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Comin' down that last hill. Eight more miles. Hollister. Shoot the shit with Jake and Rimmer. Great fuckin' weed. And Jackie. Yeah. She dragged him off to bed the last couple times, after last call. Good people -
I feel this... jerk. And I'm slowing down. Fuel filter, or the carb float's blocked again. But the motor revs up smooth when I hit the throttle, so that ain't it. The bike's okay.
I notice this pulling... like I'm towing something. Check that, like the tow strap is around me. My gut. I don't see nuthin' there -
Slower. Goin' downhill, and I'm losing speed. I can just make out the turnoff. Sarah -
 

The road fades. A dream.

Shaking.
I look.
Water-stains on the ceiling. Bars criss-crossed over the window.
Sure as hell ain't Hollister.
I already know, but I look down anyway. Uh-huh. Black gloves.
They're on my ribs. They ain't gentle.
So I must be laughing. No voice. It's still shot. I go to sit up, and of course I can't. Try rolling, one way and the other, at least block where they can rub. That don't work either.
I know why I can't turn, but I look anyway. Twist my head around.
Looking upside-down, at my right arm. At least two inches of leather, three layers thick. On my wrist. Same setup on my left. My hands, pinned down, just over my head.
I look at my left arm instead. And pull. Kick my legs.
Nothing moves. Except the fuckin' gloves. On the right, squeezing as it crawls down. Left side, I got fingers rubbing fast, on their way to my armpit.
Waking me up. Hour, hour and a half. Solid tickling.
Just another day here.

I close my eyes and howl a time or two. Muscles relaxing, sorta, whether I want 'em to or not. I'm busy... tracking 'em. Slippery fuckers. Heavy. Careful.
They slide together. I hate it when they do this - at an angle, from high on my ribs to my gut. Fingers curling a little as they pull back... and do it again. Full of power.
And it just fuckin' does me in. They know. How to push. Just where to lay down.
They rub like they're on the clock or something. On a mission. They got all day, and all night if they want. Most times I crash a couple hours after sundown. Gotta rest up for more. Do it again.
I'm laughin' my guts out. It sounds like breathing, sorta staggered. No louder than that. Okay, I'm awake.

Startin' out hard, and it only gets harder. Gettin' some. Lay right there and feel this, asshole. Yeah.
I hoot and holler laughs. Got it.
Usual fuckin' pattern. Start of a long day. No sign of anything different, so I figure I ain't going anywhere today.
Or for a while. No sign they're gettin' bored.
And I'm strong as ever. Best fuckin' shape I've ever been in. Fuckers take real good care of me. So I still laugh, real hard, when I can. Like this.
More fuckin' ticklish than I used to be -
Feet, too. Dammit. More fingers, digging right in.
I kick again, and slam around. None of 'em lost their grip. Keep right on.
Roar good and hard. Never hard enough...
Can't handle it. Whether I laugh or not, it's too much. And they know.
All day, after dark. Sure as shit.

Four of 'em, ridin' where they are, just do me in. I'm a basket case. And it always gets worse. Can't think that far ahead, though. Not right now.
Got themselves a real live one, here. And the asshole's gettin' more ticklish.
Padlock, on the door. All those bars over the window. Gonna keep this fucker down. Keep on tickling him.
More and more fun.
They got just the place, here. Real private. Nobody comes around. The way I always did my own thing, on my own, nobody's wondering where the fuck I am. Even if they wanted to look.
Cool. Strap him down, then. Get lots of fuckin' food piled up for him. Oil. Cases and cases of oil. And toys. All kinds of gloves. Truckload of gloves...
When you run low, go out and get him some more.
Then you tickle him right. Go all-out. Fuckin' workout from hell. No smoke, no drink. No weed. Good food, vitamins...
Long, sweaty days.
All over his ass.
Nobody's gonna mind. And if he takes to it, gets more ticklish...
Two months and counting, best I can figure.

Two big meals a day, usually, and I lost count around forty. It's been twice that many overall, at least. And I'm getting more ticklish.
I quit wondering how long this is gonna go. No fuckin' point. It just keeps going.
 

