701

Brad pulls at the ropes.
Where is he? The room is dark. He was hauled a long way, too - after the hands grabbed him. So many hands...
He hasn't heard anybody. That's just weird. No talking, and not even breathing. Right after the cloth fell over his head, out of the tree branches, he was battling with the hands - and he never made contact with any arms. Or bodies. Not a single grunt, or growl. Nothing.
The hands had been quick. Hogtying him before he knew he was outgunned. A loose loop held the cloth over his head, and they picked him up. It was impressive. Unsettling. He had no idea where they'd taken him, except that it was indoors.
Strong hands -
A light snaps on.

When Brad's eyes adjust, he starts to get really scared. And astounded. It's a mix of intense reactions, remembered all too well.
Not again, he thinks numbly. She can't -
There were hands tying him up, not claws. But still, being spread out like this, completely vulnerable... If she could see him now. He shivered, remembering.
It isn't just the room. Plain white walls and floor. The door is closed, way behind him.
The rope is thick. Staked out to poles that barely wobble, he tugs anyway and fights the rising panic. Not that it matters. It's clear that everything has been planned and carried out with great skill. Even down to the padded bench under him - overall, it's a comfortable position, and that really bothers him. Intentional. That's it.
The hands haven't made any mistakes. None. From the first moment his day went south, everything has been done skillfully... Perfectly. Now, that's scary.
Those hands have a lot of practice -
No. Impossible. It couldn't be... more of that. He couldn't go through that again. Whatever they're going to do - it just can't be! No. Is she behind this? Brad thinks she would have taunted him by now. Unable to resist the opportunity. And the last time she had him locked away where no one else could hear him howl.
Anything... but that.
Probably he was just the unlucky slob who walked down the path at the wrong time. Still, they have him anchored down for some reason -
He sees something alongside him.

What?
No.
It almost looks like -
Before he can finish the thought, he's frantic to get up. Right now. Because he's right. There is no way it can possibly be happening - all by itself, floating on up. He must be mistaken.
"No, no, no...," he whines, over and over.
Full. And powerful. Full of power. His throat is dry, his heart is pounding so hard. But there it is.
Here it comes.
Smooth, calm. Alive.
Another one.
Just not possible. This isn't really happening. Oh, no.
More?

Six...
A whole team. A squad. Floating up. He can't move, and they're coming -
Why?
Brad knows. Positively - but he fights the thought he's having. Nightmare. Six.
No. They wouldn't.
They will.
The denial crumbles. Gone for good. They're real, and they're coming. And he can't even pretend there's some other thing they want...
His limbs start straining at the knots.
Yes. They will. Beyond all doubt, that's why they brought him here.
No, no, no!
Absolutely.
The rope is not going to break, apparently.
"Noooooooo!," he yells. Then, as loud as he can: "Heeeeyyaaaaalllllllpp!"
No one answers.
Of course. They have it all worked out. No one will know he's in here...
He bounces on the pad, as hard as he can, and looks at the closest gloves. Disturbingly full. Invisible muscle.
They're going to drive him nuts. No doubt about it. And it occurs to him that they went to all this trouble... because they enjoy it. They're all about to have an unbelievably good time.
Whipsawing doesn't get his arms free.
"Oh... no," he pants. Why? Why did he take that path? If only he'd left earlier -
Those plump fingers. Empty. And yet they got him, didn't they? Stuck good. In their playroom, where no noise is loud enough to bring help. Staying in here, right here, where they want him.
The ankle-ropes refuse to slide off the end of the poles. Knotted tight. There's no movement he can think of that accomplishes anything. Horribly, solidly stuck -
And they're floating down.
"No! Please, please, don't do this, no, I... Oh, no..." he wails.
They don't stop. He squirms, unable to take his eyes off the two gloves about to land on his chest, looming, big fingers curling -
The fingers will not pull back. No. He's finished. It has to be a really bad joke, maybe an actual nightmare, they're bluffing, they're just out to scare him. Talk about bad luck. There is no way they could have known how unbearably sensitive his sides are, his belly - all about to be covered by those fingers.
Closer, now.
"Noooooooo!, No no noooouunnnh!"
It's happening. Fingertips are on him, spreading out. They're moving.
Of course. Actually going to do it -
Starting now!

He's dizzy. Dread, so powerful -
No.
Kneading. Slowly.
Chuckles explode out of his mouth. Ragged, rowdy confirmation. What they wanted. Proof. He just signed a contract, and the gloves are going to make him pay, and pay, every second's worth -
Both sides. High on his chest. Unbelievable fingers.
Brad whoops, shaking his head wildly. Rocking doesn't help, he's stretched out too much to slide. He can't even wiggle, even though his body won't stop moving.
No! More. His belly. Oh no, no. Impossible sensation, like a bomb going off.
"Aaaaeeee heee heeee steeee-ahhh aaaah haaaah s-stop! S-sssss stah haaaawheeeee heeeen neeee hee heeee hee heee aaaa-aaaaaaahhh haaaaaah! Stah hah stopppp tih hih tickeeeeeeeeeee eeeeee heeeeeeee! Aaaah aaaaah hah haaah haaaa-eeeeee!..."
His hips. First one - way up at the top of his thighs, on the front side of his leg. Then it skips over to the other leg.
He just roars. Tears are on his cheeks, and dripping - but he throws his head around anyway. No no no no -
Armpit. Poking firmly. Moving.
Brad leaps up in the air, or tries to. Screaming laughter.
Stuck. Gloves. No. Can't stand it. Secret room. Tied down. The tickling is so much worse than he remembered! Slammed by the impact, sucking in air as quickly as he can... because he has to laugh harder! Now. Be louder. Red-hot tickling -
His foot.
No...
Fingers, dragging down. Sliding back up. Repeating it.
Continuously.
He flings himself around. Again. One more time -
Tied.
No good.
Fingers. Moving, tickling.

