Eleven months after the destruction of The House of White Feathers …
The bright blue sky beamed a pleasant light through the floor to ceiling office windows, catching the steam that curled upward from the ceramic mug of herbal tea resting near Franco’s right hand. He sat in the high-backed ergonomic chair with the quiet, unhurried posture of a man who had long ago stopped needing to prove anything to the room.
Fifty-five years old, Franco wore a tight grey vest and jeans - the standard white clinical uniform of the facility hung in the office closet, steamed, ironed and waiting to be worn.
The vest revealed the dense, faded lattice of tattoos that covered both arms, ink laid down in the late 90’s and early 2000’s when the designs had still been sharp and the nights in New York longer. A single silver ring sat in his left nostril; another pierced the outer edge of his right eyebrow. Thick black designer frames rested low on the bridge of his nose, the lenses catching the screen glow each time he leaned forward. His beard was neatly kept, the dark hair threaded with deliberate flecks of grey that ran continuously into the sideburns and then into the short, dense crop of hair on his head. The overall effect was of a friendly, almost paternal face belonging to someone who had never quite been ordinary.
His fingers moved across the keyboard with practiced economy, entering the final notations on the previous session.
Tick tap tick tap tap tick tap!
Client File: McKenzie, Bryce
Sensory Response Profile: Extreme cutaneous and proprioceptive hyper-reactivity observed across the full somatosensory map, from the scalp and facial musculature through the axial and appendicular skeleton to the distal extremities.
Climactic Episode: Duration recorded at three minutes and thirty seconds.
Ejaculatory Output: Measured volume approximately nine hundred seven grams.
Franco paused, reread the entry once, then saved it with a soft click of the mouse. The cursor blinked in the empty space that would soon hold the next file.
An incoming message notification pulsed once in the upper corner of the secondary monitor.
Boop!
He opened it without haste …
Subject: Incoming Client – Priority Clearance
From: Jaya
Greetings, Franco.
I hope maintenance fixed your office aircon? If not, let me know, I’ll make it happen.
Please find below information on your upcoming schedule.
Next client: Richard Colson Baker, professionally known as Machine Gun Kelly. Age thirty-six. Ancestry predominantly English and German, with documented distant Shawnee lineage tracing through generational lines in Kentucky and Illinois.
Profession: recording artist / rapper.
Primary Red Rock protocol: intensive mental-health intervention via controlled sensory engagement.
Requested discussion foci: ongoing career instability, recent separation from Megan Fox, public conflict with Yungblud, persistent depression and anxiety symptomatology.
Notable clinical note: subject reports absence of laughter or joy for a period exceeding twelve months.
Arrival: tomorrow morning. Clear all existing appointments. Full suite preparation authorized.
What have you got for lunch today? I’ve got a salad but I’m craving KFC. Lemme know!
Jaya
Franco’s mouth curved, slow and knowing. He lifted the mug, the warmth of the ceramic settling against his palm, and took a measured sip of the tea. The steam rose between his face and the screen as he spoke, voice barely above a murmur, the words shaped more for himself than for the empty room.
“You do have a gift for finding the interesting ones, Jaya …”
The black helicopter descended onto the private landing pad with a controlled, predatory grace, its rotors kicking up a wide spiral of dust and heat that shimmered against the pale stone of the Red Rock Wellness Centre.
The aircraft was matte black from nose to tail, the letters ‘mgk’ rendered in American red white and blue across the starboard side like a brand burned into metal.
Derek, stationed behind the curved reception desk of smoked glass and brushed steel, felt his professional composure slip for half a second. His mouth opened. He closed it again, hard, and forced his posture back into the calm neutrality the facility demanded.
The side door of the helicopter slid open. Machine Gun Kelly stepped down with the unhurried confidence of a man accustomed to every entrance being an event.
Two bodyguards followed close behind: one woman with her hair in a tight ponytail and an expression carved from granite, one broader man whose shoulders filled the doorway even after he cleared it.
The moment their boots touched concrete the rotors accelerated again, the machine lifting away in a rising roar that whipped Machine Gun Kelly’s long, tasseled blonde hair across his face and shoulders. He didn’t flinch. Hands buried deep in the pockets of baggy, distressed jeans, he simply walked toward the glass façade of the centre as the helicopter dwindled into the bright sky.
He wore an oversized white vest, the word CLICHÉ printed across the chest in stark black lettering. The fabric hung loose enough to reveal the dense ink that climbed both arms and continued up the sides of his neck. White polish gleamed on every fingernail. Oversized sunglasses hid his eyes, but the rest of his face carried the easy, slightly wolfish half-smile of someone who already knew the effect he was having.
The automatic doors parted with a soft hydraulic sigh. Cool, filtered air met the residual heat of the rotor wash. Machine Gun Kelly stepped inside, the two guards flanking him like living bookends. The helicopter’s sound finally faded into nothing.
Derek straightened. He kept his voice level, almost casual, though a faint tightness lived at the edges of it.
“Machine Gun Kelly. Welcome to Red Rock Wellness Centre. If I could ask you to sign in?”
Machine Gun Kelly didn’t remove the sunglasses. He simply turned that eager, sharp-edged grin in Derek’s direction and chewed once, slowly, on a piece of gum.
“Colson’s fine.”
Derek nodded, a little too quickly, “Colson it is,” he slid the digital tablet across the desk, “Uh, Colson, would you mind having your team sign in as well?”
Colson took the stylus without looking at it, signed with a loose, practiced scrawl, then added two more signatures beneath his own. He glanced over his shoulder at the guards.
“I got you guys.”
Only then did he reach up and remove the sunglasses. The eyes that met Derek’s were a clear, piercing blue, startling against the rest of the carefully constructed rapper turned pop-star armour. Derek swallowed once and gestured toward a shallow black tray on the counter.
“Phone, wallet, anything else in your pockets, please. Room Twelve is ready for you down the hall. Your therapist will be waiting.”
Colson dropped the iPhone and a slim leather wallet into the tray without ceremony. The bodyguards shifted forward the instant he stepped away from the desk. Derek cleared his throat, the sound soft but unmistakably firm.
“The session is … Private. Machine Gu— Colson, will go alone.”
The female guard’s jaw tightened. The male guard’s weight settled more heavily onto the balls of his feet. Colson felt the tension behind him, turned, and gave them both a small, lopsided smile that somehow managed to be both affectionate and absolute.
“Easy. It’s cool. Wait here. Play tag outside, or something …”
He didn’t wait for agreement.
He simply turned and started down the long, softly lit corridor, white sneakers silent on the polished floor, the word CLICHÉ moving with every easy stride toward the closed door marked 12.
