Pal checks out the rest stop, willing to wait...
Hmmm. Here's a fair prospect, loping into the head. Rental car, full ashtray...
It slips inside and studies the dude. He's been around the block a couple times, but he's buffed out more than most.
Back inside the car, he locks the doors, and lowers the seat back...
Snoring before long, and Pal tests carefully, the lightest probing along his sides -
Startling - jumping awake. Hoo-whee. Quick to calm down, though, and that's another good sign. He sighs and snuggles back against the seat. Drifts off again within five minutes.
Pal fetches a needle to keep him in dreamland...
The Club is filled to capacity: one. The out-of-town act is on stage, a king-size mattress that nearly fills the place. Rubber sheets...
A fallout shelter at the back of a wild meadow, a few miles off the interstate. Ignored, musty, forgotten. A solar panel and some new batteries were needed, and the cabinets that line the left wall, shelves packed with food and water and... supplies.
He stirs. Centered on the latex, ingeniously positioned and exposed - the cuffs are wide but not too wide, just snug enough, quadruple-tied.
Cinderblock, storage compartments, rubber, leather, rope. The door is hidden behind a cabinet full of smokes, tubes... and cloth.
What's the first thing he manages to focus on?
Feet. Looking, for a while, where his boots should be. The only light bulb is below that end of the bed, so it's only natural he'd be peering in that direction. He wiggles his toes cautiously, tries to move a leg - and takes in the ankle restraints -
Shins, thighs. Cock out there too. Trying to twist as he surveys his gut, chest, arms. Trapped wrists.
Pal lets him tug and holler. All the better to get the, uh, sound check out of the way.
Another twenty minutes for him to give up, calm down...
A cabinet door creaks open.
He's whipped up again. Staring at a carton of Luckies. Floating smoothly, no wires or anything. Toward him -
He rassles and yells, as Pal gets him a pack of the house brand.
Winding down, sweaty again... watching a cig hanging in midair a couple inches from his mouth. The open pack, a Zippo and a rusty peanut can are sitting on the edge of the mattress, not having budged from all his pulling. Just because he can't reach 'em doesn't mean he's gotta go without a smoke. That's what Pal thinks. Or a drink...
Or a good time.
The Lucky taps his upper lip. He throws his head over, away from it. Keeps tapping, a few times a minute.
Eventually, he grabs the smoke and spits it away, scowling defiantly. Watching as the pack rises, and another Lucky is pulled out. Tap tap tap...
Sixth cig - he holds it, sighs hard. Keeps it.
After a couple minutes, the Zippo rises slowly. Clinking open over his chest, firing up...
He starts the first of many, many Luckies... scowling through the smoke, until the Zippo clanks shut and cruises away. Wearing the cig between his lips, cowhide on his limbs, and nothing else.
Pal brings him another smoke when the first one's about gone. Here.
After his next cig... another cabinet opens. A bottle saunters out, seal cracking open. He looks at the pint of bourbon for a long time, tilted slightly toward his chin. But he makes no move toward it, so Pal gets him another Lucky.
And two more after that.
He coughs, and the bottle draws closer.
After a few minutes, he opens his mouth a little more... putting up no fight. Two good belts.
A bottle of water emerges from the same cabinet. That gets him cussin', but he willingly puts away a good pint.
He stares at the ceiling, straining the ropes intently. The cuffs creak less than before, or later. Mellowing out, stealing a glance at the pack - lookit this, scowling at the change in routine, and an hour ago he was set against havin' a smoke...
Gotta keep the talent happy. Pal heads off a nic-fit. Plenty of time, a shelf full of Luckies waitin'.
He lay still, watching the haze thicken, eyes half-closed. Loose and ready. Kicked back... This is probably the calmest he'll be tonight.
Pal's laid in a whole lot of Kentucky hospitality, close at hand. He won't ever forget his gig at the Club. Not too often it books an act all the way from California. That demo, its quick little test in the car - fuckin' A. It'd be crazy to turn down an opportunity like this. He'll do wonders for the ol' Club...
He gets a good long break from the highway, to unkink and stretch out - this mattress beats that lumpy car seat, sure as shit. A top-notch massage will set him right. No cramped-up muscles, or fallin' asleep behind the wheel. Nuh-uh. These racers just don't know how to relax, always go go go. Fly right through - naw, it's only neighborly to let him bunk down for a while. Without the cuffs, he'd be lead-footin' it down the road in a hot second... in too big of a hurry to see how the famous sour mash grows on ya.
