Nick wakes right up, thanks to speed and 'strone and nicotine analogue, but he isn't aware of them being slammed into his left arm a few seconds ago. Clothes carefully cut off, a pile of riding gear by his side... as well as a jug of water and some discarded cheeseburgers.
He doesn't realize he's also been softened up. Pounds of cream worked into his skin. All over.
The warehouse is deliberately cold. Too cold. Shivering, he looks around for his clothes, rubbing his arms. After a few seconds of thinking, he reaches for the black pile... Leather.
The sizes are just about right. Vest, pants, boots, jacket. No underwear, or socks, or shirt. Finally, he holds the gloves and pauses again. But damn it's cold in here. So cold... Yeah, he pulls 'em on.
Perfect.
Lookin' real good. Good enough to take.
Notices a bulge, left stash pocket. Kools, unopened pack. Another in the right outer pocket... Help yourself. Nick does, packin and gettin a smoke out without hesitating, opening the matchbook that he conveniently finds next to the pack. A strong craving he can feed... and he does, not appearing to notice how hard he's tuggin on the butt.
He takes another good drag and looks around him. Starting to look for a way to budge the door...
Forty smokes later, the hinges are holding fast. He's found no windows, no other exits, one door that wouldn't budge. Still has the leather on, all of it, and he's out of cigs. Nick keeps prying, still trying to get that top hinge pin to move...
Another forty-five minutes. Antsy, frustrated... Nick's pissing again, defiantly spraying it around in the center of the room.
Behind the half-wall opposite the entry, a door swings open. It had resisted his kicks and slams, earlier. Now, it creaks faintly, and Nick picks up on this. He zips up carefully, and steps toward the sound. Two more steps...
"Hello?" he shouts cautiously, standing still and listening - sniffing. Again. There - he's got it. Fresh smoke. A full pack of cigs burned down, the smell drifting in.
He starts walking again, slowly. Overdue for a butt... It's warmer in there. Faint light...
Smoke, warmth, light.
Turning the corner. Here he comes.
Empty room...? Door halfway open, hung on the wrong side. Four more steps. Nick puts a hand on the door, exhales, and pushes.
Big fuckin room. Track lights hanging down from the ceiling, center of the room. Highlighting -
Nick stops.
A bed. It's... a large bed, empty, all made up. No headboard. Nothing else in the room -
Except some metal. Next to the bed, at the corners.
Two, three seconds pass. He's not moving - eyes widening more now. The he shifts his weight to his far leg, stealthily...
Thick comforter, pillow bumps. Overpowering discrepancy, in this warehouse. Dazzling white, clean satin-covered bed...
Satin? Shiny new satin... a big bed, in this grungy place?
Light in here, heat... and smoke - not stale smoke, either - and nobody around. Except Nick.
And the bed - the haze, good and thick. His face shows full-blown amazement.
Metal posts. Thick ones, nothing else except a bed with posts at each corner.
He's stepping backward immediately.
Biggest damn bed he's even seen, brought in here... all set up for -
Clamp.
A grip on each side, real low, pushing him forward -
And above each knee. Shoulders -
Full spasm and lunge to the left, forward... Loud squawks. Invisible clamps, all over him now, draggin him toward -
Can't get out from under 'em. Nothing there to see. Nobody here...
Boots dragging on cement, flopping back, right, down - fuck! Closer now, bed carefully made, spotlight -
Big twisting. Yells. This is far too drastic of a reaction, even for an all-out flight impulse. Visceral. Unthinking, reflex...
His head swivels frantically from the bed to himself, with a last look behind - and forward again, the light, the haze... the posts. Anchored, solid iron a couple inches thick, shorter than the mattress, the tapered ends bent almost closed -
Brand new, glowing white satin... yards and yards of it.
His knees bump into it. Huge bed. Nothing else, nobody. Light dancing on the comforter, shining. The grips higher up on him keep going.
He gets his hands up - and catches himself as he falls. Deep comforter, smooth - and a faint metallic sound seems to be underneath it.
The upper right corner of the bedspread lifts, and flips toward him. Satin pillows. Triangle of white sheet. An ashtray, cheap red plas-
And - chains. Shiny. Thick. Real thick links.
Straps, too. Lifting... Sliding out from under the comforter. Like the sheet. Same material...
