The outer door opens -
Paolo hears it, and starts moving. Lunging as hard as he can, trying to kick, bouncing. But the straps are thick, and they keep him down. Flat on his back - sticking to the rubber sheet as he flails around.
That's a familiar sensation. Latex. Clinging to his ass cheeks. But why?
Where the hell is he?
For that matter, why is he freaking out? It could be somebody coming to get him out of these cuffs.
The door clicks. Looking past his feet, he watches it open, swing in a few inches... pause, and then close tight. All by itself.
"No," he says miserably. What? Begging? Out of reflex, he feels like groveling - without knowing why. What's he so afraid of?
"Evening, Paolo," a cheerful voice says. Not too far from his bed.
"No!" he shouts. Raspy. Real weak. His throat hurts... "Please, stay away -"
The voice laughs at him. "You got it all backwards. Staying away from you is the least likely thing that's going to happen tonight."
Something's coming - and he flinches. But it's just a bottle of water.
"Why did you... What am I doing here?" he says to the bottle, as the cap breaks free.
"You've been kidnapped."
"What? Why?"
"Heh. Don't you remember?"
"No -"
The water comes to his mouth. "Drink this, and maybe it'll come to you."
He struggles... and swallows. His throat really hurts. So he sighs hard, and drinks the water. All of it. Then he watches the bottle fall to the floor, and starts wriggling again. "Lemme go -"
"Nope."
"This is... nuts."
"Uh-huh. You ready?"
"No. Help!"
"Got your help, right here."
From alongside the bed...
A long white feather.
The second he sees it, rising... Two things happen to Paolo. Part of his brain is confused, trying to see how a feather could help. Wondering if the feather is a symbol or something...
But that's nothing. Most of his mind, and his whole body, are absolutely terrified. He can't move. Can't speak. Just fuckin' overwhelmed.
And he can't figure out why.
"You still confused, Paolo?"
He watches the feather, as it pauses over him. Having trouble breathing. He has to stop the feather, right now. And he can't. Dead certain of both facts.
Nothing is more important to him than stopping that feather.
Not being able to stop the feather is as sure as death and taxes.
"Okay," the voice says. Definitely gloating. "Gonna make it real simple for ya."
He can't remember... and he wants to. Needs to r-
"Feathers, good restraints, and you. Stripped. Completely vulnerable."
Paolo's lips move, as he tries to put it together.
"The word you're looking for starts with a 'T'."
A few tense seconds pass. "I don't know!"
"It rhymes with... 'pickling'."
"Pi-... tickling?"
The feather comes closer. "You got it! And now you're gonna get it -"
"What? What is it?"
It halts. "What is... tickling? You don't remember?"
"N-no."
"Nobody ever tickled you? Recently? Or when you were a kid?"
"I don't... know-"
"Really? You sure?"
"Yeah I'm sure, dammit, now let m-"
And the feather starts to move again. A few inches over his leg, it turns. Goes away...
No. Just away from his head. He tracks it as if it held the key to his whole future.
"You're positive you haven't been tickled before, in this room? Night after night?"
"Yeah!"
"Huh." The voice snickers. "Well, you're in for a treat. Ten or twelve supercharged hours. Advanced tickling, Paolo. Hot fun. Lusty. Expert stimulation, all night long..."
The feather drifts away. He cranes his neck, but his feet block the sight of it. Along the right side of the bed, another one bobs up. It looks just like the first feather. Paolo watches it cruise along, almost level with the mattress, and turn left. Then it's gone.
"I don't think I li-"
"That's right. No need to think. You just lay there..."
Something soft touches the bottom of Paolo's right foot.
"And try to keep up."
Both feet - and, now, moving. Up and down.
"Hey... eh heh heh hooo," he says. Laughing. That part of his brain is completely stunned. He wants to laugh, so he does - even when he tries to shut up.
His legs and ankles are restless. Hell, they're going berserk. The leather is snug and thick, unbeatable, keeping his feet right where they are. He knows this.
And he still tries to kick. The sensation is ridiculously strong. Gentle dusting, and his body is slamming around, arms snapping at the cuffs. Pinned just as surely as his legs are. He can't stop moving.
"Nooooo hooo haw haw aaaaw haw haw heh heh heeeeooo whooo hooo haw haw...."
This is why he's strapped down. It still doesn't make sense, somehow. Never mind asking how - feathers floating around by magic, invisible guy talking to him, fucking with his head. He's starting to get the "why".
Why he's here. Where the feathers went.
