Okay, now, bear with me. I'm Knockout and this is the first tape I've made for the League. Let me say that I'm not out to convert anybody. I thought this was stupid, at first, but Vito and Cassie - I guess they won me over. It was weird to have somebody believe me, first of all. And I decided that we're gonna get more out of pulling together than the fuckrunners might find out. Shit, they've been networking forever. Anyway, I've watched these League nerds for awhile and I think they're okay. Sometimes I get a call, hey K.O., can you talk to a new guy. And I wish there had been somebody around when I was 15 to say no, you're not crazy, and it really did happen, blah-de-blah.
Fuck. I sound like a commercial. Alright. A quick rundown of a nab. Vito said "an average nab". Can you dig it? He did. Don't - and he just flipped me off. Average nab... Ain't nuthin' average about it, but he can't be expected to know that, since they leave his ass alone. Probably made a deal on the side. Heh. When I was younger there was a... progression. The runners would almost always sorta start out slow - for them, anyway, and... What? Fuckrunners. I - oh. Well, without getting into the whole thing - there's this debate going on about the ticklers. We can waste a good couple hours on what to call the fuckers. My personal favorite is fuckrunners, or just runners for short. If you're listening to this I guess you got a couple names for 'em yourself. I don't need to go into the whole "many or one" thing now, or what they are. Ticklers, TMs, djinn, elementals - whatever. They're all runners to me.
Where the hell was I? Thanks. It used to be that the first few times you'd get grabbed, it would be... not so elaborate. And not nearly as long. But some dudes still got their first taste in the whole tricked-out dungeon. A whole year, gone. Emil went through that. If you ever wonder why he's such a wild son of a bitch, well, there ya go.
What I'm gonna talk about is one of those simpler times. If you're new to this whole League thing, that's still how most guys get broken in. Empty room, maybe just rope, and things start to move around.
The weird thing is that a nab like that happened to me, oh, about ten months ago. It shaped up more like high-school shit. But that's just me. I hope you never go through some of the long nabs I... Anyway. I'll tell ya a story, just like the ones you could tell me, and take from it what ya will.
Okay. It was a Saturday night, and I'd been up on University drinkin' with some friends. Kennel and his wife had somebody visiting, an outsider, never been touched. Jackass. No, he was cool, I just don't get those characters. Off-limits? But he was okay. Kennel was a little nervous, though. He thought there was a runner on his trail. It's always there in the back of your mind, y'know. Fuck, I quit really worrying about all that shit a couple years ago. It don't change anything. If they want me, ain't nuthin' I can do. Kennel hasn't had a long nab in a while, but there was a few fuckin' monster ones when he was in his twenties. And some guys really are tuned in, like they can sense it when a runner's after 'em. If I'd had a little warning in advance I sure would've made a few arrangements. Damn runners. I've lost more cars, apartments...
But what I was doin' was giving you the setup for that night. Watch for weird shit, don't watch - it's like should I live in the middle of New York City or way out in the sticks. Which is safer? I've moved all over the place, and they still latch on. No safety in numbers. There's all kinds of private rooms in a big city anyway. I moved to Nebraska once 'cause I figured less dudes, not as many runners. That worked real well. For awhile. Winter and spring, I'm cool - and then boom, off to an old farmhouse for five months. And I thought, well, got that over with, though it didn't drag on as long as I expected. Shit. Soon as the snow melted the next winter, it was off to a fuckin' cabin until July. I don't think it matters anymore, city or country. They're on to my ass.
Kennel had a bad feeling, there at the bar. His wife knew how to deal with it. He told me once that she pulls out the handcuffs and put one on him, and one on her. That does the trick. He sleeps like a baby. Gotta get me a wife like that, sometime. The first one didn't take a bullet or anything to keep me from getting nabbed. Heh. So we all had a good time, and I walked back to the trolley 'cause it stops two blocks from my apartment.
I was gettin' sleepy.
On the trolley, I figured it out. Must've been that last beer. It wasn't normal sleepiness. And my stop was right there - do I ride on, and pass out, or was that the runner's plan? Somewhere there was a room waiting. I was gonna end up there. The odds on escaping didn't look too good, anyway. So I got up - stumbled up, more like it - and thought what the fuck, might as well try to make it home. Sometimes they'll see a more interesting fucker to catch. You never know. Really all I had to do was make it to the taqueria at the end of the block, 'cause they knew me. One of their nephews is a hardcore too, always gettin' nabbed. They'd help me out. Not even a hundred steps, but I had to cross the street. So then I get another brilliant idea - Kennel. They had to be on the 5 already, and there was no way he could race down to where I was in time... but I got out my cell phone.
