"Hey, Marty," Kelli said, giving him a big smile.
"There she is," he grinned back.
Kelli nodded. "Lois is almost free now... Why don't I take you back to room four?"
"Cool."
"It won't be long," Kelli promised.
"No prob." He shot her a salute and kicked off his shoes.
"Yell if you need anything." She closed the door.
Marty stripped down to his briefs and wrapped the towel around him. Then he hopped up onto the massage table and laid down.
There was a breeze, suddenly. Weird...
He sank down further into the padding - but even that felt so good.
The door opened and closed.
"Hey, Lois," he said, not bothering to lift his head.
"Mmm-mmmmm."
Her voice sounded odd. Falsetto. Maybe she had a cold.
Marty decided to give her a smile...
All he saw was a pair of brown leather gloves. They were opening a bottle of oil. One of them waved -
"Stay, targetboy," a male voice said.
Some time must've gone by, because he almost felt like he'd dozed off. Unfamiliar contact - no, it was pressure - was snug around his wrists, ankles, and waistline. Something like a strap pressed against his hair. He couldn't move his head much.
It almost felt like leather. Just like that. Pinning him down. And his towel must've fallen off, because it was gone now.
"What the hell," Marty said.
"Hey," the guy said. "Memory revision - now. Targetboy."
He blinked.
"Ready, Marty?"
Oh. That was... Turn's voice. Of course. Marty had come in for a massage, after all. Turn was so good at what it did - "it" because there was some mystery there that Marty had never figured out. He didn't know what Turn looked like. Just the gloves it wore. But the results were what mattered.
"You bet. Let's do it," he said.
It was heaven. Turn was so incredibly good.
The gloves started up by his neck, knowing just how to loosen him up. It was better than Lois, and that was saying something. How many times had Turn massaged him? Twenty?
"Ohhhhh yeah," he sighed.
"Very good. Lower back, now," Turn said. Even its voice was soothing.
Marty would've held as still as he could, for this, even if the restraints weren't on him.
Turn kneaded his ass.
"Don't ever move out of town... dude," Marty purred. "Or quit. You're too good at this."
"Why - thanks, Marty."
All the way down to his heels. It was heaven.
"Any place need some extra time?" Turn asked.
"Uh... No. I'm just a big puddle now."
It chuckled. "Well, that's the goal. What I like to hear."
He really hated for it to end. What a phenomenal set of hands... uh, gloves. Whatever. Marty was so comfortable he didn't think he could even move yet -
Oh yeah. The cuffs. Well, Turn would start unbuckling 'em any time now...
After a few seconds, he opened his eyes.
"Turn?"
"Yeah?"
"I feel so good, I could stay like this all day. Just -"
"Good."
"No. What I mean..."
Marty stopped talking. Good? There was something in the tone of its voice that... meant something.
"You could stay - just like this. All day," Turn said. "And I said that's good. Because you will."
"I will?"
It snorted very quietly.
Something pressed his left tricep and slid under, circling quickly. It dragged over his back and slid around his right arm. Efficient as anything -
"Hey. Turn?"
It was... a strap.
"Sssshhh," Turn said, pulling it tight.
"This isn't funny."
"It will be."
"Huh?"
Another fuckin' strap curled around his right forearm. Across, and catching his left. Tightening -
"Ow," Marty gasped.
"Sorry," Turn said easily. "You okay?"
"Well... yeah."
Next, more leather caught his calves...
"Dammit, Turn."
"I don't want you hurting yourself."
"What the fuck is going on here?"
"You'll see."
Next his thighs were pulled down into the padding. Marty couldn't help but struggle, even though it had been useless even before Turn had started using the straps. Shit... he could hardly wiggle at all. The only time he'd ever been bound was for work - and Turn had him immobilized even more than that. Nobody else was in the room to look out for him, either. He was starting to sweat.
"Now try to move," Turn ordered.
"Uh... I can't. You -"
"Perfect."
"Why?"
A fingertip pressed against his left heel -
Two, three, four. The thumb of that glove touched alongside too.
The other glove repeated the same pattern on his right foot.
