I have a feather stalk him, circling in...
Right to his belly-button. Wake up, now.
Grunting, coughing, he only needs a few seconds to remember - and then he slumps back down. Glaring at the ceiling. Same old thing.
And I have two gloves jump on his armpits. Deep, and taunting.
He slams back, trying to object, no no no. But that always dissolves into furiously stuttered laughter. Rocking from side to side doesn't work, with his limbs spread and anchored, so he arches his back. Every time.
And I'm ready for him - slipping two more gloves underneath. I lay those fingertips in his armpits, too. Gripped from above and below, like clamshells, or teeth. Eating him up. Squeeze and tickle, squeeze and tickle. Not letting go.
He goes ballistic, as he always does.
That spurs me on. I'm going to keep doing this to him, all over his body, throughout the day and into the night.
A fun half-hour... and he needs water, some food. A cigarette or two to perk up a little. Then my feathers return and trace his perfect abs, stroke his sides, sweep under and over his neck.
Grunting, shuddering, twitching. He's absolutely fascinating. Pure reaction he can't suppress - delighting me, as I get to observe and cause his ordeal.
When his fight is all used up and he settles down, I float more feathers down. Into his ears, between his fingers, across his insteps, up and down his cock...
Soulful hooting. So quiet and hollow, as if I'm not even here to listen. And he can't move at all, except to pant for air.
An hour, two hours, three.
I put a rubber on him, and roll him over. Ankles recaptured, feet hanging down -
Oh, I can't resist. Holding off was so exciting. And now...
Here come the toe restraints!
When he feels the tension catching his big toes, he bucks like a bronco. But he can't change a thing. Every time I trap his toes like this, he knows what kind of perfectly hideous stimulation will follow.
There. All set. It's time to begin...
Two feathers.
Gut-wrenching 'hah's and 'ho's... but he's intent on humping the mattress. So I have a pair of gloves get into his armpits, sadistically burrowing, tracing, until laughter is abandoned and he can't even move.
Sometimes he manages to cum. He's much more ticklish, then. But usually I win, and prevent him from getting that kind of relief. Either way works for me.
The gloves pull off - but they hang there, right there, waiting for him to try it again. Whenever he's making regular strokes - wham!
A long flexible tube, stuck in his mouth, so he can turn his head and suck down more water. He's used to that.
And he can't see his feet, so I get some fast gloves working on 'em, just for a minute - and then the slow feathers again.
I keep him guessing. Wailing laughter as hard as he can - all silent now, but it's still real and heartfelt.
Another hour, mostly with the feathers.
Then, it's time for the miniature scrub brushes, and the oil.
Even more oil, and the green rubber gloves...
Mixing things up again. He never knows what'll hit him next.
Then it's time to spread the joy up his calves.
My gloves start digging again, cruel and careful, under his knees.
During a break, I wipe the snot and tears off him, and spread a new silk scarf under his face. He's so zoned there's no reaction at all.
Gently tickling and tickling, all over his ass...
When the fingers leave there so the feathers can take their place, he starts grinding again. Another assault on his sides is necessary.
Once again, I stall him off. Harrying his feet... and the back of his neck.
Finally working down his back, lingering on his ass - feathers reaching under, but not too helpful, armpits nuked to get his mind off his meat whenever needed...
When I flip him back over, he's too far gone to do anything more than moan. I only need three gloves to pin each arm, and tonight I'm in the mood to hang his ankles from the ceiling. Stout chains, spreading his legs. And I don't know how he could be any more vulnerable than he is right now. Incredible.
Scarves, then feathers... and I'll shut him down with brushes. He thrusts weakly, but he's just too blown away to finish.
Energy fading...
Aaawwww, no cum-shot today. That means it'll be that much better for him the next time.
When he falls asleep I haul him to the bathtub, confident that he won't even stir.
Overall, the the day was so damn much fun that I'm just going to repeat it tomorrow. Everything went just the way I wanted.
And it was a victory for him, too, because he didn't touch a drop of alcohol.
That's why I took an interest in him, originally. He needed to be rescued - from himself.
