Back to Part 1
- - 9 - -
The next day - well, it must seem like a picnic to my favorite junkyard dog. I use feathers, mostly. Lots of them.
Stinger roars and barks his approval. He stays busy arching, and lunging around, bouncing his head sometimes.
He doesn't get to smoke.
I'll get to know Brent like no one else knows him.
It takes a while to match up each touchy spot with the most devastating tool.
I never whale on him like I did right after I kissed him. Actually... I've never worked on a guy that hard. But here he is, holding his mud. What a rebound effect.
The hours are completely riveting.
Well, yeah. For him. But I was talking about me - and talking, and talking. Tickling a guy, such as Stinger, never gets dull.
No matter how vividly I imagine what I'll be putting him through, the actual performance is better still.
- - 10 - -
So I decide to learn just what I've got anchored down, here. Time to get personal with ol' Brent.
"Morning," I whisper in his ear.
"Mmmmmnnf," Stinger groans. He opens his eyes.
Wide open. Looking around wildly. Same ceiling, same window...
And the same excellent cuffs.
He thinks for a while. "Hello?"
"Hello."
And he leaps up. Bouncing.
I chuckle at him...
"Haffick-"
"Havik'a. Haaa-veek-uh. Or just Vik, if it's too much for y-"
"Havoc?"
"Well, that's most of it. I picked that word on purpose. Do you know what it means?"
"Can I have a cigarette?" he says suddenly.
"Don't be so insensitive."
"Huh?"
"We were talking about my name, you ignoramus. If that's your idea of paying attention, you must really reel in the chicks."
"I do okay," he says.
And I have the worst urge to tickle him until he squeaks. "Do you know... what my name means?"
Brent looks alarmed. He kicks, and tries to arch his back.
"Answer me, sport. What does 'Havoc' mean?"
He stops fidgeting. "Oh. Something... bad?"
Ooooooo. I'll give him bad. "Chaos."
When he still looks confused, I sigh and get him a cigarette. "Disorder. A big mess. People rioting, all frantic. Raising hell, making noise."
"Havoc," he says thoughtfully.
"Havik'a."
"So why..."
"Why what?"
"Never mind."
"Stinger. Out with it."
"You won't get mad?"
Hmmmm. "I'll try not to. But I probably will."
"Great."
"And I'll definitely start in on you if you don't spill it."
He sighs. "I was wondering why you, uh, don't go out and raise some hell. Like, now. If that's your name and everything."
"But I am, sport."
"You are?"
"Right here. On you."
"Ah."
"I'm wreaking havoc on some ticklish nerve endings."
"Yeah -"
"Big ol' hoe-down, on your body."
"I get it," he snaps.
After a pause, I calmly say, "There's no need to be rude." And I take his cigarette.
"Hey!"
"Especially to me. You know what I do to rude guys?"
And then he says the thing I most want to hear, right then -
"Uh-oh."
Two, four, six gloves. Targeting his armpits, his sides.
"Guys who never call the next day?"
"Now wait a minute," he yells, as I bring the fingers so damn close...
"I punish 'em. Rude guys... get this."
"Naaaa haaa haaa aaah haaaw whah haaa haaaawwww..."
- - 11 - -
"Lemme go," he says feebly.
"Eventually."
"Tonight?"
I have to laugh.
He opens his mouth, and thinks again. "When?"
"How old are you?"
He blinks... and his eyes get big.
"No, no. Sheesh. Just kidding." That gets me wondering, so I pick up his wallet.
"Really - when?"
I sigh hard. "Not soon enough for you, and not remotely long enough to suit me. Let's just say it will be an impossible, prolonged, infinitely hysterical time..." Sliding his license out - and I see he's 34. Older than I thought, but you'd never know it to look at him.
"What now?" he says, trying to rock from side to side. Staring at his license.
"I was just hoping your birthday was... soon. So I could come up with something really special."
"Fuck," he wails at the ceiling.
