751

He's howling. The room is different, but what the gloves are doing is the same thing they always do. They've got him strapped into this heavy-duty sex sling and he's just too tired to squirm anymore, but he can howl just fine...
Then he coughs, and they're over him and the same old ceiling is beyond. Fuck. So that was just a dream, being the new guy who still had a voice. Sucks to go through it all day, and most of the time he dreams about the same damn thing.
Another bro had been hauled in three days ago. By now his voice was shot. Three days - hell, it could've been a week already. The days kinda ran together.
Big fun for everybody here.
Fingers curl around his cock.

Good morning, prisoner. He always thinks that, as if the first couple gloves were greeting him. So glad you're awake and sensitive and fuckin' anchored down. You'll cum now, if we want, or laugh good 'n hard. Another long day.
He grunts a couple times, checking the straps just in case. Laid out as usual.
Some of the gloves lift his head and jam a pillow underneath. Others are getting him a cigarette, bringing the lighter.
There.
In the room behind him there's the quiet sound of the bedsprings, creaking over and over. Some other guy trying to shoot his wad. Being forced to cum. Dark hands getting him off, making him laugh his guts out.

The hand playing with him feels like silk, and it knows just how to get him panting like a dog. Tightening one finger at a time, just like that, and then sliding up... and down.
He kicks out smoke and tries to enjoy the hand-job. The glove probably won't finish him off yet, but it feels good.
The gloves bring another cigarette right away.
Looking past 'em at the door. Open. They don't even have to lock the damn doors. About fifty years ago that used to bug the shit out of him.
Once in a while they haul him to one of the other rooms. That never happened the first couple months, and then something changed. The fuckers opened all the doors to the rooms and hauled him out into the hall. At the far end there was a solid metal door, barred and locked. It didn't look right for a motel. But the lobby was worse. That door was fuckin' lined up and down with locks. The gloves pulled his wrist-cuffs up to a chain hanging from the ceiling and drilled him for a couple hours, then dragged him down to a room with this big, fancy tub. Chained his limbs and tickled the fuck out of him with water-jets. Oily water...
But he saw at least eight other bros during the trip, caught in their rooms or being moved from one place to another. The whole damn motel had been taken over. Instead of thinking about how much longer it would be until they cut him loose, he just gave up thinking about that shit. Fuck, they'd locked the place down, alright.

Oh, shit, it isn't gonna let him shoot yet. Teasing. Dammit.
Starting another smoke, he looks around the bed for some clue about what was coming next. Sometimes they'll show a few of the toys that were on deck.
How long ago did they open the door to his room? Well, he was grabbed in August and apparently there's still snow on the ground outside.
It sorta bothers him that he's glad about the others. As if it would suck even more - yeah, like that's possible. But the place could be full up, for all he knows. Fuckers gettin' tickled in every room. They come and go, and his best guess is that they're not healthy enough to keep up. But he's seen a few of the same bros over and over when the gloves feel like shuffling 'em around. Damn, if he'd been stuck in this same damn room the whole time he really would've lost it. There's the room with the electrical toys, and the one full of webs - leather nets - and the one with all the racks. They got a fucked-up idea of letting him out for rec time. It's always the same thing, but at least the scenery changes. It would be better if bros were getting sprung, but worse if he was the only one or something. All these gloves.
They catch new guys every couple weeks, so maybe there's still empty rooms. All prepped. Gloves out there, hunting for scooter folk. Bringing 'em in here and locking all those locks again. That's what happened to him - he stopped for a couple beers in Hickory before that long stretch on the freeway to the state line. There was something wrong with the taste, though, and he felt all weird. Made it out the door and almost on his bike before the gloves jumped him. They had duct tape - and an old pickup truck.
The last thing he remembered was bouncing down the road, away from the fuckin' onramp, looking through the back window at his bike in the truck bed. Empty gloves holding the steering wheel, curled around the gas pedal. Then everything went gray - and he woke up here. This fuckin' room. And they had him already spread out, looking up at all these fingers on the way...
He tries to arch, but the fingers are on to him. Uh-uh. Bad boy. So he slams his ass back down and growls out smoke.
They got his number. All these dudes. Put through the wringer, like him. And the kid.

That guy still comes to mind a lot. He don't belong here - well, fuck, nobody should be there. But they were all bikers. Sometimes he could talk himself into believing that they were being tortured for something - like there was a reason for having to go through all this shit.
But then the gloves up and grabbed a hitchhiker. Wiry fucker, with his little backpack and a big ol' pot leaf on his t-shirt. And that stupid goatee. Just too good to pass up, he guesses. And a couple months ago he came out of the fever and looked over at the door... and there's the kid. Gloves latched on, all over him. Big, scared eyes, lookin' at the usual routine.
If he'd known there was somebody watching he would've at least made it look like he was putting up a good fight. But that was hours into the day, and he was zoned. No fight left, hardly ever laughin' unless they wanted him to. Relaxed, sorta. Used to it. That's what this college boy saw.
And now, room 10. This biker's not a whole lot older than you are. He's been getting nuked for months. Fuckin' for real. Months and months. And he's still ticklish. All these hardcore outlaws are gettin' played with until they're just out of their fuckin' minds. And now, li'l hitchhiker, we got you too. Let's show you the room where you're gonna start howling.
He just thought if they were gonna target bikers, then it was even more unfair to throw in a citizen here and there. Something like that.
This is so solidly fucked. If the motel ain't full yet, it will be. All of 'em with their voices worn out but still laughing sometimes, cumming their brains out sometimes, feeling the rush damn near all the time.

The gloves take the cigarette away when it's burned down. None of 'em are holding a new one.
He sighs. Here we go.
Fingers slide around his arches. Oiled. Dammit, he wants to snap these fuckin' straps so bad -
But all he manages to do is chuckle. On and on.
Three chains pinning each ankle. They mean business. Totally serious. Not just a little rope, or some punk-ass cuffs that wouldn't even hold the hitchhiker's legs when they got to motivating his ass. No, the gloves brought serious fuckin' cuffs. And chain - shit. They really didn't want his feet going anywhere.
There they are. His feet. Spread wide, and heels just off end of the mattress. The usual. Black gloves are workin' on his soles.
Shaking his head, a bunch of whoops sorta explode out of this bugshit whine he was making. Trying to roll, pull up, kick down, scootch closer and further away doesn't do a damn thing. Three chains. Fuckin' sons of bitches got it so he can't get his damn feet to move in any direction. And they're rubbing deep.
His feet are staying right where they are.
Barking laughter. Slamming his head on the pillow. No.
It was bad, the first day... but they've had months to soften 'em up. Every inch. The first time they shaved the top of his feet it was so damn intense when they used feathers, there, that he kept blacking out. The gloves learned, though.
They must have fifty different things they use. Feathers and brushes, obviously. Plus all these other things, hard and soft. He can't even guess how many hours they've spent on his feet. Or his sides. Makin' him more ticklish. Cranking it up...
Two dozen rooms, in this place, maybe three dozen. Lots of biker feet - cuffed tight. Hundreds of gloves runnin' the show.
The fingertips race up and down.
He's just roaring. It pours out. Never hard enough, somehow, oh shit. It's like the weirdest kind of fire rolling from his heels to his toes. He can't even think straight now.
Feet in every room. Wrists in cuffs, pinning tattooed arms. Like his arms. So many ribs to bulldoze, drill, belly-buttons and necks, ass-cracks, knees, titties, shins.
A couple dozen gloves for each room...
Waking 'em all up in the usual way.
He fuckin' laughs and laughs.

All day.

[Well, there's breaks for food, water - even just to catch his breath.
Rolled over, then face-up again.
Over to the stocks. Serious, stone-cold drilling. Torso first - lots of feathers, then oil and lots of brushes, massagers. Feathers relentlessly working on his nipples and balls. Cum-shot, and no less than eight gloves with different brushes surround his toe-restrained feet. Half a smoke after the cumshot, they attack full-bore...]

Waking up back in bed. Dusk, to judge from the cracks around the edge of the drapes. Thick, ugly drapes to make sure no one could ever just pull into the parking lot, maybe checking their radiator or something, and glance at the building. Wondering, well huh, wonder how long that place has been closed...
The people passing through ain't gonna find out. They just going by, not all that many cars but they sound as if the road isn't right close so he figures there must be a decent space between where he lies and the right lane of the road. Obviously it's enough of a distance to keep the secret safe. No discovering the ticklish bikers that are caught in here - the gloves see to that.
The gloves are on guard duty - that's what he calls it. A pack of gloves hanging around him, every few minutes reaching down to stroke his arm or sorta pet his belly for a minute, then letting go and floating back overhead, and another glove wanders down... They'll do this for hours sometimes, as if the rougher tickling in the stocks is known to be something that wears him out. Really, they do this light petting thing so much - making it hard to smoke, though he's usually got one between his teeth at their insistence, definitely this petting is fuckin' impossible to deal with and yet carefully not-quite-enough to make him laugh, or keep laughing, which sometimes would be such a huge fuckin' relief.
One of 'em holds his fingers open, so another can take a feather to his right palm.
He manages to giggle a few times before the next cigarette arrives.
 

