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He lopes around the end of the aisle - and stops cold.

There's a pair of hands. Holding a bunch of candy bars...
Gloves? Black leather -
Without arms. Empty. In the air, all by themselves.
Below them, there's a cardboard box on the floor. A few cartons of cigarettes poke out of it. Bottles of booze too, and nuts, skin mags, vitamin packets.
They're filling the box with stuff. Shopping.

Caught totally by surprise. This is a first.
He's barefoot. That must be it. Sneaking in here, no shoes on...

He stares, blinks a couple times, and doesn't move. His cigarette, between his lips - forgotten.
Shoots a look up toward the register, where Don should be.
 

But Don's far away.
Strapped in a chair. Looking at a pint of vodka, upside-down in a bracket over his head. Pads hold his jaws apart. The alcohol drips into his mouth from the punctured index finger of a rubber glove that's stretched over the neck of the bottle.
While the gloves raid his great-uncle's store, he's downed two or three shots. With his head tethered as it is, he can't spit out the vodka without choking on it... and the slow accumulation of drips is triggering his reflex to swallow, over and over.

His sneaky friend takes a step backward.

The gloves don't move. His attempt to escape is too amusing to rush. If ever a guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time -

He rounds the end of the aisle, chucks his cigarette and starts to run.

The gloves drop their load in the box, and disappear.

He makes it to his car door, and fumbles with his keys -
And squawks, flopping against the roof. The gloves are clamped tightly around his ribs, crawling into his armpits. Even through the his t-shirt, he's undone... hands trying to claw at the leather fingers, wriggling violently in their grip.

Not only has he seen too much - he's got stupendous... reflexes. And he stumbled into view, all by himself -
Right in the crosshairs.
Obviously, he'll have to be made to understand his position.

The supplies are for another dude. Cut him loose, let him rest up for his next encounter... or not?
It's been a while since there were multiple objects of attention. Sounds like fun, though.

Suddenly, his car is gone -
The gloves are pulling him backward, and as he stumbles - through a doorway - he sees 'em fly off. Before he regains his balance, the door swings away from him and closes with a deep thunk...

One more loose end to wrap up. A certain vodka-guzzling buckaroo.

Don looks at the gloves that just appeared, eyes tracking as they float over -
One pulls the bottle. The other gives the filled rubber finger a good hard squeeze. He makes a garbled protesting noise... and then swallows hard.
They loosen the clamps and take the pads from his teeth. He moves his neck around and winces, cussing to himself. Drunk.
The gloves pull out a cigar, a pricey hand-rolled Cuban. His great-uncle keeps 'em stashed away - told Don he'd be dogmeat if he so much as thought about touching 'em.
"Hey," he says uncertainly, trying to focus. The leather hands take a cutter and snip off the ends. Stick it between his teeth. They produce a match, dragging it across the arm of the chair. He looks puzzled, as they hold the match in place and casually rotate the cigar in the flame. Eventually, he catches on and puffs it to life.
The glove shakes out the match. And both of 'em meet in front of him, and hang there.
The vodka drips on his shirt until the finger is empty.
Don smokes, and tries to hold himself steady enough to watch the gloves. But they don't do anything, except let him puff on his uncle's Cuban.
They could do anything to him...
So far, they just let him smoke.
And after a few minutes - they disappear.

 

For a few seconds, the barefoot guy stares at the door. Trying to understand what just happened...
Then he blinks, and looks down. No knob - no handle. Some kind of white pad covering it. All over the walls...
Floor, and ceiling. Padded room. But it smells. Sorta like a locker room. And smoke...
He tries to wedge his fingers into the crack around the door, but it's too tight. The door doesn't shift... and the foam is there to stay. It's yellowed, but it's not grimy.
It's obvious he's not going to make any headway there. He turns around.
It's a good sized room. About twenty feet from him -
Thick steel, black rubber. Huge cuffs and straps and chains.

 

Watching him take it all in -
Energizing!
Before he can imagine what he's in for, his reaction is spellbinding. The rack is the only thing in the room. That will change. A man's gotta eat. He'll be wanting a smoke, too. Every base has been covered. Including cigarettes... and another "shopping" trip will not be a problem. Anything he needs.
He doesn't realize why the sturdiest possible restraints are waiting for him. Or that the soundproofing is cosmetic...
He's been transported into an alternate spatial region, about five hundred square feet total, with a total population of... one. Known only to those who have been brought here earlier - the ones who yellowed the padding - and discrete from the places Don and the snoring man inhabit.
There is no one else to hear him, or stumble onto the locked room. Only his kidnapper knows the way there and back.
And no matter how long he spends here, he'll be returned to his car within a few seconds of his magical departure.
But he knows none of this. Staring at the rack, with huge eyes...

 

Don jumps when they reappear, in the same spot he last saw them. Maybe eighteen inches from his chest.
He's glad he decided to hold on to the cigar. Distractedly, it seems like he'd be in deep shit if he'd dropped it. Good cigar, too. It must've taken him a good half-hour to smoke it down that far. He's... unable to focus. Sloshed. He tries to rouse himself enough to track the leather hands.
Another minute passes.

