Others' episodes
 
Cor's episodes
 
News / site info
 

The window glass breaks.
A big storm is coming, but that isn't the cause. An arm is reaching inside, now. Groping for the latch. It's not a child's hand. The invader frees the window frame.
He's watched with considerable interest. What are the odds? Preposterous. This would never happen -
That's a familiar set of words. Always wrong, but hey. Obviously, Prankster had to be some place or other. Usually it hung out at places that no one would ever find. But here comes a man who's... determined to be in the same room with it.
Interesting.

Maybe not all that unlikely, it decides. There's a fair number of hitchhikers that pass through that big gas station. And the highway is only a couple hundred yards away. With the two neighboring houses obviously inhabited, nice and distant from this one...
It hadn't even planned to use the place now, but here he is. Volunteering, without even knowing it. Disturbing its little break. And that's just so hilarious - even when it's in between victims, they show up. C'mon in. Now it just has to check him out. Soften him up, maybe, but that was fun too.
He was going to thoroughly, solidly regret choosing this particular house. Even if he changes his mind, it'll just drag him in now.
Pleasant thoughts and ideas wake it up a little more.
Such a fine room, too. Look at him, busting his way into the cage...
While it enjoys just hanging around - remembering old achievements, pondering brand new tricks - this is an unexpected treat. Imagine what he'll be thinking! Plenty of time to look at the window and remember climbing in, right now, handing himself over.
Already, it's been thinking about what it would do with the place. Imagining one of its favorite captives in the stocks, back along that wall - or hanging in the leather web from these two beams.
The only thing better than planning what to do in this basement... is doing it.
Human hands are swinging the window frame up. Of all the places he could've picked!
Prankster is fully alert now. Ready to pounce, if he changes his mind...

A head pokes in, looking around. Young man. He hasn't shaved in a few days. The wind picks up, making his hair whip all around his head.
That's right, it thinks. You'll be safe. You've got the place all to yourself. Nothing down here - except privacy.
After staring below the window for a few seconds, he pushes his hair back from his face, and disappears.
A dark object blocks the menacing sky for a moment...
It's a small backpack, the kind that doesn't have a metal frame. It's dusty, dark orange, and the straps are frayed. Cautiously, he lets it fall inside.
Next, hiking boots start to appear.

Silently, enjoying itself so much, Prankster carries the rusty folding bed out of the shadows.
The backpack means he's traveling - but he doesn't smell too bad, and his eyes are clear. Steady hands. No major health problems, and probably no serious drug dependencies. And he's nervous - not smiling, as he looks around the room. It decides he's not a thief, or a common vandal. Probably just a guy on the road, wanting to get a roof over his head before the cloudburst soaks him.
The formal term is "breaking and entering". Oh, it's understandable enough. But the window is broken. If he just gets away with it, what's to stop him from doing it again?
He wants to come in - so Prankster will make sure he stays in. Absolutely.
Watching his feet descend further and further....

If it wasn't for the storm, he'd definitely hear the bed hinges squeal as they're forced open. A dirty, mildewed mattress... floating to a stop under the window. It really stinks. But it will do the trick - like a big, soft clamshell, ready to close and hold tight.
As he lowers himself through the window, Prankster turns the bed a little more - so he'll land on it at the proper angle.
Now, gripping the window frame, he readies himself and drops inside -
But not onto the cement floor. Oh, no.
As his feet land, the bed rotates counter-clockwise a little... almost as if his weight had shifted it. He lands squarely in the middle.
Quickly, beautifully, snugly, impossibly, the bed folds around him with a loud screech.
Prankster slams the hook back down.
There.

His head is sticking out one end of the mattress-sandwich... and the expression on his face is gratifying. Completely stunned.
In no time at all, he's reaching for the end - if he can just slide his hands out, he can start pulling. But Prankster is ready for that manuever.
All it has to do is squeeze the mattress ends together.
He gasps. But he can breathe just fine. Just a little scared. His shoulders can't budge now, so he's not going to reach up high enough to get his hands free -
But he can kick his feet. So he starts trying to slither out the other way - feet first.
As soon as both of his boots are out, Prankster makes that side of the mattress close around his shins.
Voila.

