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PARTY
 
TONIGHT
3290 STATE ROAD 115
(4 MILES WEST OF OVERTON)
 

There was a scribbled cartoon - a coffee table or something with liquor bottles, ashtrays, a bong, bags of chips or similar junk food...
And in the foreground, part of a black glove. Thumbs-up. The chick wearing the glove wasn't in the picture, but it was a little too thin to be a guy's hand.

Mink looked around, but no one in the truck stop was looking at him.
The postcard-sized flyer had appeared on the counter, by his coffee cup, while he was outside having a cigarette.
Inviting him, in particular?
The hand-drawn map seemed clear enough. It was almost nine o'clock, and he figured the party would probably be starting after dark...
 

He drove south. The damn place was a good ten miles out of the city - really out in the middle of nowhere.

One lonely red balloon floated from a mailbox.
Mink stopped his car and studied a small, dark house set well off from the pavement. A dirt-track curled around behind it. No cars or trucks visible, but there was some faint light around the back, and he heard laughter - it sounded like a chick who was feeling no pain, alright, along with a guy or two. Then he realized there was music - a Boomchuckow tune. "Crazy Guitars". That was a very good sign. He had a couple of their CD's, but so did most dudes his age.
Bikers, maybe. If the party sucked he could just hit the road. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. But he was up for meeting some people, maybe even get laid. He was definitely up for getting baked. If they were cool he could do worse than crashing on their couch for the night.
So he was smirking at the house as he pulled in.

One of the side windows had the blinds drawn, but light was peeking out of the edges. Party in the back, then. Mink grinned.
When he circled around he saw a car, a pickup truck and two motorcycles. Nothing fancy - unlike just about anywhere else, he had the nicest ride there. They were well-used vehicles belonging to locals, every one of 'em out back... so they wouldn't be advertising their owners' attendance.
Mink appreciated people who didn't need to make a loud, obnoxious scene - in keeping, he hoped, with recreational substances, or at least some excellent weed. These weren't uptight snobs, and they'd learned to be discreet. He pulled in next to the truck and killed the motor.
The door of the house was closed, but he could hear the music. When he got out of the car a welcome smell reached his nose. Marijuana was nearby. He looked down where he was walking, and saw a cigar butt in the dirt. Okay, then.
He pushed the door open.
There was an inner door, too, and it had a sign on it...

  C ' M O N   I N  

So he did.

The music stopped. And the voices - just like that.
Digital track, Mink thought, feeling like a chump. Not cool people having fun.
There were two thick strands of rope hanging from the ceiling.
Bait, his brain finally realized. No party here. Out -
A familiar sound made his head turn.
There was a bottle of beer floating over, from the right. The bottlecap separated from it and moved as if it was tossed toward the corner.
Then it was in front of him. Waiting.
Curiosity was just barely winning out over fear. What the hell. It's a beer. No point in wasting it.
Mink took the bottle, nodding a couple times. He needed a couple pulls right about then.
I'm the only one here, he thought stupidly. But I smelled kush. He glanced behind again - yeah, good thing the door him was still open. Seriously important. Still... somebody or something invisible just brought me a cold beer.
"What's up?" he said quietly.
The music was turned on again. Not as loud.
He looked around. There were invisible hands, probably still in the room? What mysterious force could twist off a bottlecap? The unseen force could've latched onto him and started pulling him further in. Shut the door. But...
He'd greeted it, or anyone who was there. Started a beer. Not running for that open door should be taken as a friendly sign. I can leave anytime, he thought. Get high first, and then get the fuck out of here.
Two gym bags floated out of a dark corner. One landed at his feet, and the other hung in front of him. Waiting.
After some thought he took it - and held his beer out. Sure enough, it was taken and held right there. Shaking his head in amazement, he found the zipper.

A pint bottle of whiskey, a small pocket satchel which held five cigars, two boxes of matches -
And a zipper bag with eight or ten fat joints.
"Wow," he sighed. Grab and run, he thought. Score. Taking the bag of doobies out, he wondered what was in the other bag.
Mink squatted down and took hold of it...