And then they take hold of his own hands -

There will definitely be another trip to this room for ol' Don. He's in for a personalized vacation, thoughtfully planned and custom-fit. Now, though, he's going back to work.

And he blinks, looking at the cash register. He grabs it and steadies himself...
Don kicks out smoke, and takes the cigar from between his molars. Stares at it woozily.
Good thing nobody came in the store while he was, uh... out.

Of course, he wasn't there when his barefoot buddy swaggered in. And ran out. Now he's way, way out... for an unbelievably long interval -
Which equals a few seconds, in real time.

The sneaky dude picks his head up, then sets it back on the pad. Falling back asleep.
His hair needs a good scrubbing. It's stuck to his shoulders.
Time to trim his beard again, too.
Thirty seconds later, he finally opens his eyes... and stares at the leather under his face. The pillow. He lifts his head again - and sees his arms, reaching out as if he was about to do a somersault. The cuffs have been adjusted. They hold him snugly, as if he was part of the rack.
The look on his face... well, it's one of the reasons he's still here. Some guys realize they're still caught, and smolder. Ready to kill something. Others look troubled, but out of it, stoned to the gills. Some just have their workout mask on, keep that tough-guy stance.
Not ol' Sneaky, here. He gets embarrassed. Especially when he's ass-up. Butt in the air, naked as the day he was born. Of course, he's been bare for... quite a while. The pads allow easy access to front and back, whichever way he's anchored.
But he can't seem to get used to being this unprotected. All the times the tickling has resumed on his front side has reduced his modesty some. But not much. Very amusing.

He squirms, unable to get a good look behind, or above...
There's a feather duster, hanging over his back. Brand new. Well-made. Built to last. Wooden handle, and these big, amazing feathers. More like fur. Almost the same springiness, but no edges or overly stiff tufts. If a craftsman made feathers out of silk, this is what they'd be like.
The duster, unwrapped right before he woke up, is fluffed and shaken.

The business end dips, and touches down. Right in the small of his back.
He grunts, once, and tries to see.

Verticals, very light and slow. Lengthening the path. Dusting his spine.
He wakes up, squirming more and more. Stroke by leisurely stroke. Now and then there's a horizontal sweep, or a circle. Random daubs...
And Sneaky recoils each time. His eyes are shut, he's gritting his teeth... but the feathers are working their magic, getting to him, melting his resistance. Forcing him to enjoy this.
Dozens of feathers crawl down the high half of his butt-crack, springing out from between his cheeks as they lift off and start another pass. He quivers more and more violently.

The duster runs down, and floats to his hair, creeps down... lifting off... and then reverses, starting on his ass, climbing up and over to the small of his back -
He snorts, and busts out with a horse-laugh. Keeps on chuckling.
Alright, then.

The sweat is toweled off. The duster pauses, on his butt, and his head is picked up.
Candy bars come, wrappers falling away. Then water...

A second duster gets ready. Poised right over his right midfoot...
Five other straps are looped into each of the ankle-cuffs. Motion in any direction is countered by at least three tight straps. It's a bear to configure, but after they've been put back on him enough times, the placement is a snap.
The feet in question are immobilized. They might as well be the feet of a statue -
Until the duster lands. Nothing gradual about it - the feathers are dragged briskly, with a little weight on 'em.
Sneaky whoops lustily, wriggling as if he's trying to roll. Some kind of movement. Anything.
Nothing sloppy about the way the feathers are applied. Firm strokes back and forth, down, dragging without a pause.
His toes flex, but that's the extent of how much he can move. Not for lack of trying! And even that's temporary. He'll give it up after a while....

He tries to bite the leather pillow-pad in his frustration. Warbling - a weird slurred laugh, rolling, scratchy - and these throaty little yelps. Sounding, for all the world, like a puppy with a bone too big for him. More than he can handle. Sneaky-dog.
Gnawing the black leather... making these noises. More reasons why he's been kept this long.
A glove comes and pulls his hair to the sides, baring his neck. Then it takes hold and starts to... clench.

After a long while, he naps. Face laying in spit, dull tooth-scratches, laughed-out tears.

 

One hour of sleep is allowed.
And now a fingertip slides up his calves, thighs, around his butt to his ribs. Right to the bottom of his armpit, and then back the way it came.
He squirms and makes little noises. Two minutes, three, four...
Jerking awake, eyes blinking at the water bottle.

The duster starts sweeping down his back again.
Its twin expands to both feet, slowly expanding to his ankles, calves, the insanely hot spot under his knees.
He's howling now, pounding his head on the stuffed cowhide.
Five minutes later he's settled down, racked with silent laughter, drooling, shaking mechanically...

The glove returns to provoke the tendons around his neck.
Another pair eases around his hips, resting the base of their palms squarely on his back. Bulldozing their way up, and back... taking a full minute to complete the trip. That gets him thrashing again.

And one more duster springs into action. Flitting underneath - across his chest, drying off those nipples. Sneaky's belly-button gets plenty of coverage. His hands. Darting up to tease his ears, and back under, breastbone... long paths up and down his torso...

31jan01