The action just gets started in this one...
Shot took a slow drag, and moaned a little. It felt so right. A decent cigarette...
Some annoying facts started to intrude on the excellent, laid-back moment. I quit smoking, he reminded himself - and the more urgent thing was that he was in bed. Can't smoke inside, I signed a lease... Well, sure, I have done it sometimes, but c'mon.
His ashtray was on the nightstand, but he didn't put it there. Actually, it was like one of his old ones - big black metal - but it looked like it probably had a Harley logo in it.
The door closed softly. A lock turned - which was alarming enough to get his head looking in that direction. His bedroom door didn't have a lock. That confirmed that he wasn't home. He was woozy, which seemed to confirm he'd been drugged or something. Where was this place? Going to bed with nothing on was his usual thing. How did he end up in this room?
A faint light down past the foot of the bed grew brighter. It definitely wasn't the nightlight in his room.
Above his feet, an open box was held... by two biker gloves. No arms, invisible hands.
"Your gloves are here," a guy said.
The voice had no apparent source. No speaker in the ceiling or the wall explained it, and there was obviously no slightly high lowlife about his age.
"My gloves," he said quietly, bringing the cigarette up for one more drag.
"Safeowngear.com."
Shot stared at the box for a few seconds. "Wow. I ordered... two pairs. Maybe three."
He wasn't surprised, really, when the gloves came toward him. They didn't bring the box. It hung in midair, rock-steady. The light by the floor grew brighter.
"No," he said to the approaching gloves.
Invisible fingers pulled his cigarette from between his fingers, but he was distracted by a bag rising out of the box. It floated a little closer to his knees - and turned over.
All kinds of gloves fell on him. Different colors, materials, styles. Mens' gloves.
"What you ordered," the voice said - the animated leather gloves pointed at him - "and some others. I use 'em all the time. But these here are the sweet fuckers that you put in your online shopping cart, and then passed on..."
Invisible hands picked through the stupefying variety on the bed. A pair was lifted up, magically. Thick black latex.
Then a dark red pair, neoprene - and it looked even better than the photo on the website.
When a soft, smooth, white pair came close to his chest, he shook his head... distracted by the material in front of him.
"Satex," the dude said proudly. "It's heavy satin, waterproof. Seamless. Heh heh."
"This can't be happening," Shot said to himself.
"For sensual play. Stimulating touch. You almost bought them -"
"B-but I didn't."
Another bag rose out of the box. Tubes, vials, little bottles. Oil - aw, fuck, and lubes, he thought.
The white pair "inflated," just as if hands were suddenly inside them.
A thought came from a long way away... that the door had been locked. He knew why he was trapped in the room with all the gloves. Shot looked wildly at the cabinets to his left. Mind-blowing stuff was about to happen, and what was even harder to grasp was that it probably wasn't gonna end quickly.
"When guys order the real fun stuff, or almost buy it, they get checked out." Then the invisible guy snickered.
A screen came to life - over his head. His heart started to pound, because he was looking at his laptop's screen lock. Asterisks appeared in the sign-on box. Nine characters were typed... and of course, dammit, the computer was unlocked. The invisible guy must've watched him enter his password.
"Downloads," the voice snickered. "Night."
After a few seconds, Shot risked a little nod. Somebody had been watching the directory where -
"Web history, too. Secret bookmarks."
He groaned. Busted. "I am so fucked."
"Aw. Have a smoke." The side table had a drawer, which slid out... and he gaped at an almost-full carton of Lucky Strikes which cruised next to the ashtray. An open pack and a Zippo flew out next and came to his hand - though the cigarette he held wasn't quite done yet.
"I quit," he said to his next ten packs. "Didn't order cigarettes."
"But your teeth, and the tar stain on your fingers... What, did you quit yesterday?"
"No," he said. If it refuses to unlock the door until I smoke all of these, Shot thought, what else can I do?
"You look like you wanna."
"Doesn't mean I do."
"Who messed you up, Shot?" The white gloves came closer, and one cocked a thumb in his general direction. "Huh?"
"Nobody," he grumbled.
"Defensive cuss. You know what that means?"
"Yeah, I know what that means."
"Changing because you want to change - that's just fine. Why'd you quit smoking?"
"Luckies. Fuck." He tilted his head back. "Alright. No bullshit. My last girlfriend was fine with it. You're such a bad boy. And she'd grin at me. But her folks didn't want her goin' out with a smoker. 'Cause they drink, and smoke pot, you name it. They didn't let up. She got all judgmental..." He looked at his cigarette. "This is me, dammit."
"Good goin'. Now that sounds like a guy who likes his doobies. Fine tats, there. I bet you ride."
"I - you mean a bike? Used to. Not a bigass hawg or anything. A blue 750. Had plenty of oomph for me."
"Yeah, dude. You got potential. Lowlife stud. But you're kinda undercover, aren't you? You think they want a good guy. Oh, hey, the tats are also you, dammit. More ink. You're overdue. Right?"
He nodded, before he realized what a totally stupid move that was. Locked room, dammit. It seemed like there was a tattoo gun in here, more likely than not.
