851

There was nothing he could do. The restraints won. His brain understood this, but it seemed like his arms and legs hadn't quite bought in yet -
The gloves locked around his shins, low, and others steadied the base of each instep.
The tips of the feathers started dragging down his soles. Like a shallow cut, if cuts felt good...
He whooped, quickly and softly, and clenched his teeth. All those hands were making absolutely sure he couldn't do a damn thing about making this difficult.
Oh, fuck, the wrist-cuffs weren't lifting at all either.
Up crawled the tips, and down... Like a burn. No, points of ice. It hovered right around the idea of pain, and a good warmth was surging up from there. Waking up. Teased by broken glass, licked by flames -
He kicked and pulled up as hard as he could. None of the hands even moved.
The feathers traced up and down.
Wailing laughter at the ceiling, he felt even the squirming fade away - because there was nothing he could do. The cold reality of the situation got big and appallingly clear. The gloves were being used - worn - by a very experienced torturer, and it was definitely going to tickle him beyond anything he'd even thought of before. It was a done deal. The gloves weren't even fuckin' necessary, really, because the restraints were more than he could break. Somebody just wanted to make the impact of the feathers as overwhelming as it could be. Or they wanted him to know beyond all doubt that more than enough gloves were ready to grab him, right away, and keep him laid out so the breathtaking pain that also felt so ridiculously wonderful would... never stop.
That was the reward the tickler got, for all the work it took to get him here. Secure cell, prepped where no one will ever find it, and now the fireworks will keep on coming. Stroke by stroke.

852

They had their own take on recycling. Right now, it was being joyously put into action - by grabbing the arms of a scruffy biker.
He jumped, dropping the cigarettes he'd just bought.
Those grips had first taken hold of him fourteen years ago.
"Fuck," he whined.
More fingers culred over his mouth. The others dragged him away from his bike. Twenty steps to the entrance of a storefront which had been vacant for years...
The door squeaked as it swung open.
No matter how much he fought it, the hands took him inside. His motorcycle rolled up, right behind him -
When both man and machine were inside, the door closed. Chain rattled, a lock snapped, and they were taken further inside. Another door opened.
The kickstand went down. He left the bike behind, struggling less as they forced him into a dark office which had been converted for their use. The window was hidden - like the walls and ceiling - under layers of privacy-protecting foam. What they enjoyed was so much more fulfilling when there was no chance of unwanted surprises.
Behind him, a padded door swung shut.
He moaned with frustration and longing.
More locks could be heard, sealing him in the playroom. The padding on the floor was nice and thick under his boots. The smells should have been familiar - stale sweat, all this leather, and latex, the faint reminder of urine... and of course old cigar smoke.
Just like the last time.
He was a younger man, then. Spending several months in a cell much like this, where they learned all of his body's secrets. This time they could skip the investigation and begin using that intimate knowledge right away.
A quiet click turned on the florescent lantern.
Swing, rack, overgrown deck chair, hanging manacles, stocks... and the trusty bed.
The biker fought wildly. Far too late, as his brain must've known. But so many ticklish regions had fully realized what was about to happen again, and they wanted to leave. That's exactly why the door was locked.
He was here to be tickled as much as possible.
They inhabited ten leather gloves and approached him.
Shaking his head didn't stop them from pulling off his jacket. Then the t-shirt, boots, jeans, socks, underwear.
Naked, held tightly, he started to shiver. The room wasn't cold. It was the memory of his first encounter like this. Perhaps the dread...
They dragged him to the rack.

853

[Construction site - underground, like a multi-room fallout shelter - waaaay out in the wilds of the Rockies]
[The foreman is contracted to stay on after he's sent everybody else home]

Why the hell would somebody wanna pay foreman's wages for accepting deliveries? And "integrity checking" - what the fuck was that?
Ten weeks? Hell, there were only nine rooms in the fuckin' place...

Licking a joint, he heard a weird noise. Metal-on-metal. What now?
So he turned... and stared at something. All of a sudden it was such a big deal that he forgot everything else.
Nothing mattered anywhere near as much as that padlock, leaning out from the wall as if a magnet got a-hold of it.
Uh-huh. Big fuckin' padlock, hanging through steel loops he didn't remember seeing before - and it was closing up. Released, and swinging a little.
Everybody else was gone, right? If they'd locked it, as a joke, they'd have to be inside to do it. He'd just walked down the main hallway. Open doors and not a sound of anybody else around. He was positive.
Some joker -
But there was the lock. That message was pretty clear. Wasn't it, though.
He wasn't leaving. Not yet.
Real bad joke. How long was he supposed to...
An answer came to him, right away. Ten weeks.
No, aw fuck no. That was ridiculous. Too fuckin' crazy. He stared at the padlock.
Solid-metal door, he thought to himself. The part of his brain that worked the problem was... hard to hear, as if it was a long ways away. Tempered frame, six-inch anchors all around it. Recessed hinges on that fucker, a real bear to set. Good, heavy door. It would take a while to pry that son of a bitch open, but probably not as long as it would take to hacksaw through the hardened shaft of the padlock. Not that he had a hacksaw. No bolt cutters or Sawz-All in the room either, sad to say.
Concrete exterior walls...
Ventilation? Locked grates, right? Concrete slab underneath the floor.
It was just a jobsite, but a couple locks turned it into a mutherfuckin' cage.

Finally, he made himself stop looking at the padlock, and go to the other exits.
But he wasn't surprised at all to see they had padlocks too.

