831

Expanded in 2014 - see "Damon"

832

Kirk slips out the back door, pats his hip to make sure he's got the door keys on him, and lights up. Grateful - needing it - he takes another drag.
Then he hears laughter.
Slow-motion seems to take over everything. In the light of a single bulb across the alley, he can make out the guy's squirming form... and the hogtie, thick nylon rope trapping his wrists and ankles.
He's laughing. Dark cloth is tied around his head. A gag -
Is that a hand clutching his ribs? Another, digging under his arm?
It's inevitable, and gradual, but of course the hands move up. Into the air. Gloves, Kirk thinks numbly. Magic gloves that look as firm as can be. He walked out at the wrong time and interrupted something.
Now they're coming over.
He turns - unable to move fast enough - and they're almost on the door. So much closer to him now. The only way he's getting back inside is through them.
Behind him, there's a muffled wail. Cackling.
With a flash of insight, he realizes that it's one fucker moving all the gloves. Wearing them. Catching a guy who looks strong enough to take care of himself, and making him whoop his guts out. Then it went for Kirk too. Fuckin' tickler has enough hands -
One of Kirk's biceps, then the other, are snagged.
I'm so screwed, he thinks frantically. If it finds out before I get away -
Fingers worm their way into his armpits.
"No!" he barks, lunging back and forth, before the first chuckles seize him.
The gloves seem capable and relaxed as they haul him away. Still tickling - roaming up and down his sides, across his belly, at least three of the bastards tickling and twice that many carrying him without a problem... and the first guy, who's fighting like crazy in front of Kirk.
His feverish nightmare gets so much worse when a car door opens up in front of him.
Slammed down on the back seat, Kirk can't do shit except howl. The other dude's in front, and he's yelling, but it sounds mostly like hard laughter.
The engine turns over... and he's kidnapped. Tickling hands got him. They want more time, so he's kidnapped. It hasn't even started getting intense yet.

Oh, fuck, the straps are real.
"Please, no, aw fuck no, please," he chants.
Dark leather fingers take his shoes off, and tease him by slowly peeling off his left sock.

833

This time I skip the usual taunting and tie him quickly. Right now I'm interested in hearing no static -
Four gloves. Flying down urgently.
Ah...

He's just what I needed.
Combing his soles quickly, I pick up some cords and whip 'em around his big toes. Knotting - and making my target area taut.
Digging in -
Alright. Now we're in business.

Good dude. He's losing it...
It's a good night to find feet I know this well. After a good hour to recharge, I'll work my way up his sides. Then I'll be ready to grab a car and get him somewhere more safe, certain, long-term.
That thought is so cheering, I lift the gloves for a minute and let him catch his breath.
"Fuh... for fuck's sake," he finally gasps, "let me go-oooooo..."
I dive back in. Fingertips comb the thick hair in his armpits. He whines at a high-pitch, arching for all he's worth - and slamming down, he kicks out one "Huh". Then he starts to chuckle. Shaking his head, pulling at the rope, it's so fuckin' obvious he doesn't want to laugh. But he does - and he will.

834

Mine, dammit.
I like taking a few seconds to admire my work. They're not gonna budge. But really, it isn't the toe restraints and the cuffs that keep me staring. I can study 'em anytime...
These feet. Ooooh yeah.
I wanted 'em, and now I own 'em. For as long as I want, they're safely locked away. I suppose the feet already caught are more attractive than damn near any others, but these fuckers have been delightful. Three or four careful hours, mixing it up, lots of rest breaks - and he just stays hysterical the whole time I'm back at it. Unhinged.
Squeeze 'em, trace the lines and edges, paint 'em, snapping rubber bands and rulers, a little wax, sandpaper barely touching down as I soften up his heels, ultrasonic massagers, shoe polishers, liniment, ice cubes, dish scrubbers, dozens of brushes and buffers. Pain isn't given for long - the main deal here is lavishing the endless pleasure of tickling. That makes the rest of his body arch and tug, trying every possible manuever to get the feet loose. The full range of spontaneous noise pours out of his mouth, mindless growling laughs all the way to full-blown bellows. When I think that maybe the feet are starting to register a little less excitement than they did at the start of the day, well, I just move on to his ribs.
They're mine to torture, just like these pleasingly doomed insteps, sides, heels - toes - and soles. I order them to wake up and magnify the tickling...
Right now.

Four gloves. Hard massage, squeezing and kneading. Tickling - of course, always more and more of that. I could be helping the muscles loosen up without the stimulation that makes him crow... but c'mon. We're here for the laughs. I give 'em, and he kicks 'em out.
His first jerk - surprise! - gives way to the usual desperate, frantic efforts to move. The cuffs, I'm happy to say, barely even shift around... posing these feet above a table covered with the right kind of tools for the job. The toes try so hard to get away. Other bones move, too, in case the restraints would allow his to rock his arches to one side or the other. So profoundly longing to escape the grasp of my gloves. I'll get him wide awake and switch to something more nuanced. Slow, and unignorable. The letter openers - yes. Targeted, almost sharp, coasting like I'll never, ever let 'em stop.
 

This guy had a good disguise. Button-down science dude.
I had my eye on the younger janitor - now there's a real missing link, due for a full workout later - and by accident I happened to notice what this dude was working on.
Turned out we had some interests in common. Well, indirectly. I figured he could use some first-hand neural overload. Bring a couple fresh angles into play. So I followed him home, and when the dress shirt came off it was almost a shock to see the tattoos. Friend of the RK's, huh?
This geek?

Well, I did a little digging. His cousins were patched. Almost got him on the hook, too. Some fuckin' adult woke up and browbeat him into enrolling in college. Fast-forward seven years, and a lot of hours at the gym...
And here we are.
. . .
 

"What the... fuck," he announced. It's good to see a little of that scoot-mutt attitude already. Never really gone. But he's scared too, tugging at the cuffs. Well, plenty of homocidal maniacs have reacted this same way.
"Not real big on RK's," I say menacingly.
There's a great pause. Wheels are turning in his head. "Wait. I'm not - Uh, you mean the tattoo? Right? Check the rocker. It means I'm just a supporter, dammit. The stripes are wrong for a mem-"
"Not big on their friends, either."
"Oh... shit."
Yeah, I think happily. Chew on that one. "Get after 'em. I know this other club, see. Maybe I work for 'em. Or maybe I just like to fuck RK's up real good. And their suckups too. Ain't got the balls to ride, yourself... But still, the fewer friends they got, the better I like it."
"Now wait," he says anxiously. "That was... years ago."
"Pussy," I sneer. He's twisting, alright. Trying to figure out whatever I wanna hear. "Then you don't care if I get rid of this."
And I bring a ten-inch knife over his right arm. Shined up real nice, sharp as they get.
"No! Hold the fuckin' phone, here," he snaps, tugging like crazy. There we go. This tone of voice had no college egghead bullshit in it. He could still be pulled down into the gutter. Back down, that is. I like keeping my options open.
"Scrape it off," I say casually. "Won't take long."
"I... C'mon," he mumbles. The tone of his voice changed, like he's figuring something out. "You want something else."
Very good, I think. Endless fever - for you. "I got me an RK, or like as they get. Wannabe, maybe."
"Fuck that. Look, the knife is really freaking me out."
He's got a set, alright. Sussed out enough to try telling me the plain truth. Fair enough. I turn it, and shove it down into the floor. Let it stand there and wobble. "If you're such a fuckin' pussy."
"Okay," he says. "I am. Whatever. And there must be some... information you want, or something, but I'd rather not - uh, you don't have to extract it. Just -"
"Big words," I sneer. "You must think your shit don't stink."
This is an interesting moment. He opens his mouth, and closes it. Sighs. I imagine him reaching back for the vocabulary of his younger self. "Name your price, then. I don't wanna give you any reason to use that thing."
"Maybe I just want to."
"Fuckin' would've done it already," and that remark just tumbled out. With his fists trying to turn the cuffs, he takes on a more humble tone. "Look, you got me. You win. I could get the damn tat removed - the right way. Or tell me -"
"Heeeerrre kitty kitty kitty," I mock. "That's gettin' off too easy. I hate your scumbag friends. And I already got one of their friends staked out here. Now... what am I gonna do about this?"
Anything, he thinks. I can almost see that reply burning through his forehead. "Look, dammit, I wanna do what you want... uh, me to do."
"Fuck, yeah," and I throw in a few lazy chuckles... "If you say so. I got it."
Time to show him a pair of white silk gloves.
"Gonna pet the pussy I caught," I sigh. "My pussy. Here ya go, kitty. Now - fucker - let's laugh."
 

