"Dinner in about an hour," Vex announces.
"And then." D doesn't have to finish the thought. Hell, I think, he didn't even have to say anything at all. Talk about obvious.
"Yeah. But let's build up the suspense."
"Check out the pouches," Tor tells us.
We look at each other... and down, at our loincloths. There's a wide pocket on the front, but it's only about four inches deep - stuff in there won't ride low enough to press against my cock. I look inside the pouch... pull out a new pack of Camels, and a Zippo. There's also a feather in there, and a big chrome ring. I ain't touchin' those.
Shon raps a pack of Winstons against his palm, looking dazed.
- - 5 - -
We walk around. Tor doesn't say anything, but I have no doubt it's shadowing us. If only the fuckers slept sometime, we could definitely make a run for it...
We walk up, carefully, to the closest hut -
"Look," Shon says quietly. "No locks."
We both stare at that for awhile. The door. No lock on the door. Not even a catch. There's a handle, so I guess it could be tied shut, if the wind picked up or something. But I'm used to seeing big ol' padlocks, rubbing it in. Gotcha. They don't even go for that extra twist of the knife, here. They don't need to. No big, showy locks...
Inside, it's better than I expected. Maybe the size of a two-car garage. Dirt floor, pretty tight walls. A big window on the back wall, just a framed hole with a thin cloth shade dancing around. I can just hear the stream.
Two futons. A hammock made out of nylon netting, big enough for four. A whole bunch of big rings hanging from the ceiling... and massive deck chairs with those metal loops all over 'em, for attaching the restraints.
To the right of that building, there's a smaller shed. The leather shop.
The back wall has a thick workbench. No windows in here, but there are a couple hundred harnesses and straps hung up. Collars, hoods, full-body suits. Leather straitjackets, too, unless I miss my guess. Fuck. I never even thought of something that twisted. There's so much shit dangling from hooks in the ceiling that I can't even see the roof. Piles of tanned leather sit on the far end of the workbench, with punches and other tools on top, boxes of rivets...
A simple wooden chair is pulled up to the closer end of the bench. Thick iron rings have been added in several key places. Underneath the workbench, there are some long padded cushions covered in leather, and a matching seat that I'm pretty sure came off a Harley, probably a Softtail.
"Whoa," D says, and points.
I look again. Just shelves. To the right of the door - a big rectangle, very tall. A bunch of... clothes and paddles make it hard to see, until we crouch down. And then I make it out. It's a huge wooden rack. Extra rails all over, thick... and it looks like they're hinged. Supporting legs, to steady it. A guy could throw his weight all around, and it isn't gonna wobble. Bulges, halfway up, look like pivot points to me.
"There's two of 'em," I say suddenly, and D squints harder.
We get the hell out of there.
The largest building is further west. Cooking noises - sizzling, a lid banging.
We creep closer to the door, with no plans of actually going in. Dirt floor, again. A glorified camping setup, plus a little stove - with an oven - and sure enough, a big freezer. A crude table and a pair of stools. The appliances are up on pallets...
I can't even believe they hauled a freezer here, on a raft. And then all the way up from the river. Shit, maybe they just wished it here. Got a genie who's a close personal friend. That's all we need. I give up. Fuck - and then we see a propane tank. I mean, this is totally nuts. We see it when we start to walk down the west side of the building. The outside, along the runoff-ditches. There it is -
But I smell manure, or something. So we check it out...
The tank's been messed with. Altered.
"Eeeuw," D says, grimacing.
"Methane," I nod. "Son of a bitch."
He's retreating, because of the smell. So I catch up with him...
"You know what that means?"
"Gee whiz, Mister Science. You know I don't."
"The stove, and the freezer. A hot-water heater, too, I bet. All running on methane."
"Uh-huh..."
"The cheapest source of methane is shit. Feces."
He looks at me like I'm talking in Russian. "Wonderful."
"Chicken shit, cow shit. You heard a chicken yet? In all the time we've been here?"
We both shut up and listen for... clucking. Or crowing. Any chicken noises.
