What a catch. It was almost giddy.
Great arms, shoulders... and those abs!
Really buff all over. He had worked hard. Most people would think twice about riling him up. Another kind of attack, though, was going to be far more effective on him now than it would've been a year ago.
His friends had parked on the side street. One of them lit a smoke, and held the pack out to him.
"Naaah," he grinned.
"How long now?" the smoker asked.
"Uh, going on four months. And no cheats. I bum even one, and it's on again, boy -"
"Asshole," his friend teased.
So the target's circulation and endurance were not just good...
They talked about whey protein powders for a minute or two. It was getting annoyed with the delay - until the man it was about to grab expressed a strong preference. Wouldn't he be blown away, it thought, to see a big new jar of his brand float in front of his face. A little gift, from an invisible captor who had been paying attention - and wanted him in the best physical condition possible.
Finally the friends headed for the corner. The ex-smoker pressed the unlock button on his keyless entry remote.
It tapped the lock button immediately.
He paused -
And it really enjoyed clamping a hand over his mouth. Howdy, pardner.
Fingers attacked his sides.
The reaction was fierce. Excellent! Just as it suspected. He was immediately leaping off to one side, grunting, and then he started to yell. His arms immediately clamped tight, protecting his armpits. The captive tried to wheel around, still hollering - but it had muffled the volume quite a bit. He spun back around and still kept his footing somehow...
It saw a police car turning onto the street. Oh, great.
There was no time to drag him back to the alley. It pulled his legs out from under him - and dove down, barely getting a hand under his shoulder to take some of the impact. He bounced once...
Before he could recover enough to roll around, more hands jumped on. They pushed him on to his back and mashed down on his forearms, shins, upper arms... and one got a handful of hair and reefed back. They were quick, and he discovered immediately that they were stronger than he was.
The car rolled by.
He yelled again and again, determined to get loose...
That had been close.
It didn't like risks. The damn gym was closing in less than an hour, and by this time the street was usually deserted. Now a door was opening almost directly across from where it was taking him, and the stupid police car was lingering as it approached the intersection at 27th - and now there were two women heading out of the gym at the most inconvenient time. This was a nice, spooky street at night, but just snag a guy and suddenly it was turning into a block party. It kept him low to the ground and hauled him around the back end of his car, preparing to slide him underneath...
No. Too much risk. This just wasn't fair, dammit. It had wanted to march him to his doom, nice and slow.
There were no people on the street - yet. It checked the windows...
Further down the block, a door closed. Good. That possible witness, right across the street from its destination, had been going inside. The gym chicks were about to enter the foyer... but they were talking to the woman working the counter. One even had her hand on the door handle -
The cop's head was down. Looking up something on her computer, maybe, or checking her notes.
Wait until I get you inside, it thought angrily. Let's go!
He was hauled across the street. It kept him just a few inches off the ground.
Sure enough, the cop checked her rear-view mirror. Dammit!
But she didn't stare. Instead she looked to the left, and the right. She had been checking for a car behind, maybe, or at least people standing up. Apparently she didn't expect a struggling gym rat to be hustled feet-first right above the pavement...
He yelled long and hard at the police car as it went away.
Before he was done hollering, it slammed a door open in front of him and raced inside.
The women came out of the gym an instant too late to see his restless head disappear from sight.
It closed the door quietly...
Laughing, the gym chicks went to a car. Walking in the opposite direction.
Success.
He fought as hard as he could, but it was even more pleased now. Determined. It carried him downstairs, over the piles of old junk, and into the old boiler room. The tanks and pipes had been pulled out years ago - and somebody had even sealed off most of the possible conduits for sound. A few cans of aerosol insulating resin had finished the job, and it had covered the ceiling with three layers of acoustical foam...
One dim light, up in the far corner, was already on.
The door had almost taken more work than the ceiling. But it worked just fine now. Why some builder, so many decades ago, had used a submarine-type sealing door was never going to be known. But the struggling man got to see it swing closed. Thick slabs of iron slid through the decaying gasket and dug into their slots as it turned the wheel.
All four edges of the door were decisively blocked. It had added lots of extra grease to the facing mechanism, because there was the prospect of enjoying his distress as anxious fingers tried to grip and turn the central shaft.
Outside the door, escape was made impossible. A big chrome padlock caught the handle - that wheel which needed to turn counter-clockwise to retract the bolts - and the hasp slid through a new eye-bolt.
That click made it more satisfied than any other sound so far.
He kept on flailing, and the hands set him down. They locked onto his limbs...
Pressure circled - and tightened. His arms were extended in front. Two loud metallic clicks.
