Three inches of saddle leather. Three buckles each. My right wrist hidden, unable to turn. Both wrists -
Awake now, I look down. Naked. Laying on a slight incline, most of my backside exposed to the air too.
Feathers.
Tattooed on the inside of my arm. Right arm, not huge but clear. Five. Scabbing - the one farthest from my wrist is still weeping. Five? I don't remember.
A hand is coming over...
Just a hand. Black glove. Just a glove? Moving into the circle of light. No arm or anything. Only a glove, drifting up to my left side. Arrives - fuck. Fingers closing. Armpit! Digging -
I laugh and try to turn. It's right there, diligent as anything. The cuffs are thicker than anybody could break, held down by massive links - keep trying to break 'em, or get loose... Just creaking, shifting a little.
My whole attention is on that hand. All of it - slippery-soft, impossible to ignore, sharp and urgent. Nerves speaking up bigtime. Its touch is intended to get to me more and more, make me howl.
And I howl. Always louder and more passionately, from chuckling to this balls-out roar from the gut.
Another hand!
To the other armpit. No hesitating.
I thrash back and forth, moving 'em just a little. They... knead the reaction out of me sure as shit. My arms held out, extended, so they can -
Maddening. Knowing where to stroke... Shiny fingers steadily tear-
Another pair, inexplicably filled and animated, coming down. Poised right over my gut. No strings.
This cannot be happening.
Touchdown - spread full. No teasing, or threatening build-up. They go right to it, rubbing diligently... and I can't get out of these fuckin cuffs. Oh, real... meticulous -
Coolness. My feet. Oh fuck. Fuck. Can't twist or kick - hanging out in space, hands fondling the bottom of each foot from heel to toes - my feet, dammit, trying to protest. I don't want to watch - saw enough already... slick, flawless material bearing down, clamped under and riding as my legs convulse. The gloves look just like they're filled... with sand, none of their grip failing to make contact. Scrubbing without... damaging the skin.
Smart hands. Strong, regulated, determined.
Prodding under each knee. Around my triceps. I can't flail as hard. The need to roar comes first, to... stay with 'em... Thinking now and then of that material riding my... uhh, dusting under my jewels... no longer able to tense up, my feet relaxed in the snug embrace -
More hands. Hours, hours... Can't laugh, I reach a point where every thought and twitch is eclipsed by the top priority - register where they are, how they're on me, how solid, how slow.
The need to... to feel 'em. Hanging on their every... slide -
Pumped sometimes, a few times - then it's off, gone again. Stretching it out.
Feeling 'em.
Hours. Solid pressure, hands clasping, everywhere... jolts and strong sensations on me, under, inside. You name it. All kinds of pain, gone as quick as it's noticed, in so many places... The sharper tweaks throwing me back into a growling chuckle and maybe a squirm or two. Just laying still now, breathing deep. Too aware, tracking every finger and palm...
Finally. Massaging even more on my limbs, chest - my, oh fuck, my neck, not my neck - there it is. Palms all over and under my crotch, coaxing... in rhythm.
Takes me a couple minutes to empty. Dozens of slow thrusts.
Panting. Head back down finally, laying on hands that clutch real deep and slow. I'm snickering again.
All of the hands still... rub, scritch, squeeze. Warped massage.
I'm laughing, haw haw haw. Yelping like a puppy. Hard again. Can't - I can't -
Patient fingertips way up between my thighs. Still all of 'em - and the chuckles erupt less... often...
Can't even make a fist. Dog-tired... Like a skirt, or a black shiny moving cape under my toes. Just too tired to move... turn a little, any part... baying... low volume, drawn out.
Feeling...
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