An intense presence materializes in the dim black chamber.
It goes by the name of Mal. The Tank is Mal's place.
Bru is here too. Also invisible, untiring... but not as hardcore.
Then there's the wrestler. His name is Malmeat.
There are four chambers in the Tank. One is empty. The other two have meat in 'em, exhausted, fast asleep. Mal just left the rock chamber, after a long visit to the mirrored chamber. They don't have names, since they're just passing through. A couple weeks here, maybe a month, and other meat takes their place.
The environment and the supplies are scanned one last time. Communication passes between Mal and Bru, undetectable to meat. Everything is in order.
The wrestler is ready and waiting.
A pack of Luckies, by his right side, breaks contact with the pad. Bru tilts it and pulls one out.
He watches it come to his mouth, and takes it, as the pack lands. Shifting his gaze to a black chrome lighter, now lifting off the floor. The lid flips open as it comes up to him, and the flame strikes.
He sucks in.
The lighter snaps shut. It heads back down to the ground.
The wrestler empties his lungs, and takes a good, long drag.
His hands close slowly, spread out above his head.
Bru leaves.
Mal is alone with its current favorite plaything.
As it happens, this is the wrestler's first cigarette of the night. He smokes like he really needs it.
He always has a Lucky going when Bru leaves.
Whenever Mal is about to begin, Bru leaves for another chamber. It doesn't come back until after Mal decides the wrestler can go to sleep. While Malmeat is recharging, Mal goes to one of the other chambers, then the other, until Bru communicates that he's ready again.
This cigarette is mandatory.
Malmeat didn't smoke until Bru made him.
Bru had been watching him for awhile. It was tracking some meat in a small southwestern town that showed great promise.
The wrestler was there. He'd lined up a summer job in California, his father had skipped town, and his mother had told him she wanted him out of the house just as soon as he graduated.
He was eighteen, he wasn't in love with his girlfriend, and he planned to leave and never come back.
On graduation night, Bru packed the wrestler's best possessions in the trunk of his car. He was leaving, and it made sure his mother would know it - whenever she bothered to look in his room.
He went to a party, down by the river. Got drunk. Hung out with his friends until they all sobered up some.
And when he got in his car, the party continued. Bru held him down while his friends drove off. Got him even more drunk.
And drove him... east.
The thick black door swings out, slowly. This is the usual cue that Mal is with him now. Sealing the room.
Malmeat flips his head to get the hair out of his eyes. Black hair. Dark, beady eyes. Thick stubble on his cheeks... Almost time for another buzz-cut. And a shave.
He woke up in an old pumphouse with no door. That didn't matter. He was tied up.
He was always tied up, in the pumphouse.Bru taught the wrestler to smoke.
Roped and anchored - except for his dominant hand. A few cigarettes within easy reach, and a disposable lighter next to 'em. More dropped down as soon as he broke or pounded or threw 'em away. A bottle of water, set just beyond his grasp.
And nothing else to do...The next day, a few more cigarettes.
Ten. Fifteen. A new pack, fumbled open, peeling the cellophane off with his teeth.The wrestler worked his way up to two packs a day. Three...
He smoked pot, and various kinds of cigars, until he needed to smoke as much as Bru would let him. Then he became well acquainted with several kinds of hard liquor.After that, he spent most of his waking hours getting used to an assortment of sex toys.
And these new things were combined with a regimen of protracted, versatile tickling.
He sucks in on the Lucky, a hard and deliberate pull... looking at the door, then the dark ceiling, with palpable hatred.
After three weeks of hard play, Mal found them.
It watched Bru tickle the wrestler all day. Obtained his history, and a rundown of all that Bru had done to him.
Mal was far more powerful than Bru.
It took the wrestler. North, and west.Bru followed them to the Tank, and investigated the chambers.
It was a unique place, very well hidden. Seven miles from the nearest exit off the interstate which had three truck stops, an adult bookstore and two bars. An excellent place to hunt.
Sometimes Mal kept the Tank's chambers filled. When it wasn't hunting at the cluster of roadside businesses - dumping meat it was finished with, and selecting replacements - it was tickling. Continuously. Intently.
After a month or two, almost all meat was ready to be ejected from the Tank. The wrestler was a mesmerizing exception.
Bru communicated with Mal, until they reached an agreement. If Bru assumed the maintenance duties, it could run the other three chambers. Since it was only able to work on meat in two chambers simultaneously, Mal would still cycle through the chambers, one at a time. And the wrestler was to be tickled by Mal alone.
Other meat was dragged in and out of the Tank... but not to the black chamber.
It was reserved exclusively, and indefinitely, for Malmeat.
The wrestler takes another defiant pull, and holds the smoke in.
His hands and feet try to move. They don't. He wears thick leather bands, studded. But they're just a reminder, like the matching collar around his neck, thin and black.