"Anything interesting in here?" I say innocently. Fourteen dollars - I pull it out and let it fall to the floor. He sees that, and gets motivated to try scootching up, then down. Digging through a few business cards...
"I'm gonna lose my job," Brent complains. "If I don't show up for work on Monday -"
"You're not showing up for work on Monday."
That was two days ago. He's so confused. How flattering.
"C'mon. Shit. You can't just..." He grimaces at his own choice of words. He is a smart one. "I, uh, I still gotta pay rent, after you've had your fun."
"Got it covered," I assure him. "Later, if you're good, I'll show you. I can be very generous, Stinger."
"Yeah. I noticed."
"Is that sarcasm I hear?"
He frowns harder. "I really like my job."
"Don't be such a pain in the ass, now."
"I'm just saying."
I pause. "Brent." He kicks at the leg-cuffs monotonously. "You don't want to piss me off."
"No, ma'am." Dull assent. He's just so cute...
"I see no card, in here," and I wiggle his wallet a little - then drop it and the cards, as if they're just so much more trash - "for a body-mod place."
He stops kicking. "My what?"
"You know. Body modification. Piercing. Branding -"
"Oh no." Now that's a thoroughly doomed expression.
"Nice big tats. Both arms, your chest, maybe your belly."
"That's not funny -"
"Lots of colors."
"No no no no no..."
"Lots of feathers, and gloves... Uh-huh. Big chains. And fire in between, flames, filling in th-"
"Stop it!"
I chuckle. "Relax, Stinger."
"This is insane," he says, closing his eyes.
"Gimme a cigarette," he says.
"What's it worth to you?" I sass him back.
"C'mon." Sounding annoyed.
"Are you real hungry, Stinger? Climbing the walls?"
"Uh. Yeah -"
"All that nervous energy is building... and building."
"So can I have one?"
"Well. I can't just leave you like this. Wanting a smoke so bad... needing one... the horrible craving getting worse, and worse."
He gulps and watches over to his left, where he last saw the pack. Oh boy oh boy.
"I have a way to distract you -"
A pair of gloves pop up, right where he's looking. And wave.
"Noooooooooooo!" He starts wrestling around, wild as ever.
"Stinger..."
"Please! Pleeeeeeze, noooooo-"
"You really need to quit smoking, Brent."
"No! You can't... make me!"
"What?"
"I, uh," He stammers, "I mean, what I meant to say is... I don't want to quit. And sure as hell not like this. C'mon -"
I have the gloves float over his belly, and get ready to pounce. "Are you suuuuure you don't wan't to quit?"
"No," he says quietly, staring at my fingers. Determined. "I don't."
Interesting. Even with the "correct" answer staring him in the face, he's not caving in. That stops me. Unusual candor.
The rebelliousness will have to go - tickled out of him, carefully, luxuriously - but I feel I almost have to reward honesty like that. And courage.
So I pick up the pack...
"Thank you," he says, eyes already calmer, exhaling smoke.
Thank you? And he means it! A gigantic defeat for him - and he doesn't even recognize it.
"Positive reinforcement," I say, patronizing him. He looks confused. "Giving a reward, and making it real obvious, when I get the kind of behavior I want out of you."
This does not make him happy. "Great. Just great."
"Hey, you're getting to smoke, aren't you?"
"Lab rat. Fuckin'... run the maze, get the cheese."
"That's right, babe," I purr. "Only you're much more than a test subject to me." I start rubbing his neck, gently, and he breaks out in a big, reluctant smile.
- - 12 - -
"Ow -"
I ignore him, and keep scrubbing his forearm.
"Ow! Dammit. That hurts."
I raise the washcloth, and study his face.
"Oh, really."
"Yeah, really -"
"Where?"
He pauses. "Uh, 'bout in the middle."
It looks okay to me. I pull on a pair of gloves and examine it, as gingerly as I can. There's nothing wrong. Why, Brent, you big liar.
I lay one glove up by his wrist... and curl the other around his elbow. And he gulps! Bad boy.