All of the gloves were there for a reason. Something wild. Not creepy, but.... mindblowing.
"Done, and done," the guy laughed.
"And that ain't all," Shot mumbled.
"Not even close."
"So - how'd you even know I bought gloves? Three pair. Not this many."
"We keep an eye on that site. Satex is just that special, buckaroo. Some of the other shit they sell - hey, you're my kind of people."
"Is that so."
The white gloves curled up, into fists, and slowly relaxed. "These feel great. And break the oil out - wow!"
"I wasn't looking for jack-off gloves," he sneered - immediately regretting that he said it out loud.
"They were in your cart."
"How the fuck did you know that?"
"Safeowngear keeps all kinds of web logs," and it chuckled. "Helps 'em know what to sell, what to market good 'n hard. I love these fuckers," and the gloves turned toward him, fingers curled. "Just about every horndog does."
"I'm not gonna... try 'em out here."
There was a long pause.
Oh, shit, he thought, from a thousand miles away -
"Yeah, you are."
He started scootching to the side of the bed. "That's it. Let me go."
Clamp - both gloves locked around his right bicep. He struggled, but they had no problem sliding him back to where he had been.
"Aw, hell," Shot whined.
"I brought your order."
"Brought me to 'em," he shot back. "They and I both got delivered... somewhere."
"Easy," the invisible guy leered.
"Give me the whole run-down, dammit. Why I'm here."
Snorted laughter. "Nope. The high points, okay. If you sit still."
A joint floated up from the side-table. It must've been stuck alongside the ashtray, he thought, staring at it. Big magic here. He was outclassed, and fairly numb.
"Get baked, and I'll be nice enough to tell you what a great fuckin' time you're about to have."
"Shit, shit, shit," he said, reaching for the doobie.
The white gloves let go of him, parking in the air over his gut.
After a few tokes, a cold six-pack of beer floated up from the far end of the bed.
"Why do I deserve this?" Shot said to the brews.
The black gloves zipped up, and the red gloves came closer - flipping him off. "These three materials say it all. Kinky."
"No... aw, hell."
"Yeah? Did you wear all kinds of gloves at work? Neoprene?"
"Just cheap-ass cowhide."
More laughter. "And he confirms it. Unemployed. Gonna get you high a lot more often, dude."
"No, wait just a minute, here. I didn't confirm anything."
"Buckaroo," and it snickered again, "it's on now. Whooo-ooo."
He opened his mouth, thought for a bit, and ended up smoking hard. It knows I don't have a job to go to, he thought wildly, and I'm locked in here. He finally finished exhaling, and shook his head. "You think you know... something, but -"
"You haven't deposited a paycheck in a couple weeks."
"Son of a bitch," he hissed. Screwed, hosed, so utterly fucked.
"Why would I look at your bank account? Huh? A shady Safeowngear customer, on the same wavelength... but he uses a PO box, so more research was in order."
"I haven't been to the damn post office in a few days," Shot admitted. "You kidnapped me from my apartment."
"No job, no woman, no kids. You're fuckin' overdue. A good, long, wild time, Shatster."
It knows my real last name, he thought hollowly. Of course it does... Time for a couple more tokes.
"I'm blowin' your mind," it snickered.
"Ya think? So I probably don't need to hear everything," and he had to nod after he said that, "but the big outline would help. Right? Am I gonna walk out of here?"
"Aw, now. Maybe. I'll probably carry you out, stick you behind the wheel of your truck, get you a cigarette goin'. But hear me, Shot, you're not gonna be injured. This is a vacation, and -"
"Wow. Okay. You're serious about that."
"I can't get enough of what you lunks kick out when you're just blown away by pleasure."
"Uh-oh. You try to make me feel better, and then say shit l-"
"I know you don't wanna jack off all the time. Alright?"
That question made Shot pretty nervous. "Not.. all the time, but -"
"You are wound way too tight. Gonna rev it up, and feel better - feel it all."
"Oh, for fuck's sake!"
All of the gloves started to come to life. Some cruised off the bed - the joint was taken away from him, and others pinned him to the mattress.
"That's not the main reason we're here. You don't have to take care of business."
He squirmed, getting nowhere. "Oh... wow. I don't."
"Right?"
"You're gonna do it to me."
Sneaky laughter. "Nobody's gonna know."
Shot didn't know what to say.
"And this material is insane, dude. That's what they all say."
"I don't have a choice," he groaned.
"The frequencies you hunks kick out," the phantom said, "brain, nervous system - damn, they're the best. I'm addicted." The gloves reefed down on his limbs a little. "Ooooh, you're gonna learn about real hands-on fun, hee hee. Tough guy's gettin' educated. And that's not all."
A cigarette tapped his lower lip. He took hold of it, and watched a Zippo arrive next. Clink, scritch. He sucked in.
"You wanna smoke," the captor said. "Uh-huh. Don't deny it. Looks right on ya. Tough. So you're gonna smoke, and drink. Get high. Laugh. That's an order."
"How can you enjoy fuckin' with me that much?"
