"No, you're still holding back."
The gloves let go of Check's ribs. "I am?"
Oh, yeah, he thought wildly. A break. Just let me catch my breath -
"Really lean on him. It's like this," Buzz said.
And gloves landed. Again. Same place - only worn by Buzz. The fingers started to knead and drag.
Check crowed like a rooster.
"Ah," Fixer said. "Okay."
"Harder. Keep digging while you drag the fingers."
"That's nice."
Nice? Check howled and pounded his head on the pillow. Fuck "nice" -
"No. It's not nice," Buzz said. "Look at him. It's excruciating."
Fixer chuckled.
Before they caught him, his name was Augustus.
Fixer promptly renamed him. "From now on, you're going to answer to... Check." As in, a blank check. They were going to fill in the amount themselves.
The goal, they said, was to build a very private retreat. Secret. Maximum-security. Several rooms.
And the point of building a prison like that? Well, Buzz showed him. It gave him a demonstration that went on, and on, through the night and every day since.
Buzz had set up the place where they were holding him. There weren't any windows, but it had brought in racks and stocks and benches. Four different kinds of suspension systems and swings. There were cabinets full of tools and supplies. And two of the walls were covered with sketches, photos, diagrams... each carefully mounted and framed.
The only light in the room came from the illumination on gear and toys. Bright little spotlights picked up the gleam of the chrome padlocks, the oiled gloss of the leather pads, the cold certainty of each three-quarter inch link in the galvanized chains.
And they said it was temporary.
Fixer had done the research. Buzz had planned the actual kidnapping.
Check was getting ready to wander around Europe. It was his graduation gift. His dad was adamant - take all the time you want. Money was never a problem in their family.
They had the last letter his dad wrote, dated just before finals. Only two weeks ago, which seemed impossible to Check. Each day in their hands felt like it lasted a year...
Yes, his dad agreed, the commencement ceremony that really mattered wasn't this one. The formal celebration would wait until he'd earned his Master's degree. Or his Ph.D. - a subtle hint, there. The thought of his handsome, worldly son wandering around Europe - maybe holing up with some luscious art student in Paris for the winter - was immensely pleasing. I will be savoring your adventure myself, he had joked. Vicariously and with deliberate intent. So you are hereby ordered to make it count. In every way. Once you enter graduate school, you will never again have an opportunity quite like this one, and if you don't extend your holiday to positively ridiculous lengths I shall be nothing less than disappointed...
They'd read the letter to him three or four times. Neither of them knew what "vicariously" meant, but they made him explain it.
When he did, they laughed for five minutes straight.
First off, they'd spent a couple days "showing you we mean business," as Buzz put it. The excitement in its voice - the swaggering promise of red-hot times to come... well, there was no mistaking it.
Or the arrogance. Buzz talked to him, or about him, with a triumphant hostility that Check had never heard before. They had planned this, and since they were victorious in getting him caged, naturally he would endure whatever they wanted, for as long as they wanted. Suggesting that things could be any other way just made them laugh some more. Our prisoner, he's losing his marbles. Oh yeah, sure - it's wrong for us to do whatever we want. He's delusional.
Buzz did everything to the extreme. It was casually, thoroughly brutal to Check. He just felt stunned whenever he thought of it. They could not see things from his perspective at all. And his mind simply refused to believe it.
At first he thought he had a chance of getting through to Fixer. At least it would hold still long enough to have a conversation sometimes. But both he and it would end up frustrated. It couldn't figure him out, and it wasn't all that interested anyway.
Fixer was mostly interested in building the prison. Period. Anything necessary to get that done... was fair game. After all, they stalked him, and caught him. So he was theirs. They had full control, here, in every way. His preferences were irrelevant to them, and Fixer was puzzled that it could ever appear differently to Check. It didn't really care enough to change anything, though.
Buzz was obviously the more aggressive of the two. A take-charge kind of kidnapper.
To Fixer, he was just a pawn. A way to extort money, so it could build its torture chambers. From what Check deduced, there were others like Fixer and Buzz, roaming around out there. Some kind of twisted hotel would give them a place to keep their captives for long-term gleeful torment...
Buzz seemed to think of him as another toy. He required more maintenance than the stocks, or the brushes. And he could talk. But in the long run, he was just another piece of property - one that happened to give Buzz endless pleasure when it applied the oils, or the feather dusters.
