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Mel's jerking around. This is not how he usually wakes up -
A bunch of thoughts race through his head, all within a second or two...

Opening the door to the old storefront. Just there to count the outlets, look it over, 'cause it looked like his boss finally had a sucker who wanted to lease it after, what, a good couple years...
The sense, right away, of someone watching. Following him - and the smell. Stale smoke. Someone had definitely been in there. Kids, bums.
But the doors, they were locked tight, and there was no sign of a break-in.
Finding the box just inside the storeroom. Whiskey bottles, cigarette packs, an olive oil jug, cans of high-nutrient drinks... condom wrappers. All empty. And, of all things, broken feathers.
Looking at those big holes, there, in floor of the main room, fairly new-looking, suggestive of something by the way they were laid out... and that idea is scary. A guy was kept here. There's a surge of fear at that moment, right through his gut, wishing he'd left one of the doors open -

That would explain the bad dream that woke him up.
An old un-favorite. His deepest secret, somehow discovered... The stone walls, guttering torches. Iron manacles pinning him upright. A torture chamber, forgotten, creepy - and coming into view, toward him, the torment he fears most. Feathers -
Just a dream. Triggered by the garbage in the storefront. A sick fantasy.
Mel sighs with relief, and chuckles. He opens his eyes.

Wood. Right in front of him.
Thick hardwood over his legs.
What? He keeps... chuckling -
Coming right down to his shins - and from below. Surrounding. He stares, not comprehen-
Stocks.
Wide hinges, and a big lock on the side. Padding around his ankles, thick and soft. A lock?
He chuckles a few times. That's not the reaction he... Actually, he wants to keep snickering. So he does.
There's something going on. It's been happening, even when he was waking up. He... feels something. Down there, past the stocks.
Brushing... his feet. Accidentially. Right?
He jerks his feet, but they're staying put.
Touching, again... more heavily. An accident, please, please -
He can't see, but it's continuing. Up and down. Tracing lines. Almost as if it was on purpose, and about to get more intense.
But that's crazy. Besides, there's no one else... here. He remembers that feeling, yesterday. Being watched - oh, c'mon, that's impossible. No way. Just a dream.
This is an amazingly realistic dream, though. A lot of detail. He looks around the room - black walls, closed door. Where is this place? Shit, where did his clothes go?

Some kind of padded bench is under him, and his legs are raised a little. Custom setup, for -
Kicking harder doesn't change a thing. Gotta get up, get out of here, right now!
His legs are wedged in there. So he reefs with his arms... and he has a terrible, horrible idea. What if he couldn't get up fr-
Paranoid. That was the dream. The other dream, his old nightmare.
But... his arms don't seem to be moving. He doesn't want to look - just a bad dream, that's all, this isn't real - but finally he does.
There's a band of leather around his bicep. And a thick strap, going up - to the ceiling. To a ring, on a metal plate with four bolts.
He studies the setup and chuckles a little harder.
Another band is holding his wrist. That strap is bolted to a plate on the wall.
His right arm is caught the same way. It's as if he threw his arms up, sorta relaxed and not too far out there, and... something came along and tethered 'em that way. Leather.
Bound. Held tight. Pulled well out from hi-
Out? Mel tries to pull his arms in - and they sway a little, back and forth. But they don't come toward his sides.
Armpits, ribs, belly - all vulnerable. And, he finally notices... bare. His clothes are gone. He looks at his meat, more certain than ever that this is a dream. Relieved, on one level, but not able to buy into it, not totally -
And the pressure - whatever it is - keeps rubbing his sole.

He hoots a couple times, and keeps chortling. Trying to sit up enough to see something, get a glimpse. A hint. Too firm to be a feather, and it's not warm. Maybe about the size of a penny... but softer. There's still no sign of anybody else here, but he looks below him anyway, oddly glad to discover there's nobody crouched underneath. Playing with his foot.
The pad, or probe - whatever it is - just keeps right on moving, up and across, down and back.
Stocks, special restraints, this room -
Mel pulls again, snickering desperately. The straps are stronger than he is. He's stuck. Laid out, stripped, put in the stocks, and he can't protect himself at all. On purpose, by design, for this - like in his nightmare. Just another variation, that's gotta be it.
The phantom finger doesn't pause. What if it just keeps going? Doesn't let up? Imagine five of those. Ten... He's trapped. Solid wood, sturdy leather. To hold him...
Wide open, for fingers to ti-
His secret nightmare. Impossible! That's not real -
This, somehow... is worse. Why? Because it's a different setup? Was the nightmare this bad, the first time?
No. He knows, with a devastating certainty - this is worse than the dream, because it's too vivid. Felt way too sharply.
He's not asleep.
The straps neutralize his frantic struggles, just as they're supposed to. He tries to turn his feet, and can't. So he bends his toes, but the finger keeps right on making him laugh...
And squeal. One fuckin' finger.

