- - 1 - -
"Well, I think that covers it," Erwin says. My hero.
"Then I'm officially on vacation?"
"Unless you want another assignment -"
"Erwin, dear Erwin..." As ticklish as a stump. "You can kiss my ass."
"If you had one, perhaps I could," he replies evenly.
I just sigh, dreamily.
But he's not taken in. It's one reason we work so well together. "Any particular plans, Vik?"
"You know I do."
"Ah. And has a... target been acquired?"
"Not yet. Just as soon as you finish debriefing me." Hint hint.
"Never. You're an endless mystery."
"Flatterer."
"I'm stalling you. Tracing the call, so they can get a bulletin out to all the local broadcast stations."
"Erwin -"
"Attention, all unattached studs, lock your doors and windows -"
That's my cue to act offended. "Why, Erwin! As if that could possibly stop me."
He coughs. Someday he'll choke on his own sarcastic juices, and I only hope I'm there to see it when he does. "I do hope you'll try to enjoy yourself."
That does it. "Oooooo..." Sometimes he gets me so frustrated I can't speak.
Dry chuckles. I have to let him win once in a while. Keeps him in check. Men. "So I'll talk to you in a week, and I - "
What? "A month!"
"Impossible. The world would just fall apart without your tender interference for an entire m-"
"Three weeks, then."
"Eight days... maybe nine -"
I see where this is going. The big sneak. "I'll just be getting warmed up on him. More like twenty."
"All right. Ten -"
"Seventeen -"
"Eleven," he chortles.
"Sixteen."
"Thirteen?"
"Fifteen. I was willing to go down to two weeks... but you make me so mad."
"Oh no. Just not possible, and -"
"Fifteen days, Erwin."
There's a pause. "Thirteen and a half."
"Fifteen. Not an hour less. Don't look for me any sooner, you tyrant. I'll be holed up with my new guy."
"Plaything, you mean."
"Goodbye, Erwin."
"Goodbye, Havik'a."
I break the connection first, just to show he can't push me around.
The golden light of a perfect Saturday morning is all around me. East Texas in the spring. The Dallas 'burbs, swarming with potential buddies to take down. Major fun.
I give the cabin a last quick check. All clean and ready, stocked for a month. You can never be too careful when you're out in the sticks. I love the way it looks - the clean bed, the mirror - only because it'll look so different a few hours from now, when I've got my prisoner cuffed down here. A few miles outside of Union Valley, not quite twenty minutes from the city limits.
Time to go out and find him...
- - 2 - -
I need a change. For the past three months all I've been around is sissy-boys. The minister of defense and his henchmen - ugh. They talk a big game, but none of them have done an honest day's work since they were angry young revolutionaries.
They were a piece of cake. Whispers, phantom touches, critical documents lost. A little sleep deprivation here, a touch of ipecac there...
They're out of favor now. Safely tucked away in "rest" homes. Their replacements are younger - more reasonable. I left them alone. Not that it was easy - that Li is a total hottie, and I was dying to hear him laugh. But he has two adorable kids who need him. Good thing he didn't have any trips away from home, though, while I was there. The temptation would have been too much for me. Definitely.
So I kept myself distracted by disarming nukes in my spare time. A broken wire, excessive "condensation", or a guidance chip coming loose. Oops. All untraceable, and infuriatingly random.
Nukes - I mean, really. Women could never come up with stupidity like "mutually assured destruction"...
When the fatheaded defense minister was safely locked in the nut ward, I wrote "Alzheimers?" on his charts. He won't be troubling us again. His protegé eventually backed away from the hard-line stance - and gee, those phone calls in the middle of the night stopped, and his bowel became "regular" again. Imagine that.
What the hell was I talking about? They're toast. I don't ever want to see them again... Oh. Oh yeah. Sissies. They look tough, but I know better.
Enough of that. I'm gonna catch me a real man. I'm just aching to sink my claws into a good ol' boy who laughs like a primate, and works with his hands, in need of some serious skin care...
