(Not much "action" in this one, FYI)
The sound was an odd one. Faint. But definitely not birds, or any of the usual animals...
Triproot followed the rustling and grunting noises. It was getting closer to an old snare, almost forgotten, off a old hiking path. A little stream was the lure. But it had never paid off before -
Its newest acquisition hung there, wiggling irregularly.
He'd stepped into a loop-snare, which pulled tight and stopped him... until the extra slack was taken up. A thicker noose slid tight, under the pine needles, and caught both of his ankles. As that strap continued to tighten, it lifted him up about three meters, detached the first strap, turned him over - and triggered the next wave of restraints.
Six padded coils started rolling over his body, trapping his arms and thighs. When he lunged, as prey always did, he rotated backward until he was feet-down again - and friction-teeth bit into the straps. He couldn't invert himself again. One last bundle fell down the suspension strap - a porous leather hood with small mouth- and nostril-holes.
All of the restraints were positioned just as Triproot had intended. It had perfected the strap-and-counterweight system quite a while ago. Humane trapping was the only way to go...
And now it had a strong, healthy hiker, caught fair and square in one of the eleven traps on the ridge Triproot had staked out as its own. Even the Forest Service rangers knew that - and they must have been warning hikers to stay away. At least most of the hikers... But some came blundering through anyway. And when they managed to get themselves snagged, they had a new owner.
It paused in front of the bound man, examining the straps. All was well. He wasn't going to budge.
In front of his chest, two large hands appeared. No knuckles or nails. Where the large opening would normally be for a hand, these special gloves were sealed. They had the heft of leather, the feel of oiled pigskin, and the flexibility of thin rubber. Triproot made the fingers flex, and changed the color of the gloves from white to dark brown. With a thought, it cooled the surface considerably...
But his eyes were covered, and he didn't see what it had brought him.
Triproot had another idea. A little hint for its new trophy. From prior experience, it created a combination of scents, various bodily emissions produced after many hours of coaxing. It sent a soft puff of the odors into the hiker's face.
He smelled it. And sniffed again -
Immediately, he was tugging at the straps, wrestling around... with no way of knowing what the signal meant, or how it was learned. But it was time for him to find out.
The gloves levitated over his belly. One strap was covering his navel, but the other had cinched under his pecs. Two or three inches of stomach were protected only by a thin t-shirt...
Triproot had all eight fingers land together, below his breastbone, and slide apart.
He gasped, and started to yell. But his shouts were muffled. Lunging energetically, he bounced a few inches. It had no trouble staying on his shirt. Rubbing.
A strangled bark was cut off - and he made a different noise. Rhythmic, angry. Involuntary.
It applied the thumbs, finding his ribs.
The hiker thrashed harder than ever.
That settled it.
A small bottle appeared by his head. The cap unscrewed and turned over... And several drops were poured into it.
Moving closer, choosing its moment - and Triproot flipped the cap.
The liquid splashed on his front teeth. Instinctively his tongue came out. He made a face as the bitter extract made itself known.
By the time he started to spit, it was too late. He'd already absorbed a good dose through the tissues in his mouth, under his tongue... and it would make his first night at Triproot's den an impossibly sensitive experience.
It could just leave him as he was and dig in - after all, nobody was going to come by and interrupt the fun! - but it was looking forward to getting those hiking boots off. And the jeans. The t-shirt... Cuff his limbs down properly, and the straps from the snare could be be taken off too, exposing everything from chin to ankles.
It disconnected a strap from the trees. And another...
The loose ends wound tight around the hiker. When the last one was unclipped, the gloves clamped over his hips and carried him, squirming and yelling, up the ridge.
A chamber was waiting for them.
The entrance was hidden well. A pair of large boulders, just ordinary rocks - unless a certain "root" was dug up and pulled, and then a crack appeared in the hillside.
It slid the door open, carried him in, and locked the entrance.
Sniffing, listening hard, he wriggled as the gloves carried him down the dark passage.
Five meters lower, through a hatch - and into the cage Triproot had prepared.
He squirmed in midair as the steel panel slid down, clanking, followed by the soft click of the padlocks.
Forty gloves surrounded the hiker.
Now you're all mine, it thought. Oh yes, you are.
He yelled at them desperately when they parked close to his sides, crotch and legs. A pair of gloves took off each hiking boot. A knife quickly made cuts to the seams of his clothes... followed by gloves descending and ripping them apart.
It was time to confirm why he was caught.
Pits, ribs, inner thighs, socked feet. Got 'em.
He took a ragged breath... and the desperate laughter pleased Triproot so much that it put more gloves to work.
Neck, knees, around his junk, elbows, hips...
Another glove for each foot and the floating ribs and his calves.
Forty-five minutes later, he wasn't roaring or howling anymore. More and more vigorous tickling had overwhelmed any hope of feeling, tracking and acknowledging the impact in so many places. Clearly he had no way to avoid giving the contact his full attention. Ignoring what the gloves were causing all over him was impossible.
Triproot thought he was a very good catch. After a little rest-break, he was ready for the effects of all forty gloves tickling... and it was so impressed with him that doubling that number was certainly worth a try.
2006