761

Well, fuck. Couldn't keep him waiting at the door...
The bolt was unlatched without a sound. The doorknob turned swiftly in his hand -
Shove! Drag him in a foot or two - slam! Click. He's in. Came back - that fuckin compound really worked! About a mouth, his blood level back to normal, and he comes snoopin around...Probably doesn't even know why. Sure looks sheepish enough - but no terror? Did he forget already? He wantin some more?
"Well, hell, slick. How ya doin? Get this man a chair. Here, take a load off." No good, dude. Too fuckin late, down ya go. Lessee - four straps. Quick! All at once, asshole - outfight that. "Now then, give it up. Keys. Yessir... Boots... Get triples on those ankles. You like this shirt? Not no more! Now that's snug enough. Hopelessly caught, huh, bud? Oh, hey - lookin good! Lean and mean - lessee now, is this an empty space here on your arm? And another one here? Tats have healed up real good, bud. All ready for more.
"All done. Here, you sit tight and we'll get the goods. Party to the bone! Smoke up, buddy. Get the ol' massagers on your quads - oh yeah, we didn't forget - and some Ben-Gay on those shins. Man, you'd just go apeshit. Remember, Slick? Got yer number. Yee haw!
"You just kick back and enjoy that 'Boro, we'll getcha plenty more. Back in a flash."

"Boo! We scare ya? We got the goods. Naw, no peeking. It'll be more fun this way, lots of surprises. You need a cigarette, don'tcha? Here ya go. Just a few more boxes. Oh, you like the sound of that one? Wait'll ya see...
"Got it figured out, Slick - you like it. Came back to bang the door down and get some more, and you don't even know why, do ya? Now look at ya - boots off, tats flying proud --"Hey, go for it. Fight hard. Ain't goin nowhere. Let's get that table a little handier - remember it? - and set ya up right. Fuck those Mediums. Here ya go. One pack at a time, ya hog! We'll get this carton where it won't be distracting. You know it's here.
"Shit, You're pretty quiet all of a sudden, Slick. Just a pack of smokes. You get to handle 'em all the time. Don't we get a chance? Maybe we wanna lend a hand here, okay? Say, about a dozen hands. Aw, you know these gloves, don'tcha, dude?" Gettin ya all excited just seein em again, huh? Yessir, these guys know you real well, don't they? Let's just fill these up - there ya go. No worse for the wear. Just like you. Yep, same ol blue satin, you know they really had yer attention before."
Yep. Looking real, real good here...
Go ahead, make sure. Fidget all ya want.
"You got enough sleep last night? Up for an all-nighter? Yeah, ya look good and strong. Couple, three packs of 'Boros, no problem. It'll be even better than the last go-round.
Weelllll, no time like the present, huh?
Here ya go."

762

He chuckles, real sleazy, and starts to shift around. Barely awake, and unaware he's cuffed and spread. Beautiful, thick straps.
His eyes open a little. For a second or two, nothing - then his brow furrows. Maybe recalling the sight...
He knows that ceiling. Many hours of staring at it. And now, it's real again. Hiding him.
Recognition, sweet to watch even as it snaps him awake.
"Happy birthday, Major."
He jumps, and starts to giggle. And he looks at the gloves tracing across his belly. At the cuffs -
"NOOOOooooooo no no no nnnoaaaaawwwwwwww..."
The voice laughs at the sound of him.
And the gloves bear down, making him whoop in response.

He makes nine or ten different pleasing noises, full-bore, and eventually quits struggling. The gloves lift off him, and he pants hard. Sweating already, eyes closed tight.
"So you're a man now."
"Huh?"
"Finally legal. Even old enough to... tie one on. In some states, anyway. And you partied hard last night with your pals, didn'tcha?"
"No - I didn't d-"
The shiny hands latch on to his ribs and polish 'em. He squeals gibberish... then switches to a nice hearty roar.
"Ah ah ah," the voice shouts. "No more talking out of you. Hoot and howl and whoop yourself hoarse, but don't waste your breath on talkin'."
The gloves drive the point home with a few more minutes of hysterical massage.

