Back to Part 1
So what does he have to know?
He needs a compelling reason to stick around for the summer. And this fall. Aw, what the hell - yeah. Next winter too.
I could actually get into that. He's taking it all so well. Get some good drugs for him, see how much more sensitive he gets...
That's another one - he has to become convinced I'm going to put him through his paces for a lot longer. Four lousy months? That's nothing compared to how long it'll be before I get through with him. If he stays. Decides... to stay. And the sky's the limit, from then on.
No false hopes. It's gotta be an incredibly long time before he sees that front door opening again. And I want him to regret his choice, every waking hour.
Then again, he smiles so much now, he could flip the rest of the way and really crave it. Works for me.
He has to believe the offer to let him go is valid. I think I can get that across by being nice to his car.
Wanted men are weird that way.
And I have to convince him, above all else, that leaving is going to result in getting arrested. A short, swift run, definitely ending in cops pulling their guns on him. He must be motivated to stay. That won't be easy.
I have to get him thinking that the cops still want to bring him in. A matter of pride, or something...
I spend hours thinking it over, as I watch him sleep.
How am I going to do this? Make him think running away is definitely going to end badly?
So many times - such as when I'm enjoying the staggering ticklishness after he cums - I just decide, screw it. I've got him locked away now. I'm not letting him go. Why should I? He's here, even if I don't go to all the trouble of trying to persuade him. Easier just to kick his ass. I won't need to get more food until, like, November. Booze too, and smokes. So he's staying.
I can make him choose, and then drag him back in anyway. Whether it works or not. Nail the door shut. You're really gonna get tickled now. Summer, fall, winter. Right here...
But then, I'd never know what it would feel like. To really take that risk. Watching him choose would be such a humungous thrill. He could flee, but not unless I let him. No way to get that charge from him stepping back into the trap unless the risk is real. And then, look out.
If he was back in here, after all... Why, I'd reinvent tickling. On him.
I think about it, and get outrageous on a dozen overly sensitive places. Including this magic wand. Staying on it - until he gives me a whole lot more of this big-league reaction.
If only he was... more paranoid.
Ideas come and go. I juggle various combinations, but nothing looks right. I need to make running from me a much worse prospect than staying for a long, rowdy year.
Too ambitious, maybe. So I'm trying to get used to the idea of extending his winter stay an extra month, then just cutting him loose...
But an unexpected discovery turns me around.
We had an outrageous time in January, he and I.
Supremely hard workouts on the rack, in the manacles and the stocks.
He roared and danced like he was bacon, frying in the pan. Slow kneading that barely made him chuckle before was now looking more like a... tease. Overdrive tickling, striaght ahead. There was no such thing as "too much". The guy just refused to overload.
I got him drunk, most nights. But a special treat was in order. He seemed to enjoy the cigars, so I went to get him another box...
There had to be something that would get him in the proper frame of mind. Big, bad, scary world... Nice safe torture chamber.
Swinging by the truck stop, I have a sudden inspiration. So I pick through the sleepovers of the younger truckers...
Ah-ha. Feeling bighearted, I left half of the stash there.
Fuck the cigars. He sleeps in - recovering from a monstrously long "postplay" - and I make him eat a nice breakfast. And then I unshackle his hands.
A baggie, and some rolling papers, land on his gut. He stares for awhile...
When I start poking a feather between his toes, he tenses up.... watching me bring the feather up... and tapping the weed.
Get high, or get the shit tickled out of you. Or both, obviously. But here's his chance to relax for a half-hour, before the howling starts up again.
He rolls a fat ol' joint. Smoothly. No stranger to it, I'd say.
Fifteen minutes into his toke, I start getting the equipment ready. As I move the X-bench, it scrapes on the wood floor -
And that startles him nice and big. Eyes wide open, less glazed than they were, darting around.
Well. That works for me.
After he relaxes, and takes a few more hits... I knock on the door, once. Nice and loud.
He jumps! Making a quick squeaking noise. Blinking hard.
I have to mull this over. I hand him a bottle of whiskey, and a pack of smokes...
Further testing is in order.
I get myself a little tape recorder, and make a little trip while he's sleeping.
The next time I get him high - holding the joint for him, since he's strapped down to the bed - I play a little audio. The tape player's hidden in the rafters. Fairly low volume...
A helicopter. Approaching, and flying off.
Damn - he gets restless. Looking at the ceiling. Guilty - it's all over his face.
