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It has been a tough time for the hospitality industry.
Froth didn't really care. But it had been forced to abandon three dungeons during the past year, and the last one was set up just the way it wanted. The logical thing to do was go find a cabin, and haul a truckload of supplies out there. But it loved the city...
And one day, aimlessly, it wandered into the Haystack. That was the nickname of a big old hotel. Twelve stories. 720 rooms and suites - but over half were empty these days, all the time.
That bothered Froth.
All it wanted was one room.
Silently, the hotel staff was watched. Records were carefully reviewed...
832 was its first choice.
There was plenty of room past the foot of the bed. Classic decor, as though time had left the room behind. That was the appropriate mood, Froth decided, considering what it had in mind.
The west side of the building was less popular, and 832 was five rooms away from the back stairwell. Better yet - the management had closed off the entire floor. That only made sense. Easier on the housekeeping staff, and they'd only need ten minutes to air out the rooms, pull the plastic wrap off the bed, hang some fresh towels in the bathroom.
The monitors which showed what the hallway security cameras saw were even turned off.
As if that wasn't enough... the ninth floor was also closed. And the west side of the seventh and tenth floors.
The elevators wouldn't even stop on 8 or 9, and the stairwell doors were kept locked.
As a test, Froth went into ten of the "sealed" rooms and put a large potted plant on the foot of each bed. Then it went out to gather tools and supplies, filling a small storage room near the old coal boiler in the basement. And it made the toys it liked best - by the dozen. Really, it was eager to get back to it.
Two weeks later, none of the plants had been returned to their rightful places.
Froth considered fourteen days just fine - for a start. The first attempt would be a learning experience. When someone from the hotel staff came in and put an end to the excitement, it would take the information gained and make an even better plan. All those empty rooms. Surely there was a way to pull it off...
One night it moved everything out of storage, and stocked the room just the way it wanted.
The empty rooms all around were even better than any soundproofing foam. Imagine the effect, it thought happily. A normal-looking hotel room - but no one would ever come around to see what all the fuss was about!
All set. A terrific setup like that called for a man with exceptional sensitivity.
Froth went hunting.
In some parts of the city, there was almost an embarrassment of riches. It was an effort not to keep looking for the perfect toy...
He had to be alone, of course. A long adventure was going to keep him thoroughly occupied. Better-than-average physical condition, and no obvious health problems. Decent stamina, too. His endurance, and his muscle tone, were going to be developed and improved.
The budget motels and youth hostels were investigated first. It seemed amusing to put a guy up at the Haystack who couldn't afford it, enjoying all the rich comforts available to its guests.
The other requirement for Froth's new pet was, of course, blindingly obvious.
A quintet of college kids had arrived at the Cheep-Sleep. Ready to party, tear up the town, get laid. It would have no problem separating one from the pack, leaving hints that he'd gone off to chase tail. Still, a group of men reporting the disappearance of their friend was an unnecessary risk. Not that they'd ever look for him in the Haystack...
There was one new arrival at the hostel, but he was too old. Not lean enough to suit Froth, and he clearly liked to smoke.
The frat boys started drinking.
Later, after making quick tests in between far too many beers, Froth was torn between going with the most reactive of the frat boys - and that wasn't saying much, really - or looking farther out in the suburbs, where a few more chain-motels were clustered. Slip in, check a few...
The decision was too important to rush. Froth wasn't planning a day or two of torture for its next victim. Even though the impatience was building - after all, the room was just sitting there, all prepped and everything - it decided that the adbuction would probably have to wait until the next day.
So it headed east. The hostel was in that direction, a couple blocks away. Perhaps someone interesting had shown up during the past couple hours.
No. Just the old guy, snoring softly. Reeking of beer. More out of habit than any real interest, Froth slipped under his pillow and found his wallet.
A German tourist. That was interesting. The ID card made it pause -
What? Oh, that was his picture alright... But he couldn't be 44 years old!
It studied his face, resting so peacefully. Dark hair and eyes. It looked as though his whiskers grew quickly... Early thirties, at the oldest - that's what Froth had guessed.
Lifting his shirt a little, it appraised his muscle tone without touching him. The lower ribs stuck out nicely, and once he'd burned off, oh, seven or eight pounds, he'd be lean. A few days of intense exertion would do the trick. His lungs didn't sound bad at all.
If his hands were cuffed down, he'd be done with the cigarettes...
Froth was disappointed with the turn of events. A big city, all those potential victims waiting to be caught, and things had come down to this. The suburbs, then -
But it lingered. Maybe it was the way his ribs just begged for a solid attack. Or the tourist angle. He could disappear without a trace. Lost in the U.S.A. Those were attractive points, but it really couldn't get over his appearance. His torso and his face definitely didn't look 44. Maybe that also meant he was, well, youthful in other respects.
There was only one way to be sure.
It dragged a finger across his left armpit -
and he recoiled so hard he almost tipped the cot over. Eyes big, looking around wildly.
Well, how do you do... Gabe.
As he settled down again, looking embarrassed, Froth really wanted to grab him and fly right to the Haystack. But it backed off, enjoying the pang of frustration. Now that it had a specific target the brief wait would be exciting, in a way. In order to arrange the kind of entrance into the cell that it liked best, a few hours of patience would be necessary - for a bigger payoff later.