He lit a cigarette, and his hands were shaking real bad.
From behind him - in the main entry room - he heard a soft click.
Trying to calm down, he forced himself to stand there and smoke for a minute. And then he turned around. He didn't want to, but eventually he had to go and find out what had made that noise. Couldn't put it off forever.
The lights weren't as bright. Maybe one of the fixtures had shorted out. Fuck, he didn't want to go back in there... but he felt like a pussy, being afraid. There was nobody else in the place. C'mon.
He took another drag as he came up to the doorway, slowing down.
No, all of the lights were out - except for one bulb. Center of the room. Almost like a spotlight. The padlock was still there, shining just a little out of the dark.
He knew something bad was gonna happen.
And it did. Worse than the padlock. Hell, yeah. He had something else to stare at.
Dark, shiny... fingers. Hanging in the air.
Drey's brother, he thinks immediately. Deeny. Yeah. Good worker. He'd like it here. What the glove wanted was painfully clear, and he didn't even try to tell himself differently. This was not something he could take. Not just getting fucked with - solid, total, building up more and more...
Holding something - and that voice in his head babbled at him, trying any other explanation. But it didn't work.
The hand moved a little. Toward him. It floated easily. Pure mutherfuckin' magic.
And no matter what he wanted to believe, it was still holding a feather.
Oh, fuck.
"No," he said. "You're... Forget it. No."
One step backward - that was all he got. Hands slammed into his back and shoved him toward the damn feather.
"Not me, dammit!" he yelled. Springing backward didn't work, because the hands were blocking him. Shit.
A slight breeze came, from behind, and he figured it out before he heard the sound. Aw no, no, fuck no. But sure enough, the door slammed shut.
And he turned, just enough, to see the chair being carried in. There were, what, eight gloves hauling it to the center of the room.
Another pair was carrying rope.
It was like the worst possible nightmare he'd had in years.
"No," he said again. Foreman-voice. "Fuck, no. Look... No! Just - I can't fuckin' stand... Uh, This is fuckin' not happening. You hear me?"
Hell, he sounded like a pussy. All scared and shit. I am a big dude, his brain reminded him. They're not gonna get me t-
Damn.
The gloves jumped him.
Empty or not, the fuckers were strong.

It couldn't have been more than thirty seconds. Talk about embarrassing. They had him planted in the damn chair, and it didn't matter if he yelled and jumped around.
Then it got worse, and his head told him it would only keep getting worse and worse from now on, so seriously screwed now, and this is why they wanted him alone for ten whole weeks, oh yeah. The gloves pulled his fuckin' clothes off.
They worked together all too well.
And maybe the worst of all, so far, was when the rope floated down and started tying him up. All by itself. Smooth as you please, and quick.
So it was maybe a minute since the door had slammed shut behind him, and there he was. Stripped, tied real good... and looking up at the feather. Maybe a half-dozen riding gloves, hanging out in a circle over him. Where are the rest?
He wouldn't last ten minutes in there. Fuck ten weeks.
Not unless they knew what they were doing.
"Fuck," he wailed. Not all that far from starting to cry, actually.
He was not fuckin' gonna let them see that. He was really pissed off, all of a sudden. Gonna pull the fuckin' ropes apart and get... up..
The glove - holding the feather. It dropped down, and kept coming. Closer.
He yelled at it, as loud as he could. It kept coming. He could lunge and snap, but he was still fuckin' tied to the chair. Old, heavy wooden chair. Shit. It should've fallen over, at least - so he looked down. That explained where the rest of the gloves were... They were holding onto the legs. He threw all his weight to the right, but the chair barely moved. The gloves weren't gonna let him fall over, no matter how much he thrashed.
They're gonna make me thrash, he thought to himself. Oh no, oh no, I'm gonna die. Die laughing. I'm losing it.
Soon enough, I won't even be able to thrash. They got other plans.
"Nooooooooooooo," he begged, but the feather came all the way down.
Oh yeah. I'm screwed -
The fucker started on his belly-button.
"Oh no no no no no," he panted.

I'm not gonna laugh, I'm not, fuck them and their secret little torture chamber, ten weeks of hell. Not gonna laugh. He grit his teeth.
The feather... moved. Up over his gut. Breastbone. Neck.
Sweat rolled down the side of his head. No. Don't laugh, dammit. That's the sign they want.
I'm gonna die. They can't do this. It's way too intense for me. Anything but this, anything, aw please -
The glove paused. He stared, desperately. Sucked in air. Don't, he thought. Just don't go...
It moved sideways.
Not my armpit not my armpit don't -
Bingo.
"Aaaawwwwwwwaaaaahhh hah hah hah haaaah!," he roared. No, get off me!
Flicking around, gently.
He gulped air. This was his last chance. Well, probably not, he was already screwed, they got him. But he had to believe there was a way to get out of this. "G-guh... Go nuts. I'll lose my f-fuckin' mind. You don't know. Got it bad. Nobody... Please, p-please, I'm gonna fuckin' b-beg you. Okay? I'm too... Way t-too, uh... aw, fuck... Not this. Do what you want, s-so long as it's not... ten weeks. Aw, no. Hell. I can't stand th-"
Two of the gloves were coming down.
"No," he whispered.
They went and attacked his poor feet.
Screaming laughter, then. Couldn't see 'em, with his ankles tied down there. But he didn't need to. Fingers goin' at it. No, no -
Obviously, their answer was 'yes'. Weeks and weeks of pure tickling hell, coming right up.
He threw himself around for awhile, howling like a wild animal.
The tickling hit him like 220, high-voltage fuckin' gloves and he couldn't get his feet away.
One thought, from far away, and he was really starting to hate that asshole, even if it was him... The fingers aren't tickling all that quickly. Not really. This isn't full-speed.
And there's lots more fingers here. Wait 'til they all get going...

Stuck good, until somebody comes out to see what happened to him.
That's a lot of tickling.

The fingers explore his whole fuckin' body. He's definitely sure they'll drive him nuts, totally gaga, any minute now. No doubt.
And the minutes keep on coming, one after the other.

The gloves pause. He catches his breath.
And they continue.

His shins are impossibly ticklish. He didn't know that.
Hips. Hell, his fuckin' forearms...
And the gloves find out. All of him.

After a long time - frustrating, infuriating, humiliating as hell when the piss runs down his legs - he finally catches his breath. A groan doesn't sound right, so he tries it again. Thin, and raspy.
They've worn out his voice.
Blinking, he looks around. There's a tray, held about a yard away.
Hot food. Stew.
They thought of everything.
The food comes closer, and he's amazed at how hungry he is. A glove picks up the spoon and starts feeding him. His own hands pull uselessly, knotted behind his back.
Frustration, fury, embarassment. Tears flood his eyes.
But he's starving. That's what matters most.

They make him drink two liters of water. More piss, on the way.
He sighs, glaring at one of the gloves. It'll be back. On him. Having fun. Sick, sick bastard.
"Lemme go," he yells. His voice cracks, and it's not too loud anymore.
The gloves don't even move.

After a few minutes, the fingers start to float down - just as he was expecting. All the pulling and squirming in the world wasn't gonna change that.
He couldn't do a fuckin' thing, except watch 'em.
And bellow.

They played with his cock.
Took their time.

