- - 6 - -
Roy gasped for air.
The rose wasn't tickling him. All gone. No more flower.
He was so glad. It had been maybe a half-hour, but it felt like it had been going on all night. Not that long at all.
And he couldn't believe how fucked up it made him. He couldn't take any more? What a crock. He'd never been so wrong in his life. Roy couldn't even imagine what he was in for.
It was so much more intense than Sherri or Winnie tickling him.
When his breathing had leveled off, a cigarette came to his lips. He needed it...
During his third drag, he saw something else coming. From the kitchen.
Four slim gloves.
"Oh no," he said, staring at them.
"Oh yes," a woman's voice said, giggling.
That hit him like a bucket of water. Hearing the voice.
The gloves floated up as steady as if they were on rails. A black pair, and a white pair. Shiny.
Roy strained the cuffs as much as he could. Watching. It was all the proof he could ask for - you're having a nightmare. Still asleep, Studly. Relax.
But damn if they didn't look real, there. Heading for his feet. He shook his head slowly, no no no no.
The white ones kept moving - but that wasn't Roy's main concern. The dark fingers pressed their palms against his soles, curled their fingers around... and just held him. Cool. Firm. Oh, fuck, they were all ready to drive him absolutely nuts, whenever they wanted.
The white gloves dropped to his shoulders... and started to massage his collarbones. Slow. Way too powerful for empty fuckin' gloves. They weren't tickling him - but they could. Roy was just about as tense as he could get, and it started to loosen up as the fingers squeezed his arm sockets, rubbed the base of his neck. They were... good. He was relaxing whether he wanted to or not. Physical cues, he thought wildly. Fucked beyond all comprehension.
He sighed. Sounding relieved. The soothing hands came to rest over his collarbones again, and the others were snug against his hot, tingling feet. "What the fuck... is this?" he groaned.
"A dream come true."
Again, he couldn't find the source of the voice - and then it struck him that it wasn't the same voice. Two invisible vixens.
"Or a nightmare," the first voice said. It giggled. High-pitched. Airhead -
"Or both." That was the second one. Husky. Sexy voice.
"Please. Don't..." he started to say, but it sounded lame. "Why are you doing this?" Not much better.
They both chuckled. "Isn't it obvious? Because we want to," the husky voice said.
"So bad," the first one added.
"Great," he muttered.
Their tone reassured him, in a weird way. Very candid about it. They'd just dreamed of... locking him in his house and... Damn, he couldn't even say it to himself. Not for real. At least they didn't sound angry. Maybe they wouldn't hurt him if he, uh, cooperated -
The bottle of whiskey floated over from behind him, seal cracking as it did.
"You look like you could use a drink, Roy," the sexy voice said.
"I could use a phone even more," he shot back. "Call the cops."
They both laughed. His cigarette was pulled and held off to the side, flicking ash on the carpet. The bottle moved right in. Roy tried to rear back, but more hands grabbed his head. Invisible. They slammed his head against the pad and pinned it. Something just like fingers pried his teeth apart -
"Oh yes you will."
Maybe three shots went down his throat, and at least that much ran down his chest.
"What a slob," the first voice tittered. "Messy." A towel came from the kitchen and wiped him off. Then the gloves released his head.
"How are you doing this?," he barked, watching the towel leave.
"Magic."
"Are you... real?" The leather gloves squeezed his feet. "No!" he yelled. "I, uh... I meant, are you... human?"
The cigarette backed away.
Warmth pressed against his face. Soft texture, over nice firm curves.
Before he even had time to think, his tongue was out. Roaming. Exploring. He didn't see anything... but he knew. The shape.
But he knew the shape. A pair of tits. No mistaking it. Roy licked and rubbed his lips over 'em, unable to help himself. It was automatic. He rolled his head a little, and a nipple dragged against his cheek.
They lifted off him. He sighed, fighting to urge to smile. Too dazed to move.
The leather gloves squeezed his feet. That woke him up in a hurry. He cringed, looking around wildly. Nobody else in the room. That the could see.
Nobody to help him...
The cigarette slid back between his lipss.
Just the gloves. Whoever was wearing 'em. Dammit - they could actually do it. Tickle him. And he couldn't do a fuc-
His cock. Automatically, he looked at it.
It was standing straight up.
"Human?" the second voice said. "Technically, no. Looks like we're maybe close enough for you, though."
"Shit," he said. "Yeah..."
One of the satin gloves moved - and messed up his hair. The squeakier voice made a happy noise. "You're just so cute!"
