D_J's great story inspired me - and one taunting line really grabbed my imagination...
They went way back. Cam was twelve, or thirteen, when Pounder first came around...
He'd lay there and think, sometimes, about how different his life would've been if Pounder had just made it as far as Vancouver. But it didn't. There were enough people in Cam's town to prod its curiosity. If only the adults had been more responsive -
But back then Pounder was just learning what it could do. Kids were easier to mess with. Their thoughts must've been easier to read. It sure had learned a lot since then.
It tried out nearly everyone in school, but Cam didn't find that out until much later. Talking to them, making suggestions. There were four people that responded better than the rest.
Pounder never told him who the other two were...
But it sure got to Cam. Fuck.
He still cringed whenever he thought about that first night, when it got him in the closet. The thoughts kept coming - bizarre, irresistible, and so friendly. Wouldn't it be fun to sit in here? He kept pushing the idea away... and his limbs started to twitch. Soothing thoughts, as soon as the fear started to build, like his conscience was as happy and confident as it could be.
Late in the night, Cam had no way to stop himself from crawling into the big closet under the stairs. He thought he was cracking up, but the voice was working hard to reassure him. Sitting in the dark, unable to move or scream, begging - well, whatever it was to let him go. But Pounder was triumphant over what it had managed to do.
Maybe a week later, it forced him to go into the closet again. After a while it figured out how to lock the door itself, from the outside.
Before that night was over, it had thoroughly convinced Cam that he was conversing with something independent from him, definitely more than a hallucination...
That happened maybe once a month. It didn't scare him at all anymore. His parents never found out, as far as he knew. He'd slip into the closet and settle down pretty quickly. Pounder was full of questions, and there was no chance of getting to sleep until it let him.
It explored his brain, his memories, hopes, favorite things... and fears.
It watched Cam quite a bit, and naturally found masturbation to be extremely interesting.
That led to a bad week or two, until it figured out that he was going to have a real problem sitting through a class if it didn't let up. Pounder had started reading books, somewhere along the line - and it joked that after all, it wasn't exactly out to break Cam.
But still, Friday and Saturday nights brought a whole new meaning to the word "intense."
He pretty much got on with his life. The idea of talking to anybody about Pounder filled him with embarrassment, and anyway it wasn't really hurting him. Quite the opposite.
It was intrigued when he brought home his first adult magazine.
Smoking made no sense at all to Pounder. The first time he drank, it had a hundred questions... and he sat in the closet, or laid in bed, not having to answer out loud.
Not long after he turned fifteen, it made him walk into a band practice room. Friday afternoon, after school, just sitting there for an hour -
Cam heard footsteps.
Stump appeared in the doorway, staggering. He was the biggest bully in school. He was smoking a cigarette, which struck Cam as a daring infraction of the rules...
He stumbled inside the room, and jerked suddenly. Reaching back, for the door - which locked as soon as he'd closed it. Cam always remembered that sound.
Stump laughed uncertainly, and pulled a chair over to where Cam was sitting. He took a drag -
Suddenly, Cam wanted to smoke more than anything else.
Pounder had come to understand the appeal of it, from probing Stump...
They'd meet in the attic of Stump's garage, maybe once a week, where he'd built a crude room. His parents were never around.
Pounder made him teach Cam about cigars, and beer. Kinky magazines would be there, or a bottle of tequila - and Stump laughed along with him when they'd see what Pounder had brought. It made them almost delirious with joy, sometimes, and there wasn't a thing they could do about it.
One night, Stump proudly brought out a bag of weed.
The room began to change. It made Stump build proper walls, and a trap door that locked. He had to install the lock three or four times until it was good enough for Pounder... so it could lock them in.
One night, Cam pulled himself up the ladder and saw the foam padding everywhere.
Really, there wasn't a whole lot Stump was good at, except partying. He liked making trouble - which didn't sit well with Pounder, since it had other plans for him. But the more it tried to get him to behave, the more determined he was to raise hell.
Cam kept up appearances, and his grades were decent enough. Already he smoked better than a pack a day, just to maintain - and Pounder worked up his appetite cruelly whenever he was unable to just slip outside and have a smoke.
His mom and dad found out about that habit soon enough... but they seemed almost too calm about it. He expected a fight. Why, sure, it was okay if he smoked in his room. Very weird shit, there.
His dad did manage to have a long talk with him about drugs and sex, but Pounder stayed out of his head the whole time. He was the same old Cam, except for smoking hard throughout the lecture, and that seemed to be enough for his old man...
While Stump preferred beating the snot out of other guys more than anything else he might do to them, Pounder dug up another torment from his past.
One night after they got high, Cam stretched out on a couple more layers of foam that had been waiting for him.
Stump let out a big sigh, and got down on his knees alongside the pad.
Too late, Cam learned why the room had been soundproofed.
Before an hour had gone by, Pounder made Stump go and get some rope.
