So there I am, hovering over a couple of drunk morons - waiting for one to get in his decaying car and drive off so I could take the other...
When they finally get done bullshitting and I'm just about to grab the skinny one, a big bruiser comes around the corner. Pure muscle. Lighting a smoke off the last one.
And he's only twenty feet or so from my van.
In a flash I'm checking his ribs. Armpits.
Oh, yeah.
Grab him, open the back doors, toss him inside.
Cuffs and straps flying, and I let the tires squeal a little as I take him away.
Gagged and wrapped up nice, he freaks out safely as I float him into the dark suburban house... soundproofed, stocked and completely ignored.
He freezes as I take him into one of the bedrooms and click on the light. Restraints - for you. Uh-huh. A nice, tight cell.
Spread out - and I still can't get over how smooth he is. That makes the muscles even more inviting. This navel, those pecs. Waxing, or maybe electrolysis? And his hair is too neat. I mean, he's a bit too metrosexual for my liking. A few weeks of hysteria will fix that. Five or six tattoos. Yup. I got plans for him.
Right now, he keeps trying to move. I've got the straps taut. Staying flat on his back, tonight -
It's time.
I float up a pair of black acetate gloves.
He stares - and stretches the restraints even harder. Earnest, groaning, utterly determined to bust loose.
You're ticklish, I think. Not just a little bit. Real ticklish. And strong. Exactly what I was after...
He slams back down, and stares at the first ten fingers.
I start lowering 'em.
Here you go, gorilla. Your undoing - right here. Everything's set for the nightmare, now, and you'll sweat through dreams of this for the next ten years...
His face - there's a weird concentration there.
I know he wants to get loose, and they always discover that I'm not gonna allow that to happen. His thoughtfulness is something different. It actually makes me pause the gloves -
He walked right into my hands. On Sixth Street. It was hard to find a primo candidate down there now. Word had gotten out about the neighborhood.
So what was he doing there? Walking?
Maybe... looking to get waylaid? Tortured for awhile?
Now that I was suspicious, the, uh, swelling in a certain region didn't seem like a totally unconscious reaction after all.
This character wanted to get caught. Tickled. Long and hard.
Oh, I didn't expect he'd admit it. And the way he'd been fighting, there were second thoughts or pure macho reflex in sway. But none of that mattered, because I had him completely stuck now.
This prime specimen wanted to escape, but he also put himself into the wrong place. Things like this happened to loners who walked down Sixth at night. And here he was.
I guess he just needs a little... encouragement.
Beginning with his armpits.
He starts to whoop immediately.
The tough, angry dude just melts away. As I stroke and test his eyes go from alarmed to intense - so bright! - to gleaming with unmistakable excitement. All positive, wracked with something almost like triumph. That throws me at first, because this is my victory. I will tear him down to nothing more than mindless animal nerve receptors, brand him with ink and engulf this incredible body with experiences and sensations the likes of which he's never imagined...
My win, it seems, is also his.
This is so intriguing...
Working under his knees, I drink in the overwhelmed cackling. Six wonderful spots to lean on - so far. And all mine! I get to handle 'em as much as I want, because no one will find out and stop me. The restraints keep him laid out just right.
All the hours ahead.
When his bleary haze permits it, he looks up - to see another pair of gloves I've got all ready. That just makes him go wild. The sight of more fingers, doubling the number of gloves, gets him trying anything to get up. His laughter goes up an octave... so alarmed, even more strained.
And I just rake those fingers up and down his sides.
No matter what he does, I get to tickle him all night.
Cover his belly, burrow into his armpits, creep from thighs to butt and back again. Lay into his insteps.
Before the hour ends he's given up on begging. Of course I'm not going to stop doing this! Not when he's perfectly bound, and isolated. So ticklish, it's electrifying. All of my tools are here. A month's worth of food...
When he passes out, I'm going to double that.
Obsessive tickling. He's in for it. Really gonna get it now.
About five hours later, during his fourth break for water, I think I've really got his number.
He's not frowning. Completely relaxed. Oh, once in a while there's a lazy pull on the wrist-cuffs, but then he leaves 'em alone. Many guys wouldn't be done tearing at the straps yet, even though their energy was flagging. In most cases they'd still be begging me, at least occasionally. Even though the fatigue makes that full-bore resistance impossible, there's no mistaking their anger.
This guy isn't tense at all. He knows what I'm gonna continue doing to him, in just a few minutes from now. But he's serene.
And they always have the same expression. Either it's clear as day or mixed in there with other feelings, but it's easily read by studying their eyes. The "oh shit" bafflement.
This stud isn't dreading it. No scowl, no self-pity. Dude looks... satisfied.
I wonder if a few months of harsh tickling can change his mind.
15feb2007