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Back to Part 5

- - 22 - -
 

There's no way to miss how excited Valet is.
As soon as we get in the fuckin' door...
Boots and shoes falling off as we're carried down the hall. Hunk is going into Scuzz's white cell. That's good, because I had wondered if Valet really understood how fragile Scuzz might still be. Shit, there must be fifty hands wrapped around me, everywhere.
Scuzz goes into the mullet lounge. He looks tough, even if he's levitating. Unbreakable.
And then I fly much more quickly to my old bedroom.
"You go easy on those guys," I tell it.
The door closes, and I drift to the bed. Down -
"Amigo."
Hands start checking me out. Not tickling. It's checking my muscle tone, I think. Fingers, scalp - and now my jaws are being pulled open. So many of them, moving...
It could be making me howl, but it's not. I'm tense, but it keeps surveying my body. Grabbing my foot, and yet it's so bizarre not to have fingers start attacking my toes. Counting them instead.
And Valet lets go of me.
"Whew. I can relax now," it says. "You're okay."
"Yeah."
"You have no idea how much I missed you!"
"It's good to be home," I say neutrally.
"Relax, tweaker."
 

A deep hole.
I'm climbing up... No. That's silly. Valet has cuffed me to a rack. I can't move.
But inside me, just as real as the padded walls, I'm clawing at dirt and roots.
The sound - which I've been hearing for hours, days, years - of a shovel, from above. Loading up with something.
I don't want to look up. But I do.
Here it comes now. All the sparkling, dancing grains. They rain down on me. Vibrating. Moving.
Under my clothes, in the gloves I wear. The sandals I have on are no protection, for the layer of glittery specks is several inches thick. And it's alive.
It is tickling.
Maybe tiny machines. Or a symbol for something I wouldn't usually be able to see. It doesn't matter.
Really needing to howl, I lose my handhold - and then fall back down. Only a few inches, but I'm off-balance now, and I end up kneeling... Tipping over, and then I'm on my back.
Roll in the solid tickling powder. Flail, and roar.
Maybe fifteen feet above me, the shovel loads up again. Two white gloves hold it... swinging it over the hole. Turning it over.
Another million torturers pour down on me.
I wrestle around, too stimulated to make any noise other than the usual strained breathing. Somehow, I force myself back up on my knees... and I stand. Grabbing a root, and a buried rock. Up.
I have to get out of the hole.

Another soft curtain of tickling rains down. I hold on, desperately. Only fourteen feet, maybe, and I'll be out. Done feeling the attack of the powder, all done... Instead of laying here while the dust slowly covers me, making any movement impossible, pinned just as effectively as Valet's cuffs would do. Powder, falling, more powder always, burying my hands, my feet, confirming there will be no possibility of climbing away from it.
More grains, spraying now. All over my scalp, down my spine... Inhaled. I can't help that. Clinging desperately to the side of the hole, trying to get my legs to unlock and move.
Falling dust. More. Always more, coming -
I swat my own ribs, and drop back down.
On my back again, covered, invaded, wheezing, convulsing...
The dust patters heavily on my stomach.
I can do nothing, except throb. So overwhelming, in every spot.
More, trickling on my knees, covering my feet.
Valet loads up the shovel again.
 

"Amigo," it says loudly.
Now what, I think. But I just hang up my jacket.
"C'mere. Got someone I want you to meet."
"You already pulled that one on me," I tell it. "Couple years ago."
"He's a big kidder," it says more quietly.
"Look -"
Oh. There's a stranger in the kitchen... in a wet suit. And manacles. "Sorry," I tell him, meaning it in more than one way.
But he gives me a big grin. His hair is soaked. I bet Valet's been working him over for awhile. The cigarette floats out of his mouth -
"Xavier," he says. Thick Latin accent.
"Uh... Amigo," I finally reply.
"Yeah."
"Hey," Valet giggles. "Ask Xavier what he does."
"What?"
"For a living. Ask him."
I fight back a sigh. "Hey, Xavier. What do you do for a living."
He starts to laugh, and regains his composure. Blinks. "I animate gloves."
"Don't we all," I finally say.

"Noo-oooo!" Valet yells. "You don't get it. He works for Markup."
"The studio?"
"Uh-huh," he says. "I am serious. Senior animator, in charge of hands -"
"And gloves," it interrupts. Proud as hell.
I'm not sure what to say next. "Interesting."
"Amigo," Valet says ominously. "He did 'The Emperor's New Duds.'"
"Oh, okay," I nod, getting interested. "Valet loves that movie."
"Thanks."
"Every shot of gloves," it sighs. "Beautiful stuff."
"And... you kidnapped the poor guy?"
"Give me a little credit."
"Actually..." and Xavier chuckles like he's embarrassed. "Well, I could say I was invited."
That makes me stop and think. "You came here - voluntarily?"
He laughs again. "Well, I didn't know what the real plan was. Valet's little game."
"Ah."
"It tells me nobody else ever got the address, here," Xavier says - proudly. "Is that true?"
Except a whole fleet of delivery trucks, I think. But I know what he means. Invited to come here. It is a first. "I'm afraid so. You're in the club now?" Another roommate -
"Uh, no," Valet says quickly. "I've got business with Xavier."
"No kidding."
They both laugh.

"And... you trust him to keep his mouth shut?"
"Tell him," it says.
"If I let anyone know anything... then I will be here permanente. In your club."
"Makes sense. Now, how about filling me in? Valet, can you shut up long enough for this dude to -"
"You watch yourself, buddy. We got company."
"Right."
"Let's see," Xavier says, shifting around a little on the chair.
"Itch?" Valet whispers.
"My chin."
A glove flies up, and scratches -
"Aaaaah. Oh, yeah. Oooooh. Thank you, V."
V? This is obscene. He looks like a cat being petted.

"So," I prompt them.
"Heh heh. So," he just about purrs, "our common torturer, here, starting writing e-mail to me. How old-fashioned. E-mail. He used the name of Boyle. Just a big, crazy fan. It wanted me to do a video, for pay, and when I checked the references they seemed okay."
"But you get here, and boom. You're stuck."
"Yeah. Dumb-shit that I am, before, I keep up the dialogue. One day a disc shows up at work. Damn good footage of gloves, moving, flying. The best that I have seen. Way ahead of any software I know -"
"No. Aw... It didn't."
Valet cackles. I watch a cigarette slide out of the pack lying on the table.
"Fucker just set up a camera, and put on a show," Xavier said. "I didn't know it was real."
"I'm so good," it boasts.
"So I had to get a look at his setup. Computer, and programs. Private lab, he writes to me, here in my mansion. I would like you to come and see how I do it -"
"And you fell for that?"
He shrugs. "Why believe it is so real? Not a person, but - V?"

"Yeah."
"I have many ideas now, seeing the things V can move around. Although being held prisoner, and tormented like this, was not what I expected. No." He's still smiling.
"You look really broken up about it."
"What? I, uh -"
Valet pokes me in the armpit. "Be nice. You're seeing the results of six days of hard work -"
"Six days?" Xavier says, looking all shocked. "That is all? Really?"
"Uh-huh."
"I see. You do not know how it was, the first few days. How I hated it. I fought like a cougar. Like a dog. But is no good. This son of a bitch still, uh, had its way with me."
I look at the floor, feeling way too responsible.
"Xavier learned to like it. Real well."
They both laugh again.
"How long is he here?"
"Fuck if I know," Valet shoots back.
"My... manager has given me the time off. Because of the association with you."
"Well, I'm sorry. And I guess it's good that you're... enjoying yourself now."
He laughs, and nods energetically.
"Nice meeting you." I turn and walk to where my coat is hung up. Waiting, any second now, for Valet to grab me.
"Did I freak him out?" I hear Xavier ask.
"He'll be okay," it says. "Feels guilty."
"About me? Shit..."
"I know. Give him time, a joint or two. You'll see. Amigo's the best."
Finally, I'm back in the garage, wondering how I can erase the past ten minutes from my memory.
 

