He's sore. He doesn't want to be awake. Why is that?
Then it dawns on him. Slowly, he opens his eyes a little.
White. Ceiling, walls, floor. Still here. Oh no. And he can't pretend he's asleep, now -
Some fingers slide down his right sole. Aw, fuck, this is - not again -
And he jerks hard, like a shock all the way through him. A small pack of 'em, maybe six, or eight, starting again... No.
But he's not awake, not enough... start by trying to roll over -
Shit, shit, they're takin' hold, wherever he's open. He makes this high-pitched "Aaaah!," not very loud. And he starts to chuckle. Thick, sleepy -
It's insane, again, how much this gets to him. Just can't think straight, wantin' to scream. A glove takes hold of his left instep - steadying it, not pinning it down hard, not yet, that'll come later - and more satin runs up and down on his sole.
He yells, and laughs. All of the blood that should be in his brain has rushed to his cock. They're squeezing and rubbing him slow, and he tries to flail. And he can't.
Aren't you supposed to get numb after a while? A few days or something?
This is the most enormous, ridiculous rush. They stroke him, too careful, too well. Letting him try to turn, get up, pedal. He sets his head and arches his back way up high, chortling. Raspy, smutty laughs. How come he still has a voice at all?
And he never wakes up dirty. What's up with that? Later on, sure. What are they doing to him while he's sleepi-
Never mind that! Just never mind, he's gotta throw 'em off, now, before they get the straps on him again. Oh, shit, no, not another hour of that, bein' unable to squirm around at least. Not another day, aw, no...
It's all he can do just to stand it. They squeeze his hips and rub his pecs and he wrestles around, and it doesn't do any good, it never does. Morning after morning of this reflex, actually being able to jerk his leg and feel it move some. The luxury of getting himself over on one side, to protect it. Move an arm. Anything.
He can't do any of that when they've got him strapped to the pad. And that's when they really get busy. Oh fuck, this is insane, he's gone insane. He must have, he's over the edge. In a rubber room somewhere, thinking there's gloves tickling him all day, every day...
His fist beats the pad a few times. He laughs a little harder. It doesn't help.
Trying to curl up, jerking his feet to try and throw 'em... and he can't seem to tuck. It's his left hand. The one he was just slamming up and down, total frustration, gotta laugh so fuckin' hard he can't stand it, just the feel of 'em is just too much, way too much and they're hardly even workin' at it, they'll really kick it in gear later, fuck, bear down and race, dig in. Straps - he's gotta not let 'em, try harder, c'mon, now. It's hard, so hard... to do anything. Move -
He was moving, before. What was he trying t- Curl up. That's it. He slithers a little further down, satin grinding all under his left side like a huge monster glove. Sneaky, then pulling harder, little tugs. Not moving. He hoots and thinks hard about his arm, just his left arm, and squints at it, eyes all blurry -
Two gloves on his wrist. Pinning it. Another one fingering in his armpit, blanketing his nipple with its palm...
The strap is not that far from where his hand is. Not good, not good -
All wobbly and shit, he yells once to clear his head and scoots his ass - satin, making that noise as he slides on it! - so he's almost sitting, and he plants his feet on the satin and pulls, feeling 'em let go, there's no way he's been able to outdo 'em so far so they must be playing. Give him some line, reel it back in, playing him. So he's sitting, twisting and trying to duck out from under the gloves, squeezing him, hips, pits, petting his throat, landing again on his feet -
Randomly flopping over, and he tries to crawl, it's so fuckin' hard, a few inches, c'mon, get a few more.
White padding. Flat foam. Everywhere, all the same, can't even tell where the light comes from, just solid padding. Surrounded. Huge fuckin' room. He crawls, as they keep right on tweakin' him... He thinks the door is that way. There is no door, he can't see it or anything, they must've put padding over it 'cause he's sure as hell spent enough time looking for it and there isn't one but he thinks that could be the wall, there has to be a door somewhere. At least fifty feet to the wall, to any wall, pad's right in the center of the room, main attraction, a few more inches, excellent, maybe this time he'll actually - how much fuckin' foam did they use to make this place, cover it all up, all sides, thick fuckin' foam box. Rubber room, but not really rubber, some kind of foam. Rubber room is just a saying, he might be insane though, except the feel of the mutherfuckin' gloves is nothing imaginary and why the hell would they need a padded room this size anyway, padded warehouse and he's the only thing in it, the only fucker gettin' the treatment.