By nine-thirty I'm seriously checking out the scenery. My prey is blue-collar, all alone, could be a little hung over. Out of cigarettes, maybe. Does he want coffee? I see a distinct lack of upscale coffee houses in this burg, which is never a bad thing. My boy doesn't eat too well, either. I need a place he's used to hitting, as unpretentious as he is.
Convenience store.
So I pick one, and start ogling the clientele. The lot's full of pickup trucks. Gotta love Texas. Now which of these louts is up for a real good time?
There's a trio of older skaters. Wiry. The blonde could work... And now, lookee here. A sharp black guy pulls in. Nicely cut quads, beautiful arms. Lots of melanin. Big fun there.
He comes back out - and I see the wedding ring. Shit.
I spread enough chaos to know how easy it is to screw up a good thing. The old man disappearing for a week - uh, fifteen days - naturally has a bad effect on the wife and kids. There's enough lone wolves around...
Wistfully, I watch him drive away.
Ah, here we go.
Long hair. Definitely a night owl. I'm guessing, guitar player. He buys a twelve-pack - a good sign, no big ambition this fine Saturday - and a newspaper. Hmmmm - mixed signals. I seriously doubt he can read.
I slip into the truck bed and tag along. He's as good as caught. I start to fantasize...
At the driveway of a cheap duplex, a little girl flies out of the door as he pulls up. "Daddy daddy daddy!" Excited and happy. He must be doing something right.
As he scoops her up and walks in, I cruise back over to my fishing hole. Drat...
Another dozen guys are rejected. Married, daddies, too stoned. Too wired.
I look down the street, and see a gas station with a food mart. Okay, then.
The door opens - and I see a flash of denim. Ratty jeans, T-shirt, boots. Two packs of Winstons in his hand.
And he has the most incredible eyes...
No ring. Definite lack of any honor student bumper stickers on his truck. Fine-looking arms, and maybe, say, six or seven pounds heavier than optimum. High school jock ten years ago, maybe a little longer. That's my guess. Football, of course, down here.
As he gets in, I hop in the back. Beer cans, empty packs - and the wrinkled cover of a mass-market nudie magazine. Most girlfriends wouldn't like to see that, lying right there.
It's a tense ride to his apartment. I stare at the back of his shaggy head and watch him smoke. C'mon, handsome, don't let me down now.
I'm on him as he bounds up the stairs - another plus, because he's not at all winded. Oh shit, but I really want to tackle him and get started right this minute...
As sensational as it feels to go with an impulse like that, it usually leads to short (but hot) sessions. Increased risk. I have something much different in mind.
Nobody's waiting for him inside the apartment. Very good.
Better yet, no photos of rug rats. Definite lack of kiddie art around here. He just gets more and more irresistible.
His bedroom shows no traces of anyone - except him. Heady scent of him in the sheets. He really ought to do laundry more often. Next stop, the bathroom...
Oh baby. One toothbrush. And no signs of female life. Or of a second male, for that matter - I'm no bigot. I'm just going to use him and kick him out anyway.
I have one more thing I check. It's proven to be far more reliable for me than the contents of guy's wallet. He's channel-surfing already, way too fast. Guys will be guys, right?
Silently, I crack open the door of his refrigerator.
No milk, no vegetables. Beer, ketchup, hot dogs. It's classic. It just screams, "I'm fending for myself". Nothing just for every-other-weekend visits from the kids, and no lady-friend to impress. I'll need to see his toenails to be absolutely sure...
And I will. I've decided. He's all mine.
- - 3 - -
Eagerly, I circle around and get a real good look at him, watching the ball game.
Too late, I realize something. I'm totally infatuated, here.
There may be no stupider reason to pick somebody. Hell, they scrunch their eyes closed tight the great majority of the time. Can't help it, poor dears.
But these eyes. Light blue - not too light, and with a hint of green...
