He threw his head back and laughed. Joy was on his face. Exertion, and that tension of a-little-too-much-fun. But he was jazzed. His arms jerked at the cuffs, but that was involuntary.
The oil, and those obviously talented fingers... getting to know him. The cell was hidden, so it didn't matter how loud his howls bounced off the walls.
After a few minutes the fingers slowed down. It took almost as long for him to stop cackling, catch his breath and open his eyes.
Two more of my gloves were threatening to grab his sides. Shiny with lube, just waiting for him to see. When he squealed in fright, they moved in.
"No no no naaaa aaaahhh huh hah hah hah haaaaaah!"
The others fuckin' dug in again. Feet, and ribs.
He couldn't thrash hard enough... couldn't laugh loud enough.
After a while, I gave him time to get his breathing back to normal. Then, some water...
He didn't look blissful now. The expression would return. As he saw four of my gloves slowly take position again, his face was full of alarm. His restraints were sound - so the gloves could just pick up where they left off, over and over and over again.
And that's exactly what I did.
Dude gets past that wild hooting, now dazed just enough to save his energy (unwillingly) and settle in, and he's good for two solid hours of thickheaded suffering now. He knows it well enough.
I bet he wants a smoke.
But I want something too. So I snap the cuff of a latex glove, just enough. And he comes around enough to squint. I've trained him with that sound, though I doubt he realizes it. Yo, dude, check it out.
He groans at the fingers working slow and maddening on his ribs, and gut...
Well, now, why don't I just have those hands of mine just aaa-amble on down?
"Aw nuh now you guh-gotta be..." and he can't hold the laughter back any longer. Rough, happy lunatic laughter. "Aw nooooooo..."
He chuckles and snickers at my gloves, curling around his meat. Cupping his balls, poking down into the leg crease on one side and sneaking under the other thigh.
When I start moving 'em all, he whoops and lurches around. Pure frustration, shredded by stimulation that makes him pant and moan.
Oh yeah, dude's gonna get his rocks off again. He's so much more hypersensitive for the time that follows.
For a long minute all he can do is laugh. Several unwilling, impassioned sounds...
"Shit," he wails happily, "this j-just fucks me up so much. You gotta stop, all of you, aw pleeeeeeze, make 'em staaaaahp..."
Then he can't help but cackle again, a sound full of lusty protest - but easy, relaxed, overwhelmed and yet fully engaged. My fingers make the inevitable reaction strengthen, yet again, and he can do no more than squirm in the restraints. And laugh for me. It's raspy, overheated, weary...
It's been a good two hours since he's said anything. In the zone, he is.
I'm torturing you, lowlife, yeah I'm still stronger than you'll ever be, more powerful, and when I started back in today you laughed good and hard. For the longest time, your response was hysteria. So I'm digging in all the rest of the day - and you're still smiling even now.
I'm... torturing your criminal, tough-guy ass for weeks and weeks. My gloves and tools will keep the tickling coming solid and steady.
Waking up, he never really gets active anymore. I don't know what I'm seeing here, but my best guess is that his body is betraying him, preserving consciousness for as long as possible.
And ol' biker here would just love to pass out after a few hours. Wouldn't he?
A feather strokes his foot.
He startles, grunts quickly, tries to strrrretch the straps.
That one feather, in no hurry, gets him to groan, hiss in air, writhe more, moan, grunt again - a third time - and when he exhales, a single chuckle slips out.
So my relentless feather continues.
He looks like he just blurted out a secret. Groan-growling, clenching his teeth, he tries a lot harder to free that leg.
And a few laughs, natural as they could be, leak from his mouth.
A wonderful pause, just a few seconds - but the dam has been breached. Angrily, he starts to snicker. Barked noise, with unmistakable anger.
Revving up. Less irregular, gradually getting louder.
He closes his eyes - pulls with everything he's got - sags, and whoops merrily. This is aw shit, here we go again, I can't believe this shit laughter. From the heart...
Time to start the second feather.
A squeak, a pained squeal - and he pops with bellowed, feisty roaring. Slamming around as much as he can. Then, breathing deeply - so he can just fuckin' roar for me.
Now that he's defeated, again... I resume tracing up his back with feathers.
He's still panting as I slide a towel over him, quickly and lightly, removing the pools of sweat. This time my towel doesn't even rate a glance from him, much less additional squirming. Or protests.
"You're not going to stop," he'd babbled endlessly. That was an hour ago.
Bullseye, I'm not anywhere near done with him.
His powerful body was pulled just as taut by the straps as it had been when I first restrained him. That was almost three hours ago. His skin had a glow to it, a radiance, in addition to the expected ruddy flush. The surfaces - as well as the underlying muscle - were positively thriving on what he was going through. This is unusual. His body really likes this kind of excitement.
The tickling was making him crazy, but that was also part of the plan. Addled, scrambled, unable to think his way out of the impact - and he sure wasn't going to physically elude it. It was only eleven o'clock. Hours and hours to go.
Big fun in that cabin. Hidden from the whole world, stockpiled with food and toys. All set.
A long stay was entirely possible. He was certainly enough of a challenge.
He finally opened his eyes - and saw four oily leather gloves hanging there above his chest. A delightful groan, feeble pulling at the cuffs...
"No! Not possible," he croaked. That was his most recent mantra.
In the night, in the deep forest, in the locked cabin, in the cross-hairs of a excited tickler with dozens of ideas, in the undefeatable restraints... I sent the fingers down to his skittish armpits and feet.
He bellowed hoarsely - a shout of amusement, goosed up far too high - and thrashed as much as he could. Side to side, head lolling, eyes squeezed shut. The stimulation was just too much for him to bear, and I was ready to crank it up some more.
There. He was a whooping animal, pinned and ridden, and he seemed to believe that no one else would find out about his ticklish distress.
My hollow fingers stroked and squeezed with confident, sadistic precision.
Not only possible, I thought triumphantly, but unstoppable. I am going to make you crazy until the sun comes up. Tomorrow will be even more grueling, because I'm getting to know exactly how to lay into the fourteen ticklish spots I've located on your rewarding body...
His body jerked without any effect, or hope, but I kept right on making him howl. He was far too interesting to play with.
The night seemed to last for a whole month. His delirious workout would continue, oh yeah.
And one day inevitably followed another...
2017