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"Tom."
I turn around. It's a confident voice. Sounds almost like Caveman.
No. It's not him.
There's nobody near me.
Nobody that I can see.
Oh, shit.

Before I can even move, I already know.
My keys slip out of my hand.
"Let me get that," the voice says. A guy. Low, relaxed voice. Invisible.
"No no please don't... not me, please, ple-"
"Sssssh," it says quietly.
I watch one key stand up, and slide into the keyhole. The lock clicks, and the door swings open.
Since I have to take a step back, away from the door, I decide it's my best chance to get away -
And it lets me take one more step. Before I can turn, a hand grabs my wrist.
Not just any hand. It's invisible. The fingers have an incredible grip. It hurts. I can't move my fingers. I stare at my arm -
The door of my truck stops moving.
"Let's go," the voice says quietly.
Next to my boot, something slides out from under the truck. A black leather bag.
I'm too scared to yell. No - not scared, exactly. It's happening again. I can't handle the thought...
Dread. That's it. Totally dreading this. If I didn't know what was going to happen, I'd be scared. Or if I thought something... permanent might be coming. Something gruesome.
But I know what's I'm in for tonight, dammit.
The bag floats into the truck, and the invisible hand pulls me forward.
I look around the parking lot of the supermarket. The rent-a-cop is at the far entrance. That's it. I picture myself fighting - yelling for help, and sliding into my truck anyway. If I were the rent-a-cop, I'd just ignore me. Angry biker, acting weird. Maybe a flashback.
I don't have a chance.
So I get in.
The truck starts up...
And I watch the gearshift find first. The steering wheel moves a little.
"We're going to the freeway," the voice says.
"Of course," I mumble.

I think of things to say, but I know they won't change anything. So I just look around, hoping to see a cop...
As soon as the truck rolls out of the parking lot, my boots slam together.
Shit. I just want to beg it. Convince it to let me go. That's never worked before, with any of them. I have to do something, before I'm strapped down. Definitely before then.
Not a fuckin' thing will keep me from laughing my guts out tonight.
More hands -
That's what it feels like. My legs swing right, past the gearshift. And then I'm laying on the bench seat before I know it.
The truck keeps right on moving.
And my boots start coming off.
My groceries rise up a little, and land on the floor of the passenger's seat. Just great. I even brought brought my own food along.
I hear a zipper, and rustling sounds -
Rope.
It winds around my forearms quickly. As it's knotting, I feel it circling my calves. Trying to flop around doesn't get me anywhere...
"Relax," the voice says. Quick pressure - "Where are your cigarettes?"
"I don't have any," I finally answer.
There's a pause. "Why not?" it says, as if it doesn't believe me.
More sounds, from under my legs. The leather bag...
A pack of 'Boros floats over me.
"Uh..."
"You quit? What, you're not gonna smoke anymore?"
I can't come up with an answer that isn't going to get turned around on me -
"No thanks -"
"If you say you don't want to smoke, Tom... that's all I need to know."
The cellophane peels off the pack.
I get it - if I'd said I wanted a cigarette, it would've cheerfully cut me off. Whatever bugs me the most.
The first smoke slides out of the pack. More rummaging sounds... and a disposable lighter flicks a few times, being tested.
I close my eyes...

After the first smoke, it sits me up again.
More cigarettes follow each other. It changes the radio to a classic rock station.
Neither of us say anything. No need.
I look at the leather bag, trying to recognize the shapes.

Maybe fifteen miles out of town, it takes an exit ramp. At the first stop sign, a bandanna darts out of the bag.
I watch it being spun, efficiently, until it lands over my eyes.
"Can you see anything?" I hear, after it's tied.
And I can't... but the question throws me for a loop. I manage to shake my head, and tug on the cigarette. What the hell is this? It wants me to think it's being considerate.
That makes me worry even more.

Down the road, turning south, then east...
At an intersection, the truck makes a full circle. I've had this done to me before - and sure enough, the truck keeps turning. Several times.
Out in the country, and I've lost all sense of direction.
The truck finally goes straight again.
Two more turns, and then I'm bouncing more. Dirt road. Driveway, maybe...
Enclosed space. I can tell by the way the motor echoes.
I think I'm on my eighth cigarette when the truck stops. A garage door closes behind me.
"Okay," the voice says. And the blindfold comes off -
Older garage. No gaps between the boards... but I bet it looks abandoned from the outside.
The truck door unlocks and swings open.
I look around and wait. Since my legs are tied together -
"Scoot over."
Hands get a lock around my biceps. I swing my legs, finally, and set my feet down. The dirt floor is cool under my socks.
It makes me stand up, and holds me so I don't fall. "Now... hop."
The door which leads into the house is opening.
"Uh -"
"Hop. Bunny hop."
I hesitate, and the hands move, so I'm leaning forward. "Hop to it."
It's either hop or fall, but I feel like an idiot. Hopping inside...
And down the hall.

When the gloves hold me down, hopping is out of the question.
A door closes behind me. Locks turn, or course. One more loud click.
I sag a little.
The voice makes that luxurious sigh they all do, right after I'm locked in. All of the work and worry is behind them.
The hands turn me around -
Light. From overhead. A row of track lights, aimed around me. Twenty-by-twenty room, maybe. I still can't see the hands that are holding me in place.
Behind me, of course, there's a king-size bed. Plain white sheets, box spring, no headboard or footboard.
In the shadows, waiting, are the usual "furnishings" I expected.
The gloves pull me down. Make me sit.
My arms are held up, and something floats over. I didn't notice where it came from. Clicking -
A knife. It cuts the rope. And, I guess, it sends me a message. Easy, or hard. But it's gonna happen.
I see the padlock on the door, and I know the truth. It's happening again. I swallow hard -
Delirium, suffering and cum will be coaxed out of me, starting any time it likes, continuing as long as it wants. A done deal now.
My next tickler chuckles softly.

