Others' episodes
 
Cor's episodes
 
News / site info
 

He'd been walking around.
That really pissed Jeg off.

So arrogant. When he was pulled into the building and carried down to the cellar, he fought with all he had.
It slammed the door.
Picked up the straps...

And now his attitude could be dealt with.
Jeg was satisfied that he wasn't going to roll around. It knew, far better than he did, that no one would hear him. Come to help. He wasn't freaking out, so he understood that on some level - the lack of panic meant he knew it was useless.
Perhaps he'd been caught before. But not by Jeg, dammit.

There was no obvious reason why he was so irritating. It had a knack for picking the humans who were especially vulnerable to its games. That had to be it - his weakness was too rewarding to be left running free. He belonged in a cellar like this, waiting for Jeg to dig in.
Or maybe it was just the boots. Stupid things, protecting the soles and toes from attack. Well, its mood would improve eventually.

There.
The lourdstocks worked like a charm. Those toes weren't gonna budge.
It was going to teach these sons of bitches a lesson they'd never forget.

Big soles, and somehow they still seemed to be mocking Jeg, as if they could take any power-tickling their captor could dish out. Oh, sure, they were kept from trembling by all of the fancy electronics in the 'stocks...
But they weren't so calm just because the stocks were unbeatable. Yeah, the bastards thought they were tougher than Jeg. Walking around wherever they wanted, in those fuckin' thick boots, untouched...
It dug in the toolbag and brought out the starter oil.

When the feet were dripping, soaked front-to-back, Jeg started to feel a little better. They weren't so sassy now, were they?
It forced itself to slow down, because the feet had to pay and pay all night. Attack and pause, attack and pause, eventually adding in long attacks on every other ticklish spot too...
Jeg reeled itself in because the payback had to last until dawn. That was really important. It had been at this a long time.
Twelve hours, including rest breaks - nothing less!
They weren't going anywhere. That was fer damn sure.
It pulled out the filigree brushes. Brought four of 'em real close.
Now we're talkin', it thought.

This was going to be a first-class tickling nightmare. It calmed down just seeing the bristles so close to all that oily skin. The feet were trapped, and nobody would find out Jeg had 'em. It was time to get mean. Careful and cruel...
The brushes would introduce the soles to Jeg's kind of concentration just fine. They were made by a company outside of Olathe, Kansas. Black rubberized handles and bristles. Doom on a stick. They'd been designed to mimic toothbrushes, with a little bit of oil-permeability for the business end. The market for these babies was supposedly the art restoration geeks, but the owner's son had been only to glad to design 'em himself, to a tickler's exact specifications, in order to buy his freedom.
He wasn't the only vendor who was eager to follow instructions.

Bristles mashed and rocked against the captive soles.
The heaviest layer of grime and calluses would be gone soon, and a proper cleaning would come later. Right now it was all about solid, prolonged vengeance.

Jeg hated to admit it, but the lourdstocks were damn near perfect. The feet wanted one thing -
Wait, now, there was no need to be humble here. They wanted two things. Jeg wasn't going to stop until tomorrow morning, though. At a minimum. So that wish was out. And if it wasn't going to pull off, the soles would want, more and more each minute, to get away from Jeg's brushes. Running away was the ultimate goal, but right now they just set on finding a way to get away from the breathtaking tickling.
Well, they were about to get exactly what they deserved. No spot on 'em, top to bottom to sides, would be ignored.
Unbearable tickling, huh? Way too solid to tolerate?
Good.
These feet could forget about swaggering away.

The brushes were barely crawling, and already the impressive reactivity of all those nerve endings was impossible to miss.
Just try and keep up, Jeg thought. Report every maddening point of contact - oh, wait, that's right, this is already a lot more excitement than you can grasp.
And I'm only getting started.

After five minutes, maybe six, the bastards tried to shut everything down. They almost convinced the body that they'd had all they could take - for now.
But Jeg was an expert, and it brought the brushes to a temporary halt. Pausing didn't bother it... so long as the tickling could start right back up again. In order to keep the action going all night, there had to be breaks. There sure as hell wasn't anything bad about starting back in, or how the soles were utterly shocked at the impact again. Fifty times, a hundred...
Yeah, the feet could only wish Jeg was that careless. This was how the fun took on marathon status. Nothing could make them deserve an early finish to the all-night tickle torture.
When the body was ready, Jeg lifted the brushes off... just for a second, to enjoy the way the legs tried to jump when oiled bristles landed, scouring again with hard, merciless passes down the soles.

Every time the rest of the body tried to check out, it waited.
Then it dove back in with gusto.

The feet weren't so high-and-mighty now.
Yeah, they were really gonna get it...

It was fairly dark in the cellar.
Jeg kept rocking on, and took in the scene.
The stocks hadn't moved. The rest of the body was slumped forward, wrists still held behind the back in fine, wide leather cuffs. Long black hair was plastered to the chest and shoulders...
Waste products had been cleaned up four times, and that was pretty typical for a strong body. No odors, or anything else, were allowed to provide the least distraction.
Hoarse, mournful, utterly demented laughter kept churning out of the mouth.
The body was all alone, in the middle of an empty room that was barely illuminated from the grate-covered windows. Not a soul had walked down the alley since the body had been hauled in here. They would've had to climb a chain-link fence to get close enough to hear the full-throated roaring earlier.
It almost wished it had a camera...

