771

Walking down Atlantic after the store closed, he senses somebody else there. Automatically looking - nope.
Somebody tall. Almost a sense of being tapped on the shoulder. He wasn't touched, and there was no one around, but the idea seems right.
So relieved - almost excessively so - that there's no tall guy right behind him. Oddly cheerful. Then he's on his way, forgetting about the whole thing.
 

[From a quick reference in a TV show, the fascination with tickling occurs and grows.]

He jacked off thinking about the actress and then, fading, fell asleep.
A plot was laid out...

The dream started out real nice - apparently he was her husband, on the TV show, and it felt comfortable and serene. She was so friendly... and then such a wildcat. They fucked for hours, it seemed, and at some point she giggled, from on top of him, and curled her hands around his sides. All progress toward a third cum-shot was interrupted.
"Oh, yeah?," she teased, safely pinning him down and making no move to go anywhere. Just tickling. Sensuous and maddening, her hands kneaded slowly, traveling up to his armpits - and he arched, roaring with laughter, but there was no dislodging her now. It was unbearably electric, and he was vaguely aware of thrusting within her... and the fingers wormed their way between his tightly clamped arms. Lost, undone, and yet it was the most shocking delight, like something he'd been needing for so long without being aware of the lack.
She just didn't stop, and at some point the stimulation blazed up - and his arm was over his head. He couldn't move it!
Flailing wildly at it with the other hand, all she had to do was laugh and tickle harder, shredding him... and then both arms were stuck.
He couldn't stop her now.
Gasping for air a few minutes later, she was gone, or doing something nearby. Tension...
His legs. Ankles. She had tied his ankles together! He kicked and kicked, but nothing doing. Stuck, doomed, really fucked now, and she laughed with delight. The hands attacked his feet, just tickled the absolute fuck out of 'em, and he thrashed like a snake. Howling laughter, screaming sometimes...
And loving it.
Driven mad, but totally eating it up.
That was affirming, somehow, and such an enormous relief, and if it went on another second he was going to snap - and if it stopped he was going to just totally lose it.
But the ropes didn't care how he felt. They did their job, and he went nuts over and over again, fufilled beyond belief. The dusty sweep of feathers roaming up his thighs refocused his attention... fingers dug under one knee and then the other, and the feathers were mercilessly wonderful around his balls, tracing up and down his shaft - and he came, then, one long holler which broke down into racked hoots. Collapsing back, sweat having soaked the pillow -
And the feather started playing with his toes.
No, it was several feathers. Just electrifying. Tied fuckin' feet, never more frantic to get away, more desperate - never more alive, in the most mindblowingly wonderful way - and he got hyperactive again, squealing the most nonhuman laughter as he fought like hell just to move. And he couldn't. Fingers landed everywhere and tickled like they were never gonna let up...

It felt like a month, that dream.
He woke up - not really, but he dreamt about waking up - in a room out of some Arabian Nights fantasy. Thick leather studded with gems spread him out.
The actress walked in, all smiles, and made a gesture with her hand. Inviting someone in...
Except it was a bunch of gloves. Magic. Oh, shit, they were even glowing faintly with pink light. It shimmered on the white fingers. More gloves than he could count.
She laughed - and walked out. He begged her, and yelled at them.
But the gloves came down - and they just had a fuckin' field day!
Hands were sliding up toward his knees, and tickling his soles fuckin' mercilessly. Full-bore workout, alright -
After what felt like hours there was moisture... Thick, somehow, on his feet.
Wow! Full-powered sizzling fire - making him thrash. Fuckin' oil. Unbelievable, how intense -
Gasping a huge breath in... It was tickling, multiplied, so much more shocking now.
His nipples were next to get oiled up.
More and more greasy hands...
He bounced, screaming laughter so the fingers to stop - but it sounded like blissful, energetic mania. Which it was.
The hands camped out everywhere.
He'd catch his breath, with not a finger touching him - and ten times, twenty, thirty, they'd start picking their spots again and getting back to it. Driving him absolutely out of his mind! Jacking him off, rimming him, doing things to his neck that made breathing all but impossible... always pausing, and letting him gather his wits - start to dread the resumption of their torment - then making him slam around when they resumed.
And the day was as kinky as it was infinite.
Fuckin' perfect.

He woke up feeling older, weirdly, as if a year had actually passed. The impact of it - he couldn't even move. The sexy part was just phenomenal. And those gloves, well, they totally blew his mind.
After a half-hour, he jacked off with pure urgency... then took his time, replaying the whole dream. Tied, by her, and the alarm instantly shot through the roof. Then in the grip of those inhuman hands.
He took almost three hours to cum again, starting the dream over and over in his head, exhausting himself...

Nearly oversleeping. He went to work in an absolute fog.
The persistence of a blonde finally sank in, and he grinned back at her...

Ten hours later, as they fucked, his body went through the motions of being present there with her, but his brain was just totally preoccupied with the dream-woman - and, as he got closer to shooting his load, remembering how the insatiable gloves had another maddening idea whenever he got close to cumming, in the dream, to throw him completely off-track.
 

He didn't remember any dreams clearly, that night.
Being chased... never seeing them but he knew it was the gloves, and there were too many to elude. Soon he'd be caught, and hauled off to a place where they could drive him out of his mind.
There was nothing he could think of to prevent that.

In the drugstore the next afternoon, he remembered that he was out of peroxide. That took him down the first-aid aisle -
Gloves. One hundred per box. He was in a trance. Just picking them up made him so horny.
He forgot to get the peroxide, but so what? There were all those fuckin' gloves on the passenger seat. What if the bag... moved a little? And they started coming out...
Five, ten, fifteen. Magic hands, coming for him. Drag him in the house, fetch his belts or the roll of duct tape, a couple sticks of margarine. Whatever.
Hands, in charge, unseeable, unmoved by his pleas... completely in charge.
Tickling the night away.

The possibilities distracted him for days.
They'd be smart enough to move him. Howls coming from his apartment wouldn't work, and eventually someone would come by to see if he was there. So they'd take him someplace.
If he thought the tickling was endless before that, imagine coming to in a strange place. Strapped to an old mattress. Yelling, with his hoarse voice, and absolutely no one hearing him.
Gloves opening a whole fuckin' jug of lube and getting slippery. He'd be desperate to... say the right thing. They had to stop this. Anything they wanted to hear, he'd say it. Pair after pair getting lubed up - and this was gonna be really dangerously intense. The gloves came, no matter what he screamed or did. Strapped down tight. So many fingers...
Taking breaks so he could catch his breath, just like when they had him trapped in his bedroom. Water, food - and more tickling. More cumshots. But there was no way to hope it would be over tonight. They really had it made now.
Day to week to month.
No mercy at all.
The certainty of that imagined life, right in their hands, just made it impossible to think straight.

A pleasant fog, all the time. Sorta lusty.

[Getting... physically prepared for some real action.
Going to work in a bar, and continuing to redesign himself. Switching to cigars, working out like crazy. Moisturizer. All very subtle, not a clear plan...
I'm a lone wolf, he'd think, in fantastic physical condition. If any magic gloves realized how mutherfuckin' ticklish I am, well, that'd be all she wrote.
When they find me, it's all over.

Searching more and more for tickling media, thinking about meeting up with people but that's still far too scary.
Eyeing vacant buildings - all those cool old shacks hidden along the coast. A guy could really disappear in a hundred different forgotten, remote... dungeons, hauled in, locked in, tickled endlessly and nobody would come near enough to find out. One day after another, starting back in on his bared, anchored, explosively sensitive body...
 

Prowling the streets after bar-close, not looking for anything in particular - certainly not looking for anybody - just trying to figure out why he has the sense that maybe he should be doing... something that he's failed to do.]
 