Forty-five minutes had settled into the quiet of Franco’s office like dust in still air.
The notepad on his knee was half-filled with precise, economical script as Colson sat opposite him in the low armchair, long legs sprawled, arms tucked behind his head, blue eyes fixed somewhere into the office ceiling as he talked.
He had been single for months now. The woman he had believed was the one had dumped him: “—How the hell do you find anyone as hot as Megan Fox after that?—”, the question hung between them, half-joke, half-wound. He didn’t think he would have a girlfriend again. Writing had gone the same way - rap had once felt like fire under the skin; now even the softer pop tracks he had chased in an attempt to feel something funner were just noise. Nothing landed, commercially and creatively.
Franco closed the notepad and set it aside with the pen on top.
He crossed one leg over the other, white canvas shoe dangling, and regarded Colson with the same calm, almost paternal attention he had worn since the session began.
“Alright, Colson. As our website explains, here at Red Rock we … Approach these things differently.”
Colson sat up a little straighter, the leather of the chair creaking, his hands now dropping into his lap, “That’s why I’m here, chief. I didn’t drop a serious amount of bag just to walk out the same way I walked in. I want to leave feeling at least a little better,” he offered Franco a quick, sideways wink, the gesture practiced and charming.
Franco smirked, giving Colson an understanding nod, “I guarantee, you haven’t wasted your money,” his gaze dropped briefly to the open notes on the side table, “Now, it says here you haven’t laughed in over a year. Is that accurate, Colson?”
Colson’s grin faded. He shrugged, “Yeah. I stare through whole seasons of shit on TV. Cute dogs don’t break my heart. Cancel on my buds. I’m like a robot. Everything just feels … “ he didn’t hesitate on choosing to describe how he felt bluntly, “… Fucking flat, man.”
Franco rose slowly and stepped around the low table, extending an open hand.
“Come with me. I have just the thing.”
Colson looked at the offered hand for a second, then took it.
Franco’s grip was firm, warm, steady; he guided Colson up from the chair with an ease that made the taller man feel almost weightless for a moment.
Together they left the office and moved into the long, softly lit corridors of Red Rock. The floors were polished to a muted sheen. The air carried the faint, clean scent of ozone and something herbal.
At the end of the corridor Franco opened a wider door labelled ‘Somatic Response Chamber’ and stepped aside so Colson could enter first.
The room beyond was a study in clinical white - walls draped with soft linen, a high ceiling, empty floor with the same seamless, slightly matte surface. Two narrow rectangular windows sat high on opposite walls, letting in thin bars of natural light that cut across the space without softening it.
In the exact centre stood a large grey rubber table, waist-high, its surface smooth. Four heavy PVC straps lay open and ready along the bottom half of its length.
Beside the rubber table stood a metal tray on a trolley. The contents of the tray were hidden by a cloth.
Against the right-hand wall a simple metal clothes rail held a single garment: a pink straitjacket, the buckles and straps dangling loose.
Franco closed the door behind them with a quiet click.
“I’ll need you to remove your clothing, down to your underwear,” he said, “Then the Somatic Control Harness goes on, and you’ll be secured to the table.”
Colson’s eyes moved from the pink straitjacket to the grey rubber surface and the waiting straps. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face - something between a raised eyebrow and the beginning of a protest. The celebrity confidence that had carried him through the front doors wavered for the first time …
“Hold up, chief,” he gave a short sniff through both nostrils and folded his arms tight across his chest, “You’re f’real?” He noted, “You wanna restrain me?”
Franco nodded firmly, “It’s one of Red Rock’s most impactful therapy sessions. Restraint is a key factor to the process.”
Colson tilted his head and chewed fast on the gum, “Yeah, see, that’s the part I’m not buying. How does getting locked into a straitjacket fix the fact I feel like shit?”
Franco corrected Colson, “It’s a Somatic Control Harness,” he repeated, “Not a straitjacket. And It doesn’t fix it things directly,” he answered, “It instead interrupts the flatness. You’ve been living inside a kind of emotional numbness. The system here is designed to break that numbness open - professionally, under controlled conditions - so that the shell encasing you remains open.”
Colson’s jaw worked once. He glanced at the ’Somatic Control Harness’ again, then at the four PVC straps, “And the restraint part? That’s non-negotiable?”
“It is,” Franco explained, “The straps are actually for my safety, as well as your own.”
Colson exhaled through his nose, a short, sceptical sound, “—Your safety? What the fuck, man!” His arms unfolded and then he began to pace around the table, fingers pressing into the soft rubber, “You realise how this looks, right? I’m famous, chief. If any of this ever got out—”
“—Nothing leaves this room,” Franco said, still quiet, still steady, “Your privacy is absolute. That’s part of what you paid for.”
Silence stretched for several seconds. Colson shifted his weight. He looked at the table the way a man might look at a high ledge - curious and unwilling at the same time.
“I’ve done a lot of weird shit in my life,” he said finally, “But this takes the win. You’re asking me to strip down, let you put me in, I’m sorry, it’s a damn straitjacket, and strap me to a table. And you’re telling me that’s going to make me feel all rosy,” he tutted and wiped his jaw with his palms.
Franco took one small step closer, not invading, simply closing the conversational distance, “Colson. You told me you didn’t pay what you paid to leave the same way you arrived. You said you wanted to feel at least a little better. This is the method that has the highest success rate with the exact profile you brought in - long-term absence of instinctive joy, creative shutdown, post-relationship flattening. I wouldn’t bring you in here if I wasn’t certain it could reach the places talking alone can’t.”
Colson’s arms loosened a fraction. He dragged a hand through his tasseled blonde hair, then let it drop, “And if I say no?”
Franco looked towards the door, “Then we go back to the office and keep talking,” he replied without hesitation, “No pressure. No judgement. But the conversation has already given us everything it can give in a single session. The next step is physical. It’s the only way the system breaks the dullness at the depth you’re describing.”
Another long pause. Colson’s gaze flicked once more to the pink straitjacket, the tray and trolley, the waiting straps. The fight in his posture was still there, but it had thinned - less refusal, more residual caution.
“You’re really not going to tell me exactly what happens once I’m in that jacket?”
“I’m going to tell you the outcome,” Franco said, “You will leave this room having felt something again. Real, physical, unavoidable. The numbness doesn’t get to stay. That’s the guarantee.”
Colson stared at him for several more heartbeats. Then he gave a short, almost reluctant nod, “Alright,” he said, “But this better be worth it.”
He reached for the hem of the oversized white vest, still moving slower than usual, the last threads of resistance visible in the careful way he pulled the fabric up and over his head.
