Un...freakin...believable.
Real bad. Sick shit, here. Heavy-duty.
On the bed, right in front of him, a rubber sheet is being laid out. All by itself. Corners snapping into place, wrinkles smoothed out. Nobody there.
He tries to kick again. Keeps tugging... but the rope won't budge. Thick white rope looped over and over his wrists, his ankles.
A package rises, tearing open without any visible help. A... sheet?
Tied to a chair. Backward in it, anchored to the chair back, with his hands turned away from his feet... which hang out in the air. He pulls back, and the chair just creaks a little.
Satin sheet. Black satin.
"Fuck," he blurts, reefing hard. The chair rocks a little. Pathetic.
The sheet unfolds with a flourish, drifting over the bed. Real shiny.
He just... can't do this. Long past fear, or panic. Just dreading it, gettin' the picture all too clearly here.
Weirdness from the second he saw that carton...
Camel, nonfilters, sitting on the passenger seat of his truck. A full carton, waiting for him when he got back in, set there while he was at the ATM. He stared at it, the truck idling away and nobody else in sight... and something grabbed his sneakers and pulled 'em away from the pedals. The door closing in his hand, dark shapes zipping up from the floorboard -
Closing around his... sides. Arms. Moving, exploring firmly. And he flailed, suddenly wild, stuttering. Yelling laughter.
A hand wrapped over his mouth. Cool, firm cloth. Hissing sound, a weird gassy smell -
The sheet's being tucked in. Easy, even graceful. Like the special effects in a movie, happening right here...
Like a movie. Strange enough setting, this trashed bedroom... Coming to with a dull headache, astounded at the ropes, black leather thong riding up his ass-crack and nothing else on. Except oil.
And then hardware started coming in, coasting right through the door behind him, being assembled. Some kind of rack. Huge bolts sunk into the the ceiling, the harness hung over the bed.
Bad juju.
Really frantic when the big hasps were mounted on the inside of the door. Three of 'em. Three...
Two-by-eights being nailed over the gaping window, blotting out the quiet field beyond. The hammer, pounding away, while he yelled.
And now, the bed's being made ready.
He knows why. Don't he though.
One of the boxes is opening. Being opened -
Rope. More rope, the same too-fuckin-thick rope holding him down. Big coil, rising. There's black things under it in the box. Maybe leather.
Eleven boxes altogether, laid along each side of the bed. He doesn't wanna know what's in 'em, if what he's seeing is... typical.
A boxcutter joins the rope, cutting fair-sized lengths.
Another Camel is being shaken out of the pack. More weird business, on top of the box farthest away from him, left-hand side - this is like the seventh cig that's been picked up and held in the flame of the big blue candle. If he didn't smell the smoke, see it spreading out... the cigs set in the ashtray there and left to burn down - well, he wouldn't ever have believed it. Any of this...
Jingling, from the same box -
Damn.
They're cuffs. Leather, alright. Fuckin' thick. Huge D-rings. They set down, one on each corner of the bed.
He struggles pointlessly. The cutter is tossed into the box, and it's closed up. That's a good sign... isn't it?
The rope ends snake through and double back. Two ropes securing each cuff, and a length between each pair. Same rope he can't bust out of. Just great. Not as bad as gettin' cut up, or beat up...
Right?
Whatever's got him, it definitely knows what it's doin'.
He looks at the cuffs and rope, and the harness. Not much point in worrying about work tomorrow, or his truck. Shit. Or where this place is, for that matter. He's gotta get out of here, now, before those cuffs are on h-
A box opening, mid-right side. What?
Rising leisurely -
"No. Oh no, no no, dammit... no..."
Big white feather. Fuckin' feather, laid right in the middle of the bed.
He rocks the chair again, cussing sincerely. Nightmare. If only this was a bad fuckin' dream...
Snapping sounds. He looks away, finally, from the tableau. Light is fading... the window's being covered up. A blanket - no, a roll. Something gray. Foam rubber, maybe. A staple gun, tacking it up and sliding along magically.
In the candlelight, he squints at the padding - soundproofing. Yeah. like that's gonna be necessary here.
Oh, fuck.
But this is way out in the sticks. Is this, like, insurance... or just another mindfuck?
Closest box on the right side is opening. He sees more leather in there. Riding crops, a whip handle, maybe a hood.
So seriously fucked.
A white thing, rising straight up, and settling back on top of the box after it's closed. The rope-box opens again, but he's staring at the... is that a mouthpiece? Like a boxer...
He closes his eyes, swallows, and looks again. His brain refuses to accept -
Large, shiny... locks. From the other open box, three big padlocks, floating behind him -
To the door! He thrashes will all he's got, yelling incoherently. The chair was anchored now...
