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It caught a whiff of something nice. Pausing, it moved down toward one of the roofs...
Guys laughing. Smoke on the wind.
A good vibe. There was joy in the mix of scents.
Inside a room on the top floor, three brothers were listening to the radio. The oldest two had cigarettes in their hands, and each of them had a can of beer within reach.
Ah - there was a recorded comedy show, playing on the radio.
The boys were enjoying it.

It liked them immediately.

The oldest brother had an silly laugh. Like a pirate... A drunk boxer, or an executioner who enjoyed his work way too much. He smoked continuously - so much that his younger brother couldn't hope to keep up.
The smallest boy was staring at the radio, as if he didn't even notice the smoke anymore. They listened together, and laughed again.

What it saw there, in that dimly lit room, was pleasing. The sounds which came out of them were natural. Intriguing.
And it was surprised by those realizations, because what it really responded to most of all... was odor.

There were places it hung out because it enjoyed the local scents. On a lark, it had searched further south than usual. Humble streets -
Their house was a delightful surprise. It had plenty of other haunts, sure enough... but there was a tinge of defeat in places where adults gathered to escape their worries or try to forget disappointment.
The combination of smells in the room where the boys listened and snickered was lighter. Not only less intense, but lacking any of the bitterness it had learned to expect from adults...

Downstairs, an older couple slept in the same bed. Grandparents, sound asleep. Another bedroom - which smelled most like the younger brothers - was directly above them.
The biggest boy held its attention. A man, actually, past the term "boy" already. There were lusty odors around his bed, and a bottle of bourbon stashed underneath...
The telltale stench of marijuana in his hair.
No sadness in any of them.
Interesting - and likeable.

The front portion of his room was walled off. That was confusing, until it saw the dormer roof. Layers of plastic, water damage - and perhaps not enough money to repair it. So a lopsided wall had been thrown up, apparently a few years ago.
The dormer window had a closed curtain, hiding the damage.
That left only one window, which faced the backyard, and the pleasurable scents lingered in the young man's room. Fast-food hamburger wrappers added a familiar tang. Countless cigarettes, dried semen, alcohol...
And the boys' laughter almost seemed to be related - as if they were naturally translating scents into loose, genuine laughter. Perhaps they released a different mix of perspiration when they were happy. The contrast, when compared to the adults of their social class, was profound.

It wanted more of the preferred odors - and the biggest brother certainly didn't disappoint.
After the radio program ended, he allowed his siblings to hang around for a few minutes before he ordered them out. The rebellious smirk never left his face.
While his brothers used the bathroom, he fired up a joint. It smoldered in the ashtray while he went downstairs to urinate. That was an odor it had learned to appreciate. Then he laid down and reached under the bed...
Masturbating. Twice.
After he finished the joint, he smoked two more cigarettes.
The blend of odors was suffused nicely with his beer-soaked sweat.

From that night on, he had an invisible admirer.

He was a scent factory. It had never found a young man who delivered such an interesting blend, so reliably. Some nights he pumped his cock until dawn, diffusing the room with the most galvanizing perspiration...

The grandfather smoked, too. Apparently he saw nothing wrong with the boys having a beer or two. That had naturally progressed to hard liquor, and even the marijuana. All that was required of them, apparently, was that they be discreet.

All of the brothers displayed enough self-discipline to preserve their freedom. School obviously bored them - especially the oldest brother - but they played along.
There were some squabbles from time to time, but overall the house was peaceful and loving.

In his bedroom, the young man enjoyed himself...
And the aroma-blend was positively intoxicating.

In order to encourage him to continue, it started slipping money into his jeans. Tens, and then twenties...
At first he was confused by the gifts - but he was shrewd enough not to ask the others in the house. To its satisfaction, he brought home adult magazines and sourmash.

More and more cash was given to him.
Marijuana, speed, a cheap video player...

He smiled all the time.
A half-hour of comedy was on the radio every weeknight, after the younger boys went to bed.
Chain-smoking, laughing quietly in the dark, he stroked his meat slowly. A raspy, lunatic cackle was his typical sound at those times - kept quiet enough not to be heard outside the room.
Passionate little moans, in the dark, smoke and perspiration, alcohol and drugs. Delicious scents, and the sounds of pleasure.
Really, it couldn't get enough of him.

Once, when a girlfriend laid in his bed and made him promise to quit smoking, it brought twenty packs and hid them all over his room.
He took the hint... and the smell was restored to what it had been.

He never told anyone about the mysterious gifts.
Win-win.
 

When the smallest boy entered high school, it watched the big brother give both of them lessons about the drugs he favored most. He seemed to feel a certain responsibility that they be "cool" enough not to embarrass him.

