I bring six gloves over him... and pause.
"Rude. What's the thing you dread the most, right now?"
He swallows.
"And what's the thing that's definitely gonna happen anyway?"
Staring at one of the gloves over his belly, he manages to shake his head a little.
I dive in.
He bellows laughter, all but silent... Serious thrashing.
Then he settles down. Responding more if I tickle him harder. So he's paying attention, but Rude doesn't seem too lucid otherwise. He's got a job to do, and he's into it in a big way.
His legs are very pale, compared to his nose. Wearing shorts must not be "cool" where he comes from.
I like him better with nothing on, all spots reachable. And his feet are in much better shape now than they were when I caught him - all smooth and soft. So much more ticklish than they used to be...
Good for an hour of varied stimulation. Then I go after his sides, followed by a long round on his belly, or his knees. By that time, his feet are ready to go again.
I spent a lot of time on his gloves. They're soft as butter now. I've put them to good use, all over him...
He has an attachment, there, that Cal didn't. These gloves of his, I think he's had 'em for awhile. And now I found another use for them - one I'll bet he never thought of - that he just hates.
From both guys, I get the distinct impression that I've stumbled onto a powerful symbol. Feathers might bug 'em, but these fuckin' empty hands really mess with their head. It's safe to say I'm going to get a lot of mileage out of riding gloves like these, with biker folk. From now on.
Lusty days are followed by the riffling of the cards. He loses. Then I put the cards away until it's time for him to lose again.
I think he's beginning to grasp it - how to win. When he wins four hands in a row, I start to get concerned. The next few times we play the game, I make sure he's drunk first. That knocks his average back down to two or three wins straight, and then he racks up many electrifying hours of tickling... until the next time I bring out the cards.
He finishes eating, and kicks out smoke. I laugh at him as he tries to turn his hands, making the straps creak. Two hours, asshole, you nodded off, and I still got two hours coming.
He just sighs real hard. I pick up a few feathers, and take his cigarette away. Starting on his belly...
Within a few minutes, he's sweating like a pig. I switch to gloves. Oiled leather. That gets him huffing.
"Hey, squirm all you want, Rude," I tell him. "I got ya right where I want ya."
He just shakes his head.
I send some of those fingers down to his balls.
It's closer to four hours when I pull off. So I ran a little long.
What the fuck is he gonna do about it?
After a good meal, I give him a cigarette... and break out the cards.
Ooooo, too bad. Nineteen hours. Tough break.
He watches the cards slide back into their box.
I have something special for today and tomorrow.
While he slept, I put him in the stocks. Adjusted to fit.
I made these fuckers with comfort in mind. Instead of trying to pull a guy's hands out by his feet, I started positioning Cal when he was asleep. I sat him in a chair - feet flat on the floor, hands on his knees - and took some measurements. With his feet as the starting point, I lifted his hands a few inches - so I could get at his legs, of course. And I decided where I wanted the supporting pads...
It was a big hit. Wasn't it, dude? Do you dream about the stocks I made for ya?
I ended up pulling a strap around his forehead, though. He'd let his head hang, and it looked to me as if he wasn't breathing as deeply. More air means more fun for the guys. I learned that lesson well.
Anyway, I measured my big buddy Rude and fixed the stocks up for him... and then I got a weird idea. As they were, I expected they'd make a huge impression. But I got to thinking about what could help him out, make it easier for him to breathe nice and deep. If he could just lay there, like he does on the mattress - and there you have it. So here he is...
Almost flat on his back. Instead of sitting up, in the stocks, I turned 'em. A long, soft leather pad supports his head. And the most exciting thing is that his feet are way up there.
When he comes around, his eyes are the biggest I've seen them in quite a while.
He's caught good. Those feet are so defenseless, sticking way up there. So horribly ticklish... and his hands aren't going to be able to help him at all. Rude's soles are now the work surfaces I want them to be. And he owes me nineteen hours.
He gets rough, but I believe in quality construction for my toys. Oh, yeah... These stocks have him worried. He's more bugged than I've seen him since the first day.
Don't you worry, I tell him. You're not going to fall out of these babies. They're gonna hold... And I get brand new pair of feathers. He stares as they go... up, and up, further up...
Turning when they reach the big slab of wood. He can't see them anymore.
I drag the tips down the middle of both feet.
Rude kicks and pushes, making the padlocks rattle. Big locks for a big guy, making sure his limbs stay caught. The frame wobbles a little.
Heels, to toes, along the inner edges -
He chuckles, arching his back...