The curl of his lip, when his face is relaxed, has just a trace of arrogance. Square jaw, cute nose.
Really stupid, I tell myself. You know better than this, Vik, it's like picking a racehorse from the color of their silks.
But, oh damn. I wanna make those eyes beg...
A desperate, pleading "aw, c'mon" gaze. Earnestly hoping... Please, don't start in on me again, pretty please. Feel sorry for me.
Beg me with those eyes, mister. Let me watch 'em get a little bigger yet as I bring the fingers down and get back to business - major-league fun!
Close 'em real tight as you laugh it up. Literally. Laughing hard, and getting harder...
He'll try again and again. Shoot those puppy-dog eyes at me - well, at whatever toys I'm about to use on him for the fiftieth time. And he'll hope so badly that those soulful eyes will move me to feel sorry for him, cut him a break. But they won't.
I'm going to wipe that other look off his face, too - slightly contemptuous. Disappointed in everything. I want that frown to go away and stay gone, because I do not disappoint. I'm very good at what I do. He won't believe how good.
And so I amuse myself with these thoughts as I check out his place, see what I've got here...
Paid bills are dumped in grocery bags. At least they're all together. "Brent", huh?
I look over the past few months. Very few long distance calls. No jewelry, flowers and what-not on the credit card bills.
Lots of ripped, grease-stained jeans. One of the few shirts on a hanger is a softball jersey from a wrecking yard - uh, luxury car dismantler. Iron-on letters read "STINGER" across the back of the shoulders.
Stinger. Hmmmm. Sting, bee - B, as in Brent? Life of the party when he's throwing back the hard stuff? Major cocksman? I don't get it. Gotta ask him about that.
Standard porn magazines and videos, well-used. Another plus - He doesn't get bored as quickly as some. People who read a good book only once, and never re-read it, can be tough. Addicted to novelty. But my guy sticks with what works for him. Even over all those days that absolutely refuse to end, I can keep him fully entertained. Crazed, even.
The plain-jane smut he likes is just another good sign. If he doesn't fantasize about the kind of things I fantasize about, he's got a truly profound experience just ahead.
- - 4 - -
So let's get it on. You stay right here, Stinger-babe. Stay.
I go out and pick up my ammo, stashed on top of a power transformer about four miles away...
And race back. Hooray - he didn't slip away from me. He did get himself a beer, which is half-gone now. That's, what, his fourth smoke in an hour? Wanna watch that, guy.
Leave it to me.
Okay. I get my darts ready. Under his truck, I dribble sedative into the hollow needles, guesstimating what I need. One beer, 180 pounds, give or take. Too much and he'll snooze.
Definitely a nice day for a drive. Not a cloud in the sky. I could just haul him out and race off, but I prefer to minimize my risks. I need Brent to get off his ass and go outside. To his truck...
No alarm system on it. As if anybody would want to steal it. Well, other than me. I only need it this one time. Get him far enough away from other people - seven or eight miles east of here will do just fine - so they don't hear.
That's a crucial detail, for me - the prisoners have to realize there is no chance anyone will find out what's happening to them. It's just them and me, and no rescuers coming. Usually I pound the fact into their thick heads by letting 'em see how the houses and gas stations peter out, and the other traffic fades away to nothing... That their last chance to get help, or at least draw attention to their plight was five, ten minutes ago - and there ain't gonna be no turning back now. Every rustic mile increases my control of the situation. I absolutely hate to be disturbed when a guy is staying over...
Anyway. Get him up, right? Go to his truck. I could just hide the second pack of cigarettes he bought - and when he goes out to see if he left 'em in the truck, wham.
But that looks like it could be a few hours. I have a much better way to spend the afternoon.
Honk the horn? But that makes everybody look. If the truck was in sight of the window, or even the door, this would be much easier...
I puzzle over it for ten minutes, and end up falling back on a tired old ploy. But hey, it works. That's why it's old.
