He freezes.
Four magical gloves - and there are several other red blurs outside the cone of light shining on him. Two are about to dig into his armpits. Cruising in.
He pulls at the rope, but his arms won't fuckin' move. Doomed, he thinks, and the phantom is about to confirm that he's a prime catch -
Contact.
Soft fingers sliding in.
Tensing up, throwing his head around - fighting to stay quiet... but it's got him helpless, the maniac with all the gloves, and he can't do a damn thing to get away from the slow combing in, and back out.
"Nah hah hah hah," he explodes.
More fingers land just under his pits, and ease in.
He hoots at the ceiling, pulls and kicks uselessly - snags a big breath and roars it back out.
The gloves pause -
And more of them start dancing all over his feet.
His howling gets higher in pitch, and starts becoming erratic. The warm current is flooding him. Laughing hard is impossible. The ropes got him tight.
Something floats up, and presses against the side of his neck. The gloves pause, and his crazy delirium fades somewhat.
"Nap-time," the smug voice says, over his head. "This bench just won't do. Real restraints were made for you, buddy."
"Noooo-hooo-hooooh," he wails.
Next thing he knows, he's in bed.
Not his - and the leather straps are alarming... but not nearly as much as the cuffs. Serious bondage, spreading him out -
Stocks are waiting, to his right. Racks, benches, and a hanging sling are to his left.
"Hey. He's awake," and the voice snickers quietly. "And worth a long session. Not everybody is. Now, you're gonna get tickled... completely."
His big toes are tied back. Oil has been spread all over him.
He just can't budge.
"No, please..." But begging is as useless as trying to pull his wrists free. "Where is this place?"
"It's a secret," the tickler laughs. "Nobody's gonna find out I've got you."
White gloves rise from alongside the bed. Four, eight...
Sixteen.
Ready to drive him insane.
"Help," he shouts at the closed door.
"I'm on it," the voice taunts - and the gloves zoom down.
He still doesn't believe it.
Not even as the gloves moved in - and time slowed down to a crawl, firm fingers, slippery palms coming closer to armpits and sides - his sides! - and there was nothing he could do to stop 'em. Magic hands, white and gleaming, strong-looking fingers, formed by some soulless torturer that had made real fuckin' sure that there was no hope of rescue. And he'd been clear that he wanted no part of this, but still they came.
He realized, with horrified clarity, that the gloves were about to destroy any ideas he'd had before about tickling or... being touched. They were going to lay into him, no holds barred, and there was nothing that would interfere with 'em - well, with the smartass using all those shiny hands.
Like something out of an animated movie, the magic gloves arrived.
Touched. Pressed, squeezed - and dug in.
His body went wild. Before he even realized the force of the tickling - an instant before the jawdropping intensity registered - his torso whipsawed and twisted, of its own accord. Driven to get away from the hands that clenched and rubbed.
He recoiled - the cuffs held, but of course they fuckin' did, hands still trapped way up over his head and ankles pinned, so very stuck.
The first wave of... electricity blasted him. Instantly, without any thought at all, he howled. Snatched more air, roared and whooped. Insane, desperate, full-bore laughter. Then he coughed -
The fucking gloves paused. After he was through hacking, the tickler allowed him two more weary breaths... and its hands moved again, starting to explore, checking for how and where to work him over.
His arms jerked desperately. Away - he had to get away from the fingers right now. It tickled so fuckin' much that even howling wasn't doing enough to release the juice, the power, that the gloves were inspiring his body to fire off. He rocked and bucked and twisted, slinging this way and that, turning, arching...
Screaming laughter. Bellowing it. Cackling like a pervert, barking like an deranged dog...
Every time he coughed, the fingers waited. He discovered soon enough that there was no way to fake those crud-clearing spasms well enough - the tickling stopped only for the real thing. But the gloves always resumed, every damn time.
The hands stuck to him. Nothing threw them off. It was absolutely unbearable, and no amount of flailing or laughing made it something he could stand. Fuck, his wrists were still caught up there. Amazing. There was no way this could continue.
Distantly, with a kind of horror, he realized that he wasn't coughing as much. Before long, it pretty much ceased. He could laugh even harder, now, and the gloves made sure that he did...
Rowdy hoots and braying pour out of his mouth. His eyes are flooded with tears. The torturers' hands, shimmering white patches, keep discovering additional ways to step up the dizzying charge of reaction through the lower edge of his right armpit - no, dammit, both armpits - and a really screaming path between two of his ribs, right side. And his navel. It's just impossible to take -
Wait. Oh no, he thinks about moaning... but instead he just roars with abandon.
Belly. There are more fingers on him now. Alls around his gut... and he whoops at the blurry shape that arrives and clamps around his cock.
New shouts of pleasure explode from his lips.
The fingers roam and continuously provoke his sides, pecs, armpits, crotch, hips - and now thighs too. Many gloves, so fuckin' skilled at this torture, and he tugs at the wrist-cuffs all over again, just hollering laughter, out of his mind with the flood and crackle of the current now.
This is how you go crazy, he thinks - as if from a long, long distance away.
