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You run into the mens' room door.

"Ow. Shit." It's locked. There's a piece of paper taped to the door, with an arrow on it. Go that way...

And enter a long hallway with maybe eight doors. What idiot put a sign with just an arrow on it? The door behind you is slightly ajar and doesn't have a lock on it. You take your time approaching the first door on the left... Locked. Same with the second. If you didn't have to go so bad...

Ah. Success. Peering in cautiously - yep. You lock the door and do what you came for. Whew. You open the door -

The light goes out. A tug from behind, like your belt is caught on something -

Something kinda small slips in near the top of the door. Pressure - above your hips -

You're moving instantly. Flailing, actually... nothing too effective, just... reflex. The grip slides up. You've gotta get loose, right now -

Silhouette of a hand in the dark. But no arm. There's another one -

Snug. Your hands. Wrapped in someth- oh. Just gloves. But you weren't riding, so... they can't be your gloves. Opening your eyes -

Yep, fingerless gloves. Riding gloves on your hands. Huh? Dull throbbing headache...

You're laying on a small bed. No footboard, no sheets... Small room. Where is this?

No headboard, either. A chair alongside the bed, with an old biker jacket layin' on it. Traffic sounds from outside the window to your left, but they're really faint. The room's quiet. What's the deal? Somebody pulled gloves on ya? Your shirt sleeves seem to be pushed up, too. You start to sit up - whoa. Like a hangover, only farther back.

There's a big Harley logo on the right wall. Spray-painted. Sloppy. Posters with riders, centerfolds of bikes and babes on 'em. Scattered on the floor there's a ripped-up seat, a couple pistons, gasket putty, tools -

Creak.

With an effort, you look -

The door. It's closing. Or... being closed. What?

Hands closing it. Hands...

Empty? Those are gloves, but there's definitely no arms, or body. Hollow black gloves closing the door. Oh, sure.

You're still woozy. "No. Hey... I, unh -"

The door makes a rubbery sound, like there's a lot of weatherstripping - and closes. Weirder and w-

Click - that sorta sounded like -

Shit. No way. A key is being palmed by a leather glove at the door, which is floating away all by itself. It just -

They. Locked. You. In here.

Oh, shit.
 

"No," you say, like you just don't believe it. And then you hear a squeak to your left. They're closing the window. That would seem to be your only way out -

So you sit up fast, and the room's spinning like crazy. You're shaking your head to clear it -

Shut, and latched. Swinging toward it - there's... something like a shutter, only it's inside instead of outside. Thick...

The room's getting darker. This is... interesting, almost. What the fuck is -

With an effort, you stand... catch your toe on a wrench or something, and land on one knee on the bed's edge -

And, with a dull thump, the shutter-thing closes. It's really dark. Metal sliding against metal, near the window...

Push. A shove, easy, right in the middle of your chest. And another - you go backwards.
 

Fingers - too smooth, must be more gloves - clamp on to your left wrist. And right wrist - and something lassos your your right boot. Left shin. All in a second, maybe two. You go to push yourse-

Sliding. Arms being pulled over your head - Limbs... caught. What?!

Pulling. Tension... belt loops. No. Waistband, pantlegs. Th-

Rip - Your shirt's... pulling apart. And your jeans. Jeans - tearing? Just like that? You're pinned. What the h-

Light. Good. Not too bright, though. Up by the ceiling, a... worklight, clamp-on, like for a car. Aimed just off the foot of the bed. You can see the gloves -more of 'em, on y- Ripping your shirt. Off.

You stop struggling for a second, amazed by this. Well, this can't be happening. All by themselves...

Boot - left boot, slipping off. A... leather strap is bearing down on your shin, like a real long belt, the loose end pulled out tight by a glove. They're being tightened around your wrist too - ow. Your underwear stretches, and shreds!

The ends of the straps disappear off the bed, in the dark. And your socks are being tugged off... Your clothes, just rags now, are piled on the chair. Boots and socks go on the heap, slamming down.

The straps are lowered and tightened.
 

Gloves go under your feet and armpits and reef you up a couple inches higher on the bed -

"Aaaackk!" Your body recoils in a big way, taking you by surprise, when they close and push - and they're gone already. Some of 'em are tightening the straps even more... The efficiency with which they're getting all this done, maybe fifteen or twenty seconds since the light came on, is pretty damn intimidating.

Two of 'em, approaching the far wall. Are they holding som-

That's a hole. Way up in the wall. They have some shiny things- not coins...

A key. The door? You look at the window, see a padlock hanging from the middle of the iron bar locking the shutter. Keys to the door and the window -

Clang - tink.

No. Way...

And then fingers push the other key into the hole. Ding - bump.
 

You sorta cough once, absolutely not believing this. They dropped the keys... in the wall. You're locked in - how are you...

