Why the fuck does this keep happening to me, he thought, tugging without hope...
Zanner was beyond pleased with its captive's mental state. It had just fed him a few high-protein bars and a liter of water, several pills to get his metabolism set for the ordeal to come - and then it blanked his short-term memory, so he started over at this moment of discovering he was caught again. He knew why, alright. And how certain his fate was...
It was overjoyed to discover a lack of despair and elemental confusion. The unconscious memory was well-informed enough, and his distracted thoughts were more resigned to his fate than anything else. He didn't even cuss passionately, because there was no point. Zanner had everything covered, as usual.
Movement caught his eye. To his right, a small box floated up. His captor's calling card - a confirmation that he was in for the same kind of utter devastation as before.
The pack of cigarettes opened, and one slid out for him.
"Dammit," he groused.
It was a European brand. Intense. He always had trouble quitting again afterward. Zanner struck a match and appreciated the dull contempt in his eyes as he watched it approach. But he sucked in, knowing there was no chance his resistance would change a fuckin' thing.
Last smoke for the condemned. So compellingly ticklish. Caught again.
A noise made him look up as he started to kick out smoke. The action was further away. He caught on and watched the padded outer door swing in. Nothing but trees and a dirt trail outside, being shut out of his view.
The door deadbolt locked.
He moaned softly.
Then Zanner closed the door of the dungeon and turned three locks. No chance whatsoever of the play being shortened. Not at all. He was good for ten or eleven weeks of the hardest tickling possible, and it was thrilled to realize the time had come again to focus on provoking his weakness as hard as fuckin' possible. He'd stay right in the restraints, day after feverish day.
He sighed and took another drag. Not even complaining or begging. It had been a good year since he even tried to appeal to it that way. All of the other times had shown him, sure as shit, that the marathon was on now, boy. Nothing would possibly call off the delirium now.
Strapped and helpless.
Exceptionally ticklish feet. Zanner admired their complete helplessness as its gloves went to town.
It dug in anywhere - everywhere - and basked in the manic energy he threw off. Complete distress quickly gave way to autonomic hysteria. His lunging and writhing did nothing whatsoever to hinder Zanner's diligent hands.
Every millimeter of each foot could now be explored, stressed, nuanced...
He screamed laughter and tried to slam around. That was all he could do.
No objection would be tolerated. Zanner wanted feet just like this to play with - as hard and as thoroughly as it could devise - and now the payoff began. It had a couple dozen tools to take to the reactive skin, creams and oils with spectacular topical agents to stimulate the nerve endings... and no possible surprise to hinder its every wish. Hours would be spent on these feet, then it would terrorize the rest of his ticklish body and return - delightedly, triumphantly - to these ankles and insteps and soles. Every possible minute it could keep him conscious wouldn't be anywhere near enough. After he dozed, Zanner would be able to start back in again, ten times, twenty, a hundred. There just weren't enough hours in the day to dish out all of the tickling it wanted to give him.
He leaked smoke.
Zanner admired its bondage skill. His feet couldn't budge. It was definitely going to lay into them for a full forty-five minutes before the first break today. They could get four such sessions until the payoff started to flag. While it covered the rest of his body, these dependably ticklish feet would recover for three more sessions. Nothing would stop Zanner, any more than it had been hindered up 'til now.
It studied his arches. Picked up eight soft nylon brushes and bottle of steroid-infused oil.
He took a long drag.
The tickler was more entranced than ever. Twenty-four days of fun had only increased its appetite.
New heights of sensitivity on his butt, ears, pecs and back...
His laughter stepped up, and his writhing peaked.
The moving bristles hit harder after the capacity to make noise had been overrun.
His body settled down. All outward reaction of any volition was ceasing. Now he felt the impact of even harder. There was less distraction than ever, because intentional thought was beyond his ability now when it tickled him.
Zanner gave him a cigarette and lit it. He smoked almost accidentially - not deeply, and with no sign of awareness that he was smoking, much less getting any relief from it.
One cigarette followed another. A water bottle was brought to his lips every few smokes. He drank mechanically, still utterly lost in the totality of the sensation.
Zanner tickled and tickled relentlessly. His feet were just too tempting to leave alone.
03jan23