He drinks the water without a word. Still gulping air, right afterward.
"Wow. Oh... shit. You... Unbelievable," he puffs. "Bastard."
"Aw, thanks." I watch him roll his head slowly. Blown away. Very satisfying, for me - and clearly overwhelming for him.
"Your voice... it changed."
"Really?," I giggle, like a transvestite.
He rolls his eyes - another great sign. Accepting the impossible. Oh, I'm gonna ride this dude right. "No. Before. Earlier you sounded a lot like..."
"Punch?" His older cousin.
That gets his eyes open. "No. Damn. You know - Actually, yeah."
I laugh at him, and slip back into that voice. "Gonna make this pussy yowl. Fuckin' right. Right here, you and me, and fuckin' forget about your damn social calendar for the rest of the month. And next month too. Kitty kitty."
He looks like he's in pain. I got him good with that one -
Battling, the fucker finally grins. Doesn't want to, but I guess my imitation of his cousin who used to tickle him is pretty good. Shit, he's really in for it now.
"Very effective," he says quietly. Taking a risk. I can respect that. Nothing to gain, after what I've shown him already, and it looks like he's got a pair. "Rest of the month."
"Unless."
Now there's a great reaction. Trying to be so cool about it. "Unless?"
"Hmmmm. You could rerun those lipid solubility samples against the minimum glial permeability coefficient."
It was worth it. Memorizing that bullshit. The look on his face is one of the most entertaining things I've ever seen, and that's fuckin' saying something.
"Wow," he finally sighs.
I just gotta laugh at him.
"So you, uh, know what I do for a living?"
"Well," I said thoughtfully, "looks like now you try to survive as much tickling as I wanna dish out."
That got a nice, big shiver. "Neural fatigue," he finally says.
"Varied pressure - and location," I shoot back. "Think about your theories all you want. Hell, recite 'em while I dig in. We'll see. Maybe that paper you wrote last year isn't one big, steaming crock of shit."
He closes his eyes. Legs slowly trying to extend, then giving it up. "You read that paper? And you know what Punch used to put me through. Damn. Been at this a while?"
I roar with laughter, picking up a half-dozen makeup applicators.
"Nooooooh!," he squeals as I start. Thrashing right away, cackling like a madman. So much for the reasoned, intellectual approach. He's busy screeching now.
The writhing... takes center stage, somehow, no matter how much he wants to employ a mental defense.
No, I suppose the real center of attention here is the little spongy pads dragging around the boundaries of his arches, and twisting gently between his toes.
 

This is one great fuckin' sound he's making - a low, rough whine - and I bet he's not even aware of it. There's steady, wishful pulling at the wrist-cuffs. Big thunderstruck expression. Almost too dramatic.
"Ready?," I taunt.
"I can't," he wails, suddenly loud. "This is too much. Really."
"Yup, that's the idea."
"Morbidly excessive," he says, lifting his head. "Traumatic."
"Oh, bullshit. Roll with it."
"I'm gonna fuckin' snap or something," he complains, relaxing again.
"If I was a machine, maybe. Listen, pussy," and I chuckle, making it warm and friendly-sounding, "let this be your reassurance - and the most fuckin' frightening thing you've heard here, so far. I've been at this for years. You're in the best possible... hands for this sort of thing. I know when to ease off. You won't get away by going catatonic or anything. That's a promise. Hell, I won't even let ya pass out."
A long, wonderful pause as he takes that in.
"Yeah. Well, uh, that's absolutely terrifying. Right. Thanks."
"Glad to help. We're gonna be... inseparable."
A wail escapes from him, before self-control kicks back in. "That's just so fuckin'... swell."
I could get used to having this comedian around.
 
 

Good and strong, with his sensitivity climbing up just the way I want.
Four hours down, six or seven to go today - I've got me a real live one, here. Fifth day, and he's calmed down real nice.
"Question," he finally rasps.
That's what I get for catching a neurological researcher. "Shoot."
"It's never enough, is it? I mean - literally. There's no getting, uh, full."
I'm pleased he had the balls to come out and say it. Sometimes they figure that out by the second or third day. "Yup," I say proudly. "The drive to make you hysterical is every bit as strong. It's satisfied only when I pour it on. Keep it coming."
He nods. "You don't get frustrated?"
"Only if a guy like you is taken away from me. I can't think about much else until I get him again, haul his ass off to a much more private room. Then I'm okay. But the rest of the time, it's just perfect to be working you over. Or somebody."
"Amazing," he says quietly.
He's dealing with it just fine. Oh, we're gonna have a hell of a great time this year. "That's outside your, uh, field? Isn't it?"
The most delightful shiver ripples through him. "It's.. The way your gloves move. Like you're enjoying this more than anything." He lifts his head to look around for 'em, then relaxes again. "Nobody - no human - could... you know."
"Yeah," I chuckle. "Nothing better. You don't wanna hear this, but I guess it's obvious enough. Exactly what I want - it's strapped down. Right here."
"Shit."
Laughing again, I think it's high time there were some gloves in motion, making him laugh along.
 

"There has to be a limit -"
"No," I say firmly. "Well, not in the right hands. You'll see."
He twists a little, making the sling rock back and forth. Thinking hard. "I'm not trying to challenge you or anything. The human nervous system... Performance degradation after a certain point. Maybe you've just never gotten there."
"After thirty months?"
That shocks him. I like to see it. "Thirty... months?"
"No peak, either. Twenty-three months, another time. They never top out. I'm not kidding."
"Thirty months. Right. Too bad I've gotta be back to work in a couple days."
"Well," I say suggestively.
His mouth opens - and closes. Smart cookie, definitely. Then he sags back. "It was worth a try."
"You're so funny..."
 

He's just lost in it. All that brainpower, firmly offline. His body's too busy dealing with it all.
More interesting to talk to than most, too.
 

I like to wait just long enough, during a break. But not too long. It reinforces that I'm just itchin' to get started again.
My invisible fingers touch his palms.
"Aw, fuck," he moans. Nice and fidgety.
This is where it starts. Light, easy strokes... and the nerve endings are fully sensitized now. Up his fingers when they relax, and coasting over to the back side when he clenches his hands into fists. Such a ridiculous protest.
When I rub around the higher rim of the cuffs, he usually looks up. Left hand, first. There's no merciless ticklers there to be seen, but he feels my contact. And I am tireless, alright.
Sliding to the lower edge of his restraints usually makes him want to giggle.
They're coming. Hands that are truly unstoppable. Focused, fixed. Knowledgable. I begin to tease his forearms -
A soft, feral moan slips out of him.
No movement can change his predicament. My fingers are moving closer, and closer, to the armpits that are mine. All mine. Ribs, belly, chest. The whole spectacular minefield further down. Every inch belongs to me, here for some hellacious tickling.
. . .
 

"Okay," he whispers, taking a ragged breath. "Every other weekend. Two weeks straight," and he shivers, "after the semester ends."
"Yeah. And any other getaway I can arrange without getting your advisor pissed off."
That gets a sad groan. "You don't have to... make me agree to this."
I can't believe him. "We've been over that, dammit! I want your cooperation. This is intriguing. I can't shake the idea that your mind has something to teach me. Not just these ribs."
"Doooon't," he cackles, trying to lean away from my glove.
"I'm serious."
"I know, I know, really... and I can't turn down a deal that gets me out of your fuckin' hands. Even temporarily."
"Good man. Is it a deal?"
He wrestles with his thoughts... and nods once. "Deal."
When I start loosening the straps, the look on his face is fuckin' priceless. I should do this to 'em more often. Early release. With the others, of course, I'd just slam 'em right back down. Drill their feet, or their pits. But he and I have a deal... and there's a young thug getting out of jail tomorrow who definitely needs someone to pick him up at the gate. More discipline.
"You're messing with me, aren't you?," he says.
"Weekend after next," I remind him. "Sure. Peg the needles. But not until then."
Tears spring to his eyes, but I'd never hold that against a dude...
 
