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Pep wrestled his kit-bag inside, and sighed with relief. Two weeks off -
He saw a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table.
Immediately he was on the alert, scanning the place. Oh, no. He'd convinced himself that Doo would be somewhere else, obsessed with somebody else. Dropping the bigger bags quietly, he took a step backward.
Go, his brain screamed, while you can. His sides were tingling, and his feet throbbed just thinking about Doo -
It probably knew he was here. Right? Unless it was working on some other guy. Maybe it left the smokes sitting there to mess with him whenever he did walk in. So maybe he was safe.
He couldn't stand in the doorway all night. Get a motel room?
Dammit, he thought, this is my place. Avoiding it because Doo was waiting for him was bad enough, but if it wasn't even here...
There was that one time that he came home and it never showed up at all. Man, that was great. And the other time he had about a week of peace before he woke up, strapped down again -
Not yet, he thought glumly. There was no way to get Doo off his back permanently, but for once he wanted to relax without its "help." Get laid, for fuck's sake. He could sneak in later, get more clothes. Pep eased backward and closed the door.
"Going somewhere?" Doo said.
He closed his eyes.

There would be no running away. It had tackled him in the hallway before. If he was really off the hook, it wouldn't have said anything.
Taking a big breath, he opened the door. Why the hell, he thought, do I even come back here at all? The plan had been to hire somebody to come in and get the things that mattered most to him. And then he could hide in the south end of town, or one of the suburbs. And he'd meant to set that up, but it was so damn embarrassing to come up with a reason why he wasn't willing to go inside his own fucking apartment -
He walked inside. This is a nightmare, he thought. Doo's idea of "fun" was so insane. His heart was pounding away, remembering all kinds of hot craziness...
Screaming for help hadn't worked before. Neither did running. Shit, this apartment wasn't even his idea. It worked out well enough, but his stuff was in this particular place because it had such thick walls. The elevator shafts were next to his bedroom wall, but there had to be extra concrete and foam in between. He hardly even noticed the sounds...
How many days, he thought numbly, have I howled my ass off in here?
"C'mon in," Doo said. "I did some shopping for you."
Pep flinched, picturing a case of whiskey waiting in the kitchen, and the refrigerator packed with food. Everything he could need for a couple weeks. Boxes of rubber gloves, cases of oil -
"Don't," he groaned. "Please. I just..."
Just what? I walked right in here, he thought. My apartment. Sure. Maybe I did want it to be ready and waiting.
"Boy, are you wound up."
"Look, I can't d-"
The TV clicked on. "Get in here." Easy chuckles.
He sighed. "Dammit." But he walked inside, and closed the door.

His bags lifted off the floor. Even the case holding his laptop was taken. He watched the strap slide off his shoulder.
"You hungry?"
Pep watched his stuff float off. Apparently Doo wasn't in a big hurry to strap him down. The questions seemed to suggest it was playing dumb. One time it had actually greeted him like this, got him drunk - and went away for almost a week. That was heaven. It came back and took him down, but he might've been able to prevent the insane week that followed if he'd been on his toes. This could be like that time, where it was just out to be friendly. Maybe, just maybe it already had a target locked away... and it was just keeping tabs on him while the other poor slob slept it off. Not likely, but he could hope -
"Dude."
"Uh... Yeah. I could eat."
"Steak?"
He rolled his eyes. No good moves, here. "You got mushrooms?"
"And asparagus."
"Oh..." The invisible fucker was a great cook. That had made him hesitate more than once, which was all Doo generally needed to drop the net again. How many times had it cuffed him down? Fifteen, twenty -
A pillow on the couch lifted up, was smacked a few times, and snuggled back down. That was an invitation, or a command... more like a suggestion this time, but who knew what its mood would be like tomorrow. Please have another guy on ice somewhere, he thought passionately, I just wanna relax for a change.

Pep sat down. From the kitchen he could hear a pan tap against the stove, the refigerator door closing, water running in the sink.
A beer floated to the table, and at the last second a coaster zipped over to become its target. That's where I always go wrong, he thought. Two beers. Well, three. But no more. Gotta keep your head. Don't say saything that it'll jump on, like an invitation -
The cigarettes moved. One slid out of the pack, and a lighter floated up from the floor. It was a black Zippo with the letters PEP engraved on it. He'd seen that damn thing moving like magic for years, now, and had never had to fill it once. Doo took care of everything -
He shivered.
The cigarette was eased between his fingers.
"Dammit," he growled, holding out his hand so the lighter could land in his palm.

