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He gets off the L and immediately lights a cigarette, barely pausing in his stride as he does. Doug's cocked himself into that angled lean I know so well. Perfectly familiar. Smooth as can be.
Doug's probably on his third pack of the day. Not even seven o'clock yet. Oh, I'm gonna have a hell of a night all over him. Mesmerizing.
Make him AWOL from work, then lay into his ass for a real marathon.

Look at him tug on that smoke. He fought tooth-and-nail, or tried to, but I had plenty of time to get him hooked. Weed, too. So many other addictions which he couldn't ever afford, until I found him.
Really, I just can't get enough of thirty-four spots on this turk. The first time I nabbed him, Doug was just another drunk dude making his way outside after last call, with a joint fired up in no time... I waited at the alley on the next block, needing a hard fifteen minutes on anyone right then to burn off my impatience.
But five minutes on this man was all it took.
I carried him into a cellar playroom, beefed up the tickle-inventory, and wrapped that first diaper around him well before the half-hour mark.

So many fine memories on his body - and it's always great to grab ol' Doug again. Into the getaway vehicle, very soon. It's always so rewarding when I'm about to pounce. What if a car came barrelling up on the sidewalk? Or some lowlife pulled out a gun? But nobody's gonna mess with Doug. That's my job.
I'll have him hidden away where I can drive him absolutely bonkers...

He doesn't waste any time, but Doug's still not gonna make it home. That little apartment is so run-down. I've always thought it's depressing - for him - but I have the full-strength answer for that mood.
I'm beyond ready to grab those arms, clamp a hand over his mouth and whisk him away to the dungeon. Hardcore tickling. Weeks and weeks.
Bondage shit looks right on him. Aw, I want him caught. That old familiar hiss of breath, as he tenses right up - fucked again, knowing it through and through. Heya, Doug...
The anticipation is sensational. He consumes that cigarette, the street's deserted, and no one would possibly guess that he's trying to get away from an invisible handler that knows his body so damn well.
Every time I take a-hold of him, I've gotten him locked away without incident. Do I start tickling the snot out of him right away, shifting it into high gear as soon as the car door slams? Or will it bug him more to be pinned against the seat, smoking one after another as I drive him to the cell? Sometimes I mix it up - make him have a smoke, then drill his feet for a few minutes before the next cigarette.
Tonight I feel like making him sweat. No torture until he's strapped down perfectly. Staying put. I've got a pint of vodka waiting in the car, so my tough guy can smoke and pound a couple shots as I sneak him off to his new tickle prison.
He moves with such determination, like a panther, until I'll stop him.

The restraints will only take fifteen or twenty seconds. Doug's feet become my toys again after I secure them so they can't kick or pull up or turn. His torso doesn't take kindly to being immobilized, either. Very few animals enjoy being completely unable to move. But that's not the big thing - I'm going to make him roar and hoot with frustration again, and it's so much more electrifying when he can't even fidget. Let the ceaseless tickling continue!
Doug shoots a quick look over his shoulder. He walks a little faster. It's probably egotistical to imagine he's remembering one of the many times I surprised him. A little paranoia out here is understandable. Since he's not frowning, I really don't think he suspects that I'm about to greet him again.
And we're almost to the car.

My favorite tickle victim is closer to the ride I got for him... to get him on his way to another lusty marathon. Doug's definitely going to be helpless and anchored down soon, hopelessly caught. I want to work on those unbearably reactive feet until noon. A couple days on his sides, then a nice long stretch all up and down his legs. His neck, and his back, and that ass. So ticklish!
Here we go again. The excitement of trailing Doug is compelling because there's still that chance of him getting away. Some wild card, a variable I can't control... but that hasn't happened yet.
When he finishes exhaling smoke, I ease four hands around his ribs.
Gonna make him cum over and over again, because the sensitivity just skyrockets. All the tickling I want to do...
As if I could ever get enough!
My dude tenses up... and groans.
"Heya, Doug."
 
