Satisfaction with a hard edge motivates the hands down, right on down, as he tries to brace himself -
They grab his sides.
Immediately the composure is gone, already laughed away. He whips his hair around, protesting with raspy whoops. Fidgeting hard, trying to bounce, he can't do shit about the fingers... so they amble up and back, thumbs threatening his overly sensitive abs. Oh, he just fuckin' makes his distress known - bawling laughter, grabbing a quick breath and just braying it back out.
One hand, and then the other, digs into his armpits.
Yeah! He can't scootch up anywhere near enough, but he tries. The fingers are used with just enough pressure, knowingly covering the shaved contours.
He manages one strained whine - before deranged barks are roared out. Uncontrollable sounds make it clear just how unbearably intense he finds this tickling...
After a few seconds, the gloves let go... and wait. Fingers still clenched, they're ready to pounce again.
He fights for air, watching them move away from his chest - and prepare to slide under his knees.
That makes him slam around, grinding the mattress anxiously, and the whine which slips out of him even before the fingers take hold is already forlorn, almost hysterical.
Bellowing, he hoots as the gloves prod and rub. Kneecaps, hamstrings, the whole joint areas are thoughtfully and sadistically fondled. His upper body seems to be desperate to help move his legs somehow, but all he can do is howl.
Another fifteen or twenty seconds pass before the gloves let go and hover again.
Even though he's panting, the writhing reveals increasing panic. But the hands move... and he shakes his head automatically as they settle, calmly, at his soles -
Dragging just firmly enough, with random squeezes and palm-strokes, the tickling makes a whole different set of muscles resist the bonds. His legs are yearning to move in any direction, even to rotate the stroked feet... but they can't, and of course they won't succeed. No chance, just like yesterday and the days before.
He whines again, squealing - and giggling out a truly unstoppable chain of forced laughter. The higher pitch in his reaction is so strained that it doesn't seem out of place for this ragged son of a bitch. Not at all. The sound is almost like the keening of a wolf who's cornered, trapped, and anxious. He just keeps laughing like it's an effort to keep from roaring, the biker way.
It takes all of ten seconds - certainly not more than fifteen - before his legs twist suddenly, and he takes a big breath. Barking hot laughs at the ceiling, fighting the restraints with less intensity, he's consumed with the effective movement on his arches, around his toes... and his legs discover again that there is not a fucking thing they can do to make the tickling stop.
His chest bounces with the force of his hooting, which sounds forced and yet almost defiant too, somehow lonely, more feral each minute even as his body finds no alternative but to relax and reduce all possible distractions.
Two, four, six more gloves are fetched and filled.
They nestle into position, making him seize up and laugh harder - with so much more force that the volume dwindles. At first his face is tight with the effort, but fatigued muscles settle slowly against the mattress. There is no escape from the sensation for this fucker - still, and always - only the increased sensation which he will endure, concentrating harder than ever, for the rest of the night.
Forty fingers deliver the proven stimulation, tailored to his strongest prior reactions, and his breathing becomes quicker, more shallow, quite sufficent for the inward-facing fever which is tickled into him.
Break time is almost over. He knows it, too.
The feathers start rising one by one.
He can't take his eyes off them. Tugging at the straps, he grits his teeth as the first pair flicks around his belly-button.
With a groan, he shakes his head once, slowly -
A pair of feathers start to saw over his pecs. Flushed nipples, under the softest assault...
His lower jaw is tickled. That makes him gasp, and chuckle, continuing to laugh monotonously. It's a token gesture in response to the much more powerful fire throbbing and rolling through him.
As before, there's not a damn thing he can do except try to feel it all. That's a lost cause. Soon enough he won't even be aware of the restraints, because the coverage of the tickling will keep all other thoughts at bay.
More feathers trace the inside of his thighs.
Bouncing his head once, twice, he gulps air and laughs harder. Still mindless and distracted, as it should be, the noise means nothing. He's buried in stimulation already, and six more feathers are still moving down to his armpits, and shins, and palms...
The satisfaction is growing steadily. His body, cleaned and moisturized, has become so well known. Dependable. Laid out, and the restraints do their job with cheering efficiency.
It's going to methodically work him over again. All day.
Filling the gloves is a huge pleasure. It moves them to his feet. Hanging right there...
Along with the sharp delight, the moment brings another emotion. Being this close to resuming has brought a maddening excitement of another kind. A proven victim, caught as perfectly as ever, yet not being tickled - well, there's something so damn frustrating about it! If he escaped right now, that would be just unbearable. Evading what's in store, one hour after another. What if someone broke in right now and... took him away?
It had better not wait any longer. Not one more second.
Almost frantically charged with thoughts of what could be, and what surely will be instead, it makes the gloves creep slowly in counterpoint. Fingers close around his right arch - and race down his left sole! There, you wannabe-escapee. Not today. Oh, no. More watery-eyed dementia for you, and it starts right now.
With a vague kick and a grunt, his eyes flutter open. A grunt turns into coughing. It pauses the gloves impatiently until he's done hacking. And then - his left foot is gripped, with that satin thumb massaging cruelly, as his right foot is warmed up.
"Nuh," he moans. Almost a quick sigh follows, and a quick breath is snagged. Then he desperately tries to roll over...
And he laughs.
Delightful. The scratchy volume has been fading away during the first ten or fifteen minutes. But right now he can't stop himself from greeting it with those sleepy, unwilling reactions, begging in the only way he can for it to stop the gloves.
But it tickles his soles firmly. Now that's thoroughly enjoyable. Always time to celebrate...
His legs try everything - passionately motivated - but its leather has them well under control, spread and anchored so it can provoke all the way up, cover his belly, and deliver absolutely disabling contact to every inch of his sides. His fists try to rotate, but those arms won't hinder it any more than they have since it caught him.
This, it thinks greedily, is why it went to all the trouble... making the fingers slide faster, wildly happy to stroke the ball and sides and heels of each foot. Leave the hysteria to him. He writhes in the solid overload simply because it longs to make him this feverish. Another full day awaits.
A second pair of gloves is lifted and filled.
Squirming without conviction, he watches them come. Forlorn laughter is his only way to order them to stop - not begging, it seems, for even he must realize the absence of mercy or pity - but it chooses to respond to his mindless chuckling as if he's inviting the inevitable, embracing it even as the satin hugs his ribcage. Arching and whooping won't make it take them away. Nothing, actually, will abbreviate this.
Four hands polish and roam...
He's just deranged already. Only four hands, and it's got him wide awake now. Laughing, all alone, and the gloves aren't going to take it easy today. He's registering more of the pleasure, of course, and that makes it more determined to push a little harder. Increase the effect. He's up for anything it wants to try.
The gloves get between his toes, and scratch luxuriously in his armpits.
Immediately he thrashes harder. Bouncing, snapping... one weak howl after another.
It is cheered by the feedback he gives, heard by no other. The party continues.
Damn right it does.
12jul06