Pep didn't smoke before Doo got hold of him. Every time, afterward, it took him a week or two to quit again. Suffering through withdrawal was almost welcome because it was a chance to direct all that inner rage at Doo, after the fact. It always wanted him to smoke, as if that was a requirement to fuckin' relax. On his own couch. If he stalled too long, it kept pushing drinks on him.
He lit up.
There would be gloves. Sure as shit. When he put enough resistance about smoking - or anything, really - Doo pulled gloves on his hands and just made him do shit. Time to go to bed, buddy, let's just walk you right into where all the cuffs and straps are all laid out and waiting.
"I don't need this," he said loudly, reaching for the beer.
"Need what? Dinner?"
"Play dumb, then. Go ahead."
"Aaaaw. I don't know what your problem is," it said, though they both knew that was a lie. The TV remote cruised in front of him.
The cigarette was making him a little dizzy. Unfortunately he had learned to really appreciate the effects, even if it was a disgusting habit that made him hack up snot and stink up his clothes. When Doo was around, though, it wasn't really optional. He was gonna smoke. And drink too much...
Eventually he'd be in the stocks again. Or the sling. Butt-naked and oiled up, roaring with laughter. All night. And the next -
"I'm guessing it was a tough run. This trip for work. Yeah?"
Pep shrugged. "Some of the parts were bad. Had to wait for more."
"That sucks." He heard the sounds of cooking, from the kitchen. Yet Doo was right nearby too. Ogling his torso, probably. And at the same time, with Pep's luck, it was oiling some fucking cock-restraint and arranging feathers in his bedroom -
"Any women at this station?"
"Just one," he said mournfully. "And she was gay. There were, like, three or four that rotated out last week. R-and-R."
"Damn. Better luck next time."
"Luck," he said bitterly, taking a drag. The whole plan of going down to Bentley's tomorrow might and hooking up was probably out the window now. Doo pretending to be sympathetic about Pep getting laid was sorta like rubbing salt in the wound. "I'm going out tomorrow. Get some. Definitely," he announced, looking around.
"Oh." Noncommital. Was that a good sign? Doo could've laughed right away. Like hell you are, roomie. Let's see how well that works when you're caught on the rack. Squealing and laughing...

Pep ate, keeping the conversation neutral. A visit from Doo almost always ended the fuckin' same way. It was moving stuff like pans and dishes like it had... things to do. Just great, he thought.
Back on the couch, he saw no restraints or feathers coming. Paying more attention to the room than the old movie on the TV, he dozed off.

A sting made him lurch, then rub his arm. He blinked.
There were black leather gloves on his hands.
"Fuck, Doo. A night off. Is that so much to ask?"
"You're drunk," it said. Proudly.
Putty in its fuckin' hands, he thought. There was no point in trying to argue. It already had his hands trapped...
And his body was feeling way too good. It had to be a drug. Doo had things that cranked up his ticklishness. That little nap was probably the last sleep he was gonna get for awhile. He looked at the door hopelessly.
"Two beers," he said, clenching his fists. Damn gloves. One started to move - he fought it - and it simply pulled harder, going for the smokes.
There was a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass on the coffee table. He stared at 'em as a cigarette was brought to his lips.
"Right," Doo scoffed.
Damn, he didn't even remember - oh, wait. It had been sneaky. One shot. The gloves. Yeah. There was about that much missing from the bottle.
"So, uh, Pep," it said.
He just sighed.
His kit-bag floated in front of the coffee table. "Whatja bring me?"
Alright, that was a red flag. He tried to get to his feet. The gloves got heavy, and he stumbled back down.
"Yeah, you're trashed," Doo said. The bag turned over and dumped its contents.
"I'm not that drunk and you know it," he fumed.
The smaller bag was next. Pep took a long drag and watched it being emptied. One of the last things out was a red box. Then another -
"Dammit, Doo," he yelled.
"What? I'm just curious. Ooooh!"
"You p-put those in there."

The box opened. Bracelets were dumped out, hovering in the air. Black rubber, maybe, with boxes on the top side - for batteries, he realized with a growing sense of dread. "I've always wanted to try these things."
"What are they?"
"Hand-vibrators. How cool."
"No, they're not," he complained - and then he froze. More gloves came over from behind him. Two new white satin hands. Magically full, graceful, mesmerizing. Pep knew exactly what they were made for.
Two of the bands were eased over the gleaming fingers. Nestling down to the center of each palm, turning over to show him... "These babies make each finger into tough little... massagers." It chuckled. Pep tried to get up again, but a glove curled his fingers around the edge of a couch cushion, and the other made him smoke.
The white gloves turned toward him.
"I wonder how this is gonna feel," Doo said.
"Nooooo," he groaned.
"And you did, too. Or else they wouldn't have been in your rucksack."
"Don't bullshit me," Pep yelled. "Aw, hell."
The white gloves came a little closer. A faint buzzing sound started, then another. Maybe two feet from his face, Pep watched the fingers vibrate almost imperceptibly.
"And you brought two dozen of these things?" it said. "Cool. That's a lot of busy fingers."
He flopped back. "You're fuckin' killin' me, here."
Doo laughed. "I'd say these are for advanced tickling. After a guy's been warmed up real good."
"For fuck's sake."
"And here you are."

Invisible hands took hold of his arms and pulled him to his feet. Another cigarette came, and his was pulled from his fingers. It was used to light the new one for him.
The door locked.
"What say you take a dump, if you can," Pep said, "and then I'll get you ready."
He wanted to scream for help, but it had never come before. He was in a fuckin' dungeon and he couldn't figure out why the hell he even came back. Walked right in, like a moron. Because his clothes were here. And his furniture. So stupid...
"I don't wanna d-do this again," he yelled, twisting uselessly.
The hands marched him toward the hall.
"I know." And it snickered.
Behind him, the TV was turned off.

