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Love Machine
After lunch I was lying naked by the pool; gently recovering from the monster whipping and orgasm my Daddy had given me a few days previously. My body was mostly recovering and the marks of the belt were fading fast. The bruise where the belt buckle had sunk deep into my lower stomach was taking a bit longer to go, and it was still a bit tender to the touch, but I was definitely on the mend.
Except for one thing.
Probably because of all the sexy games my Daddy and I were playing together, I had been feeling a quite aroused for most of the summer. But now it was much worse, or better, depending how you look at it. Since the last whipping and the immense orgasm to which it had lead, when my breasts had been really seriously abused and I’d ended up pissing myself, lying on the garden dining table, something fundamental had happened to my lustful young body. I wasn’t just aroused; I was quite simply as horny as hell, constantly.
My cunt was wet all the time, its lips shiny with my thick fluids, which leaked out of me so that the tops of my inside thighs were always shiny too.
If I simply walked across the lawn, the movement made me horny, if I sat down on a chair I found myself spreading my legs so that my weight pressed down on my cunt, and I would rock my pelvis back and forth, squirming myself against the wood. I would spread my legs and perch on the old-fashioned round door handle on the barn. (That was my Daddy’s suggestion – if you’re a virgin and you want to stay that way for the foreseeable future you’ll take all the help and advice you can get!)
And if I lay down I simply couldn’t keep my hands from myself; I played with my breasts, my shiny wet thighs, my anus, and gently masturbated for hours. Sometimes it got so bad that my fingers, even though they were slim and strong after years of playing the piano, would begin to hurt and I had to stop. (That was when Daddy suggested I try fucking the barn door.)
I could smell my own sex, all the time.
And my Daddy didn’t help! He could see what was happening to me and was highly amused. He told me not to worry, it was just a reaction to my huge orgasm of the other day and gradually my body and my lust would come back under control.
“Pity, really,” he sniffed.
He kept making jokey little comments about revenge being sweet. But that far from being a dish best eaten cold, it was a definitely a dish best eaten from the body of a hot, naked, oversexed seventeen-year-old girl.
But I suppose that in a way it was fair enough. For weeks now, following his request, (he conveniently forgot that bit) I’d been deliberately leading him on, always naked except for my heels, posing sexily, and asking him to rub sun cream into the bits of my body I “couldn’t reach”, and of course offering myself to him and his belt as an sexually subservient object of his lust.
So he was enjoying watching me struggle with my own rampant desires, and had “lost” his shorts and was always naked, (obviously he is quite a lot older than me but his body is still pretty good) and constantly offering to help me stand up from my lounger, with a helping hand which would brush across my stomach, helping me to lie down again, with a helping hand which would brush the side of my breasts, helping to prepare our meals, which always seemed to result in our bodies pressing close together as we fetched things from the kitchen cupboard, etc. Essentially what he was doing was copping what would in any other circumstance be called “cheap feels”.
I loved it.
During this time his cock was always quite firm, and two or three times a day I would reward a particularly “subtle” cheap feel by immediately interrupting whatever we were doing, cutting up the lettuce, tidying the papers, or opening the wine, by reaching down to his turgid cock and slowly wanking him until it stiffened completely and he ejaculated on me. Sometimes on my breasts, sometimes my face or stomach, a couple of times I turned round at the very last minute and his thick fluids landed just at the top of the crack between my arse cheeks, and I bent forward, spreading my cheeks with my hands, to allow it to slide slowly down over my anus.
That was heavenly for me too, and incidentally those were the only times we tried to clean me up after Daddy’s orgasm. He knelt down behind me and licked my arse clean of his spunk. Because of the summer heat I was having a shower every morning and evening and before each of my frequent cooling dips in the pool, so rest of the time I simply let his spunk dry wherever it landed on my body. He loved it when I walked around with his spunk drying on my face, or in my hair, and I loved squeezing it out of my pubic hair and licking my fingers clean.
