tickles_me
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This is the second installment to the story (thread) 'Six and Wes'. I may or may not write a third part, but I have a couple of projects in the works right now. I hope you enjoy it.
Doubled Down
They threw him roughly to the floor on a rectangle of carpet between a series of shackles and a yoke that was bolted upright. Gagged and silent, exhausted, half-asleep, he crumpled and had to be propped up for his legs to be shackled to the floor and his head secured in the yoke.
His arms were free but he needed them to keep his body weight off of his throat; he was naked and on all fours. There was a mirror directly below him. He groggily noticed his own blinking face staring back at him in the dim light.
The rectangle of carpet began to hum, and to his surprise it rose off of the floor. Wes’s ankles bent and his toes dangled off the platform as it rose inch by inch. It stopped with a clang and he could see that he was about four feet off the floor, staring at himself - gagged with a cloth - in the mirror. Wes sighed heavily.
He guessed they allowed him between three and four hours of sleep; he was bathed with wet cloths and given shockingly delicious food. He had refused to eat for as long as he could but ultimately succumbed to a juicy, succulent cheeseburger and crispy steak fries. Then he napped and then, as always, they retrieved him from his holding cell and chained, shackled or roped him in an exposed position. He was then tickled and jerked off until he lost consciousness - always by three masked, completely silent, torturers. Sometimes he thought he could hear other people laughing in the hallways but Wes never saw another person.
The door opened and closed and grinning, frozen faces sauntered in. Gloved hands waved teasing fingers under his nose and danced the fingers backward toward his body. He felt them tweaking his toes and gently pinching his torso and legs in various places; his exhausted body twitched and jumped with each tweak. The backs of his knees. Pinch pinch. Shoulders, pinch pinch. Elbows, pinch. Thighs. Pinch pinch. Asscheeks, pinch pinch pinch - he wiggled over a his ass and they remained there, six pairs of gloves fingers pinch in him all over his cheeks.
Wes tried hard not to groan and his hands flexed as he held himself up. He could see the struggle in his own face, his eyes beginning to strain and the anticipation of the impending tickle torture setting his nerves on fire. Pinch pinch pinch. He swallowed and blinked, hard, fighting.
Two pairs of pinching fingers broke from the herd and traveled up his flanks, pinching as they went. Pinch pinch pinch, up along his hips and sides, pinch pinch, toward his ribs - he moaned and his torso flexed to avoid the zapping fingers. Two more hands ran all five fingertips around his hips and inward, tickling the lowest part of his belly, hip lines and tops of his thighs.
He jerked his legs closed but they were held by the shackles across his calves holding him still. The third set of hands attacked the soles of his dangling feet, rapidly prancing up and down, up and down the bottoms. A light from the floor clicked on and shown in his face, allowing him to see himself clearly in the mirror; the rest of the room remained dark, and it was difficult for him to sense his black-clad, silent torturers.
Wes’s long groan became a squeal and devolved into staccato giggles as the hands tickled him. He watched his own face in the mirror, his eyes crinkled into a smile and his mouth parted for the tumbling laughter that poured out of him as a set of hands made their way up his ribcage, poking and grabbing with all the fingers now, grab grab grab.
His body shook as the fingers wiggled over the bones, jabbing and lightly prancing and jabbing again. Up they crawled toward his armpits - and he could only save one; Wes, pressed his left arm down to protect the pit and wrapped it across his body, pressing the hand into his right pit to cover the sensitive hollow. His right arm shook as it bore all his weight and held his neck off the wooden noose around his neck.
The hands were not dissuaded by his blocked pits and continued to run up the shoulders and along the back of the neck - he didn't expect the wave of ticklish goosebumps that raced down his back with every touch on his nape. He continued to laugh and struggle, the hands on his hips and belly and feet still tickling mercilessly.
The right arm, still holding him up, began to grow tired as he continued to protect his pits, the fingers circling them anyway, tapping over the top of his hand and the cap of his shoulder. They reached and poked into the crevices of the desperate arm clenching against his body, and the trembling fingers clasping his pit - the fingers teased him with their determination to get into the armpits and he closed his eyes as he squealed.