He sat on the toliet - held there, actually - and was too nervous to shit much. The gloves had interlaced their fingers, keeping his hands behind his back.
When he finished the smoke, a toothbrush floated above the sink and waited for toothpaste to cover it. Pep had never seen either of those items before. The toothpaste container was blank, except for some cryptic numbers.
"What's that shit?"
The brush paused. "Great stuff. It's about to be rolled out by the company that makes it. Now open wide, or else..."
Defeated, he opened his mouth. The brush moved in and started on his lower teeth. "Oops," Doo said - and a few seconds later, a half-liter bottle of water flew in. He stared at it, hanging over his knees, as his upper teeth were brushed.
"Got some stubble goin' on," Doo said conversationally.
"Fuh ooff," he shot back. It was referring to his armpits, no doubt. By morning he'd be shaved again, all over, because it just made the sensation that much more crazy-unbearable.
"Skin's a little dry too."
He closed his eyes. Oh, hell, how he wanted to be someplace else. It was so stupid to come back here - even if Doo had ambushed him in his motel room, a couple of times, when he thought he'd finally slipped the leash. The torture could happen anywhere. Fucker tracked him before, and set up a cell quickly. Weeks of fever.
The brush finished up and was rinsed in the sink. Next, he watched a washcloth get soaked. He'd never seen that before either.
"Doo, I'm begging you, here," he said.
The washcloth came over and scrubbed his face. "How long you got off? Until they expect you back?"
He almost reacted to that. Tensed up. Oh, fuck. Don't tell it, he thought wildly -
"Huh?" Doo chuckled. "A whole week? Two? Or maybe... 'til the end of the month?"
"You're crazy."
"The longest marathon yet." A hand slapped him on the ass.

Pep sagged. Dammit! How did it know? The rest of the month - he wanted to scream it, the rest of the fuckin' month. This couldn't be happening. Not again. He tried to jump toward the door. It's going to tickle me. Nonstop. Barbaric tickling -
Doo's hands yanked him back. Not gonna happen. He'd never, ever make it to the front door. It was determined to strap him down and get busy. Drive him nuts. Oh, he was so completely screwed! Had it been eavesdropping back at the office? Or just studying the schedule... Because that was what Frank had said when he dropped Pep off. Kick around, chase some tail, and enjoy the next eighteen days.
Doo had been ready. Before he even walked in, the bastard had been looking forward to grabbing him. It was scary, how focused Doo was - on tickling. Ultimate, endless tickling...

A towel came and dried him off. Immediately, it stuck a cigarette between his teeth and hoisted him up. Toilet paper raced off the roll, wadding up, wiping his ass without any delicacy. As it did, his gloves pulled straight up. His shirt was tugged off, then his slacks and underwear. All he had left was his shoes and socks.
"Hell, no. Doo. Listen. Please," he urged. "Don't."
A cigarette floated to his mouth.
"Dammit," he sighed, taking the smoke. "No!"
His gloves met behind his back again. After he leaned forward to reach the hovering lighter, a hand pushed gently between his shoulder blades.
"Time for bed," Doo teased.

He walked as slowly as he dared. There had to be a way to stop this. Trouble was, Doo had given it a lot of thought. An unthinkable amount of time, planning this and that. Preventing everyone, including Pep, from doing a single thing that might hinder it from tickling the absolute shit out of him.
Eighteen days.
Complete tickling.
He stopped walking. "Please don't -"
A hand touched down in the middle of his back again. This time, it started pushing gradually, staying there.
"In you go," Doo teased.
The bedroom door opened slowly...

There was a candle on the nightstand. No other light.
Straps were waiting. Feather dusters and brushes were scattered all over the foot of the bed. There was a sinister gleam to the sheet. Satin, he thought dizzily. Just the thought of it touching his skin made him stifle giggles.
Pep tried to rear back, but hands clamped around his arms again. Pulling him closer to the restraints.
Doo chuckled happily. Oh, fuck, it had been waiting to get at him again. Tickling, all night, and all day tomorrow. Next week. Anything it wanted to try. He'd stay right where he was cuffed, relaxing when he couldn't howl or squirm anymore, blown away by more and more stimulation being stroked and rubbed in -
"Noooooooo," he groaned.
The door shut behind him.
"Oh, yeah," Doo said. Happy as it could be.
He took a big breath. "haaaallllllllp! Help meeeeeeeee!"
Slowly, a deadbolt turned. It was way up there, coming out of the ceiling. He'd studied it before, determined to break the fucking thing. But the keyhole was on the other side of the doorjamb. Way out of reach. The sound of that lock made him close his eyes. Doo wouldn't open the door while he was awake. There had to be water and beer and food already in the bedroom, along with all kinds of hardcore tickling stuff. He'd be locked in for as long as it liked...

