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Comfy...
A step up from the old warehouse. Still dusty and abandoned-looking, but at least there's bootlegged power. The water was still on, and the window was already boarded up tight. Some of the funky old curtains were found and hung up - just right. Furniture all chipped, properly covered with cigarette burns, walls all stained...
Nothing to write home about. No four-star hotel, but a big step up from the ol' warehouse. Familiar shabbiness, no pretensions to elegance, nothing especially curious to provide a distraction.
Made to order. No, not really. Not literally. This'll come to be viewed as a home away from home, though. A seasoned traveller has seen rooms like this... one night, maybe two, and then movin' on. A place to watch cable, unwind a little, catch some Z's and shower before check-out time. So this was just another one of those places to crash. Cheap towels, worn sheets on the bed. Yeah.
A road warrior of the lower middle class wouldn't feel too out of place here.
Obviously forgotten, too. No noisy neighbors. No neighbors, actually... for more than two years now. An empty field outside the door of the room, and the freeway is well beyond that.
No TV, no phone. Too much to do. The mirror has also been removed. Maybe it would be brought out again, later...
 

All is quiet. The stillness becomes actually noticable...
...as it's disappearing. Some idiot, yelling.
It's getting louder.
A shadow falls on the door of Room 240.
It's a guest!
Checking... in.
He enters the doorway - a good five feet above the floor. Horizontally. Yelling and yelling, flopping around like he's actually going to get free or something. A spitfire. He must've reacted nicely to the... confirmation. Earned himself an air-limo from the truck stop two miles away. And a reservation. His car was identified. It'll be picked up later. Stashed away, hidden. Safe from thieves.
Of course, he can't be allowed to run out on his bill, either.

The leather strap pinning his arms to his sides is dripping with sweat. His boots are restless, wrapped together efficiently enough. And he yells. Trying to work his way toward the edge of the bed. Determined cuss.

Definitely.
Here's one that'll rack up an astronomical tab.

Pulled back onto the center of the bed a few times, by nothing visible...
He takes a little break, panting... looking all around, thinking too hard. Another strategy, maybe.
Not a chance...
Rolls of leather snake out from under the bed. And cuffs - why, they're not mere restraints. They're works of art. Huge, heavy, and buckles that were made to hold something and hold it tight.

Cuff the wrists, get a death-grip on each leg, undo that strap, pull off the boots, cuff the ankles.
Pull off the jeans, and socks, and sweaty underwear.
Start the ankle-straps, and set 'em right.
Get a death-grip on biceps and hands. Undo the chest-strap.
Pull off the shirt. Pin the wrists, start those straps.
Set 'em right.

After the next bout of fighting, a few adjustments are made. Nothing big.
And then, when all is done, the warm realization...
Taking in the big picture. And it's... perfect.
Him, the straps, the mattress. The placement of the anchors, way down below. The buckles, the length of his limbs, the space between his arms. The amount of tension, and how ideally his fighting is held in check...
Like a constellation, breathtaking in its purity. The bed, the straps, his hard-breathing body.
This has to be... photographed. It's worth taking measurements. How fine it would be to recreate this. Exactly this, not just the general stretching out of limbs. That can be done anytime. But the overall effect, really, it's impressive. He can't stay just so, indefinitely. Bedsores. But he can be put back there, as often as his backside will allow. Given the state of knowledge, he'll spend most of his time just like this.
A camera. An instant camera. Definitely.
Besides, it could be fun.

Another sound. Faint... getting louder.
When he notices, he starts to yell again, voice already a tad bit rusty. Chain-smoker. Probably he's longing for a cigarette, or two...
But there'll be none of that here.
He's in a non-smoking room.

A different shadow appears on the orange door. Larger...
A cart. It's a maid's cart. Battered, dented. It stops -
"Yeah, oh thanks, I don't know what I woulda done i-"
Towels are... rising from the cart. Coming through the doorway.
There's no one carrying them.
Reminiscent of the straps that caught him, hauled him through the air all this way, perhaps? The invisible hands that relieved him of his boots and clothes... then put the cuffs in place?
He stares for a few seconds, stunned.
And he screams and screams.

