Others' episodes
 
Cor's episodes
 
News / site info
 

The strip show ended. The crowd wandered out of the theater, most of them in pairs and small groups. But eight men were by themselves.
Half of those were ruled out because they didn't look hearty enough. Two others headed back to the gaming tables, and one guy went right to the bar to continue drinking.
That left one prospect. He lit a cigarette and went to the restroom. He was a little unsteady on his feet, due to the beer and shots he'd been slamming during the show.
He headed in the direction of the parking garage. There were two possible holding cells along the way, waiting to receive him. The first was passed up...
Then he was approaching the other cell. Down a hallway that was a straight shot to the garage, not well-marked. Not heavily traveled.

He turned a corner and saw boxes blocking the way. They hadn't been there before.
After looking them over for a few seconds, the man went through the fire door that was propped open. But the next door, to the street, wouldn't open. When he made it back to the fire door, it was locked.
"Fuck!" he barked. Between the locked doors, there was only one that would open. It didn't look like an exit, exactly, but he didn't really have anywhere else to go...
The room was dark. There was another doorway, and a slight breeze came from it. He took another drag and stepped further in -
Suddenly the door pulled away from his hand, turning him partly around, and slammed in his face. Across the room, the other door closed.
Lights clicked on. He looked over his shoulder, but the room was empty. He yanked at the door handle and started to yell.

A few minutes of pounding, and shouting as loud as he could, didn't bring any help. He went to the other door, and stuck his ear against it. Then he shook that door hard and yelled some more...
Cussing again, he slammed it with the heel of his hand and kicked it hard. Got another cigarette going and glared at one door, then the other. He was breathing hard, but that didn't last more than a minute. He went back to the other door, the one he'd come through -
His boot caught on something. He staggered and looked down - nothing there. He picked up his foot carefully and walked on, scanning for a air vent...
Then his other boot stayed put. He rocked back, and grunted. Stared at it.
Something... closed around that knee. And tightened.

He jumped, but he didn't get anywhere. "What the hell -"
The grip shifted around a little - and one just like it took hold of his other knee.
He buckled and tried to twist free, cutting off a squeal. The invisible hands stayed put, no matter what he did. He beat at 'em, crushing his smoke - but his blows landed on whatever was squeezing him. A strangled growl burst out of him -
And a grip closed around each of his wrists.
He yelled again, and tried to pull free. They were like iron. He was stuck there, doubled over, and fighting to stay upright -
Until more fingers started poking his belly.
Down he went.
He wrestled and chuckled. He couldn't move his limbs. The hands dug into his knees and gut for a long minute. And then, suddenly, they were all gone.
Discovering he could sit up... he swore, over and over, and got to his feet -
The hands grabbed his knees again.
"No, dammit -"
Fingers slid behind his neck and clamped down.
He fell, arms flailing. They were pinned way out from his body. Two more hands started massaging his ribs.
That made him whoop, and shake his head frantically. "Naaaawhooo hooo hooooaaah nuh nowhoo hooo n-nuh uh nooo noooowhoo hooo..."
The fingers explored under his knees, and slid up into his amrpits. Even through his clothes, they made him wild and noisy.
They kept going for several minutes.

After they left him alone, he panted for awhile. The he opened his eyes, and studied the cell again. He kept looking at the door. Slowly, he sat up. He thought for a bit, and started to rise -
His wrists were grabbed and pulled straight up. His boots were pinned again...
And the unseen hands slid under his leather jacket and nuked him. Sides, pits, neck to beltline. He yelled and started to bark laughs. Throwing his head around, bucking and writhing... But he stayed right there, with his arms up.
Fingers started in on his thighs, and his neck. He jumped and howled...
The hands worked him over for ten grueling minutes. And he stayed right where they wanted him, while they did.

After he caught his breath again, he lay still and thought. His eyes darted around, but there was still nothing to be seen. Very slowly, he backed up...
When he got to the wall - about halfway between the two doors - the hands clutched him again. He looked wildly from one of his arms to the other, as they were pinned flat against the wall and raised, together -
And the fingers started in on him again.

