Dark, dusty...
Vague noise outside. Drawing nearer -
The side door opens. It screeches loudly, stiffened by rust. A shadow appears on the threshold.
And when the door stops moving, the sound of a man's voice can be heard. He's... laughing.
Not chuckling to himself. Or to anyone else. He's really laughing. With an edge in his voice. An undertone of... desperation. He's resisting something. Angry. But just then, he giggles, busting out in a helpless chain of "haw haw haw..." and that sounds just manic. Way too happy. The unwillingness is overwhelmed by the need to let loose and roar. So he does.
Shuffling sounds. Shoes scraping -
And he appears in the doorway, sagging forward. Elbows out slightly. Reeling backward a step, and turning -
He balks, right at the doorway... as if he doesn't want to come in.
But a huge fit of laughter takes him, and his legs buckle. He starts to go down, but he doesn't fall. As he moves forward, he grabs for the door frame. But he's too far away. He plants one of his feet against the frame, but it slides off. He stomps again, and pushes himself back -
And then he howls. Throwing his head back and baying like a hound dog. Impressive. His hands slap at his chest and his sides. His leg drops.
Immediately, he's moving forward. Boots on old tile. Trying to lock his legs, but they slide along...
Through the door.
He rears back, but his forearms barely move... as if he was leaning on something. He strains to turn around and get out, but moves forward anyway. Starting to whoop, he throws his head around a little, perhaps trying to shake his head.
Squirming, and laughing, he makes another attempt to spin -
The door starts to close, making the same loud racket. One leg kicks loosely, as he tries to pivot, to fling himself backward...
The lock creaks as it turns. And the door rattles. Tested... Confirmed.
He sags. Hooting, almost painfully, with his head forward.
There.
Locked in.
The celebration is officially underway.
The city is full of possibilities.
The ones who could be caught easily were subjected to a quick test. Most of them never even noticed. A quick twitch, straight down their side... gone as soon as they were aware of it. That sensation was usually mistaken for a muscle spasm.
It was the only noticable sign of a targeted neurological evaluation. Their reactions were compared to previously discovered values. Appearances were usually misleading, but the measurements didn't fail to reveal a particular sensitivity, and its persistence... Most important of all, the test rated their capacity to tolerate an increasing amount of tactile stimulation. A special ability to bear more provocative, more widespread contact. Where most would grow dulled, or overwhelmed to such an extent that consciousness was abbreviated... the ones possessing this unusual trait continued to react to the stimulation - as it continued to escalate - without the ability to ignore it.
He's dragged a few yards from the door... and he stops moving. Still a good twenty feet from the front entrance, and the big picture windows. Roller shades are pulled down, hiding all the glass - such a thin layer of vinyl, but it's enough to keep his suffering from being seen.
Very slowly, he drops to his knees, then keeps leaning. His face is in the dust. His belly -
He sneezes, several times. Writhing, arms moving drunkenly, still trying to shield his sides. There's nothing on him - that can be seen - but he struggles anyway. And he laughs.
He just laughs and laughs...
Invisible fingers, and hands, are polishing. Briskly clutching and rubbing . No evidence of them can be seen. He pulls his t-shirt up and clamps his hands over his left ribs.
Hooting again. His delight is infectious - so sincere! And so crude. The laughter is forced out of him, squeezed out... Blind instinct. The provocative touch of the fingers continues, despite his jean jacket and shirt... as if his own hands weren't gripping his skin tightly. And he's crazed. Driven to distraction. Sweat rolls down his face. No amount of movement provides any relief...
To make things simpler for him, more of the impossible hands take hold, roll him over... and pin his arms. Exploring his armpits diligently -
And he shrieks! All the raw noises of hysteria, as his head erratically rolls back and forth.
The efforts of his own hands were useless. Even when he clamps his armpits, the fingers keep crawling and squeezing. They rub their way down his sides as if there were no obstacles...
Because there are none. The hands' operator can alter its tools, somehow. Two apparently solid objects can exist in the same place simultaneously. Every attempt to block its hands are will end in failure. Clothing presents no obstacle at all...
Midnight passes, and Saturday arrives.
No risk of somebody stumbling upon him, while the fingers play and ravage.
Three full days.
The director of the hands was going to lay into him all night, and all day Saturday... and Sunday... but he was so unhinged. This kind of hysteria, the first night - before he's even tied down - is just outrageous.
So he gets an extra day. All day... Monday. Three days! Even more exciting.
He's just giving it all he's got.
By dawn, his voice is gone. Hoarse enough to ensure he'll stay trapped.