Just out of the detox program for street kids, he drank so much that he passed out. Vulnerable to all kinds of badness - so I hauled him out to a cabin in the country.
Rubber sheets on the bed, soft restraints, plenty of sedatives. I couldn't have him hurting himself. Not while he was in my care...
When I did scale back the drugs, he complained endlessly about being pinned down. Couldn't even smoke.
I got so tired of his demands for a cigarette that I decided on an impromptu aversion therapy program. Slamming a carton down next to his restrained hand, I lit a cigarette for him and brought the TV alongside his bed. Every anti-smoking tape I could find was played - while he smoked one cigarette after another. Oh, he groaned and looked sick when the diseased lungs were shown... but I saw no change in his behavior.
The next day I showed him all the tapes again. Privately, I found something very amusing about doing that, even as he kept tugging contentedly on each cigarette. Ironic. He still had a rebellious expression on his face, so I made him swallow a few caffeine tabs, and kept him smoking. And I gave him plenty of water, too...
He reached a point where he was fed up with it. Nauseated, phlegmmy, wheezing. But I made him keep smoking. He got dizzy - remorseful, almost - but within an hour he was all defiant again. Angry.
When he fell asleep, I realized he'd gone through eight packs in less than two days.
Well, I was at a loss. The next day, he was pointedly enjoying every cigarette I forced on him. When I played a tape or two, he just laughed. So I thought perhaps a few more days of heavy consumption would wear him down again. I went back out and picked up about twenty movies - major releases, and good independent films - looking for ones he'd probably enjoy. But every one showed young men smoking constantly. Maybe if he saw enough of it - what he looked like - he'd realize how ridiculous the habit was.
Of course, I underestimated the effect movies have on impressionable young idiots. Or maybe it was the fact that I'd spent two days getting him primed for a battle of wills. He relaxed more, taking in all those images as some kind of justification. I hadn't known anyone could smoke that much...
Perhaps the habit had already been too strong in him. I ended up with an arrogant captive who'd get all fidgety if he didn't get at least three packs a day, or more if I'd let him.
I made him complete two workbooks on alcoholism, and do a lot of related reading. If he didn't want to go hungry, he had to cooperate.
Then I took him back to the city.
He was drunk within three hours.
So I didn't hold out much hope for the rural setting, after that. There's so much more available downtown. He probably needed to go to another rehab, but I doubted he could keep from drinking long enough to make it through their doors. Perhaps I was worrying too much...
He needed more structure, a safe haven, before trying to survive in the real world.
Thinking it was the city that added to his temptation, I made him spend a month in a decaying suburban house, with more chemical dependency workbooks and videos running off solar cells. I also brought him a set of weights. He seemed to settle into the routine just fine, studying conscientiously. He even smoked less.
When I let him go, it was obvious he knew he was being watched.
But he got more and more angry - at me, I suppose. Defiant attitude. He lasted eleven hours...
That time, he drank so much that I couldn't wake him up.
I took him back to the house, and decided to build him a prison cell. Maybe a hard, minimal life would get through to him...
Downtown, a new skyscraper was going up. So I looked up the building plans.
There was a dead space between some structural supports. Three makeshift rooms totalling around three hundred square feet. It was a small matter, really, to cut an trap door in the ceiling and hide it from him and all the others, splicing into the feeds for ventilation and power and water.
Thick concrete keeps the temperature comfortable and contains his noise perfectly. It's a fortress, to keep him safe, until I can figure out how to get through to him.
I painted it black. Walls, ceilings, floors.
Workbooks, videos - ordinary TV - and still he'd get bored. Too much time on his hands, and he'd sit around and smoke.
He hit the weights constantly, but the art supplies were never met with that kind of enthusiasm.
By then he was reading much better, so I forced him to study for his GED and him brought all kinds of books.
And Playboy. He was a healthy nineteen-year-old wolf, after all.
He'd always seemed embarrassed to jack off, with me watching - and it wasn't as if he could see me! - but a day or two after I started bringing him smut, he just started to go for it... much more often than before.