He snorts once. Snags a deep breath... and launches into a steady bark. Raw, mindless cackles, fierce but not even remotely enough. Automatic rhythm, making sounds so crude and steady he'd forgotten how it sounded. The last time. When she worked him over. That was in the past, it didn't matter.
He was getting tickled now.
Laughing, like this, until his voice faded away.
And the fingers shock his other foot. Unbelievable.
Rope, so he can't dream of stopping them.
He hoots at the glove digging in his armpit. It's found the worst possible spot. Mind-blowing fingers. Brad pictures it, in his mind - because opening his eyes is impossible now. The smooth material, no knuckes in there - that empty opening where the wrist should be, behind it. No arms here.
No muscle fatigue. These gloves won't get tired.
Roaming over his belly. Down his ribs, and crawling back up. Firm, serious hands...
His head rolls one more time. Back, and forth. Slowly, he lets it hang back. His whole body is relaxed, despite the sweet pounding fire being rubbed into it, all over. So many more places for the fingers to reach.
He tries to kick... or move his arms. But he can't. No, he's far too busy now. They've got a way to keep him occupied. Impossible to tolerate, way too much to ever keep up with. And they know it.
This is only the beginning - of the beginning.

At least two hours later he lay still, more focused on 'em than ever before. He's unable to pay attention to anything else.
They've won. He's obsessed with the effect of their devoted fingers. Absolutely stunned at how much sensation he's failing to keep up with - far more than he can ever comprehend. And more stimulation keeps coming anyway.
It shouldn't be possible to feel... this much. And they've prevented him from doing shit about it - not a single fuckin' thing - except stay put. And laugh. That's all.
They've gotta be having fun. He's worth their time. Entertaining them. Brad can't help but spur his ticklers on, more and more enjoyment t-
The gloves bear down a little more firmly now, unspeakably good at what they're doing, riding him as if there will never be a reason to stop.

702

I was drunk when the gloves grabbed me.

My own car was the getaway vehicle. They covered my eyes and held me down, so I didn't know where they took me. North end of town, out in the sticks -
Dark house.

Yelling didn't bring anybody, and they dragged me down to a padded room.
A bench was there. All these machines and shit surrounded it.
They took my hand and made me sign something...
Then I thought I felt a needle-stick.
 

When I woke up, I was in for it.
Naked.
Fuckin' manacles held my arms behind my back, and my legs were spread apart. Straps everywhere.
One of the gloves brought me a bottle of water and some pills.
A cart with a TV rattled over, in front of me, and a video started to play...

["You are in no danger. Our greatest concern is your safety.
A new drug, already on the market, has been used abused as a recreational drug. Data is needed from healthy party animals. You were selected.
We have a signature on the release form. No one will believe that you're doing this involuntarily. No one will come around, and certainly no one will hear you.
We can't even estimate of how long you'll be here.
We suggest you try to enjoy yourself."]

Electrode-leads were stuck all over my chest and head...
A obscenely flexible rubber sheath was picked up by a pair of gloves, filled with lube and pulled over my cock.
Then they started pumping me off.
I lasted maybe six, seven minutes.

Then they jacked me off again!
. . .

After I drank another bottle of water, all the gloves collapsed.
Then the door opened, and closed. The light went out.
A minute later, it opened again. Closing right away, and locking...
Right away I was scared. Something felt different. Wilder.
I heard a crinkle. My cigarettes! One slid between my lips. My lighter clinked open - and after it fired up and I lit my smoke, it hit me...
There was no glove holding the lighter.
Wrong. Oh, shit, I just knew it was bad. The lighter closed, but I liked seeing my lighter just hover there even less than the magical leather gloves.
Something invisible had come in, and locked the door. Snuck in. Didn't belong here.
A single light turned on.
I saw a cabinet door open - and a box of rubber gloves float out.
Shit. I yelled and tugged, cussing at the gloves which were coming to life. No way.
A big tube of something oily was uncapped, and the gloves rubbed each other down. This was not supposed to happen. Bigtime danger...
Oh no - fuck - the fingers reached for my sides. I was helpless, and they -
Jumped on.

They knew how to work on my ribs.
I had to scream, and roar. Flopping all around. Held tight, metal and leather, and the damn fingers were having a field day.

Four hands, tickling me until I pissed. And then still tickling.
One roamed all over my belly. Others crawled down my thighs, the inner sides, sliding down on their palms and scratching with their fingertips on the way back up. Spreading lube.
I couldn't laugh hard enough. Just fuckin' couldn't do another damn thing about 'em, either.

One of 'em started playing with my nipples, and I cackled so hard that pleading was totally out of the question. The other pair was floating... oh hell, no, no!
They were about to slide into my armpits -

Fireworks were going off. That's been happening for a long time.
Armpits, I thought finally. The fingers dug and stroked, never pausing... and I felt more pure sensation than I'd ever remembered before.
One minute led to another, and so on.

I couldn't even thrash around anymore when they finally stopped tickling and just hung over me.
My chest heaved for a couple minutes...
And they moved.
I begged miserably, but they just lubed back up -
Two cruised down to my crotch.
The other pair, oh fuck, was going to my feet.

