Trays are moved in closer, loaded up with my tools and supplies. Positioned - there. Yeah. Just right.
The wanted man watches them and sucks in smoke. A hard drag. Real serious.
I study him, and survey all the equipment. I am enjoying this so much. Satisfied, content...
He could use another pillow, so he can watch. I stuff a second one behind his head. Ah. There. Make it easier for him to see. Nothing else going on today...
Just eight or nine hours of intricate foot-tickling, with the occasional rib-chaser to keep things interesting.
I have everything the way I want it. He's held down by the cuffs. Feet just far enough apart that one can't bump into the other. Between the cuffs and the straps, there must be five pounds of leather on each of his ankles. No kicking, no twisting, no jumping around.
Every toy I could ask for is a few inches from his soles. Big, laid-back fun.
This will be the fourth straight day I've focused on his wonderful, tireless feet. I'm going for a week. Then a week on his lower sides, and a week on his upper sides, then a week between his legs, and so on...
I've been tickling him for almost a month now.
If it wasn't for me he'd probably be in jail.
After I caught him, I found out the good news - good for me, that is.
He sat there, in the truck stop, looking guilty as they come. Seriously worried. Waiting for the boom to fall.
I jumped him, and hauled him off. Got started. Tickling him.
He's fun.
But that nervousness kept coming back to mind... So I checked him out. Stopped at the state police post while he was sawing logs. Snuck in and got me a look at their computer...
He's wanted in Oregon. Bad guy.
But my place is in Washington. Off the beaten path.
Maybe he was going to Canada. Or just Seattle. I don't know.
He would never have made it. Not as guilty-looking as he was. No way. I bet he would've gotten picked up within a week...
But I guess we'll never know. I was looking for a guy to tickle. All winter.
And here he is. I get to work him over. Make him laugh. And he stays out of sight.
He doesn't want the police to know where he is. So we have that in common. I can keep a secret.
No one knows about him, stuck here. Or me. And it's going to stay that way.
On the wall next to his bed, I've taped a copy of the APB. He's famous.
No matter how bad he wants it... getting out of here is a risky move. The smart thing to do is duck into a hole and stay there. Wait 'em out.
I decided a dungeon will work as well as a hole. Better, I think. This is my dungeon. I keep the door locked. He stays out of jail... I get to tickle him, and tickle him, and tickle him some more...
Works out for both of us. He gets crazy - thanks to me - but I can understand that. Good thing one of us is in control at all times.
It would be a shame if he ran off and got himself apprehended. But I like him, so I'm not going to let that happen.
October is gone. The rain's here. He had about fifty bucks on him. And I've got about a thousand bucks stashed away. Real money. He could use to hide out anywhere, really.
But he's got to earn it.
Besides, it'll be raining for awhile. He can crash here. I've got food, and smokes. Whiskey...
And tickling. Endless ideas. Oh, yeah.
I bet he didn't expect all this fine bondage gear. Or the cock toys. But hey - it's my dungeon. I make the rules. He eats my food, smokes my cigarettes. And I tickle his ass. All day.
If he'd rather be in jail... well, that's just too bad. I'm having a great time.
As he takes another long drag, I pull the cigarette and take it away. He looks annoyed. Time to rock.
Get him warmed up. I bring up four greasy gloves. White leather.
Just before I start in, I always pause and think of the reminder. I don't say it, out loud, because he just might hurt himself trying to take me up on it. But I still think of it as his signal.
Okay, now. If it's too much for you, wanted man, you just... clap your hands.
I've got his arms stretched out from his sides. Cuffed down. His palms face the ceiling. He can't turn his wrists - much less get 'em anywhere near each other.
That's right. Just clap if the tickling is more than you can take. That's the only signal I'm going to heed. Put your hands together, or else... well, I'm going to figure you're good to go. If you don't clap your hands, I figure you're doing okay, and the tickling is not too much yet. I'm not going to stop. It's going to be long and hard tickling, unless you clap for me.
Almost all my gear keeps his hands down flat like this, far apart. Never able to touch each other.
So he never claps his hands. He's never going to. I'm not going to tell him, out loud. So I always set the pace.
Here we go, then.
My gloves dive in. Attack -
He goes rigid, and groans once. Then an airy squeal - almost silent - and he's bucking, and bouncing...
A quick wake-up. Reminding him why he's here. I pet his armpits and ribs, and slide onto his belly. His pecs. Back again to his sides.
Laughing, and fighting... without a whole lot of enthusiasm. His thrashing around is pretty much a formality now. His body needs to make sure it's really stuck. That's my best guess. Because he knows he's not going anywhere, and the fight only last a few minutes.