"Pull harder, if you want to get away... Or else you better come up with a way to make it stop," the voice says, really getting into this. Amused.
Just those feathers, and he's on fire. A new kind of fire, which he sorta likes. If only it was slower...
Or if it would stop sometimes.
He stretches and bounces. The feeling of the feathers is just too much.
But Paolo can't move much. Thanks to the cuffs. His cuffs.
"Aaaah hah heeeeee heee hee hee no doh dddaaaah hah haah hah haw haw hawwhoooo hooo aaaaaw..."
The feathers are all over the bottoms of his feet. He never would've guessed he was so fuckin' sensitive down there...
"And there's other things to tickle you with, Paolo. You'll see."
"Nah nnnnnaaah hah huh huh huh hee hee hee heee heee nnnah haw haaawllll lah hah haaah haaaaawl..."
He thrashes around. All-out. No shame left. This is unbearable. It isn't pain, and it isn't pleasure. Both. Neither. Something new.
Get out of here. Cover your feet. Stop 'em.
He laughs harder, shaking silently.
Later, he doesn't even laugh. Fidgeting once in a while. Twitching.
And that's it. He can't do anything else. The impact gets worse and worse. Forcing himself to laugh doesn't help him cope. Full-bore, insistent pleasurepain has the whole bottom surface of his feet primed to report every little touch of the feathers. And they're not just touching. They're sweeping, and sawing. Continuously.
He lies there, pinned by his cuffs, sweating, blown away by the unbearable sensation.
A crackling sound. He opens his eyes...
Water bottle. More water.
"Please," he says silently.
"Drink up, Paolo." After hesitating, he does. "This is what you might call a 'rest break'. You'll get lots of rest breaks, and then the tickling starts up again. Every time."
He sucks the water down with his eyes closed. Watches the bottle float away...
Shaking his head distractedly he chants, "No. No, no, no. No more -"
"All over you. It's going to get fierce -"
"Anything," he whispers.
"What?"
"Anything... I'll do anything... you want. Just stop. Ple-"
"Anything?"
He nods, eyes opening again, getting big.
"Hmmmmm." A long pause... "You'll do anything."
"Yes, y-"
"And if you mean... anything... that would include..."
"Yeah!," he tries to shout.
"The same thing you've been doing."
He blinks.
The feathers settle back in, under his toes -
And two more float up... right to his belly.
Paolo shakes his head slowly. They start to drag across his skin. Immediately, he's cackling.
"Now, you said anything..."
He snags air and whoops it back out even more quietly. Does it again. And again.
"...so you just stay... right there."
Four feathers.
I'll do anything, he thinks insanely. Anything. Get me out of this...
The cuffs foil all his efforts. He can't do shit.
So he lays there, all laughed out again, and tries to keep up with the impossible flood of excitement.
Paolo drinks water. Sometimes he's chewing. The food will give him energy...
And then he stays put, while the feathers crawl up his legs, and down his sides. Multiplying.
They reach his neck, after another break for water.
Something... firmer, yet still horribly soft, drags around in his armpits, all over his thighs.
The smell of piss, in the air, is quickly forgotten.
Water, food - then more of the brushes arrive. They're like the brushes an artist would use. A real artist is using 'em. Tickle artist. Expert. Superhuman artist.
They multiply again.
Paolo loses all track of how many times he's given water. Chewing on... peanuts, maybe. More water -
And the brushes are wet. Softer. Not from his sweat. Or not only that - they're so slippery now that he wants to scream laughter. The impact is unbelievable, all over him...
Except the one place he really wants 'em to stroke. He's gotta cum so bad he could cry, actually fuckin' weep, if he wasn't so busy. His skin has turned on him, and apparently it can keep getting more and more sensitive.
Astonishing increase in the impact. Whole new level of sensitivity.
Water break...
Brushes, again. Unbelievable, unbearable, and everywhere but his rod.
Anything. He promised. He'd do anything... else. But nope. No fuckin' way. This is really getting serious now.
His cuffs don't let him cover up. Nope. Crazy idea.
Much later, shocking him, -
No. Dammit, not what he needs. There's pressure on his feet, bigger somehow, definitely firmer... and it feels like the sheet under his ass. Same texture.
It's curling around his ribs, too. Wet. Slippery... oily. That's it. Oil.
Rubber gloves are tickling him now. And he can't even laugh. He just can't do it. This is impossible. Too much. Can't keep up with it.
Anything but this.
Water, and more food...
Hands.
Slippery tickling kneading gripping squeezing nonstop anything tickling rubbing anything, anything else, any fuckin' thing but this...
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