He traded equipment again, this time standing between my spread legs with the table on the outside of my right leg. He picked up another of his custom-made tools, a pair of locking-jaw pliers with a slightly curved bit of metal extending out a couple of inches from the lower jaw and a matching top-piece that was just the outline of the bottom. The entire center of it was open. When he released the lock and opened it I could see that the workmanship was different from the rest of his instruments. This one appeared to be factory-made.
"This is the one tool that I did not make," he confirmed, "I bought this one in a medical supply store in Tampa and you will be interested to learn that I am using it for its intended purpose. A fact that should reassure you that what I am about to do is a recognized medical procedure, although not practiced nearly as often or done nearly as early in a girl's development at it should be."
Putting his free hand on my pubic bone, he pressed and pushed up, forcing my clit to ride up on the bone, putting it within easy reach. At that instant, I had an intense flash of fear. Visions of nasty things went through my head. Visions that only got stronger and more vivid as he moved the pliers toward my precious clit.
Holding the pliers open, he put the lower jaw directly on top of my clit. The cold of the metal and the fear of what might happen next made it shrink even further into its protective cave of flesh. Despite the warmth of the room and the radiant heat from the brazier, I shivered.
He slowly worked the curved metal into the tight space between my clit and its hood, gradually driving it deeper. As he forced it into a place that nothing was ever intended to go, I felt intense pain as the tender tissue binding my clit and hood was stretched and torn. I wanted to scream, but with my head bent forward, my larynx was compressed and I could not make a sound.
Deeper and deeper he drove the pliers into the part of my body that was the most sensitive. The pain was horribly intense and I felt a wave of nausea building in my stomach. I fought it with everything I had, because I knew if I vomited now I would probably be asphyxiated.
When he was satisfied that the lower jaw was deep enough, he closed the handles and the upper jaw clamped shut, trapping my clit-hood in the device. It was at this moment that I understood what he meant with all that ranting about 'tyranny of the flesh'. The lunatic was going to cut off my hood!
A woman's clit is the most supremely sensitive part of a girl's body. The hood protects this most delicate bit of flesh. The idea of having it cut away was terrifying. If you take the hood off — what? I realized that I didn't know. This was entirely outside my limited experience and insufficient learning.
I had time to ponder the question. The maniac with the strange pliers was amusing himself by stoking the coals of the iron brazier, leaving me to say goodbye to a small but treasured part of me that would soon be gone.
Minutes passed. I didn't know if he was deliberately torturing me by prolonging this or if he had some other motive. All I could do was sit, wait, and stare at my hood, stretched tightly over the metal jaws, clamped into position to be cut away by a flick of a knife in the hands of a raving madman who had threatened me into bending to his will.
At last he came back. To my horror, he was holding a rod with a knife-blade tip that he had heated in the brazier until it glowed white-hot. Without a further word or opportunity for me to protest, he lowered the blade and ran it around the rim of the pliers' jaw, vaporizing my poor hood and destroying it forever.
The most shocking thing was that it didn't hurt. I would have thought having a highly sensitive part of your body burned away would hurt like hell, but aside from feeling the radiant heat from the closeness of the knife, there was no sensation at all.
The compression of the pliers must have shut off all the nerves, deadening them to the immolation of my flesh. I steeled myself for the moment when he would release the pliers. That would be plenty painful, for sure.
It wasn't. When the pliers came off, I felt a slight sting as blood tried to rush back into an area that no longer existed, but the edges of the wound had been cleanly cauterized and there were no nerve endings left to protest.
I stared at the site of the destruction because I could not do anything else. Even if I had not been bound and gagged and held into place by bonds that were many times stronger than even I was, the sight of my totally naked clit would still have transfixed me.
First, it was larger than I thought. I suppose I had grown accustomed to the fact that most of it was hidden from view and only the part that could extend past the hood should be counted. When I enlarged it, I hadn't considered that most of it would still never be accessible. Now, it was bare to the world. I didn't know how to relate to it. It was like meeting a family member you had never seen before and wondering how to act.
Second, it was much more sensitive. I suppose I had expected that, but I could actually feel the micro-currents of air in the small room wafting over it. I could only imagine what it would feel like to touch it.
I quickly became obsessed with the thought of touching it. My restraints became a damnable inconvenience as I imagined running my fingers over my fully naked clit for the first time. At the moment, all I could do was look and dream of what if would feel like.
