He snores loud.
It lets him sleep as much as he wants. Cut him back to ten hours of uptime, too... he'll keep longer that way. He's real fun. Loses it if a finger so much as points at him, totally earnest and sincere. Knows he's caught good...
Ah, here he is. Up and at 'em...
It starts packing his first smokes against the floor. He looks, shuts his eyes again and groans. Pall Malls. Pressed in his right hand...
He looks at 'em, sees that cuff lying open on the floor. Free right hand. Sighs, starts to open the pack with his teeth. Some trouble getting the first cig out. That's a hoot to watch. He has to stretch to reach the box of matches, scratches one on the floor, cups it and sucks in. Looks up. Blows out the match - just like he's supposed to. Yep, trained real well.
He grimaces at the taste, but smokes anyway. Cloves after this, just ten stale Djarums. Then a hand-rolled Cuban, a pack of ultralight menthols he'll fly through, and two fat red joints for later...
It brings over a pint of vodka, breaks the seal. A water bottle follows, far enough behind to establish an order.
He knows that signal. Stoically he spins the cap off, hesitates, and slugs a couple inches down. Sour face. The water starts moving away... he scowls again, gets a few more swallows down. The bottle's about half gone.
The pint is pulled out of his hand. The water bottle pops open, and it gets topped off with vodka. With an inch or two left in it, the bottle smashes against the far wall... joining a sizable pile of broken glass there.
He wants water, but takes the advancing mix and chugs most of it, knowing that's all he'll be offered. Then he leans back and smokes.
It wants him real drunk for the usual entertainment.
From the left, floating... black cloth, dropped beside his chained hand. Ten yards of thick satin acetate - tall, wide, clean, seamless, creaseless, a whole night's worth of howls. Black is the color of the day. He stares at the cloth, exhaling smoke, head weaving noticeably.
It puts a new cigarette between his fingers. He lights it off the old one unsteadily and chucks the butt hard.
The satin rises and unfolds, grazing his ribs. He tries to pull away as it trails off him deliberately, grinning despite himself. Spreading out... now taut, a massive expanse of brand new acetate hanging less than a yard over him. He stares intensely.
It took the whole sheet to him once last week. Left both hands locked down and dropped the curtain, molding it to him, curling under, encasing him beneath the chin and rubbing... In fifty minutes of gleeful screaming, he came twice and passed out. It revived him and enveloped him more tenderly as it constructed the day's accessories at the other end of the curtain. He didn't get to smoke that afternoon.
It found it couldn't massage him as painstakingly, or stick to curves and bear down as solidly as it liked, with the single enormous piece. But the sight of all that soft satin hanging right over him snaps his eyes open ever since.
Twenty firm hands give him more ecstatic grief.Silk, spandex, and greased latex were all debilitating, but all this satin really gets to him like nothing else did.
Scissors levitate to the wall of cloth. He relaxes minutely, reaches for another cigarette. Time to make today's gloves and things. Riding gloves, just for him.
His fascination with the expanse of satin is, in some way, how he copes. Eight different colors, one each day, but the new material silences him. Drunk, his mood becomes unshakably mellow, placid. Serious only in the implications of all that ideal cloth and what it's there for.
The scissors make graceful curves in the air. The long triangles that will become smooth fingers bend toward him teasingly as they're cut out. So much practice at this. He reaches for a new smoke. Putting his free hand behind his head, he sucks in. Nothing else to do but watch the show... The first unsewn glove falls on his chest, and he barely jumps. The exhaled smoke drifts through the shape cut out of the sheet of laughs over him. The scissors begin making another hand.
The first night, the night it tried silk, he fought continuously with the chains as it made rose-colored hands, not knowing what they were for, conscious of his nakedness. He hasn't been able to tear his eyes away from the material since, its shop-fresh glossiness... so it's been making new gloves each day to grip him with, many pairs of hands crawling like thunder.
