The soldier lay on his bunk, snoring quietly.
Except he isn't a soldier, and it isn't his bunk...Tonight's visit to the gym was interrupted. Sweats, jersey and sneakers were taken off. Mustache and goatee were next, and the hair on his head is now down to a tidy bristle-cut. Everywhere else, he's been shaved smooth, and rubbed down with skin cream.
He didn't stir.
Camo fatigues were pulled over his legs, dogtags were hung around his neck, and olive-drab socks were the last addition... other than a pile of straps and rope, separating, floating up.
Drugged into unconsciousness, he continued to snore.
A good dream. He doesn't remember, but it gets him hard. He can feel it. Some kind of resistance there too - tight, not familiar, but it doesn't seem to be anything to worry about.
Jacking off would be fun, he thinks. That somehow makes him aware that he's awake. That's weird... because he was going to the gym, and to a party after that. It's too early to be sleeping, unless he got so drunk that he doesn't remember any of it.
But he doesn't have a hangover.
Or... a shirt.
He needs to pee. That's what gets him moving, as he kicks out a slow, lazy yawn.
His attempt to turn doesn't alter his body position at all. After a few more seconds, the soldier opens his eyes...
He blinks at the ceiling. Clearly puzzled by the bare concrete, trying to recognize it. And then, sleepily, he looks down at his legs.
More accurately, he sees his cock-head.
It's hard. Pointing right at him, because of the rope circling the middle of the shaft, pulled tight and disappearing off the side of the mattress.
A leather strap circles his waist and holds that down, too. Rope cinches it down - and his thighs, his shins...
The sight makes no sense.
He bounces a little. Yeah, it's his meat. Right out there, even though he's got pants on - pants he's never seen before - and there's a fuckin' rope tied around him. He's never had anything on his dick, like this... Well, not unless he put it on himself. But he didn't tie that rope. It's pretty tight, too -
He doesn't want it there.
What the hell happened at that party? This is beyond bizarre. He reaches down.
No.
Fear wakes him up. Not tired, now. Unless he's still really fucked up, there's no good explanation for his arms not moving. But there's that rope, around his dick. And the strap. His legs...
He pulls again.
Panic.
Oh, fuck, it's true. He wants to yell. No, no, no. Please. It's hard not to scream. Someone tied him up. He doesn't know where he is. Hell, he can't even see the door. It must be behind him. Maybe the door isn't closed.
He looks over -
Rope.
That was a mistake, he thinks weakly. The fear makes him want to pass out. He had intended to see if there was a door, back there, but the head of the bed is elevated a little somehow. Maybe it's just a couple of pillows. So he can't see behind him, without moving more. And he can't move.
Instead, he saw the rope. Three loops around his right forearm, just below the elbow.
He makes fists and starts to pull -
Wrists, too. There's a lot of rope. Of course. He's in excellent shape. Oh, shit, he can't move his hands.
And that means...
Yeah. Ankles, too. His feet are hanging off the end of the bed. Those lumps under his Achilles tendons are the rope, tied around a dull steel-pipe frame. Somebody wanted his feet kept right there, and his hands out of the way.
All the other ropes - and that strap. He can make the rope creak, but that's it. And they got his dick... caught.
"Hey," he says. "Uh, no!"
But the last yell doesn't echo at all. The room isn't all that big. It almost swallows up noise. He's willing to bet the door is closed, too.
No one else is going to hear him - except the bastard who hauled him in here. Tied him down. His dick.
It's a scary place to... stay. Hidden.
But here he is.
Gradually, the soldier works himself up into an all-out fit. The fear, alternating with anger, makes him pull harder and harder at his bonds, grunting with the strain. He groans and shouts for help.
Pleading, then threatening...
All of the cursing dissolves into frustrated shouts and squeals, as he devotes all of his impressive strength to breaking the ropes. He works up a sweat, making the bed squeak and move a few inches.
But he can't get loose.
Just can't be happening. He keeps thinking that, over and over. No one would do this to him, and especially not his dick. Not like this. And it's only rope. He should be able to bust loose...
He stares at his left arm. All those loops. New rope, from the look of it. Somebody knows how to tie it.
Working harder and harder, he keeps flailing around even after the truth is clear. He can't get loose. That infuriates him even more, so he keeps trying to snap and stretch the damn rope.
Somebody laid him out, and he can't do a damn thing about it. That just sucks worse that anything else. Power-lifter, and he's still stuck. If it wasn't for the ropes near his elbows...
But hell, he can't do more than pedal his feet either. The damn ropes around his knees have got his lower legs out of commission, and the ones on his thighs -
He's tied down. Oh no, dammit, no. He's going to stay down. Like this.
His cock is throbbing now, he still needs to take a fuckin' leak - and he can't move.