The director pictures him... say, around noon... after a hard night and a nap. Racked with almost-silent roars and whoops, howling passionately - with no noise left to draw any attention, give him away. With the rest of Saturday ahead of him, and Sunday, Monday, Tues-
Tuesday.
No reason to let the wee hours of the morning go to waste.
Held tight by the rope. Paralyzed by excited nerve endings, firing nonstop. Into the fourth day...
Phantom fingers sweep carefully, all over his sides, spurring all this hilarity. His arms are above his head, trapped there, safeguarded, despite all his attempts to pull free.
Some of the hands start to explore his knees - and he bays with exhilaration, arching his back. He tries to kick... so his legs are held down. That results in a lusty groan.
The director just never gets bored with reaction like this! More ferocious than it expected, to look at him. Clearly he'd never been tickled like this before...
"Tickled." Such a... tentative word.
Easy, brief - too lightweight. A memory from childhood. Something which could be resisted, fought off, or just endured for a minute or two. Crippling for a few seconds, and done - insignificant, almost. Pedestrian. No big deal.
To judge from his reaction, this is a whole new... dimension of fun.
The contact slides up and down his legs as if his clothes weren't even there. As his calves and shins are kneaded, with the fingers travelling just past his ankles before they reverse course, he works hard to say something.
After several attempts, the words are barked out. "Not my... f-feet." Then he sags again, hooting uncontrollably.
That was just the reaction the tickler was hoping for, petting him in that way. It has its hands grab the velcro tabs on his shoes and open them, pulling steadily. As the left shoe comes off, he realizes what's happening, and flings himself around. His right shoe is taken away. Both socks. And they grip the bare ankles and pin them down.
Twenty fingers jump and attack.
With a screech, he wrestles around and bellows. But these effects diminish as their ineffectiveness sinks in.
More and more often, the director allows him to catch his breath. And the impact, when the hands dive back in, is never disappointing.
He's made to smoke all his cigarettes. A jug of cheap wine is brought out from the shadows, levitating nearby, pouring into a used soft drink cup. By pinching the sides, a narrow stream of wine can be poured into his mouth, slowly. When his resistance to smoking and getting drunk is ignored, he has no choice but to go along.
And the tickler starts in on him again.
Early Saturday afternoon, he wakes to find something new. Rope...
He's been hogtied. The bonds keep him hunched over - not too much, since he'll be in that position for awhile - but putting his feet on the floor is not an option.
He's closer to the windows. The roller shades are down, though. No one can see him.
The director starts the day under his knees, and in his armpits. He recoils impressively, squawking with outrage. Crippling mirth spreads across his chest and stomach.
The sun gives the front part of the room a warm, parchment hue.
A small group of noisy people walk by, talking and laughing. He weaves his head and opens his eyes. The continuous hard chuckles that rumble out of him are all but silent.
As the people walk away, their noise dies down - along with any chance of them becoming aware he was trapped there, rubbed by fiendish, masterful hands.
From time to time, he's rolled over.
The director lays into the side which was against the floor, giving the other side a rest. Its expertise in so many little matters keeps him from getting acclimated or desensitized.
As the sunlight disappears, he enters the second full hour on his back - with hands supporting his ankles, keeping his knees bent.
In between the rest periods, the hands provoke all the surfaces of his feet at a furiously disorienting clip. All attempts to pull away from the barbaric torment have failed him. More often than the previous night, his delirium becomes so crippling that laughter is apparently impossible.
Sometimes his eyes scan the room, slowly, vacantly. No help is there yet. Not for him.
And the director will not be going easy on him tonight.
Seven or eight hours later, he nods off. A blanket is tied around him, since the nights are starting to get chilly. That makes it necessary to do a little foraging.
Four blocks away, an alarm system clicks off.
A box floats through the store, catching items that fly into it. For some of the more expensive things, more boxes are unsealed in the storeroom, and replacements are made to restore the appearance of the racks and displays.
The alarm is reenabled, and the box floats high above the alley...
On the way back... another store window makes the tickler pause, and consider. New ideas are occurring. Some of them have the potential to be very entertaining. The first box is set down outside the unassuming cage, and the director returns to the establishment whose window caused so much innovation.
That alarm is turned off - and back on again - within five minutes.
After the supermarket, one last store is visited.
Three boxes, stacked and jingling, clinking... smoothly touch down at the alley door. From the front room, it can't be seen. And there's no need for him to discover it's there, so the hinges are well-oiled.
The first box and the stack of three cruise into the back room, and the door closes silently. The director locks it, and reviews the outer appearance again. Huge, rusty spikes sealed the door - until a hacksaw was used on them. But the illusion is impeccable, still. From the outside, all of the doors appear as though it will take a concerted effort to break in...