[Possible sequel to this sequel -
A local breaks into the storage barn.
All these sweet bikes hiding in here!
But the gloves were ready for this event. In the dim light a trap door is pulled open - and gloves hustle the wannabe thief down -
Underneath.
Two soundproofed rooms have been built. The thief gets dragged into the unoccupied one, next the the last guy who broke in. The gloves have started splitting the motel rooms in half, though, so these prisoners will be moved into the motel in a few weeks.
The broken lock on the outer door is fixed within a half-hour.
 

Meanwhile, Madden's ungrateful son is laughing the days and nights away at the fortified, semi-hidden lake cabin...]

752

The bartender was telling the new state trooper about the phantom, up in the hills. Two other customers rolled their eyes...
Grenkel didn't appreciate that, but it was focusing on the cop. Twenty-five, and just about as arrogant as they get. He was married, though, and a second kid was on the way. That discouraged Grenkel only because it didn't like to move a guy from cell to cell once the tickling had started.
With five hundred square miles that were all but impossible to search, it preferred loners. Or malcontents. Both of the bartender's grown sons were extremely fun. The older one had managed to get a girl pregnant, however, and the twenty-year-old was being petted into that best kind of insanity by Trappercrawl. It would probably be working him over for another month or so, but there was no telling with Trap. When the kid walked back into the bar, Grenkel wanted to know about it. He'd last about eighteen hours before he brought a joint or a pill up to his lips, and it looked forward to reeling him back in for the summer.
It was getting downright charitable. That bothered it sometimes. There were practical considerations - such as the value of keeping a guy bugshit for the seventh month, or tenth month, instead of driving him hard for only a few weeks. Its preference for men without families led it to more addicts and wanderers - which made for more work as it detoxed them and built up their strength, usually to levels they'd never known before. But more often than not it paid off down the line. Wildcats, once their systems were clear... It could always hold the unfailing promise of a lot more tickling over their heads when they relapsed, and they nearly always did.
Best of all, though, if it caught them at a point where everyone was disgusted enough to stay away, the guys could disappear for the better part of a year, or several times during a decade, and no one raised the alarm. In a cabin that was far enough away, Grenkel could bring in a year's worth of supplies and never even think about the risks that imprisoning men in the city would bring.
In all, it had hauled nine guys from Seattle to the county. Four were clean and sober, three had fled the northwest... and two were retaken every year by Grenkel or Trappercrawl. None of them were believed, really, if they told other people what their lives had been like in the hills.
That was more work than it felt like taking on, so it eyed the trooper again. Humbling him would be exquisite. Maybe he'd start to drink more, and then they could dry him out -
One of the patrons, half-drunk, started in on how the whole legend of ghosts in the mountains was pure horseshit. Grenkel had never been dead, so the idea of being called a ghost did not improve its mood. The drunk was a fat slob, though, who'd never make it through the third hour of tickling.
It studied the other patron of the bar, already in the mood to stick it to somebody...
And there was something about him. It was intrigued, and the reason wasn't obvious at all. He was a guy like dozens of other mountain men - introverted to the extreme, habitually not even making eye contact with anyone else. He nursed a second beer and smoked his cigar, watching the counter rather than the TV.
Another "invisible" man.
If only it had seen him ten years earlier...

Over the next half-hour, Grenkel got more and more angry.
The cop deserved a six-month tickling, but he'd be missed. Searched for. The fat drunk really had it coming, but he couldn't handle the kind of marathon it liked best. Even the bartender was annoying because he could make such unusually ticklish sons, but neither one was available -
The urge to catch and tickle was building. Seattle, then. Pick one, break him in at the closed ferry house, and drive him back here tomorrow...
Or teach the quiet man a lesson. Let the months slowly go by.
The decision was made.
There was no sensible reason for it. He might be completely unreactive -
But, again, something was nagging at Grenkel. There was more to the shy bastard than he showed...
And he got up from his stool, chomped down on his cigar and left a single for the bartender. Taking off.
Well, one of the Seattle stoners would surely provide Grenkel with enough wild entertainment. This hulking man had no idea he was walking away from the most intense possible tickling. If it allowed him to leave -
No.
Again, it saw the complete lack of logic. But it was hunting, and he was what it hunted. Three months of endurance-building would make him a new man. Hell, it would actually be doing him a favor.
He walked outside and dug for his keys. Rusty pickup truck.
After he slid in and slammed the door, Grenkel entered his head...

Wow.
It was stunned - and that never happened. The structure of things was all wrong. Stripped-down...
Struggling to orient itself, Grenkel shut down his voluntary nervous system. He slumped a little, but that was all. It was blocking his awareness of the takeover.
As a test, it had him puff on his cigar a few times. He responded immediately. Okay, then.
What the hell was going on inside him?
There was very little activity. A sex urge rutted away, quiet grunts and sweat dripping down... but it stood out more than in most men. Perhaps it was the shortage of other thought.
The cigar gave him comfort. There were three more boxes in the old ammo-case behind him, in the truck bed. He'd bought them two hours before, along with five pounds of coffee, two gallons of lantern fuel - the whole list appeared before it, and no alcohol or rolling papers were included.
Leaving town was the only need it could detect. He wanted to be back home.
No - needed to be there. Alone. Safe.
The guy had no other worries. Hardly ever thinking about... anything at all. Grenkel had never been inside a mind that was so uncluttered.
It made him smoke again, just to watch the pleasure consume almost all of his attention. That was just fascinating. No distractions at all. Pure -
Grenkel rocked back at the truth which was one of the biggest shocks it could remember.
He was a creature which ran on sensation. More like a mountain lion than a man, with the usual nervous system found in his species, substandard intelligence... and a breathtaking lack of any mental defenses against pain.
Or pleasure.
Where many other guys could develop ways to cope with the tickling, and miss out on the majority of the stimulation - this animal was incapable of distracting himself at all. He lived in the moment. No, even more than that, tickling would lock every other developed cognition out of his mind. Even when it paused, his entire self would be incomparably focused on the sensation...
There was no way it would miss an opportunity like this. Not even if he'd been in a maximum-security prison. This was the most exciting discovery in years, and he had to be isolated and conditioned -
Oh course. He lived alone.
Really, seriously alone... coming among other people three or four times a year. Never saying more that five words to any of them.
If anyone could vanish from the face of the earth -
Grenkel wouldn't let that happen, though. He wasn't going to slip the noose.
It released his body.
He puffed lazily on the cigar.
Sighing out smoke, he reached down and started the truck. No mood change whatsoever. He didn't know anything out of the ordinary had happened...
Keeping him unaware of its presence, Grenkel watched him turn onto the street and drive toward his remarkably, unusually remote shack.

Time to dig into his memory.
Along the side of the road, it superimposed a new word on the billboard and instantly took it away from his awareness...
 

ticklish

 
His brain faithfully translated the word into simpler impressions, as was his way -
Oh, fuck, he hated that. Violent reaction, completely excessive. No tickling!
Nobody reacts to the idea that fiercely, it thought...
The shivering, fearful, angry result was stronger than it expected. The feelings were translated into simple words, but the sheer intensity of the process in his head made it hungrier than ever.
It would take months to turn that around. Maybe Grenkel would find it entertaining to reverse his position, and maybe not - but the capacity he had, there, was dizzying. If a nonspecific memory caused such a blast of mammalian instinct...
A-ha. There it was. A girlfriend, when he was thirteen - and three older sisters coming into the room. Blocking the door, waving a coil of rope in front of his confused face, all of them with diabolical smiles.
A long night. Unthinkably high levels of tactile response. Impressive arousal. Crushing embarrassment, at voiding his wastes. A vast longing for escape, an end to the paralyzing overload - only to feel the hands returning again and again, far more than a dozen times. His discomfort with numbers was unmistakable.
Before he could realize what was causing the disturbance in his thoughts, Grenkel wiped the slate clean. It took only another breath for him to relax again, and finish his cigar.
Moving so quickly he couldn't realize the new subjects, it gathered a few facts about him. Thirty-four years old last January, divorced -
She had moved to Colorado. Bitter words, confusing to him. Grenkel got the impression she had high hopes for changing him into a more sophisticated man... There was no understanding the mind of the human female, though. Just about every tickler agreed on that.
Fourteen months of marriage, and she had left. It took him less time to settle back into his private world, more sure than ever that people were best avoided, kept far away.
He had almost fourteen thousand dollars left in the bank. An uncle had died several years before. Hunting and fishing provided nearly all of his food -
At the start of each new year, there was a painstaking attempt to see how many more years he could live on his own without having to return to town and get a job. So long as the answer was greater than a dozen, he completely ignored the subject until the year's end rolled around again.
Grenkel, of course, had better uses for that money. He'd be forced to enjoy all kinds of intimidating toys, shipped from California...

