The upscale condo complex attracted pervs. They even implied as much in their ads. Extra-thick walls...
Privacy and discretion were taken seriously.
There were some interesting possibilities. I checked in on two couples almost every day.
One husband, in unit 110, couldn't get enough of the same thing I like best. Watching him was better than nothing, I supposed, but there was always an appeal in the element of surprise and the solid bondage. The guys in 218 were more intriguing - and creative - and they switched roles from time to time, dom and sub.
My hope was to slip in on them, or the tough guy in 110, when they were all worn out from their fun. Slipping a dude out of bed and into the bondage swing, forcefully but quietly... Gag him well, and add a few more hours of real exertion to his night. I'd probably have to restrain the victim's partner too, and have an audience - but the version I liked best involved earplugs, or maybe those noise-cancelling headphones. His potential rescuer - his only real chance to escape the hysterical torment I'd be doing - would be right there, so close, and yet oblivious to his distress. Unreachable.
The next best thing, and actually the more likely event for which I'd been prepared, was for the wife in 136 or either of the guys in 218 to take an overnight trip somewhere. Their lovers would have a hell of a time...
And I was meant to find the new guy in 203, wrapped up as if he was waiting for me.
Fine muscle tone, no evidence of another resident, moving boxes everywhere - I hadn't even known the unit had been sold yet. Perhaps his first night there, and he'd broken in his new place in style.
Four-point restraints, and a thick gag.
The naked dude had felt like stretching out.
It hadn't taken him long to haul the mattress and its metal frame into the living room. Not a bad set of restraints, really. He was laid out, snug and taut. From the sweat on him, I figured he had a good ol' time fighting with the cuffs and straps. Hopelessly caught.
He'd rigged up a pretty clever system. Spring hooks kept his wrist-cuffs locked, and wires were epoxyed to the latches. A loop sticking out from his left cuff was easily reachable by his right hand. The longer wire was hooked through the fingers of his right hand. Pull that wire, jiggle his wrist a few times, and the hook would fall off. Pretty much foolproof...
Unless the hook jammed.
I've never seeing one of those things fail like that. Not from that manufacturer. The spring that pushed the little tongue up had popped halfway out. The tongue couldn't retract enough to open the hook.
A few taps against a hard surface would've unjammed it - and cut him loose - but he couldn't even get it anywhere near the mattress. He was stuck.
At least he was smart enough to have a plan B. His cell phone, there on the side table, took voice commands. To call somebody and get help, he just had to be able to talk loudly.
He'd been working on the gag for awhile. Rubbing his head against the sheet, up and down, he couldn't move much more than an inch at a time. But the buckle had worked its way down the back of his neck. The skin was all red, but he was loosening the gag.
Twenty or thirty minutes to go, I estimated, and he'd be able to yell for help - some friend, probably, who shared a few interests. Or the condo office. Embarrassing, sure, but not the end of the world.
That made me even more excited. If I had arrived later...
His plan was spoiled by that stupid little hook. If it had done what it was supposed to, he would've been free already. Jacked off, cleaned his gear and put it away, maybe even be snoring by now.
And what would I have seen, right here, an hour ago? Was he groaning and yelling - safe from anyone possibly hearing him - as he worked up that serious sweat? Pulling as hard as he could at the restraints... with a deeply enjoyable lack of any progress toward freedom?
What did he create as the setup for this fantasy? Kidnap victim, or sex slave? Imagining himself locked in a mental ward was probably out, since he used black leather instead of actual hospital restraints...
Now I hate to see a good sub go to waste. Already laid out and everything. If he did this to himself, how terrific would it be for him... if this didn't have to end? He was safer than he knew - now, with me here.
Oh, yeah, he had no idea how glad I was to see him like this.
There was so much I could teach him. Bondage, after all, was the means to an end. The restraints would mean far more to him when they served a crucial purpose. I had a mindblowing reason for keeping him vulnerable and restricting his movement. He'd even saved me some time by getting all ready for my visit.
There would have been no escape from me, anyway, when I saw his gear. Finding him like this, though - caught good, within these beautifully thick walls - was irresistible. I just knew he was a hot one.
