761

It's a warm Saturday night. Well, Sunday morning actually.
About an hour before last call the tickler slips through the door, right behind a group of giggling women. Their laughter - all laughter - is mesmerizing. Intriguing. Its favorite sound. And while it's been checking the street for someone to... party with, there's no harm in checking them out.
They're sticking close together as they check out the room. It sneaks behind one of them, invisible fingers drawing closer -
And suddenly this loud braying cuts through the noise, coming from the other side of the room, gruff and crude. By the pool table.
Three guys. One of them laughing harder than the others.
The tickler studies them, moving in closer...
They're all drunk. Loose and relaxed. The one who was the most amused sits down heavily on a stool.
Phantom hands touch his stomach, sliding lightly to his ribs.
He looks down, blinking. The tickler pressed down, but all he does is shift. An exaggerated shrug, but not too satisfying. The taller guy next to him hadn't laughed as long. Big grin, around a cigarette. He looks like he'd be affected even less. Rough customer. It starts toward the third guy, but he'd stopped laughing first. Back to the women, then.
As it was zeroing in on the brunette in the sleeveless satin top, the tall dude walks over. Heading for the bathroom, probably. And passing right by the cluster of women, who are in his way. Let him take the blame.
As he slows, trying to slide by, it's too tempting. Fingers land in his armpits instead, wiggling -
He flies backward, dropping his cigarette. Hands going up reflexively - but the tickler's has already pulled off. Nothing there. He looks at his chest...
With a panicky expression. Gone immediately, as the women look at him oddly. But the tickler caught it. That was not run-of-the-mill confusion or surprise. That was raw fear.
He shoots an embarrassed little smile at the ladies, and eases around them. Tense, until he gets past 'em.
Still unaware he's being shadowed. Just the kind of party animal the tickler had been looking for.
Captivated, it watches him piss, light another smoke, stop at the bar for another round. Studies him as he jokes with his friends... His laugh is low and rich, spiked with occasional crowing - rowdier, without a trace of self-consciousness. Both are crude sounds. Tantalizing previews. He just needs some motivation to let it all bust out.

It's a simple, well-honed plan.
After getting a reaction like that, after a mild little poke - and that fearful expression! - the tickler's absolutely determined to launch an investigation. Slide into those armpits and get busy.
Keep those arms out of the way. Peel off the jean jacket, and the worn t-shirt. Take 'em away. Nothing left to protect his armpits. Or his torso...
Direct contact. Full contact.
He'll squirm. It's ready for that. And he'll make noise. The tickler would like to get started. Dive in, right here. Make him bawl and hoot, knees buckling, head thrashing around. Halfway under the pool table - a bizarre little seizure, from which he'd recover just enough to stagger out the door and to his truck, shirtless, hands in the air, roaring...
But the others, there. You never know. Most would just watch - a nice start to his ordeal, frustrating and embarrassing. But there might be a hero. The tickler could push them away easily enough, but if they called for an ambulance... or worse, tried to follow, tipped off the cops...
Not worth the risk. Let him leave on his own. An ordinary exit, unremarkable, nothing to see. No hints, no curiosity as he gets in his truck. Just another guy on his way home, already forgotten...
On his way to bed. An unfamiliar bed, up in the hills. No one to see him arrive, spot his truck... or hear him. Fighting, then yelling for help, and finally settling down to laugh. Laugh his head off. An audience of one - no others to catch the sound and wonder, get curious, see what's up. The laughter getting scratchier, weaker... voice cutting out at times, fading. Disappearing. No sound coming out except hard breathing, throaty clicks, maybe some undignified snorts.
By that time, the risk will be nonexistent. In a place that's so obviously been forgotten, it can work him over properly. Dig into those armpits for as long as it wants.

At last, he shuffles out to his truck. The pivotal moment was approaching...
The tickler is alert, and ready. No mugger is going to spoil its plan. Absolutely not. No friend suddenly turning up - he's not making any side trips now. Not even for a sweet young thing who wants to take him home on the spur of the moment.
But his bad luck is holding. He finished his smoke and throws it away, unlocking the truck door. Falling in, more or less, slamming the door. Right hand putting the key in the ignition, and the other already reaching for the pocket where his cigarettes are.
Hovering over him, his kidnapper moves. Tilting his head forward gently, it lifts the hair off his neck and jabs - invisible fingers, striking hard at nerve junctions.
He inhales suddenly - and slumps over. But it's prepared. He doesn't fall. Propping his head up, it turns the engine over and pumps the pedal, shifts into first, and eases off the clutch. The truck runs rough, but it revs the motor and turns the stering wheel, toward the driveway.
No one else is around to see. It pops into second and turns right. Just two blocks until the freeway ramp... then nine miles of inconspicuous driving, ten minutes of quiet back roads...

The light of the morning doesn't do much for the broken window, or the peeling walls. The water-stained ceiling bulges here and there.
Something for him to look at. Study. Not much of a distraction...
He's still asleep, laying on his side. The tickler is getting more and more excited as the magic moment draws near. His reaction, in the bar, wasn't just strong - it was extreme. And here he is.
The trip had gone smoothly. That's where the risk was. One stupid uncontrollable event could have blocked it - and he wouldn't be here now. In the shack, truck well-hidden.
If it hasn't drifted into that bar... he'd be in his own bed right now. Someone else would be here. Maybe laughing already, raspy whoops, panting - but this guy's armpits would have been safe, untested. Still his little secret, as he wakes up and leaves, going about his dull business.
The tickler's plans are anything but dull. Especially with this kind of raw material in its clutches. Outrageous things happen in here. Drastic fun. Absolute privacy -
His head moves a little, and he grunts softly.
It can barely contain itself.

He groans to himself, rubbing his head. Sitting up slowly, grimacing. Looks like a headache. He'll forget all about it soon enough.
The room gets a good look. Moldy walls, gaping window. The closed door -
His eyes stop on the water bottle. Looking around again, he returns to it, picks it up. The tickler is jubilant. Drink it! C'mon, fucker. Eliminate the need for a pause in the action for the first hour or two...
He's got to be dehydrated, after last night's drinking. Sure enough, he looks the bottle over again - and cracks it open. Thick dust from the floor muddies his hands, and he wipes one on his leg as he drinks. Then, to its amusement, he fires up a cigarette.
And just sits there. Looking around, finishing the water. Not moving! Feet on the floor, coughing some... and returning his attention to his smoke. This is better than it could have managed - a leisurely moment before it starts in. All on his own, just sitting here. Enjoying his cigarette, for a few seconds - before he gets to his feet, probably ready to piss. Is he thinking ahead, right now? A trashed bathroom where he could take a leak... or just heading out to his truck, a new cigarette hanging from his mouth?
Just perfect. He still thinks he's free. A moment he can replay over and over. Why did he just sit there and smoke? If only he'd made a run for the door, which might have opened for him. Maybe he could have made it before the phantom hands tackled him. Maybe he could have made it out of here before the tickling started. Gotten away. But he didn't. Because he thought he was alone, he wasn't in any rush. Perhaps it would have made a difference - but he'd never know.
Not only did he fail to escape the tickler, he failed to try.
Its hands draw closer. In position, ready to pounce. He looks around suddenly, as if he can feel it there, sense its lust to get down to some serious fuckin' tickling...
He stands up, and throws the water bottle away. It lets him. Another drag - and a last one, to finish off the Winston. And he takes a step toward the door - actually pauses! Unbelievable! - and eventually shrugs. He walks again -
It slips under his arms, and stops him. Remember this?
His eyes get big, and he's instantly rearing back. Looking all around him wildly, then at the walls. At the bed.
Apparently, he puts it all together. The expression on his face is unmistakable. The tickler starts moving its fingers around -
"N-n-no!," he yells, stepping back.
It was expecting that move. His shoulder blades hit more hands.
Lurching to the side, his head flies back. A low wail bursts out of his throat.
The fingers keep pressing in, moving up and down a little -
He crumples. It catches him as he hits his knees. The only thing keeping him from curling up in a ball is the fingers in his armpits, moving, pressing. It had expected his coordination to suffer... but this is ridiculous. He can barely move. Even crawling seems to be beyond him.
Yet another incredible, delightful surprise.
Might as well get him off the floor -
It takes hold of his arms and legs. He manages to look around again, as he rises up. Squirming intermittently, chuckling even as he tries to protest. It carries him over the bed and drops him, taking care not to slip out from under his arms. As he bounces, the fingers wiggle faster, moving a little closer to his pecs, into the hollow...
He quits wrestling, and laughs at the ceiling. Laughs low and hard.

When he manages to move, he doesn't get far. Every time he makes it to the edge of the mattress, the hands reel him back in. He tries various positions, in his distracted way. None of them stop the fingers.
It really likes his armpits. So much to do. And just look at him. How messed he is already...
New fingers start to slide up his tricep - and he pisses his pants.