"Terrible allergies," Xavier says the next day.
He's wearing new leathers, and the tattoos on each side of his neck are still seeping. "You can't believe how bad they were. I've had bracheo..., um -"
"Bronchitis," Valet says.
"Yeah, that. For years. Continuously." His smile gets even bigger. "And now, because of the 'bots, it is like a whole new life! I can't believe how good I feel. My family will not have to be so careful around me, either."
"That's great," I tell him. "So why the cigarette?"
"Not my idea," it says defensively.
Xavier looks down, but the grin hasn't gone anywhere. "I always... Uh, it is unusual for men not to smoke and drink, in my city. Everyone else in my school did, or does. Almost every man. Now these things are popular again, and there are the protective 'bots in every doctor's office. I've always wondered what it was like."
All I can do is sigh. Sure, it's understandable enough, but he'll fit in at a price. Of course, he already knew that, if Valet kidnapped him and took care of the health problems without his consent. Every day I wonder how much of the weird shit it does will end up being my fault.
"So - now he smokes," it commands.
"Yeah."
"Not more of those 'bots, right?"
"I've learned my lesson," Valet says. "No, don't even say it. I know you... Drugs and hypnosis. He's going to smoke like a chimney for a year. It'll be fun watching him sweat as he detoxes."
"You're being sadistic again."
"Yeah, and it's so nice of you to notice."
"It has made me try all kinds of things," he says. "And don't be mad now, Amigo. I have found I like some of them very much. Hell, before this I would've been in bed for four weeks."
"The price is usually higher than it seems," I tell him. "Don't ever forget that, with this psychopath."
"That's a fine way to talk about his employer," Valet says -
And it picks me up.
"Let's show Xavier your best feature."

"C'mon," I snap, annoyed. But my shoes are getting taken off, my socks, shirt tearing open -
A pair of gloves is flying over, and wasting no time.
"I'm going to let you in on a secret," it says, "because I like your work. Amigo's most ticklish spots."
"Valet, don't -"
Oh, shit. Tickled, in midair, just to amuse this artist it kidnapped...
"Armpit. Not the exact center, but the lower rim - and especially the upper crest. Just like this -"
Immediately I'm a howling mess, struggling with all I've got to get away.
"The back of these lower ribs," and it chuckles in my face. "Firmer pressure here."
Fuckin' unbelievable. All I can do is wail laughter.
My belt jingles, as it's opened -
"And I really like the lower thigh. Get a load of how insane he is now..."
 

I get some soy chips out of a bag, and turn around.
A glove is blocking my path.
"Put 'em away properly," Valet says.
"Okay."
"I'm tired of food getting stale." A drawer opens -
I watch a clip float out, then over to my hand.
"Why is it so heavy?" I ask.
"You'll see. Roll the bag closed, now, and use the clip."
"This isn't going to hurt me, is it?"
"Amigo! Honestly."
Okay. I put the clip on -
And the bag starts to crinkle.
"Hey -"
"Just watch, buddy."
It's collapsing, slowly... as the clip is sucking air out of the bag.
I start to laugh. "Cool."
"Yeah," Valet says. "Stick it on a box, and it does the same thing."
"This is a great idea."
"I thought so. They're new. Your food prep company sold fifty thousand of 'em last quarter."
That's startling. "It did? Are you serious?"
"And they cost about eighty cents to make."
A few seconds later, the bag stops moving. "What's the tickle angle on this?"
"You're such a kidder..."
 

- - 23 - -
 

After I light another smoke, I look over. Scuzz stands there, in the entry, along with Hunk. They're dressed. Full leathers.
"I gotta get out of here tonight," Scuzz says, "or I'm gonna fuckin' kill somethin'."
"You do look like you're stretched pretty tight," I finally say.
Hunk nods. "Same goes for me. There's a concert I wanna catch."
"And a huge party in Riverside," Scuzz says. And then they just stand there.
We all wait for a few seconds - sly laughter, some crushing remark... Where do you asswipes think you're goin', or maybe I got a way to burn off all that stress. But Valet let 'em get dressed, and if it didn't interrupt 'em before now, laughing as it strapped 'em back down, they're in the clear. I shrug. "Well, go."
Hunk actually shifts his weight from one boot to the other, looking down. "Uh -"
"I need some time. Outa here," Scuzz growls. "Real time."
"Don't blame ya."
They look at the floor... and then I figure it out. Dammit. They're afraid I'm gonna pay. Serious thrashing for Amigo.
But I didn't really expect it to be any different. And hell, if any one of us is responsible for this fucked-up situation, it's me.

"I wasn't gonna - uh, I've got nowhere special to be." So I'll volunteer, I think to myself. A big helping of Scuzz-tickling, if he's really off the leash for awhile. And Hunk-tickling. Fuck. All that attention.
They both look real fuckin' relieved. I wish I was in their place, but even more than that I'm glad they're catching a break.
"Git," Valet barks, cracking up. "Take a few weeks. And play. That's an order. We'll talk about all the parole violations you're about to commit when I reel ya back in."
"Yeah, yeah," Scuzz says. And they fairly run out to the garage.
"Noble of you," it says quietly.
I don't know how to react to that one, so I don't say nuthin', don't move a muscle -
A coil of rope springs at me, from behind.
"And now, you must pay."

It ties and reties the rope, deciding I should be wrapped up but not bound to the chair itself. Every now and then a finger pokes me in the armpit, so I keep wriggling.
"Stuck good," it sighs. The nylon rope is carefully encasing my shins, and they're wrapped up as solidly as my forearms are. But it hasn't pulled my socks off. Yet. My heels are hanging off the footstool, though...
I grunt in response, and watch a cigarette float up to my mouth.
"There's a big soccer match on at 9. You like soccer."
"Uh-huh," I finally admit.
It chuckles. "Aw, relax. You act like I'm gonna tickle you any second."
"And your point is... what, exactly?"
"I got all night. Last time I checked."
"Am I the only one here?"
A urinal cruises up. "Couple skateboarders. They got a ways to go yet. Serious calluses." A phantom hand pats me on the head, even though I hate that. "But not my amigo. He's got perfect feet."
"Thanks to you," I growl.
"Hah. All because of me. I take good care of you."
"There's a definite pet vibe goin' on here," I say. "Please don't make me eat any more of those dog biscuits."
"Aaaaw. Okay." My jeans are unbuttoned. "Make water. I wanna wrap up your cock."
"Sure. Words that'll really help me relax enough to pee -"
"It takes more than that to throw you off."

I manage to piss into the urinal. A reel of thinner nylon cord is approaching. Even if it's a kinda exciting and kinky when it mummifies me like this, I hate sweating like a pig...
"What is this?" I mumble. "All the buildup. You gonna tattoo me some more? Something else I really hate?"
"No, no." The cord starts unreeling, and the end slides under. Around my balls. Over and over, snug enough to stay in place, but not painful. That is, if Valet leaves the soccer game on like it said, and doesn't click over to a XXX movie or something.
"You're in a weird mood."
"I am," it agrees. "Look."
A gold box -
"What is that?"
The lid opens. It looks like candy. Oh, shit - it's the candy. Wow.

"You didn't," I finally say.
"Uh-huh. I did."
"Thank you. Why?"
The box stops moving, and Valet sighs. "Sometimes I don't think you understand me at all."
"Well, now -"
"Any of you. Not really. It just makes me... so unhappy."
I think about that. "But not angry?"
"No. A different feeling."
"Sadness?"
"Hmmm. Maybe." The cord wraps around and around my shaft. Almost like a ceremony...
The fucker wants to chat. The same old hints. "Are you inclined to talk, Valet?"
"I thought I was talkin', amigo."
"Plain talk. Truth?"
It sighs again - and I take that to be a "yes". Sure, it might be mindfucking me, but I figure it's worth the risk.
"You go first," I say, grinning.
"Look at you. Cheeky. Is that a smirk?"
I sober up. "Don't go there. C'mon, buddy. Spill it."
For a few seconds, it just keeps wrapping up the tip of my meat. Slow, cautious knots. "You mean it, don't you. Buddy."
"Well, uh, yeah." At the moment, I think - but I don't say that out loud. That box of chocolates is from Italy, or someplace like that. My mom sent them to me once, when I was little. I don't even get 'em shipped over for myself. It didn't have to go to that much trouble to get a bribe, when it's already got all my money in its grip. And me.
"We go back a long way."
"Uh-huh." I push with my cock a little. Wrapped up, and the usual result is becoming obvious.
"But the other guys don't think about me... the way you do."
"No, I guess they w-"
"They hate me," it says. And it's pouting.

