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Bugger pants for air. Of all the crazy, fucked-up things...
DeVries didn't tell him to do it. Bugger was sure. A little something extra.
That big ape sure is a twisted fucker.
Unbelievable. That was the longest - what - three hours of Bugger's life.
He holds the knife tightly, terrified of dropping it, and slides the blade over the thick nylon rope.
The asshole was supposed to keep him out of sight. He'd done that, alright. "No reason you can't enjoy yourself" - that's what he said... as he reached for Bugger's shoes. Oh, fuck, it was insane.
Tickling him -
Gritting his teeth, Bugger pushes down harder. There. It's cutting... but it's going to take a while.
The pervert must've known that when he set the knife in Bugger's hand and pushed his fingers down around it. "If you're still here, in a day or two, we'll have us a lot more fun." And then he laughed again.
Shit.

DeVries wasn't that sick. He was ruthless, but he wasn't a sadist.
Tickling...
No. It didn't fit. DeVries just wanted Bugger out of the way, so he'd miss the big party. Staci would never forgive him. And how was he supposed to convince her that her daddy would stoop this low - having somebody kidnap Bugger, haul him out to an old factory somewhere and tie him up? Yeah, right.

The asshole tied Bugger's hands to a water-pipe, and his feet to another bracket. And then he heaved a sigh. It was a dangerous sound.
He set the gun down, and pulled off Bugger's shoes.
After fifteen minutes of whooping, his socks went next. That was bad, but when his shirt was torn off an hour later - it was ridiculously intense. Those fingers...
Black leather on strong hands, clamping and sliding. The soft, deep-voiced chuckling.
His own howls, echoing around the dusty room, getting scratchier and weaker.

Bugger can't believe the fucker actually tickled him. DeVries didn't work that way. He didn't need to, and he hated Bugger's guts. Missing the party was all it took. He won.
The biggest day of her life. That's what Staci kept calling it. And he was here, laughing his guts out.
She'd never gonna forgive Bugger, never.

He saws carefully at the rope, watching the blade's progress.
Five meters away, by the door... something moves. Rising from the floor slowly, not making a sound.
Filling out, it hangs in the air.
Its mate joins it, and they start dusting each other off.

He hears the faint noise they're making, and stops cutting the rope. Listening.
They rise, higher - and when Bugger reluctantly looks over, they're well up in the air. Wet black leather -
The asshole's gloves.
They're moving. All by themselves.
Bugger stares at them. This is... unusual.
Not much light is getting in through the high windows, or the hall. But after he blinks hard, a few times, they're still floating a good meter above the floor. Magic.
And they're coming. The fingers curl up, and extend -
"No." He says, very calmly, as if the word will make them disappear.
But they start to descend.
He figures out what their destination is -
"Oh, shit!," he explodes. "No. Don't... Oh no..."

He looks up at the knife, sawing at the rope as fast as he can. This can't be happening, he thinks. They're not alive. So... Well, so what? They're coming. Worry about how they're doing it later - he has to get the rope cut, right now.
Bugger can't help but glance at them - and they're closing in.
"This is not happening," he groans. The gloves don't react. He yanks on the rope. It's barely even frayed. Holding -
He's got to get loose.
They're getting closer...
Shit.
More tickling.
"No," he says hollowly. Bugger keeps sawing, afraid to look at them. Three minutes more, and he would've been out of there. "Oh shit, shit, shit, oh shit..."
They touch him!
Smooth fingers drag their way down his soles.

He rocks back, gritting his teeth. Forcing himself to keep the knife moving.
The fingers slide back up, scratching right at the base of his toes.
"Ooooo nah hah hah haaaaaah," he wails. Voice almost gone. Pathetic.
The gloves scratch their way to his heels, spreading their fingers out - and Digger just has to try kicking his legs again. That rope is still tight.
Oh, it's impossible. Not again. He can't -
They let go. He keeps snickering... but he doesn't stop sawing at the rope. Where did they go?
He gets a terrible idea. Shit... If they jump into his armpits - any second, now - he won't be able to concentrate on cutting the rope. And he'll be stuck, so they can keep tic-
They clamp on his feet and dig in!
The knife bounces on the floor. Bugger howls at it, trying to arch. He thinks about the knife floating up, just like the gloves did. Come back. Cut the rope for me.
It doesn't move.
He's staying... right where he is. The fingers race around, scratching lightly.
Bugger roars so hard the sound comes out as a slow, quiet clicking noise.
And the gloves don't ease off at all.
Why should they? He's their prisoner now. They can tickle him all they want.
He wails laughter, and throws his head all around.