No other meat has been in the black chamber since he arrived.
He hasn't left the windowless black chamber since Mal hauled him in.
Mal has provided Bru with extensive instruction on the ideal care and maintenance of meat. It also reversed the effects of Bru's inexperience, and tuned the wrestler's physique.
He had also played baseball. Third base, power hitter. When Bru took him, he was at the peak of his physical form.
Robust...
As well as the most impressionable meat Mal had ever encountered.He was given a name. Malmeat.
His qualifications were wasted on a seasonal job at some dumpy resort. Mal had a full-time position for him. A number of positions. Here, in the Tank.
A permanent job, in a secure workplace.He'd be shown the door eventually. Dropped off behind the largest truck stop. With jeans and boots and a t-shirt, a black canvas knapsack with a jean jacket and a black chrome lighter - and ten or twenty packs of his precious Lucky Strikes. Pockets stuffed with fifties...
Severance pay. Incentive to keep his mouth shut and hit the road. Or, if he didn't, he'd get a swift and sure return trip to the Tank.But that day hadn't arrived yet. It didn't seem to be getting any closer.
So, in the meantime...His stamina is extraordinary, and his ticklishness continues to increase.
The wrestler is Mal's primary focus.
Malmeat is going to stay around. Right here.
Mal approaches him, watching him smoke.
The restraining furniture in the chamber is ignored. It will not be needed tonight.
For his nineteenth birthday, Mal gave him a tattoo.
It's on his right forearm. Thunderclouds, spitting thin lightning bolts... raining feathers. A large shape in the middle of the storm, edges ghost-outlined. A grasping hand.
Below the artwork, three spidery letters: MAL.
He's immobilized... but he can't see the fetters. They're invisible to him. The tactile impression is of thick stainless steel, keeping his limbs spread and anchored to the pad.
Mal doesn't usually let him see the tools. All of the furniture in the chamber, each making a different shape under its jet-black cover of Chinese silk, disappears when the sheet is pulled off. Phased slightly out of his visual range, sometimes casting the odd reflection off their sturdy surfaces - leaving faint but telltale shadows on the black neoprene of the chamber floor...
The wrestler's cigarette is almost gone. Then Mal will begin.
It waits only for his next puff - and the cigarette is pulled from his lips, pinched out. Cast to the side.
Malmeat glares at the ceiling, straight over him, and exhales smoke. Deadly fury, safely contained...
His legs rise, as one. Mal keeps 'em spread, bends his knees a little, and stops when they're almost over his cock. He tries to kick, out of reflex, but can't even swivel his hips.
The bonds steady his limbs as if they were set in concrete. But there is no meat blocked from Mal, other than that under the cuffs.
The wrestler looks from one of his airborne feet to the other.
Mal brings a black glass decanter into his view. To his left foot...
Pouring oil.
He scowls, but that expression gives way to bleak apprehension.
The lubricant, mixed just for Malmeat, rolls down the length of his leg, his torso, under him. Sixteen ounces. Then it's pouring down his other side.
Oil proved to be too difficult to cloak... but it also gained power as a symbol for the many tools the wrestler was generally not allowed to see.
The decanter vanishes.
Malmeat divides his worried gaze between each foot. Glistening toes.
The tools - invisible, unstoppable - are about to land.
Superior anatomy, and unquenchable ticklishness... here to be plundered by an obsessed, masterful tickler.
278-00:00:00
Mal begins.
The wrestler jumps, rearing back. His limbs don't move.
Bands loop around his toes and straighten 'em, allowing rubber probes to trace in between. Vinyl fingers scratch his heels gently. Thin bristles drag around the center of his soles, endlessly spiraling inward... in opposition to thicker clusters that circle the remainder of the arches. A fitted wire brush rocks across the muscular pad under each set of toes, vibrating slowly. The tips of feathers march down the inner sides of each foot, while ball bearings track up the outer sides.
This is one of the four tool-configurations that most effectively provoke the wrestler's feet.
Malmeat whines, from deep in his throat, and tries to arch. He's learned not to laugh as much. A complex process of additional stimulation was applied to discourage it. Unless the tickling is widespread and much more vigorous, his body has learned to conserve his strength, since every bit of energy will be used up. Instead, he grunts and moans erratically, attempting to twist. Scrabbling backward, again, as if he could increase the distance between his brain and his feet.
Tools move ceaselessly on the oily skin. Mal studies his face and body, interpreting and comparing the results of each stroke.
278-00:48:36
Malmeat has broken a fine sweat. The spastic fidgeting is long gone, the tremors have passed, and Mal's intricate tickling continued - until the wrestler sagged, limbs relaxing. His breathing became more pronounced.
Very good. He's reached his first benchmark of the night, a breakdown of the denial he managed to cultivate since yesterday. Reflexively yielding to Mal's tactile authority.
