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He smelled leather.
The blanket and the sheet were gone...
Something that looked like black foam padding covered the ceiling, and the walls. This wasn't his hotel room.
Trying to roll over, he didn't move. That first jolt of fear woke him right up.
His wrists were caught by black cuffs. Straps pulled them toward the corners of the mattress.
Two fat straps for each wrist, one pulling up, the other pulling to the side. Very effective.
Lifting his head, he saw his ankles were caught the same way. All those straps.
Spread out, naked - except for a weird black jockstrap. Very tight. Latex. Same as the sheet underneath him.
He shivered. "Hey. No... Help..."
Tugging and kicking, he hissed and yelled. Each move snagged body hair. It hurt -
He noticed something past the end of the bed. Moving. Rising up, all by itself.
A black feather.
He stared at it. His body jerked back, bouncing a little. Feather. That means...
Never mind the body hair. He thrashed as hard as he could.
"No! Help! No no no no no..."
The straps weren't loosening.
To his horror, the feather was on its way down.

He arched and slammed around. "Help. Help me... Go away! Dammit. No. Please. Don't..."
It floated slowly over him, angling down. His belly.
Rocking from side to side didn't accomplish anything. The restraints were going to hold. Padded walls. Nobody else there!
The feather paused, over his navel.
"Aw no - nnnnno, help, help meeeeee! Somebody - halllllpp..."
The pleasure began.

More slowly and gently than he expected, the feather's tip started wiggling around. He jumped anyway - such a little point of contact. It felt like an electric current, racing through his midsection, and he couldn't help but tighten his limbs and strain at the cuffs. Desperate, hopeless, gritting his teeth...
The feather bobbed up, and swept across his belly.
"N-noooo," he growled. But the feather reversed course, making his stomach muscles tighten. As if it had a mind of its own, his torso wiggled and tried to flatten itself to get away from the feather. But there was no chance of that happening, and the tickling continued to crawl back and forth, flicking across his ribs at the end of one pass, or down onto the rubber pouch, barely detectable until the soft fluff touched his skin again. Over, and over.
He couldn't grit his teeth any harder, but that wasn't helping anyway. Even with his fists balled up as tight as they could be, the tension was building. It was different than any frustration he could remember, and each time the feather swept a little further up or down - or below! - the need increased again. It infuriated him, it worried him, it would break him and it was only a matter of time. And once it started, he was afraid all bets would be off. No limit, then.

The long, soft edge of the feather crept up toward his right pec. He moaned. The urge was painful to hold back, but he didn't dare let it out. That would confirm what the feather already knew. It would set him up for a major ass-kicking. And it was growing, in his chest. His throat. Too much to keep inside.
He snorted - once - and took a ragged breath, commanding himself to stop, freeze, do not make any more noise. Anything but that.
Hopelessly, he watched the feather slide to his right armpit. No, no, no -
The feel of it, barely making contact, was completely unbearable.
"Naaaah hah hah hah haaaaah!," he exploded. Barking hard. Laughing. Now he'd done it. The sadistic fucker got what it wanted. Now he was really gonna get it.
But the feather... floated off.
He managed to stop chuckling.
Something moved. From behind him, coasting over his face.
Hands.
Full, sleek rubber gloves.

Before he knew it, he was snapping at the restraints. Panic came in an instant. Fingers. A real tickling, a nightmare of tickling, and no matter what he did it was going to happen. Right here.
They were floating along, taking their time. He looked at the straps holding the left wrist-cuff as he yanked and pulled for all he was worth. It didn't look any different. He was staying put. So the fingers could tickle the fuck out of him... He had to look at them again, even though it frightened him -
They were wet. The openings, where the hands should go, were tied off.
No...Were they filled with something? Water?
Shiny. The fingertips were dripping. Yeah. He saw a drip fall on his right leg. The fingers - magic fuckin' gloves, which shouldn't ever be able to move around by themselves - they were about to land on him. Because he was watching, or maybe just because they were moved by something that was eager to get down to it, the fingers acted as if they were human fingers.
Full of oil.
The truth hit him like a crowbar, right between the eyes.