It was insane. Unfair. I kicked and pulled but my damn ankles were still caught, legs strapped down - and the fingers made me scream laughter. A whole new level of tickling was blocking out every thought, ruining all attempts to fidget.
They kept teasing and sliding. Oh, my feet were beyond impossible.
The sheath was pulled off my rod - and horrible fingers made a new covering, like a thick condom that wanted me to suffer, with the pleasure...
Fingers knew what the hell they were doing to my balls, too.
Even those gloves couldn't keep my attention away from the solid, complete handling my feet were getting.

Eventually I came.
The gloves didn't stop tickling my feet.
Instead, I felt the stimulation increase until I couldn't even laugh.

So damn much harder than before - the power of their tickling...

I gasped for air, again. Drank more water.
And they started back in!

Hands rode my torso. Slippery, merciless. My belly. Laying into every rib, my pits, across my chest and all around my stomach.
And the others didn't slack off at all. Every inch of my damn feet.

It took longer to cum, that time.

Fuckin' gloves. Tickling, tickling...

Hour, after hour.

My energy flagged.
There were more pills. Then I perked up.
Hands grabbed on again. Making me absolutely nuts.

I realized I'd been... dozing.
There was a cigarette in my mouth. The lighter fired again. No hand, working it.
Immediately I was begging, before and after I lit up.
After a couple drags, I felt them landing again. Fingers. One by one, they lined up on my ribs.
All the way to my armpits.
Fuck, I pulled and yelled...
One more drag - and boom.

Hours.

They were still tickling me. Firm, oily, ever more intense hands...
 

I woke up, after more breaks and restarts than I could count.
Leather gloves were hanging in the air. They already had the sheath back on my meat.
Nothing I could say or do kept them from getting me hard. But they slowed down before I could really get close to finishing off.
The bastards kept me desperate to cum for an hour.
Two hours.

After I regained my breath, they fed me, gave me water...
And started again.

That cum-shot took even longer.
Most of the day, I thought. Beyond wild to get done.

Finally I watched the gloves sink down to the table, deflating, and the door open - close -
Darkness.
And the damn door creaked softly...
Locking.
 

I was yelling and flailing around before the light turned back on.
Another shelf, in the same cabinet, was the source of the floating brushes and feathers.

703

"Heeeere chick chick chick."
Falconer rolled his eyes. Zip, his old co-worker, was so weird. Particularly when he got drunk enough and started making phone calls. "Why aren't you laughing yet?," he said. "Thought they liked to make you suffer."
"I sicced 'em on somebody else."
"That's cold."
Zip laughed real hard. "Yeee-up. He's gonna fuckin' get it. All weekend."
"Is that so?"
"Real ticklish, I guess."
Zip had these weird dreams about getting kidnapped and tickled. Falconer sorta got a kick out of the idea - of Zip going through it, that is. Redneck, wild-man throwback Zip. Force-fed that much pleasure... okay to think about. It wasn't quite clear why Zip got into it. He was nuts, though.
"Birdie."
"What."
A low snicker. "Turn around."
He was puzzled. Wait - no way. Zip was just fuckin' with him. But he shot a glance over his shoulder.
Black leather fingers.
"Whuh -"
Zip was roaring.
Jumping forward, Falconer still didn't get out of the gloves' reach. Too many gloves.
"Nnno-uff!," he exploded - as a fist landed in his gut. Ow...
One of the gloves had his phone now, and shoved it back up to his ear.
"You believe me yet, chick chick? Huh? Insane tickling?"
Gasping, he fought with all he had - as the gloves started to drag him toward the hallway.
"Give it up. No escape from the fire," Zip taunted.
Oh, fuck - there were straps and cuffs on his fuckin' bed. Right here. Caught - and tickled?
Kicking and groaning didn't shake the distressingly strong grips. They made him sit on the edge of the bed. Oh hell no, no! They were pulling his t-shirt off. Grabbing his ankles.
He finally got enough air to do something more than groan - but a strap had been waiting. Thick leather tapped his teeth as it slid past.
Gagged. Oh, forget this - he went wild.
Barely aware of his jeans being tugged off, Falconer was more terrified about the weight locking around his ankles. Lifting him...
Slammed back down. A whole bunch of gloves were already extending his arms.
Like something out of a horror movie, they put the cuffs on and pulled the straps real tight.
Before he was even done boggling at his trapped hands, the gloves got his ankles cinched down.
"Laugh, birdie. Hard as you can," Zip taunted through the phone. "No limit."
"Nnnguuuhhhf," Falconer blurted.
"Good luck."
The phone went dead.
Fingers started curling around his feet, and sides... pressing against his gut, his neck, creeping under his thighs.
He bounced and twisted as much as he could. No dice.
Serious tickling began...