Finally, one night, the right street at the right time - why, it's the same street he's dreamt about.
Walking in the quiet darkness, just like this, on the same fuckin' street. In the dream he turns around, because he has senses somebody there. Like a giant...
In some jackoff fantasies there was a guy there, big moose, and he had a grin. No threat, though he was definitely a wild-man. He lived an exciting life. With a horse-laugh, the guy points straight up. And there's a couple dozen gloves, there. Shadowing their... pet. With a word they'd give him a break and dive on a stunned, buffed-out bartender with a cigar...
That was a fuckin' mindblowing dream, and the mood tonight was just the same. They're getting closer, he thought happily. I'm just taking the long way home after work, three in the morning, nobody at all caring where a big, ticklish dude ends up. Getting more and more ticklish with each passing week -
A car chirps - in the lot across the street. He jumps. Nice black sportscar, tough-lookin' as shit.
The headlights blinked.
Nobody is approaching it.
He stops. Waiting for the owner to show up...
"Oh, no," he whispers. "No. Aw shit, oh no, oh no."
The car is there for him.
Hold on, he thinks. The whole obsession with tickling got way out of hand - and he still doesn't know where all of these thoughts came from - but it's really over the edge to think that a car with a flaky alarm system is there to haul him off.
And the fuckin' lights are blinked again.
Slowly - with the sense that nothing could change this sequence of events - he crosses the street. Weak-kneed, absolutely on fire with excitement. They're luring me over, he thinks. The gloves could've just jumped him and whisked him away, thirty seconds and the result's the same. But they wanted him to cook his own goose.
There's nobody in the car. But the driver's door opens.
I just might pass out, he realizes. This is incredible. My last chance to run, not that it'll work. They got me.
"Fuck," he moans.
There's no getting away once they set their sights on a guy. Maybe he could outrun 'em for a couple days, but that's about it.
He's about to disappear.
Tickle-dungeon. Waiting.
Stumbling a little, he makes it around the open door.
They'll make it look like he's the one doing the driving, but this is really a cage. The crippling attack will start right away. Confirmation. Way too late to back out, run away... Hands pinning his limbs and fuckin' getting to know him. Roaring, howling helplessly, every possible option taken away from him as the car rolls along. Get him to the dungeon, lock him in and fuckin' tear him apart, feathers here, brushes there, oil creeping down...
He'll stay where they want him. Cuffs, chains, stocks. Caught. Savagely hysterical. Toys and racks could be there already, along with the locks, because he won't be getting less ticklish. Just the opposite.
The gloves will not be done with him anytime soon.
Hell, no. Their prisoner. Long-term, tickled beyond description -
The bartender is breathing rapidly as he gets a couple last puffs, ditches the cigar and gets in. No, this is really it. The very last chance to bail, and run, or else it's on, baby. Last ch-
Slowly, the door begins to swing toward him.
Dark fingers are barely visible around the door handle. He leans closer, to make sure. Uh-huh. Black leather.
Fingers begin to close around his left wrist. Smooth leather. Then his other wrist, upper arms, forearms -
The dash lights up - and there's the engine, turning over.
A cigar is stuck between his teeth.

772

The bureau chief called Bateman in.
"Well, now, this is a weird one," he said. That wasn't typical. Bateman started wondering...
"After today, you're on admin leave," the chief said briskly. "Nondisciplinary."
"Why?"
"You're named in an ongoing investigation. Long Beach thinks there's good reason to believe someone, uh, is planning to abduct you."
Bateman was stunned. "Are you serious?"
Actually, the chief looked embarrassed. "Afraid so. Half of them have disappeared already."
"Half of who?"
"Roadrock."
Bateman took that in, and sat back heavily. It wasn't real. Not that -
"To answer your next question," his boss said drily, "your oldest brother is MIA. Not _Ken_... At least, not yet."
Not daring to look up and meet the chief's eyes - "Any idea what the motive is? For the, uh, kidnappings?"
There was an awkward pause. "Torture. No apparent motive. Just... for the sake of the torture itself."
"No," Bateman said faintly. _Jack_ had been afraid of that - happening again. Just like this. Half the club? Those guys, tough as nails? "How - what form does the torture take?"
Definitely, the chief was grossed out - though trying to be sympathetic. "I never thought I'd be saying th-"
"That's impossible," Bateman interrupted. "Tickling?"
"Extreme... uh, tickling."

Bateman sat at home for awhile, trying to calm down. Surveillance teams were all around him, but still.
The hands would probably come at night, anyway. _Jack_ had been full of wild stories...
The sucky part was that they were all turnin' out to be true.

His other brother wasn't home.
Bateman headed over to his usual bar.

They weren't there, but Whitey was glad to see Bateman once he recognized him. It had been a while. He razzed him about the choice of careers, and named another bar...

The roadhouse had been reinforced the biker way - barricade too heavy at some points, not enough in others. This bar was better suited for a last stand than Whitey's though.
He knocked. A speakeasy-type slit opened up. Angry eyes. There was a long pause.
"_Ken-nickname_," a guy shouted.
With a couple of bolts drawn back, the door opened.

Thick wall of smoke. Jukebox, laughing... more like a wake than a siege.
"Fuck," he heard somebody snap. That was probably _Ken_, alright. Still peering through the murky air, Bateman saw a big mountain of a man heading right up.
"Little shit!," _thug3_ boomed.
"Hey, you," Bateman said, smirking despite himself, sticking out his hand. The big guy grabbed it and damn near squeezed it in half. Most of Roadrock was more suspicious of Bateman than ever, but not _thug3_. He just didn't give a fuck about the feds.
"What the fuck. Is that a suit?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"Gonna wreck the whole fuckin' joint. Class it up."
"Not with you in here, never -"
_thug3_ cuffed him alongside the head. "Come have a beer."
"Gotta talk to _Ken-nickname_, but then - yeah."
"Good kid."
With a mighty slap on the shoulder, _thug3_ moved on.
Bateman squinted until he saw a shape that looked sorta like his brother.

"Hey," _Ken_ sighed.
"Hey."
They frowned at each other.
"The fed," his brother taunted.
"The criminal."
"Pa would ride off another cliff if he came back and saw how you turned out."
There was no arguing with that, really, so Bateman just kept his mouth shut and exhaled real hard.
"Whatcha think you're doing here?"
"They told me about _Jack_. At work -"
"What the fuck do they know about it?"
"Uh... Something about a list. You're on it too. And me."
"Uh-huh." _Ken_'s face softened. "Who woulda guessed ol' crazy _Jack_ was right?"
"I keep thinkin' the same damn thing," Bateman said, and he was relieved. A part of his brain recognized the old speech pattern resurfacing, but he had bigger fish to fry.
"Just came to see if I was still walkin' around?"
"No. Well, that was the big thing - to me - but they sent me. Uh."
"Here we go," _Ken-nickname_ sighed. "Those cars that came with ya. They want in?"
"Nuh-uh," Bateman said firmly. "Just you and me. Talkin'. Okay?"
"I dunno," his brother drawled. "Maybe."
"Look. I'm on leave after today. No badge. Because of this bullshit -"
"Ain't it tough all over. Most of my bros are... Fuck."
"Half? Is that about right?"
His brother shot him a look. Anger - and, yeah, fear. "Twenty-three gone. Last I knew."
"Son of a bitch," Bateman finally sighed.
"Yeah."
"And you're Prez - I know you never wanted it. And not this way..."
That was a good thing to say - quietly - because the old _Ken_ looked out of _Ken-nickname_'s face. He looked worried. A hand shot out and grabbed Bateman's arm, hard, and held on. "Some fuckers don't think so."
"I know better."
_Ken_ nodded a little. "Don't tell nobody I said this... but it is good to see ya. Still on the loose." Not kidnapped yet, he meant.
"You too," Bateman said, meaning it. _Jack_'s magic hands had always sounded like merciless fuckers, but they hadn't snagged 'em yet. It was only a matter of time, his brain said, but at least it was good to pretend they still had a chance.

