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I was walking down Atlantic, having a smoke. Held out for a day and a half that time, but right before the ten-o'clock news there was a commerical for nicotine patches or some shit like that, and I just said the hell with it -
A van pulled over in front of me, squealing the tires. Old delivery van, white-and-rust, with heavy tint on the back windows and old stickers from local surf shops.
At first I was trying to figure out who owned it. Somebody must've recognized me. No traffic was coming, so I stepped toward the lane so I could see the driver.
There wasn't one.

Several things happened very quickly.
The right rear door of the van screeched open.
Something rushed at me, and divided -
Slamming into my arms. Around my biceps. I dropped my cigarette.
"Hey," I said... to a black leather glove.
It had a tight grip.
There was no arm sticking out of it.

More gloves clamped around my wrists and ankles, and suddenly I was off the ground. Getting tossed into the van - which peeled out as soon as I hit the carpeted floor.
Shit, I was still trying to comprehend that there were empty gloves moving without wires or anything... and then I was rolling against cardboard boxes. The rug smelled like salt water and mildew. And reefer.
About ten seconds ago I had been expecting to see some goofball I'd surfed with, and now I was looking at the driver's seat. Nobody was there.
Just a glove curled around the steering wheel...

"Stupid... shithead," a voice said. Low. A guy, younger than me. He sighed, sounding irritated.
I couldn't see him. There were black letters staring at me from the nearest box, though. Primo Slick, 1 Gal Jug, Qty 4.
"What the hell -"
A glove slapped against my chest and pushed me backward. The others spread my limbs out.
"Great idea. Save the jerk's feet. Right." the guy said. The van made a quick lane change. I wondered if we were gonna hit something. "Man, oh man."
As I looked at the glove pinning my breastbone, fear started to stir. I wanted to sit up and look...
No, that wasn't in the cards. The grips were strong! Overpowered, alright, by something out of a frickin' cartoon -
"Stupid," the voice grumbled. "So damn stupid. All of you."
My ankles were lifted off the carpet and slammed together.

"Ow," I barked.
The glove lifted off my chest, and pressed down over my mouth. "I had a ball-gag in here... somewhere."
Well, of course it did. No self-respecting kidnapper would drive around without one -
A spray can rattled.
"Luhmuh guhh!" I tried to yell.
"Chill. I'm not gonna hurt you."
The can hissed - and something oily covered my soles.
My brain was trying to figure out what was going on. This was new. Why would my feet be oiled? There had to be some other answer, because there was no way in hell I was gonna think about what was probably coming next.
The glove was pulled off my lips. It was time to say something. Or yell. But that might have repercussions. The mysteriously active hand curled around my throat. Yeah, I had to be careful. It was taking a lot of effort not to think about what was about to happen, and I needed to get the right words out that would stop th-
Fire.
Wow. Cloaking the ball of each foot, up to the toes - But it felt way too good to be actual fire, and way too much, and it was registering as pleasure. But pleasure dished out by a blowtorch. Flamethrower.
It moved down - unbearably sensitive skin - and really dug into my frickin' heels!

One short squeal burst out. That was me. I made that noise. And I was gritting my teeth. My legs were kicking.
Trying to kick.
My body decided to roll around, arch, rear back.
The gloves held on tight. I didn't get anywhere.
Maybe it's a massage, I thought wildly. They mean well -
The brushes.
That's what was dragging up and down, grinding, moving back up the side of one foot. I was way too busy thrashing around to notice which one.
Nobody uses brushes for a foot massage. Soft bristles, moving fast in some places, just rocking back and forth in others.
"Nnnnn-no-oooh," I growled.
It was amazing, somehow, that I couldn't pull my legs down. Or bounce.
If this wasn't supposed to be a massage -
The pressure that had been building in my chest was too strong to keep in. I was horrified at the thought of giving myself away. A high-pitched whine started leaking out...
My arches were being covered by oily bristles. Teased.
Getting closer to the forbidden word, just incredible, embarrassing, frightening -
I exploded. Hard, rowdy laughter.