He starts to panic. Slamming around, yelling...
It enjoys removing his boots, and his socks.
He seems to be aware that his feet are... exposed.
Cautiously, it slips into the bed and probes his left armpit. Then down, slowly, to his beltline -
Flop, arch... and a high-pitched bark. Oh, yeah.
Since he knows that mattresses don't usually squeeze people like this, it's time for some confirmation. Something more than the wind is responsible for his predicament. This isn't just another empty house. He came to it, having no idea what he was getting himself into. But he's about to learn.
This is a magic basement. A deliriously fun place...
It picks up the rope. He can't see it. Won't he be surprised?
Moving as if it's alive, defying gravity, a short piece pulls the folded halves of the bed even more tightly together. And he grunts!
Slamming up and down, bouncing the bed, he can't stop Prankster from tying the frame shut.
And now - an old clothesline carefully wraps his ankles together...
While the other slithers in and loops around his right wrist.

When the knots are finished and checked, Prankster stops squeezing the mattress.
He sighs... and starts wrestling around again. But his feet stay trapped. Both ankles are securely tied to the bed-frame. And so are his wrists, now - held up and away from his sides.
The most he can manage to do is scoot up and down - about two inches. He shouts and tugs anyway. One impossible thing after another, and now he's suitably trapped.
Right after his next attempt to kick, it rolls the bed a few inches.
He can't see the shelves at all, so he misses the spectacular item that's picked up next, which was already down here and waiting for him. Another very good sign. Fate.
Using the last of the rope, it catches the wooden handle in some tight knots and makes a loop. Then it shoves an old nail firmly into the front edge of a shelf. Right about... there. Loop goes over nail -
As soon as Prankster lets go of it, the wind takes over! Moving. Yes. The wind, coming through the window, is blowing just right.
His next attempt to tug his hands free brings another result - when Prankster rolls the bed a foot closer to the shelves. Heading right into position.
The wind howls suddenly.
The feather duster sways, and bobs, and turns.

It's a big old thing, missing several plumes. Long. But there are still dozens of soft, springy feathers, rippling gently...
Prankster can't believe it never thought of this before. Once he's in place, it simply has to keep him there. And watch. The wind, coming in through the window - which he broke - will do the rest. This simply wouldn't have been possible without him.
Feathers, on the move... and such nicely tied feet, only a few inches apart. Obviously, they have to be introduced to each other. Brought together. It's inevitable.
The feet are prepared for the feathers.
The feathers are hung here in order to excite the feet.
That's logical. No event will possibly keep them apart now. It's meant to be. His destiny, Prankster's passion, this wonderful room.
He pants for air, less than an inch away. Impatiently, it waits for him to struggle. One more time. Bring it on himself -
With an impressive groan, he tries to arch again.
The bed shifts - There. Yes. Now it's exactly where it belongs.
A gentle breeze rotates the duster, barely moving it -
Downy edges twirl across his toes.
He stops moving. The look on his face is exactly what it hoped for. So worried.

Prankster tugs on the slip-knot it just made -
And the feathers drop down a few inches. There.
Much better. The entire length of his soles will be dusted, teased...
Kicking again, he tries to catch the duster with his toes. But it's not going to work. Very entertaining to watch...
It seems he hasn't quite figured out what's touching him. And now he knows he can't stop it.
Picking up some old rags, it chocks the wheels of the bed. It won't put up with any movement. If his feet are any farther away, he'll miss out on the full experience.
Outside, the rain comes hammering down. And the wind sighs -
Now, a big gust! Oh, good. Wonderful.
He pulls and shouts, unaware of what's about to happen.
The feathers swing away from the window... dragging across his right foot.
And there's not many sounds as electrifying as his first horrified gasp.