It's a big pile of towels. Thick, faded bath towels.
They pass him. Pass on by. From the bathroom, where they went, a trash can floats out the door.
He stares at it, and his protests falter.
"Huh- Hey? Haallllllp!"
A few rolls of toilet paper are lifting off the middle shelf of the cart.
When the ashtray is taken off the nightstand - taken away, and put on the cart, he won't be using this - his expression takes on a more worried look. Yeah... he's used to smokin' his head off. That'll be hard on him.
But hey. With everything else in store, it's one of the easier adjustments he'll make.
These rooms that face inside, they're much nicer. Quiet. More private. Too bad they're all non-smoking. Of course, if he cares to... step out onto the walkway, well, he can smoke all he wants.
He pulls at the straps again. "Dammit!"

When the room is properly stocked...
Time to take something from the bottom shelf of the cart. The shelf that faces out, away from him.

First, of course, it's time to dust.

He sees -
A feather duster, magically floating... into the room. Not toward him, but closer than if it were outside -
Apparently, anywhere inside is too close. His eyes are huge. He yells again, not as if it would attract help - how amusingly naive - but at the duster.
It takes no notice. Dusting the dresser, the light fixture, and then disappearing from sight briefly to dust the bathroom sink...
Coming. Dusting the bedside table. The wall sconce. The moldy drapes, which are slightly parted to show the plywood nailed up, no fire exit that way...
Doubling back -
Whisk, whisk. The end of the bed. Center, right between his legs.
"No! Aaaugh -"
The duster lifts up, and rotates in the air. The feathers are now facing the ceiling, instead of the bed.
It hangs there for a few seconds...
And his eyes track it, while he tries to form a word. Something dreary, no doubt.
His left foot. Whisk.
"NaaaAAaa-"
Whisk whisk. Whisk whisk whisk whisk.
"Haaaw haw haaaannnnnaaaaaw pleeeeeheeeheeeeeee Eeeeee..."
The duster lifts, and turns away again.
Then it lands gently on the mattress. Between his bound feet.

He objects, complains. Pleads. All rather incoherent. Definitely useless.
From the lower shelf of the cart...
A bottle, and a piece of felt.
It's lemon oil.

After the woodwork in the room gets treated...
The rag swipes, oh so gently, against his rod.
He goes ballistic -
Rag and bottle are set on the night stand. Conveniently close by.

And then it's time to inspect the handiwork.
Here it comes -
It's a hand.
"Oh, no," he wails. Quick on the uptake, for once.
It's a white glove! It's very white. And shiny. The fingers and the main body are stuffed full, it appears. But there's nothing in there. Or so he'd conclude.
Nonetheless, the glove levitates to the dresser, and extends its index finger, and drags along the top. Lifts off, turns over - as if the wearer were looking at the fingertip.
But the wearer's watching him. His reaction is a big frightened gulp. So the image wasn't lost on him.
The glove checks for dust all over the room.
And it slooooowly comes... over the bed... descending...
Checking for dust in his navel.
He yowls.
Oh, good grief. Look at this. It's lint.
He's the filthiest thing in the room.
Disgraceful. Shoddy. He's sweaty, wild-eyed. He lacks... polish.
Well, then - polish him.

But he's a mess. Redneck trash.
So? He's a guest. There's no time limit on proper service. Is there? Of course not.
If polishing is required, then it will be done. Until completion. Nothing less will do.

The glove pauses, with its finger pressing an inch or so below his belly-button.
From the maid's cart, something thin rises. Turning -
It's a doorknob sign... being hung on the door.

Do Not Disturb

The cart rattles off.
Down at floor level, something slips into the room. Something... big. He - can't see it -
Slowly... oh so slowly... the door closes.

And, from the floor, there comes something long, and white.
A tray?
Well, of a sort. It settles on the nighttable. He even ignores the glove touching him, in order to study it.
It's a plastic tub. Almost a cube, with a molded handle. Several holes recessed in the top. Really, it holds quite a bit.
Such as - more feather dusters, which rise and are slotted in some of the holes on the top edge.
And brushes. A forest of them. Tooth-, shoe-, hair-, pastry and mink artist's brushes.
And quills. Long, lustrous feathers, some with dull points, some sharper. Now all the tool-holders are filled.
And a few topical substances better suited to such hypersensitive skin.
And a few leather goods, which he'll get to know oh so well.
And, of course -
Of course. They rise into view, tentatively at first. But only at first.
Why, he looks quite stricken -
Eleven identical twins of the inspection glove.
The one that's got his gut... under its finger.

