- - 1 - -
Roy turned off the dirt road carefully, heaving a sigh. At the end of the trip. Glad to be there... but not so glad to be alone.
The gap between the trees didn't look like a turnoff at all, which was okay by him. No sign of the gravel until the tires were crunching it. Following his driveway as it wound through the trees, he wondered for the tenth time if there could possibly be some cigarettes he'd forgotten about in the kitchen. Smirking, he rubbed the nicotine patch again - like that was gonna help.
Hell of a time to quit. It was, what, day number six. Pretty much past the ready-to-kill-something stage. Actually made it through the wrap party, and then - boom.
She didn't even wait until they got home. Told him right in the fucking car.
She was probably with that son of a bitch right now. A boy-band hack. But she sure wasn't about to let Roy - her husband - ruin their love. Who writes your dialogue, babe, that's what he wanted to know...
So the gossip columnists were right after all.
He'd always been the one who did the leaving. This sucked.
The shock still hadn't really hit him. She was gone the next morning... and getting a pack of smokes was so inadequate, as possible responses went, that he just didn't bother.
It was a five-hour drive here from his place in Saugus, the way he drove. Other than wanting a cigarette, he hadn't even been aware of the time passing. My brain is protecting me, he thought. Good brain...
He rolled to a stop and got out of the car. Tapping the garage-door code, Roy let loose with another big, relieved sigh. At least she'd waited until the picture was over.
Time for a break. Hide out for awhile. He wasn't committed to anything, except maybe staying drunk. That sounded alright.
After he pulled the car into the garage he just sat for a minute after the door had closed, barely noticing the ticks and pinging noises made by the cooling engine. Wouldn't be the first time he went into hiding. Well, sort of. He'd dropped out of sight before. Never without a chick, though. If felt weird to be here without one...
Without her.
At that moment, he didn't care if he ever saw a woman again.
Soulmate. Hah. Some "helper" she turned out to be.
Roy got out and popped the trunk. Looked at his bags - fuck it. Tomorrow.
He wanted to sit around in his underwear... and drink. For a year. It was a recurring daydream, lately. Sounded real fuckin' good. Too good. Gotta watch thoughts like that, he told himself, but he didn't mean it. Used-to-be's probably had daydreams like that. He hadn't been top dog in awhile - not since he got married. Duh.
He'd signed to do two movies, and one of 'em was going to be huge, but they weren't going to start shooting any time soon. Schedule conflicts. And Frank was such a detail freak he could take a year and a half to edit a picture. Roy wouldn't have to go loop his lines until then. Good thing the release date was so far off.
He started to punch the code for the house alarm, and paused. Damn. My schedule really is open. How weird. Nine projects in six years. It would've been ten - if Steiner managed his time better, Roy might've been on a flight to Italy right now, to shoot the flashback sequence.
Time for a vacation. Sal would probably do cartwheels. He chuckled at that mental picture as he walked into the kitchen and turned on the light. Gotta get some food. Make a list for Deets, and none of that fat-free shit -
He was staring at something. On the coffee table.
A pack of cigarettes.
His pulse jumped.
"Yeeeeah!" he crowed. The mature adult part of his brain just sighed, and gave up the fight. He opened the pack. Six days without even bumming one... Down the tubes. Roy didn't care - this was great. And bizarre - he'd been fantasizing about 'em, during the drive here, except he'd pictured the usual place. In the same cupboard as the booze. A stray pack.
They had to be six months old. Stale. But there was no dust on 'em, and they weren't dried out. That didn't make sense. Who -
O-ho. Sherri? Snuck up here, with her new "love"...
She didn't like the lake-house, though. Actually, she couldn't stand the sight of it. Called it a "cabin", which always bugged him. A 2,200 square foot cabin - huge master bedroom, and a living room that was bigger than that crackerbox he grew up in. From the minute he saw the oversized rooms, and the view from the deck, he had to have the place. He'd bought it two years before they tied the knot.
Nah. She was a city girl. Sherri would never drive all the way up here.
He started to sit, but he remembered he didn't have a lighter anymore. That ADR guy, back on the set, had been only too glad to take it off his hands. Auction it off on the internet, likely as not. So he went back into the kitchen...
He ripped the nicotine patch off his arm and threw it on the counter. So there. In the shit-drawer, he found a throwaway lighter with his face on it. Gag gift, from you-know-who. It wouldn't light. How ironic.
Maybe it's a sign, he thought, rummaging grimly. Ah. Another one, solid black. Matching his mood. And it fired right up.
Roy sucked in. Much better. Almost happy. The cigarette wasn't dried out at all. If I'm going to wallow, he told himself, gotta do it right. Good old Jack Daniels.
There was one bottle left. He shook it - three shots, give or take. Enough for tonight. He had to call Deets tomorrow, tell him to bring more booze.
A lot of booze.