"So, shit-fly," _thug3_'s voice rang out, "what the fuck brings you around?" He slammed down a couple beers, and pushed one up to Bateman's arm.
Nodding, he picked it up and took a pull. "Same thing that's got all that lumber nailed up front."
"What - Don't tell me. You, too?"
"I was a probie, way back when."
"Should stuck with it, too. Damn." _thug3_ pulled out his smokes. "Guess they did their fuckin' homework."
Everybody knew what he meant by "they."
"The little narc was finally gettin' around to sayin'," _Ken_ growled, "why he showed his ass in here. For real."
"Uh," and Bateman pointed at _thug3_.
"Sergeant," _Ken_ said simply. "It's cool."
Bateman nodded. "I'm on the list, yeah. But you ever heard of the 'fast hand team'?"
"Should I?"
"No. It's pretty quiet." Bateman took another drink, and figured out how he was gonna say it. "This deal is bigger than I... Roadrock's not the only club getting picked off."
"No shit?," _thug3_ said.
"There's nine," Bateman said, looking right at his brother. "Florida, New York, Detroit. Hunted. And caught. Something big is up."
"And they're all getting, uh, fucked with," _Ken-nickname_ sneered. "Right?"
"Right."
"They told you this bullshit?" He cocked his head to the side. Meaning, the man.
"Bro... They got two dozen agents working on it."
That blew _Ken_ and _thug3_ away... just as it had stunned Bateman an hour before.
"Get out," _thug3_ finally said.
"Losing their pigeons, huh?"
"No. Fuck. At first that's what I figured, too. Just because."
Another pause. _Ken-nickname_ laughed bitterly... "Stop it before it spreads to the citizens."
That was probably right, and Bateman wasn't happy about it. He nodded, reluctantly, and said, "But still. Too many bikers disappearing was enough. I'm not kidding. That got 'em off their asses..." He shrugged.
The other guys stared at each other.
"Nah," _Ken_ said.
"What the fuck," _thug3_ sighed. His tone of voice said he was surprised. And glad, maybe.
"I looked at a couple reports," Bateman said. "It's on the up-and-up. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't, _Ken-nickname_, just to save my own ass from... that. Or yours."
His brother looked about ready to slug him. Then he made that tooth-sucking noise Bateman remembered so well. "I just get started hating you, and then you gotta show some stones."
"Yeah," _thug3_ roared. "Once a Rock -"
"He warn't ever a Rock."
"Pebble, then. On his way. And look what the fuckin' cat dragged in today."
The brothers looked back at each other, and Bateman smirked first.
. . .

So that's it? You only came in here to tell us the feds are... helping?
You gotta let 'em... Uh, look, they tried this same thing in Austin. Barricade. Didn't cut it. Let 'em protect you -
Aw, now, you've gotta be out of your fuckin' mind.
Shrugging - well, I told 'em. Had to try, though.
You're a freakin' snitch, _Ken-nickname_ snapped. Always were.
You take that back. I never fuckin' told 'em half the shit -
Boys, boys, _thug3_ says, do I have to knock your heads together? Known you all my life. Shift down, willya?
You just all eager to run in here and offer to save our asses, huh?
They knew you wouldn't hear it from anybody else, Bateman fumes. Eager? Hell, no. You're next. Prez. Then me, soon enough. Stuck, like _Jack_? Fuck that.
You gonna let 'em lock you up... for your own good, shit-fly?
He opens his mouth. Of course, he thinks. But there's a weird expression in his brother's face. Longing, behind the rage. "Not... yet."
_thug3_ whoops, getting up.
A slight nod, from _Ken-nickname_'s hard eyes - just a little softening there.
. . .

Cloth lands on his arm. Bateman looks up...
Some younger dude with pure hate in his eyes just dropped a t-shirt on the table. He's holding jeans and boots.
"You're not fuckin' foolin' anybody," the guy snarls, "but the prez said to get out of the fuckin' narc clothes. Right fuckin' now."
"Sounds like him," Bateman nods, standing up. "And I never tried to fool anybody."
"Asshole," the guy says under his breath.
"I'm staying around," Bateman snaps, "to guard the Prez. And all of you shit-stains. You don't wanna do the same for me, fuck you. This isn't safe, and they're coming - for me, too, genius - but I'm sure as hell not gonna just roll over and get picked off without a fight."
The younger guy hawked, spat on the floor, and stomped off.

_thug3_ is back, with something in his hand.
A vest. Patch ripped off. Name still there, and the rocker.
"Fuck..."
We watch each other's backs in here. Put it on. Now.
Reeks like weed and cigs and grease. Old memories. Bateman does -
"Whose was this anyway?"
Somber moment. "_Jack_. His old vest."
After a few seconds, Bateman just nods. "What's the deal with the kid? Pissed-off."
"Yeah. Uh. Dude was caught earlier. By them. Six months of tickling, something like that." _thug3_ looked honestly puzzled, like he just didn't see the point. "Skipped town. Somehow he heard stories, looked up _Jack_."
"Ah."
"Not really a club kinda guy," _thug3_ said, looking across the room at the kid, "but he's stuck here now..."

773

R walked out of the mini-mart, tucking his cigarettes away. Three packs would hold him until -
He heard a grunt to his left. Automatically, he looked overand saw an older guy, halfway out of his car. It looked as if he was holding onto the door for support. R thought somebody should maybe do something. Nobody else was around, though, except him, so he thought he'd stick his head back inside and let the cashier know there was a dude in trouble out here -
That was when he felt something hit him. It was like a board whacking him in the forehead. He staggered, and caught himself before he tripped over his own boots. What the fuck...
There was no sign of what had clocked him. Nobody else was there except the other guy - who was watching him. And grinning. He wasn't that much older, really. Early thirties. Right then, he had a smile like a wolf.
Bringing his arm back, he tossed his keys into the car. Then he chuckled and slammed the door.
What now, R thought. He shook his head again, real quick. It didn't hurt, exactly, but something had happened. That wasn't normal. From the way the other guy had been acting, maybe he got hit too.
He wanted to say something. It wouldn't be cool, though.
The older dude smiled again - more of a leer, way too wild for a guy in a polo shirt - and R was fuckin' seized with the urge to maybe smack that grin clean off his face.

S didn't even remember driving to the gas station. Hell, he didn't recognize the car...
Everything was fuzzy - and then a jolt hit him. The sky was clear, but he thought of lightning. First thing he noticed was a young tough looking all wobbly, like he got hit too. The kid had looked over at him. Another generic biker. Leather didn't usually do anything for S anymore... but this guy needed to be groomed so much that it made his dick start to rise. Lose the goatee. Chest hair, too. Cleaned up, hair cut way back. And he'd never stand for that. Fighting it, if he could -
Then the most bizarre thing had happened. S turned and threw the key ring into the car... and slammed the door.

"Uh," R got out. "You okay?"
S snickered once. "Locked my keys in." He didn't check the door handle. It didn't matter.
"I saw that," the biker drawled. He grinned, then, and there was something wicked in that expression. He desperately needed to be brought down a few pegs. That would be unbelievably fun. Under the patchy beard, he wasn't quite as young as it had seemed at first. When he was cleaned up -
"Yeah," S laughed.

He's trying to pick me up, R thought. Probably wants to fuck me. There's no way you're gonna get that...
S was just as amazed. I'm hitting on this trailer trash - but I don't want to do him. Definitely not my type.
They stared at each other.
R wasn't sure if he was reading the other guy right. Definitely had an idea, there - but R was distracted, just fuckin' overwhelmed with the urge to teach him a lesson. Turn the tables. It didn't make any sense. He could definitely take the other guy, if it came to a fight. There was something really exciting about the idea - taking charge. Turning it around. He never thought about shit like this. Nothing too mean... There was no way he was looking for trouble. But maybe the other guy needed something just fuckin' unbearable. Caught good. That sounded right.
S pictured the other guy with a buzz cut. Smooth armpits. He'd fight like a wildcat before he let that happen. If he couldn't stop S... Oddly, that sounded a lot more exciting than just rutting with him. Pet grooming, he thought. Fuck.
Wanna teach him a lesson, R thought firmly. If he pushes at all, he's gonna get pushed right back.
"My, uh, spare keys," S lied, thinking fast, "are just a few miles down the street. I don't suppose... Any chance you could, uh -"
Bingo. R nodded. Now you're in for it. "No problem. C'mon."