"Yeah. I'm just so... doomed."
"Well. That too," the second voice said.
The other white glove cruised to his head, and they started finger-combing his hair. He pulled away, but they persisted.
"Oh, Roy." The first voice again, playful - and it sounded as though it was just over his head... "I can't believe we've actually got you. This is going to be so much fun."
He groaned, and made himself stop it. Looking up, he finally said, "Do I get to know your names?"
"Thought you'd never ask," the husky voice said. The leather gloves squeezed him firmly. "I'm Max."
The white gloves zipped back to his shoulders and resumed the massage. "And I'm Lei."
"Huh."
"Just so you know," the higher-pitched voice - Lei - said, "so you're absolutely sure... we brought something special."
Sure of what, he thought. But he closed his mouth and just sighed again.
"Look," Max ordered. And he did -
A plain metal box. Black steel. Wire handle on top. Sold by the thousands.
The leather gloves let go of his feet, and opened it. He started to fidget. Coincidence. Had to b-
Max wiggled the fingers dramatically, reached inside...
And pulled out a big white feather, with rawhide tied around the stem.
Just like -
Shit.
No! It... was his box. From the bottom of the big closet, at home, under his deadhead-sandals.
Oh, no.
The glove turned the feather upside down, and waved it slowly over his gut.
Max chuckled once. "This sealed the deal, Roy. We hadn't made up our minds yet... not completely. Then we found this box."
The other glove pulled out a cock ring. Roy had forgotten it was in there. It was just about the last thing he wanted to see right then.
If the... uh, women found that box, they could've combed through the whole Saugus house.
And worse still, he'd been caught off-guard. His reaction to the box was unmistakable. Hell, there was no way to recover from it, maybe acting as if the toy box belonged to Sherri. He'd just confirmed, beyond all doubt, that he recognized it...
"That's not mine," he blurted anyway. "It's Sherri's."
When the voices didn't even bother to respond, Roy just closed his eyes.
Another cigarette came. The white gloves continued to do wonderful things to his neck. The black gloves didn't budge.
"Look. You can't do this," he groaned. Remembering the guy in the movie last night, caught somewhere. Still there, for all he knew. And all those boxes here, in the kitchen. Hell, the doors were chained shut -
Roy felt something move... in his head. It wasn't a tap, or a click. Nothing audible. Not really movement, either. A faint thump. Inside. An odd sensation, gone by the time he cocked his head.
Lei made a happy noise. "Now, Roy. Who does this box belong to?"
"Me." And he froze. I didn't... say that out loud. Did I?
"And who bought these feathers?"
"I did."
Shut up, he thought. Shut up! He concentrated on pressing his lips together -
"Why did you buy them?"
"I... wanted Sherri to tickle me."
This was bad. This was very bad. He couldn't stop himself from answering - truthfully.
"Uh-huh," Max agreed. "You, uh, expecting anyone to drop by? Here? Anyone at all?"
"Deets," he said immediately. "Maybe."
"Who's Deets?"
"Handyman. He takes care of the place."
"Does he just... let himself in?"
"Never."
"Knock on the door? Come here every day at noon? What's the arrangement?"
Frantically, he tried to shut up... "He walks around the yard. Cleans it up... The branches... Hears me pull in, I guess. My c-car. Or he sees if the lights go on and off in here sometimes... He waits for me to call him. He gets food. Brings the mail."
"Does he snoop around, Roy?"
"No. Never -"
"Goody," Lei said.
"Anybody else? From L.A., or the locals - anyone at all..."
He tried to come up with something. The local cops. His agent. Anything. Say "Sal", he thought to himself, concentrating hard on the name. Ssssaaall...
"Nope," his mouth said instead.
The black gloves started to slide and squeeze.
The white ones crept down into his armpits, dancing real slow.
Tickling.
"Ooooooo noooo hooo hoooo hoooooooooo," he wailed, flailing all around.
It was really happening.
Roy didn't believe it. Not just fingers, but impossible empty solid ghostly mean-ass magic slippery fuckin' fingers.
Cuffed down. Couldn't protect his sides. And his feet - forget it. There was no shaking 'em off. He was pinned. Tickled.
The hands made him roar.
He tried to believe he was still dreaming. Just a nightmare. Not real. It felt real, but it wasn't...
That didn't really help, though.
The fingers tickled, and roamed around, and tickled some more.
Why the hell not, he thought wildly, it wasn't like he was gonna be able to stop 'em...
