Ticklish
(Part 2)
by
D_J
Time to backtrack a little, and tell about Marc - you know, the one doing just enough to keep his grade average high enough to avoid expulsion.
Though you wouldn't know it by his grades, Marc was actually a pretty intelligent guy. In fact, he was on par with Tom in the brains department. He was much more "laid back," not taking life or anything else too seriously... something of a practical joker, life-of-the-party type of guy. He was fairly athletic, with a gymnast's body, and had been captain of the wrestling team in high school. Marc had taken the year following his high school graduation off, working odd jobs, before deciding that being an EMT was a cool way to meet chicks.
The community college we attended offered a wide range of courses. One dude studying performing arts was Juan... and he had a thing for Marc. An unrequited love, you might say, since Marc was straight and not the least bit interested.
Nonetheless, Juan struck up a casual friendship with Marc, acting as a go-between with certain girls in his classes that Marc was interested in. A number of these assignations took place in the Music Department's many practice rooms. These rooms were heavily soundproofed, so the musicians jamming within could do so without bothering each other.
Late one Friday afternoon, Marc arrived for his "appointment" with a flutist he had his eye on for some weeks. To his chagrin, it was Juan who was waiting in piano room #4.
Marc was neither naive nor an idiot, and he clued in from Juan's first overtures to him what the smaller guy's intentions were. Marc made it plain to Juan that though friendship was possible, anything more was not. Undeterred, Juan persisted... finally luring Marc there under the false pretence of a meeting with Peggy Sue.
"What's the deal here?" hissed Marc.
Sensing that he was getting pissed off, Juan temporized, "Err, she's running a little late, that's all, really..."
Unknown to him, ShiziCor prompted Juan into his typical defensive posture - arms down, covering his ribs. He was ridiculously ticklish. Though as he hated being tickled, Juan's body position unknowingly telegraphed his fear of it. He became jumpy if Marc made any sudden... unexpected... moves near his sides or ribs.
Not long after they met, Marc - having known some very ticklish people in the past, and conditioned by the ShiziCor to recognize such telltale behaviour - had dutifully asked Juan if he was ticklish. Juan's fear of being tickled surpassed even his carnal interests in Marc. With a little internal "prompting," he immediately babbled how insanely ticklish he was, how he couldn't stand being tickled even if only for a few seconds... Hearing that - and much to the consternation of the ShiziCor, who occasionally drafted Marc's nimble fingers to wreak neural havoc on some poor bastard - he took care not to touch Juan or try to tickle him at all.
Until now, that is.
Marc reached outside and flipped the sign over, to show that the room was occupied. Then he closed it and locked it. Turning to face Juan, Marc spoke in a matter-of-fact way that scared the bejeezus out of Juan... "I warned you. I don't go that way."
Juan's fear reached an exquisite new level, although he was kept from fully understanding why.
"You want me to touch you, huh?" Marc said. "Well, then, I hope you remember the saying - be careful what you wish for. You just might get it!!!"
Without another word, Marc grabbed hold of Juan's arms and knocked him to the carpeted floor. Using one hand to pin Juan's wrists above his head, Marc knelt on Juan's chest... and watched his victim's face as his fingers started working on an exposed armpit.
Juan didn't waste his breath speaking, or try to tough it out. That was impossible, since he immediately gave vent to peals of laughter and unintelligible shrieks.
Marc's hand moved steadily, alternating between Juan's armpits with brief forays to his quarrie's ribs, sides and belly. As he did, he bounced up and down slowly... leaving Juan all but breathless, helpless, incapable of any meaningful struggle, and wheezing out tortured giggles. Already he was in complete hysterics, even though he could barely move. Marc released his grip on Juan's wrists - in order to exploit Juan's ticklishness with both hands.
Juan hadn't thought the level of excitement bursting inside him could get any stronger - but it did. His limbs refused to obey him, so he was trapped between the ceaseless, merciless fingers.
Finally - after what seemed like an eternity - Marc's hands stopped moving and just held on tight. As the tickles subsided, Juan could hear Marc's voice asking him where else he really hated being tickled.
"Please... no more," Juan whimpered. But his plea was answered with a resumption of the tickling.
Marc stripped away Juan's shirt and thoroughly explored every square millimetre of Juan's exposed skin... tickling, tickling, tickling... noticing subtle nuances in Juan's responses as they related to the speed, pressure being applied and locations targeted by Marc's relentless fingers.
Twenty minutes crawled by.