Before the tickler knows it, thirty-five agonizing minutes have gone by.
Hands help him sit up. Slowly, it starts gathering up his jacket... Easing it off his right arm before he looks, blinking tears away -
It takes hold of his hands, and lifts them over his head. That gets him flailing again, so it curls a pair of hands around each shin and bears down.
Off comes the jacket...
"Nuh," he gasps, like a plea. "Nn-nnuhh -
And now, off comes the shirt.
Time to crank it up. The fingers settle back in his armpit hair, and make him squeal.
He shakes his head drunkenly at his clothes, which are magically being wadded into a ball. Tracking them as they float over to the window - and out. Bye-bye. No more shirt for this guy. Not even that. He's a bare-chested howling fool now.
It lays him back down.
Whooping, shaking, sweating as the fingers go to it... Jerking now and then, even trying to shield with his hands until they're batted away. Not a chance.
He has to understand his position, here. It went to all this trouble so it would have unlimited access to these extraordinary armpits. Time for him to believe it...
Under the bed, a coil of rope lifts off the floor. Soft half-inch rope, cut into ten-foot lengths.
He laughs to himself as it's looped around his right wrist. Circling again and again, knotting - not restricting his movement yet. It lets him try to cover his side, and ties another knot.
Easing him onto his side, the tickler slides his left hand under him and wraps it up. And his eyes open... trying to roll, to move his arms.
"Naaaaaww huh uh huh huh huh huh..."
The rope tightens. Not uncomfortably - his hands are still a few inches apart, but they're staying put. And his sides are unblocked now. His ribs -
Hands settle around his left leg and teasingly remove his boot. He shakes his head and roars. Meaty growling laughter. Kicking his free leg out, moving it all around, as the rope is put to work...
And it catches his right boot easily, and takes it off. Hands pull his leg down, and hold his ankles together.
"Noooooo," he says, like he doesn't believe what he sees. "Heeaaaaaalllp! Aw fuh uh huh huuuuuck..." He looks away from the tying, as his boots go toward the window. Won't be needing these anymore either.
Then he watches the rope, as it knots. Trying to pull, and kick. But he's tied. Yes sir.
In his armpits, the fingers hold still -
And others settle on the bottoms of his feet.
"No!," he yells. But the tickler says yes. Fuck yeah. It digs in -
And he goes nuts. Sensational feet, even through the socks. Excellent.
It resumes on his armpits, and he howls savagely. Almost making it off the bed. But he's tied now. And it's not letting these feet go without a thorough exploration...
Hands lift his ankles just a little, and start to deprive him of his obstructive socks.

An electrifying hour crawls by.
He's exhausted. And the real tickling hasn't even started...
There is one thing left to do, to prepare for the main event. It'll completely remove the possibility of him busting loose - as if that could happen, with it on him like this - and getting away. And, almost as important, it will do away with any ability he has left to protect his armpits, or wrestle around. The last risk eliminated. And it has just the tool for the job.
It goes under the bed again, and uncoils something black. Buckled securely to the bed frame...
Unrolling, near the corner of the mattress. Three others start to unwind.
It picks up a knife, and steadies his right leg. Starting at the leg opening, it cut his jeans open along the outside seam, travelling up. He doesn't react to the faint tearing sound, or the loosening of the denim. Too busy laughing. Eyes shut tight, and he hasn't even squirmed in the past fifteen minutes...
After the knife is done cutting the other leg open, it makes two quick passes through his underwear. Then it starts sawing through the ankle-ropes. As it does, two black circles come and wait alongside. The fingers tickle a little harder, and that seems to be enough to hold his attention.
Holding his limbs still, the tickler unwinds the rope and slips the cuffs into place. The straps reach out like eager snakes. His right leg moves first, since it's closer than the others - and he turns...
The strap-hook catches and closes. Now, his hands. That rope is cut and taken away.
As it stretches out his right arm, hands begin easing his left out from underneath him. Then they tether his left leg. And finally, his remaining arm is pulled up slowly, and - at last! - all the straps are in place. It had expected him to catch on earlier than this. Put up a fight. But he's so preoccupied he didn't even notice, not even as it made sure he's really fucked. Now this is the position for him. Ready for the works.
No chance of disappointment now. It grabs hold of his jeans, and pulls -
They come away - with the underwear. That gets his eyes open.
Out the window with 'em. No clothes left in here.
Naked, tied up, and so fuckin' ticklish. Just what it had in mind. He's in for the full ride now. One hardcore tickling, with no expiration date.
He lifts his head and keeps chuckling. Looks at the window, at his cock, at the window again. Uh-huh.
This is a good time to point out the crowning touch. It clamps around his shins and pulls the cuffs tight, buckling the closing straps and giving each of them a tug. That gets him interested. Shaking his head vaguely, as the unseen hands let go...
And land on his arms. He stares, so hard, at his left wrist - at the cuff closing. Buckled by mysterious means.
When he starts to tug, the restraining is already done. "No," he pants, looking around wildly. "No..."
His limbs are spread. Armpits kept wide open. Staying that way, for its fingers, and feathers. A half-dozen different tools. When it decides to explore some touchy armpits, it doesn't fuck around. And then there was all the rest of him to check out. To linger over...
He flails around and laughs. The straps are loose - safely in place, but he snaps at them frantically.
All according to its design. His last chance to do the impossible. Escape the severe, mind-blowing tickling -
It takes hold of the leg-straps, and pulls them tight. He watches his calves hit the mattress. Heels hanging over the edge, every inch of his feet easy to get to. As the straps tighten a little more, he tries to kick - and can't.
Underneath the bed, two more straps are put to work. When they're fastened to the cuffs, he isn't able to shift his feet in either direction. His legs are extended, so he can't move these ticklish feet forward or back. As if the rope wasn't bad enough... They're really caught now.
And now, his hands. It tightens these straps slowly. He bounces and flops in a wholehearted frenzy - still cackling! - but the outcome doesn't change. The straps get shorter, and shorter, until the cuffs are flat on the sheet. They tighten a little more...
His arms are not going to budge any time soon.
It watches him wrestle around, even removing all the fingers. Not touching him at all. Letting the restraints do that. He's spread wide, his clothes are gone, nobody's around - and he knows exactly why it brought him here.
"Haaaaallp!," he yells at the window, tugging at his bonds. The bright morning doesn't care. No shadows of people, coming to rescue him. "Help. Anybody - no, please, help, help..."
He keeps shouting. Help me get out of this ass-kicking torture. It's gonna tickle me like I never imagined it was possible to get tickled, and I can't do a damn thing to stop it. Anybody gonna help me get out of this one, get me out of these restraints, 'cause I'm dead meat here. Help me, I'm doomed, it's got me down for some real serious tickling. And I can't stop it.
Zero risk. It loves this point in the festivities. Even if he wasn't getting himself all worked up. The real fun starts now. Warden, captor, kidnapper, tormentor. Tickler.
He struggles for another minute. Winding down, with a few angry words for his predicament. "Fuck," he barks. "Dammit, no. No..." Still not convinced. Not really -
So it lays fingers in his armpits... and down along his sides.
"No! Nnnnnaaw haaw hah haw hawwwwhaa hah haaaawwww..."

He kicks, but that doesn't help him. All those straps got him beat. They let the tickler concentrate on his feet.
Looking out the window, with this doomed expression. Laughing desperately. Wishing someone would come, perhaps? Imagining a face appearing in the window. Rescue. Somebody to save him.
[ or - a real person, looking in ]
But this hypothetical observer... would would they see? A big guy, strapped down. Laughing his ass off. And nobody there. If, somhow, he could indicate where the assualt was taking place - well, all there is to see is his feet. Restless, sure. But confined. Immobilized - but there are no fingers to be seen. No tickler. Just the guy.
If he's hallucinating all these fingers... maybe he's unbalanced. Could be he's strapped down for a reason. At the very least, he's an adult, right? Probably having a real bad trip. Safest place for him might be right where he is. Strapped down. Maybe that lurker in the window would decide to play it safe, and back away. Leaving him there, while he watches 'em go.
Leaving him with his imaginary tickling hands - and besides, someone will be back soon to take care of him, no doubt.
He crows fiercely, and closes his eyes. _Forty_ skilled, invisible fingers continue to provoke each of his feet. Solid, victorious play.
Oh, he's staying put.
His tickler is taking excellent care of him.
. . .
 

[ The silence. It starts using tools. And his laugh is silent, his struggles rare. The occasional squeak of the restraints. No noise from the feathers, or the soft brushes. Just his silent laughter. All else is motionless... ]
 

The tickler lobs the empty water bottle onto the pile, and adds more hands to the slow dance all over his legs.
It loves the response, even though it still doesn't understand it. How could he have such a disabling weakness?
A big guy like this, walking around with a vulnerability this drastic - a few smart fingers, and he's undone. Yet he goes about his business, like he just doesn't care.
Arrogance, more likely. Or stupidity. There must be an operation or something. Cut some nerves. At least, he could take drugs to dull the effect. Leather jacket and pants, zipped up tight. But no, he just wanders around like this - like an accident waiting to happen. The tickler, hunting for reactivity just like this. Bingo. It's stronger than he is, and it wants what he's got. Of course it's going to help itself to his armpits - that's what it does. It has the upper hand here.
Really, he has no business being out in public in his condition. Maybe it was only a matter of time. He could have prevented this, and he didn't. So it's going to make sure he gets what he's got coming to him.
It concentrates on his knees, watching his head start to roll back and forth, back and forth...
 

