731

A soft whine slips out of me. I can barely hear it. My voice has been gone since Tuesday morning. Laughed it away, and what good did that do? Nobody came. So now I'm really screwed.
I think it's Friday now, but I'm not sure.
Fingers trace up my sides, and rub my armpits.
Fuck, I wish they hadn't shaved me. It's unbelievable what a difference that made.
"What now?" a happy voice says.
"Buff him," the other voice says. It sounds meaner. Always calm. The one with all the ideas.
"Alright!" and the excited one laughs. There's something rustling around in the closet.
I look out the window. It's a perfectly good spring day, and I gotta spend it locked up here. They're tickling the fuck out of me, and I don't see any sign that it'll end anytime soon.

It's weird how just about anything becomes routine, given enough time.
Three days of serious tickling. I was so scared, at first. Then I couldn't believe they were really gonna keep doing it.
But they have, and it seems like I was caught a couple months ago.

732

"Now that I have your attention..."
I kick involuntarily. Never in my life have I seen cuffs like these. Thick, and heavy... with three fat chains pulling tight. My heels hang just off the end of the padded bench. My feet.
This whole room is unbelievable.
Shit, I don't even remember leaving the bar. Woke up here, arms cuffed behind my back - feet caught. Not just hindered, either. Really caught.
This bench is angled so my legs are raised a little. It's even got a headrest. I don't know how long I slept on this thing, but my back isn't even sore. Thick padding, under the leather. It's sturdy, too. I can't make it creak or sway. Custom bench. There's other stuff, in the shadows, and I can't believe those are actually stocks, a rack, another bench shaped like a big "X". No.
I don't go for shit like this.
Why did they take my shoes off?
Man, do I feel alert. All this energy, and I can't get my feet to budge...
Of course they have my attention. What a stupid thing to say. I've gotta get out of here -
The wall starts to move. Oh. A closet. There's shelves.
Fuck.
"No, no, lemme outa here!" I scream.
Two, four, six, eight shelves. Covered. Feathers, brushes, gloves. Things I don't even recognize, except I fuckin' bet they're for tickling.
There's got to be a hundred different things in there. The shelves are packed.
My feet are gonna get it.
This is not really happening. It can't be.
Oh, no, something is starting to move. What?
Is that a feather?
No - two feathers.
Oh, hell no.
I get the point, now. There's paying attention, and then there's being totally fuckin' riveted to something. Such as - oh, shit, they're moving! All by themselves. Feathers coming out. They can't do this. My feet are stuck tight. This is wrong -
"Get away," I yell, sounding desperate. No wonder the cuffs are chained down so tight. Fuck, this can't ever begin to happen. Not me.
They're ignoring me. No, dammit, not this. But the room is full of clues. No fucking around in here. They got me all set... if it's even "they". One voice. A guy's doing this, but I can't see him. Magician. Invisible. He, it - I don't care, but the feathers have got to stop, right now!
. . .

[outside attention, and... inside attention.

From half-assed to full, to devoted...

When merely thinking about the effect of the feathers doesn't work, I pay attention to the feathers themselves with even more unblinking concentration. And later it turns out that the attention which I usually direct voluntarily has been absolutely enslaved. The control it has over my body is obvious enough. No escape from that, not at all. But inside, I've got a whole new world of discovery. It has my mind so completely trapped that I concentrate hard on whatever it's doing to me. Whatever it wants. I can't rebel, in my head, because it just immediately holds my attention again. Hostage, just like me. It's not enough to make my body go nuts... but this fucker's got a total lock on my thoughts too. Every time it wants my focus again, it knows just what to do. I've never had my head taken over like this. Total victory. It must know that, because whenever I try to think about anything else it steps on the gas. Bondage wasn't enough for this bastard. It's got my brain too. Perfectly controlled...]

733

Novi could never be faulted for not bein persistent. A good idea just gets worried like a bone til it gets played out. Kinda... pushy?

Tavo thought so, apparently.
It missed him. That horse-laugh - remembering the first time it came across him, outside a shitkicker bar off 96. Followed him back to the house he rented with his with his honey, on a two-lane north of the freeway. Watched his woman pack her shit and leave... and saw him get in the habit of killin a twelve-pack every night, start smokin again.

After a wobbly run for more beer, Novi started hiding his keys and gettin' bottles for him. Seemed he didn't mind whiskey... and the Climaxxx channel on the cable. It started leaving beer on the kitchen table, then a carton on the seat of his truck. Triple-X tapes on the VCR. He looked happy enough, then. Got used to the freebies, sure enough... It was glad to help. Novi stocked his fridge, got a bigger TV. Got used to him nodding out in his easy chair - safer than him driving anywhere after a few belts.
Hangin' with the Tavman...

One Friday night he got his hunting gear ready, which meant several days without him there - and a new bunch of raunchy tapes had just come in the mail.
It sorta... snapped. No you don't, dammit.
He crawled out of bed to find the phones gone, and six cases of beer blocking each door, and it was feelin frisky - so it held those cases right there, until he drank his way out. He copped an attitude, alright. It pushed him into his recliner and slid a brew out of the top case, cracking it open as it floated his way... lobbed a carton of Camels into his lap, and set nine videotapes on the VCR. Seven in the morning.
He got drunk right there, instead of doin it out in the cold. Shit, why not stay comfortable?

It was the first time Novi had touched him - when he was conscious. And the first time he'd seen it moving stuff around.

From then on Tav was sorta on edge, coming home from work with way too much caution. He wasn't getting drunk. It overruled him every night, all the while wondering what it had to do to win his confidence. He found more and more goodies laid in for him, but still... maybe something real friendly and encouraging.
It could start with the house. All the rooms were small, though...
Except the basement.
Just a bunch of old crap down there. Maybe... a den? No bullshit from unexpected visitors or noisy neighbors. It had a lot of ideas. Shelves first, and a month's worth of stuff he liked... a bunch of new shit. Stuff to try out, maybe.
Novi rehung the door, tacked up some paneling.

A big TV, all the cable channels that it could order, a nice little audio system. A dresser and a couple of nightstands. Tavo did like his recliner, and while it sorta belonged there he usually groaned and rubbed his back after lumbering out of it in the morning. So a firm bed with a big ol' headboard were set up. He could... spread out.
No bathroom, but the old laundry sink and a new chemical toilet would do the job. Ice, hot food and such could be ferried down from the kitchen.
All set.

It turned out great. A place where ol' T could hang out. Spend a lot of time, maybe...

So after he passed out, it hauled him down there.. Impatient to see the look on his face.
Well, he was surprised, all right. Stunned. Looked around - noticing the quality of the work, Novi figured, proudly - and hurried out of there, right quick. Huh.
It figured he just needed time to get used to it, like he came to expect all the other shit it did for him.

Every morning, he came to in his new den - and hustled to get out...

So that Saturday it blocked the door and dragged him back to the mattress. Clicked on the TV, and stuck a bottle of JD in his hand.
A zipper bag with weed and pillbottles floated to the bedside table.

Even after that shitfaced weekend, he wouldn't relax. Just take it easy.
Kinda ticked off at him, Novi grabbed an old clothesline out of the garage.
Take that...

Cuffs did less damage, though.
He was definitely not amused. Too bad. It had gone to a lot of trouble...
Well, eventually he'd come around.

Tav brought friends over sometimes. Showed 'em the den and shelves, told 'em -
They laughed at him. Yeah, sure.
He spent more and more nights away.

