"Revised and posted" means that the text has been expanded and posted on its own web page.
701
Revised and posted - Brad
702
Revised and posted - Forced Test
703
"Heeeere chick chick chick."
Falconer rolled his eyes. Zip, his old co-worker, was so weird. Particularly when he got drunk enough and started making phone calls. "Why aren't you laughing yet?" he said. "Thought they liked to make you suffer."
"I sicced 'em on somebody else."
"That's cold."
Zip laughed real hard. "Yeee-up. He's gonna fuckin' get it. All weekend."
"Is that so?"
"Real ticklish, I guess."
Zip had these weird dreams about getting kidnapped and tickled. Falconer sorta got a kick out of the idea - of Zip going through it, that is. Redneck, wild-man throwback Zip. Force-fed that much pleasure... okay to think about. It wasn't quite clear why Zip got into it. He was nuts, though.
"Birdie."
"What."
A low snicker. "Turn around."
He was puzzled. Wait - no way. Zip was just fuckin' with him. But he shot a glance over his shoulder.
Black leather fingers.
"Whuh -"
Zip was roaring.
Jumping forward, Falconer still didn't get out of the gloves' reach. Too many gloves.
"Nnno-uff!" he exploded - as a fist landed in his gut. Ow...
One of the gloves had his phone now, and shoved it back up to his ear.
"You believe me yet, chick chick? Huh? Insane tickling?"
Gasping, he fought with all he had - as the gloves started to drag him toward the hallway.
"Give it up. No escape from the fire," Zip taunted.
Oh, fuck - there were straps and cuffs on his fuckin' bed. Right here. Caught - and tickled?
Kicking and groaning didn't shake the distressingly strong grips. They made him sit on the edge of the bed. Oh hell no, no! They were pulling his t-shirt off. Grabbing his ankles.
He finally got enough air to do something more than groan - but a strap had been waiting. Thick leather tapped his teeth as it slid past.
Gagged. Oh, forget this - he went wild.
Barely aware of his jeans being tugged off, Falconer was more terrified about the weight locking around his ankles. Lifting him...
Slammed back down. A whole bunch of gloves were already extending his arms.
Like something out of a horror movie, they put the cuffs on and pulled the straps real tight.
Before he was even done boggling at his trapped hands, the gloves got his ankles cinched down.
"Laugh, birdie. Hard as you can," Zip taunted through the phone. "No limit."
"Nnnguuuhhhf," Falconer blurted.
"Good luck."
The phone went dead.
Fingers started curling around his feet, and sides... pressing against his gut, his neck, creeping under his thighs.
He bounced and twisted as much as he could. No dice.
Serious tickling began...
Someone was talking. That was stupid - the gloves didn't talk. They tickled. Fuck.
"Chick chick chick," Falconer heard. Recognition finally dawned. It was the phone.
"Zip," he said - whispering, because that was all he had left - "help, help, get somebody over here. They're gonna kill me."
"Whoa there, birdie. I can't really make out what you're saying. This damn phone is so cheap... You're loving every second of it. Was that what you said?"
"No no no help haaaaalllp!" he tried to scream.
"Hell, yeah. I just knew you'd go totally fuckin' nuts. And they're not gonna lay off for hours yet. And tomorrow, they'll -"
Falconer screamed. This bastard knew - somebody else was aware of the torture, and wasn't even going to try to stop it. A whole new kind of fear was making it hard to breathe. This loon had set him up, and if he ran interference... how long?
"Well, on and on it goes. I just like getting some time off for a change," Zip chuckled. "All that insanity, just getting stronger and stronger. You know."
"Zip, no, aw please, don't do this, Zip -"
"Sorry. Can't quite make out what you're saying. But don't worry - I'll pick up your tools after they fire your ass. Failure to show. I'll even hold onto 'em while you laugh your guts out, chicky. No stopping these tickle-fuckers when they catch a live one - like you. Unbelievable, huh?"
"Nooooooo!"
"Have a good trip, birdie. You're headed for a nice, secret dungeon. The tickling never stops there. Later..."
The bastard laughed hard as he hung up.
704
Consider the difference between thinking and feeling.