When they're laying off, and he's gasping like a beached trout...
Gloves bring him a Zippo and a carton of Camel Filters.
"Smoke 'em if you've got 'em. And you do. Better part of a case, Major. Ain't against the law anymore for you to... smoke all ya want. A birthday you'll n-"
"NOOOO-"
The tickling starts again.
"You were warned. This is what'll happen..."

Fifteen savage minutes.
"More where that came from," the voice tell him as he fights for breath. "Unlimited. If you do what you're told, you can stall it off for a little while. Remember?"
A different pair of gloves goes to the long table next to the bed, gets a pack out and taps it against a cloth palm. Peeling it open, knocking out the first smoke. Snapping off the filter, while he stares.
He sucks in when the Zippo flares up, without saying a word.

"Now, you must've been trashed. Driving home afterward, all by yourself. Did ya forget how ya came to be in here last time? As if it was an ordinary night, too... A guy turns eighteen, and a porn flick and a few beers are all the celebration that he's gonna get?"
"I - that's not me," he says quickly. Rushing to get the words out. "I'm way older than eighteen, you know that, don't fuck with m-"
Gloves seize him and rub him hard.

Almost a half-hour...
Plus five more minutes until he's breathing normally enough to have a smoke.
"You gonna shut up now, Major? At least long enough to open your presents?"
He whines low, cutting it off immediately.
"Old enough to vote - old enough to smoke." A hand brings a paper bag over the table. "And to judge by last night, you're old enough to drink too." Fingers slide a fifth of Jim Beam out of the bag.
He stutters once, and catches himself.
"Gotta lot to learn, though. Increase your capacity." Gloves crack the seal, twist off the cap... and others lift his head. "Here ya go -"
"Please, n-"
The hands drop his head and dive into his armpits. Playing rough.

Forty minutes.
He's quite hoarse. Needs a nap. So he gets one...

763

Sadistic fucker. It had been at this shit a long time. Get set up, and then playtime. Bad news for somebody...

It had the experience to know what it needed in a place. Forgotten. Of no interest to anybody else. Just this fucker. A building miles away from anywhere, solid enough that it wouldn’t have to be totally rebuilt, just reinforced. Fortified. Hell, it had used a cave before, underground bunkers a couple of times...

There were a couple options it could’ve lived with, but one top choice. The furthest one out. No road. An old logging shed. A long way to haul everything, but the risk of being interrupted was zero.

It stole a few credit cards and ordered cases of shit. Stole a jeep and loaded it up with lumber and hardware - and a skylight. Made a ten-by-ten room at one end of the shed and built thick walls around it, strengthened the doors, added locks. Bolted chains across the hole in the ceiling and installed the fuckin skylight. Put the jeep back. Tongues wagged, but it didn’t care. As boxes started showing up at the post office, it made ‘em disappear.

While it waited for the last of the mail-order shit, there was equipment to make and install and test. Then all the boxes had shown up... At three in the morning, they were thrown on the back of a big flatbed truck. Dozens of cases were taken from the grocery store. And the drugstore. And the sporting goods shop. A big mattress disappeared from the motel. The truck headed out of town, pulled over about ten miles north of the shed, and unloaded.

This psycho got enough stuff for a year. A mutherfuckin' year.

The truck was hidden and returned the next day. It was all anybody could talk about. The fuckin stage was set. All it needed now was a victim.

764

It's all confusing. He looks around once in a while, sometimes watching 'em. Vague, thoughtful expression. Wondering just how he got here - whereever "here" is.
No, wait. He wasn't forced in. Walked in without a fight... he thinks. They weren't in here then, but somehow he was... stripping down.. Being encouraged to take it all off. And then he was flat on his back, ropes taut on all four limbs (a new position, and yet it felt familiar too). He didn't tie himself down... Yelling, loud but calm, for help. Yelling a lot. Tugging. New rope, strong...
Was that today? An hour ago, or last night, what? He drove here, didn't want to and then - pow. Couldn't wait to get here. So he drove right here, way out in the sticks somewhere... Into this room, jacket and jeans being helped off, and next thing he knew he's staked down. A needle finds a vein - right arm.
The gloves came, later. They definitely didn't rope him.
Why the hell is he tied down?
Has this happened before?

