He glances at the button.
Damn. How long has it been... since he even looked at it?
Seems like days.
He closes his eyes and moans, thrusting slowly. The fingers roam all over his body, and it'll be hours before they stop for the night. And tomorrow, before they even feed him, it'll continue.
Every place he's anchored, the tickler has a special place for the panic buttons.
It must've swiped quite a few of 'em. They're powerful little radios. The whole power plant is wired with a digital network just for the panic buttons. Backup power, the whole shot. Something bad happens, go for the button first. They were all trained that way. He's never pushed the button for real. Just tests...
Inches away from his left hand. That's the usual location. A little strap holding it there, so he can't slam around and move the button any closer.
Bright orange. The buttons were black before. The tickler painted them. Easy to see - and stare at. No matter how long the tears flow, laughed out every day like this, he can make out a distant little flash of orange. That's how he can make the tickling stop, but somehow he's never been able to actually get there.
It changed the batteries again last week, and tested it. Right over him. Real obvious about it.
Sitting here, always, maybe two or three inches from his left hand...
Reach down. Press it. That's all he has to do. One tap, and the radio blasts out its location. Up in the control room, they hear a siren. Trouble - in the wing where he laughs and laughs. And it can't be shut off, except from the control room.
One fuckin' tap, they come down and get him. The nightmare will be all over.
Bright orange button, secured, always there, real convenient.
It also keeps his wrists caught, all the time, so he can't ever get to it.
Extravagant tickling fills each day.
He remembers the field trip. That's what he calls it...
That one night when it stopped pushing him down the corridor, in the direction of the electrode room, and turned him. It had to carry him up the stairs.
Up. He knew something big was happening.
Naked, in the main control room. That was weird enough - but Brenda was on duty. He hadn't seen a woman in weeks, and right then he was sure who'd be starring in his fantasies for a good long while as the tickler played with his crotch.
Even slumped over the console, snoring, she looked good. And of course he yelled at her, knowing it wouldn't be anything more than a whisper. It was useless. Even when he was dragged right past her, she didn't stir. Perhaps a little something to help her sleep, poured into her coffee...
Access panels were magically removed from underneath the primary control benches. He was forced to his knees, and rolled over. The ankle-cuffs jingled.
The tickler scooted him forward, and a glove floated up. It held a little flashlight. Another glove touched the bottom of a switch, and pointed to a loose wire. It paused for awhile, and started pointing out other wires, following them, the index finger almost touching as it moved.
At first he didn't understand. But the gloves repeated the sequence twice.
It came to him, and he sighed.
The tickler got him to his feet and replaced the panels. Smooth as ever, the gloves cruised on up, and one of them flipped the switch. The broken one. On, off, on, off, on.
Steady green indicator light.
And he sagged, then, as the facts became depressingly clear.
Then he was dragged over to the main surveillance board. Empty leather fingers punched at the buttons -
The monitor screens changed.
They showed him every room in the wing, as well as the hallway. It was definitely their wing, where he and Possum lived. But he didn't see the tables, or the stocks. No oil-tank, no swings - no Possum. Nothing out of the ordinary.
It wasn't live video. So it must've been recorded before he was caught. A loop - easy enough to do with digital data. He watched it for a minute, looking for... anything that might make somebody curious. But the trouble was that the rooms were supposed to be empty, and they looked empty. Not even a blinking light anywhere.
It was a long shot anyway. Why would anyone pull up the video feed from an empty wing of the plant? Hell, it wasn't even required by the procedures, since the wing was sealed - unless the motion detectors went off. And they'd never go off...
That was the end of the tour. He was pulled straight into the rack-room, where Possum was smoking a cigar. After he was stretched tight, it tickled them for an hour. Made 'em yelp and hoot. And then a bottle of vodka was passed back and forth.
He told Possum everything that he saw in the control room. Explained it until he understood...
Recorded video loops, the motion detectors rewired to send nothing but false negatives. And the one magic switch that would immediately kick on a red warning lamp - as soon as a glove or a lighter moved, bringing people down to look - did nothing because a wire had been pulled off. But a new wire made sure the red light was bypassed.
