by Van ©2015
		Chapter 6

The machine wasn't making poor Jaybird suck on her half of the sliding phallus continuously.  Suck-sessions were several minutes in length, punctuated by rest periods.

The rubber or latex phallus slid back and forth inside Jaybirds mouth, never leaving it completely, as she visibly sucked on the translucent, realistically shaped shaft.  The strap buckled at the nape of her neck prevented her from pulling her head far enough back to expel the shaft from her mouth.  Meanwhile, the other end of the double-dong—which, to Frankie's relief, Nurse Kim had anointed with some sort of lubricant before its insertion and her departure—was cycling in and out of Frankie's hoo-haw, also never leaving it completely.  So far, the electrical punishment pads and the copper studs in Frankie's half of the phallus hadn't done their thing.  Jaybird was successfully keeping up with the machine's demands.

As far as Frankie could tell, "Poor Jaybird" wasn't getting anything out of the exercise other than a workout for her mouth and tongue and the privilege of not having her tits and pussy zapped.  On the other hand, "Poor Frankie" was getting diddled... again... like yesterday... on the Salamandras 3100.

After Kim left and the initial five-minute countdown expired, the machine hummed to life, Jaybird began to suck, and Frankie began getting auto-fucked.  Frankie was only building towards her first climax when the phallus stopped cycling, a chime sounded, and an artificial female voice spoke.

Its dulcet tones were striking similar to those of "Siri."  Whoever built the machine must have licensed the voice from Apple.  Either that or "Salamandras Medical" and/or "HG," the companies with their logos on the control pedestal, were subsidiaries of Apple and the machine entertaining Frankie and Jaybird was actually an "iFucker."  Frankie considered that unlikely.

Anyway, the voice spoke.  "There will be a brief rest period.  99... 98... 97..."

Frankie rolled her eyes.  The countdown continued, as did the voice.

"96... 95... 94... 93..."

Also, while the phallus had stopped moving, the half buried in Frankie's pussy was still vibrating... just a little... just barely.  It was like the damn thing's engine is idling, Frankie mused.

"92... 91... 90... 89..."

Frankie locked eyes with Jaybird.  Whoever she was—Frankie assumed her real name began with "J"—her fellow brunette and captive was definitely a looker, even gagged with a rubber dildo, bound with rope, and strapped to her half of the machine.  Her big brown eyes were... gorgeous... and sad... and... aroused?  Maybe.  It was hard to tell.  Frankie heaved a gagged sigh.

"88... 87... 86... 85..."

At the expiration of the countdown, the machine hummed back to life.  The full series of suck-sessions and rest periods lasted what might have been an hour, maybe more.  Then, Nurse Kim returned, inserted her key in the console, and the machine powered down.  Frankie had experienced three orgasms.  The first two had been unremarkable and the third downright marginal.  The red LED never did illuminate and she never was zapped in the pussy.  Apparently, Jaybird had demonstrated due diligence in her rubber dong sucking.

Kim removed Jaybird from the machine first, releasing her straps and lifting her from the machine.  She helped Jaybird stand on her wobbly, bound legs, then supported her as she hopped the three steps required to plop herself into the waiting wheelchair.  Frankie watched as Kim strapped Jaybird into the wheelchair at the ankles, lap, waist, and chest, as usual.  All the wheelchairs had the same restraints and the nurses always used them.  Frankie heaved another gagged sigh.  More due diligence, she thought.  Or in this case, is it 'a high standard of care?'  And is 'care' the right word?  Frankie was tired.

This was Frankie's first look at Jaybird's entire face, and her earlier assessment of beautiful and gorgeous (see also hubba-hubba) was confirmed.  The poor thing was trying to work her jaws and lick her lips, but with limited success.  Obviously, keeping up with the machine had fatigued her jaws, tongue, and facial muscles.  Kim used a plastic bottle with a curved, straw-like attachment to spritz water into Jaybird's mouth, then sealed her lips with a wide strip of medical tape.  Then, as Frankie continued watching, Kim wheeled Jaybird from the room.

"Mrrrk?"  Frankie remained behind, of course, still strapped to the machine and with her half of the phallus still lodged in her pussy.  She gave her restraints a perfunctory struggle, confirmed that the armbinder and the machine's many straps hadn't suddenly decided to magically release themselves, and heaved yet another gagged sigh.  Okay, Kim was busy with Jaybird, but where was Clark?  I guess Nurse Clark has better things to do than take care of poor little Feisty, she thought.

