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There's a handbill on the telephone pole:

Sitting at the stop light, you read it again. Look around, but there's nobody in sight. The last-call crowd hasn't let out yet. You tug on your cig, and decide nobody'll know if ya look it over one more time...
Big block print. No small type... Teaser ad, to get your curiosity goin'.
"Worried". Hardly. What kind of racket d-
The light changes. You shift, accelerating through the intersection, kickin' out smoke. Coming up on the strip mall. Looks all dark...
Well, of course. It's one in the morning.
You are curious, though. Never saw that poster before, or anything like it. Ticklish? That many other people... well, they ain't got it as bad as you, that's for sure. Damn. Your ex knew how to make it hurt. But why "worried"? Who would... what kind of place -
You slow down, and take the last driveway. Feelin' kinda stupid, but nobody has to know. Just see what kind of place would put up a sign like that... while it's closed, middle of the night.
It's at the end. The security light is out, at that end of the lot, and you hesitate. But there's no lights on in the building, and no other cars. Scan it real quick, head on home. No big sign - just a poster on the door. Doesn't look like much. You pull in, so your headlights hit the door...
A big hand. Big. Holding a feather. Little wiggle marks. The hand is dark... and too smooth. Oh. It's a glove. Leather, maybe - naah, too shiny. Looks, oh, solid.
It looks real. A photo, or something. Who would...
Above it, in the same big print:

You stare, for another second or two -
And then you hear... a hum.
It's not loud, but it doesn't quite sound like a transformer. You light a cigarette, without thinking much about it, and you look at the poster again. Thinking.
That time when you were little, when your cousin sat on your legs and took a feather duster to your feet...
That sadistic fuckin' camp nurse, when you broke your leg. Wrestling team, after you lost in the finals. Other friends... and casual lays, discovering it, right up to your ex and the one and only night you allowed yourself to be handcuffed to the bedposts -
Why are you even thinkin' about that shit? Intense memories, not... fun. Strong, but they fade with time. You would definitely not want to relive 'em. No sir.
It'd be all right with you if no one else ever found out...

Driving toward home. Still daydreaming, sort of... The humming is louder. You fire up a new smoke, tapping the steering wheel in time with a song playing on the radio.

Freeway. On the passenger seat, there's a dark bundle. Doesn't look familiar, but somehow you don't care all that much. You pull a cigarette out of a new pack - when did you buy more? Was there one more stashed away? Oh, well...
 

You sigh. A good sigh. Contentment. Coming out of a nice dream, or something...
Roll over...
Do you know this place?
You're in a motel, apparently. A pretty cheap one. Shabby. Not even a TV. Where -
More important, you're thirsty. There's a squeeze bottle on the nightstand. Appears to be water - yep. You don't exactly remember buying this bottle, but you must've, 'cause it's half-empty. Aaahh.
Now, where is this? What happened to the blanket? Must've let it fall between you and the window. Shit - no TV, cracked mirror, humming from somewhere nearby... Your shoes and socks are on the floor, and your shirt -
What are those?
On the corner of the bed... Not yours. Definitely. Looks like a pair of... gloves, or something. White, short - but they're real shiny. You stare at 'em for a sec, start to reach -
They move! What?! You jump. Well, one of 'em, sorta filling up. And - whew, the gloves are drifting away from you... to the door.
So you're still dreaming. Must be why you're not freaked out... 'cause gloves just don't do this, all on their own. And there's no wires or, what, projectors here.
They're solid-lookin' fuckers, that's for sure. Inside 'em, you can't see anything at all. More white cloth, and seams. Definitely no hand, no wires... You're more amazed than anything. They look like they're alive. Heading for the door. Wonder wh-
Fingers of the first arrival close around the doorknob, natural as anything. Turning it - this is impressive. How the hell, you think, as it opens the door. Totally dark outside -
There's another one there. You must be dreaming, oh yeah.

Waist-high, maybe, a glove comes in, carrying a flight bag. Crammed full of stuff, big bag -
And one more! No, it's a whole train... comin' right in.
No streetlight, or walkway light. No moon - wait a minute. Where is this motel, really?
By this time you're starting to sit up, watching this. Suitcases, duffel bags, attaches, all crammed full of stuff. Six, seven, eight...