Down the east side of the building, we find no door - until we get to the other end.
The room's not as big as the sleeping quarters. Bare walls. No windows...
Two hospital beds. Real old, from the look of 'em. Cabinets are on the wall, close at hand, and bigger cabinets lining the wall furthest from the door.
We don't go inside there, either.
That leaves a mystery - about, oh, twenty feet in the middle of the building. No doors. As we're walking back around, toward the clearing, I ask, "What do ya think is in this middle part?," and cock a thumb at it.
Shon looks, and scans the side of the building again. He starts to shrug, and then a big grin comes across his face. "Gloves."
I stare at him.
"Boxes of 'em. Huuuuuge piles of gloves. All different kinds -"
"You're one sick pervert."
"Think about it, D," he says confidentially. "You seen any gloves, yet? Anywhere?"
After a few seconds, I just say, "Fuck."
"Uh-huh. Am I right, or am I right?..."
We go back out the firepit. There are a couple of stools there - logs lashed together with vines. Mostly I want to get away from the buildings...
My brain is still trying to find some other explanation for all of this. We cannot be sitting in the jungle in a... secret tickling camp. Wind pushes the palm fronds around gently, though I've never seen this kind of tree in California, or Mexico.
We saw two sets of fuckin' stocks in the sleeping quarters, side by side - waiting for us. Even a big patch of weed out behind it, the plants almost as tall as D is.
"Maybe we dropped acid, and then forgot that we did?," I ask him. "PCP?"
After a second, he laughs. "I was wondering about 'shrooms. Dammit. Great minds think alike."
"Well, there's gotta be some way to talk ourselves into thinking this is a great big ol' delusion."
Finally, he sighs and shakes his head. Growls. Looks at me.
"I need a good reason," he says thoughtfully, "to believe this is, like, the ultimate... scare tactic."
"Me, too."
"Ah."
We stare at each other.
"You look... whacked," I tell him.
"Thanks." Same to you." He fakes right - and punches me on my shoulder. Right where Tor's been slugging me.
"Ow... You stupid fucker -"
"Was that real?"
"Uh. Okay. But you didn't have to... enjoy it so much."
"Stay cool, Deck. I got connections."
Ciuna. Sure. I have to groan at that. And rub my poor bruised arm. "You're just acting courageous, ain'tcha?"
He nods, right away. "How am I doin'?"
"Oh, real good," I shoot back. "Oscar-caliber."
"Damn right..."
So we sit there, joking around. But I keep thinking of... hands. All around us. Invisible, strong, way too playful. Surrounding us every second, just beyond eager to grab hold and get down to it...
Another smoke or two, and we hear something ring. Near the kitchen.
There's a triangle. In the air, by the door, just like the chuck wagon in an old western. It's bouncing around, and ringing.
Shon starts to snicker. "Oh, fuck."
"Come and get it," we both say, at the same time.
"Now serving rabbits," I add, as we start to walk over there.
"Fried rabbits."
"Hand-basted."
He winces. "Dude. Gross..."
- - 6 - -
The tablecloth is new black satin.
Feathers are laying on it, here and there. Way too casual. How am I gonna eat and watch 'em all, I wonder...
There are carved bowls, real crude, looking like they were found at the bottom of the river. Plastic silverware, stubby candles. Just in case life hadn't gotten weird enough.
A glove is poised over another homemade stool, fingers down and open. Like a waiter or something. We just stand there... and watch it pat the seat.
Shon starts moving first, and sits down. That leaves me the one on the other side of the table. Further away from the door.
All in all, though, it's a pretty amazing feast. Canned vegetables, sure. But there's some kind of flatbread that's apparently fresh. Macaroni and cheese that might be from scratch. And a lot of meat. Definitely pork, though it's got a real gamey taste. We look at each other before we eat it, wondering just how sick these fuckers are. Then he says, "Wild pig?"
"Verraco," Tor says.
"Boar," I translate, nodding. Very relieved.