Colson sat secured to the grey rubber surface, the pink straitjacket drawn tight across his torso so that his arms were crossed and locked against his chest, the material soft but unyielding.
The four PVC straps held his legs in place: two across each thigh, just above the knee, and two more anchoring each ankle so that his legs remained neatly splayed, the soles of his bare feet fully exposed to the cool air of the room.
His discarded clothes formed a small, orderly pile on the floor near the clothes rail - white vest, baggy jeans, oversized sunglasses - while the white sneakers sat on top, each one stuffed with a carefully balled white sock.
Franco stood at the foot of the table, hands loosely clasped, the same peaceful calm in his posture that he had carried since the office.
“Now, Colson, what happens next is a controlled sensory recalibration,” he said, “The system has been locked into a protective pattern for a long time; emotional shutdown, the absence of spontaneous response. We’re going to interrupt that pattern through precise, graduated stimulation of the peripheral nervous system. The restraints are there so the body can’t override or escape the input. You’ll remain fully conscious and able to speak the entire time. The goal is simple: to force a reset so that feeling - real, involuntary feeling - can return.”
He paused, letting the explanation settle.
Colson lifted his shoulders, grinned into his chest and wiggled a little in the straitjacket, “Whatever, chief, let’s just get this over with …”
Franco inhaled slowly, “Before we begin the full protocol, I need a baseline reading.”
Franco stepped closer. His right hand rose, index finger extended.
Without warning, he quickly drew the pad of that finger in a single, slow, barely there stroke from the centre of Colson’s right sole all the way to the base of the toes - the touch lasted less than a second.
Automatically, Colson’s foot thoughtlessly tried and failed to pull away from the contact - he sniggered, his testing blue eyes glaring at Franco.
Franco’s expression did not change. He simply moved to the left foot and repeated the exact same motion: one deliberate, quick, gliding stroke up Colson’s bare sole.
The reaction was identical. Colson’s hips shifted hard against the rubber surface, a visible rattle running through his restrained legs, this time a raw sound of surprise barking from his throat.
“Yo! Dude, that t …”
Franco looked up, meeting the blue eyes that were now wide and wary.
“Sensitivity levels: high,” he said quietly, “I need an accurate self-report. How would you rate the responsiveness of your feet?”
Colson’s breathing had quickened. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, jaw tight, then forced the words out with clear reluctance.
“High…” he huffed “… Really high …” he pursed his lips and glanced to the side, “… It’s always been bad, since I was, like, a kid.”
Franco gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as though the answer had simply confirmed data he already expected.
“Thank you. That’s useful,” he stepped back half a pace, still watching Colson with the same steady, clinical attention, “We’ll proceed carefully.”
Franco moved to the right side of the table and rested his left hand lightly against the outer edge of Colson’s calf, steadying the already-strapped leg. With his right hand he began.
The touch was almost playful at first - four fingertips dancing in light, continuous scribbles across Colson’s bare sole, starting at the soft hollow of the heel and travelling upward in lazy, meandering loops toward the arch of his foot and the base of his big toe. There was no pressure, only the constant, feather-light friction of skin against skin, the kind of careless tracing a person might do without thinking.
A startled giggle burst out of Colson, high and disbelieving, followed at once by a tighter snigger that caught in his throat, “—Hnn! Hnnheh … Hhehey!—”, his right foot twisted hard against the PVC strap, his sole trying to curl inward and away from the maddening contact. His long toes flexed and scrunched in rapid, spasmodic waves, the long muscles of the arch contracting and releasing as the scribbling fingers refused to stop, “—Hnn! Hnnheh … Hhehey, hey, chief!—”, the pink straitjacket creaked softly as his upper body jerked and wriggled, arms locked uselessly across his chest, shoulders rolling against the rubber surface in a futile attempt to gain leverage, “—Yo, that, that t—” he bit his lower lip.
For a moment the only sounds in the white room were the soft rasp of fingertips over sensitive skin, the squeak of rubber as Colson’s heels and legs rubbed against the tables surface, and the rising, broken laughter that Colson could not seem to swallow.
Then the realisation landed.
His eyes widened. The giggling faltered into something sharper, edged with genuine alarm. He leaned forward as far as the restraints allowed, staring down the length of his tattooed legs at the calm figure towering over his bare foot.
“—Wait, wait, bro? So you’re, gonna keep, tickling me?—” The words came out between involuntary sniggers, half accusation, half panicked realisation, “—How long for, chief! Yo, I’m not sure I can handle that!—”
While Colson’s right foot continued to twist and curl beneath the relentless light scribbles, Franco simply shifted his stance and brought his other hand to the left sole. The same motion began at once - four fingertips tracing slow, meandering paths from the soft hollow of the heel upward, looping across the arch, circling the ball of the foot, never pausing, never pressing hard enough to be aggressive, only enough to keep the nerve endings firing without rest.
Colson’s laughter spiked higher, broken and uneven, as both bare soles were now under the same light, continuous assault. His legs jerked against the PVC straps in opposing directions, toes on both feet scrunching as he writhed within his straitjacket, “Bro, come on! Quit it! this isn’t, this isn’t fair!—”, he whined.
“—This is science …” Franco interrupted as he watched Colson’s feet roll and react to his touch, “The plantar surfaces contain one of the highest concentrations of mechanoreceptors in the body. When those receptors are stimulated in a sustained, unpredictable pattern, they flood the somatosensory cortex. The brain is forced out of its protective dampening state - the same state that has been suppressing spontaneous emotional response in you for over a year,” he continued the dual scribbling without interruption, left hand and right hand working in quiet, independent rhythms, “Laughter is simply the most immediate and measurable output of that interruption. It is involuntary. It cannot be negotiated with. Once the pathway is open, other affective responses - relief, release, even brief euphoria - tend to follow …”
Colson’s eyes were bulging, still fixed on Franco’s face between bursts of helpless giggling. The surprise had not left them. If anything, the calm medical explanation only seemed to heighten it.
“You’re … You’re LITERALLY bringing la, ‘laughter is the best medicine’ t, to life?!—”, he managed between breathless sniggers, “You’re just gonna, tickle my, my damn feet and call it a reset?” His feet flapped from left to right, all ten toes disregarding the scrunch onto to curl into an outward flex instead, “Chief, I don’t, I don’t know about this. I’m, I’m starting to sweat!—”
“—Does it feel good, to be made to laugh, Colson?” Franco asked.
A large, constant wave of giggling cut Franco off as Franco’s fingertips found a particularly sensitive strip along the left arch and lingered there for a few extra seconds before resuming their aimless travel. Colson’s head dropped back against the rubber surface, blonde hair spilling across the table, the uncertainty still plain in every strained muscle of his restrained body.
