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- - 24 - -

About a week later, he knew right away something was up. They fed him a huge dinner, and then they wanted him to drink a lot of water.
The last glass must've been drugged. He faded out pretty quickly...

There was a sound he didn't recognize. And his face was cold.
He was wrapped up tight.
Roy yawned, so hard his jaw crackled. Then he opened his eyes.
Sky - dark. Nighttime. Stars.
Lifting his head, he saw the sliding glass door... from the outside. The privacy wall of the deck was behind him. He was laid out on his back, and in the light of a thin sliver of moon he could make out all kinds of straps. Leather all over him, too. Everywhere.
Trying to twist around, he felt a taut layer that didn't budge. Latex. They must've pulled latex on him, and full leathers over that. "Wha-"
"Ssssssh," one of them whispered. "Don't."
The tube from one of the squeeze bottles tapped his front teeth. He drank obediently, and wondered why he didn't have to piss yet... Or maybe he already had, and they just made him forget.
"We decided you could use some air," Lei said.
"But we can't have you getting your hopes up," Max added - and as soon as he was done drinking, a ball-gag popped between his lips.
"Max. What about... you know -"
"Shit. Okay -" Suddenly the gag popped back out, and a hand clamped over Roy's mouth. The fingers seemed small, and they were warm. He still didn't know how the hell they did that. A hat was pulled on his head.
Then the cap kept moving - down. Before he even caught on, the hand disappeared... the "hat" touched his chin, and the gag was shoved back into place. This time, the strap tightened around his head, even though he yelled into it, kinda pissed off.
A leather strap was being buckled under his chin. He threw his head around, but the hood was already in place.
"Very... nice," Max said.
Lei just laughed happily.
The sliding door closed - and locked.
He looked around, and pulled at the straps everywhere, all up and down him. The hood bugged him, too, but not nearly as much as that damn gag.

Solo time, on his deck, to watch the trees sway. Lie there and think.
Roy thought about cigarettes. Even though he knew better, he tried to get loose. Worked hard. He didn't remember them ever using so many straps before. At least he wasn't laughing. It was cold enough so he could see his breath, but the latex "underwear" was clammy from his sweat.
What if they just left, he thought. Was that too sinister - for them? Roy was pretty sure Deets prowled around the place, looking for fallen branches or whatever. Every couple days... or every third day, at least. Hell, he could make a circuit twice a day for all Roy knew. The old guy was like a cat burglar when he wanted to be inconspicuous. Too bad the drapes had always been closed. Maybe he would've peeked inside and seen what Roy was going through. Not in the bedroom, of course, since they'd boarded up the window. He played with that fantasy for awhile - Deets catching a glimpse of the tickle-bench. Specifically, of Roy cuffed to it, whooping his guts out. Magic feathers on him - and Deets backing away, carefully, going to call for help.
But that hadn't happened yet. In a way, Roy did not want to be found like this. Shouting hoarsely into the ball-gag, trying to get Deets' attention. Imagine the look on the caretaker's face. All this leather.
Roy stared at the door for awhile, but there was no change there. So he tried to make the best of it, watching the leaves, listening to the wind. All those stars. After all - fuck - it was the first time he'd been out of the house since last July.

He must've dozed. The sun was coming up.
Light slowly increased, and he studied the restraints. Roy counted twenty-three straps pinning him down, plus the usual cuffs. His deck was studded with big eye-bolts. All those holes in the wood...
Evidence. Right? Deets would wonder about the holes... if he noticed 'em.

Sweaty. Thirsty...
The sun was almost overhead. And he was hot, dammit. The sweat was trapped, and it felt like he was like laying in a shallow puddle. His lips were stuck to the rubber ball.
Looking over toward the stairs, he hoped he'd see Deets ambling into view -
The door unlocked, and started to rumble open.
Roy groaned softly.

