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Sam let himself in around one in the morning.
He headed for the bathroom first, yawning as he went. After a couple minutes, he came out and kicked off his boots, slid out of his jeans and tossed the rest of his clothes on the pile.
With an easy moan, Sam laid down on the bed.

An hour later, as he snored, the sheet lifted off him slowly and fell to the floor.
His right arm rose a little bit, taking a full minute to move down by his side. Then, very gradually, he rolled over. Onto his back. The movement looked wrong, as though he was... being rolled.
As his head moved, he stopped in mid-snore, but resumed a few seconds later.
Then his arms traveled out, and up. His hands remained an inch off the surface of the bed.
Something dark appeared by Sam's left wrist. Silently appearing, right near his hand, and moving underneath. One end crept through a heavy buckle, then another. The cuff tightened at a snail's pace.
Its twin materialized by his right forearm.

After his ankles were enclosed in wider cuffs, four straps blinked into existence. Thick screw hasps caught steel rings on the cuffs and spun tight.
Sam moved - about six inches, sliding until his heels hung off the end of the mattress. He grunted softly, and moved his head back and forth. But after a minute he started snoring again.
The straps looped around the bottom of the bedposts. They pulled tight, so slowly...
Hands relaxed and limp, arms and legs extended fully, he didn't move as the far end of the straps knotted several times.

Sam laid there, still asleep, restrained to his bed - alone in the cottage he rented, which sat well back at the end of the road.
The door to his room closed quietly.

A different shape appeared.
It was the shape of a hand. Large, jet-black, too smooth and perfect to be a real hand. It was satin, and empty. All filled-out, but without a hand inside it.
There was only one use for this glove. To put it to full use, restraints were necessary. And to use it without interruption, privacy was essential.
The magic glove cruised over Sam, and down. It stopped just above his right foot, fingers curling...
Gripping his instep.
He woke up immediately.
And that was a very good sign.

The glove squeezed and started to knead.

Sam grunted, and tried to move. He lifted his head, but from his vantage point, there was nothing to see.
"What the fuh huh huh huh haah haaaah..."
Soft fingers traced their way under, to the bottom of his foot - and dug in.
Sam howled. He lunged and squirmed with all he had. Bouncing, thrashing around, and roaring lustily. The phantom hand tried his left foot, sliding and rubbing at a good clip.
He tried and tried to get away. Nothing worked. He was held tight on the bed, and the glove kept polishing intently. Sam worked up a sweat, and made a lot of noise, but he stayed right there.
After ten minutes or so, he slumped and laid still, just whooping over and over.
Then another glove was there, suddenly, out of nowhere. It floated up to his right foot and got busy.

They didn't stop until a half-hour had passed.
Sam panted for a while. Then he pulled at the straps again and started to beg.
A pair of feathers materialized and drifted into position.
"No more, no, no, please - whaah! Oh, shit - shit! No! Naaah nunnnnah hah haaa neeeeee..."

Sam became hysterical and wet the bed.

A water bottle came to his lips. When he finally recognized it, he turned his head away. Another thirty seconds of feather-dusting changed his mind, however.
Ermine brushes came next. As they landed, Sam moaned - a hopeless, weary little moan - and started to chuckle again.

The gloves returned... and explored all the surfaces of his feet.

Toothbrushes with rubber-tipped gum stimulators were used creatively.

He was given water every other break.
When his breathing had levelled off, his feet were introduced to the effects of massage oil, diligently applied by surgical gloves. The result was so drastic that his bowels loosened.

Then feathers again... followed by Q-tips, and shoe brushes, and liniment, and more oil, and the original satin hands.
He didn't see any of them. They stayed out of his view, and he'd given up entirely on trying to look, much less trying to get away. Sam wasn't protesting anymore, either. None of it mattered.
The tickling continued. It was going to continue. He laughed without a voice, since he'd worn it right out. But that didn't stop the phantom tickler.

After a while, he just whispered, "Please, no more, aw please," over and over again whenever he had enough breath to speak.
The rest breaks grew longer, as the tickling wore him down.

Feathers dragging between his sensitized toes got him squirming again, squealing hysterically and begging them to stop. It came out as whispers and huffed breaths, but that didn't matter. The feathers sawed meticulously until he quit moving and pleading... and they continued tickling him.

It was still dark outside when the brushes returned.

