He wakes up, growling once. Very quietly. His head rolls a little.
Then he opens his eyes.
Looking at the headboard for a few seconds... glancing over at his right hand -
And at the cuff holding it. Black leather. His eyes open all the way, and he blinks, then pulls. The cuff creaks a little, and the headboard barely moves.
Confused, he rolls his head. Yup. Left wrist too. Bolted down. Still pulling, his eyes travel down.
Ankles. Spread, and cuffed. Right about then he notices his clothes are gone. Where are his clothes? What is this -
He freezes. Staring at a... pair of gloves. More leather. Up in the air, all by themselves -
Starting to come down.
"This can't..." he says to them, voice trailing off.
Oh, they're real. Even though he can see inside 'em - and they're empty - the fingers are moving. Solid, full.
He twists and pulls again, trying hard to get some more distance between them and him.
They get closer, and meet up. Rubbing together, real slow and deliberate, just as mocking as they could be.
He watches 'em, with his mouth hanging open, as they cruise down. Closer.
Oh no. Not a chance. He pulls real hard on the cuffs. They're solid as can be. He has this picture of busting his hands free, grabbing a leg and ripping it loose, then the other, and rolling off the bed. But it's not happening. He reefs on the fuckin cuffs and hardly even moves.
"Uh oh," he mumbles, and can't believe he actually said it out loud.
He hears a chuckle. Just one. Short, and rude. And the gloves zip down -
No. No! They slide over his ribs, before he can even say anything else. And they move!
He squawks, real loud. Slams back, and the fuckin things dig in.
It's insane! He goes nuts, and it doesn't matter, cause the cuffs make him stay there, arms way out. And the gloves go to it. He yells laughs, and slides up to a high-pitched scream.
They just cover his fuckin ribs. It's so bad he can't think. Still thrashing, but it doesn't matter. Fuck, fuck, they're tickling him.
Don't tickle me, he thinks, you can't. Not this. You can't do this, of all things. And not this hard. Fuck. More than I can take. But he's roaring his ass off, so he can't tell 'em a thing. Hell, even shaking his head is too much work. He's busy making wild fuckin sounds he's never heard come out of his mouth before now. They keep exploding out of him. Apparently not going to stop.
The gloves can't do this, they just can't...
Not this. It does him in. A couple fingers do him in, and there's all these fuckin gloves. Hard at work.
They rub and squeeze. He bounces and squirms and arches. Doesn't matter. They got him. Tickling.
He feels 'em creep. Up, up, into his armpits sometimes. And he laughs even fuckin harder.
Up, and down, and up and down and up and down and up and down. Real heavy. He can't think...
Tired. Laying on his back. And... with a cigarette, apparently. He sucks in. Oh, yeah.
What a fucked-up dream.
He opens his eyes, and sees em.
"Nooooooo," he says, sorta whining. "Aw hell."
"Stick," an invisible guy taunts. "This is a dream."
"A... dream? I'm dreaming?"
"Uh-huh."
He looks at the ceiling and sighs real big. "Whoo." He smokes, and tries to stretch the cuffs. Nuthin doin. "I'm gonna wake up. Right... now."
Nothing changes.
"Now..." He shuts his eyes. One. Two.
Three.
They're still hanging over him.
"Gotta be a nightmare," he says to himself.
"Uh-huh," the voice says, real happy.
"This isn't real."
"Okay."
But the cigarette feels real, alright. And the bed under him. The cuffs...
His sides are tingling. It's a new feeling, but it's definitely -
That's where the gloves were...
Aw, no way.
"I'm outa here."
"Yeah?"
He wriggles around. "Lemme go."
The voice laughs at him. He gets a sick feeling in his gut. "Who's gonna make me?"
"I am," he barks, pulling harder. Wake up. Wake up wake up wake up...
A glove comes and gets his smoke. He pulls hard. Kicks. Grunts with the effort. Goes all-out.
But the cuffs don't get any looser.
"Dammit," he shouts. Gonna wake up - now. Now...