I lay here, after they feed me, and think. Used to just fuckin' wait for it to start up again, but that got old. They give me about fifteen minutes, and I figure it's to make sure the food stays down. It used to be a little break I'd look forward to. No tickling at all, even for a few minutes. By now it's just a reminder that they ain't done yet. The food is just to keep me strong so they can kick my fuckin' ass some more.
Anyway, what I think about first is a smoke. Enough time to suck down three or four. After a couple minutes I can't stand it anymore, thinking about 'em, so I gotta think about something else before I beg like a pussy. Again.
So I just lie still, then, and run through this story I made up awhile ago. At first I thought the cuffs actually were talkin', telling me all this shit. But the ticklers made me eat a few cross-tops not long before that, so it was probably just in my head. I ain't never heard a voice here, a real one, out loud. Nobody breathing, cracking their knuckles or anything. Not even a cough. Ain't that a bitch.
But I was stuck, as usual, and thinkin' that the cuffs were mocking me. I hate those mutherfuckin' things. Telling me I was in for a long haul here. That's one reason why I think they're actually gonna fuck with me for a whole year. One entire fuckin' year. I got this idea of what they said, the cuffs. And I added to it, here and there. Usually during breaks like this, when I can think straight for a change. I run this one over and over, working out the bugs, 'cause then I remember who my real fuckin' enemies are here. I mean, shit, yeah, they all are. But I just got a thing about these fuckin' cuffs. Hung up on 'em. If it wasn't for them, I could get out, I just know it. At least cover up some.
And I work out this whole big deal - what they got in store for my ass.
 

We're not lettin' him go, we say. We're tough cuffs.
You can't hear us. You're an asshole. Our asshole. We talk to the ticklers, and you don't get to hear it.
We're not kidding, we tell 'em, you do not want to throw him back yet. We know it. So he's staying. Right here, until you change your mind. And you will. You'll be back.
No we won't, they say, look at him, he's all done. We had our fun with him. Six months. Kick him out. Get some other fucker instead, bring him on in, lock the door. New wrists to hold onto. All yours...
But we ain't havin' none of that. Aw, he's just sleepin' it off, same as every night. What, you wanna let this asshole go? Let him just leave? When you're not anywhere near done trickin' him out? No way. We mean it. This is a mistake. There's no way he's gettin' off this easy. Not yet. So you better believe us. He's gonna be pretty fuckin' thirsty tomorrow. And hungry. Get this, ticklers - we are not gonna let this fucker slip away. We don't know what the fuck's wrong with you... but he's barely even warmed up.
They keep arguing until they see we mean business. We got him. We're keepin' him. And finally, they start to leave. Find 'em a new asshole to tickle. Hey, we yell, at least give this fucker some real motivation. See if he can get himself loose if you're not fuckin' with him, givin' him the full-bore tickling he deserves. That makes 'em pause. What kind of motivation? Well... how about dropping a carton of smokes on the bed? And maybe some matches?
And they do. They say, cuffs, you're way too stubborn but that's a fuckin' great idea. He'll shit. That's what we're after, we say. If he don't knock 'em off the bed, trying to snap us, he's gonna piss all over 'em. Yeah, they say. And they get out a couple bottles of water, and a few cigars. Some food. Set it all on top of an old box. Where you can see it. Stare at it, but ya can't touch it. 'Cause we're not gonna let ya.
All of a sudden, we get a fuckin' great idea. Oh shit, you gotta hear this, you gotta... Well, what is it, they say, itchin' to find a replacement for ya. Just picture this - uncuff his ankles. And they say, what the fuck. Wait'll you see this, we promise 'em, and besides he's our prisoner now if you're done with him. But not here, they say, we're gonna get us some other fucker to tickle, and so on, and so forth.
Well, we get that all worked out again, and they undo our brother-cuffs way down there. You'll like this, we keep sayin', it'll be a great going-away present, if nothing else. Aaaah, you're losin' it, they're real sure. Maybe, we go, and maybe not. Just get this asshole some oil.
We tell 'em to oil up your feet. Real good. Soak 'em. And they do, and we say, get his socks. They do, and pull 'em on your feet. And his boots, we go, get his fuckin' boots. Pour that oil in there. Keep goin'. And pull those oil-filled boots on him. He'll freak. And better yet if he can't get 'em off. You know he'll try. How about some old straps, wrapped just over his ankle? Tied nice and tight?
They do it, and step back. And there you are, with your feet trapped. In your fuckin' biker boots. Oil soaking in, all day. Gettin' warm in there, but you can't kick 'em off. They're stayin' on there. Asshole.