An hour ago it had switched to feathers. Unsubstantial little things, wispy and soft - but it used them on the scrubbed soles with absolutely brutal tenderness.
Jeg had more ideas for the feet than it could possibly put to use before morning.
While it concentrated on them, there was no reason to let the other ticklish spots miss out on the punishment. They were, after all, interconnected.
The feet were still gonna get it. Fork-tines would be next, it thought, and then the pointed quills. A few relentless gloves...
But the soles were going to react much harder if there was other stimulation going on. It was time for Jeg to look at the bigger picture. The body parts weren't there to be tortured one at a time.
Again, the wider view was straightforward - and pleasing. It didn't have a machine hidden down in the cellar. No, this was a man. With thoughtful bondage, he'd be explored all over.
Studied. Each skittish spot would reveal the techniques that provoked them the most.
A strong, ticklish metalhead was caught in the stocks, just for Jeg's entertainment... and hell, he wasn't going anywhere tomorrow either. Too much potential, all over the body, to exploit.
Without interrupting the path of a single feather, it eased the strap loose that kept the cuffs tight together and laid him flat on his back. Jeg needed only a few seconds to clip two chains to each wrist-cuff, and spread his arms nice and wide. It would roll him over and torment his backside later.

Around eleven-thirty, the tickling paused. Gloves pulled out of his armpits, which had been carefully shaved about an hour before. Forks were lifted off his legs...
And the pointed feathers, so murderously provocative, were set down on the floor.
Jeg had been out to steal some supplies when it encountered the reckless feet. No, wait, not just feet. They'd pissed Jeg off, but the metalhead was a package deal. He hadn't been the target of its fury until it saw him, walking along by himself. Not so carefree and confident now, was he?
It had one squeeze-bottle of water in the toolbag, but he'd finished that off a while ago. His blood chemistry would interfere with the all-nighter if Jeg didn't stop and get him hydrated soon.
Don't move a muscle, it thought sternly.

Jeg knew he was going to be there when it returned, but it still hurried. His ordeal wasn't done yet. It went to the nearest convenience store with a decent selection, waited impatiently until some customers left - and put a choke-hold on the college kid working the register. He'd be out cold for a minute.
It brought an empty box up front. There were weird little tacquito-type things in the trash can. Almost a dozen. They were still warm, though they'd been riding the heating wheels in the display case until they got dried out and burned. Jeg grabbed 'em for the headbanger. He'd eat what it told him to eat, or he could deal with top-gear tickling until he was ready to behave.
Beef jerky, corn chips, two gallons of water, a pint of Jack, about a dozen uppers - just in case - hmmm, three of those disposable lighters. Carton of Camels...
The metalhead had cigarettes in his pocket. Jeg thought it could keep him suffering until dawn without any stimulants. Should be a snap. You never knew with these outlaws, though. The speed tabs would cover the gap if necessary.
It dropped the cigarettes in its "shopping box", but Jeg wasn't going to waste his stamina on 'em. This dude, it thought, would see the smokes and a lighter set right in the pool of light that came from the closest window. Definitely out of reach, to his left. And they'd stay there, because Jeg was fairly sure he'd want 'em so friggin' desperately - that would heighten the fun.
As it grabbed four canisters of wet-wipes and a couple tubes of sex-lubricant, the cashier started to groan. Well, shit, Jeg was never too busy to make sure the animals were okay. It power-tickled his sides until he was whooping and flailing around nicely. He was getting to his feet, looking around with obvious confusion, when Jeg made the box duck out the back door.

The headbanger stayed right where Jeg had left him. Actually he was dozing - caught fast in the cuffs and lourdstocks.
That was such a massive relief. And so motivating...
Did he think that he'd catch any kind of a break, just because he was preserving his strength for the endless laughs ahead? Surely he couldn't think Jeg was that friggin' stupid.
Oh, it would settle his hash.
This was excellent!
 
 

"Hey, Jeg," Tau-rip growled.
It made the brushes pause. What -
Oh. Busted.
Dammit... "Yeah. 'sup?"
"What the hell?"

Jeg looked around the room.
Fast-food wrappers were starting to pile up. Smoke hung thick in the air - not from the metalhead, because Jeg had been right about the effect of that carton sitting right there, never scooted over to him, when he'd never needed a cigarette so badly in his life... Instead it had been burning a pack here and there to really make him nuts, because it somehow seemed to force his full attention even more solidly on the tickling.
About twenty empty water jugs were scattered around in the shadows. Jeg had brought a foam pad in, the first morning, and it was saturated with sweat and massage oil.
The mound of used paper towels and wet-wipes in the corner was a half-meter high.
Jeg's captive was busy trying to cum. He wouldn't hear them communicate with each other anyway.
It was Tuesday. Damn. How time flies.
"I, uh," Jeg said.
"Yeah. Shit."
Tau-rip picked up a few gloves and started terrorizing the metalhead's sides.
"His feet were... taunting me," Jeg grumbled.
"The idea was to sell the stocks, not test 'em."
"I know. They've been, uh, phenomenal. I mean it."
"Honestly..." Tau-rip got the captive laughing so hard he couldn't make a sound, and then it pulled the gloves away. "He's good," it said, in a totally different tone of voice.
"Tell me about it."
"No wonder."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well. I expected to find... something like this."
"Don't expect me to say I'm sorry," Jeg snapped. "This dude's addictive."
"Never said you need to let him go," Tau-rip said. "You agreed to help me out. A couple hours, Jeg."
"I was gonna help," it protested. "Shit, all these tourists down here. They belong in the stocks, not buyin' a set of their own to take home."
Tau-rip sighed. "I know. But you're sorta missing the point of the whole project. We're getting intel on who's ticklish, and who's into getting tickled, so we can pick the cream of the crop for the Colony."
"But I wanna tickle 'em now."
"Of course you do... Look. Shadow me for a bit. Just watch and listen. It's a big sacrifice, but you're gonna get a big bunch of hot leads, Jeg. Haul 'em all down here. I don't care. But there's some really good long-term results for us, here, if we play this right."
"Dammit," Jeg grumbled.

