Stacy tries self-bondage sessions in the greenhouse at new home.
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WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.
If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.
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Stacy wouldn’t have spent the money to add it, but when she bought her new home it was already in place. She wasn’t that into gardening, but the previous owner had kept a very large flower garden on the spacious grounds and had a large, glass enclosure attached to the back of the house alongside the deck where she raised prize-winning violets.
It wasn’t really glass. The clear, curved panels of its roof and the not-so-clear panels of its walls were actually some sort of heavy plastic. It faced south so the full force of the sun shone on it throughout the day. The deion of the home on the realtor’s website said it had an attached greenhouse, but as the realtor showed Stacy around the place, she constantly referred to it as a hothouse.
“Even if you don’t want to use it for plant seedlings,” the realtor had chirped. “It makes a very efficient solar collector and already has fans in place to circulate the warmth collected throughout the house in the cool days of fall and early spring.” She flipped a large switch and added, “And in the summertime, just open the roof panels and all heat escapes through the roof as cool air is pulled in through the louvers at the bottom.” She flipped the switch in the opposite direction and said smartly, “Perfect for the gardener or the environmentalist.”
Stacy was neither a gardener nor an environmentalist, she was a free-lance writer who worked from home and wrote everything from advertising copy to romance novels. She even did some ghost writing for an x-rated publishing house. She was not one of those women who loved to get her hands in the dirt and make things grow, but she did love visiting nude beaches and lying in the sun naked. As the saleslady babbled on about how many awards the previous owner had won for her violets, Stacy was not seeing flowers. She was envisioning the large hot house filled with a thick carpet on which she could lie and bask in the sun as it streamed into the glass enclosure.
There were other visions of herself in her mind, but those were for after she knew whether or not she could buy the house. It was way above her price range, but something told her that the seller would take a much lower bid than the asking price. Hoping for the best, she worked out what she could afford on her royalties and anticipated new book sales and made a ridiculously low offer to see what the counter offer would be.
To Stacy’s surprise, the counter offer was an acceptance of her bid. The realtor waited until signatures were in place on the closing documents to explain in her non-stop babbling style of talking, “I was starting to despair that I would ever find anyone who would appreciate that hothouse. Something like that sounds like a really good addition to the value of a home - and it is for the right person. But unless you have a really avid gardener or an extreme environmentalist, such a specialized add-on is a stumbling block to the sale. With the prices depressed and the glut on the market and the previous owner transferred to another state, all we could pray for was finding someone who was into the environment or gardening.”
As she sorted out the copies for Stacy, she added, “She was actually hoping for a quite a bit more, but was afraid that if she made a counter offer, it would scare you away...,” she stopped to take a breath and give Stacy a wide, toothy grin, “... so you got a really good deal. Since you said you weren’t all that much into the environment, I assume you will be using it for gardening.” She paused slightly again and finished with, “After all, what else could you use it for? ”
Stacy kept her mouth tightly clamped shut so she didn’t accidentally say out loud, “Naked self-bondage.”
Stacy had plans for that greenhouse that had nothing to do with plants or the environment. She could see herself suspended in place of the trays of earth, with the spring-loaded chains going not from the bottom of the trays, but from ankle restraints on her legs to the floor mounts at the ends of where the trays were held. In her mind, the same was true for her hands so that she was held in mid-air, sweating heavily in the heat of the sun like a naked, glistening X.
Moving and settling into the house took several weeks, so it was late spring before Stacy began preparing the hothouse. The previous owner had not skimped on the design. It was as good, or better, than many commercial greenhouses that Stacy had seen. It was about twenty feet wide and forty feet long with two long rows of seedling tables down the middle. What was unusual about these tables is that they were not wooden or metal structures rising from the floor. Instead, they hung from the ceiling on stout cables. Beneath the trays, chains and long springs connected the trays to floor and prevented them from swaying around. The upper cables wound around long shafts which could be turned by electric motors. Thus, the trays could be raised to a comfortable height for work or lowered completely to ground level so that soil could be easily added for the next crop of seedlings. The row closest to the house was shorter than the other. In that row, one of the boxes had been removed. The cables for that box were wound tightly within the spool on the control shaft and held in place with a large pin. A large number of those pins - evidently one for each cable - were hanging on the exterior wall of the house next to a control panel for the hothouse.
