(No "action" in this one, FYI)
He leaves the motel room, making sure the door is shut. Walks to an old car...
Late 20's, fine muscle tone. No cigarettes. On his way to a bar, so I'm definitely tagging along to get a couple test swipes in. His posture is not confident.
After he starts the car, my candidate fishes a joint out of his pocket and lights up. So the suspicious shreds in his car's ashtray were indicating his habit of getting high in here.
Hey, anything that makes him less vigilant is okay with me.
He slows down, studying a hipster tavern. Passes it by. The next one, too. But a sports bar with a trio of hot women hanging around outside meets with his approval. He parks around the corner, has a couple more tokes, snuffs the joint and closes the ashtray. Walking to the watering hole, he looks calm. Happy. Popping a breath mint...
When his first beer is just about gone, I sneak hands around his ribs.
The response is deep. I'm barely holding on, and I'm delighted to see the correct sign. Not panic, but that ripple of neural response that makes him lean back. A hot prospect.
He looks behind him, and sees no one.
I hurry back to the motel. Get his stuff.
Swing by a rooftop nearby and get some of mine.
When it's all stashed in his car, I race back.
There he is. Getting ready for the wildest night of his life - and there's even better news. He's got a thoughtful new employer - me.
I made a quick pass through his belongings. And I take it from the defeated look I saw earlier that the interview didn't go particularly well. Very soon now, all of that won't matter. He won't be able to worry about the stupid job he came here to get... or where he'll live.
Got it covered.
My new hire has an intermittent conversation with the grizzled bartender. They talk about rentals in the neighborhood, other job prospects. The chicks, he learns, are really at the bar in abundance during the weekends...
Finishing his third beer, he looks around, packs it in, and leaves a big tip. Then we leave.
When he walks up to his car, fishing for his keys, I open the door. He stops dead...
Squinting. Thinking furiously. He finally looks around, and leans in. Yessir, that's about a half-pound of primo weed. I think of it as a retention bonus.
He reaches for the bag, and doesn't look up. I have the aerosol can aimed correctly. When I press the button, the mist hits him in the face. The hypnotic is absorbed through the skin, but it works even more quickly when it's inhaled. His response to the surprise, hunched over as he is, does the trick. He breathes in.
Although he starts backing up instinctively, I'm ready to shove him inside - and make a glove lift off the passenger seat. He sees the motion, only the first of so many animated hands that will get busy on his hide.
"Hey," he barks nervously.
I clamp the palm of the glove tightly over his mouth...
And sit him up behind the wheel. Close the door. Even as he's trying to catch up from being moved, reaching for the door handle - I bring up the handcuffs.
Start the engine.
Oh, he's trying to wrestle around, but I grab his forearms. Two hands for each. Bring 'em in front, so his hands are almost touching the wheel. Cuff one wrist, then the other. Hold on tight. He fights hard - for a few seconds. Then he stops suddenly.
Shakes his head. It bounces loosely.
I shift the car into drive and take him away.
Gotcha!
Seeing the restraints arrive, he gets all squirmy. Still panting for breath, looking thoroughly addled, but the flight reflex kicks in.
"Hold still," I warn him, "or I won't smoke you out."
"Fuck that," he says - so conflicted - "I gotta get out of here."
"Why?"
He snorts, like it's such a dumbass question. "So you don't -" And he shuts up real quick. Afraid to say it. Priceless.
"So I don't... tickle you?" I suggest.
He nods tightly.
I have a glove press down on his chest. "Just lay there, and I promise I won't tickle you now."
There's a couple seconds where he struggles with that idea.
Wonderfully, he groans. And lies still. Watching the leather separate and gather around the corners of the bench. I actually get a cuff closed around his left wrist before he realizes why I tacked "now" onto that sentence.
"Nooooooo," he wails, trying to roll off.
So I bring gloves to pin his biceps, and have two others aim their fingers at his armpits. "You want me to start in now? Huh? Distract you, so I can get these cuffs strapped down? 'Cause I can do that. It's up to you."
"No, don't, aw hell no."
"Then hold still."
A whimper of frustration. He looks from the gloves to the restraints near his feet - tries to lift his upper body up from the bench - and sags. "Dammit."
"These gloves aren't tickling," and I bring the taunting fingers closer. "Are they?"
"Well..." And fuck, I'm just waiting to hear him say "not yet" or "but they will-llll." Sure as shit. That's absolutely correct, and yet he doesn't dare to state the obvious. Instead he moans again, quietly, eyes roaming around the ceiling. As in, I can't believe I'm here. And if I try to run, these fuckin' gloves are gonna pin me down anyway.
I get a cuff around his right wrist.
He lies still. Oh, this is phenomenal.
I buckle it down, slowly. Then I tighten the left wrist-cuff. Clip the straps on.
He looks like he's struggling with a bad dream. Fevered, but so deeply worried.
"Good job," I praise him.