From just inside the window I say, "Hey! Get away from that truck."
I do my best to make it sound faint, as if it was yelled, oh, in the parking lot. And muffled. The illusion being that it came from outside his apartment, not ten feet away.
Brent's head snaps around. Those wonderful eyes narrow...
And he gets up.
After a pause, he heads for the door.
What a guy. I pick up a few things I had gathered together, and carry them way overhead.
He's scanning the parking lot. Fully alert - for other people. Not for me.
Walking around his ride, checking it out, he takes another drag. By the time he tries the door handle, just to make sure it's locked, I toss my bundle under the next car over and pick up a dart.
One good, firm poke above his right ankle, through the grimy white sock. The dart injects the sedative on impact. Small-bore needle. I pull it, and flip it under his truck.
He brings his leg up to slap it - automatic reflex. Just a bug, right? - and continues looking at the dash...
And delightfully, he starts to sag. But I catch him.
- - 5 - -
I didn't estimate too well. He's asleep within, oh, seven or eight minutes.
As he fades, I start poking around. Armpits, thighs, knees. Belly. Yes indeed. He chuckles just like a biker I... used to know.
But we're on a lonely county road by that time. I stick his sunglasses on, prop his head up, hold his hands on the wheel.
What the hell - I stick a cigarette between his fingers...
Up the hill we go. Dirt-track. Bumpy. He has half a tank of gas, if the gauge is right. So there's no need to get the five-gallon can I stashed along the way.
Straight to the cabin with Stinger.
The bed, the mirror, and whatever I'm using on him. He's not going to like it...
But I'll like it enough for both of us.
We pass maybe five other vehicles, on the way.
One was a patrol car. I hold him very carefully, until it disappears from view.
He lays on the bench seat. Still asleep.
The safe thing to do is have Stinger already locked in when he wakes up. But I have a dumb little opening scene... and I'm going to make him the star.
I pull the truck in just so, maybe four big steps from the door. His keys and wallet are lobbed at least that far inside. I check the view from the driver's seat - yeah, he'll see nothing in there - except his stuff, on the floor. The bed can't be seen until he comes in.
But I'm worried. Smarter guys have bolted right away. Dragging him inside is not what I'm in the mood for. I want to see him walk in. Unassisted. And every time he looks over at the door, he can kick himself for being so stupid...
Oh, of course. He's a Texan.
I pull off his boots.
That makes him start to come around. Interesting - almost as if his body guessed what was coming.
Quickly, I set the boots next to his wallet...
He's woozy. Still waking up, but he finds his cigarettes quickly enough.
When he gets a good look around him, his expression changes. Worried.
He starts to hunt for his keys - and sneaks a hard look at the cabin. His eyes get big. Thrilling me beyond words.
From what I can tell, it isn't until he opens the truck door that he notices... his socks. He looks at the ground for awhile.
Ah. I do believe I was right to get his boots inside.
Checking out the trees around him, I don't see any recognition clicking. It's not like I took him to some well-known state park. Carefully, he stands on the ground. Twigs everywhere. Probably more troublesome is the minefield of small stumps. Some of them are quite jagged. I desperately hope he doesn't injure his feet.
He sighs. Annoyance. I'm going to be hearing that a lot.
Shifting his weight from one tempting foot to the other...
Taking a slow step - toward me.
Thirty seconds later, he's in the doorway. Afraid to move.
He's staring - at the mirror. What the hell?
The bed isn't getting nearly as much attention. That isn't right. I get ready to grab him. The kind of fear I'm seeing is all wrong -
He crouches, scanning all around. Starts reaching for his boots.
They're just too far away to reach. He scoots forward, stretching his fingers out. Nope.
Leaning on one knee... sliding a few inches further in -
His other foot clears the arc of the door.
Slam!
Gotcha -
He leaps backward, standing and pulling the door handle - all in one weird motion. Very fast.