The clamps let go of his shoulders - and immediately take hold of his forearms. Nick sees the heels of his hands sink further into the comforter... His knees are released, boots grabbed and held down across the top of each foot. He can lift his heels a little bit - but not enough.
Bent across the end of the bed, off-balance... unable to move his limbs. Confused, stricken expression.
His right jacket sleeve is hiked up roughly, then the other. The rags start wrapping around him snugly while he tugs and yells. Angry, nonsense growls at the satin strips a couple inches wide. Cloth cuffs.
Now, a pair of chains are snaking out, clanking like miniature freight trains, cruising... toward his legs. He looks around again wildly - chains, wrapped ankles. Posts.
"Fuck you, just forget it, you asshole..."
More pressure, locking around each ankle, just over the ball-joint. More chains creep out from under the comforter. His boots aren't budging now... or his feet, inside 'em. He throws his torso around bigtime, but it makes no difference. Cussing, then bellowing for help that can't hear him... that didn't help either.
Huge snap hasps trail the chains, tempered steel, two lengths dropping down, one hovering toward each arm... Held against his wrists, circling around quickly. Two, three times - tightening! - the hasps opening to catch the first, last and one of the middle links. Both wrists, more or less simultaneously. Snap snap... the tongues of the hasps being released, springing shut. An echoing pair of snaps from below his knees.
The links on the wrist chains are going... taut. Being pulled toward the head of the bed. Something about six inches beyond the reach of his hands, with a death grip, spreading apart. Nick yells louder, tries to twist and pull against the drag. His hands slide up...
The pillows tumble off the end of the bed. His face is over the ashtray. He sees a lot of burned-down butts there, uncrushed filters -
His boots are released, and he suddenly slides several inches at once, nose almost in the ashes before he can lift it up. He shakes his head, and he sneezes a few times. The ashtray slides toward the right. This bed, it's gotta be ten feet wide, easy -
His face hits the sheet. He slides up a few more inches, his legs spreading. He's spread-eagled, and his hands and feet are easily a couple feet from either end of the bed. Like laying on a... vast white pillow -
Up. Breaking contact - being lifted. Inches... now a full foot above the sheet, and rising. Chains just as taut as before right close to him... but dangling loose a dozen links away. Very intimidating. Quite a bit of strength required to keep him this taut...
A full yard, and another, still rising. He's way above the bed, head hanging down. No sign of any wires, or any reasonable explanation.
And his right side stops moving. But not his left - turning over. The track-light almost touches his arm. Pulled just as tight -
Going down -
Slam! Full on. He's stunned -
The bed absorbs the motion easily, without a bounce or a creak.
Clinking noises. Looking above his head, he sees the tension on the chains... sliding away, link by link. He snaps hard... but there's no slack, no loss of pull. The end of the chains are angling down, hard against the sheet. The comforter is gone.
Tight. Tighter - stretch - he yells in pain. Metallic sounds... pulling him apart -
Easing up. Very little, but he quits hollering. Chains motionless, now. Pulled across the bed's corners like... tent ropes. Nick lifts his head, but can't see the posts he's chained to. Not from this angle.
Creaking... he looks, and finds the sound. The door. Closing. A loud last shove. And... silence.
And Nick starts fighting again. Torso, head. All-out, but he's barely shifting. The chains. He swears and hollers...
Working himself into a full-blown screaming panic within about five minutes.
A thermostat dial turns all the way to the right.
Above him, in the grimy rafters, the heater kicks on.
While he squirms, the belt of his jacket is cinched, his gloves are pulled on snug, the main zipper slides up as far as it can go...
He notices the activity, and just gapes at the little rings being dragged up on both sleeves. All the way... leathers snugged up to him as much as they can be.
He writhes some more, but gives it up after a couple of minutes, and lays there catching his breath. Eyes busy, but that's all.
Stretched tight across the gigantic bed. Chains and posts that he could never hope to break. Thick leather on sleek acetate, jet-black staked down on soft, brilliant white. Opposites...
His skin's not in direct contact with the satin. Not yet.
Nick looks himself over, scans around the bed and the room. He can watch... and wait. Nothing else.
Except - a drop of sweat rolls off his forehead.
So, up 'til now... he's bundled himself up in more leather than he could afford, burned a couple packs straight away... strolled up to the doorway, and walked right in. Motivation, suggestion, lure... whatever. He set himself up, sorta. Here's a novel predicament.
His joints have stretched a little. No cigarette, like maybe he'd been hoping.