“MRROOOOHOOOHOOOHAAAHAHAHA!” Wes cried into the gag, eyes flickering, barely watching his face redden and strain. He shook his head back and forth, “no no no no”. The hands on his hips tickled rapidly out and around his flanks and inward across his kidneys, meeting over his spine. Then they raced back outward and in, tickling him all around his waist and back under his lower belly - they scrabbled and grabbed between his hip bones and into the creases of his thighs. His belly flexed and trembled with intense laughter.
Wes squealed and watched his own eyes widen in the mirror as the hands landed on his dangling balls and scrambled up and down and under and up to the crevices on either side. They pinched there as he shook his ass and guffawed; he arched his back and yelled and slammed his left hand back onto the ground.
The hands tickling his shoulders and back and ribs immediately attacked his armpits, grabbing with all five fingers in each hairy hollow. He tried to protect himself with his right arm but only pressed the fingers harder into the pit; his hand could not stop the hand in the other pit and he was trapped, the creases of his arms and legs being tickled without mercy. Wes hollered and laughed and squealed as breathing became harder; he watched his red face and teary eyes desperately cackling in the mirror.
As he began to tire, his body unable to fight the sensations anymore, the hands tickling his feet stopped. He was vaguely aware of it as the most ticklish places on his body were poked and scratched. As he began to wheeze with forced laughter the rest of the tickling also began to subside.
He remained on all fours, breath heaving in and out of his sweaty body. Wes watched his own eyes crinkle and tears dropped from his cheeks - he was crying with frustration. Wes couldn't beg and if he could they would not stop. He couldn't move or go anywhere and had to watch himself laugh as they touched him in every soft spot.
Suddenly he felt an alarming, sharp sensation on the soles of his feet. It sliced up the bottoms of each foot and down over the toes and back up, over the heel. Then back down over the wrinkled, flailing soles, and over the bottoms of the big toes. Then back up, and over the heels - no matter how he twisted and shook his feet, he could not escape the piercing tickles of the pricked pinwheels.
“EEEEEEEEEMOOOHOOHOOOEEAAAHAHAEEEE!!” Wes cried and began to slam one fist into the platform with desperate frustration. His eyes clenched shut as he keened, the creeping tickles ripping up his legs and into his stomach, punching out grunting laughter. “PHHEEEEEHEEEHEEEEFFFF!!! FTTAAAAAHHHHHPFFFF!!” Wes could hardly understand his own words but tried to beg anyway. His feet had never felt so ticklish.
It got worse when they started to rub his penis. Two hands ran palms up his thighs and wrapped firmly around his - alarmingly - erect dick. They rubbed and massaged, gently at first and then faster and faster. Erotic sensations began to grow, oily, in his belly and balls. He watched his own eyes widen and crinkle with dismay and horror at his body’s reactions.
Wes knew this was only the beginning of a long session, and that he would never be fully allowed to enjoy an orgasm. He wanted to cry but the scratching foot tickles kept him in constant state of irrational giddiness. The hands now rubbed fingers over the head of his penis and he groaned into his laughter, his hips flexing with pleasure.
They stopped the foot tickling to let him come, his whole body flexing and his fist slamming - at the height of his orgasm the tickling resumed, not only on the soles of his feet (now red with streaks and prickling) but the backs of his thighs and again in both armpits. The hands on his thighs grabbed deeply into the muscles, reaching for the tender nerves.
He clenched and tugged on his bonds, screaming and trembling as they poked, jabbed and rubbed up to the creases of his ass and down into his knee pits, pinching. His armpits were subject to hair pulling, sharp and uncomfortable, interchanged with deep finger rubbing that went down to his top two ribs and up again into the hairy pit. Wes was beside himself, the sudden intense tickling interrupting an otherwise very satisfying orgasm driving him insane.
It went on like this for some time. Wes tried to beg but could only laugh and scream and cry. His body heaved and trembled, streaked with pink trails and pools of hot blood tickled to the surface of his skin.
