The Night Collector
by Golden West
Trevor Briggs always felt like something inside him was set at the wrong angle.
Not broken — just tuned to a frequency nobody else seemed to hear.
A sophomore at Westbridge University, he moved through campus like a ghost with sharp eyes. A quiet student who blended into crowds but never blended in. People read him as reserved, maybe shy, maybe cold. They didn’t see the static behind his calm. They didn’t feel the storm tightening in his chest.
They didn’t know about the craving.
It started small — an odd fixation with shoes. Not the brands, not the flex, but the stories ground into them. Scuffed soles. Worn laces. The imprint of someone’s entire day. He told himself it was harmless. Academic. He even wrote a paper on material culture and identity and pulled an A.
But the fascination sharpened.
It grew teeth.
Soon he was drifting through campus at night, pulled by the glow of dorm windows and the muffled laughter of students stumbling back from parties. He never hurt anyone — the thought alone made him nauseous — but he did slip into unlocked lounges, laundry rooms, hallways where exhausted students kicked off their sneakers and passed out on couches.
That was when he became the Night Collector.
And when it came to male students who passed out with their shoes ON … well, Trevor moved like a shadow, breath tight, guilt chewing at his ribs. He would kneel beside a sleeping student — blond, redhaired, brown haired, it didn’t matter — and gently, almost reverently, slide their shoes from their feet. Sometimes their socks too, still warm from the day’s heat.
He always whispered, “I’m sorry,” before he ran.
Not out of triumph.
Out of fear.
Out of need.
But once The Night Collector didn’t run. He pulled the shoes and socks off an unconscious jogger and STAYED.
This fellow he’d knocked out was extraordinary.
Trevor would later find out that this twenty-year-old godling was named Jason McDonagh.
He was the kind of jogger who made people forget he was jogging. Strawberry blond hair caught the late day light, green eyes sharp enough to register every detail around him. His frame was carved, not merely toned — the kind of chiseled build that didn’t come from casual cardio but from serious training, discipline, and a life that demanded more of him than weekend runs. Even in motion, he carried himself like someone used to pushing past limits.
Trevor knew he wanted Jason the moment the young man paused mid run, stretching with that easy confidence people earn only through pain and discipline. Strawberry blond hair damp with sweat, green eyes half closed, chest rising and falling like he owned the air around him. He looked untouchable.
That was the problem.
The shoe-stealer known ss The Night Collector moved before he could talk himself out of it — quiet, deliberate, the way someone acts when they’ve already decided the consequences don’t matter. Jason didn’t hear him approach. Didn’t sense the shift in the air behind him. Didn’t realize anything was wrong until Trevor’s hand (which held a chloroform-soaked handkerchief) clamped over his face, sudden and absolute.
Jason’s reaction was pure instinct: a sharp inhale, a twist of his shoulders, a surge of strength that would’ve broken Trevor’s grip if he’d had even a second more warning. But surprise is its own kind of weapon. The godling’s balance faltered. His breath hitched. His knees buckled as the world around him smeared into something distant and unreachable.
The Night Collector felt the fight drain out of his victim — not instantly, but in waves. First resistance, then confusion, then that heavy, helpless slackness as consciousness slipped away. Jason’s body sagged into Trevor’s arms, all that chiseled strength suddenly weight instead of power.
For a moment The Night Collector just held him, stunned by the reality of it — the jogger, the fantasy, the beautiful stranger now limp against his shoulder. And in the quiet that followed, Trevor wasn’t sure whether he felt triumph… or terror at what he’d just done. Should he run? Should he stay? The area was deserted, but that could change in an instant. He didn’t want to be caught … but he did want to suck the sweat from Jason’s socks. What should he do?
While he debated with himself, the strawberry blond Adonis began to regain consciousness. Chloroform doesn’t keep people out nearly as long as they’d have you believe on the TV and in movies.
"Huh ...?" Was all Jason could say as Trevor removed his sweaty socks and began to gently massage his soles--Pressing firmly against his insteps, his thumbs systematically rubbing them in slow clockwise circles. Then The Night Collector proceeded to dance his fingertips all over the bottoms of Jason's feet. The jogger’s body began to shake, giggles immediately emanating from him.