There shouldn't be anyone in the wing. Right? Nothing happening. The core was deactivated, everything flammable had been removed...
And the door to the whole wing is sealed. That lock has to be checked every week.
Every wall has three layers of steel plates. The air-gaps are a great insulator.
All of the doors are heavily padded - even the one leading out of the wing. They have those thick rubber gaskets all around, making those weird squeaky noises every time they're closed. The gaskets were put there in case of contamination, but they're exceptionally good at blocking sound too...
As far as he can see, their only hope is the walk-through. That happens every other month.
He did the last one himself. Alone. Four days before it locked him in.
Stepping into each empty room - voluntarily - as they were about to be converted to torture chambers. For him. No doors had magically closed. The tickler had let him walk out.
That must've been hard for it. Waiting a little longer... for the ideal opportunity to drag him back in here.
Unless there's a fire or some other major emergency, that outer door cannot be unlocked. Not until the next walk-through.
Yeah, the tickler's got a good two or three weeks yet.
After the tickler hides the furniture somewhere, it scrubs the floors. Making the mops race around, even as it keeps on clawing at his torso...
And it eases them into an electrical access tunnel, layered with dense foam padding.
The hatch cover rises up, and the outside handles turn. Catching it.
There.
He and Possum are almost nose-to-nose, struggling in their tight leather body-suits and inflatable gags...
Until it turns on a little television. Both of them stop and look. It's a view of the hallway - not the one they're hauled up and down each day, but just outside the wing. Looking down at the sealed door...
And here comes Baker.
Both of them growl and fidget at the image of him, but Possum doesn't recognize Baker. Or know what a moron he is. Of course it would be Baker, out there, unsealing the door.
Opening it. The door to their hallway. It's such a wonderful thing to see. Just so great...
Tears are coming to his eyes. All hopeful, and telling himself that's not smart, it's premature. And it all depends on Baker, who's known for doing the absolute minimum amount of work possible -
At least he opens the door. So there's a chance. Maybe. Even the fuckin' thought of no more tickling tonight makes him moan. C'mon, Baker. For once in your miserable life, get curious. Suspicious.
Yeah. Glancing inside. That's it. He's looking at the hallway the prisoners have to walk down, each and every day.
But he doesn't step through the door.
That's it.
All hope dies immediately. Baker...
It didn't even have to move a thing. Even the gags are unnecessary. Nothing matters.
The tickler gets to keep playing with them, until the next walk-through, because Baker can't be bothered to set foot in the wing like he's supposed to.
After a second, the fucker looks behind him - and a woman walks up. She's new.
He says something to her... and they laugh.
Laugh! They don't know the first thing about it. There's two prisoners, hidden in the access panel, and they know about laughter. All possible kinds. And weeks of jack-off techniques -
Both of them start writing on their clipboards. The inspection form, probably. Right?
Sure.
And he realizes it could be even longer. Fake one walk-through, fake 'em all. All bets are definitely off.
Baker closes the door, and seals it.
Later, when they're both in the rubber room, chain-smoking, waiting for the tickler to fuck with 'em some more, he explains it to Possum. They just broke the law, claiming that they walked into the wing, looked in all the rooms...
And that's when he also realizes that the woman has to be a trainee. The six-month probation period. She probably wants to keep her job, which means she'll do what she's told. That's how it works in the plant.
And Baker has just showed her that it's okay to fudge the walk-through. Hell, they didn't even stick their heads into the wing. Just sign it off, and say you did.
Because the main entry door is locked all the time, and the lock is checked every week. The rooms in the wing are supposed to be empty, even though they're full of tickling shit. And him, and Possum. And besides, that motion-detector switch is tested every day - if they're still bothering to follow the procedure manual. That green all-clear light on the panel is staying on. Nobody down there. Certainly not weeks and weeks of torture goin' on, they just finished a walk-through and proved that -
The bulb check...
He has a great idea, but it's abandoned immediately. Won't work. When they make the whole panel light up and check it for dead bulbs, the one he needs them to see - that damn motion-sensor lamp - will work. That's a different circuit. That's the only time it will light up, because the broken switch isn't involved.