"Here," and a bottle of water appears. Just like that.
So that's how it is, huh?
Magic, in here. Anything it wants - poof, and it appears. Instantly.
The food I bought is going to be thrown out. If the voice can make stuff appear like that - steaks, and of course brushes, dildoes...
As I open the water and bring it to my mouth, I see my hands are shaking. So I make myself look over at the door again and drink up. That damn padlock.
"Maybe one more cigarette."
"And then?" I ask unhappily.
"Yeah. Then."
After I light up, the hands start pulling my jacket off.
"C'mon..."
"I've heard a lot about you, Tom."
I tense up.
Shit. It's no accident that I'm here.
It was gunning for me. So I know, I'm more certain that ever, that I'm going to be shredded.
The bottom of my t-shirt bunches up. "Take this off. Okay?"
"Okay?" I snap. I'm rattled. But I pull my shirt over my head, and stick the cigarette back between my teeth. "Like I have a choice?"
"Those socks are all dirty," it says. And this time, I hear even more excitement in its voice. Oh, shit, it's really glad I'm locked in here. "Sit down."

I do. Taking the hint, I pull my left sock off.
"Leave it. Just let it fall. So you can look down and see 'em there."
"Shit," I say, going for the other sock. "That's twisted."
"Wishing you could pull 'em on," it says happily. "How great it would be, huh? If they'd float on up and cover your... your feet."
I take a drag, and hold it in. Really worried now.
"Huh," it says quickly. "You have some great soles."
"Save it," I mumble.
"What?" And it laughs. One merry son of a bitch, in here. "You're not going to believe this, but I wasn't trying to mess with your head right then. It's just... Dammit, hold 'em still."
My ankles are grabbed, and I go backward as my feet are raised.
A flashlight appears. Clicking on...
"Yeah, I know what you're thinking. But these are some of the finest feet I've ever seen." The light swings underneath my heels, and then levitates higher again, moving slowly backward. I don't get the point of seeing what my fuckin' soles look like, from different angles. There's gonna be endless time to check 'em out later. "If they're as responsive as they look -"
"They are," I snap, getting more nervous every second.
"Amazing," it sighs, turning my heels just a little. This unsettling inspection goes on, silently, for another minute.
"Oh, I'm gonna like you, Tom. So... you can take your jeans off now. Or I'll do it for you."
Usually, I wake up and find I've been kidnapped, cuffed down. Or sometimes they like to drag me in when I'm awake. Wrestle me down. This is different. Menacing...
When I drop 'em, next to my socks... I just stand there. Maybe if I look sad enough -
"Tom. Come on."
"Do I have to?"
It doesn't say anything.

I bite back a groan, and pull my underwear off.
"Lie down..."
There must be some other option. I can't come up with it, though. Fuck, I'm gonna really go over the edge this time, I can just tell. The bastard loves my feet. Hasn't even touched 'em yet.
The cigarette is taken out of my hand. It just disappears.
A short table appears next to the bed. When I'm on my back, the drawer slides open.
A leather cuff floats up...

It pins me down carefully, taking its time.
Enjoying the process. I mean, really enjoying it - and that scares me.
This could be it. The worst torture yet. More intense than any of the other times. I'm not exactly sure what that means, right now, but I don't like what I'm sensing from it. This tickler is... composed. Even more relaxed than the last one.
I've never been so sure that I was in for several months of smooth, adaptive hell.
As each wrist-cuff is buckled, good and snug, there are straps suddenly dangling overhead.
Pulled taut, off the sides of the mattress. When the first strap is clipped on, another one appears...
I look at the ceiling, trying to stay calm. It's painted the same color as the walls. No soundproofing - apparently it won't be necessary. No one around to overhear. The linoleum on the floor and the painted walls are ordinary enough, but a shiver runs through me. Attention to detail. Nondescript, so I don't have much I can look at to take my mind off what it'll be doing to me.
A long piece of metal appears - just as silently as the water did. It's hanging there, past the bed. When I finally recognize what it could be for, my feet start backing up. Automatically.
The voice sighs, as if it couldn't be any more satisfied. Hands grab my ankles and pull. My feet slide out...
The metal splits. Swinging.
Hinged.
My feet are picked up, just enough to slide the padded semicircles underneath. I kick as hard as I can, but I'm no match for its hands. The top half swings down, down -
Padding lands on top of my ankles.
A lock materializes, in the blink of an eye. Swinging open, heading down.
I watch it snap shut.
"Damn," the voice says firmly. "Extraordinary. I mean that."

Straps are next. Off the sides of the mattress - and, aw, hell, the end of the mattress. When they've pulled tight, and the clips are hooked... I can't move my legs at all.
Or my feet.
A roll of tape appears. Maybe a half-inch wide. The end peels free from the roll.
My jacket moves, and I get another cigarette.
While I smoke it, each of my toes is wrapped up with a great deal of attention and care. The tape is looped around the metal a few times.
When my left foot is done, I can't bend my toes. They're separated, and I know why. Vivid memories.
Ash falls on my chest, rolling over my tattoo from the third tickler - feathers in formation, diving down almost like a flock of birds. If only there was something I could do, or could have done, earlier, when it called my name. But I watch the way the tape is handled, and my pulse increases a little more. It's far too conscientious. They all are, to some degree.
This one knew my name.
Planning for this. Get me here. Strapped down, fuckin' toes immobilized.
I wonder when it picked me. How long it's been watching. Stalking me.
It's Wednesday night - instead of the weekend. I'm gonna lose my job. Again.
Oh, this fucker's sure about me. Months and months. I can feel it in my bones.

My cigarette disappears.
I can barely squirm, here.
"Yeah," the voice says. I think it's talking to itself.
A feather appears. Long, brown and narrow.
I try to shrink back. Reflex -
My cock bounces. I'm hard. Another thing I picked up. Long practice. Tickle Tom, and his dick gets hard. Make him cum...
I force myself to look at the feather instead. It starts to float over me. A couple inches over my feet... my shins. All it has to do is dip, and -
Knees. Thighs. Rising a little, to keep from running into my cock.
Anywhere it lands that thing, I'm in trouble. It can start tickling anywhere it wants. Everywhere... it wants.
I'm staying just like this until the straps are unclipped.
The point of the feather aims for my belly-button.
I watch it.
Wiggling around -
Making me grunt. Trying to get my hands off the mattress, slide my hips over one way, then the other.
The feather's angle changes, and it sweeps back and forth.
I start to chuckle.
"No." The feather lifts up. "Not... yet."
Movement, to my right. Another feather.
I shake my head frantically. Even though they're not moving, I know where it's going to really start. No, no, my mind screams. Please...
But they start moving again, as I fuckin' knew they would.
It's taking them down to my feet.