I take a drag, and think real hard. It's not pretending to be hurt. For one thing, Valet is usually much more subtle than this. It's taking a chance and leveling with me. There might be a perfect thing to say, right now, that'll help get us free. But I don't want to say the wrong thing either.
"Of course they do," I say gently. "You torture us."
"Oh, I do not," it snaps. And I wait a few seconds... "Not all the time."
Well, I don't know what to say to that. I heave a big sigh. "I've known you longer then they have. And I sorta feel responsible for you. So I know you differently. But -"
"But, what?"
"I'm not so sure they hate you. Exactly. Uh..."
"Amigo," and its voice is cold. So dangerous.
"Wait," and I laugh nervously. "Listen to me. Please. I'm serious. They fear you - but that's what you're after, right? They may not trust you," and it snorts at that, "but I'm not sure even Scuzz... really hates you. Completely. Though that's pretty odd, the more I think about it."
It doesn't say anything for a while. "You're wrong. He thinks up some awful shit about me."
"But that's not all, I bet. You gave him the bikes. And you didn't have to," I add quickly. "He knows that."
"Yeah, well..." It takes my smoke away. But a new one doesn't come up. Could be a bad sign.
"You wanted to. Am I right? It's cruel, what you put us through, and then you give us nice stuff. Scuzz gets confused as hell when you do that. He doesn't like being in limbo all the time. Will tonight be the start of a week of tickling, or two weeks of partying at Daytona? That uncertainty -"
"I love that," it says. "I keep you guys wondering, every minute. Hoping."
"Yeah. Even when you don't know you're doing it, apparently."
"What?"
Oh, fuck, I'm probably dead already. But maybe it's ready to hear this. "Your attitude. I don't know if it'd be harder or easier to deal with, but you're not acting like a prison guard all the time. Or an executioner. All arrogant and shit... A lot of the time, I see that same goofy excitement Corilla's gloves had. Way too happy. Puppy-dog happy. And Scuzz ain't dumb. He sees that too. So does Hunk. If you were pulling a major master-and-slave routine on us, that would easy to hate. But you're so fuckin' happy about it. And you really do... mean well. Good intentions. Generous." I shrug, as much as I can.

"You still haven't made your case. I say they hate me. They use that word. So do you."
"Hell. I use that word about taxes," I chuckle, "but I know they're necessary. Uh... inevitable? Shit."
It laughs at me. "Hey, I like those words. Keep talking about me."
"That's not what I was tryin' to say, exactly. Beyond my control. That's it. You've heard us talk about this."
"Butt-kissers."
I have to sigh. "Me, maybe. But not Scuzz."
"He's just sneakier than you," it says cheerfully. "Sneaky felon."
"Okay. Yeah... And he knows why you started punishing him," I say carefully. "Even if it's insanely out of proportion. After all these years. He could've been out of prison a long time ago, if you'd just dragged him to a police station."
"You know the court system is a joke. The dude needs to change, amigo."
"Shit, he has changed. Years," I say again. "What has it been. Eight years? Nine?"
"What he did was terrible. Cruel - and on purpose."
"I know. I agree. He does, too. He was drunk. Now, wait, I'm not saying that's a excuse."
"Not any more of a fuckin' excuse than cocaine."
"Got it, Valet. Can I finish my thought, here, before you get all wound up?"
It sighs impatiently.

But I nod real quick. "He's never been proud of what he did. Has he? Not once. 'Too far gone,' I've heard him say. Also that he was gonna end up in prison, before long - not just jail again, but a long stretch - if you hadn't caught him when you did."
There's a wonderful pause. "Aw, you're lying."
"I am not. You know I'm not. Scuzz gets the connection between what he did... and what you do. And the guy understands how a pecking order works. The bigger dude makes the rules. Gotta just deal with it."
"Well, fuck," it mutters. "You're almost making sense."
"And Hunk... There's no way you can really believe he hates you. We all get frustrated sometimes and shoot off out mouth - but that dude loves the tickling. Think about it. And you go to great lengths to make it enjoyable... well, compared to just inflicting pain. I mean, shit - a magician who never sleeps, thinking up far more ways to bombard us with pleasure... Luxury. Careful as hell. He's hooked bad. Now, if you were just whipping the fuck out of us - then you'd see some real hatred."

"I gotta think about all this," it says quietly.
"And you know he likes cattin' around. Look at all the stuff he has now. That you've given him. Right? He's into nice stuff - and you got his teeth fixed. How can he hate somebody who does that for him, when it obviously doesn't have to?"
"Shut up." But then it laughs at me.
And I just grin.
"Look. I'm gonna go drill one of those fuckin' skate-punks for a while... until I can think straight. You okay here?"
I shift around a little. "Yeah. I'm good."

After a few minutes a water bottle comes to me, from the kitchen. I stare at the cigarettes, but Valet doesn't get me one.
And pretty soon the rope seems... brighter. I don't think the lights have been adjusted.
"Oh, no..."
My heart's beating faster. And my fuckin' cock is hard.
Drugs. In the water. Unless I miss my guess, it's a Hunk mix. Some kind of speed, a smooth downer... and I'm definitely feeling the E.
I want a fuckin' smoke.

Oh, yeah. I'm screwed.
The cords dig into my meat. Squirming around, I decide I have to say something. It's probably waiting.
"Valet," I say... And it makes me yell a few times. "Hey!"
I hear a door creak - but not from the direction of the cells. It's the hallway leading to the garage. Nothing shows up -
But I can feel it. Imagining Valet, there, in the doorway. Admiring its work.
"Need some help, here," I bark. Right away I wish I could take it back, because it just got me to invite it over. But dammit, my balls are killin' me...
And that door starts to close.
"Shit," I mutter. Here we go.
After a few seconds, the hallway door closes too. Valet believes in thick doors. Every room is soundproofed. Now it's isolated me even more from the skateboarders who are being put through their paces. Scuzz and Hunk are miles away, now, if they got any sense. And I'm tied up. Being studied. Sure. Nothing unusual about finding a guy wrapped up like this.
"C'mon. Please," I whine. "My dick hurts. My nuts..."
After a few seconds, there's a little tug. Down under there. Whew. Fingers I can't see, starting to work on the knots. But they stop.
And I finally see it, coming from behind me.
A cigar.
One of Hunk's cigars.
So that's the deal. Roleplaying. "Uh... Yeah. Please. I wanna smoke it. Just untie the knots down there. Okay?"
A box of matches starts rattling. Slowly, dragging it out, a match is pulled out and struck. It meets the cigar at my lips.
When I've puffed a few times, the knots loosen.
"Oh, yeah," I sigh.
The cord isn't unwrapped, but the pain around my nut-sac and my cock is fading. The rope isn't touched. It wants to keep me stuck like this. With a cigar...
"Valet?" I say tentatively. Nothing happens. "Valet! Uh... Scuzz?" And it's time to confirm what I suspect it's after. "Amigo?"
A hand pats my head.
"Fucker," I mumble. But I have to snicker. The drugs are sweet, and I really need this damn cigar right now. No getting out of the big ol' drama planned for me.
So I decide to go for it. What the hell. It'll probably be more fun this way. At least it won't be the usual ten or twelve hours of thorough destruction that Scuzz gets - which I'll be getting later, sure as shit, in his place.
"Valet. Lemme out of this." I take a long, thoughtful tug on the cigar. "Wait. You're not Valet."
That earns me two more pats on the head.

