Self Bondage Farm Girl - Volume 02

**Note: This story is part of a series with a consistent setting and cast of characters. However, each story is meant to stand alone, and they will not necessarily be published in chronological order. Please enjoy the ones that spark your interest and feel free to ignore the rest!**

---------- Intro ----------

Some people pity me for being a farm girl. They say that when you live five miles from the nearest hangout, it's so much harder to socialize and meet people.. and meet boys *wink*.

I think being a farm girl comes with benefits. Actually, LOTS of benefits - benefits that those town girls don't understand. For example, I have plenty of privacy, I can do whatever I want, my parents don't blink an eye when I leave the house ... the list goes on.

I feel like any young woman would be interested in those perks, but for me specifically there is more. I enjoy "DIY", or in other words making or building my own solutions to problems. Living on a farm means I have access to loads of tools and machines that let me make just about anything I want to, with a little trial and error and help from the internet. Plus, we have plenty of spare materials - wood, leather, metal, and more!

And maybe it takes a Very special kind of person, but the combination of all that is especially perfect for me because it has all the ingredients of the perfect self-bondage scenarios. After all, why do I need to meet boys when I can satisfy myself just as well - actually even better - on my own?

That's why when my classmates were choosing colleges and making plans to move around the country, I instead made plans to work full time on our family farm, maybe someday to inherit it when my parents are ready to retire. You might find this to be a boring and monotonous life, but trust me: I keep myself busy and entertained with wild new ideas.

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I slam the stick into park and turn the key. The gator's engine gives a final sputter which echoes against the side of the abandoned shed before the remote hillside settles into a comfortable ambient soundscape. Birds chirp in the distance and a gentle breeze bends the tall blades of grass that grow unchecked around this forsaken corner of the family farm.

It isn't quite as abandoned as it seems, but I work hard to keep up that appearance as much as I can. In fact, I am nervous that someone will notice the parallel tracks of tamped wildgrass leading to the shed door that looks about ready to fall off its rollers. But I had to sneak a tractor out here for my next "session". Of all the tools available to me to use when devising clever contraptions to make my self-bondage sessions interesting, there is none as versatile, reliable, and powerful as the PTO.

Power take-off, I muse - arguably the greatest invention of modularity in agricultural history. If you've never been around tractors, the PTO is a little nub lodged into the back of the vehicle that uses the tractor's power to rotate. Manufacturers design all sorts of farm equipment to hook up to this rotating nub and use the rotational power to perform their functions. But enough about that, we're not here for a lesson in farming.

What's a girl supposed to do during a long day of pulling a tractor-mounted plow through the fields but imagine what fun applications a PTO could be used for? Well, maybe it's just me. But I, for one, have spent hour after hour driving tractors around brainstorming how I could incorporate them into sessions.

And today's the day! I had been waiting and waiting for a time when the farm would be vacated, save for me, but I lost my patience and took matters into my own hands. Dad is off on another side of the farm, mom is getting dinner ready, and my brother is probably doing something dorky like playing hockey or chess with his friends, and there's no way that any of them would have any reason to visit the abandoned East shed.

I slide the shed door open just a crack and slip inside. It's quite dusty in there, but that's a small price to pay for the guaranteed isolation. Inside, things are all set up for me. Hank - the name I affectionately call the cute, open-cab, 80s tractor I use most around the farm - looks comfortable parked in the middle of the old shed, as if he is part of a still life painting. "Quit feigning innocence, you are a naughty, naughty boy" I say to Hank as I walk around to his "business end" and survey the contraption I just finished building yesterday. My eyes quickly but thoroughly assess the setup, tracing the functional path through the array of chains, gears, ropes, and metal rods that to another may look bizarre and incomprehensible, save for a few vaguely recognizable objects such as a heavily modified bicycle and a wooden construct that looks quite a bit like a stockade.

I run through a quick double-check of everything just to make sure I didn't forget a vital piece of my predicament. Satisfied that the contraption is ready, pretty much all that's left to do is to get Myself ready too.