The panic is completely out of proportion. Guys always look bewildered. Everybody knows that things don't move "all by themselves." But Stinger's about to start hyperventilating. Uh-oh. Suddenly he looks very much like a terrified kid.
That's trouble. Could be a past experience which was, to put it lightly, very negative...
But no. I always find some clue in their bedrooms, or their movie collections. On their bookshelves. Better yet, a journal. That deep fascination with something unusual.
I don't think so. Maybe Brent here had a nightmare he never forgot, and something just reminded him of it bigtime. But I've stripped the room. There's the bed, and the mirror. It just can't be the shuttered window or the door, slamming. Locking. Perhaps some combination of them...
Can't be the bed. Simple as they come. A king-size mattress, covered with a plain white sheet.
No headboard or footboard, no pillows... Unless he's got a phobia about clean sheets. He can't see underneath it, because I don't want him to - all kinds of stuff is waiting there - so I have another sheet draped down almost to the floor. It doesn't look scary to me. I'll definitely be riding him while black satin teases his ass... but that's a surprise, for later.
I need that bed. And I'm sure as hell not going to let him out yet.
I've run into this twice before. No, three times. Blind panic, before I even had 'em restrained. I tried to ramrod the first guy through it, but it turned out to be totally unsatisfying. The next time I scaled way back, and then got hasty on the third day -
There is no way I'm going to make that mistake again.
And, dammit, I feel bad for the guy. I know what's going to happen, and he's jumped to a bad conclusion. Right this minute, I've gotta defuse the threat...
At a loss, I try the simplest thing first. Turn the mirror around, and stick it in up against the wall.
He hears it move, and launches into another frenzy. Babbling! "Nooo nooo nooo nooo n-"
I knock on the wall. Twice.
He sneaks a look -
And instantly... relaxes.
Oh ho.
Finally, I see the bewilderment I was looking for.
Okay, then.
- - 6 - -
Every instinct says to go slow with this one. Seduce him...
From under the bed, I bring out a feather. Raise it, and point it at him.
"You gotta be kidding," he blurts.
Good. Now I've got his number.
And I know we're going to get along just great.
He pulls at the door a while longer. And he keeps looking behind him. At the feather. It's between him and the window, so he's not inclined to run toward it. But he could, so I'm ready to throw him on the bed...
He's so much calmer than he was. When he looks at the feather, I get the idea he's trying hard to convince himself he's not really seeing it. Hanging in the air. It didn't really point at him. Sure.
Poor baby. Struggling to believe this isn't happening, his eyes are lying to him... that there's still a chance he can slip out of this bizarre situation. But never fear, I know how to handle skeptical types. It's time to blow away any hope he has left...
Six gloves meet up with the feather. Pink satin. He's never seen gloves like these, because I have to sew them myself. Thick, and smooth. Way too narrow for his hands.
He's never felt this texture before, either. I've finally found a silicone treatment I like, to eliminate the friction when I use 'em on sweaty skin. Or sticky body parts. Ironically, it's a food additive - and it's also superb for helping vocal chords tolerate the unique workout they're going to get. He'll find out soon enough.
I make the gloves put on a little show. Impromptu choreography. Rolling, waving...
His mouth is hanging open. That's what I like to see.
I pair off the gloves, and have them shake hands - a real "big" handshake, like they were on Broadway. Partners.
And now, they're heading for him.
Stalking the wild ticklish animal.
"This can't be... happening."
Another stock response. I am so gonna enjoy making him eat those words.
He starts sliding along the wall. Thinking about the window? Yeah. He keeps looking at it, and back at the gloves -
They split up, in pairs. Surrounding him.
And I close the slats on the shutters. Clank the big steel bars into their... bar-holding thingys. Snapping the padlocks as loud as I can. I added them just to smash the plan he's got right now. And I want him to know that.
Very little light is leaking in, from just the edge of the shutters. He looks around wildly - but until his eyes adjust to the dimness, he has no idea where my gloves are.