Mel starts to beg. And after a few seconds, he has another big realization, hitting him like a bucket of ice water in his face. If he's one hundred percent convinced the room is empty, nobody here tickling him, watching him giggle or anything - then why is he begging?
Groveling, when he can hold off the cackles. Pleading with an empty room? Naw. You don't beg when you're sure nobody can hear you. You beg to change somebody's mind.
But there's nobody here...
That's scary. He starts to holler for help. Fairly certain he's in a place nobody can overhear him - so that won't work, either. Snivel and plead, begging for mercy - and the next second, trying to raise help from outside, to make the mercy unnecessary?
It doesn't wash. Neither one will do him any good. He knows this, deep down. Doomed, doomed. But he keeps yelling, and begging... and chuckling.

The maddening finger tickles on and on, and he's beside himself. It's only the beginning, and Mel's feet refuse to believe he can't get 'em outa there. There is no situation he's ever experienced that's even remotely like this. Naked, and ready for so much more of the same. Staying put thanks to the stocks, and the leather -
His hands are out of the picture, no help there.
Mel shouts, and laughs, and pleads... and laughs harder.
You don't beg your car to open the door if the keys are locked inside. If the elevator stops, you pick up the emergency phone, and if that's dead you yell until you raise somebody. Sooner or later, somebody'll hear. Right? Unless the elevator was... picked up, dropped in the middle of the desert. If you know that, you don't bother to yell. You concentrate on getting yourself out -
Right. So Mel tries hard to twist the straps, and pick up the whole stocks. But they're all anchored with a scary permanence.
If you're stone convinced nobody's around, there's no point in yelling. But he wants to... so he does.
And no help comes. It won't be coming. Look around. All the attention, the care, put into this place.
He begs pitifully, barking laughs the rest of the time. Can it be that the fingers can't hear him? But that's what this is all about - making him laugh. Right?
Well, there's always his meat. Oh, fuck. Maybe it's just the... actual tickling, the contact. Or just knowing he's undone, delirious? Swamped with the reaction.
Seeing as nothing here seems to have been overlooked, the lack of a gag probably means something. Laughing must be part of the deal. Begging too, probably - and that pisses him off. But what the hell's he gonna do? He's gotta chuckle, when the fuckin' thing's riding his foot like that. Needs to laugh, so damn bad...
He thinks about yelling some more. Of course, that would ruin the fingers' plan, if he succeeded. Wouldn't it? And if he fails, will it piss 'em off even more? He doesn't want to give 'em any more reason to r-
Reason? Listening, planning - but there's nobody here. No... human - but something that can reason. Plan, nab him, lock him down. Experience shows. Use the gloves, listen to him whoop and hoot. And enjoy.
Oh, shit, he's gotta get through to it, whatever it is. Pleading earnestly, with great effort. It's gotta stop this. One finger, one little finger, and he's a basket case. It has to realize he can't take this. It might stop. It has to...
He thinks about the chamber in his nightmare. The magic feathers. No one holding 'em, as they start in on him.
Begging the fingers, or whatever's making 'em move. Trying to snap the restraints, and convulsing in the stocks. All fruitless.
He screams laughter, just howls his head off, 'cause it's really hit home. This is real. Not a nightmare. Real. It's worse. He's stuck.
And he's... staying.

The finger switches to his left foot.
He jumps, and hiccups, and keeps on laughing. There must be more fingers, so what the hell's keeping 'em, oh shit he can't take another one and how many will get busy on him, how many -
No, there must be a way out of this. No matter how solid it all looks -
Kicking wildly, arching, leaning forward, recoiling back. Cannot possibly, possibly be stuck, here... Not for this.
The finger doesn't even hesitate. He yells again, whooping frantically now. If he can't get himself loose, then he'll just have to get somebody's attention. Of course, he's the target of... solid attention here. And it's sure as hell got his attention -
What are the chances it would go to all the trouble he sees, and not set up shop in a nice cozy cabin a few miles from anybody?