Again, Juan eventually noticed the tickling had stopped - and heard Marc repeating that same horrible question...
"My... f-feet," he rasped. "Don't... Not my feet, the soles of my feet, you just c-can't -"
Suddenly the hands let go of his sides. It was such an incredible relief, and Juan could actually breathe again. The door to piano room #4 opened and closed, and he was alone. Marc had gone - cute, arrogant, sadistic Marc. Juan tried to move, but he was too worn out. So he panted for air, trying to will himself to sit up.
The door opened. He started to move his head, but the door was already closed again. That worried him -
A weight settled on his shins.
Marc.
Juan closed his eyes, trying to wake up from the unspeakable nightmare which he wished he was having...
Something was being wrapped repeatedly around his ankles. His shoes and socks were roughly pulled off - then Marc slid to one side and rolled Juan onto his belly. As he twisted his head around to see what would happen next, he saw Marc kneel on him. Bending Juan's knees, his hands moved with chilling precision - as they pulled a wide nylon strap from Juan's captured ankles to the far legs of the piano bench, winding round and round.
Juan kicked as hard as he could, but his bare soles would barely budge. His soles were held up, parallel with the floor. The nylon straps, made available to move or store heavy instruments, were not loosening. He couldn't turn over, no matter how hard he twisted and flopped. The piano bench bounced and clattered...
Marc sat down on the bench.
That did it. Juan's feet were not going anywhere. Held up, flat - and Marc looked at them with a shit-eating grin.
"Please, please, no," Juan whimpered, causing his tormentor to look him in the eye. Beaming. Far too happy, there. He had a mercenary gleam -
Fingertips landed - low in the arch of each foot.
Juan knew with a distinctly vivid clarity that he couldn't take one more second of this torture - especially on his feet! "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he babbled frantically, hopeless and yet desperate. "Please, dude, please, not my feet, not my feet! Any place - please, aw, anyplace else... Please, Marc, I'm gonna - I promise I'll never try to, uh, trick you again... Aw, no..."
Marc's only response was, "Ready?" - and without waiting for an answer, he started dragging his fingernails from heel to toes on Juan's totally immobilized feet, down again, and back up...
He found new strength to pound the carpet and lunge around, but Juan's feet stayed right where they were. He was unable to offer any intelligible discourse over the next few hours. His keening, shrieks, gibbering, giggles, guffaws and laughter spoke volumes to the ShiziCor, which adjusted Marc's technique accordingly to achieve maximum stimulation. It were as if Juan's bare soles were some stringed instrument, and Marc's fingers a bow - gently sawing back and forth, adjusting tempo, changing position - and Juan's loud hysterics the resulting music.
And so it carried on until the wee hours of Saturday morning, Marc asserting his dominance over Juan... While across town, I sat in Tom's kitchen and planned, reveling in a whole new ticklish odyssey for him.
The ShiziCor orchestrated both events, arranging unprecedented opportunities - all for Tom's return engagement.
"So... Did you girls have fun on your week-end together?" jeered Marc, when Tom and I walked into class Monday morning. Tom flipped Marc the bird, but I just ignored him.
The class started with an oral quiz, and Marc was tagged by the Prof to answer the first question. "The bicuspid valve is on which side of the heart?"
"Right side?" Marc said uncertainly.
"For a guy who's out in left field most of the time," Tom said quietly, "You'd think he would've nailed that one!!" And most of the class laughed...
I happened to catch the dark look on Marc's face, but Tom was oblivious to it, grinning at the Prof.
"The left side is correct, though the pun leaves something to be desired. OK, Marc, I'll give you another shot. On which side of the heart are the semi-lunar valves?"
"Err..." and Marc was clearly floundering. "The right side. Right?"
"Strike two," the Prof chuckled. "What do you say, Tom?"
"Trick question, Sir," Tom shot back. "Neither right or left. The semi-lunars are in the pulmonary and aortic arteries... in the middle." He paused, and shot a quick look over at Marc. A proud look. I knew he was about to zing Marc again, and it gave me a vague sense of concern - but an even stronger curiosity. There was something else going on here, under the surface, and never mind that they'd gone to high school together...
"Sort of like Marc - he's in the middle too," and Tom paused for effect. "The middle of nowhere!"
Even the Prof laughed that time. Everybody did, except Marc.
"One more try, Marc," and the Prof still had a grin on his face as he said it. "The tentorial ligaments anchor..."
"They, ummm... They anchor the leaves of the heart valves!" Marc replied, with a triumphant note in his voice.