And the restraints. Couldn't forget those. He was always - always - bound to something or other...
They argued over the ransom note.
Endlessly discussing it, Check realized. Usually, there would be a few gloves working him over, or some brushes. While they argued.
Hours went by, but their shared priority always prevailed - they'd agree to set the disagreement aside for the time being... and tickle Check instead.
Fixer's style was to while away the hours, keeping him feverish. Unable to think straight.
Unfortunately, Buzz had a general idea of where his most stark raving sensitive spots were... and it was was still learning. Getting to know his body better each day.
What kind of paper to use. Blue ink, or black ink. Whether they should put Check's fingerprints on it, or not.
He laughed until he just couldn't laugh anymore, and still they talked. And tickled.
"Something expensive," Fixer was saying.
Feathers were sliding between Check's toes - and his fingers. They'd been sawing, gently, almost every second since he'd woken up. Red silk gloves were holding on to him, the thumbs pressing down to discourage him from stopping the feathers as they dragged, and lifted, and slowly dragged again...
"I think so," Buzz said. "Yeah. If it's really cheap paper, he's not going to take it seriously."
"Okay. Not white, though."
Check groaned quietly.
"Why not?
"So much mail is white already. We need this to stand out."
"Yeah..." And then Buzz snickered. "It would be a real shame if Daddy thought it was junk mail. Threw it out."
"We could just send another one," Fixer said.
"In a couple months."
"C'mon, now."
"Where were we?"
"Perhaps... grey paper?"
"Too dull. What do you think of earth-tones?" Buzz replied, dragging the toe-feathers a little bit faster. Check gulped, and tried to shake his head.
"You mean, brown? Something like... tan?"
"Yeah! I think that sets the right tone. Dark paper, for dark words."
"Then it's settled. Okay. You know what? I think I'll go out right now and get some samples."
Check finally realized what Fixer had said. Oh, no.
He opened his eyes, but he was too distracted to remember how to talk. No, no, Fixer. No. Stay here. Don't go anywhere. You can't...
"Great," Buzz said. "Bring back whatever looks good to you."
"Okay," Fixer replied. "Does he need anything?"
"About twenty more gloves on him, tickling hard," it announced. There was a decisiveness, a finality, in its voice. Check knew it wasn't kidding.
Fixer chuckled. "Just don't damage him."
Noooooo, Check thought. Don't leave me alone with it.
Then all the feathers went away. He knew better than to be glad - relieved - but it came anyway.
A few seconds later, silk hands started floating up to him, reaching with their eager fingers.
"Gotcha all to myself. Fucker."
So many gloves hopped on him - and romped.
Check was awestruck. The sheer bulk of the reaction the fingers were tickling out of him made it impossible to do anything. He couldn't squirm, or laugh, or open his eyes. The involuntary processes went on, as they always did. His heart kept beating, his lungs heaved air in and out... and the only thing he could think about was the solid blast of tickling. It seemed to come from everywhere. Not only did he think about it - but he couldn't stop giving it his most intensely focused concentration to it. The hundred fingers were indistinguishable. As were his feet, or his ribs. He didn't study the effect of the tickling, or make comparisons. He just had no ability to do anything other than concentrate on the impact. And only that.
At some point, it must have moved him. Chains were clinking -
He swayed a little. Hanging, no doubt. That was bad. His ass was easier to tickle, this way. His calves. On the plus side, more cuffs were being buckled around his arms and legs, and his waist. They weren't going to compete with muscle fatigue or sprains...
More skin on him limbs would be protected by the restraints than usual. But even so. Maybe... it would go easy on him.
He opened his eyes, and peeked.
At least thirty feathers were hanging there. As he started to lurch around, they headed for his torso.
Behind them, there were a half-dozen small electric buffers. The pads were fitted with white or dark brown fur. They were each about the size of his fist.
Buzz laughed once.
A buffer clicked on. Then another... making a low humming sound, as the spinning pads cruised on down. Feet, belly, ass-cheeks.
Check yelled his laughter, swinging like a carnival ride.
Then they began debating what to write...
It's a fucking ransom note, Check thought. Just send it.
He didn't say it out loud, of course. Buzz punished him for hours if he "forgot who he was dealin' with".