"You look like a cat that got caught out in the rain," Max said.
He didn't say what he was thinking. Tugging on his cigarette was much more important.
"A long shower, and then a nap," Lei promised. "Can you peel those clothes off by yourself -"
"Such a shame. You look dangerous that way."
Roy scowled and rubbed one of his wrists. The only thing he'd gotten off so far was the hood. And the gag.
"Or do you need some help?," Lei asked.
"I'll manage," he grumbled.
"Go right to bed," Max laughed. "I'll get a snack ready for you."
"You didn't... do something to Deets. Did you?"
"Deets? Of course not. Why would you even think such a thing?"
He started tugging at the zipper of the jacket. "You took a chance, there. Him walking around and seeing me -"
"No we didn't," Lei said happily.
"Because?"
"They're not home."
"Ah," he sighed.
"We watched him put a couple of suitcases into his car yesterday," Max said. "Then they got in and left."
"Poor baby," Lei crooned. The jacket zipper-pull stood up and started moving away from his chin. He kicked out smoke and watched it. "Were you watching for Deets? Hoping?"
He shook his head a little, as they laughed at him.

When he woke up, he was laid out in front of the fireplace. The fake-fur rug was tickling his belly button. No restraints...
He rolled over and fired up a smoke. Flopping on his back, he waited for one of 'em to start taunting him. Unless he missed his guess, it wouldn't be l-
"What a shot this would make," Max announced.
"Centerfold?," Lei wondered.
"No, silly. Don't you move, Roy. Stay right there."
After a few seconds, Lei caught on. "The camcorder."
"Uh-huh," he said, hearing bottles clinking in the kitchen.
"Before and after."
Before... what? Then he got it. Tickling. Climax. Probably both. Repeatedly.
"I want that whole sequence again," Max ordered. Two cameras were floating down. Roy's cigarette slipped out from between his fingers and flew into the fire, edging past the spark-screen.
"Aw, c'mon."
"Pretend it's an acting exercise," she said. "Roll over. Yeah. Waking, getting a smoke, just kicking back and watching the fire. Show me what ya got..."

They forced him to have a few slugs of Jack Daniels.
When he was loose and relaxed, hands landed on him and lifted his legs. Holding his feet closer to the fire. Spreading his arms out...
"Ow," he laughed, in advance of what was coming. "You're cooking my feet."
"Uh-oh."
"We'd better cover 'em up," Lei teased.
"Noooooooo -"
Too late. They used silk gloves. Very thorough about it...
He bounced on the rug and started to squeal.

At some point they'd lifted him off the rug completely. Just a few inches.
When he finally got the tears squeezed out of his eyes, he stared at the wet spot on the rug.
It felt like he was hogtied. Brushes were tracing around. Whenever they snuck up between his legs, some reflex kicked in and he started bucking. Other brushes were doing horrible, sensational things along the sides of his feet. Between his toes.
He laughed like a trucker. His head was a little lower than the rest of him, but his nose didn't touch the rug. He had the weird impression there were arms under him, or legs. It was like being held tight on somebody's lap.
Laps. Plural.
 

- - 25 - -

They stoked up the fireplace more and more often. Metal plates appeared there, with deep holes in 'em. Somehow they could stick a big chrome ring into the hole, twist it halfway... and that fucker was set. He couldn't budge it. Then a strap would be pulled tight through it, or a padlock would trap the end of a chain. Whatever...
 

Max sat him down at the computer, and told him to put his hands behind his back. Handcuffs caught him...
"There." The mouse rolled over to the word processor and opened a file.
"What's this?," Roy said, blowing smoke at the screen.
"Be nice," she warned him, "or I won't let you smoke."
"Hey, I'm nice," he promised. "What is it?"
"Screenplay," she said.
Get the fuck outa here, Roy thought. Self-preservation kept him from reacting.
"Don't run any other programs, stud. All you have to do to scroll down is hit the Enter key."
"How am I gonna do that?," he scoffed, rattling the handcuffs.
"Use your nose." The cigarette popped out from between his lips and hung in front of him, bumping into the end of a new one that was replacing it. "Or your chin. It'll be amusing to watch."

