Quivering, he shuts his eyes again.
Attacked from all sides, suspended about two yards in the air, belly-down, above a bed covered with feather dusters and boas, most of 'em damp after their half-hour of use. Gentle, careful razing.
Now, the scarves drag across his feet, high around the inside of each thigh, across his lower gut... and over the nape of his neck.
Nio doesn't watch 'em. He doesn't laugh - at the moment. After roaring himself hoarse, he took a little nap... and woke up fast when the scarves came and started wrapping around, as if shining shoes. Only buffing him instead. Light, continuous.
He manages to writhe, now and then, making the cuffs squeak less than before.
Too absorbed to shiver, he's no less overloaded now.
New scarves came - or maybe some of the same ones, dried, still slippery. Rotating... his armpits, under his knees, across his hips, his pecs, palms, between fingers.
Water is brought occasionally. A magic squeeze bottle.
Then the scarves resume, sawing gently.
The hours crawl by.
It's the first night... and dozens of techniques await.
After more sleep, Nio finds himself cuffed down across the mattress. Feathers gone, rubber sheet underneath him. Spread across a field of shiny black latex, sinister and unreal...
...with nearly a gallon of lubricant poured over him.
He struggles, staring uncomprehendingly at his shaved body, as the water bottle returns to his lips.
Then the white packets start floating up, peeling apart, to reveal -
Gloves. Surgical latex. Large. Wrappers being cast aside by unknown means, lefts and rights filling, firming up -
A dozen phantom hands move in on him, slowly. Nio flails around, but the only result is moist smacking sounds. He watches them pin his hips, and shins -
Now the fingers get to work. Twenty on his feet, twenty on his ribs, four gloves roaming, clench and scrabble and glide and raze.
He hollers like a banshee, at first... but they slow down, finding a pace and pressure that's too overwhelming to permit laughter. The inscrutable handling continues...
Another indeterminable night, with many rest breaks.
As urgent as the demands of the feathers were - and the scarves! - these greasy fingers are much more insistent.
Imperative.
He's shocked, continuously, at the depth of the... feel of 'em. An unreal range of pressure and weight that the other tickling tools lack.
One or two of 'em would be bad enough, restrained as snugly as he is. But twelve - and all of them oiled...
He can't believe how enormous the sensation is.
Way beyond noticing where they're stationed. It's like... being encased in a sack, or a body suit -
No, more like a bathtub, full of oil, except the oil can apply pressure. And move. Oil that knows when he's too exhausted - knows better than he does, somehow - and downshifts, clever oil. But the rest period is no relief. Absolutely none. Still cuffed down, certain beyond a doubt that the oil will wrap around him again. No one to stop it. Can't plead with oil... or, apparently, with gloves.
Water, food, rest.
Gloves. Oil.
Daylight comes, and goes, then seems to return...
Waking up. Soon to be cradled in the oily rubber hands again.
The morning sun peeks through the window, between the boards.
Eventually, Nio stirs, still more asleep than awake. Another day of "tysteria" begins... in the usual way.
Gliding down from the shelves... are a pair of white satin gloves. Moving directly to their destinations. Inflating, making fists, wiggling fingers. He sees none of this.
One is crossing over his chest when he finally starts to open his eyes. And they start.
He tenses up, trying to shake off the fatigue. Making fists -
On his left side, fingers are coasting from nipple to hip. The other glove lays its palm over his ribs and slides in, and up...
Nio watches for a second, before whispered, gravelly laughter bursts out of his mouth. He stiffens once, tries to pull - not much of a pull, at that - and then just lays there, face all scrunched up, roaring. Arms spread out, tied down, giving the satin a wide field to rub. Muscular limbs that strained for almost two days before quitting.
The hands don't bear down or speed up. There's no need. Moving continuously, spread out to cover as much skin as they can...
And he doesn't fight anymore. Amazing contrast - those first long stretches, compared with the last day or two. As much as he wants to get up...
He still tugs sneakily about a half-hour into each break. There is no doubt he'd run like the wind, if he could. But now, the skilled fingers trace nerve paths and blanket hyperactive skin, and he lay still. Whining and hooting away, and not wasting the energy to fight the ropes. Astounding, compared to the determination earlier... the bewilderment when he'd kick and pull. And gape at his tethered ankles, looking shocked that his feet stayed in the grip of the magic satin.
Despite the suitability of the secluded den, and the expert ropers, he doesn't even throw his head around. Too intent on barking zealously.
The gloves trade places, one lazily roaming over his right side, the other blanketing his left ribs.
Nio doesn't miss a beat. Howling, voice already starting to fade and crack.
Armpits are added to the fingers' route. A glossy palm backs over his navel, creeps off... and returns...
And another pair of comedians drift toward his feet. Gently creeping over the most sensitive spot on each sole. His laughter becomes more racking...
But he doesn't move. Conserving his energy, maybe? Remarkable.
All four gloves keep prowling.
Like it or not, he's gotta work up an appetite. Then... hmmm... feathers. The quail feathers, not the others. A squadron of feathers, in tight formation, landing and splitting up. Small, busy feathers. Say, two dozen.
A quick nap, afterward. A late dinner... Tie his big toes back, oil him up... Maybe eight brushes for each foot. It will be a long, deliberate evening. So it's settled.
Nio whoops to himself, unaware as always of the scheduled events.
The first gloves make heavy circles above each hip, and the others skate gracefully up the insides of his legs, back down, and back up...
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