Brushes.
He's completely lost track of time. Smoked a couple packs of cigarettes, though. Always another one between his teeth.
The brushes dust his palms, and nipples... Around his neck...
He sits with his head all the way back, exhaling smoke. Oblivious to the pile of ash behind the chair, the always-dark sky outside, even the towels sopping up his sweat, leaving some kind of cream in their wake.
Thighs. Oh, shit. Feeling rather than seeing 'em. Brush-work inside his legs, around his pelvis, the others skating on...
Feels like six, maybe. Down there. Circling in, as they have been... all night.
They glide all over his balls, burrow in his crotch hair. Another brush explores his navel. He grunts very briefly, not too loud... body-excitement up another notch. Too tired to cuss anymore, or laugh. Or beg.
The brushes drag around his navel, down by his asshole. Backing off again. Right up to the base of his cock and pulling off. He has absolutely no idea how many times they've done this to him tonight. How many nights since they caught him...
He sucks in on the cigarette for a long time. Lets the smoke out slowly.
Brushes, playing on his biceps, in his ears, under his knees. Crippling, distracting...
Not distracting enough.
His balls quit aching a long time ago. His rod couldn't be any more stiff, but he's been this geeked up for longer than two packs. They keep going back there, all around and under to whip him up, get him amped, and then they wander off. The need to come has grown from utterly maddening to a solid, deep thing like a fever. He can feel it in every cell of his body. This is so far beyond what he would've called "horny" that he can't even put it into thoughts. As automatic and undeniable as breathing, but desired even more than that. Way more than food.
He needs this cigarette... real bad. Water, as often as it's brought to him, which is maybe every half-hour. Pissing whenever he needs to, no problem there... the tightness and burning from, uh, competing fluids struggling to get out the same hole - that no longer matters.
Much more important, far more commanding of his attention, is the need to shoot, let go like a volcano. It's like an unbelievable waiting tension - except the brushes, they've squirmed all the muscle contractions out of him. If the cuffs were taken off him he couldn't crawl to the door if he tried. Even lifting his head to look at the brushes was so hard...
In each elbow crease. Two on each forearm. A pair stroking his calves, others poking around the leather securing his ankles.
But he didn't have to look. Magic brushes, skating, floating up and going to work on another area. The towel, caked with lotion, rising up by itself, mopping sweat from the center of his chest, drying his forehead, his legs. A fresh cigarette sliding out of the pack, coming steadily, waiting for an unseen hand to snag the finished one and hold it in place until he puffed the newcomer to life. All old news.
Countless nights of this. Maybe not, uh, weeks, or anything... but all blurred together, like a whole lifetime of sitting here. Brushes, feathers, scarves.
Goin' apeshit over 'em, before. Thought they'd actually drive him nuts...
Now, he's just too tired. Ain't goin' anywhere before he gets off, that's for damn sure.
That cigarette is followed by water, and another smoke. And the telltale softness, gliding all over his hips, and in. Others wandering up from his legs, scurrying lightly. Under his scrotum, all over it, and gently over his beltline...
Another pack goes. He's more exhausted, but real alert somehow. Caffeine in the water, he thinks. Or dex. Gonna be awake for a while yet.
A long time after that, he daydreams about jerking off. It's wonderful... he sucks in happily. Still can't budge his limbs. Squinting, through the cloud of smoke -
An unbelievable sight. "Oh yeah," he sighs. The brushes - they're on his rod. Tracing up his shaft, together. He can thrust. It feels sensational.
The ring of fur slides up to his tip, and he grunts - just a couple more strokes like that, and he can... finally...
But they separate. One keeps teasing the rim of his meat, and the others wander over his balls. He tries to thrust again, and can't. Collapsing back against the chair with a despairing moan.
Another cigarette floats up. When it's going good, the brushes regroup at his pubes - at the base - dragging up simultaneously...
Two smokes later, maybe more, his tension changes with an involuntary jolt. He looks -
The brushes are riding down, together, and back up. Tip to rim, to tip. He growls, strains...
And shoots.
Yelling loud. Bucking again and again.
And the brushes speed up, all over his crotch, fast and heavy. He doesn't see 'em. Too wracked to look. But they prolong the climax, make him pump automatically even when there's nothing left to eject. The instinctive action of his body, as it rocks on and on, is amazing, yet another thing he hadn't known he could be made to do.
The brushes feel like they've split, multiplied. A thousand tiny brushes, solid as a blanket of dreamtime pleasure, a violently arousing gel.
A match flares. Still panting, he opens his eyes, blinks away sweat and peeks. A cigarette, hanging right there, ready. The lit match is waiting for him.
He swallows once, and cooperates. It takes concentration, since he hasn't really caught his breath yet. But there's a serious need for the smoke - to feel it inside him, right fuckin' now.
There's still something moving, on him, and it takes him a minute to figure out where. Heels. Tracing gently. Realizing that, he grins bigtime... can't help it. He wants to look down there, at his feet, and see. Not smart. But he knows he has to end the suspense. The idea of being all stoic sounds good, but he can't pull that off, not here. So he finally lifts his head a little -
Nope. No brushes.
Well... none that he can see. Hallucinating 'em, maybe. Making up ticklers that aren't really there. After-effects. He takes another weak drag -
A sound. Quiet, familiar. He looks again.
No, oh no, oh shit.
Gloves. Being "pulled on" magic hands.
Pigskin, he guesses. Lithe, slender. He looks at his cock, still at attention, all provoked. Then he could kick himself, for even glancing down there. He fidgets, getting worried. Hell, anywhere on him - after a cumshot like that - if they touch him, he's doomed.
The damn cuffs don't let him do anything, except shift a little. Cutting off all hope of avoiding this -
There it is again. On his soles. His legs twitch helplessly. Back and forth, heavier, on the bottoms of his feet. His heart revs up again, and chuckles roll out of him from deep in his chest. Creepy. He sounds like a head case. A very tired, aroused maniac.
So there's gotta be brushes, down there. Angled low. Out of sight, on purpose -
A bottle! Big bottle. Hovering up, over his feet - stopping - cap spinning off. He fights the cuffs, watching the bottle tilt. Oil, it's oil. Aw no.
"Haawwww haww haaaaaaawwwwww nnnnnooh whoaaaaahhh haaah aaaaawwww nnnnaaaaah hah hah hah haaaaah..."
Like a wave - as if they threw a bucket of ticklishness at his feet. And he squeals with glee, almost a scream. The brushes keep on, and all he can do is squirm like a mad dog. The cuffs steady his feet like they were made to fit - no, no, more like his feet were made to fit in these cuffs, perfectly snug, no play, no slack. He was just what the ticklers ordered.
"Neeeeeeeee heee hee heeeeennnnaaaaawwww aaaawwwww nah haah hah haaaah pleeeheeeheeeaaaawwww..."
The gloves are heading in. They just can't. He forbids 'em, cigarette bobbing as his lips move silently, ordering 'em away, pleading with 'em, and he can't get the fuckin' words out. Still horny as hell, skin touchier than ever thanks to shooting his load. Roaring again from two little brushes and a coat of oil... and the fingers are coming. He's gotta do something -
But sitting there, as the gloves start in, is not what he had in mind. They squeeze - and then he has nothing else in mind. Only the tickling.
He howls loud, flopping, head thrown back. And it's worse, blowing away all the other nights here. He's feeling it so much more now!
Fingertips, digging slowly, through oil, on nerve endings totally roused... by that climax. He loses all awareness of writhing and laughing. His body continues without him.
Immobilized feet, tenderly murderous abuse, tyrannical massage. His ruling obsession.
25dec00