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He gets his smoke going - and freezes. Squinting over the flame of the lighter...
Nothing there. Whew. Thought he saw something. Another false alarm.
Still jumpy, after all this time. But he's not as relieved as he... wants to be. Why not? He didn't really see somethi-
 

White. Blank wall, white. Bright, clean... foam rubber. Quilted.
He blinks. The padded wall is still there.
Flashback. Right?
But this isn't... That room was red -
He whirls around. All the walls are padded, the ceiling, the floor. Ridiculously thick.
But... he was just sprawled out on his couch in his ratty apartment, starting another cigarette. Now, staring at the rack in the center of the room... Weird looking thing, white sparkly vinyl and adjustable pads. Cuffs, two up, two down. Open. Waiting for him. Spaced just about right -
He stomps on the floor experimentally. The foam gives, and absorbs the impact. Not a sound.
Not dreaming -
"No!"
He stumbles away from the rack, backing into the wall. His shout seems to have soaked right in. Thick padding. No door - hell, no source for the soft white light in here, even. Nowhere to run. He's gotta run. Can't go through it again, there's no way in hell he can st-
Think... again.
"Oh. Fuck..."
It's just like before. The thought was loud and clear. Not spoken out loud or anything... and not in words alone. A quick series of images -
Same as last time.

Took him a while, then, to get the orders straight. But Coach got to know... how he thinks. Knows him -
Inside and out. (Arrogant interest, smug and cunning. Unbelievable poise. Relishing the moment, the setup. Personal trainer. Polish his moves, get him into shape.)
A whimper slips out, and he regrets it immediately. Looking around, wildly, for the door that isn't there.
No exit. Not for you.
This is the time to find an out. His only chance, gotta haul ass now before it g-
Cold, wide bands seem to wrap around his wrists.
Not by a long shot.
He throws himself to the side, and down, twisting. Too late, way too late. Completely overpowered. His arms start going in front of him...
And he's being dragged.
To the rack.
Custom made. Perfect fit.

"No! No no no aww shit. Listen, you c- Nooooo -"
Like pulling against a freight train. He's fucked, he is totally fucked. Moving inexorably toward the skeletal table/chair.
The bands lift him off the ground, kicking and grunting. Float him over the rest of the way, turn him right before he arrives. His ass hits first - one of the pads.
He keeps yelling angrily. And swearing. Trying not to beg. Doing everything he possibly can to stop his arms from going toward the inch-thick hobbles. And still, as he watches, his wrists make contact with the black neoprene lining, and a foot of layered cowhide creaks as it's wrapped around, closing! Looping the cuff again and being pulled snug.
Both wrists, almost in sync.
(Taunting grin, wild eyes of a... rowdy sociopath, a stuntman. Crazy...)
(Image of thick bolts stuck through massive steel anchor rings, and nuts floating onto them, spinning away. A close-up shot of the action behind his arms, what he can't see... makes the hardware even more daunting. The leather looks thick as a brick.)
The threading noise stops.

Reeling, he flops around on the rack. Unable to stand the thought of what's about to happen. Then he tries not to think about anything, make his mind a blank, so it wouldn't have any ammo.
Quick study.
What? Oh. Last time, learning not to think too much. Being trained. A lot of full-bore discipline then, to make him think or not think, babble, rage like a smartass punk, bullshit and joke around - hell, it even had him singing limericks, getting prompted with each smutty line - while it... it -
Training.
(Time off. Another vacation... from reality. Out of realspace. Time doesn't pass here either. Back home again before anybody'll even notice.)
Complex ideas. A lot of images... until he gets it. He gulps.

(Approval / sneering...)
Atta boy. (The way home is a secret. He's here for a while. No limit on how long.)
Red room... plus.

Inconcievable. Felt like he was there for years, the other time. Plus? A huge pang hit him, for his apartment, his fuckin' couch -
(An image - him, exhaling smoke. Big relief on his face. In front of the TV, sprawled out on his couch.)
This looks real - oh. It was. Right after he ate. Tonight. Fuckin' Coach was watching him even then, tapping hi-
(The "fuck" is noted. Added to the total of epithets he'd thought or said since arrival.)
How long would -
In a place where time has stopped, what is "how long" worth?
(Again, smoking that cigarette - really enjoying it.)

