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The upscale condo complex attracted pervs. They even implied as much in their ads. Extra-thick walls...
Privacy and discretion were taken seriously.
There were some interesting possibilities. I checked in on three couples almost every day. They appreciated some of the same things I did.
One husband, in unit 136, couldn't get enough of the same thing I like best. Watching him was better than nothing, I supposed, but there was always a huge appeal in the element of surprise. The guys in 218 were more intriguing - and creative - even if they both switched between dom and sub.
My hope was to slip in on them, or the tough guy in 136, when they were all worn out from their fun. Slipping that dude (or one of the gay dudes) out of bed and into the bondage swing, forcefully but quietly... Gag him well, and add a few more hours of real exertion to his night. Probably I'd have would have to restrain the victim's partner too, and have an audience... But the version I liked best involved earplugs, or maybe those noise-cancelling headphones. His potential rescuer - his only real chance to escape the hysterical torment I'd be giving him - would be right there, so close, and yet oblivious to his distress. Unreachable.
The next best thing, and actually the more likely event for which I'd been prepared, was for the wife in 136 or either of the guys in 218 to take an overnight trip somewhere. Their lovers would have a hell of a time...

One thing I never expected was what I found in 110, wrapped up as if he was waiting for me.
Fine muscle tone, no evidence of another resident, moving boxes everywhere - I hadn't even known the unit had been sold yet. It was his first night there, he confirmed later - and he'd decided to break in the place right.
Four-point restraints, and a thick gag.

The naked dude just wanted to stretch out for awhile.
Not a bad set of restraints, really. He was laid out, snug and taut. From the sweat on him, I figured he had a good ol' time fighting with the cuffs and straps. Hopelessly caught.
He'd rigged up a pretty clever system. Spring hooks kept his wrist-cuffs locked, and wires were epoxyed to the latches. A loop sticking out from his left cuff was easily reachable by his right hand. The longer wire was hooked through the fingers of his right hand. Pull that wire, jiggle his wrist a few times, and the hook would fall off. Pretty much foolproof...
Unless the hook jammed.
I didn't remember ever seeing one of those things fail like that. The spring that pushed the little tongue up had popped halfway out. The tongue couldn't retract enough to open the hook.
A few taps against a hard surface would've unjammed it - and cut him loose - but he couldn't even lift it off the mattress.
It would've so easy to get him out of the jam he was in.
At least he was smart enough to have a plan B. His cell phone, there on the side table, took voice commands. To call somebody and get help, he just had to be able to talk loudly.
He'd been working on the gag for awhile. Rubbing his head against the sheet, up and down, he couldn't move much more than an inch at a time. But the buckle was working its way down the back of his neck. The skin was all red, but he was pulling the gag down. Maybe thirty minutes to go, I estimated, before he'd push the gag out and call for help - some friend, probably, who shared a few interests. Or the condo office. Embarrassing, sure, but not the end of the world.
An hour, at the most, and he'd be able to yell at his phone. That made me even more excited. If I had arrived an hour later...

His fun was spoiled by that stupid little hook. If it had behaved he might already have gotten himself loose, just as he'd planned. Jacked off, cleaned his gear and put it away, maybe even gone to sleep already.
And what would I have seen, right here, an hour ago? Was he groaning and yelling - safe from anyone possibly hearing him - as he worked up that serious sweat? Pulling as hard as he could at the restraints... with a deeply enjoyable lack of any progress toward freedom?
What did he create as the setup for this fantasy? Kidnap victim, or sex slave? Imagining himself locked in a mental ward was probably out, since he used black leather instead of actual hospital restraints...
I hated to see a good sub go to waste. Already laid out and everything. If he did this to himself, how terrific would it be for him... if this didn't have to end? He was safer than he knew - now, with me here.
Oh, yeah, he had no idea how glad I was to see him like this.
There was so much I could teach him. Bondage, after all, was the means to an end. The restraints would mean far more to him when they served a crucial purpose. I had a reason for keeping him vulnerable and restricting his movement. He'd even saved me some time by getting all ready for my visit.
There would have been no escape from me, anyway, if I'd seen his gear. Finding him like this, though - caught good, within these beautifully thick walls - was irresistible. I just knew he was a hot one.
Fighting to contain my excitement, I traced a line down the middle of his left sole.