Magic gloves, self-oiling, heading for his body. More specifically... his ticklish feet. A deep new fear made it hard to think clearly. All the kicking and rocking couldn't change what was going to happen, because he'd been strapped down right.
The merciless fingers were coming down. Moving in, all ready to go. Any time now, the tickling would continue. Real tickling. Of all places, on his soles. Toes. Heels -
It was time, he decided, to get out of there! He had to go. Immediately. Get away. He closed his eyes and put all of his effort into pulling the straps apart, imagining his legs were made of steel, or iron. Mighty pistons, up and down, up, down.
He even tried pushing further out. Pulling them in. Pushing harder. Making the leather creak as he visualized his knees lifting off the sheet, rising, getting his fuckin' feet away -
Smooth, firm pressure.
Getting bigger, moving - slippery, and almost perverse. Way too personal.
He coughed once. Tears were in his eyes. Furious, defeated, caught - and in for some serious excitement. But he'd stay put. He didn't have a choice.
The fingers were almost tender. Spreading oil down to his heels, along the inner sides of his feet. Under his toes. But it was not a massage. Their goal was all too clear.
He started hooting.
Slow, sincere laughter. Just what the fingers wanted. Right?
As if they were answering him, they rubbed the outer sides of each foot. The balls of his ankles. On his right foot, a thumb wandered over the top side of his toes.
He shook his head vaguely. It was going to get so much fuckin' worse. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do...
Even though his vision was blurry, the movement over him got his attention. No!
But of course.
He barked laughter at them as they arrived.
Ten more fingers, dripping oil.

No, he thought desperately. They can't. It was dangerously exciting already. He could have a stroke or something.
He had to tell them - while he could - before the newest gloves joined in. He had only few seconds before it would be too late. If talking was this hard already... what would he do when the sixth glove started? Or the tenth. That was unthinkable.
"Nuh haw haaaah huh," he hooted. "Nuh hoh nnnuh no." Oh, good. He managed to get the word "no" out. Now he was getting somewhere, and he needed to believe that they were just waiting for him to tell them that four gloves - twenty fingers? Was that right? - would be hazardous to health. He had to finish the sentence. Say another word. Then one more. No more gloves. That should do it. And then, maybe, they'd stop all the tickling and listen to him. He was ready to beg. As long as it t-
More tickling. Doubled. Twice the fingers.
He squealed like a pig and arched his back nice and hard. But that didn't move his feet at all. No. The cuffs and the straps were there to prevent him from getting away from the gloves.
Oh, fuck, he had to howl. And they were going easy on him! Slow. Barely touching him.
Too late to beg 'em now. Apparently that wasn't what they were after.

Years seemed to pass.

His throat hurt. He'd stopped laughing a long time ago - how long had it been, anyway? Hours? Or did it just seem like hours... Wouldn't that just suck. He was breathing hard, but not really panting.
Is his head, he could talk. Long, rambling pleas. Reasons why he needed the fingers to go away. Dramatic play-by-play narration for each set of fingers.
Why had he stopped laughing, anyway? Conserving his energy... or did the gloves back off a little? Shit, if they didn't make him laugh nonstop, the tickling could go on a lot longer. Even as rattled as he was, he could see that.
All night long. Unbelievable. It was just too weird to believe.

The fingers weren't moving. They still had a grip on him -
He opened his eyes. Everything was very blurry. Tears of joy. No tickling! They'd stopped. Maybe it was over.
Sure.
His face was as wet as it could be. Sweaty, everywhere else. Incredibly hard work...
But his body was more awake than it had been in years. His heart thumped in his chest as if it was never going to stop.
He saw something arrive. A bottle. Squeeze-bottle, with an angled straw. Something clear inside it.
Shaking his head automatically, he glanced at the fingers - still curled around his soles, and his toes. He was refusing to do what they wanted. And they had his feet in their grip. That wasn't smart. He should be doing whatever they wanted. Anything. Or else they'd tickle him again.