He was just determined to hate it...
There were some corny shots described in the first act. But very little dialogue - which was smart. Almost all of it sounded pretty damn familiar to Roy.
As men began disappearing - hidden away for savage tickling fun - information about the mysterious kidnappers was slowly revealed. An alien race, needing the energy people give off when they're excited - delirious - in order to survive long enough to find a way to get off Earth and back to their own world.
To his amazement, she avoided most of the overused plot points. The humans tried to protect themselves, but nothing worked. The ticklers pushed harder and harder to get at their prey, since they were close to a solution. Plus, they were starving. At the big showdown - where the characters barricaded themselves inside a gay and lesbian convention, a pretty clever choice that didn't use any of the trite stereotypes - the heroes lose. They get caught anyway, and mercilessly tickled... but the aliens get recharged, and slip back to wherever it was they came from.
She even built in two good hooks for a sequel. It was about fifty pages too long, but most rookie screenwriters had trouble with that.
As bizarre as it seemed to Roy... the overall concept was original, and twisty, and exciting as hell -
"Dammit," he barked, rearing back in the chair.
"What?," Max said quickly - the first time he'd ever heard anything like worry in her voice.
"Don't make me re- like you!"
There was a pause. "Re... Were you going to say 'respect'?"
"No. Resent. Regurgitate."
"Flatterer."
He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "It isn't fair. You drive me nuts ... Then, gourmet meals. Lei's massages. And now this."
"Thank you... I think." The handcuffs loosened.
"Ow," he said automatically.
"Don't touch the computer. Are you mad because you liked it?"
"Yeah," he admitted. "It's mean. Trying to win me over, huh?"
"I swear, I'll never figure you guys out."

They talked about the screenplay for an hour.
It worried him... but Max actually listened. She could take criticism - at least without jumping him and tickling the piss out of him. She knew why she made each of the plot choices, and each act had a decent climax. She could write dialogue that sounded like something people might actually say. Between the videos he'd seen, and this writing - it was pretty clear to Roy. She had the knack.
As pleased as she was with his appraisal, he got the impression that Max was even happier with the impression she'd made on him... even after he'd tried so hard to hate her work, just on principle.
 
 

"You ready, sweetness?"
He wriggled in the swing.
"This is just what I wanted," Lei announced. "Roy Toolman... howling... in some nice, thick cuffs."
"And heeeeere he is -"
"I wish I'd never come up here," he grumbled. A lot of feathers were moving in.
"Remember Eduardo? That cell?", Max said. "Our backup site. If you hadn't decided to make the drive up here..."
"I'd be there? Still?"
A bottle of oil started shaking. "Well," Lei said thoughtfully, "Probably we would've let you go by now. If we were there."
"Y-yes," Max chimed in. She never missed a chance to twist the knife. Mess with his head. "You're right, Lei. He would've been free months ago."
She was probably lying. Roy had no way to be sure. He snapped at the wrist-cuffs. "Fuck..."
 
 

"Tickle tickle," Max crooned.
"Nooooo no no nooooowwwaaaaaaaah hah haaah hah huh huh haaaaaaaaah..."
Roy threw himself back and forth. The stocks kept him right there.
Pink powder. He pictured it over and over. The vial tilting... into a little bowl of oil. The brushes stirring it up. Oh, shit.
As if he'd just been faking it before - each stroke was astounding.
Little brushes raced down his sides, crossed over the small of his back, and went back up. Reversing their course...
"He's just so ticklish," Lei squeaked. "It tickles so much."
"Whoo hoo hooooo hoo hoo hai haaaai hah ah whaaaah hah haaaaawwlll..."
The brushes didn't stop. Skating over oily skin...
"And it only gets worse," Max agreed, with a rather sexy sigh.
Two more brushes lifted off the large metal tray. The bowl followed them. Pink oil... slowly coating his soles.
"Nooooo hooooo nnnnnnaaaaah haaaaaeeek -"
As those brushes started bearing down, his laughter stopped suddenly. As if they'd flipped a switch. He made a gargling sound for a few seconds... and then he just panted for air.
"Eek... It tickles," Lei said brightly.
"And tickles, and tickles..."
Roy was beyond saying anything. And not being able to laugh made it worse. He couldn't help but concentrate more on what they were doing to him. He heard their taunts -
The impact of the brushes seemed to... whirl around, inside him. Tornado. Laughing wasn't enough to deal with it, but at least it was something. Now that was gone too.
Sensation - building. Ramping up slowly. But definitely growing.
No way to get it out.
"Let's do this all night," Lei suggested.
"And tomorrow."
"Okay."
Roy gulped air.
"One problem with our plan..."
"What's that, Max?"
"Tomorrow... never gets here."
He shook his head, and tried to get his mouth to say something. Anything.
"Uh-oh. That would be a problem."
"It might seem that way, at first. But actually, it's no problem at all."
"Really?"
"No! We get to just keep going... and going... and tickling..."
Lei squealed with excitement. That got Max laughing again.
Roy wished he could laugh slong with them, but the brushes sorta prevented that.