They laughed much harder as they listened to the comedy show.
All of them were relaxed, friendly, thoroughly stoned. More receptive to the humor. Laughing, drinking, creating a thick haze...
The result was more pleasing than ever.

Each Tuesday, the grandparents went out. The boys were obviously relieved, because immediately they started enjoyed their usual substances in the living room, while they watched TV...
But something was wrong. The mood had a dangerous edge to it.
As soon as the car was gone, the older brothers made eye contact. Gruffly, they made it clear that the youngest boy had been warned to stay away from their belongings...
When he said the wrong thing - or perhaps it was his tone - the smallest brother was dragged off the couch. The others held him down on the worn carpet and dotted his triceps with bruises, punching methodically as they watched TV, ignoring his yells. The oldest, straddling his back, delivered another blow every four seconds, like a machine...
Eventually they decided the captive wasn't "sorry enough" - and the middle boy made an odd motion with all his fingers. The oldest brother smiled - and it had never seen that expression there before. Shining eyes. Mean, rowdy... and utterly composed. He suggested, to the next youngest brother, that it had been far too long since they'd done any "entertaining." And they both chuckled in a most sinister way, as the frantic young man was forced to roll over onto his back. Their hands moved in -
And it began.

The smallest boy laughed with unchecked enthusiasm - a shocking increase from anything that had been observed before. As he wriggled, the grinning brothers pinned his limbs to the carpet. Their hands kept on roaming.
Soon their victim was completely unable to beg and shout for help. He laughed harder still. Sweating more than his tormentors, he had the most blissful smile on his face.
It was astounded.
What his brothers were doing was clearly intolerable - but the laughing boy didn't looked pained, or angry. On some level... he was enjoying the hysteria. That was absolutely clear from the elements in his perspiration, even more than the involuntary smile and the booming, gleeful racket he made. Little brother was not altogether miserable, there.
The next fifty minutes were absolutely stunning.

It had never even considered that a person could be made to laugh, much less give off odors which were so delectable as he did.

Tickle, they kept saying. The word was used in various taunts. It had only seen tickling done for a few seconds at a time, with nowhere near the devotion these brothers had shown.
When the smallest boy was completely incapable of moving, the ticklers took turns stopping for a beer or a smoke.
The comedy program on the radio had caused just a fraction of the consuming, overwhelming glee it felt now. These boys' hands had moved with such knowing determination - as if they were experienced at this. Skilled.
The result was almost as if a comedy show, on the radio, had sprouted a hundred hands.

Eventually, the brothers stopped. The oldest one picked up the victim, messed up his damp hair, and carried him to bed. The other lit a cigarette and cleaned up his brother's urine from the old carpet.
The oldest brother used the bathroom, and went right to his bed. Lighting a cigarette, he masturbated with a fascinating violence. He grinned wolfishly the whole time - victoriously - pausing occasionally for swigs from a water bottle, and once for healthy pulls of whiskey.
Sweating, grunting, smoking, he stroked his meat for three and a half hours.
And the smell in his room was extraordinary.
 

The younger brothers spent more and more time in the bathroom. They needed privacy to masturbate.
Hormones were not only making them endlessly aroused... but they contributed mightily to the addictive mix of odors that it loved.

When the time came for the oldest brother to move out, its sorrow was tempered by the clear indication that his siblings were generating more of the earthy scents it had come to expect. The youngest boy was rapidly becoming a man.
As it coaxed both of the remaining brothers into ever-increasing pleasures, in order to savor all the smells, there was the fascinating matter of that forced laughter the little brother had endured - and enjoyed.
It grew ever more curious. And then, impatient. The ticklers did not repeat their attack.
Finally, it decided to take matters into... its own hands.

Of course, it had no hands. That was a puzzler. How could the boys be held down, and stimulated until they added that distinctive sweat to the odors in their rooms?
Happily, the middle brother provided the answer. One of his friends had discovered an endless library of information. All kinds of instructions, stories and products could be obtained by using computers.
For several nights, it slipped into a classroom at the boys' school and devoured everything it could find about its favorite smells.
And one giddy evening, it typed in the word "tickling."

A plan was devised and perfected.
The walled-off area of its favorite room became a storehouse. Every scent-making substance it preferred was stockpiled...
And then it started collecting hands it could fill and manipulate. Gloves, chosen for a thoroughly exciting purpose.
Feathers, and several kinds of tools.
Instructive, exciting videos.
Oh, it learned so much.

Adding water, food and medicine to its hoard, there remained only the choice of a suitable opportunity...
The middle brother - having turned eighteen, and almost a year past moving into its favorite room in the house - was disappointing. He was reliably inebriated or stoned by midnight, but the first tentative experiments did not yield the anticipated results. There was a definite charge from holding him down, tying a bandanna between his jaws and bringing feathers to his bare feet... but he didn't laugh freely. His reactions and facial expressions revealed more pain than delight.
That was puzzling. Luckily he was so impaired that he spoke of the tickling, in conversations with his little brother, only as "weird dreams". This allowed it to try several other techniques during the warm spring nights.