The control panel consisted of a large electrical box with conduit branching off to several smaller boxes. Above the control panel was a box about a foot square with a lever on the side. Out of each of the smaller boxes additional conduit led to large electric heaters mounted along the walls of the hothouse and to additional heaters which hung from the ceiling above the rows of seedling boxes. Conduit also led to outdoor style electrical plugs mounted about a foot off the floor around the entire greenhouse. On the house wall next to the power panel, there was a large, open panel with a row of buttons labeled “Up” and “Down.” There was also a hand-held remote sitting on a shelf at the base of the button panel. It evidently also controlled the raising and lowering of the cables. That task could apparently also be controlled remotely by a computer or cell phone, at least that is what it said on the installation disk instructions that were on the shelf with the remote..
On the front of the main control panel was a stylized flower of some sort and, in a very large font that looked like growing vines, the words “Thompson’s Automated Fail-safe Greenhouse System.” Beneath that in smaller, normal, print, it said, “This system protects against the extremes of temperature 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Full power backup is included and all systems are fully redundant with cell phone and internet interface.” Finally, in a smaller version of the vine font, it said, “You can trust your precious flowers to Thompson’s” There was a thick operating manual also sitting on the shelf with the installation disk and other small parts and pieces that had the Thompson logo on them.
Stacy spent two weekends working in the hothouse removing the soil and the trays. That first Saturday, she worked nude inside the steaming structure, and then would slip on a light sundress at the door as she wheeled the garden wheel barrow out to the back of the property. She probably could have remained naked since the back yard was large and completely enclosed with a tall wooden fence, but she was afraid someone might be able see down into the yard across the back fence from the deck or upper floors of the house behind her.
No one was watching. If someone had been watching, the dress would have made little difference. Stacy was perspiring so heavily that even on the first trip with the wheelbarrow the dress was wet with sweat and stuck tightly to her body. As the day wore on, the mixture of sweat and dust which clung to her body created swirled patterns of light and dark making it look like she was wearing camo body paint beneath the now practically transparent garment. As the day began to fade into darkness, Stacy made the final two trips of the day without bothering to put on her dress. The next morning, when she resumed her labors, she didn’t bother with the dress at all.
Finally the heavy trays were empty and stacked neatly behind the garage. The hothouse was now just a large glass room with cables hanging from the ceiling and large eyebolts protruding slightly from recessed cavities in the floor. Stacy thought of removing all but one pair of the cables, but then realized that if she merely wound them totally around the control shaft, she could pin them in place.
The hothouse was cleaned out. Everything was almost ready. But the floor was still bare concrete. She went to a pool supply place a couple of towns over and asked if they worked in her neighborhood. They said, “Usually not,” but indicated that they were willing to work on her pool or whatever for a slight trip charge.
“Oh, no,” she answered, “It’s not that. What I want is that special pool area carpet you sell. A friend of mine recommended you. She said the carpet was very long and soft like an indoor carpet, but could get wet and would stand the sun like a good pool side carpet.”
“How big is your pool?” the salesman asked.
“Actually,” she replied, “it’s a greenhouse that I want to be able to use as an indoor patio.” She went on to say that she wanted to have parties out there and wanted it to look nice. “I’m reducing the hanging stuff to a minimum,” she explained, hoping that the salesman didn’t notice that she suddenly turned a deep shade of red.
The carpeting was installed the following Monday. Stacy wanted to be sure that nothing could go wrong, so Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday evenings were spent testing. She was tempted to do the testing during the day, but she had not made a successful living as a writer by breaking her routine. She worked from home, but she worked very regular hours. Unless she gave herself a day off, she would be in her office room, at her desk writing or editing, from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon. Of course, sometimes she would need to compose her thoughts or clear her mind and would take a few hours off.
At her old house, when that happened - if the weather was good - she would put on her bikini and lie out on the back deck in the sun. Now she didn’t have to put on her bikini. For a half hour Tuesday afternoon and for almost two hours Thursday morning, she lay naked in the sunny hothouse sweating while she sorted out the ideas of her lasted project.
At her old house, after she lay out on the deck and cleared her mind, she would often leave the bikini on and return to her writing while things were still fresh in her mind. Thursday morning, she returned to her writing naked, taking her towel with her into her office to drape over her chair. That afternoon, she found that her mind seemed freer and more liberated as she wrote, and decided to make her office, as well as her whole home, clothing optional.
The weekend was spent getting to know the system, and doing additional testing. The Thompson control system manuals said it was fail-safe, but Stacy wanted to be totally sure. There was a “Test” button inside the circuit breaker panel. The manual said to test the panel at least four times a year. When Stacy pushed and held the test button all of the circuit breakers in the panel flipped off as though they had tripped. Red lights next to each breaker blinked in sequence while a small display screen at the top of the panel said, “Testing load.” Then one by one, the breakers flipped back to the on position. A voice from a small speaker said, “Power restored.”
