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excerpt from:
My Name Is Rand
the scene: At this point in the novel, our hero, Rand, has become
a “trusty” in the Compound,
a bizarre prison camp tucked into the hills somewhere in the rural
Midwest. Here, on the grounds of an old abandoned hospital, men
who have been abducted by various means are tickle-tortured almost
continuously by a whole community of fanatics. Rand, now known
as M-36, works with his partner T-49 to transport captives from
one tickle-torture scene to another. The very worst treatment a
captive can receive is to be turned over to Dred Junior, a telekinetic
madman who’s kept locked in an underground cell.
As this scene develops, the daily routine gets disrupted when M-36,
T-49, and another trusty are transporting a captive to Dred Junior’s
cell, and decide to take a brief detour that turns into a race
for survival.)
On a typical day my partner and I might start work by greeting
a new arrival. It was like standing on the opposite side of a mirror
as I watched the blue panel truck eat up the road that led to the
wide front lawn. Michael Loomis would get out—as flustered
and agitated as ever, his muscular body well-defined by the wifebeater
he wore—open the passenger’s side door and dump a burlap
bag onto the grass. Out of the bag would fall a half-naked, wild-eyed
man, trembling and twitching, his breath coming in short, shallow
gasps, his hands clawing the ground weakly. My partner and I would
grab him under the arms. He’d be terrified of touch but too
we’d have no trouble dragging
him over to the schoolyard, where the kids would deliver his first
torture, playing games on his ticklish skin.
My work partner was none other than T-49, the tall, black-bearded
sadist who had helped transport me to my meeting with Dred Junior,
of which I remembered nothing. I had no hard feelings toward T-49;
he’d been doing his job, just as he was doing it now, with
me beside him. I called him T, he called me M, though we worked
mostly in silence.
We took one victim, who had been at the Compound several days,
to the stocks in what I thought of as the village square, where
I had first been tickled by the men and women. He had been in those
stocks before, and he begged us to let him go. He was sure they
were going to tickle him to death this time. T had little patience,
as usual. “You come along quietly,” he said, “or
we’ll just take you to Dred Junior right now.”
The victim settled down. He’d been there long enough to know
that being taken to Dred Junior was the ultimate punishment. We
fixed his trembling limbs in place and watched as the men and women
circled around him. Within a few seconds he was hysterical and
screaming.
Occasionally we had a victim who was able to walk by himself, like
one young man we had to take to the teenaged boys’ party.
A big bear of a guy, he moved along silently, refusing to beg or
show any fear. The boys, already half-stoned by the time we got
there, were overjoyed, reaching out for him before he was properly
tied down. As more and more of them gathered around him he looked
at me and said, through clenched teeth, “They’re gonna
kill me.”
Take it easy,” I said. I had learned how to talk like a trusty,
never conveying any comfort or reassurance. What else could I do—pretend
that the air in that room wasn’t stifling with hormones and
desperation?
For such a big man, his screams of laughter were surprisingly shrill.
Another man who had been tickled for several hours needed to be
taken to a break room. When we released him from the table he had
been tied to he jumped up so quickly that T lost his balance and
sat down hard on the floor. Somehow this one still had the energy
to try to make a run for it, so before he could get completely
out of reach I grabbed his ribcage and started tickling him. “Hey,
help me, T,” I said, and together we tickled his ribs and
armpits till he sank to the floor.
I want his feet,” T said.
Go for it,” I said, quite used to T’s insatiable appetite
for feet. Now that we had weakened the victim I had no trouble
pinning his upper body to the floor while T satisfied his needs.
I was facing the wrong way to see what he was doing, but could
tell from the expressions on the victim’s face that T’s
lips, teeth, and tongue were devouring that tormented, ticklish
flesh, and would not stop till the guy had passed out.
