They were very drunk. That was why it happened.
He was twelve or thirteen. His folks were at the honky-tonk, that night, and Uncle Jack had just gotten a new VCR. That morning, Matt had taped some cartoons. And for some stupid reason, he put the tape in again, even though it was late. His cousins had all gone off to bed...
He could hear his aunt and uncle on the couch behind him, fooling around. He growled happily. She was giggling -
The tape paused. He frowned, and looked back at his uncle. On the TV screen, the hero - a goofy dog, wearing a cape - was getting his feet tickled. Feathers.
The tape started to rewind. Back to where the feathers started to move. The dog laughed and tried to get free, but he was strapped into a chair. Or tied down. Something like that. Feet hanging out there...
Uncle Jack watched the scene two more times. Whispering to Matt's aunt - who laughed, and whispered something back.
When the tape was paused again, the hero was frozen there. Really ticklish -
He fell over. His uncle had grabbed him. And his eyes were real big. Grinning like a demon.
Still trying to figure out the look on his face, Matt didn't even watch his hands. They started digging into his ribs. Matt shrieked once, and he started to roar. He tried to roll away, but his uncle straddled him and pinned him down, laughing at him. Those fingers, digging in his armpits.
Matt went berzerk. He managed to get a grip on the leg of the coffee table, and his aunt said something...
His uncle dragged him sideways. The coffee table was out of reach. Instead, the fucker got both of his thumbs, and held 'em down. Over his head. Then he managed to grab both of Matt's wrists with one of his gigantic hands.
"Well?" he cackled, over his shoulder. "What are you waiting for?"
And that was when his aunt started taking off his socks.Her fingernails. His fingers. All over his top half - and dragging nonstop on his feet. Matt laughed so hard he couldn't even make noise. No way his cousins would hear him. They must've still been asleep. He was doomed. Just laughing as hard as he could. Nowhere near hard enough, either. Lunging around... and not getting anywhere, which seemed to make it even stronger - the feel of it. The tickling. Being unable to get away from it. So fuckin' intense.
It only lasted about five minutes. Ten at the most. Without even knowing it, he pissed or something. Just a little - but his uncle saw it. Immediately, he got off Matt. He had to pulled his aunt off. She'd pinned both of Matt's ankles with one arm, and was really getting into it. Tickling between his toes, along the sides.
Next thing he knew, they were being real nice to him. Getting him water. From the looks on their faces, it was obvious they were as shocked as he was. They felt horrible - which, Matt figured, was only right. Apologizing all over the place.
When his parents came to pick him up, he cracked the door of his cousin's room - too scared to get to sleep anyway - and listened. It was embarrassing, the way his aunt and uncle were stammering. So ashamed. But they told his folks - and that made Matt feel a lot better. If they hadn't owned up to it, he would've had no reason to believe they were all that sorry about it. And it would be more likely to happen again. And his stepdad laughed. Of course. Joked about a great new form of discipline. It wasn't until his mom went along that he realized they were kidding. It was their way of telling his aunt and uncle to quit beating themselves up about it. Besides, they were drunk too.
Matt already knew that adults could make mistakes. After that, he was really careful around them anyway. Nervous. Until the first time he got drunk himself - then, that whole night made a lot more sense.
They'd always been real nice to him after that.
There was no way he could go through anything that again. Especially not in there. If the mattress only knew how horrible it was for him, how bad h-
Maybe it did know.
"Naaaah! Nnnnaaaah hah haaaaaah nnnuh yoo hoooh hooh whaaaaaah hah haw haw haw you caaah haaaa haaaa hoooowheeee hee hee heeeeee," he wailed, squirming as much as he could.
Matt looked over at the other gloves. Help me, he thought. But they were in on it. All controlled, maybe, by the mattress. That felt right.
Shit like this just doesn't happen, he thought. No...
Matt remembered the riding crop, and the paddle. The rubber hoses. It looked like Two-Fist had it pretty damn good, compared to this.
The second glove started on his ribs. Left side.
He squealed with frustration and shock and crazy delight.
It was too much.
And it wasn't five minutes later... when Matt realized something.
He kinda liked it.
Danger, he thought. Be careful.
And that was ridiculous. He was whooping his guts out. Trapped. Perfectly snug, and going nowhere. No chance in hell anybody would come by and rescue him.
He couldn't stop the mattress and its tickling hands. Not a damn thing he could do.
Except... go with it.
