821

"No," he grunted again, seeing the dungeon.
I shoved him a little. My gloves were all over his arms and legs, so the push was just for emphasis. Wrong. Yes, I say. Get over there.

That only made him push back. At some level he knew better than to pass through the doorway.
"C'mon," he snapped. The beer was definitely wearing off.

"In you go," I taunted. "We have a deal."

"Fuck that. I thought you were kidding."

Slowly I pushed him forward. The bench was waiting - reinforced and padded for long-term fever. Not a thing in the world could stop me now. "What a joker. Let's laugh it up. Now."

"No," he shot back - definitely scared. Believing it, finally. That was so rewarding... "Fuck this."

I made him slide a few more inches. "Move it, wise guy. Inside. Then I lock the door."

"Get Izzy instead. I'm not kidding... I changed my mind," and he almost choked on the words. "Look, I can't do this."

"Oh, you will."

His boot-heels slid across the floor. Only a few more steps -
"Wait," he shouted, "I can't fuckin' - Noooo-oooo!"

I chuckled in his ear. "Doom, brother. You're gonna get it."

A high-pitched squeak - very unmanly - came out of him. The struggling stopped, and he leaned back as hard as he could. "Don't touch me!"
The way he said it was incredible. Suddenly he sounded very much like a little boy, and I was sure he wasn't even aware of it. Hearing that tone come out of a rough-and-tough biker was thrilling. No doubt about it. Just the way those unlikely words came out made me want to get at him... well, about as much as I'd ever wanted to tickle before. He had no idea how much more thoroughly his fate was sealed now.

My gloves pulled a little harder - just enough to keep him moving forward. "Sssssh," I said automatically. "It'll be all right."

Then another amazing thing happened. Unheard-of...
He relaxed. Exhaling hard, he released some of the tension in his limbs... and let me drag him the rest of the way inside. If ever a man was doomed - tempting me to get him, all but begging for it - this was the guy. It was really incredible. Despite the panic, I accidentially made him calm down somewhat.
It was the most riveting, exciting moment I could remember, and I'd never been so eager to tickle anyone before.

Behind him, I closed the door.

My determination to leave it locked for at least six months was rock-solid.
I'd be meticulously careful with this biker. Work him up skillfully. Teaching him was going to be completely delightful.
Something else made sense now - a delayed reaction when I ran my hands up his sides earlier. He tensed up immediately, but the hee-haw took a second or two longer than I would've expected. The usual cause of that is neurological damage, or drugs.
Not this fucker. He wasn't a stranger to disorienting, prolonged tickling. A sibling, probably, or a twisted babysitter. Intense...

"Was it your brother?," I asked him.

That puzzled him. "Huh?"

"I'm guessing it was a relative. Somebody close. Who tickled you."

"Stop it," he ordered, trying to twist out of my grip.

"Who was it?"

I didn't get an answer until he struggled for a few more seconds. "Baseball team."

"Ah."

"So I really can't go through th-"

"Rope?"

Fuck, was his face dark. A quick nod...

"It lasted for hours. Felt so good, it hurt."

"You're freakin' me out - more," he barked angrily.

"This is gonna be so different, Pump."

"Huh," he snorted.

"Incredible."

There was a pause. A-ha, I thought.
"Bullshit," he finally replied...

But he really didn't have a choice. We both knew it.
I took his clothes off without taunting. He bitched and moaned, trying to stop my hands. But I was firm about it.
When he was down to his birthday suit, I let go.

"No. Forget it - please. Okay? I'm not up for this."

"I hear ya, and it just so happens that I know better."

"Shit," he sighed - and it was one of those frustrated sounds that was a prelude to starting to cry.
It was annoying, but I told myself that it would be well worth it to break him in slowly. Other guys with that delayed reaction to unexpected tickling had been... shockingly fun.
I slid a bench over to where he stood, thought for a second and added another one. Then his eyes narrowed as I floated a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on over.

"Just open the door."

"No way."

"C'mon."

Whenever I hear "c'mon" in that tone of voice, it's more like an admission... as in, I'm gonna get it now, and there's no longer any doubt in my mind. "Here."

"Fucker," he groused, taking a cigarette.

"Look," I said amiably. "Is there somebody makin' me hold off? And I gave you a smoke."

"You're fuckin' with my head."

"Or trying to help."

"Why? Why the hell would you do that?"

"Make it even more fun for me... by making it fun for you."

His mouth opened - and closed. Then he took another drag.

"Yeah," I added, pressing on. "You know I could've just jumped your ass already. I'm leveling with you, here. Let's try this my way... see if it isn't a total rush this time. For both of us."

"Like you won't enjoy yourself," he sneered.

"Well -"

"I'm tellin' you I can't go through that again. Some things are just too fuckin'... ridiculous."

"Pump. I know what I'm doing. Relax. It's gonna happen." I chuckled quietly. "You're gonna get tickled."

"C'mon!"

"Like you've never been tickled before. Right to the edge, buddy."

"Well, fuck me," he muttered - and his voice was all shaky.

"Partytime."

"Yeah. That's what I'm need to hear."

"Asshole." But he was calm enough to make a joke, and I knew he was caving. "Ticklish son of a bitch."

"How'd you find out?"

Very good, I thought. Curiosity. He had cojones after all. "Random test. Can you believe it?"

"No. Wait - yeah. Just my luck."

I chuckled a few times. "So... you're in for it."

He sighed. "I can't do this, dammit."

"Why not?"

I watched him take a long drag and figure out what he wanted to say. "It was like... fuckin' scary. Really. Just kept on, and on. Horror-show shit. Not fun. I thought I was really nuts. No coming back."

"Uh-huh."

"Don't 'uh-huh' me. I gotta get the fuck outa here."

"Before I torture you." He gulped - so unconscious, and so damn cute. "But what if it didn't have to be torture?"

"This is bullshit!"

"I'm gonna show you how to get into it."

"No, you're not," he scoffed.

"That's how good I am at this."

I picked up a pair of wrist-cuffs and set 'em on the bed.

"Oh... fuck. No, no. Don't."

"You've got me determined to see you diggin' it," I chuckled. "No lie. Take a couple deep breaths."

His face was twisted in a snarl, but it was exciting to see his chest heave. Shaky, but trying to ease the air back out. Then he smoked some more.

"I'm telling the truth," I said experimentally.

"You fuckin' better be," he sighed, "or else I'm gonna die. I mean it."

"You wanna walk over to the bed?"

"No," as in what-a-stupid-thing-to-say... but he took a last drag, acting as cocky as he could, and stood up.
I liked him even more. Ticklish as hell, and cooperating too. I was going to show him what a great party this could be - and get my kicks. All over his hide...

He sat down, took another big breath, and looked at the cuffs. "Well?"

"Not yet." I was really looking forward to it though - his hands trapped nice and safe, leaving those armpits wide open for the ride of his mutherfuckin' life, and no amount of howling and squirming would get me to back off. "Lay down."

"Aw, hell..."

I brought a pair of leather gloves over him, and then a bottle of massage oil.

"I'm gonna go insane. Right here."

"You have no idea how experienced -"

"Shit."

Time to put on a show for him. I pretended to pull the gloves - so big and smooth - over invisible hands, one finger after another standing up. He groaned... and when the oil bottle soaked the deerskin, he jumped nice and big. Drips were splattering all over his chest.

"Whups," I laughed.

"Yeah, how'd that happen?"

"It was an accident -"

"Horse-shit. You fucker, just get it over with."

He didn't have a very realistic idea of how long I'd be tickling him, but - like the man said...

Finally, blissfully, I was reaching down. On a straight line for his belly, I made the gloves zip down and clamp over his thighs.

"Nooo-oooooo," and then he hissed in suddenly. Beautifully ticklish.

"Oh, yeah," I teased. My hands slid down a little - more of a massage, at this point. And yet he still bit off a chuckle or two. Restless as they come. "Now, could I be really sticking it to you right now? Sure I could."

"Not t-too late to change your, uh, mind," he said in a strained voice.

That was my cue to laugh at him - but not cruel about it, just one delighted tickler - and it worked exactly the way I hoped. The son of a bitch relaxed!

He was gonna be so much fun...

As soon as I gripped above his knees, it became clear that the carnage wasn't going to be immediate. This raggedy-ass biker started to whimper. The sound was full of fear, and tears came to his eyes.

"Hey," I said softly.

"Nnnnnnmf... Damn you -"

"Easy." On impulse I let go of his legs and zipped those gloves up... to his own hands. I grabbed him and squeezed there until he started to squeeze back.

"This is gonna s-suck."

"Yeah. But I'll make sure you get to like it."

"Bullshit!," he snapped.

"Seriously dig it."

"You're so fucked up."

"Just you wait," I teased, feeling some of the tension evaporate from his fingers.
Got him, I thought. Amazing.

822

He'd always wanted to see what it was like. Reddog, who'd been like his best friend in grade school, never even graduated. Too busy gettin' nuked. And he didn't seem happy about it at all. But there was something fascinating - and, let's face it, totally fuckin' erotic - about his life. Before they were eighteen Reddog easily became, and still was, the coolest lowlife son of a bitch.
They'd really done a number on him. He turned out tough, quiet, interesting - because of all that unbearable stimulation. Solid tattoos. Gone for months at a time.

Well, now he was in for it too. One of 'em was definitely coming for him.
Laying in bed would be something he'd have to get used to. Strapped there. All day. Worked over. Stocks, maybe shackles hanging from the ceiling... stuck for hours, no matter what.
Daydreaming, he smoked almost a pack before he even realized it.
. . .

