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Con had been thinking, in the bar, that maybe he had walked there. No troubles. Decent weather. It wasn't his usual thing, but he'd been picturing it for a couple days, it seemed like. Nice, easy walk...
Not getting on the damn scoot yet is a good idea, right about then. Walking in the dark doesn't seem doable either, if he even had the right idea about which way home was. A weird idea hits him - so he sticks out his thumb.
After a few seconds, a van flashes its lights at him. He chuckles, and starts walking over.

"Hey," the driver says, when Con walked up. "Which way you headed?"
"Foothill and Circle."
A pause. "You're in West Park now."
That was the next town, about ten miles off. "Hold on. I guess I rode my bike over here. Wherever, uh..."
"Not up for drivin' now." The younger guy puffs on a cigar, thinking - and frowning. "Look, come and crash. When you're, uh, done, they'll get you back to your wheels. No shit."
"They?"
"We," the driver shoots back.
Huh. He didn't feel totally up to navigating back. He didn't know West Park inside-and-out. "Dammit. Ain't got much of a choice."
"Hop in."

"Man. You're not shitfaced? Really?"
"For reals."
"Maybe somebody slipped you a mickey." He chuckles almost bitterly.
Naaah... I watched the bartender do his thing.
The driver nodded. "I was thinkin' maybe an invisible hand did it. Anything could happen. Hey, there's weed back there, and beer. Go for it. No problem."
There are a few boxes back there with Con. Weird furniture, too. One thing has big holes... and he finally remembers the name. Stocks. "What's this stuff for?"
"Feel-good. A pretty wild kind."
Machines, Con assumes. "Like massage?"
Nodding a little, the taller dude kicked out a big sigh. "Wanna give it a try?"

"Hmmmm," Con finally says. "Not usually... but tonight I seem to be, uh, more flexible."
Dark gloves cruise up in front of him, full and alive, hanging in the air.
"Relax," the guy with the cigar says. "Weird, but they got it. Really good at this shit."

Gotta be imagining all this, Con decides. Can't be really happening. gloves flyin' all by themselves ease his boots off, and he lets 'em do it. Then his socks go...
Other magic leather hands are bringing him a pack of smokes, an ashtray, a lighter...

Easy foot massage, by man-size gloves. Not bad, not bad.
And... feathers?
"That t-tickles."
"Don't it, though." The driver puffs on his cigar, turning off the road. Goin' right. Dirt-track... No, neither of his hands seem to be on the steering wheel. They're rollin' just fine, though -
The feathers pause.
More gloves hop on and pin Con against the padded floor.
A finger trails down the sole of his left foot. Both feet! Other gloves curl around his ankles.
Con can't really move. "Hold on, now -"
More of 'em slip under his jacket. Dig in!
And he's roaring.

The damn gloves are really goin' to town. They dig in, and hold him down. Definitely working together, he thinks distantly, there's one energy-force wearing all these gloves...

"You're okay," the driver sighs. The van is coming to a stop. "Wow. There's my truck."
Con shakes his head. "Help me" seems like a weak thing to say. All those damn gloves... but whew, they're pulling off. It seems to be over... for now.
When the driver turns around to look at him, it seems like a big moment somehow. "This is gonna end," the guy tells Con. "I've been worked over for, well, a long time. You're gonna be okay."
"Huh." That's a big relief, even though it shouldn't be. He's confused. Did he get high already? Nobody near him. No arms, no hands - but something moved the gloves.
"No way out of this. I couldn't do a damn thing... either. It gets wilder than wild, bro, but I made it through."
The van's engine shuts off.

"Here?" the driver says. "So am I free now? For tonight?"
His door opens.
After a few seconds, he nods. "Hang tough," he says over his shoulder, and gets out.
Gloves clamp down on Con's shoulders. Others lock around his legs.
More fingers really tickle the shit out of his feet and sides.

Barely aware the driver's gone, Con sees more and more gloves - grabbing him. Playful, but strong. Checking his knees, and sides, neck, belly... pits...
Big leather straps appear. The tickling pauses. "No more of this. It ain't... uh, b-bad," he puffs, when he can talk, "but c'mon."
A glove pops him in the arm. Playful, yet strong. So many magic hands.
"I'm fucked." He sighs, annoyed at his prospects tonight - and looking at the thick new straps, he shakes his head. "Aren't I?"
Another invisible hand in leather shakes his right hand. It's not hurrying.
Well. The driver did tell him to hang tough. Didn't sound worried.
The van's engine starts back up.

He catches his breath. Still held down there, and sweaty. He decides that pissing his pants somehow hadn't happened.
The van went down the road with him stuck in it. Seemed like an hour, but he got why time was so screwed up. So, ten minutes? The fuckers had explored him too well. The magical kidnapper has a hot prospect.

