Fighting panic now -
And they glide toward him. As he sees 'em, he freezes.
Gloves... and -
Feathers!
He stares. A good fifteen seconds pass.
They draw nearer.
"Noooooo," he wails, contorting all over again. Not the terrorized struggle of a minute ago. Still frantic, though. An informed fear. Like he's headed for the gallows...
Stealing glances at the soundproofing, and at the ropes holding him.
Serious business... The procession of soft tools is almost solemn, coming just as surely as day follows night.
His imprisonment had been flawlessly executed - half-dragged into this foam-lined cell, rope lifting and circling adroitly, anchoring him to the hardware that surrounds the bed... The shocking ease with which it had been pulled taut, and knotted.
And the room itself was prepared long before he was wrestled onto the bed. Noise-deadening layers on the walls, ceiling, floor. Thick anchor-posts to which he's been tied. The door closing slowly... and the padlock levitating into place, clicking shut.
A minute or two to test his bonds. His feet are bared and secured. Readied. They're not going to budge.
Objects are approaching again, fairly taking his breath away.His hands stay well over his head, tied optimally... shirt gone, jeans unbuttoned.
"Y- you... no, dammit, you don't...," he stammers.
Two dozen hawk tail-feathers and twelve bewildering hand-shapes. Closer and closer.
Very grave. Stately. Not a trace of uncertainty... approaching with such precision they each appear to be on a rail, or a track. Diverging just as smoothly, zeroing in with a ceremonial grace -
He twists and stretches, but his limbs are pinned so effectively he can barely move. "You can't..."
Not even a yard away, now. Maybe half that...
Closing in.
He has enough time for another wild glance around the room. Looking for a hopeful sign, anything... a reprieve, an oversight, something he could exploit for a delay, then escape... But all he sees is soundproofing. Foam everywhere, except for the padlock.
Foam to baffle his howls, and shouts, and hysterical cries. Preventing the outside world from ever knowing he's in here...Allowing the insanity to continue, unchallenged, while he stays tied down across the cozy bed.
He shakes his head numbly...
And the first feathers arrive. Gloves are parking over him. Waiting. There to make sure he stays down, and spread, restrained so the feathers won't be inconvenienced or hindered - and ready to grab hold themselves, and fondle, and provoke.
An inarticulate wail starts way down in his throat, and he's certain it couldn't possibly be heard by anyone else.
Soft downy edges land just above his beltline.The light goes out with a faint click.
Darkness. Worse yet -
Like insects... or cotton balls. He tenses up, hissing in air, as two or three of 'em flit across his lower belly. Gritting his teeth, spasmodically trying to dodge. Little brown feathers, visible only in his memory, now even more animated... making his abs clamp down just by tracing little circles.
His fists clench and strain. The rope is not affected... his arms remain caught, leaving his chest and sides bare, positioned, immobilized. His feet, too - and the jeans would go, at some point. Obviously. Then all of him will be eligible, available - parked for feathery attention.
The gloves, silk or whatever, stationed there in the dark - so many! - and if he did manage to snap a rope, they'd no doubt be on him in no time, retying skillfully, maybe adding a few fingers to the assault. Pinning his shoulders -
He whimpers at the thought. And can't stop, because of the feathers. So insubstantial, and yet they feel almost like they're charged, delivering tiny shocks wherever they dust...The locked door. Staying locked - no way of knowing how long. Nothing he's ever been through can help him to prepare for this.
He didn't see the other side of the door when he was dragged in, but in a doomed attempt to distract himself he tries to imagine it. The door, the hall - silent, in his mind's eye. In this room, he's louder than he ever thought he could be. All those feathers -
But out there, no sound. He tries hard to imagine some telltale muffled shrieking... but every mental image of the neglected hallway is utterly peaceful, unpolluted by his hysteria.
He pictures an impossible crowd of people, hundreds of 'em going past the door. Or a homeless guy, slumped in the doorway, head lolling against the wood, near the doorknob -
Not a sound. No trace of the howls and yells and whoops, fifteen feet away. No one will get curious, or go for help. Why would they? No way for them to know.
More feathers -
Dusting his nipples. He grunts once, and whines, trying to rear back. The mattress doesn't give. Neither does the rope.
No escape. No help...
Sweet fire begins dancing on each of his soles.
He snorts - a long, yielding explosion - and cackles savagely. This is impossible. Beyond unbearable. Urgent, demanding sensation -
Hooting, tethered, locked in a custom room.
He bucks again, pulling wildly, bellowing a few times and then barking murderous laughter.
A whole lot of feathers not even on him yet. All those gloves.
He throws his head from side to side. It doesn't help. Crazed, and loud -
More fluffy quills start to trace paths up and down his ribs.
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