The tape started with a lonely guitar, slow and meaty. After a few seconds, the black screen started to lighten - somewhat. Dark walls...
Thick chain. Hanging from a big iron loop.
The camera followed them down, revealing hands. Caught. Thick cuffs around two wrists. Tattoos...
Long, dark hair on a sagging head. A man, breathing hard. Wet hair covered his face, showing only his nose, mustache, and goatee. Sweaty.
No shirt. More tattoos, as the camera travelled down. He was lean. And wet, for another reason, further down.
The only other thing he was wearing was another pair of cuffs around his ankles. A single chain stretched between his feet.
The next shot was from behind him as he hung there, shifting around a little. The camera turned down, showing a long table there. An assortment of tools were waiting. Fine whips and paddles. Crops, floggers... Clamps of various sizes. Cords, gags and blindfolds. And, of course, custom toys for the most personal kinds of attention.
From the shine on most of the tools, it was obvious that they'd already seen some use. He appeared to be ready for more -
And something moved, then. Two things. A pair of black leather gloves. Filling slowly, with the fingers coming to life.
One of them picked up a jar. Petroleum jelly. They opened it, and dug in. Thick globs, with a dull gleam all their own...
The gloves started to approach him. He didn't see them. They were stalking him from behind.
And the camera angle changed again. Under his feet. White things came into view. Feathers. They moved up and swept, once, from his toes to his heels. He jerked suddenly, and the chain twisted a little - and held. The feathers dragged again - very slowly, one went down his sole and back up, while the point of the other one started crawling across his toes.
Then the screen showed his upper body, all tense, swaying in the hold of the chains. He raised his head a little, gritting his teeth, and started to moan. "No... Aw, fuck no. Not... that! Not that. No..."
And the gloves were right behind him, moving toward his armpits. Jumping on -
He squawked, pulling himself up and rocking back. Hoarse laughter burst out of him as he flailed around, throwing his head in every direction... all of his body, desperately trying to move out of the gloves' reach.
The view returned to his feet. The two feathers kept moving - and above them, out of focus, the dark gloves slid around, down and across, making him whipsaw back and forth. Roaring away - unwillingly, steadily, holding nothing back. It was hard to imagine how he could have reacted any harder, or louder.
After a few seconds, the screen faded to black. The lonely guitar played again...
"He's not acting," a sultry feminine voice said. "What you just saw was totally unrehearsed. And it's going on, right now, in hundreds of hidden rooms and cells all over the world."
The screen lightened, showing the MATI logo.
"We call it by various names. Profusive tickling - no holds barred. Or integral stimulation. Jacking up the entire nervous system to higher and higher effectiveness. Taking a reactive man, and giving him a workout that'll take him over the edge."
Two brown feathers appeared on the screen, crossed as if they were swords.
"Tickling is for kids..."
And a rotary tool was shown. The tip was covered with fur. It started to spin, whirring as it picked up speed.
That faded away, to reveal a half-dozen probes with dull metal tips. Electrical cords trailed off the other. A humming sound increased, as two of the tips moved closer together - and touched quickly. A soft crackle.
"But this is what we do... to men."
The screen went out of focus, and came back - to show a muscular jock strapped down to a padded table, head thrown back, howling away. Little brushes swarmed over his torso, dragging across oiled skin.
"Nothing quick or careless about this," the voice said. "Forget all about a few rushed seconds of poking or squeezing."
Another scene - dark walls. A dungeon. Many restraining devices, solidly built. The camera moved, slowly zooming in on a corner of the room, Where a soft spotlight showed a hooded man hanging from chains which ran up to the ceiling. Thick leather sleeves were attached to the chains, wrapped snugly around him. Shins, thighs, forearms. The straps under his butt and ribs were padded. Rubber gloves were enthusiastically attacking his knees, his feet, clutching the back of his neck, digging into his sides above and below the straps...
"This torture can go on all night - or all year. The duration, like the impact, is entirely up to you."
The MATI logo reappeared.
"It's so incredibly satisfying, we formed MATI - to improve the techniques of turbo-tickling, but most of all to increase the amount of it that's taking place. That's how rewarding it is. And versatile. The possibilities are endless."
Outdoors. A different scene. A doorway - banging open. And a scruffy man came into view, bumping into the doorframe. Drunk. He grinned and shook his head to clear it. The camera stayed ahead of him as he stumbled out to a truck and lit a cigarette. After he managed to get his keys out and the door open...
White gloves flew up and grabbed his arms. He didn't react at first - just looked at one arm, then the other. But when more gloves pulled his t-shirt up and gripped his ribs, that did it.
He yelled and dropped his cigarette, flailing all around - and then he laughed. The gloves pushed his head down, and shoved him onto the bench seat. A bandanna was rolling up, and a coil of rope landed on his back - as the truck started and the door slammed shut.
When it started moving, the window rolled down a little. "Aw no, no, aw hah hah haaaah -" then his laughter was muffled by the gag, and the truck drove off.
"We want this to happen to a thousand more men tonight," the voice continued. "Ten thousand. Far too many are walking around, free. That's what we think." The voice chuckled. "But don't misunderstand us. MATI does not want them to escape any of the other torments you have in mind. Most of us add profusive tickling to the mix. Even those who focus exclusively on it agree on this - no one should have to try it unless they choose to."