And he broke earlier than yesterday, by almost thirty seconds.
The interval was stretched, carefully, the first few months. The wrestler was given no predictable structure to adapt to, so his resistance could be fueled by the grueling variety. When his rage took eleven hours to exhaust itself, Mal began to abbreviate it with deep, prolonged, targeted stimulation. When the wrestler's fury has disappeared, it will be rekindled and lengthened again.
The tools stop moving.
The wrestler doesn't react. Fully relaxed, face wet with tears, gulping air.
After two minutes, he opens his eyes. Mal gets him a cigarette. The total break will be five minutes, no more. He doesn't lift his head to meet the lighter... but the smoke is clearly enjoyed. Even the presence of the tools, still in contact his feet, can't overcome his relief.
The expression on his face is different. Vulnerable, now. Spooked. Vague dread. All of these emotions are well-founded.
Halfway through the cigarette, Mal takes it away, pinches it out, throws it behind him. A squeeze bottle takes shape over him. The tube lines up, and squirts eight ounces of warm water down his throat.
Mal makes the bottle... disappear.
When his gaze returns to his feet, it resumes tickling.
278-01:55:18
Provoking Malmeat continuously, without sacrificing effect, occupies Mal's awareness.
His reactions become much more subtle. The signals given off - autonomic, subconscious - are answered. More speed here, less pressure there.
Bru has yet to understand this. Visible reaction, much less laughter, are coarse indicators. Mal knows the wrestler so well that even long motionless periods are useful in guiding its tools. Malmeat is completely unaware of the most reliable signs, which confirm and refine the tickling as it progresses.
Mal reduces pressure... and increases the target area. Nitrile fingers caress Malmeat's ankles, stroking the ball joints, up to the edge of each cuff, and covering the top of each foot.
The wrestler grunts hard and grits his teeth.
Two more hands circle his shins. Massaging down...
His jaws relax, and he breathes more rapidly.
The fingertips press on the calves. Following each leg down to the knee. The only evidence is the oil, accumulating as Mal pulls the gloves down, spreading back out as it pushes 'em back up. It takes ten seconds for each round trip, pausing at the ankles, the knees.
278-02:47:20
Mal is using more hands now.
It lifted the tools off his feet almost a half-hour ago. They hang a few inches away from his soles.
The texture of the gloves is similar to linen. Ten of 'em, industriously rubbing his thighs, stomach, hips...
It left one pair on his knees, clamping and burrowing lazily.
The wrestler drank a quart of water about an hour ago. Then Mal set the hands in motion again. Expansive massage and polishing, up to his balls. Then around, and up -
He thrusts, quickly, with his whole body. But this type of spasm doesn't eject any semen. Mal steered around his cock, earlier, and provoked the surrounding area thoroughly.Malmeat has inner orgasms from extensive tickling that are impossible to confuse with a cumshot. They reveal his benchmarks, the distinct levels of sensitivity the wrestler is forced through... easily reproduced each night by hours of dexterous contact. It recognizes their impending arrival and delays 'em, or hurries 'em along, as it sees fit.
While the groin area of restrained meat is Bru's principal target, Mal exploits nerve impulses all over their bodies. Total impact, maximum length of time. Every aspect is orchestrated to tickle the wrestler as intensely and thoroughly as he can stand. It manipulates Malmeat's need to cum so his sensitivity will explode - a much more expansive, perpetual sport.
The wrestler has been fully aroused tonight since the oil began to pour down his legs. It's an inevitable result of all his previous nights in the black chamber.
Meat naturally wants to cum. If that occurs unexpectedly, the blame lies with the tickler. Awareness is the key. Distracting sensation keeps that urge in firm control, along with everything else.
His cock is avoided for now. There will be hours of comprehensive tickling before Mal strokes him there - and carefully brutal tickling afterward.
Two of Mal's hands start kneading the wrestler's butt cheeks. He squirms distractedly, chuckling once.
278-04:04:09
Dull steel probes and ermine brushes have been crawling all over the wrestler's torso. He twiches irregularly...
Then he grunts. Loud. Three times, rapidly.
His third benchmark.
Mal forces him up to the next level. One feather, sweeping under his chin -
For the first time tonight, Malmeat laughs. They're loose and mindless chortles. Scratchy rumbling laughs.
His toes are moving, too. They haven't been forgotten. Mal will revisit 'em later.
The brushes sweep more heavily, and the probes slow down. And the wrestler hiccups and bounces his head once on the cushioned pad. And he laughs. Mal makes him laugh until the water bottle returns.
278-05:08:34
Mal spends a long time tickling Malmeat's hands. With feathers. The sides of each finger, the palms.