It's bad.
I know what bad is. What it feels like. And this is too intense. Already. The first mutherfuckin' minute.
Roaring laughter, this soon? Shouting it -
The edges... Oh, shit. Hot, and soft, running across my skin. Between the smaller toes. This is impossible. More sensitive than I can believe, than any toes should be.
My legs dance and lunge, and it's not working. They don't move. Top-priority impulses ram their way up, and I can't do a damn thing -
Get away. Move. It's the most important thing I can think of.
And I can't.
Right foot, the springy point, crawling around my sole!
No no no no no no...

Wet.
Eyes, arms, legs. Sweating. Tears streaming out.
I listen to myself. Slowing down, but still laughing as forcefully as I can. Even to myself I sound more serious than before. This is what're you're doing to me, with these feathers. Listen. I'm telling you. I can't emphasize it enough. Just listen to me laugh for you, and hold off for a few lousy seconds...

Oh, I can't believe this.
Shocking, ridiculous, insane feel of the feathers. And there will be gloves. There is no doubt in my mind that all the toys will be used. I saw the stocks, right over there. And that chair. I'm going to keep telling it how intense this feels until it... does something. I forget what. Tickle harder, probably.
Maybe if I slam my head on the mattress...
No, that didn't help.
Too much, too much, why the fuck do I always get caught by experts?

This is who the experts call an expert. Yeah. And the perfect place to do a little tickling.
A lot of tickling. Years and years and -
Clean, private, no one around to hear me howl. Warm and comfortable. Clean sheets. Thick restraints.
It designed a room just for this. I can imagine it thinking, planning... Pick a site where people have no reason to be walking by. Sturdy trap, soundproofed carefully. Warm enough so he isn't distracted.
There. All done. Now, who's man enough to be hauled in here?

"You're just what I wanted," the tickler says.
Still breathing hard - and smoking - I don't feel like I have to reply to that.

I think about that compliment, off and on. When I can think. The feathers are like exciting little tongues... of flame. I'm just what it wanted.
Unless I'm just totally hallucinating it, this bastard's got a real thing for feet. The feathers move so slowly, like there's real respect - no, more like it's worshipful. My feet on the altar - hell, they are the altar. The magical ceremonies are underway.
Very bad. The tickler's attitude, as it moves the feathers, is just creepy. It makes the other ticklers look sloppy. Like they were rushing...
It strokes and strokes, and I have to feel every one. And there's extra magic - to keep me from being able to wrestle around, getting me all worked up so I feel it even more. Making it impossible for me to think about anything else.
 

"Those were the best... initial hours I've ever had, on anybody," it tells me during breakfast. "And I've caught dozens of you guys."
 

The gloves start creeping around my neck. I squirm, but it keeps 'em moving.
"Tom. What's your PIN number?"
"H-huh?"
"You're going to tell me your PIN number."
There's a pause. I squeal, and my voice is all scratchy. That shocks me, for some reason. I need my voice. It's gotta hear me laugh, right?
What did it just say - my PIN number? Oh no -
"You don't n-need my money. All s-seventy dollars."
"Right. I don't. But you're going to tell me anyway, just because I said so. I control everything, Tom. Now tell me the damn PIN number. After I've tickled that out of you - and you'd better not lie, because I'll pulverize your tattooed ass if you do... I mean, tickle you into the stratosphere - then I'm going to ask you where your checkbook is. Your last few bank statements, your rental agreement. Recent bills -"
"Aw, nooooooo..."
"How you pay your rent. Where you send it - and then we'll move on to the more interesting questions."
I wail at the ceiling.
 

A rest break. Almost over. I try to turn my hands...
The next cigarette is lit. I hear a snap. The lid of a metal lighter, being closed. I wonder when that showed up.
And the lights go down a little. Relax, they tell me. Lay there and get into the experience.
Feathers -
My feet.
I laugh out smoke, and start to drop the cigarette.
"No," it says thoughtfully. "Hold on to it."
The feather-tips trace slowly... making me chuckle.
"It bounces a little, when you laugh. Ignored. That big, crazy grin around it..."
A flat thing appears beyond the end of the bed. I grunt, wondering what the hell is up now.
"I'm feeling inspired," the tickler says.
Paper?
The cover flips back. Yellow spiral pad. A thick one.
I shake my head and giggle.

The feathers. Oh, shit -
Quiet scratching sounds. "Hmmmmm...."
A piece of paper is torn off and crumpled. Yet another cigarette comes, and I get a light from the last one.
"I know," the voice says -
A pillow, suddenly hanging over me.
My head goes forward, and the pillow jams underneath. Shifts a little.
"Oh, yeah."
The pencil starts moving again.
And the feathers never even paused.

There I am. It even looks like me. The fucker does everything well, apparently...
"I got your expression just right. Now there's a man who is stone-cold certain he's changed his residence. That smile, for the feathers. Unwilling to smile, but there it is anyway. Helpless... And in for the long haul."
I exhale smoke at the pad, not saying anything. It didn't ask for my opinion.
And I stare at the drawing.
 

"Today," it tells me, "you're telling me what gets you off."
I stop cackling.
"You own any gloves? Tom?"
Uh oh. I want to shake my head. That is one scary question, there.
Reality isn't hilarious enough, so it's going to spice things up with my fantasies. And it seems like nothing is impossible, for this tickler. I don't move.
"Any porn? I want to know. You're going to be desperate to tell me. Everything. Videos, magazines, books... Toys. If I find one sexy thing in your apartment that you haven't told me about, the pleasure I'll make you feel will turn your hair gray. You got me?"
I nod frantically.
"Your favorite bedsheet, and everything else in your place that you like to rub your dick on. Any feathers you've got stashed away - oh. And movies you've seen. Or rented. Even the ones you don't own, Tom. You're going to describe every image you can think of, every line of dialogue, that even reminded you of tickling. You'll wish you had fifty more things to tell me."
My most pitiful moan isn't worth a whole lot when it's silent...
"You got any silk scarves, maybe? Hidden real good? How about rubber gloves? Maybe you like to oil yourself up and think of savage times you've had, caught like this?"
I shake my head. I can't tell this bastard what goes on in my head. It'll have a field day -
"Every fantasy you have... about tickling. The way you'd want it done, if you were in charge -"
"You..." No voice at all. Just a whisper. "You're out of your mind, if you think I'm gonna tell you that shit."
I hear a happy chuckle.
"Oh, good. I get to change your mind."
A few more gloves leap on. They proceed to fuck me up real good.

