As the sun went down, Lane got more and more scared. And he couldn't let Junella see it, of course.
His voice was really weak. He was tired, all day long - which only made sense, since he wasn't gettin' a whole lot of sleep.
Trapped. And no way to get out of it, that he could see...
Someone clumped up the stairs. It woke him up. His favorite sound in the world.
Junella had his lunch.
"You're sleepin' too much, boy," she said, holding the water glass where he could grab the straw with his lips...
He didn't need to talk much, with Junella. She talked enough for two. As usual, she fussed about his "laryngitis", and had him drink some herbal tea with honey in it. He hated that shit...
"Beer," he whispered. But she just shook her head, reminding him for the thousandth time he wasn't old enough to drink yet, and just kept on talking.
She finally left - and came right back up, lugging a box.
"No, dammit. No," he kept saying.
"Now hush," she snapped. Fussing with the strap that held his ankles together.
His feet hung off the bed.
The massager was on the tray-stand. A big rectangle of blue-green rubber was way too close to his feet.
"Junella. I'm serious. No way..."
She shook her head. "It's for your circulation. You need it. Your feet are all pink. That's not a good sign."
It's the tickling, he thought wildly. The nightly workout was doing plenty for his circulation.
And she was going to set this thing loose on his feet?
"I can't st-"
"I know. You told me. But this won't tickle..." She didn't sound very reassuring. He thought he heard a threat there. As in, you'd better not try to tell me it tickles. But maybe he was imagining things...
"The doc wouldn't do this to me."
She had to lean over him, to hear. She frowned, and shook her head. "Sure but ain't that his name on the box? Who else would send this over here?"
Lane closed his eyes, and hoped for Shel to show up. "Please. No," he said to Junella - as fiercely as he could, for a guy with no voice. Aw, she wouldn't.
Her hands reached for the tray table. Rolled it up -
He jumped. Cool latex, flat up against his feet. Oh yeah, this was gonna be... brutal. He bent his toes and tried to push it away -
She gave a snort, and shoved it even closer. Rubber, all up and down the bottoms of his feet. She locked the tray table... and he couldn't budge it with his toes.
"Dammit - I said no -"
"Stop being such a baby. I bet you'll like it." He started to... beg, but she waved a hand at him impatiently.
Something moved. Over by the door. Caught his eye -
A brown feather. Thin, curvy. He stared at it. Oh, fuck no.
The tickler. In the room. Watching.
Tell her, he thought. Tell her to look. She'll see it, hanging in the air. And she'll back you up when you tell the doc. Won't she?
The feather swayed back and forth.
Lane looked from it to the massager, too scared to get a word out.
"You never know until you try. Stop looking so... petrified," Junella said loudly. "Land sakes."
He looked at her quickly, and back - but the feather was gone. Hallucination, he told himself, not believing it for a second. Even more scared now, since he didn't know where it had gone.
One thing he was sure of... the tickler was here. Letting him know it was right here. Long before dark.
"No - c'mon. Check with the doctor. He didn't send this fuckin' thing -"
"Such a mouth on you. Now, just you wait. This isn't anything like those nightmares you been havin', Lane. But red feet - it ain't healthy. Not from laying around like you do. All those little blood vessels gotta wake up. And if you're so all-fired ticklish, I doubt you want me massaging your feet with my hands -"
"No!," he shot back.
"Uh-huh," she sniffed. "Let's just try it out. Five minutes."
He whimpered.
She leaned over the massager again -
And the feather popped up. Right behind her back. It pretended to stab her. Stab stab stab. Then it made a fast swoop... across her head.
Lane got a terrible idea. Even worse.
Turn around, he begged her silently. Oh please. If I snitch on it, it's gonna tickle me to death. There in the nut ward. Fuckin' turn around and look -
She flipped a switch.
Vibrating -
Solid, clammy pressure. Rolling down. And back up. Down, again.
Fuck. It was like... gear oil. No. Axle grease. Inside. As if glue was under the rubber, squishing up against his feet. He tried to move - anything - and ended up shaking his head frantically.
"Aw, now. Just give it a chance!"
The latex moved down his feet slowly. Gripped a little way up each side. Fuckin' horrible. He squealed, under his breath. The texture was horrible. Smutty...