After all, he's still wanted - last he knew. If they catch up with him, he's going to prison. Right?
I give him another joint... and bide my time. Then I hit 'play' again, for his listening pleasure.
Police car. Siren. So faint. Receding away...
That bugs him.
It takes a few long pulls of Jack Daniels to calm him down.
Even though the cops would get him out of my hands, his first reaction is... to fear them.
That's the advantage I need.
So I start getting busy, while he's asleep. Very creative.
A lot of fuckin' trouble, just to send the right message...
The more I tickle him, the more I want to tickle him. This doesn't make sense, even to me. At some point I'd expect to be thinking, okay, that's enough for now. Bring in the next target.
My fingers dance knowingly, all up and down him, making any laughter impossible. And I still wish he didn't need so much sleep. I want to tickle him all day and all night. I get impatient when he doesn't smoke fast enough, or eat fast enough. Just eager to dive in again...
Maybe it's to be expected. I've learned how to really step up the impact.
And now I can't tickle him enough.
Most of February was... busy. I expanded my search for quality weed. Made flyers and posters, and redesigned 'em until I thought they were just right.
And, of course, I had extensive fun tickling him.
March was wet. More of those countless weeks, the rain continuously pattering on the roof. But I keep him snug and dry. Still locked in - and while he bunks with me, I have red-hot plans to keep him from ever getting bored.
I picked up more cigars... and a video camera. Did some experimenting. What I wanted was going to take too long, so I grabbed more gear and threw myself into the art of editing. At least I didn't have to sync the audio...
Other than a few more sound bits, to wreck his buzz - which I began forcing on him every few days - I was going to rely on images alone. I hoped he was smart enough to fill in the blanks.
By the end of April, the work was all done. But I couldn't let him go without a fierce marathon. Just in case.
He went from bondage station to bondage station. Screaming days, sweaty nights. I added amphetamines to the vitamins he was taking.
Getting stoned every afternoon, drunk at night, chain-smoking whenever he could manage it...
And how I tickled him. I laid on his touchy spots, and outdid myself. It was as if he'd only been humoring me before. He came unraveled. I pressed him harder and harder.
More than ever, I wanted him to stick around. Damn!
The rain tapered off.
May. That made seven fiery months of satisfying torment.
But I had my sights set on twelve more.
For a few days, I ease off a little. Stick to what makes him smile the most. Lots of gentle fondling.
Drinking more, to break through that apprehension. He laughs blissfully for hours - a whole morning, once - without a single scowl appearing on his face...
I've almost got him... enjoying it.
And I don't mean light little teasing, either. He grins like... like being on fire is what he really gets into. Savage, customized stimulation. It's an enormous change from October.
If I just keep him around another month - hell, another week or two...
The frustration was enjoyable, in an obscure way. I was stalling on the big test. Maybe trying to win him over with the excitement of it all. The weather had definitely turned.
After ten hours of sleep, I give him the easiest day he's ever had with me.
His favorite things to eat, lots of booze... Fat joints. No annoying sounds to worry about.
When I strap his hands back down and oil up some surgical gloves, he starts to leer. Despite himself.
I stick with the petting he likes best.
He has two orgasms, slow and extravagant - and I don't even drill him all that hard in between.
Then he takes a nap.
When he finally yawns himself awake, I've got a real surprise waiting...
No restraints on him. None at all. First time for this, since I hauled him in here.
Cautiously, he sits up. Gets himself a smoke.
I bring over an incredible dinner. Big, juicy steak. He certainly doesn't have to be tickled into eating it...
And he's nervous. Oh, yeah. What's up with this? No cuffs? No collar? A great dinner - and the last few hours of tickling, they'd almost been... considerate. Enjoyable.
I don't think he's falling for it, but it's worth a try. He can have a good time here, if I'm so inclined. Why not stick around. For a year...
See what I can do for him.
To him.
When he finishes, I hand him a bottle.
Then, a joint.
Afterward, I bring up a pair of handcuffs...
Standing him up, I walk him into the storeroom.
He's never seen it before. I slide a case of beer out, and make him sit down. Then I close the door -
And click on the light.
Boxes. Wall-to-wall.
All for him.
Many months of food, cigarettes, whiskey...
Massage oil. Surgical gloves.
Easily enough for a year, I figure.
Lighting him a smoke, I let him look it over. Obviously there's more laid in than he had burned through already. A lot more. Obvious to me, but I could only hope he'd do some estimating.