And this hand grabs my wrist.
Dark, cool. Smooth. Just a hand. Nobody... Dammit. That material they got now - like satin, except it doesn't tickle any less when it gets wet? Or oily. I hate that shit. And it's got me. Empty glove, with a grip like a pro wrestler. I looked at it, scanned the street - and of course there's nobody close by. The guys down at the corner wouldn't see the black glove, and even if they did it would've looked like a prop glove I put around my own wrist. Not a kidnapper, hell no. I look at it again, and see another one floating in my direction - and I thought fuckin' Kennel was right. There was a runner on the hunt. Except it wasn't goin' after him.
The fingers squeeze hard, and I yell. Drop the phone. The other glove catches it, brings it up to my face - and throws the fuckin' thing into the street. Then it clamps over my mouth. Time to fight, my body says, even though I know for a fuckin' fact it won't change where I'm gonna end up. The glove reefs my arm behind me and makes me walk toward the old shoe repair place. It's been boarded up for years. And I catch on - no, dammit, I'm gonna get worked over a block and a half from my fuckin' apartment. Not fair. Nobody will know where to look. But that last-ditch effort to throw 'em off makes me dizzy, and I end up with one glove pretty much carrying me by the back of my belt. A creaky old door is opening, but everything goes gray and I pass out.
And I have bad dreams - wild ones - but they look a whole lot better when I wake up. Preferable.
It's a plain old room, with a bed. And me strapped down. Feeling like a million bucks. There's a couple tables and lamps, plywood over the window... This little crack near the top of the board is bright. The fuckin' runner let me sleep awhile. So it's gonna be a long, hard day.
They got two-inch cuffs on me. Spread wide. You learn to pick up clues from the restraints. A single strap on each cuff means a rookie got ya. The pros use at least three straps. They don't want you to fuckin' fidget. Not while they're on the job. This time I see only a couple chain links - but my wrists wouldn't budge. I have to lift my head and look, still yawning, but I figure it out. This runner stuck a pipe through the mattress. The chain was clipped on, and under the bed it must've been pulled tight to something. I figure they had something on the other side of the mattress - like a plate, or even some rebar. Pull the chain through, get it tight and fix it so it won't slip. And so I got two wrists and two ankles that are flat against the fuckin' sheet, but they ain't goin' nowhere at all. It's like I'm mounted to the mattress, feet hanging just off the edge. All set.
The fucker had shaved me. Lots of skin cream. Not a rookie. Yeah, it was going from bad to worse already. This is a weird vibe - or maybe I just think I'm more of an expert than I really am. Low-tech room, no fancy restraint shit like slings or stocks. Well, not yet. But that trick with the chains, running 'em through the mattress, that's a pro thing. The fuckrunner wasn't showing me cases and cases of supplies. And no soundproofing? That was usually the mark of a novice. But they'd reeled me in like pros, and I guessed it wasn't likely that they were dumb enough to pick a room where the neighbors would hear me howl. I went with the idea that they'd used this place before. With my history - fuck, with these tats - it probably wasn't an impulse nab. So the odds were good that they knew nobody'd hear me and interrupt 'em, and I was absolutely screwed.
One of the gloves makes an appearance. It's got a bottle of water.
"Aw, c'mon," I tell it. The other glove shows up, with a straw, and opened the bottle. Then it presses down on my forehead, and the other one brings the straw to my lips. The pressure increases, on my head, and I get the message - if they want me to drink, I'm gonna drink. So I do, thinking back on a runner that used to punch me until I went along. Probably a rookie.
They wait until I drained the bottle, and throw it off to the side. I yell at 'em that I want a fuckin' cigarette first...
But the gloves get on down to my armpits.
Well, you know how it is.