Novi tried harder. "Personal services." Some of the things on the sex videos he liked so much. Bigtime fun.
Instead of calming him down, that just made him more determined to run. He'd fight with the cuffs until he was worn out.
It couldn't understand why. At times he seemed bored, so there had to be more fun somehow. A lot more. It was going to win him over.
The only thing that seemed certain was that he needed to spend more time in his den. The message had to get through. When he came to appreciate it...
A weekend wasn't enough time. Apparently Tavo was figuring that he could always just wait it out until Monday.
So it grabbed extra magazines, another six bottles of lube...

By Wednesday it couldn't think of a reason why he really had to go off to work.
His tools were brought home that night, and keys were left on the boss's desk.

The next afternoon, a photomontage gave Novi the answer.

Nine electrifying days and nights just flew by.

When it finally opened the door, Tav disappeared for almost a week.
It tracked him down.
He woke up before it even got the first wrist-cuff buckled. More tools had been gathered. Some of them revealed whole new degrees of fun. Primitive, bottomless...

Almost three weeks, that time.

There was less fight in him.
What a relief. Surely he's caught on, it thought. Everything he could want - booze, pot, shelves full of porn, his favorite foods. Shit, he never even had to do laundry anymore, or worry about the bills...
Panting for air, Tavo took a good half-hour to notice that the cuffs were off. When he finally pulled it together enough to stagger to the door, the look of shock on his face when it opened was wonderful. Tempting.
Once again, the way he climbed the stairs told Novi how much he yearned to get away from the den.
When he didn't even shut the front door behind him, it no longer had to decide. Hands took hold of his arms.
It dragged him backward, away from his car.
What he liked - and what it needed to keep him down - was in the house, even if he wanted to turn his back on it and struggle like crazy...

The bills were paid on time, and it moved his car now and then. Every other thing was taken care of, too. None of that stupid everyday shit could touch him.
That was Novi's job.

Its satisfaction - and interest - just kept increasing.
A month led right into the second, and the third...
 
 

He'd crossed over. Every sign was positive, it decided, and now Tavo had to be having the time of his fuckin' life.
The embarrassment at enjoying himself was gone. He didn't even have the sad moods anymore.
Novi gradually decided that he wouldn't run away, even if he could.
 
 

Dumb, dumb, dumb. He disappeared, alright.
Three days after it started leaving the doors unlocked, he took off. It was out getting him more whiskey - and picking new brushes to try.
He wasn't at his ex's new place in Taylor, or with of his friends. It kept checking all of the places he used to haunt.

The trail was cold.
It had seriously liked watchin' him unwind, too. Getting him fucked up... and that horse laugh, from the gut. Dammit.

As spring approached it had a few locals over, for tryouts... but they just weren't the same. Anchored on Tavo's bed, smokin his cigarettes, drinkin up his booze... howling like monkeys. They never relaxed enough to really have fun with it. Loosen up, go with the flow. Most of 'em were too scared. Chickenshit.
It would've thought one or two of the dudes just out of high school would be like open books. Appreciate the benefits of the situation. Women really panicked - at least the ones it had met.
Damn - it knew Tav. How to handle him.
They'd had some major fuckin' fun.

Not at the bowling alley either...
Probably a long ways away.
It kept on paying his bills. The upstairs bedroom was getting filled up too. It had this daydream of reeling ol' Tav back in and just burying him in pleasure. Never leaving him alone - a good year and a half. Two years. That would get him in line.
In the meantime it already had about twenty new toys it was just bustin to use.

Somebody.
Hmmmm. Another guy, like Tavo.
A new... roommate.
 
 

So tonight it wanders through Birmingham and on down, turning west before it reaches the freeway. But that's the wrong direction, because it leads to an empty, prepared house.
Maybe a swing up through Oak Park.
On the hunt.
A tough guy with energy to burn. The right one. Lone wolf. Works hard - plays hard.
Like... this one.

He was younger than Tavo, but not a kid. Mid-twenties. Straddling his Harley, outside the 7-11, having a smoke. Kinda smirking at the traffic goin by. He had gloves, laying on the gas tank at the moment, and for some odd reason that a very good sign.
Calm, but his eyes are alert. Smooth... but when the sensation peaked, watch out.
Novi would see what he was made of.

Right then ditches his smoke, rolled the bike off its stand and fired it up. Grinning like a fool.
It had a good feeling about him. Damn right it did.
He pulls out of the lot with an invisible escort overhead. Biding its time.

Two miles away he kills the engine in front of a modest house, and rolls on up to the garage. Whistling very quietly as he walks into the house, not knowing how much that makes it ache to lay down a total attitude adjustment.
He walks in the back door, to the bathroom and takes a leak - giving it a glimpse at his cock. Not porn-star caliber, but certainly respectable. Then he clomps downstairs.
A cluttered room in the basement. It's sad. But wait'll he sees the den. A lot better than this dump...
Another biker was upstairs, givin' it to his ol' lady. There wasn't anybody waitin' in bed for the younger guy, though. Maybe that meant nobody would worry if he took a... road trip. Twenty-five miles west.

His bed has seen better days. Novi can already picture him sprawled out in Tav's recliner, sawin' logs. Flat on his back, arms and legs safely staked toward the corners of Tavo's big, comfortable mattress. Recharging. Getting all set for yet another day of major fuckin' fun.
No prescriptions around, and no medical supplies. Good news, there. No booze in his room, and no bong. Bizarre - was he broke? No money for partying? Maybe that was the answer. Wait until he saw the shit that filled about twenty shelves at Tavo's place!
Paycheck stubs are even more depressing. Hardly worth going to work for that little. His name is Terry. Another T-Man. Alright. Novi Terry, maybe? Terry, out of Novi?
More like Terry, stuck in Novi.
Heh.

He's not going turn down a free party. Tav did, and so the others. But not this dude. It's determined.
Now, what would be an decent excuse? Keep his friends from getting curious?
There was a fishing license on his dresser...

But these bikers wanna ride everywhere. If he disappears, and his hog is still in the garage -
It has to go along with him. He can ride right on up... to his new digs.
Tricky, but it figures it's up to the challenge. A weird adventure in the middle of the night. Outrageous. And it fits, somehow. Let him ride over.

After he was asleep it flew home, picking up a few things for him on the way.

Around three-thirty in the morning it pressed on the little window near the furnace, which it had unlatched earlier, and tilted it open. Terr was dead to the world.
It picked out a few days' worth of clothes. Toothbrush, toothpaste, fishing gear and license. His riding gear...
All piled up on the garage floor. The hog's gas tank is at least half-full.

Novi pulls the sheet away - and it freezes.

Time to head out, though. It lifted him off the bed, ready for a fight -
Yup. Full-blown. All feisty. Twisting like a snake, he floated toward the door feet first.
Up the stairs, and to the back door. It paused, and waved a piece of paper in front of his nose. He stops wriggling, long enough to read it. Big black capitals, in the faint wash of the porch light:

HEY -

FUCK WORK,
GONE FISHING WITH MY BOSS. CANADA.

SEEYA TUES ??

T.
 

At first there's uncertainty on his face. Then he looks real pissed. He's all fight again, as it sets the note on the kitchen table.
The door opens slowly. His loudest grunts are nuthin'...
Then, he's outside. Twisting - and a quick shiver, from the night air...
Into the dark garage.

It wrestles him into his jeans, boots, gloves...

Jacket. He recoils -
Well, shit. Looky... here.
Novi didn't even do it on purpose. But he's got a weakness. It just knew Terr wasn't gonna disappoint. Fuck yeah!
Maybe he's related to Tavo. Little brother. Heh. It couldn't wait to get harsh all over him, surrounded by the toys and comforts of the den.