Without any warning, his body relaxed. And he knew what that meant.
Uh-oh, he thought. Shit...
The brushes were roaming around his ass. Roy snickered. It felt good to laugh. An easy, smutty laugh.
Fuck, it felt good. The tickling. Fantastic.
Getting better every minute.
Intoxicating.
Roy decided he could get into a few more hours of this. If they held back, he'd just shoot off his mouth until they got enough fuckin' gloves on the case. That wasn't all that he'd shoot off, either.
Suddenly he wanted to cum. Along with that urge, Roy knew for a fact the ticklers would take their sweet time, too. The longer they stalled him off, the more ticklish he'd be after he came. They liked that.
He chuckled harder. Oh, yeah, they knew their business. They had his number. More tickling, more and more. Then some more after that.
Roy felt brushes slide back into his armpits.
He snickered three or four times, and let loose with a deep, extragavant sigh.
Don't stop. Probably it was good he couldn't remember how to speak. But he thought it continuously. Just those two words.

- - 26 - -

Maybe nothing should've surprised him anymore...
More often than not, Roy slid into that other place. Fuck it, I'm gonna enjoy this. Really enjoy it. Dig in, fuckers. Sadistic wenches.
Once he was there, he was stuck there until he passed out.
And now it only took, oh, an hour to get there. Much more fun that way... but he felt like he was doing something wrong. Or risky, maybe. Not smart. Major laff slut.
He hated to prove 'em right.
 
 

May 9 started out ordinary enough.
Breakfast, lifting weights - and no itch, during the massage, so that was good. Then Lei's white gloves set a deck of cards down on the coffee table, and Max's black gloves brought over a pint of bourbon. They made him play poker. Instead of using chips, they just kept track of who won the most hands. Roy hardly ever came out on top - no great surprise, since they could always see his cards - but when he did he got to arrange the tickling that followed. What, where, and so on. From the running commentary of smartass remarks while they played, he figured they liked to watch his face.
He'd done a few shots - because they insisted - and he lost badly. Lei edged out Max, so she pretended to think about it for a minute... and they attacked him right there on the couch. No restraints. Gentle fingers - but dozens of 'em. He squirmed in their grip, hooting and giggling, and the couch got slippery with his sweat. The pace was playful, for once.
Some time before the first smoke break, he was getting into it. If he couldn't stop 'em, this was pretty much the kind of afternoon he would've ordered up if he'd won. They sure were taking their time jacking him off, though.
"Aaaaaw noo hoo hoo hoo hyuck huh nuh nuh naaaaww...," he chortled, voice all raspy. But he was already switched over, laff slut that he was. They'd turned him into a kinky son of a bitch. A bottom. The begging and protesting still leaked out of him, but in a way he didn't mean a word of it.
Obviously, they knew that.
Even better... they weren't about to stop. No matter what he said.

The ravioli were mass-produced, but Max had done something fantastic to the sauce.
"What the hell's the secret ingredient? Heroin?"
She chuckled. "There's still a few left, if you're interested."
"I"m stuffed," Roy said, moaning...
The bench floated into the living room. Bottles and rags cruised over to it, and started to clean it. There were dents in the pads from his head. And his ass. He looked away quickly and picked up the remote.
A mug of coffee floated to his hand.
Roy flicked from channel to channel... until he saw a familiar face.
Sherri.
The perky reporter was talking, but only one phrase stuck with Roy. "Filing for divorce."
He watched stock footage of his wife. It was coming - he knew it, sure as shit, but he watched anyway. And bam, there they were. Roy, and Sherri, at a premiere. Probably "Double Zero." The magazine shows loved that clip.
Hand-in hand. Big smiles.

He smoked, without thinking about it. The TV show ended. Some other show, just as stupid, came on in its place.
When he finally remembered the mug in his hand, the coffee was cold. Roy set it on the table and looked around. Alone... Well, no other people.
A hand took hold of his hand, and pulled him to his feet. It led him to the tickle-bench.

It wasn't... working.
Feathers were dusting his torso, satin gloves were partying on his feet. And he roared, just like usual. But something was distracting him.
His cock was hard, but that wasn't it. There was something else, just fundamentally wrong...
And how long had it been since one of the ticklers had spoken, anyway?

