I knew. Right before the hood was pulled off, I swear, the main thing that was about to happen was all too clear. My ankles were so fuckin' immobilized. An idea came to mind, for why that might be, but it was unthinkable.
My wrists were cuffed alongside the bench, or whatever it was - no strain, no effort to sit there. But I couldn't cover my sides. Air played across my chest, under my balls. Even though the light was dim, I could see them.
Instantly the idea I had, of what would be insane and unbearable, was totally blown away. I had been picturing a pair of hands... tickling my feet. Even though there had been a lot of fuckin' hands taking me down and carrying me inside, the notion of ten fingers that could work on my helpless feet was more than I could really deal with.
But there were a lot more than two magic gloves. Dark purple. Eight, ten, twelve. Floating, like magic - but they were taut. And shiny. Packed full of, what, energy? Graceful, and slippery.
Phantom hands.
Pulling at the cuffs didn't do shit. I couldn't cover up at all. So many fingers...
I stared at the closest pair. It would have been more reasonable - somehow easier to take - if there had been knuckles. The usual bulges, or the sign of fingernails there. But the fingers were smooth. Unnatural.
These were the hands that had grabbed me. Whether they had been wearing gloves or not, at the time, they were fuckin' strong. Gloves just don't fill up and float like that.
Terrified, I knew why they were satin. I was so fucked. Sneaking a look around, the room confirmed the very worst fears I had. It was a cell. Dark brick, quiet, musty-smelling. Underground, probably. Stocks were in the corner, chains hung down from the ceiling, there was a rack to my right...
And a cart filled with tubs. Feathers, brushes, bottles.
I had to get the hell out of there... and nothing was working. Thick cuffs held me down.
The door was closed. Probably locked. It was a secret room. No one would find out. The insanity could go on and on.
Trying to calm down and think was just not working. The gloves were over my chest, allowing me to study them. To think about how fuckin' soft that material was. Free to roam, torture, rub - and I'd lay right here, screaming laughs. I could try all I wanted to believe that it wasn't really gonna happen - but I knew better. Couldn't fuckin' move, either.
Human hands would've been one thing, but smooth, slippery gloves were... probably worse. They looked like trouble. The posture of the fingers, somehow, said that the hands inside 'em were total winners. Competent as anything, totally at ease. Completely lacking mercy, too. I was there, and the tickler won. Wanted me to know -
I realized that magic hands don't get tired. Sympathy was out of the question. They just looked ready. I mean, driven. Not playful, exactly, and not taunting. I knew they were gonna deliver. Absolutely fuckin' sociopathic. And they could get away with it. Stripped and cuffed down, hopeless, and just knowing there wasn't a soul who was gonna hear me howl...
It was going to happen, but I was still freaked out. Wrestling, shouting...
Oh, shit, they were coming.
Torturer's hands. Reaching for my sides, my knees. Two approaching each foot.
I was gonna go insane. All of the yelling and pleading and cussing and squirming didn't change shit. I was still stuck there, legs spread, arms out from my sides enough to let the bastards take hold and massage and fuckin' buff my ribs. Oh, hell, I was just done for -
Shaking my head, I begged the closest pair to stop. Snapping as hard as I could at the restraints -
With my head swiveling from one to the other, watching with total fuckin' disbelief as they went for my armpits.
Cool pressure made me jump. Lower. My feet. Aw, hell. Fingers got there first. I shouted at the ceiling, slamming this way and that. Stuck, helpless, so fuckin' doomed -
More touches. It couldn't be happening. Not possible. My skin throbbed. This was gonna be... horrible.
The fingers were laying down now, clamping a little here, snuggling there. I couldn't do shit, because the fucker with all the hands had made real sure I wouldn't be able to slow 'em down at all.
When they took hold of my knees, the fuckin' dam broke. I gasped for air and started to chuckle. Real hard. Hopeless, uncontrollable shit.
So much worse than a couple of... real fingers teasing my feet. This was a whole new dimension of - just shocking contact. The damn things were hardly even moving, too. Not yet. That would come soon enough -
That idea just made me wail. Inhuman laughter. Unhinged. Fighting the restraints as hard as I could didn't make a difference. All over, and under... fingers. I was gonna stay put -
Combing my fuckin' soles. Traveling up and down my thighs, over my belly, getting between my toes. Digging in my 'pits.