I never touched him, but it was absolutely fascinating how his body moved when he was deep in his head, replaying some memory or fantasy. The expressions on his face...
The rippling muscles.
One day, I left a thick mail-order catalog on the coffee table, and a marker. Sex toys, clothing, fetish stuff. He kept sweeping it onto the floor, or finally throwing it against the wall.
But the sixth time he walked by and saw it back on the table, he made that highly annoyed sighing sound I'd already come to despise... and he flipped it open.
Half an hour later, he was intently studying the pages.
I held the marker up in front of him. He seemed puzzled -
Taking the catalog away, and uncapping the marker at the same time, I pointed at a "realistic" fake vagina.
He shook his head immediately.
Then I handed him the marker.
With great reluctance, he turned a few pages. He set the marker down next to a bottle of lube... and circled the item number. Two ounces?
I took the marker away again, and circled the picture of a gallon jug.
He gulped.
But he did pick out seven things.
I ordered five of each of those items... and guessed at several others, based on what he seemed to like. One day he woke up to find four more catalogs waiting for him.
Some of the pictures really got me thinking. When I'd spread him down on the mattress, in the country, he was safe enough - and I did enjoy the satisfaction of knowing he wasn't going to budge. It was thrilling. I can admit that. Watching him slowly get used to being helpless, dependent on me to feed him and give him sponge-baths, each cigarette, all day long. All night...
The canvas restraints I'd used were all stained, with his sweat, and they were beginning to fray. One catalog had replacements that looked to be just what I wanted. Durable. Incomparably... solid.
So I went shopping. More toys, just for me.
It took two large boxes to bring it all back to his cell. They sat in a crawlspace. Just thinking about them amused me. He was cooperative, if a little slow to behave - but it had been necessary to recapture him and detox him more than once, because he always drank again. Didn't he? Being prepared for anything was my excuse.
That didn't explain my impulse to get some of the... wilder items. No particular plan, really. He would probably run directly to a liquor store if he knew about them. But I got such a kick out of having them nearby. Outrageous things, close at hand. For him. Even if I didn't plan on using them, I savored the thought of what his face would look like if I started bringing out the kinkier things.
He liked his new toys - the ones he'd selected - and eventually gave them all a thorough workout.
And I watched him, fascinated as always.
An unexpected change happened when I went out to get supplies. The wholesaler seemed to be out of his smokes. Out of spite I picked up ten cartons of unfiltered cigarettes instead, the leading brand.
The effect was just amazing.
He took to them easily enough - no, that wasn't all. They had some kind of strong assocation for him. Maybe some prior experience. He became absolutely calm.
And cocky.
The way he was smoking - lighting them, handling them - changed pretty quickly. I decided he had to be imitating someone he'd admired in the past. He was a shady character, alright. Much calmer - about everything. Instead of being unnerved by my demands, he endured them all with a stone-faced resignation...
It was like having a longtime felon in my care. He'd end up making that come true if he didn't stop drinking and toe the line.
That attitude of his made me want to... punish him.
Watching him get a cigarette out, and tap it... Even the way he cocked his head. He exhaled differently. Snapped the ash off the end, more arrogant than ever, and brought it up again for another intent, determined pull.
The sight of him, when he smoked now, lacked any of the meekness I'd seen before. He was unruffled - as arrogant as he could possibly be - and it became a constant struggle for me to resist the desire to shake him up, and humble him. Then I'd calm down... until he started the next cigarette. As if he was a king.
And he wasn't even intending to be so perfectly... contemptuous. I knew that. He wasn't a bad guy, essentially. Just a drunk - who'd started to act as if nothing could touch him, or get through that worldly mask.
The pressure was really getting to me. I didn't like it. Wasn't used to it. But I kept my vengeance in check, even as I wondered how long I could hold off from... doing something that would impressively take him down a few pegs, and keep him there.
All the way down.
One ordinary day, he was on the couch, jacking off. A magazine in one hand, and the ever-present smoke hanging from his lips.