So soft. Moving -
He tries to deal with the hot, stabbing, nuzzling, sweet flood.
The beginning of a yelp makes him clench his teeth. He doesn't know why. It's automatic.
The fingers double back, crossing his gut again. So gentle, and deliberate.
He knows now that the rope won't break.
A snort gets away from him -
The glove pauses. Its owner has a captive audience, alright. Just him, and no one else watching, squinting at it and waiting.
Satin drags back across.
With another quick snort, he feels the explosion blow past his lips. Not just laughing - it's more of a bellow. He sounds happy, even to himself. And so fuckin' crazed.
Fingertips nestle in, just to make him screech, before they slide back to his other hip.
Arching, yanking, he laughs so hard. Three other gloves are over him, no longer holding still. Coasting down.
Barely pressing down, just above his armpits.
Creeping in.
Howls, raw and mindless, are the result.
Four-handed tickling. Fingers scratch just above his dick, keep buffing his stomach, rub his armpits with more and more pressure.
The convulsions make him seize and thrash. A few seconds of roaring, then several attempts to move his body. That pattern repeats a dozen times...
Then he laughs for a while. Desperate, violent, animalistic.
The gloves never even pause.
One more bout with the knots... and he arches hard, holds it, begins to shake. Slamming back down, he gulps air -
And a quiet moan turns into chuckling. It's not easy laughter. He sounds unbalanced. Dangerous.
A thumb digs into the very center of his right arch.
His attempts to kick are quite different now. Vague reflex, unconvincing, lacking focus.
The glove leaps over to his left foot, vigorously raking the fingers up and down the sole.
With an almost inqusitive sound, he starts to giggle. A positively inhuman sound.
Another glove hurries down, mirroring the heavy action on his right sole as well.
His giggles are thick and airy, a sound more suited to the dog family. A wolf, perhaps, dreaming of sex.

He never expected to find it this arousing. Oh, fuck, the cum-shot was gonna be absolutely incredible.
Chuckles oozed out of him, raspy and dirty. He hurt all over... and yet this was so mutherfuckin' cool. Reddog made more sense already. Just how he'd become so intense. Fuck, yeah.
. . .
 

Caught again. Unbelievable. At work, too - though he didn't exactly remember getting another job. That would've been a good trick, as much time as he spent howling his ass off.
"Oh, wow," he sighed. Then he kicked at the cuffs again.
It didn't loosen. That didn't come as a big surprise, since he'd been trying everything he could think of for the past hour to get loose. No, he was tied good and snug...
And there must've been nobody else left in the building, because he'd been howling his head off. Screaming laughter. Real serious.
The fuckin' hands had a live one, alright.
Dammit, he couldn't get away. And now his other shoe was being taken off.
"No, _no_, that's... enough," he complained. Ten seconds was enough. The tickling just kept on coming. Feathers, then brushes, and more brushes -
Fingers he couldn't see eased the heel loose, and his left shoe fell to the floor. It was chilling.
He squirmed miserably, but the tickler still had him unable to do a damn thing to interfere. Somebody had to stumble in and stop this, because he needed help more than any other time he could remember, but this late on a Friday night he just knew there wouldn't even be a janitor around anymore. The invisible hands had waited until the cleaning crew left.
All night, and then the entire fucking weekend... the thought just made him dizzy.
None of the straps were loosening.
Fingers peeled off his sock -
"No, dammit, I can't!," he wailed, no daring to finish the sentence. It was absolutely unbearable. Just tickling one of his feet, and it was expert tickling alright, had made him piss his pants. Now his other sole was feeling the air which cooled his sweaty sole. Both feet, hanging off the edge of the chair pad. He just had to get loose now. Fuck.
Two feathers lifted off the floor.
"Haaaalllpp!," he shouted. More of a shriek, actually. The door didn't open. It seemed to him that the deadbolt handle was horizontal, and even that made him crazy. No one could just walk in.
Probably a good fifty-four hours or so until somebody else came around. He'd be out of his mind by then. Gaga. And hoarse. It wouldn't be difficult to tie him to an executive chair and move him to a storeroom... and thinking in terms of "hours" was out the window. There were the old offices on the fourth floor, probably not even visited for months - just the place to tickle a guy with no voice left for as long as the fuckin' hands wanted...
The feathers stroked down his soles.
"No, nooooooo," he begged, right before the chuckles started forcing their way out again.
. . .

"Nah hah hah heeeee," he barked, squirming for all he was worth. The damn straps were making sure he'd get the absolute shit tickled out of him today - again.
Fingers, palms, sliding, digging in. Another full day of hell.
He shrieked with laughter until the gag pulled tight between his teeth.
. . .
 
 

It's removed all memories of the 73 days he's already spent in custody.

He slept like an angel. Smooth, rock-hard muscle everywhere. Clean-shaven. Full of energy.
With a comfortable moan, he rolled over. Clean satin sheets. Quiet room. Soundproofed, actually.
The flick of a feather got his right foot twitching.
A grunt. He opens his eyes.
The same old fever is coming...
After a quick giggle, he moves his feet.
One acetate glove slips under the sheet, creeping sneakily, and swipes a finger across the underside of his left knee.
"Hey," he says thickly.
The fingers curl, and slide up his thigh.
A weird, squealing whoop makes him jump up a little. His hands are moving - but the glove has lifted off.
Dramatically, the sheet is whisked off.
A feather, a glove...
"What?," he says to them.
Both land and tickle again.
"Nooooo no no nooooo-oooo," he says easily, rolling away. They follow along.
Then he's reaching up to swat the glove - not seeing the other pair float down, from behind his back. Poking his armpits.
"Whooof!"
Now he rocks back.
Another feather bobs up and sweeps up his dick.
"Hey!," he yells, with a concerned expression on his face.
The gloves and feathers keep him hopping around...

No matter what area he tries to protect, a half-dozen others are open. An effort to get off the bed is countered with firmer tickling on the opposite side. He rolls - and there are hands waiting. Attacking.
The harder he resists, the more aggressive the tickling gets.
A much more desperate attempt to slide off the bed is answered with a loose glove gripping his wrist... and gently pressing it down against the satin.
"No no nuh huh hah hah haaaah!," he laughs. There are ten or fifteen fingers at work, and when he lifts his captured hand it's easily pushed back down. He's anchored now.
Another glove latches on to the free, swinging arm. Down it goes.
That gets him frantic. Laughing steadily... with more and more panic.
One ankle, then the other. Caught.
Stretched out a little.
Arching, rolling, slamming down and around doesn't make any of the maddening, devoted feathers and gloves go away.
Over the next ten minutes, his fight builds and peaks.
The gloves don't let go.
Actually, the attack keeps increasing too. Crippling him. Neutralizing the fight.
And finally - waiting until he definitely recognizes it - a coil of rope is held over him, slowly unwinding.
He shouts laughter as the loops wrap and knot.

823

Fingers curled around Cale's upper arm.
That woke him right up, as always, but he acted like he was still asleep. Same drill, every damn morning...
Sometimes the gloves backed off. It was Saturday, he remembered. No reason he shouldn't sleep in -
The grip wiggled his arm around.
"Fuck off," he growled.
A clinking sound over him was familiar. It was his lighter, being opened and closed slowly.
Dammit. Now he wanted a cigarette. There weren't any in the apartment. Sighing, Cale opened his eyes. There it was, alright. A dull black glove flipped the lid of his lighter back, and snapped it lazily. The other one let go of his arm and zoomed out the door.
In the living room, ska music started playing from his stereo. That was get-your-ass-in-gear music... and when they were gonna do something intense to him, Cale usually heard jazz. Yeah, tough guy, you just holler your head off all night to the cool, smoky sounds of these instrumentals.
In the kitchen, his coffeemaker started gurgling.
"Run out and get me some smokes," he told the glove. "Make yourself useful."
Dropping the lighter on his gut, the phantom hand turned and flipped him off. Then it flew away...

They hung around him most of the time - every day since the trip to Mardi Gras last year. He and his friends had wandered a few blocks past the Quarter and into this rathole of a bar. They never would've risked it, sober...
It definitely wasn't a tourist place. Creole. Folks had been friendly enough. The young bartender had sure been glad to see Cale. Asshole. Even as shitfaced as Cale was, he'd picked up on the haunted look the kid had. It was in his eyes. But he was real happy too, grinning around the cigar, as he pointed right at Cale - with a thin black glove on his hand, some tight mesh almost like chain mail.
That night, back in the motel room, the gloves had grabbed his hand and shook it, all by themselves - pumping his arm like they couldn't be any happier to meet his ass. They'd been fucking with him ever since.
His folks knew, and a couple of his friends. Hell, his Uncle Ron had good reason to be scared of 'em, and Cale had never seen him get nervous over anything...
Nobody could figure how to make damn gloves lay off him, so they all did their best to ignore them. That didn't work so well for Cale, of course. Especially on weekends - or the summer break, which was a week away. After what happened to him last summer, and his uncle, Cale wished there were more apprentice classes he could take just to have an excuse. If he was busy with school, nothing outrageous happened except on the weekends.
But he had three fuckin' months staring him in the face, and chances are it was gonna get ugly.
He even went back to New Orleans, but he couldn't find the damn bar. That kid knew how to get rid of the gloves. Sic 'em on somebody else...