He got... relief. Finally.
For thirty seconds, he sat there all limp, head thrown back, not believing how incredible it felt when he shot his load. The little inner voice starting to wonder if it almost wasn't worth all the tickling, that's how fuckin' great it felt -
And a lighter touch dragged over his belly.
Feathers. Six or seven of 'em, each in the grip of a black glove. His gut, and his sides. Down by his feet. But they'd be moving around.
Each stroke felt like a hundred feathers. He tensed up, and forgot how to breathe.
That cum-shot. It made him more fuckin' sensitive. There was no way he could take any more -
The feathers all moved. Light, constant touches - exploding in the front half of his brain, like blasting caps. Or mortar shells. There were no fuckin' words.
They knew. Didn't they? Sure they did.
Just feathers, moving slow. So damn intense. Much worse.
He whimpered once, real quiet.
It didn't change a thing.
 

"You son of a bitch," he said. It was hard to sound pissed off when all he could do was whisper.
He needed the cigarette they'd given him. He let it hang, squinting at the new toy they showed him. Yeah, he recognized it.
So fuckin' tired...
No telling how many hours ago they started tickling him, and now they had just the thing to do, instead.
It buzzed. Floating there, all by itself, as the needles slid into the barrel. So he knew why his arms had been tied in front of him, after they turned him around in the chair. He got to watch.
"Mutherfuckin' son of a bitch," he said.
A little table was set in front of him. Loaded up. Plastic bottles were picked up and shaken...
But the disposable razor didn't need any glove holding it.
A spray bottle soaped up his left arm, and gloves got a lock on it. Wrist, elbow, shoulder. He couldn't do a thing.
All by itself, the razor slid down his tricep.
The tattoo gun buzzed intermittently, and it looked like the needles were being adjusted.
He took a drag, and eventually blew the smoke at the gun.
The tip of the needles dipped into a little cup of black ink - and a few paper towels ripped off the roll. They hovered, magically, over him. So did the bottle with the soapy water, or whatever it is.
Well, he thought, this... Now this really can't be happening.
The gun buzzed, and closed the gap.
 

"Ten weeks," he said quietly, with a voice so raspy it barely made any noise at all. But he hardly even noticed that anymore. "Oh, shit. Until somebody comes up here... Look. You can't. Not me. Deeny, maybe - he likes it. Right? I'm... Oh, shit, you gotta listen to me. I'll go out of my fuckin' mind, I'm not kidding! Not that. I can't... Shit! Ten weeks. Right? You think - aw, no! Please. Listen to me, just let me go now, please..."
. . .
 

The feathers were gone. He looked around, started struggling, and caught his breath...
Fingers crept under his knees.
"No! You son of a bitch - Whaaah hah haaaaeeeee..."
Please, he wanted to beg. I'm not a bad guy. Don't keep doing this to me. I'm gonna snap, here.
 

"So fuckin'... m-mean," he cackled.
The brushes kept sweeping and tracing around.
"I'm not a bad guy. Why the hell are ya doin' this? I mean... Why me?" He started to giggle, and then he just had to whoop a few times, get it out of his system. "Just because ya could. Right? That's it. But I'm not a bad guy, you g-gotta let me outa here, please. Please. Sure. That's not gonna happen, huh? You really like to fuckin' tickle me. Don't you? Huh?"
No answer. The tickling didn't increase, or slow down either. Careful, solid torture.
"Please," he wailed, dissolving into laughter again. "Get s-somebody... eh heh helllss-sssuh huh huh haw haw..."

Fuck, he was so ticklish.
It didn't make any sense. But it didn't have to, because it was real. Huge, and nonstop, just fuckin' swamping him. Nothing else mattered as much.
Get out of here? That didn't even work as a fantasy anymore. The fucker had all those tools, to drive him absolutely fuckin' wild, and almost ten whole weeks to - keep doing this.
Serious restraints. Food. He couldn't even go bugshit enough to get away from the tickling that way. It was too much for him. Powerful. The fucker won. Every second proved it. The tattoos made it real fuckin' clear.
Months...
It would feel like months. Son of a bitch. It had to let him go -
Stupid. So dumb. No, it didn't have to do any such thing. Everything was all planned out.
And maybe -
Too scary. Not possible. He tried to shove the thought away. Be a man, he thought, gulping air. Face it. Ten weeks until the job was done. Fuck! The worst damn job ever.
And then, what? He'd finally get out. That was sweet. Thinking about that... and there was no way he could start another job then. Yeah, he'd take a fuckin' month to recover from this shit.
There it was again. The bad idea. Real bad...
He was supposed to check in and pick up another job. His paychecks were deposited automatically -
What if he didn't show up at the office?
Say, maybe he was tied up. Cuffed. In here. They'd wonder, right? Get curious.
The office was twelve hundred miles away. He was using his own truck, the rented tools were supposed to be picked up the day the other guys took off. It was the rental company's problem. They must've come and gone already.
It was so obvious, all of a sudden. If he doesn't show up and pull another ticket... they wouldn't wonder about a fuckin' thing. Shrug, and forget about him.
Locked in here.
His guys had built a real tight trap. He was stuck good. Living in it.
Living...
Shit, this was his home.
Tickle dungeon. Yeah.

Ten weeks was a stupid-ass fantasy. There was no reason anybody would come back up here. If the asshole was careful - and all the shit he'd gone through pretty much convinced him it was - all of the loose ends would be wrapped up, nice and slick, just another job over and done with.
He was staying here.
Fuck ten weeks. If the bastard kept bringing him food...
 

[well, it got somebody else, alright - new enlistees. Not replacements. It was gonna work 'em all over. Four at once...]

854

The first giggle busts out -
Just goin' nuts, already, and the restraints hold him good and tight. There are hands... tickling him! All of the arching and slamming around don't change a thing.
A snort just keeps on leaking out, turning into a groan.
"Nnnn-nnuh hoo hoo-ooooo..."
Oh, shit, this is unbearable! And he can't move. Fingers working between his ribs. Tickling. No reaction changes a fuckin' thing. Gloves - empty gloves - keep on making him crazy, and all he can do is sit there.
He just throws his fuckin' head back, laughs and laughs -
The fingers scoot back down to his ribs, cover 'em good, and slide back up. The dude's arms are no match for the straps. Any real fight is beyond him now. And he's real ticklish.
The gloves have no hands inside 'em, but they do him in just the same.
Tears drip off his face. The impact is getting worse. Can't get away - and the gloves are really goin' at it now.
Hollering laughs, squealing, he pisses all over his legs.
They keep right on goin'.
 

