How he was lured inside is not uncommon. When he was selected, a background check found an old high-school buddy inad been the area. A message was left for him with his sister. He must have gotten the address when he checked in with her...
The friend was halfway through a ten-year sentence in an Oregon prison. Possession with intent. The address turned out to be the local post office. Sure enough, there was a letter waiting for him. General delivery - which the target had used enough times, in too many towns to count. Perhaps his sister had told his friend about it. He shrugged and opened the envelope, taking out a single sheet of paper. A map. Easy to follow... but it looked like he was a good ten miles away from his destination.
He hitched a ride out, probably. A mile and a half from the property, he was seen walking in. Just another wanderer, with a bad tendency to fall out of contact for months at a time.
And now, he pauses at the front door. Wide open, just for him.
Easing his pack off his shoulders, he groans with relief and presses the doorbell.
A voice calls out from inside. Younger guy. Hailing him, nice and friendly. "C'mon in..."
And he does.
Four steps, and he's well inside. Looking around. The leather furniture, the entertainment center. Iron grillwork covering the windows -
His backpack is picked up and lobbed inside. He turns...
The door starts to swing. He moves toward it, but his traveling gear is in his way. Long before he can reach it, the door slams.
No handle, no doorknob on the inside. Like all the doors in the House, it has nothing to grab onto. The inner surface of the door is covered with smooth black vinyl.
He blinks, with his mouth open.
The deadbolt slides into the door frame. Though he didn't know it when he walked in - voluntarily - the latest captive of Stroker House is in for an extremely long stay.
He keeps looking up and down the door. But there are no fixtures to grab and pull. He'll be accustomed to their absence, long before the door will be opened again.
Two dark gloves float over and welcome him. Leather, without hands inside, moving smoothly.
"Wait," he says uncertainly. Almost tripping over his backpack, he scoots away until he's pressing against the door. He reaches frantically a few times, then looks at the door again... as if he can't believe there's no doorknob.
But the gloves keep coming. They dive into his armpits.
"Nuuuuuuh!" he yells, slamming backward. He tries to run past them, further into the House, but they aren't fooled. They catch his biceps and pin him to the wall.
Six more gloves are moving in!
"Noooooo," he wails, "haaaaaaaaalllp..."
Fingers get a tight grip, and tear his t-shirt off. And then... they stroke him.
He starts to whoop.
He throws himself around, trying to shake their grip.
The gloves rub up and down his sides, scratch lightly across his belly, and unbuckle his belt. After a minute, they let him collapse on the thick brown carpet. All thirty fingers start poking, squeezing, caressing his upper body.
His laughter is tense and ragged, forced out of him. Wild shouts and babbled protests, roaring out with the painful mirth.
Two of the gloves get his shoes off. Then, his socks.
When they start chasing his feet, tickling them as much as they can, he bellows hysterically...
Five minutes later, his belt and jeans are taken away.
Another quarter-hour, and he pisses in his underwear. They're slid down and taken away, never to be seen again by him. Clothing is not an option in Stroker House...
More gloves bring him the only uniform he'll need here. Wide nylon cuffs are bucked around his ankles and his wrists.
The first round of full stroking continues until an hour has passed.
As he gasps for air, the gloves pick him up and carry him over to the couch. It's big, and well-padded. The leather gleams with mink oil, protected from his sweat.
When they've seated him, chrome links are pulled from their hiding places and snapped to each of the cuffs. His arms are extended, comfortably, across the back of the couch. His feet are a few inches off the carpeting, kept immobile and vulnerable.
When he can, he starts to yell. As his volume builds, and the struggle increases, all the gloves wait above him. A minute, maybe two -
They drop and continue stroking him.
Thirty minutes later, his struggles are much more feeble. The restraints are not going to fail.
A glove brings him a bottle of water, and he sucks at it greedily. Head back, eyes closed, he doesn't hear the carton of cigarettes opening, the cellophane peeling...
But even as he sees the first smoke being brought to him, he's just too weary to put up a fight.
When a match lights his cigarette, another hand aims a remote at the TV. Near it, a glove feeds a tape into the VCR...
Generic hard rock, heavy on the guitars. The black screen starts to lighten. The logo starts to appear - a pair of gloves forming an 'S', inside a simple outline of a house.
The volume of the music goes down, as a man appears on the screen. Spread-eagled, cuffed down... covered with gloves. Laughing with pure agonized enthusiasm.
A series of other men are shown. They have boot-camp haircuts. Most are laughing hard, but all that can be heard is their tortured breathing - and the creak of the leather gloves. Every one of them are dripping with sweat. Many are smoking one thing or another.
Feverish, delirious expressions on their faces. Sometimes the gloves are holding feathers or other tools. Pouring oil. Some of the men are caught in stocks, restrained to chairs and racks. Or they're held down on the carpet, or on the bed. On the couch, here. Inside the rubber room, the playroom, the tub, the kitchen...
He stares hard, and forgets to smoke.
After a good fifteen captives are shown, the bed appears again. Empty. Restraints at the corners, all set.
A pair of black gloves take their time floating into the middle of the frame. Hanging over the bed. They grab each other and lace their fingers, holding them up and shaking them. Victory.