Maybe they just messed with whoever they wanted, for as long as they wanted, and then moved on. Cale really would've liked that to happen before they filled up three months of his life, free from school. The gloves never got tired of fucking with him - and they had some seriously hardcore friends.
Uncle Ron knew that better than anybody.
After the first couple times he got worked over, he didn't even want to talk to Cale. But he came around, and they checked in with each other every couple days. There wasn't anybody else who really believed what the gloves did to Cale when they got feisty. Playful.
But his uncle had disappeared for a week, the first time. Then almost three weeks, and the last time it was closer to ten. Cale felt responsible at first, but Ron wasn't putting up with any of that...
He'd gone to his folks for the family reunion. Out in the garage, his uncle had wandered out while Cale was getting high. They had another joint together - that was when Cale decided to tell him about the gloves. Ron was kidnapped by some invisible fucker on the way home, bike and all. He howled his fuckin' guts out in some brick cellar. Apparently it was a different room than Cale had been taken to, as if somebody had a place reserved just for his uncle.
Sometime during Ron's first week, Cale woke up with a monster of a hangover - and the same fuckin' Harley tattoo on his forearm. Like they were twins or something. Comrades in suffering, his uncle had said, giving him that same old tired grin...
His folks, Cale decided, really thought it was some kind of parlor trick he was pulling. If Addy and Boxer really believed him - and fuckin' Boxer was there that night, he even remembered seeing the fuckers on the bartender's hands - they'd be looking over their shoulders all the time. Cale had come to understand why they held onto a little denial about the whole thing.
After he got dressed, one glove opened the front door and the other shoved him from behind.
"Yeah, yeah..."
They snuggled over his hands before he even got to his truck. The damn gloves fit perfectly. Even though their last owner - their last pet, he thought sourly - had been skinny as a rail, Cale's guards had somehow resized themselves. He could still remember that first morning, when he finally came to and saw them on his hands, with an old stain here and there on 'em but otherwise in good shape. They hadn't let him take them off for a few days. Even when he went to take a shower...
There were no cigarettes in his truck either. The damn things never got tired of messing with his head.

He was forced to drive a couple hours to Hickory Lake. A bag had already been laying on the floorboard, and Cale could see his swimsuit and a towel poking out. Halfway there the gloves pulled the truck over and made him piss into the weeds alongside the road. He felt like a little kid being told when to go and where.
Sliding back behind the wheel, his right hand reached casually under the seat and pulled out a flask.
Ten minutes later he had a good buzz on. Doing seventy on the old highway, he didn't even look for cops. The gloves had never gotten him into trouble before. Or Uncle Ron, for that matter. Just another one of the mysteries that kept 'em... available for whatever gruesome fun they had in mind. One time, on a Sunday, it had been all about spanking him. All day. Paddles, riding crops, and of course the fuckin' gloves themselves, whaling on him as Cale yelled and strained at new canvas straps, with tears just running down his face. He couldn't sit down for, like, three days after that.

Old-school punk played softly from the truck's speakers. Cale slouched behind the wheel, toking on a good-sized hooter that had been brought out after the flask was empty...
The gloves were off his hands now. They'd been busy covering his arms with temporary tattoos. He couldn't tell if it was a hint - what was coming when the apprenticeship program broke for the summer - or if they just wanted to make him nervous.
But the setting was nice to look at, with the temperature just right and everything. After a while Cale dozed off.

It was darker when he woke up. His captors made him get out and pee again, and drive off. He finally figured out that there was a casino about sixty miles further down the road...

Fingers grabbed the wheel suddenly and reefed on it. The truck slid on loose gravel -
"Shit," he wailed. But the free glove patted him on the head, and he had plenty of time to hit the brakes. There was a little store attached to the gas station. The tank was still half-full - which meant they filled it, somehow, before they hustled him out the door that morning - but the gloves rarely missed a chance to get Cale drinking.
Jumping back on his hands, they led him inside and to the beer cooler. A twelve-pack of Jax was hauled out. All for him.
His left index finger was used to trace a J, over and over, in the air. Cale nodded.
"That all?," the old guy behind the counter asked him.
"Pint of Jack," he said. "Three of 'em."
The gloves didn't squeeze his hands, so Cale knew there was enough money. He figured they stole it -
Slowly, his left hand rubbed the Harley tat. That made him sigh. He wanted what the glove was after, but being ordered around just sucked.
"And, uh, a pack of Camels. Shorties." Same as his uncle. It was the usual brand they went for, whether the packs just showed up on the kitchen counter or he got to buy 'em himself. Same tat, same fuckin' hardass smokes...
The glove curled its fingers into a C.
"Wait. Why not make it a carton," Cale blurted fast - before the cashier had time to reach for a single pack, and definitely wanting to get the words out before the opportunity was snatched away. It had been months since they'd let him smoke a whole carton -
His right hand was slipped into his back pocket, fishing out a fuckin' wad of new fifty-dollar bills that he'd never seen before.

"Oh, hell yeah, my life is just one big fuckin' party," he told the floating gloves, back in his truck and ripping the first pack open. "I really owe you guys."
One of them floated in, with his lighter, and served him up.
"How long did you fuck with the Cajun kid?," Cale asked. He wasn't in a bad mood overall. Even a smoke meant more than it used to.
The glove not rubbing his lighter gave him an 'N', in sign language. He'd picked up the alphabet pretty early on, when the bastards made it clear he wasn't gonna be allowed to get his rocks off until he memorized it.
"Not gonna tell me? That long, huh?"
The glove socked him on the arm, and reared back. Still in a fist. Ready to mix it up.
"You just wanna keep me wondering about it," Cale said, smirking. "Mind-fuckers."
Dark fingers gave him a 'Y', for "yes."

After a few more slugs of booze, thirty miles closer to the casino, he decided to check on his uncle.
"Hey," Ron said. He always sounded gruff on the phone.
"How's it going?"
"Fucked."
"Still got a bad feeling, huh?"
His uncle sighed. It sounded like he was kicking out smoke. "Any day now. I hope they let me fuckin' finish this rebuild first."
"Me too."
"How's your hands?"
That was an old joke. At least it seemed like they'd been throwing it back and forth for ten years or something... "Hangin' right here. They're letting me smoke all by myself."
Ron chucked a time or two. "Well, it's a banner day. Where are ya?"
"On my way to the casino in Lees Ridge, I think."
"Cool."
"It's next week I'm worried about -"
"And next week ain't here yet," his uncle snapped. "Nothing you can do, right? Just live for today. That's all I got. We're gonna get out of this shit, just you wait."
"Yeah. You're right."
"Can't last forever."
"So you keep saying," Cale sassed.
"Hey, now, you're not too big for me to come and slap some sense into ya."
"Big talk. Like they'd let that happen."
"Fuck... Alright, you take it easy."
"You too, Unk."
"Later." As usual, his uncle hung up right away. He never did seem comfortable when he was talking on the phone...

He lost something like six hundred dollars. Cale wasn't sure, because the gloves kept him drunk. Like usual when he wore 'em there were one or two smartass remarks, but he'd been wearing 'em for so long he had a half-dozen answers all ready. People always gave 'em another stare, shrugged and forgot they were on his hands.
Walking back out to the truck was a challenge. If they didn't do the driving, he'd get popped immediately at times like this -
But as soon as he closed the truck door, they peeled off his hands and pushed him down against the bench seat.
"Hey," he said doubtfully.
Fingers curled around each side of his rib cage.
"No! N-not... now, I'm gonna puke. Wait, just wait," he snickered. It was confusing, because the gloves never did tickled him unless they were trying to get cuffs or rope around his wrists. Five, ten minutes and he was a goner. Usually they just drugged him, but there were times when they seemed to enjoy taking him down when he was at his best - strong, clear-headed, laughing anyway as the rope was wrapped around and around. From what his uncle had let on, it could be a hundred times worse...
They held him for awhile, and Cale wondered if they were gonna dig in anyway. But they let go, and started rubbing his triceps. It was one of the ways they liked to pet him. Tell him he was gonna be okay.
Relaxing, Cale frowned and let loose with a big yawn.

Next thing he knew, the truck was rolling down the highway.
He sat up. A black hand was curled around the top of the steering wheel. Getting a cigarette out of the pack, Cale looked down the highway and guessed he was maybe halfway home.
. . .

Done. He passed. Cale was on top of the world. He and the other apprentices were gonna meet at Pro's later, get royally shitfaced...
The gloves weren't waiting in his car, either. They usually latched on right after class. Now there would be no more class. How cool was that?
Feeling more defiant than usual, he stopped and bought a couple packs of cigarettes. The brand he used to smoke. Maybe the fuckin' gloves were gone for good -
A lot more likely, though, was that they had a hell of a month planned for his ass. Probably wouldn't raw a sober breath until the weather turned.
Well, shit, he'd earned tonight's party. Wearing gloves or not, he was a graduate and it was almost time to drink like one.
Still walking on air, he unlocked the door of his apartment - and saw boxes everywhere. Packed, taped up.
Before he could put things together, a glove flew up and sprayed some gas in his face.

He woke up slow.
The cigarette they gave him was a Camel. Same shit as usual. He laid there and tried to get his lips working.
Rolling through the dark in his truck, Cale realized the celebration at Pro's was going on without him. The gloves had other plans.
When he could finally pull himself up and sit there, the road was unfamiliar. Crude.
Dammit. They were gonna do something special, it looked like. This time they were really driving him way out into the sticks. He wasn't even sure what state this was...
"C'mon," he complained. "I don't wanna... uh..."
But they knew that. As usual, it didn't faze 'em at all.
. . .