Every road warrior needs a break. And Pal's giving him top billing - a headliner, from way out West! An extended booking... and since he's heading that way, a free escort down to Bull's vault. Weed, custom leather - serious Georgia good times. When he's ready.
This ciggy is pulled from his lips. He watches as it's dropped in the makeshift ashtray. The pack and lighter are swept off the mattress, and the can floats down beside 'em.
Pal thinks it'll be quite a while before he's done here, though.
A different cabinet door creeps open... the one furthest from the bed. And the lights dim most of the way.
Let the show begin.
Two plump, glossy hands make their teasing entrance.
His eyes widen, and his mouth drops open slowly. Thinking hard. Pal's proud to see the impact its gloves are making - his expression says he knows what's coming. He stares hard as they creep over the light, flexing their fingers a little, curling and straightening out...
It holds 'em steady just past the foot of the bed. Let him get a gooooood look. White satin, thick acetate, wide fuckin' hand-shapes. Smooth and full and seamless. Specially made for one purpose.
He groans, still gaping as he tries to slide and turn. Safe to say he's never seen gloves like these... much less animated, huge and slippery - brought up smoothly to the mattress, maybe eighteen inches from his restless toes and feet.
"No," he says, as in oh no. Then, more like a command: "No. What the hell - don't you, uh, now get - oh fuck-"
The hands close in on their targets.
He's wild to get loose... but the restraints keep his legs out and apart, his hands way above his head.
"No oh no oh shit no - get away - dammit you can't -" He scans the rest of the room quickly, but there's no other movement to see, and he squirms and stares at Pal's approaching satin, lifting his head to watch. "No no help HAAAAALLLP HAALP MEEeee let me OUTA here NOOOO HAAAALLL-"
Yep, the Club's electrified with the noise. "No pleeeeeezzze don-"
The tips of the gloves' fingers touch the soles of his feet.
His yell becomes a strangled gulp. No longer flailing around, now. Neck craning, mouth wide open, eyes huge. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly.
Soft hand-shapes close over the middle of his soles. Those muscles are filled with resistance. He really needs to let go...
Pink feet are held very gently, in a grip that's strong enough to prevent any bending or turning. The contact makes him squeal -
Just starting to palpate and ride.
He drops his head, throwing it from side to side. Snickering.
Pal gets busy, and he chuckles good and hard.
Frantic... preoccupied. All taut, but that just proves he needs more of a break than a fuckin' two-hour nap at a rest stop. The gloves hold on tight, sliding... petting heavily. He hoots and pulls and squirms. All twelve ropes are tight as bowstrings. The cuffs haven't budged.
Pal cranks it up a couple of notches.
Its hands start exploring between his toes, squeezing around each heel, letting the smooth fingers run along the sides -
He tugs at the cuffs wildly... braying louder. One happy fucker, barkin' laughter as the satin hunkers down.
Sixty seconds of fun. Another minute starts... More yanking, a squeal now and then, attempts to talk. Sweat starting to appear. Determined to get loose, trying hard. Not succeeding.
A few more long minutes... and this road-dog's not rasslin' anymore. Too busy makin' noise, puttin' his heart into it. Pal's booked a pro here. On some level, he knows the ropes will hold just fine. Not fightin' 'em now, is he? Set a spell.
And he does. Just lays there... reacting.
Focused. Damn!
Still pretty tense, though, a few minutes later. Not moving his head anymore.
So two more gloves drift out from the cabinet, and the first pair gradually lets go... until he squints through watery eyes, and sees -
"Noooooooo oh no please awww..."
These hands cruise over his legs, then his crotch... chest...
His neck probably needs some - no, after all that tugging - shoulders. The hands clamp over his collarbones - more squealing, and slickness takes hold of his feet again.
He laughs with his mouth wide open, and the new pair rubs their way down his triceps, and now his biceps.
They slide under, blanketing his armpits. He jumps and lets loose with a weak howl.
Some water, for the star. A towel...
Four Luckies to strain at the ropes.
Then the smoke is taken away... and a pair of Pal's hands return to the stage. And another.
While he snaps and moans, the fingers hone in on those restless-looking hips, and real fidgety pecs. Another performance, every hour on the hour, about to begin.
Forty minutes.
Water, towel, Luckies... 'til it's time, once more.
