The cabinets are surveyed one last time.
Nothing has been forgotten. The shelves are filled with boxes and bottles, lined up in neat rows. Ready for use. Tubs and bags full of tools. Leather goods of all kinds.
The pantry is deliberately overstocked.
Five restraint devices are here, polished meticulously until they shine.
The heating system is working well, silently pumping fresh air into the subterranean rooms, keeping the temperature just a little on the cooler side.
There are two doors. One leads to the hallway, connecting to nine other units just like this one. That door was just closed a minute ago, when the medical assistant left. He checked out just fine.
All systems go.
The other door swings in. It's heavy. Three different kinds of padding, covered with a plush nylon layer, quilted, matching the interior of the smaller room. The white material is stained by a dull brown glaze, lighter in the corners, most noticable on the ceiling above the center of the room. Other than thin slits of diffused light - where only the nylon hides the low-intensity bulbs - ten inches of layered foam cover all six surfaces.
It is a cell.
As the door closes, the puffy diamonds of padding land in the spaces left for them, completely hiding the actual edges of the only exit.
Two things are currently in the cell.
Perpendicular to the door, a wide mirror is hanging from the ceiling. Vertical, at a slight angle, held by steel posts which are bolted to four of many recessed rings. These attachment points are scattered everywhere, hidden by the foam until they're put to use.
The mirror faces a massive chair. Anchored by short chains, tilted back slightly, the black iron seat is designed to be functional rather than attractive. Long pads are covered with cowhide. A wider rectangle serves as a footstool - of sorts. And a smaller square rises from behind, on sturdy rods, to provide a headrest...
Hidden by dark brown hair. Messy, far too long, framing a face which needs a shave. Snoring quietly. Kept unconscious by a drug which was slipped into his second scotch-on-the-rocks. That was six hours ago. The sports bar is two hundred miles away. His truck in hidden in the parking area here with several other vehicles, behind a door covered with weeds and slate which hides that entrance of the cave.
Other than the broad cuffs which pin his ankles and hold his wrists behind him, he's wearing only a pair of snug leather pants.
His movements were tracked for several days. Careful tests, in the middle of the night, confirmed he was worth the effort invested in him. So he was kidnapped and brought to the cell - the most important component in all the preparation...
A rustling sound, behind the mirror, doesn't bring any reaction. He sleeps on.
Glossy, dark green shapes are lifting off one of the hidden shelves. They swell, and drift down... past food and water, jars and tubes, tools, feathers, soft brushes, stiffer brushes, dark cords and rings -
Emerging from behind. Floating over.
Reaching for his chest, the oversized fingers don't hesitate or tremble.
They stop a few inches from his armpits... and their wearer keeps them right there, waiting impatiently for the drug to wear off.
After a nice, big yawn, he stares in the mirror.
Not until his head moves again, and he looks at one glove. Then the other -
Then they move in.
And the tickling is fierce.
His reaction is every bit as wild as it hoped for.
It has the fingers dig into his armpits and squeeze their way down, right back up, sliding all around.
He roars like a wind tunnel, trying anything to get out of the brutal, electrifying grip, not skipping out on any of it. His arms are staying right where they are, so he can't cover his sides. He'll be on the chair until he can't keep his eyes open another second - and then he'll wake up on it again, or some other furniture designed to keep him down.
Staying, in this room, until it decides he can go.
And it's been looking forward to this for a long time.
Almost a year of scut-work. Oh, sure, it had learned a lot. And one of the cells had one or two captives which they shared... so it wasn't a total sacrifice.
The only way to use a place like this was to earn a spot on the team. It was glad to be accepted, even though it would be a while before it could hope to get promoted. There were daily rotations through the service disciplines... medical, perimeter watch, A/V, supply, design and maintenance.
Watching full members have their fun, all those months, led to working out its frustration on the prisoners shared by all. Still, it couldn't wait to have a victim all to itself. The big day seemed like it would never arrive.