"You’re tense, buddy …I can help with that." Said Trevor. The unhinged shoe-stealer took one hand and gently pried Jason's toes back away from the ball of his size 12 foot, causing the skin to stretch tight. This, of course, exposed the twenty-year-old's soles and made them ultra-sensitive at the same time. The Night Collector then probe-massaged his soles until Jason McDonagh’s feet started to jerk and his sweet toes wriggle.
He tugged off the still-weakened Jason's rather stylish jogging pants and dragged him to the space between two metal bike grid racks.
After this, Trevor tied the youth's own sweaty socks to each wrist ... then fastened those socks to each corner of the opposing metal bike grid racks. He used the youth's own belt to tie one ankle to the bottom corner of the rack, leaving one leg free ... until he removed his own shirt, wound it into a makeshift rope and used it to tie down that extremity as well. Jason was so stunned that the unhinged shoe-stealer was doing this that he couldn't call up the strength to resist.
The Night Collector saw the look on Jason’s face and half frowned.
"This kind of action is new to me." The Night Collector states nonchalantly. "I’ve always been prepared to knock out a guy and have my way with his feet, but actually doing it? No way! But now I’m Christopher Columbus exploring the new world! My thing is normally just stealing footwear, you know? How do you feel about tickling? Never mind …not really concerned about how you feel about things at the moment…”
As he said this, he blindfolded Jason with the extra chloroform handkerchief that he’d brought along but hadn’t used. Taking his victim’s sight away forced the young man to surrender to total darkness, which purposefully intensified his apprehension and his ticklishness.
Meanwhile The Night Collector resisted the urge to tickle the now shirtless Jason's bellybutton. Still, he surprised even himself by straddling the jogger’s crotch before spider-crawling up the sides of his tummy. Trevor tightened his legs against Jason's body. His unhinged body reacted to his captive’s muscled one--tickling the twenty-year-old before he could even utter a sound. Jason rolled uncontrollably back and forth in his attempt to escape the tickling sensations that The Night Collector was already producing. His mind whirled and he fantasized about floating in deep space or through rainbows.
"HAAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHA!!!" Jason shouted, as he began coming back to reality. The first thing that hit him was the tickling sensations attacking his tummy as Trevor laid into him. The handsome teenty-year-old really had no idea what he was in for.
"OH STOP! PLEASE PLEAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!"
He screamed almost like a little girl with laughter, wriggling his body back and forth and realizing that he couldn't really move much at all thanks to the way he'd been tied. He was bound tight and blindfolded ... effectively paralyzed and blinded!
"Too much for you, handsome?" Trevor cooed as he dug his fingertips into his captive's tummy and wiggled them as if they were individual vibrators. Jason immediately screamed with laughter and fought hard against the sock bonds. His belly flexed wildly as The Night Collector continued.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHEA EAHEHAEHAEHA WAIT!! PLEASE!!! HAHA HEE HEE HAHAHAHAHEHAE AEHAHEA AHAE PLEASE STOP FOR JUST A SECOND!!! HAHAHAHAA HEE HEE HEHAE HAHAHA WAIT!! PLEASE!!!!"
The Night Collector lightly went up and down his sides causing the strawberry blond captive to shriek. He lightly tickled the twenty-year-old's ribs and armpits. Jason intensely begs The Night Collector to stop. Trevor responds by moving down to his feet. The captive had size 12's with long toes, trim nails, round heels, soft soles and a medium arch. By chance (or so the psychotic shoe-stealer believed) Trevor just happened to have a bottle of lotion in his duffle bag and used that to coat and massage Jason’s feet. What a reaction the strawberry blond young man displayed! He furiously jerked all over the place.
The Night Collector's fingers explored every inch of the twenty-year-old's bare feet one at a time. As he did this, Jason McDonagh squirmed and burst out with even louder explosions of laughter. The Night Collector kept massaging the twenty-year-old's feet and toes. Then he lightly went over the tops of his feet and Jason lost it. His green eyes rolled in his head and he seemed to convulse like a man being electrocuted in response to the ticklish torment!