Apparently it was some kind of grand-slam, as far as Pounder was concerned. Happiness, and teasing, cranked up higher and higher... Cam, in particular, since it was obvious right away that Stump wasn't as reactive when Cam tickled him.
Canvas restraints were waiting one night. More than anything Cam wanted to turn and run... but it had him sit down on the pad and light a cigarette - taking off his own shoes, calmly, as Stump watched and chuckled.
Having Cam tickled was surprisingly addictive - that's what Pounder told him. By far the biggest thrill it had ever discovered, and the biggest frustration Pounder had was that it couldn't move feathers or glove-fingers skillfully enough to be directly tickling Cam itself.
Magazines and videos taught Stump far more about his new hobby than either of them would have believed possible, before.
Fuck, that was a long summer...
After school started again, the marathons took place only on the weekends. That seemed to be enough to satisfy Pounder. No matter how Cam begged and bargained for his freedom, it just laughed at him.
Stump got incredibly skilled at tickling Cam, right up until the night he stole a car and punched a cop.
With Stump in jail, Pounder had nobody to tickle Cam.
But it persuaded a couple guys from the golf team to fill in...
They'd greet him in the hall at school as if they hadn't been working him over two nights before. Passing a bottle around at lunchtime one day - his new ticklers had started to smoke, of course, and party - Cam interrogated one of the guys carefully. He didn't remember a thing, other than them all passing a joint around in Stump's hideaway.
It had learned a lot more about controlling people, and Pounder could make anyone forget anything.
That made Cam real nervous.
Generally, though, it didn't want Cam to forget a single minute of his hysterical suffering.
Over the next two years a string of jocks were enlisted, strutting into one real private cell or another that Pounder had made them build - cigarettes between their teeth, wild-eyed grins, loaded up with tie-down straps or boxes of lube...
After high school, Cam moved to Alberta.
He hadn't known he was going to do it, but his parents seemed pleased enough. There was some story about a really good job.
Pounder kept him stoned and drunk in a cheap hotel room for three or four days. Then his house was ready. Small, and well away from the neighbors... with a shiny new deadbolt securing the front door.
Pounder kept the fun going. Every day. It was real serious about keeping Cam hysterical now.
Skateboarders, punkers, mountain-bikers showed up, trembling with excitement, ready to laugh along with him.
The bikers were more sadistic yet, but they usually didn't have the fuckin' stamina that young construction workers could bring to the task.
When Cam was allowed outside, those excursions usually ended the same way. Wandering in a daze - until all of a sudden, maybe standing at line to buy cigarettes, the huge laborer ahead of him would turn around, with an unworldly sparkle in his eyes, and just chuckle quietly. Cam would feel the same old warm drizzling sensation in his head, because everything was just great, so perfect, not a care in the world.
Within the hour, the laborer would be tickling the fuck out of him...
The bills were always paid. Food and booze, cigarettes, video games. Cash, in his pocket, if he wanted to buy some porn videos or get a tooth filled...
A constant parade of puppet-ticklers wandered to the house for their auditions.
In a way, Cam got used to it. He just didn't think about the tickling, when it wasn't going on, and sometimes Pounder would even let him go to a concert or take a weekend trip out of town. He had to promise to come back when he said he would, which was a joke because it just reeled him back in anyway - making him whistle as he drove back for more torture.
There was a soft knock on the door.
"Oh, no," he barked, suddenly throwing himself around. The last guy had tied him too well, though... "Come on. I'm beggin' you -"
"Let's just see who it is, hmmmmm?," Pounder teased.
He stared at the door, and watched the deadbolt handle turn.
"No! Aw dammit, Pounder..."
Three guys. A metalhead, a security guard of some kind... and a dude in bicycle racing clothes. Total strangers.
"Hey, Cam!," the guard called out.
"There he is," the stoner laughed. "Alright."
Quickly, the bike rider closed the door and locked it.
"We're the entertainment committee," the stoner growled.
"Damn, it must suck to be you," the security guard sighed - picking up the electric toothbrushes again...
Cam got to go home for Christmas. That probably meant something real intense was going to follow.
But when he got back, the guy in the business suit waiting for him wasn't all that skilled, really. He only tickled Cam for a couple hours, and then sprawled out on the couch...
In the morning, he fed Cam and gave him a cigarette, talking a lot, and then he left. Apparently, Pounder made sure they forgot all about Cam being tied down in his own damn living room, as soon as the guys hit the road.
Cam dozed for a little while, on his rack, and then he pulled at the ropes for awhile without really thinking about it -
Something felt different. His right wrist.
The top knot was coming undone.
He twisted his arm a little - and it moved again.
Oh yeah, he thought, consumed with relief.
It was loose.
If he could only get his hand free...
Pounder had favorite knots. Every guy learned how to tie 'em, all of a sudden, just like they suddenly liked to smoke a lot. Quick, efficient hands, and they were all so happy to be doing it.