A separate test button on a small switch panel said, “Alternate Power Test.” When Stacy pushed that, a large box mounted on the wall began humming and a beeping noise filled the hot house. The little voice said, “On battery backup.” The manual said to wait ten minutes before pushing the button again to complete the test. After five minutes, Stacy could hear a noise from the back yard. About half-way back in the yard was a very small shed that looked almost like a dog house, except that it had no door, only louvers on the sides. There was a fairly large propane tank next to the little structure. Stacy identified the noise as coming from the shed. It was the sound of a small motor. The humming stopped and a little voice from the control panel said, “Backup generator on line.”
Stacy also lowered the upper cables all of the way and connected them to the spring-loaded lower cables. When she raised them again, the cables stopped once there was sufficient tension on the spring. At least it wouldn’t rip her arms off if it didn’t stop where it was supposed to. She pressed the test buttons again with tension on the cables. After the circuit breakers restored, the little voice said, “Moving to safe position” and the cables unwound to floor level. When she repeated the test with the power backup, the cables remained in place until she pressed the “Generator Off” button. Then the buzzing returned to the box on the wall and the cables lowered. Evidently as long as the generator worked, everything ran normally, but if it went to battery backup, the system moved everything to the “safe position.”
“This really is fail-safe,” she said aloud, but she still did another week of testing. Finally on Thursday night, after having repeated every test at least three times, she said, “Tomorrow night I try a live test and Saturday go for real.”
Friday night, Stacy attached her suspension restraints to the upper and lower cables. The foot restraints were almost boots except that they opened totally in the front and were wrapped firmly in place with a Velcro band that went over the top of her foot and another which went all the way around the ankle and lower calf. On the bottom of the boot was a round metal bar, almost like a horses bit, through which a cable or other connection could be run.
Stacy attached one boot restraint to each of the spring stabilizers that had been at opposite ends of the eight foot trays. She then attached the special suspension hand restraints to the matching upper cables. The hand restraints were almost glove-like, or more accurately, mitten-like. They covered most of the forearm and had an area for the hand that curved around a padded iron bar so that a person could carry most of their weight on the closed hand rather than on the arm itself. Like the boots, they were totally open on the front and closed securely with large Velcro flaps. For the “live test,” Stacy did not close the flaps, but left them open so that she could, if necessary, withdraw her hand from the restraint glove.
It was 7:45 when she finished her other tests, so she set the controls to raise the cables at exactly 8:00 pm and release them at 8:10. It took less time that she had expected to secure her feet in the restraint boots and to put her hands in the restraint gloves, so she ended up standing there waiting for almost ten minutes. Finally, she heard the winch motors turning and the cable began to slowly wind up around the long support bar. Soon her arms were being stretched widely apart and then her feet began to leave the ground.
She had to estimate how high to take the cables because she didn’t know for sure how tightly it would stretch her at any given height. She had expected to either be hanging slightly limp in the cables or have to let go of the gloves and drop to the ground when the cables got over tight, but her estimate was perfect. She was raised into the air in a taut, naked X with her feet about four feet off the ground. When she realized it was exactly what she wanted, a wave of pleasure washed through her and she felt her cunt overflowing onto her thighs. “Tomorrow, I go for one hour in the sun,” she said aloud as the motors reversed and gently lowered her to the ground.
She spent the rest of the evening investigating more of the menus and controls on the remote control program which she has installed on her tablet computer. The purpose of one control totally baffled her. It said, “Opcty” and then had two input blocks. One said “Upper” and it was set to 00%. The other said “Lower” and it was set to 50%. She changed the lower number to 00% and pressed enter. Suddenly she was standing outside - or at least, the frosted portion of the green house had suddenly become clear. She changed both to 80% and it was as if the clear plastic had become solid walls. “I think I will leave that one alone for now,” she said aloud, and clicked the “Restore Defaults” button. Once again the plastic panes of the greenhouse became frosted in appearance on the lower portion and totally clear on the ceiling.
Saturday morning, Stacy rubbed herself down with sunblock and strapped herself into the restraint boots and gloves. This time it was for real. She folded the Velcro flaps over her arms and pushed them securely in place. Once the cables went taut, there was no way she could release herself until they lowered her back to the ground. She had set the controls to rise at 10:00 am and lower at 11:00.
