By Matt
“Laaadies. How’s it goin’?”
Brad flashed his killer smile and hoped for the best. The one on the right was fuckin’ hot.
They kept walking, though, glancing over at him and snickering to themselves.
Fuck ’em. No big deal – plenty more where they came from. Like this one here. Hot damn!
“Man… whoooee!”‘ She cut her eyes at him, obviously interested. Giving him that I’ll-be-walking-back-this-way-in-a-few-minutes look, she sauntered right on by.
Brad loved the beach. For a thousand bikini-clad reasons. And the girls drooled over him too, no doubt about it. Even on a beach covered with beautiful people, that body of his would catch anyone’s eye. Brad could sit for hours – and did – calmly looking over his sunglasses and flashing a coy smile when he needed to. Flexing his abs. Waiting for the chicks to come to him.
The ladies didn’t have to know how he got a body like that. All that pulling and struggling and fighting, days turning into weeks and months. All that mattered now was getting one of these beauties to notice him. And after that, well…
Brad had sorely missed the beach these last seven months.
At first, his parents thought he was just going through typical teenage rebellion. Skipping town for the weekend, or disappearing for a month during the summer. Coming back with a tattoo, looking like he’d been run over by twelve dump trucks. Seventeen-year-olds did that sort of thing, right?
Those years belonged to Bandit. It had such fun with him.
Halfway through Brad’s first semester at college (his mother wouldn’t have dreamed of having a son with no degree) Bandit carried him down to the basement of a building the university didn’t use anymore. When he emerged six weeks later, he’d missed finals completely.
Bandit outdid itself that time – a month and a half of skilled upper body work. Brad always shuddered when he remembered it. One whole week, devoted just to his armpits! His neck got two days. Grueling…
But afterwards, there was always the beach to look forward to. Brad could always count on at least a month of rest before it caught him again – a month to work on his tan, show off his body, and fuck his brains out. And that he did.
All right! The chick from earlier was coming this way. He knew she’d be back.
Brad looked down at his flip flops. He hadn’t known that New York designers even made flip flops, but here they were – compliments of a phantom tickler. Same with his hundred-dollar swim trunks. Hell, the same with everything he had. His apartment, his credit card, his car… everything was taken care of. Always had been, since he flunked out of school. His mom figured he was dealing drugs, but she couldn’t prove it.
Exhausting months of fingering in exchange for a few weeks of paradise. That was the deal. Right now, as he watched the little bombshell make her way toward him, all those endless nights of suffering seemed worth it.
She was great fun. More aggressive than most – which was a real treat – and she really got into his body. He loved when she clawed her fingernails across the rock hard curves of his stomach…
As an added bonus, she knew when it was time to go. No cuddling into the wee hours, “let’s see each other again” bullshit. She knew the drill – Brad wouldn’t be calling, and neither would she. They’d had a good time, and that was that. She hadn’t been out the door ten minutes before Brad had forgotten her name.
He picked up his brand new watch from the dresser and checked the time. It was four-something. Plenty of time to catch a few hours of sleep and do it all over again, if he was lucky.
There was a full-length mirror in the corner of his bedroom, and Brad couldn’t resist the urge to admire himself one last time before bed. He stood in awe. Finding it impossible to believe that there was a chick on the planet who didn’t want to fuck him.
As he stared mesmerized by his own reflection, something like a n enormous hand clamped hard over his mouth. A rowdy pack of invisible gloves took hold of his shoulders, legs… and slammed him down on the bed, pinning him there.
What the fuck!
Brad felt pressure on his wrists and heard the sound of handcuffs snapping into place, just a little too tight. Canvas straps were wrapping around his ankles.
It all happened so fast. He barely had time to let out a grunt in protest.
Not time… he tried to yell. Bandit! It’s only been a fuckin’ week! All that came out, though, was a tremulous high-pitched yelp. Once the hood slid over his head, screaming became pretty damn pointless.