After an eighty-minute drive - a good part of which was on narrow paths even Grenkel couldn't have found - - he pulled in behind a sad ten-by-ten hovel.
. . .
 

It checked to see how things were going, in his mind.

Concussive laughter...

He roared to himself, holding nothing back. Fine, lusty barks. Just a little reverb.
Already he was incapable of thinking. Nothing else was going on in there. No wishing, no hoping...
He was made for this. His cerebellum was fully occupied. Perfect optimization. The payoff was so dazzling, for Grenkel, that it was just overwhelmed.
Happily, it threw a quiet suggestion into the mix -

I'm getting even more ticklish

Whooping, he signaled his agreement. Or, maybe, his obedience. Works either way.
One more little nugget of truth, for now -

This thing never gets tired of tickling me.

Explosively, he howled and hollered...
And yet his body breathed deeply, normally, making no other sound.

oh fuck i can't take this it's too much i can't oh fuck it tickles so MUCH oh fuck

That was about the extent of it, so far as his higher thought processes went. Incredible.

so much tickling

Think bigger, it urges. More tickling and more and more and more...
. . .

[Sucrose "cheers" him up - multiplies the ferocity of his inner laughter. That shouldn't work - it doesn't, on anyone else - but this gorilla is unique. Once the tickling-juices start to flow, either by the threat of imminent asskicking or the start of the hands-on festivities, something treacherous happens in his brain chemistry. Common table sugar becomes a powerful amplifier. More of his brain than most people use wakes up and concentrates on the tickling, and for some baffling reason the sugar makes it work a lot more efficiently or something. Of all the bad luck, for this goon.]
. . .
 

Mesmerized by the sheer amount of internal, low-pitched hysteria, it wanders around and "soaks" in the onslaught...
The hysteria fully ruled him now. Filling him already, and more glee continued pumping in, bouncing around. Rowdy. Almost stifling in its sheer "mass".
How can he possibly be this consumed with it?
When it thinks to check, almost six hours have gone by.
. . .

Smoking hard, he watches the toe rings being placed with worried fascination. It found his predominant thought to be curiosity - to keep himself from thinking about what was about to start again, he studied how the rings were connected. Almost impressed that something like them could be made, specially for this.
It was so charged, picking up the gloves and bringing them to his feet -
He started to groan immediately, jerking and kicking.

four magic hands gonna tickle real hard oh no oh no no no it tickles it tickles

It had two of the gloves each pick up a big feather.

He was stuck in a cycle of hard, monotonous chuckling. It sounded more urgent than his laughter usually did. After appreciating the sound for a few seconds, it slipped inside his mind.
The space had grown. Cavernous now, looming. Bright pink. More capacity.
Dazed, it started to move around. The sound was reverberating more than it had earlier - and it was also thumping along, a rhythm that couldn't be heard or ignored.
Two slow feathers generated / refined / distilled a quantity of frenzied neuroelectrical activity that would've otherwise required a dozen glove-covered men.
. . .
 

[Far, far more capacity. Where other men could be forced to keep stepping up their capacity to feel the ticklishness by a factor of ten, this guy immediately went for a thousand. Attempts to describe are making it "gape", "speechless". Suggests unthinkable potential. The pink seems to be some childhood referent to cotton candy, a great time at the county fair. It's growing - the pink space - some concrete metaphor of how completely involved he is in the tickling. And already there's so much space for Grenkel to "fill"...)]

753

He starts pulling again, mournfully laughing right away. The sound is scratchy and completely automatic. Our ropes keep him stretched ideally tight.
His sixth hour of excitement starts - now.
We plow into him with six gloves.

Red, sweaty skin under our fingers, more reactive than it was when we started.
After a lightheaded scream, he starts that meaty roar we like so much. Satisfying, and it's like proof that we're really putting him to the best use we have for his ass. He's still laid out under us, no matter how much he fights the ropes, and nobody's around to hear him. So we relax again and scale it back.
Less fierce, but more deep. Thirty fingers... and we know what we're doing. This is only half of the spots that we'll cover. His most sensitive areas were learned hours ago. Ranked. It's amusing to watch his reaction as one additional glove joins the pack after each rest break.
Damn, we love making him squirm. This resistance has been fading sooner each time we start back in. The longer periods of fingering and rubbing when he can't even fidget anymore is energizing too. Maybe any tickling that we're actually doing at the moment is the best. It sure beats tickling that hasn't started yet...
He's just unhinged. Our plaything. This is gonna be seriously fun.

754

As soon as he got in his room, I knocked on the door.
He opened it and saw no one - but his peripheral vision caught the movement. I zoomed the gloves in, way down by the floor, and bobbed 'em up behind his back.
By the time his head whipped around, I had 'em poised to clamp on. Shoulders, wrists. Another pair slapped his hand away from the doorknob. I had two others push the door open with the gym bags. Then I shut the door and locked it.
His head swiveled as he tried to watch all this, instinctively trying to back away at an angle toward the wall. It was so easy to come around from behind his head and clamp some big ol' fingers over his mouth. I unzipped one of the bags and selected a ball-gag.
"Travis," I greeted him warmly. "How's it hangin', dawg?"
He wailed as loud as he could.
Some of my gloves opened the other bag and pulled out athletic tape, a straitjacket... and a diaper.

He flopped all around as I pulled off his clothes.
A trash bag was the next thing I pulled out of my gym bag, and Travis didn't like the sight of his jacket being stuffed into it. "You are the most studly nerd I've ever seen," I told him. "Say goodbye to these shoes."
Yelling into the leather, he fought so hard...
I decided to slam him down on the bed. "No more shoes, buddy. Not anymore. You know why?" Jeans, shoes and underwear were stuffed into the trash bag.
Ankle-fetters were the next thing I brought out.

He put up an impressive fight as I got the straitjacket on him, then the diaper, and finally the ball-gag.
"Let's see it," I ordered. "Give it your best shot."
A wonderful moment of confusion crossed his face.
"Bust loose. Get away from me. Better do it now. Do you remember the last time?"
He moaned into the ball-gag.
"You up for a lot more of the same?"
A scream - and he went haywire. The straightjacket and tape held up, though. All I had to do was drag him back to the center of the mattress now and then.
He was dripping with sweat when he finally stopped to catch his breath.
"Not gonna escape, huh? Sticking around. Excellent."
Weary cussing.
"Aww. Right about now, I bet you're probably remembering how it was. Two unbelievably long weeks. And maybe, dude, you're wondering if I can keep anybody else from finding out for two more weeks. Or three." I chuckled indulgently.
He shook his head slowly, eyes filling with tears.
"But guess what, Travis? Ol' buddy? Ticklish son of a bitch. This time it's gonna be different. I went to a lot of trouble to set up a nice, private place. And you're gonna go there. Oh, yes you are. Accidential discovery will be out of the question... and we're goin' for a whole lot more than a lousy couple weeks. Why, shit, there's no limit to how much tickling I get to dish out. All over you. It's all set now. That's a promise. The vacation of a lifetime, Trav. You're worth it."
He slammed his head on the mattress. His yells would've been impressive, no doubt, if it wasn't for the gag.
. . .

Within ten minutes he's too consumed to laugh very loud.

Another half-hour passes...
"Trav," I say in his ear.
He's breathing hard, but his eyelids open just a little.
"I'm going to take your gag off. You are not going to yell, because if you do I promise two hours of the most psychotic tickling there is. And I know your body inside and out. Plus I won't let you cum for a week. And you get a dildo-gag instead. All for a single yell out of you."
He looks just miserable.
"Hard tickling, or end-game tickling. Your choice."
It's easy enough to tickle him so that he can't make any noise. I watch his head roll a little - one defeated tickle-toy, here - and set the gag down near his head. Yeah, I think he believes me.

