The construction site - underground, like a multi-room fallout shelter - waaaay out in the wilds of the Rockies. 80 miles southwest of Denver. Rich people, and their quirks...
Ben finished checking the outer locks on the other exit doors, came back in the main entrance and lit another cigarette.
He was really supposed to stay out here for ten weeks? That was a new one. He had plenty of food and fun stuff. The owner had no problem with smoking inside, and wanted to be sure the geothermal power setup was behaving. Ben had been given a satellite cell-phone, but the shortwave radios had been backordered. Not his problem.
Ten weeks? Hell, there were only twelve rooms in the fuckin' place... But the owner insisted, and was paying for it. Might as well make it into a solo vacation. Catching up on sleep didn't sound like a bad idea at all.
Licking a joint in the front hallway, he heard a weird noise. Metal-on-metal. What now?
So he turned... and stared at something. All of a sudden it was such a big deal that he forgot everything else.
Nothing mattered anywhere near as much as that padlock, leaning out from the wall as if a magnet got a-hold of it.
Uh-huh. Big fuckin' padlock, hanging through steel loops he didn't remember seeing before - and it was closing up. Released, and swinging a little.
Everybody else was gone, right? If they'd locked it, as a joke, they'd have to be inside to do it. He'd just walked down the main hallway. Open doors inside everywhere, and not a sound of anybody else around. He was sure.
Some joker -
But there was the lock. That message was pretty clear. Wasn't it, though.
He wasn't leaving. Not yet.
Real bad joke. How long was he supposed to...
An answer came to him, right away. Ten weeks.
No, aw fuck no. That was ridiculous. Too fuckin' crazy. He stared at the padlock.
Solid-metal door, he thought to himself. The part of his brain that worked the problem was... hard to hear, as if it was a long ways away. Tempered frame, six-inch anchors all around it. Recessed hinges on that fucker, a real bear to set. Good, heavy door. It would take a while to pry that son of a bitch open, but probably not as long as it would take to hacksaw through the hardened shaft of the padlock. Not that he had a hacksaw. No bolt cutters or Sawz-All inside with him either, sad to say.
Concrete exterior walls...
Ventilation? Locked grates, right? Hidden pretty well. Concrete slab underneath the floor.
It was just a jobsite, but a padlock turned it into a mutherfuckin' cage.
Finally, he made himself stop looking at the padlock, and go to the other exits.
But he wasn't surprised at all to see they had inside padlocks too.
He lit a cigarette, and his hands were shaking real bad.
From behind him - in the main entry - he heard a soft click.
Trying to calm down, he forced himself to stand there and smoke for a minute. And then he turned around. He didn't want to, but eventually he had to go and find out what had made that noise. Couldn't put it off forever.
The lights weren't as bright. Maybe one of the fixtures had shorted out. Fuck, he didn't want to go back in there... but he felt like a pussy, being afraid. There was nobody else in the place. C'mon.
He took another drag as he came up to the lobby-room, slowing down.
No, all of the bulbs were gone - except one. Front side of the room. Almost like a spotlight. The padlock was still there outside the door, new and shiny.
He knew something bad was gonna happen.
And it did. Worse than the padlock. Hell, yeah. He had something else to stare at.
Dark, shiny... fingers. Hanging in the air.
Drey's brother, he thinks immediately. Deeny. Yeah. Good worker. He'd probably dig this situation.
What the gloves wanted - and there were about ten of them, and Ben had a weird confidence that there were lots more locked in there with him - was amazing and clear, and he didn't even try to tell himself differently. This was not something he could take. Not just getting fucked with - solid, total, building up more and more...
A voice in his head babbled at him, trying any other explanation. But it didn't work.
The hand moved a little. Toward him. It floated easily. Pure mutherfuckin' magic.
And no matter what he wanted to believe, it was still holding a feather.
Oh, fuck.
"No," he said. "You're... Forget it. No."
One step backward - that was all he got.
Hands slammed into his back and shoved him toward the damn feather.
"Not me, dammit!" he yelled. Springing backward didn't work, because the hands were blocking him. Shit.
A slight breeze came, from behind, and he figured it out before he heard the sound. Aw no, no, fuck no. But sure enough, the door slammed shut.
And he turned, just enough, to see the chair being carried in. There were, what, eight gloves hauling it to the center of the room.
Another pair was carrying rope.
It was like the worst possible nightmare he'd had in years.
"No," he said again. Foreman-voice. "Fuck, no. Look... No! Just - I can't fuckin' stand... Uh, This is fuckin' not happening. You hear me?"