Eight weeks until the next walk-through.
And the odds are good that Baker will do that one too.
Did the tickler already know how allergic to work Baker is?
Sure.
Watching them. Definitely.
It sure knew the best possible time to steal his truck, and wait for him to head outside...
Week after week after week of fever.
Deep, wordless excitement. Increasingly skillful cock-play.
One chance left. The annual inspection.
Check the motion-sensors, run the rad levels, and replace the air filters. No, wait - they were the five-year filters. With the pile gone and the wing sealed so nobody had an excuse to even slip down here to smoke, they had another two years before they'd have to bring new filters in. Or maybe it was three years. He wasn't sure.
The plant was decommissioned. Almost two years ago, the reactor pile was shipped off. No radiation left, to speak of. Certainly not where they were being held.
And the security system had a twenty-year rating. Add it up, and this year's inspection would be dull, uneventful...
Probably not too thorough.
It never ceases to amaze him. Everything keeps working out for the tickler. A lot of that is plain ol' hard work, he knows. But even the things beyond its control...
There was no way to know how long they'd been in there already, but he tries to be conservative in his estimate. Five or six months until the annual inspection. January.
It might as well be a hundred years.
Feathers wake him up. It just couldn't wait any longer.
Halfway between the outrageous dreams and a reality that's even more excruciating, he flails around and giggles.
And brays.
And hoots like he's stoned...
The wing is just a bunch of empty chambers. That's what the remaining twelve or thirteen employees think. He used to think that. Wasted space, and by law it has to have power still on. Running water.
The bathroom had been turned into a kitchen. The tickler cooked their food in there. Wholesome, nourishing food. And there was a separate HVAC system which took the odors away, kicking on to heat the rooms, cool the rooms, running like clockwork. External filters. No maintenance needed, inside...
It's an extraordinary prison. The tickler, which seems to be incapable of getting enough time on him, has done all the right things to keep it a secret. A few wires added, a broken switch - and it hauled in a staggering number of bondage devices and toys. Oils.
Food, alcohol, cigarettes.
Medicine. And other drugs, just for fun.
And, he imagines, a little model-car bottle of orange paint - for the panic buttons.
Heavy, continuous, obsessive tickling. More and more and more brushes, chopsticks, rolling pattern wheels, wooden matches rise up. Float to a spot. And start tickling. Faster. Not going away. A long, long night...
The attack increases hour by hour.
Shooting his spunk is impossible now. Out of the question. It will be such a long time yet, and finally the tickler will stop teasing and coax him enough, down there, so he can cum. And then the gloves will rip into him until he passes out.
And he'd lined up this great job. Nevada. There's nothing in particular that brings it to his mind again.
Shit, that was a whole 'nuther lifetime. It ended on his last day of work.
The feathers were going to be dancing for a couple hours yet. He giggles a little, and thinks about the night everything changed.
The tickler planned things real well. He has to give it that. And if it couldn't sneak somebody down to the wing - a real fun guy, seriously ticklish, the kind of prisoner that's exciting enough to inspire it to go out and catch another one - nothing else really mattered. But it had everything ready. Great timing, too...
He didn't know how long it had been watching him. When Rodriguez left, three months before - maybe it saw that. Clearing out early on the last day. Everybody did it. Either it noticed that, or maybe it just got lucky. It's... always lucky.
They expected him to disappear before shift change. He'd already shaken everybody's hand. Mickey and Carra. Oh, and that other guy - they'd worked together for three years, but he could never remember the short dude's name anymore. All of their faces were forgotten. Mickey was a good guy, though.
If it had been any other night, they all would've gone out to the parking lot together. No way it would've grabbed all of the people on a shift at the same time. Too suspicious.
And the fucked part was that he wasn't in any hurry to go. He was just running the shit from his locker out to his truck. Grab a smoke, and go back inside.
He would've been safe.
