The convenience store had no clerk left. He'd been jumped and power-tickled in the storeroom. Great potential for long-term fun, so Hardstim had one of its comrades come and sneak him off. He ended up near St. Louis.
Randy came up to the register. Two CCTV cameras were sitting on the counter, smashed...
After looking around, he snuck behind the counter and found the Marlboro Lights. Got two packs - what the hell. Four.
He trotted out of the store, jamming three of the packs in his pockets and opening the other one.
He got in two decent drags - and then, at the edge of the parking lot, just outside the cone of light from the overheads, Hardstim grabbed him. Same glove-gagged hustle as always. It hauled him quickly and easily across the street.
A panel van sat under the willow trees. Off the road. Hidden until you got right to it.
Fighting didn't do him any good. Around the back of the van, the door opened.
Weird grunting.
He was lifted up, carried inside - and slammed down on the floor. Leather reefed down and tightened between Randy's teeth. He had no idea, then, what a bridle-gag was, but it dampened his shouting all too effectively.
Chains rattled and pulled tight.
There were at least three cigarette thieves there, in the dark.
Hands slid around his sides, over his t-shirt. They started to knead. It wasn't like a massage at all.
Hard cackles exploded out of his throat, spraying a little spittle around the edges of the leather gag. He arched his back, tried to throw himself forward off the bench, flailed this way and that.
The hands had no problem holding on. In fact, two of them slipped under his shirt. Sliding over his shoulders. Gripping. Stroking hard.
Beyond a doubt they were not just checking his muscle tone.
They knew how to tickle.
He slammed his back against the wall of the truck a few times, roaring desperately.
One shoe, then the other, was pulled off.
The gloves went away for several seconds. The they slid up the legs of his jeans, clamping around his knees - which tickled so damn much he couldn't even laugh out loud - checking out his thighs, his calves, his shins.
They left him alone. He waited a bit, then sighed with relief. So glad -
Strong fingers raked his feet. Even through the socks, it was a clear sign of things to come. He went wild again.
Then they were gone.
Two more guys were eventually brought to the van.
The engine turned over...
They were driven a good hour away.
For ten minutes they bounced around. Not just an unpaved road - the van slowed way down at times, and branches scraped against the outside and the roof.
Loud crickets, big trees, and what seemed like millions of stars...
Two of the guys were pulled out. They were big - and older, late 20's. They looked like gym rats, except one had a big neck tattoo.
They lurched away from the van. Being marched off, arms chained behind their backs.
He had time to study the dark stone building off ahead of them. A tall fence - rusty, and sagging in spots - with razor-wire surrounded quite a bit of space with knee-high grass. He saw no driveway. Meadow seemed to run right up to the fence everywhere.
This place had been abandoned long ago.
It terrified him, and yet the fear was tempered by a weird feeling of being impressed.
These men's heads jerked suddenly. Lighters flared up. The position of their heads was unmistakable now. So the gags had been removed, and they were being forced to light up.
One of the dudes, in profile, kicked out smoke. Looking around. There was nothing to hope for.
The other guy cursed quietly. It scared him that neither of them got belligerent, or yelled for help. The taller one studied the building, with smoke crawling away from his head.
Watching him, it really seemed like this place was where they belonged. Outside the world, chillingly real but removed, by magic, and fortified for their unending hysteria. Those prisoners were probably obnoxiously loud and pushy in the afternoon - and then they ripped off the wrong store. They even stood there in sight of the prison, in chains, with a defiant stance. Long practice. A couple beers would make them unbearable alpha males, shoving their way through the rooms. And despite all of their predictable bluster, they stood there - silent now, going against old reflex and habit - and just smoked.
Nobody would've ever heard 'em call for help.
The second man started another hard drag, turning quickly - involuntarily - toward the prison. And since he was the last inmate brought inside now, the doors met and were closed. Latched.
Their transfer had been complete, and they got to smoke as they were frog-marched into the secret institution.
That imposing building, through the tall fence... and a cigarette as the doors closed tight.
The van drove off. Leaving two men - Randy realized, days later - at an abandoned building that had been forgotten for years. Left alone. Snuck into and put to use, secretly, as a hardcore-tickle prison. He suspected they were worked over in there for a long time.
