(The "action" just starts in this one, FYI)
Smooth. Outright killer. Top-notch.
What a feeling...
Cover has everything set. Not a worry in the world. Nothing left undone to reduce its satisfaction.
Outside, it's just warm enough, sky full of stars - a great night. First of many. No doubt about it.
The proof is right here, testing its cuffs. Lithe, toned, long-haired. Exceptionally... squeamish.
Cover's real glad to get to know him.
His determination to get free has peaked...or maybe it's his confidence that's waning. Rope might've given way. This one, he deserves the best. High-test anchors. Reacting like he did to a little ol' spot-check gets him the horse-cuffs.
The triumph will be that much richer. It spent a long time planning and preparing, getting ready for a generic target. Some dude about so tall, stretched out right about here...
Right now, it's torqued. Got a live one, a real jumper. Cinched tight, healthy and strong despite his habits. And he's safely in its grip. Stashed away...
What a terrific setting, too. It makes Cover proud. In, and down - hemmed in by bare pine walls, the lone window with its broken panes facing west. No evidence to suggest anybody's come near this cabin for a decade or two... and no neighbors, or hiking trails or train tracks. Almost like it was made to order. Won't be any interruptions out here.
A shot at a new record? Why not? That would mean a supply run...
Not a problem. Easily four, five weeks until that would be necessary...
Huh yeah. Likin' the sound of that. Each night seeming like a whole year, when dawn is wanted that badly. Staring out the window at the stars, or the rain... This place is so quiet it seems like time's standing still, even without anything goin' on.
And Cover's with him. Breakin' its own record. Tireless. Set on getting the most out of overreactive skin. Each sunrise just taking forever to arrive...
He's just about given up, for now. Panting away. All sweaty... and just as helpless as before. Boots off - necessary to position the cuffs. And wait'll he learns the main reason! Feet well apart, hands anchored above his shoulders. Unable to reach his head. So close... impossibly hampered -
All of him, easy to get to. Full clearance. Laid out like a buffet, a smorgasbord. An open, tempting invitation... Okay, Cover, ya got me, I'll stay put. You go right ahead and help yourself.
How could it refuse an opportunity like this?
It studies him, idly thinking about its favorite activities for just such an occasion. Imagining the effect each will have, shuffling the sequence. He's not rasslin' at all, but his eyes are busy. Thinking hard... saving his energy. Maybe thinking about one mighty tug, a quick lunge to the window...? Up and out, running, sprinting for the cover of the overgrown forest?
Huh. Only in the movies. No, this here's the only set in Cover's screenplay. One continuous act.
It's weighing when to add the latex marathon. After the liniment enduro, or maybe just good ol' Vaseline...
Almost set. A few more touches to add. It picks up -
Hoooo. He sees it. Staring hard at... a new pack. Full soft pack, Marlboro Reds. It slid out of the pocket of his flannel shirt during the first few minutes of fighting the cuffs. He can figure that out.
As it peels off the cellophane, he's spurred into pulling again. Watching it, oh yeah buddy, a pack of real smokes for ya. Hangin' in midair, the first "magic" prop he's seen. Familiar enough, but packs just don't open themselves like this, do they? Nossir.
And he wasn't even carryin' any. There was a butt from a Kool in the ashtray of his truck. Maybe from a passenger? One butt. Kools, fuck 'em. What a joke. No, he's startin' up again, out here in the country. When in Rome, and all that. Comes with the turf. No way Cover's gonna... invite some dude out here who's got asthma or anything. Hell, no. It reeled in a tilelayer, that's a job that takes some muscle all day long. He's way above the curve, fitness-wise.
From his own pocket... well, it was easy enough to plant 'em, while Cover was helping him in. Lots more surprises to come. It tears open the foil, tamping down the smokes against the floor, nice and loud. He swears at it passionately, and tries to lean away.
Imagine that. What the hell is this boy thinking? Lose that idea right now. Next to the principal activity planned for him, he's gonna be damn thankful for a few 'Boros, and that's all it'll take to get him off his high horse. Back up to speed, with a cig between his teeth all day, tomorrow ... Then maybe a few days without 'em, to let his lungs clear out. Goin' cold turkey - with a pack right alongside the mattress here. 'Course, he'll be sorta busy, but he can still look. Then, later on, maybe when it breaks out the nonelectric massage tools, a carton in the space of a couple days.
His first carton rests on a dozen others in the hallway. Next to the lighter fluid, flints, a couple disposable lighters just in case. And Cover's got a cigarette out of the pack now. It tracks his flailing head. Oh yes, you will...
Behind him, it picks up the wedge strap. Neoprene and nylon, narrow across the forehead, with wedges at each temple, thickly padded. Can't have the gear causing any headaches. It was going to have to immobilize that neck anyway, to judge from his attitude... takin' no chances with such a hairtrigger prospect.
It could strap him down anytime, but waiting him out is kinda enjoyable. Dogging him with the 'Boro, following his mouth... Face the music, redneck. Sooner or later.
A few more minutes pass. The strap waits, motionless, out of his visual range. He throws his head around less emphatically... not as often as before. Then, with a last few seconds of deliberation - a disgusted sigh, a heartfelt cussword.
It brings the cig in closer, while he watches.
And slap! The foam pad lands, Cover reefs on some of that long hair, sets the filter against his front teeth - and pushes firmly up on his jaw. Not even two seconds, smooth as... satin.
The ends of the strap are pulled tight off each side of the mattress, sinking his head into the moth-eaten army blanket that serves as his pillow. It hooks the rings and slides the buckles - and they're set.