Oh, yeah. Staying in bed. The restraints make sure you don't budge. I'm tickling you again today. It just drives you nuts, doesn't it? Another long, unbearable day of tickling, and another week, and another month, and another. So much tickling. Real hard and careful. Let's pull out all the stops, now. Take that, and that...
Now this is fun. I trace around and squeeze, just enough. Ride him until he moves less, and less. Laughter fading away, until I decide I want to hear it again. He's started to sweat. Limbs all relaxed. His expression is hopeless - like he's all prepared for something that's gonna hurt.
But I'm not going to hurt him. He's gotta know that by now.
I pick up a bottle of oil, and unscrew the cap. This is gonna feel good. Way too good. Deep, and impossible, until he passes out from exhaustion.
Two of the gloves hold his toes up, so he can't bend his tantalizing feet.
The others cup their palms. He peeks, as I tilt the bottle. Massage oil pools in one hand, then the other...
Leaking a little, they rise over his toes. And pour.
Shiny oil runs down his soles. Ready to magnify the sensation of everything that touches his skin.
I make the gloves straighten out their fingers, and start rubbing.
He flails around again, and roars his response. Oily leather - down we go. And back up. Lots more where this came from. And he just wants to get away from my gloves, so bad. The tickling is just too much...
The sides, the heels, the toes. I make him chuff air, gasp it in, howl it back out. Silent howling.
Trapped. Feet trapped by the restraints, arms held out so they give me no trouble when the gloves inevitably return up there... and the door's still locked. The tickling is just so intense and unbelievable and he really can't stand this, not at all, not for one more second.
I'm gonna have a lot more fun with him.
Another minute or two, and he starts to relax. So I let go -
And pick up a pair of gum stimulators. He shakes his head faintly when he recognizes 'em. Oh yeah.
Touching the center of both soles, I get the main event started.
These are just incredible tools. Rounded metal on one end, about the size of a small pea. And the other - a devastating rubber tip. Flexible, and tapering to a point smaller than a sharpened pencil. It bends when I bear down, and springs back.
It would be very hard to damage the skin with this tool. But it makes a hell of an impression -
He hisses in air, and chuckles it out.
I move the probes everywhere, taking my time.
As he growls and giggles, the tickling continues somewhere else too. His neck. He wears my collar - wide black leather - and I've lined it with rabbit fur. Soft, and loose. The fur sticks out...
Brushing under his chin. Lined all the way around, so the back of his neck gets tickled too. Fur, held against his neck, shifting with every laugh and swallow. When he fidgets, when he smokes - the fur moves a little. Just enough. He pants, and gets tickled. A tiny, constant dance around his neck...
He really hates his collar. So he wears it all the time.
Sometimes, it starts a chain reaction of involuntary snickering that goes on and on.
I replace the fur every few days, so he gets the soft, fluffy effect. All day long.
The probes follow the wrinkles in his soles. He shakes his head - then snaps it harder, and laughs energetically. That would be the collar again.
It takes a long time, but he stops laughing. Head thrown back, sweat pouring off him... Totally into the probes.
That makes two of us.
I add two more gum stimulators. For each foot.
After he pitches another fit, he settles down. I make him drink water, and get him a smoke.
When he's exhaling luxuriously, the probes start moving again. Very light touches, and so small...
He grits his teeth, fighting not to laugh. Okay by me. Let him smoke. I'm busy.
Got me some excellent feet to work on. I'm spending all these days concentrating on 'em because I want their response to what I'm doing. Laughter is great, but I don't tickle primarily to hear the results.
I want to feel how effective the tickling is. Having spent a lot of time studying anatomy books, I've pinpointed where the nerves are in these feet. Trial and error. Now, I'm after some kind of... I don't know... direct feedback. Subtle answers.
How about this, I wonder, scratching lightly up to the base of his big toes - right along the path the nerve impulses take. Tell me how much this tickles. Don't howl it - I want the feet to answer me. Knowing, as I stroke, what the impact is.
At times, I can definitely make a connection. But it's gone the next day. I'm on to something, but I'm not sure what. With enough practice, I'll get it. Immediate confirmation, right at the site. That tickles bad, and that's even worse.
I want to get it when I'm using the gloves. That would be the best. Rub with a finger, and know precisely how much pleasure races up to his brain. Feedback. Then I'll learn how to read it as I'm using each of my tools...
It looks like it's going to take me a long time to get it down.
The wanted man laughs up to a certain point, and then quits as the sensation keeps building. He begged instead, for the first couple weeks. Now he can smoke, or drink, eat a little something, and get drilled at the same time. I like it better than guys who laugh so much they hyperventilate or pass out. Some of them might be more ticklish... than the wanted man... but they just can't take as many consecutive hours of fun.