 

I hate the thought of letting him go. Really. Dammit.
"You'd better get lots of sleep before I catch you again," I grumble.
"Yessir." He sounds sassy.
"Check under the passenger-side seat."
After a second, he does. Pulling out my gift.
"What is this?" I like the amazed tone in his voice. Opening the lid, he knows. "You're shitting me."
"Give 'em a try."
The sly grin on his face is worth it. Peering into the humidor, he takes out a cigar. They're the same kind I watched him smoke the weekend before I snagged him, except there's eighteen of 'em in here. At seven bucks apiece. His fingers find a box of matches and a cutter.
"Wow."
"Smoke up. Partner."
Kicking out a groan that sound a lot like one of his smutty hoots, he does what he's told.
 
 

Last weekend was a riot. Laugh-fest. He's expecting the next round to be a couple long days off...
It really delights me to see him turn suddenly into the supermarket parking lot - frustrated, scowling - and waste no time heading inside. I know what's on his mind.
And I was right. He comes back out, and he's opening a pack of cigarettes. Bad boy.
Barely able to keep myself from laughing out loud, I let him get one lit. As he fumbles with the keys, I take the cigarette from his lips.
"What did I tell you about these?"
He looks around wildly. Big eyes. So busted. The lot is all empty. Seeing no potential rescuers, but also no restraints about to pounce, he ends up watching the cigarette.
"Aw fuck," he snaps. Biker to the core.
"Just couldn't help yourself," I sneer. "Smoker."
"Thanks to you," he shoots back. "I'm all stressed out. Last weekend -"
"I told you to stay away from these things."
"This - Not fair."
I allow myself a few indulgent chuckles - and stick the cigarette back in his mouth. "As much as I like busting your chops, it just so happens you're right. There's a _dopamine inhibitor_ doing my bidding."
That gets him all thoughtful, but not too distracted to keep from taking a long, nervous drag. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. And it doesn't rest until it gets some nicotine."
Here comes the scowl again. "I've never heard of anything like that."
"Trade secret. Hyena."
"Right. So let me see if I get this right. You hit me with... an anti-_Habitex_," which is a stop-smoking drug which is new and remarkably effective, "and then whip my ass for smoking. How many other people are caught in this trap?"
"I don't know," I confess. "Hundreds. Maybe thousands."
"Sadistic."
"Aw, thank you. Now get in."
. . .
 
 

He smokes like a fiend now, and I can't hardly taunt him about it when I was the one who ordered a two-carton weekly quota. After I forced him to buy the Softtail he jumped back into the whole biker-trash thing with both feet. Yet his research has never been more highly regarded. The professors are amused, but even I can see how much they respect him.
I wait 'til he straddles the seat and pulls a glove on - then I make the other one jump up in front of his face.
"Badass... pussy," I chuckle in my Punch-voice.
There's a wonderful two or three seconds, while he stares, letting the cigarette hang. Living glove, saying hey. His dick sure as hell knows what that means. It's already remembering.
"No, uh, shit!" Then he looks around the parking lot quickly. Reflex. Who'd believe he was talking to a floating glove anyway? "Is it your weekend already?"
"Got a surprise for ya."
"C'mon. No!"
"Vacation."
I make the glove dig under his left arm.
Freaking out, he slings himself around and starts to giggle. I check the kill switch and start up the bike.
"No," he pleads.
"Got it all set with Whiney," I boast, using the nickname of his supervisor. "Field research."
"Dammit, lis-"
Grabbing his right hand, I tug the glove over it. Flex his fingers a time or two. "Incommunicado. I figure we got a couple weeks... of pure tickling hell. Let's ride."
He opens his mouth, grimaces nice and big - and squeezes the clutch. "Double, later on. Okay? A whole month, but I can't fuckin' take it tonight -"
"To the freeway, scumbag. We're heading north."
I have the gloves squeeze his fingers until he grunts. Shaking his head just a little, he shifts into first and rolls toward the driveway.

835

One of its buddies agreed to cooperate, given enough bourbon. The silly fucker did his uncaught peers a huge disservice...

A brainwave recording was made while he thought slowly and thoroughly about his earliest tickling memories, both human-on-human and TM-on-human. It wasn't mind-reading, or an exact virtual replica of his experiences. Human brains were all different, when it came down to brass tacks. Men experiencing trauma of the power-tickling variety formed unique limbic pathways. It didn't expect to strike gold, and it didn't.

Comparing the results with new recordings from "tickle virgins" showed two roughly similar patterns. It hunted down another old favorite and offered to shave a couple months off his current confinement if he did what the first "buddy" had, with as much concentration. That revealed another common waveform.

Anyway, about thirty men were eventually recorded... and it had a predictable signal which reminded men of their first intense tickling experience (if they'd had one), and another which seemed to resonate with those who'd been worked over by a TM. More of a toy than anything, the "ticklee lie detector" accidentially revealed another use when it was switched on in the direction of the window - a woman reacted immediately, pausing. Then she shivered.

With an amplifier pointed at the pedestrian mall, it broadcast the averaged pattern from tickle virgins who had a vivid memory of being "seriously" tickled by humans. Two women - and three men - stopped dead in their tracks.

It wasn't a surefire detector, and there was no way to know how many suitable candidates it missed. But the afternoon was fascinating, as maybe one man out of a hundred twitched, cringed, or looked around with subconscious concern...
 

"How the fuck did you know?," he kept saying. The oil slowly dripped off his feet.

It felt like laughing. One of the least likely candidates ever, to look at him - but there had been a time when he wasn't so lethal. Bigger kids - or maybe relatives, it would coax all that information out in due time - had taken their play a little further. Perhaps the next step was a jump-rope. Maybe a rolled-up blanket. But eyes sparkled with an excitement it knew well as the stakes were raised... and this man was prevented from shielding his sides, or his feet. And maybe then the restraints became even more sophisticated. If not, he was getting the logical "advanced education" tonight. That was certain.

"I'm magic," it teased. "A master tickler."

"Fuck," he sighed - not a man of many words - and there was agreement in his tone. Resignation, wonderment - regret. His emotional response didn't matter at all now, since the dungeon was locked and absoutely no one knew what was happening to him tonight... but it was still gratifying. He deserved a particularly memorable tickling, even by the standards of his remarkable experience. His old weakness had definitely come back around to haunt him, twenty years later. And now it was geared up for the big, bad guy he'd become. It appreciated how the greatly advanced level built nicely upon the earlier, amateurish sadism which had never been forgotten. Other men who hadn't recalled the subconscious mix of sensations and emotions were allowed to walk away - but it had pounced on him. Obviously, and wonderfully, he knew that. If he hadn't been pushed so far when he was a little squirt, there would not have been tonight and the dozens of night that will follow, right in this cell. Some other experienced ticklee would be laying right where he was, now. The irony was so much more delightful when the ticklee really understood that.

836

My belly is full, I got two packs of cigarettes, and the house is all mine. My roommate won't be back until tomorrow night.
So I'm laying on the couch. There's some sitcom on the TV, but I'm not really paying any attention to it. I park the smoke between my lips and play with my cock...
I'm not sure why, but I discover my left hand won't move. It's down by the floor.
Just when I start to lean over and check it out, the cigarette flies out of my mouth. Something takes its place.
Wide.
Duct tape.
I try to jump up, but a pair of hands grab me, right over the pecs, and slam me back down. Invisible hands.
Fingers are already curling around my wrists, forearms... shins.
Yelling is a big disappointment. I'm just getting started when a roll of black gaffer's tape starts squawking - and a strip lands over my mouth, as another strip pulls straight off the roll.
From the general direction of the kitchen, a huge black leather bag floats in. It sets down next to me.
Struggling is doing me about as much good as as it did the last time.