Hell, he sounded like a pussy. All scared and shit. I am a big dude, his brain reminded him. They're not gonna get me tied d-
Damn.
The gloves jumped him.
Empty or not, the fuckers were strong.
It couldn't have been more than twenty seconds. Talk about embarrassing. They had him planted in the damn chair, and it didn't matter if he yelled and jumped around.
Then it got worse, and his head told him it would only keep getting worse and worse from now on, so seriously screwed now, and this is why they wanted him alone for ten whole weeks, oh yeah. The gloves pulled his fuckin' clothes off.
They worked together all too well.
And maybe the worst of all, so far, was when the rope floated down and started tying him up. All by itself. Smooth as you please, and quick.
So it was maybe a minute since the door had slammed shut behind him, and there he was. Stripped, tied real good... and looking up at the feather. Maybe a half-dozen riding gloves, hanging out in a circle over him. Where are the rest?
He wouldn't last ten minutes in there. Fuck ten weeks.
Not unless... they knew what they were doing. It, that is, since the rope had no visible hands tying it.
"Fuck," he wailed. Not all that far from starting to cry, actually.
He was not gonna let that be seen. He was really pissed off, all of a sudden. Gonna pull the fuckin' ropes apart and get... up..
The glove - holding the feather - dropped down, and kept coming. Closer.
He yelled at it, as loud as he could. Lunge and snap, but the knots held. Still fuckin' tied to old, heavy wooden chair. Shit. It should've fallen over, at least - so he looked down. That explained where the rest of the gloves were... They were holding onto the legs. He threw all his weight to the right, but the chair barely moved. The gloves weren't gonna let him fall over, no matter how much he thrashed.
They're gonna make me thrash, he thought to himself. Oh no, oh no, I'm gonna die. Die laughing. Nobody's gonna know - I'm losing it.
Soon enough, I won't even be able to thrash. They got other plans. This chair ain't all they - easy, there. Keep your head.
"Nooooooooooooo," he begged, but the feather came all the way down.
Oh yeah. I'm screwed -
The fucker started on his belly-button.
"Oh no no no no no," he panted.
I'm not gonna laugh, I'm not, fuck them and their secret torture chamber, ten weeks of hell. Not gonna laugh. He grit his teeth.
The feather... moved. Up over his gut. Breastbone. Neck.
Sweat rolled down the side of his head. No. Don't laugh, dammit. That's the sign they want.
I'm gonna die. They can't do this. It's way too intense for me. Anything but this, anything, aw please -
The glove paused. He stared, desperately. Sucked in air. Don't, he thought. Just don't go...
It moved sideways.
Not my armpit not my armpit don't -
Bingo.
"Aaaawwwwwwwaaaaahhh hah hah hah haaaah!" he roared. No, get off me!
Flicking around, gently.
He gulped air. This was his last chance. Well, probably not, he was already screwed, they got him. But he had to believe there was a way to get out of this. "G-guh... Go nuts. I'll lose my f-fuckin' mind. You don't know. Got it bad. Nobody... Please, p-please, I'm gonna fuckin' b-beg you. Okay? I'm too... Way t-too, uh... aw, fuck... Not this. Do what you want, s-so long as it's not... ten weeks. Aw, no. Hell. I can't stand th-"
Two of the gloves were coming down.
"No," he whispered.
They went and attacked his poor feet.
Barking laughter, then. Couldn't see 'em, with his ankles tied down there. But he didn't need to. Fingers goin' at it. No, no -
Obviously, their answer was 'yes'. Weeks and weeks of pure tickling hell, coming right up.
He threw himself around for awhile, howling like a wild animal.
The tickling hit him like 220, as if they were high-voltage fuckin' gloves, and he couldn't get his feet away. The fingers weren't tickling all that quickly. Not really. This wasn't as bad as it was gonna get!
And there were a lot more fingers here. Wait 'til they all get going...
Stuck good, maybe until the owner showed up. That's a lot of tickling.
Of course... maybe it was here already, using the damn gloves.
The fingers explored his whole fuckin' body.
He was sadly sure they'd drive him nuts, totally gaga, when they dug in. Ten impossible days.
The minutes keep crawling by, one after the other.
The gloves pause.
He catches his breath.
And they continue.
His shins are impossibly ticklish to teasing fingertips. He didn't know that.
Hips. All around his neck. Hell, his fuckin' forearms...
And the gloves found out. All of him.