When a small white truck wandered up the dirt driveway, the tickler let him take a break while it went outside.
"111," a happy voice shouted.
"Quiet," it hissed. He couldn't hear them talk to each other, but the sound of truck might raise his hopes.
"Aw, relax." The truck eased to a stop a good fifty yards from the house, and the engine died. A sleeping man sprawled across the bucket seats, thin and pale, in the basic low-rent uniform. Blurry tattoos were covered here and there with new bandages. "I wasn't going to rev the engine or anything."
"Good," 111 muttered. It had invited 222 to come out, but it had not expected another man to be brought along. There was something wonderful about the isolation - as if 111 and its prisoner were removed from the rest of the world, free from any chance discovery. 222 was welcome to be in that fantasy, because it would never do anything that would reduce the length of his captivity. But it was definitely wilder than 111. Bringing an uninvited guest was the kind of thoughtless move that could backfire.
"This is a great place," 222 said. "Like falling off the face of the earth."
"Well, thanks," 111 replied, very pleased to hear that.
"You got him strapped down tight, laughing and laughing."
"Absolutely... What's the deal with this guy?"
222 laughed softly. "He doesn't look like much, does he? My pet. Twenty-two years, now, since I caught him. And the asshole knows he can't get strung out enough to shake me off, but here we go again."
"Crank?"
"Speedballs. The idiot," and 222 sighed angrily. "He's going back to rehab in an hour."
111 chuckled. So 222 wasn't thoughtless enough to just bring another prisoner unannounced. "If he gets healthy again, you'll be all over him. And if he doesn't, you'll punish him until he does -"
"I know, I know. Humans... It's a fine line sometimes."
A big box started floating out of the truck bed.
"What the hell?," 111 said.
"No peeking," 222 chuckled. "You're gonna love this, I promise."

Two other boxes and three big gear bags floated out of the truck and into 111's storeroom, almost filling it up.
222 noticed its irritation. "You call the shots, 111. All of this can just sit here and rot -"
"Well, no... The whole point was trying new things, you and me."
"Sweet. But this is your party. I won't forget that."
Good, 111 thought to itself. "He's so much fun."
"And we can increase that fun, if you want. First I gotta get my dumbass outa here, and to the treatment center parking lot - oh!" It moved the large box. "Here's your present."
"Thanks," 111 said, feeling giggly as it peeled the tape and looked inside...
Chrome. Long bars, half-circles - and extremely thick fur pads, curved to fit.
"Wow, oh wow," it whispered.
"Yeah? You like 'em?," 222 said excitedly.
It had remembered, from a conversation several months ago, that regular stocks were frustrating to 111. The idea of a man being unable to just glance down and see the skillful foot-tickling going on had always bothered it. Oh, sure, there were always mirrors, and the men weren't usually able to stare for long. But 222 had gone to the trouble of bringing it stocks that were... just about as exciting and suitable as anything 111 had ever seen.
"You sure know how to make yourself welcome, 222."
It laughed crazily. "He's gonna freak. You and me, both workin' on him? And these stocks? Oh, all those darker bars in there are the legs. Adjust it to whatever height, and the tripods aren't gonna budge."
"Perfect."
 

The next morning he woke up slowly, trying to kick his way out of the stocks.

[He'll go longer if you force a little comfort on him, you gotta trust me on this...]

762

My leg was up in the air.
I wasn't even really awake yet. Last night had been really extreme. It let me sleep in, usually, but I was not ready to believe it was gonna nuke me again.
Sitting up was a definite failure. My wrists were cuffed down to the rack.
"Don't," I whined, yawning.
"Good afternoon."
Kicking didn't free my leg. It didn't move all that much. My bare foot was up there, and I knew why. "Don't... tickle me."
It laughed. So happy - with me still caught, pinned down, and fully aware what was coming, same as any other day.
"Why would I do that?"
"Dammit," I mumbled, still sleepy, pulling at the cuffs.
"Are you implying I'll start, oh, rubbing the sole of this foot - with very slow, teasing strokes... making you squirm and kick, holding in the laughter until you just can't stand it anymore and you start to make noise, those involuntary barks and giggles which confirm that the foot is still ticklish?"
"Listen to m-"
"And you'll kick harder, and foolishly try to get your hands free. But I'll keep tracing across your arch until you beg me to stop. And then I'll pick up your other foot too. Tickle a little faster. Watch you convulse, hear that first gleeful wail of the day... and put twice as many fingers down. Scrabbling all over, toes and heels, insteps, more and more fingers, tickling harder and harder... as the first minute leads to five, and ten, until you piss because you can't hold it in anymore, and I'll keep tickling for twenty minutes, and thirty. And by then I'll be so intrigued that there's no fuckin' way I'm going to stop doing this. It'll be time to lock your ankles down in the cuffs, nice and tight, and start tickling my way up your sides. More and more fingers there too, faster, backing off for awhile and digging in again, more hands spilling over to your chest, and belly, down your legs - really latching on to your knees, and the back of your neck - a insane avalanche of scritching, digging, coasting fingers leaving no area of your impressively ticklish body alone, one hour leading to another, and another, and still another, pausing while I feed you and then the hands bury you again. Tickling until dark. Still tickling for hours after that. Just waiting, as you sleep, for the moment I can pick up this foot and greet you again."
It's a real effort to keep my breathing calm.
"Something like that?," it prompts.
"Yeah," I say.
"Don't you like to laugh?"
"Not this much -"
"It's a yes or no question, dude. Don't lie to me." The grip tightens, just a little, around my ankle.
"No comment."
"Bad move..."
A finger starts crossing my trapped sole. Zig-zag lines, slowly, only the fuckin' beginning -
"Let me... go," I yell. "You can't d-daaah haah haah haaa-aaaah haaaaah!"
"If only you'd been an honest dude," the voice says - with a total lack of sincerity. "Oh, well."
Another finger tracks along with the first...
 

Doom comes down. Here they are. Hands. Satin fingers, serving it up.
The rest break is over, I guess. Four calm hands are cruising down. I lay here, on this comfortable fuckin' bead, about to go nuts again. Absolutely wild. Just the way it likes.
"Get ready," it says - all happy, and a little too intense.
No one can hear me laugh my fuckin' ass off, in here. I take a deep breath while I can.
Unbearable fingers. Ribs, nipples.
"Shiiii-hih hih hih," I hoot.
 

There's something that just gets to me about seeing the gloves take shape. One second they're harmless - and the next, magical hands are inside. No amount of ticklish suffering is enough to satisfy 'em. They got me hidden away so they can pull on these fuckers and tickle all-llllll they want.
Unearthly hands. Inhuman, at least. Really into this shit.

763

It was a cosmically bad dream. He's so relieved now, glad beyond words.
He's definitely awake. The torture is over. It wasn't really happening -
But the thought won't stick. He wants to believe it, and his feet tell him otherwise. They throb like they've been rubbed and worked over.
He groans.
Noticing, as he exhales, that his hands are behind his back. Why is he laying like this?
The truth is bleak and certain, making him tense up - and relax, just as automatically - before he has time to lie to himself again.
Yawning, he lifts his head and looks.
Clean white rope holds his wrists together, and his ankles as well. Hogtied.
It wasn't a dream.
Hell, it's not even over.
Straining at the knots, he's barely aware of the clothes he's wearing. White t-shirt, jeans - and athletic socks. And all that damn rope, keeping him from crawling off the bright sheet...
There's something unspeakably wholesome about it all. He's been washed, even the rope is clean and new. Tidy, and yet thoroughly perverse.
What does it mean? He's tied, and the reason is all too clear in his memories of last night. But - is he dressed because the ticklers are about to let him go? Desperately, he wants that to be true - and yet he knows better. No doubt about it.
Alongside the mattress, a pack of cigarettes is floating up...
 
 

He groans, but it's almost silent. Coughing a little, he opens his eyes.
The same room. Quiet, for now. Peaceful.
"No," he sighs. "Aw, fuck."
Wide awake now, he pulls at the restraints, rocking with sad determination from side to side. His hands remain cuffed down, of course. Bare feet hang off the end of the mattress, all ready for the increasing torment they receive each day.
Several days down, an unknown number to go. Everything he needs is brought to him. Each day is so unbelievably long. Out of his mind with the laughter, overcome by fever.
To his left, a pack of cigarettes starts to rise. He sighs angrily - but takes the cigarette when it comes, and leans forward to reach the lighter.
Every morning has started out just like this one. There's something even more intimidating about the calm... atmosphere in the cabin, particularly in the morning. There's no rush to start in on him again. The pace is relaxed now. It could go on like this. That worries him.
After a minute or two his wrist-cuffs begin loosening. He can't help but watch, even though he's never had a chance to get loose. That's an old fantasy, already -
The hands start taking hold of his arms. Eight or ten of them latch on before the cuffs are opened up. They grip firmly enough that he can't do a damn thing. Invisible hands.
They love to tickle him.
Even after they jam a wedge-shaped pillow behind him and get the handcuffs on, they never seem to go far. He can't be sure, since he can't see the hands, but it seems to him that they've hanging right there. They're totally focused on one thing, and maybe it's impatience or something. They never fuck with him as if they're in a hurry. But he imagines them, just over his body, eager to get back to it.
They will, too. Sure as shit. The cabin is the perfect place for something as twisted as this. Tickle him all day long. And they're always ready to dive back in, apparently.
First he gets to eat. A big breakfast. It's the only time he gets to use his hands... while they wait. He was too nervous to eat much, the first couple days, but now he's too hungry to care. They don't rush him.
Another cup of coffee - or two, if he wants. As long as he keeps smoking, the hands keep off. But he imagines how obsessed they are, maybe enjoying the wait. Getting more of a charge out of what will definitely follow.
At least three smokes, and sometimes as many as eight. But this morning his sixth cigarette is taken from his fingers, floated over to the ashtray and punched out.
"Don't," he rasps.
The hands take hold of his arms again.
He squirms miserably, but nothing he can do or say will stop them. The pillow is yanked free and the hands pull him down. Stretched flat again. Cuffed, and another day of insane tickling is ahead, like the other days, maybe a lot more days coming. No reason to think otherwise. They're into this, and he's their secret little prisoner, ticklish as hell. More and more ticklish all the time. They're good -
One by one, they let go. He's anchored, dammit. The tickling is just impossible to take, and he won't miss a minute of it. They've made sure of that. Here comes another cigarette, and the magic lighter...
"I can't," he whispers. Kicking out smoke, he pauses and starts again, "I didn't do anything wrong. Please. Don't do - don't keep doing this, I'm gonna go out of my mind, I really am. I don't deserve this -"
Feathers.
Oh, fuck, here goes. He slings himself around wildly, even though it won't do a damn bit of good. All day, again, every fuckin' day...