He jumped immediately, and grunted. Then his head came up. Nothing was there - that he could see.
Moving over him, I reached down and cupped his armpits.
With a shriek, he started whaling at the wrist-cuffs. Yelling reflexively, though uselessly, his legs started to kick too. His own bondage work defeated him, as he knew it would. But I'd given him a much better reason to fight it now. What if this mysterious contact... continued?
And even that thought was delightful, because "if" was so ludicrious.
He had what I wanted. The weakness.
There was no way he could've expected to spend all night in his own bonds - while being force-fed a most powertful incentive to escape them.
In order to maximize the experience, he could just lay there and test his handiwork for another half-hour. It wouldn't do to have him get up now, so I looked around -
Ah. There we go.
I pulled a strip of duct tape off one of his moving boxes.
His head went up, hearing the sound, and he wriggled harder. The expression on his face changed. There was a new belief coming to him, and it focused on the certainty of things have taken a weird but very firm turn. Six inches of duct tape would ensure I got what I wanted, and that his plan to get bailed out of his predicament would be destroyed.
Slowly, I lifted his head and pulled the strap of the gag back up where it belonged. It was tight enough, really, so I pressed the tape firmly over the buckle. Stuck to his hair, it wouldn't allow the strap to creep again - no matter how hard he worked on it.
After a few stunned seconds he shouted again, and started turning his head...
But the gag was secure. I let go of him, and checked the mattress. Oh, yeah. That nice memory-foam. Perfect for the long term.
While he fought and yelled, I picked up his cell phone and waited for him to notice.
His eyes got bigger yet as I pulled the battery off and floated it right out of the room.
It was time to get him a few things.

Almost too good to be true. He probably would be up and gone, when I got back, because the situation was just too perfect...

I tapped in the complex master code and opened the door -
There he is. Sweaty again. It gave me such pleasure to bring in the bags and close that door. He was in for it now.
The bags rustled as I set them down in the kitchen. That was enough to settle him down, watching the door.
Floating over him - hell, I could dig in anytime I wanted, but it was fun to hold off. Just a little while longer, so that everything could be arranged just the way I'd always wanted.
No more alarm clock. I unplugged it and lifted it off the nightstand.
He groaned, straining hard at the straps which pinned his arms.
Maybe he was getting the message. There would be no limits for me.

Next I brought his CD boombox player into the room, set it on a box and plugged it in. It was a three-disc unit, and I pulled my trance/ambient CDs out of one of the bags. For a couple years I've been waiting to combine this music... with my favorite activity. After I picked out three of them and loaded them up, I set the volume fairly low and punched the "repeat" key. He'd get to listen to them over and over tonight.
And tomorrow.

Another thing I wanted was incense. My preference fit the situation, I thought. The mood might as well be just right.
Setting an ashtray on his nightstand, I held a match to the end of a Honduran cigar until it smoldered on its own. There.
The smoke didn't exactly fit him, any more than the leather anchoring him to the bed. His hair was too short. Respectable, overall. That was going to change, starting tonight.
In the kitchen, I emptied most of a fifth of bourbon into coffee mugs. Bringing the bottle to him, I set it down on the nightstand and tossed a strip of rubber carelessly behind it.
He moaned again, as he stared at the nightstand. Drinking and smoking were only the beginning - I had all kinds of adult stuff planned. His room was turning into the private retreat of a shady captive who had a fuckin' great time, all the time.

I opened the vertical blinds, so the outside lighting could give him just enough light to see -
And it was time. In the kitchen I got out two silk gloves and filled 'em up. Yeah. I flew them inside the room way down by the floor, and approached his cuffed, bared feet.
First I showed him the fingertips.
When he saw them, he made a sudden bark. I raised the gloves higher. Invisible hands inside - and no arms beneath them. Magic!
He whined, over and over, fighting wildly again. I gave that wonderful hook on his right cuff another inspection, making sure it wasn't going to let him go. Nowhere to run, now. Not even three inches to either side. He wasn't going to be able to shove anything away, or kick my gloves, or evade me at all.
He'd wanted a hot time. I had unmatchable ideas, to welcome him to the condo. Well, I brought the fingers back down... to his arches.
He bounced and screamed, shaking his head.
You made this happen, I thought. Seeing your helpless, inviting body motivated me to act - and perhaps this would have occurred later anyway, but tonight's agonized arousal was taking place because of your private wish to feel the bondage. And now I'll show you why I value restraints so highly, myself.