It was a relief when the gags of the guys still in the van were removed. None of the guys yelled. They hadn't even complained or protested.
There was absolutely no point.
He'd had nightmares about being that guy - the last one he saw, on his way inside.
Hardstim eventually told him that first-timers with exceptional muscles - with great reactivity - were in for a long introduction. Absolute tickling.
The first week usually made their situation clear. No amount of staring at the thick door would bring about any kind of change. The dark cells got through to them, alright. They soon understood perfectly. The future was perfectly clear.
Endless food, beer, cigarettes and weed was theirs. Every night was at least as grueling as the one before. If they didn't make it to the thirtieth day they were given to one tickler or another who eased them into... a dual existence between caught and free.
Long before the tattoos covered them, the outside world had written them off. Forgotten about them completely. Time completely ceased to matter, in any way. Day and night their anchored bodies shook with silent laughter, squirmed and thrusted under the watchful attack... birthdays passed unnoticed and came around again, and another long session of thorough tickling was always, always coming.
They had to be seriously ticklish to be kept there. Literally. The ticklers were too good at what they did, and they packed the days full. The intensity of their torment had been perfected, some unthinkable thoroughness and impulse-strength that only a few men with the right physique and mental defenselessness could be forced to attain.
The night Randy was captured, two more men were dropped off next. A dark alley in some city - could they really have made it to Chicago already? He couldn't see what other option explained the tall, dense buildings outside the van.
A dark metal door was open. Waiting. Stairs went down.
Perfect for the ticklers' use. Another location that was completely off the authorities' radar... Vacant buildings drew squatters, but later he saw pretty much what he had imagined, only so much more intimidating in reality.
Both doors to the basement were beefed up. Undefeatable. Sandy dirt inside was visible a good five meters in from the opening of the door. It was hard to even dream up a reason - and he'd spent a lot of time trying - to work on keep working on breaking out of there without giving up in fifteen minutes. Dirt floors. Enough moisture to let mold run rampant. Nothing visible outside to get anybody's attention.
Electrical cords were hidden well. Lights and tickle-tools, fans and heaters. Every possible distraction was constantly addressed so the captives could only focus their full attention on the effects of the feathers and brushes and buffers and cock pumps.
Twenty dungeons, maybe more, seemed to be under a cellar. Hidden well. That's what Hardstim boasted. Hidden right. Crazed howling would never reach the ears of the uncaptured visitors who lived above, coming and going as they pleased.
The captives' bodies were honed for that caliber of tickling with such care that it hardly ever had to end this season. Or next.
His cell's door had been plainly and obviously locked. The soundproofing probably wasn't even necessary at all.
That first night, the remaining prisoners were brought to a forgotten motel.
Randy groaned with relief when the gag was pulled loose. The unseen hands had pulled his shoes back on, and beneath his soles there were weed-clumps breaking up the asphalt. A good ten or fifteen years of damage, there, at least.
The van disappeared around the far end of the lot. No lights were on...
A dark single-story building was their new home.
A cigarette was stuck between his lips. Not an offer at all. When a lighter floated up and ignited, he didn't dare hesitate too long.
There was a snap -
And a faint hum.
"Down by the road," a voice said - an irritated voice, ready to get busy - "maybe a hundred meters from where you're standing, there's a twelve-foot iron fence. It's electrified. That's what you're hearing now. A few meters closer inside there's a creek. Much too wide to jump. You'll be dragged to a window after the sun comes up so you can see it for yourself. And the interstate is five klicks away, but there's no gas stations left at the nearest exits. No tourist attractions, the towns have all but shriveled up, and there's nobody living on this street. We've got two dozen cameras aimed at the property lines, letting us know automatically if anything bigger that a rabbit moves. Inside the fence or not -" "What the fuck are yymmmph nnnnphh nuhhhhff huff huff helllnnnfff..." That guy bucked like he was insane. Convulsing, almost. He never came close to falling over, so there had to have been hands keeping him upright.
"Let me just get through with this," it sighed. "Tradition. We call this Tireless Hands Penitentiary. Oh, yeah, there's tripwires and a shitload of motion sensors out there too. You won't be outside. Ever. We opened this place in 1995 and since then, a grand total of three people have ever come within spitting distance of the fence. Three.