I don't know which had more affect, the looking of the dreaming, but shortly after the idea of touching it came to me, my clit started to swell. I watched closely as blood rushed into it, filling it, making it grow larger second by second. As I had at the party, I became fixed on the idea of seeing it as big as it could get. I wanted it to stand tall and proud, a queen of clits, a monument to self-engineering and a hellacious sex-drive.
I was getting my wish. As it swelled, it twitched. It moved. It strained to grow up and out. It struggled to rise from its mooring like a miniature blimp.
"Come on," I thought to it, "do me proud! Grow for mommy! Show this madman that you are not afraid of him and his infernal instruments! "
Grow it did. The larger it got, the more I could feel the slightest movement of air on it. This miniscule amount of stimulation and my burning desire to touch it, to rub it, to welcome it to a new world, were conspiring to make me as horny as a toad on a hot road in July. Sexual heat once more ignited in my pussy and spread like wildfire through my body. It flared up in my breasts and rose to incandescence in my nipples, where the new rings swung slowly with my breathing, making a wonderful new feeling as they moved back and forth inside my flesh.
Freed of its straightjacket, my clit grew even larger than it had the day before. It stood high and hard; now almost three inches long with a slight recurve that pointed the tip away from my widespread groin. I could feel it pulsing with my heartbeat and each throb was a fresh wave of erotic pleasure and heightened arousal. I bucked my hips the fraction of an inch that the strap allowed and my clit bobbed slightly. I grunted and bucked again and again, trying to stimulate myself. Juice dripped from my pussy and saliva drooled from my mouth. I was so hot and so frustrated that I was degenerating into an animalistic state.
My tormentor returned with yet another collection of gadgets, but this time I had no interest in them. He took in my slack expression and the line of spit running down my chin. He followed my fixed gaze to the place between my legs that held me entranced and he gasped with surprise and delight. This time I felt a rush of pleasure at having impressed him.
"My goodness! My goodness!" He said in his peculiar, almost squeaky, voice. "That's it! That's what I told you about. I've freed you. No more penis-envy. You've done it! You're perfect. My, my, I need to reward you. Here, just a minute. My goodness, I wasn't prepared. Just a minute though. I'll be right back."
If I hadn't been so preoccupied, I might have laughed at his antics. He was so overjoyed at finally getting one of his victims to respond to his 'treatments' that he had dropped even his feeble attempt at playing a big, bad, leather-clad menace and was mincing around like he had been absent the day the male hormones were handed out. Later, I realized that it was an important clue to his psychological problem.
After puttering around out of sight, he came back with the most ungainly and odd-looking machine I had ever seen. It was a mess of wheels and gears and pistons and sliding arms. Rube Goldberg would have loved it.
He moved the thing between my legs and clamped it to one of the supports of the table. I still could not figure it out. It looked like the model of part of a steam locomotive we had in the Physics Lab. When he attached the lifelike silicone dildo to the end of the sliding arm it all became clear as crystal.
As I watched him fussing over the machine, tightening, lubricating and checking this bit and that, I hoped that his skill at building gadgets had been brought to bear in full force on this one. I needed to be fucked in the worst way and this looked like just the device to do the job.
Finally, he had it ready. He swung the long sliding arm over and inserted the tip of the business end into me. I moaned at the touch of it, more out of anticipation than stimulation. He flipped a switch and it started up with a clatter. The maze of gears and wheels came alive and the arm pushed the dildo into me and pulled it out again.
In and out, in and out it went, making me a very happy camper. The thing was crude enough and loose enough that it took a slightly different angle and penetrated to a different depth with a different speed on each stroke. This gave it a wonderfully realistic feeling, not at all like how the fucking machines in my fantasies behaved.
In his haste to setup the machine, he hadn't adjusted the table or thought to remove the pillow from behind my head, so I was forced to watch the machine fuck me. This turned out to be highly arousing. The sheer inevitability of each stroke was a great turn-on, since the machine did not tire, did not need a bathroom break, and did not need to change position to stay hard. It just kept on fucking, in and out, in and out, in and out; making me wetter and hotter and more excited with each wonderful stroke.
On each inward stroke, my clit was pulled down to meet the dildo as it slid into me. The contact sent powerful bolts of pleasure through me that quickly turned into a series of mini-climaxes. Soon, I had abandoned myself to the fucking machine in the same way as I had earlier to the milking machine. I just let it have its way with me and relaxed into a marvelous state of acceptance and arousal.