Back, and across again, rotating a little, bobbing along the sides and bouncing back again. It just doesn't stop.
Angry wails. And a moan that's truly impressive. Inspiring. But the storm is louder than he can ever hope to be...
He's trying to move in every possible direction, now, just to get his feet away.
The duster glides freely. Both arches are being swept by dozens of feathers, crawling, moving -
He rocks the bed, almost tipping it over. But Prankster catches it. Of all the nerve... What is he trying to accomplish? After all the effort to get him positioned just so.
It moves him just a little bit closer. But not too much. And it holds the bed upright, only too glad to help him avoid falling over. It won't be long before he's unable to move this much.
He start to cough... and hiss.
The feathers glide and nuzzle and sweep -
He chuckles, finally, unable to keep it in. So angry, and frustrated. But that doesn't matter. Here he goes.
The duster bounces against his soles quickly, swings toward the window, and now away...
Laughing! Harsh, involuntary yelps. He's miserably ticklish.
Another blast of wind pushes the feathers across, effectively wiggling them against his right sole.
He hoots. Much louder, nice and steady. Trapped, suffering, guarded closely so he can't do anything to make it stop -
The pendulum finally crawls back, and swings across again.
Another big gust of wind rattles the window - and the duster goes wild!
He whoops uncontrollably, and finally gets the duster caught between his feet. Clever of him. His laughter dies down, eventually.
No more tickling. Is that what he thinks? Really? All done. Whew. The torture is over. He won.

How dare you, Prankster thinks. Interrupting the fun.
It pulls the duster straight up.
He chuckles, suddenly, and his toes clutch at the feathers. But it's no use. The duster is free, again - and it has a job to do. No more interference will be tolerated.
Clearly, he must be prevented from trapping the duster again. Prankster looks around the basement...
Ah. Here's an old electrical cord.
Splitting the two wires apart, it captures his big toes and secures them to the bed frame.
As it's tying the third knot, the wind shoves the duster around, doubling back quickly. Rotating it against the flat, struggling length of his left sole - skating over his right foot - and falling back to rock and bob against both.
He screams once, and cackles like a crazy man.

The wind is doing a fine job all by itself. And it just doesn't let up.
Prankster was never one for using machines, but the sight of the duster moving across his feet - with no help! - is thought-provoking...
What a variety of sounds he makes. The storm is loud enough to ensure no one can hear him, howling in the dark, even if they had some other reason to go outside in the torrent.
And he still can't budge.

And the storm rages on for at least another hour. Occasionally the wind leaves the duster alone for a minute, and he gasps for air. Tensing up as soon as the feathers being to move again. Maybe he hopes the tickling is over, and takes it that much harder when it continues again, and again...
Feathers dancing, giggles becoming hoarser and hoarser.
Piss dripping on the floor. It really didn't expect that yet. Either he hasn't has his feet tickled in a long, long time, or perhaps being confined is amplifying the effect - as it should. There's no end to the attention his feet are going to get. And he thinks this is intense?

The rain finally stops. And the duster rests against his feet.
With an old piece of hose - maybe a half-inch wide, crumbling black rubber - it gives him a drink. Rainwater, caught in a dusty old can. Though it expects him to resist, the thirst wins out. Making faces, he sucks at the hose.
After a few minutes more, when he's caught his breath enough to pull at the ropes...
It's time to shift gears. Prankster takes hold of the duster.
It can do what the wind was doing, and so much more. Ideal, excruciating. Time for the magical tickling to begin.
Starting out slow -
Whining, whispered cussing, serious efforts to rock the bed away.
Yes. And this time it will build, and build. No way it'll let him miss a single moment.
Back and forth.
Agonized chuckling. He shakes his head slowly.
The wind may have died down, but he'd never know it to watch the duster - if he could see it. As before, it moves without any visible help...
An invisible hand has the duster now. And it's in a rare mood. He brought it on himself, crawling down here. And now he'll stay put.
It slows the arc of the duster.
His eyes open a little. Oh, maybe it's not going to move again. No more tickling. He desperately wants to believe it...
So the feathers twirl a little, rocking around and back, and over, returning, rolling over his feet.
Yearning toes strain to pull the cords loose. He brays so much louder, until the feathers slow down again.
Prankster waits. Ten seconds. Twenty... Until he tries to cover one foot with the other. But the electrical cords make sure that won't happen.
Uh-oh, it thinks. Here it comes. The wind is back again -
Vertical strokes, nice and slow.
He laughs so hard. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot.
It has a feeling the phantom wind is going to get downright dangerous.

