The setting is common enough: cheap motel room, dark and run-down. A naked guy sprawled across the bed, just barely starting to wake up.
He knows this room real well. Doesn't he though.
And he's known too. Remembered. Tested and proven. He was driven 250 miles tonight to wake up in here. Same ratty carpet and drapes, and nothing else. Except the bed -
He open his eyes a little, and starts to turn over. Stops. Blinks a few times, yawns, and lifts his head groggily.
Thick rope, tethering him. Making it all possible.

Eight months have passed since the first time he was here.
Now he's rested and ready for more.
Much more.

Last time, as the feathers were gently shredding him, those days and nights of raw hormonal glee -
There was a voyeur. Silently watching him. Transfixed by his extreme throes of pleasure. Fantasizing about what he'd be going through if it ran the show.
Waiting its turn.
And now the wish becomes reality. He's tied and in position for a lot more excitement. Hunted, caught, and back in the room where the feathers played. Stripped and pinned - and this time, knowing why. Well aware of the big picture.
But now he's due for much more than feathers. A dozen other ideas are waiting their turn. Weeks of stores have been laid in. It went to a lot of trouble to get him here. His pecs, his toes, his knees, his glans.
To get at him for much longer than the feathers did.

He shuts his eyes, shaking his head a little - and starts to wrestle.
But he's cunningly tied.
Not getting away.
This takes him about thirty seconds to discover. He's learned from his prior experience in this position, alright.
He makes a sudden final kick, and yells an obscenity in his frustration -
And there's movement in the dark.
Cloth, rolling over his lip, between his teeth. Wrapping under his ears, and knotting. It likes the act of gagging him almost as much as the sight...
More cussing and yelling, tossing his head all around. Then he settles down and glares, knowing the gag will stay snug.
He closes his eyes and lays there. Before long, an utterly doomed expression appears on his face.
The street outside is quiet. Not a soul around to hear. The gag isn't necessary, but it reminds him of what's coming... of all the deliberate thought that's gone into the experience, the intentional digs and swipes it's getting in.
And the gag will look better still when he's leering around it. That weary, vacant grin, divided by a red kerchief...
He looks all around. Bed, ropes, curtains, drab walls. Looking for feathers, perhaps -
Doing a double-take. There's something... up near the top of the drapes, where the backwash of moonlight is strongest, posed where he'll see it.
Firmer, larger, more versatile -
The voyeur shows him a hand. Well, actually, a glove. Jet-black satin. One of fifty, tailored expressly for him. To have fun with him.
He gasps.
The magic glove starts to approach. He screams and gives the ropes some determined testing...
When he gives that up -
Soft fingertips graze his right nipple.

Does he ever flop around! Angry yells, dampened to an amusing level. His nipple is squeezed and rolled, and he arches desperately, stuttering - oh, was that a chuckle?

And the voyeur earns a new title...
Provocateur.

Savoring his tension, the fingers bypass the sweaty breastbone for now, landing next on his belly. Around his navel, skimming through hair. The muscles are so tense, underneath them...
He chortles energetically, still fighting the need.
About a minute later, the glove wanders lower -
Petting his shaft. Making it stiff.
He squirms... and twists drunkenly, making the smuttiest noises it's heard tonight. The satin is repositioned on his balls, giving 'em a good warmup. Filthy snickering.
From there to his left thigh. Soulful hooting is forced out of him as it slides down and up, and down...
Clasping his knee, and sneaking underneath. He whoops diligently and starts to tug again. Another fun minute. Then it lifts off him, floating in the darkness. Meeting up with another glove.
He looks down to them with huge eyes. Pleading loudly into the gag.
Shadows move -
And lay claim to his soles.
Erratic convulsions. Loud and lusty racket.

Twenty exciting minutes.

Voc lets him rest. It holds on tight to each instep, not moving on 'em but making it clear this is only a pause. There's more of the same in his immediate future.
It's even more satisfied than it had expected to be.
When he's caught his wind, contorting around with strangled grunts -
The delirious play resumes.

Unpredictable assaults and rests.
Several minutes of braying, and random thrashing around. Followed by odd intervals of raspy recuperation in the dark. Steely hands still parked around his throbbing feet, guaranteeing more to come.
Sometimes water is trickled through the gag, reminiscent of his brief stay last summer.
Voc lets him recuperate, and then they whip him up again.

Ten reps.
Fifteen.
Twenty.