No no no no, I'm thinking, but the stupid giggles start busting out. I'm trying to move, dammit, and the fingers just take it easy. Not a rookie. This runner's gonna make it last. Gonna get to know me, and maximize it. Now I got this stupid fuckin' chuckle when they're starting out slow, the beginning of a long day... I think I sound happy. It's - aw, stop it, Vito. He's got this smirk on his face. Real funny. I got angry laughs, and desperate laughs, and mournful laughs. Smutty laughs. Oh, fuck. Wild-bear laughs and begging laughs and a cracking-up laugh, right on the edge of sanity, sorta brittle. Aaah, what the fuck do you know, you've never been nabbed. Yet. Uh-huh. Vito's a card, but not so bad once you get to know him. Now where the f- oh, the giggles. I'm wrestling around - very unsatisfying, can't move for shit - and begging is already beyond me. Not that it would do any good. Yell at the gloves, try to do a deal, plead with 'em... they just go on tickling. And I'm sounding like it's the best thing that's happened to me all year. When they start sliding down to my ribs I snag a breath and give 'em some he-man bellows. Soundin' rowdy, like I'm so happy. And quit rolling your eyes, there, Vito. It feels better, somehow. Like, I may be laughing my ass off but you're gonna know, ya runner, that I'd kick the shit out of you if I could find out where you are. This is not my idea of a good time, even if I make it sound sometimes like I just love this shit. These fuckin' chains better hold or else I'm outa here.
But they hold. The restraints.
And the gloves start exploring my belly.
There's no way to explain how a few seconds of that feels like five minutes. Every minute is an hour. You know. Vito doesn't. Oh, he tries to understand. I lay there, bucking and hooting like a fool, and I know sure as shit that I'm good for ten solid hours of this, every day. Guaranteed. I can say that they worked their way all over me, and it probably took an hour, but there's no way to tell an outsider what it's like. You just want the day to be over, but the runner's gonna let you rest up, and then all that it learned about your fuckin' sweet spots is only gonna make things worse, for hours yet, and there's no doubt in your mind about that. And it'll turn up the heat tomorrow. And so on. But you gotta survive the next thirty seconds first.
Nah, they can't get it.
So I jump around as much as I can, whooping and barking... hell, screaming a little, when they get under my knees. And my calves are trouble. Now this runner knows about my calves. And the fuckin' gloves are moving down, down, and I wanna pass out so bad before those fingertips land on my feet. Cuffs chained down good and tight.
Right about now I really want a cigarette somethin' fierce - a break in the action, maybe no tickling for a couple minutes. But more than anything I just wanna thrash around. Even if twenty more gloves show up - and I wouldn't be at all surprised - it seems like I could deal with all of that insane... fire - icy electricity, whatever - if I just had some hope of shaking it off. The fingers, I mean.
Now, truth be told, I've had a few nabs where they gave me plenty of time to roll around... run around a padded room, three different nabs like that. See, K.O., you're not getting away from it. Of course you're not! I've got you locked in. The stocks are waiting, asshole... Uh, what I mean is that it's easy to forget when you're laid out like a buffet table that it ain't any better if you can kick and swat the fuckin' runner away. They just latch on to six other places. Sneaky. Wear you out...
That's the goal either way. I've had 'em tell me they want us to quit fighting. The restraints get it through to our heads, but all those ticklish muscles have to find out their own way. There is nothing I can do, and the stimulation will keep on coming, but some of the runners are sure we don't really accept that we're helpless until we can't even lift a finger anymore. Some new level of ticklishness gets cracked open when we're not even thinking anymore about getting away.
Most of 'em will let us yell for help - howl all we want, no gag - so we prove to ourselves that we're really fuckin' in for the duration. Some mental switch gets flipped, or something, and we get... super-ticklish. They get a lot more out of us, somehow.
But whenever I need a reminder, all I gotta do is tug. Wrists - stuck flat. Check. The runner's out to tickle me completely. And that takes time. So I gotta stay put, and nobody else is permitted to get in the way. Not at all. I can't even imagine studying somebody for a year, no matter how interesting... But a runner spent sixteen fuckin' months on me, once. And it wasn't just going through the motions. Not even on the last day. Totally focused.
And these gloves fuckin' made their acquaintance with my soles.
You just go crazy. Can't get your legs to move! All these different levels of crazy, one after another. Just let me kick once in a while, if you won't let me go... I'm gonna absolutely snap. But instead of blubbering all that you whoop like the happiest son of a bitch in town. You're laughing and laughing, nobody else hears you, and the fingers keep on sliding. I have these chants - maybe you do too.
So unfair. I think that over and over, until the tickling gets so intense that I can't think at all. Just so fuckin' unfair. My feet are so alive. And it's only ten fingers. The runner can make it twenty. Fifty. It'll try feathers. Two, four - ten. Maybe toothpicks, maybe knitting needles, forks. It'll strap my toes back, and break out the brushes. Pour the oil.
