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Wox had the cabin all set up. Scrounge was gonna disappear tonight. Hell, yeah.
It couldn't wait for him to get home, so it could stick some gas stabilizer in the gas tank of his motorcycle, tuck the cover over it as soon as it cooled - and haul his ass off for the winter. Hysterical fun.
His house was still dark...
But the side door of the garage was open.
Inside, it discovered the most amazing thing!

The best thing ever would've been to find Scrounge passed out, ready to be picked up and taken to the truck.
But Wox found a consolation prize that was almost too good to believe...
Junior was tied to a chair and gagged. His boots had even been pulled off.
Scrounge's little brother.

Time just stopped, there, for a moment. It became a lucky night. Maybe perfect luck. There was no bike parked outside, Wox realized, and no jacket on the kid or laying around. His wallet wasn't on the chain.
Somebody had ripped off Junior's ride?
There was plenty of rope holding his ankles and wrists to the chair.
Wox chuckled softly.
His eyes went wide - and the young biker started fighting for all he was worth. Scrounge had warned him, apparently.

That didn't matter now. He was panicking just like a trapped, ticklish Carmody man should. Scrounge's hunter had stopped by, before big brother made it home - and Junior seemed to know what he was in for now.
It closed the door, thrilled at his desperate reaction. Screaming, trying to hop the chair to freedom - away from the happy phantom...
Not a chance, Wox thought excitedly. Gonna see what you got.
It tilted his chair back.
"Nnnnnnnnugh!" he yelled.
The robber had tied him really well. Wox grabbed an old tire, jamming in under the chair backrest. Junior's hands stayed off the ground, tugging frantically. His socked feet were up in the air. They weren't moving, no matter how hard he tried to get 'em loose.

Panic kept him squirming and yelling. He was a very low-key dude, usually. But someone had wanted him to stay tied to the chair for awhile...
Wox turned off the overhead light. Only the work lamp on the bench was still on, well past his desperately straining feet.
With a happy sigh, it curled invisible hands over his arches.
"Aaaaaaaaaggghh," he groaned, shaking his head. Protesting was all he could do. His ass belonged to Wox now.
The tickler gave him a loud, feisty laugh - and set more unseen fingers down against the base of his toes.

He was every bit as freakin' sensitive as Scrounge.
Junior fought like a spitfire, and laughed like a foghorn.
As soon as Wox tugged his socks off and dug in, heh, he was wilder still.

Sweating buckets, the tears just streamed down his face...
And he pissed himself after ten minutes.
That seemed like as good a time as any to let him catch his breath. Wox loosened the gag. "Yell, and this goes right back in," it said sternly.
His eyes scanned around, looking for any kind of clue. Chest heaving... "Nnnuugghh."
"If you're anything like Scrounge, you're pretty desperate for a smoke right about now. And a beer. So long as you don't shout. If you do, Junior, it's the gag again. Nod if you're gonna behave yourself."
He finally nodded.
"I mean it," the tickler warned, pulling the bandanna down under his chin. His drool started oozing from the soaked cotton.
"Son of a bitch," Junior rasped.
Wox opened the fridge. He stared as a bottle of beer came over, flipping the cap off as it descended. His chair tilted up halfway. The dude was balanced there, helpless as he could be.
"Where's the smokes?" Vox grumbled, making him drink the beer.
"Toolbox," he finally said when the bottle was empty. "Dammit."
"Little Carmody's every bit as unhinged as his big brother gets," it said proudly, bringing an open pack to him.

He kicked out smoke and immediately took another drag. The relief he was getting was perfectly obvious. It looked familiar.
"Oh, shit," Junior finally groaned. "You're not done yet. Are you?"
Wox laughed warmly.
"C'mon," he wailed - sounding like an eight-year-old. That was one of the irresistible things about Scrounge too. They both reverted to wild little kids when it tickled them enough.
"Can you really blame me? How many times have you been tied up -"
"Zero," he snapped, "before this. I've been trying not to be alone anywhere - because of what I've heard about you!"
"Aaaaaaw."
"And I thought about this exact shit happening when the bastards tied me up," he complained, taking another drag.
"I came here to grab Scrounge," it said. "Maybe you... sorta, y'know, called me to you. At the right time -"
"Fuck that."
"Second-best thing I could've discovered tonight."
He whimpered and snapped at the rope.

