(No "action" in this one, FYI)
Don't care what he says. They all complain, object - it's too much, overload, can't take it. Blah blah blah.
Embarrassed, well sure. Not calling the shots... that's what the real problem is. Landing on his back. Fightin' it hard - and for what?
They eat it up.
Pleasure! times ten twenty fifty, taking the time to raise the bar higher and over he goes, notch by notch. Howling with ecstasy, body on fire. Says it all.
Wait for an opening, or make an opportunity. Grab, check on the street corner, reef up on an arm and march him along. Testing as he goes, damn unsettled to be pushed around by nothing he can see. Adds to the spice.
Right to the old motel. Forgotten motel. Water still running, special room all set up... bars inside window and drapes. High fence all around it to keep unwanted company away. Lock the fence behind him, march him well away from the road... and to the door, open and waiting. Battery-light on, no sign of it outside. Just another empty room - get him inside, safely in, staying in. Close the padlocks, make him watch. It's a done deal.
King-size beds, shiny black covering 'em. Nearest one all lumpy. Steer him past it, maybe bare him now, maybe wait. Cuffs, or rope, or whatever. And he yells and flops and fights.
Spread him out. Can't budge, can't turn, wrists and ankles can't bend. Snug enough, but no damage. Done right, no worries. Legs wide open, sides wide open, feet seriously stuck.
Maybe let him holler, pull and twist until he starts to pant.
Pull the satin off the other bed. The collection, all laid out nice, handy and close enough to stare at.
Feathers, big pointy downy curved colorful. Dusters boa - and brushes! Fur nylon soft and firm. Lubes oils creams hot-grease ice-grease. Ouch-toys buzz-toys heat-toys rollers rubbers shavers gags. Hootch no-sleep feel-plus smokes smokes stogies. Vitamins eats eats eats eats. Rubber hands leather hands silk hands satin hands rubber rubber leather leather silk satin satin satin.
Plenty to do. Roar-pleasure for July, and maybe even August. Laid out to see, to study, smoke and wonder which will get picked up next, floated over to him. To his skin.
This particular one, now - no rush job for him. Forgetting to breathe as he stares, not trying to move. No panic there. Read this as knowing what's coming. Way down inside, big satisfaction. Never mind the big resistance. Not that it matters.
Stunned like a rabbit in the headlights. Fighting comes from run-away-now, fantasy and dream. More intense fantasy if unable to go. This one, the lack of wasted effort... knowing and feeling it already. Experience showing. Let him get ready inside, all attention on the tools laying here, what each will do. Worth the wait. He'd be howling by now, ribs getting the works, if not so serious now. Give him time.
Time to burn - aaaand... smokes. Pick up a carton, two feet straight up, three feet. He watches, same deep stare, on fire. Camels to burn, not the halfway-smokes he's carrying, not anymore. Tear it open, peel a pack, drop the rest on the other cartons.
First one sliding out as it comes his way. Filters for biting down on. He tugs now, long and careful, not looking away from the smoke. Then he takes it, no more fight. Drop the pack by his side, and his eyes wander back over. To the brushes. Fur.
Definitely one for wearing cuffs. Good call, after that first check, when he knew what was up right away. Most will be confused, act scared. This one, trying to elude right off, trying hard all through the walk and into the special room. Knowing, knowing. Set on get-away, very crafty. Worth the cuffs, telling how much.
Let him study, serious expression, before picking up a wooden match and dragging it across the other bed frame. Sucking in, cooperating, mind on the tools. Drop the match in the ashtray, let it burn out.
Sucking in hard. Long, intense, hungry smoking. Eyes stuck on the feather dusters.
Check his pockets, wallet - well well well. A travelling man. Far from home, and that tears it... Look through the wallet, 'cause the way this one's shaping up he might as well be carrying a card, a permission slip: bullseye, got a live one here, grand prize, jackpot, to whom it may concern don't even think about starting in on an A-1 savage like this unless it's a wall-blanket of roar-pleasure nonstop all ready, this one's waiting for expert handling, green light to max him out, needing better than best...
No such invite to be found... but there should be.
Break the filter off his next smoke. His attention is somewhere else - the oils. Incredible expression on his face. Terrific... stance. Just about ready.
Crack open the first water bottle, and slip a few no-sleeps in there. Let 'em dissolve and mix. At first, maybe stay out of over-overdrive, make the first couple days deeper. Fast can come later. Make him drink up, swallowing while he stares at the collection of nearby hands. Big eyes, intense intense, serious. And it is... the best kind of serious. Way past major, massive - solemn. No playing around with this one.
Layer him. Under, around - all over.
Reward that careful attention. Pick up some gloves, bring him five, ten... twelve, to start. Cruise 'em up slowly, bring 'em on over. Badass mutherfuckers, but - satin! Sleek, soft, taut like they're hiding muscular hands, flexing steel, curved marble. Flexing a little. Looking ready to grip, and press... and slide. Jet black, coming to kick ass, take charge, play a million times more serious than work.
He's tugging again, watching the herd coming in, targeting feet and ribs and pits and belly and chest and sides. Take the Camel away while he's distracted and grind it out.
Bared and ready, brought up to speed, cuffed snug. Ready ready ultimate roar-high, for a top-notch howling man. It'll be hard to pull back at all and make it last, leave some for later on - seriously tough not to see what intensity he can handle, shoot for the maximum max tonight...
28jun1997