Anyway. This was still at the two-glove stage. I couldn't go through another ten seconds of it, and they'd been on my feet for only ten minutes or so. Hours and hours and hours ahead - and that kind of thought makes me start to howl. The runner doesn't have to pick it up, or slow it down. Just keeps tracing.
Probably another, oh, fifteen minutes... and I realize I'm panting. Blink a few times to get the tears out of my eyes. And there they are. Waiting. Maybe a yard over my chest. Guarding their property? The runner knows where it's gonna tickle next, I figure, and it wants me to wonder. No matter how much I want it to hold off, it'll start again when it's good and ready. There's just no way to describe how badly I want a smoke. No ashtray on either nightstand, though. Fuckin' runner.
I study the gloves, and wonder. I don't get the feeling that there's a runner "wearing" 'em. Something makes me wonder if they're, y'know, acting all by themselves. Did some fuckrunner wake 'em up, like, now get out there and catch some dudes? Tickle 'em real good? Usually I get a read on the runner - is it jazzed, is it coming off like I need to be punished or something, or maybe it's just curious. More curiosity than I can even believe, but still.
So, in this case, "runner" might not be accurate. I think I got me two runners. Somebody made the gloves, sure - and that material is only used for one thing, far as I know. But they're alive, I think. Not... worn. Not inhabited, I mean.
And the bastards are dropping, slowly, and they're gonna work on my hips. Pelvis.
I can bounce and twist all I want, screeching, cackling. They just keep right on tickling.
Later, they bring me food. Burritos - I know where they stole those from - and snacks. When you see nuts, energy bars, maybe a banana - give it up, 'cause a pro's got ya. More water. Still no smoke, so they're really fuckin' with me on that score. And then it's time to suffer again.
Some of these runners let me cum once a day. That's all. And that's harsh, too. Can't win on that one. More relief down there would be gnarly, but my belly gets lethal after I cum. More than a few runners have made me pass out, but then they learn to go real easy there. And I really feel it then, I tell you...
A rubber. That's old school. Ignore my meat, but put a rubber on me. The tip was poked out - a big hole, and I can piss all over myself whenever I need to. It just cranks things up, though. That pressure all around my cock. Oh, shit. These gloves are bugging me just by leaving my meat alone, except for a rubber now and then. Pump me off quick, and fuckin' dive in. They're really in it for the tickling. You know how it is.
Waking up the second day, and the third. All set for more. Strong as ever. And here they come...
I think I'll be repeating myself. They worked me over for three weeks, which is really nuthin' compared to some of the nabs. There's one other thing that stands out this time around, though.
Okay. This is somewhere around the one-week mark. I didn't wanna cry until they gave me a cigarette anymore, so I guess that was about right. I was past that total fuckin' rage about being flat on my back. Well, spread out. They rolled me over once or twice a day and cuffed me back down, but somewhere around the fifth day I usually get totally fuckin' fed up. Not bored. Aw, hell no. They know how to keep me, uh, busy.
But each day I get more and more annoyed with being held down like that. It's totally separate from not being able to get the runner to lay off. I get enraged about... being stuck just the same way all the time. I never have this reaction when they're movin' me from bed to stocks to shackles, to a rack, maybe a chair, and then it's up to the sex sling. But leave me on the same damn mattress for a couple days and I start to get pissed off. And that, obviously, is a distraction. Most fuckrunners just drill me until I stop bitching about it. And then, in a weird way, I'm good. I focus more on what they're doing.
So - day seven, give or take - and I'm past that. It's all about deeper and deeper tickling. I was on the same page with these fuckin' gloves, whether I like that or not. And after I woke up they worked on my upper half for an hour or two. Then I'd get time to really catch my breath. This is exactly when I'd wanna smoke. But no, not yet.
They bring a table to the foot of the bed.
It just makes me wanna cuss. This is common enough, but there was something so totally matter-of-fact about it. They'd bring this table full of tools and it was, y'know, just what they did at this point in the day. They were making an ordinary move, and just the fact that I could pretty much count on this table being brought over pissed me off. Not that I could kick it away, of course.
All kinds of tools. Right there, less than a foot away from my poor soles.
They went right ahead - no meaningful pause, not even a little wave - and picked up a couple feathers.
I'd squeal and try not to giggle right off. Plenty of time for that. It was gonna pick up - the intensity - over the next few hours. Just such a foregone conclusion, y'know? And it was like the task, or the job, they were just determined to get the most out of it. Do it to perfection. No matter what noise I was making.
