Deep, dark secrets - right? Not just the things you've done that make you wince whenever you think of 'em. Things nobody else knows. Your little kinks. Weird things that don't matter, usually. Don't get in the way.
Well, I got 'em, too. Hadn't thought about one of 'em, for, I dunno, better'n a year.
And then, last month...
I still have no idea how the hell they knew.
Me, I trotted out of the corner store, with a six-pack of Oly in the bag. I was all set -
And everything went dark.
In less than a second, though, light came back.
Not nighttime - no, I was inside somewhere. A desk lamp or something was lit behind me.
I found myself sitting on this weird chair, kinda like a weight bench, same kinda pads. My hands and feet were out.
And tied.
Thick white rope keeping my arms stuck to the armrests - guns, forearms and wrists. And there was a lot of rope holding down my thighs and my shins. The number of layers around my ankles didn't really make any sense at all, not then.
Now I had a girlfriend once who was into that. I'd wake up, and she'd have me spread out. Big ol 'grin on her face. Tease tease, then go at it hard. Never had the heart to tell her the scarves she used weren't nuthin', and I had to concentrate to keep from tearin' em off the bedposts. That whole bit never did anything for me.
Pulling at the ropes that held me to the chair, I saw some things coming my way...
Two black leather gloves. They were alone - I mean, they floated all by themselves. Smooth and easy. Empty, too, no doubt about that. Coasting down -
It looked like they were heading for my knees.
Nobody - I mean nobody - knows. One or two chicks got the idea to try it, eventually, but I'd tough it out. Still a big reaction, but I try to make it into a joke, start tearin' their clothes off. Distract 'em.
They tend to think it's cute that a gorilla like me can be ticklish. I never thought it was cute at all.
One of my to-the-grave secrets is - was. Shit. - that I can't fuckin' stand it if anyone so much as pokes me anywhere near my knee. Either one. A squeeze from the top side, over the kneecap, totally jams me up. Most people's hands aren't large enough to reach over the top, thankfully. What I'm saying is, if somebody squeezes both sides of my knee, such as if they get a hand underneath and start workin' it around - fuck, I'm like paralyzed.
There's no way to trace this back to me, my name in real life - but even so, it gives me the major creeps just to write it out like that. And you'd never think it to look at me. Brick shithouse.
Not even my family knows.
But these leather gloves, they cruised right on down there, first thing.
Me, I'd rather get punched in the mouth than have my knees, uh, handled. I was pulling like a mad dog, but there was about twenty-five feet of rope pinning each limb. For a second or two I just sat there, not believing it. A dream, right? I was still wearing what I had on when I ran into the store - shorts, tank top, sandals. But the rope felt real enough, too.
Well, it wasn't 'til they were about, oh, ten inches away that it dawned on me to bust the ropes. I started to swear at 'em. I looked at my legs and thought damn, if I'd had worn jeans maybe I wouldn't be here now. Wishing I had, I dunno, a space suit on instead. Something real thick.
I think just knowin' somebody's out to get a reaction out of ya, and it's workin', that's the worst part. A playful chick is one thing. But fuck...
Leather gloves, lookin' real solid. Makin' a beeline for my bare knees.
That could not be allowed to happen. But I couldn't get out of the rope. And I thought, well fuck, they're actually gonna touch me. And I can't do a damn thing to stop 'em. If they squeezed, even once -
They knew. I didn't know how, but they were getting closer to a place I definitely didn't want 'em to go. Closer and closer, a foot away, nine inches, four.
Alright, I thought, tough it out. Don't let on, just don't let 'em see you react, no matter what, be strong...
They were there. Clamping around -
I flopped so hard the whole chair lifted off the floor.
Right directly to my worst weak spot...
"No!" I screamed, and it came out real high-pitched. Smooth, dammit, that sure didn't give me away at all. The way I was moving was a big clue, anyway - lunging back and forth. I couldn't stop moving, or yelling.
The glove on my left knee squeezed again, and the other one started turning.
Oh, fuck, no. It was going underneath. I forgot to breathe. The tickling just screamed so loud in my legs that my whole body locked up. I could barely move, and whimpering was all I could manage in the way of noise. The feel of those hands was just too distracting. They were stronger that I would've believed, for empty fuckin' leather gloves.