The bag unzips -
Under me, the futon rocks. Unfolding. Laid out flat -
No matter how much I tug and flop, the sounds are coming. Creak, jingle. Once again, nothing I do is enough to keep the cuffs from catching me.
I'm expecting the straps next. But instead, the duct tape.
Flying smoothly over and under my wrists, figure-eights. Fifty layers. More...
My hands are sticking outside of the armrests. Cheap black steel tubing -
Now they're catching my legs. Shit, I can't do this again. I won't.
Bucking as hard as I can, this damn futon won't budge. The armrests are great for this. Hell, I'm stretched right out, here...

My dog. Where is he?
Supposed to warn me if there was stuff moving around. Save me from a repeat.
I hee-haw for the gloves, donkey-style, and try anything to get my ass away from their oily fingers.

Please come home early, I chant to myself. The tickling is so enthusiastic I can't think of anything else. My roommate usually runs late anyway. Every last detail has been covered so thoroughly that I assume the gloves already know that.
Come home now, come home, come home.

Another longest day of my life.
They wait until it's dark outside, and wrap me up. Way too much rope to bust through.
After I'm sat behind the wheel of my _car_, a glove brings Scrapper out. On his leash. Happy, in that idiotic way of his, to be riding somewhere in the car, anywhere -
I fight hard, because I know what's in store for me.

The gloves drive for me. It's happening again. This too - kidnapped, unbelievable days of craziness and fire...
Wild and desperate to attract some kind of attention, I see the garage door being closed up. They don't miss a trick, these fuckin' gloves.
We're off. Gonna drive me crazy. Oh, yeah.
Scrapper has his head out the window, grinning away, and his tail wags like a metronome.
 

So they're gonna torture me in the industrial park...
This building is newer, but it's a good distance away from its closest neighbors. There's tall grass around it.
Driving the car around back, they wait for a roll-up door to magically open.
There. I'm inside, with my car, and the door is closing again.
Shoved into a big white room -
Major fuckin' ironman tickling, coming right up...
. . .
 

"Stupid fuckin' dog!," I yell, all hoarse already, trying not to whoop. "Go get h-help!"
And right then - as if they've just been waiting for me to say something along those lines - a glove brings his leash, and slowly clips it into his new collar.
Scrapper wags his tail happily as he's led away a yard or two, to a waiting pair of gloves...
No.
I see what they're holding. This is so fuckin' sadistic -
They've got his treats. It looks like the bag from my kitchen. My dog loves these rank, disgusting liver chews. The gloves hold one up, and he gets the scent, starts jumping around.
The damn hands pet him, ruffling his fur, as they give him the snack he likes best.
I crow, and laugh my guts out... while leather gloves play with my dog. Sure.
They're chasing his tail, the same way I do. Somebody's been watching.
Hell. They're making friends. Empty gloves? My dog doesn't care, so long as they pet him. And feed him. They'll be dishing out the liver treats now, too.
My moronic dog is way too happy to even think about running off now.
They wanted me to see this...
 

I thrust without too much hope. Brushes are in my pits again. If I don't come soon, I think I actually will go blind...
Cackling, almost silent now, I look over. Scraps is laid out -
A padded dog bed.
There's a bowl of water, and a rawhide bone. I don't see the leash now. No need for it, I guess.
He's watching me laugh.
 

Idiot dog.
Watching the gloves dance from one bad spot to another. Hours...

It takes me a long time to figure out what I was thinking about. Watching. That was it. So the bastards watched me, at home, before they made their move.
Just about every day, I greet Scrapper with a joke. The basic idea is checking with him to see if there have been any gloves around today. You see 'em, boy? Any gloves hiding here? Gordo, he just rolls his eyes. Maybe if you hadn't picked the world's stupidest dog...
Did they hear that, too? Maybe that pissed 'em off. The gloves. Could be they know that's why I got Scrap.
To be on the lookout.
And I knew he was dumb, that it wouldn't matter anyway. I did. It was important, though. Shit, I wanted to believe so badly that it was a one-time thing, the ultimate freak occurrence. They'd never come back for me. Not after we moved.
It's obvious now, but I should've seen it coming. They give Scrap a treat, and he rolls right over to get his belly scratched. Magical gloves, taking care of my dog for me. Covering the fuckin' bases. And I get to watch Scrap roll over, whenever he wants.
How many times do I say it to myself, when no one else is around? In bed, after another one of those nightmares that don't hold a candle to today?
Fuckers. Sick bastards.
I hate 'em. Fuckin' gloves...
Well, now I'm the one who's fucked. Aren't I?
Sure.
They're seeing to that.
 
 

[delirious...]
I start out insulting Scrap. He doesn't seem to care at all. No reaction.
If you were a movie dog, I wouldn't be here. Bite through the - uh, no, there's chains. The cuffs. Yeah. Free me. I'm suffering, you brainless shit-machine.
Hours go by, and I end up trying to play on his sympathy. My dog. It's ridiculous, but I can't stop. No voice left, and I plead with him to get his ass up and find a door. Go home, bark at Gordo, lead him here. Please. Haven't I been nice enough to you? I'm suffering, here.
I can't go through this again, Scrapper. I just can't.
But I already am going through it, and he's happy just to sit there and watch me. So we'll both stay here, for who knows how long, and I'll laugh my fuckin' ass off all day long, every day...
If you loved me, you'd know I can't take any more of this.
He rolls around and goes to sleep. The gloves don't sleep, though. I don't think they ever rest at all. No need.
Oh, hell, not the buffers again. Shit. I wanna howl, so bad. I'm too hoarse to howl anymore...
 

Bathtime. For both of us.
Same wading pool. My fuckin' bath takes a lot longer. Gloves forcing me to sit there, rubbing and scrubbing the fuck out of me. Dirty water, drained and refilled. Drill my sorry ass again, and again.
After he's dried off, Scrap lies in his bed, watching. Then sleeping...
As for me, the soapy torment just keeps going on.
 

It's another morning. Fuck.
Water is shoved down my throat before I even start yawning. I swear the shit tingles on the way down...
And just a few minutes later, it's a bright, sharp morning. Oh, I'm wide awake now. Dammit. Speed is talking to me, and today's gonna be more vivld than the usual nightmare. They want me to stay up for it all, obviously enough.
My feet are in wide, shiny cuffs. Almost like spats. Instead of tying my toes back, this time I'm seeing chrome rods bolted to either side of little handcuffs. Big toes only.
So my soles are angled forward, a little more than usual.
It's the kind of setup that makes me feel stupid, for all the other times I thought they had my feet immobilized. Yeah. Sure.
There's a chrome bar keeping my wrists well apart. That's chained down over my head. My arms aren't extended all the way. So many chains...
Straps all over me, from my hips on down.
Scrapper's still asleep. Big disappointment, this mutt.
A cigarette is stuck between my lips.
 

"I never liked you," I whisper to the damn dog.
A glove slowly scratches behind Scrapper's ears. Just the way he likes it...
. . .
 

