- - 28 - -
But I make myself call Erwin on Monday morning.
And I go to Panama.
My work is excellent. I cut some corners... so I could finish up three days early.
That did not go over well. Long lectures on the need to do things thoroughly, or they might as well not be done at all.
I knew that. But it was my first time away from Stinger. Getting updates from Erwin, every other day, wasn't enough. Brent was doing great. That drove me crazy. He was supposed to be delirious...
The repercussions of my work turn out to be so drastic that our next two "jobs" happen spontaneously, without our help. Internal unrest, et cetera.
It really galls poor Erwin, but the three days I shaved turn into... thirty.
By the end of that month, even I could see that Stinger really needed a vacation. From me. His eyes were pretty crazy. That made going to Europe much easier...
Erwin forgives me - mostly.
It takes him a while. He really is in a tough spot, since I have unique skills, and he'd already made the mistake of actually liking me.
I know I'm okay in his book when he tells me how much Brent enjoyed his last one-night stand. He doesn't know what epic tickling follows each time, the next couple days... But he's a smart guy. He can assume.
Brent can't connect getting laid with the degree of tickling anyway. Apparently I've impressed Erwin just because I allow Brent to go carousing...
"Yeah, what can I say. He can't keep it zipped up."
Erwin reacts to that. "He's hyperstimulated. Every chance you get, you molest the poor man. As for being allowed to wear pants..."
"Ooooooo."
"Do you know," he says, "you gave me the first real scare I've had in ages? That night?"
I know which night. "You made that pretty clear."
"No. Not what you're thinking. That walk out to my car, was extraordinarily difficult."
"What are you talking about now, you senile old hack?"
"Threat elimination. Think, Vik. I had my back to you." I say nothing. Huh? "Your biggest vulnerability."
"You're joking. Right?"
"Absolutely not."
"You... weren't afraid I'd do something to you?" And he nods. "To you?"
"Get the senile old hack out of the way. And nobody would know about your... prize catch. I was expecting to get coshed on the back of the head any moment."
"Erwin! You thought I'd do something like that?"
He shrugs. "Maybe now you understand the utter foolishness of what you've done. I thought you'd become that unbalanced -"
"And now?"
"We rule our passions, or our passions rule us."
"I take that to be a 'yes'," I say sadly.
"You're very good to him, in your way," he admitted, "but he is still your toy. Really, you've had to go to considerable trouble to... meet his needs. At times it must feel like he's the master."
"Yeah." My bank accounts have taken a major hit. Men are expensive.
"When people continue to act against their own best interests - smart people - I take it they're truly unaware of the size of their... blind spot."
I'm not a person, but I mull that one over anyway. "Thank you. I think."
"You're welcome. I've done my best to remember your theft and use of the implanter as a... moment of weakness. I suggest you do nothing more to make me review the events of that night."
"What night?" I say quickly.
"Uh... Very good."
"I can't believe I didn't even think of getting you out of the way," I tease him.
"You weren't yourself," he says acidly.
- - 29 - -
"Sting-er."
"Hey," he says, from the living room. "Vik? Is that you?"
Who else would it be, I think. Mo-ron. But he's my mo-ron...
"Uh-huh," I sigh, coming into the living room and messing up his hair. He pulls away, scowling. A basketball game is on the tube.
Wearing only a pair of silk boxers - one of my many "suggestions" is that he'll be more comfortable around the house when he's just about naked - and a growing crop of tattoos, he looks fuckin' tough. Very powerful. His hair is well down his back, and all this muscle looks terrific on him. He poses in the bathroom mirror - when he thinks I'm not around. My guy.
"I got you something," I announce, floating the box to his lap.
"You did? Aw."
"You deserve it." He shakes it. "Go on. Open it up."
He finishes his smoke and tears the wrapping paper off. Lifts the lid...
"Brushes?"
"Yeah!"
"They look... expensive."
"They are."
He stares at them, rubbing his finger along the biggest one. "Soft."
"And those square ones are firmer."
"Uh-huh. Look, Vik... I'm sorry. I don't get it."
"You will."
Stinger's getting worried. "Did I used to paint?"
I giggle at him. "No, babe. I like to paint."
"Oh."
"With oils."
He squirms as he thinks about that. "Uh, are you going to paint something?"
"Yes. I am. I'm going to paint tonight. With oils... And I need you."
Oh, it's bugging him. And he can't seem to figure out why. "Me? I don't know anything about painting -"
"Or oils?"
"N-no," he says quickly.
Liar. All those "dreams", sport. What about those? "You know what I really like to paint?"
"No idea," he says, staring worriedly at the brushes.
