Riding the Metal Horse

The metal pony is one of my favourite tortures (see Riding the Metal Pony), balancing on tip toes until my leg muscles tire and I’m lowered onto the metal chain passing between the lips of my sex. A choice between the pain in my calf and the pain deep within me. Never one to rest on my laurels, I had to look for the next challenge; the metal horse.

We keep all sorts of rubbish in the garage. Two things had caught my eye. One was a plank, about four feet long, six inches wide and an inch thick. The other was a wooden pole, two inches in diameter and three feet long. I hadn’t realised it was raining until I went outside to get them. The water pooling on the flagstones of the patio was pleasantly cool under my bare feet, the tarmac of the driveway still held the warmth from the previous sunshine.

The plank required no modification, the pole needed a small eye bolt screwed firmly into either end. A matter of only a few minutes. I took my new toys back inside.

Some preparations had been made the previous night. I’d placed four plastic beakers of water, about four inches tall, in the freezer, setting them upright carefully so nothing spilt and the ice would be the same height in each. A sharp tap removed the ice from the container and I hurried upstairs before it melted. In the loft my handcuffs hung on a chain from the central beam, a long chain was fastened round a supporting beam, the other end lose on the floor, an open combination padlock through the end link. Short chains and padlocks were placed where they would be easily to hand.

The loft was lit by a single lamp, connected to the power supply through a timer that could turn the light off for anything between fifteen minutes and all day. I like the element of chance; between each fifteen minutes of light there was darkness for at least thirty minutes, but most of the dial was set for an hour, with a couple of ninety minute periods and one of two full hours. I set the dial and turned away without looking to see how long I was going to suffer.

In a few seconds my jeans, shirt and pants were in a pile and I carefully placed my glasses on top of the heap. Underneath the hanging cuffs I placed the plank on top of the four cones of ice to make a platform that would slowly lower to the floor. Before stepping onto it, I took a short chain, passed it round my left ankle and locked it to the eye at one end of the pole. I repeated the process at the other end. Now my legs were spread three feet apart. The chains allowed some flexibility and, having picked up the loose end of the long chain, I carefully stepped up onto the wood.

The long chain passed between my legs and then went around the opposite support. I raised my heels a couple of inches and pulled on the end of the chain. Once it was taut, with the metal links rubbing gently against my clit, the combination padlock held it tight. Only now did I realise that my ball gag was sitting on the floor. Too late now. I hoped the neighbours wouldn’t hear the screaming.

The light would be going out soon. I took my nipple clamps, wooden clothes pegs with cross hatches to decrease the contact area and increase the pressure, from where they had been clipped onto the long chain and carefully placed each one so that it closed only on my nipples which, by now were rock hard and standing proud. I managed to limit the noise to a sharp intake of breath as each bit home, the points stabbing into my tender flesh. The cuffs were soon closed around my wrists and I desperately summoned my reserves of self control to stop myself turning the dials of the combination lock that secured the cuffs to the chain and releasing myself.

Soon enough, the timer clicked the light off and the loft went dark. Other than the burning in my nipples, which I could cope with, I was reasonably comfortable. The chain pressed firmly, but not painfully, inside me. Ice melts quicker under pressure (I’ll resist the temptation to explain, as teaching physics is somebody else’s job) so my full weight would cause me to drop relatively quickly at first, and then as the chain started to support me, the rate would slow and I may be able to push myself up on the tips of my toes a few more times until, millimetre by millimetre the plank dropped away from me and I was truly riding the metal horse.

Was it my imagination or was the chain pressing harder? When I was riding the pony, my feet were only a few inches apart. With the pole spreading my legs, the sensation was quite different. Partly the physical difference, partly that I felt much more vulnerable spread so wide. I tried to shift my weight a little, but the plank started to feel unstable and I didn’t want to fall sideways, hanging from the unyielding grip of the metal cuffs. As much as I’d like to do a full suspension, metal cuffs would cause severe damage to my wrists. I should invest in some proper, wide, leather cuffs.

Mmmm, suspension sounds fun.

I got the idea for the ice supports from a story on Gromet’s site about a girl who was into suspension. The loft isn’t high enough, but the garage has a peaked roof and would be OK. Sexy ideas to try out and I was hardly feeling the pain until, suddenly my toes left the plank. I thrashed around but couldn’t find it and the movement drove the small links deeper into the flesh. Please, please let me down, please. I couldn’t see through the red haze of pain and I couldn’t tell if I was whimpering or screaming, all I knew was the chain, cutting me in half.

I retreated inside, viewing the pain as if it was somebody else writhing on the horse, not me. I gritted my teeth and breathed deeply. Me against the horse, me against the chain. I won’t let it beat me. I forced my eyes open. The ventilation gaps let in tiny, inadequate beams of light. I refused to look at the combination lock. I would not give in, I would complete my torture, endure until the light came back on and released me from the torment. Looking down I could see dark pools where the ice had melted and thought I could make out the squared corner of the plank. I could hardly make out the chain itself, just a few soft glints at various points along its length. I was floating, unsupported, a few inches from the ground. I could take this pain and beat it.

But I couldn’t. I must have leaned forwards and shifted my weight and a blowlamp lit up inside me. Again I thrashed against the chains to no avail, calling out for somebody to save me. This time there was no chance of overcoming the horse and I was beaten.

I hardly noticed the light coming back on. Somewhere, deep down, the voice of self preservation called. I clutched at the suspending chain with my left hand and frantically worked the dials with my right. With a click, the padlock was free but I was not. I was still held several inches from the ground by the horse, my implacable torturer. Desperately trying not to shift on the chain, I leaned to the side until my foot touched the wet boards and I could support my weight, albeit in a perilously unstable way.

I let go of the chain and grabbed for the lock that fastened the horse in place. Only one dial to turn. Only one digit from freedom. At last the lock was open and as I slid it from the links, the end of the chain fell to the ground. It was so deep within me that I took several minutes to remove it, carefully, gingerly, painfully. Eventually it was gone. The nipple clamps went next, each accompanied by a muffled cry.

I was desperate to come. I sank down to my knees and put my hands between my legs, touching myself gingerly. Aaaah, that was sore. Oh no! I had to find some way of bringing myself to orgasm, but the flesh was raw and there was no way I could do it right now. I crawled over to the timer. An hour. Perhaps half an hour while the ice melted, and half an hour riding the metal horse. And no orgasm! Well, perhaps this was part of the torture. I’d have to see how I felt after a nice hot bath.

Clare
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20.12.04