"If he only had a brain," Tom said - and I actually saw Marc get redder, that time - "then he'd know what anchored it. Brain - anchor. Tentorial ligaments... Yoo-hoo, earth to Marc..."
That did it. Everybody broke up, pointing at Marc, and a few of us gave Tom high-fives. It was an unusual victory for him, and he was basking in it. I kept an eye on Marc, who seemed to be thinking way too much about his response.
Surprisingly, he decided against a loud comeback. Leaning close to Tom, he whispered quietly, "Yuk it up, Tommy boy. I know something else that makes you laugh - even more than trashing me in public."
Tom stopped laughing - and went pale. The words were menacing, and enigmatic - like music to my ears, not to mention the charge I got out of Tom's involuntary response.
Taking a breath, Tom still hurried to respond, nodding a little. "OK, OK, I'm just messin' with you a little. Jeesh!" His attitude was adjusted, alright.
"Alright," the Prof said loudly. "Enough. What does anchor the heart valve leaves?" He looked right at Tom.
Marc was still glaring, and Tom's eyes flicked over - once - and saw that. He cringed. It was a pretty amazing change, really. He looked back at the Prof, and finally shrugged. The Prof immediately looked at Marc -
I heard Tom whisper something, but it was too quiet for me to hear.
"Cordae tendenae, Prof!" Marc said immediately.
"Chalk one up for Marc!" the Prof said, nodding. I got the impression Tom was deliberately not looking over at Marc, who was only a little less ticked off than before...
The quiz went on, and the Prof mercifully moved on to question others in the class. Marc was still seething at Tom. Almost cowed, the star of the class didn't speak all morning unless the Prof addressed him directly - and he even got an answer wrong which he'd confidently rattled off to me on Friday night, because I'd misremembered it. He was definitely laying low. That wasn't like Tom...
In fact, when we all headed over for lunch he mumbled some excuse about having to go to the admissions office first - which gave me a chance to have a few words with Marc.
I managed to get in line behind him, and had to fight my enthusiasm. He glanced back at me - with no change in expression. Not hostile, at least, and that was all I needed...
"Hey," I said casually, "How'd you shut him down that quick?" I grinned at him.
After a couple seconds of studying me, Marc gave me a little smirk. "Why?"
"Well, you settled his hash," I said conspiratorially. "I wouldn't mind knowing - well, you know, he gets pretty smug sometimes -"
"You can say that again."
"Something else that makes him laugh?"
Marc paused - and stared me down. Intense eyes...
"I mean, dude, he went pale, there. And he quieted right down. That was... weird," I mumbled, looking down at my cafeteria tray. Not too smooth. The next few seconds would tell -
"We go way back," Marc said. There was a mean note in his voice, but his eyes were still smiling. "Your best pal didn't tell you that, huh?"
"Nope."
He was eyeing me appraisingly. "Same high school. A year apart. He never told you?" I shook my head quickly.
Marc smiled. "Yeah. We had some laughs back there. Real good laughs - well, at least Tom was laughing."
That was a cryptic remark... accompanied by a long stare from Marc, and the unmistakable pleasure of the ShiziCor. I got it, and snickered once.
He nodded - just enough - and went to his usual table. I wanted to find out more, but I definitely had the sense (imposed, or my own discretion) that it wasn't yet time to appear overeager.
But I was so disracted I could barely eat and keep up my end of the conversation, sitting with some other classmates. Same high school, I thought gleefully - Marc and Tom. So Marc knew, definitely. Could he have been there, at the fundraiser?
I broke away and headed for my gear locker, where a copy of Tom's "photo essay" was stashed under my old airway management book...
Flipping through the pictures - nope, no shot of Marc. I sighed, and went back to the "centre spread" of Tom's autographed soles -
There it was. Marc's scrawled name, just beneath "Bud"... with that really long "C" at the end. Definitely the same Marc.
Wait a mo'...
The ShiziCor's signature had a long "C". The "R" was the same, too. How had I missed that before???
Laughter. It made me jump -
And I kept hearing it, lively and free, in my head. Duh... Maybe because I wanted you to miss it, before.
"Real funny," I whispered, looking around furtively. There was no way to tell how many times, over the years, it had "spoken" to me, and each time I still had the urge to look and see who was talking. But I was alone (well, physically alone).
Just relax, it mocked me. The net is tightening - that's for sure - but Tom's going to be the catch of the week.
"Hot damn," I snickered.
