Ruff sleeps past sunset, and I let him.
He whimpers now and then. Having a bad dream. I'm flattered. And then he chuckles... quiet snickering, real sleazy. That tears it - he's in for it tonight. Hard ride. Full steam, no fuckin' around.
Eventually he hawks, his head rolls, and he sneaks a peek. Sighs real big. Yeah, he's got the picture. Still here, Ruff.
After he coughs awhile, I bring up the water bottle, and then start the food coming. Granola bars, salami, cornbread, baked beans, candy bars. More water to chase it down, and here comes the urinal, and the bedpan sliding into place with the usual quick grunt out of him.
Now, I pick up a feather...
And test his feet.
Arches - quick vertical strokes, with a flick at each heel, under his toes. Right, left, right, left, nonstop. And the effect is sweet. His head flies back, torso squirming like an eel, bigtime attempts to arch.
Strong voice, and that combination of babbling and chuffed pleading. "Whuh-huh-huh-huh-nuh-nnnoh-haaaawwww..."
Yup. Still got me a ticklish fucker, locked down here.
I pull off, for now. He's breathing hard, and when his eyes open, I see some alarm. Been a few days since he's looked this concerned. Got a clue what he's in for, that'd be my guess. Sorta worried, and with good reason.
Ruff's gotta calm down some. He needs a smoke. A whole pack of smokes.
I get him one, and decide on the black Zippo. He watches it come, thinking hard.
He lets smoke out and flexes his fingers. He pulls at the cuffs, and looks up at his left wrist. Pulls real hard. It stays put. Double cuffs, one inside the other. Monster restraints, nice and thick, pinned by two straps sewn together. Yeah, ol' Ruff's hands are staying way up there. Missing all the action - armpits, ribs, hips all free for the taking. Shaved and moisturized, so tender...
All set for fingers - I'm thinking black satin fingers. New satin tonight. Waterproofed. Slick and heavy, unearthly fingers, just as hard to take when they're tracing lightly. With free run of him, all night, well into the morning, then the afternoon, and so on. Knowing just how to fuck with his neck, pet his nipples, ride his belly... all while his hands stay right there. Helpless, trapped right, out of my way.
The pack tips out a new smoke. The old one is pulled from his lips and turned, lighting him up again. Good boy. He takes a long drag, leaks it out... and looks toward his feet.
His leg muscles tense. He pushes, and he pulls, grunting with the effort.
Nothing.
He relaxes and looks at the leather. All that leather, swallowing his ankles, topped with a strap cinching 'em together. Thick chains dig into the mattress, two for each foot.
These cuffs are a work of art. My own design. Custom-fitted. Now these are immobilized feet. Might as well be welded there. No shifting, no slack. My cuffs aren't just for show. In these restraints he's not gonna be bucking around, wriggling in my grip.
He tried and tried to break 'em, and I made him give it his best shot. With his arms still stuck tight, he must know if he actually succeeded I'd just wrap some rope up to his knees and boogie twice as hard, make him better cuffs, use thicker chains - and really make him wail.
He smokes one after the other, guzzling water when I float it up to him, pissing most of it away. Looking through the haze... at the cuffs. Appreciating my work.
Excellent leather and steel locking him down. These feet of his - more reactive each night. His whole body is screamin' now. Feathers, oils, vibrators, nail files, pens, all kinds of brushes, alcohol, liniment, creams...
His feet are extraordinarily secure. I could set a shoe polisher right up against these soles, rig an oil drip above it, and turn it on! - leave it there all night - and he wouldn't be able to move.
I can do anything I want to these feet... and he knows it. I'm gonna keep taking real good care of 'em. Every time they respond to my single feather test, he's in for another night. They haven't let me down yet.
If he figures out how to keep from reacting, I'll let him go. No sign of that, though. Every time I test him, I get what I'm looking for. Well, he might be unable to help himself. Trying as hard as he can to keep from reacting when the feather lands - and royally fucked, every time. Which means another long night of being obscenely happy, nodding off and waking up to fail my feather-test again.
Two fingers on his arches, and he hoots like a drunken maniac. I'm thinking twenty fingers. Hell yeah. Cover 'em real good. Mixing it up, stroking 'til dawn. They're not going anywhere...
So I open another pack.
He makes the haze thicker, eyes wandering back to his captured ankles. Custom leather, there. Hobbling one sensitive fucker.