It's almost as if I was using a blowtorch on him, instead of a pair of feathers. Just fascinating. I could do this all day.
His face looks different. After a few minutes, I figure it out. Rude feels even more vulnerable. Feet on top, caught in the heavy wood. They're gonna be there all day, shooting flash bulletins of tickling all the way down to his delirious head. This position just gets to him in a whole different way.
And I'm looking forward to strapping his toes down. And his fingers.
I add two more feathers, and watch him squirm harder. Solid, raspy laughter.
He gets a few breaks, a couple of cigarettes. The relief, when I pull off, is obvious... Even though it'll start up again. Sure it will. He knows it.
Not being able to watch the feathers is giving him a nice added kick.
Somewhere in the second hour, now. He's lying still. Had a smoke, caught his breath, and expecting the feathers to return again...
But I have a pair of gloves all ready.
Rubbing horizontally - and it seems to be multiplying the effect for him. He works himself up into a frenzy that I haven't seen in many days.
I fondle and squeeze his feet, and he roars. Overloaded with excitement.
After a sweaty hour... I keep it up for another hour.
I send the gloves down his body - that is, up to his neck - and he bucks until he just can't tug any more...
He's got plenty of stamina left to take in all the stimulation.
I'm going to let his breaks run a little long, so he can remind himself how unbeatable the stocks are.
While he's distracted, I strap his toes down.
And his fingers.
Then... Baby oil. Drizzled between his toes, creeping all the way down to his heels...
On a whim, I bring the bottle down. His weary eyes follow it, as it lays against his shin - and squeezes. Drips roll down, all the way down, over his kneecap, to the thigh. Already so ticklish - and now, with the oil...
More little trails, down the side of his legs. The calves. And the oil pools between his legs. He grunts and twists around, as if he could corkscrew his wrists out from the neoprene lining.
And I have to lubricate his arms. Little beads of oil, rolling over all these tattoos. The end of those paths of oil are in his armpits. I start a dozen stripes of oil on their way.
Reclining at this angle, the oil I squirt on his belly stops its journey at his breastbone, his pecs. More ink, brightening up. Ready for a torturous massage.
But the rest of him will wait its turn. No choice there.
I pick up two ermine artist's brushes, and soak the bristles with oil.
Rude arches immediately, and squeals.
Such big feet, immobilized even more. One brush per foot, slowly covering their ground.
He hoots his way through a second luxurious coat of oil, and a third...
I keep the brushes spreading oil on the huge, flat surfaces and the excitable curves...
After he's caught his breath, the brushes start on his thighs.
Another pair sneaks onto his biceps, circling around. Wandering to his pecs, and back. Around his armpits, and backing off. Their time will come.
One more brush, for now. Stalking his meat.
Now, obviously, the brushes are going to end up in his crotch, and under his arms.
He still tries to pound his head, or roll it around. Sweat drips, his voice cracks and fades altogether...
I hold off the inevitable climax for three more breaks.
Then it's time for my gloves again. Four driving gloves. They're gonna drive him nuts.
Another hour, and he's due for a nice long break. Some food, lots of water, a few smokes.
When he's recuperated, I towel him off quickly...
And do it again. Four feathers, starting in again, blanketing his anchored feet.
Brushes, oil -
and finally he gives up... and grins. Nice and big. Enjoying it.
I can hardly believe that. Gotta make sure. A little encouragement -
So I pull a glove on, and immediately start pumping him off.
That gets him showing his teeth. An even happier guy, here, sweating like a fuckin' horse.
I taunt him. So, uh, you like this part? Having a good time now? You sure look like it. He closes his eyes, and my glove slows it down. Still holding on tight, and sliding.
But I'm not letting him off the hook that easy. Cal knows... He'll get relief, eventually. When I decide to give it to him.
Even after rest breaks, when I start back in - he's still giving me that outrageous smile. Diggin' it.
That just makes me even more determined. You want it, Rude? Smart decision. I'm gonna keep giving it to ya. And this will not be the only time I haul you in here for some massive fun.
He wants it, now. I can tell by the sexed-up grin on his face. So this badass is in for it all. That's a promise.
The next day, about four hours into the fun, I unpack the camera.
After about a dozen shots, he opens his eyes and figures it out. "Nooo noooo noo hoo hoo hoooo hoo..."
The look on his face just adds some variety. He's probably trying for desperation - but I study the photos, and throw away the ones that might be interpreted that way.
