"It's not hard to understand," the voice says conversationally. "Just sit back and relax."
"Why?" I mumble. Something's up. I wish I could see whoever it is that's talking to me. Trying to keep me calm -
"Look," it says. Real happy.
Four black leather gloves bob up. Big, and limber.
They move easily enough, considering I can't see how the fuck they're moving at all.
Without even thinking about it, I'm starting to jump. The fuckin' gloves track in the same direction. Immediately. No way I'm gonna get past 'em - and make it out the door...
"You're not human, are you?"
"Oh, I'm not going to hurt you," and it makes a dismissive noise - what a dumb idea. "Far from it. I'm all about... fun. Have yourself a smoke."
"I don't want to," I fire back, watching a pair of the gloves head for my pocket.
The voice doesn't reply. Instead, I get to watch my cigarettes and lighter being pulled out. Nothing is calming or reassuring about what I'm seeing, since it can't be really happening. But it is.
The part that is familiar is taking the cigarette between my lips and cocking my head toward the lighter... and I find myself going along.
"There. It's just you and me."
Motion catches my eye - it's the door. A glove is closing it.
"Hey."
"We're not going to bother anyone else." The voice chuckles softly. "They won't even know we're here."
"That's it," I say, starting to stand up - and immediately, one of the gloves lays against my breastbone, pushing me back down.
"Easy."
"What is this?"
"You'll see. Hey, take your jacket off."
"No."
All of the gloves assemble, slowly, over me. Curling into fists. "Do it."
This is not good. Cooperating is a mistake. And I can't think of any alternative. Why does it want my jacket off, anyway?
Reluctantly, I park the cigarette between my teeth and ease out of my jacket. The leather fingers relax.
"Very good," the voice says.
"I don't want to be here," I tell it.
"Oh, I know. Already, you're wishing you hadn't cut through the alley tonight."
"You got that right."
"But listen good - when it's all over, you're not going to have any regrets at all."
"Is that right?" I scoff, looking from glove to glove.
"No matter how long it takes..."
I just take a drag, and sigh the smoke back out.
"Nice and slow. No hurry at all. Okay?"
"Whatever."
Soft laughter. "Aaaaww. Relax. Just like you are, now. Remember it."
"Why?"
"Just do it. Later, you'll understand. I want each step to be... building on the last step."
Without even knowing what happens next, I know - from the tone of its voice - that there's a really sadistic fucker operating these gloves. And it's enjoying this...
The gloves start to move.
"What are you doing?"
"Kick your boots off. Get comfortable."
I laugh once. "Forget it -"
The gloves fly down, faster than I've seen them move yet. One clamps over each of my shins.
Automatically, I start to sit up - and a finger points toward my face.
"Sit."
They're strong enough to prevent me from lifting my legs.
In no hurry, the gloves pull my right boot off.
"I wish you wouldn't... do that," I snap, tensing up.
"Yeah," it mocks. "I know."
And they act a little more eager when they take hold of my left boot.
"There. Did that hurt?"
"Well, no -"
The gloves let go of my legs.
"Better?"
"No," I say, and I'm worried...
"Alright."
The gloves slam down again! Just over my ankles.
My heart really starts going when they begin to pull off my socks.
"No," I say - catching on. Fear and disbelief absolutely fuckin' fill my head, all of a sudden. It can't be serious.
"There we are," it sighs, all satisfied and happy, and a glove drops the last sock.
The way those fuckin' hands are posing, over my feet, is fairly clear. "You're not thinking... what I think you're thinking."
Easy chuckles. "Yeah. Now the next thing to do," it murmurs, "is to make sure you hold nice and still."
"No!" I yell.
"Wasted energy. You need to concentrate on... the main event."
"No, no, no -"
I hear a soft creak, right before a band of pressure sets down. Left ankle.
"This is totally insane," I say, trying to kick my legs free.
"Hold that thought."
Oh, fuck the gloves are strapping my ankles down. This is not really happening. Wide, and tight - and the footrest suddenly makes sense, now, in a sick way. My heels are barely making contact with the edge, so thickly padded...
And the rest of my feet are just sitting there. Exposed, now -
I stare at the cuffs. Efficiently, the gloves pull yet another strap over each ankle, and pull it tight. Each foot bound separately, so if I do manage to get one free, the other still being stuck will make sure I don't actually get anywhere. Unbelievable -
Tightening. "Owwww!" I shout. It doesn't really hurt, I guess... but it's getting scarier in here.
"Almost done," the voice says cheerfully.
