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The sun's high and the breeze is hot. Too far away, the steady whoosh of cars out on the interstate, passing him, leaving him here. Out of earshot. Nobody knows. Feels like a couple months since they dropped him on the sandy floor and stripped him down. Yesterday - really, only one day? He chuckles. Unwillingly. It's late afternoon but he's only been awake an hour or so, after being kept up all last night... He's havin' a lot of trouble believing the obvious, here. Nobody knows he's here and they ain't gonna find out. And he can't fuckin' leave til the gloves let him go. There's no sign from their roughhousin' that it'll be happening today. Grinning widely, agonized, sticky with sweat. Satin hands continue workin' him over patiently, tweaking nerves, keepin' that lit 'Boro betweeen his teeth. No great rush to wear him out again. Unreal. He just can't buy it. |
Another excellent summer afternoon, and he's totally awake now. Gloves are all warmed up and hummin' along. The location is all they could want, and he's strong as a fuckin' ox. Laugh and smoke and squint around ya now and then, son. Ain't goin' nowhere. An added bonus with this place is the traffic sounds, mindfuckin' him plain as day. Constant, but out of reach of his yells. Let him dream of 'em, passin' by and racin' away. That won't loosen up the ropes any. Easily a few thousand decent targets passin' by here in an afternoon, that many again within a three-mile range. But they got him, don't they? Yessir. Caught good, stuck tight, gettin' the old satin rubdown all night long. Mighty long time, isn't it, fucker? When you're ticklish and there's more than enough gloves that know where to stroke and how hard. Long and hard, huh, fucker? Longer and harder. Bet he'll go a week. Here ya go. Have a couple more mean fingers. Smoke up - this carton's on the house. Chuckle a little harder, now. Atta boy. Way to be. |
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I'm stiff, sore, got raw spots from the sandy wood floor, want some water, wanna cigarette. Sun isn't too high, so I didn't sleep much. I stink. I'm not hopeful - Pair of black gloves are drifting by. Stops. Holds there. I watch 'em, thinking: I gotta get the fuck outa here. Cruisin' on over. Like: well, what do we have here? Naked. Hogtied. Yeah right - like, what a surprise. Hey, let's try somethin'... A glove floats across me, under my wrists and squeezes my ass. It pulls off quickly when I squirm. And stay tied. Well, whaddya know. It lands again and starts rubbing. The other glove heads down and lays against the bottom of my foot. I buck and laugh, they pause - hey, he's stuck. Alright. Can't stop us. They go to it. Nothin really spontaneous about this, I know, but it bugs me just the same. I pull my limbs in more, but it doesn't cover my butt any. And my feet... So I hoot, try to flop over... Off. The hand's off my ass, but the other's still stickin' to my feet. Satin floats over me, down, starts covering my chest. No way to hinder this one either, and it digs in. Oh fuck. C'mon, it's only two, I tell myself. Not twelve. Still wriggling like crazy, making happy noises. And it really isn't as bad as a whole dozen. But it's bad enough. Watching this black hand skate across my pecs, teasing my armpits... I can almost bite this glove, it's so close. But it and the conscientious fucker on my feet keep me laughin'. I think this is harder in a way, though, cause I can still think. Go right on squirming and making these half-hearted yowls. Snared, knowin' it, still fightin' it. Fidgeting less, I lay on my side and cackle reluctantly, but like I'm, well, used to it. The sensation is still too much, way too sweet. No chance of dozing off; can't even get lost in the darkness behind my eyelids. I keep responding soulfully. It ain't me at the controls... It's hotter. They've been hard at it for a good hour. It must be that long since I looked at 'em last... Why did I open my eyes? Do I want something? Wait. It's still on my soles... The other gl- Oh. Lifts the pack, shakes and lets a couple 'Boros fall in the dirt. I get one of these, needless t' say, and I go along. Mixed feelings: I wanna smoke, but I hate to just give in and let them say when. I know the stroking gets amped up when I fight gettin' a cig, but still... The hand clicks the button, brings the lighter into my face. Suck, exhale quick so I can laugh. Got it down cold. Closer... the fingers curl over my right ribs, the ones I'm not layin' on, and ease their way down, reversing at my pelvis. Howls, but pretty weak ones. And I know by now how to bite into that 'Boro filter and hang onto it as I holler. Both satins rustle over their spots, burly and stubborn. Now keepin me agitated and laughin' and tryin' to smoke. |
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