No, dammit. No. Not that. Danger. The big defeat would come then, if he enjoyed anyt-
If? Shit. It was too late.
That was one of the clearest memories he had. That moment. No escaping it... so his body was getting off. Not just his cock - all of him. Tickling - and the monster rush that hit him like a bolt of lightning.
He hooted and howled, as another pair of gloves coasted to his feet.
He told himself, over and over, that it had to stop soon.
It didn't let him go until Monday.
He went home and slept for eighteen hours. Arnie had called, once.
So did Two-Fist. All shaky, Matt called him back...
The conversation was short. After Matt croaked a greeting, there was a long pause on the line.
"Matthew. Little man," Two-Fist said quietly. "You run. Now. Run, and don't look back." And he hung up.
Wednesday morning, when he woke up... he was back there. On the mattress.
That time the tickling went on for the better part of a week.
Matt woke up in his car. He went straight home, but his folks were already hitting the bars. He took a shower, wrote 'em a quick note, stuffed two garbage bags with stuff he wanted to keep - and left town.
He had four hundred and ten dollars in his pocket, almost a full tank of gas and a new carton of Lucky Strikes under the car seat.
He never went back.
Evernew closed three years later. Arnie moved to Arizona, or some such place.
His mom told him. He called her on Christmas and Easter, if he was... free. They'd have a nice talk. That suited everybody just fine, so long as they knew he was still alive. He'd been a late baby, coming well after his stepdad's vasectomy.
She never suggested he come home for a visit. So he never did.
Nine years, now, he'd been running. Trying to get away from the fucking mattress. But it always found him.
This time, it showed up with a big red bow on top. He didn't know what the fuck that meant, yet, but he was sure going to find out.
It let him sit there and think for another half-hour or so.
Then the gloves picked him up, carried him over it - and slammed him back down. On his back. Spreading his limbs out. Like every other time, he fought as hard as he could.
On went the cuffs.
Three weeks - no, probably four, he thought miserably.
Way too late, Matt made a mental note to avoid apartments that were... sorta isolated. He needed a roommate, maybe. Lots of neighbors around, real thin walls. That hadn't always helped - five of the other times, he wasn't jumped at home like this. No, six. More than half...
Under his head, the mattress squeezed his neck once.
A shallow dip appeared in the surface, between his legs. His ball-sac broke contact with the plastic. Access, making 'em easy to reach. All kinds of fuckin' toys, the last few times -
Then another, a deeper pit. Under his asshole.
The plastic peeled off his ribs as it retreated. Exposing his sides real nice, so the gloves could get good, solid holds.
Matt shuddered. It knew just how to get out of the way, so the fingers could reach way under him.
The gloves were out in the hall, moving stuff around. Boxes. He lifted his head...
All he could see was boxes.
Yeah, it was gonna stay and keep him for a few weeks.
With the boxes filling the hall like that, it was one more reason he wouldn't be running away too quickly. Whiskey, and food. Cigarettes. Every kind of oil and toy it liked...
Standard practice. Mess around with the supplies first. Make him wait for it.
When the gloves filed back in, some of them were carrying stuff. Matt lunged around as he watched, without an ounce of hope.
First, there was an ashtray. Then a bottle of booze, but he couldn't make out what kind it was, in the dark. The light from the narrow alley was barely making it into the room.
With a crackle, gloves opened a bottle of water. They didn't take the gag away, so he figured it would be a while before they let him drink. Or smoke. And then, look out.
Lying there, hour after hour, smoking. And the speed. Sometimes a glove would bring him a joint.
He tried to believe there was some point in yelling for help again. But it wouldn't matter. No one cared. It knew how to make him howl real loud. Yell, and yell, until his voice started to go. That was enough. Just so no one could hear him laugh the rest of his voice away.
Then the mattress would be able to take all the time it wanted.
Eleventh time he'd been through this.
Four gloves sauntered closer, and closer...
He pulled on the straps, knowing it wouldn't do any good. The gloves, first... starting right in. Soon enough, they'd float over with the razors. Or the oil.
Matt groaned. He couldn't take it. Not again.
The fingers landed on his chest. He jumped, no matter how much he braced himself. Dammit.
They started rubbing his nipples, and his belly.
Matt threw his head back, and snickered fiercely. The gag muffled it well.
So it starts again. Four weeks, more and more intense, coming right up.
