"Duuuuuuuuuke!," you yell just as loud as you can. "Anybody! Hellllp! Heeeeeeyyyyy!"
Nothing. Dammit -
The cuffs aren't breaking. It just doesn't make sense. You didn't go along with this...
Somebody's got your hands chained up. A big ol' snap clip has 'em together, and the rings aren't tearing loose from the leather. The big ring in the ceiling looks new and it hasn't budged. You can't get your arms down.
The same asshole took off your clothes. And it's invisible.
Both ankles, stuck against the pad. Damn cuffs. Thin leather straps are holding your thighs down. You can't lift your ass...
You've been yelling for five minutes straight. And pulling, but that didn't do any good. Your throat hurts, there were a couple of serious coughing spells - and the door's still closed. You can hear the band warming up. Apparently, nobody can hear you.
This is so insane. Hands you can't even see, pulling you in here... yanking your clothes off, and the damn cuffs floated right over. Magic.
There were fingers, just before. Digging around. And then the hands grabbed you -
"No," you bark at nothing. Fucker's still here, watching. You can't see a thing. But you can feel somebody here. Way too interested. The hands had made sure, before they decided to hide your ass, that you -
Don't even think about it. There's some big misunderstanding. Wrong guy. That has to be it, because there's no way you could stand five seconds of what those hands were doing at first.
"Help," you whine, snapping at the chains. "Duke. No, dammit. I'm not the one..."
But they went ahead and stripped you, didn't they? Made sure you couldn't get up.
Dammit, your sides couldn't be more open. Belly - and your feet are hanging out there. This has to be some kind of really bad joke. They can't be doing this to you, not this, it's too horrible. Twisted. The fucker studying you has got to be kidding.
"They're gonna come looking for me," you say again. It's not true, though. The amps are all set, and Duke all but told you to go after that delivery chick. Cindy, or some name like that. She was definitely liking what she saw, and Duke just laughed and elbowed you in the ribs. He'd cover for you, just like you've done for him a few times... and it's the last fuckin' night of the tour. You're done, after this concert, and they might just think you took off.
But the bastard who caught you doesn't know that. Maybe. If it wasn't listening - and yet the hands grabbed on as soon as Duke was out of earshot. Nobody fuckin' saw you get dragged away. Duke's thinkin' you're getting laid. You've snuck off before, like this. Everybody does it...
They're not gonna hear you over the amps. Just another sound check, right? Nobody's yelling for help just behind the fuckin' stack. Hidden in a damn closet nobody uses, cuffs and chains.
Dammit, all those people are on the stage, so fuckin' close!
All this trouble - somebody set this up, and looked around. Grabbed your sides. Hauled your ass inside, so -
"Stop it," you growl. Out of breath. It's scary. You gotta stop thinking about that. Sweat is dripping already, but the damn restraints are more than enough. They've got you. The hands.
Hell, Duke's gotta come looking for you. Ask you something. Open the fucking door and see you're in trouble, and it's not Cindy havin' fun. He's got to get back here. Send somebody. Get curious.
It's just an old closet. Nothing weird in here.
Tug at the cuffs. Kick as hard as you can. It can't really be out to do this, not what you felt it doing before. Whatever the fuck is going on, it -
You freeze.
That looks like... a pair of gloves.
"Aw no, no, dammit. I don't wanna - Duke! Anybody! Haaaaalllllp!"
Gloves. All full and shit, magic. Slow, casual, empty - or there's hands inside that you can't see. Got you all set -
The band is still playing. Nobody came when you yelled. They don't know. You're so fucked.
"Get - no, no, I don't... Let me go," you say to 'em. Thin black leather fingers. Some sick fuck brought these here, and then you, just for -
Aw, shit, you're in the worst possible position.
It's just out to scare you. That's gotta be it. No way this can really happen. Not to you.
They're shiny. It's like maybe the gloves were oiled or something. A dull shine. Leather fingers moving a little...