When the feathers begin tracing down his thighs again, the wail he kicks out is immediate, mindless, faint, scratchy and quick. With a quick gulp, he starts to chuckle. And doesn't stop.
I warned him not to come back here.
She deserves better. My methods of protecting her have admittedly taken a self-serving turn, but they are still to be taken seriously. He wanted to fuck her again - even after I called him - so he came out. I had the cell all ready. No one will ever, ever find it.
Now he'll feel the fire.

Every time I start back in, his body tries to curl up. I've figured out the reason. His central nervous system wants nothing more than to reduce the amount of area I can tickle. Leather and steel make absolutely sure that won't happen, but his limbs try anyway. So desperately.
There's pleading in the sound of his laughter. Monotonous, woebegone - involuntary. Even after all two utterly arousing days his brain still tries to play on my... sympathy.
The squirming is constant - at first - and when that doesn't stop the tickling either, I see one hard bounce... and he kicks out a roar. Pent-up reaction is not to be held back anymore. I get the gift of unhindered, meaty laughter. That fades away within a minute, and then he can't manage to laugh with any consistency. Every second of sweaty silence, peppered with random grunts and twitches, gives me all the confirmation I need. He's still completely overwhelmed with sensation - not escaping any of it by tuning it out - and the long hours of punishment can continue.
How I love the privacy of this dungeon.
A feather dusts up and down his cock.
Another pair tickles his soles.
He can't possibly stop me. No one can.

855

He looks completely baffled. Bench warrant...
That young cop didn't recognize the acronym, so he called Headquarters. They looked it up and said there was no such code - or agency. By that time, of course, the man he'd arrested was gone.
Strapped and tied well, he floated through the woods. Surgical gloves displayed unnerving strength and endurance as they took him farther and farther away from those who were sworn to assist him.
When the rookie cop finally started searching the stand of trees, a car was already five minutes gone. It had been waiting on the highway which bordered the far side of the woods.
As the captive man floated up to it, a latex glove opened the door for him...

There were gloves driving the car - kidnapping him.
This was the third time it had happened. At the moment, he was more irritated than anything else. Adrenaline was racing through him, but there was nowhere to run. They'd really covered all the bases, the other times, like a lot of thinking had been done about the ways he might get slip loose or attract some attention.
He knew what they wanted. Fear wasn't an issue. Now, dread was another matter. That wouldn't keep 'em away, though.
The gloves were taking him back on the freeway.
It had been three years. When the cop took him in, there wasn't even a thought of this happening instead. He would much rather have been stuck in the local jail for a few days. Instead, months of hellish toys, playing with him.
They were bringing him... a bottle. And others peeled open a pack.
That pissed him off. It had been so fuckin' hard to quit smoking. Every minute he was braced for hands grabbing him by the shoulders, because whenever they made him smoke when he was their prisoner. The battle to stop looking for 'em was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. Eventually, he was proud of sticking it out. One month, then two, finally six.
It had been almost two years since he'd had a cigarette.
These hands didn't go along with that. Taking hold of his head, they made it clear he was starting up again.
One of them cracked the window. Little things like that just preyed on his mind. The bottle was being uncapped. If this went like the other times, they'd get him drunk. Keep the cigarettes coming... and he couldn't rule out that they were doing it to be nice. That was so warped. He was wrapped up, so panicking wouldn't change anything. But the other times they had done things that weren't necessary, and the only conclusion that made any sense was that they were getting something out of providing little treats. And later, they'd torture the fuck out of him.

A whole world full of ticklish guys...
And the man they carried from the car was like a whole world, too. Dozens of spots to pinpoint, so many techniques and tools - it was always exciting.
One of them opened the door to the cabin. On the outside, just an old shack - but they had the inside just the way they wanted it. Stocked... and fortified. There was no possibility of their ticklish captive getting out.
He gave them the most fight yet as they carried him through the doorway. The lack of resistance meant he'd done this bit before - and that confirmed that he was worthwhile. Unfailingly ticklish.

He didn't want to look at the door. Slumping, looking defeated, he took a shaky drag.
Hands turned his head and made him watch the door close. A flashlight beam highlighted the blocker bar which other gloves were setting in the brackets... and the chain they dragged through the holes. Then, a padlock.
The light clicked off.
Having been shown that the dungeon was secure, his head relaxed as the hands let go. With a low groan, he tugged on the cigarette but didn't move.

The cops were like their army. That's what he realized. The warrant was fake, but it got him caught and in handcuffs. In a small-time sheriff's office they'd have little trouble slipping in with a bunch of straps. Sneaking him out. It had gone so smoothly that he wondered why it never really occurred to him before. The fuckin' ticklers could launch an all-out manhunt, any time they wanted, and then just pick their moment to kidnap him from the cops...

They "escorted" him to the rack.
With the growing sense that everything was going their way, they stripped him and laid him out. Wide strips of leather were wrapped and buckled. Tension was applied, and the straps were anchored...
He wouldn't be able to flop around as they tickled the shit out of him.
All was going exactly according to plan. Now it was time to really enjoy the result.

856

[Guy chooses to ride away from a sobriety checkpoint -
past an idling black van.
He felt the [blowdart], and fought to keep from laying the bike down as he passed out...]

As he rode to the dungeon, it executed a computer virus crafted by a good friend. Twenty-three databases were updated...
There.
To the rest of the world, the biker has ceased to exist.
He had nothing except his motorcycle and the clothes on his back. A moving company was contracted to visit his tumbledown duplex the next morning and box up every trace of his presence, putting it all into deep storage - under a false name.

His species couldn't possibly understand the interest, or the excitement, which motivated the tickler. No amount of demonstration would fully communicate that. It wasn't concerned with being understood. They never really grasped the depthless need to tickle.
The most important thing was that it had a big, powerful target now.
He was unmistakably safe in the dungeon, helpless in the grip of expertly adjusted restraints... and stripped of all the protective leather and cloth.
No obstacle remained - so it brought six nylon gloves up and made them move with resolute energy.
Oh, fuck, did it love these things. The captives never expected to see magical gloves approaching. Fingers to trace and grip, palms to slide - full of strength, even though the emptiness was obvious. Cloth could hardly contain the yawning need to inflict hysterically amusing torture. The tools couldn't exhaust it, either. Later there would be maddeningly animated feathers and brushes, among a dozen favored toys... and they'd always, always return for more giddy anguish.

