"You're not ticklish, huh."
"No." He said it too quickly, in a what-a-stupid-question tone. His eyes were locked on Handler's glove - deep red satin, shiny and thick. Laying on the bumps of his lower left ribs.
And despite the smartass tone of his answer, there seemed to be a real serious effort to pull his wrists free. Its cuffs and straps weren't affected any... but his arms were working hard, knuckles pale white with the effort.
"Huh," was all Handler said. It slid the wide acetate hand up, and back -
"No!" Pete protested, swinging his head back and forth, clenching his teeth. He snapped at the leather holding him down, grunting. "I'm nah aaaaah nnnnnaaaaaa-ahhhh-aaaaaaah hah hah haaaaaaah..."
It laid another hand on the right side of his rib cage. Curled the fingers slightly - and all his arrogance disappeared, all at once, in a burst of angry whoops.
"Liar," Handler cackled triumphantly, sliding all over his torso, while he was bounced up and down. He tried to plead, so Handler squeezed a little harder. Everywhere its fingers went, they struck gold.
He chuckled as hard as he could. Then he crowed and cawed and shrieked. Twisting, but not throwing off even one determined finger. Twisting the other way, all three inches he could lift his pinned body... and laying back down. Muscles rippling as he arched, slowly, and held it, quivering hard... Exposing his back to the unstoppable hands. Dropping back down on 'em, but they continued to creep, ease themselves out - solid again, filled with phantom muscle. Pulling themselves into his armpits. Handler could get to any spot on his crazed body...
But his sides were so long and lean, so pathetically awake, that Handler put a couple more gloves on 'em.
In the middle of his roaring struggle, he... almost paused. Then a fluid shudder seemed to crawl down him, from his face to his gut. He bucked twice, hard convulsions - and quit pulling at his tethers. Now and then he recoiled, with bizarre slowness. Or he'd try to turn again, out of reflex - but it looked like an empty formality, an afterthought.
And he roared. True roars, low and scummy. Instinctive. Sucking in more air, and pausing - actually pausing, as if he wasn't vexed at all. Eventually shouting out laughs from deep in his throat, growling real hard. Not as loud as he'd been before, but sounding utterly dedicated...
Hysteria was such a temporary amusement. Without trying, Handler drove him right past the preliminaries. In the first sixty seconds.
This was no minuteman trapped here. He was acting like one of those rare thugs that seemed to thrive on entire nights of full-body stimulation. Incapable of going numb, or zoning out, or any mental defense - except enjoying the agony more and more as it continued.
A mere weekend of tickling, even a nonstop weekend, would be a tragic waste. There were levels upon levels of reaction in a target like this. There was nothing to decide here - all the time and effort spent would bring an intensity of reaction even Handler couldn't truly imagine.
Maxdeep it is, then. Its slowed all the fingers down... coming to rest on his navel, around the back of his neck, and just below both armpits.
Tears had run down his face. Sweat was beading on his forehead.
It made a hissing noise, dangerously, and let the silence hang there awhile...
"You're such a liar."
Breathing hard, he said nothing.
Handler brought four more gloves over his chest. "I can't stand liars."
"I'm sorry - plee-"
"Shit. You're not ticklish, oh no. Naw. Next you'll be sayin' you don't smoke. Not you. Must've been some other dude. You didn't buy a pack of Reds right before I... caught ya."
Pete protested automatically. "I never sa-" But he opened his eyes just then, and saw the number of satin hands had doubled. His mouth moved silently. "No. No -"
"You're just a boy scout. Don't drink, don't get high... Don't play with yourself. You're not even hard right now." It sent a glove down, and his eyes go even bigger than they were already, fists clenching tight -
Handler ran a finger down his cock. He grunted, head flying up.
"Pete's a good boy. He doesn't get off on this shit. Worked up. Aroused."
He shakes his head, real slow, and stares at that glove. And he gulps.