It doesn't even bother to talk again for two or three hours.
The breaks keep coming, the water. Fuckin' cigarettes.
And the gloves dive in again...

Flailing around, I let my head roll back. And fuck, do I laugh.
 

"You have no idea how satisfying this is," it sighs.
Like that makes it okay. You don't know how intolerable... but fuck, I don't even bother to say that. It already knows.
Well, at least one of us is having a wonderful time.
Fingers slide up and down my feet. Up and down. Poking between my toes, wiggling. Sliding back down. Up and down, to my heels, rubbing the low curve, back up the sides, and down, up and down...
I'm not laughing.
That doesn't matter. The gloves are on the move, it's been hours, and it'll probably be several more hours before I pass out.
So outrageous. It's having a fantastic time. Everything's perfect. I can't think of a single thing that could work out more to its advantage.
Ridiculously healthy. Great endurance... and my appendix was taken out when I was a kid, so there's not even that possibility to get me the hell out of here.
Shit, I'm the key ingredient. Everything else was prepared. Nice, lonely house, the bed, and any tool it wants, instantly here.
And here I am. Real ticklish. An easy mark. Hidden away. It's having big fun now. Taking its time...
 

It's still fascinated. The power to make me react like this, all the little sounds and the sweat, shuddering when I can, unable to keep it in...
"It's just too much pleasure to take. Isn't it? Something that feels so good, done to excess..."
A feverish moan is the only response I can manage.
 

"What is it about you - and satin?"
I squirm, just hearing that word. Here, from that bastard -
Looking up, I stare at eight white hands. Brand new gloves. Deja vu. I've been in this position before. Shit. Staring at white satin gloves, and knowing -
"Brand new day, you're all ready for more... And here they come."
They slide onto my ribs. I slam my head on the mattress, and thrash around...
Armpits. Feet.
"Grueling," it says. "Brutal."
Thighs.
No slow, easy tickling... yet. They're digging in.
I can't laugh. Hell, I don't remember how to laugh. It's too much. Can't think straight -
"The texture, and the pressure. Devastating..."
As they grip - and rub! - my struggles fade. I don't want my body to relax, but it just does. Too much is going on, and flailing isn't possible anymore.
Cool, heavy... determined gloves. Bossy.

"There he is."
I open my eyes. Nothing has changed. Satin fingers, roaming, all over.
"When he feels the tickling start - again... instinct takes over. Fight-or-flight. His hands can't move, and every attempt to get away from the gloves doesn't work. Within the first five impossible minutes, he's tried everything he can think of - but the tickling continues. Just like yesterday. Hours and hours of exciting agony, coming right up... And no resistance will be allowed. He will not be permitted to flee. Out of tricks, now, his body relaxes in my endlessly stimulating hands. Immobilized, and attacked... Not fighting anymore, because that doesn't work. Now he's ready to focus on the sensation of each finger, and feather, and brush..."
It's talking slowly, and quietly - but I can hear it well enough. I'm not laughing, and I haven't laughed for awhile. So it must want me to hear...
 

"You're a capable guy," it says reasonably.
Brushes are crawling between my toes, all around my neck - and they've been at it for so long I can't even remember waking up today. The only thing that I feel capable of is shivering, and maybe sweating more -
"You want, more than anything, to leave. But I'm going to make sure you can't. So I get to be... more capable than you. Every day. Hysterical, isn't it?"
 

I'm cackling again. Can't stop. Oily rubber gloves keep kneading my pecs, and I'm so ridiculously sensitive there now -
"You know what? I think you're enjoying this."
A silent wail is all I can manage. The hell I am -
"That would be preferable, Tom. Cooperation makes the walls go down sooner. But it isn't crucial or anything. The most important thing... is that you're ticklish. Whether you like it, or don't like it."
I lift my head a little and slam it down, needing so badly to tell it how overwhelming the fingers are -
"Maybe you're more ticklish now than you used to be. Think so?"
The hands bulldoze my armpits.
"Yeah," it says proudly.
 

The stocks take all the thrashing I do, and hold me tight.
Little brushes. Tracing around, slowly, all over and under my feet, barely pausing before they land again. My toes are caught in little straps, or something. I can't do a damn thing.
It's so completely frustrating. I groan, now and then, and the sweat pours off me. I can't laugh, because that seems to distract me from the feeling of those brushes...
More and more unbearable -
Two of the brushes float up, above the stocks. I start to squirm, again, but they're coming closer.
Oh, no, not my armpits. Not now.
They land and start crawling around. A quiet squeal forces it way out of me.
All over. The brushes... they go anywhere the tickler wants, and tickle as much as it wants. I can't do anything. My arms won't tuck in. Fucking stocks. I wriggle and shudder, panting, sweating... and the tickling is insane. Feet and armpits almost competing with each other, to report which place is feeling the tickling worse.
 

Another morning, strapped down tight on the mattress.
Without a word, it swaps a new cigarette for the one I've almost finished.
"Hey," I blurt out. What the hell -
"Yes, Tom?"
"Forget it. Never mind."
A hand curls around the back of my neck. I'm way, way too touchy there. If it squeezes any harder, or starts to slide around, I'll be giggling like a fool.
"Ask me." It's not messing around.
"Dammit... I wondered something, but you'll just f-fuckin' turn it back around on me anyway."
The fingers are repositioned -
"Shih hih hit tih hhh-uh okay okay! D-don't... Uh. Dammit. You quit taunting me. S-stopped. I'm sorta braced for it, here -"
"I stopped taunting you?" It says, amazed.
"I mean, with words. Out loud. Not as much as before." I wish I'd kept my mouth shut. "Some of the others never shut up. You listen more."
"The other ticklers."
"Uh. Yeah."
A pair of gloves cruise up, and pretend to crack their knuckles.
"Well, captive, let me answer that for you."
"Shit," I whine, watching the gloves.
"Silence. If you weren't so addled, I bet you could figure this out. Two reasons to taunt a guy like you. In your restrained position. Either I'd want to increase your reaction to the torment... or I just enjoy the taunts, whether they make you more sensitive or not."
"Okay," I finally say.
"But that wasn't your question, sweet-feet."
"Forget it - Uuurrrrk..."
The fingers clench just a little bit more.
"I'm in that first group. Mocking and verbally teasing you doesn't generally excite me. And you, prisoner - you're a true pro. I absolutely mean it. All that experience has paid off. Hell, I just give you a couple cigarettes after you wake up and you prime yourself. Get into the perfect frame of mind to go through more happy anguish than you did the day before. It's what you do, Tom, all on your own. The ticklers that got to you before I did must've loved it, even if they didn't know what to do with it."
"But you do," I say miserably.
"Yeah. Oh, yeah, I do. Give you tobacco, and stay out of your way for ten minutes. You get all prepared for the fever without any pushing from me..."