It'll take forever to crawl that far and they never let him run, walk, stand up, all that distance to cover and they won't quit t-
Fingers get a grip on his ankles. Two gloves, each leg - He looks, and sees he almost made it completely off the flat pad, the one with the satin sheets on it, he's way out there on the foam. He tries to claw the foam, same kind below and above, on the walls, so far to go yet, gotta make it to the wall -
The gloves lift... pick his legs up a little bit.
They drag him back - across the satin, back on the pad! He grits his teeth at the feeling, busy trying to catch a grip with his fingers, going backward. Like a huge satin hand wiping him, knees thighs belly chest, all at once -
Stop. His hands are back on the sheet. All of him. He can squawk now, and he does, nice and hard.
Four gloves are ready to grab his right arm. There's one of the canvas cuffs, hanging in the air...
They start to wrap it around his right wrist. He's still gotta squeal, shaking from the drag across the sheet, thrusting gently, more inside himself, can't help it, but not ready to cum. When he moves his hands again, starting over on that long crawl, he's cuffed on the right and they're doing his left, and he gets a couple inches off the pad before he halts. Can't go any further, 'cause his legs won't move, 'cause they're getting cuffed too.
And then it's real simple for them to ease him onto his side, tickling away. He has to squeal some more, and whine, you can't, he can't put up with this, crazy or not you gotta let him go. How many days are they gonna do this to him? This can't be right, he didn't do anything, this is a nightmare except he keeps on waking up and he's still here, padded room, and the gloves are tickling and tickling.
He rolls over, trying to squash the fingers in his left armpit. Leave him the fuck alone... How can this be happening, after all these days he's gotta get out of here, this can't be what crazy is like... Every set of fingers, scrabbling heavily... the cum working it way up from inside, and the horniness, that's not a fantasy either. This can't be real, he has to be imagining this place, these fuckin' gloves, day after day -
His arms are... they're holding 'em out. They have his arms out - wait a minute, they have his legs too. Gloves pinning him, and the straps won't be far behind. How many fucking gloves are there anyway?
One of 'em gets a good grip on his meat. He barks a couple of real loud laughs. It just holds him tight, not sliding, not helping, and usually it'll be a long fuckin' time before he can manage to shoot. Wanting to, so bad -
Strong fingers, around his shaft, tight but not painful. Empty fingers. He can't look right now, gotta giggle, just has to, but he's seen it before, here, a whole lot of times, an empty fuckin' glove, you can see the insides plain as day, big ol' opening for a hand and there's no hand in it, a glove cruisin' through the air, by itself, to come fuck with his pecs. Empty cloth, with a firmness that took his breath away. Strength. All over him, and how many times has he laid here and stared, right down the inside of 'em, magically tickling the shit out of 'em and they're empty, empty.
This one that's got his rod - now that is really happening.
If only this were a dream, or insanity...
Whatever they're doin' to him, when he sleeps, maybe he's sleepin' for eighteen hours at a time or something, he comes around and he's at least as sensitive as he was the first day. Not wearin' out. He woulda thought, after a few days of this shit... all-out tickling, high-intensity, pull out all the stops, maybe three or four days and he'd be done, too sore to take any more, maybe numb...
This is crazy. But he isn't.
The gloves pull his arms up a little, further out by a couple inches. Closer to the straps, get 'em in range and through the cuffs. Canvas, pulling tight - again - holding him down...
The room was made for this. They went out and hunted, caught him. Shit, how long ago? Ten days? Two weeks?
He arches again, and again, lifting way off the satin sheet. Whooping and raving. He's gotta really twist and squirm while he can. There'll be a lot of hours when he'll wish he could, so bad, and he's stretched out just right, his feet seem like they're a mile away and he can't ever get to 'em but they're still as shocked by the workout, screaming nerves, he can't ever reach 'em to make it stop.
And when he gets done, his hands slide out a little farther. Closing the gap.
Another day, they can't-
This is really happening, it's still going on...
02jan99