 

He's ready.
My restraints are far more durable than the usual BDSM gear. I won't tolerate stupid movement - and he knows his tickler's got him again. Nine or ten years since I found him.
He'll be laughing and suffering for a few weeks. No fuckin' doubt about that.
There was that long, sweaty night when he told me his escape fantasy. I celebrated his 25th birthday, for the better part of a month. Yeah. When I got him good and drunk, he couldn't stop trying to talk. I kneaded and rubbed him, but slowed it down. Doug went from cussing me out to blabbing about how he was gonna skip out on one of these tickling marathons. In his little daydream a cop car pulled up, in exactly the right place at the right time, and gave him a chance to get away from me.
It was cute, in a way. When Doug's sober, he knows I'm not that careless. This big escape dream went even further - he slipped out of town, and was so relieved to sneak from motel to motel... frustrating my efforts to start the most epic, prolonged tickling ever. Punishment for escaping. But his luck held, for once, and he got to lay around and get high and jack off when he decided to - not because I was amping up his ticklishness.
He was free, in this fantasy, and getting even with me. I was so pissed off about that... but I couldn't capture him and pay him back if he stayed one step ahead. Yeah, sure. Like that's ever gonna happen!
Oh, he got cocky as fuck when he babbled about the notion of dodging my plans. I made it clear that if he got away, the payback would be careful, intricate, and unbelievably long.
Have I ever failed to get him to a dungeon? No, I have not.

One of these times, though, I gotta boost a police car. Make it race up to him, like that amusing little fantasy of his. Saved, at last! And then I'd drive it away... leaving him in my hands again. That's what he deserves. I can kidnap him whenever I wish.
Doug gives the straps one more good tug.
"Fucker," he sighs, taking an big ol' angry drag.

I always want to be tickling him. Of course. There just aren't enough hours in the day to make him bananas, longing for my gloves and toys to stop. I'm so invigorated by his delirium that I'd give anything to stop the clock. Ignoring his need to sleep and re-energize for the next day's tickling would be great, dammit.
I wish I could stick it to his body nonstop except for toke breaks and meals. Doug enjoys the pauses in the tickling so damn much, it's always a delightful victory to continue.
Of course, the spark I get from seeing him wake up, and starting the first cigarette - my man's ready for more. This fighter gets calmly resigned to it.

No more tension tonight about getting him locked away - and that's not an entirely bad feeling, but this is so much better. It's on. Isolated, stripped, moisturized and unable to do anything but howl. Giggle, smoke a few, cackle like he really means it...

I zoom down to the half-macro level.
His soles are stretched and at attention, thanks to the straps steadying his big toes. All set, for contact. Long, thorough, maddening coverage...
My map of Doug's nerve paths is tried and true. Nine of them respond best to bristles or tines, and I know exactly where to drag the edge of a feather all around each of his toes for maximum impact. And then, wonderfully, there's the eight tracks responding so fine to creeping pressure. Fingertips.
Oh, it just wrecks his world!

Letting him get one more tug on the cigarette, I revel in his irritation. He doesn't earnestly plead for me to stop, try to make deals, or threaten me. We've been past that for years now! When I wake him up in another dungeon, he knows through and through what's about to happen again.
He's just so inexhaustibly ticklish. Burbling deliriously, sweating and drooling in no time - and doomed to suffer for hours and hours and hours at my whim. One tool after another starts adding to the buzz-current, conquering his feet and sides and belly and neck and knees and crotch.
With Doug locked away, I never hurry. No other animal has made these things seem so right.

Maybe just a peek at full macro -
Victory.
Such wonderfully sensitive soles, towering over me like monoliths. It'll take big, firm fingers to tickle the fuck out of these fleshy walls. Meandering feathers, relentless brushes, humming buffers. Thousands of skillful moves will be a decent start, and even then Doug won't be able to shift these feet more than a centimeter in any direction... as I rake and pet and squeeze. He'll go out of his mind before I'm halfway through with these dependable feet today.
Above them, the rewarding curves of each shin and calf, the exciting knees, such tempting thighs. And so on. There aren't enough hours to exploit his sensitivity, front and back, ears to heels.