They don't dawdle, but they're not racing either. Setting the bags down at the foot of the bed.
Now maybe you should, uh, be thinkin' about getting outa here, this is too weird even for a dream - damn realistic, but it's gotta b-
The ninth glove's got a pair of big saddlebags, covered in chrome studs. No more are coming. What, maybe thirty seconds since the first glove got up and let 'em in?
Now, that one starts closing the door.
"No, uh, wait a minute..."
It pauses. Out of view, a suitcase is clicking open -
You start to swing your leg out over the side of the bed. And the humming gets... louder, or lower in pitch -
Cigarette. Yeah. Right now. Sounds good, perfect... But your smokes aren't in sight - where'd they go? For that matter, where's an ashtray in th-
The door shuts.
Unzipping noises, and jingling from the pile of luggage. Now where did your smokes go?
The glove swings one of those motel-type hasps over, better than the old style of door-chains. You hear the deadbolt being thrown, but your main concern is lookin' for your cigs. Not laying by your t-shirt, or sh-
The humming ch-
And oh shit you need a smoke right fuckin' n-
There's a click.
No more humming.

Wha-
You're... You want a cigarette. That's right.
That's not all, though. You're confused. Why? About what? And why the hell did you get a motel room -
A glove drifts up, past the foot of the bed. others right behind it - all carrying someth-
Leather?
Moving - from the corner, that one glove lying there, it zips -
To your arm.
From the sides of the bed, a whole bunch of gloves arc up, and pounce. Way more than nine -
Before you even know it, really, they're pinning you down, pulling off your jeans -
Wrapping up your wrists. Your ankles.

They're... good. Move real fast when they wanna, and efficient. You've hardly started fightin' all-out when they pull off. Why are th-
You lift your head, and look - and see why. No need. The cuffs, they're insane. Perfect - thick, wide. Can't bend your wrist at all... Or your ankles. Bigtime overkill. Chunky straps pull your limbs off the corners of the bed.
"This is crazy," you say to the room.
And the drapes open - ratty cheap-shit curtains, pulling away to either side -
Revealing the poster.
SCARY, HUH?
Yeah.
Oh, hell yeah...

Well, you go ballistic.
Yellin' and screamin', trying to thrash though it's not gettin' you anywhere, obviously not gonna do ya any good at all. Crazy, this is crazy, insane, they can't...
You see 'em pull the poster off the window, and stick it on the watermarked ceiling, smack-dab over you. They close the drapes - but it's all dark out there, not a streetlight or headlight anywhere. No reflection... A motel without cars? Where's your car?... If they're this thorough about everything else, it must be hidden away, real good. No fuckin' doubt.
Wherever they got ya, here, it's... private.
"Fuck no, c'mon no please, look I can't - uh, you can't d-"
You feel - No. That can't be happening -
Feet! On your f-
No - your ass? No! Both! And! Also on y-
ohhnNOOOOooowwwwaAAHHHH haaah aaahwhooo hoooaaannnNNNNNNNOOOoowwwhheeee haoowwwhah haaaah haaaeeeeaah haaAAAahhh aaaahaaahaaaahh...
 

You stop throwing your head around, eventually, since it doesn't help.
Squint at the poster on the ceiling - and whoop. Whoo hooo hoo hooo huh hah haww hah haaaaah...
Maybe one more snap at the cuffs. One more. Give it all ya got -
Nope. Nothing. Fuck, oh fuck oh...

Hoot some more. Louder. Try to raise some help, again... But you don't get past heyyyhehhellaaaah hahhahhaaaaahhalloh ooowaaah hahhahheee loohoowhaaahahhoo whooohooooo...
No response. You're loud, too. No one around to hear ya.
Just you, and the hands.
Howlin' for 'em. Laughin' hard...
That's why you're here.
 

So. Can't be heard, can't get loose, can't... persuade the gloves to stop. What's left? ...
Nothing.
It hits you, cold as steel, clear as anything: you can't - nothing's gonna stop 'em. Interrupt, slow 'em down, make 'em quit - oh fuck, you're in for it. What you're getting now...
It'd take a miracle. Motel, out in the middle of nowhere. Not just for shock value, any more than the cuffs are only for show. Or the... touching. Not a scare tactic, No empty threat.
They're gonna keep doin' this!
Impossible!