His head was cocked way back, as if the world was his oyster. I almost lost control - he was just asking for it. Smug, confident - but still locked up. I reminded myself he was coping with his insatiable need to drink, the best way he knew how...
Then he lit a new cigarette with the previous one. Such a supremely contemptuous look on his face. As if he wasn't a captive at all.
My captive -
Before I even realized what I was doing, I'd taken the magazine away from him. And the cigarette.
He made a questioning noise, and blinked slowly. It was childish, I know, but I held them over the couch, out of his grasp. When he finally made it to his feet, I lifted them higher yet.
And I brought over two dumbbells, slamming them down next to his feet.
He stepped back - so calmly! - and shook his head, reaching for the pack on the coffee table.
I grabbed his wrist.
Staring at it, he tried to pull away. After a few seconds, he gave up... and reached for the pack with his other hand.
And I sat him back down on the couch. Shoved him down, actually.
He scowled, and tried to get his arms free. Flailing around, and he could hurt himself -
Oh, I knew it was an exaggeration, but I ran with those thoughts. It was so enjoyable to finally do it! He needed some time to cool off. Laid out, again, for a few days... I'd get the use the new cuffs. Pull those straps real tight - and see how he manages to get himself a cigarette then.
I laid out the old restraints quickly, and picked him up. He started to kick and twist around.
One of my hands slipped. Cupping his right armpit -
He screeched, and chuckled a few times. Spontaneous, unwilling noises. Somehow they seemed so innocent.
That made me pause, and think hard.
He finally stopped squirming... and looked at my hand. Not that he could see it, of course, but I hadn't let go.
His face changed. Absolutely irresistible. It wasn't just the big eyes, though they were worried. He was... perturbed. All of that subtle contempt was gone, after weeks of seeing him so disaffected about everything.
He was completely intent on what that one hand was going to do next.
As obvious as it seems now, that idea had honestly never occurred to me.
I hadn't locked him up in order to make him suffer - but there was no way I'd let him out to go do something dangerous. He was safe here.
And I had discovered a potential cure for boredom. It gave me a charge that was indescribable, thinking about all the twisted excitement I was going to provide. For him, and me.
Simply removing the hand from under his arm made him sigh with relief.
On an impulse, I made fifty hands surround him, eager to seize his ankles, pull his arms up, ravage his torso and legs, clamp around his ass. He spun on his heel - almost as if he could feel them! Strong hands, ready to shred him as slowly and thoroughly as possible...
I took a much firmer grip on his upper arms.
He shook his head quickly.
A-ha.
Oh, yeah. He knew something was up. New, exciting, unbearable, impossible for him to avoid.
With gentle, invisible fingers... I scratched through his t-shirt.
He gasped. Pulling back fiercely.
And then the low, mournful snickering began.
Well, I got him a cigarette... and hauled a box of leather goods into his bedroom.
The canvas restraints, which had always done a fine job of containing him, were officially retired. What I was going to try - since no one else was going to interfere, and he certainly couldn't stop me - just seemed to call for much more intimidation. Bondage, actually.
He took a hard drag. The cigarette shook, which was not like him... but he regained some of that insufferable cockiness.
I dragged him over to the bed, and peeled his clothes off. He was fighting so hard he didn't even take the cigarette back when I held it right in front of his mouth. No, he needed to yell, and thrash around... warming up for the excitement that was to follow. But I made sure he saw me taking the old restraints away.
As soon as I brought the box over, and opened it, he really began to panic. I took my time stretching him out, hooking this and buckling that.
He was wide open. The fighting died out quickly. So he knew, also, that there was no chance of getting out of it...
I gave him another cigarette, partly so his smugness would keep spurring me on. It was a very different mood, for me, and I hardly needed the additional inspiration. But he kept giving it to me, and my pleasure increased more and more.
Casually, I took a ball-gag out of the box and set it on the mattress. He looked at it as if it was a gun. Since I had never been big on empty threats, he could expect that his jaws would get to know the sensation of the rubber ball holding them open, making each breath hiss, drool always trickling down.
He started to beg. Far too late for that, I thought, digging in the box. Scornful, conceited pup.