When he was asleep again, it took some measurements for his restraints.
Gabe woke up at eight. Froth had been imperceptibly hovering over him for two hours.
Waiting was so hard. The plan was too elaborate. He was going to get on a train and leave. Before it steered him inside today, some idiot from the housekeeping department would wander up and check on the rooms - unscheduled, pointless interference...
He could be hit by a bus. Or get arrested.
And it followed him out to breakfast, then over to Central Park.
Waiting.
He bought a carton of cigarettes and stuck them in his knapsack - completely unaware that it wasn't going to let him smoke any more than a pack or two. He was going to quit that very night.
After trudging over to the Empire State Building, Froth wished he'd hurry up and start drinking...
At last. Late afternoon, and he was smart enough to wait until he was fairly close to the hostel. He picked an old bar with a cowboy theme.
Not too many people were there, but it was early. And a weekday. Gabe planted himself in the back courtyard, lit another cigarette and watched TV. He flirted with the waitress, who played along enough to ensure a good tip from him. But that didn't seem to bother him.
Other than eating a sandwich and going to piss, he didn't seem to be in any hurry to leave. Froth was enjoying dark thoughts of revenge. Soon - very soon now - it would have complete control of his schedule.
The sun was setting, which would make transporting him much easier. When he ordered a fourth beer, it pulled a tiny packet out of the front knapsack pocket. Nudging his lighter off the table made him reach down to get it -
Unable to see the packet zip over his beer, and open. Fine powder, the color of sand, fizzled slightly as it dissolved.
Considering his capacity for alcohol, Froth doubted the drug would do anything more than make him... vague. Slowed down.
Yawning, Gabe squinted his watch. His frown suggested he wasn't ready to go to bed just yet. But the drug said otherwise. He finished that beer and stood up, carefully.
It allowed him to walk a few blocks, closer to the safety of the hostel. Waiting for a streetlight, he swayed a little -
Until Froth leaned against his knapsack. Just enough to steady him.
About a minute later, he stumbled... and was caught. Gabe looked from his right bicep, to his left. No hands there, that he could see -
but Froth held on, rather gently, and turned him around.
It was the decisive moment. Would he fight, and draw attention to himself? If so, he'd be dragged into an alley and hogtied. But Froth still wanted him to go to his new room at least partly under his own power...
When a few tugs didn't make Froth's invisible hands go away, Gabe sagged a little. Thinking hard, trying to puzzle it out.
Smoothly, it pulled him forward.
"Nein, nein, " he barked. Getting sleepy - and yet he resisted the pull of its hands. And then he yawned, nice and hard.
After a few more tugs, he gave up. His body relaxed, walking along... and his eyelids started to droop.
Froth led him down the street, and cut through two alleys. It took quite a while to get his hands working well enough to light a cigarette.
Closer, and closer. He couldn't possibly imagine what was in store for him, at the end of this little trek. But Gabe cooperated with his kidnapper -
At last. His prison. Almost there. It had him pause, right in front of the Haystack. He looked up at it - and oh, how the drug had impaired him. Trying to shake his head back and forth, he ended up yawning.
At the door, Froth bent his arm slowly and brought the cigarette up. Gabe took the hint and had one last, easy drag, springing the cigarette away.
Inside. So close, now -
It eased his right hand into the back pocket of his jeans. After a few seconds, his fingers pinched the room key and pulled it out. He looked the mag-card over, walking slowly to the elevators.
For this one special trip upstairs, Froth had deactivated the floor lockout. It was relieved to see no one else waiting - and even happier when the bell chimed softly.
He tried to back away, muttering "Nein" under his breath a few times...
Phantom hands immediately curled around his forearms, and pushed against his shoulder blades.
All in all, he didn't give the appearance of being all that reluctant as he entered the elevator, but no one was looking in his direction anyway. It turned him around.
Not even trying to disguise its excitement, Froth punched the button for the eighth floor.
He saw the button light up, and squinted at it. His head was wobbly, and his eyes slowly closed.
Not yet, Froth decided. It slipped his cigarettes out.
As soon as the filter touched his lip, he blinked a few times. Seeing it, he grabbed the cigarette with his lips.
The elevator door opened. At last - the final walk. He wouldn't get to do that for awhile.
Its guided him down the silent hallway, and right up to the door...
Froth snatched the key out of his hand, and slid it into the lock. Green light. Of course - it had taken care of everything. Good to go.
Inside. Yes! He bumped into the wall, but it straighted him up...
And turned him completely around.
Froth closed the door slowly, and greatly enjoyed locking it.
when he emerged from the hall, he didn't seem to notice the big vase on the dresser - filled with feathers. Froth had placed it carefully, where he could look over and see it - feathers rising up, again and again, heading right for him.
But that was tomorrow. As it took the cigarette from his mouth and slipped his knapsack off, he made a few soft noises... but he didn't resist. It eased him down to the bed. Gabe was all but asleep.
It flew out and locked the elevators again. No unexpected visits of any kind were welcome, now, on the eighth floor.
When Froth returned, he was definitely unconscious - so it hurried to complete the very last bit of preparation.