"Help," he says suddenly. Not very loud. Priceless!
I touch his side. He springs away - into other gloves.
And moving forward puts his chest right into my waiting hands.
"Stop it!" he yells. Twice.
But I don't.
This is not unusual. Some guys are such hotheads.
I don't let him budge without getting a fast tickle in somewhere. And like so many men, when Stinger feels a certain level of vague fear... he gets mad. My goal is to defeat that mindless fury. It doesn't help my cause.
Annoyed - that's okay. Inevitable. I'll see that curled lip a lot. Disgusted sigh, and that cute little sneer. I'd need a lot more than two weeks to break him of that lifelong behavior.
I keep poking him, and poking him...
"Dammit. I mean it - knock it off!"
O-kay. The usual phrase is "I'm not kidding!" - around, any more, here - but it's close. He's ready to hit something - even the wall - so I'm watching very close for stupid, self-defeating behavior like that... and continuing to mess with him.
The yells become inarticulate. Veins stick out on his neck.
I keep poking.
Twenty minutes, give or take. He pounds the wall - with me ready to grab that fist, if he goes to punch it. Broken knuckles will not be allowed. I hate competition.
Bang. That one was harder. He didn't wince, though. I get a pair of men's leather gloves out and bring 'em over. If he won't behave, he'll be wearing 'em real soo-
"Fuck fuck fuuuuck!" The loudest he's been.
His head drops.
I poke him. He leans away. Listless.
Beaten.
Poke poke poke... Yeah. He's back to being annoyed. And thoughtful?
I think so. That's better. Scheming is better than blindly lashing out...
My fingers make a light grab for his crotch.
He'll come up with the right answer soon. There's no way out of this.
For another half-hour, I don't let him get any further away from his destination. Very light bullying. And when he steps toward the bed, I leave him alone - but he always loses his nerve.
Whenever he shoves past one pair of gloves, I use the others to steer him... toward the bed. And he runs back to the wall. But that leaves three directions exposed.
I wish he'd take a hint. Give it up, sport - you're locked in. You will end up on the bed. Get it over with.
But he makes me up the ante. Six more gloves.
Quick strokes across his shoulders - running the coated satin under his long hair, across the back of his neck! - and he kicks off the wall.
I've got him surrounded.
Don't fight it, Stinger. Take a load off.
A strangled, whining sound comes out of him, as his legs bump against the edge of the mattress.
- - 7 - -
From sitting, and still getting pestered... to laying on his back.
I make all of the gloves retreat. He starts to get up -
And stops himself!
Such a good sport. I bring him a treat.
It's the unopened pack of Winstons.
Take that, I think. Just try to figure out what's happening to you...
He's reluctant, at first. When he gets his lighter out, he just holds it. Waiting for something to happen.
But there are no right moves here.
Fifteen long seconds pass... and he lights up.
And I let him lie there - feet flat on the mattress, knees up. Thinking furiously.
I wonder if he remembers the old cliché. The hero, facing a firing squad. Given a cigarette...
And not allowed to finish it.
After the fourth or fifth drag, I take it away. He gets tense -
The gloves pounce. Ridiculously slow.
"No..."
Yes, Brent. I get a lock on his wrists - two gloves on each. I even let him pull free and twist around.
And then I pin 'em again... and bear down.
He's adequately surprised. I'm happy. The gloves, which have been so unsubstantial, suddenly have the strength of a gorilla.
I let him flop and kick. The bed squeaks a little.
Eight more gloves wait in the air above him. Strong hands. Gonna get him, real soon now.
I lift two of the gloves off - and he still can't move. The amazement I'm seeing now makes the slow buildup worthwhile. We are going to have such a good time -
Well. One of us is.
I move a glove - one of the two that just let go of his forearms. Turn it, so the fingers point away from his head. Wiggling fingers...
Landing on his belly.
"No..."
Such tense muscles. I start massaging through his T-shirt.