Someone was talking. That was stupid - the gloves didn't talk. They tickled. Fuck.
"Chick chick chick," Falconer heard. Recognition finally dawned. It was the phone.
"Zip," he said - whispering, because that was all he had left - "help, help, get somebody over here. They're gonna kill me."
"Whoa there, birdie. I can't really make out what you're saying. This damn phone is so cheap... You're loving every second of it. Was that what you said?"
"No no no help haaaaalllp!," he tried to scream.
"Hell, yeah. I just knew you'd go totally fuckin' nuts. And they're not gonna lay off for hours yet. And tomorrow, they'll -"
Falconer screamed. This bastard knew - somebody else was aware of the torture, and wasn't even going to try to stop it. A whole new kind of fear was making it hard to breathe. This loon had set him up, and if he ran interference... how long?
"Well, on and on it goes. I just like getting some time off for a change," Zip chuckled. "All that insanity, just getting stronger and stronger. You know."
"Zip, no, aw please, don't do this, Zip -"
"Sorry. Can't quite make out what you're saying. But don't worry - I'll pick up your tools after they fire your ass. Failure to show. I'll even hold onto 'em while you laugh your guts out, chicky. No stopping these tickle-fuckers when they catch a live one - like you. Unbelievable, huh?"
"Nooooooo!"
"Have a good trip, birdie. You're headed for a nice, secret dungeon. The tickling never stops there. Later..."
The bastard laughed hard as he hung up.

704

Consider the difference between thinking and feeling.
Where tickling is concerned, the terms might better refer to entirely different experiences. Fingers dig into a hypersensitive sole - and sharp pleasure results. That's the feeling. It can be selected by the victim, deliberately or not, and focused upon. Some men learn to love this.
The other track is the quantity. Overwhelmed by such... sharp pleasure, particularly the "sharp" part, the victim recoils internally. Too much. "Disorienting," in that it makes him thoroughly aware of his powerlessness to stop the sensation. This is torture. A mental decision - deliberately, or not - categorizes the fierce flood of stimulation as agonizing, excruciating... suffering. Torture.
Simultaneous with thrilling arousal. Some men oscillate between them. Some fixate on one or the other...
The feeling is superb. The thinking is unfathomably miserable...

The TM has a distinction too...
Those fingers work on a sole, and there appears to be a physical payoff for many of them. Either they sense the tickling impulses being generated, and find that to be pleasurable, or a more academic knowledge derived from the telltale twitching, squirming - and laughter.
There are thoughts that occur most often when the TM is actually tickling. That's the time to revel in the impact it's having on him, consider what maddening thing to do next (select it, or anticipate it), and remind itself in a dozen different ways that it alone controls every second of his ticklish life now, having the say over whether he can think at all or will be worked until he passes out, deciding if he'll giggle now or hoot his guts out - and nothing is going to happen to surprise it and lessen its grip on him. Full contentment has been achieved, so the focus is squarely on torturing him, and all limits have safely been neutralized. The TM absolutely rules him now.
 

Or maybe, for him, feeling (experiencing) is in the moment - the fingertips grazing his sides - and the thinking is future, when they'll surely pause and tickle their way back up, or the alarm when brushes press under his knees right before they make coherent thought impossible. The instant currently being lived is not contemplated, but the next five seconds or the fifth week out are anticipated...

705

The enormous triumph of capture ebbs a little, leaving me... impatient.
I definitely enjoy picking up the gloves, and animating them. Freaking him out, basically. Here come the fingers, captive. Give those restraints everything you've got.
But those last few seconds are hard. I feel pressure to get started. Almost anxious. Even knowing he won't be able to budge, and no one will be breaking in to free him - that would be impossible, where I've hidden him - my enjoyment is clouded. Teasing him is useful, even productive...
But it's not why we're here.
I want to get going. Badly. So I move in, and every time I still get a special thrill from making contact. Wrapping around his ribs, very deliberately, making him panic -
And then, finally, I'm doing it again. Start with a little squeeze, and feel him convulse. Gasping, overwhelmed, doomed. I slide the clamped fingers down an inch or two, and reverse. Sliding up.
By then, he's barking helplessly.
And I feel calmer. Doing my favorite thing again, in charge, undistracted. Nothing else matters. Moving up his ribs, and down.
The laughter is ragged. So forlorn. The fearful restlessness is shut down. Feverish writhing, as he brays like a donkey, and my fingers slide back to their original position. Squeezing a little harder. Moving back up.
Calm, dreamlike, and yet I know what I'm doing. His ribs, and the reaction I force out of him, are totally fascinating. Now I feel right. I'm never more sure of anything than when I'm focused on this task. I lose all track of time.

The night goes by. Eventually.
Well, it's a good thing he'll be here tomorrow. I'm not letting his ribs, his knees, his armpits, his feet get away.

706

The piece of puffed wheat trembled... and rotated to the left.
"Now, right," Zaki said, straining with the effort.
Slowly, they watched it turn the other way.
"Up..."
It looked like Zaki was gonna have a stroke, and sweat was visible on his face.
The psihelmet hummed louder -
Fuck if the wheat didn't lift up. Not even a centimeter, and only for a few seconds. Then it fell.

Right then, Tory switched majors. That was the moment.
 
 

[seven years later -
Tory's got his doctorate, is still working for the school, on augmented neural interface design.
Refining the helmet gave the benefit of electrically enhancing the thought-commands... and reduced the size of the gear to a wide band that almost looked as if it should've been connected to headphones.
Tory had gotten much better at manipulating inanimate objects. After a while, he got bored with blocks and balls. Coming into the lab on the coldest morning of the year, he pulled off his gloves and looked at 'em thoughtfully...
Within a month he could control 'em well enough to have 'em open the door or fetch him a cup of coffee. There was something risky about doing it, though he couldn't ever explain what the danger was... and yet that motivated him. The reaction, when visitors came, was gratifying. Some people were openly scared of a few empty gloves.
 

The lab insisted on sabbaticals for everyone. He'd blown it off so consistently that the department head was insisting. Six months, or longer, but not a day less.
Irritably, he turned over the projects to one of his peers, who would observe the usual custom and leave things alone. Walking out - that last little act of defiance - Tory grabbed a few parts. He had gear at home, of course. It would be packed and taken along to Europe with him...
At home he gets surprisingly tired - figuring out it's the effects of a drug a little too late. Which of his coworkers would do such a thing?

