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Blame (or credit) Ximon for inspiring this one, with this illustration...
 

Locked inside room 4, the new arrival is overcome with fits of laughter.
"I'm sorry... but I don't understand. You signed a contract," a synthesized female voice says from the overhead speaker.
"Let me go hoh hoh hoh hoh," the TV star barks. He has been trying to leave ever since he arrived, two hours ago... but the thick metal fetters have not been removed. Neither has the harness, which surrounds his torso and is chained to the dungeon wall.
"But the work isn't finished yet," the voice replied patiently. "You agreed to complete the project."
He shakes his head. "I hai hai haaaaawww... It dih dih d-d-did not s-say anytheee hee hee heee hee heeng abuh baaah aaah haah hah about tih hih hee heeeeennnn..."
"Tickling?" the voice says helpfully.
The captive shakes his head, whooping uncontrollably. He attempted to break the restraints all through the first hour, but gradually his efforts faded away.
Unlike him, the machine's movements are continuous. Its soft fingers cover his ribs, his armpits - and a single hand alternates from one of his soles to the other, moving twice as fast as the other fingers. The steel armatures glide silently as they move the hands to his abdomen for a few seconds, and return to his armpits...
"Well, I have the contract right here," the voice says. "Let's see... You hereby agree to provide vocal affects, as directed, and allow me to record them."
"Nuh huh huh huh huh -"
"I watched you sign it."
"Hee hee thee th-this is n-not f-fair roh whah hah hah hah hah you g-gotta stah aah hah hah hah hahp stop tickling meeeee hee hee heh heh heh..."
"And further down... 'Direction' is hereby understood to include motivation, demonstration, and inducement by example."
"Nah hah hah h-how long hooowheee hee hee hah how l-long huh haw aah are you guh guh hoooo huh heeee pluh pleeeeeze oh pleeeeeeezzzze heeee hee hee heeee..."
"How long? I think you need to stop worrying about that. Just relax and laugh. I'll do the rest."
The fingers clamp and slide across his belly, pet his neck, tease under his left knee and cover his soles.
He howls gleefully, with his head rolling from side to side.
 
 

The inhabitant of room 3 is pulling at his ropes. Covered in sweat, he has been there for seven hours.
His tenth rest break is about to end.
Brown cotton gloves are carrying boxes over to him. He slams back and forth when he sees them, swaying in the air...
The hammock is made of cotton rope. It is well-crafted, and his crazed struggles haven't damaged it. The cuffs which hold his wrists and ankles are tied to the woven mesh of rope, and several lengths were thoughtfully added and pulled through the supporting eye-bolts. Additional rope pins all four corners of the hammock to the floor, so he cannot flip it over.
By signing the form - which sat on a folding table outside the shopping mall, unattended by anyone - he agreed to be contacted in the future regarding the evaluation of new products which may or may not be of interest to him. As soon as he walked out to his truck, the future arrived... and he was "escorted" to this room.
A binding legal agreement now exists.
The gloves open the first box... and bring out a cordless shoe polisher. There are three more just like it.
After the batteries are installed, the gloves click the 'on' switches - and start buffing his feet, stomach and thighs...
He roars hysterically, shaking the hammock. It's a more pronounced reaction than the all-natural electrostatic feather dusters had caused. But it was too early to tell if the sustained effect would be as dramatic as that of the eight-piece set of personal grooming brushes - for shaving-cream, hair, beard, fingernail, bath, and clothes, with a bonus extra-soft hair brush and a spare shaving-cream brush for the traveling gentleman. The tools will be combined later to increase the coverage.
He's laughing much too hard to keep his eyes open, so the sign on the wall is ignored now. During rest breaks he usually stares at it...

After one of those breaks, a glove fetches a white plastic bottle. His perspiration is supplemented with a liberal application of mink oil. Batteries are replaced, and the gloves turn the polishers on again...
The power switches are slid further - past the 'low' setting. As a result, the motors whine at a higher pitch, and the fluffy little pads spin more quickly.
Screams of glee bounce off the granite walls.
 
