"You're dead, mutherfucks, you're gonna wish you were dead when I get through with ya..."
Click.
A buck knife snaps open in front of him, but the bandanna over his eyes keeps him from seeing it.
Still cussing, he's pushed down to his knees - onto a mattress. He yells louder.
The knife saws through the many loops of rope holding his boots together. A dozen grips tighten around his arms, pushing his face into mildew and grime.
Similar pressure catches his legs. Boots are... coming off -
He can't shake 'em. Socks go, and something wide and rough circles just over his ankle. Both ankles, tight. Familiar texture, somehow. The fingers at work are cool, somehow too soft for their size...
Clinking, right before the handcuffs loosen. Definitely not guy's hands, and slippery - He's all fight, grunting and straining -
The grips raise his arms, roll him over... tug at his jacket. When he gets a limb free it's recaptured almost immediately.
The jacket is gone. Different cuffs, rigid and stiff around his wrists. The vest slides up, tugging over the hands pinning him. Reefing up his t-shirt - unbelting his chaps, working them down - and now, the jeans... Yelling with all he's got, and there's no shaking the weight clenched around him.
Tension, stretching his limbs out - fingers pulling off his bear's-tooth choker. Others pull something thick and soft over his jockey shorts.
His hands. Something - gloves? Yep. Not his, though. Cool, like the... Palms up, feeling material prying his fists open, a lot of fingers at work and he still can't move his arms. They've got him staked down tight.
Crinkling and tearing sounds, like... a pack of smokes.
They get his hair out of his face. He hears - yup, definitely a Zippo. A tap on his lip. He recoils hard - the hands gather up his hair and pull back, and the smoke slides between his lips. He spits it out, and within a few seconds it's sneaking back into place...
He gives up. The Zippo rasps, and he sucks in. No - tries again, and the flame is there.
He takes a third drag... and the grips start pulling off him. Blindfold - loosening...
Seeing himself, naked - except for a diaper. That's too fuckin' weird, and he blinks at it.
Then, he sees the first of the gloves. Above his chest, a couple feet in the air, there's... an empty glove. Just hanging there.
Big, white, full... shiny glove.
He stutters smoke out. Starts straining at the cuffs again -
His Camel rolls into his hair, sizzling. He tries to pound it out with his head. Trying to see it, he smells burnt hair and mold and... soil. The glove above him didn't move.
Time to yell for help, again. Hollering, then threats. Cussing for a long time, lunging and trying to twist...Finally, panting.
The glove starts to move. He grunts quick and low as it drifts away... to the pack. His pack, probably. Shaking a smoke onto the floor, getting it and bringing it to him -
"Hey..." He takes the cig, and the glove cruises toward his Zippo near the pack. Rapidly losing the attitude...
"C'mon, man. Anything you want." Looking stricken, he watches the lighter open and fire up.
He kicks out smoke and looks around him. Small room, abandoned for awhile. Window past his feet with no glass left in it... facing north, since the sky was still darker to the left.
The rest of the gloves that took him down are nowhere to be seen. Off to his left there's three milk crates full of shit.
Camels, six-packs, booze. Other bottles and jars.
The door to his right is open.
"Where are ya? Show yourself, ya sick fuck! Wait'll I get... loose..."
The glove replaces his cig with another one. Pulling on the cuffs, but not too... hopefully.
He scans the room again for a couple Camels. And he yells some more.
No sounds outside, except wind.
He's here... and staying. Jumped in the parking lot, dragged through the gravel toward the overgrown bushes, rope wrapping and cuffs ratcheting. That material clamped over his mouth - the white cloth feeding him cigarettes, covering his own hands...
They've hauled him here, found this shack and stocked it, set it up. A place where he can let go and holler, roar and howl and whoop his guts out... whimper and beg, if he wants, without a soul knowing or being any the wiser. Nobody even close to here.
"Heeeeeyyy! HeeeYYYYAAAALLLLP!" yells the biker. Staked out.. kicked back, starting another smoke.
A few more Camels, and the glove fetches a carton. A second hand rises up, helping to get him a new pack. He peers between his feet, looking for all the others...
The pack drops, and a new cig is ferried over. Thumb and forefinger, sleek and bright, closing on his current Camel, pausing considerately while he finishes one last tug on it.
Two perfect copies of hands, stock-still over his chest... fingers slightly curled.
"Go fuck yourselves," he mutters, blowing smoke at 'em.
He studies the cuffs and straps for a few cigs. Working at them and not making any headway.
They're for his own good... Without all this leather he's wearing now, he'll definitely break something trying to get away. As wild and bugshit as this guy's gonna get...
Pinned down right - no risk.
He wiggles his fingers and sucks in smoke. Thinking hard. Scowling, but with eyes full of concern.
There's a growing bulge under his diaper.
A glove chucks his cig before it's halfway smoked. The other digs out a bottle of water... and he sucks down the better part of a quart. It throws the bottle off to his right - and returns over his chest. Not getting another sm-
Gloves. More. Keep coming up from the far end of the mattress. Spreading out above, a full-length layer of hands.
What, sixteen - twenty?
"You get the fuck away from m-"
Dropping slowly.
"No dammit no NNNOO-"
Cloth. Cool and - smooth...
He's staring at fingers laying down on his beer belly, the huge palm on his navel. He tries to twist, roll it off -
Hands take hold of his feet. Confident, authoritative... rousing.
Cupping his chest, sliding under his knees, wrapping around his lower ribs.
"Aw, no..."
And that's all. The satin moves heavily, carefully. He bucks once. And squirms, barely starting to roar.
Hands with a mission. A forgotten room... and a tense, howling badass curled in their goading fingers.
Another Camel is tossed away. Pressure, in his right armpit...
"Oh. Oh mutherfuck, you can't, just lemme go, no fuck awww..." A gravelly whisper.
But his fifth break is over. He looks wearily over him through the haze of smoke, watching the hands come back down - dull and greying against the sunset outside.
As fingers start to slide, he tugs pathetically and laughs hard, almost silently. They resume covering the bottoms of his feet, and he whines...
Thick, dry satin. Bulldozing away. As taut as latex, cool as steel, substantial as granite. And slippery - once again getting down to business.
Thumbs travel along the bottom edge of the ankle-cuffs. Fingers digging in from the sides of his poor feet, smoothing out the wrinkles in his soles heavily, endlessly... making him bray.
Satin forcing itself between his toes, while he pulls earnestly - desperately - at the cowhide straps, making them creak.
Fierce, ragged guffaws bursting out of his mouth. The sweat shines again, all over him...
The hottest place they've found, his insanely skittish secret, is covered by acetate, hands positioning themselves knowingly... between each armpit and nipple, a little lower -
He shudders, and tries to flop. Mouth open wide, eyes slammed shut, as they squeeze...
Gigantic, brass-balls yowling.
Despite his habits, he's strong as an ox. Sound and solid and healthy. He'll last, alright.
All attempts to tug or lean have fallen by the wayside.
Animal delight, savage and furious pleasure...
25may99