"You can't do this," I beg. "Look. I mean it -"
The gloves back off a little. "I'll get out the toe-straps later. But let me pause a moment, now, and appreciate this. They're callused, and they're dry in some places... needing some attention. So they can be more... receptive. Way more than you could ever get 'em. And the first requirement is that these fuckers stay still. Continuous therapy for these feet. I like to track how they're come along. Tender. Sensitive. You know it. It'll be astonishing, the difference, after I get 'em all prepared for a long, long workout. Intense doesn't even begin to describe it."
That speech just does me in. The bastard making the gloves move is too far gone. Obsessed. It really knows its stuff. Then a litle surge of panic jets up, from my naked feet, deliberately exposed, snugly restrained -
"Haaaaaalp!"
"No one can stop me. I made sure of that."
And now, oh fuck, the gloves are moving in.
"I have all the time in the world."
I lunge around, reaching desperately... because I have to block them, right now. Before they start, and somehow I have to keep from laughing out loud. I can't give the son of a bitch any confirmation.
Seriously motivated, I reach for my ankles -
Oh, shit!
I wish my toes were longer, and more flexible. This is too freaky to really be happening. No -
Fingers! No. Sliding. Fuckin' fingertips, crawling around. Some are holding my toes. This is wrong, and scary, no no not this!
"No, noooooo, you c-can't," I whine.
"But I am. You're gritting your teeth. Why is that?"
Shaking my head, I slam myself forward. My feet don't move at all. I have to strain to get my hands all the way down there... and I actually grab hold of one of the gloves - the one keeping my right foot from bending. And, dammit, I have hope. I can see it all, in my head... pulling that glove off me, and then the other. I can reach the straps. I'm going to get out of this -
It lets go of my foot, but doesn't make any real effort to get away from me. Cool material, covering what feels like hard muscle. "What are you doing?" the voice says. It sounds amused. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Let me g-go!" I shout.
"No, you don't," it says. Two more gloves fly into each of my arms and slam me back against the chair. The glove I was holding moved a little - and grabbed my wrist. "You think you get to touch my gloves whenever you want?"
"Dammit, you gotta let me g-"
"Where the hell do you get off? I'm not gonna see you playing with my gloves whenever you feel like it. Molesting 'em. They got a job to do."
More gloves float up - carrying cuffs.
All of the screaming and struggling doesn't even slow 'em down.
My arms are stuck. Hands apart. Way over my head. And I can't seem to believe it, not completely.
I'm strapped down... and I know why.
"Much better," the voice says. "Let's see you lay a finger on my gloves now."
"Please," I gasp, "oh please -"
Fingers tighten, near the sides of my t-shirt, and rip my t-shirt off. That gets me flailing again, but it couldn't be more pathetic now that my wrists are caught. Hell, I can't even imagine those gloves, working my over. Belly, and ribs.
"Ssssh," the voice hisses. "Just listen."
Metal sound. From the door.
"Noooooooo..."
"Locked in, now. And this building, remember, has been ignored for years. A great place. I picked it well. Even if anybody came around, there's nothing all that interesting about it. I made real sure."
"No, no, no, no -"
Something moves. It's on the middle of my left foot, sliding toward the toes. Too light to be the fingers... and more frustrating, maybe.
I don't want to look down there and see, but I have to know.
Gloves are holding feathers! Four of 'em -
As I watch, my right foot gets tickled too. My feet. Both.
The sight makes me squeal really loud.
"It's really getting to you, huh? Building up. The pressure."
"Aw, please... Nnn-noooo -"
"The need. You just can't help it. Getting stronger..."
The damn feathers are creeping, and pausing, then reversing direction. They're not going to stop. I know that. The room is secret enough, and I don't have a chance in hell of breaking the restraints.
I snort a couple times.
"Irresistible."
Gloves start to unbuckle my belt.
Oh, hell, I hadn't even thought of that. Rocking back and forth doesn't stop them from unbuttoning my fly. They're not actually -
Empty black fingers getting in there - pulling my underwear down. Pressure, light and soft, down there.
That's what does me in. After snagging a big, ragged breath, I close my eyes... and laugh at them. All of the gloves, crawling, and the feathers sweeping.
In no time at all I'm roaring my head off.
"Yeah," the voice says.
Gloves slip around my neck and just tease the fuck out of it, coaxing me to laugh even harder.
I watch the smoke leak out of me.
The lighter lands on the table. There's a new pack there. Maybe two. Always plenty of cigarettes. More where that came from. Dammit, I wish it would just let me smoke in peace...
That's the idea. What it wants me to think - even this is better than what it does when I'm not smoking. Unbelievable. Before I got caught, I hated cigarettes. And tattoos. But look at me now.
This is not going to end soon.