“—I mean I, aaahaha ahahahaha, I, ahahaha ahahahaha, I kindahahah, kinda c, caahahahaha, can’t stop!—”
Franco paused.
He stepped away from the table and crossed to the stainless-steel trolley. He lifted only one corner of the cloth that concealed the trays contents. By lifting the corner, he revealed a single object while the rest remained hidden: a long, brown eagle feather, its barbs still perfectly aligned, the shaft sturdy and slightly curved.
Colson’s laughter faltered into ragged breathing. His startled gaze locked onto the feather.
“Come on, chief, I kinda hate feathers,” he grimaced, “Like, kinda got a fear of the fuckers, y’know?”
Franco returned to the foot of the table, the feather held lightly between thumb and forefinger, and positioned himself at Colson’s left foot, “That makes psychological sense. Let’s see if we can overcome that fear, today. Your laughter should support that goal …”
Without preamble he drew the soft tip of the feather into the narrow space between the big toe and the second, then dragged it slowly outward in one continuous, delicate stroke.
A sharp, almost electric surge tore through Colson’s body, “—YO!—”, his eyes flew wide, the pupils contracting as if under sudden bright light.
His left foot twisted inward, as if trying to meet the surface of the table, toes clenching with such sudden force that the feather was momentarily trapped.
Colson sniggered with a cheeky glare in his eye, as if being able to fight back gave him some sort of boost.
Franco had to ease it free with careful pressure before the toes could relax enough to release it.
Colson shook his head, “Nah, chief, that’s literally sick …”
Franco repeated the motion between the next pair of toes: Colson’s index toe and his middle toe.
Another surge forward. Colson growled, a real, loud growl through gritted teeth as the foot jackknifed again, toes locking down even harder. Franco worked the feather free once more, patient, methodical.
“I actually paid for this shit!—”, Colson seethed.
Franco continued without urgency, one gap at a time, each slow drag between the toes producing the same explosive reaction: the sudden, full-body jolt of sensation, the desperate clenching that fought to trap the feather, the escalating, breathless laughter that left Colson’s chest heaving inside the pink straitjacket.
“—Mnn, man, oh, oh mahahaha, mahahahaha, mahahahahn!—”
“—Lean into it,” Franco said quietly, still working the feather between the fourth and fifth toes, “This is the laughter you haven’t felt in twelve long months. Don’t fight the pathway. Let it open …” he glanced up, the feather poised for another pass, “Are you feeling better?” He asked.
Colson wriggled his nose, fighting an itch he couldn’t scratch, ignoring Franco’s question entirely, “I wish I wasn’t restrained!” He admitted, “I could punch you right now!”
Franco gave a small, acknowledging nod. Then he turned the eagle feather in his fingers, reversing it so that the stiff, tapered quill faced outward.
Colson cocked an eyebrow, “Hey,” he sounded stern, “Don’t do that.”
Franco stepped to Colson’s right foot, closed his free hand firmly around the big toe, and held it still.
Colson tilted his head, “Hey, homie,” he repeated, this time sterner, “I said don’t do that!—”
With the quill tip he began to draw slow, deliberate circles across the dense, sensitive pad of Colson’s big toe - tight, continuous spirals that never left the skin.
An instantaneous, high-pitched roar of laughter exploded out of Colson, louder and more desperate than anything that had come before. It tore from his throat in endless, unbroken waves, high and almost hysterical, the sound of a man whose body had been yanked completely beyond his control: “—YO what WAIT whoa-OH FUAAAAAHAAAHAHAHAAA, AAAHAHA, AAAHAHAAAA, wait what JEEEESUS CHRIST fuhhhhahahahahaahhhhahahaha NO wait okay h, hold UP that fucking, FUCK that tickles like CRAZY MAH, MAH, MAAAAHAHAHAHAAAAHAHAHA-aahaaaaahahanhh, mnn, mnnn!—”, his entire tall frame hurtled forward; the PVC straps across his ankles and thighs bit deep as both legs kicked and twisted with furious strength - his right foot, held only by Franco’s grip on Colson’s big toe, squirmed violently, the other toes clenching and splaying in frantic, useless curls.
Franco narrowed his eyes in focus as he continued to draw tiny, round circles on the soft fleshy pad of Colson’s big toe, “It’s moments like these where we always encourage our clients to ‘ride the wave’, Colson …” he advised, “… You’ve only been in the Somatic Control Harness for three minutes and already, you’re producing more sounds of total joy than you’ve produced all year …”
Colson’s eyes were wide and wet - it tickled so much that they were ready to pop out of his head. His face burned red. Between the roaring peals of laughter came broken, furious fragments of sound, half curses, half disbelieving protests, that never fully formed because the next wave of sensation crushed them. He strained over the left edge of the table, torso twisting to the side, shoulders lifting by his jaw, as though he needed to see the source of the torment with his own eyes, to confront the sheer audacity of what was being done to him. The mixture was pure and volatile: the long-denied physical release of real, involuntary laughter crashing head-on into pure, boiling frustration at his total helplessness.
“—You gotta STOP, my guy, please, THAT’S TOTAL tickle torture fuck I MEAN IT bro, come on WHAT THE FUCK, BRO!—”
The moment Colson realised he was totally out of control, something shifted.
He stopped fighting the straps. Stopped trying to twist the foot away. Instead he threw his entire upper body backward once again with sudden, violent force. The table shuddered and wobbled under the impact as his shoulders slammed down. His blonde hair fanned out across the surface. He fixed his wide eyes on the blank white ceiling and simply … Let go.
The laughter that tore out of him was no longer human in any ordinary sense. It was grainy, continuous, almost unrecognisable - high pitched, quick, guttural, explosive cackles and giggles in overlapping currents that sounded like another language entirely, “—GRAH aghaaAGHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHA-graaahahahahahahano-no-what-mahaahaaaahahaha-AHAHAHAHAHAHA oh, oh dah, DAHAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-ahahahahahahamnnaaaa, mn-mn ahahahahahah SSss, sssOHH, my lord, guhaaah-AHAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAHAHAHAHHAAHAH!—”, he leaned into the volume, into the strength of it, forcing every bit of air from his lungs and then dragging more in only to hurl it out again in the same furious, mindless roar, “—LORD aghaaAGHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHA-graaa-OH-CHEIF! Hahahahahahano-no-what-mahaahaaaahahaha-AHAHAHAHAHAHA oh, oh dah, DAHAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-ahahahahahahamnnaaaa, mn-mn ah, this, this is UN, ahahahahah SSss, sssOHH, my lord, guhaaah-REAL, AHAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAHAHAHAHHAAHAH!—”, the sound lived in his stomach, a deep, convulsing burn, it lived in his chest, ribcage locking and unlocking with every spasm. It lived in his throat, raw and scraping. It lived in his face - eyes squeezed shut, then flying open again, mouth stretched wide in a rictus of pure hysteria, cheeks flushed dark, neck swollen and thick …
Franco grunted as he struggled to hold Colson’s foot in place, his fingers tight around Colson’s big toe, but the foot had a vigorous mind of its own when it was under attack.