"You son of a b-bitch," he cackles, sounding delighted. Merry. "I can't t-take this anymore."
"Sure you can. It's only been three hours since you opened the door, and let me in," I tell him slowly. "That's all. We've got at least that long until the sun comes up."
"Pleee-heee-heeeeze."
"And tomorrow we move to the tickle-dungeon. I'm gonna make it happen."
That makes him whoop so hard he can't speak anymore.
. . .
 
 

[A few days after the move to the dungeon]
"Hh-haallp," he cackled, "somebody. Pleeeeeeze -"
I stopped all the feathers. "Travis. Let's run through it again."
"Nuh. No, no -"
A few more seconds of fierce tickling got him nodding his head.
"Can anybody hear you?," I said meaningfully.
"No, dammit. Nobody... They don't know I'm in here," he whined.
"Keep going."
"I used to think they'll look for me, and bust in here. Or somebody would go backpacking and walk too close. Hear me." He grabbed a breath and chuckled for a few seconds. "But they won't! Nobody's ever gonna come here."
"Right! So you're stuck in my loving, never-tiring, talented tickling hands."
"Nobody's gonna rescue me... and you won't let me go today."
"Damn straight."
"Oh nooo hooo hooo-oooooo," he laughed.

Finally he said, "I wanna believe you're lying."
"But saying that proves you don't."
I let him think that over for a few minutes.

755

He fought until the anger and panic wore him out. Then the deeper impact would begin teaching him all of the uncharted potential his body contained. Skin and muscle were always up to the task, and fifty more years wouldn't exhaust the possibilities.
. . .

So unsophisticated, it was frightening...

The gloves roamed all over his body for two hours, five, eight. He was given rest breaks, and water... a snack after the fourth hour ended... and every other hour he was interrogated.
He didn't have the information.
The tickler knew that right away, but he was too interesting to let go. Calm, thoughtful, and it hadn't put a smart guy through his paces in a long while. His weeks would be expertly paced, alright. Unbearable bliss.

756

"There he is!," Peak said amiably.
Sink had just entered the room - unwillingly. Apex had marched him in, arms held up behind him, and he was squirming every which-way. A small palmtop computer followed him into the scan room.
"No, dammit - let me go!"
"Doctor's orders," Apex teased. "Scan time."
"This is a crock. Fake hospital -"
"That's what they all say."
"Hey, lock the door, Apex," Peak said. "We can't have him running around loose, can we?"
"Getting out of the treatment he's got coming."
"Aw, fuck," Sink grumbled, watching the door swing out. The computer drifted past him...
A latex glove caught it.
"Let's see," Peak said, bringing another hand up to push the buttons. "Full scan. Twelve hours. Okay, then -"
"Twelve?," he hollered.
"Yeah," Apex said - with a giggle.
"It was two! That's what the Doc said! Two!," Sink yelled, furious and scared.
"No, this says twelve," Peak said gently. "Not two."
"Fucker changed it. In the hall -"
"Would I go and do something like that?," Apex fired back, still sounding as if it was going to bust up laughing.
The gloves buckled him in. Tight. He struggled...
"Dammit," he finally sighed.
"Now he's in for a long, full scan," Peak giggled.
"Twelve hours. Yep."
"Two," he whined.
"The Doctor wants us to err on the side of... uh, thoroughness," Apex said.
"And this whole scan bullshit - I know it's you. Dammit. The Doc's invisible, you're invisible... Rubber gloves instead of leather - like that's gonna fool me? Nobody writes a prescription for this bullshit!" he yelled. "Weeks and weeks of sadistic tickling -"
But the voices chuckled at him.
Latex gloves were coming to life - eight, twelve, sixteen. They met at the pump-top bottle of the lube jug like farm animals gathering at the trough.
"Have a fun day, Sink," Apex said.

757

Having picked him up in the bar, taken him to her room and tied him down, she proceeded to fuck him senseless. Untying his hands, she kissed him and took off.

While he continued to doze...
The door clicked, opening silently. So quietly, not waking him, shapes float in. Two of them carry satchels.
They close the door and lock it.
Ten merciless gloves...
Retying the rope.

He thought he was dreaming, seen only in the dim light from the wall sconce. Hands. No arms, no people.
Gloves, actually, in the air over him.
One moved down - with the ease of long practice - and laid over his mouth. Before he knew it, he was gagged. Struggling didn't make it budge, either.
Two of the gloves went down to the floor. There was a zipper-sound -
And one of them brought a ball-gag.
Oh, he really fought with the ropes. But a good half-dozen joined together and got the gag buckled tight. He was confused, more worried now...
And a glove brought him something.
One white feather. It was laid across his belly.
Realization dawned. And the fear multipled quickly. He tried as hard as he could to get loose. Glancing over at the door - closed, behind the gloves, after they came in they must've shut the door so nobody would possibly know what outrageous, sensual torment was going to take place - he yelled and the effectiveness of the gag was so frustrating.
Those fingers were intent on... him!
Shaking his head wildly, he watched them float down.
. . .
 

Suddenly awake. Odd dreams, unsettling -
Where was he? This room? Strapped down.
He got laid. Her place... except it was obvious now that this wasn't her place at all. He tried to remember where they'd gone, but he had been just a little drunk and failed to pay enough attention. Hell, he wasn't even sure what street this place was on.
This was a room for hiding and tickling stupid horndogs.
She'd used rope. The gloves had better shit. And it was still on him, so all those hours last night must not have been enough.
Oh, they weren't done with him. Not by a long shot. They could stick it to him for just as long as they liked.
Inconcievable tickling, in strength and length. He was so tormented by his sensitivity that the gloves just hid him away. Dig in for a number of days and nights that he couldn't possibly estimate. She set him up for this, but the immediate threat was so much more important that he decided to hate her later.
Chains hung from the ceiling, in one corner, and there were things that looked depressingly like stocks, a rack, a sling...
The gloves had it all prepared. Shit.
It was on.

758

Urban weasel

19-year-old buying smokes at a drive-thru liquor store.
Two packs, and throw in one of those little vanilla cigars.
That'll be eleven hours, the speaker-voice says. Pull on around.
Huh? He must not have heard that right. Shrugging, he drives on -
Window open, they sit there. Nobody there. He waits ten secs, "Hello?!" -
and reaches for them.
Pause, grimace, and he counts out seven bucks. Waits, looks inside, wads up the cash.
Takes the smokes and lobs the cash further in, on the counter. Drives off.
Almost makes it to the street.
 

Wakes up... in the house.

After the hands get him all cuffed to the funky padded bench, the door closes.

It's dark. He still doesn't know what the fuck to expect. Not for sure. The gloves did pretend they slipped, and slid down his side... but that could've been an accident. It had to be. Nobody's that twisted. Please, don't let it be -
The bigger fear, which is the one he should be focusing on, is that his legs are open. Fuckin' spread wide. And he can't pull 'em together, cuffed down like this. That has to mean what he thinks it means, sure as shit, but he can't even imagine how that's gonna go. Nothing like that has ever happened to him before. Somebody playing with his meat. It's hard to believe that isn't about to start now.
But that's a whole new thing. Being naked, in here - his feet way out there, barely even able to twitch - that fucks with his head bigtime. Hell, he plays with his cock. That can't be all bad. The voice sounds friendly enough. But the other thing - goin' after his feet, and his jumpy fuckin' armpits, that would be way too cruel. It wouldn't. It just can't -
There's a click, and some light. He looks up at the wall.

000:00:00:00

Orange numbers, a good twelve inches high. He guesses it's a clock.
"Let's see," the voice says. "You owe me..."
A keyboard starts clicking.
Blink -

000:11:00:00

"I don't... get it," he says hollowly, though he's really afraid he understands just fine.
"Eleven hours," it replies. "I told you when you placed your order. Four and a half hours per pack, and those little cigars are worth two hours."
His body starts pulling and straining at the cuffs. It happens without him even being aware he was gonna do it. "Hours -"
Oh, shit, he wants to scream.
It can't play with his dick for eleven whole hours. Well, maybe this fucker could...
Yeah. Better that, than the other thing.
"Ask me."
"Ask you what?" His voice is all shaky.
"Weasel." And the kidnapper sounds concerned. Floating voice, all those strong hands, and it's trying to reassure him now? Another unexpected twist. "Easy, easy. Here."
A pack floats up, blocking his view of some of the zeroes. He takes a cigarette and wastes no time when the lighter burns.
A hard drag. Another...
Whew.
"Better?"
"I guess," he sighs.
"There's no need to panic."
"No? I think maybe there is. Look at the way you've got me laid out, here."
"It's counterproductive. I mean, you'll probably flail around anyway. But that won't last. The best use of our time is when you concentrate on what's going on. Nice and hard."
"What's gonna be going on?"
"That's it. Very good, _name_. Prepare yourself."
"How am I supposed to do that?," he mumbles to himself.
The voice snickers at him. "That's called irony. There's no right answer. Just twisting the knife a little."
"That's a figure of speech, right?"
"Absolutely. Don't you worry about that. Not even close."
"Whew," he hisses.
Click -
Orange letters.
He can't move. As soon as the neon words made sense to him, _name_ was just fuckin' paralyzed. Not fear, or not only that. Truth. Sure as night followed day.
Two words, capital letters, arched a little above and below the big numbers.