And with that, Frankie did the logical thing possible: she closed her eyes and took a nap.

It was Nurse Clark who finally showed up to release the straps, remove Frankie from the "Dual Damsel Diddler" (or whatever they called the machine), strap her into a wheelchair, and wheel her from the chamber.  Their immediate destination was a bathroom, where Frankie was released from the chair, allowed to relieve herself, and a refreshing (and humiliating) douche was administered by her nurse/handler.  Next, her head-harness gag was loosened enough for Clark to squirt a half-pint or so of cold sports drink into Frankie's mouth by means of a plastic squeeze-bottle with an attached straw.  This was accomplished at a slow enough rate that Frankie could swallow without choking.  Then, the gag was fully restored and it was back in the chair, back on with the straps, and down the hallway to an elevator.

Thus it was that Frankie found herself in a large, open room on the top floor.  A wall of windows provided abundant light and yet another mountain vista.  Obviously, the place was a gym.  The floor was carpeted in exercise mats and there were various exercise machines positioned around the room, including a stationary bike, a rowing machine, a tread-climber, an adjustable, Nautilus-style resistance station, and a running machine.  All the machines were top of the line and had been customized with straps and padded retraining bars at strategic locations.

The exception, restraint-wise, was the running machine.  Its only restraints, if you could call them that, here horizontal, elbow-height steel rails on either side of the treadmill.  A control console in front faced a large, flat-screen monitor suspended from a ceiling mount.  There was something odd: directly above the treadmill a small electric winch was mounted to the ceiling and dangling from it was a light steel cable with a terminal clip.

As Clark released Frankie from the chair and led her to the running machine, Frankie decided that enough was enough!  The ensuing ruckus was a decidedly one sided affair.  Clark had a firm grip on Frankie's ponytail and Frankie was finding it very difficult to deliver the kick to the nurse's muffin-basket she'd so desperately wanted to deliver to somebody in a white uniform ever since her capture.  Ever the competent patient manager, Clark pulled Frankie close and grabbed her right ankle when she tried another kick.

"Feisty, honey," Clark chuckled, "what do you think you're doing?  Stop this nonsense or you'll do your afternoon walk with nipple-clamps and weights.  Understand?"

Frankie decided she did not want to walk on the treadmill with weights swinging from her nipples, especially if the clamps in question were of the hungry alligator variety Kim had used on her earlier.  She put an end to her comically pathetic kung-fu act and let herself be led to the treadmill.  Her bare feet firmly on the rubber track, Frankie heard a click and realized Clark had somehow attached the cable dangling from the winch to the top of her armbinder.  She glared at Clark as the nurse punched buttons and threw switches on yet another machine console.  The machine hummed to life and the overhead whirred and took in the slack on the cable.  Finally, Clark then turned, withdrew, and pocketed yet another key.

"Semi-random intervals of running and walking, at various treadmill speeds and angles," Clark said with a grin.

Sentence fragment, Frankie silently scolded her handler.

"You may have noticed the silver and copper wires running through the track under your feet and the contacts regularly embedded in the rails on either side," Clarke continued with an evil grin.  "Fail to keep up or try and get off the treadmill and you'll receive ever-increasing reminders that Dr. Stanton puts a premium on patient exercise."  She pointed up at the winch overhead.  "The cable will keep you centered and prevent you from falling.  Enjoy yourself."

The treadmill began to turn, slowly picking up speed.  Frankie had no choice but to start walking.  She stared daggers at Clark's disappearing back as the nurse turned and left the room.

Frankie walked... and walked... and walked.

All things considered, Frankie decided, trudging on the treadmill was better than having a vibrating dildo sliding in and out of her pussy, especially with the threat of electrical punishment looming over her head—or in her pussy, in the case of the Double Damsel Diddler—or under her feet, in the case of the current machine.  I'm losing it, Frankie thought.  How can something 'loom' under your feet?  Anyway... walking is better than being auto-fucked.  That's the point.

More walking...  And was it her imagination, or was the treadmill picking up speed?  Yes, it was a slow crescendo, but eventually Frankie found herself power-walking.  She was also seriously considering sweating... maybe... just a little.  The treadmill continued turning, time passed, and Frankie reached a decision.  It's definitely time to glow.  And soon, she was doing just that.  A sheen of sweat glistened on her nude body as she repeatedly planted one bare foot in front of the other.

And the treadmill kept turning.