A glove was holding onto my throat, others were pinning me down...
Oh, hell. I tried everything I could think of to get out from under them. There seemed to be more pressure down by my shins. No matter what I tried, my feet stayed right where they were!
I ended up shaking my head as hard as I could. These gut-wrenching hoots kept booming out of me. These bristles were maybe the most piercing thing I'd ever felt.
Twenty or thirty seconds of that was enough to wreck my denial. Tickling. And not playful, lightweight tickling. I couldn't move. Tears had welled up in my eyes. It was absolutely unbearable.
I started to cough -
And the brushes went away.

Well, until I'd quieted down. Then they were pressed against my heels again.
"Ohhhh waah hah hah huh huh nuh nnnn-no nooooo hoo hoo-oooo," I raved.
The voice chuckled. It seemed to be right next to my left ear.
It was glad to know me.
Shit.

"What a goof," the voice said. "Hot mess."
I was too busy catching my breath to do anything else. I wondered if we were still heading north...
"Surfers are the worst. All those fine nerve endings, and you stomp around barefoot. If I had my way you wouldn't walk on 'em at all."
"Wha... Who are y-you?"
The glove ran its thumb along the side of my neck. "Sole Patrol." The voice cracked up. "As in, endangered feet. Yeah."
That made me groan.
"I got yours just in time. They're wounded. It ain't right."
"Sand is hard on f-feet. What a surprise."
"You were walkin' down the sidewalk with no shoes on," it said. "Moron."
"Let me out here and I'll never do it again, I prom-"
"I already got a guest," it said, irritated. "Now, what, I just pretend I didn't see you? Or is it time for an intervention?"
My ankles were grabbed even tighter.
And the damn brushes dug back in!

Another minute of insanity went by. Maybe two.
The horrifying bristles were held tight against my arches, but at least they weren't moving. Holy crap, that was a relief.
"You pissed yourself," the voice said. It didn't sound irritated at all. More like it was satisfied.
That tone of voice wasn't helping. I whined as pitifully as I could.
The van passed a store of some kind, and I caught a glimpse of the sign. Smitty's. So we were still on Atlantic. Out of town, with the houses thinning out -
"Are your sides this ticklish?" the voice said. "How 'bout your thighs? Huh?"
"Unnh," I panted. "Ohhhhh."
"Righteous."
I tried to twist my arms loose. They were moving together - and I stopped trying to kick for a minute. Thankfully, my hands came up when I lifted 'em, but...
"You tied me up."
"Don't act so surprised."
"All this... because I didn't have my damn shoes on?"
The brushes ground slowly, making me giggle. Aw hell, here we go.

"You wanna watch your tone," the invisible guy said. "You can cuss me out, but feet are nothing to joke about. Not to me. You were walking over broken glass, dumbshit. Gravel. And I don't care if you were just a block away from home. You got sandals?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah," the voice said, mocking the way I said the word. "When's the last time you washed these dogs thoroughly? All the way down between the toes? Naaaaah, stick a cork in it, I don't wanna hear your excuses. I let you go right now and, sure as shit, in no time you'll be damaging the skin like you always do."
"I'm sorry," I said. "Look -"
"It's gonna take time to get these babies healed up. Size 11?"
I looked at the ceiling of the van and sighed. "Twelve."
"See what I did there? Lowballed it. Like you'd do if some woman asked you how old you thought she was."
Just too weird. I actually fought back a grin. "How would you know? Are you even... human? Makin' all these gloves move at once."
"I hear stuff," the kidnapper said.

The van turned left. Slowed down. Gravel crunched under the tires.
A garage door was opening -
And in we went. The engine died.
"You're stayin' off your feet for awhile," it said.
"Like hell I am!"
"Fighter's been here since February. No end in sight for him." It waited for me to react. "Him either."
It was April 24th.
This was not even remotely possible...