I was so turned on that it after only a few minutes of being mechanically raped; I was cumming all over the dildo. My nervous system seemed to be trying to make up for my immobility because my first orgasm was a soul-wrenching experience that nearly rendered me unconscious. As my eyes uncrossed and my abdomen stopped twitching, I saw Professor Gadget reach for the switch on the machine.
"Hunhunh!" I said, shaking my head, oblivious to the potential consequences of trying to speak.
Confused, he took his hand away and let the machine continue to run. I settled back into passive acceptance of the plunging, driving arm and let it again drive me back up the slope toward the top of Mount Orgasm.
I think the second climax took longer to reach than the first. But I have no idea how long that was. There was no visible clock in the room and I had little interest in the passage of time. All I know is that it was damn good and I enjoyed it even more that the first.
Again, with the hand on the switch, and again I gave a shake of my head. Again, he let it run, and again I settled back for another round of pop-goes-Samantha.
My third orgasm with the mechanical fucker was better still. It took less subjective time to reach than the second, but my time-sense was probably just as well-fucked as my pussy by that point, so I can't say for sure. I do know that it seemed to go on for a very long time, and by the time it coasted to a stop; my cheek muscles were sore from trying to smile around the gag. This time, the guy in black kept his hands to himself, which I took to mean I got to decide when I had enough.
Sometime after that, I lost track of the number of orgasms I had and how long they were. I lost track of where I was, what day it was, and even my name. I was so overstimulated that I just slipped into a state of one continuous climax that seemed to go on forever. Somewhere during that time, I passed out.
When I came to, the machine was off and my captor was standing there with two pieces of the main gear in his hands. Seeing me awake, he said, "You wore it out. It couldn't take the strain of such prolonged operation. I'll have to order some new parts."
I wanted to say I was sorry, to apologize for breaking his nice machine, but I wasn't sorry at all. I was proud. I was happy. I felt an irrational sense of glee at having fucked the machine to death. I tried to giggle, but with the gag in my mouth I could only gurgle.
He thought I was strangling. He pulled the pillow from behind my head and removed the gag. He had a very tough time getting it out of my mouth, because my jaws had locked down on it in a death-grip and didn't want to let go.
When it was out, it took me quite a while to get my mouth to move again, and the pain of moving the muscles couldn't have been less than if my jaw was being ripped off of my face. It very effectively put an end to my giggling fit. Eventually I was able to work my mouth again and I realized that there was something I wanted very badly to say.
"Cuwa me goo ga freeechica gushgang gagig?" I said. That wasn't close to what it should have sounded like. I tried again, "Coowmegoowgarekrischasheegagn?" Still wasn't happening. I was making him curious about what was so important for me to say, though, he was bent over listening intently to me try to speak.
I worked my jaw some more and managed to get it loosened up. I swallowed repeatedly and cleared my throat before I tried to speak again. This time I sounded close to normal.
I smiled as winsomely as I could manage with my face twitching and I said, "Could we do the electrical machine again?"
Behind the mask, I could see his eyes blinking, but that was all. He didn't speak and he didn't move until I added, "Please?"
"Uh. I suppose. Sure. Just be a second." He said, in a small, confused voice. He fumbled with the clamps of the mechanical fucker and got it dismounted and hauled away. He brought back the electrocutor and hooked me up with jerky, uncertain motions. I guessed he didn't get many requests from his victims; and certainly not for the one device that delivered the greatest amount of pain; but more important to me, the greatest amount of stimulation. I suppose I could have asked to fuck the branding iron, but that was looking less and less like a fun thing as the day wore on. In a way, I think I wanted to do the electrocutor again because it offered the most sensation with the least physical damage.
The nipple clips were more comfortable with the metal rings in my nipples because they didn't bite as deep. The additional metal should give them a better contact-area, too. As soon as he put the metal cylinder in me, I grabbed it with my vaginal muscles, which startled him and then amazed him when I sucked it deeply into my willing hole with no further assistance. I settled it comfortably and took a firm grip on the slick tube.
He almost turned the machine on without putting the gag back in my mouth. I reminded him by clearing my throat and holding my mouth open for it. He put it in, but left the straps loose, which was fine. I just needed something to bite on to keep from hurting my tongue or breaking my teeth.