His cigarette's punched out in the big glass ashtray, tap tap tap. He empties his lungs slowly and watches it, a butt just movin' up and down by magic, bein' snuffed out. Cigs just don't up and hover right to a guy's mouth, one by one. Right?
He looks over at the pack, expecting another... after the last four or five, interrupted only by a water bottle.
But the pack doesn't move.
This is a change. He tries to stretch the ropes, making 'em creak a little. Looking around the room, seeing nothing different.
He's left to wonder for a minute or two. Given time to fully... appreciate his predicament, in his own way.
All that power, held in check. Wary, cagy - but no matter. Neutralized force, no matter how determined...
And then he sees 'em.
From the left. Maybe two yards off the floor. Slowly floating over, starting to angle down. Hands.
Well, more accurately... gloves.
He starts to twist and arch... eyes glued to the unwavering black grips. Watching them, anxiously, at the same time he's being studied, like a chicken on a spit. There for the taking.
But the gloves can't eat him. They have another motive.
Arriving, now, despite all his efforts to be somewhere else. They're big. In the light, they gleam... a dark-shiny gloss, fundamental and sinister. They reach the bed, still well over him, and one stops moving. The other crosses, stops, and turns.
Cupping their fingers slightly. Lowering.
He looks wildly from one, to his crotch, to the other descending hand. But they angle slightly... until they're coming straight down. Staring at the left-most one, his eyes get wider. All of a sudden. He cusses, and growls, fighting harder. Reined in.
Not yelling... perhaps because it hadn't done any good since he arrived here. Stuck here like a trampoline. Under 'em.
The soft fingers are reaching -
For his sides.
"NO! Awwwwww noooooo -"
Fat fingertips slowly closing the gap, covering the inches, coming to the soft mounds of his ribs.
They land. He holds his breath...
Tightening their grip cautiously. And he starts to squirm.
The gloves creep. Cool and slippery - satin insinuating themselves -
Air bursts out of him, reaction he can't contain. No pretending, no poised indifference. Chortling - and an impressively fierce fight.
Zip. The hands fly off, hanging a few inches over his sides. Still curled in a... ready-to-pounce posture. Their movement displays the last uncertainty, as if they're not sure these ticklish ribs are really gonna stay put, reachable and open and flat on the mattress.
But despite his attempts to shift 'em - fuck, to leave...
Gloves float down to get some more.
Rope, expertly tied, redundant lengths and knots - unbreakable -
Clutch. He squawks. Flailing blindly... until they make him hoot.
They're hesitant, pausing for a second -
And they dive in. Freely, energetically, like soft vises up and back and around -
He howls, and screams laughter. Ribs staying. All of him. All theirs.
Staying for the night. They can rub him all night, like this... and tomorrow. All week. And here he'll be, hangin' around for more...
So how do they thank him for all this delirious cooperation?
Why, with the best fuckin' massage of his everlovin' life.
A rubdown he'll dream about for years. That's his reward. All 'cause he just couldn't... pull himself away.
He quits throwin' his head around, and makes some serious noise.
No longer pulling at his bonds, or watching the gloves on the move - he manages one last peek -
Seeing a pair high above him. Another pair. Trolling overhead, then stopping. On a straight vector...
To his feet. Bared, immobile - stayin' around, compliments of the rope. He brays at 'em.
But they don't hesitate at all. Clamping on - provoking a mighty squeal, head tilting back, eyes shut tight.
Stroking and polishing, the confident fingers spread out and follow the explosive curves, side-to-side, heel-to-ball. The others follow suit on his hairtrigger sides, gentle but ceaseless, and certain...
He starts to hoot again passionately. Balls-out hollerin'.
Until he passes out, a full hour later. Crazed, feverish glee.
A kickass first go.
Very promising.
He wakes up, time after time, to look around with a puzzled expression. Wearily. The nightmare is continuing. Still not over. Rope still in place, laying him out for more. Any time they want to continue...
The sheet is damp under him. The piss has been cleaned up, sweat towelled off... and some kind of cream was worked in, all over.
The gloves come on down. Stalking his knees, creeping toward his armpits.
Pounce -
And he still can't move. Stretched just enough to make it impossible for him to lunge, or buck, or twist. He stays where they put him... each area remaining where it was when the fingers first laid into it, letting them keep going and going...
Customizing their technique, just for him.
Ranking each spot. Determining just how to push each button to get the maximum effect.
And his poor knees, and 'pits, stay right within easy reach. Even though they tied him down, it's still amazing he doesn't tear an anchor post loose, freeing an arm, and then another... to sit up, reef on the tethers keeping his ankles spread, roll off and go, running away, lost to them forever.
But he lays here and barks raggedly, howling, keening. Flat and laid out.
Not gettin' up to have a smoke, stretch out the kinks.
Still down, wide open as before...
Always sliding back down to his feet, curling over his flushed ribs. Each time they start back in, he tenses up, straining at the rope... a desperate grunt getting louder, despite his clenched teeth. Fighting it. Then laughing, an explosion of pent-up reaction. His head rolls around for a minute or two, and then he relaxes, gradually. All resistance melting as they keep working him in their stern fingers...
They dawdle on him, changing the pressure. He's bothered much more than might be expected, to look at him. And he's trapped.
It's still dark when they take to his neck and ass-cheeks...
And then he rouses himself. Sees 'em starting to rub... his pecs. Tease his nipples. Further down, the other hands are riding his shins.
Satin fingers almost in his face. Circling. Squeezing.
Of course, they save the worst for last. Creative, and devastating, on his belly -
Slithering lightly between his legs. Under, around, back up. Scratching, cuddling, buffing with the lightest pressure yet, leaving no spot untouched.