His yells degrade in roars of laughter. One single finger. Really gonna get it, probably everywhere, until all the fingers let him go. No sooner. Nothing he can do to stop it. No help will be coming. And it's barely begun.
Imagine, say, an hour of this! A whole night?
Or more... Immobilized. Feet locked in -
The finger switches back to his right foot, and darts back to his left. Energetic. Right, left, right - now widening its field, swiping his toes, and heels, the sides of each foot. He pulls, and shakes his head violently...
And within a minute, he just hangs there and laughs. It's all he can do. That's what's been planned for him. That's the setup. No chance of making the fingers stop, so he just gets to sit here in the perfect restraints and feel lots of fingers tickling the fuck out of him...
The finger continues to roam, and he responds extravagantly. Wait - both feet. His fuckin' soles. Both getting tickled at the same time. Two fingers. Finally.

He has no idea how, but he's in a room where his nightmare is going to look like kid stuff. A very deliberate realization of his dreamtime fear. No one will ever know he's in here, strung up, getting it -
Mel looks at the stocks, blinking tears out of his eyes. Still nothing to see, nothing in motion, but they slide up and back.
He looks at his belly... all this skin, bare-naked. That's on purpose. Sides, wide open. The fingers will come over the stocks, at some point, and tickle the rest of him -
There must be... a lot of fingers in the room here. Aw fuck, how he wishes he was wrong.
Sadly, deliriously, he squints at his meat. Getting hard, all by itself. Balls, cock, curly hair - all waiting for the dancing fingers...
Mel whoops insensibly.

After a long, long time... he lay still, panting.
The fingers are still there, but they're not moving. They press on the most ticklish part of his arches. Mel giggles for a while. He wants to see - surely there's one on each of his feet now, if not more than one finger when they get movin' - but he know he can't lean forward that far.
Something... touches his lip. Plastic. A tube -
A straw, maybe. He prepares to open his eyes and look. Doesn't want to, though. He listens now, as he has before, for sounds. Breathing, shuffled footfalls, the rustle of clothing. But all is still quiet, except for him.
If no... person is holding that straw to his lips, he's doesn't want to know it yet. Not for certain. Worse, somehow, to see a water bottle just hanging in mid-air, there to service him. Maybe indenting in the middle, squeezed by unseen fingers -
The fingers that locked him down, and played on his feet... no, that are playing on his feet. That'll soon be tickling him again. That's why he's fuckin' here.
His throat hurts. Mel sucks in tentatively - just water. He drinks, more quickly, pausing for gasped breaths. Can't bear to look, though. Not yet.
Time enough later. See it all.
Mel groans softly -
And as if that's their signal, why, the fingers start to rub again.

It's inconceivable. How insistent the impulse is... Feel this. Hard as you can. Confirm that you're staying put. Laugh.

He can't possibly guess how long the fingers have been on him...
 

Waking up.
Mel kicks... and twists. Useless. Still caught. Magic tickling, hopeless, all of this -
His feet are tingling. That's not right. Abnormal. Could there have been... something put on them? A cream or something, some ointm-
He sees color where there wasn't any before. Bright red. Turning his head, slowly -
Gloves. Shiny red -
Near his hands - no, on his hands. He's wearing gl-
"Oh, no," he blurts.
Cool, soft satin. He flexes his fingers experimentally. Snug gloves. Satin -
Tracing begins again, on his soles. Polishing -
He explodes with hoarse laughter... shaking his head sadly. No, oh no, no no... His own hands are in tight fists. Reflex. Steadied by leather and now caught by the gloves. He can't squirm out of 'em. A message, no doubt. The color? Or is it the feel -
He gets it. Throwing his head back, keening and baying. The tickling fingers, soft, cool. He bets they're satin too. There's firm, magic, zealous empty fingers down there past the stocks. They don't seem to get tired -
He howls with abandon. Wild as anything, racked, pushed hard. Just like they want. Unable to help it. Stuck, trapped, mean magic gloves. Satin. No hands. Gloves got him, tickling him, satin mystery bastards tickling away. Invisible hands got some slippery ol' satin to pull on and fuck him over, all over, he's spread wide, fuckin' tickle bait. They got him, they're nowhere near done with him, he's toast.
 