- - 7 - -
After a long time, he felt smoke leaking out of his nose. He took a quick drag and panted it right back out.
"Water?" Max asked.
Roy opened his eyes. A plastic bottle was there, waiting.
"No? Okay."
"Whuh... Why?"
"Why what, honey?"
"Why are you doing this to me?"
One of them sighed. Deep satisfaction.
"We love the way you laugh," Lei said earnestly. "Love it so much... Watching you."
"And now feeling you laugh," Max cooed, "it's just spectacular."
"You never laugh enough in your movies -"
"Or in real life."
"But we figured you wouldn't just sit here and laugh for us -"
"Exciting, isn't it?" Max teased. "Custom restraints. They changed your attitude in a hurry, didn't they? Keep you from getting away. You're gonna laugh for us, sweetness. Stay in the house and take all the tickling we can throw at you."
"And it's so fine, Roy," Lei said - with way too much enthusiasm. "Causing all this frustration. I've studied massage for a long time, so I know how to set you off." She laughed.
"Anti-massage," Max added. "Techniques you don't want our fingers to use. Or the feathers... the brushes..."
"But I'll give you the best rubdowns, later. Real ones, Roy. Totally soothing. Lots of massages."
One of the black gloves took his cigarette away, and dropped it in an ashtray.
"This is addicting," Max said quietly. He watched the glove return and join up with the other black one - over his stomach. "Playing with him."
"I know!" Lei laughed. "Isn't it great?"
"No," Roy barked. "It's not great -"
But Max interrupted him. "Sure it is."
The white gloves slid under his knees.
"It'll grow on ya," Lei added.
"It better," Max said suggestively. A hint, or a threat -
The black gloves drifted down - down - touching him! Stroking, or gripping. Sometimes both.
He threw his head back and whooped like a maniac.
It was unbearable. He couldn't get up. The gloves didn't stop.
At some point within the hour, he smelled piss. More gloves came and cleaned him up. Paper towels, or something. He didn't know.
The four hands roamed all over him...
A different smell finally registered, and Roy knew he'd had another kind of accident. More time had passed, but he couldn't even guess how much -
Rubber gloves, he realized. From the feel. The texture. Wiping up the mess he made.
Soft, wet paper slid into his ass-crack. The cool rush of alcohol, rubbing along, evaporating.
Apparently they were going to take real good care of him.
The thought made him laugh harder, and attempt to twist his limbs.
Roy was vaguely aware of movement around him, but his main worry right then was catching his breath.
The night just defied all attempts to put it into words. He tried to figure out how he was going to explain it to Sal.
Fucking intense. Only getting started -
He was moving. Standing up?
No. There were hands. Holding him. Roy couldn't see 'em, but they were there. Around his arms, his legs... When he tried to jerk free from the hands, he discovered the cuffs were still on. Arms stuck behind his back, ankles together. Hanging a few inches above the floor.
He kicked as hard as he could. Barely twitched -
A cigarette poked between his lips.
When the lighter came, and he didn't fight the obvious, a satin glove slapped him on the ass. Max, he guessed. That seemed like more of a Max-thing.
He rotated, slowly, and started moving toward the hall.
"C'mon... ladies," Roy croaked, trying to pull free. "Let's do a deal. Anything you want."
Lei giggled. "Do you know where you're going now? Roy?"
"Uh. Bed?" No response. "My room."
"Not anymore," Max said. There was a pause. "It's got a new name."
He took a drag. Nothing more was said... and he finally caught on - they were waiting for him to ask. "Oh. What's the new name?"
"Tickleon."
"Oh please," he said, rolling his eyes. Of all the stupid, corny shit -
"A magical place. No day, no night... All measurement of time ceases to have any meaning, there. There's no such thing as enough tickling, when you're caught there. Think of it as a gateway. We're carrying you in, Roy. The tickling will seem like it's never gonna end. Starting again, over and over... and over..."
"You can't be that s- ... Uh, c'mon now. You wouldn't," he babbled. The room was still dark.
No matter what he tried, the hands held on. His cigarette was taken away just before he floated through the door.
As they pushed him down on the bed, ass-first, the door closed. Metal sounds came from it, dragging across other metal. A padlock. That distinctive click.
He fought as hard as he could, but the hands separated the cuffs and rolled him over. More metal, clicking - and his limbs started stretching out. They staked him down easily, efficiently. It was humiliating.
