The impulse to tickle thoroughly... it's stronger than any other drive. Proof, it figures, of its purpose. The reason it exists.
Doesn't take too much to get it hungry, either. It thinks up a new way to anchor a restraint, and it's just gotta see its handiwork wrapped around a straining, dripping wrist. New toys or lubes kick off a serious longing to find out how much of an increase in response they'll cause. Even a new energy bar or amino acid formula gets it planning a long, full-press run... exercise way beyond the usual meaning of the word.
Not that it lacks experience, or any knowledge about its favorite subject. What it does, it does for fun. Balls-out, hardass, full-body fun. Taking its time to lean on the pecularities of each howler in its tireless care. A quirk or mannerism that appears innocent enough in public can get its curiosity fired up - an enticing chuckle, and the evaluation begins...
The right kind of location gets its motor going, too. Usually it settled for a room that was secure enough, or hidden better than most. Okay, the howler's not going to slip his cuffs. None ever had. Finding perfectly remote sites, though - so isolated there was zero chance of a wino sleeping in the doorway, or a real estate broker snooping around inconveniently. It liked to find places far off from traffic, unknown by hikers.
It's really hyped about this cabin.
No other buildings for at least a mile. At least. After a few tract houses and cinderblock storage rooms, this is a fuckin' find. Two rooms, and the bedroom is just about made to order: low-ceilinged, a little narrow, dingy and dusty and... forgotten. A small window to board up. Wouldn't that door look terrific nailed shut?
The midday sun falls well away from the wall. Far enough into the room, that - well, with a mattress against the far wall, the sunbeam would land right about on...
Feet. Yep. Overly secured feet. Oiled feet, warmed by the sun... rubbed by flexible, shiny hands moving in the bright sun, spotlighted -
It approves. Liking this room very much. Musing, already, about which color acetate to wear in here, how dark it would get at two or three in the morning, how a blanket of smoke would look in the April dusk. Unconsciously measuring the hyena who'll lay there, where to sink the tie rings so the feet will hang right in that patch of sun...
The horse cuffs. Yeah. Custom-lined with neoprene, staying put despite the frantic, motivated stress they'll contain.
Just a little work, and this'll be just the place for a big ol' drawn-out party.
It goes back to the city, gathering supplies...
Watches the crowd at a gas station for awhile, and then it notices a yuppie gym further down the street. Gets to know the lot, where the darker corners are -
Loud hee-haw... and the source of that laugh is very appealing. Wet hair, fairly glowing with vitality. He wraps up a bullshit conversation and the other guy gets into a car, leaving him alone.
His truck is far enough from the building and the streetlight. There's ashes on the outside of the side window, and a pack of cigarettes on the seat. Excellent. He lets himself in and shuts the door, key in the ignition -
Hands lock onto his knees. He jumps. Real big, jerking a leg, and starting to look, left hand reaching for the door handle. The grips start to... probe, and he starts to turn and wrestle. More hands curl around his elbows... and there's poking in his right armpit. He's making hard, goofy noises.
Something dark punches the door lock and stays on it. Grips get his ankles, and he's pushed onto his side.
Cool, tight material presses over his eyes. He yells - and something hard is in his mouth. Little things. Pills. Coughing, but there's a glove clamped over his mouth. Wrong feel for a glove, though. He fights to sit up or roll forward, bitter graininess in the back of his throat. All the hands stop moving, keeping him pinned...
Until he starts to snore.
It props him up and drives to its supply depot.
The truck's low on gas, so it siphons a few gallons from a mini-mart's ground tank. Enough for a ninety-minute ride into the foothills, and another ten miles off the highway.
The needle's almost back on empty when it parks the truck, hiding it in the brush. And then its visitor is brought in, and his rations... plenty for a long, high-spirited vacation.
Bleary, thick with sleep, eyes barely open. Staring without seeing. Finally - finally! - it registers. He blinks and looks again at the carton, sees the four other cartons behind it. His mouth opens a little, as he takes in the sight.
A thousand smokes. Camel filters... not his Merit greens -
There's a few boxes of kitchen matches too, on the grimy hardwood floor next to the mattress. He does a double take. Old mattress... and his leg.