The next day is a real long one for ya. But not for the same reason as all the other days. And you try, so fuckin' hard, to slip us. Throat gettin' all dry. You call us every name in the book, whispering like you do. Sick fuckers, I gotta have water - but your eyes are lookin' at those smokes. Yeah, we know. You son of a bitch, you're gonna kill me if you hold on too long, you say. Blah blah blah. I'm thirsty...
You can't get the boots off. Seein' that carton really pisses you off. And there's nothing you can do. We got you. And hey, y'know, you went from too many cum-shots, every day here, to zero. So you're overdue. Already. Staring at your cock, so horny you can't see straight, and no ticklers are around. You gonna miss 'em then? Or wish they were back... at least to get you off? Pull us off your hands, so you can get yourself off for a change?
You try to think of something that will get you off, even if you can't reach your meat. And you know what's on your mind? All those ticklers. Lots and lots of fingers. And oil. Feathers. The other tools. Many hours of it. Even the fuckin' toys - but especially a tight, slippery fist, taking its fuckin' time...
You can't get to sleep. Takes you a long time. Thinkin' about a smoke. About your cock - and all that fun they had with it. How bad you want to touch it, right now. Your arms up here, and spread, and stayin' put - and you can't roll over enough to rub your dick on the bed, and fuck the sheets. But you try. Over and over. We see to it you don't get to cum, all day today. And all night.
Bad dreams? Oh, fuck. You know it. Ticklers that never left. Smokes you don't get to fire up. And we bet you're dreaming about water, 'cause that's gotta have you worried.

And the time comes where you dream you're sucking down nice, clean water. Gulping it down. All you want. You'll like that -
Until you open your eyes.

Hey, asshole. Look. They came back. We knew they would. We just knew it. Say they're here to cut you loose. And they think they mean it. You look around at about a dozen gloves, hanging around ya. You really were drinkin' water, and one of 'em is carrying a water bottle away.
A few others are up by us. One's got your knife - and it's open. They want you out of here, say it's somebody else's turn. And we still say, hell no! This one's not gettin' away. So they're tellin' us they mean business, you're done.
And - get this - the door swings open. You ain't never seen that, and you look like one happy asshole, there, for a second or two. Almost out of here. No more tickling. What a moron. You stare at that door.
And you get to see a glove come in, with a new carton. Smokes. For you. They tear it open. You're so excited. Watchin' em get a Camel out, bring it over. Stick it between your teeth. See, they tell us. We mean it. Why else would we let him have a smoke?
But... they ain't in any big hurry to actually cut us off ya. Are they?
We knew you'd be back to see him again, we say. And we know why. He's got a lot more tickling coming to him, and you know it. He's already caught, real snug, You can't let him off that easy. You know it. He knows it.

Your ticklers study you. And remember. Finally, one picks up a match off the floor, lights it. Brings it on up. And you just can't believe it's really gonna happen. Your first smoke since you came. It'll make you dizzy, won't it? You ever want a smoke worse?
C'mon, ticklers, let it just hang there, as usual. Unlit. Make him light his own fuckin' smoke, if he's got nuthin' left you want to take. Lungs so clean now - for howlin'. All that power he's got now. A whole day off, too. He's rested up. Ain't been touched.
That makes 'em think. And the match, the fuckin' fire you been wantin' for so long - that glove slows up. And it stops. But not where you want it, not even where you can reach it. Out of reach. Just sittin' there, kept back. While they study ya. And think.
You snap at us... and then, then, you know what? You drop back. Slump. Oh yeah.
Ane better yet, we tell your ticklers - even better! Remember what's in those oily boots? You fuckin' tenderized his feet. He thinks he's free, or just about. With feet, that tender. All of him nice and rested.
They're all hooked. Thinkin' hard. Cooped up in those hot boots, we say. With all that oil. Just picture it. Peeling those socks off, nice and slow. Won't he like to see ya do that?
And then, real casual, we throw in the kicker. Y'know, ticklers... we can't even fuckin' describe how horny he was yesterday. Hard. All day, and most of the night. This asshole's been wantin' to cum, so bad. And his dick hasn't been touched.

They're so into picturing it. None of 'em even moves. You do. Shit, yeah. Looking around, pulling hard. Checking on that match - but mostly on the fuckin' door, still open, and you want out. Don't you? Oh yeah...
C'mon, we tell 'em. No way he gets out of here without a royal fuckin' send-off. It's a crime to let this oiled-up, horny fucker go without a last run. Pull out all the stops. Even if it's just ten minutes. Or five. Five hard minutes, and then we'll let his ass go. If you insist. But think about what he's like, right about now. Untouched all those hours. The boots. The socks. You just gotta tickle those feet. Maybe even after you pump him off. Now you know that cock wants some expert attention. So much fun, dammit. Seriously.
And then - asshole - you know what? One of 'em moves. Finally. It's the one with your match. Comes closer, maybe an inch...
And it shakes the match, real slow. No light for you. It gets tossed to the floor.