It's been a long time since we ate hot food. And we just shovel it in. Either it's really good, or they're fucking with our heads...
"It wouldn't kill ya to say it out loud, Deck."
We look around. "Uh... Okay. This is really... good, Vex. Gotta hand it to ya." I catch the pun, way too late. D frowns at me, and keeps chewing.
"Aaaaaaaww. Thanks, Hare."
"Well -"
Shon swallows a mouthful. "Never thought you'd know how to... use spices. Seasoning."
"Why not?," Vex says. "I've got your... memories, to draw from. And..." Over by the stove, a cookbook floats up.
Shon makes a big "a-ha" gesture. Being a smartass again. "Of course!," he says. I just stare at him. "The secret to their success. Sticking to the plan. Get it?"
He's trying to tell me something... but I don't get it. I'll ask him, later.
"What are you getting at?," Vex says, highly amused.
"Ignore him," I say, real quick. "He's an actor. You wanna... cook for us, like this - I say, go for it."
"You got it."
I look at Shon again. He's thinking as hard as I am.
"Head on back to the firepit. Now."
We do... though we're not in any big hurry to get there.
A fire is just starting to catch. It's cooler outside. There's a breeze, so we're going to need the warmth. Somehow I doubt they're gonna bring us any more clothes tonight.
Then I see how much wood they've got piled up. It's gonna be a pretty big fire. They're obviously not worried about anyone bothering to investigate it... if it's noticed at all.
We walk up to the stools. A joint is laying on each one. Big bombers. A bottle of whiskey is sitting on the ground, and some water bottles -
A six-pack of beer glides over our heads, and sets down next to the booze.
"Whatcha drinkin', dudes?," Vex says. Real friendly - and so sure we'll go along.
Any minute now. I keep thinking it.
D looks just as tense. Through a joint, and a couple beers. Ice-cold beer! Fuck, I needed this. The trip down here, I didn't know I could sweat that much.
By the time we start in on the JD, I'm slowly letting go of the thought. Any time now... And then I forget, for a few minutes at a time, what they're making us wait for.
They want us to be surprised. Its gives 'em that extra little kick -
Something is jingling, softly. By the leather-shop.
We both look over there...
And the racks are coming.
They're big. No getting around that. Thick wood. One's taller than the other... so that one must be mine.
The base legs are wide enough to keep 'em from tipping over. No rocking these fuckers, to try and break 'em. Painted black. Only some straps are swinging free.
Shon's hand fumbles behind him, grabbing my arm.
I take his fingers and squeeze 'em tight.
When they land - a few yards from the fire - we get to see 'em more clearly. Heavy-duty tickle racks, in all their pivoting, sturdy, padded glory.
A full minute passes. I look at each cuff, every cross-member and strap anchor-point...
"Conejos," Tor says - almost whispering. "Go on."
"Go on, what?," Shon wails.
"Step on up, dudes. You know."
Fuck. They want us to... walk over to 'em.
And if we don't? But the next thought is almost embarrassing... It's going to be mindblowing, and if we don't cooperate with their twisted little first-night plan - twice as mindblowing?
"You got any ideas?," D whispers back at me.
"Sorry. No."
"Huh." He lets go of my hand, and kicks out a shaky sigh. Don't do it, I think. Run...
D starts walking over. I follow him.
"This one?," he drawls, stopping in front of the shorter rack - and gesturing lazily. Acting.
"Uh-huh," Vex replies, as if it's fighting not to laugh at him.
That sensible little part of my brain is really ticked off... But I walk up, turn around, and back myself in. Little wedges hit my calves, so I test my weight on one. Yup. When I set my heels on 'em, the whole fuckin' arrangement makes sense. Pads and straps are recessed. There's a dip so my head can't slam around. The design fits me, too damn well.
My moccasins unlock, and tug down a little. Cuffs slide around my ankles.
My right arm is grabbed - firm, careful hands - and raised up. A cuff is waiting. It looks like it's ten yards away...