I push and pull and rotate. "Does that hurt?"
"No... I, uh - no."
"That's good." I pick up the one glove, and take hold of his thumb.
And I make the other slide... so very slowly... down to his bicep. He shifts around, looking right at those fingers. Satin. so close to a place he really doesn't want them to go.
I squeeze more firmly. His thumb bends, clasping the fingers that hold his hand. "And now? Anything?"
"Look, I... Aw, never mind."
"What? Tell me."
"No. Forget it. It feels okay now."
Why, that little weasel - was he just about to... confess? Lying to me? Maybe even apologize?
I have just the punishment in mind. "Well, how about this -"
My glove flies into his armpit. He screeches, flailing around.
So naturally, I get three more gloves working him over. Dancing and teasing and pulling out all the stops.
My silicone compound is doing wonders for his voice. Every day, I get to start with nice, booming roars. His register will be permanently lower - with a nice whiskey rasp - but that will suit him so well...
I'm dusting him in a dozen places with feathers, and he opens his eyes suddenly. With an effort, he forces himself to stop hooting. And I know some gem is coming...
"Are you..." and he slurs into a big giggling fit.
I don't mind it, so I keep him giggling for a good thirty seconds more. "Am I what?"
"Are you, hoo hoo hoo huh huh, a huh guh g-ghost."
Whoa. I stop the feathers, making him sigh with relief. "Am I a ghost?"
He nods, gulping air.
I kiss him - on the forehead - and lick his right nipple. He jumps, twice. Very gratifying. And he seems to be reassured, somewhat. He closes his eyes.
"Why would you think that?"
He pants, and looks at the nearest feathers - the ones that were provoking his throat and his highly sensitive ribs. Then his eyes dart past 'em. Real quick. Toward the corner. And then back again, to the feathers.
The only thing over there... is the mirror.
"Talk to me."
"Oh, fuck. You'll just use it against m-"
"Is it the mirror?"
He starts pulling at the cuffs again. Truly... scared.
I chuckle. "What is it with you and mirrors?"
"That one -" and he clams up.
"That one?"
He sighs, scowling at the ceiling. "You don't see many horror films, do ya?"
"No, babe. I don't," I say drily. "Kinda busy saving the world."
"When you're not torturing guys."
"When I'm not tickle-torturing guys, yes. So are you gonna clue me in?"
He hesitates. Then, "There's this one scene, has to do with a mirror."
"Yeah?"
"And... uh, stuff comes out of it."
Bingo. "Ghosts?"
He shrugs - well, he tries to. "Yeah. And they have..."
I'm mystified. "What?"
"You know... Weapons."
"Oh-hhh," I said, taking the feathers away.
"Hey, now, just forget I said anything -"
"Brent. I'm taking that mirror out of the room."
The relief, on his face, is almost... excessive. Something else going on here, like he's focused on the mirror as the cause of all his delightful torment -
I get an idea. "Or should I break it?"
"Would you?"
Words escape me. Maybe he's lost it. Damn, I finally did it. Drove a guy nuts...
"Well, sure. I had no idea." I'm dying of curiosity. But not yet. "You tell me, Stinger. I'll haul it outside... Broken, or not broken? Which would be, uh, safer?"
"Oh, broken," he says. "Definitely."
"Facing the wall, like it is now - or do you want to see it break?"
That makes him think. "I wanna see."
"O-kay." I turn it around...
And I get a brilliant idea.
"How about if you break it, tough guy?"
I undo the strap holding his right wrist, and hand him one of his boots.
"One sec. Brent, you do know - you really know - that when that mirror breaks, I'll still be here? Tickling you? I'm not going to disappear or anything, Stinger. It isn't like you'll wake up and discover this has all been a dream -"
"I know," he says without hesitating. And he sighs.
That's the ticket. He's gonna be okay.
"Let 'er rip, then."
He winds up, and throws. The boot tumbles, but the heel connects low on the glass.
It cracks, and wobbles. But it doesn't break.
We both stare at it.