Apparently he convinced himself that he was dreaming it all. The gag became unnecessary.
As he smoked and drank in bed, hours of rubbing and squeezing occurred almost every night. Intense videos, featuring men whose ticklishness was shocking, caused nothing more than sullen chuckling as he watched with half-closed eyes.
No matter what it tried, he responded only to the ejaculations it teased out of him - and the drugs he loved so well.

But it thought constantly about the contrast of that night when the youngest brother screamed with unmistakable glee...
 

The middle brother moved out in his turn.
An enigmatic warning did not keep his sibling from changing bedrooms, dreams or no dreams. There was doubt, in the departing man's face - as if those nights of tickling and forced masturbation actually had their basis in mind-altering substances rather than fact.
And now - resembling his oldest brother more and more - the man who had laughed so joyfully was right where it wanted him.

A week after he was "legal", his grandparents went on a weekend trip.
He carried their bags out to the car, endured his grandmother's instructions with a shy little smirk, and waved as they pulled out of the driveway. Heaving a sigh of relief, he fired up a smoke and walked back into the house.
Ten black gloves were waiting.
He had little time to gawk at them. Shutting the door, they promptly hauled him up the stairs. As he fought savagely, they pulled him into his new room and turned the key on a brand new deadbolt. The rest of the house was empty. All of his screams for help didn't matter now.
It laid him down on the bed - and started unpacking the storeroom. The first item carried over by the intimidating hands was a superb leather gag, which had let his brother breathe easily while it muffled as much noise, of all kinds, as he could make.
Next, the window was closed and latched. All of the exquisite smells would increase and intermingle...
Charged up to a new level of excitement, it slid the most hysterical video into the player and watched his face carefully.

The weekend stretched into Monday, since the grandparents were not due to return until the following day. He missed school, but it gave him no choice in the matter.
He was far too much fun to tickle.
The spectacular delirium was a perfect complement to the odors it loved best. He smoked much more than usual, with his wrists securely cuffed down. It made him eat, and get drunk, get stoned, swallow amphetamines, and sleep when he most needed it.
And it learned something his brother had not displayed - the incredible multiplying effect when genital play and tickling were combined.
He enjoyed the tickling. Nothing was clearer than that. Whenever it paused, there was obvious distress on his face. By Saturday night, though, he was calmer. Stoic acceptance. The demented grin reappeared whenever its gloves resumed their affectionate work. But he had clearly learned that the tickling would continue, all day, through the night.
And also that it was increasingly... devoted to his pleasure.

When he woke up - with no restraints in sight - he fled to the other bedroom. Cautious investigation showed him an empty storeroom. Everything had been hidden from view.
Embarrassed, and somewhat confused, he didn't work up the nerve to inform anyone.
 

It didn't touch him for three weeks. During that time, it arranged for a ten-day cruise for his grandparents, obstensibly the prize for winning a contest.
He grew increasingly nervous as their departure date arrived. Smoking more than ever, jumpy, he finally packed a bag and put it into his truck. Apparently he'd made arrangements to stay somewhere else while the house would be devoid of any other person who would hear him bray and howl.
As before, he loaded his grandparents' trunk and watched the car start to back out. Turning, he walked immediately to his own truck -
But it had the patch ready. Pressing it against his neck, as hands kept him from making any wild movements, only ten seconds later he was starting to relax...
Faint, slurred wails bubbled out of him as it walked him back into the house, up the stairs, and straight to bed.
Boxes and bags filled half the room. Iron bars were carried by cowhide gloves to the window... and then to the slowly closing door.
A cigar slid between his teeth. The humidor sat between three cartons of his cigarettes and a stack of thirteen new tickling videos.

By the third night, his truck had been hidden in the garage - and the smell was absolutely perfect.
He grinned and twitched and cackled 'round the clock, dozing as permitted, augmenting the ideal scents with a galvanizing intensity of reaction to the techniques it had perfected.
Beyond question, he was troubled most by the endlessness of the pleasure. The next day was going to be filled with more tickling. Always.

Somewhere around the sixth day it had obliterated all of the restlessness, the grimacing, and any other sign of apprehension.
His delight was only a touch away...

The room was saturated with the precise scents it valued most.
This made it reluctant to think about using another room for him, even if more privacy would be so useful in extending the fun. In one place or another, the tickling simply had to continue. Few things were more certain than that.
 

Sadly, the grandparents returned. It had to remove the bars and boxes.
He wasted no time in fleeing. That same day, he moved out. Gone across town.
 

