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"Nowhere to be," a guy said, sounding happy.
That kind of phrase always grabbed its attention, and never more than when it was on the hunt.
Somewhere in that crowd...

The convention center was emptying out. Checking the voices, it heard a laugh - and zeroed in.
Average height, not young and not old, cigarette in hand. Jewish. Darker skin. Expensive but casual clothes, as if he had money but wanted to blend.
It slipped inside his head -
32 years old, no close relatives. Bitter divorce six years ago. No kids. No pets. No bedmate right now.
He worked out three or four times a week, and it showed.
Net worth, almost three million. Inherited.
He was the outgoing president of some bigtime skeptics organization. That, alone, was intoxicating irony. This man devoted time to proving that immaterial beings and forces didn't exist.
Eagerly, it checked his memories for a few uncommon but crucial themes -
Bingo.

It found he had a house a few miles northwest - and a small place in Greece where he'd planned to relax... probably after visiting a friend in Texas and another one in Boston. Excellent.
There had been a deliberate refusal to let anyone keep tabs on him... and when his schedule permitted, he'd been known to drop out of touch for many months. That had happened twice, and nobody seemed to worry.
Importantly - he had bought no tickets, told no one when he was coming or going - and there was no unmissable appointment or meeting that he was aware of.
It couldn't have asked for a better setup. Really. He was just destined to catch its attention.

Takin' a trip, he is. Heh heh. It "suggests" he prep the place and his finances for an impulsive, last-minute excursion.
The accountant already handles all of his bills, and the tickler's catch leaves a voicemail about disappearing for a while, hard fun time now. He gets the trash and perishible food out to the trash can and rolls it out to the road. The lawn care guys will stop by every week. All set. Whoops - he fills a suitcase, not knowing that what's coming makes clothes and toiletries unnecessary. Everything will be taken care of for its new pal.
Gets him in the car. A stop for gas, more cigarettes, coffee - and then, let's roll!

He's a happy captive, kept cheerful somehow, but not allowed to remember anything about the drive out of town...
"So it's real, huh? Mind control? Don't know who's doin' this to me, but damn. You're good. I'm feelin' no pain. Adventure time, right? Maybe I've been pretty closeminded about, uh, the unseen stuff." He snickers, but the embarrassment passes quickly. "Got some plans for me, huh?"

His tickler was so happy with him. Yeah.
Each discovery about the man added more excitement - and determination.
It was about to have the best posssible time driving him crazy. Tickled into a raving lunatic, given a rest break and half of a joint - and shredded again, any often as it wanted. Sure.
Jump right on him... or after he accepts that he's bound and staying that way, enjoy seeing him watch the tender attack-tools approach. It could even just make him wait all night. All week.
No, not he or anyone else can order it around now. That's because it is 100% victorious. The right to make every decision, big and little, has been earned. Nobody else gets to mess with the door, or how many restraints it uses on his limbs, or map out every promising spot on him and the textures to use for each, or even how many months he'll be tickled. His kidnapper is calling the shots.

"Hold on," he insisted -
But it was like racing an avalanche. Loving, rambunctuous, jubilant in its success, coaxing him along - he definitely got that it craved something like his understanding or approval. It was almost anxious. Respect for a winning competitior, sure, okay, but the constant goal was... joy. It had just the way to keep him so fuckin' joyful that his rational mind could take a long, sensuous holiday.
He looked more confused than angry, worried, or defeated. It realized that he knew it was waiting - no, it was absolutely hanging on his reaction. Not approval, but... acknowledgement of the lifechanging vexation that was about to begin. Stalling and resisting were lost causes.
Only a matter of time, it thought, and then it'll be such a relief to give in.
Smirking, he rolled his eyes...
"Okay," he sighed.

Fuck, it won again!

The gloves were just packed with adoring mischief. They were coming down...
Each step leading up to that moment made it... giddy? What it loved to do. Picking a place, so safe, utterly isolated, and selecting the "right" supplies - far more than were really needed. Then it was going to get an animal to tickle. More delight. Watching, stalking - deciding. More and more excitement. Bringing him, locking the door, setting the restraints. So much closer now. A big win, alright. Wonderful! Just by his being there. Stuck, and reactive. Hidden for as long as it wanted to play with him -
No preparation remained undone. The fun could resume, and continue...

And the satisfaction settled into a sustained fever as the fun continued, one day after another.

