Hell's Machines

My name is Lucy, and I am the owner and only employee of Hell. If you ask my insurance company, Hell is a 'themed massage parlor' discreetly located in the back corner of a strip mall. If you ask the state, it's a brothel.

Neither definition is quite fair, but if I'm being honest, the state's is closer. Hell does sell sex. The only thing is, I'm not the product.

At Hell's core is a central room, just large enough for me to move about when its full capacity of eight guests are restrained along the walls. Those walls are tile, as are the floor and ceiling. I spent ages picking it out. It's matte black porcelain, just reflective enough to keep the dim red light from the corners. That's crucial to the ambiance; you shouldn't be able to see into the corners.

But even though I'd agonized over my tile choice, that wasn't my masterstroke. My real moment of brilliance had been the chains. Cheap, heavy, and metal, their sound is better than any music I could pump in. Whenever I can secure someone or something with the chains, I do. Sometimes, I even hang them loose from the devices so that they chime and clang along with the squirming occupant.

You might think this kind of business does better at night. No doubt you'd be correct. But the strip mall that houses Hell--in the back, under discrete signage, facing away from the street--doesn't allow me to be open past nine. Which is fine with me. Would you want to be the only girl in a brothel after dark?

Anyway, what might surprise you is how many of your coworkers are sneaking off around lunch to spend an hour in Hell. It's mostly men; a primarily middle-aged demographic. That used to bother me. I'd try and court more women, and stressed when my few female regulars stopped showing up. I think I had this idea that the boys would enjoy something pretty to look at instead of just other sweaty dad-bods. But eventually I had to get over it and accept Hell for what it was.

Thirty minutes before lunch, on the day of the accident, I already had three guests chained up and moaning. That was a good start to the day.

I was paying closest attention to a new boy I'd nicknamed Freckles. I didn't know his real name. It was on the waiver he'd signed, and I'd seen it forty-five minutes ago on his driver's license when I checked he was over eighteen, but I'm bad with names--which is a good thing! It wouldn't do for me to accidentally out one of my guests. What would even be the point of the hoods, then?

Aside from his hood, Freckles, like my other guests, was naked. He was young, twenty-three--I remembered that, at least. I don't mind the often doughy bodies I chain up every day. Honestly, it helps with my confidence. But it's nice, on occasion, to have a fit athletic type in the mix. Even if Freckles's complexion threatened to throw off my carefully balanced lighting.

"You're doing great, sweetie," I told him for the hundredth time. My fingers explored the sweaty channels of his abs. "Fifteen minutes left. You're almost there."

Freckles just groaned. He was slumped forward; only the chains connecting his elbow cuffs to the wall held him up. The red leather bench he was straddling had collected a pool of cum, mixed with copious dribble from his ring gag. I let the first-timers use ring gags so that they're easier to hear if they panic. Freckles's balls, aided by a thin fuzz of red hair, painted the mixture along the bench as the silicone ring of a milking machine encouraged him and his cock forward and back. He didn't have anything in his ass--another mercy for first-timers--but his cock was plenty red and angry. A rubberized band I'd rolled down his then eager, now beleaguered, erection kept him hard. Not for the first time that day I reached around the milking machine for a squeeze--to check for circulation, you understand.

I remember it was right then, with my hand around Freckles's cock, that the blue ceiling light came on. That was the signal that someone was at the door. "Sorry boys, the lunch rush is here." I breezed past my two regulars. I'd chained them across from each other so they'd have something to look at.

I was pretty sure Skinny liked being looked at. He was suspended from the wall today, hooked under his knees to open him up for the vertical piston which had been fucking him for thirty minutes now. His cock hung shriveled and limp. He'd left a tiny puddle of cum on the floor below him only ten minutes in.

Grumpy was my other regular at that time. There was no way I could have hung his significant bulk from the wall like Skinny, even with extra leverage from my winching setup. I'd laid him flat on his back, head out so he had to crane it backward if he wanted to watch me strut around the room. Between his legs, which were stretched flush to the wall by his ankle cuffs, my machines worked on him. Grumpy wasn't my favorite client, and I'll admit I often went a little harder on him as a result. He was having an especially rough time of it that day, sweating profusely and breathing laboriously between his hood and a red ball gag. At least he'd gotten to cum. Three times now, by my count.

