It's like something out of a fairy tale, this moment. Looking at him...
Pure triumph.
The result of all the careful planning was right here, and the moment was unbelievably enjoyable. It had wanted to surprise and hide someone - a pet - and now here he was. A terrific choice. Having him laid out, unable to cover up at all, completely prevented from moving away, was just spectacular.
He wasn't going anywhere. And his crewmates had no idea where he was. Odds were very good that those statements would remain true indefinitely.
Almost entranced, it picked up the first feather.
He squirmed in the most satisfying way. The giggling and chortling was unbalanced, way too happy, desperate and fully consuming. There was no direction in which he could fidget to find any relief from the excitement. He tried so hard to get up, but the restraints kept him flat on his back. His arms couldn't protect his dependable armpits. Neither leg moved closer to the other, so all of the nerve endings between them - so very wide awake now - could be reached and stimulated.
It was so completely delighted by all of his reactions. Clear, unstoppable distress - and the sounds of mirth, which were usually spontaneous signs of pleasure. Even the most gentle pleasure, continuously applied, made him plead and writhe, thrashing, yelping, miserable whines fading effortlessly into thick chortles, then wrenching giggles, back to a mournful wail which dropped to mindless hoots and snickers as he pulled at the restraints, kicked helplessly, shifted and arched and rolled his head...
"Please, please," he keeps repeating between fits of laughter. "Pleeee-eeeeeeeze..."
Feathers stroked the boundaries of his crotch, his nipples, and his recently shaved insteps. Brushes traced endlessly, with dramatic effect, across his belly. Slow massage consumed his hips, and knees, and triceps.
It was like a textbook illustration of maddened, deranged reactions.
Each hour led to the next.
Tears still rolled down his face.
Even if he could no longer laugh, the impact was unmistakable. Returning back to a sensitive spot caused a little jerk, maybe twenty seconds of chuckling...
His face was relaxed. The expression of pain had been there for hours, but it was gone now. The tension was completely gone - toes, fingers, arms. Even his pulse had leveled off. But he was still completely consumed. Every instant. He was deep inside.
Seven hours, and there was no mistaking how ticklish he remained.
More than anything in the world, he probably wanted to be set free. Fingers leaving him alone, restraints being taken off. But he'd do just fine.
Two more hours, it decided. Then he can rest up - for his first full day of forced excitement.
There was no reason the tickling couldn't resume tomorrow, after he'd rested and eaten. And so on.
It was having so much fun. Full satisfaction.
So long as he was bound, there remained only the possibility that some idiot would accidentially poke his head inside. The compartment had been chosen because it was too far from anywhere important to be used - not even for storage - and no one ever came near it. More than enough thick padding had been installed to keep any hint of his distress from being known.
His health and stamina were everything it could have hoped for. Not only could it tickle him tonight, and make it an excruciatingly blissful night at that, but he couldn't crawl away. So he would see the unearthly gloves and feathers begin again. And again, times without number. That's what it had desired, and he was safely in hand.
No telling how long...
If he was undiscovered. The tickling must not be interrupted. This week, next month. Happy new year, captive. Really get into the party I'm hosting for you. On you.
Months and months of tickling required that no other crewmember accidentially lean on that door handle. That would spoil everything. He couldn't reach the door, as long as it was between him and the exit from all this sweaty, tearful laughter. But there was a way to be undeniably sure that the door wouldn't just open for him either. The idea of an end being brought about by some moron on the crew was distracting - and by the captive himself, absolutely infuriating.
It had enjoyed such a staggering rush when it turned the lock, needing no key or knob.
There.
Such satisfaction -
Every other risk was banished. Time didn't matter now.
Nothing and no one can intrude.
Never more in charge, in control, ruling - than after the lock is engaged. Now there's every opportunity, gained and securely held, to do all that it wants.
It had been a sudden inspiration. The closet was big enough, perfectly insulated from sound leakage... and the ticklish prisoner was snoring quietly. He had no idea. And it wasn't going to even think about when it would stop tickling and let him go -
But the closet door had no lock.