For Colson, the sensation was simply maddening. It was too sharp, too focused, too ticklish, too inescapable. Every circle sent another electric spike racing up his leg and into his spine. The restrained foot writhed so hard the PVC strap creaked. Inside the pink canvas of the straitjacket - designed, he suddenly understood with perfect clarity, to contain lunatics - he was thrashing like one. Arms locked uselessly across his chest, shoulders hunching and dropping, head whipping from side to side across the table as the laughter kept pouring out of him without pause or reason - he could barely stay still for longer than half a second, the sensation had taken him over entirely.
“—MERCY-aghaaAGHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHA-graaa-OH-CHIEF! MERCY-ahahahahahano-no-what-mahaa haaaahahaha-AHAHAHAHAHAHA oh, oh lord, I’m suff, suff, DAHAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-ahahahahahahamnnaaaa, It’sohot! Mn-mn ah, this, is, MEAN, ahahahahah SSss, sss-OHH, my lord, guhaaah-REAL, AHAAAAHAHAHAHAH-meanmeanmean- AHAHAHAHAAAAA-shit, oh shit-HAHAHAHHAAHAH! I'm suffocating, man!—”
He was gone. Completely gone. A man reduced to pure, howling sensation, driven out of his mind by the merciless attention being paid to one single toe.
After around another three minutes, when the overload finally became unbearable, Colson jackknifed forward again with the same desperate force, the table rocking once more. Between the still-bursting peals of laughter he managed to choke out the words, voice cracked and almost unrecognisable:
“—ALRIGHT STOP, fuck I CAN’T? I, I need a BREAK CHIEF PLEASE!—”, he shrieked.
Franco lifted the quill at once.
He stepped back two paces, the feather held loosely at his side, and simply waited, calm and silent, while Colson collapsed over the table with a thud, chest heaving, face damp and scarlet, the last broken fragments of laughter still escaping him in short, helpless bursts as he fought to drag air back into his lungs.
‘… Oh god damnit …” he focused into the ceiling, his cheeks bright pink, his hair a little damp, “… Oh fuck …”
Franco used this moment, a few seconds of which Colson was not looking at him, to suck on the feathers quill, tasting Colson’s sole.
Colson grinned, “O, okay, deal with this for me, huh,” he presented his gum between his teeth, “Otherwise I’m gonna choke on it, man …” he sniffed, his feet curling and stretching, “Lemme out, homie. I got the message, I feel, like, so much better …” he cackled, knowing how cheeky his attempt was at being released.
Franco reached forwards and plucked the gum from Colson’s teeth and placed it on the tray where it sat, as pink as the straitjacket but wet with Colson’s saliva, “The process must continue, Colson,” he said, “What you just experienced is a beginning, not a conclusion. If we finish now, the protective numbness will close over again almost immediately. Think of it as starvation. A single slice of bread will quiet the worst of the hunger for a short while - but it is still only a slice. The body needs the full loaf if the deficit is going to be corrected rather than merely postponed.”
Colson lifted his head, face glistening, “Bro! I’m gonna go fucking crazy,” he said, voice hoarse, “My feet are like, SUPER ticklish, man. What you just did to my big toe was fucking wild ...”
Franco did not argue. He simply turned back to the covered trolley, lifted the white cloth a little further, and revealed two new objects while the rest of the tray remained hidden: a small tub of glossy white cream, and a rigid plastic hairbrush with closely set, rounded bristles.
He set the feather aside, picked up the tub and the brush, and returned to the foot of the table. His expression remained clinical, but the words that followed carried a quiet, precise weight.
“Sit forwards, please, Colson …
… And continue to let go of any reservation …
… This next phase will amplify the input far beyond what you’ve felt so far.”
Colson’s gaze locked onto the hairbrush the moment Franco lifted it into view.
"Okay, man, I really don't like where this is going …”
Franco’s reply came without hesitation, “It’s successful progress. Now, when the soles of the feet are primed by the partnered cream, the effect is exponentially sharper than fingers or a feather. Each bristle acts independently, so the foot receives hundreds of discrete points of stimulation at once. The brain cannot isolate or dampen them. The result is an overwhelming cascade …”
Colson tongued the inside of his cheek, “So, you admit it! You’re tickling the crap outta my damn feet! …”
Franco uncapped the small tub, “Hm, ‘tickling’ is a light word when describing such unique physical and mental measures,” the cream inside was glossy, faintly translucent, “But yes, if that’s what you believe I’m doing to you, that’s fine, as long as we achieve the end result …”
He scooped a modest amount onto his fingertips and began spreading it across the sole of Colson’s left foot in long, even strokes, coating the heel, the arch, the ball, and working carefully between each toe until the entire surface shone - Colson buried his face into his right arm throughout the thirty seconds it took to coat his foot, biting into the fabric of the straitjacket with his teeth.
“Ultimately, the end result is a total re-birth of your depressive state and overall mood. Laughter like what you’ve produced is quite literally a cure …” he repeated the process on the right foot with the same methodical thoroughness. The cream carried a faint cooling sensation that quickly turned warm, almost electric, as it sank in.
Colson winced as the cream was applied, it was cold, refreshing and deadly all at once, “Okay, my guy, but can we both agree this is, like, a terrible idea-AGH!—”
—Without warning, Franco lifted the hairbrush and drew it once, swiftly, across the tips of Colson’s left toes - just a glancing pass, bristles skating over the sensitive pads and the soft web of skin between them.
Colson leapt forwards and bit the air, “—Grr!—”, the table lifted and his straitjacket squeaked. His toes clenched hard enough that the knuckles whitened, “Doc! Buddie, pal, ol’ timer, I’m gonna call you some really bad names—” his eyes were huge, fixed on the brush as if it might strike again of its own accord, “—And for that, I can only apologise in advance …” he bit the air again, and again, white teeth snapping at nothing …
Franco met his stare with the same unhurried calm, “This phase will continue until the mental numbness has been thoroughly displaced and the pathways stay open. There will be no fixed duration, only the point at which the system resets.”
Colson thrashed in his straitjacket, “—YO! I don’t think I can do this like, ALL day, chief!