One victim did manage to break away from us. He was short and stocky
but fast on his feet, and it was a workout chasing him across the
Compound. Sheer panic kept him moving, but it proved to be his
downfall: he ran blindly into a tickle-torture session in the village
square, and before he knew what was happening some of the men in
the crowd had him pinned to the ground and were working him over.
He was feather-sensitive to the nth degree, and the men had plenty
of feathers to use on him. Where he had been running from us a
few minutes before, he was now reaching out to T and me, begging
us to save him. We were in no hurry to break up the party, since
a line had formed and there were now men, women, and children waiting
to tickle him. We stayed and watched till it was time for our next
assignment.
Throughout all of this I I was just grateful to be
left alone. At the end of the day Crystal would walk me, slowly
and thoughtfully, to the Chamber, where I would get my sexual release
again, powerful enough to clear my mind of any doubts and put me
to sleep for the night.
__________
The most difficult duty was taking a victim to Dred Junior. I remembered
part of my journey to that underground chamber, including the part
where my current
partner had taken a detour so he could have his way with my feet. But what had
happened when I finally reached Dred Junior wasn’t clear to me. I couldn’t
picture how he had looked or what he had done. I only knew that I’d made
the transition from captive to trusty so successfully that I could view these
tormented souls with
and when T-49 wanted to break the
rules one day to take another detour on the way to Dred Junior, I could only
shrug my assent.
The naked captive strapped to our gurney, a young man of Hispanic origin called
S-73, was so scared he was hyperventilating, a steady stream of Spanish escaping
softly from his lips like prayers from a deathbed. T, at the foot of the gurney,
kept looking back over his shoulder and licking his lips, turned on by the young
man’s fear. We hadn’t even reached the hallway where the audio effects
would begin, the overhead playback of the captive’s own screams and laughter
nor had we reached the “tombs” with
the inscribed list of all the men who had been tickled to death. But S-73 was
twitching and panting and praying at such a rate that he was going to wear himself
out before we got halfway there. That was when T said, “Let’s take
a detour.” There was another young man with us, H-80, a new trusty who
was catching on quickly. He had no problem with helping to maneuver the gurney
through a set of swinging doors off to the right, into a side corridor.
I leaned over the captive. “S-73,” I said, “you’ve got
to calm the fuck down, man.”
Could he even hear me? His eyes were rolling wildly, his muscular brown chest
heaving. I reached out and gently took hold of his legs, just above the knees.
That one touch galvanized him, his body leaping as if he were having a seizure.
It was a tough body, right from the streets—a body that had kicked and
fought and fucked with no care for anything but unleashing its relentless male
energy. His brown pecs and abs, arms and thighs were accentuated here and there
by a scar—from a knife wound, maybe, there in his side?—or a tattoo,
the primitive rose curled enticingly close to his right nipple and, more intriguingly,
REYES LATINOS stenciled in large ornate letters across his abs. How was that
possible? Wouldn’t tattoo needles be torture on a ticklish man’s
I let my fingers crawl across his thighs, feeling their strength and resiliency,
the life pulsing just beneath the surface. As my fingers moved faster, tickling,
kneading, squeezing and stroking, his whispered prayers and curses gave way to
a bubbling stream of laughter. The sound was both odd and familiar—odd
in its squealing, insane pitch, yet familiar because it was the kind of laugh
that all the victims developed, having been tickled so much that they would never
laugh normally again. Meanwhile T and H-80 were down at his size-12 feet, licking
his soles and sucking his toes. I remembered very well having T’s merciless
tongue between my toes, and it made me shiver. Reaching up, I traced the letters
on our victim’s belly, REYES LATINOS, with one finger, making him yelp
in ticklish panic. That a man so powerfully built could be so devastatingly sensitive….
T had unzipped his coverall, his enormous cock swinging free at the foot of the
gurney, so I unzipped mine too. H-80 followed suit. Obedient kid, he wouldn’t
do anything unless T and I did it first, but he was game, his hefty dick as hard
as ours. I continued to spell REYES LATINOS over and over, tracing the ornate
letters on skin that broke into a sweat, making my fingertips glide that much
faster. T was fucking those strong brown feet, turned on by the long toes wriggling
against his dick. He stopped, though, before he could shoot, and backed away.