Without a word, I hand him his other boot.
"You know why I went to all that trouble, sport?"
"Because you like to fuck with my head."
"Because I knew you were holding back. Holding out on me. I just didn't know what it was."
"I wasn't h-"
"And now I'm gonna take you to places you ain't never been. Tickled to the moon and back, Stinger."
"Holding out on you? Are you kidding me?"
"No more of that. It's gonna get real fun now."
"You - I can't believe you! Holding out?" He pounds his head on the mattress. "What do you want from me? Where have you been the past few days? Fuck!"
"Now you can really concentrate on what the tickling feels like. Oh, yeah."
"You are out of your mind! I can't take more - hell, I can't possibly feel it any, uh, any harder!"
"Oh, but Stinger... babe... you are so very, very wrong."
- - 13 - -
During a quick nap, I clean him... and put a rubber sheet on the mattress. Then I pull the black satin sheet over that.
And oh, how he hates it!
"We now return you... to your regularly scheduled tickling."
His feverishness is refreshing. I coax it along for many sweet hours.
Delight, mirth, mania... jacked up severely.
I keep Brent deranged.
"Fuck..."
"You say that a lot."
He chuckles like a madman.
"Better. Why do you have to cuss so much?"
"Maybe 'cause you're driving me out of my mutherfuckin' mind."
"Cute. I get it." I pull the brushes off. "Hey, I got an idea."
"Oh fuck, no."
"You're still dying for a smoke? Am I right?"
He whimpers softly, and catches himself.
"It's been a couple days. Have you been fantasizing about 'em?"
"Nonstop," he mutters.
"Good. Tell ya what..."
"No."
I flick him in the nose. "You go an hour without uttering a single fuck, and I'll let you smoke."
"Yeah, right," he says.
"One continuous hour. I can't lose."
"No shit."
"I mean, you can't possibly pull it off. Not even for those Winstons you love so much."
"Yes I can," he shoots back.
"Naah."
"Dammit -"
"What?"
"I can go a fuc- an hour."
"This oughta be good."
He yanks at his wrist-cuffs. "C'mon."
"All right. I'll even sweeten the deal."
"I'm listening -"
"You can smoke all night. If you win."
"Ha," he barks. Arrogant to the bone. "Let's go."
"You asked for it," I warn him.
"Where's my watch?"
What I wouldn't give for a trick clock right now. Sloooow down the hands. Stretch the hour out to three, or four. But I bring his watch out, and hold it in front of his face. "It's right here."
"3:44," he says, squinting at it. "AM, or PM?"
"Wouldn't you like to know," I tease him.
"Before we get started, officially... Fuck you."
"Oh. I'm gonna get you for that," I say, surprised. He's getting playful. Huh. "Ten seconds." I set the watch by his head, where he can look over at it.
"Bring it on."
"Yeah, you talk big."
We watch it roll over to 3:45.
"Here we go," I announce. Let's see...
Feathers. Eight, ten - twelve. I start in on his meat.
"Ooooonnnhhhh," he groans.
"Yeah," I say happily. "Gonna break you."
"Go to hell."
"And let's add some fingers." Just one pair. I oil 'em up... and start rubbing his heels.
"Ooooh, oh shit, oh shit, whuhhhaaa hah hah haah hah haaah..."
"That's what I like to hear," I yell. "Did you really say... 'Fuck you'... to me?"
"Aaaawww haw haw haw haw haaaaaaaawww..."
He squirms in blissful misery. Looks at the watch.
3:46.
About a hundred "shits" and "damns" later, he squints at it again.
3:55.
"It gonna be such a loooooog hour, Stinger."
"Ah hah haah nnnnaaah hah hohwhoooo hoo haaaaaawllll..."
"Oh yeah."
3:59.
I get another pair of soft hands into the act. Rubbing his forearms, and elbows, a finger straying now and then onto his biceps. A little hint of their general direction.