In no time I was a roaring, howling mess.
And the gloves didn't let up. Each second was impossible. They laid it on thicker and thicker...
Hell, I couldn't move. Even laughing steadily was beyond me.
The impact kept swelling, building, multiplying. Fingers kneaded my ribs, my hips, my pecs. They were squeezing and petting my throat, covering my shins, stroking my biceps. And it was all inhumanely smooth, slippery material with plenty of strength inside.
Thinking became harder and harder. That meant I was feeling it all even harder, somehow. Always stepping up. Busy fingers, all over.
I had a quick moment where it was suddenly clear that I'd been feverish for a long time. Occupied. Completely buried. The gloves were still letting me have it, though, so I couldn't do much else except squeal like a madman and twitch a little.
Oh, fuck, more ticklish than ever. Not possible.
Later I thought the same thing, again, and realized that somehow the fuckin' level of intensity kept creeping up. Over and over.
The hands kept making it tickle more and more.
I became aware of something really terrific. Water. So thirsty...
And even as I drank I looked at the fuckin' gloves, waiting around me, and just knew it was gonna keep getting stronger and stronger. Not a chance I could figure out how to tolerate it - and even less chance I could fuckin' get the hands off me.
As if I wasn't blown away enough, the first pair of gloves to return went right down to my meat. Curling around me, cupping my balls. I arched and growled, but that didn't do shit.
They started to... rub.
Boom - tickling my poor feet again, raging on my sides, tracing around my ass. Crusing up and down my shins. Impossible, so much more to take...
I roared for 'em a few times. How I needed to cum. And the tidal wave of distraction was way too much.
The fingers pumped and scritched. The urge to shoot my wad became a ridiculous thing, towering, insistent. My body was way too busy, though. Fuckin' gloves were making me more ticklish. All the time. I didn't have a ghost of a chance to figure out why, or how. It just was. Getting redefined every few minutes. More sensitive. Much more blown away.
And my cock just ached to get rid of the pressure. Fuckin' hand worked it slow. Ridiculous, impossible to take, and thinking alone didn't get me off. The gloves stuck to my sides and covered my feet and roamed around my belly-button. Worse, stronger, increasing all the time.
There was nothing else. Throbbing balls, outclassed by the breathtaking sizzle under the fingers and merciless fuckin' palms.
Hours and hours of that shit. More water, just panting for air.
And when I was coherent enough to tug at the damn cuffs - the gloves came back down. They even had some backup. I just couldn't fuckin' believe that a few toothbrushes were cruising into position too. It was about to get reeeeeal intense.
Nipples, belly, and I shook my head miserably at the last pair landing on my heels. Oh, fuck, I had to get off this bench. Right now. No more. Too much -
From the time they started moving on me they were overwhelming. After a few wild flails and tugs I quit gritting my teeth and bounced hard. And damn, did I hoot. Just insanely worse now. So much stronger.
That soft fist pumped at a snail's pace.
Fingers blitzed my armpits.
There was no escaping it. Inside, I mean. Tuning it out, or whatever.
It kept getting fuckin' more powerful.
No end to how much it increased. Way beyond plain old tickling now. This flooded all the way down and through, paralyzing and all-consuming and absolutely fuckin' demanding that I move away from the hands. And I couldn't. So I was just... slammed. Couldn't even cum. Roaring was out, and so was fidgeting. I couldn't keep whimpering or giggling or cussing - not for more than a few seconds. Feeling it all and trying to pay enough attention was the priority.
But tickling like that called for raw, booming laughter. Savage flailing. Real drama. It was tearing me apart. A barbarian would've torn the fuckin' leather, lunged for the door - because somebody had to find out about the hands, torturing dudes like this, or else they'd keep right on doing it. And I couldn't get it together enough to curl my toes anymore.
The fuckin' waves of fire and electricity were ramping up, and up, and outdoing the insanely supernatural heat of just a few minutes before.
Growing, increasing, ratcheting up. Fingering and polishing and fondling and digging and provoking and covering with solid, easy, unceasing strokes...
I ate - something chewy - and drank a lot of water. Watching the gloves.
Begging when they descended again...
Oh, fuckin' hell, how could the impact keep going up and up and up?
The tickler took this shit very seriously. Nothing careless in the attack. No sign of boredom. The absolute worst hands to be in...
2023