I discard my clothes with no shame in this remote and abandoned shed. I fold them half-heartedly and place them on Hank's seat and am left wearing only two items. I reach to my hips and pull the straps of my black thong panties high up on my hips so the silky material makes a sharp "V" shape. It is a thong in the respect that the material traces up my ass crack with absolutely no coverage on my cheeks, but the front panel actually has a pretty good-sized panel, a feature which will be important soon. I look down at my torso and trace my finger along the thin black straps that criss-cross over my chest and bust area. In all, there is a lot of faux leather material composing the article, but somehow it manages to cover absolutely nothing important, as my boobs are poking through strappy windows which are just the right shape for them. Eating breakfast with the family was ... interesting to say the least, as I constantly felt both the freedom and the restriction of the bra under my work shirt while trying to maintain a casual conversation.

I have to review my mental checklist for a second, as the order of the next few things is pretty important. Smiling as I remember the correct next step, I grab my vibrating dildo and push the thong to the side to allow entry into my sopping wet pussy. I'm sure I could just jam the toy in right away without a problem, but I savor the moment by luxuriously pumping the purple cock into my eager hole little by little, until finally I release a small but intimate moan as I feel my insides fill up with the entire length of it. I hold the dildo deep within me and pull my thong back into place, holding it in.

Next up is my panty vibe. I slide it down the front of my thong, awkwardly reaching in and pulling my labia lips to the sides until the sleek instrument of pleasure presses right against my clit. She enjoys the brief attention, but there's not much going on down there... yet.

Moving on so I can get to the main event, I retrieve my phone from the pocket of my set-aside jeans and bring it over towards the stockade thing. I open an app and reach down to start up a small Raspberry Pi computer with a few wires coming off of it. This is new technology for me - the first time I set up a totally customized program to help me with a scenario, and although today's application is quite simple, I am Very anxious to improve my programming skills to open up lots of devious possibilities for the future! I set my phone down next to the tiny computer and suspiciously watch the app long enough to see the two electronic devices connect via Bluetooth before I proceed to other preparations.

What is next? Oh yeah. My heart sinks just a little, but the dip is easily compensated by the opposite (but Definitely not equal) reaction I feel in my tender bits. I reach up to my exposed breasts and aggressively tweak my nipples for several seconds, then quickly grab a pair of clamps. I attach the clamps to my engorged nubs, attempting to little avail to be tender about the cruel act. The clamps are not the most wicked things on the market, but they are optimized to maintain their grip almost no matter how much tugging and pulling happens, so already they feel very tight. My hands wave involuntarily as the signals I get from my sensitive nipples take me on a rollercoaster ride - surprise, to panic, to pain, to discomfort, and finally to a dull level of trepidation as the substantial weights at the end of short chains pull heavily on my boobs. It takes me an embarrassingly long time to remember to pull an attached rope up to my mouth - I latch on to its half-inch thick midsection as if it is a bit gag and sigh in relief as the weights are taken off of my already pulsing nipples.

I'm getting close, I think to myself as I begin to get impatient with the tedious preparations. I chide that part of my brain gently, as I know that the hard work only makes the scenarios more satisfying to execute. Much, much more satisfying. With renewed haste, I quickly strap leather cuffs to my wrists, leaving them unattached for the moment, then reach up into Hank's cab to start the ignition. My trusty friend roars to life and settles into a healthy "putt-a-putt-a-putt-a-putt-a" rhythm as he idles. I pull the lever to engage the PTO and watch my contraption come to life.

Hank's "shaft" (I giggle every time I use that term for the tractor's PTO - the euphemism amuses me WAY too much) rotates with the solemn determination of a man that has done one job for his whole life and isn't about to change that now. At the end of a small extension hooked up to the shaft is a tiny gear positioned about where the front wheel of the bike would be, if the wheels hadn't long since been replaced by sturdy concrete blocks. As this turns, a bike chain rattles around the gear and pulls at the bike's actual gears - the largest one where the pedals used to be. The rotation of that set of gears pulls another chain, the normal one that bikes always have, stretching from the smallest pedal gear to the largest rear gear. That spinning set of 7 gears also spins a long rod extending 6 or so feet out perpendicular from the bike, supported at a couple of key points by scaffolds holding it parallel to the ground. And now that the whole apparatus is spinning and rotating, so is the beautiful, hand-made flogger attached to the shaft. It flies around the rod a little more than once every second - an exciting speed, but not really so fast in the grand scheme of things.