Unseen hands made him turn and sit down on the bed. Panic made him try to duck away from the hands. Breaking the window was well worth the risk of getting cut. The drapes were thick. Nobody could peek inside, so eventually he kept wishing that might happen. So many long fuckin' days, laughing at the window...
But if he could just crack the glass, somebody might tell the manager. Who had a master key. He pulled as hard as he could. Fuck, even getting a couple feet closer to the damn window would be a start. Maybe he'd catch a break -
The hands picked him up and stretched his limbs out.
"Drunk guy, you need to be in bed," Doo murmured.
He was laid down on the mattress, and the unseen hands stretched his arms up, slowly, toward the upper corners. The wrist-cuffs came over immediately, wrapping, buckling...
As his ankles were pinned, Doo made straps curl up and anchor his thighs, his waist, his upper arms.

So horribly, utterly screwed. If only it was for something quicker...
He tugged on the new cigarette, pulling his wrists.
Doo had worked him over for a week here, a week there - and one time ran ten or eleven days. That really seemed like a lifetime. This was gonna be quite a bit longer. It was so sadistically careful to keep him awake for as many gut-wrenching hours as possible.
"Let me go!" he yelled.
At least three marathons, right in this room. Maybe four. No one had ever heard a fucking shout, apparently, or any of the lusty roaring that he cranked out the first couple days while he still had a voice. Doo just kept right on rocking.
"I'll let you go. Eventually," it laughed.
A feather touched his right calf.

"No no no no nuh huh heh heh," Pep begged, suddenly motivated to kick and try to turn his legs - anything to gain some slack, really, so he could lift his damn legs off the mattress and get his feet away. He clamped down on the cigarette and tried his best to stop laughing. Looking up, he tried slamming his arms back and forth quickly, hoping for a miracle.
Still down tight. Dammit.
Doo had to be enjoying the show. He was a strong guy, dammit, and it had enough experience to make sure he couldn't do a single fuckin' thing except lay there and suffer.
The feather could move as much as Doo wanted, though. It skated up, over his shin, and barely swept under his knee.
His legs locked up suddenly. It was getting harder and harder not to laugh. And it was enjoying this so damn much. Watching him sweat, perfectly trapped, thinking about the other times it had caught him. The feather tip dragged back down his calf.
His cigarette was taken away... and used to light a new one.
"How silly of me," Doo said. It sounded like it was thrilled. "I forgot to take off your shoes."
Pep knew that was coming. He whined anyway, tugging at the arm-straps. Of course it didn't forget. Now the only protection he had left was being loosened, eased off. Doo would spend hours tickling his feet. It could do whatever it wanted now.

"Don't," he groaned. Pleading with it. That made him angry, because there was absolutely no doubt what the response would be. Reacting at all was as stupid as hoping that Doo would decide not to raze his sides.
His left shoe was magically pulled off. Paused in the air. Doo wanted to make real sure he saw it fall.
"Please don't. Please." He couldn't help himself. Shit, he sounded pathethic. Pep smoked hard.
His right shoe took even longer to slide off. It floated a little higher in the air, turning a bit. He could imagine Doo thinking, with that brutal excitement - take a good look, you fuckin' ape, because your feet are definitely gonna get it now. Finally the shoe was tossed away with a flourish.
Pep tugged hard on the cigarette, and made himself exhale slowly. Now the socks would come off, slow and teasing. Then maybe Boo would have a taunting remark that would make him just wanna tear the straps loose and choke something, put his fist through the wall.
The feather tip skimmed up to his kneecap.
Wham! Fingers dug into his soles.

Strong, mean, right through his socks. At least two gloves terrorized each foot.
Pep's body tried to leap off the bed, and he screamed... with laughter. He barely noticed the cigarette floating away. The hands squeezed and raked in no obvious pattern. He couldn't stop trying to lunge, to roll, at least pull his feet back an inch or two.
Nothing worked. And nothing would work -
His head rolled back, and he bellowed laughter at the ceiling. Just unhinged.

A minute, maybe two... and Doo let go of him.
That was getting off way too easy, though. The hands were about to dig in somewhere else. He thrashed feebly, still giggling. No, oh no, I can't go through this again -
They latched onto his ribs. And his hips. Soft leather.
"Naaaah!" he shouted.
But they started to knead and trace.
He just erupted with crazy laughter.

It was worse than he expected. Only four hands. This was nothing, compared to what was about to step up every hour. Every night.
Pep squirmed uncontrollably, hooting his guts out, yelping, occasionally overcome with the need to howl. He was a strong, confident man. But he couldn't even shift in either direction. Unstoppable fingers were making him into a total basket case and it had only just started...
Oh, fuck, stop 'em, he thought desperately. No more tickling, no more, get off me. I can't stand tickling. Being able to say that would've helped him deal with it, even though it was not going to do a damn bit of good. Doo had him exactly where it wanted him. Each minute would feel like months.
The gloves bore down a little harder.
He screeched like an animal, barking out happy noises that were far too rowdy. Trying to pull and kick with purpose was so hard now. He looked at the window. The door. No change. Somebody had to help him get away from Doo's hands. Right now.
He lifted his head and laughed at the gloves. Stop it, you fucker. This is killing me.