Sam lay totally still, breathing deeply.
He'd needed thirty-five minutes to quit panting, get his heartbeat down to normal. The mattress was soaked with sweat, it smelled like a toilet...
An ashtray set down by his side. He just stared at it, like he didn't know what it was for. Still breathing hard.
Then a rectangle had blinked into existence over his head, started turning, peeling open... He just closed his eyes. When the cigarette came, he hesitated - but not for long. He held onto it. Heard the lighter, but didn't suck in.

From under the bed, a blanket started to rise. Two corners floated out and toward the ceiling, then apart. As if it was going to be folded... or laid across someone.
He'd had a grueling night. The cigarette could be put out, and the blanket laid over him gently, so he could get the sleep he wanted so badly.
Instead, the blanket floated away. To the window. There was no curtain rod - just a roller shade.
Instantly, a hammer showed up. A dozen big nails.
The pounding got him to look. The room didn't become much darker, but he appeared to figure it out. Sam put his head back down... and took a slow drag.

The next cigarette was pretty much ignored, as he gave the restraints a serious fight. He dropped the smoke, once -
It landed by his right armpit and sizzled out. He'd perspired through the sheet. He tried to see where it went... and looked back up. Scared. Reluctant to move. Expecting trouble... A particular consequence for misbehavior.
But a new cigarette came up. He sucked in on that one more, even as he tried to get loose.
 

After a water break, eight feathers started in.

All of the tools returned.
 

Then they tried various combinations. Exploring further, making him pull at the straps again. It didn't matter.

The breaks came more frequently, as his strength went. But the tickling resumed, over and over...

He woke up, sitting -
Tied. Heavy wood chair that hadn't been there before. Looking around him -
He was in his living room. He looked all around, eyes stopping where the TV used to be, the VCR - the videotapes, including his private stash. A couple of pictures from the wall.
Sam yelled for help, but his voice was barely loud enough for him to hear. And Jumpy's trailer was a good quarter-mile away...
Six gloves popped into view, right in front of him. Work gloves, some kind of leather, pale in the gloom. Sam tensed up, but they didn't jump on him.
One of them turned over - and a coil of rope landed across its palm. Nice and easy...
They wrapped up his left ankle, above the knots already pinning it to the chair leg. Then his right, with loops between the two... His feet came loose from the chair slowly, and were pulled together before he could do anything about it.
His left wrist was retied in front. All six gloves bringing it around, slow but sure. Roping it to the big knot that bound his legs. Then his other arm was pulled around too.

When they had him hogtied, they picked him up. The front door opened -
His truck had been backed up to the door. Loaded up... with a bunch of his stuff. Almost as if he was moving.
He squirmed in their grip, as they hauled him out into the twilight.
They sat him behind the wheel, and loosened the last knot so he could sit up.
A pack materialized. When he was exhaling smoke, the gloves stuck his sunglasses on him and turned the engine turned over. And he was on his way.

The truck drove east, down old logging roads, for miles. There were turns and u-turns, switchbacks...
Sam was alert at first, squinting through his shades, but night fell. After a while, he quit watching. Just sat there and smoked.

When the truck stopped, he looked around again. There were sounds from behind him, but he couldn't turn around.
The gloves opened the car door after a few minutes, and pulled him out. The moon was high, and he gave it a good look as they brought him inside.
It was dark. The door sounded heavy as it closed behind his back. The gloves separated his hands and legs, then pulled the rope off his ankles. They stood him up and had to steady him for awhile. Sam grunted to himself, shifting from leg to leg. He had time to smoke a cigarette before he could walk...
After a couple small steps, a water bottle shook in front of his face, not going away until he sucked it dry.
He turned and took a step - and a hand pushed his right shoulder, correcting his course. He looked harder, and walked straight. It was lighter, ahead, but not by much. A patch -
A doorway. He hesitated...
Two gloves, shoving him harder. He took another step. Recognizing a large shape, in the room...
Sam walked in. Paused, and took another step. His sunglasses were pulled off.
It was a bed. His bed. Under a skylight. The full moon cast enough light that it was immediately recognized as his.
The restraints stood out well against the new rubber sheet.
Behind him, the door slammed shut.
Clearly, Sam had moved. This was home now. He was going to be here for awhile. Might as well get comfortable... in his very own bed.

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