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(Some "action", right before the fireworks...)
 
 

The sun's setting. The BART station is less crowded now...
Each lone male is being scrutinized. Rated on an unsuspected checklist.
 

There.

A shape slips out with a syringe, making a beeline...
 

The man is pulled into a stall. Empty restroom, but gloves hold his limbs and cover his mouth. The drug has made him unsteady, but the effect wears off by the second hour.
Hands of black cloth burrow under his jacket.
His reaction is delayed, giddy - but unmistakable. He quiets when the two hands continue down each sleeve and grip his arm. More vague protests follow when another pair slips down into his pants. One of these takes hold of his scrotum... squeezing a little -
He groans, trying to complain into the cloth. His nuts are threatened until he's silent.
Then the gag-hand peels off..

Cloth hands encase his own. Gloves, tight and thin.
Others bring a pair of sunglasses, and see to it that he wears them despite his impaired struggling. One of them flips his jacket collar up and slips under it, clamping around the back of his neck.
And the stall door is opened...

Pressing his balls again to get their way, the gloves make him lurch across the restroom, back and forth... many times.
A cigarette is stuck in his mouth. He drops it.

Several squeezes and complaints later, he holds on to the smoke at a sloppy angle...
Stumbling through the door -

And they force him toward the escalator.
Slouching heavily against the side rail, as his neck- and ball-holders strictly warn against any rebellion. His right hand is lifted, hiding another glove with a Bic. The neck guard reefs down and holds.
Threats continue until he has no choice but to suck in... again, right after exhaling... and once again.

Hands jammed in pockets, shades pointing toward the ground, another "drunk" City bohemian shuffles across Pine, heading up Montgomery.
 

Several blocks and a couple cigarettes later he crosses Broadway, not stumbling as much as he did earlier...
 

On his way to a small nondescript house on Nicolette. From the outside, there's no sign of the full basement, a rare thing on this hill. The lower level is... customized, like many in the area, because its owner makes an extremely comfortable living there. A perfectionist, known for a complete lack of pretense in her work.

Two days ago, she left for Rio. For the winter. She works long hours the rest of the year in order to have the freedom of spending three or four months at her beach house.
 

He trudges up the hill.

Between them, the gloves - which keep him marching to the dungeon - have watched a few thousand men and women get worked over in uncountable, innovative ways. They network with equally animated peers, they study, gather equipment and provisions. And they have a great deal of... practice. They've honed their provocative skills, conducted a wide range of experiments, exceeded goals and limits.

This is their favorite time of the year. They've got the place all to themselves, uninterrupted at least until February. Without safewords, limits, taboos...

Unilateral satisfaction. They have no conception of posing, threatening, pretending. Observation, experience, forethought, flexibility... and then action. Unmitigated success. They have the opportunity, the means and the patience to deliver, right on the money. Every time.
 

Two blocks away, another glove meets up with him. It's carrying a big black cigar.
He pauses to light it, and then moves on, arms slightly ahead of his torso... the newest hand floating serenely in front of him as if leading the way.
 

Uncounted tools and products within easy reach. Skill and dexterity to make brand-new items, or size to fit.
 

He turns onto a flagstone path, through a gate held open for him, up the back steps...
 

Nerve endings which don't respond right away can always be taught. They'd always succeeded before. But in the winter, when time was not an issue... no need to condense or combine activities. The most precise exploitation. If he's satisfactory, they can plot an unabridged map of zones, key areas... every permutation of quantity and speed and pressure and placement. Unhurried... and if he doesn't pan out - a long, hard ride, and another man gets cataloged. Lots of fish...
 

They walk him into the kitchen, a ribbon of smoke pulled in behind...

The gate shuts silently.

The kitchen door is closed, bolted... and barred.

In the dark kitchen, he wobbles a little on his boot heels and tugs on the thick cigar. Dark shapes are in motion around him...

The orange glow from the stogie dims suddenly, as coolness closes around his right wrist. A clicking sound...

The gloves he's wearing have no trouble containing all movement of his hands. Another cuff locks around left wrist.

His neck, biceps and balls are released. He moans once, and sighs. The sunglasses are taken away.

A door is opening nearby. There's a click - and dim light, above the stairway a few yards ahead. Black light. He peers through the cloud of smoke. Nobody and nothing visible...

Twisting in the cuffs, glancing back at the barred door. Chomping on the stogie...

A half-minute of deliberating, then he moves cautiously toward the stairs. Hands move with him... above, behind, below. The walls of the stairwell are black and smooth. No handrail - not that he could grasp one if it was there. He steps down gingerly, unaware of the escort of gloves moving with him. There is far too much to be done to risk the least little injury.