Sex was literally “in the air”, because I reeked of it, all the time, his and mine!
It was a wonderful time for us both.
As I began to recover, and calm down, I started thinking about my immediate future. My summer vacation had only a couple of weeks still to go and then I would have to leave my Daddy and fly back home and go to college. (I was in fact looking forward to starting my technical design course; I’m pretty good at it and now have a strong, and still developing career as a design consultant.) Now we had already decided that I would fly back over to France at every opportunity, but it was sad to think that it would be next summer before we could really repeat our languid, lazy and painful sexual antics. As well as the sex, Daddy and I love to be together and we were going to miss each other’s company.
Also, as my wild “conventional” sexual desires gradually abated I started to think about being whipped again. In fact, I wanted to be whipped again. The problem however was that the two wonderful whippings I’d had from Daddy had done their job and given me shattering orgasms without impairing my virginity, but they had wreaked major havoc on my body, from which it was taking too long for me to recover. The bratty schoolgirl in me still screamed that it wasn’t fair, here I was wanking Daddy to orgasm two or three times a day, and I’d only had two proper orgasms all summer. For all my apparent sophistication, inside I was still a spoilt little brat with a petted lip, stamping my foot and demanding my fair share of…of what exactly? Being whipped half to death until I was a snivelling, shrieking, weeping, puffy-faced little creature lying in my own piss as my Daddy wanked on me?
Well, yes, actually.
That was exactly what I wanted, but I wanted to be a bit more elegant about it, which meant that I would have to somehow engineer things so that less whipping produced more orgasm. I had already studied some engineering design at school and thinking about my problem, in my head I had slipped into a kind of geek-speak.
I wanted more orgasms for less whipping and, vain as I am, I wanted to look good while it was all happening.
I had enjoyed being tied up while Daddy took his belt to my breasts but it had been acutely uncomfortable. It may seem ridiculous to complain about discomfort when having my breasts and stomach lashed to shreds, but my arms still hurt where they had been roughly tied too tightly to the branch, all that kneeling had stopped the circulation in my legs, and the ending, hanging backwards off the table with my stomach stretched tight had been very effective, but my spine just wasn’t supposed to bend that way. It had only been possible because I was a fit, seventeen-year-old schoolgirl. Unless I became an athlete I’d have trouble trying to do that in my twenties!
And, seriously, my Daddy liked whipping me, and I wanted him to be able to do it more often.
So think, girl!
Tying me up was a great success, I loved it, but I needed to be tied more comfortably, and I didn’t want to end up kneeling all the time. My legs are pretty good and I wanted to show them off, not fold them away under me. Maybe some kind of frame, a bit like a kiddies’ climbing frame but a lot more solid, with lots of straps, clips, and handholds all over it so I could be held comfortably in various positions…..
I started to see it in my mind, so I asked Daddy to help me up; not laziness, I still hurt quite a bit and you know he likes touching me. Remember, we were both naked, and so it was a pleasure to watch him walk towards me. I lifted my arms and put them round his neck, and asked him to carry me over to the table, where we sat while I explained my thoughts and sketched out some rough ideas. At first he was very enthusiastic, but as my sketches became more detailed, it became obvious to both of us that what I was drawing was just too complicated, and would take ages to have it made. It would never be finished before I flew off to college.
I scrunched up my drawings and pushed them aside, very disappointed. Then I remembered what our German design teacher had said, time after time.
“Never give up, never give in.” (He truly said that to us, he was a complete science-fiction geek.) “If your idea’s not working it’s not the idea’s fault, it’s yours. You’re being too clever.”
Which of course means you’re not being clever at all; you’re merely being complicated.
So, talking out loud to Daddy, I went back to first principles.
“Daddy, I am the most important part of the machine. The machine exists solely for the purpose of comfortably supporting my body in various positions and attitudes so that you have easy access to any part of me. Agreed? Going on, it must be possible for me to be held vertically upright, or upside-down, to be able to have my arms and/or legs spread wide, and for me to be able to be bent forwards or backwards at a convenient height for you. I have to be able to be comfortable and safely secured in any and all of these positions.”