This was not Bandit. No question… it had never used anything as crude as a leather hood. If only his hands were free… he could point to the tattoo on his shoulder – the one Bandit gave him when he was seventeen. It was supposed to protect him from the others…
Brad squirmed and threw himself around as best he could, but it was more out of furious disbelief than anything else. It just wasn’t fair! He didn’t get a fair break! Bandit had never been so rough with him, not like this. Tossing him around like a piece of meat!
He smelled something funny-a chemical smell-and then his body went limp.
When he came to, the only thing that mattered at first was his throbbing head. It felt worse than even his most extreme hangover, but the pain was receding quickly.
The ground was moving, shaking… and he realized finally that he was in the back of a van. He’d been untied and the hood and handcuffs were gone, thankfully, but the carpet that lined the floor of the van stank like an old sweaty high school weight room.
He was still wearing his boxers, which was pretty damn amazing.
Pulling himself up, Brad squinted at the large back window. The headlights of other cars were like high-powered lasers searing into his brain, and he could only manage to look out for a few seconds. He did notice that there were still stars in the night sky, so he hadn’t been unconscious for very long.
The very idea of having chloroform used on him…it was just unthinkable.
Lying back down on the filthy carpet, Brad wondered why it had left the window uncovered. Other cars could see him, right? If he tried to bang on the window and get their attention? But that would be suicidal, and he knew it. If he tried anything that even looked like an escape attempt, it would probably just hold his face down against this piss-stained carpet for the duration of the trip. And later, punishment was likely to be severe.
Although he knew otherwise, Brad prayed that this was just Bandit’s way of throwing him a curve. He knew there were hundreds, maybe even thousands of other ticklers out there, hunting, but his tat had always protected him before.
A couple of other ticklers had been given the privilege of enjoying a riotous weekend with him, a couple years ago, but otherwise he was strictly Bandit’s pet. And it had never attempted such a violent capture. The game of hunting was something it relished, and it always found some ingenious way to lure Brad into the cell it had prepared. The last few times, he’d just walked right in…
Brad racked his brain, trying to remember the other ticklers. Pincer – was that its name? – it had a fucking love affair with his feet. If this was Pincer, no question he’d be in the stocks right now. It didn’t waste time.
And Dux. That was the other one… but it couldn’t have kept quiet this long. No fucking way, not for hours on end. Brad remembered the few days he spent with it, whispering into his ear the whole time. Feathers crawling all over him…
The van took a sharp turn all of a sudden, and Brad had to use both hands to brace himself. They were speeding down a gravel road, from the sound of it.
He was still so damn furious. In a few hours the sun would be up, and he could have been back on the beach. Back on the prowl – but now, well… he knew exactly where he was going, and why. And how many months it would last was anybody’s guess.
The brakes squeaked and the van slid to a stop. When the back door slowly creaked open, all Brad could see was darkness.
A hand pressed down on his shoulder, guiding him along. As he was about to climb out, he looked down and saw his designer flip flops on the gravel, waiting for him.
“Gotta have those,” Brad grumbled, “don’t we? Gotta protect these feet.”
The hand just squeezed a little harder. Shut up and get out was the clear message.
Brad walked around the van and stared at his new home. A one-story cinderblock building, simple enough on the outside. Boarded up. Abandoned, apparently, until now.
The hand guided him up the concrete front steps. When the door opened, Brad expected the worst…
“Holy shit! Sweet!!”
He couldn’t believe his eyes. Leather furniture, huge TV, the coolest video games – one title grabbed his eye that wasn’t even on the market yet. All of his favorite things – and, better yet, not a rack or set of stocks in sight.
Although he was smart enough to realize that this was no pleasure trip, Brad couldn’t have been happier with the accommodations. A guy could get pretty sick of staring at the grimy walls of a college basement…
The hand let go of his shoulder. If it wanted to start hearing some wild laughter, now was the time. He winced, expecting gloves to land any second – but nothing happened.
Brad just shrugged his shoulders and sat down on the overstuffed couch, grabbing the remote. He remembered well how Bandit fucked with his head one time by hooking him up with 150 channels of nothing but gay porn. Or, just as disturbing, endless footage of guys strapped down, getting the absolute fuck tickled out of them.
