Machine Screw – An Audio Erotic Story

A bead of water slid to the end of the exposed pipe. It stretched toward the floor. Finally, it fell.

The speck of water splattered on the wet concrete.

Thelma, a small woman, lay on her back on a table. She was mentally forcing herself to be resilient despite her decision to do this.

She slowly turned her head as much as the neck brace allowed. With too much movement, the restraints would remind her of her situation. At each of her hips, cold pinwheels were ready to drive into her flesh if she shifted too far.

The saving grace: a steady mind and continual easy breathing. They kept her mind from blitzing.

She tried, in that basement, to find some normalcy—something that made her feel this place was not out of her element or that she had not strayed too far. However, there was only a wire stretched from somewhere to somewhere else. There were wooden clothes pins that her grandmother had used to dry clothes and sheets in the warm sun and wind.

Despite recalling running between the waving blankets, this room was reminiscent of an ugly cell in a nineteenth century penitentiary. The corners of the room were dark. Support beams stood sturdy throughout, holding up an old ceiling.

She whispered. “Why did I do all this for a magazine story? I don’t want to go through this.”

Thelma had come to the underground community of Kinks. She had found them to be relatively normal people—corporate managers, blue-collar workers, jack-of-all-trades labormen, software developers, a nurse. Of course, there were the unusual characters whose only world was this underground. It may have been their day job—done at night. Thelma came to explore as a journalist.

“I want to experience what this community is like,” she had told the man and woman who were leading the unique community.

They welcomed her, with restrictions on names and any images.

“This is not a place where we expose our outside selves. We escape here. We let our guard down,” said the man named Amir.

She agreed to it.

Laying on this table was Thelma’s fourth visit. The first three were tame. A few paddles that were no worse than those from the junior school principal. Bondage and tickling of all things. This now was called Machine Screw.

It had come about after she had nearly laughed about the silliness of the community.

“Tickling, really?” she said. “I had heard about crazier things. Unless all these erotica authors are exaggerating and porn movies are fakes. Well, the girls already are, but you know what I mean.”

She asked for a more extreme experience. Amir agreed, saying, “If you can handle it.”

Now, her leather neck brace was connected to the hard table. Her wrists were strapped to that table by zip ties. Her feet were set in stirrups, knees bent, legs slightly spread.

There, in the center of the room, a single lightbulb cast an oddly orange glow. The light, however, only stretched outward a few feet.

Suddenly, Thelma’s breaths shortened when the door at the top of the stairs squeaked open. Her chest rose and fell with the weight of her worry. The pinwheels rolled up her right hip when she shifted. She whimpered like a young girl.

“Thelma, Thelma,” Amir said. He came to her and patted her shoulder. “This is where it gets fun. Is your mind steady? The mind is more important than any sensation against the skin.”

That dim light blacken the shadows crossing Amir’s face.

He pulled a clothes pin from the wire. There was thin twing of the taunt wire.

He gripped her breast and thumbed the thin, olive nipple. Then he snapped the pin onto it.

Thelma’s body jolted and bounced. As much as the pain on her nipple, the pinwheels poked into her and the ties and restraints rubbed her soft skin.

Thelma bit her bottom lips and winced.

“Want another or is that too much?” Amir asked.

Without a confirmation, he did not take another pin from the wire.

“I—we—are not here for pain—kind of—and, certainly, not torture in a prisoner-of-war sort of way.”

Thelma kept her eyes tightly shut. She felt tears at the corners of her eyes.

She opened them when the pressure on her breast was released.

“What, why did you remove it?” Thelma asked through shivering lips.

“My girl—” His fingers brushed over her compressed protuberance.

Thelma cooed at his cashmere touch.

“This is not about who can handle the most pain. We are not outdoing one another. By no means!” He gave a rough tug on Thelma’s ignored nipple. “We do this to force out the contaminations of our society’s capitalistic and socialistic counterbalance. We aim to shed the Left and the Right, who truly each condemn the other side for doing the same thing as the other. We all are tortured in the streets—and online even more—by this never-ending barrage.”

“I need to feel the clothes pins.”

“There is more coming, but if you wish,” Amir said.

The wire twinged again, and the harsh pain of the clothes pin on both nipples caused her heartbeat to speed up. Her teeth ground together, and her face tightened. Her head twisted, rubbing the leather against her neck.

Without looking, Thelma knew when Amir had stepped aside.

The throbbing rippled across her body as the sensitive, feminine flesh that few men had touched was compacted.

She again eased her breathing. She changed her grimace into a lighthearted demeanor.

That was until she heard a machine being pulled across the rough-hewn floor. A few bumps, rattling machinery.

Amir stopped the thing between her open legs.

She could see Amir standing next to a large machine. He patted it, like it was his pet.

“You asked for the experience. This is how we do it.”

Thelma took in a breath, which caused a squeeze on her taut nipples.

With the mental pressure and the throbs, she heard an engine come to life. The low grind of the machine. Gears turning. A thoop from the thrust at a continual pace.

In spite of a choke against her neck, she looked between the upright clothes pins to glimpse of the dick at the end of a long rod.

Amir fondled Thelma. His fingers were not so kind as they had been on her nipples. They were rough. They fingered her. First one finger, then two. He brushed her clit and tugged on her labia.

The pinwheels drove into her hips as she naturally shifted. She howled in a mélange of tenderness and torment.

After the howl, her back arched and all the restraints held her tightly. The tip of the attached dildo touched her. Her mind swirled with the over-sensations, feeling every touch and sound and prick. When the dildo entered her pussy with a slick ease, goodness too came over her. Sparkling wine and melting chocolate.

She did not now need a mental strategy to survive. The restraints ethereally had loosened from her. It was as if she was running between her grandmother’s white sheets billowing in the wind.

But the goodness changed. The pulsations quickened. Hearing the slightest detail, Thelma heaved when she heard what sounded like a chainsaw grumbling. The noise became more industrial—an instrument that never stopped churning but gladly worked hard. Then a screech of metal on metal. A bang of something. The basement sounded like an industrial factory operating at full capacity.

The machine pushed into her faster. The restraints, it was as if they had again gripped her tightly and pinwheels rolled up her hips—a different sharp sparkle.

In her twirling mind, the thrusts into her pussy pulled her back to that goodness from a few moments or maybe hours ago. The spreading chocolate. White sheets on clotheslines.

Then pricks from pinwheel.

Wrists wrestling against zip ties.

A thankful pussy.

Cramping tightened ass cheeks.

Sparkling wine on her belly.

A line of perspiration along her hairline.

Burning-hot ears.

And then her explosion.

“Oh, fuck, motherfucking, damn! Yaaaa,” she hollered.

Her body jarred and shook intermittently.

At some point later, her body calmed. The clothes pins were off. Her neck was freed. She could raise her arms. Her legs dangled off the edge of the table.

She was weak, sweaty, tired. The remnants of that feeling of melted chocolate still rested on her.

Amir stood by her. “Always good to see people pleased. Maybe we’ll see you more often. But as yourself, not as a journalist.”

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