From their vantage point a few feet overhead, they take a moment to watch him sleep. Marking the totally relaxation and slow breathing for later contrast...
With all their bases covered, two gloves float to his thighs.
Black satin hands hold him tight, sliding up. Fourteen inches of travel, knee to 'V'. Down, up, down...
30 seconds goes by before he moves. Before the two-minute mark, his cock is starting to stand up. He grunts very faintly. A vague expression of pleasure...
His head turns. He looks down, sleepily. Sees the hands, sees his erection - so he pulls, noticing the rope hiding his ankles, keeping his legs where they want him.
Muscle moving under the loving grip. A lot more gloves poised over him.
He sits up -
"Oof!"
Nope. Slams backward. Clothesline buries each wrist. He's staying on this mattress, staked out, fettered...
All that skin to fuck with. Sixteen devoted hands...
No impediments. None from him, or from the distant world outside. This room is his world... the gloves rule it. Indefinitely. His stay is limited only by his health, which is excellent. No calendar, no prior commitments, nothing to decide. Everything will be brought right to him - he can't lift a finger. They've stocked up for any eventuality - way too much, actually.
The fingers stroke their clay. Their empty canvas.
Change takes time, work, diligence... sweat. Suffering.
They'll take him far. No telling, really, what the finished product will be. New beard, longer hair. Color - a fine-needle mural inked across his virgin chest and arms... forest highlands, a lone coyote, about to step into a foot trap with jaws that are black cloth hands...
He starts to tug at the ropes, alarm starting to show in his face.
Down. Another glove coming. He watches closely, mouth opening. Big, big eyes... Not comprehending, not believing. Helpless.
Landing...
Navel.
Fingertip probing in, around - the whole glove... sliding -
Sputtering - now, chuckling. Desperate, forlorn. Studying... the satin bearing down, covering most of his stomach, its hand-opening toward his face. No hand - bulgy, creaseless curves skating over. Substantial contact on his pale skin. So obviously... empty.
His cock is vertical now. He snickers, staring only at the glove.
Coolness touches the back of his neck. He tenses hard.
It squeezes -
Wild squalling fills the room. He watches hands fall from the sky, curving to the bottoms of his feet.
He's berzerk, insensible. Raw autonomic reaction dimmed somewhat by the hours, far from dwindling and fading out.
Satin gloves run the length of his torso in lingering, confident ranks. They handle him in places that hadn't provoked a response earlier, and adhere to the areas that made him thrash.
The inability to fight them was signaled long ago... a slight untensing, the lack of any purposeful squirming, his eyes shut but no longer squinting in frustration.
Hard, pitiful chuckling.
They allow no break in the sound. The uninterrupted flow suits them; he's doing just fine now. Past shifting and complaining... laugh, sweat, endure the tender assault.
There'll be time for thinking tomorrow... not too long, as they wake him fully and crank up the volume again. A few seconds to recall the crippling pleasure, and the vivid anticipation of unbearable hours just ahead...
There's no such mental activity going on now. The body's delivering profusely, frantic nerve impulses since mid-afternoon. No more cursing, writhing, creaking of rope... just unwilling laughter and the slither of cloth.
Unwearying, attentive satin covers his hairtrigger feet. Soft, athletic hand-shapes polish his torso. All of the gloves are slightly damp, very slightly... absorbing a torrent of sweat and drying themselves off by means of friction. Even wet, the slipperiness of the material is debilitating.
A couple of miles away, a car horn sounds for a few seconds. Chortling with abandon, he doesn't notice the faint honk. Not that it would matter if he did... Fingers use the event to dig a little deeper in his armpits, and he's louder still. The horn is not heard again.
Not the slightest impediment from the outside world, and their prey lacks the ability to cause so much as a pause.
They uncurl his fists and massage his tied hands. The result is pleasing, in combination with the other spots they're covering... Slow waves of grueling roars.
Incapable of boredom, needing no improvement to their skills, they reap the intense harvest of their provocative recreation. Beyond experimentation and curiosity, already knowing what they want and precisely how to get it in droves. Nothing to learn or prove...
He hoots, laying still. Devastated, unable to mask his hypersensitivity, delivering hysteria beyond measure, unconsciously performing to their strict expectations. Meeting the exorbitant standards they devise especially for him - and unable to disappoint them in the least.
24apr1997