"Welcome to Stroker House," a voice says - the same one that invited him to walk through the door.
"Wha...?" he manages.
The gloves let go of each other slowly, and one points at the camera. "You've been selected because you've got what it takes. Not just anyone gets invited to come here. And you're in for the time of your life."
"No - no. Aw, no."
But the tape keeps playing. "You're in a very select group. One of the guys we look for. And now, you're going to be our captive for, oh, quite a few months."
"M-months?"
"Days and nights, packed full... of stroking. Tickling like you've never even imagined. That's why you're here." Both of the gloves curl their fingers slowly... and relax again. "And we've got everything you're going to need to stay healthy and responsive. Count on it. Our goal is to make you more ticklish every day. That's how we do it here."
"Please," he whispers. "No. Ple-"
"Extended, comprehensive stroking... with a full range of tools. Special techniques you're really going to hate. They're just grueling. And it'll start over, and over, each day. You'll get a little time off - mostly to build up the suspense. Make it that much worse when we start back in. And it will always continue. You can be sure of that."
"Nooooo-"
"All of the windows are barred. No sneaking out of Stroker House. All of the doors are like the front door. No way you're going to get them open, from the inside. You're a prisoner now."
He shakes his head slowly, with big, scared eyes.
"We're going to stroke you. Count on it."
The gloves are coming back up to him. Some are holding big white feathers.
"And stroking comes in so many different forms..."
The feathers touch him. The soles of his feet. Down, and back up, and down.
"You are the center of attention here. The latest captive. We're going to increase your sensitivity, and there's nothing you can do about it. It'll be torture, and we're ready. We'll enjoy torturing you. So get delirious - and stay delirious. That's a Stroker House rule."
Fingers touch his ribs.
He flails around and yells, laughing crudely as the gloves bear down and... stroke.
The cuffs don't budge. All of the snapping and kicking won't change that.
His feet are steadily rubbed and petted. Gloves range down his legs and chest, sliding underneath him, squeezing...
After his hysteria peaks, his body begins to relax.
The gloves slow down the assault, but none of them pull off.
A long half-hour passes before he's given more water. Pills, dissolved for easier swallowing, get him ready for some shut-eye.
Twenty minutes later, his laughter is interrupted more and more by huge yawns. The fingers slow it down to a crawl, and he chuckles thickly.
As they get a solid grip on his hands, the gloves unclip the chains. Not the cuffs, of course. As he's lifted up, he finally realizes he's not shackled to the couch. But his fight isn't nearly enough to shake the leather hands.
The bathroom light clicks on.
He yawns again as they set him in the tub. Steel rings hold more clips, which are used to catch each of the cuffs. With his limbs held up, there's no danger of his head slipping under the water. This procedure, like everything done in the House, has been honed to perfection. He tries to watch, barely able to keep his eyes open.
The voice chuckles softly. "Sweet dreams, captive."
"Lemme... go..."
"Long day tomorrow. Full of stroking."
"Please -"
"First full day. So many days coming up."
A glove turns on the water...
Shampoo is worked into his scalp. He stirs, and whimpers... but he doesn't wake up.
Razors are put to use. When they're finished, the tub is drained. His body hair is gone. Next, the scissors are brought over, opening and closing.
The first handful of hair is snipped away.
The longest strands of hair on the floor are well over a foot long.
A bristly stubble is all that remains. The official House haircut...
His body is going to be carefully cleaned and oiled, so the tub is filled again.
Then he's all set to stretch out for a while.
Dawn comes and goes. The morning light barely illuminates the room, with the blinds and the scrollwork blocking the windows.
But he wakes up on the soft bed. Black satin covers a down-filled pad. His limbs are stretched toward the bedposts...
The stocks are there, off to the side of the room. A thick wooden chair is all tricked out with rings and straps. Chains from the ceiling hold a thin metal rack.
As if it was the official start of the day, he fights with the straps which pin him down. Grunting... then yelling. As loud as he can. His voice already has a fine rasp to it. Fear makes him more and more angry, but nothing he can do will get him off his back - much less out of the bedroom, away from Stroker House.
It takes a good fifteen minutes for him to give up.
A glove gets a cigarette out of the pack. He wants no part of that - until a glove curls around his throat. That's all it takes. Then, he smokes...
A rattling noise gets his attention. Slowly getting louder - from the hallway. A pair of gloves are bringing in a huge tray. Covered dishes.
The voice makes a throat-clearing noise. "You want to eat now, or later?"
"Fuck you," he barks. "You got no right -"
"Every time," the voice sighs. "Okay, then. This'll stay hot enough. Let's stroke."
A glove closes the door.
"Nooooo! Hal-"
"Hey. Shut up," the voice says. "Wait for it."
He closes his mouth, all pissed off again, and takes a drag.
The deadbolt slides into place.
"There. Now you're caught right."
Six gloves float up and take their unbearable positions.
"Last drag," he's told - and even though he's squirming, looking from glove to glove, his body obeys reflexively, sucking in hard. "There. We'll spend a few days in here. Then you can check out the rest of the house." A glove snatches the cigarette from his lips.
"I'm... please. I'm fuckin' begging y-"
The fingers answer him with enthusiastic stroking.
02jun2002