He was almost mythical - the ultimate target. What could have been...
One winter night, while it was dragging a huge weightlifter into an alley, it glanced over at the street. He was lighting a smoke, waiting for the green light - and it got a clear view of his right hand.
The tattoo it saw was bold. Esoteric icons told it of unfathomable intensity, and unmatched sound.
Torn between securing what it had, or racing after the truck steered by that hand... Stunned into inactivity, it almost let go of the musclebound hulk - while the tagged animal, like a rare comet, sped away. It knew immediately, too late, the price of its indecision.
Six, seven years ago.
But it had caught the last two numbers on his license plate.
Thousands of possibilities, and by now a very cold trail. But it mused, now and then, about that perfect nab... How he'd be snagged, laid out, the incomparable roaring and tugging, rechargable and maintained...
He was fun to fantasize about. Idealized, and built up into a perfect daydream of reflex and reaction. The search had been abandoned for years, while other men were forced to laugh instead.
Then, this winter, it had heard about an open call to an East Bay cottage. Free-for-all, bring your own feathers. A marathon of wide-area coverage and inkslinging, but that subject passed out fairly easily. As the tat guns converged, it threw out the standard inquiry to its cohorts, mechanically...
One of them picked up a pen and sketched the legendary design on the unconscious dude's thigh. Bingo! It even knew the make and color of the truck he'd been driving. An account was given of just how he'd proven himself worthy of that tat.
Desire ignited within it - but no, his wallet had been burned. He lived east, maybe way east. No more details available. No more clues.
But what if...?A whole lot of hours at computer keyboards, rifling through darkened offices, survelliance and house calls. Leads down south, out-of-state and back again. Oh, it worked out its frustration on some choice howlers along the way, but it couldn't shake the idea it was getting closer.
Trying to lower its expectations, prepare for a major disappointment. But. What if...
Cross-indexing all men pushing thirty... checking and ruling out whole towns, zip codes.
Embellishing on the myth. For starters, an afterburner of a weekend, extended, all its most favorite extremes. Watchful eye. Longer sequels. And the exciting image of straps hobbling that tightly clenched message-hand... long hair spilling over a finely detailed tat of a loose kerchief around his neck, as if he was at last completely - ungagged.
It started following up on subsequent vehicles. Ninety-odd prospects remained.
Pouncing on two false alarms. Getting edgy, more than halfway through the short list. The trail's too cold, anyway...
Not fuckin' tall enough, it thought when he pulled up. Another disappointment.
Truck shut off, he opened the door and dragged solidly on a cig. As door and hand swung into the porch light's glow -
There.
That's the - oh... It is. No doubt.
That's him. A unique tat. Definitely. Gotcha, you motherfucker. After all these years.
It was so stunned, it barely followed him inside.
Small house. A roommate? Not home... note on the fridge - gone 'til the 18th! Too cool. This is perfect -
The urge to jump him, get him now... Barely repressed. Plan. He ain't goin' anywhere, watch and wait... He's here, that's the hand. It caught up with him, after all this time.
Landing in front of the TV with a couple beers, he seemed quiet enough. Didn't laugh much, tended to brood. The contrast would be all the sweeter!
Fuckin' A! Way to be. He's toast.
It measured him while he slept, hauled a van-load of gear and supplies from V-town, and found a dream of a cabin way, way up in the forest. Long vacant, no neighbors for at least a mile in any direction. It rigged up a little solar panel for electricity... pored over his kitchen and stocked up on grub he'd probably hate.
Friday, the day (finally!), it forged a note to his roomie - sudden biz down south, here's some cash for the utilities, call ya when I can, etc. etc. And it hid a couple gas cans behind the garage, cuz he usually drove around on empty...
He pulled up to the house and got out. Boots crunching on the gravel, carrying a couple plastic grocery bags, flipping through his keys.
Waiting just inside: two sets of riot chains, a custom blindfold and a tailored gag made from one of his Harley bandannas... Poised in the air, ready to jump and keep him on the kitchen floor 'til dark and a long, muddy ride...
Perfect. Everything's working out just right, and it's so torqued...
Pulling off his blindfold. Watching as he takes in the room, the lantern, the chair he's tied to. Open window, screen taken down now, so the mosquitoes can get at him. Yeah, sure, as if it'll be leaving any part of him alone for that long.
He's wearing only the bandanna he was gagged with. Feet hitched up and under, hands tied in front of his crotch. Sides and armpits open... chest, knees... Soles. Thighs and belly uncoverable. Neck fully within reach.
Not yelling anymore. Watchful, controlled. Intense little fucker.
Anything that would make his heart race is stashed in the hallway, out of sight. He studies the room, tugging devotedly at the ropes. Looking long and hard out the window.
It crinkles cellophane - his head snaps around. Soft pack of 'Boros opening, three feet off the ground to his left...
He tests those knots for five more smokes. The incriminating tat flexes, tries to twist. And his captor's transfixed... got his license, work history, fingerprints. He can't run, won't be dropping out of sight again. Better than it'd dared to hope. All indications are hugely promising...
It gets him another cigarette, and opens the door another few inches.
He looks up from the flame and jerks upright.
A small, dark shape is coming...
To his hands. Cloth. Drying his palms? Unfurling -
Unseen pressure held his fingers down.
A glove was being pulled on.
He fights, wriggling all over. No way to prevent it, not really. Soft cloth hides his fingers, taking plenty of time. No need to risk injury. He knows the score. Let him fight. He'll lose.
He stares at his hands with extreme concentration, solid and lithe and barely even panting...
Despite him, the fingertips are snuggling down against his own. Black cloth, shiny, cool to the touch. The other glove unfurls, starts over his left hand... A new 'Boro comes, gets fired up. His hands are still held tight.