He turned the air conditioning on, then headed for the couch. Pulled the ashtray up close, pointed the remote at the TV, and opened the whiskey as the TV snapped to life. Tossing the cap into the kitchen, he had a couple good belts and burped real loud.
"Yeah," he said to the cigarettes.
Time to feel sorry for myself. Everybody wants me, nobody loves me. It had been years since he'd really fallen for that one...
Roy yawned. His hand fumbled for the pack. The whiskey was gone, but he didn't feel like going to sleep just yet.
On the TV... darkness. Then a fade-in. A naked guy, laying on a bed. College kid.
Whoa, he thought, and he glanced at the remote, lying on the table. Not in Kansas anymore.
The movie point-of-view flipped, watching the door as it was closing. Nobody else there. Then a tight shot of a deadbolt, turning...
Roy yawned, and took another drag.
Darkness - and a click. Indirect lighting, coming up.
A padlock hung near the door frame. Open - but then the lock started to rise. Like magic. The U-shaped part turned, caught the steel ring on the door and another one on the frame.
All by itself, the lock snapped shut.
"Oh ho," Roy murmured, shifting on the couch.
The next POV was from the door, looking at the guy. On the bed. Panning to the closet door. Crude work, there, with the camera. It jiggled. Amateur hour. Cheap tripod...
The door slid open -
Shelves. Boxes.
The closet was full of food. And... toys.
Whoa, Roy thought. That guy's not going anywhere for awhile.
Am I sure I want to watch this? Right now? It was the sensible voice of reason. His conscience, or whatever. Expecting trouble.
Probably not, he agreed with himself, sighing out smoke. But he didn't pick up the remote.
A box slid forward on its shelf. Magic.
Leather straps began snaking out. Another box gave up big, black cuffs.
Various close-ups of the restraints being put on the guy. His breathing was right. Mouth open a little. Not bad. He could act... and he's stuck doing shitty movies like this.
Next there was a slow, tight pan. From overhead. Nice pace.
Two straps anchored each wrist, way over his head. A strap circled his waist... and others were wrapped around his thighs. And his shins...
They ran tight off all the sides of the mattress. There were, like, four straps locking each ankle down. His feet were far enough apart that he couldn't touch them together, even if there hadn't been all that leather on him. Dude really looked like he was asleep.
Cut to another POV - looking in the closet. A box, sliding off the shelf above. Floating...
Kinda lame attempt to build the suspense, Roy thought. Not letting you see what's in there. He got another smoke lit, without taking his eyes off the screen.
Cut to the box, landing. Below his feet. Two big white feathers started to rise out -
Roy did a double-take.
"Fuck," he whispered. "No way..." Wide awake in no time.
Nobody knew - well, except Winnie. Practice marriage number one. But she was cool. She respected his privacy. Always had. Winnie knowing some dirt was the same as nobody knowing it.
And Sherri had tried. Had to give her that. He bought feathers, restraints - the whole trip. He'd had to work on her for a long time, just so she'd think it was her idea. What a ditz. She deserved to be with that teeny-bopper fuckhead -
With an effort, Roy shoved that thought away. He took another drag and stared at the feathers on the screen. Big trouble for that guy. Lucky slob. When he and Sherri... well, it was pretty disappointing. Good thing he knew how to act.
She just didn't get it. And he'd been looking forward to it - a lot. Maybe there was no way it could've lived up to his expectations. It had just felt like a massage. A bad massage. Not too exciting.
The feathers twirled slowly. Cliché. But Roy swallowed hard. Oh, shit, was that guy gonna get it now... Locked in. Boxes of food, there.
Roy lit another cigarette off the last one, and leaned forward.
The feathers got closer, and closer, to the unsuspecting feet. Tight shot of them landing.
Roy sighed out smoke... and grinned.
Moving.
They swept up the guy's feet, to his toes... and down.
The overhead shot again, as his head moved. A quick grunt -
Cut to a new POV from beyond the foot of the bed. The feathers sank down, out of his sight. Waiting. That was a nice bit.
He growled quietly and opened his eyes. Looking up at the ceiling. Puzzled -
Then he stared at his legs.
Oh, yeah, Roy thought. Here it comes. He smoked like a fiend...
The next camera angle was tight on his soles, with his head framed between. The feathers swept up and down. Almost casual about it. He pulled and wrestled, but the cuffs had him tight. The guy was good. It looked real. He yelled, and jerked around... Gritting his teeth. Making those sounds - hell yeah! - as he fought not to laugh.
I've gotta find out what the name of this movie is, Roy thought. See it from the beginning. Probably he was the bad guy, about to get what he had coming to him. But it worked the other way, too. Kidnapped. Totally innocent. Locked in there... just for fun. Gotta love it.
Depth-of-field changed, and he couldn't hold back anymore - squawking. Keening like a... bird or something. Head moving, arms pulling. Feet trying to pull free.