That was a great memory. Juggling the box of his stuff, lighting a cigarette - with his own hand. He could move, freely, and walk without a six-inch chain between his ankles. And he felt good. Moving on to a new job and a raise, and he liked Reno well enough. He'd called the building super a few hours before that, and the movers had come when they were supposed to. All of his belongings were on their way to Nevada, where they'd sit in a warehouse until he picked out a place to live. He even had a motel room reserved for the night, since his bed was gone too, and he was gonna get drunk and watch Spectravision porn until he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore.
Everything was all set...
Until he got to his parking space. No truck there.
Walking slowly, checking around. But he always used space 18. Maybe if he'd parked closer to the building, that last night, he'd be in Nevada now. Or if he had noticed sooner - before he got all the way out there. But he probably would've walked out to the space anyway, whenever he did notice that the truck was gone. That's what people did when their cars were stolen, as if he'd see a clue laying there or something.
And there was.
Black shapes flying up from the ground, right at him, jingling softly.
Twenty seconds. It certainly wasn't any longer than that. The straps whipped around him and pulled tight, so damn fast... Neck, chest, belly, thighs, knees. They had those fancy tie-down grippers with springs in 'em. That had to be it. Get the strap in, and pull on the loose end. Done. Let go, and it stays tight.
Metal locked around his ankles. A ripping sound, near his head, was figured out a half-second too late. Duct tape. It slapped across his cheeks.
He remembered flapping his hands, uselessly, because his arms were pinned to his sides and he was perfectly stuck and there was not one other thing he could do except make fists. But it didn't matter. As it turned out, nothing mattered. The important thing was what happened next. Because he hadn't known, when his mouth was taped shut, what horrible thing was gonna happen. Where he'd be taken.
But the tickler just turned him around...
Alone, wrapped up and lunging around, snagging huge breaths through his nostrils - The night air. Now that was wonderful to think about. Fresh spring air rushing into him. He kept forgetting about that.
The door of the building, opening magically. Nobody else was around. It made sure of that... He was taken back inside, with the box of shit he'd dropped - but he got a quick look behind. Of course. Everything had been picked up. No evidence left behind. The box was coming in with him. No one would suspect a thing. His truck must've been hidden too.
That seemed like fifty years ago.
The rubber room had already been set up. When the door locked behind him, the lights came on. The table was there, latex sheets waiting, cuffs attached. The chains had already been sized to fit. And the little table, alongside, had only a pack of cigarettes on it. His new brand. He hadn't known what it was going to do to him.
Five minutes later, that changed forever.
He remembered the times when he had dozed off, in the control room - and jumped awake. As if fingers had been poking him. Checking... And always nobody else in the room.
So those times - they hadn't just been his imagination. He was tested.
He resigned from his job here, but he never left.
Nobody knows that, except Possum, and he's not going anywhere either.
About a month later, Possum was roaring down the nearest highway. Riding alone. Just minding his own business.
There were tacks spread all over the road.
At least they were small tacks. The tires started to lose air, and he wrestled the bike over to the shoulder. The restraints moved right in.
And it brought him a long canvas sack. Boots, socks - in they went. And it drilled his feet for a minute. Forced the gloves under his jacket and tested ribs, armpits... and then it put him in the sack.
Until he was told, he didn't even know they're inside the damn plant. But he won't be able to tell anybody. It's a big secret.
They can picture it sweeping all of the tacks off the road. Leaving no sign...
Maybe it buried his bike. Literally. Next to the truck? Nothing seems too ridiculous now. Anything to keep 'em here.
And they'd never been rushed into the access tunnel, all of a sudden, hidden better - so it's real unlikely there was ever a search for Possum. That makes sense. A biker disappears somewhere, on a forty-mile ride, why would they check the plant? This wing? For torture chambers? No.
And Possum's pretty sure that no one would report him as missing anyway. All of his friends have too many outstanding warrants to risk talking to the cops.
Well, the mystery of the flaky camera has been solved. The one pointed at the east parking lot has been cutting out for a long time. An hour here, a couple hours there, no reason they could find - and naturally the bosses never got around to replacing it.
Beyond a doubt, it was conveniently off when his truck disappeared and he was carried back into the plant.
Possum, too.
Every day. A hundred days? More. Always more and more and more.
