A limp form passed through the doorway.
The door closed... and locked.

After a click, soft light found the center of the dungeon floor.
The world's number-four seeded tennis player lay there, starting to wake.

In a fantastic coincidence that could never have been arranged or hoped for, he'd finished a tournament two days before - in sixth place - by announcing that he was taking a long, undetermined break from the sport. From public life. His highly publicized divorce was complete, and only one of his endorsement contracts had been picked up. At twenty-eight years of age the rock-star lifestyle had caught up with him... and he let the press know that they wouldn't have him to kick around anymore.

With the help of a powerful sedative, he was transported to the place where the next chapter in his high-octane life would occur. Great care had been taken to keep the location a secret.

Sprawled on a thick floor-mat, it took the better part of two hours for him to quit snoring and begin to shake off the effects of the drug.
His left leg rose a few inches off the floor.
A biker boot slid off. Then, the sock. The tennis player's head wobbled, but he was still too impaired to move much at all.
The other foot was bared next...
Belt.
T-shirt.
It was time to add something to his ensemble.
A coil of thick nylon rope hovered over...

Both ankles were tied together.
Several lengths looped through the knots which kept his wrists behind his back.
Looking quite a bit like a confident snake, the rope circled his thighs and shoulders, knotting again as he tugged harder. Motor control had returned a few minutes too late, and he gave up the fight after a minute and scanned the room drunkenly, as if he'd recognize something.

He was well-defined without being obnoxiously showy. Nice, solid arms pulled against the rope. He was sweating, grunting, trying to kick as hard as he could... not yet aware that there were so many cuffs and straps nearby. More secure restraints were going to make a big impression -  undefeatable furniture and fixtures brought here to keep him from... diluting the experience in any way.

And now, wonderfully, the suspense which he must've been feeling was resolved.

A pair of oiled black latex hands found each other.
They shared a triumphant handshake well above their prey.
His eyes were positively huge.

Wrestling with the knots was purely an academic exercise, but his body didn't seem to realize it yet. The skin and muscles seemed to know, and fear, what was in store. The rope was overcoming all sensible urges to flee - at any cost - before the firm hands cruised down. Yes, his body wanted absolutely nothing to do with what the hands were there to do, sure as the sunrise.
The magic hands separated - and swung down, haunting and inexplicably graceful - to his naked feet.

Purely frantic, he kicked and twisted as much as he could. The thrashing had to bust him loose. It just had to. And he knew to his core that it wasn't going to work. The magic gloves were going to get their way - no matter how much he couldn't freakin' stand it. They were the winners here, and as the slippery rubber touched his soles he whined out one more pitiful word.

"Noooooo..."

The fingers were tracing down, and across, up and down, side to side. He had to get away from them - and he just couldn't! Feet on fire, already - they'd barely started, after making sure he couldn't do a damn thing except lay there - and the gloves were tickling all over his feet -

A snort, then another... and he was cackling.

It felt so weird. Totally excruciating, and there was some nice sensation in there too. His toes were just going wild.
That didn't stop the fingers either.
He bounced, and yanked at the straps - but nothing worked. Then he started to laugh much harder.

Tickling, tickling, tickling...


Something was wet. His face. Shit, he'd been laughing so steadily that tears had been running down his cheeks.
And still the fingers kept piling it on.


After an eternity there was another change. Something was different. Less -
He opened his eyes. The gloves were there, in front of his face. They'd been waiting for him to look...
And then they were heading for his chest.
"Nooooo noooo-waaaah hah haaaa-eeeeee!," he crowed.

Stroking, massaging hands blotted out everything else. He thrashed with all he had, but the bonds held tight just as intended. There was nothing he could do to get away from the fingers. So unbelievably ticklish. He realized he was shrieking, and wished so much that he could laugh about ten times louder...
The fingers stayed aggressive.
It was just so impossible. He had to move, to get away, and the ropes were holding fast.


Years seemed to pass.


There was soft pressure against his face...
He'd been dozing. All over him, skin was throbbing. Fully wakened. His chest hurt.
Soft material pressed against his pecs - but not his back. Why was his ass up high?
Groaning, the tennis player started bringing his arms down to push himself up -
Gloves slapped his shoulders. Clamped down on his wrists, his elbows...
Giggling immediately, helplessly, he saw even more dark hands take control of his upper arms. Something jingled so softly - also black, floating toward his left hand.
His brain seemed to be working in slow-motion. Thrashing as hard as he could before the recognition hit home, he finally caught on that the new object was a leather cuff. They weren't satisfied with rope, oh no, there was so much more torture to rain down on him and it wasn't just a few more hours before he was cut loose. No matter what he tried, or how loud he wailed, the gloves had no trouble keeping his arm pinned...
And the cuff was tugged a time or two, then left alone. Something metallic clicked near his wrist, and one by one the gloves let go.
Oh, shit, he really couldn't move his left arm now. Turn it a little, wiggle it - but unbelievably, his wrist was cuffed. Stuck. Real bondage gear -
The gloves had hold of his right arm.
All he could do was squirm. It was infuriating.

As they dealt with his ankles, he looked around.
To his right there was a webbed sling. More leather. Plenty of shiny rings here and there - big ones - to attach the cuffs. Like a half-hammock, made for keeping prisoners from slipping off.
To his left side there were big, scary manacles chained to the wall. Soft, black foam of some kind was under them, and on the floor.
Situations like this... weren't real. Yet there he was.
The room was all tricked out - and then they carried him in here, unconscious, and closed the door. Could anybody know where he was? Any chance?
He found new energy to slam around, bounce, and strain. The cuffs had less give than the rope, of course. He was really screwed  now. They had him so trapped, legs apart, ass up -
Were they gonna...?
"Oh no, no, noooooooo," he rasped.
Something brushed against the inside of his right thigh. He jumped.
Then the other one too.
His legs contracted and tried to get busy. The cuffs creaked, but that was it. The contact wandered back down, toward his knees.
Unbelievable. It was feathers.
Only the beginning of more unbearable times to come.

He started out pleading and begging, but it became more and more incoherent as the feathers kept teasing slowly, sadistically, making his noises unravel into babbling and then strained, wheezing hoots. To his shock, he realized his favorite body part was reacting. No padding pressed against it - this custom torture bench had a gap under his crotch.
The tip of a feather traced down his shaft.
"Nnnnnno heh heh heh huh huh huh..."
And behind each knee. Oh no, no! It went through him like an electric shock.
He just couldn't roll or get up or shift his body down. They really had him now.
His ears. Throwing his head around only bought a few seconds... and then those feathers were tickling his damn ears again.
When a feathertip found his perineum, he sucked in air and just roared like a banshee.