But finally, there was a rope - coming loose! And no one around to retighten the knot. Well, it had to happen sometime.
Today was the day. It had to be. Cam had never had an opportunity like this -
"Hey," Pounder said.
"Shut up," he hissed, concentrating on the rope. He had to keep forcing himself to slow down. Snapping frantically would just wear him out - and if his arm got too tired, he'd be stuck right there. Another night - No! Hell, not that. Here was his chance to get out of it. Twisting back and forth. Moving the outer strand a hair at a time...
He forced himself to breathe deeply. Stay calm. He needed this to work. The possibility of not being tickled anymore was here, and the need to make it happen was just maddening.
When the end of the rope stopped moving, he found a vertical motion that started loosening the next knot. It was working. One by one -
"Cam."
He jumped. Hard.
Pounder's tone was easy, almost playful. It made that "tsk tsk" noise. "Where do you think you're going? Huh?"
No, he thought. Not now. I'm getting away from you. It's gonna happen...
"You know better than that."
Or maybe not.
It could force him to lie still. Not move his arm at all, until -
Instantly, he forgot he knew that.
"Huh?," it nagged, friendly as ever.
He closed his eyes, so he wouldn't look up at the knots he'd been loosening, and fought back a whimper. It was so fuckin' unfair. He was going to get the last knot loose, pull and pull until his hand lifted up... Free his other hand, his feet, grab some clothes. And run. No more tickling, after all that time.
He had to try, at least. Oh, he fuckin' had to get away. Tears came to his eyes.
Whenever that happened - when he really felt sad - Pounder had somebody come and work him over until he laughed all the bad feelings away. Every damn time.
"Don't worry. Kevan's on his way here," it chuckled.
Fuck it. He started working on the knot again.
"He's bringing a brand new oil. A long, agonizing, tickle-filled night is in store for you."
A whine leaked out of Cam, which he couldn't really hear, because his voice was gone. But soon, he'd be away from Pounder and all the hands it controlled, and the damn brushes...
"You're don't think you're going to miss out on that. Do you?"
Staring at the rope, he noticed movement - but it wasn't the result of his efforts. Actually, it was moving in the exact wrong direction.
"No!," he wailed.
"You look so miserable. Let's see," Pounder said. "I think I can help. Let's resolve this. The opportunity is just too tantalizing... and obviously you're not thinking too clearly. Hmmmmm..."
The end of the rope moved - lifting up.
The realization hit him incredibly hard. The rope was tightening.
"No, no, no, no," he gasped.
"I guess I'm on the right track," Pounder laughed.
Slowly, the fucking rope was pulled taut.
"Kevan's going to do unbelievable things to your armpits," Pounder promised.
He shook his head once. More of a spasm -
"Count on it. But only if you're... still here."
The rope moved again. Just a little.
"And tonight's action is going to run long."
"Stop it, stop, let me g-"
There was a surprisingly forceful jerk on the rope. The knot contracted.
That shut Cam up fast.
"Yeah," it gloated. "That's the game plan. No way I'll let you miss out."
He snapped at the rope - at all the knots - wailing with frustration.
"I'm getting better, aren't I? At moving stuff. Someday..."
It was tight enough. The top rope wasn't sneaking loose now. Oh, dammit. More tickling, now. More, more, always more.
Something rattled in the kitchen. Refrigerator door -
A small white object was floating down. It was a tube.
Omniglue.
The cap fell off -
He lunged and snapped as hard as he could.
Slow and shaky, the tube drifted over the knot which had just been tightened. Drops oozed down...
Each of the knots was visited, and glued together.
"There."
Suddenly, he wanted a cigarette. Oh, hell. Enormous urge -
A pack sat right on the table. He was so close to getting up, and snatching them. Right before he ran out the door. Away from all the horrendous tickling -
One cigarette crept out.
Several matches were used to light it. Very bad aim. Maybe there was some kind of... fatigue, temporarily wearing out its ability to move stuff around, without forcing somebody's hands to do it?
But the cigarette was finally going. It landed in the ashtray. Burning down.
He writhed in the ropes, staring at it. Wanting it so fuckin' bad. Moaning...
About a half-hour later, a skinny black guy came in. Kevan. He had a key in one hand, and a brown paper bag in the other. He was whistling.
He froze in mid-step. Cocked his head, as if he was listening to somebody -
"You... really thought you were gonna get away?," he said hollowly. Whooping a few times. "Oh, fuck. There's no way to describe what it's going to be like for you, tonight."
Even though it liked having him tied up, for whatever reason... Pounder switched to cuffs and chains for the longest time.
"You are not leaving," it thought-said firmly.
"I am not leaving," he said out loud.
"While you repeat that a couple thousand times, let me remind you why you're not gonna leave."
Past scenes - intense, hysterical, featuring stimulation too remarkable to fully comprehend - filled his awareness as it made him chant softly.