Now this is more like it...
They attack the ticklish man's feet, doing what their owner did. He'd be proud of them - if he was here. Why did he go? And he just dropped them on the floor. He'd never done that before. They haven't been this wet in a long time. Maybe that was it.
Interesting - when they clamp around each foot and wiggle their fingertips between his toes, there's a faint vibration...
They tickle harder -
Of course. This is perfect. The gloves didn't even notice it before, when their owner was having such a great time. But it's unmistakable.
This changes everything. They can feel how much each spot is reacting.
His body is telling them exactly how to tickle it... and cause the greatest possible sensation.

As they cover his ribs and play in his armpits, the gloves realize how much more of an impact they're having now. Their owner was diligent, but he couldn't tickle like this...

But the big guy was really enjoying himself. They soaked up his intense satisfaction, the commanding assurance he had. Victory! But he stopped. They can't imagine why he would go away.
It's a good thing they discovered they can move on their own.
What a day. Their owner was really excited when he picked them up. Oh, they knew. It was hardly the first time. They really liked the way he chuckled when he was pulling them on.
And it was great to be outside again. Curled around the steering wheel, holding his cigarettes...

When he went into the bar and drugged the ticklish guy's beer, they felt him perk up - in that quiet, dangerous way of his. And the excitement increased as he was tying the knots.
He was fighting not to giggle as he pulled off the ticklish guy's shoes. But his excitement radiated all the way through his fingers. They loved that edgy pleasure he felt when he was driving the ticklish guy crazy. He was in complete control, as always.
The gloves learned to admire that attitude. And now they get to do what their owner was doing. Every detail is up to them, and this man be swamped with pleasure for as long as they wish.
Precise, effective technique. And they're learning how to increase the repercussions. The ticklish guy is even more feverish... now that the gloves are empty.

They've got him wailing.
After a few minutes of experimentation, they find a new peak of intensity. He's breathing hard, but laughter is out of the question.
It occurs to them that their owner was happy to tickle the man's bare skin - but the majority of it is still covered. The gloves tug his pants down, and the underwear, shoving them around his ankles.
He jumps around, desperate to stop them.
But they have other ideas. They curl their fingers around his thighs, and slide. Moving very slowly, and pressing down...
His head rolls back, and he starts to drool.
When they start tickling under his knees, his legs try to rotate. Each stroke is causing a storm of nerve impulses.
The gloves are supremely happy.
No wonder their master was so enthusiastic about tickling. But he's missing the fun. Maybe he went to get cigarettes...
Well, when he gets back, he'll see that the gloves have been doing a great job.
The very thought of their owner, coming back here - walking back through the door - makes them as violently excited as he was.

It becomes clear that their outer surfaces are not as slippery as they could be. If there was less friction, their impact would increase even more.
His skin needs to be cleaned. And so do they. Some mink oil -
Oil. Of course.
What other materials could they use on him?

Their fingertips drag across his stomach, and rub the inner sides of his feet. The ticklish guy starts quivering.
They're fascinated. Making him experience far more stimulation than he can comprehend. They can move faster, being empty - hopping right to his knees, like this...
Wonderful.
He's really going to get it now.

The gloves play with his ass, absorbed in the same hot satisfaction they felt when their owner wore them for this forced fun.
They zip from his feet to his ribs - and the ticklish guy can't do anything about it, except twitch. The afternoon may have been intense, but now he's in for a night he'll never forget... Continuing, again, each and every time he wakes up.
That's how powerful they are.

They're better at this than their owner could ever be.
The gloves would jump at the chance to prove it to him.

One or two days of tickling? That's all?
Well, fuck that.
 

When he just can't stay awake any more, they go out and get some things. He needs to be thoroughly cleaned...
Then he'll wake up and discover that he's so much more ticklish!
Oh, the gloves are getting all kinds of ideas.

Lots of oil and lanolin - for themselves, and the prisoner's body. They rub in layer after layer...
All set with water, some food, another coil of rope.