After taking a hundred instant photos, picking my angles carefully, I have thirty good shots. Rude, looking excited as all get-out. Black fingers at work on his package, and his nipples... but the photos don't show the brigade of tools playing with his feet. And, naturally, the shots are tight enough that all you see are the fingers of the gloves - not the lack of any arms behind 'em. No reason for anyone to think the gloves are empty...
Just as there's no clue that Rude is unwilling to be caught in my stocks. Hell, no - a big guy like that? Nobody ever gets the jump on Rude-dog. He's a sharp son of a bitch. If he's naked, locked down... getting pumped off by leather gloves - big leather gloves - with that blissed-out expression on his face... Well.
During a rest break, I let him catch his breath and drink some water... start a cigarette. After a few hard drags, I show him the photos.
I split them into three eye-catching piles. Here's the deal, I tell him cheerfully. Envelope number one floats up to his nose. Stamped, addressed, ready to mail...
This bunch - and I pick up a half-dozen photos, tuck 'em inside, and seal the envelope - goes to the bar where I caught you, Rude. And he starts to squirm. You can't, uh, they'll think I... I... and then he catches on, and shuts his mouth.
And this big pile...
He watches another envelope come up. No, no, dammit, nofuckin' way. But I just laugh. It's addressed to the president of the club he used to ride with. A well-connected bastard with a real mean streak. And Rude, I say as innocently as I can, he wouldn't think too highly of a guy who let himself get played with by somebody wearin' gloves this big... or, uh, manly. Now would he?
Rude starts cussing me out, quiet and steady.
Pile number three, I chuckle, goes into this blank envelope here. I hold all three up. Listen hard, now. I like ya, so I'm going to give you a break, here. A clue... See, Rude, you know and I know we're not through here. You gotta win the game before I let you go. You knew that, but here's the news flash - this is not gonna be the last time we have some fun. When you win, you're going to get on your bike and go home. Catch up on your sleep. I covered the rent, so that's where you can crash for awhile. Get that voice all rested up. And then I'm going to snag you again. More of the same, tough guy. Much more of the same.
He looks about ready to kill something. Good thing his hands are caught like that. They're fine stocks...
You're going to stay put, Rude. Stay in town. Go out carousing with your buds. Do what you usually do. Just don't try to skip out on me - and I wiggle the envelopes that are addressed - 'cause if you try it, I drop these suckers into a mailbox. And just in case the word doesn't get out to wherever you land, this blank envelope will be headed for your brothers in the new town. You jump again, and I steal the photos and send 'em on.
His face gets a nice lost expression on it.
But no one ever sees these exciting photos, except you. And me. So long as you don't skip town, dude. Think about it... And I figure that's enough talking, so I snatch his cigarette and get four gloves around his legs.
He doesn't seem to be capable of thinking too hard, laughing like he's lost his marbles.
When I've got him good and drunk, almost too tired to keep his eyes open...
Rude tries hard, but he's too shitfaced to play well.
Nineteen hours. Back in the stocks tomorrow. After that, he can stretch out again. Maybe he'll do better the day after that. I think he's got some incentive to learn how to play with several shots of booze in his belly... if he can.
One night, while he's sleeping, I get a sensational idea. I'm going to call it Rude's Room. Cal will break it in, of course. That's his privilege.
When I first caught up with him, Rude was in a roadhouse. Low light, thick smoke... drunken smirks on all their faces, as they watched a wet t-shirt contest. He leaned back against the bar and grinned like a cat, perfectly at ease. At home. But hell, this room isn't that different from the roadhouse now. Maybe I'll add an actual bar, some mirrored tiles behind it... bottles, neon signs. Centerfolds and calendars from tool companies.
No, I have a whole different environment in mind for this scooter tramp. For next time. As he squirmed around in the stocks, I thought of a few ideas to try out. Ways I might improve the design. I don't want any part of his frame being stressed by the way he's positioned. With some work, I think I can build him a set of stocks that will support him as well as the mattress does - a contraption he can be caught in for three or four days straight, without any soreness from the way his limbs are held. I don't want any competing sensations.
So I need to tinker around - with him close at hand, so I can try out the results. I could do it right here, where I've got him now, but it's really Cal's room. And Rude's given me so much satisfaction I think it's only fair he has a place of his own.
Working with the iron and the wood... that calls for a different setting. And happily, it's the other kind of place I picture Rude spending his free time. Just hanging out.
I'm going to build him a garage. A bike shop. Old wood planks for the walls, ceiling stained almost black, grimy metal workbenches. One old door, the kind that swings down. Fuck the automatic opener - it's not going to be opening! No way.
