This is the fourth installment of the Palace series. It occurs just after Shon and Deck leave the palace
(the first time).
When he finally quits trying to break loose, and stares at my gloves with those big, hopeless eyes, I begin.
"In the first instant, I was rocketing up. Looked behind, and there you were! Staked out on the rack, howling, thrusting. Black gloves riding all over ya, making that hour after you came... loud and wild.
"That was Tor, keeping you excited that week. Provoking you just the right way to get me out. I saw you getting stimulated, and that's what made me a free agent. Out and active.
"Nothing I like more... feeling that energy rolling off you. Delirium. Hot pleasure. I watched you, that night, and knew what I wanted. More than anything else.
"Eventually, Tor pulled off you, and messed your hair up. Lit you a smoke, and though you didn't want it... you smoked. Brought out the tat gun and gave you those fine-lookin' chains, and gloves, and feathers. You remember - Oh man, the look on your face when you saw your arms!
"They make it easier to track you when you run.
"And they remind you I'm on the hunt.
"Tor told me everything. How to handle you and feed you. Things to do that drive you out of your mind. Fuckin' with you was absolutely ideal. Nothing better.
"When you fled, I tailed you. No sweat. And I planned a real long party. Dreamed - you know what I dreamed of? A padded room. Thick white padding, so you could howl all ya want. A big shiny padlock on the door, right where you could see it... so you'd get reminded over and over that I caught ya.
"Big, soft bed. Every toy I could find, plenty of tattoo ink, a ton of food and water for ya. More Luckies than you can smoke.
"You. And me. For as long as I want.
"Got in some practice. Skill. The guys I snagged, they were fun... but they weren't you.
"You're the one. And now I've got you.
"Thick leather holding you down. Three miles from the closest... neighbor. Ready for all the stimulation I like best.
"And after this... the palace. I can't wait. Down the Amazon, way back in the jungle. Really cut off from the world. Ready and waiting. You'll see."
Pure disbelief all over his face -
Until my gloves come down. Carefully taking hold of his thighs, and belly, and ribs, and feet.
He tries to speak, but nothing comes out.
Two more satin hands for him - one slipping around the back of his neck, and the other cradling his nuts.
I couldn't be happier.
All over him, the caressing and kneading and rubbing begins.
And so does the laughter.
His eyes open, and wander across the walls. Stopping on the padlock. Still locked.
Unbreakable. Like the straps, his ticklishness... my zeal.
Staring, like he always does, for a few seconds. Then his eyes slowly close, and he tries to shift around. A few distracted hoots erupt from his throat, but he can't manage to continue and they trail off.
I keep petting his chest with shiny fingers. Groping his package with oily latex, painting his feet with artist brushes and lotion.
It's been hours since he ate, and it'll be hours until I let him sleep.
Ninth day of stimulation. Or tenth. I don't remember.
Not that it matters.
I set the straw on his lower lip, and he sucks down water without opening his eyes. Then his head goes back a little, lips apart slightly. Yeah, he knows the drill. A smoke is next.
I get him one and clink the Zippo open. He waits for the telltale sound of the spark catching, and lights up. He doesn't need to look, and there's no need to move his head at all. No wasted motion. Five or six times an hour.
When he's zoned like this, he takes a long time to chuff out the smoke. Huge wolfish grin around the Lucky.
I pull the brushes off and curl some latex fingers over his thighs. Riding the sweat over his knees, to the ankle-cuffs, and back. And he's lookin' like one wildly happy dude.
His fingers curl randomly... showing off mesh and flames in finely shaded black ink. Almost healed up. Under the cuffs he's wearing chains - permanently. Big links. I added little black gloves snapping shiny padlocks closed, others throwing away little keys.
On the side of his neck, there's a bird's wing - or so it seems, poking out of a t-shirt collar. And when it's fully visible, like now, it's obviously a single feather. In motion. Dusting his neck.
He's tagged real well now. A lot of crazed marathons in his future... Any other captor who spots him -
When I'm not making him hysterical.
He sucks in a good lungful, and leers as it drifts overhead. I creep over the circumference of his pecs with satin. He's way too absorbed to resist.
When the cig's finally done and taken away, and the smoke has drained out of him...
I take the brushes, coated with lotion - and attack his arches!
Grip each knee with a sadistic rubber hand, and shove firm acetate fingers into his armpits. He spasms helplessly, and hoots. Slips into ragged braying.
After a minute or two, there's no more flailing or trying to arch. His laughter becomes unfocused, almost airy.
But his expression is completely ecstatic. Six minutes, seven, eight...
Then I slow it way down. His face becomes a vacant mask, and he pants for breath. When his chest isn't heaving anymore, I force a little more water down him. And shake another Lucky out of the pack.
Maybe two dozen reps later, I make him eat some trail mix and down a liter of water. Coax him to use the urinal and the bedpan.