The back doors of the van opened, one after the other, rusty metal protesting as it moved.
"February?" I said.
"Man. You're really whacked out. But that's understandable."
That strong hand moved from my throat to my mouth again. All of the gloves picked me up and got me out. Trying to flop around still didn't work, because the bastard was moving with me when it needed to, and easily counteracting other quick motions - and now I could make out the rope knotted around my shins too.
"Check it out," the voice ordered.
The gloves raised my upper half. I was just outside the garage, and there seemed to be a big lawn. Like an acre in either direction. The ocean wasn't too far off - so I figured the house was actually on Atlantic. A1A. How many times had I putted past this damn house and not noticed, since it's so far back from the road?
"The good waves are gone until the next hurricane rolls in, but check it - I got a cardio workout that you're not gonna believe. And no one's gonna hear you." The van doors slammed shut. "Trust me. I've been here, resuscitating some gnarly feet, for almost three years now."
"Dauffh," I said.
As the gloves carried me inside, the garage door started to close.

I fought hard when the jackass got me inside the house, but this was a done deal.
The door closed behind me anyway. Ordinary-looking hallway -
"Gotcha," the kidnapper snickered. I heard the deadbolt turn. The glove peeled off my lips.
"Whoahhh. Uh, how did you get this place?"
"Owner's rich. The last time he dared stick his nose inside, he stuck around a whole lot longer than he intended." The voice made a low, happy growl. "And then he decided to stay out of my business. He's got a place in West Palm Beach now. Pays all the bills here. Stays away."
"That's just... fiendish," I said.
Warm laughter. "You're a trip. Fiendish? Yeah, well, I guess I am a fiend. One sadistic son of a bitch."
The tone of voice was friendly, though. Calm and confident.

I was carried inside, to the right and through another door -
The living room was big. My stomach churned, and I started wrestling around again. The walls were...
Aw, shit, this was a padded cell.
Racks, chains, benches, a mattress on the floor. There wasn't much light, but I could make out a padded, reclining seat. I was hauled alongside it.
A naked guy squinted at me. He looked tired. Salt-bleached hair, scraggly beard, tribal tats...
His arms were wrapped behind the backrest.
The dude's feet were oily, and caught in thick metal stocks.

"This here's Fighter," the kidnapper said, bringing me right up to the stocks. "He's had a long day, and it ain't anywhere near over yet."
"Aw, hell," Fighter whispered. I pegged him at late twenties or early thirties. Wobbly and zoned -
"Got a surprise for you, big guy. You're not hallucinating. This new dude's real. And finally, somebody knows I've got you."
He squinted, craned his neck.... blinked a few times - and laughed. A feverish sound. Sad, deranged crowing.
"Show the new guy what we do here."
Feathers went down to the stocks.
Damn, his toes were strapped back. Spread-out. I'd never seen that before. Just diabolical...
His eyes opened wide, and he looked at the damn stocks.
"No no no no no huh huh haaaah nuuh huh huh huh," Fighter laughed. He convulsed slowly, going nuts... and the feathers were barely making contact. Dancing all over his soles.
"No mental defenses at all. Ain't that right, brah?"
He nodded mechanically, chuckling hard.

The feathers kept right on rocking his world. My ropes were loosened and taken away.
The gloves lifted my arms and pulled my t-shirt off. Another pair of zoomed up. Black leather. They pretended to shoot my abs.
"What I'm talkin' about," the voice said.
Those empty hands rubbed together. Oh boy oh boy. They separated and wiggled their fingertips at me. Somebody just couldn't wait to get tickling -
I laughed nervously. Then I got angry at myself, because it was apparently gonna get extreme in here and I had to stop doing shit like chuckling along with it.
"You're gonna be okay. Too calm, considering all the mondo weird shit I'm throwing at you. And your pupils don't look like you're baked."
"I gave it up," I said.
"Whoops! Hold on, there, I didn't quite catch that last bit," the voice said. "Something like, I'm way overdue for a spliff, brah, and anytime you and Fighter wanna smoke me out, I'll be hella grateful."
"Wow," I said, unable to come up with anything smarter.

