Brad pulls at the ropes.
Where is he? The room is dark. He was hauled a long way, too - after the hands grabbed him. So many hands...
He hasn't heard anybody. That's just weird. No talking, and not even breathing. Right after the cloth fell over his head, out of the tree branches, he was battling with the hands - and he never made contact with any arms. Or bodies. Not a single grunt, or growl. Nothing.
The hands were quick. Hogtying him before he knew he was outgunned. A loose loop held the cloth over his head, and they picked him up. It was impressive. Unsettling. He had no idea where they'd taken him, except that it was indoors.
Strong hands -
A light snaps on.
When Brad's eyes adjust, he starts to get really scared. And astounded. It's a mix of intense reactions, remembered all too well.
Not again, he thinks numbly. She can't -
There were hands tying him up, not claws. But still, being spread out like this, completely vulnerable... If she could see him now. He shivered, remembering.
It isn't just the room. Plain white walls and floor. The door is closed, way behind him.
The rope is thick. Staked out to poles that barely wobble, he tugs anyway and fights the rising panic. Not that it matters. It's clear that everything has been planned and carried out with great skill. Even down to the padded bench under him - overall, it's a comfortable position, and that really bothers him. Intentional. That's it.
The hands haven't made any mistakes. None. From the first moment his day went south, everything has been done skillfully... Perfectly. Now, that's scary.
Those hands have a lot of practice -
No. Impossible. It couldn't be... more of that. He couldn't go through that again. Whatever they're going to do - it just can't be! No. Is she behind this? Brad thinks she would have taunted him by now. Unable to resist the opportunity. And the last time, she had him locked away where no one else could hear him howl.
Anything... but that.
Probably he was just the unlucky slob who walked down the path at the wrong time. Still, they have him anchored down for some reason -
He sees something alongside him.
What?
No.
It almost looks like -
Before he can finish the thought, he's frantic to get up. Right now. Because he's right. There is no way it can possibly be happening - all by itself, floating on up. He must be mistaken.
"No, no, no," he whines, over and over.
Full. And powerful. Full of power. His throat is dry, his heart is pounding so hard. But there it is.
Here it comes.
Smooth, calm. Alive.
And there's another one.
Just not possible. This isn't really happening. Oh, no.
More?
Six...
A whole team. A squad. Floating up. He can't move, and they're coming -
Why?
Brad knows. Positively - but he fights the thought he's having. Nightmare. Six.
No. They wouldn't.
They will.
The denial crumbles. Gone for good. They're real, and they're coming. And he can't even pretend there's some other thing they want...
His limbs start straining at the knots.
Yes. They will. Beyond all doubt, that's why they brought him here.
No, no, no!
Absolutely.
The rope is not going to break, apparently.
"Noooooooo!" he yells. Then, as loud as he can: "Heeeeyyaaaaalllllllpp!"
No one answers.
Of course. They have it all worked out. No one will know he's in here...
He bounces on the pad, as hard as he can, and looks at the closest gloves. Disturbingly full. Invisible muscle.
They're going to drive him nuts. No doubt about it. And it occurs to him that they went to all this trouble... because they enjoy it. They're all about to have an unbelievably good time.
Whipsawing doesn't get his arms free.
"Oh... no," he pants. Why? Why did he take that path? If only he'd left earlier -
Those plump fingers. Empty. And yet they got him, didn't they? Stuck good. In their playroom, where no noise is loud enough to bring help. Staying in here, right here, where they want him.
The ankle-ropes refuse to slide off the end of the poles. Knotted tight. There's no movement he can think of that accomplishes anything. Horribly, solidly stuck -
And they're floating down.
"No! Please, please, don't do this, no, I... Oh, no..." he wails.
They don't stop. He squirms, unable to take his eyes off the two gloves about to land on his chest, looming, big fingers curling -
The fingers will not pull back. No. He's finished. It has to be a really bad joke, maybe an actual nightmare, they're bluffing, they're just out to scare him. Talk about bad luck. There is no way they could have known how unbearably sensitive his sides are, his belly - all about to be covered by those fingers.