Fighting to contain my excitement, I traced a line down the middle of his left sole.
He jumped immediately, and grunted. Then his head came up. Nothing there he could see.
Moving over him, I reached down and cupped his armpits.
With a shriek, he started whaling at the wrist-cuffs. Yelling reflexively, though uselessly, his legs started trying to kick too. His own bondage work defeated him, as he knew it would. But I'd given him a much better reason to fight it now. What if this mysterious contact... continued?
And even that thought was delightful, because "if" was so ludicrious.
He had what I wanted. The reactivity.
There was no way he could've expected to spend all night in his own bonds - while being force-fed a most powerful incentive to escape them.
In order to maximize the experience, it wouldn't do to have him get up now. I looked around -
Ah. There we go.
I pulled a strip of duct tape off one of his moving boxes.
His head went up, hearing the sound, and he wriggled harder. The expression on his face changed. There was a new belief coming to him, and it focused on the certainty of fun-time bondage having taken a weird but very firm turn. Four or five inches of duct tape would ensure I got what I wanted, and that his plan to get bailed out of his predicament would be destroyed.
Slowly, I lifted his head and pulled the strap of the gag back up where it belonged. It was tight enough, really, so I pressed the tape firmly over the buckle. Stuck to his hair, it wouldn't allow the strap to creep again - no matter how hard he worked on it.
After a few stunned seconds he shouted again, and started turning his head...
But the gag was secure. I let go of him, and checked the mattress. Oh, yeah. That nice memory-foam. Perfect for the long term.
While he fought and yelled, I picked up his cell phone and waited for him to notice.
His eyes got bigger yet as I turned it off and floated it right out of the room.
It was time to get him a few things.
Almost too good to be true. He probably would be up and gone, when I got back, because the situation was just too perfect...
I tapped in the complex master code, and opened the door -
Aw, perfect. There he was, all sweaty again. My guy, meant to be... rubbed, by me. Bringing in the first gifts was a red-hot delight, and then I slowly closed the door.
He was in for it now.
The bags rustled as I set them down in the kitchen. That was enough to settle him down, looking for the intruder. His new workout-master was invisible, though.
Floating over him - hell, I could dig in anytime I wanted, but it would be amusing to make clear to him that I was moving in. Just a little while longer, and stuff would be arranged just the way I wanted for tonight. There was no reason to worry that I'd have any trouble being the insatiable roommate of this riotously fun dude.
I brought his CD player into the main room, set it on a box and plugged it in. It was a three-disc unit.
He groaned, straining hard at the straps which pinned his arms. I thought he was getting the message. There would be no limits for me.
I pulled my trance/ambient CDs out of one of the bags. For a couple years I've been wanting to combine this music with my favorite... activity. He was the lucky sub to try it out. After I picked out three of the discs and loaded them up, I set the volume fairly low and punched the "repeat" key. He'd get to listen to them over and over tonight.
And tomorrow.
Another thing I wanted was incense. My preference fit the situation, I thought. The mood might as well be just right.
Setting an ashtray next to him, I held a match to the end of a Honduran cigar until it smoldered on its own. There.
The smoke didn't exactly fit him, any more than the leather anchoring him to the bed. His hair was too short. Respectable, overall. well, that was going to change... starting now.
In the kitchen, I emptied most of a fifth of bourbon into coffee mugs. Setting the bottle down alongside him, I tossed a strip of rubber carelessly behind it.
He moaned again, as he stared at the symbols that were alongside his trapped body.
The place would make a terrific lowlife hangout. Domination retreat.
He'd adapt.
I opened the vertical blinds, so the LED's illuminating the walkway below would give him just enough light to see -
And it was time. In the kitchen I got out the first pair of red silk gloves and filled 'em up. Yeah. I flew them inside the room way down by the floor, and approached his cuffed, bared feet.
First I showed him the fingertips.
When he saw them, he made a sudden bark. I raised the gloves higher. Palms - and no arms beneath them. Magic!
He whined, fighting wildly again. I gave that wonderful hook on his right cuff another inspection, making sure it wasn't going to let him go. Nowhere to run, now. Not even three inches to either side. He wasn't going to be able to shove anything away, or kick my gloves, or evade me at all.
