Alvaro feels something sting him. Right arm. Maybe a horsefly... gone by the time he slaps at it -
Cooler. Early evening.
Lights and music wander up from the piazza below. Inviting. A group is preparing their instruments...
Mariachi? Odd. But it is a popular place for the turistas, such as Al. Or perhaps they will play Italian folk songs, which would only make sense.
It occurs to Al that his hotel is many blocks from the center of town. So this cannot be his room...
Or his bed.
He moves his head, cautiously. sliding his cheek across a clean, threadbare sheet. The room is unfamiliar.
Rolling over... doesn't work.
His hands are tied behind his back.
Ankles tied together.
"Eh?" he grunts, pulling at the ropes.
And what happened to all his clothing?
Below his window, the band starts to play.
He cannot see them, out the window. Only the sky is visible from where he is laying. The music is energetic, and the singer, he is loud. Happy music, for a party. Maybe it is from one of the provinces - the trompetas, and guitarras...
"Ayuda," Al says. Then he yells it.
The music, it is too loud.
That is when he begins to feel afraid.
Shouting and trying to get loose, he becomes aware of two other things.
As he struggles, he does not move very far. There is pressure on his wrists, pushing down - not hard, but enough to prevent him from moving more than a few inches. There is something else, very similar, pressing on his ankles. His feet hang off the edge of the mattress. Deep mattress, on the floor. Not on a bed.
Someone is keeping him... from crawling off?
But he looks around, as best he can, and sees how ridiculous that is. There is no one else in the room.
Alvaro continues to shout for help. "Ayuda! Hey... Déjeme ir..."
But the ropes do not let go.
People are cheering, in the piazza. And clapping -
The band begins playing another song, immediately after the first one ends. Just as loud...
The other thing bothers him even more. Twisting his arms, he looks carefully. This time, he is sure. He cannot pretend it is not so. Not anymore.
A camera is aimed at his face.
It is a video camera hanging in the air, photographing him.
There is a second camera, way over him. He looks over his right shoulder quickly, and sees it. They are moving through the air, slowly, and photographing his body...
Magic.
That makes him so fearful, he tries to bounce up and down on the mattress.
Yelling as loud as he can, Alvaro is sure someone will hear him. They must. The band continues to play the lively music. There is no rumble of running feet, coming to see why he is yelling. No voices from the doorway, gasping, as they see him tied up like this. Hurrying over to cut the rope -
There is no one.
The audience is probably fifteen or twenty meters from where he is laying. No further.
But the music is so loud... It could be that the loudspeaker is close to the window.
Al looks over, again. As before, all he can see is the blue-grey sky. Night is coming.
The cameras are moving, slowly, through the air.
And the knots holding him will not let go.
"Por qué?," he says to a camera. Why? But he says it just the one time, and then he continues yelling for help...
The band continues to play.
The room becomes darker and darker.
It does not as if the cameras have enough light to photograph him. Alvaro knows there are impressive devices being made, very expensive. It has been a while since he touched a video camera, back at university. Three years ago. He wishes he was there now, instead of on holiday. Tied up. A very strange occurrence... Being pushed down into the mattress, with the air on his behind. And photographed. Two cameras -
Fingers are curling around his arms. Gloves.
They pick him up, then... and roll him over. They are careful, it seems, but still Alvaro must lay on his tied arms.
"Ow!," he barks. "No. Parada..."
The cameras move. One of them comes closer. Recording him, from his face to his feet.
Al thinks that perhaps the cameras do not understand what he is saying. Searching his brain for the few words of Italian he knows -
"Arresto... arrestilo!"
But nothing changes.
He draws his legs up, and starts to roll over -
But there is movement. The rope, holding his ankles, is pulled. His heels slide on the sheet, until his legs are stretched out again.
Al stares at the glove which is still curled around the knot. It is black. Even in the dusk, it is a little shiny. As if it was polished, like a table, until it shines.
And there is no arm behind the glove. No person there.
Al's heart starts beating quickly.
Kicking again - trying very hard - he can barely shift his legs around. The one glove prevents that. It does not seem to be trying very hard, either.
Alvaro has played soccer all of his life. His legs are strong. It is a thing he is proud of. But that glove must be... very strong.
And it is not alone.
Along the side of the bed, there are other gloves. That is how he was rolled over. They are so dark, he did not see them. Who would look for it - black gloves to be moving, when they are not being worn?
But then, the cameras are not held by anyone, either. Not by cameramen -
Invisible.
"Ah... no."