He was out in the country, and - oh, fuck - this probably wasn't a few hours of howling. Hide his car, and the phantom could rock on. Weeks. Months?
Nobody would suspect a thing. Looking at the gear and party goods brought to him, the conclusion seemed to be inescapable. Too much had been done already - to the place where he came, all on his own. Were the bedrooms filled with cases of food and tickling shit?
That sounded purely insane. Paranoid, he thought. The door hadn't been magically locked yet. Keep your eyes open. He expected he was right, though.. because -
"Oh, wow," he laughed. Couldn't be, but yeah, there it is. "Wait a sec," he said to the kinky stuff as he stood up. "That adult bookstore. Right? I was there right before the truck stop this afternoon. Dammit. Nobody gets to know I came out here." Mink scanned the place again as best he could, utterly blown away. "You, or somebody there, was tailing me?"
Nothing moved.
"Saw me looking at those magazines. But that was chicks getting it. Didn't know that one would have guys, uh, getting it. Chained down... laughing..." But Mink realized he was wound up. Excited. A glance down confirmed it. Obvious enough for anyone to see.
Stop talking, he thought. He was far from the only person who saw some appeal in getting as well as giving. A few other people online had bat-shit sessions like he did, but some of them admitted they really went for the nonconsentual takedowns. Heavy-duty tickling. Or unbelievably extended tickling. Some folks used what they'd been through to make their own tickle-attacks that much more effective.
I'm only passing through, he thought. Nobody would look for me here. I'm totally fucked, for a long time. Somebody had his number. As if he didn't feel stupid enough already, talking to nobody -
"You got the wrong idea," he said, looking around. "I'm more of a top."
A box slipped out of the gym bag. Here it comes, he thought, watching the top get ripped open -
One glove, then another, were pulled out. Unfurling. Two, then four, six -
Filling up.
The fingers moved as if the damn things were alive. Small hands.
He was shell-shocked.
Most of 'em zipped around him - between me and the damn door, he thought.

Rocking back at first, Mink let out a low groan. Try to get past 'em, he thought. Never gonna happen. Get the fuck away from this place now. Another victim would've already been here, so clearly he didn't get to tickle anybody else into insanity tonight. It's on, real soon now, and I'm gonna happen. Run now, get into the damn car, lock the door.
Gloves that seemed to be alive. No, even worse, the coverings were all worn by... something that could simulate hands real damn well. Sure. There were a couple hundred more of 'em in the gym bag, and probably cases in the garage. Already caught, he sighed. Aw, shit. It won. I'm definitely the target. A dungeon way out in the sticks. No time limit -
"Whooooh," Mink finally hooted.
One of the gloves beckoned him. A curled index finger, inviting the guest further inside - closer to the ropes.
"This is... impossible," he mumbled. He couldn't figure out what moved the gloves that naturally - but still, the sensible thing to do was turn around, maybe grab the party bag, and high-tail it. "What happened to the others? Hah? Those rides out back, there..."
One of the gloves came closer, and it slowly turned over. Palm up. Relaxed fingers.
"How do I know you're not gonna hurt me?" he said quietly. It was a sensible question, and yet he felt like a dork. He had no say in what happened here.
The glove grabbed his hand and shook it.

Before Mink had time to react, hands curled over over his collarbones. Invisible, holding loosely. Like we're friends, he thought, utterly blown away. It wants you to go along. Or that's just the message for now. Continuous bondage, no telling how long.
There was something reassuring about the gesture. The door hadn't been slammed shut yet. But I'm not getting out of this one, he thought.
He chuckled at the glove, still fairly amazed. It let go of his hand, and their invisible compadres near his shoulders rewarded him with a slow squeeze before they pulled off. Somehow, his beer was stuck back into his hand.

He'd been careful and smart for a long time...
Well, fuck, that got sorta old. Mink hadn't gotten laid since he left Baltimore.
Watching the glove float a meter in front of him, he realized that "somebody" wanted him to walk forward - further away from the door. The mystery was low-key, but definitely unsettling -
Smoke. It wasn't a stale smell. A joint, dammit. He hadn't seen or heard anybody - well, any human - who fired that up. It smelled like good shit.
Mink's hands got him a cigarette out and lit it. He was on autopilot, paying close attention to the glove leading him on and looking for any sign of another captive. With that welcome reek he was reeeeealy ready to get high. Empty gloves moving around and shaking his hand were weird, definitely, but...
Hell, it was pretty clear that the magical top was gonna make him get wasted. Easier to control him, that way, and he had no doubt it was stronger than he was. Nobody will know the guy at the truck stop got caged here. Tickled. For months?
Easy, he thought, eating smoke. I was invited to a party. No sinister shit laying around. Maybe I won't be worth their time...
The phantom knew about him, in the adult store, looking at the magazines. Women getting fully tickled - and men, too. Face up to it. Maybe that was the deciding factor, and it invited him out to a place... where the party host had energy-hands. Uh-huh. Fuck. No way he'd make it all the way outside if it didn't want to lose him.