Eventually, he notices his voice is gone. But he keeps on laughing just as hard.
The sensation isn't any less intense now that he's silent.

Pissing himself, at some point. A towel comes and mops him up. He doesn't even look.
The fingers never take a break.

Later, everything's black. Lights out...
But he's still roaring noiselessly, chuffing air.
 

Mel wakes up again. It's still dark. The cuffs are still holding him - the stocks. Still here.
The straw finds his mouth... and he smells food. So tired, though. Something sweet. Chocolate, maybe. He nibbles cautiously - something chewy. Meal-in-a-candy-bar. High-energy...
Now, some nasty protein drink. Followed by huge spoonfuls of... peanut butter. More water...
And he drifts off.

Still no lights. He's pulling every which way. Nope.
Waiting. His feet are tingly. Not numb, or sore. Too awake, actually. They must've taken care of 'em. More sensitive...?
The water comes back. He needs to piss again.
A few more minutes, remembering...

The light blazes on. He grunts, looking away -
Something touches him. Between his legs. No-
But it doesn't... move. When he can see, he makes out a jar, a squat plastic bottle, in front of his dick.
It takes him a couple minutes to relax enough to pee. And, shifting around, he discovers there's a gap in the bench now - under his ass. Everything has been taken care of. Another fearful location for the fingers to touch, and ride...
Mel swallows hard -
There's red - at the stocks, top center, a red... dot. Growing. Two dots.
He remembers to breathe.
Slooooowly getting bigger. They shine. Rounded, taut -
They can't be...
Tips, of fingers. It's them. The fingers are creeping up past the stocks, and into view.
Mel looks wildly at his own hands - still gloved.
Looking equally real, there... and down at the stocks.
 

He yells and roars, pulling spastically.
They're smooth and unwavering. Brutal, how firm they look. Strong. Shiny and slippery. No arms under 'em to get in the way.
The ultimate tool, or form, for tickling. Made for it. Exactly right. Maximum, mean -
From the place of secret nightmares, to make a perilously ticklish man forget all about mere feathers.
They're coming for him, with a chilling slowness.
Mel is whining faintly. He can't help it.
 

So much worse than the feathers in his dreams...
With a chilling slowness, they pass over him. Empty inside. The fingers move a little, as if they were contemplating the landscape of skin in their custody.
One of 'em makes a slow fist, and lets it go quickly. Can-do. Showing off. Flaunting their power.
Mel's mouth is still open, but he can't seem to close it. The glove he's watching takes hold of the strap that suspends his left bicep. It's too much in focus, somehow. Sharp and bright -
It wraps around the leather, above where it's bolted to the arm-band - and tugs down. He jumps - and the recoil from its little demonstration travels through him. Tug, tug. Mightier than he expected. Far more force than he can apply, with his arm held out like this, wrist caught...
That strap holds.
Both gloves encircle the wrist-cuff, and pull. Astonishing, for empty... gloves. Tug, tug, tug.
Mel gulps, all of a sudden, and starts to weep.
Even more humiliated, but the tears roll anyway. A sob just bursts out of him, as silent as his recent hoots.
They test the straps that harness his other arm. Sturdy. Any hope of breaking free goes completely away. Besides, the stocks are still padlocked.
He's not getting out of here by his own choice.
Even though he screams, it's not much louder than a whisper. And no one came to the rescue when he yelled earlier. He's been strung up in a place where no one will come. Here to laugh -
No - to suffer. For as long as they want. They have food and water -
And the gloves... are descending. Solid poise and confidence. Prison-yard composure. No rookie hesitancy, no overzealous excess. They knew the straps were good. No doubt about it. They made sure he knew.
Worse than anything he ever dreamed up. Way too real. Not letting him go.
About to lay into him again.