Dark green satin, opening a new pack of cigarettes. He watched 'em as he tried to drink water, and then just laid there, panting...
Thin fingers. Not like his.
Sherri has nice fingers -
He started to cry.
It surprised him. What the hell, he thought. Finally. I've lost it...
No. And it landed on him like - like a piano or something. Suffocating clarity. I lost her.
Roy wailed at the ceiling. Not a deliriously happy wail. It shocked him.
Within seconds the cuffs were unlocked. Peeling off. Hands pulled him off the bench, then to the floor...
The rug. In front of the fireplace.
He didn't care. Sherri didn't love him. She wanted to be with that poster-boy asshole instead.
Six years, down the tubes.
He sobbed. Rocking, gently. Back and forth.

Warmth, against the side of his face. Slight pressure on the top of his head.
One of them was cradling him. It was just like his head was laying on a woman's belly -
With arms wrapped around, from behind his back. Another body, snuggling up alongside. Sherri used to do that.
Sherri...

Something tapped his nose. He felt cloth there. Hankerchief. Maybe a napkin.
Roy blew his nose.
There were fingers on him. Stroking his hair. Forehead. Triceps.
The sobs started up again. They were gonna force their way out, no matter what. He jerked with the effort, crying harder than he had in a long, long time.
The hands kept caressing him. Warmth of a body next to his head, another along his back. And still he cried over the loss of what he'd been so fuckin' happy to have.

- - 27 - -

The last dream - the one he remembered - was of a field. Springtime. Bright sun, breezy winds.
Roy opened his eyes.
The window was open. Sunlight. How weird. Shining through the French doors. It was windy out there -
He sat up, blinking a lot. No board over the window.
No stocks. No vertical-rack. The swing wasn't hanging from the ceiling. The wall-shackles were gone.
He was wearing grey sweat-pants - and socks.
The closet was open... and empty.

He took a leak. The bars over the bathroom window were gone.
Stunned, he walked down the hall.
There was a big box on the coffee table, wrapped like a gift. Big black bow on top. He stared at it for a few seconds...
The sliding door was open. The chains were hanging alongside the door, with the padlocks on it - ready for use, but unlocked. He looked at the front door, and the one leading to the garage. Same thing.
All the doors to his cage had been unlocked.
Roy stepped on the deck. He looked for the holes, from the eye-bolts. They were filled in with something dark, almost the same color as the wood. Hard to see. He remembered the feeling of all those straps, the rubber clothes under the riding leathers - unable to budge, cold night air, full sun threatening to roast him, stuck there until they decided to drag him back inside and tickle him again.
The sky was so fuckin' blue. Just a few thin clouds. Birds skittered overhead, and a boat was racing across the lake.
Somehow, the relief wasn't all he thought it would be. Maybe it was the timing. The thought of Sherri made his stomach hurt, like he'd been kicked real hard. Instead of being sad enough to cry some more, all he had in him was a dull, heavy ache. All downhill from here.
Naaah. He pushed that thought away and went back inside. Looked at the box.
"I could use some coffee," he said loudly.
Nothing happened.

The eggs were burned. And the cheese. It was a mess.
No way he was gonna scrub the pan. After he ran some water over it, to cool it down, he stuck it in the trash can - and looked at the garage door...
His car was right where he left it. Shiny. No dust on the windshield. The tires even looked okay. But the gas would've broken down - unless they thought to let the car idle every so often. He snorted at the thought. They were meticulous, but that was too much to hope for.
The keys were in the ignition.
It started right up.

There was something else he wanted, but he couldn't figure out what it was.
Maybe the box would tip him off. He sat on the couch and deliberately channel-surfed for a minute or two, glancing over at it. The damn bow, made of shiny black ribbon, completed the whole effect. Big gift for the laff slut. Going-away present - or maybe just a dozen gloves, waiting to grab him. Ha, ha. Gotcha.
He took a deep breath, and pulled the bow off.