And he hoots... or would be hooting, if he had any voice left. The expression on his face... Overload of bliss. All his cunning has left him, all fight is gone. But his exhausted body doesn't squirm. His stomach, bobbing rhythmically. And his cock, no longer resisting the fingers that trace his length and girth... helpfully staying put, like the rest of him, to get the gloves' most scrupulous attention.
But not climax. No way. The hands ease off, follow his legs on down... seeing if his feet are still where they left 'em, safely tied, hanging out for one and only one reason - to get some more of their consummate abuse.
The sky isn't any lighter when he wakes up, the next few times.
After more fun, way too much fun... dawn arrives with impossible slowness.
Then - finally! - the sun.
Well up in the sky now, and the gloves start in yet again...
He blinks, and looks to be in pain when he moves. Glancing toward the window -
The sun was gone. He'd slept until - aw, hell, it was the next night. But that wasn't his main worry...
His arms were still tied. Ankles, just as snug.
The look on his face! Perfect! So rewarding. And then it's gone, as he thinks of something else - something worse than the blurry hours of strokes and squeezes. He's figuring it out -
They're not done with him yet! Not by a long shot! They left him tied down, on purpose. Absolutely.
More. He's in for more... Another endless night. Like last night. Hell, like tomorrow night, too! And if they can keep him healthy, no telling how many nights. Caught by the slippery hands. Tied down, right here.
It's a consummate fuckin' rush. Hours to enjoy, before he passes out again. More nights to look forward to - an open-ended chain of intense handling.
Since he hasn't gone anywhere... all wide-awake and rested, cleaned up, coated with skin creams, food close by - it must mean he's up for more. And he's more than worth it. Lesser ribs might've been out of here by now. Feet that couldn't take the insane fondling these fuckers had gotten... possibly wouldn't be roped tonight.
But he's still laying here, isn't he? Squirming without much enthusiasm. The obligatory motions, clearly ineffective. Biding his time.
It's almost as if he's... tolerant, or something. Acting like he's all unwilling. Dreading tonight. But it's not too vigorous of a show -
Hmmmm. Just pretending to be obstinate? Looking down on 'em? Hell, he doesn't have the guts. Does he?
Ballsy thing to do. The audacity of it - sorta like... throwing down the gauntlet. Challenging them - a gang of maniacal, fun-loving gloves!
He's not leaving - they're gonna nuke him again, and he's up for it. They know it, he knows it. All fuckin' night. Maybe he's thinkin' he can take it. Even if they double the number of fingers. How would he like that?
One cocky son of a bitch. Crank it up, really dig into his fuckin' ribs. They'd show him. Yeah. Oh - what's that, hyena-boy? Your feet? Uh-huh...
Fuck, he'd probably drawl - if he still could - with a contemptuous sneer... You call that tickling? There's nerve endings on my feet that ain't even woke up yet. Sloppy work. Big deal. Last night - what kind of lame-ass shit was that? Is that all ya got? Are ya lazy, or just plain stupid? When you gonna quit dicking around... with my dick? Pay attention when you're in my armpits. I'm still here, ain't I? I got areas that are just gonna have to wait for expert gloves to give 'em some real action. Some other fuckers who know how to get busy. My arms, my hands, neck - hell, my face! I got ears, too. See? Shoulders, calves. Got some heel-calluses that need to go. Hair to shave off. I got levels of reaction you can't even touch, you little punk wannabes. No telling how high a competent set of hands could rev me up. Over the line, and another, and another. All right here, but not for you. Lightweight motherfuckers.
They get him food, and water. Vitamins. Moving slowly, as they contemplate "his" challenge, remembering specifics... Oh, yeah. He's in for it now. They've got his number.
Instead of rushing back to it, they set the urinal between his legs and get him a smoke. Studying his face, the way he breathes, his sneaky little bouts with the rope. And he watches them in turn, hanging there. Six gloves. A shirt pounce away from rocking his world.
He chain-smokes, and pisses forcefully. The gloves don't even twitch. Not yet.
The ropes get quick little tests, and some longer strained pulls. All failures.
Yeah, they'd see what he thought of their arsenal. Later tonight. They all know how to use a feather. Damn straight. And the brushes, and the oils. He really needs a shave, whether he likes it or not.
Plus nothing really says, "Thanks for sticking around"... like leather.
This bottle of water is the last one for awhile. He'll get a few more minutes to replay, and anticipate. One more cigarette, and then... Pow.
Calm satin hands. Landing. Slidin' cool fingers around his ribs. More gloves, about to arrive.
Thwarted efforts to buck, and kick, and cover. Grunts running together into an airy moan... Then, chuckles. Diligent hoots. Braying, whooping. Such grueling laughter.
Material being pressed between ribs, over the wrinkles of each sole, where calf meets knee. Scrotum. Buffed, stroked, fondled. Two dozen times, three dozen... The sweet glossy blackness coasting back into each armpit, resuming on the feet that cringe and flex. Twenty other locations, kept pinned and open by artfully knotted rope.
Much later, the gloves knead him slowly, pausing only for the water bottle.
Satin unclasps only for the feathers. Landing as soon as feet and ribs are accessible, dragging much more quickly than the gloves... which rub his shins and triceps for a couple minutes, while he laughs. Then the feathers back away, and careful palms rub again.
The feathers spend time on his nipples, his neck, his hands, his belly...
After enough sleep, more food, still more water -
The cigarette is plucked from his lips.
Gloves are homing in.
He twists and shakes his head wildly, but the fingers are already movin' on him.
Feathers sneak up and dig under his knees.
He's crazed. Maybe it's sincere... Or maybe, deep down, he ain't all that impressed. Well, ten careful hours might change his attitude.
Unwatched, his smoke is extinguished in the ashtray, careful and deliberate taps, all but hidden by the arriving night.
07jan01