That didn't make 'em stop either, so he slammed his head back down. Long hoots churned out of his throat. Then Pep started squirming again.
Try to move, try to laugh hard enough. Recoil from each unstoppable hand. Everything he could manage to do was driven by his new obsession - Doo had to stop tickling. Pull the hands away, and the feather. No more. Not another second. Hell, he'd lay here, strapped down tight, and smoke for the next couple weeks. Drink as much as it wanted. Watch it milk him all day long, or tease his dick. Anything else. This fuckin' tickler was more than he could bear.
Writhing, arching, snickering, whooping...
 

A long time later, he discovered a smoke between his lips.
There was a water bottle in the air. Waiting.
Discovering he was not being tickled right then gave him no relief at all. Immediately he saw that Doo had paused so he would suffer more after catching his breath. And as sure as his heart was starting to speed up, the bastard would power-tickle him again and again.
Pulling at the restraints seemed like such a waste of time now. Doo would use a dozen of those quick hands to pin him down and bring out chains. Metal shackles. There was no way, no fuckin' way, he'd get out of its hands.
Nothing in the world mattered more than the end of the tickling. It couldn't be weeks away. Doo had to stop now.
He couldn't come up with single thing to say that would make it hold off. This whole situation was what it had been waiting for. It had everything all set. The fucker was probably so excited when he unlocked the door to come in.
Doo remembered that nothing and no one had ever interrupted it before. So the tickling would continue. Two more minutes of sanity, maybe three.
He had to get it to stop.
And that wasn't possibly gonna happen.

When Pep was braced for the gloves to start covering his sides again - another cigarette floated up.
His socks -
"Fuck, no, you're driving me so c-crazy..."
Peeled off so slowly.
Tossed aside.
Four gloves met in the air. Just over his feet.
Pep gibbered and begged Doo to stop.
It let him plead for ten long seconds. Then his smoke was taken away.
He was unable to stop staring... as the hands moved.
Fingertips started to buff and rake his soles.

His body wrestled around erratically. A whole range of hard noises exploded out of his mouth.
Doo kept tickling with purpose. Obsessed, fully engaged - thoroughly enjoying the results.

After a few maddening minutes his arms slowed down. Pep's legs moved less too. The reflexive fighting was coming to an end. His laughter was interrupted by pauses - then he'd explode again. Harsh, tortured, overly happy roars were winding down too.
Doo's gloves kept rocking on.

At some point Pep realized he wasn't thrashing or howling, so he forced himself to roar. That didn't last. He was occupied, dammit. Warm, electrified current. Feet, neck, ass -
Then a new realization horrified him. The sensation was increasing. He had no distraction left. Each glove felt like two merciless hands, then four...
And he couldn't move. Couldn't beg Doo to stop.
Now he really needed the tickling to end. It had become even more serious than before. If he couldn't get away, well, Doo just had to quit. He couldn't stand it -
Explosions. Fingers in his armpits.
Immediately he was flailing again, keening, braying. Must get loose. Move away from the tickling.

The thoughts hung on after he was motionless again, breathing deeply, dripping with sweat.
A glove laid down on his belly. How about here, Pep? Still real ticklish... here?
He bucked weakly, laughing again.
The reaction trailed off way too soon. The roving hand seemed bigger. Or filled with cocky energy. He just couldn't fuckin' stand this shit.

Days - weeks - seemed to pass...
 

Something hard tapped his lip. That roused him. Oh - water. He guzzled it, and was relieved to see another bottle waiting.
Then a cigarette, half-gone, was back between his lips.
Three things fought for attention. Nothing else was important... He needed this cigarette. That didn't make sense, but he'd figure it out later. It was the most important, necessary thing ever. Probably they all were, when Doo called the shots.
More than that, he couldn't take another instant of tickling. Not another touch.
But the truth that overrode the other thoughts was that Doo's fingers and tools would land again.
 

Doo studied his backside with feathers and little rubber... gum stimulators. It took him quite a while to remember what they were called.
It tested different feathers between his toes, and soft brushes under his knees.
Oiled leather lightly explored his face.
 

Impossible days crawled by.

While Doo was feeding him, the fork paused halfway...
"Oh yeah - Frank called."
His heart leapt. Oh please, oh please, let it be good news.
"Guess I need you to record some voice samples. Stuff like, oh... fuck you, I quit, I got a better job, don't ever call me again."
He stopped chewing, and shook his head.
Big laughter. "That way we can just stay in here. You and me."
He gulped. "Want me to beg some more? Is that it? Beg for my fuckin' life -"
"Quit being so dramatic."
His phone floated up.
Help, Doo teased. 911. Somebody, anybody, Doo's tickling the shit out of me!
The battery came next. Ah. He watched the phone turn on. With his luck, Doo had learned to sound like he did...
"No new messages," it said. A button was punched - and the display said VOICEMAIL - RINGING. "But you gotta hear this..."
The tickler knew his PIN number, and Pep wondered vaguely how long ago it had been silently watching him. Or maybe it had tickled the damn code out of him. The past couple days were a total blur...
"One saved message." And why did it delete the other ones he'd saved earlier, he wondered.
"Today at 10:17."