After a few seconds I lifted the gloves off. He laughed a few more times... and shook his head very slowly.
It was time, I thought, to wear out his voice.
My fingers jumped back on and scrabbled. Much more firmly - and when I took hold of his big toes with other gloves and held 'em up straight, it was time to throw caution to the wind and indulge myself. With speed, and not too much force, I gave him everything I had.

Eighteen minutes later, he passed out.
My frustration had barely started to fade. But I needed to know what symptoms to look for, since he wasn't going to get away from the torture that easily - not ever again, unless I permitted it. When he'd regained his breath, I went all-out on his feet again. The first scream of panic was way too encouraging...
Two minutes, and I slowed the gloves down.
Five minutes after that, I decided he was breathing well enough again to handle the full-speed attack.

That hour was compelling.
He was not enjoying it. Every time I sped up the level of sensation obviously kept blurring into full-blown overload, which some men described as "pain." If I kept it up, he wouldn't be able to keep his eyes open until dawn.
But pain wasn't my objective. Agony could never last long enough to suit me. Here I had just the kind of captive I liked, in bondage, safely tucked away... ready for a top like me to arrive. It was crucial that my fun continue throughout the night - and resume tomorrow, after he rested up. It was far too good of an opportunity to waste.
I needed to know how much he could take. That meant a little pain, which was nothing for this gym rat - compared to so much unbelievable pleasure that was coming. His voice had to be weakened as soon as possible, too. Risk reduction.
And, of course, there was some value in him believing that I wasn't afraid to hurt him. Some guys weren't too quick to get the point, even when I had 'em immobilized.
There wasn't much I needed from him, along the lines of cooperation... but things were crystal-clear to him now.
I gave him a longer break, relighting the cigar - and adding another next to it, smoking away.

Four of my gloves took hold again, and I stroked and massaged his feet. I was thorough... teasingly working him up into a squealing, slobbering wreck.

Scratching gently, massaging his heels, some quick traces around his toes - and hundreds of deliberate strokes all over his arches. The skin was warm and red...
He writhed when he could manage it, laughing without a trace of composure anymore. Pure animal, now, wanting nothing more than to slip out of reach of my fingers.

Every time I touched him again, after a rest break, I could see and hear the raw distress the tickling caused.

Before the third hour started, he displayed no evidence of any rational thought.
I really liked these feet.

The next time he'd caught his breath, he got to watch six gloves rise up - and attack.
Quicker work this time. His writhing was strenuous, but it faded after only a couple minutes.
Unhinged, hysterical laughter. His reccurring descent into mindlessness was occurring more and more quickly. Already, I'd found three methods of tickling him that made the laughter and the thrashing completely fall apart.
His feet were only the first stop. They were getting a full survey tonight and tomorrow. In between, there were so many promising spots to explore...

He pulled, whenever he could manage it, even as he roared.
I wasn't content with forcing far more pleasure on him than he could tolerate. That was easy enough. He had to feel the fingers' contact more and more, even if that was only a fraction of what he was even aware of. There was no limit to how much I could increase what he felt inside.

His best efforts to get away accomplished nothing. I allowed him to learn that his private bondage party had not only been crashed, but also revised. I wasn't anywhere near done with him, and any hope of the cuffs being taken off had to be abandoned.
Still hooting softly, he looked around. Did he really squint at the cigars... or was he hoping to see his phone?
There was no way he'd be allowed to summon help. I wasn't even ready to take the gag away yet. He was remaining just like this.
I was determined to try out a few different ideas, seeing just how much these feet could take before the response started to flag.
And there was something about his armpits that made me hungry. These ribs, too. Belly.
That got me wondering. It was way too early to decide when I had to quit. While he slept, I could poke around... maybe shuffle a few things. It wasn't like anybody else would be stumbling in here.
I could enjoy the day... and start in again tomorrow night. And the next day. Well, he was going to miss some work.
I got a death-grip on his shins, and ankles...
And tickled hard.
His laughter was truly, fully hysterical. Unhinged. And he beat his head into the pillow in time with the music. Half-tempo. That was a nice, dreamy sight. All he had left to fight with was adding some sensation of his own doing, and that didn't begin to touch the fire of unspeakable bliss I was working into his self-restrained feet.
Don't even think about this stopping, I thought firmly. You're feeling this now because of a decision you made freely. I've got the rest of your toned, sensitive body to play with... night and day.

