"What's going to happen to you now?" the voice says thoughtfully.
He gives the cuffs another hard tug. No chance.
"Huh?"
Gulping air, the prisoner looks around for some clue - or perhaps some help.
A feather is rising off the table.
After a few seconds, his eyes get bigger.
"You're not ticklish." And it pauses for a few seconds. "Are you?"
"No," he snaps. This is why it caught me, he thinks. Sure as shit.
"No?"
The damn feather heads for his belly button.
"No!" and this time it sounds like a demand. There's worry in his tone, fighting with the anger. Apparently he's not used to being this... frustrated.
Smoothly, like it has all the time in the world, the feather's tip moves lightly over his navel - making his legs jerk.
He writhes, obviously longing to get up or at least roll over. His stomach is so fuckin' vulnerable.
The feather reverses direction, dusting another inch or two at a snail's pace - tickling more skin.
"Noooo," he whines through tightly clenched teeth.
"Hey. Biker. I think you lied," the voice teases.
With a strangled yelp, he does his best to pull the wrist-cuffs loose.
"Let's find out for sure."
Another feather floats off the table.
Struggling isn't going to change the situation. All he can do is watch the damn thing cruise through the air, over him - and now down, target locked...
"Oh, fuck," he pants. "S-stop!"
His protests quickly erode into a girlish wail, passionate and earnest and grumbly.
The feather is about to touch his left sole. This is just impossible, on so many levels. He rolls his head and kicks as hard as he can, then tries to pull his legs up. But the cuffs are too much for him. Both feet just stay snug against the mattress, caught together, terrifyingly open. He looks again to see if the feather has moved -
A snort escapes from him. Then a moan - and he's chuckling. Shaking his head. The damn thing hasn't even touched him yet, and the anticipation has him so wound up. Shit.
"Duh-don't do this," he laughs.
The voice makes a calm, happy sound. Very pleased.
Both feathers touch down, sweeping slowly. Around his navel. His left sole, then his right.
Shock instantly gives way to writhing - then anger. It's on. Really happening. He can't believe he's pinned down - for this!
But within three minutes the demands and shouts are derailed by rowdy laughter... and pleading. Desperate begging, hopeless and heart-wrenching.
The fuckin' feathers speed up.
Over time it's harder and harder for him to make noise. Or move. Swamped by it, locked in it, he whines and chortles from time to time - but it's become much less frequent. He's not squirming at all anymore, plainly consumed by the sensation.
By now there's a feather at work on each of his pecs, two on each foot, and a pair tracing over his cock and balls.
Sweat, tears, snot, precum, convulsive twitching now and then. Lost in the arousing fever, buried, overloaded...
He licks his lips, and it feels good. Water.
Squinting - with a cautious expression - the prisoner sees a squeeze-bottle. Just hanging over him. Waiting, apparently.
Trying to roll over doesn't work, and he remembers the fuckin' restraints.
"No," he rasps.
A bizarre time seemed to go on and on, but now it's over. The most intense moments rush back to mind. A couple feathers, and it seemed like he was being fuckin' electrocuted real slowly.
Turning up the nice little rush of getting touched until it made everything else cut out. And he all he could do was lay there, no matter how much -
"Drink up," the voice says.
He does. One quick, sad moan comes out when he exhales.
"You look worried. Like it's going to be, y'know, too much to take."
His eyes search the room again.
"But you're going to be okay. You're tough enough."
"Fuck," he sighs, raising his head to reach the water tube. After he drinks and snags a breath, he shakes his head a little. With another groan of pure frustration, he lets his head drop back on the mattress.
"Ready?" the voice says, gloating.
There's something coming... oh, fuck. No. Two things. Taking shape. Familiar, and terrifying, in this fuckin' place.
"Noooo!"
Smooth, shiny gray gloves are making a beeline for his feet.
"Banzai," the tickler says.
"Don't do this to meeeee," he wails. Desperate, frantic. Then he laughs for a few more seconds. "Puh-huh-hah-hah-huh-puh-pleeeze, oh hah hah hah hah hah haaaah."
The gloves pause. Still there, able to resume tickling at any moment.
At the last moment he sees six more gloves approaching -
He squeals like a punk as all those serious fuckin' hands get busy.
When trying to get loose doesn't get him anywhere, he starts to beg. Whiny, then commanding... and he settles into this fuzzy pleading that isn't nearly as urgent. He knows full well there's nothing he can say that will make the gloves back off. Bouts of laughter that sound raw and almost carefree are mixed in with pleas, and cussing, as sweat rolls off his chest.
The fingers just keep tracing and digging in.
Oh, shit, there are brushes coming!
"Wha... Why? Aw, c'mon, what do you want from me?"
And a miracle happens. Everything freezes right where it is.
