Chapter 33: Sawdust sticks to Erin's sweat-slicked body as Ryan adjusts the angle of the industrial vibrator, its relentless hum vibrating through the workbench beneath her—'This maple dowel's gonna stay buried in your ass while the wand destroys your clit,' he growls, hammering the polished wood into her resisting hole before turning both devices to maximum, watching her body arch like a bowstring under the assault.
The black truck coasted to a stop behind the long, low building after midnight. The only light came from a single security lamp, painting the empty gravel lot in a jaundiced yellow wash. The engine ticked as it cooled.
Shane had dropped them off. “Fun’s over at six,” he’d said before driving off, leaving Ryan to guide her through a side door.
The factory breathed. A deep, mechanical hum vibrated up through the soles of Ryan’s work boots, a constant unseen current of power. Even in the near-dark, the scale of it hit her. Mountains of rough-cut lumber rose toward shadowed rafters. The smell was overwhelming: the dry, sweet spice of cut pine, the chemical tang of fresh lacquer, the gritty, earthy scent of tons of sawdust. Fine dust coated every surface, dulling the gleam of dormant table saws and drill presses.
He hadn’t said a word since they’d untaped her from the piss-soaked diaper in the basement, hosed her down with icy water in the utility sink, and given her a pair of his old sweatpants and a t-shirt that hung on her. He walked ahead of her now, his shaggy hair just visible under the brim of his cap, his broad shoulders relaxed. He moved through his kingdom with an easy, proprietary grace.
He stopped by a massive, steel-framed workbench, cluttered with routers and pneumatic hoses. He flipped a switch. Harsh, pendant LED lights blinked on overhead, creating a stark island of white illumination in the vast, brooding darkness.
From a lower shelf, he pulled out a heavy, iron-bodied vise. It wasn’t a standard bench vise. It was a woodworking vise, its jaws long and smooth, meant to grip wide planks without marring the wood.
“Come here.”
His voice was quiet, calm. It carried further in the cavernous quiet than a shout could have. She obeyed, the dry dust sticking to the bottoms of her bare feet.
He turned her around and guided her backwards until the edge of the heavy bench pressed into the backs of her thighs. “Sit. Then lie back.”
Her breath hitched. She obeyed, the cold steel and wood biting through the thin sweatpants. She lay back on the hard surface, her head lolling over the opposite edge, staring upside down at the legs of a distant sawhorse. The vise was positioned at the other end, between her feet. Ryan moved around the bench, his hands gentle and deliberate.
He guided her legs up, parting them, bending her knees so her feet were flat on the bench on either side of the vise. Then, with methodical care, he swung the heavy, long jaws inward. The cold, smooth steel met the tender flesh of her inner thighs, just below her pussy. He began to turn the handle.
The mechanism protested with a low, metallic groan. The pressure was immediate and profound. The vise jaws weren’t teeth; they were huge, unforgiving clamps. With each half-turn of the handle, they squeezed her thighs together, forcing her legs open in a merciless, expansive stretch. Not an inch of her lower body could move. It was engineering, not restraint. It was absolute.
“Fuck,” she whispered, the word breathed out into the dusty air. The stretch was brutal, exposing her completely through the thin grey sweatpants.
He pulled at the waistband of the pants and her underwear, yanking them down to her knees where they were trapped, a useless bundle of fabric. The cool factory air kissed her wet, swollen cunt. He didn’t look at it. He reached under the bench and brought out a thick white extension cord. He took a hitachi magic wand, the head bulbous and menacing. With a length of the cord, he tied the head of the wand right against her exposed clit. He cinched the knot tight, yanking it until the hard plastic dug into her hypersensitive flesh. He then wound the cord’s slack around one of the vise’s mounting bolts, pulling her whole pelvis subtly, torturously taut against the unyielding steel.
“There,” he said, almost to himself, admiring the geometry of it. He plugged the wand into an outlet on a nearby power strip.
He leaned his hips against the bench, looking down at her splayed, captive form. His hand found the wand’s control dial. He turned it.
It was a low, deep hum. A promise. After the brutal screaming in the basement, it felt almost teasing. It was maddening, too. After days of constant, indirect torment, the vibrations were focused with surgical precision on the aching, desperate bundle of nerves he had reduced to a singular point of existence.
He watched her face. Her eyes screwed shut. Her hips gave a minute, desperate twitch, but the vise held them immobile. Only her cunt could respond. Wetness leaked from her, a slow, hot trickle against her perineum. He saw it.
“That’s just a whisper,” he said. “What you can’t have.”
