Well, looky here. Annoyed and frustrated, but he's not scared at all.
So that bullwhip tattoo wasn't his own idea, huh? He knows the score. Not the first time for him.
But it just might be the worst.
He's tryin' to pull the ropes loose, make 'em snap. Cussin' every other word, some real loud.
Yellow teeth and fingers - none of that here, though... no ashtray, no matches. Sure, there's a pack of Raleighs on the nightstand, but it's unopened. Stayin' that way, too. He can look and whine all he wants, but his lungs are gonna be too busy to smoke.
Even despite the spare tire, he's in real decent shape.
Anchored. Nekkid.
Wide open.
Vulnerable - that's him. Those ribs, impossible for him to protect. Bound, tender feet. Unguardable crotch, completely exposed thighs. All held right in place, ready for unrestrained teasing.
And no smokin' to interrupt the flow, cut his wind, rouse him even slightly from the delirium.
The bed frame rattles once, at the head end. He cranes his neck frantically, missing the motion of black hands floating slowly from under the bed from each side. Leather gloves, five to start, carry lemon-sized gobs of Vaseline toward his ribs - and take position over his gut and feet.
The closest pair lands on his sides. Pressing in, moving up. Surprise...
"Oh fuuuuck," he yells, dissolving into guffaws. Why, he's drastically sensitive!
A pound of grease squishes on his belly... and lower. At least an inch oozes from between his toes.
Leather hands on the move.
One drawn-out, massive shudder - and he roars.
They slide all over him, not just skimming. Lifting off his skin only a little, angling up slightly to catch the Vaseline that builds up along the thumb and pinky from each stroke.
A couple more gigantic snaps at the rope - and he stays. Captured.
Roars like a Viking. The leather hands keep at it, clench and rubdown. A couple more coat his calves with the grease, now his shins -
That gets him flailing again. Laughing mindlessly, trying hard to evade and twist. Shining fingers grip and squeeze. No friction at all, just the heavy ride...
Opens his eyes just a little, a pained smirk making him squint, as a glove drops onto his pecs. Palm down, smearing Vaseline all over.
His laughter drops down in volume, but looks and sounds more strained.
All eight gloves persevere, diggin' in. He stays put, not sliding off the bed or out of the ropes... Making ecstatic whining sounds as a hand works on his meat, as palms bear down on his soles. Staunchly hooting. He'll piss soon, and before too long he'll start eyeing that pack of smokes, hopin' for one. For the whole pack. But his hands aren't gonna go for the cigs, and no glove's gonna oblige. They're all busy.
So is he.
23may97