A newsgroup post in '97 (about a website that shut down, and a new one that started up) had an intriguing subject line: "One tickling door closes, another opens..."
The door is wide open. Grey metal, solid core... two deadbolt handles. No knob. It's the only entrance to the little room.
Like the hinges - and the whole inward-facing side of the door - the walls, floor and ceiling are covered with thick foam rubber. The soundproofing has never been necessary, because the building has long been forgotten, attracting no visitors. A couple of bare florescent tubes above, an old mattress, a couple dozen milk crates...
And a man, sprawled across the mattress. Just beginning to stir.
The door moves very slightly... because the doorkeeper just can't wait until he looks in that direction. This is unnecessary; nothing that follows will be any less satisfying. It just enjoys the significance so very much...
There.
He lifts his head a little, squinting into the dark hallway. Excellent.
It starts to close the door.
His eyes widen, as he tries to stand. Maybe ten feet from the mattress to the door... Might as well be a mile. The oiled hinges are silent as the door swings out.
The air can get pretty stale and funky in here, his protests... muffled. Day blurring into night. unrelieved sameness. Built to last.
Nobody's getting in.
And he's not getting out.
Past the halfway point, now. The entry is shrinking. He's sitting up, almost in a crouch, watching it. Eyes confounded, body plainly uncertain about making a break for the hallway. His full attention is there, but it's memorizing his thunderstruck expression. The dramatic sealing of the chamber is always a potent occurrence for it - and all the more when he's watching...
This room will stay locked up for just as long as it wants, and not a minute less. The crates are full of water, 'Boros, meds, lotions, lubes, tequila, lighters, baby wipes, paper towels, vitamins, beef jerky, energy bars. Already inside, with him, close at hand. Everything a jumpy side of beef could need.
Several weeks' worth.
The foam is leveling off into a flat plain of soundproofing.
Closing up. Stocked for a month. The thought still makes it almost giddy: no need to unbolt the locks for thirty whole days.
A few more inches...
No hurry. Only delight.
He's transfixed. Good. This is the only time he'll see the door moving. Every fevered glance and longing stare will get him an image of smooth padding. No telltale evidence here - just as flat as if there was no door at all... the image of the door fading from his memory a little more each day. This will be his only opportunity to see an open exit, since he'll be carted out unconscious, just like he came in... several hundred fierce, drawn-out hours from now.
Twelve cartons, over four weeks...
Millions of laughs.
The gap is all but gone.
He'll never know if he could have bolted "in time." That might make it worse, while he's in here... fulfilling its expectations.
As the movement slows, his lips move soundlessly.
The Tickling Door closes.
A bolt is thrown, then another. And its sounding room is locked, occupied...filled with supplies, prepped for a oversensitive quarry such as the one now sitting on the mattress. Ready.
If it wants, he'll sweat bullets for a while...
But that's not why he's here.
Casually, in no hurry at all, it brings fat satin gloves up from a couple of the crates, their jet-black fingers wrapped around heavy cuffs and straps.
Six others levitate and move toward his boots.
Four or five seconds pass - and he yells, leaping to his feet. To the door... but he's way too late. He kicks and pounds on the foam, then tries to peel it. This is somewhat entertaining, but it would rather finish the preparations, get down to business.
Another half-dozen gloves rise from behind a crate. More than a dozen hands, stalking.
Zooming in...
Not fooled by his sudden lunge to the side. Fancy footwork... and it has a very different interpretation of that phrase. It's kindled by the thought of him on his back, exquisitely staked out. Transfixed by its "empty" gloves on him, recoiling in their grip, shuddering -
The gloves rush him, turn him away from the door... and hoist.
He resists violently, coasting over to the mattress. Cloth fingers start easing off each boot. The socks go next - there. Uncovered soles. Unprotected... He won't be putting any weight on 'em here. But it will... Heavy satin. Wide, busy acetate alternating with fur, feathers, brushes, silk and latex, oils and creams.
Hundreds of hours for these feet, in the hands of an expert.
All those days to capitalize on the rest of him, too.
Gloves relieve him of his jacket... jeans... and t-shirt. They rotate him and set him on his back. Wearing only his underwear, he yells and tugs as the gloves pin his arms. One brings over the first cuff...
Still restless, after they've stretched him tight.
Damp canvas, held sung by the leather shackles... under three straps. Nice and taut.