The last few steps are in total darkness. He smokes for light. Several puffs... natural reflex. No help. Bearing straight in to a room. He sniffs, and keeps sniffing - distinctive smells, even above the smoke, have got him thinking furiously -

A cloth finger presses a rocker switch. Dim light - illumination growing very slowly. He keeps looking around... There - squinting to make out something specific, as the light level increases just... enough -

Near him, there's a chair. But it's wide, thick - trimmed with chrome rings, bands, buckles...

His gaze continues moving slowly, taking in a rack, crossbeam, exam table, suspension braces, stocks, bed...

Eyes widening. Apparently forgetting to exhale the smoke. Fear, seizing his face.

A speedy turn, one big step toward the stairs -

And gloves clamp across each of his elbows, landing him, keeping him upright. Others arrive and weigh his forearms down... The upper door closes rather loudly.

At the switch panel, a finger presses another button - activating a white-noise generator in the stairwell. Unnecessary, given the thick soundproofing installed here...

Finally, the best switch of all is thrown. A massive door begins to swing closed, toward the stairs. Thick, ponderous, and nightmarishly intimidating.

As he hops clumsily, uselessly... able to get no closer, staying easily a full yard from the vaultlike wall as it seals - making a very solid thunk.
&160;

In front of him, he stares at a wall covered with rocks and mortar - with no visible outline where the door of the vault is.

Another doorway is over to his left. He lurches toward it, weaving past ten yards of chains, and a large cage...

The light goes on before he gets there, and he peers in.

It's a storeroom. Workbench, tools -

Leather. Straps of various thicknesses and lengths. Whips. Latex. Bolts of... cloth?

A refrigerator. Shelves with medical stuff, many plastic jars. He sniffs, and immediately grimaces at the suggestive odors.

One shelf is filled with magazines. There's big storage cabinets, with closed doors... and a garment rack with an array fit for Halloween. Sports uniforms, police uniforms, kilts, chaps. Halters, collars, thongs -

Closer to the entrance, there's a garbage bag with pointy dents sticking out all over, from the boxes within. Trembling, he steps toward it and kicks it over...

He shuts his eyes and turns away. After a few seconds, he squints - the far end of the room is barely lit now. Eventually, he seems to comprehend what lies on the floor... A wading pool, or maybe a rubber raft.

And while he watches, a hand comes. Black glove, carrying a cigar between its fingers - the one he dropped when he lunged for the lost exit. Dazed, he watches it arrive, and takes the offered stogie back between his teeth impassively. Tugs on it a few times, and pulls a little at the cuffs.

Then he starts walking, very slowly. Taking it all in. No windows. No other exit. The weak light hides the details, but even so he's edging away from each piece of equipment as he walks past.

A dozen gloves hang in the air by the raft-thing. He stops suddenly, staring at them. He shakes his head very slightly, then sits down quickly on the very end of a... something that looks like a cross between a weight bench and a dentist's chair.

He watches the group of hands waiting for him, looks where the door used to be... and sighs again.

After a minute, a pair of gloves glide over from the storeroom, carrying... a can. He peers at the grapefruit soda as it's opened, brought up. The cigar is taken, and the can tilts until the soda dribbles down his shirt. Finally, he drinks...

Inside the refrigerator, the can had been opened just enough to allow a Monoject point to slip in. When he pulls his head back, the can is taken away - having delivered an adequate dose of a custom drug cocktail.
 

Another minute or two, and his head rolls forward.

A glove closes around his left boot toe. Others land, pushing the leg of his jeans up, steadying his leg.

"No," he manages. "Oh man..."

Easing the boot off, then the other... Wrapping each ankle with something - padding? - then hard, thick bands.

A socket wrench, ratcheting smoothly... And the gloves on his hands make him hold his arms out behind him, as his jacket-sleeves are shoved up. Wrists getting wrapped too, right above the cuffs. More ratcheting...
 

Crinkling, in front of him. Pack of Camels being opened. The dark fingers snag one, bring it to his mouth, go for his lighter...

And fists close on his collar and lapels, pulling him to his feet. His head swivels, but he tries to look for his boots, then at his... destination. They lead him to the tub: a latex oval maybe eight feet by four. Thick, high walls. At the edge of it, he stumbles in - and hands press him down to his knees, then pull him backward. A big wedge of foam, covered in black rubber, is shoved between his back and the tub wall. He's somewhere between sitting and laying back...