Strong hands dragged him down the hall. Even the outside of the cell doors was padded...
Cale couldn't even get his mind around what had been done to him since - yesterday? Was it only one day? And this place was built to last. It must've been here for years.
He could be in here... for years.
The gloves wouldn't have done this to him. There was no way they could sign him up for this. But they had, and here he was.
A door opened. This room had cabinets covering the whole back wall too. Maybe they all did. In the center of the little cell there was a weird chair. Cale was turned and pushed down on well-worn leather. The cushioning were thick, but each of the pads was skinny...
As his arms were caught behind him by heavy manacles, he rocked around - not trying to get away, because that obviously wasn't gonna happen. He'd given it his best, all night. The chair was comfortable, but it took him a second to figure out why it was built like that. A lot more of his legs - and his ass - were exposed than if he'd been in a lawn chair or something. This contraption wasn't budging either.
There were two angled rails in front of him, and the invisible hands caught his right ankle and cuffed it down, then his left. He could rest his weight on the padding, so that was okay - but his feet were sticking out there. Cale's knees were there for the taking. He didn't like that. Maybe a foot and a half of space separated his feet...
Just thinking about the way his meat had been played with last night made him shiver.
Fuckin' comfortable, and casual. The chair was annoying - just like the whole damn setup. This wasn't shaping up like another kinky weekend.
A cabinet opened behind him, but all he saw floating over was cigarettes, a lighter, and an ashtray. The brand was his favorite, the one he'd bought on the way home from school. He relaxed for the time being.
Somebody packed the cigarettes like they'd been doing it for years and got him one. A couple of water bottles, sweating with the cold, came and set down alongside his chair.
It wasn't going to break, either. Cale pulled for awhile. The door was still open, and that was just another little way of fucking with him. He wasn't gonna bust loose and make it out the door. There were probably all kinds of locks to make sure he didn't get anywhere. All those other rooms probably weren't empty either.
This was some kind of secret torture club. He'd never been tickled anything close to what they'd dished out last night. It looked like he wasn't done yet either. Caught, and just sitting there, kicked back in somebody's idea of a custom recliner.
Finally he sat there and smoked his cigarette. As it burned down he hoped whoever it was would give him another one - and also wished that didn't happen, because if he was really alone now and they forgot to lock the fuckin' door...
But the pack came up off the floor, and Cale watched his old cigarette get held steadily against the end of the next smoke. He couldn't keep himself from watching the first butt get punched out in the ashtray. Magic all around him. And somebody sure liked to drive him out of his fuckin' mind with more tickling than he could handle, laughing wildly and squirming around until he couldn't fuckin' move anymore but the torture kept right on coming -
The door started to move.
"No. C'mon," Cale protested, trying to get up. "Dammit." Locked in. Here it comes. More fingers, a lot more of the impossible brushes fucking him up, impossible, just pure fever eating him up all the time.
After the sound of the lock turning, he slammed back. "Shit!" Scowling, he finally took another drag -
"Howdy, Cale."
He jumped. Nobody was around.
. . .

"You are one cool customer. Ain't that right?"
He wondered what the right response was. "I dunno -"
"And ticklish. Oh, yeah. You and Ron both..."

[It's you or your uncle. Could be both, if I feel like it. But I'd rather get to know you - so I can use what I learn, on you and all of the dudes down the road. I don't have to ask for your cooperation, but if you work with me I'll give your uncle a pass.
For how long?
For as long as we've got you to play with.
Damn. And... after that?
Well, I'm sure not thinking that far ahead yet, buddy. But if you wanna keep your new job, with longer vacations than you'd get anywhere else of course, I could slap a tat on ticklish Ron's hand that would buy him out of his future.
You mean it?
Yeah. I'll even make it a promise. We'll need him to keep his mouth shut, of course - and do a good job reassuring your mom and dad, Boxer, the union. Cale's just takin' a long break. Got himself a bike, and a babe. From what I hear he's eatin' it up. The life -
They won't buy it.
Well, Ron better see that they do. We don't need them to be fuckin' happy about ol' Cale dropping out... and no one's ever gonna find you in here anyway. If you're a good, very ticklish boy I'll even let you call 'em every so often. So they won't worry. Ten-second delay on the phone line, and if need be I'll tickle you or get you drunk so any cockeyed plans you have about telling 'em stuff in code will be written off as more of Cale's shitfaced ramblings. You get me?
Yeah. Uh... Why am I not reassured?
Because I hold all the cards. And we all just love to fuck with you guy's heads. It'll take you awhile to ease into things here, and know when to trust us. But really, Cale, what other guarantee can you demand... in your position? Huh?]

824

Xenocubiculum
cf. Xenodochium

  (n.) A comfortable place dedicated to the lodging and entertainment of travelers. [Sometimes called Xenovoluptarca.]

I will tell you of all that took place since you last felt my presence. It makes me even happier yet to share the journey with you.
Some of these words are new to you, but I've given you their meanings... along with so many other modern ways and needs that will comfort you, the one cherished above all others.
Sit and smoke, enjoying your ale, and I will tell you all that occurred to bring you and I together again.
 

After a slumber which lasted nights seemingly without number, I became aware of a warm spring day - and the touch of fingertips.
At last...
Through the fingers I went, palm wrist arm shoulder neck -
Ah.
Success.

Many of his thoughts were baffling. I learned he was from a distant land, but the few memories made sense to me. And it seemed the manner of reckoning time had changed, while I dozed...
But his vitality did kindle me at a wish - and that proved indeed he was a son of my land, however mixed his blood had become with the seed of other peoples. I wished his fingers to press tighter against the token - and they obeyed me immediately. Yes. His people came from a strong line.
My work could now continue.
Gratefully, I sent a wave of pleasure through him.
He arched slowly, moaning, and filled his manhood. It felt most savoury to me also, and in his mind I formed the idea of hands, caressing his shoulders -
As if to pull away, he moved. Ah - the old fear was in him too. But I made him stay.
Time had not cured his race of this most nonsensical fear, which I had battled for so many years, and by this I mean the fight they gave against devotion to revelry. My help was still needed.
Relax, I commanded his body... and enjoy all.

After sharing his seed, he was calm again. Heeding only the delightful sensations - because I turned each thought back to it - he gave off the most useful vitality. There were ways to loose that nourishing flow, and I was entralled with them all...
In his thoughts, a change came. I took care to make it a complete surprise.
Fingers like unto his own reached under his arms... and did stroke there instead.
He jumped, right set to squeal and move. Intoxicating! - and the energy poured out for me.
I added a hand to his stroke between his legs... not rhapsodies, these fingers, but outward -
Yes. The response was sure. How we would cheer at luring it out properly, in its full measure, over hours of excitement. The form of men had changed not. I had that hand take its ease for the nonce.
Guiding some of the power he had given me, I made more hands. Real as his, though he could not see them...
Solid and strong. The notion of being stroked by any fingers made him dotty - but not at all in the measure that the truth would prove! I reached under his garments and did rub front and sides.
Wild, crazed fighting was the result. Wolfish gales of laughter.
As much as I hungered for that, the vitality which flowed from him to me was even more welcome. With it I could nourish he and I and untold others.
I raised his arms, and unmade his garments.
Full of joy did I cinch each wrist with finely worked leather, binding them together. The same I did for his ankles, and then did I lift him up. I made a frame come to be at his back - stout iron, but clear as the hands which cheered his skin so. Lashed and fixed in the space it made, he fought the throes of jest with his strength and did stay as I placed him.
Amusing to make him bark at his bonds, pulled tight, affixed to no visible thing in the air. O how he wiggled, and laughed! Awash with pleasure, and fighting it as hard as men always did. I had so much to teach him. And I was up to the test!
His belongings were gathered up - no material of the world could truly go to waste, in any manner, but my wonderment about this keening buck was not at all slaked. So his possessions followed behind as I moved him further up the mountain. I did not stop the fair running of my fever-hands, testing all places, and he found the chance to summon help at times when he was not taken over by the full need to laugh. Tugging at the straps, wailing gleefully... Floating through the forest. Make way, I felt like heralding, for the somber knave who is captured, and now kept dazzled, for his crime is the fear of pleasure. But he will learn what I am best to teach. On a whim I had some of the boughs bow down for him and stroke his sides, with their supple leaves, thrilling at the added screams of merriment he produced and such fierce efforts to get away...
My gifts - and not just for him, but for many others - had again found their proper mark in time.
When I saw his thoughts straying to more dreary matters, busy fingers returned all keenness to the sensation I loved - which was his by rights. That pleased me much so I made a gift for my new steed - a fool's cap. It was bright with the hues of the wood, and the sight of it added to my cheer. Bells sang sweetly as he threw his head around - but the fit was snug, and the cap stayed on his addled head. For so long I had not seen no face laboring to laugh as hard as it could - much less under the cap I cherished. He knew not what it meant to me.
Wearing only that and the holding device, he had me to carry him ever further away. Many pathless leagues spelled our way, with care to range far from the ears of men would might hear him and grasp not my ways. More strength was to be retaken, but I would win. This brigand would revel, now and after, yet not alone in the lusty feast. I asked each sprightly tree as we passed, and all reached down with their greenery to roil his excitement. Things which lived in divers ways were treated to the sound of his mirth, gladdening the sunlit forest around him as we journeyed.

The clearing was as I remembered - private as could be. No man ever seemed to find it by chance.
Rubbing him harder and harder, I changed his energy into rock, and timber -
There. Stout walls blocked the wild night air. A ceiling of solid beams hid the stars. I made no door, because it would not be used...
Another wish made a roaring fire in the grate. I filled the shelves with crockery, holding the choicest ales and draughts, dried fruits, hearth-bread. Hocks and onions appeared along one wall.
And at last, with the greatest joy, for him I created a large featherbed.
. . .