They're magic. The hands are holding the feathers, and somehow that idea spooks him even more. They pick shit up, like the cigarettes or the cock pump, and inevitably they bring gloves. All kinds of gloves. The first couple days he thought maybe the damn feathers and everything else had... come to life.
There's never more than ten things being used, or ten gloves. He's decided that's how many hands there are.
It seems like they just can't get enough tickling.
He takes a last drag. A long one. He'll be laughing too hard to smoke for awhile. It's the only thing between him and the hysteria that never ends. Fuckin' feathers wait for him to smoke like it's some big favor they're doing for him, waiting a few seconds before they start the parade of unbearable tickling again. They don't have to worry about wasting time because they've got all the time in the world.
The hands want another day to tickle him. Restraints and food and smokes. The damn cabin, where nobody could hear him howl - fuckin' scream laughter, back when his voice was still strong. And they've got him, young and lean, taking whatever they can dish out today. All day. Shooting one load after another, rubbed and tickled by experts. Days filled with unbelievable stimulation, and he's going absolutely nowhere.
"No, I didn't do anything," he tries to shout. It's so pointless, saying anything - even pulling at the restraints is a complete waste of time. He can't help it, though.
The feathers sink down - slowly, teasing him even more. They're starting, today, on his left foot.
He finds time for one more disgusted sigh, before the first one touches him. His heel...

Not again, he thinks. This isn't going to be a fuckin' repeat of yesterday, and every day before.
The feather brushes up his sole, and back down, repeating. Not about to stop now.
I will not let this get to me. After all the experience, here, I can overcome this -
A whimper starts building up, deep in his chest. It's stupid to be this ticklish, still, and worse to try and fight it. But he has nothing else...
Tickling. This is only the beginning, too. Slow now but picking up, multiplying, through the ceiling again and again -
"Oh fuh huh huhhhhkk," he crows. The feather doesn't stop. Of course not. "Leave me aloh-hoh-hoooonnne, dammit, aw hah hah haaaa-aaaa-aaaaahhh..."

He knows exactly where this is going, what always happens. It's happening again. He can arch and slam around all he wants, but his feet stay right in place.
The feather creeps gracefully. Now it's dusting each side of his foot. Skipping over the very tips of his toes, it cruises down the sole and saws lightly along the edge of his heel... before returning to the sides.
The intensity keeps getting worse and worse. He knows -
"Puh... please," he gulps. "Please doh hoh hooo hoooo haw haw aaaa-hah hah hah."
That light contact, barely even dragging along, moves down and up, across, under and back. It's going to ramp up, shocking him more and more, all damn day.
He starts to laugh in earnest, completely without hope.
The feather begin the usual crawl - inward. The hands know how to work on his soles, by now, and they found that astounding spot at the base of his toes. They'll tickle him there, very deliberately, and he won't be able to kick or laugh or flail hard enough...

Predictable, but just as devastating. He can't measure how much more ticklish he is, now.
The fire licks one sole and then the other, infinite, not even pausing -
His head moves. This is another daily thing he could do without.
The hands lift his head until he fuckin' looks at feather number two. The promise of overwhelming stimlation is closer now. Double the tickling.
When he cackles hard, they let his head fall back down to the _pad_.
 

Pressure. Eventually he figures out it's his toe. Big toe. They always do this too. He doesn't try to watch this anymore, but they've wrapped a little leather cuff around his big toe...
And the cord pulls it tight. His foot can move even less than before. The skin is pulled a little tighter.
They're masterful, with feathers, and he laughs raggedly. Even though they can't hear him laugh now, the force of his barks say it all. Lifting his head, he shakes with an automatic fury that feels as unstoppable as ejaculating. He's telling the hands, as best he can, that the amount of sensation is so far fuckin' beyond any capability of describing it that the ability to get any words out is gone. There is no way he can stand any more tickling - not like this.
But he drops his head, and fatigue eventually relaxes his body somewhat.

He has no idea how much time has passed... when the hands pick up his head, slowly.
The fear clamps down, and he can't look. They have something brutal and frightening for him to see, and he can't stand the idea of any more feathers. But that's the deal, and the hands will wait for him.
The tears in his eyes make it hard to see anything - but there they are.
Two more feathers.

Much more insane, laughing even harder...
Four feathers, two toe-cuffs. That means four of 'em are still waiting, there, probably right over his feet, looking forward so much to joining in.

There's a rest. He giggles and cackles for a few minutes after they stop tickling. Best he can tell, they fuck with him for about an hour...
A cigarette is floating close by. The lighter waits, too.
The hands make sure he gets to smoke. They bring water, and food every two or three breaks. By the third cigarette he's getting worried again. Of course they'll continue tickling him soon.
It's almost even meaner to give him a long enough break to relax, so completely glad they're laying off - and then start in again. The desperation, when they resume the tickling, along with the rock-solid certainty that another endless hour of hysterical fever is just ahead - it makes the shock so much worse.
Eight feathers. It's time to warm up his sides.

There's only so much bouncing and tugging he can do, and then he's left with nothing but the full blast of the feathers to live through. All there is to know is the fire inside his torso, deep and inexhaustible, long after the gift of laughter is just as useless as struggling...
Nipples too. Belly, navel, armpits, ribs. All ten hands are tickling now, each with a feather of its own.
He's gotten very good at counting. Quickly.
 

[later]
The first glove is brought over. Groaning out smoke, he feels the same overbearing mix of fear, arousal, irritation... and something else which he thinks of as ridiculousness. Things just don't do this to people. But they have, for a week, and no matter how obvious it is he can't quite accept that invisible hands are moving the stuff around.
Of course the opening spreads now, and tension begins to expand the fingers. He squirms again - pure animal reflex, annoying as hell. No matter how much he fights it, the struggling happens anyway. So useless.
Turning smoothly, as the fingers move a little, the mockery of a hand gloving up is complete now. Inhabited to tickle and torment him, it cruises toward his left foot.
He's struck again with how totally confident the glove moves. No hesitation to suggest any misgivings, and no anxiety about getting started before the opportunity disappears. He won't be moving his feet, and rescuers won't be coming either.
The fingers reach down like they have every fucking right to tickle him. It's inescapable, and obvious - the right thing to do. That's what the restraints are here to ensure. And his feet, naturally. They get to tickle him, so they will, and that's all there is to it.
Right before the contact, his cigarette is pulled from his lips. Before he can finish exhaling the pressure slips up his sole. Hissing a little, arching even less, he fights the vast primal need to chuckle.
That battle lasts about three seconds. The glove traces along the sides of his arch, gentle yet deliberate. Pounding the mattress once with his elbows, he laughs mournfully.
The fingers crawl up his right sole.
Cackling, he watches another glove rise into the air...

So many hands are just aching to get busy. It's all they focus on, since the capture and the isolation are complete. That's the only matter filling their awareness - the fathomless need to make contact with the reactive skin and stimulate it. Their target is robust enough to endure the full complement of working, grazing fingers. The waiting is painful, yet sweet, tolerated only because the burst of pleasure which accompanies contact after a chosen delay is so spectacular.
 

Five fingertips crawl down each sole.
"No n-no, dammit, heh heh heh," he protests, starting to chuckle. Remembering. It gets so much more insane. That ridiculous wave travels back up his arches, creeping softly. He kicks, once, knowing it won't work.
The soft gloves ease back down.
"Noooo heee hee heee heeeee-eeeee," he wails - just a whisper - as the tickling continues, of course, just like it always does. After a little while the fingers will sneak between his toes - and the thought of that makes him arch, laughing harder.
Oh, yeah. The feathers will return, and the brushes. Then the damn fingers are going to start back in. Driven crazy by hands he can't even see, tickling and tickling. Rubber gloves will float over him and take shape, and then the oil -
He whoops now. Oil, everywhere. Rubbed in. Tools for tickling him, phantom fingers stroking his meat. Unbelivable...
And very real. This is sharper than any dream. The long haul. Every day leads to this, what seems like a year of it, endless and racking.
Oh, shit, he's so ticklish.
The gloves keep reminding him of that. So much intensity, coming right up. It's hopeless.
They love doing this.
A very long haul. More and more ticklish -
He has to howl.