Back up to real-size now... and I hang over my play-pal. Yeah, Doug's so dependable. The street hood becomes a delirious animal. Stays that way, for as long as I want. He still can't begin to handle master-class tickling. Endless fun, strapped down below me...
Let's just get the torture started up again.

I lay twenty invisible fingertips down on his soles.

Tensing right up - such an amusing, useless reflex! - he looks around the room. So desperate. Clenching his teeth. In the past Doug's called me every name he could come up with, and offered me all kinds of bribes. A threat or two...
He has no doubt now. I can't be stopped.
Time to boogie. I rock some of the fingers in place, and send others down the sides of his feet. And up again. Repeat. These fuckin' feet are mine again, and I wanna light 'em up as much as I can, as long as I can, provoking 'em more each day!
He groans, shakes his head a few times, and starts to chuckle. Pulls at the straps.
Down, down, down my fingers slide. The attempts to push or pull his feet away from the excitement seem automatic.
Victory - I love it. Pure win. This dude just gets wrecked, and stays there until he gets left alone, huffing down those smokes.
I'm so glad I got him locked in for another ultra-long ride...

His laughter starts to get rowdier, even though he's obviously not wanting to hoot, and he looks at the ceiling with those hopeless eyes that squint - and finally close.
Tracing up and down his responsive feet, I add some quick clawing under the ball of each foot - and Doug throws his head around distractedly. Laughing harder. Something's so funny, it just demands that he keep on hooting.
Hour upon hour of stimulation is coming, and he'll knows more and more intensity will prevent him from doing anything other than smoke, and drink more water... before we're halfway through tonight.
Doug brays and keens as he snaps at the cuffs.
 

At the thirty-minute mark, I add four brushes and six feathers to the mix.
He's too addled to move. A small burst of cackles are growled out every minute or so. The restraints get no more resistance.
My victim is in the groove now, and the sensation hits so much harder! I know this guy. He can't think, can't fidget - can't even whoop. The action covering Doug's feet is already more spellbinding than he can tolerate.
There is nothing better, for a moose like this dude... than mind-warping delirium. He has no defense whatsoever, and he never will.
 

As the first hour draws to a close, I break out the motorized polishing wheels.
He barks and shrieks so wildly! It's scrambling his brain, and I just won't stop. Such pathetically sensitive arches, heels, insteps...
Not even five minutes later, his body relaxes again. I'm commandeering all of his energy so that he can feel the tickling more - scope, depth, ever-increasing dopamine production. Concentrating as much as he possibly can is nowhere near enough. I make damn sure of that. The flood of sensation is enough to drive several men to distraction.
My restraints keep him positioned for the long haul. A full day of sensory fireworks...

All mine. Every millimeter.
I knead his legs now. Doug just goes bugshit.
I know how this thorough teasing makes him nuts, and I keep it coming. Calves, thighs, knees. Firm and steady.
Sometimes he figures out how to thrash around for a few seconds. I'm not letting these legs go. Getting closer and closer to his knees, with nothing and no one to stop me from tickling 'em brutally until he passes out if I wish. We got quite a history. I have plans for a full, lusty day of making him suffer.
Doug hoots and gibbers. This pitiless stroking keeps him totally crazed.
No taking it easy on him today.
 

Over the next hour I focus on his lower legs and his feet, turning up the heat gradually.
Doug's just gone. Locked within the maelstrom, roasting in the fever of customized power-tickling...

When he's this far gone, it's like the highest possible compliment. He shudders, tries to giggle for a bit, and then he rouses himself enough to beg again.
"Stop, stop, oh c'mon, dammit, sssss-stop it," he says to my gloves, even though he's smart enough to know for a stone-cold fact that I won't.
 

Finally I lay off and let him come back up to the surface. The real world - thick leather, locked door, shelves full of lubes and toys. The brushes in his dungeon are already tried and tested on him - every tool and texture here. The only experimenting I do on this body is with brand-new toys that were never available before.
I know what tickles each spot the most.
And no one will ever see him until I decide to let him go.
Water for my laughing buddy. A candy bar. And now, a smoke or five.