A light edge touched his left nipple. Dragging... Over to his right pec. Multiplying -
Oh shit, he thought stupidly, finding the energy to arch again. Feathers.
"Help! Aw haw haw haw haw huh heh haaaaaaaallllp!"
No one answered him.
Nothing changed... unless he counted the addition of more feathers. Sawing gently over his collarbones. Dusting his shins.
After more rest breaks than he could count, a new texture started in on him. His soles.
Firm little brushes...
And then the fingers came back.
The night stretched on and on.
- - 8 - -
He yawned. It hurt. He was sore. All over, like when he was training to do the rugby movie...
Black walls. The ceiling, too.
It started coming back to him. A water bottle tracked right to his mouth. Behind it, a smoke waited...
The door rattled. More specifically, the padlock. A key was turning -
When the door opened, Roy started pulling at the restraints. Pure reflex.
A tray was in the air. Waiting. Sherri had bought those trays in San Diego. The coffee carafe was alongside it, hanging there. They floated on in.
And then the damn door closed. He watched the padlock return and close up again.
"Hello?" he said to the tray, feeling like an idiot. No one answered.
Pillows were stuffed behind his head. Upside-down plates lifted off with a dramatic flourish. Bacon and scrambled eggs. Waffles.
The fork levitated and started shoveling eggs into his mouth. A strip of bacon followed it. It was weird enough to watch a cigarette coming - but food... held by invisible fingers...
As he chewed, Roy wondered if the hands had washed themselves after they'd rubbed his nuts. Or maybe they didn't need to. Then he realized what he was thinking about, and told himself to shut the hell up.
A cup of coffee, a cigarette, some water.
Another cigarette. No hurry.
He kicked out smoke and watched the carafe pour again. Plenty of time... To lay there, smoke, get real nervous.
A new cigarette didn't come. It was time. Shit. The pillows were taken away, one by one.
Lots of red satin gloves cruised out of the bathroom. The first pair waited, by his feet, until the... uh, the seventh pair was ready to dive into his armpits.
"Please, no, aw please, don't, please," he babbled.
But the fingers landed anyway. Enthusiastic fuckers.
Every so often, Roy decided he couldn't take another second of it. The next step seemed to be to let them know. He couldn't quite remember how to talk, so he couldn't tell them.
Not that it would have mattered...
More water came. And went.
Cigarettes, and food. Sleep. A big endless cycle.
Gloves, brushes, feathers, oil.
They rolled him over sometimes.
Put him on the rack...
The web was especially intimidating. Straps and chains, hanging from the ceiling. For the first half-hour, it was too much like falling. Then it reminded him of... swimming, in the air, without ever getting out of reach of the things that were tickling him. As he got tired, Roy just had to hang there. Sweating, quivering, getting teased on all sides.
But even that wasn't the worst part. He didn't hate anything, or fear anything, worse than the mutherfuckin' stocks.
Every time he woke up, he was still there. Rack, hanging-straps, stocks, bed. The impossible things kept on happening.
He was getting more ticklish. They had some way to wind him up. He didn't know what. After a cum-shot, it was... The sensation blasted up to a level that was just unbelievably insane.
And then it would increase again! After the second cum-shot. And the third.
Different oils, different brushes. Or just plain old fingers. Leaning on the spots that were the most infuriatingly fuckin' sensitive...
Finding new ones. All the time.
- - 9 - -
Roy coughed himself awake. He knew better than to hope for anything... but he did anyway.
His right arm wouldn't move - but his left arm did.
That puzzled him for a minute. Finally, he realized he was laying on his side. He opened his eyes - and saw his living room. Oh, fuck. Hooray. Finally out of the bedroom, then.
Shiny metal was hung by the door. Chain links, pulled through the sliding-door handle... and locked to those loops on the wall. Shit. He wasn't out of the woods yet.
For the time being, he was just happy to be out of the fuckin' bedroom.
The refrigerator door opened.
"Good morning, handsome."
Roy groaned.
They let him take a shower in the guest bathroom. There were steel slabs blocking the window, and they didn't budge much at all when he pulled on 'em...
A hot-pink thong was sitting on the sink. Waiting. No other clothes around. He scowled at it.
Then he put it on.
He paused at the door, wanting to turn right and at least get some sweat pants. But going back into his room seemed kinda risky. That might be just what they wanted him to do. Drag him over to the stocks, giggling as they did.
Besides, something smelled good. His stomach gurgled.
The lasagna was excellent... and that just irritated the hell out of him, somehow.