"You know what your problem is? You don't know the value of honesty. You can't be trusted. Every word out of your mouth is a fib -" And its gets louder. "Maybe you think that's funny? A real laugh riot -"
"No! No, c'mon - please, I can't stand it, lemme go, you're killin' me, you gotta understand wh-"
"Oh, I understand. Real well. I got your number. You just wanna be left alone. Keep on lyin'. And that's wrong. Shit, even little kids know that. But you don't. Do ya, Pete?
"Sorry, I -"
You think you can just lie and get away with it. And I'm supposed to mind my own business. Boys will be boys. Ha ha. Okay, Pete the bullshitter, you can lie to me and get away with it. Sure. What are you smokin'? Didn't you hear me when I said I hate lying? Weren't you listening? I told you - plain as day - and you turn right around and lie your head off. That's what ya call a 'compulsion,' Pete. You can't help but lie. Now, if you got a kid who's a chronic liar, are you just gonna ignore it? Of course you're not. You gotta do something about it, like I'm doing. So if you're not gonna act like a mature adult - like a man - I guess I'm going to have to make you behave. I'm not gonna just let it go. You gotta be taught. You do something wrong, you pay the consequences.""No! Helllllllllpp-"
"That's how little kids learn. So there's gotta be consequences. You and that lying mouth of yours - well, you'll learn. I'll see to that. You're in for it now. I'm gonna make sure you quit lying." It started to settle the gloves back on his doomed ribs - and then it paused. "Course, you're not a kid. I'll bet you've been lyin' for a long time. So it's gonna take some serious work to get it through your fuckin' head that lying is wrong. Get comfortable, Pete. This isn't gonna be pretty."
"No, please. You gotta listen to me!"
"Oh, and here's another nugget of truth for ya. I'm gonna enjoy this. Really have me some fun. With you. I had a hell of a weekend planned... just one weekend. But now, with this lying thing - well, shit. You're done for. Punishment. Yeah. Until you clean up your act - and then some. I'm worked up now. And you got no idea how much I'm gonna enjoy this. Especially since you're such a first-class bullshitter. I'm going to pick up a lot more food for ya. And supplies. Heh. Just you wait. Lots more..."
The hands touched down.
"NOOOOOooaaaah hahaaaaaha HAAA..."
Handler couldn't help but laugh. At him. "But don't you worry about any of that. I'll let you know when I'm done... getting through to you. And that, dude, is such a long way off... even I don't even know when it is. That's the truth. You're gonna learn to like the truth -"
All eight gloves dug in, palpating carefully...
After a half-hour, Handler gave him a quick break. His chest heaved up and down, and his hair was soaked with sweat. Every so often he'd just start giggling again, unable to stop himself...
After about five minutes, he could finally drink a liter of water. Then Pete started to beg, a ragged whisper...
"P - pleee... pleeeeeeze! No more. I can't take any more."
"Another lie? Pete. That calls for... another pair of hands."
"NO!" His eyes flew open, and there they were, waiting. One of them held a pack of 'Boros.
"These yours?"
He blinked hard. "Uh... yeah?"
"They are, huh?" The glove rotated the pack. It was torn open, but still full. Another pair floated up, and one clutched a carton of smokes, with one pack missing. Handler stuck it in right front of his nose. "What kind of pack is this? Isn't this a soft pack? Man. You're a pathological liar." The glove tossed it to his side. Still more hands arrived, with a unopened pack - flip-top box - and his Zippo. "Now here are the cigs you just bought. Does this look like a soft pack to you?"
"Now wait, I... just wait -"
"Who you think you're dealin' with, here?" Slippery fingers teased a cigarette out of the open pack, and clinked the lid of the Zippo open.
Yet another pair of gloves started zeroing in - on his feet. Handler brought the cig down and sighed. "So. You want one?" He stared at it uncertainly - and then looked past it. Seeing the newest ticklers, heading right for his soles!"NOooooooo, " he yelled, wrestling like crazy.
All the hands froze.
"What? You don't want a sm-" And Handler whistled quietly. "You think I can't tell?... Aw, hell. That tears it." Its hands tossed the packs and the lighter aside, near the carton.