A glove brings an ashtray up - hey, there's four of 'em now. The pair way over him, they're still there. The ashtray is brought up to his smoke, and the glove snuffs it. Then the ashtray is set on the edge of the bed, across from his ribs. He doesn't like seein a glove anywhere near his fuckin sides.
But it's a sure bet he'll see 'em on his ribs again, if he doesn't wake up -
"Hey... How do I know -" Well, that's dumb. This can't be happening, not really. "How do I make it change?"
"Huh?"
"I don't want this - not a fucked-up dream."
"It's a nightmare."
"Yeah."
"Stick's havin' himself a tickling nightmare."
He started to rassle again. "Not any more he ain't. You let me go, right now."
"Not too bright, are ya?"
"How do I get the fuck outa here?"
"Don't ask me," the voice shoots back. "It's your dream."
And I can't make it end, he thinks.
Another glove pops up, from the side of the bed. It's got a water bottle. Like for jocks, with a squirt-tube. This scares him, for some reason. They thought of everything... and how many of 'em are there?
The bottle gets closer. "No," he says, turning his head.
"Aw, c'mon. You gotta be thirsty."
"No..." But he realizes, kinda surprised, that he is. "And I've never had a dream where I was thirsty before."
"First time for everything," the voice says. "Here."
"No -"
There's an annoyed sigh - and one of the original gloves heads on down.
"Get away," he says quickly. "Help - wake up, now -"
"If you won't drink," the voice says, "you can always laugh..."
The glove sticks out its index finger and drags it around his belly button.
"No," he chuckles, trying to roll. "Don't -"
"Yeah, Stick. Oh yeah."
He is just so fuckin ticklish. This is a nightmare, alright. Cuffed down so tight he's stuck here, totally fucked, and all these gloves...
"Hah ah haw haw haaalllright," he laughs.
The glove keeps tickling.
"Alright," he bawls.
"Alright, what?"
"Uh hah haah hah uh oh okay heh huh huh huh okay okay hay hay hay -"
The finger lifts off.
"Oh yeah. You'll drink. And eat. Smoke. Buncha other things." There's a pause. "And you're gonna laugh," and the last word is said like it's the grand prize.
The glove with the water bottle backs up a ways.
"But first you gotta relax, dude." Another glove -
With a pint.
"No way."
The index finger starts in again.
He throws his head back and snaps at the cuffs. Laughs, and laughs, until tears roll down his face. The finger skates all over his belly, now, and it's impossible, he can't take it, just one finger with free run and there's all these other fuckers here.
It doesn't let up for what seems like an hour, though he suspects it's more like five minutes.
"Can't take it," he gasps, still giggling.
"What? Big tough guy like you? Stick-man. Cocky son of a bitch." Gloves open the whiskey. "Drink up."
"No. Please. W- water -"
"Nah, the good stuff first." The bottle came to his lips. He looks at the glove, still pointing at his gut, almost touching. "Now."
He grunts, and lifts his head a little. The gloves tilts the bottle slowly...
And pulls it back. Maybe an inch of JD is gone. "Naaah. You can do better than that." The bottle comes back, even though he moans. Another shot.
The other glove brings up the water, aims the tube and chases down the JD.
"There," the voice says. The whiskey is capped and set by the ashtray. Gloves pull a carton up and rip it open. A carton. Whole fuckin carton. How long...
Just a dream. Really bad dream.
"Hey," he says suddenly, "that felt real. The whiskey."
"Uh-huh."
"How - how come -"
"I told ya. It's a dream." The water bottle is set down, a pack opened. He watches 'em pull a Marlboro out and stick it between his lips. A Zippo is brought, cradled in a magic hand... flicked open, real casual, and fired up.
"There he is. Dipstick's in the house. One cool captive."
"How do ya know my name - nickname?" he said, real worried about the word "captive".
"Oh, I know all about ya," the voice says dismissively. "Stuff you forgot, even. You can call me... Rubber. Your tickler. The perfect tickler. Made to order -"
No. Not possible, no fuckin way. He watches a glove take his cigarette away, and another pick up the water bottle. And he shuts his eyes. Wake up, dammit. Nothing feels dreamlike, here, but this has gotta be a nightmare. That way he can escape what's coming, by waking up. If this was real, there'd be no way out and he'd be in for a real bad time and there's no way in hell he's gonna believe that.
