My legs are shaking from the effort of holding this position. I’m going to have to sit or stand soon, but I can’t decide which one. The weight flattening my breasts also pulls me down toward the seat, so staying in the exact position I want is a struggle. I can feel the dildo move deeper inside me as I wobble up and down, but I’m still surprised when I feel leather against my butt cheeks. Any decision I might have made is gone. My legs have betrayed me by a full inch-and-a-half. I sit.

My weight on the seat drops it an eighth of an inch before audibly clicking into place. The ribbed stainless-steel dildo rising from the center of it doesn’t change position when the seat does. After another few times sitting lower and lower down, that shaft is going to go from very filling to decidedly uncomfortable. I’m sure Ham built some kind of limit into the mechanism, but I don’t know what that limit is or what will trigger it.

Resting for a moment, I wonder – not for the first time! – about the choices that put me here. If Ham had been just a little less of a perfectionist. If I had cared just a little less about dragging his attention away from his garage. If he had been just a little better at getting a joke, an awful lot of things might have gone very differently.

Two years ago my husband, Ham, built a machine. He was always building little mechanical sculptures and silly devices. He sold some of them for mad money. There was a water-spout that played 'rain rain go away' on bells when it was raining. That was bought by a lady just down the street for her backyard garden. There was the pendulum clock with an unsettlingly mismatched swing-tock-tick that wound up at a bookstore in Lancaster. But then, after dozens of curious and mundane things like that, he built something that really made me wonder if he was sane.

I didn’t know anything about it when he was building it. It sapped his motivation if anybody saw his unfinished projects, so he was always secretive about what he was working on. But he’d been extra cagey about this one. I’d caught him fiddling with some of my clothes a couple weeks before, but I just brushed it off as fascination with some seam or clasp. The strangest details caught his eye sometimes. But just a few days before the unveiling, he’d outright taken a bunch of my measurements like a tailor.

Eventually he brought me out to his workshop behind the house like he always did when he was done with something. I think it was pretty reasonable of me to assume he’d built me a present of some sort, but I had no clue what it was.

He pulled a cloth cover away in dramatic fashion. At first, It didn’t really look like anything I could put a name to. I saw an abstract steampunk sculpture: Half rocking horse, half go-cart, realized in brass, copper and suede. After walking all the way around it without the slightest idea what I was looking at, I realized part of my problem was that it was missing a rather large piece in the middle. It looked very much like that piece was supposed to be a woman.

With that in mind, I registered ankle cuffs that would hold the feet in a sort of motorcycle-riding position. Padded handholds with matching wrist cuffs were anchored up above, to a part of the frame that looked very much like a roll bar. A horse-head mask, complete with bit-gag, could fold down and buckle into place. A pair of screw clamps hung exactly at breast height, dangling from a chain that went somewhat inexplicably into the frame rather than being merely anchored to it. Lastly, the seat, which I hadn’t originally recognized as a seat at all, was essentially a narrow saddle with a thick glass dildo and similar butt plug affixed to it. An additional block of padding in the front was adjustable so it could press tightly against crotch and clitoris.

Behind the seat, a shiny antique looking motor and a big switch. It was a work of art. The positioning of everything was explicit.

I laughed nervously, "Is this something you built for me?"

Ham barked a laugh and cut it off, "No, no. Noooo. I mean. Sort of.” He put his hand to his head, suddenly looking very frazzled. “It's your shape. I used your measurements, I mean. But it's a commission.” He looked back and forth between me and the machine a few times. “It’s an Erotic conversation piece for a fancy party."

I raised an eyebrow, “So it was made for me.” I ran one finger across the op of the machine, “Just not actually for me.”

Ham was sweating. If he were a computer, the screen would be blue. I stepped to the back of it and flipped the switch. The motor clicked over and started puttering. The seat buzzed. The whole thing rocked back and forth a little. I hollered over the motor noise, "Fully functional art, Ham?"

Ham shrugged and smiled sickly, "Of course. What else do I build?"