He couldn't get up. Sitting, with his hands almost on the floor between his feet. The binding had taken about fifteen seconds. Chain jingled faintly when he tugged. So heavy. Stunning, and worrisome -
There wasn't much light, and it came from about midway up each side wall. He saw chains hanging to his right, some kind of long split bench in the other direction - and a large bed behind him.
The man yelled for help, over and over, but nobody could hear him.
Right after the fetters were double-checked, it ripped his shirt off. These ribs, the shape of his armpits - they're getting endless attention. This is a torso that absolutely must be... handled, studied, stimulated. He has no idea what I'll do to these lats, it gloated. Or these minefields below his hamstrings.
He jerked at the chains, yelling again. No, he wouldn't be allowed to get in the way of its toys and fingers, oils and brushes, driving him to ever more maddening heights of delirium. He won't be able to shut off the ability to feel all the crippling impulses. Or to run. Nothing of the sort will be happening in its dungeon. It knew full well how to overcome any obstacle so that the fun never stopped.
An old wooden chest slid up to his right side.
The lid opened toward him. No peeking -
A few shapes, darker than the gloom, came out.
He reared back as they became... firm.
Gloves waited around him. Four, six, eight...
The anger on his face was gone right away. Pulling and yelling distractedly now, he looked from one glove to another as they hung there, as real as he was, ready to rock. Very magical. Some glossy material, dark black.
Four of them moved.
A ticklish man's gonna get it now, it thought. Cloth would be the first texture to ravage all that muscle.
He became frantic. Kicking and straining the chains as hard as he could. At first his expression had gone from enraged to confused. But then it saw that particular dazzled horror. A bizarre idea had occurred to him.
He was absolutely right!
It loved that moment of recognition. Of all the gruesome things that he might have been dreading, the reason he was here came as a complete surprise. Instead of being relieved that he wasn't in the cell to be maimed - permanent damage - he had the expression of disbelief that was common to every bound captive who had the vulnerability. This dizzying truth brought this same fathomless doomed to their face. The word was in his mind, spooking him. So unlikely. Really, one of these times a guy would recoil so hard from that word - it would stick out of his forehead, reversed letters appearing for just a second....
TICKLING. Upper case.
Extra-strength tickling for the strong adult male.
He was probably trying not to think about that now. So many fingers. Unbreakable restraints, keeping him there no matter how crazed the gloves made him.
Snapping at the chains, but so very helpless.
As usual, there was a wonderful change in the energy he emitted. Very faint at first, but stepping up as he imagined those fingers on his ticklish spots. The emanations from when he raged and blustered were enjoyable too, but they didn't compare to the warm pulses that would churn out with more and more intensity... when he battled simply to experience more stimulation than he could ever possibly handle.
No more heroics. He looked from one glove to another. A frightened animal, picturing the future. Searching wildly for an idea, he stared at the foam covering the ceiling. The room was not only locked, but his captor had soundproofed it too!
The tough guy whimpered once. Softly.
Fear of tickling radiated from him, and the tickler found it sublime.
Only the real reaction was better. Maniac joy, utterly mindless, increasing ever more intensely as the full-bore struggling and howling faded away. That was, of course, the best reward possible... but his dread of the immediate future was heady too. Enticing.
"No," he begged the glove sprawled over his navel. "No, not this. Please not this, anything - this is too sick. I can't take - dammit, get 'em away from me!"
He flailed uselessly, spilling even more lusty power into the room.
Delighted, obsessed, it had twenty fingers curl a little - ready to pounce - at his sides.
It felt invincible. Perfectly skilled, experienced, inspired with new ideas as it ogled his most promising spots. There was no risk of him escaping or being rescued. None.
And its prey couldn't do a thing to get more distance between his ribs and its sadistic glove-fingers.
The moment was great - flawless - electrifying... as it closed the gap. Sleek hands touched down.
He stiffened right up. "No no nooooooooo -"
Fingertips settled down on his floating ribs, and the other pair vaguely seemed to be reaching for each other as they covered his armpits. Two others pinched his hips. The belly-polisher was mirrored by another glove that spread out on the small of his back.
He screamed with rage and dread. Grunted...
And chuckled.
The captive jerked back. He'd stopped the laughter, and looked angry enough to kill somebody.
It made the gloves start to crawl -
He sputtered, and began to snicker.
The gym rat couldn't stop reacting. He looked around, squinting, just fighting so hard to yell instead - but the laughter was pouring out, no matter how much he wanted it to stop, and it was getting louder...
Hating every second. Why, he was so excited already, confirming exactly why he was here. His sensitivity was just exquisite.
Tortured hooting rumbled on and on.