Faster.
The feathers press a lot more firmly against the middle of his feet. Increasing the contact.
His laughter gets more and more wild.
Another odor is in the room now, suggestive of an outhouse...

The duster slips off the nail. It races all over his feet now, taking advantage of the unlimited range of motion.
He stops laughing. But his mouth is still open wide.

It pauses every few minutes, in order to provide a stark contrast. Untouched feet - and then monstrous, intricate, mind-blowing, snot-flinging, piss-your-pants tickling.
Clearly he's not getting accustomed to the sensation at all. If he had some way to tolerate it, he would have done so already.

Racing across now. The feathers drill their way between his toes. Race up and down the outer sides of each foot, then the inner sides, and back again. Over and over. Heels, center of the soles, unmoving toes.
Gradually, his face relaxes. He pants mechanically. Prankster knows, just from looking at him, that the lack of tension and laughter is not the result of having detached himself from the tickling. Quite the opposite.
After a few more seconds, it decides another break is in order. So it can have the incomparable thrill of starting back in again.

The third time it tries to make him drink, he seems to have forgotten how.

After something like twenty more breaks and continuations, he slides into unconsciousness.
 

What an incredibly great night.
That's one hard act to follow...
But Prankster just loves a challenge.
It leaves him there, sound asleep, and hunts down some things for him.

In another one of those happy accidents, it stumbles across the exact thing... it didn't even dare to wish for. Like a confirmation. He belongs right where he is.

Slowly, it unties him and unfolds the bed.
Cleaning him up takes a while, because it doesn't want him to wake up yet. The skin cream has to be applied very carefully. But Prankster's done it enough times before...
He giggles in his sleep. Considering the night he had - and the day he's about to have - it feels almost honored. Amused, and complimented, and proud. Utterly ruthless.

When all the preparations are done, it goes through his belongings. He has a unversity ID card in his wallet, but Prankster decides he's entitled to take a semester off. Enjoy himself.
Then it applies another coat of skin cream to his feet, so careful not to interrupt his dreams. And it just... studies him.
 

Slowly coming around. Moaning quietly. Yes. Here, a man who is still dealing with the aftereffects of a nightmare. At least he hopes it was a nightmare. Things like that could never, ever happen in real life.
He squints, blinking sleepily. Looking at the windows.
Weak light makes it through them, despite the morning sun. The rain splattered them with mud, and Prankster added a few layers of grime just to make sure. No one will see anything through those windows. It replaced the broken pane...
And installed thick new bars. Inside. After all, it wouldn't want anyone breaking in, now would it? That's also why it put a new padlock on the inside of the stairway door. Now the house is secure, even though a vandal already broke in. And stayed.
There won't be any other squatters now, discovering what Prankster is doing to him.
He tries to get up - and discovers that won't be happening. Nylon rope, fresh out of the package, spreads his limbs... on another bed. King-size. And delightfully, it's a folding bed too.
After pulling on the rope carefully, he lies still. Looking at the bars, or maybe at the replaced window. And thinking.
That pleases Prankster as much as anything else. He doesn't panic. Even though it's put bars up there. His own private dungeon, now. Filled with magic, ready for plans to be carried out that focus totally on him. But he doesn't cry or thrash around. What would be the point?
Some prisoners take days to figure that out.
He's much more satisfying -
"Nice bars," he croaks.
Well, well, well.