I turned the machine off again and looked closer, admiring the details of my husband’s fantasy. The horse mask, I realized, was also a blindfold, as it had no holes. Just eyes painted on in gold and blue. They looked a lot like my eyes, actually. The wrist and ankle cuffs were padded with fur. The seat pads were memory foam. The handholds and foot rests were carefully wrapped leather. I nodded, "Comfy." That was a joke, but it went over Ham's head.

He recovered a bit, and looked mildly insulted, "Luxurious? Yes. But, comfy? It's not supposed to be comfy, It's supposed to be the essence of erotic torture. I'll bet you a thousand dollars you wouldn't last more than twenty minutes." It was just an expression – we had the same bank account – but I decided to have some fun with him.

So I was mildly insulted right back, "You think I couldn’t hold back an orgasm for twenty minutes? Or, you think I couldn’t even stay on?"

Ham's voice was flat, "Well if you could 'hold back' for that long, I think we could safely say the whole thing was a total failure. But I just meant 'stay on'.”

The man had clearly sat in here on his little workbench thinking wild thoughts of me. Yet somehow, he hadn’t actually been thinking of me. I made a show of looking over the machine. "Why couldn’t I? I don't see anything unpleasant enough here to be called torture."

Ham sputtered with annoyance. He gestured vaguely at the machine, "It has nipple clamps!"

It was priceless. The man still thought he was having a theoretical conversation.

I shrugged, "Trivial. A thousand dollars? I'll take that bet."

If Ham’s face had been a blue-screen before, it turned into an endless progression of error code when I started to undress. While I unbuttoned my shirt and skirt, then slipped out of my underwear and sports-bra, his face was busy cycling through every single facial expression he had.

I realized a little late that I really wanted a wet-wipe followed by some lube before I sat down on the thing, so I walked back through the yard and into the house naked to grab those things. As expected, Ham was standing exactly the same, and was still basically broken, when I got back. I wiped down the seat and put lube all over the dildo and plug. After a moment’s thought, I put some lube on the clit-pad as well.

I stepped on one foot-rest and threw the other leg over the seat to step on the other. Lowering myself onto the dildo, I realized it’s shape was based on my own favorite. Mine wasn’t metal, though, so the sensation was really quite different. At least it was meticulously smooth. I knew Ham was a stickler for detail, but I realized briefly that it was really foolish to shove something inside my vagina that I hadn’t even felt with my hands. The butt plug was really rather small.

Ham was finally moving, pacing around me as I settled onto his machine. He kept opening his mouth and gesturing, but he never actually said anything. I knew full well he wanted to tell me something like "it's not safe" or "it doesn't really work", but none of that would be true. He'd built the real thing, and mistaken it for art, and he knew it.

I closed the ankle cuffs. They had a spot for a locking pin, but I didn’t think Ham was going to complain if I didn’t actually lock myself to his orgasm machine. I pulled the pad lever until it was tight against my cunt. It was on a ratchet that I realized I didn’t really know how to disengage, so it felt awfully tight indeed. The nipple clamps I put on with some worry, but not anything the Ham was likely to notice. The chain pulled out easily to the right length and I turned the screws until they pinched my nips as tightly as I dared.

That chain was something else I still didn’t understand exactly, but I realized I did trust Ham quite a bit. I didn’t doubt for a second that he could design and build something like this. I didn’t doubt for a second that he’d know exactly what his machine would do, and stop me if there really was any danger to it.

I pulled the horse-head mask down over my face, taking the bit between my teeth and enduring a slight moment of panic when I felt the whole thing snap into place. It pressed my head tight against the headrest, and I really couldn’t see anything through the mask. I had to remind myself that my hands were still free and I could get off this ride at any time.

Just having had that thought, though – of giving up before I was even completely in position, before the machine had even been turned on – made me want to ride this ridiculous contraption long enough to make Ham’s head explode.

I put one hand above my head, feeling for the cuff and holding onto the grip that was a little higher. With the other hand, I could reach behind me and flip the switch.

The whole machine hummed and sputtered to life and my free hand almost automatically shot up to the other grip where it belonged. As expected, the glass dildo and plug vibrated, though I didn’t realize there was more than one speed or pattern until the dildo kicked into high gear and the plug started doing three-pulses at jarring random intervals.

