751

The ropes aren't breaking. I can't believe that, but I'm still stuck the the chair, sweating all over it.
I've been pulled into the house next door. Ordinary fuckin' house, surrounded by others waiting for the painters to get to 'em. But this one's got a big trunk in the living room and a chair. There's too much rope for me to shake off. I sat here and fought with it, yelling like crazy, but the workday just ended and I got to watch everybody else drive off. I'm stuck. Somehow the vertical blinds closed by themselves...
And just as weird, there's a pair of gloves coming. Big ones. Oiled leather. Dripping on the carpet.
"Listen up," a guy tells me.
I look around, but there's nobody else in the room. Just me and the gloves -
"What happens now?"
The fingers are curled, just a little - and they're still coming.
No.
I can't be thinking... the same thing the guy is thinking. Aw, hell no.
"All night," the voice says - quietly, but it still sounds like a promise. "Then I load you into your truck and take you to a dungeon. Hidden, quiet, and stocked up. And you know what'll happen there. More of the same."
Dammit, I can't get my hands out of these fuckin' ropes!
They wouldn't. They just can't.
Still moving closer, it's obvious they will. I can't fuckin' defend myself. There can't be some magical bastard who does this to people. Guys. I'm gonna be tickled all night. Drilled.
I lock right up whenever anybody's gotten a couple fingers in one of my armpits. Oh, shit, if I don't get out of here, right now, I'm not going to be able to do a damn thing when -
"Watch the gloves," the guy orders. "They're coming. And they're only the beginning."
If only I could pull the damn chair up from the floor. Run off. I'd jump through the window, and take my chances - because I can't fuckin' stand the thought of what's gonna happen. And it is coming. Not possible, there's no way I can take it - my fuckin' sides are open, and it looks like they're gonna stay that way...
"Oh, no," I sigh. It sounds like I'm whimpering, and that makes me mad. "No! Dammit, get 'em away from me! I don't - help! Let me go!"
They're still coming. Floating smoothly, inches from my ribs. They're gonna fuckin' grab my ribs. I've never been stuck like this, and now oiled fingers are curving around, all set.
"Days, and weeks," the voice says.
I flail at the ropes as hard as I can.
Gently, the hands wrap around...

752

He's bullied into it gently, overpowered in a friendly, kidding way that leaves him the out of going along. Without time to think it through, and with all resistance unmistakably brushed off, his only real choice is not fighting too hard. His arms end up behind him.
The cords are thin, though. Shouldn't be a problem... His protesting isn't doing any good.
He ends up in the chair, and old wooden number that doesn't seem strong enough to outlast a few seconds of serious struggle...
His legs - no, ankles! Drawn up to the crossbar, more cord looping round. Well, it figures... Still, he complains a little more intensely and squirms harder to show that enough is enough. The cord goes taut, several circuits trapping all limbs. The knots are a little too snug for comfort; the tying stops. He sits there and tugs, embarrassed at having let this shit progress this far.
But he's stuck. Full-power straining at these little strings would get him outa here.
Or... would it?
Damn. Now what?
The friendliness (his host? Captor!?) is more... intense. Pleased, but with a definite edge...
He doesn't want to believe he can't get loose, but - no, he thinks about what might be next in the overall plan. He looks down at his crotch once, betraying his worry, and snaps harder at the cords. Talking to the empty room, he tries a humoring tone. Okay, enough already, joke's over...And he shuts up, not wanting to throw any ideas out there. Bondage - well, fuck. Unless he gets his hands free...

But he can't.
Movement - a couple yards away, the trunk or footlocker is opening. The lid lifts a few inches, then stops. Three seconds, and it closes - but something was taken out, is now approaching the ring of light from the battery lantern...
It's black, about an inch wide. About a foot away now -
Oh. Smooth cowhide, varnished, with a thick buckle and a grey rectangular box in the middle. It stretches out... "Wha," he snorts nervously. Wriggling, trying to presuade whoever that this is not cool, he means it, wants outa here... As it rises above chest-level, he sees two dull studs sticking through it from the box on the other side. Something collects the back half of his hair, pulling it up and holding it out of the way. And despite his frantic dodging, the strip circles his throat and tightens.
The box sticks out maybe an inch. The cool metal of the studs lay over his adam's apple, making swallowing a little bit tougher. Could be mostly nervousness, though. His hair is let go and it covers some of the leather.
A collar for a big dog.
This strikes him as a really good time to bust out of here... He's thorough, creative, very motivated. Still, here he sits.
Resting, he thinks about the collar. The only purpose for the steel bumps pushing on his skin, and the box they stick out of... No, that must be what they're for, dammit. Electrodes. Why? Nobody anywhere near here; he'd parked back here 'cause it was totally empty, and the dark recieving bay looked like an ideal place to kick back, get high. Yeah, he'd set himself up for this shit...