Well into his second beer and a new pack of cigs, he sprawled on the couch. Waiting. But nothing moved - no roses, no gloves, no feathers. The suspense was killing him.
"So."
"So?" Lei teased.
"Wha-" But he caught himself. Don't give 'em an opening. An excuse. "I, uh, don't know what to say."
"Poor Roy," Max said sarcastically. "Pins and needles, huh?"
"Uh-huh."
"We're not going to jump you... for awhile."
Enormous relief rolled over him. He was at a loss for words.
They laughed. He'd been hearing a lot of that. Their laughter. Lei's squeaky giggle, and Max's slow chuckle. He was just cracking 'em up.
"I think he's disappointed," Lei said, pretending to be serious. Mocking him. "We could always change our minds."
"We could," Max agreed. "That's one of the great things about being us."
Roy's heart was racing right along. He looked at the phone again, so far away.
"Or I could give him a massage -"
"No! Uh, no thanks. Not now."
A cardboard box floated in the room, from the hallway. Roy tensed up.
"Easy, big guy," Max said. The box touched down over by the TV.
"Whew," he sighed. A videotape floated out of the box -
It was a copy of Faded Moon.
"What is this?," Roy demanded.
"Just some movies," Lei said.
"My movies?"
"Well... Yeah!"
"You've gotta be kidding me."
"All twenty-seven of 'em."
That total wasn't right. Was it? Were they counting the one they made... the first night?
They wouldn't. No one was that cruel -
"You're not... Uh, we're not going to, uh, watch 'em, are we?" he said hopefully.
"Not all at once," Max shot back.
"We want the inside scoop," Lei said. "Details."
Faded Moon was put back with the others... and another one was selected. He couldn't see the case, and he figured that was intentional. The tape disappeared into the VCR.
"Are you gonna tell me," he said, getting mad, "Or am I supposed to guess?"
"That could be fun," Max pondered.
"It's Trashdawg!," Lei sang out, way too happy about it.
He just sat there. No.
When that horrible theme song started playing, he closed his eyes.
"How did you find a copy of th-"
"It wasn't easy," Max said.
He'd forgotten how awful Trashdawg really was.
"Look at him. Why, Roy, are you blushing?..."
They quizzed him about everything. The other actors, the director. A flubbed edit. It was painful enough to hear, and Roy couldn't bear to watch most of it. To his horror, they were pretty familiar with it. They teased him mercilessly.
But Max asked shrewd questions too. Pausing as if she really wanted to hear the answers, challenging him when he tried to sandbag her on some technical details. What all that meant, he'd couldn't say... but it scared him somehow.
Another box was hauled out.
It was full of tickling videos.
- - 10 - -
"Shit," he muttered, watching a tape slide out of its box.
"Oh, you're gonna like this," Lei promised.
He started to get off the couch. Real sneaky -
But his arms slid out from under him. Gloves had curled around his wrists, and his forearms. Leather. Biker gloves.
Roy tried to yank free, but they pulled his arms over his head and pinned 'em down. More gloves jumped on his legs.
"C'mon," he whined nervously.
The sound of drums came out of the speakers. Big drums -
Lettering appeared slowly, white-on-black:
FEATHER THERAPY
His heart thumped in his chest.
When the first scene was an empty padded room, he wasn't exactly surprised. But he fought harder. The gloves just pressed him down into the couch. He laid there, stretched out, and tried to think of something to say. Get 'em to let go...
On the TV screen, a door swung open. The camera was mounted up by the ceiling. Predictable. When a head bobbed into view, Roy wasn't all that surprised.
It disappeared for a second, and then a guy was dragged into the room by six other guys. They wore hospital scrubs.
The "patient" was a big guy. Long hair, tats everywhere. Naked, except for big rawhide cuffs. They wrestled him down to the floor, and attached chains to the restraints. Then they left him there, yelling and thrashing around, and walked out. But the door was still open.
The lights dimmed. All the way down. The guy cussed up a storm...
After a few seconds, there was a dissolve and a jerky splice. Roy could hear the guy snoring. Some time had supposedly gone by.
A beam of light clicked on. Red. Very small, but bright. Flickering - a laser. And something moved, into the light, and paused.
The tip of a feather.
Fingers, wearing a rubber glove, twirled the feather slowly.
Surprisingly effective. Roy wanted to scream, anyway.
The beam revealed another feather. And two more - six more.
The camera angle changed. Somewhere near the guy's head. Eight feathers, eight hands - and except for the gloves, the FX guys must've been wearing black. Cut to the hallway, where the door was swinging in. Closing.
