The prison was an unlikely one. A hugely furnished master bedroom in a luxurious mountaintop villa. The keeper knows his business. The particular fate of all his prisoners tends to produce bloodcurdling screams. On this isolated peak only the trees are there to hear, and just as unable to escape, as any of the keeper's victims.
Yet for all their altitude these rooms are not cold. They are warmed by the same floods of brilliant sunlight which now pour over the tan and muscular body of Jean-Claude who was barely beginning to stir from the sleep he had been duped into.
His eyelids flutter, their unusually long lashes first resting on the graceful, almost feminine, slope of his face. Then opened, the lashes point toward the delicate arching eyebrows that follow the outlines of his almond shaped eyes.
At first the keeper sees puzzlement in Jean-Claude's expression. What happened last night? But after an appraising glance at the man seated in the chair opposite the bed he is in, Jean-Claude smiles. He still does not know the events of last night, but judging from the other's appearance, it was surely enjoyable.
For Jean-Claude there have been so many mornings like this. Awakening to the yellow light in a stranger's bed. He is warm. He is sleepy. He is complacent. He stretches languorously until there is pull at his extremities.
Jean-Claude has been tied to this bed. His powerful arms and legs have been fastened to the mammoth posts . And as his struggles begin, his blood is chilled by the peals of the keeper's triumphant laugh...
Grabbing the comforter in his hands the keeper yanked it off Jean-Claude. Black leather straps contorted Jean-Claude's limbs. Splayed out into an X, his muscles could not tear the bonds. His thick thighs flexed and writhed but made no progress. The keeper's trappings held.
The keeper's eyes fed on the sight of his prey. Naked. Panting. Humiliated. So many, many others' eyes had also lusted at the sight of Jean-Claude. But he was the keeper's now.
A prize possession. See the broad pectorals. See the etched ridges of the belly. Below them, the hefty mass rolling right and left as Jean-Claude flailed. And everywhere skin so smoothly hairless.
"What is going on here!? Get me out of this, you fucker!", Jean-Claude snarls in his accented English. The veins in his neck tighten. His tan reddens as he swears.
"Shut up! If I want to hear you speak, I'll make you. And I can make you. Make you do anything I want. You'll find out."
"Let me out of this now or you're a dead man!"
"I want to ask you the question. The question." The keeper's eyes grew stone cold. "Tell me, Jean-Claude. Are you ticklish ?"
And the keeper listened. Each of his victims' told the truth in the hammering of their hearts. And the sound from Jean-Claude's strong chest was loud. The keeper ignored the threats of his victim. He heard the true answer.
" It's game time." The keeper circles the bed. "Not for fun." He stretches out his arms. "Call it bloodsport." The fingers approaching Jean-Claude writhe like snakes. "I'm going to tickle you ..." His shadow covers the bed. "... forever! "
Jean-Claude's high voice has risen to a hysterical pitch. This has to be a nightmare, not real. As a boy his vulnerable ticklishness had driven him to learn the Asian arts of self-defense. His only hope to fend off the bullies who discovered how easy it was to paralyze him into ticklish hysteria. Those skills can't help him now.
The keeper's fingers touch Jean-Claude's ribs. A spark of static jumps between flesh and flesh. Then Jean-Claude feels it. The bubble of ticklishness as the fingers stroke. Like a puff of wind at first. Even pleasant. At first.
Sure and certain the keeper quickens his stroke. His hands are flowing like a river over his victim's ribs. Racing rapids. But Jean-Claude refuses to laugh. Twisting and turning to escape the torture of his ribs, his jaw is clenched. As a boy he learned to never laugh. If they make you laugh, you are finished.
His body is a bucking stallion. He is fighting so hard he is hurting himself. But the pain doesn't diminish the coursing tickling sensations. In fact, they build. The keeper targets Jean-Claude's clean-shaven armpits. Inch by inch he slowly works up. Tickling all the way.
Then the squirming hands slide over the topmost crest of Jean-Claude's ribcage. Entering the plain of too-tender skin that borders on the armpits. Jean-Claude shrieks. It's happening. He's losing control. The panic roars through his heaving chest. He really can't escape. The madman has him in his power. He is going to be relentlessly tickled. There is no way out.
Blood flushed with triumph, the keeper knows his victim has finally seen. He has lost himself. Become a plaything, a puppet, a cyborg. Now, Jean-Claude has only one reason.
For the keeper.
Strong fingers are rubbing Jean-Claude everywhere. Gulping for air between his torturous laughter he is babbling in his first language. Pleading for mercy that will not come.
" Je vous en prie pitiÈ ... pitiÈ... hah hah hah ...non! ... non!...ha hah ha ASSEZ! Dieu! Oh Dieu! ASSEZ!.. Ahah hah haha ...."
But there is no pity. The keeper's fingers tangle in Jean-Claude's armpits. His eyes have found the next target. Jean-Claude's feet. Shockingly pretty. Long straight toes. With high arches. Jean-Claude flails under the keeper's torture, their great strength futile.
The keeper reaches for his toy. He holds it up for Jean-Claude to see. A feather. Long and willowy. Now the keeper is laughing. " Look, Jean-Claude. This is your death warrant..."
Jean-Claude is sobbing. His feet are the most delicate of all. Their skin kept newborn sensitive with lotions and creams. They must be handsome for the cameras. All the calluses removed. Nothing but fine, fresh, ticklish skin.
The keeper crouches on the floor. His eyes are level with Jean-Claude's wiggling toes. So beautiful. Jean-Claude tries to pull his feet away. Already they are tingling! He can feel the hot breath of the keeper as he gets closer and closer.
The feather attacks. It toys with the flesh on the soles of it's victim's feet. Lazily it roams. But there is nothing lazy about Jean-Claude's reaction. He watches himself be tortured, unable to look away. He curses and pleads alternately searching for the words that will make the keeper stop. But there are no words. His suffering laughter is what the keeper wants and is getting.
The feather travels. Between toes, over arches, around the heel. Taking its time to reach the pressure point. The center of the sole of the foot. That delicate spot where it tickles the most on everyone. That is where the feather is going. Where it will make its final assault.
The feather is whipping Jean-Claude's feet as it races back and forth between left and right. Leaving no marks, it is as brutal as the cat o' nine tails. The fronds slither over the gyrating toes searching out the ticklish skin between each. Crawling back and forth like a malignant insect. An army of ants exploring the bound and naked feet of the keeper's victim.
The keeper is reaching the pinnacle of his first session with his latest, most celebrated prisoner. His own excitement will soon peak and spurt. He will let go and enjoy the first of many such moments with Jean-Claude. The sight of the powerful, fleshy male writhing under his touch requires one thing more to detonate the explosion of the keeper's lust.
The gloating begins. The keeper raises his voice to pierce the frenetic howls of Jean-Claude's agony. "What's the matter, you baby? This tickles does it? Can't stand having your pretty feet tickled? You have to stand it! I am in charge here. I will tickle you all I want. You can't stop me!"
Jean-Claude wails all the more as he realizes he is helpless in the hands of a lunatic. The keeper's taunts continue.
" What a ticklish baby! Kitchy kitch koo! Kitchy kitchy koo! Kitch kitchy koo! You must like being tickled you are laughing so hard! Since you like it, I will never, ever stop!"
The sound of his own voice makes the keeper climax. His semen penetrating through his clothes to drizzle onto the bedding already soaked with Jean-Claude's sweat. He stops the tickling. Soon the room is quiet except for the hoarse begging from Jean-Claude to, please, please just don't tickle him again.
But the keeper will.
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