A few minutes later, he was helped out of his leather jacket. But the tickling wasn't interrupted at all. And he slid higher, until his feet were well off the floor. He squealed, and swung a little.
The fingers crept under his t-shirt. Up the sleeves, and down his neck. He gasped and started to howl. Feet pedalling spastically... and less forcefully, as time went on. Bellowing, with his eyes slammed shut...
They kneaded slowly, with cruel strength. Some of them squeezed into his jeans and stroked his thighs, making him flop around again.

When the hands let him go, he slid down and slumped.
The door opened, and something rolled in. He was too wiped out to notice. His head moved when the door closed again, but that was all.
Poor guy. All tuckered out. He needed to lay down for awhile. The concrete floor was too hard...
So something more comfortable was provided.
Eventually, he managed to lift his head and open his eyes. And he stared.
Between him and the door, there was a gurney. It was brand new. Durable chrome frame, black wheels. Black vinyl pad, with a bandanna lying on top.
Oh, yeah - and four big leather cuffs at the corners.

He shook his head slowly, and lurched toward the other door.
The hands picked him up and carried him over. He put up a fight, but most of his energy was gone. They set his butt down on the pad, and pulled his arms back slowly. He shook his head wearily, and shot a look behind -
A cuff was spreading open... as his right wrist approached it.
He shouted incoherently at it, desperately trying to scoot down. The hands let him pull forward - and then they reefed him back easily. Leather slapped and buckled. His left wrist landed... and was held down until it too was caught.
The hands pinned his left leg... and pulled off his boot.
He went apeshit. The stretcher rattled and bounced impressively, but his ankle was down tight within a few seconds. Then his other boot -
He fought desperately, groaning with the effort.
They buckled the last cuff, and released his leg.
"Fuck!" he shouted, slamming his body down. After his breathing levelled off, he started pulling again. And cussing.

His jacket lifted off the floor. The motion caught his eye. He froze, watching it. When it came alongside, his smokes were pulled out of the inner pocket.
He started to say something, and then just... stared. The box cracked open, and a cigarette slid up and came to his mouth. He snapped at the cuffs again, with a pained expression -
The jacket was picked up again and draped over him. Tucking in around his sides. At first he looked alarmed, bracing himself for the worst... but when no fingers started in again, he relaxed somewhat.
The cigarette came right up and waited. He scowled - until the toe of his right sock was pulled. As it began to stretch, his eyes got big. He grabbed the smoke with his teeth.
Fingers dug into his pocket, making him jump. His lighter floated out, clinked open, and fired up on its way. He sucked in, and exhaled fast... and took another drag, looking at his sock.
It hadn't been released. He kicked out smoke and looked at it, baffled.
The tension increased, slowly... and the cuff began to slide.
He blinked, and took another big drag. But his sock kept stretching.
"Uh. No..."
It crept over his heel - and sprang up. Completely off his foot. Then it fell. He forgot to exhale.
His left sock started to stretch.
"Aw, fuck," he whimpered, stretching the cuffs. He lifted his head and smoked intensely. It didn't matter. Off came the sock. Ash fell onto the back of his jacket.

He laid there, face wet, tattoos sweaty. Arms and legs slightly bent, and securely locked in place.
And his feet exposed. Obviously, deliberately bare... strapped down tight. Hanging off the stretcher, so they could be reached from all angles. Touched. Fingered, rubbed, squeezed.
His feet were anchored, but they had yet to be tickled. They would be, sure as shit. He knew it, too. He was just waiting for the attack to start. He smoked and watched his feet.
The pack rose and opened again. His cigarette was used to light him another. He laid there and exhaled smoke, looking apprehensively at the ceiling. Expecting the fingers to return, anytime...
Another smoke. A couple puffs -
And then they started in.
"Nowhuh uh huh hah haaaaaah," he snickered, rolling his head. He wrestled with the cuffs and stared... the hands were clamped on to the top of his feet, and other fingers were polishing and dragging. All invisible.
The cigarette was taken away, but he didn't notice.
He hooted and roared for a half-hour. Fierce, steady tickling...

