Slowly, Neil wakes up. Looking, for a long while...
An open pack of Luckies. Big box of matches, cheap glass ashtray. Same as a hundred other times -
His eyes open further. The bench, holding up the smokes. Black bundle at the other end. He doesn't know the room, but he's seen this bench before, oh yeah. Pine, painted a dull brown, alongside the bed.
"No," he says hollowly -
And his wrists are grabbed. He looks at 'em wildly. Invisible hands, same as always. Neil starts wrestling. "No, dammit, not again. Not now, no..."
He's eased over. On his back, with his arms slowly rising, pushed down into the sheet, dragging up. "No! C'mon, help - Hey! Help! Help meeeeee..."
His hands are pinned near the corners of the bed. And the cigarettes rise up, turning, as one is shaken out of the pack. No hurry at all. Lots of cartons stacked up just outside the door. Neil's captor makes him smoke. Constantly. From the first night six years ago, right after football season ended. There's some things he can't get enough of, as far as his captor is concerned.
The Lucky comes up by his mouth, and he fights harder. It waits until he stops tossing his head around, usually about a minute. Then the cig is shoved between his lips. A match floats out of the box, and he watches it drag across the near side of the bench and come on over.
"No. You can't," he says earnestly. The match sits against the end of the cigarette, and he sucks in. There.
A fat strip of leather cruises up to his left wrist.
Chain trails down from that corner. Big links, coated in black paint. He gives it his all, but the cuff wraps under his fist, the outside strap tightening down... A hasp hooks through the riveted loop, and the hex nut spins magically, closing the link.
Neil snaps and lunges, dropping the cigarette. Each time he does, it lifts back up to his mouth. Another cuff appears, near his right hand.
He starts another Lucky, and the captor pulls off his boots. They fall past the end of the bed, and his socks follow them. Another cuff starts hobbling his left ankle...
After both legs are restrained, and the cuffs are tugged hard to test 'em -
"Fuck!" he yells. Neil drops his head, sighing hard. His body relaxes considerably. Once his bonds are in place, a change always comes over him. His attitude changes as soon as the cuffs are set, even though the hands that pinned him are obviously much stronger than he is. There's something about the sight of the cuffs and the chains...Trying to get loose is a waste of energy. No escaping his captor.
This is the eleventh time Neil's been chained down. He knows what the deal is, here.
Last time, the party went on for almost seven weeks.
It looks like he's in for a longer ride this time.
A water bottle floats up.
After he's drained it, a big bottle of Jack Daniels is slammed down on the bench. Another Lucky comes to him, followed closely by a lit match.
The rest of the pack follows, nonstop, each cig lit from the last. More water, every couple smokes.
Then a urinal is positioned between his legs. This could be a sign that he's not going to be handled tonight. Maybe.
The whiskey rises up, opening - and hands lift his head. Invisible hands...
As he's slugging down a couple shots, he looks over and sees a new pack of Luckies peeling open. When he's kicking out smoke again, his head is released.
Quietly, the light clicks off.
Neil grimaces, and smokes. He's waiting... but no attack comes. Not yet. After a while, he starts to relax.
A couple smokes later, he yawns.
His captor has decided to let him sleep tonight. Get all rested up, so he's sharp tomorrow. It's going to be an asskicker.
As soon as his eyes open, a Lucky is jammed against his teeth and a match is dragged to life. He's allowed to yawn before he smokes.
His clothes have been thrown out.
When he looks over at the bench, there's more stuff piled on it. His eyes travel from end to end... and he closes his eyes.
The ashtray, the matches, the open pack. Whiskey. And now, a pile of black leather. Next, there's two big plastic bottles, square, no label, with pumps on top. One's filled with mink oil, and the other dispenses moisturizer.
And next to them, a pile of feathers. Two disposable razors.
Three or four feet of the bench was still empty. At the far end, just like before, there's his new clothes. Black jeans, chaps, black muscle shirt, vest, gloves, with a biker jacket laid over the pile. Engineer boots are sitting on the floor, at the far end. The last couple times Neil was kidnapped, the jacket had quite a layer of dust on it before he was dressed to ride and sat back down on the bed for another bottle, a few more packs. This time, the boots will be left undisturbed for a couple months...
Water, again. A couple more shots, a few more smokes. Then, fast-food breakfast sandwiches, dried out from microwaving.
Another hour of cigarettes and water.
Then - movement. The nearer pile...
Black leather gloves. A pair being picked up. Filling up. Slowly being pulled over unseen hands. He knows these gloves. They're like old friends. Spent a lot of time workin' him over. Hundreds of full-bore hours.
The fingers clench a couple times. "Empty" gloves.
They slide to the right, under the oil spigot. The plunger is pressed down, and they cup their palms. The oil is thick, and it almost crawls all over the waiting gloves.
As they come away, they rub each other down. Smooth and casual, in no hurry at all. Neil watches, and a groan slips out.
Two more gloves lift up.
The oiled pair heads down... down... to his feet. He's bracing himself -
Thumbs and forefingers landing, sliding - and they stop. Gripping his heels, pushing down. Just bearing down. Now he can't turn his feet at all.
Obviously, the cuffs don't need the help. But Neil reacts much more strongly when there's plenty of hands holding on, squeezing a little, ready to slide.
The next oiled pair clamp low on his shins, right next to the cuffs. Another pair is readied... And they park below his knee, pressing his leg down into the mattress.
Distractedly, he starts a new smoke.
They keep coming and coming. Laying heavily on his pelvis, spread wide. Below his pecs. Pinning his shoulders.
The last pair anchors his biceps, shiny leather covering solid ink.
Four more gloves - no, make that six - are oiled up. Eight. Ten.
Neil's smoke is taken away, tossed past the bench.
Ten soft fingers get closer. Closer...
Touching his neck. Sliding around the back, with thumbs positioned on the long side-tendons.
He gulps once, and breathes fast -
Then it starts.
The gloves start to stroke and press in. Just the way he "likes."
He sucks in air raggedly, and moans... starting to cackle.
Yeah, Neil's a neck man. And a nipple man. Belly button, under-the-knees, and definitely between-the-toes. A good old-fashioned cock and balls man, too. But the back of his neck - it just never goes numb.
More fingers start to play with his nipples. He jerks once, and laughs now -
And others cover all around his navel, slipping in and out.
Some slide under his knees and scrabble aggressively -
And way down there, they start to rub his toes, sneaking in between.
Neil roars and roars.
Later... A minute of massage in each key spot, while others are held firmly. No set order, just rotating the focus from neck, to pecs, to knees, to navel, and so on.
The captor doesn't get bored. This is the kind of solid, thorough workout he'll get all day. And every day. It knows Neil inside and out. Raw, delirious intensity is the only goal.
Same as before.
04sep00