Mine, dammit.
I like taking a few seconds to admire my work. They're not gonna budge. But really, it isn't the toe restraints and the cuffs that keep me staring...
These feet. Ooooh yeah.
I wanted 'em, and now I own 'em. For as long as I want, they're safely locked away. I suppose the feet already caught are more attractive than damn near any others, but these dogs have been unusualy satisfying. Three or four careful hours, mixing it up, lots of rest breaks - and he just stays hysterical the whole time when I'm doing my thing.
Squeeze 'em, trace the lines and edges, paint 'em, snapping rubber bands and rulers, a little wax, six different kinds of brushes, ultrasonic massagers, shoe polishers, liniment, ice cubes, dish scrubbers, three styles of buffers. I lavish the endless pleasure of tickling these terrific feet, and the rest of his body can't help but arch and tug, trying every possible manuever to get loose. All of those other reactive spots know their time is coming.
The full range of spontaneous noise pours out of his mouth, from mindless growling laughs all the way to full-blown bellows. When I think that maybe the feet are starting to register a little less excitement than they did at the start of the day, well, I just move up to his thighs. They're mine to pet as much as I want, just like these pleasingly doomed insteps, sides, heels, toes - and soles. It's so great to be able to order 'em to wake up and magnify the tickling... right now.
Four gloves. Hard massage, squeezing and kneading. Tickling - of course, always more and more of that. I could be massaging the muscles, helping 'em loosen up without the stimulation that makes him crow... but c'mon. We're here for the laughs. I give 'em, and he kicks 'em out.
His first jerk - surprise! - gives way to the usual desperate, frantic efforts to move. The cuffs, I'm happy to say, barely even shift around... posing these feet above a table covered with the right kind of tools for the job. The toes try so hard to get away. Other bones move, too, in case the restraints would allow him to at least rock his arches to one side or the other. So profoundly longing to escape the grasp of my gloves. I'll get him wide awake and switch to something more nuanced. Slow, unignorable.
Perhaps the swizzle sticks. Yes. Targeted, almost sharp, coasting like I'll never, ever let 'em stop.
This guy had a good disguise. Button-down science dude.
I had my eye on the young janitor - now there's a real missing link, due for a full workout later - and I just happened to notice what my new pal was working on. Well, shoot, what were the odds of that? We had some interests in common. Indirectly.
I figured he could appreciate "neural overload" first-hand. Bring a couple fresh angles into play. So I followed him home, and immediately the dress shirt came off...
And I couldn't believe the tattoos. Friend of the RK's, huh?
This geek?
Well, I got curious. Did a little digging.
His cousins were patched. Almost got him on the hook too. Some frickin' adult woke up and browbeat him into trying college. Fast-forward seven years...
A lot of hours at the gym. And tonight, a ride at four in the morning to my kickass rubber cell.
It's been a totally satisfying night.
It's a symphony. Carnal ballet.
The contrast amuses me. I keep the contact solid yet graceful, but his reactions aren't elegant at all. Lusty misery keeps oozing out of this sweaty, inked monkey. He doesn't look like a researcher now. The impact of what I'm putting him through has him looking like even more of a knuckle-dragger than the janitor I was trailing, and that's saying something.
An hour or so into the next day, I give him water and let him catch his breath. When he's composed enough to start looking around again, I bring over a big permanent marker. He doesn't flinch when I pop the cap off and let it fall. Good prospect, here.
Slowly, I cross out his club tat.
"What the... h-hey," he stammers uncertainly. Those sweaty hands start tugging at the cuffs without much determination, 'cause he's smart enough to know the adventure ain't over yet.
"Not real big on RK's," I say menacingly.
There's a great pause. He freezes, and those wheels are really turning in his head. "Wait. I'm not - Check the rocker. That band underneath the... there's no city, right? I'm not an RK. Just a supporter, dammit. I never joined up -"
"Not big on their friends, either."
"Shit."
Yeah, I think happily. Chew on that one. "Get after 'em. I know this other club, see. Maybe I work for 'em. Or maybe I just like to stick it to RK's real good. And their suckups. Ain't got the balls to ride, yourself... But still, the fewer friends they got, the better I like it."
"Now wait," he says anxiously. "That was ten years ago."
"Pussy," I sneer. That gets him twisting harder, alright. Trying to figure out whatever I wanna hear. "Then you don't care if I get rid of this."
