721

He blinks a few times. Coughing -
Sees the smoke. Tugs cautiously on the cigar between his teeth. A big one, not yet slimy. He glances down - and stares.
Leather, all the way down. Shiny metal over that. Encased. He can't see too well. The light is a ways off -
He glances, taking in the lamp... Nightstand and bed in a long room. In the doorway of the room, he looks at himself again and takes a step closer to the light. A little step, interrupted - something tugs at his ankle. He starts to reach down, and his arm is pulled back too.
Bending over, he sees bright chrome around his waist, running down to his boots. He pulls hard, and wobbles unsteadily. Bracing himself, he yanks with his arms, and tries kicking each leg. The chain jangles, but doesn't yield. Small links are snug around his stomach, keeping his cuffed hands in the small of his back.
He puffs on the cigar a couple times, taking in the room. Dull wood floor, cinderblock walls without windows. Only the bed and table next to it. The hallway behind him is pitch-dark, and he takes another slow step forward...
Just behind his back, a breeze - the door gliding shut with a decisive click. He hops back against it, feeling for a knob or handle... Thick leather, on his hands...
Turning around, he sees nothing to grab. Just the hinges, and the thin crack between door and frame. He plants his shoulder blades against the door and tries to pry with gloved fingers. And he pounds on the door, yelling around the stogie...
Nothing. Not a sound, and the door won't budge.
He looks around warily, and takes a step toward the only furniture in the room.

Little steps. Shuffling, weighted down by cowhide. Fettered, bowed...
Watched, gloated over, as he walks cautiously.
Behind him, the door opens silently. Wide open. He tugs on the cigar, coming further into the cell... escape route behind him. Fettered, and still delivering himself to the bunk, slowly and reluctantly.
Squinting closely, he studies the stained-pine nightstand, the black sheets on the king-size bed, the low frame of bent iron. The lamp and its shade are cheap and nondescript. A large glass ashtray, empty. Waiting.
A few steps from the bed, he glances around again - and sees the open door. Hustling, nearly tripping himself, he retraces his steps -
maybe two yards to go...
Hampered as he is, it's several seconds. Before he can close the gap, the door swings shut again.
He lunges against it, yelling and cursing. By turning again, he can try to pummel the door...
After a while, he looks over the room again. Something new. On the nightstand. Small... familiar.
He deliberates a couple more minutes. Spits out the cigar, and walks over it, grinding it under his heel. As he repeats the long, slow walk to the mattress, the door opens once again.
Halfway to the bed, he sneaks a look behind him... eventually turning back. The door closes in his face again. He scoots up and kicks it angrily - little kicks. The best he can manage, close up to the door. Sighing loud, and creeping away from the exit one more time.
There's a new pack of Luckies on the night-table, next to the ashtray.
When he gets to the bed, turns and looks at the open door, he only scowls. Walking around the mattress, kneeling so he can peer under it... He backs up against the table so he can pull the drawer open. Empty. He slams it shut and thinks for awhile.
Eventually - inevitably - he sits down on the side of the bed.
Flexing his fingers, bending his ankles, he takes a good look at what he's wearing. All unfamiliar... not his. Thick jacket, vest and leather shirt, pants, new boots. A headband, thick enough to be more leather. The gloves are loose...
He sighs again, looking at the smokes. Ordinary enough... plain old ashtray.
Still looking around, he sits for an hour and studies the chains, pulling and twisting.

Finally, laying down... boots still on the floor. He arches his back to take the weight off his hands, and his feet are pulled up. A couple minutes more, and he rolls over onto his belly, but this bends his legs also. He wriggles around until - yes! - he's lying properly on the bed. Another attempt to look around him, a long stare at the pack of smokes, hands restless...

Two hours later, he's fast asleep.
The nightstand drawer creeps open.
Straps are sneaking out!
Yeah, it's gonna be a hot time in the cell. Every day.

722

The room has sort of a "hideout" look to it. No idea how I got here... or how long ago.

Got a cigarette in my right hand, a matchbook in my left. Wasn't carrying matches... looking at 'em, why do I feel like this is some kind of test? Paranoia... nobody here.

I light up. The brand's unfamiliar...

I'm feelin' good. Real good. Wide awake, strong -
Oh ho. Now why am I... man, horny as fuck. Lookit that. Fixin' to - could blow a hole in the ceiling. I've never felt this... ready. It's all I can think about.

There's a pack a few inches from me. Don't recognize the brand... Glad to see 'em, though. The room's empty, far as I can see... after thinking about it a sec, I spring the butt off into the dark. And reach for another... hungry for it. Hungry, alright...

Hard as a rock. Don't know why, but I'm on fire. Unreal -

Feelin' like this, I could jack off in no time. I look around the room again - empty.

I think about this, look down and see I'm sorta playin' with my fly. I pull it off in a hurry - well, why not? Nobody'll know. So I undo a button -

And this hand shows up. Jet black, no arm, nothing but a hand. Cruises over me, diving -

At my eyes!

"HEY!"

Palm down... like a blindfold? Clamps down, stayin' on despite my fi- what's pulling... there's this tugging near my waist...

"Wha'!?" My jeans? And something - cool, not rough - around my leg. Legs. It tightens, and I'm pulling at a strap or something with one hand, trying to get my eyes uncovered w- There. Lifted off, and I look -

Another hand... holding the cigarette I dropped. Farther down -

My jeans! They're down around my knees. Did I -

No way. Straps, tightly around each of my thighs. Big, wide black leather high up on my legs, buckled with big clamping - real snug... other leather on the top sides, resting on top of my legs.

"What the -" I just shut up and stare. Those loops on top look like more cuffs.

A glove cruises over... holding the smoke I dropped.

"No way." I stare at it and finally start to sit up. The blindfold-hand dives down -

Poking me in the armpit! I can't stand gettin' tickled... Before I can think, I lurch away from the fingers, letting out a big ol' gasp - and then I see more hands at my left side. My arm!

I pull hard, still laughin'. The gloves reef, and slam - and I see 'em pulling leather over my wrist. Wrapping it. I start to panic...

A glove pressed down on top of the cuff. My fuckin' hand -

The fingers scoot down my side, heavily... back up...

I'm bucking, gotta get - no, oh shit not my neck...

Other hand. They caught both of my hands, this is unreal, this is a bad dream. Can't even bend my wrists.

Two more gloves appear, with -

"Fuck you! Get outa here!" But they don't. They're... they put padlocks through the big side rings. No -

Shut. Laying on the outside, near the top of each thigh. Big fuckin' locks. This isn't happening...

I'm fucked. Lunging, trying to twist loose, seeing if arching helps any... A dozen questions in my head, the gloves that cuffed me just drifting up a little ways and hangin' out. Gotta be rivets, I guess. They'll give - eventually. The leather clings right to my legs, and isn't any looser around each wrist...

Just gotta separate 'em, get my hands off my...

Only it's not happening.

I try standing up, but trip over my jeans. Looking behind me, at the door... I could make it, crawl out. If it's open. And if the pair of gloves posted near my head let me.

Maybe I won't get loose. Suddenly, this scares the shit outa me.

I yell more, loud as I can, and repeat everything I can think of that might snap these babies. No looser... I'm caught just as good as before. All that work didn't do any good.

My jeans are all the way off by now. My underwear's all bunched up above the straps. They're not loosening. I don't think I can break 'em. Well, fuck me.

I lay still, panting, all sweaty. I'm stuck 'til they let me go. Still totally unbelievable...

This is for real. Not okay, but... it's happening.

A glove - an empty glove, how the fuck - comes over. Flyin' casually, completely smooth. It's got... yep, lookit that. Another hand meets it and starts to peel cellophane.

Luckies. They're opening a pack of cigarettes over me. I swear loud, a couple times, and squirm again. Even as I do I know there's not a fuckin' thing I can do to... decline. It's just a matter of time. Luckies, yet... If they want, I'll smoke -

Well, shit. If they got more, I'll smoke all they want me to. No choice. Packs... Got me here, all hobbled. Eatin' smoke. I don't get it.

One of 'em brings a cig to my mouth, and the hand holding my dropped smoke heads down to give me a light. I watch this, thinkin' I could fight but I can't hold 'em off. Doesn't matter if I want to smoke or not - they want me to. They're gonna get their way, with or without me. They win...

I take the Lucky, throwing my head to let 'em know I'm pissed. The pack is dropped to my right.

It's their show. All of it. They got the muscle, and mine is... neutralized. My 'Boro presses, and I suck in. Obediently. Trying to turn my hands.

Anyth- Everything they wanna do... with me. Their call.
 

[Message, communicated by movement of the objects -
Put your feet in the stocks. You won't get out of here until you do.]
 

[After a day and half he finally gives in... and what do you know? It was a ruse. Feet locked in there -
The door opens. Here comes the camera. Here comes a shitload of... tickling equipment! And the cigarettes remain just out of reach...]