He held his breath and squeezed the red button…
Awesome – just regular stuff. Satellite channels, actually. He could seriously get used to this.
“Aaarrrhaahaw haw haw nooooooohohoooo…”
His head swiveled around. That laughter hadn’t come from the TV. A recording, maybe? He calmly found the mute button.
“Pleeeeaaaahhheehee…aww no no nohoho…”
The cackling was coming from another part of the building. Well muffled, but the shrieks were violently loud and easily carried through the walls and doors. The voice sounded young…
Brad swallowed slowly and stared at the football game on the screen, his face fixed like stone.
He’d always known that there were others. There had to be. Others like him, getting hauled off and tortured. As eager as Bandit had been in those early days, there was no way it was just flying off to Tahiti during Brad’s month-long breaks. He knew it had to be catching other guys. But frankly, Brad didn’t give a shit. If it wasn’t him, suffering night after night, he was happy.
He certainly had never encountered another victim before, not like this. He’d come close, once – locking eyes with the dude who was changing the oil in his brand new Porsche. One his favorite Bandit-gifts…
They checked out each others tats, knowingly, and the guy gave Brad this look.
You’re one of us! You too!
Brad hated that. He avoided that gas station like the plague from then on.
“Awwnooooo…not that agaaahahaaw…”
The voice was ragged. Totally deranged and completely exhausted. Brad knew how his own laughter sounded after the eighth hour, or the twelfth…
He looked around, but there were no gloves coming for him. No visible gloves, at least. Nothing suspicious. The front door was closed, and undoubtedly dead bolted half a dozen times.
Well, what the fuck? If gloves showed up and dragged him off, so be it. Brad squeezed the remote so hard the plastic squeaked, trying to think rationally. At this point, there wasn’t shit he could do for whoever was in that other room. No one knew better than he did how fucking strong a tickler could be.
Brad hit the mute button again and flipped channels nervously. Increased the volume.
In other news, Democrats have accused President Bush…
“Jeeeheheheesus… lemme go hohoho… awwfuckfuck my toes… not waaaaheeheeheee…”
Bond… James Bond.
“Nuh no nuh huh haaaaaaa…”
The TV couldn’t drown it out, so Brad finally turned it off. His heart was ready to leap out of his chest by now, but that was just a reflex. Being this close to a tickler, knowing why it brought him here…
The other guy suddenly let out the most intense scream of laughter yet, absolutely crazed. Then he just panted after that, chuckling occasionally. Brad knew the feeling… laughing even when the fingers had pulled off, nerve endings still firing away.
Hope you enjoyed your orgasm, Brad thought. Fucker. The worst part is coming right up… He braced his ears for the wide-open screaming laughter, when it laid into the guy post-climax.
But nothing happened. Just an eerie quiet.
Brad knitted his brow and wondered how the asshole had gotten off so lucky. When it finally let him shoot – usually after keeping him on edge for days – the tickling right afterward was ferocious…
He heard metal hitting the floor in the other room. The other guy started moaning.
“Lucky fucker,” Brad muttered to himself. It’s cutting him loose already. Realizing that it was probably his turn to howl, Brad felt a chill run through him. He could hear doors opening.
“Oh, shit…”
And yet the gloves still held back.
The other guy shuffled into the living room. He was naked, oil and sweat shining all over him… Somehow he found the energy to put one foot in front of the other.
Brad was amazed to see no tattoos at all – just red blotches along his ribs, covering his sides, which stood out against his pale skin. The fresh tracks of so many gloves.
He stopped walking when he finally noticed Brad sitting there, staring up at him.
Shocked disbelief was plastered all over his face – that, mixed with more than a little hope. If this stranger wasn’t here to help with the torture, then maybe he’d come to save him. Help him break out of here…
The boy tried to speak, but his voice was long gone.
“Which one is it?” Brad asked impatiently. “Pincer, or Dux? That’s what I wanna know. Which fucking tickler is it?”
“They… they have names?” the boy whispered, trying to swallow and grimacing painfully.
