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Wonderful.

The man sleeps peacefully, compliments of the sedative that was slipped into his beer nine hours before. When he'd nodded off in front of the TV, in the familiar comfort of his overstuffed chair, he was calm and free of concern. Then he was lifted out of the chair and carefully set behind the wheel of his truck, snoring loudly as he was taken into the mountains...

His name is Dag.
He's sleeping on a plush bed in the center of a large, sunny room. A tiny kitchen and bathroom lie outside the closed door. A secluded cabin, hidden by acres of trees. Rustic. Hardly noticable.
Inside, the chamber is clean and warm.

A comfortable, homey sight...
He's sleeping soundly in the bright room. Head indenting a thick down pillow, thick blanket tucked up to his chin. Unaware he's being studied. Contemplated. The object of meticulous attention.
No one knows he's here.

The wind rustles the evergreens that tower over the house. A slight gap between them permits beams of sunlight to make it in the east window, nearly reaching the foot of the bed.
 
 

After a long while he heaves a light, contented sigh.
Five minutes later, he yawns. Not one to wake up quickly, he doesn't move. The expression on his face is a study in contentment. A hint of arrogance...
 

This is perfect. He could stay like this all day, snuggled in bed. Warm. Safe.
A little tired, yet, so Kelly must've worn him out -
No, wait, she told him to fuck off two nights before.
This mattress, under him - it isn't his. Or Kelly's.
Huh. No big shock, there. He was in a different bed every other night, before Kelly. But he was a free agent again now. Back to the hunt. Fast operator - but who'd he pick up last night? He'd planned to stay home and watch a movie on the tube. Two beers - no, he'd started a third. That was where his memory got fuzzy. So he must've gone out, but he didn't know this terrific bed. Wherever it was. And where was the babe? He doesn't hear anything to tell him where she is. Off to work, maybe... and that was too bad, because he was in the mood to tear a piece off.
Yeah, still fuzzy this morning. Why not sleep in, there'll be less of a crowd at the gym that way.

Dag thinks about rolling over... but he's happy where he is.
Luxuriously, he stretches his back. A vague grunt of pleasure...
But the stretch doesn't progress to his arms. That's odd.
His arms are way out. Why is th-

He opens his eyes.
Nice enough - what is it, a nice cabin. Nobody ar-
His arms... won't move.

Neither will his legs.
Oh, what'd he go and do now? He tugs a little, but the thick blanket's got him covered.
He starts to say "Hello?" and see if the chick isn't around after all, maybe in the can, she wouldn't just leave him here -

There's a chuckle. Not very loud, but it's got an edge. Sorta sinister.
Dag jumps. Right close by -
He looks around. No one. Did he imagine that... maybe he wasn't completely awake. Now, he is... and he tries to sit up - nope, not even close. Something is keeping him from -
The laughter dies down with a somewhat melodramatic sigh of delight. It sounds like it's somebody right over him.
Well, not for long. He starts pulling his arms in, stretching his legs out.
A faint creaking sound -
The blanket flies away.
All by itself?

He's naked. No surprise there - but those black stripes -
No. They're straps. Leather. They're thick. Trailing off the mattress, pulling into it. Thick, tight straps -
Wrapped around huge cuffs on his ankles.
Same setup on his wrists. Splayed out, stretched good - this was a first, for him. Why would he let someb-
It dawns on him - he didn't hook up with anybody last night. This is wrong...
Who laughed at him? Somebody thinks this is fuckin'... funny?

The restraints aren't snapping, as he'd expected. No prob. Must've met somebody kinkier than he usually went home with. So why can't he remember her, or last night?

Well, this is ridiculous. Just needs him pulling harder...

"Lemme go, right - now," Dag orders. The room is still empty, except for him. No speakers, pointed his way. The door is still closed. He tries twisting his wrists, comforted by the strength at his command.
When the straps don't break, he feels the first stab of fear. And that makes him really mad...

He tugs, and lunges.
The voice chuckles again, lightly, as if to itself.
"Get me out of here," Dag says murderously, looking all around. "Right this fucking sec-"
"Hello... Dag." A guy's voice. Amused, almost taunting. Disrespectful.
"Let me go, now, you h-"
"The voice you're hearing... belongs to... Craze." Casual, matter-of-fact. Real confident.
His heart speeds up, and he doesn't know why. Well, that fits, because this is plumb crazy. Time to go...

