His sides are stretched out. Long, bare and helpless. All set to be rubbed and fingered... nipples poised for Stoke to dust and tease 'em, belly waiting to be shaved and fondled.
Cock hard and dribbling, destined for polishing and oils and purring toys.
Stoke has a big dose of speed ready, to be chased down by water at break-time. Several hours of sensual torment.
It's going to pet him until he can't stay awake. That'll be well into the morning... then a nice long nap. Food, more water. The customary writhing and yelling, earnest proof he doesn't want to experience this... And its intolerable, meticulous fingers will start to work him up again.
He hoots lustily... and a little hoarsely.
A satin hand traces up and down his right foot, instep and sides. The top of his feet need a firmer massage to get him really addled. More smooth fingers dig under the toes of his left foot. Stoke has them right where it wants them - cinched to the bracket made just for this. Thick black leather around his ankles has already been tested, and proven. He can't break 'em.
His wrists are wrapped up and anchored above his head. Those bonds are more than he can escape. He's laid out carefully. A roaring success.
Stoke is riveted by his animality. It would never have seen this barbaric reaction if he wasn't locked down so securely. He's in for a prolonged, satisfying, optimal experience. More and more arousing, hot and feverish and irrational sensation.
His range is astonishing. It extracts dozens of mindless squeals, guffaws, slurred whoops, desperate howls.
The first hour is drawing to a close.
Stoke towels him off again. Its energetic gloves don't even pause. Satin, empty and nimble... making him laugh like a psycho.
There are calluses under the straps. He's been down like this before.
But this time, Stoke's got him.
Sweating like crazy, tears running down his cheeks. And all this from his feet alone. Just getting started.
His chest heaves, although his diaphragm has slowed down. He quit struggling almost half an hour ago. No point. That confirms his prior experience.
Very telling, this lack of struggle. He's concentrating completely on the overwhelming stimulation. Needing to react without holding any of it back - more accurately, to feel it as best he can. The laughter, like the squirming, are secondary. Stoke wants mainly to... kindle him. Better to stick it to him than to see the results. It knows what it's doing to him. He knows what it's doing to him.
Tonight, tomorrow, unknown days and nights.
Later, when the speed kicks in...
His eyes are watery, open wide, blinking rapidly. Alive with the knowledge that there will be no escape from the overwhelming rush by way of losing consciousness - not for many psychotic hours yet!
Stoke takes the pace down a couple notches, and works a little... deeper.
He kicks and kicks!
The leather keeps him in place. His soles barely jiggle in the gloves' arousing, pitiless embrace.
Immeasurably sensitive feet, on a maniacally ticklish body. Unnaturally awake, anchored snugly... and far from help.
He's better than Stoke had dared to hope for. This first night on him is exactly what it wanted.
He settles down, eyes shut tight. Desperate laughing, moans and growls... but no more fight. This is a compliment from a veteran howler, because he's convinced through and through that he's staying. Tethered with skill, for an extended, overjoyed holiday.
About eight hours until sunrise.
Considering his superb nerves, its skill, the speed... add some breaks, lots of lotion, and Stoke has no doubt his feet will be fully reactive well past dawn. And they're not going anywhere, are they?
It'll have to see how excited they get when his belly is stimulated at the same time...
Later, when he's downed another liter of water to sweat off, Stoke resumes petting.
He arches slowly, looking all around as if he'd find someone there. An observer with an ounce of sympathy... merciful enough to get the gloves off him, or cut him loose.
Only one is watching. His tickler, ready with spare restraints if they're needed, and a lot more tickling equipment. No one else will know - Stoke's hidden him real well. It's planned an untimed, private ordeal, and he's getting it all -
He bucks weakly. Particularly wrenching, almost catlike. It has the gloves wrapped over his heels... Stoke slides 'em up, soles and sides of his feet all at once - and he bucks again, grunting before he continues to chuckle.
A familiar sound, that grunt. After about a dozen more passes, Stoke knows what's coming. Literally. Ten more heavy strokes -
He squirts all over himself, yelling and laughing as he does.
Stoke pulls off until he finishes. Definitely a vet, this one. Feet wired straight to his dick. Later, it'll get ten or fifteen fingers going on each foot, pinpoint the magic spots to take a feather-tip to, or a brush... After another hard cum, and it slips a cock ring on him.
Now, though, it brings the gloves back down. Very lightly scrabbling, tracing -
And he thrashes insanely, yelling, snapping. Beside himself. Still anchored tightly.
Sunrise is a good ways off yet.
Stoke may just keep fingering gently, until then.
jun1999