Joel took a while to decide he was awake.
Woozy. Sitting, somewhere - not home? Where did he go? He remembered leaving the bar... but then he drew a blank.
He tried to sit up... but he couldn't move his arms. Opening his eyes, he saw a dark room he didn't recognize. Weird texture on the walls... and the ceiling. The floor was soft underneath him.
His arms hugged his stomach, and he couldn't move 'em. It was almost like -
"No," he breathed. But it was true. He was wearing a straightjacket.
And he couldn't get it off.
When he was preparing to stand up, his foot slipped on the floor. Joel paused. Wiggled his toes -
Yeah, his shoes were gone. So were his socks. Now that he thought about it, the straightjacket was pressing against his skin. Somebody had taken his shirt off... and his shoes.
He heard a sound. A small rustle -
Did something move? In the corner? Joel held his breath involuntarily. Other than the sounds he'd been making, all was silent.
Maybe there was... a door, he thought. Whew. He rocked, preparing to hop up -
Then he heard a click. No doubt about it, that was some kind of door... closing.
Just as he started to worry again, a hand grabbed his ankle.
He jumped, pedaling wildly. But he couldn't see anything. No one else. Not a sound, no smell. Staring hard, he let his legs fall.
Pounce - four hands, maybe more. Holding his legs down into the padding.
"Hey!," he yelled, "Get the fuc-"
Fingers started crawling on his soles.
Immediately he was chuckling, trying to flop. Oh no. Oh no no no no not this -
The fingers were too slippery. Heavy, strong, and sliding around. Heels, toes, inner and outer sides.
As if they were...
Gone. The tickling hands lifted off. Gone. His ankles were still caught, but the horrible fingers were gone.
The fingers were too good at this. Determined. And yeah, dammit, they were oiled.
Joel was so relieved he couldn't bel-
They attacked again.
"Nuh naw naaaaaaaahaw haaawwlllll ah haaaah haah haaaaawww," he growled, jumping desperately. So firm, the way they... slid -
He actually stopped flailing for a second - and started to laugh, instead of chuckle, like he'd heard a really great joke. Didn't want to, but the thought registered - sliding. They were oiled.
Straightjacket padded room oily fingers no aw no no it can't be...
"Awwww haw huh dddaaaah haw aaawwwhhhhhah haaaaah hah haw haw haaaaw," Joel guffawed. Rude braying, full of gutsy enthusiasm. Part of him was in shock, trying to put the facts together. But it was really happening. He sounded like he was having the time of his life, and it was so much stimulation he was overwhelmed in a way he'd never imagined before.
Before he realized what was happening, the hands circled his ankles and pulled him away from the wall.
And more fingers started to dance.
Joel howled, and tried to roll. Kicking got him nowhere. The fingers didn't stop. They had his ankles way up above him, and it made him feel profoundly helpless. His fists bounced, and he yelled laughs and rolled his head around... while they traced the sides of each foot as well as the sole, and the bottom of each heel. Shoving between his restless toes.
After a few minutes, he was too riveted on the fingers to move.
It was unbearable.
And they just kept him roaring laughter.
Every time he thought he couldn't stand another second - it went on. And got to him even more.
He didn't even notice he was moving... being dragged into the center of the room. Not until he stopped sliding.
Closer to the door, maybe. That's good - unless it could be locked.
Locked in and tickled. No...
Every time he thought something like that, the sensation intensified.
They wrapped something around his ankles, and lowered his legs. Barely noticing other activity around him. Not until the fingers stopped.
Oh yes, Joel thought, gasping for breath. Yes. No tickling they quit they're not tickling no aw please no more no more.
He realized he was mumbling, out loud. Begging. So he stopped that, and looked around. Nothing -
No, wait. He lifted his head.
Straps. Across his... Hell, they were everywhere. Pinning his shoulders, chest, belly, thighs and shins.