You just stare. And finally, you yell - hey, you do have some voice left! They like that. Real hoarse -
Over your head, there's a click. You look up, just in time, to see 'em closing your knife up. Closing it. They're not gonna cut us off. They want us to stay right where we are. Do our job. You know why.
Then something else moves, and you look past us.
It's the door. Closing. Yeah.
The door's closing... and you're still on the wrong side of it. You're in for more. Ticklish asshole. Lots more.
Slowly, they start to go for your boots.
You go berzerk. "No more, no more," you keep saying. Look like you're gonna cry. Frustration. It don't matter, we've got ya. Still real snug.
The ticklers hear ya... but they're busy picturing your feet. One of 'em zips over, tossing your knife outside, where you definitely can't get at it. And you watch the door as it closes. Listen to it lock.
Lock ya in.
We won. You're fucked again. We did it.

You yell harder, but nobody in here cares about that.
All those gloves, cruising on down... That's it, we say. Kick his ass!
"No more no more no more no more..." Kicking your feet all around. Boots sliding off the sheet. And zip - they move fast, snag your left leg. Pick it up, stretch it out. Untie the strap.
And you watch. And pull at us. Still chanting, no more no more. Like it's gonna help. They catch your other leg. Up, and out. Straps off, boots... off. Oil, pouring out in a little stream.
Hold 'em tight, we say to 'em. Get those fuckers cuffed down. Yeah. You gotta cinch our brother-cuffs down real snug. Make it that much more familiar. Just like old times.
You're stretched out again, like ya should be. Anchored.
And they take your socks off as slowly as possible. They're into it, and they know you're watching the show. The ticklers study how wild you are, about what's happening. Almost got away... 'til it all went wrong. And they eat it up. Gotcha pinned down real nice. Set for more. Asshole.
Shiny toes. What do ya say, gang? Are those lookin' like feet you want to cut loose? Let 'em get away now? We don't think so. Are they softer? Ready to be set on fire? You know us cuffs are makin' sure he don't duck out on any of the tickling. Down there, or up here, sure as hell. He's got it coming. And he's overdue. You think those feet are worth a few minutes of the best fuckin' tickling you can give 'em?
And the ticklers... they just chuckle.

Three gloves for each foot. Closing in. You're wilder than ever. You're so freaked you drop the cigarette, the fuckin' smoke you wanted. But you don't even see it fall. 'Cause you're locked on to the six black gloves, and you know for a fuckin' fact what they're gonna do. And you're right, fucker.
The ticklers, they're on a mission. Studying your feet real, real hard. Except for a couple, which are pretty interested in your dick. But they hang back, so you get the biggest impact you've ever, ever felt... way down on those panicky soles.
Oh yeah, do it, we say. Make this the best five minutes of tickling you've ever done. Drive this asshole crazy. Ride 'em hard.
And they do.

Yeah! Push it harder. Hell, yeah. Now this is the way to stick it to him.
After the first thirty seconds. They get up to speed. Your voice cracking, as you howl your fuckin' ass off. All that lung-power...
Fuck, do you howl! Found some brand new strength to rassle us. As if we were holding down a grizzly bear.
You get your five minutes. And they're intense. Perfect.
They don't slow down. Fully into it now. Five more minutes, and they're still focused.

We don't say a damn thing. We're too happy. And the ticklers are into it again, fuckin' with you. Real hooked. They keep right on blasting all those nerves. They outdo themselves. Raise the bar of what they can do. It's the biggest fuckin' rush.
After twenty minutes, you get more water.

And those other gloves ease on down to your cock. Get going. You squirm real nice, and wail...
Just for a minute. 'Cause four of 'em start in on your sides. Same ol' morning routine, plus the fuckin' hardcore teasing. Cock and balls. And damn, does it do you in! You quit howling. Just up and quit. Oh, you giggle once in a while, and then you quit. You're so overloaded you can't laugh. But they like it when you giggle like that. So they keep on stompin'.
And the red-hot minutes add up.