A lot of other stuff that's plenty worrying, instead.
Hair damp with sweat now... but the sheets are still dry. Not much sweat is escaping his cowside suit. The bulge between his legs is more pronounced - and no briefs under there, huh? At some level, Nick's jumped to a conclusion about this bed, with the custom hitching points at each corner.
His cock pushing against the leather pants. The vest, soaked, clinging like skin. His arms, palms, toes dripping... belly and chest covered with growing puddles. All decked out, goin' nowhere, as the temperature rises... Waitin' for something to happen. Every so often, lookin' over the bed, the chains, the leathers... the closed door... tryin' to see the anchoring posts. Squirming from the occasional itch. Thinking.
New, white satin...
A huge bed, brought in here. Brand new sheets and comforter, clean, bright. Posts fashioned, sunk in the floor... the bed carefully made up, chains and strips and hasps laid out and covered -
Nick shakes his head to clear sweat from his eyebrows. Looks down... at the boots, worn but polished up, and at the chain-links glinting around the wide part of the soles, circling his ankles a couple times. Heels and chain really indenting the satin. Held out and extended, rawhide and sweat helping to keep his feet encased...
Leathers, all up and down him, fingers to toes.
The door, there... still closed.
Lights, heat, a pack of smokes burned down to make this haze... A live-in sort of atmosphere, well-known to him. Jarring in a room that's obviously been empty for awhile...
Fuckin soaked in sweat.
Got the room set... And him.
Lay down.
Stay.
Too hot to sleep, and there's also the speed...
Nick lays still, breathing heavily. Luxurious bed, and he's stayin on it. Think, look, sweat. Wait.
A half-hour.
Twice that...
Ninety minutes, and still no change.
He's starting to nod. Feelin like a drowned rat.
Motion - sound... on him. His chest. Zipper lowering -
He flexes his hands. Jacket opening, to his obvious relief. And something is... pressing down the lapel. Slipping inside, now going for the pocket. Nick tenses up -
Out comes a pack of Camels. Unopened. Sweat almost streaming off the lower corners. Nick will swear they weren't there before...
Pocket - right outside pocket - something digging in there. Pulling out... cloth. A black bandanna. The pack's being peeled open, and the rag comes and dries off his mouth and mustache. Cellophane floating away, foil tearing, a smoke creeping out...
He watches it. Very bewildered. Thirsty, too... In no position to resist, though. With this kind of planning, there must be water. And he wants a smoke to steady his nerves. Help him cope with all this bizarre shit.
A pillow bobs up, and something like fingers get a hold of his hair and lift his head. It's a surprise, but not painful - and then the pillow is crammed beneath him, and the bandanna rolls up in the air, like magic. It circles his head, and the The Camel pokes decisively between his lips. His makeshift sweatband is tied down - not gently, not cruelly either -
Zip. Unzippng, actually - Left breast pocket. More rummaging... and a box of wooden matches is brought out. The open pack is dropped onto his gut, and the wet box follows, opening to allow one match out. It points down, lowers, and drags up the jacket zipper. Control, not too much pressure - Tries again, and once more -
The match flares. Comes up to him, is held to the end of Camel, and arcs, sorta leisurely, until the flame is out. Like the slow snaps of a hand... without a hand there to do it. Just a match... But the way it's handled, a dead ringer for a old hand at it - at this...
He pulls in another lungful, and looks thoughtfully at the open pack laying on him, the matchbox...
The chained boots, beyond. A fat drop of sweat runs off his nose. Another tug -
And the Camel is yanked. It's brought up... to his right hand.
He stares as it's wedged between his gloved fingers, the coal just off the sheet. Left there a long minute, sometimes moved down or angled a little. Baffling...
At last, the Camel is brought back - tapping ashes on the bandanna first - and it descends... to the pack, which rises and tips out another cigarette. The new Camel, being lit off the old, four inches over his chest. No haste...
The short butt saunters back to his hand... and is ground out in his palm. The leather's thick -
Next to his left arm, real close, the ashtray slides to a halt. The new cig is set in it... and left there, to burn. Smoke wafting right over his face.
The lighting dims considerably. His pillow gets punched up, raising his head a little.
He squints at the cigarette, and at the next two, trying to turn his limbs a little. The leathers squeak faintly, now and then. The sweat's still rolling off him in little streams.
Nick fidgets. A couple drags of smoke in, what, four hours?