Gloves arrive, carrying things. Black vinyl cushions. Leather straps. Gun-metal braces, which are shoved into holes in the floor and bolted in place. The black pads are slotted on top - armrests. There are eye bolts sticking out of the end nearer to him. Of course, similar pads are being installed at the other end of the tub, angling down to clear the rubber wall and bent so they're just above the tub's floor. Customized, all of it. Thick steel.

Gloves descend to his right shin, raising the leg of his jeans again. He blinks and stares at the band around his ankle, which looks something like chain mail. Fine welded links, eye bolts -

He kicks, and the gloves tighten their hold. Others hurry over, until there are eight hands pulling his leg toward the steel post while he tries hard to get up, to kick 'em away.

They get his ankle positioned, pin it heavily, and gloves arrive with more bolts and the socket wrench... Eventually letting go, to pounce on his left leg and pull it into position -

He tries diligently to move his right leg. No rotation, no play, a very faint clinking, almost no wobble or shimmy. Snug, but not cutting into him...

And the gloves retreat from his other leg, which is held as securely as the other, maybe eighteen inches apart.
 

His right hand...

The glove is flexing his fingers, making fists. Against his wishes...

It lifts up, and heads for his jacket. Digging inside the pocket, retrieving the Camels, shaking one free and putting the pack away. He can't stop it, and rolling his head around doesn't keep his own hand from sticking the cig between his lips. It goes and gets his lighter, completely at ease.

Butane, orange glow, black cloth...
His hand slips the lighter into his stash pocket... and roosts between the eye bolts on the armrest.
Sentient gloves hike up his sleeve again, slip long bolts through the corresponding eyes, start the lock-washers and nuts. The socket wrench at work again, briskly ...
His left hand appears from behind him, with the black handcuffs still closed around the wrist and dangling open on the other side. That arm lays down, and is bolted in.
He strains without effect. They're done before the Camel's half gone, the gloves he's wearing no longer controlling his hands. No need, now... so hollow fingers peel the glossy cloth off his hands and take it away.
 

On his shoulder - a hand touching down, something shiny between its thumb and forefinger. Running down his sleeve. Soft burring sound... odd.

A broken line appears. Then hands close on his jacket sleeve, across from each other, and pull. Perforated leather comes apart. He twists uselessly, limbs staying in place. His sleeve is a ragged flap hanging down, exposing a Raiders t-shirt, faded ink...

The cutter lifts, travelling to his other sleeve. The pillow is pulled out from behind him, squeaking loudly.

Zip, and pull - burring across left collarbone, back of his neck, right shoulder... Several pairs of gloves positioning, pulling.
Scrap leather.
 

His shirt is quickly reduced to rags. The Camel is done, chucked away. He squirms and mumbles incoherently, angrily. Three tats visible, so far.

The wedge is forced behind his back. A fast slice up the left leg of his jeans, and down the other... under the belt loops. Tug. Rip. Careful lines down the lower hips.

A hand gathers up the slack in his left sock, reefs - and then gets the other...
 

All bared now.

Five tats in all.
Fair muscle tone. Not bad at all. No disabilities to be seen. Prominent kneecaps, floating ribs, collarbones.
They have little doubt about their selection.

One qualification left to check...
 

His wrists and ankles are working diligently on getting free from the bolts. No ground gained...

Gloves find what used to be his stash pocket, and get him a smoke. He starts it, head flopping back. Still erratically trying to free his limbs.

Rustling sounds. He manages to look forward, with great effort. Plastic -

Gloves... bagging other gloves. Inhabiting clear plastic glove-baggies, twisting and taping them closed. Six bagged hands.

Three of them pick up big sponges.

From the direction of the storeroom, a pail is coming. Steam rises from it. Water. A glove follows behind with a large yellow bottle -

The pail lands between his feet. He flexes his leg muscles. The bottle is brought over, cap being unscrewed. He squints at the label, head weaving... and gives it up. A thicker fluid gurgles into the pail -

He stares, nose wrinkling at the fake-lemon smell that overpowers his smoke. Hands with sponges, diving underwater, splashing. One, two, three sponges, dripping streams of water...

He squirms harder.

They're coming toward -

Squish. Left toes, right toes...

He cuts off a sharp syllable, feet curling and uncurling broadly.

Another sponge is immersed.

Then the arches - Hot sponges, slimy with soap, making their first industrious pass.

His guttural sounds are more... labored.

Another Camel is being shaken out of the pack. The second pair of sponges starts scrubbing the top of each foot. The first set proceeds to scrub his heels without pausing. His whole body is twitching, feet working madly to evade.