The nipple chains retracted very slowly until they met resistance. Since my head and crotch were wedged tightly to the machine, that resistance was entirely a matter of nipple pulling. I can’t imagine what sort of research Ham did to get that pull correct, maybe it was just luck, but it reversed almost in unison with my thought that it was going to drag the clamps off. After that, the chains tightened or loosened a little each time the vibes switched patterns.

I did not 'hold back' for more than two minutes, but I did 'stay on' for far longer than that. I had a good time too, for the first ten or fifteen minutes, probably. Time gets weird when you’re blindfolded and on your third or fourth orgasm. For a little while, it was less clear whether I was actually enjoying myself or just holding on for dear life. There was a minute of boredom even, as another orgasm subsided, but that ended abruptly when the vibes and clamp-chains clicked over onto a new setting. I held on to what was most definitely a torture device for two or ten minutes longer, only because I wasn’t at all sure how much time had passed.

I did win the bet, though. Decisively. When I finally turned it off and gestured for Ham to release the mask, he told me it had been thirty-three minutes.

I had dreams for weeks about that machine. Dreams about Ham making ridiculous modifications to it. Dreams about him deciding to keep it. Dreams about the wrist and ankle cuffs actually being locked.

Four weeks later, Ham showed me the check from his client.

I whistled, "That's a hell of a commission," I said. "If you need a stress tester for your next sex machine, you can totally count me in."

That was also a joke. I found out later that, again, Ham hadn’t gotten it at all.

I find it kind of baffling that it’s all gone the way it has. I could have easily just not gotten in that machine. It could easily have ended after that single strange experience. But no, we’re both too dense for that. Instead I’m here, now, sitting in a custom contraption five times as complicated as the first one, struggling to even figure out what it's going to do next.

A stripe across my ass stings. My breasts ache, somewhat flattened. My pussy is just about as full as I ever want it. I feel like I'm three-fourths of the way through a good workout, which is nice, but I'm thirsty literally and figuratively. This thing hasn't gotten me off yet. Near. But not yet.

My range of movement is extremely limited. For starters, a belt at my waist is attached to a vertical track behind me, so I can only stand straight up or sit straight down. I tried pushing at it from different directions, but the track rolls so smoothly I can’t really put any weight on it. An extensive head harness including a ball gag is fixed to the track too, so I can’t bend over. My hands are cuffed to the backside of the track, leaving all the work to my legs. My feet are cuffed to rests that are angled like heels. That’s good, actually. Squats are a little easier when your feet aren’t flat. Even so, my legs are already starting to feel sore from all the squats I’ve done today.

The weight on my breasts gets added to that exercise as well, so, it’s not even just doing squats, but more like doing squats with a medicine ball. That weight never relents, no matter what position I’m in. It only increases as the bucket fills up.

Besides restricting my movement, being fixed in this rigid position also puts me in line with the dildo coming up through the middle of the seat. Thick. Ribbed. Metal. It’s a beast, and it keeps getting beastier. Each time I stand up and take pressure off the seat, a ratchet inside pops free. Then, as I sit down again, the dildo squirts out some lube and the seat clicks one slot lower before it takes my weight. The dildo doesn’t move, so it ends up a little higher in comparison. Maybe just an eighth of an inch, but that adds up quickly. I like big things in me, I do. But I'm not infinite.

Ham took measurements, so we both know I'm not. How much he thinks he can pad those measurements, though, I'm not sure.

I sit for as long as I can, resting my legs, but I know can’t just stay here. I’m expecting to rest for a minute or more, but no. It’s mere seconds before I hear the click I’m listening for. It’s down behind my knees. I have to stand instantly when I hear it. If I don’t, the rotor that makes that noise will whip a massive tawse across my dangling butt. My whole ass is still stinging from the three smacks I took before I figured out how easy it was to avoid. The rotor stops and resets as soon as I’m off the seat.

Except, I’m so motivated to avoid the tawse this time that I bounce up way too far. There’s a contact point somewhere up the track – I can’t figure out exactly where – that opens a little gate at the top of the machine behind me. I hear the metal clunk of a ball bearing falling out of the gate and the whirr of it gaining speed in it’s trough. I sigh and stand all the way up, leaving the tip of the dildo behind by several inches. It’s not as good as sitting, but I can rest standing for a few moments since the bearing has already been released.