If whoever had made their move five minutes earlier, if he hadn't already been stoned... The garage door suddenly opening behind his car, his brake lights highlighting nothing in the loading dock, and craning his head around to take a long look confirmed no people in there --Smack. Metallic rolling sound, coming closer...He'd fumbled with the door handle, got out after the sound passed. A can, rolling away. He cught up with it - Coors Light, almost warm. Unopened. If he hadn't been loaded, he definitely would've recognized bait.
But he'd grinned like a fool and stepped into the garage, wagging the beer like an invitation. He whistled fairly quietly - no response, just an echo. Empty.
Brake lights on - his car, with nobody in it...
Something closed around his left wrist, pulled it out and up. The joint smoldered between his thumb and forefinger, plainly visible to him... and somebody else, it felt like. Weird. He jerked his hand back. It was released and left alone.
His car clicked and started to roll toward him, despite the brake lights being on, and shifted into neutral.
Involuntarily, he backed up a step - and chuckled. This was unreal. He ran to the driver's side door, pulled up on the handle. It wouldn't open; held shut, or jammed...
He grabbed the handle and window frame and dug in his heels - no good. He snorted once amd ran behind the car, got a grip on the bumper. A couple feet further back, and then no further. Good.
Noises - one louder than the others. Clank. The garage door was down. After a stunned pause, he let go of his car and walked around. The window finished rolling up as he passed it, squeaking once. Up in front, a slide bar near the bottom of the garage door - naw. He felt it, proved to himself it was locked. Found the padlock in place. Well, shit...And nobody else in here...
Slowly, he straightened up, walked over to the car door. Tried the handle - locked. So was the other door... and his keys were still in the ignition.
The brake lights went off. The garage was pitch black, silent except for his labored breathing.
The shoving started then. Playful, unhurried, turning him away from his car, steering him toward the back... The lantern was turned on before he got near the office, but there wasn't anything to worry about in the room it illuminated...
And so, here he is. He pulls his head up and tried to make the collar move, his buzz all wore off, not liking this shit at all...
The trunk lid's opening again - a lot farther this time. Long, round - oh. Water, floating over, cap unscrewing. He gets as much as he wants; he drinks about a pint. The bottle bobs over, back to the trunk, next to other bottles. Some glass, mostly plastic -
Glass? He does a double-take. Four, five liters of water - a neck strip, those look like booze... A box, Mono-something, another box looks sorta like smokes. And the lid closes. That's just the nearer end of the trunk, for maybe four seconds.
That booze is for him? Naaah. That water, there... enough for days. Been hot around midday - days? Days?
"Aw, fuck," he blurts. Maybe it's just a scare tactic... Maybe there's more water than he can see...
This is serious. A good time to start yellin' again. Right away - a poke of voltage, under his chin!
He jerks his head around and looks for the culprit. Nothing there. He yells again - another zap. The collar. It hurts.
He really wants to go home.
He cusses, gets zapped, and he's off. Thrashing, yelling. Shocks, increasing frequency and length... He goes ballistic. Getting louder and angrier, throwing his head around violently, the jolt almost continuous now -
Tap. A touch - hand cupping his left side. He stops flailing and yelling - nothing there... but his shirt is sorta pushed down.
Sliding up. The phantom hand moves heavily. All his muscles tense up, and he manages to press his elbow into his ribs. The sensation is exactly like fingers prodding their way into his armpit. Testing.
He chuckles and twists to the left, sucking air through his teeth. Thinking suddenly of Darlene...

Way back when he was fifteen. She looked him over for a long minute, then handed him his first cigarette. He was a walking gland, and he wanted her bad. She smoked a lot, made it clear she expected her men to outdo her. He practiced hard for a few days, getting over the sick, and she rewarded him generously the next weekend...
The memory of that breezy night, of suckin' hard on a 'Boro as he unrolled his first rubber. Three weeks of ravenous sex.
She discovered his "pit thing" early on. Pressing two fingers into a particular spot high up under his arm got her whatever she wanted. Pressing the buttons under both arms at once drove him completely apeshit. Darlene dumped him for a rich kid, but left him a two-pack habit...