Oh, there just are no words. To watch him as he sees the gloves land and take hold - feeling all that tension / stress / physical refusal, oh no I'm not gonna lay here and let you tickle me, much less so hard and so long - struggling, the laughter becoming more constant, more engaged, more consuming, the sweat and tears and voiding, unbridled howling, and his reactions slowly fall apart. Such complete triumph.
It loves the restraints, the toys, the security of the room. The victory is constant, and prolonged, the more thoroughly it maddens him. Success. It's blissfully happy because no one else knows he's in such absolute delirium, they won't find out, and the range of bondage devices is the best possible insurance that the cause and effect - I tickle, he reacts - will go on and on.
The commitment to that idea slammed home - as he rocked to one side as hard as he could, whimpering strained laughter. He did that because it was the kind of validation it wanted.
 

It was his way of saying oh, damn...
I fuckin' beg you to stop this tickling, right now. I can't do a damn thing to stop you. I beg for mercy because you find it enjoyable to listen to me beg, but I don't think for one second that you'll stop torturing me. You know that this is the most excruciating, pleasurable thing I've ever gone through.
Total win - for you.
I'm beaten, completely skunked, your fuckin' possession now... to drill and fondle for as long as you want. I know that through and through. You got me. Locked in, spread out, all yours.
They both knew it.
Places to play everywhere, all over me. Here for your entertainment. Staying cut off from the rest of the world so you taunt and tease just as much as you like. Drive me out of my mind so much further than I've ever been before. This outcome is so certain that you have earned the right, like no one else could, to tickle me without limit.
The tickling you administer is indescribably more intense and consuming, occupying, levelling, than anything I've ever fuckin' felt - and I know your plan has been perfectly executed. So I'm trapped, and helpless, and absolutely delirious at your whim. This maddening stimulation will continue for as long as you care to deliver it.
No matter how outrageous the bondage and locks and months of tickling are to me, it doesn't matter - your satisfaction does, the delight and excitement. Full victory. I can't possibly slip out of your tickling, agonizing, triumphant fingers.

He got a slow blast of good energy. Mind-pleasure. All just chemical reactions, delusion... Hah.
It longed for him to curl his toes desperately, and he really couldn't help but oblige.
His tickler was maniacally grateful.

One request after the other was irresistible, and it was so mutherfuckin' happy with him...

"You... please, where are you? Who's doing this..." he managed to stammer - the skeptic was longing to hear from whoever was responsible.
Whoooom. Sunny rapture flooded through his head!
A big grin stole over his face. The command was cloaked so well...
"Uhhh... enough. D-duh huh huh huh don't you tickle me anymore," he said. But it came out like a challenge. Really egging it on, the tickler, and happy as hell to be doing it.
A pair of gloves slapped together, over his legs, and rubbed each other. Greedy.
"I can't take another second of this," he told 'em - breaking up. It was just so stupid. Sure he could! Like they'd hold off? Let him sleep the night away? Really, now.
They started reaching for his... thigh. All melodramatic. Just so fuckin' happy. Victory lap - another one, with fifty to follow. Sure as anything.
Another pair zipped up, ready to dig into his left leg. Snug in the restraints. Easy to tickle, and tickle hard, no matter how much his body needed to flop around. All of its work had turned out so perfectly. He was a spectacular catch, so very ticklish, so doomed now.
"I mean it," he said. "This is pure torture. You got no right to d-"
Clench.
"Ooooh, no - nnnnnah hah haaaah heeeee!" he bawled. Somehow, in all the thrashing and bucking, he nodded his head wildly.
And the tickler chuckled at him. Another pair of gloves jumped into his armpits to make the truth abundantly clear.

Building and building, the joy of the tickler, causing stimulation so far beyond pain -
Too happy, he thought over and over. Chanting it, as he blubbered...
Sleep took over and gave him a wonderful break.
 