Closer, now.
"Noooooooo! No no noooouunnnh!"
It's happening. Fingertips are on him, spreading out. They're moving.
Of course. Actually going to do it -
Starting now!
He's dizzy. Dread, so powerful -
No.
Kneading. Slowly.
Chuckles explode out of his mouth. Ragged, rowdy confirmation. What they wanted. Proof. It's like he just signed a contract, and the gloves are going to make him pay, and pay, every second's worth -
Both sides. High on his chest. Unbelievable fingers.
Brad whoops, shaking his head wildly. Rocking doesn't help, he's stretched out too much to slide. He can't even wiggle, even though his body won't stop moving.
No! More. His belly. Oh no, no. Impossible sensation, like a bomb going off.
"Aaaaeeee heee heeee steeee-ahhh aaaah haaaah s-stop! S-sssss stah haaaawheeeee heeeen neeee hee heeee hee heee aaaa-aaaaaaahhh haaaaaah! Stah hah stopppp tih hih tickeeeeeeeeeee eeeeee heeeeeeee! Aaaah aaaaah hah haaah haaaa-eeeeee!..."
His hips. First one - way up at the top of his thighs, on the front side of his leg. Then it skips over to the other leg.
He just roars. Tears are on his cheeks, and dripping - but he throws his head around anyway. No no no no -
Armpit. Poking firmly. Moving.
Brad leaps up in the air, or tries to. Screaming laughter.
Stuck. Gloves. No. Can't stand it. Secret room. Tied down. The tickling is so much worse than he remembered! Slammed by the impact, sucking in air as quickly as he can... because he has to laugh harder! Now. Be louder. Red-hot tickling -
His foot.
No...
Fingers, dragging down. Sliding back up. Repeating it.
Continuously.
He flings himself around. Again. One more time -
Tied.
No good.
Fingers. Moving, tickling.
He snorts once. Snags a deep breath... and launches into a steady bark. Raw, mindless cackles, fierce but not even remotely enough. Automatic rhythm, making sounds so crude and steady he'd forgotten how it sounded. The last time. When she worked him over. That was in the past, it didn't matter.
He was getting tickled now.
Laughing, like this, until his voice faded away.
And the fingers shock his other foot. Unbelievable.
Rope, so he can't dream of stopping them.
He hoots at the glove digging in his armpit. It's found a devastating track, with just enough pressure. Mind-blowing fingers. Brad pictures it, in his mind - because opening his eyes is impossible now. The smooth material, no knuckes in there - that empty opening where the wrist should be, behind it. No arms here.
No muscle fatigue. These gloves won't get tired.
Roaming over his belly. Down his ribs, and crawling back up. Firm, serious hands...
His head rolls one more time. Back, and forth. Slowly, he lets it hang back. His whole body is relaxed, because he has to concentrate on the sweet pounding fire being rubbed into it, all over. So many more places for the fingers to reach.
He tries to kick... or move his arms. But he can't. No, he's far too busy now. They've got a way to keep him occupied. Impossible to tolerate, way too much to ever keep up with. And they know it.
This is only the beginning - of the beginning.
At least two hours later he lay still, more focused on 'em than ever before. He's unable to pay attention to anything else.
They've won. He's obsessed with the effect of their devoted fingers. Absolutely stunned at how much sensation he's failing to keep up with - far more than he can ever comprehend. And more stimulation keeps coming anyway.
It shouldn't be possible to feel... this much. And they've prevented him from doing shit about it - not a single fuckin' thing, except to stay put. And laugh. That's all.
They've gotta be having fun. He's worth their time. Entertaining them. Brad can't help but spur his ticklers on, more and more enjoyment t-
The gloves bear down a little more firmly now, unspeakably good at what they're doing, riding him as if there will never be a reason to stop.
2006