The hands crawled up and down his torso, poking and tickling his ribcage and tweaking his nipples. He shook his shoulders, trying to save his ticklish nipples; in turn the hands viciously attacked his rib cage, digging in so that the fingers could all but hold his body still while massaging rapidly into the bones. Wes was desperate to inhale but the intermittent nipple and rib tickling forced his diaphragm to contract almost constantly.
More hands played with his penis, rubbing it hard and then tickling him until it was flaccid again; his balls were not neglected, and were tickled mercilessly with the same prickling pinwheels that were used on his feet. Wes screamed himself hoarse and slammed his fists on the platform; his feet flailed and he shook his head “no, no, no, stop stop stop stop stop.” Zip zip zip the prickles tickled up the backs of his balls, under the tip of the sac and around again.
He came again in a short period of time, unable to keep his exhausted body from releasing even during the horrible ball tickling. Wes watched himself cry in the mirror despite the fake smile cracked around the sopping wet cloth gag. He coughed and heaved and sobbed as he was milked and then hands resumed tickling him all over. A pair dug into his armpits and pecs, his elbows finally giving in and Wes struggled to keep his body from choking him in the stock.
Another set jabbed into his groin, fingers roughly grabbing at the tendons on either side of his slippery genitals. The last went back to tickling his ass cheeks and the backs of his thighs, also digging into the sensitive muscles.
Wes couldn't believe he was still able to laugh. He couldn't hold himself up against the intense post orgasmic tickles and he began to choke out. His laughter coughed past the stock pressing into his throat and his eyes rolled back into his head. As he passed out, the tickling stopped and - to his dismay - he found enough strength to gasp air in again. Minutes ticked on as he recovered, the sobs subsiding into long breaths as his body cooled.
The door opened and closed again and Wes breathed a sigh of relief. Until three pairs of red-gloved hands began to wiggle their fingers under his nose, taunting him. They left his field of vision as Wes began to scream and struggle. They all attacked his torso at once and Wes felt the hysterical, panicked laughter roll out of his belly and into the gag. He watched his own face in the mirror as he cackled.
Doubled Down
They threw him roughly to the floor on a rectangle of carpet between a series of shackles and a yoke that was bolted upright. Gagged and silent, exhausted, half-asleep, he crumpled and had to be propped up for his legs to be shackled to the floor and his head secured in the yoke.
His arms were free but he needed them to keep his body weight off of his throat; he was naked and on all fours. There was a mirror directly below him. He groggily noticed his own blinking face staring back at him in the dim light.
The rectangle of carpet began to hum, and to his surprise it rose off of the floor. Wes’s ankles bent and his toes dangled off the platform as it rose inch by inch. It stopped with a clang and he could see that he was about four feet off the floor, staring at himself - gagged with a cloth - in the mirror. Wes sighed heavily.
He guessed they allowed him between three and four hours of sleep; he was bathed with wet cloths and given shockingly delicious food. He had refused to eat for as long as he could but ultimately succumbed to a juicy, succulent cheeseburger and crispy steak fries. Then he napped and then, as always, they retrieved him from his holding cell and chained, shackled or roped him in an exposed position. He was then tickled and jerked off until he lost consciousness - always by three masked, completely silent, torturers. Sometimes he thought he could hear other people laughing in the hallways but Wes never saw another person.
The door opened and closed and grinning, frozen faces sauntered in. Gloved hands waved teasing fingers under his nose and danced the fingers backward toward his body. He felt them tweaking his toes and gently pinching his torso and legs in various places; his exhausted body twitched and jumped with each tweak. The backs of his knees. Pinch pinch. Shoulders, pinch pinch. Elbows, pinch. Thighs. Pinch pinch. Asscheeks, pinch pinch pinch - he wiggled over a his ass and they remained there, six pairs of gloves fingers pinch in him all over his cheeks.
Wes tried hard not to groan and his hands flexed as he held himself up. He could see the struggle in his own face, his eyes beginning to strain and the anticipation of the impending tickle torture setting his nerves on fire. Pinch pinch pinch. He swallowed and blinked, hard, fighting.