723

The shuttle van pulled up, and I hurried to finish my smoke.
There was no one else around. At a larger airport that would've been weird, but I'd taken the late flight and dawn was a few hours away yet. It was the first time I'd ever flown into that town.
When the door opened, it was obvious I could've kept my cigarette. Smoke rolled out. Damn, I love the south... The driver didn't even turn to look, much less offer to help with my luggage. I heaved it inside and followed along -
The door almost hit me in the ass, and we were rolling.
Several things happened at once. I opened my mouth to yell something, but the driver disappeared. He fell apart like a bad TV picture, getting grainy. A projection. That shut me up – and here, of all places, on a beat-up shuttle bus...
I was falling, too. There was nothing to grab onto. Just as I realized I was going to land on my left side, something stopped my fall – but not from underneath me.
Hands had grabbed my arms. At least four of them. Somebody didn't want me hurting myself. Hell, no.
Instead, a dark hand came up to my face and squirted something. A gas, with a weird metallic smell...
Within a few seconds, I couldn't move my arms or legs.
The hands set me down, gently, and pulled off my boots.
No matter what I did, I couldn't stop them from taking hold of my ankles. An awful idea occurred to me -
As if that thought caused it to happen, fingers dragged down my soles. Back up, and down, et cetera.
It was really happening. I yelled, angry and more than a little afraid. Arching was difficult, but I managed to do it. Then I started to bark laughter.
The hands didn't go away.
Tickling me. What?
Oh, shit, not this, anything but this...
I couldn't move effectively. Even when the rope started winding around and around my ankles, and the disembodied hands held my arms together and started tying them too. Magic hands at work, while I watched them tie the rope.
Gloves.
Quick fuckers, apparently empty, and stronger than me.
Shouting laughter at them, I tried my best to get to the door.
They had no problem getting me wrapped up before I could reach the handle. The van kept rolling along, and fingers dug in, tickling right through the socks.
A fucking kidnapper I couldn't see was tickling me... and taking me away. The thought made me fight harder. The ropes stayed snug, and the electricity kept driving my feet crazy.
Each minute felt like an hour.

I struggled until I couldn't manage to squirm anymore. The sound of my laughter was full of rage, and then for awhile I tried not to laugh at all... but I ended up howling like I was having the time of my life. Then a mournful note crept into my howls. Finally, I was losing my breath. My hoots grew more ragged, and softer.
Way too ticklish. The gloves had known that, of course. I didn't know how, but they must've stolen the van. They caught me, and they were taking me to some place where there weren't even any street lights. Ticklers. I was fuckin' doomed.
The fingers tortured me for a good twenty minutes.
Outside the windows all I could see were dark clouds, and I was dripping with sweat. The gloves let me catch my breath...
One of them dug into my jacket. Getting my cigarettes out.
I twisted away from the pack, but fingers curled around each of my feet. That did it. I was too far gone to resist any more, whether it was smart or not. I took a smoke and watched a black hand bring my lighter down.
Laying there, still breathing hard, I smoked and looked at the gloves. They were hard to see, in the dark, but the fingers were curled as if they were ready to grab on again. They wanted me to smoke, so I smoked. It was crazy.
Before I even finished that cigarette, the van stopped and shifted into park. More gloves, I figured -
The door opened.
I heard crickets, and nothing else. My fuckin' kidnappers had won.
They were going to tickle the shit out of me. I just knew it.
Gripping my arms, they lifted me up...
A dark house. Open door. Inside -
I flailed around as the door closed, but that didn't stop 'em.

Down a short hallway, into a room, with another door blocking my exit – and I heard a light switch.
A floor lamp in the corner didn't throw much light, but what I could make out scared me badly. There were chains hanging from the ceiling... and a big padded chair, like an oversized bench with hinges. It was black.
What really worried me were the huge leather cuffs mounted all over it. As the gloves picked me up, I wondered which restraints they'd use first. That probably didn't make me feel any better, but there were so many damn cuffs. Would they start with my feet together, or my hands? Spread-eagled, or with my feet chained up, well out of my reach?
"Please," I croaked. "Don't do this to me."
The hands slammed me against the pad.

My wrists were buckled down alongside my head, maybe ten inches from each ear. They used two straps to pin each ankle. My feet hung off the edge of the padding. I was caught good. Full tickling.
"I'm... really gonna get it," I mumbled. "This is really happening."
When they started on my armpits, I'd go absolutely psychotic. And there wasn't a damn thing I could do to even slow 'em down.
I heard crinkling... and a familiar metallic sound.
They stuck a cigar between my teeth, fired it up with my own lighter, and started cutting my shirt off.
“Professional tickling,” I said to myself quietly. It probably wasn't smart but the sound of my own voice steadied me. "As tough as it gets."
They pulled my right sock off - slowly. I smoked, like they wanted, and a whine slipped out. "No, no, now please don't..."
Left sock.
I laid there with just my jacket on. Strapped down, tight enough, plenty comfortable. Ready to howl.
Tickling, all night.
A cart rolled over.
Feathers, brushes of all kinds, plastic bottles.. and things I didn't even recognize. The tray on top of the cart was heaped with tickling shit. They wanted me to see it.
I looked around, but there was nothing new above me. Just the gloves, hanging there, not moving at all. Chains dangling further behind 'em, fat cuffs pinning me down - just as impossible as the fingers. And I couldn't protect myself from them.
"Fuck," I groaned, "not this. I'm begging..."
My voice trailed off. Begging wasn't gonna work. The setup was too perfect. They didn't care what I said.
All night. Just me and them. All arranged -
I had another thought as I looked at the gloves. Maybe it was the sense of being watched, and not seeing how the gloves could do it... but I imagined one kidnapper wearing 'em all, studying me. Completely satisfied now, charged up, letting me smoke my cigar and think about what was coming. It liked building up the suspense.
Oh, yeah, I'm gonna drive you out of your mind. Hours, and more hours. Nothing can stop me. You're staying just like that, and the tickling will hit you harder than you can possibly imagine...
"Insane tickling," I whispered, pulling at the chains. It was not real smart to say anything, and even imagining what the fucker would say to me was not exactly helping, but it appeared nothing I'd do would matter anyway. I was gonna freak out -
Two of the gloves started to move, coming closer, and closer, and I just knew the bastard was enjoying itself already.

When the fingers landed, I couldn't bring myself to look.
I gasped - smoke - and the cigar was taken away. There were fingers on each of my soles, rubbing in little circles, and no matter how hard I kicked they didn't let up.
"Nooooooo," I wailed, and then I started to laugh. The sound just bubbled out of me - pissed off, and giddy, almost a drunken chuckling noise. I couldn't stop laughing, or flailing around.
Just the way I wanted you, the voice cackled. I'm going to fuck you up.
The words I imagined were true. The fingers scratched lightly - around the bottom of my heels, and back up - but the big thing that bothered me, as I whipsawed myself around and giggled like a fool, was that I couldn't quite place the voice. For some reason I'd dredged up somebody from the past to... stand in for the kidnapper. Recognition wasn't coming, and it wasn't anywhere near enough distraction. The gloves were already making me want to pull the damn chains apart.
My feet barely turned at all...

More of the fingers started caressing my feet - heels, and along the sides. It was horrible, and disturbing. Intimate. I whooped as I bounced on the bed. Nothing was working, and they were slowly getting to know my feet.
I'm gonna spend hours on your feet. Count on it.
"Nooooooo hah hah hah hah hah hah," I squealed.

Something changed. More shocking than ever.
Oh, fuck, it was starting in on my soles.
I roared once - no words, just a desperately fierce sound. That changed into growly, rasping hoots.
Don't do this to me, I wanted to moan. There was no way I could get the words out, but I did manage to slam my head against the padded bulge which was probably there just for that purpose. You're gonna work your way up my whole fuckin' body, and already I'm ready to climb the walls.
Yeah. I'm gonna have a lot of fun with you.

Fingers squeezed, as others traced up and down. My feet were unbelievably... alive.
Laugh harder. It won't help.
The kidnapper was right -
I'm always right, the voice in my imagination said warmly. I'm in charge. You're gonna do exactly what I want, in here. And this is it.
Shit, on shit, no! Fingertips eased between my toes. I shrieked over and over, trying with all my might to climb off the bench.

You're in for it now, the kidnapper promised.
Like an electric shock, I felt the fingers slide over the tops of my feet. Others combed my soles, and a hand slid around the sides of each foot, down and under and back up, reversing course...
Tickling between my toes from above.
There had to be six gloves down there. Howling, I made myself blink until I could see -
Black shapes. Hell, it was terrible to see. Confirmation. One, two, three...
Four.
I squinted as I laughed. Each foot had four damn gloves on it. Two were tickling each sole. Cuffs were still in place, and all those chains.
Quietly, I howled at 'em.
I've got a shitload of gloves. Cover your ass. Fingers everywhere.
The thought made me laugh harder. Dizzy, I let my head fall back.