He shifted to the right side of the table, settled his free hand firmly around the top of Colson’s foot for stability, and lowered the hairbrush to the cream-slick sole.
The first full stroke began at the soft hollow of the heel and travelled upward in a slow, deliberate sweep, bristles dragging through the glossy film in a dense, continuous field of contact.
A colossal, ungovernable howl ripped free from Colson’s core, manic and jagged, cascading in fractured torrents that refused any pause for air or reason. The atoms around him practically shuddered, the space within the room vibrating. The noise was pure delirium - high, cracking peals that splintered into deeper, guttural convulsions, each one feeding the next until his entire torso convulsed in thrashing spins and twists within the straitjacket as Franco repeated the scrubbing process …
“—oh FUCK YOU aghaaAGHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHA-graaa-OH juss, just FUCK YOU, FRANCO NO-ahahahahahano-no-what-mahaa haaaahahaha-AHAHAHAHAHAHA oh, oh DAMN, DAHAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-ahahahahahahamnnaaaa, mn-mn ah, you, BAD, IDEA, ahahahahah SSss, sssOHH, my GUY, guhaaah-HUFF, AHAAAAHAHAHAHAH-STOP- AHAHAHAHAAAAA-shit, oh shit-HAHAHAHHAAHAH!—”
The sound poured out in relentless, overlapping cascades, manic and animalistic, his jaw stretched wide as if the laughter itself were trying to escape his body.
“—GAGH, ahaaaahahahahahahah-AAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAGHH-this is!-HAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA-chief!-AHAHAAH, AHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHA-a total!-FUUUUUHAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAHHHHUCK-mindfuck!—”
Every muscle along Colson’s frame snapped and recoiled in wild, asynchronous jolts. Both limbs below the waist hammered outward with such ferocity that the solid rubber platform lurched and swayed, its base scraping faintly against the floor; he thrashed as though determined to upend the entire apparatus through sheer kinetic fury. All five toes on the assaulted foot contracted and exploded outward in frantic, independent pulses while the untouched companion mirrored the chaos in involuntary sympathetic kicks. Moisture tracked sideways from the corners of his eyes. Sight dissolved into smeared white. Respiration shattered into shallow, stuttering pulls between the endless manic outbursts.
“—RAAGHGHH, ahaaaahah GRRAAAHHHHHahahahahah-AAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAGHH-SUCKSsoBAD!-HAAAHAHAHAHAHA RAAAAGGGHHHH HAHAAAA-chief!-AHAHAAH, AHAHAHAHAH GRRRRRAHHAHAAHA-ohmyGOD!-FUUUUUHAAAAAHAHAHAHAH! GRRRRRRRAHAAAAAAAHHHHUCK-yougottaSWITCHitupdudethat’sNOTfair!—”
The experience existed as simultaneous rapture and ruin. That manic laughter flooded him with the first genuine, unfiltered elation he had known in twelve barren months - electric, scorching, the very definition of joy clawing its way back into a hollow system - yet the force of it was so absolute it bordered on obliteration. No gradient existed between pleasure and excess. Each rigid filament of the brush discovered virgin clusters of nerve endings, raking and swirling across the cream-slick surface in patterns that never repeated, never relented. The glossy coating transformed every contact into a live current that shot straight up the leg and detonated along the spine.
Franco shifted position without pause, transferring his attention to Colson’s left foot. In calm, measured tones he offered a concise clinical account of the process, as Colson wheezed and tried to stretch his left foot away, blinking through the horror: “Your feet sure are ticklish, Colson. Now, take a breath for me, this might feel a little sensitive.”
Colson spluttered and panted, “—Wait, wait, bro, doc, tell me you’re BLUFFING!—”
As Colson spat what he could, Franco closed a firm grip around Colson’s left big toe, immobilising it, and began scrubbing the dense, cream-coated pad with short, rapid strokes of the bristled head. The rigid filaments rasped in tight, overlapping circles directly over the most concentrated nerve bed.
Colson’s manic laughter spiked into a higher, more fractured register: “—HOMIE WAAAAAIT-AHAHAHAHAHAH AHAAHHAHAHA AHAHAHA AHAHAHAHA AHAHAHAHA AHAHAHA STOPWITHTHEBRUSH HAHAHAHAHA AHAHAHAHA NN, NN-ARGH! NOT THE BIG TOE, FUCK! AHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAH AHAHAHH COME ON AHGAHAHAHAHAHAHAAH AHAHAHAHAHA AHAHAHAHAHA I’M GONNA bust OUT of this FUCKING thing WAIT AHAHAHAHAHA AHAHAHAHA AHAHAHAHA AHAHAHAH!—”
While his entire upper body surged against the straitjacket with renewed, desperate power. Seams along the shoulders strained and began to yield; one buckle popped free with a sharp metallic snap, then another. Fabric stretched and tore at the stress points as he thrashed, arms still locked but the jacket itself starting to split open under the force of his convulsions …
The straitjacket finally gave way under the accumulating violence of his convulsions. Seams along the shoulders and underarms split in rapid succession, fabric peeling back with sharp, tearing sounds as buckles sprang open one after another, “—YESYESFUCKYOU, BRO FUHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHEHEHEHAAAHAHAHAHAHAHC YOU!—”, the jacket sagged and fell open across his chest, yet his arms remained tightly twisted and locked against his torso, the residual tension of the restraint and the sheer intensity of his thrashing keeping them pinned in that crossed position even as the garment itself collapsed around him …
Still, Franco scrubbed at the pad of Colson’s left big toe, abusing the hyper sensitive flesh with the plastic bristles of the hairbrush …
Tears poured freely down Colson’s face, tracking in continuous glistening streams from the outer corners of his eyes, cutting clean paths through the flush that burned across his cheeks and temples, “—SSSSTOOOAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAP I, I CAN’T TAKE IT! HAHAHAHA AHAHAHAHA AHAHAHAHAHA AHAHAHAHAH AHAHAHA LEMME GO I GOTTA GET OUHAHAAHAHAHAHAHA AHAHAHAHAHAH AHAHAHAHAHA AHAHAHHOUT!—”, at the same time a thin, unbroken thread of saliva escaped the corner of his stretched mouth, joining the moisture already coating his chin and spilling in uneven trails down the side of his neck. The manic laughter never paused, only grew wetter, more broken, each new wave forcing fresh tears and fresh dribble free as his head jerked and his body continued its unrestrained assault on the table, his hands now slipping free from the straitjacket …
As soon as Colson began to reach forward, to grab at the brush, at his feet, palms attempting to cover his big toe, Franco pressed a button underneath the table and simply said, with calm urgency:
“… Bulk, could you please support me in the S.R room …”
The ruined straitjacket became a weapon in Colson’s still-twisted hands.