If he could just... get the feather out. Somehow. Dig it out of the mattress. Would it stop? Leave him alone?
He'd offered to fix it, plenty of times. Usually when the gloves had gotten him so drunk he couldn't even move. Just let me sew it up, make it right... Hell, I'll buy another mattress, okay. If you let me hold down a job long enough.
But it kept on tickling. Catching him again and again. The mattress wasn't done getting its revenge.
Matt decided, a long time ago, that it must like tickling him. That was the fucked part. If it was having fun, maybe it liked things just the way they were.
It was annoying - but he always seemed to get healthier, as the days went by. Magic.
Or it just knew him that well. His skin, his muscles. The cuffs didn't even rub him raw or anything. Sometimes he woke up and thought it had swallowed his arms and legs. At least up to the elbow, and somewhere below his knee. A tight grip, and some weird massage going on.
He didn't seem to get sore, either. Not for very long. His chest hurt the first couple days, just from laughing so much. But then he was fine. Better than fine, actually, because he was lean and his muscles were solid - after it got done with him.
That was irritating. The exact opposite of what he would've expected. Wasn't there a point where he'd get sickly? All weak and shit? But it knew how to make him stronger than he usually was. That really sucked.
He laughed silently. Then he noticed something -
It was too late not to notice. He wasn't moving anymore. Oh, his chest was bouncing rhythmically... since he needed to laugh.
But he wasn't squirming. And his arms just laid there. He hadn't moved his head in a long time.
Oh, no, he thought. I quit fighting. Out of reflex, he tried to move.
Nothing happened.
He curled his fingers, and let 'em relax. So there was nothing wrong, physically. There never was...
Too tired.
There -
The rest of that train of thought came racing in...
Tired, too worn out, too weak to struggle and it's only what, three hours so far tonight - so far! - and this is gonna go on for like seven or eight more hours, nine hours, and I can't even fidget now, I'm just so fuckin' worn out that I can't do anything except laugh, and laugh, and laugh, all night, and I can't crawl away from this damn mattress right now even if they took the cuffs off, and I'd stay right here 'cause I'm too tired to even crawl, and I can't even defend myself even if they let me and I can't do a damn thing about the tickling for the rest of the fuckin' night, and more tomorrow, so much more after that -
And it was so damn exciting.
There it was. The avalanche rolled over him, and it was like each nerve ending started working overtime. All the tickling going on just flared up and suddenly he was far more sensitive.
Matt started whooping.
Way worse. The cuffs will stay on, and it wouldn't matter even if they disappeared. He's really, totally unable to do a thing except lay here and the rowdy, magnified tickling was definitely not gonna stop. Can't move solid tickling can't move lots more tickling cuffed down tickled hard stuck tickled so stuck endless tickling right here stuck tickling tickling tickling.
It felt... way too good.
He woke up, all of a sudden.
It was dark outside. Matt coughed for awhile, and then a cigarette touched his lip...
After he smoked, the only other thing the glove brought him was water. So he guessed the food would be later. After he'd been tortured for awhile.
Matt's sense of time was all messed up, but this had happened so many times before. He had to believe a couple weeks had gone by. Worst-case, he had that long yet to go.
Then it would disappear, taking all the gloves with it. He'd run, get his strength back - and it would catch him again.
A glove lit his next cigarette, and he stared at the ceiling. Laid out flat. The mattress wasn't going to let him tower over it. Instead, it kept him parallel with it, holding him down there. The gloves loomed over him, bringing him food. Toys. Keep the action coming right down to his ticklish body.
The mattress had all the magic. He couldn't compete with that. It kept him low to the ground. This bugged him the most when he thought about his feet... unable to run. On the same level with his head, and his ribs. Equally helpless, in some weird way. Full access.
He wanted to be sitting. Better yet, standing - so if the dream of an escape opportunity came true, he could jump on it. But it had to know that. So it kept him flat.
He didn't have to do a thing. No exertion. He just laid there, so he couldn't get distracted by tired legs. The mattress decided when he'd tense up. It tickled him to the point where he relaxed, totally unable to tense up at all.
Perfectly... comfortable. And perfectly helpless.
When he was just about done with his next cigarette, something touched his foot. Right foot.
He squirmed, and took a drag. Just hopeless.
A finger, or two. Barely moving. Low on his heel.
Matt fought the urge to look. Dozens of times he'd lifted his head, when the tickling started up again, and usually the glove was staying low enough that he couldn't see it in the dark. He just felt the fingers, moving slowly.