Suddenly, an electronic ping sounded from the TV mounted above the control console, the screen began to glow (with light, not sweat), and Frankie found herself staring at the Quaking Aspens logo.  Soothing, earth-tone colors swirled in the background.  This continued for about a minute...  Trudge, trudge, trudge... then the screen changed to something much more interesting.

Frankie's eyes widened, even as she continued walking (and sweating).

Onscreen was the unmistakable image of Judge Bowden.  She was nude, like Frankie, and reclined on her back on what might be called a minimalist gynecological exam table.  Her arms were outstretched to either side, her legs splayed and bent at the knees, and she was held in that pose by a plethora of wide, black, nylon straps tightened around her ankles, shins and calves, above and below her knees, her thighs, waist, above and below her heaving breasts, her upper arms, forearms, and wrists.  Needless to say, Her Honor wasn't going anywhere.  She squirmed and tugged on her bonds, her fingers flexed and toes wiggled, but that was it.

Once again—in Frankie's humble opinion—it was clear that Bowden was a fit, curvaceous, and very attractive example of mature pulchritude.  That is, she was just as much a looker as Frankie's fellow patients—Jaybird, Red, and Blondie—only older.  Frankie considered a "fine wine, maturing with age" metaphor, but now was a bad time to think about refreshing beverages.  Anyway, Her Honor was helpless, but at the moment she wasn't gagged.

"No!" Bowden pleaded in a whining voice.  "Not again!  Please, not again!"  Her fair skin glistened with sweat, much like Frankie's.

Dr. Stanton stepped into the frame, her lips curled in the same gloating, sinister smile that Frankie usually found so infuriating.  She reached out with her right hand and gently stroked the side of Bowden's face.  "I know you're tired and your labia are sensitive," she sighed, "but your therapy must continue.  And we're making such progress."

Her desperate brown eyes locked with Stanton, the judge continued testing her bonds.  "Please," she gasped in a near whisper.  Suddenly, her gaze sifted away from Stanton to the area beyond her helpless body and splayed legs and her eyes widened.  "No!"  This time it wasn't a whisper.  "Not her!  Not the little blonde!"

Two more figures entered the frame, Nurse Kim and Blondie.  Just about all Frankie could see was the backs of their heads and bodies, but she had a perfect view of Blondie's bondage.  The blonde's arms were behind her back, her elbows bent, forearms and hands raised, and wrists lashed together with her hands palm-to-palm and bound against her spine to a torso-harness of Quaking Aspens' ubiquitous white rope.  Frankie's fellow patient was gagged in some manner, but her pale hair was masking the details.

Bowden redirected her gaze to Stanton.  "Please... not the blonde."

Stanton stroked the side of Bowden's face, again.  "I know Patient 'T' can be a little... enthusiastic, but this is therapy for her, as well.  The spider-gag will prevent her from biting you... this time."

Bowden shook her hear, causing her dark curls to stir.  "No!  No—Mrrrpfh!"

Stanton had eased a ball-gag into the judge's mouth and was tightening its strap.  The two-inch rubber sphere not only filled Her Honor's mouth, but the strap pinned her head against the table's headrest.  Stanton finished buckling the strap somewhere behind, then reinforced the arrangement by tightening and buckling a second strap, this one across Bowden's forehead.  The table and headrest were both at angles that allowed Bowden to continue gazing down her body at the bound and gagged blonde between her splayed legs.

Meanwhile, Kim had forced Blondie to her knees and was strapping her in place with her gagged face even with the Judicial Crotch.  And although most of Frankie's attention had been on the gagging of Bowden, Frankie had managed to catch a glimpse of Blondie's gag.  It was some sort of stainless steel ring with curved, blunt steel flanges or horns.  Rather than plugging the blonde's mouth, it propped it open and kept it that way.

Apparently, that's what they call a 'spider-gag,' Frankie mused.

Kim planted Blondie's gagged mouth against Bowden's pussy, then tightened another strap, enforcing the mouth-to-pussy contact.  Blondie's head started squirming, and so did the judge, as much as her straps would allow.

"My goodness, Patient 'T' is rather enthusiastic," Stanton chuckled.  She smiled at Kim.  "You didn't even have to order her to begin."

"I seldom do," Kim purred, then tightened additional straps around Blondie's kneeling form, anchoring her even more firmly in place between Bowden's legs and against the table.