And the tickler watched him suffer. Hell, it probably sent this thing, wrote the doc's name on the box.
Junella stood back, with her hands on her hips. Looking at him... as if he was really pissing her off.
He was gonna shit himself again. It was bad, in a whole new way. Different. And it was too weird to put up with. His whole feet were in contact with the latex, and it kept moving -
"Please, please, you gotta turn it off -"
"Your feet need this, Lane."
Above her head, the feather bobbed up and down.
"Noooooo-"
"You're so determined to hate it..." She watched his feet get fucked with.
"Please, Junella. Dammit. C-c'mon!"
"Quit exaggerating. It's barely touching you."
Sweat ran down his sides. Lane bit down on his tongue to keep from chuckling. That would've been worse yet. Starting to laugh, in front of Junella - and the tickler?
It seemed like the thing was never gonna click, and shut off.
"See?" Junella said immediately... reaching for a dial.
"Wha - No! Listen to m-"
"Doctor's orders," she said, sounding real fed up with taking shit from him.
He watched her hand turn the knob. Oh, no...
The feather made little bouncy circles.
"You need this. You have to get used to this," she declared. "And I'm sick of listening to you whine. End of discussion."
She clicked the toggle switch.
"No no no no pleeeeze," he begged - as she walked out.
The feather drifted over him. For a terrible second, he expected it to drop down. Poke his cock, and start tickling.
But it kept going. He hissed out a tense sigh, all relieved. For a second. But then he remembered - hell, it had all night to play with his meat. And he knew it would.
The latex crawled... and rippled down to his heels. Knowing it was useless, he grunted and tried to get his legs to move anyway.
The feather set down on his dresser. The top right drawer slid open, and his stuff in there was moved around.
Something small floated out.
It was a small square bottle. The cap unscrewed, and came loose. There was an eyedropper. Lane didn't remember havin' a bottle like that. He squinted...
But it floated through the door, and down the stairs.
The massager worked its way down his feet... way too much like the fuckin' rubber gloves had. Last night -
He couldn't keep it in any longer.
Lane started to chuckle.
A snort slipped out.
"Aw fuh huh huh huh heh heh..."
And he just couldn't stop.
It was bad - this was fuckin' daytime. His time to get some sleep... think about how bad the last tickling had been, and how terrible it was gonna be later...
Definitely something squishy under the layer of rubber. But real firm. He pictured a huge glove, tickling real slow -
Lane snorted again, and began to laugh harder. His eyes were watery. Oh shit. Get this thing off me...
He laid there and hooted. The tickler was in the house. Middle of the afternoon, and it was here already. Downstairs.
Why did it go... downstairs?
He remembered the feather. Behind Junella, pretending to stab her. That last swipe. Hitting her... in the head?
The massager made it so hard to think. He squealed again, and chuckled like he was stoned. Oh, shit.
A little bottle.
It wouldn't... hurt her. Would it?
Have him all to itself?
But it had him. All night...
He stopped thinking, because he had to just laugh for awhile.
It was gonna do something to Junella. Then it would come back up here, and really lay into him. He was trapped. If it killed all the nurses -
Well, now. That was way over the top.
Okay. Not... stabbing. Get her out of the way, though. Hit her in the head -
Knock her out.
Of course. He got it. Lane nodded, roaring sadly. The fuckin' rubber just wasn't gonna quit -
Knockout drops. That's what they were. Sure.
Slip her a mickey. C'mon back upstairs. And Phil would be easy, too.
He fought hard. But the cast, and the added straps... they won. As always.
A long, feverish time later... he heard something.
Lane blinked until he could see.
The door was closed. No, aw no...
And he saw... well, it looked like more tape. Floating there. As he looked, it turned. A big piece pulled straight off. Like magic.
He watched it go... down to the massager.
The tape wrapped around the knob. There was already some tape there -
One end pulled straight out, and it slapped against the side of the case.
He laughed, trying to figure it out. All that tape. As another piece was torn off and applied, he noticed the knob.
It was pointing up again. Almost straight up.
The tape... kept the knob from turning.
"Aw no hoh hoh haaaaaaaw nnnoh..." he chuckled.
The knob was stuck. Taped, so it couldn't turn. If it didn't spin around - the massager wouldn't turn off.
He shook his head, and laughed some more.
