The light clicks on -
Dark cloth still covers his face. A hood.
A few angry grunts are heard, but he's more interested in getting enough air.
Through no visible means, the hood is tugged off.
He yells, over and over, into a dark blue bandanna tied between his teeth.
The prisoner is in his mid-twenties, short but reasonably muscular. Crew cut, grimy work clothes... and his shirt is stained with sweat due to his recent struggling.
His eyes skip around the small room, taking in the plywood over the window, mildew climbing the walls - and a scuffed, closed door. He ends up studying his wrists as he slams around, yanking over and over. They're cuffed, as are his ankles, and the restraints appear to be bolted down.
The bench that he's caught on is padded and covered with dull black leather. Try as he may, he can't pull his arms free or gain any slack to work with. Kicking isn't accomplishing anything either.
After a few minutes... something floats into view.
Two things.
Bright blue feathers.
The man recoils as if he's been slapped.
He can't take his eyes off the feathers as they cruise over his legs. His captured fists push and tug wistfully, straining to get loose.
The work boot on his right foot starts to move. He stares at it with huge, worried eyes. Eased off, it falls to the floor.
A few garbled objections are followed by full-throated yells for help. Pulling and twisting his legs doesn't free them. The gag won't budge either.
His left boot is taken off. More magic.
Shaking his head - and snapping wildly at his bonds - the man watches tension elongate the sock on his right foot. He shouts at the unseen hand, but the dirty material continues to stretch... until it springs free.
His remaining sock is removed more slowly. Despite his panic, the cuff is eased down. Taunting him. The bare skin is unveiled gradually. Unseen fingers take away the last layer of protection - and now the feathers can drive him wild.
There's no mistaking the worry on his face now. The anger is all but gone, and a distinct dread is apparent as he watches the feather approach his right foot.
He does not want to be tickled. That is obvious.
When the other feather touches his left sole, the assault begins.
The next half-hour changes his whole life.
At first he was remembering the bad times with Darrell - the sadist, three years older, and way too knowledgeable about knots. That last summer, before his brother ran off, had been grueling.
As it turns out, that was nothing. The old nightmare he'd had so many times, was up against some real competition now...
Five minutes of these feathers, on his soles - and dammit, he's just getting destroyed. This tickler understands the awful impact of keeping things slow and thorough. Beyond a doubt it was getting to know which spots were the most sensitive...
Not much more time goes by before he isn't able to think about the future anymore, or getting loose. Laughing loud enough to get somebody's attention is a stupid fantasy.
The tickler has doubled the number of feathers.
His duty is clear enough.
Nothing that he ever went through before this matters. Not the least little bit.
Each second of the sweeping, crawling feathers is now the most important thing in the world.
He's been shocked, more than once, when the sensation increases - but clearly that's going to keep slamming home, because there's always more intensity to feel. The impact keeps expanding.
Having no way to stop the tickler, he just... experiences each instant as hard as he can.
Eventually he realizes that his feet aren't getting tickled anymore. The gag has been removed too.
He pants for air, trying to remember if he was sweating this much when Darrell got at him. The only reason he's able to think at all is because his captor wanted him to catch his breath. No doubt about it. The jackass isn't anywhere near done...
He groans softly.
"Yeah," a low voice says.
"Noooooo," he begs, like some stupid reflex. Then he freezes. Did he just hear another voice? Out loud?
A camera floats up. Click.
"Why are you doing this?" he complains.
"Is that how you wanna play it? Kidnapped - wow, what a surprise..." the invisible guy chuckles. "Okay."
"Play?" He tries to twist his arms one way, then the other. "Yeah. Right."
Suddenly the camera stops moving.
"Hmmm. Maybe it's not enough play for you."
Other stuff zooms up. He squirms hopelessly, watching with horror - because yes, those are surgical gloves being opened and filled, and the big plastic tubes are squirting some kind of lubricant all over the taut fingers.
"Please," he says desperately.
But his shirt is grabbed - and ripped off.
The last pair of gloves, of four pair, unbuckle the fly of his jeans.
"Puppy-doggie's never been played with like this," the voice says. It sounds excited.
There's something very important about that nickname. He's kinda busy, though. This session is really tearing him apart.
The gloves wake up his sides and belly - well, shit, like he was completely stoned before. He hoots and cackles until his throat is raw.
It's a long, shocking fifteen minutes...
Tensing up again doesn't keep the fingers from sliding into his jeans. Grease trails are crossed by other gloves, expanded to wide stripes, rubbed way down between his thighs.
Laughter is just impossible now. Moaning is all he can do. Even after he's too far gone to arch anymore, the obscene massage is creeping down -
Joining up with the gloves that just snuck into his pant-legs.
As the fingers knead their way back up to his groin, he's seeing fireworks. Planets exploding...
It takes him a while to focus. Something is moving in front of his face.
"Water," the voice says impatiently.