Oh, shit. He knew better than that. Were they taking the restraints off? No. Had they given him one fuckin' reason to think they were done?
He whined softly. And he drank. It was water, and he sucked convulsively until it was taken away. He was so thirsty. His throat was sore...
And, now that he thought about it, the gloves couldn't have him getting dehydrated. He'd be more tortured more effectively if he stayed healthy.
He did pant a few times after that. But as soon as his breathing had settled down -
They moved. Again!
"Noooooowwwwaaaah hah hee heeeee heeeeeelllppp mee eeee nnnnneeeee..."
It was brutal, even at an easy pace.

Sliding and poking between his toes and always moving, skating, squeezing a little here, barely scratching there...
He threw his body around and laughed like a fool. Strained, angry, unstoppable noise.
But after a minute or two, he quieted down. The fingers were easing off, just enough. Waves of little muscle cramps still made his feet want to move and respond to each heavy finger - but it had become an effort to laugh.
That pretty much confirmed it. The gloves kept him right at the point where he wanted to laugh. But he couldn't keep it up. Damn, he wasn't as spacey, and they could keep right on going.
He desperately wanted to laugh. The tickling was so close to forcing the noise out of him. But when he cackled, it didn't last. Oh, when the fingers tried something that really got to him - and one time when they started digging in harder - he roared like he was insane. Just the way they wanted.
The long haul. Shit. Another hour?
All night?

He snickered four or five times, and grabbed another breath. Roar, dammit. Now...
Nope. Anytime they felt like it, they could make him laugh. Didn't he know it.
And when they didn't w-
Fingers slid onto each of his shins.
That forced a few dozen hysterical giggles out of him... but the gloves moved so damn slow.

The fever got worse and worse. He was already in a new world of pure fuckin' craziness, but there was always another level to discover.
Fingers were way too careful tickling his knees. Under, over, inside, outside. He found all kinds of energy to thrash around, and couldn't believe the straps were still in one piece. But they hadn't loosened at all.
Up his thighs, and around the rubber pouch. They rubbed harder when they were on the tight latex. Oiling it up. The edges made him scream laughter - those mutherfuckin' gloves traced the boundary over and over. Just making him shriek like a little kid.
Another kind of... push, and it was strong. In fact, it had been going on for a while. He didn't want to confirm it, but somehow he couldn't help himself. Blinking rapidly, lifting his head.
Yeah.
His cock was trapped... and he was hard. So hard. Absolutely soaked with sweat.
He let his head fall back, and chortled at the ceiling. The fingers were giving his ass-cheeks a real workout.
it made him hornier than ever.
Two more gloves were floating down.
So that's the deal. But he shook his head, like it was a formality they wanted to see so they could ignore it.
He watched the new arrivals thoughtfully.

Much later, something wonderful occurred to him. He'd been thrusting, slowly. But the tickling was a perfect distraction...
All that sweat. Maybe he could get himself off, despite the jockstrap! How great it would be. He groaned, concentrating hard - there. It was weird to be pumping away... ass-cheeks sliding over oil, while his shoulder blades stayed stuck to the rubber sheet... without being allowed to lift a leg, or arch his back.
It was gonna take longer. A hell of a lot longer, if the tickling continued.
Some of the gloves were covering his belly. That was breathtaking enough. But he had a goal now. If he could just cum... It looked like he'd have plenty of time to worry about tickling. All kinds of time.
Something pulled at the pouch. Directly over his cock. Stretching it -
He tried to get the tears out of his eyes, but before he could lift his head and look...
Air.
He saw a little pen-knife floating away from his meat. His cock was sticking out. And, from the coolness of the air, his balls were too.
His meat was out. The pouch had a hole in it now. That meant... no thrusting against the rubber. And no cum-shot.
"Oh, no. Nooo hooo huh huh hooo-ooooooo..."
The knife floated over him, high in the air, and disappeared from his view. There must be a hell of a lot of stuff behind him, he decided. But that was another subject he could worry about later.
"I gotta c-cuh huh huh hummmmm..."
Fingers slid under his balls. So gentle, it was even more infuriating than if they'd jacked him off.
Teasing him.
Making him hornier... right after the only hope he had of blowing his wad was taken away.

