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Click. The hasp caught. The last ankle is chained.
It did it. Success!
He's pulling and shouting. The recliner creaks under him, but the chocked footrest holds.
Lurching and cussing, boot-heels hanging off into space. Arms far from his sides -
Damn, it beat him. Here he is.

Fuck, yeah. All the observing, practicing... Dry runs on mannequins, a few hundred cigarettes handled and manipulated, moves polished. The planning and stockpiling. Selecting. Grab, wrestle, drag...
All that way, trying to hold his mouth shut. Two near-escapes - and inside!
Onto his chair, four clicks...
It relaxes. He's stuck. Let him yell.
Make him roar.

Still not entirely believing he wouldn't up and run away...
Beautiful hands rise from behind the chair. Perfect satin gloves, black, gleaming, descendants of a few dozen rejects. Clones of twenty others that made the cut, lurking where he couldn't see them. The ultimate material, for -
He writhes as much as he can. The satin lowers... watched despairingly as they're sneaking under his jacket. Pressure. Movement -
A gasp, stunned tension, the half-second of unbelieving silence...
A chuckle. Repeated. Then -
Laughter.
Fight - wow!
But he's staying. Not wanting to -
Burrowing deeper - under! The first fingers touch his left ribs.
Two more, four more descend to his torso. A knife is brought to join 'em, and they cautiously lift his jeans away from his belly, begin sawing -
He wriggles and bucks in the plush chair, hooting like a madman...
Scraps of denim are pulled away magically. The blade shreds his underwear in no time at all. Not a scratch.
Another pair of hands appears, helping hold the jacket away from him as it's hacked off. Satin starts to knead his thighs.
His head flies back and forth, eyes slammed shut. Roaring harder.
The boots take longer, but more gloves come to help steady his legs, keep the leather taut. At last, the heels - a couple inches of cowhide is all that's left, caught under the chain... ragged spats.
A hand massages each of his feet. More volume. More frenzy!
More gloves. All of him uncovered - but it's gradually changing that, with fresh satin.

Another pair... aggressive. He tried to rock, to slither down. Sweating...

It starts to actually believe that he can't -
Fingers work their way under his lower back. New arrivals grip his collarbones. The roars! Raw, unrestrained...
It picks up the tempo, all twenty gloves kicking into high gear - Hysteria the recliner can barely contain. Screams, shrieks - piss!
A few minutes more, taking in this absolute... reaction.

Ten minutes.
More.
Sixty seconds of frenzy for each glove, and it scales him back down. Hoarse, limp. No fight left - not even moving his head around, really. Still chuckling.
Chained down good and tight. Give him a reward.
It brings him - Winstons. Opening in transit. Got him to look! Snickering at the pack floating out and away from the carton.
No - from the first carton.

The butt springs away. He watches it, pulling hopefully. Yukkin' it up.

The right combination of placement and speed -
He barks and lands against the padded leather. Not laughing now. Unable to.
It can shift him back anytime... A little faster, and he revs up and roars again. But like this... thrashing some, flexing -
Hard, fixed grin.
Adjustments... a slower pass on his thighs, just a little looser grip -
He bares his teeth and... untenses somewhat, eyes blazing. A Winston floats over... Eventually, he holds on to it.
Fifteen minutes, and a Bic sneaks up and gets him smokin'. His thoughts are clearly somewhere else.

Two packs. Enough for tonight. A hard run to celebrate each one being crumpled - fifteen minutes of serious sweating, then thirty-five - before the new pack comes, opening before his blurry eyes.

Almost an hour this time. Hoots and howls, a snort or two, a chain of manic whoops.
Well... one more ciggy. The hands slow their pace...
He's out like a light, 'Ston dangling from his lips.
Latex gloves rise, wash him up, clean off the chair. Rub aloe into his skin - getting a faint reaction even from a dead sleep.

It can't really, seriously believe...
Leaving him alone in the little house, for an antsy half-hour, before it races back - and here he is, still snoring, same position. Still chained down, alright.
Still here.
It goes out for throat remedies. Stops and gets him some raw meat. Hamburger - and liver! He'll eat it, oh yes he will. Whatever it wants to make him do... Incredible. More nuts, some cheese. More sugar and carbs. He's gotta work it all off. Laughing really, really hard.

It opens the door slowly, relishing the ominous creak...
This time he was awake, watching the door open, bags filing in, door swinging closed. Hands balled into tight fists, but not moving. Still a pleasant surprise, dumbly, to see him anchored down here, despite that violent drive to escape. Right now, he takes a smoke and blazes up without a fight.
Under the chains there's a little abrasion, but the chair frame is as good as new. The bars that jam the footrest up - and keep him reclining, those amusing feet almost level with his head - are lookin' good. When it gets done checking and the chair settles again, he lets his head sink back on the thickly padded leather, smoke burning solidly.
Rays of sunlight poke through the spaces between boards over the broken window. The murky haze drifts over his naked body like a blanket.

Grumbling, then outright defiance, when the fourth cig is brought to him. All it has to do is open the door - and suddenly, he's all... cooperative.
He learns quick.