An hour later, they're still at it. Hard and deep on your feet. Way too slow to finish ya off, on your crotch. And real fuckin' solid, and we mean solid, on your ribs. An oil bottle's coming to your chest.
Hell, cuffs... you were right. Dead right. What the fuck were we thinking, anyway? This son of a bitch is still fun.
Yeah, we shoot back. Let's see ya get every last chuckle out of him. They like that. Gonna take a long time, they laugh. And we tell 'em, we meant what we said before - the longer, the better. This asshole gets every last stroke of tickling he can take. You with us?
Yeah, hell yeah, and then they dig in - all over ya. Leaning on the spots they know, real well, all the ones that fuck you up the most...
Two months more. No - three. He's good, here, for another three months, they say.
Think bigger, we say. Double that. And they laugh again. Yeah. Maybe. Three months, no doubt, and we'll see how fuckin' touchy he is then. Yeah, looks like he's gonna be way more fun by then.
You sure were right, cuffs. Y'know, listen - if we back off again, no matter what we say, you just hold onto him like you did. Remind us how bad he's got it...
Fuck yeah, we tell 'em. He's gotta stick around. Round it off - make it at least a year! Full year. That's six more months of tickling for him, jacking off. And they laugh, as they tickle you. But they don't argue. And that's settled. A year. We're gonna see to that.
Just doing our job. What we were made for.

And this ain't the last place. We fit real well on ya. No way we're gonna lose you. Asshole. After you go, get all rested up, we'll be on the case. Get another tickler interested - as if the tats ain't enough! Another old room like this. Where you're gonna get it, months and more months. Then another room. And so on.
We'll be there, asshole. Keeping you down. We're gonna make sure you hold still and take it. All kinds of tickling, from here on out.

 
Shit, I was stupid. That first day. Well, how was I to know. First thing, I went for my knife. Right hip, where it always is, and I mean always. My hand landed - and no knife.
Turn my left ankle in, looking for the hard bulge. Shoot the fuckin' locks out. But my boot is looser 'n usual. Not right. No gun there, not anymore.
Okay. Think fast, buck. What do I have left?
Zippo.
N-nope. They got to that too. Smokes still in my pocket. No Zippo. Matches, maybe - if I didn't run out recently. An old throwaway lighter - naw, that's in in my left saddlebag, somewhere.
No way I lost all that shit. Not even if they carried me in here upside-down. They took it. Cleaned me out. Making sure I don't give 'em no trouble.. Can't have the stupid fucker hurtin' himself. Not with all the plans we got for him. Major fun right here. Fuckin' king-hell tickling, a good year's worth, comin' right up -
And that's when they grabbed my arms.
 

The setup here is simple. So very fuckin' straightforward. Every idea I had, it was already blocked. The door, the window. And these sure as hell ain't half-ass restraints.
They went with the best. Nothing I can bust, or rattle too much. Solid. Smooth as fuck. Very matter-of-fact fuckers, overall. Didn't go too far out of their fuckin' way to impress... they just got themselves the best gear, to keep my ass down, and that speaks for itself. Ain't that a kick in the balls.

I'm not gonna hand 'em any surprises. Not with this shit holding me down. That's the point, and I got it. Give it up, asshole. It's gonna make sure you get what you came here for. It's for us, not for you - so we can play harder. Ain't gonna take any shit from you.
Not like they gotta anything to worry about. Not a single fuckin' thing has thrown 'em for a loop, far as I can tell. Two months, and they're ready. They had all the bases covered before they got me in here, locked the door. Sure as shit.
They got my bike too. They kicked it over, that first night. Pinned it. Sounded weird, being inside instead of outside. They got my bike and me. Hidden real good. My ride. Ride outa here. Proof I was ever in these fuckin' parts... locked up tight too. I figure it's in the kitchen. Up on the center stand. The door's never open, not once. I look at it a couple times a day.
But I picture a shitty kitchen, there, to go with this shitty room. Dust on the seat. Not much gas, if they didn't close the valve on the fuel line. Just about all the tranny oil's leaked out, by now. I never thought it was gonna sit in one place for this long. Fuck. But I got a spare quart in my saddlebag - or at least, I used to. If they didn't fuckin' dump it out. Make double-sure I don't get too far. I'd fry the fuckin' gearbox to get away from 'em. Small price to pay. I wanna see my scoot again.
And most of all I want a mutherfuckin smoke! Oh, shit, I still just lie here and sweat over it. I mean, sweat more. I'm sweatin' like a pig all the time here, but I think of a smoke and I can't believe how damn bad I want one of those sons of bitches.
I have three packs left. Right saddlebag, wrapped in my brown shirt. Holy fuck...
I don't miss reefer that bad. Or booze. But oh, fuck. Three whole packs. It just don't get a lot easier as time goes on.
Fuckers. They want me to squirm. Hard as I can. There ya go. Asshole.
The other thing is, I can breathe a hell of a lot better now. Didn't know how plugged up I was. Not no more. I never dreamed of bein' in shape like this. The muscles I got now. I wish I was worn out by now, fading away. Fuck. They keep shoveling food into me, and pills, and... damn.
No way I thought my arms could even get this big around. Not mine. All the tugging. I'm real inspired, here. All this heavy-duty fuckin' massage.
 