Brad had about fifty smartass responses to that, but he bit his tongue. There was something in the boy’s eyes that he recognized, from long ago. The sheer bewilderment, the confusion… it had been years, but he remembered feeling like that. When Bandit first held him down in his own bed, late one night…
He was fifteen. Sheer terror had weighed him down like a lead apron-until its invisible fingers started tracing his ribs, one by one.
Brad remembered what it was like, hearing his own forced laughter ringing through his bedroom. Wondering why his parents didn’t come rushing in to save him…
Brad took a deep breath and tried to muster a little compassion for once.
“Have a seat, man. Let’s start with your name first.”
“Josh,” he croaked, collapsing on an oversized leather chair. “Get me outta here.”
“Great idea. Too bad it ain’t happening.”
“Wh- what is it?” Josh looked around nervously, as if the tickler couldn’t hear them. As if it weren’t hovering all around them, probably, ready to strike…
“How long you been here, Josh?”
He leaned his head back and left a grease spot on the leather. Letting his eyes slide shut. “A month? Shit, I dunno.”
“First time?”
“Third,” he said miserably. “Third fucking time.”
Brad wanted to gloat about how he’d lost count years ago, but he realized that it wasn’t really anything to be proud of.
Josh reached up and tried to wipe the sweat off his face with the back of his hand. It was running into his eyes, and his hand was trembling.
“Here, lemme get you something.” Brad got up and walked into the kitchen. Hand towels were stacked neatly on the counter, perfectly folded. He grabbed one and handed it to the boy.
But when Josh tried to lift the towel to wipe his face, his arm started quivering with fatigue and he simply gave up. Way too tired. A bead of sweat collected on the end of his nose and just stayed there.
Brad had to wonder if he looked this bad after a tough round. Josh seemed so beaten.
“Let me help you, man.”
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it…”
“No, really. Believe me, I understand how it is.”
He took one of the towels and wiped Josh’s face clean, as gently as he could. Sweat was rolling down his neck, and Brad managed to blot it dry without provoking the sensitive skin there.
“Thanks…” Josh looked down toward the floor, embarrassed.
For the next minute or so neither of them knew quite what to say.
“Why did it get you too? Bring you here…”
To tickle the fuck out of me, that’s why. So it could have fun watching us both suffer… He knew that was the unvarnished truth. But seeing the look on the young man’s puzzled face, Brad couldn’t bring himself to say it. The poor guy had experienced enough cruelty for one day.
“I don’t know, Josh,” he sighed. “It does what it wants. They do what they want.”
“Fuck,” Josh squealed all of a sudden. “Why me? Why did it pick me?”
“Well,” Brad said with a friendly smirk, “don’t take it personally. It doesn’t like us, so much as it likes – well, you know. Our feet…ribs…”
“Armpits,” Josh laughed.
“Yeah, them too.” Josh rolled his head over toward Brad and cracked a smile. Although he would never have said it out loud, he was so grateful to smile without being forced to.
“It leaves me alone during the day… mostly.” Josh’s speech was labored, but he was slowly regaining his strength. Brad remembered those teenage years, when he could take pretty much anything Bandit could throw at him.
With a little help and a few more towels, Josh had removed most of the oily evidence of the night before.
“I used to love those fuckin’ video games, man. But it’s pretty impossible to enjoy shit like that when you know… when you know what it’s…”
“Planning,” Brad mumbled.
“Exactly. It’s all I can think about anymore.”
The two of them spent a long while just in silence, sitting there in the tickler’s obscenely comfortable living room. Josh caught some much needed sleep when he could, but every so often Brad would catch him staring. Staring at Brad with a gaze that seemed to conceal something important.
Suddenly Josh sat up with a start, wide-eyed. He had the most horrified look on his face…
“It’s coming… it’s coming,” he blurted out in a silent scream, ready to cry from fear.
Brad looked around, but saw nothing. He couldn’t hear anything…
“Oh fuck, Brad, you gotta get us outta here, please.”