He looks all over himself, seeing no clothes. And his eyes fix on the cuff wrapped low on his left shin. Completely unbelieving expression, as he sees both his ankles, anchored maybe eighteen inches apart, and starts to kick... The cuffs creak, but only a little. He shouts for help, volume building quickly.
He tries to get up, and looks to his wrists quickly. Now yanking hard, trying to twist. His midsection slides about an inch. Thick, wide leather there too, caught by one-inch straps - woven black nylon, half-ton test. He snaps at them, doing his best to get up from the mattress...
His eyes roam, stopping for a while on the boards over the windows. An 'N' of two-by-twos nailed from inside the room, horizontal slats outside... not blocking the sunlight. Wonderful illumination now a few inches from the yearning toes and the heels as they hang off the mattress, struggling to get somewhere and unable to loosen the custom rigging.
The door gets a longer stare. Extra wood there also, plenty of big nails. Not a yard from his right hand, yet so far... His eyes stray to the boxes. Thoughtful, fearful expression - he sees only the exterior, and not the toys and equipment within. Hauled in here along with him. For him.
He looks hard at the cartons, and then the boxes, and back at his smokes again. Continuing to yell...
Ten minutes. His fight begins to fade...
Five more, and he's quiet, sweaty, catching his breath. Staring at the ceiling -
Thump.
Suddenly, the lids on a beer-bottle case fly open with a heavy slap.
And hands burst out. A fountain of...
Gloves.
Many. A lot of gloves, jet-black. Shiny, large, a good two dozen...
Empty, visibly solid... gloves cruising right toward him.
He's trying to flail, whining low. His cock begins to expand and thicken.
It enjoys playing warden - ward nurse, spooning up tripe or strained beets, or pickle relish... cracking open a fifth of Jim Beam in midair over his head. Even five packs a day wouldn't keep him from getting bored. Restless. No distractions in the room, here... Or neighbors. He'll be needing something to do while he's here - something to focus on.
And up here it cools down quite a bit when the sun sets. Gotta keep him warm, all night. Friction generates heat, and if he's covered continuously...
His panic dies slowly as understanding grows, wide eyes locked on the yards of acetate... ready and in position. A pair of hand-shells hover near a carton while it basks in his fear. Get him started on his first pack, or postpone 'em for a more electrifying activity?
He doesn't even breathe...
As its hands firmly take hold of him from palms to soles.
With that first businesslike clench, and the whispering satin moving - the last of his anger evaporates, replaced with shock. He moans quickly, from the magnitude of the sensation... or maybe at how good it feels, the sleek grips provoking twenty-odd reactive places.
Its gloves buff him, and he wails with delight.
For a half-hour, it strokes deeply. Making him writhe, test the cuffs with raw sincerity. Looking around wildly for help, or something less... cheering? The ball gag, greased up and ready for him? The peacock feathers, or mink brushes - bright silk scarves that can straddle and polish around his curves? They'll all get a thorough run.
He screams gleefully now, like a hysterical woman. It goads a little more quickly to size up his heart and lungs, finding the maximum he can handle this early on... not gasping convulsively, but safely away from unconsciousness or diminished effect.
It scales him back down until he can squirm a little. Irregular, mindless, ineffective twisting. He howls loud, keening and hooting with his head back, twitching now and then, sometimes trying to pull and turn...
Looking, less and less frequently, at the gloves dancing on him. Shiny ebony covering his torso, limbs, feet - rigidly busy, all over. He roars and roars. The walls and ceiling bounce some of his noise back at him. The door too... thick panels, three-inch nails angling into the frame - unaffected by his outrageous peals of laughter. The boards blocking the window stay in place. The sunlight is glinting off the cloth assaulting his feet... more thrilling in reality than it had imagined.
He bellows in the grip of new satin, voice ragged and just beginning to rasp. The feverish whoops can surely be heard way outside the cabin...
If there had been anybody else on the ridge to hear 'em.
Stars dot the summer sky, but the moon isn't visible.