After a few more minutes, he's sittin high in the saddle.
His feet are tied to the highway pegs, and his knees hug the tank. And his fingers are curled around the handlebars. Buried with rope, just like his shins, his forearms... Fuck the helmet. His saddlebags are packed.
Time to go.
It double-checks all of the knots. He won't be using the the brakes or the shifter this time. Novi's got control of 'em - as well as the throttle and the handles. Yessir.

Sneaking the garage door up just enough, it rolled him out. He kept tugging and flailing uselessly, grunting as loud as he could. the door eased back down.
Rolling in neutral, picking up speed. Driveway, to street, pushing him down to Hickory and right through the intersection. All is quiet, except for his trapped yells and the clicking of the bike's primary chain. Novi hits the starter button - but the engine won't catch.
Whoops, it forgot to set the choke. There. Try it again. Okay... Down to Fourth. Turning right - which is west. Yeah.
Not a car or a walker in sight...
He throws his head all around - until it leans the bike over. Way over. That makes him behave.
His sunglasses are pulled out of a jacket pocket and stuck on him. Speeding up a little, it shifted without letting up on the clutch. Terr winced immediately. After a few seconds he decided to make a real serious effort to get his hands and feet free. Novi let the bike lurch back and forth, trying to get it through to him that resisting was gonna make the trip even scarier.
It takes him down side streets. They could get home in half the time using the freeway, but Novi's not taking any chances with its prize. What an animal. There are three traffic signals that can't be avoided, but at this hour there are no vehicles waiting at the first two - and it slips into a bank parking lot to wait for the last light to change. There.
Nice and dark. He makes a couple attempts to lay it down, but after the first lurch it's more vigilant that ever. Tugging and shoving, he's not in the mood to cooperate.

After a couple miles down Anders the suburbs fade away. It reefs on the throttle. Fifty, sixty... seventy.
Terr sits low in the seat, tense as a wire. Not a happy camper. But it's got everything well in hand.
He can count on Novi. Won't get bored, neither. Damn straight.

On the right street, with only a minute to go, maybe two - it revs up to ninety. Not bad at all, this bike...
He was rigid, not even fidgeting, by the time it cut the motor. After coasting quite a ways Novi pushed him the rest of the way. Nobody was looking outside as he rolled up. Cloudy sky, no moonlight.
Crickets, the steady ring of the chain rolling over the sprockets, crunch of pebbles here and there...
Low creaks from muscle straining leather, tugging at rope.

And here he is.
Rolling him around the back, it opened the door - and picked up the bike, carrying it downstairs carefully.
Moving a dresser out of the way, it rolls him right into the den. Right... there. Let his ride stay where he can can keep an eye on it.
Relief, hunger, and mischief fill Novi as it locks the outer door - and the den.

It popped up the center-stand, and built a little wall out of beer cases. Full cases, of course.
Terry lunged around as the walls grew...
When it was finished, the bike wasn't going to fall over, no way.

It pulled his sunglasses off. Loosened the rope locking his jaw.
He grunted, rolling his head around, loosening the muscles.
And then he started to yell.

Pull and tug, holler... Rage, then full panic, and back down again.
Half an hour later, he was just scowling hard.
Must be thirsty. And more than ready for a smoke, huh? Then time for some shut-eye.
One of the cases near him opens, a bottlecap twisting off -
No? You don't want one? Aw, c'mon.
Getting a grip on his head, and his long hair - steady, now...
No problem, dude. He's struggling, but gives it up. Sucks it down.
A second bottle opens, coming into position. Novi brings a little box up, and pops two big tabs out of a blister-pack. Tossing 'em down his gullet, and a beer chaser. Strangling sounds, coughing... and big ol' swallows.
Another beer is in order...

His jacket zips open most of the way, and an invisible hand pulls out his cigarettes.
"Oh fuck no," he barks at 'em, but the resistance is half-hearted. He wants a smoke. Suspicious eyes watch one come up, and see a wooden match blaze to life as it follows.
And there he is. That's it. Looks right. He's perfect.
It goes into the storeroom and picks up a carton. Camels, shortys, just like Tavo got used to smokin.

During the fourth cigarette, it gets his dick out and holds an empty beer bottle just so. He doesn't like that at all, but the pills are kicking in and he's too woozy to fight properly.
After a good five minutes he gives in and lets it flow.
 

[ He comes to, lying on the bed ]

He sighs, and clears his throat. Shifts a little. Sniffing the air - the smell of the bike?
Or the ol' familarity of a nice private basement, maybe. Of course he could be noticing a different odor - something endlessly fun.
Novi flicks on the light.
He groans hard. Squinting, blinking eventually.
Then taking it all in: closed door, dresser, a long look over his cycle. Back at the door, the TV...
Open pack of Camels, ashtray, and his lighter are ready on the left nightstand. Bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and a couple joints on the right.
He looks around again, slowly throwing off the blanket. He sees the jeans he's wearing, and cranes his neck to look alongside the bed. Sneaky reach for a boot, studying his bike. The beer case barricade is gone now. No need. Terr gets his other boot on, looks around for a shirt and decides to just snag his jacket from the bike seat. Checking the pockets, his face takes on a cagier expression. Finding what he was after - wallet, keys, gloves. Familiar, calming him down...
Terr looks the cycle over carefully. Shaking it, listening to the gas slosh inside. Then straining to hear - what? Movement, from above? But there is nothing to hear, so he creeps over to the door and presses his ear against it for awhile. Grabs the knob -
Novi's got the door stuck tight, all around the frame. He pulls and studies it for a long time before he's convinced.
"Sick mutherfuckers..." He shouts, pounding on the door. Keeps cussing and hammering away. Kicks it a few times for good measure. Mounted backwards from the usual, the hinges are outside the den. Tavo taught it that lesson, didn't he though...
A few more minutes of thought, and hunting for another exit or a window.
Nuthin doin, outlaw.
"Fuck," Terry says, turning away. He stalks over to the Camels, firing one up. Not diggin this.

He looks the room over again, checks out his scoot... and perches on the corner of the bed, ashtray right alongside -
It hits the TV/cable power button.
His head swivels at the sound coming from the speakers.
A blonde with humungous tits, holding a guy's head in her snatch.
Terry stares hard, then looks around the room yet again. No remote control is in sight. It just suddenly turned on, like magic... huh?

Next smoke, he's ready for something else to drink.

The one after that, he leans back on the bed... and watches the porn.

Eventually he snoozes for a couple hours.
He stirs after a couple hours. Sniffs again -
Looks at the TV briefly. A couple, sixty-nine'ing. And then Terr sees a styrofoam cooler in front of the door. He goes over to it, lifting the lid... eyes getting big.
Steak and eggs, hash brown patties, ketchup and salsa, bottle of OJ, pitcher of coffee.
Drops the lid and - whoa! Whaling on the door again, loud and... wild.
Finally backing off, breathing heavy. Staring at the breakfast it made for him.

He puts most of it away.
Peeking in the nearest beer case when he got up to pull on the doorknob some more - it's full of Molson longnecks.

"This is fuckin' crazy," he blurts.
When no answer comes, he grabs the pack and shakes up a cigarette angrily.

More Climaxx, a couple beers, a short nap.

Terr sits up in bed, smokin one after another. Staring at the door. On the TV screen a black couple is moaning in harmony, though it seems like an accident.
He scowls, gets up, chucks the cig to the floor hard, and starts pounding on the door again.
Keeps at it...

Why, Novi wonders, do they resist so much? What does it take to get 'em to lighten up?