He watched me lay out a few pairs of leather gloves, a nice big bottle of lube...
And I made my feather duster twirl as it zoomed in from the main room.
Desperate shouts and wails were my reward. I liked that. He twisted from side to side, as if he could actually get himself out of this deeply hilarious torment.
I pulled two big feathers from the duster, and had them hover over him as the duster landed between his outstretched feet - it wasn't going anywhere, and he could stare at it. Wishing, maybe, he'd sobered up the first time, and never given me a reason to bring him here. There was no limit on how long I could make him sorry. Maybe this would drive the thought of alcohol completely out of his young head.
My feathers moved a little, and he shook his head hard. Pleading, louder and louder.
Ticklish? You don't say.
Was he just a little ticklish, or could it be... cultivated?
We had all the time in the world to find out.
I brought the feathers down, and his distress was the best encouragement I could ask for. The new restraints made me confident, and I had a spare set. Extra straps, custom devices...
I'd keep him down, no matter what.
For tickling.
Serious, thorough... intense. The full ride.
And it started with those two feathers - on a sudden whim, darting over to his feet.
Electrifying hours of pure indulgence. With the gloves dripping lube, I found a solid groove of immersive sensation and trapped him there.
After the animalistic reaction of the first three hours, it was even more rewarding to work him over with hands so relaxed and thorough that he couldn't even groan anymore, much less chuckle. Decadent squeezing and fingering.
When I gave him cigarettes, he barely seemed to notice. That was very different from the usual bravado I'd been tolerating sixty or seventy times a day.
His suffering was interwined with such unthinkable pleasure. Entranced, I made sure he stayed lost in the sensual fondling of impossibly animated hands, strong and capable, slick leather roaming all over him, making the night go on forever. Just like that.
When he couldn't keep his eyes open another second, I cleaned him up - for the next day's tickling.
Then I raced out and picked up every book and video I could find on the subject...
By the time he woke up, clearly enjoying that first smoke, I had dozens of tricks that would capitalize on this debilitating weakness.
And they worked well - he became more frantic and wild than ever.
Crazed. So loud. Not only did it seem to be impossible for him to adapt, but he was definitely getting more sensitive as the last shreds of anger were tickled away.
An addiction was born...
And I must admit I got carried away.
He was just so overwhelmed by the tickling. Every now and then, he'd blink the tears out of his eyes and look up at a wrist-cuff. Still there. Keeping him helpless so the diabolical pleasure would continue to ravage him, hour after hour.
That superior attitude of his didn't fade away. I was glad.
Smoking needfully, whenever I let him rest - and the mask was back in place. A man putting up with something he didn't care for, biding his time, toughing it out.
As if he knew, deep inside, that he was above all this. All the insanity I gave him. Better than me. He was a man, and all the delirium he was enduring wasn't going to change that.
But I'd seen the uncertain kid that couldn't keep his hands off the booze... and woke up pinned to my bed, tugging worriedly.
The tickling sent that hardened man away.
An overgrown little boy longed to break the straps, squealing and giggling at the ceiling... Eagerly pumping away when I teased his cock. He had a tired smile on his face.
But let him have a cigarette, and before the smoke had emptied out of him - that humorless mask slipped back into place.
I liked that giddy maniac, just past the mistakes of his teenage years, who had no choice but to throw his head back and roar at my gloves and feathers, and all the intricately entertaining fun he was having.
Most of the time when he was awake, I got to see that blissful grin.
Maybe if I tickled him long enough, that capable mask - and it probably was always wanting to get drunk, too - would be gone for good.
It wasn't something I could rush.
I was having so much fun I kept postponing the first real break he'd gotten in two weeks...
But finally, I pulled a pair of gloves over his hands and took off the cuffs.
He laid there, panting, for a good fifteen minutes. Since he wasn't in any hurry to move, I made him reach over and get a cigarette.
When the fourth cigarette was halfway gone, he sat up.
I let him shuffle over to the corner of the main room with the camping toilet and the bathtub. He had another smoke, and then had the rare experience of of wiping his own ass.