Fourteen gloves laid heavily on hyperactive nerve endings.
"How long... is it gonna take... to make an honest man out of ya?"
Handler dished out twenty minutes of perfectly brutal tickling.
And Pete was hoarse, afterward. Sweat dripped off him everywhere. He twisted and yanked at the restraints. "Pl... pleeee... puh... please!... Nuh... no... no more," he begged, between gasps. "I c-... can't... take any more..."
"There's another lie," Handler said happily. "Of course you can. You have to. You can take a lot more. More and more. I'm gonna make real sure, Pete. You're not missing out on one second of this. Heh. But you don't believe me, do ya? Naw. I deal in the truth, Pete. Unlike you." A glove rose and flexed, descending gracefully. His eyes were closed as he shook his head and tried to stretch the wrist-straps.
"It's understandable. You can't be trusted, so you assume everybody's the same way. Untrustworthy. Not me, fucker. My word is good. In here, my word is law. And you're gonna respect the law, no matter how long it takes. I promise you." Handler took the glove down to his balls. "And I'm gonna take my time. Make sure you're real sincere."
The fingers started polishing.
Pete snickered, and tried to pull his legs together.
The fingers crept up to his cock and traced its length. Lifted off, and ran back up again. Pulling off, and dusting back up...
He tried to turn for a while. One way, and the other. Laughing steadily. Shaking his head.
"Yes. Shake your head all you want. It's still happening. I own you now. Oh, yeah," Handler announced quietly.
"No! No more! No no no -"
The fingers slid onto his right thigh. Dancing slowly, kneading. That made him squeal... and bay like a hound.
"Yes yes yes. Hell, yeah. You can't begin to imagine how long I'm going to tickle you. Pete the bullshitter..."
Cool satin trailed down his leg. Stopping... on his kneecap.
"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze please oh please I won't lie anymore never ever I won't aw please I am never gonna lie again I-"
"What? Do you realize what you just said?" It brought five more gloves to his legs. "Never gonna lie again? I'm insulted. What a shitty, dishonest thing to say. That's gonna cost ya."
"Nnnnnnnnneeeeeeeee heeeeeee naaaaaah naah nah -"
"Yeeeeeeeah, Pete. More and more tickling for you. It'll be my pleasure."
"Aaaaaaaaawwwww nnnnnnnnnnot my nnnnnnn nnn nnnnnnnnnn kneeeeeeeeees..."
Clamp. Two hands on top, two hands under, and ten fingers roaming close to the others, squeezing and digging.
He threw his head back and started to howl.
After fifty minutes of that, he couldn't move.
That was fine with Handler. His squirming was a desperate attempt to distract himself. And now that coping mechanism was gone.But he wasn't tolerating it any better. Not at all. It was going to be a long, gratifying night.
When he managed to plead for his freedom, his voice was all but shot. Must be the cigarettes.
Handler didn't answer him. It decided to quit taunting him until he passed out. Drive his focus back to the exciting workout it was piling on him, all over his impossibly ticklish body.
And when he was ready, it took hold of the most sensitive skin of all...
It had to ease off on him. Slow way down...
He was just determined to shoot his load.
But Handler was having none of that. Six hands grazed around his crotch hair, and his ass. Way up there, inside his thighs. The irregular fingers on his foreskin, squeezing quickly and then gone again... exposing the tip, tracing around it and pulling back off...
Another hour, and he was groaning silently. An impressive amount of pre-cum had oozed out.
Handler let him go...
In order to terrorize his pits. Just fuckin' drill him. Six satin torturers. High pits, low pits, and shoulder joints.
He was screaming laughter, trying to rock and buck. And no one could hear him. The screams were just hiccups of air, rushing out. His face was contorted. Indescribable pain -
Under a huge smile. It was unmistakable. More prominent still when Handler started rubbing his shiny prick. As it dribbled, the tickling moved to his pecs and nipples... and his inexhaustibly reactive belly.
14jul01