Tickling, meal, a trip down the hall, more powerful tickling, another meal, and tickling that builds and builds until he can't stay conscious another second. Then, sleep.
Waking up all recharged. Drink water, take a couple hard drags on a smoke... and watch the tickler get its tools moving.
He comes to expect it. The same thing, for so long...
The old dreams don't work anymore.
People breaking in and rescuing him. The broken switch being found. Even managing to reach the panic button and push it. He doesn't even think about those things now, because the odds are so fuckin' slim. It's no fun to realize that over and over.
Now, he daydreams about being left alone for a whole night. With a pint of Early Times and a couple packs of Newports. And no cuffs on his wrists.
Maybe that's just about as likely as being rescued, but he figures it's a more humble dream. So maybe it'll come true.
If his fingers were about five inches longer, he could actually reach the panic button. It's just sitting there. New batteries, again.
When the little test button was held down, he really, really hoped the tickler would fuck up and let go of it. Game over.
But that didn't happen. Right up close to his nose, the leather finger showed him the panic button would still click. The little orange LED lit up. Test - passed. No signal went out, the world still didn't know he was caught, the tickler could continue laying into him...
The panic button floated back down, landing so close to his left hand. Same as always. He can never, ever reach it. Not allowed. Or, maybe someday, it will let him clutch at it and slam the button a hundred times - just so it can be taken away, and turned over... revealing the pin which jams the test button down. No signal.
Or the batteries will be removed, and then he can finally pound on the button. Even easier. He'd get the special panicky thrill of actually being able to push the button, with no risk at all to the tickler.
The tickling will not end.
Never. There's no way that can happen.
More weeks go by, always bringing new tickling games.
Techniques are modified... and perfected...
One time he's shuffling down the hall. And he hears something.
Laughter.
He looks over at the door of the rubber room - and it's open. Just a little. But the doors always stay closed until he's brought right up to them, and after he hobbles in the doors always shut and lock.
Crazy howls and squeals, gibbering, cackling.
It isn't until he's getting strapped down in the swing, looking at all the electrodes, that it sinks in. Possum's voice is shot. That wasn't Possum.
Somebody new.
A real rowdy voice. Not for long.
And the tickler made sure he heard the demented laughter. It's brave enough to catch another guy.
There are six rooms. Maybe it will fill them all up.
When he was getting worked over again, he had a wild, stunning, happy thought. Fill the rooms up - and let him go. And Possum. Six new guys.
The wands touch his nipples, and he arches hard. Gasping.
No. More guys, maybe. But he wasn't leaving. That was too much to expect.
No point in thinking about it anymore.
The tickler distracted him with all kinds of overpowering sensation.
It's a party. Oh, it's cosmically funny. So outrageous. No wonder the tickler keeps it secret. Nobody would ever believe this.
Laughter is so inadequate, right now, it would almost be an insult. Not that he can remember how to move anything, anyway. That's because there's a garguantan dance going on. All over him. On, under, pounding throughout. And it just doesn't end.
The new guy says his name is Dickie. Mid-twenties, average height, lean. And - what a shock - he's real ticklish.
He doesn't get a chance to talk much with Dickie. Oh, they whisper words at each other as it swaps them from room to room. Not a real conversation, though.
The kid's got those huge, frightened eyes. Possum looked like that, for the first month.
But it passes. He'll settle in, and forget about the old life.
Tickling is his only concern now. Every day, all day.
He'll figure it out.
One day, several hours after he woke up, he accidentially finds a whole new fuckin' magnitude of... feeling.
There's a sublevel - in his head. Dark and quiet. All he can hear is the gloves, faintly creaking as they move and polish and glide, never resting.
More oil pours onto his chest.
This hidden place way inside his head is amazing. No one could ever see it...
In there, each tickle is amplified now. Hitting much harder than before. There's no comparison, really.
Pain? Definitely not. Old news. The agony of not being able to deal with all the excitement was hinting at this.
He's just fascinated. Each tickle is a laser. Or a cluster bomb. Chain-reaction.
There are at least fifty points being tickled. Lots of gloves... So very slow. Hardly even pressing down.