It knew that the room itself was integral to the perfect smell. But the youngest brother was careful not to even visit his grandparents if there was a chance he could end up alone in the house.

Wistfully, it explored other places and smells - even as it monitored the brothers' lives.
 
 
 

Seasons came and went.
It remained ready. Just in case. More and more, it wanted to lure the oldest brother back to his old room. Two, three, four weeks... to see how the tickler liked a prolonged dose of his old medicine.
Circumstances never seemed to cooperate with its wishes, but the preparations were made nonetheless.
 

The grandmother died, and her husband took up residence in a facility.
Unfortunately the middle brother was the one who came back to the house, all alone, and moved their furniture out...
 
 

It chose to believe that the men might come back to visit. There was no logical reason to anticipate this, but it liked the idea. The next stay would be much longer than they expected...
When it was out savoring other smells, there was this nagging concern that the men could make their desired appearance at the house and - just leave, when they wanted. The idea was bothersome enough that it hid motion detectors around the front porch and the driveway. Even if a burglar stumbled in, it would know immediately... and be able to reward the criminal in a cripping, lengthy manner suitable to the circumstances.
 
 

Empty of brothers - a waste that was infuriating, in its view - the house sat for a year.
 

Two years. The market was not kind to old houses...

Sixteen months later, the grandfather passed on.
 
 

The neighboring houses are mostly empty now, and none them have as interesting or rich of a scent-history...
Ignored, the room is just too infused with odors to sit idle. It brings more cases into the other bedroom. Water, food, drugs, oil.
Splicing into the power line is a simple matter.

Someone will be brought inside to recreate the smells. Laughing, monotonously, in the dark. His susceptibility to tickling must be inexhaustible.
 
 

One winter night...
The motion detectors are activated, firing off a message to the radio it's been carrying everywhere for so long.

A car is in the driveway. The driver sits in it, staring up at the dormer window.
Oh, this is wonderful!
He smokes a couple cigarettes, and empties a can of beer. Then - hesitantly - he gets out of the car...
Little brother is twenty-four now. Sturdier than ever, and all grown up. his eyes roam over the house as he automatically gets another cigarette lit.
He looks so much like his oldest brother.
Leaning against the bumper, there's reason to think he's not entirely sober. Why else would he come back here, to this unremarkable house? Returning to stare, and remember...
There are more special supplies hidden inside than ever before.
Silently, a leather glove circles behind him -
Clamping the fingers over his mouth, its excitement reaches a level it hasn't felt in years.
He yells immediately. Silenced. With huge eyes, he twists around and rears back. But he's not getting away. Certainly not! The prospect of him returning here - this man! - is what it's desired most. So unlikely, and yet... just ideal.
Six more gloves take hold of his arms. Right arm, then left arm, rise over his head.
Yes, he's absolutely frantic - but it's almost as worked up as he is.
The garage door clicks. It's been oiled faithfully, and now it glides up. A glove relieves him of his key ring...
Shifted into neutral, the car rolls quietly into hiding. The door closes. No one else is in view. At three in the morning, on this street, there's only one person watching, and he's being carried to the front door now.
More gloves weigh his legs down.
Up to the porch, inside, and to the stairs.

He fights like a tornado. Screaming with unbridled panic, he lurches as hard as he can, managing to slam his hip against the wall -
To protect him from self-inflicted injury, it attacks his armpits with four hands... so very relieved to be tickling him again, nice and hard.
His first screech is loud. Then he wails fiercely. Grinning. His struggles become uncoordinated.
At the top of the stairs, the glove releases his mouth.
Wonderful, lusty laughter booms out of him. Throwing his head back - so he can laugh harder, maximized roars for its enjoyment - he enters his room again.
Lock after lock seals the door.
A gridwork of steel is bolted two feet from the window, not visible to the outside world. Bootlegged power and water are still on.
The rest of the planet no longer matters.
It eases him down to the mattress. No bed is needed - he'll be able to bounce less this way. Above him, a mirror can be adjusted to show him the TV screen when he's not laughing at himself. Almost a hundred movies are waiting for him to watch and enjoy, howling along with the actors, pumping and whooping with abandon.
He manages to fight again, despite its fingers, as his clothes are peeled off. It lifts the tickling gloves until they're barely out of his armpits.
A bottle of whiskey is opened. He deserves to be a little loose... and after he catches his breath, it makes sure he swallows three good mouthfuls.