The cuffs are still holding. This makes no sense at all. With the power he has at his disposal... how could he be - stuck?
"Time to tell you... why you're here," the invisible guy says, from over him.
He grits his teeth and concentrates, stretching the wrist-straps with everything he's got. He growls... And he tests the anchors on his legs. They're not even loosening. He's got to be stretching the leather, but there are a few layers, there, it's pretty thick -
He yanks his limbs, and even tries pushing up. Groaning with the effort.
"You were selected, and immobilized..."
It's not working.
Impossible -
He falls back with a explosive "Shit!" More worried - no, wait, just a matter of focus, picturing his wrists pulling free -
"Because you are insanely, spectacularly... ticklish."

The next few seconds are totally weird.
He stops moving, all of a sudden. Without even meaning to, he freezes up - because somehow his body figured it out first. Then he repeats the word to himself a couple more times.
Didn't hear that. Didn't hear that right.
Not him. Some weak pussy, maybe. There was no fuckin' way... The voice had to be talking to somebody else. Or he was dreaming this. Room, restraints, no clothes on him, what he just heard. All of it.
But what if -
He gasps.
And then he realizes he just completely gave himself away. No faking it now...

It has to be some really horrible dream. Yeah. As if he couldn't bust a little strap -
He tries to focus on his arms -
Ticklish. Somebody wanted to... Oh, fuck. Somehow they already knew about him.
"No," he says unbelievingly.

The baseball team. That sadistic babysitter. Bullies, on the playground telling each other. Ganging up, holding him down...
His aunt. the summer he was eleven. She was huge, for a thirteen-year-old. Staying at his house all summer, and every day she hunted his ass -

That's all history, though.
He put an end to that. That same year, started working out. Soon, every day. Thirteen years of heavy weights...
Punching people who tried... anything. Slapping girls' hands away, even in bed. They never tried twice.
People envied him. They were intimidated by his size. He liked that. It had been a long time since he thought about... why.
No way. Gettin' out of here, right now -

Something moved -
Past his feet. Hands. Oh, so that's where the asshole -
No arms. Just...
Gloves.

A pair of shiny black gloves.
Two pair.

Dag tries to say something. Looking at 'em, he can't manage it. They're big, jet-black.... and empty, far as he can see.
Empty satin gloves that looked like they had muscular hands inside. Curled slightly, about a yard above him... cruising toward his head.
Two thoughts hit hard - those gloves aren't real. They can't be.
And... they're exactly the worst - strapped, naked, to a bed, and here come the most horrible... the scariest things he's ever seen. Perfect - the absolute worst, and he never even had a nightmare where he thought up something like those.
Fingers, special fingers, with a scary purpose. Coming for him. And he hasn't managed to get loose.

Magic. They're almost over his waist. He's gotta be hallucinating this, dreaming it somehow.
Steady as airplanes. They're full, and steady, looking so... soft.
"Fuck this," he says, hearing the anxiety in his voice. Outa here. Really motivated.
The straps are still there. Absolutely unbelievable. Those gloves are not gonna touch h-
Didn't spend all those years getting big and bad to be - stuck, like this! He doesn't take shit from anybody, much less a fuckin' pair of empty gloves...

"It's time, Dag."

They start to descend.
Well, they're empty, they can't really... right? Just a bunch of air in 'em, no strength, this isn't happening, no way they could know, it's a practical joke or something and he's gonna pop these fuckin' straps now, now...
He couldn't be more amazed - and thunderstruck - when the fingers make contact -
On his ribs.

Cool -
He jumps.
They feel... solid.
If the fingers can actually go this far, and touch him, it looks like they'll actually go for it. But this cannot be really fuckin' happening. Not to him. He's way too strong for this to be -

"Here you go."
Pressing -
He stutters, jumping up as far as the cuffs will allow.

Debilitating, crippling sensation - memories of being smaller, much weaker - so much weaker.
And yet the feel of 'em is far, far worse. Bad memories, but this...
The hands slide, following the contours - too heavy, too slippery. He grunts, throwing his torso from side to side. They're still there. He grits his teeth, lips pulled back, and chokes back a laugh. He can't laugh. It would be suicide to laugh, even once. Maybe they'll give up and let go if he doesn't laugh...
Involuntarily, his legs kick, his arms snap at the restraints... and his chest tries to roll, and twist, and duck.
It's really time to tear these fuckin' straps apart.