Pep. Buddy. It's Frank. That was his voice, alright. Good news. We got put on hold -
"Oh, fuck no," he groaned.
and they want us available when they're ready, so - paid vacation, hombre! Their CIO says they won't be ready for us until the 13th. So we get to fuck off until then. Alright. Then we're off to Phoenix. Now, stay in town or at least don't go too far. As usual, I will assume you're good with all this if you don't call and set me straight. Same drill as before. Be ready to fly out around the 12th, but I'll call ya when it's confirmed. Horndog. Later."

The phone moved a little. Yeah, the call was disconnected. As he expected - and feared - the battery was pulled off.
"Full pay, right?" Doo teased. "Just hangin' out at home."
He watched gloves rise up. "Wait. I... Dammit, what day is it?"
"Why would I tell you?"
He squirmed around. "To twist the knife a little more."
Chuckles. Fingers started touching down. "Well, Pep, you came home on the 17th. And today... is June 22nd."
"Oh. Fuck."
"So you've got twenty laugh-filled days before you have to be anywhere."
The gloves started digging in.
 

Hey, it's Frank. Nobody answers the phone anymore. But I appreciate you texting me right back.
"You asshole," Pep sighed to Doo.
They bumped us again. I got us half-pay. Techblue is doing some reorganization bullshit. We still have their retainer, so the job is gonna happen. But not yet. We got a quickie for Abramson, two weeks max -
Pep knew better, but hope flooded him again. So they want our best team to be waiting. Hey, I'm sorta glad to see you enjoying yourself. Kicking back. That one text got me thinking, and I decided to let Jamie and Nehru handle the Abramson thing. They need to pull it off without you or me on their backs. Unless you got a real problem with that - just be lazy for a change. Free money. Okay? Get back to me.

The phone hangs up, and shifts into text mode.
"No, dammit, no no no..."
It's moved so he can see the screen. A cigarette comes, and gets lit.
Let's see, Doo says thoughtfully.

F - IT'S WEIRD,
BUT U R RIGHT.
LET JAMIE RUN IT.
A BREAK LIKE THIS IS RARE.
I'M GONNA JUST HANG LOOSE
AS LONG AS YOU DON'T
-NEED- ME.- COOL?
IF NOT OK TELL ME, BATO

PEACE. - P.

"Aw, please, for fuck's sake, nooooooo..."
An invisible "finger" pressed the screen, and sent the text-message.

His mind was totally blown. Begging was such a lost cause. It really, really had him in its hands now. Down for the long count.
How long, though, he didn't dare guess.

Doo's luck being what it was, the suspense was soon ended. His phone beeped about ten minutes later. Text message.
Feathers backed away from his meat. Panting, he heard keys click.
"Aaaaw, dammit," Doo said, bringing the phone. "Frank, to the rescue."
He was made to start a new smoke before the screen was turned around so he could see...

ATTA BOY.
RIP A PIECE OFF FOR ME.
SO WE'RE OFF THE HOOK,
WITH HALF-PAY,
UNTIL LATE AUGUST.
WILD, HUH?
UPDATE YA LATER. - F.

"August," Pep said. That didn't make sense. Not possible.
"Yup." His captor was trying not to laugh...
Gloves covered his sides.
"Whuh huh huh hah HAAAH aaah haahah," he wailed, slinging his body this way and that.
"I bet you're wondering what day it is," Doo said loudly, right near his ear. "Huh? Well, Pep, today is July 20th."
He howled, slamming his head from side to side. Just not the least little bit possible...
"May, June, July," Doo announced. Triumphant fucker. "August."
"Noooo-haah hah haaah naaah aaah hah hooo hooo nnnnnoooooo nn-"
"Aw, we're gonna have a fuckin' happy summer."
The feathers attacked his dick again.
Brushes started crawling low on his gut.
 
 

He smelled food. That suggested he was awake. Dammit. Sleep was the only refuge he had, even if his dreams were just as intense sometimes. But Doo would be aware, already, that another endless day could begin.
Pep opened his eyes.
He was sitting on his couch. Thick wooden stocks trapped his ankles. Yeah, his toes were already strapped up too. His arms were pulled behind, and they wouldn't move.
A pack of cigarettes floated up to his mouth. He bit one. Watched the lighter approach...
There were three cartons of smokes sitting there on the coffee table. A fistful of those damn gum stimulators, little rolling wheels with nubs, and of course a colorful variety of feathers.
He took another drag, letting his head fall back against the top of the sofa. The TV turned on.
That made him tense up -
Sure enough, he heard himself laugh. Completely deranged.
His dick got hard...
A covered plate floated over to him. Doo had set a bowl on top, and now it revealed his breakfast - a massive pile of bacon and eggs.
"Another happy day for Pep," it teased. "Coming right up."
"Why am I... out here?"
"Change of scenery." The drapes flew open. There was a new layer, there. Thin material, but enough to keep anyone from being able to see what was happening inside Pep's apartment. Dammit... "It's a beautiful March day."

