He opened the door, pushed the vacuum into the storeroom, and dug for his lighter. Fired up a smoke.
The light turned on.
Of course, his head swiveled... and he stared at an odd-looking chair. Thick wood, cuffs dangling and ready, big padded traps for his ankles.
His ankles -
That thing didn't belong here. Somebody brought it. Edging away, he hoped it was a coincidence, and that someone who worked here during the day had stashed it.
There was a sudden sting. He slapped at his neck. Not a mosquito.
When he went to reach for the door handle, he realized he was dizzy. No, dammit, definitely not coincidence.
"Aw, no," he said to the bondage chair.
Turning to run, he bumped into the wall, slid to his knees. I'm passing out. Caught. again, for that shit. Endless tickling -
The thought got him scrabbling forward. He had to get out of the office, now. Last chance. But his arm slid out from under him and he fell on his side. Spinning, graying out. Gonna be unconscious soon.
It was amazing. He'd dreaded this. Not again. But he knew it was only a matter of time. What really pissed him off was that he'd actually convinced himself that next time would be in the parking lot of the liquor store, or sticking rental DVD's in the damn machine outside Rx-a-thon at three in the morning. When that hadn't happened for a whole month - after the third fuckin' time he went through this - he started to relax. Dumb, so dumb.
The very first kidnapping had happened just outside the parking lot here. Gloves had piled in right after he turned onto the street. Grabbed him by the throat, opened the car door - and all kinds of gloves came in...
His car would be hidden somewhere tonight. They'd moved it the other times. That made sense, in a really sick way.
He'd talked himself out of looking for a different job, somewhere else. Hardly anybody hired felons. It wasn't like the building was where all the risk was, aw hell no. But now he felt like he fuckin' asked for it. Opening a door here and seeing something just like this damn chair? Yup. Sure as shit.
Oh, wow. The whole fuckin' office was closed now - until after New Year's. Eight or nine days with no one else coming around?
Just my luck, he thought...
He woke up slowly, staring at a black satin thong.
It was all he was wearing. Except for the restraints, of course. His wrists were spread and caught above his head, so he wouldn't be able to do a damn thing when the parade of tickling toys approached. Straps anchored his biceps, which made sure he couldn't protect his pits or sides even a little...
And there were the stocks of his nightmares. Hard experience. Long and hard. They didn't even budge when he kicked.
Thin rope kept his big toes straight up. Not even the useless squirming and scrunching of his toes was going to be allowed.
And over to his right there were four or five cartons of cigarettes. His brand.
That confirmed the even more-impossible truth, he thought.
The steady-handed pro is gonna move you... probably to the attic, the east end, and keep on tickling. Nobody went into that corner where the old records were piled up to the ceiling, if they could help it. Going up there once had been all it took. Ticklers would have basic walls, ventilation windows, and nobody close enough to notice.
A horny nightmare he'd had about a dungeon made him want to scream. Was that next? Picked out already, full of what he needed and the captor loved, hidden from everybody else. How many fuckin' cartons were waiting for him there? He'd expected wild dreams about being caught again... but not that they'd make him hard as a fuckin' rock. This invisible tickler had planned ahead. A longer tickling was underway - trying to be objective, he was sure of that. A different cell. Cases of food, maybe big bags full of gloves, cases of oil... He whimpered and tugged at the restraints. Of course, it was useless. No one would be come into the damn building. It was vacation week. The janitor wasn't supposed to stick around, the whole time, but the bondage wasn't loosening at all. He'd feel it all, again - so deep inside and still growing bigger and thicker. It trapped him during vacation week, in the storeroom, because there was zero chance of anybody interfering with its fun.
Groaning, he looked at all the cigarettes. Or, hell, sneak him off to the hidden dungeon right quick. The damn chair is yanked off the ground, and zoom - out the back door, gloves tickling and tickling, and he'd be too damn distracted to track where the next cell was as it coasted him down and inside. Dammit.
It had watched him. Planned everything... real well. The last night anybody would be there for a while, and he was the last one to clock out.
Nothing at all would hinder its fun -
A couple big black toolboxes floated along either side of his padded bench.
Hello again, he thought. I've seen you dudes before. He wanted to yell his head off, and crying was right up there too. The damn boxes were filled with waaaa-ay too much excitement. Pleasure. Hour after hour.
The cuffs were still snug as ever.
This shit didn't end here in the storeroom. He was miserably sure of that. Knew it was gonna go from bad to worse.
Happy holidays, fuckhead, you're mine now.
The box that came to the floor a little closer to him was opened first. More magic, just like before. The lid was unlatched, then the other lid. Opening up. No big rush.
Another cigarette was stuck between his lips, and he leaned toward the lighter when it cruised up.
Gloves were pulled out of both toolboxes. Pale tan - latex - and the black ones nearest to him were some new replacement for rubber.
The invisible so-and-so pretended to pull 'em on. Big guy's hands appeared to fill 'em out.
Six, eight, fourteen gloves... gathering around a big squeeze-bottle of oil.
He smoked hard. They came and picked their spots. Snuggled down...
Aaaaand they're off!
Anger, then panic... pure hysteria, totally out to break the damn straps, thoughts fuckin' scrambled...
Aw, I sound like this is the best thing ever. Haw haw haw haw. Tear it up. Just can't stop laughing.
Fingers were everywhere. Pouring in the most insane current, way down deep.
Thrashing around wasn't working at all. Yelling laughter didn't even come close to helping him deal...
Roaming, combing, gloves were always moving. He couldn't do a damn thing to shift his feet, protect his pits, throw his legs around.
This will go on for years, he thought wildly. That's what it seemed like, the other times.
Get real. It sucks, but... maybe a half-hour is over and done with.
It's set on tickling me. Oh, shit.
Smoking was a faraway thing. It gave him some relief, even if the gloves were out to get all of his attention. He worked on a long drag.
Last time, or the time before, this sadistic bastard taught him how to do this. Tickle hard enough, deep enough, whatever - and he got too fuckin' overloaded to do anything. Habit kicked in. Drink this water, munch on this protein bar, get another smoke goin'. His body just did that shit.
Every nerve was humming, his skin felt the greasy fingers more and more, but the tickler's new pet knew how to eat and drink and smoke like a chimney without thinking.
Inside his head, he roared and howled like a real man.
Pulsing. Slow throbs. Bigger, now. Stronger. Shit!
All over his armpits. Shins. Ears. Nips. All over his ribs, too. All around his package. On his feet, everywhere.
The leather shit and the damn stocks held just as snug as before.
He ate smoke. Another hour of this and he'd definitely be too weak to crawl, much less run for the hills.
Big toolboxes full of supplies. Tickler, magic, never needs to rest up. Obsessed.
Begging, threatening, bargaining - nope. It never even paused. Back when he could laugh, and really blast it out, the cops hadn't busted in and rescued him.
He guzzled beer...
Whew, yeah, an actual break. He watched a pack of smokes start rapping on top of the stocks. One pack was gone? Smoked up. So - three hours down, maybe less. The first night, of who the fuck knows how many, wasn't halfway over.
The next cigarette came, and a lighter followed. Look, ex-con - no hands. Well, no visible hands.
It looked like brushes were being fished out of the toolboxes. He rolled his neck around. The weirdest fuckin' things had become familiar. The new normal...
22sep2019