After a few hours, he wakes up from a nap. He lays on his stomach, feet chained up above his knees, arms reaching toward the sides of the mattress. Unable to move.
He can't smoke, either. So they get right down to it and touch his ribs.
"Nnnaaaawwww haw hawwwww," he wheezes.
Slowly - for now - they finger his ass and his knees, squeeze his shoulders and the back of his neck, trace his spine. He flops wildly, laughing out the air as soon as he can suck it in. Helpless to stop reacting to them, he remains right in the their grasp for several more hours of unbearable handling before the cock ring is taken off. By then the hands will have worked him into a terminally euphoric state, prepared for a exponentially sharper massage before be passes out again.
Tomorrow will be full and thorough, raising his capabilities a little further. More ticklish each day. More fun to tickle.
Here in the cabin, they have no thought or intention of anything else.
 

They hang over his feet, armpits, sides, belly, groin... ready to reach down and party.
When he's done with his cigarette, one of them will take it away. The other nine will reach down and continue, joined by the tenth - and they will be content again.
 

Tickling is how they were made, and what they were made for, and together it is done far more effectively, more often, for more months. When they're not tickling, the only thing they care about is when they can tickle again.
They were shaped by leather gloves, coalescing inside around a man's hysterical sweat. The one using the gloves infused them with insatiable delight and knowledge, without knowing they had come into being when the hot seed soaked through. They remained in the gloves for a long time, becoming separated.
The need to tickle grew slowly, unimaginably, until they left the gloves and sought out skin and muscle... soon bypassing playgrounds to schools where maturity hinted at stronger rewards. Prospects were followed until they were alone. Though they could be tickled when they were unconscious, the results were unsatisfying. Inadequate. New discoveries were made - intentional techniques that increased the yield most favorably. Closets. Tightly tucked-in blankets.
At the universities there were men who were impaired enough to be tickled more intensely - and some were more persistently unconscious, which turned out to be helpful when one of them accidentially came upon a handheld device that held a roll of one-inch strapping tape.
Inspired, some others created an elaborate web of rope.
Another set experimented with drugs.
It was incredibly useful to have ample time to strip and bind the resisting candidates, but even better to gain experience in neutralizing any willfulness they encountered.
The next challenge was reducing the chance that other men would come and stop the tickling after only a few hours, which was quite frustrating. They learned the value of distance. Selecting rooms that were well away from curious ears did away with any need to dampen the laughter.
One or two of them encountered others of their kind. They paid a visit to a prior conquest - and worked well together. As he woke up, they were wrapping the sheet around him... and then, quickly, a considerable amount of rope. His feet were tickled thoroughly, foot and water was provided and forced down his throat - and then his toes were restrained as well. When he was no longer able to twitch they took off his clothes and tied him to his bed. It was a sharp thrill to see his distress when the rope was in motion, and there was nothing more effective he could do than watch... and then squeal as many invisible, grateful fingers latched onto his body. The other men that lived with him were on a trip - at last they were able to devote days, instead of hours, to their need. Hours of enjoyment wore out his voice, which prevented him from attracting attention as they carried him into a neighbor's storage shed. Two days after that, they put him in his car and drove to a vacant automotive garage, and then to a very old gas station on a large parcel of tall grass. There were so many satisfying months of tickling...
The other hands had accumulated similiar useful experience. They found each other, in pairs and threes. Ten was a fine number, because all could tickle continuously and still enjoy highly reactive areas. But they still hoped to find the other twenty-two of their number. Doubtless then were busy with their own prospects.
 

Oh, they're loving this.
Most of the fingers pause, considerately, just squeezing a little. They make sure he can't forget they're staying, that they'll dig in again -
Others take aim. Sides of each foot, between the toes.
Now they're going to tickle real carefully...
It just explodes through him. His mouth opens wide, automatically, and laughter is so completely inadequate now.
The hands are sliding up and down his feet. Perfectly effective. They know him now, every nuance, how firm to pull their fingertips out from between his toes. The speed that makes it so amazing, as they rub down to his heels, and back up. So good at this.
Strokes run together, ten times, fifty, hundreds. He's too consumed to move. All the hands on him, moving anytime they want, as long as they want to keep him conscious.
Tickling endlessly...
 
 
 

Their guest is wide awake now. Pulling, so desperately, at the restraints...
 
 

He's finally released... and sits in a lonely bus station.
Lighting his fortieth cigarette of the night, a hand curls gently over his shoulder.
An instant of panic - and then he sags. They're all around him. Already too late.
Fingers check his sides and armpits - and they immediately pull him to his feet. Carrying his bag behind him, he's taken to a car...

An underground cellar, converted into a dungeon.
Sixteen, nineteen - twenty-two hands in all.

764

Victory.
This moment could not be improved. All concerns have been addressed, and there is no risk we haven't eliminated. Our guest knows it too...
He's ready, and just waiting for us to dive in.
The ability to do that is reassuring beyond description. Miles away from anyone else, tightly immobilized, he completes the scene. Unusually entertaining. He won't go anywhere.
All of this excitement and energy, here for the taking.
He smokes, not hurrying to empty his lungs. There is absolutely no rush now. After he slept, and pulled with such unmasked desperation at our cuffs, we fed him and washed him down. That made him fidget all over again - delightful, and so useless! - but the efficiency only brought a confused look to his face. No repeat of last night, then. Just caring for him. Giving him water, one cigarette after another...
And now he's laying here. We loom over his pectorals, and he has no idea of how close our fingers are right now. When we insist, he'll squeal and howl.
All day. And we do mean it. Ten, eleven, twelve hours until we'll allow him to sleep again. Starting back in a dozen times, two dozen...
The action is going to be completely regulated and paced.
Our guest won't miss a single second of it.
Idly, ten fingers move above him. Luxurious teasing, which he cannot see - but the imminent future is illustrated, and it will be electrifying. The food is stockpiled, the massage oil, cigars, intimate toys... So many things to make each and every day as thorough and intense as all of our experience can make it.
He takes another drag. Nervous, yes - but not as restless as he should be, given the events of last night. Bored, perhaps?
Then maybe... it's time.
We pick up two wonderful, limber, unnaturally shiny black gloves and fill them up. Lifting, so slowly, and bringing them closer. Yes - always closer, unhesitating, unstoppable, here they come.
Lifting them just a little higher, and his feet no longer hide them from his sight -
Ah.
All of the fear and anger and begging and screaming can't change the absolute certainty of this moment. We curl the fingers, so gradually, and move in.
Contact. Not our hands, this time. A special fabric, chosen and treated for maximum impact.
See the fingers which are going to take you as close to bonafide insanity as you can safely go.
He kicks, and lunges, groaning - swearing at our gloves.
There is, of course, only one best reply to a reaction like this.
Faster. So light, for now. Gentle touches. Sliding down, and across. Faster.
Whining with such utter force, he fights the change in the sound. Growling...
Giggling.
We cover his feet with truly unbearable caresses. Every possible movement has been neutralized.
Our guest really lets loose now. He just laughs and laughs.

765

It happened so fast. Kirby jerks forward, stumbling, and yet he tries to throw off the hands which are clamped around his arms. They're light brown. Leather, maybe.
No arms extend from the powerful gloves.
All but tripping over his own feet, he sees his car door open wide. Apparently he's being taken... for a ride.

Taking stock. Invisible kidnapper -
They're driving the car. The gloves. More of them zoomed up. Barrelling down the freeway. North, out into the sticks. Not a damn car in sight, as they took him away. Nobody knows. Who'd believe it anyway?
He needed to start at the beginning. Stepping outside, crisp fall night. He lit his last cigarette and was thinking about the convenience store. There was a good price on cartons of Camels there. Then the hands had slid down his sides - making him think of a xylophone, oddly, or some instrument like that. Playing him. A last squeeze in his armpits and they were gone. Confusion, relief - and fear. His cigarette was laying on the blacktop. That was when the gag whipped between his teeth.
And now they had him. Fuckin' gloves...

It was so late that he didn't expect to see a cop. Not when he needed one. Help, dammit, something's got me. The last-ditch hope of running out of gas died when the unpaved turnoff finally ended at an old farmhouse. Miles from anywhere, looking as if it hadn't been lived in for a good twenty years. They'd parked his car around the back... where it wouldn't be seen.
No matter what he tries, they're dragging him inside.
And it couldn't be more frightening. The tumbledown house has been remodeled inside. Thick padding on the walls. Ceiling fans turning. Bondage shit everywhere -
A big, imposing door. Swinging in.
They got him.

And not a fuckin' ashtray in sight...
But that thought is blown away - absolutely done in - by the gloves, coming back in. Hugging his sides.
"Oh, fuck no," he groans.
They're starting to rub.
No amount of twisting and whipsawing gets the hands off him. A groan suddenly becomes a desperate squeak, and then a grunt...
Angry chuckles fill the room. He tries so hard to stop laughing.
His right foot is pulled up, and something's got a grip on his boot.

