811

In the dream, the gloves were really going at it. Way too enthusiastic. The restraints were unbeatable, which is still a little scary in real life... but when I dream, not being able to pull free is a big relief. I get a charge out of it too. Not sexual, exactly, but all revved up for action. Let's do it. The erotic part will happen later. Leash doesn't miss a trick.
So I'm roaring and thrashing around in the usual red-hot flood, and something different registers - a light sensation, but sharper.
My ass. I'd guess it's a feather. That shouldn't be so noticable, given how rough the dream is...
And I'm awake, just like that. I roll over.
"Hey," Leash says.
"Hey," I mumble, yawning.
"Go take a shower. You stink."
"Fuck off."
Gloves snag my arms... and hold 'em down, so others can roam up and down my sides.
"Excuse me?," it chuckles. "Care to repeat that?"
Grabbing a big breath, I'm busy hooting and cackling. Leash is tickling just hard enough so I can't talk. It used to creep me out - how well it knows my body. Now I'm used to it. A little friendly torture to wake up the animal, starting another full-court day.
"Which one of us is fucked, again? I forget."
Arching my back, I giggle out a deranged squeal.
"Now I can just keep doing this," and the gloves dig even harder into my armpits - making it impossible to do anything - "or you can get your ass into the bathroom. And then I'll keep doing this. Got it?"
I nod wildly. Fuck, I'd do whatever it says... just to get the fingers off me. I need a cigarette. Some coffee. Hell, a little normal life before Leash cranks up another endless day.
It tacks on another long fifteen or twenty seconds, stroking and scratching, before pulling the gloves away. My wrists are pulled up into the air - until I'm standing. Wobbly, still giggling, they make me walk toward the door. It opens right up. Down the hall, I hear the shower start hissing.

"Say it again," Leash challenges me as soon as I walk out of the bathroom, drying my hair with a towel.
"Say what?"
"Fuck off."
I just sigh. It seems to be waiting, so I add, "Later."
Low chuckles - and a hand curls around my dick.
"Unh - fuck off, then."
"I got you," it says proudly.
"Yeah."
Pulling me a little, Leash walks me into the dining room. The table is set, and a covered plate is waiting.
When I ease down into the chair, the hand goes away. I waste no time getting a smoke. The coffee pot floats over and fills a mug for me.
"What do you say we... take a day off," I say quietly.
"Hooo hooo," Leash shoots back, "you're so funny."
"Gonna get me," I mumble. "Got it all planned out."
"Don't I always?"
"Yeah."
"Fuckin' felon."
"Not for a while," I yawn, cracking my neck.
"The system let you down," Leash says. Baiting me. It's fixin' to fight. That usually means a hard time, for me. It's never easy, but some hours are definitely more intense than others.
"Can I just have a fuckin' cigarette in peace, here?"
There's a silence. It won't last, though. I know this fucker.
"Real discipline, getting your attention -"
"C'mon," I yell.
"Consequences that matter to you. Personally."
"I'm not gonna have this same argument over and over."
"But I know how to get through to guys like you," Leash says, with a snicker or two.
"I'm not hungry," I say to the plate.
"Aw," Leash says. The cover floats up. "Canadian bacon. The good stuff."

"So. Here we are."
I hear that, and sigh. This is so fuckin' ridiculous. I'm no musclehead but people don't fuck with me in real life. And it's so great to just sit here, even if I don't have a stitch on, and smoke. It's relaxing...
At least it was before the asshole piped up. Another day that just fuckin' refuses to end -
"You and me," Leash says.
"Let me go, dammit," I say for the millionth time.
"But you walked in here."
"Fuck. Shoved in. You know I'm not that far gone yet. I still remember."
There's a pause. It's playing with me. My head... "Could've fought harder."
"No -"
"I think you wanna be here."
Same damn shit...
"You get to just let go. Right? No more fight left. Just get wild."
"Don't, Leash. I fuckin' mean it."
"Never-ending," it says, all sinister. Every damn day we go through this.
"No."
"Yeah, you do. I got what you came for, biker."
Gloves are stalking me now. Leather. Four of 'em, to start. I got time for one more drag, reaching over to the ashtray to drop the butt. Then it'll be on - hauled over to the stocks, or the sling. Dammit.
"A real good time," Leash rumbles.
Nothing I've said has ever stopped it -
Hands clamp around my wrists.
. . .

"Turn on the TV," I yell.
"No," Leash says. "You've got something a lot more... interesting to do. All the time."
"Fuck..."
It just sits there. Never on. Why have a TV at all? Probably to rub it in my face. I don't get to do anything else. Leash, the big-ass tickler, has it all under control.

812

A glove was waving at him...
Troy was curled up on his side, so he figured it was a dream. There wasn't the usual tension that indicated he was strapped down. Something weird was going on, though -
He was awake. A-ha.
Jerking back, something let go. Troy blinked at another glove.
"You - holding my eyelid up. Giglex?"
"No," a voice said, laughing. "But it told me to do that. How ya doin', Troy?"
"Depends," he yawned, rolling onto his back. Fuckin' gloves in the air. He knew what that meant. "You might leave my eyelids alone."
"Hey, it was funny. Why are you lookin' so nervous, there?"
The gloves moved in - impossible speed, before he could even hope to cover himself - and got deep in his armpits, almost like they were digging for gold. In a way, they found it.
"Hah hah hah hah shih-hih-hit," he crowed.
"I see," the voice said. "I get it. Gonna have some major fun with you."
"Noooo hoo hoo hooooooo -"
The gloves stopped. "But not today."
"Oh, f-fuck... me," he panted. "Thank you. Thanks."
With a quiet chuckle, the gloves pulled away. One of 'em picked up a joint and handed it to Troy.
"Thanks," he said hesitantly, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
"Now," the voice said.
He got his lighter and blazed up.

"Yeah. I'm gettin' me a piece of this outlaw."
He scowled, holding in the smoke, and didn't hurry to answer. "What's up?"
"I hear you're always up for a good deed."
"Me? Who said..." It took a few seconds to sink in. He had tickets for a blues show the next day. April would not be pleased. At least he'd warned her, up front, that this could happen. Shit. "Thank Giglex for me," he sighed.
"Good man," the voice said. "He's on your couch."
There was nothing else to do except get up and stumble into the living room.

Sure enough - there was a shaggy guy there, in leathers, sprawled out and dead to the world.
A whistle made Troy look toward the kitchen. There was a good-sized bag of weed swaying in midair. It landed on a box. Walking over, he saw two cases of beer on the floor. The box held a bong, four cartons of cigarettes... and familiar square bottles.
"Wow," he said.
"Figured it'll help," the voice said. "He's been out of the loop for awhile."
"Well..."
"Enough for two."
"Uh," Troy said, "Thanks, but I don't drink anymore. Or smoke. Cigarettes."
"Troy. Such a kidder. Make him feel at home, here. I'll be checking in on him - on both of you. Just watching."
He groaned and got ready to complain, but right then the sleeping guy was lifted off the couch. Carried by his limbs, he floated toward the hall.
"Hey."
"He's gonna sleep for a while," the voice said, chuckling again.
"I, uh -"
"How are you set for food?" After the biker's t-shirt shifted, a roll of bills hovered out of his pocket. "Catch."
"Well," Troy said again, following the guy. "Uh, shit."
"Give him whatever's left over. He likes steak."
"Okay." In his room, a sheet was flying around. He finally realized his visitor was making the bed. Apparently it found the closet. Pillows rose up and were stuffed into clean pillowcases in no time.
The biker's clothes started coming off...
It only took about thirty seconds. The guy's arms were stretched out, over his head - but not restrained - and the top sheet tucked in around him.
"There," the voice said, as a glove patted the dude on the head. "Be a pal. Help him out. I'm going over to catch me a cocky little bartender when he steps out back for a toke. He's getting a vacation that just won't quit."
"Uh -"
A carton of cigarettes lifted out of the box. "Help yourself. Now. I'll catch up with you later - animal."
The gloves zipped past his head. One of them circled back and grabbed his right side, making him hiss, and reared back. It punched him in the right arm - fuckin' hard - and then the outer door of his apartment opened and closed.
Knowing Giglex like he did, Troy walked right over and obediently got himself a cigarette.
. . .

"Fucker waited 'til nobody was around."
"Uh-huh."
The biker sighs. "I walk toward the door and my cigarette gets slapped out of my hand. And there's this cigar shoved between my teeth. Like a fuckin' upgrade. Y'know? I look around - still not a fuckin' soul there. Then a hand shoves me, and another one on my back from the other side. Like a pinball. They clamp around my sides, and fuck - I go down. Can't help it. I've always been fuckin' squeamish, no matter what I do. That sure as hell wasn't what I was expecting. Fingers checkin' me out, like, let's see what we got here. A live one. All ticklish and shit... Fightin' as hard as I can, yelling back at the door of the bar when I can stop laughing loud enough, but dammit I end up at the fuckin' truck anyway. Picked up and shoved right in. Off to a place where nothing's gonna stop the tickling - I had a feeling right away. I knew it. Invisible hands, smooth as shit kidnap, the whole deal. I was fuckin' done for."

813

[Justin is a veteran tickle-victim]

One day he wakes up with a weird headache - in a house he doesn't recognize. But not in restraints.
Gets up, pees, finds the living room... and sees a large wrapped box. There are holes in it.
"Uh... Ramp?"
"Surprise," it laughed.
"Wow."
"Open it."
Inside, Denny Avignon snored quietly.
That was impossible. Of course, Justin's whole life was crazy now - but the biggest bully Justin ever met, caught by Ramp?
Denny started floating up.
"Let's get him to his new room."