Maybe if he slams his arms side-to-side...
The struggles are fading away. He's sweaty.
That was an impressive fight... but he lost.
This room is where he'll stay.
Now, one of the tools of his undoing starts to hover up from behind his tied hands.
His head jerks back. Panting, he watches with awestruck eyes.
More impossible shit. He has to be dreaming this. It's not really floating over him. That can't be real. Not like, say, the rope around his cock.
Oh, fuck. Not real, so... it doesn't matter. None of it. Why it caught him, got him here, even how it's cruising through the air like that. None of this is possible, so why the hell would it matter that there's no one wearing it? Nobody around, watching him -
This is a different kind of party. A solo act. Get a guy alone, because anybody with a heart is gonna try to do something. Go get help. So the first rule is that nobody gets to find out. That way, it gets to do whatever it wants.
And it's dropping down, now. All the tugging and bouncing in the world isn't gonna help him. It may not be real, but here it comes.
Fingers, real shiny...
And they're actually taking hold of him. Down there.
A tortured groan. Involuntarily rushed out, and he tries to roll in one direction, and then the other. Gritting his teeth -
The glove is soft, and every bit as strong as his own hand. First instant of contact brings a special thrill to the wearer, caressing the hot skin, making the soldier all tense. Its magically animated hand teases his glans, drifts down to the rope and back up to the tip - and he squeals.
Moaning, he tries to get loose again... but his resistance isn't as determined as before. He knows now that he'll stay helpless, without any chance to move his cock out of reach.
"No, no, no, no," he begs, suddenly sounding weary.
Stop it, just stop it. Leave me alone.
But it won't. A fuckin' glove, playing with him. This is really crazy.
Why should it stop? It already won. Whatever's got the glove, has got him. Tied. In this fuckin'... cell. Game over.
I'm gonna get put through the wringer, he thinks. No doubt about it.
"P-please," he moans - and that makes him mad again. Don't beg. Do not fuckin' say anything, that's just what it wants. Maybe. Or if he makes a lot of noise, maybe it'll feel sorry for him and let him go.
Oh, now, that's insane. Went to all this trouble, and it's not going to stop. Don't say a word...
The fingers are driving him crazy, and he has to piss worse than ever. Oh, it's just unbelievably nuts. Tied down, here.
After another minute or two, his cock starts to ooze pre-cum.
The glove lets go of him.
Breathing heavily, he squints at it... and watches the fingers come closer to his face. Dropping -
"Not there," he gasps. "Oh, hell."
The glove-wearer teases his right nipple, and then the left.
He slams around, more frustrated than ever.
Fingers trail around, back and forth, squeezing a little, dragging across. Why the fuck is it getting to him so much?
A few bitter chuckles get out of his mouth before he can force himself to stop. So intense...
Blinking, he looks at the glove. Riding -
No hair.
Oh, fuckin' hell. He's been shaved.
All planned out. Every detail.
As the glove strokes him, more glassy fluid oozes down his glans. Two, three minutes of that... and the phantom hand lifts up again.
His expression, as he follows it, is a perfect mixture of denial and resignation. Such dread, carefully watching the torturer's hand.
And the glove casts a shadow over his belly, then his balls. Down his tied left leg -
"No," he whines.
Oh, yes.
So much worse. That makes no sense to him, why it would be even scarier. Fuck, his ankles are caught good.
Oh, it wouldn't do that. It just...
The rope around his cock - no surprise that something was gonna happen there. He doesn't know what he expected, really, but getting milked or something wouldn't be a big surprise - if there was a person doing it.
Not this.
It can't... How incredibly fuckin' awful. Ridiculous. He's a big guy, he works out a lot, and it can't do this to him. Of all the things -
"No, not that, you can't," he wails. The hell with toughing it out. This is worse than he ever expected. Jacking off is one thing, he does that all the time. But not this. It can't. He'll absolutely go out of his fuckin' mind.
Is there any chance somebody will hear him? Get help?
Here it comes.
Oh. this is really unthinkable. Fuckin' torture, and the damn glove is gonna actually do it. He'll lose his mind in this room, right here, tied down and unable to do a single damn thing to stop it.
The soldier seems to have guessed his fate.
After a pause for dramatic effect, the glove pulls off his left sock.
"Noooo!," he shrieks. "You just can't... wait a minute!"
Another shiny hand rises up, from under his foot. It holds a large white feather.
"Haaalllllppp! Somebody... Please, please don't. Not that. I - Naw, naw, please, stop it, please!"!
And the feather is held there, a few inches from his toes.
More gloves cruise into view.
He gibbers and thrashes around.
Fingers wrap around his socked right foot, and settle in his right armpit. A hand dives for his cock - again. Farther overhead, three more hands are ready to dive in. Another pair is set on the floor to the right of his bed, where he can see them easily enough... flat now, but close by.