Panting hard. Sweating, too...
The gloves weren't touching me. A weird sound came out of me when I realized that they were gone. Then I was chuckling again, just from remembering.
That was a good fifteen minutes, my imaginary kidnapper's voice said. An icebreaker.
That got me squirming again -
A glove came up to my face. Cigarette?
I turned my head, still gasping for air.
No?, the voice laughed. Let's try that again. You want a cigarette - or do I start back in now?
I hurried to take the butt. "There. See? I'm gonna smoke. I'll smoke, just don't fuckin' tickle me again."
Hearty laughter. I was never more wrong in my life. There would be more tickling.
Your legs, it said calmly. I'll bet your shins are more ticklish than you even know. Calves... and your knees. Well, fuck, I'm going to work hard on your knees.
"No," I whimpered. A glove fired up a lighter, and I hurried to comply.
Thighs, belly, ass. I'm going to tickle your balls and your rod until you really wish you could go insane. But you're in good hands. The best.
"Don't - not there," I whispered. "Not my meat."
Definitely. Yes. All over your belly, and your chest. Biceps, triceps, shoulders - really leaning into your neck. It's ticklish. I know it.
"All over, I'm fucked, all over me -"
And naturally I'm going to make a fuckin' science out of your sides. Armpits, ribs, hips. You are not going to believe what I'll put you through.
"Don't!," I babbled. "Please, aw fuck no, not my ribs, I can't take it..."
Powerful hands. Hours, and hours, and hours.
"I'm ticklish," and the words sounded stupid even to me. Obviously. "Not my armpits, please, you just... you gotta understand how bad it is, there. My knees, too. And you already know about my f-feet."
You want another cigarette?
I noticed it, then. My next smoke, held between black fingers. "Aw, hell."
Here's a clue, the tickler said happily. The answer is always yes.

Care for another? Chain-smoking, as you put some careful thought into busting out of the cuffs? Sure. Can I bring you some water?
Why don't you start another smoke, as you realize how impossible it is to bring your legs together? Another cigarette or two to imagine each of the tools on the tray dusting your cock, lightly scrubbing under your nuts... and nothing you can do to make me hold off or speed it up. That'll keep your dick tall and hard, won't it?
Another cigarette? Okay. I'll keep 'em coming as you replay each glove's touch on your feet. Ready for more water... and then why don't I just bring you a new smoke as soon as possible, so you can project the kind of solid intensity they'll deliver to each and every part of your trapped body?
I was muttering, and I couldn't stop. Saying the wrong shit - out loud. It didn't matter. Not really.

Fingers started back in. Eight hands, all over me.
Oh, fuck, I was hysterical. Whenever I managed to hold onto a thought, it was this insane running commentary from the tickler. But I was only imagining it.
When I wasn't laughing, I had no idea what I was mumbling.

I smoked my cigarette and tried to relax. No matter what, I had to stop making matters even worse by thinking up all those fuckin' taunts. Somehow that cruel, calm monologue was making me helpless - no, I mean, I couldn't budge anyway. The thoughts reminded me of how totally vulnerable I was, and they also got me focusing even more on what was happening to me.
"No more," I told myself. It came out stern, because I was trying to keep myself from writing all those speeches for the damn tickler, teasing myself.
"Wrong," a man said, like it was a promise.

After a few seconds I realized that was a real voice I heard. But I wasn't sure -
I looked around wildly. Scary if I was imagining it more distinctly, as if I was going nuts. Also scary if it was real, somehow.
It came as no big surprise that the other guy speaking - besides me - was close by, but totally invisible.
"I know," I finally said.
"Then don't say shit like that again, _name_," he ordered. "Or else."
Corny as hell, I thought... but I gulped anyway.
"More of the same."
Calm as fuck. The voice was definitely in the room, and not just in my head. I heard it plain as day. Another one of those depressing little confirmations was that the voice sounded younger than I had imagined. And it had a thicker drawl than I do...
A glove shot me a cool salute, and another one moved too. They curled their fingers, real menacing -
"Am I imagining this?," I blurted.
"The tickling? Hell, no. And I don't ever need to rest," the tickler boasted.
"No," I gasped. "No, no, please -"
"And driving you crazy just gets more and more... fascinating. How much harder can I push, can you take another half-hour added on in this place or that."
"Oh, nooooooo -"
A glove brought a pack overhead. "Can I get you a cigarette?"
Time seemed to freeze. I blinked, once or twice. Mouth hanging open.
"S-sure," I finally whispered.
"That's right," it said firmly. "That's always the answer. Isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Always yes." A lighter moved in. "More speed, perhaps? Another outrageous cum-shot, brushes in your ears, ten more fingers to fuckin' maul your ribs? Another couple hours of... nice, oily foot massage?"
"Please, you gotta listen, please -"
"What's the answer?"
I shook my head as much as I dared.
"Hey. Fuckhead. What's the answer I like to hear?"
After a few seconds, I gave up. "Yes."
"Oh. Okay," it said. "If you really want. Then I'll make today even hotter than yesterday was."
"No, I can't - uh, yes..." I was so confused by then.
"Yes. That's what you said, so that's what you get. Or else - well, I could start back in now."
"Noooooooo!"
"WHAT?"
"Nnn- Yes. Shit. Dammit, yes, all I can is yes, but y-"
"Good. That's what I thought."
"Please?"
"Oh. Uh... Would you like to smoke a joint? Before we continue?"
A weird strangled sound came out when I sighed. "Sure."
"Good! And then I'll tickle you - well, I'm gonna outdo myself."
"Of course," I muttered, taking another drag.

"Wonderful," the tickler said.
I must've stopped shrieking laughter, I finally decided, because I heard it speak. My whole focus had been on trying to lean away from the fingers - which was hopeless, because they worked on both sides of my torso, both feet...
"You work so hard to escape. Even though it doesn't work, and it won't work, you have to try. And soon," it gloated, "you'll be too overwhelmed even to fight."
The hands! Shit, oh shit, there was nowhere to run -
"Laugh," it ordered loudly. "That's right. Like a barroom brawler. You can't help yourself."
And I couldn't. There was not another fucking thing I could do.
Nope, it laughed - in my head. Definitely not spoken that time.
That made me howl.
Lay here and feel your torture, it ordered...
I wailed louder - a reedy, high-pitched sound - and the fingers rode over my thighs, gripping my knees, tracing steadily over my ribs, over and over. And I wanted to struggle, or scream, but there was no chance of that. Not anymore. The gloves were just too much to comprehend, all of the touch they were delivering. Too much.
My body was more alive, less numb, than ever. Impossible as it seemed, I was definitely getting more ticklish. And the fucker had me caught good. The sky was the limit.
It sighed calmly.
And the fingers stepped it up. Faster, or more firmly - I was no longer sure. My laughter slid up, in pitch, until even I couldn't hear it anymore.
The tickler wasn't about to stop. Not then.
Maybe... not for the rest of the night.
The concept no longer made sense. All hour, all night, all year. I was too confused to deal with it. Now, and now, and still another now was obliterated with incredible warmth, or electricity, crippling me, overflowing pleasure making any tugging at the restraints a pure impossibility.

724

People were real friendly in Haggs, which surprised him. It showed you couldn't judge a town by its name.
The commute was only a few minutes longer. Definitely worth it, as far as he was concerned; he'd grown up in an even smaller town. Having only one gas station within ten miles didn't scare him, but nearly all the guys he worked with thought Haggs was far too rustic.
It had come as a shock - but a good one - to find apartments available to rent there. A sixteen-unit building might have been overly optimistic, but they were quiet and not that old...
He liked the little diner next to the post office. A burger and a couple beers didn't break the bank, and the locals seemed to be genuinely polite. That didn't change, either, when he and Sharon started dating.
Since he was an outsider, and she wasn't, it had been more than he expected. But Haggs threw him another curve, when Sharon smiled back at him and the folks at the diner did too. It looked as if nobody was gonna get too worked up if he took things a little further. He took her to a concert in the city, and it only made sense to stay over. The sex was terrific.
People approved of him, in Haggs. While he doubted Sharon was the right woman for him, overall he was having a lot more fun there than he'd dared to hope.

Sharon's brother came to visit - sort of. Hawley wouldn't stay there overnight, according to Sharon, but he'd booked a hotel room in the city instead.
Paul took the trash out and was turning around when he heard the screen door squeak. Hawley appeared, sticking a cigarette in his mouth.
"You must be Paul."
"Yeah. And you're Hawley."
"Uh-huh." He lit up, looking even less like his sister. Maybe four years younger...
"Smoke?"
"No," Paul said immediately. "Thanks, though."
"You'll start up again. Real soon now."
Paul smirked. "That so?"
"Haggs." Hawley spat on the ground, and took another drag. "It's not what it seems."
"Well, I kinda like it here."
Hawley studied him. "You don't get it. But how could you? Nobody ever believes it. Then..." He shrugged.
"Sorry," Paul said, "I don't think I'm following you."
"You ever hear of the mines? East side of town?"
"Yeah."
The younger guy looked around, and took a couple steps closer. "Dude," he whispered, "I won't even stay here after dark. Not anymore. You've got to get the hell away from here. Now. Take Sharon and run."
Paul decided there was something definitely wrong with Sharon's brother... yet he wasn't sure what. If the guy was willing to talk, there was one way to hang around him inconspicuously. "If you don't mind," he said slowly, "I guess I will bum a smoke."
After a second, Hawley smiled. As he got his pack out - in just that space of a couple seconds - Paul watched his face, and immediately changed his mind. The guy knew something. It had scared him, and when he warned Paul to run he wasn't kidding...