Puzzled, Justin followed the sleeping man down the hall. A door opened -
Everything looked twice as sturdy as what Justin had been used to, and Ramp had really made him bulk up over the years.
He just couldn't believe this. Sweet. "Hoo hoo hoo."
"You bet. Laugh maniac. This slob's about to join the club." Denny landed gently on a huge articulated frame.
"You did this for me?"
Oil-stained boots started coming off. "Uh-huh."
"Thank you."
"Sure. For you, dude... Solid payback time."
Socks, next.
"Whatcha gonna do?," Justin asked shyly.
Denny's left leg was lifted up, emphasizing the point. "I've always wondered," Ramp teased, "if it was possible to tickle a foot until the toes fall right off."
"Those are some big feet."
"Thick. Muscular. Guess it's gonna take a long, long time."
They both laughed.

Watching Denny get stripped and cuffed down was like a dream come true.
"You're probably asking yourself," Ramp said, "how this could possibly get any better."
"I'm just blown away. It couldn't get any better. This guy - in your hands?"
A bandanna whipped around, into a tube, and headed for Denny's mouth.
"That's the beauty of it. For the next couple weeks, I'm not gonna tickle him."
"You're not?"
"Nope. You are."
Justin stared at the massive cuffs. Even a moose like Denny couldn't kick hard enough to get his feet away from the soothing, burning, maddening sensations that would engulf him. Keep blasting through, all day long, tomorrow and every day -
Huh?
"What did you say?"

A spray bottle flew around Denny, coating his skin with that damn tingly stuff. Sensitizing the skin even more...
"Take his feet," Ramp ordered. "Just hold 'em. He won't wake up."
It was a dream come true. Revenge - and Ramp would protect him. Justin curled his fingers around the middle of Avignon's soles. He never, ever thought -
"Don't move," Ramp said. A finger touched the back of Justin's neck. It traced over something under the skin.
"Are those stitches?"
"Uh-huh?"
He got angry. "Ramp."
"If you shut your fuckin' mouth for thirty seconds," it said evenly, "you'll be glad. Okay?"
That last word was more of a threat, so Justin nodded.
"For the next two weeks, you get to be... me. Denny is your playground. You can make him remember you, or forget the past. Wipe the slate for the last hour, or the whole time he's been here. He'll tell you anything you want. And here's the great part," it laughed, catching the irony. "You're magic. Want a dozen gloves to rise up and tickle him? It's done. Go out and catch a movie - they'll work him over like experts, doing the whole water and maintenance bullshit. Making sure he feels every possible second as hard as he can."
"Me?"
"You. Oh - and to make sure you don't feel sorry for him, I put an auto program in there. If he hasn't been tickled enough in any twelve-hour period, he's in for ninety minutes of automatic, full-bore agony. And I'll serve up the same for you too, later."
Justin shook his head. He felt like he was in a dream. This was a fantasy he'd told Ramp years ago - whispering it, sweaty, waiting for the tickling to resume. "We're best friends. No punching, no pranks, and he never even discovered I was ticklish. That whole senior year..." He shivered. "And now I'm helping him. If it wasn't for me, you'd have him in real hysteria all the time."
After a few seconds, Ramp started to laugh. "Gonna teach me a few things, I think. That's sinister."
"Sometimes he'll think I made the tickling stop. Other times - I brought it on. But he can forget, five minutes later?"
"An hour, the next day. Sure. Reverse roles if you want. Make him the one who was tormented by you, back then."
"I can use the rotary wheels?"
"Anything you want. The closet's packed. Order up fifty feathers, and tell a pair of gloves to keep him hydrated and cleaned up. Take off for the weekend."
There were tears in Justin's eyes.
"He's in perfect physical condition. What you learn, I learn - because I'm gonna really drive him bonkers after you're through."
"This is the nicest thing... anybody's ever done for me," Justin said, choking up.
"It comes with a price."
"Oh. Naturally."
"I have friends who want to study the, uh, device. It records some things. And you. They're gonna drive you crazy with questions. Tests. Some tickling, but not like I do to you. That's for later."
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really."

Denny's feet were warm, and calm. Massive cuffs and straps anchored them down.
"How did he -"
"Justin. Watch it. I can read your mind too, y'know. He wasn't tortured - like you were. Shit, I've checked out all his memories... Brothers and cousins too. This guy, as far as I can tell, has never been tickled for more than a minute himself. Chicks, in bed. But I found a couple dozen bondage magazines in his room. Serious shit. And sadistic tickling. You know what? All of those magazines showed guys getting the business. Not women."
Justin's eyes got big. He started to laugh quietly.
"Trust me - this is exactly the opposite of what gets him off. A bigger tickler caught him. For real. And you're his only hope."
"Amazing."
"You gonna break him in right?"
"This bastard made my life miserable."
"I give him to you," Ramp said. "Fourteen days. Don't feel sorry for him, and the auto programs will sleep. If you wanna double-team him sometimes, I could pitch in. Make it so much worse. But it's all up to you -"
"All of the things that get to me the most," he said happily. "For Denny, yet - aw, wait, please tell me you're not fuckin' with me. This would really be the worst thing you've ever done, dangling this asshole in..."
A warm feeling started spreading from the back of Justin's head. Down his spine, and creeping around his face - it felt wonderful.
"Confidence," Ramp said. "Solid determination. You can do anything at all that occurs to you. He's permanently blocked from touching you in anger. And I'll be checking in on you two."
"Huh?"
"I've got a leatherman to deal with. He's got more tickle-torture in store to... complete his transformation. And I didn't want you thinking that I was going to interrupt, here, or be impatient with your technique or anything."

Justin gave Denny's feet a squeeze and finally let go. The victim didn't react at all. "I can't believe you did this."
"For you," Ramp said. "I mean, there was quite a battle over who'd get to test this... but I talked 'em into you. My favorite tickle-buddy. And I don't just say that to everybody - I mean it. Last year I really put you through the wringer."
"Ya think?"
It laughed. "So you had a treat coming. Not that I mind taking Hercules under my wing later, either. Everybody wins."
"Except Denny."
"Your prisoner."
"Damn."
"He's here to suffer. For you."
"I don't think you have to worry about... mercy."
Ramp laughed real loud. "I can tell. If anybody ever deserved the kind of fun I have with you -"
"This is just incredible," Justin sighed. "Like I wasn't under your thumb enough already."
"Like I said," Ramp sassed, "I win when you win."
"You win when I lose, too."
"It's great being me."

Justin felt shaky. Ramp pretty much carried him to the kitchen and sat him down. After a water bottle was shoved into his hand, utensils flew around and made him a big plate of sausage and eggs.
"You're going to need your stamina today," it promised him. "Then just order up a steady all-nighter for him, and catch some sleep. He'll still be getting tickled when you wake up. Well, I mean they'll take rest breaks and shit, water breaks, monitor his vitals. But -"
"How do I run things?"
"Think about what you want. That's it."
Frowning, Justin pictured Denny waking up now.
"Whoops," Ramp said. "There. I turned on the video cameras for you. Rookie."
"Oh, yeah. Thanks."
Quiet sounds from the hall turned into yelling, and loud slamming noises.
"I like giving you guys time to discover that the restraints are good," it said conversationally. "That way you look at the first feather with a whole different -"
"Dread," Justin said, chewing on a big bite of ham.
"It's so much fun," Ramp snickered. "Who better to share it with? You've given me a lot. Excitable little turd."
"Years."
"Yeah." Justin got an idea. He thought about a pair of leather gloves - over the table where he was eating, and not in Denny's cell.
A pair floated around the corner. Full, and tough. Ready to tickle. Slow marathon torture, or the most brutal intensity -
"Tell 'em to grab you," Ramp ordered softly.
Hesitantly, Justin did. The gloves didn't move.
"You're off the hook for two weeks."
"Wow..."
"Unless you go easy on that bully in there. Then I'll really come down on you."
"The one person on the planet that I've most wanted to pay back? The same thing you do to me? He's a goner," Justin said smugly. Denny was shouting at the top of his lungs, and it was delightful in a totally deranged way.
"You know how I work. Pay attention to him, and it'll increase every day -"
Justin saw green zeroes, almost like a digital clock... They shrunk down to the bottom of his field of vision.
"This is a rough meter," it told him. "You can stop seeing it. Make it go away."
Justin did. Poof, it was gone.
"Good. Now bring it back. This is really experimental. My friends and I are trying to give you some idea of how much more impact Denny will feel. Zero ticking now... and this is not even beginning to explain what I get out of tickling you, for example. But it should give you a reliable measurement. Add a feather, the number should increase."
"It's like a video game."
"And that leads right into the biggest warning I'm gonna give you," Ramp said sternly. "You've done enough time to know - and the implant will reinforce this too - that Denny is to be tickled as much as possible. That means you usually wanna turn up the heat nice and slow. Three hours in overdrive is not a good day of tickling."
"Like you gotta tell me that?"
An invisible finger poked him in the chest. "Hey. Do not get obsessed with this meter. Fight the urge to stare at it. You guys are too competitive by nature. Read his body, watch his face - and use the numbers only to verify. Then he won't get cheated out of every second of mouth-watering delirium we want him to feel."
"Wouldn't it suck," Justin grinned, "if you went to all this trouble and he wasn't ticklish?"
"Trust me. He is."