But the gloves -
Lightly roaming... all those fingers - spreading out, snuggling. Two with their fingers toward his armpits - oh, fuck no - and the others laying sideways.
Heavier... He bounces, lifting as much of himself as he can off the bed. It feels stupid, but he's desperate. Something's gotta work. More stuttered laughs try to burst out - no, don't, just don't...
They blanket his side, rubbing and sliding, and it's like hot towels and electric current and being licked and rubbing alcohol. Way, way too much. The bouncing didn't faze 'em, all the flopping around didn't help -
The straps are holding. No matter what he does.

The fingers fold some - and inch their way up, just as if they were a dude's fingers, a chilling similarity in their movements. No, no...
And they scoot into his armpits. Pressing -
"Baaaahhhhnnnoooooowhhoooooooaaaaaaa haaaah haaah haaaaaannnno whoahoh hoh huuuuuwaaaaheeee hee heee heee nnn nno oh aaaah hhaaaah haaaah haah haaaa-aaaa whoo hoooooo hooo huh hee heeee heeeeeeeee huh hoh hohhh ohho..."

It's intolerable.
Not a dream. Not a setup. It can't be. He's stuck. He can't get away. How, he doesn't know. The voice, the nut-case making the gloves move, manipulating 'em, tickling him... it actually has him stuck.
It can't be true, yet it is. Not just a little teasing, either. This is totally serious. He is going to be savagely tickled, worse than any tickling when he was a kid - and that was the most horrible thing he'd ever gone through. It's set this up perfectly, so he'd get tortured like this.
It's really, really going to keep... going on.

"Dozens... of gloves, Dag. Lots of toys. Right close by. Ready to use..." The voice, louder, speaking slowly, so he'll get it.

Cool, slippery pressure in his armpits - and the other pair is fingering his belly. He grabs huge lungfuls of air, forming words in his mind - pleading, bargaining - that he can't manage to say...
Brawny fingers are rubbing his sides and chest. Black-bright, animated - two of them are curled around his pecs, and the opening is right in his face. Where the hand should be. Empty gloves, energetic, and strong.

"Dag. Dag. Look. Look down."
One of the gloves cuffs him on the head, gently.
Eventually, he opens his eyes -
Just past the bed, there are feathers in the air.
Big ostrich feathers, pale grey, bobbing toward him - and now honing in.
Heading right for his feet.
"This is your future."

His feet are ridiculously sensitive - the worst -
He kicks again, and kicks, but it's not enough. Dammit. With the big ol' wave of sensation from his torso, he can't focus for shit. Even before the gloves landed he couldn't tear through the straps.
They're coming, oh fuck, not feathers. Just can't fuckin' happen, and especially not there. Blood is pounding, throbbing, he can't deal with this at all, and bracing himself for it just won't work.
As the plumes get closer, inch by inch, he pulls out all the stops. Folding and swiveling his toes, ferafully trying even to turn his leg in or out. And the cuffs don't give a bit, not even from every kind of force he can muster. If only there was a little bit of slack in the straps anchoring his limbs -
The downy wisps touch the center of his soles.
Can't be happening to him. Anything other than what's tracing across and down, both feet, plenty of room for more tickling there -
He just yells laughter, shaking his head.

The feathers sweep and trace, apparently moving all by themselves. Dragging up and down. They roam smoothly, easily. Deliberately.
He watches for a while, not wanting to... White blurs, black blurs. Hooting and howling at the feathers, goaded into feisty roaring by the diligent gloves. He tries to plead, again, but still can't get the words out.
He thought he'd never have to feel anything like this again...

Before long, he gives up on begging.
Sometimes he stares at the ceiling for a little while, trying to shake his head. But mostly he lays there with his eyes slammed shut, trying to stretch the killer restraints when he can manage it, just whooping and yowling all-out...

The digging and massaging of the gloves has him completely undone.
The light brushing of the feathers is reducing him to an unthinking, whooping, feverish animal.