Wox tried not to laugh at him. A nightmare was happening to the tough little biker, and it wasn't over yet. It got him another beer.
After a few slugs, it let him start a new cigarette, holding the butt against the end of the new one for him.
"Aw, hell, don't do this to me anymore," he sighed, working the kinks out of his neck. "Or Scrounge."
The tickler didn't say anything. It just brought a box cutter over and started shredding his sweaty t-shirt.

Ticklish, vulnerable sides were exposed. Junior's arms solid enough, under all the tats, but they weren't going to faze the knots.
Wox tossed his cigarette away even though it was only half-finished.
"Let's do it," the tickler said eagerly. It stuck the open beer between his lips. "Finish this."
"Nooooooo," he whined after the last swallow went down. He jerked and slammed around anxiously -
But the tickler laid his chair back down on the tire, and tugged the gag back into place.
Sadistic fingers took possession of his sides, and belly, and pecs.
Junior convulsed, arching hard - and shrieked laughter.

It was so much like tearing into Scrounge that Wox was surprised when the kid relaxed. That shouldn't have happened until he was fully fatigued, not fifteen fuckin' minutes into the set. But the desperate chuckles eased off too -
And his face changed, just for an instant. A different leer... not as tortured.
Very intriguing.

Skilled hands got to know his torso, and what really hit home.
The distracted scowl was back... but Junior didn't show the anger that his ticklish brother, well, damn near always did. Wox had to find out what the difference was -
Just like that, Scrounge was off the hook. A biker in the hand - hands - and all that.

As he panted for air, still hysterical from recent tickles, Wox confirmed that he didn't have a cell phone on him - lost along with his jacket, apparently - and slipped into Scrounge's house.
It went to the room Junior was using. A little pile formed on the bed - t-shirts, underwear, socks, jeans, sneakers, money, cigarettes, weed.
Three plastic grocery bags were pulled out of the tangle under the sink. Wox found a pen, and flipped over an old swap meet flyer...
 

 
It left the note on the counter, took the bags back to the bedroom and packed the shit that waited on Junior's bed.
Then Vox flew to the other side of the highway and stole a car with tinted windows.

He was too tired to struggle as it untied him from the chair - and recinched the knots. Water splashed on the chair and all over the puddle he'd made, and work towels scrubbed quickly to hide the mess. Wox flew 'em over to the trash can, shoving them way down underneath.
Wearily, Junior watched a pair of cheap brown work gloves come over. Strong fingers forced the gloves over his hands.
Three bottles of beer cruised out of the refrigerator, almost in formation, and led the way.
The side door opened.
Wriggling and trying to complain through the gag, Junior was carried out to the car.

The gloves made him grip the steering wheel. Wox worked the pedals, keeping his calves tight against the seat and six or eight hands locked around his arms. "We're gone," it told him, starting the engine.

When it had gone a mile or so, it pulled the car over.
The gag was pulled down again.
"Oh, no, don't do this, c'mon," he whined.
A cigarette slid between his lips.
"You're in for it, scumbag," the tickler said. "Be a pal. Give your brother a break. The cabin's all ready."
He looked dazed. "Cabin?"
"Yeah. Real private, big-ass locks to keep you stuck but good. Already stocked for old-school biker tickling. Laugh time for one of the Carmody boys." A beer opened.
"No. Uh, Wex - it that it? Wix?"
"Wox," it said, squeezing his fingers with the gloves for a few seconds.
"Okay. Wox. Ow. Okay. You wanna rethink this."
"Good try."
The car peeled out.

Junior was trying to come up with some good reasons why it should let him slither out of the torture. Before he'd get a complaint all the way out, he kept sighing instead.

Vox pulled the car over on a dark country road, and lit another smoke for its prisoner.
"Is this it?" he asked.
"Gas time. I stashed a big can here."
"Of course you did."
"So you can quit watching that gauge and hoping."
"Dammit," he hissed.

A good ten miles of winding two-lane road, and Wox pulled onto a dirt-track.
They bounced down it for almost twenty minutes...

The engine revved, and the car darted to the left suddenly, plowing its way next to a thicket of younger trees.
Junior's gloves pulled his hands together. Rope drifted up, pulling tight around his wrists. His ankles were next.
Wox rolled the window down, slid him out from behind the wheel - and tightened the hog-tie.
"Hey! Aw... hell," he barked.
"Yell all you want now," the tickler shot back. "Won't change a thing. You're fucked now, son."