In the prisoner's room, his fury had died down to earnest tugging and the occasional threat or curse.
Justin thought about being completely undetectable to his prisoner - and Ramp chuckled with approval. So he took a deep breath and walked into the room.
Denny was worried, and sweaty...
Another wave of calm triumph oozed through Justin. His emotions seemed to be further away. There was a job to be done, and it was the most fulfilling thing ever. It would continue for many, many days.
Slowly, Justin made a drawer open - and a soft red feather float out.
Denny saw it. The wide-eyed gasp was like music to Justin's ears.
The green digits jumped to 00018. As he brought the feather closer and closer to Denny's navel, the numbers rolled up. 00048.
All of the prisoner's best struggling didn't get him out from under the stiff leather bonds.
His navel seemed like the perfect place to start. He'd tormented Justin's belly so many times...
But that was what Denny was expecting. Eyes locked on the feather. Just before it made contact, Justin sent a pair of white satin gloves to some unsuspecting feet.
They clamped on.
The weirdest cross between a yell and a squeal came out of Denny. He arched quickly and tried so hard to pull his legs free.
Justin had the fingers begin. Slow, thorough, heartless tickling.
Denny shook his head - and started to wail the most miserable laughter Justin had ever heard.
Remembering the meter, Justin looked down. 00254.
"Good," Ramp said in his thoughts. "Just like that. For verification only."
It meant the meter, and he nodded. He set the tip of the feather down in Denny's navel -
A tortured scream interrupted the laughter. Wild, growly laughter.
00331.
"Have fun," Ramp laughed. "Catch you later."

His enemy was frantically trying to get away... and that just wasn't going to happen.
With a thought, Justin slammed the door behind them.
That made Denny hoot with fear.
Another pair of gloves, Justin thought happily. One set for each foot.
When the bully saw them, his scream of outrage and terror was unbelievably appealing.
After the number of tickling fingers doubled, Justin glanced at the meter. 00510...

Thirty-five electrifying minutes later, Justin gave his prisoner a little break.
Denny sucked down two bottles of water as soon as they cruised to his mouth. He looked like he'd been in a sauna the whole time. None of the straps or cuffs had shifted at all.
"Oh, fuck, this is... so unbearable," the prisoner rasped. "I can't stand it."
Justin thought about six dry gloves starting back in.
Right away, they did.

Justin tried brushes, and feathers, and oil.

Denny was more of a basket case each hour...

The less human he became, the more the tickling meter increased. Justin realized he probably had that backward, but the important thing was that his tormentor was suffering more and more - too ticklish to find any mental escape, so he just took more and more of it in.
The meter peaked at 03500, and started to decrease a little. While that made Justin angry at first, he remembered that this was Denny's first time. There were thirteen more days to train him...
A little nap. Then the tickling would continue.
He had a latex fist curl around Denny's rod - and squeeze. You're going to rest now, he thought, only in order to make the next hours of unbelievable tickling even more electric.
One quiet, vacant whine escaped from Denny's mouth. Then he stopped moving - fast asleep.

814

A low thud.
The upper door. Only Touchsnap knows I'm here, with my prisoners. From the rustling sounds I hear, echoing slightly down the stone stairs, there can be only one explanation. The best possible news.
I light the torches in the hall. Each of the boys are preoccupied with what they're feeling, and their backs are to the cell doors. It doesn't matter if they notice the thin crack of light. Each has more personal things to stare at, anyway.
Swinging the door out, I wait...
He's grunting. Bouncing off the walls, when Touchsnap lets him, or kicking. But I can count on Touchsnap to keep prisoners from hurting themselves. As he appears in the doorway - wild-haired, dripping with sweat - it's exactly what I hoped to see.
Six straps pin his arms, and six more hobble his legs. A bandanna, between his jaws, is covered with tape. He's brawny, and absolutely enraged. The last remaining member.
Touchsnap gives him a shove, and I communicate my thanks. It retreats.
I close the door.
He's about to discover what happened to all of his bros.
I grab the scruff of his neck and make him march. There are six cells. He passes the first door, and stares.
Club patch.
Shoving him to the window - a one-way mirror - I make sure he sees the club prez, currently being covered with a dozen slow feathers.
The next door has a patch on it too. The vice-president is inside, stretched in wall manacles, howling weakly as rotary buffers polish his belly.
He looks down the row of doors. All but one has a patch.
The sergeant-at-arms is in a sling. Brushes sweep between each set of toes.
The _roadmaster_ is chained to a reclining chair, traced all up and down his sides by whisk-brooms and watercolor markers.
In the last occupied cell, a young man is strapped face-down. Fifteen or twenty oiled gloves roam slowly, some creeping underneath. This is the most recent probie, vicious and iron-tough. He disappeared almost two months ago.
As the new prisoner approaches the last cell, I open the door slightly. With a firm tug, I rip the patch off his jacket... and slap it on a waiting piece of tape. Now all of the cell doors have matching decorations - and when I open the door and force him inside, they all hold men with something in common.
I shut the chamber and lock it. A full array of gear and devices is waiting for its target. I drag him to the crossbeam frame and begin tugging on his motorcycle boots.
At long last, the Chainratts are together again. All of the active members. This marks the end of the club. All of the scumbags have something much wilder to do.
After extinguishing the hallway torches, I give the newest patch a good push to make sure it stays taped up. For so long I've been waiting to see it here. Six cells, six felons. This man was more elusive than he appeared - perhaps more clever than the rest, after they started to disappear. But Touchsnap finally brought him home.
Finally, the gang's together again.
A wonderful coincidence, for which I didn't even hope, revealed something else they have in common. Riding and carousing will have to wait. They're all so ticklish.
Bringing the wrist-cuffs and chains, I force him to sit on the center of the bench.
It took fifteen months, but at last my collection is complete.

815

After spending all winter on a [demonstrative] farm league shortstop... somebody more deserving, and maybe more (self-)controlled, sounded just right.
Don't get me wrong. I like snagging a wholesome jock and watch it take a whole month for the "Why me?" shock to wear off. Work him up from cigars to weed to cigarettes, beer to bourbon, tat him up. Nothing will ever be the same for him, and that will become obvious when some of my peers see the messages I'm leaving under his elbows...
But the more I get 'em lookin' like a piece of shit, the more I wanna set my sights on one. Clean him up enough so he can totally fuckin' howl. Turning up the juice each week. Deep down they know they're guilty, and they deserve to be punished. I just happen to be a lot more thorough than their legal system. Pussies.
It feels incredible - catch a criminal, and pull out all the stops...

Discipline. Correction. The more I taunt a rock-hard thug, in my imagination, the more determined I get.
Yeah. A felon.
Powerful... reactive.
Hidden well.

Hunting is made up of exciting minutes surrounded by hours of tedium.
The guy I was looking for was on parole. Serious muscles. Having worked out daily for a few years, he kept up the habit now that he's outside. Heavy use of any soft drugs didn't concern me, since his consumption of everything would be firmly in my control soon.
I wanted him hardy, tough if not angry... and unemployable. Stupidly returning to his old ways, just to make a few bucks.

Here he is. Slimebag.
[Drug-runner - older, and not quite as musclebound, but I can be flexible. The look on his face is exactly what I'm looking for. This fucker shouldn't be running around. Dangerous.]
I tail him for a day, getting some ideas. Custom torture. My kind.

Tonight. When he's drunk. I've decided.
Before then... the ceremony. I float a box out of the packed closet, and open it.
Ah, yes. Just for you, convict.
Mens' large gloves, yellow-tan. So wonderfully smooth.
Forty-eight pair.

I start filling 'em up.
Pair by pair they roll in the saddle soap and rub each other.
I send the brushes around from pair to pair and work the lanolin in deep.
After they're dry I take the lid off a pail and soak them. The friction-reducing polymer in a rich black dye...
And last, four heavy layers of massage oil. This removes the excess dye - and now they're just murderously soft.
The effect will be shattering - whether I'm feeling tender or brutal at the moment. They'll really help me keep on increasing the impact of what I love to do.
His first look at 'em will cause confusion. Then the fear, but that'll flip immediately to anger. Fuckin' gloves - tickling me. Roaming hard. Merciless. Let him cuss and holler. I'll keep on making him roar. And eventually he'll view these gloves differently. I can imagine this one's vacant expression, many weeks from now - no particular resentment. That would be pointless. My gloves are real, and they're still here. He's definitely in for a lot more barbaric tickling from these hands. Always. So he'll at least learn to show no emotion when they float back down - because they prove more than anything that I own his hairy ass, for as long as I want. And the tickling will be absolute.
Yeah, I tend to start out with these slick fuckers. Warming up the bad guy's nervous system for the feathers, and the oil, and the exquisite brushes.
He's going to have to get past "I can't believe this is getting more and more intense" and "this bastard's actually gonna tickle me for another month, dammit," blah blah blah.
More intensity, more days. That's the deal.

Four beers. Very good. Easier for me to control. Almost a pack of cigarettes in two hours, though. That's no good. If they get in my way, he becomes a nonsmoker. Just like that.

Following 'em out, it looked like he was gonna saddle up before his dirtbag friends got done bullshitting. I was ready to follow him until the second he was alone - and then he'd disappear into my tickling world. About time, dammit -
Wait. They're going.
Leaving their shit-for-brains brother with me. Pulling on his gloves, he takes a drag and looks around the parking lot like he owns the whole fuckin' world.
I'm gonna really enjoy this one.
"Criminal."
He looks around...
 

The bonafide bad guy finishes his smoke.
He's tried to get loose, and it didn't happen. He's looking around, now, to see what's in store.
As my gloves approach, he fights back a noise. Perhaps a yell, tinged with surprise... or fear. Shouting for help won't do him any more good now than it did ten minutes ago.
The expression on his face reminds me, at this moment anyway, of a good man trying to comprehend something fundamentally wrong.
A beating would be less of a surprise, or at least that would be something he could understand.
But my oiled fingers start to trace around his chest.
"Fuckin' son of a bitch no you get the fuck away from me you bastard you stupid fuckin' cunts get out of here dammit no no..."
Despite the anxious string of insults, I grasp his sides lightly -
A low squeal, as he arches, is a definite change of tone. Childlike frustration.
My fingering slides down to his hips.
He sucks in a breath, yelps involuntarily...
And then he's bawling rugged laughter. Very much the adult again - braying uncontrollably, twisting in all directions just to get away from my hands. That is the last thing I'd allow.
One glove travels up to his armpit -
Bouncing, and lunging, it takes only a few more seconds for him to be completely overcome with the need to laugh.
Yeah. Now thisis the way a biker sounds when he really lets go.
Fingers pet their way back down to his hip, as the other set moves on up.
Crude howls are punctuated with airy keening. Giggling, now and then, with a forcefulness that shakes his entire body... his writhing is less purposeful. It's burning out, this effort to escape the painful delight I'm tracing into him, and his body will give up soon.
But the gloves aren't all there is. Hell, I've got boxes full of tickling gear.