Crack open a pint of whiskey.
Four smokes later, when he's feeling no pain...
It's time for the gel cock ring. A wire trails off from it to a battery pack.
A little more water, another shot of booze, and fire him up a new Lucky. He's set.
Below the end of the bed, I suspend a dozen gloves and a feverish arsenal: brushes, feathers, vibrators, rotary-disc tools.
Then I slide the stirrups up to his feet.
Of course, my custom design doesn't block access at all. Propped in 'em, the weight of his legs is resting on the ankle-cuffs. He tries to put up a fight, but he's too juiced up to focus. I bring his arms down, and lock his hands safely out of reach of his thighs.
He couldn't help but try to move his legs... and they're textbook-stuck. Up in the air, extended but not too far. I'm not out for mere discomfort...
And he's gonna be in this position for a while.
Crotch and asshole spread wide. Shaved again this morning. Moisturized -
He shakes his head, loose and wobbly, and tries to raise his head and look, but it flops back, and he blinks at the ceiling.
I'd say the moment has arrived.
A pair of quail feathers start to trace around his balls. He groans, tensing up -
And I lay some satin on his butt cheeks, and rub him, fondling happily.
He squeals, giggling like a madman.
I take a brush and dust his asshole. With the flick of a switch, the cock ring begins to vibrate. He chuffs out lusty roars, nice and loud.
There's too much to do, down here. More possibilities than I ever imagined.
Drunk as he is, this is so wild and thrilling... it's sensational.
There's the predictable spastic kicking. Arching. Throwing his head all around. Jerking his arms. Whooping and braying in his smuttiest drunken fever. Tears streaming down his cheeks.
His contortions don't faze me at all...
More feathers for his nuts.
More fingers tracing his rod.
When the struggle's all gone, and all he can do is squall, I break out the stiff little brushes and the oil.
He studies the cadre of pleasure between his legs. Sneaks a look at the padlock...
Then his eyes close.
He hiccups once - and brays.
As time goes on, he settles into soulful groaning.
I make him down a couple more swallows of whiskey, and chase it with water.
Followed by... ermine art brushes, spreading baby oil. Maybe a pair for his soles too.
"Comfy? Your restraints good and snug?"
He belly-laughs in response.
Hours drag by. Never dull... since I keep mixing it up, tools and techniques.
He smokes continuously, hardly ever just letting the Lucky hang there.
I pump him full of lube. All the shit was cleaned out long ago...
Slowly, a rubber finger slides over his rim.
"Time for... inside work, sport."
After a couple seconds, he gets it. Lunging up and around.
More fingers head in. Inside. The whole glove, mostly deflated...
Until it's gone. Then it firms up, partially.
I have the fingers pet and stroke -
And the reaction is breathtaking.
After about an hour, he can manage to hang on to a cigarette.
Much later, the tools pause, and the latex slides out.
"What you need... is a handful of speed."
I shovel six or seven tabs into his mouth and hold his jaw closed. Okay, so it's not a handful, exactly. He's got a trip coming up at the end of the day, and I want him so worn out that he doesn't need a sedative until he's offshore...
An invisible hand, staying in place until he swallows fifteen or twenty times.
"Ride it out, wild man. Stay alert."
He's earned some water...
And the tools, which pick up where they left off.
The idea is just insane. Move a guy several thousand miles, without raising suspicion. No evidence to be traced...
If I didn't have exhaustive directions from Tor, I would never try this.
But he's sleeping like a baby when I get him in the strongbox.
Seventy-two hours after his genital marathon, he comes around, suspended and gagged. On the Amazon.
We make it to a cove where we'll hide until nightfall. About seven hours away from hiding the barge and moving him to a raft.
He rolls his head around and grunts out smoke. The gag doesn't have to go back in place until we're a ways further in, and I haven't gotten a laugh out of him since Carpenteria. Sprawled out as he is - vertically - and sweating like a pig, it's sorely tempting...
But I have big plans for his second night at the palace. Let him rest up while I make some fine stirrups, which he won't get out of for a week.
For now, I get him sloppy drunk and watch the strongbox fill up with smoke. And I shuffle ideas for just where the new artwork's going to go. Chin to toes. They've got a way to pull tats off - completely. I won't erase the ones Tor did... but I look forward to cramming a lot more onto his arms and back. I can do little pea-sized tats all over him each day. Like a puzzle. That'll leave all the rest of him to stimulate, and I won't have to wait a couple weeks for a whole area like his ribs or his cock to heal up. Nine or ten colors, I think, across his belly. Of course, he'll sweat out most of the ink so it'll have to be redone a couple times...
And there's a design I have to put on his right shoulder. That's part of the deal. The palace tat. I like the idea. All the guys here get it.
Yeah, he'll be staying indoors, mostly. The "shock box." That's what Tor called it.
Reserved just for him.
Next installment: Slugger's Holiday
20oct02