As the car window rolled back up, he saw a tarp spread out in midair. Unfolding over the stolen car. Hiding it.
The tickler carried him loosely - limbs up, and feet-first - out of the trees. The pack crinkled over him.
"Smoke?" Wox asked, sticking the cigarette between his lips.
"Any chance you could knock it off with the bouncy bullshit?" he said, craning his neck to reach the lighter that had raced up and ignited in front of his face.
"Your brother hates it too." To emphasize it, Wox eased into bigger and slower bounces. "Master tickler's got ya. Carmody's gonna get it now, impressively ticklish, and we're on our way to the playroom for lots of hardcore kootchie-kootchie-koo."
"Well, that's... that's scary as hell. Thanks."
"You don't look entirely scared."
"Fuck."

Not long after he'd finished his smoke, the cabin came into view. Junior fought to get loose from Wox's hands, watching the door open.
But in he went, and the locks snapped shut just the same.

In a couple minutes, the stove had heated up the room. He spent the time grimacing at the bondage equipment, the brushes and feathers, lubes and scarves...

The strap wound over and under his wrists. Now the cuffs really wouldn't budge.
Junior watched it, frowning, kicking out smoke.
"There," Wox said, chuckling happily. This was really spectacular. There was no chance at all now that he'd get out of its hands. He was healthy as a horse, and so ticklish. Shit was gonna get real now.
"I can't believe you're gonna... Dammit!"
"Your clothes are outside," it taunted. "Hidden real well. You can figure out why."
There would be no one stumbling by, out here, to discover what Junior was going through - that couldn't have been more obvious. Wox didn't take chances with Scrounge.
It would be such a long time before the snow went away, and riding season was back.

"You're trembling," Wox said. "Scrounge did that. At first."
"It's too m-much," he finally replied.
"Never. I'm really good at monitoring you dudes. Keeping you nuts. I'll be taking extremely good care of you. Scrounge is the same ol' guy, right? When I'm not working him over?"
"Well..." Junior said.
"More or less? And he is mellowing out a little because of age, so don't go blaming that on me."
"But you fuck with our heads," he complained.
"I sure do," it shot back.
"Of all the stupid, embarrassing shit to do. And now it's gonna happen to me."
"No one's gonna find out. That's why I hauled you way out in the sticks."

He watched his trapped wrists as he tried to pull and twist it. "Great. Nobody to get me away from you."
"You got it," Wox chuckled. "And it's gonna blow your mind, son. But you only experience one instant at a time. The ultra-marathon is my job. Keeping you sensitive and suffering - that's on me. You just have to try and deal with the current tickling. Until the next smoke break. You got me?"
"Fucker," he muttered, taking a drag.
"Hey, now." Wox took his cigarette away.
He glared, but his body wasn't as tense as Scrounge was at this point. Very curious. Junior heaved a giant sigh. "No way to talk you out of this?"
"Lose that ticklishness. Completely. That might do it." The phantom chuckled. "But you better hurry up."
It dimmed the light.

Old southern rock started playing softly.
"Now let me welcome the younger Carmody dirtbag," Wox said, "in the way I like best."
Feathers approached, touching him in a half-dozen places... and moved light and slow.
 

Wox had him right in the zone. He hadn't really squirmed in a good half-hour. His breathing had leveled off, and he could manage only the occasional groan or chuckle.
"The bristles go round and round," it growled softly, "back and forth, over and over and over."
His head barely twitched. The level of sensation lighting up his belly and sides was powerful enough that laughter or wriggling was impossible. Soft nylon points skated through the oil, at random speeds, just as they had for the past twenty minutes.
Junior's body was fully vulnerable, and endlessly ticklish. Wox let him howl now and then, but most of his hours would crawl by like this - fevered, broken, completely occupied by the stimulation. His screams and hoots hadn't changed anything, because there wasn't another cabin within two miles of the place. The tickler had him all to itself for the winter. As long as it wanted, anyway.
"Here come my fuckin' hands," it murmured into his ear -
Gloves dug under his knees, clamped the back of his neck, squeezed his hips.
Junior tried to arch, and chortled a few times. Wild sounds. Then he settled back down.
Wox knew each spot by now, of course, and it reveled in the sensual distress its fingers were causing.
"Feel it harder. Try to deal with all of it. Little bro, I'm just barely gettin' started," it laughed.

He came out of the delirium a little quicker than Scrounge did.
Wox got to continue tickling sooner. His ass, his neck - both winners.
"Don't," he whined, before the cackling and fidgeting took over.
It was a good half-minute before the scumbag could pull it together enough to keep begging. "You gotta stop, aw hell, it's just t-too..."
But then Junior needed to hoot for awhile.