This is just what I was after. Ultimate tickling. A cell that's private enough for me to have my fun without being interrupted. More than enough supplies and toys. A bed surrounded by steel anchors for the straps and a loud, intimidating deadbolt for the door.
I make my gear, as well as a ton of custom gloves for... rubbing him the right way. Got me a scruffy dude, tested him, tied him up and reeled him in. Hidden away in my cell... stripped, shaved, moisturized, waking up to find his limbs magnificently cuffed, pointing toward the corners of the bed. Riveted cuffs fitted to him, not allowing any movement when the feathers dust him and the sleek hands land again. Going at it night after night, knowing his body better all the time. More and more delirium, as insane and as sure as these cuffs, an endless nightmare... all according to my plan.
More water, more cigarettes. A sneaky look around the bed occasionally. Then, another long drag, with his gaze settling again on the ankle-cuffs.
Yeah, Ruff's gonna get tickled until I decide to let him go.
In here, I always get my way. He's had almost a month to get used to that. This is a deal he can't turn down... I tickle him as much as I want. He gets tickled. Period.
Since he's getting more ticklish every night, this is gonna be a great summer.
He smokes a few more cigarettes, pisses, swallows another pint of water. Takes another cig and tugs on it slowly.
I let him have two more drags, and now - it's time.
The slow approach...
I stalk him the same way each night. At first he'd panic, maybe still trying to hang on to the idea this was an endless nightmare, not really happening. He'd protest, and plead, and flail around. I think it was his fifth night when he settled into the pattern I've seen every time since.
There he is, tugging on about his three hundredth cigarette - and he freezes right up. Seeing my hands again, a dozen satin gloves floating toward him, shiny and full. Closer and closer. Same as the night before, and more nights to come. It's been spelled out for him, what it means - all these gloves closing in. The routine is consistent and straightforward. Once it's begun, a long night of tickling has always followed. He has no reason think it'll be different tonight... and it won't. The hands are his cue. Another all-nighter for ya, Ruff, coming right up.
He chuffs smoke. Little anxious noises. Squirming around, but kinda half-heartedly, knowing he hasn't busted loose yet and it's not going to be happening now. It's been impossible to escape the tickling. Ruff is staying down, with his arms and legs open wide, situated for horndog fun. And the look on his face - no more confusion or disbelief, no anger. Bracing himself, oh shit, here we go again. Babbling slowly, parts of words automatically mumbled - but quietly, as if his brain wants to object or bargain or order the hands to go away. Nothing he's said has done any good. Tonight will be no different.
When the closest glove drifts over the bed, his eyes stay on it. Vivid memories - countless hours of 'em - hey, he knows what these gloves are here to do, picking up where they left off. And he's so much more ticklish now... they barely have to touch him and he's apeshit, so when they lean on him, speed it up - banzai.
There are guys who'd lay there and grin while a beautiful woman strapped 'em down. Sometimes a part of 'em can really let go if they're getting the works and can't do a thing about it except lie there. Hell, some people would give anything for a setup like this - private room, good restraints, and time to burn. A dream come true.
Some even pay to get tickled.
But ol' Ruff... he's not into this shit. Even so - get him drunk, keep the smokes coming and start polishing his knob, take a few toys to his nuts, get to know his prostate... some dudes would get into it. For a few hours.
I put that same expertise to work on his feet, though, or his sides, and he can't handle it. Not for thirty seconds. But it goes on and on and on... eleven hours, lots of breaks, and starting up again the next night... twenty-three more nights after that, more of the same tonight, and he's gotta know he's booked up for the immediate future. Oh yeah.
Nobody's gonna find out he's here. If nobody's come to bust him out after this long, he's done looking or waiting for 'em. Another wild, endless night for Ruff. No interruptions. Just him, and me.
As my lead glove throws a shadow over his cock, he falls silent and quits fidgeting. Still watching the first glove, he takes an enormous drag. Smokin' like it's the most important drag of the whole night, very serious about it. Grabbing a little comfort while he can...
That hand descends, fingers closing. When he finally quits inhaling, I take his smoke away and throw it down. I got something else for him to do.
Satin touches him. He shakes his head faintly.
I set 'em down in his armpits, on his ribs, and his thighs. Slip under his knees, around the back of his neck. He's tense, alright - but not as much as the first couple nights, and it won't last. The lead glove coasts down to his belly, opening wide, nestling down.
And fingertips press his insteps. Sliding under -
Ruff moans, and lets his head bob around. He's in for a grueling night, definitely. Here goes...
08jul00