The guy rode like a bag of rocks, but at least he didn't fuckin' snuggle tight or anything.
S had the strongest sense that everything was working out just right. This scumbag volunteered for his comeuppance, and nothing was going to stop that now. He had no idea where they were going, even though he was supposed to have a house out here, in the middle of nowhere -
Left. He had a feeling, out of nowhere. He tapped R on the left shoulder a few times. The biker started to look back at him, and nodded. When the street came up, he turned to the left.

It was a good fifteen miles, probably, from the gas station. Two more turns...
At S's direction, R pulled off the dirt road and followed a crude driveway. He was excited - and so was S, in addition to being surprised - to see a farmhouse getting closer.
The yard was mowed, and everything looked like it was being kept up just fine. But there was nobody in the house, and somehow R just knew it.
S had never seen the place before either. In you go, warthog, he thought happily.
Got you now, R felt like taunting.

R cut the motor.
"Really appreciate it," S said, getting off the bike. "Won't take me a minute -"
"Hey," R interrupted - careful to sound all innocent and shit - "you mind if I take a leak?"
A-ha, S thought. He felt like dancing or something. "Oh. Sure. Follow me." And then you're in for it, biker...
Easy as pie. Fuck, but the gay guy was in for it now. A real wild ride. That's what R kept thinking.

774

Turo stuck his head around the corner. He looked worried.
"Did you, uh, call me?"
"No."
He flinched. "Dammit." Then he was slipping away again -
"Hold on," I said. "Everything okay?"
Angry sigh. "Yeah." It was clear he meant the opposite.
"Maybe Thor was out here?"
He shook his head. "Wasn't his voice. 'Hey, Spun.'"
Turo started to leave again -
"Spun? Is that a nickname?"
That stopped him. "Well, yeah. Never mind. Must be a flashback."
I wasn't so sure.

An hour later, I remembered something.
There was this one time, a few weeks back, when I walked into the bathroom after work. Arturo was changing his shirt, and he has a lot of tats. As soon as he saw me he hurried to pull the t-shirt down over his head and cover up, but I saw flames and birds, hands - and up by his collarbones the word SPUN. There was something attached to the letters, like chains. Maybe rope.
Now that I thought about it, those weren't birds that I saw.

I started to call him as I got closer, but thought better of it. So I whistled a little, first. "Turo."
"Yeah."
"Let's go."
"Where?"
"The store."
He frowned. But I was the boss.
Now, I had questions I was pretty sure he wouldn't want to answer. Buddying up was necessary, and I saw what I had to do. My ex-girlfriend, the traitor, would've jumped my shit for sure. I really didn't want to do it, but I liked the kid. Wanted to help.
"Got a smoke?"
"You know I do," he groused, getting his pack out. That was one of his defining characteristics. The dude smoked like a freight train...
I held out my hand for his lighter, and when we were both polluting the air I gave it back. "Fuck. I'm remembering why I quit these things."
He had a sly little smirk as he helped himself to another drag.
"You're the best worker I got," I said casually. "Come in every day, put your back into it, you don't piss and moan."
"Thanks."
"Also the quiet one. Man of mystery - you know there's a couple women in the office that joke about getting a couple drinks into you and taking you home."
"Renee," he muttered.
That almost stopped me in my tracks. "No. I was talkin' about -"
"She and I... had some fun."
"Why, you dog." He chuckled. "Fringe benefits."
"I like that one."
"I bet you do. Uh, what I was going... Renee? Dammit. I worked on her for about a year."
Turo shrugged.
"Good goin'. Anyway. This one guy worked here a couple years ago." And I waited.
"And?"
"He got all jumpy one day. Said it was some old memory kickin' up. And he didn't show up for work the next day. Never heard from him again." Arturo didn't say a word. "He had these tats on his forearms. Big black... gloves, I guess. This long feather alongside his neck."
Turo started to blush. Nailed.
"If there was anything I could've done to... help that guy out, I wish I'd had the chance. Shit, I can't imagine being drunk enough to get those tattoos. I always wondered if they were somebody's idea of a bad joke. Get him drunk, tie him down and do that to him. Marked man."
"You don't know what you're - aw, fuck," Turo hissed. His eyes were on the lookout for somebody eavesdropping - but we were clearly alone.
"Those are feather tattoos by your armpits. Right?"
"Dammit. Shut up!"
"Okay."
We walked for a good thirty seconds, saying nothing, just smoking.
"Listen," he said, "you gotta just forget all about it. I'm serious."
"You gonna disappear on me?"
He struggled with words, and took another drag. "If I heard the voice I - yeah. I'm fucked."
"Maybe it was like a flashback -"
"No. Shit, I've been trying to convince myself ever since. I don't think so."
"Anything I can do?"
He squinted at me for a couple seconds. "That other guy. He already told you too much."
"Naaaah."
"Listen to me. You're playing with fire."
"Empty gloves," I said calmly. "Like they're alive."
"Shit!" Arturo shivered. Bullseye. We were getting close to the convenience store.
"Come to think of it, I don't really need anything."
"Be right back," and he went in. I was glad to ditch the cigarette. And my gum was back at my desk. Bleah...

Turo stalked back with three packs of cigarettes and a couple cans of soda. He handed one to me.
"Thanks," I said - but to me it was a big deal. He was such a loner, and I knew a big secret. It seemed like he was thanking me or something.
We walked, and he waited until we were clear of the parking lot. "You really wouldn't wanna see 'em. For real."
"I was just curious. Sounds like something you don't see every day."
He snorted. "Maybe you don't. I have dreams..." I got another quick look, maybe to see if I was smiling. "But they're just reruns. Real rope, springing out. Tying real quick. Dragging me to a car, door opens all by itself, in I go. Racing off. An old warehouse, or the suburbs. Once it was a cabin way out... far from anybody. All set up. Gloves, alive. But there's brushes too. All these things -"
"Feathers."
"Always. Sex toys, too. Paddles and shit." He kicks out a big sigh. "Cases of food."
"That's what the other guy said."
"You never should've heard about it. Nobody believes it anyway."
"What can I do?," I asked. "Come and crash on my couch -"
"Only delays the same fuckin'... thing." He lit another cigarette, all pissed off now. I was on the verge of asking if he had enough money, to run or something, when he started shaking his head. "I know what I heard. Look, I'm really sorry but odds are I won't be coming in tomorrow."
"That sucks."
"Yeah. It does."
"You always got a job waiting."
His face changed. "That means a lot to me."
"Well, you really are the best employee I got. Wasn't just saying that to be nice. And I really mean it. Come back and I'll lay somebody off if I have to."
"Thor won't like that."
"Between you and me, Thor can go fuck himself. We're equals. I don't work for him, and the warehouse ain't any of his business."
And that - finally - got a chuckle out of the doomed man.