Two pairs of pinching fingers broke from the herd and traveled up his flanks, pinching as they went. Pinch pinch pinch, up along his hips and sides, pinch pinch, toward his ribs - he moaned and his torso flexed to avoid the zapping fingers. Two more hands ran all five fingertips around his hips and inward, tickling the lowest part of his belly, hip lines and tops of his thighs.
He jerked his legs closed but they were held by the shackles across his calves holding him still. The third set of hands attacked the soles of his dangling feet, rapidly prancing up and down, up and down the bottoms. A light from the floor clicked on and shown in his face, allowing him to see himself clearly in the mirror; the rest of the room remained dark, and it was difficult for him to sense his black-clad, silent torturers.
Wes’s long groan became a squeal and devolved into staccato giggles as the hands tickled him. He watched his own face in the mirror, his eyes crinkled into a smile and his mouth parted for the tumbling laughter that poured out of him as a set of hands made their way up his ribcage, poking and grabbing with all the fingers now, grab grab grab.
His body shook as the fingers wiggled over the bones, jabbing and lightly prancing and jabbing again. Up they crawled toward his armpits - and he could only save one; Wes, pressed his left arm down to protect the pit and wrapped it across his body, pressing the hand into his right pit to cover the sensitive hollow. His right arm shook as it bore all his weight and held his neck off the wooden noose around his neck.
The hands were not dissuaded by his blocked pits and continued to run up the shoulders and along the back of the neck - he didn't expect the wave of ticklish goosebumps that raced down his back with every touch on his nape. He continued to laugh and struggle, the hands on his hips and belly and feet still tickling mercilessly.
The right arm, still holding him up, began to grow tired as he continued to protect his pits, the fingers circling them anyway, tapping over the top of his hand and the cap of his shoulder. They reached and poked into the crevices of the desperate arm clenching against his body, and the trembling fingers clasping his pit - the fingers teased him with their determination to get into the armpits and he closed his eyes as he squealed.
“MRROOOOHOOOHOOOHAAAHAHAHA!” Wes cried into the gag, eyes flickering, barely watching his face redden and strain. He shook his head back and forth, “no no no no”. The hands on his hips tickled rapidly out and around his flanks and inward across his kidneys, meeting over his spine. Then they raced back outward and in, tickling him all around his waist and back under his lower belly - they scrabbled and grabbed between his hip bones and into the creases of his thighs. His belly flexed and trembled with intense laughter.
Wes squealed and watched his own eyes widen in the mirror as the hands landed on his dangling balls and scrambled up and down and under and up to the crevices on either side. They pinched there as he shook his ass and guffawed; he arched his back and yelled and slammed his left hand back onto the ground.
The hands tickling his shoulders and back and ribs immediately attacked his armpits, grabbing with all five fingers in each hairy hollow. He tried to protect himself with his right arm but only pressed the fingers harder into the pit; his hand could not stop the hand in the other pit and he was trapped, the creases of his arms and legs being tickled without mercy. Wes hollered and laughed and squealed as breathing became harder; he watched his red face and teary eyes desperately cackling in the mirror.
As he began to tire, his body unable to fight the sensations anymore, the hands tickling his feet stopped. He was vaguely aware of it as the most ticklish places on his body were poked and scratched. As he began to wheeze with forced laughter the rest of the tickling also began to subside.
He remained on all fours, breath heaving in and out of his sweaty body. Wes watched his own eyes crinkle and tears dropped from his cheeks - he was crying with frustration. Wes couldn't beg and if he could they would not stop. He couldn't move or go anywhere and had to watch himself laugh as they touched him in every soft spot.
Suddenly he felt an alarming, sharp sensation on the soles of his feet. It sliced up the bottoms of each foot and down over the toes and back up, over the heel. Then back down over the wrinkled, flailing soles, and over the bottoms of the big toes. Then back up, and over the heels - no matter how he twisted and shook his feet, he could not escape the piercing tickles of the pricked pinwheels.