With a snarl he swung the heavy fabric in a wide arc, the dangling buckles and torn straps whipping through the air toward Franco’s face.
“—You sick fucking freak! Get the hell away from me, sleaze-bag bastard! I’ll fucking kill you!—”
Franco raised both palms in a placating gesture, “Colson, breathe. You’re safe. The process is still controlled! Let the system finish its work …”
Colson ignored him, flailing the straitjacket like a lash while his free legs writhed violently against the PVC straps. Fingernails scraped and clawed at the straps around his thighs, his ankles, trying to wrench the restraints open, “—These damn FUCKING straps!—”
Suddenly, the door slammed inward.
Red Rock’s head of security, ‘Bulk’, filled the frame …
Thud, thud, thud …
Six-foot-three of dense, sculpted muscle strained the same white clinical uniform Franco wore. Every step he took sent a faint vibration through the floor …
Colson’s manic cursing died mid-syllable. His blue eyes widened in pure, unguarded shock at the sheer mass of the man now advancing.
“—Okay, so, you’re a giant …” Colson gulped.
Bulk reached Colson and the table in two strides. Massive hands closed around Colson’s wrists with effortless authority, hauling the thrashing body backward until his spine met the rubber surface again.
“—UNGH!—”
In one smooth motion Bulk pinned both arms high above Colson’s head, locking the wrists together against the table’s top edge. The strength was absolute; Colson’s struggles produced only the smallest shift of Bulk’s stance.
“—WHAT! Fucking freaks! Both of you, FUCKERS! Let me fucking go!—”
Franco set the hairbrush aside and drew the white cloth fully from the trolley. Two objects lay exposed: a large black ball gag fitted with multiple adjustable straps, and a clear cylindrical device attached to a compact vacuum unit.
Colson craned his neck, saw them, and his voice cracked.
“—NO. WHAT THE FUCK, BRO!—”
Franco lifted the gag. Colson’s head snapped side to side in frantic denial, but Bulk’s grip held the torso immobile. His feet twisted and wriggled, his legs kicked, all ten toes splayed, his armpits pulsed, his breathing sounded speedy and quick, “—No, no, no way, that’s not going on, you’re not doing this to me fuck YOU—MNNmnn? MPHHH—”, after a brief, determined struggle the soft rubber sphere was forced between Colson’s teeth and the straps were buckled tight behind his skull, sealing the manic noise into muffled, continuous vibration.
Franco spoke in the same measured, instructional tone he had used throughout, “The gag is required to contain and redirect the kinetic energy of the laughter response. Vocalisation itself is secondary; the goal is to prevent dissipation of the neurological surge so that the full intensity remains available for harvesting.”
He next lifted the clear cylinder, “This is a pneumatic corpus-cavernosum engorgement apparatus. We will collect the biochemical markers released during peak hysterical overload - elevated endorphins, oxytocin, and specific neuropeptides associated with involuntary euphoria - and stabilise them into a daily-administered compound. Essentially, a concentrated extract of your own unfiltered joy response, refined for ongoing therapeutic use.”
Colson’s muffled protests rose in pitch as Franco hooked fingers into the waistband of his boxers and drew the fabric down to his knees in one steady motion.
“—MNNPPHH MNNPHHH MNNO-PHH!—”
The apparatus was fitted over his large, flaccid cock with practised efficiency; a soft silicone seal locked around his balls. The unit activated at once, a low mechanical hum filling the air as negative pressure began to draw blood steadily into the shaft.
“—MNNnnnn, MNN? Mnnn! Mnnnn ….”
While the device worked, Franco turned his attention back to the main focus of the process: Colson’s hyper ticklish feet, still shining with the creams glossy spread. As Colson’s soles stretched and flexed inward, towards the table, Franco removed the cloth from the tray, revealing a second hairbrush. Now, he had two. He knelt on the floor and reached both hairbrushes towards Colson’s soles, where he began to scrub the hairbrushes into both of Colson’s arches at the same time.
Colson’s entire lower body arched hard against the restraints and Bulk’s unyielding hold. Muffled, continuous howls vibrated around the gag. At the same time the pneumatic apparatus continued its steady work, the shaft inside the clear cylinder thickening and lengthening under the relentless vacuum until it stood rigid and darkly flushed.
“—MnnNnnaNnNnnNnnnmMMmmmmmMmmmmMmmmMmmppHhhhPPhhhhhhhHHMMNnnnn!—”
Franco settled both hairbrushes beneath Colson’s feet and began a dual, independent assault - bristles raking in tight, unpredictable spirals across the high arches while the plastic nibs pressed and released in alternating rhythms along the most reactive zones of the heels. Each light drag sent fresh cascades of involuntary response tearing through the pinned body.
“—MnnNnnaNnNnnNnnnmmMMNPPPHMMmmmmmMmmmmMmmmMmmppMMPNNNHhhhPPhhhhhhhHHMMNnnnn!—”
The clear tube apparatus continued its steady work without pause. Negative pressure pulsed in measured cycles, drawing Colson’s shaft deeper into rigid fullness inside the clear cylinder, the darkening head pressing firmly against the sealed tip as the vacuum refused any retreat. Every manic contraction of Colson’s core only fed the device further, the rhythmic swell and throb visible through the transparent wall.
“—MnnNnnaNnNnnNnnnmm UHHN, MMNPPPHMMmmmmmMmmmmMmmmMmmpp UUNN! MMPNNNHhhhPPhhhhhhh UUN! HHMMNnnnn!—”
Below the waist, Colson’s legs and feet never stilled. The PVC straps held the ankles and thighs, yet the limbs still slammed and twisted with raw force - soles flexing, toes splaying and clawing at empty air, calves bunching and releasing in frantic waves that made the entire platform tremble. The unused energy had nowhere else to go; it poured downward in constant, desperate motion.
Above, Bulk’s massive grip left Colson’s arms almost motionless. The wrists remained locked high against the table edge, biceps and forearms able only to strain and quiver in tiny, futile increments. No leverage remained. The strength pinning him was absolute; every attempt to twist free produced nothing more than a faint shift of muscle under unyielding hands.