At the hostel, Froth scooped up everything of Gabe's from the storage cages - suitcase, passport, traveler's checks - and stashed them in the closet of his Haystack room.
Then it was time to strip him slowly, so he wouldn't wake up just yet, and bring out the restraints. The bed had been pulled well out from the wall - accentuated by the distance, like a display stand. His stage...
Only one lamp was on. Sitting on a table that had been alongside the bed, it would always be on when he was conscious. With the drapes closed, the dark tones throughout 832 gave it a antique, cavelike feel.
Froth was so fired up. There was something extraordinary about the moments just before. The die was cast, and the clock was counting down.
Excellent. His eyes opened, and he started scanning the room. Blinking, at his naked body, with such a puzzled expression on his face...
That cot in the hostel lacked these fine restraints. They'll enable him to stay down and experience such hideous fun for the next eight or nine hours.
Look around more, it thought. Yes. That amazed, innocent expression. Pre-tickling. Savor the moment, Gabe. Remember it. You'll look back on it, again and again, and wish you could go back...
It was the only time he'd be able to wonder why he was in there, held down - and hidden from the rest of humanity.
Froth was about to solve the mystery.
He wouldn't ever find out he's in the Haystack, if it was careful. Obviously, it was a quality establishment... even if the thick leather pinning him didn't match the decor of the room.
But 832 might as well have been on its own private island. The most heart-tugging anguish would not change his situation. The eighth floor was locked, and everyone on the staff knew it. They'd come to work, and go home - and Gabe would keep sweating through the fiendish torment, as if they had never been in the building. All of them would deny the very possibility of what was about to happen, because who would ever think such a thing was possible? Imprisoned... Kept miserably, continuously delirious - for weeks, with any luck. He could laugh and scream just as much as his little heart desired.
Only Froth would hear him. Gabe's performance was going to be honed and appreciated by his solitary, invisible, insatiable patron. Thrashing, wiggling, testing the authority of the cuffs again and again. Thrusting. Gulping the air he needed so badly in order to endure another few seconds of the piercing, mind-boggling delight. The agony of all that irresistible merriment would keep mounting, burning, ramping up, occupying him more and more solidly.
No one on the staff was scheduled to visit that floor of the hotel... for ten stunning days. The same thought would come to him again and again - no one will be coming to let him out today.
Unthinkable, ecstatic suffering, through each hour that will feel like ten, until Froth allowed him to pass out. That was why it had removed the clocks. Gabe's energy level would determine when bedtime finally arrived.
Eventually, he'd stop wondering why the maids never knocked or let themselves in. It mulled over some hints to suggest that the staff was purposely choosing to ignore his torment. He'd see through that eventually, if he wasn't a total dolt, but it was confident he'd be too addled in the long run to question the final conclusion Froth would force upon him...
The intoxicating torture was never, ever going to end.
BUt first it had to begin.
Froth took its time selecting four perfect feathers from the vase.
When he saw them coming, down to his chest, the shock of recognition on his face was even more delightful than the earnest stretching and slamming around. Gabe fought with the straps as he tracked them, looking thoroughly intimidated.
Wasting no more time, Froth swept them down his bare soles.
Immediately his body was tense. All of him. With a mighty effort, he tried to jump away from the feathers -
They flicked up... and down.
"Nein," he growled hopelessly, sounding as though he could cry.
It brought the feathers spiraling in toward the center of each foot -
He took a careful, full breath - and yelled. A raw, wrenching protest. Unbounded distress.
Froth heard him, and stroked faster.
Wholehearted panic made him snap at his restraints. He yelled "hilfe," over and over... Not at the feathers - he was looking in the direction of the entry, or up at the ceiling.
Until help came, the tickling would continue.
Right, Gabe?
Within fifteen minutes, Froth decided it would never again jump to conclusions about the less attractive prospects.
To think it might never have seen the intensity of Gabe's reactions, all the hysteria - that he could be snoring in that hostel and then going about his vacation, instead of filling 832 with an explosion of barking, lowing, gibbering...
He slammed around, but it was completely ineffective - not only due to his bonds, but also the throes and contortions of his nervous system making muscles seize and pump, wildly scrambled from all the confounding stimuli tracing over more and more of his skin...
It had to keep pulling back. Slowing down...
His sensitivity was downright impressive. Gabe writhed and howled like a man half his age.
Almost reverently, Froth picked up black silk gloves.
"Lächerlich," he mumbled over and over, catching his breath.
Froth had race down to the concierge's desk and borrow a German-English dictionary to find out what that meant -
Ridiculous?
That was the word. Well, either he was commenting on how unlikely he found the predicament to be... or he was insulting Froth. Either way, he'd learn.
And the lesson would not be hastily taught.
After an hour or two, his laughter dwindled considerably. He still whined and growled, but making noise apparently didn't give him any relief. If anything, it seemed to be disturbing his concentration! When his muscles could no longer stay tense, the demented moans finally trailed off. Deep, regular breathing. Drool seeped out of the corners of his mouth. Occasionally, he managed to grunt or twitch.
His suffering was impressive to watch. Vast, and wordless...
While Froth greatly enjoyed his roars and giggles, his silence was a clear indicator of uncharted territory. With enough variety and plenty of short breaks, the sensitivity of his body was increasing. Nearly all of his energy was being commandeered by his nervous system. Mentally, he seemed to have no coping mechanisms at all.