I look at D, as the restraints are set. He's staring right at me. Burning eyes -
"Oscar," I say quietly, trying to grin.
He nods quickly, not looking any happier.
The cuffs are tugged, and apparently Tor is satisfied. The hands grab above my ankles, and lift me a little. I guess the little wedges swivel... My moccasins are peeled off. I have to really stick my head out, just to watch.
Tor lets go. The ankle-cuffs are holding up a lot of my weight... Comfortably. All kinds of room to work, around my feet.
We get another cigarette, before the loincloths are taken away. Smoke, then tickling. I get the point.
The ticklers' excitement is like... another bonfire, in front of me. And inside me, too. I take a long drag, and hold it in. Purely out of reflex, I try to lower my arms... or turn my feet. Probably there will be some big taunt, or another little ceremonial thing, prepared just for this moment. I wait, and smoke some m-
Fingertips... land, one by one. My hips. I come damn close to nodding, but I stop myself.
The fingers start to multiply, and I rush the smoke out. Grit my teeth -
And Tor starts 'em... moving. Little circles. Then, up toward my ribs. Of course. Going up.
All those days on the raft were dull, but I miss the boredom now. This is grueling...
So many fingers. Just firm enough.
I end up trying to count them all. It keeps me busy. Paying attention. As if the stimulation from each one is going to be less of a jolt that way.
Okay, Tor. You enthusiastic son of a bitch. I'm feeling 'em. You got all my attention. Alright?
You want me overwhelmed, with the tickling... that's what you got. Congratulations.
I think that, as clearly and distinctly as I can.
The fucker doesn't even ease off.
I keep wondering how they're keeping the sun from coming up. Deck, I say to myself, it's the same old thing. You're deranged.
Sure I am. Hell - I'm in the jungle now. All expenses paid. Getting jacked off by a magical bully that wants nothing more than to rub me like this. Make me delirious. All night...
Then I notice movement. Oh, yeah, the sun's coming up...
And I'm being carried into the shop - rack and all.
Tor sets me down, and sighs happily. A dozen feathers lift off the workbench, heading straight for a bunch of places I can't protect.
- - 7 - -
"Liebre."
"What."
Tor pauses. I hear a quiet, happy growl. "Let's play a game."
I look around the infirmary. It just finished putting extra straps around my biceps... and now it's rubbing the straps slowly. Like it's admiring them. One-inch belt leather, framed by tats. It's been catching my upper arms like this more and more. I can't flop around as much, or twist. Tor can get brutal in my armpits, on my sides, and we both know I'm not gonna be able to fuckin' squirm. Another plain strap is pinning my hips down, as if it was even needed.
"Okay," I sigh.
"Here's how it works. I'm gonna tickle you..."
And then it shuts up.
Real subtle. That's the whole game. It's waiting, though - for me to ask. That's my cue. I know from the past few weeks that it'll wait for an hour, if it feels like it. Of course, I generally can't keep my fuckin' mouth shut that long. Cigarettes or no cigarettes -
"And?"
It laughs a little. So glad I'm playing along... "And - nothing. That's it."
I take a drag.
"That's the whole game."
"Uh-huh," I finally say. "Got it."
The fingers slide off the straps, and rub the outer edges of my 'pits for awhile. Then it sends 'em down to the strap holding my hips down, where they multiply. Splitting up. Some travelling down... most, ranging over my ribs. A few settle on the worst spots in my armpits and calmly tickle me until I piss on myself.
Cleaning that mess up is a perfect excuse to work in a few layers of moisturizer. And apparently, that inspires Tor. A pair of hands start wandering around my crotch.
"This game... sucks."
"I like it," Tor says emphatically. "Shit, I always win."
The bastard invents something new.
Over a few days, it finds the absolute best way to tickle my ribs. With gloves, or invisible hands, it lays its fingers down carefully. They press more on the lower side of each rib-bulge, with the fingertips a good ways past the midpoint of my sides. The base of the palms is parked on the back of those ribs. Then... it moves 'em. The fingertips press down, and pull back. Not too heavy. Dragging, then a pause, and they shift just a little, and lean more on the top of the next rib down.