He waits a few seconds, and tries to roll over again. "Uh... and the rope. Tight. But I can still feel my fingers."
Is he serious? Trying to flatter it?
"People are going to be looking for me. Uh. They know where I was headed."
And that, Prankster decides, is a blatant lie. The first part, anyway. He may be expected to show up someplace, but it wouldn't bet that he left his exact route with anybody. Or that he's known for being punctual.
There's no hurry. Not with feet as ticklish as his. And now his entire body is exposed, spread out, and delightfully anchored.
"Listen," he says. "You can't do this." Growing desperation in his voice. "How are you doing this? I just wanted to... not get rained on. This is insane..."
It lets him rant and squirm for a minute. Insane? Yes. Obviously it can do this. Again. The same thing as last night. And it will.

He shuts up when it brings him a bottle of water. After a few seconds of hesitation, he drinks it all down. Very smart. Underneath the sheet, garbage bags creak softly. Layered and taped so he won't ruin the mattress - too soon.
Cans float over him, and packages are being opened.
Still trying to convince the empty room to let him go, in between mouthfuls of a very unusual breakfast. Nuts, string cheese, meal replacement bars...
He burps, and tries to stretch the ropes again. "And now, the cigarettes. Dammit."
Unbelievable.
It feels like patting him on the head. What a character. So he's expecting to smoke now. As if there was already a script written. In his head. Seriously intriguing.
He gets an answer - but not the one he wants.
There's a quiet sound from over by the shelves. He looks right over in that direction, lifting his head.
A large, dingy box slides forward. Prankster lifts the lid. Tissue paper rustles -
And something starts to emerge.
White. Shiny.
It takes him a few seconds to realize what it is. By that time, another one is floating out.
"Oh, no," he snaps. "Oh... shit."
Uh-huh.

He lunges around, groaning loudly. Glancing back over.
Here they come, it thinks happily. Yes sir.
The promising texture of satin, animated for one unbearable purpose...
"You're crazy," he shouts. "This is gonna be torture. You're going to do it, aren't you? Oh, hell. Not... hands. Fingers. You can't. I gotta... get out of here," and he squeals quickly. Desperately.
The gloves keep dropping down. Prankster would have preferred larger fingers, but the long half-sleeves will be useful. Even in the brownish light it admires the shine on the gloves - such an unnatural gleam promising a minimum of friction. Curling, gliding fingers which defy any reasonable explanation...
"Hands," he says, awestruck. "Oh, no. Shit. Don't. Please... Don't do this. I can't... Fuck. Please?"
Prankster doesn't stop the gloves from moving, or speed them up. They just keep reaching for his armpits.
"No, aw no, not this," he babbles. Pulling at the wrist-ropes, trying to kick, huge eyes looking from one glove to the other. The sound of his voice right now is every bit as intoxicating as the laughter...
It takes another pair of gloves out of the box. He doesn't see them yet. More pressing concerns are just a few inches away from the thick hair under his arms. Slamming around, he can't get out of their flight path.
"No, no, aw no, it's too much. I can't stand it. Please, not this. I'll do anything. You can't do this. Do you hear me? How did you know? Oh no, no, naaaaah..."
Prankster touches down - and freezes the gloves.
How did you know. Did he actually say that? It can't believe its luck.
"Ooohhhh," he groans, gritting his teeth. "I am so... incredibly... screwed."

He does his best to stretch the rope, but his arms stay where they are. Up. They're in for all kinds of tickling, and he can't do a single thing to spoil its fun.
On a whim, it flies the second pair over - and curls the fingers.
"No! Haaallllp!"
Here. It parks them in midair, right over his hyperactive feet.
"Nooooo-hooooo-hooooo," he wails.
Yes, Prankster thinks sternly. Always yes. Stern, soulless, entertaining, obsessively satisfying, domineering, thorough...
It'll have to show him.
The fingers dig in and tickle.