His sides get two solid hours of deep attention.
Even squirming is beyond him now.
When he's finally done wheezing, it's time to give him water. He doesn't try to drink the water, but that's no big surprise. The sports bottle can squirt it, gently.
When he's done swallowing, I bring the cigarettes over his chest.
Yeah. These tough guys are all the same. His eyes wake up, a little, and follow the smoke that I'm sliding out of the pack. Oh yeah, he wants it.
One end slides gently between his lips, and my lighter comes to his aid.
There.
I'll let him have this one normal, soothing thing. It's more kindness than he deserves. Bad man, lawbreaker...
A intently personal justice has come down on him.
The dungeon was built, food and medication obtained - plus the restraint systems and all the boxes, packed with tools which will provide the discipline he needs and deserves.
Nothing short of a life-threatening illness will make me back off now.
And if he doesn't seem reformed enough to suit me... well, I get to say when he walks. Or howls.

After three cigarettes, I have the gloves just fuckin' surround his feet.
 
 

"No-oooo," he whines. It doesn't sound cool at all.
The jingling and creaking does, and chains make him look tough. The old convict is here, and he's caught good. Definitely.
Yeah, he slings himself around, twisting as if he really wants to get up.
His arms stay together, and so do his ankles.
Let the fun begin.
I make two gloves, and then two more, lift off the floor.
"No, aw shit, no, hallllp!," he screams.
Pointless. He gets to laugh as loud as he can. It won't help.
Extra restraints are nearby, water and cigarettes, food... and all the toys. So much fuckin' excitement here -
Leather takes shape, with the empty fingers starting to curl.
Despite the wailing and begging, all four hands creep around his thighs - and I start in. Cowhide for one tough son of a bitch, breaking him down the long way. The nights just crawl by, filled with my most comprehensive hysteria. I know his weaknesses so damn well now.
Bellowing laughter, he tugs at the chains a few more times and then puts all his attention on the tickling, as he should... Hopelessly more than he can take, continuation without a single distraction or any hope of discovery.
 

"You're drivin' me f-fuckin' crazy," he pants.
My hands knead his shoulders. They've been pinching his neck in a way that makes all the squirming resistance cease.
"Please, pleeeeze -"
His calves. Stroked, tickled. Always reliable when I get fingers playing, creeping, taking hold.
He squeals once, unable to beg anymore.
Fingertips trace up his forearms, which have become much more sensitive over the hours, and his mouth opens wide.
 

Fuck, I love chaining him down. All clean again, moisturized, and caught by sleep - so he can't fight me as I tighten the chains.
Got him. Yeah. I got him, I'm on him, he's gonna roar today.
Can't wait 'til he wakes up.

And I definitely like how he watches the gloves. Yup. Here they come again, captive. The fingers are gonna make you suffer. Better give those restraints everything you've got.
But those last few seconds are hard. I feel pressure to get started. Almost anxious. Even knowing he won't be able to budge, and no one will be breaking in to free him - that would be impossible, where I've hidden him - my enjoyment is clouded. Teasing him is useful, even productive...
But it's not why we're here.
I want to get going. Badly. So I move in, and every time I still get a special thrill from making contact. Wrapping around his ribs, very deliberately, making him panic -
And then, finally, I'm doing it again. Start with a little squeeze, and feel him convulse. Gasping, overwhelmed, doomed. I slide the clamped fingers down an inch or two, and reverse. Sliding up.
By then, he's barking helplessly.
And I feel calmer. Doing my favorite thing again, in charge, undistracted. Nothing else matters. Moving up his ribs, and down.
The laughter is ragged. So forlorn. The fearful restlessness is shut down. Feverish writhing, as he brays like a donkey, and my fingers slide back to their original position. Squeezing a little harder. Moving back up.
Calm, dreamlike, and yet I know what I'm doing. His ribs, and the reaction I force out of him, are totally fascinating. Now I feel right. I'm never more sure of anything than when I'm focused on this task. I lose all track of time.
The night goes by so quickly.
It's a good thing he'll be here tomorrow.
Well, I'm not gonna let his ribs, his knees, his armpits, his feet get away.
 
 

Satisfaction with a hard edge motivates my hands down, right on down, as he tries to brace himself -
I grab on to his sides.
Immediately all that composure is gone, dissolving away before the first loud giggles wheeze out. He whips his hair around - like that'll stop me - and whoops real nice. Protest noted and ignored.
Fidgeting hard, trying to bounce, he can't do shit about my fingers... so I make 'em amble up and back, thumbs threatening his overly sensitive abs.
Oh, he just fuckin' makes his distress known - bawling laughter, grabbing a quick breath and just braying it back out.
With one hand, and then the other, I dig into his armpits.
Yeah! He can't scootch up anywhere near enough, but he tries. Just enough pressure for him, covering the shaved contours. Got your number, convict. Feel it harder. Lock on.
He manages one strained whine before the deranged barking starts. Uncontrollable sounds, telling me that this tickling is just unbearable...
After a few seconds, I lift the gloves off. Fingers still clenched, they're ready to pounce.
He fights for air... and when he looks at my waiting hands, I send 'em down to his knees.
That gets him slamming around, grinding the mattress anxiously, and the whine which slips out of him is "little lost boy" all the way. Almost hysterical. And his legs didn't move, so I get to creep those fingers under and clench.
Bellowing, he hoots as my gloves prod and rub him. Kneecaps, hamstrings, the whole joint areas are thoughtfully and sadistically fondled. His upper body seems to be desperate to help somehow, but all he can do is howl.
Another fifteen seconds or so, before the gloves let go and hover again. Even though he's panting, the writhing reveals increasing panic. But the hands move, and he shakes his head automatically as they settle, calmly, at his soles -
Dragging just firmly enough, with random squeezes and palm-strokes, I get the opposing set of muscles working. They're gonna try and try to get away from my gloves. These legs are yearning to move in any direction, even to rotate his feet. So that's where I attack next. He whines again, squealing - and giggling out a truly unstoppable chain of forced laughter. Nothing gets him out of this, and of course he's gonna be at least as wild tonight as he was yesterday and the weeks before that.
The higher pitch in his reaction is so strained that it doesn't seem out of place for this ragged son of a bitch. Not at all. The sound is almost like the keening of a wolf who's cornered, trapped, communicating anxiety without a solution being evident yet. He just keeps laughing like it's an effort to keep from roaring, the biker way.
It takes all of ten seconds, maybe fifteen, before his legs twist suddenly, and he takes a big breath.
Barking hot laughs at the ceiling, fighting the restraints with less intensity, he's consumed with the effective movement on his arches, around his toes... and the convict discovers again that there is not a fucking thing he can do to deal with the tickling. It's staying solid and deep, just the way I want.
His chest bounces with the force of his hooting, which sounds forced and yet almost defiant too, somehow lonely, more feral each minute even as his body finds no alternative but to relax and reduce all possible distractions.
I fetch and fill four more gloves.
They nestle into position, making him seize up and laugh harder - with so much more force that the volume dwindles.
His face is tight with the effort, for another few seconds... and then fatigued muscles settle slowly against the mattress.
There is no going easy on this fucker - still, and always - but there is the increased sensation which he has to endure, concentrating harder than ever, for the rest of the night.
My fingers deliver the proven stimulation, tailored to fit him - and his breathing becomes quicker, more shallow, but more than sufficent for the inward-facing fever which is tickled into him.

Break time is almost over. He knows it, too.
I make the feathers rise, one by one.
Hopelessly tugging at the straps, he grits his teeth as I bring the first pair and flick the tips around his belly-button.
With a groan, he shakes his head once, slowly -
My reply is delivered by another set of feathers, starting to saw over his pecs. Ruddy nipples, under the softest assault...
His lower jaw is tickled next, and that makes him gasp. And chuckle. I know about your neck, I think. How insane it is.
Continuing to laugh monotonously, just for me. It's more of a token gesture. I know the fire throbbing and rolling through him is far more powerful than his noise suggests. I'm an expert, and by now I've gotten pretty damn knowledgeable about this criminal's body.
Try to feel it all, I think. Even if it is a lost cause.
Soon enough he won't be aware of the restraints at all, because the coverage of the tickling will make him delirious beyond all coherent thought.
Maybe... some more feathers, tracing the inside of his thighs.
Bouncing his head once, twice, he gulps air and laughs harder. Still mindless and distracted, as he should be, the noise is a bonus. More importantly, he's fuckin' buried in my stimulation already - and I've got six more feathers ready to start on his armpits, and shins, and palms...
 
 

He struggles as much as he can - for the first half-hour each day. Writhing like a snake, arching and slamming around... mouth wide open with explosive roars of laughter at first, but now completely silent. Doing all he can, he stays in his bonds and suffers through the pleasure I load up and tune.
 

After a long break, I start back in. Six brushes for one side, and six on the other.
Aw, yeah - he just screams laughter! His voice is gone, but that doesn't matter at all.
Within minutes the reaction builds until laughter is completely beyond him. The sweat just pours off.
Clearly he's taking in a cripping amount of stimulation. I'm so good.
 

My satisfaction just keeps on growing.
His body, cleaned and moisturized, is dependable. Laid out.
I'm going to methodically work him over again. All day.
Filling the gloves is always a pleasure for me, followed by another one as I menace his feet. Hanging right there... I'm gonna tickle the shit out of you, right here and here. Drill 'em. One hour, and another. Hold your paws still so the feathers and brushes can make you shriek like a preshooler.