Its target continues to snore. On the shelves in back, his new "presents" are being sorted.
A small camping stove is set up. It unties him, gets his clothes off, and pins his limbs without incident. He starts to dream, and giggle unwillingly... in his sleep.
Towels wash him off quickly, and pat him dry. Then it dresses him in an outfit he'll never view quite the same way again, after today. They're not the clothes the director most wants to see on him, but this particular way of taunting him was too good to pass up.
When he yawns and looks at himself, a few hours later... he's disguised as a downhill racer.
A tight bodysuit, navy blue, made of Lycra. The tight hood keeps his greasy hair from escaping. Expensive goggles cast a light brown tint on the forlorn isolation of his cell...
Thick gloves isolate his fingers, buckled tight at each wrist.
And the crowning touch, which suggested the rest of the gear, is the ski boots. Neon-green. Big, heavy... and snugly clamped on.
The director holds him down on the floor, spread-eagled, while he eats. Without fanfare, it opens the flap and guides his member into a wide-mouth jar. He relaxes somewhat, and urinates. A full liter of water is forced down him...
And the hands release their holds. Time for the fun to begin.
Realizing he can move, he starts to roll over, and scrabble to his hands and knees. The boots are hilariously awkward, though -
Before he gets any closer to standing, the tickler begins. Both feet. Below and between his toes...
He gasps, and snickers mechanically. The boots shuffle around as he squirms, back onto his ass. Staring.
The boots - heavy, solid construction - are no protection from the fingers of the director. Or from any sensation it can think of. He whines, and kicks harder. Nothing holds him, except the weight of the boots. Although he moves his feet, the tickling is uninterrupted.
More fingers land, and squeeze his heels provocatively.
With a squeal, he reaches for the right boot... but the closer his hands get, the less his fingers can move. The insulated gloves are not going to let him take the boots off. Naturally, he has to try - several times - but when his own hands get within a few inches of the release latch, the gloves become rigid.
More fingers begin to slide up and down the sides of his feet.
He whoops harder, and pounds at the boots with his useless hands. The boots will stay on.
The expression on his face shows confusion and dread - with a smirk now and then, as he laughs. Roaring now, he rocks back and puts his hands on the floor behind him. Lifting his right leg, he stomps down, squarely - and pauses.
None of the fingers even pause.
His head shakes frantically. Stomping again, then both feet, with an exasperated look. As if it makes no sense to him... The boots are solid, and the inner padding prevents him from doing anything more than flex his toes. Yet there are hands there, as if there were no boots at all.
He wails raw laughter, and stomps his feet.
The director watches him reach again, slapping at the top of the boots, pummeling his legs. When he starts to thrash and roll around, it's obvious something has to be done. It's for his own protection.
Nylon rope loops around his wrists, and slips through ring-bolts mounted securely into the floor. He lays down only when the tension of the rope makes him. A few more wordless yells of glee, as the knots are tied...
It even allows him to get in a few more stomps. Before it immoblizes his ankles.
When those knots are set, the fingers ramp up the speed and pressure of the tickling.
The magical attack is intended to prove a point. It wasn't necessary to remove his shoes at all. Or his clothes. The director can reach through them as if they're not even there.
And even that isn't the highlight of his ordeal. After ten minutes of spittle-laced roaring, the fingers slow down and leave him alone.
When he's caught his breath, the ropes get a full test. But there are no surprises. Down he'll stay... watching a new pack of cigarettes being opened. He throws his head around for another minute, before he gives in.
The tickler allows him three puffs. Then, a fourth...
As he's exhaling smoke, contact is made at the top of the boots. Circling, slowly -
He lifts his head a little, trying to see. As usual, there is no visible evidence of what's being done to him. But as the stripes of pressure meet up with themselves and become bands, they start sliding.
Into the boots.
He twists and kicks.
With the consistency of corn syrup - of warm honey - the sensation defies gravity and creeps down, slowly, until his ankles are coated. Up it moves, to his toes...
And back down. Meeting itself again, under his heels.
His feet are now encased. The oozing elastic is no more "real" than the fingers that have already made him sweat -
To begin, the director raises a hundred dull, tiny points of agonizing stimulation.
As they press gently into his soles, he flops and lunges, eyes wide with terror -
On each of his soles, fifty little tips begin to move.
The hysteria that results is thoroughly gratifying.
He can only take this level of stimulation for five to ten minutes at a time.