Out of focus, the feathers kept going.
The dude just roared. "No hoh hoh haw aw haw haw..."
Amazing performance. Or - poor slob - he really was ticklish, and this was the only gig he could get. Fucking cable movie... Some pervert from USC film school, mouthing words about authenticity and being in the moment. Let's try actually tickling you.... and see how the rushes look. Bastard.
That didn't wash, though. If Roy didn't know better -
I am drunk, he reminded himself. Probably passed out. Dreaming this movie. So what does that say about me?
But he rubbed his eyes, and lit another cigarette. And it was still there. He looked at the remote control, and started to reach for it.
Dream or not, though... he wanted to see how it turned out.
The guy barked like a sea otter. Completely frantic. Stuck tight. The camera stayed right there, with his face in focus. Feathers still moving, almost leisurely. That was hypnotic - they had all the time in the world. He was gonna be tickled for a long time.
The director didn't cut away from that shot. Three minutes straight. Brave. Or beginner's luck, more likely. And the actor kept it from getting stale. He whooped, and slid into loud hooting... Mournful hoots. Just amazing.
Who is this guy? Maybe... Ask Sal to find out - Nah, too risky. There was always the internet. This had to be the hardcore channel. Fukxxx? Something like that. They probably had a program guide on their website. Or the satellite company would. So that was okay.
The captive's tone changed again. As his struggles faded - just too damn busy - the tension disappeared too. That despair in his voice was gone. That wasn't the director's idea. No way. Moving from shock, to panic, to sadness... and now, just laughing industriously - he reinforced the unwillingness to be there, and the big truth that he was there for the... long haul. Just like that. All those boxes and shit, in the closet.
He laughed like a maniac. A wind-up toy. Laughing with gusto.
The shot did a slow fade to black.
When it came back up, tight on his sleeping face, Roy froze.
The guy had a few days' growth of beard. Hair all wild.
Gloves came into the frame... and tied a gag between his teeth. That woke him right up.
Skinny... shapely gloves. Chick's hands.
He looked right at the camera. Down the length of his body, apparently staring at his erection, and back. Imploring. Don't do this. Somebody help me -
And his face scrunched up, as he started to laugh. Shaking his head miserably...
Cut to a shot of his side. Leather gloves. Oiled. Rubbing extravagantly.
The camera was near his hip, angled up somewhat. Mattress framing the bottom of the shot, and half the frame was empty.
His head appeared in the top of the frame, out of focus. Wobbling - and back down again.
The fingers roamed into his armpit, and back out again. Dark blurs, now and then - the same thing was happening on his left side. When he thrashed particularly hard, the gloves moved with him. Stuck to him. His best efforts didn't matter.
Something else was different. The guy's head moved, now and then. Shaking with the effort of laughter, but he wasn't making any noise...
There it was again.
Oh - oh, wow.
His hair was pretty much the same color as Roy's. Only his chest hair had been pretty thick -
Had been. It was gone. All shaved off. Armpits, too.
Another pair of gloves dropped over him. Pausing, over his chest. Splitting up.
Dripping oil from its fingers, one of 'em came and started to squeeze just above his right hip.
His body jerked, and kept trying to shift around. The guy's head came up, for a few seconds, as if he was trying to... watch.
And the take went on and on.
Roy realized he'd been rubbing his cock. Through his jeans, slowly, but still...
He had to have this tape. No matter what.
With that happy thought, he shut off the TV and got up, yawning as he did. Plodding down the hall for a long-overdue piss. He brushed his teeth quickly and wiped his face, eager to get into the bedroom.
His bedroom.
- - 2 - -
For the next twenty minutes or so he did some thrashing around of his own. Picturing himself in that guy's place...
The fantasy was so detailed, his breath seemed to get caught in his chest. Stuff that wasn't even in the movie. Perfect little details. Logical... in a balls-out, feverish way.
Roy backed himself off from coming. Just in time.
It was one of those jack-off sessions that exceeded all expectations. My wife just left me, he remembered, grunting happily. I should be miserable right now -
The thought of her was instantly, firmly overlaid... with the feel of those oily gloves. Skilled, and not holding back. And they were multiplying! Four gloves led to eight, then twelve.
The restraints were absolutely perfect. He felt like he was welded to the fucking bed.
Strong, greasy fingers. Not my feet, Roy babbled to himself. Shit. It was insane. Words failed to describe it. So vivid.
His knees, too. Armpits, sides, knees. There had to be two on each foot. So where are th-
Fingers poked him, right where his legs and thighs met. Oh, no...
Approaching together. Meeting.
Dancing on his meat.
Oh... yeah.
It felt like it was going to take him all night to... finish up. That was unusual - but he was into it. He couldn't remember any fantasy being this realistic.