The first thing he saw... was one white rose.
Two cards. And a piece of luggage.
It was a nice bag. Dark brown leather. Too big for the gym, not anywhere as big as a garment bag. There were bulges in it.
Here we go, he thought. Boo. Unzipping it -
Two boxes. Roy recognized 'em. "No way," he said, as he pulled them out.
Nicotine patches.
One of 'em had taken a black magic marker... and changed the 'N' to a 'T'. Tic-escape. He started laughing.
Then he gulped. Of course. Right now.
The amazing part was that it didn't occur to him before. "I wanna smoke..." He lobbed the boxes into the kitchen, and looked around. Oh, shit, he had to have a cigarette - immediately. He remembered where the cigars had been - just in case. Backup. Better than nothing.
Hell, he couldn't stand it. Cigarette. They did this to him... So, probably -
He dove back into the new leather bag.
"Yeah!" A whole carton, with a lighter taped on the end. He hooted triumphantly and got busy.
The lighter was black chrome. Big and bad. Engraved...
A heart. M-L & RT. He groaned at that, like he'd heard a really bad joke. Then he gave it a try. It flared right up. They'd prepped it for him. So they knew he wasn't going to open the patches yet.
Roy lit up. Exhaled...
Oh, yeah. Just right.

Smoking like he had to make up for lost time, he finally turned the bag over and dumped the contents on the couch.
Cuffs. They'd seen some use. Smaller bottles of oil. Several kinds of brushes. A big plastic tube, holding all different kinds of feathers...
One pair of gloves. Thin black leather. He recognized 'em - they fit his hands real well. More days than he could count, with his fingers trapped inside, sweating...
Roy put it all back in the bag. He looked at his knuckles. The letters had faded away, but he remembered what they looked like. L-A-F-F.
He leaned back and took another drag, enjoying it way too much. Dump the shit, he thought. He could picture the bag, flying over the side of the road, down into the ravine. But some other twisted fuck could find it. Get inspired, and grab a guy... Roy pictured a coil of rope, pouncing on a hitchhiker - carrying him off to one of the caves.
Not fair. It had to be destroyed. Safely. Not left here. Hell, no... Roy decided to take it back to L.A. and burn it. The thought of it in the trunk of his car didn't sit real well - there to be found by any ghost who snooped around in his stuff, totally getting the wrong idea. Wild... ideas.
The cards were on the coffee table. He took his time, lighting another cigarette. And then he picked one up.

A DVD fell out of the envelope. Roy picked it up. No label. He tucked it back inside.
The card was solid black. On all sides...
Inside, there was silver ink. Careful block letters.

She hadn't mentioned the disc. Roy had a good idea what was on it, though... Video. Of him. And maybe the original movie she made. Or the one he saw when he first woke up on the bench. See Roy get excited, watch him jack off, get captured in his own house. Sure.
And it wouldn't convince anybody. He sighed. No one will ever believe I didn't... commission this CD. Pay some FX guys to make it look real. Not even Kev would buy it.
All that planning paid off. They got him, partied their ass off, and disappeared.
Until next time.

Lei's card was white. Blank on the outside...
But inside - wow. The left half of the card was covered with art. Like intricate tattoos - more detailed than anything she'd drawn on Roy's skin. He studied it - chains, wind, water, bird-wings. A big massage table that had a face... and a wild leer. It also had arms, Reaching out with bulgy cartoon hands.
Red ink, curvy letters, and lots of cheerful doodling.

- - 28 - -

He drove up 395, looking forward to some down-time.
Even though he'd just left the lake-house in May, it had been a long summer. The divorce, looping his dialogue for Frank, another indy production... and buying a new house. Getting settled. He liked it, though. It had an enormous lot. Nice and private. Kevin was hanging out there, since his girlfriend had caught him with a wardrobe mistress and kicked him out.
Roy had nowhere to be until Christmas - the family pilgrimage - since he already told Sal to blow off that awards show, and the usual parties. Too many tongues were still wagging.
But it was barely October now.

The whole year had been weird. His first divorce - as Kevin kept calling it, just to fuck with him - made him reconsider a few things. Even a career arc like his had to wind down eventually, and it was better to make it as graceful of a decline as he could. So he signed on for fewer movies, but better ones... and ended up with another block of idle time. He didn't really understand why he was making some of these choices, but in some ways he was definitely a new man.
What the hell, there wasn't much of a down-side to having more free time. Now he liked the idea of getting away from everybody. Five or six days sounded good. No phones, he could jack off until he was sore, maybe catch a fuckin' fish or two. But this time, he warned himself again, he wouldn't stay as drunk as he had last year.
Roy still wondered if somebody had slipped him something. He came away from the lake-house with the most bizarre memories. Kevin and Sal were right, though. That shit couldn't have really happened. Not like he remembered. They thought he probably had a breakdown, and drank his way right out of it.
That didn't feel right either. His dreams had been... incredible. All summer. Personal shit he wouldn't tell the guys about, but hot and vivid. Just amazing stuff. Real life couldn't touch 'em.
As he got busy with work, that fuzzy fear of his own damn house in the mountains began to fade. Instead of "memories", he used the word "fantasies" more often. The only one he told about the dreams - incredibly detailed every time, and fun to the point of actual pain - was Sandy. And she found out only because he was so restless and noisy that he kept waking her up. Sweaty, leaking cum, he finally mumbled enough so that she understood what he was imagining. So they fucked like rabbits all summer. That calmed him down. She broke up with him two weeks ago, but he figured at least it had been sorta like therapy.