Okay, then. "Shit! Valet, help. Something... else is in here with me. Amigo?" I wrestle around, grunting. But I'm definitely not gonna drop this cigar. "Oh, fuck, it's in there with one of the skaters. Damn door's closed. Oh noooooo... Valet! Amigo! Scuzz! Help!"
I hear a very soft chuckle. When I shut up, it isn't repeated.
"Where are you? What's going on?," I yell. As if I don't know - A door on the entertainment center slides open. I stop wriggling and smoke, watching like I'm supposed to.
One disc hovers out, and slides into the DVD player.
The TV turns on. Blue screen.
I hear an acoustic guitar, sorta Mexican. Slow tune. Maybe a ballad. And a picture of Hunk appears on the screen. Naked, stretched out in the air. Suspension cuffs, black room. He's got a hood on, but I recognize that tattoo of a snorting bull on his belly. And I got a pretty good idea how Valet wants me to play this.
"Hey - where the hell did you get that? Help!"
Another photo, now. Closer to him. Sweaty, tired.
"Shit. Oh, shit. Valet... I never said it could take these -"
The next photo appears - and the hood is gone. An empty leather glove has a handful of his hair, pulling his head back. He looks wiped.
I wrestle around. "No. Look. I didn't want... Oh, fuck. Lemme go. I can't believe you found that DVD. Please, shut it off. Now."

Photos are changing more quickly, in response. His cock. His feet. Laying on a bed, wearing a straitjacket and a ball-gag...
And then, of course, a very addled-looking Hunk, manacled to a wall... staring at a feather in front of his face.
"Fuck!" I yell. "Valet. Help, dammit. Look, whoever you are, just let me go. Okay? You can't, uh -"
Another cigar hovers up.
"Oh. Okay," and I can feel the smirk on my face. "Sure."
I wait for a new match, and fire that sucker up.
"See? I'll smoke. You want me to smoke, I will. Just don't... Aw, hell."
A new photo. Feathers, attacking Hunk's pits. He's rearing back, with a big, strained grin on his face.
"Valet, come out here, dammit," I say quietly. Relaxing, I have to admit I'm enjoying myself. Great drugs. "Look, if it finds out you're here, I don't know what it'll do."
From somewhere behind me, a feather floats way over my head.
"Oh no," I say automatically. "I'm... fucked." It keeps moving. "You got me, don't you? Tied nice and tight. Come and get it."
That earns me another little chuckle. The audio is turned up a little, giving me the idea that I'm not supposed to be hearing it snicker like this. Just the slow, seductive guitar... and "my" own lazy laughter.
The lights dim.
"Fucker. Not in the dark. Don't tickle me, whoever you are. Please."
Click. One track light, moving...
To my feet.
Fingers close tight around my socks, anchoring my ankles real well.

I buck, once. Puff a few times. "You wouldn't."
But the feather tracks down, slowly. So slowly. Yeah, it's a fuckin' rush.
"Hell, why not, I'm not gonna get away. Shit. Valet! But you made sure it can't hear me. Oh, fuck, am I in for it now."
It pauses, over my toes - and turns.
"Hunk's gonna laugh. Is that it? Chuckle his ass off..."
The feather just hangs there. So I smoke. If it was up to me, I wouldn't hang around here. But it's not. As patient as the feather is acting, I guess I'm not in for a supersonic attack. That would wreck the mood. Seductive music, dim light - except for that spotlight - the drugs. And I suspect I'm in for a lot more cigars.
"Tickle tickle," I say miserably. But I don't feel miserable. And Valet probably knows it.
The stem of the feather drags down my left instep, skipping across the surface of the sock. I jerk around, grunting out smoke. Trapped -
"Just testing. Sure. What the fuck ya waitin' for? Gotta drag it out? I'm not going anywhere..."
The feather starts again.
"You are a sick f-fuckin' asshole," I mutter.
The photo on the TV screen changes. Hunk's lying down, arching. Feathers, all over his midsection. Thighs to nipples.
"Nuh huh huh huh," I shake my head, taking a few quick puffs. Damn wonderful cigar... "Don't do this to meeeeee."
A slow, dull point creeps down my foot again, and up my right foot.
"Got him t-tied up. All yours. Sick photos and shit. Oh hah hah hah hah..."
It lifts off.
I blink, and enjoy a couple puffs.
Something moves, near my ankle.
My sock is being pulled off.

"Finally," I say sarcastically. "Why not? Nuthin' I can do about it. Is there? And Valet left all the feathers n' shit lying around. All these cool pictures."
I hear a sigh. Happy, satisfied - a little dangerous. Oh, it's enjoying this. Easing the sock off.
"Well, you're can't let the other one go untickled," I grumble.
And it starts peeling off that sock. The fingers pinning my ankles relax a little, and then they push down again - tighter. A strangely human gesture, and I know that little move. Fuckin' happy tickler, here. And it's infectious. Maybe it's just the E, but I'm falling for the whole mood it's whipped up. Valet is so jazzed, I find it impossible not to be excited. My cock is straining against the cords again, and the pain is... interesting.
"Start out slow," I say, exhaling smoke. "And then you get to wind me up tighter, and tighter. A long night ahead of me. Am I right? Just like in the pictures. Hunk's in for the first-class ticket now. Ticklet. Tickle-ticket..."
The feather turns around. Ready to tickle me properly.
"Barefoot Hunk, now, he's gonna get it..."
And away we go.

Light little strokes. I don't struggle for very long, because it's so obviously pointless. I can't even fuckin' laugh hard -
Oh. Of course. I'm supposed to hold on to the cigar. It likes that. Torture the tough dude this way, gradually, slow music, cozy room, tight rope.
"Muh huh m-make sure I've gotta cigar. Oh yeah. Can't f-forget that... Aaaaaw hah huh huh huh..."
I can't manage to smoke, because it's gently driving me absolutely fuckin' nuts. I arch just a little, even though I don't need to. "Tickle him. Hah hah hah hah. You got him. Stick it to him goo-hoo hoo hoo hoooo..."
Oh, shit. One feather. So much more insanity on the way.
The cord is loosening. What a relief. The tip of my cock is visible. It's a dull red color. Definitely a Hunk thing. The whole combination.
The TV is showing me another shot. Sweaty. Grinning away, kicking out smoke. Completely deranged.
"Fah hah hah hah haaaaah, you're fuckin' gonna t-tickle meee heeee heeeee tuh tuh haaah haaalllppp-pah hah haaaah heh heh heh hehhhh..."
Easy tickling.

But it goes on and on.
Valet doesn't pull off until I'm too tired to move. Hell, I don't even know how long it takes. I'm used to a much more strenuous workout. I pissed my pants, but that's nothing new.
The picture on the TV is of a sleeping Hunk, in a shitty-looking hotel room... about to be gagged and tied up by a half-dozen leather gloves. Efficiently tied, no doubt. Skill, speed, pragmatism.
A big water bottle come up, and I'm only too glad to drain that fucker. Even as I do, there's no doubt what'll be coming next -
Yup.
"Alright!," I croak. "A cigar. What a fuckin' surprise. You want me to smoke for ya, lots of cigars..." And I take the light eagerly. "That's it. Great smoke... And now, more of the ol' tickle-torture. Hell, yeah. Lots more. More and more and more. I'm all ready n-"
Tugging.
My shirt - being pulled out, at the shoulders. It's tearing my shirt off. Considering all the rope on me, I wasn't expecting this. The feather's not gonna have full run of me with my arms pinned against my sides. "Go ahead," I laugh. "You can't get in my fuckin' pits. Bastard..."
But the feather returns, and pretty soon I see how dangerous it is to underestimate an expert. More hands creep around my shoulders - and my triceps. It's making sure I can't squirm.

The feather drags and saws, poking the tip in and wiggling it, dusting my nipples. I'm barely snickering, but I can't really stop. I just have time to grab a quick puff now and then. The hands don't go anywhere, and I have to lie still and take it -
On both sides. Another feather.
"Fuh f-finally," I chortle. Now this is starting to get interesting...