You got no idea how, like, crippling this is. For me. I was gonna go crazy, or explode. Now, I can put up with all kinds of pain all day long. It wasn't pain... but it didn't exactly feel good, neither. Let me tell ya.
I couldn't budge. The gloves knew it too, and that's why it was real serious. How the fuck did they find out?
Fingers were creeping under my right knee.
Then the other one started to creep underneath. Squeezing, testing. Seeing what it could do.
Fuck, I just lost it.
I didn't have time to get any more angry, or confused.
The gloves kept shifting around, trying me out, and they had first place in my thoughts. No no no no no stop aw quit...
Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. Gotta get out of here go go now outa hereoutaheregonownow. I whined a lot - and when I could manage to snag a big breath, in order to yell - fuck, to beg - I ended up sounding like a fuckin' lumberjack doin' triple shots. Haw haw haw. This gut-bomb wailing roar. Man.
Both gloves rubbed deeper underneath my damn knees. Gripping and fingering. I thrashed a few times, but they rode it out. Shit, they weren't stopping - even if I sounded too damn happy, I thought I was gonna go nuts.
They just kept on goin'.
The little bit of my brain that wasn't frantic was tryin' to figure out ways to get loose, tune it out, bust the ropes, break the chair, yell even louder and raise some help, what the fuck are they, how'd they know, why are they doin' this. Why me. The thoughts were real fuzzy, though, and all broken up. As for moving around, I could manage to unclench my fist, rock my head back and forth, and maybe push out against the ropes some. It was so hard.
For a while I couldn't decide if it was worse to try and watch 'em, or keep my eyes shut tight and imagine 'em at work.
I'd go back and forth between hating 'em bad, to wantin' to do anything to get 'em off me. I sure didn't know how they were doing it... but I knew damn well what they could do.
My voice got raspy. Real weak.
It was too hard to move. Well, when I really thought about it awhile, I could tug hard or try to rock side to side. But it was disappointing 'cause it didn't do any good. I'd tell myself I just had to keep it up, strain the ropes over and over 'cause they had to snap at some point, but the fuckin' current running up my legs knocked the idea right out of my head, and a few minutes later I'd remember to tug again. Nothing I could think of was helping. Still there, still stuck, still gettin' thrashed.
So I hit a point where my body just sorta relaxed all over, even though I didn't want to give up. Like some combination of bein' too tired to fight and too distracted - and not hopeful enough.
But I still felt 'em. Just as strong. Fuck yeah.
They gave me water. It was so good...
But the hands were still locked under my knees. Another one was wrapped around the squeeze bottle. I saw a fourth one out of the corner of my eye.
I thought, that figures. More gloves. It was depressing and overwhelming. My heart sped up.
Then the grippers started moving again, and I was off to the races, voice just about gone.
My sense of time got all screwed up. I had no idea how many hours they were tearin' it up. None at all. Any minute on my kneecaps or thereabouts would feel like a couple hours... and they didn't show any sign of getting ready to quit. Two gloves kept on making each knee fuckin' burn, way up underneath, pressed right in front and right behind, massaging all around the sides.
I was hardly laughin' at all by then. But any hopes I had of getting numb, or feeling too much muscle pain for the... tickling to get through - they were all shot to hell. I was gettin' hammered by the impulses that seemed to be getting worse than when I could roar like a tiger. It just didn't get old.
I stayed hard as a rock, too. Maybe the bastards were too close to my meat, or something. I felt those gloves goin' nonstop and couldn't do a thing if they decided to wander north. As serious as they were, I didn't want 'em to even touch my rod. But it was big enough, and red. Oozing.
Probably, I figured, it was only a matter of time. That scared me.
The result was gonna make things a lot more intense... and to tell the truth my balls ached.
They just ignored it, and rocked on. Another mindfuck.
More and more, I was ready to shoot my wad...
There's just this long blur. Every instant real urgent, thousands of pokes and squeezes.
I dreamed I was just sittin' there, breathing hard. No gl-
It was true. Too beat to move. I saw the gloves - they hadn't gone far - and any relief about 'em laying off was blown away. They'd be back. My eyes burned...
Smoke. Okay. I took a drag before I remembered.