[liver paste, stiff / non-runny and oily too. Gloves rub it in for an insane amount of time. Rub it all over his feet.
Soaking in. Layer after layer. Loved in with sadistic obsessiveness.]
I get the cigar between my molars and sigh. Hardly makes a sound. Laughter isn't the main thing they're after.
There is a really nauseating fear in my gut. I haven't felt this since the very first time they tied me down, back when I didn't know what was gonna happen. Instantly that feeling went away, when I knew. Oh, only tickling? Whew.
Gordo said the same thing. I've known the guy for years, and he still keeps saying "only". Shit, dude, it's not like they burned you. Nothing so quick...
Or it's implied, in his voice, when he remembers not to say "only". What's the big deal? Tickling. A walk in the park.
I'm either gonna throw up, right now, or -
Ah. Fuck. The tears.
Slow, and pitiful drops well up in my eyes. I move my head so one of them doesn't hit the cigar. A couple puffs...
"I'm gonna go literally, totally insane."
Silent whispers. No reaction at all. I didn't expect one. They never fuckin' back off at all. Not once. But I can't stop myself.
"You don't want me to go nuts. Do you? I wouldn't be any fun, then. No fun at all... Please, I'm gonna fuckin' beg you again, as sincerely as I know how. Don't do this. I can't go through this. I'd apologize, again, but I don't know what the hell I did!"
Sobbing. I try to get a-hold of myself.
"I don't. If there's something I did, I'm really... really sorry. I don't know why they fuck you're doing this to me. Tickling me. You sons of bitches. Let me go, please, please, just let me go. I've had enough. You got me real good. Okay? I'm losin' it, here. Don't tickle me anymore."
I know, absolutely fuckin' know, that they will.
And probably it'll be many more days of this diabolical feverish red-hot shit, all over me, my ribs, and my feet, solid and unbearable partying between my legs.
"Please..."
Then I quit talking, and smoke. There. I feel better. No idea why that's so, but I do. There isn't the least chance in the world that they'll let me go now. Even knowing that, I had to beg for a while. Cry like a wimp. But that's out of my system now.
Whatever they do to me, it won't actually drive me insane. Not really.
I'm gonna be here for more excitement... tomorrow.
There's always another day of it. I've learned that already -
Scrapper. Aw no, no. There's a glove holding his collar. Bringing him to my feet.
Tail wagging, nostrils flaring a little. The son of a bitch loves liver, alright...

837

I'm snoring. It sounds weird.
I don't remember ever hearing myself snore...
Something's wrong with my mouth. I feel thick, too. It's hard to lift my head. The pillow's really jammed in -
No, wait. I roll over a little and the pressure is still there. Reaching up, I'm really fumbling. Maybe I'm more tired than I thought.
My fingers discover a smooth, curved ball.
It has to be a dream. That's all I can figure -
Rolling over. Hands are turning me. They feel odd too. Not like skin. I'm on my back, which I wanted. Actually getting here seemed to be too difficult.
Drugged.
Too many spy movies, I decide. What an imagination. Probably I was just more worn out from the gym than I realized -
That's when I manage to get both hands up to my mouth. A soft rubber ball, straps pressing against my cheeks, more running off toward my neck.
It's really a gag.
Somebody -
I sit up, or try to. The idea of a gag woke me up - particularly when it's in my mouth already - but my body hasn't caught up yet. Tracing one of the straps, I find a buckle behind my head, mashed tight against my hair.
A quiet sound is familiar. Light flares up - past the foot of my bed. Somebody lit a match. Why? A glow becomes more steady. Then there's two. I figure it out - candles.
That's when the puzzle is solved. A white feather rises.
Immediately, I'm scrabbling for the edge of the mattress. It hadn't even registered yet, the reason a feather would be in my room. But my body was moving. Get off the bed -
Fingers curl around my right wrist, and pull me back down.
"Nuh," I say.
Another hand pins my left wrist.
Both ankles, almost simultaneously, and then my shins. Upper arms.
I'm being held down... and the feather, oh fuck, it's starting. A long sweep down my right foot. And I just slam up, pulling hard. A grunt just pops right out. The gag is depressingly effective.
Damn. I can't shake the hands. This is like a slow-motion car wreck. My body won't fight like it should...
The feather crawls up my left foot.
This is so incredibly bad. If only it was a nightmare -
They're moving my legs. Before I can decide if that's a good thing or not, my ankles are slammed together.
Lifting...
My feet are in the air.
Oh, no. It's time to fight like a mad dog. Rope is cruising up. I kick, and fight, yelling as loud as I can, but the rope starts cirling round and round.
Somebody's really serious about this. I can't be tickled. Held down, so - I'll lose my mind. Definitely.
The rope is being knotted now.
A long length of it hangs down. As my feet are pulled back down, the hands scoot me forward - smoothly, as if they've done this a thousand times. My heels are hanging off the end of the bed, and, dammit, I know why.
That rope is pulling tight. From the angle, I guess it's being tied under the bedframe. By nothing. Invisible hands. Too strong for me to throw off.
And they brought a feather. What else?

Firm little brushes.
I've been squealing and hooting forever. Dripping with sweat, laying in piss, with tears and snot all over my face.
Laughing.
The tickling hasn't stopped. That's all I know anymore.

Another fuckin' eternity, and I'm panting for breath. My throat aches...
I'm not being tickled. The sheet is just soaked -
Wait. My wrists aren't being pinned down. There's something pulling them.
This is so incredibly bad. Those are straps, and the solid bands of pressure are cuffs.
These fuckers aren't anywhere near done tickling me.
 

The longest night of my life is over...
A leather glove holds my car keys right in front of me.
Another one holds up a feather. Both are at the same height.
For a long heart-stopping moment I think the fucker's letting me go. Just as I'm about to reach for the keys I think "trap." This has to be a test. It's not done with me yet...
So I spend most of a cigarette pondering whether I'm being told about a sequence of events, or offered a choice. Same difference, I decide. Tickled now, or tickled after I drive someplace - all prepped to hold me for a longer time. There's gonna be a lot more tickling.
Eventually I'll cave, if only to get a couple hours without that insane supercharged heat washing through me. Freedom isn't in the cards.
I take a long, shaky drag and take the keys.

They push me toward the shower.
When I get out, there's a kinky outfit waiting for me. Gloves, collar, a harness and a g-string.

As I pull it on, there's a dull sense of finality. It seems likely I won't be released from the slave role - tickle-slave - for a good long time. This marks an end to my old life. Or a new chapter. Actually, it started last night.
Lighting a smoke, I pull on the gloves. Take a drag, ease it out, and catch one ragged breath. Then I nod my head.
. . .
 
 

"Dammit," I hear a big guy groan.

[On the bunk next door - a biker's looking at me, also in restraints -
conversation reveals he thinks he's the only non-volunteer in the secret prison]

"Aaaah, you drove here," he sneers, "and you fuckin' knew what was in store. They dragged my ass inside last year. I just got the carb set right on that bike, too."
The casual way the big lug says "last year" makes my blood run cold.

"Whuh... what do you do?," _biker1_ huffs.
I look over at him. We're both getting slowly pumped off - again - and the tickling will come down hard after that. No talking possible, then.
"I was a p-product manager." Then I have to groan, because the feathers are tracing around my cock-tip again. He's not cut, so a leather glove is keeping his foreskin, uh, retracted. He really squeals when he shoots, but in a way he's more used to this than I am.
"What product?"
"Run-Cakes."
He squints at me, lifting his head. "What the fuck?"
I have to moan for awhile... then, "They're Japanese. Cake in a tube." I see the usual confusion on his face. "Nobody gets it. That's why I'm... uh, I was working on an ad campaign." The feather gets me thrusting, but it backs off quickly enough. "Dammit. Whoooh... Real cake, and frosting, in a tube. So you can squeeze it out and eat it."
A series of grunts lock him up. Fresh sweat drips off his forehead. "Luh... like toothpaste?"
I have to chuckle at that - but then I can't stop for a good twenty seconds. "Otter pop. Flavored i- ayye, ooooh, f-fuck - ice."
Then he nods, getting it. "But it's c-cake. Fuck."
We both try to thrust for a minute...
"Ch- chocolate?," he groans.
"Shut up about the damn cake," I laugh. That's always a mistake, because I whoop for a good while longer than I intended. "Three flavors, ok-kay? Four different colors for the tubes."
He chuckles for maybe a minute, growling now and then as he tries to shoot.
"Oh, fuck... You?"
"Duh... drugrunner."
His face is tense, but it's from trying to cum. No guilt there.
The hands caught themselves a bad dude, huh? And they're punishing him real good. Not exactly a pillar of the community -
I wasn't contributing much to society either. Like I can talk.
"What?," he says.
"I'm not... m-much better. Cakerunner."
After a few seconds, we both start roaring.
Gloves dig in - all over me - and then I really howl for 'em. I need to cum so bad it's melting my brain. They're gonna make me wait, though. With no idea how I can stand the pressure inside my dick, I tug and scream from all the fingers tickling me...
. . .
 