All into this shit. The asshole wearing gloves, bringing 'em closer. And then -
You freak out. Slinging around, wailing, they can't do this to you, there's no fuckin' way you can take it.
"You're not real," you shout, and your voice cracks.
Watch 'em, just not believing it's possible - as they touch your belly.
"Nooooo!"
Hell. They're skating across. Meeting at your belly-button.
It is real. Then it can't keep going, you think wildly. No movement does a fuckin' thing to get the fingers off. This is a big fuckin' bluff. That's gotta be it. The chain jingles a little, and the cuffs sorta creak. But you can't get away. Bare, and spread, you're just the way the fucker wants you.
After a pause, the gloves slide their fingertips back across, passing each other.
"No no nnno nooo noooo-ooooo," you moan. It's like tingling, only turned way up. Vibrators. They're barely even moving and you can't fuckin' stand it -
"Duke! Haaaalllllp!"
The gloves are... touching your ribs now.
"Oooooh shi-iit," you whine. It sounds weird. You wanna laugh - but that's just what the fucker wants to hear. The fingers are gonna make you howl -
Pull at the cuffs again.
Taking their time, the gloves pick just the position they want. This can't be really happening. It just -
Sliding. Up.
Bounce and shout. It knew exactly how tight to make the chains, though. Impossible.
They pause, and ease back down, barely even making contact. This is nothing - they can absolutely fuckin' drill you - and already you just wanna throw your head back and laugh like a fool. Somebody's just gotta look in here, before the bastard makes you laugh. Really laugh.
No. They're not stopping.
Your armpits -
All of the thrashing you can do doesn't change a thing.
Slippery fingertips make it to your armpit hair. The son of a bitch isn't really gonna do th-
Aw, hell.
Fight the urge to laugh, now. Maybe if you don't give in...
It feels insanely powerful. They're not even pressing down or anything. Just creeping around.
"Nnuuff-fff..."
The pressure is building up inside, getting out. Nonsense syllables. Begging woun't stop this bastard, and the door didn't open when you yelled.
That's it. This is real. It can't be, but here you are. Watching a glove as it moves.
Snag a breath.
Oh, no, no, you think sadly. Not this.
Laughter busts out. You're still fighting it, so the sound is definitely forced. You don't wanna laugh. The fucker knows that. You must've yelled "No" a hundred times.
But it brought the cuffs -
The fingertips are tracing around. Looking for the best spots.
With a big fuckin' squeal, you flop around... and start to hoot.
Insane. Impossible. You can't stop laughing now. The situation, your need to let it out, fuckin' hands still tickling away. Definitely real, no matter how weird. Oh, shit, you need this to stop so bad that it hurts. Kinda. Too much excitement wants out, right now, and the fingers keep tickling - more energy building up. It's crazy. You're losing it...
Kicking. Thrashing, actually. You have no control over it. It's sorta interesting. Your body is trying really hard to get away from the fuckin' tickling.
The gloves pull off.
You laugh for awhile, because it's all backed up or something. There are still giggles coming out of you as you watch the fucker's hands reach for your feet.
"Nooooo!" you scream. Fuck - it can't be serious!
Your legs won't move. This is very, very bad...
Light, and soft. Right in the center of your arches. The fingers are really taking their time. Well, you're not going anywhere -
That thought makes you gasp, all of a sudden. There's fingers sliding up on your right foot, and down your left sole, and you're really not getting away from this bastard.
Laughs just boil out of your mouth. They sound pissed-off, and anxious. But it confirms the worst. What the bastard already knew, from the first second it checked. You're just so damn ticklish.
The fucker found that out, and dragged you in here.
Close your eyes. Shake your head, too, as hard as you can. The fingers are checking out your heels, and now the sides of one foot. It's unbearable. You have to kick these damn cuffs off.
You're wailing. Very weird laughter. Intense, and wild. That's what it is... you sound like you're out of it. Already. The gloves are barely even -
Oh, shit, they're stroking your toes.