Taking another drag, he studied the glove closest to him. So relaxed. It already won, he thought. There would be time to kick himself later for coming. Locals, having a party. Who'd see this ultra-marathon in their future? And yeah, dammit, Mink really wanted to know more. Invisible super-tickler? Sure.
He chuckled at the hand and drank his beer.
Could well be a bondage party. Private. Invisible so-and-so wearing gloves. Latex...
"Recruiting subs," he said, "to haul off to the secret prison. But that ain't me. I'd much rather be the one, uh, doing the tickling. Other guys are the opposite. You copy me?"
The glove didn't react. Nothing did.
Mink yawned. A sudden, big yawn. His heart was pounding away.
To his right, a door opened.

There was the weed-smoke. A small gooseneck lamp was pointed at the wall. It was excellent to see the joint there, waiting in a metal ashtray on the dresser. Near it was a carton of smokes, a bong, rolling papers - and wow, a bag of weed that weighed at least a quarter-pound, easy! The bedroom was pretty much in the center of the house.
The bed, though, was out of place. Way too nice. King-size mattress, he guessed, too wide for the room - and there seemed to be thick memory foam on top of it. No box-spring or frame, but it looked sweet. Mink remembered his earlier thought about borrowing a couch to sleep on, but this invisible top had other ideas.
Get out of here now, he thought again. No way this works out in your favor -
He yawned again. Dammit! So screwed, utterly screwed, and tomorrow would be a long day, the first incredibly long day of so many here...
The bedroom was a little less clear. Less sharp. The top of what he saw seemed to have more static, or it was getting unfocused.
Mink slowly fell to his right, against the doorframe.
Drugged, he thought. The beer. A smart top, magical as fuck, got everything planned out. I could be here for months, oh hell yeah. Right then, the bed was where he wanted to be. He was getting way too tired, too quickly.
Standing back up and running the fuck out of there was beyond him. Game over.
"I'm fucked," he announced, cackling a few times. "And you got a live one. Way too ticklish." Shut your mouth, he thought. The stakes are too high. But I'm in the cage, he insisted to himself. When I wake up, a whole new universe of stimulation is about to begin.
Latex gloves took hold of his upper arms. Gentle hands -
"No no nnnnnn-noo," he babbled. "Not up for this. The bottom? That's the opposite of why I... Not me, I don't wanna be the t-target. C'mon."

One of the mysterious magic hands took his cigarette over to the ashtray, and the rest gently dragged him to the bed. Without force or speed, they laid him down on his back. Both of his feet were still on the floor. That was good, he decided. It was still possible that nothing would be done to him without... clear consent.
Mink knew that was utter bullshit, but he liked that idea.
The ceiling was spinning, very slowly. At least he still had his damn boots on. They protected his feet from the nuclear fireworks that were coming. It would be important, he thought dizzily, not to pass out. Keep the "host" from stripping him, or bolting some hardcore cuffs around his wrists and ankles. Starting in, for a careful yet extreme workout of too many months.
There was a nonhuman tickler here. Maybe more than one, but there wasn't anything like competition going on. I'm fuckin' ticklish, and it carried me in here. Months and more months. Gonna get me good.
It'll hide the car, get more food. I hope it stashes plenty of smokes. I live here now, until it's done with me.