Another guy was lured in - the biker talked to a guy who talked to him, once - because he liked the idea of a tickle dungeon.
Crazy fucker. Can you believe that shit? Got talked into it, told once you're inside this doorway, there's no turning back. Ain't no short time. And the lop, he's curious, there's just enough smells and stuff to see that made him wanna take a chance. The fuckin' second he's inside, finally he can see whole walls full of tickling shit, and he gets smart. Turn tail, say fuck this and get his ass out of there - and you know, right, that a glove clamps over his fuckin' mouth. And others latch on, turn him around and make him watch the magic fuckers close the door. Lock it. The first night turns into a year, then another...
. . .

"That really gets to you, doesn't it?"
He looks surprised. "You wanna be here? I sure don't. Fuck - think about somebody saying hey, you wanna get absolutely tortured, for years - with tickling, dammit - then go to this place. I'm serious as a heart attack. Ain't no lightweight teasing there. Hard tickling like you never imagined, and it's gonna go on for years -"
"They didn't tell him all that. You said he tried to back out when he saw how fuckin' serious they are."
He snorts, with that stoned smirk on his face. "Stupid ass gets off on it. Likes gettin' tickled, huh? Well, here's where you wanna go. They love it a lot more than you do. Tickling guys. Damn right they do." He shakes his head. "So he _does_ it. Uh, hello, could I please get some tickling here? And the fuckers are like, walk right in here - and now we got your ass, for good. Laugh it up. Shit..."

838

"Nowhere to be," a guy said.
That kind of phrase always grabbed its attention, and never more than when it was on the hunt.
Somewhere in that crowd...

The convention center was emptying out. Checking the voices, it heard a laugh - and zeroed in.
Average height, not young and not old, cigarette in hand. Dark-skinned and unmistakably Jewish. Expensive but casual clothes, as if he had money but wanted to blend.
It slipped inside his head -
36 years old, no close relatives. Bitter divorce seven years ago. No kids.
He worked out three or four times a week. And it showed.
Net worth, around three million. Inherited.
He was the outgoing president of some bigtime skeptics organization. That, alone, was intoxicating irony. This man devoted considerable time to proving that immaterial beings and forces didn't exist.
Eagerly, it checked his memories for a few uncommon but crucial themes -
Bingo.
Checking his personal meaning of "nowhere to be", it found he had a small house in Greece where he'd planned to relax, maybe after visiting a friend in Texas. And an acquaintance in Boston. Then he'd probably travel. But there was a deliberate refusal to let anyone keep tabs on him... and when his schedule permitted, he'd been known to drop out of touch for a year. That had happened twice, and nobody seemed to worry.
Importantly - he had bought no tickets, told no one where he was coming or going - and there was no unmissable appointment, in his recollection.
It couldn't have asked for a better setup. Really. He was just destined to catch its attention.
Well, now he had somewhere to be. And all the time in the fuckin' world.

So happy. Yeah.
Each big fact added more happiness onto the others...

[Wanting something
Scouting locations
Installing locks and "furniture"
Laying in the the right tools and food, and waaaay too much of everything!
Hunting
Selecting
Catching
Transporting - incl. dragging inside, so much fun!, closing door, locking, stripping him, cuffing him]

Then it could top off the fun by driving him crazy. Tickled into a raving lunatic, given a rest break and a smoke or two, and shredded again. Anytime it wants - even starting right now. Sure. Or after he accepts that he's bound, and is ready to watch the tender attack-tools approach. It could even just make him wait all night. All week. Nobody will say c'mon now, move it along. For that matter, no one will ever say whoa! You're spending too much time tickling him. Pull it back. No, not he or anyone else can order it around now. That's because it is 100% victorious. The right to make every decision, big and little, has been earned. So nobody else gets to mess with the door, or how many restraints it adds to his limbs, or the fifth month of delirious teasing, or whether he gets tickled for a sixth month. And a seventh. It alone gets to say if he cums a third time tonight. If he gets solid tattoos now, or is force-fed jalapeno peppers, or wakes up with bleached hair, or tries out six different gags to see which one muffles his laughter best, or smokes a cigar every other rest break, or goes wild from the vibrator tickling his prostate, or howls under the influence of a dozen different drugs one by one to see which ones make him psychotically more ticklish, or watches the most grueling male tickling videos it can find...
If he roars and suffers for every other hour tomorrow, or intensely, or is kept right at that point where he's just dying to laugh but can't quite do it - all the decisions belonged only to it. And that made it so happy, though he felt the urge building inside to make it even happier.
"Hold on -"
But it was like racing an avalanche. All good, loving, rambunctuous, jubilant in its success, coaxing him along - craving his cooperation and approval, anxious for it. Approval, sure, but it was really after his joy. And it had just the way to keep him so fuckin' joyful that his rational mind could just take a long, sensuous holiday.
[He didn't know precisely what would happen]
It realized that he knew it was waiting - no, it was absolutely hanging on his approval. Weirder and weirder, he thought... Hesitating, resisting were lost causes. Only a matter of time, it communicated, and such a relief to give in.
Smirking, he nodded his head.
Fuck, it was so happy! The gloves were just packed with adoring mischief. They were coming down...
Each fact made it... giddy? What it loved to do. Picking a place, so safe, utterly isolated, and selecting the "right" supplies. Far more than needed. All set, and then it was going to get an animal to tickle. More delight. Watching, stalking - deciding. More and more bliss. Bringing him, locking the door, setting the restraints. So much closer. A big win, alright. Wonderful! Just by his being there. Stuck, and reactive.
There was innocent joy in the thought of tickling. It acts, and he laughs. Squirms. That excitement ramped up when it had a secret place all set up to do some "complete" tickling... fairly exploded when a reactive body was in its hands. And it settled into a sustained but unthinkable fever as the fun continued from days into weeks.

Oh, there just are no words. To watch him as he sees the gloves land and take hold - feeling all that tension / stress / physical refusal, oh no I'm not gonna lay here and let you tickle me, much less so hard and so long - struggling, the laughter becoming more constant, more engaged, more consuming, the sweat and tears and voiding, unbridled howling, and even after his reactions slowly fall apart. Such complete triumph. Unmitigated.
It loves the restraints, the toys, the security of the room. The victory is constant, and prolonged, and the more thoroughly it maddens him the deeper the success becomes. It's blissfully happy because no one else knows he's in such absolute delirium, they won't find out, and the range of bondage devices is the best possible insurance that the cause and effect - I tickle, he reacts - will go on and on.

The idea slammed home like a compulsion - and so he rocked to one side as hard as he could, whimpering strained laughter.
He did that because that was what it wanted to see from him, right then. It was his way of saying oh, damn...
I fuckin' beg you to stop this tickling, right now, and I can't do a damn thing to stop you. I beg for mercy because you find it enjoyable to listen to me beg, and I don't think for one second that you'll stop torturing me. Months and months - and you know that this is surely the most excruciating, pleasurable thing I've ever, ever gone through.
This is a major win - for you.
I'm beaten, completely skunked, unconditionally your possession now... to drill and fondle for as long as you fuckin' want. I know that, through and through. I just couldn't be more convinced. You're superior in every single way. That's why I'm the prisoner, locked in your cage, staying right where you want me 'cause this place will never be found by anyone else, and you have earned the right to tickle and torment me without limit...
That's what I expect. I'm driven to make sure you know how firmly I believe this - right down to my increasingly ticklish toes. No, sorry, they're your toes now. My soles are your for the torturing, armpits and crotch and ribs. Places to play. Every ounce of my body, and my brain, are here for your entertainment. I expect it to go on for thousands of hours, because you certainly have the right to tickle me until I pass out, and start in again when I'm rested up, and you have earned the right to repeat that cycle. Keep me cut off from the rest of the world so you can enjoy my hysteria, and of course you're fully entitled to chain me up and immobilize me any ol' way you desire. Taunt and tease and play with my mind just as thoroughly as you like.
Your restraints confirm that you have the privilege to do anything to me!
The locks on your doors guarantee that your privilege will not be revoked.
This cell is so very secret that it constantly reaffirms your right to tear me apart, with tickling, or make me wait for hours - to delay my orgasm for a month - to wrap me in leather from head to toe - to spank me and brand me and pierce me and milk me and fill up as many gloves as you like, as many times as you like, to drive me out of my mind so much further than I've ever been before. This outcome is so certain that you have earned the right, like no one else could, to tickle me without limit.
Your victory is fathomless. I know that... down to my core. This is the most helpless I've ever been, and the tickling you administer is indescribably more intense and consuming, occupying, levelling, fuckin' than anything I've ever felt - and I know your plan has been perfectly executed. So I'm trapped, and helpless, and absolutely delirious at your whim. This maddening stimulation must continue for as long as you care to deliver it. Any abbreviation of this, even a single second, is just unthinkable.
No matter how outrageous the bondage and locks and months of tickling are to me, nothing will matter - except your satisfaction and delight and excitement. I can't possibly slip out of your tickling, agonizing, triumphant fingers.
He got a slow blast of good energy. Mind-pleasure.
All just chemical reactions, delusion... and it longed for him to curl his toes desperately, so he really couldn't help but oblige.
It was maniacally grateful.

