"Prisoner... present your feet."
He squirms desperately, without even shifting them. There is no way he could "present" them any more obviously. They're cuffed to the stirrups. His hands are also snagged - and held tight to the bench near his head.
Feathers rise magically. He watches them, unable to stop watching, hating himself as he does. Helpless to keep from staring at the feathers.
Helpless in every way. Up for more devastation, again. So many wrenching nights...
Like this one.
He watches the feathers start in.
Imperiously brushing -
Laughs escape from his throat. He arches.
It doesn't help. His feet are trapped with a maddening certainty. His best efforts to move his legs accomplish nothing.
His feet are softer than he thought they could be. Calluses were carefully removed the first few days. Thick protective layers were saturated with ointment and peeled away. The balls of his feet - and the heels - are impossible now...
He whoops uncontrollably, and tears spring to his eyes.
And his arches of his feet are beyond impossible.
The feathers scrape up and down. They're being used by unseen hands that are skillful, heartless, inexhaustible.
He crows uncontrollably, twisting his arms the little bit he's able. But it's not nearly enough motion to give him any relief. The restraints haven't failed yet. He thinks of them sadly, in his distraction. He can't think about anything for long, except the punishment. The torture.
More feathers to come. Brushes, and tools.
The phantom hands will pull on gloves, later. That's far worse.
He laughs hopelessly. Oh, how he wants to laugh harder. Surely he could sound more like a dangerously amused maniac than he does. That would change nothing, but he wants it so bad...
They dust the softest edges up to the top of his toes, and back down to his heels.
He hiccups, and roars. If only he could keep roaring this way. Maybe it would seem like enough. If he could reflect back how much the feathers were tearing him apart, maybe the gloves wouldn't come and do the job right.
Sawing across the middle of his arches.
He pounds his head on the pad. This breaks the roar up into separate roars, so he stops. Twists as hard as he can. Longing to pull his legs together... before the feathers start in on his meat. He doesn't want to come again. The sensation, afterward, makes it impossible for him to laugh at all.
Zig-zagging, horizontally, down to his heels... and back up.
He laughs like an insane person. Almost. This torture is driving him insane. Laughing his way right to the mental hospital. But thoughts like that probably mean he isn't insane yet. So he has to laugh much harder. Vigorous, impressive - he's never laughed anywhere near this hard before. But he can't quiet get crazy enough, and he can't laugh his way out of this... unbelievably hilarious torment.
One thing he knows, above all others - he can't make it stop.
He lifts his head and roars. A good, fierce roar. Just roaring out laughs.
The feathers turn and drag across again, only they're parallel with his soles, dusting the largest possible area.
The buildup of impulses is unfathomable, crippling pleasure. A throb that he can't... expel out fast enough.
It keeps building.
The unbearable dusting moves in circular patterns...
He howls his response.
An echo begins - to the sensation. More dusting. Additional feathers.
He looks out of habit. Teary white blobs. On top. Too.
Sandwiching his feet in the soft, enduring torture.
They won't stop, he shouts to himself. Keening, pulling hard at the cuffs. They'll keep going and going and the gloves will be pulled on and there's nothing that can ever make them stop.
Flickering, crawling back and forth. Careful swipes.
He can't struggle any more. Trying to focus on laughing, while he still has the strength - the only thing he can deliberately think about at all, other than the overload of far too many spectacular impulses. A nagging ache that grows, and builds, up to his neck, his forehead, engulfing him. Swallowed. Tons of pressure, from all sides.
The bulk of sensation force-feeds him more delight than he can possibly handle. Burying him. Filling the room - the torture chamber - like water. He can't move, but the feathers can. The gloves...
And the pressure fills the halls of the building, wherever he is. Spills outside. Rising, like flood waters.
He lies underneath it, and roars lustily.
Feather-tips are worked between his toes.
Now, horizontal strokes saw across at a faster clip.
When the water bottle is forced between his lips, the load of sensation yet to be acknowledged is worrisome. Beyond his grasp.
"The prisoner will now consider why he is being tortured." He's heard that command before, or a very similar one. A few nights ago. Ten long seconds pass.
Then, brushes are coming. A shallow dish floats alongside them. The fur bristles are dipped into clear oil, turned so they're thoroughly coated...
"The prisoner is being tortured, for no reason at all. The torture is the only reason the prisoner is here."
He pulls at the cuffs.
The brushes keep moving. Past his legs. His midsection.
"No," he whispers. No.
They descend, with the grace of javelins, arcing down. To his armpits.
They pause -
"Prisoner... present your underarms."
No! he screams - to himself. It won't do any good to yell. Nothing helps.
Two of the brushes start at the very center of his armpits, and two set down a couple inches lower.
He tenses up - in stages, arms-chest-belly-legs. A raw, inarticulate squeal gets louder, and louder, until it forces his jaws apart. He tilts his head back all the way, opens his mouth wide, and roars.
The bristles are so very soft. Traveling, dragging...
He keeps roaring. Continuous roars that have no link to the particular strokes of the brushes. At times, he wants to laugh even more than he wants the brushes to go away.
Since the gloves will return next, the sensation will never stop building. If only he could laugh much harder than he is. If he had two mouths to laugh with. If his voice didn't give out and fade away to nothing.
When his voice is gone and his body can't fight the cuffs anymore, he has no way to respond to the sensation. It's frustrating beyond words. The impact is worse, always worse.
The brushes circle and twist... wearing out his only way to respond. Taking even that away from him.
Fingertips so smooth, they don't look man-made. From another galaxy, maybe. Here to torment him.
Large, curving fingers sweep of the smaller shapes into a solid, uncreased palm. There's no seam or edge anywhere. No beginning. An unbroken shell of punishment and strength.
Empty, to look at them. Worn on invisible, inexhaustible hands that will never be satisfied.
They've been torturing him for at least... six days? Maybe more.
He has no way to take in enough sensation to be "done" here. So all that remains is the present moment -
Gloves, closing in. Not in place yet. A few quick seconds until the voltage hits him. The blast of impulses they'll deliver... With all his internal filters shredded, taken away. His personal ways of tolerating the flow of stimulation are gone - a weak memory - and the gloves will make it impossible to come up with new ways. No dilution is allowed. Not ever.
"Prisoner... present your legs and abdomen."
Contact!
They start caressing him.
Again.
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