The old butt is pulled, the new one stuck in place. Watching this, he doesn't see a fifth glove sneak in and out of the pail, toward his right foot. He takes a light and just starts to suck in -

Between his right toes! Not a sponge. A brush... with firmer, longer bristles than on a toothbrush - soft, soft...

Head jerking, side to side. Rapid chuckling from deep in his throat... Working hard to keep from laughing out loud. Tremors, easily seen in his unsteady cig. Head back again, furious grin and a new load of exhaust from his nose. Limbs twisting again - the brush now between his left toes, the sponges being used around the chain-mail cuffs. His gaze is unfocused but very intense, pointed at the black ceiling. Taut muscles all over.

True reaction. Cutting through the E clone, ephedrine, a muscle relaxant, a nicotine-receptor analogue and good ol' testosterone... The formula jacked up some reactions and scaled back other effects, the levels arrived at through careful experimentation. A proven forecasting tool. Just from what they've already observed, the decision is made to send one pair of gloves out the well-disguised trap door, to pick up more that dishwashing detergent he seems so fond of.

The sponges are immersed again, and start on his shins. Calves. Ankle-cuff to knee. His whole body's tugging, little covert jerks. Head rolling now and then, smoke wafting from his nostrils. Huge unconcealed smirk. The brush leaves the heel-side of an ankle cuff... floating, its bearer applying it under his knee -

Snort. Lips clamping shut immediately, a hard tug on the Camel - grin spreading with the exhaled smoke. Eyes shut tight, again.

Reaction is to be expected... but this is extraordinary. Before they've even laid a finger on him...

Sponges are replenishing again, and starting up the outside of his thighs and hips. An aborted growl.

A glove darts from the storeroom, and inverts a smaller bottle over the wash-water and the sponges in it. The brush-glove hurries to catch the thick stream.

Sponges are scrubbing the inside of each knee, sliding up. They slide down and back up slowly, ten or twelve times. His guttural sounds are more... labored. His stiffening cock bobs - and the brush, streaming baby oil, makes a beeline for that vicinity.

A glove grabs his Camel. Others stand by with flasks - and a bedpan.

The brush lands - and drags down his butt crack.

He yelps. Loud. Fists rolling, mouth open. His thighs are clean, all done -

Oily sponges take to his ass-cheeks... And his plumbing. A beaker darts there, catching the torrent of piss.

The sponges eventually move on. The brush continues gingerly until his sphincter relaxes. Feces plops into the soapy bedpan.

Gloves are unwrapping a cigar, holding it a inch or two from his teeth.

Sponges, starting on his ribs, back... belly... and he's writhing, throwing his head around -

The brush starts on his navel.

One "Haw" - loud, impassioned - followed by stifled chuckles. His agonized stare flits from the brush... to the cigar. Wanting the distraction, apparently. Trying and failing to crane his neck far enough to reach it.

Rewetted sponges press into his armpits. A squeal starts low, building...

The other two slap his breasts - and move across diagonally.

A slow, gutsy whoop... And then, hooting. Which dissolves into a maniacial crowing, as the sponges cross from side to side. He peeks at the plastic-bagged gloves, curled around each washing-tool...

The brush starts on his left armpit, causing a loud shriek and a cascade of giggles. Forceful snickering, head rolling around, limbs flexing uselessly.

Sponges shift to his neck... he sees the stogie again - a desperate whine, and a lunge. Four inches, maybe five. Teeth snapping... but the cigar is pulled just out of reach, held jauntily between shiny, empty fingers.

A sponge darts behind him, and is slid down his spine. Howling, he slams down to trap it... but it works its way free, meeting the others that now wash his collarbones.

The cigar sits out of reach while his face is scrubbed, his hair matted down... the brush nuzzling deep under his neck, in his ears. Sponges on triceps, biceps - making him throw his head around, water droplets flying everywhere. He's barking and braying merrily, a maximized compulsory glee...

The brush starts on the inside of his last elbow. Finally, between his clenching fingers -

The cigar is being wedged between his teeth. A glove paws through the ruins of his jacket...
 

He sucks in passionately, with his head way back to keep the stogie from getting any wetter. Exhausted, yet defiant grin plastered on his wet face.

Thump!

The pail, steaming again. Sponges in it, being rinsed, wrung out...

Dry gloves approach, carrying towels.

But first, of course, all that soap has to be rinsed off.

Gliding to the bottoms of his feet - the sponges, again. He's cackling immediately.

What a performance.

For tomorrow morning's bath, after the long night of howling... perhaps just brushes, and spandex instead of the terrycloth.
 

18dec98