Little Tavo here is set on raising somebody, or pulling the door off. No chance of his noise being heard... but he's getting more and more agitated. Gonna hurt himself, that wouldn't do.
Slowly, so he wouldn't freak even harder, it takes hold of his biceps.
He jumps back, looking wildly for the cause of the contact... which stays on him. Now, it thinks, he'll either go bugshit or he'll take a more thoughtful appr-
"What the fuck is thi-iiis..."
Okay. Novi clamps down on his forearms and shoulders. He coulda pulled a muscle already, so angry, and bent on slipping out of its grip.
It drags him back and presses down on him 'til he sits on the foot of the bed.
From behind the nightstand, it retrieves a coil of thick rope. For his own good, of course.

Not at all happy about the latest turn of events, his protests really hit a new high. When he kept trying to stand, it wrapped up his ankles... pulled rope between each knot so he was hogtied, and held him in the middle of the bed.
What a kick it is to tie him up again.

Terr goes another half-hour, finally wearing himself out.

When he starts to snore, Novi quietly gets out the cuffs.
Layers of leather, wide enough to keep his wrists safe. Snug...
Next it picks up the shin-guards. Handling 'em with... respect. A lot of wild-ass memories, warm animal marathons with Tavo wearin these. Seven-inch cuffs, a rounded tab on top of where each foot begins, leather curbs to keep the heel-tendons from moving.
They fit Terr okay.
Novi tightens the straps, checks 'em, pats his captive wrists...
And returns to the exciting "spats". Thinking, remembering, testing the play in all directions... and there is none. As if they were set in cement. Heels off the mattress an inch or so, and as good as paralyzed from the calves down. Not that his wrists had any real slack, either.
But these spats... Rigid, inflexible perfection.
 

[Spread-eagled, he wakes up, smokes a couple, and finally gets to watch two pair of adroit black spandex gloves float over to him. Then - down.]
...

His all-out fighting slows down -
Face brighter than before, the sound of his laughter changes too.
Oh, fuck.
He likes this!

Purely amazed, Novi drills his armpits and feet, briskly covering his ribs and belly.
And his eyes - the look on his face - well, nothing has ever been clearer to Novi.
Little Tavo is enjoying himself. It never saw this coming.
Look at him. Just incredible.
Well, now, that changes everything.
 

Smoke trails out of him.
It wiggles the fingers slowly. A big smile comes over his face.
His cigarette is taken from him, and the gloves attack - making Terr seize up, then flop around hard. Hoots are just bellowed out.
Then he stares at his motorcycle, and the laughter takes on a mournful tone.
But only for a few seconds... until it gets feathers back between his toes.
He cocks his head back and squeaks, cackles, barks, already lost in the delirium, all the fun Novi is making him have, and then he relaxes a little. Not laughing anymore.
Still grinning, though. Buried in pleasure.
Staying there.

734

I try to hold it back - but the laughter leaks out. My foot jerks again.
"Sorry," Nichols says again.
"My f-fault," I gasp. The blindfold really isn't helping, and I'm about to say so, but there's no way I can imagine relaxing with or without it. I don't think this reflexology shit is for me -
"Naw." The hands start to squeeze my feet again.
After a few seconds, I start to giggle.
They let go. "You're really ticklish."
"Sorry -"
"No, don't apologize. It's why I caught you."
What?
My legs feel pressure.
I have a bad feeling -
Attack!
Uh-oh. These aren't the nice fingers. They're running, dancing - digging in!
I flop around, twisting, kicking, hollering laughter...
One hand clamps over my mouth. Leather. A glove?
"No alerting the neighbors," Nichols sighs.
That's who's tickling me. The last thing I expected.
He's got my ankles pinned, like he'll never let go. Somehow, I manage to sling myself forward - wanting to reach my feet - and my hands are quickly pressed tight behind my back.
I go nuts, slowly, jumping and twisting.
The fingers aren't stopping.

It seems like my arms should... move when I tell 'em to.
Somehow my t-shirt has come off. And my shorts. Under the circumstances this is very, very bad.
Laughing this much is making me weak.

They pinned me down, stomach on the bed. My arms were held behind my back, and my shins were held in a death-grip.
"Boom," Nichols said.
They tickled me so hard...

After a minute the fingers stopped.
Something was -
Rope. Gloves were bringing in rope!
Oh, shit, the fear doubled. This was much more serious. Not rope. They couldn't tie me down. Not tickling, not them!
I went nuts. With everything I had, I tried to get loose. After the first shout a glove clamped over my mouth. A sliding sound got me to look -
Oh, shit, a glove was pulling a bandanna out of my dresser.
I just had to get out of there, right now!
A glove shut the door.
Knowing how deathly important it was to get loose, I felt the gloves roll me over - and tie my hands to the headboard anyway.
"There," Nichols said firmly. I was really in for it, I thought, now it's settled.
They caught one foot, then the other...
The gag...
Then they paused for a minute. I kept pulling, but my thoughts were scaring me more and more. Now the tickling could be total.
Now it could go on and on.
The situation had gone from something weird to something scary... to something very, earnestly serious. I was going to get tickled now. Really worked over. I couldn't yell for help. Couldn't even civer myself up. All I could do was lay on my damn bed. The gloves had completely won.
They started crusing down, no matter how much I tried to twist and kick.

Oh, the fingers started back in on my feet. Slow -
More were moving!
No, no -
They took hold of my sides! They can't do this! Of course they can, I can't stop them. They are - tickling too. Not my sides, oh fuck, fuck.
I scream and howl laughter. Too many smooth, working fingers.
The gag works. I'm not loud enough...
In a flash, I realize something - really chilling. I'm not getting loose. There is no way to stop them now.
Hands are working my sides now, and my feet, in a way that just makes it impossible for me to do anything.

Knees...

And they keep going.
I can't keep feeling this. My laughing more insanely, I try to get this across to Nichols. He's got my arms caught well. And my ankles caught even better.
I'm drowning, so slowly, in physical delight.

Still feeling every glove - hell, feeling 'em more - I seem to be moving...
My limbs are just as stuck. The tickling, oh hell, it's still rocking on.

I gotta make them stop.
The hands are doing something else...

The tickling trumps my cumshot.
 

I laid there for unbelievable hours, as the gloves had their fun. Safely silenced, out of sight in my room, the tickling could continue even more safely. And it did...

During a break, I open my eyes.
Night is falling.
"The day of tickling is over," Nichols says.
The gloves start cleaning up the shit, and piss. I'm so relieved...
For about thirty seconds.
They're not untying the ropes. Or the gag.
The gloves could let me go now. But they don't. There's only one reason they're not letting me go. Right?
I beg the gloves wiping off my chest. Beg 'em, through the gag.
Tears started welling up in my eyes. I don't understand that, because I'm not sad. Or angry, right now, because I don't seem to have the energy for that. I just want reality to be different, and it's not, so I'm going to get this heavy-duty tickling some more. And I can't stand any more, even though I kept thinking that and it kept going on, getting more disorienting. But right now I really, really cannot stand to feel the tickling one more second -
Oil. Pouring down my feet.
No. No!
I am going to kick my legs free right NOW!
Oil across my belly, and chest. Down one side, from armpits to ribs, and up the other.
Shouting "No" as hard as I can, over and over, I decide I am definitely gonna break the ropes now. Not another second...
They pour oil on my crotch. That makes me stop, just for a second or two. They haven't touched my meat. Oh, fuck, no. Well, it doesn't matter, because I am definitely no gonna stick around for any more of this shit.
"The first night of tickling begins."
The.. first night?
Wham. Shit, oh no, dammit, they're starting and I didn't get loose yet!
Crazy, oily fingers everywhere, roaming, sticking it to me - playing with my crotch.
I scream laughter, and convulse, bounce and slam around.