Knees and belly.
Neck and shins.
A blue filter is slid next to the unseen light bulb.
Ass and thighs.
Hands and crotch. A wild time, without... resolution.
No more blue light, for now. Mopped up, smoked up, watered...
Fingers begin to skate - more foot action. He stiffens, haw-hawing with full-blown devotion. Edgy, desperate and ferocious, eyes shut tight...
Pal dances faster. His legs aren't moving, or his head. Toes motionless as the wide fingers slip and rub beneath 'em. He's not fighting the cuffs at all. And he brays... well, insanely. Crazed and extreme, like he's got some catching up to do.
Only his sides move as he lays there, hooting.
When the volume dips just a little, two more big hands emerge and cruise to his heaving ribs. He doesn't see 'em -
Roaring merrily, though, as they mirror the finger-work on the soles of his feet.
After a while, a third pair comes to tease his belly.
Candy bars, and water, and a towel, and a few smokes.
Armpits, hips and shins.
Elbows, neck and pecs.
Knees, hands and the small of his back.
Blue filter... belly, ass and balls.
Shoulders, hips and cock... lightly.
A couple inches of booze, water, some white tablets, towel, Luckies...
Two pair on his feet, digging in sternly. A hand worrying each pec like there's no tomorrow.
The firmer pace, all over his sides.
Arms, knees, shins.
Neck, chest, back.
Blue light for the... climactic trip to his plumbing. Halfway through the show... The fingers continue much more gently, but the effect is fuckin' hysterical.
Day three is getting underway. The best part, that is - now that the care and feeding are done.
He's exhaling smoke with a scowl on his face, wriggling all over, straining a dozen ropes.
Pal opens the far cabinet door.
Two, four, six gloves. Still shiny. He sees 'em, freezes - and flails all over again, like he means it. The hands stop, holding his attention.
It's sorta like he'd been a regular customer of Pal's, uh, massage service, showing up faithfully for a session every week... except all strung together. Better'n seven months of experience on him, calculated that way. All those hours, with him stretched out here. Can't help but get to know what needs loosening up.. What he needs.
The bottom curve of his butt cheeks, traced lightly by two fingers. Top side of his toes. The pit right below his adam's apple...
A glove gets him started on another Lucky.
Deep squeezing behind his elbows. Behind his ears. Oh yeah - that strip just below each floating rib.
His biceps are larger than they were when he was toolin' down the interstate. He's louder, too, despite all the Luckies. Now, though...
The second cabinet door, creaking softly. Floating out - rectangle, silver...
Click. Buzzing.
The shaver cruises overhead, into a waiting palm.
Time to get those pecs all clear. And that gut. Pal clamps a glove around each of his biceps, steadying him. This is tricky work... He wrestles, whining quietly. Tomorrow, thighs and pits.
Lower - slowly pressing on his breastbone, noisier as it's slid around. Careful job, and then... well, it ain't hardly a massage without oil.
Musician's hours... He sleeps the afternoon away, and then some. No problem there - those were some real marathon shifts. He's impressed the hell out of Pal.
All the sweeter 'cause there was nothing like a deadline hangin' overhead. The gig's totally open-ended... especially with talent like this. It doesn't care if he needs a week off, or a month - before the next set. He'll be ready for action, if Pal's real careful with the food and medical supplies.
No closing date for this fucker. Long haul.
He stirs, finally. Pulls sneakily at the tiedowns. Tries to shift on the rubber sheet. Moans. Drifts off again.
All without opening his eyes.
Hours later, he sighs. Coughs, blinks, sighs a lot harder, lifts his head and looks around him, then settles back against the mattress. The light is angled down, making the room dimmer than it is during performances.
Latex gloves are applying gel to his feet. Pal's not after a reaction right now, and beyond worried fidgeting it's not getting one.
As the middle cabinet opens, its gloves are pulling off anyway. Water for the wailer... he downs most of a quart, with his eyes locked on the hand-shapes poised over the end of the bed.
When the bottle floats off, a scrabbling sound makes him look to his left. On the mattress, the open pack is moving just enough, and a Lucky is sliding out.
He starts a cigarette, though he's clearly not too big on the idea.
The gloves turn, palms up and fingers relaxed. A tube floats into view from near the lamp, goes and spatters white gel on latex. A new tube floats out, uncapping as the empty is retreating past it. There... a big heap of gel for each glove.
