Things always got weird when he gagged her properly.
The process started with a Stasi-style rubber bathing cap, followed by a chunk of dense foam between her teeth, sliced fresh off the cushion stuffing of the old couch. Next came the Ace bandage across her mouth, around her forehead, under her chin, and over the top of her head, secured with a second, then a third, layer of inch-wide black electrical tape. When he was truly serious, like today, he would add a strip over the upper edge against the bare skin of her cheeks to create an airlock-grade seal.
It wasn’t completely soundproof—gags never are—but the finished product was well out of her Houdini range. As were the majority of her bindings lately, the result of one too many smart-assed escapes.
And the garage wasn’t exactly a four-leaf clover in the lucky-charms department, its primary function being launch pad for new ideas, big messes and the occasional mistake. All three of which were currently in various stages of countdown.
For once, Melissa didn’t mind wearing the ballet boots, the ones that made her feel like Rebecca Rice interpreting Kiss. Practicing en pointe in nine-inch heels was infinitely preferable to the naked alternative. No sickling here, ma’am.
But thigh-high anything was absolutely overkill for a steamy Saturday in August.
To avert the torrents of sweat flooding her eyes, she blinked like a sailor telegraphing S.O.S. with his ship’s signal light. Just like the Titanic, she rued, after its rendezvous with an equally unexpected floe foe.
Who knew you could still buy blocks of ice like this? Melissa figured such an antique approach to food preservation would have been deep-filed in the technology salt mine along with coal chutes, rotary telephones and single-speed vibrators.
But it was hard to argue with corporal veracity when the damned thing was centered on a piece of plywood in the middle of her garage while she stood bound and gagged on top of it, its crystal mass surrounded by eyelets connecting the board to the cuffs around her elevated ankles via slack-deficient lengths of chain. Just in case she got any funny ideas about hastening the plunge. Although her ponytail sticking out of the makeshift helmet and bungee-corded to the rafters was more than sufficient discouragement. More beads of perspiration drag-raced down her torso and pulled their parachutes when they reached the various belts melding her limbs together.
She peered around the fat strap directly in front of her face, halfway hoping to catch a glimpse of daylight, or at least hear the grind of the garage door opener. Did it even work? Last she heard, Dean was modifying it to lift her body off the floor. Flying hogtie, inverted eagle, dancing stork...an aviary of multi-dimension suspension without the complication of hoisting and securing simultaneously.
Dean seemed to have perfected his latest invention, though. Basically, it was a motor from a fan, mounted sideways on an adjustable metal post. He had replaced the three blades with a single riding crop, its grip loosely mounted in a tube that allowed the shank to move back and forth a few inches. A stopping plate extended from the side of the post. Every time the crop spun around, its progress was halted until pressure from the motor bent the leather shaft far enough to break free. After which it would fly like the Starship Enterprise ricocheting around the sun until its lash slapped her naked ass. The variable resistance caused by the shaft’s changing length meant a single circuit could take anywhere from a few seconds to a few minutes. The random-length factor also changed the horizontal landing pattern on her cheeks, while the vertical target coordinates slowly sank toward the floor with the rest of her body atop the diminishing ice blob.
A whipping machine. It was like something out of a John Willie drawing, almost medieval in approach. Unlike the silicon daggers slowly worming their way into her pussy and ass, suspended from the leather strap passing under her crotch and up to the ceiling, penetrating her one millimeter at a time as the ice melted under her toes. Five-section anal probes weren’t exactly your everyday Tower of London tourist torture swag. And she made a note never to complain about the girth of their biggest butt plug as it distended the wrong hole, like giving birth in reverse.
Melissa knew she griped too much in general. Too tight. Too loose. And especially too cold. Instead of lounging at the beach in a bikini, she tended to huddle on the sand in slacks and a sweater. Her goosebumps were more permanent than tattoos. And the only time she ever safeworded was when the portable electric heater inadvertently conked out due to, of all things, overheating.
She prided herself on her ability to take a caning, to endure nipple clamps at their maximum setting, to come hard enough to faint. But shivered timbers were a no-compromise limit that always crashed her party dress.
So Melissa really couldn’t blame Dean for her predicament. After all, she had literally asked for it. Albeit not today. Although the weather droid on TV had cautioned viewers to stay indoors and avoid strenuous activities. Did panic count?
She felt her heels sink another hair’s width toward the floor as the ice continued its languid dissipation. The stationary plugs slid a likewise amount deeper inside her, her anus stretching ominously to accommodate what was merely the third section of the probe.
Christ, it must be 120 degrees in here, she thought. Steel melts faster than this accursed block. Knowing Dean, the fucking thing was probably carved out of a glacier.
He had boarded over the windows in the garage years ago, so what passed for circulation came mostly from old holes in the wall (too many hooks spoil the wroth). Otherwise, the space was almost up to Intel specs for a clean room. Presuming Intel built saunas.
And it wasn’t just her skin that felt parboiled. The increasing fullness from the invading plug was causing the walls of her pussy to contract violently like spring-loaded pliers, yet they couldn’t get enough of a grip on the slippery slopes of plastic to suck the fat plug inside her deeper, faster, now.
Thinking about how far she was ultimately going to be stretched made the proto-orgasms start to overlap, almost like she was being fisted. Only slower. Much, much slower.
She tried one more time to squirm out of the crop’s range, but she couldn’t manage the least bit of momentum while standing on her tiptoes with her elbows touching behind her back. She decided to go limp, but the strap around her crotch held her upright, passing as it did under the belts around her torso.
So thoughtful of Dean to add a stout stick between her belt-welded legs so she couldn’t bend them.
Melissa remembered when she used to look forward to summer. They were the only months when she could spend the whole day naked. Not that she was such a clothes horse in January, but latex really wasn’t her favorite color.
The sinking was imperceptible, yet she felt like she could give every inch its own epochal name. The Dark Ages. The Inquisition. Damnation. Eternity.
Then her ass was finally forced to accept the probe’s third section, and a horrible burning sensation began to sizzle on the shaved membrane surrounding her rectum.
The bastard had coated the fourth bulge with Ben-Gay.
And maybe the fifth as well.
At that precise moment, the crop broke free from the plate with a crack like a broken string snapping against the lid of a Steinway concert grand.
Her mother was forever calling Dean “complicated,” like it was a bad thing.