"Nope," he says, sneering. A mocking leer, contemptuous...
He's still furious but he's relaxed somewhat, trying to stretch the ropes.
So he really isn't tickish. They all say that. His panic died out quickly, right after it had pinned him down...
Defiant expression.
He'd yawned melodramatically when the feathers had arrived at his feet, and started dusting. His earlier yells hadn't done any good, and he shouted less and less. But he told the feathers just what he thought of 'em. Mocking tone, real smug.
He'd actually rolled his eyes when his shirt was unbuttoned, and they started testing his sides.
"C'mon already. Is that it? Sick fuckin' bastard. That all ya got? Ain't gonna work here. Never has, never will. Give it up, and go find some ticklish fucker to play with. It ain't me. Give it your best shot."
Well, there's something it didn't hear every day: permission. Invited to do its worst. He's way too cocky for his own good - apparently forgetting his crotch is vulnerable here, too - but that's not what it's after, and he figured that out. Pretty sure of his nonreactivity... Thinking he's got it stumped.
But he doesn't know its track record.
Or its expertise.
This site, so perfect... plenty of equipment, a snugly tied prospect...
And a solid advantage. Time.
By his side, the pack moves. It had laid where it fell after it slid out of his pocket during his earlier struggles. Before he was spread out here. Now the box cracks open, and a smoke creeps out.
He watches this with his mouth open, glaring. "Get real." He starts to squirm - and then changes tactics. "No, wait. Okay. Bring 'em on. Hope you got more, asshole. I'm gonna need something to do while you waste your time..."
Insults and jibes keep coming, while the coverage increases.
For a while he gets totally pissed off again, refusing a new cig... eventually giving in.
More feathers slip under the legs of his jeans, creeping lightly, slowly... up and down. No effect. They turn away from his groin, seeking a definite reaction on some other part of him.
Gently testing his belly, and neck. From the occasional smoldering glance, he knows where they're investigating... but it doesn't faze him in the least.
The cig moves to his mouth, again, and he heaves a loud sigh... and takes it. A match flares. Quills scoot across the small of his back, down his biceps - and he doesn't even falter as he sucks in hard on the smoke, shooting a withering glare at the feathers probing him...
Absolutely nothing.
He watches his jeans unbuttoning, the fly zipping down. "Oh sure. Of course. Sick, twisted fuckheads. Like that's difficult to wake up, hah? Gone to all this trouble, and now you're gonna pretend it was just to jack me off? Lame-ass shits."
He gets a new cigarette, and a lone feather flicks very delicately. Not out to tease him into climax, or even to withhold it...
While it dusts, a pair begin skipping around his midfeet again.
"Didn't work, did it? Ain't gonna work now..."
That turns out to be correct.
One feather moves all over his crotch, while others test elsewhere. He gets hard, dribbling pre-cum, but that isn't what it's after. He doesn't like the involuntary erection, but is obviously not uncomfortable.
He smokes harder, one after another, but that's the hormones talkin', only to be expected...
The lights are turned off, and the feathers continue. His erection wilts. The cigarettes keep coming...
A new pack, getting a dark scowl out of him as it's opened alongside the bed.
Then, a gag is tugged between unwilling teeth. Gloves arrive in the dark, bringing oil... and start to tease his feet.
If anything, he relaxed even more. Enjoying it, somewhat - but not in the manner it intended.
The oil didn't awaken his sides, or neck, or belly...
When he nods off, it pulls the gag. He cusses softly and closes his eyes again. After a few minutes, greasy thumbs begin to tweak his nipples.
He stirs. A few more fingers scratch gently under his balls. His head moves, and a faint sound escapes from his throat.
The gloves keep experimenting, adding a few more digits to other hopeful areas...
"Toldja. This is ridiculous. You wasted the whole night."
Feathers again, between his toes, behind his knees.
He tugs hard on the cigarette. All too glad to smoke up after breakfast - three energy bars and a jock-ade drink, ridiculed but polished off. "When are you gonna throw in the towel?"
After a few more cigarettes...
The door opens.
"Wha? Hey! Haallllllpp! Need some help in heeeerrrre!" No response.
There's not another human within a half-mile. The door opens further.
He looks from the outside world to the feathers, now pulling off him. "You quittin'? Finally? 'Bout fuckin' time."
The rope around his right wrist starts to move a little, as if picked at. "Al-right! Enough of this bullshit..."
And so on, while he taunts it to his heart's content.
When his wrists are free, he rubs 'em disgustedly. And to its delight he reaches absently for a cigarette. The second pack is almost empty. He lights a match, shakes it out and throws it deliberately past the full ashtray, onto the frayed carpet. Zipping his jeans, rolling his head around some.
The ankle-ropes are magically untied. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, goes to get up -
"Shit!" Sits back down heavily. He leans forward with a grunt, rubbing his calves, kicking out smoke.
Behind him, many gloves rise up from the far side of the bed. Satin.
Four grab his arms, keeping him in place. He jerks away, or tries to, and quits within a few seconds. "You just don't fuckin' get it, do ya? I'm not your boy..." And so on.
But other gloves land high in his armpits... two fingers on each nipple, thumbs straight up -
And another pair slides across denim, way up his thighs.
"Stupid pieces of shit- -"
Very gently tracing circles on his pecs, rocking high in his armpits, and squeezing his thighs, all at once.
He stops talking, rather suddenly.
It increases the pressure on his nipples, circling back -
And he gasps. Tensing up immediately.
It grips his arms tighter...
Two more hands spread out on his ribs.
He jumps!
Eyes huge, mouth locked in a big grimace -
Squawking. And amazed that he did.
The ticklers move again - and he writhes in their grip, thunderstruck, still not believing, even as...
He laughs. The expression on his face is exquisite. All fight now, wild to get away... squealing - no, screaming laughter.
Two more hands take hold of the bottoms of his feet - and get down to business.
And since he never knew what it was like to be ticklish before... he's only started playing catch-up. Noisy, panicky, he makes a blind lunge toward the door -
Which starts to close, as gloves pull him back on the bed.
Rope is rising, coiling again around his ankles. A full carton of cigarettes lands noisily on the nightstand -
Feathers dart in, tweaking his belly. Grips close around his ankles, land his arms... and all the stimulation pays off handsomely, as intended, as it planned. He tries to scrabble and flop in a mindless animal frenzy, reduced to desperate prey in its acetate hands. And noisy! Roaring, whooping, howling in response, bafflement still there in his expression... and dread, that good ol' knowledgeable fear of all the new-found intensity it had in store for him.
He was roped again with little trouble, and gagged.
The hands roam everywhere, now that the dam had burst. There was no getting the genie back in the bottle, now that he'd discovered what the fucking deal was...why people fought so hard to escape this. Except, of course, he was in for an incomparable level of provoking, novel and worthy of his superior stamina... repayment for his earlier contempt.
He shrieks, muffled nicely... straining at the thick rope, barking and braying from the gut. Not so smug now. Beside himself with skittishness, new to the mindblowing sweetness of newly discovered sensitivity.
The door closes and locks, but he's far too absorbed and gleeful to notice.
What color are the gloves?
Since this episode didn't say, your imagination designed 'em.
21apr98