One foot, always. And one feather plays on my chest, my side. The only pauses I'm aware of is when another cigar is shoved between my molars.
"Gotcha one dude, and he's sooooo fuckin' ticklish, huh huh huh huh, he's in for it now whuh whooooo-eee hee hee haw haw haw haw..."

And the feathers wander on down. Of course.
The tip of my meat is getting teased. Sadistic fucker. Working the feather in between the loops of cord, so it can get at my scrotum. I whoop a few times, and find the energy to thrust.
But more hands land on each hip. As if all the rope wasn't enough.
I sweat like crazy. Concentrating on the cigar doesn't distract me as much as I need.
It's gettin' Hunk all worked up. Triple-X ticklish...

Another water bottle is taken away.
I watch the next cigar, and remember I'm supposed to be Hunk. "Aw, where the hell is Valet? This ain't fair..."
A match scrapes across the little table, there.
"Scuzz! Amigo! Haalllllp!"
I puff on the cigar, while Valet sighs again. Probably it's thinking of what lies ahead.

That turns out to be more of the same leisurely insanity. Four feathers on me.
And the hands won't let me move.
Dammit... it's fun.
I still think I'd run for the car if I had the chance, get the hell out of here. But I can't. And this is so calm, the whole bit. Valet cooked up a real easy time that's just over the edge of what I can stand, even with the cigars, and my aching balls. It's gotta be dosing me again.
Fuck, I feel great. And tortured - but in a good way. How sick is that?
"I'm suffering, hee hee hee... You got it? You fuh huh huh huh... You g-gotta stop tih hih hih hee hee heeeee-eeeee..."

Oh, fuck. I have no idea how many cigars... Too many. I don't wanna smoke anymore, but that's being smoothly ignored. Give him another cigar. Or else -
The door opens. Not the hallway. The other one.
And a wheelbarrow rolls in.
 

- - 24 - -
 

"Oh no," I gasp. "Nooooooooo. Val-aaaaaaayyyyy..."
The TV shuts off. I watch the DVD eject and hover over me -
And the hands pick me up.
"Gonna take me away, huh? The real deal?"
Into the wheelbarrow, puffing smoke at the DVD.
"Crazy. You're fuckin' - Valet! You gotta help me, I'm being k-kidnapped!" Ironic, I think, and I gotta chuckle. Calling for a tickler to rescue me from... another tickler. But hey, it seems to be enjoying itself. For me, it's kinda like seeing how Hunk gets worked over.
"Scuzz!" I bark. "C'mon - now! Amigo! Help help. Valet, get your ass out here..."
The wheelbarrow starts rolling. Weird, to be hanging out of it, because it's not like Valet doesn't have a whole collection of gurneys. So it must not be taking me too far.
"Valet!" I yell louder. The hallway is dark, and the skaters can't possibly hear me. Out into the garage... to the side door.
And now I understand why it's a wheelbarrow. Yelling and wriggling, I'm rolled right into the gardener's shed. The door closes, hiding me from view -
And more creaking.
I'm lifted out of the wheelbarrow, staring at a hole that's getting bigger. Oh, shit. This prick doesn't forget anything.
Under the workbench, where I used to hide my dope, there's now a tunnel. And a fine little torture chamber. Candlelight, stocks, manacles, racks. Rows of cabinets. The usual.
"Hunk's... gonna get it," I whisper.
The only door swings back up, definitely out of reach. Oh, I'm caught.

Actually, I recognize the room. More than once I've yawned myself awake and looked around at it. That damn ceiling-door, fifteen feet from my cuffed hands. And I realize some of the pictures I just saw, of Hunk, they were taken in here -
The DVD is floating over to a player. Of course. We're gonna recreate some photos. I get it.
With hours of tickling in between...
A candle floats up, so I can watch the padlock securing the door.
"Don't go bothering Hunk," I say to it. "He's busy. Delirious. But nobody's gonna hear me, are they? Not even Valet."
I'm carried over to one of the walls. A thick angled bed is up against one wall, with a black rubber sheet on it. It's already been oiled up. Just for me.
I'm set down on it. Almost like a recliner, but my feet will stay flat - and they'll hang off the end of the mattress, of course. The bed is thick, and so comfortable -
All of the hands return to their positions, so the feathers can start tickling me again. It's maddening, and it's a relief too. I fidget and chortle, tugging happily on the cigar...
And watch, over my head. Dark shapes. Creaking, jingling. Loud metal clicks.
Oh, shit. Not cuffs. Arms way up. I'll fuckin' die. Valet usually puts the cuffs on me, and then attaches the chain, straps, whatever. Even as I wail at the restraints, I'm thinking it must have the measurements down cold, right? It's gonna position me right where it wants me, and I'll stay there, no muscle strain to deal with, no discomfort Valet doesn't want to cause, unintentionally.
The rope is unwrapping. My arms. It's gonna put my wrists in those cuffs. And then - fuck.
I can't stop it.

Grinning around the cigar, I laugh at the rope as it goes. I'm ready to fight...
As always, it doesn't change a thing. Hell, no. My forearms are caught - and here goes the left one. Say goodbye, hand. You're out of the game... Memory foam wraps around, hidden from view. Leather. That's the thing to see, barely visible in the light of the candles. As if the night itself decided to hold my arms so I can't fuckin' stop the endless magic nightmare of sensation coming my way.
Heavy buckles make sure my left side will be perfectly exposed.
And now, my right arm.

"Aw, nuh nuh hah hah," I giggle. "Don't do-oooo hooo hooo hoo thee hee hee t-this. I'm s-s-ssssoooooo ticklish, aw haw haw haw..." Shit, I'm taunting Valet. Talk about stupid. Watching my arm rise - "Noooooo haw noooo, nooooo, aw fuh huh haaaah."
But it teases me right back. Taking its sweet time, Valet gets my wrist in the magic leather, which obliges by wrapping around -
"Nooo hoo hooooo, noooooo hoooo heh heh heh, n-naaaaawwww..."
I'm just about ready to cum. It must be the ecstasy.
Reefing, until it's tight. Buckling slowly.
"You ruh huh really like this shit, don't you hoooo hooo hooooo? This is it," I say. "Right? Hah hah haahh. Now it ruh r-really gets harsh-shaaah heee hee heeeeh." It seems like something Hunk would say.
Feathers get busy on my torso. I lose the cigar. But I don't care. Plenty more where that came from. I need to move - or try to move. Flop, turn, bounce. Squeaking with laughter. And my arms are staying put. I'm fuckin' ticklish, and now I'm under attack. Can't do a thing to protect my armpits, or my belly. Unbelievable.
I don't know if I've ever played along with Valet like this.
And I can't remember when I've been this fuckin' excited, either.

Caught, caught, really gonna get it now -
My legs. The rope is unwinding. Oh, shit, it's probably got ankle cuffs! Of course it does. I'm gonna get pure tickling torture, right here. Coming up, I get my feet nuked...
Hands are holding my legs down - and tugging my jeans. Very efficient. Jeans and wet underwear at once, and the hands lift up just long enough to let the denim past. Then they clamp down again.
"Reeeeal good h-hands," I roar. "Oh yeah haaaah haaaah."
If restraints can be applied lovingly, that's what happens to my ankles. Cuffed together, but straps jump up and clip onto all sides. I can barely touch one foot with the other.
Yeah, Valet is so ridiculously happy. One amigo, fried, comin' up.
Precise, attentive immobilization.
The hands start lifting off.
After I've panted for awhile, there's another water bottle waiting. I just bet it's got more drugs for me. Something tells me it's gonna be a real long night, even by Valet's standards...
And then I gotta have a cigar. Something for me to do while I pull at the cuffs. But I know they're perfect.
Cupboard doors start opening, one by one, and closing after a few seconds. As if the tickler doesn't know. Hey, cool. Look at all the neat stuff for tickling! Already here, just waiting for a healthy fucker to work over. Strong, real ticklish, and cuffed down with a cigar in his teeth. So ready. Get him. Absolutely.

