To explain... I didn't know the title of this episode already had a meaning among fetish people. My attempt was to use it to indicate depth of sensation on ticklish spots everywhere, as they do with water. Clearly I was a naivé young man.
I'll change this word and rename this episode when I can. Your tolerance is appreciated.
It stops cold. What th-
Trying again... No. can't be. One more time...
That is the sign, alright. Gotta be.
It's blown away. Stunned, it fumbles a pair of gloves over his hands, holding 'em captive...
Getting a dozen more up and filled, it gets his limbs tightly in check and starts up his truck. Gets him on the road in a hurry.
Sounder. He's a sounder. That's the reaction. No, not possible... Carefully, it puts eight glove-tips around his belly button, pushing 'em in together and wiggling - and he shudders big. Big. Head lolling back, trying to make noise and unable to.
It can't believe what it's caught. They're hard to find - and lookit this dude! From the health club, and all in leather, with Harley decals and three packs of smokes... Like to smoke, sounder? A lot? How does three packs sound? Oh, okay. Four.
Dark hand-shapes fetch him a cigarette, fire it up. Reds, atta boy. Maybe four packs isn't such a big joke. He can do it... weight-room types usually weren't that much fun. It usually hunted the front lot, reeling in college boys or roofers stumbling out of the bar. Catch 'em and play with their heads - maybe leave the cell door wide open and keep 'em too shitfaced to crawl over there... or stuff 'em into bridemaids' dresses, a straitjacket and incontinence pants, or an old wino's clothes and burn their own threads before their eyes... or tie a trucker's hands down next to a pack of Luckies for a panicky couple of days. Messin' with 'em.
Other than the joystick, just petting 'em doesn't usually pay off that well. Only a few are ticklish enough to really be hurtin'. And then there's sounders...
And he smokes - and works out! Hoo. Good solid muscle, top-notch lungs, clear breathing. This guy's got stamina. Serious fuckin' stamina. Tats - well, hey. A whole bunch - it's just gonna have to find him some real nice artwork to remind him. His hands. Most of his forearms... a few other empty spaces to work with, too. Souvenirs.
As if he'd ever forget! From what the rumors say, putting Mr. Sounder here through his paces will push him to where he's never been. Along with the fun of mindfuckin' him, the body payoff - ramping up, new break points over and over as the sounding goes on. And on, and on, if it's willing to take the time and push him carefully. Feed him, keep him real healthy, be generous with the steroids... and the stimulant he's smokin' will help him along.
a slowly increasing level of tactile stimulation. New thresholds possible every day or two.
A sounder. Unreal.
It speeds him off to the cell.
He struggles. He makes noise. No matter; traffic was sparse after midnight. It chose dark streets, empty lanes... Only once did it come across the risky situation of sitting at a stop light with cars alongside and behind. He flailed and yelled; one of the other drivers studiously ignored him. The other grinned. It supposed he looked like he was singin' along with a hard rock tune. One time a guy had actually gotten a cop's attention, and between his rants and its efforts he was committed without delay. Sneaking into the clinic room where he was restrained and workin' him over was an invigorating few hours...
But this guy arrives without any such incident. Pulling his truck around back, and coasting to a stop with the lights off... It's not going to take any chances with this one. No telling when it'll come across the likes of him again... Another smoke is lit, and he doesn't see the handcuff 'cause his eye's on the lighter. Left wrist to steering wheel - doesn't like that, does he?
His door is opened briefly, and a longneck beer floats up to him. A sleepy-pill is plunked in... He gets all of it poured down him despite his squirming. Pissed off but good.
It pulls the battery cable. There was nobody nearby, but a persistent car horn might draw somebody's interest.
Quick raids are made on the nearest liquor store, drug store, supermarket.
It has to haul him out and steer him toward the house while re-cuffing his hands behind.
Wobbling, yelling distractedly until a fist lands in his gut -
He drops his smoke, then, and barely makes it inside without pitching over. Then through the inner door, overcompensating to stay standing -
It closes the cell and locks it.
In total darkness, he cusses once. Loudly. The sound is flat and muffled from the cinderblocks and
soundproofing.
