Room 13. Paolo wasn't superstitious, though. Mostly he wanted a cigarette. A pack of Camels and a six-pack of beer - fuck, that sounded good. But he'd promised...
He tapped on the door, unlocked it and let himself in. Decent enough room. Paolo never stopped this early on the way back, but he wasn't up to another argument with her after the long drive. He'd always thought this motel was out of business, but tonight the sign had been lit up.
Room service, he thought wistfully, I'm out of cigarettes. And beer. Dumping his stuff next to the bed, he laid down and fumbled for the TV remote.
Laughter.
A movie - what the fuck? A guy getting tickled. Naked. Strapped up to an old-fashioned rack, laughing his guts out.
Paolo groaned. Then he noticed a smell, and sniffed. Dammit... There was an ashtray on the nightstand, with a few butts in it. He hadn't even noticed. Dammit, he needed a smoke.
So much for decent maid service here, he thought. If there was any justice, though, this bedside table would have a pack in it, forgotten by somebody, with a cigarette or two left. He smiled, and opened the drawer.
There was an open carton of Marlboros. Eight packs in there.
For a few seconds, he looked at the cigarettes.
Crazed laughter came from the TV behind him. Gut-wrenching chuckles, teased out, ragged around the edges...
Somebody left their smokes behind. It was too good to be true. He knew better than to stare at 'em - and then he spotted a matchbook on the nightstand.
Twenty seconds later - much happier - he leaned back and exhaled smoke. It was like a sign.
The ashtray was next to his hand where it belonged. Paulo relaxed. She'd blow a gasket, but they were pretty much done anyway. He was so glad he never moved in with her...
Finding free cigarettes - now - was just as weird as the fuckin' movie. That shit was sick. He had his finger on the up-channel button but it was so totally weird that he wondered what could possibly happen next. The guy doing the tickling must've been trying to get information out of the laughing guy, but that was one fucked-up way to go about it -
A door opened. It was the bathroom door... in his room?
"What do we have here," a voice said quietly.
Paolo's head swiveled. He didn't see anybody there.
"Hey. Are those my cigarettes?" the guy laughed, then. Deep voice, coming from way up high - it gave Paulo the impression of a really big guy. And a strong one.
"Sorry, uh, I was fiendin' for one real bad. Tryin' to quit - Hey. Where the hell are you?"
"Right here," the voice said. Maybe a couple yards away. "You like tickling?"
"Huh? No. No way. It was just on the TV."
"Yeah, I know. It's a tape."
"It is?"
"One of mine."
Something moved, over by the door.
Paolo started getting up. "This is weird," he said. "The desk guy gave me the key to 13."
"Well, this is 13," the voice chuckled. "Guess he wanted you in here."
"Uh, I'll just -"
"This is my room. I guess Roger came through."
Paolo heard a sound. No way it could've been... what he thought it was. Crazy.
He leaned - and there it was, hanging from the door. A padlock.
That made him stare. An invisible guy had just locked him in? That was insane.
"Are you... even in here?" he barked. "Really?"
"Really. Just you and me."
The volume on the TV increased. Frantic laughter.
"I love tickling," the guy said. "Fuck. Nothing better."
Oh, shit, Paolo thought.
Something pressed on his ankles. It felt like... hands. Holding him down.
"Feet, for example," the voice said. "Tickling the absolute fuck out of a couple of helpless feet. Ribs, belly, armpits. For hours."
"Let... go," Paolo hissed, trying to kick.
"Easy," the voice snapped - and something wrapped around his arms, slamming him down on his back. Strong hands.
Panicking, he noticed his cigarette lift off the bedspread. The ashtray, which he'd slapped aside, floated up too. Butts were picked off the bedspread and put in the ashtray, which cruised over to the table.
"Lethal tickling, just about," the guy said.
"Uh - no. Help!," Paolo shouted. "Help, I'm locked in here. Some maniac -"
"The whole place is empty. Roger's gone too. I guess he doesn't wanna be tickled any more."
"Get your fuckin' hands off me!"
"So he sent you in here. To my room."
Paolo shouted - no particular words, just as much volume as he could - and fought the hands.
"Shoes off," the low voice said happily. "Socks. Jacket -"
"No!"
The laces on his sneakers untied. Both at the same time. Paolo couldn't get free. All he could do was watch his shoes fall off, and phantom fingers pull off his socks.
"You can't tickle me -"
"I can't?" A dresser drawer slid open -
Feathers. Maybe a dozen, pointing in all directions as if they were just grabbed by a fist - and floating toward him...