He was strapped down. His feet wouldn't budge. Tight straps trapping them. Bulky - layers, maybe. And they were separated... off the ground at least a couple inches. Propped up -
The better to get nuked, he realized. Trying to roll, or even wiggle, Joel felt the crushing arrival of... fear. Paralyzing, adrenaline-dumping fear. He couldn't move. He'd been kidnapped by an expert who prepped for this shit, and now it was going to tickle the shit out of him. No time limit here, probably ready to make sure he stayed conscious, more and more aware of the impact -
There was something... over his feet.
"No, awwwwww pleeeze," Joel whimpered. Pure reflex. More. And he was really stuck now...
He could barely make out a shape. It looked like a hand. Just a hand.
No, he thought, not a hand. No arm, no body. It's a glove. A magic glove. It's gonna tickle me some more. No, no...
The glove had a twin. Holding something -
Joel whined and tried to slide backward. I'm theirs now, his mind babbled to itself. I'm here to get it, really get it, get it good, and I can't stop 'em.
The one with... was that a bottle? It descended, and there was a faint wheeze -
Dust hit the bottom of his right foot, startling him. Then the left. They were pathetically sensitive now, more than they'd ever been before. He scrunched up his feet, trying to rotate 'em - but the other glove hooked his toes and straightened his left foot. The bottle was squeezed and squeezed, the dust settling between his toes, below them, all up and down the sides. A faint metallic tang reached his nose. Foreign, so unreal...
When there was a thick coat on both of his feet, the gloves went away. He was so grateful, a sob almost busted out of him. He started to wrestle.
A sound stopped him. Far away. Sizzling. Or maybe like a Coke being poured into a glass -
He figured it out. Oh no oh no oh...
His feet. The powder. Doing something. What kind of hideous chemical reacts with sweat, he thought nervously,
wriggling again. What was it going to do to his feet? He thought they were gonna tickle him. Perfect setup. Oh no. Oh, yeah...
Then he felt a twinge. Both feet, different spots. Almost simultaneous -
Again. Joel gulped - not some kind of tickle powder. Strapped down this tight. Oh, they wouldn't. Other spots flared up.
"No!," he yelled, long and loud.
The spots itched. More places, every second.
He kept yelling.
It didn't matter. The itching grew like paper being kindled. Down, around, in-between.
Joel flailed uselessly, thumping his head on the thick floor. And he yelled.
The itching clung to the oil and seemed to soak in. Layers of muscle, itching, itching, and they did this on purpose. He couldn't get his hands loose, the wrists were buckled tight to keep his hands right there - and the webbing of straps over him made sure he couldn't do anything about the unbelievable, intolerable itch.
He started to plead incoherently. Whining and growling, then he started to cry, furious at first as the tears ran off his face. He tried to lunge, which was absolutely useless, but he couldn't help it. It itched so bad, so bad, worse and worse. He bawled like a baby and he didn't care anymore, it was killing him, they did this to him and it was so very deliberate, something worse than tickling and he howled because that was unbearable but this was far worse. Far, far worse.
Stronger, to the point where he decided to quit crying because it took too much effort. Barely moving. Stupidly thinking it had reached a maximum, the worst is over, it's gotta start to fade at some point - and the itch grew stronger. Stronger and stronger and stronger.
A new sound. Added to his grunts, his raspy breathing -
He lifted his head and shook it, to get the hair out of his eyes. Wet hair. The straitjacket and his jeans were soaked with sweat. Joel saw a blurry wedge of light. Very dim - was the door open?
There was something nearby. He blinked rapidly. Please, let it be a glove. Tickle away, then. Make it count.
"Please," he said uncertainly, "please..."
The noise stopped... and the thing moved closer. In the air -
It rotated slightly. Oh yes, it is. One of 'em. He decided it was a clipboard. The shape with it was a glove, holding a pen. Writing something.
"Help," he wailed, "I can't take it. You gotta..." But he hesitated. Asking for it? Not smart. But he just couldn't stand this.