After a moment he tucked his hard dick carefully behind the zipper of his coveralls.
I did the same, without knowing exactly why. I knew only that I got my sexual
release in the Chamber, once every morning and once every night, and must have
learned at some point that any sex play with the captives could only go so far.
H-80 stepped up. He was a strawberry-blond farmboy, indigenous to these Midwestern
hills—unlike the Hispanic kid, who must have looked like an exotic piece
of tail to the new trusty. Certainly that brown torso with its crude rose tattoo
was a novelty, and H-80 grasped either side of the ribcage and set his fingertips
loose to explore. Judging by the agonized expressions on S-73’s face, it
didn’t take long for the new trusty to find the most tender spots. Mercilessly
clinging to them, he actually raised the victim’s torso off the stretcher,
lifting him by his ticklishness. S-73 arched his back and screamed, not at the
top of his lungs but at the bottom, a hoarse, scraping sound of utter despondency.
He was losing all strength, his hands useless, his fingers frozen in a curled,
desperate shape. In another minute he would be nothing but pliant flesh.
I moved to the end of the gurney and studied those big sensitive feet. They had
been tenderized by the Compound experience—scraped, scrubbed, beaten, and “roasted” into
a permanently reddened and fragile state. I could see how ticklish that faintly
glistening skin had become. I started eating those feet, slurping along the soles
and between the toes. Their slightly salty taste tingled along my tongue, and
they had the mysterious smell of reeds growing at the edge of a lake. I dug my
thumbs into the ball of each foot, nibbled at the arches. He was panting again,
frantically, his eyelids twitching, his mouth grinning grotesquely from ear to
ear as the tip of his tongue swung to and fro like a bell clapper. Soon his panting
became as silent as the drool leaking from each corner of his mouth. I wanted
to take him even farther into the remote zone he had entered, to test the limits
of where we both could go.
“Hey,” T said, “Ease up. I don’t like the looks of him.”
I freed my cock again, let my dickhead probe among his toes, precum lubricating
the way around and between them. I took hold of my throbbing shaft and whipped
that dickhead against his soles. This was what Duke had wanted, what I’d
tried to give him after he’d begged me to tickle him to death.
I didn’t know how much time had passed when T suddenly threw himself at
me, pinning me against the corridor wall. “You crazy fucking bastard, you’ve
killed him!”
“No…impossible….”
I could protest, but it was true that if a body had ever looked lifeless, it
was the one I stared at now: its head twisted to the side, mouth open, no movement
in its chest or belly, no more panting, nothing. Yet just a moment before he’d
been breathing. I was sure of it…a moment before, a minute before…maybe
two minutes, maybe five…how long had I been at his feet?
“You’ve done it, all right,” H-80 said. “Shit! What do
we do now?”
T’s lips twisted into an ugly sneer. He looked me in the eye and said, “Dred’s
expecting a victim. We’d better bring him one.”
The tone of his voice rattled my bones. “No,” I said.
“Sorry, bud,” T said, “but if it’s gonna be one of us,
it sure as hell won’t be me.” He turned his head to the side, toward
H-80. “Come here and help me.”
That was my chance, my only chance. I wheeled around and started running—not
toward the main hallway we had come from, but deeper into that mysterious building,
where there were more dimly lit corridors ahead. Close behind me came T’s
boots pounding the floor. I was running for my life but he was running just as
fast, if not faster. A continuous row of fluorescent fixtures streamed past overhead,
but only a few bulbs were working. We ran in and out of shadows, covering what
seemed like a mile before we heard H-80’s voice behind us.
“He’s alive!” he yelled. “Hey! He’s alive!”
