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A limp form passed through the doorway.
The door closed... and locked.

After a click, soft light found the center of the dungeon floor.
The world's number-four seeded tennis player lay there, starting to wake.

In a fantastic coincidence that could never have been arranged or hoped for, he'd finished a tournament two days before - in sixth place - by announcing that he was taking a long, undetermined break from the sport. From public life. His highly publicized divorce was complete, and only one of his endorsement contracts had not been renewed. At twenty-eight years of age, the rock-star lifestyle had caught up with him... and he let the press know that they wouldn't have him to kick around anymore.

With the help of a powerful sedative, he was transported to the place where the next chapter in his high-octane life would occur. Great care had been taken to keep the location a secret.
 

Sprawled on a thick floor-mat, it took the better part of two hours for him to quit snoring and begin to shake off the effects of the drug.
His left leg rose a few inches off the floor.
A biker boot slid off. Then, the sock. The tennis player's head wobbled, but he was still too impaired to move much at all.
The other foot was bared next...
Belt.
T-shirt.
It was time to add something to his ensemble.
A coil of thick nylon rope hovered over...

Both ankles were tied together.
Several lengths looped through the knots which kept his wrists behind his back.
Looking quite a bit like a confident snake, the rope circled his thighs and shoulders, knotting again as he tried harder to resist. Motor control had returned a few minutes too late.
He gave up the fight after a minute and scanned the room drunkenly, as if he'd recognize something.

He was well-defined without being obnoxiously showy. Nice, solid arms pulled against the rope. He was sweating, grunting, trying to kick as hard as he could...
He wasn't yet aware that there were so many cuffs and straps nearby. More secure restraints were going to make a big impression - undefeatable furniture and fixtures brought here to keep him from... diluting the experience in any way.

And now, wonderfully, the suspense which he must've been feeling was resolved.

A pair of oiled black latex hands found each other.
About a half-meter over his shins, their wearer had 'em share a slow, solid handshake.
His eyes were positively huge.
 

Wrestling with the knots was purely an academic exercise, but his body didn't seem to realize it yet. The skin and muscles seemed to know, and fear, what was in store. The rope was overcoming all sensible urges to flee - at any cost - before the firm hands cruised down. Yes, his body wanted absolutely nothing to do with what the gloves were there for, sure as the sunrise.
The magic hands separated - and swung down, haunting and inexplicably graceful - to his naked feet.
Frantically, he kicked and twisted as much as he could. The thrashing had to bust him loose. It just had to. And he knew to his core that it wasn't going to work.
The magic gloves were going to get their way - no matter how much he couldn't freakin' stand it. They were the winners here, and as the slippery rubber touched his soles he whined out one more pitiful word.
"Noooooo..."

The fingers were tracing down, and across, up and down, side to side.
He almost chuckled, and held it in. No stopping once he... Damn, he had to get away from here - and he just couldn't! Feet on fire, already - they'd barely started, after making sure he couldn't do a damn thing except lay there - and the gloves spread grease all over his feet -
A snort, then another... and he was cackling.

His laughter sounded like rowdy praise. He couldn't stop making noise that was way too happy. The other thing that was suddenly clear was that he was going to laugh a whole lot harder. Shit, that's why the room seemed to be soundproofed. If no one heard him, the fingers would cruise... everywhere. That was the point, and he'd been hauled in here and tied down - for this.
It felt so weird. Totally excruciating, but not pain. Far too much sensation... and it felt far too good. His toes were just going wild.
The gloves weren't pausing, or slowing down. They were worn by some invisible force that knew his feet were vulnerable to just the kind of coverage they were getting.
He bounced, and yanked at the straps - but nothing worked.
They stuck closer to the tender center of his arches, petting more firmly. He threw his head back and roared like a really happy dude.

Tickling, tickling, tickling...
Unbelievable.
Trying to kick and roll and tug didn't give the inhuman fingers any trouble at all.

Something was wet. His face. Shit, he'd been laughing so steadily that tears had been running down his cheeks.
And still the fingers kept piling it on.
 