Tau-rip knew it so well. "Look. Ruzzer happens to be free. It'll take care of your metalhead. You like Ruzzer's attitude, and it'll drill him just the way you would. He'll be right here when you get back. You could double-team him."
"That would be cool," Jeg snickered. Yeah, Ruzzer had only been at this for a couple years but it was on Jeg's wavelength -
"Alright!" Ruzzer crowed. It had been just outside, and now it hung over the metalhead's abs with ravenous interest.
"Hello yourself," Jeg said. Kidding around.
Ruzzer was like a pit bull when it came to scary guys. There was no shortage of dudes trying to act all hardass, but it had high standards about stamina.
It refrained from going right ahead and helping itself to the metalhead, but the urge to rub and knead and torment really radiated from it when it was this close to a tough son of a bitch. Oh, Ruzzer was always polite, and waiting to be asked - but Jeg knew it was just waiting for the word "go". One little word. "Do him" would be a waste 'cause Ruzzer would have him howling before the second word was even out there.
"Old-school metal dude," Ruzzer said, suitably awed and wound-up at the same time. "And he's got endurance. Just walking around, without a care in the world..."
"See?" Jeg said to Tau-rip defensively.
"He's gotta be regretting all that weightlifting now, huh?"
They really got each other, Ruzzer and Jeg. The balance had to be struck between maximum tickling and increased overall health -
"Damn right, it ain't over," Ruzzer said softly, almost in awe. "And the place is just perfect... Yeah, Jeg, you gotta teach me how to pick 'em like this. Hell, yeah."
Ruzzer definitely was hooked. Jeg didn't want to stop torturing the headbanger, but having somebody like Ruzzer ready to fill in took some of the sting away. The substitute tickler was obviously planning how to really turn the screws...
"You go easy on him, and I'll make you regret it."
"Long and intense," Ruzzer promised quickly. "Have no fear. Hell, I wanna buy this freakin' building now. Throw away the key."
"Let's get this over with," Jeg grumbled, following Tau-rip out of the cellar.
 
 

In Chelsea, a cop ogled the goods in a sex shop window, tugging hard on his smoke.
"Cool, huh?" the salesperson said.
It took a few seconds for the policeman to react. "Uh. Yeah." He finally looked over, but the other guy was gone.
"What's your name?"
That was the same voice, but no one else was around...
Oh. No.
"Hell," the cop groaned. He looked out at the street, but it was pure reflex. There was very little chance he'd get out of it now.
The invisible dude laughed easily. "Easy. You're okay. I'm not grabbing you, am I?"
Not yet, he thought. So trapped. Here we go again. And last time the cock-play had been so freakin' extraordinary...
He shuddered, finished his smoke and squared his shoulders. "Casey."
"Good to meet you, Casey," the voice said. "I'm Fazetock."
No one else was close enough to hear the bastard, but they probably wouldn't believe what was now in store for him anyway. Middle of the afternoon. Dammit!
"Any chance you're gonna let me go?" he said quietly.
Fazetock laughed at him.
"Thought so."
"Here's the thing, though," the tickler said. "You've been staring at the lourdstocks for, oh, two minutes straight."
"Lord... stocks?"
"It's French. Lourd. Heavy. You gave yourself away, there, Casey."
"I did not," he said defensively.
"You've done time... with some gloves."
Casey moaned, and cut it off.
His dick was wide awake now.

Gonna get it again, no way out -
"And there's no shame in admitting that the stocks got your interest. Remember being unable to freakin' move? No matter what came floating down next to drive you ab-so-lutely crazy?"
His mouth moved, but no words came out. Dammit, he needed another smoke...
"Your hands are shaking," Fazetock finally said.
Casey took a long drag, trying to figure if he could possibly run into the store before the hands pounced. What he'd tell 'em, after he got there, was a whole different crisis.
"Wanna try 'em out?"
"Try what -"
"Ya goof. The stocks."
No, he thought desperately, I don't want to be tickled into next week. Literally. Watching pumps and sleeves and disturbingly solid fingers coast on down -
Empty yet strong. Baffling, infuriating gloves. It had been too long. So spectacular!
And the dreams that had followed...

Casey had a secret. No one would've believed a single thing about it. He'd been blown away to discover he got into any part of, um, what was done to him.
Deep down inside he'd hoped it would happen again soon. Even when he tried to be rational, Casey just fuckin' knew there'd be another disembodied voice someday, chuckling easily, signaling the start of the next hot encounter.
"Uh..." He shook his head. What the hell were they talking about, again?
"C'mon."
Hands took hold of his arms.
"No, no, no, no," he said, stepping back.
More hands pushed on his back. "March. I know an interested customer when I see one."
"Aw, hell -"
His cigarette was stuck between his lips. "Smoke up. It's a beautiful day, isn't it? We're just going up the block. 1273. The striped awning."
He resisted as much as he dared. Fazetock's hands moved him forward without allowing him to display, too obviously, that he was being hustled along. Oh, shit, the awning was getting closer and closer.
"I'm a cop," he said disgustedly.
"Who's off-duty."
After a few seconds, he sagged. Fought a little less.
"How'd you know?"
"I didn't. You just confirmed it, though."
"Son of a bitch!"
A hand ruffled his hair. "Cops aren't supposed to smoke when they're on the beat, are they?"
"Well -"
He cringed. Shut right up, and took another drag. It wasn't forbidden in the regs, but Fazetock had just tossed out a possible excuse to "punish" him.
"And you're off until Monday. Huh? Three long, hilarious days."
Casey perked up. "No, I'm not! Gotta work tomorrow. I'm not lying."
"I know you're not. Tone of voice. Casey's eager to please, if it gets him out of the lourdstocks any sooner. Hey, it was worth a try."
"Oh, no," he whispered.
"That gives me the greatest idea for -" And the bastard chuckled, low and mean.
"Help," he said, to no one in particular. They were at the stoop now. So doomed. If he made a scene, would it accomplish anything other than making him look like certifiable?
"We'll call it a sales incentive."
"I don't need any damn incentive."
"Yeah, well, I didn't ask for your opinion." His cigarette was thrown down. "In we go."