Wait. His eyes flew open. Wall, dresser... ceiling. He was still in the lake-house -
Until he closed his eyes. There they were... All those gloves. Merciless. He grunted his approval. They were busy fuckin' gloves. Real mean. Stop tickling me, you heartless sons of bitches...
They weren't letting up. He was insane with the need to track 'em. Or move. Both were impossible.
Power shot through him. It flooded his brain. They drove him hard. He couldn't think...
Roy growled - more like mild yelling, actually - as he finished off.
Sweaty, too exhausted to move, he laid there, panting away.
Within a few minutes, he was sound asleep.
His dream was even wilder.
Nothing dreamlike about it. It went on for days.
The jackoff fantasy had been vivid and hot...
But this. Entirely different.
It started with him waking up. Cuffed to the bed -
Chock-full of details he hadn't thought of, when he was fantasizing. He was hungry... and his throat was sore. In an entirely different way, his sides and armpits and knees - and his feet - just ached.
The faint smell of piss. A sense of dampness under the sheet.
Flat white paint on the ceiling.
When he tried to move, the mattress creaked deep inside, somewhere under his shoulders -
The cuffs were really snug. They were serious. More than just... wristbands that got in his way. The texture was smooth and slightly tacky - and it was constant. Even if he wasn't trying to move, the cuffs were impossible to ignore.
They weren't just a major nuisance - he couldn't budge. Stretched out tight, unable to do more than wiggle his fingers. Bend his toes a little.
How many days had he been cuffed d-
There they were! Past the end of the bed.
"No," he said automatically. It came out as a whisper. He stared at them, and he was totally blown away...
They were moving all by themselves. Black leather. Dripping with oil.
He told himself it couldn't be happening. Just couldn't. Not another day of this -
But they were getting closer... to his feet.
That was a bad thought. Motivating. He slung his weight back and forth, pushing his arms out... then trying to pull them together. And he couldn't! His hands stayed out there. And his feet.
Gloves, still approaching, and he knew why. This was serious. Big trouble. Major, horrible, unspeakable trouble -
The fingers were starting to... reach for his soles. Again.
How many days were they going to do this to him?
This isn't supposed to be happening, he thought wildly. Not really happening. Not to me. Hell, he didn't even have nightmares like this. How long a-
Roy gasped.
Smooth, oiled fingers.
No oh no oh fuck no no fuck -
His mouth opened, and he took a breath. It raced back out of his lungs.
In the form of a yell.
They kept stroking.
He inhaled again, and the air burst back out in hard barks. Laughter.
Infuriatingly silent.
It was like...
Like...
Roy couldn't come up with anything to compare it to.
Another thing he'd missed, in his jack-off fantasy...
As more gloves came and fucked with his armpits, his ribs, his belly-button, the impact kept increasing. Every time he'd decide it was definitely more intense, that it couldn't possibly get any worse... it would step up again.
Building.
It was riveting and disorienting - and it never occurred to him that it was only a dream.
That's how real it was...
And he loved it.
After the longest - well, it felt like a week - of his entire life, Roy discovered he was awake. The room was dark and quiet.
But he wasn't in his bed. He was sitting.
Smells... Stale smoke, which didn't surprise him. But there were other scents. Leather. Some kind of oil.
For some reason, he couldn't move.
Out of one dream, and into another? No. It was his living room. Awake - definitely. So all those days, strapped to the bed - that was a fuckin' dream after all? That creeped him out.
At least it was... over.
Light appeared, behind him. Low, and small, a wiggly dot on the dead TV screen.
A candle.
Roy looked at it. Recognized it. One of the candle-holders Sherri bought...
Floating in, magically, about waist-high.
- - 3 - -
"What the hell," he said to himself. Still dreaming after all.
He felt awake... but the candle-holder cruised toward him, in no great hurry. Definitely no hand holding it.
The important thing was, he wasn't getting tickled. But he wasn't going to just sit there. If he moved fast, he could... grab his cell phone, his keys. Kitchen counter. He started to get up.
But he didn't move much.
In the growing light, Roy saw the dark bands anchoring each ankle. Connected to cuffs!
He jerked forward, but his arms didn't come along. More restraints. Frighteningly snug. He yanked again, and tried to look behind him, at his wrists.
They were caught, one above the other, behind the... bench. Elbows bent. It wasn't uncomfortable, exactly - but he couldn't move much.
"Hey," he barked stupidly, straining and trying to kick.
Nothing doing. Solid, heavy restraints. He slid around - or at least his ass did. Slippery.
He was nude.
"Alright, now," he snapped. "C'mon -"
A finger laid on his lips. Straight down. The universal command - hush. And then it lifted off.
He blinked, and looked all around. Nobody there.
"How'd you d-"
The finger stopped him. Quick, but gentle. Roy reared back. His head bumped into a cushion. Headrest...