"Oh," he finally whispers.
A hand lifts his head. Drinking slowly at first, then guzzling as fast as he can, his eyes count ten gloves in the air now. Oiled up and ready to tickle. Hard. As if that the last round wasn't the worst thing ever...
But he corrects himself immediately, because there's obviously no limit on the stakes here. Every new level of intensity is gonna be smashed. He's really, really doomed -
"Yeah," the voice says proudly, "this pup ain't seen nothing yet."
"Whoa," he protests, and his voice is failing already. "How did you know?"
The gloves are moving back - some to his chest, and four are going to nuke his freakin' feet.
"I'm gonna kill him," he says to the retreating water bottle.
Slowly, the gloves pause.
He dares to hope... and gets angry at himself that he's falling for that idea. So stupid! But still, what if, oh boy, oh shit yeah -
"Who?" the tickler asks.
"Darrell. he sent you. Right?"
There's a pause. "If you're trying to pull something, here, I'm gonna triple up the gloves and really punish your ass. Count on it."
"C'mon," he begs, "I don't know what the hell is going on!"
A hand slaps him. There's a long pause afterward... "Damn. You're good. I don't know why you want to be in that space... but whatever." It laughs easily. "You know what's up. I caught you - for some psychotic tickling. As long as I want."
To his horror, the gloves start to land.
"Poor little puppy-doggie bit off more than he can chew, and -"
"Why did he do this to me?" he wails. "I can't take this, really, aw hell - this is impossible. I don't know what he gave you but there's gotta be something you want more..."
He hears a disgusted snort.
"Tell the truth," the voice says. It's sounding really pissed. "Or else." He nods frantically. "This is exactly what you asked for."
"Are you out of your mind?" he blurts.
The gloves let go. All of a sudden - and though he's relieved to see 'em jump away, there's no mistaking the mood. The asshole's really pissed off. Oh, crap...
"No one is this crazy," the tickler says quietly. "Insult me like that. No guy's that suicidal -"
"I'm sorry, look, I'm really sorry, I just can't deal with how good you are, how sadistic," he babbles, pulling without hope at the restraints.
"So you just popped out with the truth." It sighs.
"Help," he says meekly. "Sorry, I'm so sorry. Uh..."
"Hang on," the tickler says.
A section of the wall swings open.
He watches a piece of paper float over.
"No way," he says, for the fourth time.
"If I find out you're running me around," it says sternly, "you're going to wish you were never born."
"I already do," he fires back. "My dirtbag brother must've written that. Nobody else ever called me 'puppy-doggie', except him - when he was tickling me. He entered your contest and signed my name. I can't believe he'd do this to me!"
"Not my contest. I get to play with the winner, sure... but it's supposed to be a volunteer."
His eyes get even wilder. "And I told you I don't know why anyone would ever ask for this shit. It wasn't me, I swear it. Couldn't you grab the second-place guy? Okay? Please?"
"I'm not going to look like a total moron," the tickler says evenly, "and go tell my buds, hey look, sorry, the winner says we've been tricked. You freaks will say anything to get out of a good tickling."
"Look, I swear - I promise I didn't write that. Hell, I've never even heard of a contest where this was the freakin' prize!"
The paper sags. "He must really hate your guts."
"Well, he sure liked tickling me. He got into S&M. You ask around the Castro, somebody's gotta know how to find him."
"Huh."
"Let me go. Please."
The tickler doesn't answer.
He closes his eyes.
This pause is a very bad sign. And I was so close, he thinks. Dammit, almost made it...
"You didn't enjoy yourself." And the paper flops a little. "Puppy-doggie, trapped and trained, the whole deal?"
"It was horrible! He wrote that as if it was my favorite memory ever," he says hopelessly. "I've never told anybody about it. Especially the week our folks were in Texas. A full-on tickling marathon. He even got his friends to come over - hey, bring him here, right now, and hand me a gun - then you'll see how much I enjoyed it. Like I'd ever write it out and wanna relive that nightmare?"
"Okay, okay."
"This is so unfair," he whines.
"Well, I can't let you go after an hour and a half," the tickler says.
That takes a few seconds to sink in.
The bastard just confirmed the worst. No way out, now...
"I don't belong here," he says. "Never asked for this."
"You've got the stamina. Deep signalling, axial rebound, cutaneous endurance - all top-notch. You weren't anywhere near worn out after one lousy week."
Gloves return to his feet.
Mouth hanging open, he manages to shake his head a few times.
"Kinda sucks," the tickler says.
Fingers are curling over his soles, pressing against the ball of each foot. Oily - maddening -
Ready to rock.
"No, no, no, no," he chants.
"Yeah, I was sorta in the mood for a volunteer. Make 'em think twice about stepping into the trap."
But I'll do, he thinks... and then he's giggling like a fool, even before the tickler starts moving the gloves again.
"Oh, well," it says, chuckling quietly.
11aug2010