He shakes his head, real slow. The water bottle gurgles.
After he slugs some down, he notices something weird. Just a little bitter, maybe. Or sour. But he's got bigger problems...
Probably hangin in the air over him. Yeah. Maybe if he just falls asleep, he'll wake up in his own bed. Will the fuckers let him nod off? But he passed out already, and was still here. Really bad dream.
Just don't look, he tells himself. Don't encourage 'em. Keep your eyes shut, and your mouth too. He pulls at the wrist-cuffs a little, and they're still on him.
Dammit. He feels like... he's being watched. They're just waiting for him to peek. Or would it make a difference, anyway? Really?
He forces himself to lie still. If anything, he's getting less sleepy, not more.
Maybe they're gone. Scared him real good, got a few licks in. Maybe that was the whole point - relax enough to tune 'em out, and that'd make it end.
If they're still here, though... damn.
He sorta has to piss. That could be a problem. His heart is pounding. What's up with that?
Are they gone? The voice hasn't said anything in a while. He's afraid to look. But he wants to see...
He wrestles with that one. If he looks, will he fuck himself over? Will it seem as real? There's no way he can really be... strapped to a bed. It's a bad dream, definitely.
They'll be gone. They just gotta be.
He has to know. Can't stand it -
Just a quick look. He opens his eyes.
Phantom hands, right over his pecs. Thumbs almost touching his armpit-hair.
Four of 'em way too close to the soles of his feet.
He gulps. Shouldn't have looked, oh fuck.
And they land. He snaps sideways, with a groan that slides up to this loud squeak. The thumbs dig around on his chest, and the fingertips flex -
It's bad. Bad, seriously bad - but still not as bad as the wide strokes right dead center on his helpless feet. "Naaaah nnnnnnaaaaah hah haw hawwwwhah hah haaah..."
He pulls, and kicks. Except it don't work, he might as well be not kicking, not flailing around, cause it does no fuckin good. No good. Stuck. He howls again. Totally shocking, enormous, breathtaking impact. He has to move! Can't they understand that? He has to.
They got him stuck, and they're tickling him again. Real heavy. On it goes. Gotta make 'em stop!
Can't make 'em stop.
Get him here, strip him, cuff him down. Cuffed. Staying. All planned out.
He throws his head around and tries to talk. It's ridiculous how much this is doing him in. But it is, and he has to get the fuck away from 'em.
Oh hell, he thinks crazily, I had to look, if I hadn't looked maybe - maybe...
The gloves don't stop tickling him. He can't laugh hard enough. And he can't bust the cuffs. This is way too much.
Each second is an emergency. They run together into a hot, urgent burn that keeps coming and coming, as the fingers shift and push. He has to make 'em stop.
He pisses, and it's a huge relief. It helps him, somehow, to put up with the tickling...
Which goes on and on and on.
Past dozens of moments where he thinks he can't stand it another instant. Aw fuck, it doesn't stop.
And some impossibly long time later, he coughs. Smoke. Gotta cigarette. Well, of course. There's a carton here, he saw it himself.
His feet throb. His chest hurts, and his armpits. Muscles complaining. Tired, so tired, it's an effort to take a drag. And yet he wants one, so he does tug on it. Wanting it bad.
It feels like he's awake, but he hopes not. Rested, and not as sore, and the pisser is he's probably still locked down. His limbs are out in front of him, as if he's sitting. He tries moving just a little -
"Hey, I saw that," Rubber says, chuckling.
A cigarette is stuck between his lips.
He waits until he hears the lighter open, and then he squints a little. Lights up.
Black wood, in front of his arms. No, check that - his arms are...
"Oh, fuck," he complains.
More laughter. It sounds mean. "You like?"
He looks it over, after the Zippo gets outs of his face. Thick wood. Holes, with puffy leather around the inside. Holding his wrists, his ankles. Raised a little, so he's angled back. Fighting gravity just to bend his legs.