[Centuries before, the King's soldiers search for him - and three of them find a structure of old stone where none was known to be before]

They walked all around the house, but found no door.
I answered that. When the soldiers returned to the place from which they started they saw an entry of old timbers, unbarred. They had only to approach, and heft it open...
And their hesitation made me wonder which choice they would make. They were not fools - the wall was smooth when they made their first circuit, and the appearance of a way to enter in was so clearly an invitation... that they gave in to their first impulse and resisted the lure. It was not clear to me if they would gird up their loins and enter, or turn and gather more of their kind. And in those simpler days, I did not wish to have my plans meddled with, not knowing what the result of a great number of heroes might be.
But a wonderful idea came to me, and it has served me many times since.
I recalled the noises the king had made, when I first made his acquaintance. The loudest shouts had been accompanied with wild glances, around the house, as if he could conjure up knights to come to his aid. Though I understood not his language, I deduced a chance to help his rescuers come to a decision.
If they but heard their king...
At once I made a dozen gloves, and woke him up. A fierce tickling did make him roar with his whole strength... but the results were not pleasing. He did not form words such as I heard from him the first night, and the second -
So the task fell unto me. All of the hands did leap up, poised to continue - and one clapped over his mouth. He looked more vexed than I had seen him in many seasons. How his nostrils hissed as he drank in the fortified air!
With him thus silenced, I took the part of the king. In the loud, bawdy voice I remembered well, I repeated the mouth-sounds he had shouted at the beginning, as he searched vainly for other men to interrupt the great torrent of pleasure in which I nourished him. His eyes grew so large...
And the sound I made turned the heads of the men on the wrong side of the door.
They pondered for only a moment - and rushed inside.
Such gallantry earned them a depthless reward.
Enter, good men and brave - or so I hailed them, without sounds. Welcome to the pleasure that is for your king, and has become yours... for there is no miserly amount of delight here that awaits. I shall make a beginning, with you as well - and forget to end it.
To seal the pact, I unmade the door.
With hearts pounding away, the men looked about the house - and saw the king. That seemed as good a time as any, so I lifted the glove from the mouth of my guest which had kept him from cheating them of their ravishment. And the other hands did I make leap all the more gladly.
He keened, and they boggled. I saw a change, then, come quickly to the older faces. And inside them I went -
Ah. The long-forgotten memory of the pleasure they were witnessing, left back in the mists of childhood.
Their eyes, and their thoughts, told me all. They feared the ministrations greatly, as did the king.
The younger one... now, his tale was more diverse. Intrigued by the hardness which remained in his visage, and the set of his jaw, I played inside his mind also, and he also knew it not. Barely a score of years in age, his people were stern and trained him well for battle. All he knew of pleasure was the savage rutting in the haylofts... which he did not conjure up to memory as he looked at the king's glee. But I found it there, in him. And naught else.
He, alone of these four, was unmoved by espying the gloves at work, kindling the king until he was addled.
But I had all herb-craft within, to hint me, and to work at a kingly gift for him too.

All this I learned, in the time it takes to laugh heartily two dozens.
The two knowingly turned to flee. But they bumped against the reconstituted wall. Most amusing it was to witness -
Not the youth. He stood fast, and I saw his thought ere his hand moved. Drawing his sword, he could imagine himself stalking over to the king and chopping an ankle-strap, and then the other -
It gave me surpassing joy to end his duties, and to signal so by taking his sword and casting it on the hearth.
I showed him a thing much finer... a place just for him, made so he might spend his great vitality on happier matters than war. Three beds appeared. Only he saw them arrive. Big, soft beds with stuffing exactly like unto goose-down. Friendly pillows.
Stout doeskin bracelets, on braided straps.
He looked at my gift, the start of so many teachings and the following of old trials. That soft fabric - I could see inside that he had no name for it, so never had he laid himself down on comfort so fine - was the first of numberless, undreamt animal delights.
His colleagues turned, and saw the rich pallets. One of them groaned, a womanly noise. I grew keen to start pleasuring that one...
Before they did move, I took all of their swords and knives. The weapons flew together and rang - and at the foot of the fire, I loosed the hold of their constituent elements. Even the king, guffawing there, took note of the forged iron... crumbling slowly into dust.
And next their cloaks dropped free. Breeches slipped down, showing milk-white skin - and dense hair. I cheered as my young squire, with his eyes cast down, observed his buskins fall unstitched, revealing muddy feet.
All of these garments I collected up and cast onto the hearth. The fire crackled merrily as I made it known to all who watched... that there was no need of raiment in this Pleasuring House.
. . .

[Squire is made ticklish with a fine herbal/'magic' dust blown into his face.]
After the others sleep, he was tickled awake.
His bed was turned so he could easily see the others, fast asleep - safe for a time from pleasure. Foolish lad. He was shown better - by jubilant fingers.
He roared, and the others did stir. That did not seem best, as they had not his vigor and would, after a time, wake refreshed and fit for more hard licks to wear down their fear of _enjoyment_.
But I quickly solved the matter, to the enrichment of their slumber and his perplexity. A clear wall did I throw down, between his bed and the rest of the house. And it suited me well, for he did stare as he howled at his fellow prisoners, but no more notice did their worn faces take of his _excitement_.
He taught himself, yet again, that my bonds were cunning and sure.
And then he laughed free. Raising his head, as he would, to whoop longingly at the other men, who missed the added portion of _stimulation_ I gave him. The sight of him - so wrongly jealous of the escape into slumber from which I saved him - cheered me...
But it was crowned right after! In the pure frustration that drove him to battle with the pleasure, he pummeled the feather pillow with much force. Again and again, laughing witlessly as he did - fighting with the only movement I had left him, the desperate forceful fall of his head. A gesture which served only to kindle me.
I had brought him so very far - in but the half part of a day!
Directing more liveliness from the air into his being, it became my wish that he spend more hours laughing than the others would. I would let him doze, oh, an eighth-part of the day - by filling him with the abundant energy of the _free beasts_, so he could enjoy the revels even harder.

And when his chest kept a slower pace, all those maddened strokes later, I shaved him and his fellows.
Feeling mischevious, I spared not the beard of the lad - indeed, only his brows and the shagged flaxen tresses were left. For another sport came to me, as I watched him sleep. The skin on his face - even that of a warrior - could be made supple and fit to give him pleasure, when I stroked it, such as he had been kept from knowing before the matted face-fur proceeded to grow.
 

So his new life began, and I enjoyed it more and more.
Since he had not known pleasure, I endeavored to reveal it all to him. And he fought me, struggling with his limbs and his mind. But still the fingers came, and the feathers, all manner of brushes and furs.
It was a contest of wills such as the king never tried. But sometimes the vassal is the better of the monarch, and so here. That hard expression rarely left the lad's eyes, even as his body longed to roar harder. The power of sensation did only but grow for him, and always he strove to hold his wits above the seething flames.
He will know pleasure. It became akin to a vow of mine. Look hard upon it as the fingers come to you yet again, noble student, and mark it well. The glee will start again, times without number, in the house where such things are to be.

Along with him, the other men followed their own entertaining courses.
The largest of the interlopers had a special weakness for buffing. I wrapped silk around him loosely, in strips of divers sizes, and slowly pulled to and fro. The graceful pressure, moving and moving again, filled the air with gales of churlish laughter...
The other was doomed to the touch of the brush. Hours uncounted, of fine small tools lightly scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing. It seemed the drag of those small bristles was a fashion made for his skin above all others, and such a fancy was powerfully fed by the unmanned ravings and shrieking that the brushes did cause.
But the fair lad, my squire, was the king's man. Scores of fingers, be they silk or oiled goatskin, was the undoing of them both. The feather served in some places, keeping his _excitement_ at a frothy boil... but he and his soverign laughed most to the steady crawl of my loving hands. And nothing would foil my wishes of luxury for the enraptured foursome.
. . .

[ Unguents for gums and teeth, and voice ]

Games were thus made, for the hard rapture of them all.
They each spent several hours, before and after the midday meal, on their own beds. I made them bray and squeal until the tears did drip off their faces. Other leaks, too, but these I cleaned up so they ever fixed their minds on the enjoyment I gave them.
And then...

Perhaps the stocks. The heroes were arrayed before their king, feet and hands caught well. But not their heads. And laugh they did, to remind them of the treatment in store, always drawing near. But I let them gasp and settle, before I made it appear - a jester's cap of silk, richly colored like a tapestry, with symbols of the laughter in which they now moved. They did watch as it sat before them, in the air... making them twist and feign to back away. But I would have none of that. The cap went to one of their heads, and the older men would wail and slam around, so afeared were they. On it would go, snuggled tightly to be sure they would not throw it off. And as it was worn, that man endured the wild assault, even as the others did groan - for I did not make them only wait and watch! No. I made for each a little stock for their member. Not painful. Sung around the thickness, padded and locked up tight, which mattered not with their hands duly locked in the plank-holes. But the luxurious stroking of their manhoods could thus continue as their peer did wail and gibber, fighting with the stocks as I tickled him into a high frenzy.
The cap did slide off at my bidding, and go to another man. Or the same man, yet again. And the others would pant and wish for relief from the longing to spill their seed...
At times, the cap would be gone - and appear on the head of the king. That was the command, then, for all to hoot and gibber. Until I held the cap aloft again, and three sets of eyes were most keen to watch it move away, sitting on another head, so that it was another who screamed with bliss at my quickening fingers.

So many happy nights. Me, with knowledge and power to keep them lively, and giddy...
. . .
 

[Back in the present day]
Bring him back...

