Easy to miss, hidden away in the trees. It's a little cabin, somebody's hunting lodge. Not even a driveway... and just a little smoke from the chimney. There's a truck parked behind, with chains still on the tires. Peaceful, out here. Cozy little retreat.
The door is locked, though. Force of habit?
No - two padlocks, closed tight. Pretty strange.
It's nice and warm in here. Rustic. Looks like a little bathroom off to the right, a table in the dark corner with a camp stove on it, some pans...
One chair. Pulled up in front of the fire. Inviting. Unusual design - very high back, and angled strangely. Ashtray-stand alongside with a new pack of Camel filters in it, a Zippo and an unwrapped cigar.
Yep, here's a guy dozing i-
Wait a minute. What's he got on, there?
Gloves, the fingerless kind - no, above 'em! Brown leather, wrapped around his wrists a few times...
And it's buckled under the arm of the chair. He's -
His arms are strapped down! Palms up. Not just his arms, either.
Bare feet - and there's a few layers of brown cinching his ankles to the... footrest, a sturdy-looking thing made out of steel rods. Sunk into the floor. It's not going anywhere - and he's pinned to it. There's even a second set of straps around him. Backup.
How did he do this? He couldn't have... tied himself down this tight. Couldn't have snagged both his wrists. This was done to him.
Does he know he's caught? Did he want to be? Apparently he'd be set on leaving - why, though? Cozy place. Relaxing little cabin. Private.
He doesn't appear to be a big outdoorsman. His t-shirt's on top of a leather jacket by the wall. These must be his boots, and socks. Tats on him, long hair... sitting here wearing only jeans... and gloves.
This lodge looked normal enough from the outside. Feels right. Typical. Then again, there's the padlocks. This weird chair - with a biker caught in it. Muscular, capable-looking - but impressive restraints are keeping him down. They just don't fit with this place. But here he is.
His feet are closest to the fire, maybe five yards back. They... shine, a little. Oil or something. Stranger and stranger.
He won't be able to budge, pinned like that -
An ember snaps in the fire, and he begins to stir. Now to find out if he knew he'd wake up here, like this.
It's a great cabin, though. Good place to be on a freezing cold night - not that he could get up and find out for himself...
Grunting, trying to move. He sucks in air, and squints at the fire.
Strapped down, in front of a recently stoked fire - and just left here. Odd.
He's looking at his feet. Trying to move 'em. No, he's definitely surprised... Eyes widening as he stares at his anchored hands. Starting to tug and pull, scan the room - and holler.
Guess his confusion is understandable. Not the kind of place to find himself staked out like this. Real homey place, and he's anything but mellow now. Muscles flexing... tats rippling a little in the firelight. The straps hold snug, no slack in 'em. Gotta admire the handiwork... the chair -
Wonder what's in all these boxes in the "kitchen". Here's water, and canned goods, nuts, candy
bars - shit! Cases of supplies, still cold. Must have been brought up here in the back of his truck. Hmmm. And this can't be more wa- hey. Whisky. One guy needing a whole case of whisky? All these smokes?
Looks like a medicine cabinet was dumped into this box. Loaded for bear. And here - skin cream, and salves, and... moisturizers? No way he would've packed that stuff. His skin looks okay. What's in h-
Wha? No way! Now how's he gonna play with these toys, with his hands strapped down...?
Kinky, that's what it is. And all this stuff... it'll last a good month, if he's all there is. Plenty of firewood, too.
He keeps yelling, and straining. Too weird. The reason this place was picked must be the... privacy. Isn't another cabin for a good mile or two in any direction.
Haul him up here, pin him good - enough food and shit for weeks...
No clue as to why. No clues in the bathroom, or in his jacket. Wouldn't just catch him to have him sit in front of the fire. The nights are real long, this time of year. Huh.
What's - there's a tool box under his chair. Must be there for a reason, this is all too well thought-out...
Well lookit this.
Must be a hundred of 'em. Jet black.
Satin?
All these gloves. Satin...
A-ha.
Shirt off, boots off, feet oiled. Warming in front of the fire. And he can't move a muscle. Everything he could need to stay... bright-eyed. Responsive.
There's more - under all the gloves. Feathers, mink brushes, little textured wheels. That confirms it.
He's starting to settle down, accepting his condition. Angry, but he knows he's stayin'. Doesn't know yet what's been discovered underneath his chair... what it means, why he's laid out here.
Actually, it's a great little lodge... to hide away. Kick back, blow off some steam.
The gloves are real thick, no seams on the outside. Thick fingers... yet they bend easily, flex...
He sees 'em - and freezes. Huge eyes, mouth open.
Four satin hands rise slowly, surely. To his feet. He finally yells, and wrenches those straps. Wholesale panic. Apparently the perfect candidate for a long stretch here, with these gloves...
Two of 'em drift over him, angling back down toward his ribs.
He's shouting. Really irate. Bossy. His face says more, though. Stricken... eyes real big. Never looks away from the gloves. And he can't budge - not his arms, or his legs. So his whole body's staying right in the line of fire. Completely vulnerable.
A glove comes to a stop over each of his sides. Maybe four inches away. The others keep closing in. Slow-motion, nearer and nearer. Warm insoles, pink, healthy - tender. They aren't just oiled. No calluses... these feet are prepped.
Slippery fingers, just a inch away. He's riveted, still trying to rock and twist. Totally absorbed with the menace he can't drive off, down there...
And satin pounces on his ribs.
Full, wide squeezes -
He slams back immediately, with surprising force. Reflex, mighty impulse. Leather is creaking, the chair thumps... he grunts, continues to stutter.
The buckles move a little...
And then, stay put. He keeps jerking impressively, as the gloves finger him at a shrewd pace, release and reclamp...
If effort like this doesn't get him free, this raw force - well, he's here for the duration.
These winter nights, they're so long...
A month of this? It'll seem like a decade.
The gloves creep slowly up his sides - ah, here it comes. High-pitched squeal, last attempt to hold it in -
Boom. Big, raw belly-laughs. Real straight-forward, honest-sounding... His body still tries to flail and dodge. Racking, continuous laughter. Haw haw haw.
As the base of the gloves - empty and still quite solid - ride over his nipples, he slams back again, throwing his head around. And howling. Howling...
The hand-shapes roam around his chest, slowly, fully deliberate. Belly, armpits, throat. One glove explores, while the other keeps caressing his rib cage on one side, and now the other...
Fifteen minutes. He's already sounding a little ragged. Sweating like a pig, tears running down his cheeks... Hooting and braying like a wild man.
And, finally, not struggling. Just can't seem to thrash. His muscles are still taut, but he doesn't have the energy to spare - or maybe the attention - on something as useless as struggling.
The other ten fingers settle and slide. He arches his neck, louder - and squints. Hands got him. Satin on his feet too.
He shakes his head distractedly... then lets it roll back. And he chuckles. An enormous grin. Eyes tight, but the rest of his face looks manic.
Two more gloves arrive. They trace lightly up his thighs -
Nothing. He sighs hard, but it sounds like a weak cackle. Thirty fingers continue, and he's unable to laugh. Or fight 'em, not that it would do him any good.
The satin rides on into the night. It's not even eleven yet...
This is better, actually. Less taxing, but still way too much. Save some of that laughter for later on.
22may1998