His limits keep expanding. It was surprised and pleased...
Cutouts pile up on him. He watches the scissors, and lights new cigs off the old... Burning the first clove without apparently noticing, mesmerized by the progress being made just above him. Satin taut as ever, holes multiplying.
Grinning sloppily, he fires up the cigar.
The margin of the material is cut now... swaths, strips of varying dimensions. Little goes to waste. At last, the scraps of the sheet gather into a wad and are tossed aside. Cruising over - needles and thread.
A cutout floats up, and the threading begins. Deceptively dull shadows move in the ripples of the unfinished glove. No creases, and hardly detectable seams...
He lights an ultralight cig off the stogie, as the new pile grows on his lower belly and the ninth cutout rises to be improved.
Slowly, his arm is moved away from his side. It takes him a while to catch on. Blotto. He struggles to pull it back in, but the usual invisible grip sets it within the cuff. Click. Two inches of iron locked around his wrist, keeping his arm fully extended like his other limbs.
The needle doesn't even hesitate in its glove-making duty. He squirms a little. A new cig shakes free from the pack.
Every five minutes, a new smoke. Each glove takes slightly longer than that...
His mood's starting to go. He strains at the bonds as best he can, at irregular intervals, not smoking as much, trying to sober up a little. The lower pile is already formidable - perfect black hands, ideally smooth, good-sized, the bare minimum of seams not even visible from a foot away.
Number twenty being made - and there's a few cutouts left, some other shapes... He's restless, blurrily looking as the empty pack is crumpled, groaning at the doobie heading his way.
Twenty-five. He's given up counting - can't manage it. One more glove, and then the strips become tubelike, are sewn into long shiny cylinders.
It'll have him blaze up that last joint later on. Even so, his discontent is increasing. Flailing wobbily, muttering louder.
The sewing stuff leaves - job completed. He polishes off the joint and drops his head, eyes closed, anticipating and dreading...
A familiar package slides between the fingers of his left hand.
The signal. Camel time.
He looks at it and whimpers deep in his throat. Right fist clenching, feet curling...
From the bottom of the pile on his gut, a glove burrows out. Full, solid, firm. It tugs the pack from his loose grip... and starts packing 'em on the floor. Another hand rises. A third, and a fourth - the last coming to help open the Camels. Already, he's hard.
A can of dietary-supplement drink is forced down him... and the usual pint of water. Same old routine, right down to the pack floating up with one cig pulled out far enough for him to bite... A match scrapes, and the glove holding it fires him up, then darts above him suddenly - cruising slowly back down, holding the flaming match rock-steady in front of his chin. But he remembers - blowing out the flame with the first smoke he sucked in...
No more routine left. He gets one more tug of Camel, still lookin' buzzed and miserable... Eatin the last smoke he'll get for another four or five hours.A glove rises - several gloves, darting up. And down.
He snaps at the chains... a muffled rattle, but no other noise.
Hands start, tonight, on his neck. Two slip under, one in front, one on each collarbone. Clench -
Laughing hard. Head trying to roll, unable to because of the gripping fingers. Camel falling, forgotten.
Brand new satin kneads deep, mindful of his hypersensitivity... and especially of his loco buttons. Lustily squirming, hooting with no ability to dampen his reaction. Locked down tight.
Gleaming hands rise and cruise to his other end. Thirty fingers blanket all sides of his feet. Utterly incapable of watching, he thrashes as best he can and starts keening and howling much louder.
Pairs and pairs and pairs of gloves rise and take devastating positions. And rub him. Intently.
A sea of shiny fingers pressing, clasping, digging under and around, palms buffing and riding...
He snags air quickly and bellows it back out. Wild, inebriated roars...gut-level. Muscular tension going, body moving feebly against the psychotic massage...
Brand new satin, playing rough, keeps him at the edge of coming, of passing out, of going catatonic. Sticks close...twenty-six new satin grips.
Hours til break-time.
16sep98