Chapter 26: Hell’s Machines
My name is Lucy, and I am the owner and only employee of Hell. If you ask my insurance company, Hell is a 'themed massage parlor' discreetly located in the back corner of a strip mall. If you ask the state, it's a brothel.
Neither definition is quite fair, but if I'm being honest, the state's is closer. Hell does sell sex. The only thing is, I'm not the product.
At Hell's core is a central room, just large enough for me to move about when its full capacity of eight guests are restrained along the walls. Those walls are tile, as are the floor and ceiling. I spent ages picking it out. It's matte black porcelain, just reflective enough to keep the dim red light from the corners. That's crucial to the ambiance; you shouldn't be able to see into the corners.
But even though I'd agonized over my tile choice, that wasn't my masterstroke. My real moment of brilliance had been the chains. Cheap, heavy, and metal, their sound is better than any music I could pump in. Whenever I can secure someone or something with the chains, I do. Sometimes, I even hang them loose from the devices so that they chime and clang along with the squirming occupant.
You might think this kind of business does better at night. No doubt you'd be correct. But the strip mall that houses Hell--in the back, under discrete signage, facing away from the street--doesn't allow me to be open past nine. Which is fine with me. Would you want to be the only girl in a brothel after dark?
Anyway, what might surprise you is how many of your coworkers are sneaking off around lunch to spend an hour in Hell. It's mostly men; a primarily middle-aged demographic. That used to bother me. I'd try and court more women, and stressed when my few female regulars stopped showing up. I think I had this idea that the boys would enjoy something pretty to look at instead of just other sweaty dad-bods. But eventually I had to get over it and accept Hell for what it was.
Thirty minutes before lunch, on the day of the accident, I already had three guests chained up and moaning. That was a good start to the day.
I was paying closest attention to a new boy I'd nicknamed Freckles. I didn't know his real name. It was on the waiver he'd signed, and I'd seen it forty-five minutes ago on his driver's license when I checked he was over eighteen, but I'm bad with names--which is a good thing! It wouldn't do for me to accidentally out one of my guests. What would even be the point of the hoods, then?
Aside from his hood, Freckles, like my other guests, was naked. He was young, twenty-three--I remembered that, at least. I don't mind the often doughy bodies I chain up every day. Honestly, it helps with my confidence. But it's nice, on occasion, to have a fit athletic type in the mix. Even if Freckles's complexion threatened to throw off my carefully balanced lighting.
"You're doing great, sweetie," I told him for the hundredth time. My fingers explored the sweaty channels of his abs. "Fifteen minutes left. You're almost there."
Freckles just groaned. He was slumped forward; only the chains connecting his elbow cuffs to the wall held him up. The red leather bench he was straddling had collected a pool of cum, mixed with copious dribble from his ring gag. I let the first-timers use ring gags so that they're easier to hear if they panic. Freckles's balls, aided by a thin fuzz of red hair, painted the mixture along the bench as the silicone ring of a milking machine encouraged him and his cock forward and back. He didn't have anything in his ass--another mercy for first-timers--but his cock was plenty red and angry. A rubberized band I'd rolled down his then eager, now beleaguered, erection kept him hard. Not for the first time that day I reached around the milking machine for a squeeze--to check for circulation, you understand.