His vision was getting more static-y.
"I do not want this. Don't tuh... dammit, I'm so fucked here. Just... You don't have my... permission. Don't tickle me, I got it bad. Invisible, big-time magic, all the time in the world to rock on." He tried to sit up but the whole room was sorta rolling, and his boot-heels slammed against the wood floor. He was blown away to think that, no matter how "optimistic" he tried to be, his boots and clothes would probably be hidden when he came to. He wouldn't need 'em while he was stuck inside. The damn cuffs would be on his wrists, though. More for his ankles, despressingly thick straps. All of his unbearably skittish zones just fuckin' immobilized.
Dammit! He'd come all the way here, mainly to -
"The weed," he said, finding it harder than ever to speak. "Lured me in. I wanna toke! Hey!" Yelling for help would be... smart, but then he remembered how big the front yard was, and how the nearest houses were so ridiculously far away. Perfect for a tickler. No limits at all. "I jes' want to get high, okay? Dammit. Get me high, later, pleeeeee-eeeaze?"
A black leather glove flew up, not far from his face. It slowly gave him a big thumbs-up.
"Whoa. Thankyew," he sighed to it, heartfelt and sincere. Mink watched it go to his pocket and pull out his cigarettes. There was too much visual fuzz. He'd be konked out real soon. Rolling onto his side seemed like a good move, and maybe somehow he could get up and at least lurch toward the damn back door, leaning on a wall the whole way if he had to - but making it clear as he could that he was not interested in being the fuckin' tickle-bottom for the rest of the year, even if his cock was kinda hard just then.

A cigarette tapped his lip. No glove held it. He took it, nodded, and sucked in when a lighter magically came and fired up. It was a black Zippo.
I am so damn gorked, Mink thought. Jacking off sounded real damn good. Wrong message to send to the dominant magician, he told himself, sighing out smoke. He felt better, weirdly, about the odds of being allowed to toke pretty damn often. Made to toke. And if there were chemicals that were known to increase a fucker's hyperdrive ticklishness, this bastard...
What was he gonna do, again? He'd had a thought. Taking a long drag, he looked around. Light was getting patchy too. He had something in mind, to keep this fucker from strapping him down and mega-tickling all day, all night, all spring and summer -
"Don't," he said, like he meant it. Oh, shit, he was gonna push himself up and get to the exit. Back door. A clear signal that the tickler's plans were not okay, mutherfucker. The chain of events was coming back to him now. Smoke up, roll onto your left side, sit up and don't overdo that, to your feet, and race down the hall. A clear message. Maybe he'd even make it to his fuckin' car. The cigarette was helping, so Mink had that going for him.
Everything was just so gray, and fuzzy.
Okay. That's the deal. I can do this.
 

Mink felt like he'd been asleep for a long time.
Much better now, actually. Not so damn... drugged.
Why couldn't he move?
Uh-oh.
He opened his eyes - just a little. Squinted, without moving his head. Bedroom, sorta rustic, mattress just about filling the fuckin' room. Weed and accessories on a dresser, in the far corner to his left -
Thick black leather ran to and from each of his ankles. Heavy straps, he figured. Cuffs down there, too. There was no way he could stop himself from trying to move his arms...
Aw, hell! They were stuck, too. Really stuck. Laid out toward the corners of the mattress... like his legs. Shit.
He was stripped and cuffed down. It made him mad that he was the least bit surprised. This was naturally gonna happen after the fuckin' invisible top-in-charge carted his drugged ass back to this bedroom. He was seen looking at the damn magazines, and then it decided to try inviting him to the party. And he came.

It wasn't logical, but he was dying to ask the top if it had hidden his car yet. That wasn't really information that would help him be any less nuts... and the back of the damn tickle-torture house was definitely not visible from the road anyway. Mink was dismally certain he remembered that correctly. Advantage, tickler. In every way.
Oh, no, no, his chest hair was gone. And not just that - dammit. Fuck! His crotch. His whole body had been shaved, apparently. Not good, not - dammit, his balls were exposed like they'd never been before. His knees might be even more ticklish than they usually were. This mutherfuckin' phantom knew all about tickling.