Insanity. Yes. This was the real deal. Needing to cum, as bad as he did. And dyin' to laugh. This was how he'd be driven literally bug-fuckin' crazy. He saw it coming.
Or maybe he just wished it would happen. Longed for it. In a lot of ways it felt like the worst fever, totally losing all track of time. But still there. Covered with fingers. If he managed to zone out or think of something else - it didn't last. His attention came right back to the tickling, immediately. No possible chance of ignoring it for more than a couple seconds.
By far the worst thing he'd ever going through. He kept thinking that, but there was something else getting more and more clear. His body was not acting like it hurt. In a way - and he tried to think about it as something sick and disgusting - aw hell, it was exciting. Like a drug.
The gloves were swamping him with more pleasure than he could handle. More oil whenever they wanted. Strapped down like that, he had to just lie there and take it.
Supernatural, ultimate tickling...
It just felt way too good.

You are not enjoying this, he thought to himself. Don't. It's just that the fuckers have stripped all your defenses away.
Fingers played with the shaft of his cock. And his neck. Others were crawling up and down his biceps. Every time a thumb plowed its way into the center of his armpit, from above, he shuddered - hell, sometimes he even managed to moan at the left thumb - and each fuckin' time it slid back, he knew it would reverse course soon.
Endless march of rubber, skating along.
More of them started back in on his insteps. He jerked convulsively, squealing long and low. Get out from under the fingers! Emergency! They'll sneak under and run hard laps around the bottom of each foot. If the effort to pull away failed - and it always did - howl at them. They had to get the message.
If he didn't shoot his load soon, something was going to rupture inside him. He just knew it...
Instead, he roared - for about ten seconds. Then he settled down and behaved himself, tracking all the fingers, shuddering once in a while.

They were so gentle, it was gonna make him a bonafide basket case.
 

Many hours later, he sorta knew better.
Slow fingers jacked him off -
And the rest tickled harder!
He thought about roaring, slamming up and down, rocking convulsively. Instead, he laid very still and felt drool crawl down his chin. Tracking the work of the stubborn hands took so much thought he couldn't remember how to open his eyes.
Bombs, comets, fuckin' supernovas filled his head.
 
 

A long time after the tenth or eleventh meal - well, shit, he'd known for a couple days that he wasn't going to lose his mind... or sprain his dick.
The gloves would never allow that.
Besides, he was just starting to enjoy himself.
 

The next night...
They sat him on the side of the bed and cleaned him up. Lots of giggling, but the gloves didn't linger too long.
A big clip was used to hold his ankle-cuffs together. His hands were caught behind him, and he watched another clip float back there.
A thick leather harness was next. Under his arms, over his shoulders... around his chest. A chain was clipped to it.
The next thing scared him. A cage, for his meat. A belt went around his waist, and chrome bars curled around his erection. Snug, but it wasn't supposed to hurt. He hoped. A little bolt floated up and started locking the cage.
Even if he could get his hands free, it would take a while to loosen that bolt and get the cage off. More than enough time for his hands to be restrained again. Extra straps - and then the punishment, and even after the past few days he could not even imagine what the tickling would be like if the gloves gave him everything they had.

Silk scarves were wrapped around each foot. Another pair of straps made sure they wouldn't slip. Protecting the merchandise.
A big dog collar. Sunglasses, yellow lenses - with a little cord so he couldn't throw 'em off...
A baseball cap. One word on it - INMATE. He got the joke.
Gloves oiled his torso, making him flop around and laugh. Lots of tickling. They just never got tired of that -
The door opened.
He blinked. Freedom?
Looking at the cock-cage again, he groaned. Change of scenery. Maybe a long-term change. Uh-huh.
Nighttime, out there. Streetlight, a motorcycle revving up somewhere. Real life.
A ball-gag floated in front of him.

That made him shake his head. The gag turned over slowly -
And then he saw the tube.
After a second, he grinned. And nodded.
The tube opened up. And a cigar slid out.
He cooperated right away, puffing it to life. It was the gag, or this. He had an idea...
The chain attached to the harness pulled straight out, like a leash. Gloves curled around his elbows and stood him up. Others got his ankles, and his biceps. Lifting -
His feet were just off the carpet, and he watched it go by. They carried him to the door.
My captors are taking me someplace else, he thought. And they will tickle me there, too. Odds are it's a place where I will spend more time than I did here... Maybe that place will allow them to work me over for a month. He tried to imagine it. Two months? Six. Yeah, that could well be the reason for moving him.