Oh, yeah.
When I got back to the cafeteria, Marc was leaning on the table in front of Tom...
"Even the Prof knows you fed me that answer," Marc spat. "You made me look pathetic, and stupid. This isn't over, and that's a promise."
Tom finished chewing and swallowed, looking seriously annoyed. "Chill, man. We've gooned each other before - and I get it way more than you do. The Prof doesn't care, nobody does..." and then he looked down. "You're well-liked - uh, a lot more than I am, that's for sure. How do you think that makes me feel?"
"Oh, boo hoo hoooo," sneered Marc. He leaned way in and lowered his voice, but I was just behind Tom and heard it clearly enough. "Save it. You don't wanna mess with me. I know a couple things about you, right?"
Marc shot me a real quick look before he continued, and I didn't even dare nod back. "If everybody here finds out what I know, your last words are gonna be "please, please, not my f-"
"Stop it!" Tom hissed. He almost yelled it, before he regained his composure.
"Just shut up," and then Tom was nearly whispering back at Marc, "You're not the only one who can play that card. Your feet are nearly as... bad as mine, and everybody you want to sic on me will find out. Just as much..." Then Tom noticed me, and seemed more sheepish than anything.
"Big talk," Marc sneered. "You think you can take me down? You and your lover, here?"
Tom stood up, and I kinda stepped in front of him and shot back "The homo stuff is old, Marc. Real lame."
"Okay, sweetie," he taunted. But I kept getting another message, too. He sounded angry, but there was something else in his eyes. A message. Maybe I was imagining it, but the whole confrontation felt, I don't know, almost staged...
"Take you?" I said coolly. "Piece of cake. I'll kick your nuts into your mouth while Tom here is deeking you out. Or Tom can do the kicking, while I do the deeking. Either way, you want to go for it, I'm game!!" I finished and stared him down. Damn - I felt powerful, utterly calm, and the words had come out of my mouth just right. Not too strident, not too over the top. It wasn't just that I was bigger, either.
Marc took a little step back, and then another. Yeah. He was outnumbered, but he had the corridor behind him. An escape route. We all knew who was better suited for brawling. It was time for him to call my bluff.
"Truce," Tom said. "Now. C'mon. Truce..."
I saw Marc look briefly past me, presumably at Tom - and when he made eye contact with me again, I half-expected him to chuckle. Like acting in a play, almost, being orchestrated -
"This won't get us anywhere," Tom said sensibly, with a lot of subtext sailing right over his head. "Look, I'll back off - if you lay off all this talk about... errr.." And he stopped talking. I was puzzled for a second or two. Then I got it - all this talk about tickling. Tom couldn't even bring himself to say the word. Not here. Six letters that totally freaked him, and eight wonderful letters that described him - hell, defined him! Ticklish.
"...Those old, uh, threats," Tom finally said. Weak finish, I thought. No way to end a game of one-upmanship.
"Later," Marc said flatly, with the certainty of a promise. He turned around and walked off without looking back.
Definitely, the noncorporeal gloated. Later, indeed.
I moved my hand, as if I was swatting some flying pest away - and I heard giggles. Missed me. Nyah, nyah, nyah!!
"Child," I snorted.
"A big, dangerous child, if you ask me," a nervous Tom murmured, still looking in the direction of the hallway.
Of course I hadn't been talking about Marc, but there was no way I was going to tell Tom the truth... when the noncorporeal had him in its sights. Not a chance. My magical accomplice was a lot like a kid, sometimes. A kid in a candy shop. Of course, the candy in this particular shop happened to be insufferably ticklish dudes - like Tom. And Marc as well, apparently... Yummmm.
And this particular "kid" was insatiable when it came to tickling, never overdoing it, not dumb enough to exhaust the supply. There was never such a thing as too many "sweets." Oh, no - this being, this ShiziCor had told me before that it didn't get "full." there was no end to its appetite for the reactions from tickled dudes.
The afternoon passed without further incident, though the tension between Marc and Tom was pretty evident to all. Some shit-disturbers tried to play them off against each other, but neither rose to the bait.
With twenty minutes to go in the day, Tom excused himself to the head - but curiously, he took his stuff with him. It turned out he ditched early - no doubt to avoid further entanglement with Marc, who rode the same bus home - and didn't come back that day, which was practical if not particularly courageous.
