There's a mirror propped up against the wall, big ol' piece, and I got a good view of my legs and crotch.
Watchin' about eight gloves rockin' on, thorough and firm on my feet, thighs, chest. I just laugh hard and pull on the straps, dog collars around my wrists and ankles keepin' me down and wide open. Can't ignore 'em, can't stop laughin', and hoping (even though I know better) that help will come...
They want me to see it all. The satin hands sticking close to the bottoms of my feet, the others running up and down my upper legs. Every so often, big shiny fingers sliding over my balls or scratching my crotch hair. Anything they wanna do, I'll just lay here and hoot.
Plenty of supplies - and gear. They wouldn't...!? Oh, fuck no. Unreal. Intolerable.
I keep roaring, keep tugging. Can't take this, they're crazy, this is too much...
This was the best time of all - the intense first hour. He's looking ecstatic, insanely amused. But the frustration! He gives it away in the frantic tugging on the straps, now less animated than earlier. Voice still strong enough to roar pretty. Cock hard as steel, but no big mess to clean up yet...He hardly looks at the open window now, having already yelled at it for a while. But aawwww - no response but the wind. Also, he's done studying the smokes and the supplies, trying to glean what he could about what, and how hard, and how long.
Oh yeah - he uses the mirror. Sinister idea. He hates it, doesn't wanna look. But he does. Watching the reflection of black gloves fuckin' with him bigtime, squinting hard at their smooth, intentional coverage... laughing greasily at his limbs going nowhere. He stares at more hands, soft and gleaming, as they coast freely to his skin - oh, anywhere - curl and squeeze and buff rapidly, fingering calmly, kneading and stroking with a firm ease.
24oct98