Tom can't move.
One glance, and his very worst fears are confirmed.
He tugs harder and harder. Not rope this time... Straps, wound a few times around his wrists, his ankles. Holding him down tight. Spreading him out. It's always been rope before.
He twists to one side, then the other. Remembering the last time... groaning. That fuckin' warehouse. The time or two before that. All rope... Now, this black nylon webbing wrapped around a few times, pinning him too well. Can't even bend his wrists, twist 'em -
Or his feet. He lifts his head, staring hard. His heels hang way off the mattress. And a cord circles each big toe, running under the mass of layers bracing his ankles. Cautiously, Tom tries to... bend his feet. Can't flex 'em. He can't scrunch up his feet, bend his toes. The whole underside is just about stationary -
"Aw, fuck," he blurts...
Gaping as a black glove coasts into view. Coming out of hiding from under the far end of the bed, about nine inches from sending him into hysterics. Closing the gap, little by little.
He strains and twists desperately, eyes locked on the satin. Light shines on the slowly moving fingers, and taut palm...
The empty thumb makes contact.
That satin and its partner get to kick off day number four, all by themselves for at least an hour...
Tom is rested, fed, restrained just tightly enough. Done struggling, for now.
The thumb glides into view. And the rest of the hand-shape, joined by its buddy. He peers at them, through dense smoke he's not allowed to have or make. Well into the fifth carton of atmosphere...
Both gloves stop and hold position.
Tom stares up at his keepers.
He's much more reactive than he was at first. Careful maintenance has produced extreme results. Another marathon is about to begin, thirteen hours of fastidious polishing. Tom watches them, not even breathing.
This animal, covered with tattooed feathers and chains from earlier captors... shaved again three days ago, is curbed now, until the straps come off. If he did the impossible - managed to get both hands free - he could... escape, possibly. However slim the odds are... he could try to get back at the material that's been riding him so heavily, putting him through his delirious paces. If they weren't "filled", he could easily tear each and every glove apart. Rip 'em into pieces, unravel the acetate...
And he would surely do this, if he could.
Scour them against concrete. Cut the lithe fingers into useless scraps. Help himself to a long-overdue cigarette - and burn a hundred holes in the gleaming tips and palms. Wipe his ass with them...
Tethered securely, still - Tom lies there, watchful, incapable of any revenge. Caught and held by the magical gloves he can't stop or elude... or destroy.
After four long nights, he's fully alert, strong, even more responsive.
The gloves pick their mark. They creep down slowly...
One encloses his relaxed cock, and the other blankets his nuts. Tom reacts from head to restrained toes -
Gentle squeezing, buffing heavily. He shudders, growling low.
A few more cigarettes are lit under the bed. Satin continues to work him up, and his efforts to stay calm are rapidly... failing him.
The hour is up.
When he's panting noisily, desperate to finish off...
Both satins glide away. He opens his eyes, eventually, and starts to look all around.
They let him catch his breath...
And then the whole team goes back to work.
When they downshift, Tom can think. Fleeting, very distracted thoughts... like trying to persuade himself this isn't really happening. That never works, though. The stimulation's too intense.
Just like the last times. He can't remember how many, right now. Even with the tats all hidden, they always find him...
Several times a minute, his attention is captured by one crippling hand or another.
Black hands, many days. Long, long time. They feed him, won't let him smoke... Keep him from bending his feet. A hard thing... much worse. Decades ago, the other times before he was here, they didn't tie his toes. Bad, but not as bad as this.
Weeks of black hands. Right? Feels like it. Months...
An image, of one polishing the eagle over his heart. Whenever he peeks, it's there, not a memory. Still happening, really there... Another buffs the netting inside his left elbow. And more on the war bonnet, the jaguar, feathers and flames - all the lassoes and arrows and miniature gloves up and down him. Following the route signs, all the markers left by others who had snagged him.
There must be something else he can try, to get loose. Think. Think...
That's the last thing they're gonna allow. He's never gotten away. Once he thought he did, and they jumped him at home a couple days later, hauled him off... They have their fuckin' fun. He's stayin' put 'til they're good and ready to let him go.
Fuckin' with him. Leather, latex - and satin, dammit. He's never seen satin gloves anywhere else except - well, if they exist outside of cells like this, he's never seen 'em. Thick and big, but why would a guy wear 'em? He wouldn't. Sees way too much of 'em already - in his sleep. Shiny, no seams, every color you can think of.
Made for this. These are... well-made. Carefully made. Just for this - rubbing him. Like this...
The first set that got him - how confusing, and scary, trying to see "who" was tying him to that chair... Gaping as they coasted around and to his body, impossibly handlike and graceful. No hands in 'em. Full and heavy. Too strong.
The red ones - he'd never forget that shade of scarlet - bringing him his first cigarette ever. Yelling, struggling like crazy, as they opened the pack and eased one out, slipping the rest in his shirt pocket.
First cigar. "Light" brands, menthols, nonfilters. Three packs, four. Five. In so many rooms like this one, hidden away. Thick haze of smoke... First joint too.
He remembers the first time he heard that distinctive buzzing sound close by, eyes too blurred by tears they were stroking out of him. Three more tat guns since that first time.
The locks, and cuffs, custom frames and racks and beds. Supplies laid in, toys collected and invented. All they'd need was a target - some wildly touchy guy. Way too sensitive. Lay hold of him, get him well away from any slim chance of rescue. Strapped down, chained down, tied down. Straining, unable to budge. A dozen gloves, two dozen, three dozen massaging hands zeroing in. Careful, heartless, not ever needing a rest.
Such as these, here. Knowing how far they can push, when to scale back down... where the line is between white-hot pleasure and numbed, exhausted pain. Riding him for days.
Days adding up to impossible weeks and more weeks.
On to a later, longer ordeal of Tom's...
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