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"Naw, you're definitely at the wrong house, bud," I tell him.

His face is red, but that's from testing my knots. Learnin' the ropes. "You did this. Drove my truck here - now lemme go, dammit!" and he lunges side-to-side. Like it's gonna do some good.

"Did I? It's after five, sport - on Friday. Uh-oh. About ten minutes too late to let 'em know down at the shop, huh?" He stutters, caught without a reply. I'd say I guessed correctly. "So they all went home. Nobody knows..."

I pick up the work order and wave it for him, as if it's magically rustling by itself. "Yup, too late. Oh well. Sometimes you just gotta let it slide, right?" I rip the paper slowly, and he wrestles harder... so I get his clipboard and rip all the pages. "Fuck it."

"You son of a bitch -"

"There. Don't sweat it. It's Friday night."

"Lemme go now, you b-"

"Start of the weekend." The longest weekend, the loudest week he'll ever know. Guaranteed.

"Dammit, lis-"

"Don't know about you, but I'm ready. Got some wild ideas. All-nighter shit." He holds still, while this sinks in... and thrashes harder, screaming for help.
 

Just a tickling fool, I guess. Not feelin' fine unless there's a side of beef stretched out and panicky, ready to roar... feeling him hoot and chortle real sincerely, squirm and try to lean away. Tied and tickled. Staked and sounded, pinned and polished... roped and rubbed.

This dude's sincerely trying to lift his limbs. Comical. Guys are always more bothered by the undeniable lack of control. And little 'ol satin gloves driving 'em bugshit - well...

He won't fully, completely believe it even after the first week. This one's loud, too. More determined to break free than most, and I have a good feeling about why.

It's a damn shame to see him work himself up like this. That's my job. And if you want a job done right... Yeah, there's some real volume. Just warming up. I like a voice I can revive day after day... My noisy roaddog here doesn't know it yet, but he just quit smokin' for a while. Let him wail like a pro for a few nights... then I'll kindly force a carton or two of his 'Stons down him, later.

Boy, he really seriously doesn't like being tied down. Can't wait to show him another phenonemal reason why.
 

"Time to howl." I laugh at him, the tougher guy calling the shots. When it registers, his eyes get a little bit wider.

"Off the clock. Hey, get comfortable." Stay awhile. Four of my comfortable, gleaming hands rise into his line of sight.

"Wha-"

"Oh, these? Y'know. You got work gloves, I... well, not play gloves, 'cause I don't fuck around when I pull these on. Nossir. What's the problem? You afraid of satin or somethin'?" Smart man. I send a pair straight for his chest, angling the others down.

He's bothered, alright. "What the fuck you th-"

"You guys and your tools. Look, they'll be right in your truck. Locked up in the garage, out of sight. Nobody'll even know it's there." I bring four more gloves into the action, while the first pairs undo his tool belt, unbutton his shirt... bringing satin the closest it's been yet, real handy for some worried study.

"Wait, you're - you wouldn't, uh... " Sure I will! Hold that thought, hyena-boy, as I start unlacing these restless boots. "No! Leave my fee- I need my boots, dammit!"

"I'm being careful. Shee-it." He's all fight again, as satin eases his left boot off... now revealing the right sock. One more sweaty layer, and I'll see paydirt.
 

Then my hands ease his shirt-tails out of his jeans, and the pot of gold is exposed now too. His hypersensitivity is confirmed already. Soon, very soon...

"Fuck, I'm beat, just lemme go and... get some oth-"

"You'll come around. Night's young. Here, lemme get that hair out of your mouth. Matter of fact... " Pairs of hands leave him for a sec, heading for the bureau and the dresser. He tries to watch both sets at once, head moving comically. The first business for his consideration - gloves pulling the drapes closed, slooo-o-o-owly, over the barred window. He keeps staring after they're done, and it looks like he noticed how secure the room is.

I rummage through the dresser drawers. Bright hands bring out a couple cartons of his brand, setting 'em where they'll always be visible between his superbly tethered feet. Packs spill out, ready to grab... Eye-catching, way out of reach. Lighters, matchbooks and a big ashtray complete the tantalizing effect.

Nearer, the bureau yields baggies with a rainbow of pills. I did say "all-nighter", didn't I? Alongside, I set larger plastic bottles from the bottom drawer, which I think of as the Department of Lubrication. The black can is the best softener there is for dead skin layers and calluses. Finally, a box of surgical gloves and some disposable razors.

"NoAAAAHHHHHNOnooooo!" he hollers. Lunging again, working up a sweat.
 

His eyes are locked on my silk "headband" as it's rolled up around his forehead. Next, the door bar magically sliding into place grabs his attention. He jumps a little when the padlock clicks, and looks back at a mere ten hands sinking toward him, feet and torso...

"Dude." No reaction. "Dude. We're in."

He stops wrestling, finally. Watchful. Pitiful mewing escapes from his throat...

"Ain't nobody gonna find out about this party. Let's do it."

"NaahhiiEIEEEE... "

Four comedians saunter down to his ribs, and four more are ready to pounce on his straining feet. Less than an inch away -

"C'mon. Cheer up. Ain't soundin' too happy - a wild weekend is only the start, big guy. I wanna hear you roar."

Aaahhhhhhh. I snuggle a few hands on highly reactive skin, get satin wrapped around those soles.

"Starting... now."
 
 

I tickle the shit out of him long before the sun goes down.

Strip him the rest of the way and start to clean him up. He's a howler, alright. Short growls and wails, nice and loud, followed by chuffed silence -

Oh ho. I have a couple dry hands slide under and close on his hips, and he's quiet again. I rotate 'em and have the fingers creep together at his crack. Big flop, and he's keening mournfully. Deeply. Throwing his head around, or trying to, and seemingly unable to tug anymore.

Looks like his secret's not safe with me. It takes four more gloves to really cover those butt cheeks, and he's gettin' bothered alright. He's pushing against my satin, though, which would be amusing if I...

Hmmmm. A little more room. I put another pair high and underneath each thigh, and lift him up... getting his eyes open again. And I hold tight and still on his feet, ribs, triceps, under-knees.

Looky here. Couple inches of air between him and the sheet. Enough to get some real handholds, room to move. That tender crack is wider, too, now isn't it? I slither some fingers in, squeeze and start to roam -

He throws off the headband. Pulling and jerking in all directions, he chuckles savagely, loose and loud.

I buff his ass. Learning just what motion and location registers the most... His eyes slam shut, and a last earnest wriggle doesn't give the slip to any of the hands that will be gripping under there. Sliding along, not goin' anywhere for too long...

A few rolled-up towels steal a few inches of thigh and lower back from my turf, but now there's more gloves on the move.
 

Worrying the ropes is not possible now. I glide slowly up and down his limbs, his unprotesting fingers, the feet that cease to twitch... the sleek torso, open and within easy reach - from all sides. The half-dozen teasing his hindquarters are most crippling. Yessir. He can't even writhe, unable to laugh steadily, tears running down his cheeks.

Sounds like a plan for a hot Friday night. Many more gloves, since so much of this animal is going untickled right now. Then I'll start testing the brushes... He'll be needing water soon.

And after? Well, that cock is hard, and it's furiously red. Ignored.

I float over a squat plastic jar, with an excellent dry lube just made for skin like this. The lid drops near his left hip, and the nearest glove emerges from the crawlspace, digging into the thick gel.

Despite what a riot this is, Saturday's schedule is gonna be one hot work order... with him stuck on his belly, flat on the sheet, stretched out so my expert tickling hands can really get at his whole backside.

To learn what else this TM is up to, check out Runner or Mean.

13dec98