There's bristles coasting around my belly. At least four brushes, maybe more, like slow lightning that trails back and forth, around my navel, and a wider circle rides over my nips and way down.
Endless. This has been going on and on. It's hitting harder, inside.
My hands are captured. Something like gloves, pinching... my fingers.
I try to blink the tears and the sweat out of my eyes. The sensation is just... shredding me.
There's a little shock - and I rear back. My face. Wet paper towels are wiping around my eyes, scrubbing off the snot. How helpful.
Now I can see a laptop, hovering in front of me. My wrists are still cuffed, and my hands are on the keyboard. I chuckle at the laptop and shake my head, unable to get my fingers to move. They're somehow being punched into the keys with enthusiasm, with purpose...
Invisible hands are not gripping my fingers and forcing me to type this request to join. No. That's just silly. I am a gentleman who doesn't get out much. A good guy. A wimp, really. I don't get nearly enough pleasure out of life. A very generous "friend" has vowed to change that, even when I resist. The computer will be put away now so I can resume working on my goal of being even more of a fun-loving distressed gentleman. I just admire most all of the artwork and writing in this group, because it really CAPTURES what it takes for me to learn how to have more fun. Life is swell!
The dialog box on the screen is for some deviantArt group. I can make out the word "Members". Apparently I'm being forced to sign up -
Hands I can't see line up my right index finger and stab at the left mouse button.
The screen changes. "My" request for membership is awaiting approval.
"Nuh huh huh huh huh nnnn-nhh," I snicker. So tired. Yesterday was about three months long, and the magical sadist started right back in this morning -
The laptop snaps shut.
Four oiled gloves are here. They were hiding behind the screen. Surprise! And now, of course, they're starting to cruise on down.
"Pleeee-heeee-heh huh nnnnuh huh huh," I wail, shaking my head.
The tickler's ready to reward itself for typing that bullshit about how happy I am to join up -
So another four gloves float up, steady as hummingbirds.
I squirm around and just freakin' roar at 'em.
Moving in, latching on.
Bouncing and kicking doesn't do shit. Suddenly I long to laugh so much harder... and it still won't be enough. Fingers in my armpits, slippery hands clenching my collarbones, more fingers up and down to top of each thigh - and one clamped around each instep.
Roaring like a fool, I see movement. It's horrible! The brushes are floating... down to my soles.
I squeal and try to grab at 'em, but my arms are seized again and pulled up over my head. Invisible hands in charge, no matter how hard I buck.
Click, click - and the damn cuffs are anchored by the straps again. My hands are out of commission. I can tug all I want -
Oh, shit! Up and down, up and down, and even though I just got serious about yelling laughter as hard as I could, the brushes weren't stopping, weren't gonna ease off, inner sides, outer sides, my arches are so impossibly sensitive now, and my poor toes!
Up and down, up and down.
Tight straps. I'm just helpless, here.
Water breaks come and go, and they jump on again.
There isn't a damn thing I can do about it.
Waking up there again is very disorienting. Well, now, this is just not possible. The past two days couldn't have been real. That's just stupid.
I've never heard of a hallucination that could be this seamless. Each hour feels like a decade... when the tickling starts back up. And it always starts back up.
The straps are frighteningly snug.
"No... Aw, NO! No more..."
Before I know it, I'm yelling. It is the same damn room I've been laughing in. Third day, starting now? Fourth? I'm not even sure anymore. It isn't some kind of vivid dream.
My feet are already throbbing, just from the memory -
Dammit, I'm definitely awake again... and strapped down.
Two, four, six, eight gloves. Oiled. Posing, for a moment, above my feet.
"No no dammit no pleeee- aaah huh huh huh nuh nuuh haw haw haw!"
The bastards get back at it. Both feet.
I go wild, slamming around and laughing like a maniac.
And the day just drags on and on.
When I can laugh, now, it reminds me of some sex-crazed psycho.
"Ssssss-stop," I manage to stutter once in a while.
It doesn't stop. The tickler. Gloves and toys floating around like magic...
All kinds of techniques.
This has to end today. And yet I'm more and more certain that it won't.
"Cuh-c'mon, pleeeeeze," and then I just gotta crow again. My voice is scratchy. Shit, my throat is sore, and my chest...
I'm begging something that isn't human, and all of my earlier pleas didn't change a thing. I know that, through and through, but I can't seem to stop myself.
It's intent on making me go wild. Damn cuffs...
So I shake my head for awhile, but the tickling doesn't even pause. I want to snap. Just go away, inside. I don't care anymore. There's not a damn thing I can do, except that. Shake my head and plead for the bastard to stop.
But no. It slows everything down when I'm really getting close to the edge. Couldn't have me going insane, any more than letting me pass out - and miss all this excruciating excitement?
Cuffs and straps on the inside too. That's bizarre. Aw, I'm loopy. Feverish. My attention, though, is locked on. The impact keeps hitting deeper and deeper. Other than feeling all this the only other thing I can do, most of the time, is breathe.
The gloves never hesitate. The brushes and feathers and scarves don't know how to just phone it in. This tickler is so damn interested.
The glove is waiting. Oh, shit, I know that posture.
It's holding a pill between thumb and forefinger. Displaying it -
Hell, that's two pills this time. I twist hopelessly and roll my head around. Tbe bastard can't be serious! I'll really go nuts. Really, really, literally gone.
But another glove floats up with a bottle of water. Double the dose. Every inch of my body is so much more ticklish already...
"No," I groan.
Invisible fingers snake into my hair, tilting my head back.
Crap. How can I deal with even more of this mindblowing sensation? I was so far beyond what had ever seemed possible already. And now - two pills?
This phantom knows tickling. "Please," I say as pathetically as I can. Crying is not out of the question either. That hasn't worked, but I'm not proud anymore.
Here they come. The pills. My hair gets pulled real hard - so I have to open my mouth.
And the glove is taunting me, taking its time, cocking back and tossing the pills onto my tongue.
Real insanity, maximum impact, coming right up.
Every time I catch myself thinking "Dammit, this just can't be happening," I get pissed off. The past few days were real, alright. As real as this moment is.
I hate these cuffs.
The bastard really thought this out.
Gettin' me off. That was humiliating - at first. Not anymore, boy. And I never would've guessed how much... worse I'd feel everything. Afterward. Like upshifting the tickles from low-power to high-power.
Floating gloves. No fumbles, no hesitation. The bastard knows exactly what it's doing, and how to turn up the heat. Oh, man, I've gotta get out of here. Brushes and feathers just floating right up, oiled fingers taking hold - and I just lay here. Chuckling, and the cuffs don't budge at all as I tug. This is so incredibly crazy.
Soaked with sweat. I barely remember eating, or being cleaned up after shitting myself. Everything other than the tickling fingers is irrelevant.
The right room, the right restraints, plenty of toys. For tickling. And it caught me. I can't stand this. More asskicking intensity, every day. Just what it was looking for. I'm strong, and I can't even begin to figure out a way to cope with this.
No one will ever believe this invisible torturer exists. Never, ever, ever. And tickling, of all freakin' things!
Hardcore tickling.
I try to imagine telling my brothers when I finally get cut loose. Warning 'em...
But hell, a few days ago I never would've believed this myself.
09sep12