After a long time - frustrating, infuriating, humiliating as hell when the piss runs down his legs - he finally caught his breath. A groan didn't sound right, so he tries it again. Thin, and raspy. They were wearing out his voice.
Blinking, he looks around. There's a tray, held about a yard away.
Hot food. Stew.
They thought of everything.
The food comes closer, and he's amazed at how hungry he is. A glove picks up the spoon and starts feeding him. His own hands pull uselessly, knotted behind his back.
Frustration, fury, embarassment. Tears flood his eyes.
But he's starving. That's what matters most.
They make him smoke, one after the other, and drink about two liters of water. More piss, on the way.
He sighs, glaring at one of the gloves. It'll be back. On him. Having fun. Sick, sick bastard.
"Lemme go," he yells. His voice cracks, and it's not loud anymore.
The gloves don't even move.
After a few minutes, the fingers start to float down - just as he was expecting. All the pulling and squirming in the world wasn't gonna change that.
He couldn't do a fuckin' thing, except watch 'em.
And bellow.
They played with his cock.
Took their time.
He got... relief. Finally.
For thirty seconds, he sat there all limp, head thrown back, not believing how incredible it felt when he shot his load. The little inner voice starting to wonder if it almost wasn't worth all the tickling, that's how fuckin' great it felt -
And a lighter touch dragged over his belly.
Feathers. Six or seven of 'em, each in the grip of a black glove. His gut, and his sides. Down by his feet. But they'd be moving around.
Each stroke felt like a hundred feathers. He tensed up, and forgot how to breathe.
That cum-shot... made him more fuckin' sensitive. Couldn't stand it -
The feathers all moved. Light, constant touches - exploding in the front half of his brain, like blasting caps. Or mortar shells. There were no fuckin' words.
They knew. Didn't they? Sure they did.
Just feathers, moving slow. So damn intense. Much worse.
He whimpered once, real quiet.
It didn't change a thing.
"You son of a bitch," he said. It was hard to sound pissed off when all he could do was whisper.
He needed the cigarette they'd given him. He let it hang, squinting at the new toy they showed him. Yeah, he recognized it.
So fuckin' tired...
No telling how many hours ago they started tickling him, and now they had just the thing to do, instead.
It buzzed. Floating there, all by itself, as the needles slid into the barrel. So he knew why his arms had been tied in front of him, after they turned him around in the chair. He got to watch.
"Mutherfuckin' son of a bitch," he said.
A little table was set in front of him. Loaded up. Plastic bottles were picked up and shaken...
The disposable razor didn't need any glove holding it either.
A spray bottle soaped up his left arm, and gloves got a lock on it. Wrist, elbow, shoulder. He couldn't do a thing. All by itself, the razor slid down his tricep.
The tattoo gun buzzed intermittently, and it looked like the needles were being adjusted.
He took a drag, and eventually blew the smoke at the gun.
The tip of the needles dipped into a little cup of black ink - and a few paper towels ripped off the roll. They hovered, magically, over him. So did the bottle with the soapy water, or whatever it is.
Well, he thought, this... Now this really can't be happening.
The gun buzzed, and closed the gap.
"Ten weeks," he said quietly, with a voice so raspy it barely made any noise at all. But he hardly even noticed that anymore. "Oh, shit. Until somebody comes up here... Look. You can't. Not me. Deeny, maybe - he likes it. Right? I'm... Oh, shit, you gotta listen to me. I'll go out of my fuckin' mind, I'm not kidding! Not that. I can't... Shit! Ten weeks. Right? You think - aw, no! Please. Listen to me, just let me go now, please..."
The feathers were gone. He looked around, started struggling, and caught his breath...
Fingers crept under his knees.
"No! You son of a bitch - Whaaah hah haaaaeeeee..."
Please, he wanted to beg. I'm not a bad guy. Don't keep doing this to me. I'm gonna snap, here.
"So fuckin'... m-mean," he cackled.
The brushes kept sweeping and tracing around.
"I'm not a bad guy. Why the hell are ya doin' this? I mean... Why me?" He started to giggle, and then he just had to whoop a few times, get it out of his system. "Just because ya could. Right? That's it. But I'm not a bad guy, you g-gotta let me outa here, please. Please. Sure. That's not gonna happen, huh? You really like to fuckin' tickle me. Don't you? Huh?"
No answer. The tickling didn't increase, or slow down either. Careful, solid torture.
"Please," he wailed, dissolving into laughter again. "Get s-somebody... eh heh helllss-sssuh huh huh haw haw..."