He'd wanted a thrill. Well, I brought the fingers back down... to his arches.
He bounced and screamed, shaking his head.
You made this happen, I thought. Seeing your helpless, inviting body motivated me to act - and perhaps it would have been another week or two before this happened, but tonight's the change you can't avoid.
Now I'll show you why I value restraints so much, myself.
My silk skated down, and across. Back up...
He stuttered twice, three times, yanking furiously with his arms.
These straining, twisting soles were mine. Every inch, right up to his ears, was here for me to provoke. Study. I petted his heels - and an interesting ripple started with his toes and ran right up his body, increasing... as if he was going to lift himself right off the bed. He shook his head even more quickly.
I made the thumbs coast along the inner sides of his feet. With a shout, he clamped his teeth down on the gag, breathing loudly through his nose.
Up the fingers went. And down -
A dismal moan turned into reluctant snickering. He was so unwilling to laugh, and there was no way he could stop himself.
After a few seconds I lifted the gloves off. He laughed a few more times... and shook his head very slowly.
It was time, I thought, to wear out his voice.
My fingers jumped back on and scrabbled. Much more firmly - and he was too frantic to notice four more soft gloves join in.
When I took hold of his big toes and held 'em up straight, it was time to... indulge myself. With speed, and not too much force, I gave him everything I had.
Four minutes later, he passed out. My frustration faded quickly. He was still in my clutches, and I knew the symptoms to look for to prevent that escape. He wasn't going to get away from the avalanche of touch that easily, ever again, unless I permitted it.
When he'd regained his breath, I sped up - on his feet. The first scream of panic was way too encouraging...
Two minutes, and I slowed the gloves down.
Five minutes after that, I decided he was breathing well enough again to handle an introduction to solid torso-tickling as well as the exploration of his feet.
That hour was compelling.
He was not enjoying it. Too much fierce sensation made him react as if I was out to hurt him. If I kept up that speed and pressure, he wouldn't be able to keep his eyes open until dawn.
But pain wasn't my objective. That wasn't the all-damn-day preoccupation I had in mind for him. Here I had a terrific prospect - potentially just the kind of captive I liked to rule. In bondage, safely locked away... and he'd been just been waiting for me to arrive. Go out, get the gloves and first-round toys. My fun with him just had to continue - and resume, after he rested up. Days and weeks of pure satisfaction lay under my gloves. Yeah, I really wanted to get to know every millimeter of this one.
For now, I had a good read on how to keep him laughing nice and hard... without the facial hints that he was probably in pain. There we go. He could take a steady, intense flood of pleasure. His voice had to be weakened as soon as possible. Risk reduction - and I'd enjoy seeing this plaything whoop and howl at the door when his volume was nowhere near enough to inform anybody else that I was cohabitating with him now.
There wasn't much I needed from him, along the lines of cooperation... but things were getting clearer to him.
I gave him a longer break, relighting the cigar - and adding another next to it, smoking away. He chuckled mournfully at the stogies. Longing for a smoke break, I decided. Hmmmm.
Not yet. Six of my gloves took hold again, and I stroked and massaged his feet. I was thorough. Teasingly working him up into a squealing, slobbering wreck...
Scratching gently, massaging his heels, some quick traces around his toes - and hundreds of deliberate strokes all over his arches. The skin was warm and red...
He writhed when he could manage it, laughing without a trace of composure anymore. Pure animal, now, wanting nothing more than to slip out of reach of my fingers.
Every time I touched him again, after a rest break, I could see and hear the raw distress the tickling caused.
Before the third hour started, he displayed no evidence of any rational thought.
I really liked his feet.
The next time he'd caught his breath, he got to watch ten gloves rise up - and attack.
Quicker work this time.
His writhing was strenuous, but it had been fading after only a couple minutes.
Unhinged, hysterical laughter. His recurring descent into mindlessness came more and more quickly. I'd found three methods of tickling him that made even the laughter fall apart. Less pressure in the glove-fingertips kept that pain from interfering.