As he regained his strength, I heard more whimpering and burbled syllables. My gloves were still over his feet, motionless in the gloom. He looked at them, and moaned again. That was riveting to watch.
Finally, I brought the fingers back down.
He wailed as loud as he could - and broke up, cackling mindlessly, as I slid a pair of hands up and down his shins, and started probing all around his knees...
His roars became much louder. Bouncing and twisting did nothing to dislodge my gloves.
It was time to make him kick out enough hysterical noise to make the gag unnecessary.

Ninety minutes and two rest breaks later, after I'd squeezed and burrowed vigorously, I pulled the tape loose and removed the gag.
He didn't catch his breath for a full two minutes. Then he discovered what I'd had done for him. Working his jaws, he groaned again - paused, and sucked in a big breath.
The scream was barely louder than the trance dub issuing from the CD player. A ragged yell, cutting out weakly. No one else would possibly hear that.
He yelled again. And a third time. Each scream was less impressive than the last.
I had a bottle of water open and waiting. He'd earned it.

He had wanted to be helpless. Trapped.
Well, that worked for me.
 

I waited until he woke up. His first eleven hours of tickling had just flown by, and he'd caught a good nap. Waking up with the gag back in place didn't seem to be a welcome discovery.
As I floated the bundles through the door, the confusion was evident. While I tore them open, the caulk gun and adhesive earned some stares. The lever clicked until glue started oozing from the opened tube inside -
That sureness came back. In his eyes, mainly. No doubt whatsoever.
I made two of the tiles rise up to the ceiling.
"Nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh, uh puueeeee," he croaked, writhing, weeping.

The pale pink acoustic foam was in convenient two-foot by four-foot slabs. I covered the ceiling of his bedroom, opened another pack and added another layer.
His protests became more and more animated, so I filled a pair of latex gloves. He watched them lube up and dive to his soles. From that point on his contribution to the effort was that hysterical, strained laughter. I surrounded the window, thought for a minute and cut strips to surround the frame. That allowed the blinds to be untouched, but two layers of foam and another tube of adhesive covered most of that wall too. He knew exactly why I was doing it. All of the convulsive panic merely spurred me on.

Almost forty panels were put to use in there. Now we had a much better tickle cell.
Slowly, I took the gag off - and lubed up fourteen more gloves.
I made him laugh. Different sounds, good and fierce. He laughed just as hard as he could. Then he laughed yelled laughter just as loud as he was able.
When I let him catch his breath, we were both listening.
But no one came.
I took my time lubing up the gloves again.
His sobs didn't continue past the first twenty seconds of deep, deliberate stimulation.
 

His bedroom furniture and my boxes were moved to the living room, half of which got shelving...
Doubling up the soundproofing foam in the larger room took a few more bundles than I'd estimated. He gave me the best "thanks" by chuckling, so hoarse and so deranged, at all the acoustic insurance that would prevent any neighbor from suspecting a thing.
You've got a roommate now, hyena. Putting you through your paces, of different kinds, is why I'm here.
 

To make sure nobody could peek in and see him, I put dull-reflective adhesive mylar on the window.
On a whim, I painted the foam.
From the expressions on his face, it seemed as if he'd never seen a BDSM dungeon before. I decided on dark gray paint. It announced I was decorating the place to suit me. A stoner crash-pad, for a guy with unusual kinks...

The soft thumping of the techno music was constant, filling in for his now-silent howls.
A dark box of magic surrounded him, keeping the sweaty results of his delirium a secret... and I had so much more excitement to deliver yet.
 