But inside... Huge new chambers are being filled - with pleasure. Undiluted delight, shimmering, splashing. That much more excitement.
And all of it must be felt.
Wide channels are filled with it, flowing swiftly, to a shiny gold pipe. The mouth of it seems to be taller than he is. It's sucking the pleasure down.
And still, there's enjoyment being stored faster than he can take it in. The tickler is going easy on him, compared to what's in store -
Perhaps another intake pipe. Or two. And more of the storage vaults.
His brain is doing the job, though. Remarkable. It chugs along, his brain, whole new sections working on the backlog, far more intent on measuring the attack, experiencing it more completely.
Better... but it still feels as though some of the excitement is being ignored. Wasted. Even this new awareness is not quite enough.
He needs to learn more. Then maybe he'll comprehend each and every message the busy nerve endings are sending.
More experience will help him -
Harder tickling. Months of it.
That's going to happen anyway. He knows. Yeah, he longs to be away from here. No doubt about that. It doesn't matter.
And the way his brain is adapting, like a telescope, each stroke so much more impressive - it's fuckin' interesting. Really, it's as if he finally understands what the tickler is doing to him.
He's a new man.
He stares at the paper.
The tickler brings him another cigarette.
It's a photocopy, held right over his chest. He has to read it over and over. No reason to think it's a fake.
Right there, up at the top, it's dated. January 2.
He was caught in April.
It's an inspection form. Annual...
Signed off. By Baker, of course.
The tickler didn't even bother moving them into the hiding place. It didn't have to. Three guys, suffering in their rooms. That was a risk.
He didn't even get the chance to hope...
And it just knew Baker wouldn't even open the damn door.
Two more months. Guaranteed.
March?
Come on. Seriously.
It's too easy to picture Baker at the door - too lazy to even unlock the door, much less go into the wing - signing the walk-through form again. And the next time, too. May, July, September, and so on. Until the next annual inspection. And those filters are good for another year, so he could just sign his name and file it away.
Why not? Empty wing. So he lies, says he looked inside. Nobody knows any better. Who's it gonna hurt?
And he just keeps on signing 'em up for more months of torture.
Well, Baker's gotta retire some time. Five, six years from now...
Taking a hard drag, he has the small comfort of daydreaming. Baker, getting dragged in. Becoming the fourth guy. Maybe his sons, too. And Baker must be tickled harder than all the rest of them put together.
But that doesn't hold up for a second, because Baker's way too valuable to the tickler right where he is.
Lazy, incompetent Baker. Saying he did the inspections, when he didn't. Walk-throughs. And the fuckin' annual check.
Nine months and counting.
Everything's arranged perfectly. No good reason why that number won't double...
And double again, maybe.
The food keeps coming, the oils, the speed. Batteries are replaced.
Feet will be continue to be terrorized, armpits fingered, thighs buffed.
Three cocks, here to be pumped off... as slowly or as often as it likes. Every grueling day.
The paper falls aside. His cigarette is yanked free -
A thought hits him. Clear and bright. What will stop the tickler? Nothing. The most likely interruptions have been completely prevented.
There is no "maybe" left. Nothing can get him away from it.
Six gloves start back in. They grip, and slide, and hit all the wrong spots exactly the right way, because they sure know his body. Oh, yeah.
A second year, and a third, and a fourth, and...
Frantically, he throws his head all around. Howling away. It just sounds like whispering, though.
His expanded capacity for pleasure suddenly kicks in - and he quits moving.
Laying still now. No more laughing, either. He's inside, watching the enjoyment-tanks fill up. Perfectly aware of each finger. What they're doing. The shattering reaction each glove earns.
Drool is running down his chin.
His eyes have gone out of focus. But there's a blurry orange smear...
The fingers on his left hand start to tremble.
Just three more inches, and he could reach the button. Touch it. Press it down. Make the tickling end. Even if it just moves them somewhere else, the hunt would be on. And someday -
That's just a dream he used to have.
His body relaxes even more, so he can pay more attention to the tickling. Slowly, his eyes close...
The panic button sits right there. Diabolically, safely, permanently out of reach.
13sep03