“Jesus, just try to calm dowmmmhmmmmfff…”
A hand closed over his mouth, just like the moment when he was first caught. Hands wrapped around his arms and legs, lifting him up off the couch and into the air with terrifying ease.
“Mmmmhmmmm ffuck… son of a bitch…” The hand had inexplicably let go of his mouth, and Brad just dangled there in the middle of the room, looking down at his petrified cellmate.
“Guess I’ll…see you… later…”
“Leave him alone,” Josh screeched, struggling to his feet. “Goddammit, let him go!!!”
Brad was flabbergasted. The boy’s mouth was trembling with anger, and although his body was weak there was an absolute fire in his eyes. Pure rage.
“Let… him…go.”
From the far end of the room, a glove took center stage – a single glove, made of polished black leather. Impossibly seamless… Brad started whining at the sight of it. Fuck, he hated leather.
With an inhumanly fluid grace, the glove first pointed slowly at Josh, then violently stabbed its index finger toward the back room. It turned its palm upward in a gesture that couldn’t be clearer. If he stays here, you go back the fuck in there. Your choice.
Brad was panting loudly now, still not totally convinced that the glove wasn’t about to latch onto his ribs, along with a thousand others. But Josh still looked up at it defiantly.
“Go ahead,” he snarled. “Take me.”
It was too much for Brad to comprehend. Volunteering… for this? He would never have taken anybody’s place, not in a million years! He couldn’t decide whether Josh was brave, or stupid, or noble – all he could do at the moment was gape at the tickler and its victim, facing off.
The black glove moved toward Josh and patted him on the head affectionately.
And the rest of the invisible gloves took hold of both men, carrying them toward the back room kicking and screaming.
Brad had always fought like an animal when he was caught, but he’d never meant it more than now. He yelled and cursed and hollered… but it was mostly his wounded ego talking. There was never any question who was in charge here – not even for a moment.
It carried them both into the cell and slammed the metal door.
The room where Josh had already spent so many unbearable, endless, feverish nights was now ready for two occupants.
Padded racks were set up on either side of the narrow room, facing each other – just a couple of yards apart. The rest of the room was lined with shelves and boxes. Restraints of all sizes, gags, blindfolds, hoods… as well as a thousand different brushes and an infinite array of feathers. Tiny, delicate feathers that were most effective when they were used a hundred at a time – and large, stiff ones designed to annihilate the sensitive skin between toes. Or the base of the neck. Nipples.
Bottles of oil lined one whole shelf, and Brad saw a few gallon jugs stacked in one corner. Empty.
It ripped Brad’s designer boxers to shreds and held him down on his rack. Wide cuffs caught his wrists and ankles in an instant, and he could only watch, powerless, as straps wove through the cuffs in a thousand directions. It paid special attention to hobbling his thighs, waist, biceps…
A few minutes later, he was held tighter than ever before. He tried unsuccessfully to move back and forth-even just an inch-but the straps refused to allow even the slightest movement.
“Umm… Bandit? C’mon… please let it be you.” For once, he wanted to hear that deep baritone voice, cooing at him. Threatening him. At least then he’d know what to expect. Then he’d know for sure that all this was just a terrible, sadistic joke.
Josh, on the other hand, stared blankly at the ceiling while he was restrained, his face still flushed with anger. The weeks he’d spent in this room had taught him how futile it was to struggle. There was no delaying the inevitable.
Both their racks started tilting until they were close to a forty-five degree angle. The padding was thick under their heads, and they had no choice but to stare at each other. Waiting for it to begin.
Brad wanted to say something – but what? Gee, doesn’t this just suck? Or, Gosh, looks like we’re about to get the shit tickled out of us. He was no good at words.
Eventually he locked eyes with Josh for what seemed like an eternity, communicating what words could not. Fear, dread, apprehension… Brad had never felt quite that doomed before, and then knowing that another human being was feeling precisely the same way…
“I tried, man,” Josh said. “I really tried…”
Brad just thanked him with a nod.
Gloves floated off a top shelf, filling up. Black satin, this time. Brad slammed back – or tried to, just out of reflex. He barely strained the straps at all.