The next few cigs just hang around the ashtray, some of them being tapped and scraped extravagantly... while he stares.
The latest one's getting its coal reshaped now - on the zipper pull of his jacket... Not on the sheet, shit no, but on his clothes. Well, not his clothes, exactly.
Then he gets to hold an unlit one in his mouth as others burn down in the ashtray, one by one.
And finally, a match is lit for him, and he starts his smoke - but it's snatched immediately. It rolls, slowly. Up his arm, across his chest, down the other arm, and back again...
He fires up another, but that one is taken away too, and it keeps darting just out of reach when he grabs for it with his teeth. He's real hungry now. Worked up. Grumbling to himself. The butt goes to the ashtray and lights the next, which sits there. So does the next one...
And now a new Camel is shoved in his mouth, and the prior cigarette comes from the ashtray and bears down on it. Nick is bracing for the tug of it being taken away... but it's not.
The thermostat slides down to sixty, and the lights dim further.
Let him smoke.
And does he ever... all the way down. At the last moment he can hold the hot butt, it's yanked so a replacement can be shoved into its place.
Six in a row. No pauses.
Real thirsty, as he's been for a long time -
At last, here comes an old Double Gulp cup with a cracked straw. Warm water... and a little something dissolved in it to bring him down, make him sleep hard.
He drains it noisily. Gets a new Camel for his trouble.
The lights are all but out now. He watches the cig burn as he sucks on it, squints and tries to make out the leathers, the chains... the satin, highlights gleaming eerily in the near-darkness.
The last Camel of that pack hangs between his lips, unlit...
Nick's eyelids begin to droop.
He coughs once, and begins to stir. Hugging the pillow... Kinda cute. His hand runs across the satin a couple times, and he makes a faint sound of pleasure. Little does he know.
A couple minutes later, he rolls onto his back... and opens his eyes. Stares. Eyes roving around -
Sighing hard finally, eyes closing. Then he looks to his left. Sees the pack, the ashtray, a black Zippo... He doesn't hesitate, loadin' up on Camel and laying back, surveying the bed.
His eyes lock onto his right hand.
He brings it closer, studying the tattoo there. New, and seeping a little blood...
Artwork of a gloved hand, palm up, chained against the corner of a mattress. A shiny mattress. Well-rendered, actually, for its size - on the back of his own hand.
"No, fuck," he manages. Nick looks at the door - still closed. So he throws the sheet off -
He's naked. Again. Well, except for the swaths of cloth at his wrists. Something or somebody undressed him, took the sweaty leathers away...
Swinging around to get off the endless bed, still a long way from the side -
Clamp. His left wrist. The cigarette is yanked from his fingers, snuffed in the ashtray. He watches his caught hand as it's dragged up toward the bed corner.
He reefs hard against the force... causing a slight halt, but the pulling continues.
Jingling... the chain, rising up - and now it's making a loop around his wrist. Again. Tightening. He should've known. Wearing nothing else, just the chain-padding... obviously it was still on him to be used.
The hasp flies up, digging into the links - click. Despite his all-out tugging -
His right wrist is grasped. Nick starts yelling again. Massive resistance and noise -
Both of his shins are grabbed, being extended...
Clanking. Two last clicks.
He fights with all he's got left.
Spent, he pants and looks himself over. Sweaty... again.
Naked.
Chained, on satin.
The new pack rises, and shakes out a Camel.
One after another after another. He's breathing normally again, fidgeting, looking around. His skin, his limbs spread way out. This big ol' bed. Chains biting into the soft, shiny material.
The cigarette now being lit - it's the last one for a while.
Sleek coolness pressing against his shoulders, his butt cheeks. He tries, but can't turn his wrist enough to see his new tat.
Wide awake. The Camel, done, being punched out... Nothing dainty about any of this. Full certainty.
Lifting up -
The vest. It's the leather vest he was wearing last night.
It's dropped on the right edge of the bed, nearest his legs. Nothing tentative here, or gentle...
Black on white again - leather to skin - the vest is moving slightly, irratically. And then it opens.
Inside it, there are the gloves. His gloves, from yesterday.
They move. But not like they're being carted over. Not anymore. They're levitating, and the fuckin things are filling up as they lift, first the back, now the fingers. Palms down, they move like -
Firming up. They look like hands - cowhide, and empty, but they have a fluid... gracefulness.