A long time passed, just like that.
"Now, say 'I'm gonna howl tonight'."
The recall of prior tickling was vivid. Flawlessly detailed...
"Good. 'Pounder, you're my best buddy'. Let me hear it."
When he stopped, his throat was all dry.
The remembered tickling faded away. He smelled cigar smoke... and opened his eyes.
Three guys stood over him. Grimy. They all had tool belts. Carpenters, just off from work. Their grins, and the excited fire in their eyes was positively inhuman.
They stood there for a good five minutes, drinking beer and smoking. Looking him over silently. From the way their eyes moved, Cam figured Pounder was giving them their marching orders.
They all started to laugh at once, and walked away from his rack. One headed for the bathroom, and took a shower. Another went into the kitchen...
The third came back with water bottles - for Cam. After they were empty, he plopped down on the couch and lit a cigarette. Turning on the TV, he started to channel-surf -
And the other dude showed up with big bowl of soapy water.
"I'm Shea," he said to Cam, friendly as anything.
"How ya doin'," Cam muttered.
"A lot better now." He started washing Cam's chest. "Pounder says tonight is gonna be unbelievably cool." He laughed. "Look at my fuckin' hands. They're not listening to me at all."
"Try harder."
"I am. It's running the show. And my head, too. I'm gettin' a woody."
Cam felt his own cock start to firm up, but it seemed better not to mention it.
Shea brought the sponge down to his belly. And then, his crotch - but his face didn't change at all.
"This son of a bitch has full control of everything, doesn't he?"
"Yeah."
"No wonder you're in for it," he said thoughtfully.
"Shea," the one guy yelled from the bathroom, "shower's all yours."
"Hang tight," Shea said to Cam, as he stood up. The guy on the couch went into the kitchen, and started making supper...
They all pulled on black bicycle shorts, laughing at each other, cracking jokes.
Pulling chairs up, they ate around Cam, taking turns feeding him. Big steaks. All kinds of side dishes.
Cam was given a couple beers and a cigar, which the shorter guy lit without a word.
Conversation and joking died down. They relaxed, drinking their beer. The one dude had a cigar of his own going. Shea was lighting one cigarette off the other, but his hands moved in a leisurely way.
And they all kept studying Cam.
After a bathroom break, someone turned on the radio. Classic rock, playing softly in the background...
They gathered around Cam's rack, grinning again.
Shea sighed happily.
Cooking noises.
Cam yawned. It felt like at least five hundred years since he woke up - yesterday morning. Looking over, he saw Shea getting plates out of the cupboard. His hair was all messed up, and as always there was a cigarette hanging from his mouth...
"Hey!," he said loudly - greeting a friend - when he saw Cam was awake. After a minute, he brought a couple plates over.
"Guess what," he announced as he sat down.
"Don't tell me...," Cam said sarcastically. "You got the day off from work."
Shea hooted at that. "Every day."
"Fuck."
"Laid off." He nodded, and took a quick drag before he snuffed his cigarette. "Pounder. Told my boss to call me. Let me go."
Cam thought about it. "You must be, uh, especially good at... Well -"
"Great potential," Shea said. "That's what it tells me. More'n most." He shrugged, and stuck a forkful of eggs in front of Cam's mouth. "Oh - and guess what else."
Cam just chewed, and stared at him.
"I'm movin' in here."
Suddenly, swallowing was impossible.
"Pounder wants me to build some shit. Stocks, mostly. Frames to hang you up." He bit his toast, and talked as he chewed. "But mostly I'm gonna work you over. Full-time." He swallowed. "I mean, you thought this was a tickling nightmare before? Shit."
"My hands are too rough. So I gotta use rubber gloves. Or... these!"
Shea brought his hands out from behind his back, revealing white satin gloves.
The very sight of them made Cam scream.
"Oh, yeah."
"I need someone to cover day shift," Pounder muttered. "Someone reliable."
"Too bad," he grumbled.
"In the meantime..."
Suddenly, he was remembering Shea - tickling, the second day he was here. Energetic, ruthless - and sighing with contentment, on behalf of Pounder.
It was all real. Again. Cam noticed he was... forgetting it was just a memory. Nothing vague about it, any of it.
Lost in the delirium.
The doorbell thunked.
Cam whimpered to himself.
The deadbolt turned immediately, and the door opened right up.
"Hey," a guy said quietly - trying not to laugh at Cam.
Delivery uniform. Smooth as anything, he closed the door behind him. He had a box in his hand. All Cam could make out, on the box, was QTY 6.
"It's making me do this," he said.
"I know," the Cam sighed.
He started opening the box. "What -" And he chuckled differently. Cam even recognized the tone - it was Pounder, talking through him. "Shit! A new dimension of insanity in here. And what do you know? It's got Cam's name on it." Pounder was repeating the last sentence, along with him - but only in Cam's head.