"I love to paint... still life." He gulps! It's so cute. "Figures. Still life - life, held still. Get it?"
"Uh. Yeah -"
"And my favorite figure to paint... is the human form. Men, especially."
He gets ready to stand up. "Well, I gotta go into town now -"
"The male form. Oh, yeah. Held still." From behind the couch, I lift a coil of nylon rope.
"Vik -"
"Nice and still." I dangle one end of the rope in front of his face.
He bolts. But I grab him.
"Aw, no! Not again -"
"Yes, sir. Now this won't hurt a bit," I say, dragging him back down on the couch.
"Please don't tie me up again. I hate this."
"But I enjoy it so much," I tell him, as I get his wrists behind his back. "You have no idea."
"Actually... I do," he says, fighting hard.
"Here's the first knot."
"Lemme go!"
"Never!" I grab his ankles, and bend his knees. Round and round goes the rope.
"Vik. Don't," he whines.
"Heeeeere's another knot. And you're stuck."
"Dammit. Why are you doing this to me?"
"Well, I have to make sure you stay put."
"No you don't -"
I hogtie him, and double up the rope holding his limbs. He wriggles like an eel, unsuccessfully. "There. At least I know where you'll be for the next three hours."
"Three hours?"
"Uh-huh." I whip a bandanna out from under the couch. "The finishing touch -"
"Please! Please, Vik! Dammit!"
"What?"
"Not the gag."
"But I want to..."
He gives me The Look. Pretty please, boss-lady, don't do it, I'll be good. This may be the main reason I tie him up... when we're not in the cellar. He begs so well - without a word.
"Okay."
"Thank you," he says, trying to pull his arms free.
"But... I want you to get drunk."
"Oh, shit."
I bring a bottle in. He stares at it while I set him on his knees.
"Ow -"
"Knock it off. You're kneeling on a couch cushion. That doesn't hurt."
"My arms," he says uncertainly, as I unscrew the cap.
"Drink up..."
He does. Of course. Then I lay him back on his side.
"Ooooh," he says, and burps. I jam a pillow under his head, study him, and roll him over a little.
"Comfy?"
"No." In that tone of voice, he means "yes". As in...
"You're drunk, Stinger."
"No. I'm n-not."
"I've got you in my power." I stick a cigarette between his lips, and light it.
"Well, at least I don't go around tying people up..."
I bring him a urinal. He whines a lot, but he needs to go.
It's half-full when I make it float away... watched by a guy who can't get up and follow it.
During his fourth cigarette, he starts to bitch again. "Untie me."
"No way."
"Vik."
"What?"
"Untie me. Now."
And so on. I make him drink some water, using a squeeze bottle...
"Untie me."
"No!"
"Please."
"No, Brent."
A pause. Then, "Hey."
"What?"
"Untie me."
"If you say one more word, you're going to regret it."
He snorts. And pulls at the rope for a few seconds. "Shit..."
I gag him.
"Two hours and fifteen minutes left, sport. Just like that."
"Vih! Nnnnff!"
He watches the remote control rise from the floor. I change the channel...
To a kinky French network. I'm so glad I got him the satellite dish. I can almost always find something related to his reason for being here.
Right now, two couples have paired off and are fucking their heads off. Man with man, and woman with woman.
I turn up the volume, drop the remote, and take a last fond look at his big blue eyes.
"See you laa-terrrr..."
"Naaauuuumf..."
There's a show coming on in fifteen minutes that he'll really find... captivating. The title is "power-tickling the surprised male", as best I can translate it. Sixty heart-pounding minutes. I'm taping it on the cellar VCR.
I have two hundred videotapes down there now - and a good three dozen of 'em drive Brent absolutely nuts. I hope this French program is in that league.
When it starts, I sneak back into the living room to watch... him.
Oh, it's a winner. He's sweating like a pig. Hard as a flagstaff. And nothing else to do, except watch...
I see. The French victim has tattoos. And he's also gagged, caught in a set of stocks. Frenzied.
Stinger can identify with that. Hell, that could be him - it's a scene right out of his, uh, nightmares.
His counterpart on the screen is really a basket case. Very nice work. Sweat dripping off him.
My prisoner wriggles on the couch, breathing nice and hard. Watching.
The next show is about whipping and paddling. He doesn't calm down a whole lot.
I wait ten extra minutes. Let him take in the beginning of a lush sixty-nine sequence.
"Look at you."
"Vmmff...," he says weakly.
I turn off the TV. His eyes close gratefully.
The sweat has pooled around his hands. Pre-cum has made the silk transparent.