He can't see any hands, but invisible fingers are too damn close to the magic spot. A little too deep. Sweat soaking his bangs, grinning with his teeth and pulling earnestly at the knots...The fingers start to move back down. Whew...Suddenly, up all the way -
Bingo. He yelps, head snapping back. The front chair legs clear the floor. The fingers back off. By accident, he thinks. Maybe they won't...
Again, pressing right on target. A similarly drastic reaction. Another hand starts worming into his other armpit... Searching -
Both! Oh, fuck. Both, bullseye - staying there.
He roars. Hard. Can't even look at 'em. Nothing to see anyway... nothing visible. Adrenaline flooding him, body all tensed up, dick good and hard... needin' a cigarette, oh shit, smoke right now...
Sounds nearby, quiet new noises. He can't concentrate, can't hardly gasp for air. No, silent now - wait. Under. He glances - brackets, bolts -
He bucks hard. Clattering metal. The back legs don't budge, though. He sees the bolts stuch through the brackets again, tightening down. No wrench, no hands... Anchoring the front chair legs too.
Bolted - they're bolting the fuckin' chair down - he takes this in, seeing it as a very bad sign. Why is it - but he doesn't want some of these answers yet, afraid he'll know real soon, here...
Stuck. At least he'd been able to move the chair before. Stuck real fuckin' tight -
The fingers press in hard. He's baying, whooping...
Hours, days. Or so it seems...

Jolts. Short zaps. Shocks to get his attention. He discovers he's been throwing his head around. He opens his eyes... Footlocker's open again, shoes and socks are off. Hadn't been aware of anything beyond the magic fingers...His t-shirt pocket hold an open pack - he cranes his head to study 'em - of Luckies. Never bought 'em in his life.
Whup - out of the trunk... comes a hand. Just a hand, nobody behind it. Floating over with a little black box.
"No," he manages, twisting in the chair. "No more of this shit. Don't wanna play - hear me, you fuck! Don't y-"
The black thumb moves - presses down. Zap. Zap zap.
"Ow," he whines. The glove stops and holds position a yard or so over his knees.

753

Roarito Unltd.
Standard Operating Procedures
Section 4.7
SMOKING POLICY

Roarito maintains a compulsory smoking policy within all areas of the Headquarters complex and all other facilities. All employees are required to smoke at all times. Roarito will provide tobacco materials, personal assistance and motivational incentives as indicated or needed. This policy is in effect twenty-four hours, seven days a week, 365 days a year.

Exceptions to the smoking policy will be granted only a) during those intervals when employees are directly working with explosive liquids or gases; or b) when an employee's health condition requires the temporary abstention from smoking in order to fully recover and regain full strength, at which time the employee will resume smoking. It is recognized that an employee may not be able to smoke during peak periods of workload; the employee's manager will ensure that smoking is resumed as expeditiously and continuously as possible.

Smoke breaks will be taken in addition to regular rest breaks at the discretion of the employee's manager.

The selection of cigarette and cigar brands supplied by Roarito may be incomplete, and substitution is at the discretion of the manager, who will give full consideration to the employee's workload, adaptability and employment history.

754

The slightest wave passed under the water table, the barest echo of a temblor 140 miles away. The third harmonic was weaker still, hardly even jostling the river. Water flowed back into a subterranean stream, moving a wedge of black slate less than a foot; then the current resumed its usual course. A crevice was bathed in silt, then with the passing water. The angle of the crack forced the sand further in...

Twenty years. Fifty. And the bank is cut through, the expanding rivulet assisted by the weight from above of thousands of trucks and cars...
On a unremarkable April day, a tree and part of the boat dock tumble into the river with an unceremonious splash.
 

Roused. Mindful, again -
One arced over the water. Exulting, mighty, unassailable. It knew itself and its abilities again. A singularity, here, in this place. The surroundings came into sharp focus, coalesced into structure and surface -- and the self-aware beings, so much larger and yet emitting none of the... command. It mulled thousands of possibilities, remembering the fleeting impressions it had gathered earlier...