And at last, he squints at the cigarettes. Three cases.
His lips move, and he's lost in thought. Good going.
He gulps.
I see his face fall, and he sneaks a look back at the black cardboard boxes full of booze. Real worried.
I think he gets the point - I'm ready to extend his stay. Much, much longer...
But the surprises keep coming.
Hustling him out of the storeroom, I keep him moving - right to the door.
I unbolt it, and threw it open.
The sunlight makes him cringe. First glimpse of the outside world in seven months. An early morning, not a cloud in the sky...
And just a few yards away, under a camouflage tarp - sits his car.
A big, relieved sigh oozes out of him.
He starts to move, but I hold him back. Floating a pair of slippers over, I lift one foot and then the other. There. No way I'm letting any harm come to these feet.
With a gentle push, he starts walking.
As he gets closer, I whisk the tarp off. The car is clean and shiny. Frankly, I doubt it's looked this good in years.
Flashing his keys, I unlock the car door and open it. He's eager to get behind the wheel again. Big, stoned grin.
Hands still cuffed behind him, where they'll stay. He's certainly in no shape to drive - and to make it even clearer, I bring him a new bottle of JD.
He tries to push it away, but I clamp on to his biceps... and insist.
While he watches, I bring out a carton of smokes. Drifting up from under the passenger seat. I tear it open, and get him one.
He watches all those packs land on the dash. Staring at 'em, and through the windshield... thinking treacherous thoughts. Flooring it. Getting away from me.
To prove that was a possibility, I stick the key in the ignition and turn over the engine. It fires right up, because I've been busy under the hood too.
I press the gas pedal down. He nods happily as I gun it.
Letting it drop back down to a smooth idle, I give him a few more seconds... to dream.
See? Can you believe it, wanted man? You're all set. I took good care of your car, too. It's ready to get you out of here. Fly away from the dungeon - from me.
Except... for one thing.
I pull on a leather glove, and point at the gas gauge. The needle's touching the 'E'. As in, you need gas. Right away...
When that seems to get through to him, I shut off the engine. Popping the glove compartment open, I pull out a map, and a bundle of cash. All twenties. There's another bundle just like it, still in there...
His jacket floats up from the floor. I yank open one of the outer pockets, and put the money away. His money.
Unfolding the map, I send the glove to point out a few things. A star, drawn in red ink. Then the index finger points at my dungeon, and he finally nods.
A road - and I tap the index finger at the road's end, not far to the east. Trace it to a state highway, following it the other way. West.
Then I pull a fresh joint out of his other pocket, and get him even more stoned.
His head is way back, and he's holding the smoke in. Utterly relaxed, now that his day of freedom is finally here.
This is probably the best I can do, getting him in the proper state of mind to consider the odds.
From the back seat, I bring out the evidence. So carefully doctored...
He blinks at it, and I turn it on. A camcorder.
I start playing the tape. He watches the little color screen carefully.
First, his car. Covered by the tarp.
Moving back, to give a view of my place. Where he was locked in, getting tickled.
Jumping into fast-forward, the camera flies down the long driveway. To the road.
Turning left. West. Whizzing another mile or two -
And I watch his face. Two places where I edited the tape come and go. But he doesn't react. It's sorta critical that he doesn't catch on to the way I've tweaked the video...
He sees the road - actually, a very similar patch of another road, twenty miles away, approaching the truck stop.
Similar enough to fool him, it seems. The tape leads him to believe that the truck stop is right on his way - impossible to avoid, in fact.
The camera keeps moving. Right up to the gas pumps. Zeroing in on a piece of yellow paper.
BEWARE
ARMED & DANGEROUS
Right underneath the headline, a grainy picture... of the wanted man!
A blowup of his driver's license photo, followed by his name, his birthdate. A description of his car. The license plate number.
Fugitive from justice, the flyer says. Wanted in Oregon -
The camera zooms in even closer.
And by the local police! Suspected of a series of rapes and sexual assaults.
He looks shocked.
Staring even harder...
Hitchhikers beware. This man could be the party responsible for two local kidnappings. Thought to be hiding - in the area. Possibly linked to a series of attacks in Burns...
All lies. Of course. But there they are, in bold black print.
The camera floats up to the door of the truck stop. On the wall, right there - another poster. Same thing, only... bigger.
He shakes his head, mumbling silently.