Frankie stared in wonder, so amazed that she stumbled and staggered against the running machine's left side-rail. Two things happened in response: (1) the cable linking the back of her armbinder to the winch overhead twanged and snapped taut; and, (2) an electrical shock sizzled through Frankie's feet and where her side touched the rail!  "Mfffff!"  It wasn't all that painful, but it certainly got her attention.  A shudder rippled through her sweaty body and she resumed walking—not that she'd actually stopped.

The current episode of the hit series Blondie & the Judge continued playing out on the screen.  Blondie continued doing her best to diddle Bowden with her tongue, despite the handicap of her mouth-propping gag, and Her Honor continued to resist, if you could call it that.  Anyway, Frankie could tell that the court was not pleased—and the court was certainly not pleased when Kim wheeled over a tray-size, stainless steel equipment table and joined the doctor at the head of the table.

Frankie and Bowden watched with anxious eyes as Stanton and Kim donned latex gloves, followed by surgical masks.  Kim then removed the green cloth covering whatever was on the cart, and—

"M'mpfh!"  Bowden fought her bonds with all her strength, but got nowhere, fast.

On the cart was a plastic cup full of cotton-tipped swabs, a small glass jar of pink fluid, various forceps and probes, and a pair of stainless steel...  Frankie wasn't sure what they were.  Clamps?  Cages?  Whatever they were, they were each about the size of a shot glass with a round, ring-like base, a cluster of curved steel rods regularly arranged in an open circle, a central clamp with serrated jaws, and two small adjustment screws projecting at right angles.  They reminded Frankie of the wire safety cages used to keep corks from exploding from champagne bottles, only they were heftier and more complicated... with clamps!  Truth be told, Frankie had no idea what she was looking at; however, Bowden seemed to have a very good idea.  Her eyes locked with Stanton as she continued fighting the straps.  "Nrrrrk!"  Her Honor's breasts bobbed, just a little, but that was all.

Wait a minute! Frankie thought.  The clamps!  Those things might be...  No!

Kim selected a swab, opened the jar and dipped the swab it its red, oily contents, then proceeded to paint Bowden's left nipple with a thorough coating, from its erect tip to the margin of the areola.  Bowden shivered and mewled in response.  "Mrrrpfh!"

"Yes, I know, it stings a little," Stanton purred from behind her mask, "but it sterilizes the skin and sensitizes the nerve endings.  It will enhance the procedure."

Bowden's brown eyes glistened as Kim replenished the red fluid and painted her right nipple.  Soon, both nipples were rigid and shining with the oily substance.  They were also flushed, either that or it was the fluid's color.  Frankie couldn't see any way the judge's nipples could be more erect.  Unfortunately for the judge, that turned out to be a lack of imagination on Frankie's part.

Kim selected one of the steel cage-thingies, placed it over Bowden's left nipple, and made adjustments.  Bowden shivered and complained, but soon the clamp's serrated jaws were gripping, lifting, and stretching the nipple.  The steel monstrosity jiggled a little as Bowden continued struggling, but clearly, nothing she could do would dislodge the device.  "Nrrrrrrf!"  Kim picked up the second thingie, positioned it over Bowden's right breast—"Mrrrf!"—and soon both nipples were captured and stretched.

Stanton pulled down her mask, smiled, then placed her gloved hand on Bowden's flat tummy, over her bellybutton.  "I'll let you get used to those for a while," she said.  "Patient 'T' will continue your joint therapy, and when I return, I'll give the relevant screws a quarter turn... and the piercing process will begin."

A tear rolled down Bowden's right cheek.  Her eyes were locked with Stanton's.  "Mrrrpfh."

"Yes, I suppose I could simply turn the screws and get all of this over with."  Her smile became even more evil.  "But this way the experience will be much more memorable, don't you agree?"

Apparently, either Judge Bowden did not agree, or had decided she'd just as soon forgo the entire exercise.  Tears continued trailing down her cheeks and she continued shivering, squirming, and mewling.  "Nrrrr."

Stanton is piercing her nipples? Frankie thought, and making an over-the-top melodrama out of the whole thing?  Why?  And why let me watch?  No, why make me watch? What does it all mean?

Meanwhile, back on the screen, Stanton pulled off her gloves, dropped them on the tray, and left the field of view of the camera.  Kim was next.  The camera remained focused on Bowden's helpless, gagged, and very unhappy form; as well as Blondie's bound body and bobbing head as she did her spider-gagged best to lick Her Honor's pussy.

Frankie continued walking and pondering what she'd been shown—what she was still being shown.

I really stepped in it this time, she thought.

Meanwhile, the treadmill was picking up the pace.  Soon Frankie would have no choice but to break into a run.