Fuck, he was so ticklish.
There was a mattress in another room, surrounded by huge eye-bolts. Straps and cuffs were waiting for him.
Gloves slammed him down on his back...
In about three minutes Ben was spread-eagled and staying that way. A cigarette came to him, followed by a magically floating lighter. It didn't make any sense - which could've been said about anything that had happened since Mateo and Terry rolled out of here, headed back to the city - but it didn't have to, because it was real. Huge, and nonstop, just fuckin' swamping him.
Get out of here? That didn't even work as a fantasy anymore. The fucker had all those tools, to drive him absolutely fuckin' wild, and almost ten whole weeks to keep doing whatever it wanted.
Serious restraints. Food. Who knows what else had been laid in?
He couldn't even go bugshit enough to get away from the tickling that way. It was too much for him. Powerful. The fucker won. Every second proved it. The tattoos made it real fuckin' clear.
Months... ?
It would feel like months, anyway. Strong, competent foreman was caught and nobody would ever suspect this shit. Son of a bitch. It had to let him go -
Stupid. So dumb. No, it didn't have to do any such thing. Everything was all planned out. Maybe...
Too scary. Not possible. He tried to shove the thought away. Be a man, he thought, gulping air. Face it. Ten weeks until the job was done. Fuck! The worst damn job ever.
And then, what? He'd finally get out. That was sweet. Thinking about that... and there was no way he could start another job then. Yeah, he'd take a fuckin' month to recover from this shit.
There it was again. The bad idea. Real bad...
He was supposed to check in and pick up another job. His paychecks were deposited automatically -
What if he never showed up at the office?
Say, maybe he was strapped down. Cuffed. Locked in, underground, in here. They'd wonder, right? Get curious.
Their office was about a thousand miles away. He was using his own truck, and the rented tools were picked up the day the other guys took off. The rental company had come and gone already.
It was so obvious, all of a sudden. If he doesn't show up and pull another ticket... they wouldn't wonder about a fuckin' thing. Shrug, and forget about him.
Locked in here.
His guys had built a real tight trap. He was stuck good. Living in it.
Living...
Shit, this was his home.
Tickle dungeon. Yeah.
Ten weeks was a stupid-ass fantasy. If the owner didn't raise hell, there was no reason anybody else would have to come back up here. The asshole was careful, so all of the loose ends would be wrapped up, nice and slick, just another job over and done with.
Ben was staying here.
Fuck ten weeks. If the bastard kept bringing him food...
More and more stuff was being carried around - and he was right when he figured out why.
The phantom with a hundred hands let him work out, get as high as he wanted, trim his beard back, cook his own food, watch sports shit on the satellite TV most days. His hair was down to the middle of his back, which it wanted that way. Couple hours off, and then the gloves dragged him to the swing, the stocks, the rack, back to "bed..."
One day as Ben tugged on a cigarette, walking to where the dumbbells were, what he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.
In room three - which was now "furnished" like Ben's sleeping room was - a familiar guy was strapped down on a mattress.
It took a while to wake up the drugged captive...
"Boss," he chuckled.
"Deeny," the foreman sighed.
"I need a cigarette." So I got him one, and lit it. "Lookit those tats. You been stuck here all this time? Laughin' real big?"
"Yup. and No - not real big tickling. I'd call it maximum tickling."
"Whoooh. You're why I'm here," he said shyly.
"I am not."
"Tophoot said so. It got you talking."
Ben looked around the room out of some old reflex. "I was gorked. High."
"So it had one of its buddies hunt me down. After a job in Winslow, I got a ride back here."
Ben cocked his head. "You're smiling, Deeny. Bet you were the most cooperative kidnap victim ever."
"Aw," Deeny snickered.
After some clicks, his arms moved.
"There's other dudes here too," Tophoot said. Hell, Ben hadn't learned its name for a good couple of months. "Check out the place, Deeny. Calm 'em down. Okay?"
"Deal," the kid laughed.
"Thought about you a lot," Ben muttered. "This is your kind of place, kid."
"Which is probably why I'm back here now. Asshole!" And then Deeny cracked up. Eyes shining.
"Go check on the recruits, laughing boy," the phantom teased. "I have helpers coming."
"Ooooh," Nodding and groaning, Deeny grabbed Ben's arm and squeezed - all excited - and scooted out of the room.
"Recruits," Tophoot said quietly, "and not replacements. Just so it's clear."
"Asshole," Ben snickered. It had become real clear what this hideout was built for.
01feb23