Something big and flat slid over the floor, heading for me.
"Ever been fingered before?"
"Oh, sure. Like there's a right answer to that?"
"Ya clown. I mean, for reals. S&M style."
"Of course n-" I just boggled, kicking out one mirthless laugh. "Oh. You mean invisible kidnapper, padded room? So this is going on in other places too?"
Easy chuckles. "You have noooooo idea."
"I know you're about to learn that I'm not him. Even a couple seconds of what this poor guy is going through is -"
"Don't underestimate me. Well, it's not like you have a choice. Tonight's gonna be a real eye-opener."
"I'm serious."
"Just look at my brah's feet now. Healthier, and more sensitive than they've ever been before." Its voice took on a dreamy quality.
Fighter tried to yell something - I think it was "bastard" - and just ended up laughing angrily.
"Could you enjoy this shit any more?" I complained.
"Naw. It torques me up. You dawgs just get unhinged."

The gloves started lowering me - toward the new object.
It turned out to be a mattress, and it smelled. The sheet was damp...
"Plenty of room for two," it said louder. "Someday I'll let you guys go."
After a second or two, Fighter wailed miserable laughter. He didn't seem optimistic...
The tickler laughed along with him, and slammed my arms together.

I'd expected, or hoped, to see more rope. Instead there were wide cuffs, riveted together. Two layers of leather over black neoprene, swallowing my wrists, and thick velcro wrapping around it all - almost two full circuits. It was so solid, so real, that I tried to get behind the idea that this was all just a super-vivid dream.
"Keep you stuck all night long," it told me, as I watched the retaining strap being pulled tight. "No pain, right? And no hope of slipping free."
I heard metallic clicks, snaps -
"Okay, try now," the voice said.
Yeah, my arms were staying extended, and flat down against the sheet.
Something pulled at me. I lifted my head, and saw the drawstring to my board shorts standing up. What felt exactly like thumbs hooked themselves under my waistband, under each hip, and started slowly teasing my shorts off.
"Now wait a minute," I said, twisting around -
"Don't tickle me there," the voice murmured. "That's just sick." It laughed smugly.
Matching cuffs - even wider - came sauntering down to my ankles. They started buckling down before the shorts had even traveled down that far.

A chrome bar flew over. A couple inches thick, maybe two feet long. Big bolts slid through holes in each end and caught some of the thick rings that surrounded my cuffs. Hex nuts arrived and and were spun down, tightened...
"Sweet," the kidnapper said.
I couldn't rock my ankles at all. Pushing and pulling didn't do shit either.
The bar lifted up, bringing my feet with it -
Chains clinked as they arrived, clipping onto big rings in the ceiling. The other ends met up with the damn ankle-cuffs, moving in all at once.
"Bend your knees a little," the voice said.
Hands thumped the underside of both knees at once, my legs buckled - and the bar rose higher, then dropped, and finally settled in between.

My feet were up in the air, and I couldn't really move 'em ar all. Three chains pulled at my ankles from different directions.

A hand curled around my throat.
"How about... a game of checkers?" the voice said.
"What?"
"Dominoes? No? Well, I guess I could come up with something else."
My lips moved... and I finally tore my gaze away from Fighter's feet. "You can't."
"I can't what?" Easygoing tone of voice. Patient.
"You... you can't really... d-do this."
"I got no right?"
"Yeah."
"Or, do you mean you'll definitely snap, and just go insane, before the first hour's up?"
"Yeah! That one," I whined.
"Well," and it chuckled, "hold on to something."

Oiled brushes went up to Fighter's soles -
And gloves with beaded dots zoomed up to my feet.
"No, don't," I begged. Then I made myself shut up.
The tickler spread the fingers wide, and gave me a good look at the little rubber dots all over 'em. Dark brown, or maybe black... and they dripped.
They were soaked with oil.
Impressively firm-looking, for empty gloves. I tried to lunge around again, but it was hopeless. Baffling.
"Cruel," I said -
They were turned around. Flames had been painted around each fingertip, on the back side. A lot of thought had gone into the cruelty.

It was really going to happen. To me.
That idea pissed me off, or something, because I immediately thought that the asshole wouldn't dare. It talked big, but obviously the other guy had been keeping it busy. Uh, happy.
"Don't do it," I warned the gloves.
The kidnapper curled the fingers a little... and moved in.
Crawling around my arches.
Oh, shit.