TICKLE
TIME

His heart rate shot up. Can't blink, can't squirm... That's why his feet are caught just like this. Arms up, so his sides - oh, hell, it's gonna find out right away about his neck. And his belly. And his knees. Nipples -
"Hey."
Something pushes his lower jaw up.
"Don't drop that," it says. "You might burn yourself."
He moves his head toward the sound of the voice. A glove is near his face. It must've pushed his mouth closed...
That's right. Invisible hands dragged him in here. They've got gloves. And custom neon -
They've probably got all kinds of weird, twisted shit.
Tickle time? Naaaah, it can't be serious.
"I bet you wanna get another drag or two off that cigarette. Before I take it away."
"And then -"
"You can read, right? I saw how you reacted."
No, he thinks firmly. No! They wouldn't do this.
He takes one drag after another...
Nobody would do this. It's too deranged, too cruel. This isn't really gonna happen - it's just out to scare him. This fucker's gotta have a body, somewhere, and when he finds it he's gonna beat down the son of a bitch. Even kidding about this is sick. No way anyone's gonna haul a guy off, locked house, soundproofed... cuff him down and threaten to do - that. And eleven hours. For a few lousy smokes? It's a trick, there must be a camera somewhere. One of those cable shows.
"This isn't really gonna happen," he tells the glove, loud and worried.
It takes his cigarette away -
Fingers slide under his ribs. Yeah. Apparently, it is.
"No no no no nooooo-ooooo!," he shouts.
They start crawling down - and up. Two hands, then. Two on each side.
"Naah hah hah hah hah hah hah nnnnn-noooooo," he moans, and starts laughing again.
Tickle time. Tickle time, tickle time tickle tickle tickle tickle. Loads of time. Fuckin' orange letters, real bright. It's true. He's really gonna get it. Damn legs can't get loose. Arms won't fuckin' move.

000:10:59:54

"Aw pleeee heee heee heee-eeeeee..."

Fuckin' hands roam all over his body.
He's on fire, with the dead-certain belief that he's never actually gonna burn up. So this can continue to... continue.

Wheezing.
His lighter clinks open, and closed.
He opens his eyes, and sees the cigarette there. Needing it, so bad.
As soon as he lights up, and lets his head fall back, he feels a little better. Less out there, panicky.
Taking another drag, he remembers where the faint orange glow is coming from. Hell, no. It's gotta see that he can't do this bullshit. Heavy-duty tickling. This is torture, it's just nuts.
Starting to exhale smoke again, he looks at the big numbers.

000:10:37:03

"No way!," he yells.
"What's the matter now?"
"The clock! You're fuckin' crazy."
"I don't know what you're talking about," the tickler says.
"There's no way that was only... thirty-seven minutes. You lying bastard!"
"Weasel. Just chill. It's a countdown clock."
"I don't... Well, yeah. I knew that."
It sighed - and just from the sound, he knew how much the fucker was gonna enjoy what it had to say, next. "It's been a little under twenty-three minutes of tickling pleasure."
"You're so full of shit. That was more like an hour. And it ain't pleasure," he snapped. "It's torture."
"This clock is accurate."
"No. It can't be - You're shutting it off."
"What?"
"When I... Fuck. When I can't keep my eyes open, you're shutting off the damn clock. Freezing it. Get more torture in that way."
"_name_. Think for a second. Use your head."
"I am!"
"Why would I have to shut off the clock? Huh?"
"I don't... know." He let his voice trail off, thinking hard.
It didn't say anything.
Oh, shit. Shit. It doesn't have to cheat. Does it? After all, he was stuck until it opened up the cuffs. And the door. Doors.
There didn't have to be a clock at all.
What if that long nightmare of tickling was only twenty-three minutes?
And then, even more amazing, what if this son of a bitch really knew how to keep a guy conscious for eleven whole hours?
"You get it?," the voice asked quietly.
"I'm... afraid I do."
"Just to make sure, then - I could stop the clock. Just to mess with your head, since that timer's not really going to force me to let you go, or anything. But I'm already messing with the little ol' Weasel's head just fine. Aren't I? So it's all in my hands - just like you... dude."
"Listen, you gotta understand something -"
"And I went to the trouble of ordering the clock, and the neon. Since I don't have to pay any attention to it, you can safely conclude I want to pay attention to it. So I'm on the honor system, where the clock is concerned. We made a deal."
"I never did any such thing, you fuckin' bastard!"
"Two packs of cigarettes, and one little cigar. Eleven hours, I said. You drove up to the window and took the goods."
"And I paid for 'em!"
"No," it chuckled. "I gave you back your seven dollars. Put it back in your wallet. Later on, I'll show you."
. . .

I've gotta quit these things... that's all, end of story...
 

Next morning, first thing - a smoke
What's this?
Freebie.
Get it out of here, he says, half-hoping _tickler_ says fuck you, I'm gonna make you smoke...
Four freebies a day, it said.
I don't want it.
That's not what your eyes say.
Free... really free?
Really free. First thing in the morning, after your first cum-shot, after the big meal, and another one whenever you want.
Bullshit.
Hey, there's nothing wrong with enjoying yourself - in moderation.
. . .
 

"Lucky little _name_," it murmured. "That's my nice ticklish prisoner. Squeamish ol' weasel -"
"Lucky?"
"Yeah."
"You've gotta be fuckin' kidding."
"No, _name_. Let me take you back... to the night we made our bargain."
"Fuck," he snorted, "I never -"
"Which gag should I use? Huh?"
"Alright," he snapped, and kept his mouth shut.
"You ordered, I named my price, you drove around to the window. With me, so far?"
_name_ nodded once.
"There they sat. Nobody around. Nobody looking, weasel. And some other scumbags would pick 'em up, off the counter, and book. That rundown old place wouldn't have cameras. No risk, and they thought it was so funny."
He already knew what that meant, when _tickler_ said a word with that much joy.
"You could've tried to do that. Be a scumbag. But you hesitated. That saved your ass, really. I watched you dig out your money."
"I paid for 'em."
"I know that! Dammit. There were three levels of payment. I mean, that first purchase was eleven hours. No way I'd change that. But future cigarettes and cigars could've been charged off at a different rate."
He thought he was already catching on. "If I'd grabbed the shit, and ran -"
"Thirty minutes for each future cigarette," it said brightly. "And six hours for a decent cigar."
"Oh."
"But that's not all, _name_."
"Yeah, I figured you'd say that."
"You're a nice weasel. But not a totally good one. Are ya? One man, only one, did the really honorable thing. He put the money down before he ever touched the goods."
"Hey. I almost did that."
"But you had you hot little hand on the cigarettes before you paid. So - not a scumbag, but not a stand-up type guy either. Fifteen minutes of tickling per smoke."
"And..." No, wait, he didn't want to ask. But that was the point of the whole story, wasn't it? To drive him nuts, wondering what could've been - "That one guy? Stand-up fucker?"
"Seven and a half minutes," it said carefully.
"Son of a bitch!"
"Yeah. But he'd been smoking a lot longer than you. Just couldn't stop himself from begging for one... and he knew exactly what it did to this clock, here."
Up 'til that time, _name_ thought that third number was just another way to fuck with his head. He'd certainly spent enough hours staring at the clock. Days.
Three numbers, in the days column. Like anybody would ever rack up more than ninety-nine days?
His uncle - no doubt. He was a carpenter in Texas. Four packs, maybe five, each and every day. And the guy was buff, too... healthier than _name_ could ever hope to be.
If he was caught in here -
And his uncle would've grabbed the cigarettes and ran. Chuckling about it later. Yeah. _name_ could easily picture that.
The hundreds-digit, for the number of days left to go, maybe wasn't so useless.
He understood now.
And it scared the living fuck out of him.
. . .
 

The freebies were really kicking his ass. Opening the door.
He knew that, but found it all but impossible to turn 'em down.

At best he could get some saved up, but _tickler_ made a point of telling him how many were there, waiting. No tickling needed to pay for 'em.
"That makes nine freebies," it said cheerfully. "Almost half a pack."
"Gimme one," he'd growl.

Then another, and another...

