares me, for just a second - until I realize that this whole setup is a done deal already. Fighting wouldn't matter, wishing won't change anything, and in a minute I'm going to be laid out whether I run or not. Resisting won't do me any good. I'm positive that's true without knowing exactly what makes me so sure.
The whole weekend seems to have been plotted out and set in stone - almost like it's already happened.
I'm sitting down now. The mattress is soft.
Watched, and somehow controlled too, I lay back...
My arms keep going out slowly. Spreading nice and wide. Getting into position, even though I don't fuckin' want this to happen.
Buck.
The voice is pleased. Thinks I'm cool.
A hand takes hold around each of my palms. They're not as warm as skin would be, and the texture reminds me of metal. Brass, or polished steel.
Pulling slowly, they slide me up until my boots are past the horizontal bar. This is a big mattress...
Quiet creaking sounds from the head of the bed make me want to look up, at my hands, but instead I just exhale and close my eyes.
There is no fuckin' way I can have the right idea - what's gonna be done to me. Really over-the-top, there. All weekend, apparently - nuh-uh, why in the world would it end? Private cabin, no neighbors, I'll be strapped down -
Stop, dammit, just stop thinking like that, it's too wild, that doesn't happen or else they'd be warning everybody. No way I'd be tricked into delivering myself here for that.
There were restraints waiting here for me, though. Dark black leather, laying on a new sheet. All set up, and then I walk in. Bed plus restraints means I'll spend all damn day here. No matter what. Surely there is some... well-intentioned reason. I can't smoke like this, but it's happening anyway.
There just has to be a reason I'd go along with. There must be. My body is spread wide, totally vulnerable.
Everything else was all set, here. The last thing needed was me.
My boots are eased off. Then my socks. Strong, invisible hands push down on my shins.
Leather wraps around my ankles, gets snug, and the buckles pull those cinching straps in a bit more.
I think of my feet, staying right there -
Alright.
Whatever's caught me here is totally delighted. It's hard to get as pissed off, or even as scared, as I want, because the voice is so damn happy. That's because I'm here. In its cage. That just ain't right.
Thinner straps slide under my thighs and upper arms, snaking magically through clasps - and then they're pulled good and tight.
Mine, it answers. Staying. Just you wait.
Two feathers cruise up from the tray.
No way, it can't possibly be true. Thick straps pinning me down. Nobody knows exactly where I am. This is too... extended, too psychotic -
I can twist and kick all I want, though.
It laughs, maybe a little too excited.
The soft edges ease across both of my heels.
Right away I tense up, trying - oh, hell, fighting so hard not to laugh. This isn't funny.
Endless...
I know that's right, too, and not an empty threat. A squeak slips out of me. The cuffs are holding, just like I expected. The feathers are obscenely light now, traveling up to my arches -
Gasping, I start to snicker.
Ah.
"No, nnn-no -"
They sweep back down, and now my left foot's getting it from side to side. I can't stand having that texture move along the sides of my soles - just can't get my mind off it, dammit! Lunging and pulling and cackling harder. My right arch is combed, carefully, and the fuckin' care being shown makes me wanna go crazy right now, since it's too much to take let's just get the offline brain thing over with now.
The tickler's just obsessed with what it does to me.
Even the least little contact with the feathers is amplified, by the time it gets to my brain, making me squirm. Forcing me to laugh. But the big payoff is the blaze of pleasant sensation that blots out everything else - just for a second, until the next movement of a mutherfuckin' feather...
Easy strokes, blanketing my feet, like the feathers are electrified.
I wrestle around, chuckling hard, moaning, sweating, wishing the cuffs would break or something.
This moment has been stretching out for a long fuckin' time now. I have no idea if it's been hours, or minutes. Fuck, I can't even think. The tickling is all there is, dammit. I'm just overwhelmed.
It's really not kidding around. Mocking me isn't the main deal, here. That's when I realize that the tickling isn't leading up to... something else. It's not breaking me down before it shows me some other reason for the locked door and the damn restraints. I mean, at this point I'd be stupid not to expect it to play with my cock. There's rubbers on the cart, I think. It's not like I can stop it. If the damn tickler gets this much of a rush out of feathers, I'm not too worried about anything really grisly -
See, there it is again. This insane tickling would be hard to take even if it was just the opening act.