I had no breath except for running, and precious little of that left, but I managed
to yell over my shoulder at T, “Stop! He’s alive!”
T kept running, I could almost feel his panting on my neck. The corridor we followed
would soon I veered off to the left, into another corridor
just as long. Here the few lights that worked were flickering, breaking up the
stretches of darkness with eerie strobe effects.
“Stop!” I yelled again, my chest about to cave in. “T, stop!”
He was so close his words were practically in my ear: “Like hell!”
So it was up to me to stop—but not in a way that would let T get his hands
on me. Without even looking I jumped off to the side, right into the corridor
wall, which hit me like a fast-moving vehicle and threw me backward onto the
floor. I felt bruised all over but unable to stop so quickly,
T had run on some distance ahead and was just now turning to face me.
I was so out of breath that it hurt my lungs to talk, but I had to get some words
out: “Stop…it’s all right…didn’t you hear… S-73’s
alive!”
“Yeah.” Still striding toward me, he wiped his mouth with the back
of his hand. “So what.” He moved into a brighter patch of flickering
light, and it was easy to see his huge cock straining upward against his coverall.
I held up my hand, palm outward. “Let’s go back.”
He sneered again, the ugly curl of his lips as expressive as the hard glint in
his eye or the bulge in his crotch. “Ain’t no going back now,” he
I scrabbled, trying to get to my feet but only pushing myself backward in a kind
of crabwalk till I hit something and fell. Hard but yielding surfaces met my
skin. I had stumbled into a nest of boxes that were empty except for bits of
styrofoam and brown wrapping paper. A soft but effective trap, tilting me on
my butt with my boots off the floor, walls of cardboard rising steeply on either
side of me.
“I’ve got you now,” he said, panting, sweating from the chase,
his hair hanging in limp curls. “I hope you’re ready for what’s
coming to you.”
“No…please! It’s okay, don’t you get it? I didn’t
tickle him to death.”
“Who gives a shit?” His boots clapped the floor, not quickly as when
he was running, but slowly, deliberately. “The only thing that matters
is your feet are mine!”
It was a strain, but I could lean to my left just far enough to see behind T,
down the corridor. “Look out behind you!”
Just briefly his sneer became a laugh. “You must think I’m fucking
stupid.”
“I’m not kidding, they’re right behind you!”
“Every word you say is only making it worse for you, buddy….”
“Listen, you dumb prick, they’ve got cameras everywhere, you know
that. Did you think they wouldn’t come after us?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He twisted his head to look around.
Throwing myself against the side of the box, I spilled out into the corridor.
In the second it took him to turn back toward me I pushed some boxes into his
path, then jumped to my feet. If panic had sped me before, I was practically
flying now with the knowledge that if I stopped I would either be tickled to
death by T or turned over to Dred Junior, which would be even worse.
At the next break in the corridor I turned left. Were there cameras, even back
here? It seemed to me there must have been, or else the Compound would have sealed
this building off completely, whatever it was. But another turn, this time to
the right, brought me up to a dead end—a hole in the floor, a drop-off
so wide I couldn’t possibly jump over it. I couldn’t even see, in
the poor lighting, where the floor picked up again, if it did. Squinting into
the dimness I saw only wreckage and ruin, suggestions of collapsed walls and
ceilings, ducts and pipes and wires hanging twisted in the air, snapped apart
like so many pieces of licorice. T’s footsteps were behind me, a little
heavier now, a little slower, but unstoppable. I could either jump into the void
facing me, or—a small grate in the wall next to me, some kind of air duct,
was my only other choice. It was small, hardly big enough for me to fit through,
but I had no time for second thoughts. Thank God two of the screws meant to hold
the grid in place were missing, and I could quickly work the other two open with
my thumbnail. The space was so small I had to keep my arms extended in front
of me, working my hips and using what little purchase I could get with my fingertips
to pull myself completely inside. My body heated up the aluminum duct immediately,
I was like a potato baking in a foil wrapper.