So simple, it's fuckin' ridiculous. I don't wonder about anything anymore. Why this, why that. Why me. What's the point? I don't get no answers. Quit begging, too. That was mostly after I got done being pissed off. You wanna talk about rage. Holy shit.
Neither of 'em did me any good. It all seems stupid now. Big waste of time. Gonna kick your ass, when I bust these fuckin' straps. Wherever you are. Just as soon as you let me go, look out...
Or the pussy approach - aw please, please don't tickle me any more. Have a heart, lemme go, you'll never see me again. And I sure as hell don't want to ever see this place again. You gotta let me go sometime, why not today. Catch ya some fuckin' Olympic athlete and play with him. I'll go and drag a couple jocks back here, I swear I will, all you gotta do is let me out so I can track 'em down. Or there's lots of guys like me. Younger. Loners. Get 'em in here, they'd be a hell of a lot more fun than I am...
I guess that figures. Trying to cut a deal. Throw my kid sisters in, if the fucker would only go for it. I don't feel bad about sinking that low. I did, for awhile, but it's gotta be one of those things everybody'll say, given enough time. Enough tickling.

Cooperating don't mean shit to them. You lay there, thinking, what the hell do I have to fuckin' do to have 'em cut me some slack. I thought that so many times, I finally figured it out. This whole deal is so simple I couldn't get it, not for a long time. I do now.
Oh yeah. They're not out to impress. They just get to work. Take what they're after.
And I'm all done with wondering about anything. It's real fuckin' clear now. This ain't about payback. Just wrong place, wrong time. Before, though - feels like a year ago - What if. If this, if that. Sure. It's easy now. If I had just turned north on 133, I wouldn't be here. They never woulda known I exist. Maybe have some other poor fucker strapped down here for the summer.
For the year? Maybe. Just might be. Fuck.
Guess I'll find out when I find out. Hell no, I came south. Smoother ride. Right to 'em. Hold it, scumbag, you're comin' with us. We're gonna hide ya real good. Torture ya. Y'know, if only somebody knew which road you were takin', to whereever it was you thought you were goin'... you might not be here now.
Shit. Go for broke. If my health wasn't so good - and if I hadn't brought R.C.'s dentist a pound of purple bud last winter, to fix all the holes in my fuckin' teeth - maybe they woulda cut me loose after a week. Hard to picture that now. And the ultimate, of course - if only I wasn't ticklish. Not at all. Can't wrap my fuckin' mind around that one.

And I even, fuckin' A, I really tried to get into it. So I could put up with it better. Maybe get 'em on my side, if I liked it.
Something's sure diggin' it. Got a hold of my wrists right now, curled half-on, half-off the cuffs. Squeezing real slow. It reminds me of a babe I knew, Cathy, gettin' all worked up. Horny as they come. She used to do that. Just gettin' off on the big ol' human play-toy they got down. Gloves. Toys, whatever. And all the fun fuckin' shit they're doin' to him.
Thick cuffs, on a big ol' biker. Stroke him up. Pet his ass. Keepin' the dumb fucker right where they want him. Down for more and more of it - yeah, somebody's excited. Keepin' this up... all those hours. All those days. Hot and bothered. This here's what they really like.
So, after nothing else worked, I figured well, fuck. I got no pride left anyway. Maybe I can roll with it. Learn to... like it, since I'm in for it anyway. Long haul. Maybe even get this over with sooner. Yeah. Sure as fuck.
Tried everything else, but - damn. I can get into some of the jack-off toys now. Guess I got my favorites. I liked to fuck slow, before this. Stretch it out. And now - shit. Now!
But I just ain't wired that way. To like this. Oh yeah, go for it, tickle me harder. Make me black out. Twenty fuckin' places at once.
Tried to dig it. I had to. See if it would make this any easier to take. It didn't.