Good thing he's staying around. I need a few months on the same pair of feet to figure this out. Immediate reports of how strong the stimulation is. Then I can target it right, and really crank it up. Find the worst speed and pressure for each spot...
I'm had some promising hints from his upper body, too. When I can "read" his feet, I know I'll be able to read the rest of his skin.
He's in for a big shock when I do.
Lots of delightful hours... and he's too far gone to laugh anymore.
This looks like the job for - fingers. Say, three hands, on each side. I creep up -
And waste him!
He yowls and starts flailing around. Roaring for me. Wide awake.
The wonderful, excruciating, fulfilling, entertaining days slip by.
He sits in the stocks, or hangs from the wall-rack. And I pounce on him so many times I've completely lost count.
He's driven to distraction. More important, to me, is that I'm the one doing it. It is my desire to see you come unglued - so here you are. Not just overwhelmed... but overwhelmed by me.
He snores loud. I'm the only one who hears it.
It gets to me eventually. I know he needs the sleep. If I let him get as much sleep as he wants, his body adjusts. Back for more fun. Peak performance.
But it bothers me. All those hours wasted. Instead of getting tickled, he wastes so much of my time. He has to - I know that - but still I get impatient. He sleeps on and on, while I think up more fun for him.
But I can't try my new ideas yet, because he's sleeping.
I get resentful. Wake up, dammit.
Sometimes I can't wait any more. Whether I shake him, or he finally snaps out of it... I'm sorta pissed. As if he was sleeping just to put me out.
It would probably be better if he ate, first thing after he wakes up. But by the time he yawns and looks around, pulling on that first smoke - I'm sorta angry. At him. And that means he's got to pay. Making me wait all night...
Wasting my time. It just works me up something fierce. I can hardly wait for him to smoke - some mornings, I skip the cigarette and just lay into him. Show him what I think of such laziness.
He works hard, the first few hours, taking the heat of my wrath. Making up for all that lost time.
When I take his cigarette away, he starts shaking his head frantically. Oh no -
I get six gloves up and move 'em in. Oh yes. Wrong again. Just watch...
All those fingers. Plundering his armpits. His belly.
He throws himself around, tense and frantic.
Poor wanted man. Just undone by a half-dozen busy hands, tickling and tickling. So many hours yet to go before I let him sleep, and it's so hard...
He tries to twist. Yelp for me. Squeal your little heart out.
The hands are rubbing and stroking and it feels so good it just makes him want to scream - laughter.
Try harder, wanted man. Give it your best shot. Too bad his voice is gone...
If he could just make some noise, maybe this wouldn't be so excruciating. The tickling might be a little easier to take. Just a little. How can I know how bad it is, how impossibly intense this fierce tickling is, if he doesn't tell me?
No more hoots and howls and chuckles. He's just got to live through it anyway. Every nerve-wracking second.
All of my fingers are just driving him nuts and they've been driving him nuts for so long and they're not going to stop or ease off or let him go for a long time, because they're going to keep tickling him.
Laughing... so hard he cries.
I keep the gloves moving at a brisk clip.
A sigh, each time he wakes. Resigned sigh. I don't know if I've ever seen a dude grasp the certainty of my agenda this thoroughly before.
He's not as wild as some I remember - but he can take any and all tickling I throw at him. A hard day, a couple hours of sleep, and I nudge him until he wakes up - and then, he heaves that wonderful sigh. Fuck. It's gonna tickle me some more. No two ways about it.
I make sure he catches up on his sleep, at least every couple days. With no cues from the outside, he follows his own natural rhythm. When I let him. And every time he comes around, fully rested, it's a new "morning" for him. Again. Eleven or twelve hours later, he sleeps...
The schedule is laid-back and loose. It fits him. He's giving me more ideas than I know what to do with. He's a rainy-season kind of captive - a guy I can lay into all winter, as many hours as I want, and get him more ticklish at a calm, almost dreamlike pace. Slow but sure. Very sure.
Good thing he's not the type that needs any intellectual stimulation. We can really lean on the tactile stimulation instead...
Wanted man.
There oughta be a law. Indecent sensitivity. Suspicion of ticklishness.
He's disarmed and extremely dangerous... or should I say, dangerously sensitive. Criminally likely to get hysterical and stay that way.
It's growing on him. I can see it in his face. No more anguished grimaces - not anything like the first week. I'm giving him way, way too much of a good thing. That's clear. And even now he wouldn't choose to lay around for ten hours straight, every day. Laughing his guts out. Not that he can stop me...