Let's cover this arch nice and slow - and race down his left sole!
There, you wannabe-escapee. Not today. Oh, no. More watery-eyed dementia for you, and it starts right now.
With a vague kick and a grunt, his eyes flutter open. A grunt turns into coughing. I wair impatiently until he's done hacking. And then - his left foot is gripped, with that satin thumb massaging cruelly, as his right foot gets the scrabbling fingertips.
"Nuh," he moans. A quick sigh follows. Then he whines, so quietly, trying to roll over...
And he starts bawling out laughter.
Delightful. He can't stop himself from greeting me with those sleepy, unwilling reactions, begging in the only way he can for me to... just stop. I tickle firmly, enjoying how his legs just try everything, with a slow and passionate power, but they can't get his feet out from under my gloves. The cuffs have him under control, alright. Spread and anchored so I can provoke all the way up, cover his belly, deliver absolutely disabling contact to every inch of his sides.
His fists try to rotate, but I won't be stopped.
I move the fingers faster, and faster, including the ball and sides and heel of each foot...
He writhes in the solid overload.
Let's add ten more fingers. I lift and fill them, taking charge of his toes.
Squirming without conviction, he shakes with laughter. Tortured, so deranged with ticklishness, restrained just right.
Forlorn laughter is his only way to order me to stop. Not begging, even he must realize that the cigarettes are the only mercy I'm gonna show him. Hey, maybe this mindless chuckling is his way of inviting me. Drill harder. Tack another month on to the sentence.
I hug his ribcage. All of the arching and whooping won't make me take these kneading hands away. Nothing can.
Four of my hands polish and roam...
Bugshit - and he's staying just like this.
Oh, yeah, I've still got you, I think. Laughing, all alone, and you'd better get used to this. But you can't, can you? If it seems like you're dealing with it, I'll pile on more gloves. Keep stepping it up. You get to be under more merciless fingers than you can take, convict.
He's registering more of the pleasure, of course, and that makes me determined to push a little harder. Increase the effect.
My gloves get between his toes, and I send another pair to luxuriously scratch in his armpits.
Immediately he thrashes harder. Bouncing, snapping... one weak howl after another. All for my enjoyment.
I'm going to pet all of the antisocial behavior right out of him.
The tickling will continue. Damn right it will.

816

Laika was so sure it was Beau's fault that he got more and more angry as he undid the mess.
Tired, sweaty, he finally allowed himself a smoke. Beau really had it coming this time. The idea had come months ago, but finally he was angry enough.
"Alright," he exhaled, "He's gonna pay. Order..."
The familiar energy crackled around him.
"The son of a bitch. Go after the moron who screwed this up. Get him. Now." He had a diabolical idea. "Tickle him. Make it last. Nobody else can find out, either. Tie him up and make him pay until Beau says he's sorry. Go."
He realized an instant later that some clarification should've been made there, and it was stupid to Order when he wasn't thinking all that clearly -
But hands clamped around his arms, and Laika quickly realized two things. One, Beau must've been right. It wasn't his fault, it was Laika's after all.
And two - phantom fingers began digging into his own armpits...

He flailed around, wildly trying to think of a way to cancel the Order.
Hand after hand curled around his arms. His legs buckled, as he grunted - absolutely determined not to laugh. He had to keep his wits, and figure out a way to stop the hands.
Then he saw the closet door open. Where his tools were -
A coil of rope.
"No!," he barked. "No, no, not me, order - Order!"
But that wasn't going to work. Beau had to apologize. When he came back...
Tomorrow night. Oh, shit. Laika would be alone in the apartment until then. But not alone, exactly - the hands tickled and tickled.
Thrashing, slamming around, he fought the unbearably increasing need to laugh.
Rope whipped around his ankles. No, fuck, not his feet! No...
He was vaguely aware of doors opening.
Through watery eyes, he saw the bandanna rolling up. Magic.
Laika got one quick yell out before he was gagged.
And the other thing made him absolutely freak out - a box of rubber gloves, almost new, and the bottle of lube from his bedside cabinet.
Booming laughter blasted out of him, but the gag did its job.

Oh, fuck - fuck! - there was glove after glove being filled, and greased. A ripping sound got him looking at a knife which was cutting his clothes off. Each arm was tied way out from his shoulders. Absolutely helpless.
The tickling was getting more intense... but it was carefully paced. It would last, alright.
Angry more than anything, Laika roared and flopped as much as he could. He sorta liked tickling in general, but this was looking like far too much of a good thing. The damn things had to leave him alone for a minute so he could set 'em straight. But they wouldn't do that. He knew it.
More fingers kept arriving - and scratching, rubbing, squeezing.
. . .
 

When he woke up in a strange room, it didn't really come as a surprise. Feathers, brushes, bottles of oil - check.
He was definitely fucked now. They'd keep tickling until Beau apologized - but he didn't know that, and he hadn't even been wrong. Laika and his tormentors would stay hidden, because nobody could find out.
The instruction to make it last must've been why he looked around and saw all the food and water.
There was no way out of this one. Not until someone found him - and the hands would be guarding against that. Perfectly fucked, alright.
This was the nightmare that would've really made Beau insane. Like nothing else. Laika had never asked himself why the idea occurred to him, this particular torment, striking him as a truly intolerable way to work Beau over. Imagining what it would be like for him - well, that wasn't necessary anymore. And it turned out to be so much worse than he'd thought. Crippling, in every way...
"At least give me a fuckin' cigarette," he said to a floating glove.
It traveled down and started tickling his right foot.
Chuckling helplessly, he yanked at the thick leather restraints. The hands had prepared the room of his nightmares, and now he was -
There was a way to stop 'em. Post-amendment. Updating an Order, but Laika couldn't remember how to do it. The sight of another glove cruising to his right foot sure didn't help.
Stop it, he thought frantically, I've gotta be left alone for a minute while I can still think. He knew, from last night, that the rest breaks were too spacey to try and come up with something he wasn't even sure he could remember under the best of circumstances.
He had a solid, sinking feeling it was gonna be a very long time before he got himself out of this one.
More gloves were on a smooth arc down to his ribs.
 
 
 

At last. Someone was there. It was over.
Beau was looking down at him - definitely concerned, but there was relief too.
"It's okay," he said. "We gotcha."
Other guys were unbuckling his wrists.
"Oh, f-fuck."
"How did this happen?"
Laika shook his head. It was over. Hooray...
Beau started to talk - softly.
The reply came out of Laika's mouth. There was no stopping it, because Beau had Ordered the answer. Even as he dug his hole even deeper, Laika realized it was procedure. The right thing to do, in this case, was to see what Order had caused one of his peers to be trapped. He had to tell Beau about the revenge that had been botched.
Looking shocked, Beau stared down - and grinned. His eyes were positively inhuman.

The boss hated sloppy Orders more than anything.
He probably didn't need much persuading - that was Laika's suspicion. The wrong Order could really create havoc. It was much better that the importance of specificity be pounded into his head. Drilled in, massive overkill, so the error would never be repeated. Even as his lips told Beau the Order, whispering it because his voice had been laughed away so many weeks before, Laika had a pretty good idea of what the result would be.
Discipline was highly customized.
Beau's eyes just sparkled.
Oddly, so did the boss'.

Laika's weekends were booked for the next six months.
Seeing an opportunity to discourage a habit he'd come to dislike (having quit himself a year or two ago) the boss twisted the knife... by seeing to it that every cigarette he smoked added an extra hour. Beau's idea, no doubt. He knew just how hooked Laika was. It wouldn't take much to nudge the addiction he already had.
Working on a case full-time was impossible, since he was usually too sore to move on Mondays. But the boss might've come up with something even tougher to take. It wasn't out of line, really, considering how dangerous a stupid Order could be.
 

It was all-out hell, occurring regularly, and by Wednesday night he was usually smoking again... nervous about what was gonna happen to him, again, in a couple days.
On Friday mornings, Laika woke up and looked at the number on his palm. Written in magic marker, it was the tally of cigarettes he had to pay for:

33

He fell back, whimpering. Either the torment would continue right through Monday, or they'd start tickling next Wednesday instead. Take it right on until Sunday night. He could see a time, all too soon, when he'd be howling for five days every week - there was an unearthly pull in the urge to smoke. It was always there, the hunger for cigarettes, far more constant than he could remember before.
Then, six tickled days every week.
Ten more "weekends" and the Order would be lifted.
Staring at the big black numbers on his hand, Laika simply couldn't imagine surviving that long.

After that round, something was different. Laika didn't know what.
He was back in his apartment, as usual - they took him back to that same damn cell every Friday night for the punishment, and brought him home like this when he was done for the week. After he camped out in the bathroom he just laid on the couch and stared at the ceiling.
A noise came from over by the front door. A deadbolt was opening...
Immediately there was a little stab of fear. The hands were back - already. But they didn't need to open the door, since the standing Order would just move him back to his cell instantaneously. So he relaxed.
The other lock was opening. Did anybody else have the key for that lock? The building manager didn't. That narrowed down the list of burglars to only a couple names -
As the door opened, he wasn't entirely surprised to see Beau. The other guy was grinning, and he had a big bag. There was something different about him.
"Hungry?," Beau said.