While arriving. Its arc had not slowed, for some reason, and One was trapped by its own eagerness; but not before recognizing the cluster of intelligence.
Not far now.
Though it had been unable to vector, the descent had provided some hasty information. Darkness, and dwellings - clues to the inhabitant's construction. Gone by in such a blur... There had been time to modify its radiation to a wavelength much higher than the frequencies in use, and it found small creatures with cognition suggesting they were food sources, or perhaps vermin -
Larger animals. Sentience. Close to the water source, away from rhythmic noise and combustion-illumination (One had so many new symbols to reindex!)...

Their impulses were undecipherable, but not daunting. Deep and intense... These two samples were of different construction, and ornamentation. They radiated considerable vigor - a trait One keenly appreciated.
The... thinner beast lost a piece - no, just some of the outer covering. Carbonization very near the other, detached quickly. It gave in to curiosity and examined the discarded objects. The beings called for a vastly detailed survey -
And so the clearest impressions One had were of the inanimate objects on the ground, and not the owners who had cast them aside.
With these scant observations, it ruefully confirmed the inconvenience. Blocked by the... minerals that followed its wake; a freak accident. One settled in, knowing that geographic changes come in due time. It analyzed what information it had, eventually settling into a rough equivalent of drowsing...

755

Closed room, not well-lit. No window. Maybe one low-watt bulb overhead. The walls are indistinct and hardly seen, but it's not a big room.

A dim, vague place. Quiet, run-down, unplaceable. Grimy, bare walls. The door looks like it hasn't been opened in years.

Stale smoke. Musty-wood smell, very faint. Also urine, back-alley ripeness. Sweat. Other odors, earthy and provocative.

It's a crash pad. Discarded needles here and there, dusty Thunderbird bottles and whiskey pints, a thousand cigarette butts. An old mattress is on the floor, leaking stuffing from the sides. The only inconsistency: a tan-colored sheet that should be grey with dust. Out of place... particularly because it's latex, newer... no rips or stains.

The right kind of clothes for a room like this: thick leather, swallowing the light. Jacket, gloves, chaps, boots... surprising weight and thickness. Unfamiliar layers, yet well broken-in.

Alongside the mattress, in shadow, is more cowhide. Big curled C's, with rings and rivets... wide bands, extremely thick. Leather implements are also piled up in a corner, all black. Well-used. Several boxes are near that corner.

No sound penetrates from outside. A hidey-hole. Secret place, getaway, a little privacy within the dark walls. The litter tells all... more than a few guests had visited. The more curious smells, the rubber sheets suggested a good time had by some, and the gear not yet seen says something else again. Relax, load up if you got it, light a smoke off the old one. No disapproval. It's a useful, no-bullshit room. Nobody's got their eye on it. Safe for... whatever.

Even so, there's a history here that's the opposite of the lazy calm. Still and always a room where time doesn't seem to pass... but something, maybe the lustier smells, gets the adrenalin flowing. Intense and savage uses are detected on a subtle level. Nothing obvious, but definitely here. Contradicting the appearance of a place where excitement has been lacking for an undeterminable time...

Slow and easy, another smoke is started. Another butt sprung hard to the floor. Easing a boot off while standing on one leg, letting it fall, and then the other. Unbuckling the chaps and peeling 'em off... the jacket, a t-shirt, black jeans. Socks. Underwear.

The cigarette, between gloved fingers, is being carried back up for another drag.

Turning, and sitting on the mattress tentatively, then more solidly. Lying down, with a comfortable sigh, and finishing the smoke...

Where the hell?
What the fuck -
Spread. Caught tight. How...

Gotta think. Gotta think, just calm down.
This is fuckin' crazy.

756

He woke up just after dawn. Nothing flying around. Still tied down, though.
Last night - could it have been a real bad dream? Any chance the shit around him wasn't -
A curling of fingers over his left instep. And his right. Moving slowly, horribly.
He forced a few chuckles out, then a coughing fit. The gloves stroked for a long minute, then the box of 'Stons opened and one slithered out. The matchbook rose, opened. One was struck, came over. He tried to concentrate on lighting up, and was relieved when the gloves left his feet and let him suck in. The trainer's bottle levitated over, which had plain water in it earlier...
He kicked out smoke, rested but in some way still exhausted. He'd been rode real hard and he'd passed out after a few hours. The litter around him reminded him why.
The ropes were still taut. At least now there were no hands on him. Yet. He looked himself over, saw he'd been washed up.