Getting something out of a smaller box, he turned around.
"Now this... is a vibrator," he said, coming back to Cam. "Sonic massager."
He plugged in the cord and turned it on. Picked up a bottle of oil, and poured it all over Cam's belly. After a second, he drenched Cam's crotch too.
"Be right back," the delivery guy said. He went into the bedroom...
And came out with a belt.
"This holds it in place -"
He set the curved plastic surface down, right over Cam's belly-button, an "outie."
Slow waves started tickling, all the way through him. And his cock twitched.
He started to giggle.
"Tickling. Fuck." The guy shivered. "You're dead, buddy."
When Cam tried to bounce the massager off his belly, the guy's hand was immediately there, holding it down.
"It's gonna happen," he said authoritatively. "Subsonic tickles, nonstop, until I get off from work."
"W-when is that?"
"Six."
"It's n-not even nooooon... Aaaah hah hah haaaaah..."
He shrugged. Slipping the belt under Cam's back, he positioned it over the vibrator -
"Inhale."
Unable to prevent it, the Cam watched his stomach drop - even as he laughed.
"Good enough." The guy reefed on the belt, and buckled it. Pulling up and down, he nodded.
Already, Cam was crazed. And horny.
The guy stood up and watched for a minute. "Try your best to shake it loose."
Pounder made him arch and buck, slamming hard against the deep cushions.
"Right," the delivery guy said. "Okay, see you later."
"Nooooo, whah haaah haaah, don't leeeeeve meeee hee heeeeeee-eeeeaaaawww..."
"Oh, yeah," the guy said, adjusting his corporate ballcap. "But after work, I'll pick up some... fun shit and head right back." He paused. "And I guess I'm calling in sick tomorrow. You're gonna get to know that fuckin' massager, Cam. And my hands." He reached for the doorknob. "That's right. Today's Thursday - and my weekend suddenly became free. We'll be good to go until Monday morning."
"Noooooooo -"
"Seeya."
The guy opened the door.
And as usual, Pounder made Cam stop laughing, just until it closed. But as soon as the deadbolt locked again, he exploded with laughter, wriggling feverishly.
His cock was hard, the sensation was buzzing through his body, tickling -
"Let's try the high setting," Pounder thought-said.
The massager clicked... and the vibration doubled.
That was the end of any coherent thought, for awhile.
Something had changed.
He could breathe again. Full breaths - and somehow it was quieter in the room...
The vibrator. It was turned off.
He looked, and saw the delivery guy standing over him. He was all decked out in leather. Grinning, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth...
"You're a mess."
"Unh..."
He picked up a bottle of water. "Here. Oh yeah... I'm Skip. I'll be torturing you this weekend."
Cam just looked at him, and kept drinking.
When it was empty, Skip threw the water bottle away. He took a last long drag, and eased the smoke out. "I just started to smoke. And for some reason, I really like it."
"Been there," Cam said.
"You just sucked down enough speed to keep you alert for a few hours. I guess it's time to clean you up -" Skip jerked his head. "No... I'm not gonna do that."
"No?," Cam said, pulling at the rope.
Skip chuckled, and reached down to the table...
A tub of lube.
"Please, I can't take it anymore -"
"Well, that sure isn't what the boss is telling me." He tapped the side of his head... "You're gonna have to deal with it."
Skip started greasing up his leather gloves.
Pulling a short stool over to Cam's feet, he went back for the lube and an ashtray. Cam watched him take another drag, and punch out the cigarette. He got his hands in position.
"No," Cam said miserably.
The tickling started again.
Slow.
Picking up.
Heavy, and fast.
Worse...
Skip was getting winded. But he still kicked it up several more notches.
He was good.
Really talented, Cam thought feverishly. No fuckin' doubt about it.
Skip covered the weekends for awhile. Smoking more, showing up with more and more tattoos...
Gradually, Cam found out that Skip was honing his skills on other people, who apparently got together for tickling and shit. On purpose. What a bizarre idea. Skip was learning quite a few tricks...
Shea dropped in a couple times a week.
"Hey, Cam. Figured you'd be here," he laughed.
Skip squinted up at Shea. "Pull up a chair," he said, not even pausing as he massaged Cam's knees.
"Alright."
They locked eyes.
"I've suddenly got the urge," Skip said darkly, "to tickle as hard as I possibly fuckin' can."
"You know what?," Shea shot back. "So do I."
There was a period of many months when Cam hardly got to go outside at all.
One cold Friday night, Shea hustled into the house. Skip showed up a little later...
They gave Cam one of the hardest times he could remember, and that was saying something.
Then they all slept, and ate. Shea uncuffed Cam's hands. Sighing with relief, Cam lit his own cigarette -
"I got an announcement," Pounder said out loud.
"Go for it," Skip shot back.
"Cam's moving tonight."
"I am?"