The leather hands come down, and pick up the ashtray, the lighter... and take them away, to his left and down. Now it's just him on the bed, staked out...
Boxes. The gloves are carrying up... cartons? Camels -
Nick starts to squirm, his expression baffled, almost anguished. They drop the cartons near his right leg and cross over him - back down. Under - More... They're bringing more cartons. One glances off his thigh - not heavy enough, to be full of packs. Empty? He looks it over.
The gloves go, bringing more. Several trips...
A couple dozen sealed cartons. His gloves pick one up, tearing it open at an end. Dumping out -
What? Toilet paper, and something... shiny. A leather hand retrieves it, lays it near Nick's right side. Looks like...
More satin. White, smooth, almost luminescent.
It's a glove.
Nick twists at the chains. He makes a vague whining sounds as he does...
And another carton is picked up.
Laid out in rows. Maybe a dozen pairs. Too many, somehow. Big, ominously... soft. Smooth.
The vest, the toilet paper and the empty cartons are swept off the bed. One of the leather gloves returns, with the Double Gulp cup, bullying him into drinking maybe a quart of water. Then it leaves.
All those hands of satin... and him, chained down -
As one, the gloves are rising off the bed. Expanding, taking firm shape. Satin sheet under him, and nimble fingers over him, taking position.
He writhes violently. The hands pause, then slowly drop...
Savage tugs, faint squeals. All these hands. Nick's taut as a wire, more tense than the chains are. He stares as they close in. Landing -
They... grip.
He howls. Long, forlorn, half-volume.
They hold him decisively, as the last pair finally arrives... at the bottoms of his feet. Squeezing, and sliding.
He's laughing... so hard. His limbs are staying right in place, but he's throwing his head and torso around more energetically than he thought he could.
All the gloves are moving. Slowly, not too heavily, but the effect of all those cool fingers, skating along...
Nick roars. Squinting at the movement, shiny white all over him, all around him... at the door, still closed. Laughs and laughs.
Two pair are massaging his sides in the most horrendous, provoactive way. Whenever their heavy sweep returns to his upper ribs he howls louder, eyes slammed shut. So he doesn't see the leather gloves returning, carrying a larger piece of satin...
A diaper. Being pulled under him... while he's distracted.
Nick does not want to be here. Pulled hard at the chains for the longest time. Now, finally letting them lie. The anchor posts barely wobbled from his snapping and the long, determined straining. The spring hasps haven't slipped at all, and the wraps under each chain are doing their job - no damage, no distraction.
There's a few more layers of bright cloth under his midsection, 'cause he's pissed himself a couple times. Still nothing new to see, in the room... For now, just satin pure and simple.
Playing with him.
Shouts and yells, to howls. Increasingly ragged laughter. Now, a continuous stream of hoarse roars. Begging just means he's not getting worked hard enough. He's completely zoned from the bright acetate hands pressing against his soles... two hours of unyielding fingers dragging over his sides... rubbing above his diaper, but not below it - not yet - avoiding the piss and pre-cum.
Yep, Nick's a little tuckered out. He's too busy to smoke just now, and coffee would only make him piss more...
One of his gloves brings him something that'll keep him awake. The hypodermic is slipped into a vein on his foot. Sure enough, a few seconds later his eyes are open again, his hoots a little louder. He watches the gloves rubbing him and throws his head around again.
Eyes slitted, laughing loud.
Six hours, now.
Six... solid hours. That includes five much-needed breaks. Despite the speed, and that first lengthy romp, and the absence of any volume from his throat, he's still goin' strong. Somewhere around forty thousand laughs...
Satin keeps polishing his feet, riding his biceps, counting his ribs. Heavy fingers down his sides, bump bump bump, and back up again. Now and then lifting off his chest and knees and neck, so he can really focus on his solidly massaged arches - and that stupendously touchy ribcage.
Strident, happy sounds still barked nonstop. Four hilarious movies, a dozen terrific sitcoms... Nick would've smoked three packs by now. He's way overdue for a butt - if he'd just quit laughing long enough to start one up.
Could've whacked off a couple of times too... Obviously, his cock would sure like that. It's been pushing on that slippery diaper the whole time, and when it starts to relax a little one of the palm's right there, making a few heavy circles on his lower gut. He's been too distracted to shoot his wad. Six hours -
The sheets are completely soaked around him, but the target areas are kept clean... continuously buffed dry.
