The Buffers like a sure thing. They can get a rise out of any target, no matter how callused, 'cause there's always paydirt... below the midsection. No challenge there.
Much better when the animal is reactive in other places. That's their kind of prospect. They need only a live spot or two, exposed and immobilized. Time, and moisturizers...
Then they can coax all other areas into full reactivity, get 'em responding t oeach Buffer as it lands, before it even starts to buff.
Sometimes they luck out. Finding a gem among the rhinestones, so to speak.
This one's tender. More than most. So into the van it goes.
Straps buckled, gag knotted tight, blindfold in place. No windows back there - just carpet on all sides to baffle any noise. Just a beat-up old van, polarized window film obscuring the unexpressive driver.
But they can't buff for very long inside the van. Their destination, referred to only as Far West, is all prepared.
The head of the van's "driver", an old mannequin, moves now and then, and ash from a cigarette is flicked out the wing window. Traffic laws are scrupulously obeyed. This is the riskiest part of the hunt...
Until the van's lights go out as it turns off the two-lane road, onto a gravel driveway. Behind a rusty gate, and around the back of a faded shed, they unload their prize and cart it inside.
Stripped, spread-eagled, strapped down, it tests its bonds. Allowed to yell, also. Peering frantically at the darkness around it.
Three yards of clearance on all sides, and no way to interfere. It continues trying to free itself as the sconce lights begin to brighten -
It freezes when it finally sees the Buffers. A yard above....
Brilliant white satin. Eye-catching, to judge from its stare. Smooth, almost frictionless. Knowledgable.
Now, descending.
A dozen of them, to start. That many also waiting in the wings. Hungry to buff.
The animal moves again, snapping frantically. Yelling. Staring -
Straps hold its limbs out snugly, preserving the clearance.
Taut fingers land... and take hold of its sides. Now, feet, and belly. Inner thighs, armpits, chest. As they settle in, their prey tenses up.
Then, they begin.
"Buffing" is their own ironic term. Large areas - sides, legs, abdomen, soles - are slated for endless, weighty polishing. In other places, they squeeze and dig and encircle. Their contact is diligent, yet varied enough to prevent desensitization anywhere.
It flexes, and shivers... and starts whooping - a loud, energetic "Whoooooo" that resumes after it gulps another breath. The intense stimulation, times twelve, causes it to throw its head around, yanking at the straps uncontrollably.
Obviously, this is an animal that doesn't any training to be responsive. The starting squad continues surveying while others bring leftover satin. A roll is shoved up its ass; a strip is tied around the base of its enlivened member; layers are eased between its buttocks and over all of its genitalia. A diaper presses against all the material.
The room is secured, the straps are still in place, and maintenance won't be required for a few hours. No more preparation remains.
The Buffers study its reactions, contours and weaknesses... and they start some serious buffing.
It howls and gibbers. Eyes slammed shut, fists clenched but no longer in motion. Buffers move from armpits to collarbones, while their cohorts ease back to a snail's pace. Checking down and back up the length of its arms conscientiously...
But when the satin explores where the neck meets the shoulder blades, its eyes pop open and it starts writhing again. After another minute, the explorers slide onto its shoulder blades, slithering on down.
When the palms graze each shin, it reacts similarily.
After an hour of investigation, the animal is hoarse and dripping wet. The diaper has a larger bulge, and a small damp spot.
All tension has been massaged away. It grins deliriously. Readied... and now they know its special regions of vulnerability. One by one, each Buffer lifts off long enough for others to towel off the perspiration, and squirt thick gobs of emoillent. Dry gloves start to palpitate its calves and shins... while its wet hair is pulled back, and two others can embrace its lower neck. They keep the pace slow... but press in more firmly, digging a little deeper.Ten hours, six breaks and five quarts of water later, the animal sleeps while they wash and moisturize it. The padded diaper is replaced. Then they wash and lubricate themselves.
It's allowed to recharge until it awakens naturally... under a canopy of buffing hands.
Virgin acetate is positioned over its soles, and neck, and sides.
Others bring water and food.
It tries to break loose furiously, before and after eating...
That's the pattern followed every "morning."
After an eighteen-hour nap, it wakes to find they've defoliated its legs and neck.
The next "day," its arms and torso are hairless too.
Their number increases until all twenty-four Buffers are massaging ponderously...
Rations and sleep periods continue to increase.
No diaper. Six of them familiarize themselves with the newly uncovered area... while the others energetically counteract their efforts.
When it finally ejaculates, they ride much more gingerly - and get a savagely increased reaction. Less than two hours to buff it into unconsciousness.
A new pattern.
Each "day" feverishly blurring into the next...
Stimulants are added to its diet.
Full-day sleep periods, every so often... and it wakes gradually, but the speed gets it rarin' to go.
Waking to water, pills, vitamins, food.
Approaching fingers.
Again.
And again, and again...
And again.
11jul1998