"Now I wanna buy a pack," Paul complained to Sharon, later that night.
"I could've told you that," she said. "But I'm glad you and Hawley hit it off."
"Me, too... Do you know why he left?"
She frowned. "Something happened. He had a summer job, and when he got back he was... just totally different. Horndog. Tattoos, smoking pot."
"So," he said thoughtfully, "whatever changed him... it didn't happen here?"
"The job was in Norfolk."
"You're ducking the question."
"Yeah, I am." She sighed, and shook her head. "He had this wild story -"
"About the mines."
"He was delusional," Sharon insisted. "Drugged out. There have always been... ghost stories about the damn place. All the boys... I mean, it's a guy thing. Fathers tell their sons to stay away. Weird stuff goin' on."
Paul wrapped an arm around her. "You'd better protect me, then."
"Get over here..."

As it turned out, she didn't protect him for long.
They ran into her old boyfriend from high school. He was obviously flirting... and before the week was out, she admitted to a hot afternoon in the sack.
After she left, Paul thought it over for few minutes. And then, mechanically, he packed up his truck. His best friend in the city had a spare room. While Yaz wasn't home, Paul left him a voice mail message saying it was over with Sharon, he didn't wanna hang around Haggs and be reminded of her every day, and it looked like he was headed over to Yaz's place.
It was dark when he pulled into the gas station. He didn't feel like talking to anybody, but the kid behind the counter was fairly shy. Paul asked him for a pack of cigarettes, then made it two packs.
Finding an old lighter in the glove box, he lit up as he started the engine. Rolling toward the street, he hardly felt the needle poking into the side of his neck. By the time he realized what was happening his truck was moving down the road, and not toward the city. He was headed east.
 
 

It's still like a dream, even as I arrive at the place...
To be invited here - well, I'm dazed by it all. The gates are so well hidden.
Such a beautiful setting. Absolutely remote. I've dreamed of having a place like this.

Power plant, storehouse, twenty specialized rooms.
"Welcome," the Director booms as I change course to meet it. Cheery and relaxed. No wonder...

They want my help. More "work" than they could handle. Is it any wonder I'm excited? There are prisoners here who are worth the extended attention they get - and I'll have all the time I want to keep them deranged.
My immediate concern, though, is the new arrivals.
 

"Where am I?," Paul keeps saying.
"Correctional facility," I tell him again. He's drugged. Calm, dazed, and ready to receive a flood of stimulation incomparably beyond anything he's known before.
He's strapped to a padded table, and he keeps lifting his head to look around in the most amusing way. "I didn't do... anything w-wrong."
"I know."
He blinks. "But -"
"I'll save you some time. You were caught. Kidnapped. And now you're here."
"Wait a minute."
"Paul. Listen very carefully. There's no set length of time for your torture. As long as I want. Get it?"
"No," he says hollowly.
I laugh at him, and get a bottle of oil opened. One by one, I inhabit four rubber gloves.
"You'll get the full treatment until... uh, I decide you've learned your lesson."
"What?," and now he's pulling at the straps. "What lesson?"
"Well, I don't know yet. But I'll think of something."
His face couldn't look more shocked as I make the gloves oil up.
Bouncing, slamming, he laughs as soon as I take hold of his arches. Mine, all mine.
Paul's toes tried to stretch back - and then rested on the latex. Oiling themselves up for me, as it were. I squeezed gently, moving the rubber down to his heels.
He wailed hysterically.
They were good feet to have cuffed down. While I massage around his ankles and heels, he burst out with the most encouraging yelps. Squeaking, braying laughter as he arched and writhed on the table, I wasn't going to show him anything except the most feverish time he'd ever had.
The other pair of gloves started combing their fingers, slowly up and down, and up and down, his soles and the sides of his feet.
Paul barked laughter - even more savage noises than before - and cringed, completely desperate to pull away from my hands. He couldn't do a thing to get away from my gloves. I stroked and rubbed his feet, dancing under his toes, easing over his insteps and back underneath. Paul snapped and tugged for all he was worth, but the restraints held him tight.
He howled for me. Screamed, once or twice, and settled into an impressively harsh gales of barroom laughter. Paul couldn't stop reacting to my fingers, he couldn't get away from me... and I had so many ways to tickle him, all over his immobilized body.
I tickled with short little strokes, covering as much of his arches as I could. He complimented me by doing his best to leap off the table, roaring at the ceiling, shaking drops of sweat out of his hair.
Easing between his toes made him collapse against the table, shaking with laughter so hard that no noise came out. Paul just looked as if he literally couldn't stand what I was doing to him. Nine, ten, eleven hours of this, coming right up... How overwhelming it must be.
My gloves tested different pressures and strokes along the sides of each foot. I decided to keep sliding briskly along the outer ridges, and inching more firmly down from his big toes to the ball-joints.
To look at his wracked distress, I cound't even imagine how much he wanted to break the restraints and get as far away from my hands as possible. But the door of his cell was locked. I had more cuffs and straps, coils of rope...
All these gloves in here with him, and tools, that nothing in the world could've persuaded me to back off.
The tears just streamed from his eyes. So intolerably ticklish - and perfectly vulnerable too.

"Is this... w-what Hawley was talking about?"
"You know Hawley? How the hell is he?"
. . .
"Now what exactly did he tell you about the place, Paul? Start from the beginning."
. . .
 

"We've got a surprise for you..."
He's wheeled through the door.
"Hey!"
The hogtied man struggles - and Paul sees his face.
"Welcome back, Haw!"
Shit, he's terrified.
"You still as fuckin' ticklish as ever? Huh? Guess we're gonna find out."
Shaking his head -
"And we're gonna be working you over for a long fuckin' time, Haw. Because you broke the rules. Didn't you?"
Pure panic.
"Paul says you warned him... and we find Paul to be a truthful, unbelievably ticklish kinda guy. So we decided to bring you back, Haw. Big fun for you two. Endless fuckin' laughs."

725

MystkHands sent him an instant message...

HEY - TICKLISH DUDE.
TURN AROUND.

Feeling like an idiot, he finally did -

Shiny white gloves.

They moved before he did. Going for his wrists...
He sprang to the side, looking at the phone - right there! - But they got him.
"Help," he said uncertainly, trying to pull free. It was something that could not, obviously, happen. He was sitting in his room on an ordinary Saturday afternoon - yet he knew what the gloves wanted.
A green bandanna zipped up to his face. By the time he realized what it was doing, it was too late to shake it loose. One knot, and then another, pulled tight. Gagged, he thought distractedly.
The real thing was a lot more creepy than any particular fantasy of his.

His computer turned off. Magically.
Mystkhands - mystic... Yeah, empty gloves pretty much fit the screen name, alright. Mystical hands, nothing he could see but sure as hell strong enough to take him down.
They dragged him to his bed -
Rope sprang up to meet him. Those were some fuckin' coordinated hands, there.
The door closed, and no matter what he did the gloves pulled him down. Stretching his arms, just enough, as the rope slid around and around...
It was time to fight harder. A lot harder.
One ankle, then the other.

He was fuckin' tied down - for real. That was crazy.
The hands let go and bobbed up a few inches. All too close, relaxed and ready. That was the time he realized, finally, that his shirt had been pulled off somewhere along the way.
And his pants.
Ticklish dude -
Before the horror really hit home, the gloves started in.

Oh, fuck, he went berzerk. The tugging and snapping around wasn't enough - and they seemed like a pathetic response. So did the noise he made. Not even close to enough.
Sweet fire throbbed where each finger tickled.
Soon he was roaring helplessly. Fighting, unsuccessfully, he swam in an overload of exciting sensation that moved without pause, belly to feet to armpits -
Feet and armpits at the same time. Ribs, too.
He forced himself to lift his head. Gloves everywhere.
The impact was so much worse than before.
He wailed and howled, wrestling mindlessly. His bedroom was depressingly quiet, considering how unbelievable the level of fire was...
He was staying in bed, and the hands knew exactly how to do it. What they liked.
Catching ticklish dudes - like him.

The warm piss registered, briefly. Once in a while he noticed that it had cooled on his skin.
He smelled shit.
Water was poured over the gag sometimes.

Invisible, mystic hands didn't get tired, apparently. Or bored.

After years of unbearable, increasingly debilitating tickling, the sunlight decreased.

There was sleep.
Then - more of the wonderful agony.

The cycle repeated, scrambling time, confusing him.
 

He was retied. Too tired to do a thing to stop them, he wasn't all that surprised, but there was still a faraway sense of horror...
Hearing the door open - more magic - it didn't amaze him when at least ten hands picked him up.
Out to the car, shutting the front door, considerately locking it. Nothing would be permitted to raise suspicion. There was no need for that, because they had him. He knew why. The night hid him, and them.
Propped behind the wheel, he squirmed as much as he could...
The hands started the car, and took him away.