He tries to pull free...
Struggling less and less, his shoulders eventually slump.
It's time to get him bared, caked with emoillents, strapped down.
Groggy... but coming around. He tries to look behind him - an electric lantern. The barred door. Ain't gonna be no interruptions here.
He tries to move - and sees the cuffs! Stares at 'em... wide, thick leather -
A Marlboro is shoved between his teeth. It brings up his lighter happily...
Taking a drag, he gives the restraints a long, thoughtful scan. All of of this bare skin, held down - and, scowling, he lifts his head to stare at the urinal between his legs.
A dark shape drifts slowly from the shadows. Stopping over him, a yard over his navel...
Filling up.
Firm-
Hand. Hand-shape. Black, big and meaty-lookin'... but hand-less. A glove.
An empty... satin glove.
The sounder's lookin' pretty worried. Not like he comprehends, yet, but some possibilities may be coming to mind. Well, he won't have to wonder long -
The fingers curl a little... and they start to descend.
Similar shapes rise up beyond his feet. More keep approaching -
The nearest hand changes its path a little, fingers flattening back out. No telling how long a sounder will last. Time to find out...
Here ya go, dude.
Touch -
Oh yeah, he snaps right to it. Light contact, but his recoil is automatic. Intoxicating. The palm presses him just a little. And moves.
He tenses up immediately, trying to snap the chains. Big ol' grin. Guess he's finally getting the picture.
Other fingers wrap around the sole of his right foot. A half-dozen others select their turf...
Oh, this is unbelievable. Bullseye!
He's absolutely goin' apeshit... and it hasn't even touched his meat yet. Too much fun...
It's made him bellow and whoop, tug at the cuffs like he was fuckin' delirious, howl and growl and piss himself, squeal and writhe out of control. Then his bowels let loose... It just cleaned him up and never even paused.
Four ravenous hands led to eight, then twelve... It kept adding more! Eighteen satin gloves sounding him ferociously, and he can finally hold on to a smoke while he's baying. Eighteen, the first round!
He keeps pulling and pulling, biting through cigs - Camels went too easily, and even 'Boros don't last 'til they're burned down - sweating hard, tears just streaming... Filling the cell with gut-wrenching laughs. Now he's almost completely hoarse. Still wracked with an endless flood of roars.
Still making the cuffs creak, sometimes... trying to arch and twist, throwing his head around passionately. Hittin' hard on the cig maybe once and then the hoots and whines take over, bursting out like a river...
It hasn't even explored his backside properly.
Caught and held good... Such hypersensitive feet! Not moving at all anymore, still tensing sometimes as it keeps sounding 'em, squeezing... Hands staying close to his belly, all down his sides, his pecs. His tits give him fits... There's some bruising around his neck and knees - gotta watch that. Amazing his legs aren't marked up too, or his butt. All over him, under him, there's shiny hands at work. Vigorous, fanatical, meticulous play.
Well, not all over...
His cock is fairly hard, and has been for an hour or two. There for the taking. It's got a surprise for him, in that department...
It opens some disposable towelettes and piles 'em up with softener. They clean him up carefully, leaving his crotch ready for action. When he gets it together enough to look, he sees a new 'Boro waiting and bites it with a spastic lunge, falls back and hoots feverishly.
One of the drier gloves closes around his cock, steadying the foreskin -
And a feather duster glides into the light.
Chortling, he shakes his head wearily and gets the 'Boro burning. The downy feathers are twirled once, menacingly...
Lowering - across his tip. Very light sweeps, slowly -
He screams voicelessly.
The fingers start very easy pumping motions as they hold him steady for the duster.
Two dozen other gloves keep charging on.
And he's baying, keening, sagging back... Fatigue, or nearing an overload of sensation. Getting harder...
Threshold number one may be just ahead. Another set of fingers lifts his balls, and the duster grazes them as well.
The goal, after he's all rested from his debut here - four hours on, eight off. An hour to eat and smoke... then three on, six off. 1-4-8, 1-4-6. A third of each day laughin' his ever-lovin' ass off.
The most amazing thing is... this is possible, for a sounder.
Sounds like a plan.
28jun97