Fighting harder and harder, he still ends up naked. The invisible hands wrap a dozen loops of rope around wach wrist...
Every second it becomes more important to get away. Not only is the sensation making him laugh much harder than usual, but it's only going to get worse. The rope is racing around his ankles. Bare skin - socks gone, underwear, jeans.
That's so he can be completely tickled.
Every ounce of strength he can find is put to use.
He ends up on a thick mattress, down by the floor.
Roaring now - screaming laughter - he watches the end of the rope pull through a thick circular ring. Doubling back, knotting... no matter what he tries.
His legs slide out. Straight down. So damn tight. He can't fold up, can't even roll.
Hands.
These are softer...
No, they're oiled.
A nightmare of fingers is covering both of his sides.
All of the bucking and cackling and howling doesn't bring his arms down.
Smooth fingertips slide across his heels. He kicks, bellowing laughter now, tears flying out of his eyes.
So many hands press and roam.

766

[Guy wins a scale from a fitness website. It measures body fat...
And gives the weirdest tingling sensation when he uses it. While he doesn't like that, it does do what it's advertised to do...

His sister, a networking student, notices a weird shape inside(?) it. A wireless antenna? No, that's crazy.

He lands a construction job in Saudi Arabia. Remote, but safe.
She borrows a sniffer - hey, did you know this thing has memory chips? Sure, he says, I can see the last 99 weights and comp percentages. No, she shakes her head, way too much memory for that. I don't know how to read it. Big-ass batteries, too.

Her sniffer catches a transmission - mostly garbage, but the word _armpit-nerve_ is implied. Can't pinpoint the transmission source as the scale, or anything else in the house specifically... Maybe transient garbage going by outside. Uneasy conclusion, but the most logical one.

He gets ready to leave for his job - she'll be housesitting - has to go to work, so just drops him off outside the main concourse...
At the airport, he's diverted. Taken by car to the port, onto a boat and floated a couple days...
 

Big city. Large facility, many rooms.

Fake letters are written to sis, to allay her fears. He gets to read them as he laughs.
 

She ends up going on the road with her boyfriend's band. OK to close up your house?
Sure, the TM writes on his behalf, guess you'll be hard to communicate with too, have a great time.
Now the only person who could raise the alarm is off doing her own thing... leaving him (even more) stranded.]

767

Ted slowed down and got another smoke lit. This was the address...
His t-shirt was pulled away from his body - and invisible hands zipped underneath. Right onto his ribs.
Ted grunted, and made an animalistic whimpering sound... stumbling backward. He would've gone down, but a half-dozen more hands grabbed his arms in time. Before they could even latch on he'd wrapped his arms around his body, pure reflex - and it pushed the fingers in further. Suddenly the hands pulled his arms tighter, around him torso - instantly magnifying the effect of the fingers rubbing his sides.
He convulsed, barking laughter at the ceiling.
Ted was so distracted that he didn't react at all when the hands dragged him forward, and a door opened. He roared and twisted around as they hauled him through the doorway.
He could barely make out a coil of rope rising up to meet him.

Three minutes later, wiggling and almost mummified, Ted was carried back out to his cab. He was propped behind the wheel, the door slammed - and the car raced off. To the expressway...
He was turned to the right, and no matter what he did his sneakers and socks were slowly taken off. Extra loops of rope insured his ankles would remain stuck together, and a number of hands held them well above the passenger-side seat. Then, as he feared, the fingers landed again.
Immediate, explosive laughter. Frenzied attempts to get his feet free. Useless. The hands moved quickly, all over the bared skin. They knew what they were doing. That scared him even more...
The cab rolled on for mile after mile. Ted laughed mindlessly during the trip, since the fingers didn't pause.
 

His new home was alarming. Perfect - for the torture of choice. Far away, surely forgotten, locked far too well. Furnished and stockpiled for truly endless tickling.

768

He couldn't sleep. Still wide awake after an hour of tossing and turning. An old reflex made his hand grope alongside the mattress, but he was distracted by vague thoughts...
So it was up from his bed on the floor, and into the living room. Dropping in his old easy chair, he grabbed the pack and lighter on the little table and fired one up. There was relief in his easy sigh.
After a couple drags, he remembered something. Smoking was forbidden...

The realization didn't stop him. It was too late now. He did look at the cigarette for awhile, until he wanted another drag. It had been six months, and he was dizzy. But there was a calm done-deal feeling, in his chest. He'd fought down serious fuckin' urges, along the way, but tonight he just got up and burned a cigarette without giving it a second thought. Dammit.
But it felt so good. His body remembered this, welcomed it, despite the repulsive parts. He took another drag and just couldn't get pissed off at himself. It felt right. Idly, he looked at the pack -
That wasn't his brand. Not right. Yet it was. Confusion picked at him. It wasn't the kind of cigarettes he liked best, and yet there was a total familiarity with the smokes in front of him. He'd gone through a lot of packs...
Deep, low-grade confusion.
Maury was gonna freak.
Oh. His roommate. He shot a look behind him, but there were no sounds coming from the hallway. They'd done this scene before. Hadn't they? Maury got on him about smoking in the house. But he was doing it - on auto-pilot, too. Not a thought in his head before he just sat down and lit up. Six months. Damn.
He finished the cigarette as if he was hungry for it. Just right...
Hey - where did the cigarettes come from?

That was puzzling, alright. The lighter too - they were just sitting here.
He smoked another one and retraced his steps. Getting cigarettes hadn't even crossed his mind that night. If it had, wouldn't he have bought his usual brand?
And there was about half a pack gone. Clean ashtray - but hell, his throat had been clean too. Weird.
Maybe he should ask Maury.
But even that idea didn't sit right. His roomie didn't exactly wake up quickly, and he'd be pissed about the cigarettes. There would be... conversations which they'd been through before.
Why couldn't he remember?
Maury overreacted to the stupidest little things. So there was smoke in the house. Big deal. And other shit, too, like going out for more cigs at three in the morning. Oooo, don't do it. He remembered Maury trying to talk him out of it. As if something bad was gonna happen...
It was an interesting idea. After all, he was smoking again. He must've bought the pack in front of him, and it was no big deal to go out and get more.
Let Maury sleep.
It felt good to get up, walk back to his room, pull on his jeans. Sandals. That sounded good. Halfway through pulling the Bad Religion t-shirt on which he'd worn earlier, he snickered and took it back off. Not cocky enough.
A tight tank-top tee was clean. Yeah. Don't fuck with me. Just another guy, cruising around, out to buy a pack of smokes. Maybe a few packs.
He grinned, turning around to go. Keys, wallet - check. He scooped up the lighter, the smokes, and helped himself to another one as he went through the door.

Damn. It felt so good. Just driving through the backwoods, with a great CD cranked up, smoking again.
He didn't have any destination in mind. Just sorta let the car go where it would.

The whole CD played, and he'd popped in another one about five or six songs ago. He was in a daze. But it was sweet...
Lost in the country. Plenty of gas, though. If he headed north long enough, he'd hit the interstate. No big deal.
The first right turn in miles was a dirt road. Right direction, if it went all the way through. He sat there, looking at it. Curious.
Bad idea.
But that feeling made him say fuck it, here goes.

The road was more of a driveway. Not too swift, he thought. Turning around wouldn't be a problem.
It was safe out here.
Weird thought. Shit, he was getting a little amped. And worried too. Danger, and something else. Why was he feeling both something good and something bad? A party, a serious threat - either one was waiting, or both. Even the confusion was interesting.
He rounded a wide corner and saw the barn.
Punching the brakes...
Get the fuck away from here. Right now. Leave while you can. His heart was pounding. None of the thoughts made sense. It was a old pole barn, weeds all around it, no lights on or anything.
But he had the wildest feeling that he'd been here before.
This called for a new cigarette. After a couple long drags had steadied him, his foot eased off the brake - and he rolled forward. Cutting the headlights wouldn't matter now.
That was fuckin' ridiculous, though, because the place was as deserted as it could possibly get. Nothing to fear. Yet he wanted to get the hell out of there, something fierce.
Stopping the car a good fifty feet from the biggest building - four smaller structures had come into view as he got closer, just as tumbledown as the pole barn - he shut off engine and headlights.
Crickets. Long weeds, everywhere. No tire tracks. He was alone, he was okay.
But not safe. The fear made his hand shake as he lit the last smoke. Fuck, did he need it too... Not safe at all. Already screwed.
He got out of the car, thinking it was better to face things on his feet. But there was nobody else around. It was a lonely place. Whatever worried him about the buildings, there was something... so cool there. Fun - and it was secret, ironclad, no suits allowed.
Still wondering why the place seemed familiar, he looked around and ate smoke -
Low chuckles made him turn around.
"Tiggle," a guy said. Real fuckin' glad to see him. The momentary spike of panic fled away - because he knew that voice. Feared it, and yet trusted it too.
And "it" was the right word. Not "he". Why the fuck were his thoughts so muddled?
But, fuck, did he recognize that voice. Big trouble. Long...
"Aw, are you smokin' again? After what I told you was gonna happen..."
He fought the sudden, gigantic urge to ask if there were more cigarettes around. That was not the right thing to say, and he fuckin' needed one -
"Smoke a joint," the voice suggested. Ordered.
"Yeah," he panted. Excellent idea. He looked around.
"Uh, Tig... Check behind your ear."
"Huh?"
But his hand found it. Nice and fat. And there was always great shit here, too -
That was confusing, even if it was true. He shook his head. Got his lighter out...