It has the fingers... stutter, a little, as they slide forward again to the original position, and they wait for a couple seconds.
Repeated, infinitely.
I just lose it.
Tor is hooked. It doesn't stop.
We laugh and laugh.
For days, it's been enjoying that. All day. And the combinations... Knees, feet, neck. All winners. I mean, it's shocking, even now. I can hardly breathe. And laughing? Forget it.
When it adds a hand - one hand - to stroke my cock... I'm thrusting like a machine.
So it has a signature move. I've been crippled by it for weeks. Months, maybe. Seems like months, but I don't fuckin' know anymore. It's like I have a fever or something. Thinking is so hard now.
The third day in the dorm - each one full of that rib action - Tor gets after me to name it.
No way. Absolutely, positively not. Fuck, no.
I call it "the worm." Little letters. Ain't gonna give it a big 'W' every time I think about it.
I picture an inchworm, or a centipede. Something like that. Scrunching up, and stretching out. Bugs the size of fingers. Big fingers. Oiled, satin, leather, rubber, cotton, pigskin, nylon, neoprene, spandex, invisible fingers.
Tor decides we'll use the Spanish word instead. Gusano. And right away it caught me thinking "goose-ano, uh-oh" - so it says the word a lot, and pokes me in the ass as it does. Cracking up every damn time.
The fucker has me. Really. This has got to be the ultimate means of persuasion. This is it. And Tor knows.
So damn happy.
So "we" do it for hours. El gusano. All over the place. Even at the table, sometimes, when I'm done eating. It starts in on me, with gloves or just invisible fingers, and I go ballistic. Then it carts me out to the shop.
It sets up the rack and gusanos me for a while, then it fucks with me everywhere else - knees, ass, feet... and then it gusanos me again. I get so hammered by it, I can't even fuckin' smoke.
Strapped to a futon...
I've caught my breath. Dammit. Time to rock again. Several hours straight - and the smoke break is about to end. Can't help but squirm, as if it didn't know already I don't wanna be here.
Fingers comb my hair back, out of my eyes.
Big rabbit's caught, Tor "thinks" at me. Quiet, and a little bit threatening. Not gettin' away.
- - 8 - -
The straps are reefed on, tighter than... necessary. Shon watches, from his hammock, already cuffed snug. Lookin' worried.
"Ow!," I yell.
Vex makes a mocking little snort. "You're really going to like this, rabbits -"
"Eat me," D snaps.
"Well... one of you will be glad. Eventually."
A brown glass jar floats over to the table alongside my rack. There's already a few pair of surgical gloves lying there. I start a cigarette when it comes around, but I can't take my eyes off that bottle. I've never seen it before.
A pair of gloves is peeled open. Surgical latex...
"Guess what," Tor says dangerously. Its voice has changed, since we got here. Lower, gravelly... almost as if it's drunk all the time. And maybe it is. Intoxicated... high on tickling me.
"Fuck you," I sigh. "Fuck off and die."
It snickers at me. "Deck... I'm gonna tat you up."
"Good luck." As in, where? I'm just about sleeved. It snuck a few more little tattoos in, here and there... shit, weeks ago. More feathers, and rope. Words, though they're lost in all the images. Not big enough.
"Before I can do that, we gotta get rid of the artwork ya got already."
Shon lifts his head, looking at me.
A roll of surgical tape lifts off the table. Unrolling a couple inches, leisurely, knowing full well it's got our attention.
"Three parts to it," Vex drawls. "You boys remember?" We both nod.
The tape lays over one side of my first tat. "Gonna keep this one," Tor growls, and more tape is peeled. I look at my arm - at the uncovered ink, next to the tape - and think of Tom s. All of a sudden, I want to bawl like a baby. Very confused -
Ssssssh, Tor says, in my head. De nada. I've never heard it, or felt it, be... well, so compassionate. What the hell.
The tape is being pressed down so hard it hurts.