There was a cigarette between my teeth, but I'd quit a good year and a half ago.
That was confusing. I coughed a couple times. Since I didn't carry 'em, the gloves must've had cigs.
Why the hell would they want me smokin'?
I looked at 'em, ready to grab my knees again. Like they just wanted an excuse. If I fought 'em, on the smokes, I knew exactly what would start back up again.
It was gonna happen anyway, dammit, but at least I could stall for a couple minutes. Damn, the whole situation totally sucked.
Smoke break. Fuckers. I was tied just as tight. More than anything, I wanted those gloves to leave me the fuck alone. It was so cool just to sit there, not suffering. I just wanted to stretch that out...
One pair took their time opening the pack. Another cigarette. I was relieved, considering what else they wanted to do. And I did not want to piss 'em off.
So I let 'em swap cigarettes and burn the new one from the old one, before I started pullin' at the ropes again.
And I smoked.
The water bottle was brought back up after my third cigarette, and I drained that puppy. To judge by looks, I musta sweated off a gallon. My shirt was as wet as if I was underwater. Two more of the assholes came right up, one ready with another cigarette, the other flicking open a Zippo to give me a light.
Didn't get to finish that smoke, though. After a few drags a pair of gloves drifted a little higher up, 'til they were above my gut ...
Something new. My stomach tried to flip over.
Another one of 'em brought over a jug. White plastic gallon jug, the kind you can't see through, no label. I pulled at the ropes like a fuckin' bull.
The fourth glove came and unscrewed the cap -
Weird metallic smell. Not solvent, not oil-based, but I connected it with heavy machinery, somehow. It steered the jug over the waiting pair of gloves, who sorta cupped themselves to catch it.
Pouring...
Not water. Not oil. Somewhere in between. Clear. Not as shiny as, say, glycerine. It dribbled off my ribs.
The jug and cap went away. And the gloves over me, they rubbed each other... coating each other in the shit, getting it worked in.
Something clicked in my brain. And I started to beg -
But they went right back to my knees and got down to business.
I really went fuckin' nuts.
Not simple oil. Something more slippery. A lot more. They didn't clamp on anywhere near as hard, but I was a raving maniac from the word go. Spazzing out, body trying to go every which way, and makin' this weird high-pitched cackling.
It was worse than before. Much worse. I couldn't believe how much worse. Fuck. It was like they were pettin' from the inside out, as well as the outside in. And they weren't bearing down at all. If I could've taken my legs off and left 'em there at that point, I woulda been off crawling off that chair like a shot. It was insane, how the sensation slammed right through me.
That's about when I pissed myself. The first time.
The motherfuckin' ropes were just as fuckin' snug as before. I had even less chance of getting it together enough to give 'em a hard enough snap.
I threw my head around, tried to throw the rest of me around, and thought back to the first minute of gettin' mauled by 'em, how that was the worst, most intense thing I'd ever felt. Boy, was I wrong.
Daydreaming, once in a while. Of not being here, crashed on the couch with my six-pack, talkin' on the phone with Amber on her lunch break. My secret, still safe.
Chaps. Yeah. I was picturing different kinds, off and on. Mostly off. But they kept coming back to mind. How incredible it'd be if I could wish hard and they'd be on me, showing up just as fast as I'd gotten hauled out of the parking lot and in this fuckin' room. New buffalo hide chaps, the real deal. Pulled tight enough, the gloves couldn't slide down inside 'em. Stupid shit like that. Solid-leg, not those shitty lace-up jobs...
There were more breaks. I'm not sure how many. I remember more water. Smokin' real hard.
After that they seemed to be all over my damn knees at once, tops and bottoms, so I bet the other pair joined in again.
I was real tired, but wide awake. My body had had it, but it didn't feel like I could nod off anytime soon.
That's when I first suspected they were puttin' something in the water.
After a couple smokes I saw a greased pair start floating further away...
And they started pulling off my right sandal.
That was serious. Oiled leather gloves - these gloves - were about to finally finish me off. Insanity. By tickling my feet. I had to cum so damn bad I couldn't see straight, and there was no way a full-scale attack on my feet was gonna... calm things down. Not if getting my knees fondled was having that effect.