He's got about ten places that make him smile real big, and chortle happily. The difference is obvious in his face, his body, the way he hoots. He's liking it more.
A discovery like that makes it necessary to keep him around a lot longer. It's irresistible.
If he's visibly liking it, for the first hour... it's all the more exciting to keep stroking on. I don't really care if he wants a break. I want it to be fun and intolerable. If an hour sounds bearable to him... six months sounds a whole lot better - to me.
Since I'm keeping the door locked, I think he'll go along.
The alcohol helps. Hey, it's time to get drunk. Again. Chug it...
And I take the bottle away too soon, so far as he's concerned. He's looking to pass out. Cheat me out of a couple hours of fun.
But I'm on to him. No more than three good belts. He watches the bottle float away. Foiled again.
Halfway through his next smoke, the booze is on my side. Working two ways - it gets into all those cells that might be slacking off. Turn 'em all on. Get 'em ready for me.
Even better... he's a happy drunk. Combine that with a determined effort to bury him with more happiness than he can stand, and he grins like a thief. No despair in that face. None at all. Just glee.
Yeah, I'm winning him over. Making it fun for him, too. Gut-wrenching fun.
He might as well get used to it. I've got ideas just lined up and waiting. It's going to be chaos.
I keep him up all night. Tickling in the new year.
He's adapted so well. Ten, eleven, twelve hours, every day. Not counting breaks.
Ejaculating a couple times - or three, if I wake him up for night games. Becoming more sensitive, each time. Putting me to the test after that third load. So unbelievably hammered by the impact...
He thrives on a workout that keeps increasing. Never needs a day off.
The wanted man can't do a thing to defy me. Bound, all the time. He can't ignore me, or trick me, or convince me to let him go.
No right moves. No wrong moves. No goals. No retribution. No due date. No information to extract. No initiation. No pretense. Nothing to learn or prove.
Just more fun than he can stand.
The rain falls like it's never going to stop.
And more ideas keep coming the same way.
It's his own fault. Lying there, sleeping. I have all those hours to kill until he's up for more fun.
His legal predicament naturally gets me thinking about an old fantasy of mine - only with him as the star...
The man has been framed. He's going to prison anyway - until the bus rolls over.
A conveniently timed train rips it apart.
Ready to burst from the adrenaline, he makes a run for it. Dark mountain road, blinding rain...
And, impossibly, when he rounds a muddy turn... there sits a new black van.
The door isn't locked. Keys in the ignition. He hesitates, for just a few seconds...
Closes the door. Dripping hair - just like a wet dog - he reaches for the keys. So close to escaping his bleak fate. So close!
But he just has to look, behind him, to make sure the owner isn't there in the cargo compartment -
He freezes, looking at all the straps and cuffs. At gloves, starting to reach for him!
Of course, the doors refuse to open. And I slowly drag him into the web of restraints...
When his tickling is properly underway, the van starts up. Taking him to the shelter of a collapsing barn, many miles away.
And there he laughs for his freedom.
I really enjoy the next few days. Psychotically amusing. Then I downshift until his voice is nice and strong.
Parking the van near the back door of the police station, I open the rear doors. It's the first time since he hopped in that he's seen a door open.
He lifts his head, and takes in the view. All he has to do is yell for help, and his tickling will be over...
The rest of his life, rotting in prison. Undeserved. But I have another option.
So I give him a couple agonizing minutes to consider his dilemma... before I start tickling again. Gently. Full of menace. Call the police over, or else.
And five long minutes more, to chuckle and squirm - still able to escape me! Just by yelling. Oh, they'll get him out of my clutches. Won't they? He's thinking hard, looking from the building, to my gloves, to the building again...
He doesn't yell, though it's clear he wants to. His choice is made.
So I close the van doors slowly - so slowly - and drive him off. A long, delirious getaway...
Wouldn't that be great, I keep thinking to myself.
To have a guy choose to remain my captive. For a long fuckin' time. Knowing real well how much I love to tickle him, and deciding that's his best option.
Sure, it's a setup. When there's no way he's gonna duck out one minute before I allow him, it's a risk to make the offer.
Not that I couldn't renege and haul his ass back inside anyway. Sorry, you lose. Lots more tickling ahead. I've done it before, tacking on another week or two...
But I'm thinking about my own fun. If I made him an honest offer - okay, you can go, and good luck in the pen... What a rush it would be, if he sticks around. Voluntarily!
I'd have me a volunteer. Why, the tickling would have to be much more barbaric, if he's decided to stay my captive. Somebody chooses to step back into my dungeon, I'm not going to waste their time.
