Nothing all that unusual about the flier. It was left on the cars and motorcycles in the gym parking lot. Looking for men and women "in superior health" to participate in a clinical study of reflexes and reaction time. The kind of experiment the psych department was running all the time.
One-visit commitment. Skilled professional oversight, legitimate scientific research...
Easy money?
Nat parks in the deserted lot, surprised there aren't any more cars there. The time frame - at night, six to nine - could've narrowed down the response.
He looks at the flier again doubtfully. Night hours didn't seem right, but the building looks legitimate enough. A whole lot of questions they'd have to answer first. They must be used to that. But the cash... Hesitantly, he pushes the door open.
The reception area is empty... But there's an intercom near the door. Feeling stupid, he makes his way over to it and presses the button.
After a few seconds, a guy's voice says, "Hey. You here to make some money?"
"Uh... Yeah -"
A click. "Alright. Grab a clipboard off the chair, fill it out, and hang tight. We'll answer all your questions bef- whup, sorry, gotta go."
"Wha..."
But the intercom is silent. Nat scowls at it. Something weird going on. He doesn't need the cash that badly...
Well, actually, he does. Can't hurt to look the forms over.
Medical questions, and a couple of releases. A page apologizing for the lack of specific information, explaining the need for first impressions that were unprejudiced. Nat isn't buying it. No way he's signing anything, here, without a lot more information.
Five or ten minutes later, the intercom crackles. "Okay... Dude? You still there?"
"Yeah," Nat says.
"Sorry about the wait. Gotta get these numbers crunched. Look, uh, you wanna let yourself in? The door at the end of the hall. Go right in, be right with ya. Thanks." Click.
After a few seconds, Nat gets up slowly... and walks to the door.
The hallway looks normal enough. Cheap, like any building on campus. He hesitates again, in front of the door. Something really weird goin' on here. But damn, he could use the cash. I can say "no" any time I want, he tells himself. With a last deep breath, he finally takes hold of the knob.
It turns easily enough, but it's... kinda greasy. He pushes the door open, rubbing his fingers together.
Run-of-the-mill office. He sits in the nearest chair, and yawns, looking over at the door. Yawns again. Tired, all of a sudden...
Too tired. And his hand is tingling. Right hand -
Doorknob. That oily stuff. From the knob to his hand. Drugged.
Nat tries to stand up, but he's dizzy. He shakes his head hard and starts to rise again... but he can't do it. Sliding -
Next thing he knows, he's laying on the floor. He lifts his head, blinking, and notices something else. Did he... fall on something? No. But there's... pressure, or something. Maybe on his back...
Like a hand. Two, at least. On his ribs.
Are they - squeezing?
Fading fast, Nat tries to crawl toward the door.
The wall is puffy, like it's upholstered or something. A lot of work. Looks cool, though...
After a while, Nat realizes that what he's studying... is the ceiling.
But the walls are padded too. Padded room. This isn't the office he walked into. So why is he in -
And then... figuring it out, an instant before he sees the restraints. Thick, and sturdy.
"Oh,." he says meekly, looking at his cuffed left wrist. "Oh no..."
After he tugs for awhile, getting absolutely nowhere, he glances up -
Way up, in the air, behind his head. Hands, up there. Eight or ten. And some of 'em are holding a clipboard.
Just hands. Empty...?
As he stares at 'em, Nat starts to pull all over again.
He looks at the padded ceiling again, and the walls... and back at the shiny white fingers. Despite his panic, the straps keep holding him down, staying taut.
"You can see why we prefer athletes," somebody says. The same guy - well, the same voice, that came out of the intercom. From the sound, it's as if the guy was maybe a yard overhead, somewhere near the clipboard. "Drug-free -"
"What? No. Hear me? You got that? No. Lemmeoutaheeeeeee-"
"It's grueling, no lie. But we try to keep it fun. Don't forget the cash, either."
"Help! I don't wanna d-"
"Ten bucks a day."
Nat blinks. "A day?"
"Each day." The gloves come a little closer. Impatient... what are they gonna do?
"Fuck this, I'm outa h-"
"Ten dollars per day. And the minimum session, one each day... is ten hours."
"Nooooo," Nat begs, as that sinks in. Pleading with 'em. With gloves.
"The first session, tonight, will obviously use satin. Full-body. Every session is full-body." The voice becomes quieter. "First sessions tend to run long. Then, let's see..." They bring the clipboard back over him. "Rubber gloves tomorrow. Latex. And oil, of course. You'll be shaved at some point, and then again every two sessions."
"I gotta get out of here," Nat says, to the gloves now over his belly. Pulling slowly and diligently at the restraints...
"Next is feathers. Then fur brushes, then stiff brushes, textured goatskin, motorized polishing tools. Satin and feathers. Then oil with all the other combinations - latex and mink brushes, then goatskin and stiff brushes, then feathers and motorized tools, latex and stiff brushes, goatskin and mink. All gloves. All brushes. All tools..."
A phantom finger flips the page.
"Okay, then we add nicotine, and repeat each session. Cigarettes. Then hard alcohol - we've got Jim Beam, is that okay? Then 'special K', then THC. Cigs and alcohol, cigs and THC, alcohol and THC, alcohol and ketamine -"
Nat whimpers, and flails at the straps.
Another page is turned. The voice continues, sounding real happy - almost chanting now. "Cigarettes, alcohol and 'special K'. Cigarettes, alcohol and THC. Cigarettes, K and THC. Alcohol, K and THC." The glove holding the clipboard throws it aside. "And if you're not in the control group, you'll also get the sensitivity-enhancing drug we're testing. Okay. Let's do this."
"Noooooooo-"
Four gloves jump on him and start rubbing.
Nat flops and makes a high-pitched noise. Loud. Something between giggling and screaming.
At least six more gloves wait above.
Soft fingers creep over his ribs and scritch his feet. He makes the leather creak, but it continues to keep his legs pinned. Gloves sneak under his knees, down along his biceps...
Drag softly over his nipples.
Stroke up and down his bouncing cock.
Nat howls like a lion in heat.
The clipboard is tossed to the side. Lying there, forgotten. On the pages, next to the description of each session, there's a question and a check-box. The question is the same one, repeated over and over, which will be answered at the start of each session...
"Is the subject still reactive?"
When he's tickled, does he still laugh?
Uncontrollably? Completely out of control? An overly excited maniac?
After ten or twelve hours, for each of sixteen tool-sets... times fourteen drug combinations... is the sensation still overwhelming? More than he can handle?
Is he still ejaculating fiercely? Roaring silently?
Ready for another endless session?
31jan2001