Catching his breath, maybe having a smoke... and cringing, as the impossible warmth mimics the soft bristles of countless brushes, the teasing ripple of feather-edges, and the soft scrape of fingernails...
He wears fatigues on Monday. Shooting gloves, and steel-toed combat boots.
But the sequence of events is roughly the same. When the layer of torment is idle, a dozen hands rotate around the other sensitive regions of his body.
This includes his loins. After being teased into release, the sensation the director's hands are causing is so debilitating that he can't squirm or laugh.
The tickler gets him cleaned and dressed again, with a much sharper sense of anticipation...
Slowly, he lifts his head to see. Looks himself over. Squinting hard through dark sunglasses.
Yeah. One shady character.
Biker jacket. Black t-shirt. Black jeans, over silk boxers. Chaps over the jeans.
Tight leather gloves.
Thick wool socks... under the darkest, heaviest work boots imaginable, climbing more than halfway up his calves. Eighteen hooks and eyelets, trapping the cuffs of the jeans, pinned by the chaps.
Thick rope spreads him out again, ensuring he won't be able to mess with his new appearance.
He tugs anxiously. A new carton of smokes is brought over. Nonfilters...
When he kicks out a couple lungfuls, the tickler is convinced. He'll look like this from now on. Poser, while he's here...
The director's hands bring him his breakfast. A paper bag, dropped near his head... and a coffee pot. Insulated carafe.
The bag rustles, and a big plastic mug floats out. With a loud click, the carafe pump-lever pops up. It wheezes as the lever pushes down and retracts...
Pancakes lift off the styrofoam tray, and each is rolled around a link sausage.
He doesn't protest. Even though the food's cold, and somewhat on the dry side, he eats it. After all, it had been cooked only a few hours ago. Why it ended up in the garbage dumpster was not clear to the director...
He sips at the coffee, and scans the room for any other changes. Apparently looking for any little thing that could give him hope.
A long burp makes the hand pause - but when he's quiet again, it brings the lighter up to his cigarette. Snaps it shut, and tosses it by the pack.
He takes a steady drag, trying to stay calm.
It really works - his new look. The director really likes it. With the beard just coming in, and his fairly reserved nature, he definitely carries it off.
A bottle of bourbon floats down, next to the cigarettes. All of it - just perfect...
So it's settled. This is the archetype the director will misuse, each day. Now it's time to turn up the irony. He looks like a cultural icon for... freedom. Willful, powerful, untamed.
As he kicks out more smoke... the invasion begins.
Warm. Heavy. The sensation of a very thick fluid - honey, latex paint, rubber cement - starts at his neck. Immediately, he throws himself around. A glove takes his cigarette away.
But he can't stop the oozing. Crawling down, unevenly travelling over his chest, his shoulders, rib to squeamish rib. The leathers can't stop the agonizing flow. The thick film rolls more slowly down his back, over his posterior, and it isn't going to stop.
Not until the coating slides up, over his toes, between them, blending without so much as a seam. Hugging his skin.
He groans, with a haunted, dismal expression on his face.
Finger-size lumps press him. Twenty different extrusions - thirty - targeted with devastating accuracy. Wiggling...
Moving.
He slams around, and cackles. That lasts only for a few seconds - and he appears to be yelling, but the only sound he makes is the soft exhalation of air. The bumps roll and stroke, and he looks like a barbarian, laughing with a complete disregard for social niceties.
Pure biker. Psycho, hardcore... and not about to quiet down any time soon.
The director sends four of the roving fingers into his groin, where legs meet hips.
He tugs on his bonds, and keeps bawling.
But nothing can stop the tickler. He knows that.
It has the nubs roam all over him. Nuzzling, and crawling, pressing in here, speeding up there.
An hour later, he's turned around and moved a little. The stimulation has him so derailed that he doesn't move - not when the ropes are untied, or he slides on the wood floor... not even when a cigarette is stuck between his lips and lit.
The afternoon sun is illuminating the roller shades. He faces the front door again, only a few yards from the dirt-streaked glass. The director stretches his arms out from his sides, and sets his boot-heels on the floor. Because he's not stretched out, it could be mistaken for a relaxed posture. Fatigue. Just a guy, all by himself, kicking back...
He stays right there. Looking comfortable. Snickering, now and then, around a cigarette. At first glance, he could just be... really stoned.
Except for the rope.
New and thick, floating over... wrapping around his boots over and over. Big eye-bolts right near his heels keep him from straightening his legs.
To make sure he doesn't budge, more of the rope circles around his wrists. His elbows are bent, palms up. More eye bolts are put to use.
He's soaked with sweat - not because of the temperature of the room, which is tolerable because of the sun. Not laughing much - but his body is working hard. Zoned...