He hoots wildly for me. It's an unusually happy sound, coming from him. Competely riveting. I choose to misinterpret it any way I want. Let's see... Pet me, Vik, pet me. Harder. Don't you dare stop.
4:05.
"Oh. No. Oh. No. Oh. No," and he laughs for awhile. Three more "oh no's," and more laughter. Smutty laughs.
His cock is leaking. I have no intention of pulling any of the feathers off.
Blinking hard, he checks the watch again.
Why didn't I think to bring a clock? Hinked to my specifications -
"Let me come. Havik'a. Please, pleee heee heee heee heee ho oh nnnnno oh no oh... nnno. Aaaaah hah hah haaaaeee eeeee heee heee heee haw haw haw haaaaawww..."
4:12.
"Hang in there, Stinger."
"Oh shih-hih-hih-hiiiit heh haw haw haw haw huh huh -"
"Almost halfway." That gets me a nice tortured groan. "Unless you don't want a cigarette that bad."
"Aw haw haw haw haw haw hunh yuh huh huh yuh yoo yooooo hoo hoo hooaaaaawwwhee hee heeeee!"
"Okay. Laugh it up, then."
He shakes his head and laughs.
4:18.
I really hate that watch. He's getting way too much relief from it, even if I'm making every second impossible. And, frankly, I'm stunned he made it this long.
"Cah-cock-suck-errrrrrr," he roars. "Suh huh sssucker sucker suckerrrrrrr..."
I rub his feet a little harder -
The watch! Wait, now...
I pick it up. Let's see.
Uh-huh! Multi-function.
Here's... the stopwatch.
I can just let this stopwatch run up to, say, four minutes and twenty-two seconds. And stop it. Brent will look at it - delirious, with his eyes all blurry with tears now. Oh, shit, it's only 4:22, this hour feels like it's ten fucking hours long. I'd nudge the start and stop button every so often, and when Stinger takes another look - oh, fuck, only 4:25. Fucking impossible. I gotta fucking say it... Fuck. Fuck me, it's only 4:29, oh fuck...
Yeah. Time will pass at whatever rate I decide.
Or not at all. Oh, yeah.
There's that big set of zeroes to the left, though. Hours and minutes. Even as far gone as I've got him, he might catch on...
I press the mode button again.
Ah. The alarm!
I tap the buttons - much better.
He hiccups, and giggles... and looks at his watch.
4:23.
And it's going to stay 4:23 for a very long time.
Maybe it's a silly bet. He can't win. I just bulldoze him, no matter what.
But he keeps checking the watch anyway!
I speed up my fingers. He arches, mouth wide open -
But my feathers hold position, until he stops trying to shoot his load.
Outside, the sun finally comes up...
Last time he checked, it was only 4:35.
"Vik, aw Vik, aw haw haw haw haaaaaw Vik no, nuh huh huh uh huh huh huh huh, I can't fff- I gotta, I gah ah hah hah haw f- ffffffuh-"
"Hold that thought," I say brightly. Pick up a silk scarf, and roll it into a tube.
"Ffffffaaaaaaugh," he squeals, as I dig into his soles.
And in goes the gag. As I tie it, I ease off with the gloves. "Let me help you out, here. You're so close, Stinger. Smoke. Remember?"
"Nnnuunnnh! Nnh nnh huwuh huwuh huwuh haaauh nnh!"
Time to go carousing - in his armpits.
"Nnnhh nnnnnaaaaauuuufuh! Fuuuuuh! Fuh fuh fuh uh hunh hunh nunh awh fuuuuuh..."
I win! That sure sounds like the F-word to me. Muffled, yeah - but all too typical for this foulmouthed dude.
Feeling generous I tap the button on his watch that adds a minute to the official "time".
"Hang in there, smoker..."
He rouses a little, and stares at his watch.
I guess he doesn't see the little letters that would make it all so much clearer - "ALM".
4:36.
I can't help but laugh along.
A sweaty half-hour passes before he checks again...
4:39.
He thrusts, and thrusts. Unsuccessfully.