Did he... yeah. He pissed at some point, he thinks. No puddle now. He is hard, though. Been stiff for quite a while...why is that?

A few pairs of hands cruise over him, a yard above. Never going anywhere in particular, meandering arbitrarily...He'd seen the wad of material saunter through the door, separating into four pieces that filled up just like balloons. More glossy shapes wandered in now and then. Twelve hands, now. Not coming near him or the ropes... White, shiny, clean. New. And hollow - he can see right inside 'em when they pass overhead just so... and they're empty, yet somehow they're bulgy-firm. Four pudgy fingers and a fat thumb, no seams he can see on the outsides. They don't look like they were thrown together carelessly. He can't remember what that material is called, but they gleam...Fascinating, hypnotic. Fourteen overstuffed 'toon hands, drifting above him in lazy pairs and groups.
Why would anybody make gloves like that?
Do they even know he's here?

Another needle, its plunger goin' home all by itself...

He remembers something - and right away, naw, it's gone again.
There it is. Wantin' something. Food? Nope... He ate Spam earlier. (Spam?!) Water a couple times. No, three times. So maybe he did get here last night, after all. What's he missing? He squirms a little, trying to turn his hands.
Man. Overdue, oh fuck. He's needin' -
Looking around urgently, he spots the jacket sitting off to his left. It wasn't there before. He didn't see it get moved to that spot, though... Thick, old, his outer skin for the last fifteen years, he's never seen it before. Grease, bugs, ash-streaks, the scorched spot on the shoulder from his bike's exhaust pipe. He doesn't own a bike...
Of course he does... He sniffs. Whoa. It reeks, smells like weed. There's a 'Boro box half-full of Gold in the right stash pocket. He pulls harder on the wrist-ropes...
And stops. He doesn't smoke pot! What the hell? He's 17, doesn't go for that -
Looks up and down himself. Tats everywhere.
No, I'm thirty-two... or older? Of course I get high. Love it. Chain-smoker, too, and way overdue... Anxiety - a groan -

Holdin' in smoke, oh yeah, and letting it leak out.
Thick haze above him, familiar. Seventeen gloves cycling through it now. He counts 'em beneath heavy eyelids, calmed by the half-pack of Camels in the pocket of his vest right nearby. He remembers where he got every pin on that vest... New cigs keep floating over, the finished ones plucked out of his mouth and held evenly against the next...nothing manipulating 'em, no wires or shadows or jerky movements, just smokes cruising over and butts being sprung away...

A few slugs of Gilbey's. A cold burger. Water. Nineteen hands from a comic-book, harmless-looking keeping their distance. He flexes his arm and leg muscles, unable to pull any slack in the ropes...

Another cigar. Him and his stogies...
Why did he come here, exactly? What was he thinking...? No rope at first, and no cuffs. Just wanted to kick back, watch the air show a foot and a half above? Relaxed, except for this serious hard-on...

He pissed again. A pack of Newport Lights tipping, a cig sliding out and onto the ground. Trying to cut down a little, but these fuckin low-tar smokes...
He has no clothes here. Just him, the pack and the gloves in here. No, wait, he had to have worn something when he drove out here. Can't remember much of anything for sure.

Twenty-three hands. About a foot above. The bright afternoon is gone...

Another burger, and a long, satisfying piss.
Lost count at twenty-eight. A wall of hands, inches away, detouring around his prick.

Happy. Burnin' a Viceroy, he picks up on their intensity. Pleasure, wild amusement. Kinda contagious.
He's grinnin' like a fool as he tugs hard, eatin' smoke and wantin' to. Glad to be - well, not tied down, and in the buff is kinda weird. But he drove out here and walked right in for a reason... all by himself. Right?

The sun sets.
The layer of shiny hands is a couple of inches away, rising just enough to keep a consistent height as they make the circuit from head to feet. Crickets and frogs are all that can be heard outside. Way, way out in the sticks...