I'm watching cuffs buckle, catching me in a big, overstuffed chair.
"Comfortable?" it asks.
"For now."
A cigarette comes up to my mouth. As soon as I'm exhaling, I see a feather - slow, and deliberate, as it moves in on my right foot.
"Tell me what you're thinking," the tickler says.
"What?"
The feather sweeps down once - very gently. "Tell me everything. If I like what I hear, I won't tickle you for awhile."

Cigarettes keep coming, and the feather is hardly tickling me at all. I sit there, grinning like an idiot, and I talk.
"Uh... I want to say the right things -"
"Don't worry about that," it reassures me.
The feather, oh shit, it tickles a little faster... until I giggle quietly.
"I want to... make you happy," I finally say.
"Good."
"Are you, uh, pleased?"
"Oh, definitely," it says. "I'm enjoying this more and more."
"Yeah. Me, too."
"Are you?"
The feather is always there, a constant threat. I hope it holds off as I take a drag - and it waits for me. Whew. "Yeah."
"Explain."
"Well, I'm feeling it - you know - more and more."
A slow sigh. "Good."
"You don't know how maddening it is."
"I can tell."
"No," I chortle, "I don't think you understand. I just get all this... energy, and I fuckin' can't get it out fast enough."
"It makes you want to scream, I bet."

The cigarette pack moves, and another one slides out. I guess this interrogation isn't any weirder than any other thing it's done to me, but I'm getting worried. The more information the tickler has...
"But, uh, screaming isn't enough."
"What is enough?" the tickler wonders. "Tell me how you handle all the incredible impulses racing through you."
"I can't!"
"You don't have any way to deal with it?"
"No," I snap - and the feather makes me laugh a few times.
"There's no way, literally, for you to bear it."
"You didn't already know that?"
"Oh, yeah. I just want to hear you say it."
I sigh out smoke. "Absolutely crazy-making. Not a thing I can do... mentally. Okay?"
It just laughs.
"You don't have to be so happy about it."
"I love this," the tickler says simply. "Everything about it. You can't budge, and I get to make you... temporarily insane."
"True."
"Tell me more about that."
"It's - well, alright, it's exciting. To the max. And I know it'll go on, and on."
"And on, and on," it adds.
"You start over again, every day. So much fuckin' tickling I can hardly breathe."
"Yeah."
"Doing it... well."
"How well?"
I take a long drag before I answer. "I can't even stand to think about it. You're, uh, that good."
"Intolerable?"
"Definitely."

Another sigh. Happy - and as calm as it can sound, I bet.
"You've got all the time in the world. Don't you?"
"I sure do," it says. "Unlimited time."
"I thought so. That's the way it feels."
"Keep talking."
"You've got to let me go," I whine. Hopeless, and I know it, but it just slips out. "But you won't. You don't have to. I'm gonna be here for a long fuckin' time. Hysterical. No end in sight."
"Very good," the tickler says. "That deserves a beer." And here it comes...
"You really like hearing this, huh?"
I hear a surprised little noise. "You're not howling right now, are you? If you'd rather -"
"No no no no, that's okay."
"I know what's true, but I do enjoy hearing that you understand it too. You'll sit there and chain-smoke, until I want you to roar again. And you can tell me how much you hate the tickling."
"Yeah. I do."
"More."
"Uh... I'd give anything to make you stop. I'd do anything to get out of here."
A pause. "But?"
"Don't make me say this -"
The feather!
I laugh and laugh, unable to stop - until it quits tickling.

"Sssh-shit," I finally gasp. "Oh, shit... Okay. There's nothing that'll get me out of here. You don't care about anything else. Not enough."
"That's right."
"This is exactly what you want most."
"I'm surprised you figured that out, actually."
"Wasn't hard..."
"More than anything. To keep you here, and tickle you. And what you want most is to get away from the tickling. Ironic."
"Sure," I say bitterly.
"Or maybe," and it laughs twice, "you're starting to like it."
"No," I reply quickly.
"Aw... If you did like it, Tom - what would you say, right now?"
"I hate this."
"But if you didn't hate it."
Trouble, I think. Deeper and deeper. But it's got the feather, and the cuffs aren't going anywhere. Few things are as clear to me as the stone-cold fact that I'm going to laugh my ass off today, and tomorrow, and next week, and probably it'll keep going. I wouldn't have believed it, the first time I was ever caught. But now there's no doubt. A full week, followed by another, week upon week, month...
"Tom."

"Oh. Sorry. Look, don't start in again, I'm sor-"
"If you liked tickling," it prompts.
"Right. Damn, I... This is hard. I guess, if I liked it, uh, more and more, I'd get into it. Look forward to being that... uh, deranged."
"You'd hate to see it end?"
"Fuck..."
"That sounds like agreement. So - you'd passionately want me not to stop."
I know what it's waiting to hear now. So I take a deep breath, and a tug. The cigarette is shaking. Such a lie, but I just want to buy a few more minutes without the all-out fuckin' torture all over me. "But it won't end. I know that. You flipped it around on me. Completely... into it. Craving it. I wouldn't - ah, don't want it to ever stop. Harder, dammit. Less sleep, more tickling. Because I can't stop it from happening, anyway."
The voice cackles for quite a while, but at least I see another beer coming.
"Good try," it finally says. "Let's run with it. Is the explosion inside you, all that sensation, becoming any more bearable? When you crave it?"
"Hell, no. I can't take another minute of it. But you won't stop. I mean, shit, the way you tickle my crotch. It's just unbelievable. My feet - my sides. Everything else pales in comparison. The last times I got caught, and everything in between -"
"I won't stop tickling you," it says quietly.
"No matter what. I know. It's too much, I hate it, even if I love it. You're not gonna fuckin' stop. Harder, and harder."
"Yes."
And it doesn't add anything. No need, really. But the feather speeds up a little -
Damn. Another feather. Both feet, now.
"P-proving it," I cackle. "You showed me. Not gonna stop, never, ever, infinite f-fuckin' tih heh heh heh heeeee..."
"Endless," the tickler says. "And deep." My cigarette is pulled from my lips.
"Fah hah hah haaaa-whoo-ooooo. Stop, stah aaah hah hah hah puh pleeee heee heeeeze..."
"Never."