Around the ball gag the sounds turned wet and strained. Colson choked and sputtered against the rubber sphere, the forced laughter having no clean escape, his head either spinning, flipping or stretching forward to bare witness to the most intense foot tickling he had ever endured. Thick ropes of saliva pooled in the hollow of his collarbone. Tears sheeted sideways from red-rimmed eyes, mixing with the dribble until his face and neck shone under the clinical lights. The dual torment of relentless foot stimulation and the genital vacuum left him thrashing in place - arms nearly immobile, legs in constant violent motion, mouth overflowing …
“—MnnNnnaNnNnnNnnnmm EEEEEEHH, MMNPPPHMMmmmmmMmmmmMmmmMmmpp EEEEEH! MMPNNNHhhhPPhhhhhhh GAAAAHHHH! HHMMNnnnn!—”
Franco’s hairbrushes shifted only enough to change targets. Both sets of bristled pads found the soft, sensitive skin of Colson’s heels and began tracing tight, continuous circles around their rounded contours before pressing inward to scrub in rapid, unpredictable patterns against the tender centers.
Muffled shrieks tore through the ball gag as Colson’s legs folded and kicked as far as the straps and Bulk’s grip allowed, every calf and thigh muscle seizing and releasing in violent waves. The pneumatic apparatus registered the sudden surges, the shaft inside the cylinder pulsing harder with each new contraction.
“—MnnNnnaNnN GRRRRRR nnNnnnmm EEEEEEHH, MMNPPPHMMmmmmmMm GRRRRRmmmMmmmMmmpp EEEEEH! MMPNNNHhhhPPhhhhhhh GAAAAHHHH! GRRR GRRRRHHMMNnnnn!—”
Colson’s gaze locked downward. He watched those hairbrushes working relentlessly beneath each digit and across the softest parts of his soles, the visual driving the sensation higher. Muffled pleas broke past the gag in wet, desperate fragments: “—OH GLEEAAAH GLEEEEAA I’M GUHHIN GAAH-ZEE!—” which translated to: “oh please… please… I’m going crazy!—”, the words emerged thick and distorted, yet unmistakable in their urgency. A cold clarity cut through the overload: he was being systematically driven past the edge of sanity by pure, unrelenting tickle torment focused solely on his feet, every nerve ending in his soles forced into continuous fire while the pneumatic cylinder kept drawing him inexorably toward climax. The dual pressure - ten toes, arches, and heels under simultaneous assault and the steady, mechanical engorgement of his cock - pushed him to the razor edge of orgasm, body straining, mind fracturing, the realisation that he might actually break under the intensity crashing through him even as the peak rushed closer.
Franco had to raise his voice as he acknowledged Colson’s throbbing erection, “Reset’s approaching fast,” he said, “Let’s ensure a complete trajectory …”
He set both hairbrushes down on the floor then dropped to one knee beside Colson’s left foot. Strong fingers closed around the instep, lifting and angling it. Franco’s mouth opened and took the toes in at once - sucking them deep, tongue sliding between each digit, lips sealing and releasing with wet, rhythmic slurps. Teeth scraped lightly over the pads, then the tongue returned to lap and swirl across the ultra-sensitive undersides in slow, thorough strokes.
Colson’s head snapped forward, eyes wide, the look on his face raw and unmistakable: I knew it. The thought barely formed before it shattered. Every nerve in the sole and toes detonated under the wet heat and suction. His body seized. The pneumatic cylinder registered the sudden, violent surge - shaft throbbing hard inside the clear tube as the orgasm ripped through him, the most intense of his life, “—MNN! MNNN! MNNNN!—”, thick pulses erupted in powerful, unbroken jets against the sealed tip, the vacuum pulling every spurt deeper while his toes remained trapped in Franco’s relentless mouth.
Muffled, broken howls tore past the ball gag. Tears and saliva poured freely. His legs jerked and strained against the straps, soles flexing hard, toes curling and spreading inside the warm, wet suction, “—MNN! MNNN! UUHHH MNNNN!—”, Franco worked methodically from the big toe inward, sucking, nibbling, licking, until only the littlest toe remained. That final, deliberate lap and gentle suck drew the last shuddering contractions from Colson’s spent shaft, “—MNN! MNNN! Mnpphh! MNNNN!—”, the eruption slowed, then stopped. His body went slack against the restraints, chest heaving in ragged, wheezing gasps around the gag, eyes unfocused, the aftermath leaving him trembling and drained …
Franco released the foot, rose smoothly to his full height, and looked down at the wrecked form still held fast by Bulk’s grip.
“Reset complete,” Franco announced.
Bulk moved with practiced efficiency. He let go of Colson’s wrists from the high hold and guided them down, securing each one into the padded cuffs fixed beneath the edge of the table. The cuffs closed with soft, final clicks. Once the arms were locked low and immobile, Bulk stepped aside as Colson continued to attempt to catch his breath, his eyes bloodshot, his throat as dry as sandpaper - he couldn’t even fight having his wrists restrained, he had no more give just yet …
Franco reached for the clear cylinder still sealed around Colson’s spent shaft. He released the vacuum with a quiet hiss and drew the tube free in one smooth motion. The slick, rigid length slid past the hypersensitive head; Colson jolted hard against the restraints, a sharp, involuntary spasm ripping through his hips and thighs as the cool air and sudden absence of pressure registered.
Franco handed the tube - still heavy with the thick, white, gloopy evidence of the orgasm - to Bulk.
“This will be processed into his medication. Anti-depressants, if you like,” he looked at Colson playfully, “Here in Red Rock we call them … Happy pills …” he nodded toward the door, “Take him.”
Colson’s eyes locked on Bulk in sudden, severe alarm. The realisation that the session was not over crashed through the afterglow. He screamed through the ball gag - a fierce shriek, muffled, continuous - and thrashed at full force across the table “—MNNPPHH MNNPHHH MNNO-PHH!—”, his tall frame strained and twisted against every strap, the entire table trembling under the violent, futile effort, “—MNNPPHH MNNPHHH MNNO-PHH!—”, it was a feast for the eyes: pure, unrestrained panic expressed through a body that had nowhere left to go.
Franco’s voice remained calm, almost apologetic.
“Mnn. I should have made myself clearer. The process is several rounds of complete resets. This was the first. There will be around another fifteen. That’s why you’ve been booked in all week …”
Unbeknownst to Colson, his bodyguards had been bound and gagged on a cold toilet floor around forty minutes ago, eyes wide above the tape, unable to intervene …
Franco looked down at him one last time.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said politely.
Bulk released the table’s wheeled locks and began to escort Colson away through the sterile corridors of Red Rock as Colson shrieked, writhed and bucked non stop, his cock flapping around and bouncing over his navel, his underwear still at his knees, his bare feet tickled beyond comprehension …
Franco watched them go, then reached up and adjusted the name badge on his uniform with a small, precise tug, wondering what would happen whilst Bulk looked after Colson for the next 24 hours …
Well, that was entirely up to Bulk.