There's a padlock on the right side... of each stock. He reefs back - there's a frame steadying the whole thing, bolted to the floor or something, Black metal, barely wobbling. He pushes forward, but his limbs don't slide at all. Side-to-side... still nothing.
Very snug. A pad under his ass, black latex. A headrest, slid down behind - that's for later, he thinks, gulping hard. After he's too tired to thrash, he gets to lean back. For the long haul -
"Damn, do I wanna jump your ass. Right now." A couple gloves cruise up, oily rubber gloves, making slow fists. "Whoa. Now, you take your best shot at these stocks. Learn how well-made they are. And for that, you'll need some grub."
It brings him jars of... meat. Beef, dried, but not as chewy as jerky. And there's cheese in a can, which it has a hell of a good time shoving down his throat. Then there are snack cakes, being squashed in like torpedoes. Leather gloves hold his head still as the last four cakes are jammed into his mouth, barely waiting for him to swallow in between.
One of 'em wipes cream filling off his chest, as the water bottle bobs up. No booze, though. That's not normal. Sorta worries him.
When he's got a smoke going, Rubber makes a happy-sigh noise. "There ya be. Get to know these stocks, Dip. You're gonna be in 'em a lot. Pretty frustrating, to be able to use your arm muscles... and not get your hands free? Hah?"
He tugs at the stocks, groaning with frustration.
Rubber keeps bringing him smokes whenever he stops wrestling. Seeing the water bottle again, he cusses to himself.
"Okay, Stick." A little table is brought out and set down. He looks at it, not real eager to see what'll be put on it.
A glove allows him one last drag before taking his cigarette away. He drinks the water, and watches the bottle leave.
And then, two gloves... bring over a tray.
There are bottles. Lotions, or - more likely - oils. A couple dozen brushes. Some kinda like toothbrushes, and some like an artist would use. A painter.
"Time for your first pedicure."
The tray is set down. He can see it, from where he's caught.
"Aw, no..."
One of the bottles is picked up and poured into a little bowl. Thick golden oil.
Four of the gloves help themselves to the stiff brushes, with the bristles -
And he's in motion, bawling something. Begging.
The gloves dip the brushes, and disappear behind the stocks.
No, not this. Not this -
Pressing right in the center of his soles, and under his toes. Firm little points. Sliding on oil.
Dragging -
He screams laughter. Pumps his arms and legs...
The brushes move down and up and across.
Gotta go. Get 'em outa there. Gotta do it now. Now.
Shaking his head, throwing it all around. Flailing with his arms, trying to kick the damn things apart. Not giving an inch. Stuck in these things, stuck, and the brushes are driving him out of his mutherfuckin mind. Scrubbing - softly - around and across. And he can't get his hands any closer, to slap the damn brushes away, cover up his feet.
And he can't see 'em, scrubbing. The stocks hide it all. Nothing to see. Impossible fiery tickling and he's gotta break outa here now, now...
He howls. Worse than ever, the loudest noise he can make is totally inadequate. Howlin, howlin, and he blinks the tears out of his eyes, squinting one last time -
Couple of gloves, back at the tray. Getting more oil on their brushes. After a second, he feels the bristles on the inside edge of his heels, travelling up.
He'd give anything to slip one of his hands free. Kicking the lower stocks apart, ruining 'em... And all he can do is rock hard, forward and back, squealing like a wild animal. He can't take another second of this. The brushes are way too much to take, and the oil - he can barely breathe. That's how extreme the feeling is. The feel of 'em.
Dragging continuously.
He tries to rattle the stocks. And he roars his guts out.
Under and around and across and up and back.
Much... much later, he realizes he isn't wrestling around anymore. Too damn tired. Just can't. And something about that - being unable to even fuckin squirm, so he'll just sit here, all limp, and not even try to put up a fight - makes the tickling feel even worse, gradually sharper and still more electric than before. So fucked he can't even twitch.
And as that hits home, the feel of the brushes just fuckin magnifies. He just has to - get the fuck away from 'em, or he'll pass out. Too much to take. Too much. Unbelievable, again. But he keeps feelin it so much more, the first few minuted ain't all that hard to believe.
But this, right now...