Several hours later, six gloves start back in on him - for the twentieth time.
He bucks around a lot less now. As much as Prankster enjoys the laughter, he's just coming unglued. Slowly. When the effects of the tickling are so obvious and reliable, it can do without the noise. This way, he'll have the energy to keep it amused for a couple more hours.
And his smile is wrong.
It rubs him slowly, leaning on the most excruciating locations in a continuous cycle. The edge of his armpits, just under his navel, kneecaps, both nipples, all around his heels. For the longest time he tried to hold his legs down, as if that would stop it from pushing the satin fingers underneath...
Sure, he's overwhelmed. As he should be. But that's not what Prankster is wondering about.
That grin on his face - it's just not normal.

Right before he passes out - from eleven hours of premier handling - it figures him out.
Prankster doesn't have to be nearly as careful. A bomb could go off, and it doubts he'd even stir. But the more it thinks about his behavior...
Special care just comes naturally.
It has a great time shaving him. Everything except the eyebrows. Thinking all the while about tomorrow, and the whole range of thoughts that'll fill his newly bald head.
 

When he wakes up, he does panic. A little.
Prankster keeps right on cooking his breakfast.
The sterno stove is right below the old flue, which it opens while it cooks. The fumes aren't staying inside, and the wind is from the west. The neighbors won't smell the bacon.
He finally settles down...
"Cooking. This is completely insane. You know that? You can't just keep me down here and... uh..."
It flips the eggs over, and brings three new pillows to him. One by one, it shoves them under his head.
"Ow." He looks himself over. "You... shaved me? I can't believe it. My head feels weird. Dammit, you shaved me." He looks in the direction of the stove again, and all around him. "Another day like yesterday. Except I'm fuckin' shaved now. Unbelievable. More sensitive now. My skin. Right?"
It decides to give the bacon another minute or two.
"More ticklish. Yeah. Shit... You got no right to shave m- my head. Wait a minute. You hear me? Stop. Fuckin' son of a bitch..."
And he jerks around for a while.
Prankster gets his plate loaded up. Lots of food.
"Why not?" he says sarcastically. Pouting. "You can do whatever you want, and I gotta... feel it. Every little thing. You're gonna drive me crazy. Over the edge. You do know that, right?"
It just gets him a forkful of scrambled eggs. No, he won't go crazy. Prankster is never going to let him take the easy way out.
"Somebody's gonna find me," he says, chewing.
But he's gotta know better than that.

After he's eaten well...
He looks around. It has no gloves out yet, so he relaxes. "Soon. Dammit. What else are you gonna make me do, huh? My balls are kil-"
He shuts his mouth. All of a sudden.
That, Prankster decides, was a hint. A big slip of the tongue... or a request. Right then, he decides to give the ropes another try. It's guessing he didn't mean to say that out loud. Too relaxed for a guy who's scared of the gloves returning.
"No smoke," he mutters. "Damn."
It's just been waiting for him to say that!
A carton slides out from under the bed.
He looks at it. "No," he starts protesting, almost a reflex. "I don't smoke. Really. I quit... I mean, I don't want to."
Delighted, it pushes another carton into view.
"Wait!" he yells, all restless again. "Really, I quit." Chuckling, weakly, out of pure nervousness. "I don't wanna smoke! Listen to me -"
A third carton joins the others. And a fourth.
Prankster loves the reaction. It doesn't really care if he smokes or not, so long as he stays healthy enough to tickle all day. All these packs are here mainly to get him worried. See these? Guess how long you're going to be played with, it thinks contentedly. You don't have the slightest idea...
"Shit! You can't. Not... Aw, you can't keep me here that long. I'm serious. Thought about a cigarette, okay, But not hundreds of... aw hell, this can't really be happening."
Interesting. Does he mean that, in general? Obviously it's real. Or maybe he's referring to some other fear. Expectation... or fantasy.
"Don't," he whines. "Oh, fuck. Here it comes. The booze. Right? This is only a dream..."
Sensational. It guessed correctly. On a high shelf, a case of rum slides forward for his inspection.
He blinks. "That's... Wait. That's not tequila."
For a few seconds, Prankster fights the overwhelming desire to tear into him, right away...

