I took another drag, grateful for the smoke, grateful for a break in the torture -
And the door opened.
A big guy was carried in. Tied, hooded, yelling into a gag.
Leather gloves sprang up and tore into his sides. He went wild - it was odd to watch. Was that what I looked like? Totally bugshit? It was so fascinating that I didn't even look back at the door until it was locked again.
The hood was loosened and pulled off. I saw the gloves back away -
"Surprise!" Mikksi giggled.
The chuckling, red-faced guy was -
"You didn't!" I croaked. Couldn't help it. Unbelievable...
"Yup. I did. Spur-of-the-moment."
"You kidnapped my probation officer?"
Tom's head spun around. Eyes widening when he looked at me.
"He's cute," it said.
"Oh, shit," I sighed. This wasn't going to turn out well.
"And so ticklish."
"Could you pull his gag? Please?"
His head jerked to the right, and the leather bit was reefed down. It sat under his chin, shiny with drool.
"Aaaaah," he complained, working his jaw around. Then he glared at me. "Wilcox."
"I -"
A glove was already waiting, and it clamped over my mouth.
"I thought you'd never believe Barky," my captor said, "so you just had to see it for yourself."
"See - oh." He took a deep breath. Really pissed off. "You're really strong, for a chick. So... not human?"
"Not a bit," his kidnapper fired back.
"Those restraints, on him. Do they mean what I think they do?"
"Maybe," Mikksi said. "What are you thinking?"
"That Wilcox really isn't, um, here voluntarily? In any way?"
"No more than you are."
His mouth started to move, and he ended up making a single frustrated noise. His eyes looked worried as they roamed around the room. Finally, he glanced at the foot-stocks again...
And back at a table covered with tickling toys.
"This is a stone-cold nightmare," he said.
"Aaaaaw. It's fun."
"For you, maybe."
The glove let go of me.
"I'm sorry," I said automatically.
He frowned. "Was it your idea that I get, uh, hauled in here?"
"No," Mikksi and I said at the same time.
Tom closed his eyes, fighting to stay calm.
"He was all worried about missing his appointment with you," my torturer said. "Wouldn't shut up about it. So I thought - and y'know, Tom, for a big ol' moose of a guy... you're impressively ticklish."
Instantly his eyes were wide open again, and the ropes binding him got a real workout. The hardass P.O. was gone, and it was almost as if a scared boy was peeking out instead. An overgrown, musclebound boy...
"Your face looks like maybe you've been tickled before. Thoroughly. Unable to run," Mikksi said. "Just imagine how they could've made you howl if they had a setup like this. And soooo-oo many hands -"
"Lemme outa here!" he shouted.
"Barky? Tell him."
"That... ain't gonna happen," I said. "Sounds like it's already got plenty of ideas."
"Oh, do I," the tickler laughed.
Tom was lifted into the air.
"What are you doing?" he shouted.
"Giving you a better look at those stocks. You keep staring at them."
He looked at me - desperately - and started to thrash around. As he coasted over, his shoes fell to the ground.
"Sheer socks?" Mikksi laughed. "Aw, this is gonna be soooo great."
"No, no, no, shit!" He craned his neck to look at me. "Tell me this is a joke. Real sick joke. There's got to be some way to make this - what the hell am I saying? You're naked. Oh no, no -"
"It's gonna be hella exciting, big guy," it teased.
My smoke was taken away, and four buffers rose from under the sides of my rack.
"No, don't," I moaned, squirming. Shit. I was gonna get nuked in front of my P.O. and the guy made me nervous enough already...
"You didn't think I was going to ignore Barky? Not a chance. I can tickle the shit out of two rough dudes at once."
I shook my head, watching the buffers click on as they landed.
Everything was fireworks and fever as they roamed around my torso.
One seemed to be stationed on my lower gut, and I was thrusting hopelessly as I roared with laughter.
They finally stopped.
I panted for air -
Tom was staring at me with dull terror in his eyes. He'd been caught in the stocks. Toes tied back, shirt off, arms up and half-extended...
I'd been moved, rack and all, so we faced each other.
"I can't," he said. "You don't understand. It's - look, I can't take this shit."
A wide mirror on a stand scooted between us. It was facing Tom, and we watched the angle change.
"Oh hell, no," he wailed.
"You're gonna do just fine," Mikksi told him, "and I've got more straps close by. Because you're not gonna move, no matter how insane the tickling feels. This is how it's done to big, beefy men. Serious restraints. Flopping around is out, kicking the feathers away just won't be allowed..."
"This isn't happening to me!" he shouted, kicking as hard as he could.
"Aaaa-llll night," it said.
He whimpered.