It was a fourth-floor studio... covered in soundproofing foam.
A big brass bed was in the corner, and it had cuffs and straps all over it. Big-ass flatscreen TV on the wall -
And the sheets had little cartoons of tickling shit woven right into 'em. It was very unnerving, and exciting, to see that these bastards had their own custom textile pattern.
The whole deal was too much for him. Planned out to the nth degree, so he could be... just crazed. Gotta get smart and talk the asshole down, he decided. Not today. Maybe it would let him schedule some vacation time.
It hadn't been a coincidence that Casey was grabbed, the first time, on the same damn day he got the final exam results, and had nine days before the graduation ceremony and his precinct assignment. What a fuckin' shock it had been to wake up after he'd been kicked to the curb and see that he hadn't actually been worked over for months!
The most unbearable moments came flooding back.
Reflexively, he took a quick breath to yell for help -
The door closed fast.
"Oh no, you don't. Not before the demo."

One deadbolt shot, two, three... and their handles, if there even were handles, were under the yellowing eggcrate foam that hid the doorframe.
Fazetock's hands released him.
"I guess you can tell this is a smoking room," it said -
And a carton of Lucky Strikes was tossed on the bed.
Casey froze.
"Too much?" Fazetock asked.
"Y-yeah. And no. Both."
'"I like you," the tickler said. "You know the score."
"Don't I just," he sighed, looking at the TV and starting to worry. Let's just make a video. If you wanna keep it from being sent to everybody you know, Casey, you're gonna give up that shithole on the other side of Hell's Kitchen and let me put your stuff in storage. What would you say to an unpaid leave of absence from the precinct, right here?
"What's eating you now?" the kidnapper said - with a giggle.
"Got a camera here?"
"No. You like that? Being a TV star?"
"Forget it," he grumbled.
"That's for the presentation," and a remote lifted off the nightstand for a couple seconds, setting right back down.
"The what?"
"Lourdstocks."
He looked around, getting irritated. "You were serious?"
But Fazetock didn't reply. "Look, I'll take 'em." There was no response. "No need to g-get your fancy sheets dirty."
"You like those cartoons, don't ya, Casey?"
He moaned softly. "You made the sale. Just -"
"You're the third guy today who made up his mind that fast. I must be better at selling shit than I thought."
Casey nodded, still trying to figure out how to get the tickler to unlock the damn door and get back to peddling the goods. "How much are they?"
"Five grand."
He blinked. "And I remind you again, I'm a cop."
"So?"
"Cop salary."
"A hundred easy payments," Fazelock said right away. "Interest-free."
"I said yes." The sadist could've hunted him anytime. None of the fake-salesman bullshit was necessary -
Hands grabbed his ribs.

Casey squeaked, ducking and jumping around. Fighting not to laugh.
Fazetock dragged him to the bed.
Fingers slipped into his underwear - and he went ballistic, shouting laughter at the restraints lying there, trying every move he could think of to get loose.

After a long minute, the tickling stopped.
Casey panted and took stock. There was a big triangular pillow supporting his back. The wrist-cuffs were absurdly thick, hooked to the headposts...
There was even a small pillow tied around each brass bannister. He wasn't going to hurt himself by smacking against the metal.
"Un... b-believable," he said, catching his breath.
A pack of Luckies rapped against nothing he could see. As it was opened, hands curled firmly around his legs and pressed down.
Nothing he could do stopped Fazelock from taking off his shoes and socks.
A lighter served him up. Two water bottles touched down on the nightstand. Water. Good and cold.
A stamped metal ashtray coasted to his chest, sliding right under the end of his smoke. There was a cartoon embossed in the bottom. A guy, head thrown back, laughing his guts out. He was caught in a straitjacket that had stripes - like an old prison shirt - and mercifully it was just basically a head-and-shoulders pose, so Casey didn't have to get further aroused at the sight of little cartoon gloves having their way with the prisoner's ribs. Or any points further south.
Plain capital letters were curved around, near the edges...

POST-RELEASE MENTORING
 
YOUR NEW P.O. SAYS "LAUGH!"

Too weird to be possible. All of it.
Casey forced himself to stop staring at the ashtray - this Fazetock had observational interrogation tactics down pat. Instead he glared at the TV, took a drag, and waited.
"I don't feel right," Fazetock said, "about selling these things before you even have a chance to check 'em out."
"No trouble here," he said.
Shit, his rod was ready to bust right out of his pants. It obviously didn't remember the milking pump, or waking up the fourth day, still strapped down, knowing with a horrible certainty that there would be a fifth.
It was pointless to try and talk his way out. Casey knew better -
Oh, hell, there was something being brought over. It had emerged out of the bedroom, big and blocky, covered with a drape of new white satin.
"I like the theatrics," the tickler said. "You don't need the hard sell, but hey. Humor me."
"You're a real piece of work," Casey said. "Don't think I'm skipping out on the sales pitch until you undo the damn cuffs."
The lourdstocks - that was obviously what Fazetock was bringing over to him - came to a halt.
"I could remind you, right about now, that it's like you were hypnotized back there," it said. "Another minute and you would've been drooling all over the display window."
"That doesn't mean..."
And the damn stocks moved again, coming alongside the bed. "What? C'mon, tell me. This oughta be good."
"Okay. Actually it, uh, does - I guess I was staring."
"Introducing," the tickler said, hamming it up, "your Lourdstocks!"
Swell, Casey thought, as the satin was pulled away.