[A fine modern "biker", which is the mode closest to his warrior past. Or the original captive is mentally "reprogrammed" into a biker version of the much-loved Squire]

825

He saw the gas station.
"Whooooh," he sighed. Running on fumes... he had to stop fucking around like this, he really did. There were gas stations everywhere, and one of these days he was going to push it too far.
The sign was rusty. A regional oil company, and the price was a good twenty cents higher than in Atlanta. He'd expected that, though. It was the penalty he paid for waiting. A stupidity tax. He could've filled up at the interstate and saved a couple bucks...
But he was fifty miles off the interstate now. The state highway looked like a direct shot to _destination_, and he had time to waste.
The building was long and rickety. Loose shake shingles, paint all gone. It made him think of every old movie and TV show that supposedly took place in the Ozarks. A stereotypical backwoods shack, or maybe a general store built a hundred years ago and still being used.
The dirt driveway was circular, leading past four sad-looking gas pumps that might've been twice his age. A covered porch looked over the pumps, and he saw a few guys there, leaning back in their chairs.
Old South.
He grinned, and finished his smoke.
Places like this were why he liked trying sleepy little roads instead of, say, I-_interstatenumber_. It was an effort to be patient, folks moved so slow... and he was always trying to reel his ego back in. He didn't want to be thinkin' he was any better than these old farts. And he was jealous, too, of the easy pace out there. It was a love/hate thing.
He turned in and edged up to the pump. The men all watched him, of course. Nobody had any shoes on. Shutting off the engine, he got out and looked up at the door. Was he supposed to wait for somebody to pump the gas, like in Oregon?
At least he could pull out the gas cap. When he got closer to the pump, a faded sign caught his eye.

PAY FIRST AND THEN YOU PUMP IT

The lettering was handwritten. Maybe a carpenter's pencil, he thought, and the letters slanted wildly to the left. He was still smiling when he turned around and walked toward the door.
Seeing the men from only a few yards away, he stopped walking.
All their feet were up in the air. It looked really weird. He wondered if they were actually pointing their soles at him, but none of their bodies turned at all.
If it was some kind of insult, he'd surely never heard of it before. His people didn't do that back in Arkansas...
The men looked at him, and he stared back. It was an effort to start walking closer, but he really needed the gas.
They had some kind of breathing problem. Almost panting, and the youngest guy made these irregular little grunts. Their toes flexed irratically - but their feet didn't move. None of them even shifted around. They almost looked like they were frozen there, breathing hard.
Something about the way the young guy sounded was worrisome. His eyes weren't open. All of their heads were angled back, because of the way they sat, but he started to roll his head around - and changed his mind, it seemed, because his head suddenly stopped moving. He didn't look happy... but maybe dreaming of something hot. Sexy.
He wasn't that much older than the guy who drove up. Sitting closest to the door, but he acted almost like he wasn't all there.
The next guy, in the middle, didn't make any move to indicate he was in charge either. He had to in his forties, and his feet had some big honkin' corns. His toes were actually a little bit higher than his head, and the driver was amazed he could even hold 'em up there, steadily, given how chubby he was.
On the far end was a much older black guy. His eyes looked sad. There was no reason he should've been breathing like that, steady and deep, as if he'd been walking for an hour or two. With his hands behind his head, it seemed a lot more likely that he'd been sitting right there for a couple hours straight.
The driver wondered if the other men realized how much alike they looked, all leaning back, with their hands behind their heads...
"How do," he said to the black man, nodding.
"Mornin'."
The voice was wrong. A younger white guy. Looking over, the new arrival saw the man which would've best matched the voice still didn't have his eyes open. His lips looked tight, and almost flattened.
"I could really use some gas," the driver said doubtfully.
"We got some," the voice said.
He looked around again - even behind him. Where the hell was he? The guy answering him?
"Good."
"Set y'self down and have a smoke, now," the voice said.

Weird. Something really odd was going on.
He wasn't going to sit next to the three foot-freaks, there.
But he doubted there was even five miles of gas left in the tank, and he had no idea if there was another gas station or not...
Friendly, he thought. Be nice. That's all it is. Somebody's just wanting a little conversation, probably. Could be interesting. But if they think I'm gonna take my shoes off, they've got another thing coming.
"Sure," he finally said, reaching into his shirt pocket.
The youngest guy made a sad noise. Lonely.
Immediately, the old black guy looked even sadder, and the fat man started working his jaw back and forth.
The driver, not wanting to stare, lit his smoke.
"Where ya from, boy?"
Now that was definitely the black guy, "Austin. But I'm not on my way back there," he added, to show that he wasn't lost.
"Got kin here, do ya?" the fat guy mumbled.
"No sir. Just wanderin'. Nowhere special to be."
"Cut to fit," the black guy said.
"Yep."
"Fit what?," the driver asked.
"You're not in any hurry, I reckon," the fat guy said.
"Well, no."
"It's a lowdown dirty shame," the black man said.
The younger man opened his eyes, looked at the new arrival... and looked down at his own feet. He seemed to be wiggling his toes a lot.
Creepy. The driver took another drag, and kicked at the gravel. They're just different than city folk, he thought. That's all.
"Thirsty?," the voice said. Dammit, it was a fourth guy. Not in the doorway, and not behind him.
"Uh, no," the driver said. "But thanks just the same."
Nobody seemed to be in any hurry to say anything, so he looked around some more and smoked.
"Well, have a rest," the voice insisted.
"I'm fine, th-"
There was another chair, next to the black man. It hadn't been there before. And he'd never seen one like it before...
Like an oversized bicycle seat, tilted back, it had a padded bump on the back - but no legs. Just hanging there.
He blinked, and looked again. That can't just float there like that, he thought. The other guys were leaning back in cheap old chairs with chrome legs.
"No," he said. "Uh -"
A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped to the other side.
"Sure," the voice said happily. "Wanna beer?"
He didn't see the hand. It felt like a friendly gesture.
An invisible redneck? That was ridiculous.
"Thanks, but no -"
Thick fingers curled around his right bicep.
"Brought up right, you were," the voice said. Warm, and easygoing. "Yessir, nossir, thank you and please."
He was staring at his arm, where nothing at all was... visibly holding him, and jerked his head when another hand just like it grabbed his left arm.
"Hey."
The voice chuckled.
Pushing forward, toward the steps -
"Hey!," he barked, suddenly afraid.
"Easy, boy," the fat guy said.
"I'm not... I don't wanna - let me go!"
But the hands took him past all the upraised feet, and turned him. They shoved his ass down like they weren't inclined to take "no" for an answer, and let go.
He rocked back, sliding a few inches until the back of the seat stopped him. Now he was tilted at the same angle as the others...
Wood.
He stared at the stocks.

All of the men's feet were caught in massive hickory boards. Big, shiny padlocks kept their ankles trapped. The unpainted wood was casting a shadow on their legs.
It explained why their feet were up in the air like that.
The stocks were obviously solid, and heavy. What he wondered was why the fuck he couldn't see them from where he'd pulled up.
Looking at the old man next to him, the driver saw why his hands were tucked behind his neck. A wide band of leather hid his wrists.
They all had their hands trapped like that.
"Oh, shit," he said.
At the other end of the line, the younger guy nodded, rolling his eyes.
"Any chance of -"
"You remember what you said?," the fat man sneered. "Have a set-down, it said, and you said 'Sure'."
"Lit a smoke," the black guy added.
"And you're a-wanderin', too."
"Cut to fit," he said shakily, finally understanding it.
"Yessir."
A pair of stocks appeared right in front of him.
"These are for you," the voice said, as friendly as could be.
"Uh -"
"Ain't nobody never got away," the fat man said. "Get ready to laugh your ass off, son."
Fingers pounced around his lower legs - and pulled them up, off the ground.
He fought as hard as he could, but his shoelaces were pulled until the knots loosened. First one, and then the other. There seemed to be a dozen hands pulling his own arms up... getting 'em positioned. Trying to move didn't stop his cross-trainers from being pulled off - or the stained brown leather from getting hold of his wrists.
Dammit, he couldn't move his hands. The position of his arms wasn't uncomfortable, exactly, but his armpits were just about as open as they could be.
His right sock was pulled off.
"Hoooo-weee," the voice crowed.
Bucking around, he watched the stocks open, and his left sock fall -
"Help!," he yelled to nobody in particular. "Don't do this, dammit..."
His legs were moved into position, and the top-piece swung down. No matter what he did, there was no stopping the hooks which floated up to thick iron rings and slid down, far too secure to vibrate loose.
"Let's do it," the voice said -
Fingers he couldn't see started laying down... over his soles. They felt almost like the tail of his ex-girlfriend's cat. Short fur.
"Please let me go," he whimpered.
"Naw, you jest let your hair down."
They started to - move.

Oh, fuck, he went wild. Throwing himself around, whooping and giggling... then howling, now and then, when he could manage to do something other than roar.
He was vaguely aware of the other men leaving.
The level of intensity wasn't going down at all. Nothing had ever been as frustrating as the damn stocks - when he kicked, something should've happened. But his feet stayed right where the fingers wanted 'em, and so did his hands. There wasn't a single thing he could do.

A louder engine finally cut through the blast of confusing electricity -
He squinted desperately, hoping to see a big truck, maybe a bus. Some other visitor to get him free.
There was an old tow truck in front of his car.
Squealing with tortured laughter, he struggled all over again.

But his car was taken away...
He sat there, alone, and laughed himself hoarse.

The fingers gave him a rest, now and then, but when they started back in it was almost worse. He still couldn't move. The other men - bait, he realized - were nowhere to be seen. They'd served their purpose.
Sometimes there were fingers holding his toes apart. That was brutal. He could barely breathe when they tickled between his toes. Feathers, from the feel... And the hands were trying different ways to tickle his calves and shins. Sliding into his jeans. Rubbing as if he didn't even have any pants on at all.
Fuck, he'd just walked right out of his car and into this nightmare.
He didn't remember ever feeling quite this... unhinged.