Centuries later, he can't laugh. Too tired. Can't even fuckin' laugh. That's how swamped he is.
And the sons of bitches keep at it! The feel of 'em won't fade away. Hell no - stronger and stronger. He can't understand it, but it don't matter, here it is. Constant. Worse, then still worse, and he can't even thrash - so much worse, again.
A cigarette is brought up.
"Smoke up," Rubber says, real businesslike. "A lot more fancy footwork for you. Take that, fucker."
So he does. He has to. Trouble is, he's takin more and more, of everything... and still it always hits him harder.
He wakes up in a weird new sitting position...
In a fuckin swing. Chains, and leather. His hands are cuffed up on two of the chains, fingers facing out, with his elbows slightly bent. Two other chains branch off and hold his feet out. They jingle slightly as he kicks, and twists, jerking around and sideways.
He feels air on his ass. There are straps, apparently. Under his legs, way up. Across the middle of his back. But they don't give enough so he can slide through.
As he sways, he sees gloves behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he tries to look. But he rotates around, so his head flies the other way.
Rubber laughs.
"Yeah, real fuckin funny," Stick mutters.
"Well..." A couple of gloves grab the chains and slow his momentum. One sticks a cigarette in his mouth. "You'll see."
He gets fed, and it brings him some water. Whisky, washing down some little blue pills. And then it just lets him flop around for a few smokes, chuckling now and then.
"Tryin to wear yourself out, Stick-man? With all that speed in ya?"
He gives up on snapping the big ring-plate out of the ceiling. It's in there to stay. The way it's got him rigged up, it's hard to pull his feet in - or together. A glove zooms up with a new cigarette between thumb and forefinger. He doesn't want another one, been like six in a row already, but the fuckin attack will start five minutes sooner if he doesn't take it. The glove gets his old smoke and turns it against the end of the new one, riding along with him as he swings. Smooth as anything, 'til it gets the new cigarette going, and then it falls away.
"I like it," Rubber says.
"Fuck yourself," he groans, twisting his wrists as hard as he can.
"Yeah, keep that attitude, Stick. Gimme me a reason. Now, this is a fine toy for ya. Letcha move some, but not enough. Ain't that right? Still in my grip, and all that rasslin around won't help. And it's comfy. I can adjust the straps a little, so ya don't get sore. That just looks like a real comfy position -"
"Lemme outa this thing," he says.
"- Like a pose you could hold aaaallllll day. The whole damn day, with your sides unprotected, and your ass where I can get to it real easy... And those feet!"
It pauses, like he's supposed to say something. But he just blows out smoke, watching the nearest pair of gloves.
"Well, let's boogie." That pair of hands heads on in -
"No," he whines, with a kick. "Please..."
The gloves get a lock on his knees. Make him growl. Fingers pull his smoke, and that glove returns to his neck. Others curl around his biceps. Way too close to his pits. And he looks at those hands, once, confirming the awful truth. And then they're squeezing, and moving, and he coughs his way into a fine gutsy roar.
When the tickling finally... stops, he gets to rest. Drink up. Smoke a lot.
And then the hands return.
It's endless.
The day just won't fuckin end.
"So I been thinkin," Rubber says, all suggestive.
Fucked again, he thinks. He tugs on his smoke and doesn't say anything.
"Let's do some play-actin."
He bites off a couple of sarcastic comebacks. They can only bring him more grief. "Oh yeah?" he says mechanically, trying to slide off the rack.
Sneaky chuckles. "I'm gonna be... like, a son of a bitch today. All day. Like a prison guard or something, a real bad one. Mean as hell."
Please say you're kidding, he thinks.
"And you're the fuckin lifer I got laid out. Gonna have me some fun. Fuck yeah. You've been givin me shit - and I finally got my hands on you. Nobody's gonna know. Okay?"
He doesn't dare say what he's thinking...
"Got you all to myself. Heh. So, I guess your part's gonna be easy, since you're already strapped down."
"Please don't do this."