When he's kicking out smoke, the restraints are brought down.
Strap after strap attaches to the thick new cuffs, positioning, tightening...
He shouts at the leather, in the direction of the window.
It buckles the straps and checks each one.
When he settles down enough to take another shaky drag, the welcoming parade begins.
A carton of cigarettes is set down alongside his head. He'll definitely be needing them. There's no chance he'll turn down any little bit of the riotous hospitality it has prepared.
The open bottle of whiskey is next.
Ten fat joints.
Two bottles of speed.
To his right - so close by his flushed sides - it lays feathers. Pointing at him. So easy to pick up and put right to use.
Ermine brushes are lined up.
Then the big knitting needles, the toothpicks...
Electric toothbrushes.
Condoms, lubes, oils.
Blindfold, and three different hoods.
Toe restraints.
He doesn't stop squirming, as he watches. Whimpering continuously. There will be no alteration to its plan. Especially not for him.
Whining, tugging, he watches the gloves meet over his legs.
His big brother's expression - the look on his face, when he started tickling this man - makes perfect sense to it now. The memory causes it to pull the gloves up, slowly, as if they're leaving. Just enough for his face to change, daring to hope...
And now, its hands dive.
The welcome-home party - this reunion with no ending date, lavished on a ticklish young wolf - is underway.

Howls, and more wild shrieks... all sublime. He just can't stop laughing as hard as he can.
It tickles fiercely, covering the torso of its favorite prisoner.
After ten minutes, the toe restraints are put to use - and it loves picking up eight feathers, carefully starting on his soles -
Laughing so hard it's no longer possible to make any real noise, he jerks around spastically.
Within four or five minutes, all of the lunging and kicking fades away. Not the roaring laughter, though...
Or the smile.

His grin is bigger than it remembered. That's fitting, somehow, because he might as well enjoy himself. With no other people coming in and out of the house, all of his fantastic odors can be savored indefinitely. A hundred days would not be anywhere near enough.
The house has been ignored for too long. Outside, no one will give it a second glance. There's no risk whatsoever of anyone hearing its wayward guest.
But inside... The smell. And the delirium.

Water, vodka, peanuts.
Cigarettes, as it dries his body off. Urine is cleaned up.
Moisturizer is applied, but the gloves do not tickle. He still giggles, rocking back and forth slowly, hopelessly...
The gloves finally take his fifth cigarette away, and retreat - all except one. It picks up a feather.

Very slow, light teasing. All over him.
Cacking, fidgeting, gulping air...
Two solid hours.

Water, cigarettes, candy bars...
A brush. Everywhere. One hour.
Water, cigarettes, scotch. A little white tablet. A stimulant.
Two feathers.

Long surveys of his body.
Breaks come and go. His sweat left untouched, then, as the haze thickens. Only the waste products are cleaned up, taken away.

A single glove roams for a half-hour.
One other glove joins it.

Other tools are brought out and tried, gradually being used in different combinations...

Finally, tickling covers him in dozens of reactive locations.
The sun has been up for two hours. His voice is gone, so the window can be opened. Some of the smell gets away - but so much more will be produced now, steeping the room in thick and consistent concentrations.

Later in the morning it sets down all the tools. Four new latex gloves are coated with lube.
It tickles him fondly, with appreciation. Unfailing devotion.
Slowly, slowly speeding up.
Its hands keep him awake for another fifty minutes... so thoroughly glad it's him, safely hidden in here.
 

Each night is particularly gratifying, because it thinks of all the past laughter in this room - most of it coaxed out of this very man.
Another delight, of course, is that he'll remain here for another timeless day - tomorrow. Rested up, cared for...
Tickled again.
Always.
 
 
 

The movies have been a far bigger help than it would have believed possible.
It had thought of the old radio shows as a key component. The effect of those comedy broadcasts had brought it to the room, after all. When it discovered that movies were being made that showed men caught in the throes of fierce and unbearable mirth - that was clearly an extension of the same implied command. He must laugh.
Even while it tickles and tickles, the audio from a movie can reinforce the directive long after he's unable even to look at the TV screen. His fear was driven away weks ago, all melancholy is banished - and his body produces the odors which are saturated with the most profoundly gleeful excitement.
Nearly every movie suggests tools it can try, or demonstrates powerful new techniques.
His physical pleasure is intensified almost daily.

One of the films has a surprisingly powerful impact. The very first image - there is no context given, and no taunts - is a close-up of feathers tickling a muscular stomach. The victim's low voice is already sliding up in pitch as he fights the hysteria already building up in order to beg.
Little brother starts giggling too, and he can't stop either. It isn't even tickling him at the moment...
Fascinated, it takes his cigarette away.
The movie proceeds to reveal the cuffs and chains trapping the victim. His fear, already being driven away, is exquisite. The room is a dungeon, and the only illumination is aimed at his straining body.
Watching in his own darkened room, its prisoner writhes around, already squealing with laughter. The odor of his hysteria is faintly there, already, and it's not even touching him. There's something about the film that's activating his responses, and perhaps even recent memories...
When the film's tickler is shown, his face is hidden by a leather mask. Even that makes little brother screech gleefully.
"You belong to me," the onscreen tickler says calmly.
Both the movie captive and its own prisoner howl, at that, and snap wildly at their restraints.
In the movie, the feathers travel down to a desperately swaying member...