He couldn't even imagine going through what was probably coming, here. Very likely gonna happen, and keep on happening, busting new thresholds. He'd fought not to think about it for years, now, but walking into the wrong BDSM playroom when he was twenty - well, that was the longest two days of his life. He was hyper-ticklish for a couple years after that, easy.
This invisible dom was patient. Everything told him it had lots of experience. A dozen oiled gloves tickling away, two dozen, three -
A groan started in his throat. Mink got quiet right away. It probably knew he was awake. Time to start laughing his mutherfuckin' guts out - oh, that would happen soon enough. A magical dominant wanted Mink laid out and anchored... and it had just the place, where nobody would possibly wander by.
That, though, was a big part of the mindfuck. Absolutely complete stimulation, beyond intense, yeah, and it would seem fuckin' endless. No way to tolerate it. Just beyond dealing with, processing, "walling off" - for him, anyway. And each morning, once again he'd wake up in the restraints...
He hated being the one getting the business instead of watching how the victim was unraveling, more and more delirious each minute. Fuck. Mink had been hot for the activity ever since his longest-days-ever, but the draw was being in charge of the tickling.
Now he was... perfectly caught, by something that could be a whole lot more effective about multiplying the neural effect on him than a few obsessed people. It had no end of time here -
He heard a clink. Lighter - ah, maybe that Zippo.
Mink opened his eyes, and saw the bong floating above him. There seemed to be a short knit-cloth hose duct-taped into the mouthpiece. A leather glove was holding the open Zippo, alright.
"Uh," he said, "wow. I'd be glad to, y'know, work things. Hold 'em. Just get the fuckin' straps off me -"
The bong floated a little lower, and a hose was brought to his lips...

So he ended up doing a toke whenever the lighter was fired up. Within a few minutes, Mink decided that it wasn't ditchweed at all. Fine weed, yessir.
He was so abso-fuckin'-lutely screwed. Calmer about it, though. Detached. The top hadn't -
"Hey," he slurred, "I wanna thank you. This would be scarier 'n shit if I wasn't getting b-baked. I mean it."
A latex glove zoomed up from along the same side of the bed and pointed at him - it was a dismissive gesture. Oh, nonsense, you goof.
Mink shook his head a little. Damn, I'm high, maybe that'll make it easier... "This weed is great. I really... do you get how scary this shit is? Caught right, no time limit - sensual, unbearable... stimulation?"
The taut, empty rubber hand made a 'Y' with its index finger and pinky, and rocked the gesture toward Mink. That seemed like an affirmative - and he thought of sign language, since the glove was almost holding the letter 'Y' as it nodded.
One tickler, moving all the stuff around. It wasn't clear why he was sure of that, but he didn't doubt it. Mink saw the leather fingers fire up the lighter again, and took another toke.
He got one more hit, and the hose was slipped out of his fingers.
Mink watched the bong float over to the dresser. It was a relief that he wasn't seeing... big ol' photos on the wall of gym rats - strapped down, with month-old beards, being tickle-nuked by more gloves than he could dare to count.
The magician would make him ever more ticklish - more crazy.

Another latex glove brought up a plastic bottle. Familiar shape.
He was whining, low and quiet. Squirming in the restraints.
There was a bottle of "Strokerama Max Lube 8" being held above him. An empty thumb flipped the cap open.
Confirmation. At last. Proof of the thing he was dreading the most, here. In the bastard's restraints. Its glove turned the bottle over and laid down a solid line of thick silver-gray goop from one armpit to the other. Over his nips.
"Gonna tickle the fuck out of me. Of course you are. C'mon, man, I'm not on board!" Mink was desperate to keep complaining. Begging, even. Say the right thing to get this mysterious dom to call it off - And it's not human, he thought bitterly, so fatigue is naturally out of the fuckin' question. Probably ain't even noon yet. If it's got any experience, or obsessive interest, I'm gonna get super-ultra-tickled. All night? Well, waaaaaaaay after dark. Give me plenty of sleep, enough food - a few fuckin' bong hits - and I can't help but make tomorrow even more rewarding for it. Twelve or fourteen hours of... full-on tickling.
Perfectly ignorable house to be stuck in, too.
The two latex gloves came slowly to the lube.

"No. Aw, please. Too much. It's way too much. I'm so-oooooh!" Mink rocked hard from side to side when the fingers started spreading the lube around. One pulled it up to his neck, and the other spread it toward his belly-button.
Verified. Psychotic tickling, with no reason at all to keep it brief.
Mink whimpered, shook his head slowly, and couldn't stop chuckling hard for his captor wearing the gloves.