The straps come next. No hands got 'em - more gloves lock on to his limbs, so his arms and legs get cinched together.
The back doors open. Out in the country somewhere, the leather hands pick him up...
Is that a door? In the ground? They turn Con - and steps go by below him. Yup. The upper door shuts, gloves turn him to the right... into a room -
A metal door closes and locks.
Light comes on - up on the top of the walls. White holiday lights. He looks around... at shelves, racks, huge piles of gloves and brushes, rows of bottles and tubes. Little appliances - buffers. Feathers. Two shelves loaded with restraint gear.
"Gotcha," a guy's voice teases.
Oiled gloves dig into his feet.

Con hollers laughs. Trying to move is getting him nowhere.
His jeans are being tugged down. So the straps are off him, but there's strong hands everywhere. They strip him efficiently.
Big ol' cuffs snag his arms and legs. Belts hold down his waist, thighs, upper arms. Oil pours everywhere.
Of all things, a cigarette comes to his mouth. It's shoved between his lips. A Zippo is clinked open, as fingers curl around his throat. Oh yes, you will.
So he starts smoking.
Gloves wait in the air around him. Thrash, yell, threaten - there's no point, he thinks. Caught good, locked in... and he knew why.
"Uh, you gotta name?" he said to the ceiling.
"Routem," the voice shot back. "Who are you?"
"Con."
"Okay, Con. Ticklish?"
"I can't believe this," he sighs.
Greased fingertips land on his right pec... and sneak into his armpit.
He fights not to laugh.
"Looks like... hell yeah, Rout, I sure am."
Another glove creeps into his left armpit.
More are landing now - on his shoulders, taint, shins, ass-cheeks.
"Noooooo," he begs.
But so many fingers get busy.
 

The smoke's still leaving his lungs when the gloves get back to it.
Seemingly empty leather hands this time, gripping over and under each knee. Excruciating, because it tickles so much.
A little whimper leaks out of him. All involuntary. Useless. He's strapped down way too well. An hour of this shit feels like a whole night. Concentrating on the tickling is impossible for Con to stop doing.

He bellows out a few hopeless cackles, straining to loosen the bonds. Moving his damn legs, or turning, ain't gonna happen. So stuck. Nothing will change his immediate future.
Black leather clutches and rocks. Oiled up and mean. His captor is so fuckin' into this.
He arches his back, wailing laughter, then giggling like a psycho. It's shattering, this blast of sensation. He can't begin to handle all of it... and he can't slip out of the restraints.
Con laughs at the ceiling. Yellowed padding. Throws his head around - it tickles too much, too much, he can't put up with another second of these gloves doing what they're doing to him. Hours and hours of this.
More slow grips! His triceps. Oh no, no, no, no. They'll be back in his armpits soon. Realizing that, he's thrashing and barking.
Too much stimulation. Nothing helps. Roaring like a fool, he's too busy even to squirm. Unbearable.
And it's just six gloves.

Something unfamiliar is troubling Con. A bad dream?
He went along with something, and it was a huge mistake. Unfixable. Inescapable. He didn't resist when it would've mattered -
To his amazement, he's come to sitting in a den... no, maybe a living room. Biker territory. His cuffs aren't connected to straps or anything, and he's got workout shorts on.
A big coffee mug and a few joints float down to the coffee table.
"Take it easy," Routem says. "There's a guy coming that you met. Good people. He'll be here." A pack of cigarettes is lifted off the floor.
"Okay."
 

The water feels so good going down his throat.
So much laughing...
Just roaring, balls-out. And fairly yelling laughter like that didn't really help him deal. It's frustrating - pathetically inadequate to describe how strong the sensation burns in him. Laughing as hard as he can isn't anywhere near enough.
So making noise winds down and stops, along with the ability to thrash around. And then the impact of the fingers becomes so much worse. More intense...
He squirms miserably. Why haven't the straps started unclipping yet? He has to get out of here. No one hears him howl. The damn tickling keeps going and going, and then he's sucking down water like his life depends on it. A different bottle was floating in the air toward him now.
Oil.
More oil?
"No, no, dammit... h-haaalp," he croaks. Really testing the restraints again. His ridiculously ticklish body is still held fast to the rack. That bottle has no business coming over all by itself - no more than the gloves have. Strong, thorough fingers, inhumanly determined...
The oil bottle is white and unlabeled. Liter-size. Well, bigger than a pint. He watches it float down -
"Noooo," he wails. "Aw, please, no more -"
It's tilting. The oil that pours over his toes was glossy and thick.
Squealing, he fights the straps for all he's worth.
When he next looks down, there are other terrifying objects in the air. Brushes. Black handles, white bristles. Others with nylon, or maybe plastic nibs, aw hell.
Routem is going to take six brushes to his immobilized feet. The brushes are specially selected for tortuous tickling. His toes won't move, there's no way to turn or pivot his feet at all... and each sole is about to be unthinkably scrubbed, covered with oil, stimulated on every millimeter while he screams and brays laughter. There will be no rescuers coming, no interruption, and he can't even begin to imagine how much the steadily floating brushes are going to make him feel, every damn second.
Whining and squirming do no good at all.
Freezing up as they descend, he thinks one last time that there is just no possible way this could be happening, not to him, with some kind of baffling magic moving the stuff around, and imitating hands inside those devastating gloves...
Setting the bristles against his greasy heels and arches.
 