The reel made a great ratcheting sound.
He fought, crazily, watching the handle turn. I'd gone with the manual winch, rather than electric, only because it had been quicker to find and set up... but there was a terrific, cheerfully malicious effect. Each time I turned the handle, his cuffed feet rose higher and higher. Pulleys I'd installed up near the ceiling routed the cable, and he could only wriggle and watch.
His thighs were lifted off the sheet. Damn, were they gonna get it. And his ass-cheeks. I stuck a small memory-foam pillow under his tailbone.
Alright. There wasn't a single thing he could do about it, and because I know bondage so well there won't be any options for him three hours from now either, or three days...
There's few things I like better than well-secured feet. With extra straps keeping his ankles and lower calves together, cords anchoring each toe, and a dull shine from the moisturizer, his soles couldn't have been more tempting. They were mine, for as long as I wanted to play with them. By shifting the emphasis around, I knew they were good for eight hours of customized, unbearable stimulation. That's why I had them caught so well.
With his arms still pinned flat and the belts preventing him from twisting or bouncing around, elevating his feet like this made them seem so far away.
Their sensitivity was unaffected, of course. But I saw his eyes change, as he watched his legs barely move in response to his kicks.
Now I had his feet up where only I could reach them. Isolated. The tickling would continue, and all decisions were still mine to make. His instinctive reaction to reach with his hands and battle with the attacking tickle-tools was prevented even more solidly than before. In a way, I liked to think that his soles might as well be in the next room, with me, while he remained immobilized and suffering right here.
 

A plasma TV hangs on the wall now. He can look at it anytime.
I've plugged his computer into it. Usually, it shows various photos of his body parts, getting tickled...

The photos flicker quickly. Slowing down - and stopping on a tight shot of his heels.
On the right side of the screen, in the black box, the word HEELS appears as I type it.
This never fails to get him squirming.
With the click of a mouse-button, the photos cycle again...
A great close-up of his knee appears.
I type KNEES, and let the slideshow resume.
 

He hadn't enjoyed bondage simply as a concept. At some point he made a crucial decision which many others do not. No matter what the original source of his interest, he discovered magazines and videos. I found his private hoard very informative - about its owner - and I've expanded it.
It was even more of a confirmation to discover he owned more bondage gear. It fit him real well. He got lucky, or received good advice - but I suspect it was direct experience that taught him the value of buying quality restraints.
When I met him, my prisoner was immobilized by pleasantly serious gear. That made him even more of a catch. I respect him for that.
But he went further, and bought the crafted leather not merely to delight in its uncaring hold or masturbate on it. My prisoner also bought straps and immobilized his cuffed limbs. He chose to play alone, trading one kind of danger for another...
And one night I found him. Delight had turned to danger, but he was coping. His cock was fully erect. I think, from his calm response, that he was more practiced at our shared interest than any of his friends would've believed.
Well, now I'd made his fantasies come true.
The outside world can only distract from what he wished to learn.
 

There have only been four times when I became aware of others knocking on his front door. I had soundproofed it well, and he was never aware of the one man his age and the three solicitors who came and summoned him, waited - and left.
I monitor his phone calls. His voice mail plays the recording which indicates a disconnected account, but the caller ID logging works fine. There were many attempts from friends and his employer's representatives, almost all within the first month.
During the past month, only three calls have been logged - all wrong numbers, which I confirmed by researching the originating parties. There's no reason to be paying for his phone service any more.

So he wanted to experience bondage, and I won't settle for less than the expanding, ongoing fulfillment of his wish.
I have shelves full of catalogs and magazines, instructional books and novels... and a large cabinet for his growing video collection. He was drilled with dozens of flashcards, and functional items - taught the essential history of his subculture as well as the current state of the art. A hundred hours of personalized instruction, as he lay helpless. Leaving aside false modesty, he is a motivated student. When he was reluctant to concentrate, I always turned to the inducement which made me become better versed in bondage than almost any human.
He continues to watch the videos and study the images I select for him. The widescreen television is used now only to display a large variety of useful photos and videos, which he finds exciting - so arousing, in fact, that I no longer leave the cycling pictures on continuously, like I did the second month. Several dozen photos are of him, modeling gear, caught in intricate positions.

There are essential principles of bondage, I think. They all overlap and blend with each other.
He understood the first mandate before I found him and extended his fun... Bondage is not hollow. By that, I mean that it is so much more than the false mask of a movie-set building, a thin layer propped up by unseen supports. The most irritating deception is the cheap, breakable restraints which are sold as a means of augmenting sexual pleasure. The best outcome here would be for the victims of such fraud to obtain gear which truly, safely restrains without fear of unwanted escape.
The next tenet is logical enough, given what it follows. Bondage must serve a purpose. I did not learn this craft out of boredom, but because my ticklish prisoners had to remain still and exposed, so I could tickle them - without causing concern in others, and without injuring themselves in their panic. Facility security, the realm of locksmiths, is a valuable adjunct of this principle... but all of my tickling must keep the victim from escaping. The prevention of any interruption, and careful immobilization, ensures the tickling will be more complete.
Also, bondage must not cheat. His self-release mechanism was necessary, given that he enjoyed his confinement alone, but it rendered his captivity inauthentic. I never use such things. Intimidation cannot replace immobilization. The appearance of the gear can never be the only means of restricting his behavior. Functional gear, unyielding and unbeatable, is truer than any more elaborate display of equipment or implied confinement. And if he is supervised and also give a way to defeat his gear, that is a bastardization of all that imprisonment can be. I do not tolerate stop-words or any other such nonsense for the same reason. When he's conscious, my constant presence guarantees his physical well-being and his isolation.
 