Click. Really loud. Another click -
He pauses. Waiting.
Click.
Then he sags forward, panting. Defeated.
The chair scoots him forward about a yard. Closer to the fuckin' bed.
Pissed off. But what the hell can he do about it?
Foam is being stapled over the door. Sealed in, every base covered...
A left-side box opens. Gallon jugs of water, and a smaller bottle, rising and opening. The box next to it appeared to be more water.
He rears back from the approaching bottle. But I'm gonna need it, he thinks miserably...
Bitter. Why...? Dosed. Oh no. He grunts, trying to back off. No such luck; the bottle insists. He wears some of it, but most of it went down.
Caffeine, hopefully. Maybe speed.
Still swallowing hard, he gapes at the mouthpiece. And the feather.
From the right-hand row - a bandanna, rolling up. And fear hits him all over again. Not a gag. No need.
"No..."
His hair is being pulled back. He watches the kerchief intently... and it encircles his forehead.
Sweatband. Gonna sweat.
He moans softly, without meaning to.
Another Camel is fired up, turning slowly in the flame. The haze is easy to see in the candlelight. He's trapped in here...
His heart is thudding quickly. All alone.
No. The center of attention.
A different box, now. Medical stuff inside. He sees bottles, blister-packs of pills, vials. Toothbrushes. A big bottle rises up, a smaller one, a couple of tubes. Ben-Gay, some body lotion. Astro-Glide. K-Y.
And, the topper, a strip of rubbers. All hanging there, until the box closes and they set down. Close at hand.
No. Not possible.
From the feather-box... a wooden stand. Under it, shiny things. Vaguely scary.
Up comes a quill. More feathers join it in the stand, a colorful manic arrangement. And then, brushes. A massager, and another, snapping on for a couple seconds, buzzing furiously.
All laid out, on top of that box.
Another box holds lots of energy bars, bottles of protein tabs.
Rustling, in the corner - a bag? Big bag. Cloth rising out - a towel. Two... shop towels. He barely reacts when they approach, but they touch his back and he jumps a mile. Drying him off efficiently, all business. Taking off most of the oil.
Getting him ready.
Oh, fuck.
More pleasure than he can believe is laid out in rows. Fur, latex, feathers, lube.
There's creaking, as a lid opens. This box, nearest where his head will be, just to the right - it's a big chest, scuffed black wood unlike all the cardboard boxes.
Coming out - a very black hand.
Rising. In no hurry. Reflecting a little of the candlelight... much like the sheet does. Probably satin -
The last box opens.
Camels.
The glove saunters over and digs out a couple of packs. In that box, there's at least three more cartons. The shorter one must be nonfilters.
He stares harder. Bottles in there - booze. Shit.
The packs are carried over, set down next to the half-empty one by the ashtray. A Bic lighter floats up and joins 'em.
A second glove rises out of the chest.
Disposable razors come out and sit on the closed box.
From the rope-box... little bands, or straps.
The first glove gets a Camel. The butt smoldering in the ashtray hasn't burned out yet. Change in the pattern.
He strains the ropes longingly. Hadn't smoked in a couple years, harder'n hell to quit. Forty fuckin' packs, here.
And eight gallons of water. What, two quarts a day? Or, forty divided by two packs, or three -
"Oh. Impossible," he breathes.
The cigarette, lit, heading his way, steady as a rock between pudgy thumb and forefinger.
Camels. Rubbers, feathers, mouthpiece, drugs.
Satin barely making contact.
Numbly, he takes the cigarette.
Satin.
He coughs, eyes watering...
His fingers - pressure. Squinting, he sees the gloves... covering his hands? Oh. The straps, thin leather tightening between the first and second knuckles of his fingers. What the hell -
They finish with his right hand, and hobble his left. He tests the strap... and discovers he can't make a fist. They're not even gonna give him that.
A third glove appears, crossing over the mattress. He cocks his head back to keep the smoke out of his eyes, watching the first pair come to a stop in front of him.
The ashtray is carted over and set on the foot of the bed, with the open pack and lighter in it. That hand gets and holds his next cigarette. Three inches off the mattress, steady as a fuckin' rock.
The other two pose right there, halfway between his nose and his immobilized feet. Unreal. Gotta figure they'll start there. On his fuckin' feet.
Can't be happening.
He drags on the Camel tentatively. Whoa. Smoke thick in his lungs... sweat trapped under the damn rope, the edgy too-much-coffee feeling that probably confirms it was No-Doz or something in the water. Not a dream. Not asleep. Too fuckin' much.