They let him catch his breath, and the pack served him up.
Sweat and piss dripped off the stretcher. He paid no attention to the cigarette. Once in a while, he gave the cuffs a faint tug, but that was all.
The far door opened. As the stretched turned, he blinked rapidly.
"Help - hey..." But they were weak cries, nothing like his tough cussing earlier.
Something moved underneath his back - and the bandanna appeared, wet, stretching out. He shook his head. "Hallllp -"
His smoke was thrown aside, and the gag pulled between his teeth. He writhed on the stretcher, as it rolled to the door. His boots and socks landed between his legs. The gag was knotted before he hit the hallway...
It was dark. He rolled at a fair pace, trying to grab something. It looked ridiculous.
A few sets of fingers returned and tickled his soles. He yelped into the wet cloth. The stretcher turned a corner, and a door opened...
Revealing a van. Back doors wide open. Waiting.

He looked around frantically, but the receiving docks were dark and quiet. The stretcher rose, and rolled into the van. Metal braces clicked, and the wheels were secured.
He craned his neck and looked behind, laughing wildly at the casino door as it closed.
And at the van doors, slamming -
The engine turned over. His head swung around. The transmission shifted into drive with a jerk. He squinted at the steering wheel, turning magically. No driver...
But the van rolled. He lunged around, but the cuffs held and the stretcher stayed put. And the fingers kept on tickling and tickling. He looked around the dark, windowless van, and slammed his head down a couple times.
The van turned. His eyes tried to make out a green sign, overhead. The freeway. Trying to see, and roaring with fear and hyperstimulation, he shook his head sporadically as the van climbed the onramp. Then he slammed his eyes shut and whooped into the gag.
Going north.

Ten minutes later, the fingers laid off.
Another ten, and the gag was untied. His head was lifted slowly, and a water bottle came to his lips. It tilted patiently, between tired gasps. Then a pint of bourbon was cracked open, and he tried to refuse it...
Hands steadied his head, and made sure he swallowed a couple shots.
When the bottle left, a carton of smokes landed on his jacket. Pall Malls. A pack slid out, and peeled open.
By the time he was kicking out smoke, the Vegas suburbs were far behind him.

He was on his way to a secret clinic, two hundred miles out in the desert. Selected for a intensive program...
Sensitivity training.
Thorough conditioning would change his life, as it had for the other men before him. He had a long, meticulous schedule. Tried and true. It would mean a radical change in his attitude, and an incredible new career.
But he didn't know yet. He moaned softly, and ate smoke.
Dozing, between cigarettes. The water bottle returned a few times. He took a couple more shots of booze without a fight.
 

Dawn was just beginning to show itself when the van pulled into a garage and shut off.
The sound of the back doors opening woke him up. Bleary-eyed, he watched the garage door roll down.
The wheel locks clicked loudly. Another cigarette wedged itself between his lips.
After a couple drags, the stretcher rolled a little, and lifted up. He floated through the dark, looking around. Through a doorway, which slammed shut. He jumped -
A light clicked on.
The room was small. Black. There was another door. When his eyes adjusted, he saw something over him.
A clipboard, and a pen. The pen was shoved into his left hand, and his fingers were held tight. The clipboard floated over to it and tapped it, moving. Pulling back, the top paper flipped out of the way, and he watched the clipboard return to the pen...
Four X's were made on four forms.
He'd get to read 'em later. Over and over.
The first document said he understood he was entering a program of indefinite duration, and that total isolation from outside distractions was understood to be essential.
The second paper confirmed that follow-up conditioning was a required part of the program, at various locations, with the number and duration of sessions to be determined according to need.
On the third, he acknowledged that every possible form of discipline could be employed during the program, as required. No hardship was excluded. The selection of techniques, the frequency and intensity of their use, was at the absolute discretion of program staff.
The last sheet had the fewest words. He'd be made to memorize it before the month was out. It was his pledge:

The clipboard and pen retreated.
His cigarette was thrown away. The bourbon bottle forced one more shot down him.
Past his feet, the other door opened... and in he went.
The room was larger, and very dark. This was where he'd stay.
Arching his neck, he watched the door close.

On the ceiling, in big letters:

F E E L

H A R D E R

And the weeks go by.
 
 

He hangs from padded shackles. Squirming, chucking, as two hands expertly tickle his sides.

More sensitive than he used to be...
But not anywhere near done yet.

28oct01