The screen showed bare feet, sticking out of padded stocks. The toes were caught by loops of red cord, which ran up to steel tubes - keeping them apart and straight. The toenails were fairly long, and there were calluses on the big toes and the balls of the feet. A bottle floated over and poured. Oil ran down - and the feet tried to move. Every muscle, from the trapped ankles on down, seemed to get restless. Then tools came and started in - nail-clippers, pumice stones, artist's brushes.
The movement of the feet became even more strenuous.
"Certainly, this is not all you can do to your captive. But we're encouraging you to give it a try. It's easy, completely nondestructive - and most men become more and more sensitive to its effects. As you can imagine, it's maybe about the last thing a tough guy will expect you to do... and by varying the target areas, he'll be completely unable to tolerate the breathtaking stimulation."
A montage of tools was shown, laying on dark-blue satin. Image after image dissolving, and another taking its place.
"You are always welcome at MATI. At our permanent locations as well as the mobile labs, you'll find a selection of captives at your disposal. We offer classes and seminars, which are always optional, and there are empty cells which are stocked and waiting for you and your favorite victim.
"That's how impressed we are by the power of this simple torture... Limitless fun awaits you. Feel free to ask us for tools or more information. Come to any of our locations - or try it out wherever you are. A feather, or a glove... Just about anything will do the trick. If your prisoner is typical, you'd better have restraints on him. You won't believe the results."
One last time, the MATI logo -
"Far more men getting tickled, for longer periods of time, with greater and greater skill. That's our goal. If there's any way we can help you bring that about... you know how to contact us. And what we'll be doing."
Laughter. Lusty, and deranged - not just an average biker, laughing at a great joke. Some guy with a particularly psychotic cackle.
The logo disappeared, but the laughter went on. Continuous. A quick little cough, like a hiccup - and he started to whoop. Trying to talk, apparently. He'd hold out a "N" or an "H" for a second, and break down again, laughing like a crazy man. He squealed, and whined once. Hooting, but still unable to speak. From his tone, it was clear he was attempting to beg. That powerful voice, reduced to begging - and after a ragged breath, he roared even louder. Laughed and laughed...
When the sound faded away, the remote control floated off the bed. The TV turned off.
And nothing moved, for a minute. Just the gentle creaking of the miner's leather jacket as he laid there, fast asleep.
Then the remote floated over and rested on top of the TV. Over the bed, invisible and calm, the kidnapper studied its prize.
Everything was ready. The windows and door of the freestanding cabin were covered with foam rubber, so no one else would hear him. The enema bag, the shaving kit, cigars and vodka...
Makeup and panty hose, rubber hot pants and a dark red bra. He was going to be humiliated tonight. With his head shaved and adhesive keeping his new clothes fastened tight, it was going to push him out of the van in front of the mine entrance - right before his shift started, when all of his buddies were there.
But until then...
The videotape was quite persuasive. Propaganda - sure - but the kidnapper was intrigued. There was no reason to scrap the plan it had made for this guy. But it had nothing to lose by trying a new thing or two. The miner certainly looked invulnerable to a few feathers. He'd definitely be surprised. Why not...
His boots moved, just a little, as it untied the laces.
As his socks hit the floor, rope circled around and around his ankles, knotting tight, stretching toward the legs of the bed.
It pulled his jacket off, and then his shirt. Laying his arms out, it paused again... and slid them over his head. Toward the corners of the mattress, as if he was welcoming its attention - with open arms. Tied arms.
He was stretched out. Really helpless. Chest, armpits and sides waiting to be tested. Counter-tied feet, staying right there.
Really, there was no reason not to give power-tickling a decent try. If it was a failure, no one had to know.
It opened the suitcase, and dug inside. Ah - there they were, plenty of 'em and all too small for him to wear anyway...
Lavender satin cruised over him, taking shape. Two, four, six. It tucked the long sleeves inside and flexed the fingers. Now they looked more like some of the gloves in the video.
Curious, and maybe a little bit excited, the kidnapper brought four of them down until they were almost touching him. They hung over his armpits and his belly, as the last pair arrived.
The fingers curled a little, and gave his feet a tickle.
He groaned softly, and tried to roll over.
Hmmm.
It laid the satin back against his soles, and moved it all around.
His body jerked, and his mouth opened. He blinked a few times, and looked at the ceiling. Confused expression -
"Huh huh huh huh," he chuckled. Damn, was he shocked or what?
The fingers traced up and down, firmly. Heels to toes.
He kept laughing. Raising his head, he squinted at his feet. But the room was dark, and he gave it up. Pulling at the rope, trying to roll over, head flailing around -
Laughing so hard.
He couldn't sit still now. Stretching the rope. Frantic, already. He really wanted to get away from the gloves, didn't he?
Well - forget that. Not for a long while yet. The enema could wait too... There was no hurry.
It made the other gloves land and squeeze, roaming all over his sides.
MATI - Duane - Deeny & Drey - Zero Hour - Ampcat
14nov2002