He boggled. "March?"
"Yeah. I've made time run backward. So we can have lots more fun." Pep scowled. "What a sourpuss. No, actually, it's August 18th. Weeks and weeks of full tickling ahead. Right here."
"Swell." He had taken a couple of weeks to fully believe it. Less likely, though, that Doo had faked the most recent voice mail from Frank. This was along the lines of "lucky breaks" Doo was quick to grab onto... but months off, with pay, was absolutely bizarre.
Finding out well after it had started laying into him was along the same hopeless lines. Doo getting to mess with him for months, though, when it had never before gone for a fourth week of tickle-insanity... or a third, he thought uncertainly, but he wasn't too sure of anything before this unending spring/summer nightmare.
"And I enjoy watching these videos of you so much that I thought hey, maybe Pep would like to laugh along with some of his greatest hits."
A fork stabbed a big clump of eggs. He snuck in a last drag, and took his time easing it out...

"If your voice wasn't totally shot," Doo said, "maybe there'd be some chance somebody could walk by and hear. Get curious. Save you."
He shook his head, finishing the cigarette.
"But that's never happened, Pep. And I've got weeks and weeks of... entertaining yet to do."
Brushes started rising up.
He kicked frantically. Oh, shit, this is gonna be extreme, I've just gotta get away from this asshole somehow. And yet that obviously, positively was not gonna happen. It would be so easy for Doo to laugh and drag him back inside. Or haul him off to one of its other "playrooms". It would almost be worse to sneak into a motel, so relieved, and wake up suddenly in the middle of the night by all those hands grabbing on. Hustling him out to his car. Way out in the middle of nowhere, carried into a real dungeon -
The tickling started back up.
He just fuckin' lost it. Nothing was as important as getting his feet away from the excruciating, shockingly arousing bristles. His heels, his poor soles - oh fuck, between his toes! Pep thrashed and shook all over, bellowing laughter that was silent.
"June, July, August," Doo taunted.
Please stop, he thought wildly, stop, I can't take this, not another fuckin' second, these brushes are killing me...

But they were paused when the exertion got too much.
After a while, they started sliding again.

And again.

He realized there was smoke coming out of his mouth. Pep took a hard drag. Fuck, yeah. He opened his eyes just a little.
A dozen gloves waited. Lubed up and ready to rock.
He started to laugh. Hopeless, defeated, just so crazed.
"I'll just take this," Doo said - and his cigarette was snatched. "So you can really... let go."
Fingers. Hands. All over his upper half.
He squirmed and danced in their grip, wild to laugh hard enough, track every glove. Impossible. The tickling drove him absolutely up the wall and Doo's straps made real sure he couldn't pull his arms down, roll over, lean away...
 

"Happy time," Doo said.
He took a drag. "Fuck."
"It's the sixth of September."
"Noooo," he wailed. The days were just dragging by. So unspeakably cruel.
 

"Not again," he gasped.
But the fingers traced up and down his meat, cuddled his balls. The bastard started squeezing his arches. That blew away Pep's attempts to talk. He locked up, laughing silently.
And Doo worked him up toward yet another cumshot.
 
 

His cigarette was taken away.
Gloves gathered around.
Squirming, Pep looked at the window above his rack. The leaves were still green. Probably not even October yet. Oh, fuck -
The fingers started sneaking under his ass, his thighs - wrapping around his collarbones. Pep flopped slowly, giggling like a lunatic, and shook his head hard.
Daylight, up there. So far out of reach.
Doo made him laugh and laugh...
 
 

He laughed himself awake.
What the hell - he was sitting behind the wheel of his car. Wearing loose shorts, and sandals... Parked in front of a small, lonely house.
Looking around, he saw a pack of smokes. After he took a few drags, he spotted a bottle of water down by his feet.
He reached for the door handle -
A hand closed around his wrist.
"First things first, Pep."
He sagged.
His phone floated up from the backseat.

Voicemail...

Frank here. I know where you're coming from, dude, but I really don't want to lose you. We already have contracts for the first quarter. Just don't bail on me, okay? You work on that software project of yours, but I really wanna you for the DTS project. It's gonna be a monster. San Diego, in January. Yowza. So keep me posted, and unless I hear otherwise you better be ready to roll right after New Year's. Okay? Tell me if not, party dude. Thanks. Seeya.

He got a little dizzy. The battery slid off his phone.
His car door opened. Hands took hold of his arms.
"Today," Doo told him, "is October 17th."
He started to squirm in its grip.
The door of the house opened. In he went...

His stuff was in the front room. Pep stared as he was marched past the prints he'd bought way back when, and his stereo components, and an open box that had some of his dishes.
And half a case of cigarettes.
Then he was being pulled into a hallway.
"August," Doo said suggestively.
Ahead of him, a door opened.
"September..."
Yeah, it was even better equipped than his own damn bedroom. Bondage paradise. Thick bars blocked the curtained windows.
"October."
The door started to close behind him.
"November -"
"December," he panted, looking around wildly. "No doubt."
"None at all," Doo agreed, pulling him down to the bed.
 