But he just gave it all the proof it could want. Without really trying, it's tapping into some bizarre fantasy of his. That might explain all those goofy smiles...
He belongs right here. Tied down.
Finally, it just opens one of the cartons.
"No no no," he says. Watching intently. Not moving at all. "Uh, I didn't mean it. Not really. But... thanks."
He doesn't seem to understand his situation. A disposable lighter joins the carton, and Prankster tests it a few times.
"Listen. I'm serious, here... It was just a stupid idea. Spur of the moment. Don't do this. Don't. I don't really wanna smoke. And you - Dammit. No. Four cartons. You're crazy. I don't want to start up again. Please don't do this. Oh, shit. Shit!"
A few seconds pass. His face changes. Thoughtful - even arrogant.
"You can't make me."
And then he grins.
Oh, really?

He knows better than that. So he must be... baiting it. Fascinating.
That must be how it works, in his version. He refuses, and gets nuked. Persuaded. Forced to go along. And maybe the same thing with the booze. Tickle him until he behaves.
But he's not in charge here. Looks like it's time to show him what his immediate future will be like...
It pulls a garbage bag down off a far shelf.
Slowly, Prankster opens the bag and empties it.

Five kinds of gloves, loose feathers, feather dusters, brushes of various sizes and types, rubbers, bandannas to gag and blindfold him, makeup applicators, pens, nail files, toothpicks -
And an assortment of oils. Nine quarts altogether.

He's not smirking anymore.
This is not some easygoing jerk-off fantasy of his. Did yesterday teach him nothing? The gloves are real. And the rope, the bars. All the tools. They're going to be used.
That's reality. Nothing will change it.
Prankster is just going to have to keep showing him...
It brings a cigarette to his mouth.
And he takes it. No tickling is required now to get his cooperation. The tools say it all. They're not just for show.
The reality is that he will get to know every single one of them. That means he will be tickled for a wonderously long time.
Those are the facts. As real as his bald head, or the flame of the lighter coming to his first cigarette here. Escaping this reality full of tickling is about the likely as keeping the smoke from climbing up, so far above his tied hands...
He's in for a full day of reality.
The toys are here to be used. Lifeless, now... But they'll start to move. Picked up, by an expert, and brought to him, and he'll continue to enjoy himself so much he just won't be able to stand it.
It lets him lay there and think.

Although "you can't make me" sounded like a little-kid dare, he smokes one after the other. Prankster called his bluff - obliterated it, actually - just by showing him some of the things it was going to use on him. When he gets dizzy, he drops his head and squints at the ceiling for awhile. But he just has to look back over at the toys.
He's waiting for them to move. That's probably it.
Prankster is ready, willing and eager to give him the most hysterical discomfort. Gleeful torment. Excited agony...
No one else has ever let themselves into one of its cells before. That means something. He can't be anywhere else, right now. Not for a good, long time. And no other man is supposed to be laying here. This is going to be an excellent day.
And if tonight goes as planned, he'll have an even bigger variety of things to stare at, when he's able.

His fifth cigarette pulls away from him. That results in another fearful look over at the pile...
Some water... And the pillows are taken away. It's so eager to get tickling. Shaved armpits, belly, legs.
He gulps, all worried again.
It picks up a few brushes, and six feathers. Making them approach slowly -
But he still tugs at the rope.

