Machinehead

She's pinned in a corner, spine to the brick. A low bar across her thighs forces her knees wide, leather cuffs biting into her skin. Wrists locked behind the thick collar keep her hands useless. She talks, breath quick, about what she craves when no one's watching. Cyd slides a propane heater close. Heat presses in; she writhes, hips canting, trying to shrink from the burn. Minutes later her shirt is dragged up, knotted above her arms like a sack. Inside the fabric her face strains, profile ghosted through cotton, lungs laboring loud. Now she's on her back in Spanish stirrups, spider gag cranked so her mouth gapes. One ankle chain runs high to the ceiling. Her free hands twist at the ropes, testing for slack that isn't there. Cyd works a speculum into her cunt, tells her to loosen, then spreads her open and taps inside with a sharp point. The speculum comes out; a thick plug replaces it, but only for a second. He swaps it for the biggest he owns. The rubber disappears inch by inch while she growls and finally screams, then swallows the sound. He praises her for taking the monster and turns on the Hitachi as reward. Final scene: knees on the floor, arms wrenched back, head yanked high by an ass hook. Above her hangs the machine, dildo aimed at her stretched lips. Cyd orders her to prove she can suck. She lunges forward, takes it to the root, gagging, spit spraying across the floor with every wet thrust.