The rest of the pack. Water, cough syrup, raw honey. Down they go.
He starts to mumble. Fidgety. Talkin calmly, head cocked back, not smokin too hard. Gettin louder, more restless. Then, angry. Yellin and pullin all-out.
Works up a serious sweat. Then, silence. Deep in thought... Friendlier tone, even actually chuckling all by his lonesome a couple of times. Soulful, quiet...
Begging. Right up 'til that pack's crumpled and thrown behind him.
It gets out the hamburger. He balks, until it swings the hallway door open again, sloooowly, a classic theatrical creak -
And he eats it!

He really can't get away. Nothin' he can do to foil it. Sensational.
More water, another half a pack... More food. He chews dutifully, eyes straying toward the hallway.
In the backyard, the gloves are being pulled out of a five-gallon bucket full of fabric softener. It dries them, checks them carefully for loose threads and wear... They're much softer than yesterday.

He smokes for an hour.

Liver for breakfast.
Two packs for lunch.
He's not ailin' at all. Strong as an ox. It dumps a few vitamin E caps into his mouth, chasing 'em down with two quarts of electrolyte- replacement drink.

Laying there for another hour, immobile. Leaking smoke. Watching the door off and on... Set to go haywire at its touch. Unable to help that, to avoid it.
And no lack of time! No way to know when he'd wear out - but no reason to expect it any time soon! Lots of rest, nourishment, care -
It opens his ninth pack, and a box of rubbers.
Dries off the gloves...

He starts struggling at the sight of 'em.
Coasting to him... around -
He laughs. Putting his heart and soul into it.

Grinning, sweating, flushed. Peeking through the smoke, too tired to squirm any more. Leering uncontrollably due to the hands massaging his neck.
A pair of hands are tearing open a little packet over his crotch. Clean, shiny fingers. Unveiling a condom.
Debilitating palms close on his shoulders...
Carefully unrolling the latex over him, fussing with the placement... Rolled bulge sitting just below the thickest part of his tool. He watches like he's never seen a rubber before. Grins and stares... His own hands closing and opening, a few inches from the maddening fingers on his meat. Utterly unable to faze 'em.
Hands retreating - just a few centimeters. And down, slithering way up inside his thighs. Embrace - full rubbing, slow...
He starts another cigarette.

Taking very, very good care of him.
A lot of yelling today. Determined to raise somebody... his cigarette bobbing down, then up.
Get him - hold him. Feed and water... padded comfortably -
The gloves reenter the room. And he's thrashing away, after a long second or two for the obvious to hit home.
They get it on. Kneading all the fight out of him.

He exhales smoke, smiling wildly. Gloves repositioning on his feet have caught his eye. A vain tug on the chains, and then another.
This guy's got stamina. Hours of consciousness left. Hours...

He sucks a Winston into life. Fifteenth pack. Exhales slowly, laying still. Conserving his energy, maybe?
Out back, cloth is pulled from the white pail. Eleven hours' worth of immersion, third dunking. Not damaged at all. The world's softest gloves, it thinks... slippery beyond any other material it's ever come across. Or he's ever come across, it seems safe to assume.
Incapable of friction... now being rinsed slightly, looked over for frayed spots, "filled" and flown around until dry. Gleaming, unwrinkled hands soaking up the sun...
Inside, he has a few more cigarettes while he's waiting.

All the work...
Gloves assemble in the hallway.
Worth every minute.
He starts the last cig he'll be able to enjoy for awhile.
The door creaks...
And black hands come in. The fabric softener improves their effect so very much - polishing skin that absorbed lots of aloe while he slept, unable to rub hard enough or fast enough to inflame or abrade.
His eyes are locked on the approaching cloth.
Punishing, agonizing fingers slide under his neck.

All night, well into the morning - until he passes out, unable to tolerate any more.
 

Hands, squeezing - he stifles a laugh. Oh ho. Tugging hard on the cig, furious expression -
Gloves ease down 'til they're less than a inch off his sides.... belly, knees... armpits. Holding right there. Shiny and perfect...
The neck massage is slow, but being applied more thoroughly. Now taking to his collarbones as well -
A few more throat noises, very quick. Unsteady stream of smoke from his nostrils, jerky movements down his limbs - and he stays where he is.
Hands float to the inside of his thighs, curled and steady. A pair comes to the footrest, about level with the top of his head... all set with a firm, seamless embrace.
He watches them, eyes locked on the last pair -
Just waiting for him to laugh.
He's taut like a watch-spring, way beyond what the chains are causing. Smoking frantically...
Fingers repositioning now, higher on the nape of his neck, their tips digging -
Snort. Giggles, low and desperate, coughed out with smoke. The hands squeeze a few more cackles out, then continue on his shoulders, thumbs running up and down his neck -
A huge spasm. Boom! He bursts into laughter, compuslory glee. The 'Ston is bobbing, but he's holding it like a man -
Down a centimeter or two - touch. Fingers burrowing into his armpits, like they're racing to find buried treasure. Pressing backward, he's squealing -
Others skim over his belly button, dig under his knees. All staying so conveniently within reach.
Bellowing... The recliner shakes. The cig is history.
He watches long enough to see shiny cloth envelope his thighs... and his feet. Launches into his signature balls-out roar.