His feet were only the first stop. They and his sides were getting an exhaustive survey, which would take a wonderfully long time. In between, there were so many promising spots to torment...
He pulled, with all his strength, even as he roared.
I wasn't content with forcing far more pleasure on him than he could ever hope to tolerate. That was easy enough. Mixing up the intensity taught him that his attention needed to be on the satin fingers' contact... when he could manage to think at all.
No matter what surprises came, and even if it required relocating him to a hidden crash-pad, we were going to spend long, exciting days just like this.
Since his best efforts to get away accomplished nothing, he was coming to accept that his private bondage party had not only been crashed, but that the invisible tickler was going to revise things. His hoots were definitely getting scratchy. Shaking his head distractedly, he squinted at the damn cigars. My chortling prisoner had no cigarettes or weed laying around. I'd enjoy changing that for him. After tonight, the gag could probably go. Making sure he couldn't let anyone know the tickling marathon had begun was how he'd stay where I wanted him, just like this.
That got me wondering. It was way too early to decide when I had to quit. While he slept, I could poke around... maybe shuffle a few things. It wasn't likely that anybody else had a key to this place.
I could enjoy the day... and start in again tomorrow night. And the next day.
Well, he was going to miss some work.
I got a death-grip on his shins, and ankles...
And tickled hard.
His laughter was truly, fully hysterical. Unhinged. And he beat his head into the pillow in time with the music. Half-tempo. That was a nice, dreamy sight. All he had left to fight with was adding some sensation of his own doing, and that didn't begin to touch the fire of unspeakable bliss I was working into his self-restrained feet.
Don't even think about this ending, I thought firmly. You're feeling this now because of a decision you made freely. I've got the rest of your toned, sensitive body to play with...
Night and day.
As he regained his strength, I heard more whimpering and burbled syllables. My gloves were still over his feet, motionless in the gloom. He looked at them, and moaned again. That was riveting to watch.
Finally, I brought the fingers back down again.
He wailed as loud as he could - and broke up, cackling mindlessly, as I slid a pair of hands up and down his shins, and started probing all around his knees...
His roars became much harder, all-out, but the volume was nicely weakened. Bouncing and twisting did nothing to dislodge my gloves.
It was time to make him wear out the rest of the hysterical noise he was so determined to make.
After thirty more minutes of vigorous burrowing and squeezing, I pulled the tape loose and removed the gag.
He didn't catch his breath for a full two minutes. Then he discovered what I'd had done for him. Working his jaws, he groaned again - paused, and sucked in a big breath.
The scream was barely louder than the quiet trance dub issuing from his CD player. A ragged yell, cutting out weakly. No one else would possibly hear that.
He yelled again. And a third time. The last bellow was unimpressive.
I had a bottle of water open and waiting. He'd earned it.
With the sun coming up, he gaped at the liter bottle of "sensual oil." I floated it to his armpit, squeezed, and lubed the other one too. It was time to have a dozen surgical gloves cruise over, ready to make his acquaintance.
The whimpering was almost silent, and he shook his head without any hope at all.
He wanted to be helpless. Trapped.
Well, that worked for me.
Gotcha!
I waited until he woke up.
His first ten hours of tickling had just flown by, and then he'd caught a good nap. Waking up with the gag back in place didn't seem to be a welcome discovery.
As I floated the first big bundles in from the kitchen, his confusion was evident. While I tore them open, the caulk gun and adhesive earned some stares. The lever clicked until glue started oozing from the opened tube inside -
That sureness came back. In his eyes, mainly. No doubt whatsoever.
I made two of the tiles rise up to the ceiling.
"Nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh, uh puueeeee," he croaked, writhing, weeping.
The pale pink acoustic foam was in convenient two-foot-square slabs.
I covered the ceiling above him... and brought in the first two bundles that would muffle the shared walls.
His protests became more and more animated, so I filled a pair of latex gloves. He watched them lube up and dive to his soles. From that point on his contribution to the effort was that hysterical, strained laughter.
I surrounded the window, thought for a minute and cut strips to surround the frame. That allowed the blinds to be untouched, but two layers of foam and another tube of adhesive covered most of that wall too.