His destination was as secret and secure as he expected.
The doors were locked, teasingly, before he was slammed down on the bed. No rope here - the gloves handled fat leather straps with flawless efficiency.
Within a minute the buckles were tight. He yearned to roll over, but it wasn't going to happen. Nothing could stop the truly insane plans now. Nothing -
Fingers caressed his soles, and he laughed enthusiastically. There was no getting away from the gloves now. That made it immeasurably worse, the tickling, and no pathetic motion he could manage helped either. They tickled with skill, not hesitating, making him roar like a crazy man...
He was just deranged.
 
 

On, and on, the gloves had their fun.

Any hope he had was rapidly draining away. Completely defenseless, he learned a new kind of certainty that night. Never had he been trapped so flawlessly - and if that wasn't enough, the torturers had known about a disastrous weakness he'd never even dreamed he had. They had known, and now they were using it.
There was no indication they were going to stop, either.

Giving up was irritating, and sad... yet such a huge relief. He'd already realized the fact of his confinement, or else the knowledge of no-more-hope had come so long ago that he'd already forgotten.

As he had expected, and thoroughly feared, the attack moved from area to area. Pits, ribs, pecs, belly, all up and down his legs, gently easing between his ass-cheeks. No pattern to it that he could see.
A hundred times worse, a thousand - he howled laughter, screamed it, and nobody came to see what the hell was going on. Of course not. No one knew, and no one would find out. The gloves kept tickling.
He got lightheaded - fifty times - and they'd back off until he was moaning again or stretching at the impossibly snug cuffs. Then the fingers always continued again.
He laughed like a madman.

You got me, he wanted to holler. It wasn't going to help him tolerate the stimulation, or call off the gloves. But he kept facing facts and the sensation magnified each time he did, unable to stop assuring himself even as he paid for each realization.
One fuckin' ticklish animal, right in your grip.

This is why I'm here, he thought over and over.
They're sure as fuck not done.
 

Ticklish, unending, inexhaustible, limitless.
The gloves knew it.
 
 

"Good morning."
Did he recognize that voice? He looked around. Where was he?
Aw, hell. Still there.
"No!," he croaked, "I can't take it..."
"How are you today?," the voice said softly. "Hopelessly ticklish?"
He pulled and strained at the restraints.
"Amazing work, Mystk. He looks so real."
Huh? That -
"And you, big ticklesim... it's time to get lost in all the excitement again."
It was all starting to make sense, almost, when he saw the gloves returning.
"No, dammit, no, listen, please just wait!"
They didn't hold back.

Oh, fuck, that day was even longer and more intense.
 

He fought waking up. The nightmare had been unbelievable, and then even more absurdly he realized it hadn't been a dream at all, and since his arms and legs wouldn't move it looked like the absolutely impossible disaster was going to continue.
"Sim."
He opened his eyes. Brushes - eight or ten artist's brushes - were waiting over his feet.
"Nooooo," he squealed. "I'm Grunter -"
"More suffering," the voice promised.
The brushes started in.
"Amazing," he heard. "So lifelike..."

Some idea was trying to come to him, but the heat of all the tickling was derailing his mind. He was way too busy to think.

Fading out - almost fainting, so many hours later - it finally registered...
Sim. The voice had called him that. Somebody thought he was a simulation. Not real.
 

"On and on it goes," the voice taunted.
"I'm real," he whispered quickly.
"What did he say?," and there was a pause. Somebody was relaying the words, maybe. The tickler -
"I'm not a sim!," he tried to yell. "A real person. A guy, getting tickled to death here!"
Slow laughter.
"Good try," the observer remarked. "Mystk, you didn't miss a trick."
Gloves started rampaging on his sides, then, and he couldn't make out any other comments.
 

The next morning, and the next, he was ready.
"Mystk caught me," he said quickly. Oil was being dribbled all over him, and he watched the bottle drift over his crotch. His cock was already waking up. "I'm Grunter81, I really am, a real live guy stuck here -"
"Brilliant," the voice interrupted. "It's so real. Well, Grunter, you're really gonna get it today."
 
 

Days slid by.
"Hold off a sec."
He couldn't believe his ears. Hold off...
"I've been thinking. This is too good for any sim. Isn't it?"
Nodding frantically, he was desperate to hope for an ending to all of this.
"Now, Mystk, this is wild enough. Don't pull my leg." It seemed to be one side of a conversation -
"Please," he rasped. "I'm not a sim."
"Damn."
Let me go, just call it off and I can get out of any more tickling, he thought. It seemed foolish to even think like that, but he couldn't help himself.
"Grunt? Is that really you?"
He had time to nod his head again before the gloves raced up and danced all over his torso. One pair was petting the sides of his neck, and no amount of howling made 'em back off...
 
 
 

"I'm real, dammit, you gotta believe me..."
"Oh, you're realistic. Real good. But nothing more than a - a prisoner of tickling. No fixed sentence... sim. Mystk - get him!
The fucker didn't need to be told.
Wham!
 
 
 

"Grunter."
He heard his name repeated a few times.
"Huh?"
"Good morning."
Oh, shit. Morning... another day of hell? More -
"Who's there?"
"Uh..." And the pause wasn't reassuring. "MystkHands."
He sighed with disgust. Fuckin' torturer.
"I'm on VIM."
Wait up - that was a voice he knew. "Chameleon?"
"None other."
For the first time since he'd been grabbed, Grunter felt hopeful. Somebody else knew he was there. Chameleon was okay, and this would all be over soon.
"You gotta get me out of here, man. It's drivin' me insane."
"I know. But..."
"But? Call the fuckin' cops, dude! Do something!"
Easy, Grunt, I wanna help. Believe me. There's... uh, the problem is, Mystk's not exactly telling where you - where both of you are. Right now."
He closed his eyes. Perfectly screwed. He should've known, really. MystkHands had always IM'ed as this totally lethal ticklemaster. What he'd gone through backed that up.
"Find a hacker, Cammy," he begged, pulling at the restraints. "It's killin' meeeeee -"
"No it won't."

That made him pause. Something in Chameleon's tone of voice.
"What?"
"I... Don't worry about that shit. I've been chatting with it."
"It?"
"Mystk. You get the idea, don't you? It's not a he. Or a she."
He watched feathers drift out of a bag. Magic shit. "Yeah."
"It's not going to hurt you, dude."
"You don't know what it's like. This is serious -"
"I know, Grunt. But listen. Mystk's gonna take real good care of you."
"Oh, shit."
"Instead of doing something, uh, stupid -"
"What? Cammy. What the fuck are you saying?"
Another bad pause. "It's gonna... it intends to have its fun for a long time, Grunter. Instead of making it too intense. But it's monitoring you. Your health. All the time."
"How long?"
A pause. "A lot longer than you've been there so far. Uh, I'm really sorry, bud."
"Oh, fuck!"

726

Still there. And they can't be animals. Way too big.
He squints and stares at 'em. Yeah. They're real. He's whacked out, but they gotta be real...
Get over here. Fuck. Need some help.
Bet the fucker wasn't planning on them showing up. Nature freaks. Yeah. Gonna screw up the whole plan. I'd had enough of this shit. Never fuckin' stops. Leave me alone, dammit. Go away.
Of all the weird, crazy bullshit.
Tickling.
He pulls at the straps some more. They keep holding him down. That doesn't make any sense. He lost his head and got angry, the first hour. Gave it everything he had. And the fuckin' straps stayed put. So this is what he gets...