“EEEEEEEEEMOOOHOOHOOOEEAAAHAHAEEEE!!” Wes cried and began to slam one fist into the platform with desperate frustration. His eyes clenched shut as he keened, the creeping tickles ripping up his legs and into his stomach, punching out grunting laughter. “PHHEEEEEHEEEHEEEEFFFF!!! FTTAAAAAHHHHHPFFFF!!” Wes could hardly understand his own words but tried to beg anyway. His feet had never felt so ticklish.
It got worse when they started to rub his penis. Two hands ran palms up his thighs and wrapped firmly around his - alarmingly - erect dick. They rubbed and massaged, gently at first and then faster and faster. Erotic sensations began to grow, oily, in his belly and balls. He watched his own eyes widen and crinkle with dismay and horror at his body’s reactions.
Wes knew this was only the beginning of a long session, and that he would never be fully allowed to enjoy an orgasm. He wanted to cry but the scratching foot tickles kept him in constant state of irrational giddiness. The hands now rubbed fingers over the head of his penis and he groaned into his laughter, his hips flexing with pleasure.
They stopped the foot tickling to let him come, his whole body flexing and his fist slamming - at the height of his orgasm the tickling resumed, not only on the soles of his feet (now red with streaks and prickling) but the backs of his thighs and again in both armpits. The hands on his thighs grabbed deeply into the muscles, reaching for the tender nerves.
He clenched and tugged on his bonds, screaming and trembling as they poked, jabbed and rubbed up to the creases of his ass and down into his knee pits, pinching. His armpits were subject to hair pulling, sharp and uncomfortable, interchanged with deep finger rubbing that went down to his top two ribs and up again into the hairy pit. Wes was beside himself, the sudden intense tickling interrupting an otherwise very satisfying orgasm driving him insane.
It went on like this for some time. Wes tried to beg but could only laugh and scream and cry. His body heaved and trembled, streaked with pink trails and pools of hot blood tickled to the surface of his skin.
The hands crawled up and down his torso, poking and tickling his ribcage and tweaking his nipples. He shook his shoulders, trying to save his ticklish nipples; in turn the hands viciously attacked his rib cage, digging in so that the fingers could all but hold his body still while massaging rapidly into the bones. Wes was desperate to inhale but the intermittent nipple and rib tickling forced his diaphragm to contract almost constantly.
More hands played with his penis, rubbing it hard and then tickling him until it was flaccid again; his balls were not neglected, and were tickled mercilessly with the same prickling pinwheels that were used on his feet. Wes screamed himself hoarse and slammed his fists on the platform; his feet flailed and he shook his head “no, no, no, stop stop stop stop stop.” Zip zip zip the prickles tickled up the backs of his balls, under the tip of the sac and around again.
He came again in a short period of time, unable to keep his exhausted body from releasing even during the horrible ball tickling. Wes watched himself cry in the mirror despite the fake smile cracked around the sopping wet cloth gag. He coughed and heaved and sobbed as he was milked and then hands resumed tickling him all over. A pair dug into his armpits and pecs, his elbows finally giving in and Wes struggled to keep his body from choking him in the stock.
Another set jabbed into his groin, fingers roughly grabbing at the tendons on either side of his slippery genitals. The last went back to tickling his ass cheeks and the backs of his thighs, also digging into the sensitive muscles.
Wes couldn't believe he was still able to laugh. He couldn't hold himself up against the intense post orgasmic tickles and he began to choke out. His laughter coughed past the stock pressing into his throat and his eyes rolled back into his head. As he passed out, the tickling stopped and - to his dismay - he found enough strength to gasp air in again. Minutes ticked on as he recovered, the sobs subsiding into long breaths as his body cooled.
The door opened and closed again and Wes breathed a sigh of relief. Until three pairs of red-gloved hands began to wiggle their fingers under his nose, taunting him. They left his field of vision as Wes began to scream and struggle. They all attacked his torso at once and Wes felt the hysterical, panicked laughter roll out of his belly and into the gag. He watched his own face in the mirror as he cackled.