He peeks again, and makes slow fists. Hasn't made much of a fuss since he came to, fifteen minutes ago... coated with emoillent, shit wiped up, the mattress damp with piss between his legs.
A soft tearing sound - and his eyes are wide open. Muffled slaps, not entirely unfamiliar...
Then a silhouette rises over him. A rectangle, between thick fingers, with the top peeled off and a couple of smokes sticking out from the rest. The pack zeroes in, and he turns his head slowly, weakly. Side to side -
Another hand glides over his belly. Slightly curled. He looks from one to the other... and finally lifts his head, biting a Camel. Pulling it out of the pack.
That hand floats away. He watches the one posing over him... Fifty packs here, and how long would they last at four packs a day? Three?
It lets him stare for most of a minute. Got his attention. Got his number, his feet stuck tight, his immediate future booked solid - with satin. Got him well in hand.
A smaller object moves a little. Clink. Scratching - a Zippo, burning. A glove that made him howl drops down slowly. A hand that will have him roaring again...
He raises his head to suck in. Letting his head drop, sighing smoke, watching as the flame goes out and away. Night vision shot by the fire, he squints and looks around. No other movement follows. All he's got to look at is the coal of his Camel... and the stars, too far away to matter.
Three packs a day almost covers seventeen days... and nights. Chilly prairie nights. Wriggling, chortling hard, every stroke and touch registering vividly from now until the twelfth of August... before it even needs to get him more smokes.
He fidgets and tests the restraints... Freezing up when a cloth hand glides close, pulls his Camel and lights a new one with it. Then it leaves, and he sucks in smoke, twisting desperately.
Another Camel. And another.
A pint of water before the next smoke is lit...
Two more cigs, and he's laying still. Cuffs no looser for his struggles, and he gives up the fight for now. Squinting at the end of his cigarette.
Three butts later, he's more relaxed. Not happy. Resigned. Not looking around him, other than a longing glance out the dark window.
More water, yet another smoke. He starts it, exhaling heavily -
A sound. To his left, strange yet not unfamiliar...
Slithering. Something softly dragging -
He flops, and manages to yell. Still clenching the cigarette, and hollering for help.
The sound is one he knows, now. Satin. A few inches from his ear, a finger and thumb rub softly. A promise of things to come.
Feathers are also coming near, but not yet within the weak moonlight. Twirling slowly in the dark...
The dreaded sound continues. Crawling acetate, the icon of choice for this forgotten room. A pointedly agonizing guarantee.
When his struggles fade away, the Camel is tugged free. He winces, and braces for the impact. But another filter hits his lip, and the old butt turns around to bump into the new one - a menthol. One of his.
He had most of a pack on him when he was brought up to the ridge, so there's still more than a thousand smokes left. And the change in brand is a signal.
Agitated, sucking hard, he shows the message is received.
The sun is well up when he wakes. Well into carton number one, and he doesn't look around wildly. Not anymore. Lays there, eyes shut. Knowing.
Its gloves rummage through the crates, getting him food.
He pulls at the cuffs - and starts coughing away. When he's finally done, the filter of a Camel taps his chin — a cigarette curled in a loose fist. Waiting for him. He scowls at it...
Several smokes later, he hears the bowl. Grimacing, trying to turn...
He sneaks a look. Gloves are opening cans and jars. Pouring shit into the crusty salad bowl.
Alpo.
Crushed garlic.
Tapioca pudding.
Pimentos.
Candied orange peel.
A glove tilts a bottle of hot sauce, squirting liberally.
Another shakes about twenty kids' chewable vitamins into the slop -
And a bottle of Black Velvet gurgles for maybe three seconds, before being slammed down next to the bowl.
He smokes another Camel as it holds the bowl steady, and satin fingers dip a stained wooden spoon, stirring and stirring. These substances won't be healthy for him, so from now on this will be saved for special events.
When the mixing is done, a pair of shiny hands come and lay on his hips. Black and creaseless, the material absurdly wrong for the big, beefy size of the strokers -
He tenses up and chuffs out smoke, staring at ‘em.
They tighten their grip, slowly... enough to force an angry whine out of him. Erratic giggles. But it's not time to ride yet. A good hour before the sunbeam creeps to the floor...