Laika was starving, so there wasn't a lot said. Beau had brought three different breakfast combos...
As he sat there and watched Laika eat, Beau was poking around in his head - gathering information. Laika didn't resist, mainly because he was so hungry. This wasn't the kind of thing Beau did very often, unless he really wanted to gloat.
Something had changed. Laika hoped it was good news, at least.
When he was just about done eating, Beau leaned back and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Sticking one in his mouth, he tossed 'em over to Laika.
"Since when do you smoke?," Laika whispered, voice shot as usual. He wanted one, but knew better.
Beau snorted quickly and dug a lighter out of his jeans. "I'm doing it to make a point," he said. The way he lit up, and tugged hard on the cigarette, looked like he'd been at it for ten years.
He Ordered himself, Laika realized. Temporary, probably. Wanting to sucker Laika in, maybe -
"Ummm," Beau sighed happily. "Go for it, dude."
Another unending hour of tickling, Laika thought. Sadistic bastard.
Something in his face must've tipped off Beau, because he sat up. "No, no. That part of it is unOrdered. Look at your hand."
Laika did. There was an infinity symbol drawn on his palm.
Without much hope, Laika sighed and went inside himself -
Alright! The penalty per cigarette was really, truly gone. He didn't waste any more time getting one out. Beau was happy to lob his lighter over.
"Why?," Laika finally said, easing back.
"Uh..." Beau looked down at the floor, and took another drag. "Double-bind. Turns out the boss has kind of a mean streak. And he's not the only one."
This is a trap, Laika thought. Stay sharp. Probably he couldn't do a damn thing about it, but still -
"I owe you an apology," Beau said.
"That's why you're smoking?"
"No." He chuckled, and looked at his cigarette. "I Ordered myself into... the same addiction you've got. See what it's like."
"Why the hell would you go and do that?"
The fucker looked guilty. "This punishment is really having some, uh, weird effects. On you."
"Ya think?"
"I wouldn't have jumped on board like I did, Laika. If I took the time to think about what you'd already been through. And you may not wanna believe it but I'm really sorry."
Supiciously, Laika did a little mind-probing of his own.
Whoa...

Beau was on the level. Obviously he didn't have to smoke, in order to sympathize, but he gave himself a full-on habit. On purpose. All the neurochemical effects were there. Years of chain-smoking.
It seemed like an attempt to make amends.
"You're crazy," Laika laughed. It was so ridiculous.
"This is too much," Beau said seriously. "One thing, sorta feeding another. It's changed you. I got worried, so the boss -"
"He knows?"
The other guy's face softened. "Laika. He was here, earlier. Asking you questions. Check that out for yourself."
He did, and the memory came back. Sure enough, dammit, the boss was concerned too.
"One-two punch," he rasped, sighing.
"Didn't see that coming. Honestly, we didn't. Anticipating the next weekend really has you stuck."
"You got no idea... what it's like."
Nodding, Beau finished his cigarette. "I know. And we're really sorry. I mean, it's not like you'd let anybody know you were all tangled up, inside."
"I don't think I knew," Laika said. "My focus has kinda been on the tickling."
"More than anybody expected," Beau agreed, digging into his pack again. The way he lit up - how his hands were positioned, and then he sucked in forever - well, it looked so familiar. After a few more seconds -
"Hey. You move... like me," Laika finally said. "The way I feel, when I smoke."
"Makes sense. I copied your patterns."
"So how long you gonna keep it up?"
Beau shrugged, taking another drag. "A while yet. I picked a certain number of weeks when I gave the Order."
"How many?"
"Beats me. Ten? I felt pretty bad - for you. Maybe twenty."
Laika had to grin. "You're hopeless."
"Hey, now, the point was to help you. Dipshit. I'm gonna go through the whole deal, when I quit. No cheating."
"Whenever that is."
"I think I got a while before I have to worry about it."
"You like smokin' now?"
Beau laughed. "Fuck, yeah. Of course. I get it, Laika. Finally makes sense."

That seemed like a hell of a sacrifice. It could be a trap, Laika thought. Careful, now...
"Boss must've liked that," he finally croaked.
"Not at all," Beau shot back. "But he's honest. I guess that's why he's the boss." He squinted at Laika, leaning forward. "We were enjoying your misery way too much."
"We."
"Uh, yeah."
"So you - what? Decided to join me?"
"Sorta."
This was a big change of heart for shifty ol' Beau. "You'll excuse me if I don't buy into all of this right away."
"Huh?"
"Beau - you rubbed plenty of salt in the wound."
His face fell. "I know. Look... I'm gonna stay open to you. Check me out, take your time. I don't blame you. My conscience has been hard enough on me for both of us."
Doubtfully, Laika checked inside Beau's head again...
He was on the level.
"Well. Damn," Laika finally said.
"Okay?"
"It's just... not what I expected."
"You've been through a lot."
That made him wary. "And you're not enjoying that?"
Beau grinned again, not looking up from his shoes. "Definitely. Too much. The punishment was Ordered with a goal in mind."
Laika had to think about that one. "Sadism."
"Naaaah."
"The boss isn't gonna put me back on casework. Right?"
There was a pause. Beau was picking his words carefully. "Well, he wasn't going to - until this morning. You said exactly the right thing, a couple hours ago, when the boss questioned you."
"I did?"
"Uh-huh."
Laika waited. Then, "But you can't tell me what it was."
"Sorry. But I can pass this along. The only reason you weren't kicked out before this is your attitude."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
Beau polished off his smoke. "You didn't really get how pissed off the boss was. Orders that trap the Ordergiver are just about the most dangerous - and we didn't know where you were all those months. It took a lot of Ordering just to find out."
"Okay," Laika said slowly.
"As you've been told, there were ways to Order your way out of that mess. But the tickling kept you too delirious to figure it out. Or something," Beau said mysteriously. "That makes you dangerous. Risky. But today you understand how serious it was... and the thing you did right, every fuckin' day since, was not whine. Not once, Laika. You got a fuckin' punishment I can't even begin to imagine, and you never tried to shift the blame. That saved your bacon, dude."
"Well, shit. Everybody... Okay," he finally said, giving up. The thought of being stripped of the ability to give Orders was too scary. Being an ordinary man again. Fuck.
"Impressed the boss," Beau said, "and frankly it made me look at you in a different light. Or maybe being tickled for that long helped you grow up some."
"I may be down, but there are limits to my maturity," Laika warned.
Beau thought that was hysterical. "Alright! There he is. Good to see the old Laika again."
Scowling, he flipped Beau off wearily. "I got other things on my mind."
"Yeah. That's why I'm hanging around."
"Huh?"
"You're stuck with me. As a mentor."
Laika stared. "I started giving Orders before you did."
"And you wanna keep giving 'em," Beau said conversationally, "so I'm your new best friend."
"Until Friday night," Laika finally grumbled.
"No," and Beau made a mock-worried face. "Even then. I'm going with you."

Laika had to repeat that to himself a couple times...
"This is a trap," he finally whispered. "Haven't you guys done enough?"
"Laika -"
"Nobody would... go. Volunteer," Laika said, shaking his head hard. "For that."
"I would," Beau insisted. "It's got way too much of a hold on ya. Only way to be sure -"
"You have no idea what you're getting yourself into."
That - finally - made Beau stop smirking. "Sorta think we owe it to ya..."
 

"Ohhh muther...fff-fuck," Beau panted.
"See?," Laika managed to chuff out. They were only about three hours in. Saturday hadn't even fuckin' started yet. There was probably a good 36 hours of tickling left, too.
Beau looked completely wasted. "Wow. This is... oh, shit. Shit!"
"Uh-huh."
"I g-gotta get out of here," Beau whimpered. "This is bullshit. I can't take any more -"
"Go ahead," Laika said sadly. "You dih... didn't have to do... this. Don't blame you."
Beau looked over. Dripping with sweat - they both were - and then the most incredible thing happened. His eyes were all scrunched together...
He shook his head.
"I don't... get it," he panted. "What's fuh... fuckin' you up. I mean, shih... shit! This is unbelievable. Ins-sane. But there's something else." He yanked at the cuffs. "If I don't get a fuckin' cigarette I'm really g-gonna snap!"
It felt so good to know that somebody else got that. How bad it was.
"Go nuts," Beau barked. "Okay."
To Laika's amazement, suddenly he was exhaling smoke. So was Beau.
"Aaaaaah," his fellow captive sighed, relaxing again.
"You... are my hero," Laika said to him.
"This is literally too much," Beau replied, "but without the smokes... fuck, it's a wonder you're not a drooling wreck. I am so sorry - there." The last word sounded triumphant.
"Now what?"
"You're gonna get to smoke now. During any break. If you want."
"Ordered?"
Beau took a hungry drag. "You better fuckin' believe it's Ordered."

Sure enough, after they ate - the gloves gave 'em cigarettes.
"I totally get the deal with smoking now," Beau rasped.
"Gonna be a total bitch to quit."
"You get to find out the same time I do."
"Shit..."
"We'll both suffer together."
Laika looked over at him. "I can't believe how nice you're being."
Beau had a guilty expression, but then he ended up smirking as usual. "I can't get over how fuckin' mean we've been to you. This is unbelievably more intense than I thought it could be. They're good," and with that he cocked his head toward the long table where tickle toys were laid out.
"Another day and a half to go," Laika said - way too innocently. "Minimum."
Beau groaned. "Son of a bitch. You're a strong cuss. Damn, Laika."
"Take off," he urged. "There's no point -"
Immediately, Beau was shaking his head. "I don't have the whole picture yet. It's close."
"You like being jerked off?"
His mentor growled, yanking at the straps. "No. Hell, no! So fuckin' weird."
"Two, three more times before they let us pass out," Laika said smugly. "A few times tomorrow, too."
"This is impossible," Beau said.
"It makes me more ticklish."
"Like just riding the edge of sanity. Dammit."
"Uh-huh."
Past their feet, gloves were selecting which brushes to use next. Two had picked up huge bottles of oil.
"How can you s-stand this?," Beau wailed, trying to kick and arch.
Laika felt like chuckling. He had a thought... shoved it away, and finally decided to let fly. "It helps a lot when I'm not the only one. Seriously."
Beau stopped writhing around for a few seconds, took another drag - and nodded. "Dude. We should use this on fuckin' terrorists or something. I can't believe you've been at the mercy of these fuckers for months and months."
"Smoke while you can," Laika advised. He took his own advice, too. The gloves were about to start back in on their soles.
"Shit," Beau barked, hurrying to drag on it as hard as he could.
 

