He pants for air, enjoying a break. Third break of the night.
This is his first night. It likes him - the way he retreats, inside, still laughing with all he's got. Trying to get away in his head, since he can't slip the chains, or open the door. But the stimulation is too intense. Right there. He can't figure out how to ignore it, let his body go with it and space out. The tickling demands his attention, no matter how much he fights it...
The first night of many. He's too much fun.
Eventually he blinks the sweat out of his eyes and shoots another weary look around the room. Padded room. No windows. Nothing other than the mat he's on, a thick cushion laid on the floor, almost the same drab color as the walls and the ceiling. They were white, once. Grey with smoke now, broken only by the slit around the padded door and four soft pools of light above, glowing through the quilted padding. Enough light for him to see what's nearby -
Which is a water bottle, appearing silently over him. He blinks at it. One-liter, chilled, already open.
He drains it with his eyes closed, sucking fiercely. Another bottle materializes when it's empty...
Then a pack of Marlboros, shaking one up a half-inch. Floating to his mouth. The silver Zippo is back, the lid clinking open, sparking up. He watches it, through half-lidded eyes, move to the tip of his cigarette and light him up. The lid snaps shut. And it disappears.
No bottles, no pack of smokes. Just him, tugging on a cigarette, long and hard. The cuffs, and the chains. Alone, in a special padded room. He shakes his head real slow, exhaling smoke.
His hands start working again. And his legs. But mainly he's minding his cigarette, drag after drag. Not about to just let it hang there.
When it's burned down, the pack shows up again. And the Zippo.
Then they vanish, along with the old cigarette butt.He's pulling harder at the restraints. It doesn't matter. His motions are automatic, unthinking. Same as the mumbling, which he's doing more often. Raspy, but a little louder...
"Out, get out. Gotta get out. I gotta do it. Up to me..."
Well, this could get interesting. It watches his cigarette move as he talks -
"Time to get... the fuck... outa here..."
Yeah. Sure. He can't budge the straps, much less get his ass up from the cushion. There are three locks keeping the door shut nice and tight. Hopelessly tight. No way he's busting out of here without a sledgehammer.
No stray tools laying around, though. Not even a stray cigarette butt. Just the padded walls... and the toys, being used -
"Get away... from this fuckin' asshole... You hear me? Fucker?"
Impulsively, it makes a glove appear. Down by his right foot.
It extends the shiny index finger, and rubs beneath his toes.
He grunts hard, tensing right up. Coughing out the smoke, and pulling harder suddenly. His head comes up, trying to see... but it flattens the glove against the cushion. Nothing to see.
"Where... - aw, hell. Don't. Lemme go -"
It strokes his left foot twice.
An anguished groan slips out of him.
Time for a new smoke. The pack reappears...
After another bout of tugging, he kicks out smoke angrily. "Dammit. What the hell... Why are y-"
It interrupts with light strokes, rapidly jumping from one captured sole to the other.
He chuckles, flailing around.
"St-teh huh eh haw aw haw haaaa ho okay okay... Stop -"
Left foot, two strokes.
"Please -"
Two more.
"You can't... just..."
Right foot. He lifts his head again, squinting past the smoke.
"I..." He trails off, thinking hard. "Are you gonna -"
Right foot.
"Aw, fuck," he snickers. "Lemme go."
Left foot.
"No? Is that... like, the 'no'... side?"
Right foot.
"Look. I... uh, I can't take this -"
Right foot. Three slow tickles.
"No, I can't. You don't know... It's too much to take, too intense -"
Left foot.
"Yes it is -"
Left foot, much harder.
"Shi-hih-heee-eeeeee-eeeet, nuh hah hah haaaaah," he barks. Shaking his head.
The tickling finally stops. He just breathes a few times, and takes a drag. Looks at the ceiling.
"Where am I?" It waits him out. "Oh. Is this... a real nut-ward?"
Left foot.
Then, more quietly, "Custom? Some private little torture chamber?"
After a few seconds, it rubs his right foot slowly.
"Fuck. No. I can't -"
Right foot.
"No! Help! Help! Can anybody hear me?"
After a long pause, the fingers stroll up his left foot, and back down.
"Shit... I'm..."
Right foot. A good, long squeeze.
His eyes wander around. "Soundproofed -"
Right foot.
"You made this place, didn't you? Really, uh, just for... for -"
Right foot.
"Aw, fuck, I gotta get out of here -"
Left foot... but the top side. His head comes up. And he stares at the glove, lifting off - but staying right there.
He makes a frustrated whining noise, and smokes hard.
"No more. No. You can't..."
Right foot. Another glove, now. Fingering his toes. One for each foot.
"You got no right -"
They both rub. Right under the ankle-cuffs. That gets him squirming again, and cackling.
"Okay. Okay okay, stop, dammit. I get it. I get it."
Right... shin.
"No. Aw, damn. Lemme go. You are gonna - just let me go..."
Right shin.
"Please - Tonight?"
Left shin.
"No. Fuck. Well... soon?"
Left shin. Slow, firm rubbing.
"Please!"
Left - knee.
"No! Awwww waaaah heh aaaaah hah ho ohwhoooo hooooo..." The cigarette bounces jauntily, but somehow he manages to keep from dropping it.
The fingers squeeze their way back down to his foot, and lift off after a few heavy swipes.
His giggling tapers off, and he catches his breath. Gets another smoke.
"Fuck. Tickling. Not that. Fuckin' torture chamber. Padded cell, just so... Stuck in here. All night. I can't... And tomorrow. Could be a week of this. Whole fuckin' week - "
Left sole. Fingers traveling up, and down, up, and down...
He tenses up, and remembers what that means. Takes a drag. "No? Not a week?"
Left, again. Tracing lines back up to his toes.
"No," he mumbled, thinking hard. "Two w- no, don't. Don't even... I can't take this. Can't. You hear me?"
Left foot.
"Yes you can! I know you can hear... Oh." He smokes. "You're just fuckin' with me. Okay. Look. What's it gonna take for me to get out of here?" Nothing happens. "You had your fun -"
Left foot.
"Huh? You already tickled the fuck outa me. Congratulations. You win."
Right foot.
"Yeah. So you got what you wanted -"
Left foot.
"Yeah you did! You thrashed me -"Left foot.
"What?" He takes a long drag, looking around the ceiling. The pack reappears.
When he's got the next cigarette going, he lifts his head a little, and looks down. At his feet, anchored there...
And at the gloves, poised over them. Waiting.
"You don't call that an ass-kicking, what you did?"
The phantom hand on the left closes in, and gives that foot a good squeeze. He winces, and waits for it to let go. Hanging in the air a couple inches away. Satin. Powerful. Ready to nuke that foot. Whale on it. All of 'em. Got themselves a secret place, a cell, to keep that foot in. Fuckin' restraints. Pull the boot off, and the sock. Strap it down. And they can tickle the fuck out of it now, 'cause it can't budge.
And something clicks.
"Just gettin' started. Tickling. Tickling me. You're just warming up -"
Right foot. Possessive, sadistic rubbing.
"Awhawhawhahhahnnnnoh oh hoh aah hah haaaaaawww..."
This time he does drop the cigarette, as he squirms. Head rolling all around, limbs straining desperately -
More fingers join in. On the same foot. And now the right shin, too."Naaaawwww!" he yells hoarsely. The protest dissolves into hardcore cackling.
And even more fingers latch on. Right foot, calf, and knee. All on the right side.
The "yes" side.
Yes.
16jul01