For a moment I marvel at the beauty of my invention, and before long my attention arrives at the wooden construction positioned directly in front of the flailing flogger. It is a squat and thick wall of wood rising two feet tall from the ground, with a wide semicircle cut out of the top, right in the center. It is attached by two sturdy hinges on one end to its mirror image - another wooden panel with a semicircle facing downward cut out of it. With the top panel resting atop the bottom one, as it is now, it resembles a short wall or door with a large hole in it.

My patience wanes quickly and I can't wait any longer to place myself within the action. Lifting the top section of the stockade, I slide my knees down against the bottom wooden panel and give off a small moan as the flogger already begins to rhythmically caress my lower back and the top of my butt cheeks. I had really wanted to set the machine up so that I could be securely in place before the flogger started spinning, but that would have taken a few more weeks of prep and I didn't want to wait that long.

Reaching back, I pull a strap around the back of each of my thighs, just below the bubble of my ass, and pull tight so that the straps secure my legs firmly to the squat and thick wooden wall. Mmm my midsection is already beginning to heat up despite how (relatively) slowly and gently the flogger is hitting me. Doing my best to ignore that for now, I lean forward so that my hips sit in the semicircular cutout and lower the top panel over me. It slams shut as I lose my grip, having to reach behind me at an awkward angle to reach the heavy wooden board. My hips are now wedged in between the two halves of the stockade, forcing me into a quadruped kneeling position - "doggy style", if you will.

The flogger is increasingly difficult to ignore - now that I'm bent forward with my thighs immobilized and my waist perpetually bent, my ass is now perfectly presented for the leather cords to do their best work. They smack against me over and over, landing solidly on the top of my ass and pausing briefly before sliding down between my ass cheeks and whipping the rest of their way around their cyclic trajectory.

I pause my work for a moment to exhale a deep sigh of contentment that everything is working just right. The impacts feel just the right strength - firm enough to cause me to jerk a little, but not so much that it stings with every slap. The randomness of where each individual tassel of the flogger hits makes my whole ass warm up with mixed pain and pleasure sensations while keeping any one area from getting too much unwanted attention. On each stroke, a few strands lightly trace against the base of the dildo shoved deep into my pussy, jiggling it pleasantly within me. And ever so slowly the flogger is drifting to my left, proving that the part of the contraption I call the "oscillator" is doing its job of shifting the focus of the impact all the way across from one side of my butt to the other and back. Now as it is getting pretty far to the edge of its trajectory the sensations of the flogger impacts are pleasantly new, as they have become more of glancing blows off the side of my...

BZZZ click. BZZZ click. BZZZ click.

I jump in surprise, slamming my lower back against the top part of the stockade, as the vibrator pressed against my clit sparks to life for less than a second before turning off just as quickly, over and over again. The fractional moment of pleasure overwhelms my senses again and again, never staying on long enough for me to compartmentalize the sensation. I lift my head, reveling in the pleasure, until I am abruptly reminded that the frayed (and honestly not particularly pleasant) rope in my mouth is attached to my nipples - the unexpected tug sends signals of alarm radiating from my boobs until I duck my head back down. All the while the BZZZ click pattern continues.

Finally, though I cannot comprehend how much time has passed, there is a final BZZZ which is not followed by a click, and I hum softly as the vibrations settle deeply into my pleasure zones. Now that I can think, I register that yes, another piece of my contraption is working quite nicely. The button set just to the side of my left thigh was just pressed over and over again by the whirling flogger for as long as the oscillator had been positioned all the way to the left. The button told my rudimentary Raspberry Pi program to send a signal to my phone, which remotely activated the vibrator. And now my clit gets to enjoy the pleasant vibrations until the flogger completes an oscillation cycle - at least a couple of minutes, I think.

