Spar lights another cigarette.
Several thoughts occur, each pushing the last one aside. He takes a long drag and the smoke is heavy, making him a little dizzy. It's been a while, and he doesn't remember why he laid off 'em, but it's such a fuckin' relief to smoke again. Yeah, he's been needing this for a long time.
And when he finally takes it from between his lips, there are thin leather gloves on his hands. He doesn't recognize them -
Go, cat, go. That thought is exciting. It makes sense. He looks around the alley, not exactly sure where he is.
Creak. A door is opening, not too far away from him.
That must be the place. He's goin'... where nobody will interrupt the party.
Spar kicks out smoke as he tugs on the cigarette again, strutting a little as he gets to that door. He's wanted, right in there - not just any badass, but him. Damn, he's excited.
Don't run away, now. Take a chance.
Big fun is waiting. More than he can imagine.
Taking yet another drag, he's smirking as he ambles on inside. Down a flight of stairs, as the door closes behind him. He wonders again where the fuck he is. He hadn't seen or heard anyone else, but that door is shut now...
Big fun is waiting. Crazy, maximum play. Wilder time, starting now.
He's trembling as he walks through another door. Dark room. Smell of stale smoke. Leather, weed, sweat and maybe piss -
It's electrifying, and deeply scary too, when a telltale noise starts up behind him. It's just the door... but there must be no gap at the bottom, from the sound of it sliding over thick foam. Strips of the soundproofing line the edges of the old door, and they make a rubbery sound as it closes.
Nobody gets this far unless they're invited. He can't imagine anyone running back outside now. Padded room. No sound getting out, no matter what insane wildness goes on...
I'm in for the full ride, he thought - and chuckled softly. Excellent.
He grins, and lays a palm on the big door. A lock turns. Deadbolt? Oh, yeah. Perfect.
Next thing he knows, Spar is leaning forward to reach the lighter, sucking in. It's one of those old metal lighters with the clinking lid and a big ol' gas flame.
Looking himself over, he has to chuckle. The magic has him trapped real damn good. Naked as a jaybird.
His waist, biceps and thighs are strapped to the leather-covered rack.
Why would it be necessary to make sure he was this fuckin' -
Blink.
The whole train of thought that was in his head went away.
He was confident, ten feet tall, and doomed to get caught anyway. So he strutted in as if this was nothing. Smoking was what cool guys did, and he sucks in again.
He looks at his strapped toes. Hmmmmm...
Scanning the soundproofed room, he eases out the smoke. Thick cuffs. His wrists aren't goin' nowhere. Ankles, too - kicking barely moves 'em at all. He's stripped, spread out, and even wiggling around has been prevented now. Now why -
Wild laughter - from a guy who's trying to talk. "Stop tih-hih-aaaaah-hah-haaaah!"
Oh, no.
That's impossible. Not that.
But inside... yeeee-eah, no matter how much he can't handle the idea, as badly as he wants to believe something else, he's figured it out.
The closet's probably full of... stuff for doing that. The last thing he would've walked in here to get - but here he is, thanks to some kind of mental hijinks. The totally unbearable thing, even when he isn't anchored real damn tight by magic cuffs 'n shit, in a secret padded cell. Nobody was there closing the door, and no person cinched the little buckled straps around his poor toes.
But there will be hands, he thinks. Lots of 'em. Holding the... tools. The toys.
"Hold on, here," he groans, getting dizzy. Aw, this just can't happen. He'll freak.
Magic hands, right? The one that just held the old lighter up there for him was invisible. He can't see them ever getting tired. Worn out.
Formed and used by a magical mystery-force that's just jazzed as fuck to... tickle. That's crazy. Embarrassing, for a guy. About the most unlikely thing - and why would it be lightweight? The soundproofed room is set up by an expert for long, extreme stuff.
He can't even move, covering up nothing at all. Staying here.
Shaking his head desperately, knowing full well it's true. Aw, hell. Spar takes a nervous drag -
I'm done for, he nods to himself. Toast.
One of the closet doors slides open.
He stares - and squeals. Somehow it's really shocking that he was right.
Shelves and shelves of nightmare stuff, laid in by a serious tickler. The totally crazy idea is confirmed. It's brutal. Feathers, polishers - brushes of all different kinds. Leather goods that make his cock twitch... piles and piles of boss hands.
"Don't do this to me," he sighs.
Huge piles of mindblowing confirmation, all different types... and here comes the response - some of them are lifting off and floating out of the closet. Filling up. Getting taut. Six, eight, ten shiny black gloves. Satin, so fuckin' smooth, soft. Bulging and coming over to Spar.
Phantom hands for tickling. Strike that - he's caught here for unthinkable mega-tickling. Somehow, the magician made damn sure he couldn't even think about anything else except walking his own ass in here, and smokin' like he was way overdue. Then it prevented him from pulling away, no matter what. All those satin fingers...