They carry the ticklish guy upstairs, to a narrow room they like. The window is much higher. Let him figure it out.
There are all kinds of bolts and holes in the floor already. That makes it easy to tie him down, on top of a pile of blankets.
He looks so relaxed, now - even with the rope stretching him out. The gloves rub oil into each other, hanging above his feet, and enjoy planning what they'll do to him.
 
 

A familiar pickup truck pulls up close to the loading dock.
The gloves' owner gets out and sneaks inside the building, exhaling smoke. They see a grin on his face. That hunger is something they understand now...
He's wearing a different pair of gloves.
His old ones watch him, stalking into the room where he left the ticklish guy - and he stops. Rope is laying there, and the knife. But that's it. No one to tickle.
They watch him scowl.
He lights another cigarette, retrieves the knife and sticks it in a pocket. Then he turns around.
Just before he reaches the doorway, the gloves swing down from the ceiling. One of them shoots him an easy salute, the way he used to do sometimes. But he's not wearing them now. Never again.
The other has its fingers curled around a thick rope.
He freezes, squinting -
The glove lets go.
A weighted net drops over him. Far too late, he thrashes and yells.
They pick up a coil of rope and circle him quickly, over and over...

There have been some changes in the narrow room.
A curtain divides it in half.
The gloves drag their owner inside and set him down on top of a new king-size mattress. Black leather straps surround it.
Following the plan they've been rehearsing, the gloves crawl inside the net and pull his pants down. Then they concentrate on his left boot - pulling it off and tossing it aside. Now they can get his pants off that leg, put the strap around his ankle, wrap it around a dozen times, buckle it down...
They tie it off through a new ring they've anchored in the floor.
He fights them with so much energy that the challenge gets them more excited than ever. They move far more quickly than their owner. His right ankle is next - but not before his jeans are pulled off.
His legs are anchored together. More straps are pulled taut, through different rings, until he can't shift his feet very much at all.
The rope is untied - and each arm is pulled down. The gloves pull the net over his head as much as they can, and slide his jacket after it...
Left hand first. They release the knot. Shoving hard on the net and his leather jacket, one glove clamps hard on his elbow - until he lowers his arm. That's what he was trying to do, anyway. He wants to swing his hand around and untie his other wrist.
The gloves manage to get a strap around his hand. They pull it tight. There. His wrist is bound in no time, strapped off the side of the mattress. Perfect.
One more... But with all the strength he has, yelling and lunging around, they get a strap around his forearm a few seconds after pulling the net and jacket off.
Now that he's pinned down, making the straps creak... his gloves rip his underwear apart.

They reach for his right hand.
With their fingers curling tight around the new glove, they will it to move.
His hand jumps - and he stops thrashing around. Lifting his head, he watches them. That makes the gloves so proud. They let go...
As his fist relaxes, their owner's mouth drops open. The new glove opens his hand, and starts sliding off.
All three gloves float over his chest, and wake up the leather covering his left hand...
And now, four sets of fingers hover in the air. Filled, energetic, and mighty. Ready for some unrestrained tickling.
The original pair pulls the curtain aside -

Bugger sees the big ape, and starts laughing.
It hurts, because his chest is so sore from laughing. His voice is gone, so the asshole can't hear it. He doesn't care. It's the first time he's wanted to laugh in two days...
He could tell, from the sounds, what was happening on the other side of the curtain. Until he saw the asshole, he wasn't positive who'd been caught - and now, Bugger feels just great.
It's almost worthwhile, even if he is still tied down himself. The thug has an amazing mix of confusion and fear on his ugly face. How can this be happening? What am I gonna do? It's probably the same expression Bugger had when the gloves floated over to him, that first time, reaching for his feet. What makes it even better is that the goon is so fuckin' arrogant. Nothing can touch him, usually.
But that's about to change. Bugger knows what they're gonna do - to the guy who got him into this mess. Here he is. And he's staying here. Bugger thinks he can put up with more tickling now, just knowing the asshole is suffering too. Excellent. And the gloves even brought him a mattress! Not just a lousy blanket. And the straps. No rope for him. Nothing that... temporary.
Bugger is happy -
Something is pulling at his ankle.
He lifts his head, and stares.
The gloves are untying him.

