The Eternal Laughing Stock (M/M)

[bigsmile21]

Henry had been forgotten. Captured, confined to an interrogation cell, and now forgotten. He had no sense of time due to the blindfold and interrupted sleep. It had to have been at least a week since his capture on the beach, a botched scouting mission behind enemy lines. The radio in his earpiece went static, a spotlight from a helicopter shown down upon him, and he was soon surrounded by enemies pointing rifles at him. Must have been given bad intel on the patrol patterns or radar. Either way, didn't matter now.

He disarmed himself, submitted to being cuffed, and was paraded toward the enemy encampment. Twice they had tripped him with their rifles and Henry stumbled face-first into the beach sand. It was too dark to see who had done it. Before reaching the camp, one of them slipped a blindfold over his eyes. At the time, Henry didn't know that that blindfold would stay on him to this day. He walked forward cautiously until one of them butted him with their rifle to change directions. He started to hear chatter and movement in front of him and asked how much further. He was rewarded with another forceful shove and this time, being blinded, the fall had more of an impact. Winded on the ground, they shouted and nudged at him to get up. He stumbled to his feet but was pushed down again. He felt cold metal clasp around his ankles as cuffs locked in place. He'd been walking barefoot, having ditched the scuba diving fins right before he was captured on the shoreline.

Blindfolded and now ankle-cuffed, his progression forward was even slower. In time, they made it to the edge of the enemy camp, as sounds of soldiers moving around become more prominent. He couldn't tell how many occupied but it seemed at least triple of what the intel had led him to believe; this was just supposed to be a bare-bones forward camp, not a fully equipped garrison. Either way, didn't matter now.

Chatter stopped as his was walked through the camp. Twice, he had insults and small objects thrown at him. One of those seemed to be a eaten sandwich, because some kind of mustard smell stayed on him as they continued to walk. A few minutes later his group stopped. Feet pressed into the back of his knees and he dropped to the ground, this time keeping his head up. An officer called out and the group explained how they recovered Henry. The officer approached, seemed to glance over him briefly, then ordered them to take him "below" for questioning.

He was dragged backwards, then told to stand and walk for what seemed like half a mile. It definitely was outside the camp because the hustle quieted. He tried to listen but could only faintly hear the camp from this point. The group stopped him and he heard the loud creak of a heavy metal door opening. He slowly walked inside, feeling cold metal on his bare feet. The walls were narrow as he was walked forward and then down a winding stair case of what must have been a bunker. As he started descending, one of the group shut the metal door behind them. At the bottom of the stairs, he was stopped once more, told that his ankle cuffs would be removed but not to make any dumb decisions to run. He complied, not like he could see where to run before getting shot.

The cuffs came off and he was hoisted onto a seat, with them quickly buckling his ankles with leather straps. He was sitting upright with his legs slightly spread. Not good, as far as interrogation options could go. He was told that the cuffs on his wrists would be removed, and again not to make any dumb decisions. He complied. One arm at a time they uncuffed him and positioned that arm above his head, buckling it with leather straps in a 10-and-2 position. He felt the radio earpiece being removed, and the blindfold positioned to be even tighter. They left without saying a word.

It was eerily quiet alone in the bunker. He tried to listen, for movement above, for planes flying, for anything, but just heard his own breathing. Henry thought about calling out, but figured he'd enjoy this bit of peace before the interrogation began. He'd had training against torture, both physical and psychological. He began dropping his awareness and sinking deep into un-thought. This was going to hurt, and he had no idea for how long they'd put up with him before either his rescue or they grew irritated. Either way, didn't matter now. Because he wasn't going to talk.

Some time later, he heard the metal bunker door creak open, and booted footsteps descend the stairs. He heard an officer's voice, a different one from earlier at the camp, begin asking questions. "Who are you?" "What were you doing spying on our base?" "How many others were there?" There was a long pause between each question. Henry didn't respond to any of the questions. He braced for the eventual blows, he expected they'd start with his stomach, or maybe canes to the feet if they were feeling malicious. But none of that ever came. The officer repeated the questions, each time moving a bit closer, but Henry continued to remain silent. This repeated for a few rounds. Some interrogation, he thought. Maybe they didn't want to risk harming him if there was some option for suing for peace.

After the ten or so time of the officer starting his questions over, the officer sighed. He moved closer to be almost next to Henry's face, and Henry turned to where he thought the other man was and spit, hearing it hit something. He really expected to be hit now. But again, no retaliation. He did, however, feel the man grab and grope his feet. Then lightly touch, then adamantly tickle his bare feet. Henry hadn't expected tickling. He fought, holding it in for as long as he could, before eventually breaking out in laughter. He shouted for the man to stop but he persisted. Then, next to his ear again he heard the officer repeat his questions. That couldn't be right. Henry hadn't heard anyone else enter aside from the officer. Now, the movements seemed relentless, mechanical even. Had they hooked him up to a tickling machine for interrogation? Was this really how the enemy worked? Either way, it didn't matter now.