He knew exactly why I was doing it. All of the convulsive panic merely spurred me on. A tickle cell was under construction.
Twice as much foam wouldn't have been enough to suit me, if his voice wasn't already worn out.
Slowly, I took the gag off - and lubed up fourteen more gloves.
I made him laugh. Different sounds, good and fierce.
He laughed just as hard as he could. Then he yelled laughter just as loud as he was able, which didn't really seem any louder than the ambient music-track.
When I let him catch his breath, the CD player was paused - and we were both listening. Watching the door. But no one came.
I unpaused the background tune and took my time lubing up the gloves again.
His sobs didn't continue past the first twenty seconds of deep, deliberate stimulation.
While he dozed, I hauled the entire bed into the living room and anchored 'em.
Captive, damp mattress and his restraints were positioned on top.
I'd brought good, heavy fetters and straps. Each wrist and ankle were immobilized by three-way tension. Thighs, forearms and waist were pinned. His toes were looped with little elastic cords - one tug on their braided end straighted his soles just fine.
The rooms were smaller than in the unit next door. I checked on 103, below him... never figuring out why they'd bother using the space for cheaper little units in an upscale building. His new dungeon wasn't quite 10 meters square.
I thought that shelves all around the padded walls, loaded up, would confirm why he was mine.
To make sure nobody could peek in and see him, I put dull-reflective adhesive mylar on the windows.
On a whim, I painted the soundproofing.
It had become a cell - built just for him. This cat liked bondage. I thought a new color would instantly remind him when he woke up that more tickling would fill his day - again. I'd decided on aqua.
It was a color that announced I was decorating the place to suit me, and that there was no limit to what I could do in 203.
The first day he saw it, I discovered another advantage I hadn't even considered, being so used to intimidating black leather. Aqua had a calming effect. His environment was more soothing now, and yet the action was steadily heating up. The soft thumping of the techno music was constant, filling in for his now-silent howls.
The ceiling tiles were painted next. Since he wasn't using the carpeting anyway, I covered it with aqua tiles.
A blue-green box surrounded him, keeping the sweaty results of his delirium a secret... and I had so much more excitement to deliver yet.
The reel made a great ratcheting sound.
He fought, crazily, watching the handle turn. I'd gone with the manual winch, rather than electric, only because it had been quicker to find and set up... but there was a terrific, cheerfully malicious effect. Each time I turned the handle, his cuffed feet rose higher and higher. Pulleys I'd installed up near the ceiling routed the cable, and he could only wriggle and watch.
His thighs were lifted off the sheet. Damn, were they gonna get it. And his ass-cheeks. I stuck a small memory-foam pillow under his tailbone. Alright. There wasn't a single thing he could do, and because I know bondage so well there won't be any options for him three hours from now, either. Or six... well, as many as I wanted.
There's few things I like better than well-secured feet. With extra straps keeping his ankles and lower calves together, the cords anchoring each toe, and a dull shine from the moisturizer, his soles couldn't have been more tempting. They were mine for as long as I wanted to play with them. By shifting the emphasis around, I knew they were good for eight hours of literally unbearable stimulation. That's why I had them caught so well.
With his arms still pinned flat and the straps preventing him from twisting or bouncing around, elevating his feet like this made them seem so far away. Their sensitivity was unaffected, of course. But I saw his eyes change, as he watched his legs barely move in response to his kicks.
Now I had his feet up where only I could reach them. Isolated. The tickling would continue, tool after tool, and all of the decisions were mine to make. His instinctive reaction to reach with his hands and battle with the attacking tickle-tools was prevented even more solidly than before. In a way, I liked to think that his soles might as well be in the next room, with me, while he remained immobilized and suffering right here.
I got a big flat-screen TV for my captive, and hung it on the wall.
A new laptop had my growing collection of photos and videos of him. Various photos of his body parts, getting tickled, and wild-looking laughter that rarely even made a sound...
He hadn't enjoyed bondage simply as a concept. At some point he made a crucial decision, which many others do not.
No matter what the original source of his interest, he grew up and discovered magazines and videos - I've enjoyed studying his private hoard, and expanding it.