A quick pan of the parking lot shows four, count 'em, four police cars. Two different kinds. Local sheriff, state troopers.
Panning back to the poster. They all must be familiar with it, right? All those cops, as they walk in...? Or did they hang the poster themselves?
The camera retreats to the edge of the parking lot. Sitting in one place, it switches into time-lapse mode. More editing for him to study - and hopefully miss...
Cop cars.
All day long. Police coming and going. Plenty of 'em at the truck stop, even after the sun went down.
The camera goes up. Far into the air. Bird's eye view...
Darkness below. And no other gas stations.
The camera pans around, and switches back into time-lapse mode.
Dawn arrives. More slow pans. Trees, scrub-covered hills. Headlights, occasionally, on the distant highway.
The truck stop is the place to be, 'round these parts. I lower the camcorder a little, and tap the gas gauge again with the index finger of my glove.
He looks, and sighs.
No other gas. Only the truck stop - where they're watching for him, apparently. Where the cops hang out all the time, right?
I give him a bottle of water... and bring out another joint.
Afterward, I make him watch the whole tape again. When he sees all those cop cars, always there in the parking lot, he gets... restless.
What would happen, out here in the sticks, to a scumbag who raped their women?
Never mind that it isn't true - he saw the poster, right? With his picture. Posted there, for all those cops to see.
I picked my moments carefully. Taped the posters, and took them right down. But they look good.
When the video presentation ends, I open the car door and pull him to his feet.
Walking him around the back of his car - ah. He sees it right away. I'd gotten him a special present.
I made a decal for his car window. It stretches across the top of the rear window. Really eye-catching, in big neon-green letters:
FUCK 'EM ALL
His jaw drops.
I slap him on the ass, and steer him back inside.
He fights more and more, as I get him closer to the door. Finally, I pick up his jeans and wave 'em around. C'mere. Just come in and get dressed...
That seems to throw him. He's still trying to get away, but he's definitely confused. I rush him through the door -
And leave it wide open. See? You can get away.
I sit him down on the bed, and drop his clothes by his side. His jacket, too - and the camcorder, right by his leg.
Then I take the handcuffs off.
I've done all I can think of, to scare him into staying.
Now I find out how well I know him...
He's so fucked up, from the JD and the weed, I wonder if he's ever going to get his t-shirt on right. His head just won't fit through the sleeve.
When he picks up his jeans, my last surprise catches his eye.
It's the flyer.
Same as in the video. Corners torn off, as if it had been taped up somewhere. Slightly faded, puckered with rain.
He reads it over and over.
Finally he manages to light another cigarette, and get his socks on. But he's moving slowly. The look on his face isn't a happy one.
Why, dude. Aren't you glad to be leaving me?
He's definitely thinking hard... or trying to. Still polluted. He keeps glancing back at that flyer. No getting past that. As far as he knows, he's even more of a wanted man now.
On goes his jacket, and the pocket with the money gets patted. He stands up. All by himself. Not too steady, though.
He can't be thinking he's able to drive right now...
Slowly, he looks all around the dungeon. The bed, where he's spent so many delirious hours. The chains, the rack, the stocks. All standing by.
I see him shiver, nice and big.
Looking outside...
Stumbling toward the door.
he brings both arms up a little, reaching for freedom.
Well, there he goes. I've lost him. Aw, no.
Instantly, my sadness gives way to another feeling...
Fury. Run away, huh? Skip out on me? I'll show him. Drag him back to the bed, rip those clothes off and really attack his armpits. Vengeance tickling -
But I hold back. It's so incredibly hard... not to grab him. I knew the risk.
So I guess it's time to catch somebody else. Dammit. But...
Wait. He's... slowing down.
Pausing.
Just outside the door, he stands there. Staring... at his car. With that terrific attention-getter stuck on the back.
He sighs hard, and weaves - overcompensates. He's going to fall over!
But his hands go back, and he holds on to the door frame. Actually backing up a little... to park his shoulder against the wood. And then he just stands there. Staring.
Think it through, wanted man. So you get to the car... Maybe try to peel the decal off - and discover I've superglued it on. Every second of delay, you're running the risk that I'll change my mind. Reel you back in.
Are you ready to run? Leave the car, maybe, and try it on foot? Keep a sharp eye peeled for the local fuzz.
No? Then you have to gearhead it. Drive real fast. With no gas in the tank.