The writing stopped.
"Please, please, I'm beggin' you. Uh, scratch my feet. Please. Can't stand it. Scratch 'em hard. All over. Rub... Aw, please, alright? Okay! Tickle 'em. Please, now, tickle 'em, do it, do it, do it hard, pleeeee-ase..."
The shape moved slowly. Sticking out the pen -
Touching the heel of his right foot.
"Aw, yes! Do it! All over!"
The pen moved. Not hard enough, not fast enough. Just barely scratching... and it sure wasn't real tickling. Not like the fingers did.
"Do it! Go ahead. Use your fingers. Drop the pen! Do it. Tickle 'em! Tickle meeeee -"
The pen lifted off - and dragged across his sole. Faster.
It was wonderful. He couldn't believe how great it felt. Tears starting to flow again.
"Thank you thank you oh I can feel it and it's... More, please, more. More! All over, every square inch. Oh, c'mon, it's not big enough! It's not enough! Drop the pen... Get the gloves back! Get 'em on me! All of 'em, you hear? I can't take this... another second. Tickle hard! With your fingers... All those other fingers - please, get 'em, get 'em on me, I'll do anything you want, anything, tickle... All over, I'm all yours, long as you want, but just do it! Tickle me now!"
And it stopped. No more pen moving down there -
It was writing again. Scribbling on the clipboard.
"Please!" Joel wailed, over and over.
The pen kept busy, making notes. At least a minute, and the itching made it seem like hours. The spot the pen had scratched was itching again with a vengeance.
As he stared, and panted... the clipboard started to leave. And the glove, with it.
"Tickle me," he said sadly. Watching them leave, and the door close.
The itching was not levelling off.
He let his head fall.
Another click - from the corner. He looked -
Something moving.
"Aw, please," he said desperately.
It got bigger, closer - so many gloves!
All at once, fingers tickling.
Joel bucked, squealing with relief. Then more fingers started in - and still more.
He squealed again, but it sounded... totally different.
They were overpowering the itch, all right. Their way. Giving him just what he was begging for.
Wonderful, enormous relief - and excruciating torment. At the same time.
They meant business. Oily again - and there were more of 'em than there were before... Totally blanketing his feet. Snuck inside his jeans - pantlegs and crotch. Surrounding his neck.
He went ballistic. It was too much fun, way more than he could take. Enough, he thought, whooping at 'em. He fought with the straitjacket. Quit it, I changed my mind, get away, I'll deal with the itch instead.
But they had other plans. The straps proved it. His ankles, legs, upper body - Joel couldn't move. They were really gonna play with his feet. Itchy feet, ticklish feet, perfectly bound and oiled-up.
He shook his head like he was drunk. "Naaaaaaw haaaaaw haawwwww whaaaaaawww..." Barking laughs now, like he meant it. Beside himself, so focused on his feet. The itching was actually taking a back seat. Unbelievable.
They were between his toes, firm and vigorous. All up and down the sides, under the heel, blanketing the heel, the tender middle. The sides.
And his insteps, too. No itching there.... But they worked hard. Real thorough gloves. Tickling right up to the edge of the straps.
Joel laughed until he was hoarse.
The gloves didn't stop once.
He'd had this nightmare of -
Totally bizarre. Athletic. Intense. An eternity of tickling. His feet. Some other sensation, also horrible. Shadowy times when it had stopped, paused. Drinking water. Eating something... Trying to move. Held down - and the tickling would start again, and again.
Joel opened his eyes. After a while, he figured out where he was.
"No!" he yelled - but his voice was gone. And he couldn't move...
A change. Air, on his belly. Shifting around, he figured it out. As if it wasn't bad enough already - the way his feet had gotten tickled - at least the straightjacket had covered his sides and armpits. And there had been more straps, too, but all that had been taken away. Along with his shirt.