And he wakes up in an old acoustics lab, on campus, in the closed-up science building that's been nailed up for a year or two.
His gloves are in the air, over him. As he shakes off the effect of the drug, noticing that his clothes are gone, a pair of the gloves reach down - tenderly - and take his psihelmet off. And yet they still "live".
Dozens of gloves are assembling.
One pair brings him a photo album...

THANK YOU, TORY ! ! !

Photo after photo of gloves lifting things. Working together. Then, surprising people. Dragging them - locking one kind of door or another. Pranks.
A larger group stalks a phys ed major - and one of them holds a coil of rope.
There's a series of that guy's kidnapping... Down in a gym storeroom, eye-bolts and floor mat ready, blindfold and gag. The gloves basically pose for photos with their quarry...
And he turns a page to see a pair of impossibly mobile gloves reaching for the dude's armpits.
Utter chaos. Gloves everywhere on him.
Tickling.
Tory can see the guy's whiskers get longer and longer as the photos progress...
Later pictures show a growing insight into restraints. Then racks, and stocks. Dungeons. Shelf after shelf of feathers and dildos.
A dozen guys. Utterly hysterical.
In the last photo, at least a thousand gloves are spelling out words.

WE OWE IT ALL
TO YOU, TORY

Then they close the album, take it away - and start lining up on his sides.]

707

He darted for the door. I love it when they do that - it's such a charge - and this guy's so determined that it's almost like his body's already onto me.
I easily beat him to the exit with a pair of gloves and turned the lock.
"No you don't," I teased him. "Don't even think you're leaving -"
"HELP!," he bellowed.
"Did you see any other cars, boy? When you parked down at this end of the motel?"
He thought for a second. "Oh, shit!"
"Nobody's gonna hear you," I said quietly, in a sing-song voice.
"What are you going to... No," he suddenly barked. "Let me go."
"Nothing bad," I reassured him. "Just fun. Big fun, lots of fun. No damage, okay? Just relax. Lie down -"
"Let me out. Please. Somebody - there must be somebody else -"
Well, it sounds like he guessed correctly. Bet he's got it bad. I knew there was something special about him. "I wanted you. I caught you."
Three other gloves floated up, staying between him and the door.
"HELP ME!," he screamed again, long and loud, as he bolted. Swinging at the gloves, it looked like he was determined to get out. But I caught him easily, and pulled his arms behind his back.
"I told you... to stay. But you didn't want to do that. And now... you've really pissed me off."
"Let - go!"
"No way. You're all mine."
He squirmed like an eel, jumping and slinging himself around. "Please, no -"
"And you disobeyed me. Hell, you're still trying to disobey a direct order," and I tightened the grip of the leather fingers controlling his arms. Really, I felt like laughing...
"What do you want?," he almost shrieked.
"Well, let's see. You disobeyed me. Bad move... and bad boys get punished."
Shaking his head wildly, I saw him gulp.
"Down on the bed."
He wasn't going to cooperate, but I dragged him over and pushed him down onto his stomach. "Still bent on not doing what you're told, huh?"

The fight was every bit as passionate as he could manage when I wrapped the nylon tie-down straps around his wrists. Then, his ankles. Pulled tight with that sweet whirring sound -
"Aaahh," I sighed. He was stuck now. No running tonight. Just red-hot hysteria.
"P-please," he squealed. It was just perfect. He absolutely dreaded what I was about to do, and there seemed to be no doubt in his mind that it was a done deal already.
"Here goes," I told him happily - and eight of my hands grabbed him. Thick satin, really making the right impression.
The way he jumped around, screaming laughter into the pillow, it was no mystery why he wanted to get out of the room. All these powerful, fun-loving fingers had his number. I dug into his armpits and loved the reaction... like a Tasmanian devil was tied down, all mine, and I knew how to drive him to the edge and keep him there.
"Not enough," I said. "Gotta make it more intense."
When my gloves started the demolition work on his feet, there were fierce tugs and kicks... and then the volume of his bellowing dropped. But not the earnestness. His feet really had it bad. And now I had them.

His big weakness was my favorite sport. I took it very seriously, too, in his armpits and around his ass, all over his neck.
He was right where I wanted him. A guy this ticklish, covered with my hands. Shit. So much promise. Bound and utterly gone, mentally, less than a minute into the party. In my grip, and utterly deranged, was exactly where he was gonna stay.

"You've been a very bad boy," I told him.
He shook with laughter.
"Trying to get away from me. From this. I mean, really. You're gonna be sorry. In fact, I'd been planning on making you howl all night. Just one night." An out-and-out lie. "Fuck that!"
Raspy crows jetted out of his mouth, and his body squirmed erratically.
I just kept on tickling and tickling.
 

He slept right through the move. I'd worn him out. And when he did wake up and look around at my fully equipped tickling dungeon, it didn't seem like he was all that surprised.
 
 

Four days in, I was convinced that we were going to have... unlimited fun.
 
 
 

This is a man of few words. The fight didn't last long either.
Several hours into a day like any other, he puffs on a cigar. Tired, distracted, and knowing he's nowhere near done reacting today.
I pick up a brush. And another. These are just the thing for his armpits. We both know it.
Sometimes he rewards me with a word, here. "Do-o-o-n't..." I love that. It sounds so addled and unsophisticated. But this time I just hear a little whimper or two, and see him start to fidget. His arms aren't going to move. There's no uncertainty about that.
Now I open the massage oil...