And I bring a ten-inch knife over his right arm. Shined up real nice, sharp as they get.
"No! Hold on a minute here, dammit," he snaps, tugging like crazy.
There we go. That tone of voice is the real deal. No college-egghead bullshit there. He could still revert to type. I always like keeping my options open.
"Scrape it off," I say casually. "Won't take long."
"I... C'mon," he mumbles. The tone of his voice changed, like he's figuring something out. "No. You want something else."
Very good, I think. Endless fever - for you. "I got me an RK, or like as they get. Wannabe, maybe."
"Bullshit. Look, the knife is really freaking me out."
He's got a set, alright. Sussed out enough to try telling me the plain truth. Fair enough. I turn it, and shove it down into the floor. Let it stand there and wobble. "If you're such a punk-ass."
"Okay," he says. "Fine. Whatever. And I get that there must be some... uh, information you want, maybe. But I'd rather not - uh, you don't have to extract it. Just -"
"Big words," I sneer. "You must think your shit don't stink."
This is an interesting moment. He opens his mouth, and closes it. Sighs. His eyes narrow a little. "Name your price, then. I don't wanna give you any reason to use that thing."
"Maybe I just want to."
"Woulda freakin' done it already." That remark just tumbled out. With his fists trying to turn the cuffs, he takes on a more humble tone. "Look, you got me. You win. I could get the damn tat removed - the right way. Or tell me what y-"
"Heeeerrre kitty kitty kitty," I mock. "That's gettin' off too easy. I hate your scumbag friends. And I got one of their friends staked out right here. Now... what am I gonna do about this?"
Anything I want, he thinks. I can almost see that reply burning through his forehead. "Look, dammit, I wanna do what you want... uh, me to do."
"Yeah, yeah," and I throw in a few lazy chuckles... "If you say so. I got it."
Time to show him a pair of white silk gloves.
"Gonna pet the pussy I caught," I sigh. "My pussy. Here ya go, kitty. Now - poser - I'm gonna make you laugh."
He drinks the water without a word and needs to gulp air for a while longer.
"Ooooh... Wow. Oh... shit. You... Unbelievable," he puffs. "B-bastard."
"Aw, thanks." I watch him roll his head slowly. Blown away. Very satisfying, for me - and clearly overwhelming for him.
"Your voice..."
"What about it?"
"It changed."
"Really?" I giggle, like a bad drag queen.
He rolls his eyes - another great sign. Accepting the impossible. Oh, I'm gonna ride this dude right. "No. Before. Earlier you sounded a lot like..."
"Punch?" His older cousin.
That gets his eyes open. "No... Dammit. Actually, yeah."
I laugh at him, and slip back into that voice. "Caught a big ol' pussy, and damn but I'm gonna make him yowl. Right here, you and me, and just forget about your damn social calendar for the rest of the month. And next month too. Kitty kitty."
He looks like he's in pain. I got him good with that one -
Slowly, the ol' thug smirks. Doesn't want to, but I guess my imitation of his cousin - who used to tickle the stuffing out of him - is pretty close to the mark. Shit, he's really in for it now.
"Very effective," he says quietly. Taking a risk. I can respect that. Nothing to gain, after what I've shown him already, and it looks like he's got a pair. "You know about what Punch, ah, used to do. I'm sorta flattered. Rest of the month, huh?"
"Unless."
Now there's a great reaction. Trying to be so cool about it. "Oh, I'm listening. Unless?"
"Well, You could rerun those dendritic solubility samples with a more aggressive permeability coefficient."
It was worth it. Memorizing that bullshit. The look on his face is one of the most entertaining things I've ever seen, and that's really saying something.
"Wow," he finally sighs.
I just gotta laugh at him.
"So you, uh, know what I do for a living?"
"Uh-huh." I made a thoughtful humming noise. "Looks like now you try to survive as much tickling as I wanna dish out."
That makes him shiver nice and big. "Affective fatigue," he finally says. "Meissner's corpuscles can only take so much before th-"
"Varied pressure - and location," I shoot back. "Think about your theories all you want. Hell, recite 'em while I dig in. We'll see. Maybe that paper you wrote last year isn't one big, steaming crock of shit."
He closes his eyes. Legs slowly trying to extend, then giving it up. "You read that? C'mon. And you know what Punch used to put me through. I'm so... Uh, been at this a while?"
I roar with laughter, picking up a half-dozen makeup applicators.