But The tickler is totally fuckin' devoted to this. Slow feathers. They're not just for show. I'm really thinkin' this isn't funny now. Nothing half-ass about it.
Panting for breath I just laugh right out, I finally manage to look around.
Rafters, bare wood planks angled together. A ceiling.
I'm laying on my back, in the tickler's house of fire.
Struggling with the restraints again, I look over at the cart. Cabin way off the beaten path, and so much shit already laid out. Handy, close by, and fucking with my sanity. All kinds of tools - right here, to be used on me. Not a single thing I can do to block or abbreviate the unhinged attack. Hysteria. Way stronger than I've ever felt before, and every other time I wasn't spread-eagled and hidden in a cabin that I have no idea how long I'm gonna get worked on, dammit. Tickling my fuckin' -
Aw, no.
Brushes are gliding to me.
I watch four of 'em make a steady beeline for my feet. Pastry brushes.
Nothing I can do or say, and the invisible bastard gets to tickle as much as it wants, as long as it wants...
And it's so jazzed. Giggling sometimes, like it just can't help but celebrate this next round. I could not be more stuck -
Touching. Moving!
It's as if hundreds of really, really small feathers start slow and easy. It still makes me screech and jerk around. The bristles...
Tension turns out to be my shirt getting pulled apart. Some of the buttons must be flying off. My jeans have been unzipped - and a big pair of scissors is floating off to the side. Naked, I think, roaring with laughter, shaking my head pointlessly.
Aw, hell.
I sound way too happy about this.
My clothes are gone. All of 'em. I don't look right this way, because I didn't choose to be butt-ass naked. That confusion doesn't last, though - why I've been stripped is pretty obvious now.
The bigger task right now is dealing with the fuckin' blast of excitement shooting up my body. Laughing is harder to keep doing, so the tickler - who's just getting started! - may not know how fucked up I already am. It's not going to stop now. Exactly the opposite. All kinds of toys and shit here. It's definitely gonna seem like the tickling will never end. Deeper, and longer, as the fucker gets to know me. Every inch. How to work it.
The feathers came back. Coasting up and down my shins. It just makes me unglued.
Brushes keep dragging up and down the side of each fuckin' foot. Fingertips own my soles. Oh, dammit, I gotta howl some more.
And I can't thrash any harder than I did. Can't it see how fuckin' blown away I am? Thinking is hard, too. Strapped down to a damn bed. Here for this. Oh, shit, I'm not getting loose. It's got me, and it's eating this up.
I'm out of my mind. Fever cutting in and out now, and sometimes I notice the feathers are tickling my calves too -
Knees.
Aw, fuck...
Why the hell are my thighs so awake? I can't take this shit. It's not even really underway and I'm losing it. Big pile of torture-tools on the cart. Tickling. Hell. I'm squealing and twitching, soaked with sweat. My thighs won't move, either. I have to get my ankles free, right fuckin' now, I just have to get my legs away.
If only my feet would go numb or something. But the shock from the feathers is too much anyway. This is more than I can take -
And I arch my back.
Impossible. Fingers are massaging my ass. Dammit. Tickling my taint. I'm getting hard...
Laughing takes too much work. I can't keep it up. Alone, in this damn cabin, and I never laugh like this when I'm jacking off.
The tickler hoots quietly.
Oh, yeah. I'm just what it wanted.
I pull and tug at the damn straps, but the brushes drag slowly, over and over and over, and the feathers are teasing my balls now. Can't do a fuckin' thing except growl, and laugh. Cackling again. Feeling dizzy.
Sharp currents keep plowing through. The soft edge of each feather. Confident hands. Roaming bristles.
Gulping air, I wail it right back out again, hooting, chuckling so damn hard.
The need to cum is making me whine now and then.
The feathers are moving... around my belly button. I try to slam around, screeching laughter again. It's so damn electric. I can't believe how it sizzles. Inside me. Nowhere to go.
Feathers, every second. My feet feel it worse, too - each brush-stroke. This is so much stronger than I felt it an hour ago. I'm done for.
Another full day, it seems like, and they're stroking my chest.
The reaction is out of control now. Runaway. I can't stop giggling and trying to roll. If only I could get out of here, I swear I'd never do another bad thing again. Not ever again. Fuck.
The straps hold me down... and I'm out of my head with the damn excitement, making noise, totally trapped.
I open my eyes. Did I fall asleep?