He writhed desperately as they were released over his legs, almost sprinking down. Then gloves rose from the drawer and started coming over. They were shiny. Maybe made just for -
"No! Noooooo! Help, help meeeee, he's crazy, help!"
"You sound pretty worried," the guy remarked. The hands pulled Paolo's jacket off, never really letting go of his arms.
"No. This is just too fucked up."
"I don't think so. This is perfect."
His shirt was pulled over his head... and taken away.
"Hold on," the voice said - and the hands moved fast. His belt, jeans... and underwear were peeled off. The hands seemed confident, even impatient. Why hadn't the fuckin' desk clerk told him? Ah - because this way he wasn't the one stuck in here tonight, with all these damn feathers -
And restraints. There was black leather floating out of another drawer.
Paolo fought with everything he had, and still had to watch the restraints catch his wrists. Straps pulled tight, wrapping around his ankles. Worse - even worse - thinner straps pulled each toe back. Serious fuckin' tickler, here. An absolute nightmare.
"Roger!," he screamed. "Don't let him do this! Get help! Help, somebody, help meeeee!"
"Oh, he's long gone," it snickered. "That was the deal. As soon as you walked your ass in here, I let him take off."
"Nooooooooooo!"
"And I turned the sign off, so nobody else will wander by."
Lunging around, kicking, tugging didn't work. He was pinned down. Magic fuckin' tickle-pervert...
"Hey."
"Hey, what?" he panted.
"I want you to catch your breath. Before I start. Take a couple minutes..."
The pack of cigarettes moved.
"Really think about what I'm gonna do."
"No," he said automatically.
A cigarette came, anyway. "Smoke it. Or else..."
"Help! Dammit. Okay." Paolo sighed disgustedly and took the cigarette between his lips. The matchbook floated up, opened, and a match was torn off. He took the light when it came, and immediately started pulling at the straps again.
"You won't get to finish this cigarette," the voice taunted.
"Let me go. Please -"
"Not a chance in the world. Full-scale psychotic fun. Right here."
"Haaaallp," he wailed.
"Got me a live one," the voice said. "Smoke up, buddy. And then you're gonna explode. Major laughs."
Oh, fuck," Paolo said, and took a drag.
"Got any plans?"
"Gettin' the fuck away from you," he shot back, trying to pull his legs free.
"No, I mean tomorrow. Gotta be anywhere?"
"Tomor- shit. Oh, no. Noooooo."
"And next week."
"HAAAAAALLLLLP! Fuck, somebody help me!"
"I think you're gonna be busy. Right here. So ticklish. You got it bad - am I right?"
"Aw please, pleeeeeeze -"
"Right?" it growled happily.
"Sure! Yeah, yeah, you're the big man in charge, invisible fuckin' hands - you let me go now, you mutherfuckin' freak, help... Somebody..."
"Expert tickling," it said coldly. "Nonstop. Goin' on all night."
"No - please, nooooo -"
"Last drag," the voice laughed.
Paolo didn't need to be told twice. Then, "You're not really gonna... No! No, no, please. I'm...Oh, c'mon! This is a fuckin' joke!"
"And you'll laugh for hours and hours."
Whining, Paolo snuck another pull on the cigarette. Stalling -
It was taken away. He watched it fly right over to the ashtray and get punched out.
"Any last words?" the voice teased.
Before he could say anything, the feathers floated right up. Oh no, he thought, almost dizzy with fear, wrestling with all he had. Not feathers, in here, not like this.
"Plee-"
They swept down his soles.
"Noo-oooooh no no dammit no ih hih huh huh heee-eeeee," he laughed tensely, longing to break a strap.
"Tickle tickle," the voice said - ominously.
Soft, delicate madness moved up and down, across and back.
"Naaaah!," Paolo yelled. Kicking his feet free became the top priority. The damn straps weren't loosening up. He had to get out of here...
Giggling uncontrollably, he slammed his eyes shut, throwing his head all around. It was totally confusing that he wanted to get his legs off the mattress, so badly, and they didn't move. He tried everything to move his feet from side to side, and curl his toes.
The feathers kept tickling, and tickling -
"Deal with it," the guy said smugly. "If you can."
That made him angry. Paulo bounced and jerked as hard as he could.
When he stopped, the damn feathers were still gliding up and down.
Frustrated, he took a big breath - and just roared. Didn't know it was coming, but it rolled right out, angry and wild-sounding...