Did he want that?
Oh, hell no!

As intense as the first asskicking minute would be, there was the comfortable assurance the tickler would teach its prisoner, without words, that the next round of tickling was surely going to feel a little bit worse - more consuming, crippling, shattering. And one session would always be followed, after the required interval to rest up, by so much more tickling.

The gloves were just perfect for letting him know why he'd been caught and imprisoned. He protested and slung his body around - they all did - but nothing whatsoever could stop the tickler now.
One pair touches his feet. Just the index fingers, to start - but they're not moved in a tentative or hesitant matter. No, they stride down his soles, pressing just heavily enough, and ride up again. Repeating the motion again, and again.

His body convulses, and a groan is forced out of his throat. That motion, such a violent jump, would normally move him out of the tickler's range. Clearly the result was expected, because they always paused after that first lunge.
Wonderfully, his soles remain right in place. Pinned by thick ankle-cuffs. And the tickler's fingers keep right on moving.

That's contrary to the man's expectation, and the first explosion of laughter sounds concerned and stunned and so fuckin' enthusiastic, all at once. More struggling occurs, usually even more violent. But still his body stays where the captor wants it, and the gloves tickle... and tickle.

Panic, rage, even terror may appear on his face. The laughter may reflect the powerful emotions surging through him, but it always gets more and more rowdy. His cognition erodes, and the sheer strength of involuntary impulse consumes his awareness. The resulting evidence simply could not be more rewarding to the tickler.

It's time to put three fingers to use on each doomed arch...
 

After the rest break, a badly needed liter of water and a cigarette which is never lit - the gloves zero in.
Alarm turns into useless tugging, severe restlessness - and the fingertips make contact.
He jumps yet again. It's that special first leap that's supposed to result in the movement of his body off the bed, or at least well away from the tickler. Safe, and untouched. No more stimulation he just can't fuckin' stand. For an instant his limbs relax - mission accomplished. Or rather, it should be. Moving should result in a change of position, and definitely when the stimulus is so pleasingly intolerable...
But his body rediscovers that there will be no denying the will of his tickler's coaxing, sadistic fingers. They'll drive him wild and deliberately, knowingly turn up the heat - exploiting one sensitive location after another, really getting to know each spot's individual quirks, provoking them with a range of tools and speeds and pressures. This caliber of tickling will require so very, very much time. It will shred his composure more thoroughly as it goes on, and the tickler delights in that. He has no way at all to cope with what's being methodically, delightedly done to him.
The restrained feet will be slammed back to the impossibly magical truth... that they didn't succeed in evading the fingers. Not this time, this hour, this night. They're in for the most unspeakably throbbing attention, far outstripping any ordeal in his experience - and it's completely nondestructive, so the tickler can thrill to the application of the demented pleasure which unravels him. Eight hours, ten, twelve. Day upon howling, feverish day.

It drags the soft, tickly fabric down his soles.
Hooting raggedly, he yearns to twist free or kick its gloves away.
Reversing course, the gloves pointedly tease back up to his toes. I have you in restraints which will not fail, it thinks eagerly.
The fingertips rake down. The cell in which you're hidden is securely locked...
And back up. And no one will ever hear you scream the most deranged laughs and gibbered squeals the human body can produce. Not in here. The possibility of you being seen by any others has been eliminated. In fact they'll never stumble upon this building. Your anguish is guaranteed. I have made it so.
Soft fingers land now on the insteps, molesting both the top and bottom sides of the biker's surprisingly treacherous, thoroughly compromised, fuckin' exquisitely sensitive feet.

857

"Tell me the password," the voice crooned.
He groaned into the gag.
"Aw... Okay, then."
Hour number four began... with six gloves terrorizing his feet and thighs.
The drug dealer shrieked - an airy, desolate sound - and started to thrash again. Obviously he was too smart to fall for the allure of his own products, because he was buffed out and about as vital as they get.
It was important to get the password out of him... but the tickler's peers hadn't said there was any rush. He'd been so resistant that the gag had seemed like a good idea. And now, that he couldn't answer the only question which would make the torture stop - well, the agonzied expression whenever it made the demand was just delightful. Of course he couldn't tell it with the gag in place.
The tickler knew that, he knew that - and it was going to be a long, delirious weekend.
Uh, week.

858

Case popped the kickstand, got off the bike and lit a smoke before he got to the front door. At his old house, there'd be no end of shit if he tried that. Nobody was supposed to smoke anywhere except the backyard.
But here - well, he just let himself in.
Thick fuckin' smoke. Nu-metal music.
Alright.
DDD and FFF were in the living room, lost in a new PS3 game. There were a good dozen beer bottles and a couple bongs on the coffeetable. Three guys were playing cards in the dining room - cigars, joints, a couple fifths of booze.
Fuck, Case loved this place.
He went through and pounded on BBB's door.
"Later," BBB shouted. Case knew that tone. He got closer to the door...
Alright.
Grinning, he went into the kitchen to get himself a beer.

A cute blonde left first. Sorority queen, flushed, hair a little wild.
BBB stalked out a minute later, cigarette and sleepy grin.
"That's what I'm talkin' about," Case said to him.
BBB held up his hand and got a high-five.

They went out back to burn one. The patio was all enclosed.
"Any openings yet?," Case said.
"Will you - I keep tellin' ya, man, it's not all coolness."
"Bullshit. I wanna live here."
BBB shook his head and had another toke.
Case was so jealous. The big ol' house was full of kids just out of foster homes - well, within a year or two of being booted out. Emancipated. Case had been shown the door a month ago and it sucked sleeping down by the river...
All these dudes had it made. Party all the time, all the money they wanted. Of course Case wanted in.
There was an old guy, some kind of official chaperone, but Case had never seen him. He figured the guy was living somewhere else, even though he was supposed to live there. No rules, from what Case could tell. And no deadline.

After they got high, the guys went in and raided the refrigerator.
"Yo," a low voice barked. Case turned and saw HHH - twenty years old, pretty much the unofficial house leader.
"Hey, dude."
"How goes it?"
Case shrugged. I gotta sleep with one eye open and listen to the winos and their D.T.'s, he thought, but nobody actually wanted to hear about shit like that.
"We got pizza coming at six. Stick around."
"Alright! Thanks."
HHH nodded, and studied Case. "What's your attitude about fun, Case? Havin' fun?"
"The more the better, I guess."
BBB was shaking his head, but HHH frowned at that. "I gotta... check on something."
"What the fuck?," Case asked his friend.
The other guy started to say something, decided not to - and shoved a piece of cheese in his mouth.