Outside. Sweet, cool air. Oh, shit. He wanted to run away. And his ankles were locked together. Beyond all doubt, he would be wishing he could howl before the moon set. A secure place to stay.
Staying there. Gloves -
If only he could... crawl over to that door across the lot. There were lights on inside there. A hotel, apparently. He looked behind him at the room he'd been hauled out of, vaguely wondering how many days they'd tickled him in there. Time to ride to a place even more... permanent.
He thought of the fucker's thumbs, sliding down into his armpits.
Every night, from now on -
Unless something happened to save him. He wasn't blindfolded - but that was on purpose, right? Yeah, they wanted him to get a last look. He was still going wherever they wanted.
Oily fingers, maddening strong fingers, tormenting his feet... he couldn't take another minute of that. But the harness had wrapped around him. Whatever did that - still pulling the chain taut, a sign that he wasn't going to be released yet - would never, ever let his feet get away tonight. And if not now...
There. To his left. Is it -
Yes. Oh, wow. Yeah.
Four people in the parking lot, maybe fifty yards away, sharing a joint. And his voice was shot.

One of them said something, and they all laughed. Easy, like they didn't have a care in the world. Voluntary. He remembered what that was like.
One of them stepped back and turned around slowly. A woman.
He puffed on the cigar and watched her. She didn't have leather and metal keeping her from running away. No leash. The odds were good she wasn't going to end up howling her guts out tonight.
They were too far away. The room he'd been kept in was at the end of the building. He looked back, and realized that no lights were lit in his cell, or anywhere near it. That's no accident, he figured. The fuckers don't want anybody noticing -
But... they gave him the cigar. He pulled on it hard, making it glow. And there were people in sight. Look, he thought sadly. A cigar. Glance over, and wonder about me. Bondage boy. What's up with him? Why is he going outside like that?
Fat chance. He wasn't going to see one of them look - all of them staring, just before the hands picked him up and took him to a genuine fuckin' nightmare. The ticklers running the damn gloves knew they had no trouble getting him to a secret place where they can dig in night after night, as much as they wa-
Why were they taking the chance?
Something clicked in front of him, and his whipped his head around to see. Ah. There was a pickup truck in the parking space, right there. Old, rusty... With a tarp over the cargo area. Nothing special. No need to look, officer, there's no kidnapped guy in here.
The tailgate was dropping. Slowly. Quietly.
Too slowly. Why were the fuckin' hands taking so long? They could've shoved him in there and started up the truck by now.
Was he supposed to...

Maybe he could yell. Loud enough. He cleared his throat.
But they didn't want him to get out of the tickling. Right? Why hobble him, if they were all done tickling -
His stupidity just amazed him. Of course they weren't done. How could he think that? They were still tickling him a few minutes ago, when they were oiling him up...
All he had to do was yell. Get the other people to look. His voice was shot, but he hoped he could yell loud enough. Once. He wouldn't get a second chance.
Would they help? Or just ignore him? That would suck so bad. What would I do, he wondered? Guy in leather, with a cigar, fuckin' whispering. Help, they're tickling me, hauling me off. Save me. The tickling is fuckin' unbelievable, help m-
The chain jerked once. Not mean, but firm.
Yell, he thought. Right now. While you can. The people might... change things.
Imagine what the ticklers would do, later. If he yelled. They'd punish the absolute fuck out of him. Whoa...
Oil, rubbed slowly on his balls. Way too much. But kinda... nice, despite all the fingers, tickling at the same time. Endless tickling. Mindblowing, firm -
Something touched his leg, and he jumped.