And unhurriedly, smooth as fireworks arcing out across the sky, the gloves cruise to his balls, and his feet, and his armpits, and his neck, and his calves, and his sweaty ass.
Taking...
...hold.
"You can't do this to a guy," he stammers. "This is... torture, it's nuts..."
Go.
And then, he just has to chuckle -
A classic moment. Ten times the amount of work would be worth it, just to hear something priceless like that. Followed by the perfect reply, a frustrated involuntary contradiction to his own disbelieved attempt at reassuring himself, retaining some tiny degree of control. Because he knows, doesn't he, even as the words leave his mouth. What a complete falsehood. Maybe the best lie ever. He'll be seeing more and more, with every passing hour, how ridiculous it is.
Well - not the "nuts" part. His are in for a phenomenal amount of buffing...

More in line with his meaning of the word, his life just became crazier than it ever had been before. White-hot, ultimate, crazy sensation, which will become more and more devastating as his idiosyncrisies are learned.
Oh, it's going to stay crazy, all right. For a long, long time.
He snags another breath, and lustily contradicts his last sentence.
He's going to tell himself how wrong he was... several hundred thousand times. The start is completely gratifying - wildly trying to bounce up and down, as if a trampoline was motivated to pull free from its moorings. Already aware, at some level, that there's no point in duplicating the snapping and steady tugs he tried earlier. They tell him something about the proficiency, and the assurance, of the maker. Reinforcing the perfection of the plan being carried out, now, with him.
And really, these are anchors as they were meant to be. To look at them, as he gave 'em the business, and as he lay there - defeated, having confirmed he was going nowhere - they were sublime. Now that he's got a very urgent reason to get loose, and his struggles are unplanned and mechanical, nice and animal-like... A cougar, a bear fighting the leash. Straining at four leashes that could not be improved upon. Much sturdier than anything a human would make for a similar purpose. No. These are thick enough to keep a brawny wildcat centered on the mattress. Staying there.
What a wonderful word. Staying.
He can tussle all he wants. It won't matter. Not one second less. But he will teach himself, through experience, that the anchors are going to remain.
That he's going to keep being held out, pulled down firmly into the mattress...
Ah! the first true... laughter.
It's one thing to tell him he's in for the extreme play. Another to show him.
But even better if he discovers it himself!
 

In order to fully describe the techniques used on him, lovingly detailed, a thick book would be necessary. The sheer volume of description might lead to the conclusion that there were brief periods of excitement, followed by long hours of monotony. This conclusion could not be farther from the truth.
It could, perhaps, be attributed to a lack of imagination. Or experience. And, in fairness, it must also be a possibility that the failing lies in the telling of the tale.
The first day, twelve-plus hours of burnishing, interspersed with unconsciousness here and there, is a vibrant and heady beginning. But like many timeless sagas, he proved to be more engrossing with additional exposure. The gloves raised such a firestorm that, from the staff's perspective, it was no time at all until the sky was dark. Here was a well-suited trio - captor, target and method.
It takes skill to make twelve hours of tickling... invigorating.

His feet, alone - so many rewarding locations, each flooding his sensorium with a subtly different message, depending on the stroke. The potential activities for ten fingers on a foot that's anchored, securely but not cruelly is a virtually limitless number. Pressure, direction, speed, frequency of stroke... toes to heels, side to side, instep - and bottom. To spend an hour with each option, even a half-hour - the most savory of luxuries.
Add to this the plethora of tools. A few feathers, duplicating the nuances of satin fingers. A brush or two. Five different kinds of brushes. All of the above, with oil. Lemon oil, mink oil, emulsified mineral oil, fish liver oil. How very many lubricants there are in the world!
Tie the toes back and repeat. Or perhaps glove-fingers on the squeamish insole, a fingernail-brush for the tender sides, and soft feathers between the toes. Simultaneously. Add oil. Try a different oil, just for the low ankle, teasing with dental floss around the unyielding cuff. And do not fail to leave the battery-operated toys out of the equation.
Really, could a fear of ennui be any more baseless?
 