He's trying to yell and struggle, but it's no good now. Still holding his jaw - keepin' that smoke where it belongs - Cover knows this contraption will be coming off in an hour or two. He won't have a thought to spare, then, about moving his head or any other part of him. Not that the cuffs are coming off. Hah. No.
Less than an hour, actually... the sweat-soaked clothes go, his big toes will be steadied with parachute cord - no foot-curling or bending allowed. Not here.
Besides, it's losing the light. There's an extra-special image it's gonna show him, and it wants to time it just right with the sunset. Not a requirement, just a little scene it'll be staging a good thirty, forty times... but to gauge from his expression when he saw the 'Boros rising up and goin' about their business, the tableau it's planned will be a mighty big hit.
Time to smoke up. A quick dip into the right front pocket of his jeans -
Cover brings him a matte black Zippo. He quits resisting, looking nice and stunned. Again.
It clinks back the lid, rasping it into life. Fire, hovering over him. Zeroing in. From his own pocket, but new to him. Unfamiliar. He's never seen it before, but it was snuck into his jeans. A little present for him... one that's going to get a hell of a lot of use, out here.
No strings, no wires... Cover holds his head stock-still and gets the cig lit, with no sucking in from him. The Zippo clacks shut and is set down on the pack - on his Marlboros - ready for use.
He tugs and stretches some more, and Cover keeps holding his jaw closed. He eats a little smoke accidentially, and coughs, and works harder at escaping the straps.
He's got to learn a vital lesson, here. His opinion doesn't matter. No disobedience or hesitation is going to be tolerated. Somebody's got to be in charge... and this ain't his party. He drags on the 'Boro again, and manages to exhale through his nostrils with a few grunts of complaint. After a minute, he takes a longer pull and doesn't hurry it out. So Cover lets go of his chin, and right away he starts trying to drop the cig! No no no no, ace.
Chin-pressure locks his jaw again. He says something angrily, pulls his head to one side as far as he can... and smokes.
That's more like it. It releases his chin again. He cusses a blue streak, smoke punctuating the words. But he repositions the 'Boro and holds onto it.
Three minutes later he's watching the pack rise, and tilt, and shake a little. New smoke for him.
He gets fidgety, but he goes along.
Such cooperation deserves a reward. The next cig is parked over him, and a bottle of water saunters up from behind. A tube sticking out of the top of it starts to gurgle, and is pointed between his teeth. Drink, fucker. It's just water.
He gags at first, and his chin and neck get wet. Then he decided to swallow instead.
When he's ready, the suspended 'Boro comes over, and so does the Zippo. The last smoke today. Big, big plans for this first night. His palms will probably need some protection from his fingernails. He'll be out of it, won't he though. That can be attended to in a while. First he's going to feast his eyes on the little show it's thought up for him.
He's still alert, and scowling... But also a little more wobbly than he was, and not as tense. Say hello to nicotine, again, and welcome back.
Cover tests the straps anchoring the mattress, and his wrists, and his ankles, and the neck wedge. All set. He notices the double-checking and confirms it for himself - no play at all in the bonds.
He looks for a replacement smoke when that one's done, but the pack doesn't move. Attempting to twist, and scoot up, slide down...
He's pinned. No, he won't be giving Cover any trouble. Quite the opposite - he's breathing normally, despite his exertion. Strong. A model target.
From behind, again - a different kind of box. His head swivels and it floats on down. Cigar box. When it's next to the window, the lid opens...
Limp shapes are rising... two of 'em. Silhouetted dramatically in the window, against the just-finished sunset -
They're... thickening.
Filling up, nice and taut. He stops wrestling around - as their shape becomes evident. Familiar.
And look here, two more of 'em, coming up from the cigar box.
He's all fight, again. Oh ho.
Two more appear. New, fresh, slippery. Incomparable.
These are Cover's hands.
It brought five hundred fingers of premium silk. Blood-red, waterproofed and then lightly oiled...
More of 'em rise and join the bulging, menacing tribe, commanding his stunned attention.
Hands that won't tire, cramp up, get calluses, become chafed. Layered for strength, silk under silk, seams all on the inside. Big enough - well, any pair will fit over his own shackled hands, keeping his fingernails from gouging his palms while so many others skate and ride. Plenty of spares to buff with, while the first ones are dried and re-oiled.
Another pair. And another.
He yells, and pulls with a heroic determination. They must look black to him, in the growing dusk. When the sun returns, he can squint at 'em as they're working. Red silk on his own hands, which is all the clothes he'll be wearing in a few hours. For the rest of his compulsory visit here, in Cover's retreat.
His cuffs, his gloves... and thirty or forty of its tireless, adroit hands. Moving on him. Pressing close - still at it, not yet done when the nighttime is long gone.
The cigar box falls.
Seven more cigar boxes are set down near the foot of the mattress.
Yep, he'll get to see that backlit ceremony again. Night after night. Nice to know sublety and foreshadowing aren't lost on this lowlife howler... Hopefully he can do the math. At least twelve gloves in a box, times eight boxes -
Right now he's squealing, desperate gibberish sounds. Wriggling under a crowd of silk entertainers... coasting, now angling down.
No. More. Waiting.
The first contact is around his knees. Wrapping over the top -
Low on his sides - snug against his pecs - armpits - inside his thighs. All these over his clothing... for starters.
And he shakes his head dismally at 'em, until he sees the last two, the laggards, lower and brake and slowly wrap around the bare soles of his feet.
Boy, if tension were enough to thwart it, he'd be a free man now.
But the cuffs and straps, they're keepers.
Cover suspects he's gonna stay for the summer.
Despite all the grips holding him, he's just thunderstruck at the two that are furthest away. Cool against his bare skin -
They start...
to slide.
25dec98