And then, just as I finished talking, it came to me. It was quite simply a flash of inspiration, the kind of “divine” inspiration that is now helping to make my business a success.
“Daddy, I’m so stupid. It’s easy. It’s really easy. We are living in one of the main wine producing areas of France. A barrel! Get a big barrel and wedge it on its side and bend me over it and tie me down!”
As with all good, simple ideas the possibilities were immediately obvious, to me anyway. Daddy seemed to need a little more persuasion.
“Think about it Daddy. I can lie across it, or along it if we get one big enough. I can sit astride it. With some help I can lean my body upside–down against it.”
He was nodding in agreement, and then stopped.
“But how do we tie you to it? There’s nothing much on a smooth barrel to tie you to. We’ll have to fix handles to it or the rope will tend to slip off.”
My ideas were really cooking now; I had another flash.
“Got it, Daddy; I am the most important part of the machine, remember? Staple a circle of wire rope round each end of the barrel, leaving loops between each staple. I wear wrist and ankle straps each of which has a spring clip. Just clip me to the wire in whatever position you fancy and I can’t move. It’ll work. It’s easy and it’ll work.”
But it wasn’t so easy.
Daddy started phoning around for a cooper with barrels to sell, but they were all busy, most of them already behind with orders for the wine harvest, which was almost on us. No one would sell him a barrel of any kind, let alone a really big one. By late afternoon we were both tired and disappointed, so I sat on my Daddy’s lap and with my arm round his shoulders snuggled against him. We were both naked, of course, so I immediately felt his cock start to stiffen under me as I giggled and wriggled against him suggestively.
He stopped me.
“You’re right, Baby Girl. What you’ve been saying is dead right. It is unfair to you that you get to cum so seldom whilst you’re making things good for me so often.”
“Daddy, I would like to cum more often but I don’t mind really. What we’re doing’s still fun for me too.” I giggled. “Anyway, you’ve seen what it does to me. There’s a limit to how much of the belt I can stand.
“No Baby, it’s only fair. I’m not going to let you make me cum until we’ve found a solution to this. And, tell you what, just for once, let’s get dressed for and go out for dinner.”
And so, about an hour later, I stepped shyly back out into the garden, where Daddy had been waiting for me for about forty minutes. He looked up from his book and whistled. I flushed and clumsily curtsied. I’d taken some time to put my hair up, and in my heels and a light strappy dress which came halfway down my thighs and left my shoulders bare, I have to say I looked young and sweet and sexy.
I kissed my Daddy on the top of his head and spun round in front of him. My dress flared slightly, giving him glimpse of my white panties.
I giggled; “Will I do?”
“Baby Girl, you look delicious. Perfect. I’m proud to be seen with you,” and he took me by the hand and helped me into the car.
By local standards we were incredibly early for dinner but it was a great success. We went to an old hotel in the centre of town, about a ten-minute drive, quite close to the school I had attended a year previously when I’d come over very early and Daddy had insisted that I couldn’t be on holiday for five months. Once I’d got over my childish resentment I’d quite enjoyed it, and I’d made some good friends. It had certainly done my ability to speak French a lot of good, so I ended up ordering for us.
We had an excellent meal; French chefs really are the best, but for me dinner was spoiled, only a little, by the fact that I couldn’t have any wine. I like wine, and beer; Daddy has always let me have carefully regulated amounts of alcohol since I was quite young because he reckons it’s the best way to make sure I learn to drink sensibly, and it worked, because I do. However, I was still only seventeen and too young for the licensing laws in France, but I’m enough of an all-American-gal to like drinking coke, and despite their claims to the contrary, French people really do seem to like all things American, from Harleys to Jack Daniels, so there was plenty of ice-cold coke for me to drink.