“ Come out of there, you son of a bitch!”
With no way for me to replace the grate, T had spotted my hiding place right
away. He couldn’t follow me, not with his broad shoulders, but that didn’t
help me much. I screamed in fear as his fingers clutched my bootheel. Like our
coveralls, those boots had been made for quick removal, and one tug pulled my
right one free. Then there was the thin white sock that he was grabbing at the
toe and pulling, dragging the length of the sock across my ticklish sole. Then
my left boot, my left sock. Even in this place my feet had never felt so naked. “T!” I
cried out. “T! Can you hear me?”
Save your breath, asshole. You’re going to need it.”
Wait! Wait, wait! What about…the Chamber?” This was one of the shared
areas of experience we never discussed: the Chamber where we got our sexual release,
every morning and every night. It seemed a safe assumption that it was as important
to him as it was to me. “If you kill me, they’ll kill you, and we’ll
never see the Chamber again.” I pressed against the aluminum walls that
offered me so little room, so little hope. The thought of never seeing the Chamber
again did fill me with overwhelming sadness, and a tear mixed with sweat ran
down my nose. “We’ve got to go back, T! We’ve got to go back!”
No reply—but he wasn’t touching my feet, either. Thank God, he had
heard me. I could feel him thinking, trying to reason it out, even with my helpless
bare feet right in his face. Then it began—such a gentle stroking and caressing
of my feet that it might have been a breeze passing over them. But if there had
been a catch in my voice as I mentioned the Chamber, there was that same choke
of emotion in his as he said, “I want these feet. I had them once, and
I’ve been dreaming about them ever since. Even when I was sitting there,
in that Chamber, it was these feet that I wanted. And I will have them.”
With that his fingers took on fire, and he growled with pleasure as he set them
loose on my ticklish flesh. My panicked, nerve-racked state only intensified
the torment, paralyzing me as I gasped and begged him to stop. Of course that
made him tickle harder, his fingers scrabbling against my much-abused soles.
Too weak to move, I felt all strength leaching from my arms and shoulders as
I succumbed to helpless, suffocating laughter: I was going to be tickled to death
after all, then abandoned in this aluminum-walled coffin. But the very thought
of ending up that way, in such a humiliating grave, gave me one last ounce of
strength. Somehow I began to move, hauling myself along with thrusts of my hips
and thighs, my sweaty fingertips on the aluminum walls helping to move me forward
far enough to finally drag my feet out of reach.
“God damn it!”
I panted, trying to shake off the sweat running into my eyes. I might never get
the strength to move again, but at least I had found blessed relief.
Then, incredibly, the tickling started again, even worse. T couldn’t reach
my feet with his fingers, but he’d found something—a length of broken
cable, maybe—to use as a tickling tool. What felt like a thousand jagged
wires dragged over my soles, poked between my toes, making me completely helpless
again. “Oh Jesus…oh don’t… you’re killing me this
time….”
“Goddamn right I’m killing you! I just wish I could get my fucking
hands on you!”
I could see, even in the darkness, a kind of sparkling at the edge of my vision,
and knew I was on the verge of passing out. I was also shouting, in a demented
voice that was totally unknown to me: “Go ahead, you bastard, tickle me
to death!”
“Goddamn right I’ll tickle you to death…!”
“Ahhhhhh I don’t care anymore!” I broke the final law of sanity
by forcing my feet open, unclenching my toes, letting the tickling wires do their
work, and now I was singing, fitting a hysterical little tune to my words: “I
don’t care anymore, I don’t care….”
T was happy, oh he was a happy winner! He whipped that cable, or whatever it
was, all over my feet and ankles while I yelled and laughed and sang and surrendered.
My light-headedness only increased when I felt, even in the midst of torment
and fear and exhaustion, my dick getting hard. Talk about funny! That omnipresent
dick, that mindless fuckstick that had caused me so much trouble, asserting itself
one last time…unbelievable! Hilarious! To die with a stiff prick, what
could be more fitting?