It cannot be.
He thinks of the stories... and that ianqui estrany, in the café last winter. Full of tattoos. His Spanish was bad. Telling his wild tales - such ridiculous things.
But that is an American problem. It does not happen here.
"Ayuda," he wails, in a very different tone of voice.
Not that! They cannot do that to him. It is an outrage.
When the cameras are satisfied, the gloves roll him over again. Al lays on his stomach and tries to break the ropes, pull his hands free...
But soon his legs will not move. They must have tied another rope, off that end of the mattress, so that his feet cannot kick. He curls his toes and tugs at the rope. But his ankles are held down, and his feet hang off the end of the mattress, just as before.
It is impossible, what he is thinking.
Even after it begins, Alvaro refuses to believe it can be happening.
The soft fingers... they are dancing.
They do not care about his screams and struggles. Or perhaps they prefer him this way, tied so he cannot escape, roaring laughter...
Music, full of life and joy - but so loud that no one hears him laugh. And no one comes.
Al moves until he has no more strength to move, until even the laughter is less wild.
And the gloves continue their insane battle on his feet, spreading to his knees and his bottom, sliding up and under - on his sides, then, vigorously tickling.
There is nothing hesitant about the dance, or clumsy. The fingers move as if they are women with the skill of a lifetime of dancing...
During the breaks, between songs, they speed up until he's so overwhelmed that laughing is impossible. Even his cries for help are not as long and loud as he wants them to be. No one will hear.
A time comes when the gloves move more slowly.
Alvaro pants for air. The band is still playing... but what has changed?
He looks at the ceiling - ah. He is laying on his back.
A rope stretches up. Just one rope, but it is thicker. A fine rope. He cannot break it.
It is enough -
His legs rise off the mattress.
He jumps, as if to reach for them - but his hands do not move. Tied, over his head. Stretched tight.
"Murrda," he whispers. "No, no, no..."
Many songs are played.
There he is, with the gloves roaming wherever they like, as he suffers.
Eager dancing fingers. They are making their movie. Catch the turista and tickle him without mercy. And then... well, they will have to let him go.
Alvaro hopes that is true. He needs to believe that - a long night, very long. But it will end. He is sure of it.
After a few more songs he becomes aware of the rope, pulling at his arms -
They go up in the air.
Alvaro tries to slam back. But it is already too late. His hands reach for the ceiling, led by the rope. And his ankles cannot move... so they must be anchored down.
It is not long before the fingers continue their dance. Twisting and bucking does not help Al - no more than laughing at the rope which keeps his arms up.
He squirms and brays like a donkey, with his head back. They cannot keep doing this -
But when he realizes what he is thinking, he laughs even harder. How silly. Of course they can... and they will.
That is very clear.
The band will quit playing, at some point, and then he will be able to get someone to hear him. And this will all be over.
Then, at another of the times when he is allowed to regain his breath...
The pressure of the rope still holds him, but it circles different places. He can move -
No. He is sitting, but he is in the air. The rope from which he hangs is tight around his arms, up by his shoulders. It is looped around the rope holding his wrists together - and then his waist, above his knees, under his thighs, and there's the ankle-ropes.
Alvaro sways back and forth when he throws his head around - and that is when the gloves touch him again!
Just one long rope suspends him. And the bolt must be set very deep in the ceiling.
He roars with laughter, trying very hard to... pull himself down. Instead, he drifts over the surface of the bed, back and forth, head swinging slowly toward the window and back around.
The cameras capture it all.
Another band tunes up.
Oh, no, no...
He opens his eyes - and he sees the mattress under him. He has been turned over, and now he hangs there as if he was flying.
He tries to yell, but instead he starts to cough. By the time he is ready to yell again - his last chance is gone, for the band has started to play a song.
Saxophon, and los trompetas again. Happy music. A very special kind, to him -
It cannot be!
But it is.
Oh, how did the tickler know? How?
It could not. This was very bad luck for him. An accident. To come to Italy, and hear it? this kind of music. Most probably it was just a coincidence. A terrible, tragic coincidence.
As if the entire unbelievable night had not been bad enough... now, outside the window, they are playing cumbia! Bringing memories which he likes vey much, the only music that always stirs him up when he hears it.
Of all the kinds of music to be hearing now!
He enjoyed the best sex of his while listening to music just like this.
It was at a party, at the beach, just before he entered university. He had not been nervous, as he had been when he first became a man - and he was not drunk like the other times before. They had been somewhat disappointing, those times. But at that party, where everything was perfect - he had not even been expecting to enjoy himself - and the music started to play.