A glove. As he watched, it forced its fingers between his knees. He giggled hopelessly.
Oh, fuck! If he was laughing, how could be yell for help? It was too late. All it had to do was speed up. Aaaaw, the kidnap victim has to go now. Plenty of throbbing, gasping fever-tickling ahead for him.
Rubber hugged tight, riding up his left thigh.
Fuck, fuck, he had to do something. One good yell. Maybe they'd come and pull him away from the ticklers. Maybe. Before the hands tossed him into the truck and peeled out -
"No hoo hoo-oooo," he whispered, coughing. Shit. The people didn't look over at him. No one else came into view...
The cigar was tugged out from between his teeth. Last fuckin' chance. Or else...
He pictured the fingers, tormenting his feet. So shocking, barbaric. Arousing. Making him hysterical, keeping him that way. So ecstatic he couldn't even think straight.
Maybe they just wanted him to think about this - the illusion of getting away. Look back at this moment a thousand times, wishing, thinking of how he could've yelled earlier. That would add a little spice -
The tip of his cock pressed against cold metal. The fuckin' cage.
And he laughed - a quiet, smoky, sly laugh. He was not expecting it to sound like that. It confused him.
He stared at the people... and pictured himself yelling, long and loud.
His mouth closed.

Shaking with laughter, he kept his lips together - and smirked. It felt good, too. Making sure the embarrassment of being seen was prevented. Going along with the game plan, cooperating -
The ticklers lifted him up immediately. He figured out they were going to shove him under the tarp, head first. He squirmed, trying to get a last look at the people who were probably his last hope. Because he was being kidnapped again, moved to a better place for hardcore mutherfuckin' tickling. If the motel wasn't... private enough, or it was too risky, he hated to think about the place they were taking him. Or how long he'd be trapped there.
Long nights spent pumping wearily, and chuckling...
But he kicked and twisted around.
The hands hid him anyway. The whole bed was covered with foam rubber. Thick layers of it. The lone glove raced up one thigh and down the other. Racked laughter exploded out of him. Scratchy and lusty.
So he could still try to yell. But only if he could stop laughing long enough to snag a decent breath.
The tailgate slammed shut, cutting off the light. After the fuckin' fingers slowed down, the cigar was shoved back between his teeth.
He was sorta relieved.

Five stops. The truck idled, so he figured it was waiting at stop lights. The second time that happened, he started to wonder if keeping quiet was such a good idea.
At the third stop, he tried to yell. His voice was so rusty, though. A radio started playing, real loud. From the cab.
The fourth time he hollered louder - and the glove clamped over his mouth.
And finally, he screamed and hollered for a good thirty seconds. But nobody came. The glove left him alone, too. So he guessed there was nobody else nearby.
But a truck with no driver -
Ah. He nodded, bouncing as the truck sped up. Tinted windows.
They were taking him on the freeway.
Very slowly, the glove started rubbing his balls.
He knew that trying to get someone's attention would cost him.

Twenty minutes. He wasn't even sure which way they were going.
Then a rougher highway, with lots of curves...
And then it must've been a dirt road. He was glad they'd put the foam rubber in there.
He bounced along for a half-hour, steeply uphill for a while, so he figured they were almost at the place where he'd be staying down for all the unforgettable fingers.

Finally the truck came to a stop. The kidnapper left the motor running. He wondered if it was going to hide the truck or something, maybe force him to watch it drive off. No chance of using it to escape... and outrunning the tickler seemed pretty damn unlikely. he jumped when the emergency brake chattered -
The tarp started coming off.
He tried to sit up, but he couldn't. So he had to wait for the hands to pick him up.
And he stared at the side of a log cabin.
No windows.
Only one door.

He was carried right into weak light, maybe an oil lamp -
"Oh, fuck."
Shaky voice. Another guy -
There, in the corner. Wiping his eyes. Buzz cut. Muscular.
He was inside a large cage, with a bunch of bags and bottles, empty wrappers...
"Finally," he sighed.

