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Digger dries off his hands, picks up his clipboard and turns to go.
There's a note taped on the door, roughly level with his eyebrows - a photocopy, enlarged, maybe from a catalog or something...

That's... sick.
Uhhnh. Who'd put this up in here? Doesn't seem like something Donny would do. I must've read it wrong...
Wow. Weird. Magic gloves? Trapped with 'em... not by 'em. Somebody turned a warehouse into a trap, brought a fuckin' bed in there, and restraints, and a bunch of shit, and put a guy in there. Magic gloves, however that's supposed to be possible.
So matter-of-fact. Bed, restraints, lots of provisions. Like food, I guess. Water. Maybe kinky shit. Lots of provisions. Prolonged. Not just confinement, but prolonged confinement. With the gloves. On a bed - provided - and stuck there. Strapped down.
Not just ticklish, but extremely ticklish. Trapped, restraints, getting tickled.
Prolonged. Gloves.
Somebody's idea of a sick joke - real sick. Taping this up in here -

He stands there for nine seconds, staring at the words, right hand curled around the brushed-steel doorknob...
Unaware of the thin wire running from the knob, disappearing into the door frame - or the miniature camera set in the door behind the 'o' in "lots".
Then he frowns at the sign and opens the door, striding off to the front office to have Sarah sign for the delivery.

He's out sick again, the bastard. They really should hire somebody else, with all the deliveries they get. Donny better watch it, he's gonna push 'em too far one of these times and maybe they will hire a couple guys who can make it to work even if they're hung over...
I wouldn't mind talking with Sarah for a bit, but she's got a lot to do, so I give her a wave and go back out to the truck. That sign, in the john - that was weird. Donny's got it all to himself, basically. Doesn't seem like Sarah's idea of a joke either... but she probably uses the nice bathrooms up front, no doubt. Some other delivery guy put it up there, probably. Sorta creepy.

Damn. That was weird. Locked in with magic fuckers, tying ya down. And tickling. Kidnapped and thrown in a cell with 'em. Enough supplies for a long time. Fuck...
 

Around three in the morning, a turbine fan rises off its post and lands on the gravel roof.
Less than a minute later, a videotape floats through the vent, and the turbine is replaced.
In the bathroom, the photocopy has been pulled down and stuffed into a trash can. The swimsuit poster was put back on the inside of the door, where it used to be. It hides the camera.
The videotape flies off... into a canvas bag. As it lands, it rattles against other tapes.

The bag travels through the air for several miles.
Eventually it slows, and sails through a larger vent-opening. Into a small room where a TV and VCR are waiting. The bag sets down, and the first tape comes out and slides into the VCR.
Black screen - then a light turns on. View of sinks and urinals in the top three-quarters of the screen, and a straight green line against a black graph below. A college student walks in, makes water, and strides out. Blackness again, a wash of electronic snow, and the light blinks on again...

A younger guy this time, washing his hands afterward. He walks to the door, and stops. Tight camera-shot of his face, staring - reading. The green line darts up, levels off, makes smaller peaks and dips.
The tape rewinds and is played again. Eye movements and graph activity are displayed together.
The man rereads. The green line shows activity at similar intervals, some sharper, some less pronounced.

A few tapes later, Digger's face is on the TV screen.

His tape is replayed a few times.
 
 

A couple days later, he returns with another delivery.
He starts up his truck and pulls away, unaware he's being tracked...

The day passes without incident. Digger gets out of work and grabs a couple burgers, watches a movie on the tube, and turns in at his usual time.
 