After the fourth one, and then a few hours of delirious tickling, he forgot all about any smokes being anything but free. One pack after another was opened...
. . .
 

Back in the damn swing. Wide open. Tickled half to death...
"How... long?," he chuckled, slurring the words. It wasn't tickling him very hard, and he couldn't stand thinking any longer. He had to ask.
"Four days, nine hours, ten -"
"Not me. You dick... The s-stand-up... guy."
"Oh. Him."
"How long, how l-l-long -"
"I don't remember," it lied.
"Please."
"What you're really trying to do, weasel-boy, is estimate how long I'll tickle you. And I can't help you do that - because I don't know. If you quit smoking, right now, you'll be cut loose after fifty-seven electrifying hours of tickling. But even you can understand that I don't know if you'll smoke this cigarette..."
The fingers slowed down. He felt a familiar shape touch his bottom lip.
"And the rest of this pack. The whole carton. Because that'll increase the amount of tickling, won't it? Ratchet up the clock."
His lighter clinked open.
Oh, hell, I've gotta quit, he thought. Sucking in anyway...
And it was such a mutherfuckin' relief. He took another drag.
"That's a good weasel," it said soothingly. "You just smoke all you want."
"No," he sighed. That was just what it wanted. Tickle time, the damn clock -
"Aw, but it's obviously something you need. Helping you deal. I know I'm right."
_name_ hooted a few times, slow and quiet. "No more," he finally managed to say.
The fingers all but stopped moving.
He took the longest drag he could...
"There. Nothing hits the spot quite like that. I know."
"You gotta quit screwin' with me," he whimpered.
"But you're so ticklish."
"Aw, fuck, you just listen up, I'm not gonna smoke any more."
"_name_. We both know better than that. You need these cigarettes more than... I got an idea. Look."
He didn't want to open his eyes, much less shake the tears out. Too much work.
"I've got something really cool," _tickler_ promised.
Whiskey, he thought. Maybe a joint. Pot didn't make the clock go up. Maybe he could fool it into letting him get high all the time instead. Or at least more often -
Oh.
A cigar was hanging over him.
"Get that away... Is that one of the Cubans?"
"It certainly is."
Six hours, he thought grimly. Right there.
He'd never smoked an actual Cuban, before _tickler_ caught him. And they were fine.
"Uh," he grunted. His resistance was draining away. Definitely going. Fuckin' excellent smoke.
"How 'bout I give you some water," _tickler_ suggested, "and then you just hang here, nice and comfy. And smoke this? Hell, I guess you could use a break from tickling, too. Am I right?"
"Oh, yeah."
A water bottle. "Here..."

And dammit, dammit, those cigars were almost worth a half-day of getting tickled. That was a stupid way to think, but he really had a thing for those Cubans.

When it was finally gone, _tickler_ got him off and went fairly easy on him...
_name_ caught his breath. A half-liter of water, a beer.
Then he looked over at the pack of cigarettes.
"Weasel."
"What."
"I, uh, got a whole box of those Cubans."
He hesitated. Bad move, read bad -
Aw, fuck it.
"Bring me one," he ordered. "Just one."
"Well, you can only smoke one at a time," it chuckled.

"Oh yeah, baby. Oh... yeah."
"I'm really glad I got to be the one to introduce you to these -"
"Cubans. Fuck. This is what a cigar's supposed to be like." The whiskey bottle didn't go far away, either.
"Uh-huh. You just enjoy it, Weasel. Take your time. There's nothing like a good smoke, is there?"
"You got that right," he growled lazily.
. . .

He took another wonderful puff on the cigar - his first one of the morning, after waking up with a cigarette and being glad _tickler_ wasn't digging right in today. Then he looked at the clock again.
That couldn't be right.
"You screwed up," he said, cocking his head.
"The time? No."
"I didn't -"
"Thirty-one cigarettes, and four of those cigars."
"Bastard."
"Six hours per Cuban, you'll remember."
"You got me drunk! It's not fair!"
"That's just shy of twenty-four hours added to your tickle time."
"Aw, no, no, you fucker..."
. . .
 

My folks will worry -
No. I made 'em forget.
Huh?
They think you're working on an oil rig. Long, long stints between visits.
My friends. My boss!
All magically convinced to forget all about ol' _name_, as soon as they have any contact with your mom or dad. It's like a... mind virus. They see one of your folks, or hear their voices, and their memory is instantly revised. No more weasel.
That's im-... No. You can't do that.
It's one of the great things about being me, it gloated.
That's a crock of shit.
Once again, Lucky, I've got you hidden away. I don't need to lie. But here... let's do a test. What's your first name? Say it.
_name_.
Now, say it again.
He opens his mouth... but the answer is gone. Just gone.
Where do you live, Weasel? And work?
Blank information. He has no fuckin' idea.
Remember begging me to kidnap you and tickle you?
I did what? Hey-yyyy. That's not how it went.
Hee hee hee.
Oh, wow.
Yeah.
It's really true.
Sure is. Okay, enough fuckin' around with your head. Here -

Whoosh. There it is. The information is back.
Weasel? Humor me. What's your name?
[He immediately gives a totally different name.]
That's right. It laughs a few times. What is this place?
He shifts uncomfortably. _tickler_ knows full well. Just yanking his chain. "Special prison."
"How many inmates?"
"Just me."
"Give me the whole rundown. What you're in for, how long, your age, rap sheet."
He sighs. There'll be no peace until the fuckin' asshole makes him recite this shit. "Damaging federal property. Escape from detention. They were tickling the fuck out of me, this secret fuckin' lab in South Dakota somewhere, and after about a year of that total fuckin' nightmare I broke out. They caught me and gave me seven years. Denied parole once. I got 549 days to go, if you tell 'em not to cut me loose like I know you're gonna do, 'cause that way you get to tickle my ass the whole time, right here. Yeah. No priors... And you know damn well I was 27 when they shipped me off to the fuckin' place, so I'm 33 soon."
"Today," it says.
He stops cold. That's right. "Oh," he says, not angry now. "That's right."
"Happy birthday."
"Well, thank you." There's usually some kind of treat. Birthday present. He's always been able to count on that.
"I got a nice steak for you, Donny. Barbecued just the way you like it."
"Aw, now, that's fuckin' decent of ya."
"Sweet potato pie -"
"Oh, yeah."
Something floats up.
"Fuck," he says, amazed.
A carton of his favorite smokes. Even the right kind, nonfilters.
"You, uh, you want these?," it laughs.
"Please, _tickler_, now... Please."
"You gotta earn 'em."
Uh-oh. Fifteen minutes each. Hot tickling. He could say no, that would be the smart thing to do.
Oh, shit, a whole carton right here, just for him! "Okay, okay, yeah, I will -"
"The going rate?"
"Sure. Yeah, of course."
"Deal."
The carton floated down to his gut. He couldn't open 'em, of course, with his hands cuffed down. But just seeing 'em was enough, 'cause _tickler_ never showed him good shit like this or hootch, a joint now and then, without following through. Oh, he was gonna smoke his head off. And his favorites.
All that bullshit about the going rate, and earning 'em, didn't mean a fuckin' thing. It was gonna tickle him night and day anyway. He almost didn't care, looking at a whole damn carton of his cigarettes. And a steak too. Pie.
The door opened. Fuckin' big slab of meat was on a platter, floating over to him. It smelled incredible.
"I'll just put these aside," _tickler_ said, picking up the smokes.
"Hey," he barked. "Leave 'em where I can see 'em. Look at 'em."
Calm laughter. "You got it."
Another whoosh in his brain - [and his true, original information is all back there.]
He sees the carton. "Hey What's that doin' here?"
"Huh?"
He gestures with his head. "Carton."
"We'll see," it says innocently.
. . .
 

"You're a selfish weasel."
He panted for air, fighting the temptation to roll his eyes. He's the selfish one here?
"And I'm thinking, hey, we got loads of time. Let's make you into a nicer guy."
That makes him lift his head. What the fuck now?
"It's cool, _name_. You - yeah, you're one cool son of a bitch. You really are. Now, more than ever. But you drive like you own the whole damn road."
He blinked. What the hell did that have to do with anything?
"And you got a mouth on you."
"W-who... just called me a son of a bitch?"
"I'm in charge here. Fucker. Snot-nosed sorry-ass weasel shit." It laughs heartily.
"Damn."
"Like that. Swearing all the time. And I'm gonna do something about your hair."
"No. Don't, _tickler_ -"
"Yeah. Since I got you for awhile, I think we'll iron some of the bad shit out of you. Supercool weasel. That might work."

[Driver ed videotapes. Sitting through its "classes", fidgeting - smoking too much...]
. . .
 