Over the next few minutes he found it harder and harder to move around. His mind was stuck on the picture of his feet - what he imagined they looked like, from up close. Leather anchoring his ankles, and the damn feathers wandering all over. More of 'em laying on his legs, conveniently close, and any second now the invisible hands could pick up a couple more feathers. Any time it wanted.
The motel was empty - and immediately he pictured his feet again...
"Paolo," the tickler said.
He opened his eyes, finally. Chest heaving, already, still pinned down to the fuckin' mattress, oh shit -
"Want me to let you go now?"
He nodded, over and over.
It laughed, and stuck another cigarette between his lips.
After he'd smoked it, and watched the butt cruise over to the ashtray -
Four feathers moved into position.
"No, no, aw please, no -"
"You're gonna get it."
Fuck, they moved -
It felt... stronger. Worse now that he had some clue about how it would feel, pure torture, starting right back up and he couldn't get his damn feet away. Twice as many feathers dusting now, over more of each foot. Constant -
Paulo squealed quickly and started laughing harder than ever. He couldn't stop it. His body pulled and twisted desperately, because the feathers were driving him out of his mind. Nobody else around to save him, padlock on the door.
Two of the feathers poked between his biggest toes, and he shrieked for all he was worth. It wasn't possible that he could be this ticklish -
Fingers started massaging the pads of his big toes. The little straps were spreading 'em apart, just as reachable as his armpits. He had to pass out or something. That was all he had left.
The feathers dragged slowly out from between his second and third toes - and Paulo tried to jump off the bed, absolutely screaming his laughter...
A good fifteen minutes went by. His brain was completely scrambled. Even the mental picture of his feet was cutting in and out, blown away by the sheer power of what his feet were feeling. A sharp, exciting wave of fire slammed its way up his body when each feather moved on him - and there wasn't a damn thing he could do.
I have to get out of here, he thought wildly, panting for air.
"You have no idea," the voice said coldly, "how much fun I'm going to have with you."
Paulo shook his head once, feeling stunned. Repeating what the tickler had just said, over and over, he thought about his armpits. If it found out - no, when it found out - he was gonna wish he was dead.
His fears were so overwhelming that he just couldn't get a grip on the situation. It had to be a dream or something, it just had to be -
There was a pair of gloves laying on the mattress, near his right hip.
Another cigarette was approaching. A familiar hiss made him look... and a bottle of beer floated up from alongside the bed. Imported. It was even cold.
How much worse would it be if he was drunk? Paolo had a feeling he was going to find out. Maybe not tonight. Next week. Next month - and he was just the latest victim. Prisoner. Something liked to catch guys and tickle them. That asshole desk clerk had seemed nervous, now that Paolo thought about it. Roger - he just wanted to get the fuck out of here. Maybe he'd bring the cops - and risk getting caught again? Punished. No, that wasn't gonna happen. Just his luck.
And now, a decent beer? The tickler could afford to be... nice. Take its time with him.
"Oh, fuck," he said, craning his neck to reach the lighter.
It ruled him now. Wanted that to be real clear, too. If it brought him cod liver oil, he'd chug that too. All these feathers...
"I'm not going to get you drunk tonight," it said. "Some guys really get loose, like it doubles the impact of the tickling. First I want to get to know your body. You've got potential."
"Puh... please," he begged.
The cigarette was taken away - hanging there, a few inches above him - and the beer moved closer. "Aw, you gotta be thirsty."
"No. Not - Gimme water. Okay?"
"Wrong. You're gonna have a beer first."
Two feathers, and then two more, came way too close to his feet. Paulo squirmed, groaning at them.
"A full hour of insanity. You want that?"
"No no no no no no."
"Then drink up. Right now."
With a last quiet whine, he lifted his head.
After a few swallows, the cigarette moved back in.
"Don't do this to me. No more... feathers."
"Of course I'm going to do this," it laughed.
A drawer opened.
"But I guess the feathers can be left alone for awhile."
He stared at what was approaching, and forgot all about the smoke.
Six brushes were swinging over him like pendulums. Giving him a good look...
"You can't be s-serious," he whispered. "I'll die."
The voice just snickered with that smug tone in its voice.
Two of the brushes had small heads, maybe half the size of a toothbrush. The bristles were dark and dense. They looked soft. Another pair had narrow bristles, more spaced out. And the third set looked like something a portrait artist would use to smear a lot of paint onto the canvas in a single trip.
Paulo just couldn't get himself to believe what was happening.
"Now these," the voice said, "are in the right hands."
"No!"
"Tomorrow's gonna be hot, too. I can promise you that."
The beer bottle moved closer, as if it was impatient for him to drink again.