"Oh, yeah," Pounder said smoothly. "Because - finally..."
And they all watched something float in, from the kitchen.
It was a silver box. The fact that Pounder was moving it wasn't all that much of a surprise -
But it drew Cam's attention to something. The box cruised over to him without shaking at all. It might as well have been rolling down a track.
He had an awful feeling in his gut -
The box opened.
A pair of gloves came out. Black leather, embroidered, and filling up.
On the back of each finger, big capital letters spelled the word CAM.
The fingers curled into fists - easily, casual as anything. One glove punched the other in the palm, and then they reversed roles. Slap, slap.
"Alright!," Skip hooted.
"Game over," Shea told Cam conversationally, as if they were talking about the Seahawks.
"I did it," Pounder whispered to Cam. The gloves darted to the far end of Cam's rack and picked it up. Showing off. They let the rack fall.
"Skip," it said quietly.
"Check." He turned immediately and went into the bedroom.
Cam watched him go. "What now?"
"Oh, he's stripping down. Getting the cuffs on. He gets a couple more drags, and then -"
"Yeeeeahh!," Shea said.
"This is the beginning of a whole new era. For Skip, too. You're gonna need extra straps, Shea. Lots of straps. He could turn out to be... almost as ticklish as ol' Cam is, here, if you pull out all the stops."
"Oh, I'm on it." He fairly ran into the bedroom, and closed the door.
"And you," it said to Cam, unmistakably delighted. "Well, this is it. Now you get tickled exactly the way I want." Pounder's voice got softer, sending chills through Cam's entire body. "No more lag time, and no errors in trying to get across what I want their fingers to do. They're gonna be my fingers from now on. Direct, full tickling..."
A wild scream - and Skip started roaring with laughter.
"Do you have any idea how frustrating it's been, sometimes? Huh? Knowing the exact way to tickle your feet, for example, and having to wait for tonight? Settling for second-best?"
Cam's mouth had gone dry.
A larger box floated in, top flaps popping open.
A feather came out.
Many more feathers...
Satin gloves, rubber gloves, cotton gloves, leather gloves, stiff brushes, artist's brushes, pens, makeup applicators, four bottles of oil, a cock ring, a blindfold, extra straps, toe restraints - all drifting down to the floor, laid out on the rug so Cam could stare at them. Moving so smoothly, serene and confident.
The leather gloves pounced on his right arm, and other gloves come to life. Resetting the restraints...
"I've been working at this - so hard - you have no idea, really. Ever since I met you. But I learned. And from now on, I get to tickle you myself."
Feathers and brushes start arriving -
"Real tickling."
And oh, how unspeakably intense and methodical the torture became...
Cam woke up in a cabin.
It had been turned into a dungeon, full of bondage furniture and toys.
Weeks crept by, adding up, months followed by another month.
"Are you warm enough?," Pounder asked kindly.
"Yeah."
Silk hands started walking up his ribs.
Cam tensed right up, shutting his eyes. The cigarette was of no use to him, since he couldn't manage to smoke it any more.
One by one, the fingertips located precise spots ... and pressed down just a little more. Sitting there.
That bothered him more than if Pounder's hands had just gone ahead and nuked him. When it built things up gradually, each night really did seem like a whole year. More and more overwhelming - but he could still think too much. Dread when the hands really got busy, pulling out every fucking stop, backing off until he caught his breath - and turning up the heat again. Cam couldn't stop it from happening, any more than he could up and run away.
"It's coming," Pounder said, in his thoughts. "Absolute stimulation..." It loved to keep reminding him of stuff like that.
The fingers began to move.
Starting slowly, with the lightest possible contact...
A feather-tip traced across his scrotum.
Over the hours, the gloves became unfailingly brutal. Walking all over his body, to prevent any one spot from getting numb to their effects - the way Pounder enjoyed doing it. Day in, day out.
And all Cam could do was lay there. Panting, sometimes giggling, as the fingertips shifted around and the feather crept closer to his asshole.
A memory was forced on him - buried in feathers that never stop, dripping sweat, straining to shoot his wad, whining from the frustration, and the stunning impact of the tickling was hours and hours away from ending.
Cam moaned silently.
Pounder tickled him harder.
One day there was a familiar whoop, and hard laughter -
Cam saw Skip standing over him. Solidly covered with tats, looking eager as ever.
"Brought you some supplies," he said to Cam. "And a whole bunch of ideas."
Pounder brought a glove up - and clamped on to Skip's shoulder.
"Huh?"
A whole pack of leather hands zipped up and got him. Yelling, flopping around, he still ended up on the long rack... wearing only his gloves.
"Fuck! Noooooo -"
"Welcome home, prisoner," Pounder sneered out loud. The gloves came over and released Cam from his restraints, bringing him a pair of leather pants. The pair of gloves with his name on each finger were handed to him, and a cigarette was stuck between his lips.
A car horn honked outside.