We finished eating at about eight-o-clock, which is about the time most French people are thinking about packing up work and starting to eat; we really were very unfashionably early, but there it is, that’s the way we are. As it turned out, eating early at that hotel on that evening was the very best thing we could have done.
What happened was this.
Daddy settled up and we walked out onto the street. He told me to wait and he would get the car; I suppose he thought I wanted to look in some of the shop windows.
Right next to the hotel there was an entrance with tall wooden gates, which were always shut. I’d passed it every day I was at school the previous year and it had always been shut. The other kids used to crack slightly edgy jokes about the strange old guy who’s yard it was, but I’d never got to the bottom of who he was and what it was all about, it was just grim looking, slightly spooky looking wooden gate which were always shut when I’d passed either in the morning or afternoon.
This was the evening and they were open, and with the bright evening sun flooding the courtyard behind them with light, the place looked anything but spooky, just a slightly scruffy courtyard in town. And there, standing on end and throwing a long shadow against the far wall, was a barrel, a huge, slightly stained barrel. It had obviously been used, and would need cleaning up but it looked good.
I had to go in and check it out. I clip-clopped across the cobbles in my heels and walked right up to it. I stood, pressed against it, and my chin was just level with its upper rim. I ran my hands over it and whilst it was a bit dirty it was quite smooth, with no splits or splinters. It would be my lover. It was perfect for our depraved plans and desires. I could just see myself tied to it, being tormented by my Daddy’s belt, and worse. I had to have it.
I heard a door open behind me and spun round, the skirt of my short dress flaring out as it had earlier to expose my thighs and to offer a glimpse of my white panties. But last time it had been to my Daddy. This time a tall, rather mysterious looking man of about my father’s age was looking at me from an open door. Embarrassed, I walked towards him to apologise for trespassing. Over his shoulder I could see into his office, and in the mirror I could see myself as I approached. With the strong evening sun behind me I might as well not have been wearing my dress. My body was perfectly silhouetted, the sun shining through the thin cotton as though it wasn’t there.
In the silence the sound of my heels echoing off the cobbles seemed deafening as I approached him, holding my hand out to shake his. I could hear my knees brush each other as I walked, and I could see that he was coolly looking me up and down, his dark eyes studying the outline of my bare shoulders, the sway of my breasts under my dress, my tight waist; slowly running his gaze down the smooth swell of my hips to my legs and then back up to where my slim inner thighs caught flashes of sunlight as I strode towards him. Other than my father, I’d never had a man look at me like that before, so confident, so relaxed, so obviously simply enjoying what he saw.
I liked having him look at me too; in fact I was enjoying it, and had decided to be bold. (Daddy would appear any second now to save me if anything went wrong.) I would simply ask him to sell me the barrel as a present for my father; he wanted to lay it on its side as a garden ornament, with wire ropes stapled as loose handles round both ends. (That last bit certainly taxed my French!)
“Sorry, madamoiselle, it is not for sale.”
I persisted.
“But please, it’s to be a present for him. I have to go soon and I want to leave it for him before I go away to college.”
He seemed to be thinking about it. I carried on,
“You don’t seem to be using it very much, it’s just in your way here. Please monsieur.”
There were in fact three reasons I was talking so politely. I was enjoying being looked at; the mysterious Frenchman was still quite openly ogling me. Secondly I really wanted the barrel. It was just exactly what Daddy and I had discussed, and thirdly…..
“Monsieur, I have need of your help. May I use your toilet please?”
The fact was that all the coke I’d been drinking had worked its way through me and I’d been kinda keen to pee before we left the hotel restaurant, but I’d decided to hold on until I got home; if you’ve got this far with these memories of mine you can imagine the kind of antics my Daddy and I could get up to with my bladder being full to bursting, but the current delay had proved too much for my self control. I simply had to pee, now!
“Please monsieur, I’m sorry but I really need your help.”
Suddenly he relaxed and was all formal good manners.
