The feather begins on his stomach, with the most insubstantial contact I can possibly apply -
And he tenses right up... hissing in air, grinding against the mattress.
He hates it.
Oh, good.
The look on his face says it all. He's in pain.
After weeks of angling to get invited here - two dozen e-mails exchanged, just so he'd experience this - it appears he's made a big discovery...
He's not enjoying this at all.
I can only imagine what's going through his mind right now, but I'll make him tell me later. That image excites me - dripping sweat, bright red cock, four-thirty in the morning, hoarse chuckles now and then, and slow fingers coaxing him to tell me everything - not because I'll stop and let him go, but just to keep me from making the gloves tickle any faster than they already are. He can provide no suitable reason for me to spare him the remaining five or six hours of this first revelatory night, anchored superbly where no one will think to look...
But we have such a long way to go.
He's so miserable, right now, as I move the feather back and forth. Back and forth. A delicate introduction.
It must be shattering to have a fantasy all worked out, only to discover the actual experience is so irritating, such a tremendous letdown, too humiliating for words. Back and forth. At my suggestion, he shaved his chest to make this moment breathtaking, sharp, maddening. Instead, my feather is already unwelcome. He scowls as if it were an insect harassing him, something he'd want to chase away, but it lands again and again, back and forth, back and forth.
"Wait a minute," he says dejectedly.
"It will continue," I tell him.
After a second or two, he freezes.
Back and forth...
Over to his left ribs.
"No," he sputters. "This isn't working."
"It will continue."
"I want a break." He says it so hopefully. Naive of him.
"It will continue."
My feather travels across to his other hip.
He tries to twist away from the feather, pull his wrists free. "Come... on! Let me up. That's enough."
"It will continue."
"You said you'd let me up as soon as I asked you!"
"It will continue."
"Shit." The lone syllable is full of so much emotion. The realization that his restraints will not be taken off, sadness that his fantasy is not panning out as he had hoped, acknowledgement that his anger will not change the situation... and the knowledge that I've utterly betrayed him.
Back, and down, and up.
"Please."
"It will continue."
"Please!"
"It will continue."
"This isn't... what I wanted."
"It will continue."
Extraordinary kicking - but the straps continue to hold his ankles down. "Stop. You can't - this isn't right! Uh, I want you to stop this."
"It will continue."
"Will you stop saying that? Let me go! Now! I was wrong. Okay? This isn't fun. It's, uh, not what I expected."
"It will continue."
Yanking, bouncing, grunting with exertion...
Down, and back, and up. Right armpit -
He jumps impressively, yelping quickly.
Down, and back - halfway - then reversing course, and up. Armpit.
"Stop! No no no no no!"
Down, and up - and now, I scratch through the armpit hair with the tip of the feather.
Shouting, growling, gritting his teeth, fighting with the restraints.
Fear, annoyance, panic, anger... shouting for help as long as he can.
I keep the feather moving.
Panting, swallowing often, beginning to sweat. He calls me bad names, tries to reason with me, threatens me, tries to elicit pity.
And I tell him again and again that it will continue.
The path of my feather now includes both armpits, his neck. and his chest.
I bring up... another feather.
He writhes harder and starts to beg.
And he pleads for quite a while.
I expand the feathers' territory to include his shoulders, his biceps, under his chin, his pubic hair.
Furious words result. Renewed attempts to move. The first tears shine in his eyes.
I lift the feathers off him.
He heaves the definitive sigh of relief.
I drop the feathers.
He watches them fall, saying nothing.
I have responded to every utterance of his with the same three words. So far, he's heard it 185 times.
Picking up two new feathers from the bedside table - dry, clean, and tortuously soft - I float them slowly over him...
To his feet.
The desperate wrestling and shouting that results is exquisite.
He tugs, watching them, talking so continuously that I wonder if he's even hearing my replies - but he can recite them along with me by now.
Closer, and closer.
A very different mood is exhibited now. The relaxed expectation is entirely gone. He no longer trusts me. That may be permanently gone - and if it has not evaporated yet, it will during the next forty-three minutes. It will be that long until I speak to him again.
He bounces and rocks on the mattress. The restraints will not fail me. Every time I remember how isolated this room is, I could laugh out loud... but I don't want to miss hearing a single sound he's going to make.
It continues - now.
The feathers suddenly pounce. Around the insteps. Under them. Much faster, now.
His entire body contracts once - twice -
And he sucks in a big lungful of air. Here it comes.
Yes.
Husky, steady, involuntary, forlorn, candid, uncouth laughter.
I tickle faster.
All the flopping and lunging can't stop me. His hands open and close, trying every possible manuever to escape the heavy cuffs, mindlessly reaching out as if they want nothing more than to stop me. And his head - rolling and slamming as if it could pop off and leave his body here to endure all that I have in store for it!
His feet remind me of rabid animals, independently driven by a biological imperative to move at least a few millimeters. But I have no less than ten straps in use, and the success of the immobilization is a thing worth celebrating. There is a finality to the tethers, the heartbreaking redundancy, which gives me the confidence to devote all of my attention on this moment...