A cigarette came up to Roy's mouth. He didn't realize, until he saw it, how fast he was breathing...
There was another noise, softly grating, as the lock was engaged.
The next shot was of the victim. Waking up. The angry red light drew stars on the padded floor, all around his head.
"Whuh?," the guy said. Sleepy. Almost a sigh -
Cut to darkness - no. Red light. Horizontal lines. The camera trucked back. Skin - the curve of the guy's heels. His soles. Fuck. His big toes had calluses on 'em.
Feathers were striped with the light, as they moved in...
"No! No uh fuhaaaaaah hah hah haaaaaah!," he shrieked. Very ticklish.
Roy took a long drag, forcing himself to stop trembling.
Four feathers, moving fast. Strobing laser light. Toes trying to curl.
Crazed laughter, yelled real loud, and desperate wrestling... but the victim stayed right there. The feet shifted a little, but that was it.
Feathers were shown dusting his armpits. His belly. Quick shots.
Between his legs. In his ears. The guy tried to move in every direction, but there was no getting away.
Roy moaned.
At some point, between cigarettes, a whiskey bottle came up to his mouth. He drank up without taking his eyes off the screen.
The prisoner was given a rest break. He'd started pulling at the cuffs, grunting. Pure desperation. Roy could relate. What really made it worse was that there was absolutely nothing the guy could do to change what was coming. And it looked like he knew it was hopeless. But he struggled anyway.
He had to. Roy understood. A guy couldn't stand to just lay there...
Red light scanned across him, ranging from his nose to his feet. He was sweaty. His mouth was open, sucking air, like he couldn't fuckin' believe it. More of the same, coming right up.
When the beam snapped to his belly, making circles, he went rigid. So did Roy.
The shot changed. Overhead. He had a big tattoo there, of a couple, the guy's hands around her thighs, his head buried between her legs. Eating her out -
Fingertips. Pale latex, red light.
No feathers, this time. Four hands moving in.
The guy squealed, and tried to rock from side to side...
"Roy?" It was repeated a couple times before it registered.
"Yeah?"
"You look like you're really getting into this flick." It was Max.
He looked around, feeling like he'd been caught doing something wrong.
"Are you feeling that sorry for him? That inmate? Poor guy."
She's really into head games, Roy thought. Watch out...
On screen, the gloves pounced. Rubbing the tattoo.
"Or do you wish you could... trade places with him? Right now?"
After a second or two, he dared to blink. To buy time, he took a long drag off his smoke. "You're twisted," he finally said. It wasn't a lie, and it sidestepped the question. Roy didn't especially like the real answer, when it came to him, and he sure as hell wasn't going to admit to anything.
The laser made a bigger circle. Showing the tats on the prisoner's chest... and biceps.
Fingers slowly crept up from his stomach. Into the light.
There was a long montage of shots. The hands, tickling. Everywhere. Making him bellow, throw his head around. No defense. Hardly any cock-teasing, and it took Roy a while to figure out why. They were doing that on purpose. Denial.
If the victim was aware of that, it sure didn't show. He was out there. Gone. The fever was raging. Roy pictured himself like that. Totally crazed. Oh, hell, Max had camcorders, right? He'd know soon enough...
After more tickling, and another break, there was another montage. Shaving his chest. His armpits. All the way to the top of his feet. He begged, mechanically. His voice was low and raspy, monotonous, utterly without hope.
When the gloves had wiped the hair off, one of them squeezed a white bottle. Oil. Baby oil? Maybe. Up his legs, detouring around his crotch, criss-crossing on his torso. He found new energy to squirm -
The fingers were brutal that time. No fuckin' around.
The camera backed away from the prisoner. Quick red circles of light showed him - shinier than was before - getting squeezed and scratched. Roy couldn't see the guys that had to be there, all in black, outside the range of the laser light. But they were busy. Two gloves started sliding up his thighs, and another pair landed on his knees, pinching, scratching underneath. He bucked twice, weakly, and stiffened up... but he couldn't hold the rigid posture. Too tired, or too distracted -
Jump shot. The camera was now peering through the little window. Dark metal slid down, blocking the view. The camera rolled away quickly, and passed a dozen doors. All open. Their rooms were dark. Then the ward door swung shut with a loud clank. "B-2" was stenciled on it in big white letters.