"Aw, c'mon. Play along." A couple of gloves meet together and act like they're cracking their knuckles. "Or else. Okay, I'm goin now. Gonna go shopping. Get me some more toys and shit. I'll pick ya up some more smokes. Seeya tomorrow, Stick. Now, say hello to your new keeper... uh... master of the brig." The gloves separate, and make fists.
He swallows hard. "Lemme go, dammit."
"Like... hell." The voice is low and calm. Scarier. One of the gloves grabs his throat. "Your ass is mine, Dipshit. I'm gonna beat ya to death, tough guy. And I'm gonna enjoy it."
The fingers tighten, and he coughs out smoke. They keep tightening -
He makes a weird gargling sound.
The glove flies off. "Oh, shit. You okay?" Rubber sounds surprised, almost laughing nervously. "Stick? Man, I'm sorry bout that. Really."
He coughs a while. The water bottle is brought up. He shakes his head at it, totally pissed off. It stays close, and other gloves get him a smoke goin... whether he wants one or not.
After a couple drags Rubber says, "It was an accident."
"I'm dead anyway," he fires back. "Might as well be."
"What?" Rubber says, all shocked.
"That's where this ends. Just finish it. Off me, go get some other fucker, drag him in here..."
"No. No no no. You got it all wrong. I'm nowhere near done tickling you." Oh, terrific. That's just great... "The last thing I want is you in a condition where I can't rub you til you drool. You oughta know that by now, Stick-man. Thought we had an understanding. You know what I'm into."
"Don't I though."
"You think it over. Everything that's happened since I first laid into your ticklish ass." A glove brings up the whiskey bottle. "You have a couple shots, too. Calm down. Then some water. You're gonna smoke yourself a pack, get a little buzz on. I'm gonna throw in a couple meal-bars, too. The peanut butter ones you like. Then I'll take off, and Brig - well, that fucker's gonna learn some more about you. How to handle a sensitive badass like my man Stick. What'll really fire him up. Yeah, we'll let Brig start over. See how it goes." And Rubber laughs quietly. Has a glove take his smoke and hold it, another bring the pint to his lips, and a third come on up with a new Marlboro.
It's more like a pack and a half. Not long after getting some water...
A glove grabs him by the hair. "Dipshit."
He closes his eyes.
"You're all mine. And Rubber told me what you need."
The cigarette is yanked.
"But I do things my way..."
Something lands on his tongue. He looks, squirming around. It's a gag, being tied tight.
"There. You like it? Can't shoot off your big fuckin mouth now, can ya, lifer?"
Underneath him, a strut slides up. Another slides down... Now his ass is exposed.
A whole bunch of gloves cruise on up. One carries petroleum jelly, another has liniment, and a couple have cock toys. He just shakes his head weakly. Leather and steel. Horrible. They're hung off the rack near his thighs. Those hooks had feathers on 'em last time. Brushes, too.
"Oh yeah. I'm gonna play hard." The gloves are already wading in the grease -
And one more comes. Twirling a paddle. Big, oval, unvarnished paddle.
"You're gettin spanked. Dipshit."
The fingers drop toward his belly - his sides!
"After I've worked over the rest of you..."
And it does. So fierce. Way more than usual... whatever the fuck that means now. He could almost be scared, if he wasn't so fuckin busy being hysterical.
The voice laughs more than usual. Laughing at him while he wails ecstatically, groans over and over...
The liniment is horrible. The cock toys are worse...
And fingers are exploring his asshole. He gets wilder and wilder, and it's still not enough to keep up with all the things he's feeling.
After a lifetime of this, he's coughing suddenly. Sputtering -
Wet. Gloves hold a bucket. The fucker threw water on him, to revive him.
"No more, no more. Please. Rubber -"
"Your buddy ain't here," the voice taunts. "Still Brig's bitch, sweetheart. Ain't done stomping your ass yet."
A dozen gloves leap on him. He barely has the energy to flinch. There's still hardware on his cock... but the gloves just work around 'em. And they lay into his armpits. And his neck. And his nipples.
Strapping his toes back, and his fingers down. Tearing into his feet, petting his hands.
He wants to pass out, so bad... but he can't.
And after another eternity, there's a sharp pain. Repeating.
Under him...
