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.