His arms were straight out from his sides... and they were staying that way. Thick layers around each wrist.
His feet were still raised and anchored. Maximum exposure - for power tickling, just like last night -
The door opened. He shivered as it swung out...
A tray was floating in. Seeing it, he realized how hungry he was. It glided over to his side. Silverware clinking -
Carried by dark gloves.
He smelled the food, and his mouth started to water. The fork slid, and brought him...
Eggs. Scrambled eggs. And there was ham. He wolfed it down.
A faint click was followed by the sound of someone talking. Radio? The little rectangle, there on the tray. A weather report droned on, while the gloves fed him, brought him several cups of water, refilling it from a pitcher.
He ate until they scraped the plate to get the last bits of egg. Coffee would be great, he thought. And a smoke. Yeah. Really great... He thought about asking, but remembered the laryngitis. The water cup came back to his lips.
"A local landmark closed its doors yesterday," the radio guy said. "Carrie Anderson has more." He took a mouthful of water and swished it around.
"Homestead Mental Hospital was the only psychiatric facility in the county, until the expansion at Metro General opened last year. But the cost of removing asbestos insulation and tiles was too high, so Homestead... is no more."
Joel drank more water. He knew that place. A few miles south of town. Boarded up, lots of high fences...
Why was he hearing this?
"The board of supervisors voted 5-1 to stop the cleanup and sell the building 'as is' -"
The gloves picked up the tray and left.
"Hey," he whispered to the gloves. "Stop! Wait..."
" - no bidders before today's decision. And the rural facility could remain as it stands, ignored and forgotten, for a very long time. For All-Talk 950, I'm Carrie An..."
He couldn't hear the radio anymore. The door closed slowly.
They made sure... he heard -
A tape, maybe? Something they put together. Faked?
He had a deep, dismal feeling it was real. And relevant. To him, this bizarre trap he was in. Where else could this be? Padded walls. Homestead was closed, except for one inmate. A secret inmate. The gloves had the place all to themselves -
From the corner... came a sound he knew, softly terrifying.
They were coming back.
Joel watched for them, squirming miserably. His wrists were stuck good. His feet too.
Not again. His poor feet, and now his - they could tickle his whole upper body now. Really lay into his ribs, and his belly. Not that. The thought of those oiled fingers, whole hands sliding, curl and squeeze, lightly scratching. His jeans would have to go, too. Tickle him all over. Every...where.
And they'd done this on purpose - he couldn't quite believe it, even after the night he just had. The gloves brought him out here just so they could tickle him, hard. That couldn't be all there was to it - tickle him as much as they wanted? Strapped down, on purpose, in the funny farm - the old one, nowhere near anything, big ol' fences and no reason for anybody to set foot here. None at all -
A click. One of 'em. Holding something...
"More, please, more. More! All over, every square inch -"
A deranged guy's voice.
Joel listened to himself.
"Oh, c'mon, it's not big enough! It's not enough! Drop the pen... Get the gloves back! Get 'em on me! All of 'em, you hear?"
Didn't mean it, he thought numbly. They know. Didn't... mean -
"I can't take this... another second. Tickle hard! With your fingers... All those other fingers - please, get 'em, get 'em on me, I'll do anything you want, anything, tickle... all over, alright, I'm all yours, as long as you want, just do it! Tickle me now!"
Click.
He didn't even dare to breathe.
A can flew up to the ceiling. Spray paint. Almost right over Joel, words appeared...
I'M ALL YOURS
AS LONG AS YOU WANT
The fingers slid gently around his sides. Twenty fingers, thirty. Forty. On his nipples, too.
And his gut - aw fuck, his filthy jeans were being peeled off.
Gloves took charge around his neck...
Right after that, others started tickling under his knees and between his legs.
Joel shook his head once.
More oil. Pressing in, traveling. Taking hold.
Instantly he was tense. Rocking, pulling...
Exploding with quiet roars.
2000