"No!," he squealed. "No, no - No, Turn, no, aw please, please, no -"
"I've been waiting for this moment," it said dreamily, "for soo-oooo long."
The fingers... slid up to his toes.
Marty gasped.
He pushed against the pad as hard as he could - and giggled.
Smooth, oiled leather scritched back down his soles, and up.
Marty realized, with complete amazement, that Turn wasn't going to stop...
He called out Turn's name, as best he could. The laughter was busting out more and more.
Fuckin' gloves kept on tickling his feet.
Marty raged, dying to shout for help. Threaten the fucker. But the attempts just made him wail and howl. The tickling was already impossible, mostly because he couldn't do a damn thing to make it end soon...
Somebody else had to be running in, any second. The walls weren't that thick.
A wild idea occurred to him. He opened his eyes quickly.
Quilted black rubber covered the floor. He hadn't noticed that -
It was on the walls too.
Oh, shit - this wasn't the massage place. Turn had moved him somehow.
Marty screamed as much as he could...
Then he just had to howl for awhile.
Begging, bargaining - choking out every threat he could think of, Marty stayed right-fuckin'-there... and laughed like he was absolutely insane. Sweat was dripping everywhere but the leather held tight. Fuck, he just couldn't move.
There had to be ten fingers torturing each foot. Maybe more. He just couldn't believe how much more powerful he was feeling it. Already. Turn made sure nobody else would be around to say alright, that's enough for now, let him go... and that thought just made Marty's feet come alive like nothing he'd ever felt before. The cuffs wouldn't let him move his hands. Straps kept him from rolling or bucking or slamming around.
The gloves weren't taking it easy on him. The tickling was just merciless. Solid. All over - heels, sides, arches and balls. Even tracing over his insteps.
This was nothing like what they'd done to him at work. There was nobody here to call it off...
Heating up. Or something like that - the skin being tickled. Waking up. Now that was scary.
Something had changed. And it was very bad. He still couldn't lift his head off the circular pad which was glazed with snot and tears -
"Oh hell no," he whispered.
His toes. He couldn't bend his fuckin' toes now. It didn't. Oh, it wouldn't! Not Turn. It had been so cool before. There was no way it could be this cruel. Right? This really had to be a nightm-
Leather hands curled around one heel, then the other.
"No! No no no!," he wailed. "Turn. No -"
Horrifying fingertips started easing between his toes.
He almost managed to lift the table right off the floor. A loud squeal - more of a scream, really - was all he could kick out before the torrent of roars came. He'd never sounded so insanely happy before.
But then the electrical fire lighting up his damn feet had never felt anything like this either.
Oh, fuck, the hours and hours of tickling were more than he could possibly take. Spreading all over his feet again. It felt like fifty fingers.
After a while he was breathing hard... or gasping for air, actually. The stomach-churning realization was haunting him - that the last attack hadn't gone on for hours. Not even close. The night would be fuckin' eternal. Eventually, Marty opened his eyes -
A water bottle was under his head. Jock squeeze-bottle. A brown leather glove held it.
"Thirsty?" Turn asked.
"Yuh... You c-can't... Aw no -"
"Okay," it said.
The glove floated out of view - toward his feet.
"No, no, Turn -"
Fingers! They were landing again. Absolutely gentle. Stroking his nuts.
"Help," he wailed.
Another glove started fingering his navel.
"Neeeeeeeee!" he shrieked, arching as hard as he could.
Loose hands traced the inner joint of his thighs. All of the gloves started slowly, making him squeak and cackle. The sheer power of his nerves reporting the tickling was making him seize up. This was as bad as the foot-tickling.
There were so many other places like this. All over his body.
Turn must've known, too.
When he realized he was thinking about the same few things, over and over, it became clear that Turn had paused again. Maybe it was letting him catch his breath. It wasn't done with him - and tears sprang to his eyes as he imagined how wonderful that would be...
But the straps still held him down. Yeah, "paused" was the right word, dammit.
What had finally gotten him to open his eyes was his erection. Sweat was just pooling under him now, and he was hard - but the pad wasn't there when he tried to thrust. He felt air instead.