“Of course, madamoiselle, this way please,” and he showed me into his office and opened a door for me, clicking the light switch for me as he did so. I quickly stepped inside, pushed the door shut and saw, to my horror, an old fashioned French toilet.
I don’t know if you’ve encountered one of these monstrosities, they’ve all but disappeared except in the most backward rural areas.
Daddy’s French home is in a backward rural area.
Let me describe this thing. Imagine about a metre square of chipped white porcelain, flat on the floor. (Actually this one wasn’t chipped at all, it seemed quite new.) The square of porcelain has sides maybe six inches tall, and in the middle there are two raised footpads, also about six inches tall and about shoulder width apart. The whole thing is cast as one and there is a drain hole with a chromium rose at the back.
Yep, you’ve guessed it, you squat with your feet apart, one on each of the raised pads, do what you have to do, and then you literally pull the chain. Water cascades around the raised pads, cleaning the thing out, and you stand up to go your merry way. Apparently they’re much healthier than our more conventional toilet seats.
Maybe they are, but they are much more hassle to use, even for a fit young girl who’s only wearing a short dress and a pair of panties. It’s not enough to simply slip your panties down to your knees, you really do have to take them off all together, and hang them up. And you have to lift your dress so high to make sure it stays clear of both your own piss and the torrent of water you unleash when you pull the chain that just in case, it’s better to take your dress off completely and hang it up.
However, the thing works.
There I was, naked except for my heels, squatting facing the door with my legs wide apart, and my piss cascading from me, when the door swung open. In my haste I hadn’t shut it properly. I was looking straight into the eyes of the mysterious Frenchman who had in fact stepped forward to try to keep the door shut. He stared at me, his mouth open in surprise.
I was absolutely in full flow and couldn’t stop, and although I have to admit that I’d become a bit of an exhibitionist that summer, this really was just too much for me. I blushed. I panicked. I tried to cover myself, getting piss on my hands in the process. I tried to cover my breasts, getting piss on them from my hands. I tried to close my legs and wobbled on my heels and almost fell off. I ended up with one piss-dripping hand covering my breasts and pissing between the fingers of my other hand as I tried to preserve some maidenly modesty. But I still couldn’t stop. So I did the only thing left for a seventeen-year-old girl to do. I burst into tears, real tears of shame and embarrassment as this stranger stood at the door, watching me piss as I squatted there, virtually naked in front of him.
Without a word he pushed the door closed.
Eventually I re-appeared, blushing a bright pink, in his office, having cleaned myself up as well as I could.
Before I could say anything he raised his hand to stop me.
“Madamoiselle, I must apologise. I have meant to get that door fixed for months; it has a mind of its own. I’m so sorry. Would it to some extent make up for your discomfiture if I were to give you the barrel as a gift to your father, whom I hear outside in the street calling your name? If you like I will have it cleaned and delivered to you.”
I said thank you, and ran out to fetch my Daddy, and explained to him what had happened, although not, I hasten to add, in quite as much detail as I’ve given you, and although at first he was very suspicious of the mysterious Frenchman, I just kept repeating that truly it was all an unfortunate accident, and eventually all was well.
Two days later the barrel arrived at the house. Or it may have been a new barrel; it had been so completely washed, and scrubbed, and sanded, and varnished, and sanded and varnished again, until it gleamed in the sunlight. There were two cradles, also sanded and varnished, to lay it on, to keep it absolutely steady and well clear of the ground.
Under the supervision of the still mysterious but very generous Frenchman, his two workmen carefully unloaded it and rolled it across the grass to the centre of the lawn, where my Daddy and I had positioned the cradles. A quick heave and it rolled firmly into place, it’s own massive weight holding it firmly in place as they then quickly pinned it to the cradles with two bands of steel. The barrel could never roll free, no matter what was done to me as I was fastened to it.
It was my first machine and I was proud of it. Now it was time to test it.
I hope you found that interesting and stimulating. I would love to squat naked in front of you and entertain you by pissing on my hands before wiping them on my breasts.
Maybe someday?
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