Out of the growled chuckling - even less articulate than he was when I first gagged him! - comes a much louder whoop. Pure anguish. I absolutely love that sound, bracketed with that mindless, helpless mirth. I advance him another minute, just for that yelp.
But he doesn't look at the watch again... for another forty-five minutes.
I slip him some water, tie the gag again - and get back to it. More tickling than you can possibly stand, babe.
As it turns out... he never looks at the watch again.
I don't know when I've felt so powerful.
Time is stuck at 4:42. He's said "fuck" plenty of times.
He's got a lot more stimulation coming to him... and he's completely given up on the clock. It can't help him either.
Those last three minutes take another hour and a half to pass.
Then he nods off. Too exhausted to cum, poor baby. He'll really enjoy that first climax after he wakes up.
And I'll enjoy his post-cum ticklishness even more.
- - 14 - -
He yawns, real big, and looks around. Then, "Vik?"
"Stinger."
"Can I please, please... please... have the day off?" Said so simply. Aaaaaww.
To answer him, I take a pair of gloves and start massaging his feet.
"No nowhuhaaah hah hah ho ho," he chortles sleepily...
I amble up to his knees, and scratch underneath 'em. Gentle and slow. Just on the wrong side of tolerable, especially since it's a preview of so much more to come. Turning up the intensity bit by bit, on more of his sweet spots, until he only wishes he could howl.
Right now he wriggles around, laughing himself awake - fully alert, ready to be tickled to the full extent of what he can handle. That's substantially more than it was the first day...
I could get used to having him around.
A good ten seconds pass before I realize what I mean by that. Whoa. Vik. Uh-uh. No, no, no.
Maybe I have some thinking to do.
Sliding the gloves off, I wait for his little noise of relief, that soft "Whoooo...", and I get the big triangle pillow.
Jamming it under him - distracted by what I'm thinking, and feeling - I manage to pull his hair. His neck jerks, and he makes a quick barking noise.
"Sorry," I mutter -
And then I freeze.
What did I just say?
I am the hunter.
He's my captive. And I play rough. I brought him here... to put him through his paces. The most painfully ecstatic tortures I can come up with.
And now I'm apologizing to him?
And he caught it. My reaction... a dead giveaway.
He looks worried - at first. And then he smirks. It's not a particularly nice smirk. Rather victorious.
There's no backpedaling out of this one. He knows something has changed.
I glare at him, and get bad ideas. Just you wait, asshole. I'll make you eat that smirk. The one thing that hasn't changed is the tooth-rattling workout you're going through today...
He doesn't say anything at all. Very smart.
I feed him, and consider the pack of cigarettes. Tease him, my instinct says.
But I just don't have it in me. I need to think.
"Listen up," I say, nice and loud. He looks in the direction of where my voice is coming from -
That gives me the chance to bring the cigarettes, his lighter and the ashtray up from the other side of the bed. I set 'em by his hand.
"I have to... take care of something." Fuck, how lame. "If you behave yourself, I'll give you the morning off."
He clearly doesn't believe me.
I tap the ashtray with the lighter. Seeing 'em, he really looks worried.
"Smoke, asshole," I order him, and he grabs the pack. I fetch a beer - three beers. And the urinal. He's already on his third drag. "Here's the deal. If you're good. If."
"Okay -"
"Shut up. Honestly, I don't know why I put up with your shit." I hope I don't regret this.
I loosen the strap that's anchoring his right wrist.
He likes the sight of that. A lot.
His relief just pisses me off. "You're going to sit here and chain-smoke. And you'll drain these beers," and I put the urinal in position, and make a sandbag cruise up, to keep it from falling over.
He nods. "And then?" Smartass...
"And then I'm going to tickle you into a higher state of consciousness."
To look at him, it's obvious he doesn't know just what that means, but that it must be intense. And it will be. Oh, Brent, get ready.