A few voices chuckled. Another one whooped quietly.
"One of them was a photographer who pushed and pulled at the gate, saw how tight it was and drove off. We monitored him for a year. He went back to Austin and posted on an internet message board that the owners of this place must've been really fed up with vandalism, or something, because the fence and gate were obviously still being maintained. He estimated the place had been vacant for twenty years. Naturally, he's here now. The fence is electrified to keep you fuckers in."
"Back in '13 there were two teenagers - locals - who decided to climb the fence. We had no trouble drugging them. They didn't have what it takes to... motivate us. Woke up eighty klicks away in the room of a chain motel, surrounded by empty booze bottles - and wrapped in each other's arms. You can imagine what we coaxed their bodies to do, so there'd be plenty of 'evidence' all over them. We don't think they ever, ever talked about that night. This place just doesn't look interesting enough to break into, and we work hard to keep it that way. Oh, and those two trespassers have since run away to opposite coasts."
The voice sighed impatiently. "This is the only lecture you'll ever get here, unless you piss us off. You will not escape, no one will get anywhere near close enough to hear you, and no public official has come to the gate since we took over and fortified the place. Tireless Hands. You probably figured out what happens here. All the time. In we go."
Everybody was shoved inside. Randy didn't see if there were three or four of them being kept there.
His room seemed to have a real heavy door. It was completely muffled when it swung shut, though. Eerie.
The only light that made it into the room, through a small dirt-streaked window, didn't show him much.
A match struck. Coming up, through the air, easy as anything. He was next to a bed. Another cigarette was floating up, and he opened his mouth to object.
The unseeable hands that had firm control of his arms tightened painfully.
"Yes, you will," Hardstim said firmly.
The cigarette never even paused on its course. He sucked in when the match came within range.
His belt was unbuckled.
"Urinal coming," Randy's captor said. "Plastic."
He jumped a little at the feel of it.
"Just an ordinary hospital thingy. You won't be able to worry about where your piss is spraying, usually. But if you can do it now, let 'er rip."
He tugged on the smoke, looking down into the darkness. Despite the nervousness he managed to get the flow started. After the long drive there, he had quite a bit of piss to get rid of.
Hands pulled him down.
He fought, but they pushed him down, stripped him and pulled a lot of straps tight within, oh, ninety seconds.
The cigarette, which he'd apparently dropped in his struggle, came back to his mouth. A hand punched him in the left pec. "Take it."
"Ow," he complained. But he did. And he took a worried drag.
Strap tension was checked. His limbs were spread as wide as they could be. He couldn't move 'em at all. "Yeah. There," Hardstim decided. "All set."
He gulped. All kinds of questions came to him, but he didn't want to get slugged again. And though he couldn't stand to think about it, he knew what was coming. The thought kept him squirming. Fuckin' straps were not letting up even a little.
After a minute the cigarette was done, so it was pulled from his lips.
"Water," the voice said.
And a plastic bottle moved right in. The invisible hand that held it was... treating him like a prisoner, all right. He was forced to drain the water.
"You want more, just ask. If you're not trying to stall we usually don't postpone stuff you need. Or the smokes. Can't have you getting distracted by anything." It chuckled - still gruffly, but apparently its mood had improved... now that he was laid out and, uh, exposed.
Fingertips raked his soles.
He slammed up, and back, wailing like crazy. His feet stayed right there. It was so fuckin' frustrating!
Maybe ten seconds, altogether, before the tickling hands went away. His giggles took longer than that to wind down.
The voice laughed too. Briefly, but is sounded... victorious.
That sound was amazing, and confounding. He knew, right then, that he was doomed.
He whined and tried to toss himself around on the bed. Probably their favorite kind of show, he thought bitterly, but the prospect of going through five minutes of that was making him truly worry for his sanity.
Damn, he'd been so naive back then.
Another match - and a candle was lit. Nightstand.
He squinted and saw something floating in his direction.
His... wallet?
Aw, hell.
Everything in his wallet was being examined.
"Randy Evans," a younger voice said, sounding like a guy not a whole lot older than he was. A calm, content voice.
"Look," he said. "I could lie and say I -"
"Just another thief."