Warm, narrow - a woman's finger? Touching him. He saw nothing. Hallucination, he thought. Psychotic break...
He got scared... and excited, in a weird, obscure way. He moved his lips under the finger, but didn't know what to say first. Stunned, curious. The gentleness of the touch reassured him.
Anger came right on the heels of the fear. So he looked himself over as he struggled with the cuffs, grunting. Too shiny. It was hard to be sure, in the faint candlelight, but he thought he'd been... oiled. All over.
"Dammit," he muttered. No finger. He looked around. "Show yourself. Hey -"
On impulse, he grabbed a big breath and yelled. "Help! Help help halllllp! Deets! Haaaallp..."
Right about then he remembered the windows. Triple-pane windows. He'd had Deets put 'em in last year. Hell, he couldn't even hear the wind anymore if they were closed. Great windows, top of the line...
Wide awake, he looked around. Daylight, outside the thick drapes.
Something caught his eye, there. By the door. It was hard to see. Silver, and big. Something metal, probably. By the door. He hadn't asked for it to be put there.
He lunged around. The bench he was cuffed to was all too solid. It barely creaked. His feet hung over the padded edge. He stared at his toes as he tried to turn his ankles outward, and pull his feet up toward his knees. The result was pathetic. Somebody wanted his feet way out there, so -
Impossible.
It... His dream. Wild fuckin' dream. It must not be over. He sighed, but he didn't find the idea nearly as reassuring as he would've liked. Oh shit...
I'd better wake up, Roy told himself. Right now. Uh... now. Three, two, one, wake up.
Something was moving. The kitchen. Here it comes -
"Aw no, please," he moaned, before he could stop himself.
But it was just a water bottle.
Roy tracked it. As it got closer, he squinted hard, trying to see the fucker carrying it. Nobody there. Just the bottle.
Magic. Something invisible had him. Oiled up. On this bench.
Oh, shit. Cooperate, or not? Trying to discard the truly paranoid thoughts that were swamping him, he still wondered if it was maybe not a good idea to concede anything.
His eyes strayed. Glancing, involuntarily, at his bare feet...
The bottle moved right in, as if there wasn't the least chance he'd refuse. That was unsettling - but fuck it, he was thirsty.
He drank. Or so I tell myself, he thought gloomily. First of many orders he'd be obeying. He had a dark certain feeling in his gut -
Rustling sound, just behind and to his right. Coffee table. Near the candle... and sure enough. His smokes.
He sighed again, as a cigarette slid out of the pack. It drifted up to him. When he stopped drinking, the bottle pulled back and coasted over to the table. The cig zeroed in.
But I quit, he thought. Until tonight. I had six days without a cigarette. He remembered the pack, sitting there. Waiting. What kind of fucked-up dream was this?
The water bottle touched down - and something joined it. Rising from between the coffee table and the couch. Roy stared at it.
A carton.
He... hadn't bought a carton. Lately. The filter touched down, on his bottom lip. His next smoke -
"Wait a mutherfuckin' minute here..."
And the atmosphere changed.
There was a different... mood, around him. As if the temperature had dropped ten degrees, all of a sudden. Not quite that. Someone was, maybe, offended. Pissed off. Somebody big, who was not going to take any shit from him.
What was the cliché? Velvet glove... iron fist.
Worried, Roy bit down on the filter and held it between his teeth.
The candle came and gave him a light. Before he could suck in, a drop of wax landed on his right pec, making him jump.
After another second ot two of hesitation, he sucked in hard.
The TV turned on.
He squinted at it, and looked around wildly for the remote...
A tape started to play.
Low-light. A guy staring at a TV. Faint laughter, real wild -
That guy was him.
It was from earlier tonight. Slowly, the camera panned around. He was smoking hard. Eyes just fuckin' glued to the screen.
The kinky flick. Feathers were torturing the guy's feet. In the movie.
And he watched it as if he was hypnotized.
The camera stayed on him while he wolfed down another cigarette. Then it moved. Slowly, so slowly, pointing down -
His hand, slowly rubbing the bulge in his jeans.
Roy's embarrassment was gone in a heartbeat. Fear took over. Wordless, gut-clamping terror. There was something far too real about all of this.
On the TV, he got up and stumbled down the hall. The bedroom door was open, as usual.
The camera followed him in. When he turned to go to the bathroom, it floated backward. Hiding on the dresser? There was all that shit piled up there...
The bathroom light clicked off. He heard himself hawk and spit in the dark. Then he burped pretty loud. Uh-huh - this tape was the real thing. Only a few hours ago...
When he crawled into bed, the camera started zooming in.
Roy started to move. Sliding a little, rhythmically... A lot of groaning. A chuckle, now and then. It was the first time he saw what he actually looked like, getting himself off. For real.
A quick cut of the gloves, in the kinky movie he'd watched, digging into that guy's armpits.