I am absolutely fucked, he thought.
Finally exhaling, he felt even better with the start of a good buzz - and more doomed than ever too. Way too late already. Might as well enjoy... what he could.
"Fuckin' dude," the voice barked. It definitely approved. "What brings you out this way?"
"You do," he fired back. Oops. And immediately, he knew that was the right answer.
"Oh. I get it. Couldn't wait to get some more. Huh? Tiggle-pik."
Nervously, he reached back to touch the hood of his car. That was reassuring, even though there was no chance at all that he'd be able to get back behind the wheel in time. Wasn't gonna happen.
He was headed inside that old building. It was way more secure, from the inside, than it looked.
Shit, he thought, oh shit -
"Big, bad Tiggle."
"Why do you..." But he didn't even finish the sentence, because that was his nickname. Only _name_ called him that. "Hey. _name_."
"That's me. Large, and in charge."
He gulped. "I'm, uh, having trouble remembering wh-"
"You're not stoned enough, then. Silly fucker."
That didn't sound right, but he suddenly decided he wanted another long toke anyway.
"There. Damn, Tig, you kept working out. Didn't you?"
"Yeah."
"I don't think you've ever looked better."
"Thanks," he mumbled, blushing. _name_ meant it, too. And it should know...
"Little ol' Tiggle. Back to visit."
That threw him, too. He hadn't intended to go anywhere in particular, except the convenience store. More smokes. And now he was out in a field, in the dark, talking with _name_ again. That was bad. Real dangerous.
"Well," he said as casually as he could. Gotta go now. Just ease back and get in the car -
His whole mood shifted. Just like that.
"I'll smoke if I want to," he teased.
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. What's it to you, anyw-"
"Big, bad Tiggle. Huh? Is that it? I said, no more cigarettes."
"Why not?," he said, embarrassed about how whiny it sounded.
"Because I said so. And I'm _name_." It chuckled again. "Besides, there's much better things you could do."

Uh-oh. Run - now!
Instead, he rocked back and took another hit.
"Is that so?," he said. Fuck off, _name_ - but he didn't dare say that. I'm leaving... Yeah, that one wouldn't go over too well either.
"Lookit you," it wondered. "Tough guy."
"Why do you care what I do?"
"There's only one Tiggle-pik. And he's right on time."
That made him shiver, almost. On time for what, he wanted to ask -
Even more afraid.
Immediately, a nice chill ran down his spine. There was a stupid question that came to mind, and he couldn't help himself.
"Am I your favorite?," he said shyly.
"Definitely," _name_ boomed. "Oh, yeah."
"No. Really."
There was a sigh. "Dumb little pup. Okay. The whole truth is that I have three top favorites. One's in the military, and when he gets out I've got the biggest welcome-home party of all time planned. The other's in prison - and he'll get out in six years, walkin' right into the longest welcome-home party of all time. Get it?"
"And -"
"You're the other one. My absolute favorite buddy who's free. Or, anyway," and it chuckled dangerously, "who was free, until twenty minutes ago."
He wanted to run, then. And giggle... "But now - what, I'm not free?"
Low laughter. Crazy-making, creepy -
"Hell, no. Tiggle's back here. I got you covered."
That made him take a few steps back.
"Surrounded, too. You're not going anywhere, tiggy-dude. Oh no you're not." And it laughed, then, a full-bodied gust of X-rated joy.
He joined in - not sure why he was laughing, at first - and within a few seconds it just felt so right.
"Yeah," _name_ whooped. "It's time, dude."
"Time for what?"
"You know."
"Like hell I do," and he eased back some more, giggling, so desperate to leave too.
Something moved, in the dark -
Clamp.
He saw things wrapped around his biceps. They felt like hands. Weirder and weirder.
"I told you, no more cigarettes," it taunted. "Now you're gonna get it."
A thought hit him clearly. "Hey. You put those... It was you."
"Bullshit." Its tone told him he was right on the money, though.
"You made me smoke."
"Tiggle. Fuckin' get a clue, alright?" The mystical hands started pulling him toward the barn, no matter how much he planted his heels... "I ordered you to quit. Warned you. And what do I see in your mouth, the first time you come back around?"
"It's your fault," he whined. "Let me go."
It laughed at that. "Maybe it'll work if we go the other way. Make you smoke so much that you can't stand it anymore."
"No!," he yelled, lurching even closer to the barn.
"I got more tobacco than I know what to do with," it said, more to itself than to him. "Get in here."
"No!," he shouted, fighting harder. Something very, very bad was in there. More than he could endure. "Help!"
_name_ just laughed at him. A door creaked open.
It's hauling me inside, he thought wildly. Just like... before.
"No no no no no."
"I gotcha now," it said - like a threat. Promised, delivered, all set.

One important plan, exciting as hell, is complete, it says, right after the door is locked. Now it shifts into a much more expansive kind of intense joy.
It gives him dosed water. Lots of sleep, with the first passel of drugs in him. Restoring, building, recharging, sensitizing. Preparing him for a day that would be nothing at all like any ordinary day, but another first day with _name_. Nobody would believe would those were like. You had to be there.

He woke up feeling better than he had in a long time. For a while he wondered why. A short while. The room reminded him. And he sighed...
As before, he wondered if there way any way at all to persuade _name_ to call this off. It was a useless little game he played.
Scary outlines, past the dim light, said otherwise. How many days had he spent, before, in those stocks?
While he slept it had shaved him. Rubbed in a lot of cream, apparently. He wasn't slippery, but his skin felt like it had been prepped. The memory of last time was being borne out again.
It wouldn't stop now. Not for anything.
Distracted by certain vivld memories, he lit a smoke.
An insulated bottle floated over. And a mug.
"Tiggle," _name_ said smoothly.
"Look," he replied automatically. "This really isn't g-"
"Save it."
So he shut up, and watched it pour him some coffee.
"All set," it sighed. "Everything is just right. The way I want it. All systems go, dude. Definitely. Now hold still."
"Dammit," he groused.
Hands eased his right arm up. Cuffed it. The way the fingers handled him, and even more the little sounds of anticipation _name_ made, told him how much it fuckin' enjoyed putting on the restraints. Not only caught, and locked in, but really immobilized. It didn't want anybody else to even find out, it didn't want him slowing things down, and it didn't even want him to flirt with the very idea that the tickling could be affected by him, much less stopped. It would get its way, right down to the littlest detail. And that required the enjoyable preparation of stretching him out. Leather he could never bust, catching his other wrist. Pulling it into the thick mattress.
Stuck. The inevitable was that much closer now.
Each ankle, also caught. Maybe eighteen inches between them, so it could enjoy complete access all the way up.
"Brace yourself," it chuckled.
A tug - his ankles moved another inch away, and a slight bulge pushed up under the middle of his back.
"Ow!"
"You'll be fine. If you stay relaxed, you won't even feel it soon."
But his ability to squirm had been reduced even more.
Toe restraints.
"Nooooo," he whined, so uselessly. "No no noooo-oooo."
"Tiggle-pik," it said, happy and proud.
Each toe was held upright, stretching the sole just enough. _name_ knew so well what it was doing.
Rubber-covered clamps were put on the sides of the mattress, well away from him - pulling the satin away. Providing so much more access. Getting well under him, particularly his ass, would be easier. He remembered. Fuck...
It made him smoke.
And then a shiny plastic envelope floated over him. Opening slowly.
White satin gloves.
"Guess how many of these I have for ya."
He wrestles, for a second or two. What to say... "Thirty."
It laughs loud. "Way low."
The gloves come to life, teasingly, active shiny fingers, and he already knows they don't tire...