The surface gleamed. Flawless...
Smoothed edges everywhere.
Solid as they could be.
They were about the size of a small suitcase, a little longer. Two pieces of acrylic, thick enough to swallow Casey's ankles...
He grunted.
They had no color. Transparent like glass. Most of the top piece, and a big stripe down the center of the bottom part, were clear. Anything happening on the other side would be easy to watch. The rest of the stocks were frosted on all sides.
A smooth black band - metal, apparently - lined the inside of each ankle. It nestled in shiny, black, rubbery material that was padded, and that was so enticing, so soft, gripping enough to make escape a maddening fantasy that would never come true.
"Yeah, I think I could talk you into buying two sets," Fazelock laughed.
"I... think you're probably right. They look c-cool."
It took his cigarette away and ground it out in the ashtray. "Beer?"
"You know it," Casey sighed, looking back over at his new bondage device.
He watched a bottle of Brooklyn IPA float up to his mouth.

"Whoooh," he said after drinking. "They're... pretty intimidating."
"Aaaaw, Casey, if you own 'em, you're the boss."
That notion finally made him snap out of his trance. Another Lucky was coming over to his lips. "That line only works on guys who have never been caught... by one of you fiends." He leaned forward to reach the lighter. "Don't go thinkin' I'm dumb enough to fall for that."
Fazetock just laughed.
"Like I'm ever the boss, here."
"Duly noted, officer. Now this is gonna sound like it's ominous, but it's not. It's... pretty surprising you're a free man."
"Nope," he said, exhaling smoke, "that's not scary to hear. Hell, no."
"What I mean is, your attitude - it's fun to work with. That usually comes with experience, in our hands, which means you're exceptionally... reactive."
"Lucky me. I'm a natural." Casey knew he wasn't getting out of this. The beer helped him calm down. The more Fazetock talked, the more information Casey gained. You never could tell. He was a goner, though.
"Except then you go and say something freakin' irresistible. Bringing the hurt down for sure. Now that shows you're not a career captive."
He thought about that, and needed a hard drag. "Swell. I never put those two words together. 'Captive,' the way you bastards like to keep us busy - and 'career,' so I'm just gonna sit here like a good boy and whimper to myself for a bit."
"No you're not," the tickler said. "I'll cause the whimpering 'round here. And not until I'm good and ready."
He just nodded. Wilder and wilder...

"Try to shut up. Go three minutes without saying anything that any self-respecting tickler would pounce on. Okay? The lourdstocks weigh twenty-two pounds, but they immobilize feet like nothing you -"
"What? You mean, each half is twenty-two pounds."
"No," Fazetock said, sounding puzzled. "The whole thing."
"That can't be right," Casey said. "Acrylic blocks that size?"
"It's not acrylic. Well, a new formula..."
Something clicked, to his right - and his hand came free from the bedpost! He watched the stocks touch down on the floor.
"Pick 'em up," the tickler said.
He frowned, but reached over...
They weren't too heavy to lift. Huh.
"Son of a bitch!"
"Right? You see?" Fazelock said excitedly. "It's not about mass. They're packed with technology."
"Huh." He set the stocks down - carefully, so the kidnapper didn't get pissed off - and ran his fingertips along the top side.
"If I leave that hand uncuffed for awhile, are you gonna behave?"
"Yes. Definitely," Casey said, grateful to hold the cigarette between his fingers again. He reached over for the beer first. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it," the tickler said. "You've got questions - that's only natural. And I, Fazetock, order you - my victim - to watch this informative video."
The TV screen lit up.
"So you really weren't kidding, about the sales pitch thing," he said.
"Seven minutes," Fazetock said. "Explains everything."
"Oh, okay," Casey said, settling back. That wasn't so long.

After the video ended, he didn't say anything right off. Taking it all in. Gyroscopes, and little electrical signals to fool the leg-muscles...
He wanted to get out of there. That was the sensible side talking. And yet, dammit, he was firmly stuck in an incredibly erotic dream that had invaded reality, locking him dead in its sights.
Casey had to try those 'stocks now. He ended up letting a cigarette hang from his mouth after all. His hand was curled around the top of the lourdstocks.
"This might just be my favorite sale so far," Fazetock said. It sounded content. "Maybe. We'll see."
He looked at his hand, pulled it away... and slapped the top of the stocks again. "Mine."
"Yours."
"So they trick the legs into thinking they weigh a ton?"
"Uh-huh. I could hang 'em from a couple pieces of fishline, and you'd be blown away trying to figure out how something so heavy could stay up there without crashing down."
He leaned forward, studying his new purchase. "Where's the remote-control eye? Thingy?"
"Receiver? Way inside. Down by the cuff. Business side. Aim the clicker at it from anywhere, though, and the whole deal's angled just right to send the signal down."
"Business side," he chuckled.
"Shop talk. You know it."
Casey helped himself to another smoke. "You can just undo the cuffs now. I'm a happy customer. Unlock the door, while you're at it."
Silence.
He finally lit up.
"There's no way," the tickler said, "you really thought that was gonna happen."
"I can hope."
"Liar. You'd be crushed if I actually - oh, we're not done yet."
"Sure we are -"
"Gotta program your new unit."
Casey felt oddly disappointed. Sales types were all the same, maybe, human or not. Get the "yes" and run...