A couple minutes later...
"BBB!," guys were yelling.
"What?," he shouted at nobody in particular.
"HHH wants ya."
"Shit. Just a sec," he said to Case.

When he came back into the kitchen, his eyes were glassy. Case thought maybe he wouldn't mind getting some of whatever made BBB look so baked.
"You wanna stay here for awhile," BBB said carefully. Yeah, he was high.
"Why?"
"House meeting. At seven."
Case thought about that. "Don't jack me around."
"Hey - you wanted it, looks like you got it. Just don't go nowhere." BBB looked troubled, but only for a sec. Then he grinned. "Try not to talk if you can help it. That way they won't know just what a dick you are."
"Fuck you," Case laughed, 'cause he'd already met most of the guys in the house and sparked up with 'em. Nobody seemed to hate him or anything.

They gathered in the living room. Case and BBB sat on the floor. Loud jokes, beer bottles clinking...
Somebody came through the doorway. That's what it felt like, almost, but Case didn't see anybody.
The room quieted down.
Case felt... just right. Calm - no, safe. Fuck, that's what it was. Safe as it gets.
A guy floated in. Feet first, about at eye level.
Covered in leather straps.
And somehow that didn't seem the least bit unusual.

He floated there, in front of them, unable to move a muscle. Muscular guy in his late twenties maybe, shaggy dark blond hair, ball-gag and blindfold. The dude was covered with weird tats.
Case realized he was staring at the house chaperone.
This wasn't a scumbag who cashed the checks but never set foot in the house. Hell, this guy never got out. It was clear to Case somehow that this guy was locked in his room all the fuckin' time.
He wondered why.
Then a bunch of oily leather gloves floated over to the dude.
Any bare skin they could get at was... fuckin' tickled.
Case couldn't take his eyes off 'em. There had to be something worth worrying about, here - as if something was unusual, maybe? - but he just couldn't get his brain to work.
He was imagining one of those confident sons of bitches working on his dick. More fingers scritching his ball-sac, teasing his ass...
Diving into his armpits.
It was fuckin' hot.
That was a new thought. Case didn't remember finding such weird, twisted shit interesting before. But - wow.
The gloves worked on the trapped guy - their pet, tickle-plaything - and it became clear to Case who really ran the house. He couldn't even begin to imagine being in that guy's place. But apparently that was what happened here, at least to that dude.
And at the same time he was more determined than ever to move into this cool house.

"Alright," HHH said quietly - and he didn't need to whistle, or even yell, 'cause all eyes were on the guy squirming and grunting. Fingers gettin' him here and there. Really fucking with his feet!
Even though nothing seemed to be holding the older guy up there, he couldn't do shit. Fingers squeezed and raced all over his feet and they didn't even hardly move. Oh, the toes flexed, yearning. And he chuckled. But it was real quiet.
Man, those gloves just weren't gonna give his knees a break.
"Old business," HHH said.
"More speed, dammit," a guy barked. "The olive racer kind."
"More dark beer," DDD said - and a lot of guys booed at that.
"Done," HHH nodded. "What else?," looked around. "Speak now, or else. Okay... Who wants out?"
"Me," FFF said immediately.
"Me," and it was BBB, raising his hand. Case looked at him, confused.
"You'll see," BBB sighed.
Five guys altogether had their hands up. HHH didn't seem to approve or get pissed off. He just turned to the man gettin' tickled.
"Got guys that wanna move out," he said quietly. Then he leaned forward, putting his ear closer to the ball-gag.
Not three seconds later, HHH grinned and stood up tall. "All or nothing -"
Some guys hooted for joy.
"So we're all... goin' nowhere."
Most everybody clapped. Case looked at BBB, who wasn't clapping. He didn't look upset, though. A shrug - like, oh well, it was worth a try - and he just let it go. Case wondered how many times they'd gone through that sham.
"New business," and HHH sorta leered right at Case.

"He's toast!," a guy shouted from somewhere behind Case's right shoulder. A few guys laughed at that.
"Case, here, wants to move in. And we got an open slot -"
"Who?," BBB interrupted.
"Uh. PPP. Emergency kickout."
"How often does this happen?," Case asked BBB.
"Once a month. Maybe less."
Everybody was lookin' at a pale guy in the corner.
"You okay, PPP?"
"My gut," he sighed.
"Some disease. Comes and goes," BBB whispered to Case.
"Damn," FFF said wistfully. Clearly he wished he was the one who could leave. Very confusing, to Case -
"Get better," a guy said to PPP.
"C'mon back."
"Thanks," PPP said, nodding. He seemed to Case to be conflicted about leaving.
"You know how they hate an empty room," HHH said. More laughter.
"They?," Case asked BBB, who just shushed him.
"So I get to tell this shifty-lookin' bastard here that he's in."
Cheers.
Case blushed.
"And he's gonna get the same treatment as anybody else."
"Uh... Like an initiation?"
"Initiations end," BBB wisecracked. "At some point."
"No," HHH said - and his eyes sparkled in a way Case didn't particularly like, but he felt so peaceful, everything was turnin' out so damn cool... "like this dude."
He pointed at the chaperone.
"What?"
"Welcome to the house," HHH said. And he really sounded happy.
More cheering -
And more gloves.
To his shock, Case realized they were gonna grab him.

"Wait a minute," he said automatically. If he stood up they'd have even less distance to travel.
"Nonstop fun," a guy crowed.
"Fun? You mean... Like that?" He cocked his head at the glove's prisoner.
"Exactly like that."
"I don't think I can stand -"
Oh, such deep, comforting warmth.
"...to wait another fuckin' second," Case yelled. "Come and get me!"
They did. Everybody laughed and clapped.
Eight or ten gloves latched on and carted him out of the room, up the stairs as easy as anything, like they did it all day long. And Case realized that was because, well, they did.