Another needle, a couple beers. His cock is huge. Shiny hands barely off him, circling slowly.
Satin - that's what they are. Real new lookin'. Curves still glinting dully in the fading light...

Clink.
Huh? A flame. He starts the hooter, looking at the Zippo as he sucks in. His lighter held there - held. By a hand. One of the gloves. Well, this is new. Helpin' me out... They do know I'm here, then.
The enthusiasm he senses is much stronger. Kinda...mean. Them? What could they -
A terrible idea. Gone, as quickly as it came. What the...? He hits the stogie a few times and thinks hard.
But... they didn't tie me up. Right?
Bumfuck, Egypt. Nobody around, sure as shit. Man, if they wanted to g-
No whips or anything. At least, none that I've seen. Good thing they don't know how... uh...
One glove, no longer moving. Parked over the shoulder it brushed against... the rest still circling around. Huh. New behavior.
The hand-shell is shiny, even in the near-dark it kinda gleams. Satin. Why? Now leather, that'd be m-
Satin - on top of his own fingers, left palm. His head swivels, and he sees it. Laying on his fingers, not heavily...
Another one's dropping. Not good -
It goes to the same hand, pushing its fingers between his, investigating his knuckles. Two gloves, checking out his hand. Sure. He chomps on his cigar and sighs real hard, dropping a hint.
And two more gloves land on his right hand, massaging more and more... heavily. Smooth, yeah it's real slick material, okay? No seams, real soft, uh-huh. Good with a Zippo -
Beneath - no, his head. Two of 'em, feels like - getting his hair? Wha? Getting it... out of the way?
Shoulder. The first glove that touched him, only its fingertips... slowly making circles on the ball joint. Expanding... to full fingers -
Explosively happy. Whafuck...?
He smokes hard, twisting the massaged arm ineffectively, trying to act like it doesn't concern him. Yeah, tied down, touched, no particular reason, no big deal. But the gloves are softer than he expected, too fuckin' soft actually -
Fingers and the palm active on his shoulder, squeezing gently at times, pausing to let him start another Camel...
More? There. Right shin. Fingertips... Oh no. He had stiffened up immediately. Do somethin' -
"C'mon now," he barks.
They're reaching under the small of his back.
I'm wide open, here. Wide o-
Left hip. Light, gentle.
He coughs out smoke suddenly, and feels his mouth... grinning.
Oh
no -
That gets him twisting... or at least attempting to. "NO - hey, no m-"
Clasp. The fingers on his shin have become a soft clamp. Another closes on the other leg.
And they... slide.

Easy pressure, up and down at a fair pace.
He snickers explosively. Can't help it. He pulls hard on the ropes, chuckling, trying to keep from making any noise at all.
More fingertips, landing... earlier contact widening, spreading out to broad palms and - sheets, it feels like, blankets molding around curves. Snug, substantial grips -
In the last light, a hand descends between his legs. He bucks hard, laughing now.
Little satin pads begin tracing... over, under, behind his balls. And he snaps at the ropes like never before, watching the gloves he can see -
A different texture... his arm. Wrist. Tightening more - it's more rope. His arm stretches out a little further, and stays out there. The other arm, too... His ankles -
Within seconds, his lunging and tugging is even more pathetic.
A palm buffs his left side. Both sides. Thighs -
A loud hoot bursts out of him, and more hoots. Now, a meaty roar.
Unbelievable sensation. It's shattering, this much excitement. The worst he's -
No, not - "NOowhah how how hah..."
More. More hands, more satin hands, they arent even all on him yet. Can't take it, if they know enough not to go full-bore he'll go nuts -
The softness covers his chest. Neck. And his ass cheeks, and armpits - elbows. Clasp.
Oh, much worse.
Both feet. Bottoms of his feet, and tops, and sides -
Move, squeeze. Slide. Heavier! Faster. He laughs harder that he thought was even possible. Can't keep this up... But he can't think.
They're happy, kickin' ass, psycho...
Nobody around here, nobody to find out, help me, make 'em stop. No limit.
Change - what changed? Still hands everywhere... Slower? They - they pulled back. Can't... pass out, aw - they knew, dammit it's still too much -
He's vaguely aware of cool pressure around his meat. Doesn't seem to be moving, though - while the others... rock...