Bad move, on Tom's part... leaving me alone and on the same bus as Marc. The phrase 'when opportunity knocks' came to mind... An opportunity to set the stage with Marc. Stage. Hee hee hee hee, I just kill myself sometimes. Stage - Tom, on the stage at his high school! Hoo hoo hoo, that was rich - wasn't I a stinker!?!
Classes ended for the day. I held back, intending to follow Marc to the bus stop; but he surprised me by heading in the wrong direction. To the arts side of the campus.
The music department?
The halls were crowded with other students, and teachers leaving for the day... so Marc didn't notice that I was following him - cautiously, because I really wanted an alliance for the mutual tickle-destruction of ol' Tom.
Marc stopped at one of the "sound" corridors - a hallway lined with soundproofed practice rooms - and just stood there, apparently waiting. I was automatically looking around for the chick Marc was there to meet... when a shorter, dark-skinned guy approached - reluctantly, I thought - and called his name.
Before Marc turned around and saw both of us, I just barely managed to flatten myself against a doorway. He probably saw me, but not my face.
"Ready for inspection?" Marc cheerfully asked the little dude.
"Please," the guy started pleading, "Please Marc, I promise I'll back off. I won't ever... hassle you again... Please listen to me... Don't do this!"
Hmmmm, that was intriguing. The short guy was definitely becoming agitated -
"Piano room #4?" Marc asks little dude, completely ignoring what was just said to him. I mean, no reaction at all.
The little dude's shoulders slumped... and he walked like a condemned man into the "sound" corridor, stopping at the sixth door down, and sliding his student passcard through the "reader" next to the door. There was a faint chime as he pulled the card out, and the door opened right up when he pushed down on the handle. Looking quite defeated already, he held the door open for Marc - who gave him a little shove. Then the door closed...
And then Marc locked it.
Him, and another guy, in there - it was definitely not what I'd been expecting.
I fairly ran up to the door and looked in the little window. The guys were talking, and the little dude looked even more worried than before...
The walls and ceiling were covered in acoustic tiles, and the floor was carpeted. Against one wall was an upright piano and a bench - and on the opposite wall was a floor-to-ceiling mirror. I noticed a microphone hanging from the ceiling, on a movable boom, and a couple of micro-speakers set into the corners flanking the mirror. The soundproofing must've been good, because even up against the door I couldn't hear a thing.
I pulled back from the door, and surveyed the corridor...
The next door had a sign on it:
VIEWING & RECORDING - 4
Too good to be true, probably. I tried the door handle. Locked. Damn...
Then I remembered little dude using his student card. I pulled mine out, wishing hard that the music department facilities weren't keyed to specific student cards. I was rewarded by a "ping," and the handle moved.
Quickly, I checked the hall again, slipped inside and closed the door.
And I almost bailed out immediately, because Marc was staring right at me.
Little dude was behind him, and just off to one side, still talking. I couldn't hear a thing, and Marc hadn't reacted at all to my sudden appearance...
I put two and two together - the mirror in Piano Room #4 was a two-way mirror. I could see them, but they couldn't see me. Ahhhhhhh! Musicians could jam "privately" and still be viewed by their instructors, or friends and family. There was one folding chair, near a water bottle with a bunch of cigarette butts in it. But there was a visible layer of dust on it, and some papers scattered around the floor...
Not a popular room. It seemed I was safe enough, and I could see Marc and little dude just fine. But I wanted to hear them, too -
Viewing and Recording Room, huh?
There were some microphone jacks in the corner. Headphone jacks, too - and I debated leaving just long enough to hunt some up...
A black corner caught my eye, and I moved some of the stray papers with my foot. A little console, with more jacks - and switches. One of the dials even said "Speakers". I turned it on -
"- can't go through it again, man, I'm serious here," little dude quavered.
I adjusted the volume and moved the chair closer to the window.
"This is not a negotiation," Marc said. "Do as you're told, or I'll increase your penalty phase!" Marc's voice was firm, brooking no insubordination - cold, cold, cold.
Little dude made a despairing noise.
Juan," Marc snapped impatiently. "Now." So - little dude's name was Juan...
He sat down on the piano bench, still looking like he really wanted to bolt, and kicked off his running shoes. Then he pulled off his socks.
I was dumbfounded.
Just keep watching, whispered the ShiziCor.
Juan got down onto the floor, lying on his belly, and dutifully raised his feet. His his bare soles faced the ceiling. Marc dropped his backpack and sat down on the piano bench - and wrapped his legs around Juan's upturned feet.
"Hey! How come my artwork is smeared?" Marc barked at Juan.