Huh? He stopped in mid-drag. What the hell.
After a few seconds, there was another cut. Feathers, and brushes, on the cuffed feet. He didn't remember that scene -
Then back to Roy, snickering now and then. Pumping like a stallion.
This was scarier yet, though he found it fascinating. More cuts, back and forth. Oil pouring, then Roy bucking around under the sheet, shiny red fingers teasing ruddy nipples, Roy's feet sliding around as he grunted...
Feathers brushing all over a guy's cock and balls. The cock was almost blue, and sticky. Quicker shots of gloves scrambling against the guy's belly, clamping on his ribs, working hard on his knees.
The a cut to Roy, again. Going rigid. One loud, growly laugh - "Haaaah!" - and then he groaned, spasming over and over...
Edited like this, it didn't take as long as he remembered -
He looked away from the TV when his cigarette was plucked from his lips. It was down to the filter anyway. The pack shook a little -
And Roy made a discovery. Very unwelcome, right then, since he was naked as a jaybird and his hands were caught behind him...
His cock was at full attention.
The video presentation had given him away. Maybe that was the whole point.
Whoever was behind that ghostly finger - the one that laid across his lips to shut him up - well, they knew. He'd been set up. Cuffed down, aroused... How the fuck did they know what movie to show him, anyway? Insane tickle-torture flick.
Even the smokes... That pack, sitting there on the table. He was positive he hadn't left it the last time he was here. Deets didn't come inside - and nobody else had a key.
Somebody had his number. His brand. They didn't act like they were gonna take "no" for an answer.
The new cigarette came. Never even paused. He watched the old butt hone in, and he got the new one burning. Sure he did. Smoke, watch a movie. Whatever the fuck they wanted.
Or... laugh.
Damn. No getting out of this one, he thought shakily. I'm fucked. Triple-pane windows - that was a real smart idea...
The tape was still rolling. For a couple minutes, the scene stayed exactly the same. Roy's breathing quieted down, and slowed...
He nodded off. Time to make his dream come true.
Down the hall - the camera was moving, faster, away from him.
- - 4 - -
At the door that led out to the garage, the camera paused. Beeping sounds -
Oh, no. The alarm panel.
A green light flicked on. Somebody knew the code. They must have watched Roy enter it. Someone invisible...
The door swung open. More beeps - the other door, leading into the little garage.
Roy had a three-stall garage. The farthest stall was on a separate alarm circuit. Deets stored stuff in there, and dropped off the mail and the groceries - in the front half.
There was a big closet in the back. Roy kept it locked, even though it was empty. Just in case he wanted to keep stuff out there, out of Deets's reach. He hadn't actually used it yet...
But a light clicked on. Yup. The little garage. From what he saw, the camera was just inside the connecting door -
A key floated into the frame.
It unlocked the closet.
Roy gulped, despite himself. The closet was full! All kinds of boxes, and... boards?
A box moved - up, and toward the camera. Right past it. Into the house...
Cut to a box floating down - on top of another box. The camera pulled back...
There were stacks of boxes there, in his kitchen.
A larger shape was coming through the door. Sneaking in the dark. The camera followed it into the living room, between the coffee table and the TV.
It was the bench. Roy looked away from the screen - at the pad under his legs. Same bench.
The camera turned, and pointed at the kitchen again. It zoomed in on a box. The lid wiggled, and fell off.
A dark rectangle floated out, and a tube. The boxy thing touched down on the kitchen counter, without a sound. The tube stood up -
There was a scratchy sound, very familiar. His lighter - hanging in the air, moving... to the long, skinny thing. A candle. It creeped him out. Less than an hour before, he'd been using that same lighter. Now it was... in an invisible hand.
The box lid opened, swinging up. Dark wood.
There were tubes inside. Sorta like test tubes. Maybe a dozen.
One slid up, and the cap came off with a quiet pop.
It started floating toward the hall. The candle followed it closely - and the camera, apparently. Right into his room. Over him.
I had to get drunk, he thought numbly.
The vial lowered until it was right above his face. Inside, it shifted... Some powder, dark red maybe. It was hard to tell in the candlelight. It looked like a fine dust, almost glittering.
Some of it came out of the vial. The shape was odd. Why would powder float in a... flattened clump?
The camera held a tight, steady shot. The powder waited for him to exhale. When he was done, it moved - right over his open mouth. Sprinkling down.
He inhaled noisily, as the powder drifted onto his tongue.
The way it fell... As if there were fingers, getting a pinch of the dust, and rubbing together slightly as they released it. Yeah.
Invisible fingers. This was the weirdest dream he'd ever had. Absolutely. Shit like this just doesn't happen.
Not to him.
On the screen, he watched himself snore a couple more times. Then he exhaled again, but it was a long one. If possible, he looked even more relaxed than he had a minute before.