He realizes he's awake, and wonders why the bed is so hard. It's like he slept on concrete -
Then he moves his hand, brushing against cement. He's on the floor...
And this can't be his bedroom. He opens his eyes. The light is dim, but he squints for a while until he figures it out. Roll-up door. He's - did he fall asleep on the job? It's not the shipping dock.
He sits up, groaning as he does. The door is closed. There's a padlock. Where is he? In and out of warehouses all day long, but this doesn't look familiar yet. He has the idea it's still nighttime, since he did go to bed...
Digger starts to look around, but he's never seen this place before. Empty -
No. Not quite.
Way behind him, he sees - a bed? Big king-size mattress and box spring, under a lone bulb. Weird headboard. A bunch of boxes on the far side. He stares...
Posts at the corners. Black strips. He gets a real bad feeling and he doesn't know why. The sight of the bed, in here, with that shit around it... what's the significance? He sees a door on the other wall. It probably leads to th-
Motion. His head swivels. Something moving in the shadows. Big, dark.
Or several things, smaller.
He gets up stiffly, grunting as he does. What the hell?
And then it hits him. Trapped in a warehouse. There's a bed, and here come - Aw, that's totally crazy. That stupid sign in the bathroom at Donny's. Impossible.

Backing up, he can make out a bunch of shapes. Moving. A dozen, maybe. Dark, but the size is about right -
He looks at the padlock on the door, and steps back more quickly. This is a nightmare. Even so, look out, could be running right into - if they're smart, they've got you surr-
Stopping, all of a sudden. Hands closing around his biceps. Black. Gloves. No, this kinda shit doesn't really happen -
The gloves hold on and pull down, making him stumble. He yanks, turning so his back is toward the wall.
Hands fly in from both sides, grabbing him. He flails around, and it doesn't stop 'em. No arms, nobody... They clamp on up and down his arms, and one grips him behind his neck. His knees, too. And his calves. Buckling, he twists... and they haul him forward.
In the direction of the bed. The bed. There's the restraints, and those must be the supplies. A lot of boxes. The gloves are hauling him over there. Locked in, the gloves, the bed. Cuffs and straps.
Digger tries everything he can think of, but there's too many of 'em and the bed is getting closer.

This can't be happening. Not what he read, that day, on the bathroom door. Can't be...
His feet drag behind him. The damn animated gloves hustle him forward, right on up to the mattress - pick him up like he weighs nothing - slam him down. He sucks air -
Fingers press into his ribs!
Digger squeals, and tries to dart out from under 'em. A lot of fingers, down by his hips, all the way under his arms. Arching, bucking...
He laughs and yells, realizing they'd rolled him onto his back. Faint sounds, metal, creaking. He slams over to the side, but doesn't go anywhere.
Black. On his wrists. Cuffs on. Oh shit, they've got the cuffs on him! And they're restraining his legs, while he watches. Roaring, fighting, and he can't shake 'em off. There, they finish with his left ankle, and - and then his right.
The straps tighten. All four. He yells louder still.
Taut. The fuckin' straps got him spread out - cuffed. Magic fuckin' gloves. Locked warehouse.
They got him. He knows why.
"No, noooooooo -"
They pounce on his gut, wrap around his knees. And they dig in.
 

This has to be a nightmare, he thinks. A really long, really bad dream.
Nothing he's ever gone through - hell, imagined going through - compares with this. At first, Digger tries to remember the words on the bathroom door. The ones that creeped him out, back then.
He's got the picture now. Fuck. Set up, reeled in and strapped down... No way Donny had anything to do with this. No sign of anybody involved here. Something else, something... not human, set this up. Got everything ready, locked him in.
With the gloves.
 
 

He doesn't want to wake up... Why is that?
Lying there, the first thing Digger notices is... sore. Oh man. His whole body feels like he's been working out way too much. Even his feet hurt -
His... feet.
It all comes back to him. "No..." Not daring to open his eyes, he moves his arms instead -
Except they don't move. Extended out above his head. He pulls hard, and hears a slight creaking. His legs are stuck too.
"Aw, no." Still stuck. Unbelievable. Well, it would be unbelievable, if he didn't keep waking up here. He's lost track of how many times...
Only one way to guess. Slowly, he turns his head, groaning as he does. And he opens his eyes, just a little -
Sleek black forms, hanging over him, around him. Beyond, against the wall, the supplies. Still a couple dozen cardboard boxes, at least that many garbage bags. Full of stuff.
There used to be more boxes piled up there. But they haven't made much of a dent in it, not really. He's surprised there's still so much there. Maybe, what, a quarter of the original stock is gone?
They're not really gonna tickle him for... months. Naw.
Are they?
He looks away from the supplies, and starts to cough. A glove coasts up with a water bottle, waiting for him to quit hacking.
As soon as he drinks about a quart - fingers touch down.
"Nooowhoooo hooooo hhaaaaaaaahh aaaaaah haaaaaaaaaaa..."