They're not going to let me go.
All over my fuckin' body. Diligent tickling.

The gag is out. I notice it during a break.
"One yell," Nichols says, "and I tickle as hard as I have the past hour... all fuckin' night."
"Nooooo," I whimper, working my sore jaw.
Fingers take hold of me again.
"You can laugh, and laugh. No one will hear that now. Sincere, uncontrollable laughter in the moonlight. You're laying right there, dude, and getting the business. Gloves in the dark, and you laughing all you want."
The tickling continues even as I wrestle around and start to hoot.

My mind keeps wandering - usually from one set of fingers to another. Oh, I see. These are rubbing my neck. And those won't leave my shins alone...
This is a weird place, mentally. I've never been here before. The panic is gone. All of that desperation to get out of this. Hours ago, that wore out - and I was still g
etting tickled. Now I'm alert and feeling it... with more attention? I don't know. It's really gotten to me and apparently I just don't get desesitized to what the gloves are doing. Tickled silly. That must be what it is. Sometimes a squealing mess who can't think at all, and other times - like this. Almost studying them.
Shit, those fingers on my ass are getting to me a lot more than they used to.
Not my toes again, already. Fuck...

"On and on" was an understatement.
It's been dark for many hours. They fed me, a while ago. And started back in.
This is a golden opportunity for them. The perfect situation, for ticklers...
And the worst nightmare for someone as ticklish as me. I wish I'd pass out.
 

Light. From the window.
Little window, up high. This is the cellar. I'm in my cellar -
Oh, fuck no. Strapped down. The old mattress.
My arms are pulled far, far apart. Strapped to the corners.
Not my legs too. No, no!
This is infinitely more serious. I thought I was their prisoner before, but damn.
No move I make can help me. Feet so helpless, hanging out there.
I've gotta get loose, I just have to, before -
Gloves.
Too late.
I scream for help. Scream and scream into the gag -

Now I understand the blindfold. Not just some new-age bullshit.
Nichols has twelve hands. Magic, confidently-flying gloves.
"A brand new day," he - it? - the voice gloats.
I yell into the gag again and again, watching as the full fingers reach confidently down.
I'm so angry I feel like I could pull the straps apart.

Two hours later, or three, all of the fury is tickled out of me.

Time slides by, and still - all is chaos.
 

Next day -
"Dude? Hey. You down there?"
Struggling -
Light tickles. I can't get the yells out. My voice is so hoarse. If bud doesn't run, now, he's toast.
"Hello?"
No no, bud, don't come down here, run, run!
"Something reeks..."
(Clomp clomp clomp down the stairs)
Four gloves blitz the dude, and the rest go after his friend.
"What - hey - hah hah hah - stop it, stop it - bud, help me, haaaalllppp!!!"

Bud is getting tickled so hard he can't open his eyes...
And now his friend is tied down next to him. Well-tied. Gagged -
"Double the agony," Nichols says approvingly. "Twice the ecstasy."
There must be twenty gloves in the air now. Some pick up brushes.
"Suffer," it orders. "Laugh, and thrill to the overload. Ache with the volume of it, dudes."
Wham.

Bud's laughter sounds so angry. He tries and tries to get loose. He can't. If he can't escape, and I can't escape... aw, fuck...

Hour after hour. Eternal, perfectly deliberate and agonizingly ceaseless.
All dude and his friend can do for each other, the rare moments they can stand to do it, is lock eyes. Wild, glazed, tear-blurred eyes.

After the sun sets and they're fed, the marathon of impossible torment continues.
Two men laugh in the dark. Weary, and no longer moving, they keep reacting and twitching, and the gloves just never stop.
 

They wake up in a dungeon.
Oh, fuck, Nichols moved us. And I know why.
Shaved.
"Eat up, animals. Or else - the tickling will be less feverish, and more excruciating."
A long, hyenalike day is ahead.

And it is.

That night, I woke up after a pretty long nap. Cleaned off. All set for more -
The gloves picked me up and set me on Buddy's mattress. My hands were already cuffed together, over my head, and they attached them to something...
When I figured out what was going on, I started to fight. But there were gloves all over me, clamped on. It was gonna happen.
This metal tube, maybe two feet long, was getting bolted to my cuffs - and to Buddy's. Another one started getting attached to my ankle cuffs.
Laying on my side was kinda nice. I mean, yeah, still being in restraints sucked. There was more tickling ahead. Fuckin' torture. But I could actually move a little - and my left side was actually laying on the mattress. Nowhere near as easy to tickle.
If Buddy hadn't been so close, I would've been more comfortable.
He was still sleeping. Now that we were stuck together, I figured he only had another minute or two of peace before the gloves woke him up. I pulled my hands up a little... and his arms moved too.
The weight of the ankle-cuffs and the bar was more than I expected. As an experiment, I bent my knees a little more - and Buddy's feet came closer.
We were gonna anchor each other, then, as the gloves made us push and kick.
Buddy didn't deserve this shit. He looked like a little boy when he slept...

Five minutes later, he was howling into my face. I was laughing just as hard, at him.
Fuckin' brushes were traveling all over my feet, belly and armpits. There was no way I could hold still - this was the most freedom I'd had in days.
We shoved and jerked each other back and forth until it got too wild. Buddy's trying so hard to crawl away from the tickling that he rolls me almost on my back. Then the gloves pulled him back to where he was, and they must've been holding onto the separator bars or something because I couldn't move him that much and he didn't do it to me again, either.
We laid there and roared. Oh, sure, we were throwing our heads around... but the position we kept coming back to, when the stimulation was just too much, was with our faces laying on the mattress. Buddy was just hysterical. And right there, too.
It was one thing to be staked out next to him, because I could forget he was there if I didn't hear him laugh.
But caught like this - shit. His breath wasn't the greatest. A constant breeze in my face, with spittle added sometimes. And I was doing the same to him.

The gloves rolled us over after a couple hours. Switched places.
They mauled the left side of my body as if they'd been missing it something terrible while I laid on it.
Buddy shook with wilder squeals of outrage than I'd been forced to hear in an hour or so...

We stared at each other. Tears were always in my eyes, but I was too close to miss where he was looking.
Monotonous crowing, chortling, sometimes giggles too. We were stuck right there, trying to reassure each other with our eyes. Talking was out of the question, so looking at each other's face was all we had left.

Hour after fucking hour...
 

"Let's try these pills today. They make animals far more ticklish!"
 

Stocks, facing each other. It's so diabolical.
Sometimes we hoot side by side, and other times just as close as the frames will allow. Nose-to-nose.
 

The racks can lock straight up and down, or at an angle.
I think being reclined a little, and way up off the ground, gets to Buddy even more than the stocks get to me. He just bucks like crazy. The feathers and brushes don't back off at all.
 

Morning, after morning...
 

"Happy one-week anniversary, dudes. Let's fuckin' celebrate. Meet - Tickler2!"
Thunderstruck...
"Making doubly sure you guys stay right here. In your restraints. Why, you ask, is that important? Because there's not much point in tickling unless it's as skillful as it can possibly be. So we're going to switch off on you two, and give our full concentration to your pleasure, and torment, and excitement -"
The new voice laughs. "Remember, guys, there's finally someone else who knows what kind of delirium you've been going through. Nichols told me there's two strong, young guys locked in a dungeon, getting the most expert tickling imaginable. And they can't get out. So I definitely came to see for myself. And I thought... alright. I'm not opening that door, and I'm sure as hell not gonna fire off a flare. This secret's gotta be kept. They can't be allowed to get loose, or miss out on a single laugh... If I was human, I might decide you've had enough... but instead of going to get help, shit, I'm staying. Right here. And I tickle just as... comprehensively as Nichols does."
"Oh, now we're gonna dance real hard - on you."