He was usually out the door right at five, but I watched everybody else filter out...
Turo was straightening things up at the shipping tables. Tugging hard on a cigarette, way too intense - and I wondered if he was leaving things all ship-shape as a way of saying goodbye to the other guys or something...
Then I had another idea, and cursed at myself for being so stupid. Grabbing my lunch bag, I hurried out from around the desk.
He didn't even glance at me. Cool fuckin' customer.
"Hey," he said quietly, "I've been thinking... Uh, if you don't want to, it's really okay. Er, if I could just ride your couch -"
"Definitely. Long as it takes."
Embarrassed, and relieved, he kicked out a sigh and nodded.
I started walking out, and Turo lit a smoke alongside me. "Even if I could afford to lose a good worker, this shit is just too much. I mean, don't be too hard on the guy who told me. We were working late for inventory, had a few beers after."
"Well... still," Turo mumbled.
"He'd been on the run for years."
"I can relate."
We stepped outside, and I double-checked the door to make sure the lock was engaged. "You get my back, I'll get yours. Stick together."
Arturo chuckled...
No, wait, that sound came from over my head. A guy -
I looked up and saw about twenty white gloves. Pouncing.
To my right, Turo made a weird squealing sound.
"Spun!," a dangerously happy voice shouts.
"No, no, dammit! I can't!," he shrieks.
"Stick together. Isn't that what your buddy said?"
"Wait a minute," I said to the gloves - fairly sure they wouldn't wait for anything.
"Let him go," Arturo begged. "It's me you want."
"Twice as much fever," the voice growled.
The gloves dove. Really fascinating, how smoothly they moved -
I was squirming. It took me a second to realize that I was dodging this way and that to get away from powerful fingers that were clamped around my sides, digging in my armpits. A hand slapped down on my mouth. Cool cloth. Satin, I thought -
Laughter was forcing its way out of my mouth and into the glove. Serious barks.
Turo was looking at me with these big, sad eyes. He was gagged the same way I was, and gloves had his arms pinned behind his back.
"I got just the place for you fuckers."
They started to drag us... toward my truck. I felt a tug, and my key ring flew on ahead. All by itself, apparently, unclipping from my belt loop and hitting the keyless entry button twice. But no, I had it wrong. There was an invisible hand holding my keys. Filling the gloves.
There were enough hands to shove us into the cab and make it look easy.

Empty fingers were clamped around the foot-pedals. Starting the engine, turning the wheel.
Amazing.
Tears were running down Arturo's face. He knew the score better than I did. They punched the accelerator after backing out, laying down rubber - correcting for the fishtailing like they drove trucks every day - and more than anything I was blown away. Impressed, sorta. This son of a bitch had it knocked... and I couldn't even see what had grabbed us.
It turned right. Not much more than a mile, I thought, and the warehouses thin out. So did the traffic. Left on Drury - nobody went that way after work because the speed limit was 25 - for a couple minutes, and it'll have us on Evans. Cows and empty fields. Four miles to the highway - rural emptiness in either direction.
I pictured an old house miles from anywhere, beefed up and prepped on the inside.
"Free tattoos," the voice said in my ear.
I tried to thrash around, but there were hands tightening up everywhere. Gloves, and some were just fuckin' invisible. But I felt the weight. Turo was sitting still too.
My work boots were coming off.
So were his.
"Here's how it's gonna go," the mystery guy ordered. "You sit here and sweat your ass off until we get to the highway. Or you can relax, have a smoke... and I'll turn on the AC."
Turo said something. His face looked as if it was a cussword. He nodded, giving in.
"Spun. My man."
The glove let go of his mouth, and his cigarettes floated up right away.
"Now it's gonna get smoky in here, if you don't behave yourselves. One little attempt to draw attention from anybody outside this truck... and I turn on the heater. Full blast. And you still end up in the cabin anyway. Are you with me?"
I nodded.
"Good."
The fingers let go of my face.
Turo kicked out smoke with a haggard, trembly sigh.
A click - and the radio turned on. A cigarette floated up to me.
The AC was turned on. Whew. My window, then his, went down an inch or so. I watched the digital readout on the radio change.
"Dude, I am just... so damn sorry," Arturo said.
One of his unopened packs floated to the dashboard.
His lighter came over to me, and I leaned forward enough to suck in.
Gloves were holding on to my feet. Just clamped on, not moving. It was distracting. Powerful hands. When this bastard started tickling, I was gonna blow a gasket. My arms were covered with gloves that weren't loosening up at all... and it was so fuckin' odd that I was just mesmerized.
"Can't be helped," I finally said.
"Oh, this is too perfect," the voice crowed. One victorious bastard, there.
The radio got louder.

I got a spell on you
because you're mine...

I looked at Turo, and he looked at me, as the tickler laughed and laughed.

We were coming up on Evans when the grips tightened all over me. One had the back of my neck, and it meant business -
"Ow," Turo whined.
There were kids at the corner. Oh, hell. Probably our only chance.
"Eyes forward," the voice ordered. "Not a sound, not a twitch. You don't want to piss me off. Ain't that so, Mister Spun?"
"Yes," he said hopelessly.
"It's gonna be unbearable anyway," I said. "If I understand -"
"You don't understand shit," the phantom snapped, with a hard push against the seat to emphasize the point. "But you will. The only thing you need to know right now, as Spun can tell ya, is that I'll blow the stop sign before I let anybody think twice about you dogs. Just another truck with a couple guys in it, cigarettes in their mouths, sitting up straight."
"Got it," I sighed.
The truck came to a full stop, and turned right. No houses. It won.
As far as I could tell, the kids didn't even glance at us.
"If only you'd yelled for help," the fucker sneered. The grip loosened. I rocked my head back and forth as much as I dared.
"Don't think so," Turo said. He looked at me. "It loves to fuck with your head."
"Heads," it corrected.
"I've had better chances than that, and still saw the assholes smiling. Like I was kidding around. There was no way those kids were gonna -"
"We'll never know, will we?" the voice snickered. "Betcha those are the last people who get a chance to see to see your fuckin' faces for awhile."
I can't resist. "A while?"
"Months," Arturo and the tickler say at the same time.

775

Three months down. Just over the halfway point. I behave myself, and they'll end the probation too - that's what she told me when I went in two days ago.
I got up and padded down the hall. Took a leak...
The back bedroom door caught my eye. Something different.
As I got closer, I saw three locks on it. That was new. The scratch-plate on each one was painted black.

The door opened, though.
Fat bars stuck out a few inches, keeping the blinds out of reach.
A huge padded bench. Arms and legs swinging out. Thick, heavy cuffs on the ends.
Brushes and gloves were overflowing from cardboard boxes I'd never seen before. Gags, brushes - cock toys?
And feathers. All kinds of 'em.
In my house.

I backed out and shut the door.
Bad dream. Sure.
When I opened the door again, all that shit was still there.

In the living room -
A tangle of leather and chrome. It looked like webbing...
No. A sling. Heavy-duty.
It was being straightened out before my eyes. Clinking noises, straps flipping over.
No hands were holding it.
Prepared... for me.

I ran to the kitchen.
The phone was gone -
And case after case of food was waiting.

Back to my bedroom. Phone - and cell phone - had disappeared.
I couldn't...
My neighbors. They'd get help.

But the front door had a big, shiny new padlock.
So did the kitchen door.
Break a window, I thought wildly -
Then I saw them for the first time. Two leather gloves. Hovering near me, like they were ready to grab on... if I did anything stupid.

I couldn't call for help. Or get out. No one was allowed to just drop by.
Weeks - months - of food.

28 days until my next PO appointment. It's clear what I'll be doing until then...

Cuffs, coming.
Then - the ankle bracelet monitor strap pops off like it was just a thread.

Learning (somehow) that if I run, or tell the P.O., they make sure the cops find out. And when they finally let me out of jail, the tickler will be waiting. To grab me. Take me to the serious hideaway that's all set. One-year sentence for violating _the tickler's_ terms of probation. On top of the real jail. A long, insane year...

Tent, in the living room - crazy sense of confinement amplified by the thin nylon...
Flaps flaying open whenever the monitor beeps.
It wants me to see the ankle bracelet being held right up to the antenna. There.
After the first three months, they never make a surprise visit - unless I give 'em reason to be suspicious.
And I can't leave the house. Literally.
 
 

A phone is ringing...
I'm sleepy - and looking up at a (picture) of my next cell, being waved over me.
It's the P.O. "Hey, I had to check and see if you're still there. My least troublesome charge. Never budging."
Terrified, he tries to figure out a way to tell her what's been going on all month - or what would get her to come out and visit -
"Naw. You've got a phone. Tell your friends it's less than two months now. You're being such a good boy I'm going to let you skip this month's appointment with me - if you want. Unless you wanna get out of the house, if only to see me."
Threatening leather fists cruise over him -
Uh, no, he says, voice shaky. I can tough it out. I'll... just stay right here.
I guess you will, P.O. says. Bye.