He still looks absolutely ecstatic.
Next day. Nick wakes up in a big hurry when he recognizes the bed. Same room, same chains - flat on his back -
Gloves coming.
He squirms - damn, does he ever want out of here! Inarticulate noises... some protesting, some pleading. Desperately watching the gloves...
Clean, empty, white... heavy hands closing in.
Satin that kept him up all night.
He can't stop them.
They're so close now - angling... down.
Unpinning the diaper - and he's going ballistic! Lunging at the chains... Taut as they are, it's barely audible.
There. All unveiled. Satin underneath, satin hands -
Touching. Closing around... Faint sounds of cloth on hair -
And he's groaning, writhing all over.
They stroke him, for maybe twenty seconds... and they llift off, fingers spreading out somewhat, drifting up... and gently touching down. Clutching his ribs -
Yelp. Bawling raggedly. Big, big laughs.
Hands ride him at the speed and pressure that devastates him the most, on his most sensitive areas - but it's a new night, the diaper's off, and his cock is standing right up for attention. He bellows like a foghorn, head back, eyes closed.
A glove drifts down, making a fist around him... Slowly sliding off, and Nick sneaks a look - seeing the glove return to his rib cage. Stroking so heavily.
He snickers and writhes, not seeing a third hand blanket the underside of his cock. Wide coverage, light pressure...
Groaning as he wakes. Eyes opening barely, seeing the room - the bed. More groaning.
He doesn't move. When nothing comes near him, he opens his eyes again, fearfully... nothing. But the chains are gone. The door's still closed.
After a minute of thought, Nick takes the sheet laying over him and starts peeling it down, sneakily. He starts to creep toward the side of the bed.
And up, from below - one of the leather gloves, with its fingers outstretched. Stop.
He freezes, for a moment. Now he shifts - clearly out to creep past it.
The hand moves as he does... blocking his exit.
A few seconds of deliberation -
He scrabbles toward the foot of the bed. A long way... and before he's anywhere near the edge, the glove closes around the scruff of his neck. He tenses even more, clawing for the edge, getting handfuls of sheet -
It's shoving him down on his stomach. A leather finger punching his spine, once - hard. Stay. He's too geeked. Panicky, determined to get up, wild to try busting through that door. As he's sliding wildly, unable to get purchase on the satin, the chains arc and rise...
Sheet darting off - invisible clamps closing on his arms, pulling them toward the corners. He flops and kicks...
Before long, Nick's staked out again. But this time his face is sliding on the satin sheet, nipples dragging, squirming, cock swelling against it -
Stretched out as much as ever... just other side down. Panting, fighting less and less.
The thermostat is slapped over, full-on.
Ass in the air, he stays put... the slick cloth unyielding beneath his legs and belly. Waiting for the roughhousing to start - on his backside.
The mood here, just like the previous three days, is not seductive in the least. Practical jokers, just some bigass frat prank... Some carefully exaggerated joshing... Constant "nuggies," a complex scheme of big-dog joy buzzers, sliders... short-sheeting. Got ya good, haw haw. Even better when you can pull a really primo joke on a buddy... over and over, if it really gets on his nerves.
Best of all if he can't get away from ya - right, Nick?
He seems to have picked up on the tone... the showy, conspiratorial snap of Camels being packed against the palm of his shackled hand...
The fearsome diaper.
Restless, for a long time, he finally lays still. Sweating more, and the sheet is soaked, clinging to him as the chains press him down against it.
Eventually, Nick dozes...
"Unh -"
Starting, neck craning suddenly in mid-snore, looking up and around. Head falling back against the satin with a watery slap.
From bedside - the ashtray. Dropping down... landing about eighteen inches from his forehead, and a good couple feet from the edge of the mattress. Empty.
Nick stares dully, expression the same as it was. Half his face still buried in the bed, and surely in no position to be smok-
A new pack falls by his elbow. First smokes he's seen in two days. Magically picked up, being opened...
The Zippo saunters over, clinking open and firing up the first cig, which floats down to the ashtray. It sits in one of the plastic ridges... and stays there. He swallows and watches it burn.
Nothing else happens, until the cig's burned up, gone out.
Another Camel floats up, meeting the flame.
The thermostat is pushed down to seventy.
Better than three hours. A pack of cigs burned out, except one. He's watched 'em all, not tired anymore, no longer shiny with perspiration. Restless now and then, but eyes almost always locked on what he wants. There's a dense grey fog above and around him.