You shout. Tug real seriously, all over again. Gotta get out, now, outa here, off this fuckin bed...

Maybe start by getting a hand loose, at least. Or a foot?

You're yelling long and loud. Pulling like crazy at the straps. Seeing more gloves - rising. Well above you, they're just hangin' there... while you twist, and holler.

You count twenty-three of 'em, but you're not sure you got 'em all. Cussing 'em out loudly -

Pissed off. Gettin' really worried... these straps! Fuck! You're down cold. Stretched out, too. Feet dangling in space, hands too... wearin' the gloves. Nothing else. No slack... the straps don't give. And cowhide - empty leathers above you. While you fight. Watching you...?

A long time. You get rough, sneaky, creative...

The straps aren't gonna give.

Serious yelling and screaming...

Nothing.
 

A hand descends, angling off. The chair... picking up a boot, turning it this way and that. As if, let's see what we got here. The hands begin checking your boots, searching... for what?

The pile of stuff slides off the seat of the chair. The jacket goes, too - the one that had already been there when you... something ain't right, the way that happened, 'cause the heap didn't look like it was about to fall over. But it did. Stuff jingles, maybe some coins getting away. Your other boot is retrieved... and the jacket's picked up from the floor. Another coin falls -

A few hands scoop your clothes up, and dump 'em between your knees. A bunch of crap falls - and overhead, they're digging stuff out of the pockets of the leather jacket, lobbing it onto the pile.
 

"That ain't mine. You know that," you say. Getting no sign that they hear ya. Or maybe they're ignoring you. "I wasn't wearin' that. C'mon..."

Two hands pick up your ruined shirt. Wh- as they're lifting it, coins slide off, a couple of small bolts you don't recognize...a book of matches that isn't yours. Something larger falls against your thigh.

"No!" Camels, a beat-up pack of - yup, there's a couple loose cigs on the stained mattress now, nonfilters. They shake the shirt, finger it... "Not mine. Not from my shirt. Those are..."

There's some rustling from right side of the room, the pile of parts and tools... A glove bobs up, carrying - what? Tranny cover, cracked... Sets it on the chair, and leaves. Greasy inside. What...

And one of 'em picks up a loose cigarette that's next to your knee.

"What?" They don't - Is that an ashtray? Big. Oh, they're crazy. "Hey. I don't smoke anymore. Ain't gonna, uh..." No way. Not going along with this, bad move... though you're not exactly sure -

No... vents or anything in here? The wrong message, seems like. Cooperating, it'd be like encouraging 'em or something -

Yup, the smoke's heading right for your face.

"Dammit!" You turn your head to the side. The glove turns - you move your face away again. Not now, who knows what they're gonna - not from them! Not gonna let 'em tell ya when or how many, fuck them and their ideas. One of 'em darts in, touching -

"Ow." Pinning your neck. Strong. Pressing against your throat, wide span... Trapping it easily. Threatening. Not subtle. The Camel's pressed against your lip, waiting.
 

Resist!

But how? What can ya do? You pull for a while... unsuccessfully. And then you forget to keep your mouth closed, and the cig's stuck between your lips, the fingers under your chin now reefing up so you can't spit it out. Noise on the bed - a glove gets a box of matches from the crap lying between your legs. You don't like this, not at all -

The glove floats up... opening the box, shaking out a match and striking it. Smooth. One-handed, like it's done it a thousand times. You just stare as it brings the flame to your smoke. What the fuck.

Sucking in, grimacing... the match is tossed into the carb cover. Perfect aim. You couldn't move your own hands that smoothly. Through the cloud you exhale, gloves bring the pack and the loose cig, drop 'em by your side. The matchbox is lobbed near 'em.

Cloth, empty... gloves can't do this. They start rifling through the jacket again. The neck-pressure starts to loosen.

"This isn't happening," you say, around the cig. No response.

Fingers collect change and something like lock washers from the bed, and dump it all on the chair. Others find your wallet, start emptying it. One's got your keys.

A glove picks up - rolling papers. You blink. "Jacket - not mine."

They check out your penknife. A... baggie? Empty... Residue, maybe? White dust.

"Quit fuckin' with me," you shout. The bag heads for the growing pile next to the ashtray. Your wallet ends up there too, but your license is dropped alongside the smokes.

A new pack of Camels is found among the scraps of denim. So that's how it is. The stash pockets on the sleeves are opened -

A hypodermic. After a stunned moment, you're fightin' hard. "No way! You bastards -"

Rubbers. Crumpled wrappers. A set of three.

You pull wildly, scanning the room again for anything, some kind of hopeful sign. Can't be, this just is not real...
 

A glove dips down, bringing you the loose cig. Hanging there, waiting you out. When you quit thrashing around, another hand pulls your smoke, and the new one is lit from it.