776

The class was easy - or so they thought.
Helpfully, the instructor strongly urged them to do a "dream walk" under the bright summer moon. What they needed would appear in their lives. He even recommended a website which the students could use to send themselves e-mail reminders...
There were always a lot of jocks in the spring class. Five of them had shaky GPAs anyway.
Even better, he instructor babbled about some astrological convergence two days after finals exams ended.
Four of them were still on campus.
It only remained to be seen which were impressionable enough to try it, and lazy enough to walk no further than the red mesa which ran right behind the dorms. Or maybe they felt safer there. That had made "recruiting" a summer guest so damn easy.
 

Wrecked on 'shrooms, the metalhead artist stumbled over a rise. All by himself. Two hundred meters, at most, separated him from the now-quiet dorms.
A dozen hollow, steady gloves came down, as he watched...
With his muscle shirt "converted" to a blindfold and gag, it hauled him off.
 
 

Faint pops got his attention. Wearily, he looked around the cell.
Nothing. The noise had to be coming from outside.
He was locked in the cellar of a building on skid row. That was all he knew. Thick foam rubber on the walls and ceiling had done a good job of making sure nobody else heard him. So he stayed there.
And now, apparently, it was new year's eve.
The whole fall semester had come and gone.
New bondage gear and tickling toys showed up all the time, but he hadn't seen a new rack or chair in months.
It didn't seem possible. Even though it felt like decades - the whole remainder of the year. Most of it, spent in the cell.
More than anything else, gloves diligently stroking and massaging. But there were many feathers every day. Tracing, sawing...
Some brushes teased, and others scrubbed.
He'd made every noise possible, bucking and thrashing in leather cuffs, rope, canvas and nylon, chrome and chains. Nobody knew it was happening.
Still stretched out on the rack, he had no reason to think it was going to stop now.
His arms were huge, for him. And his thighs. Abdominal muscles looked like they belonged to somebody in one of those jock magazines. The six bumps were plainly visible - on him, yet. Oiled, hard, and dark brown. Bottles of some sunless tanner floated around him regularly and sprayed that sunless tanning shit all over him. With his hair dyed light blonde, a wild mane stuck to his shoulders, he looked in the mirror and saw an entirely different guy there.
He wasn't even confused, either. That guy. Piercings and thick tribal tats covered his arms and chest - primitive hands, gloves, waves, rope - and he never even frowned anymore.
The popping noises continued.
A studded clump of thin leather straps floated down and caught his balls. He started to fidget, but the resistance was just a formality. The biggest strap was already sliding around the base of his cock. Buckling. This toy left plenty of skin uncovered... for tickling that was endless, like everywhere else, but particularly maddening.
Happy new year, he thought dully, looking at his erection in the mirror.

777

"Boomer. Wake up, boy."
He did. The room was pretty dark. A fan seemed to be aimed at him. Cool air, against his skin. But there was no ceiling fan in his room.
Where... was he?
Rolling over - didn't work. Sitting up, moving his arms. Legs.
Some fucker had strapped him down, to an unfamiliar bed.
"Heel," the voice said. Happy guy. Boomer couldn't place where the bastard was -
Wait. That wasn't even the biggest concern, right then. His efforts to move didn't seem to accomplish anything. Son of a bitch, he thought, I am gonna stay. Right here.
Why? What was the reason -
Where the fuck had he been taken?
There was a reason for that too. Hidden. Shit... Until something happened, or maybe - worse - to allow something to take place.
Couldn't do a fuckin' thing. All this leather. No clothing. Somebody must've gone to a lot of trouble. Getting him here, and pinning his limbs down. That voice - watching him. Gloating.
Bondage, and a bed... So he would've expected to be face-down. Worrying about his asshole. It wasn't really any better like this, with his crotch wide open, here.
"Hey," he said.
"Guess how many people can possibly hear you."
Shit. He didn't like the answer that came to him. Struggling, then lunging around, he couldn't do a damn thing with the straps. Layered cuffs were buckled around his wrists. And his ankles too. This was warped, really, it was so twisted.
"Staa-aaay," the voice laughed.
A soft sound made Boomer try to look behind his right shoulder. There was a suitcase - no, a whole set. One was being unzipped.
His heart rate jumped up, because there was nobody opening it. Just the zipper tab, moving...
Then the lid.
Big white feathers started rising out of it.
He stopped watching. Immediately, he stared at the ceiling. His limbs were straining hard at the restraints, like they were on autopilot... but they weren't making any progress. Boomer realized he wasn't going to... get free. Awful facts were coming together, and somehow his brain couldn't handle it. Naked, stuck, a room he didn't know. And that voice. One of the suitcases probably had more straps, or rope, even if he did manage to slip his bonds. Worst of all, the most fuckin' confusing thing, impossible, absolutely unthinkable -
The feathers were coming down. Magically going to his belly. His ribs.
Boomer needed a minute to process what was happening, but clearly he wasn't gonna get the chance.

Something that felt a whole lot like feathers dragged down each of his sides. It just didn't make sense. His body was going wild, just determined to get up and run... but the thing that really had his attention were the sensations. They sure felt real, even though he knew it wasn't the kind of thing that happened in real life. Not to him. And feathers that moved by themselves? Fuck, no.
"Speak," the voice said, right over his flailing head.
That was brutal. Taunting him. An invisible guy - or maybe not a guy at all. Making the feathers tickle him.
Not this. Tickling. No.
Sucking in a breath, Boomer started to giggle.
Anything but this. The idea was so scary that it couldn't possibly be true.
Lightly crawling around his belly-button... and up toward his armpits.
"No no-ooooo hooo hoooo hooooo," he bawled.
Bondage, cell, feathers -
A weird scream exploded out of him. It was a howl, he finally realized, but by that time he was laughing nonstop. Hard laughter, steady and uncontrollable, as if he was already falling behind and needed to catch up. His body jumped around - pushing, pounding, tugging. The feathers moved. They didn't stop.
He was stunned to realize he'd never heard himself laugh like this before.
Relaxing was just as impossible as shutting up. He was out of control. The feathers were causing reactions that he never expected. His eyes were blurry, and - yeah - his cock was getting hard. Laughing just felt so damn good... except that it was only about one-tenth of what he needed to kick out. He sounded fuckin' delighted. Rowdy. It wasn't anywhere near enough power to take care of the need, even laughing that wildly.
There was no chance of stopping it. Boomer had to laugh. He couldn't get away from the feathers -
Of course not. There would be feathers. He thought of the suitcases, and guessed there would be more feathers coming. Maybe other shit. Probably.
Lots of tickling.
Brought to this room. Strapped down.
Make that... more tickling than he could even imagine.
That was dead-on. So accurate that Boomer fought the straps with every ounce of energy he could find. When that didn't work, he bounced once, took as big of a breath as he could - and absolutely fuckin' wailed. It was still laughter, and yet it sounded sad.
Hopeless. Yeah, that was the better word.
He kept laughing anyway.

There was nothing else to think about. All he could manage was noticing the explosion of tickles. Finishing a stroke, some feathers reversed course... and others lifted off, landing again where they started. Or nearby. Maybe moving in another direction.
He couldn't do a single mutherfuckin' thing, except observe.
They made him roar and hoot. His job wasn't complicated, but it sure as hell has him beat. No way to do it right. Or react enough. Report it -
Taking it in. That was closer to the mark. He couldn't fuckin' deal with this at all. The feathers kept moving. Obviously he had to get away, and he couldn't.
Wouldn't.
Oh, shit, realizing that made the heat increase. Go deeper. Brushed into his skin, lightly, gently, fuckin' constantly. Worse. Hitting harder. Nowhere to go. Zero chance they'd quit.
He was not going to bust out of here, and he was not going to be heard. The noises he made were just astonishing.
Feathers.
Nothing else mattered at all now.
 