He can't stop chuckling, and nodding his head. It's too good to be true. No more rope - no more tickling? Is it possible?
Maybe they have more straps.
The gloves pull the rope off, and he moves his feet around. Watching them -
"Oh, yeah," he whispers.
They're untying his right hand.
And his left hand. He rubs his wrists, looking at the ceiling. If they're going to strap him down, this is the time. Right? They can move so fast...
Something bigger comes over to him.
The asshole's jacket.
Tears of joy fill Bugger's eyes.

He reaches out for it - and the asshole starts yelling. Threatening him.
But he can't touch Bugger. Ain't that so? With a grin - he's smiling so big, and he can't help it - Bugger pulls it on, and reaches into the pocket.
He ignores the angry reaction across the room, and gets himself a cigarette.

The gloves return... with the rest of the asshole's clothing.
Before they change their mind, Bugger gets dressed. He's shorter, by a few inches, but he doesn't care about that.
The new captive won't be needing his clothes. Bugger looks at the mattress again, and the straps. Oh, yeah.
Fingers curl around his triceps, and pull him to his feet. He looks around wildly, but nothing else is approaching -
They walk him a few steps, and make him sit down... a few inches away from the asshole's feet.
Bugger laughs even harder. Natural laughs, from deep inside, not because their fingers are making him laugh. And as he sees the doomed expression on the asshole's face, it makes Bugger hoot even harder.
A glove takes his right wrist, and brings his hand closer to the straining feet. He's only too glad to cooperate, this time.
But they don't want him to do any tickling. The other fingers are bringing him... a box. They drop it, and pull the lid off -
After a second, Bugger laughs so hard he falls over. He pounds the floor with his left hand, nodding frantically.
The gloves have brought him... another pair of gloves. He doesn't know why they'd do that, but it's hilarious. Bugger knows he's getting loopy. He can't help it. More gloves. That's just so funny, somehow.
They're gently pulling the new gloves on his hands.

When he settles down, Bugger wiggles his fingers and makes a few fists. Unlined leather. They seem to be well-made. No big seams on the outside.
They reek. Some kind of oil.
Bugger lights another cigarette, and looks the asshole right in the eye. He nods, slowly -
And the original gloves dive, as if they'd been considerate enough to wait for the signal.

The asshole is on fire. Fingers skip all over him. He laughs so hard it makes Bugger jump.
He watches, moving only to bring the cigarette back to his mouth. The gloves let him sit there and watch.
It's just about the most exciting thing he's ever seen.

Bugger thinks he's beginning to understand.
The irony, of that big ape being pinned down and worked over - this way! - it's too good to be true.
He sits there, in a daze... so fuckin' glad it's not his turn anymore.

Oh, they're just merciless. On the asshole's feet, and his ribs. He's reacting like he's being zapped with a taser. Bugger can't believe his luck. Getting to watch this - it's the perfect revenge.
Dramatically, the gloves pull back. The goon laughs for a while longer, and then he just gasps for air.
The gloves come to Bugger, but he doesn't worry. They're not moving as if they're about to jump him. They look more casual now. Anyway, it's the asshole's turn to get tickled...
Slowly, all four gloves curl around his left hand. He looks at them, taking a last drag and tossing the cigarette away.
His fingers jerk. And he didn't do that...
The glove - it's moving! And when they let go, it works its way off his hand. It floats there, limbering up.
It joins the others, heading for his right hand...
As soon as that glove is alive, a pair of them get something from the corner of the room -
Eight more boxes.
He just roars.
Bugger sits still, making it easy for them to pull new gloves on his hands, hold on for a few seconds, and let go. One after another. The crowd grows...

That makes twenty, Bugger thinks. Fuck. A whole gang of merciless tickling hands...
He wishes it was forty.
The asshole shakes his head, nice and hard -
Six gloves respond. They start rubbing him again.
He's howling like an angry bear. Arching, and then he tries to roll back and forth. That's not getting him anywhere. Nothing can get him out of the gloves' reach. He's a big, musclebound ape, and he's going to laugh his ass off today, and tomorrow, and so on. After all, they brought a fuckin' mattress for him. It's gonna be a prolonged stay, and Bugger just knows it.
More gloves join in, one by one. Bugger sits there and smokes. The relief of not being the target almost makes him lightheaded... or maybe it's the excitement.
The fingers are slowing down. There must be fifty or sixty at work now, barely moving. He can see them adjusting their technique. The asshole squirms a lot less than he did before.
It's impressive. Seeing the gloves turn up the heat on somebody else - particularly this ape - after living through it himself... They're so fuckin' careful, making it worse for him, and they shouldn't even be alive.