He turned it up. The vibration became a demanding thrum. Her back arched, her shoulders digging into the hard wood, a low moan pulled from her throat. The pleasure was immediate, electric, a direct line to a core that felt scraped raw and yet desperate for the explosion.
She was already barreling towards the edge, her body held in that feverish state for so long. It wasn’t building; it was detonating. Her breath hitched, her cries sharpening. She could feel the orgasm coiling in her belly, a hot, tight spring ready to release the shattering wave of relief she’d been screaming for in the dark. She was there. “Please,” she sobbed. “Oh god, I’m coming, I’m coming…”
Ryan watched. He watched the tremors begin in her trapped thighs. He watched her abdomen go rigid. At the very precipice, the moment the first tremor of release would have rippled through her, his hand moved. Not to the dial.
To the vise handle.
He gave it a firm, half-turn clockwise.
The metal groaned. The already punishing pressure intensified dramatically. The clamping force against her inner thighs became a vise-like agony, a sharp, deep ache that overrode everything. The blooming orgasm was brutally yanked back, choked off as if by a physical hand around her throat.
The wave didn't crest; it shattered against a wall of pain. A shattered scream tore from her, a sound of pure, bewildered frustration. It was worse than denial. It was theft.
He turned the vibrator back to its low hum. The teasing buzz continued, a mockery against her throbbing clit.
“You don’t decide when you come,” he said, his voice a calm counterpoint to her ragged panting. “Your cunt doesn’t get a vote. My hand does.” He patted the vise handle.
He picked up a length of sandpaper and a block of maple from a nearby rack. He began sanding the edge of the wood with long, smooth strokes. The sound was a rhythmic shushing, almost peaceful. He ignored her. The wand buzzed. The ache in her thighs and the searing need in her cunt dueled in her nervous system.Minutes passed. The world narrowed to that fluorescent-lit island of wood and steel and her own trapped, pulsing body.
Unconsciously, as her focus returned solely to the relentless vibration, her body tried again. The climb was slower this time, but it was inevitable. Her hips strained against the vise. Whimpers escaped her lips. The coil tightened, tighter, winding up all her shame and desperation into one crystalline point.
She gasped, teetering on the edge once more. “Ryan… fuck, please…”
The shush of sanding stopped. He moved. Another half-turn of the handle. Another metallic creak. Another vicious spike of pressure that cleaved through the pleasure, aborting it in a shockwave of acute pain.
She cried out, a broken animal sound. He didn’t pause his sanding.
Hours bled. He cycled her like a machine. He’d watch the signs, monitor the tension in her belly, the pitch of her cries. He’d let her climb, sometimes high, sometimes nearly to the peak. Then, always, at the threshold, the crushing turn of the handle. The denials piled up inside her like unsold goods, a backlog of need that twisted into a kind of madness. She begged, she bargained, she cursed him. She thrashed so hard she bruised the back of her head against the bench.
“Please, just let me come!”
“You’re a fucking monster!”
“Daddy, please, I’ll be good, just one!”
“I can’t… I can’t take it anymore!”
He remained unmoved. He’d listen, sometimes taking a long drink from his water bottle, wiping the sawdust from his forehead with the back of his arm. He changed his project, moving to a router that screamed louder than she ever could.
The sky outside the high, grimy windows began to pale from black to a dusty grey. Her body was done. Sobbing had given way to a dry, hoarse weeping. Her cunt ached with a deep, hollow soreness. The low buzz of the wand was now an excruciating irritant, a blister that wouldn’t pop.
Ryan saw it. The fight had left her. She lay limp, her body occasionally seized by a helpless tremor, her eyes vacant, fixed on the distant ceiling. The tears had cut tracks through the fine sawdust on her cheeks.
He unplugged the wand. The silence was a physical relief, a vacuum in her ears. He untied the cord. He moved to the vise handle, but instead of tightening it, he began to slowly, so slowly, unwind it. The release of pressure was a new kind of agony, the blood rushing back into the crushed flesh of her thighs a burning tide. He unlocked the jaws and swung them open.
Her legs didn’t move. They lay where he’d placed them, bent and splayed, trembling violently.
He pulled her sweatpants back up over her hips. Then, with surprising tenderness, he lifted her from the bench. Her legs gave way. He carried her, crumpled and broken, to an old, stained office couch in a glass-walled mezzanine overlooking the floor. He laid her down. He went to a small fridge and returned with a bottle of water. He held it to her lips, and this time she drank without protest, like a sick child, the water washing the dust from her mouth.
He sat beside her on the couch, his own exhaustion visible in the set of his shoulders. He took her hand, enveloping it in his, calloused and warm.