He starts to plead quietly.
His heels - greasy contact. Tensed up, he gets real quiet all of a sudden. Their grip is delicately light... Clinical, even. Solid, but not firm. If they bore down at all he'd be loud, tryin' to flop around a whole lot more than this. But not yet.
Gel is being spread along the insides of his feet... and the outsides. He's whining again around the Lucky. Not a single chuckle. The hands' pressure is just right.
While he sucks on a new smoke, the gloves load up again... and start to lube the top of each foot, from cuff to toes. Twitchy, hopeless, begging barely audible - but he's not aroused.
This is the ninth layer of moisturizer. Pal's been shaving, deep-cleaning pores all over, massaging in aloe and special hydrating salves. His crotch and underarms are pink and hairless. No stubble anywhere on him to snag the polishing acetate, or slow it down. Calluses are finally gone from his soles and fingers, so tonight's opener will be a real hoot.
His neck is shaved up real high. Pal's cleared a path around each ear, and trimmed his bangs up to his eyebrows so he'll always be able to see. The rest of his hair is left alone. Sure, it gets washed every couple of days, gotta avoid any distraction like itching... unless it suits Pal.
Long hair, tangled and wild-lookin', under a lot of ash like his chest - well, all around his head. Not too long after a show gets underway, all the flecks become swirled and muddy... and his hair gets plastered down every which way, stuck to the rubber sheet with tears and a lot of sweat. Then he looks like a local. Pal's gonna make a wild-eyed southern boy out of him yet!
Another Lucky sidles up...
And another.
Pal is workin' very matter-of-factly on his hands. It really woke these puppies up last night - back side, palm side, between the fingers. His forearms were screamin' too... Day before that, those rock-hard calves. Most of him is psycho already - before too much longer, every fuckin' place it touches will be a big ol' panic button.
Another ciggy. There ya go.
He grumbles... and pisses. Good. Paper towels arrive and start mopping him up. Pal's been waiting, sorta - now it can seriously tune up his whole crotch. Really pamper that foreskin. He's gonna have to bust his way out of some tight, slimy lambskin during one of tonight's blue shows. While it cleans, it fetches another pack of Luckies and tears 'em open.
To really fix him up right, make that plumbing more touchy than ever, he'll need toothbrushes and witch hazel... to start. A lot to do, and it goes quicker if he's not floppin' and sweaty. Sleepy time. He's not totally with the program yet, anyway.
Mash. Yup. Two inches left in this bottle. Pal pulls his cig and taps the ash on his right tit. He looks at the booze sliding down the neck of the fifth. Scowling. Attitude, huh? Man's got a beef... but he drains the bourbon.
Pal takes the bottle away, shoves the Lucky back against his teeth... and clicks off the light. A couple more minutes, and that smoke is held against a replacement.
That one kindles another. He's all relaxed, drifting off. Took a liking to Kentucky ninety-proof, didn't he though.
The next cig is unfinished, 'cause he's too busy sawin' logs. Pal chucks it and gets to the high-performance customizing between his legs.
Then his cuffs come off, and it rolls him over. Plenty of attention, to prevent sores on his ass or under the leather... hard massage to stimulate circulation, a different cream around his wrists and ankles - and his backside.
It's seriously looking forward to blanketing those uncallused heels - and toes. He'll be burnin' nitro from the gate tonight. Some new satin should pick up the ol' pace. Double set, it decides... ninety minutes, slow and deep for the first half so he gets the full benefit of the newly exposed skin. Then, like a house afire on one foot at a time - with brushes strokin' easy between the other toes. Yeah.
Pal oils up the brushes.
The feathers can wait 'til tomorrow.
Shrieks.
Raspy keening. He tosses and turns like a gorilla. Still held out and tight against the rubber, dripping sweat. Wide awake, liquored up, full of food and a couple packs of nicotine...
Pal rides on, as the thrashing starts to fade.
Not ten minutes into the set, he's not lifting a finger. Howling like a banshee, sure... Got plenty of energy to tug, yet. It's always torqued when he gives it up and lays there, staked out just as securely by the cowhide and ropes as before, but too fuckin' busy to fight. Every set since the first one, he's crazy to snap the ropes - and surrendering, settling down, when given enough to laugh about. Not too tired to strain and writhe, but his body just abandons the idea... and there he lays, recoiling nice and hard from all of Pal's expert encouragement.
24jul1997