His cigarette was taken away.
Matt didn't beg. He didn't even shake his head. He knew better.
The fingers slid over the curve of his heel, and hugged the middle of his foot.
Contact, spreading, like a rash. Or mold. It had happened so many times before. A finger or two, doubling and doubling again. The light contact growing heavier, and faster, starting on his left foot. Increasing more, and more... until it felt like there were dozens of fingers tickling every surface of his feet. And they were fuckin' serious.
Just as he knew they would, they got so busy that they jumped over the ankle-cuffs. Shins, calves. Seriously drilling his knees. And up they'd go...
Twenty sensitive places, solidly tickled. All night long.
Silently, Matt started to laugh.
It was such a long time before he woke up... on the floor.
No mattress under him. Dressed in full leathers and boots. A carton of cigarettes lay past his head.
Eventually, Matt rolled over and got on his knees. Rocking back, he reached into the jacket and found the lighter, just like the other times.
The breast pocket had an odd bulge in it. A grand, he thought to himself. He fumbled with it, since they'd pulled gloves on his own hands, but eventually he pulled out the roll of cash. Mostly fifties... so his guess was low. Running money.
When he had a smoke going, he struggled to get up. His feet, and his upper body, were still kinda numb. The soreness would come tomorrow.
Digging a canvas kit-bag out of the bottom of the closet, he filled it up, pausing only to light another smoke.
Matt took a leak, grabbed his bag... and got the hell out of there.
The leathers were scuffed. Worn. The sizes were pretty close to his own.
He'd planned to change his clothes at the bus station, but there wasn't enough time. A bus was leaving for Boston. Not a great choice, but Matt wanted to go.
Leather pants weren't real common among the people who rode the bus, but they looked old... and anyway he was not in a good mood. People left him alone.
Matt got off in Braintree. It was an old habit - never going where he might be expected to go. He could hitch back to Providence, maybe head west...
The guys hanging out front were looking at him a little too closely, so he started walking.
A few cigarettes later, he realized there weren't any traffic lights in sight. Just long industrial buildings. And there wasn't much daylight left. No cabs. It wasn't a safe neighborhood, and even if he found a motel he doubted it would be anything but a shit-hole.
And then, the fear started. It always did. He tried to talk himself down. Sometimes he was successful...
It was waiting for him. Even though it had just let him go, and it had never jumped him again so soon - it could. This could be a first. It wasn't logical, but it was one of those times that the paranoia got the best of him.
In that twilight, before all the streetlights came on, Matt got more and more scared. Maybe it was just waiting for the right moment. Grab him. Strap him down -
He ducked in to a doorway suddenly, and caught his breath. Panic was not good. There was nobody on the street - and no gloves, either. It always gave him time to heal up. He was freaking out, and that was understandable. But he was okay, dammit...
Forcing himself to smoke a couple cigarettes, he tried to come up with a plan. The fear was still there, no matter how illogical it seemed. If he watched his back, maybe he could make it to the bus station. Find a flophouse. Get a bottle, and relax.
It sounded good, but he was already rattled. Even though the streetlights had come on, his breathing sped up. Heart pounding away. What if...
He made it another half-block. That was all, the urge was too much for him. He had to hide. Drink later...
Circling an old factory of some kind, he checked the windows until he found a loose one.
The ground floor was too creepy. He didn't hear anyone else, but they likely wouldn't bother to take the stairs...
Third floor. An old office. Big. High ceilings, filthy windows. It wasn't a motel, but it would do.
Matt closed the door, and heaved a sigh. Automatically, his hands got him a cigarette going.
He snapped the lighter shut, and took another grateful drag...
He heard it. That sound, behind him.
Plastic slapping on the hardwood floor. Something heavy. Several yards away -
"No," he whispered at the door, exhaling smoke.
Finally he had to turn around and look...
Black rectangle, covered in plastic.
Gloves clamped onto his arms.
It kept him, there, for longer than it ever had before.
Definitely over a month. Closer to two...
The whole trip had felt unreal. Like some weird dream. Wearing the leathers again - after all that time naked. Stumbling back to the bus station, buying another ticket... sleeping on the bus curled up in a tight ball. It felt like he slept for days.
Matt was still in a daze as the bus rolled along. Deep south.
Chain-smoking, staring out the window, he still couldn't believe how outrageous it had been, in Braintree. How insane.