After an eternity there was another change. Something was different. Less -
He opened his eyes.
The gloves were there, in front of his face. They'd been waiting for him to look...
And then they were heading for his chest.
"Nooooo noooo nn-waaaah hah haaaa-eeeeee!" he crowed.

Stroking, massaging hands blotted out everything else. He thrashed with all he had, but the bonds held tight just as intended. There was nothing he could do to get away from the fingers. So unbelievably ticklish. He couldn't roar his guts out anymore - oh, he tried to shriek or bark, but trying to take in a fraction of the effect going on inside was making it impossible to keep squirming and hollering.

The fingers didn't need to rest.
It was just so impossible. He had to move, to get away, and the ropes were holding fast.

Years seemed to pass.
 

There was soft pressure against his face...
He'd been dozing. All over him, skin was throbbing. Fully awake now. His chest hurt.
Soft material pressed against his pecs - but not his back. Why was his ass up high?
Groaning, the tennis player started bringing his arms down to push himself up -
Gloves slapped his shoulders. Clamped down on his wrists, his elbows...
Giggling immediately, helplessly, he heard metal clicking and saw even more dark hands take control of his upper arms. More fingers. More tickling. Of course. He was scared, even if it was a sure bet. So many spots to dig into, and the enigma wearing the gloves would find every one -
Something jingled quietly. He felt pressure...
Well, fuck, of course. A leather cuff was around each of his wrists. They were a good three inches wide, padded with dark grey neoprene. Two spring hasps connected D-rings to beefy straps. Redundancy, he thought. No opening those connectors without pressing 'em in, and his own fingers couldn't get anywhere near the damn things.
It only figured. Bondage gear. Well-crafted. The visual effect was a bonus. Rope apparently wouldn't do over the long haul. Bad for the circulation, maybe.

Five or six gloves pinned each leg, and bigger cuffs floated to his ankles. It was creepy to watch. He looked around...
More gear was around him. No need to hide anything now. The reason he'd been carried in here was made real fuckin' clear the minute the gloves made contact. To his right there was a webbed sling. More leather. Plenty of shiny rings here and there - big ones - to attach the cuffs. Like a half-hammock, made for keeping prisoners from slipping off.
Over to his left... there were big, scary manacles chained to the wall. More layers of foam had been added to the wall and floor under them.
Gloves started lifting off. Yeah, now his ankles were caught too. He chuckled automatically at the restraints down there, and his voice was scratchy.

He shook his head. That was also useless. Aw, hell, he laughed like he meant it. This couldn't be happening, it was totally impossible, and yet there he was. No idea where he'd been brought. Serious restraints. Gloves, oil - no telling what other shit was here to anchor him. Tickle him until...
He froze. Pulling at the straps hadn't been working anyway. Until he passed out. And that... wasn't all. Pros, with serious equipment, would let him rest. Recharge. And start again!

That was just ridiculous. But so was being caught like this, and watching gloves magically tickle his feet. For hours, learning how to increase the effect on his arches and heels, under his toes, along each side and the tops of each foot too.
Wear him out, make it last, let him sleep. Repeat.
"Oh no, no, noooooooo," he rasped.
Something brushed against the inside of his right thigh. He jumped.
His left thigh had something sweep up too... Two big brown feathers were responsible.
Six more were hanging just over his crotch.

His legs contracted and tried to get busy. The cuffs creaked, but that was it. Not a damn thing he could do -
The contact wandered back down toward his knees.
He started out pleading and begging, even though there was no point at all. Cackles and low hoots kept churning out, making him more and more incoherent as the feathers crawled.

Oh no, no! Seriously intense, everywhere they tickled. He had to get loose. Arch, slam this way, that way, shift his body down. Off the bench. Break the fuckin' straps and kick his way out of this torture chamber -
His ears. Feathers. Tickle-chamber, then. Fuckin' expert, playing with his junk, his knees, and now his ears, after really getting to know his feet. Throwing his head around only bought a few seconds... and then those feathers were back at it. He had to laugh good and hard.
A pair dragged slowly under his nips.

22feb2007