"You told me to keep my feet clean for you to tic- er, inspect... I had to wash them," Juan answered meekly.
"I also told you to keep every mark I made intact and legible," Marc sighed, "but now I'll have to fix 'em up for you."
"Noooooooooo," Juan whined, trying to roll over. But Marc kept hold and reached into his backpack - bringing out a roll of eight-inch elastoplast tape. Smoothly, he wrapped Juan's ankles together, working his way down to Juan's knees and back up again to the ankles. Then he used another roll - and a third!
Then he pulled out a much thinner roll of the same kind of tape. Half-inch. Marc taped Juan's big toes together, looping around them several times, before taking the free end of tape and wrapping it around Juan's calves. There was no uncertainty in Marc's movements. Dazed, I had to wonder how often he'd done that taping before - on Juan, or anybody else too.
The result of his work was admirable. Juan's toes were pulled back snugly, leaving the skin of his soles taut and wrinkle-free.
"Curl your toes!" Marc commanded.
"Uh... I can't!" Juan finally said.
"Not even if I do this?" And Marc trailed his fingernails lightly over Juan's immobilized arches.
Juan rewarded Marc with a high squeal, and hopeless giggling.
Marc started to grin. It was an almost psychotic cheerfulness. "I brought something new to try out on you... Juan." Reaching into his backpack yet again, he drew out an artist's paintbrush.
The shorter guy watched it appear - and he stopped fidgeting, but his head slowly tracked the brush in his captor's hand.
"The hairs on this paintbrush are sable. Very fine... very soft," Marc fairly purred to his captive audience, "want to feel them?"
Juan snarled with exasperation. "Are you really asking - or are you just fucking with my mind?" he shot back, winding down into a quiet moan.
"Fucking with your mind - now that's the only kind of fucking you'll ever get from me, pal!" Marc teased. Then his smile got even bigger - and it began. With short, sharp strokes, Marc "painted" Juan's helpless soles.
My room was filled with Juan's giggling, which escalated to shrieks of laughter whenever Marc tagged a sweet spot - such as when he explored between Juan's smaller toes - and kept him in a state of hilarity for the next mesmerizing half-hour.
Marc then pulled out some fine-point markers and re-drew Juan's "road map" of ticklishness, with Juan hooting, bucking and squealing throughout. "Points of interest" were highlighted for future reference.
Almost an hour after they entered the room Marc growled victoriously and stood up. He grabbed his stuff and left Juan to free himself.
The temptation to run in there, before Juan could get loose, and take over where Marc left off was dizzying - damn near overwhelming, and I would've bet Juan had hours of prime delirium left in him! - but I had much bigger plans... for Tom's ticklish future. Juan would keep - and later I'd find out more, such as why he was beholden to Marc. It would've been a screaming shame to let feet like that go to waste.
Marc was already at the bus stop when I got there...
When he recognized me, I nodded. His expression didn't change a whole lot - but he was definitely more relaxed than he had been at lunchtime. After the session I witnessed, it was no surprise that Marc had burned off most of the stress of the day. That gave me an idea.
I gave him a dumb grin. "So. You still pissed at Tom?"
"What's it to ya?" he shot back.
Shrugging my shoulders - innocently as I could - I looked out at the street. "Well. I was just thinking... He gets full of himself sometimes." Marc didn't react at all, so I kept on going. "You're not the only one who'd like to see him get taken down a few pegs."
"Is that so," he said noncomittally.
"Yeah." I let the word hang there. "Together, we could give him an attitude adjustment."
He smirked - watching me closely. Suspicious... but that only made sense, considering how much Tom and I hung out.
"Let me buy you a beer," I said expansively. The bus pulled up, and I made a point not to look at Marc. "And a toke, if you're interested... but that's back in my room, at the 'Y'."
Marc looked doubtful, but his tone of voice betrayed something else - he was intrigued. "Don't expect me to jump just 'cause there's free booze involved. You gotta give me something more to go on -"
"Let's just say that Tom will be... tickled pink when he finds out we got together to discuss his immediate future." I gave him my crafty, evil smile.
Marc grinned back, just as diabolically. "I'm in!"
"Cool..."
We boarded the bus and rode in silence to the 'Y', where we walked up to my room. Marc took a seat at my desk while I fetched a beer from my mini-fridge. He drank it in silence, looking around the room while I busied myself rolling a jay.
Firing it up, I took a toke and passed it over to him. Marc took a couple of drags before passing it back... And so it went, neither of us talking, just toking, chilling out. I knew from his last enthusiastic response that all I had to do was bide my time...