When he just had to take another look, 'cause he couldn't fuckin' believe what he'd seen - the feather was back, hovering right over it. Above the massager. And it was wiggling. Little circles, and then a quick dip.
He got it right away. Like a magic wand. Ala-ca-zam. Your feet are going to get it now. No time limit.
Well... Phil would be coming. In about six hours.
And as soon as he passed out - got his knockout drops - the feathers would be back. Seven hours of pure torture -
Lane laughed harder.
The massager squeezed and squeezed. A warmup, for later on. Tonight.
And the feather cruised down. He tensed up again, but he couldn't help but squeal.
It laid down, on the cast. Over his belly. The tip was almost touching the hole where his dick was. The feathers knew all about that hole. How to wiggle around in there.
Lane stared, but the feather just sat there.
The smooth grips messed with his feet, and let go... and rolled up 'em again.
He looked at the tape again, and then the feather.
The tickler didn't even have to move on him. Not yet. He was gettin' tickled anyway.
He snagged a big breath - and roared.
It wasn't gonna turn off. Fucker made real sure of that. The knob, taped down real good.
And later, its turn would come. Tickle him hard. Fuck -
He whooped at the thought. The machine dragged wide lumps straight down his soles. So he kept on whooping it up, like he was never gonna stop.
Phil woke him up, bringing him dinner. Lane was almost too tired to eat.
The damn massager was pushed against the wall. Lane was too tired to talk much. And worried. Nighttime...
After letting him have a smoke, Phil cleared out.
A few seconds after he stomped his way downstairs, the gag whipped up and pulled between Lane's teeth. The door closed slowly.
Over his feet, the feather danced in long circles, coming closer and closer.
After an hour, his racking laughter was silent. The gag was taken away.
A water bottle was shoved between his teeth.
Then Lane heard the squeak and rattle of a cart. The massager - rolling back over.
A roll of tape floated into the air, peeling off the first long strip. The strap tightened around his ankles...
And then - so much worse - drips of oil, creeping down, between the rubber and his feet.
There were different sounds coming from it. It finally dawned on him - it hadn't been turned on yet. The fucker was tinkering with it, inside the case.
When the knob was turned, the rubber got mean. Fingers of iron, under the latex. He thrashed around -
Rope pulled tight. Now his feet were tied to the damn thing. And it was way beyond anything that could be called a "massage".
Lane bounced, as much as he could. It was all he could do. The oily rubber was driving him crazy. So much worse. Fuckin' unbelievably bad.
Luann got worried. She took the massager out of his room, which was definitely a good thing...
Maybe he got a little loud, though. Shit. He couldn't help it. Nobody believed him.
Junella was disgusted with his bullshit. It was real obvious.
The tickler came back. Every night.
He slept most of the day, and pissed off the nurses more and more.
Yeah, that damn Junella was probably the one who called the doc.
It was maybe a week after the massager had shown up. It was stashed in another room... until the tickler put Phil under. Then it brought the damn thing back in for a few hours. Lane was still mad at the doc, as if the massager had been his idea. At least it was proof.
But it didn't matter. The doc never came... but he sent an ambulance. He'd already filled out the paperwork.
Lane cussed up a storm, but they took him to the hospital anyway.
They had some good drugs there. That much, Lane could say. Otherwise, it pretty much sucked.
Even Phil had looked out for him more than the hospital aides did. There were five other guys in his room, so that was okay. All but one of 'em were total nut jobs, but at least he could sleep at night...
Maybe the tickler couldn't get at him anymore. It was a great fuckin' thought.
Four days after he got there, that idea was shot all to hell.
He woke up, in the middle of the night. And he wasn't in his room. A scraping sound made him lift his head, and stare into the darker part of whatever room he was in...
A box was pouring white powder into a large silver bowl. Rolls of cloth were on the same tray -
Lane tried to get up. His limbs were already pinned. Fat canvas straps.
Then the room made sense. Steel table, the smell - and the cabinets. Casting room.
He shook his head.
One of the cast-saws lifted off the table, and started to buzz.
The fucker really got him good.
Not only was the cast a lot heavier, somehow... it had little trap-doors built right in. He studied it later, but the seams didn't show at all.