I closed the door to the playroom behind me. It's a heavy door, and when it's closed you can barely hear the rattling chains and moaning from inside. That left me in the vestibule, a combined waiting and coat room. The blue 'Guest' light was on above the door, so I opened it and let Father Marric inside.

The tall man always showed up in black catholic robes, complete with the little white swatch at his neck. He could have been playing a part, but I'd always suspected he was the real thing. It was the scuffing on the elbows of his robes, they looked well worn, more than a prop.

"Welcome to Hell," I said, like I always did. I put a little extra drama into it, in case he really was a priest.

Father Marric wasn't yet a regular. But he'd been a few times before, so he knew the drill. He waited patiently for me to pick out a hood for him, and even squatted down a little so I didn't have to reach to lace up the back.

I always put the hoods on first. It makes the guests more comfortable, knowing they're finally anonymous. Also, I think it helps to set the mood. They're much more compliant, and less handsy, wearing the faux leather mask.

Thanks to his previous visits, I knew how to strip Father Marric's heavy cotton robes. There were little seams with a series of hooks inside them. It was a more time-consuming process than undoing a belt and yanking down some jeans, but I didn't mind. Some men prefer to undress themselves, but when they'll let me, I do like to do it myself. It's a little thrill being the one to guide them out of their business attire and into their secret, perhaps shameful, alter egos.

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From the waist up, Father Marric had deeply bronze skin. It was tough, almost like animal hide in places. It hung on him now, showing signs of age. But you could see he must once have had an impressive physique.

His thighs and groin were different. Their paleness stuck out sharp against the rest of his body, and his cock, which hung limp, looked like it belonged to a far less imposing man.

I suddenly had the urge to hold it. So I did. "Do you mind?" I asked my tall guest.

"Of course not, my child."

His cock grew in my hand. I didn't stroke it, just supported it on my palm so we could both watch it rise. He was circumcised, of course, and he hardened from the base, his tip inflating and darkening only at the end. He had a nice cock, sizable, but not obscenely so. In another context I might have found it an intimidating thrill, now that it was fully hard.

"So, what are you in the mood for today?" I asked.

"Absolution," he said. It was the perfect non-answer. It can be difficult when guests want something specific. Especially if the machines needed to make it happen are already in use. But I could work with this.

"Oh, have we been naughty?" I giggled.

"Something of the sort."

Mounted on wall hooks, next to the hoods, I keep a collection of gags. Every guest in Hell wears a hood and a gag. It wouldn't do to have them properly communicating with each other. The hoods have a hole for the gag, eye holes too. This way they can watch each other and also know they're being watched. I think that's the right balance between shame and anonymity.

I released Father Marric's cock so I could flick through the gags. It stayed sticking out at horizontal attention. "Remember your last visit?"

"Of course," he said.

"More or less intense?"

Father Marric didn't say anything, but I knew the sound of shuffling feet.

I returned to him with a gag. It was a short rubber intruder with a clever design that pressed the tongue down against the bottom of the mouth. "Tell me what you want sweetie, I don't judge."

The little eyeholes of Father Marric's mask offered poor peripheral vision. He had to turn his whole head to look down at me. "I'd like to book three hours," he said, "and I have no engagements this evening."

"Say no more." I reached up to put the gag in.

But Father Marric did say more. "I've been having trouble sleeping," he whispered. "I hope to leave exhausted."

----------

The third room in Hell is the washroom. It's the same style as the playroom, but white instead of black. There is a sink, a toilet, and a wall shower. You can spray the whole room down with the detachable shower head. That's important because the showerhead is not the traditional flower design. Instead, it's a thin phallic shape that doubles as an enema nozzle. Just like with all my guests, I sent Father Marric to spend some time with it before we moved to the playroom.

That gave me a little time. Which was good. Because the lunch rush was fully in swing.

I freed Freckles. "You did great," I told him. He needed a few minutes to recover, collapsed forward on the bench, hands wrapped protectively around his abused cock.

When I finally got him to stumble into the vestibule, the guest light was on again. Fortunately, for just this reason, Hell has a separate entrance and exit. I gave Freckles a quarter-off voucher, and my most winning smile, then sent him on his way, out the unmarked back exit--which was actually the front of the shopping center.