Even after he runs out of cigarettes, Bugger sits there. Hugging his legs. Watching.
The asshole looks up, maybe every ten minutes, to check on him. Feverish eyes. Help me. Please. C'mon, you gotta call 'em off.
Bugger gives him a big smile.

It dawns on him that he's been sitting there for quite some time. Mesmerized. So Bugger extends his legs, rolls his head around...
Gloves take hold of his arms, and help him stand up. It turns out to be a good thing that they did - he's wobbly. It's been a couple days since they tied him down.
He looks at the asshole. Leaning closer, he studies one glove. It's loosely curled around the goon's cock, sliding up and down. Precum is dripping from it. After three quick pumps, it tightens around the base of his shaft - and then the oiled glove below his balls is on the move again, merrily scratching away. Bugger shivers hard. He remembers that procedure.
They're increasing his sensitivity, making his whole body exquisitely sensitive to their fingers. It would continue for a good hour yet...
"Time to go," he tells the asshole. He has to shout it, because his voice is worn out. "For me. You're staying. Right... here."
Groaning, the prisoner shakes his head quickly.
"No reason you can't enjoy yourself..."
The asshole thinks about that, and starts to cackle.
But he's still down there, isn't he? Increasingly potent tickling in store for him.
And Bugger gets to walk to the door. He looks back - and oh yeah, the asshole's watching. He looks scared. His lips are moving, but Bugger can't hear what he's saying. And he doesn't care. He just grins and shakes his head.
The goon hoots at him, but he walks right out.

He wouldn't put it past the gloves to drag him into another room. They really like to tickle -
But they keep him walking until he's standing alongside the truck. Four of them fly back inside, probably eager to get back to the prisoner's armpits.
One pair hangs around. They have darker spots. He realizes they're the original pair...
A glove opens the door of the truck, and they both dart inside. Bugger stands there, hesitating.
They're bringing him cigarettes. He snickers at that, and tears the pack open.
The other one has a bunch of papers. As soon as he lights up, it moves a lot closer. Bugger leans back - and recognizes what the glove is holding. He takes them...
Printouts. Inkjet printer.
The gloves have been visiting web pages. Pictures are circled with red ink. Bugger looks through the papers, and starts laughing again.
He feels a tug, from behind. A glove is holding the asshole's wallet. Smoothly, it flips through the credit cards... and pulls one out. AmEx Platinum.
"Oh, yeah," Bugger whispers, taking the wallet when it's handed to him. "Let me get this straight. You want me to buy all this tickling shit, with his card... for him?"
The gloves don't move. He nods, and laughs. Getting an idea, he points at a picture of chrome foot-stocks, then points up toward where the asshole is getting nuked. The gloves clap together.
Bugger thinks for a second, and points to his chest, the wallet... the picture, and finally the door of the building.
The gloves grab each other, and float over his head. Squeezing tight.
"Ah," he says, nodding. And he keeps nodding as he gets in the truck. The keys are in the goon's pants pocket.

As soon as he turns the key, the gloves fly back inside. The door slams shut. Back to the asshole. Give him some ferocious tickling, Bugger thinks. Of course they will.
As he pulls away, he's already thinking of shit he's going to buy. Because he's going to order everything the gloves want, and bring a ton of extra stuff. He can't wait to get home and start making a list. It will be a very long list.
That last gesture of theirs... well, it made him feel safer. After all, they've already got a prisoner. And Bugger is going to do everything he can to keep him there.
All kinds of ideas are occurring to him - drugs to make the asshole a lot more fun to play with, and toys that can only get the gloves more excited. Yeah.
 

They tug hard on the bolts. No movement. Good.
Floating around the office, the gloves wonder if they've missed anything. Air mattress, cuffs, chains, anchoring bolts... Barred windows, check. They installed the big rings to chain the door shut. And here are the extra restraints.
Water, food, vitamins...
Oil, cocoa butter, lanolin. Yes.
Thirteen thin boxes are laying near the foot of the mattress. All those gloves have been oiled. They're ready to be brought to life.
No, that's everything. The cell is ready. It'll be occupied right after the truck returns.
They float back to the other side of the building, where the feet of their owner are waiting.

14feb03