With his body keeping him motionless - breathing, and processing food to build his endurance - his mind was trapped more hopelessly than even the restraints and the isolated room could accomplish. Was it hysterically trying to narrate what was being used to tickle him, in each overwhelmed location? Trying to guess how and where the next wave of torment would land? Gibbering and wailing that another rest break had to be coming soon, and maybe this time he'd be given a badly needed cigarette... or hoping this was the only day of tickling, that it wouldn't go on forever, and at some point the kidnapper had to let him go.
Or maybe, at this point, his mind was filled with the lusty noises he could no longer make. Savage whoops and barks, continuous keening giggles, ragged screeching interspersed with the occasional "nein" or "hilfe".
Ten and a half hours was enough sleep, for now.
At the front desk, Froth tapped console keys and scheduled a wake-up call for him - in ten minutes.
Then it watched him sleep and thought about what it would do to him that day.
The phone made three quick rings -
He jumped.
It turned the lamp on.
Blinking rapidly... he recognized what was holding his arm down. Both arms. Still caught -
He kicked, and tried to arch.
Very good, it thought. Time to wake up now. Laid out just like yesterday, for the exact same reason -
As it turned off the phone ringer, Froth picked up four pointed feathers... and sent them to his feet.
With a frightened scream, he started to slam and lunge around.
The raucous laughter died down after a half-hour. No more of that bellowed, panicky barking, not to mention all the scratchy yells for "hilfe"...
"Nai haii haiiiiii haii haiiiiiiiinnn," he cackled unhappily. Endlessly.
The feathers were joined by four soft brushes.
Struggling, arching, wild glances around the room - all of that eventually faded away.
He cackled for another hour or two, not counting rest breaks... usually repeating the word "nein" as a set of five chuckled sounds, with the last "haiiinn" longer than the rest. Then he'd inhale, and repeat it again.
After another hour which brought two rest breaks, he watched the gloves return again, swiping across his belly... making him laugh again.
He tried to shake his head, squinting at them. Watching.
Gabe closed his eyes tight, and gulped. Lips moving silently -
Suddenly, he opened his eyes again. Looking around, with such disappointment.
When he repeated that two more times, Froth figured it out. He was trying to wake up from the nightmare. How delightful.
The next time his eyes popped open, two gloves began mauling his feet.
He howled and tried to back away from the racing silk. Froth dug in and punished him for even thinking he could get away, because he was safely caught and far too ticklish to escape the long, longer, longest torture Froth had planned, and it would more intense tickling than he could possibly dream up, and it was not going to be ending just because he thought he was going to wake up and elude it. Gabe was awake, and the agony of not being able to laugh anywhere hard enough was undeniably real.
Fifteen minutes, and it didn't like the way he was wheezing. So it let him rest up.
As soon as his breathing levelled out, he tried to wake himself up again!
Four gloves attacked his chest and armpits...
And the toe restraints were brought into use, just taut enough to allow a pair of feathers full access between his toes, skating and sawing at a murderous pace.
That pretty much ended the wakeup attempts.
Next, he refused to eat his dinner.
After two hours of high-octane punishment for that willfulness, Gabe was too tired to move. It held his jaws open and dripped chicken broth down his throat until the swallowing reflex kicked in.
Before too much longer, it seemed he was either too hungry or too distracted to keep himself from eating...
It was careful to roll him over and massage all of his pressure points. And there were other alternatives that would help give the cuffed skin a break...
Freeing his ankles, it extended both of his legs high in the air.
When he finally noticed, Gabe made a valiant effort to kick them loose. But it had many strong hands locked on his shins, ankles, and around the very top of each instep - so feathers could dance all over his soles.
He convulsed somewhat more freely than usual, but his wrists were still down flat, and staying far apart.
After a break, the feathers began gliding on down. It decided to work on his elbows, later, because his knees were so excessively reactive. Traveling up his thighs, it was moving inevitably toward an excruciatingly sensitive region...
Then it switched to brushes, concentrated on an area for awhile and moved again.
Later still, Froth moved the silk gloves down all sides of his legs as if he was being stroked by a customized machine. Fingers detoured to torture a knee for a minutes, or squeeze high on the inside of a leg. His cock had grown soft, after being erect for so long...
Two feathers provoking his nipples soon woke it up again.
Impulsively, it put a condom over him. Gloves concentrated on his thighs, with the occasional thumb straying through his pubic hair.
Gabe began to thrust very slowly.
Froth took all of the gloves off, and kept dusting his pecs. It greased up a pair of rubber gloves and delicately fondled his ass -
No matter how light the contact, he bucked wildly when a fingertip moved over his sphincter or the blazingly sensitive skin between anus and scrotum.
Gabe yelped twice... and ejaculated.
It rubbed each gluteal cheek with a firm circular motion. When his bouncing and writing died down, one palm alternated on the back of each thigh, and a set of fingers slid down and up his butt-crack. The feathers sawed across his nipples faster...
Within six minutes, he came again.
Froth put two gloves on each foot, and two on each side of his torso, in the mood for some brutal fun.
All in all, it was a great way to spend four hours.