Apparently, you have to get gas at the truck stop - with that decal grabbing the attention of everyone who sees it. All those cop cars there, huh? And then out to the state highway...
What are your odds, wanted man?
You ready to see how justice is dished out, in these parts?
Or... maybe... do you decide you'd better lay low for a while longer?
Say, another year. With me. Packed full of tickling.
He looks around at the trees. His head drops - ever so slightly.
I'm amazed.
In front of him, I lift up his key-ring. Jingle it. Maybe two steps away, and he can grab it. Take off...
And behind him, I bring something up - closer - and make it creak softly. His head spins around -
His collar. Hovering, at neck-level. I've got it all ready, with clean new fur. The better to tickle his neck. And it's waiting here. To be worn.
He stares at it, eyes widening. But it doesn't come any closer.
And, really, this is the big moment. Only two possibilities... Grab his keys and make a run for it... or take his collar back.
Enough supplies to last him a year. Does he understand that, really? That I won't give him another opportunity to escape until next summer?
He looks back at his keys. Even more frightened, when he faces out. Thinking so hard.
All those touchy spots, known so well. And I'm so damn close to communicating with the tactile nerves! I'm sure of it. The thought of starting over with a new captive is not what I want -
A little sigh trails out of him.
And - slowly - his head drops.
I'm afraid to move.
C'mon back inside, I think hard. Turn around...
He gets himself a cigarette, and just stands there. Smoking. Looking at his car.
Twice he starts to move - forward. One time, taking a step like his feet were way too heavy. Still drunk and wobbly.
I'm really getting wound up. He's gone - no, maybe not - he is, he's just stalling, oh shit...
He springs the butt away, and gets up. Actually, standing proud. I can't stand it. Damn, I lost, and I'd really th-
Turning. He turns. Just taking one last look at the dungeon. It figures.
His right foot comes up...
And lands. Inside.
What?
Left foot. Up.
Inside!
Slowly, so he doesn't get spooked, I lower the collar. Hold it there, right in front of him. Blocking his way, but within easy reach. All he has to do is take another step - one more step, inside - and reach for it.
He swallows hard, looking at it. His fingers twitch once...
Take your collar. Stick around.
Right foot. That last step. Back inside.
I set the collar on his palm. He watches his fingers close around it. Curious, as though it was someone else's hand, trapping him for another intense year -
Still in shock, I start closing the door.
He watches it close.
And he doesn't make a break for it!
I lock him in.
Still not quite believing it... He walked back in! He chose to stay. In here.
Staying around, until next May.
Well, now I'll have to make this year really special.
I take his pack out, and get him another cigarette.
While he smokes it, I take his clothes off.
The arched rack. Yes. And twelve hours of the most insane tickling, to thank him...
I lead him over. He stands there, eyes real big. Dazed.
Without hurrying, I lay him out and tighten the cuffs. He's stretched out right.
I put his collar back on. Where it belongs. He moves his head around nervously, and stifles a chuckle or two.
When something moves past, he looks. A hammer. Big nails.
Tilting his head back, he watches me pound the nails into the door frame. Nailing it shut.
When that's finished, I unlatch the rack and rotate it. From being arched on his back, I spin him halfway. Belly pointing toward the floor. Limbs caught nicely, a strap across his beltline to hold his weight...
And while he's testing the cuffs, I get out two pieces of paper.
First, the flyer. Not the copy he already saw...
The original.
My cut-and-paste job. What I made, and copied. And posted myself, at the truck stop, just for the videotape.
After he mulls that over for a while, I drop it... and hold another page up to his face.
It's a bit cryptic, so I give him a minute or two to study it.
It's the bulletin, of course. I found in the state police office. Not the APB -
The cancellation. I underlined that word, in red ink.
Coworker indicted, awaiting trial. All charges dropped.
All charges.
He hasn't been a wanted man since... February.
When his eyes get big again - the truth dawning on him - I let the papers fall the floor. Face up, where he can glance at them again, all day long...
Quickly, I pull the tarp back over his car.
And next to his bed, I tear the APB off the wall. Cancelled. Now he's here because he chose to be. No reason to run, now... and I'll see to it that he doesn't. More tickling, coming up.
Right here, dude. Until next May.
And the sooner I get him to love it, the more fun he'll have...
I get a half-dozen gloves out, and firm 'em up.
Aw, what the hell - double that. Here come six more.
He looks at all the approaching fingers, and closes his eyes real tight.
Back to Part 1
29jan02