The Plastic Maiden

Once the ropes are set I stand back to admire my handiwork.

She is bent over the end of the table, cuffed at the wrist and ankle. It is a big, sturdy country-style supper table, painted and stained lacquer black. Ropes tie each of her limbs to the four legs, pulled taught, unyielding and pitiless. I can see the strain in her shoulders, back, the long quadriceps quivering. I have positioned her high on the table, the edge bisecting her perfectly at the hip joints and pussy. She is long-legged but can barely reach the floor and only then up on her toes.

She has worn a black latex hood for the past hour while I spanked her and warmed up her nipples with small hair clips.  When I led her blindly into the back room she knew what was coming and trembled visibly while I prepared the ropes.

This table is my own special creation, custom-designed for suffering and pleasure. When I made it, I went to an office supply store and bought a simple plastic office floor mat, the kind with a flat surface backed by sharp teeth for gripping carpets.  I cut it into strips and then glued them, teeth-up, onto the table in two spots: the edge at one end and then another series of strips at the midpoint.  Craftsmanship is important; I carefully measured my submissive and the table to make sure she would feel exactly what I wanted her to.

And now, as I watch, she lays with the weight of her body hitting the rows of cruel points at her pussy and hips on one end and her tits on the other. She whimpers with the effort of trying to keep herself off the teeth. It is impossible, of course. Her arms are stretched so far in front of her that she gets only limited leverage with her elbows to ease the agony in her nipples.  Only when up on her toes can she bring at least some relief to her pussy and even then in only short bursts before her toes slip on the tile floor and the full weight of her hips drops back on top of the torture strips.

The Plastic Maiden, I call it. The mere mention of it brings dread into her eyes and quickens her breath. She fears it and craves it in equal measure.

The sides of her pale breasts as they pillow out from beneath her are stark contrast to the ice-colored plastic teeth and I know that her brown nipples, so prominent and sensitive, are trapped beneath her. It feels like being stung by ants, she had told me. I admire the calf muscles cording with effort and that ass, already striped red, bobbing as she tries to keep her pussy off the cruel points. She moans with the exertion, then cries out when she falls flat.

Her pussy? No. My pussy. Just watching her torment makes me hard.

Eventually I will flog her again but for now I don't want anything to distract from the stinging in her pussy and tits.

And after she is flogged and the burning in her shoulders, cheeks and thighs have begun to distract her from those endless, infinite rows of needlelike teeth, I  will lean over and whisper into her ear what's going to happen next.

"I'm going to fill that ass," I will whisper, tender as a lover. "I'm going to fuck it and fill it completely and I'm not going to stop."

But not yet. Right now I watch her squirm and sob softly in her helplessness and feel the blood rush into my cock.