"Aw nah huh huh huh huh huh." He starts bucking again, trying so hard to sit up. Anything to get my fingers off him!
Across, and back. Up -
"Naw haw haw haw..."
Returning to his belly button. Digging in just a little harder.
"Aaaaaah hah hah haaaaaahhll..."
That's it. He's thrashing around desperately. So I lock a pair of gloves around his triceps. Stay down, Stinger.
"Pleeeeeeeee heee heeee heeeee! Haaaaallllwwheeee..."
And I catch those flailing legs. Two hands for his ankles. Two more for his knees -
As soon as I curl the fingers underneath his knees, he shrieks laughter. With denim between my hands and his skin - he's still coming unglued.
Naturally, I keep those gloves squeezing. Long and slow. I think I'll spend a lot of time there. Fierce stimulation.
Another glove starts tickling his belly...
That leaves one more pair. Not nearly enough.
So I pick up eight more.
Just for a second, I pause the belly-tickling and the knee-fondling.
Brent laughs for a few more seconds... and opens his eyes.
Not two, but ten more gloves are above him. Coasting on down. Moving together...
Peeling off his socks.
"Naaaa! Naaaaaaaa-"
I resume scratching his gut, and his knees.
"Naaaaawwwwwwww hah hah hah hah heeeeeeeeee..."
What a wimp. His feet are going wild. Anticipating my expertise? To worry him even more, I send a pair of gloves around his shins. When he starts pulling against 'em, another pair takes careful hold of his toes.
"Aaaah haaaah haaah nnnnnaaaaaah huh haw haaaaaw..."
Straightening them, and the foot. He's shaking his head wildly. Oh, are they that ticklish? Then I'd better not slack off.
Four gloves move, touch - and start rubbing.
Stinger laughs harder. Silently. So blown away he can't make any noise. Very nice. And I still have one pair of gloves free.
There's an opening. Those shirt sleeves are being ignored. So I assign a hand to each side.
Reaching in. Way in. Digging -
Stinger flails harder... and stops moving. Ah.
He's too overwhelmed to fight any more. Or laugh.
Works for me.
After a terrific hour, I roll him over, and pull his shirt off.
He's too far gone to fight me...
Right away, I know his butt-cheeks are due for extensive investigation. His shoulder blades are, well, disappointing. But his spine is quite a treat.
And by the next hour, I've had it with the wet jeans.
So off they come. And the underwear.
I use a couple of baby wipes, making him squirm. But my gloves get stern again, pushing him down into the mattress.
Lifting his head, I hold a water bottle to his lips until he catches on.
As soon as he finishes, I start tickling again.
I keep on tickling... and tickling.
I make him cum.
His reactivity goes through the roof afterward. Just as I hoped.
Just before he eats - hour six - I put the cuffs on. Pulling his limbs toward the corners of the mattress.
It's funny, but I find him even more attractive this way.
The night is so warm, I open the shutters. The moon isn't out yet, but it will be.
Keeping a close watch for mosquitoes, I put sixty fingers back to work.
Right up until the sunrise...Stinger doesn't disappoint.
I take good care of him. Tying his forearms and shins down, to give the cuffed skin a little break. And I mean... tying them. Six loops of rope holding each.
Feeling very annoyed - with myself - I go out and get cigarettes. Winstons.
Two cartons.
- - 8 - -
The next day is just as beautiful.
Like yesterday, the golden morning light fills the room. It makes my sleeping prisoner look... I don't know... mythic. The soldier who got lost in the woods, and stumbled upon a magic house which must remain a secret. So there he'll stay, to be tickled forever.
His face is relaxed. The cuffs look like they're on to stay.
I let him sleep.
I don't think I've ever met a guy who spent so much time laughing silently. It's the next best thing to no laughing at all. Being just too overloaded with tickling. It's very different than the annoying cheaters who get desensitized to my attack.