And that was this morning. Been a while now. Shit. Damn fuckin' tickler. Sneakin' up on a guy. He can't see it, though. Great setup. Invisible. Stronger than him. Fuck. Thinkin' hey, I'm gonna catch me somebody today and tickle the shit out of him. Got my straps all ready, and my stakes, just gonna pack up a few things and go hunting. Let's see. First fucker I come across who's alone, and ticklish, I'm gonna torture his ass. Ah, and who do we have here? Smokin' a joint? Sittin' on a bedroll, under a tarp, alongside his dusty hog? Let's just go see. Big fucker... Alright. Just gonna sit there and get high. Is that it? Must really like the desert. Ridin' this far out, all alone. The bike's in good shape. He must like to wrench. That's part of the deal, isn't it - back to nature, on your motorcycle, a saddlebag full of spare parts... Takin' all the time you want. Free spirit. Works for me. Ain't free no more, though. Gotcha.
I'm just gonna grab you and carry you off. No hands. You can't see me, but it don't matter. Yeah, I got all your shit. Your bike's okay. Rolling along... I got it. Yell all you want, I don't care. Nobody around. See this rock? I just park your hog real close, throw your shit alongside it - and I'm want your chaps to stay here. Jeans, boots, socks, ratty ol' underwear. Off they go. You can't stop me. Hell, you can't even touch the ground. I'm holding you up in the air, and I don't care how much you fight me. Now the t-shirt, and... yeah, fucker, you can look all worried but that's too bad, your shades are goin' on the pile. I'm pullin' off those chokers... And finally, yeah, right glove. Watch it land. Just laying there. There goes the other one. Now, check it out - I pull this down, like so... Camouflage. The tarp covers everything. Uh-huh. Now we go over the sand. Fight all you want, asshole, I'm not letting go. Round and back, lots of turns. Over a couple little hills, let's go this way, back again... You lost yet? Lose track of which way your bike is? That's the idea. It all looks the same. Over this hill, and that one. And I brought you right up to this spot. Watch... Another tarp. Flat on the ground. I picked out a good spot. Now I lay _you_ out. Hold still, dammit. You're no match for me. I get you just the way I want you, and then I bring out the straps. Watch 'em. Get to know 'em, they're stayin' on. And they're strong. All that shouting is just a waste of time. You'll see. Now, for the crowning touch. Yeah. Let me just put the first one out past your hand. Right about... here. Picking up a big rock. Watch it, hammering in the first stake.
All the stakes.
You're stretched out tight. Go ahead. Try. They're not gonna budge. I scoop up some sand, like magic, and pour it on the edge of the tarp. Keep doin' it. You give those straps a good try. That's some noise you're making. You got a mouth on ya... I bury the tarp. Maybe two inches away from you - nothing but sand. Hot sun. You're really in the desert now. Staked out.
I'm gonna show you why. Real soon. Gotta do something about... your skin. You're the one who looks like a ghost. Except for your face, you're about as pale as they get. Wearin' leathers, sittin' around in the bars. And now you're gonna keep sweating, fucker. Count on it. Here. See this? My saddlebags. I got everything I need, right here. It's floating down... Right about here. Couple yards away from you. I unbuckle the left flap, and pull it up. Got your water, right here. And your food. You can eat later. Shit, you know how big your eyes got, when I pulled this bottle out? Just gotta pull at the straps some more. It's only water. I'll open it up. Bring it - no, now, you'd better drink. Here. No? Well, I'm gonna hold this bottle here until you do. Keep dribbling it on your face. Better drink it. Lunging around isn't gonna impress me. You're already stuck. And the more you yell, the thirstier you're gonna get.
Good. That's it. Swallow... I'll just lower this. Get your lips on it. There ya go. I know you gotta be thirsty. Real tough guy. Ain't gonna go along. Is that it? Enough water. I'm putting it back now.
Watch the other flap. Unbuckle it, throw it back.
I pull out this bottle. Plain white plastic. You don't like that, do you? Shit just floating around, all by itself. The cap unscrewing. It's magic. I bring it over, and squeeze - a big, thick line of white shit, down your chest. Looks sorta like a snake. Top-of-the-line sunblock, dude. A good moisturizer in it, too. Not that you care about that shit. But I do. Oh, yeah. You're gonna sweat buckets, but you're still protected. No sunburn. I have other plans, instead. And it won't rub off. Oil-based. It soaks in, and stays there. Oh, you're gonna wear this sunblock until you spend some time in a good hot shower with a fuckin' bar of soap. Been a while since you did that. I can tell. You're really gonna need a bath when I get done with you... Now I gotta rub it in. All over ya. And this shit's so good, it'll stay on all day. No matter what. You look at it, and keep tugging. But you know what happens next. That shit's not gonna spread itself around. I'm gonna do it. And you're just waiting, for the invisible hands to press down. That's all you can do, is wait. Dreading it. Touching you, head-to-toe. But I reach back into the saddlebag again.
Uh-huh. Watch 'em... as I pull 'em on. There. Looks just right. Now I got my hands in 'em. Flex the fingers a little, show 'em off. New. Good leather. Smooth. Big hands. I've got plenty of hands, fucker. These two are gonna help you out. No, you gotta kick harder than that, if you're out to bust loose. That's it? Too bad. Here they come... Jumpy. Aren't ya? Good. I'm just getting the sunblock worked in. Running my gloves over a whole lot of faded tattoos. Chest, belly - and you tense right up. I like the looks of that. Let's squirt some more on your belly, there. You know I'm trying to take it easy on you, and I can see it on your face. Pissed off. Frustrated - but none of that "oh, shit" expression yet, 'cause hey, it's only sunblock, and you know it's gotta be rubbed on. Or else that sun is gonna cook ya. Now I'm putting this shit on as quickly as I can, since it bugs you. To get touched. All tensed up, gritting your teeth. But you're still pissed. That's the tipoff. You don't wanna chuckle, 'cause that would be embarrassing. So I just get the shit laid down, and move on.
Arms, neck - and I hold the bottle over your face. Uh-huh. There. See? I'm just putting sunblock on ya. That's all. Leather gloves, trying to make this as easy as possible. Heh.
It finally dawns on you where I'm headed next. Tug some more. Cuss at me. I squirt some more on each glove. On the fingers. Kinda looks like cum, doesn't it? Down they go. Aw, settle down. You don't want your mean gettin' sunburned. Yell at my gloves. I don't care. Now, your balls... There. Oh, fuck, just relax. It only took about five seconds. See? I move the bottle, right thigh, left thigh. I'm getting this over with as quick as I can.
Knees. Shins. And now, you're just about done. Arms are dry already. But I gotta finish the job. Your head's up, because you know too. And now I got you worried. What's the matter, badass? Not so angry anymore. Yeah, try to kick some more... You're makin' it real clear, even without the threats. I know. Fuckin' straps. Who the hell do I think I am. Got it. And you don't want me to touch your feet... We both know why. But I turn the bottle over, and load up the gloves. And I overdo it. Way too much. You throw yourself around like I've holding a couple of branding irons. Shock rods. Right over your feet. But it's just cream, dude. Good, strong fingers...
As you can't budge. I let you pull at the straps awhile. Have you ever had a situation like this before, fucker? Anything at all? Not to you. Ain't afraid of nothin'. You're a biker. And right now, you got a situation here you never thought of before. The anger is gone from your face, and I bet you don't even know it. You even shook your head a couple times - real quick, but I saw you. And you swallowed real hard. Your eyebrows give it away. Really. They do look so angry anymore. Your eyes are bigger - there, dammit, you did it again! Shaking your head. You really don't want me to move these gloves any closer. Do you?
And there's nothing you can do about it.
I think you know already. One of three things is gonna happen. The gloves just slap the sunblock on and leave. Or they back off, 'cause you're so bothered by 'em. It's the third thing that's got you spooked - I move 'em down, _just because_ you're so fuckin' bothered, and I get mean. That's the thing that's got you scared. What am I gonna do now? With the gloves? Huh?
We both know what's gonna happen. Yup.
Heeeeere goes.

Oh, fuck, it seems like that was a week ago.
He peeks at the sun. More like seven hours...
Just thinking about it, his legs jump. The gloves grabbed on. Fingers were flying - and he squawked like a chicken. Yanked at the straps like he was whacked out on _Sherm_.
It was impossible to take. Right from the get-go.
Fucker dug right in. Ten bad minutes. And the gloves slowed way down. That made him look again.
Another plastic bottle, coming out of the saddlebag. Much bigger.
The fuckin' oil.
All over him.
And four more gloves...
That first hour, he made noises he didn't even know he could make. Thought he was gonna pass out. More than once. All the tickling stopped, until he caught his breath. And then, hell, it just started back up.
Fingers all over him. Testing spots. Learning which ones to really fuck with. Camping out there...
And after a while, it pulled out a snot-rag and wiped the oil off his feet. He just crowed... until the feathers came out of the saddlebag. He just could not fuckin' believe it...
So much worse. That light touch, thin, all over his feet, the points dragging sometimes, or the stems. Unbelievable.
His calves ached from trying to kick.
So fuckin' continuous. That got to him. All he could think about was it _stopping_. And it didn't. Well, yeah, eventually. Just long enough for him to catch his breath. Drink some water, swallow some food. And the fuckin' ghost always started tickling again!
About a minute after a break ends, he can only think about one thing. The tickling. How it feels. Other things come and go, real quick... Fuck, it's hot. I wish it was time for another break. And the worst thought - it's never gonna stop. Never. He thinks that, and every time he does it just slams him how mutherfuckin' insane it feels...
The bottle squirts more oil on his legs. And then, oh shit, on his feet. It's gonna -
Fingers. He jerks around, squeaking...
Oh, fuck, they're all over his feet.

His body fuckin' freaks out. Stuff happens before he even thinks about it. Laugh - harder. Louder. As if it's his fault the ghost is tickling him, 'cause obviously if he makes it clear that he's feeling it way too much, the fucker would stop. And let him go... Same thing with his arms and legs. Hell, his feet wanna get the hell out of there... they can barely move, and there's something just plain wrong with that. He jumps, and pulls away - but nothing happens. And the gloves keep tickling. It's very confusing.
Shit. Try harder.
He just wants to thrash. And it doesn't work...
It's so hard to take. Laughing his ass off. Can't it see how much... He can't think straight. Pull harder, dammit. Concentrate... Right arm. Get that arm free, if he can't kick the gloves away. One arm, then the other, and it's all over.
But it isn't happening.
His fuckin' arm stays out there. It just doesn't make any sense.
If he doesn't get his hands free...
No. Fuck that. Ain't gonna happen. He is not staying here, dammit. No fuckin' way.
He tries everything, just to move.
And he can't.
This is... not possible. What is wrong with his arms?
He slams his head back and forth. Knock it off! I'm gonna go insane if -
Aw, no. It wouldn't...
Would it? Keep doing this?
Fuck. It will, if he doesn't get his ass in gear.
He tries to be careful about it, howling as he fights with the straps. But he ends up going ballistic again.
Impossible.
He looks down at the gloves. Way down there. Driving him crazy -
And his eyes travel up. They wouldn't... do that.
But. Oh, shit.
He laughs like a madman. Looking at his right side. Ribs shaking -
Armpits. Waiting.
Oh, no.
Aw, they can't...