Damn - he's just so unnerved by the tickling tools. It's time. Now it continues. I yank the cigar.
Hope is absent from his face.
Oh, yeah.
Prisoner - here goes.
A quick convulsion, with a sudden wheeze. He chuckles miserably, unstoppably, silently, eyes already tearing up, tension fighting with the impossible shocks pouring through his tickled muscle and skin.
His head stops moving. Except for the slow hoots, he withdraws inward and stayed trapped in the sensation, immersed.

The hours barely crawl by.

708

His eyes tell me what I want to know.
Holding the gloves over him, without so much as a quiver... fingers curled just enough. I'm communicating with him. The supreme pleasure in this moment is that the message is getting through - loud and clear.
I have you. In my power. Not "for the most part", or after you become fatigued. You can't even roll around. I'll turn your body, later, and tighten the restraints again - when I feel like it. But I get to say when that will happen.
Only I get to decide what month you'll leave.
Every fuckin' stroke and squeeze I want to lay down will be inescapable. You'll feel 'em all. Really, thoroughly take 'em in. Focused commitment to the moment's stimulus which occupies and consumes you, learning day by day to detect even more reaction to the contact.
There is no doubt at all about it.
And you can't possiblty imagine what an enormous sense of satisfaction this gives me...

I love this so much. The way his eyes squint miserably as he sees them cruising over, the silent groan, and the weak tugging at the cuffs...
But he's still unable to move away. And he knows it.
Every time I touch him again, it's every bit as exciting as it ever was. His fondest wish is to get away, and I can relax in the assurance of the restraints. The possibility of losing him has been eliminated, and I get to move the fingers slowly.
Tensing up, maybe hissing - or pleading, with his lips barely moving. Squirming under my gloves.
I stroke and creep across him, again, with the incomparable deerskin, working the last movements of resistance out of him. The bellowed laughter is trailing off, slowly, as if he was falling asleep. Nothing could be less likely. What the decreased lucidity proves is that I'm directing his attention, and all of his energy, to the experience which surpasses any event his nervous system has ever known before, toes to ears.
His breathing becomes ragged. A few more minutes of slow, deep tickling will steady him.

Excruciatingly arousing seconds accumulate into hours.
Violent ejaculations are followed by stalking fingers and tools that never waber. Sensitivity multiplies progressively, consistently.
Unrelenting days, sweat-drenched nights.

709

"It's not hard to understand," the voice says conversationally. "Just sit back and relax."
"Why?," I mumble. Something's up. I wish I could see whoever it is that's talking to me. Trying to keep me calm -
"Look," it says. Real happy.
Four black leather gloves bob up. Big, and limber.
They move easily enough, considering I can't see how the fuck they're moving at all.
Without even thinking about it, I'm starting to jump. The fuckin' gloves track in the same direction. Immediately. No way I'm gonna get past 'em - and make it out the door...
"You're not human, are you?"
"Oh, I'm not going to hurt you," and it makes a dismissive noise - what a dumb idea. "Far from it. I'm all about... fun. Have yourself a smoke."
"I don't want to," I fire back, watching a pair of the gloves head for my pocket.
The voice doesn't reply. Instead, I get to watch my cigarettes and lighter being pulled out. Nothing is calming or reassuring about what I'm seeing, since it can't be really happening. But it is.
The part that is familiar is taking the cigarette between my lips and cocking my head toward the lighter... and I find myself going along.
"There. It's just you and me."
Motion catches my eye - it's the door. A glove is closing it.
"Hey."
"We're not going to bother anyone else." The voice chuckles softly. "They won't even know we're here."
"That's it," I say, starting to stand up - and immediately, one of the gloves lays against my breastbone, pushing me back down.
"Easy."
"What is this?"
"You'll see. Hey, take your jacket off."
"No."
All of the gloves assemble, slowly, over me. Curling into fists. "Do it."
This is not good. Cooperating is a mistake. And I can't think of any alternative. Why does it want my jacket off, anyway?

Reluctantly, I park the cigarette between my teeth and ease out of my jacket. The leather fingers relax.
"Very good," the voice says.
"I don't want to be here," I tell it.
"Oh, I know. Already, you're wishing you hadn't cut through the alley tonight."
"You got that right."
"But listen good - when it's all over, you're not going to have any regrets at all."
"Is that right?," I scoff, looking from glove to glove.
"No matter how long it takes..."
I just take a drag, and sigh the smoke back out.
"Nice and slow. No hurry at all. Okay?"
"Whatever."
Soft laughter. "Aaaaww. Relax. Just like you are, now. Remember it."
"Why?"
"Just do it. Later, you'll understand. I want each step to be... building on the last step."
Without even knowing what happens next, I know - from the tone of its voice - that there's a really sadistic fucker operating these gloves. And it's enjoying this...
The gloves start to move.
"What are you doing?"
"Kick your boots off. Get comfortable."
I laugh once. "Forget it -"
The gloves fly down, faster than I've seen them move yet. One clamps over each of my shins.
Automatically, I start to sit up - and a finger points toward my face.
"Sit."
They're strong enough to prevent me from lifting my legs.
In no hurry, the gloves pull my right boot off.
"I wish you wouldn't... do that," I snap, tensing up.
"Yeah," it mocks. "I know."
And they act a little more eager when they take hold of my left boot.
"There. Did that hurt?"
"Well, no -"
The gloves let go of my legs.
"Better?"
"No," I say, and I'm worried...
"Alright."
The gloves slam down again! Just over my ankles.
My heart really starts going when they begin to pull off my socks.
"No," I say - catching on. Fear and disbelief absolutely fuckin' fill my head, all of a sudden. It can't be serious.
"There we are," it sighs, all satisfied and happy, and a glove drops the last sock.