I'll drug him and haul him in there. Sit his ass on a stool. Slumped over a workbench, like he passed out there. He'll probably cough himself awake, groan and work the kinks out of his neck. Look around... and not recognize the place. But there's his bike, parked there, and some tool boxes. Just a garage, Rude. Nothing suspicious.
So I bet he'll relax. Looks like a garage, smells like a garage - say, I'll going to put some fans outside the door, and blow a little dust around, to give him the idea that it's a normal garage. Freestanding structure. Yeah.
If I know this guy, he'll sigh and fire up a cigarette. That's when I'll start making a little noise... from outside the "door". A jingling noise. Chains.
Sliding across the wood. Hopefully he'll figure it out right away - somebody's locking the door. The only exit.
I picture him blinking a couple times. "Hey, now. Hey - I'm in here..." Starting to get to his feet. But before he does, two hands shove down on his collarbones. Sit, dammit. He'll try to throw 'em off, out of instinct. But they'll be gone, zipping out of sight. Just a black flash out of the corner of his eye - aw hell, was that shaped like a hand? Jet-black fingers... And being the smart guy he is, I figure he'll put it together pretty quick. I'll get to see his jaw drop, eyes getting real big...
The chain will stop moving, and a lock will snap closed.
Rude will stare, for a few seconds longer. Desperate to believe he's wrong... Watching the door, way too late, maybe wondering if there's any point in yelling for help. But he should know me better than that. And he'll look around the garage, wild-eyed fucker that he is. Squinting at the dark oblong on the floor, laying well outside the glare of the work-light hanging over him. And further back, away from the light - there they are. The fat metal frames, holding the tell-tale boards with the round ankle-holes on top. Here in the garage with him, as he knew they would be.
Maybe he'll shake his head... before my gloves grab him.
Two leisurely weeks on him, before I start building new versions of the stocks. Rude laid out there, greased up, pinned on a rubber-sheeted mattress, groaning as I take the small brushes and give his midsection a good scrub. Glancing, now and then, over at the improved frames I'm welding...
Three days later... he won. Five in a row.
True to my word, I open up the stocks and help him get dressed.
Twenty-two days after I dumped Rude back on his couch... I finally let Cal go. The garage was all ready, and we'd broken it in right.
Rude's last beer of the night had a little something extra added. He made it about a mile - actually turned onto his own street - before he passed out.
But I was ready. Sat him back up, and pointed the front wheel to the east.
With a cigar tucked between black leather fingers, I pick up a clipboard. The next work order is waiting.
The name of my shop is printed on the top. Magic Touch Garage.
Today's date is already filled in - but the line where the customer's name belongs... it's blank. Well, that ain't right.
I look down, just to make sure. Yup. I know this fucker. Goes by the name of Rude. He works for me.
Right now, he's working on the cuffs, pulling without too much enthusiasm. And the Camel between his lips is getting the business. My employees all smoke like chimneys. You get used to it after awhile.
Sending a glove over to the top of the nearest toolbox, and pick up a pen. Customer, Rude. Serviced by... Cal-Boss. That's more like it.
The work order has a few items on it - check all moving surfaces, measure tolerances, cylinder inspection, run through the intake/ejection cycle thoroughly, test the air flow, dressing all the joints. Plus the usual lube job. Eleven hours, by the book.
I set the clipboard down, and open a toolbox drawer. A selection of feathers is inside. Selecting two, I bring them out and hold 'em steady. Another drawer slides out, and I select a few gloves.
The oil can floats down and squirts his arms. When they're dripping, it takes care of his legs...
But his feet are left dry, for now. The feathers start on down.
From a smaller drawer, I have a glove pull out a strip of condoms. Three ultra-thin loads of fun. I toss 'em down by his hip...
They land next to a dead Jack Daniels bottle. A pint. There are five other bottles nearby, all drained. And maybe a dozen empty cigarette packs lay around ol' Rude... At least that many condom wrappers, and torn latex gloves.
But the crowning touch is seventeen crumpled balls of yellow paper. Old work orders.
I've got a whole bunch of clipboards piled up. New work orders, of course...
Not a deck of cards in sight.
My gloves hijack his cigarette, and start rubbing his legs.
With a soft hiss and a pop, I fire up the welding torch. He looks way over there, automatically, and laughs at it. While he wrestles and pounds the mattress with his greasy ol' head, I'm going to get some work done on this arched rack idea I had.
It's slow work, but somebody's gotta do it.
Back to Part 1
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