Where other men had kept on cursing and barking orders until their laughter filled the dungeon, this one was already overcome with dread. That state of mind was more of the heady ticklish-energy it craved. He writhed and brayed, kicking out that involuntary confirmation without even knowing that the power he radiated was the more enjoyable result... one of the byproducts of so much excess pleasure, "unprocessed" stimulation. The kickback was invigorating. Better yet, he was broadcasting a helpful status report of how the impact was growing and intensifying within.
All conscious thought would soon be banished by the unprecedented, fanatical tickling.
To start, though, it wanted to burn off some stress by making him laugh. Not intermittently, or easily - he was going to roar, and give it everything he had.
It got the fingertips moving. Light strokes, for now, only a little taste of the speed and force with which they'd be used.
He screamed, and bucked - tossing his head from side to side, keening, wailing. Chortling hard... as if he'd never, ever stop.
Gloves expanded their reach downward, played with the rim of an armpit, traced a sweaty rib, swept up and down and back again.
He shook his head hard, but the rough, furious laughter kept booming out.
Wonderfully, the emitted energy ramped up too.
It bore down a little, stimulating his sides and back more firmly. His laughter started to become hysterical, and the ticklish-energy increased again.
Oh, it was just entranced.
Two dozen tools were close by, scores of gloves, and perhaps that same number of combinations and fun ideas. His reaction so far - only eight slow gloves, and look at him writhe! - was so exciting.
So addictive.
Clearly, he yearned to get away from its fingers. Nimble, skillful, frighteningly pleased hands. Ghostly magic, moving fingers so slippery and arousing and pleasant...
It polished his ribs more quickly. He whooped long and loud, snapping at restraints that didn't give him enough slack to pull anywhere near enough. Soon its gloves were rubbing and kneading with the most merciless, sadistic fervor...
His struggles faded. He kept on bellowing. The captive wanted nothing more than to shake the grasp of its gloves, but all he could do was roar like a lunatic.
That coursing energy-reaction from his tickled body was still ratcheting up...
So he was staying right here. The restraints and the dungeon were ensuring that. It absolutely loved making him suffer in the throes of his ticklishness, overrun with pleasure. His greatest need was deliberately - no, carefully - unfulfilled.
Gloves worked ceaselessly on his torso - not in unison, because it had already discovered that a more erratic pattern made him feel the tickling more strongly.
His hooting was becoming weaker. Vague, mechanical, spacey. The tickling was already far too much for him. His body was relaxing, which meant he'd have more attention for the wild excitement - and as even the false relief of fighting and laughter were tickled away, his finely tuned body would keep him awake and responsive for many thrilling hours.
His energy-response was increasing. That made it even happier. More... determined.
The coaxing of the fingers was certainly more thorough than any tickling he'd ever felt. Very rowdy, solid, nonstop hardcore tickling. From now on he'd never view that word the same way again. Brief little teasing would have to get some different label, because he was getting an entirely new caliber of tickling now. Much more intense.
There would be no jerking away from it, either. No curling up to protect sensitive places...
So many tempting spots to attack. Fast and slow, deep and light...
These armpits seemed like they might be feather territory. Many points criss-crossing, soft edges sawing from side to side. As much as he'd reacted to the fingers covering his belly, it thought maybe the gum stimulators or plastic forks would really fire up his navel.
Which bristles would tickle most on his neck? His pecs?
Right now there was no question on what to use for his ribs. Firm satin hands, massaging and digging around, were having a spectacular effect.
It would be a long time before the tickler got bored with this one. The ticklish-energy level was remarkable already.
As he started to flag, the gloves peeled off. For now.
Just a little breather. His chest heaved...
And when he'd regained enough presence of mind to start tugging at his bonds, its magic hands took new positions. Thighs, inside and out. Over and under his knees -
It waited until he was coherent enough to watch his shoes being pulled off, then his socks.
Two big, soft-bristled brushes hovered over.
He screamed once - interrupted by the contact of fingertips here and there and gloves clamping over his knees and under his knees right before the first breathtaking stroke of a brush inaugurated the mind-bending torture of his right foot and then the motion traveled up instead of down on his left sole and the hands squeezing the outside of his thighs were unbelievable and now there was a set of fingers digging around his crotch and others teasing the top of his ass-crack and it was all so much worse now as both helpless feet were just unthinkably on fire with how much it tickled, kept tickling, and still wouldn't stop tickling...
The gritty, consuming laughter exploded again. He thrashed for all he was worth, but every single tool kept driving him wild. When he rocked far enough away, the affected gloves just locked on and squeezed.