Something has happened in little brother's head.
It doesn't find any particular connection, an obvious trigger - but he's not detaching from the events in the movies.

In a wonderful coincidence, the realism and quality of the films in this genre improves considerably. The timing could not be better.
He needs to rest, now, after watching any of them - old or new - and his level of sensitivity hardly even compares to the first time it filled a pair of gloves over him.
The smell, that blend of unrefined odors, is without precedent.

It begins to preview the films, in order to make them come to life for him.
One newly released movie inspires many hours of work - but even that is enjoyable now. Gifts, made just for him, that will be just as functional as they are... impressive.

The film is titled "Final Transfer." An enormous, muscular man is tortured by four powerful guards - and the cell is equipped with the most impressively serious bondage devices it has ever seen.
Little brother is delirious within the first thirty seconds of on-screen tickling.
It grips his head with leather gloves, prying his eyelids open...
And the effect of that movie is unmistakable.

Nine hours later, as he's sliding into sleep, it raises his eyelids one more time.
On the screen, there's an excellent shot of the full stocks - black iron reinforcing thick mahogany, one-inch chain pulled tight to back up the heavy padlocks, thick padded leather protecting the massive ankles and hold the straining fists.
The most... undefeatable bondage furniture it has ever seen.
Little brother stares blankly at them for a good thirty seconds, before his eyes roll back.
 

When he wakes up -
The stocks are here. In his room. Waiting.
Lavishly recreated, already rubbed down with his sweat, and it's confident that no man alive could escape them. His mouth hangs open as he stares, and begins to fight its hands...
And yet surely, inevitably, he's placed in the stocks. Locked in, chained in.
This morning, it lays out twenty tools. All night it's hardly been able to contain the excitement, not wanting to limit itself even temporarily. It wants to use everything on him.

Even by the standards already established in the room, this is the most delirious day yet.
 

Five days later, he laughs his way through another film...
And the next morning - a swing from the movie is hanging from the ceiling, there for his confinement. Spectacularly durable, versatile leather.
 
 

The days warm up.
He doesn't seem to notice. Sweating, moaning - and always with that unmistakably serene grin.
 
 

Clean him.
Hide the tools...
And then it watches him sleep, and regain his strength so another night of fun can begin.
Same room, same position. Same reason.
And the same incomparable smell.
 
 

The sun's heat makes the scent-mix even more satisfying. When the temperature isn't too high for him to withstand, it prefers to leave the window closed in order to concentrate the result of his many pleasures.
 

Summer isn't far off when a car pulls into the driveway.
This was going to happen eventually. But it's been expecting the particular man who sits behind the wheel.
Monitoring the two older brothers has been an ongoing pleasure. It's never rewarded the oldest of them for producing the combination of smells that had been intriguing enough to bring it here...
Unfortunately, that oldest brother is not the one who's returned to the old house. Having been in the room when one visited the other, it learned they were looking for their youngest sibling. Their investigation has been unsuccessful, of course...
As unlikely as it seems that the missing man would be hiding - voluntarily, yet! - in the grandparents' old place, they apparently decided someone should cruise by and make sure.
If the middle brother had left his car's motor running, that would have been preferable. A better plan yet will require detaining the unwelcome visitor, in order to lure the oldest brother here.
The only concievable improvement to the current situation, it thinks, will be to have that middle sibling in the other bedroom, gagged and tied securely to a chair - with no idea of what his youngest brother knew. The delirious future in store for them both. How it wants to fortify the other upstairs bedroom, and lay in supplies... swapping the mens' rooms while they sleep! Incredible smells of the current prisoner - and also the sublime odors from his role model, locked in his old room, producing the original smell.
But the risks, it's decided, are just too great. There can be no possibility of escape for the little brother. Smoke, sweat, whiskey - and ceaseless tickling...