He woke up to find a different mood surrounding him - tougher, haughty, leather-and-whips.
Instead of happiness / celebration / victory, the tickler seemed... stern. Solid contempt.
He knew (without knowing how he knew) that this was an act. The tickler enjoyed this too. But there was absolutely nothing in its presentation to give away that it was acting.
It wasn't just disgusted with him - there was stone-cold fury. He was a bad man, here to get punished. It was time to get enough motivation to pay attention to something other than his rich-kid heart. And having him completely helpless, like this, just allowed it to throw every shred of courtesy aside. A danger to the good citizens was confined... and the retribution would be his undoing. The fury and disgust were held in check only by the fact that he'd be staying around to be shown just how much it hated him.
A lifetime of tickling was what it apparently wanted to give him. If it made him suffer all day, with shorter breaks, and then all night as well, that wouldn't come close to what he deserved - hell, no - because the need for sleep would take him down before it had dished out all of the proof of its complete victory. Then valuable time would be wasted until he woke up again...
Dammit, there was nowhere near enough time to vanquish him, and there never would be. But right then it had the opportunity to make him suffer as much and as long as it could, primarily with intricate tickling, and at least for now he was totally gonna pay.
Hollow fear was inside him now... like a trapped mouse, afraid to move. The torment would come, because the torturer had immobilized him and it had many advanced-tickling punishments in mind, He was cowed and intimidated. This was not the time to shoot off his mouth. It wasn't even the time to say that this was so much scarier than when the tickler was happy, and forced him to be happy too. He expected that nothing he could say would be acknowledged at all, and it sure as hell wouldn't soften the tickler's vengeful attitude any.
 

The next day was a little different.
He feared, rationally or not, that the gloves would slam down... and just inflict as much pain as they could. Even the rage didn't keep them from tormenting him slowly, even delicately. Their superiority was influencing the perception of truths that were not obviously related to complete physical control.
He'd been delirious, and aching in that showered-with-pleasure way. The tickler clearly thought that was as it should be. The driving, hungry ache that drove it was that the torture could never, ever be enough. However long he'd imagined it was going to keep him there and tickle the shit out of him, this new mood of the tickler's had him imagining the insanity going on until he was 40, and 50, forgetting all about the life he used to have, with the intensity of its hatred not diminishing at all. Even if he lived another century, it would lose him before enough retribution had been doled out.
Apparently there was nothing amusing for the tickler now. Foundational satisfaction remained, and it was every bit as focused as before. Driven to pour it on, even if there was no possible way to cause enough suffering, and if there had been enough hours in a day maybe then it would start to... need to make him suffer a little bit less. The tickling would still be relentlessly thorough, of course.
He'd had the weirdest feeling, during the shorter rest breaks - a longing that it wouldn't be so intensely dissatisfied with how much of an enemy he was. Knowing to his core that the torment wouldn't be any different, he still kinda wished there was something he could do so that it didn't feel so... hopeless? Intently plugging away at an task that was still incomplete.
No less intense, the tickling - but his thoughts and reactions were so different.

More rarely yet, there were rounds of excruciating tickling - painfully effective. Not long and not often, thankfully, but the contrast was huge.

Hours crawled by, and when he could manage to think at all, the desire was rather urgent. There had to be a way to make the tickler... suffer less. It had infinite energy, and was just grinding away at a job that it had decided could never been done to its own satisfaction. It was really stuck on that idea.

He longed to be able to say something to... ease its pain. But that was ridiculous, and he also felt sure that if he spoke at all the torture would become unbearable... starting perhaps with the cruelest possible tickling, and getting worse from there?

Such a long day...
 

Hands shoving him until he woke up again.
"Well - huh? Huh?" All excited. Goofy. What the hell?

The tickler wanted to know if the S&M riff "helped". Actually, if it just made fim "get into it" more. As if that mood could increase and deepen his ticklishness too. So eager to see if it worked for him...
Reassurance. It would never hurt him, ever. That threw him for a loop. His cock just ached from cum-denial. Of course it had been hurting him. And it knew that...
Wait. "What does the word 'hurt' mean to you?"
There was a moment of confusion - then the beaming joy was back, soaking him, reveling in his ordeal because it had really won. "Hurt," it informed him, "is anything that interferes with you feeling the tickling."
He was stunned. "That's not my definition, he thought. Or most people's."
"Aw, I know," it soothed. "But I'm in charge, here. I get to decide... well, everything. You're gonna keep aching, and suffering, from far more pleasure than you can even comprehend. Feeling the impact more and more and more. It's why I have plenty of restraints, right here. The door is locked, and that confirms that you have no chance at all of evading the tickling... I took so much care to pick a secret cell for you."
"No one knows," he sighed.
"Hee hee. Look at the door, laughing boy. Really look. Solid maple," he was told. "Lock after lock. That's how intent I am, and how successful. Nowhere near done with you."