The gloves didn’t move slowly, nor quickly. They weren’t putting on a show for anyone’s benefit. They didn’t fly down in groups, or spin around playfully. They didn’t gesture – something Bandit loved to do, just to force a quick laugh out of Brad before they even started tickling. They just split up and moved toward their targets. Unstoppable. Invincible.
They began by squeezing Brad’s thighs. Hips.
Deep, devastating probing that overwhelmed him in an instant. He begged furiously – God, did he ever – knowing full well how useless it was. He quickly lost the ability to form actual words, but the intent was clear enough. It was excruciating, and it had to stop. Had to had to had to…
With a leisurely crawl, more gloves worked their way up his midsection. Caressing every rib – and every spot along the length of each rib – taking stock. Sizing him up.
Brad fucking lost it.
The gloves had him whooping his guts out from the start, but soon even his anguished cackling didn’t help anymore. The sensation cutting through him had turned laughter into a measly reflex that did little good.
Brad was used to a tickler eventually backing off after the initial attack, making it possible for him to chuckle like a maniac and let off some steam. But this was so completely different. This fucker was a genius. A tickling virtuoso.
It wasn’t that it ignored his reactions completely – when he squealed louder or begged more furiously, the gloves turned even meaner. It was obviously eager to exploit the particular weakness it had uncovered, and anxious to take advantage of a technique that worked particularly well. But the noise Brad was making wasn’t the point. It wasn’t after fireworks, or any sound at all, really.
It just needed him to suffer. And Brad was suffering as hard as he could.
Satin slid around the underside of his ribcage at precisely the same time other gloves ventured higher, up by his nipples… and it was a million times worse than the most impossible tickling he could imagine.
When fingers finally made it into his armpits, time stopped.
Why would he volunteer for this? Brad thought wildly – until a pair of gloves started squeezing his sides again. Optimal pressure and flawless technique, so ingenious that he just had to watch the shiny black fingers do their work. The way they crawled along those ribs, in precisely that way… there was no way anything could be more unbearable.
He changed his mind and decided to squeal at the ceiling for a while.
“Oh.. .fuck… thank y- thank you…” He mouthed the words again and again, more grateful than he’d ever been in his life for anything. The gloves were finally lifting off.
Brad shook the hair from his face, slinging sweat, and looked across the room. He’d been too overcome to notice what Josh was going through for the past hour, but he expected to see gloves all over him too.
Josh was staring at him.
Gloves hung all around his rack, but they hadn’t been tickling him. And the genuinely sympathetic look on Josh’s face didn’t make up for the fact that the fucker was… just lying there, watching. It was so unfair.
From the far shelf, a familiar style of toe restraints were floating his way.
“No… nooohohoho…” Brad threw his head around, since that was all he could do. He looked Josh straight in the eye and gave him a look. All right, asshole. When are you gonna get your ass kicked?
Nothing changed on Josh’s face-except when he saw a bottle of oil on the move. He gritted his teeth and started breathing hard, sure that the bottle had his name on it. But when it floated to Brad’s side of the room, he just had to let out a loud sigh of relief.
It got the toe restraints in place in record time. Brad’s feet were flexed back just enough, and he had to marvel at the psychological effect of it. Having his feet caught like this – soles wide open – made him start praying that he’d just pass out when the fingers dug in. Or the brushes…
“Sorry, man…I hate those things…”
Brad looked up and saw that same irritating look on Josh’s face. The fucker had volunteered, all right, but a lot of good it did!
The gloves were drizzling oil over Brad’s toes, over the tops of his feet…
Four monstrous brushes glided off the shelf.
Josh’s feet were right there! Dammit, they weren’t gonna budge – why didn’t those brushes hook a right and make him scream for a while? Brad let out a high-pitched whine with every breath… as the brushes made their choice and veered to the left. Toward his feet.
Seconds turned into hours. Staring down at his anchored feet, he’d never felt so desperate. Feeling the oil between his toes… watching the brushes, advancing… all those straps, holding him tight… the goddamn look of pity on Josh’s face –
Something gave way inside him.