Each word was fully scrutinized.
When they were still on the fourth word, and Check thought at least an hour had passed, he forced himself to pay a little less attention to the brushes and gloves tickling him. It was nearly impossible. But he managed to notice something, about their discussion...
Buzz. Slowing things down. If one of them wasn't sure about the grammar, or if a word was the right word to use, it was almost always Buzz.
Fixer would often pick up a dictionary. Sometimes it asked Check, since he knew his father better than they did. Trying to think strategically, when he was getting tickled so much he usually forgot his "new" name, was difficult in a whole new way.
"No, no, now wait," Buzz said. "I still don't like that 'If'."
Even Fixer got fed up with it, sometimes. "We've been over that a dozen times! It's the custom -"
"But don't you think it's a stupid custom? 'If you want to see your son again'? Of course he wants to see his son again..."
"Buzz," Fixer said, warning in its voice.
"I'm just saying..."
After another hour of that, they agreed to come back to the subject... tomorrow.
"So we've got time to kill," Buzz said softly. "Hours and hours."
"No," Check barked, but his voice was weak and raspy. "Please -"
Fingers clamped behind his knees.
"...just want to tickle him. All the time." Fixer's voice.
"Duh."
"We're supposed to be exchanging him. For money. Remember?"
Check kept his eyes closed, and acted like he was still asleep.
Buzz snorted. "Twelve, thirteen hours. Each day. Almost sixteen in a row, that first day. And he's still reactive as hell. I mean, you don't get hold of a body like this every day."
"You can reel in all the captives you want, once we get this money. Build our prison. Snag him again."
"I know."
"Please," Fixer said, sounding hopeful. "Don't fight me on every little detail."
"If I could just... I don't know... spend a good, long time on him, uninterrupted... Maybe I can concentrate better."
Fixer didn't say anything. Check had tensed up when he heard the way Buzz said "long". As he waited for the other kidnapper's response, he was afraid to breathe...
"Sure," Fixer said sarcastically. "Take the whole day. Will that be long enough?"
"Well -"
"I want to study the places where we could exchange him. Get our money," Fixer said. "So I might as well do it right."
"Okay," Buzz said, sounding all humble.
When Fixer left, the blindfold came out. And the oils.
A small army of bamboo skewers dragged lightly over Check. All over him. Scalp to heels.
"Two billion?"
The cock-pump paused. "Yeah. Why?"
"Fixer! Please - my dad doesn't have that kind of money. My whole family doesn't have two billion dollars."
"Then they can borrow it," Buzz chimed in.
"Not quickly. And everybody'd know. The feds, the press -"
"Oh, crap," Fixer said. The pump started moving again, back down Check's shaft.
"Well, they'd better come up with it, right?" Buzz snapped. "Or else I'm just gonna have to keep on doing this."
"Noooooo hooooo hoooooooh!" he wailed. "No! Aw, please... I can't control what they do..."
"Should've been nicer to your dad. That's what I'm thinking."
Check tried to protest, or beg - anything - but the words got all jammed up. The stimulation on his glans made him squeal like a pig, when he wasn't alternating between endless hoots and chuckles.
After another brutally long day of deliberation, the kidnappers decided on eight hundred thousand dollars. In twenty-dollar bills.
"And none of those new bills, either," Buzz said indignantly. "They got tracking devices in 'em. And they're ugly."
The gloves it was pulling on looked just as angry... set to take out some major frustration on Check's feet. And his knees. Oh, and his butt.
And then they wasted a whole day, deciding whether or not they were going to put a tape recording into the envelope with the ransom note.
Selecting the right tape deck took another two days.
Writing the script - what they'd force Check to say - took three more days.
Unfortunately, his voice was laughed out. So the tickling became slower, and deeper, for three days.
That suited Fixer just fine. It had a special fondness for keeping him at the point where he couldn't quite start to laugh. Check spent hours and hours like that, on the edge. Ready to howl, and roar, but unable to get the laughs out.
Or the first ejaculation. Denial was another "game" Fixer was quite taken with.
They didn't like the way his voice sounded on the tape.
It was gravelly, but that couldn't be helped. Something was wrong with the tape deck itself. The reels were spinning unevenly. For some reason.
What were the odds, Check thought tiredly - thinking of a few ways Buzz might have fucked with the tape deck.