I scream, once, and hoot like a cartoon character.
"Maybe I'll never stop tickling," it says carefully, enunciating each word. "Nice and hard. How do you like that?"
Fingers -
Shit, they're all over my feet. I can't do a mutherfuckin' thing. Squealing, screaming again, yelping.
"All mine," it whoops triumphantly. "Every inch of you. Every day. Tickled. Oh, yeah."
I can't even shake my head.

There's whispering.
I think I mumble sometimes. So tired. I just want to sleep, dammit.
Somebody's talking on and on.
 

My back hurts...
Lousy mattress. I open my eyes - and it's dark. But I can make out the bars.
That's what it feels like under me, too. A thin pad, over bars.
Bars?
Caged. This just gets better and better. I'm in a cage now.
Wait a second.
In a cage? I had a nightmare like this once. But that's just impossible. Completely ridiculous -
My hands.
Oh, no. Shit...
I tug, but my hands stay up. Somebody put fuckin' cuffs on me, while I was asleep. Now my hands stay there, about eighteen inches above my nose. Leather and padlocks.
This can't be the start of -
Stop it. Breathe. Relax.
Yeah, right.
Okay, there's no chance anyone could know about the nightmare. I never told anyb-
My ankle.
I kick - and my foot goes right back to where it was. Something pulled it. Thin, and tight. I can't see anything in here. So dark...
There. Again. My foot lifted right off the bars. Why the hell can't I get my hands loose? If I pull harder, maybe -
Way up. There's a cord around my fuckin' ankle. Oh, no, oh fuck, there's somebody holding my foot up. I've gotta kick harder.
What is that?
Wrapping.
"Help," I wail. "Stop it."
But it's tightening. The thing around my left ankle is definitely a cuff. I can feel the strap being pulled. A buckle, three hard tugs.
"No," I beg.
A soft little click. I bet that's another padlock.
Somebody is trussing me up real good.
How the hell...

I get so involved with trying to kick the cuff loose that I forget about my free foot - until it slams up against the top bars.
"Ow!"
Fuck, no. Another cuff. I can't move my foot enough to... get it away.
Tightening, pulling, and another damn padlock. My legs are a couple feet apart. What the hell is going on here, really? It can't be the old nightmare. It just can't -
Suddenly my left leg moves. My foot is outside the cage now. I can't pull it back in.
That isn't what really bothers me, though. The feel of the hand that wrenched my calf, just now - already gone - but it was too smooth for a hand. Really scary, and I refuse to believe what I'm thinking about is really gonna happen.
My right leg! Strong force, reefing my foot up there. Outside. It just doesn't feel like fingers. More like a wide strap. Not leather, though.
It releases my calf.
Now I can't get either foot to budge. They're stuck in the air.
"This... can't be happening," I say, more to myself than anybody else, because I feel like I wanna cry.
The nightmare starts out just like this. It's never happened, it can't really hap-
Soft. Cool, and slippery, touching my toes. Right foot.
Both feet.
I wish I didn't know what was coming. But I do -
"No," I bark, yanking harder. My hands cannot be stuck like this. Not to mention my feet. This ends right now.
No matter how much I throw myself around, the cool layer slides down. It's over my toes.
"Please, dammit..."
This is not fun. They're snuggling down my soles, more terrifying than I remember. That was a nightmare, though. Now they're real. Got me in a cage, restrained real tight.
And the socks are creeping over my soles.
They're tight. And they're satin.
"I really can't go through this," I tell them.
Around, and back up. The cuffs give 'em plenty of room, dammit.

Little tugs signal that they're on tight. Grabbing a big breath, I try hard not to moan. My feet are trapped in the killer socks now -
A ripple starts, moving down from the cuffs.
"No, no, aw please. Please!"
Ankle, instep. They're starting. I can't take this, I gotta get out of this cage!
Toes... and there's a pause. Next, the motion will run down to my heels. It'll really be on, then. My feet are gonna get tortured. I don't have a chance in hell of getting the socks off.
Shit. Here goes -
Solid pressure, skating down.
I shriek, and jump off the pad. This is so much worse than I ever dreamed...
My hands stay right where they're caught. Worse, because it's undeniably real. My stupid feet hang out there, perfectly trapped, in moving satin.
Waves start creeping sideways.
Oh, I'm barking laughs now. Just gone.

If a spatula were used, pressing a solid strip of tickling up and along each foot, it couldn't be as shocking as this.
I'm howling and raving. Snot is running out of my nose, my thighs hurt from pulling and kicking.
The socks are tickling me. There's no mistaking how well they know... feet. Already they're revisiting the outside edges of my soles more and more, because I shudder and laugh loud every damn time -
Oh, fuck, I can't get away from the socks.

They're picking it up now. I can't even thrash anymore.
The movement is so damn solid. Unbelievable, even though it's really happening. Nothing I can remember compares with the frustration. Laughing is so inadequate it doesn't even begin to help.
What amplifies every damn second of this is the cold truth of my situation, here. I've been roaring, howling, and no one came. The socks got me. Cage, cuffs, secret room. This is going to tickle more, and more, getting indescribably worse...

Squeezing. Tracing thin lines in every direction -
Forcing my toes apart.
They keep making it more intense.

Fuck, days have gone by. All full of sock-tickling. Trying to tell myself that it's actually been more like a couple hours is not helping...
Before I realize I'm doing it, my mouth is sucking down water. In the dim light I can hardly see the bottle - but something is wrapped around it. A lighter color.
One of the socks is taking care of their victim. Me. Doing what it takes to keep the fun going.
Insanity.
Somehow I find the strength to squirm again -
That touch.
Oh, fuck, I recoil. But it's no use.
Satin rides firmly across my chest. And my nipples!

They've finally stopped. I can catch my breath -
Armpit?
No, no, aw hell no.
The socks are tickling the absolute fuck out of my armpits.

Up and down my sides. Shit, the way they squeeze my ribs. Maxmium impact.
Up, and down, and up...
 