The satin holds position while he stares. Studying 'em. Throwing back the light just like the sheet did, only curvier. Solid-looking fingers. The openings are empty as they can be... no hands, no wires. Nothing. Ghostly, perfectly smooth, and strong enough to strap his fingers together. No hurry, not in any rush, arrogant bastards. And why not?
He took another drag. Why not. Lookit him...
Another minute, and the lone glove yanks the Camel, setting the new cig in place and lighting it off the old one, retreating.
The pair of hands didn't budge. Psych-out. It's working. Everything, all goin' perfect. For them.
Mindfuck extraordinare.
Forty. Fuckin'. Packs. How the - he can't smoke if they're... when, when they're -
Outrageous.
He watches for 'em to move. Even a little...
Two smokes later, the water-box opens and a jug slides out. The smaller bottle is uncapped, and refilled, which was okay by him. Damn cigarettes makin' him thirsty. He has to take a leak, though, and doesn't want to piss himself - and he remembers the big bag of shop towels.
His eyes dart from the brushes... to the lube. Doesn't look like he'll be getting up to go to the can. Not hardly.
He drinks another, what, half-liter. Takes a new smoke, leans in to reach the lighter. Empty satin thumb holding the lever down on it... He's going along with the dismal hope that cooperation will pay off, maybe they'll cut him some slack -
But he looks at the pair of gleaming hands... and knows better. Imagines that material touching his feet. His cock...
He looks down, eyes widening at his erection. Shifting around self-consciously. He starts to move his arms, an unconscious intention of... hiding it. But they don't - they're not gonna be any help at all, sadly out of reach. Even as close as they are to his feet, they're immobilized.
His vulnerable feet. With the gloves, right here. Fuck, his sides were wide open too. Ass, back, neck. He grimaces at the thought, then shoves it away. Can't tighten up enough to cover his belly.
And then there's the bed.
I'm inconcievably fucked, he thinks, in a setting that shouldn't even exist... by some extreme tickler that can't be real.
Glancing at the harness. The rack.
Eight gallons. A lot of piss. Eight hundred smokes... when he can manage to hold on to one. Uh, when they let him.
Enough shit for...
Weeks?
He groans. Not not not possible.
Sagging in the chair, head tilted back... dragging hard, holding it in, kicking the smoke out of his nostrils slowly. Trying to calm down. As if that'll help. Tired of watching 'em, of waiting. Not like he could brace himself and prepare. He's always been seriously ticklish, insanely jumpy. And here he is.
Remembering the attack in his truck. Just a test, probably. Out to see if he's - and now, after seeing all the prep, the parade of horrendous equipment, and their attitude - all this fuckin' with his head, well, he's doomed. Tonight's gonna be more intense than the worst he can imagine.
Weeks.
No.
Caught, stuck here, tied tight. Cuffs all ready, there, anchored on the satin.
He takes another drag, without thinking. Sorta dazed by the prospect, thinking about being desperate to tuck and cover but wearin' these ropes. Calm, gotta stay calm. He sighs out smoke... Break the chair maybe, twist it apart. Fool 'em, maybe fake a heart attack, a seiz-
Touch.
Oh no.
Both soles.
His head snaps forward. In the weak light...
Yep. Black fingers. On his skin. His feet. Looking down at 'em, here they go.
"No! Fuck - unnhnnnuhhhHHHNNNNOooooo..."
He bucks, real serious. The chair is anchored again. Magic. Gloves full of air, stroking and tracing. His yell dissolves into a stuttered "Ffffuck" as he flails...
Can't move. He folds his toes, tries to kick. Straining so hard -
Intolerable. Not too heavy, not too fast. Experts.
He can't bear it. Shaking his head, squirming like crazy. He starts to giggle. Bad, don't laugh, stop it right... now...
Forced, unhappy chuckles.
The nerves are screaming: Move, run, pull out. Get your feet away. Very strong reflex, like jerking away from a flame. And it's continuous...
He can go apeshit and not even hurt himself, tied like this. They know their rope. And, later, the cuffs - oh, fuck, he can't let 'em spread him out like that -
They keep on sliding. Diligent. And he laughs, once.
Then he's laughing steadily. Hopelessly. Squints at the rope, tries to close his fists.
Watches 'em rub. Just gloves.
Hard at play.
Magic. Satin... sweet insane fire, impossibly goading, too slippery to cause any serious friction. Plus there's the lube...
Magic hands don't get tired.
Could be a hundred of 'em in that chest.
He's forgetting to pull, sometimes. Yukkin' it up, hee-hawing, yah hah hoo. His eyes are watering so much he can't make out the individual fingers. Jet-black blobs, drivin' him nuts.