He got off the bus in Georgia. Having overshot Atlanta by a couple hours, he finally roused himself and picked a town. The name of the place escaped him, but it felt right. He had no idea why.
It was pretty much deserted. Matt sorta felt like walking for awhile, though.
The clouds rolled in quickly, and the wind started shoving him around.
He'd only walked about a half-hour south of the bus stop when it grew a lot darker than it had been. And he hadn't seen a single car. Catching a ride didn't look all that likely.
At least the trees were getting thicker. Matt started looking for cover.
Of course, the rain started before he found anything like decent shelter...
A turnoff took him to the east. Dirt-track, bumpy and rutted. He didn't like the way the trees were whipping around. Nightfall was definitely coming. It was warm enough, and even an abandoned car would keep him drier than he was now.
The dreamlike feeling came over him again. Rain pelted him in the face, but he kept on walking. The driveway had to lead somewhere, he figured. And the thought of bedding down in the trees didn't appeal to him too much. There was something inevitable about this - walking out in the middle of nowhere, the rain making his jacket stick to him, weighing down his kit-bag...
Like he was supposed to be there.
And that had to be paranoia. The mattress just had its fun with him, and he could be off the hook for another year. Maybe for good. After Braintree, it was possible. How could it top all those weeks, he thought bleakly, as he yawned...
But he trudged along. The dirt-road ended, and there was nowhere to get out of the rain. He noticed this, and laughed bitterly. Well, he was soaked already...
A trail started winding uphill, and Matt just kept walking. He had no place to go, and turning around felt even stupider.
The hills were slippery. He didn't care. Even if it didn't made sense, he was staying on the fuckin' trail until it ended. Somehow, it served him right -
And far ahead, through the rain, he saw a roof.
Just a shack, though it was pretty big. The wind was still trying to knock him down, and the dump wasn't even budging. It had a roof, and a door, and the windows were boarded up. No cars around, no lights on.
He felt something odd come over him. Lucky. He caught a break. The idea was so bizarre that he had to laugh. He'd actually found a place to get out of the rain... Whoopee.
Pausing at the door, he listened real hard. All he heard was the wind. If his usual luck kicked in, the door would be nailed shut. He tried the old doorknob, expecting it to be stuck tight - but it moved a little. He had to put his shoulder into it, but he got inside.
It was dark, but he was beyond caring about that. It was dry, it didn't smell, and the rain was coming down so hard he hadn't been able to smoke out there. It had been way too long. There were two candles in his kit-bag - probably at the bottom.
He shoved the door closed, and thought about the one pecan log he had left. Two bottles of water. Yeah... time to lay back against his kit-bag, pull his boots off, fill his belly, and have a few smokes. First, though, he shook his head real hard, to get some of the water out. At least it wasn't a cold night. No way he'd get a fire going tonight, out there...
His gloves were soaked through, and they were hard to get off. But he managed, and got a cigarette lit in record time. Oh, yeah. Better already. He nudged his kit-bag over, away from the door. That wind was intense -
Something... scraped. A match.
His head started to turn, and he stopped it. The first thought that came to his mind was the same old reflex. But that was impossible. It had just let him go.
And not way out here. This was way too rustic. So it couldn't be t-
Soft light grew. He saw it on the plywood that covered the window. The glass was all broken... and that was the light from a candle. It sure was. Somebody was already in here, then. Real quiet, maybe, and they just lit a candle. That's all.
So - turn around, and be friendly. He took another drag, to build up his nerve. Okay. And he looked.
A black glove held the match. Lighting another candle.
He stared, exhaling smoke, as the orange glow flickered across a slab of dull, dark plastic.
There were more gloves, of course. But that wasn't the weird thing. This time, the mattress was off the ground. Way up there. Raised. Some kind of pedestal -
I get it, Matt thought wildly. Of course. It's a throne. A big throne... for the mattress. It looked solid. Permanent? There were lots of candles, in tall stands. Ceremonial. And there were cabinets and shelves. A fireplace -
He'd never seen so much stuff before. It had really stocked up this time.
The gloves started floating over to him.
Matt just knew, somehow - especially when he thought about that red bow - that in here it was going to be different. Worse. He looked around again. The place was all set... and he'd walked right in. That scared him, but it looked like he was going to have a lot more time to think it over, because he was going to stay put. And not for a fuckin' month or two. Hell.
Not this time.
Back to Part 1
02jun02