He just couldn't stop moving, but the fingers kept spreading the shockingly ticklish lube. Sometimes they covered skin that was already lubed, thickening the grease - and the effect -
Snagging a breath, there was no chance of keeping quiet. He started to bark laughter. Just unhinged. "Aaaaaah haaah haaaa-aaaaah hah nnn-nuh nuh huh huh hnnnnnuh awwwww f-fff-fuh nuh huh huh hah huhhaaaa-aaah hah hah nah naaaah!"
I'm totally undone. Sensitive. It's hopeless. More fried every hour, unbearable full-strength shit. Mink thought these things but couldn't stop hooting, chortling, and baying long enough to form any words. They wouldn't have mattered, anyway. The top wanted him further and further into hysteria than he'd ever remembered or even suspected was possible.
The mania was only just beginnning.

Mink knew, from the measured pace of the sliding hands, that he was dealing with a seriously experienced tickler. That should've been obvious, maybe, long before the high-voltage rubbing started, making it crazy-hard for him to think at all. He just couldn't lay still, either.
Getting spaced-out was closer to that disturbing place where the sizzling power of his ticklishness really kept doubling, and doubling again...
Well, shit, he just had to get the fuck out of this dungeon... and he tried everything to get a damn wrist free.
The dom, of course, would capture him - probably before he got far at all from the back door. A shitload of animated gloves were gonna star in his dreams for way too long - and they'd drag his ticklish ass back to the bed. Or another room, with serious bondage devices in it. Even just lying here again and watching chains replacing the straps, as gloves tickled and tickled and tickled, would make him wanna snap.
So many damn hours of overdrive asskicking left before it would let him sleep...
His eyes were closed. Maybe there'd be some sign of hope - another human, full of pity, who could order the fuckin' tickler bastard to let Mink go. Dammit, the sensation being coaxed in, back and forth - it was already just impossible! and every hour he'd be astounded at how the intensity was ten times worse -
Desperate for something hopeful, Mink looked -
At about six more latex gloves, waiting above him... for the lube bottle to lay a line down his left thigh, then up his right. Across his lower gut, and back across his diaphragm.
More lube on him, dammit, and the bottle was taken away.
"Puh pah plll-leeeze, nuh nnnn-noh oh hoh hoh haaaah naah hah hhaaah hah huh!"
But Mink knew what would happen next.
Yup.
Before the third pair of gloves rode from his dick to his belly, Mink shrieked like a madman.

Having a thought - a full one, such as "No more, fuckin' tickling, stop, aw hell, fuck me, too much, I feel it way too much!" - was getting more and more difficult.
Mink's head was just about filled up, trying to track each glove, struggling to connect every one of 'em with a shocking path of delirious arousal...
More warped excitement than he could possibly handle. His attempts to bust free of the straps had been constant. He already knew the effect of being this helpless... this well-anchored, and it was working along with all of those fuckin' gloves - amplifying the reaction in him. He couldn't pull or kick anywhere near enough to get the damn fingers off for even a couple seconds.
Despite what he wanted, Mink was slamming himself around less - not as ferocious - and moving his head less often than before. He wanted to move a lot more, and get the fuck away from a glove or two... but the growing amount of tickled skin was seriously distracting him. It had to be top-priority, the ticklishness. Growing by the minute, unbelievably shredding and brain-bending.
Too busy feeling it all, he thought. No escape from this tickler. It had chosen Mink, before he drove on out here. Hell, he wouldn't even dare to think about how long this imprisonment was gonna last... with his ticklishness being goosed up and up and up, every day.
He just had to be delighting the fuck out of the dom, here. Not just sensitive to its technique, but he was obviously feeling it harder and harder each minute.
Mink couldn't find the courage to imagine the magnified intensity he'd be feeling next week... or when winter rolled around.
Why in the fuck would the dom let him go any sooner?

Another nice, big thrust didn't hit the payoff. He moaned...
So ready to cum. So damn close.
Fingers slowly massaged his ass, and his taint, thighs, belly...
No visible fingers were near his shaft, but he got into a rhythm of pushing that he hoped would -
Wham. Explosion! Mink yelled laughter - at the four gloves now racing back and forth, all over his soles. Down there. His feet. Aw, it was nuts! Lubed-up, and far more ticklish than he remembered. He couldn't even hope to roll around!
Sides, heels, balls, under his toes.
Laughing was no help. His mouth hung open -
The gloves covering his heels stopped in place, and more greasy fingers teased his meat again.
He started to thrust. Suddenly, he collapsed. Whooping like a fool. This was a new dimension of sensitivity. He had the amazing idea that his whole body had just upshifted.
A few minutes later - when he thought he was gonna spurt - the foot-coverage confirmed the change, as if he had fifty times as many nerve endings now, everywhere...
 

