I must've dozed for awhile. Came around - same damn mirror over me, wide leather pinning me down - and coughed for awhile, then a water bottle floated up and invisible hands cradled my head as I drank it down. A cigarette promptly showed up, and a new Zippo.
More tickling was about to happen.
Couldn't do a fuckin' thing to stop it. All of the howling and roaring I'd done hadn't brought anybody running. She had me stuck but good.
It was the fourth day of this shit, or maybe the fifth. Seemed like years. I fought to keep from getting all freaked out about not being sure how many days it had been, but that really worried me. As if knowing the answer for sure would help somehow - and it felt like a desperate attempt to hold on to the only thing I could, despite all of this insanity. That didn't matter, really, because I was delirious most of the time anyway. Just a big ol' pile of nerve endings.
Strong and healthy. Recently oiled up again, too.
"You look pissed off again, criminal," she said.
I closed my eyes and took another drag. Her favorite excuse, dammit. Work me over 'cause I wasn't enjoying this totally helpless, nonstop excitement bullshit. Her magic tools and toys would soon be "helping" me rub one out again, and another, and so on, because that made the rest of my body ridiculously fuckin' sensitive to the feathers and brushes and gloves. And I'd lay right here, exposed as I could be, while she wore me out again. It was way too intense to deal with. Specialized, meticulous...
It took all I had to keep my mouth shut and not ask how many days she'd been playing with me. Serious play. She'd just twist the knife a little more anyway.
"Cheer up," she said. Teasing.
Fingertips started landing on my heels.
I barely jumped. Here we go. The excitement would creep right up to my neck. Indescribably complete, slow, deep. Already I was looking in the mirror for the gloves at work, as if knowing which kind were being used would help me brace myself. Stupid. But this time there were just the invisible, magical fingers.
They slid gently, though. Along the sides of my feet, up to the arches.
"Nooooo," I growled, starting to squirm. So unfair. Couldn't do a damn thing to get away...
My cigarette was yanked. You know, just in case I felt the need to chuckle. Or scream laughter. Fidgeting wasn't enough - not with my ankles immobilized like they were, and the damn metal rings spreading my toes. I giggled, unwillingly, still irritated, as the pressure traced over the oily skin. Fuckin' minefields, each sole, pathetically ticklish. Expertly caught.
And slowly covered with devoted fingertips.
"No, no, no muh morrrre nuh aaah haaaah," I begged her, but it dissolved into spacy laughter.
But even though I couldn't see the hands at work, my feet reported easy pressure riding all the way up to my mutherfuckin' toes. Others pressed more firmly around my Achilles tendons.
I bucked weakly and hooted for her. Aw, shit, the sensation was so maddening. It felt like a couple dozen fingers already -
Something stroked my dick. That got my eyes open again, just as she intended. I squealed when fingers took hold of my shaft, wrapping around. There was nothing there, according to the mirror, but the invisible grip pumped so slowly, riding the oil.
A cackling moan oozed out of me. Kicking didn't change a thing, trying to thrash around probably just encouraged her. The damn fingers tickled my feet relentlessly, always ready to kick it into overdrive. My cock swelled and pushed into the hand that held it.
I was too busy trying to get the damn straps to let me go.
Just fuckin' unbearable. And she hadn't even gotten down to business there yet today...
"I got me... a bad one," she announced, laughing. "Sneak."
"Huh?"
"You flew under the radar, so the cops had better things to do with their time. That's what they think. I know better. These tats, now..."
I shook my head and tried to whoop for her. No way to prove anything - good boy or bad guy. Mom told me the fuckin' tattoos were a mistake...
"Mouth like a Marine. Chain-smokin'. Uh-huh."
Arguing was beyond me. I needed to hoot and laugh too damn much. None of the tats are for show, dammit. None on my hands, or my neck... I'm swearing because she's tickling the damn cusswords out of me. Quit these mutherfuckin' cigarettes when I was 19, for a "her," and I don't even have a lighter on me. Tried to behave, dammit.
"I'm seeing the wild side. Caught tight. Yup, I snagged a wildman who keeps it on the sly."
Time to roar, from the gut and yet way too civilized, and shake my head again. Can't laugh, can't feel the impact anywhere near enough. Who wouldn't be unraveled after five endless days of this, expert-level and way too personalized?
"You gettin' out of this any time soon, criminal?"
I started to nod, and that much denial was plumb stupid. Instead, I threw my head back and barked laughter at the ceiling.
"Nope," the tickler said, following that one word with a relieved sigh.
On it goes.
She needs to do this. Not just the total win - punishing me. I ain't no criminal, really, but the payoff for her is too much. So much effort involved, all the work to pull this off...
Not a bit of uncertainty shows in the restraints when they anchor me down, or the toys driving me apeshit. She's definitely caught guys and done this before.
Bad guys? She could kidnap any jock - maybe that's where she learned how to turn the heat up for hours and hours - but she talks sometimes like it's okay to punish a shady character. We deserve solid, all-out prodding by tireless gloves and a whole parade of tools. Get a dude who deserves it, or even fuckin' looks like he deserves it, hide him and stick it to him real good.
She uses my tats, and insisted on me smoking. A lot. Gets me drunk. Playing up any scumbag tendency she can, as if I earned this. Humiliated, worked over - tickled, of all things, until I pass out. Turn the old childhood thing against the criminal, like you're never gonna stop.
Serious leather, no play or slack in the straps. No putting up with arms or feet thrashing around. She wants 'em stuck, pinned, so the tickling can be totally fuckin' epic. Ain't no short saga in the cards. Marathon blitz. No chance, and I mean zero possibility, of this tickling being cut short somehow. It's payback for a real bad guy. In great shape. And one who's horribly ticklish. That's what she was after.
I am so screwed.
03jan23