Scowling, he fired up another cigarette. His feelings confused the shit out of him. Afraid of the house at the lake, until he got angry enough to force himself out here. Gradually he'd convinced himself that he'd just been imagining it - the most ridiculous things. But he was getting more and more restless as he drove along. Chain-smoking, too. Dammit, he just wanted to get there and relax. Look around first. Now see, Roy, not a fuckin' glove in the place, no invisible hands waiting to pounce. No stocks in your bedroom. It's just your house. Fastasy didn't become real just because you thought about it hard enough.
He'd never cooked up anything like that before... especially the being-held-captive part. Locked in. That was some serious weirdess. It must've been rage - a whole new level, apparently, due to the humiliating way Sherri blew him off. Depression had to follow. He'd never allowed himself to take that much time off before, and then he goes and drinks so much that a whole major kidnap and torture fantasy comes out of nowhere.
It had just been a minor kink of his. And true, maybe he'd kept it real low-key only because of how much damage it could do to his career. But his mind latched on to it. Fuck. He'd cooked up these stone-cold... dominatrixes. Magicians. Playing with him. A whole month of sick bondage games could seem to be crawling by in the course of one shitfaced night, maybe. Obviously his sense of time had been malfunctioning. Embarassment, alcohol, paranoia - and wham, no wonder he started hallucinating shit.
It couldn't have been real.
He'd even called Deets a few times, sniffing for clues. There was nothing unusual there. Same old Deets. When Roy had been up there all winter, he'd definitely had contact with the old coot. Phone calls... And he remembered standing at the front door with a towel on, telling Deets about Sherri leaving him.
Sal, Kevin... and Deets. He'd talked to 'em, throughout his fuckin' delusional time there, and apparently pulled it together enough to sound normal. Nobody seemed to think there had been anything weird going on. Not really. Hell, they were all glad that Roy took a long break. "Taking care of himself," as Sal put it, though he did say Roy had sounded fuckin' panicky, once, on the phone.
More drinking than he'd ever done before, then. It must've been the stress.
But... damn.

Not long after he took up with Sandy, he found the tickle-kit. In his closet... Cuffs, stained with his sweat, and straps to hold the cuffs down. Feathers and oils. The gloves fit his hands perfectly, and they were stained too - from the salt, and something else that smelled like cum.
Roy knew Sandy hadn't bought the bag, or the toys. Definitely not Sherri, either. Only his women knew he liked tickling... Hell. Chalk that up to the booze too, then. He had to have bought the tickling stuff. Enjoying his dreams so much he started to believe they could really happen. Which came first, Sandy or the bag? But that was just dumb. Sherri never really got into tickling him, but Sandy did sometimes. So he must've gotten it after he took up with her.
There was one fantasy he kept to himself. When he was got himself off, in the shower, he thought about it. A big present, all wrapped up... with a black bow on top. The brown bag. His tickle-kit. There was a card, too, but he didn't remember who signed it. Oh, shit, even the very thought of that twisted gift drove him nuts. Looked like maybe he'd be in the mood for a shower after this long drive.
Roy laughed out loud. Somebody knew him that well. And it wasn't Sandy or Sherri. He liked to wonder about that. Maybe his dream-ticklers came into the real world and picked up a few things, to tease him, work him up, and even got a black bow and a card. Just for him. There had to be a script idea in there somewhere.
One thing he knew for sure - Sandy got tired of tickling him long before he wanted her to quit. If he had his way...