859

"Now that I've got your attention," tickler said.
That was a dig. Enemy wasn't talking - he felt like he was gonna hyperventilate. Time had come to a complete halt. It happened when the covered platter floated up. Enemy couldn't take his eyes off what he saw. Feathers.
His body just started trying to back away. The cuffs absolutely prevented that. Oh, the reason for such tight restraints was absolutely clear now.
The phantom was going to tickle him.
No words, or threats, were going to make it back off. They were caught, in a secret place - a house selected because no one would possibly hear them. And of all the unbelievable, horrible things... tickling.
There was no way to make it stop. An hour, six hours -
Six days?
More?
He had to stop this from happening. No job could possibly be worth it. I give up, he thought. This was so unfair. Totally sucked. Rival would get the partnership -
He looked over at his rival. All of the blood seemed to have drained from his face, and huge eyes were locked on the feathers.
He was ticklish too.
"Hey," Enemy shouted. Rival looked over. All of the arrogance was gone. Obliterated. That gave Enemy such a sense of relief. The deal wouldn't be settled this way. Enemy shook his head, and Rival nodded quickly. As much of an asshole as he was, even Rival saw the impossibility of going through with this.
"On three," Rival said. That was one of the most wonderful things Enemy had ever heard. He nodded, and took a breath.
"Whuh -"
Something got in the way. A cloth...
No. Aw, no.
"Naaaah!," Rival yelled through the cloth which tightened between his teeth.
Oh, fuck, it was gagging them. How could they surrender if -
The fact hit home like a sledgehammer. It was going to tickle them. Nothing in the universe would call it off. Serious, superhuman tickling. Enemy had to get his hands loose, right now, or else more torture than he could even imagine would begin crawling over him, spreading everywhere and finding horrible new spots, picking up speed - and pressure. There were hands here. They'd strapped him down. Fingers exploring, polishing, digging.
Rival was just flipping out too.
"It's only natural," the voice said smoothly, "for you to panic. It's fear of the unknown. That's why I making a new rule."
Rival screamed like a girl, and Enemy knew just how he felt.
"The battle starts tomorrow. Anyone wants to be a pussy and throw away the partnership - getting more of this every month - that's your decision. But you're both too freaked out to make an informed choice."
Oh, no, no - feathers were rising off the tray.
"So I'm going to give you a full introduction to the... rules of engagement," and it laughed. "And I do mean full. We're gonna stay up all night, boys. Even after the gags are gone, I won't accept either of you packing it in. Not until after you wake up. Period."
Enemy kicked and thrashed around, but the damn feathers were on the way. In a few seconds they'd be at his feet, and two were still drifting up - no, they were calmly being carried. Brought very much on purpose. Unstoppable, really determined.
Pointy white feathers were aiming for his armpits.
Rival had the same problem, but Enemy couldn't deal with the fucker right now. Something had to happen, right now, to make the tickler stop. It couldn't possibly be allowed to drill him all night. Not tickling. If it only knew -
Wispy edges dragged right across the middle of each sole.
Enemy slammed his eyes shut and arched as hard as he could. Every kick and lunge failed him. Nothing interrupted the dismal moment when the feathers sawed back to their original position -
Tiny points moved through his armpit hair.
Oh, fuck, it was really happening.
"Tonight will seem like it’s a hundred years long," the tickler promised. "But it’s only the first night. Of many."
Rival howled, long and miserable - an "ooooo" sound being forced through the gag.
Cackles just exploded out of Enemy. I can’t stand this, he thought. Bouncing, yanking at the straps, bellowing laughter - it was only just beginning. The fucker had hands. I cannot stand this, really, there’s no way I can endure another second of tickling. It had no right to do this.
But he couldn’t have said that, even if the gag wasn’t frustratingly effective. He was laughing too hard.
It didn’t need anyone’s permission. He was very effectively restrained -
Laughing so hard he started to cough. The movement stopped, then. He wasn’t sure if the feathers actually pulled off - oh, fuck, how wonderful would that be? - but when he’d stopped hacking and was snickering again the damn tickling started back up.
He couldn’t move. It was so diabolical.
The fact that Rival was going insane too didn’t particular help.

Oh shit, oh fuck - it could go anywhere it wanted. With the feathers. Under his knees, which just made him explode with energy. Fighting the cuffs. And the feathers brushed and flicked anyway, kept doing it, he couldn’t fuckin’ roar hard enough...
Enemy found new strength when the feathers started dusting over his nipples. Every movement there seemed to make tickle-receptors come alive all over him. The feathers weren’t even messing with his toes right then, but the most incredible warmth told him it was gonna be unspeakably bad when they returned. His thighs were wide awake. His fuckin’ palms... At one point Enemy realized his fingers were just as active - desperately yearning - as his toes were. Longing to get away. And the feathers moved from one spot to another.
Every fuckin’ place was a landmine. He just shrieked for awhile, then barked this real meaty laughter, and there were alternating cackles and hoots. Completely involuntary. All of the noise and the struggling were side effects, doing no good whatsoever. The real deal was liquid fire, sloshing deep inside, like waves that never stopped pounding. A strange power. Somehow the impact was so far beyond pleasure that Enemy couldn’t do a damn thing except observe it. And there was far more than he could recognize. Six places crackled - hell, a dozen - light feather-strokes causing a huge earthquake of thrilling, deadly sensation to race around. Legs, arms, body, head. Volatile energy surged for a way out, and Enemy couldn’t possibly feel it enough. Process it. And feathers kept generating more excitement every second.
He still couldn’t move. Restraints - that meant more of this fire. Far too much pleasure.
All night?