Trying to press down with his hips, Marty realized a section of the table was gone. He vaguely remembered pissing, but that warmth never ran along his thighs.
His dick swung freely. Rubbing against the pad to get himself off was out of the question -
Oh, no. The really bad news was that Turn could play with his meat... as much as it wanted. What if the bastard was into denial? Or milking, for that matter? Marty's fuckin' hands still couldn't move. Tickling, and now this.
"Tuh. Tuh... Turn," he croaked.
"Right here," it said. "Look. Drink some water."
He did, gratefully...
Is there any chance, he wanted to ask Turn, of getting you to stop? Right now? But hearing its answer, out loud, would only scare him more. "Kuh... Question," he panted.
"Fire away, Marty."
He snagged a few breaths first. "The c-cuffs. You... massage me, dammit. No cuffs. Why did I... uh, this is wrong, how did I get here, how -"
"Save your strength. I think I got it. How come you didn't freak out when you noticed the restraints? And me, instead of Lois."
"Y-yeah."
"I'm so glad it worked. You have no idea how much I practiced."
"Turn..."
"What? Oh. Okay. I learned how to tweak your mind."
He thought about that and kept breathing hard.
"Remember that wind? Before I started massaging?"
"Yes."
"What really happened, there, was that you got up. Off the table. Dressed, went out, and told Kelli you just remembered a really important appointment. You paid for the hour anyway, and left Lois a nice tip. Said you'd call to reschedule."
"No, I didn't."
"Oh yes you did. Then you got in your car, and filled up the gas tank... and drove here. A very secret place I built."
"You're not getting away with this."
Turn snickered at that. "Looks like I already did."
"Why would you do this to me?" Well, that was dumb. He already knew the answer to that one... "I know plenty of guys who'd give anything to be... uh, like this. Here with you -"
"I've been planning this for, oh, about six months," Turn said.
Don't say it, Marty thought desperately.
"You've got such an incredible body. Really, profoundly ticklish. You never had to fake it. So I found this place and beefed it up."
"No," he whispered. "Please -"
"There's nobody else I want to... work over. Not more than you." It sighed. "I've thought up a hundred ways to make you delirious. Marty West."
That was the second-worst thing he could've heard. Not West, he wanted to scream. I'm not really Marty West, Turn, I'm just Marty Wisniewski -
"You're in for the tickling of a lifetime. Oh, yeah. I've got it all worked out."
"No! Aw, why - you don't understand, dammit!"
"And you're all mine. This is gonna be so great! No time limit at all."
He tried to slide around. It was coming, the fuckin' cherry on top, the words that would make him keel over in a place just like this. The day he'd feared had finally come. Turn was about to say it -
"I mean, Marty West. And me. Damn!" It giggled happily. "I've seen all your videos."
Boom.
Life was over now. Yeah.
He'd howl and roar, burning up with ghastly sensation, for the next month. Months. Solid torture.
Slow death by tickling.
His body was in excellent shape, too, and he'd never figured out how to tune it out or desensitize himself. That just sucked. Even during his scenes he just got more and more ticklish. Four of his movies had intense tickling in 'em, and each time it got harder to take...
Now he was off the clock. Turn thought much, much bigger.
Marty West, he thought hollowly, just had a heart attack. In his head. A major one. And with his luck, all of his nerve endings would rock on and on.
Turn wasn't a masseur. It was... a fan.
Of all the guys out there fantasizing about what it would be like to get Marty West locked up, roaring just for them - it had to be a magic fucker that pulled it off. Psychotic tickling... Oh, shit, months and months. Way more than any obsessed dude could hope to dish out. The padding on the floor, the damn toe restraints, and even the strategic gap in the massage table just seemed to prove it. Turn had worked hard on this. And it caught him, alright.
Endless, complete, mind-numbing tickles.
"Solid," he murmured.
"Solid tickling," Turn agreed. "Guaranteed."
The gloves set their fingers down on his calves. Lower -
"Noooooo, wait, don't - no no no nooooo," he babbled. Moving in any direction just didn't fuckin' work.