I'm not quite done; I remind myself as my faculties continue to return to me. Looking through the dangling ropes, chains, and weights attached to my chest and mouth, I reach back and pick up the combination padlock staged on the floor beneath the stockade. I thread it through two aligned eyelets before firmly clasping the padlock shut. I give it a tug to ensure it is properly secured, and spin the 20-setting dial just for fun as I wrap my mind around this development. It is not particularly concerning, for the moment at least, to have locked myself in the stockade. After all, I know the combination and could open the lock at any time. The main contribution of this element of my predicament is time - how long will it take to spin the dial and input the combo.

The flogger continues to whap, whap, whap against my butt as my panty vibe goes to town on my clit. I love how the consistent rhythm of the spanks is predictable enough that I don't get tense with anticipation in between hits - it's more like a massage than a punishment. The oscillator has moved the flogger back to the center of my ass, and once again the tassels dance teasingly over my labia as they casually fall off my butt cheeks on their way towards smacking me another time. And another time. And another time. Over and over again.

I just have to deal with my hands and then I can relax and revel in the predicament I've arranged for myself. I clip my wrist cuffs together in a quick, familiar motion. Then, planting my hands on the ground and pushing my torso horizontal again, I lift my head to gaze in front of me. Naturally, I lift my head a little Too far, and I wince as my nipples shriek. I find a happy medium by pulling my breasts just a bit and peering through the strands of hair that have escaped my ponytail until I lay eyes on the thick knot of rope suspended in the air in front of me. It is held in place by a bungee cord looped around the knot, anchoring the rope to a pole directly behind me.

I do a little push-up and lurch my hands forward while doing my best to support my whole torso with my abs. My fingers grapple at the rope, but I didn't raise them high enough to get a grip, and they fall back down to the ground to save me from face-planting. I steel myself and try again. I shove higher and arch my whole body, wrenching on my poor nipples, and manage to snag the big knot in the heavy rope. It is taut enough that my arms remain outstretched even when the weight of my torso sags down against it. Making sure to keep a firm grip on the knot, my fingers edge around the bungee cord until it slips off and flings out of sight.

Now the feeling of finality and resignation of my fate sinks into me, as that was the last addition to my predicament. I finally feel like I can relax and settle into...

BRRR click. BRRR click.

I take a deeply satisfied breath around the rope lodged between my molars as gratifying vibrations (DEEPLY gratifying, if you catch my drift) rumble through me. I was so focused on completing my predicament that I didn't notice the flogger drifting far to my right side, where, (you guessed it) there is another button. Only this one is linked to my vibrating dildo.

BRRR click. BRRR click. I fall into a trance, a mindless cycle of reveling in the vibrations from within and without clashing against each other, counterposed by the eager anticipation of waiting for the vibrator to rumble to life once again. My mind clear and my body relaxed (as much as it can be right now), a beautiful orgasm starts to build within me. She's gradually approaching, taking two steps forward when the dildo is shaking and shying back a step when it stills. The flogger is slapping more and more of the side of my right butt cheek, which adds a pleasant rhythmic sensation that borders just on the edge of pain to my orgasm's steady approach. Oh yes, yes! YES!

Click.

The dildo's vibrations cease for good. NOOOOO nonononono please just a little bit more! I cling to the edge of orgasm for dear life as long as I can before I relent and come crashing down. Without the dildo vibrations to assist I simply can't get there. I huff heavily in frustration, and in the process Almost forget all about the rope in my mouth and relax my jaw. As I feel the rough rope start to slide over my teeth, I reflexively chomp down on it, catching it just behind my front teeth. Relieved that I saved my poor nipples from the fate of the heavy weights pulling at them for the rest of the scenario, I am thankful that I shoved the rope so deep in my mouth in the first place so I could have this second chance to spare them for good.

Although I am still disappointed that the dildo button didn't get pressed one more time before the flogger moved out of range to do so, thoughts of what could have been drift away and I zone back in on the reality of what is. My clit is still happily buzzing away, though to be honest she has lost quite a bit of her sensitivity at this point and she wouldn't hate a break. I wiggle my hips seductively back at my mechanized lover. Though I am secured too tightly to move them much, I love the slightly different angles and placement that the flogger hits me at as I gyrate. No surface on my ass is left untouched - the thin strip of thong fabric stretching up my butt crack and reaching to either side doesn't provide any protection worth mentioning against the persistent smacking of the flogger down upon my backside.