"Informed" by a drawing on a great tickling website that's now extinct...
His mouth is wide open. Laughing.
Except for quick inhalations, he's silent. Wore out his voice yesterday, or maybe it was the day before. Laughing. His inability to make any real noise doesn't matter. The gloves keep on tickling him, and he continues to laugh. Several hours today, most of the night...
The door is closed and locked. He can look at it, whenever he can manage to open his eyes.
Soft fingers dig into his right sole, right where it hits him the hardest. Tips starting on the inside, pressing in, sliding across... easing off and repositioning. Doing it again. A few dozen times, before switching back to his left foot.
Rope grips just tightly enough. Stout rope, low on his ankles, wrapped partway up each shin. Locking his feet together, and suspending 'em over his ass.
One thick strand is tied to a ring in the ceiling. He can't see this right now, but he got to study it when he first came to. He was on his back then.
He's face-down today. Steel shackles trap his wrists, keeping his arms straight out from his shoulders. They seem to be bolted to the wood.
The fingers can't torment his chest when he's laid out like this - so they're using feathers. A variety of quills and plumes on his sides and armpits. They work the feathers underneath him, patient, teasing... Chest and armpit hair would've provided some protection, but when he woke up here they'd already shaved him. Neck to feet. Smooth and vulnerable...
One glove is dragging a peacock feather around his ribs, pushing it under his tit, back and around again.
Another hand slips over his butt-cheeks, tracing his tailbone, high on his crack, hip to hip.
He manages to kick again. One thick rope, creaking faintly. Holding. More than he can break.
A collar keeps him from looking around much. Makes him stare straight ahead, if he can open his eyes...
The door is closed and locked.
Another pair of feathers is dusting his rod. Poking and circling the shaved skin...
He roars silently. Eventually, his feet quit swinging and just hang there, continuously stroked. The satin hand bears down on the small of his back, caressing its way to his thighs. Feathers drift and run, double-timing it for a good half-minute. The fingers dig into both feet, darting from one to the other.
He laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
The bench is custom. Made to keep a guy down, held tight, and spread out for the gloves to tickle. Real tickling - deeper impact than a triathalon. And a hell of a lot longer. Finding weaknesses. The sweet spots can be different from man to man. His captor leans on 'em hard. Full-bore, no holds barred, no limits. Certainly not sparing his meat.
For roughhousing like this, a special room.
And the collar - cold metal, loose enough to be poked and teased with feathers. Making sure he can't see any of the gloves on him, what they're doing to him, when he's laid out like this.
He'd never even been handcuffed before. Not being allowed to move is so frustrating he can't convince himself it's not an illusion that will disappear any time now. The collar and the shackles have him more... solidly immobilized than he's ever been before.
Add to that the unconquerable rope, insuring his feet stay right where the gloves want them. Whether he's face-up or face-down, the rope holding his feet up, defying all his wishes...
He eats whatever they bring to him. They leave the collar on, so he can't do anything unless they serve him. Fuel him up so they can tickle him some more.
After a squeeze-bottle of water, they stick a fat cigar between his teeth. But they don't light it. The smoke would go right in his eyes, so he's glad...
His eyes wander to the only thing he can look at.
The door is closed and locked.
He kicks vaguely. Still trapped, his feet swing over him, side to side.
Something touches his right shoulder. Dragging -
He starts to squirm. The metal keeps him laid out. Only his legs move, in their restricted arc...
A small, firm brush. Oiled. Dragging down, toward his neck. Impulsively, he tries to look at it. His head won't move far enough. All me can make out is a shiny black form, moving. Scrubbing him with the brush.
He swings his feet and bites down on the cigar. This has happened before. He knows where this is going -
The brush scrubs gently down to his collar, oiling his skin.
He gasps and drops the cigar. Chuckling. Trying to turn his head, lower it, shake it. His hands curl into tight fists and pull at the shackles.
Another brush. Of course. Just like before. It starts on his left shoulder, hurrying to catch up...
They'll oil up his back, and his arms. Following a slow, unbearable trail underneath. His armpits. Wide open, fixed to stay...
Down his sides, mercilessly thorough. Hips, ass. A long time scrubbing his ass...
To his thighs. As they creep inside, a feather or two begins playing with his favorite things. That's what happened yesterday. Wracking feather-work as the brushes skated down. Under his knees. That was bad. Then his kneecaps...
Shins. Calves. Ankles. All building up to the finale. The protracted, mind-bending attack on his feet. Defeated, plundered, hypersensitive soles, toes, heels. Oil scrubbed briskly as the feathers lay into his crotch - firmer, quicker, matching the ruthless tempo of the stunning attack on his tied feet.
Remembering how it was - how it'll be, in a couple hours - he gets a good breath and howls it back out. The faint wheezing, as the air rushes out of his mouth, is outdone by the soft creak of the rope.
Done kicking, done trying to move his head, he opens his tear-filled eyes.
The door is closed and locked.
14nov01