"Now," Vex drawls, "ol' Hare's been slamming doses of the hydration agent for the past couple days -"
"That green shit? Smells like a sewer?"
"Uh-huh. He look a little puffy to you, Buck? No? Well, that's extra moisture. It doesn't hurt a thing... Hell, he's been as wild and squeamish as ever. But it slides in there, alongside the ink. All that ink. Just sitting there."
The jar is opened. It rises, and waits for a shallow wooden bowl to float over. Then it pours.
Grey sludge, flecked with black specks. It smells like lye...
"And this is the oxidation agent," Vex says. "Bleach. Same principle." The gloves scoop up big handfuls. "Absolutely harmless to the skin, Hare. Quit fidgeting."
The gloves wander over my chest, and rotate. Pouring the sludge on me.
"This will fade tattoo ink. Not totally..."
Tor laughs a couple times.
"And before you start whining, Buck, I'll prove that we keep our promises. Step three is the clincher. That's what fades it out the rest of the way - high-intensity light. Ultraviolet. But it has to be applied at just the right time..."
I stare at the gloves, wondering why they're not on me. The grey shit is cool, and disturbingly thick. But that's not all. I can't place what the problem is.
"The skin has to be saturated with the oxidizer. Tor will do the honors, Hare. You ready for some fun? Massaged in, nice and thorough. Real deep. Then the light will work its magic. Skin not saturated enough, or skin too dry, and you won't see the results I promised y-"
I interrupt it. "This shit isn't... alive, is it?"
There's a pause. "Marrón?"
"It's... Uh. It itches."
"Oh. Does it?" Vex says, way too innocent.
Shon grimaces, twisting the cuffs that keep his hands spread out.
"C'mon, now," I yell, pounding my head. "What's in this?"
"Uh... No, Deck. Nothing added, to make it itchy."
"Good."
"It's just naturally itchy."
Shon opens his mouth... and seems to be a loss for words.
"Plee-," I start to say. Then I just shut up. No point.
"Don't worry, my Liebre," Tor promises. "I will be massaging you."
"Good and hard, Tor. Hell, he might end up asking you to tickle him re-"
"Like hell I will -"
"Beg you real nice. Give him some distraction from the itch... How is it so far, Hare?"
It's gonna be bad. I can tell that already. I mean, deep and throbbing. Not just up on the surface. If it felt like fire, that would be easier to take. The shit's just laying there, where the gloves dropped it - and Tor hasn't even started rubbing it in yet.
"This better... w-work," I snap, gritting my teeth. I can't help it.
My cigarette is taken away. Tor's gloves drop, sadistically, and spread the misery around. Pecs, belly... I wonder if this is it, they finally found the way to drive me right over the edge, totally insane, and this unbelievable fuckin' itch is the key they were looking for.
"Oh, it works," Vex laughs. "Hey, Buck - it works just fine. How do you feel about that?"
Shon starts to snicker. "Okay oh uh uh huh huh doh don't duh huh huuuuaaah haw nnnh nah hah haaah vuh Vex veh eh heh hehhhooooowaaaahh hah haaaawwww..."
"Look, D. He's just overjoyed."
"Aw hell," I groan. The fingers backtrack through my armpits. No tats there, of course. Not in the center. But they coat the area anyway. Ha, ha.
Another pair of gloves is over me, throwing down handfuls of the sludge. On my neck. And my thighs -
Vex sighs happily. "Good rabbits. Remember the goal, Deck."
"Yah," Tor says, gleeful, full of menace. "Doin' it for Buck. Big ol' movie star."
Like I got a fuckin' choice?
The fingers slide all the way up, way past the ink on my thighs. Coolness, on my balls, up around the hip joint. No ink there to remove. But the awful tingling starts...
"Oh, shit, shit..."
Shon's writhing around, laughing his guts out.
"Hey. Dude. You want some help?," Tor says, mocking the fuck out of me. I don't say anything. I just squirm, and pant for air, already sweating like a pig. "D? You want I should help you out? Distract you? Maybe, oh... if I tickle you? Real fuckin' hard?"
