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Shiny white hands, flexing idly. Hovering over their prey. They'll give him a full day, see if he's any good... The room is private enough. Nobody'll come running. Their prospect lies on the mattress. Stripped, pale, not too hairy. Tattoos to slide over. He'll be comin' round before long, and then they'll see what he's got. Hands bring over the rope. Nice thick nylon, soft, gripping. They spread him out. Many circuits, and layers, anchored under the bed and to the frame. An 'X' of skin, stretched and held here, heels hanging off the mattress. |
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He's starting to come around. |
How the hell can I describe it? All the words aren't strong enough. Nothing really describes what it's like, say, at five in the morning... and you're whipped, totally ragged out, and they're not showing any signs of slowing down... But I'm getting ahead of myself. Maybe if I describe it real carefully - from the first time I came around, the unbelievable beginning... | |
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Strange room. Cheesy motel -
And my clothes are off. |
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One pair of satin gloves over him, impatient... restless. They can do anything they want to him, here. Hot or cold, or painful, or slow. Anything. Still groggy, he blinks at the hands in the air. Full and solid - and without arms. Needing no hand to transport them, no wires. No tricks. Satin hands, gleaming, in the light from below, a lamp on the floor somewhere... He stares hard, then sneaks a look around the room. Basic drab motel, window boarded up tight, no TV - Eyes returning to the big, slippery fingers. White rope, white sheet, white skin. White hands... One starts to descend. |
Two of the fuckers are over me. White, and shiny - empty. All filled out, like they're full of something... but all I see inside 'em is air. And they're, well, in motion. Kinda agitated. Weird enough, just floatin' up there - and they look like they're empty. It seems like a real good idea to get out from under 'em, so I go to turn over - And I don't move. Knew I was tied down, right then, before I even looked. Of course. Rope. Wrists, and ankles. Not ratty ol' questionable rope, either. New stuff, nylon, and of course it's thick, and there's about twenty loops on each limb. Not symbolic. This ain't about suggesting I stay put. I start to tug and stretch, real hard, already knowin' the message is more like there's no chance in hell I'm gettin' up... 'til I'm let go. By the gloves, no doubt. Flat on my back, limbs all spread out. Shiny hands. Oh, just wonderful... One of 'em... sinks down. Coming. And I didn't figure it out, not even then. |
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He pulls and cusses, straining hard. Stuck. So exquisitely stuck, held, pinned here by the magic hands. For the hands. Held to be... held. Anything they want... Leathers would connect his tattoos, probably sleeve him... among other things. Latex gloves get meticulous. Invasive. But they're satin, and he's tied down. A slippery index finger brushes his belly button - and begins to sweep. He goes rigid... And his eyes slam shut. Wham - a mighty attempt to leap off the bed. No progress. Staying put, right here, unable to budge. Making more noise than ever, but that's all right, here... even preferred. All four fingers now, skating... |
It didn't seem to be headed for my meat, and I was actually... relieved. No. My belly. Satin... One finger slips down until it's making full contact. I watch 'em, not believing this... and notice I'm not tugging anymore. Also, I've tensed up. It - moves. To the side... and back - Oh. Fuck. No. And in a flash, I'm really set on bustin' out of these ropes. Yell, and cuss...But it's not raising any help, and I never really thought it would. Whatever the deal is with these gloves, this place - there's planning here. Real careful. Picking a place a guy could... yell his head off. I'm not getting loose. This is not a dream. A bad one. Shit, I can't fuckin' get loose! Aw no, no, nuh huh huh haw haw hawwww... |
21jul98