Loud smacking sound. Gloves oiling his feet, and his belly -
Smack. On his ass. The paddle.
Over and over. Hard slaps. The fingers, tickling vigorously. He can't laugh, but he can moan. So he does.
Eventually, he loses all track of time...
Until he yawns, and wakes up. Looking at his hands, cuffed above.
He's in the swing -
And the stocks. Feet only. He looks around, making the chains jingle.
A cigarette lands in his mouth.
"Stick. I thought I'd let your ass hang out, so you don't have to put any weight on it today."
The Zippo comes and gives him a light.
"I got some real fun ideas. Brig, he's a total psycho. But he's right about one thing..."
A glove floats up, twirling a cock ring around its middle finger.
"I'm not having nearly enough fun with your meat."
Before he could protest, feathers started blitzing his feet. And they staked out his fucking crotch...
He didn't get any water for an hour.
"I gotta cum, oh man, oh please, Rubber, please..." he pleads around a cigarette.
But the voice just laughs. "Gonna work that stick. Sticky-man. Drink up, eat something..."
As soon as he was smokin again, feathers were taken to his belly.
"Aw, shit -"
"Don't drop that smoke, dude. Get it between your teeth." The gloves dusted his belly, and swept lower from time to time.
More feathers flitted around his toes. He squawks -
"Smoke, dammit. You're gonna keep smokin."
"No..."
But he does. They light one after the other, pause for water sometimes, and keep tickling. His cock is killing him. He can't laugh, and he tugs hard on the cigarette, lets the smoke leak out, and tugs again.
He's too tired to do anything else - except feel the feathers. Slow, light flames licking him, continuously, shifting a little but always there, demanding...
And his cock wants to shoot so bad it's ridiculous. But when he does, he'll be more ticklish. He knows that too well. Rubber knows it. He's gonna be a screaming mess when the cum finally jets out, and the fingers move in. Ribs, probably. Thighs, pecs, shoulders. Gonna be bad.
And his feet hang there, caught in the stocks. Tempting the fucker to dive right in and tickle 'em hard. Long and hard -
Cum wants to get out. He grunts hard, trying to clamp down. As much as he wants to shoot, the tickling's gonna be impossible afterward.
Gloves get him another cigarette. He smokes like a chimney, needing the distraction.
"Need a little help, there, Stick?"
Feathers, sweeping his balls. Over, under -
"Noooo!"
Gloves cruise on up, greased and ready to go.
"You ready, dude? Wanna turn it up?"
He stiffens - can't help it -
Squirts hard.
The gloves ride it out, pinning him down. Fingers clutch at his sides. One set throws his smoke away, and slides behind his head.
Gasping, he flails around and yells.
They start again. No - this time the fuckers nuke him. It's stronger than ever, worse, worse.
He wakes up in bed, spread wide.
"Morning, Stick." Cigarette and lighter are right there.
After a minute, two new gloves wander up. They're satin -
"Time to find out if you're up for some serious fun, today."
The gloves slide over his ribs. He tries to flop, slowly, and stutters -
They keep massaging.
Giggles burst out of his throat. He laughs, still sleepy, and his smoke is taken away.
"Alright." Six more white gloves settle on his legs. "Lookin real good. Better make sure, though." And they make him cough... then whoop, and hoot.
They tickle him all day.
Water comes, and more gloves. They cover his meat gently, always there. More fingers everywhere else, stroking.
When night falls they feed him, and load him up with speed. Break out the brushes and the oil. Paint his torso, and his nuts.
All fuckin night. Smoke after smoke, brushes busy, too far gone to laugh. Drilled with the sensation they keep piling on...
It's deeper, the tickling goes deeper and he can't get used to it. Stronger than before - it keeps increasing again and again and again. The oily little paintbrushes keep making him feel 'em, and they don't stop for hours and hours. And after the water bottle goes or the food's eaten they make him start another cigarette and then the brushes return again, spreading oil everywhere.
Eventually he comes, and the impact seems like it could... tear the roof off.
Packs later, he comes again. Fingers replace the brushes...
And the effects of the tickling blow away everything he already knew.
2001 (?)