Oh, fuck, hooray. Finally.
I'm awake. That was the nightmare of all n-
Why can't I move?
No.
"No, no, no, no," I keep chanting as I wrestle around.
There are pads under me. Maybe six inches wide, and my wrists are cuffed way up there above my head.
And my ankles -
I don't fuckin' believe this.
There are thick metal clamps around my shins, real low...
My feet won't move.
How the hell did they manage to get me like this? Way up here? Is there any way they could manage it? Probably not - so did somebody help them? Who the fuck would strap me down like this, so the socks could continue to drive him absolutely fuckin' insane? What kind of sick fuck...
If they'd been here yesterday to see what I went through, they could never have been heartless enough to do this to me.
A flash of yellow! Under me. Heading up, to -
"You can't," I rasp. My voice is shot. No big surprise there. "Not again. You... you just can't."
I'm stuck tight. Rolling doesn't work, kicking, pulling with my arms, slamming around. Nothing.
Soft - soft and cool, surrounding my toes again, already making me snicker. The satin is moving from side to side, just a little. It's like a greeting. We've still got you, we know every cell of your feet, and we're really gonna tickle the absolute shit out of you now.
No matter how much I fight and scream, the socks ease back onto my feet where they belong.
This is even tighter bondage than before. Worse yet.
And as soon as they get all the way on, the unbelievable rubbing starts again...
 
 

The stocks are familiar now. I don't even fidget anymore, because I know they'll hold.
Gloves have been roaming around. Always making me sweat, but I don't even try to watch now. There's no telling how long they've been working on my knees, and my neck. Laughter is irrelevant.
"Tom," it says cheerfully. "Smoke break."
Whew, I think, taking the cigarette as soon as it touches my lip. So distracted, I don't need to look for the lighter. Just suck in...
And I'm grateful to take a drag or two.
"I want you to be comfortable," the tickler says. I just exhale smoke, since it doesn't need a reply anyway -
I hear it sigh. Contented as fuck. "These feet are... well, there are no words to describe them."
Oh, shit.
Yeah. Fingertips land, one by one, and start tracing down.
I tense up and start to chuckle.
Vertical trails down my soles, maddeningly slow.
My balls. Flick... flick. A feather is tickling me there -
Another soft point explores my asshole.
"I could get addicted to these feet."
Holding on the cigarette as I whoop is officially out of the question. Silently chuffing out laughs, for the tickler, I let my head roll around. So much for comfort, I think crazily. And I could've used that smoke right now.
Electrified lines keep moving up and down my feet. The feathers make me harder, realizing how badly I want to cum. The tickling kicks up the horniness, and after I shoot my wad the new level of the impact will make it completely impossible to do a damn thing except breathe, and feel.
I doubt today is even half over yet.

Hands knead my arms -
And take hold of my hips.
"Much as I hate to say it," the tickler laughs, "your feet need a break."
I twitch a little. So far beyond laughing, or moving...
Piss is squirting out of me. It seems like an event happening a thousand miles away. I've got all I can handle, feeling the gloves.
"Whip the rest of you up, nice and slow. Then those cute little toes will be a lot more sensitive. And your heels... So much more provocative."
The words don't faze me anymore. Everything this bastard said has come true.
"I know. You stay just like that. Paralyzed. Feeling it all. I wanna see if you can stay quiet, and maybe I'll let you pass out in five or six hours. In the meantime... the tickling is gonna hit so hard it'll make you cry."
I manage to groan.
"But no laughing. Tonight isn't about laughing until you cry. Got it? When I get back to those reliable feet, you're just going to be overwhelmed. More fire than ever. And you won't be able to make any noise, to tell me how crazy I'm making you. But I guess you can weep..."
 
 

The gloves hang there. It wants my attention, probably so I can see them dive down -
"Uh. We've got a problem."
"Fuck you," I whisper. Being polite doesn't work, and neither does keeping my mouth shut. It's on, today, no matter what I do or don't do.
"Just listen," it says. "I'm serious."
I snort at that. First time for everything -
"Look at this."
The spiral notebook floats up. Stained yellow cover, with TOM written in big letters... and cartoon gloves doodled around my name. Tickling it.
"Yeah?"
"This is full," the voice says. But it's not gloating - for once. "I haven't even written down all of the white-hot ideas I've come up with -"
"Didn't think you even needed to write stuff down," I interrupt.
"Well, I don't. Usually. But there are so many games and tricks occurring to me that I don't want to forget a thing." I swear it sounds almost worried. "All the history I made you tell me, and the dreams. That took up about fifty pages. But the rest..."
The notebook flips open. Little diagrams here and there. My body. Sketches of restraint devices.
Picture after picture of my feet. Codes, and arrows.
"If you want to scare me," I say, feeling tired, "you're about four, five months too late."
"You're a loon. Try seven months. But you don't get it." A cigarette touches my lip. "This kind of... uh, passion is unusual. Even for us."
I chuckle once, and then decide it's not even worth making a smartass remark. I crane my neck instead so I can reach the lighter.
"I'm a... teacher," it says. "I train other ticklers. That's how good I am. But I just can't stop thinking about your mutherfuckin' feet. It's getting in the way. I mean, it's not like your knees and thighs aren't worth full days of tickling. Or your armpits. Your belly -"
"Uh -"
"No response. It's not needed right now. What I'm trying to tell you is that I've been trying to... cut down. For about a month. And I finally have to admit that I, uh, can't."

I take a drag. Either this is another gigantic mindfuck, or I won't be cut loose for a long, long time. The end result is the same, I figure. But it's waiting for me to say something.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Suffer, just like you have been, for another year," it says immediately. "Or two. How about five? And I could do it, you know. Yeah, what am I saying? You know that, if anybody does. Resources are unlimited. And I'd fuckin' enjoy every minute of it. You really have no idea how perfect your feet are."
I just stare at the ceiling and smoke some more. Head-games.
"But this is... affecting me," it grumbles. "I should be above this sort of thing. Could turn into a real problem. So I have a suggestion."
"Fire away."
"You have to, uh, damage yourself."
I lift my head. "What?"
"I can't do it! Not these soles. And your toes, just so fuckin' reactive -"
"What do you have in mind?"
"Well... How badly do you want to get out of here?"
 

The next few days really raised the bar.
I'd thought the past couple months were intense... but damn.
 
 

One day it drilled the rest of my body first. All of it.
Finally - like it just couldn't stand it any longer - jumped onto my feet.