"I will not be far away. Sometimes I'll be right here, watching, and you won't know it. The door will stay locked, so if you manage to get out of the cuffs, you're not getting any further." I speak quietly, close to his ear. "Actually, if you touch these cuffs, I will be angry. And I trust you remember what the tickling is like - when I'm pissed off. Brent."
He blinks those big blue eyes.
"Remember... you never know when I'm right here, waiting for you to fuck up..."
I hang there. He smokes, and looks at his arm. Enjoy the view, I think, it'll be restrained again soon enough. Anchored for my tickling pleasure.
And he gets more inquisitive. Of course.
When he starts fingering the cuff holding his left wrist down... I make a loud throat-clearing noise.
He pulls his hand back fast. Caught in the act. Guilty little boy, et cetera.
That should buy me ten minutes of peace. Maybe longer. I slip out of the cabin and watch the trees sway.
I have the wildest idea.
I've never had it before. That's what ol' Stinger does for me.
But it feels... so good.
Okay. Get rational, now. A list of all the reasons why not.
And I discover none of them are, well, insurmountable.
I want him.
I can have him.
Any chance of coming to my senses?
Erwin. He'll talk me down.
Next time I call him... which doesn't have to be, you know, right now or anything. In fact, I could call him later -
I chuckle to myself.
Afterward. Call him... after. Do the crazy, risky, impossible thing and then call Erwin. Yeah. Okay...
Checking on Stinger, I find him behaving. Doing what he was told. I wait until he brings the beer up to his lips -
"Boo."
He almost drops the beer, that's how startled he is.
"Don't do that!"
"Wow, you're jumpy. Guilty conscience?"
"Vik -"
"You don't want to spill your beer. In fact..." I get a pint bottle of JD, and stick it in his hand.
"Vik, c'mon -"
"Get drunk. That's an order."
"No. Please. I don't wan-"
"Sloppy drunk. Roarrring drunk." I'm definitely feeling better, when I torment him with puns and enjoy them this much. "I'll give you water, but not until you're so drunk you're seeing double."
He sighs real hard. The big baby.
"So you better get to it..."
I go back outside and think of five excellent reasons why I shouldn't do what I'm thinking about.
When I check back on him, he's smiling. Dammit. A smile I'm not tickling out of him. Little crinkles next to those beautiful eyes. He's taken a few pulls from the bottle.
"How are you feeling?," I say quietly.
"Feelin' alright," he replies, after a pause.
I watch him smoke for a while. He's drunk, but his eyes aren't crossing yet.
"A couple more shots, babe. Down the hatch."
"Aye aye, ma'am."
Back above the roof of the cabin, I'm just totally... confused.
- - 15 - -
Figure about twelve hundred miles. I wonder if his truck will make it...
Nah, better play it safe. A plan starts to gel.
When I look in on him again, his head is lolling.
"Look at you," I nag. "Now you're too drunk to enjoy a good hard tickling, Stinger."
"Uh..." He's thinking hard about that one. "Good."
I free his other wrist. "So I guess it'll have to be a long, slow tickling."
After a few seconds, he starts to chuckle.
"That's it," I say. "I like that. Keep it up." I stick a pair of gloves in his armpits and wiggle 'em around.
"Nooooo hooo hoo hoooooo," he giggles, pulling his arms in tight.
"Yeah, like that's going to stop me." I unhook the ankle-straps. He doesn't notice, for a while. Then he curls up into a ball. A wobbly, laughing mess.
"Aaaaah hah hah haah..."
I keep it very light, so he doesn't throw up all over himself. He tries to creep around, but I pull him back to the center of the bed when he makes any progress. As he tries to protect one area, I start in another.
With water, and patience... and a break for some chipped beef... we have a very hot afternoon.
As the alcohol passes out of his system, he gets into that tough-guy thing again. After I reattach the restraints, I light him a cigarette.
"How's your head?"
"Fine."
"Thirsty?"
"No," he says impatiently. His ankles are busy, trying to bust free.
"You want to eat now?"
"No!"
"Well, then... you know what I'm going to do to you?"
He sighs, real disgusted.