The invisible tickler chuckles. "Took you long enough."
"Huh?"
"Been waiting for you to ask."
Then a pair of gloves zip down and start riding his thighs. Knees to hips, back down again, endless, maddening.
He flops around and whoops like a basket case.
"Ready to talk?" the voice says, several minutes later.
He just keeps laughing like a fool. The fingers have lifted off. Empty gloves, just an inch away from his ribs. Filled, or being worn somehow -
He looks around the windowless room, and nods his head.
"Since you're the new treasurer," his captor says, "I bet you know the PIN number."
That takes a few seconds to sink in. He just started handling the bank bullshit for the club that week. There ain't no treasurer - but close enough. How the hell does the invisible torturer know that he took on that job?
When he was dragged in there, he tried to brace himself - for pain. That didn't scare him, really. But his boots had been pulled off, so the straps could anchor his legs... and then, of all fucked-up things, his socks had gone next.
Even as callused as his feet were, he just had no defense against it. Of course there had to be other toys except the feathers. It just figured. As he started snickering, he remembered that nobody else would know he'd been jumped. More unbearable tickling would follow - maybe lots more. He couldn't get away from the mysterious asshole.
At least now he knows why.
Fuck it. He opens his mouth to tell the bastard what it wants to know -
"Too slow."
The phantom gloves start in again!
"Well?"
He nods his head finally, panting too hard to talk -
"Naaaah. I'm not sure you're ready to be... honest," the voice says.
A pair of hairbrushes float to his soles. Stubby latex nubs press down, roll, skate, crawl.
That really shreds him.
Ten, fifteen minutes - just unbearable. Not being able to move makes it infinitely worse. The bastard can keep this up all night...
But it waits, this time, with those gloves all set to grab back on, rake and rub and knead.
He hurries, since he's panting, to say the PIN number. The guys will understand. Even if they don't, he can't take another second of this shit.
Gloves slap his soles, making him jump. "Alright." He watches them return to the table and fall, lifeless.
Thankfully, the door creaks open...
"You're staying here until I check this out," the voice says.
Groaning with relief, he sags, still breathing hard. He needs to piss...
Less than a minute later, the door slams shut.
He hears a chuckle.
"No," he croaks. Swamped with fear, all of a sudden...
A water bottle comes over to him.
"Thirsty?"
It's a different voice.
Shit!
Arrogant - taunting.
He watches the cap unscrew and flip off to the side. Heart hammering away, he drinks the water.
"Alright." A sinister little laugh -
And then, one of the worst possible things he's ever seen... as the gloves on the table rise, filling back up, and oh hell, there's six more flying over, joining the pack. One of those carries a big bottle of oil.
"No, no, nooo, dammit, I talked, I said the number," he begs, slamming this way and that. "It's too much. Too much!"
Still hopelessly stuck. Laid out.
So many fuckin' fingers to tickle him, all at once.
"Not... fair."
"Tough shit," the voice laughs.
The gloves come on down, taking hold of him. Knees, sides, shoulders, belly. All of his thrashing and yelling doesn't change a damn thing. He's still strapped down good and snug.
Oil is being dribbled all over his torso.
"You gotta ssss-stop," he wails, knowing all too well that this phantom had been waiting for its chance to get at him. Nothing he or anyone else can do is going to stop it now.
Fingers start tracing slowly, gently - but right away it's so damn intense that he can hardly breathe.
"Nnnnooooo," he manages between insane giggles. "Stop. Haaaaalllp!"
Then he just roars his ass off.
Fingers, here and there, start to rake more firmly.
He's seeing fireworks go off. Flopping and kicking and bucking doesn't do a damn thing to vex 'em. Magical hands, really into this solid tickling shit. No chance in hell of any interruption...
He feels something pulling his hair.
"Hey," a voice says. "Scumbag."
Immediately he starts giggling. His voice is cracking, almost shot.
"You picked a good time to get honest." It's the first tickler.
"Lemme go, please l-lemme go -"
Another water bottle heads in his direction. "Okay. Chill, already. I said you'd be okay. Nice doing business with you."
"You outa here?" the second voice asks.
"Yup. You mind getting this hyena back to his bike?"
"Sure thing. Take it easy."
An invisible fist slugs his left arm. The door opens -
Wait, he wants to yell, get these cuffs off before you go, don't leave me...
But it's no surprise, really, when he watches the door close again.
Maybe they both left, he thinks desperately. No more ticklers here. He knows better, of course, but dammit, he has to be done with this crazy bullshit -
"Of course," the second tickler says thoughtfully, "didn't say when I was gonna cut you loose."
"C'mon, aw no, aw fuck no, no," he rasps, immediately trying to roll around because the thick bristles give him a jolt as they press against his heels, and so damn many fingers are cruising back down.
25nov14