"Have you learned your lesson?" I taunt. Nonsensical stuff.
But he nods frantically. He'd agree to anything, right about now.
"I'm not so sure..." But I pull the gag.
He pants for a minute. I give him some water, and a cigarette...
"I don't know why I like this so much. Seeing you hogtied," I say conversationally.
"It's... not very nice."
"No. I guess it isn't."
"Will you please untie me now?"
"In a minute..."
He sighs out smoke.
I laugh, and start undoing the knots.
"My hands are numb."
"They look fine. Good circulation. Move your fingers." He wiggles 'em. "See?"
"Ow," he yells, as his arms are freed...
He lays there, moving his wrists and ankles around.
"Tell you what," I say. "Let me cook you dinner. Make it up to you."
"It's gonna take a whole lot more than dinner to fuckin' make it up to me."
"Then I'll wait on you, hand and... foot. Later. Why don't you go clean yourself up?"
Carefully, he stands up. "Ow. Damn. Did you see the sick shit on that TV channel?"
"No. Which channel?"
"The one you turned on, before you left me alone here."
"Oh. Sorry -"
"Yeah, save it," he grumbles.
As he walks to the bathroom, gingerly, I call out, "So what exactly did they show?"
"Uh... You don't want to know. Believe me."
- - 30 - -
After dinner, he really stinks up the bathroom. Excellent. One less mess to clean up.
I clear the table, just waiting for him to come out...
"Stinger. Do me a favor?"
"I'm still mad at you," he says mildly.
"Be that way. Just go get me a box of dishwasher detergent."
He lights a smoke, taking his time. "Fuck 'em. Do 'em tomorrow -"
"Brent."
"If I gotta drive into town, I think I'll stop at the bar."
"You don't have to drive anywhere. It's downstairs." No reaction. "In the cellar."
"Oh," he says, turning around.
"On the shelves, somewhere."
"Check." He opens the door, and stomps down the stairs...
With me right behind him.
He turns on the light and walks right in. Steering around the swing, and the chair, without reacting.
Brent looks at all the toys and supplies I use on him, and doesn't even stare at anything. He takes a long drag and bends over, peering - past a pile of gloves! - at the rear of the lower shelves.
I close the basement door.
"No... soap," he says, suddenly worried.
"I know."
"Then why - uh -"
"You know why." I pick up the new set of brushes, and start taking them out of the box. "Don't you?"
His eyes couldn't be open any wider. It's all coming back to him.
"Vik. C'mon," and he chuckles once. Trying to get me to back down. Ha, you got me. Just kidding. Let's get back upstairs.
"Stinger. You know what? I have five whole days off."
"No -"
"And you're going to spend them... right here."
"Of course I am," he says glumly. He looks behind him, at the items on the shelf - and recoils. The swing, which he just walked right past, grabs his attention. "No, Vik, you wouldn't d-"
Two gloves grab him from behind. Oiled latex. Right in his armpits.
Brent squeals and flops around.
"Down you go, Stinger," and I pull him onto the pad. Get the cuffs on his wrists. "Look at the bad guy in the mirror. He's about to get tickled into next week."
"No no no no no..."
Next, his ankles. "These brushes are going to do a lot of oil-painting. On you. Brushes, and oil. I like the sound of that..."
"No no nnnoooooooooo -"
I've already cued the new tape to the part I like best - it has nice tight close-ups of feathers in action. Feet, ribs, cock. So I turn on the TV. "Let's watch this together."
"Don't tickle me - don't, Vik, aw shit - shit - how many times... please, I can't stand it -"
"You have no other choice. Five days. Brent. I'm going to tickle you for five days straight."
He whimpers.
To keep him from getting too excited too soon, I shove a cock ring into place.
With a pair of pillows under his head, and the first cigarette lit for him, I pick up a feather. "Now what's so scary about tickling? Huh?"
"Aw, Vik... No..."
"Would I enjoy it so damn much, if it was scary?"
"Oh yeah. You would -"
"It's fun, Stinger. Feverish fun. You're going to laugh, and laugh..."
I stroke his nipples very slowly. One, then the other. On the TV screen, a huge wrestler type is being chloroformed. Petite, gloved hands. It take five women, in leather catsuits, to haul him into a waiting van - the wimps...
He's undressed. Strapped to a vertical rack.
Personally, I'm not too impressed. The straps are not thick enough to contain a guy that size. And he's not that ticklish. Hamming it up.
But my Stinger is totally caught up in it. Smoking his head off. Eyes locked on the screen...
Trembling as my feather lands and drags across his chest. I get another pair, and start teasing his fidgety feet.
21jan2002