“Jesus… fuck, c’mon,” Brad screamed at the top of his lungs. “Tickle him!! Tickle his feet!!”
The brushes paused at Brad’s heels, an inch from making contact – and Josh’s look of pity finally melted away.
“Yeah, pl- please,” Brad panted, “get him… look at his feet, right over there… fuckin’ ticklish as hell…”
Josh shook his head slowly in stunned amazement. A world of hurt in his eyes.
“C’mon,” Brad pleaded, more softly this time. “It’s his turn…”
The brushes lifted up and moved toward the center of the room. Seeing them move away from his feet – if only a few inches away – was a tremendous relief, but Brad knew damn well it might just be fucking with his head. Pull the brushes away, only to let them fly right back…
Josh didn’t seem angry, or even worried about the brushes that were now as close to his feet as they were to Brad’s. He just looked wounded. His whole body was sagging in his bonds, betrayed by a man he thought was his friend.
Brad refused to feel guilty. Hell no.
He didn’t really know this guy. Shit, he was supposed to be on the fucking beach right now, and because this asshole needed a tickling partner… here he was, strapped down. What loyalty did he owe some eighteen-year-old kid? It would shred them both, no matter what. Why not just try to protect yourself – save yourself?
His brain came up with more rationalizations than he knew what to do with. He wasn’t to blame. If it weren’t for these fucking straps, he’d get up and run out of here and never look back. Wouldn’t anybody?
The brushes wafted toward Josh’s feet as if a slow wind were carrying them. Inching along. In no hurry.
Brad saw the rows of shelves, lined with shit to tickle them with. All those feathers… Could he really resign the poor kid to all that, if he had the chance? Would he actually be able to just walk out and leave him here? Leave Josh to suffer in his place?
The brushes finally made contact.
Josh’s whole body went rigid. He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in air through his teeth, clearly trying to deny the tickler the satisfaction of hearing him laugh.
They stroked slowly at first, rocking back and forth along his heels. He broke a sweat instantly and his cheeks turned crimson, but there was a look of solid determination on is face. While he let out a grunt now and then, he refused to give the tickler the reinforcement it wanted. He refused to laugh for it.
A small, half-empty bottle of oil lifted off the far shelf, and Josh shook his head violently when he saw it.
“Nnnnhnn… nnhno… nopleaseplease… nnnhnhnot that…”
Brad watched the jug float up and tilt, directing the tiniest stream of oil onto Josh’s toes. As soon as the brushes began sliding over oiled skin, Josh threw his head back and roared. Oil – his old nemesis – finally had him beat.
Ragged as his voice was, Josh gave it all he had. Full-throated cackling shook his whole body. He was too tired to thrash around – not that the straps would have allowed it anyway – but his hands make tight fists above the cuffs that anchored his wrists.
Josh grinned like a maniac… consumed by the inability to feel it all.
Brad stared at the ceiling for a while, but it was impossible to tune out Josh’s breathless chuckling. The gloves had moved to his thighs, and his stomach – Brad could see the black shapes moving there even though he was trying to avert his eyes.
Josh suddenly let out an intense squeal, and Brad felt compelled to watch. The guy was absolutely blanketed by tickling. Two gloves in each armpit… three or four hounding his ribs. A few more for his feet – and his cock.
Josh looked up and their eyes met. Tears and sweat streamed down Josh’s his face and he continued to howl. No sound came out, but that didn’t matter.
I did this, Brad thought vacantly. This is all because of me.
Josh’s neck was suddenly covered with feathers. His mouth opened wide, in a long, silent scream for mercy that he knew would never come…
“Enough!! Enough,” Brad groaned. “You’ll fuckin’ kill him!”
The gloves didn’t stop, but they slowed way down. Josh rocked his head back and forth, so thankful for the respite. He panted air in and out as fast as he could.
“A guy can’t fuckin’ take it,” Brad whispered as loudly as he could. “Don’t you…you whatever the fuck you are…don’t you have a…can’t you see?”
The only gloves that were still moving were the ones that held thin, rigid feathers over Josh’s chest. They made sure the feathers continued sliding their whole length across Josh’s nipples, making him wince every single time.