They pause over his neck. Mel stops breathing... until they move on. Pecs, armpits, sides, belly. Every area is frightening. They make menacing finger gestures, subtle ones. Not overdone. Nothing comic about it. Focused. Serious.
He thinks about the rock-chamber of his bad dream. The idea was that he'd be imprisoned there for a long time, but the feathers would only get at him for a few minutes before he'd snap awake, heart pounding -
The gloves stop over his meat... and flex. Mel doesn't dare shake his head.
They move on. Plenty of time for that later, right? The whole package will still be there, uncovered, whenever they decide to go for it.
He snuffles. Won't have the luxury of feeling sorry for himself in about thirty seconds.
They pause over his knees. And his shins. When they keep going, over the stocks, he swallows hard. Should've known - Unexpectedly, they do a barrel roll. And park in the air, over his chest.
No escape, no rescue.
They rush - together. A dull clap, seriously muffled. What does th-
Fingers. On the bottom of each foot! Sweeping down, drawing circles -
He laughs at the gloves, shaking his head. Arches, and kicks. How? More. Two gloves, down on his feet. And these two. Dropping.
The fingers curl, and poke into his armpits.
Mel curls up his fists, wailing with glee. Plundered. Beaten.
Defenseless.
And this is only four. Four fingers, out of twenty, and he's scared about many gloves are here.
He takes a last look at 'em, digging deep in his armpit, hiding their fingertips from his view, probing and wiggling. Lets his head fall back... and gets hysterical. Forced to guffaw and bark - and howl.

A long time.

Water.
And they resume. Again.
Soles.. While they're exploring his sides. Tracing down, sweet lines of fire, ribs ribs ribs and back up, up, pits and down...

Everlasting monstrous delight.

At some point he passes out again...
 

And wakes. Eats, drinks, pisses.
And it starts again. Two fingers, on each foot.
Four on his belly.

No learning curve, no mixed messages. Right to the chase, every time.
Many fingers now. Armpits. Feet. Soft, sweet clamps palpating his ribs.
Mel doesn't make a sound. There's no noise left in him.

Sucking down water greedily...
And then the feel of 'em, sliding again. More gloves, athletic and mean. He throws his head around, wishing he could howl.
They've got his sides. They've got his pecs. Now and then, two of 'em spread out on his gut. Wide, heavy palms. Gripping, and sliding...
Sometimes, back in his armpits. Much more fierce.

He's back at that place where he can't move a muscle. Can't even tense up. They go wherever they want and he just sits there, laughing silently if he can laugh at all.
Full run. Can't think anymore. Just feels 'em, doing exactly what they want to do. Intensely. Tables are turned... they've got him on the leash - leashes - thick, snug leather. Wide stocks.

Free rein.

More water...
A few hundred laps on his feet.

A few thousand circuits 'round his chest.

Then, his arms. Between the leather bands. And they try various grips on his collarbones.

Barbarically hounding his armpits, and sides.
Eight hands. He's being tickled by eight relentless gloves.
Eight. He can't comprehend the fact, somehow.

Mel's sucking down water again, between gasps. Longing, so badly, to pass out.

Nipples...
Ribs...
Belly...
Neck...
Knees...
 

Thrashing in his sleep, until his eyes open by themselves.
He looks at stocks. His legs caught in 'em. Black leather restraints holding fast, bright red gloves snug around his hands. The same sights for more awakenings than he can count. And still in position to be shown the reason for his confinement.
His job, like earlier, is to look at his restraints, and watch the gloves as they start in again... squirm and flail for a while... Laugh, and laugh. A half-dozen different ways. Settling in to his most important duty - giving the ticklers his full, feverish, unchecked attention.
There will be food, and water... and the satin will begin to sweep again. Running all over him. Hours and hours. And he'll stay put, wild with the sensation. Careful bulldozing, smooth grips polishing the rest of the day, most of the night...
 

Every session hits harder than the last.

After another meal, and a lot of water, he watches red hands lay on his belly. Others drop slowly, teasing.
Hips - and the inside of his thighs. And his ass. Here it comes, he thinks. Relieved to get it over with. Horrified at the same time -
The gloves settle in, and move. He flops, groaning hard -
Together - and stopping, a ring of hands. Retreating? What are th-
In. They push across - right up 'til their fingertips almost touch. And away. Addled, trying to look, Mel can't believe they're not going right into his meat. But they're not...

Petting, all at once. Slamming his focus right into the magic center, the one place they're obviously in no hurry to tickle. Mel can't believe how insanely arousing it is - coaxing blood and nerve impulses, without any chance of release...

No let-up. This is a whole new world of rabid animal lust. Being force-fed endless handfuls of wonderful pain, a throbbing so sweet he can't bear the idea of it going on for another second. Overcome with the certainty that they aren't done with his feet, or his pecs, or his pits. Oh no. More tricks will be revealed. Always another card to play, and another...
His custom nightmare.
Mel's not having a bad dream, here. It's having him.

29may99