“You see now?” he said, his voice a low rumble in the dawn-quiet factory. “Out there, you can be their slut. In here, you’re just my broken toy.”
He leaned down, his lips close to her ear, his words a final, devastating caress. “And I don’t let my toys come until every last bit of brat is fucked out of them. We’re not even close to done.”
He sat like that for a long time, her hand in his, while the factory’s automated lights blinked on section by section, chasing the dawn’s shadows from the cavernous corners. She didn't pull away. The trembling in her legs subsided to a faint, cellular hum that matched the dormant machines. Her mind felt scraped blank, a smooth stone.
A diesel engine growled outside, a familiar sound.
Two heavy boots echoed on the concrete, not the crisp military cadence from the road, but the unhurried, confident stride that now lived in her nightmares. The side door creaked open and thudded shut, its pneumatic hiss final. The footsteps approached the mezzanine stairs.
Ryan didn’t turn. He gave her hand a final squeeze and released it.
"You look cozy," Shane said, his voice flat as he reached the top step. He surveyed the scene: the tangled girl on the couch, the empty water bottle, the distant workbench where the vise still stood open like a steel mouth. He carried a cardboard bakery box and a paper cup of coffee. He set them on the small table, flipped the lid open. A dozen glazed donuts sat inside, sweating sugar. He took one, tore a bite. "Get her presentation-ready, Ry. We got a full day."
"Yes sir," Ryan said, but it wasn't military deference. It was a smooth collusion, a partner agreeing with the plan. He rose from the couch."Up."
Erin’s body resisted. Muscles, locked for hours, screamed as she pushed herself upright. Her feet touched the floor. The sawdust was a fine, gritty powder under her soles.
Without a word, Ryan guided her by the shoulder back down the stairs onto the main shop floor. He led her past the silent table saws toward a partitioned area labeled 'Finishing'. The air here smelled sharper, of lacquer and chemical solvents. In the center of this clean room stood a large, padded vinyl worktable, used for assembling cabinets. It had sturdy, metal brackets along its edge. Ryan gestured to it.
"Lie down. On your back. Head towards that end."
She complied, the cold, slick vinyl clinging to her skin through the sweatpants and t-shirt. He reached for a web of leather straps dangling from the brackets. These weren’t the purposeful instruments of the dungeon; they were improvised, industrial. He fastened one tightly around her right ankle, then her left, splaying her legs wide, attaching the other ends to brackets on the floor. He cinched a strap across her hips, then another across her ribcage, another just below her collarbones. Each buckle clicked with a definitive, plastic finality.
He fixed the final strap across her forehead, holding her skull immobile. She was palleted on the table, an object to be finished. She could only stare up at the acoustic tile ceiling, a grid of small, perforated squares. One had a brown water stain blooming at its corner.
"You ever think," Shane said, walking into the finishing room, coffee in hand, "about how much this pussy has cost us? In time. In gas. In fucking headache."
He set his cup down, unzipped his jeans, and pulled out his cock. He was already half-hard, the flesh thick and flushed. He gave it a few slow, lazy strokes, his eyes on her trussed-up body. He walked to the head of the table, looking down into her upturned, immobilized face. She could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the cold assessment in his blue eyes.
"I'm bored of the tears. I'm bored of the begging," he said, his voice conversational. He leaned his hips against the table edge, his cock now inches from her mouth. "Open up.Clean it. Get it ready for where it belongs."
Her jaw, bound by the strap, could only open so far. He fed the broad head past her lips, bumping against the back of her throat. The taste of his skin, salt and musk, filled her mouth. He didn't thrust. He just rested it there, heavy on her tongue, letting her saliva wet him. He looked past her, down the length of her strapped-down body, to where Ryan was positioned.
Ryan had pulled her sweatpants and underwear down to her knees again, the fabric binding her legs even as the straps held them wide. He squirted a thick line of wood glue from a yellow bottle onto his fingers. It was creamy and pungent.
He showed it to her, smearing it between his thumb and forefinger.
"Industrial strength," he said mildly, then slid his two glue-slicked fingers into her cunt without preamble.
She jerked against the straps at the sudden, cold intrusion. The gel-like consistency was alien, a shocking chill inside her tender, overheated flesh. He worked his fingers deep, coating her walls, pushing the glue up into her, a ruthless, impersonal lubrication. He scissored them, stretching her. It wasn't for pleasure; it was preparation, like priming a surface.
"Yeah, get her good and sticky," Shane said, watching, his cock twitching against her tongue.
Ryan withdrew his fingers with a slick, wet sound. He wiped the excess glue on her pubic bone, then reached for his belt. He unbuckled it, popped the button of his jeans, and pushed them down along with his boxers. His erection sprang free, long and rigid.
