Gromet's PlazaSelf Bondage Stories

The Machine

by Cropsncuffs

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© Copyright 2022 - Cropsncuffs - Used by permission

Storycodes: Sbf; machine; cuffs; gag; catsuit; lycra; spreadeagle; spank; cons; X

I had felt myself flushing the first time I saw the testing machine in the basement. Thankfully no-one noticed my response, but since I saw it, I had been making plans for the testing machine.

We (the Royal We, our company) made carpets and rugs. And deep in the basement was the testing department. One of the machines in the testing department was guaranteed to make every submissive go weak at the knees.

I watched as a technician held up the top edge of one of our rugs until it tripped an electric eye and two mechanical arms reached down and gently grasped the top corners. They drew it up and out while two lower arms reached out and grasped the flapping lower corners. The four arms moved upwards and outwards until the rug was pulled tight between them and we could examine it for gaps in the weave, imperfections and the like before the mechanical arms gave it a thorough shake and tugged it hard in every direction.

From the moment I saw it in action I could imagine myself being held tightly helpless by those mechanical arms. There had to be a way.

As a senior member of staff I quickly found I had access to all the relevant programming areas of our system. It had been designed in Linux as it was cheap and open-source so there were no problems with access or in finding seemingly unrelated routines online that I could adapt.

After a few weeks of hard study and routine rewriting I was sure I had created a routine within the programme that could make my naughty submissive fantasies come true. I downloaded it to my work tablet and tinkered with the rotas to ensure I could get myself alone with the machine for enough time. Now that time had come, I was alone in the basement with the machine.

I guess I should explain myself a touch here. I am, in the very nicest senses of the term, a big girl. I stand nearly six feet tall and I have played sports for my region. I am broad, lean and muscular. And this attracts a very specific sort of man. The sort of man who loves to be overpowered. A man who wants domination and helplessness, and I am afraid I swing very much in the opposite direction.

I did once have a boyfriend prepared to play out my fantasies. He admitted he was prepared to do pretty much anything I asked of him after I had ridden him into an post-orgasmic coma that nearly broke his spirit. He was so much smaller than me, but I had such high hopes for him. Just the thought of being dominated by someone so much smaller than me turned my submissive soul to jelly. I got all the props, and persuaded him to tie me securely to the bed, face down and spread-eagled.

I had bought a proper riding crop (none of this flimsy sex shop rubbish) and even a long a whippy buggy whip. I had pleaded with him to beat me, to whip my arse raw no matter how much I begged him to stop until I uttered our safe word. But in the end his soul just could not bring itself to hurt me the way I so craved and we soon parted. Now I was preparing to allow this soulless machine before me to at least fulfil the helpless bondage part of my fantasies.

I docked my work tablet on the desk and slipped out of my street clothes. Beneath I was wearing what I considered my sexiest outfit. A gleaming black lycra catsuit that covered every inch of me from ankle to wrist and neck in a slithery embrace that made my flesh whimper. It embraced and caressed every inch of my frame and I absolutely loved it. I had deliberately bought one a size too small so it hugged me all the tighter than a regular catsuit and it set my sexy spirit aflame. I let down my long blonde hair and gave it a shake to free it. Nothing said submissive than long loose hair in my mind

The last touch was to kick off my trainers and slip on my gleaming black patent high heeled shoes that took my height to comfortably over six feet and gave me the sort of legs and arse every woman craved. Licking my lips and as ready as I was ever going to be I stepped towards the silent machine.

“Tablet access 4353, run subroutine 57.5” I called out in a clear voice.

I stepped on to the plinth between the mechanical devices and raised my arms. I heard motors and hydraulics start to whisper and I watched as red laser lines flickered over my tightly outlined body, measuring my exact position.

I watched dry-mouthed as the two upper arms reached down towards me and firmly but surprisingly gently grasped my upheld wrists and lifted them up and away from my body.

Momentarily distracted by the surge of passion in my body as I felt their grip I actually flinched and tried to pull away as the lower arms snapped closed about my ankles and slowly pulled them wide apart.

Gasping with passion I let my head fall back and my long hair brushed across my back, the very ends caressing my tight buttocks. I licked my lips and felt myself smiling like a schoolgirl in her first grapple.

“Good evening Susan.” The voice of the work computer made me jump. “You are working late tonight.” The damn thing always said that. It was programmed so it sounded as if the company really cared.

“We see you have created a new subroutine for the testing system. We will now debug the new subroutine.”

Shit shit shit, I thought, if this gets recorded on the system I will have some serious explaining to do.