Last is the most enjoyable, for me. Bondage must be tested. He remains in the position I wish, moving only to the precise degree I desire. And to confirm this, I power-tickle every day. Unrestricted, creative, limitless tickling. If his restraints are not tested to their full extent, there is not any reason to trust my prisoner in them. I work hard to obtain absolute control over his environment, the meeting of his needs, the mobility of his body - or lack of it - and, merrily, the degree of his insanity.
Unfailingly thorough bondage on him creates its analog within his mind. If he is convinced my gear is as inescapable as my fingers, he cannot help but assist me in the his subugation.
But it takes time. Months.
A prisoner who is inclined to admire the restraining gear is easier yet to command.
 
 

Four months later...
He's perched on an angled stool - wrists level with his head, ankles held by adjustable hobbles. He woke up an hour ago. Already cleaned and moisturized, I brought him the usual huge breakfast and then locked him where he sits.
His morning cigar is half-done.
He has much longer hair, of course, and a trimmed beard. They look good on him, but it's the expression in his eyes that has changed most of all. That old shock and fear and dread are gone. Each day teaches him a distinct variety in my methods, but the activity which consumes most of his time has been the same. There is no remaining possibility of doubt.
I always get my way. He remains right where I want him, in the cell I designed, and naturally every waking moment is... well, mine.
Each second of feverish stimulation occurs just as I intend.
And he believes, accurately, that tomorrow will be every bit as delirious - because I keep him flawlessly isolated, in order to increase his physical vulnerability. And that insures that the tickling will be as complete and masterful as I am able to perform.
There is something delightful about making a man's fantasy come true. Sure, he may not have expected limitless tickling... but he certainly has been living all of the emotions that bondage can provide. There is no more outrage in him, and no comparing my complete control of his body and habits and pleasures with his old life.
He has a harder set to his mouth now, almost a scowl. The defeated anger at his situation makes him look tougher. Biding his time, since he has no alternative.
I do my best to be innovative. The tactile excitement is presented and enhanced in all imaginable ways, and he has no ability to stop it.
Quiet, even calm... smoking that cigar and looking at nothing in particular, he is convinced of the gear's reliability. I choose to make him sit here and smoke until I start tickling again. Each day finished is one more closer to the end of his continuous bondage experience... however long I can make it last.
I've given him so much more than he was expecting. He could never have had such a powerful experience with human accomplices. Perfect bondage, I know, requires the attention of a blissful overseer like me. And I'm not too proud to admit that the ever-expanding tickling pleasure requires his physiology and sensitivity, as well as the bondage principles which I extol.
It's indescribably enjoyable to think that I - in stern control of each moment - have no idea how long I'll be restraining and tickling him. Certainly I will set no date, since the bottom would only be cheated...
 

We have a special treat this morning.
Before the usual "scheduler" appears on the big monitor, I start up his financial software.
Mortgage, condo dues, power, car payment, consolidated insurance, one personal loan and three credit cards - all are listed, on the same screen. For each one, I type in dollar amounts which will more than cover three payments. And one of my favorite leather gloves is peeled off his right hand...
The fingerscan is brought to his captured thumb.
He wriggles, almost growling, as I confirm the payments with his fingerprint. There.
I already made another large deposit to his checking account, so all of the payments get green check-marks. Success.
The bondage and excitement is assured for another ninety days.
He grimaces at the reward I set alongside his bench - as I did when we paid last quarter's bills. This time, it's twenty cartons of cigarettes.

The bills were paid for the next quarter. He's going to be unthinkably more ticklish by then.
His hidden wish will continue to be granted. The bizarre has become constant and expectable.
I bring gloves for his torso and crotch, and oiled brushes for his feet.

22sep2019