Oh, shit. His throat was just full of snot.
"What the hell did..."
There was a open carton of cigarettes not far from his trapped hand. Nonfilters, ugh.
Why were three packs missing from it?
"I didn't," he said to himself.
"Yes you did," _tickler_ teased.
"Why? Aw, why did I - You made me... uh..."
"Now, I know you know better than that. After all this time?"
He sagged. "No."
"You kept nodding. Delirious, sure - but I figured you wanted each one."
"I've been smokin' all day?"
"Hardcore."
"You... tricked me," he finally grumbled.
"Hey, the choice was totally yours."
"I wonder about that."
"Watch it," _tickler_ said mildly. "I don't cheat. Don't need to. Some weasels just smoke one after another if they get the chance. Don't lay there and tell me you don't remember anything that happened today."
"Alright," he growled. "Agreed. So what's the damage?," he sighed. Beaten. Totally fuckin' defeated -
"Yesterday," it said gleefully, "you smoked 78 cigarettes."
"No way. No. I... Aw, no!"
"I counted the butts carefully. Three times. It's more important to me to get the time right - accurate - than it's worth to jack the number up. Even a little."
"Dammit. I know that by now." He stared at the clock. Get on with it, he thought, you sadistic bastard.

023:09:40:20

turned into

024:05:10:20

"That's nineteen and a half hours added," _tickler_ said politely.
"Fuck off," he shot back. Yesterday alone, he brought two more days of excruciating hell down on his own ass... While he wanted to know how long it had actually been tickling him, getting an answer like "not anywhere near long enough" would just make him flip out.
. . .
 

Sports weasel? Hmmm, no. You've done that one already. Didn't quite fit.
Bar weasel, tough weasel, hipster weasel... guess we'll just have to find out.
. . .

Lucky. Ever do acid?
No.
Well, good. It fucks with your sense of time. You know what it'll be like? After this? A good trip will be five full years of me tickling you... and a bad trip, heh, will feel more like ten years.
. . .
 

He wakes up slow, one morning -
"The young urban weasel needs to be petted regularly, in order to exercise his skin and muscle structure."
That just gives him the chills. He pulls the sheet tighter, burrowing into the pillow. "No, I do not."
"Heh heh. The book says so."
What book?
"The one I'm writing now."
Suddenly the sheet is whisked away.
Silk hands curl around his hips... and knees.

Within a half-hour he's so out of it.
The cigarette taps gently, and he thinks, 15 more minutes. Fuck, no.
But he wants it. Some kind of relief, right now...
And he almost always takes it.
Whew.

Thirty, forty times a day. More, if the tickler is clever enough.
. . .
 
 

He was better about turning down cigars - unless it was working on his meat, and somehow the cigars had been offered often enough that he thought about one when he started to thrust, and thought about jacking off when he saw a cigar...
Every other time, at least, he turned down the cigar. Sometimes he let a cigarette sneak into his mouth instead. And when that happened, he could hardly ever turn it down.
But it offered a cigar a few times a day, so he had a better rejection rate but still ended up smoking one. While he was trying to cum [again]. Nothing better.
Once in a while he'd get rebellious. Smoke two or three cigars in a day. Four packs. When he was that defiant, the tickling wasn't so quick that he had trouble smoking... it just became deeper, which may not have been any real improvement.
And he'd be smoking his first freebie, the next morning, and find out he'd just racked up another twenty or thirty hours of tickling...
. . .
 
 
 

He's awake. Feeling good. Really good. Strong.
What sounds sweet is to get out there and run. Maybe paintball. A real workout. Roller hockey would work. Yeah. It's been way too long. He feels, physically, like making up for lost time.
Why has it been so long since he -
Oh.
_tickler_. Yeah.
He must've scowled, or frowned. Something. His right hand moved. The fingers -
When he opens his eyes, the room is dim. As usual. No window.
He watches his hand reach over, toward the pack of cigarettes laying on the mattress. There's a leather glove on his hand - both hands - and he tries to make them hold still.
No dice. His left hand starts moving in that direction too, turning him onto his side.
Casually, the glove curls around the cigarettes and shakes one out. Brings it to him. The other one gets the Zippo.
He sighs hard. _tickler_ has taken to forcing a freebie on him when he manages to hold off for the better part of a day. Sure, he could throw his head around now, but the result will eventually be the same.
They're nonfilters, and he takes the first one between his lips. Springs the lighter open, and fires it up...
As he's exhaling, a rounded shape is floating down.
"Dammit," he mutters.
Vodka. Or maybe scotch.
His gloved fingers reach up and curl around the neck of the half-empty bottle, and bring it to his mouth...
Holding it there until he takes a slug, and waits - and takes another.
Whooo. The alcohol starts hitting him already. That's the memory of too many other mornings like this, right here. And an empty stomach.
His hand makes him linger over another drag. As soon as he's exhaled it, the cigarette is eased back to his mouth again.
By the time he kicks that smoke out, he feels more like an old detective in one of those black-and-white movies. Fuckin' rollerblading is out, that's for sure.
_tickler_'s got another kind of hardass workout in store for his ass.
. . .
 
 
 

63 days.
He eased out smoke and stared at the numbers. How the hell could that happen? _tickler_ had to be cheating.
But he had a bad feeling it wasn't. He'd never caught it cheating once.
A pack floated off the floor, and shook up his next cigarette.
"Fuck you," he told it. But it didn't lay back down.
"What now?"
The cigarette floated there. And, dammit, he wanted it. Even as he took a last, slow tug on the smoke he had going...
"That," he said, lifting his head. "Two fuckin' months."
"Hard tickling," it chortled. "Oh, yeah."
"I gotta quit," he said.
"Okay."
"Totally. Or else I'll never get out of here."
"Aaaaaw. Well, tough weasel, whatever you say."
"Yeah, sure."
"Not even your daily freebie?"
"Dammit," he snapped, "you can't keep doing this. I can't quit."
"Sure you can."
"I'm nineteen, and it's not like I worry ab-"
"Twenty."
"No."
"_name_. You're twenty."
He stared at the clock. Stunned. When the cigarette slid between his lips, he looked over - at the lighter, which was coming.
"I'm really... I missed my birthday?"
"No," it said, "you spent it right here. Laughed your weasel-ass off. Happy birthday."
Taking a light, he felt like everything was... further away than usual. For a minute, he didn't say anything.
"You bastard."
"Hey. I didn't run that clock up."
"You're making me smoke."
"I am not! When you say no, I never force you. Hell, yeah, you will. That would be unfair," it sniffed.
He took a drag, getting more and more angry. "My birthday came and went."
"Oh, yeah."
That was too breezy of an answer. "How long ago?"
"Well -"
"Wait!" He looked at the clock. Two more months, at least. His birthday was October 27. When did it grab him? June?
He was going to miss Christmas, too.
"I can't believe you!," he hollered.
"_name_ -"
"Christmas. Here, with you. Tortured," he said with disgust.
"Oh, yeah. Merry Christmas."
He smoked hard. "Tell me... dammit, you sadistic - what month is this?"
"Right now?," it asked.
"_Yeah_, now. Uh - wait. No. I don't wanna -"
"Which is it?," _tickler_ said, taking his cigarette away.
"Aw, hell," he muttered.
"You're not having fun here?," it pondered. "I sure am."
"Oh, yeah - you are," and he took a new cigarette, leaning up to suck it to life. "I hate this tickling, shit, I've told you before. But nooo-ooo, I'm gonna get it for sixty-three more days."
"And two hours," it replied.
He got too mad to speak. Thinking it over...