He opens his eyes slowly, unaware they'd been closed.
Smoking. He's got a cig going.
Whoa - His shirt's covered with ashes. Thick layer. Big pile. His mouth and throat feel like he's been through a whole pack. Solid nicotine buzz, too. Must've been water at some point, 'cause he's not thirsty, not hurtin'...
His body is relaxed. The cuffs and the rack, they're not... uncomfortable. Of course not. No distractions allowed. The cigs didn't count; it could keep rollin' on while he burns through four, five packs a day. Remembering that all too well.
Still. It let him just lay here and smoke for... a couple hours?
(Unopened pack of Camel nonfilters. Instantly, there were four packs - a carton, three cartons, a case. Full case. Packs. Not hours. Not at all the same.)
No such thing as "hours" here. (Do not forget. Can't waste time when there is none...)
And his cig is gone. Smoke still trailing from his mouth -
(The carton disappears. Blip. Empty shirt pocket.)

He looks reflexively. Uh-huh. His own pack is gone. Even the layer of ash has disappeared, though there's residue where it used t-
No more for you.
He freezes with his mouth open, waiting for the rest. But that's it. It No more!? Can't be... this, from the fucker - the one who ran him up to all those Camels... still buyin' two cartons a week, all on his own?
Kick it.
(Him on the rack, jonesin' hard. So mutherfuckin' hard he's writhing, fever of craving totally demolishing him. Begging it for just one, just a puff. One little drag... all while Coach is hard at it. This kind of hunger, even though it's doin' its thing.)
He swallowed hard, wantin' one right about now -
Glancing at his shirt pocket, out of habit or fear or something... and he sees a pack there. Camels, layin' in there casually, maybe half a pack. That wasn't there before. Was it? Didn't Coach say no more?

The rack has changed. He's almost horizontal now.
Overhead... hanging there...
Coach's hands. The first pair. Brilliant white silk. Big gloves.
You are completely immobilized. Know it.
(Banquet. Smorgasbord. A well-loved instrument in the hands of a virtuoso...)
(Kid in a candy store.)
Sure enough, he can't hardly twitch. Where will they land... first?
Anywhere it wants 'em to.
Another pair appears, instantly, past his feet.
It's got him guessing. Aware that it's prolonging the suspense... that it knows he knows, hating that -
The nearest gloves come down.
(Ultimate, maximum, purest sensation.)
Don't hold back.
The fingers spread, and land -
Inside of each hip. He gasps -
And there's a leather strap between his teeth. Circling his head. The fingers slide in heavily, and he has to thrash. It won't do any good. He knows this. He can't believe he forgot... how insane this is, and starting right off there, he's amazed he didn't remember -
He steals a look at one glove, then the other. At the next pair, waiting. Gulping air, he jerks spasmodically... unable to hold it in.
Roaring laughter. Pissed off - really angry - and laughing.
And there are more gloves. He doesn't watch.
Playing with his toes... Sweeping under his chin and down, and up... Around his thighs... Stroking his palms. It's too much. More than he can track. Nothing else he can do, and yet it's way more than he could possibly take.

Techniques and implements flit through his mind. The inhuman digits know exactly what to do to him... All that experience. All those red gloves -
No. That was last time. Red walls, red bench...
He shrieks for his taskmaster. Barely getting started.
Forever. Then getting dropped right back into his apartment, probably. No time at all... Yet he won't be able to count all the hours, in this place. Surrounded.
 

He blinks. Smoke stinging his eyes.
Cigarette... and he's smoked a lot of 'em. Doesn't remember it.
His belly is full, and his throat is scratchy - but it doesn't feel anywhere near as bad as it... should. Apparently he got some rest, too -
Several dozen feathers materialize. Cigarette gone, gag-strap back in place.
He shakes his head slowly at 'em. No, no, aw no, it can't, Coach wouldn't -
Hunh. A laugh, almost snorted, full of contempt.
The tips and tufts make him arch impressively, while he bays.

A waterfall of stimuli. Mountains of it. More than he ever would've guessed. Solid ecstasy, without much in the way of... breaks -
Oh, now and then he's actually waking up, or smoking almost a whole cigarette. Drinking water. But these are not occurring nearly often enough. He can't be... enduring all this, without food. Without sleep. And then it dawns on him - this is just like last time, the red room. Coach edits out the "dull stuff". About all he remembers is the action. Like now. Stuff like this - Little pointy things, skating over oil. Dozens of 'em. Everywhere. More than he can take.
He writhes again, but he's anchored too snugly.
(Image / smell / taste - smoke. Camel. Him, lighting one off the last one. Arms not strapped down, legs either... Content, kicked back, taking it easy.)
The urge is impossible. A craving like a baseball bat connecting with his gut - and all over him, the little points are tickling away. Delicately, but with great aim...

20jun99