Just the sound of a bearing rolling is a sort of torture in it’s own right. I see the shiny steel ball go by in front of me once. Twice. It’s a little bigger than a walnut. The third time around, it drops into the clear plexiglass bin that hangs right in front of my face. I groan, feeling the slight shock of the landing in my breasts. It’s always just a little worse than the last time, adding it’s impact and then it’s weight to the previous twenty-six bearings. I know the exact number because the bin is the only part of the machine in front of me, and the only thing I have to look at when my eyes are open. I’ve counted them quite a few times now.

The weight of the bin is suspended by a few thin cables. Those cables pass through pulleys anchored just above the bin, down the full length of the machine, through another set of pulleys between my feet, then up to anchors in a transparent plate that’s the top slice of a breast sandwich. The bottom plate is anchored to my belt and the track behind me, immovable except that it moves up and down with me. I can feel every single ball that drops in that bin, both in my breasts and in my legs.

I hear the release of another ball behind me. I’m still just standing, having watched dumbly as the last bearing whirled around and dropped. The wince from the last ball’s landing combines with the dildo’s swift re-entry as I squat down even faster than I’d bounced up off the seat. Both things go straight to my knees.

So the question is, how long can I squat halfway between sitting and standing? With the weight of twenty-seven rather large ball bearings hanging from my boobs, not especially long. Less so after at least half an hour of fucking myself on this steel dildo really slowly. Less so after so quickly and accidentally using the full length of this dildo. This incredibly hard, really very nicely ridged dildo.

Bearing number twenty-eight lands. I breath in with a hiss. My arms strain against the cuffs behind me. I want to stand. I want to sit. I don’t want to do either of those things at all. I definitely want to work this giant metal cock for everything it’s worth. This is the first orgasm I’ve had on this device, in stark contrast to losing count on Ham’s first one, but I’ve been building up to this one long enough that it’s a doozy.

I release two more ball bearings and drop the seat four more times before I decide I should just sit all the way down and stay there.

I'm not really sure how long I've been strapped into this machine. It can't have been an hour yet.

My legs are exhausted. My breasts ache like they have bowling balls sitting on them. The seat has dropped low enough that the dildo is getting a touch uncomfortable when I sit. I'd rather endure a smack from the tawse than ratchet the seat again.

I hear the rotor engage, so I brace myself. I wince as the tawse cracks across my backside. It doesn't stop. It cracks again, almost making me jump up, but I really want to stay seated. The third time the tawse cracks I brace myself again, but I wonder if it simply won't stop spanking me until I stand up. If that’s the case, I’m probably done.

A fourth crack knocks a stiff cry out of me. My backside feels like it’s vibrating. The tawse is wide, but it strikes exactly the same swath of ass every single time. After the fifth stinging smack, there’s an audible clack, and the rotor slows and stops.

To my surprise, the dildo drops an inch – no actually it’s the seat being raised back up – and the bin hanging in front of my face begins to tip. I shriek at nobody, surprised by the sudden shift of weight as half the marbles flow into a return shoot.

Pleased by my discovery, I fuck myself through another fairly decent orgasm. I could probably draw it out longer, but finding out that I can reset the worst positions of the seat and dump the marble basket makes me want to use the hell out of the dildo, not caring so much about the penalties for standing and sitting.

Using the machine like this and resetting it when it gets too uncomfortable, I manage to enjoy myself for awhile. I manage to fill and dump the basket two more times before the stripes across my ass start to feel raw.

I yell through a fourth set of spankings and relax just a little as the seat lifts me one more time, but it’s not worth it anymore.

It seems like the basket fills and the chair drops incredibly fast now. I can barely squat between the seat and the marble gate for any length of time. Almost every time I sit is a surprise, and every lurch upward to avoid another spanking makes my thighs and calves burn with the effort. The track across my behind feels like a burn.