Shit, my ankles were tied real good. I kicked and yanked at the damn ropes -but they took the other sandal off too, and dropped 'em on the floor.
I begged again, but my voice was shot. The fingers moved a little, and I was sure they were really gonna enjoy the fuck out of driving me insane this way. Seeing 'em there, posing over my feet was scary -
And then the other pair strolled down to my poor knees.
Unbelievably bad. Total catastrophe. They couldn't do this. My knees were too damn sensitive, and I was sure the gloves knew what the hell they were doing with a pair of feet, too. Impossible or not, I was gonna get it.
Fuck, I was really pleading with them. I couldn't even imagine how incredibly bad it was gonna be -
Fingers. Just the index fingers, moving around my knees, looping over and back.
That fuckin' got me started. Hooting.
And, surprise, I watched the other hands touch the bottoms of my feet, pause a second, and then fuckin' dig in like there was no tomorrow.
I just - Well, look, you can't know really know unless you've been there.
And I hope you never are.
They kept letting me catch my breath, and smoke... and then they'd start in again. And I was seeing stars, I tell ya, but they'd slow it down for awhile. All over my feet, right up to the ropes, and between my toes, and I howled nonstop. Kicked until I couldn't kick anymore.
They were opening another pack of cigarettes. The third pack. Three or four at a time - a dozen breaks, then? I didn't know.
I stopped whimpering only long enough to light up.
One of the gloves had another bottle of water, open and waiting. They all were dripping. Again. That fuckin' killer lubricant...
I woke up, eventually, and felt like I'd been asleep for awhile. The next thing I noticed was that my socks were heavy.
It wasn't socks I'd noticed. Right away, I figured it out. Rope. Holding my arms down, too.
It had to be a nightmare, because last night couldn't have been real. That was obvious. What a relief. I opened my eyes.
My clothes were all gone.
I was sore, all over. My knees were all red, with some kind of cream smeared all over 'em. And I didn't stink, so the sweat must've been washed off or something.
There were three new packs of cigarettes on the floor. I wanted one -
But the gloves floated over me, from behind, and damn if they didn't go right back to work on my knees.
I was their prisoner. Still there, to be played with. As much as they wanted.
They were out to fuck somebody up real good, and I was the one they reeled in. I couldn't take another day of it. Weird, really, that I wasn't totally nuts already...
Or maybe I was. The insanity they brought on left me right there, property of the fuckin' gloves, deadly ticklish. It didn't matter, whether it was real or not, because either way I was still tied down and they all stayed busy.
The only other thing that stands out, during the millions of tweaks and strokes that "morning," and the smoke breaks, was that I quit thinking about chaps and was picturing casts. Those fiberglass fuckers. Except if it just covered the knee, these bastards would stick feathers or some shit down under it, from the edges. So they'd have to be full-leg casts, hip to ankle. Fuck 'em. That hard yellow-brown webbing, twice as thick as usual. They could really torture my feet - so the casts had to go all the way down, sealed up. Safe from their fingers, totally out of their reach...
But daydreams like that only helped for a second here, a second there. Interrupted, all the time, by the screamin' nerve impulses I couldn't figure out how to shut down.
They fed me, eventually. Candy bars and nuts, almost two liters of water. All I wanted. Big of 'em...
I smoked half a pack, and they gave my knees a rest.
Real gently, two of 'em took hold of my ribs.
Then I really showed 'em what hysterical laughter was. Too bad it was silent - I wanted to think they'd lay off if I could fuckin' bellow as hard as I was feeling the impact.
After I wrestled around for awhile, I just sat there and howled and squealed... and screamed, I mean, fuckin' screamed laughter, 'cause the gloves rubbing my sides and armpits weren't enough - so another pair started in on my kneecaps.
That lube... I think it was the way the squeezing and fingering was so damn slippery that made me take a dump, right in that chair. One glove stopped tickling me long enough to clean up, and then it joined right back in.
So you get the score. Breaks, and rubbing, and more breaks, and more rubbing.
It blew my mind that I didn't shut down at some point - just quit feeling anything. But they were workin' on new areas, changing places more, mixing up how heavy they were goin' on me.
There were so many water bottles that came and went that I didn't even try to count. What did bug me was when each new pack of smokes was opened. At the usual rate, that meant I was gonna suffer through four or five more rounds...