They can't be ser-
Naaaah aaaahhahhahhaaaaooooo...

Tears drip. Your sides feel like they're electrified, your legs, chest, belly. Gloves running all over 'em, all over, feeling like they're charged, like a battery. You can't move your feet enough to hamper 'em, slick fingers playin' down there - wow! - and curling your toes isn't helping. Not at all.
You would never have guessed it could be... this bad -
Cuffed down, almost as steady as if you grew there, with roots deep in the mattress.
It's insane, all of it...

Digging in your armpits. The've found the right pace and pressure. Sensation - astounding. They're working a couple inches from your chin. You're bellowing right at the opening of one of 'em. There should be a hand in there. Something.
Just seams, and shadow, just like the inside of a glove would look... without anything filling them out, packed full. Invisible hand. With strength to pin you down. Nimble enough to tighten the cuffs quickly, so it can coast on your fuckin' skin - gentle or real heavy, and all the degrees of pressure in between -
Empty, magic - sick satin bastard gloves... oh, shit...
 

You realize you're not afraid anymore. Not at all.
Hollow, desperate realization... not a dream, you try to convince yourself but it's too damn urgent, too real, you've never been this wild, ever. Wanna stop concentrating on the... feel of them. And you can't. You just can't. Taking it all in, each stroke hammering through.
But you can't even do that. Too many, all over you. It's too much to deal with. You try and try to come up with a way to cope, some mental defense since there's no way to stop the physical onslaught... and it's a puzzle that can't be solved when so much of your awareness is feverish with this onslaught of sensation...

Owwrrr ruhhnuhhrhurruhrrr rahr oawwwhaaaawhawww...
There's no defense. None inside you, anyway. Not for this much pleasure. No way out, and no way to take it. Unendurable. Literally...

You fantasize that they stop. A one-minute timeout. Half a minute.
Ten wonderful seconds.

Big glove on the poster. Your eyes are running, but you can see the black spot. Scary...
Was that the last chance you had...? No, it was too late already. Already cuffed. Oh, fuck. When could you have...
Something, about the... buzzing. Were you... in your car - on Akins? Stop light?
Can't pull it together. Too... busy.

Didn't get worried. Why the hell not? What...
This can't go on... like this. They don't know how bad - too much, killin' ya, they must know that. Tell 'em. Wheeee eeeeyuhhhee heeeehaaaaaawwww...
Throw your head around more. Lunge, or something. Maybe they'll get the point...

What were you... oh. Yeah, sure. Can't even get it together. This is intense.
No escape. No escape no way out no rescue no getting a message through to 'em or - making 'em feel... sorry for you.
No pity. Not here.
This must be exactly what they had in mind... All along. Signs, this place... the, uh, bags, or whatever.

Still no ashtray. Accident? Naw, not here. They're -
No smokin' for ya. None. What? No, fuck no, they wouldn't -
Neeeee eeEEEheeeheh whahowhowwwhoh haooooo...
Shit. Just gotta laugh at that one. Like hell. You want a smoke worse than you ever have in - well, a long time. And you're damn sure there won't any comin' your way, here. Oh. man...

This is so much more intense than what you ever - not even your ex, what a duffer. This is more than you ever thought tickling was -
Nothing comes close. Jackin' off - but that need is building, too. Both. At the same time as this insane craving to laugh so much fuckin' harder, get out of their grasp...
Maybe you'll get numb or something. Or sick, the flu -
But it's a lost cause. Empty. Pipe dream. They've got everything covered, up to now, dead-on perfect, not one mistake. They could nurse ya back to health, start in again. If there's a way to keep ya from getting numb - Aw, no... But, but maybe, if they get bored -
Then you remember all the suitcases and shit. Those humongous saddlebags... They must know something you don't. Fuck. You can say that again.
Either they've got more intense plans for ya - more intense! - or you're gonna...
They couldn't really...
Make you. More. Ticklish.
Could they?

More?
More sick fun. Magnified... uh... reaction. More. Longer -
No.
 
 

Actually, yes.
Loh ho HAH haho whoa whooohoohyooo wah arharhaahaa buh uh whuh ho oh ho whaAAHH aaaah eeenoh hih haaah hah aah heee wheeee...

12jul1998