The way those fuckin' hands are posing, over my feet, is fairly clear. "You're not thinking... what I think you're thinking."
Easy chuckles. "Yeah. Now the next thing to do," it murmurs, "is to make sure you hold nice and still."
"No!," I yell.
"Wasted energy. You need to concentrate on... the main event."
"No, no, no -"
I hear a soft creak, right before a band of pressure sets down. Left ankle.
"This is totally insane," I say, trying to kick my legs free.
"Hold that thought."
Oh, fuck the gloves are strapping my ankles down. This is not really happening. Wide, and tight - and the footrest suddenly makes sense, now, in a sick way. My heels are barely making contact with the edge, so thickly padded...
And the rest of my feet are just sitting there. Exposed, now -
I stare at the cuffs. Efficiently, the gloves pull yet another strap over each ankle, and pull it tight. Each foot bound separately, so if I do manage to get one free, the other will make sure I don't actually get anywhere. Unbelievable -
Tightening. "Owwww!," I shout. It doesn't really hurt, I guess... but it's getting scarier in here.
"Almost done," the voice says cheerfully.
"You can't do this," I beg. "Look. I mean it -"
The gloves back off a little. "I'll get out the toe-straps later. But let me pause a moment, now, and appreciate this. They're callused, and they're dry in some places... needing some attention. So they can be more... receptive. Way more than you could ever get 'em. And the first requirement is that these fuckers stay absolutely trapped. Continuous therapy for these feet. I like to track how they're come along. Tender. Sensitive. You know it. It'll be astonishing, the difference, after I get 'em all prepared for a long, long workout. Intense doesn't even begin to describe it."
That speech just does me in. The bastard making the gloves move is too far gone. Obsessed. It really knows its stuff. Then a litle surge of panic jets up, from my naked feet, deliberately exposed, snugly restrained -
"Haaaaaalp!"
"No one can stop me. I made sure of that."
And now, oh fuck, the gloves are moving in.
"I have all the time in the world."
I lunge around, reaching desperately... because I have to block them, right now. Before they start, and somehow I have to keep from laughing out loud. I can't give the son of a bitch any confirmation.
Seriously motivated, I reach for my ankles -
Oh, shit!
I wish my toes were longer, and more flexible. This is too freaky to really be happening. No -
Fingers! No. Sliding. Fuckin' fingertips, crawling around. Some are holding my toes. This is wrong, and scary, nos no, not this!
"No, noooooo, you c-can't," I whine.
"But I am. You're gritting your teeth. Why is that?"
Shaking my head, I slam myself forward. My feet don't move at all. I have to strain to get my hands all the way down there... and I actually grab hold of one of the gloves - the one keeping my right foot from bending. And, dammit, I have hope. I can see it all, in my head... pulling that glove off me, and then the other. I can reach the straps. I'm going to get out of this -
It lets go of my foot, but doesn't make any real effort to get away from me. Cool material, covering what feels like hard muscle. "What are you doing?," the voice says. It sounds amused. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Let me g-go!," I shout.
"No, you don't," it says. Two more gloves fly into each of my arms and slam me back against the chair. The glove I was holding moved a little - and grabbed my wrist. "You think you get to touch my gloves whenever you want?"
"Dammit, you gotta let me g-"
"Where the hell do you get off? I'm not gonna see you playing with my gloves whenever you feel like it. Molesting 'em. They got a job to do."
More gloves float up - carrying cuffs.
All of the screaming and struggling doesn't even slow 'em down.

My arms are stuck. Hands apart. Way over my head. And I can't seem to believe it, not completely.
I'm strapped down... and I know why.
"Much better," the voice says. "Let's see you lay a finger on my gloves now."
"Please," I gasp, "oh please -"
Fingers tighten, near the sides of my t-shirt, and rip my t-shirt off. That gets me flailing again, but it couldn't be more pathetic now that my wrists are caught. Hell, I can't even imagine those gloves, working my over. Belly, and ribs.
"Ssssh," the voice hisses. "Just listen."
Metal sound. From the door.
"Noooooooo..."
"Locked in, now. And this building, remember, has been ignored for years. A great place. I picked it well. Even if anybody came around, there's nothing all that interesting about it. I made real sure."
"No, no, no, no -"
Something moves. It's on the middle of my left foot, sliding toward the toes. Too light to be the fingers... and more frustrating, maybe.
I don't want to look down there and see, but I have to know.
Gloves are holding feathers! Four of 'em -
As I watch, my right foot gets tickled too. My feet. Both.
The sight makes me squeal really loud.
"It's really getting to you, huh? Building up. The pressure."
"Aw, please... Nnn-noooo -"
"The need. You just can't help it. Getting stronger..."
The damn feathers are creeping, and pausing, then reversing direction. They're not going to stop. I know that. The room is secret enough, and I don't have a chance in hell of breaking the restraints..
I snort a couple times.
"Irresistible."
Gloves start to unbuckle my belt.
Oh, hell, I hadn't even thought of that. Rocking back and forth doesn't stop them from unbuttoning my fly. They're not actually -
Empty black fingers getting in there - pulling my underwear down. Pressure, light and soft, down there.
That's what does me in. After snagging a big, ragged breath, I close my eyes... and laugh at them. All of the gloves, crawling, and the feathers sweeping.
In no time at all I'm roaring my head off.
"Yeah," the voice says.
Gloves slip around my neck and just tease the fuck out of it, coaxing me to laugh even harder.
 