A little zippered pouch floated to his lap. Black leather, of course. It opened up...
User manual, remote control, and a thick headband.
"I thought it was voice-activated," Casey said.
"For another three thousand bucks."
"Damn."
"Kinda hard to be giving commands when you're gagged. Or roaring your freakin' head off with tortured laughter. But don't confuse that with the tactile confirmation response, okay? That's the tingling on both shins at once to acknowledge any command. It's in every lourdstocks." A hand curled lazily over his throat. "When I'm in charge, though, I just press the SHIN OFF button on the remote - and you'll never get that notification again until I press SHIN ON. You don't deserve to know what I'm telling these 'stocks to do to you. I mean, hell, it's not like you're gonna be calling the shots." And Fazelock laughed at him.
"Uh -"
"What I mean is, I can't see you settling down for a nice evening, all by your lonesome, trapped in your lourdstocks. Yawn. And anyway you'd have the remote control sitting on your chest. But if you really do wanna use 'em while you jack off, hey, knock yourself out."
The hand squeezed his throat and slid off.
"Your thing is really about being stuck in 'em because somebody else wanted you there. Or maybe the other way around - but I doubt it, kiddo. Somebody else will be around, because you don't get to decide... when you get out."

He wanted to argue, but ended up gulping instead.
"It's okay, Casey. There's a safety override," the tickler continued, "if you squeeze and hold your lower abs five times in a row. A muscle-stopword, if you will. Now, naturally, I'd be letting you get three or four squeezes in before I tore into your pits, or your feet, so any chance of coordinating that squeeze again was shot. Whenever you tried to get yourself out, I'd let you run the chain for awhile and then put a firm stop to that shit. Every time."
Well, damn, Casey thought - if every tickler knew that...
"That isn't going to help you anyway, here, because it's another upgrade. Fifteen grand more."
"Fifteen? What the hell?"
"We don't want you guys to have it."
He finished the smoke. "I guess not."
"Noooo-ooobody gets out until we let 'em," Fazelock said happily. The headband was brought up and pulled into place on Casey's head. Invisible fingers adjusted it slightly as a thin white cord shook free.
The stocks were picked up off the padded floor and rotated. He was being shown the bottom surface...
Next to a threaded steel socket, there was a latch. It clicked open.
"Four double-A batteries give you three continuous months of use. And I do mean, continuous."
"Get outa here."
"Just make sure you get the good ones. Basically the most expensive disposables you can find. That'll give you the most bang for the buck. That little green dot is a power indicator. See it?"
"Yeah. Kinda stupid to put it on the bottom."
Fazelock didn't say anything...
Casey finally caught on. "Aw, hell. Forget I said that. I don't know what I was thinking." He felt like an idiot.
"Forget it? No, I'm gonna be repeating it as often as I can. You know what a young NYPD hunk said? When he saw where the power light was?" The tickler snickered. "And I'm gonna make it sound like you're a complete idiot who totally deserved what was coming to him. To his feet. But no, we don't want you cats getting preoccupied with the power light, wishing and hoping." It closed the battery compartment and stretched the headband-cable to a waiting mini-USB port in the lourdstocks. "This is where it gets... personal," it said.

It took him a second to realize it was teasing. Personalized, more like. "Is this gonna hurt?"
He heard a dismissive snort. "If it hurts, I'll give you the damn thing for free. And throw in a case of beer." Casey nodded. "The stocks will do their thing for anybody, but to create the illusion of weight perfectly - without taxing the muscles, or interfering with all of that insane neural input that's racing up your legs - we need to calibrate it. Takes sixty seconds. You only have to do it once for each human."
"Okay," he said, "let's do it."
The remote control was lifted from the pouch. It aimed at the lourdstocks. "Bang," the tickler said -
"Owwww!" Casey yelled. And then he grinned.
"You're a dead man," Fazelock said. "Oh, yeah."
Not long after, the little green light blinked twice. The headband was pulled off and put back into the case. He watched the lourdstocks flip back over.
But they didn't land.
He knew where they'd go next.
"They're all set?"
"All set."

The tickler was waiting for something.
"So," Casey said, "uh, I'll read the manual, and -"
"No you won't," Fazelock said. "You're a guy."
"Hey -"
"You might press buttons on the clicker at random. And you might get most of the features working, but then again you might drop the remote on the floor and be stuck there. One way or another you'll end up disappointed, or the thought of your purchase will make you feel dumb... and you'll put these fine lourdstocks in the back of your closet."
"Well -"
"But you'll make the payments every month. You'd be scared not to. And that'll sting. If you ever do admit 'trying' out lourdstocks, you'll say they were a big, expensive mistake. A scam."
"I'm not like that," he snapped.
The tickler paused for a bit. "No. Maybe you're not, Casey. But some dudes are."
"Well, cut me a little slack."
"Never. Not you. Your life changed today, officer, and slack is not on the way. The sales process doesn't end with... handing you the keys."
He squirmed in the cuffs. "No?"
"You gotta get a test-drive. Right now."
Oh, shit, he thought - with a weird, deep mix of happiness and dread - as his lourdstocks cruised, smooth as could be, to end of the bed.
He pulled his feet up underneath his knees. Reflex, instinct. The top half floated straight up, revealing long tapered cones that hung down -
"Left ankle," Fazelock ordered.
"You're outa yer mind," Casey said, laughing nervously.
Then he was sucking in air and whooping like a total fool, because hands were suddenly squeezing his ribs right through his uniform shirt. Others grabbed his free arm and reefed it back up to the snap-hasps.

He rolled and chortled and bounced.
"Left... ankle," Fazelock laughed.
Casey shook his head - locked up, and roared his guts out. The hands had dug in, all up and down his sides, and the next fifteen seconds reminded him he was way out of his league.
"I'm waaa-iting," the tickler teased.
Still laughing, he kicked his foot out... scared, and excited... but finally managing to lay it in the proper half-circle.
"Very good."
The bastard's hands revved up again!