 

Room 2 also has a speaker in the ceiling...
"Get used to it," a gruff male voice says. It sounds artificial, somehow - and amused.
On the examining table, a man groans and strains at his restraints.
A dozen leather gloves continue dusting his body with soft little feathers.
"Oh, please, please, you gotta s-stop...," the man begs.
"No I don't," the voice chuckles. "Guess you didn't read the fine print. 'Direct communication, as deemed necessary.'"
"This isn't... c-communicating!"
"Paragraph twenty-four... 'Communication includes, but is not limited to, inquiry and discussion about the merits of any offer extended by the provider of service.' The key words are 'is not limited to'."
"Dammit!" he wheezes, "I only w-wanted... a cell phone - oooh waaaah hah hah haaaaaaaah."
"But this service is included - unlimited service - at no extra charge," the voice from the speaker says arrogantly.
"Pleeeee hee hee haaah haaaaaaaaah -"
"You signed up for the plan. It's only been three days -"
The man squeals louder, snapping at the tethers.
"And you didn't exercise the escape clause."
His eyes open. "Whooo hooooh whuh huh haaah haah haaaah... Whuh what essss escape c-clause zuh huh huh huh?"
"Paragraph nineteen," the voice says. "'Escape clause' - and those words are in bold print - "Service may be terminated at any time prior to the start of the fourth calendar day following activation.'"
He blinks, and rolls his head around. "I... whuh wanna do that! Aaaah hah hah hah haaaah! Yooo hoooo hooowhee heee hooo use that kuh huh haw haaaw haw haw c-clause -"
"Ooo-oooooo, Sorry," the voice snickers. "Too late. You signed the contract on Tuesday. It's now... almost one in the morning, on Friday. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday - yes, this is the fourth calendar day. You had to indicate you wanted out by midnight Thursday."
He howls louder.
"If only you'd said something an hour ago... but I guess you were too busy yukking it up."
The gloves move faster.
"Aaaaaaw huh haaaah hah hah hoh hoh whoh wooooo..."
"Oh, well. We have a deal. No backing out of it now."
 

 
I watch two gloves pick up the tray and carry it off. At the door, one of them lays flat against the wood, pushing. It swings right open. It's unlocked. If only I could reach it...
Much closer, eight sets of oily black gloves are heading for me. I tug at the chains, try to bounce. It doesn't matter. They're coming.
And now they're tickling again.
I laugh, but my voice is gone.

Smooth, greased fingers. This unbearable texture makes it almost impossible to think about anything else. Firm latex.
I wrestle around, but the cuffs are still holding. Chains keep 'em anchored down. No squirming allowed. They've got a job to do, and nothing gets in the way of the gloves doing their thing.
Those fingers, scratching... and those gloves, tracing up and down, up and down, up and down.
And these are squeezing my ribs. Devoted. Serious.
Sticking it to my knees.
Sneaking up into my armpits.

They're like machines. But they're empty. I've stared at them long enough.
Sometimes I wish they'd mock me, just so I could get angry again. Flip me off. A pair rubbing together slowly, as if they were about to carve up a Thanksgiving turkey.
But no. They go about their business, and it doesn't matter if I yell or beg.
I can't tell if they're even enjoying this. Tickling me.
Somebody is, though. Maybe...
Probably I'm imagining it. Hallucinating, sorta. But I keep looking for it anyway.
The big smile.
It's not me. I've got nothing to smile about. This is the most intense thing... But I got the idea, way back on the first day, that there's something else here. In my cell. Watching me, and the gloves...
A happy face. Real big. And it feels like somebody looking down, grinning at me. But that sounds crazy.
The gloves tickle me and tickle me, real workaholics. Over them, higher - or maybe all around - I picture this invisible... face. Loving this shit. Beaming. Always smiling at me. All the time. Even when I'm asleep, getting all recharged for more tickling, cuffed down so I can't get away. If I'm eating, it won't be long until the tickling starts again. The face is always there, as big as the ceiling, looks down, and it never says anything. It watches.
And it smiles.

For a while, I writhed around and raged at it. Trying to get it to say something. This is killing me. It's too much.
The face smiles down, and the gloves keep busy.
Smiling real big. Mindless, inhuman, enjoying this...

Finally, the gloves float over the table and collapse.
New gloves start coming out of the box, stretching a little until they're pulled free.
The first two hours of the day are over. It's time for the main event.