After the other guys were asleep, the little strips would pop out. His armpits would feel the air hit 'em - his knees, and his belly - just before the feathers poked their way inside. Or gloves, maybe those oily little brushes.
Lane would squirm like a mutherfucker, gagged, howling with no voice left at all, and the tickling snuck around. Inside his cast, all up and down, between his legs. Up his ass-crack, around his neck.
And he just laughed 'til the tears ran down his face.
When a doctor finally came around to check on him, he was sound asleep.
But he ordered individual casts instead of the full-body cast. Lane was relieved. But he knew better than that.
Instead of waiting for the staff to do it, the next day... the tickler gagged him and wheeled him down to the casting room that night. It closed the door, and worked him over real hard.
When he woke up, back in his room, there were four bright new casts on his limbs... so heavy he could hardly move 'em.
The day-shift nurse looked them over and nodded, all surprised that the graveyard shift had bothered to do any real work. And good work, at that.
Most nights, after his roommates had passed out, his bed started to roll.
Gliding down to one lonely room or another, where he could be tickled half to death - and jacked off. That made the feel of the tickling worse. At least double.
Lane found himself in the same empty ward-room, night after night. Wire grates covered the windows. The door was left open, though. It had to be a good distance away from wherever the fuckin' workers kept themselves hid. Straps tightened down, so he wouldn't be moving anywhere near enough... and the tickling would start again.
Over, and over, and over.
One night, the drugs kicked in early. It felt different. All weird.
Lane didn't know how long he'd been at the hospital, but it seemed like a couple months. The tickler had it made. No one on the graveyard shift ever checked, apparently. Or it was drugging them too...
He was rolling down the hall, and then he fell asleep. In his dream, he thought he was riding somewhere, except he wasn't on his bike. Or in Shel's car, or Candy's. Damn near everyone he knew rode a putt, but it was definitely a van or something. It smelled funny.
But then he quit worrying about it, because he was in another hallway. Moving, head-first -
Lane realized, with a little shock, that he was awake.
And the casts... they were gone.
In their place, he saw leather. Brown. Half-sleeves. A bunch of straps kept his arms down tight, and his legs.
The walls looked all wrong -
Aw, hell. Of course. The ceilings were way too low. He wasn't in the hospital anymore. At least not the same one... The whole dream-thing, that was real. Riding.
Somehow, the tickler had... transferred him.
It looked wrong, for a hospital. But where else could they take him? He didn't want to believe the graveyard shift fucks were that stupid. There must've been... papers. Orders.
But he knew, way down in his gut, that they were that dumb. They didn't care. And now he was more fucked than he ever thought was possible.
The stretcher slowed down, and stopped. He looked all around. Past his head, there was a door.
It clicked, real loud, and opened up.
In he went...
Oh, fuck. No!
Of course. The real deal.
It was a tickler's fuckin' wet dream.
All kinds of twisted furniture. A hospital bed, all tricked out with black leather cuffs and straps.
The far wall was hidden by boxes. Son of a bitch...
Between the bed and the wall, there was an enormous shell. Body-cast. Full-body. It looked like a coffin or something. The round end had to be for his head. Big foot-spaces. Cut in half, propped open like a lid. Lots of space for gloves and shit to move around. Lock him in there, and have at it -
Lane was rolled over to the bed...
Then the door started to close.
He tried to yell. Fought to get his ass up, run outa there -
But the door clicked, real loud. A thick bar went up and slammed into the brackets. The padlock hovered up to one end of the bar, and hooked through a hole in it, catching the bracket too, before it turned.
Lane shook his head wildly.
The lock... closed.
He flailed around. Gave it everything he had. Amazed - too fuckin' late to notice, but hell - at how good he felt. His legs were okay. His hip. And his chest too. Not much muscle tone left, but his arms didn't ache anymore.
All healed up?
But the tickler had no trouble swinging him off the stretcher... and holding him down on the bed. Straps tightened around the monster sleeves.
Not fair, he thought. Fuck. I'm all better now. You gotta let me go, I'm all healed up.
But it had to know that. Of course it did. All this shit - setting this place up. It knew.
How long would all those supplies last?
There was a ripping sound to his right, soft and quiet. He looked in that direction despite the familiar gnawing panic.
It was a box... of gloves. Rubber gloves. The end of the box was being torn off.
Back to Part 1
02jun02