After pouring maybe a pint of water down him, he was left alone for the rest of the pack, one lit off another, to fully come around and think...
Movement northwest. Latex uncurling - a glove! With it came a big plastic canister, unlabeled, the lid unscrewing and landing near his hip. The glove dipped deep into the jar, came out with a milky brown layer on it. It started working the cream into his ribs.
It was unsettling... made him smile with his teeth and tense up. But not meant to make him laugh, apparently, cause they definitely knew how to do that. The tensing up and the unyielding ropes reminded him of his status, and he yelled for help again, just in case. It was crushing to hear how quickly he got hoarse, but he kept trying, even though he knew nobody'd ever hear that...
The glove coated itself and moved on to his belly, working it in deep. Another 'Ston came to replace the one he'd dropped yelling. He fidgeted and smoked worriedly.
It paused while rubbing down his thighs, and a satin fed him a mouthful of pills - vitamins, No-Doz, unrecognized ones - and the water bottle was aimed and squeezed again. For some fearful reason, his crotch was uncharacteristically skipped over. The then buttering-up continued down his legs. Heavy, almost obsessive, on his feet.
He started another 'Ston and streched absently at the ropes. Been up, what, an hour? He'd fully come to now, and the No-Doz didn't encourage him any. The glove and jar rose and started down from his hands.
More water, more smokes. His armpits and pecs got the deep massage treatment. It was terrific when the glove pulled away and the lid floated up and screwed back on the jar. The next smoke was blissfully without anything in motion around him and he laid back and tugged hard on it, trying to stay calm.
The next couple cigs were not interrupted, either. And his mind started to wander. What next?
A slight thump at his right side made him jump. He looked and saw a small cardboard box. The squirt bottle had apparently been waiting, too.
The box opened and a plastic thing came out. Pink- and flesh-colored, a lot of latex... his guts shriveled. It turned until the big hole faced straight up.
A quart bottle of some kind of lube came over, uncapped, oozed in until it overflowed from the hole.
Another cigarette was lit for him.
And then a satin glove rose, inflated, and headed for his meat.

He started to twist devotedly, even though he hadn't broken the ropes before...
The hand didn't connect, but it went through some big-time teasing motions seriously close to his cock. He remembered just what its grip had felt like, not eight hours ago, and he stared at it dreading and yet wishing for the moment of contact.
Of course, he couldn't keep his cock down. The glove zipped away, and the... thing was slowly pulled over his shaft. He thrashed, lost the cig, feeling a pessimistic fatigue along with the caffeine throb. A ring of thicker rubber made a seal of sorts, but a large puddle of lube had poured between his legs. The satin picked the cig out of his hair and stuck it back between his teeth.
From the cardboard box came a coil and a ball. Thin vinyl tubing unsnaked, was connected firmly to the toy near its base. The other end was slammed into the end of the rubber ball. He finally recognized it as a squeeze bulb. It landed about a foot from his side. Another 'Ston was lit from the old one.
As he exhaled that first hit, the bulb deflated a few times, and he was overjoyed to feel no change down there... But then the air pressure must've built up enough. The next squeeze made the whole toy slide. There were rubber nibs in there... and that ring of tighter rubber creeping toward his belly, then away... He flailed all over again, but naturally stayed right where he was. And found himself breathing out smoke raggedly and staring at the bulb, waiting.
He watched it collapse slowly, grimacing at it as it did... Two, maybe three times a minute, making him shudder, then grunt too, and then he began to whine quietly and involuntarily. Sucked down another pack and a half without realizing it, trying to come. It got to the point that he couldn't take this too much longer and he really, really had to come. He tried to force it, then timed it with the bulb squeezes. It was wracking.
Eventually he succeeded.

757

Real jumpy, for a biker. Lookit that. Tats, scars - and one helluva strong reflex when a few fingers gripping his ribs.
Can't stop himself, hating it. Jump, cuss, jump. Bellowing. Swinging at nothing, dropping his cigarette. Nobody there to blame, but boy is he gettin worked up. Fit to be tied.
Tied.
Hmmm...

Simultaneous chops on both of his jugulars, dark blurs slamming down just hard enough. He sags, lurching forward - and continues moving. Held nearly upright and floating down the shadowy sidewalk, boot-toes dragging across the cement... upper arms well out from his body, held by thick lumps blacker than his jacket and chaps.
Across the street, to the alley...
Through a doorway.