Airy, monotonous chuckling.
Laika looked over...
Beau had never looked so "untogether." It was enough to worry Laika. Was the other guy broken?
"Huh huh hah hah hhh-hey hah hah huh huh," Laika laughed. "Huh huh hey hey haaah hah hah huh buh Beau huh huh huh huh."
Eventually, his mentor's eyes fluttered open. Definitely unglued. It was disturbing to see Beau like that, and somehow it filled Laika with relief too. Maybe this was as crazymaking as Laika had thought -
"Hoo hoo hoo luh looo-oo hoo hai hah hah hai Lai-luh huh whoooo-hoo hoo hoo," Beau warbled.

"Maybe eight more hours," Laika whispered. "If we're lucky."
"No, no, no, no, no, no," Beau chanted. "Shit, no."
"You can do it."
"No way. No. No, no, aw hell no. I can't. No way. Help..."
A cigarette was stuck between Beau's lips.
"You're a good friend. I never knew," Laika said.
The other guy took a light and pulled on the cigarette like it was an oxygen hose or something. He glanced over at Laika, muttered "oh, fuck," and took another drag. Then Beau closed his eyes -
Probing in Laika's head. The sensation was subtle, unless you knew what to look for.
"Ah," Beau sighed. Then his eyes opened wide. "Oh, shit."
"What?"
"Got it. Maybe."
"The answer?"
"You fuckin' perv. Twisted -"
It was hard, but Laika made himself remind Beau again. "Then Order yourself out."
"Oh," the other guy said, easing out smoke. "That's right. I can do that. Whew."
"Go."
"Dammit. I'm not... sure. Positive." He frowned at Laika. "Think I got the... Why, you son of a bitch." It wasn't said in a hostile way, though.
"Huh?"
Beau groaned soulfully, and shook his head. "Not now. Luh... later. Aw, hell -"
"Take off. Nobody should have to... be stuck here."
"Say that," Beau yelled. "It's so perfectly insane! Shit..."
"Eight more hours," Laika teased.
"Fuck - you fuckin' bastard," and they both chuckled. It didn't hurt anymore, and while Laika was used to it he knew Beau would be sore as shit tomorrow. "Gonna get me caught, were ya? Locked away?"
"I've learned my lesson."
"And the gloves get to drill me anyway. I think I got the short end of the stick on this one."
"Mentor."
"Shit," Beau complained, trying to twist the arm-straps...

Laika heard soft grunts - in a rhythm he recognized. When he opened his eyes, Beau was there. Still there. Amazing.
"Nooo hooo hooo-oooo," his mentor moaned. "Stop, please, stop, please, aw haah hah haa-aaaah..."
Gloves were teasing him with feathers. About a dozen, mostly around his meat.
"I can't f-feeeee hee hee hee puh pleeeez-zuh huh huh huh huh."
"Aaaah hoo hoo hoo hoooo-noooooo," Laika erupted - since fingers had chosen that moment to start stimulating all around his neck.
"You," Beau sighed, with big eyes. "Suh huh huh nuh g-get him get him huh huh hah hah ih it's all his f-faaaaw haw hawwww huh nuh nuh huh huh..."
Traitor, Laika thought distantly. It doesn't matter. We're both screwed.
A feather started teasing his own shaft.
One long, extravagant sigh oozed out.
Beau's head turned quickly. For an instant, he was lucid. Like he understood something. Then giggles started bubbling out again, and he squirmed uncontrollably. Thrusting - but gloves started working on his knees and shins, so he had to flop and shriek instead. They really knew how to postpone a cum-shot. Laika knew he'd fuckin' given 'em enough practice at that. It was a perfect excuse to tickle harder.
 

Laika couldn't roll over.
Shit, he thought, it just figures... More torture. Then he yawned and looked at his ceiling.
Relief woke him right up. Home.
The cuffs - they'd been taken off before he passed out. That never happened before.
He hadn't been alone. Somebody else had been there, tied down along with him.
His fuckin' dick was getting hard -
A groan came from somewhere down the hallway.

Beau wandered into the room, slowly, as if could barely move.
"I oughta leave you there," he whispered, leaning against the doorway to light a new smoke off the last one.
"C'mon," Laika complained, wasting no more time. He got himself a cigarette. "Mentor."
"Shit... Coffee's done. I have never," Beau announced, "been so fuckin' sore in my entire life."
"Uh-huh."
"I mean it. It's a miracle you could... function at all."
"And in five days, I get to do it again. Right?"
With a heavy sigh, Beau landed on the foot of the bed. "If there was anything I could do, Laika, you gotta fuckin' believe I'd prevent that from ever happening again -"
"Don't worry about it."
Beau shivered.
"You get what you were after?," Laika asked, thinking about next Friday night. Those gloves never, ever got tired.
He got a cold look. Thoughtful. "Yeah."
"Do I get to know?"
There was an uncomfortable pause. "After I get some coffee down me. And a couple more cigarettes."
"Say that."

Wow.
The room temperature took a dive. Not like Beau was being an asshole, or any more than usual. It was what he'd just said...
Laika looked around his living room as if somebody else would be there to see how messed up Beau had become. If a pack of gloves materialized and grabbed his mentor, right then, he wouldn't have been any more surprised.
"Oh, no," was the first thing Laika said.
"Yeah."
"You are over the edge. You're crazy."
Beau wasn't gonna back down. That was obvious. "I didn't say you were aware -"
"Shit. No!," Laika spat, laughing nervously.
"Look inside."
He was scared to do it.
The hesitation clued Beau in, and made him sigh with impatience. "Laika."
"Alright."
Checking his mind, he was floored. Totally shocked.
"No."
"Yeah."
"It's not true."
Beau snapped ash off his cigarette. "I know what I saw."
"I do not - that's a fuckin' lie. Beau. Don't do this."
"You just saw," Beau protested. "In your own head. Right?"
"That can't be right."
"It's not the end of the world."
"No. Of course not," Laika giggled, feeling lightheaded. "At least I have something in common with 'em. Fuckin' gloves -"
"Easy. Now that we know," Beau said in a maddeningly reasonable way, "it doesn't have to... have so much power."
"I like it?"
Beau shrugged.
"What the fuck is wrong with me? That's unbearable. You know."
"Yeah," his mentor laughed. "Don't I, though. Okay - I'm gonna tell you a secret. As a token of my, uh, good intentions. We'll have something on each other."
"The boss is gonna have a field day," Laika groaned.
"Well... He'll get a good laugh. But he's got his priorities straight," Beau said, thinking it over. "And I'm sure we could find out some kinks of his."
"Is that the big secret?"
"What? Oh. Well, yeah. Alright." Beau leaned forward, cracking his knuckles toward Laika unconsciously. "I... got a thing for spanking."
"Getting, or giving?"
"Oh - giving." He shuddered.
"Ah." They'd both been spanked Sunday morning, or maybe it was afternoon. Laika remembered something, and took a chance. "I thought you were staring at me. During."
"Oh, shit," Beau said cheerfully. "Yeah. To be totally honest, that was hot. I got my mind off how much my fuckin' ass hurt by... uh, enjoying the scenery."
"The show."
Beau laughed. Nodding.
"You ever Order up a hot night for yourself?," Laika teased.
"Wouldn't the boss just love to find out about that," Beau said. "Cook up a killer punishment." He got an idea - and his eyes were shining when he looked at Laika. Inhuman eyes, there. "I'll Order up all-out tickling for you, and you Order up a spanking marathon for me."
"Sure," Laika laughed, "that's never been tried before."
"Yeah, well."
They grinned at each other. The gift of giving Orders was only to be used for the absolute good of those in need. It was the first thing they were taught. Calling up little comforts was okay, and joking around. They wouldn't be trusted with Orders if they were selfish deep down, though -
Laika felt something change. He looked down at his hand, and saw a big cigar smoldering between his fingers. Recognizing it, he was overcome with the desire for a good cigar. Taking an easy pull, it just hit the spot.
Beau had one too.
"What's the deal?," Laika said.
"Call it... reassurance," his mentor said, puffing away. "Might as well enjoy the moment. Friday night's coming."
"You bastard. Thanks a lot."
Beau chomped on his cigar, snickering in a sinister way. "Ten more scorching, unbelievable weekends for poor Laika."
"Nine," he said automatically.
"You're not far from wishing it was ninety."
"Bullshit..."
"Huh?"
Laika thought it over. The high points, so to speak. Fuckin' brushes, oil massaged in all over - screaming laughter just wasn't enough. Hours and hours to go. Doomed.
Feathers way up alongside his nut-sac.
"Fuck me," he sighed.
"It's gonna be okay," Beau said, grinning away. "Now."
"Eventually."
"Kinky sucker."
"Me? I didn't set out to get tickled."
"No," Beau chuckled, stabbing toward Laika with his cigar. "You were just gonna sic 'em on me."
. . .
 

[they decide the boss is even more sadistic than they ever expected. Got 'em both, sorta.]
. . .
 

[Orders = localized reality changes, or LRCs - not time travel - cannot reverse death or bring about changes to people except in their heads...?]

817

Rufus thought maybe he'd write one more ticket before the end of his shift. He looked at his watch.
1625. Good. Head on back to the office, do paperwork. He needed a beer -
There was a flash in the trees. Something shiny.
Dammit, what were the Cheauxs up to now?

He'd popped the youngest one for reckless driving two days before. They were all crazy as loons. L.J. was no different, and he'd been spitting mad when Rufus had held out the ticket, talking gibberish. That backwoods hoodoo shit, with vague talk of revenge - but everybody knew how weird the whole family was.
Dammit. It was probably nothing. One of them carrying a pan, maybe...
Or it could be a gun.
Sighing hard, he turned into the driveway of the old Shepler place and headed back around.