The man waiting at the door was new. I'd never seen him before. That was annoying. My advertising always encouraged first-timers to try during the off hours. But still, I wasn't going to turn him away. He was wearing a baseball cap pulled low, and was looking back down the alleyway. "Excuse me, sir." He practically jumped. "I'm a little busy right now. Could you come back in fifteen minutes?"

He looked like he might bolt--that arm-pumping run that short pudgy guys do. "If you take a walk around the block I promise I'll be ready for you," I said kindly. He bobbled his head.

Fifteen minutes was not enough time. But I resolved to make it work.

I collected Father Marric from the bathroom. He was just drying himself off. Grumpy craned his neck to watch as I guided Father Marric to the bench Freckles had been chained to. Skinny paid us no attention. He'd somehow slumped further in his suspension. His eyes were closed and he was making a low keening sound behind his gag. It modulated in time with the dildo pumping his ass.

I sprayed and wiped down Freckles's old bench. Maybe not as well as I should have, but it wasn't like Father Marric could muster an intelligible complaint. The milking machine got shoved to the side. Instead, I raised a long metal rod extending from the floor behind the bench. I took a few seconds to find a very specific dildo to screw onto it. It was a black rubberized thing that looked like a series of balls melted together. Once it was on, I checked that the machine controlling the rod was off, it wasn't good to have something with that much contour actively fucking you.

For efficiency, I used the same restraints on Father Marric as I'd done with Freckles. Two leather elbow cuffs chained him to the wall behind and above him. But unlike Freckles, I left them loose, gave him some room to move. His ankles though, I locked them down tight.

The result was that Father Marric had enough range of motion to either sit on the bench or stand. He was perfectly compliant while I tested his situation, encouraging him up or down by lightly tugging his balls. Two more chains from his elbows to the floor completed the effect I was after. They restricted him so that he could still stand, but only in a deep crouch that would be too strenuous to hold for long.

The mounted bulb dildo squeaked as I repositioned it beneath Father Marric. There's always a bottle of thick silicone lube clipped to my belt. I rubbed a generous coating onto the dildo, before smearing the rest across Father Marric's bottom. "I've got more planned for you, sweetie. But you can get started working yourself onto this," I told him.

----------

It was twenty minutes before I could get back to Father Marric. I'd released Skinny and welcomed back the pudgy baseball cap guy from earlier. First-timer induction was always a pain, they either had too many questions, or none at all. The latter camp was worse, and Cappie fell into it. Eventually I just hooded him up and sent him to the washroom, figuring he'd either freak out at the enema nozzle or he'd actually understood what he was in for.

"Father, I'm disappointed in you," I said, leaning close so Grumpy wouldn't hear. Father Marric was crouching, shakey legs, asshole un-plundered by the dildo I'd prepared for it. It was big, I had to admit. And the smeared lube told me he'd been trying. But still, "If you want absolution, you've got to work for it. Here, I'll help you."

I stroked Father Marric's cock. It hardened quickly. The copious amount of lube I was using made obscene squelching noises. "Go on, sit down on it," I encouraged.

The priest's head lolled back and an appreciative noise gurgled up from deep in his throat. "Sit down," I said, more firmly this time.

Though the gag depressing his tongue made Father Marric's vocalizations unintelligible, there was still a stark difference between his happy noises and the strained grunting as he wiggled himself against the dildo. His cock almost jumped out of my hand when the first ball popped in. "All the way down. Your legs must be tired."

There were four balls in total. As he worked his way over each one, Father Marric's cock would soften. Then I'd stroke him back to hardness, which seemed to give him the motivation to keep going.

When he'd taken the entire thing Father Marric was finally sitting on the bench. He slumped forward as far as the chains would let him, breathing heavy.

I grabbed the chains and connected their midpoint to a hook on the wall. "Back up with you sweetie," I said, giving the little remaining slack a tug. His legs immediately shaking, Father Marric worked himself back up the dildo.

When he was halfway up, two balls out, I grabbed the chains connecting him to the floor, stopping him from rising any further. That slack got tied off too, which left Father Marric without enough range of motion to pull himself fully off the impaler.