The feet must be given rest-time to avoid any unfortunate numbness or desensitivity.
The focus becomes... his ribs. Permutation, upon permutation. Or the abdomen. Or neck and abdomen together. Or the ever-reactive crotch.
A more analytical approach to polishing him might attempt to reduce the entire effort down to lists of combinations yet untried. Stimulation by the numbers. And that, too, would fail to impart the enthusiastic merriment with which he's buffed.

Even a random selection of tools and spots is sure to kindle his feckless skin. So long as no particular nerve endings are overused, the cripping provocation can awaken them for intermittent cycles of rapturous agony.
And nothing could be less dull than that.

There is no firm agenda, no quotas, no schedule demanding adherence. Water and food are lavishly provided, excretions are removed tactfully and with careful thoroughness... sleep is allowed, to the full measure he wishes to take.
But when his needs have all been met...
Artfully produced madness.
 

And so days cease to have a distinct meaning. He will be buffed for as long as he can be buffed.
His voice goes away, and comes back, and goes away again. There are long afternoons and evenings where the ministration is designed to discourage laughter - overruling that need with an intricate, debilitating focus on the tools' actions and effects.
Explosive, hysterical spittle is more symptomatic of the first few hours of tickling after nine or ten hours of refreshing, revivifying sleep.
 

The cuffs come off, at night. After the photos and measurements were made, there was still the inevitable potential for damage to the pinioned joints and tissues. While he snores, or has his dreams that cause him to moan and twitch, mutter - and giggle - his skin is refreshed with the most scrupulous care. Pressure points are gently massaged and then rested, or left unbound, for as long as possible.
 

After the third day, he awoke to find himself on his stomach. Head hanging over the foot of the mattress, strongly discouraged from overextension or whiplash by the placement of a loose leather strap. The view could not have been inspiring - but his reaction, from the first moment the feather dusters began to swirl on his backside, was electrifying.
Spread-eagled, his soles are just as conveniently indefensible as before. As well as his sides.
And the formidable calves, spine, elbows, nape... and rear - they receive their due. Gleefully maddening.
He woke, after the longer naps, to find himself rotated again. Squealing, once more, as the tickling began on zones that had been essentially left alone for approximately forty hours...

There are so very many fun things to do!

After many hours - scores of them, all heart-pounding and sweaty - his member becomes the principal focus. His balls, of course, are often in the custody of a sleek palm. Five different strokes are being applied to these unusually sensitive organs. But when care is given and the fondling of that satin slows, or is temporarily withdrawn altogether, ejaculation will not occur. A predicament he finds most compelling...
And, as luck would have it, he's one of those ecstatic sensualists who become much, much more ticklish after a ferocious, long-overdue climax.
 
 

After a week, he has a fine beard. Producing more testosterone than usual, perhaps...

Now, an new and exciting level of demented joy awaits him.
The session's tickling begins with a restrained dance of feathers. A water break is delayed, and brushes are also applied... lightly riding around his nipples, along his inner thighs, around his throat. Next, the gloves - finding purchase on hips, ribs, shins, upper arms, cock and balls. All ceaselessly moving, massaging, caressing, swiping -
Until he comes, howling and arching.
Then the blanket of tickling tools kicks into high gear! Every favored spot except his feet, titillated simultaneously -
This produces screams and shrieks of pleasure, mindless tugging on the straps, his head pounding into the pillow like a piston...
After a few minutes more -
He gasps. A huge gasp. Neck straining back, eyes wide open. There's a new look in those eyes.
Knowledge, unexpected and certain.
A new caliber of awareness is born.
The tickling immediately ceases. He lies still, sucking in air hungrily...
Water, food, and twelve hours of sleep. Well-deserved. The guest has become eligible for a service upgrade...

Not all ticklish people are capable of achieving the next rank. A higher level of impact and reaction. The force with which the polishing will register has just increased. Squared, cubed...
He'll now discover the results. Magnified, amplified, extrapolated proportionally.

When he's alert and fed, the rapture continues.
Four fingers - nuts, navel, left sole, right sole - make him gasp again, and tense, and freeze... and relax.
Though he may look as though it's hardly noticable... a closer inspection reveals the trembling. Healthy, warm, relaxed people usually don't tremble, unless they're overwhelmed by something they can't even begin to tolerate.
This man, who has been polished with such versatility, is incapacitated by a few light pads, stroking leisurely. He is attempting to resolve the awareness of this mild contact with the extraordinary, consuming effect it's causing.
This has been said to be a difference in scale comparable - and it's an imperfect comparision - to the sensory leap from grayscale to full color, or from water to a fine cognac.
The straps are loosened. Their services will not be required, for now.