Again, she stood waiting for the winch motors to kick in. As she waited, she thought, “This would probably be better with a blindfold.” There wasn’t time, however, to do anything about that this time. Exactly on time, the motors began turning. As the cables pulled her into the air, she could just barely see out of the top of the hothouse windows. “My neighbor across the way can probably see my head if they look out their back windows,” she thought to herself as she hung there.
For Stacy, the feeling of naked helplessness was amazing. Her nipples were stiff and erect. Her clit stuck out prominently from her cleft. Juices dribbled slowly down her legs. She found herself slowly rotating her hips and bucking slightly forward as if she were fucking an imaginary lover in mid-air. “I really have to figure out a way for some appropriate stimulation,” she thought to herself. “I wonder if my vibrator would stay in me up here?” she asked aloud. “I would hate to have to wear something like a thong just to hold it in place.”
11:00 o’clock came all too soon. The cables lowered her to the ground and went totally slack. She opened the flaps on the restraint gloves and freed her hands, but didn’t bother to free her feet. Instead, she lay back on the thick carpet with her feet still in the boots and began rubbing herself between the legs. Her cunt was sopping wet and her clit was extremely sensitive. It only took a few moments to bring herself to a very satisfying, screaming climax. “I wonder what the neighbors thought of that?” she wondered as she finally freed her feet from the restraint boots.
That afternoon around three, Stacy was ready once again to suspend herself naked in the hothouse. She had spent the time modifying one of the tray attachments to hold her favorite vibrator. One of the trays had a special watering device of some sort that was intended to drip a growth solution onto the soil. It was basically a tripod with a long counterweighted arm. The nozzle end set against the side of the tray and as the tray went up and down, it rose and fell with the tray.
Stacy added more weight to the counterweight so that the long arm pushed itself upward rather forcefully. Then she taped the base of her vibrator to the nozzle head, only pointing upward. Standing on the ground, it pressed tightly into her cunt. Without her weight holding it down, it would rise almost eight feet into the air, more than enough to keep the dildo vibrating firmly in her cunt as she was suspended.
3:00 came and the motors took Stacy up. This time she was wearing a blindfold, and her vibrator was on low and buzzing inside her. The cycle was set for two hours. Stacy came four times in those 120 minutes. Each screaming orgasm was a little more intense that the one that preceded it. By the time the controls returned her to the ground, she was a sweating, sopping mess.
The amount that she had perspired surprised her. It also turned her on. There was something about hanging naked AND SWEATY that seemed so primitive... so primal... so fuckable. Had she hung there another hour, the feel of the sweat trickling down her back and dripping off her buttocks and down her front and going between her legs to drip off her cunt lips probably would have taken her to orgasm even without the vibrator.
“That was good,” she said aloud as she cleaned her restraints. “But I can do better.”
The first step in doing better was a higher priced, computer controlled dildo. It wasn’t cheap and she had to wait until she had sold another couple of stories, but her new toy connected into the system as an auxiliary device and could be controlled by the programming just like the winches or windows or anything else. She could control the intensity and frequency of both the vibration and the movement of the long, pink, penis-shaped device.
The first weekend that she used it, she experienced seven screaming, vibrating, quaking orgasms in the three and half hours she was suspended. She had determined through trial and error, that three and a half was about the maximum she could stand comfortably. She knew she could go much longer than that without injury, but it got uncomfortable as she approached four hours, and she was doing this for pleasure, not pain.
After several more weekends with her new vibrator, Stacy made two decisions. One was that once she was up and sweaty and turned on, she could easily go four or maybe five or even six hours. She upped the time to four hours. The second decision was to take things to the next step by increasing the sweat. “I’m becoming a regular little sweat hog..., or sweat slut,” she giggled to herself. “And I guess,” she told herself firmly, “to turn up the heat in the sweat slut, we have to turn up the heat in the hothouse.”
After a satisfying Sunday session that still left something lacking, she began examining her options. There were four electric radiant heaters mounted just beneath the ceiling and three more mounted at floor level on the outside wall of the hothouse. They could be turned on manually with a switch that said, “Freeze Test / Heater Manual On.” The heaters themselves had tags that said they used 1200 watts each. A quick check on the internet told her that each of them used 10 amps, so they were using 60 amps total. The box with a lever on it that the realtor had called the “sub-main breaker and emergency power transfer for the hot house” was labeled 150 amps. So Stacy had 90 amps to work with. Her old house had been rather cold and drafty so she already had three electric space heaters. A check of their labels showed that two of them were 2400 watts and one was 1200 watts. That was only fifty amps total. She bought three more of the smaller heaters so that she was using up 80 of the 90 amps available. Each of the plugs in the hothouse was on a separate breaker, which meant that she could plug all six of her heaters in, trigger the built-in heaters, and make the green house into a true hot house for her sweat-soaked suspension session.