"Nnnnno," I manage to say. "Aw fuck, Tor. C'mon. This is... unreal..."
"You sure? 'Cause I will. You know I will, if you ask real nice. I'll keep doing this massage thing, for the whole hour. But I really like to tickle you."
No shit, I want to yell. Get this grey crap off me. Just stop it, stop rubbing it in, and stop bringing more over -
The impossibly itchy shit is being squeezed under my back. Fingers smear it up my spine, on the back of my hands, the knuckles.
I'm not gonna ask the bastard to tickle me.
This itch... I'm gonna fuckin' lose it, here.
No way. No.
Aw... shit.
"Tuh... Tuh," I can't even talk. Unbearable -
"Right here, chollo."
"T-Tor. Oh... Ssssh. Shih, shit, sh-shit. I caah... caaaah... Don't. Don't."
Its fingers are rubbing my neck, and they have no business covering my knees like this. I don't know what to do. Shit. What else can I do? It's impossible.
"Oh... Ttttuh. O-kay. Okay. I can... can't -"
"Okay, what?"
Asshole. "Tih. Plllh." I have to groan, right then. Real hard. It clears my head for a second. "Shit. Okay. T-tor. Do it. P-please. Pluh..."
"Do what?"
"Tih." I can't talk. But I can groan. Barking out another one, louder than the last, I blink the sweat out of my eyes. "Please. Tor. Please... please. Please. I can't t-take this. I c-cah... Pppllease, tick... tickle me. Tor. Pluh. Uh... Go a-uh-huh-head. Fuck. Please do it. Go. Dig in, h-hhhard. Hard. Go. Go on. Tickle m-"
"Tickle you? Real hard?" And then it just waits. First time for everything.
"Tuh... Tor -"
"What's the magic word?"
I'm confused. I said please. More than once. Didn't I?
"Ain't gonna tickle you, until you say it. Real sincere, conejo. Or else you're just gonna lie here and not get any tickling. You want that - okay."
Fuck. It itches. It... If the asshole doesn't tickle me, and soon, I don't think I can't stand this. I can't -
"Puh... Aw, hell... Please."
Nothing happens. Oh no, I think frantically. Nooooooooo. Wrong magic word...
Shon howls a couple times.
"Pl- puh. Puh." I have an idea. "Por favor."
"Aaaaaaay!" it laughs. "Awright." Six more gloves come out of hiding. Alongside the bed. "You got it, D. Glad to help you out." And they start on my feet.
I get active. I mean, bouncing. And lunging this way and that. Snapping around. What the hell...
I can't believe how fuckin' sensitive my feet are.
It's the combination, maybe. This much itch... and I'm lookin' anywhere for a distraction. Locking on to that fucker.
This is just unbelievable.
Gloves get their fingers in my armpits. And they nuke me.
That gets the spittle flying.
After a while, I barely notice them... sliding down. My ribs. And they start to gusano me. Real fuckin' serious about it.
Out go the lights. No... not really. It's still... daytime.
The stupid idea that finally, oh yeah, I'm passing out - that gets shattered. My body throbs with the itch.
The fingers lay into my feet. They slide down my sides. And back up...
I can't laugh. I can groan, sometimes...
Smoking is out. My mouth is wide open.
Shon cackles hoarsely, across the room. Just keeps cackling and cackling... But I take that as a given. Vex will keep thumpin' him. I got bigger problems. I have to focus. Totally. Whether Tor's making me do it, or I'm doing it automatically, I just have to.
Hot damn, they're really magic fingers now. They got my fuckin' number. If I pay attention, I can almost forget the ones massaging everywhere else. Not tickling, dammit. Sure as hell not scratching the itch. No. They're laying down more sludge. More itch. Working it in. Not scratching, like I want.
So that leaves me with the tickling to... save me.
I'm glad I can't laugh right now. Too damn distracting.
On to Part 3
Back to Part 1
20oct2002