And then he joined the self-selected group which, nervously or drunkenly, took that important next step. He bought his first item of bondage gear. I cannot know what it was, or if he pictured it being used to restrain himself or someone else. Perhaps it was inherited from a girlfriend or a roommate. A gag gift from friends could have led to his purchase.
It amuses me to think it was wrist-cuffs, for his own secret use.
He got lucky, or received good advice - but I suspect it was direct experience that taught him the value of buying sturdy restraints. I can only imagine the frustration of writhing in gear he chose, and buckled on - only to have it break, perhaps with no durable replacement available. When I met him, my prisoner was immobilized by serious gear. A distinctive target. I respect him for that.
But he went further, and bought the crafted leather not merely to delight in its snug hold or masturbate with it on. My roommate wanted more - so he bought straps designed to pin his cuffed limbs down. He chose to play alone, perhaps because of the danger...
And one night I found him. Delight had been ended by trouble, but he was coping just fine. His cock was fully erect.
I think, from his calm response, that he was more practiced at our shared pleasure than any of his friends would've believed. His desire could not be fully fed until all of the practical demands were overcome. Firmly.
The outside world was not what this one wanted.
There have only been four times that I'd became aware of others knocking on his front door. I had soundproofed it so well that he was never able to give a thought to the two friends and the two solicitors who came and summoned him, waited - and left. After their visits, I hid his car.
No inspections are required by the management of the condo, according to the pile of paperwork they've given him. The appliances and plumbing are working great.
I monitored his phone calls. His voice mail plays the recording which indicates a disconnected account, but I'm still told what the caller's number is. There were many attempts from friends and his employer's representatives, but they tailed off after the first month.
Only three other calls have been logged - all wrong numbers, which I was always glad to confirm by researching the parties who called. It's probably time to cancel the landline altogether, as I did his cell phone long ago.
So he wanted to experience bondage... and I wouldn't settle for less than the expanding, ongoing fulfillment of his wish.
I accumulated shelves full of catalogs and magazines. Instructional books - nine of which are detailed explorations of tickling - and another cabinet for his growing video collection. He was drilled with dozens of flashcards, and functional items - taught the essential history of his subculture, as well as the current state of the art. A hundred hours of personalized instruction, as he lay here, immobilized, smoking one cigarette after another when I insist on it.
Leaving aside false modesty, he was a motivated student. When he was reluctant to concentrate, I always turned to the inducement which made me become better versed in bondage than almost any human.
He continued to watch the videos and study the images I select for him. The widescreen television was used only to display a large variety of useful photos, which my captive found exciting - so arousing, in fact, that I no longer lefy the cycling pictures on continuously, like I did the second month. Several dozen photos were of him, modeling gear, caught in daunting positions. He wasn't as... motivated when I showed him other prisoners. We'd accumulated all kinds of videos and pictures of him, caught in his living room.
There are essential principles of bondage, I think. They all overlap and blend with each other.
He understood the first mandate before I found him and extended his fun...
Bondage is not hollow. By that, I mean that it is so much more than the false mask of a movie-set building, a thin layer propped up by unseen supports. The most irritating deception is the cheap, breakable restraints which are sold as a means of augmenting sexual pleasure. Their only positive features is that the victims of such fraud may become determined enough to obtain gear which truly, safely restrains without fear of unwanted escape.
The next tenet is logical enough, given what it follows. Bondage must serve a purpose. I did not learn this craft out of boredom, but because my ticklish prisoners had to remain helpless - without causing concern in others, and certainly without injuring themselves in their panic. Facility security, the realm of locksmiths, is a valuable adjunct of this principle... but all of my tickling must keep the victim from causing any interruption in the fun. The more careful his immobilization, the more complete the tickling will be.
Also, bondage must not cheat. His self-release mechanism was necessary, given that he enjoyed his confinement alone, but it rendered his captivity inauthentic. I never use such things. Intimidation cannot replace immobilization. The appearance of the gear can never be the only means of restricting his behavior. Functional gear, unyielding and unbeatable, is truer than any more elaborate display of equipment or implied confinement. And if he is supervised and also give a way to defeat his gear, that is a bastardization of all that imprisonment can be. I do not tolerate stop words or any other such nonsense for the same reason. That undermines my constant presence, which is needed for his physical well-being, his isolation and his perfectly complete tickling.