Fur brushes dust his ears thoroughly. Continuously dragging behind them - another excessively reactive spot. Mal holds his hair up with leather hands, slowly fingering his scalp.
Clusters of bristles set back down in his armpits, up near the tricep. Mal had 'em there a half-hour before... pressing in and twisting, dragging a few inches to a new spot, press and twist again. Now, they scrub gently -
The wrestler's arms jerk hard. A reflexive attempt to shield his sides.
Mal responds by touching his ribs with forty fingertips, skating up -
And Malmeat bounces his midsection, slamming around. Making fists, which pull fiercely at the hidden restraints.
The fingers spread out, tracing the sharply defined muscles, caressing his remarkable six-pack. Surrounding his navel. The indentation each one makes is barely visible, little depressions in his taut skin, roaming slowly...
He squirms, mouth opening wide. Tears of pleasure run into his ears, where Mal uses 'em as lubrication for the fur brushes.
When the wrestler sighs deeply and relaxes again, he's passed benchmark number four.
278-06:11:19
Benchmark number five is preceded by feverish squeals. As they get louder, Mal adds feathers. Wiggling under his back, the outer sides of his ass.
Rubber probes shuffle over his collarbones and shoulders.
Four fingers race from his neck to his bladder.
The wrestler huffs air as if he's shivering. His reactions are subdued by fatigue, not willful resistance.
Mal continues until he lets loose with a mighty groan. Then Malmeat sighs and goes limp - all of him, except his cock.
All the tools are removed.
When his breathing has slowed down enough, he opens his eyes a little, scans the room wearily, and looks at the pack of Luckies. The wrestler wants a smoke.
The expectation is rewarded, as Mal gets him a cigarette and a light. Repetition and withholding have confirmed that this crippling urge is the result of earlier lessons. He's getting to smoke, right now, because Mal has triggered him - and not because his desire triggered a response from Mal. After all these nights, nothing in the black chamber is unanticipated.
Mal encouraged the need, and this time the craving is fed. A brief interruption in the tickling... the nicotine boost... the illusion of it being his own desire, his decision - to tug on the cigarette as hard as he can, devotedly savoring it, taking his time before he exhales.
Malmeat smokes the way he's been trained to smoke. It's no different than any other conditioning Mal uses, and free of the autonomy it might illustrate anywhere else.
The wrestler starts another cigarette. Wanting that one, just as badly... because Mal makes him want it.
278-06:38:40
A quart of water, two energy bars, and three more smokes.
Malmeat watches and waits, with a more subservient look on his face. Humbled.
The oil decanter just finished soaking him again, over the dripping sweat, mixing with the piss beneath him...
But the tools are not being moved into position.
Mal brings a calfskin hand to each of the wrestler's feet, takes careful note of his wary dread - and clamps the tender soles.
He barks a time or two, arching as best he can... a slow convulsive wave. Face pinched in a tight grin. Definitely pained, but unmistakably a grin. His head bobs and rolls dreamily.
It knows how to play with these feet. They need to be squeezed just this way, with fierce emphasis added finger by finger, rubbing the sides sequentially. Firm little circles. The palms sliding up against the oil, rocking back down. Extravagant pace.
Malmeat responds with delirious sincerity.
Mal continues the custom kneading, mesmerized by his overwhelmed writhing and panting.
Two more hands are put to use. Right heel, left toes.
A solid half-hour of this... and then the tools, swapping in for each hand.
Followed by the return of the tickling cascade, down his oily legs, his belly, his ribs, armpits, nipples, neck, biceps, hands.
Then feathers and ermine brushes, surrounding his cock. Converging on his balls, his asshole, and creeping back up. Another hour of intricate cock-tickling, light nipple rubbing, counteracted with brisk ribcage massage, heavy latex fingers scratching his thighs.
The wrestler will be forced to cum.
Loud, violent.He'll smoke, watch the oil pour down him, and gasp at the touch of the tiny rubber probes and the bristles - wildly animated, and howling. Benchmark number six.
Four hours and twenty-one minutes from now - spanning seven more pints of water, three more cigarettes - he can pass out. Sleeping as long as he needs to, while the cleaning - heels to teeth to scalp - and shaving and skin care are performed by Bru.
Coming around - on the suspension rack tomorrow - to eat an enormous meal, drink three quarts of water. Perhaps a cherished Lucky Strike... or thirty, along with a half-pint of bourbon.
The mandatory smoke, and the consuming rage... as Mal opens the door.And the tickling will start again.
Again.
Mal redirects its meticulous attention to the wrestler's trembling feet. Increasingly ticklish, demonstrably more sensitive and reactive.
It knows these feet better than any others. Most intricately familiar with this body, of all meat.
Mal surveys his body, his face... and feels victory, revels in it, uncontested and pure.
It feels exactly like the wrestler's feet.
Just like this.
23jan01