The tape showed him, fast asleep. The candle moved over his face and went out. His bedroom lights clicked on...
Watching that, from the slippery leather bench, Roy heaved a sigh. A new smoke was coming.
The sleeping Roy lifted his head suddenly. Off the pillow...
No. His head was lifted. Then it fell back down.
He didn't move. No change in his expression.
Beyond asleep, then. Drugged.
The sheet flew off him, and the camera just zoomed out and didn't move. Taking in the view. Then it turned and floated back to the kitchen. Lights clicked on everywhere, one by one.
Boxes started unstacking and opening. Clinking noises -
Chains. Big, thick links. Hardware came out of the same box, following the chain. Then a cordless drill.
On each side of the door, A pair of thick loops were screwed into the wall. Huge fuckin' screws. Chain slid through two of the loops, and a shiny new padlock was hooked through the end. A big lock, like the bikers used. The door was left open, but obviously it was an easy matter to close it... and chain it shut.
More chain was headed for the sliding glass door.
The camera taped the installation of two loops, next to the handle. That chain was pulled through the handle, good and tight. Another padlock clicked.
Then the front door...
He expected the windows would be next. But, obviously, there was plenty of time to -
Oh, fuck. It was easier than that. He pulled at the wrist-cuffs slowly. Of course.
He wouldn't be getting anywhere close to a window.
Roy drank some more water when it came. And he kept smoking. It wasn't like he had a choice.
The camera returned to his room. While he laid there, on his bed, flat steel bars were criss-crossed over the big window. Screwed down. They didn't press on the blinds.
A hammer levitated up. Long, thick nails. The sleeping version of him didn't even fuckin' flinch as the French doors were nailed shut.
Half-sheets of plywood floated in. They were nailed over the window - and the French doors. Then a big roll of foam padding arrived. Quilted red vinyl. It covered up the boards. Screw after screw rose up, slotted into the bit on the end of the drill, and sunk into the lakeside wall.
Even the bathroom window was covered with bars, walled off, padded, and covered over.
The camera retreated to a position just past his head. He didn't move...
Not even as the stocks hovered in. And the rack.
A dozen chains were hung from the ceiling. Straps levitated and split apart, finding the chain-ends. They made a loose web. A heavy-duty swing, in the ceiling of his fucking bedroom.
Roy kicked out smoke. The picture was coming together, alright. As weird as the night had been so far, what the tape showed next really made his stomach churn.
There was black plastic, unrolling. Tearing apart -
Trash bags. What the hell?
The closet door rolled open... and all of Sherri's clothes started to float out. They were jammed into three bags, and then a fourth one was held open for her shoes, belts - everything.
His clothes were next. They filled one bag.
Dresser drawers popped out - and panties jumped into yet another trash bag. Sweats, her old head-bands...
In the bathroom, more drawers opened. Bottles clinked. That bag paused at the dresser - to catch everything that was swept off the top. Then it coasted out of the bedroom. The other ones followed right behind.
That big vase she liked was next. It rose off the floor, and left. Those ugly dried flowers, finally gone...
The walls were stripped. All of the paintings, the framed prints. Every knick-knack... all sailing out the door.
Big garment bags came in from the hall, stopping at the closet. They started unzipping.
Leather.
The camera stayed put as a jacket was hung up, and another one. For him?
There were pants and chaps. Boots. Collars - and hoods?
Harnesses... Shorts that looked like they'd barely cover his nuts. Then latex clothes, pulled out of another garment bag.
Another box drifted in, making a slow beeline for the dresser drawers. Thongs - all kinds of fuckin' thongs - were shoved into a drawer. Filling it, apparently. It was a good-sized drawer.
And there were bandannas... and scarves.
Roy realized he was moaning. Very quietly, but he cut it out. He was afraid to see... gloves. Being put in his dresser. His dresser. A bunch of fuckin'... He was all set to freak out.
But there weren't any gloves in that box. No feathers, no oil.
He thought about all those other boxes, in the kitchen. Just waiting. His closet looked like it belonged to somebody else now. Kinky as hell.
The camera watched a big roll of dark black cloth come into the bedroom, followed by a staple gun and a knife. The material was shiny. And so black.
Over him, where he slept, the cloth unrolled. he heard it being cut.
A close-up of the staple gun, clacking away and sliding as if it was the easiest thing in the world. A dissolve. The camera pulled back -
And his room had changed.
There was black cloth everywhere. Ceiling, walls, bathroom door, closet doors.
The camera turned. And Roy watched himself lift off the bed. Carried, somehow, to his bathroom.
Laid in the oversized tub.
He didn't move a muscle... even after the drill returned and started gouging deep holes in the Italian tile. Metal plates with big steel loops were installed just over the edge of the tub. Big spring nuts, some kind of epoxy - and even bigger bolts.
Then the water was turned on.