 

It seemed to be getting colder out there.
One "morning" some metallic clanking woke him up. Bleary, he started a smoke. Tried to move - yeah, other than his right hand he was still cuffed down. There was a thick blanket over him.
"There's my ticklish dude," Doo said.
Pep took another drag, watching the movement in the corner. Then he figured it out. There was a woodstove being set up. Bands, or braces, were tightening around the chimney junctions. The place in the ceiling where the flue went had the same wood slats as before. Pep guessed it had been there all along. Whenever a guy was gonna be tickle-tortured in here until the end of the fuckin' year, some heat was needed.
"Just about there," Doo said. "Then we can get busy again. Lots of crazy laughter in the firelight."
Lucky me, he thought bitterly. A log came sauntering through the door. Lots of logs, actually. One by one. Those strong, untiring hands. Carrying wood, wiping up his piss... pulling on oiled gloves. Overwhelming, aching fun coming right up.
"I'll help carry in wood," he rasped.
The logs paused. "Right." They marched on, through the air, piling up near the stove. "Let me lay out some shoes and clothes. No doubt you'll be a good little wood-carrier, and hop right back on the bed... I mean, there's no chance you'd run screaming into the woods. Help, help, Doo's tickling the fuck out of me day and night."
"Let me chop wood, then."
"Give it up. You really think I'd waste time on that shit? When I could be digging into your armpits instead?"
A box of quick-starter logs sailed into the room.
"Fuck me," he sighed.
"Oh, yeah."

Later that day, during a rest break...
"What got into you?" it asked. "Offering to help. Pretty smartass, considering how zoned out you are, most of the time."
He took another drag. There was no point. It was on, dammit, and if Doo had its way -
"I asked you a question," it said.
"Fuck off and die."
"Ooooh..."
He braced himself for angry hands -
But a hooter floated up to him instead.

"Now are you in the mood to talk?"
"Such a bastard," he whispered, watching a beer float over. And then - oh no - a cock pump. He fidgeted uncomfortably. The sleeve lined up with his dick.
"I'm giving you a couple more cigarettes before I start tickling again. Good and hard," Doo said. "You can also get milked for the rest of the day. Or not. Up to you."
"Some fuckin' choice."
"And you're grouchy. Not like usual."
"Well, I wonder why I wouldn't be a little sunbeam, here."
"Pep."
He tugged at the straps. "Dammit. Look - dammit!" He slammed back down, and took a hard drag. "I can't take any more of this."
"But you have to," Doo said. "That's why we're here."
Pep closed his eyes. Oh fuck. The rest of the year! He'd surely go right off the deep end. Long, delirious weeks yet to go. "And then you find another fuckin' way to stall Frank. And I'm never gonna get out of all this tickling." His voice got weird, at the end. Squeaky. Hysterical, but he sure wasn't laughing...
A hand grabbed his hair. "Quiet."
But a whimper or two slipped out.
"Pep." Doo's voice was real close to his ear. "You've just fine. Months of balls-out entertainment. I'm gonna work you over for almost three more. Count on it."
"I do. I know. It's just..." He took another drag.
"Just, what?"
He closed his eyes. "Then you mindfuck me with another... extension. And another, and another, and an-"
A palm slapped his forehead. "You gotta get hold of yourself. Tickle-toy." Pep gulped and nodded quickly. "Just calm down."
Yet another beer came, and was poured right down his throat.

"Now," Doo said, in his ear again, "You've got it half-right. I could pull your phone out, right now, and text him. Sorry, Frank-dude, I've got a good gig. Maybe next year." It chuckled, low and sinister. "And I could keep right on rocking your world. Easy as anything."
Tears welled up in his eyes.
"Wanna go for a full year of tickling, Pep ol' buddy? How about two? can make it happen."
There was an awful pause. He couldn't decide if he was supposed to beg his ass off, right then, or not -
"But."
He kicked out smoke with a huge, spontaneous sigh.
"Watch it, you. Don't get too relieved. I'm nowhere near done tickling the absolute shit out of you. We're really gonna go for broke before the year ends. And then, you big baby, I am gonna cut you loose. There's such a thing as the law of diminishing returns."
"Huh?"
"Later. I've had a lot of fun with you before this go-round. Two weeks here, two weeks there. Kickass workouts. And then this incredible opportunity - Pep's got the chance to hang out with me for a month, three months, six months. Hot damn. And I can keep you right here even longer, if I want. Tickling every single day..."
"But," he croaked.
A hand grabbed his right foot. "Smartass. But. I'm not going to press my luck. You know I've got your number. The rest of the year is gonna be intense, my man. That's a fuckin' promise. And then you can go back to work for awhile."
He thought about that, took a drag - and closed his eyes. Nodding slowly.

"You catch my meaning?"
"For awhile," he said quietly.
"Good boy. I'm gonna take you down again. Maybe for a weekend, maybe for the summer again. Or the next time could be... more solid months of delirious pleasure. That's what I decided a while ago, right when the weather turned. You'll get to go to San Diego. Maybe even a couple more road trips after that. And when you're all rested up, and this all seems like an incredibly long, bad dream - I'm gonna getcha. Again and again. It'll be hardcore."
"But I get out in time. To go - I mean, to rest up and get goin'. Back to work."
"Yup. Unless you really piss me off. All it'll take is a text message, and you're staying with me-eeeee."
He finished the cigarette - and saw feather dusters coming. "How could I make you m-mad," he said, trying to stretch the restraints, "when I'm staked out like this?"
"Now there's the ticklish Pep I love to fuck with."
The feathers started sweeping briskly, and he howled with a voice that was so worn out that he couldn't make a sound.

03feb23