TKR thread 1 - El Turisto Americano

You shiver, half out of fear, half out of the chill of being stripped to your boxers. The blindfold over your eyes prevents you from discerning where you are. Instead you have to figure out by touch. And what you're touching fills you with panic. You are kneeling on some kind of padded, leather table. Your wrists are held in leather cuffs high above your head where you can hear a taut chain lightly jingle. Your calves are held tight to the leather table by more smooth cuffs pulled through the leather surface at your ankles and in the crook of your knees. By this, your torso is stretched upwards, your ribs turned into a fleshy, quivering xylophone, and the soles of your feet are turned skywards, every helpless wrinkle exposed to the hostile void outside your blindfold. You give a whining, half-sob, half-groan at your predicament and realize the pitiful exclamation was dampened by a fat, round piece of rubber buckled into your gaping mouth.

Chills run up your spine as you hear not one, nor two, but three men chuckle at your groan.
"Está despierto," one says with a deep, rumbling voice that fills your stomach with butterflies. The other two snicker as you can hear three sets of footsteps clicking against concrete, approaching your bound and half-naked body. You breathe heavily into your gag, trying and failing to calm yourself. There's a couple seconds of heavy silence before the deep voice and its hot breath appear in your ear, "it's not kind to say nasty words about our democratically-elected Presidente." Confusion washes over you for a second before you recall being in La Plaza and commenting that the president's statue made him look like, in your own words, "a Botero painting but somehow fatter." Your ball gag dams a flood of apologies and exclamations of, "Turisto Americano! Americano!" The men laugh at your distress.
"I don't care who you are, Mr. American Tourist. My job is just to ensure the sanctity of El Presidente's image. The only thing I care about is..."
A single finger runs down your bare chest to your tummy and wiggles its way into your bellybutton.
"¿Eres cosquilloso?"
Fingers scribble along the upturned soles of your feet. The effect is immediate. Like a plucked string, your entire body jiggles and thrums with every stroke on your tender feet. Every wipe along your endless wrinkles. Every dig between your toes. Every spidery scribble up your arch. The leather shackles hold your feet in place for your tormentors to play with like their little toys. The sensation somehow gets worse when they begin to tease you.
"Look at these feet, sir," one of the two tickling your feet says, "nice and meaty, a lot to work with, but softer and paler than even mi esposa."
"Much better than the crusty things we usually work with," the other jokes.
The tickle torture drags on for what feels like hours. No matter how much you beg, plead, and moan, these men are professionals with only one goal: Punishment. Eventually they stop and allow you to hang limp in your shackles like a slab of meat in a butcher's shop.
"Sir, should we bring in The Bitch?"
"Why yes, Cabo Jiménez, that sounds like a sublime idea," the deep-voiced officer says.
With nothing else to focus on, your ears pick up the sound of a cage being opened and shut deeper into whatever facility you are being held prisoner in. Another minute passes and you hear the sound of chains gently tinkling, and of a human on all fours. The mental image in your head is almost as mortifying as the reality of a raspy tongue grazing your toes and arches. It's a skilled, practiced tongue. One that knows how to get a man laughing and bouncing in his shackles. It worms its way side-to-side, tracing the valleys of your wrinkles. It digs and pokes with it's tip into the space between your toes. It even takes your toes all the way into its warm, wet mouth and nibbles on them. You can't help yourself. Your manhood begins to rise. Tightening into a tent pole in your boxers. The men laugh.
"Oh-ho! This is a new one! We don't usually get prisoners so... excited for The Bitch."
Your cheeks burn red hot as the officer unbuttons your boxers and fishes out your dick. With the mouth at your feet now gently nibbling along the balls of your feet, you have no chance to hide it. Your cock is out in its full glory. The other men make noises of fake awe as the officer flicks it and watches it swing back and forth. He then grabs your shaft in his hand to hold it still and skitters his nails along your testicles. You buck and moan, but can do nothing to stop the teasing torment.
"I think at this rate we will have to keep him," the officer says, taking pleasure in timing his scribbles on your balls to make you leap and gyrate, "clearly he loves it here. Who are we to deny him?"
The world reduces into a cold ball of terror broken only by a tongue swirling around the soft heel of your left foot. A moment later the deep, raspy voice is in your ear again,
"Don't worry, you'll feel right at home. The Bitch, he is an Americano too. You can even share a cage."