"Here we go," the voice said -
Another big shock, even though Paulo tried to prepare. Not the brushes, he thought, oh no.
Each texture punched through the mix of insane... pleasure. That's what it really was. Far too much pleasure.
He screeched and barked laughter, lunging around, trying to get that through to the bastard - too much.
Well, fainting was apparently not in the cards.
The long line of bristles kept creeping across his soles and his heels, zig-zagging slowly, never coming to rest. Clusters of fur, large dots, rode the curves all around his soles, bending as they traced the edges. Constant, easy pressure.
And the damn paintbrushes stroked his toes. No hurry, all the time in the world, gliding up a toe and over
the tip, then back under again. He was terrified they'd get in between his toes again, any second now. It was only a matter of time.
He was drenched with sweat. Throat all dry, body almost too tired to move...
When a cigarette came, he didn't want it - but all of the resistance seemed to have been tickled out of him. Already.
"Let's continue getting to know you," the tickler said. "Just the very beginning of the beginning."
"No, no, no," he chanted softly - and then froze.
The gloves were being picked up.
He panicked, trying to move in every direction, as hard as he could. "You can't... fuckin' do this... to me," he babbled, "You can't. Listen. I'm gonna go out of my mind."
"Never," it sighed. "There's no way you'll miss out on a single second. I know what I'm doing."
Over his thighs, one of the gloves lifted up - they were big sons of bitches, too - and started getting full. Working down over a hand. Big, invisible tickling hand...
He whimpered as the other one was pulled on too. Paulo couldn't help himself.
"Oh, yeah," the voice said, as the fingers curled into fists a few times. "You're in the big leagues now."
"Please -"
"How 'bout I go easy. Just at first. So you can get to know what expert tickling feels like."
He couldn't take his eyes off the fingers. Confident as hell, with no hands in 'em that he could see -
"No point in skipping ahead," the tickler said happily. "You know. When these fuckers start really digging in, up and down your sides."
"Help meeeee," he wailed.
"Working fast," it gloated. "Ribs, armpits, belly. Moving over so I can set another pair of gloves down. And another..."
Paolo thought he was starting to hyperventilate. The cigarette was taken away from him.
They moved - no, oh no!
"Get away from me," he yelled.
"Hot feet, comin' right up."
"I can't... Please, I can't -"
They reached down and touched his toes.
The material was soft, whatever it was - and all those fingers trailed down...
He started hooting at a higher pitch than he'd thought was possible.
Firm, intolerable pressure slid down to his heels.
"Now, this is tickling," the voice said. "Huh?"
"No-whooooaaah hah haaaa-eeee!," he shouted, arching his back. The fingers had raked their way back up his sole - and reversed course. It was like... liquid murder. Oh, shit -
"You sure can kick hard," it said. "But that won't help you. I say your feet aren't gonna fuckin' move, Paolo. And I'm in charge here."
Solid dots of warm electricity eased their way back up his feet.
He screamed, and then whooped fiercely.
"Can you tell I love tickling?"
The fingers started to spread out as they traveled back down. Crowing, he managed to nod his head.
"Really? I mean, how much I live for this shit?"
Oh, hell, they were moving sideways on his right foot. Rubbing all the way around to his instep, and scratching gently back underneath. He howled again, throwing his head around, trying his best to jump from side to side.
"You don't seem to understand how serious -"
The gloves moved more quickly, just about when Paolo heard the word "serious"... and his bladder let go.
That didn't stop the fingers.
"Huh. I'll take that as a 'yes'," the voice said. It sounded stern. Definitely getting off on raking the fingers down, and up, rubbing up under his toes and back along the sides, squeezing his heels before they slipped under to trace along the underside of an ankle cuff -
Trying to stop the piss, he slammed his ass down against the mattress... and looked at his feet.
Four gloves. Oh, no.
Oh, yes, it had doubled the number of tickling, torturing fingers already.
He cocked his head back and just fuckin' howled.
It was so completely unbearable, and the leather made sure he had to lay there and take it anyway. The fingers were methodical, investigating different spots. Covering his feet.
He had no ideas left for getting away from the tickler. Thinking was too hard, anyway.
Definitely, it had his number.
That was impossible, and unbelievable... but he started laughing so hard that it sounded more like wheezing.
They were blowing his mind. All over each foot, there was the most solid, excessive stroking. And it didn't stop.
To take something that might've felt good, and twist it like this - knowing just how to lean in, finding the most sensitive spots, working this continuous fuckin' overload of pleasure into his soles, far too much...
And the restraints meant it could keep doing this all night. Locked room.