"Nooooooh!" he squeals as I start.
Thrashing right away, cackling like a madman. So much for the reasoned, intellectual approach. He's busy screeching now. And the writhing can't be suppressed - it takes center stage, somehow, no matter how much he wants to find some way to cope.
But I haven't ever found a mental defense that won't yield to my tickling. The real center of attention now is what the little spongy pads make him feel as I drag them around the boundaries of his arches, twisting gently between his toes.
Enough lounging around. Let's go...
This is one terrific sound he's making - a low, rough whine - and I bet he's not even aware of it. There's steady, wishful pulling at the wrist-cuffs. Big thunderstruck expression. Almost too dramatic.
"Ready?" I taunt.
"I can't," he wails, suddenly loud. "This is too much. Really."
"Yup, that's the idea."
"Morbidly excessive," he says, lifting his head. "Traumatic."
"Oh, bullshit. Roll with it."
"I'm gonna freakin' snap or something," he complains, relaxing again.
"If I was a machine, maybe. Listen, pussy," and I chuckle, making it warm and friendly-sounding, "get a clue. I've been at this for years. You're in the best possible hands for this kind of workout. I know when to ease off, so you won't get away with going catatonic or anything. That's a promise. Hell, have I even let ya pass out yet?"
A long, wonderful pause as he takes that in. "Yeah. Well, uh, that's absolutely terrifying. Right. Thanks."
"Glad to help. We're gonna be... inseparable."
A wail escapes from him, before self-control kicks back in. "That's just so damn... swell."
Yeah, I could get used to having this comedian around.
He's good and strong, and his sensitivity is edging up just the way I like. It's our third day together, and he's calmed down real nice...
"Question," he finally rasps.
That's what I get for stalking a neurological researcher, I think. "Shoot."
"It's never enough, is it? I mean - literally. There's no getting, uh, full."
I'm pleased he had the cojones to come out and say it. Sometimes they figure that out, but it usually takes 'em twice as long. "Yup," I say proudly. "The drive to make you hysterical never ebbs at all, biker-man. It's fed only when I'm pouring it on. So I keep it coming."
He nods. "You don't get frustrated?"
"Only if a guy like you gets away from me. I can't think about much else until I get him again, and haul his ass off to a much more private room. Then I'm okay. But the rest of the time, it's just... perfectly fulfilling to be working you over. Or somebody."
"Amazing," he says quietly.
He's dealing with it just fine. Oh, we're gonna have a hell of a great time this year. "That's outside your, uh, field? Isn't it?"
The most delightful shiver ripples through him. "It's... Uh, the way your gloves move. Like you're enjoying this more than anything." He lifts his head to look around for 'em, then relaxes again. "Nobody - no human - could be so into - yeah, you know."
I chuckle at him. "Nothing better. You don't wanna hear this, but I guess it's obvious enough. Exactly what I want - it's strapped down. Right here."
"Shit."
Laughing again, I think it's high time there were some gloves in motion, so we can both hoot for awhile.
Day number six, and we're still going strong. I like this dude so much I snuck into the lab on Friday and sent a couple e-mails. Since his boss was out of the country at a conference, it wasn't a particularly bad time for him to get some "R&R." Heh. I'd already found the folder of performance reviews in his locker, and it was obvious that there wasn't going to be any serious problem if he disappeared for a little while, even as suddenly as this.
"There has to be a limit -"
"No," I say firmly. "Well, not in the right hands. You'll see."
He twists a little, making the sling rock back and forth. Thinking hard. "I'm not trying to challenge you or anything. The glial transmission amplitude... Hell, there's gotta be performance degradation after a certain point. Maybe you've just never gotten there."
"After thirty months?"
That shocks him. Good and hard. Yeah, I like to see that. "Thirty... months?"
"No peak, either. Twenty-three months, another time. They never top out. I'm not kidding."
"Too bad I gotta get back to work. Uh, at the lab."
"Well," I say suggestively.
His mouth opens - and closes. Smart cookie, definitely. Then he sags back. "It was worth a try."
"You're so funny..."
He's just lost in it. All that brainpower, firmly offline. His body's too busy dealing with it all.
More interesting to talk to than most, too.
I like to wait just long enough, during a break. But not too long. It reinforces the notion that I'm just itchin' to get started again.
My invisible fingers touch his palms.
"Aw, ffff-ffow," he moans. Nice and fidgety.