A montage of shots followed. He was getting washed. Lots of oil in the bath water... and another vial from the wooden box. Pale green crystals were poured into a small bottle of oil.
Soft brushes scrubbed him from head to toe - and he slept right through it. His hair was washed, and a towel wrapped magically around his head.
Then the water drained out. His fingernails and toenails were clipped. A plain white jar opened and - some kind of beauty mud was smeared all over. All... over.
After it was rinsed off, disposable razors were brought out. He was shaved, carefully enough. After a dissolve, the camera panned back to show him, smooth and pink. There was no hair left anywhere below his neck.
The stubble on his face and chin were left alone.
Apparently, the tub was filled again. More oil. Another thorough scrubbing, from the brushes, moving as if they were obsessed with cleaning him right.
Then towels dried him off. The oil with the green dust in it was finally rubbed in. Long, lingering shots of his feet, as the oily skin flexed - in the grip of hands. Strong hands, apparently.
And he slept on, as the oil spread across his body.
Still another coat of oil was massaged into his feet, and all over his torso.
And up he went, floating toward the door.
Back to the living room.
Onto the bench.
Thick, imposing cuffs were wrapped around his wrists and ankles. More close-ups, then, of padlocks. One for each limb. Steel hasps locked through thick iron rings, immovably set.
The camera pulled back - and he saw himself, cuffed to the bench. Matching his current posture. Stuck good.
The kitchen counter was cleared off, and some boxes left the kitchen.
One lingered, though. Above the coffee table -
A carton of cigarettes was brought out, and a bottle of whiskey. They went down to the floor, hiding between the coffee table and the couch.
He stared at the screen. So totally fucked... Gifts? Surprises, for him. He had no doubt there were tons of surprises coming -
The tape showed the candleholder being set on top of the coffee table. And then, of all things - a rose. One perfect white rose...
Roy blinked. It seemed like he would've noticed something that weird. He looked at the coffee table behind him.
There it was. The rose. It laid between the candle and a full carton of cigarettes.
That confused the hell out of him.
Obsessed fan, maybe... Only invisible. Oh, sure.
All that work. Magic. Lock the house. Seal him in. Convert his bedroom into a tor-
Those weird powders. This bench.
And that fuckin' tickle-movie. All that trouble. The leathers. The thongs.
Bars on the windows.
He stared at the rose...
As he did, it broke contact with the coffee table and floated over to him.
- - 5 - -
When the cigarette was taken away from him, Roy stared at the rose - and he felt a different emotion coming on. It was deep. Profound...
Fear? No, that wasn't right. All the prep had been done... carefully. Fanatic shit. I'm in danger, he thought again - but it didn't stick.
That young guy, in the first video... he looked just fine. The later scene. At least a week's worth of beard on him, and he didn't look any thinner. His skin was oiled again, but it was smooth. Healthy.
It wasn't just amazement, what he felt. Not just disbelief, either. Both were there -
The rose angled down. Instead of being parallel with him, the flower dipped... and touched his belly. His skin looked wet - shiny - in the candlelight.
Roy started to squirm. "Don't," he said. The oil would wreck the flower, and that wasn't right somehow. Yeah, as if that was his biggest concern.
It dragged across his stomach, and he hissed in air. Pulling at the straps harder, he had a realization that was obvious enough, but it seemed as though he hadn't really understood it before...
He couldn't move.
The rose slid over his navel - and a desperate little bark came up from his throat. He couldn't take this. Locked doors. Restraints.
Soft petals, skimming over the oil.
"Nnnnaaaaaaaaw huh huh huh huh..."
Roy bucked and cackled. It was just a flower.
No - it was just the beginning.
He tested the cuffs all over again. Snickering uncontrollably, he yelled at the rose to stop. It leisurely skated over his stomach and up to his chest. Down his ribs on one side, across, and back up the other side.
Knowing it was just a hint of what was in store made him laugh harder...
The rose wandered down his left leg, and raised up a few inches. It hung there, over his toes.
A petal came loose. And another.
Roy shook his head.
When there were, oh, about a dozen petals loose, the stem rotated. Down, down -
"Please... don't," he begged.
But it touched the center of his right foot. The petals started targeting other spots on his feet.
When they started to drag, he squealed. Slamming against the bench over and over, with his head thrown back...
Then he slithered against the leather and started to howl.
No way he ever would've guessed that a fuckin' flower would be so impossibly exciting.
His legs didn't seem to believe they were really... stuck there. But the cuffs were scary. They were real. Somebody had anchored him to this bench, just so they c-
It was unbearable. After five minutes, he knew he couldn't take much more. But the petals didn't stop... Or the stem. A sharper point dragged around - it had to be a thorn. It just kept moving.
About five minutes later, he was even more certain he'd reached his limit.
And ten minutes after that, he started to see how very wrong that fear was.
On to Part 2
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