Yet fitting it wasn’t; there was no room to get properly hard, my dick
being trapped between my belly and the floor of my coffin. I tried to suck in
my gut so my dick would have room to swell, but there was no way, not while I
was laughing and ranting and panting. Weakly I tried to turn or twist, anything
to give my cock a little of the room it demanded. The more I tried, the harder
it got, as if it enjoyed my desperate state and wanted to exploit it to the max.
I sang a little song of pain, Ow, ow, ow, as I twisted and struggled, struggled
and twisted, throwing my weight to either side over and over, anything to ease
the throbbing that seemed bigger than I was. My vision began sparkling at the
edges again, and soon I saw nothing but stars.
Sometime later—a second? a minute?—I became conscious, the darkness
inside my head unfurling into the recently forgotten darkness of my prison. Two
things were clear, even to my tortured, unhinged mind: number one, I wasn’t
being tickled anymore. Number two, my dick still throbbed and ached. And oh,
number three: T was somewhere behind me, yelling.
“Come back here, you bastard! I’m not finished with you yet!”
For someone who was now totally insane, I was able to piece the situation together
pretty quickly: I had passed out for a moment, but not before my stubbornly swelling
cock had helped to pry me out of range of T and his tickling tool. I was free,
thanks to my dick! “Good boy,” I whispered to my aching pet. I stretched
my arms and managed to move another millimeter forward as T screamed and ranted
behind me.
There was no reason to believe I’d end up anywhere but in some dark pit
but insanity was now the norm, and if it was insane to keep trying,
then that was good enough to keep my hips and fingertips working, even my tortured
toes joining in the effort. Soon T gave up screaming at me, and I had the sound
of my own breath to keep me company—breath that rattled and grunted like
a worn-out engine pulling me along, dragging my hard-on with me. If I could make
any sense out of the darkness, it looked as if I might not have far to go. Just
a couple more feet and I would be at the edge. Of something.
When I was close enough, I stretched my tired arms to reach and grab onto the
edge of the vent opening I now faced. Finally, an end to my sweaty metal prison!
But the edge was sharp, so I moved carefully, encouraged only by what seemed
to be, if not a light in the distance, a lesser degree of darkness. Hitching
myself forward slowly, I was able at last to let my arms dangle beneath me into
the half-light. But I had no time to even raise my head and look around before
my arms were grabbed and nearly pulled from their sockets.
“Got you now, prick!”
Somehow T had figured out where I would emerge and had found a way to get to
it. I scarcely had time to register my surprise, I was begging him to go easy
as he pulled me out of the duct: “Hey hey hey watch my dick, watch my dick,
watch my dick!”
“I’ll do more than watch your dick, asshole. I’ll do a hell
of a lot more!”
With a whump I landed on the floor, which as far as I could see was a white tiled
floor like the one I’d left behind, in what seemed like a former lifetime.
T stood over me, his coverall unzipped. If my own stupid prick was still engorged,
his was positively rapturous, a gravity-defying ramrod swinging wildly in a victory
dance. He asked in a husky voice, “Are you ready for what’s coming
to you?”
“Oh, absolutely!” I slid to the middle of the corridor, the better
to spread myself out, my arms above my head. “Go ahead, you bastard,” I
said, writhing, offering up my bare feet. “Tickle me to death! Go ahead!”
“You’re grinning now,” he said, unsuccessfully stifling his
own grin. “You have no idea what agony this is going to be!”
I added a laugh to my grin. “Ha! Do your worst, you big dumb piece of meat!”
He stood over me, reaching down. It took all of my will to keep my eyes open.
It’s a good thing I did, or I wouldn’t have seen what happened next,
it came so quickly: hands appeared, several of them, grabbing T and pulling him
from view. There was a sound of scuffling, some urgent, heavy breathing, then
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