Drugs, cock toys, butt toys. All that food.
It's hit the jackpot. You name it... A dozen big fur mitts to buff me, durable enough for fingers like iron to wear? Sure thing. Name your oil. Try out the different rubbers. It couldn't possibly turn down an opportunity like this. I can't get out - I can't get up - and there's more tickle-toys than it could possibly use in a week. Now, a month... maybe. No, wait, there's an infinite number of combinations.
And since this is a Hunk thing we're doin', I picture three or four boxes of his cigars. Right next to a few cartons of Scuzz's cigarettes, and several cartons of mine. Or maybe a whole cabinet full of tobacco, if it amuses Valet. All carefully rotated for freshness, because it loves us so damn much.
I sigh wistfully, because my mood isn't as good as I thought.
The cigar is pulled away, and the ash is snapped off. That happens every minute or two, when I've got a cigar and my hands are caught. It's so normal now that I don't even notice. The cigar always comes right back...
A cabinet door swings open.
Leather gloves are being picked up. They're still flat, but soon -
Eight of them.
Brought to me, and laid on my shins. Oh, yeah. Look at these, Hunk. Think about it.
Another cabinet door -
Oh, shit.

Toe restraints are coming. Good ones. Little foam cuffs, steel cables...
I watch my feet get immobilized even further. Oh, that's an understatement - they're perfect. Solid gold couldn't do better. Tension in all the right places, keeping my feet still. I've seen a lot of restraints, designed by a perfectionist who'll spend years adjusting a pair of stocks until it's happy. Right now, my feet are caught more solidly, and comfortably, than ever. Period.
Four of the leather gloves start coming to life.
"Don't do it," I whimper. And I'm not acting. But I puff a couple times. "Listen. This is really more than I can take... Valet!"
The hands move in.
"Valet?"

Oh, yeah. It's slow and thorough - even more intolerable than I expected. The rest of my body is obsessed with deserting my feet...

There's a quick break, and I get some water.
Then, maybe another twenty minutes.

I smoke my cigar, and look at the gloves. Hanging there. Wet...
My feet are just unbelievably awake now.
One of the gloves starts to rise. And turn. To the cabinets. I watch it, and smoke while I can. All excited, and curious... Dreading it through and through, but that never stopped Valet before. Old news -
The glove pauses in front of the cabinet door. Maybe seven, eight feet away.
Magically, the door opens.
It's the oil cabinet.
"Fuck," I growl automatically. "You don't get it -"
Gloves start tickling.
"No no, hah hah haw haw haaw..."
My cigar is taken away.
All of the fingers speed up. I laugh harder. Talking is just barely more than I can manage.
Intuitively, I know that's very much on purpose. Some reason... I stare harder.
And I freeze.
Even in the weak light, I can't believe what I'm seeing.
A gold plastic bottle.
Valet's doomsday oil.

I start keening. Just under the level of a low shriek. And I don't know when I've wanted to yell this much. No. Not the gold bottle.
One bottle - that I can see - on a shelf full of white bottles. And the shelf under that has different kinds. Hell, there's two other shelves with creams and lubes.
The fingers are moving just a little, right in front of the shelf. Decisions, decisions.

I've only had it used on me twice. Both times, I actually wondered if I was gonna... at least blow a gasket. Aneurysm or something.
No no no no. I laugh at the glove, thinking hard. No no no not the doomsday oil not the doomsday oil -
The glove makes its selection.
I'm fuckin' toast.

With the night I've had so far, as worked up as it's got me - the doomsday oil.
And oh, I pull at the restraints with everything I've got left. No more kidding around. I've had real nightmares over this shit. Gold bottle. It won't tell me what's in the oil, but it makes me feel as if my body is suddenly twenty times larger. That many more nerve endings, and I'm anchored far too well to see that awful fuckin' doomsday oil come over to me! I can't stand this. I can't, I can't, and Valet knows that -
If this tickler... is Valet.
Fuck fuck fuck. I repeat it over and over, because I'm too frightened to think straight.
The bottle is here. That one. It's gonna use that oil, with these gloves, and I'm gonna freak out for real, for keeps this time.
A little steel pan floats over. Real slow, teasing the shit out of me, another glove goes up to the bottle and unscrews the cap.
When the pale blue oil starts pouring into the pan, I scream once. Pulling harder. Harder. Gotta get away from it. Now!
I stop laughing, but speech is still impossible. The fingers aren't going anywhere -
Oh, shit. Except to the pan.
Dipping in, rubbing each other. Taunting me. It takes my breath away. But I'd really like to scream again. I'm just too shocked. Doomsday oil. Dripping off the fingers... which are returning... to my soles. My soles. That oil. Here.
This is really too much. It has to reconsider...
But this cigar is taken away too.
And I watch them creep up. Doomsday oil, on those gloves - touching me, fingers taking a grip...
Fiendish massage.
I work right up to loud, booming laughter. Not because the gloves are sticking it to me. That'll be true, soon enough. I'm thinking of how I'm going to slide into full-blown psychosis, right here. With my luck it'll be an exact replica of this cell, and all the oil bottles will be gold.
Doomsday.
It'll take about ten minutes to kick in. And then I'm gonna wish I was back in that Mexican jail.

They slowly massage the killer oil up my legs. Plenty of oil for my crotch. Working it into my ribs, armpits, belly, pecs. Right up to my face...
And they lift off.
That wasn't even real tickling. Just a preview. Now they'll get going. And already, the oil is working its magic. Nothing is touching my feet, but they're so mutherfuckin' awake I wanna scream.
Fingers are heading back down there, no matter how much I beg.

Wild, scorching, incredible shocks keep coming, all over me, and I can't laugh hard enough. It's killing me, and if only I could roar louder...
 

The differences are very clear now. When it's tickling me, Valet is usually excited. Bouncy, even giddy.
But this is Hunk's world. Darker, more sensual. The pace is slower. Relentless. Absolute obsession with delivering the deepest overpowering sensation. Calm domination, always. Everything lighthearted is sacrificed for the goal of immersing him in the lust Valet feels, with contact so inward-reaching it's far too primal for words.
When Scuzz or I are around, he gets taunted a lot. A lot of double-meanings. Not that different from the way a lover talks, in public, hinting and teasing. But now is the private time. The follow-through, silent and sure. All the words are paid off here.
Just Valet, and him.
But I don't have time to think about that now.

Air. Good.
And smoke - alright. I peek. Water bottle, a bag of nuts. Good Valet.
Why is there more light now?
The wall. A TV screen.
I see myself.
"Oh ho," I say, panting out smoke. Alcohol wipes land on my crotch, making me jump.
So it's taping the festivities. Something to share with the skate-punks, maybe. Pound home how screwed they are...
The image rewinds, in that blocky digital way. Empty room -
No, I'm being carried in. There must be some incredible lenses on the cameras. At least three of 'em, and I had no idea they were there. The view cuts from one angle to another, and I picture a switch box in another room, or at least out of earshot, being punched gleefully. Except there's no finger switching from camera to camera. No human finger. And that should mean it can't really be gleeful, I tell myself. Or insane. But here we are.
Shit, I'm tired.
And I hear a sound I recognize. All too well.
"That's it," I whisper. "Get some good ol' fuckin' fingers ready. I'm all oiled up. Rubber gloves, c'mon down, and make me totally fuckin' loco. Lots of fingers..."
Oh no - no! - they're touching my feet. Both feet. Spreading out now - just crawling.
I squeal like a baby.
So I get to finish the cigar, apparently. Not that I can smoke it much.

Hunk gets long fuckin' nights of this, doesn't he?
Right now he's probably getting laid. Like a normal guy. Being away from all of Valet's cells is a killer high all by itself.
But not for me. I've got rubber murderers trying to tickle me to death as slowly as possible.
I manage to puff on my cigar, and ease out the smoke... watching it disappear in the dark, like all the noise I've made here. Sorta like my future. I mean, I'm locked in and the tape is rolling, recording every feverish second of this.