Slow, raspy giggles ooze out of him. He blinks.
Feathers are busy everywhere. Some of them tickle next to the determined gloves carefully taking their time on his meat.
Too overwhelmed to keep laughing right now... the urge to giggle - and be so much happier, as a direct result - sorta soaks him.
He tries forces it out faster. Then it rises in pitch. Not even close to voicing the amount of impact he feels, from all the feathers... but the happy noises arrive and for a while he can't stop them.

Next, brushes are settling on his torso. Stiff bristles for his belly, seductive fur around his pecs.
"Ready to whoop?"

Gradually, inexorably, he works harder at making the happier sounds. Gotta whoop, diligent and immediate, urgent, really sounding unhinged.
Suddenly the tickling stops.
"Look," it says gleefully.
About fifteen oiled gloves are waiting.
"You're gonna roar - so fuckin' hard - in your head. But the reaction inside is just too enormous to get any noise out."

They really don't fuck around, these hands.
It's a good thing that breathing is involuntary... and so is smoking one cigarette after another, turns out. He's even managed to hold onto an unlit cigarette between his lips a few times as the phantom brought him to climax.
 
 

Again, as happens many times a day, the new intensity of the tickling is changing the way he thinks. Extending his capacity to comprehend more of the pleasure, feel it, and remain unable to do anything else.

"I can't... f-fuckin' take it anymore," he whispered, panting away. "I mean it... this time. No more, no, aw no."
A surge of childlike happiness -
The rotary tools floated down.
Oh, hell no. I'll explode. He snaps and kicks, groaning -
And of course, as he should've known, they started buffing right under the toe restraints.
Instantly, his world went supernova. Way too much stimulation racing around... He was at a celestial carnival, clutching on to a turbo merry-go-round for dear life, smeary neon light, heavy-metal music slurred from the Doppler effect. It was happy thrash music though.
All too awake. His tickle-receptors were good for many hours yet. He knew that.
Reality was just a big rainbow whirlpool sucking him down. The tail, which never seemed to move, was anchored to his toes. Triumphant tickling, alright. Redefining so many words...
 
 

He had a dream of... leaving. The morning after. Vaguely sore, but nothing like the first week, he yawned and sat up. Got a smoke. Clean clothes were laid out for him - and the tickler must've washed him down while he was zonked out. The door, oh fuck yeah, it was wide open. Get outa here, you. That's enough.
But there was a low chuckle. Deeply pleased. A little reverb in there. "You think it's not still on? Really?"
Obviously, it now had a firm grip on his dreams.
"You're gonna get more of the same, rich guy."
Everything whipped around, blurring...
And he floated.
 
 
 

Hands seemed to shake his shoulders. Damn, it had really let him sleep in -
Clothing. What a great dream.
But it was true! They were real - the clothes he'd worn when the prankster made him drive here. What he assumed was some kind of ownership tattoo explained the pad and the ache, high on his left bicep. There was a little daylight in his cell, because the door was open a little.
Carefully, he crawled off the mattress on the floor and got to his knees. There was some kind of ointment or something numbing his skin. It took walking around the stinky room for a minute to stop cackling so hard. It was amazing to have shoes and socks on his feet... and his wallet in the usual pocket of his shorts.
He lit a cigarette and went to the door. Taking a deep breath, he hoped the tickling was really over. Pushing on the door slowly, he saw his car and moaned happily. Hurrying to the car, he was cold - the weather was turning. When had the tickler start in on him? Then he remembered that it said it had spotted him at the end of the conference, which had taken place in the middle of May.
There was a carton of cigarettes and a few disposable lighters on the passenger seat -
And though he was scared to look, he found his keys in the center of the dashboard.
The car must've been taken care of - it started right up.

He turned on the heater, and looked again at the piece of paper that laid there under his keys. It was folded. Smoking hard, he finally picked it up and opened it. A chilling, but short message:
 

ISAAC - SO MUCH FUN
 
U N T !
 

He was really shaky as he lit his next cigarette.
"You know my name," he growled. "Of course you do. Wow. You found out what it means, I bet. 'He laughs.' Or 'son of laughter.' Fuck me..."
During his next slow drag, the other letters on the note made him freeze.
He rolled down the door-window and leaned back. "You son of a bitch." Shifting the car into drive, he laughed for a few seconds. Shaking his head, he managed to quiet down and smoke again. He could only hope it wouldn't be hard to find a highway or something. Get home.
"I am so screwed," he said to the windshield. Off he went.
"U N T," Isaac yelled. "Until next time."

2019