Taking in the chains... no longer surprised. It's especially gratified to see this. He twists a little, trying to wake up.
Alongside his chair, a third carton tears open...
First drag - he's coughing hard. The 'Ston waits over him... Finally, he hawks. The butt lands back on his lower lip.
Clear phlegm. Alright. Up for tonight's festivities.

Smoking a pack leisurely... which means a couple minutes between each new cig which cruises up. Plenty of water.

This shit just doesn't get old.
Well before sundown, fingertips appear in the doorway. He sees them all file in - and grins. Eyes closing in exasperation. Smiling faintly in recollection, or anticipation. He's learned well...
Grinning even as the hands approach.
The water bottle gets most of his attention one last time. It checks the chains, and he tugs on the smoke and clenches his fists.
No food before. Not tonight.
When he looks again, his expression is priceless: bottomless "uh-oh" dread. That's right -
It puts the gloves to use, holding him tight everywhere, ready to start. One pair, more animated, flies to his fingers. Stroking, teasing... then skipping over the chains and wrapping around his forearm. Both drag up, slide under, and ride down.
He's leering, head starting to roll. 'Ston hanging, eyes frantic -
Now, his shins also. Squeeze and move. The laughs burst out, making the cig fly.
To make sure his noise doesn't stop, other gloves begin to shift.
It's going to try a half-hour on, half hour off. Hard run, and full rest. Seeing how many hours he can do.

Nineteenth hour. It had to slap him awake a couple times, then put the gloves back to work on his chest. But this time he's snoring already...
Once again, though, it's hardly disappointed. It unlocks the chains and rolls him over, bringing in soap and water. His breathing is deep and quiet.

He sleeps in.
When he does open his eyes, it's obvious he's not done snoozin'. So it holds his mouth open long enough to pour a dozen vitamins down his gullet, makes sure they went down the right pipe... and he nods off again.

After dark, he snuffles and yawns. Time to eat. Cheese, nuts, a whole lot of carbs...
Puts him right out. It slathers on the emoillents again - three times, tip to tail.

The window faces west, but enough daylight's gotten in to... rouse him. He squints at the lighter and sucks in.
Sounding normal. None of the rasp that it heard day before yesterday. Unbelievable, how this guy bounces back...

He eats a big breakfast, takes his time working through a gallon of water and a couple packs.

He does nothing, all afternoon, to provoke it. Sneaky pulling at the chains now and then, staring out the window... or the classic trying-to-be-cool posture, with head back on the leather, eyes closed, mouth frowning and slightly open for the smoke to leak out.
And, finally, the sun starts to set. He watches it apprehensively. His eyes stray toward the doorway, and with visible effort he keeps looking away...
The juice bottle that serves as a urinal rises and leaves him, and he starts another cigarette. A fourth carton lies behind his chair. Ready.
All ready.
Creeeeeeeaak -

Whimpering out smoke, not moving at all.
Satin hands enfold him again. He stutters, starts to leer...
Around his sides, a half-dozen gloves begin to clench and glide ponderously.
His cigarette bounces to the floor, landing on a thick layer of butts. Head lolling side to side, chin back... Gravelly hoots, that swell as four more acetate paws prod under and over his knees. Another pair, latching onto each foot, are hardly squeezing yet. His fingers and palms are engulfed in satin, teasing deep -
And he laughs... slowly. But with enthusiasm. Unchecked squalling. No longer moving at all, eyes shut tightly... and he doesn't see a glove carrying over a big shiny ring, another arriving with a rubber...

When he's sweating freely, latex tight and immobile under chrome, the marauding slows and eases up...
Finally daring to peek -
It sticks a Winston between his teeth, and brings forth a new Bic lighter.
Firing him up...
And another glove appears, slowly drifting closer... to his face.
No - under. Clutching... the back of his neck -
He recoils. A few seconds pass -
Shaking. Purposely trying to break the chains free, limbs trying to snap up and down. The recliner bobs.... until he stops. Less than a second later, all motion has been absorbed by the chair. Hardwood construction, nicely augmented. The chains, the gloves are holding him as snug as before. For a long minute, he does nothing... Tugging weakly on the 'Ston again -
Before he's done exhaling, the hands are in motion... under his neck, on each sole. Making him slither, chuff out smoke, chuckle a few times.
It interrupts two more drags, waiting him out...
Crinkling sound fr-
Empty pack. Yet another empty pack rising up, crumpling enigmatically, falling. His cigarette is yanked away, heading out from the chair, allowed to fall.
He watches it... and looks back at the black cloth all over him. Big, hopeless eyes -
The hands begin to... knead.
Spurred on, he bawls insatiably.
The butt smolders, kindling a dozen others, three dozen... Acrid smoke now beginning to waft over him, unnoticed. Hundreds of butts litter the floor around his recliner...
Steadily whooping, keening, flexing under the satin, he's preoccupied at the moment. Too damn flustered to smoke. No distractions.
Eventually, without spreading too far, the fire dies on its own... while satin hounds him at a luxurious all-night pace.

03apr97