The next day, another recorder was "obtained". It didn't work at all. Almost as if, oh, the power wires had been pulled loose.
The third tape deck worked, but the tape "just didn't sound like Check" - to Fixer. It came to that conclusion after Buzz suggested it - an innocent question, of course. The suggestion was subtle, and Fixer eventually decided that a top-of-the-line metal tape was the best way to go. And, since they didn't have any metal tapes, another trip to the store was necessary.
"Well... if you're sure," Buzz said.
"Definitely. I won't be long."
"You're always going out... Look, I'll get the tape. It's no trouble. You stay here and make sure Check doesn't get his rocks off."
"Are you... Okay. Thanks," Fixer said. Check felt relieved, and overwhelmed with dread. Both at the same time.
"I'm pretty sure I know what kind of tape to get."
"You're - what?"
"How many kinds of metal tape can there be, anyway?"
There was a pause. Check saw where the conversation was headed, and sagged in the stocks.
"Oh, there's a few different kinds," Fixer said. "You know, I think I'll go pick some out. Really. You can go on the next errand."
"Well... Okay," Buzz said. "But I'd be glad to do it."
"No, I want to look around. Hit the audio stores... We really could use a better microphone, too. Now listen, you can't wear out his voice, Buzz."
"Oh, I won't," it promised.
"I want to get this over with. Sometimes I think we're never going to get rid of him..."
Five seconds later, a cabinet door banged open, and a ball-gag flew out.
Buzz wasted no time jamming it in Check's mouth. "Sometimes, I even scare myself." But it sounded more like it was thinking out loud.
Then - gloves started filling and sauntering over to Check. More and more of them.
They made him read the ransom note. Buzz was never satified...
"Slow down. Do it again."
Or, "Aaaah, who's gonna believe that? If the shithead wants to stay here, all he's gotta do is ask."
Or, "He just doesn't sound desperate enough to me."
Fixer would just sigh... and the tape would start rewinding again.
On a "whim", Buzz had Check do some ad-libbing.
He wasn't all that surprised when they ended up taping a few hours of hysterical laughter. Three different kinds of brushes, at least a gallon of oil.
When they ran out of tapes, Buzz manuevered Fixer into going out to get more.
Two days later, they finally had it edited to Buzz's satisfaction.
"Okay, then." Fixer slid the tape into an envelope. "Finally."
Check was in the middle of one his favorite dreams - getting laid after the junior cotillion. But something jolted him awake a good fifteen seconds before the first of three sensational cum-shots -
He blinked.
A pair of gloves was scratching, slowly, in his armpits.
"You were getting a bit too excited, there." Fixer's voice.
His arms were stretched out. Staked down. He made fists, and pulled. His hands were so far away from his meat, and he had to finish off. Had to. Right away. The need was so enormous it was threatening to burn him up. He growled with frustration and started to thrust anyway, stretching the cuffs. It had him on the rack, with his legs spread, feet way up in the air...
The fingers danced more quickly. He slammed back down and bounced, cackling pathetically, consumed with a wordless pounding rage he couldn't do a damn thing about.
A jingling sound made him lift his head. The ball-stretcher was coming.
Instantly, before he could even think about it, his body started lunging around like a tethered animal. A tiger, cornered -
"Whuh..." He didn't want to ask. Not that question. Anything but that.
Leather creaked as the top cuff opened up, the part that would be buckled around the base of his cock. Oh, fuck, he had to shoot his load. If Fixer had its way, there's be no relief all night. He couldn't imagine anything worse. He had to cum, he had to, he had to, it was way too careful and it wasn't going to let him shoot his mutherfuckin' load. The urge was impossible already, and after Fixer spent hours turning up the heat -
"Where's... B-Buzz?"
"Out. Somewhere."
Oh. Shit... When it got back, Buzz would drill him for a few hours. Either way, his night was going to be intolerable. At least Buzz got him off, so his sensitivity would go through the roof. "Out?"
"I don't know," Fixer said irritably. The gloves slid over, and started rubbing his pecs... with the teasing crawl that made him so horny he thought he'd bust. Leather got around his ball-sac, and tightened slowly. "Some song and dance about having a few private matters to look into. But it had a few suggestions for ya, Check. And one or two of 'em seem like they're worth a try."