Jingling - the chains... they're being loosened from the posts. This is unusual, and he watches the far ends uncurl and rise, not daring to hope for too much, unsure what to make of -
Up. His arms break contact, his face, chest... Glancing behind, he sees the chains are still dug in between his ankles and those posts. This is new, and confusing. Below him, the pack is tilting out the last Camel - and it's heading his way.
He bites it eagerly, arms splayed above him. The Zippo comes, opening and rasping to life, and he tugs in zealously. Holdin' it in, eyes closed, body relaxing. Fists uncurling slowly, the new tat smooth...
Another drag, a long exhale... and now the ankle-chains are loosening. His legs rise up too, chains still taut. He scans underneath, expecting an ambush, shiny white hands -
But the sheet's moving. Being pulled off... gathering into a wad, and revealing a latex sheet underneath.
Watching a new sheet arrive, still in the package. The old one mops up puddles - sweat, and piss. The new one is snapped out alongside the bed, drifting over as his eyes follow the action below him. Dully gleaming satin, impossibly white, being tucked in under the edges of the mattress... He sucks in and floats higher, legs starting to swing...
Turned over. On his back once again, butt nuzzling soft new cloth, chains pulling tight.
He leaks smoke and twists mightily. Nope. The pillow is pulled free, smacked noisily, turned over and stuffed beneath his head. The ashtray slides near his tricep.
A pack of 'Boros is flipping, end over end. He jumps as they glance against his ribs.
He gets to keep smokin', as the cans are opened. Chili, a strawberry breakfast replacement, spanish rice. Shit food, but it's the first he's seen today.
A plastic spoon follows the chili on over, and his 'Boro is taken and set in the ashtray. A lot of water, after this... booze after that, following the usual pattern. These are end-of-the day events, when staying awake long enough to eat, and just the hard work of chewing, are enough to put him out of his misery for a long while.
He stares at the spoon as it digs in. The first bite is a heap of congealed yellow grease. But he wolfs it, and
the spoon loads up again...
Scraping the can about two minutes later, as the rice cruises up.
Food gone, fake-strawberry gunk sucked down, a quart of water.
A faint sigh escapes as he blows out smoke and stares lazily at the ceiling. Kick-back time. Rest up... New cigs, lit from the old. Nick doesn't even raise his head.
A pint bottle gravitates his way, seal breaking. Set and held upright on his chest. Gilbey's. Prepped and ready to pour a couple slugs down him, between smokes.
Of all things, a day off. No howling at all...
But he's still held down. On the bed.
Not done yet.
When that pack's crumpling, another on its way, the thermostat lever is pulled the other direction. Sixty-five... Lower.
He's getting antsy, looking around more - as if he'd spot one surprise or another cresting an edge of the mattress.
Now he's wrestling to stay warm. Shaking so hard he can barely hold his smoke-
White. The shapes.
Hands rise, and lower... reflexively causing him to flail around and squeal.
At the far end, gloves go for his feet. He quivers less hard, but for more than one reason. Earnestly.
Watching them land, and close.
They're holding him... But, also, they hold still. Not heavily, either.
A pair spreads over his tits, others along his sides. Completely motionless, covering without any... extra
pressure.
His head swivels frantically as they touch down. Baffled at their inaction, waiting for it-
Fingers slide under his neck. A hand rests on his forehead.
Legs, stomach, upper arms. Crotch, but far less weighty than the diaper is...
He gets up his nerve and wriggles cautiously. The gloves move as a result, but no more than clothes would. Not stroking, or squeezing. Not playing, just... covering him.
He pulls on the cig and thinks. The piecemeal "blanket" is retaining enough body heat... Another minute, and the only thing on the move is another 'Boro.
So many fingers hold him, instantly able to grip harder, bear down...
He smokes up that pack, watching them, glancing at the door, at the chains.
Cold, but not as cold...
Awake right off. All rested from his day off... full of B-12, royal jelly and testosterone. Nick pulls at the chains unenthusiastically. Rarin' to go.
He lifts his head and takes in the threads.
Got his gloves on him, the jacket... fairly clean leather pants. New boots, not scuffed-up yet from the chains wrapped around 'em. Grey sweatshirt with a Harley eagle on it. Looser sizes, accommodating - another layer.