Just gettin' started. Four cartons, magic room, locks, cuffs and food and water.
Rescue? Big empty field out the window, soundproofing - no chance. No chance.
He's unable to watch 'em anymore. Can't pull, either. So much for busting loose...
Only the beginning.
He coughs... Oh. Smokin' again. Are they... through?
Yeah, sure. The question makes him laugh once, bitterly. Voice all scratchy... He coughs again.
The gloves - not on him. Moving, though... checking the knots. Just great.
His feet are wet. Cream of some kind. Taking good care of these feet, oh fuck yeah. He smokes, looking around blearily. Nothing new to see. His hair's stuck to his face anyway, all sweaty. Somehow it seems like a bad idea to do anything as energetic as toss his head to whip it back. A strand is in his mouth, but he can't do anything about it.
How long, anyway? An hour, three hours, ten? Hard to say. He's pissed himself, sure enough. Maybe an hour, then, though he'd be hoarse already. So a half-hour, then. Thirty magic minutes.
The puddle under his chair makes him mad, though it'll probably not even be an issue in a couple more minutes. When they're ridin' all he can manage to think about is the sensation. Bone-deep pleasure.
The gloves rise back up to their resting position. He could spit at 'em - but he resists the impulse. Could make things worse. How, he doesn't know...
The ropes are no less loose than before. Another Camel floats on over.
More water. And a towel, drying him off briskly, then being dragged over the cream on him. He twitches, and scowls... watching the towel go away.
Seeing the gloves dip - starting again.
He laughs.
Can't be happening...
A long time, either it was longer than the usual run or he can't remember the last break. Sees the cig between his teeth... dragging on it greedily.
Water, bitter-tasting, again...
And expert fuckin' hands.
Bad smell. Dog shit.
No. Not dog. Even through the smoke, he smells it. Towels are already there. Cleaning him up.
No distractions allowed, not for their ticklish hostage. Shit -
Satin, gripping. Sliding. Soles, toes, on the sides above each heel. Mostly soles.
Weird. Oily... something in his throat. He gags -
Fingers. He can't close his mouth. Gloves have pried his jaws apart. Spraying something...
A welcome numbness. He quits fighting' em, and after a few more spritzes they let him go. Swallowing, clearing his throat - real, real hoarse. But not raw, not any more.
Tap tap tap. Two gloves, in front of him, packing Camels. Opening 'em. Doesn't seem like - only the second pack? Maybe, maybe not. He has no idea how many...
A lot of breaks. Couple smokes per break.
So tired. Amazing how tired... but he's totally alert.
He rolls his neck around, sighing out smoke as he does. Sick of smokin', at the same time he needs it bad. So much. Smokin' hard. Maybe 'cause it usually means breaktime, no fuckin' gloves rockin' away. So nice not to feel - well, he'd probably smoke a carton straight through if they'd just lay off while he did.
Thirty-eight packs left, as it is. Or thirty-seven. Fuck. He couldn't hold up for, like days... or weeks of this. Never.
The water'll run out...
He looks the bed over, all too certain they've got all their bases covered. Probably more water hidden away here, more smokes. If there's a way to keep him goin' all those days, they probably got a lock -
The fingers, creeping again.
He chortles, head moving loosely. The cig falls away. Cackling hard, and it's almost... silent. He's no longer tense, not at all, body motionless. No point.
Just sitting there, while they... drive.
They're moving on him?
Yep. Different, though. He squints, and sees no gloves workin' his feet ov-
Sides. And he's... tasting. Sweat?
Pressure, on his tongue. Cloth. Wet.
It's his headband. Being tied between his teeth.
One set of fingers in each armpit. Two slick clamps covering his ribs.
Laughing didn't... work, anymore.
Get up!
Can't. I can't...
Go. Pull away, cover -
Tried, I can't. The rope.
Laugh. C'mon.
A few silent chuckles. No good. No help, still feelin' it, hard. So hard. Sides on fire. Cool, sweet burning. Legs, ass, belly.
Make 'em stop, oh...
Can't.
Then run!
Can't.
Move. Duck - shake their grip.
But the rope...
In his head, he's howling.
Rub, squeeze, slide.
Just howling.
Good smoke, really needed it, so glad for this ci-
"Awk!"
There's - stop. No!
His feet - tickling -
"Naaaawwwwwuh unh huh huh hweh heah heh heh hehhh..."
Fuckin' tickling his feet! And they're tied! So are his hands, dammit, he can't... can't move at all -
Tied! No! Oh fuck. Fuck.
Feels - too much.
Tickling...
"I need... I drank the water, you gotta lea- please, just lemme... smoke..."