Nothing. Of course. They were long gone. Fuckin' hicks.
He looked around again, but there was no sign of anybody. Rufus guessed it was better to be thorough than to be wishing that he had, later on. Turning back toward his patrol car, he looked at his watch.
1631. What?
That couldn't be right. Automatically he shook his wrist, which made no sense since it was a digital watch. It had to be fifteen minutes since he turned off the road. When the watch battery died, the display should go blank.
He studied the digits - and saw the two dots were gone. Between the hour and the minutes, those dots should've been blinking. But they weren't there.
"Huh," he said to himself... and something else caught his attention.
His arm seemed to have a purple tint to it. So did his hand. There was an odd layer of light surrounding him -
From the trees, a darker shade of the same color was drifting over to him. It took on the shape of a large hand. Then it folded its fingers, and became two hands.
He backed up a step.
One of the fingers pointed at him, and he stopped suddenly. Frozen. His legs wouldn't obey him.
The other hand raised its little finger to the sky - and both of the policeman's arms went up. He looked at himself, and tried harder to fuckin' move -
After a pinching gesture, he was hobbled. Thick rawhide hobbles, like you'd use on a horse, trapped his wrists and ankles. Chain with huge links pulled the cuffs up...
The big hands touched each other's palms.
The trees zoomed and blurred, and Rufus was in a clearing. A little table was in front of him. The daylight was definitely starting to fade. He looked up and saw the chain between his wrists was hanging over a huge tree branch. His ankles were well off the ground, too, and their chain was over another tree limb behind him.
With a quick sweeping motion from one of the magic hands, he saw a gavel appear on the table. Levitating...
The gavel banged.
"Officer Rufus," a deep voice drawled, "you are hereby found guilty of bein' an asshole."
"What the hell -"
A finger moved... and thick rubber was suddenly wedged between his jaws, held tight by a leather strap.
"Since you're not from these parts, it can't be known if you'll mend your ways. But a custom rehabilitation plan has been concocted for you. It'll get your attention likw nothing else will. You're ordered to serve five years. Hard, fun time."
He yelled, as best he could, and slung himself around.
The hands met, grinding their palms together - and cocked their thumbs at Rufus.
He flew forward again...
Walls closed around him. Dark wood. A single window had thick, round bars.
Unspeakable furniture lined the walls. It was a rustic torture chamber. He looked again, and found no door.
Rufus discovered he was horizontal. A thick feather bed was under him. Each of his hobbles was attached to four chains, and black straps anchored his thighs and biceps and belt-line.
The gag was gone...
"Help," he called uncertainly.
Hands appeared. Smaller, but still floating all on their own. He counted eight of them, gleaming -
Coasting right on down.
He squirmed, but there was no chance of getting away in time.
And they started to tickle...
Five years? Of this -
Rufus screamed, and laughed at the beam ceiling.
If the voice was serious, this was going to be the most extreme possible hard time. And I, he thought wildly, am so mutherfuckin' ticklish.
How that had been discovered, he had no idea. The restraints were more than enough.
And the gloves were already making him howl his guts out.

Time had stopped. Or they slipped him right out of the world.
All he knew was that the gloves filled every damn day with excitement like he never knew was possible.
They took real good care of him. Even his voice was still strong, ready to go each time he woke up, booming for most of the day before it finally started to break up. It would've have seemed real - being kept in such perfect shape, despite the workout they gave him - but the feel of the tickling was definitely not a hallucination. Each day took so damn long.
 
 
 

"Rufus," the voice almost yelled. "How ya doin'?"
It had been so long since anybody talked to him that he thought that was a dream. "Uh... Help me."
"Of course. What do you need, boy?"
"Get me out of here."
"Nope."
He looked around, and tried to whipsaw the chains. "Please, please. It's insane. Too much -"
"You look like you're holding up just fine."
"Dammit," he groaned. "You just come here to rub it in my face?"
"See how you're holdin' up."
"How do I get parole?"
"You don't. Denied."
A growl of frustration built up, so he let it loose.
The voice laughed at him. "That means you're not gettin' out of this, Rufus."
"It's driving me crazy."
"Good. That's the idea."
"How long... uh, shit, it's been how long?"
"Why - three months."
He froze. The asshole had to be kidding. Messing with his head. "No, c'mon."
"Three exciting months... officer." The voice snorted. "You only got to go through all that nineteen more times. Enjoy yourself."
Rufus couldn't get his mouth to work. Three down... fifty-seven to go. That's what it was telling him. One thousand, seven hundred days left - just like the ones he'd gone through? The fucker was absolutely serious.
He was so stunned he couldn't even cry.
Gloves started to take hold of his ribs.

818

Nobody had expected it to work. No reporter had been able to get in, and our contact had run into one dead end after another with the local bureaucrats. Without much hope I finished checking on a list of missing persons that had been sent by the county sheriff. The name that had a star next to it turned up in a state database - with the only official reference to the place I'd ever found. "Cossaloc."
Mike, the local guy, managed to track down the P.O. box because an old girlfriend worked in the post office. So I sent off a request to see John Doe. Everyone in the office was blown away when a letter showed up with a date, time and location.
Very cloak-and-dagger. I couldn't imagine why the big secret was tolerated by all the fuzz, there, but without thinking it through completely I sorta decided it must be okay if they put up with the place.
Mike was scared to give me a ride. He'd had enough of what they dished out - months of it. Or he was delusional. But he did say that the address was a vacant lot with a mailbox and nothing more. I might have been wasting my time, driving three hours for nothing... or maybe I'd find a map to the real location. Mike said he didn't know, and supposedly that was part of what still bugged him. He grew up there and thought he knew the territory for a good ten miles in any direction, but "they" had still held him in some hidden place that was no more than a half-hour drive into the trees on four-by-four dirt track. Mike was already worried that he'd helped me far too much - that talking about the place at all was gonna definitely backfire on his ass...
. . .

The shock was that he was right. I saw nobody in the lobby. All automated. No metal detector either. A synthesized computer voice politely told me to pass through the mechanically opening door and down the hall, turn left and enter interview room 3.
And there were no staff members to be seen.
Just as Mike had told me...

819

B and K are best friends. Maybe something more - neither one dates very much.
S works with B, and they used to butt heads. But B came back one Monday and tried to extend an olive branch. S was used to intimidating other people, but the way B rolled over made him suspicious. He got arrogant, but after a month or so, he relaxed his 'guard'.
During that time he went out drinkin' with the other two and a couple other dudes. K is another top-dog - very much needing to be on top, although he's more subtle about it than S. At one point B elbows a glass off the counter - and K glances at it, almost wincing - then B reaches down and picks it up, still telling the story without missing a beat. S happened to notice that the glass never hit the ground. It was fuckin' sitting in midair. He exchanged a look with the arrogant, thoughtful K.
Next weekend(?) they go out and do something, and end up back at K's place. S snoops, finds restraints - sneaks back up on K. B flatly refuses to help, just hanging back with an intense grin. S loops a strap around K's chest and gets lucky, pinning the kitchen(?) chair down with his feet while he slaps handcuffs on K's right hand.
"You okay?" B says calmly.
K just nods, not panicking - tugging with deliberation but no fear.
S lassoes his other wrist. Hurrying under to slip straps around each shin.
"There," S crows. "You like that? Fuckin' perv."
K is staring hard at S, as if deep in thought.
"What am I gonna do with you?," S taunts.
[The first thing he comes out with, will be big torture used to level S ??]
[and that idea is placed there - subliminally - by B?]
Studying K - just crying out, somehow, for... Yeah. Tickle him. That'll test the restraints real well, too. He gooses K in the chest.
Big reaction.
After a pause, S. gets his fingers in K's armpits...
Straps start loosening. S stares, trying to figure it out. The handcuffs fall to the ground.
Something else is there. Invisible. Floating. It just got K loose - and now S is aware that its attention is focused on him. Uh-oh.
"Meet your new boss," K says, laughing cockily. To the TM - "prepare a place, restrain him - and tickle him."
"Noooooo...."
Aw, alright," K says mockingly. "Let's see... Take real good care of him. If he needs urgent medical attention, you can let him go. And catch him again when he's healthy. For more tickling. Go."
Rope floats into the kitchen. As the others watch, S is magically tied up and hauled out to his car.
K and B look at each other. "You set that up, a while ago," K says. "Didn't you? Introducing that jerk to me."
"Yeah. How long is he gonna get it?"
K shrugs. "Remind me in a couple weeks."
B laughs...
K makes an adjustment in his friend's brain. Forget all about S's capture, he commands. The fucker just disappeared from work one day, and that's that. Then, getting feisty, K calls up a few more restraints for B. "So you were gonna call the shots, asshole? Gonna see that loser work me over? Tickle me. Is that right? Huh?"
B catches on. "No, no, aw hah hah hah hah!" Hands are taking hold and zipping up and down B's ribs.
"Into the dungeon with you..."
Into the air, being carried - as K floats behind, lighting a smoke.
And B, in his (outward) panic, silently mind-commands K to make it grueling this time. Only nine hours, though, because they've gotta go to his dad's for lunch tomorrow.
K accepts the direction without any awareness at all, laughing sadistically. Dreaming up mindwarping tickle torments - and what the hell, even flipping for an hour or two so B can let him have it. A little payback. It'll make B so supercharged when the cuffs take B down yet again.
A TM checks both men's heads again - and sighs with contentment. They'll keep each other crazed for the night. It's just about got a top-secret retreat ready for both men - who will each think it was their own idea, and they made the other man go along. No need for B to work anymore. Tickling is much more fun.
Thus content that they're in thrall and busy, it goes out to check on another pair of pets across town.

[The twist which would be clarified is that K has these magical powers, B hides the fact this his own powers override K's - and that neither one knows that a TM is really pulling both their strings.]

12july2006
 

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