The visitor stands there, thinking. Apparently he isn't ready to give up just yet, and that doesn't come as a great surprise. He's the only other person it's tickled here - in the same room.
He walks halfway around the house.. and stares up at the room's window as he fishes for a cigarette.
Inside, his brother is given a smoke too. Its gloves pause while he takes a long, shaky pull.
There's nothing to raise suspicion, of course. Just a dirty window. Nothing in the room can be seen from the yard.
One by one, gloves return to their places and dig in.
While his older sibling looks around, smokes, and glances up at the room's window again... the little brother convulses in ecstasy. To increase the barrage of sensation, it begins massaging his nuts with one glove - and fiercely pumps his cock with another.
The world ceases to matter to him as he arches, trying to ejaculate for a third time that day. None of his exertion produces any sound. With his eyes shut tight, there's no indication that the knocking on the door, or the lone window, are still in his thoughts. After all this time he can't be expecting anyone to come around who has even the most informed suspicion of what's happening in here.
His brother - his only chance at escaping a full night and so many additional months of perfected tickling and overindulgence - sighs quietly and takes another drag.
Upstairs, semen drizzles onto the prisoner's stomach.
It doubles the speed of the gloves.
With a last scowl at the grimy, unrevealing window... the visitor walks away.
And if the little brother even hears the car door close, or the engine start, there's no telling it from the wide-mouthed leer on his face.
The car shifts into gear. It starts to move now, rolling down the street. Farther and farther away.
As it tickles him much more enthusiastically, to celebrate his continued odor-generating presence, it opens the window a few inches.
 
 

Little brother produces all these wonderfully satisfying smells until November was half gone.
 

He's been so reliable that the problem is a sudden surprise. Pain - true pain - and restlessness, sweating, which worsens so quickly that its knowledge of how to restore his strength is clearly inadequate to the task.
It washes him quickly, takes him down to his car and drives to the hospital. He's unconscious, slumped over the steering wheel, when it parks the car right in front of the emergency room doors...

The people there take good care of him. It learns about something called "kidney stones" and is very relieved.
He tells everyone who'll listen about what it's been doing to him - and they put him behind locked doors.
Oh, he finally gets them to verify the lack of body hair, examine his wrists and ankles, the bruises on his buttocks and elbows and shoulder blades... even the ruddy, toned health of his armpits - and certainly his feet. But their conclusion was amusing and reassuring to it. Since his account, entirely truthful, is instantly dismissed without any consideration, the healers decide that little brother must've obtained the bruises and calluses through consentual activity - or maybe as the result of bondage he'd performed on himself!

A passing remark, while he's ranting, presents a threat... as well as an opportunity. The same day he tells a nurse about a recurring daydream, his brothers hit upon the same idea while talking together.
In little brother's case, the mere mention of burning the house down is enough to keep him locked inside their facility for several more days. Apparently they feel it's necessary to make sure he won't actually do it.
Since all three brothers are thinking alike, it gathers lots of fire prevention devices and supplies.

There's still a risk, to be sure. If they're persistent enough, the wonderful stocks and swing and so many other devices could be lost. It starts considering ways to warn them that any attempts to harm the house - or even unescorted visits - will be punished...

Little brother is finally allowed to leave the hospital - and all three men drive immediately to a neighboring town. Each one's eyes are scanning around frequently, as if they're worried. Watching out.
In a hotel room, they drink and talk all night. There was hardly any laughter, though.
Catching them all would be easy enough. A thousand feet of rope, a roll of duct tape... and a stolen van.

Those first two needs are acquired - and it pauses. considering the bigger picture.
Both older brothers have jobs and families. They'll be missed - and in the hotel room it learns that they've already warned other people where to look for them if they disappear. Managing the others who might come looking would be complicated.
On the other hand, the oldest man's behavior is not exactly domestic. There have been times when he's stormed out of the house. He can disappear, but right now the prospect of confining him in his old room has never looked worse. Of course, the middle brother's most recent visit does suggest that any lack of obvious proof will send all but the most determined investigators away, so the tickling can continue. They seem to have a firm dislike of involving the police, and hardly anyone else could legally enter the house itself...
The timing just isn't right to deal with all three of them.
Worse, little brother's return to the room will be delayed - since his siblings take him directly to the airport.

They have cousins about eleven hundred miles away.
The outcome is frustrating, but certainly better than if the house had been destroyed or violated.
As time passes, all of the people who care about the brothers will forget. It can find each written reference to the actual address of the house and destroy them - no, better yet, it can change all instances to another vacant house, six doors down! When it does get them, no one will look in the right place.
So that plan is soon underway, even though it might be years before the boys are brought home.
 

There's another task that had seemed like too much work, before - but the smell is worth it all.
The room is delightfully saturated. Little brother's excretions had been tuned to that perfect mix, so well remembered from their high school days. Warm days draw the scents out from the floorboards, the drywall, even the ceiling. It's still their old room, after all.

But even that effort isn't the main purpose of its schemes.
Little brother, of course, will return. It's never doubted that. He'll resist, but that isn't going to change the fact. Not at all. There are logistical problems - bringing him back, over such a distance, without any more risk than was necessary - but the task is every bit as necessary as breathing, for him. Or smoking. It has no higher aim.
As with his oldest sibling, the only question remaining is when they'll be carried into the old house again. Back home, and laughing day after day.

Deep in the ground, it builds permanent conduits for the power and water sources. No record of those connections exist, and the trenches are restored carefully so that the threat of discovery is all but eliminated.
 