Soon, I'll start on his knees. Electrifying! Then up his thighs, to his favorite body parts. Taking more time than I do on any other animal... to provoke every inch.
Those ribs are calling to me.
The hairtrigger armpits. His mesmerizing nips. That neck...
I get to tickle, and tickle, and tickle, day after day, with nothing to stop me. My laugh-bud will live through every maddening instant as best he can. We're just an unbeatable team. No other person believes him, which helps me make his delirious workouts as thorough as I can. We're talking marathon tickling for this lug.
Each and every time.

Remembering a nineteen-year-old tough guy in my clutches for the very first time. Pure wildcat, screamingly ticklish. And he hadn't suspected it - the amazement of that discovery put a fine edge on the first day's torment. He'd never been tied down before. Or stripped, except for a diaper. I was so new to the hunt then, and his sensuous agony was worth all of the time and care. I was delighted with Doug, and I could actually have this spitfire at my disposal. Nothing better...
The tears had been running down his cheeks, of course. Unimaginable levels of pleasure. A simple fact had become clearer to me, before the third hour had gone by. He'd been trying to ask or say something. I gave him a cigarette, and time to recover.

Doug had looked at the glove waiting over his right armpit. Knowing, I'm sure, that I'd be tickling him again with it.
"You..." And he gulped for air. Hesitant, but unable to hold the thought in. "You need this."
"Yes," I said.
"And I need it to stop! For reals! I mean it! Please, aw please..." He took a drag, and the cigarette shook. "But you're not going to stop."
I let my simulated hands and the tickle-tools give him the answer. That's how connected we were, first night.
But a short confirmation out loud seemed like just the thing that would haunt him. "I won."
His reply surprised me.
"Yeah. I know." He took in a ragged breath, eased it out, and followed it with a long tug. "Shit."
Well, I doubled his first marathon right then and there - to nine incredible days. He's been my first choice from that point on. Deep tickling was clearly the right fit for him. Weeks, months - I caught a prime specimen.
He couldn't hope to stop me. Doug knew I won. I suspected he was uniquely valuable.
Let's play!
 

We have something special, Doug and I.
The "impossible" has taken over his run-of-the-mill life...
A rocket couldn't pull my gloves away now.

I've found all kinds of sensitive spots all over him.
After the cigarettes, I bring him some water.
If he's not too worn out, he can't ever stop himself from watching my gloves.
I decide he's earned a cumshot. Doug arches like a cat as my slippery hands fondle and trace around his meat.
Such giddy, filthy laughter, bubbling out of his throat like it's never going to stop...

He's too much fun. Another week, then. That may not be all.
This is perfectly fulfilling.
His job sucked anyway, and I could tell from his face that he hated it. I haven't done the ol' "unemployment compensation" gag in such a long time. Eight weeks of... foundational therapy? Tactobase therapy? Heh. It's way too tempting to expand it to twelve weeks, then sixteen. Doug's definitely worth it.
Yeah. Why not? I can pick up more food and cigs any time I want. Oils, brushes, gloves.
Let's just laugh away the winter.
It's a team effort. A collaboration. Doug tries to even begin to observe all the places I provoke him... and I love to keep the stimulation coming. Every ticklish inch gets custom work. I use every toy and technique I have.
 
 

Yawning, then blinking as he looks around...
Dungeon. Again. Still caught.
My man Doug doesn't even react to that. He takes the cigarette, and a light. Grunts quietly, even luxuriously, and then he kicks out smoke.
In a few minutes he'll be trying to evade my fingers again. Giggling and chuckling in that angry start-of-a-whole-new-endless-day tone of voice. The restraints are doing their job.
Even before Doug's fully awake, the squirming and the rude laughter make it clear just how unbearably ticklish he is. So I decide to stick it to him, adjusting the day's agenda. So much more stimulating - aw, I need to tack on more days, whenever I want.
As many times as I want.
I'm so damn pleased when he's in one of my dungeons. Cool as fuck, always excruciatingly ticklish, here to be started back in on as many times as I want. Greeting the next day, or the new month, with a few smokes before I get back to the irresistible reason he's here.
 

22sep19