This is the deal. He lays here, stretched out. And the ghost tickles him.
All it wants.
Shit.
The setup is bad enough, even if the gloves weren't moving right then. Sinister. But it's also easy, and obvious. The ghost just takes an innocent little thing and calmly buries him. Tickle by tickle. That's all.
It's more than enough. He can't even figure out how blown away he is. All from a few fingers...
Nobody else is gonna stumble on him. See how ticklish he is. The ghost has seen to that.
Don't do this... mister ghost. The words cross his mind, but he growls laughter at the sky. Talking is too hard.
Begging. Face it. Ready to beg like a wimp.
Hell, yeah. If only it would work. How great would that be, he thinks. Oh shit.
So why wasn't he begging?
After another minute of steamy pleasure, he figured it out. Begging won't do him any good. Hell, no. It's ignoring what he says, and listening to his body. Nothing he says is going to make it let him go any sooner.
That would give him some say in the matter. And if anything is true, here, it's that he's gonna do whatever the ghost wants.
What the ghost wants him to do is suffer.
Take that... fuckin' outlaw thug. Punk. More hot stroking than you can ever hope to deal with.
I'm gonna make you laugh for me. Sweat like a pig.
Get used to it.

After a long time, he decides it's not a "mister" kind of ghost. That's too formal.
Leather gloves. Catching a scooter tramp, and doing this. With leathers.
He wonders about calling it "master ghost", for awhile, but the whole question is stupid. Doesn't matter what the fuck he calls it. He can't get on its good side.
It's gonna tear him apart. Anyway.
A stroke at a time.

"Mutherfuh huh hah hah hah aaaaah..."
The gloves start tickling again. Of course. Dammit.
So much for cussing at it.
He can tug at the fuckin' straps, of course. Move his head all around...
Get off my feet. Aw, hell.
More oil - being spread around. Sending the impact through the roof.

Well, fuck, it's only tickling.
Shit.
Imagine if the ghost was gonna kill him... That would be scary as hell. All he'd be is scared.
But not this way. Just gonna tickle you. He wasn't so sure, before. At first. Now, he is. The ghost spends all this time on him, and gets into tickling his ass this much. He's sure of it, and that bugs him in another way. But it's true. He's absolutely sure now.
This is the real thing. Nothing scarier than this.
And it's just tickling...

Chest heaving up and down.
Pull for awhile...
Oh, fuck, he could use a smoke. He looks at the saddlebag. Ain't no cigarettes floating out yet. No smokes...
He blinks his eyes a few times. Oh, fuck, if only it would go get his smokes. Give me a fuckin' break, here. He'd give it a million bucks for a cigarette right now. See 'em floating over. He has no idea where his bike is, but he can see the bump in his jacket. Smokes in there. And his lighter. Please. Hell, take the bike. After what I just went through, I can't believe how much I need a cigarette.
And he thinks about saying something, out loud. Beg the ghost. Get my smokes... But he's absolutely sure it won't.
Besides, he's gotta rest his lungs. It's absolutely, definitely gonna tickle him some more. He knows that as well as he knows his own name.
When palms cup over his knees - fingertips digging underneath - he doesn't even jump. Fuck, he knew it was coming. Again.
He does moan, though because he's feelin' it so damn much...

Something touches him. On his belly. It's not heavy. Aw, no.
Moving a little - oozing. Please, not that. But he knows. More lotion. Greasy, slippery, mutherfuc-
Fingers land and begin scratching.
He tries to flop, sucks in air, and moans once. Then he giggles. Shit, shit, they're gonna make him laugh again. Keep on laughing, asshole.
His head is pushed down. He doesn't even know he'd lifted it, and he opens his eyes. A glove is parked on his forehead... and looking up, he sees the inside. The rough side of the leather, opposite the palm. Empty. But still strong enough to pin his head.
He laughs and laughs, looking at the inside of the glove until the tears make his eyes all blurry again. Fingers travel over to his ribs, start crawling their way back up...
Armpits. Again. Fuck.
Even with his eyes closed - and he notices it's not pushing down on his forehead anymore, a few seconds before a glove starts oiling up his neck - he keeps thinking about it. Magic fucker, one of the gang. They're busy. Got him good, don't they?
Big gloves... made for big hands. Except he can't see the hands. Empty fingers, tickling and tickling.
There should be a hand in there.

Gotta be hands. A long time later, he has a split-second where he can think. Definitely - the fucker's got hands. There wouldn't be any need for all these gloves, right?
That doesn't make sense either... but they start in on his fuckin' feet again, and he wants to howl his head off. Unbelievable.

Invisible hands, or empty hands - it don't matter. He looks at two of 'em, playing with his nipples. Mean fuckin' hands, that's all he needs to know. And they got him.

He hears his name.
Again.
Looking around, squinting - "What?" He has to whisper it. No more voice.
There's a pause.
I'm tickling you.
"I know!," he wails.
I'm gonna keep on tickling you.
He pulls at the straps, so hard. Almost mad enough to cry -
Instead, he busts up. Hooting. Shit, he's hearing voices now. In his head. Making a bad thing even worse.
Of course it's gonna keep tickling him. Period.

Nothing could be worse. That's what he decides. This is the hardest moment of his whole fuckin' life - just because they won't stop tickling...
 
 

[Moved, to a cave]

Now, this is something worse. Sure it is.
They're not only gonna tickle him tomorrow - it's happening in their secret little room. He's in for a fuckin' shitload of tickling, right here.
One day was that rough... and he's gonna get it now. Over and over. How many days? No way to tell.
Yeah, this is a lot fuckin' worse.

727

"Canotu."
"What?"
A pause, for effect. "It's exercise time!"
I turn to run -
Straps. In the air, pouncing. They grab my ankles with sickening efficiency.
"C'mon."
My legs slide back. I lose my balance, but the gloves grab me before I hit the floor.
My right wrist is snagged. The strap pulls tight, more of the same old magic. That arm is tucked behind my back, but my main goal in life is to keep the other arm in motion. Apparently that was anticipated, because I see a strap loop around it easily, sliding up to the usual position, pulling snug.
With both arms held behind, I'm turned around and pushed forward. Constant pulling, on my ankles, to keep me moving along...
Rounding the curve of the passageway, despite all I can do to stop moving.
Light - I see the door is open. That gives me a new burst of panic -
"Your dungeon's waiting," Kitix laughs.
Dark stone, mossy iron.
And countless feathers.

728

Looking for the bathroom, I opened the wrong door. It was a bedroom. A guy was -
"Whoops," I said, before I could stop myself. Then I just stared.
He wasn't... just lying on the bed. The way his arms and legs were spread immediately made me think of bondage... And then I saw the straps. Nylon tie-downs were wrapped around and around.
His shirt and shoes were off, and there was a blue bandanna tied between his teeth. Big, scared eyes stared at me.
Without thinking, I started to approach. There was a piece of paper taped to his jeans.
"You okay?," I finally asked.
He shook his head violently, yelling something into the bandanna.
Practical joke, I decided. Not funny at all. An angry woman, maybe, if he'd passed out or something. They weren't half-ass restraints - not as if some couple was just playing around with scarves or neckties. Somebody wanted this dude... really stuck.
And there was the note.
 

DO NOT TOUCH THE GLOVES.
A WILD TIME IS IN STORE.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
 

What the hell, I thought. I didn't see gloves on his hands - but there they were, stuffed under his head.
"Is this for real? The note?"
He got a weird expression. I was close enough to see that he'd been sweating, so I didn't wait for him to nod. Shit.
Reaching for the wrist-cuffs, I decided he probably wanted to breathe. So I tried to pull the gag down.
He sucked in air, coughed a few times - and smiled. Cunning.
That made me pause, but I decided I had to be reading it wrong. "I'll get you out of this in -"
Warmth.
A weird little jolt touched my right hand.
I'd reached under, pretty much automatically, to see if I could pull the gag-knot loose. And I managed to brush against one of the gloves -
The strongest urge came over me. I paused again.
He was completely helpless. Even better, this was a powerful person. He'd been trying to get loose and couldn't do it. Even if...
I snickered.
Automatically I shot a look behind me. Close the door, and nobody would know. What a charge I'd get out of making him go out of his fuckin' mind. Absolutely wild, and still perfectly helpless.
Thin leather over my fingers... and all this bare skin.
It was crazy. No way I'd do that. Take advantage of somebody -
My hand reached down and picked up the glove.
Excitement surging up my arm. Oh, yeah. Grinning. Laughing eagerly.
I got the other one, and pulled 'em on as I hurried back to the door. The compulsion was stronger. Hot. Kinky - get leather on my hands, and totally mutherfuckin' rock his world. Hysteria. Absolutely full-bore. With a last peek into the hall, I closed and locked the door.
Swaggering back to him. The victim. My plaything...
As I reached down, a small part of my brain wondered why he was smiling. Triumphant eyes. Did he want me to do this?
Something was wrong -
An instant later, I collapsed.
Everything was grey. There was something moving.
I stared up at the ceiling. The suffocating need was still there - I had to tickle him. As much as possible.
 