Finally, as he finished off the next jay, Marc started things off. "Your use of the phrase... 'tickled pink,'" he drawled. Yup, he had a good buzz on. So did I. "In the same sentence with Tom's name... You, uh, have some thoughts in that area?"
I had to laugh. So I went on to describe my weekend at Tom's place. At the point in my story where I snuck down to the kitchen, I pulled out the laser prints of Tom's ticklish photo essay.
Marc nodded slowly, chuckling to himself.
After telling him how I "borrowed" the yearbook, photocopied it and slipped it back - without getting caught - I mentioned how interesting I found some Tom's remarks at lunchtime. Then I picked up the photo spread and pointed to Marc's signature.
"Yeah," he admitted cheerfully. "You got it. I was there. Man oh man, I tickled the daylights out of those feet... Fuck! 'Ticklish' doesn't even come close to describing those feet. I mean it. They're a whole new world of - hell, a different dimension. Sensitive, always getting more and more sensitive. I could string words together all night long and not even come close to describing it. He was unhinged. Absolutely unglued. You look in the dictionary, under 'ticklishness', and this photo should be in there." He tapped the big pictures of Tom's signed feet. "The whole photo spread..."
He got a dreamy look on his face.
I couldn't have looked away if I wanted to. Marc was reveling in it - the memory of that incredible experience - and I wished again I'd been there. Marc had clearly loved it, and he was going to love doing it again!
Marc looked at me, and his eyes narrowed. Self-conscious, after talking about the rush he got from tickling - from playing with another guy's feet - and to another dude, yet! But we had that interest in common.
"What's your beef with him, anyway?" he challenged. "You act like bosom buddies - you got his back, there, in the cafeteria - and suddenly you're out to recruit me to help put Tom... back into tickle purgatory."
I chuckled at his choice of words, and looked at the photo. Marc's signature - and the ShiziCor's. Did Marc know? Most of its accomplices had no idea...
It was safer not to assume anything. Besides, I wasn't entirely sure how much of my lust for tickling was my own, and how much was induced.
"You're looking at a unrepentant tickle fiend," I said, cocky as anything. And I'd meant to ease into that -
Fortune favors the bold, the noncorporeal cackled inside my head.
Damn ShiziCor, I thought - and then I started talking again, despite my efforts to hold my tongue. "I get such a rush from making some dude come completely unglued. Out of his freakin' mind... And it doesn't even take punching or kicking, nothing that hardcore. Just, err, light rubbing. The most gentle caresses on his soles, belly, pits..." I gulped air. Marc's eyes were big. It went too far, I thought dismally. Too much information, dammit -
"Well," I kept on talking, sheepish and helpless to stop it, "you get the picture. It's the perfect power trip. Uh... To dominate somebody that much, and especially a dude. With just my fingers. Wow. Dudes are supposed to be tough, right? Take it like a man, big boys don't cry... Macho. And I love to break 'em down - with light, easy strokes. Targeted just right. Gentle touches, caresses - and the bastard turns into a total basket case! Now, that's power!"
I was way too animated, and finally I had to pause and take a breath. Blushing, embarrassed... and worried that the ShiziCor's ventriloquist act wasn't over. But I "felt" it laugh at me, and back off -
"So. You like tickling dudes," Marc replied dryly.
"A little bit!" I temporized. Thankfully his interest was piqued, and Marc's eyes were shining. I relaxed a little.
"Fuck. I'll bet you came when you turned the page and saw that close-up of Tom's laughing face," Marc teased.
"Well... 'came' is a little over the top. I'll admit to... a powerful reaction. The rush. Yeah, that's the ticket. It was quite a rush for me."
Marc gave me that appraising look again. For a good fifteen seconds he didn't say anything - but I sensed victory. He was intrigued...
"So - together - we're going to put poor ticklish Tommy boy through his paces... again?" he said smugly.
"And then some!" I promised.
The next Friday took forever to arrive. Carefully, I laid the groundwork for an improved sequel to Tom's fundraiser as the days dragged by. The preparations weren't nearly as difficult as dealing with the impatience, waiting for the weekend, and acting as natural around my prey as I could. In addition to keeping me primed with anticipation, the omnipresent ShiziCor was doing its part - subconsciously tweaking a few others as well as me, and paving the way to Tom's ticklish appointment with his destiny.