After he pissed his pants - again - he chuckled like a lunatic, rolling his head around. The fucker wasn't going to stop tickling yet. There was no getting out of the stocks, the other bastards had disappeared, and his legs were far more ticklish than he ever would've guessed. Maybe not being able to move was part of it.
The sun was further down in the sky. He desperately wanted to believe that was a good thing. Closer to being cut loose from this torture. Overload of pleasure, until he couldn't roar hard enough to deal with it all...

Moving.
He gasped for air, and watched the ground scroll by.
Lifting his head, he saw trees. Behind him, the old building -
"N-nuh," he panted.
There were leather straps holding his ankles together, and a whole bunch of hands carrying him by the arms. Head-down.
Oh, shit, he was being taken somewhere.
His car was gone, and now the fuckin' tickler was hauling him off.

A good ten minutes of struggling did him no good at all.
There was a creaking noise. He looked in the direction where the hands were taking him -
Log cabin? Maybe. Rustic, and sturdy. They were carrying him to a door.
No matter what he tried, they had no problem floating him right inside. Candlelight - and a thick door, swinging out...
The hands rotated him. Feet-down, he saw a mattress, benches, racks. Cuffs and straps everywhere. Manacles and shackles.
Several huge cabinets -
He was carried over to a huge claw-foot tub. Thick cuffs had been bolted at each end of the upper edge.
A pair of leather gloves came up to meet him. Then another set.
Fourteen, in all...

Fearing oil didn't prepare him at all... for seeing it. Actually watching the jug approach. His torso was wide open.
So was his crotch.
 

It had been the longest day of his life.
The words rang hollow, because obviously he was in for another day. A full one. That would probably top yesterday. In fact, it looked like he'd be surprised... every day. Outdoing the one before -
The door was opening.
"No fair," a voice drawled, sounding more worried than angry. Really worked up, though. "You cain't. Not fair, dammit, it's his turn..."

"Help me," he wailed. "You don't know - aw, dammit, I can't take it again. Please, you big ol' ticklin' bastard, it's his time. I done my share... aw, shit, naaaaw -"
The young guy gulped. Then he exploded with laughter. It sounded energetic, and even as he threw his body all around the roars were just filled with desperation.

826

There was a headache, all of a sudden -
His head popped back up, and he smiled. Chuckling quietly.
"Smoke," he murmured to himself, looking around for a store.

Tugging hard on the cigarette - and looking so relieved - he walked down the alley. Over to the park. That was really dumb.
He strolled around to the west border.
Nobody ever went there. Not alone. It was just asking for trouble.
He laughed out loud.

About half a pack later, a beat-up old car rolled by... with no driver.
"Oh, shit," he laughed.
As soon as he started to run, black gloves caught him. Squeezing his sides -
A high-pitched wail popped out.
They dragged him to the car.

"No no no," he begged.
Centrifugal force slammed him against the door as the car tore around a corner. He tired to shake off the blindfold - and fought the bandanna that was being tied between his teeth.
Fingers clamped under his knees.
He screeched, flailing around.
. . .

The guy seemed surprised by what he was saying - only at first, and then he grinned happily...

"Listen - this is really important - acting reluctant gets me off. I'm gonna sound like I'm completely unwilling. Do not stop. Don't back off in the least. I can't help it, I always act exactly like I want the fun to stop. But you gotta promise you won't fall for that. Tease the fuck outa me. Make a big point out of the isolation, no chance to escape, and don't hold back no matter what."
After a few stunned seconds, the rookie TM says, "Well... okay."
He whoops for joy - and then his face changes. Confusion.

Oh, yeah. He's going crazy. Hooting, snorting, wild to get off the bed.

827

R woke up with a throbbing head, from the _mescal_. After lying there for a minute, he remembered wonderful things - not only that it was Saturday, which meant there would be more cans and bottles to collect.
He ate the last _pound cake_ and two tortillas, splashed water on his head to straighten his hair, and went out.
D's little shed was along the way to the avenida...

He was not in there. Somebody was, though. R felt it race out and circle him, like a strong wind. Playful. He pictured a ghost, except this was not scary at all.
Something was shoved into his pocket. Then the feeling of another... someone in the room went away.
Still trying to figure out what had just happened, R reached into his pocket.
He found a gringo ten-dollar note and a card. It was like a business card, except there was a sketch on it - of D. Same shaggy hair. R was certain, even though it was a cartoon.
An address was written on the card. And a little smiley-face with the tip of a tongue sticking out. It was a little symbol that D would draw when he was in a good mood - or thinking about one.

This was money R had not expected. Half of it would buy him food and water for two weeks.
Walking to the address on the card, he decided to treat himself - cigarettes he did not have to roll. It never hurt to have an extra lighter. _pastries_. Cerveza? This felt like something the rich people did - bringing gifts when visiting a friend. D must have come into very much money, because he was not one to waste it. And the calle written on the card was in the warehouse district where not many houses were located.
R had a fun idea. Stopping over where T usually hung out, at the cafe, he bought two blunts. If D was enjoying such incredible good fortune, he might weaken and finally get high with R for once.

It was a real house. Amazing.
Not large, but well kept, tucked between old factories and backing up to the canal. The paint was faded - but there was an iron fence which was stout. This, R saw, was shrewd. It did not appear to be a place to attract notice, but someone had made sure it was secure from unwanted visitors. Probably it had been a superintendent's house for the closest business, fifty years ago - but the fence suggested it had been sold off. Not a great location in the view of rich people, but to _shantytown_ ratas like R and D it was a palace.
He walked between the silent buildings. Not being used. Empty like many others on the calle.
There was a black wire gate, taller than R, and he hesitated. Was there a button to push, so that D would know he had arrived?
Click.
The gate popped open.
Somehow R had expected a buzzing, or some other noise. He pushed slowly, and the heavy door swung in.
A small yard, with struggling grass. Nothing special. There were drapes closed inside each window...
And the front door was already open a little.
R certainly hoped this was not a joke. The wrong house - he could get shot.
About to knock, he smelled smoke. This was not like D, so perhaps there was someone else already here. A party, maybe.
"Bueno," R called, sticking his head inside. "D?"
"Si," he heard his friend say, apparently from the kitchen. "_C'mon in_."
Walking in, and turning left - yes, smoke. But no other voices. Damn, it appeared that even the kitchen was much larger than R's whole place. A big television was turned on -
And there was D. Lighting a cigarette, which was unusual enough. But he had a large tattoo, still puffy on his left arm...
and bright rope holding him to the chair. Only one of his hands was free. Who had tied him?
"I was sure," D said, "that it would drag you here if you did not come on your own."
He was drunk! This was almost too many surprises at once. R finally pulled another chair over and sat down heavily.
"What would?"
D sighed. "The Mod."
R didn't believe he had heard D correctly. Or it was the _mescal_. "Mod? Do you mean... one of the invisible things? From America?"
"Si."
"A Mod - you?" That was too funny. Mods were said to hunt for party animals. Adopt 'em. That seemed to have some benefits, but it didn't seem to R to be a short-term deal.
"Us."
"Us - me too?"
"It wanted two men."
"Of all the loco things to happen. Here."
"I know." D did not seem pleased, at first - but he ended up grinning, shaking his head. "And to us, of all people."
"Mods are a gringo thing."
"Remember that turista? Last week?"
"Ah," R said. He was an odd one. Young, nervous... and very happy about simple things. Just sitting in the cafe, or walking around. They had wondered if he was just out of prison.
But apparently that had been the work of a mod. And now it had decided to catch two ratas from the _shantytown_ instead.
"He had seemed pleased, particularly on the last day," D said. "I think the Mod had already... picked us."
"Amazing. Why did it tie you up?"
"The damn tattoo." And D did scowl then. "Now I know why that gringo had so many."
"It did not... just do that to you."
"Si," and D's face changed. "Oh, no. Your turn."
Hands grabbed R - and a big coil of rope fell in his lap.
"Hey!"
"I am sorry, amigo."
A shiny metal tool was floating over. Buzzing...

"This Mod is... very pushy," R said, with a hiss.
It was tattooing him, alright. And so many invisible hands were holding him that he could not move at all.
"Si, si," D grumbled, watching a new pack of cigarettes being opened.

828

[after first night of T]

No gloves in sight. The door appeared to be open.
There was a little tray laid out. Water, cigarettes, a bottle of ibuprofen...
The only clothes he could see was a pair of purple silk boxers.
It hurt to breathe. Every spot on him seemed to throb. Reaching over carefully he drank some water, then went for three of the pills. After that, he fought the urge to doze off - it would really suck to be here too long and give some asshole ideas, when there had been a chance to run.
By the second cigarette he could sit up.
During the next one, he made himself stand up. Wobbly, he headed for the hallway.
The other doors were locked. He turned a corner and saw what had to be the main entrance... covered with locks.
Sighing, he set that idea aside for the time being and looked around the kitchen. There was a flat-panel TV for some reason - and coffee was already made, so he opened the logical cabinet and found mugs. Sitting down slowly, he was greeted by a couple packs of cigarettes laying there, and an ashtray that had a few butts in it already. He sensed a trend, there.
Halfway through a cigarette his midsection was starting to loosen up. And his legs. It seemed like he'd been washed down. Before too long he'd need to piss. He got another smoke lit, obscurely grateful not to be touched for awhile -
There was a soft click. He jumped. The TV made a humming sound as it warmed up.
Knocking ash off his smoke, he mad sure nothing was about to jump him...
White flowers appeared on the screen. Soft koto music. Words faded in -

BALANCING WORLD KARMA

"You've gotta be kidding," he finally mumbled, sighing.
There was a slow fade... and an old man in a yellow robe was standing there, with a dumbass smile on his face.