One of the full members was seriously thinking about a long nab. One of its favorite prisoners had run off, and he had to be taught a lesson. Privately. A long lesson. It hardly dared to hope...
A new trainee arrived. And then - finally! - another tickler found a dude it wanted to take to a remote desert island. The full members laughed as they announced the best news of all.
Now - for as long as it wants! - it rules a room of its very own.
Timebox.
Every need is met. All it has to do is summon one of the scut-workers. It doesn't have to think at all about running out of food, or stray hikers wandering close enough to find the place. Others take care of all possible worries.
All it has to be concerned with... is one man.
There was time to burn.
He's absolutely frantic.
The laughter keeps bursting out, raw and rowdy.
That smug expression was gone. He takes a lot of pride in his strength. Toned, hard muscle. Great blood-oxygen levels...
Smooth skin, brought here and immobilized, with skilled fingers roaming all over it. Brushes scrubbing lightly, but relentlessly. Or slow feathers, all day long. Every day.
A time comes when he bucks against the leather pads, and doesn't lunge again. Perhaps he can't manage to keep fighting, or the futility of it has struck home. But the fight begins to disappear. His head doesn't move around as much, and his fists relax...
Tears of forced mirth keep running down his face.
It has the gloves dig into his gut. Rubbing hard -
His head bounces once. Then he shakes it slowly, from side to side.
And he grins.
Howling laughter... and in thirty seconds, his brow is relaxing. Face muscles not nearly as tense - except for that smile.
It lifts the fingers - for a second - and puts them back in his armpits. Tickling deep. Not as fast.
He wails, and cackles... more intently? The grin is wider now.
Well, this was more than it dared to hope for.
He likes it!
And yet... it's way too much.
That deserves a workout that never stops.
The kind of tickling the room was built for.
The jeans come off - unzipped, up the sides.
There's no way to rush the kind of excitement the tickler likes.
Checking out his most sensitive spots is just the warmup. Which gets a bigger reaction, the gloves or the feathers? Right foot, or left foot? Calves or butt-cheeks?
The results will change when it's teased his cock for a few hours. And after he cums. When he's drunk, or full of speed.
In the stocks. Chained to the swing, stretched out on the rack. Spread wide on a satin-covered mattress.
Learning him takes time.
When he finally sleeps again, it opens the door of the cell.
Two recruits, on medical rotation, tend to him. The tickler watches for awhile, enjoying the luxury of not having to clean him up.
The feeling is better yet when it summons another pair of helpers. Handing over his keys and his wallet, it tells them to take one of the panel trucks, go to his apartment and empty it out. There are other caves at the far end of the complex, used just for storage...
Then it checks to see if another tickler is free - the best tattoo artist in the place.
The mirror is still there, so he can easily watch what's happening.
He's not so cocky anymore. Ink decorating both arms...
Pulling and squirming around, shocked expression on his face. Oh, shit. Not again. Another day, like yesterday.
But that's ridiculous. How could that surprise him? Each day will be more intense than the one before. The tickler will see to it.
From behind the mirror, it brings out six of the gloves. Taut, and ready to tickle.
He shakes his head. It just keeps moving 'em, right to his feet.
Fingers get busy. High-pressure. Waking up the captive.
He howls at the mirror. Trying to kick the gloves away, and the restraints are not going to yield. It squeezes his heels, digs into his soles... and slides fingers slowly between his toes.
He can't do a damn thing about it.
His feet are in for a more intense day than they've ever had. So is the rest of his maddeningly sensitive body. And he's going to sit right here and take it. Nothing else is worth thinking about - just the fun.
Being able to focus, like this, makes it possible.
Each day is more satisfying. Thorough...
Some time after his back is covered with tattoos - and his calves - the tickler makes a wonderful discovery...
It's lost track of how many days he's been tickled.
And best of all, it couldn't care less.
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