Froth decided that it wanted him to ejaculate only when his lust and endurance were at their daily peak, and it was making that convergence occur about two hours before dinnertime. That provided plenty of time for unbridled post-cum tickling, a long break and a meal to fortify him, and all those subsequent hours of stimulation, kindling the need for release to previously unimagined levels - just in time to haunt his dreams. The ringing phone would also mean he was still a few hours away from relief, yet more and more awakened to the systematic teasing and tickling.
Gabe was messy. Each day, a full garbage bag of dirty sheets and towels, not to mention the gloves...
It was Froth's good fortune to discover the old laundry room was fully operational. Two sets of outdated machines had been left in place, apparently as a stopgap measure if needed. The room was quite close to some of the elevator shafts, yet distant enough from any other room in the basement that was actively being used. And the walls were thick concrete.
With the door closed and the light turned out, any sounds were lost in the din of the elevators, clanging and squeaking.
All the linen and silk it could possibly use was washed while he slept. No one who worked in the basement seemed to be the least bit inquisitive - much the same as the kitchen staff. Their apathy was invaluable to Froth.
The third time the phone rang, Gabe was starting to weep - until he discovered the massive increase in sensitivity he experienced with all of that annoying body hair shaved off...
And the fourth day, that reluctance to eat was finally tickled out of him. He stared at the ceiling with that faraway expression in his eyes, chewing almost mechanically.
As an enticement, it brought him two pieces of the dining room's famous quadruple chocolate fudge cake.
And even though he was obviously keeping as much reaction out of his face as he could, he gobbled them down.
In the bathroom, Froth turned on the water - and started filling a pail.
As soon as Gabe recognized the sound and looked over, he started to groan and flail around. But he certainly wasn't going to miss out...
Bath time.
It rolled the dirty linen out from underneath him with the efficiency of long practice. The rubber sheet underneath was a mess, but it was about to get cleaned as well.
Lots of soap and oil were poured into the hot water...
Undisguised fear was evident in his expression, as he watched the pail approach. It landed on the mattress between his cuffed ankles. Next came the shampoo, dental stuff and a pair of white cotton gloves - which Froth plunged into the pail. Cupping together, they carried water to his head, pouring it and going back for more. The shampoo bottle opened, and a piece of floss was unrolled...
He laid there rigidly, keeping his eyes closed - not wanting to cooperate, but well aware of the penalty for trying to resist. The fingers massaged his scalp, and the floss moved quickly from tooth to tooth. As soon as it was done, a toothbrush moved in.
It took less than two minutes.
There. Froth was always glad to get those tasks over with, and get on with the really enjoyable part of his bath. Lifting two scrub-brushes out of the water, it always paused at let them drip for a few seconds... so Gabe could start wriggling anxiously.
The cotton gloves slid down his arms - over his shoulders, and around his neck. Squeezing, just a little, and releasing.
He giggled uncontrollably.
Froth had the brushes start on his hips, carefully dragging down to the ankle-cuffs and back up again. When it came time to slide under his knees, it forced the mattress down firmly. One hundred strokes, there. And they moved on to his lower back, and spine, moving lower yet for the next fifteen minutes - making sure his ass was red and clean. As they did, the gloves ceased stroking his ears and face, and then his eyelids.
The brushes dunked themselves back into the bucket, loading up again with slick, soapy water. Froth had to keep pausing every few minutes, anyway, just so Gabe could catch his breath...
His chest was leisurely scrubbed for a half-hour... and then his abs, for half again as long.
But his sides were "cleaned" for a full hour, as the gloves polished his pecs. Many rest breaks were necessary, to keep him from missing any of the impact - and then the bristles kept returning to ease up and down again, side-to-side in his armpits, across his ribs, hundreds of easy vertical strokes.
Last, and longest of all - each foot was thoroughly scrubbed. Every surface, very slow crawling bristles, varying the pressure... Consuming yet another deranged hour, as the gloves lightly and endlessly massaged all the genital surfaces and crevices.
Towels came and dried him, even though Gabe had perspired and urinated so much that he wasn't exactly clean, afterward. So a cream was used in the last step. It cleaned and moisturized him, from ears to toes, as it was lovingly and obsessively applied by six latex gloves.
Then it was time to start tickling him again.
Froth slid the cuffs higher, rebuckling them so they were snug around his forearms and shins. It picked him up, set him on his knees and cuffed his hands behind his back
Then it clipped a steel bar between his ankles, spreading them a half-meter apart. Gabe squirmed harder, attempting to watch the preparations - becoming so agitated when eight sable brushes approached that it grabbed his biceps and held him tightly in place.
The fur danced all over his soles, and the rounded end of one brush dragged steadily around from the ball of each foot to the heel. Two of the brushes immediately began tickling their way up to his ribs.
Gabe squealed and writhed, bouncing maniacally as he crowed and chortled.
Within ten minutes, the merry sounds had all but died out again. He threw his head around, occasionally, but he settled down. Panting for air, grunting and groaning, Gabe was too provoked to laugh. Trying to deal with the helplessness of this new position was his foremost concern.
He fell over. And when he ended up on his back, kicking spasmodically, Froth found it unusually entertaining...