The bowl rises and levitates over, spoon loading up. Feeding time.
Brutal fingers travel up to his ribs and lay there threateningly. The spoon comes to him...
While he twists, squirming before he even attempts to swallow the garbage, defying it -
The hands move, ominously heavy. Slow, continuous... until he forces it down his gullet, cackling through tightly closed lips as he does, crunching a vitamin...
When the bowl is almost empty, he gets water and cigarettes. Another half-hour, watching the sun beat down... dreading its arrival. Impossible to stop, accompanied in this cabin with devastating, vigorous contact, light and heat supplemented with silky friction and oil -
A cool touch. Instantly, he's tense. Aware of what will be blanketing him along with the sun.
Fingers trace the nape of his neck. Same as yesterday - three hands now, lightly palpating and stroking. He throws his head around uselessly, cussing. Its gloves continue, undisturbed. He kicks out the cigarette and yells for help again, looking out the window at the sky, trying to bring rescuers that aren't there, won't be coming.
Three gloves, teasing. Another waits with an unlit Camel...
A minute later, he quits calling out. It's not doing any good. Too far in the hills. No one to notice, check on him, cut him loose, fend off its exorbitant tickling commotion, keep one Camel after another from being stuck between his bared teeth.
The imposing massage continues. The match, lit and held to the end of the cig he took so absently, waits until its job is done. He tries to jump, slamming back hard... chuckling out smoke. The fingers expand their coverage to include his shoulders...
Sunlight on the far wall now, instead of the ceiling. The tension in his limbs and neck is gradually melting away.
The Camels keep coming even as the sunbeam does.
His tickler rubs up and down his arms, and chest, and sides. So gently...
Not arriving at his legs until the beam is almost to the floor. Getting closer, and the buffing is carefully timed. He moves his head or opens his eyes once in a while, but mainly lays still, chortling and moaning.
Knees, calves. The sun is inches from illuminating him. It has him start another pack of smokes, and brings over the oil -
He complains at the feel of it, coating all the surfaces of his feet, applied with the lightest possible pressure... between laughs. His legs strain to be free of the cuffs.
It dawdles a few minutes more on his shins and ankles... until the golden rays fall squarely on his gleaming toes. A gloves takes his cigarette away, and he shakes his head some more. No more for him, not for a while. No attention to spare for holding on to a cig... Sun's high, and he's got some intense laughing to do.
All is ready. Into the sunlight come a pair of oil-soaked black satins, zooming in for the clench. He arches weakly, howling away. Gripping and sliding off the ends of his toes, as if they're squirting his feet out of their grip -
Screamingly jolly roars, tears squeezing out of his tightly closed eyes. The cuffs suppress all of the delirious efforts to flee its robust clutches.
Two more gloves join in, playing with toes and the sides of his soles. With the oil, it can rub more heavily with less dimished effect... enamored with the image brought to life here, the blanketed feet in the sun, cuffs and hands and toes slathered with oil.
Within a few minutes he's not hooting as loud. Less violently, slower, with no less passion... Unwillingly arriving at a level he can maintain, howls and whoops and deep belly-laughs, with plenty of big breaths and no risk of passing out.
It makes the most of the sunbeam, traveling slowly up his body. When it reaches his ankles, another pair of hands begin stroking lightly, just above the cuffs. The workout his feet are undergoing slows down...
When the beam is illuminating his shins, more hands come and stroke there. Pairs are added all up his front and sides, all barely dusting him, latching on when the sun shines on a new patch of skin... and staying in place, skating gently. Not out to steal the show -
More oil is squirted all over the unmoving feet, and those satins diligently assailing them...
When the light has cleared his hair, crawling up the wall behind him in preparation for another secluded night on the ridge, all the gloves play hard for a half-minute until he hiccups and loses consciousness. He's cleaned up quickly, oiled down, wrists and ankles massaged for a while before the cuffs are tightened down again.
And it lets him sleep, satisfied all is ready for the usual nighttime run after he's all rested up and recharged, with a couple liters of water in his belly and nine or ten more Camels smoked up.
10apr98