You get touched when it's not welcome - well, naturally, you pull away. But this invisible freak had made real sure I couldn't do that. My toes curled up, of course, but I couldn't get my ankles to shift at all.
"This can't... hhhh-happen," I whined.
The fingers paused. Aw, hell, that was like getting salt rubbed in the wound.
"Everybody says that," the voice said. "I don't get why it's so unbelievable. Of course it's really happening. Real gloves, real cuffs. They never seem to catch on until I start doing this!"
The gloves rocked out.

Crazed, weary laughter.
That was Fighter. I'd forgotten about him. Too busy screaming laughter myself, thrashing around...
Going nowhere.

I shook my head, keening like a frickin' wolf - beyond desperate for the bastard to take a hint. Stop it. Right now. Too much. My feet were covered with electricity that almost seemed to vibrate on the surface, and sparked deep inside. Worse, there was something about the combination that felt felt great. And that was hideous. The combination made my whole body, and my mind, just stutter and throb.
Because the fingers kept moving, I couldn't even begin to figure out how to... adapt. Any spot going numb wasn't even a possibility yet, if ever.
Ten fingers, going at a brisk clip - but not leaning in hard. Roaring grisly laughter, I began to see how the prospect of being tickled for hours and hours wasn't preposterous at all.
The chaos bouncing through me just smashed every coherent thought. Tickling. Maddening. Constant. The feel of it was easily the most important thing in the world. My body lurched and kicked - barbaric hoots and giggles poured out of my mouth - and the fingers injected something into my nervous system that left hardly any room for anything else.

I watched brushes skate across feet that didn't move. Laughed at 'em. Aw, hell, it was just unbelievable how much they tickled and tickled...
Once in a while I even remembered that those weren't my feet. Slippery hands were clinging much more snugly to my dogs. Unspeakably, excessively nice contact!
Kneading and rubbing.

It paused, more times than I could count, and started right back up again.

I woke up from the weirdest dream -
And stared at my legs. Chained up.
"No no-waaah hah huh huh huh," I said, dissolving into giggles. Son of a bitch, it was real!
Hands picked me up. Well, they made me sit up. Sorta. Folding me. A couple of 'em braced against my back.
I tried to roll, but an invisible finger thumped me between the pecs.
"Stay..."
A boxing glove grazed my face.
I lifted my other hand, and stared at... black mitts. Padded. Smooth.
There were freakin' padlocks caught around grommets down by my wrists, and the locks were strapped up so they wouldn't swing around.
"What the hell," I finally managed to say, breathing hard.
A bottle slid down, against my left hand - and my right was pressed against it. Water.
If I concentrated, I could bring the bottle to my mouth without dropping it.
Cold, cold water. Man. It was incredible. I drained that bad boy.
"I'm still debating what to call you," the voice said.
I tried to look up at Fighter, lost my grip, and the bottle rolled out from between my mitts..
"Whuh," I said, suddenly afraid to say anything more.
"Anyhow. We got us a situation here," the bastard said.

At first those words gave me hope.
Then I looked around the room. Yeah, sure. Fighter was making sounds that could only mean he was being forced to... achieve... the best kind of climactic relief.
It didn't seem to likely that any kind of a "situation" would work out well for me. This sadist was disturbingly casual about playing with our heads -
"I wanna run something by you," the voice said.
"Tricky, tricky bastard," I said. "Got a smoke?"
A hand grabbed the scruff of my neck. "See those sweet-ass mitts you got on? I'm gonna let you beat your fists against the mattress, in total psycho frustration, when I start working on those nasty calluses of yours. But your hands are under lock and key now 'cause there's something you gotta understand right off." It made a throat-clearing noise, and spoke louder. "No tobacco is gonna be consumed in my torture ch-"
Fighter kicked out a haggard, loopy moan.