Aw hell. Still here.
A white towel... is unfolding. It moves quicker than the feathers did. All business. Drying me off, and the tickler's not gentle about it either. Even that rubbing makes me cackle like a fool.
The towel flips over, and dries off my face. There's snot. Gross. I watch the towel float away... and my face isn't clean, but it's better than it was.
When a water bottle comes over me, it's not a big surprise. No-nonsense hands slide under my head and lift it. The fingers flex a lot like real hands do - but they still feel wrong, somehow, and it ain't just the metal impression I get. It's not like they're clumsy. I almost wish they were. Hell - I see so many gloves on the cart, there, waiting for some tickle-happy fucker to pull on. As the bottle pours water into me, the fingers behind my head adjust a little. Way too much like a guy's hands to suit me... except that I can't see 'em. It's got hands, they never get... fatigued, and I'm in for much more of the same.
Yeah. I finish the water... and the hands set my head down. Sorta petting my hair, after they pull it out of my eyes.
"Let me go," I say to the air. "Please."
The hands slide around my neck. Pressing down a little, and I guess there's my answer -
Noise. Aw, shit, from the cart. Something's moving.
I see... tan gloves.
"Please," I babble before I can stop myself.
One hand lets go of me, and a glove fills up. It turns, bending the fingers. Looks like the tickler's got a real hand inside there, and it moves like an expert-
Here we go.
Yeah, it's been looking forward to this.
The other hand pulls off my throat and I watch the other glove expand. I can't tear my eyes away. Magic which no sane person would believe in is taking ordinary things and wearing 'em. Hell, I still don't entirely believe the brushes and the feathers were used like that - and boom, there's the first two impatient fuckin' gloves. Pigskin, I think.
Another pair is being carried over...
They're right in front of me. Real gloves. The other shit felt real too, but even the thought that this is all a nightmare seems totally ridiculous now. These fuckin' hands are solid, and energized. Ordinary things, which it prepared and slipped into just so it could blow my mind the rest of the way. These smooth leather hands aren't going to disappear, no matter how hard I wish for it. Dammit.
Four hands, now, and the fucker just can't wait. The nearest ones are inches away from my chin. I keep forgetting to breathe. It seems like a great time to whimper, maybe shake my head. Before they start. But there's nothing, fuckin' nothing that will get me out of this one. I know for a stone-cold fact that the restraints won't break. All the trouble of setting up the bed, and the cuffs - and this is the big payoff, right here.
The most incredible, frightening sound - superhuman contentment - sighs in my head, and it seems quiet and spontaneous.
These gloves are real, dammit, and they're moving in. No possible way to believe this is a nightmare now. They seem more real than my chest, or the ankle-cuff so far away. The tickler's running 'em, and I already know how much power -
Oh, shit. They're clamping around my ribs. Wide contact now, and the texture is gonna kill me. Even softer than I expected. Apparently I don't remember how to inhale. I give the wrist-cuffs a few more tugs.
It snickers at me. No way I'm getting loose, because that's not in the fuckin' cards here.
This is big-boy stuff, I know. The feathers had me coming unglued, the brushes on my feet just locked me up... but the gloves make it way more real, dammit.
The higher fingers squeeze a little. It's on.
"Nuh nuh no, aw no! Noooo-whoooooo," I whimper. But the other gloves start too.
Full hand-shells start tickling.
Whoa.
This is a whole new world. I just got... massaged right into some other fuckin' dimension. This is a thousand times more demanding.
They knead their way over my ribs like playtime is over. The tickler isn't fucking around. This is the big leagues. It came to win -
Fingers move into my armpits. I jump, and ease out one long whine. Fuckin' pro contact, covering, riding, so damn firm.
I'm barely aware of the shifting around and groaning and sweating. My body's a long way away, now. I'm way down inside, under the gloves. Determined hands. Floating in the impact - wow, it's unbelievable here.
Main event.
And that just confirms what I already knew, just looking at them. This is it. Hours and hours of arresting, squeezing pleasure. Each day. Success and thankfulness and affection and inhuman cruelty are moving the fingers. More fingers are definitely coming.
This perfectly solid, horribly careful stimulation is what it likes best. Ribs and armpits provoked bigtime, squeezed by pigskin that's barely creeping around. So I'll be living here, definitely surrounded by its gloves - these obsessed hands - most of the time.