And he immediately decides... no fuckin' way. The tickler will never give me that out. Not a chance in hell.
He feels the satin pump him slowly. Of course he's way too preoccupied with the fiery contact being lavished on four, eight, ten different spots. Can't get loose, he remembers, keening as he manages one more thrust.
They're gonna keep doing this to me.
For a long time. Infinite.
He squeals and bays and chortles like a madman, telling the tickler just how overwhelming the attack is. Working out to get this buff had turned out to be a waste of time - the restraints are definitely too much for him. On purpose.
And there is no limit on the number of gloves, apparently, so even if he did get loose they'd just hold him down and bring some more. Tickling, like machines, until he was bound again.
These hands are never gonna get tired, he thinks -
And boom. That was it. His whoops trail off. Laughing is too hard somehow. He pants like crazy.
The fingers don't stop. Hell, no - their impact gets a little sharper. Even more demanding. He tries to laugh, but it won't keep coming. He's just too busy. Feeling.
This is bad. Very bad. He tries to fling himself around, but the awful fact is inescapable. The tickling hits him even harder than it did before.
He can't laugh anymore... but damned if he isn't focusing even more on how fuckin' intolerable the beatdown is. And that one glove teases his cock-head with a slow thumb.
One more lusty chain of barked laughter erupts from him. Then he's just breathing hard, blown away by each hand, all of the fingers. Relaxing. Aw hell no, can't fight, can't roar, this is even worse now. Stronger.
Endless.
He shakes his head, giggling.
The gloves fuckin' rock on.
The feathers travel over his belly, his pecs, around the outer margins of his groin.
Ten minutes, twenty, thirty...
He works through the usual fidgeting, cussing, snapping at the chains. They hold him down as securely as any other day. He pisses without apparently noticing, and wet-wipes clean him up. The feathers continue.
Panting, kept right at the edge of laughter, he watches the gloves float down to his sides.
They barely rake - squeezing and working his ticklish spots knowledgeably - but even as they start, he tenses up. A happy-sounding screech, weak but driven, keeps churning out as he fights not to laugh. This seems to be an impulse he can't control, but the hoots and roars will start pouring out soon.
His head lolls. Tear-filled eyes survey the sling, the stocks, the rack... and the door, closed and locked, hiding his distress from anyone who might stray near.
Fingers stroke and trace his ribs.
He slams down, chuckling like a fool. His arms work desperately, longingly, to pull the cuffs free...
But as the gloves tickle more solidly, more quickly, he works up to booming, spacey laughter. The sweat rolls off his sides and soaks the dominating fingers.
When he finally opens his eyes a little, two more gloves start in.
He screeches quietly - too distracted - and squirms as the new gloves tease his armpits. No movement he can make slows them down.
His laughter becomes weaker, until it fades away... but the effects of the tickling are obviously not any more bearable. And he can't escape the squeezing, coasting, probing hands.
At the one-hour mark, he's allowed to catch his breath.
Then the fingers start tickling again.
Oaths and begging and complaints are done for the day. His voice is all but gone already, but that's never stopped the unbearable parade of tools from coming and tickling, over and over again.
Small round brushes with soft nylon bristles begin at his heels.
He thrashes wildly, squealing and gibbering. They will take a good couple hours to move all the way up his body, finally dancing in pairs on four or five horribly ticklish spots - including his cock.
When he comes, laughing is completely beyond him.
Eight or ten gloves, poised next to their targets, dive in.
Waking up from his nap, he looks at the door - from the sling. A tray of food is approaching...
After he's forced to eat, and drink a lot of water, the first smoke comes. He thinks this is from the fourth carton so far. At least a fuckin' month of this.
A few days before, there were bags by the door. To the right side. It took him a few hours to decide why they'd been left there - his captor had gotten more supplies, and wanted him to know. His sentence had been extended. He was just too much fun to torture, so it was going to keep fucking with him for an even longer time.
He stares at the door. A year ago, it seems like, he'd watch it and desperately hope to hear someone pounding on it. The cops. Anybody, coming in, to see why there was so much crazed laughter going on in the cell...
But that never happened. Day after day went by. He's never seen the door move, since he woke up already chained down. No one is allowed to hear him moan or whoop.
Plastic forks and knitting needles take their positions at his soles. The cigarette is pulled from his lips...
He looks for the next smoke.
Ten or twelve gloves come instead.
Not again, he thinks frantically.
They're the worst, somehow. Fingers rubbing, hands squeezing. Not real - well, not human - but while other things may tickle more, he longs to beg the damn gloves to stop. They aren't being worn by a person, but begging for mercy is all he has left. It hasn't worked yet.
Moving just like hands. Thoroughly, diligently tearing him apart. Oh, fuck, even when he closes his eyes there's magically firm gloves busy all over him. Human in shape, but utterly heartless in the marathon they dish out.
He has to show the bastard how much this is driving him nuts. Fuckin' serious heat, cranked up too much, or slamming through him too deeply. Completely immobilized, and isolated.
Watching the gloves is beyond him. If he can't make it stop this increasingly intense shit...
He'll try to feel it all until the tickler is done.
2020