This is where it starts. Light, easy strokes... and the nerve endings are fully sensitized now. I stroke his fingers when they relax, and coast over to the back side of each hand when he makes fists. Such a ridiculous protest.
When I rub around the higher rim of the cuffs, he usually looks up. Left hand, first. There's no merciless ticklers there to be seen, but he feels my contact.
Sliding to the lower edge of his restraints usually makes him want to giggle.
They're coming. Hands that are truly unstoppable. Focused on more ticklish spots, knowledgeable, nuanced. I begin to tease his forearms -
A soft, feral moan slips out from between his clenched teeth. No writhing can change his predicament.
My fingers are moving closer, and closer, to his armpits. No - mine. All mine. Ribs, belly, chest... and the whole spectacular minefield further down. Every inch belongs to me, here for some hellacious tickling.
I stretch it out to the better part of two more days - feverish ones - but he thinks he was slick enough to talk me into it. The deal.
Some of these dudes will sign away the rest of the year to get some relief this week, but that doesn't seem to have any connection to how intelligent they may or may not be. It's funny as hell, though.
"Okay," he whispers, taking a ragged breath. "Every other weekend. Two weeks straight," and he shivers, "after the semester ends."
"Yeah. And any other getaway I can arrange without getting your advisor pissed off."
That gets a sad groan. "You don't have to... make me agree to this."
I can't believe him - candid as they come. "We've been over that, dammit! I want your cooperation. This is intriguing. I can't shake the idea that your mind has something to teach me. Not just these ribs."
"Doooon't," he cackles, trying to lean away from my glove.
"I'm serious."
"I know, I know, really... and obviously I can't turn down whatever deal you wanna make. I gotta get out of your fuc- your expert hands. Okay? Even temporarily."
"Good man. Is it a deal?"
He wrestles with his thoughts... and nods once. "Deal."
When I start loosening the straps, the look on his face is freakin' priceless. I should do this to 'em more often. Early release. With the others, of course, I'd usually just slam 'em right back down and continue drilling their feet, or their pits. But he and I have a deal... and there's a young thug getting out of jail tomorrow who definitely needs someone to pick him up at the gate. He was a spitfire the last time. Wild fun. Obviously the lowlife is needing more discipline.
"You're messing with me, aren't you?" he says.
"Weekend after next," I remind him. "Sure. Peg the needles. But not until then."
Tears spring to his eyes, but I'd never hold that against a dude... "Gotta request."
Oh, that just blows him away. "A request?"
"Let me know what you think."
I hand him a pack of cigarettes.
He stares at 'em for a good five seconds. "I think..."
"That's a good picture of you - the one at the ocean, with your folks. Couldn't help but notice that bulge in your shirt pocket."
That gets me a sour grin. "Anything you didn't find out about me? Damn. I - well, yeah, I used to smoke. But -"
"Quit for a girlfriend. Am I right?"
"Yeeeeah," he says slowly. "But you're going to lose more than you gain. Aren't you? Tidal volume."
"Maybe you were too scrambled to notice," I teased, "that you spent most of your waking hours not laughing. Just feeling it."
"Yeah."
"I think there's an effect. Amplifying. With some guys, I'd bet money on it."
That gets him turning the pack over and over, slowly, while he thinks. The researcher is back on duty. "Huh. More pluses than minuses, for a tickling maniac such as yourself."
"Hey."
"And you're not gonna make me smoke?"
"Well... I never said that."
He grins. Shooting a bad-boy glance around the room, he starts peeling open the pack. "Gotta light?"
"For a badass?" I say in my Punch-voice. "Anytime."
I hate the thought of letting him go. Really. Dammit. Even the sound of his car starting up makes me testy.
"You'd better get lots of sleep before I catch you again," I grumble.
"Yessir." He's sassing me. Incredible. Get a smoke between their lips and they're all macho again.
"Check under the passenger-side seat."
After a second, he does. Pulling out my gift.
"What is this?" I like the amazed tone in his voice. Opening the lid, he knows. "You're shitting me."
"Give 'em a try."
Peering into the humidor, he takes out a cigar. The conflicted grin on his face is more than worth it. They're the same kind I heard him recommend to one of his friends, on the phone, a few days before I snagged him. There's eighteen of 'em here, just for him. Seven bucks apiece.
His fingers find a box of matches and a cutter. "Wow."
"Well, we're partners now."
"In crime."
"In research."