765

Leader genuinely likes them. It has a respect and appreciation that probably is the same thing a hunter feels for a ten-point buck...
The rally brings them in by the hundreds. Too many fine prospects, hanging out in the roughest bars in the state. Great hunting grounds.
They don't even know it's sizing them up.
Leader's been at this for a few years now. It can snag any victim it wants.

766

As Tor works in the shop, making me wait, I have a new fantasy going. It started out as a dream, I think, but I'm not sure.
It's got to be Torland again. The same feeling - that terminally happy mood. Every damn thing exactly the way Tor wants 'em to be.
Anyway, I'm standing in front of a door. Thick wood, dark, with big black rings and cross-bars. It looks old.
And it's locked. I find that out when I give it a tug. I see the gloves on my hands, the riding leathers I've got on. Tug hard on the cigarette between my teeth. And I'm wide awake. Feeling like I'm eighteen again...
I turn around, from the locked door, and see a bed there. Huge bedposts. Black sheets. The room is dark - stone walls, and only a little slit of a window in one wall, way up over my head. And I got no idea what the deal is, or where I am. My best guess is that it's supposed to be the day I arrived there - in Torland - because I stare at something in the air, over the bed, and I don't catch on.
One brown feather, twirling slowly.
I take a long drag as I look at it. Totally unimpressed. Clueless, actually. Not even thinking about Tor, or Shon, or the Palace -
It wiggles in a particular way, and I get a bad idea. Crazy shit. Impossible. When I've kicked out all the smoke, I snap ashes onto the rough stone floor - and I snort once.
"You're out of your fuckin' mind." Nobody there to talk to, far as I know. Just the feather. But I bark it anyway. "Not that. Uh-uh."
The feather stops moving.
"No fuckin' way," I tell it. "You got the wrong guy. Shit. If you had any idea... how wrong." I just have to chuckle, and shake my head. The whole situation is so damn stupid.
I take a mammoth drag and drop my cigarette, stomp on it. "I mean, you don't want me anywhere near that thing," and I nodded at the feather. "You know why? If I didn't have these leathers, and that feather got at me... well, fuck. It's crazy. I'd be a basket case." And it dawns on me that I shouldn't be saying that, out loud. But I can't stop myself from talking...
"All tense, and jumpy, tryin' to keep my mouth shut. And it would be so hard. I wouldn't last long, and then it would have to bust out. That first one. I'd fuckin' laugh. And once I got started - if that feather was still movin' on me - I'd laugh harder and harder. Just come unglued. If I couldn't get that fucker off me... say, if there was some reason I wasn't able to reach it. Well, shit. I'd go nuts. You wanna see a guy go out of his fuckin' mind, there ya go. I'd flop around like a snake and laugh like a maniac. I mean, howling. All-out craziness. I'd laugh so hard I'll shit myself, I kid you not. Laugh until my voice is fuckin' gone. I am, like, the last guy you wanna... tickle."
Still not figuring it out. Not even as the invisible hands get a grip on my arms.
I play that scene in my head, and as I'm standing in that cell - telling somebody, and it must be Tor, how apeshit I get - I never seem to get the fuckin' picture.
Whenever I have that daydream, Tor starts chuckling after a minute or two. Laughing real low, so relaxed...

767

A last heave - this is the heaviest door I've ever
(don't oh shit get outa here run)
Almost through. Mutherfuck. I'm there, I made it. Beat the hydraulic piston, and I'll get away... Unh. Quick!
(catch it don't don't no)
Wham.
"Whaa- HOO!"
Oh, yeah.
My whoop died out right away - good fuckin' foam in here, eats up the sound - Never been so anxious to be someplace. It's perfect, this is even better than I
(can't be this is oh no no)
"Aaaaaahhh -"
Yes indeed. Safe and sound. Nobody would ever, ever stumble onto this place
(get out oh no NO trapped cornered)
Lookit that! Boxes of everything. Man, am I ready. Lemme at 'em.