But his voice is barely a whisper. And the gloves start again anyway. Slow, nowhere near as heavy as before. It still sucks. Takes his breath away. And they'll surely dig in, any second now.
Black. Dark black on his chest, in his 'pits, both feet. Hard, hard.
Fuzzy, something on his tongue... The gag.
What? Worse... behind. His neck, back of his neck. All of 'em drilling -
He makes a spectacular effort to pitch the chair forward. It doesn't budge.
Stuck, he's stuck, he's in for it. Fucked, really gonna get it now -
And something
gave way
inside.
It changed. The sensation. Well, what the hell, he thinks calmly. He's howling into the gag - or would be, if he had any voice left. Something... almost enthusiastic about the way he's laughing. His face feels different.
He didn't - and he looks all over himself, blinking hard to clear his eyes. No, he didn't come. Wouldn't that be a bitch... to come and not even know it. So what's different? Still gotta come, now. He's gonna bust -
Can't. No hands there. The thong, he finally realizes, is gone. Fuckers won't let him finish off. Gotta shoot. He's wide awake, again. Shuddering under fingers that won't leave his ribs alone. So aware of 'em.
Harder...
More. If they won't stop, they gotta help. If only they'd... slide around his thighs.
They gotta ride him harder. Ain't enough.
He's yelling, and the gag defeats him. He yells anyway. Harder, harder. More, dammit.
More. C'mon. More gloves.
Head resting on something. Belly, too.
One big glove under him -
Flat. Sheet. He's on the bed. Face-down... Goes to move his arm, and can't. Not either arm. Or leg.
He's on the bed.
Their bed.
He squirms, and the contact makes him groan. All over him.
And - on his feet too. Palms, covering each sole. Sadistic fucks -
So tired, and bucking anyway, flailing around. On the satin. Gag still in place, soaking wet.
Pressure, systematically moving, on both soles. Slow. Too slow, too light. It's not enough. They were rubbing harder before. He knows they can do better...
Only a taste. Their promise of hot, savage times to come.
He dreams of water. Drinking. Eating energy bars. Smoking. Flat on his back, lying there, satin under his ass and shoulders, too tired to curl up...
A little dot of pain makes him jump, and then it's gone. Cigarette ash. He opens his eyes -
Black leather over him. The harness, hanging from the ceiling.
He lifts his head, and looks at his legs, spread and cuffed. All those supplies 'n shit alongside the bed... Bottles and vibrators and the wooden stand, with the brushes and feathers right close by.
Smoke jets out of his nostrils. He pulls -
And he doesn't move. Literally. Stretched out so tight he can't twist, or arch, or wiggle side-to-side. He's pinned, on satin, by leather. As if this whole fuckin' setup wasn't bad enough, it's crazymaking to be restrained like this. Never in his life... He can't even squirm. Not only is he staying on the bed, he's got no hope of slowing 'em down.
Pulling is useless. He quits trying, and tugs on the cigarette. Hard.
Gloves coast up - a pair over each ankle.
And he thought last night was bad...
After the water bottle comes and goes, they start in on him. All he can really think is about the tickling, of course. The impact. How much stronger than he expected it would be. Urgently blasting its way out of him, more than he can register. And he needs to track it, every stroke, it's all he has left to deal with this insane shock wave of t-
Fuck it. Give it up. He can't help it. His laughter changes - deeper, and less frantic. More of a bellow. His body quits shaking. Still right there, fuckin' wild inside.
And hungry, again. Like it's not enough. Crazy, but that's all he's got to look forward to. If they won't back off, they gotta push harder. More -
Fire races up his sides. He squints, blurry-eyed, at the gloves there. Weren't there earlier. It's more tickling, alright. Still not enough. He shoots a lazy glance at the tools. Sitting there. The need is worse than what he's going through...
Wanting to see those feathers rising up, going to it. The brushes. All that fuckin' oil.
The smoke breaks are wonderful. A time when no tickling occurs, and he gets to catch his breath. And smoke. Hell yeah. And there's water...
Nerves working overtime at the same amplified level when the hands get back to work. Mind-bending effect, and it's more than he can take - and not enough, at the same time. Bring it on, you stupid fucks, he wants to yell. But he can't.
There are more hands, and more. At last the feathers are taken to his nipples, and his toes, and his thighs. The reaction steps up again! Each time.
But it's not quite enough. Almost. But they're just a little shy of maxxing him out in some way he can't understand. The need to cum is killing him, and that's not even the worst part.
The next smoke break seems so far off he can't even imagine it. Longing for it doesn't change what's happening. Being allowed to leave - well, he can't even picture it.
Fuck. They can do better than this.
They might as well do it right...
30dec00