I’m surprised to find the seat has dropped so low that I can’t actually sit on it anymore. The track won’t let me drop any farther. Not that I want to, the dildo is so deep already. The tawse swings once when I touch the end of the track, surprising a real scream out of me. But it only swings once and it doesn’t reset anything. I try the end of the track again despite the dildo, but jump up when I hear the rotor engage. I knew I didn’t intend to, but suddenly any possibility of resetting the machine is gone.

With no seat to reference, it’s even harder to judge how far I can stand up. Or does the trigger point change? I can’t tell, but I’m swiftly filling the basket with marbles.

Thirty-four.

Thirty-five.

Thirty six.

There aren’t any more.

My breasts feel like pain pancakes. My cunt had a good run for awhile, but now it just feels impaled or ignored. My legs are too tired to hover in the middle where it feels good. I can stand up all I like, but I can’t sit at all.

Exhausted, I decide I don’t care if it’s been an hour or not, I’m done. The release switch is just barely in reach of my fingers when I stand all the way up.

I flip that switch, and sigh in relief as I feel the seat rise beneath me. I’d forgotten just how high it was when I started. The ball bin dumps itself completely. I hear the cuffs click open. My shoulders and wrists ache as I bring my arms around front to unbuckle my head and belt as swiftly as I can manage. With the bin empty, the breast press just lifts away.

I sit for a moment, cursing as I massage life back into my mashed boobs, but I want to see how long it's been. I climb down from my seat. The digital timer on the back end of the device – far out of sight of anyone strapped into it – says fifty-eight minutes. Dammit.

I need some water, and a nap, and a shower, and some wine, and a bath. But first I need to leave some notes for Ham while the experience is fresh in my mind.

Mechanism #9 “Bucket List” : Test Ride 1 : 58 Minutes

• That dildo is good, but I really wish it would thrust. Even just a quarter of an inch of movement. I probably wouldn't have orgasmed at all if I wasn't humping it myself on purpose. Some form of clitoral stimulation would be even better. Thrust might also make the seat ratchet less obvious. That blew my mind in the first six seconds of the ride. Cool.
• Not sure what to say about the tawse. It doesn't hit hard enough to really deter resetting the machine, but it also repeatedly hits the exact same spot. As is, I can even see it doing some damage. I’m going to have a serious welt in two straight lines across my ass that will probably hurt much more later than it ever did at the time. If you can vary the strike position and make it rock my body instead of kiss my ass, fantastic. Otherwise, maybe change it out for some other mechanism. Something like the roving shocker from #4 or the clit shooter from #7. I know, I’m always recommending the clit shooter, but it was a good one. A ruined orgasm makes a pretty damn good penalty.
• Noise of a ball rolling down the track was terrifying every single time, up until I figured out how to do the reset. That’s a nice piece of work. The max weight on the breast press is exactly right, at least for me. You've been putting more adjustability into these, so I'm wondering how it handles different sized breasts?
• I did like the way the reset was held back, it just needs to be harder. I always wish I could forget these things so I could figure them out again next time.
• This was essentially an hour ride on the first try, and that was with me being kind of bored and figuring out fairly early that the tawse wasn’t up to standard. Depending on how much harder you make the reset, I should still be able to do the hour ride we’re aiming for after this first revision. Speedy!
• I don’t see any safety concerns except maybe dehydration. Add a water bottle. Why didn't you already?
• If the next ride goes well, I don’t see why we can’t replace the release switch with a 1:15 timer. Maybe 1:30. I think I’d like to get a solid 20 minutes of stuck pig panic at the end of this one, but that’s going to be difficult if the chair and balls both stop resetting. I was starting to lose it at, maybe 35 minutes? We’ll have to check the tape. But that went away as soon as I understood the reset.
• Seriously, though, if the ride is going to be that long, it needs more orgasms, especially at the end. As is, an extra twenty would just be twenty minutes of deep dildo and breast smoosh, which is annoying, not transcendant. Maybe trigger something permanent with the chair and bucket end states, then reset them. Vibration. Electricity. Something.

I'll be having a very long bath. We can watch the video together after dinner while you rub oil into my striped butt and massage my shoulders. And get me my damn orgasms. I'm sure you'll also have some interesting ideas to add.