"Where the hell have you been?"
He looks all around the trailer. Two seconds ago, he was tooling down the freeway, finishing a cigarette. "W-... What?"
"You're a hour late."
He just stands there with his mouth open. "What? I, uh -"
"And what's that smell?"
"What smell?" Way too quick, that response.
"That better not be what I think it is. You get over here and empty your pockets. Right now."
He looks worried now, alright.
I shove the table a few inches closer. "All of it. Move."
Still trying to see me, he takes a slow step backward.
Strong hands grab his arms. "Alright, now you're in for it."
"Wait," he says, trying to pull free, looking from one bicep to the other.
I pull him over and dig into the pocket of his jacket - well, the jacket he's wearing. He's never seen it before now. Letterman's jacket, gold with black leather sleeves. Big 'T' over his heart, studded with football medals...
Out comes a pack of Newports, half gone.
He stares, mouth open, as they get lobbed onto the table.
"Just how dumb do you think I am?"
That's always a stumper. His lips move, but I don't give him time to answer.
"And you knew - you knew - what was gonna happen, I catch you smokin' again."
"No... now, wait," he stammers. "I'm... twenty-eight. Twenty-eight years old."
"You wish." I dig into the other pocket. Gum. Then into the front pocket of his jeans -
"Hey!" He squirms as the fingers shove their way in. He can't see 'em, but they're pulling a lighter out.
"Uh-huh."
Some change, a key ring, a wallet -
And in the right rear pocket, a baggie. All twisted-up. With three white capsules in it.
I hold the bag up, and let the silence hang there.
He gulps, and tries to speak.
"No. Uh-uh. Get in the room."
Looking totally baffled now, around the bare walls...
"Now."
I turn him around and march him down the hall.
"Wait, you got the wrong guy... Just wait a minute, I'm not a kid, now I don't know what's going on here -"
"The hell you don't. It isn't bad enough that you blow off curfew... and smoke. Oh no."
He sees it - the door, at least. Iron. It's a very intimidating door. Instinctively, he tries to rear back from it. He definitely doesn't want to be caught on the other side of that door.
"No - I don't... Look, I'll be good. I promise."
I sigh hard.
"I'll do everything you tell me to -"
But he's at the door now. Fighting harder...
And in he goes.
"C'mon! Nooooo..."
I hold him tightly, and shut the door. Lock it tight.
Then more hands hit him behind the knees, taking him down. A flurry of hands leap on him, pulling his clothes off. Cuffing his hands, and his ankles.
I pick him up and slam him on the padded rack. Chain down the cuffs quickly...
Behind the rack, a match flares and I start lighting a row of candles. He's all fight now, taking in all the soundproofing.
"You're fucked. Do you know that? Just... totally fucked. Drugs..."
"Not mine. Not my bra- uh, shit, I never saw 'em before," he says, voice trailing off.
"Right. You're in so much trouble... I don't even know how long it'll take to rub some sense into you."
Jet-black gloves drift up to his level. Slowly making fists -
"Rub - RUB?," he barks, all alarmed now.
The gloves - ten hands, satin, thick and big - start heading for him. Sides, of course. Armpits. Belly, nipples... and those completely helpless feet.
"You knew what was going to happen. That's what I don't get."
His attention is riveted on the nearest fingers drifting right to his underarms. "You're not g-"
"Yeah. Like you don't know. Forgot, huh? Doin' so many drugs you don't remember what it's like?" I pause the gloves just off his skin. "How I told you, if you go and act like a badass... I'm going to kick your ass like it's never been kicked -"
"You can't," he groans, twisting the cuffs with pure desperation. "I'm not - I don't know what's going on here, where this is, and I can't even see you, please, please don't, don't -"
"More lies. But you're trapped now. I'm going to tickle every last lie out of you. Every habit - Do you have any idea how long you're gonna get it this time? Worked over? Junkie?"
"No, it's not me -"
"Liar. Druggie. I'm going to have to tickle you for days on end. You hear me? Weeks -"
I touch him in six places... and stroke.
He bucks hard, whining - and now laughing. Solid, rich. Hooting... then working himself up into nice psychotic barking, a flood of strained excitement.
"I said, weeks of tickling, to get you in line. Full weeks. You got that?"
Satin polishes him, and he twists wildly. His body position doesn't really change, though. I have no trouble keeping the fingers on him. Continuous tickling, firm tickling, maddening and excessive. He's strong and reactive. Covered with hands. Tickling. Chained down, closeted away, and in for months of hard pleasure, so hard... increasing more and more.
He's hysterical, after fifteen seconds of this.
But I meant what I said.
Weeks.
20apr02