Get out of here, get up, move your ass right now! This is so much worse. Nothing should tickle this much - it's gotta be the stress. But your damn feet can't move. All theirs. You try to yell, or beg, and the way you're barking laughter there's no chance of saying anything. You're coming unglued.
The fingers are still moving. What?
Oh, no. Now you're really freaking out, still snickering like crazy - and the bastard's about to tickle your knees.
No, no, absolutely not. it can't do this. Not there.
Wham.
Huge fuckin' flood of... power. It feels - too much. Good, but way too good, a thousand times too much. The fingers are calmly tickling under your knees, not even hard at work, and you swing around as much as you can, howling like a wolf. It tickles so damn much and there's no way to get that across with the noise you make, but it doesn't matter 'cause you can't stop roaring anyway.
There's just blurry dark shapes doing impossible things - hardly touching you yet - and tears are running down your cheeks. It tickles. Oh, fuck.
Please stop, you wanna yell. Ready to beg 'em. It can't keep going. The fucker. You're perfectly stuck -
Whew. They're moving on.
No, wait - hell. Your thighs. This is unbelievable!
Squeaking, you giggle even harder. Your legs can't be this ticklish. It's all a nightmare. This isn't really happening, and definitely not with the bondage shit making sure you can't even budge. Staying right here while the asshole tickles, and tickles, and tickles, and tickles, here and there, stepping it up, diving back in as many times as it wants.
Surely they can hear you. Fuck. Then you remember the sound check. No, it made real sure you'd be left alone - with these damn gloves. Might as well be a million miles away. Fuckin' world champion tickler. And not a stitch of clothing on you.
They're still on stage, playing. Help is maybe twenty, thirty feet from where you're fuckin' trussed up - and they'd break the fuckin' door down in a hot second if they knew.
But how are they gonna find out?
The fingers are settling back down on your ribs. Wider. The whole fingers, now, and not just the tips.
No, no. Guys, Duke, you think, c'mon and help me. This is deadly serious...
The gloves just hold on. The bastard probably wants you to think about it. How awful, unbearable, and your hands won't come down. Sitting right here. You're really gonna get it, and the tickler wants you to know for sure. Not a dream. Hell, it's more real than you ever -
They're massaging.
You squeal loud.
A lot more tickling now. Move, jump, slam back, reef yourself forward.
The gloves are still there.
It feels... completely insane.
Oh, shit, you're out of your mind. The fire just eats you alive, and it feels incredible too - and that just fucks you up. It's exciting. Dangerously hot. No getting out of it, and this is so much more than you can stand. Smooth hands, squeezing and fingering - whatever tickles the most.
The door is all blurry, but you're pretty sure it's still closed. They can't hear you laugh. Incredible. Sound check. It waited until they couldn't possibly hear you.
They're in your armpits. No matter what you do, they keep on... tickling.
Insane, disorienting, and somehow wonderful too. But you've gotta get away from these gloves -
Oh, shit. The cuffs. That's right.
It's driving you nuts... and if anything, the intensity seems to be going up. Not another second, you think, or you'll just explode. Way too much.
And life just drags on. Time seems to have stopped - but not the fingers. Roaming up and down your sides, heavy sometimes, skipping up and down. It's so frustrating. You need to laugh a lot harder. What you really need is to get up and outrun these fuckin' hands...
It's so hard to move. Your attention is focused on the tickling. Or you're getting tired, which would also be bad. It wasn't like you could break the cuffs anyway, but somehow you're even more screwed now. And it gets to you so damn much. Rubbing, pressing in. Solid tickling. It's hard to breathe...
But that's happened before, now that you think about it - wondering if you were gonna pass out. And sure enough, the fingers are slowing down. The son of a bitch wants you to catch your breath. Then you'll be ready for more.
It's not going to let you pass out.
That scares the hell out of you. Get it together enough to fight the cuffs again. Laugh louder. Harder.
Oh, hell, they're really not gonna hear you. On your own - no, there's a bastard right here. Sticking close. Turning up the heat. It's making sure you feel it all.