There was a wipe - to a countertop. Pulling back, the camera showed a bank of monitors. A baton, like a cop would have. Coffee mug, pack of cigarettes -
Cut to... big hands, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. Then they dug through a tray, and picked a file folder. Took it out, opened it...
Mug shots. The prisoner. The guy who was howling his guts out in the locked room.
"TRANSFER" at the top of the form, in big black letters.
Close-up of a pen, writing. Then a cut to an extremely tight shot of what was being written. INDEFINITE.
On another line, next to "New Location:", the pen paused over the paper for a second or two... and went away. The field was blank. And that hit Roy like a slap upside the head - deliberately leaving it blank like that. Fuckin' twisted. No record in the file of where the victim was taken.
The hands closed the file folder and picked it up. Uniform sleeves were visible. There was an emblem on the wall, with points like a badge, but it was barely in the frame and Roy didn't make out any words.
The guard - apparently he was a guard - took the folder to a file cabinet. They opened a drawer labeled "PSYCH HOLD". Then the camera cut to the folder again, held by those latex-coated fingers. After a long second, the hand moved -
Above the file cabinet.
Reaching back, until you could almost make out the patch on the guy's arm... All the way to the wall.
Aw, no, Roy thought. But the fingers... just let go. The file folder slid behind the cabinet. His stomach lurched when he saw that.
The sound of the drawer closing - and the guard turned around. He picked up the pack, with those gloves still on his hands, and moved a clipboard - revealing a feather. Hidden, until now. Long, brown-and-black feather -
The hands picked it up, and ran a thumb over the soft edges. All the way to the tip. Then a chuckle was heard... and a sigh. Satisfied. Anticipating something fun.
Fade to black.
Roy sagged back against the couch.
Without a word, the gloves started picking him up. He fought, but they carried him over to the bench and got the cuffs on. Smooth and easy.
When another smoke wasn't coming, he groaned quietly and closed his eyes.
"Which movie did you like better?" Lei asked.
Roy was still gasping for air. They'd been... very energetic. He had no idea how many hours had gone by. He looked around.
"Be honest," Max said. But there was a threat in her voice.
"Fuh..."
"I know. Tough spot to be in. 'Feather Therapy' is one of Lei's favorites -"
"Oh, yeah," Lei confirmed happily.
"And she'd love to pull you out of the general population. Lose your paperwork."
"Oh, c'mon," Roy protested.
"How 'bout a beer?" Lei said. A bottle hissed as it was opened.
"Not that I'd mind it, myself." Max sighed. "Maybe we'll just get you lost in the system, Roy."
"Nn-nnuh. No."
"Think about it. That guy's life has gotten ridiculously simple. No accountants, no agents. No people at all. He doesn't even have to worry about ordering groceries or anything."
"Just tickling," Lei added.
"Doesn't that sound good? Roy?"
"No... Like it matters. What I think," he panted. The beer bottle was stuck in his mouth.
"Of course not. But you'll see. I bet it's liberating, sweetcakes. Free from all those worries - and you know you worry too much -"
"Liberating?" he sputtered, unable to stop himself.
Rubber gloves appeared above him. All of a sudden. Ten or twelve, oiled up. Ready to tickle.
"Leave everything to us," Lei said.
"Nooooooo -"
"Everything," Max said firmly. And the gloves started to rub.
- - 11 - -
"Roy."
Hands were shaking him. He opened his eyes.
The gloves were holding off. Just until he caught his breath. He pulled at the cuffs. "What?"
"How long until you... absolutely have to be somewhere? Anywhere other than here?"
Answer fast, he thought. Credibility... "Uh... End of the... m-month." Oh, shit. Now they'd think they could do this to him for, what, three whole weeks?
Something tapped him on the side of the head.
"Sweetie?" Lei said. "Let's try that again. We're talkin' some event you just can't miss. A court date. Something that important. Hmmmmm?"
"Oh," he said - out loud. He hadn't meant to say it... out loud. Roy closed his mouth. Don't say anything shut up shut up sh-
"My next pruh... project..." Don't say it!
"How long, Roy?"
He groaned. Couldn't keep it in. "At least... a year." Whew. There. It was out -
Nothing happened. Or rather, everything stopped. He couldn't comprehend what he just did. Sure, it was true... He didn't really have to be anywhere until they were ready for him to loop his lines, but h-
A glove dropped his coffee mug. It bounced off the edge of the bench and hit the carpet.
Roy looked down at it. It was the first time he'd seen 'em drop anything.
"Did you say... a year?"