He found himself dancing with a woman whose name he never knew. Hands locked, circling slowly, out of time to the music... looking at each other with the same fire in their eyes, and the same smile. He had just enough rum in his belly, and the night was windy and warm...
They snuck away, and they took their time. The música was still playing, and they could hear it from where they groaned and cackled. The cumbia loud in his head, encouraging him. A roar of triumph when she tensed, under him, taken by the first organismo. And later, when there was only the sound of the ocean, still they went on. Hours of pleasure.
His friends applauded him, the next day, and he was proud...
Al had been affected by cumbia ever since.
He is breathing hard. His heart pounds, as it always does when he hears this music...
But that is not the largest change.
In that ridiculous position, almost as if he was about to dive into water, Alvaro drops his head and looks, under his belly, hoping somehow he will not see the other change which the music brings -
But of course, his arma is growing.
He feels the wonderful heat, all through him - hearing the music... and the usual effect of cumbia is easy to see. No pants pressing against it, hanging in the air, getting harder. A wonderful feeling.
And this is perhaps the worst possible place, of all places, for him to be hearing cumbia...
A bright, sassy horn solo makes him jump, and groan. The ropes let him sway. Tied up there, and needing a woman - or at least to palla, and get relief that way - but he cannot reach it with his hands tied tight.
One of the cameras... is aimed at his arma. The other is not as close - but if it had been taking pictures when the cumbia started, the change in him would be impossible not to see.
Alvaro moans with frustration - unable to touch himself, and watched by the cameras in his excited condition. He does not know which is more annoying to him. The band is playing well. Calming down is impossible, for Al - he has only to hear the cumbia, long enough, and he starts to sweat.
Thoughts of that fine woman... she just as maddened as he, and as willing, the salty taste of her neck, the warmth of her against his collons...
He looks from one camera to the other. Remembering her, and other sex - playing the cumbia discs as he was having other women. Thoughts of those good times are not smart, here... but Al cannot stop himself from remembering. Cumbia -
The fingers began to take hold. His feet, and his ribs.
He shakes his head wildly. No. They can't.
"No, párelo, párelo," he moans. "Fill de verra..." The insult slips out easily, but he does not care now, for the invisible son of a pig is tickling him again, and its cameras are watching. He starts to laugh, once again, with his pajarito sticking out below him, bouncing under the spell of the music which plays on and on...
The soft hands are rubbing his back now. Slowly. Down to his cul, squeezing there before they slide back up to his neck. More excitement - almost painful, the delight that throbs so fiercely, and he finds it difficult to breathe.
The tickling... it pounds at him harder. Now that his arma is awake.
He is lost in the depths of the cumbia - which makes the tickling even harder to bear, and also keeps him trapped in the room, since the people outside cannot hear him howl and roar.
And the sensation is so very much worse.
When the song ends, the tickling does not stop. Alvaro is too overwhelmed even to laugh, and he cannot seem to remember how to talk. Oh, he can groan - but he can barely hear it himself.
The fingers, they like this music. As he does. They rub him as if they are the hands of a lover. How they dance on him...
"C-cumbia," he moans.
A camera is watching his face, and he tries to shake his head. The red light is all blurry, because of the tears he is laughing out, but the light does not move.
Song after song...
There are times when he is permitted to regain his breath. Talking is impossible. The music - they wil not hear him. Al waits for the hands to return and tickle him again. Blood pounding away, head hanging down.
When the fingers touch him again, he gets restless... in slow-motion.
The music he loves so much has become a part of the torture. And the hands know it.
Al has never needed to lleterada this much before.
Something... wet? Underneath.
He opens his eyes - and looks at the window. The cumbia is continuing to play.
They have put him back on the mattress, and he was not even aware they had stopped tickling. The rope is already tied. His limbs are pulled toward the corners of the mattress.
What he is feeling, under his arma, must be his own llet on the sheet - but he did not finish the act. He slides around - ah, good. It will work...
After a few strokes, there is movement. Familiar, and slippery -
A hand. One of the gloves is sliding under - there!
"No!" he barks, and it is a hoarse sound. He snaps at the ropes, desperate to get away... from the hand.
It grips him! His arma. Holding tight. Low, near his collons - like a ring. Squeezing, and he cannot -
That makes him furious. He must lleterada! He has to shoot! But with those fingers, holding on so tight...
Al pounds his head against the mattress -
Fingers crawl up and down his feet. He laughs again.