Shaking his head, he discovers the headband. Looks it all over again... and drops his head. Could be travelin' clothes. If only he wasn't anchored down...
A tearing sound, approaching - Nick's head flies back up. Oh. Food. Beef jerky, comin' his way. Gonna need the energy.
Crestfallen, he's got the picture. Clothes or no clothes, he's not gettin' to leave.
Protein drink, granola bars, half a pound of M&M's...
Another 'Boro pokes between his lips.
The first pack is just about gone. Sucked down.
He's good and wired on sugar, and other things. Staring at the ceiling. Sometimes at the light, once in a while
checking for objects movin' in on him. Stretched out tight as ever...
Greasy scooter trash, pinned - on a wide field of bridal satin. Sure. Badass fucker eatin' some crow, about to get taken down another notch or two.
The last smoke slips out of the pack. He sucks it into life, the picture of uncomfortable cooperation.
Something moves. His midsection -
He scans the bed wildly. Nothing. Just him, the sheets. Nothing between. Nick sighs out smoke. Vigilant for a couple minutes... then relaxing again.
Lower. Legs - as if he'd shifted. Satin, pressing in. Definitely. He stares at his pants. Thick cowhide between him and the sheet. The boots don't move until he tries to turn his foot. No gloves are around.
He sucks in. Thinking hard, looking worried. One more hit, and the butt's taken away. The bed's clear of
everything except him. Another half-minute passes...
Clamping - gently. Over his hip.
An odd sound escapes his mouth. Staring right at the spot, seeing the same thing as before, pants and sweatshirt and jacket on him.
Dazed horror comes over his face. No underwear, not once, since he came to in the outer room. No socks. Unlike now -
Ass cheek.
Left armpit, right foot. Belly.
He gasps, starts to twist. Under the clothes -
Creep and close. Knee. Neck. Nothing there! - There must be... Bearing down. Full, cool -
Laughing away, Nick squints in frustration.
His cock! He squeals, and starts hooting.
Chest. Ribs! Watching the sweatshirt... rippling as gloves underneath slide down fully, and back up. His limbs are frantic, his head rolling - and he takes a final glance down at his clothes, before slamming his eyes shut and yowling full-on.
Biker, decked out - nothing unusual there.
But the chains at each corner of the bed... well.
Lookit him, roaring his fool head off for no apparent reason. Hard at it. Rude and crude. Trying to roll over... starting to sweat.
The day's workout begins.
Still groggy...
It takes him a while to realize he's in midair.
Slithering sound underneath - new sheet. More unblemished satin tucking itself in, wrinkles smoothed out magically... taut and soft. Waiting.
The chains turn him over. Nick's coughing hard as they do.
Pairs of gloves drift up from alongside the bed. He finally sees 'em, and he's kicking, lunging... panic-stricken.
Two yards below his belly, the white hands take position. One pair, settling near the pillow, with open and ready palms. He stares at them, mystified...
Looking way under, he gets to see two gloves line up under each of his feet. Others make a loose 'O' midway - he looks himself over again, blinking at his erection. Pausing in his struggles...
Some gloves are palm-up, fingers almost flat. Most are forming glove-walls a yard long and a foot apart, perpendicular to the glossy sheet, hands open. Ready to catch him.
One of 'em comes closer to his chest. Its fingers close and open repeatedly, wagging... unmistakable signal. C'mon.
He starts to descend.
Lunging hard, slowly heading down, chains drawn out... to press him tightly onto satin and hold him there. Right in their grasp.
His expression is full of misery. They make little adjustments as he drops, so they're right in place to cup his ribs, his 'pits, his thighs...
Twelve inches from the bed, he focuses on the gloves that are closest to his face - slightly curled, about to close over his collarbones... shiny fingertips between him and the sheet, palms to press just behind -
Touch. Cool press -
Grips closing, all over. Slippery, clasping...
Nick grins. Snickers - and then laughs hard. Slithering violently... gasping as he does. His movements start to fade out within seconds. No point in trying to get away. The chains are being anchored -
He's trying to roll his head. Grabbing a quick breath, and out it comes. Mindless, rowdy bellowing.
Hands lift his head gently... and let it fall after a pillow sneaks into position. He buries his face in the satin pillowcase, and the tough hooting sounds are muffled.
The raised angle allows the gloves under him to cup and polish his pecs.
They all begin rubbing in earnest.
Nick spasms gently and howls.
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