Silence, dammit. Don't move, don't even blink -
"Yeah." And his head nodded easily.
"Will you... uh... excuse us a moment," Lei said, shoving a cigarette in his mouth, lighting it real fast.
The gloves fell out of the air. All at the same time.
He pounded his head against the headrest, deliberately, over and over and over.
They hadn't known.
All this trouble they went to - even the video! - and they must have been thinking of, what, the rest of the month? A whole month?
Until he popped out with that answer.
He couldn't help it.
Or maybe they were gonna lean on him to come back. Voluntarily. Yeah. After all, it's his house. Oh, sure. Schedule some downtime. How does winter look for you two? Then I guess it'll be barbaric for me. Huh.
Why the hell did he say that? Why? To them? It was the first time, since he moved to L.A., that he'd ever been able to free up such a huge chuck of time. He'd been daydreaming about it. Lying around. Doing nothing...
They had other plans for his ass. Stick around, Roy. We'll keep you in hysterics.
Until next July. It was absolutely impossible.
Wasn't it?
Unless... he checked in with people. Now and then. A phone call would do it for his friends. And Sal, he'd get annoyed. Maybe. But he didn't know where Roy's lake-house was. Roy made it a point not to tell him. Sal knew, better than anyone, that Roy's schedule was clear. And with Sherri gone...
The big-time star goes into seclusion. Coming to terms with the wreckage of his marital dream. Taking some time for himself. With Deets bringing more food, the mail, cigarettes - just about anything else he was asked to get.
A year.
It could work.
"Stop pounding your head, studpuppy."
He looked up. Lei's voice seemed to come from across the room. She sounded like she was trying to sound normal.
They knew. They'd figured it out, too. Oh, fuck no. No...
He watched the gloves rise back up, getting firm. Stared at 'em. It was just unbearable - the thought of another minute of it. Roy wanted, so bad, to get up and run away from 'em.
A year, at least. Wrong fuckin' time to tell the truth.
Where were we?" Max sighed.
A pair of feathers came over too. He tracked 'em. Armpits, it looked like.
Remembering all those boxes. All that tickling shit. A year. An impossible, ridiculous, heart-stopping year. Foregone conclusion, already. They'd love to give it a try. Fuck, even the gloves were moving different. Jerkier. Not as smooth. They were too damn excited...
Roy just sat there, watching the gloves carefully take possession of his feet, and his ribs. He tried to find a way to play it off as a joke. Take it back. He couldn't come up with anything. It was too late to backpedal that much.
"Uhhhhh..." Think faster, dammit. "How, uh, how long were you originally gonna. Going to... uh -"
The gloves froze. And there was a long pause.
"What the hell," Max said cheerfully. "A month."
That sounded bad... Wait. Oh no. "fu-uckk," he drawled. Only a month? Only one? "I was kidding! You know I wasn't serious, right?"
"That answer, Roy... I mean, whoooooooo, that just changed everything. From here on out. Every...thing."
"We're going to need some firewood, Max. Lots of f-"
"But... it's July!" he protested.
The gloves started tickling.
"Jooh joooowhaah hah hah haw aaaw haw haw haaaawllll naawww haw haw haw haw..."
"Of course, Roy," Lei said soothingly. "But winter's coming."
He wailed laughter.
They laughed along with him.
Every time he thought of it, the tickling hit him ten times worse.
A year. At least a year.
They can't. They just... can't.
But they were. Right then. Weren't they? Oh, yeah.
Sure they could.
Minutes crawled by, each one demanding his most intense concentration. Fixated on the tickling. He couldn't help himself. And he'd go and think something like... I'm going to be feeling this for the next six to twelve months. Roy felt the sensations double, or triple, just at the thought. Hell, four times as strong. All he had to do was alternate. Focus on the present instant... and picture sixty more, times 24, times 7, times 52 -
Oh, fuck! It exploded into a much worse need to laugh, to record every little movement they made.
Those fingers, the ones tracing up and down the sides of his feet. Down and up and down. The ones squeezing his sides. And his armpits. And his belly-button. Ten other places he couldn't remember the names of, right then.
Six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve...
The impact doubled again.
"A y-y-year," he panted. "S-sssix months, twelve mm-mmmm-"
"That's right, Roy. Twelve."
"Or more."
"Nnnnnnthh..."
"Yeah. Just watch us."
"You catch your breath. Take all the time you need, honey. Drink some water, have a few smokes..."
"And then we'll pick it up right where we left off."
On to Part 3
Back to Part 1
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