He looks down often, squinting at his feet as if he still can't believe that it's real. I wait for one of these times to bring up two more feathers.
Panic, once more. The anger is cast aside. Logic is a tool which has failed to help him cope.
Softly, in a very effective counterpoint to the brisk stimulation, I stroke the outer sides and heels at a virtual crawl, watching the muscles twitch...
Savoring the choked hiccuping noises, which are immediately followed by haggard shrieks of delight. The sound is heard by no one other than he and I. It will captivate me for hours, until he is silent, still laughing here - remaining on this bed, overwhelmed, meticulously provoked, bound.
His legs try so hard. But I have them stretched out, so they cannot interrupt what I'm going to do.
The futile movements are occurring less often, as the feathers deliver an unending barrage of sensation that overrules all motor control.
I bring out the toe restraints.
He can't manage to look at them until I'm finishing up with his left foot. Sturdy thongs, increasing the tautness of the feathered skin... making each digit as vulnerable as his torso has become. And the hollows cannot be shielded.
Baying, like a wolf, he tries to watch as I prepare his other foot for a drastic increase in pained arousal. I knot each strap slowly, for his review as well as mine. His face shows no joy now. But that is ignorance.
And I begin to eradicate it.
Two feathers move quickly and thoroughly between the helpless toes. The others brush the soles with their edges -
Distress. Convulsing now, his body launches an all-out war with the cuffs that hold him. His laughter is suddenly filled with anguish... and it is replaced with screams. It is exactly the appearance of a man, I suspect, who is learning the unspeakable power of implements far more damaging than my feathers.
I pick up two more.
In all likelihood, he has never experienced suffering of this magnitude before. I have reviewed his life, and he should be approaching a distinctive threshold of pain. It will increase somewhat...
Finally, his legs begin to relax.
I am so happy. He's responding just as I had hoped.
Hands, head, ankles all settle down. No longer moving -
My feathers press down more firmly.
And he smiles.
Meaty, wrenching hoots and barks. Then he starts to roar.
An enormous grin appears. Tears run down his face.
Beyond pain now - overcome with hysteria.
It's perfect.
For the next eight minutes, I don't alter the feathers' tempo or pressure.
He looks and sounds as if he could not possibly enjoy anything as much as the current pace of my tickling. But he'll learn. I've just gotten started.
I let the feathers slow down... and break contact.
His chest heaves for several minutes. Eyes closed.
Finally, he looks. The feathers are all here, just above his feet.
In his eyes, I see a different man. He's gone from idealized fantasy to traumatic distress - and back again. And I will see to it that the inexpressibly potent dream cannot end. He is past the unthinkable strain now. I will spur him to limitless dimensions of pleasure, now that his conditioning is complete. No more cockiness, or wounded pride, or empty hopes. He will never forget what I'm about to do...with my feathers.
Watching them arrive, he doesn't make a sound.
But when they resume tickling, howls fill the room once more. His body jerks and pulls - differently. No lucidity in exhibited now. Earnest, lusty reactions drive him now.
I hope I have his mind locked in a room of its own, concerned only with the phenomenon which is far beyond the capability of his nervous system to endure.
I tickle faster.
And faster.
His movements and all this crazed laughter fade away, revealing to a state of consciousness which satisfies me in a way his earlier reactions could not, justifies all the work, reaffirms my commitment to explore him and incite him and force him to feel what I do more keenly with each passing hour.
Delirium.
My aching hunger is filled - for twenty-one perfect minutes.
But I remind myself constantly that we have a long, incoherent night ahead of us.
And then another night, after he rests.
Already, I wonder - and even the rhetorical question thoroughly delights me - how I will ever find the ability, then, to let him leave.
But nothing could less relevant to me now, at this moment, watchig his chest rise and fall... Preparing his nerve endings and cardiovascular system for such delicious abuse.
It takes only seven minutes for the agony to pass.
This time, he remains in that feverish state for twenty-eight minutes, nourishing and delighting me.
I let him rest.
And then I show him four of the gloves.
Less than a minute later, the fever seals him off from all purposeful thought.
Such a fast learner.
It is tremendously hard to make the fingers stop moving, after thirty minutes.
I dare not go longer - and risk all the satisfaction and fun of the tenth attack? Or the twentieth.
He wakes. Clothed - because I dressed him a little while ago. Even his shoes. His body has been cleaned and shaved and moisturized.
Cautiously, he rises from the bed. Each step hurts - and that is a compliment, too. His soles are so tender now...
But he stumbles to the door, and grabs the handle.
I put one hand on his shoulder.
That startles him, and his body tenses up. He pushes down on the handle - but it is locked.
He sags...
And I turn him around.
Over to the cross-beam rack... And I have to push him, more and more firmly.
He fights me because he has some deep inner need to resist. In the fleeting emotions on his face, I see anger, shock... and vast relief. He knows, also, that my desire takes precedence over his own. That's really why he's here.
I drag him the last few yards - pulling his jacket off, unbuckling his belt, untying his shoes.
The stern leather cuffs creak softly as they open and wrap around, sliding through the buckles.
17nov03