"Gets him every time," the voice snickered. "Bad boys, see, they can't even believe how bad they need a cigarette now. For example..."
A new pack of unfiltered Camels bobbed in front of me, and floated away. I watched it smack against Fighter's sweaty chest. Suddenly I wanted one a lot worse than I had when I asked. It was crazy.
"Sometimes they class up the joint, sorta like incense," the voice continued, "but your hands aren't gonna be able to fire up one of these hacks. And I sure as hell ain't gonna help you hurt yourselves. No, I take righteous care of ticklish shortboarders. Damn right I do."
"Ffff... Ffff-fff - you dd-douchebag," Fighter groaned, squinting right at the smokes.
The word "incense" came back to me. It would let us smell cigarettes burning down, but forget about smoking. Well, except for herb -
This place was overseen by one merciless son of a bitch. I took a deep breath and let myself sorta collapse against the hands that were bracing my back. Caught in a totally impossible situation, and the mysterious torturer had every little thing worked out -
"Situation," I said, before I caught myself.
"Oh, you're a keeper," the voice said.
Two dark things came up to my face.

I recognized my phone -
And another one, which turned in midair so I could see the display.
"Fighter," the tickler said suggestively...
It showed me a close-up of his face. Wiped out, vacant, suffering.
"And you."
My phone rotated.
Sure enough, I stared at my own face. There was a flashlight aimed at it, I guessed, since my phone didn't have a flash. Overwhelmed expression - blown away.
"Let's see if you can figure it out," the bastard said.
"Maybe if you let me smoke," I grumbled.
"And that's exactly the kind of thing I'm talking about."
"Pointless requests?"
A hand ruffled my hair. "Look at Fighter... then look at yourself."

I didn't get it. This felt like some stupid game, find the differences between the photos. "I just -"
"Yeah?"
"He's angry -"
"After ten hardcore weeks. Still harshed."
"And I don't look pissed off yet. Still confused. No... amazed."
The voice laughed. "Getting closer."
Dammit. So what's it after. My face is slack. But... "No. That's not a smirk. Get real. How many shots did you have to take before you got one where I look like I'm... aw, hell."
"How many?" It asked innocently. "You look like that all the time. If you need an hour of video, unedited, we can do that."
"Nervous tic."
"My ass."
I tried to wipe my face, and got a mouthful of leather mitt -
"Already got me a fighter. He's the real deal. So do I turn you into a little conspirator buddy, loving every minute of this? Or triple up the gloves, until I learn what it takes to really make you suffer?"
A shiver ran all the way down my body. It seemed to be waiting for me to speak. "I don't really get a vote h-"
"You got that right. Not any more than you get to tell me when to stop," the tickler said. "Got me some hella amusing options for the summer."
"It's April!" I said.
"Think I'm kidding? Exaggerating, for effect?"
I looked over at Fighter, twitching and drooling. "No. Unless there's something, anything, I can give you in exchange for letting me go."
"Nope."

"Shredding you, all night," the voice said.
I just concentrated on breathing. It didn't help much, because the feathers were absolutely killing me. Gloves, then brushes, and smoother gloves, and now there were too many feathers, each one bearable if all the others just backed off once in a while...
"I have this great thing going with Fighter - no, make that an exceptional thing - and there you are, stumbling down the street. No shoes on. So dumb."
Chuckles came out of my mouth. At that point I wasn't even sure if I was laughing out loud, or just in my head. More than anything else I wanted to beg the sadist to stop tickling me.
Obviously it wasn't gonna stop.
There had to be some way to get out of this torture chamber. Didn't there?

The throbbing between my legs climbed to a level I didn't even know was possible.
Maddening swipes and pokes everywhere. Damn feathers.
I smelled weed. Somehow it seemed to be miles away.
Fighter, apparently. He was getting a break. That pissed me off, for a few seconds... until I remembered that he was here first. And anyway, there wouldn't be any herb forced on us if it didn't increase our vulnerability to what the kidnapper likes best.
This is so warped. It's no longer hard to believe it's happening, but I can't wrap my mind around how utterly twisted it is.
"Suffer for me," the bastard ordered. Then it snickered.

12-Dec-12