An old building, full of secrets.
He's laid down in a utility room, breathing loud and steadily. The black shapes pull his jacket off, bring rope to him and encircle his limbs, pulling them together in front of him. A roll of duct tape is set near his mouth.

In the near-darkness and the buzzing of the switch panels, and the heat, he groans and starts to come around.

758

"Nnno ohhno naw nawhahhaw ho ohhohohuh huh hah naaaaAW hah huh unhnuhno nnnaaAAaahahah hahheeheee hel hellllpppffffwAHhahHAAAhh ah awrrrah rohhohhohollno nonnnnwwhooh hoo haaa haaaaah pleeeeeeheeheeeehee eeeee..."

Strong. Hard. Eager.
Culprit roams all over his racked body. Just as eager as its noisy target. If it could be seen, its expression would make anybody take an involuntary step back, lest they catch its obsessive attention.
Extraordinary hard-edged amusement.
But there's no one else here to distract it. Nothing that will divert it, or its prey.
He contorts irratically, roaring and howling away. The horse-cuffs are anchoring him with impressive efficiency, allowing Culprit an impressive field for its agile gloves. Eight shiny grips, brisk and devastating...
In a few hours, his voice will be gone, and it'll be time for the brushes, and feathers, and oils.
For now, it's really enjoying the full press, interrupted often for rest breaks. His delirium is extracted fiercely. Seized and maximized. Afterward, the deeper and deeper body-distress...
It's not his head Culprit is most interested in. Mind games will ramp up the impact, true. Stronger apprehension, debilitating dread... But the cellular payoff, the electrical - it's immediate and unalloyed. No casual posturing from the nerve pathways. Skin and muscles are anything but cool and collected. The body doesn't lie. A few fingers will override all reason, eventually. Give the lie to all the aloof posturing.
The whooped, brayed, hooted gibberish is all body... so addled it derails speech, rules out adjusting and tolerating the stimulation, salvos any hope of acclimating to the very considerable sensory input. His skin is as hindered and vulnerable as the cognition by which he's cuss or plead. Or tug productively on his restraints.
His nerves disapprove, and object.
Deep down, there is no such thing as too much input. Other organs might not agree... but they're overruled.
Culprit, also, can't get anywhere near enough. Lives for it. Flooding his system, "upping the dose", forcing him into a cyclone of hysteria and keeping him far inside.
Here, in perfect seclusion, are contact and reaction. Anything outside of this room might as well be a galaxy away. Most every thought of the tickler and its toy are on the same matter.

He scales new heights of barbaric laughter, which is faithfully recorded in high fidelity.
Two microphones, in line with his throat, are covered by the sheet.
As the orgiastic night wear on, what he experiences will be topped by higher and higher peaks. This first lusty abandon is especially enjoyable to Culprit, and even more useful.
Six hours of him will fit on a tape, but he'll be whispering long before then.
And long after, when reliable targets are beginning to become desensitized, listening to his first racuous half-hour will wake up his receptors all over again. Nerves driving body, vanquishing brain.

The tape also works to deepen its tactile impression while he's helplessly asleep.
Play it for him softly at irregular intervals, for up to an hour at a time, and he'll generate hundreds of Culprit-dreams, unendurable and long-enduring.
Perhaps the jobsite he last worked at (before going AWOL for his long sabbatical in Culprit's galaxy) will be suddenly deserted of other workers, as the bundle of shingles he tears open releases a hundred familiar-looking gloves, which begin their task as his own tools build him pillories and racks.
In his favorite pub, the glasses and ashtray waver for an instant, becoming brushes and coils of rope.
The next aisle of the supermarket, where each can and box becomes a feather... surrounding him, chasing him out the door and into the paddy wagon waiting there, with iron shackles and open-barred windows for the feathers to dart through, just before taking him on an endlessly hilarious ride.
His car can become a sticky web of straps, each with unearthly and devastating trickles of current. His bed, a soft tub of oil, ruled by nimble sponges.
The elevator doors opening to reveal a vast rock-hewn chamber filled with restaints, and thick tables, and conveyor belts - and unimagined humming machines of fiendishly exacting design, unhearing, massive in their bulk or maddening in their tiny ability to roam and provoke, exploring crevices...

