It's intolerable that they're so close to snagging him - so close! - and there he goes. Even now he could still be caught -
His truck rolls on, receding. Going away!
Fists clench in the air, opening and closing in frustration. Cheated, after the setup and the stakeout - hands gripping nothing instead of resisting muscle. And so few prospects tonight. Infuriating. And those new toys, all ready. The house, so close by. In the opposite direction.
He's heading the wrong way, and they know they can't overtake -
Greed flares through the squad. An expanding wave of lust - hold, bind, reveal. This must happen...
A desperate idea. Hands dip and fly just over the ground. Two wrap around a jutting rock, and a third fist tries to free a large oak root. The rock, flying out of the loose soil, balanced in a palm. Long throw, overhand -
It lands on the back bumper and bounces off the tailgate. Hands are already racing there.
He hits the brakes, sits a second or two...
His door opens. Yes!
Out, looking at the dent, looking around the hills and swearing quietly. The rock has rolled back into the ditch. He peers at the point of impact, thinking... One more scan of the area. Nobody in earshot. He starts back toward the truck cab -
A half-second before he reaches for the open door, a dark blur slips past him and fumbles for the keys. He pauses, looking puzzled -
The engine dies.
Fingers clamp around his arms.
He fights - stronger than he looks. Not quick enough, though. They hoist him onto the bench seat, pinning him limbs over his ass. Fierce wiggling. The door is closed.
The squad holds him down and starts the engine. Pulling a U-turn, passing the gas station... up the hill, slowing carefully to make the turnoff. Narrow gravel path through the trees. The truck rolls slowly around a bend with its lights off. To the back of the house...
A pair of hands lock onto his mouth and jaw. The engine's turned off, the door is open, and he's being carried in - fast, smooth, no wasted motion. Fingers turning the doorknob - he flops mightily. All is dark, quiet - set, all ready for him. The squad swings him through the doorway.
To the back room... maple door with several locks on it, beautifully solid. The closet's full of supplies... for a guy like him.
Hands are turning keys, lowering bars, pulling catches into place. His mouth is released. Levitating down to a mat...
Twenty minutes of loud fighting. He's finally giving up - dripping sweat, chest heaving... hands all over him, keeping him right where he is. Arms, legs, neck, chest. Pinning him, containing all that resistance. He tries to look back at the door. The locks will stay locked. They got him.
The squad's made an exciting discovery as they kept him down.
This fucker's seriously ticklish.
It's insane how touchy he is. Dude.
The hands clamped all over him... enough to take down five or six men. Clutching one majorly skittish dude -
The squad's made of satin.
Caged in a room with a week's worth of water, food, gear... lube...
This is too perfect.
A pair of gloves cram a pad under his head. Four anchor each of his limbs - the moving set empty his pockets. They find the pack - fuckin' A, it's the same brand they stockpiled. It's like a confirmation. Sleek fingers pull a Marlboro out of the pack. Get comfortable, dude -
He resists! But he smokes - under the hands, through denim and leather, they feel the fight starting again. Fury, anger - mobility being frustrated. Checked.
He'll smoke it. Give him an hour... Hundreds more within - well, within the squad's reach.
A couple hours and half a pack later, hands close around his bootheels. Easing 'em off -
He perks right up. One sock... the other - he cranes his neck, suckin' on that 'Boro worriedly... Hangdog. Real concerned.
Fingers tighten their grip a little... especially on his legs. An extra hand floats to each shin, curling like iron just above those on his ankles.
His bare feet, just sittin' there - He exhales smoke unconsciously, attention fixed on his moving toes...
It's dark. The squad is black.
Four members drift to his soles -
And attack.
Shriek - arc - head snapping. Howl - smoke thrown...
Completely solid, sliding hard. The squad plays like their lives depended on it. The reward: he lunges with amazing force, roars filling the room. The squad counters and bears down, keeping him right in place. Raw panic -
They're gonna work their way up him.
Three hours later, he can't even lift his head. There's a smoke between his lips he doesn't tug on. His clothes have disappeared while he was whoopin' it up. And there's not a hand on him. He must be just too bushed to move.
So... landing - something dropped on his legs. It starts to rise, and... unwind. Nylon rope. Thick, white, soft... pulled around his lower leg. It's rope a bull or an elephant couldn't break.
As it knots, he starts to stir...
Gloves tie him tight, arms and legs way out from his body. Three, four strands. With this rope, it's severe overkill, but it amuses the squad. As if he wasn't stuck before...
He wriggles for a few minutes. Not a finger on him. Let the rope keep him spread out - not only can the gloves soak up his reaction any time they want to latch on, but there'll be that many more hands to get him goin'.
That burning desire to get away... right in their grip.
He sees the cigarette. Right in front of - just pulled from his lips. He blinks, clearing his head -
Looks down. Midday sun shows him black hands gripping everywhere, curled around bare skin.
It's leg time.
Squeezing - thighs, shins, calves -
Bellow. Squinting, thrashing without a plan...
On his upper body, the gloves just hold him down, drinking it in. The rest fuck with his feet, knees - everything up to the magic 'V'. Gonna be a hard, stiff afternoon.
A late lunch, a couple packs. Another all-nighter for this hopelessly sensitive motherfucker. They'll gonna work him over - polish this dude's sides like they've never been touched before. Feeling that... delirium beneath 'em, now. But just wait.
29apr97