Tickler2 is more energetic, is such a thing is possible.
 
 

After a few days I can't decide whether it's a relief to be Nichols' target for the day, or not...
Either tickler is something to worry about. Too exciting...
 

I'm in trouble, here.
This should not have happened. It makes sense. The tickling just doesn't fuckin' stop. I had to deal with it somehow.
But this just feels wrong.
Buddy sounds so tortured, when he laughs. Once in a while I feel bad for getting into it. The assholes are encouraging me, too, in the way they tickle.
If he's noticed the change - or the contrast, in how different I sound, compared to him - he hasn't said anything yet. I think he's too distracted.
 

There's some new horror, covered with a red satin sheet.
We lay on the floor and laugh the morning away, looking at it when we're able.
Angled rails. A sturdy, perverse deck chair.
Satin pillows start floating up to line the grooves. Now it's a thickly padded rack, of sorts, with all of the restraint attachment points I've come to expect. This is a daunting thing.

After an hour I decide it's the kind of bondage device in which I could spent the whole damn day without getting sore. The design would support my limbs well, and my spine. Sadistic kindness, to be sure.

They fed us a couple hours later.
"We've only got one pillow-rack," Nichols said. "Think about that, guys."
 
 

Buddy's chuffing air. It wakes me up -
Eyes closed, he lays there, mewing brainlessly, groaning now and then.
They've got me on the rack, looking down at him. I hope they don't make me jerk off on Buddy...
Gloves finger his thighs slowly. A muscular body, spread-eagled right under me, and those cuffs mean he's definitely not going anywhere today.
Fingers skate under his pecs, barely moving. I shiver, just seeing that. Make fists, let 'em relax.
My fingers move again. I look up.
There is a pair of gloves playing with my right hand. Gently, they spread my fingers apart and curl them.
Another glove taps my forehead. When I look down, there's a glove in the air over Buddy's gut...
It's spread out, like my hand is.
Ad my fingertips are moved in a little scratching motion, that glove does the same thing.
"No," I whisper. They can't be serious.
The glove settles over Buddy's navel. Fingers tented, and waiting.
My own hand is forced to make a little... tickling-motion. And the glove kneads Buddy's gut in the same way.
I shake my head, over and over.
My feet get nuked!

They try to get me to tickle Buddy for hours. He opens his eyes now and then, but there doesn't seem to be any special reaction to seeing me almost looming over him like this. His thoughts are definitely elsewhere.
Jacking me off slowly, the glove curls my hand into a fist -
A leather thumb starts shoving its way in, past my pinky.
To my horror, another glove is wrapping around the tip of his cock.
I squeeze my fist closed... and he squeals in pain. Out of reflex, I loosen up my fingers.
Buddy sighs.
The fist slides down over his meat.
Now the thumb is in my grip.
I get another minute or two of deep toe-tickling, myself...
And, forgetting what will happen, I squeeze the leather thumb.
Buddy arches. Sounding so happy. The glove is getting him off.
When I relax, the masturbating glove stops too.
He wants to cum. Right?
I squeeze again, moving the pressure from one finger to another.
As if that was all the encouragement it needed, the glove starts pumping Buddy with calm, magical skill.
Ten minutes of squeezing and gesturing, and he shoots his wad. Relieved, smirking...
My fingers are curled back into that tent position.
A pair of gloves make the same gesture - just over his soles.
Fuck. There's no stopping this, is there?
I pull my fingertips closer together -
Boom! The gloves start digging into his arches. Energetic torment, taking advantage of all that hypersensitivity after he cums. Buddy leaps and screams, but his feet stay there. So convenient for the fingers, isn't it? He can't get his feet away. So insanely sensitive right now.
Sweeping my fingers sideways, just a little... I watch the gloves rake horizontially across Buddy's feet.
He's just squealing with frustration. Too much pleasure.
Experimentially, I curl my fingers - but much farther apart than if I was holding his cock - and squeeze a little.
Another pair of gloves darts down, wrapping around his heels. Squeezing.
When I pretend to squeeze, they make it happen there. Rocking and shifting around just enough to make it ache. Don't I know how that is.
Quick little fingertip-wiggles result in serious scrabbling of greased leather all over the top half of his soles. Tracing the undersides of the toes, stimulating the balls of each foot.
Pointing my index finger and tracing up and down gets the sides of Buddy's feet thoroughly rubbed.
He's really going out of his mind, isn't he?
I do the scrabbling gesture again. Firmer, and longer strokes.
Those gloves are digging into his arches.
He slams up and down, twice, and then he's so overwhelmed he can't even laugh.
"Interesting," Nichols whispered to me. "Isn't it?"
I don't know if it means Buddy's torment, or my caving in to participate. This is very confusing. Of course, it was going to drill him anyway. I tell myself I don't really have the ability to make things any worse, or any better, for him. Nichols is just having fun taking my suggestions for awhile.
"He's gonna get it," and Nichols has to chuckle, so quietly. "Not a damn thing he can do about it. This is so much fun."
Why is my disk getting hard?
"You can have fun, along with me... or laugh along with him."
Gloves curl around my feet.
"Up to you. Wanna make his afternoon a real hoot?"
I'm stuck. Get nuked, or nuke Buddy. No real choice, here. I nod my head, barely moving.
"That's good. Let's not tell him. If you give it away, I'll make you so sorry... Nod if you understand what I'm saying, here."
And I do.
Four gloves meet over Buddy's shaking chest.
"Where?" Nichols whispers slowly. "Tell me."
I struggle for a few seconds. Still bound. No way out, absolutely none.
"Arm...pits," I finally sigh. "Nuts. Ass-crack."
The gloves get to it.

After a while it's like... I'm actually the one who's tickling Buddy.
All of my fingers clench, wiggle, squeeze, and I'm conducting a team of six hands. Making him writhe in the cuffs until he just can't move a muscle. Whooping for all he's worth, barking insanely, moaning in that tone of voice that begs for the tickling to stop even though he knows damn well it's not possibly going to happen.
He's just buried in it.
The gloves keep mirroring what I do.
"Get his thighs," I whisper. Shit, I'm panting for breath -
Two of the hands rise up and do what I asked. Kneading.
Buddy growls.
"Knees."
And they do it!
I grunt - and see the glove holding my own balls.
"No," I bark.
"Sssssh. Get back to work."
I look at Buddy. Feverish, sweaty, still getting rubbed and massaged. My fingers twitch.
Slowly, I point my thumbs inward and move 'em around.
The gloves really stick it to Buddy's knees. All of the arching and straining he can do won't get him out of the grip of all those dedicated hands.
This isn't work at all.

We get a nap.
Then I'm by his side again. With gloves on my hands.
There's one quiet chuckle in my ear... and I know just exactly what that means.
It's such a relief to making a kneading motion, with both hands - and hear him explode into crazy, frantic, arousing laughter.
"You've got to chuckle, at least," Nichols whispers. "We don't want him getting suspicious."
Fingers tease my feet. They're going so much more easily than it could be that I explode into hoots. A hollow sound, compared to Buddy. I know something he doesn't. This is so fuckin' cool.
With my fingers spread out, I wave my hands.
Looking over, I see at least four gloves polish his torso.
He bucks so hard!
The sight makes me squeal so hard I can't keep watching. Easy tickling for me, a real asskicking for him... and he's gonna get it today, oh hell yeah. Ride him hard.
I make a squeezing gesture, tightening the leather across the back of my hands - and pedal my feet.
Looking over, I get to see a pair of gloves float right to Buddy's feet and go to town.