I mean, if he's fucked anyway - if I'm just gonna cuff him down ten minutes later and dig in, as if the whole opportunity never existed... well, actually, that would be okay too.
But where's the suspense in that?
I keep him wondering. After I found out he was a real sensitive fucker, and he wasn't going to get pneumonia or just totally freak out on me, there weren't any big surprises left. For me. All the suspense is up to me. From me to him.
Now, if I was ready to let him walk... and he didn't...
It's almost like him thinking, hey, the alternative is so much worse than the tickling...
Just let me... hide here, okay? Leave me alone. You had your fun. All winter. I can't take any more - just...
Please. Don't -
Can't you just let me...
No?
Please? C'mon. You had me strapped down for months.
If I stay, you're - gonna... tickle me. Again. Aren't you?
More tickling...
What? That much more? Are you crazy?
You wouldn't.
You don't mean... another year. You can't be serious.
That's the deal?
But I can't go...
Fuck. You know I can't... No choice. You're loving this, aren't you? I can't fuckin' believe it...
I can't take any more. The tickling. I just can't. Horny, all the time.
Just let me sleep in my car. No more... tickling...
No? Why not? You won't let me. Well, of course. Drag me back in here. And you'll lock the door. Major tickling action, huh. Pull me out of my car.
Another year...
I can't get on the highway. I don't have a chance.
Shit...
No - please, you got me already. I've been out of my mind with it, for so long, getting -
No. I can't.
But I won't last two days, in the joint. Dammit...
Can't believe this!
I'm trapped. Son of a bitch.
I can't risk it.
Alright. I'll, uh - I'll... stay.
You got that? I'm staying. Even though...
I can't take it anymore! I... You can't, you just can't tickle me any mo-
But you will. Won't you? I know you will. That's the price. I can hide out, here. But you're gonna tickle me some more. Oh, shit.
A lot more. Gonna make sure I don't run off, like, too soon. It's torture -
But you know that. Don't you. And you're gonna lock me up again.
Screwed, either way.
Well, you win. You got me. Go ahead. Dig in. Lock me up.
Get your fuckin' gloves out. And the oil -
Oh, shit! I'm stuck.
Stuck here. You wanna tickle me, I'm all yours. Months and more months.
Bring it on. Dig in. Do your worst. I'm here to get - tickled. Right? Whatever you want. The way you tickle. The cuffs - that collar. Shit, it's gonna be... intense. Nothing I can do.
That's what it would be like.
I want to close the door and lock it again, while he watches! With his... permission? By popular request? Knowing he really could be driving back down to the highway, never to be tickled here again -
But no. He wants to be here - on my terms - more than he wants to go. Wow. That would be like... throwing away the rulebook, or something.
Especially with a guy who's learning to like it. The tickling. My kind of tickling.
Mighty growls of pure frustration. Teeth clenched, rigid grin.
I love it. Every time I think I've got him to the point where he can't be any more unhinged, he proves me wrong.
My brushes lay into endlessly sensitive playgrounds. His knees, his nipples. All around his neck.
He's beyond frantic. Too tired to stay tensed up, too worn out to squirm around, dripping oily sweat... excited for too many consecutive hours. His second cum-shot is certainly overdue, from the look of things.
I've got his wrists caught behind his back, perfectly frozen where they are. None of that useless wiggling allowed by my wide cuffs. Same with his ankles. He has no chance of interrupting the action.
He's going to sit right here and take another five hours of the most vigorous tickling I can give him... Straining to laugh harder, and harder, until he can't keep his eyes open. And tomorrow will be just as intense. Maybe even more exciting.
Well well well.
I find something out. It's the damnedest thing.
He's not wanted anymore... except by me.
Of all things, his buddy confessed. The guy he worked with. The one who really did the deed.
Obviously, that wasn't something he expected, was it? He fled the state.
I checked it four times before I could even believe it. But it's true. He's off the hook... well, as far as the cops are concerned. He can go back to Oregon any time he wants.
After I'm through with him.
Duh. We've got a lot of rainy days to get through. He's goin' nowhere fast.
But the irony is terrific. No way he would've been sitting there, at the coffee shop - landing in my sights - if it wasn't for the APB. A couple times a day he's still looking over at the copy of it, taped up there on the wall for him.
He doesn't know it's been called off.
He still thinks he's wanted. I know he's not.
I'm going to use this to really fuck with his head. Just haven't figured out how yet.
I pick him up a box of the most expensive cigars I can find. Time to celebrate.
As soon as he sees 'em, he's thinking hard. But he doesn't have a clue.
And I can use that.
On to Part 2
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