Hanging there, as the bed was made. A rubber sheet, of course. It looked clean.
The cage door unlocked. A bundle floated inside. Clothes. No - fatigues.
I'm the new guy, he thought. The replacement. How long...
"What is this?" he said, even though it was pretty damn obvious.
The soldier moved fast. He seemed like he was real pissed off. Since he'd sounded almost like he was going to cry a few seconds before, the new guy understood the look on his face. And his need for speed... before the kidnapper decided to have two guys around to tickle. Instead of one, the center of attention.
The soldier groaned when he pulled his pants on. His dick had gotten some attention, too. It was obvious from the way he moved.
There was a bed near the cage, with a big pillow. Straps, all ready. He could picture the other guy stretched out there... Angry hoots, oil shining on his chest. A full week. Another month, and another. Laugh it up, private. Shoot your load again. Get used to suffering, terminally amused...
"This place?" His voice was shot too. "It's yours. Welcome home. I'm so fuckin' AWOL it ain't funny." He tried to pull his boots on, but gave it up. He carried 'em, and a camo t-shirt.
"Home?"
The guy looked him over. His eyes narrowed. "I remember that getup." He picked up a hat and pulled it on his head, nodded once, looked around quickly. No gloves coming, though. "You got a smoke?"
"No."
"Of course not..." He walked gingerly, hissing as he did.
"Send help, tell somebody I-"
"Uh-uh. If I don't get the hell outa here, right now, and keep my mouth shut..." He shrugged. "Sorry, bud. Really... But I'm not giving 'em a reason to tickle me any more."
"C'mon, please."
"Better you than me." He walked past. To the door! Pausing...
And he looked at the ground. "Somebody'll come along, like you did."
"When?"
And the soldier jumped, like he'd been poked with a stick. His head turned halfway. But his voice - the tough edge was all gone, suddenly. "What month is it?"
The new guy stared at him. Then he flopped around. "Nooooooooo -"
But the fucker was gone.

His ankle-cuffs were unclipped first, and then his wrists.
The truck clanked. Revved up...
And drove away. That made him laugh. Escape definitely wasn't happening. The sound of the truck getting farther away was too creepy to think about.
Unseen hands laid him down on the bed and got the cuffs anchored down tight. He fought as hard as he could, but they got his ass pinned.
The cabin door closed. A big slab of metal swung down, keeping it closed. A big bolt poked through that, turning slowly as it was screwed into the door frame.
There was a pause. The harness was taken off, slowly. No rush now. The collar went next. Finally, the sunglasses -
But the inmate cap was tugged down harder.
Straps loosened, and the silk around his feet was unwrapped. It fell to the floor. He flexed his toes, thinking about how devious the tickler was. Days of torture with his feet hanging out like this. But this bed had two little dips at the end -
Shiny chrome rings were slipped around each ankle, under the cuff. Now he couldn't bend his ankles as much.
But it got worse. There were holes in the chrome.
Ten tiny eye-bolts came over. One by one, they were stuck into a hole and turned halfway.
Velcro strips were next. Circling a toe - so it couldn't slip loose, he guessed - each of them pulled through a eye-bolt and pressed together.
He couldn't bend his feet. How much unimaginably fuckin' worse would it be now?

Two water bottles floated to him, but he only got to drink one. And then, a big plastic jug was on the way.
When oil poured out of it, splashing all over him, he wasn't the least bit surprised. It didn't forget to drench his feet...
Dull, taut fingers floated down. Ten hands, twelve, fourteen...
Every time he saw 'em moving in for the kill, he twisted and pulled as if there was something he could do about it. But this time his feet barely moved. The perfect targets. Hold still and get nuked tonight.
His cock was throbbing.
Maybe they'll drag somebody else out here before the snow falls. Or maybe not.
"Shit," he mumbled. But the fingers didn't halt.
The pillow was pulled out from under him. Flat on his back, all ready to wail -
Gloves. Aw, fuck.
Pow.

Instantly he was whooping. Real fuckin' hard. Weak, scratchy voice.
Slow fingers, far more powerful than they let on. Thorough gloves everywhere - feet, pits, knees, neck, pecs, gut, inner thighs, ass.
He lunged around, whooping and screaming enthusiastically.
The cock cage was lifting off. Such a huge fuckin' relief...
Damn, he sounded happy.

That thought bugged him, and before the first hour there had passed he caught on. Truth smashed through the chaos in his head. He saw why it sounded like he was enjoying this shit.

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