At my instruction, the priest sat back down again. He still struggled to take the balls, but he seemed eager to rest his shaky thighs. The poor man. He clearly didn't recognize the mat I'd just strapped onto the bench, on which his cock and balls now rested. He figured it out quick though, when I turned it on.

Father Marric yelped as the invisible electric current zapped his delicate anatomy. The shock was silent, but there was an audible pop, pop, as he rocketed up the dildo as far as the chains would allow.

His eyes shot open. I watched the realization dawn in them. He couldn't stay for very long in this deep crouch. But if he sat down, the electric mat would shock his cock, or his balls, or--if he really gave up--both.

As his thighs started to shake, I lifted a finger under Father Marric's hooded chin. Crouched this low, he was right at my eye level--

The blue guest light caught my eye. Fuck. I'd spent way too long on this setup. And Cappie was probably still out there waiting. I stopped supporting the priest's head. It unbalanced him, and he bumbled down the dildo, before popping back up with a yelp.

----------

Cappie was standing pathetically in the corner, hands cupped over his junk. He watched me with big watery eyes while I retrieved a special hood from the wall.

It's important that the guests of Hell never see each other's faces. But that can be difficult, especially when new guests are arriving. Fortunately, I have some tricks.

I pulled a new hood over Cappie's existing one. This one was unlike my others. It was oversized and, critically, it had no eye holes. "Stay here," I told the man. "Don't move." Just for good measure, I snapped close the complicated copper locking mechanism on the back of his hood.

Three young women stood at the door to Hell. "Hi, Lucy," said the girl in front, "is this an okay time? We all took the day off and--" She stopped talking, her eyes sliding off mine and over my shoulder, where Cappie was standing obediently, still clutching his junk.

Like I said, I'm bad with names, but with faces I do okay. I'd met these girls a few weeks ago, at a kink exhibition I was trying to drum up business at. They were tourists. There to gawk and giggle. That bothered some of the kinksters. But I didn't mind. The lifestylers did plenty of whispering about my particular interpretation of kink when they thought I couldn't hear. A little bit of their own medicine was good for them.

"Of course. Come in girls," I said.

After a brief hesitation, they did. "We were wondering if you were still open for that tour?" their leader said. She was a blond, preppy thing, dressed in pastels that seemed a little juvenile under her faux leather jacket and boots. Like her friends, she was probably in her mid-twenties, a young professional. Her name was on the tip of my tongue. But I was hopelessly lost for the other two.

"Of course!" I tried to gather my scattered thoughts enough to sound enthusiastic. And I was. Even though I didn't peg these three as prospective clientele, I suspected I could count on them for free advertising--of the salacious gossip variety. "And don't be shy, you can stare at him," I jerked my thumb at Cappie, "He probably likes it."

The girls did exactly that. To their credit, they tried to keep their snickering low volume. But still, a red flush crawled out from under Cappie's hood. It bled down his neck and across his mushy pecs.

I gave the girls waivers to sign. "They're the same ones I use for clients. But don't worry, I won't chain you up. You have to pay for that." My reassuring wink only made them flinch.

While they filled out the paperwork, I took the chance to bring Cappie into the playroom. I tried to be quick about it, opening the door and practically shoving him in. I didn't want my tourists peeking. That would ruin the dramatic reveal.

Cappie paid the price for his poor communication earlier. It hadn't left me feeling very charitable towards him. Also, I was eager to put on a good show for the girls. He got the setup I thought would be most dramatic, instead of what might have been more friendly for a first-timer in Hell.

I strapped him to a stainless steel bench that had attached stirrups. He had a flabby butt so I had to winch the stirrups way back, until his knees sunk into his protruding belly. I was almost out of chain when the contortion finally exposed his asshole. In that position he was remarkably spherical. His cock and balls perched on him like a little bird's nest. He was hard, but unimpressive. At least he'd shaved everything. That always made my job easier.

Cappie didn't make any noise beyond heavy breathing when I swiped lube over his hole, or even when the fucking machine I was dragging over squeaked along the floor. I'll admit it annoyed me. And as a result, maybe I worked the machine's realistic dildo into him less carefully than I might normally have. The moment of penetration, at least, awarded me with a whimper.