Twisting around does not move his feet enough to get them away from the tickling. Up and down and over and across, and around his toes, and his heels. All over his feet. So ticklish.
More fingers creep under his arms. He squeals, and starts pumping again. His capoll is excited, as he slides his tip across the sheet... and he is determined to win, despite the cruel glove holding onto him. That pressure does not keep him from pushing his capoll against the mattress delightfully.
Deeper inside, the llet is moving -
The hands tickle harder, and faster.
He slams against the mattress, trembling hard. Laughter is impossible. Any movement...
The fingers hold nothing back. And the one hand he most desires to move - that one - it is the only one that is creeping. Up, and around. Still tight, but it is definitely stroking.
Five against the bold. At last. But not his own hand - and that is confusing. Even as it excites him, for it does not follow his thoughts. The glove has its own way of moving, so slowly... Except for his own hands, there has never been one staying there right until the llet came. Not even any of the women he's been with.
But the tickling races up and down his sides, and then he can think of nothing else.
At some point, he decides, the hand will finish milking him. And that moment will be, perhaps, the best lleterada of his life...
Daylight.
Alvaro yawns, and looks -
He is in a car. Looking at the roof. Laying on his back...
Hands and feet tied together. Loosely tied, but still caught. He pulls at the knots, but they hold all too well.
And after a few minutes, the car door opens. Al watches it swing out. There is no one opening it, but it swings out anyway. That would have seemed strange, a day ago. But after all the gloves and cameras... and the rope, pulling itself tight magically -
Ah, here are the gloves now. They clamp around his arms and back - making him squirm - and carry him out of the car. Fighting against them does not do any good. Al yells, but his voice is almost silent after the night of fearsome tickling...
There is a villa here, a small one. The door is open.
Despite his efforts to prevent it, the gloves carry him inside.
In the main room, there is a mattress on the floor. Straps and cuffs are waiting, anchored, all ready for him. He knows it is time to fight as hard as he has ever fought before. It is all too clear he must get away, now, or the ordeal will continue! A long holiday - perhaps extended very much.
But the panic that makes his body thrash around is not enough to defeat the gloves. They untie his hands and cuff each one down, smoothly, as though they have much experience. Then his ankles...
Al continues to tug, while he looks around the room. Past his feet, there sits a television and a videotape player. Three tapes sitting there, on top of the player, with no label - and he realizes what is recorded on them, probably. His terrible night, laughing and squirming around.
There are boxes on the floor, perhaps a meter from his armpits. With wires...
He puts his head as far back as he can - and sees it. No. He must be mistaken - but there are two piles of cases which look very familiar. So it is.
A CD player.
He cannot see the words on the cases, but the colors are bright.
The door opens - and he looks in time to see gloves there, holding onto each other. Black ones... and white ones. Both shiny, floating in the air. As if they are shaking hands. Completing an agreement, a deal, celebrating a job well done.
Then the black gloves go out the door.
But the white ones stay. One of them closes the door...
And they turn.
Al pulls fiercely at the restraints. There are gloves coming, again, and they are not the same ones. But they shine, and their fingers look firm enough. To tickle him. He starts to groan.
Ouside, the car engine starts. But much closer, behind his head - a soft click makes him look. It is a CD. Lifting out of its case. The little tray slides out of the player, and the disc lands...
He tells himself it cannot be possible - this last twist of the knife - what sounds will come out of the speakers.
The white gloves are dropping lower, graceful and confident, choosing their places to land.
A roll of congas -
Si. It is. Cumbia.
Alvaro feels his pajarito awaken.
Fingers begin to slide and rub.
He squeals and tries to roll around. All those CD's. All cumbia? No one could be so cruel. Of course, he has no reason to believe there is any person doing this to him. The gloves dance on him, just as the others did, as a team. Strong as hands... used by one mysterious tickler.
The cameras had floated around, so free, in the same way this CD was placed into the player. Magic. There is no one here to understand what he is enduring, not really. The fingers which tickle him move just like the black ones did last night. Skillful, devoted, making him suffer, rubbing him all over until he is wild with pleasure and lust...
And the cumbia, it is playing just loud enough to drown out his hoarse laughter, the sliding gloves, the creaking of the leather holding him down. Nothing else to hear, or think about. Tickling, and cumbia. Each of them making the other more incredible, turning up the heat to a level which Alvaro had not known of - then increasing it again, and yet again.
Alvaro is Catalonian, if some of his words mystify you...
24dec02