Well, of course. Even when it wasn't around, Buzz called the shots.
From a cabinet, rubber gloves brought a big jar of petroleum jelly. One of them had a handful of the bamboo skewers...
As before, Fixer rarely left his crotch untouched. Little points, like the tip of a pencil, roaming and dragging through the thick grease, wandering around his navel, down toward his knees. Tiny commanding sensations, eventually crawling all the way to his palms, on his heels, sneaking into his butt-crack...
They were counting down. His dad had been given twenty-four hours.
The exchange was coming. The end of all this torture. Check never realized he could long for anything so much. No more tickling. It was hard to imagine...
Buzz made sure the hours crawled by. It was a finale that made all the other tickling seem like a picnic.
Soft.
Under his head, and his back. The pillow was different. And the bed was so soft...
Check yawned. He didn't want to wake up yet. Definitely, it wasn't the mattress - their mattress. Or the rack. So -
He had to be free. At home? He hoped so. Free...
No more tickling.
He didn't even remember the exchange. Being taken out of that damn room for the last time. The last thing he knew, there was tickling all over him. Over and under. That last run... Buzz outdid itself. But none of that mattered now. He was so glad to be away from those sadistic tickle-happy fuckers, he didn't care. And he would've sworn the cuffs were still on. The pressure - but hell, after all those days with 'em on, real snug around his wrists, his ankles - that only made sense.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
Big black letters, spray-painted across a grimy ceiling:
LAUGH
FOR YOUR
KING
Check closed his eyes again. His stomach felt like there was ice in it. Distantly, he tried to figure out if there was any way he could convince himself he didn't see those words. On the ceiling. Just another nightmare. That was to be expected, consid-
He heard a sigh. It was full of anticipation... and scorn.
Reflex took over, and he tried to sit up. That wasn't going to happen. Cuffs, again. Still.
But... they let him go. Right? He looked around. Frames, photos, cabinets. The stocks. Cuffs, dangling from thick chains. All of Buzz's toys -
Different room.
A pack of cigarettes dropped from overhead, and started peeling open...
One was jammed between his lips. When a big silver lighter came and flicked open, the cocky way it opened gave him a frightening clue.
From the way it snapped shut, he was sure.
"Buzz...?"
"King Buzz."
"Oh, no."
"Yeeee-up. And your new name is... Whooper."
"Where's Fixer?"
"Gone. Paid off."
Check - make that Whooper, he thought to himself, thoroughly dazed - took a long drag as he strained the thick straps.
"Gone?"
"Uh-huh."
Well, wasn't that a bitch.
And he'd been caught, somewhere else... by King Buzz.
"B-but... you got your money -"
The lighter hung over him, turning slowly. As if it was in a restless hand. "I didn't. Fixer got the money."
"Wait a min-"
"From me."
"From you?"
"Yeah. I paid the ransom."
Oh, no. No no no no no no no. Why - "You... Oh shit!" he blurted.
Buzz chuckled. "So I'm gonna keep you."
"Laughing," he said faintly.
"Sometimes. But 'deranged' - always."
"Where did you get eight hundred thousand bucks?"
"Federal Reserve Bank. The security is a joke. It's all geared to keep human burglars out."
"But my dad..."
"He never got the note. Or the tape."
"He didn't?"
"Nope. I delivered it, went right back and snagged it. He never saw it."
"So, he thinks -"
"You're still bumming around Europe. Enjoying yourself. Making memories. Having the time of your life. And even if he did get suspicious, I had somebody fix up the flight manifest. The airline's computer says you were on board. Flight 3117, seat 3C. First class."
It was the perfect vanishing act - in a dismal, horrible way. Every base covered.
"It never was about getting the money, was it?"
King Buzz took his cigarette away. "Not for me."
Ten or fifteen feathers bobbed up. They split up and started heading to his arms, his thighs, and his chest. "Almost too easy. Fixer thinks your dad paid the ransom, and you're free as a bird. I never mentioned this place... But it's real busy now, Fixer is. Getting the prison all set up. And then it'll be running it. Playing warden."
Gloves came. Many gloves becoming filled, fingers flexing - as if they were being pulled on fierce, confident hands. "And I've got a new pet. All to myself."
Whooper tried to swallow, but it was almost like he forgot how.
He closed his eyes...
And laughed for his king.
11jun02