Four guys ambled in. Happy as fuck. Pounder told Cam that they'd all suffered under Skip's tickling hands, and a couple of them were really pissed off.
Cam threw them a salute, smiling at Skip's desperate pleas for mercy... and left. He hopped in Skip's truck, more relieved than ever.
Pounder had him drive straight to his new dungeon.
It was at the end of a dirt road, lonely as anything, and when it came to equipping it - well, Pounder had outdone itself.
He was being carefully fingered, just like every other night, when the doorbell rang.
"Watch this," it snickered, and a ball-gag flew up to his mouth.
Looking behind him, Cam saw the door open.
There was a guy standing there, young and thin, with a soft-sided briefcase. He looked stoned.
"Hey," Pounder said.
"Uh... Hello?"
"Yeah. Right here. Can't you see me? Are you stoned or something?"
Giggles.
"I guess that explains it."
"Well - fuck. Whatever. Are you Pounder?"
"Sure am. C'mon in."
The kid saw Cam, and stopped - just inside the door. "What's the story, here?"
"Oh - you mean him? He owns the place."
"Why is he strapped down like that?"
"He loves to be worked over..."
The gloves rubbed a little harder. Pounder knew exactly how to keep him from... being able to move. Cam wanted to shake his head, try to warn the guy somehow, but he just couldn't. Laughing was out, too.
"He likes that?"
"Oh, fuck. Tickled without any fuckin' mercy at all. Can't get enough. It's his dungeon."
"Weird."
"You got the, uh, package?"
"Right here," and he pulled out a huge bag of weed.
A bundle of cash floated over to the stoner, and he nodded, stuffing it in the briefcase.
"Great job," Pounder said quietly - and Cam recognized that tone. The trap was about to spring shut.
"You know it." He watched Cam suffer for a few seconds. "Man, that sucks. No offense. Now I've seen everything. And I never do private deliveries like this, y'know, but I'm sorta glad I saw this."
"Yeah, he's a freak. Got a place in the city?"
"Hardly ever see it. My route, uh, each circuit takes the whole week."
"Family? A girl?" Cam got the impression, in his head, of an eye winking, big and obvious. Suddenly he knew that Pounder had scoped this guy put carefully. Shit, he wouldn't already be in the dungeon if he wasn't incredibly ticklish...
"Naaah. I'm a highway warrior."
"Cool."
"Is he okay?"
"He's blissed out."
"He really likes that?"
"You got no idea."
"I'd fuckin' die."
"No, you wouldn't."
"Are those... what are they called again?"
"Manacles."
"They look tough."
"No escape for this dude."
"This is a wild place."
"Well, he needs a real firm hand."
The stoner looked around. "Hey. I can see him okay... and myself. But not you. Are you really here?"
One of the gloves gave him a wave.
"Dude, you're invisible."
"You must be really baked."
"Oh, yeah."
"Good shit?"
"The absolute... best."
"Well, there ya go. I'm really here."
"Trippy."
Run, Cam thought uselessly. It won't matter anyway, but just do it. Save yourself. Send somebody back here and get me the fuck out of this nightmare...
"Must be, yeah."
"I mean, I can hear ya. Your voice. It's..." His head moved. "Shit. What the fuck is that?"
"That's a set of stocks."
Pounder's fingers tickled Cam just a little bit faster.
"It is? Cool."
"You know it."
"Do you... tie his legs up?"
"No, no. You see those dips? Where the padding is? This dude slaps his ankles down, boom boom, and I make sure they stay put - all night."
"So he can get tickled."
"Out of his fuckin' mind."
"And he likes that? Unbelievable. I'd die."
"No, you wouldn't."
"I'm serious... Everything's padded real nice."
"Oh, he stays comfortable. That way he can concentrate on the fuckin' tickling more. Check out how thick the seat cushion is."
"That's... wow. Is that rubber?"
"Covering it. Yeah. He gets messy. But dude, press down on that foam."
"Hey. This is good stuff."
"He can sit for hours and hours," Pounder cackled.
"Is that so. I'm, uh, sitting on my ass all the time, driving - You suppose I could get some of this for my car seat?"
"I don't see why not. Try it."
"Naw."
"How do you know if it'll really work for ya? It's expensive."
"Ah. Well, maybe..."
"Be my guest."
"Well, okay."
"Yeah?"
"Oh, shit," the stoner chuckled. "Yeah. This is great stuff."
"Feels like you could sit there all night, and your ass wouldn't even get numb. Doesn't it?"
"Definitely. There's, like, dips in it."
"Butt-cheeks. Makes it harder for him to thrash around. You know. Bare-assed, legs out."
"Like... Oh. Of course. His ankles go there."
"Uh-huh."
"I woulda thought his knees would hurt, after a while."
"Oh, not at all. I make sure of that. They're bent just a little, and nothing's pushing down on his legs or anything."
"But they're stuck."