During a break, the door opens.
A young biker is hustled inside. Cigar between his teeth. He looks familiar.
His arms are released - by the gloves - and he brings his wrists around, rubbing them. Nods at Con, with a little grin. "Huh." He looks off to the side. "I sorta owe you an apology," he mumbles at the wall.
"I know just how to tickle that out of you," the phantom jokes.
He looks down, smoking. "Yeah. I know."
"Con, this scumbucket is Whoabon."
"Whoa," Con sighs, nodding.
"Got any more weed?" the new arrival asks - seeing some on the coffee table, and picking up a joint.

"They goofed with you. you're steam-rollered," the smirking latecomer says.
"Huh?"
"Gulled? You know that one?" Con eventually shakes his head. "Too easy to convince - of anything. Suggestible." Whoa nods. He just explained that Con was drugged that first night. "Most guys are, uh, more suspicious. You're buying whatever it tells you."
"The magician," Con grumbled, "that controls everything now."
"See, you roll right over. Yeah, it's powerful, but the real Con is still in there."
"So what? We're totally fucked."
"You've been ridden for a while," Whoa drawls. "It's not like th-"
"Dude. Why wouldn't I be fucked? It's gonna let me go for good? How does this... suggestible thing get fixed?"
"Well, some of their 'catches' ain't bikers. Counselors, full-blown shrinks. Those dudes do right by us. They ain't our enemies."
"And you came here to, uh, talk it out?"
Whoa shakes his head. "Got hauled in here tonight. Haw haw haw. No, it doesn't want you to be... somebody else. A total pushover. No balls. That ain't you."
"Sorta scary, but yeah."
"What I mean is, they don't want a Con with no guts. No spine."
"Oh. Whew. Okay."

"How long ago was it? When I gave you a ride... in a van?"
"Fuck. Years."
"Nope." He looks toward the ceiling. "You want me to tell him? I ain't sure, myself."
An easy, satisfied sigh is heard from right above Con. "Comin' up on eight months."
"Dammit," Whoa sighs. Looks at Con.
Blinking at that news, he finally shrugs. "I'm done being all pissed off. Guess I was supposed to go through this too. Way beyond fuckin' weird, but... uh, it's bigger than I am."
"You got his bike?" Whoa asks their jailer.
"We got his bike," the mysterious phantom replies. "A young core's got it runnin' fine."
"Cores are what we are," Whoa says, frowning, but he raises his hands and does a little wiggling with his fingers that reminds Con of the gloves.

"Hoo hoo hoo hoo," Con burbles, nodding.
"You're gonna get back to your own life real soon."
"Whatever that is," Con smirks.
"Give it time."
"You said I was gonna be okay."
"And I still believe it." Whoa looks around. "I end up in playrooms like this, get out - and go on with my own shit. In-between the tickling, you be you."
Con finally shrugs. "That got me through. What you said." He cocked his head back. "Didn't have to say it."
The more experienced tickle-victim seems puzzled, but shakes his head and grins. "Whatever. I learned it the hard way. Just like you, in here," he sassed, easing back. "You're probably gonna take a while to come back down to earth. Lev and Sammy are a couple of the pros, and they can help set things right. In your head. I trust 'em."
"You drove me here."
"On the way to this place, yeah."
"And?" Routem then laughs softly.
"I was fucked, but you could've made a run for it."
"No. You weren't alone, kiddo," the tickler declared. "Why didn't he call the police?"

"Ain't no one gonna believe this," Con grumbled. "I got a vague memory of being hauled underground somewhere. Don't know if he even knew, for sure, where that was. Right? This place?"
Whoa nods, staring Con down. "There was no good move. None that was gonna work. I got caught two more times since you were... snuck down here."
"Con," Routem asks, "is it Whoa's fault?"
"No. It's yours. No matter where I was, or he was. Picked off - and that's how it is now?"
Whoa shrugs. "Uh-huh."
"We're fuckin' screwed."
Their tickler snickers. "Oh... yeah. But my bikers gotta be who they are. Get their ass back on that scoot when I let 'em. Show me some attitude."
"You can fuck yourself sideways."
Whoa laughs, giving the new guy a thumbs-up...

2021