A cigarette. He was relieved to figure that out. Took a hard drag...
That had to have been a couple hours, before he was jacked off, and at least that long afterward. His skin tingled, weirdly. Everywhere. That lube had something to do with it, maybe? Amplified now.
Probably not halfway through today, he thought grimly. Thoroughly trapped in a place where he could fuckin' scream his laughter, and there was zero chance of anyone coming close enough to hear it. Long-term cage, alright.
Mink smoked up.
When another cigarette was brought to him, and lit with the one he'd just finished, tears came to his eyes. Another three or four minutes before the tickle-orgy continued...

"Aw haw haw haw haaah!" he bellowed.
Thrashing around never loosened a damn strap or cuff. It didn't interfere with the gloves, either.
There were hands creeping around his neck, and others working their way up the length of each leg. They were not taking it easy, as rubbing or massaging went - the dom made every inch count, taking the time for each second of contact to just flood him with... overwhelming current.
Mink flopped forward and back, but his predicament stayed exactly the same - and he was astounded at how fierce and huge the sensation had become. He couldn't do a damn thing, Feeling enough of the reaction throughout the tickled regions was fuckin' impossible!
He laughed until he was worn out.
Then he just kept on chuckling. The gloves didn't ease off the least little bit.

There was no reason a dom this experienced had to lay off, at all. Ever. It knew how to keep him conscious, and that was truly scary to realize. No skipping out on the torture by being unconscious for awhile, when a skillful top could avoid it.

He had tensed up... and relaxed. Then, something overwhelming made him push -
Ah. Fuck. Feathers, on his dick. Only a matter of time.
He was still creeped out, even as boggling new levels of excitement were being reported by the nerves being stimulated - there, as well as gloves which rubbed more slowly and gently all over him than they had before. Ratcheting up the cumshot, though. That was sure as he was cuffed down here -
Mink squirmed, as best he could, and thought about what he'd bark out, first, to protest this kinky shit. Ain't right. Well, even more wrong than a day packed full of maddening contact. Days. Face the music, here...
He'd tried to prepare, but now he was strapped down not only to be kept delirious, but apparently the dom was gonna get him to spurt. It was just so... personal.
Wanting to complain, firming up what he'd say, Mink opened his mouth - sorta made a drunken raspberry sound, and hooted like a champ. His voice was definitely hoarse, but he laughed steadily, kinda casually. It wasn't the stressed-out, falsetto wails. Nope. He sounded deranged. And pleased.
That pissed him off. The sounds coming out of him were not those of an unwilling tickle victim. Or a captive. Not at all. Hey, keep it up, you sadist. Do whatever you want to do. I'm on board - That's the kind of shit that went along with the tone of Mink's laughter. The mood was... agreeable. Glad for this hyperstimulation.

It would totally suck if his captor interpreted his gravelly, rusty laughs that way, at all -
He grunted, real big. The edge was skating up his shaft again. He lifted his head and squinted. It looked a lot like a feather there, but it was pale red. Made of thin plastic, maybe.
When used slowly, the edge was pulling lube up as it slid toward the tip...
Then it paused, and reversed course. The trip back down spread the lube back where it had been.
Mink rolled his head around, like a drunk - and laughed the same way. That first stroke made his body wanna firm up and cum, already. He was chuckling. Sounded like a total lunatic, who was ready to shoot his load, glad to be in for a lot of supercharged spurts here -
Not okay, he thought, distracted by pulsing waves of arousal and all the lightly tracing fingertips.
He sure sounded good with this, though. Proof that he belonged here, all that bullshit - it didn't have to resort to any such excuse. The tickler. His fuckin' dom. He was perfectly caught for as long of a tickling, spurting ordeal as it wanted.
And he sounded like he was committed to the cause. Getting provoked, neck to toes - but particularly now. Shit, his shaft was more ticklish than it had been before the fake feather got to it.
He was a captive, and dammit, he was responding with unhinged laughter that was smutty, and intent - like a team player.
Mink shook his head, and cackled - obviously full of lust, and not able to make himself sound the least bit sad or unwilling to go through this truly intolerable nerve-strengthening workout.