It was a bright, sunny morning.
Junior wouldn't find that out. The door and windows were sealed tight. Wox kept the lights low all the time, because the tickling was unabbreviated here, timeless...
He yawned, squinted, checked out the room - and muttered one word. "Dammit."
A cigarette was taken and started without hesitation.
"How do you like your eggs?" the captor asked.
A concerned expression came over his face - just like Scrounge. There were no innocent questions when his ass was staked down tight.
The tickler had to laugh at him. "Easy, pardner. I won't always be fuckin' with you."
"Sure," he said, sighing. "Scrambled."

He got a big breakfast. It was gonna be such a terrific day. These dudes were just built for the feverish endurance Wox liked best. The restraints made absolutely sure he'd get the full ride...
When Junior didn't seem to be too enthused about the coffee, it waggled a bottle of beer until he saw the motion. After a couple seconds he nodded. "Well, okay." It let him finish that cigarette.
"Now, your brother," it said, "he's a tough son of a bitch. But he's got a secret."
Eight lubed surgical gloves met over Junior's crotch.
"Aw, c'mon, nooooh," he groaned at 'em. "Shit."
"Impressively ticklish... right around... here."
He watched fingers curl a little and start tracing around his taint, light and slow. Others were getting closer and closer to his upper thighs. He squealed, tried to roll around. Snickered helplesssly.
"A-ha," Wox said.
More fingertips landed under his belly button and strolled down. Exploring slowly. The equipment in the center of all this contact was definitely coming to life.
Gloves snuck around his ass-cheeks -
And boom, he went wild. Flailing and crowing and bellowing. the laughter of the trapped bad guy who was utterly desperate to get the damn hands off him.
It was going to be an absolutely wonderful day. "You've got secrets too," it said loudly, over his hysterics. "It's gonna take some time to customize the technique for ya. Not goin' anywhere now, bro."

His head flew this way and that as he whooped. Pumping, bouncing, he couldn't do a damn thing to throw the teasing fingers off. A string of high-pitched giggles that might have been an attempt to beg for mercy was followed by his body locking up, arched off the mattress.
Then Junior relaxed again, laughing like a fool. "Ain't... fuckin' hell, I ain't gettin' out of tt-thissss, haw haw haw haw."

Within three minutes the fight and hollering started to ebb.
He moaned soulfully, twitching now and then.
 
 

To Wox's delight, he and Scrounge reacted the same. Too overwhelmed by the sensation to squirm or laugh, he was quickly buried in fever. Spacey. Overloaded. Trembling sometimes, groaning, he obediently laid there and tried to deal with far more pleasure than he could handle.
And the day was gonna be a long one.
His captor stuck a lit cigarette between his lips. Habit made him take a drag, but he was so far gone...
The empty gloves crawled and teased, but there was no doubt to the expert moving them that he hadn't managed to cope with the impact of even one set of fingers.
Other that a quick, hard grin, Junior didn't react when a studded rubber was rolled over his favorite body part. Wox had loaded it up with a cream to numb sensation a bit. No need to hurry the process.
 
 

There were similarities. Even though they could be expected, it was amusing. But little bro was his own man. Really, it was having an excellent time. For its purposes, there were pretty awesome genetics in the Carmody clan. Sinister ideas and games were occurring to Wox at a good clip. Junior was that inspiring... and then he threw it a curve.
As it sent a greased sleeve and a few feathers toward his package, Junior slowly emptied the smoke out of his lungs, squinting as the toys approached. And then... he snickered. It was reflex, sure, but the tone was different. Hard, but relaxed and calm.
It was a sound of approval. And lust.
 

There was no way to stop Wox from provoking him for as long as it wished - and yet in some way he was on board. Welcoming what it was about to do. Four days in, the captive was going with the flow.
Scrounge had never rolled over like this. Wox was damn near at a loss, considering what to do next. It felt certain that Junior's acceptance of the sensual play was directly linked to the cuffs pinning him down. Any teasing - hell, even drawing his attention to it in any way - about going along with the tickling would likely raise his defenses all the way again.
So it said nothing, and decided not to rush the stoke that night.
 