Last is the most enjoyable, for me. Bondage must be tested. He remains in the position I wish, moving only to the precise degree I desire. And to insure this, I choose tickling. Unrestricted, creative, limitless tickling. If his restraints are not used to their full extent, there is not any reason to trust my prisoner in them. I work hard to obtain absolute control over his environment, the meeting of his needs, the mobility of his body - or lack of it - and, merrily, the degree of his insanity. Unfailingly thorough bondage outside creates its analog within his mind. If he is convinced my gear is as inescapable as my fingers, he cannot help but assist me in the subugation of his mind.
But it takes time. Months.
And a prisoner who is inclined to admire the gear is easier yet to command.
We're getting close to the six-month mark...
He's perched on an angled stool - wrists level with his head, ankles held by adjustable hobbles. He woke up an hour ago. Already cleaned and moisturized, I brought him the usual huge breakfast and then locked him where he sits.
His daily cigar is half-done.
Much longer hair, of course, and a trimmed beard. They look good on him, but it's the expression in his eyes that has changed most of all. That old shock and fear and dread are gone. Each day has its distinct variety in methods, but the basic activity has been just the same. Every day. There is variety, but no remaining possibility of doubt.
I always get my way. He remains right where I want him, in the cell I built around him, and naturally every waking moment is... well, mine.
Each second of feverish stimulation will occur just as I intend.
And he believes, accurately, that tomorrow will be every bit as delirious - because I keep him flawlessly isolated, in order to increase his physical vulnerability. And that insures that the tickling will be as complete and masterful as I am able to perform.
There is something delightful about making a man's fantasy come true. Sure, he may not have expected the tickling... but he certainly has been living all of the emotions that bondage can provide. There is no more outrage in him, no comparing my complete control of his body and habits and pleasures with his old life.
He has a sullen expression now. A harder set to his mouth, almost a scowl. The everpresent anger at his situation makes him look tougher. Biding his time. Picking his battles...
All fighting is still on hold for him, of course. I have the same old excitement in store, and he won't have a chance to stop me. Quiet, even calm, smoking that cigar and looking at nothing in particular, he is convinced of the gear's reliability.
I choose to make him sit here and smoke until I start tickling again. Each day finished is one more closer to the end of his continuous bondage experience... however long I can make that last.
So much more than he was expecting. And having no idea what the total number of days will be, a single one is such a small proportion that any optimism he could have about an impending release is of so little comfort as to be meaningless.
I've made all these months an increasingly powerful confinement. He could never have such an experience with merely human accomplices. Perfect bondage, I know, requires the blissful oversight of an innovator like me. And I'm not too proud to admit that I could never have the continuously expanding pleasure of tickling him without his innate sensitivity.
It's indescribably enjoyable to think that I - in stern control of each moment - have no idea how long I'll be restraining and tickling him. Certainly I will set no date, as that seems to me not in the pure observance of what our subculture reveres.
We have a special treat this morning.
Before the usual tickling show appears on the TV, I start up his financial software.
Mortgage, condo dues, power bill, water bill, insurance bills - all of his debts are listed on the same screen. His car, personal loan and credit cards were paid off months ago.
I type in dollar amounts which will more than cover three payments, for each. And one of my favorite leather gloves is peeled off his right hand...
Floating up to get the wireless tactile login scanner from his desk. Bringing it to his right hand, where a couple more gloves steady his thumb.
He wriggles, almost growling, as I press the little screen where it belongs and click on the button.
There.
Since I already made a large deposit to his checking account, all of the payments are successful. Sneaking in food and consumables is easier all the time...
Now his predicament is assured for another ninety days.
He's going to be so much more ticklish by then. But, also, his hidden wish will continue to be granted. The bizarre has become constant and expectable.
I bring twenty gloves for his torso and crotch, and a dozen oiled brushes for each of his feet.
2018