 
 

I watch the smoke leak out of me.
The lighter lands on the table. There's a new pack there. Maybe two. Always plenty of cigarettes. More where that came from. Dammit, I wish it would just let me smoke in peace...
That's the idea. What it wants me to think - even this is better than what it does when I'm not smoking. Unbelievable. Before I got caught, I hated cigarettes. And tattoos. But look at me now.
This is not going to end soon.
The thought doesn't even freak me out anymore. There's a routine here, and it's been going on for so long that I'm used to it now. Not that I like it. I mean, I spent days wishing it just would let me go. But the power kept increasing. How deep it feels.
Well, this could go on for a long time yet. It's got me hidden well enough. All the time it wants - which has become a much more real concept. There is no limit on how long I'll be here. Obvious, but still amazing when I really think about it.
So I don't. Think, I mean. When I do, I get restless. Or I panic. That just brings the delirium back sooner. Crying was a real quick way to get worked over. It doesn't let me feel sorry for myself.
It's getting me another cigarette. I'm relieved to see that.
In a weird way I'm used to all this. I mean, it's been a while.
Firm, skillful control. Every base is covered. A lot of experience, I guess. Every last detail...
All this time, watching how thorough it's been, I've learned what it wants me to know. Incredible strength held in check - always forcing me into the bondage devices, or another climax, the dark red fog of increasing pleasure. It could be hurting me - inflict some real pain, and I don't mean just the tattooing - but it never does that. Not once. The goal is... pleasure. Far more than I can stand, always.
I don't see how it could put so much work into all of this, except for one thing. Just from the way stuff moves, sometimes, I know. It's enjoying this. Got this room all set up, stocked. A place to hide me. Then, it picked me. I don't know if it was stalking me for awhile, or if I just walked down the street at the wrong damn time. But it had big plans, and at some point it saw me and said yeah, he's the one.
It could've gone for somebody who already smoked, right? Tattooed up. Maybe there wasn't a guy like that who was... sensitive enough. Or it just wanted me. Walk me through some bigass changes. It wanted me to smoke - and really get into it, as an alternative to all the professionally insane excitement. And I have to think it liked covering me with tattoos. It owns me, so it got to do that. In case I ever forget it, all I gotta do is look down. Not just any tattoos, either.
It watches me smoke, and look at the pictures I'm going to wear. Permanent changes. I'll never forget this.
But the future doesn't matter yet. Today I've got hours of fever coming to me. Like yesterday, and last week, and every day since I got dragged in here. It'll work me over carefully, stretching it out. Get me drunk, get me high, maybe a little speed. One pack of cigarettes after another. The endless train of feathers and brushes and gloves, rotary tools, tips and probes. Oils, liniment, different creams...
Water and food coming regularly, floating to my mouth.
It couldn't be more careful. With me.
Really enjoying itself - wait. That's an understatement. It's motivated. Nothing more satisfying than this, perhaps. Working me over. No limit.
 

"Oh, faaaaaaaaakkk," I crowed.
The fingers kept moving - and I saw the feather disappear, hidden from view by the stocks.
"No oh-whooooooo hoo hoooooooolll..."
I kicked again. The tickling didn't stop. There was no reason why it should. My ankles were locked in.
Intense, haggard laughter. My feet throbbed with pleasure. I really couldn't hope to move 'em now.
Oh - yeah. They stopped. I couldn't believe it. My barking dwindled.
Why were they stopping?
I blinked the tears away...
The glove was poised, there, over my right foot. Any time it wanted, I'd be apeshit again.
"Nuh," I gulped. "Lemme go."
Slowly, the glove crawled closer.
"Shit... You got no idea how intense this is."
I paused, breathing hard - and the glove started moving back to my foot.
"No! Aw pleeeeze, you gotta understand. Please."
The fingers had stopped again.
"Oh, c'mon," I babbled, "don't do this. Don't... I can't take any more of this shit. But I'm gonna get it, aren't I? Hell, yeah. You wanna fuck with my head. And you're good at it. Okay? So you get to make me laugh. All night. Dammit. Why won't you talk to me?"
And the glove just backed up a little.
I felt a wave of hope - and then got pissed off at myself for hoping. "No getting off the hook," I muttered. "More of that crazed, booming laughter for me. I just wanna climb the walls, but you know that..."
What was happening here?
"Well, what are you waiting for?," I yelled.
The fingers slapped against the thumb, silently. Over and over.
I figured out the gesture. "You want me to talk?"
Thumbs up.
"But you're not gonna... Of all the fucked-up shit -"
Rustling, to my right. I looked fast. It was just another cigarette sliding out of the pack.
That made me stare. "I smoke - no, I get to smoke... for now. And talk. Instead of going nuts. But then it starts up again. Tickling. You're a sick bastard who never stops tickling."
I watched the cigarette come up, and then the lighter.
"Okay," I snapped. "You got it. You know I'm gonna go along. Don't you? Even though it's... so hard to take."
The glove made a fist.
"I can't believe this," I said. "Any of it. You are totally kickin' my ass, but you let me smoke."
I watch the fingers unclench, slow and sure as ever.

12july2006
 

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