One request after the other was irresistible, and it was so mutherfuckin' happy with him...

"You... please," he managed to stammer -
Whoom. Sunny rapture flooded through his head.
A big grin stole over his face. The command was cloaked so well...
"Please don't tickle me anymore," he said. But it came out like a challenge. Really egging it on, the tickler, and happy as hell to be doing it.
A pair of gloves slapped together, over his legs, and rubbed each other. Greedy.
"I can't take another second of this," he told 'em - breaking up. It was just so stupid. Sure he could! Like they'd hold off? Let him sleep the night away? Really, now.
They started reaching for his... thigh. All melodramatic. Just so fuckin' happy. Victory lap - another one, with fifty to follow. Sure as anything.
Another pair zipped up, ready to dig into his left leg. Snug in the restraints. Easy to tickle, and tickle hard, no matter how much his body needed to flop around. All of its work had turned out so perfectly. He was a spectacular catch, so very ticklish, so doomed now.
"I mean it," he said. "This is pure torture. You got no right to d-"
Clench.
"Ooooh, no - nnnnnah hah haaaah heeeee!," he bawled.
Somehow, in all the thrashing and bucking, he nodded his head wildly. And the tickler just adored that too. Another pair of gloves jumped into his armpits to make the response abundantly clear.
. . .

Building and building, the joy of the tickler, painful, even past that -
Too happy, he thought over and over. Chanting it, as he blubbered...
Merciful sleep.
 

Waking up to find a different mood hovering over him - tougher, haughty, leather-and-whips.
Instead of happiness / celebration / eager-to-please, this was... stern.
If anything, it hated him.
He knew (without knowing how he knew) that this was an act. The tickler enjoyed this too. But there was absolutely nothing in its presentation to give away that it was acting.
It wasn't just disgusted with him - there was stone-cold fury. And having him completely helpless, like this, just fed the hatred. It radiated a different kind of fulfillment in the success of catching, binding and hiding him. The fury and disgust were held in check only by the fact that he'd be staying around to be shown just how much it hated him.
A lifetime of tickling wouldn't be enough to give him what it wanted to give him. If it made him suffer all day, with shorter breaks, and then all night as well, that wouldn't be enough brutal tickling - hell, no - because the need for sleep would take him down before it had dished out all the misery it wanted. So valuable time would be wasted, until he woke up again, and there was just never sufficient time to punish him, and there never would be. But it had the opportunity to make him suffer as much as it could, primarily with tickling, and even if it was completely insufficient he was totally gonna pay now.
Hollow fear was placed inside him... like a mouse, afraid to move. The torment would come, because the torturer had immobilized him and had many agonizing things in mind - that wold definitely happen - but he was cowed and intimidated anyway. This was not the time to shoot off his mouth. Or sorta express concern about the tickler, and this huge change in its attitude. Not even the time to say this was so much scarier than when the tickler was happy, and forced him to be happy too. He was sure that nothing he could say would be acknowledged at all, and it sure as hell wouldn't soften the tickler's attitude any.
 

A very different day.
He expected the gloves to slam down and just inflict as much pain as they could. But there was something malicious and seething in the way they stroked. Rotating around his most ticklish spots, even the rage didn't keep them from tormenting him slowly, even delicately, with the objective of him suffering all day. Shit, they almost radiated its hate. He was hysterical, and hurting in that showered-with-pleasure way, and to its mind that was as it should be. The driving, hungry ache it had was that the torture could never, ever be enough. However long he'd imagined it was going to keep him there and tickle the shit out of him, this new mood of the tickler's had him imagining the insanity going on until he was 30, and 40, and 50, forgetting all about the life he used to have, and the intensity of its hatred not diminishing at all, because even if he lived another 30 years it would be cheated - losing him before enough punishment had been doled out.
There was nothing amusing or satisfying about his agony, now. Not for the tickler. It was so cold. Driven to pour it on, even if there was no possible way to cause enough suffering, and if there had been enough hours in a day maybe then it would start to... need to make him suffer a little bit less. It would still keep on tickling him, of course.
He had the weirdest feeling, during the shorter rest breaks. He wished it wasn't so intensely dissatisfied. Knowing to his core that the torment wouldn't be any different, he still kinda wished there was something he could do to... see that it didn't feel so hopeless? Intently plugging away at an infinite task.

No less intense, the tickling - but his thoughts and reactions were so different.
 

Sometimes it did get cruel. There were rounds of excruciating tickling - in a painful way. Not many, thankfully. But the contrast was huge.
Hours crawled by, and when he could think the desire was getting rather urgent. There had to be a way to make the tickler... suffer less. It had infinite energy, and was just grinding away at a job that it had decided could never been done satisfactorily. Really stuck on that idea. If it would get input from somebody else, maybe... But it was so solidly determined to make him suffer that it wouldn't take its eyes off him, so to speak.
He longed to be able to say something to... ease its pain. That was ridiculous. And he also felt sure that if he spoke at all, the torture would become unbearable... starting perhaps with the cruelest possible tickling, and getting worse from there?

Such a long day...
 

Hands shoving him until he woke up again.
Well - huh? Huh?
All excited. Goofy. What the hell?
The tickler wants to know if the S&M riff "helped". Was easier on him - well, actually, if he just enjoyed it more. That mood could increase and deepen his ticklishness too.
So eager to see if it worked for him...
Reassurance. It would never hurt him, ever. That threw him for a loop. His cock just ached. Of course it had been hurting him. And it knew that... Wait. What does it mean by the word "hurt"?
There was a moment of confusion - then the beaming joy was back, soaking him, reveling in his predicament because that had resulted from its great "win". Hurt, it informed him, was anything that would reduce his capacity to feel the tickling.
He was stunned. That's not my definition, he thought. Or most people's.
I know, it soothed. But I'm the winner, here. I get to decide... well, everything. You're gonna keep aching, and suffering. And know that pleasure is causing it. You'll keep having a different kind of frustrating knowledge to endure whenever you remember that I've got plenty of restraints, right here, and I locked the door just so you wouldn't have any chance at all of evading the tickling... and I took so much care to pick a cell that was unknown to all others so the tickling would be endless, seemingly infinite. Those feeling you have, when you think about how securely you're caught, are more results of my triumph.
It made him look at the door. Really look. It was closed all the time. Solid maple, he was told. Lock after lock. Part of the victory was making _that_ sure he wouldn't escape, even in the ridiculously unlikely event that he got free and reached the door. That's how serious the tickler was, and how successful. He might as well think of the tickling as infinite. Every time he guessed at a number of days, that felt so abitrary and uninformed. Because, well, it was.
You'll be tortured by the stern, hateful tickler again, it promised.
No no no no -
Well, maybe not often. It got some different pleasure out of the day, and of course it alone could decide if that was the only tickler he'd ever encounter... but the totality of its "win" gave it the choice, so this time it chose to indulge him. Not fully, and he'd never know when that tickler would be back for another unthinkably grueling day. The truth it shared with him is that his joyful "cooperation" was more enjoyable to itself. Even more fulfilling.
So I want to feel that deranged mania emanating from you - right now. Feathers were racing down, down...