It was the principle of the thing. Not like he missed out on doing Christmas with anybody, since Justine kicked him out...
But that was right. His parents didn't know they had a son. Temporarily... and everybody else would believe that too. Knowing that took some of the sting out of missing the holidays, and even his birthday. After all, it wasn't like there were people wondering and worrying.
Fuck, he could stay here until next Christmas. Laughing every damn day.
"No more fuckin' cigarettes," he said. "Not even freebies."
"Are you sure?," it said, amazed.
"You aren't fooling me," he fumed. "You know full well I don't like getting tortured. Two more months -"
"It's tickling," _tickler_ protested. "I think you're enjoying it more. Uh, now."
"No! You just don't get it!," he said. The cigarette started getting pulled from his lips, and he automatically took one more hard drag. "I don't think you want to get it. If you got it, you might not fuckin' tickle me to death."
"Give me a break," it laughed. "You're a ticklish ol' weasel who smiles more."
"Don't play dumb with me."
Big sigh. "Alright. What do you want?"
"Your help."
"Fine way to ask for it."
"You set me up, dammit," he barked. "I can't help myself."
"So you said."
"Stop the clock. C'mon."
"No way," it hooted. "We had a deal."
"We did not -"
"Let's not go into that again," it said, picking up something shiny.
"And even if we had," he said to the cigar-cutter, "you've sucked other guys into this. Quicksand. It's like brainwashing us."
"You are so full of shit," it laughed.
He sighed with frustration. A Cuban got its ends snipped, and when it floated up he bit into it savagely. "This is all real fuckin' funny, to you, because you always win."
"I like tickling big ol' weasels. Yeah. Guilty." It struck a match for him.
"Go catch one that likes tickling, then," he said, and then he puffed the cigar to life.
"I think I did. You just don't know it yet."
"Save it." He had a few tugs, just to calm down. It was good. The fine feel of the Cuban did help him deal. _tickler_ could taunt the skin off a snake.
"Is there something I could do," it said, "to make the tickling more fun for you? Jerk you off more?"
"No! I don't wanna be tickled at all!"
"That again. Well, just wait 'til I get done with you," it gloated.
"Two months," he complained, pausing to eat smoke, "You can't tickle me for two more months. You think I'm an idiot. But I'm onto you, dammit."
"Uh-huh," it said... silently dropping another pack of cigarettes by the ashtray.
He glanced at them, and nodded almost imperceptibly.
. . .
 
 
 

"Why is the scoreboard covered up?"
"Freebie," it said, sticking a cigarette between his lips. "Take it."
"Answer me..."
"Well, we've got an unusual situation here."
And he knew immediately that the number of days was more insanely high than he could stand.

759

"You don't exist," the swimmer yelled. "This isn't real!"
I chuckled gently, and planted a cotton thumb on the center of each arch.
"Nnnnnfff," he gulped, pressing his lips together.
"Let's review," I said. "First, I pick a place where no one will ever hear you. Then I bring the rope... to your embarassingly ticklish body. Get you, bring you down here. Make sure you can hardly budge. And you know where this is going."
"I don't beleeeeee -"
I started moving the thumbs around. Rubbing deeply.
"Fah hah hah haaaaa-aaaaah!"
A-ha. He was a wiggler.

Seizing up and kicking and rolling around wasn't dislodging my expert hands.
"You don't believe in me?," I said, as innocently as I could, right in his ear.
"Naaah hah hah noh hoh hoh hoh hoh," he wheezed. A spastic jerk or two was the closest thing he could pull off. Shaking his head.
This was going to be delightful.

After two electrifying hours, I thought it was time to bring out the stocks.
"Let me go," he cried.
"Who? Me? I'm not real."
"You have to let me go."
"So you won't get tickled?"
"Y-yeah!"
"But that's backwards. I restrain you good and tight, so the tickling won't be... limited. At all. Then I'll let you go. Eventually."
My feathers sailed down to his feet.
"Nnnnnnnaaaah hah hee hee hee wwwhhhheeeeee!"
"That's better."
. . .

The first time they wake up is a moment I never want to miss.
Woozy, he looks around. Gee-whiz, there's brick walls. And a dozen straps on me.
Look at that whole shelf full of tickling agony, strategically placed right alongside the bed.
. . .
 

"You win," he gasps.
"What?"
"I... believe. You won, dammit, alright?"
"Prisoner, I'm not even past the stage where I consider the restraints to be fully tested. I won when I locked that door. No, we haven't really even scratched the surface yet. Or tickled it. Believe that."
. . .
 

"Oh, I've got hands. Just hanging around, not doing much - saaaay."
"Oh no, oh no-ho-ho."
"Hey, I have an idea. It's great. How would you like me to... get a lot more of 'em gloved up? For you?"
The swimmer thrashes wildly, not weakening the embrace of all those straps..
"Ten, twenty hands - all tickling. All the time."
He screams.
Empty gloves rise and start to fill with determined, vibrant life.
"Say hello to them. And be nice."
"Please, please, aw shit -"
"Hey. I gave you an order."
A strangled whine pops out of him. "Huh... Hello."
"More enthusiasm."
"Hi - gloves!," he wails.
"What are they gonna do to you?"
Flailing, babbling, he watches all those merciless fingers wiggle slowly, assembling over eight or ten positively fiery target areas.
"Answer me," I order.
"Tuh. Aaaw, I can't. Don't do this. Please. Please!"
"What are they going to do, right now?"
He sucks in a huge breath. "Tickle! Aw, fuck, they're g-gonna tickle and tickle -"
"Yay!"
And I... get him.
. . .

"You're ruh huh huh t-torturing me, aaaah hah haw haw haw haw -"
"It's not very convincing when you laugh about it. Sounds like I'm making you happy."
"Whuh huh huh w-why eeee heee heee-eeee whyyeeee?," he croaked.
"Because you're ticklish. That's the biggest reason. We happen to believe that your weakness exists to be exploited - uh-oh, am I using big words? Let's see. Since this is the way you are - nice and ticklish - it should be used."
"I can sing, too. But you don't make me do that."
"You sing on your own. I bet you've sung a whole lot more than you've been tickled."
"All this time."
"I'm starting to like you. Call me crazy. You're just about as arrogant as they come... but you've got the right metabolism for this. Everything's humming along. Muscles, lungs, immune system. Nerve pathways. Some of you dudes are just built for it. And I don't just say that to everyone."
"Oh, shit."
"Humming right along."
"You can't enjoy this. Not this much. Two, three straight hours - just on my feet?"
I took hold of 'em gently. "What feet? These ones, here?" He whimpered and squirmed around. That was all he could do. By design. He'd lay right here while I lavished my attentions on him over and over, for as long as I wanted - and he knew it. When they're that sure, like I am, there's a real sense of teamwork. Success is in the bag.
"Do you meditate, dude?"
He stopped preparing for the axe to fall, and looked up. "Uh. No."
"Think of those little sandboxes. Zen gardens - that's what people on this side of the planet call 'em. A toy intended to kill time, according to some. But not me. The important thing is the intended result... I'm confusing you again. I can see it. Alright, look." I traced a fingertip along the side of his left arch, at just the right speed.
Kicking reflexively, he yelped real nice.
"This sole is... soothing. Relaxing. I feel successful, and creative, and like I can do anything I want. All true. But this is what I want to keep doing. So - why not? I can keep this sole responsive for six or seven hours. And it gets better. I've got another one... right here."
I burrowed into the center of his right sole for a few seconds.
"Naaaah hah haaaaaah," he wailed. "Nooooo no no aw huh huh huh."
"I've got toes, and heels. Cover 'em with wide pressure, like these fingers - or I've got a dozen tools. You know. Pinpoint work. There might not be any patterns in the sand, but I pretend I can see red-orange glow. The tickling. Glowing strong, thanks to me, on its way to your brain."
"Let me go, please," he begged.
"These feet are a lot more interesting than sandboxes. They seem bigger. And, you know, they're attached to the biggest bonus. I had to cuff it down to make sure it would stay here and get its turn. Your whole ticklish body... I've found fourteen other sandboxes on it, so far. Just fascinating. It seems like I've got a football field spread out below me, all needing coverage - to keep it healthy. Vigorous..."
He looks terrified. I guess that was more information than he needed.
"Anyway," I chuckle, setting eight fingers down on each sole...
The mindless lurching and twisting is accompanied by explosive little barks of laughter.
Tracing up and down, around the heels, along the bottom of his toes - I'm enjoying the same deep thrill of excitement. We're both feeling this, in different ways.
. . .
 
 

"Ticklish man," I praise him. "Unbeliever. Are you still skeptical? About me?"
His eyes move around. Speech has been temporarily but completely taken away from him. The brushes even keep him from laughing. So wide awake, obviously consumed, throbbing with insistent, alluring pleasure that crackles with every stroke. Ecstatic pleasure, revisiting one area after another, refusing to end. Can't beat that.
"Is this really happening?," I tease.
At the moment my brushes are spreading oil along the inner crest of his hips... around his nipples... and along his collarbones. Wiggling is out of the question, due to the fatigue - even if he wasn't snugly held by the straps. As he should be.
Several hours are ahead, waiting for me to fill each one, before he'll need to sleep.
. . .

He opened his eyes about once every half-hour. Utterly gone. Ticklish in the restraints - and even more ticklish when good ol' hands kept him from moving.
I swirled ten feathers from one area to another.
Pausing only for water and meals, this wasn't a night for laughing and writhing around. Not anymore. It was almost silent.
I just slowly, solidly tickled him for ten hours...
And he was feeling it so deeply it was a wonder he could still breathe.

12jul2006
 

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