"I don't want him suspecting anything," Nichols tells me.
The rest break is maybe ten minutes gone. Buddy's draining a water bottle.
"Hang on," and I feel feathers taking their positions - all over me.
A match flares. He's getting a cigar.
And I'm getting nuked.
I think I understand it, but damn. He gets to watch me suffer for awhile.

And when he's done with the smoke - oh, yeah, the gloves follow my suggestions again. All of them.
For... hours.
 

I giggle myself awake - and look up. He's still asleep. Feet in the stocks, arms chained up.
"Are we gonna fuck him up today?," Nichols says quietly. I keep giggling -
Fingers tickle my belly-button, and I laugh harder.
"Now I'm going to be tickling you all day - but not nearly as hard as him. He'll look down and see you, so he knows it isn't just happening to him. But I don't think Buddy will be able to open his eyes very much."
"Good," I said.
The gloves were pulled on my hands...
"I'm keeping one of you. Which one should it be?"
Oh, wow. I'm getting into this now - but he's just so damn fun.
"The other one will keep up appearances. Make sure nobody suspects a thing."
"Damn. I..."
He's so peaceful now, strung up like that. Another day of fire. Nowhere to run.
"Who's more ticklish?" I ask. Hoping for one answer, and dreading another.
Nichols has to snort at that. "Too close to call. Need another month to decide."
Another month. And it's serious.
"Keep him," I whisper. It's hard to think about missing out on this, but knowing he'll have so many more days just like he has been...
"You think?"
"Make him happy."
Gloves start tickling his feet.
He wakes up in that thick, confused way. Laughing, and then looking down at me.
I make a couple tight fists. That means pull out all the stops.
Six other gloves pile on. He gasps, with big eyes, and starts to flail around. The stocks have him securely, utterly caught. The chains jingle. Muscular arms try to move this way and that.
Fingers plague his sides, and belly. Arches, toes...
They take hold of me, but the tickling is much less intense than it could be. I get to watch - and gesture.
"Nuh... neck."
Two gloves respond.
Buddy whines loud.
"Oh, yeah."

735

He ducked outside the door and got out his cigarettes.
When he exhaled smoke, with obvious relief, the ID number was checked - alright!
"Hey."
He looked around.
"What are you doing?"
"Uh -"
"Employees aren't allowed to smoke... but the patients can."
He looked every bit as confused as it could've wished. "I didn't know."
"No problem. If you want to smoke -"
Blindfold, gag, straitjacket attack.

He's dragged to a padded room. So private.
Let me - go!
I'm afraid that's impossible. You're a patient here.
I am not, I'm an employee.
You're incorrect. Please calm down... I understand you're a heavy smoker. Would you like a cigarette now?
Well, not a heavy smoker -
Be right back.
The door opens - but his straps don't let him get up. He watches the door impotently.
A fancy clipboard carries in four packs of cigarettes and a lighter. The door closes.
I don't need that many... uh -
You will. Buttons beep softly on the clipboard. Four packs a day. That's what it says.
It's wrong.
Now, Jeremy.
I'm a janitor here, dammit. Not an inmate!
Patient. We don't use the word 'inmate' here, that's for the prison side of things.
But this is the prison.
No, it's not. This is a separate facility. A... resident home.
With padded rooms?
We don't want to disturb anyone else.
How many other inmates - uh, patients are here?
Oh, you're the only one.
He reels from the implications...
You have no right to keep me - uh, call Mr. Swensen, he's my boss.
That's not true, Jeremy. You are not an employee, and I have every right to keep you here. For your own safety. If you were to leave now, all of the - heh - therapy you need would be missed.
Scan my eyes, he wails, that'll prove I'm not supposed to be locked up here. My shift ends at six.
A tolerant sigh. All right.
The scanner flickers across his eyes, and it beeps -

DOUPE, JEREMY F.

Yeah, that's his name, alright...

080384
Patient
Satellite Facility T
G. Argulees
INDEFINITE

No, he moans sadly. That's wrong. Today was my first day of work.
Now your work is feeling, uh, better. That's it. This is where you live. I have all kinds of ways to help you work through your... negative emotions.
Help me, he says, this is fuckin' wrong!
No one else is here, Jeremy. But I promise I'm going to help you.
The clipboard headed for the door, which opened -
And a wheeled cart rolled inside.
Now you just relax and concentrate, it says, fighting laughter.
And a pair of feathers are floating over him.
No no no!
Let's just get those socks off. Heh heh.
Help meeeee -
Attack.
He laughs...
That's very good, Jeremy. You just try to deal with this.
Going nuts doesn't loosen the straps any.
I'll keep turning up the heat, but you can be sure I'll keep you safe, and alert - and awake. All day. And I do mean - all day!
He roars frantically...

736

"No. Fuck, no," I said to the needle.
Already the plunger was sinking down...
The little machines were in me again. I couldn't feel 'em, but the dreams hadn't stopped. Eleven months had gone by.
And it was already too late to pull away.
They'd worked me over for five whole weeks. Before then, I would've told anybody there was nothing that scared me. It used to be true.
I was caught again. More -
That thought almost made me wet my pants. And I'd known, sorta, that it would happen again. Or been afraid of that, but here I am. The whole fucked-up ordeal...
My arms started to move.
"No," I said louder. Yelled it. Fast.
My hands came together. Still with my riding gloves on - I hadn't even had time to get 'em off after I lit my smoke - I watched my hands grab each other. They completely ignored me when I tried to stop 'em from moving. They bobbed a little bit, a lot calmer than I felt.
I knew that gesture. Victory.
Got you - again. Insane time, number two. Howling, shaking.
My body relaxed.
I wanted to yell my head off, but I just took a long drag and started my bike...

Riding out into the sticks. Strange roads. A hiding place was ready, just like the last time. Real fuckin' secret. Torture time. I couldn't do it again, but my whole body failed to listen...

Pulling a tarp over the bike, with hands way too steady. Walking like I owned the fuckin' planet, jingling as I went, I lit another smoke and headed for the door. It'll open right up, I thought. Just for me. Then it gets locked tight and I spend a thousand years getting tickled out of my mind. Same as last time.
The door opened right up.
After I let myself in, my hand shut the door behind me. I knew what came next, and I hoped so bad that it wouldn't happen.
But it did.
The lock turned. I didn't do it. My hands were nowhere near it.
Another hand floated over my shoulder. A few of 'em.
The tickler had me.
I wanted to beg like a fool. All my mouth did was smoke...
And I followed the hands into a room which a lot like the last one. All ready for me. Padded, big ol' locks. Endless tickling, harsh, impossible.
The door, closing up. Below me the pad was waiting, surrounded by straps. Chains and stocks, that damn rack I hadn't even wanted to really think about. The gloves hung there. All of it real, again, right here.
No matter how determined I was to stop myself from doing it, I got undressed anyway.

737

I look through Jon's porn, and wonder if he's up to the punishment he so richly deserves.
He didn't realize, I guess, that what he stole is valuable enough to have a automatic theft detection system. Powered on by default, with a little battery and a wireless modem...