All it did was get me more tats.
Naw, they were probably gonna do that anyway. Tat me up. Aw, fuck. Fill in the blank spots, which ain't many to start with. So I'd work at enjoying this insane monster tickling and pumping I was goin' through, until I pass out. Sleep like a log. Wake up, and feel that throb. Arms, legs, back. Neck. Ain't felt that in years. Maybe ten fuckin' years. When they put me in the stocks, I can see more of their work.
It looks like real bad prison work, like from a guitar string. Could be a hell of a lot worse, I guess. They're rougher than most of my tats. Blocky. Thick lines. Tribal, sorta. I hate that tribal shit.
But I got some now. All over. Fuck me. There's gloves. Big ones, little ones. Hollow, of course. After a couple tries, they figured out how to make that come off right. I think it's the highlight, the little lighter patch on the nearer edge. Somehow, that just says hey, I'm empty.
Fingers look full but it's magic. Magic gloves, and we tatted up the asshole, this real ticklish biker we got down. With little pictures of ourselves. They slung some fuckin' ink. No shit. And there's feathers - hell, I must have like two dozen of 'em scattered around. Plus rope, of course. Like on my shin. Right shin. Rope and brushes and lots of toys. Even oil cans. I think that's what they are. Pouring oil, so some gloves can dive in and get busy.

I can't believe it. Wherever they could make a space, they stuck a feather or something. A glove. Like a big ol' sign. Check it out, this big fucker's ticklish! I mean, seriously fuckin' ticklish! No lie. And the position of the ropes and shit - little cartoon stocks above my left ankle, there. I'm fuckin' screwed. You see art like this, rope and feathers and wiggling fingers coming in for the kill - you see that and think damn, this guy really gets off on tickling. Tied down and fucked with in a big way. Digs it.
Right on my arms. And my neck.
Next tickling fucker sees 'em, some magic fucker with fifty hands and all the time in the world...
I gotta get 'em covered up, first thing. No way I can take my jacket off, in public. It ain't people I'm worried about - they can kiss my ass, I've seen a whole lot weirder tats. It's the magic sons of bitches. If there's one... gang of 'em, these bastards who got me now, there's probably others. Cruisin' around, and they see me - hey, alright. Lookit him. Nice of somebody to mark him up like that, so we wouldn't miss out on the chance to have some major fuckin' fun with an old pro at this shit.
Tickling hardcore - yeah, asshole, talkin' bout you. C'mere. Get in the van. Your bike, too. Okay, we'll do it the hard way, then. Gonna take you to our secret hideout, like some abandoned mine or something, just as private, all forgotten. Get your ass in here, let's see just how ticklish you are...
Fuck. Over and over? No thank you.
Aaaah, that's too far in the future to worry about. I got me a good ten months left here, I just bet. At least. Laugh, fucker. Feel the heat. Tickling heat, gettin' hotter. And hotter.

That's the deal. Hard to take. Well, impossible. Can't stand it. I fuckin' can't. So what? It don't matter at all. It's gonna keep on comin' anyway. How I'll make it through the next hour, I never know. But I do. And the next, and 'til it's dark outside, and then some. Wake up and do it all again, feel it harder. Nice and hard. Just can't think too far ahead anymore.
And I'm done with bein' all scared, or just blown away. Yeah. Like, whoa, what if they kill me? Do it real slow? They could just let me starve, here. Like they'd let that happen, when they can be tickling me for another month, and another, and so on. They can't go an hour without tickling, or jackin' me off. Unless I'm asleep. And even then, who knows.
The whole vibe, here, is long-haul. If they weren't feedin' me - damn vegetables and shit - or if I was getting weaker and weaker, I might think they were gonna finish off with a bang. Tickle me right to death or somethin'. Yeah, I used to worry about that. But this is long-haul. They can keep this goin' on. And they do. That's part of the fun.
How much more fuckin' ticklish will this asshole biker be after a couple more months? And a couple more, after that? Fuck, no. I get it. Nothing to worry about there. The tats are to make sure I got more of this comin' after they're done. They ain't gonna off me. They wanna see how far they can take my ass. And that's gonna take time. Months of time. And here's the room for it, alright...