A table floated alongside him, loaded up with the tools of the trade. The first pair of long, pointed black feathers rose up.
He tried to back away, to roll over -
"Not just these big ol' feet, either."
Tom stared at me. "Do something."
One by one, the buffers clicked on again.
The breathtaking sensation lit up my sides. I squealed and arched, whooping hoarsely. It took one of the damn things to my package, and the other alternated between each sole.
Overwhelming excitement was all I could think about for awhile.
There was someone screaming laughter. Bellowing...
I managed to open my eyes. Tom was frantic. Just two feathers.
Imagining what it'll be like, I thought, when our captor laid into him as eagerly as it was laying into me right then.
His feet were introduced to the basic tool set.
Then his socks were pulled off, and the exploration started all over again.
We let each other know how crazymaking Mikksi's tickling was.
After a while I saw Tom squinting at me. Looking real worried. He had a cigarette, and I didn't think he smoked...
Black gloves rose again, taking shape. Calm hands.
Tom was chuckling immediately. Dreading their touch, certain of the inevitability of what was about to resume - and still squirming against the restraints out of some deeper reflex. It wasn't necessary to express, in any way, how much he didn't want the gloves to return.
Mikksi knew. Invisible, and unstoppable, it adjusted straps and cuffs to make absolutely sure we wouldn't be escaping the torment -
He cackled as the fingers, irrationally firm, started to provoke his feet. He was in for another hour or two of unnervingly expert abuse.
Tom, the gym rat, just couldn't fuckin' stand it. Strong fingers raked the shiny cloth down the sole of his right foot, and dragged horizontally across the left. Others squeezed his heels, crawled over his insteps, worked their magic between his toes.
Shrieking, squealing, he convulsed all over again. It was all so insanely overwheming.
The straps creaked, but they didn't allow Tom to shift or turn.
When we both got to smoke, he couldn't find strong enough words to describe how Mikksi was destroying him. That wouldn't have been any comfort, really. I knew real well how he was dying for some way to handle what was gonna start again soon. To "deal." Some way to cope.
The expression on Tom's face, when he watched the gloves, really bothered me. If his eyes weren't flooded with tears of forced joy - delirium - it seemed as if he was watching some ritual that just left him speechless. Mikksi's unseen hands moved the unfamiliar cloth fingers as if it was focused to some very disturbing degree. Precise.
I've never been able to decide if Mikksi needed to tickle with such intensity - as if it was ravenous for the energy we threw off - or if its obsession was a result of some level of enjoyment in dominating guys like me that I couldn't even imagine.
Its gloves never moved with desperation, or impatience, or really anything that might be analogous to human haste. There was never any need to rush, because it planned our marathon to the nth degree. Mikksi didn't ever seem to overreach. Make a mistake.
It just waited for us to catch our breath, and started in again.
The brushes and feathers moved exactly the same way. Talk about skill...
It's how I knew, early on, that the gloves weren't acting all by themselves. A magical tickler had got me immobilized, locked in a room where no one can hear me howl, and it didn't ease off until I got close to passing out.
This time Tom was caught too, hoarse from laughing, numb from straining at the straps... and feeling the fire more every hour. It moved from one part of his body to another before anything like a drop in sensitivity kicked in, and it was still finding some techniques that made him seize up and roar.
He slammed around, spontaneously, and croaked fevered laughter as his eyes opened. Watery eyes, so I knew all he'd be able to make out were blurry dark shapes, so much closer that before.
His feet were still covered with fire that was like vibrating honey, soaking all the way through, shooting a constant flood of mind-scrambling excitement all the way up him...
Tom was staring at a couple more pair of Mikksi's gloves, taking charge of his knees.
Squirming back and forth, uniquely frustrated at the inability to get anywhere, his laughter changed. Shit, he actually managed to speak. "Nooo-hoooo nooo aaawwwwWaaaah haah haw haw hawwwww..."
Cruel hands clenched and dug their thumbs under his knees.
High-pitched wails just exploded out of him, failing to express how ridiculously maddening the sensation was.
He slammed his head against the headrest. It was all he could do.
Determined, energized hands kept petting, stroking, squeezing.
I didn't know if it had been six days or sixty. Overestimating the actual time one of the invisible so-and-so's had been playing was what I usually did, though.
Feathers traveled over Tom's belly, his pecs, around the outer margins of his groin.
Ten minutes, twenty, thirty...
He worked through the usual fidgeting, cussing, snapping at the chains. They held him down as securely as any other day. He pissed without apparently noticing, and wet-wipes cleaned him up. The feathers never paused.
Panting, kept right at the edge of laughter, he watched gloves float down to his sides.