The sky is just barely starting to lighten when the gloves load up with moisturizer and work it in liberally, conscientiously. Maddening him until he's all tense again. Giggly howls...
Until the grips slow down, and loosen - and leave. Resting these feet for later.
He pulls himself together.
One of the gloves takes a towel and wipes up sweat. Torso, face, and torso again. He hoots thickly at the quick wipes of the cheap, scratchy terry-cloth.
The other glove brings a box -
Cigarettes. He stares at a full carton as it comes, looking good and hungry.
It's been a lot of hard hours since he burned one, hasn't it? And the gag would have to come out. A few blissful minutes - maybe a couple smokes, maybe a whole pack - with no gloves diggin' in.
The other glove helps get a pack out and opened, tearing all the top foil off. All those smokes... Nudging one out halfway, dropping the carton next to his leg -
Yet another satin glove sets an ashtray on the edge of the mattress, dives, and reappears with a disposable lighter.
The expression on his face is perfect consuming need. He watches the pack come closer -
And another pair of gloves zooms up. New. Dry...
One takes the lighter, and the other grabs the pack. And they hang there above him, hefting their burdens a little in that thoughtful way. Hmmmm. Make him smoke, or not?
He should've known the answer, from his last visit here. There's no chance Voc will pull the gag yet. Ten more reps, and a nice long nap, and another ten just for fun. Maybe then...
The pack is thrown, hard, against the far wall.
The lighter is dropped alongside the carton. Handy. Everything he needs for a nice relaxing break, right on the mattress with him. At least until he bounces 'em off in his runaway merriment...
He wails twice.
The gloves settle on his ribs.

Slow and deep. Coaxing wild squeals out of him. Rocking, slamming his head up and down. Voc maddens him through the cloth fingers, varying pressure and location and speed. With the occasional visit to his hips, and armpits...
Holding on snugly when he needs to catch his breath.

After the first few reps, he's past flailing around. Just lies there, chuckling like a baboon. Gone, buried in it, tucked in. Not even here. Oblivious to the decaying room. Hooting and grunting his way through an orgy of fondling.

The reps continue long after he's silent.
The breaks last as long as he needs. Until he's breathing deeply again. Voc's hands clench -
And he tenses up, face contorted, eyes shut tight. Sometimes his head drifts around while he cackles - without a sound. A little more piss dribbles out. Then his cock stands up again...
The resistance fades within a minute or two. Except for the feeble movements when another rest break starts, and the desperate resistance when the tickling resumes, the casual observer might not suspect how fiercely he was reacting eleven hours ago. But there's only one observer here, and it's conscientiously handling his armpits and sides.

By mid-afternoon, he's asleep. Charging up for tonight.

After dark, he hoots softly until he wakes up. Confusion, and panic... until he pulls hard on the ropes. That seems to bring it all back.
The gag is gone, but so is his voice. Voc brings a water bottle up. Then, a bag of trail mix. He nods off after a few mouthfuls.

Midnight comes and goes. Then, bar rush...
The street is quiet again. His car is well-hidden, of course. No one came snooping around. No reason why they would...
He wakes up more gradually. A few sneaky tugs on his bonds, and he stares at the ceiling.
Voc feeds and waters him. Then the sound of cellophane gets him to look...
He takes the cigarette without a fight.

A little later, he discovers the juice bottle between his legs, strategically placed. It changed the sheets while he slept - no point in letting him foul 'em already...
He starts another smoke, drinks more water. Voc waits him out. Still a little dehydrated, maybe.
When he's taken in more water and burned another cig, he finally pisses a fair amount. Voc decides he's ready for action.
Time to direct his attention to its preferred playthings. A shape floats in the dark -
A bottle. He sees it, and tries to flail his arms. It tilts -
Oozing. Down his toes, the insteps, both sides of his soles. Thick streams joining back up under his heels, pattering on the musty shag.
From above, it brings the decisive material to exploit this combination of oil and seriously trapped feet...
He tracks 'em. They arrive, and squeeeeeeeze. Latex. He arches in a most pleasing way, apparently screaming. Voc massages painstakingly. His toes are going wild, straining against the cords that prevent his feet from flexing.
The gloves fuck him up. Let him rest. Start in on him again...

After a dozen reps, several more applications of oil, three liters of water, five smokes - Voc's gloves let go of him.
Making room...
For steel.
Metal probes, rounded to a smooth tip. Cool spots making contact with the center of each arch. Tracing up -
He gasps. Voc is flattered.
Dragging all around, slipping between toes, from ball to heel and back. And he's wild.

Rep after grueling rep.

Eventually, he gets a can of sardines, more water, a few more cigarettes...
And more oil. This time, after making sure his feet are greased up right, Voc levitates the bottle... over him. Belly. It tilts -
And the latex fingers are right there, spreading oil up to his chest, down past his navel. Untroubled by his throes of pleasure -
Out to increase 'em.
Ready, so ready. And able...