“If I am going to be sweating that much,” she thought, “I had better have a source of liquid.” She had a backpack water system that held a half-gallon of liquid in a bladder with a tube that came over your shoulder so you could drink from it while you pedaled a bicycle on a long trip in hot weather. She decided to fill that bag with a sports drink and hang it above her so that she could reach it as she was suspended. She even did a quick test holding the gloves as she had done on that first day just to make sure that she could, indeed, reach the tube.
Next Saturday morning seemed forever away, and Stacy was tempted to break routine and do a session mid-week, but she knew that she had to stick to her writing routine. So instead, she had to content herself with going out into the hot house in the evening, lying on the floor, and masturbating while looking up at the rig that would hold her sweating in the sun come the weekend.
Saturday morning finally arrived. Stacy carefully laid out all of her equipment. She decided that for this first full-sweat session, she would remain un-blindfolded. The blindfold increased her concentration on her other senses and added to her enjoyment, but she wasn’t sure what would happen if the sweat became trapped behind the blindfold and was forced into her eyes. She decided to do a four hour session beginning at 10:00 am to take advantage of the noon-day sun.
At 9:45 she was already strapped into the restraint boots and gloves. The heaters were on manual override and the six extra heaters were set to full on. The computer controlled vibrator was firmly pressed into her cunt, but had not yet been triggered on by the control program. By ten o’clock when the winch motors came to life, liquid was already trickling down the inside of her thighs and it wasn’t sweat.
The full-sweat session was everything Stacy dreamed it would be. She had already experienced three marvelous orgasms before noon and was looking forward to even more as the afternoon sun rose high over the clear portion of the hot house..., and then it happened.
The Thompson Greenhouse System was truly fail-safe, but keep in mind that the Titanic was unsinkable, the Hindenburg was fireproof, and the space shuttles had triple redundancy systems. Nothing is absolutely fail safe. There is always something that the design engineers forgot to consider.
What the designers at the Thompson Greenhouse Company did not take into account was someone intentionally plugging six additional heaters into the wall outlets in the summertime to bring the temperature in the greenhouse up to sauna levels. None of the heaters was overloading the circuit it was on and combined they were not overloading the main. But they were taking the temperature to extreme levels in the hothouse... levels that would damage sensitive plants. And Stacy had forgotten to shut off the air conditioner which was programmed to kick in if the temperature in the hot house stayed above ninety-six degrees for more than a half-hour.
Almost as soon as Stacy heard the noise of the air conditioner starting up, she heard a very loud “Thunk!” and everything went very quiet. As her ears adjusted to the quiet, she could hear the buzzing of the battery backup and the sound of the generator starting in the back yard. “It’s going to be OK,” she thought. “Everything will be OK. Worse come to worse it will let me back down to the ground.” She continued to think that until 1:00 o’clock came and went and nothing moved. The heaters were off. The lights on the front of the control panel were off. Everything was off except the display panel of the control computer itself.
“No!” Stacy yelled aloud when she realized what had happened. She had assumed that the sub-main breaker would automatically reset like the breakers in the control panel, but she had never opened the cover to look. It must be a standard breaker. And the transfer switch must be before the sub-main breaker. The computer thought the backup generator was online so it didn’t lower her using battery backup, but none of the emergency generator power was reaching the control panel. There was no power to activate the winches. Stacy was totally and absolutely stuck!!!
She started crying softly and looked out at the generator running uselessly in the back yard. “Wait a minute!” she yelped. She shouldn’t be able to see the generator shed. The walls were transparent! It must take power to make the walls translucent. With all power gone, they were now clear as glass. Stacy was hanging hot, sweaty, and fully exposed to anyone who could see her greenhouse from their back windows. And there was nothing she could do to free herself.
Her mind began to race. Why had she put her trust in that supposedly fail-safe system and not arranged for an emergency backup to check on her after a certain period of time? Who would miss her? ... and when? She didn’t have any hard deadlines for almost two weeks. People were used to her ignoring her phones and texts for days at a time when she was trying to get a story done. It could be weeks before they found her rotting corpse hanging in the sun.
Stacy began to cry deep heart-wrenching sobs of absolute despair. And then in the midst of her sobs, she heard a noise that she couldn’t quite identify. It was a low rumbling noise like a small train was running through the garage. The garage! She was hearing the garage door opening. Someone was coming into the house.