I bring one good thing back with me, from a long series of dreams that are even more excruciating than real life. It's a flaw in the plan. Not that it'll get me out of any tickling...
So I'm supposed to be Hunk, and something else slipped in and hauled me off when Valet wasn't looking. Sure. I mean, it's always watching. I make a quick little remark to Scuzz about coke, real quiet, and it tickles the shit out of me for three days. The bastard counts how many cigarettes I smoke, and slaps a nicotine patch on my arm... or it just ties me down until I've smoked an extra pack. Real nice shit like that.
So. I - uh, Hunk - he's supposed to think this is Valet tickling him, or that it's somebody who has permission. Because there's no way I could hide out in the mansion for a whole night without it finding me. But I got the idea from Hunk that it taunts him a lot, in situations like this, and I haven't heard a word out of it.
Then it starts covering me with feathers, so I can't think for awhile.

My cigar is pulled, suddenly -
Gloves attack. All these fuckin' hands tickling like it's a matter of life and death...
Maybe a minute. And they're gone.
The cigar is jammed back into place - and there's a click above me. The padlock!
I can't describe the relief... just watching that door open.
"What the hell?," Valet says. In the tunnel. Then, loudly - "Hunk!"
"Get me outa here," I whisper. So now it's done pretending to be an intruder, but I don't get to be myself yet. Just swell.
"Poor Hunk," it says. "I've been looking all over for you -"
"Yeah, sure," I grumble.
"Something flew past me, in the tunnel. I guess I know why."
Straps start unclipping from the ankle-cuffs. I close my eyes and smoke, so glad it's over. But I warn myself that it's Valet, and last night it was Valet. Uh-oh.
"You've been tickled, huh?" Dammit. That quiet tone of voice.
And I'm stupid enough to feel hopeful. "Y-yeah. Please, now, j-"
It starts releasing my wrists.
"All this time, you were down here... Such unbearable tickling..." And the fucker clicks its tongue. Hypocrite.
"Hope you like the video," I rasp. But sarcasm is risky -
"Video? Really..."
"Valet. Don't."
"Will you look at what I found..." A camera floats up, pointing at me. "Say cheese, Hunk. My photogenic buddy. Did you get tickled - and videotaped? Huh?"
I feel like a cartoon character who just stepped off the edge of a cliff...

"Really tickled? Professionally? Just fuckin' worked over good?"
"Don't," I say hopelessly.
"And you're such a wonderfully, thoroughly ticklish dude."
It chuckles a few times. Slow, murderous laughter.
I wanna beg, so bad -
"So." Hands grab my wrists and pick me up. "You, uh, still ticklish? After all that? Huh?"
"Noooooooo-oooooooo -"
The door. Oh damn, damn, it's closing the door.
"I bet you are. Let's find out. Deep stimulation. Solid... And a good bone-crunching orgasm, maybe? Followed by an hour of fire, all over your beautifully sensitive body?"
Kicking, twisting, I'm still hauled right over to the wall-manacles.
"And another hour, and another, and so on. Yeah." it says, chuckling. "I'm gonna tickle Hunk now. Get him all excited. And I know how to handle you. Don't I?"
Wasting no time, it traps my limbs. Padded metal, supporting my weight with a level of comfort that's really frustrating all by itself. That always reminds me of how fuckin' long I'll be hung up here. It's even set a little pad in the wall so I can't bang my head on the granite.
"Sure I do," it mocks. "You're not gonna stop me."
Six gloves - no, eight. Black, and shiny.
"You're a keeper. Oh, yeah. Let's do it right."
"No no no no no no nnnaaaah hah hah haaaaaeeeee eeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Valet is really enjoying itself.
That's all I have left. Whooping myself hoarse, I don't matter anymore. My tickler is happy. If I can't get out of this incredible groundburst of pleasure, at least I can take satisfaction in knowing that Valet is getting exactly what it wants, and it wouldn't be quite as enthralled if the real Hunk was here, or Scuzz, even Randy. No, its best buddy is locked down and laughing, and so my tickler is perfectly happy.
 

- - 25 - -
 

I wake up in a room where everything is white. Tats all over me -
It's time to be Scuzz for awhile.

If the Valet that stalks me is like a terminally eager, presumptuous comrade - and the Valet that plays with Hunk is more like a taunting dominatrix...
Scuzz gets the disciplinarian Valet. He gets punished. It's a sentence that keeps getting extended. That justifies everything else - such as the ever-present song. Sociopathic arrogance, the ultimate tough guy, so casually cruel. Just as insatiable as the other Valets. But it doesn't have to win Scuzz over at all, because he "deserves" the rehabilitation in a different way than I do. He's never enjoyed the tickling, except for that birthday mindfuck at Westlure. Just the cock play - and no amount of intensity there can make him forget that the post-climax tickling will blow him away even more...
It doesn't matter if he enjoys it or not. If anything, Valet leans even harder on him, because maybe his ego depends on not letting it have that big victory inside. He stays angry, resisting it, and that's so deep in him that he can't even see how his defiance keeps the tickling continuous and harsh. It shows him a perfectly attentive contempt, beyond appeal or compassion or reason. Maybe playing with his body is more important than his mind. His experience with Valet might be more elemental.
Does the mouse really comprehend how enthralled the cat is?

Three different flavors of delirium. I guess Randy made it four. From what I hear, he was similar to all of us. Maybe each day began as mine do, and then turned into Scuzz's nightmare torment, and ended up in Hunk's lusty fever all night. Or it's something different. Valet sure seems to miss him, and it gets wistful sometimes. So it has more than wounded pride going on, there...
The hooks are deep. I have the unfailing friend, Hunk is like a piano that is carnally played by a prodigy, and Scuzz faces down the competitive warden who can never be defeated - or yielded to.
The other guys don't hear it laugh as often as I do. Hunk's whole ordeal is designed to provoke his libido as well as his ticklish nerve-endings. And poor Scuzz is like a ragged old field mouse, caught by the world's biggest cat. Caged, endlessly played with, attentively teased and worked over and maintained for another day of the same...

"Nah hah hah hah hah haaaaaah," I chortle, fighting to keep hold of the cigarette.
My left hip - and the contact trails up...
Whooping now, I pull at the damn chains. If there's one thing I'm sure of, it's how totally useless it is to try to move. But I squirm anyway.
The cigarette is yanked away.
My belly. Oh, shit. I can't see Valet's hands. Starting out almost tenderly...
And it watches my face. Every second. I'm sure that's true, all the time - it's busted me for rolling my eyes often enough - but in here I can feel it. That's deliberate. The steady stare, while it keeps Scuzz deranged, to make sure he knows it won't ignore his raggedy ass for a single second. Ever.

A few minutes of that, another cigarette -
Lounge music. A combo with that xylophone-thing, only mellower. World of laughter.
Faster hands.

That's how Scuzz gets shredded.
Building, and building, until he's shaking like a leaf. Five minutes turning into ten. Two cigarettes per break, then three...
Fifteen minutes. Forty.
Different instruments, playing his song.

It doesn't matter if I piss, or shit. Valet cleans me up efficiently and keeps right on going. Water, a snack -
And finally I see gloves. Four of them. Getting rowdy.

Then six gloves. Eight.
A full hour. Maybe a few tokes off a heater...
Feathers. Brushes.
Can't fuckin' move...
 

Oh, shit, shit, no.
Same room, different day. I'm awake now, alright. Still tattooed. White room.
I'm curled around a padded... arch. Elbows up, straps lifting my shins. A chest harness, and thinner straps connected to the cock ring.
Fuck. It didn't get me off yesterday. Amazing, how desperate the need can get.
The first cigarette of the day cruises on over.

Rotary tools.
I'm gonna laugh my guts out, literally. Right here.

This fuckin' sadist is gonna tickle me right into a coma. I always knew it would happen, eventually. This is the place...
 

Another day in here. I can't.
Whimpering sounds so good, but it definitely won't help. So I just smoke.
The music starts. Hawaiian? I don't know. Same damn phrases, teasing me -
Fingers skate around my neck.