That was easily solved. A good lock, not only to send the message to its ticklish new friend, but also to keep the unlikely snoop from peeking inside. It wanted to hide the door completely, so nobody would affect the endless tickling it longed to dish out...
But the lock was wonderful. Bright, and sturdy. He'd never be able to pull the door open - until it was done tickling him. The contact could just continue, over and over, by hauling him back to the restraints. No, prisoner, you're not done feeling it yet. Oh, no.
Something deeply magical happened when it turned the lock - almost like instantly transporting him to its own private planet. Everything was ready and waiting for his feverish experience. There would be no escape to reality until it had doled out every single second of excitement it wished. For every hour and night and week until then, he was perfectly trapped. For serious tickling. Deep, full, thorough, unimaginable tickling for the prisoner. The lock made it possible, in a way. Verified his little departure from a drab, untickled life.
With the movement of a bolt, his entire reality centered on it. And what it wanted to do most, of many grueling things, was tickle him night and day. Sessions would last as long as it desired, interspersed with enough sleep to make him responsive for the next unthinkably long episode. Resumptions without number. Knowledge about his unique weaknesses increasing, new combinations which maximized the effect even more, and still more, whisked away from the tyranny of time. Every second in its absolute control. Stroke, knead, tease, polish...
The sensation is just unbearable.
Even if he wasn't strapped down, the door is too much for him. It makes sure that the tickling will start over and over. Hope is on the other side of the door - and the lock keeps it there. Inside, with him, there is only more tickling. No one is able to hear his hysterical giggling and pleading, lusty grunts, airy wails of excessive pleasure. They don't have a clue. So his fever continues...
If the door was gone, someone walking by would know. And stop the tickling. But they can't see inside his prison. No accident or curiosity will let anyone open the door - not now, that the lock is ensuring that the fun goes on. Guaranteeing it. Making sure he remains helpless and tickled. Exhaustively, obsessively, enthusiastically tickled. Off the ship's payroll now, and for a long time to come, he'll simply experience all the captor has in store for his room and board. Bills, finances, credit ratings are banished from here. Irrelevant. A special room has been selected, then readied particularly for him. There are more than enough restraints, and gloves, and feathers. This is the lodging that he earns with his delirius suffering. Food is a small price to pay, from the tickler's perspective. Taking care of his body is a service which allows the tickling to continue. All of that intricate attention is part of the contract - all of the tickling he can possibly stand, in exchange for his bodily needs. And perfect privacy. The fun must continue.
And it will. That's so incredibly obvious. With the room undiscovered, and the lock attracting the attention of no one - except the prisoner - his ordeal will not have to end at any foreseeable time. Tickling will be followed by more tickling. This is his job now. No one else knows about the forced reassignment, and they cannot possibly discover it...
Eager fingers dig in.
A phone message was automatically generated, the result of a pirate program in a "homeland security" database...
He had reentered the city. Determined, no doubt, to avoid the port at all costs. But the most likely people he'd contact were listed. Secret surveillance began -
There!
Leaving a friend's house, he lights a smoke and gets into a rusty old pickup truck. It's a different vehicle than he used to have - an attempt to fuck up his trail, perhaps...
But contingency plans have always existed.
It's been waiting to see him again - for 32 months.
Invisible hands take charge.
All of the wild-eyed, screaming panic can't stop the cuffs, or the gag. His truck takes him away...
In the opposite direction from the port, a bad neighborhood is the first stop. Another car is waiting - untraceable. It ferries him to a new, unexpected place of employment.
And he's marched, despite all the terrified resistance, past his old ship.
Carefully, he's hauled in.
A spectacular cell for this man! So many fine racks and stocks, slings, chairs. Case after case of tickling supplies. Shelves filled with water and food.
Held tight, screaming into the gag, a sound makes him look up. It's the hatch, five feet above his head, swinging down. This is the new door, which will not move. No human knows about it...
And three stout, wonderful locks turn.
The world ceases to exist. Instead, the cell and his new assignment - to endure so much more tickling than even the last time he was caught, resumed by a dozen approaching gloves - are everything that matters.
2012