After a break, it returned him to his knees and tethered each shin to the bed frame. Toppling was no longer possible.
Eventually, he quit trying to move altogether, except his head, and started laughing erratically, as if his mind was... elsewhere.
An hour of that was enough. It didn't want him to be uncomfortable - or rather, it wanted the tickling to continue without any other discomfort to distract him. His arms were freed, he was pulled forward.
With his hands and knees flat on the mattress, Gabe watched leather circle round his limbs and tighten slowly, keeping him right there. Sweat dripped off his nose as he tugged at the straps.
Froth brought six rubber gloves and a canister. When he saw them, he started to rock from side to side, trying to fall down. It had the fingers dig deep and start caressing him - spine, chest, ass - with a skin cream that stayed slippery, no matter how much rubbing took place. Whenever he tried to lower himself to the mattress, the fingers moved back underneath and raced over his belly until he straightened his back again.
He bucked like a hobbled horse, saying "Nein!" over and over forcefully. But his voice was silent...
The ringing phone was always a surprise.
Wake up now, Gabe...
The light clicked softly as Froth turned it on. Rise and whine.
"Nuhoooooo-oooooooh," he squeaked.
Four gloves cruised over his stomach, landed there, and began petting him solidly.
If Gabe wasn't already watching, all it had to do was snap the scarf overhead, quietly. When he recognized it, he'd start lunging around. And down it would come.
One of his blindfolds.
Tools and gloves gathered above his most ticklish spots, hanging there. Taking turns...
Randomly attacking for awhile and backing off. Soft caresses, or savage attacks. By pausing for different lengths of time - twenty seconds, all the way up to five minutes - any hope of preparing himself for the next touch was destroyed.
The blindfold was used each day, keeping Gabe strongly reactive for two or three exciting hours.
To gauge how much of an impact each particular technique would cause, it came to recognize eleven physical signs all over his body that betrayed him. As time went on, Froth increasingly knew where to spend extra time stimulating him, and which types of contact tickled the most.
Already, it had three methods to keep him from making any noise at all, and four ways to get him laughing again. It was also learning how to make him produce different kinds of laughter...
After he tried to adapt by laughing less and less, his voice recovered to a degree. It was a weak imitation of the howls and screams he made the first day. But Froth conserved it, just so it could listen to five minutes of unquenchable braying here, an hour of hopeless chucking there...
Another frequent game was stretching him.
Since he was going to be face down for awhile, it put a condom to use - and a jockstrap, without the cup. A pillow was placed under his chest...
Forearms and hands were wrapped together, and cuffs kept his calves similarly stuck. Four straps pulled him taut... and kept pulling, until he whined. Then it loosened them a half-inch and anchored them down.
The pillow almost seemed to offer some protection, since his armpits were resting on linen, but the elevation let Froth slip underneath easily and terrorize his chest, or creep down to his belly - and it did enjoy using gloves. The pillow didn't really shield him at all from its clutching fingers.
The agony of fun certainly wasn't confined to his torso. Unable to roll or shift, Gabe was never spared an intricate, devoted assault on the underside of his knees, his neck or his butt-crack.
With his big toes tied together, hanging off the mattress, his feet weren't possibly going to miss out on their usual sadistic workout.
Usually, it added cuffs to his biceps, and his thighs - as well as a thin belt around his waist, all pulled tight and anchored to the bedframe. Squirming was even more pointless...
And tickling next to the cuffs seemed to have a concentrating effect, when he was stretched that tight. His knees were so much more sensitive when there was leather a few inches above and below them, making absolutely sure he'd lay right there and get provoked for two or three hours, with fingers and brushes and feathers methodically working on every accessible location, between long rest breaks and then the impact of each restart, shocking him all over again.
As Froth learned what foods he preferred, it saw no recurrence of his early reluctance to eat. He was burning up an incredible amount of calories. Lots of carbohydrates were required.
Gabe leisurely turned the nutrients into delirium, as well as the excess body fat. Chest, arms, legs - all over him, the throbbing pleasure and exertion had worked wonders. His skin had responded wonderfully to the torment.
From his neck to his feet, the muscles had become toned - and more clearly defined...
Substantially more ticklish than before.
The elevator door opened. Froth watched eagerly.
A sullen man stepped out, pulling a vacuum cleaner behind him. Without hesitation, he plugged it into an outlet and started vacuuming the hallway carpet.
He was a day later than expected, which allowed Gabe more hours of incoherent mirth...
Slowly, the distinctive sound grew louder as it approached. Past 816, and then 818.
Six oiled latex hands kept steadily kneading him.
820, 822, 824 -
He opened his eyes. Panting... and listening.
826.
His head moved drunkenly, but he eventually managed to look over toward the hallway, which led to the main door.
828.
After one quick movement, something like a hiccup - Gabe started to fight. Leaning over, bouncing, straining to loosen the cuffs. It was the most Froth had seen him move in two or three days.
830.
His eyes were wide open, and there was a expression on his face. Amazement... and yearning.
Gabe started to yell. His voice had been so weakened by yelping and howling that his loudest shouts couldn't even be heard at the main door to 832. But of course he didn't know that.
Limbs thrashing forcefully, he bounced for a while - unaware that Froth had carefully reinforced the stout wooden dowels underneath him, and added a thick layer of foam over the springs.