The fingertips skipped over the ankle-cuffs. Caressing his heels again.
Marty was desperate to think of something that would get Turn to pull 'em off. Nothing came to him. Turn had sald enough to let him know, beyond all doubt -
"Hah hah hah," he moaned. "You hoo hoo suh son of a huh huh bih hih hih hitch - hah hah haw haw huh huh huh huh huh haaaw!"
"That's right, Marty. I am. Your devoted tickling son of a bitch."
The heavy tracing began up his soles -
"Thih hih hih thuh th-this isn't a mooo hoo hoo hoovee hee hee heeaaahhhwllll."
Miraculously, the tickling stopped.
"What did you say?"
"Haaallp," he wheezed.
"This isn't a movie. You really said that... Damn. You must be really gone already."
"Hh-huh?"
"Am I supposed to go, like - oh. Okay, Marty, that's right. We're not shooting one of your incredibly hot tickle-flicks. What was I thinking? Guess you want me to let you go now."
"Nooooo -"
"But the other hand... it's so obvious, dude. This isn't a movie - it's real! This isn't gonna end, not in thirty minutes. Or thirty hours. Am I gonna stop? You know better than that. I've got so much tickling planned. For you. That's a promise. I've been collecting tools and toys for you that'll put all of your films to shame..."
He let out a wail. Okay, it was a scream. Loud, and grinding, completely without hope. He sounded like a wild animal caught in a trap. That analogy was the right one, though it didn't reassure him at all.
The gloves started to stroke again, rubbing as if they were out to seduce him. They were like a lover's hands. Oil from their fingers and palms had been spread all over his damn feet.
He barked laughter at the floor.
Turn owns my feet now, he thought. My dick. Everything.
Light fingers tickled up the inside of one foot, and down the sole of the other one. The stimulation was more subtle - and far less rushed - than the brutal attacks delivered by P.J. and the other tickle-tops who worked him over when the cameras were rolling. Lust and cruelty sparkled in their eyes...
But the gloves making him whoop had another agenda, or maybe an additional one. Making him feel every damn stroke was too important to rush. Turn had been looking forward to this for so long - getting him strapped down tight. It had worked hard, and now the time had come to make a luxurious, exacting survey of his ticklish feet.
It was only beginning to learn how to make him thoroughly deranged with pleasure, suffering through the inability to register it all.
The fun probably began with the new possessions it valued most - and he knew they weren't even the most sensitive, unfailing, fuckin' reliably ticklish areas which it would discover all over and under the infamous Marty West... Star of tickling movies, always praised for the authentic hysteria of his reactions - video which was studied frame-by-frame, sometimes, by ticklers who loved to think about getting their fingers on his soles and in his armpits.
Turn didn't just play with his feet - it adored 'em.
That removed the last doubt Marty had. There would be no reasoning with it. Slick gloves massaged under the rings which held his toes captive, dragged up and down his soles, squeezed over and around his heels...
Hoping for anything else was ludicrious.
It would tickle him for more than a month. Why not? The devoted fingers - had Turn used that same word? Devoted? - made him believe that.
Two months could easily turn into three, and four. Nobody would have the slightest idea where to look for him. There was no reason to doubt that Turn had covered its bases, and Marty was staying put - strapped down tight, watching sweat drip into the spooky black padding on the floor. He couldn't even cling to the hope it had fucked up somehow. No matter how much Boll or the others wondered about where he went, Turn would just keep on tickling.
Long nights, and more intense all the time. It was gonna feel like decades. Centuries. The thing he really couldn't deal with -
Yelping uncontrollably, he bucked and reefed on the straps. The tickling, already, that very second, was way more than he could deal with. Twenty fingers... right? At least. And Turn said it had toys. Privacy, security, gear - and time. All it lacked was him.
Six, eight, ten confident gloves.
They explored every inch of his body, clearly testing - one set of fingers would really dig in for a minute, trying different techniques and textures. But most of the time they all tickled lightly.