It used to bug me, real bad. Custom room. Me and my bike locked away. I was, like, shocked. Can't be true. Amazed. Like, they wouldn't. What a chump.
That gets old, too. It don't help. Oh, I can't fuckin' believe this is real. They're not really gonna tickle me. This is a joke. They're just... things, fuckin' objects. Stuff. They can't do this to me. They wouldn't. It ain't right. Aw, fuck, they're not gonna touch my meat. No way...
Well, then, they wouldn't make me cum a fourth time today... Aw shit, they got food here? For me? For how long? Why, the sick fucks. They can't be serious...
After about a month, I ran through every possible dazed thing I could think. Got it all out of the way. Then they could dig in, knowin' they had my one-hundred-percent full attention.
That's the deal. It's so easy. I finally got it through my head. I don't have to do shit, here. Don't even have to think. They keep it simple. Just feel 'em. Asshole, now you just stay awake, real sharp now, and try to keep up. Don't even have to move. Just feel it, as hard as you can. It's too much but that's alright, we're gonna increase what you can take. And drive a little over the top, all the time. Too much.

I don't even have to wipe my ass here. They feed me, clean me up. Make sure I don't get any sores, from the cuffs, or the stocks, or just from lyin' around too much. If I fight 'em, try not to eat or something, they just tickle the fight outa me, and kick my ass for a while just to make me pay. Hey asshole, we're gonna do whatever the hell we want with ya, and you're gonna do whatever the hell we want ya to do. Period.
And what they really want, I can't keep from givin' it up. Absolutely fuckin' hammered with tickling, overloaded by it, and staying put. That's the number-one thing they want.
I got no more ideas left on how to fuckin' turn it off, inside my head.
No. Instead, I'm gettin' more ticklish.
More. I don't see how that's possible, but it does. Can't get any fuckin' worse. Shit. I fell for that one so many times that I don't waste another second thinkin' it over.
Tickling. Of all fuckin' things.
 

After lunch, when there's a gang of feathers tearin' up my bottom half...
I bite down. Something there. Look -
Big ol' cigar.
And I groan. You fuckers. What I wouldn't give for a light -
And, dammit, I'd gladly sign up for another month if they'd light this fuckin' cigar. Or bring me half a fuckin' cig. Already lit...
Not that it matters if I agree to shit. Oh, fuck, I need a smoke! Fuck!
I'm whimpering. Again. Sounds like breathing hard. No voice. I make myself cut it out, and pull hard on the cigar. Fuckin' unlit cigar. Oh, shit.
The feathers step it up - or I just tune in harder - and I'm whimpering. Out of it. But not nearly far enough...
No match is gonna come. Not for me. So I start to laugh again. Clamp down on the cigar, and hoot nonstop.

Sometime after I come again, it's gone. The cigar. Musta bit through it.
I pant for awhile. And I notice I'm not feelin' em. No feathers, no gloves. Nothin'. I catch my breath and keep my eyes closed. Something they want me to see. That's the pattern. Right? Fuck.
But I get curious. I always do.
Gloves, waitin' on me. And one's holding a white bottle. By my foot. No label on the bottle. When the glove aims, and pushes down on the nozzle, a mist hits my toes.
The spray. Shit. Not the spray. The mutherfuckin' spray.
I gotta get out of here. Before they start in again. I hate that spray, whatever it is.
The finger pumps out more of it. Gets my toes real good. I feel the shit dripping down the front of my feet. Spraying lower. My fuckin' feet, soaked.
Okay, cuffs. You got him? Real good? Keepin' those hands out of the way? We don't want this shit goin' to waste. Hell, no.
He's fucked. Soak him down, head to toe. Drench him.

Thrash all I want, but I can't move. Spray going up my legs... Heavy under my knees. Heavier on my crotch.
Dished out until it drips off my belly, and my sides. And pits.
A pair of gloves gets in my face. One clamps over my eyes, and the other parks on my chin. Ready to swing up. I've seen this a dozen fuckin' times. So I snag a big breath, and the hand locks on. Leather. Tight over my mouth and nose -
The spray wets down my neck. Right up to my chin.
After a few long seconds, they let go.

This shit makes me come unglued. The rest of the way. Oh, fuck!
I drink a bottle of water, 'cause they make me. Gotta get the fucker all set for some real insane fun. Okay, cuffs, you ready? He's gonna thrash for us -
My toes. My feet. Touching my feet. Leather, I think. The spray is just slippery enough. Makes me go way beyond fuckin' ticklish...
"No," I say to the ceiling. "No no no."
They start in.

Oh...
Fuck.
No.

I ain't got the words. For this.
How much... stronger...
More. More.
More ticklish.
No.

More...

03sep2001