"No, I'm not -"
"Cigarettes," the voice said. "Hardstim saw you, dude. Give it up. You stole 'em. Fuckin' smoker."
He bit back a whimper...
And watched his next cigarette come floating to him, out of the shadows. A dull silver Zippo followed right behind. He looked around. In trouble for boosting cigs, and here came another one? Was that part of the, uh, punishment?
Unfiltered, too. Oh, fuck, he thought. Here we go.
He didn't dare say anything right then. When the flame got close enough he saw the Camel logo on the pack. And with no better idea occurring, he just sucked in.
Watched the lighter close and float down.
His wallet and the stuff that had been in it went over to the nightstand and landed. So did a big glass ashtray.
"Randall Jacob Evans, it is a mutherfuckin' pleasure to welcome you to Tireless Hands Reformatory. For the crime of petty larceny, you will be punished."
"Dammit, you can't do this to us! Not this!"
"Oh, yeah we can."
"I want a fuckin' lawyer. Call my mom. My stepdad. They'll bail me out. Now!"
"This private facility is so that you can avoid troubling anybody," the voice said carefully. "Let that sink in. Oh, you'll get food and drugs and medical care - but we're watching for selfish behavior. Trying to hurt yourself to get sprung ain't gonna work."
"Call s-somebody," he begged, just about ready to cry.
"But you're not leaving yet," it said - almost kindly. "None of you dudes are. You're here to get punished. You belong to Hardstim and us now."
He flailed in pure panic for a few seconds.
"You'd better learn... not to drop your cigarette," it warned.
He saw the Camel come back to his lips. Smooth magic. Unbearable, what those hands had felt like in the van - the fingers that had just strapped down his legs real well and raked the arches. Unmistakably enjoying itself.
"You're sadists," he panted.
"Okay."
"I don't deserve this," Randy wailed. "Not for a couple packs of cig-"
"Four packs. Trying to minimize it? Hell, boosting a single loosey would've gotten you right here."
"But I didn't know... The cameras. Aw, hell, that explains 'em. No. Dammit!"
"Heh. If we'd left the cameras on, the cops would know who to look for," the voice taunted.
"I want a trial!" he yelled, snapping at the restraints pinning his wrists. "They might just give me community service! Not t-this... this shit." He actually dropped the cigarette again - and with a deep sense of horror he realized no replacement was coming.
"Nope. You're in for it now. Thief."
"C'mon! How long, uh, do you, think, you can... k-keep me here?"
The voice paused. "Are you really that dumb?"
"Aw, hell no."
"Randy. You're staying here. And you know what's coming, don't you?"
"Nuh nuh nuh nuh nnnnn-nuh," he chanted, trying to lunge this way and that.
"Yeah, now, your feet remember. Nonstop comedy, from now on. X-rated."
"Look," he almost shrieked, "I just can't handle the thought of this -"
Fingers nestled around his biceps. Slowly tracing under.
"Unlimited punishment," it said expansively, "for the ticklish smoker."
He heard the guitar riff. Wheeled around.
Gloves clamped over his mouth, arms, and legs.
Not again. Dammit. Hardstim had reeled him back in two more times, and he suspected this captor had snagged him once before. Everything he tried didn't keep him from getting shoved behind the wheel.
The music got louder - a boom box was in the back, he decided. Guitar solo...
The door slammed.
His car pulled out quickly.
Leather backed off from his face, and a cigarette hit its mark. The Zippo was ready. That glove hung there, ready to silence him if he got loud.
Triumphant little chuckles.
"Metal for life," a sly voice said. It was Harddig.
"Don't," he complained, rushing out smoke. "Not tonight."
The music was turned up a little more. Nothing he had ever said had changed this phantom's mind.
There was no way he could take another marathon.
It was going to happen anyway.
He quit trying to look around the damn dungeon and let his head ease down. Perfectly fuckin' immobilized. And yet it was irritatingly... comfortable. He'd lay just like this all night. And so on.
His cigarette was pulled, another one was set right in its place, and the lighter fired him up.
Some other 80's song was playing in the background. Power pop, hard rock, punk - they all had the same basic feel, even if each song wasn't true headbanger shit.
Harddig called Randy a metal guy, and the workouts were metal-caliber.
29Oct2023