He curls up in a fetal position... and experiences new strata of pleasure.
Foregoing water, when it's offered. Still attempting to process the nerve-signals of a half-hour before... attempting to prepare for the contact that lies just ahead.

It's a very good sign when, two hours later, he starts to snicker.
A very promising, enthralling signal.
The fingers pull off for the day. He's coaxed to drink, then, and eat a little something. Things he can swallow, without sparing the cognitive resources that would be needed to chew.
And he's allowed to sleep another seventeen hours...
To memorize what he's learned.
 
 

A familiar referent is in order now. So many days of abnormal reflex, magic barbarity. He's due to regain his footing... before the more intense exploitation of his feet begins in earnest.

He wakes, snuffling, squinting blearily.
Sunset. Just past. He's sitting, back to the wall. Sitting on a towel on the walkway.
Automatically bringing a cigarette to his mouth, taking a deep drag -
Coughing! A long, barking fit. He looks at the butt for a long second, and tosses it away in the midst of his hacking...
The image he presented, there... propped against the wall, snoring gently. Ankle caught for certain retrieval, absolute continuation of the delirium. A message, and a guarantee. And smoldering between his limp fingers, a cigarette. His brand. New carton. All these details and messages aren't visible, of course... but just the homey sight of him, outside the door of the room... As if the triptych occurred in reverse, him taking a smoke break, unable to keep his eyes open. Well, it made for some great photographs.
Teary-eyed, he finally wheezes. Seeing the pack next to him, and the lighter.
It's been a long time.
Face still registering the pain, with a hand on his chest, he picks up his lighter, reappearing after all these days... shakes the pack and pulls out another smoke...

With only the one cuff on, he stands beside the bed... Near the bin of tickling tools. Many have been replaced, due to wear.
A pair of gloves takes hold, gently, of his right wrist and forearm. And now, others grab his left...
Two others contain each of his ankles. They raise his legs up... and slide them across the sheet. His arms are brought along for the ride. They position him on his back, with limbs spread. Not stretched as far as the straps did, earlier - and will again.
For now, the grips are enough. The press down, anchoring him here -
And feathers rise from their stand, levitating slowly. He watches with big, solemn eyes.
They begin on his feet -
Slow, light sweeps. He presses himself down, down - grinning -
Snorting...
Chuckling away. Still immeasurably more tickled than he was the first day, registering the feathers with his newly acquired magnification of the feel of them. And - significantly - not fighting the gloves, evading the feathers. Not at all.
Inflamed far more, yet unable to react.
Two more feathers begin dancing over his pectorals.

He drinks more water, and then continues to hoot softly. If this was the first observation of his reaction to tickling, the conclusion might be drawn that he's not bothered all that much. Or exhausted, or drunk -
But the staff can read - and feel - a dramatic difference. The first day's sensitivity was not even comparable to this.
Gradually, the gloves let go of his limbs, and some of them snuggle against proven hot spots. He hiccups -and whoops. He doesn't move. His arms and legs stay where they were placed.
The night is quieter. Energy he used to throw off in reacting, wastefully... it's been channeled back inside.
If black-and-white is analogous to "feeling" the effects of the tickling, what would this be rightly called?

The long, dreamy hours roll by. Sleep whenever it's needed... Emissions cleaned up, water brought frequently, food eased down his throat. Emoillents and topicals during the unconscious intervals.
And all other times... slow and gentle brushes, acetate, plumes, spinning appliances, oils.
He lies there and laughs, silently. Lips appearing to form ooooo and aaah steadily. Most often on one side, taking ten minutes to roll over to the other. Utterly without volition.
The gloves and dusters just follow along, starting in on the side that is presented to them as he rotates.
Torso, posterior, feet... always covered. He's passed out of the realm where overlong, amateurish fondling can wreak havoc with extended plans. His feet are long past the risk of receiving so much stimulation that they refuse to report it to the brain, either gradually or in total. He's processing a much greater quantity and strength of horrendously pleasurable impulses. And he's kept up with the intense volume, doing just fine.
No need to lay off his ribs and armpits, in order to prevent the excessive acclimatization and dullness. He's past that risk now. And that will never be a concern with him again.