Giggle.
He blinks. Feathers are all over him.
Too overwhelmed to laugh right now.
Like a wall of heat when a radiator turns on, the urge to giggle - and be so much happier, as a direct result - sorta soaks him.
He starts slow. Then it rises in pitch. Not even close to expressing the amount of reaction he feels, from all the feathers... but he giggles more, and more. It's every bit as uncontrollable as his ticklishness.
He giggles for a long, long time.
Then brushes are settling on his torso. Stiff bristles for his belly, seductive fur around his pecs.
Ready to whoop?
Gradually, inexorably, he works harder at the sounds. Gotta whoop, diligent and immediate, urgent, really sounding unhinged. He whoops until the grey specks appear in his vision.
Then the tickling stops.
No. Of course not. How stupid - it pauses.
Look, it says gleefully.
Six oiled gloves are waiting.
Now you wanna roar - so fuckin' hard - but the tickling is just too much.
They really don't fuck around, these hands. It's all he can do to breathe. Again, as happens a hundred times a day, the new intensity of the tickling is changing the way he thinks. Extending his capacity to take more pleasure, feel it, and remain conscious.
 
 

"I can't... fuckin' take it," he whispered, panting away. "I mean it... this time. No more, no, aw no."
A surge of childlike happiness -
The rotary tools were coming.
Oh, hell no. I'll explode. He snaps and kicks, groaning -
And of course, as he should've known, they started buffing right under the toe restraints.
Instantly the world was a carnival. Way too much stimulation racing around, like he was clutching on to a turbo merry-go-round for dear life, smeary neon light and heavy-metal music slurred from the Doppler effect. It was happy thrash music though.
All too awake. Definitely good for hours yet. He knew that.
Reality was just a big rainbow-neon whirlpool sucking him down. The tail, which never seemed to move, was anchored to his toes. Triumphant tickling, alright. Redefining so many words...
 

He had a dream of... leaving. The morning after. Vageuly sore, but nothing like the first week, he yawned and sat up. Got a smoke. Clean clothes were laid out for him - and the tickler must've washed him down while he was zonked out. The door, oh fuck, was wide open. Get outa here, you. Enough fun.
But there was a low chuckle. Deeply pleased. A little reverb in there. No, no, ticklish captive. When you wake up, it will be more of the same.
In the meantime, it had a firm grip on his dreams.
Everything whipped around, blurring...
And he floated.
Relax, his tickler ordered. And enjoy.

Blur - and a dark city street. Almost deserted. Flying down. The level of excitement is intimidating.
One man, leather jacket, straightening up after he lights a smoke.
Following him from a good ten feet above. Past an apartment building, across the street. He smokes hard. Alert, but not obvious about it.
A decaying building is coming up.
Just below the observer, gloves follow intently. Ready to grab.
The street is empty, except for the victim -
And the pouncing gloves.
They let him almost get away, twice. Playing with him. So much fun radiates off the leather hands -
Then a finger gooses him, and he squawks as his feet stumble forward. Into the alley.
Wrestled along, to a door which creaks open...

Well inside, down a flight of steps - and rope springs up to greet him.
Arms solidly tied behind his back. Shins wrapped together.
The gloves force a pill down his throat, and pull off a strip of duct tape.

A half-hour later, the sweaty man is finally at peace.
Gloves pick him up, and carry him out of the room -
And to the alley, where a car is idling.

Motor out of the city, and to a quiet suburban neighborhood. Cul-de-sac. That house - set back a little more than the others. So nondescript it might as well not even be there...
Except for the soundproofed dungeon within.
Such an ordinary ranch house. Of course it could sit idle for a year. Nothing particularly suspicious. Or interesting. No one would ever possibly believe there was a fortified torture chamber inside. A man, barking hysterically, being put through his paces by a captor no one could see...
Disorienting joy. It was giving him a fuckin' torrent of tickler-bliss.
The sleeping man is carried with reverence. It's so incredibly important to keep him safe and healthy. Next, to keep him isolated... then, immobilized, and all of that facilitates the grand prize - unchallenged, limitless tickling.
Surrounded by sturdy devices, a thick pad ringed with stakes and straps is his next destination.
The door closes, giving a special thrill, and the locks are engaged.
Months and months of pleasure ahead, sure as shit...
Buck and thrash, give it your best shot, but the cell stays closed up nice and tight. Dance in the manacles, reef on the stocks, throw yourself around in the fortified sling... no neighbor, no meter reader or lawn care worker or cop or curious teens will even look twice at the unremarkable house. Careful steps have been taken to make sure that no one outside will hear a thing. They couldn't possibly guess that the house is occupied - that the raging, cackling man can't get out of his room. Spending the summer there, and autumn, and spring... pushed to his limit, feeling those limits stretch and expand.
And as summer returns again the suburbanites don't even notice the "empty" house anymore. Leaves keep dripping from the trees, snow piles up on the driveway, flowers reappear.
Boxes of food and medicine and oil sneak into the backdoor without ever getting caught.
Gloves, feathers, brushes, massagers continue to move with inevitable, serene grace.
For the first and only time it eases his jacket off. Undistracted devotion and enjoyment surrounds him as his boots are taken away, and now his socks.
These are excellent feet. Unlimited options. They will be secured with care. Absolute control...
. . .
 
 

The really insane contact is starting up again.
It just paralyzes him. Ruling everything. Totally.
 

Hours later, after a good ten continuations, he figures it out.
His hair has been cut really, really short. On his head. Apparently there's none left down by his neck - or, oh mutherfuck, behind his ears. There is no earthly way his ears could be this ticklish.
But it found out, and bared 'em. Right down to the scalp. He can't even imagine what his remaining hairstyle must look like. The emergency is how fuckin' sensitive that skin is, right around his ears. Delicate feathers, easy brushes... maddeningly slow fingers. And he can't even move when it's underway. Blinding sensation with a real sweet edge to it...

839

Inside, I think. Pick up your damn boot and walk forward. Four more steps and I've got you. It'll be a hot time for months and months... if you're reactive enough. Come on.
That's it.
Halfway there. Right foot, left foot. Then I can close the door. Real fast, before you catch on. It'll be too late and even if you see it start to move I'll have you in the cage where you belong. Right where I want you. That big stupid, surprised look on your face.
Yeah, it's weed. A nice-sized bag just sitting there. Waiting for you. All you have to do is walk in two fucking steps. I'll even let you smoke it - the high will make you laugh so much harder you may pass out, but I'll just wait until you come around and start in again. Two more steps and I'm going to work you over right. Booze, great food. Dozens of tools. My kind of gear.
You want that weed. It's all over your face. There...
Nobody's looking. I made sure you're alone. Just an empty room. Safe, oh yeah, just dart in and take the bait. I've got the gear bags hidden above the ceiling so you can't see them. Just another ordinary room and a bag of pot. I want you to take another fuckin' step through the door. Right now. You're going to feel the heat like you never even began to believe -
Do it.
I won't hurt you. Enough pleasure for five men, all year long. Just walk in. That's all you have to do. Please, dude, one more step and I can seal this cage and get started. Wear you down and get you out to your car, and then we're going straight home. A tickler's dream home. The last seven guys I caught seemed to appreciate how well the doors were hung, with all those locks, and prison-style bars on all the windows reminding them all the time that the nightmare still had 'em thoroughly buried away for more excitement -
Dammit, nobody will see you. Get the fuckin' bag. It's for you. So much more is ready...
Keep walking. Come on.
That's a good dude. Oh, fuck yeah. One more step. Good job...
Here goes the door -
Yeah!
No, no, asshole. I don't think so. No way. Hours of unbelievable fun, right in here, and then I'm taking you to the next chapter of your totally fucked-up life. See this bag? And I even brought you a pad. Can't have you banging your head on the bare floor -
This pair is for your hands.
Gotcha. Oh, fuck, this is gonna be sweet.
And wait until this oil does its work...

12july2006
 

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