"Yup."
And Cam opened his eyes suddenly, looking at the other dude. Pounder wanted him to watch...
The top part of the stocks was lifting up, behind the stoner's back.
"This can't really be, uh, comfortable," the stoner said.
"Sure it is. He loves it."
"Well... That's okay for him. Different strokes -"
"Yeah. I guess you've never seen these things before, huh?"
"Not, uh, for real," the guy finally said.
Pounder made a thoughtful noise. "It's perfectly understandable to be curious."
"This is one hell of a room. And he's just stuck there. Laughing all night, huh?"
"All night. And all day, too. He's staying right here."
"He just... puts his legs up here?"
"Yeah. The same padding, down there. Good support - hey, check it out."
"Alright."
"Right there - and there. Just like that."
The doomed stoner actually snickered, all on his own. "That is comfortable."
"Good!"
The top of the stocks drops quickly -
"Hey - what the hell is that?"
"The other half."
Slam!
"And these braces hold it together."
"Stop that!"
"You know what this is, right?"
"No way. Seriously, let -"
"I put the padlock in these rings."
"You're not g-"
Click.
"No. Oh no, now, hold on here. Very funny, you got me. Joke's over now."
"Wrong. It's hilarious. See, the nearest neighbor is three miles away... But where are my manners? The room's getting drafty..."
The door closed. Another padlock floated up to it - an even bigger lock. Catching the iron rings Pounder had installed for just that purpose, it snapped shut.
"Let me outa here!"
"Now this, here, is a wrist-cuff."
"Help!"
"See how it goes on? And here comes the other one."
"You can't do this to me. I don't want... Oh, shit."
"I pull your arms up, and get the chain."
"Nooooooo -"
"And there. Try to get loose."
"Help," the stoner wailed to Cam.
"Can you get loose? I don't think so. And do you know why you're a prisoner?"
"Because I'm... a stupid fuckin' asshole," he yelled, flailing around.
Cam nodded, starting to hoot.
"No. I would've just carried you right over here anyway."
"Let me go, let me go let me go I can't stand to get - what you're doing to him -"
"I know, Marky."
He stopped fighting. "You... you know my name?"
"Oh, yeah. I even know how ticklish the back of your neck is."
"Haaaaalllp!"
"And your pecs. See, Marky, I'm going to drive you... over the edge."
"No no no no no no no..."
"Four ticklish feet, now, instead of two," Pounder gloated. "It's time to get busy - on both you guys."
As gloves pulled his sandals off, Marky screamed and babbled, rattling the chains, kicking as hard as he could. It didn't help him any. Nothing would get him out of Pounder's grip. Cam knew that better than anybody.
A big pair of scissors was brought out, and three other gloves tore away his clothes.
"Don't do this, please, buddy," he squealed. "Don't do this to me!"
"Call me Pounder," it said smugly. "That's my name."
"Pounder, look -"
"All ready, Marky? Huh?"
"You can't," he said, almost ready to cry. "Too much. I can't stand this, I'm too ticklish."
"That's what I'm counting on. Way too ticklish, for way too many months."
"Months?"
The leather gloves picked up some pointed brown feathers... and black rubber gloves fetched the artist's brushes.
"We'll start you off slow."
All Cam could do was watch. The stoner's feet were not that far away from his own.
"Oh fuck, help meeeeeaaaaah hah hah hah haaaaah!"
"A screamer," Pounder said with approval.
The ball gag loosened. Leather fingers were there, unbuckling it...
"Stupid fuck," Cam croaked - but it was almost silent. Marky wasn't listening, anyway, writhing in his brand new world of hurt.
"Now, now," Pounder said sternly, in Cam's thoughts. "You just laugh along with him. Make him feel right at home." And its gloves really dug in, tormenting his armpits, squeezing his thighs. Both men suffered together - one with the quiet stillness of long experience, the other in the panic and frenzy which would take a good couple weeks to burn off. But Marky would find that out for himself.
"He's a keeper," Pounder thought-said. Then, out loud... "I'm gonna tickle the fuck out of both you guys, oh, until next year."
Marky screamed laughter.
Cam pounded his head once, but that was all the reaction he could dredge up. If Pounder said it, he could count on it being true -
"Cheer up," Pounder whispered in his ear. "It's the middle of November. And then, ol' buddy, I'm letting you go."
He opened his eyes, laughing mechanically.
"It's true. If you want to go, that is. Maybe I'll change your mind before then... No, I'm just kidding around. You know how I like to do that. Marky will keep me company - and maybe it's time you went out and got a job. And a girlfriend. But when you least expect it, I'm gonna haul you back in for a couple unbelievable weeks. See how you're doing, say hi, make you nuts again. Over and over again. Oh, I'm gonna keep watching you. My ol' buddy. Lots more tickle-fever in your future. You got that, Cam?"
Eventually, he remembered how to nod.
17may2004