Real tough guy, all right. Little fucker.
They take the hard line, slamming him down in the chair. He wants to play rough... So they jam the cuffs on him viciously, making bruises.
A roaring of curses, massive wrestling around - and there. The handcuff chain is safely through the snap hasp.
The chair groans as he pulls furiously. This won't work, it'll fall apart if he keeps this up...
A rumor, this wild idea they'd heard, might distract him long enough to get him held down solidly. A glove goes to get something...Still cussing as he watches the leather fingers digging into a dark sack -
Other fingers? A glove, wearing a glove.
He squints at it, and snorts disgustedly. "What? Right. Sure. What is this black shit - silk? Whatya gonna do, braid my hair? Tic-"
A long, silent pause. Eyes widening. Quite a reaction there, all of a sudden. Intriguing. He starts to squirm.
Two gloves come and grab his t-shirt, pulling apart - ripping it open.
The dull-shiny acetate hand heads for his chest. Not silk. Satin.
"Naw, naw, oh no," he says hollowly.
Fingers lay down -
He sucks in a breath real quick, still wriggling. The cloth swipes down his breastbone -
Slam. He rears back. Hard.
He's silent, shocked at the sight of the shiny black hand on him. Two seconds... five... and it moves again, sliding as he wrestles -
And grins. Nice and big.
The palm slides to his stomach - back and forth -
He chuckles desperately. It's bearing down harder now, roaming up and down. He thrashes violently... and laughs. Body full of resistance, voice sounding kinda happy. Another leather is crawling into a satin cover. Others begin making more...
Seriously distracted, he watches the second hand approach... and circle his neck, slide south and drag across his chest. He's laughing more angrily, pulling at the cuffs harder. Starting to sweat.
Fingers graze his lower side -
Immediately he tenses up, yelping once, struggling all but forgotten.
The gloves move... pressing around his ribs, between 'em, and into his armpits. Slamming his eyes shut, teeth clenched, he swivels backward as if goin' somewhere, chuckling from the gut, trying to keep from roaring any harder...
The hands get busy.
Satin, sparing no attention on his sides, and leathers squirting epoxy under the chair legs to anchor 'em better. A pair brings out a coil of rope and a box-cutter... starts cutting one-yard lengths of soft, thick nylon braid. When the cement tube is empty, gloves press down on the cross-bars of the chair to set the epoxy, while others ease his boots off...
He's so intent on trying not to laugh that he doesn't even look. His feet are pulled a few inches below the front cross-bar, counter-tied against all the legs... a thick, white web tightening down. Replacing the handcuffs with a dozen loops of rope is next.
The box-cutter comes over, slides under the left cuff of his jeans - the razor blade popping up, sliding north like a shark fin, the denim parting like water behind it... and the rest of the leathers are rapidly snagging black satin gloves for themselves.
The pair rubbing him are quick on his torso, full-contact... He shakes his head now and then, limbs tense, face red and wet. But he's not any louder, managing to hold down the volume to the coarse, gravelly snickering...
His jacket is being cut off. The socks going... the underwear.
The covered gloves polish his midsection faster, harder. His head goes back. Hee-hawing with gusto. Unaware of his right arm coming around, being anchored... the scraps of his t-shirt being tugged off.
The massaging gloves slow, then pull off. His chuckling takes a few seconds to die down, replaced by more and more panting. Eventually, he looks -
No gloves... right near.
After several minutes, his body's relaxed again. Breathing starting to return to normal...
Squinting down, looking himself over. No clothes. A ton of rope, staunchly holding him in an expectant posture. Wide-open, right at hand. Ready for action.
Hunched forward slightly, wrists not moving from the ends of the chair arms, legs up some and bowing out. It looks like miles of white rope.
He pulls very diligently for a long time. Side to side, pushing, straining to rotate his hands and feet... something. Tugging again.
The ropes hold.
The industrious gloves a couple yards away are dropping things, picking up other shit and coming over.
He exhales shakily as another pair of leather gloves hides in satin... and another, and another...
Pulling without hope on the more-than-adequate bonds.
The last pair suits up for him, teasingly, above his feet.
In the windowless room, the bare light bulb shows a shadow on his skin, a sleek hand settling behind him, not faltering as it doubles back -
On him. Right armpit, digging zealously.
He whoops, a quick one... and laughs, keeps laughing.
Another hand taxis in for a landing. Probing his left armpit. Hoots and squirming, the irregular yell for help. Cinderblock and solid-core steel contain his noise completely. No help coming.
Slippery fingers get to know him, exploring his sides. As they start to creep further, down and back and - he's bellowing, pulling harder -
Stop. All stop, lift off one by one.
One pair, approaching. Descending...
His face shows pure dread and unbelief.
Cool fingers curl around his balls, loosely squeezing his meat.
Stroking.
A quick whine, and his head's lolling again, side to side. Just has to try to slip the ropes... Glancing back at the satin - at others, a second pair approaching - and he's wide open, unable to interfere. Full hands holding each thigh, high and inside... crawling, like sleek blood-pressure cuffs, toward the others and... away...
The hands are gentle, unrushed. Satin. Mandatory. He pulls, straining fully at the ropes. Groaning, growling - he's angry. Peering toward the gloves on him, curling, gliding solidly...
Head rolling back, as he cackles hard. Restless.
Uninterrupted teasing. Fucker ain't so tough now. Tons of time... That rumor about the stroking sure does pay off, bigtime. Unbelievable. A lot to learn...
But for now, the original game plan. The gloves keep egging him on...
He peeks again, head forward - staring with difficulty at the four glossy hands fucking with him, about ten inches from his chin. Tender, dawdling. Sweat beads on his temples and chest.
His cock stands almost straight up.
Gloves nuzzling... puttering...
08jul98