Tension.
He took a drag... and another. Enjoying it.
Wait - how could he do that if he was caught?
Oh. He wasn't. Not anymore.
Now I was.
Lunging, and twisting, I gave the restraints a go. The gag was wet. That grossed me out.
He was so relieved. I could see that.
"They got what they wanted."
"Huh?," I grunted.
"You!" he laughed. "They were gunning for you. That was the prize. I was bait, you stupid fucker. And it worked. You touched one of the gloves - that was all it took. Now they run the show. Got you inside and out. And after they haul you off, dude, they're gonna have a kickass time."
It took a few seconds for that to sink in.
And then I went wild. No, dammit - no! I was dying to tickle him. The need was eating me alive. Nobody could find out how ticklish I was. And definitely not when I was caught in leather restraints...
This was backwards. It was my turn. Not theirs.
I could've wept with frustration.
Something dark floated through the window, well over me. The gloves.
They were alive.
And each was carrying a roll of black duct tape.
 

I'm snoring. It sounds weird.
I don't remember ever hearing myself snore...
Something's wrong with my mouth. I feel thick, too. It's hard to lift my head. The pillow's really jammed in -
No, wait. I roll over a little and the pressure is still there. Reaching up, I'm really fumbling. Maybe I'm more tired than I thought.
My fingers discover a smooth, curved ball.
It has to be a dream. That's all I can figure -
Rolling over. Hands are turning me. They feel odd too. Not like skin. I'm on my back, which I wanted. Actually getting here seemed to be too difficult.
Drugged.
Too many spy movies, I decide. What an imagination. Probably I was just more worn out from the gym than I realized -
That's when I manage to get both hands up to my mouth. A soft rubber ball, straps pressing against my cheeks, more running off toward my neck.
It's really a gag.
Somebody -
I sit up, or try to. The idea of a gag woke me up - particularly when it's in my mouth already - but my body hasn't caught up yet. Tracing one of the straps, I find a buckle behind my head, mashed tight against my hair.
A quiet sound is familiar. Light flares up - past the foot of my bed. Somebody lit a match. Why? A glow becomes more steady. Then there's two. I figure it out - candles.
That's when the puzzle is solved. A white feather rises.
Immediately, I'm scrabbling for the edge of the mattress. It hadn't even registered yet, the reason a feather would be in my room. But my body was moving. Get off the bed -
Fingers curl around my right wrist, and pull me back down.
"Nuh," I say.
Another hand pins my left wrist.
Both ankles, almost simultaneously, and then my shins. Upper arms.
I'm being held down... and the feather, oh fuck, it's starting. A long sweep down my right foot. And I just slam up, pulling hard. A grunt just pops right out. The gag is depressingly effective.
Damn. I can't shake the hands. This is like a slow-motion car wreck. My body won't fight like it should...
The feather crawls up my left foot.
This is so incredibly bad. If only it was a nightmare -
They're moving my legs. Before I can decide if that's a good thing or not, my ankles are slammed together.
Lifting...
My feet are in the air.
Oh, no. It's time to fight like a mad dog. Rope is cruising up. I kick, and fight, yelling as loud as I can, but the rope starts cirling round and round.
Somebody's really serious about this. I can't be tickled. Held down, so - I'll lose my mind. Definitely.
The rope is being knotted now.
A long length of it hangs down. As my feet are pulled back down, the hands scoot me forward - smoothly, as if they've done this a thousand times. My heels are hanging off the end of the bed, and, dammit, I know why.
That rope is pulling tight. From the angle, I guess it's being tied under the bedframe. By nothing. Invisible hands. Too strong for me to throw off.
And they brought me a feather. What else?
 

Firm little brushes.
I've been squealing and hooting forever. Dripping with sweat, laying in piss, with tears and snot all over my face.
Laughing.
The tickling hasn't stopped. That's all I know anymore.
 

Another fuckin' eternity, and I'm panting for breath. My throat aches...
I'm not being tickled. The sheet is just soaked -
Wait. My wrists aren't being pinned down. There's something pulling them.
This is so incredibly bad. Those are straps, and the solid bands of pressure are cuffs.
These fuckers aren't anywhere near done tickling me.
 
 

The longest night of my life is over...
A leather glove holds my car keys right in front of me.
Another one holds up a feather. Both are at the same height.
It takes me the better part of a cigarette to ponder whether I'm being told about a sequence of events, or offered a choice. Same difference, I decide. Tickled now, or tickled after I drive someplace - all prepped to hold me for a longer time. A lot more tickling. Eventually I'll cave, if only to get a couple hours without that insane supercharged heat washing through me.
I take a long, shaky drag. Then I reach for the keys.

They push me toward the shower.
When I get out, there's a kinky outfit waiting for me. Gloves, collar, a harness and a g-string.
I'd have no idea how to get the bigger shit on, but the hands take care of that in no time. I buckle my own collar, which sucks, and as I pull the gloves on there's a dull sense of finality all through me. It seems likely I won't be released from the slave role - tickle-slave - for a good long time. This marks an end to my old life. Or a new chapter. Actually, I guess last night is the turning point.
A pack of cigarettes is stuck in my hand.
So I light one, take a drag, ease it out, and catch one ragged breath. Then I nod my head.
 
. . .

"Dammit," I hear a big guy groan to himself.
[On the bunk next door - a biker's looking at me, also in restraints -
conversation reveals he thinks he's the only non-volunteer in the secret prison]
. . .

"Aaaah, you drove here," he sneers, "and you fuckin' knew what was in store. They dragged my ass inside last year. I just got the carb set right on that bike, too."
The casual way the big lug says "last year" makes my blood run cold.
 
. . .

"That really gets to you, doesn't it?"
Biker looks surprised. "You wanna be here? I sure don't. Fuck - think about somebody saying hey, you wanna get absolutely tortured, for years - with tickling, dammit - then go to this place. I'm serious as a heart attack. Ain't no lightweight teasing there. Hard tickling like you never imagined, and it's gonna go on for years -"
"They didn't tell him all that. You said he tried to back out when he saw how fuckin' serious they are."
He snorts, with that stoned smirk on his face. "Stupid ass gets off on it. Likes gettin' tickled, huh? Well, here's where you wanna go. They love it a lot more than you do. Tickling guys. Damn right they do." He shakes his head. "So he _does_ it. Uh, hello, could I please get some tickling here? And the fuckers are like, walk right in here - and now we got your ass, for good. Laugh it up. Shit..."

729

"Evanick."
"Uh. Sir -"
"Are you Evanick?"
"No."
"Absent, then."
"Sir!"
The professor looked up angrily. "What on earth -"
"He's gone CHIT... you asshole."
No one said anything.
 

The reporters quieted down when the police chief came into view. She didn't take any shit from them - not during daily briefings, at any rate.
"Good morning," she said. Getting her papers in order, she didn't look up at the gaggle for a few seconds. Cameras clicked when she did...
"Last night, another student was abducted from the northside area. We have received a message that indicates he's being held by the CHIT kidnapper."
An excited buzz went through the reporters.
"This raises the total of missing men to seventeen. As of this time, only one man has escaped. We are investigating all credible leads, but we don't have any more information to announce at this time..."
 

Radley heard Nack's lighter open, and snap shut. The sound echoed off the concrete walls...
"Hey," he said through the bars.
Nack nodded at him, taking another drag. Radley got his keys out and let himself in.
"Got some news," he said.
"Hey. Lock the door."
"Sorry," Radley mumbled, pulling the cell door closed behind him. Nack eased out smoke as soon as the cell was sealed again, clearly relieved.
"It got another one."
"Shit," Nack said immediately.
"No message."
"What is that, eighteen?"
Radley shifted around. "Not counting you."
"I wish I knew more," Nack said defensively. "Dammit, I have no idea why it let me go -"
"Take it easy. No one's questioning that."
Nack got up and started to pace.
 

Smith adjusted her bra surreptitiously and turned a page.
 

Capsule Summary (continued)

Measurable levels of THC, ketamine and kava were found in Nack's bloodstream, though he denies any voluntary drug use while being held.

A note inside the jail jumpsuit Nack wore contained phrases which the press has reduced to the acronym "CHIT". The full quotes are "I caught him, I hid him, and I tickled him" and "I'm going to catch, hide and tickle all the men I want for as long as I want". The full text of the note was released to major media outlets after the fifth victim was abducted.

All suggestions from Nack that the perpetrator is invisible and superhuman have been suppressed. His insistence on this point must not be revealed, in order to allow the verification of future reports.
 

. . .
Radley managed to coax Nack into going out for a pizza, even though just leaving the cellblock made him almost too nervous to speak.
. . .

12july2006
 

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