Marty hooted and raved until he couldn't even twitch anymore. As he expected, the sensation ramped up then - more piercing than any other tickling he could remember. It was unbelievably arousing. The hands rubbed and coaxed sometimes, like the most incredible massage... turning on him. The most sadistic tickler in the world wore 'em. Barely digging in yet - what would it be like when Turn stepped things up?
His knees, his calves, all around his neck, his ass, sneaking under to pet his belly, and whenever the fingers returned to his armpits or ribs he was just too overwhelmed to laugh.
At some point he stared for awhile, just glad to be able to breathe.
A little tube was moving back and forth. When he realized what it was, he grabbed it with his teeth and sucked in. Water. What a relief...
"Marty's on vacation," Turn said happily. "Nobody's gonna disturb you. Except me, I guess."
"N-no," he finally panted. "You can't... do this."
"Forty-one minutes."
"What?"
"That's how much actual tickling there was in 'Roommate Executioner'." Turn almost sounded like it was pouting. "You were just coming unglued..."
"Please, Turn, please listen to me. I can't take this. I just can't."
"I've already tickled you at least twice that long. You can take it. My goal is twelve hours on, twelve hours off."
"Noooooo!"
"But if you want to go fourteen, fifteen, I'd appreciate it. Oh yeah. Don't you worry about a thing. I'm watching very closely. There's no way I'd let anything bad happen to you." It laughed quietly. "Every day - unlimited fun."
One glove after another took hold - ribs, thighs, triceps - and all he could do was whine like a lunatic before the short barks of hysteria started churning out again.
"You know, Marty, you've got a big dick."
His eyes flew open.
There it was - the other thing he'd been terrified Turn would say. His heart was racing, and he repeated the compliment to himself numbly.
Bound like this... with his meat easy to mess with. Exposed.
"I could tell it was special," Turn said, "but it's thicker in real life. Even... meatier than it looks onscreen."
Just beginning to imagine what was in store made tears flood his eyes again. It was hard to breathe, too -
Fingers started touching his glans, his shaft...
Infinite tickles - and now this.
Rearing back got him absolutely nowhere. Turn sure knows its restraints, he thought hollowly.
At least the hands played with him as if they really were, well, respectful. That could mean hours and hours of mindblowing teasing.
Turn isn't going to hurt me, Marty told himself - and he suddenly wished, with all he had and surely not for the last time, that it would. This kind of careful torment was going to fill week after week, long after he lost count. Wide awake, more sensitive than he would've beleieved possible - and the fuckin' tickling had only been going on for, what, four or five hours so far?
"Let me cum," he whimpered without even intending to say it out loud. "Turn. Please?"
Something swept over his nut-sac. There was no mistaking what it was. A feather...
It used more feathers, and stiff little brushes - barely making contact.
Marty's awareness was cutting in and out. At first that scared him, but he got used to it.
One hour led to another, and another. Never enough resistance for him to push, and shoot. He'd been sobbing, and then fingers got really busy on his feet. Switching immediately into the wildest screams yet was one of his more vivid memories - but there were so many others.
Hours. Not just what seemed like hours. The real thing. And Turn was still feathering his shaft and brushing slowly around his asshole, clutching his armpits for a minute or two, having a glove burrow under and molest his nipples...
A leather hand cupped his balls.
Gentle fingers scratched his insteps, in no hurry at all.
Thick hooting noises rolled out of him. It didn't matter if he squealed, or moaned, or whooped like a shitfaced cowboy... Turn just kept going.
Oh, fuck, if he didn't get to shoot his load soon he was gonna absolutely freak out -
Gloves started creeping down his back, and he had no doubt they'd end up tracing his ribs again.
"I'm crazy," he mumbled. "Already. Permanently gone. You hear what I'm saying?"
"Eat," Turn ordered. "Here."
"Dammit." But he took the next bite of steak off the fork. It had hinted that he'd get to cum before he passed out. There was no mistaking how excited it was about the diabolical tickling that he'd get immediately after that.
"Lots of energy for Marty West," it said. "This is gonna be the most incredible night."
"And winter," he muttered.
"Aw, you're selling yourself short again," Turn said happily. "Waa-aaaay too short."
11jul05