Industrial Fuck

headcage3Sound of chain, clinking on the metal cage around my head.  Memory of chain affixed to my ankle striking against hardwood floor as I stand, chained to the door, waiting for guests to arrive; the muted sound of chain rubbing against itself between my legs; the harder jangle as he grabs the chain in his fist, gathering it, gathering me, against him.
I’m not an industrial girl.  The sight of metal does nothing for me.  The feel of the cage around my head is just another thing he does to amuse himself and that I tolerate, because it does amuse him to see me so, because it turns him on.  And let’s face it, because I have no choice.  The sound/feel of chains, on the other hand, the sound of handcuffs snicking into place, the feel of them implacable, sharp and just a bit painful around my wrists–that is something else.
Which is why I was so very surprised to find myself so turned on by the feel and taste of his cock as he pushed it through the hole he’d constructed in the head cage.  Why I was so surprised to find myself thrusting my face against the barrier of metal, ignoring the discomfort-verging-on-pain of the bar against my throat and on the bridge of my nose, in order to widen my mouth enough to take him deeper.  Why I suffered as he thrust his cock into the hole and into my mouth, each thrust pushing my nose against the barrier in exquisite (unintentional) pain.  I didn’t care, I loved it, I loved the taste and smell of metal mixing with the musky taste and smell of cock, I loved his hand on the cage holding my head still, I loved being caged, a mouth inside a cage for him to push and pull about, there simply for his use.
I remember the first time he put a headcage on me.  It may have been the second time I’d gone over to his house.  I had some time on a Saturday afternoon.  I was dressed “cute,” casually, had just dropped off my kids at their various Saturday activities, had warned him I was in “Saturday” mode: no makeup, summer skirt, tank top, ponytails.  Wasn’t really too sure what to expect.  Would we just talk?  Would we scene? I wasn’t even too sure what I wanted to do…
Okay no, honesty here…I wanted to play…but time was limited, I was limited…only later would I come to know him well enough to know he’d come up with some way to use and abuse me that would fit into the timeframe we had available.
I should preface this to say that the first time we’d played, he’d put handcuffs and chains on me.  Not something I had ever experienced.  There were other ways he was different as well, so when he took me upstairs and put heavy shackles on me (the shackles I wear to sleep in now when I sleep over at his house), I was intrigued more than surprised.  But then he brought the headcage out.
Was he serious or was he making fun of me? (I didn’t know him well enough then to know he wasn’t after that, at least in this instance.)  Then I thought about some of the things I’d seen him do on Bondage Demons…and yeah, I knew he was serious.  My Mean Guy was apparently into industrial girls.  So…okay.
The first was a prototype. (And, as he said, this one was too, perhaps, since we discovered that the bar above my nose didn’t allow me to be able to open my mouth wide enough to take his cock deep enough into my mouth.) I felt a little silly in it the first time, actually…until I realized he was serious about it, that he dug it, that it wasn’t about making me feel foolish.   And then, after an afternoon of being tied and displayed, photographed (something I wasn’t quite used to yet) and fucked in it, I found myself in that mindless fucktoy headspace and wanted nothing more than to suck him through it, to push my face through the bands of metal and take him in mouth, to taste him.  I didn’t care what it looked like anymore–silly, hot, sexy, humiliating?  Who cared?  I just wanted to be his hole, his mouth, his industrial fuck, if that was what he wanted.
I remember him pushing me against the wall in the hallway just outside his bedroom, after he had unchained me.  I was squatting, leaning against the wall, my mind a blank, my legs spread, his fingers in my pussy as he crouched in front of me.  The cage still on my head, clunking against the wall behind me as he shoved his fingers rhythmically into me.  And then, standing, he pulled out his cock and shoved it, ruthlessly, unceremoniously, into my mouth through the bars of the cage and fucked my unresisting mouth.  Unresisting…there was no resistance left in me.  I simply opened my mouth and took him in as he fucked my throat: a head in a cage, an open mouth.  An industrial fuck.

8 thoughts on “Industrial Fuck

  1. Yowsa! To be honest, I didn’t think I’d like what I read… cause at the first, it didn’t seem to be appealing to me on any level. But damn was I ever wrong… you’ve brought out that deepest, darkest place within me.
    If only my dear Dante weren’t so sick (well, me, too)… DAMN, woman! You sure know how to tell a story!
    Big hugs!

  2. Isn’t it strange how that works? I start out many times thinking, “no, really?” only to end up going, “oh yeah, REALLY!” lol That’s one reason I enjoy play with W so much…he allows me to explore that apparent contradiction so often…

  3. Industrial Girl! I absolutely love that term…classification
    Indeed, I am a lover and a collector of steel…
    Thanks for that post…very nice!

  4. I am transfixed, mesmerized.. addicted..
    This post is fucking BEAUTIFUL!
    I could see every motion, feel every pull
    Superb writing.. even better visual!
    I love the term industrial fuck.. it adds to the visual.

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