This is not gonna end... soon.
That thought just makes you crazy. Flail around. It has to work - bust the rings on the cuffs - because you've got nothing else. This fucker's not anywhere near donw with you. It's felt like hours, but you realize the reality is more like a half-hour so far - of tickling. All-out, fuckin' expert torture. And it's not gonna end anytime soon.
Oh, shit, you're really in for the ride of your life.
The gloves clamp under your knees. Blinding - so damn good. You can't possibly take this. Shrieking laughter, bouncing around. But the hands are locked on.
This bastard knows what it's doing. The whole thing, at first - gloves moving like it's all thoughtful. Total pro. So into this fuckin' avalanche of tickling. Of all the dumbass things it could do to you...
It had to be into this. Expert tickling pro. Gloves all prepped, tearing you apart. Way too much excitement going on.
Oh, fuck no. They're moving down. No! They can't. It's gotta stop now. The bastard can't go back to your feet already. No, no, no -
Fuck. Wow. Insane. This is it. You're over the edge now. Serious hands. Ankles - caught. You just gotta do something, right this fuckin' second...
This is just unbearable. You can't break the cuffs. It's got you. No way you ever thought you could laugh this loud. Nobody's gonna be able to stop this asshole, either.
Sound check. Aw, shit.
Your feet are just on fire. How can somebody go insane from something that feels good? Turned up this high. You're spraying spit all over yourself, laughing so hard.
Quiet, though. Huh?
Fuck. You're so overwhelmed that the roars don't even make noise.
Now nobody will ever come looking. Not if they can't hear you.
Whining, you make yourself laugh again. The fingers are just insane. All over your feet. You can't possibly take any more of this...
Bouncing. No, it's like you're laughing really hard. Shaking. But there's no sound. And the tickler keeps the gloves moving. So it wasn't after the sound, mostly.
Still tickling you.
Oh, fuck.
No, please, no, please -
You're just repeating those words for awhile. In your head.
Everything throbs. Your chest just aches.
There's music. It sounds far away...
Eventually you recognize the song. It's on the CD they play before the concerts start. There's a concert tonight - the last one on this leg of the tour. You're in the theatre.
This is Toronto. Okay. Last night -
If that disc is being played, the concert's gonna start soon. An hour, at the most.
You've been getting nuked for a long time, then.
Yank at the cuffs.
Nope.
The house is open. the fuckin' tickling has been going on, and on. A good two hours. Closer to three. It seems like there was a nap in there, too. If they're playing the warmup disc now, you must've spent a couple hours unconscious. Getting all rested up - for tonight.
Aw, hell no. Everybody else went out to dinner. They had a good time. They must've wondered...
Shit. Unless Duke figured you did decide to go after that chick.
They don't suspect a thing. Probably not. You got a bad feeling, in your gut. Of course not. You won't even be missed until teardown - what, four hours off? There's no way you'll survive that long. Not tickling, aw shit...
"No way," you croak.
Voice is shot. That just figures. Even if they weren't playing the warmup CD, there's no chance in hell of anyone hearing you now.
And the tickler hasn't taken the damn restraints off yet.
"No, please - you gotta fuckin'... call it off," you say.
A water bottle floats up. Seeing it, you remember a couple others, earlier in the day. More tickling always followed.
You beg the bottle to let you go, and you really mean it. But why the fuck would it stop now? You're all rested.
Give those chains another good workout...
Oh, shit. Here they come.
"No! No, fuck no," you snap. "Nooooooo!"
But they're on a mission. No matter what you do, they're still gonna fuckin' tear into your feet -
Another pair. Shit! It can't be serious. Twice as many -
"Let me go," you yell. "I can't take any more."
They look like satisfied fuckin' fingers... landing one by one on your ribs. Touching the base of your toes -
A big thumb settles against the center of each arch.
Pull at the cuffs. Go wild. Screaming doesn't change anything, and neither does thrashing around. You're really gonna get it now.
They start to move.
15nov05