And the vacuum came closer. The look on his face was so rewarding. The first sign of another person in the building, and they were coming right toward him. Whym, it could be the end of all the horrendous torture.
The vacuum rolled right up to the door - bumping into it!
Shouting over and over, he found new strength to slam around and kick.
Onward... to room 834.
Gabe stopped screaming, but his body stayed tense. Leaning over, in the direction of the hallway...
The sound of the vacuum was growing fainter... and fainter. Away. Another person had been right at the door, and now they were leaving him there. Down the hall it went.
He started to tremble, making the straps vibrate the least little bit, and finally he fell back against the pillow.
Gabe's nightmare was going to remain a secret. Locked in the tickle cell, right where Froth wanted him, there was no realistic chance he'd be avoiding far more torment to come.
Gabe started to cry again. But it wasn't going to allow that, so it repositioned four of the gloves and increased the speed of the attack...
Within a minute, he was mindlessly keening again.
Froth had ten fingers provoke the top of his inner thighs - as it continued to track the custodian's movements. Barreling on, the vacuum went down the south hallway, which was shorter... and then up the east wing.
Finally... back north.
The vaccum was finally turned off and lugged into the elevator. By that point Gabe was too distracted to care, even if he had been able to hear it.
Froth pumped Gabe's cock, slowly, as it checked to made sure that the elevator button was locked out again. And it checked the stairways too. They were still locked...
It had much more to lose, now. The hallway carpets were swept, and the floor was locked up again. No other maintenance was scheduled. In fact, no other person should be stepping onto Gabe's floor of the Haystack - including him - for a month.
Thirty interminable, delightful, unspeakably demanding days.
Perhaps it was time... to take things up a few notches.
The next morning, the phone rang and the lamp clicked on.
He stared dully at Froth's newest surprise.
Dark wooden stocks were facing the bed. Just for him.
Behind it, several chains and straps hung from a large four-legged stand.
Despite his complete lack of willingness, Froth unclipped his cuffs and picked him up. Floating him through the air, it planted his butt firmly on a pair of short, wide straps. They were hooked to stout chains, and then his arms were pulled up and out. Clipped. A strap went around his waist like a belt, insuring he wouldn't fall off the open-air seat...
And his ankles were pressed down against the padded half-moon holes.
It lowered the top of the stocks very slowly, delighted by his ravings, the jerking convulsions of fear. A large bolt was the finishing touch, sealing him in the sturdy device.
There.
He looked from one arm to the other, so hopelessly caught... and flexed his toes. His knees were slightly bent, but there was no possibility of turning his legs or altering their position very much at all. His shoulders could pivot a little, but other that that he was truly immobilized.
And best of all, his feet were stranded, way out there. They looked so worried, trying to pedal and rotate.
Tears were running down his face even before the tools lined up in front of him. Artist's brushes, then feathers, pastry brushes, crochet needles... all backed up by dexterous silk hands.
Within moments, a whole new chapter of excruciating pleasure began.
Gabe often spent a frenzied hour or two in the stocks. He could swing his body somewhat, but it didn't change the position of his legs at all.
With a few adjustments, the stocks could trap his cuffed wrists just as well. It never tired of making him swing his chained feet back and forth, absolutely desperate to keep them away from the feathers or fingers which waited patiently at the center of the arc.
And when it wanted him to move even less, Froth bolted a stool onto the frame of the stocks. Every day, he squirmed in the embrace of either the swing or the stocks, or both...
Three weeks later, there was an unexpected treat for him. The window washers were out there, approaching 832.
He'd been in the stocks for an hour or so. As soon as it was clear there would be potential company, Froth unchained his wrists and clipped them to the top of the stocks.
A clanking noise was heard. After a few seconds, he looked over his shoulder at the window...
More metallic sounds, slowly getting louder. Thick rope fell down and swayed gently. Then voices could be heard. Talking - and laughing! But they didn't sound like Gabe. They made natural, easy sounds that faded away after a second or two.
He peered at the cloudless sky. Pain, and relief, were obvious on his face.
It lifted brushes off his belly and his insteps. Then Froth picked him up - stool, stocks and all. Turning around, he came to rest with the soles of his feet no more than three inches away from the glass. It had never allowed him to be anywhere near that close to a potential exit before.
Maybe the end had finally come. Gabe looked thoughful. Hoping, despite all that he'd been through... Maybe he was picturing their shocked expressions when they saw him. Only a few more minutes, and a key would finally turn in the lock, people rushing in, freeing him, and never again would he have to feel the silk or the feathers covering him all morning and afternoon.
A weary smile crept over his face. Under the residue from all those tears, the constant trails of sweat rolling down, and all the snot... it was obvious Gabe was anticipating something wonderful.
Froth closed the drapes.
The heavy, layered velvet slid past his feet, making him jump... and then he shook his head more and more violently.
He coughed a few times, just as the window washer eased over - directly in front of Gabe's window. A wet sponge squeaked as it swiped back and forth -
Froth slid the stocks back another inch. He could no longer reach the velvet with his toes. Though the window coverings had barely moved as a result of his efforts, they were completely motionless now. 832 appeared to be just another empty room on one of the locked Haystack floors. No one in here, getting tortured, who wants to be seen...