Then I waved a glove and motioned him over to the couch.
Reluctantly, he delivered himself. I made him start another cigarette and hold his wrists together - for my handcuffs. He watched them, with that head-tilt and humorless smirk that just made me want to tickle him senseless... but I held that thought until later, and pulled silk gloves on his hands.
Sturdy ankle-cuffs caught him, and I saw him wince when I snapped the padlock together. He wasn't going to run off now.
I brought him a pen... and a softcover book, opening it to a absolutely fascinating chapter.
- The Forgotten Torture
Her nightmare really begins with the mere sight of a feather, or the suggestive posture of approaching hands...
I made him cross out the word "Her", and write in "My".
Every pronoun was changed to refer to him. I even had him put his name in the text from time to time.
He took a drag, and stole a glance at the pile of books waiting on the coffee table.
For the next two hours, he read about tickling.
And I learned more about him. If he gulped or reacted to a sentence, I took note of what had impressed him - and made another note on my own private list.
After I made him eat dinner, he opened another pack and leisurely started a cigarette. I picked him up and took him into the bedroom.
All of that reading needed some practical reinforcement...
I started leaving the ankle-cuffs off, since he wasn't giving me any real resistance. I'd already been already massaging his wrists and ankles quite a bit when he slept, to head off any damage.
Every day, he read for an hour or two.
All too soon, I ran out of instructional material. I didn't want to force him to wade through neurology textbooks, so I prepared a few binders.
Slowly, he read tickling fiction from the internet. There were narratives told from the tickler's point of view, and I gave him only the writing which best described my level of determination, written by those who knew first-hand. Oddly enough, the stories which matched his new life were all fiction - though I had my doubts - and most were describing long imprisonments where the victim had been kidnapped... just to be played with. And some of the victims were even men.
I made him smoke continuously and review the most intense passages - the ones that could've been written about him - again and again. His lips would move, and I took careful note of which paragraphs made his erection grow and twitch.
Then, after he ate, I strapped him down and turned some of those fictional torments into hot, delirious reality.
The movies were good for many, many viewings. I showed him every single video I could find of men being tickled, no matter how tame or contrived...
And the best films were saved for after dinner. Long scenes, and a few anxious cigarettes, before I stopped the tape. Carrying his squirming body back to where the restraints lay waiting - and I always made it a point to outdo anything he saw on the TV screen. Perhaps he was unable to avoid the thoughts of those other men, bucking and howling, as I filled his night with stronger and deeper levels of distraction.
He was made for gloves.
Brushes worked great, and feathers could get more and more agonizing... but when I got the fingers busy, working him right, it was the most rewarding feeling.
I bought him costumes. They usually didn't stay on for very long, but the priceless entertainment of seeing him wake up and stare at the gladiator outfit, safari gear, or the pirate getup - it was well worth the trouble.
Really, I just couldn't go wrong with leather gear.
I picked up a body suit for him. Attached hood, a few dozen buckles. He hated it - the panicky, suffocating reactions passed quickly enough, but it always thoroughly pissed him off. No smoking, usually, when I encased him like that.
And sooner or later I'd start opening flaps. Slipping gloves inside the rigid leather booties, or the sleeves. Tickling in eight or ten critical locations, with him strapped so tightly to a bench that he had no distractions at all...
Oh, I marched for hours and hours. It always made him into a drooling wreck. Of all the fun games I'd come up with, there was really something special about marching.
Three gloves, on his left foot, tickling for a few seconds. Then his right foot.
Left, right, left, right, left, right.
And finally, we found a use for the art supplies.
All that laughing and struggling was terrific for his abdominals. They looked good before, but they became irresistible after a few weeks. So when I'd get him trussed up, with straps circling his chest and hips, I picked up the markers or the pastels... and turned his six-pack into a work of art. It was a challenge, between the laughter and the sweat. Often I'd just have to wipe it all off and start over.
Oil paints worked out better. The results lasted a little longer, and by that time even the sight of a sable brush made him crazy.