Her joy of rescue was rapidly replaced by the mortification of being found hanging naked in the air with an electronic dildo stuffed in her twat. “Oh God,” she thought and then said aloud, “What if it’s my mother paying a surprise visit?”
Then she heard a voice.
“Elizabeth?” it called out. Elizabeth was the name of the previous owner.
“Is something wrong?”
The voice was coming closer. Stacy wasn’t sure whether to keep quiet or cry out when suddenly the door from the house opened and a rather startled voice said, “You’re not Elizabeth!”
“Uh..., no...., I’m the new owner, Stacy.” she stammered.
The woman’s face broke into a huge smile as she said, “I love what you’ve done with the place. I always thought this room had such interesting potential, but you’ve gone way beyond even my wicked and warped imagination.”
She walked over to stand directly in front of Stacy. Stacy was all to aware that this put the woman’s eyes right at the level of her naked cunt. “I suppose I should introduce myself,” she said calmly. “My name is Terri Long. I live in the house directly behind you. I’ve been Bethie’s ‘vacation safety’ for years and years.”
She walked over and stood in front of the control panel. “Whenever one of these alarms goes off, it sends me a text message and an email. I ignored the Freeze alarm that said the heaters had come on because it is summer. But then I heard the generator go on and I didn’t get a power failure warning. When it didn’t shut back off after a while, I figured something really bad might have happened, so I came right over. Everything was locked up and my key didn’t work. I was hoping the garage door code hadn’t been changed and there was power to open the door. I punched in the code and it opened. And here I am.”
She looked at the extra heaters plugged in around the room and then came back and stood in front of Stacy. “I assume you were trying for sweat box bondage?”
Stacy nodded and said, “Something like that.”
“All the heaters on separate circuits. Water - or probably a sports drink - to keep you hydrated. Properly designed suspension restraints.” She shook her head as she laughed lightly. “You thought of everything.” The her voice suddenly became stern, “But you forgot about the air conditioners, didn’t you?”
Stacy nodded again. “Yeah. When they came on the big lever popped and it doesn’t reset itself like the rest of the system.”
Terri walked back over to the control panel, reached up, and pushed the lever back in place. She then entered a couple of quick commands at the control panel. “I’ve shut down the AC,” she said. “I also set the default on the windows to zero and extended your stay until 5:00 o’clock.”
Stacy said, “But... but... but...”
Terri didn’t seem to hear her or at least didn’t respond to her. Instead she continued, “I am going to go back home and slip into something comfortable. Then I am going to sit on my back deck drinking mojitos and watching you sweat and squirm and get yourself off. At five, I am coming back over here so you can show me just how grateful you are that I have rescued you. You will keep showing your gratitude until we are a tangle of sweaty arms and legs intertwined on your beautiful new carpet.
Stacy just swallowed hard and opened her eyes wide to stare at the woman standing before her.
“And then,” Terri continued, “we are going to talk about what kind of wonderful neighborly relationship we are going to have together in the future.” She walked right up to Stacy and softly petted her clit with two fingers. “I think you would much more prefer to be in the submissive role in that relationship, wouldn’t you?”
Stacy moaned in response.
“And I have always wanted a willing pet I could play with regularly.” She then started slowly running her fingers in tight circles around Stacy’s clit.
Stacy started saying - or more accurately moaning - “No. No, that’s not what I want.”
“That’s your mind talking,” answered Terri. “I really think we need to give your body a vote on this.” She continued circling Stacy’s clit, applying a little more pressure and swirling Stacy’s erect knob back and forth with each circuit.
“If you would like to be my submissive plaything hanging all hot and sweaty in the sun for me to play with and for everyone to look at,” said Terri softly. “Then cum.... NOW!”
Stacy thrashed and flailed in her bonds as a tremendous orgasm exploded within her. She was throwing her cunt forward so hard that she nearly expelled the dildo with the thrusts of her muscles. Her cries of “Ahhhh, ahhhh, ahhhh,” became farther apart and quieter until finally she hung slack in her restraints. Rivers of sweat poured off her body, mixing with the cunt juices draining down the inside of her legs.
“See you at five,” said Terri merrily as she walked back into the house. “I’ll bring a pitcher or two of mojitos. It could be a looooooooong evening.”
Shortly after she left, Stacy once again started to cry out and thrash wildly as she envisioned herself as she now was, hanging naked and sweaty..., and at the mercy of her new Mistress.