I drill him for a couple hours, and feed him right. Hell, I even give him another cigarette.
And then I shred him for another raging hour.
When he's snoring, I get into his truck...
At three in the morning, on a Thursday, the whole town seems to be asleep. Especially the cops.
At his place, I back into the handicapped parking place and fly up to his apartment.
Within five minutes, I have a pretty good idea of what stays and what goes.
As quickly as I can - and in perfect silence - I load up everything that looks like it might have any importance to Brent. It makes a surprisingly small pile in the bed of his truck. Kinda sad.
The next stop is near a moving company. Their alarm system is a joke, like so many others - no challenge for me at all. I help myself to a few big cardboard boxes, a few rolls of duct tape, and a big wooden crate.
And last, a medical supply house...
Almost two hours after I left, I roll back up to the cabin.
He's sleeping like a baby. Whew.
So I box up his stuff - except for his clothes. Rig up the crate.
And I put him through one more day of raw, heart-pounding madness. Turning him over so I can raze his absurdly sensitive backside for a few sizzling hours.
Then I just have to flip him back, and coax another more tickle-amplifying load. Taking my time.
I triple-check my math. Four cc's will do it. It's a reliable drug.
So I slip it into a vein on the top of his bright red foot.
His breathing is steady.
Off to dreamland for at least twelve hours.
- - 16 - -
I clean him up, get a diaper on him and get him dressed. Prop him behind the wheel, and load everything up...
Driving west, I call the office. Have 'em arrange for my cargo to be flown to Dulles. Just one more of the perks of being me.
Love Field.
Waiting for a stupid security guard to go away wastes twenty minutes.
Finally, I can pull the truck over to the unmarked hangar. Dump everything, including him, in the shadows.
I race off the airport and over to a greasy spoon, where I leave the truck - keys in the ignition, window down, two packs of Winstons on the seat...
And as I fly back to the hangar, I'm mad at myself for this whole brainless idea.
But he's still where I left him.
I pull the lid off the crate. Most of his clothes are in there, to act as padding. I pull his old varsity jacket on him, a pair of work gloves.
Wrapping him up with every restraint I have... And then I set a skinny green tank alongside him. The mask goes around his head, parked temporarily on his forehead.
In he goes. More clothes on top. Insulation, actually.
I hold the lid up, and watch him sleep.
Maybe another ten minutes go by, until the twin-prop rolls up. I wait as long as I can before putting the lid back on...
The plane rolls past and turns around. Two guys ease out, and put Brent's stuff into the plane. Then they reach for Brent.
I hold the lid of the box real tight. They groan and cuss, but it's more for show. They don't have any problem raising us... and sliding the crate in.
Hopping up, they close the door, start throwing straps around the boxes carelessly -
And the plane starts to roll.
Goodbye, Dallas.
One of the guys sits in the co-pilot's seat. The other is in the front of the cargo compartment, also facing forward. He slouches in his web seat and folds his arms. Taking a nap.
The cardboard boxes are between us and the men, which is also a lucky break.
Works for me. I ease the lid off a few inches. Stinger looks fine. Breathing good, color good. I get the mask in place, and turn on the oxygen.
And we take off. Not even the roar of the engines wakes him up.
The crew doesn't put on masks, so I relax about the breathability of the air. It's not something I ever had to worry about before. They're not bundling up, either, so it must not get very cold.
He sleeps like a rock.
I pull the mask off and cut the oxygen as we start our descent. The last thing I need is the hissing of the tank to get 'em curious.
At Dulles, they load the boxes and the crate into a van and take off when their ride arrives.
I immediately pull the lid and haul Stinger out of the crate. Plop him in the driver's seat - and turn the engine over...
That shouldn't have worked out as well as it did. But I'll take it.
I make two quick stops on the way home. And then, straight to my place. Deep in Virginia. Miles from anywhere.
There's a lot of work just ahead, but I'm getting excited now. Unpacking, setting stuff up, installing...
On to Part 3
21jan02