I got a bunch of food dye and painted him green. That took a few days to rub off, but the effect was impressive - all that deep green skin.
We tried blue, and red. I definitely liked the purple. It lasted through nine or ten days of determined rubbing...
The more leather I'd put on him - biker stuff, even just the kinky stuff - the more constant that intolerable attitude became. Many times I dressed him and let him wake up on his own... But he wouldn't even be through his second cigarette, finally limping to the bathtub, when the urge would overwhelm me and I'd drag him into the leather room again.
Hours and nights with the gear tinkling faintly, squeaking, and he'd laugh and laugh without making a sound...
I couldn't leave him alone.
I hardly ever took the restraints off. He was just so damn ticklish - more than ever.
Something had to change. Either I had to pack him up and get him out the door, or else I had no business pretending I was helping him. He couldn't very well learn how to deal with the temptations, out there, if I was keeping him delirious - because I had no control over my own urges.
He deserved to be free. Hopefully he wouldn't just turn around and throw it all away.
After a couple more months, I came up with a plan.
And here we are.
I hang over the couch, watching him sleep. So innocent and helpless, when he's asleep...
Dressed like he's ready to hop onto a motorcycle. Dammit, it looks good on him. I've cut his hair - leaving it shaggy, but not nearly as wild. With about three days of whisker growth, he looks like one tough hombré...
Coming around now.
The first thing he looks at is the coffee table. Fumbling for the cigarettes. Already, here's the mask he wears. Hard, sullen.
When he's had a drag or two, coughed a few times... he sits up. Staring, as I intended, at the table - the only part of the room that's illuminated.
I hand him a mug of coffee.
After a minute, he stands up and slips the pack into his pocket. Walking on over - no, he swaggers! Tugging on that cigarette, with a scowl on his face as if he's ready to kick the shit out of something...
I've put two boxes on the table. Each has a pair of gloves hanging there, posing like game-show models. White, and black.
As he comes to a halt, sipping his coffee, I lift the white box.
He looks at a single feather, a new tickle video, a carton of his cigarettes, three big padlocks... and a pint of whiskey, already uncapped.
That last item really has his attention. After another long, thoughtful drag is exhaled, it's time to lift the black box.
A roll of twenties, a plane ticket to Houston with his name on it - and a key.
I wait to see which choice he'll make.
He studies it all, trying to stay calm and aloof. After all this time I know him better than that. Almost absently, he gets another cigarette going.
Lifting a hand...
I can't tell what he'll reach for. Slowly -
The money.
Yes. He wants to get away from my gloves. From... me!
No.
Impulsively, I pull his hand to the left - and make him grab the bottle.
His eyes are wide now. Oh, he wants to back away, does he? It looks ridiculous -
Grabbing his head, both arms... his shoulders, and I clamp a glove around the back of his neck for good measure. Up comes the bottle.
And he's drinking.
Again.
This lowlife... with his resigned glare, and that inevitable thirst - is now going to get exactly what he deserves.
Freedom is for rehabilitated, gleeful men with a future. He wants to be dark and bad, deep down inside? All right. I tell myself - with such a delighted sense of relief - that he's obviously incorrigible.
My gloves grab him, and drag him into his room. Something new is waiting.
A large padded cage.
Off come the clothes. He won't be needing them here. Oversized cuffs, instead -
I shove him inside, on his back, and anchor his limbs near the corners...
Slamming that door. Three padlocks, one after another - and that's when I turn out the lights.
Furious, brutal tickling starts again.
The lost man will spend the day in here, practicing his delirious little-boy face. Then he'll discover the new rotation I've designed. Reclining bench with the foot-stocks, tension rack, wall manacles and thigh supports, the bed he's come to know so well, full stocks, inverse rack... and then back in the cage.
Drunk.
We're going to face facts, here. He'll just drink as soon as I let him out, won't he? Fine. Half of each day, now, he'll be feeling no pain. I'll bring him drugs to boost the experience. Whether he fights it or not -
Pleasure, or more pleasure.
That's how it has to be, apparently.
For both of us.
29feb04