Every so often, the coating generates a new texture for him - soft edges, hundreds of small points, the gentle swipes that mimic fur brushes, cold metallic tips. The relentless fingertips are used most of all. Twice, they've crawled up his legs, his hips, and kept going, kneading his armpits, his neck, down to his nipples. Down further. Teasing, and teasing... then palpating his knees. Forcing their way under, even as he tried to tighten his leg muscles. All squirming and fighting is ignored as if it doesn't even matter.
Back down to his ankles, his feet. His toes.
The shades eliminate all chance of rescue. His voice is gone. He has no way to get their attention, but there are people walking by, no more than five meters from him. Talking, laughing. Laughing, but not like he laughs! They stop laughing, eventually. Whatever seems so funny to them isn't... constant. Or disabling.
He hiccups laughter, weakly, and urine flows again.
What would the people think - if they could see him? The director would almost like to find out. Pull the shades up. See if anyone even noticed. Hey, there's a guy in here, and he looks pretty excited. Check out the rope...
So many potential rescuers would walk by, seeing him without really taking notice. Some would stop and study him - but would they suspect the truth? He looks relaxed. Blissed out. Maybe it's some kind of promotional stunt. Performance art. He's just an actor - not really held against his will, because that's just too odd to be true. Things like that never really happen. Everybody knows it. Particularly to a Harley type.
It's tempted to raise the shades, and make a little sign...
Captured Biker, Magically Tickled - Day Four.
And as the sun goes down, he starts another pack of smokes. Knots slowly begin to loosen.
His legs are straightened. Extended. Cuffs float over, and find his ankles.
As the straps are pulled tight, he recognizes the sounds of the stretching leather, and grunts from the tension being applied. It doesn't matter.
The jacket is pulled open, and a cigarette is brought to his mouth.
The ooze seems to pour, slowly, on navel. Creeping down... and up. All the way to his fingers, slick with sweat inside his riding gloves. Enclosing his feet, flowing under the ankle-cuffs as if they weren't even there.
Sealing. A complete suit, without a seam, fitted to his body.
More clothes are obtained - an even closer fit. The same leather, denim and t-shirt combination that looks so good on him. While he's getting one set filthy, the other two are drying.
When he can't stay awake any longer, rubber gloves peel off the fouled outfit, wash him and wrap him in blankets. After a few hours, he'll be dressed again - slowly, so he doesn't wake up - in order to start the next day in clean gear, limbs spread wide, sunglasses in place. Still yawning as he watches a cigarette arrive, fidgeting with the restraints.
Thursday night...
He laughs as the ropes are untied.
Continuing to lay there... consumed by the nimble fingers roaming up and down him. Not realizing yet that he can move, he gets to lay there instead and experience another half-hour of rubbing, tracing, clutching distraction.
Then - with great reluctance - the director unlocks the door.
As it moves, creaking... his head comes to life. He lifts his head and tries to hold it up, but the effort is too much for him.
The door is opening. The sound is unmistakable.
His eyes close.
Even though he can't make any noise, the relief is obvious on his tear-streaked face.
Dawn is not far off. The chill air reaches into the room. Freedom.
With his arms and legs spread out, he lays there and laughs.
The door complains again - and his arms move. He'd better get going.
Unless... he's going to stay.
This is the first time it's unlocked the room when he was awake. It nudges his left arm. Shake a leg, scooter trash. While you can.
He tries to roll over. And tries again.
Fingers press a little further under his arms than usual. A squawk of outrage locks him up for a few seconds. Silent protest...
The hands pull his left arm until he's on his belly. After a pause, both of his wrists are grabbed. It turns him until his head is toward the door, covering the front of his leathers with dust.
There. Pointed in the right direction now. Hurry up.
He cackles, and slides a few inches...
After five minutes, there's still a couple yards between him and the doorway.
As the director has been watching him move, it kept considering all the fun yet to be had. When it unlocked the door, it had reluctantly come to a decision.
But it's reversing that decision now. The warm ooze touches his spine, and slides - more quickly than before - around to his breastbone.
He shakes his head twice, and bellows silently.
The additional stimulation - the relentless touch of a dozen feathers - is enough to keep him from crawling any further.
A list of needed items is formed. With the addition of a space heater, suspended by chains, - no, two space heaters - the bitter weather will not be abbreviate the director's extended plans.
The loud screech of wood dragging across wood makes him open his eyes. His head is quivering, but he tries to focus...
The door makes that unmistakable noise until it's closed, and the dull metallic clank of the lock confirms the obvious.
08jun02