“You’re gonna do what you want, but dammit, he needs a fuckin’ break!”
The feathers kept up their slow glide.
“All right,” Brad said with a low growl. “You want me to say to let him go? That what you wanna hear? Then let him go. He’s a kid, for Christ’s sake.”
Josh tried to listen to what was unfolding across the room, but the feathers demanded most of his attention. Gloves headed toward his feet again and he braced for yet another assault, watching them slide around his… cuffs?
The fingers pulled at a few of the buckles that held his ankle cuffs in place.
Josh stopped breathing. He’d been duped so many times, but he desperately wanted to believe that it was really over. All those nights…
Straps were loosened. Metal fasteners snapped open. And Josh’s right foot was free.
Brad swallowed hard, watching. He saw the hope on Josh’s face… and didn’t know what to feel. The kid had suffered for too long, but he had suffered for years!
His left foot was loose.
“Oh, God, Brad… thank you… c’mon, let us both go…”
A glove floated over to Brad and patted his ankle restraints lovingly. They weren’t going anywhere…
It took a few minutes to untie Josh completely, and he barely had the energy to crawl off his rack. In the meantime, a couple of gloves were busy across the room, polishing the chrome rings of a bizarre cock toy. Readying it for Brad…
“Go on… get out before it changes its mind.” While Brad didn’t trust the tickler for a second, he figured at least Josh might not have to suffer tonight. Maybe he’d get at least a day’s rest before it caught him again…
He’d never done anything important for anyone else before, and the feeling was new. The gloves were all around him, and Josh’s long feathers were just about to start sawing across his nipples… but somehow it seemed preferable to watching Josh get tortured. Not a kid… not a guy so young.
The door to the cell had unlocked and opened. It was now or never.
“Good luck, Brad…”
And with that, Josh walked out.
The door slammed behind him, and Brad’s agonized cries filled the air. There had to be many more than just two feathers at work now. He was positively screaming laughter.
Josh’s old jeans – the pair he’d been wearing when he was first caught – were still in a heap in the corner of the living room. His t-shirt had been ripped to shreds that first day, though…
As he struggled to pull on his jeans for the first time in weeks, hearing to the tortured laughter that echoed from the back room, the emotion he felt most vividly was fear. Fear that invisible hands would drag him back in there again – that this was all just another hoax, dreamed up for the amusement of a sadistic tickler.
Brad’s cackling went up a few notches, and Josh figured that the cock toy was in place now. He knew it well. And it knew how to use just the right feathers…the perfect oil…
He had to get out of here, although he had no earthly idea where here even was. There was still some money in his wallet, so he figured he’d be able to find a way to get home. The idea of stepping outside… feeling the sunlight and the warm summer breeze… it was almost too good to be true.
Josh didn’t know what had happened to his shoes. He searched the room desperately, and saw Brad’s flip flops – still in front of the couch where he’d left them.
With a guilty glance toward the back room, Josh tried them on. They fit perfectly.
He couldn’t wait around any longer. The tickler could change its mind and drag him back in there – he had to go…
Josh walked out the front door and saw a Ferrari parked out front. Canary yellow.
“Hi, Josh. Took you long enough.”
He spun around, but no one was there. Just a voice…
The adrenaline was pumping again already.
“You can’t see me, but I’m right here.” A hand rested on his shoulder. He was so alert that he didn’t even flinch. “You’ll end up calling me all sorts of names, but most guys call me Bandit. Pretty cool ride, huh?”
Josh just nodded, still breathing hard.
“Guess what? It’s yours. Guy who used to own it won’t be driving for a while.”
“It’s… it’s mine, what the fuck do you mean…”
“Just get in. Say, you like the beach? How’d you like to have a cool apartment right on the beach? One just opened up, and that shitty place you call home right now just won’t do.”
“You’re… you’re one of them. Aren’t you?”
The hand squeezed his shoulder a little harder.
“We’re not all barbarians, Josh. C’mon. Let’s check out your new digs.”