The needle gets set on the chair, to your great relief.

But the rubbers are dropped alongside you.

The wreckage of your clothes has been tossed aside now. A bandanna is picked up from your shin and tossed by your head. No more stuff to check out -

Oh. A piece of paper, being unfolded slowly. Copy... of a magazine page... a drawing? Photo of a guy's back -

Tattooed. Stomach knotting up, you lift your head to get a better look...

Highway, in the desert. Guy in leathers and KD's on a sharp-looking chopper. No helmet, cig between his teeth, grinnin' like a fool... Behind him, though, there's this huge hand. Better than half his size. Leather glove, no arm. so maybe no hand in there at all. Looks like an authority figure or something. Goin' for him. He's outrunning it, maybe... or it's playing with him. But it wants to get him. He's free, happy... the hand's out to change that.

It's a full-back tat. Oh, yeah.
 

You're fucked. You're... toast. Sealed up tight, strapped down.

Another minute and the cig's pulled, lobbed into the tranny cover, left to burn itself out. Incense.

Rustling - a glove pops up... with a bottle. Water. Greasy, dusty - uncapping. A couple inches of water, which you're glad to drink. A new smoke is pulled out, and lit...

The straps seem to be pulled a little, this way and that. Tested. Like it's even necessary. You really can't move your arms. Gloves, and straps... and that's all you're wearing...

You realize something else. The bed doesn't squeak at all. Not now... or earlier, when you could flail more. A new Camel is brought up for you. The pack, empty, crumpling in a cowhide fist.

Your feet hang off the end of the bed, held way apart. You can hardly even bend 'em...

Glass. A hand has another bottle for you. Glass, pint. That gets you fidgeting again. Jim Beam, maybe an inch left in it. Your smoke is taken away -

Locks on the inside... keys in the wall. Maybe you'll need the buzz - like an anesthetic. Fuck...

So you empty it, and it's thrown against the door. Fingers curl around the pack of Camels nearby, and others peel it open.

No match is being brought, though. Odd. You look around -

The gloves are... pairing up?

Peeling!
 

White, underneath. Leather, falling to the floor - but there's still hands, hanging overhead, empty as... ever -

Shiny. W-

Dingy, a little yellowed - but that gleam. Acetate. Thicker - more durable than satin, oh shit. Wearin' leather gloves, hiding their little secret, and now that the room's all sealed up and nobody else'll know...

You groan, straining with your arms and legs. Secret crash pad, private fun.

One of 'em rises up, and clicks off the light.

All is quiet. You lay there in the dark, an unlit Camel in your mouth... naked, under two dozen bad, slippery hands.

A long minute of wild scenes pass through your head. They wouldn't, you tell yourself. All that ink, the rubbers - no.

Scratch. Flame - a wooden match, flaring. White fingers holding it over your chest. You remember to breathe. But the glove is moving away from your cig. South...

It stops at the end of the bed. From the shadows beyond, a half-dozen gloves... are coming. They're going to grab your feet.

They're -

Impossible.

"Oh. No," you say quietly. The match is tossed aside.

Grip -

Tensing you right up. Impossible -

Pressure - and it's moving. Cool, oh fuck - belly too, and your legs. All over you. All over. Sliding.

You buck back - and whoop. And roar like a trapped bear.
 

Months. It feels like you've been here a year. Laughing your guts out for a few weeks, too swamped with input to make noise the rest of the time. You can't roll or twist, and there's hands everywhere, all over, bulldozing, drilling... no friction. No abrasion, they feel the same as they always have.

Locked in, dark and soundproofed room... in-depth polishing, molding to you. Your curves.

Years. The chains won't weaken for decades yet, the locks...
 

A buzzing sound... been there for a while. Near you.

Smoke, too. A cigarette... Oh. You are. You tug on it - yep. Smokin' in the dark. Your limbs still won't move... Soaked with sweat. Vague burning sensation.

More important - wha!? - there's no... well, not rubbing. They are clamped onto your arm, real tight. Right arm. The electrical noise stops suddenly, and the pain too... A faint burning, now just an ache all over your bicep, all around it...

A glove runs up and down the throbbing skin. It's greasy. You turn your head and suck in, and the Camel glows brighter. A whole bunch of gloves there, towels...

A tat gun, being taken away.

They can't really be... this is just not h-

Gloves close on your ribs, and you jump. Laying now on your thighs, crotch -

A hand plucks the cig. As it pulls away, another glove ducks under it and spreads out over your breastbone, and others are landing too, geting ready.

The smoke floats toward the ashtray. You snap at the restraints as it's dropped, really wanting a few more seconds of... peace.

The gloves start diggin' in -

Snorting. Lurching uselessly. Years of stimulation, and more years, coming up.

You never really understood the meaning of the word "hard." Not 'til now...

12jun98