Junior tugged on the joint.
"We're stayin' in tonight," Wox said.
After a few seconds, he smirked at that. A fairly happy biker here, considering. His dick twitched.
"See that window? The snow's drifted even higher against the door," the captor told him. "No way you're going out in that." Of course, it had his clothes locked away and had teased him about that before...
"Asshole," he sighed - grinning.
"But we got plenty of smokes for you. And booze. I guess I could dig a steak out and get it on the broiler. Medium rare, right? And then... hmmmm, let's see... an intense tickle-flick, and those tingly electrodes on your cock -"
"Naaah, now c'mon," he protested.
"And a whole lot of busy gloves. Yeah."
He rolled his head around helplessly, lost in thought.
Wox noticed, of course, that his dick was definitely getting hard again, probably from the memory of all the tickling and drugged creams that were lavished there.
 
 

He woke up, yawned, took the cigarette and a light...
Looked over at his clothes.
"Oh, wow. Finally."
A boot floated into the air. It was joined by a rag and a tin of saddle soap.
"This green stuff, Junior - that's mold. Or something like mold. You gotta polish these babies once in a while."
He took a drag, and watched a water bottle meet up and soak the rag. Getting suspicious.
"And your jacket's a mess too."
"I don't suppose I'm gonna be... wearing it anytime soon."
Hearty laughter, "Oh, hell no! Or the boots. I'm just taking care of your stuff. You get to think about 'em for days and dammit, Wouldn't it be sweet to have this leather protecting your armpits from the obsessed tickler, or your soles."
"Got it."
"You're not goin' anywhere yet."
"But you want me to wish I was."
More laughter from the tickler, as it scrubbed the dull leather...
 
 

"Listen... to that... wuh-w-wind," he panted. The first words he'd said all day.
"Uh-huh," Wox mumbled. It had him chained to the sling, and its latex hands doubled up a dozen places, slowly, torturously. The tickler was fully absorbed in working him over -
"Good day to be inside," Junior sighed. He had a strange leer on his face. Buried in the fever, sure, but the remark made Wox pause the fingers.
"Is that so?"
He finally nodded. "Glad you're here? Really? In the tickle-cabin?"
It took him a good fifteen seconds to think that one through. Finally he tried to shake his head, and started to groan low and long.
"Getting handled?" Wox said, with a few sinister chuckles.
"Nooooo-oooo -"
"You're in for it, biker. All day long. Now, I'm real glad you're stuck in here."
It seemed like time to thrash him for awhile. Junior didn't object, because he was too busy trying to swing away from the unhesitating gloves, crowing and squealing with hysterical distress. And he sure wasn't going to make Wox stop the carnage, strung up as he was, so it dug right in.
 
 

"Cheer up," Wox teased.
After a few seconds, he laughed harder...

"I'm so fuckin' high," he said to the brushes that approached.
"Grinning like a thief, too."
Junior tugged on his smoke and stretched as much as the straps would allow. "Shit. You ever tell anyone... I'll deny it up and down."
The tickler almost asked, but decided to let the questions go. "Your secret's safe with me, Junior."
"It better be."
And that was the last talking for a while. Wox made the bristles crawl slower, relentless with those brushes in several rewarding spots.
The dude was far too maddened to say shit.

Within a half-hour, chuckling and cussing were totally beyond him. Sweating wasn't, though.

He remembered to tug on each cigarette a few times. The reaction from his body sure was distracting.
 
 
 

"I do my best work... on my back." Smoky words, dazed snickering, conspiratorial leer.
Wox had quite a few gloves stroking him here and there. The statement almost made it stop in its tracks. "Oh yeah?"
"Usually it's under a chick..."
It was mid-December. Junior had settled in just fine - in a way Scrounge never quite did. He wasn't going anywhere, and all anger had been put aside for later. Fascinating.
 
 

"Fuckin' biker," the tickler said. It was the first thing either of 'em had said in a good hour and a half.
Junior was lost in the effect of feather dusters that swept, light and so slow, across his belly and between his legs. After a few seconds he smirked.
Kept on smirking...
 
 

"Shit," he chuckled, leaking smoke. "You call this tickling?"
Wox had the feathers pause. It considered how to respond. "Junior, seriously, you don't wanna try that shit. Gonna backfire on ya, one way or another." "Guess I got used to your bullshit," he said. "This ain't nuthin'."
"I can't decide if you've gotten stupider," the tickler said, "or if you're out of touch with reality. No good is gonna come out of that attitude. You'll be sorry."
He looked at the tickle-tools that still weren't moving. Puzzled. "Okay."
"Good dude."
Two more clusters of feathers zoomed to his skin, tripling the number -
And before he utterly lost it, the expression on Carmody's face was unmistakable. Tough-guy approval.

2021