“Accessing system memory,” the computer intoned, “clearing data and commands not required,” shit shit shit that did not sound good, “Accessing browser history”

“Halt process,” I screamed, “Terminate new routine. Staff override code Alpha mmmmpf…” One of the extra mechanical arms had closed over my mouth rendering my clear abort command a garbled mumbling.

“Updating subroutine parameters using updated browser file records,” it intoned again.

Slowly and inexorably the mechanical arms moved up and out, lifting me off the floor and pulling me into a tight spread-eagle in the air. The gagging arm moved smoothly away.

“Browser history and downloaded files indicate tighter...” The system was silent as it searched for new words to add to its vocabulary from my tablet files and browser history “bondage. We have complied. Searching records…”

Realising things were getting out of hand I was suddenly overcome with the terrible moment every bondage enthusiast and true submissive craves when they realise that they may be in too deep and that they really have no way out until someone releases them.

I threw myself into fighting the mechanicals arms. Pulled, thrashing, struggling for all my muscles were worth. And I have big muscles. For a moment I thought the arms were tiring, then with a faint whine of distant motors they jerked my limbs out again and I was trapped in an ever tighter spread-eagle than before.

“Your writing indicates that you require your bondage…” there was that pause again while it studied new words, “tight and inescapable. We have added this option to your subroutine. You are now…” pause for thought again, “utterly helpless. Continuing studies.”

I shouted at the machine now the mechanical hand had removed itself from my mouth. Clearly the computer thought my ability to hurl abuse at it was an integral part of my routine.

“Searching files,” it said coldly, “Punishment is indicated. Searching implements files for availability.” Now that I did not like the sound of one bit, but I had absolutely no choice but to hang there in my bondage awaiting the outcome of the computer’s deliberations. “Riding crop: Not available. Buggy whip: Not available. Tawse: not available.”

Oh shit, it was working its way through every fantasy scenario I had stored on my browser and trying to find a way to make my fantasies come true. Thankfully the chances of the computer being able to find anything that appeared in any of those fantasies was extremely slim.

“Searching, working…” it intoned, then a pause, “Implement located, beginning retrieval.”

For a brief and frantic moment the panic set in and once again I threw myself against eh grip of the mechanical arms that held me their prisoner, but all I achieved was to work myself up into a huge sweat and to make my skintight catsuit rub every inch of my skin until I was frothing at the mouth with lust.

The hatch in the wall to my left slid open and the conveyor belt moved silently into life. And from the darkness on the other side appeared a rattan carpet beater I had once seen in the museum.

A mechanical arm reached out and lifted it from the belt. It swung it through the air a time or two as if testing it, and the swish it made as it swung through the air made me both horny and terrified. I had never been beaten with a carpet beater and the prospect was fascinating.

“Punishment modes being accessed,” said the machine again, “Fabrication system initiated. Modes found: Tease, punish and punish severely. Mode chosen: Punish.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the carpet beater being raised behind me and the play acting part of me screamed “No!” at the top of my voice.

“Fabrication complete,” I heard the computer saying, as I twisted my head round to see the raised carpet beater. When my head turned to face front again there was an arm dangling something before my face. Before I could say a word there was a huge bit between my teeth fashioned from who knows what among our stores and the nimble arm danced about my head fastening straps that swiftly held it immovably in place. Damn the computer, now it had gagged me as well.

“Reference material shows,” it intoned, “gagging and screaming are a desired part of the subroutine. Completing routine.”

The first slash of the carpet beater across my arse made me scream into the securely applied gag and my muscular body arch in the grip of my robot bonds. The second felt the same, but by the third and fourth I was riding the submissive wave as I fought the mechanical arms, screamed into the thoughtfully applied gag (the machine was right, it was a vital part of the fantasy) and gloried in the burning heat spreading out from my repeatedly punished arse. With every movement my catsuit roughly caressed my tender, yearning flesh, and the more turned on I was becoming.

In a complete orgasmic haze (I lost count of how many I achieved) I distantly realised that the arms were gently lowering me to the floor and that one of them had gently removed my gag and whisked it away.

“Updated subroutine complete,” said the computer, “Saved in private file on worker tablet for future use.”

I felt round to my burning arse and found rips in my favourite catsuit, but I felt utterly incredible. Drained, glowing and no doubt looking an absolute mess, but by God I had enjoyed the experience.

“System note,” said the computer, “similarities exist between updated subroutine and others already on file. Suggest you access basement 5 for information.” And then there was silence.

I slipped my everyday clothes back over the wreck of my catsuit and undocked my tablet from the desk. Then the words got through to me. Other subroutines already on file? Basement 5? I was way too exhausted to go and look now, but part of me just knew I was going to have a look soon.


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