I wonder if the smile is the director of the gloves, or if it's here only to observe. It definitely approves of this...
What shall we do to him today? Stretch him out on the rack, with the table full of special tools right close by? Dull rubber and metal tips to scratch, lightly and endlessly, as they wander over every reachable location of his skin?
Or perhaps the stocks, where his toes can be caught and kept from pinching together, and the variety of brushes will be expertly held and used by the gloves, sliding and dragging, teasing, scrubbing, faster and heavier all over his body until he's unable to move, slowing down and speeding back up until he can't keep his eyes open any more?
And let's not forget about the manacles... Catch his wrists and there he'll hang, unable to stop the feathers, calm and unhurried?
Maybe we'll buff him. Lay him on his stomach, strapped down to the padded bench with the strategically placed holes, while scarves and fingers polish as if they'll never stop.
Of course, there's always the bed. Bringing the tools to him, right here. We can tickle harder if he's just going to be laid out. Nothing to compete for his attention.

I wish there was something to distract me. Nothing ever changes...
The damn door is unlocked. One time, when they were bringing food in, I heard some guy laughing. Wailing and chuckling, real hoarse. So they've got other guys trapped here.
The gloves are full now. They're taking hold of my forearms, carefully. And my ankles. I wonder how I'm going to be tickled today.
The cuffs are pulled together and locked. No way I can walk, much less run. I look at the door and wish...

No. Not the stocks!
I hate the stocks. The brushes, crawling on me - alternating with other tools on my feet. No...
They're stronger than me. Empty rubber gloves, forcing my ankles into the padded holes, making it look easy. I can't stand the thought of this, not again.
Off with the cuffs. That feels good. But it means the stocks are going to be closed. I watch the top part swing down. Catching me, no matter what I try to do. Locking. Now my wrists.
I look at the door again. What I wouldn't give to see a bunch of cops bust in, and see me. Get me out of here. If that doesn't happen, I'm in for another impossibly long day of tickling, because I can't get away from these gloves.
They're strapping my toes now.
No one's going to come. I'm gonna get it - again.
After a second, I realize I'm staring at the paper.

There's a little table, next to the door. Lacquered brown table.
The only thing on it is a piece of paper.
The gloves never touch it. But I'm sure it's there on purpose. No matter where I am, in the cell, they've got me facing the door. And the paper.
I understand the whole deal now. The night before they caught me, I woke up suddenly. My feet were tingling. I bet they were testing me. They had to see if I was worth tickling...
And then I got home from work and opened the mail. I thought it had to do with my car insurance. Maybe they stole some envelopes. I don't know. But I glanced at it - something to do with confirming my address, nothing out of the ordinary - and decided to get it out of the way. There was a pen right near the phone, so I picked it up. And I signed the form, at the bottom.
That's when I first saw the gloves. They floated up, from the other side of the counter. I couldn't believe it - way back then - and I just sat there, staring. They picked up the form, and peeled it. The top layer was thin, and it wasn't quite as long as the back layer. They threw it away.
Just before they grabbed my arms, they held the form up. My signature, alright - but a different form. A contract.
They tied me up and pulled a hood over my head. Dragged me out to my truck. Carried me in here, stripped off my clothes, got the cuffs on...
I know that's the same piece of paper.
That's their excuse. As if they even need one.

Oh, no. They're pouring oil on the toothbrushes. I can't take this -
Here we go.
Insane, I can't stand this, it tickles so much it's ridiculous, unbearable, I'm throwing myself around and watching the locks bounce. Pulling and slamming back. The locks don't open. My limbs are stuck, and the brushes...
It's impossible.
The gloves never cut me any slack. A full day of this. I can't take it. But they won't stop. Right up to the point where they can't keep me awake any longer. Wake up tomorrow, do it again.
I'm roaring with laughter. Silently.
Looking over, at the door. And the table...
There's the paper. The reason I'm here. The contract I signed.
I saw a number on it. Thirty. That's all I could make out, before the gloves took it away. The tickling is too much. I can't think straight. All day.
Thirty. Yeah. It was a thirty that I saw. Of course, the words might have said "no less than thirty". I wish I could look at the contract again. But I might not like what I see there.
My feet are so incredibly sensitive now. Caught in these stocks, scrubbed like this. And the oil, magnifying everything...
Thirty. And obviously the next word wasn't hours.
They got my signature, there. Authorization.
I got a bad feeling the word after "thirty" wasn't "days".

04may03