He's giving his absolute best to pull one free... full strength and attention on his anchored wrists, then his ankles. The leather creaks faintly.
And his feet... they're not moving. Not a millimeter. He's clearly kicking, writhing - and they stay in exactly the same position. Only the toes flex earnestly. Good color, circulation... thick calluses on toes and heels. So he needs a few days of emoillents, tooth-polishers and pumice stones, plenty of oil. Then the real tickling will begin.
And a hundred other points to stimulate with slippery, talented fingers. Patience and care bring about an ever more extreme response from activated nerve endings. It's skilled enough to avoid numbness, overload... unconsciousness.
Weeks to tune him up, expand his limits, in its soundproofed cage.
The gloves are in position, curling to make contact and wrap around him.
It's charged. About to land... so very ready. Hungry for a long warmup... five, six hours. He'll laugh himself hoarse, and then the roaring will stop because it brings no relief. His struggling won't survive the next twenty minutes... just too much tactile input, demanding all of him, no brainpower left to wriggle or make noise. He'll need water by then, some sugar, a few smokes to keep him alert.
And he'll get more satin, too. Three breaks, and eighteen gloves in use during the last lap. First night... of thirty.
Satin makes contact -
He grunts, flinching hard.
The hands begin to move on him, all over him, behind the Tickling Door.
He kicks out smoke, whimpering to himself.
A week's worth of beard. Wild, greasy hair, neck shaved high, bangs clipped so he could see...
He hasn't even looked in the direction of the Door for three solid days.
All body hair - long gone. Health, excellent. Despite twenty packs, a few bottles of tequila, close to a hundred tabs of dex - his stamina, good ol' endurance, is better than when he was first carried in. Much better.
And his skin - glowing! All kinds of careful nurturing, and... wow.
The foam is yellower now. All the padding that soaks up the riotous sound... and hides the Door, his exit, the double-bolted portal. The only way out, which closed while he sat watching, magically trapping him in here, this timeless place... near its gloves and brushes and oils.
Feathers and probes and polishers.
It slips a new cigarette out of the pack... has him suck down a pint of water before he gets to start it. Then the old butt backs off from the end of the new one, floating to the big ashtray where it's punched out vigorously. He doesn't watch. The ashtray is overflowing with butts.
His ninth cigarette of the "day" hangs from silently mumbling lips.
Now and then, his gaze wanders idly over the accessories alongside him... or lingers on the image in the mirror.
He knows the leather goods intimately. First, waking to stare at his upper arms, caught, supremely immobilized. Black leather - thick, wide, oiled. Snug. And the matching wide band across his breastbone, the collar... and, conspicuously surrounded, his hairless pecs.
Coming to, the next time, to see the more elaborate vertical straps tight under him, and several loops stretching out the each arm... leaving the absolute ideal clearance to the whole length of his sides. Anchored, as if to rock...
Then, the long thigh-cuffs... the familiar wide cuff, a little higher. Readied for hours of dusting and tracing over his midsection, and below - but always teasing, dabbing, flitting around on his privates. Nothing for him to thrust against, plenty of distractions.
Now, trusty rope cloaking his wrists and shins... and the newest item, filling the mirror.
He stares at the bottoms of his feet - reflected just for his inspection. Tender, pink from days and days of softening. Ointment, pumice stones, motorized polishing tools, salves...
Trapped against a background of a warmer shade of pink. Softer. Glossy... Pink satin.
Wide block covered with puffy acetate. Shiny. Swallowing his ankles...
No visible way to open the stocks. Inside, layers of neoprene ratcheted down with nylon straps. Immune to his kicks, which ended five cigarettes ago. Not even a quiver.
All the other special restraints not far from his side, convenient, there to pick up and wrap and cinch tight, various combinations. The mirror is staying there, angled just so. Not that he'll be able to watch steadily... while it's keeping him busy. Whenever he wants to steal a glance, though, of the action down there, tools being put to use on his soles, held by the pudgy gloves. Or during breaks... resting up, staring at the image of his immobilized soles, remembering. Anticipating.
Now that the conditioning is over, it's inclined to leave the mirror in place. It'd be a pity if he missed the show.
A new bottle of dex is opened, and it fetches another 'Boro. Maybe another hour so he can try to imagine what's in store. Not even close to being finished. Less than a quarter of the way through his time here... behind the Tickling Door.
updated 14may98