Stinger's stopped laughing a few times, but it wasn't because he was getting used to me. I think I like him better with his chest heaving away, no sound coming out. It'll mean the usual number of rest breaks, and he'll be sore...
When he does wake up, there's the usual tugging and yelling.
Oh - he is sore. Chest muscles. I know better than to damage anything.
That's what you get for smoking so much, I think. Later, I'll taunt him about it. If he was more of a jock, he wouldn't be grimacing so much right now. There's only one thing to do with him - get his mind off it. And I will. He'll be far too involved with what my fingers are doing to him...
He's just laying there, so I bring water. His belly apparently hurts too. Same cure - dozens of fingers. Toughen him up.
Stinger pulls at the cuffs a while longer, and then just lies there, looking out the window. Wishing? It's another facial expression I never get tired of seeing.
I have just the thing for reflective moments like this. From under the bed, of course, I bring...
A full carton.
Paradoxical. From what I read, some people think smokers are less sensitive. That's just stupid. Inexperience shows. Let me at any smoker who's the least bit ticklish. Two weeks. He'll be a new man.
I have a loyal audience as I get a cigarette out. A bit worried about the carton. Oh yes, Brent. You will. It's going to take a while to smoke 'em all. Even you. And I got a second carton for ya.
But he's glad to light up. Frowning a lot, as he inhales...
By the third cigarette, not really wincing at all.
Enough kindness. Time to stomp. I pluck the cigarette from his lips and toss it aside. Water bottle...
And then gloves. Four gloves, I think...
And eight feathers.
Here we go.
The day goes according to plan. More satisfying than I know how to describe...
I've been oiling him up with artist's brushes. Pushing the body hair around. A more intense sensation will blow him away tomorrow, when he doesn't have that hair to protect him anymore.
He just ate, so of course he's gotta smoke.
It's day number three. I'm aiming for five more hours today, so I don't mind letting him rest - for now. The cigarettes keep coming, and Brent's been at full-throttle for so long he appears to need 'em.
I'm thinking about a blindfold... but then I don't get to see his eyes. Well, more water for the captive, and then back to the races...
A grand assault on his toes, and heels. Then his neck. All that time, the oil and the brushes encourage him to cum, but don't quite tip him over the edge. And if it's not the most ferocious ejaculation he's ever lived through, I'm not trying hard enough. Then, back to his feet - oh, and his knees.
As I take the bottle away, he looks angry. One long pull at the straps...
Then I watch his expression change. Little boy lost. Marooned in a world of pleasure. It's not quite his begging expression, but it makes me stop cold.
Oh, no. But that's not quite it. Men always register their disapproval on their face when they say, "Oh, shit." They lack the... what? Maybe it's innocence that I'm seeing now.
I don't like this. Yeah - almost.
It hits me, then. I know what's up... and I can't avoid it. And I'm sure not looking forward to it.
A wave of... some strong emotion runs through me.
I kiss him.
His eyes open wide. Complete surprise.
You and me both, Stinger.
Slowly, I pull away. What the hell did I just do?
He just blinks, still thunderstruck.
Now I'm furious. How dare... uh...
Four gloves - his feet. Brutal.
He slams around and howls. Take that. And this.
My plan for the rest of the night has just changed.
As he writhes, I slide a box out and dump it on the floor. Oil. Brushes. Toe restraints. Finger restraints. Pair after pair of surgical gloves. And the blindfold.
After about three hours, I feel better.
Brent's limp. Chuckling mechanically. After two ejaculations, and a bone-crunching romp on every reachable spot - which included scrubbing his eyelids, and his scalp - he's done for the night.
I find it hard to pull the last brushes away from his inner elbows.
He chuckles for five more minutes. I doubt he has the strength to swallow. I don't even try giving him anything. Not even a smoke.
There's bruises all over him.
Sliding into unconsciousness, he never opens his eyes.
Well, shit. This is a new one. I... completely lost control.
On him.
On to Part 2
21jan02