"Haw haw haaw naw nuh haw hah haaaaaaaw..."
He's confused, but there's a huge grin on his face.
His own hairbrush is being used on the sole of his right foot - dragged down slowly, and back up, and down...
And he laughs. Bouncing and squirming.
The brush is held by an empty black glove. Another one is holding his foot.
Thick leather straps are keeping his ankles together, and his legs extended. More cuffs are keeping his hands well over his head. He can wriggle, but he can't get away.
His clothes are gone.
The brush slides up and down.
He tries to kick again, and roll over. When that fails, he laughs a little louder.
The room is a secret room, and it's been soundproofed. A soft, comfortable bed. Plain walls.
"Nuh huh huh huh haaaaawwwww..."
After he throws his head around, tries to arch, snap at the restraints... he snags a quick breath and starts to whoop.
The bristles graze his foot, and he can't do a damn thing to stop them.
Grinning like a fool, he looks at the gloves again, and shakes his head. Too much, apparently. It appears he's enjoying himself.
"Oh fuh huh huh huh haw..."
After a while, the brush is pulled off.
His snickering winds down before he notices, sighing with relief. He closes his eyes -
The gloves start fingering and rubbing.
"Fuuuck aaaah hah haah haah haaaaw naw nnnnnaaah hah haw haw haw hawwwwl..."
Tickling and tickling. He can wriggle, and try to arch his back. But the gloves don't stop. They don't have to.
This is not the vacation he planned on. They supposedly gave him an upgrade.
A pair of gloves start squeezing his knees. Spittle explodes from his lips. Laughing harder.
He's overwhelmed with the excitement of it. The fingers knead and stroke him.
"Whaah hah haaah hah haalllp hallp help hell heh haaaawheee haw nnnnaw haw haaaw heee haaaaaalllppp aw haw haw haaaawwheeeenn nawheeee hee hee aaaw naaaawww haw haw haw..."
The sweat starts to drip. His eyes are leaking.
Gloves ease on up to his belly.
He tries to bounce up and down. It doesn't matter. The fingers slide wherever they want.
"Oh... fuck," he pants, after catching his breath. Only half an hour of fun, and already he's looking pretty far gone. So much tickling yet to be done, too.
The gloves made him drink some water, and now they're hanging over him - above his feet, his armpits - until he recuperates a little more.
As he comes around, his struggles increase. Much more serious efforts to get away, now that he knows why he's cuffed down. More knowledgeable, but just as doomed.
Nothing he can do about it.
Eventually, he starts to yell again. Desperate to get some help. Let somebody know, so they can get him out of this room.
There's a definite rasp to his voice already. He won't be yelling in a few hours, because he'll have laughed himself hoarse. That last hope will be gone, and he'll roar silently.
All night long.
The gloves get back to it. He squeals, and throws himself back and forth. But that doesn't work either. Fingers stay on his ribs, and his belly.
He's going to have an unbelievably good time here. Literally unimaginable.
Four or five different kinds of racked laughter are produced, depending on where the gloves rub. His biceps, his neck. Pecs and nipples. Sneaking low, under his back, to give his butt-cheeks a little preview of what's in store for them.
His voice gets weaker and weaker.
They stick to half-hour sessions, this first night. Plenty of rest and water in between. And always another round of fingers...
The hairbrush is tested all up and down him.
Other gloves break out some firm brown feathers.
He pisses again, never looking down. Gloves clean him up, pat his legs dry, and toss the towels aside... then land and start teasing him between his belly button and the forest of dark curly hair.
A handful of nuts is shoved into his mouth every so often, between mouthfuls of water.
The tickling gloves start back in for the eleventh time.
Barely audible giggles burst out of him, yielding to thick chortles. They come more and more quickly, uncontrollably, until he's laughing. Belly-laughs.
Two more feathers are dragged up and down his feet.
He pounds his head once, and laughs harder. Then he starts to hoot, and whoop.
Fingers dig gently around his genitals.
His eyes close even more tightly. Whooping more intensely, he works his way up into full-blown roars of laughter...
A thumb rubs the base of his favorite body part.
He howls - a faint squeak, that fades away to nothing. Silent. All his mirth is whispered now. He howls again, and keeps roaring. Fine, gusty roars that can't be heard from more than ten feet away.
The gloves stroke and squeeze.
During the sixteenth break, he doesn't move. His eyes don't open. He doesn't even shake his head.
Sucking weakly, at the straw, he gets another minute to just lie there, breathing.
And the feathers are used again.
Weak, fevered laughter. His face is relaxed, and has been for an hour or two. Apparently he can no longer tense up anywhere. The cuffs could be removed - but he has another three hours of high-impact tickling in store.
Even then, it would be ridiculous for him to think that the tickling was almost over.
In fact, the cuffs are back in place when he wakes up the next day. Rested and ready for more.
Bottles of oil are waiting, uncapped, next to the bed.
His reaction to the feel of the lubricants...
Completely unhinged.
From then on, throughout the rest of his vacation - a secluded, extended, overjoyed vacation - the same basic plan is repeated. Half of each day is filled with oily tickling.
The first six hours consist of a gradually building attack with the feathers and brushes, tapering back down to a long-delayed orgasm... but the last five hours are when the oil pours like a river. Soaking, softening oil.
Rubber gloves, the hairbrush and ten other brushes. And more gloves. Lots and lots of fingers. Starting slow, working him deep, and getting more fierce, and more impossible to take.
The second orgasm is wild.
But the last hour of tickling, each and every day, is when they pull out all the stops.
08apr02