Where tickling is concerned, the terms might better refer to entirely different experiences. Fingers dig into a hypersensitive sole - and sharp pleasure results. That's the feeling. It can be selected by the victim, deliberately or not, and focused upon. Some men learn to love this.
The other track is the quantity. Overwhelmed by such... sharp pleasure, particularly the "sharp" part, the victim recoils internally. Too much. "Disorienting," in that it makes him thoroughly aware of his powerlessness to stop the sensation. This is torture. A mental decision - deliberately, or not - categorizes the fierce flood of stimulation as agonizing, excruciating... suffering. Torture.
Simultaneous with thrilling arousal. Some men oscillate between them. Some fixate on one or the other...
The feeling is superb. The thinking is unfathomably miserable...
The TM has a distinction too...
Those fingers work on a sole, and there appears to be a physical payoff for many of them. Either they sense the tickling impulses being generated, and find that to be pleasurable, or a more academic knowledge derived from the telltale twitching, squirming - and laughter.
There are thoughts that occur most often when the TM is actually tickling. That's the time to revel in the impact it's having on him, consider what maddening thing to do next (select it, or anticipate it), and remind itself in a dozen different ways that it alone controls every second of his ticklish life now, having the say over whether he can think at all or will be worked until he passes out, deciding if he'll giggle now or hoot his guts out - and nothing is going to happen to surprise it and lessen its grip on him. Full contentment has been achieved, so the focus is squarely on torturing him, and all limits have safely been neutralized. The TM absolutely rules him now.
Or maybe, for him, feeling (experiencing) is in the moment - the fingertips grazing his sides - and the thinking is future, when they'll surely pause and tickle their way back up, or the alarm when brushes press under his knees right before they make coherent thought impossible. The instant currently being lived is not contemplated, but the next five seconds or the fifth week out are anticipated...
705
The enormous triumph of capture ebbs a little, leaving me... impatient.
I definitely enjoy picking up the gloves, and animating them. Freaking him out, basically. Here come the fingers, captive. Give those restraints everything you've got.
But those last few seconds are hard. I feel pressure to get started. Almost anxious. Even knowing he won't be able to budge, and no one will be breaking in to free him - that would be impossible, where I've hidden him - my enjoyment is clouded. Teasing him is useful, even productive...
But it's not why we're here.
I want to get going. Badly. So I move in, and every time I still get a special thrill from making contact. Wrapping around his ribs, very deliberately, making him panic -
And then, finally, I'm doing it again. Start with a little squeeze, and feel him convulse. Gasping, overwhelmed, doomed. I slide the clamped fingers down an inch or two, and reverse. Sliding up.
By then, he's barking helplessly.
And I feel calmer. Doing my favorite thing again, in charge, undistracted. Nothing else matters. Moving up his ribs, and down.
The laughter is ragged. So forlorn. The fearful restlessness is shut down. Feverish writhing, as he brays like a donkey, and my fingers slide back to their original position. Squeezing a little harder. Moving back up.
Calm, dreamlike, and yet I know what I'm doing. His ribs, and the reaction I force out of him, are totally fascinating. Now I feel right. I'm never more sure of anything than when I'm focused on this task. I lose all track of time.
The night goes by. Eventually.
Well, it's a good thing he'll be here tomorrow. I'm not letting his ribs, his knees, his armpits, his feet get away.
706
The piece of puffed wheat trembled... and rotated to the left.
"Now, right," Zaki said, straining with the effort.
Slowly, they watched it turn the other way.
"Up..."
It looked like Zaki was gonna have a stroke, and sweat was visible on his face.
The psihelmet hummed louder -
Fuck if the wheat didn't lift up. Not even a centimeter, and only for a few seconds. Then it fell.
Right then, Tory switched majors. That was the moment.
[seven years later -
Tory's got his doctorate, is still working for the school, on augmented neural interface design.
Refining the helmet gave the benefit of electrically enhancing the thought-commands... and reduced the size of the gear to a wide band that almost looked as if it should've been connected to headphones.