All alone with it -
He shook with laughter that had become silent a while back.
"Let me go," he managed, panting out the smoke. "Please."
"Now that's such a long way off, Paolo, you might as well put it totally out of your mind."
"I can't take this anymore -"
"Sure you will." The voice chuckled. "I'm gonna tear you apart. Slowly. Piece by piece..."
He shouted as hard as he could, but already it sounded raspy.
"A feather here, a brush there."
Laughter. Another voice. He lifted his head -
A pillow was jammed under his neck.
The TV was on. He had no idea if it had been off or not. His attention had always been on the gloves covering his feet.
There was a big guy on the screen with a lot of tattoos. His arms were pulled straight up, by a chain, and his feet were cuffed to a rigid bar that was chained up, well off the mattress.
And he laughed like he was having the time of his life. Careless, hearty laughter.
No gloves or anything were in sight, but the guy kept ducking from one side to the other, legs trying to turn, toes flexing...
Paolo looked around - and back at the TV. The video was shot right there, in this room.
"No," he whined.
"Meet Badger," the voice said. "He's got the house record, here. Unless you've got what it takes..."
Paolo wanted to ask how long - fuck, how many days had the poor bastard howled his head off - but he was afraid the tickler would actually tell him the answer.
A pair of oily leather gloves came into the picture, way up close to the lens. As they moved closer and closer to the guy, he finally saw 'em - and threw his head back, roaring so hard his whole body locked up. The fingers hadn't even reached his feet yet.
"Check him out," the voice said... with a tone that was about as creepy and obsessed as anything he'd ever heard.
Paolo just laughed and laughed...
The image of Badger stayed in his mind. Like some kind of advanced stage he was working toward, the biker was the image of his own future too.
New shocks got his attention as the brushes started on different spots. Moving around, tickling, always six or ten spots getting fucked with, going on and on.
His thoughts wandered from spot to spot, but he kept right on laughing. A special fear cut through the fever sometimes when he noticed his feet getting it again, or his balls.
It's not fair, he told himself endlessly. He couldn't talk himself out of being ticklish, and it was so fuckin' intense. Consuming. The brushes made him start laughing again, but it wasn't really any relief. Nobody else could hear him. Maybe hearing him laugh was like a drug, or a little extra kick.
There was a ball-gag sitting on the nightstand, way too close. So howling wan't the only thing it was after.
Tickling. Fuck. It just wanted him as deranged and scrambled as he could be. The fucking restraints - and the serious inventory of tickle-tools in the dressers - let it continue, on and on and on.
"You're going to eat," it said quietly.
"Lemme go -"
"The tickling starts up again in five seconds - or a half-hour from now. Your choice, Paolo..." And the fork just hung there, waiting.
He groaned, once, and nodded at the open can of tuna.
There has to be some way out of this, he thought.
A new cigarette slid out of the pack. Make him smoke, and then tickle him some more...
To get out of more tickling, he had to get loose. Or somebody else had to come in and help, but he'd never heard a sound from outside his room. Damn padlock.
It didn't want him to get away.
Badger had been in this room for a long time. Paolo had become certain of that, without knowing why. It was easier to think about the biker being put through his paces. Caught tight, lost in his laughing fever - as if the nightmare was still happening to him instead.
Paolo took another drag.
"Ready?" the voice said, bringing the gloves back down.
"No don't don't please no -"
"Another full day of... hard-ass tickling."
Silk fingers clamped around his knees. Over, and under.
Paolo shrieked once and started cackling.
"Regular, premium, hi-test," it promised. "Extra-strength."
Bouncing and twisting didn't move his legs anywhere near enough. The fingers knew all too well where to squeeze.
"Paolo's gonna laugh. Real hard."
No! Aw, no, there were more fingers closing just over his hips. Murderously soft, barely moving. If they moved up, he was gonna go bugshit again. If they moved down, sooner or later they'd end up playing with his meat.
He threw his head back and brayed.
"Then he'll just shake. Twitch. All-lll day," the tickler promised.
The fingers made him want to scream laughter - so what the hell, why not...
Yeah - hell yeah - room 13 is still a magical place.
Badger knew it too. Just unhinged. He laughed like a fuckin' madman here, holding nothing back... Did he have to watch video of some other guy, laughing longer and harder than he ever thought possible?
The biker understands. He knows what it's like in there, the days being so long and demanding... The dull feeling when you wake up and know there's more of the same coming today, sure as shit, never really stopping - and how the fingers never miss a trick, or tickle like they're getting bored with it. Not ever.
12aug2005