He smokes more often. A pack lays on the table, next to the tool-bin. His lighter sits there too, within easy reach... and he couldn't have been trusted within sight of it, earlier on. After eating, he was in the habit of sitting up slowly... taking the pack to the door, waiting to see if it would open. Then, easing himself down, and smoking. More deliberate about it, reexperiencing the host of sensations, taking them in more deeply.
But this "morning", the ashtray was sitting next to the pack and lighter.
He studies this for a few minutes, deliberating calmly.
The weather is changing... perhaps in more ways than one. As October begins, a concession is made. It's too cold for him to sit on the walkway and smoke, with a towel under him and no clothing on. Oh yes - the cuff is no longer necessary. When he's done, he ambles back into the room, without a tether or a threat. No wanting to. Not at all. It is constantly evident he's not revelling in the tickling, or ever looking forward to the next time it resumes.
But still, he's never edged away from the door, plotting a quick sprint to freedom, an escape from more hours and hours of play. Such a move would bring disappointment, and perhaps retribution. Certain failure. He must know this, for why else would he never even try to flee? When it's so patently obvious he doesn't want the fingers to stroke him any more, or the brushes to land and flit provocatively - that first instant of yet another multiple-hour set?

Hesitantly, he reaches over, and opens the pack...
Pulling in smoke as the last inhalation is still leaking out - the very model of satisfied contentment.
Of course, he's just contaminated his non-smoking room. The cost of cleaning it will raise his tab considerably. In fact, he is not paying for the services at the rate he's consuming them. And now, this smoke damage -
And check-out would have to be delayed, until his account was settled. This poses no problem in itself. But another unfortunate circumstance is not as delightful to contemplate...
The nights are getting colder. When faced with the prospect of providing enough heat to prevent him from being distracted... Careful consideration, and an unpleasant conclusion - the room is too troublesome, in sub-zero weather. Check-out is fast approaching.
But then there's the delicate matter of his... outstanding balance.
 

The next day... another immersive experience that begins with his patented slow-roll-over-and-eventual-roll-back routine, with special care given to his genitalia.
After an ejaculation or two, he isn't rolling any more...
But the electric buffers, and brushes, and gloves continue.
 

A carbon-copy of that day follows it. Climax is forestalled, encouraged, and forestalled again, throughout the hours of tickling, until...
Just before "bedtime".
When he sags back, and catches a few breaths, there's one other minor matter to attend to.
Above his right hand, in the air, there's a white square. It's...a pad of paper.
Pencils levitate over. A glove lifts his wrist, and the pencil attempts to seat itself. He notices, finally, and stares at the pad while he pants.
Empty paper. No legend, or contract. Just a pad.
The glove moves his wrist around in a loose circle, and another set of fingers close his grip. He is ready to pass out at any second...
But he catches on. He presses the pencil on the pad - snapping the lead. The other pencil is set in place, and the marred sheet of paper removed.
The glove, holding his fingers closed, moves his hand. In sloppy cursive, it writes his first name. He stares dully, and starts to close his eyes -
His hand is shaken around, until.. he rallies, tries to focus on the pad -
And writes his name.
They make a mess while attempting to write his last name.
He writes his last name. When they don't let go, he writes his first name again. The pad moves back, and clean pages are presented. He writes his first name, and waits... but nothing happens, so he writes his last name.
The fingers laying on top of his close down, and write a big check-mark next to his signature. And they move the pencil to the bottom of the pad...
He signs again, yawning as he does.
Not awake - not fully - he signs his name seven times... before his eyes close, and he starts breathing deeply.
 

The next day, he looks up from his ninth cigarette -
To see leather, ominously familiar cuffs and straps, being oiled.

He chortles to himself, awash in masterful stimulation. Silent, easy puffs of air, exhaled at a monotonous pace...
As white palms squeeze and move, and feathers drag continually.
The very simplicity appears to be a regression. Sleep, eat, drink, sense the touching, endure it - uncomprehendingly. There is no evidence that he can reason, when the tickling starts up again. No need for that.
He's kept clean, soft, strong and healthy. Environment controlled, needs met. Stimulation... provided. Pure and careful and complete. There is an obvious analogy here - a twenty-five year-old infant, experiencing a new world. Perhaps his cigarettes keep him from fully returning to the womb.

