He couldn't move.
Sitting, leaned back slightly...
His right arm changed.
It faded almost away - and then the outlines appeared, as if it was being drawn. Huge muscles.
His whole body was being bulked up. Detailed.
The fine lines tickled. He couldn't do anything to move - the artist couldn't shade a moving character - so he laughed in his head. Insane, deranged roaring.
When he finally snapped out of it, he was lookin' sharp. Warrior tats, leather bands around his biceps... huge dick.
His hair became thick and shaggy. Okay.
Faint outlines began appearing. Wrists, ankles.
Oh, no.
He longed to move.
The artist drew in manacles. Then they faded - and were drawn twice as big.
Cuffs were inked in around his upper arms and thighs. A wide belt pressed against his pelvis.
The chair was detailed and shaded. Massive oak, with iron...
Even when he was unfrozen, he wouldn't be able to move.
A shape began appearing, line by line, over his belly.
He longed to get loose, scream, even shake his head.
It was a feather.
His muscular body was superhuman in more ways than one.
After a long, agonizing few seconds... the feather disappeared.
He could not have been more relieved.
Drawing continued -
His brain longed to pass out, right then.
Shapes connected. Depth was suggested...
A firm yet empty glove hung over his belly.
His body became wet. The artist drew in a lot of sweat. Plastering his hair to his head, dripping...
His face faded.
The revision was much more addled. And vacant. As if he'd been laughing for an impossibly long time.
After tweaks and more shading - he could move.
"HEY!" he shouted to the nothingness in front of him. There was no answer.
He yelled for a long time, slamming this way and that. The chair was far too sturdy to move.
Not only could the artist not hear him beg, but s/he couldn't see him thrash either. In their mind's eye, perhaps, he was finished.
Another glove began to appear.
He panicked as the glove became more real.
"No no no no noooooooooooo," he said, as lines began to trace another. This one was digging into his foot.
Others were drawn waiting above, ready to strike.
He babbled hysterically, desperately...
Blink - and the number of gloves on deck doubled. Eight, now -
and then there were sixteen.
It was agony to watch the gloves get shaded. Obviously empty, but strong-looking, apparently agile...
A pair was added to torment his belly, and another pair for his neck.
He squirmed and gibbered. They weren't moving. But when they did...
Blink - and a wall appeared in front of him. Stone, forgotten - dungeon!
"Oh no, help meee, oh no oh no..."
Both sides, the ceiling, the floor - they filled in with thick old stone.
When the dungeon wall appeared behind him, lighting effects started coming. Dim everywhere, a candle behind him - adding a terrifying faint glow to some of the gloves.
Fog, very faint, reeked of magic. Propelling the gloves endlessly.
There was the longest pause yet.
Part of the wall he faced was gone. Outlines, then the shading of a thick iron door appeared.
There was a little window in the door. Another glove blinked into existence. It was about to close the window. Hiding the action from every living thing.
"Help me. Please," he yelled desperately. "I can really feel them. What they're here to do - aw, erase the gloves, please, please! They'll never stop."
Writing. Below, somewhere. Just ordinary words...
SLAB'S TORMENT - ROOM 44
What? WHAT? Were there 43 other rooms in which this shit would be happening?
A pause -
No, he thought wildly, don't finish it. Anything. Add more gloves, even, just don't -
But somehow he felt a signature was pasted in.
File...
Save.
"NOOOOOO -"
Close -
The gloves came alive.
They had one job, and they were ideally designed for it.
He was tickled beyond anything a human could stand. Needing no food, no water, no sleep... he'd be brutally tickled until the artist revised the work.
If ever.
The gloves were unbearable! They redefined that word into something vast, still expanding without limit.
His restraints handled even a character of his size. He roared and howled, feeling every finger, struggling uselessly.
More gloves, from the pack hanging above, were coming to get him.
Thighs, shins, pecs...
And so it continues, with the gloves drilling this spot or that one with ghastly efficiency.
It's been long since he looked around or tried to utter a word. Rowdy laughter always booms from him, though that's no relief at all to deal with the constant agonizing pleasure...
20jul10 (?)