"Can't get enough. Awful nice of me to deliver... your gloves. And a lot more." Conspiratorial talking was followed by wild laughter.
Definitely happy to have me here, he thought. Unbelievable.
"We're gonna have great fuckin' nights, one after another. Major fun. Hey - that reminds me. Let's connect these tats. Yeah. Full sleeves for you! Back and chest, too. No more excuses. I say the asshole who's leaving this room is gonna be... a lot more like the real Shot."
"Yeah, right," he sighed. "More tattoos." That called for more pulling at the damn gloves. They were strong enough to pin him down right there, and then some. So many more of 'em, not being used yet -
Oh, wow. Shot had an absolutely crazy idea.
Too many gloves, right here - dozens of fingers, crazy-slippery material... No, the main thing the kidnapper was really after couldn't be that.
"So you agree. Cool. I ain't askin'," it sassed. "You gotta have some ideas. Pick some of 'em out. Free tattoos."
"Chain-smokin'," he groused, "More hootch, more weed, solid artwork. Bigtime experience with my own dick. Gonna get me back on a motorcycle too?"
"Actually, yeah -"
"I was kidding! C'mon!"
"Face the facts, lowlife. Yeah. You ride again."
"Get somebody else."
"Shot. You wanted to buy the right gloves," and it laughed wildly. "Fuck. He's got no job to go to. Just about broke. He wants to smoke, dammit - and I can see you four-packin'. Yeah. You just needed a push - time to go the outlaw route, boy. Ooooh, Shot's a scooter tramp. Again? Heh. You can always... straighten up and cover the tats later."
"Lucky me."
"Options are good things to have, fuckhead. Those bikers, the real ones, just take off whenever they - I mean, everybody thinks aw hell, he just hit the road again, right? They can disappear anytime. More and more of 'em keep coming to... in rooms a lot like this one."
Rooms with a bunch of gloves, he thought. Locked in with 'em.
He had no idea how to get the magical guy to be reasonable - and that fuckin' word didn't have anything to do with what was coming. It's gonna jack me off, Shot thought. Incredible weirdness. "Uh, I got bills to pay. Another company already said they'll hire me, next month for sure."
"I got cash," the kidnapper said. "No problem there."
"You think you're my new boss? Pay me off, so you get to pump me off?"
The black gloves rose up a few inches. Another cigarette, and that magical Zippo, came for him.
"That's a fun zone, sure," the phantom said. "You got a ton of nerve endings there. Now think bigger."
He made a dismissive sigh, and took a slow drag. Bigger? People have nerve endings everywhere. Was this mysterious "buddy" really gonna give him a massage? All over him? The way it had been saying "pleasure," though, in that playful way...
He was wound too tight, it said, and then it snickered. Needed to relax - after burning off steam - like he never relaxed before? Or had it said he needed to laugh?
There had to be fifty or sixty gloves around him, and some had probably fallen off the bed. It wouldn't surprise him at all to see another box of 'em float up. Or a case.
All night... every night.
Think bigger. Fuck, he didn't dare to picture what was coming. It didn't sound like he was gonna be let out of that damn room any time soon.
He looked at the white gloves. Magical hands, there and ready -
Yes, it's pretty obvious, so quit dancin' around the truth. The weirdest fuckin' thing was coming, real soon. I was hunted - for that shit.
"Oh, c'mon!" he laughed nervously.
"I think this cat's getting the picture," the voice teased.
Locked in, he thought, staring at the door. The gloves had him anchored too damn well to go over and confirm it. Everything is all set, he thought - getting another long tug in while he could. Never would've believed this, I don't even have dreams that are anywhere near this wild. Here it comes. No way out.
"Nuthin' but fun." The bastard was teasing him. Calm, in control, and way too fuckin' amused.
"No, no, don't, that's just - c'mon, please," he muttered smokily.
"Don't what, Shot?"
"You want me to say it," he whined. One more serious drag. "Alright. I'm caught - for that. The main course. You think you got a live one, here?" Growling, he lifted his head. "Tickling."
Quiet hoots.
He slammed his head down on the mattress. Uh-huh.
His cigarette was yanked away.
Gloves took ownership of his ribs... knees, thighs, belly, armpits. A pair curled around his toes, at pretty much the same time, and another set laid their fingertips on his arches.
Without thinking about it, a high whine oozed out of Shot's chest.
"Can't get enough of this," the voice sighed.
The gloves started to crawl. Light, easy tickling. But there so many more fuckin' gloves laying around. Shot groaned - and then he started to laugh. Steady, happy, serious feedback. He tried to arch. And that was about all the fight he could manage.
They eased over his gut, scritched under both knees, snuck into his armpits, fingered his nips -
He snagged a good breath and roared! It just exploded out of his mouth.
"Ooooh. Outlaw's got it bad," the tickler laughed.
Dark things were coming up from alongside the bed. Thick fuckin' cuffs. Lots of straps. Another shocking thing that made sense - because he was staying here.
He shook his head at the approaching restraints, sounding way too happy as he barked and whooped...
22sep2019