Shit. A can of petroleum jelly. Tan deerskin gloves, six of 'em. I can identify different gloves right away. Aw, fuck. Since when does that shit come in a giant can?

Throwing my body around, I just can't find a way to move this rack. Hanging from it, the padded wings, with my ass completely unprotected. Legs spread. Trapped good.
The gloves are greasing up.

"Oh no," I whisper, in between hoots. "Oh n-no... no."
Dull metallic points work on my feet. A lot of 'em, sliding over the petroleum jelly. Unbelievable, horrible, and I can't even quiver anymore.
 

How many days? It really bugs me that I don't know. The cigarettes keep showing up, and I need 'em more than ever. Somehow this room, and the bed... all these chains. So hopeless.
Mandolins. Russian folk band, maybe.
A whole shitload of feathers. Closer, and closer. On me.
Fuck.
 
 

"Amigo!"
I jump. When it's this happy, I'm in for major shit...
"Wanna go to Sweden?"
"No."
"Let me rephrase that."
"Dammit... Why?"
"My scientists won an award. For the 'bots."
"That's nice."
"So you're going to Sweden."
"Why me?"
It chuckles. "Because I said so. Next month. Stockholm."
"Stockholm..."
"As in, the syndrome."
"Huh?"
"Never mind," it laughs.

An hour later, I remember to get online and check -
"Hey!"
"Yeeeeeessss?"
I point at the screen. "Real cute."
"What, Amigo?"
"Stockholm syndrome."
"Oh. Heh heh."
"It's... not funny."
"I think it's funny," Valet says. "Don't you want me to be amused, buddy?"
"Oh, shit -"
"You want me to be happy. I think you're longing to please me..."
Clamp. My knees -
"Nooooo hooo hoo hooooooo!"
"Now laugh for me, little hostage."
I double up and hoot at the floor.
"Harder. Much harder, Amigo. Sympathize with your captor."
I'm in the air now.
Oh, shit, not the locker room. No...

"Not much is known about the reclusive philanthropist," Valet reads, as it strokes my cock.
"F-fuck," I pant. "You. Fuck you, fuck you, f-"
"And now he's holed up in a fancy chalet, getting tortured all weekend. What a recluse."
Feathers surround my feet. And they move, always, they tickle me, tickle, always, always on the move.
I shake my head once and start yelping.
 

"Hey," it says softly.
I poke my head out of the bathroom and look around. "Hey what?"
"Got a minute?"
A minute. Right. Thankfully, I hold in the sigh I wanna make. Its voice is unusually quiet.
"You know I do," I finally say.
"Uh..."
"Yes?"
There's a pause, and it doesn't seem to be purely for effect. "C'mon into the living room."
"Uh-oh," I shoot back, mainly to see if it's bad news, or what.
"No 'uh-oh', no bad news or anything."
"Whew."
"You want a drink? Whiskey?"
That throws me. It's asking, instead of just bringing the bottle over.
"Actually... I'd rather start with coffee."
"Coffee it is. I'll make it."
I sit on the couch, scanning for things that could jump on me. After a while, there's this big triangular pillow that cruises over.
"Lean on this," Valet says.
"Shit..." But I do it. Facing the TV, with my legs stretched out. And soon I'll be tickled again. Always, forever, and so on.
"Let's see now," it says thoughtfully, "put your hands behind your head."
I stick the cigarette between my lips and obey, slowly.
"Is that comfortable?"
Shrugging, and I can't say it's a big-ass surprise when a wide metal stripe creeps over each of my wrists. Click, click. Big and shiny. I watch my ankles get caught. Chrome shackles, maybe. There's no point in fighting, best I can see.
"No, wait," Valet mutters - and the coffee table scoots closer to me. Within reach. My right hand is freed. "There."

Ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, my lighter... all provided. Then a big mug of coffee floats in as I watch.
"I wasn't going anywhere."
A deep sigh, and then, "Now you're definitely not gonna get into any trouble. Perfectly safe, in your cage."
Scowling, it occurs to me that I could try to set the couch on fire, but that's about it.
Two luminous gloves are laid down, very deliberately, on the table. Carrot-and-stick. If I cooperate, all the little comforts will keep coming. And if I don't, the fingers will be coming to life and digging in. That could be inevitable, either way. It makes sure I know the gloves are close by, here to be used on me...
"You got my attention," I tell it.
"Amigo, I love your sorry behind."
"I know."
"I know you know."
That doesn't seem to require a response, so I finish off the cigarette -
Immediately, hands start landing on my arms. Gentle. Just holding the outer curves, from my shoulders to my own hands. it's done this before, when it was really worried about something.
"You gotta be honest with me," it says earnestly.
"Okay."
"Am I obsessed?"
"Are you obsessed," I echo back, trying to understand.
"You know. Crazy."
I look at the gloves, waiting for them to move in.

This is how my life will end someday. A question that means a whole lot to Valet, and my answer will be the wrong one. It'll snap, and the tickling will be the last thing I ever remember. Or I'll lie to it, trying to save myself, and that will make it furious enough to do me in. Plenty of fish in the ocean. Right? Millions of young bikers, encouraged to follow the path Scuzz laid out for them. Lured into the life - with my money.
"Stop thinking," it snaps, "and just answer me."
"I can't... uh, without knowing what... how you use the word."
"Crazy?"
Oh, shit. "Let's start with 'obsessed'."
"Don't get all picky on me."
"I mean, there's obsessed... and then there's obsessed. And what are we talkin', here? By human standards?"
"Go on."
So I take a deep breath. "Best I understand it, yeah - any shrink would say you're obsessed. You're insatiable. And I mean that literally... but then you run my damn finances, plot out all the research. More stuff than I even know about. So you're not totally obsessed... with one thing."
"Hmmmmm."
But it doesn't say anything else, so I dare to reach for the coffee. "There's a built-in problem with you using the word 'crazy'. Even weirder than if I said... well, 'abnormal'. At least -"
"Basis of comparison," it says quickly. "I get it, from your thoughts."
"Well - yeah."

"Interesting."
"You wanna compare yourself with humans? What most people would say - not all, but most? Yeah, you're insane." I brace myself, but the gloves don't move. "But for a Valet... I don't think so. And I mean that. You don't sleep, you're strong. And smarter than me -"
"Ass-kisser."
"If I had all that goin' on, I can imagine getting fixated on my favorite... well, my fav-"
"Hobby?" it laughs. "You were gonna say hobby. Amigo - c'mon."
"Wait," I yell. "Wait, wait, wait. The only reason I was gonna use that word is because I can't imagine being in your shoes - dammit, in your place. Not accurately. If I had the abilities you have, I'd sure as hell be interested in... whatever was the most fun. Continuously, uh, interested."
"Yeah."
A few seconds go by.

"If you were a person," I say quietly, "you'd be locked up. Too dangerous. But then again, you did just make coffee for me."
It laughs at that. A long, hearty laugh. Relaxing. "And maybe I loaded it up with a super tickle-boosting drug I just invented."
Inside, I wanna scream... but I act nonchalant, and take another sip.
"Ameeee-go," it says, "is it any wonder I love to hang out with you? Such a freak."
I have two choices, it seems. Tease it back, until it starts tickling me... or maybe it's in a good enough mood to hold off for a few more hours, maybe until the morning. Such a deal.
This much I do know - if Valet was a person, its new mood is a signal for reassurance. Maybe I'm the crazy one. I don't want it to feel bad, because... then I feel bad for it. And that's totally separate from how much more I get tickled when it's pissed off. What a twisted relationship.
"Well," I finally drawl, "you talk big when I'm fuckin' cuffed down."
"Ooooo-hooooo," it hoots, happier than ever.
Inside, I sigh real hard. Setting the coffee mug down, while I can... "I'd go psycho-freak on your ass. Your invisible, cowardly ass."
The gloves lift off the table. "You wanna go psycho? Is that so?"
I lunge around, more like Scuzz than me. Play-acting. "Lemme me out of these things, right now!"
Fuckin' Valet actually cackles with delight as the gloves dive down, feasting on my armpits.

On to Part 7

Back to Part 1

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