Tory had gotten much better at manipulating inanimate objects. After a while, he got bored with blocks and balls. Coming into the lab on the coldest morning of the year, he pulled off his gloves and looked at 'em thoughtfully...
Within a month he could control 'em well enough to have 'em open the door or fetch him a cup of coffee. There was something risky about doing it, though he couldn't ever explain what the danger was... and yet that motivated him. The reaction, when visitors came, was gratifying. Some people were openly scared of a few empty gloves.
The lab insisted on sabbaticals for everyone. He'd blown it off so consistently that the department head was insisting. Six months, or longer, but not a day less.
Irritably, he turned over the projects to one of his peers, who would observe the usual custom and leave things alone. Walking out - that last little act of defiance - Tory grabbed a few parts. He had gear at home, of course. It would be packed and taken along to Europe with him...
At home he gets surprisingly tired - figuring out it's the effects of a drug a little too late. Which of his coworkers would do such a thing?
And he wakes up in an old acoustics lab, on campus, in the closed-up science building that's been nailed up for a year or two.
His gloves are in the air, over him. As he shakes off the effect of the drug, noticing that his clothes are gone, a pair of the gloves reach down - tenderly - and take his psihelmet off. And yet they still "live".
Dozens of gloves are assembling.
One pair brings him a photo album...
THANK YOU, TORY ! ! !
Photo after photo of gloves lifting things. Working together. Then, surprising people. Dragging them - locking one kind of door or another. Pranks.
A larger group stalks a phys ed major - and one of them holds a coil of rope.
There's a series of that guy's kidnapping... Down in a gym storeroom, eye-bolts and floor mat ready, blindfold and gag. The gloves basically pose for photos with their quarry...
And he turns a page to see a pair of impossibly mobile gloves reaching for the dude's armpits.
Utter chaos. Gloves everywhere on him.
Tickling.
Tory can see the guy's whiskers get longer and longer as the photos progress...
Later pictures show a growing insight into restraints. Then racks, and stocks. Dungeons. Shelf after shelf of feathers and dildos.
A dozen guys. Utterly hysterical.
In the last photo, at least a thousand gloves are spelling out words.
WE OWE IT ALL
TO YOU, TORY
Then they close the album, take it away - and start lining up on his sides.]
707
Revised and posted - Disobedient
708
His eyes tell me what I want to know.
Holding the gloves over him, without so much as a quiver... fingers curled just enough. I'm communicating with him. The supreme pleasure in this moment is that the message is getting through - loud and clear.
I have you. In my power. Not "for the most part", or after you become fatigued. You can't even roll around. I'll turn your body, later, and tighten the restraints again - when I feel like it. But I get to say when that will happen.
Only I get to decide what month you'll leave.
Every fuckin' stroke and squeeze I want to lay down will be inescapable. You'll feel 'em all. Really, thoroughly take 'em in. Focused commitment to the moment's stimulus which occupies and consumes you, learning day by day to detect even more reaction to the contact.
There is no doubt at all about it.
And you can't possiblty imagine what an enormous sense of satisfaction this gives me...
I love this so much. The way his eyes squint miserably as he sees them cruising over, the silent groan, and the weak tugging at the cuffs...
But he's still unable to move away. And he knows it.
Every time I touch him again, it's every bit as exciting as it ever was. His fondest wish is to get away, and I can relax in the assurance of the restraints. The possibility of losing him has been eliminated, and I get to move the fingers slowly.
Tensing up, maybe hissing - or pleading, with his lips barely moving. Squirming under my gloves.
I stroke and creep across him, again, with the incomparable deerskin, working the last movements of resistance out of him. The bellowed laughter is trailing off, slowly, as if he was falling asleep. Nothing could be less likely. What the decreased lucidity proves is that I'm directing his attention, and all of his energy, to the experience which surpasses any event his nervous system has ever known before, toes to ears.
His breathing becomes ragged. A few more minutes of slow, deep tickling will steady him.
Excruciatingly arousing seconds accumulate into hours.
Violent ejaculations are followed by stalking fingers and tools that never waber. Sensitivity multiplies progressively, consistently.
Unrelenting days, sweat-drenched nights.
709
Revised and posted - In The Moment
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12jul2006