His heart is pounding. A weird little wail leaks out of him. Feathers, wheels, rubbery picks, so many different brushes. Gonna get him good. Everywhere.
Precise and endless tickle-torture. No chance of stopping it.
He shakes his head and tugs real hard on the smoke. I feel like I'm seventeen again, he thinks. This just can't be real, so it must be an intense dream. Go with that. Helpless. No stopping the fucker, no matter how hard, how long -
It's on. So unreal, but still gonna happen.
He watches some of the slippery fingers park over his ribs. Others get all set to pounce on his gut, slip into his armpits, oh no, shit, no no no...
Two gloves threaten each foot. Spar stares at 'em, three inches from making him into a raving basket case. He tries to pull and twist the damn restraints again. They're just as taut as before, but he has to get out of here right now or he's gonna lose his fuckin' mind!
The door is locked. A tickler isn't gonna let him run away. Straps and cuffs keep him from wiggling much at all. The phantom filling all those gloves is calling all of the shots.
Please, he thinks, absolutely desperate. I beg you. Saying that out loud won't do any good at all. No bargain or deal will work, either.
This can't be stopped. The bastard's got the gloves all ready to start in. Shelves full of toys to use. No time limit, absolutely no telling how long the full-blown tickling will go on -
Something plucks the cigarette from his lips.
"NO no no no nnnnnn-nooooo," Spar wails, because they're almost touching now, so close, shiny gloves, filled-up gloves, and this can't really be happening to him!
Confident fingers land around his belly-button. Touchdown, he thinks wildly. Of course it's really happening. He's gonna laugh and laugh.
Right shoulder - contact. Lower ribs on both sides, under his left knee, behind his neck, his taint. He can't even roll his head around now. Two gloves are ready to dive to each of his soles.
He's trying to arch. Tight as a wire. Cool contact, so many places.
Oh no no no no.
He takes a deep breath. This ain't real, huh? There aren't twenty fingers - landing on his feet, settling in?
Chuckling starts to leak out of his mouth. The gate is open, and it gets louder. Roaring, angry and hard. Too much teasing impact. So ticklish. Doomed.
He just can't laugh enough...
Spar's body decides to go nuts.
The fingers, of course, aren't thrown off. Strapped down too fuckin' well to get anywhere. Mind-shredding current, icy and arousing and overwhelming, has barely started -
He squeals. He screeches. Deranged laughter. Spar bounces and snaps and rolls - well, he imagines doing those things, but the straps keep him flat. The gloves are moving over, under, alongside just fine. Some press in, and some speed up. Tickling away.
Spar gets more air, and really fuckin' roars. Too much, way way way too much, can't curl up, and the magical torturer loves doing this...
It looks like he's been caught by an expert. Hunting in the shadows, secret dungeon, serious restraints, endless toys. This fire is gonna keep eating him up. And increase.
His body can't give up the fight...
Stroking, kneading, tracing, buffing hands totally got his number. He knew that getting away from this shit wasn't gonna be possible, but damn that's been confirmed now. No escape, no quick end to this, he's in the cross-hairs of a real pro. Magic phantom. Champion tickler. No telling how long it'll take to get bored with him.
The fingers are so careful, dammit.
His laughter ramps up to silent heaves that shake him.
Snap, rock, kick.
Relentless fuckin' hands, magical sadist, gloved up, shelves full of other toys.
It's so into this. Locked-on. Watch the gloves there, there, there, and there.
This can go on and on. Thinking about anything else is not possible. On and on and on and on and on and on...
Unbearable, outrageous, merciless hands. Tickling. Fuck. Confirming spots, paths, where to dig in a little, where to skitter.
Spar grabs another big, shaky breath - and wails his guts out. It's crazy how much they all tickle. He can't get loose. No escape. The fucker made sure. More and more magic hands, brushes, feathers, no telling what else -
This is only the beginning. He yowls at that thought. Unhinged laughter. This room is perfect for this shit. Equipped. No telling how long...
Spar tries to concentrate on breaking the fuckin' toe-straps.
Wow! Faster, firmer tickling, more gloves, and he just has to howl! His poor feet are covered top-to-bottom, both sides, slippery clamps riding his insteps - aw hell, moving, rocking. He can't scream laughter enough.
There are palms grinding his heels, fingertips scritching between his toes, so smooth, so damn much tickling everywhere!
So much fire, excitement, too much, far too much. No way out. He can't move his feet. His soles, aw fuck, heels and sides and tops and toes. Dangerously... stimulating.
His ribs are impossibly awake. Sliding fingertips on his belly. Deep in his pits. His nips!
Thrash, jump around, holler gut-busting laughs. Nothing works.
More and more of the time, his endless flood of laughter is silent.
A new normal, heh heh heh!
Nothing will stop this fucker...
2019