768

The kid boosted a pack of smokes. Pretty clumsy, too. The clerk almost saw him...
But he made it out the door. As he walked back toward the bus, he slipped 'em out of his pants and started packing 'em loudly, cocky as anything.
He didn't know he'd been seen. Not by the clerk. The crime was observed by Tail.
It apprehended criminals - and as it happened, the lockup was empty. It watched him fire up the stolen goods. Hungry for a smoke. Well, he'd better enjoy his cigarette - and his freedom - while he still could.
Suddenly he straightened up and turned around. Heading right for the bus. Tail was not going to let him walk - not a chance - but it hung back for now.
The thief went to his seat, and started digging in a small backpack. Shirts, jeans inside - his main luggage, if not his only bag. That made it easy.
He found some fingernail clippers, and set the backpack down. Then he got off the bus.
His pack followed. Lifting up, floating magically over the seats. The only ones on the bus were sleeping. It ducked in front of the bus, where it was dark. Walking off the other way, clipping a hangnail, the kid didn't notice.
As it followed, he ambled along the side of the truck stop, past where the floodlights protected him. Stolen cigarette between his lips, smoke trailing out of his nose...
Something bumped into his legs. He stopped up - and looked. It was his pack.
A handcuff slapped around his right wrist, then his left. The cigarette was pulled, and a canvas hood went over his head.
The kid, and his personal effects, were hauled off to the lockup.

It's a private detention facility. No need to trouble the authorities with its existence. Or anyone else. Tail built it. The cops have got a full plate already, so it patrols the interstate. A lot of trash rolls through town.
And here's one less thief who'll be tempted to try it again. Not when Tail gets done with him. It isn't troubled by current trends in sentencing - all those sleazebags getting off with a slap on the wrist.
It's his bad luck that Tail collared him. Put him in a cell - stone walls, bars and all. No toilet. There's a heavy wooded chair and a scarred-up table. He sits in the chair, hands tied behind him, feet tied to the chair legs.
On the table in front of him, there's his lighter... and the smokes. There they sit.
He looks at 'em pretty often.
While he does, Tail finishes booking him. The kid had almost two hundred bucks in his pocket... yet he stole the cigarettes. He's gotta pay for 'em.
His wallet, clothes, and backpack are examined. A trunk floats over and opens. All of his belongings go inside the trunk, which is locked.
The kid is eighteen. Adult detention. Tail believes in remedial correction. That takes more than marking days off a calendar. Doing time is no picnic. Until Tail decides his attitude has changed - significantly - he's not getting released.
He's been awake for about an hour. Waiting. But enough of that - Tail rattles the bars slightly, and his head swivels around. Nothing to see. So he goes back, eventually, to wishing for a smoke.
Tail digs in his pocket - one of the front pockets of his bright orange jumpsuit - and pulls out a glove. Plain black leather glove. He watches it, blinking. Then looking around...
Trying to watch as Tail pulls the glove onto his right hand.
The other pocket has a glove too. When it's in place, the rope is untied.
He tries to get up, but his arms don't move. Tail's got control of his hands. He tries to pull, twist, even clench his fists. Nothing happens. But he keeps trying, starting to grunt. And sweat.
Then he starts yelling. There's no response. Not until he gives up, sagging back.
His hands come around the front. He starts resisting again, but it doesn't do him any good.
Tail lets go suddenly. His arms sag.
He looks around wildly and flexes his hands. His face looks worried. Slowly, he starts trying to take one of the gloves off - and as soon as he does, his fingers quit working. After a minute, they move again when he tests 'em.
The kid tries this a few times, with similar results.
He sighs, and looks at the cigarettes again.
This is a test. What he does next will decide his punishment.
After looking around a time or two, he reaches for the pack. Tail lets him get it. Looking again to see if anyone's on to him, he gets one out and goes for the lighter. There's no interference from the gloves.
On the contrary. Tail put the stolen goods in front of him for a reason...
He fires one up.
Just as it expects.
 