The thought doesn't even freak me out anymore. There's a routine here, and it's been going on for so long that I'm used to it now. Not that I like it. I mean, I spent days wishing it just would let me go. But the power kept increasing. How deep it feels.
Well, this could go on for a long time yet. It's got me hidden well enough. All the time it wants - which has become a much more real concept. There is no limit on how long I'll be here. Obvious, but still amazing when I really think about it.
So I don't. Think, I mean. When I do, I get restless. Or I panic. That just brings the delirium back sooner. Crying was a real quick way to get worked over. It doesn't let me feel sorry for myself.
It's getting me another cigarette. I'm relieved to see that.
In a weird way I'm used to all this. I mean, it's been a while.
Firm, skillful control. Every base is covered. A lot of experience, I guess. Every last detail...
All this time, watching how thorough it's been, I've learned what it wants me to know. Incredible strength held in check - always forcing me into the bondage devices, or another climax, the dark red fog of increasing pleasure. It could be hurting me - inflict some real pain, and I don't mean just the tattooing - but it never does that. Not once. The goal is... pleasure. Far more than I can stand, always.
I don't see how it could put so much work into all of this, except for one thing. Just from the way stuff moves, sometimes, I know. It's enjoying this. Got this room all set up, stocked. A place to hide me. Then, it picked me. I don't know if it was stalking me for awhile, or if I just walked down the street at the wrong damn time. But it had big plans, and at some point it saw me and said yeah, he's the one.
It could've gone for somebody who already smoked, right? Tattooed up. Maybe there wasn't a guy like that who was... sensitive enough. Or it just wanted me. Walk me through some bigass changes. It wanted me to smoke - and really get into it, as an alternative to all the professionally insane excitement. And I have to think it liked covering me with tattoos. It owns me, so it got to do that. In case I ever forget it, all I gotta do is look down. Not just any tattoos, either.
It watches me smoke and look at the pictures I'm going to wear now. Permanent changes. I'll never forget this.
But the future doesn't matter yet. Today I've got hours of fever coming to me. Like yesterday, and last week, and every day since I got dragged in here. It'll work me over carefully, stretching it out. Get me drunk, get me high, maybe a little speed. One pack of cigarettes after another. The endless train of feathers and brushes and gloves, rotary tools, tips and probes. Oils, liniment, different creams...
Water and food coming regularly, floating to my mouth.
It couldn't be more careful. With me.
Really enjoying itself - wait. That's an understatement. It's motivated. Nothing more satisfying than this, perhaps. Working me over. No limit.
"Oh, faaaaaaaaakkk," I crowed.
The fingers kept moving - and I saw the feather disappear, hidden from view by the stocks.
"No oh-whooooooo hoo hoooooooolll..."
I kicked again. The tickling didn't stop. There was no reason why it should. My ankles were locked in.
Intense, haggard laughter. My feet throbbed with pleasure. I really couldn't hope to move 'em now.
Oh - yeah. They stopped. I couldn't believe it. My barking dwindled.
Why were they stopping?
I blinked the tears away...
The glove was poised, there, over my right foot. Any time it wanted, I'd be apeshit again.
"Nuh," I gulped. "Lemme go."
Slowly, the glove crawled closer.
"Shit... You got no idea how intense this is."
I paused, breathing hard - and the glove started moving back to my foot.
"No! Aw pleeeeze, you gotta understand. Please."
The fingers had stopped again.
"Oh, c'mon," I babbled, "don't do this. Don't... I can't take any more of this shit. But I'm gonna get it, aren't I? Hell, yeah. You wanna fuck with my head. And you're good at it. Okay? So you get to make me laugh. All night. Dammit. Why won't you talk to me?"
And the glove just backed up a little.
I felt a wave of hope - and then got pissed off at myself for hoping. "No getting off the hook," I muttered. "More of that crazed, booming laughter for me. I just wanna climb the walls, but you know that..."
What was happening here?
"Well, what are you waiting for?" I yelled.
The fingers slapped against the thumb, silently. Over and over.
I figured out the gesture. "You want me to talk?"
Thumbs up.
"But you're not gonna talk... Of all the fucked-up shit -"
Rustling, to my right. I looked fast. It was just another cigarette sliding out of the pack.
That made me stare. "I smoke - no, I get to smoke... for now. And talk. Instead of going nuts. But then it starts up again. Tickling. You're a sick bastard who never stops tickling."
I watched the cigarette come up, and then the lighter.
"Okay," I snapped. "You got it. You know I'm gonna go along. Don't you? Even though it's... so hard to take."
The glove made a fist.
"I can't believe this," I said. "Any of it. You are totally kickin' my ass, but you let me smoke."
I watch the fingers unclench, slow and sure as ever.
2006