After about an hour, it stops suddenly...
Unshackling my wrists. This is unusual. Since my ankles are still strapped down, though, it isn't all that much of a relief.
A cigar and a cold beer are coming toward my hands.
"Okay. Good news, and bad news," it says.
I can't hold back the groan...
"Guess I deserve that."
For a second I just stare at my right foot, still cuffed and likely to be grabbed any second. There is nothing I can say that even begins to cover how I feel -
"The good news is that I've got another plan."
This is going to end with more all-out tickling, and I'm proud that I'd didn't get my hopes up at all. Not even for a second.
"Unfortunately, I've got to embarrass myself. And you have no idea how much I hate the thought of doing that."
"That's the bad news?" I ask.
"Well... Yeah."
"Oh. Just curious."
There's a dangerous pause -
I see a feather rise up. And another.
"You're in no position to shoot off your mouth," it says quietly.
"No. I'm not. You're right about that. I'm really sorry," I tell the feathers.
"I've got your attention, again? Right?"
Oh, hell, the feathers are starting to drop down.
"Because," it chuckles, "I was going to say that a good friend of mine is coming. It's going to help me get away from... these tempting feet."
And it's tickling slowly. My cigar - dammit - is taken away. And the beer.
Pulled backward, and feeling the wrist-cuffs lay back down -
"Exquisite. Ticklish," it sighs.
I'm fighting not to laugh. "W-when?"
"When... Oh. Yeah. Your release. Whenever I want."

Shit. "You hah - haven't c-called it yet?"
"No, no."
The giggles start coming, but I choke them back. "No?"
"Soon," it says dreamily. "I mean, there's no real hurry. Let's have a long... long farewell party. Complete."
Four brushes join in, and I squeal for it. Arching, flopping back and forth.
"Thorough," I hear it say. "So nice. So ticklish."
 
 

At least another week crawls by. A couple times a day it says shit like "I really oughta quit now" and "Just one more hour," but the tickling has been every bit as solid and intense...
 

There's a tugging sensation that wakes me up.
My boots are being pulled this way and that -
Boots?
"Oh, fuck yeah," I sigh. It's put boots on me. With locks. Engineer boots with extra straps, and padlocks. Now I've seen everything...
Leather pants, too. There's a Motorhead t-shirt laying next to me, and three packs of cigarettes. Wow, I'm half-dressed. For the first time since it hauled me in here -
"No," it says quickly, letting go of my boots. "Dammit. I can't stand this. Letting these feet go."
"Be strong," I say sarcastically. Oh fuck, whew, whew, it's over. Finally over. I reach in my pocket and find a new pack of smokes. The trash can is full, so I drop the cellophane on the floor...
"You just sit there," it says, sounding testy -
There's a breeze. Gone as soon as it came... and the door opens.
"Hey," another voice says.
I freeze, with the lighter burning an inch from my smoke. Oh fuck, no.
"Change your routes," my captor says. "I mean, don't take the path you usually take - to anywhere, Tom. Not for a couple weeks. I'll have some other feet warmed up by then."
Finally, I nod my head.
"You've been great."
After a pause, the new voice says, "It's gone."
"Good - uh, got it."
It laughs quietly. A lower voice, with a rough texture to it. "Been wearin' you out, huh?"
"Say that -"
"I bet it didn't leave your sides alone. You know, Tom... you've got fuckin' excellent ribs."
I look at the door, trying to stay calm. It's going to be okay. This bastard is here to see that I get sprung -
"Damn. I mean, they're lookin' real good, there."
Without planning to, I grab the t-shirt and pull it over my head... as fast as I can.
"No," the voice barks. "Just let me, y'know, admire 'em for a sec. Incredible. And after you're all rested up..."
And I hear one low chuckle.
The trash can tips over - and I watch some of the junk move slightly, as if a hand is pawing through it. There's something fairly big sticking out of the can. Bright yellow.
Yellow?
Oh, fuck no. The notebook.
No...
"What the hell are you... looking at? All nervous about something."
It moves. The damn notebook slides out of the can... and lifts off the floor.
I am deader than dead.
"Well, huh," it drawls. "This must belong to you... right, Tom?"
I start pulling my shirt down - and a hand grabs my wrist. "No. Take it off. Right now, fucker."
As I do, the cover of the notebook opens.
Quiet snickering. "Don't you move," the voice snaps. "Smoke that thing..."

I'm halfway through another cigarette before it's done looking at every page. All the notes and drawings the foot-freak made. There's way too many chuckles and sighs of approval.
When the cover finally closes, I'm afraid to exhale the smoke inside me.
The t-shirt is pulled out of my hand.
"No," I groan. "Shit."
But of course. This is the way my life goes.
Near the trash can, a plastic bottle moves... and floats off the floor. Rocking a little. I can barely hear oil sloshing in there. Not much -
The bottle is coming. Oil. I can't fuckin' believe this. I won't. "You're supposed to cut me loose, dammit!"
"Hey, it ain't my fault your sides are so... irresistible," it says happily.
A box slides out of the trash can - and naturally there has to be some rubber gloves left in it. No, dammit, this can't really happen. No more tickling -
Here comes the first one, being pulled out of the box. And another.
Hands sneak around both of my forearms.
Four gloves, to start. Firming up.
They're going to tickle me. I look at the door, hoping maybe the first asshole will check to make sure this one isn't doing exactly what it's about to do to me...
"Nuh-uh," it sighs - totally pleased with itself. And the door closes.
I just watch the hands flex and move, like it's another calm nightmare I've had before. Was I actually dumb enough to think I'd seen the last magic hands come at me - for awhile, anyway?
The bottle rises over the creepy filled fingers, drizzling oil on them one by one.
My arms are pulled back. And up. From the side of the mattress, here come the cuffs again.

No escape. I just don't have any fight left in me. About sixty seconds from now I'll need every last bit of energy to try and keep up with the eager latex hands, already caressing the air as they get closer and closer.
Another bottle of oil materializes next to my right knee. A full quart of some other brand.
"Perfect ribs," the voice mumbles - with approval.
It really seems, now, as if this new bastard just can't wait to get at me. And keep going. Why not give my sides a try. I mean, hell, I'm still right here, and there's no reason it has to wait and hunt me down later...
Fingers are about to land again. An enthusiastic new tickler.
Well, "later" has just been rescheduled. Fuck.
"It's like they're calling out to me," the voice says. "Damn. They're just -"
The gloves even look happy as they press down and start to slide.

Go back to the earlier ordeal of Tom's

02mar05