But since I'm busy feeling the work more than ever - deeper? - the idea of time is so fuckin' fuzzy now... and so is the concept of being somewhere else. Not going through this.
I had no idea how serious this tickler was.
The palms and fingers are devoted. Really into it. I can't get away from them. It made damn sure I wasn't going to slip out of reach. Each thing I realize is a shock - it set up this bed here, in a tickle cell, got me here, locked the only door, cuffed me down, and now the gloves are magically, solidly driving me out of my mind.
So this is how it'll be. The future is more than I can think about right now. My job is to try to feel every bit of every damn wave of tickling, so I'm on it. Right here, as close to the nerves as I can get - the ones being stuffed full. Way, way too much fuckin' pleasure. Continuous. Feeding the fire.
No reason to think the gloves are gonna stop.
Fire is all that matters. Moving, yet solid, on my sides. More wrapped around each foot. Fire.
Nothing else matters.
The gloves are real, and the hands in them couldn't be enjoying this more. If I could move, that would decrease the bastard's satisfaction. So would reducing the amount of time it could squeeze, and rub... but it's been careful. And now it gets to dig in all it wants, for as long as it wants. Nothing is truer than that.
My armpits and my sides are the perfect reward for all the effort. Finding this place, setting up the bed. Luring me here. Now my ticklish nerves are claimed by these hands - owned.
Fingers massage and stroke, press in, slide easily. Gracefully. Time doesn't matter. I can't do a thing to make the tickler stop. Outfoxed, and now I'll feel it. Laugh, twitch, sweat. These damn fingers...
Months have gone by. That's what it feels like. But the sun has set on the same damn day I was trapped in here.
I'm breathing pretty much normally. Zoned out through the whole damn break -
Those leather hands clamp around my feet. I think I manage to shake my head, as I arch, but the cry is cut off when fingers press into my armpits. That makes me bounce... and giggle.
The gloves just dance on me. Scratching in circles, rubbing the muscles around the edge of each pit - and squeezing my soles, fingertips restless. One's holding on to my cock.
I laugh with all the determination I can find.
More fingers follow the grooves between my ribs. They all party. Raking and wiggling, landing again to slide back and forth, polishing vertically, probing.
Happy hands.
Perfectly happy with you... Buck.
I think my head nods a couple times. Crowing, and then just fuckin' roaring with laughter is all I can do to protest.
Even its playful mood is just totally kicking my ass. Wants this to go on and on and on.
Ribs, pits, feet. So fuckin' ticklish now.
These fingers sure ain't discouraged. Running the board, dammit. I'm a complete basket case now, and they're not slowing down. They got me, and this is the kind of fun they like.
I'm so overwhelmed now I can't even fidget. But sometimes I can kick out this scratchy, brawling laughter.
The gloves move like it's a celebration. Happy dance. Ain't gonna end soon...
It's got me, oh yeah, it outfoxed me and now it's just gonna keep sticking it to me.
There's no way I can stop being this ticklish, apparently. Every second is full of fingers and hands, bristles and feathers, and I can't take another second of it. But oh well.
Stretched out, as easy to get to as they could be, my sides are more awake than ever.
I can't move. The gloves are doing the deep-massage thing again. Maximum tickling...
Clutch.
Damn, it just loves doing this to me. Manuevered me up to this cabin, somehow, where the bed was ready and waiting. And I can't imagine this ending. Ever. Being set free is hard to picture.
Sometimes I dream about the bed - just seeing it in the late afternoon sun, set up here in the main room of the cabin. Waiting silently. Maybe it knew I would be soaking it, before too long. Laughing my voice away, and still up for more intense tickling. Right here.
Waking up, I think it's gotta be the next morning. All over. That fuckin' -
It's still dark. The smell of wood...
I'm still in the cabin. Oh, no. No. Damn.
Sitting up? Sorta. My arms are up high - cuffed - and my feet are spread. Dammit, also strapped down. I'm swinging, just a little. The bed is below me and to the left.
I've been tethered to the net. Hanging a good five feet off the ground, and I can feel the webbing under my back... and my thighs. Heavy leather, circled around. It's got my crotch exposed.
And I can feel air on my ass.
Time to thrash around...
And that does no fuckin' good. I'm caught, dammit, and I know why. The leather creaks above me as I sway back and forth -
Here come the gloves again.
20jun2017