Horny...
He finally realized he was thinking about something new. His cock thrust a little. He needed to cum.
Boomer groaned.
He wanted a cigarette something fierce. His throat just fuckin' ached. Dry, thirsty - and sore. Talking too much.
No, that wasn't right. Laughing... too much. Hard. Even his chest hurt. He had never come close to laughing that much before.
His arms wouldn't move.
This, he realized with dread, is a break in the action. Letting me catch my breath. I want to pass out, but I don't think that's going to be allowed.
There will be more tickling.
That thought got him squirming again.

When he saw four gloves moving in, he wanted to die. But he wouldn't. That much was obvious. No, he'd be kept as conscious as ever. The feathers had backed off whenever he got dizzy.
And now there were fingers starting to tickle him. He was more frightened than ever.
They started gently. All that power, sure to come. Smooth fingertips began to skate around his chest, easing down -
Arching didn't interrupt their course. He shrieked laughter, and the pressure coasted up. Some covered his ribs, while his armpits were fingered.
He flailed around as hard as he could, laughing more wildly than ever, barely noticing how raspy his voice had become.
And the gloves showed no sign of stopping.

Every time he caught his breath, they just started back in.
Insane. More and more... effective. Total.
Relentlessly moving from one part of his body to another, feet to fingertips, four gloves becoming eight. There was still an inner shock as they landed somewhere, even when he couldn't flinch anymore.

778

The rope was thick and white. It spread out in front of him - almost like a finish line.
Alain stopped running a couple meters away, wondering how it was being pulled taut like that.
As he started to back away, more rope whipped around his arms...
A car pulled up maybe twenty seconds later. By that time his legs were caught too. He realized, as he struggled, that the first strand of rope was just a distraction - to keep him from looking around for the crucial seconds. Don't run away, and don't yell. And like an idiot he recognized what was happening and didn't start to move until the rope was clinging, like hungry snakes, around him.
The car had no driver.
Easy as anything, he was lifted off his feet and carted to the opening door.
As soon as he was inside, the car took off. Squealing. The door slammed. Locked.
Music started to play from the stereo.
You belong to me...

He'd heard the stories, but nobody really believed 'em.
All of the fight he could muster didn't change a damn thing.
Out into the country...

Soft nylon rope laid over his eyes.
After a few more turns, Alain had no idea where he was being taken.

It was a lonely old house. Quiet fields.
Inside he went.
A fully equipped dungeon was waiting.
Behind him, the door closed.
Oh fuck, he thought miserably, it really is true.

Something invisible - with a lot of hands - stripped off his clothes. Fighting didn't matter. Alain couldn't see the damn fingers. And they were strong.
Suddenly they picked him up... and took him to a big leather sling. Straps jumped up, before he even got there, and got his arms.
Wrist-cuffs flew around him. Hobbles that looked like something that would be used on a horse wrapped around each ankle. Then a rod came up, and padlocks...
Within a minute, he was straining to move. At all. And he swung instead. His forearms were caught good, and his feet hung there. Strap after strap hooked onto the rings sticking out of the bar.
Finally, all of the hands seemed to let go.
He couldn't fuckin' budge. The leather around him creaked, but it was way too thick to break.
Panting, Alain looked around wildly. This was so incredibly bad. He'd heard the stories, but pretty much refused to think about it... because he was such a total basket case when it came to this. Now he was not just restrained - but hobbled real well. Hiding him wasn't enough, apparently, and he had to end up in a totally private, padded, locked room. Within ten seconds his secret would be known by this phantom.
One guy claimed he'd been tickled for weeks.
Alain just knew it was gonna be a long, unbelievably extended nightmare.
When he saw the gloves, he screamed with fright.
The moving, magical fingers of satin settled down on his soles.

He'd never felt so much like a toy - or a pet - in his life. And then, as he knew it just had to happen, unstoppable by him or any of the uncaptured people who had no idea, the fingers slid down toward his heels. Immediately, he tensed up...
"Oh, fuck. No," Alain begged. "Please."
The satin fingertips were magical, alright. The feel of them was a lot worse than he'd expected. They eased back up his soles - and he kicked with everything he had. The cuffs were there for a reason. He just couldn't believe how absolutely finished he was -
Down they went.
"Naaaaah aaaaaah -"
His chest heaved suddenly, hissing in air.
Sure as shit, the fingers tickled their way back up -
With a squeal, Alain started to laugh.

Oh, wow, it wasn't even serious tickling yet... and he was just out of control. The snickering built up until he was just barking laughs - and though he could strain and slam all he wanted, the gloves had big, pinned, squeamish targets to play with.
"Pleeeeeee-hee hee hee heee-eee," he sang.
The fingers didn't stop. Alain hadn't expected them to, but he needed that more than anything. A miracle. The gloves pulling off, and the damn ankle-cuffs opening up. Letting his ticklish feet go -
Instead, fingertips began working their way between the toes on his right foot.
Roaring like a banshee, he pounded his head on the leather straps behind him and tried to arch.

He realized, with a wonderful relief, that the gloves had gone away. Chest heaving, Alain finally opened his eyes and looked.
The hands waited right by his feet.
"Noooooo," he squealed, writhing all over again. It was just a pause. Letting him catch his breath. So unfair -
They jumped back on and continued the torture.

Each break led to more insane tickling.

Feathers came. And brushes. They were lavished on his most ticklish areas, and he couldn't do a damn thing except howl.
The gloves, though - they really held his attention. So determined. The way they moved said a lot. Break after break ended with the damn things latching on again, like they needed to make him crazy, firmly ruling out any hope of diminishing interest or mercy. Tickling that teased would've been bad enough, but even the brushes were fuckin' determined to get to him. And it was working.

The tickling seemed to be going deeper too - which made him hornier, and more ticklish, and he was fuckin' doomed if he couldn't get a hand free and get the other hand free and reach down to get his ankles uncuffed so he could get the fuck out of here, pounding on the door, fighting off the fuckin' hands of the tickler. Getting away. And the cuffs and straps held just as snug as before. No matter how much more insane the tickling got, he was stuck. Trapped! He just couldn't tolerate what was happening - it made him crazier than he'd ever felt before, totally scrambled thoughts, and the weird raving laughter which didn't even sound human. And the tickler was only getting started, just barely underway. Alain knew the torture was only a few minutes old and he had hours and hours of it ahead, becoming more intense, so much worse. Hundreds of minutes...

779

As soon as he woke up enough to see his wrists cuffed to the bar above him, he started cursing and threatening. Being naked, with ankles roped together, didn't seem to calm him down. He didn't stop when the view of the dark, lonely hallway was blocked by the thick door. Swinging closed. Locking him in.
That tough-guy act was all he had left.
I liked the way he looked around the cell as he struggled, knowing someone was in there with him but unable to see me at all. His protests barely skipped a beat... even when I dimmed the lights except for a single weak spot aimed at cart alongside his bed.
It was time to let him in on a few things.
Picking up his jacket, I floated it into the pool of light. That seemed to worry him. Dungeon magic...
I pulled three zipper bags out of the pockets and dropped each one on the cart. Special K, acid, E. Hundreds of doses.
He was determined to persuade me that somebody - maybe even me - had planted the evidence. As if I didn't have a sleazy, low-life drug dealer rigged up for the punishment he deserved... a long, dizzying sentence.
But I'd caught him fair and square. The drugs had given him the idea I intended, and it was time to sweep them to the floor. He was going to get it anyway, even if the crime was nothing more than his feisty attitude.
I swung a thick black case through the air and slammed it down on the cart as hard as I dared. That shut him up, for a second or two...
When I opened the lid and turned the case around, so he could see what form my discipline would take, the expression of shock on his face was heartening.
Yes, you ticklish piece of shit, I've got you now.

He watched my feather lift out of the case, leaving the others which I'd brought for him. That got him cussing again. There was a new, desperate tone in his voice. Slinging the bar around didn't free his hands...
Helplessly, he watched the feather disappear under him.
When the point traced the crack of his ass, I saw the most wonderful jump. A quick involuntary grunt - and then he made more threats, fighting his bonds with more determination than ever. His legs stayed right where I wanted them.
My feather swept across the lower curve of his ass-cheeks. Five passes. Ten. I returned my attention to the crack...
Yeah, his bluster had definitely changed. Anger wasn't getting him out of my cuffs.
I picked up another feather.
"Nooooo," he moaned, like maybe I'd stop if he made it clear to me how much he didn't want to go through this. His head slowly followed the next feather down to his balls.