As summer returns, a third cell is built downstairs.
There's no other way to be sure the middle sibling will not cause trouble. If he can't be bought off - perhaps to move his own family far away, and forget the house ever existed - it might have to be keep him there too. With the information it's gained, he can be made more ticklish than he ever would've thought possible. Really, imprisoning him as well appears to be the least risky way to go.
 
 

It's almost time to bring little brother back here.
Multiple backups are in place for transportation and confinement. Vehicle disposal has been all planned out. Eagerly stocking up, it fills the garage with food and water, a spare mattress or two, and many more toys.
Radios, batteries, scores of recorded comedy programs are added. Four boxes are filled with movies he hasn't seen yet - and all of them, old and new, will be shared with the oldest man when he's moved in.
Odors in each room, all day, and even duets of laughter whenever it wishes...

He's created a better opportunity than it had been able to arrange - by deciding to leave his cousins and go look for a better job... a hundred miles further away from the house. But the important thing is a date has now been set, and it was even picked by him. None of the brothers are exactly compulsive about checking in with each other.
Saturday night, they're throwing him a little send-off party. He rolls out of town the next morning... and within a few minutes he'll discover the change of destination it's planned. It's prepared four places to hide him along the way, with ten or twelve gallons of gas stashed in each. It even found two gas stations where a stolen credit card will turn the pump on - in the middle of the night, even though the staff has all gone home.
Seventeen miles from the house, it's set up a wonderfully hard-to-find storage building as an alternate cell.
Once he's recaptured, the big concern will be his brothers. It doesn't expect them to stay away from the house - not after they decide he's "disappeared" again - so the safer course will be to bring them all home, one by one...
 

Early Friday morning, two days before little brother is coming back, a rather interesting thing happens.
A car slows down in front of the house, and sits there for almost a minute. Then it's driven several blocks away and parked in front of another house.
But the driver has been recognized.
It watches him bring a pint bottle back up to his mouth, and then light another cigarette from the one already smoldering.
And, really, the similarities to big brother are intriguing. They'd grown up together, after all. This is a man who'd visited the brothers' house for years, eaten dinner with them, gotten high and talked about deep mysteries of life with the oldest sibling - usually in the backyard, but this man has spent hours in the very room it loves, adding his contribution to the compound of scents.
Other than the inhabitants of the house, no one else had been in the room as often - and belonged there more...

Now he's sitting in front of his parents' home at four in the morning.
On the passenger's seat, there are papers from the county jail. He's just been released. It doesn't seem as if he's in any hurry to do anything.
There's another place he could stay, of course. All prepared. He won't have to buy cigarettes or whiskey, pot, condoms - movies. Everything is... on the house.
The idea is very tempting. He's so close to the room. Perhaps his folks don't even know yet that he's out of jail. He didn't speak too well of them, in the past. Disappearing again wouldn't be out of character. Some of the odor-blend did emanate from him. There was a certain... justice, too, in letting him take the youngest man's place. Just for now. He hadn't been exactly kind to those who were smaller than him.
As he sighs out smoke, it slips through the crack in the window. Settling back, as if he was going to take a little nap -
It tests his ribs. Right side, very gently.
Oh, yes. He grunts softly, jerking to his right in order to cover up. Evading the contact won't be possible once the restraints are on. His first reaction suggests he's more sensitive that the the middle brother, but probably not as... gifted as the youngest man. Certainly his sensitivity is dulled by drugs, but it's learned how to monitor the consumption of such things - for maximum smell-production, with no impact on ticklishness.
Clearly he has potential. Say, a careful year...
Taken "home", to pay for his crimes - mistreating little brother, for example - without ever being able to learn why he's been chosen. How fitting. After all, he's available right this moment... and none of his relatives will have the slightest idea of where he's gone.
 
 

This is almost... the real thing. The smell.
As soon as he wakes up, groaning and coughing, he takes the light from the match that it's holding for him.
Staked down in the sun, just starting on his third carton, he smells... right. This man gives off the same homey combination of odors, lying there in his sweat. Jim Beam, ashes from the right brand of cigarette, marijuana - the scent-combination is damn near perfect.
He quit yelling and begging during the second week. Settled in more quickly than it expected, he's already stoic about his new life here. Grinning more and more - not as much as little brother did, and will do again, later. Right here. But this new prisoner is surprisingly calm. He couldn't have expected this, but there's been less resistance all along. It wonders if he considers this to be a different kind of jail time. Paying for his bad behavior...
Behind him, it fills ten oiled leather gloves.
After this smoke and a couple of shots, he'll be ready to sweat more, and laugh so hard... hours of helpless, mindless pleasure before he gets to shoot another load over its sun-warmed fingers.

02mar05