Marc approached Tom Tuesday morning, offering his hand - playing the peacemaker. Nothing over-the-top, either. He played it just right. Neither of us wanted to rouse Tom's suspicions, and he was already a little paranoid about Marc's not-so-subtle tickle threat from the day before. In class, no friction was evident between them. In fact, some of the labs required that we pair up, as EMT partners would on an ambulance... and Marc took the lead by hooking up with Tom, whom I usually paired with. Smoothly, Marc used the disparity in their class performance - Tom on the top of the curve, and Marc near the bottom - to appeal to Tom's pride. It worked beautifully. I bowed out and let them "bond", staying friendly with both, all of it happening naturally enough.
It was seamless. Marc drew on their mutual history for conversational fodder (avoiding the tickle fundraiser, of course!), and Tom was starting to warm up before Tuesday's classes were over. After I asked a few times, the ShiziCor finally stopped teasing me long enough to admit it had carefully suppressed Tom's natural paranoia about being tickled, and dulled his suspicions about Marc's intentions - while giving him a sense of relief about Marc's friendliness.
On Wednesday Tom returned to class with his old trepidation evident, fearing that the day before might have been a fluke... but Marc was subtle and low-key. It was a piece of cake for him, because he had that knack for winning people over. It wasn't for nothing that he was the most popular guy in high school, and now in the EMT program. By lunchtime he'd soothed away Tom's self-protective (and accurate!) concerns - when I walked up to their table they were laughing over some private joke. The ShiziCor was pulling both of their strings, like some master puppeteer, unnoticed by either.
At Wednesday's close, Marc skillfully nudged Tom into going to a movie that night. The contrast, in Tom, was almost unsettling when I remembered how skittish he'd been that very morning. The ShiziCor had been cooing softly to him, secretly, reassuringly, placating his fears. They were talking about grabbing a pizza before the flick as they headed out...
The next morning - Thursday - they rode the same bus to class. I sat there and watched them continue what was obviously an ongoing discussion about the movie (the last of the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy). Marc was perfectly casual, and my respect for him grew yet again.
And Tom... Well, he appeared totally at ease with a dude that he feared not two days before. The ShiziCor could prompt, prod and push with the best of them! I'd seen some people that were strong-willed enough to resist its influence, or at least pose a significant challege to its mental manipulations... but Tom definitely wasn't in that category, and neither was Marc. Or me, I supposed.
During a break that afternoon, Juan wandered by. Marc had had no trouble recruiting him - it was Juan's second tickle-free day, and he was more than willing to help set up Tom (his assumed replacement).
Marc made the introductions, and Juan was convincingly normal as he invited us to a party the next night. Pizza, various "refreshments," hot jams from Juan and his friends (how I fought not to laugh, right then!). It would be right on campus - in one of the music rooms, an hour after classes let out.
Tom was hesitant... but knowing what an introvert he was, we had another card to play. Marc gave the slightest nod, and Juan - right on cue - mentioned the names of a few people who were going to be there, such as... Pam, a pre-law major Tom had admired from afar but had been too chicken-shit to approach, for fear of being rejected. That little tidbit of info was supplied by me, but ShiziCor targeted Tom's libido... causing a pleasant rush and tingling in his nether regions, a little welcome swelling, and then Tom's carnal interests suppressed the last of the alarm bells jangling in his subconscious mind. He was immediately intrigued by the chance of meeting Pam in a neutral environment. Not only that, it was the start of a weekend... so a late night wouldn't affect school the following day.
He took the bait, of course. Just another milestone in our master plan to get him into that soundproofed room for the weekend!
The day finished on a high note, with the four of us catching a ride home to Juan's for dinner in his mom's car (borrowed for the occasion!). There was as much mindless chatter as one would expect amongst a bunch of young college dudes.
By that time I knew that none of the others were aware of ShiziCor's near-continuous manipulation; for some reason it had selected me and named me as one of its "minions", which meant it clued me in on almost all of its machinations.
Almost... all. It had shown me, in the past, that information was shared (even with me) on a need-to-know basis. That tricky streak had gotten me in compromising, delirious situations before, but I was almost salivating at the thought of spending some serious time on Tom's feet the very next night. Juan drove us home after dinner, dropping each off at our respective residences. It was easy enough to drop Tom off first, since he was in such a good mood he failed to notice us driving right past the 'Y'!
Once free of Tom we reviewed the last remaining preparations and fine-tuned our plot, delighted that the follow-through was less than twenty-four hours away.
On to Part 3 - or go back to Part 1
24sep04