Okay, Vito's looking baffled. Let's see. Some fuckrunners are more obvious. They want me to know how much fun they're having. I can see it, plain as day, in how the gloves move. Or the toothbrushes. Oh, boy, it's thinking, he's gonna explode in three, two, ONE. I can almost understand that kind of glee. If the runner talks to me, I still fall into the trap of thinking that maybe I can appeal to some shred of mercy. I know it's stupid, but desperate times and so on...
Damn. That really is dumb when I say it out loud. After what I've been through. Some of 'em love it when you beg. Follow directions. Just in case, y'know, they cut you a break - oh, fuck, I guess you gotta be there. How stupid is that? Just let me have another smoke, four minutes with no tickling, and I'll tell you all about the hottest runner-dream I ever had. But they get me so rattled. Usually. Not these gloves. This was way too... businesslike.
They'd switch from chopsticks to feather dusters without a pause - no gloating, none of those little show-off moves. That's the way they carried the damn table back to my feet. All business. One tool after another. Making it very... unmagical. No, that's not it. Day after day, these are very real gloves, with their collection of toys, and there's nothing dreamlike about it. Not for the first couple hours.
Then my mind starts to slip. Don't you know it. Being tickled into... um, nuthin' more than an animal. It's what they do. And yeah, Vito, ya smartass, they do it very, very well. These gloves weren't always about that. They kept it less intense, for a good two or three hours every fuckin' day. And I could think. That was brilliant, in a sick way. I'd think it was a happy accident, for the runners, except they kept repeating it. In a situation like this my days are usually pure fever. Runner-days. These two gloves could only lay down ten fingers at once, so they worked on my mind. Got it on their side.
And part of what they did was make the long foot-tickling afternoons - well, they made sure there was nothing mystical about 'em. Same ol' ceiling, the dull ache in my shoulders, wet sheet under me. Dancing, teasing sparks roaming around my soles. I could lift my head, laughing like a fool, and see the gloves at work. No fever making things interesting - uh, weird. No fingers jacking me off time after time. Just two hands, two feet and different tools.
And I kept thinking, which just sucks. Not fair, not fair. I'm getting tickled by runners that do not wanna stop. Nothing's gonna happen to make 'em stop, either. It's enough stimulation to make me so fuckin' alert, chuckling and hooting and every sigh turns into a whine - which builds up into more giggles. I'd beg, with my totally worn-out voice, and the runners kept ranging up and down my arches. Scrubbing real slow with a pot scrubber on the other heel. They're torturing me at a pace that means I can still think about what they're doing.
It's so fuckin' real. Try to tell yourself it's all a vivid nightmare at a time like that. Real gloves, ordinary room - private enough for this - and carefully selected tools. I know these textures. I have to force myself not to guess which one will be the next one to land. That's like helping them out.
Obvious, maybe, when the heat's not on. But at the time it's like trying to survive the physical, like in a doctor's office, that just won't fuckin' end. We're all very professional, these gloves and me. I crow for 'em, and they keep on laying it down.
I start to think, why me? Why not some clueless nerd, like Vito here? Then, maybe a round of "how long did they tail me." That's a real lost cause, but when they're actually working me over and I can still think, it just haunts me. If only I'd left earlier, before a beer was all gone. Or moved back to Cleveland. Or worn a long-sleeve shirt - as if it's their tattoos that get me caught. Oh, if only I'd known what to do differently. Then I wouldn't be lying here, sweating and snickering while these machinelike fuckers got the toe-restraints on me.
Maybe they're waiting for me to say something. The right thing. Then they'll stop tickling and let me outa here.
Man - you should see Vito's face right about now. But it's like being... semidelirious, okay? Not nearly overwhelmed enough. Some runners listen closely, some taunt me. Not these gloves. I really haven't gotten a single sign all week that they can even hear me. But that doesn't stop me. Hell, no! I gotta try whatever I can, 'cause I know they're just gonna work on my feet for another hour, at least, if I don't figure out what'll call 'em off.
That's as certain as... getting rolled over after the first couple hours, always with the damn cuffs chained down right away, so they could do unbelievable ticklish things to my backside. That's in store for me, again, and not even a lousy cigar. But I'm getting ahead of myself, here. The immediate task is to find the magic words that'll get 'em to set those fuckin' brushes down. And I gotta force myself to rush the words out in between the laughter...