And later, that night, the temperature is noticeably lower. A problem, easily overcome...
He'll need to warm up.
The tickling starts again. But now, from the solid, adhesive, rapturous pack -
Gloves take a firmer tack. They lay claim to feet and armpits, belly and crotch. Slowly increasing the weight of the slippery digits...
And their speed.
In the midst of his fever-dream - his eyes open.
They goad his soles, his navel, his hips, his cock. And he blinks... laughing -
Harder!
He begins to fidget.

When they have him squirming, constantly trying to move, the feathers are applied briskly to skittish crevices. Between his toes, under his knees, along his neck, behind his nuts.
The larger areas, the places that are profitable to clasp and squeeze, palpate and knead and drag across - they rate the energetic gloves.
His head flops around erratically. And his hands begin trying, mindlessly - futilely - to shield and cover his torso.
But that is not acceptable. Gloves could pin his arms and keep them pinned, but it's time to take thirty seconds to ensure he won't be hindering the extreme tickling about to occur... and then, set all the gloves to work again.
The left wrist-cuff cruises up from the floor...
Anchoring strap, right cuff, right anchoring strap.
He tries to kick, and contorts his back. Howling and howling. Voicelessly.
Right ankle cuff, anchoring strap, left ankle cuff, anchoring strap. The tension is checked and tested.
Spread, again. He squints around him, watching gloves land and -
Play... rough.
 

A lot of sleep is needed. Decrepit wool blankets wrap around him, keeping away the chill.

Some new staffer entering the room, who didn't know this guest, might not see at first glance how much more devoted his sensoria are than they were at first. That slowness isn't exhaustion - it's exaggerated focus, digesting and redigesting the tireless polishing...
For the pace is ruthless, and the interval between naps is long.
 
 
 

And the day came, despite all efforts to forestall it.
Checking out.
His breath is visible, without the assistance of a cigarette. The water is very cold. It takes him longer to drink the whole quart, shivering under the blankets. He will need something... stronger. Already laid in, ready for use.
He watches the pack on the night stand. But the next arrival is heading over, from the bathroom.
A fifth of whiskey.
He stares calmly as it's cracked open, over him. Just the thing.

A half-hour later, the blanket's falling off him and he doesn't even seem to notice.
He tugs in smoke hungrily, holding it in him for a while before he lets it go. The straps are in their original position. The perfect configuration, now recreatable.
The alcohol warms him, as do a few more smokes.

Later, the tools rise up, one by one, and begin inflaming his fettered, squeamish body. He moves more sloppily, due to the whiskey, and is perhaps more hysterical than he would have been in the first ten minutes...
Then the gloves join in. Only the oil is set aside, today.
The battery-operated toys whirr and buzz. The brushes and feathers and dusters drag, and return, and drag again.
And the gloves pull out all the stops.
Even without a voice, his ecstasy is readily apparent...
Registering so much more forcefully than it did the day he checked in.
 

Some time later, he coughs himself awake. Blinks at his gearshift.
He's in his car.
Wearing denim... Sheepskin-and-denim jacket. Cowboy boots, work gloves.
He sits up quickly, hitting the steering wheel with his shoulder. Cusses, looks around...
He's parked at the truck stop. Light snow covering everything. When he pulled in here to take a leak, it was late August.
The car is somewhat warm. He hasn't been here long... He sees two cartons of cigarettes on the floor, passenger-side. They're full. He stares at 'em and pats his pockets idly, finding an open pack and his lighter.
Smoking. First cigarette as a free man in... quite a while.
There's something under him. He digs around - a book, maybe. No -
A bundle of hundreds. Wrapped with a band of paper. Sanitized for Your Protection.
Ten thousand dollars.

Of course, that large of an advance can really wreak havoc with his account balance.
But it will be most enlightening to see... what he'll do next.

He thinks, and smokes. Looking around worriedly, from time to time.
And goes home -
Oops. Wait - not anymore. Evicted for nonpayment, after all these months, right?

He looks all the more doomed - the expression on his face...
 

So he flies down the interstate.

South.

On to part 2, "Servicios de huésped"

31dec98