It seemed crazy that the mattress underneath them wasn't mashed flat. They felt exactly like what he would've expected if his ankles had been walled in... with the heaviest rock in the world. But not squished -
"Twist your hips," the kidnapper said. "Just push 'em over."
He tried.
"I can't," he wailed.
"Bullshit! Look at 'em. Clear plastic. You picked 'em up with one hand! Unless you think I'm pushing down on 'em. Like I could push down so hard, in all directions, that you couldn't even make 'em move the least little bit."
The situation had become serious. Padded walls, taunting little cartoon gloves on the sheet - and the incredible lack of all control over his legs suggested a lot of tickling in store today. Not just a few minutes, maybe a quick tug-job, and he'd be on his way. No, it was gonna be a long night...
"Turn 'em off, Fazelock."
"Not yet. Bend your toes."
"What -"
Shit, he couldn't do it. "Wow..."

"The default mode, once they're closed," the tickler said, "is to keep your feet standing tall. Toes slightly back, slightly spread. I can turn that off, with the remote, and chase your little piggies around with feathers. But you listen real good now, Casey, and I fuckin' mean it. This is the most important part of the actual demo. Is there any pain - anywhere?"
He frowned. Tried to roll. Thighs, knees, shins, calves, ankles. Nope. He put his best effort into pumping his legs as hard as he could.
Heels okay, Achilles tendons, soles... toes. "Incredible."
"I need a clear answer. Is there any spot south of your dick that isn't merely shocked to be stuck so tight - but is starting to hurt? Think very carefully. The lourdstocks are fully adjustable."
He squirmed, and bounced. Then he laid still.
"No," he finally said. Blown away.
Fazelock chuckled at his amazement. "Now imagine you're going to be stuck just like this... until daybreak. Nothing you can possibly do will shift your legs one bit. Or your toes. Let's say I'm going to load up twelve hours of grueling tickle-videos, and I'll keep the cigarettes and the water coming, maybe get your stupid ass a pizza later. Hold a urinal when you need it. Everything else is taken care of - you get a sudden itch on your calf, I'll scratch it for you. Understand?" It waited for a reply.
"Yes."
"Now, what spot is a little less comfortable than the rest... and could maybe get a little annoying in an hour, and distracting after three hours? With all that time left to go, stuck just like this? If you suspect any place might even possibly be in a position... that you just have to put up with, even if it doesn't seem to be a big deal at all - tell me."
He surveyed every muscle group from his abs on down. Thought about the nerves, the joints - all those bones in his feet.
Dammit, he just couldn't budge.
Casey took a deep breath. "All I got is that there's a wrinkle in the sheet. Right thigh."
"Oops."
The lump went away.
"I got nothing now," he said. "Every... uh, every inch. It's like floating."
"Perfect! That's the word I was hoping for."
So glad to hear you cheer up, he thought, pulling at the cuffs, scanning the ceiling for anything that might give him a little hope. Nothing's better than a happy tickler.

A piece of paper rustled as it came over to him.
"This is the most elaborate, uh, mind-game I've ever seen."
Fazelock opened the nightstand drawer and took out a permanent marker. The cap popped off, and it came right to his fingers.
"Yeah, well... you really own this top-notch bondage gear now. Just sign on the big line at the bottom."
Reflexively, he fumbled for the pen. With his hand tethered again, he couldn't do much more than scribble. Casey was nervously aware that Fazelock hadn't let him read the terms of sale. He was quite sure, at this point, that demanding to see them would bring the tickling on...
This wasn't just about buying the damn lourdstocks. The same phantom that just made him put his own ankles into bondage seemed to like him. He didn't want everything to change, but he was depressingly sure that he would've been tickled, right here, until he agreed to become another hysterically happy customer -
Fingers clamped over his. The paper met up with the end of the pen.
"Hey!"
"I love doing this," Fazelock laughed... as it forced him to sign the contract.
"You bastard," he said.
"Let's both remember that you took the pen voluntarily."
Casey snorted with amazement. "Well, yeah, but..."
A little square had floated out of the nightstand. Slowly. So he'd definitely see it.
As it approached, another smoke slid out of the pack.

Everything moves like magic in here, he thought, so horny he couldn't think straight. Caught but good, and no one would ever, ever believe how he came to have stocks in his bedroom...
Without a word he took the Lucky, and craned his neck to meet up with the lighter. It was a damn good time for a cigarette, because the little square had come to a halt over his belly.

TICKL-DEE-NIAL
Nubbed condom

Extra-slippery Lafrinex gel INSIDE!

HOURS of laughs!

For novelty use only
Not rated for pregnancy prevention

"This cannot be freakin' happening," he said to the rubber.
"What are you gonna do about it?" Fazelock asked softly. "Huh?"
Well, apparently he was gonna get serious about rolling out of the damn bed...

And still the package tore open, and a dull purple circle slid out.
"Don't do this," he begged the kidnapper.
Rowdy laughter seemed to come from just over his crotch.

It was thicker than he expected. Hours of laughs, indeed.
The nubs weren't uniform -
Hell, no. They were strategically positioned. The edge of his glans was in for a real good time. Most of his tip, and the base of the shaft were surrounded too. There was a little hole at the end.
The lube seemed to throb... and not with heat.
A snort erupted from his throat.
Definitely not fire. It was more like deep... continuous tickling, pushed steadily against his skin in a hundred little places.
"Noh hoh hoh," Casey burbled.
"This is what it's really about for you, isn't it?" the tickler asked gently. "The cock play. You wanna be trapped so the milking can go on, and on. Tell me the truth, officer."
"Hoo hoo hoo huh ohhhh yeah huh huh huh hee hee-eeee!" Dammit, he couldn't stop laughing. There was no way he could approve of this shit. It was cruel.
But the truth wanted to be free.
He couldn't help himself. Casey nodded for his captor.
"Uh-huh. Get real close, reeeeel close to going off like a volcano - and those tickling hands dive in again. Making you roar! Sidetracking the relief. Crawling all over, and you can't get your hands loose, can't lift your legs..."
Casey threw his head back, wailed hysterically, and nodded. Kept on nodding.
"Good to know," Fazelock said.