Sometime during the first hour, he giggles mindlessly - and slams back. His eyes open wide, and slowly close. "If you... can't b-beat 'em," he laughs...
His body relaxes. The smile on his face gets wider than ever. He takes a deep breath -
And laughs.
Sincere, warm laughter. Racked, hoarse, and lacking any trace of the old mournful reluctance. There's nothing sad or pitiful in the noise he's making now.
He sounds as if he wants to... keep laughing like this. Loose, giddy laughter. That's it.
It decides to interpret the words - and his tone - the only way that seems logical. Finally, they agree. He wants the same thing it wants. It listens to him and hears an unspoken request. Don't stop.
It was meant to be. Certainly it will keep tickling, intensely, endlessly, and they'll both be happy.
Prankster thinks there's no better time to get the feathers busy on his package.
"Noooo hooo hooo hoooo hoooo..."
Feathers. And brushes. Light, and patient.
It's going to give him the most gradual ejaculation he's ever had to endure. Seven hours - no. Eight.
And the attack that follows will give him some idea of the ecstatic times that lie ahead.
 

At four in the morning, a stolen car rolls quietly up to the side door.
Three minutes later, an ice chest and several boxes and a backpack - plus all the toys - roll away.
He snores, head lolling, in the front seat.

Less than a hour later, the car pulls away from a building that could not be hidden more effectively than it is. Rolling into a shallow pit, the car bumps into the fender of a pickup truck. Three other vehicles are there, too.
Tarps spread out, and logs float back down, hiding the vehicles.
Happy as it can be, Prankster goes inside.
 
 

He's been enjoying himself for many weeks. Prankster and its associates have had an increasingly exciting time, playing hard with him and his peers. None of the others are enjoying themselves anywhere near as much, but their days are more exhausting anyway.
His hair is allowed to grow back, since his scalp wasn't any more sensitive than the rest of him. All of the other men have much longer hair. He doesn't need to see that, or think about it. And he can't see them, because he's spent all of his time in one of three cells. Thickly padded...
And just filled with magic.
He won't be breaking any more windows. Not for a good while yet.
Every sound and expression of his lacks the least little trace of resistance.
Prankster doesn't even mind the thought of letting him go - mostly because it doesn't have to. Going out for more supplies, when its turn rolls around, ensures he has a customized roof over his head.
Better yet, it's sure he'll come back. On his own. It's always wanted to do that - hand one of them a map, and make it clear he's always welcome. So much more tickling to be done.
Oh, he's definitely hooked.

And there's the most important reason why he hasn't learned about the other men here. Let him dream, when he's away, of the place where no one else knows what he's going through. They won't find out - if he keeps his mouth shut. His little secret. Nobody is tickled there... except him.
If he wasn't so addicted to it, he might stop and think about how egotistical that sounds. Not too likely. But there's another rationalization that will bring him back around to this compound - projection. He enjoyed himself, enough to come back, so maybe the other men - if there even were other men here, right? - like it too. As much as he does.
Sure. They probably come back again and again, they like it so much. Just like him. Willing to be here. Locked in...
The specific details about his time in the basement will be revised - by him - to feed the fire. That's what usually happens when fantasy and reality converge. After a few more weeks of this, he'll tell himself anything. Whatever it takes. Though he can be hauled back here anytime, obviously, he'll be only too glad to show up again.
If he knew then what he knows now, it suspects he would've kicked the door in, just to get into the house. Right down the stairs, and over to the bed...

And the tattoos will keep reminding him. Oh, definitely. All up and down his arms. Life is going to be a lot more interesting for him now.
It likes to think about what other people will say. The quick testing that lies ahead. So many fingers, poking, to see if it's true. Maybe even wild drunken nights where the fingers keep tickling and tickling, interrupted only by a trip - to a truck-camper, say, or the storeroom of some roughneck bar. He has all these inked feathers and laughing cartoon-men.
To go out in public, like this...
Prankster added a special reminder on the inside of his forearms. Sort of a private joke. And he nodded quickly when he first saw the message, didn't he? He knew right away. It took him right back to the moment that totally confirmed he was in for an extended stay, when he just about gave it full permission to tickle him all it wanted -
Five words on the left arm, and two on the right. Fat, solid letters.

08sep03