Tug. Sharp pulls to seat the gloves, right and then left. Carefully made to fit. Open back showing his calling card, four round holes over each finger, two on the back of each thumb. He flexes, makes fists...
Descending into the cloud of smoke - rope. Several inches. Around the base of the right glove, tightening, knotting decisively. Unnecessary, sure. Just for show. He looks up and sees the other rope coming, passionately watching it land on his left hand... that penetrating stare, as if wishing hard enough would deflect it away...
Knot. Tug. The point is clear. His fingers are released. White nylon rope over jet-black satin, his hands clenching... and then relaxing, spreading out as if to hide his erection.
Another smoke. It delighted in his scrutiny of the contrast, white-on-black... His skin bared, sticking to the dark wood of the chair. Inked skin ripples as his telltale hand tries to escape the rope. The feet unable to pedal or turn, sweat beading, cock hardening, burning squint through unconsciously exhaled smoke. Excellent vigor, the picture of health. Alert, knowing, staying.
A dozen psychotic ideas, follow-up fun with him. But first, the eighty-odd hours dreamed about, planned and refined with just this tattooed hand's body in mind. Combinations of activities saved for this very dude.
The door opens a little farther, creaking softly. He looks up again, gratifyingly alarmed. Big eyes, chin dropping -
Four, six, eight familiar shapes enter and approach. Nearer, in the light of the lantern - he writhes...
A few hands dip... one hangs over him, inches above his chest. Another pulls his smoke.
Copies of the gloves he's wearing. Open backs, air holes. Taut. Firm.
One comes with a new cigarette. Holding it in its fist... a brief pause, and he leans forward, presses his mouth against the unyielding satin, biting the filter. Pulls hard, but gets it free. Eases back against the chair -
And jumps. There's two cool spots touching him now. One under, one behind. His recoil is enjoyable to watch, to feel...
Another glove coming with the nearly burned-out 'Boro cupped, taking its time as it holds it against his new cig... Smoke roiling off the black cloth in his face. It backs off, and he sucks in deep, tugging that last good lungful in before -
Up his spine. An open hand, gliding gently.
Instant, rigid grinning. Remarkable intensity radiating off him... from the one palm moving down, and up, leisurely.
Leering, stretching unobtrusively. Streams of smoke from mouth and nose. Under his ass, the slightest creeping. He grins harder still, biting on the cig. Feverishly attentive.
A dream come true. Seven years of hunting...
Creeping higher on his butt cheeks.
Fingers barely touching his left side, and move up the ribs -
He struggles harder, hissing smoke in.
On his right calf. Under the draped kerchief - sliding under his hair.
Top of his left foot - and his head thrashes, cig dropped -
A satin thumb hooks between his wrist-ropes, pulling his hands out a fraction of an inch. The last hand, the glove that had been sitting right over him, descends... toward his meat. Full contact. Then belly - and sliding up.
Snort. Chuckle. The wriggling stops, and he snickers emphatically. Definitive example of wholeheartedness. Here's a level of... what, maybe sincerity, even determination, like it's never seen before.
He hoots, almost self-consciously, as more hands head his way - six, eight. No fight from him, no wasted energy... until they start to land. Right foot, left knee, right side. The belly-glove rides his pecs, full sweeping circuits. His hands and legs pull spastically. And he starts to laugh. True, full... the most driven sound and posture it's ever seen. Gloves reposition, grip and bear down.
More strained laughter, perfect in its vivid purity. He pulls at the ropes carefully, squinting at the hands he can't elude.
All sixteen close in. Greater weight, maximum contact. He bucks once - and the chair stays put.
And suddenly he's loud - not laughing more. Just the loudest, most intense laughter it's ever heard.
Even his hands stop moving. It keeps pressing him for the full, ragged volume...
Five long minutes.
A dozen hands pull off. He drops to the integral hard snickering, a little raspier now, and watches four gloves extravagantly knead his armpits and inner thighs. Twelve more hands just a couple inches away from him... the stroking pairs moving to other tender spots every few minutes. His own hands resume the covert wriggling, the tattoo shiny with sweat.
On his chest now, and clenching the bottoms of his feet... he tries to block the tit-huggers with his chin... Satin, soft and heavy, almost in his face... Nothing to see through the holes in their fingers and backs. Dead air, making him crazy. Six other pairs right there.
His efforts to shove 'em away, to curl and twist his feet - completely useless. He throws his head back, the uniquely driven laughs sounding throatier, with the gloves holding pace on these excellent locations for ten minutes... twenty...
He's laughed himself hoarse. The degree of his anguish, though...
It towels him off, shoves a few wake-up tabs down his throat, makes him wolf down the rest of that pack of smokes.
Freeing his left hand, sneakily...
It's only moving him eight or nine feet, but he bucks like his life depended on it. And, down - flat on his back, ropes tightening and pulling out, away. Knotting...
There.
Alert, looking around wildly...
Outstretched. It's charged at the sight, delighted -
Every inch. Full length of his sides. Those feet! Chocked off the mattress, heels in the air. All of his crotch. Chin to belly - knees, thighs, calves -
It raises a dry glove and brings it toward him. Eyes widening just a little more, a haggard sigh -
Up and down a thigh. Reflex traveled through his whole body. Obstinate snickering -
The glove works deep, out to provoke. Shin, foot - and here comes the laughter, wrenching hoots... angry flailing at the ropes. The empty hand squeezes him more firmly, plowing faster... sampling all over.
The result is a mild sort of roaring, for him.
Another glove snuggles down over his right tit.
Twenty or so hang to the left of him, set to join in.
12jun1998