Horny as fuck. All happy, too. He just couldn't figure it out.
Same old driveway. The lake-house didn't look any different. On the phone, Deets said he'd laid in another half-cord of firewood, so that was okay...
It seemed like a couple years since he left here. And Roy couldn't believe he actually hid out in there for, what, ten months? He'd never been that lazy before. Or that drunk. The place could get boring, compared to L.A. - but he was definitely ready to slow down for awhile.
So why was his heart pounding so hard?
It wasn't fear. He wanted to party like a maniac. Too bad Sandy was out of the picture already, because he seriously wanted to fuck...
When he was down at his new place in PVE, he kept wishing he was up here. Gotta slow down some, enjoy life. Just hang out and look at the lake. It sounded terrific.
He watched the garage door rise, and wished it would hurry up. His breathing was shallow, and he made himself slow it down. Fuck... It wasn't all about running inside and jacking off. Not just that. He couldn't wait to get inside -
As he eased off the clutch, another feeling came over him. Bad news - something certain, unavoidable. He had no idea what that was about...
Except that it had to do with the damn house.
Gotta go in, gotta stay out. Both at the same time. Roy paid attention to parking the car, turning off the ignition. Then he just sat there as the garage door went down and tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with him. It wasn't as if he felt less safe outside. Or in the city. He stared at the kitchen door -
Something incredible was there. Waiting.
Be careful what you wish for...
After he shifted his cock, he opened the car door. Grabbed the grocery bags and slid out. Unlocked the door, paused -
Run, he thought, right now, get away while you can.
Shit. His imagination was all over the place tonight.
Roy opened the door and stepped inside. Shut the door slowly. Locked it. Activated the alarm...
He stood in the dark. Seriously fuckin' excited. The place was silent. It smelled funky, like it always did after being closed up for a while...
What the hell was he expecting, anyway? It was just his lake-house. He turned on the overhead light, dropped the food and hustled down the hall. After he lobbed his suitcase on the bed, he hurried into the bathroom and pissed like a racehorse, whistling with the relief of it.
Padding down the hall more slowly, he stopped long enough to turn on the heater. Then he put the food away and opened a beer. There. Everything else could wait.
He landed on the couch, put his feet up on the coffee table and got himself another cigarette. Calmer. Maybe it was just needing to piss real bad - but he snorted quietly at that. Wrong. He longed to be in here, and he was dreading it too. But the TV remote was on the arm of the couch where it belonged, and he set the ashtray next to it. All was well with the world...
Roy could sit on his ass and do nothing at all for a couple months. Nothing sounded better. He really had to come up here more often. With another sigh of contentment, he guzzled his beer and started to reach for the remote.
When he lowered the bottle again... he saw it. Right there on the coffee table, next to his leg.
A white rose.
What the hell.

Roy stared at it. That meant something. He was so close to remembering...
It wasn't from Sherri. Nothing could be less likely - but she was the only one who had the alarm code. C'mon, now. Think. He tugged on his smoke and looked it over. Could it have been there before? Roy was sorta distracted, but he didn't see how - shit, it was right next to where he'd parked his leg.
He wondered if it was all dried up. To find out, he had to pick it up.
Thoughtfully, Roy got himself another cigarette. Then he polished off the beer, and leaned forward. He set the empty bottle on the table, and picked up the rose.
It was fresh -
Something moved. Dark. Fairly big.
He started to rear back, and then he recognized it. Brown leather.
Nobody was there, carrying the bag, but it landed softly on the table near his knees.
Wait. Just wait. It didn't just look like his bag - it was the bag, or a perfect double for the one in his closet at home. His tickling stuff.
Out of some deep reflex, or maybe it was just denial, he chuckled a few times. He was dreaming. This couldn't happen, it would never be real, because it belonged in his dreams. Stuff didn't cross the line like this. So he must've dozed off.
His bag had to be where he'd left it. The smaller walk-in closet, way in the back, in the other house. Roy took a hard drag and studied the shape of the satchel next to his legs. There was a wide scuff near the handle on this one, too.
No, it was his tickle-kit. Here...
There was no doubt in his mind what that meant.

When he looked at the rose, his cock throbbed. A dream - no. No way! More than that. It was like his shower fantasy... Excitement inside a wrapped box, and the first thing that he'd see when he opened the dream-gift was a rose just like this one.
Fear - the feeling he'd had in the garage, there, right before he walked in - came back in force. Solid, cold, and yet arousing too.
Roy knew that fear. He was totally, unmistakably fucked. "Aw, shit."
Two familiar voices started giggling.
The top velcro strip on his left shoe peeled loose, and stood straight up in the air.

Back to Part 1

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