He shook his head - once - and then the shock and rage took over. He did his best to slide forward, pounding and slamming as hard as he could.
The rubber blade traveled across the window and back, turning at each side gracefully. An experienced worker, which also meant he'd be quick. Gabe heard the squeaks, and yelled so hard. Froth hadn't seen him do that in weeks.
"Hilfe! H-haaaaalllp!"
But it sounded like a loud whisper.
It brought the brushes back into play. Over his nipples, between his ribs. Froth wanted to remind him of what the future really held.
A slow convulsion gave way to indignant peals of laughter. Snorting, wailing, he yelled "Nein, nein, nein!" So frustrated, so frantic -
The window washer made the final passes with his blade, up near the top of the window.
Gabe kicked and bounced as hard as he could. His feet were so very close to the drapes, and yet he couldn't do a thing to show he was trapped in 832. Yelling was such a waste of time when he didn't have a voice...
But his potential rescuer merely hooked the tools back on his belt, and started moving to the north.
After a few anguished seconds, Gabe slumped, threw his head back, and laughed like he never wanted to stop.
Froth decided that was a good time to blitz each foot with a pair maliciously active gloves... as it unlocked the stocks.
Back on the bed, his restraints were buckled down and triple-checked. It wiggled the fingers, threatening him with perfect accuracy. The gloves squeezed and rode his legs, dancing pitilessly across his stomach.
So Gabe wanted the agony to end today, did he? How ridiculous. He had the nerve to hope for a future without excessive, unstoppable pleasure? Froth was deriving complete satisfaction from tormenting him. If he thought for one moment that it was finished with him, in the Haystack or anywhere else it could haul him... a few days of protracted discipline were in order.
When as the workman had finished with the room below Gabe's, Froth opened the drapes again.
Squinting, he chortled at the sparkling glass... and the absence of anyone there who could notice him. The pale sky seemed to hold his attention for awhile, but it had good reason to believe its vigorous gloves were foremost in his thoughts.
The next vacuuming took place four days later than expected.
Gabe wriggled in the swing, listening intently, as his body strained to ejaculate on six careful feathers which never quite finished him off.
All too soon, the scheduled dates for the room-by-room inspection were coming. Froth had three plans, and while Gabe slept it searched the hotel offices for helpful tips.
Three days before the month ended, it found the memo...
Due to staffing constraints, only a sample of the closed rooms would be checked. Five per floor. If no problems were discovered, the full inspection would be deferred - for ninety intensive days.
There were 68 rooms on the eighth floor. If the wrong one was selected...
It found the risk to be energizing. At worst, Gabe would get a few days to rest up - while it prepared his next torture chamber. Froth had decided a month ago to continue tickling him - long after he finally left 832. Oh, it wasn't anywhere near done with him yet...
Relying on the laziness of the housekeeping staff almost turned out to be dangerous. Even though it was several doors away from the elevator, one of the rooms picked for inspection... was 830.
The sounds were muffled - doors opening and closing, mainly - but Gabe did everything he could think of to make noise. Froth had used ten extra straps to keep him from bouncing at all. A dozen brushes tickled him skillfully. He wanted nothing more than to yell, but it kept him shaking with laughter instead.
But he stared at the adjoining wall with big eyes...
Thirty-five minutes later, the employees left. Froth made sure they locked the elevator button, as they were required to do - and then it started filling a pail with hot, oily water.
Its secret was safe until next month, when the hallway would be vacuumed again.
Originally, it had hoped for two weeks of solid tickling.
Gabe suffered in 832 for five dazzling months.
But the time came, as Froth knew it would, when every room was going to be inspected...
The wake-up call jarred him out the only relief he knew.
Behind him, a lamp clicked on.
Six brushes rose up -
Gabe started laughing immediately, long before they made contact. After he watched them arrive and begin sweeping up his thighs, he giggled at the stocks, the swing - and a new rack, which could bend him into interesting positions - and noticed the tasteful, understated rose decor...
And that was how he came to know room 909.
Froth was always very thorough about cleaning the prior rooms, removing every trace of Gabe's extended presence. It had always expected at least one of the housekeeping staff to get suspicious, but apparently their powers of observation could not be underestimated...
Ten weeks there, and the annual fire inspection rolled around. Floor by floor, maintenance personnel worked their way up the Haystack.
When the inspection began on the eighth floor... it set him up in 744.
It felt more secure on those floors with the elevator and stairs always locked.
After a month, he got to know room 813.
A hundred days later, Gabe was moved to 929.
Seven weeks, and off to 1057.
After a mere three weeks there, he woke up in 836.
Two months in 953.
Six weeks in 859.
Eleven weeks in 947.
And that was followed by another riveting three and a half months in good old 832.
Six days ago, Gabe took up residence in 909 again. Froth found it extremely amusing to revisit all of the same rooms.
His sensitivity was continuing to increase. Perhaps there was no limit to how much more ticklish he could become. His torment was just as thoroughly meticulous and hysterical as it had always been - caught in the stocks, splayed across the rack, anchored and fondled on the king-size bed.
Don't mess with success.
That had always been one of Froth's favorite sayings.
18nov03