Endless raw material. Relative weeks of feverish pleasure, each night. All thanks to Culprit...
And here, he can awaken after each dreamtime ordeal to find his limbs still splayed out, tethered, all cleaned and moisturized... all the water he can hold, food and herbal supplements waiting alongside to be consumed.
And then, more stimulation.ice will be gone, and it'll be time for the brushes, and feathers, and oils.

759

An abandoned barn in southern Sutter County was apparently remodeled by unknown trespassers, a Sheriff's Department spokesperson indicated Thursday.
The building is positioned about ten miles west of Nicolaus on a large parcel formerly used to raise alfalfa. Fresh tire tracks on the unpaved access road caught the attention of a county assessor on routine rounds. Deputies contacted the land owner, who readily accompanied them to the property on Wednesday. "[The owner] immediately informed us the locks on the outer door were newer than would be expected, and no one had been authorized to install them. We obtained his permission to break in and discovered construction that is said to have occurred since the owner's last visit to the barn, almost a year ago," said Sgt. Kyle Adamson with the sheriff's public relations office.
The room inside is of much newer construction than the dilapidated outer structure. No one was found inside the building, but there was "evidence suggesting the presence of trespassers," according to Adamson. It is believed that no evidence of drug manufacturing was found. He declined to make further comments until investigators have filed a preliminary report.
The regional FBI office in San Francisco confirmed that they have been requested to assist with the investigation, but referred all other questions to Sutter County Sheriff Dominguez, who was unavailable for comment.
The barn's owner, his family and the county assessor all declined to comment. Further information is expected to be released as the investigation continues.
 

Investigation of an mysteriously remodeled barn west of Nicolaus has led to a full investigation of the surrounding land and the repeated interrogation of the owner.
Sutter County Sheriff officials have released more details about the surreptituous renovations, discovered four days ago. An interior chamber, approximately fifteen feet square in the center of the barn, was found with the door open. The locks installed on the inner and exterior doors were "excessive," a source stated.
Several trash bags were discovered in the unenclosed portion of the barn, but so far no evidence has been found indicative of drug manufacturing or foul play. The source confirmed the recent presence of "a number of persons," but did not speculate as to the purpose for the mysterious room.
Officials did not comment on an unconfirmed report that they were conferring with law enforcement personnel in other jurisdictions. More details will be released as they are confirmed.
 

A remote Sutter County barn appears to have been used as a torture chamber, according to the sheriff's office - and it may be related to similar finds in other areas.
Officers discovered the inner room a week ago. Other than a barred ventilation shaft, the only entrance is a solid-core door with two deadbolt locks installed, which was open when the cell was revealed. Deputies found a room with a raised central platform, racks and numerous rings anchored in the floor and walls.
Lab analysis of stains discovered in the room are positive for urine, semen and perspiration, according to Sgt. Kyle Adamson with the sheriff's public relations office. "Cursory DNA analysis indicates the presence of at least four males in the vicinity [of the platform], and the restraining equipment in the room shows a degree of use consistent with heavy bondage activities," Adamson said. Tests for the presence of blood were inconclusive.
Searchers have combed the property and adjoining road without finding any disturbed earth or additional evidence.
Bags of trash found in another part of the barn did not contain any leads.
The debris included empty liquor bottles and water bottles; convenience foods, such as energy bars, nuts and candy; cigarette cartons, cigar butts and rolling papers; used hypodermic needles and condoms; various lubricants, ointments, and oils; diapers, towels and cloths apparently used to clean up bodily wastes.
According to Adamson, "Fingerprint analysis has not yet been conclusive."
While the discovery has shocked residents of the sleepy farm towns nearest to the site, meetings with the FBI and other local law enforcement agencies have been held to review the similarity of the barn with other "imprisonment locales" found in California, Nevada and Arizona. Special Agent Leonard Gross, of the Sacramento FBI office, confirmed the research comparing the site with others, but declined to answer any further questions at this time.
Deputy Adamson reported that a week of scrutiny into the family of the barn's owner had revealed "absolutely no evidence that men being imprisoned in the barn was occurring with [his] knowledge." No fingerprints of the owner or his employees were found in the refuse or on the locks. The barn sits on fallow land, and was often not visited for 12-18 months at a time, Adamson said. The owner lives approximately four miles from the barn, which is two miles north of Riego Road. The nearest inhabited residence is nearly a mile away.

12jun2006
 

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