I reached a point where I never thought about work anymore, or Amber, or my apartment. No way. I couldn't seem to remember any further back than the first time the gloves slid over my knees.
There was more food, and a pretty long stretch where they didn't tickle as hard. I could hold on to a smoke, even if I usually couldn't stop chuckling long enough to tug on it. It helped me deal...
Don't go thinkin' it got routine. Far from it.
It couldn't be happening to me - shit, I was still telling myself that. It was impossible for gloves to be alive and do this, and for me to keep feeling the fire wherever they went on me.
It just kept starting up, over and over again.
They never did jack me off.
And I was never so ready in my life.
There was another long period of sleepin', another wake-up - oh, fuck, I was still there, more comin' right up. They fed me again, gave me more water, a few cigs - and wham.
I don't think I had any hope left about it ever being "the last time".
The leg-casts I wish I had, in my fuckin' fever, became aluminum shells, then cast iron.
I toyed with the idea of concrete off and on for the rest of that day, and finally gave it up.
It was just the same old same old.
Intolerable. Real careful, real extreme.
You get the picture.
There was another century that went by before they let me sleep again. Then it was go-time, full steam ahead.
I suspected the breaks were gettin' longer.
They sent their fuckin' fingers all over me - except my dick. They were still torturing my knees a lot, but the main action skipped around me.
It turned out the back of my hands took real well to their fuckin' lubricant. Of all places. And my pecs, naturally. They spent a lot of time ridin' up and down my shins, which was close enough that it sorta kicked in the memory of 'em haulin' ass on my knees. Hell, by this time they had my hair all woke up and ticklish. Sure seemed that way.
And me, I was picturing a foot-and-a-half of solid marble around each leg. Let 'em make their way through that...
A lifetime of it.
Then a break, and another lifetime.
That night one pair started creepin' under me, as best they could, while about six others stuck to the tried-and-true targets.
There was a whole new kind of fear when I woke up. Still the gloves' human toy. Another day of it was impossible to imagine.
I smoked more, or at least I always seemed to have a cigarette in my mouth.
Then there was a real long rest - a couple hours, at least. I was past wonderin' what it meant. Too glad to care.
Turned out they had a big finish in the works.
The water was more bitter than usual.
I could feel myself gettin' real keyed up. Too alert.
The Zippo snapped shut, and I coughed a little but dragged hard on it anyway, needin' the calm.
Just after I let the smoke out, the gloves cruised around me. One of 'em had the jug.
I thought about pulling on the ropes, but it had never done any good. Same with begging. About all I could do was spit at 'em...
So I just tried to prepare myself. Like I'd done a hundred times before.
But they threw me one last change-up.
The jug came over my stomach... and tilted.
Lube just fuckin' poured up over my chest, arms, down each side, down my legs. Really soaking my knees. And my feet. At least a quart of the shit.
The glove threw the jug away.
And they commenced to fuck me up. Like every second was their last.
It still gives me the chills just thinking about it. I can't -
Trust me, you don't wanna know.
After about a thousand years, I came to - in my own bed.
I'd like to tell ya I hopped up and got ready for work, spooked at how real the whole fuckin' nightmare seemed.
But I'd gone out for beer Thursday night, and didn't get home until Monday. Afternoon.
Boy, was my boss pissed...
Amber took off. Won't put up with me smokin' like a freight train. And the day after I was let go, she patted me on the leg when I wasn't expecting it - and I jumped real big. Yelled at her. So that pretty much was that. No girlfriend, and no more job if I disappear like that again.
"If".
Right.
See, the fuckers left me a message. They took a magic marker and drew on me. Permanent black ink on my breastbone.
There was a circle with a little wedge colored in - like a pie. The dark part was, oh, halfway between twelve and one, if it were a clock.
I had to mull that one over for a couple days, but I got it figured out.
They're not done with me.
However they kidnapped me, they can sure as hell do it again. And they will. That weekend, well fuck, it was just the beginning.
It's been almost three weeks now. I'm not sore anywhere, and I know for a fuckin' fact I'm more ticklish than before. All rested up - and the next time, I got a bad feeling, will go longer.
See, I know it in my bones. Any day now...
25may1998