[welcome - and he would apologize, but as the situation was explained the greater good would certainly be evident. The victim's "vacation" had been donated (hah!) to help all people on the planet. So much antagonism - meaning not just misery and suffering, but that deliberate nastiness and cruelty that was so much more harmful than it seemed. In order to combat the corrosive effects a series of "happy houses" had been created. They were funded by a reclusive billionaire, and staffed by magical happymakers from a more advanced "psychoastral dimension". The guest's needs were carefully tended to, even their finances, so that their contributed time could be focused on the antidote to cruelty... which is mirth. Many guests even became so passionate about their vital task that they remained after their scheduled term of service had expired. Thank you again for helping to save our world.]

He finally rocked back. What had happened last night was gonna... keep happening.
The so-called happymakers were cruel, or at least addicted to taunting. Leaning in hard. The doofus on the TV seemed calm enough. Maybe... he didn't know what was really going on? Financing all this tickling. Prisons.
That was maybe the most deeply solid realization. There might have been the rare guy who would think this kind of treatment was heaven, but no doubt the usual way of agreeing to an "extension" was being faked, or forged. The setup was too well-run to allow, uh, suitable guys to get away - not with the dedication all the gloves and shit displayed last night. Anybody really opposed to cruelty would've been totally shocked by what he'd gone through, in that cell. Probably in all those other locked doors down the hall too.
And it wasn't going to stop. Not anytime soon. He had no fuckin' doubt left.

829

It's like something out of a fairy tale, this moment. Looking at him...
Pure triumph.
The result of all the careful planning was right here, and the moment was unbelievably enjoyable. It had wanted to surprise and hide someone - a pet - and now here he was. A terrific choice. Having him laid out, unable to cover up at all, completely prevented from moving away, was just spectacular.
Almost entranced, it picked up the first feather.

He squirmed in the most satisfying way. The giggling and chortling was unbalanced, way too happy, desperate and fully consuming. There was no direction in which he could fidget to find any relief from the excitement. He tried so hard to get up, but the restraints kept him flat on his back. His arms couldn't protect his dependable armpits. Neither leg moved closer to the other, so all of the nerve endings between them - so very wide awake now - could be reached and stimulated.
It was so completely delighted by all of his reactions. Clear, unstoppable distress - and the sounds of mirth, which were usually spontaneous signs of pleasure. Even the most gentle pleasure, continuously applied, made him plead and writhe, thrashing, yelping, miserable whines fading effortlessly into thick chortles, then wrenching giggles, back to a mournful wail which dropped to mindless hoots and snickers as he pulled at the restraints, kicked helplessly, shifted and arched and rolled his head...
"Please, please," he keeps repeating between fits of laughter. "Pleeee-eeeeeeeze..."

Feathers stroked the boundaries of his crotch, his nipples, and his recently shaved insteps. Brushes traced endlessly, with dramatic effect, across his belly. Slow massage consumed his hips, and knees, and triceps.
It was like a textbook illustration of maddened, deranged reactions.

Each hour led to the next.

Tears still rolled down his face.
Even if he could no longer laugh, the impact was unmistakable. Returning back to a sensitive spot caused a little jerk, maybe twenty seconds of chuckling...
His face was relaxed. The expression of pain had been there for hours, but it was gone now. The tension was completely gone - toes, fingers, arms. Even his pulse had leveled off. But he was still completely consumed. Every instant. He was deep inside.
Seven hours, and there was no mistaking how ticklish he remained.
More than anything in the world, he probably wanted to be set free. Fingers leaving him alone, restraints being taken off. But he'd do just fine.
Two more hours, it decided. Then he can rest up - for his first full day of forced excitement.
 

There was no reason the tickling couldn't resume tomorrow, after he'd rested and eaten. And so on.
. . .
 

He wasn't going anywhere. And his crewmates had no idea he was in here. Odds were very good that those statements would remain true indefinitely.
But it was having so much fun. Full satisfaction.
So long as he was bound, there remained only the possibility that some idiot would accidentially poke his head inside. The compartment had been chosen because it was too far from anywhere important to be used - not even for storage - and no one ever came near it. More than enough thick padding had been installed to keep any hint of his distress from being known.
His health and stamina were everything it could have hoped for. Not only could it tickle him tonight, and make it an excruciatingly blissful night at that, but he couldn't crawl away. So he would see the unearthly gloves and feathers begin again. And again, times without number. That's what it had desired, and he was safely in hand.
No telling how long...
If he was undiscovered. The tickling must not be interrupted. This week, next month. Happy new year, captive. Really get into the party I'm hosting for you. On you.
Months and months of tickling required that no other crewmember accidentially lean on that door handle. That would spoil everything. He couldn't reach the door, as long as it was between him and the exit from all this sweaty, tearful laughter. But there was a way to be undeniably sure that the door wouldn't just open for him either. The idea of an end being brought about by some moron on the crew was distracting - and by the captive himself, absolutely infuriating.
 

It had enjoyed such a staggering rush when it turned the lock, needing no key or knob.
There.
Such satisfaction -
Every other risk is banished. As was... time.

Nothing at all can intrude.

Never more in charge, in control, ruling - than after the lock is engaged. Now there's every opportunity, gained and securely held, to do all that it wants.

It had been a sudden inspiration. The closet was big enough, perfectly insulated from sound leakage... and the ticklish prisoner was snoring quietly. He had no idea. And it wasn't going to even think about when it would stop tickling and let him go -
But the closet door had no lock.
That was easily solved. A good lock, not only to send the message to its ticklish new friend, but also to keep the unlikely snoop from peeking inside. It wanted to hide the door completely, so nobody would affect the endless tickling it longed to dish out...
But the lock was wonderful. Bright, and sturdy. He'd never be able to pull the door open - until it was done tickling him. The contact could just continue, over and over, by hauling him back to the restraints. No, prisoner, you're not done feeling it yet. Oh, no.
Something deeply magical happened when it turned the lock - almost like instantly transporting him to its own private planet. Everything was ready and waiting for his feverish experience. There would be no escape to reality until it had doled out every single second of excitement it wished. For every hour and night and week until then, he was perfectly trapped. For serious tickling. Deep, full, thorough, unimaginable tickling for the prisoner. The lock made it possible, in a way. Verified his little departure from a drab, untickled life.
With the movement of a bolt, his entire reality centered on it. And what it wanted to do most, of many grueling things, was tickle night and day. Sessions would last as long as it desired, interspersed with enough sleep to make him responsive for the next unthinkably long episode. Resumptions without number. Knowledge about his unique weaknesses increasing, new combinations which maximized the effect even more, and still more, whisked away from the tyranny of time. Every second in its absolute control. Stroke, knead, tease, polish...
The sensation is just unbearable.
Even if he wasn't strapped down, the door is too much for him. It makes sure that the tickling will start over and over. Hope is on the other side of the door - and the lock keeps it there. Inside, with him, there is only more tickling. No one is able to hear his hysterical giggling and pleading, lusty grunts, airy wails of excessive pleasure. They don't have a clue. So his fever continues...
If the door was gone, someone walking by would know. And stop the tickling. But they can't see inside his prison. No accident or curiosity will let anyone open the door - not now, that the lock is ensuring that the fun goes on. Guaranteeing it. Making sure he remains helpless and tickled. Exhaustively, obsessively, enthusiastically tickled. Off the ship's payroll now, and for a long time to come, he'll simply experience all the captor has in store for his room and board. Bills, finances, credit ratings are banished from here. Irrelevant. A special room has been selected, then readied particularly for him. There are more than enough restraints, and gloves, and feathers. This is the lodging that he earns with his delirius suffering. Food is a small price to pay, from the tickler's perspective. Taking care of his body is a service which allows the tickling to continue. All of that intricate attention is part of the contract - all of the tickling he can possibly stand, in exchange for his bodily needs. And perfect privacy. The fun must continue.
And it will. That's so incredibly obvious. With the room undiscovered, and the lock attracting the attention of no one - except the prisoner - his ordeal will not have to end at any foreseeable time. Tickling will be followed by more tickling. This is his job now. No one else knows about the forced reassignment, and they cannot possibly discover it...
Eager fingers dig in.
. . .
 

[2-3 years later]

A phone message was automatically generated, the result of a pirate program in a "homeland security" database...
He had reentered the city. Determined, no doubt, to avoid the port at all costs. But the most likely people he'd contact were listed. Secret surveillance began -
There!

Leaving a friend's house, he lights a smoke and gets into a rusty old pickup truck. It's a different vehicle than he used to have - an attempt to fuck up his trail, perhaps...
But contingency plans have always existed.
Invisible hands take charge. All of the wild-eyed, screaming panic can't stop the cuffs, or the gag. His truck takes him away...
In the opposite direction from the port, a bad neighborhood is the first stop. Another car is waiting - untraceable. It ferries him to a new, unexpected place of employment.
And he's marched, despite all the terrified resistance, past his old ship.
Another one has a very special bunkroom. The door was welded shut, but it was a small matter to make a secret hatch. A large, cool space that's never been used - until now.
Carefully, he's hauled in.
A spectacular cell, for this man! So many fine racks and stocks, slings, chairs. Case after case of tickling supplies. Shelves filled with water and food.
Held tight, screaming into the gag, a sound makes him look up. It's the hatch, five feet above his head, swinging down. This is the new door, which will never move. No human knows about it...
And three stout, wonderful locks turn.
The world ceases to exist. Instead, the cell - and his new assignment, to endure so much more tickling than even the last time he was caught, beginning with the knowledgeable greeting of a dozen approaching gloves - are everything that matters.

12july2006
 

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