At some point, after hours and hours of stimulation... well, it seems that way, he notices his chest is heaving. He blinks, shaking tears out of his eyes. The pillow is wet. He realizes dumbly it hasn't really been hours - the suspicion, bleak and terrible, that it's only been a lot less than that. Imagining this going on for - all day, much less beyond that, is fuckin' impossible! He can't comprehend it, a fairly simple concept. And yet.

Weakly, he tries to turn, positive he won't be able to. He's right.
Gloves have a hold on his armpits. One has a loose hold on the back of his neck. The other is laying on top of his belly-button, fingers spread wide.
Experimentally, he bends his toes just a little - and feels the soft plumes. Still there, touching, poised to continue -
"You can't stand it, can you? You can't. But you have to stand it. You have no choice, Dag... None. At. All."
That gets a cackled moan out of him.
"Lots of food for you, vitamins and drugs, plenty of rest. Everything you need. You're in it for the long haul, Dag. Long. Haul. Lots and lots of tickling. Serious, intense tickling. Careful, skillful, marathon tickling. And you can't make it stop. Can you, Dag?"
He can't even get his lips to move. Dumbfounded, just absolutely stunned by that whole speech -
"Your questions will not get any replies. The only thing you need to know is that you are going to be tickled - expertly, thoroughly tickled. That is why you are here. No one knows you're here, except you and Craze. No one will hear you. No one will rescue you. There is not a single thing you can do to make it stop. Craze is not going to stop tickling you, no matter what happens... for a long... long... long time."

Dag wails raggedly. He's in the clutches of a invisible maniac.
It knew his deepest, darkest weakness - and he doesn't have many - when it brought him here, put the cuffs on him, cinched the extra-thick straps...
"You're staying right here with Craze. Unlimited tickling. No time off for good behavior, Dag. No parole."
The gloves slide and clench. Feathers dance again.
Dag gasps for air, and tilts his head back further, and roars. He can't move his body. Too much excitement.

He just laughs, and laughs...
 

After what feels like a day of this, Craze stops the tickling for a while and just holds him again. The morning sun still streams through the window.
They'll start in again. That's why they're still on him. Not done. He just lies there, panting. More, they're going to tickle him some m-
"You can't, you'll kill me, please, anything... You gotta listen, this is too much, I'm gonna go nuts from this, please, oh fuck... okay, you win, just stop, please, no more..."
There's no reply. He continues begging, hoarsely, please, please just don't tickle him anymore...

But after a few minutes of grovelling, the feathers and the gloves get back to work.

His face is contorted and sweaty. He's roaring away, but not much volume is coming out.
Hardly ever bucking or wrestling around, until he remembers to... and can manage it.

Distantly, he notices he's pissing...
Hollow sound. Water, on plastic - he tries to focus...
A white thing. Maybe a... it's a urinal, like they give guys at the hospital.
Dag realizes his bowels are relaxing, too. And he detects something harder, under his ass. More plastic.
He's so far gone, they slid a bedpan under him... and he didn't even notice?

But all that messy stuff won't be allowed to detract from its fun. All the bases covered, everything anticipated.
Its fingers are pinching and circling his nipples. Clamping just under his hips. Exploring his neck. Tracing gently on his biceps, around and around.
Feather-strokes along the outsides of his feet, then the insides, repeating over and over and over...
 

His attention is constantly shifting, as provoked nerves report in...
Heavy fingers between each rib, moving up, going back down.
Digging in his armpits.
Manhandling his pecs. His excellent pecs, each too large for a single glove to cover.
And now a silky clamp riding the shin of his right leg. Another riding the calf of his left...
Flitting, dragging, between his toes. As demanding as any of the gloves.
This is a catastrophe. Dag has no way to deal with all of this.
He hoots endlessly.

A foot, breaking free. A hand.
How wonderful it would be...

Crippling distractions. Can't think.

He needs a plan. A plan, a plan, a plan.

Okay... a sharp kick... and an immediate snap back down.
Promptly forgetting all about that plan as the feathers lay into his soles, double-time...

Kick, and snap. C'mon. Picture it. Try to... focus.
The straps, flying away from the cuffs. Scoot up, give his arms some slack, and yank - free, all free. No more feathers.
Then, fingers slip under his knees. Amazing, the sensation - so amazingly sharp...