I give up - you're the best. I've been tickled by a couple dozen runners, but you're the most effective torturers ever. They keep on tickling. No, that didn't do it. Okay, I guess I had this coming - but I've learned my lesson. Really. You can stop now.
Nope? I'll cry again for ya. Just stop tickling for a sec and I'll think of something sad. Aw, fuck, they're not stopping. Tell me who you want to catch and I'll help you. I mean it. Anything I can do for ya... Then I'll start naming victims they might like. I'll go all the way back to grade school. But they just oil up my feet and start digging in, slowly, with their fuckin' fingertips.
That makes me laugh too hard to keep talking. But my mind's still going. What I need is for that ceiling to fall down. A meteor. Tidal wave. Some crackhead to break in - picking this run-down, dusty old place over all of the other abandoned buildings.
If there was a fire or a gas leak, that might not work 'cause the firemen wouldn't necessarily look in here. That would be just my luck. A bomb threat - they clear the whole fucking block, door to door, looking at this place and deciding right away that it's been empty for years. Rousting homeless people from other buildings... but they leave my cage alone, and I laugh my way through an event that could've given me that one break I've always wanted - rescuers stumbling in. Instead, I'd have another night just like the last fifty. No change in the plans. Big, fun plans...
I chuckle too hard to talk. Strong fingers. They really know my feet, by now. My Achilles tendons don't get ignored, or my insteps. I have this spot just under the balls of my ankles - well, anyway, they're turning up the heat. That's for damn sure. These hands are gonna raze my sides again. Get all oiled up and fuck with my neck. Tease my balls, probably, without letting me shoot until late tonight.
When I wake up tomorrow they'll be hanging there, waiting. Every one of my chants just fuckin' haunts me, and none of 'em work. There's one sure thing left. I can't go through this any more.
But I do.
Trying to act like I'm enjoying this shit gets me confused sometimes.
Fuckin' fuckrunners have got the vibrators on my soles at this point, and that's just indescribably bad after the afternoon my feet have had. But I let myself squeal. Try to smile - and laugh harder. Aw, shit, so much harder. I'm out of control, it tickles so much. Doesn't help me cope with anything, but I've flipped over. Bring it on.
They have these other massagers with rubber bristles, and they're just long enough to get between my toes. The runners rigged up these straps to hold 'em in place. I really don't have any way to tell ya how intense this is. Position these fuckers, turn 'em on. And I'm rigid. Until the fingers start to tear into my arches. Full-bore.
And that gets me moving again. I'm squirming and laughing like this is the best moment in my whole fuckin' life. No one can sound this happy, under normal circumstances. I wear myself out, finally back in the old familiar fever...
They let me have it for a good twenty, thirty minutes. Then I need a nap. Some water, maybe a snack. And the gloves get some straps around my biceps and forearms before they start, real slow, in my armpits...
But they move faster and faster. One of 'em skips from one armpit to the other, and there's fingers skimming down my left ribs, right ribs, left ribs. So fuckin' cruel. I can't even laugh. My thoughts don't get beyond left, right, left, right - but they're on opposite sides, see. Left pit and right ribs at the same side, then switching over. These gloves just fly, like clockwork, never missing a beat. Perfect precision. The rotation, I call it.
They found the way to have the maximum possible impact on my ass, personalized as it gets, and no matter how hard they can tickle it's just never enough to satisfy 'em. I just burn with laughs I can't kick out. But the downside of not being able to laugh myself unconscious is that they can keep on rockin'. This is a long-term endurance event, see, cranked up just about as far as it'll go. A full fuckin' hour. Then a long rest break, and they build it up again. And again. The rotation. Hour after hour after hour.
You're not lookin' too good, there, Vito.
I haven't even told you about the cock pump. Somewhere in that third or fourth hour they slip it on. Low setting. Then, as I'm getting ready to shoot - after another hour, mean fingers racing all over my torso, and my neck, grabbing under a knee or petting my ass, then always back to the rotation for a few aching minutes - they put the damn toe-massagers on me again. And for every other time I've said the tickling was indescribably worse, this blows 'em all away.
They have to give me a break every half-hour, because it's just too much. And after three or four hours I finally get to pass out. That's more like what I'm used to. And it's bad - hell, it's worse than it sounds - but overall I think I'd pick that over the afternoons of careful, measured foot-tickling that isn't fierce enough to keep me from... fuckin' thinking. Y'know?
12jun06