He stepped between her splayed, immobile legs. He placed the swollen head of his cock at her entrance, now slick with the adhesive. He didn't look at her face. He looked at the junction of their bodies, a craftsman ensuring proper alignment. He pushed forward.
The glue created a strange, vacuum-tight seal as he entered her. The sensation was grotesquely intense, a slick, clinging pressure that gripped every inch of him as he buried himself to the hilt in one relentless, deep stroke. She cried out around Shane's cock, a muffled, guttural sound. Her inner muscles, exhausted and sensitive, fluttered wildly against the deep, stretching invasion. The industrial scent of the glue mixed with the raw smell of sex.
Ryan set a brutal, machine-like pace from the first stroke. He pulled back almost all the way, the glue creating a faint, sucking pop, then slammed back in, his hips driving with the full power of his tall frame. The table legs shuddered with each impact. The rhythm was unvaried, a pistoning hammer driving her into the unyielding vinyl. Each thrust struck a place deep inside her that felt bruised and electric.
He fucked her with a detached, relentless focus. His hands braced on the table on either side of her hips, his head down, watching himself disappear into her again and again. His breath began to huff out in sharp bursts, matching the punishing cadence.
"You take that dick, baby?" Shane grunted, his own hips beginning a shallow push into her mouth, fucking her throat in time with Ryan’s deeper rhythm. Spit gathered at the corners of her stretched lips. "You feel that glue holding that cock inside you? That’s you now. Just a fucking knothole. A receptacle."
Ryan’s pace increased. Sweat dripped from his brow onto her stomach. The slapping sounds of flesh meeting flesh, wet and rhythmic, echoed in the tiled room. He was grunting now with each drive, a raw, animal sound of exertion. The impersonal mask had slipped, revealing a feral hunger.
"Yeah, give it to her," Shane urged, his own movements becoming jerky, uncontrolled. His hand tangled in her hair, holding her head hard against his thrusts. He was choking her on it.
Ryan’s rhythm broke into frantic, shallow slams. His body locked, tendons standing out in his neck. A ragged shout tore from his throat as he shoved himself as deep as he could go, his cock pulsing violently inside her. She felt the hot, sudden flood of his release jetting deep into her cunt, mixing with the cooling glue in a sticky, private mess. He held there, shuddering, his full weight pressing down, pinning her. Then, with a wet, heavy sound, he pulled out. Semen and glue dripped from her used opening, pooling on the vinyl beneath her.
Shane yanked his cock from her mouth, a string of saliva snapping. He turned her face roughly towards him. "Watch," he commanded, his voice hoarse.
He moved to the table, positioned himself where Ryan had been. His cock, slick from her mouth, nudged against her well-fucked, leaking entrance. He didn't hesitate. He rammed into the wet, sloppy warmth Ryan had left behind.
She was so open, so filled, that there was no resistance. He bottomed out immediately, a hard, brutal replacement. The mingled fluids inside her squelched at the intrusion. He fucked her with a different aggression than Ryan—angrier, more jagged, all sharp power and possession.
"Who owns this?" he growled, pistoning into her. The glue created a tight, dragging friction that burned. "Who fucks this ruined little cunt?"
She couldn't answer, couldn't breathe. He was a demolition. His thrusts were shorter, harder, designed to punish the very depths of her. He leaned over, putting his face inches from hers, his sweat dripping onto her cheeks.
"You think you learned your lesson on the bench?" he snarled, each word a hot puff of air against her skin. His rhythm became frantic, desperate. "You haven't. You’re just a hole we use. A fucking gluepot."
His body stiffened. A guttural, snarling curse exploded from him as he jammed his hips flush against her and came. It was a second, searing flood inside her, overfilling the channel Ryan had already claimed. He stayed there for several seconds, pulsing, grinding his pelvis against her, marking it.
He pulled out with a slick, obscene sound, leaving her gaping, fluids leaking freely onto the table.
For a minute, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the hum of the ventilation. Ryan, having pulled up his jeans, retrieved a clean shop rag. He tossed it to Shane.
Shane caught it, looked down at her. Her pussy was a red, swollen mess, cream and glue and semen oozing from it in a slow, disgusting trickle.
"Clean yourself up," he said, dropping the rag onto her stomach. "We're heading to the river. Gonna wash the stink of you off."
He turned to Ryan. "Bring the cuffs. And the canvas bag."
He headed for the stairs. Ryan approached the table. He began unbuckling the straps with quiet efficiency, starting with the one across her forehead.