"What...the fuck...is that?" You couldn't help the soft, surprised exclamation that escaped you with a soft hitch of your breath, staring intently at the...thing...in the middle of the room.
Wait. No. Back it up a minute.
It was a rather dull day. Your owner was busy, so instead of spending most of the day getting merrily and mercilessly fucked and played with until you were a wrung out whimpering mess, you were wandering around alone and bored and frustrated and...then you found the room.
See, there are many secrets in this place, many locked doors with interesting things behind them. Some you have seen, have been taken to, pulled into, but...many of them still remain a mystery to you. Desperate from boredom, from being left to your own devices without a single order or command or...well, you found yourself drifting through the hallways, idly trying doors, finding them all locked.
Until you found one that wasn't.
A bit surprised and VERY curious, slowly you turned the handle, opened the door just a little, just enough to let you slip in and close it back behind you. Just in case this door is supposed to still be locked, you don't want anything to give away that you're in here, right?
Flipping on the light, you glanced around the room - kind of an interesting one, reminded you of...of something. Something flickered in your memory for a moment, but you couldn't quite catch it. Maybe it was...oh! It's a little like one of those ballet practice rooms, with a hard wood floor, mirrored walls, a curtain strung across one wall. The curtain catches your attention briefly, had it moved? A whisper of motion, as if something...maybe just the air conditioning, because it was rather cool in here. Probably that's it.
And then we're all caught up, because thoughts of the curtain fled your mind as you noticed it, as you saw the...thing...in the middle of the room.
"What even...what the fuck is this thing?" You breathed the words quietly, but the shiver that goes down your spine and the shudder in your words are your admission to yourself that you very well know what this is.
A fucking machine.
What else could it be? The more you look at it, the more convinced you are that the thought that drifted into your mind is correct, this is...this is a framework designed to hold someone in place while they got thoroughly fucked by the machine.
It was an...interesting design. You circle it slowly, letting your eyes consider it, working out in your mind how...where are you even supposed to...what goes where...? It takes surprisingly little time to figure it out, maybe you've seen one like this before somewhere, perhaps at one of the parties your owner has taken you to?
It's interesting how relatively simple the design seems to be. Two long, thin platforms designed to be knelt upon, cushioned in a way to be a tad more comfortable if left kneeling there for a long time, angled in a v shape so that if you were there...were kneeling there...mm. Er, yes...ah...it would spread your knees wide apart so that people could see...
Flustered, you move a few steps further around, noticing now the thick, heavy leather straps that wou-...could wrap around your legs, over the ankles and right below the knee, holding you down firmly, keeping you in place. Unable to move, no. Held there as...
Well, it was hard to ignore the 'fucking' part of the fucking machine, that's for damn sure. You find your eyes focusing on the setup beneath the platforms, the pistons, the thick dildo that would, once everything was turned on, would rise up and down and up and do-
"F-fuck." You pant, breath harsh in your throat, picturing that image in your mind so vividly for a moment it's as if you were THERE, as if you were living it, as if it were memory and not imagination. Held, fucked, displayed, used. Fuck and damn and...
Idly part of your mind notices that the attachments can be switched in and out, and even that there's a second piston that could have something attached to it, but since there's nothing else in the room, those other options will have to wait for another time.
You know...it's possible. You could...well, it would help out imagination a great deal...if you just...
Almost before you realized what you were thinking, what you were doing, you found yourself next to the machine, eyeing it thoughtfully. The leg restraints you could do yourself. Those would be easy. A gently curved pole rose up from the back of the framework, ending in a pair of heavy metal cuffs attached to either side of the pole.
You picture for a moment how that would work. With your build, and the angle of the pole and...hmm. It would hold your wrists, your arms, above your head and slightly behind you, and in a way which would be awkward and uncomfortable unless you...er. Ah.
Unless you were knelt all the way down, which would also...ah.
So a choice would happen - rise up a little, get a little respite from getting fucked, but twist your arms in an awkward way that would quickly get painful or...drop down onto your heels, rest your arms, but get fucked deeper and more thoroughly.
Suddenly you realize you'd closed your eyes, that you were panting, imagining so clearly just how that would feel, constantly squirming from one to the other, never able to find a position that you could stay in. Feeling the cuffs holding your wrists so tightly, feeling...
You consider climbing up on the framework to inspect the cuffs more closely, perhaps try to figure out how they close, how they lock. But then the thought slips from your head, distracted again by imagined sensations that make you whimper.
Just...just for a minute, maybe. There's noone here to lock you in, so you could just...
Quickly, quickly, so you don't lose your nerve and changed your mind, you remove your clothing, piling it neatly in one corner, then climb onto the framework, working out the best way to kneel that is most balanced. (Noticing with a flush that it also spreads your knees wide apart and displays you...and how already, just these thoughts had you worked up and...ahem. Anyways.)
The leather straps are surprisingly easy to wrap around your legs and fasten tightly, your hands moving down to put them in place as if you've done this dozens of times before. You lean a little bit to each side, kind of testing the strength and support of it, and nod a little, impressed. Good construction - but then, your owner always makes sure to spend whatever it takes to get the best.
Unfortunately the machine's piston is completely retracted, so even if you sit all the way down on your heels, it's nowhere near you, so you'll just have to imagine the feeling of that thick dildo pushing up into you, relentless, slamming up and down and up and down with the careful exact force that only a machine could do...
Growling a little in frustration, you twist around a little until you can look at the cuffs, reaching up to them. Maybe...just partly slip your hands in. It could help you picture it, imagine it, feel it, right? So you raise your arms up and behind your head, slipping your hands partway through the cuffs, closing your eyes and trying to imagine how this would be.
But your imagination, so vivid a moment, fails you suddenly. The picture is gone, the image faded. Another soft huff of annoyance and then...you hadn't looked at the cuff's design very closely, hadn't been able to tell how it worked. But as suddenly and without considering whether it was a good idea or not you push your arms upwards, sliding your hands all the way into the cuffs, you realize that its one way. They're designed to let you push your hands through...but not be able to pull them back out.
And this isn't something you realize because it just happened, it's something you realized because you REMEMBERED it. The memory unfolding piece by piece, only a second before it happened again in life. A soft click as the machine turned on, humming as it began to move. Slowly at first, pressing up and in gently and making you bite back a gasp, but faster and faster as it began to work, pulling a surprised cry from your throat.
But also the shushing sound of the curtain pulling back on its runner, the fabric parting to reveal a huge crowd seated in front of the stage - yes, STAGE, this was a fucking stage! - and standing, waiting with a huge, mischievously wicked grin, your owner with a remote in hand, controlling the machine, controlling the show.
Because this was a show. It was a crystal clear memory now, burning bright in your mind. This was a show, and not the first one you've put on. How many times has this happened now? How many times have you, by your own damn choice, climbed onto this fucking machine, gotten caught, and held displayed, spread wide so that everyone here, this whole audience, could watch you gasping, squirming, writhing. Fucked mercilessly, held tight, constantly shifting, rising and lowering to relieve the pressure on your arms, or get relief from the machine pounding into you...
It was so hard to tell, so hard to know, as the first wave of pleasure and need starts to crest and wash over you, what was the hottest thing about this - being fucked like this...having an audience for it...or knowing that this has happened before and will happen again and again and again, forgetting every time until the next time you 'happen' to find an unlocked door...