Hee-hawing insanely.
Study it, that mental image. Getting free. Do it.
They press and skate. Palms. Way low, on his belly. Forearms. Taint!
Oh, fuck...

What was he... yeah. Okay. Focus, dammit. Dammit. Okay -
The feathers saw rapidly back and forth, just over his heels.
He's a twitchy, snickering mess for a long while.

He's been pulling...
Trying to rotate his arms. Stress the leather. Long, slow... pulling harder, harder...

Okay. Do it. Do it do it do it. Now -
Kick -
Snap.
Nothing.
That was a damn good kick, too. The feathers weren't even interrupted.
Try again. Again. And he looks...
Sees... six gloves, all hard at it. Beyond 'em, taut straps. The cuffs are right where they were before.
Feathers are moving vertically now, heel to toes, to heel...
"No, Dag. It didn't work. Your legs are stretched out too far, aren't they? Extended. No way to pull 'em in..."
He closes his eyes, and shakes his head a couple times.
"It's no good. You failed. You're staying put. Nothing will change that. Nothing's going to work... But look - Craze is giving you more motivation. Extra incentive."
He squints -
More feathers, going to work.
He rolls his head, and brays.
They start dusting the top of each foot. Bottom and top, same time...

"Drink. Dag. It's water. You're going to drink. Or else."
One of the feathers moves very slightly.
He tenses, and finds the straw without looking, sucks too quickly -
Choking. Hacking for a while, still hungry for air.
The straw hits his lip.
He drinks.

He hears chuckling. Very quiet, whispered -
Is that him?
It is. He jumps, wide-eyed and blinking. The room. Darker...
It's been tickling him all day! This is so fuckin' cra-
Feathers!
He twists ineffectively. Stuck, stuck...
"You'll get food, Dag. After a while." Gloves choosing their places, firmly holding -
Stroking.
Dag tries to howl.

Whipped up into a delirious mess, he tries to think about anything. The alphabet. His upper-body sets and reps. Stuff he doesn't even need to think about, usually, it's just there.
But this is anything but a normal circumstance. Isn't it though.

Pissing, again.
Thinking of his aunt. The dugout at the softball field. Noonday wall of heat -
His feet, smaller, scrawny ankles, imprisoned between her legs. Stubby fingers racing... and the hot wave of urine soaking his swimsuit. Monstrous rage, shame...

This is a hundred times worse. Softer hands, stronger. Like stainless steel under the sweet acetate...
Craze is in charge here. It knows exactly how to move the gloves. Artful use of the feathers, too. The different textures, and pressures, direction and speed and stroke.
A thousand times worse, maybe. Because it just goes on and on...

Never happen.
What? He can't... think. What would n-
Ah, no, no, they're cupped around his thighs, they c-
Not there, get away. Too close, they... can't...

Never let it happen again.
What? Oh.
His aunt, and all the rest. Gonna get so strong they can never ever do that to him again.
Years of training. Remembering the feel of 'em, holding him, tickling while he screeched. Whenever he was burned out, fuck all this work, who needs it, think a break from the gym would do some good - the memory was there, a hot flush of embarrassment.
Never. No way in hell. He'd show them all.
Just kids, tickling him maybe for fifteen minutes, a half-hour at the most. That was nothing, it turns out, compared to today.

Something makes him open his eyes -
It's dark outside the window.
Fingers, surprisingly gentle, under his balls.
This is so far beyond anything his aunt ever did.
Buffed out. One scary dude. Five-ten, two-forty-four. Twenty-two-inch arms. Ready, just in case anyone should try it again...
And here he lays. Huge, thick muscles.
Big deal. It's just gonna add a couple more fingers, whenever it wants. Polish his knob. Finger-fuck him. Here ya go, Dag, take that.
Sorta rubbing his nose in it. Diehard gym rat, huh? Never gonna get tickled again - huh?
He chuffs air, laughing desperately. Heart thumping, skin and muscles wide awake. Telling him to move. Now. Get up, asshole, we're under assault. Get us out of here. What the hell's wrong with you, we're getting tickled down here, do something. Don't just lay here and cackle...

This ordeal was "informed" by the intense mood of Jean-Claude Meets His Match, a great story by Pete Roc, which was found on the late great www.ropejock.com.

13feb99