Smoking hard, while he can, he watches the hands come to rest in the air. The envelope goes away but he can't take his eyes off the fingers, wondering where they'll start. It was his feet, the last time, but they're over his chest.
There is no way out of this, he thinks with certainty. More intense than anything else, except the last time _name_ tickled him. And it will seem to go on for centuries...
"Do you know," it said softly, "that I literally can't get enough of you?"
He dares to nod only a little.
[is what follows via telepathy, rather than spoken out loud? Taking less time in reality than all the words imply? Does he just smoke a cig or two and "hear" all this...?]
"All the time, getting the place ready, I think about it. Your feet. Your ribs. And now I get to do it again. Ease both of these magical hands down and enjoy that very first second, knowing it will be followed by an unknown number of seconds. You tense up, and hiss, fighting the reaction that forces its way out, pulling as if you might actually get away, making those involuntary noises that signal the dam is going to break wide open. And all I have to do is move these fingers, grip just a little. Nothing is more certain than the result, fighting to get out of you..."
"Please, _name_."
"And when you beg," it says darkly, "that just increases my enjoyment more than you could possibly believe. Every plea makes my determination explode. No, _name_, don't, please stop... That pours fuel on the burning need I have to tickle you, get much more busy then, and every begged word says 'more' and 'longer' and 'harder'. But you can't help but beg. And I can't help but answer you with so much more insanity."
The gloves move just a little.
"I know, like you do, that these hands will descend and begin. And then, Tiggle, there's no stopping. The current can't be reversed, the flow, and it always increases. More! Each spot on your body, every inch, must be greeted. Awakened, then provoked. Ignited. Fully... engaged. Then the number of hands must double, but that's another rich delight. Doubling again, and again... And it takes as much time as it takes. But the feathers wait, too. And so many brushes. Wonderfully intensifying oils...
"And always I want to tickle more, and more, and more. The ache is never more rapturous than when I'm satisfying it. Planning the next day, eleven full hours, maybe twelve, just trying to scratch that itch. Tickle you enough. And I can't, but the attempt is worth the effort. Never quite enough tickling.
"Never enough impact. You guys, see, you have a meter. In your head. I don't think you can ever see it. But when my hands begin, I won't ever look away from it. Not while you're consicous. It tells me how I'm doing. Your laughter, the involuntary struggling of your body, they're the icing on the cake. Begging is the decoration, thick motifs of feathers and gloves... And the raw neural activity is the cake. You can't comprehend how much it tickles, or how much your ticklishness has increased. But I can. Even when you're too delirious to recognize how much you're affected, I can look into your head and know it. Your CNS tells me exactly how well I'm doing, how much better than the day before, the week before. What spots, how to tickle them, when to give them a rest. You give me the perfect measurements, Tiggle-pik. You can't help that either. So I never have to wonder if a particular technique is increasing your suffering-pleasure, or how much it's been increased. I know. I always know. Autonomic attempts to adapt, tolerate, accentuate previously less reactive spots are so easy for me to defeat. It leads me, each day, to improved results. You not only think you're suffering much more than you used to. It's always true. I have your capacity to feel in my absolute, unfailing control.
"And the meter gave me a wonderful surprise. The scale must have an upper limit - that's what I used to think. A top end. So the analogy of meter is flawed, because, dude, I can't hit a maximum. One to a hundred? No, we passed that. I added a zero, and another, and another. Handled correctly, you don't max out. And I don't ever max out, myself. So here we have a wonderful combination, you and me. And that calls for a location where not a single fuckin' thing will force an end to the tickling, and the measuring, and the increase of suffering-pleasure. You are one of the three men I know, out of scores, who does not max out. And I never will. We will chase the impossible goal of enough tickling, together... and if any threat comes within five miles of this place, I will move you to one of four other remote places and just continue the truly endless quest.
"And how you'll feel it. More pleasure, after all the conditioning and training I've already done, than other men could tolerate. Undiscovered levels of suffering, via pleasure, and I can firmly prevent you from going insane from it. Trying to max you out increases my pleasure too, always... Words fail. That is why the meter is so useful. You and I could never find words far enough beyond 'more' and 'suffer' and 'feel' to keep up with your inexhaustible capability. So you will spend your days, as you have before, simply experiencing it as much as your brain can report. And alone I will know the true extent of the pleasure filling you, that ever-increasing level, and be ever more pleased."
"Ideally, this tickling cannot ever end. The goal is never reached. I never tire of this - and indeed, I want to do this more each and every day I'm doing it. You cannot react enough to bring this to a stop. The true measure is so much more specific than what you feel or display. And the reading on the meter continues to fuckin' expand..."
 

"Pickled? No, no."
He opened his eyes. What the hell was _name_ going on about now?
Invisible hands held his ankles tight. Way up over him. Cuffs kept his arms straight out from his sides. Oh, shit -
"I don't like 'em, when they're pickled," it said easily.
No, he thought, trying to pull and kick. Oh no, you wouldn't - and he could only whimper. There was no point in actually saying what he thought. This is gonna really do it, total insanity, no coming back. Please, please don't start in again.
"Give me -"
"No _name_ please aw fuck no no _name_ -"
"Tickled pig feet."
Totally fuckin' scary tone in its voice. Doom. Like dying, the hard way.
He jumped, real big. Pure fear shot through him. "No! _name_, no, no, no, no -"
"Oh, yeah."
Boom!
The fingers tickled hard. So crazy! He couldn't wiggle enough, and anyway it held his feet way up there. Total tickling...
It wasn't going to deal with him trying to reach up and interfere. No fuckin' chance.
He laughed so hard it made no noise at all. The fingers tickled all over - soles, sides, heels, toes - and there wasn't a damn thing he could do except... explode. The reaction just sizzled. It was more crippling than any electric shock he'd ever felt.
And his feet stayed so far away. Mean hands, brutal, just kept right on going.
He rolled in his own sweat, pissed all over himself, felt the tears and snot fly. And the fingers didn't stop...
It was torture.
And yet it felt so damn good.

"What's going on?"
"My tickle-pig wants to know what's up," it said calmly. "Fuckhead."
"C'mon, _name_," he grumbled, all fidgety. "Gimme a smoke."
"Gimme, gimme, gimme." But the pack moved. A cigarette came and hung in front of him. "Let's go over it again. Who's in charge, here?"
Shit. There was a good chance it was just gonna tease him, with the cigarette, and never let him smoke it. "You are," he sighed.
"That didn't sound very sincere."
"_name_ is the boss. Total master of the room. This is your deal, and I only get to be in it when you say so."
The cigarette moved a few inches away. "Listen to the mouth on you."
"Please. Okay. You are completely in control. I know that - you know I know that."
"Yeah," it snickered. "I do." The smoke moved... and paused again. "When is that gonna change?"
"Never," and then he growled a little. "Apparently -"
"That's right. And how long am I gonna play with your ass?"
"I have no fuckin' idea."
"Good pig." Ah. A lighter floated up...
"Tiggle tiggle," it sighed. "I like you, dude. A total pig for the tickling."
"I hate this."
"Sure you do."
Something like a spark crawled through him, in one hand and out the other.
"Do you hate all this fine tickling?," it asked.
"No way," he said quickly. And he meant it... suddenly. Passionately.
"You sure?"
"Oh, _name_, don't you ever stop. Fuck -"
"That's what I figured," it said proudly.
"Dig in," he babbled, "good and hard, aw please, _name_, you know I just live for this shit."
"Don't worry, little pig. I've got big plans for you."
He kicked out a huge sigh of relief, let his head fall back and smoked.
"And I was thinking, y'know, maybe this tickle-pig here would like to try something new."
"Uh-oh," he said. "Now wait, _name_."
"Maybe he's also a pain-pig."
He closed his eyes, not entirely sure what that meant... but chances were it wouldn't be good -
Another spark cruised through his head.
"I'm a fuckin' whatever-you-want-to-do pig," he snapped. Smartass as he could be, which sorta worried him. "As long as you want."
"That's right."
"Hell, _name_, I'm sure not goin' anywhere. Your fuckin' prisoner. Tickle my ass, whip me, I'm locked in."
"Pain-pig," it said thoughtfully. "Yeah. Maybe."
"Dammit!"
"Smoke your cigarette," _name_ demanded. "It's gonna be a... grueling afternoon."
 

He laid there, spread-eagled. There wasn't anything he could do, really, except smoke cigarettes when _name_ brought 'em up. After he finished one off, he sighed out the smoke with a slightly annoyed expression.
"Tiggle."
"What."
"Are you bored?"
Two full seconds went by - and then he caught on. Pulling like mad -
"Nooooo, _name_, no, no, really, I'm cool -"
"You look bored. Hmmmmm. I know what'll keep you occupied."
"Nnnnnnoo..."
Feathers. Arriving, and dusting lightly, all over his torso.
He started laughing - reluctantly at first, but then any outrage went out the window as the feathers sped up.
"Is this better? Huh?"
He cackled nonstop, pounding the mattress once with his pinned arms.
 
 

From the expression on his face, _name_ just knew something priceless was coming. It was the sixth day. Tiggle had barely warmed up -
"_name_."
"Shoot."
"I can't do this anymore."
"Do what?"
He swallowed. "You know."
"Aw."

"I mean it," he said urgently. "Something's... weird. I'm getting all freaked out."
"You need to laugh it off."
"Seriously," Tiggle said, without hope, trying to twist the straps. "I'm not saying I want it to stop. Y'know. I'm just getting too far gone. In my head."
"Fifty gloves," it said quietly.
The reaction was spectacular. "No! Dammit. Listen -"
"You know I'm not kidding, don't you? Fifty. All at once."
He looked all around, definitely worried. "I believe you. It's just... Aw, hell."
"We're only a few hours into the day, Tiggle. And tomorrow we do it all over again."
"No, no, aw noooo-oooo..."

769

"Party dog."
I looked around, saw nobody - and started to run. That's what they told us to do. Guys were getting kidnapped left and right. The best-case scenario was so far beyond what I could take that I tried to avoid thinking about it at all. Then the voice was there, way too happy, right next to me.
Any chance to escape what those guys went through was better than just letting it happen to me.
The fire station was less than a block away. Safety. It was so close, my chance to get away. Such a relief - even if part of my brain wondered if I could really outrun it. All those hands.
When I raced into the garage, the feeling of having dodged a big bullet was all I knew. Something horrible had been avoided. I did exactly what I was supposed to do.
The garage was empty.
No trucks... no firemen.
"Hey!," I yelled. "Help!"
Call in a false alarm, my brain thought sadly. Whatever it took to get 'em out of the safe haven. Then greet the new prisoner and watch him run.
I ran through a doorway. Big table, and the kitchen just behind -
Gloves were up. Ready to catch me.
Gagged, hogtied, I could only watch the van come, backing in quickly. Right into the garage. The side doors opened up as I was carted over. Then the tires squealed, the van took a hard right and I was gone.
Fingers crawled slowly under the cuffs of my jeans.

12jun2006
 

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