It was days - well, he thought it felt like days - but really, probably not even an hour.
The feather was repeating the upstroke, now from his shaft to the head of his dick. Mink groaned, tensing up only in his torso - not able to make fists, strain the cuffs, move around.
Despite other hands petting him slowly, his cock had become ridiculously tall, in his mind. Imagining what the thing was doing, the toy that didn't have any fingers holding it that he could see, was helping Mink get by. The growing blasts of stimulation just lit him up. The feather and all of the gently riding gloves made him snicker or hoot whenever he wasn't groaning - Then, wonderfully, the feather sped up. Only the really arousing strokes, the shocking ones -
Cackling, yet sounding way too okay with all of this shit, Mink saw them gathering. Six, eight, ten lubed gloves.
They were ready to dive into his armpits. Bulldoze the endlessly ticklish skin around his ribs. Belly-button, thighs, collarbones.
He actually stopped warbling laughter for a few seconds. Major attack about to begin. But why...
After his cumshot. Huh. So it was suspected, if not known yet, that he'd be a hell of a lot more sensitive to their touches right after getting his rocks off.
Mink tested the straps pinning his wrists. Yup. Still taut. He wouldn't be interrupting his spurt, which the dom had demanded, and he sure as hell wasn't gonna slow down a single tickling toy. The tickler wanted to dig in. Leather kept him right where it wanted him.
Eager fingers, dripping oil -
There was another full-length pass up his dick, the underside, and Mink grunted. Here it comes, he thought, watching the damn gloves that were about to raze his right side.
Yup. He erupted, with most of the cum landing in the wide space between his cuffed legs.
One after another, the gloves landed and played like it was major-league partytime.
 

The rest of the day was a dreamlike couple of decades. New peaks of impact were discovered, making Mink know the point of studying his body was that the jaw-dropping higher thresholds of sensitivity had no ceiling, apparently. No real limit.
He was jacked off again, and this time a fuckin' tribe of brushes moved from looming just over his feet and belly and pecs to tickling the fuck out of their aching target. Brisk and unhesitating torment... and Mink couldn't shake the idea that indescribable delight was powering the brushes, as it had seemed to fill the gloves.
The dom was absolutely in charge of what happened in this house, but he tried to accept the even bigger issue - it was unquenchably happy to be filling hours and days with Mink's delirium, and to be training his body and mind to adapt to tactile intensity that kept right on increasing.
That success made the really-long-term reconditioning of a ticklish basket case like Mink worthwhile. Endlessly interesting, rewarding... Confirmation of complete power. Hell, the top had probably seized the excuse that Mink surely needed a few months off from anything else, just to deal with what he was already "learning" and what new mind-bending discoveries would be forced on him.
 

It seemed like hours later when Mink realized that he wasn't ever squinting at the ceiling anymore, where stains from smoke up there kinda made sense now...
He was laying on his belly.
And the dom had straps, or chains, from his ankle-cuffs to the floor. That pulled his shins into the thick foam, but totally kept him from moving either foot much at all.
Considering what he'd seen, from this tickler, Mink was worried. With his luck the tickling would hit home a thousand times stronger, now, and there was every reason to think the stimulation was scheduled for quite a few hours.
And dammit, here came the lube bottle again.
Right sole, left sole.
Left calf - lingering, cruelly, under his knee, oh no! - right leg under the knee, down to the right ankle cuff.
He was shocked next by a slow, thick trail... laid down along his butt-crack.
Mink closed his eyes and shook his head wearily, not really daring to beg... or say anything.

He roared with laughter for a good long while.
Then the challenge of breathing, while laying on his gut and getting power-tickled in so many devastating places, made his body choose getting enough air over bellowing gut-level laughter. When he could, Mink whined and wailed through clenched teeth.
So many fingertips. Any set of four or five in some places would've totalled him. Sooooo many. And the oil, it magnified their effect like it bumped the voltage way up or something. He'd been squirming, but that didn't help. Trapped, for reals, and there were so many shattering gloves riding on him...

08mar08