And I start increasing the tension on the straps.
Delightfully, he doesn't even squirm. Lips moving, but no words are coming out.
I catch one strap's ring in a hasp. Then the other. Tighten the turnbuckles until his arms just... can't... budge.
"There you go."
"What?"
"Thank you. For cooperating."
He looks shocked. "I'm not - hey." He pulls, but - oh yeah - those arms are staying down now. "Oh no. Oh, shit!"
It's time for me to curl some gloves around his left ankle, and ease that cuff around him. "Try pulling again. Get creative."
Stricken, he does. While he looks at the wrist-cuffs and gives 'em a good workout, I trap his ankles. Get 'em staked down. Sneak more straps around his waist and lower thighs.
I even have time to untangle the toe-rings...
"Nope," I say briskly. "You're stuck now. No matter how much you want to... get away." I catch his biceps with straps - both at once.
His head darts from one to the other. "Noooooooo..."
Wham. He tries to bounce. Thrashes.
Stops. Tries to pull his legs in, toward his belly. Lifts his head.
"Hey!" he finally says. "My... f-feet."
"Real fine feet."
He grits his teeth, straining to shove his body down and off the bench. "You caught my feet. And my toes?"
I can't help but snicker at him.
"Bastard."
"Now, are you sure you can't move any more than that?"
His eyes get huge. From bad to worse, huh? "Oh, now - c'mon!"
"And what's gonna happen, very soon now? I bet the answer's bouncing around in there."
He shakes his head quickly, trying to arch. Oh, hell, or kick. Rotate his arms. But aaaaw, nothing's working. He's doomed. The realization couldn't be clearer, to watch the expressions slide across his face. "No. No!"
"Think anybody's gonna hear you? I promise that's not gonna happen. And I've got lots of rope. More straps. If you can even manage to snap one of these -"
"Why? Oh, fuck, not - don't do that to me," he pants. "I'll give you anything. Take my car. I'll tell you my PIN number, I'll tell you anything, just don't do it... don't..."
"You know what I want."
A whine-squeal. "Don't."
I bring the gloves down - within a couple inches of his belly. "Tell me why you can't... even... budge."
"Fuck you," he snaps, "I've gotta get outa heee-eeeeere."
"What's gonna happen now? Say it. Nice and loud."
"Haaaaalllllp -"
"Say it."
He shakes his head. Wrestles with the notion. Looks at the door, sighs - and gives in. I see the actual moment he decides to say the word, still miserably haunted by the idea. Defeated, and trying to prepare for something absolutely unbearable.
"You're going to... tickle me."
"What? Is that what you're so worried about? Me... tickling you?"
"Don't do this," he sighs. "I'm gonna lose my mind if you even touch my feet, I sw-"
"Well, I did tickle you. A little. In the bar. Making sure you'd be receptive. And then you were nice enough to lie still as I anchored your arms... almost as if you were into this. What's coming."
Blink. Another blink. Five wonderfully perfect seconds pass.
He's catching on nicely.
"No no noooooo," and he's thrashing, screeching, utterly wild to get loose.
I wait him out. "So much fun -"
"Oooooh, you are a mindfucker," he pants. "This isn't happening. This is a nightmare."
"Now what kind of tickling," I say brightly, "would call for such heavy restraints?"
Another pause. Shorter. "Nooooo hooo hoo hoo-ooooo," he begs, head rolling with bewilderment. I seriously don't think he even knows he's laughing already.
"And your dick's right out there, so easy t-"
"HAAAAALLLLLP!" And then he dissolves into miserable laughter again.
"Yeah, I'd say you earned a couple tokes," I tell him. "Before I start."
There is no good reason why he should be so fuckin' fascinating. But I quit doubting myself a long time ago.
He gave me that subconscious reaction that foretells major capacity-increase, which is the tendency to become aware of the tickling far more than he will be tonight. An enormous increase, just a few days from now, and the recalibration will recur every few days. Learning what he feels "most" and wasting no time exploiting it are why he's... perfectly restrained.
I love every strap, each cuff. Pressing into the skin just enough, no rotating or shifting allowed. No matter what.
Decent muscle, held in check.
Chance of him breaking loose? Getting past the locked door? Of anyone finding out he's here? Zero.
He's not going to evade a single finger, or hurt himself, or be allowed to black out. Not a chance. I have a nuclear reactor of ticklishness strapped down, here. I have more techniques I want to use than I can possibly try before he needs to sleep...
Luckily, he'll be here for more fun tomorrow. And so on!
He's in better shape than my last conquest. Get him a little leaner - with hard, hysterical work - and these abs are really gonna pop. Really, he oughta take a good look at himself the day after I cut him loose - and then thank me. The chicks will get wet just laying eyes on him.
And in the meantime, I get to tickle just as much and as intricately as I want.
I'm already thinking about picking up some more cases of food for this one. After he's shaved - oh, fuck, it's gonna be fireworks time.
2022