It was so snug!
Oh, hell. He hadn't missed this part. The tickling shit. Or maybe he had to hit his stride again. It was getting hard to... to remember why he hated this. And here he'd been forced to put his own feet into the damn stocks. That was sinister.
Tickling him like this was how the bastards got him so revved up. In the dreams that followed, the sadistic fuck who dragged him into the warehouse tickled like it had been at it for years. Never stopping. Casey had been completely shocked at how hard he got, the first night -
And already, in this dressed-up torture chamber, he was a giggling, barking, blurry-eyed mess.
The condom moved when he laughed - and it tickled him. He tried a hard thrust, but the whole thing moved with his dick. He'd never get his tip anywhere near close enough to the hole to possibly tear through... and the rubber was too thick, just the right maddening hug, so he wouldn't be able to ruin it, and even if he did Casey was real sure there would be a disembodied chuckle and the nightstand drawer would open again so another diabolical condom could be fetched, to freakin' torture his meat like this, so warped to tickle a guy there, like this, and the nubs were pressing just firmly enough in so many of the wrong spots...
The gel tickled too much! Every time he moved, or chuckled - or breathed. The lubed skin was crazy-ticklish now, under the nubs. It seemed to be getting worse all the time.
He needed to cum like a champ - but the distraction of the ticklishness made Casey think that relief wasn't coming until he just hollered laughter for awhile. Hours, maybe. He was so far gone already.
That empty warehouse -
There had been some cosmic weirdness there. Toys he never would've believed were real, if they hadn't been used on his skin... but this rubber was maybe the most perverse thing ever invented.

He had to get it off. His wrists stayed where they were caught, though... Next big deal would be to pump his dick a couple of times. The cuffs held firm.
Just brutal. Csaey couldn't just lay there and take it, but if he even fidgeted the tickling exploded all over again. Oh fuck, he had to talk Fazelock to clamping a glove around his shaft and start pumping.
But he couldn't get any words out. Actually, he was way backlogged on laughing. Way behind. And he was never gonna be able to get off with the scrambling fire of ticklish nubs pressing against his glans like this, under and on top...
Already this was far more crazy-making than he remembered being in that warehouse, although his memory was probably not as reliable as usual just then.
Tickled and pumped all weekend. And he kept waking up there - still there - watching the toys and the gloves get back to it.
He'd forgotten how fuckin' intense -
Wait. It was happening somewhere else... and not just all over his dick.

Fazelock couldn't be serious. It was tickling him for real -
Of course it is, he thought. You're really gonna get it. Casey blinked the tears out of his eyes frantically...
And laughed at the lourdstocks.
Unbelievable. He couldn't seem to kick hard enough. Feathers were on the move, sweeping and tracing. They were the first act -
He slammed around, fairly screaming now. Most of the lourdstocks were clear just so he could watch feathers sweep and crawl up his damn feet, barely starting to threaten the gaps between his toes.
Stop, he wanted to shout. Fazelock. Stop tickling. Get the rubber off.
Fingers landed, one by one, in his armpits. Shiny black gloves, empty as they could be, stuck close no matter how much he thrashed around.
The sensations covering his dick were short-circuiting any ability to push the cum out. And when the feathers were joined by those fingers, a climax was absolutely out of the question.

After a long, long hysterical time, more gloves came to play between his legs. Sliding, scritching...
Despite the howls of laughter that were his top priority, Casey was maybe a lousy thrust or two away from success -
But a glove mashed its palm against his tip and closed its fingers, pushing all of those drugged nubs in more firmly.
His laughter cut out, though his body continued to shake for the longest time. Silent fuckin' roars. And still not nearly enough...

A whole new peak of vivid power slammed up and through him when firm bristles started terrorizing every inch of his soles...

But eventually the cum could not be stopped any longer.
And before he'd even finished pumping, hand after hand started tickling. Belly, neck, calves, pecs - and ribs. Oh, damn, the way they stuck it to his ribs.
Casey had actually forgotten - or maybe he'd worked hard to forget - how much more ticklish he was after a cumshot.
Whenever he squirmed, the nubs shifted a little - and in his heightened state it was like they'd come to life, little menacing tormentors, snuggling and racing over skin that was still getting ridiculously more ticklish. He was kept fully erect, and he couldn't get out from under the tickling nubs and brushes and the many soft, patient hands long enough to fire his rod. He'd cum again, and the sensation would climb through the roof. Again.
Each glove was covering a freakishly ticklish spot, and they worked as if they were having a grand ol' time.
 

He was... smoking.
The pleasure had stopped, and Casey thought he may have actually slept for awhile. That was only so he could be tickle-tortured some more. He was still in Fazelock's soundproofed room.
Yeah. He remembered drinking water. So glad to guzzle it. And he'd eaten... something. Ticklish prisoners had to get enough carbs.
He moaned, trying to imagine surviving even more of what he'd gone through -
A soft sound made him look to his right.
The nightstand drawer was sliding open.
Casey writhed, which was fuckin' useless - and he started hooting. Aw, shit, not again!

But yeah, of course. The tickling was prolonged in that warehouse. Unbelievably long days -
"Hey. What time is it?" he said to the dark green condom, as it started to roll over his dick.
"Normally I wouldn't put up with a question like that," Fazelock said, "but this is gonna be good. It's 9:45."
"No."
"Yeeeeeah."
"Same night?"
The rubber covered his tip. More nubs landed in crippingly sensitive spots, slick with more of that damn tickling gel. "Same night."

On to Part 2

15apr13