Gary is only too willing to help me out. It'll get him out of performing for the camera for a while.
He works at the support desk. Lucky for me, ol' Gary was working at the time I discovered the theft. He jiggered the computer records in time.
Now the unit belongs... to me.

Since I've located it, the word "theft" no longer applies. I'm going to steal the thief, actually.
He's not home yet, but the unit is safe and sound.
The photos I've found make me real hopeful - about him.

Jon was stoned when he finally came home. I think he forgot about the unit. Well, if nothing else I'll just strap him down when he dozes off, and start checking him out.
There - he finally looks over at the box.Immersion goggles, earbuds, gloves...
He hesitates when it came time to pull one of the disposable sheaths over his cock. They almost always do. He'll be wearing one within the hour, voluntarily or not. But he finally gives in, and examines the chips.
I've been busy relabeling them, of course. He deserves my own edits.
How a thief can afford such a nice leather chair is beyond me. The restraints are hidden close by, along with the gag. I do like how stable the chair is, even after he leans back. Jon gloves up.

738

"Fuck," I sighed. They'd just poured another bottle of water down my throat, some of which I'd be pissing all over my legs, and lit about the sixth cigarette in a row. So I was loopy, trying not to think about when they'd start in again - and I was pissed off. "I hate gloves now. I do."
Even though the room was empty, or at least no other fuckin' person could hear me, it dawned on me that maybe saying that out loud was a mistake.
A quiet sound I'd come to recognize got me to lift my head real quick. Yeah, dammit, a rubber glove was being pulled out of the box.
"No," I grumbled, "look, I'm sorry, didn't mean it..."
Four gloves. As usual, they started acting like there were hands sliding inside. The sight of that made my stomach lurch. Every time.
"You know I'm fried, here. C'mon."
When two of them picked up the ball-gag, I started rattling the stocks as much as I could. The other pair was -
"No. Oh, shit, no, not the rollers. I'm sorry! Dammit, no -"
But the cigarette was pulled away, and the ball slapped against my lips. Pressure shoved it between my teeth. I wasn't even done kicking out smoke when the strap tightened against my hair. All I could do was squawk, then... and cuss. But the cart was wheeling over already, with the straps rising up like magic. They circled my ankles and pulled the rollers up. Fuckin' fur, all over my feet. I could bank on an hour of serious frustration now, absolute hysteria, and the fuckers wouldn't even let me howl properly.
Then, as it always did, it got worse. The gloves returned with more gloves. Fuckin' nightmare tickling for me - thin leather, with wires trailing out. Real easy little current, vibrating against my palms, fingertips, webbing between each finger... somehow tickling more and more as it got the nerves going. Something like that. An odd little sensation the first thirty seconds, getting deeper and more like fuckin' feathers as it went on - and I knew these fuckin' gloves wouldn't be turned off for a good hour, either. I was going to be completely unhinged for a good chunk of the afternoon. And no cigarettes either, dammit.
Groaning, I tried to apologize as best I could. The gag made sure that didn't amount to shit. With a click, the rollers started to move - making me jump back, or try to - and they picked up speed...
I was squealing and yelping like a fool, jerking around uselessly. The stocks had me just as snug as ever. The thick waves of fur-tickling made it hard to pay any attention to my hands, and clenching my fists was definitely out of the question. The fuckin' power gloves were pulled on, almost casually, and they fit like a dream - which turned ugly as the vibrating started.
And I still couldn't fuckin' believe how ticklish my feet were, but that didn't begin to explain how amazing my hands, well, they betrayed me. So sensitive I couldn't even think straight. As usually happens I lost all track of whether I was squirming around, or laughing all that much. The reports my brain was getting from my hands and feet blew away every outside concern - at least, until the gloves laid their greased-up fingers down around my crotch. That made me howl again, for a little while, and start arching into their grip... but my hands were so alive I couldn't ignore 'em, and the fur really made my feet scream with pleasure. Too much pleasure, way too much. But it was still pleasure, just like the teasing hands all over my package. Any one of the three was enough to make me lay there and drool all over the gag. All of the action going on had my mind totally locked down, every bit as much as my body was immobilized. There was no chance of even thinking about something else. Feet, hands, basket - focusing on one area after the other, round and round. Way occupied with the tickling. Hell, that was all there was. It mattered so much more than anything else...

739

"Boo," a guy's voice says patiently. "Wake up now."
"Hmmzzzf..."
"I'm responding to your ad."
That work him up some. Discovering the restraints and the furniture around him pretty much finished the job.
"Help," he said to a camera hanging over him.
"What do you need?"
Looking all around, Boo couldn't place where the voice was coming from. "I need to get out of here."
"Are you sure?"
Aw, hell, he thought. He wasn't sure, actually. This was the kind of cell he dreamed about. But unless he was totally dreaming... the guy talking to him was invisible. And there was something in that tone of voice that didn't bode well.
I'm not getting out of here, he thought fearfully. Not so easy.
"I... help, help, haaaaalp!," he roared.
"Boo. Think for a second."
"Think about what?" But his eyes cruised around the cell again. Maybe he was supposed to think about the prospect of somebody actually hearing him scream. That didn't look too likely.
"Anything here look carelessly done? Half-assed?"
"No," he finally said, yanking at taut leather. Dammit - the rack to which he was strapped was enormous. His arms were held down, straight out from his sides... and his feet were elevated a little and strapped together. Way too much -
"Like I said," the voice said cheerfully, "your ad got my attention."
"Who are you?"
"Not a 'who', exactly. At least not like you meant. Some guys know me as Cooker."
Boo's heart thumped harder. "Let me go."
"OK. Eventually."
"Shit..."
"Isn't this exactly what you were looking for?"
That made him scan the room again. "Way too much. Uh."
"Boo."
"Not that I wanna appear, y'know, ungrateful... but damn."
The voice chortled. One relaxed, interested fucker, there, floating somewhere over his basket. "You can take it."
"I was - aw, fuck. Look. I was only looking for a few hours of - uh, maybe one night."
"If one night is good," Cooker shot back, "one month is even better."
That sentence refused to make sense, or something. Boo really wanted to pass out, before the nightmare picked up steam, but he couldn't make it happen.
 

Oh, the point is to give you something you like. Tickling. Just... too much of it. A little too much, sometimes, and far too much at other times. More than you can enjoy, really. Can't have you getting bored, here.
 

"Naaah! Pleeeeeeeeezzzzzz! Staaaaaaahaaahaaaaahaaaaaaaaa! Naaaaaaaaaaawhoaaaaooooo aaaah haaah haaaaaaaaaah!!"
Rowdy, lusty roars, loud and desperate.
Boo was in a bad way. He threw his head around, squirming hard. Laughing harder.
He was caught good. The gloves and feathers took full advantage of that.
They'd been drilling him for awhile. It didn't matter how long it had been going on. There was no rush. The dungeon was available indefinitely... and Boo needed to stay out of sight. The longer, the better.
The faint sounds the cool fingers made were drowned out by his bellowing. They rubbed and squeezed without hesitating or stumbling. As he tired, his struggling started to fade. But the gloves didn't tire. Boo's head moved less and less, and eventually he couldn't even pull at the straps anymore.
But the feathers blanketed his feet with the smooth repetition of a machine. The agile hands clenched and stroked.
Beyond the barred window, daylight started to fade. Boo didn't open his eyes anymore. He didn't struggle. He just laughed.

Suffer. That's it.
They had his... consciousness well in hand. Fully exposed, set for their kind of workout. All theirs.
Try to comprehend this, they think - stroking faster.

__july2006
 

copyright inquiries to smoker at rocketmail dot com