Trevor's fingers slowly curled over and tickled under and in-between the jogger’s well-shaped wiggly toes. Then up and down his soles. The captive screamed like a female slasher movie victim! Nothing was going to deter Trevor Briggs now. He retrieved an eagle feather from his duffle bag and immediately used it on Jason McDonagh’s toes and soles and his laughing grew even louder! When The Night Collector used the feather in between his toes the twenty-year-old seemed to fade in and out of consciousness while still howling his brains out. The unhinged shoe-stealer's penis stiffened.
And Trevor wasn't the only one feeling the intensity of the situation. Jason was clad in only his briefs at this point, and The Night Collector had long since discovered that tickling his feet got the strawberry blond young man very aroused. The jogger was currently and shamelessly "pitching a tent" in his briefs.
But instead of fooling about with his tumescent genitalia, Trevor’s fingers tickled Jason’s extremely sensitive neck ... and the twenty-year-old shook his head so violently when he did this, the shoe-stealer thought he might snap it right off. He moved to Jason’s armpits and the twenty-year-old nearly broke free from his bonds! The Night Collector's fingers slid down to his ribs, bellybutton and waistline.
Jason McDonagh was moaning and howling and shrieking like crazy. He screamed when the unhinged shoe-stealer got to his inner thighs. He tickled that area for about ten minutes. Then he returned to his favorite part of the jogger--his size 12 feet. He ran his fingertips softly up and down on his captive's soles, sending the twenty-year-old instantly into shrieking hysterics. When his fingers touched the ultra-sensitive area just beneath his toes, Jason McDonagh was laughing and shaking so hard that he looked like a seizing epileptic.
"Oh please PLEASE! ... hahahahahaha ... please stop this HAHAHAHAH! ... Have a little mercy ... PLEASE!!! hahahahahaha ... PLEASE OFFICER! NOOOOOOOOOOOAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHA!!!!OFFICER PLEEEEEEAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!"
Trevor then quickly returned his hands to Jason's tummy and purposely tickled his bellybutton--never allowing him to get used to being tickled on one spot for too long. Jason shrieked and howled and tried to kick out. As he did this, The Night Collector admired the twenty-year-old's toenails on his well-shaped toes. They were so well-manicured! They looked so comely that Trevor did something he never had before; He bent his head down and tenderly kissed each toe and drew each in turn into his mouth. He tongue-washed and suckled upon the strawberry blond’s perfect digits for a bit.
The jogger’s entire body vibrated until he fainted. But before he lost consciousness The Night Collector impressed upon the twenty-year-old that if he ever spoke about what happened, he’d would most-assuredly kill him and everyone he loved.’
And Jason believed it.
***
Back home, nobody knew about the shoes … or the rest of it.
They exiled Trevor for something far more ordinary, far more human:
He liked who he liked.
His mother didn’t sugarcoat it:
“Your gay-ass just embarrasses us.”
So he left. Or maybe he was pushed. The line blurred.
He kept the stolen shoes in a trunk under his dorm bed. Not as trophies — he hated that word — but as artifacts. Evidence of his own misalignment. Proof that he didn’t fit anywhere: not in his old neighborhood, not in his new one, not even in his own skin.
Some nights he opened the trunk and stared at the pile until his throat tightened.
Some nights he cried. He decided that kidnapping and tickling and getting out of his normal comfort zone had been fun, but it was much too dangerous. He’d eventually get caught and the consequences of kidnapping someone, knocking them out and … well, he just didn’t want to think about it. So, he returned to the basics. Footwear theft.
Still, some nights he whispered:
“What is wrong with me?”
But the truth spoken by the voices in his head were quieter, sharper:
Nothing was wrong with him.
He was just different.
And difference, in every world he’d lived in, was treated like a crime.
One night he found a pair of trophies he recognized — battered Vans belonging to a redhaired boy from his sociology class. The boy was kind. Held doors open. Asked Trevor’s opinion in group discussions. Smiled at him like he wasn’t invisible.
Holding those shoes made Trevor’s chest collapse inward.
He returned them.
Left them neatly at the boy’s door with a note:
“I’m sorry. I’m trying to be better.”
The next day, the boy didn’t confront him.
Didn’t accuse him.
Didn’t mention the shoes at all.
But he sat beside Trevor in class.
And for the first time, The Night Collector wondered if he wasn’t a freak after all — just a young man trying to understand himself in a world that never gave him room to breathe.