He pushed a brush with his toes, actually breaking contact.
It took offense at that.
More satin gloves were brought down. They immobilized his shins. Others gripped tight over each ankle, and a pair curled over his insteps.
There. Now it had his feet under full control. More intense tickling, coming right up, staying here. The brushes never missed a beat...
Let's have no more of this nonsense about you trying to move away from the bristles, it thought firmly. You're going to get tickled. Endlessly, thoroughly tickled. And if you think this is intense, just you wait.
His laughter became silent. His body shook. Was it utterly maddening? Hell yeah.
Gloves pressed down on his hips. Another pair started playing with his nipples.
He was staying put... and he wasn't suffering anywhere near enough.
Its fingers and brushes kept moving.
The sweat dripped off his face. His body relaxed somewhat, and the roars that he was dying to make dwindled too.
It was utterly mesmerized with the exquisite energy he radiated.
He needed extra break time to recover from that session.
When it finally moved in with a towel and wiped his face, he opened his eyes. There was a water bottle waiting for him.
A second bottle was also drained without hesitation. Slowly, his arms confirmed the integrity of the shackles.
"Noo-oooooh," he whined. Almost a sigh.
Well - what a stupid thing to say. That was another act of defiance. Where did he get off, saying "no" to his tickler? All of that weightlifting had gone to his head. Apparently he'd forgotten who was in charge here...
The brushes pressed against his heels.
His eyes widened.
That's right, it thought. Of course I'll keep tickling you!
"Shit! No, this is insane..." His face had a defeated, pained expression.
It was time to teach him... a sizzling lesson. He had to be shown, as many times as necessary, that it had big plans for his ass.
Gloves leaped over him -
"Okay okaaaAAAYYYY-YEEEEEEEEeeeee heee heeee-eeee!" he crowed.
Harsh fingers dug into his ribs again, traced over his belly, polished his back, squeezed the back of his neck.
Others took charge of his ankles and insteps again... and it set the brushes in place, skating up and down. twisting and rocking, dancing under his heels and back up...
His reaction was so flawlessly satisfying, and the pleasure of punishing him so very delightful, that it tickled zealously for seventeen minutes.
The gloves stopped only because he slid into unconsciousness.
It waited, serene and purposeful, for him to wake up.
He burst out laughing again. Roaring for a few miserable seconds. So deeply fulfilling, to see that hysteria overcome by the crushing power he just couldn't bear to feel...
The oiled latex gloves had driven him to fatigue a good half-hour ago. It floated some of them down, caressing his thighs and hips with brutal finesse, tracing his perineum and the curve of his ass.
Ten minutes later, his thoroughly brushed soles were targeted again. Four smooth palms were loaded up with thick lube.
When they started kneading he jumped and squirmed, head flopping around.
Aaaw, it thought, those gloves must be really getting to him. What a perfectly maddening thing to do. And he's such a big, strong guy...
By moving the tickling from spot to spot, he was crazed all over again wherever it returned. Already it had found a technique that kept his feet responsive. Stroking - firm, sadistic petting - was not showing any signs whatever of losing effectiveness yet. There were so many other tools it had within easy reach.
He was still sweating, panting, completely undone.
The fingertips slid from soles to insteps, lower ankles, heels, the phenomenally sensitive gaps between his toes... and back again.
He was so far gone there was no need to steady his ankles. He couldn't even manage to bend his feet at all. The industrious gloves covered his most ticklish skin, and it had mocked his desperation to escape until his body had lost all ability to resist its hands.
Beyond a doubt he was even less able to tolerate or cope with the sensation now.
Gleefully, it had every glove tickle harder.
Rest breaks ran longer and longer.
It brought new toys over to him. The portable shoe polishers, gently buffing his armpits, made him remember how to laugh. Raw, coarse snickers, loud and hard, impossible to stop.
He started to pass out again every time it made the buffers coast down to his lower ribs and all the way back up, so it lifted the spinning pads off and slowed all the gloves down.
His escape into unconsciousness was blocked for three more hours.
His feverish suffering increased again and again. Fingers made sure of that, returning to each sensitive spot with vigor.
Irresistible.
Finally, sleep could not be postponed any longer.
He was carried to the bed. Rubber sheets underneath him were unfazed by the shaving gel it slathered on him, from his neck to his toes.
Tomorrow was going to be so much better, it thought. Smaller brushes of all types were going to make him a drooling wreck. Feathers would not miss a single crease or ridge. The look on his face, when more gloves than ever came to him, was going to start the long, electrifying day on just the right note...
The restraints were placed and tightened with care.
Damn, it just couldn't wait for him to wake up!
26jul10