He shakes his head violently. Tugs at the straps, twists around - but the cuffs don't allow that. His limbs are spread... and under attack.
A light, tracing assault of satin fingers, thirty or forty of 'em dusting and sliding, waking him up. Starting another strenuous day.
He can't stand the thought of it. Not again. They can't, they just can't -
The hands target the center of his soles, and his collarbones, and his triceps, and his shins. He chuckles and brays, pulling at the restraints, squirming... Held tight. No slack.
Another pair creeps around the rim of his each armpit, barely riding over his nipples. Slow, devastating speed and pressure. Digger thrashes a couple more times, and bangs his head once, and whoops a few times. Then he can't spare the energy. Just laughs and laughs and laughs.
They know exactly how to stick it to him. But they learned that after a few days - what really drove him nuts - and now they just keep doing it. Nothing new to learn. They got his number...
Not again. He can't bear it, not another day of this. All that shit left to use up. Months of supplies. They can't, aw hell no...

He lies there, wide awake now, too tired to move.
After a long hour, the usual panic and frustration of waking up - here, cuffed down - with them - was laughed off. And then another hour of irregular giggling and snickering. Firm, ceaseless massage, personalized, meant to work him up.
The new pillowcase is soaked. They keep him drinking lots of water, but he doesn't piss much. He's way past finding any relief in moaning or trying to watch the gloves.
Digger smokes one cigarette after another. When he balks, they lay into him double-time. So he takes another smoke whenever they bring one. Always a new pack, another carton. He smokes 'em hard, really goin' at it... the only thing over which he has any control. Before this, he hardly ever smoked. Thought it was totally stupid. He doesn't remember why he felt that way before...
When they strap him down on his belly, he doesn't get to smoke for hours. Digger hates that. Drives him nuts. Stuck like that, unable to have a cig, or see what they're doing - it's almost worse. Hell, it's all maxxed out. He thinks he chuckles more when they've got him face-down. His ass-cheeks are ridiculously sensitive. And his calves - shit. Sometimes they gag him, too.
The gloves keep stroking and sliding and squeezing, bringing water, sticking a new cigarette between his lips. And when he starts to fade, they just start fingering under his knees or under his chin - between his littlest toes - and he perks right up.
The hours drag on. Hours and hours of handling 'til naptime.

Then they feed him, get the first cigar going, wait for him to piss... and dim the light. Bring the condoms over, and the lube. A few fingers polish his balls, such light contact, until he's fully hard...
Lube, sheepskin, more lube, and a latex rubber too. A couple shots of booze, and water, and a new cigar.
Then they get to it. Playing with his cock for hours. Digger groans out smoke, trying to wrestle at first. But the fingers and feathers keep going and going between his legs. All over his chest, thighs, his own fingers. Satin crawling slowly over his ribs, squeezing his feet - ready to dig in when he gets close to shooting, totally set on derailing him.
Teasing and sweeping through the water breaks. Little white tabs of speed. Four cigars, five, six.
The need to cum gets so bad it's like he's more awake than he's ever been before. At the same time he's somehow more worn out than he knew he could be. He can't stand it, he's gotta cum...
Doomed to follow up with a half-hour of firmer tickling, all over. Screaming, howling laughter, as hard as he can, 'til he passes out.

He doesn't want to wake up. Why not?
It all comes back to him. He groans, and tries to move his arms. no good.
"No! No, please, aw fuck no..."
Gleaming, empty gloves. Floating down to their places, as soon as one gets the bottle of water down him. Ready to tickle him some more.

11jul00