Twenty minutes of slow teasing got him too horny to put up a good fight. Deep panting, oozing pre-cum and the first beads of sweat spoke for him - when he wasn't running his mouth in an effort to get it across to me how much he wanted the feathers to go away.
I was inclined to agree, for once. All I waited for was the first hint of begging...

Dropping the feathers, I got six gloves out of the case. Waterproofed black silk.
As I filled them up, he got much more serious about begging.
Punching one fist into another, I brought 'em over. Time to get harsh on his ass. He could shake his head and say "no, no, no" all he wanted...
My fingers were still ready to get him.
This arrogant brute was starting the ride of his life. Now!
Two gloves on each side, staying low, gave him a deadly squeeze.
His head flew back as he tensed up. The whoop that he barked out was louder than I expected. It ended quickly, as his body was already trying to get out from the gripping, fingering hands that surrounded him... and he made a great new noise. It was giggling, and it was definitely screaming too. Just out of his mind. Solid stimulation.
My third pair of gloves didn't go easy on him either - not from the first instant they started raking across his stomach.
He even howled like a tough guy, I must admit...

The instinctive confusion kept him thrashing around for the longest time. He was laughing so hard that the force of his tugs and kicks weren't all they could be, and I loved the contrast with a few minutes before - now that tears were running down his face. My cuffs, and devices, and the locked door would keep him right in the thick of the most excruciating pleasure I could give him.
Only he and I heard him screech, and nobody else was allowed to know.

I gave his pecs the full workout. The pitch of his laughter climbed up there. His hoots dripped with lust. The fingers of mine which were playing with his crotch hair might've had something to do with that. My other gloves worried his ribs, wiggling in between them as if I was trying to loosen 'em up a bit... and then just polishing those babies. His arms stayed up there, just like I wanted, and he was absolutely beside himself with excitement.

Another fifteen minutes of fun went by, and I stopped all the gloves. He snagged a few breaths -
I lifted four of the gloves a little and inched them toward his armpits. The fingers pulled them along, dragging them to the feeding ground. His doom.
When he caught on, he rolled his head and kicked out a groan of pure anguish. Instead of the cursing being aimed at me, some of the same words expressed his complete dread of still being alive and immobilized when those fingers finished their short journey. Tears of frustration gleamed in his eyes...
And my fingers passed over the lower rim.

Even as he panted for breath, the warrior scowl was returning to his face. I was sure nothing even remotely like this had ever happened to him before...
More important - to him, anyway - was that things like this were supposed to happen to punks, weaker men who couldn't defend themselves. He had this way of looking up at the wrist-cuffs, and then at his ankles, like there was some seriously illogical mistake. Not him. Damnyankees and pansies, now, that he could understand. The expressions on his face just gave him away.
He didn't want to look at the gloves, I thought. But he snuck a glance now and then. I kept them just off his skin. Attack position. His wild-eyed fear confirmed that he knew what his future held. After all, there wasn't much need for the best restraints I could find if he was only gonna suffer for an hour or two.

My fingers dug firmly into one armpit and lightly stroked the other, and he turned slightly toward the side getting the easier assault. So I just alternated which armpit was getting the harder strokes. He rocked slowly in response, from side to side...
After ten minutes I sent the gloves down his sides. Polishing, fingering, up and down they went. Then his chest, down to his belly, and up to his neck again. Ten minutes of that and I wanted to play with his armpits again.
So I just kept alternating until the screams and barks of laughter changed into racked whimpers. He had a scratchy cackle which just wouldn't stop. Every hour or so I gave him a chance to drink some water and catch his breath. And then - every time - he'd get to writhe unhappily and beg the gloves to stop coming back to his reliable armpits.

It was so wonderful to focus on each area and see what I could find. His elbows, for example - they didn't reveal much when my gloves checked them out, but feathers traced lightly across the inside crease made him start to squirm and howl again. His inner thighs produced a deep, distracted hooting which just wouldn't stop - particularly since he couldn't pull his legs closer together. That was not going to be allowed...
I squeezed and tickled, finding eight or ten spots which were due for some concentrated stimulation - and all the time his feet just waited for me. Big, meaty triggers hanging there, worth all the exploration they could tolerate. Hours of excitement was in store for those puppies.

The combination of fatigue and effort had changed the way he reacted. No more thrashing and shouting - I'd already tamed him, with only a few hours of fun. When he did tug at the restraints, it seemed more like an afterthought. There wasn't much arching or twisting now. Moans and snickers had replaced all of the powerful noise he'd been making.
In short, he was feeling the impact more. It was accumulating nicely, as I learned how to lean on each spot. Since the tickling was going to continue, I had him thinking about nothing else. The idea of breaking free had been abandoned. He was living in the moment, and I was thrilled to make each second as unbelievably riveting as it could be.
 

He rested up from a long session on his legs - and the expression on his face had definitely changed. Eight long hours had tickled out any trace of disbelief.
I curled ten fingers around his rib cage, from below, and started a tender massage... which would get fierce, and fast, digging in well before the next pair of gloves came to tease his stomach. His reaction wasn't violent at all. He was too addled. Arching a little, he kicked out a long "Oooooooh" and started giggling. The reaction was simple, and factual. I was amused by the contrast in his reaction, compared to what an overload he'd feel a half-hour from now. It was clear I'd pushed him through the stronger emotions. Now he expected the tickling to continue - after about a dozen resumptions so far - and there was no resistance left. Chortling, barking almost silently, he barely shifted around now as my hands worked him over.
It was very satisfying. I didn't expect to hear much begging, from here on out. The contortions wouldn't last long as each new day started. Nothing would help him, yet somehow he had to survive each careful second of unspeakably intense fire - and I was more confident than ever that passing out was an option that would be continually denied. Each hour was going to feel precisely the way I wanted it to feel.

Over the next three hours, I stripped away the rest of his composure. Humanity was submerged. Systematically, I terrorized a robust, twitching, drooling animal with more and more force...
 

There's something really special about the second morning. The realization is exciting to watch, and it's informed by what came before. He gets to make the same stunning discovery with the help of many vivid new memories.
Strapped tight to the bed - for now - I watched carefully as be started to stir. He was probably clinging to a few of the same old fictions. It had been just an indescribable nightmare. Sleep had brought a final end to his raging, growing sensitivity and now he had to be safe from me. There was no way it could have really happened, and most of all because I couldn't possibly exist...
He opens his eyes, and blinks a few times. The same ceiling is above him, with all of the hooks. The recognition is just priceless. And now he tries to roll, lifting his head to see the straps immobilizing his ankles.
Vast, wordless shock is revealed by his expression. Letting his head fall back down, the amazement is still there. As they usually do, right about now, he tries to strain and kick at the restraints.
More tickling. That marathon wasn't enough, obviously, and his situation is just as bad as it was before. Caught tight by a tickler that filled a whole day with intense, mind-warping contact. Obviously he's in for more. There's no denying that. A whole lot more -
"No, no, no, no," he whispers.
I bring a pair of feathers up and begin teasing his nipples.
You're staying right here, I think firmly. Any idea that the tickling would end after a day or two is completely ridiculous. Face the facts.

He thrashed and howled before the hour was up. I had a dozen feathers moving by that time. Just a little wakeup tickling...
I gave him some water. All of that sweaty muscle laid there, waiting for me. And I decided what the fuck.
Ten soft leather gloves gathered over his belly. He could protest and squirm all he wanted - but I was geared up. Not just any tickling, either. Time for him to see what I could do.
Take... that!

Quick, harsh, all-out tickling covered his worst spots.
The explosion of howls was gratifying. After a minure or two his body quit writhing. But he was no less ticklish, and I had no plans to stop.

12july2006
 

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