And he laughs along with me. It's not as if he's Mister Cooperation now, but the dude really managed to accept the inevitable. "Yeah, like that's the main deal -"
"Pussy," his cousin's voice grumbles. "Gonna make you pay for that. Every inch. Mine!"
Shaking his head a little, he shifts the car into drive.
Last weekend was a riot. Laugh-fest. He's expecting the next round to be a few days off...
I'm jazzed to see him roar into the gas station parking lot - frustrated, scowling - and waste no time stalking inside. I know what's on his mind - and sure enough, he comes back out with a pack of cigarettes already open. Oooo, bad boy. I warned him.
Barely able to keep myself from laughing out loud, I let him get one lit. As he fumbles with the keys, I take the cigarette from his lips.
"What did I tell you about these?"
He looks around wildly. Big eyes. So busted. The lot is all empty. Seeing no potential rescuers, but also no restraints about to pounce, he ends up watching the cigarette.
"Aw... shit," he snaps. Biker to the core.
"Just couldn't help yourself," I sneer. "Smoker."
"Thanks to you," he shoots back. "Four years without one, and then you come along. Look, I'm all stressed out. Last weekend was -"
"I don't care. You were told to stay away from these things."
"This sucks. It.. it isn't fair."
I allow myself a few indulgent chuckles - and stick the cigarette back in his mouth. "As much as I like busting your chops, it just so happens you can't help yourself. Ever since the last time I tickled your ass there's been a dopamine inhibitor doing my bidding."
That makes him frown as he takes a long, nervous drag. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. And it doesn't rest until it gets some nicotine."
Here comes the scowl again. "I've never heard of anything like that."
"Trade secret. Hyena."
"Wow. Right. So let me see if I get this right. You hit me with... an anti-Dopederol, and -"
"Anti-what?"
He tugs on the cigarette again before he answers. "That new stop-smoking drug. Slip me a dose. Uh, doses. And now you're gonna spank me for smoking. How many other people are caught in this trap?"
"I don't know," I confess. "Hundreds. Maybe thousands."
"Sadistic."
"Aw, thank you. Now get rolling."
"Look -"
"Now. Time's a-wasting."
He sighs, getting behind the wheel. "Of course."
Punch's cousin smokes like a fiend now, and I can't hardly taunt him about it. I went a little overboard with the dopamine inhibitor.
It takes me a couple hours to wake up all those ticklish nerve endings, but I don't mind. We think it's probably the tar, or some byproduct. One of these days I'll get him on the nicotine patches and see if that's enough to goose up his sensitivity...
This has been a great year. One for the record books.
When his birthday rolled around, I handed him a carton of cigarettes, or half of one. Eighty bills were inside too. Hundred-dollar bills. Then I handed him the directions to Bounder's place - an old target of mine. Insanely sensitive ass.
He fairly tripped all over himself to make sure the Softail he was selling was perfect...
Now my renegade scientist has really jumped back into the whole biker-trash thing with both feet. His bosses are amused. Since his theoretical work has never been more, uh, imaginative - hey, everybody wins.
I wait 'til he straddles the seat and pulls a glove on - then I make the other one jump up in front of his face.
"Badass... pussy," I chuckle in my Punch-voice.
There's a wonderful two or three seconds, while he stares, letting the cigarette hang. Living glove, saying hey. His other "head" sure as hell knows what that means. It remembers, alright.
"No, uh, shit!" Then he looks around the parking lot quickly. Reflex. Who'd believe he was talking to a floating glove anyway? "Is it your weekend already?"
"Got a surprise for ya."
"C'mon. No!"
"Vacation."
I make the glove dig under his left arm.
Freaking out, he slings himself around and starts to giggle. I catch the bike before he tips over, make sure the kill switch is off and and start 'er up.
"No," he pleads.
"Got it all set with Whiney," I boast, using the nickname of his supervisor. "Field research."
"Dammit, lis-"
Grabbing his right hand, I tug the glove over it. Flex his fingers a time or two. "Incommunicado. I figure we got a couple weeks... of pure tickling hell. Let's ride."
He opens his mouth, grimaces nice and big - and squeezes the clutch. "Double, later on. Okay? A whole month, but I can't take any more, aw not tonight!"
"To the freeway, lowlife. We're heading north."
I have the gloves squeeze his fingers until he grunts.
Shaking his head just a little, he shifts into first and heads for the street.
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