It really seemed like years. Each instant was stunning, riveting...
Enemy heard panting. After a minute, he realized it was him.
Rival wasn’t doing any better. Their gags were gone, but he had a wild look Enemy had never seen before. Eyes darting all around - looking for feathers, probably, or whatever hellish thing came next. To tickle them. Real hard -
Water bottles were hanging in the air. It actually took Enemy a few seconds to remember that the torture was being conducted by somebody invisible. With a lot of hands. Sociopathic, extremely skilled, strong hands... dangerously impressive with a feather, sure to dig in all over his spread-eagled body, and there was no way of knowing how many sets of insatiable fingers surrounded him right now, in that hidden dungeon, powered by a chucking sadist who was clearly smart enough to lay in food and vitamins and more feathers, weeks maybe - hell, months. Months...
"How long?," Rival croaked.
"Believe me - you don’t want to know."
That made Enemy’s blood seem to freeze. Instantly. But Rival shook his head. "How long was that?"
"Like I said -"
"Please," Enemy begged. His voice was raspy too.
There was laughter over him - carefree, delighted ease. Then something floated over...
His cell phone.
22:47
"Oh, no," he sighed, closing his eyes.
Not even an hour. How long did the night last? Eight more hours - maybe ten. Like that? No, hell, of course not. That was just the feathers. Surely this fucker had other tools. More agonizing...
All those obsessed hands.
"Lemme see," Rival demanded. After a few seconds, "No. Bullshit! You’re f-fucking around with the clock." There was hysteria in his voice.
"Rival," Enemy said tiredly.
"What?"
"That’s network time. The phone gets the time from the network. I can’t reset it."
"Noooo-ooo!," Rival squealed. He’d figured it out. All night - and the voice must’ve been telling the truth. Everything else had worked out just the way it wanted. It wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet and the tickling was going to continue, and increase, build up and just fuckin’ explode and then keep right on building. Enemy knew in every fibre of his being that there was no chance of anything changing that.
A finger pressed in his navel.
"For the... I’m fuckin’ begging you," Enemy said to his belly.
"Nooooo no no no no," Rival wailed. "Nuhhnnnnaaah hoo hoooo hooooo-oooooo nooooooo."
More fingertips landed - all over Enemy’s chest. And abs. Pelvis, outher thighs... collarbones.
"Please, no," he managed, just before they started to skate and the cackles forced their way through his throat.
. . .
 

Oh, fuck, Enemy couldn't take the gloves anymore. Not right then. Please, he thought desperately - way too frightened to say it out loud, because they'd probably just double up - not gloves this time.
A toothbrush lifted off the table.
Hell. That wasn't any better, really. The damn cuffs weren't gonna let him skip out. Maybe the bastard wouldn't let him go even if he won.
No - after he won.
Four brushes started to drag around his pecs.
Seizing up, he exploded with raspy, high-pitched shrieks. This tickled too much. It would go on for an hour, maybe longer, and there wasn't a chance of hell of stopping it.
Rival's giggling was winding down. It was his turn to rest... and watch.
Enemy was going out of his mind. Three days of this shit, maybe more. There was no end in sight, apparently. Enemy wasn't gonna cave.
Four words could end the excruciating tickling. Supposedly.
He just couldn't take this, but living with the result of saying those words seemed even worse...

Hopkins was making them decide among themselves. He wouldn't budge.
The big class-action suit was wrapped up, and the old codger refused to let 'em take on anything new until they "settled their little spat." Enemy knew he deserved to make partner, but the ass-kissing Rival had brought in a little more money. The guy would stop at nothing. Enemy had back down enough times before, in other situations, but this time - dammit - he drew the line.
The new partnership would get to run a brand new satellite office. Enemy wanted that. It was time to move up. Run things. Rival was after the job mainly because Enemy was the obvious choice, or so it seemed.

The brushes teased his armpits, and Enemy bawled until the tears just streamed down his face.
Rival was probably watching. It was a relief, oddly, to rest up and watch Rival just come unglued. Sadistic tickling.
The fucker had 'em, alright. Stalemate. Whichever one surrendered would lose the job. Worse - well, almost as bad - the tickler promised 48 hours of this torture every month to the loser. Enemy didn't buy that at first, but now he was convinced. Agreeing to that was unthinkable.
Oh, hell, the brushes were starting to tickle his belly too. He flopped with all he had. Damn restraints. The tickling felt like electrical shocks crawling back and forth, always going on, continuing, no matter how many times he reached that fuckin' point where he just longed to pass out rather than feel one more feather, or one more stroke.
Enemy couldn't lose. This was impossible to take, but not coming out on top of Rival would make it so very much worse.
 

He woke up, and a jolt of fear shot through him.
His arms were chained way up, over his head, and there were thick wodden stocks trapping his ankles. Rival was caught the same way...
"Rival," the tickler said smugly, "are you ready to be reasonable yet?"
"Fuck, no," the guy spat.
"Enemy - is it time for another full, hysterical day of excitement for ol' Rival here?"
The hatred welled up. "Tickle him," he snapped.
"Yeah?"
"Make him wail."
"Even if you get it too."
"Break him today," Rival growled. "Rev it up."
"You both want to continue," the tickler said quietly. "So..."
A big fuckin' flock of gloves appeared. Smooth, and steady - but so damn eager to stick it to 'em. Another unthinkable day of the same shit.
"It's mine," Rival yelled. He meant the partnership. Enemy hawked spit, getting ready to launch it at Rival's feet, but the gloves were almost there. So many cruel fingers, closing in on Enemy's worst spots too. It would probably be a full day even if he gave up right now - the tickler was digging this way too much. They were both supposed to be gone for as long as it took. Fuck, nobody'd even miss 'em. Another week of this hell, and a third. Sure. Who'd believe it?
Convulsing, Enemy started to squirm in the cool grips tickling him. He sucked in a huge breath and started to roar. Rival wasn't doing any better, and that was the only damn comfort in the whole situation. Rival was suffering too, and he'd get his ass kicked until Enemy said - no, wait, there was no way he'd let all this incredible torture mean nothing. He wasn't going to cave. So Rival was stuck in the ultimate nightmare - too. Until he wussed out. That was the only exit, for the arrogant bastard. No way Enemy was letting him off the hook.
Throwing his head back, his laughter ramped up until it was silent. The tickling didn't feel any less unbearable, though, and sure as shit the gloves weren't about to back off. Not until Rival broke, like the pussy Enemy knew he was. Until then...
Oh, hell, he couldn't take this shit. All day? Another ten seconds. It was just killing him.
And Rival too. That was the only good thing about it.
. . .
 

"Tih... tickle him harder."
"Well, that would mean I tickle you harder too. You up for that?"
Looking over at glassy, thunderstruck eyes.
I can't say yes, he thought. I'll die. Of course, I'll lose. After all this -
"Nuke him," he rasped.
"Al-right."
. . .
 

"I just can't decide who's more ticklish," it said.
Enemy groaned. Well, of course it couldn't. Such a fuckin' sadist.
It wasn't going to stop tickling today. No chance in hell. Rival had to know it too.
"And I want to know," it continued, sassy as fuck. "So there's only one thing to do."
"No no no no no no," Rival begged. Enemy knew just how he felt.
"And I guess I'll have to pace myself... until one of you passes out."
"Again," Enemy snapped.
A bandanna levitated over him - oh shit, not the gags again. And there were rubbers being pulled out of their packages. One for each.
"Again," tickler agreed. "Definitely."
Fingers started taking hold of Enemy's ribs and feet.

12july2006
 

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