They barely took hold, and he bucked like a rodeo bull. A happy-sounding screech, weak but driven, kept churning out as he fought not to cave in and laugh. His head lolled.
Fingers stroked and traced his ribs.
His arms worked desperately, longingly, to pull the cuffs free...
But when Mikksi's cool gloves tickled more solidly, more quickly, he churned out spacey laughter. The sweat rolled off him, and it had to be soaking those tormenting fingers.
When he finally opened his eyes a little, two more gloves started in.
He screeched quietly - too distracted - and squirmed as the new gloves teased his armpits. No movement he could make slowed them down at all.
So his laughter became weaker, until it faded away again... but the effects of the tickling were obviously not any more bearable. The squeezing, coasting, probing hands had full run of his body, and our captor had made it clear that there would be no chance to escape.
Oaths and begging and complaints were done for the day. His voice was gone, really. So was mine...
But that never stopped the unbearable parade of tools from coming to us and tickling, over and over again.
Small round brushes with soft nylon bristles began at my heels.
High-voltage! I thrashed wildly, out of control. squealing and gibbering. The bristles sometimes took a couple hours to move all the way up to my ears. Or they might've stuck to four or five horribly ticklish spots - including my meat - dancing in pairs.
Shit, I just roared with laughter. When Mikksi got me off, there were always eight or ten gloves, poised and waiting, quick to get on me and tear it up.
I looked at the pack of cigarettes, hoping -
But a dozen gloves lined up and took their places.
Not again, I thought frantically. Seeing a fuckin' team of animated hands still baffled me. I imagined people wearing all those gloves would be disturbing enough, but there's one sadistic magician making 'em all move, and it can energize fifty more just like 'em.
That was more baffling when it was really goin' on, somehow. Fingers rubbing, hands squeezing, none of 'em real - well, not human. Other things might actually tickle more, but I still couldn't completely believe that gloves with no human hands in 'em would keep rocking my world like that. They weren't being worn by a person, and begging for the insanity to stop until next time was all I could hope to pull off. That had never worked.
Moving just like hands. Thoroughly, diligently tearing me apart. Magically strong, firm fingers, always busy, never phoning it in. Human in shape, but utterly heartless.
I'd get loopy and think that I just had to show Mikksi how warped it was to use gloves like that. Fuckin' serious heat, cranked up too much, or maybe slamming home too deeply. I didn't know. Completely immobilized, and isolated. No matter how much it loved the results of doing this to average fuckin' guys it couldn't always ignore... that play so intense and so endless was too much for anybody to take.
Gloves had no right to - no, dammit, the tickler using the gloves had no damn right to do this to me. It just had to pull 'em off.
Too disorienting to deal with, unreal fingers everywhere.
"Stop," Tom wailed. No volume left, of course, but the expression on his face told it all. "No, no, fuck you, no more, nnn-naaaah haaah haah noh hee heeeeeeeeeee-nnneeee..."
And so on. Bucking for all he was worth. Trying to roll, to bounce - anything. Shrieking laughter, then settling down into a raspy, hopeless roar.
The force of his struggles should've gotten him somewhere. He was toned. Solid muscle everywhere. Even for him, the straps wouldn't fuckin' budge. He deserved to break a cuff loose, or something... and then like a couple dozen gloves would zoom down and thrash the shit out of him until he was tethered again. Even tighter.
It almost sounded like he got more ticklish before he came. Me, I had feathers driving me way beyond crazy right them, under my junk and around the back, there. Dusting up and down the last place I wanted attention. The throb, echoing everywhere, just shredded me.
Fuckin' bristles and fingers were getting serious...
Like all the other times, I never saw anything that looked like a human being behind all of the weird gloves and cuffs and brushes floating around. Not once.
Invisible hands pinned my arms as they were caught as smoothly as if they'd done it a thousand times before. Buffers, cock-pumps, even plastic forks cruised around without any hesitation. Every pack of smokes was torn open as if I was doing it.
Mikksi thrashed both of us at the same time, all over, no problem. Tickling. Serious, brain-scrambling fever. Piled on until we couldn't be kept awake anymore. It knew way too much about how to keep a guy from passing out, probably due to long experience.
And it was always so happy when we woke up again.
We both watched lighters come on up, getting our cigarettes going at about the same time.
Tom looked at me. Dreading another day of the same ol' shit.
At least another week, that was my guess. First-timers usually had shorter "workouts." No hints from Mikksi, though, about getting ready to cut us loose.
We'd feel the sizzle until it was ready to throw us back. One criminal and one big dog getting worked over, and nobody knew we were getting tickled for hours and days except us.
"You guys," our captor drawled. "So much fun. Both of you. Gonna have lots more fun, too."
22dec14