He tried dropping into a deeper state, trying to disassociate, but his feet grew more sensitive each minute. The abrasive sand from the beach had unknowingly helped prime him for torture. The officer continued his questions, literally speaking into Henry's ear now. Never violent or forceful, but persistent. Henry roared in frustration, bucking and twisting in his restraints. He tried to spit and headbutt the officer but from the other side of the room he heard the officer's questions. How had he moved some quickly? Was this some kind of recording too? Either way, it didn't matter now.

The tickling stopped, and Henry took several deep breathes. The officer began asking his questions again, and Henry shouted back obscenities. He'd get out and rip the man's head off. The officer repeated his list, pausing and moving closer each time. When the officer was close enough that he sounded right next to Henry, Henry felt grabbing and tickling in his exposed armpits now. As if on loop, the questioner grew closer and the tickling became more invasive until the voice was right next to Henry's ear. Again, Henry lashed out, the voice jumped to the back of the other side of the bunker, and the tickling stopped. And again, the voice continued questioning, moving closer, and the tickling shifted to Henry's bare feet. This continued for what felt like hours. Henry was exhausted, his throat dry and his body chilled from sweat. The voice had to be some kind of recording. No person could be so precise. Either way, it didn't matter now.

Henry used the periods between tickling to recollect himself, to remember that they were trying to break him. Just that they had a different way of going about it. After another hour of this loop, he did notice one difference: the pauses between questions had shortened. He changed tactics, saying he had to pee from laughing so much. That unless they wanted a mess that they'd better get him out quick. No noticeable change in the programming: the questions continued and the pauses grew shorter. This was hell. He was starting to convince himself that he had died on that beach and was now being tortured in hell. Henry oscillated between remaining silent and threatening them with a mess to clean up. He knew that giving his interrogators any noticeable change in behavior only fueled their ammo for torture, but it was just so hard to focus. And at least, he started to reason with himself, if he could appear unstable and uncooperative that his value to them may decease. Either way, it didn't matter now.

The programming persisted: the questions continued, the pauses shortened, and the tickling remained unforgiving. He was fully exhausted at this point. He wanted out. He wanted to sleep. He wanted punch his capture square in the jaw and hook him up to this tickling machine. He tried shutting down again, but each time the tickling pulled him back to consciousness. Each time he'd shut off his sense of awareness in his feet, it'd be time to switch the tickling to his armpits. Henry understood now why they didn't tickle his full body at the same time. He had no idea how long this had been going, but could feel the wear on his body from the torture and his mind from lack of sleep. He began to envision the voice as a pair of officers working him over, even though it had to be a recording. Opening the bunker door had to have been a show because the officer hadn't left, hadn't stopped, and continued to jump from one side of the room to the other at unnatural speeds. Henry had tried removing the blindfold but it wouldn't budge.

After what could have days, Henry cracked: he sang like a songbird, giving his rank, his employer, and his mission briefing. He sighed, having given them everything they could have possibly wanted. They'd do with him what they wanted, but he didn't care. He would be either dead or a bargaining chip, but at least he'd be done soon. Only, nothing changed. The questions continued, the pauses between them by this point were non-existed, and the tickling remained unforgiving. Henry shouted his answers to each question, pulling harder than ever at the restraints. But no change in response. He was pleading now, but the tickling persisted. And the timing of the questions were so quick that they rolled from one to the next before he could even give a full response, fighting between laughing fits. This continued for hours, and may very well be continuing to this day. Henry didn't know if his captors were waiting for him to change his story, to see if the first answers he gave were fake. He was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and sleep deprived. He was physical or mental state to put up any further defense. But there would be no change to the questions or his torment. Thoughts began to dance in his head that his captors had forgotten him. Or had been ambushed by his employer's forces and his rescuers had never found the bunker outside of their camp. Or that his employer had set this up as a kind of qualifier or training experience. Either way, it didn't matter now.

[Charmides]

Thanks so much for sharing this, [mention]bigsmile21[/mention]; well-constructed, audacious, and oozing intrigue and paranoia. Even though I have to admit that personally, tickling has never really been my thing (though I have nothing against it, of course), this was a treat to read. You've taken that age-old tie-up scenario, the interrogation/prisoner of war story, and alchemically elevated it through sheer force of craft. You're a fascinating experimenter; many thanks to you again!

[bigsmile21]

Thank you for the feedback!

[Gagfan]

Very unique torture scenario!