This kid really likes to smoke. Between two and three packs a day.
His commissary tab keeps rising. And liquor is tracked off the books...

The basic salary for inmates is ninety cents an hour. Each day, he's falling about seven bucks behind. And that's not even counting beer and whiskey.
There's no way Tail will let him go... until he's paid off his tab. Over a hundred bucks.
It gives him more hours. And strenuous-duty pay. Some research projects, maybe. Without help, this kid's never gonna get sprung.
 
 

A dark, damp, quiet cell.
Two big leather bags sit alongside his chair. They're filled with tools that are needed for his new job.
The nylon rope that restrains his limbs is soft and thick. Let him tug all he wants. He's not getting up.
A bag unzips, and the first of many feathers starts to emerge.
He stares, for a second, and starts to fight the ropes. Such a reaction insures a productive, spectacular time ahead of him. It won't be the easiest money he's ever earned.

769

The feathers are leaving. A towel runs over me quickly...
Gloves. Returning. Time to cum again, and the fingers stay in place, ready to double-time it and make me too excited to do much more than breathe.
That's when the tickler is happiest.
Apparently, this is what I'm meant to be doing right now.

I'm not into fate, or any of that shit. I was blown away at first, and then royally pissed off. Panicky, frightened, hopeful. I despaired. I tried to look and sound pitiful.
I begged. Then anger, again. Miserable, totally hysterical -
The tickler never stopped.
Come to think of it, the astonishment was there for longer than any other feeling.

That all changed this morning.
Food, and water. Just like yesterday. The gloves hung over me, flexing slowly. I don't think it was teasing me, that time.
It was lost in thought. Savoring the idea of tickling me again. Where, and how. It could afford to fantasize, because I'm strapped down and this place is so far out in the wilderness that no one will ever come anywhere near.
So it can really enjoy itself. Deep satisfaction. It planned for the long term, and I saw the truth. Clear as anything.
There's no end in sight.
If it's half as satisfied as it seems to be, there's no fuckin' point in thinking any more.
This is the deal. Wishing and fighting and whining won't change anything.
I don't even care if I start to like being tickled. It doesn't matter.
The way the gloves flexed their fingers - dreaming, eager, but completely able to wait in order to increase the impact - showed me the tickler was in complete control of every little thing, even of me. Not a single misstep. As a result, I was nothing more than a tool it used. Any thinking or emotion was irrelevant now, because only it could change my situation. And I knew beyond all doubt that it wasn't going to be ready to change anything for an extremely long time.
I learned that when I was sure it wasn't even trying to taunt me.

It's all so certain that I think it had to work out this way. I look at the tickler differently now, because my fundamental understanding of how the world works is flawed. It gets to pet me. That's why I'm here.
So that's what my job is.
If it wants me to be completely fuckin' crazed, it'll make sure I am. Nothing else matters except doing what it tells my body to do, and when I need to know how intense the tickling is, I'll be told, directly, ihe only language it speaks. I have become much better at giving it what it most wants... but it's obvious every time it starts tickling again that I could be here for a hundred years and still have more to learn about experiencing and getting the maximum possible stimulation. It has me, so obviously I belong nowhere else. This is precisely the situation it wants, so all things will remain just as they are.
I eat because it's necessary for strong, extended tickling. That's why I drink water and sleep, too. The tickler keeps track of all that. My job - my whole purpose - is to respond to its passionate hands, meticulous feathers, untiring brushes, seductive scarves, knowldgeable probes, earth-shattering oil. My body squirms and roars at times, and I cannot help that. The tickler knows. It must increase the pleasure for the tickler. All things happen for the increased satisfaction of the tickler. Every minute is scheduled by it. Every millimeter of my body is subject to its whim.
I exist to be tickled by the tickler. Recent vents allow no other conclusion.
The perfection of its joy is the only goal that exists.
I am here. It brought me here. It loves to tickle. I cannot escape.
So I feel all the tickling it does, and I am reassured.

12july2006
 

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