He stops jerking around, completely unable to speak. It's too horrible. They're gonna do it, it's actually starting. Whether he believes it or not...
Looking frantically from one glove to another, he notices something else. On the floor. There are boots there, as if he just kicked them off. They look like typical military boots. Heavy, and thick. So far away.
If only he could pull those boots on, right now. A glove's already got his right foot, and that damn feather is coming to fuck with the other one. His feet are tied good, he can't do a thing - and the boots are right there, out of reach. That's on purpose. He's never going to wear 'em, but there they are... just so he can wish for 'em, nice and hard, and if only his hands weren't tied maybe he could reach down and get the boots on.
But then the fingers creep across his right armpit, and he remembers them. No shirt, and no armpit hair. He is so fucked...
They're just gonna have a field day on his upper body, boots or no boots. No matter what.
And in a few seconds they're gonna find out about his feet. So damn ticklish, there, it's truly scary. Then again, he's never shaved his chest before. Or his armpits.
Bleak, and gruesome. Beyond anything he ever knew. Unstoppable, and -
The fingers are moving.
It starts right now.
Squeeze, dig, dust and sweep. Rub and trace, buff, clamp and slide without pausing.
All humanity has given way to reflex, pure and wild. Roaring and screaming laughter, throwing the dogtags around, the soldier makes the bed screech and bang.
The inhabited fingers alternate briskly between the edge of his glans and his balls. More are brought down to start on his left armpit as well as the right, spider-walk across his abs, lock over his right knee...
A glove pushes down on his left instep, steadying the foot. Ten fingers are poised there - and they attack his sole with enthusiastic skill.
Throwing his head back, he laughs so hard it ceases to make noise. All his limbs keep trying anything to get free.
They start massaging his shins.
He's barely aware of the heat on his stomach. Over his sides.
I must've pissed, he thinks... and yet it's distant somehow, indescribably less important than what all of the fingers are doing.
When the soldier is nearing climax, two gloves shift position and tickle all around his genitals, widening the area of coverage.
The feather is alternated between one foot and the other, trading places with the zealously devoted gloves.
Air. Gasping...
Passing out? Maybe.
No. Dammit, he's still awake. Whatever's tickling him is too smart to let him pass out.
A long, endless time is just beginning. He knows that now. Even that doesn't matter nearly as much as the crawling feather, and the awful fingertips. Slower, now. Endless.
He smells shit, and maybe some kind of soap. The hands are all over his crotch. If anything, they feel more slippery than before. That could just be his imagination. It doesn't matter. If they're rubbing down by his asshole, they must've cleaned up the shit.
Water. Oh, how wonderful.
Before he even realizes it, he's sucking hard on a plastic bottle. So thirsty. His throat is killing him. His cock, well, that's aching like it never has before...
But all too soon the fingers in his pits demand his attention again. And the ones on his belly, too, but they're nowhere near as breathtaking as the fuckin' group shredding his feet.
He squints a little. His eyes are blurry. Sweat, stinging. And tears. Crying for joy, nonstop, except it's not really the same as joy.
Oh, shit, he wants to look as pathetic as possible so the fucker wearing the gloves will feel sorry for him and let him go. Now. All done with him, no more of this, and wouldn't that be incredible?
There's a cloth. Hanging over him... But it's too late for a headband, he's been sweating so much already.
Wait. It's not a headband.
He shakes his head, but it drops down and ties anyway.
Raspy chuckling, muffled now. And he wishes it sounded even more sad. But he's still gonna laugh, gag or no gag. Just another little thing to make him crazier. It wasn't bad enough, and then it's always gotta get worse...
There's something new, over to his left. A trunk. Two, three big trunks, actually. Cloth, and plastic bottles. All these brushes and toys.
Past the bed, there's more furniture now. Big, and black.
He laughs at it for awhile, figuring out the purpose of each piece, where his hands and feet will go. A low padded table has a wooden paddle sitting on top...
Between him and a big X-shaped rack, there are thick chains hanging from the ceiling.
Another pair of gloves come and terrorize his ribs. He bucks, cackling uncontrollably, and watches two others return to his left foot. Merciless, solid, literally unbearable.
He looks at the boots again, lying there. Useless.
Laughing silently, he closes his eyes.
He's exceeded all expectations. Big, and strong... impressive endurance. Raising the threshold will be a continuous delight.
Much more food and water will be brought here.
Cautiously, the pants are cut away. The soldier writhes more, at first, but soon he abandons all efforts which can't even succeed in distracting him.
More feathers, and gloves, begin to blanket his legs.
Quivering and convulsing with laughter, he stays exactly where the glove-wearer wants him.
29feb2004