It all started with her interrogation a few weeks back, the way he destroyed her. But it's always about more than just torment, isn't it? He can't stop thinking about her. In the underworld of his mind, he searches for the perfect machine, a symbiosis of metal, gears, and female flesh.

The machine is pristine, sleek, diabolical - highly crafted for its purpose. Some machines are intended to terrorize by their appearance. Not this one. It insures accessibility.

Like certain species of spiders, the limbs are kept in line with the body. That's how it is when he straps down her ankles, neck, and wrists. She's made faceless by rubber a blindfold that smears out her eyes and cheeks. The rubber gag obliterates her mouth. He spreads the arms and legs click, click, click. Using an electric drill, he increases the tension on her limbs, pulling them painfully tight. In the same inexorable, mechanical fashion, he tightens the collar at her neck. She emits a strangled gurgle. In the war between metal and flesh, the living always loses.

Now he whips her with wire. She grits her teeth against it. She hasn't learned how to let the pain flow from the point of fire, up through the spine, and out the top of the skull. A vibrator and cane stimulate her simultaneously. She's trapped in both heaven and hell. When she begs to come, he whacks her harder. It's all about balance, this teaching. Eventually, she begs to come again. In a bored voice, he allows it. And afterward he says he's tired. Let the machines do it, he says.

The sound of a fucking machine. It revs in her cunt. A vibrator hums against her glistening clit. Her hands open as though beseeching, as though raised in prayer. But it's no good. She's in the grip of the machine no nerves, no wants, no needs. It couldn't care less about this girl strapped to its back. It just keeps fucking.

Step 1 The Setup
She looks confident, maybe a little smug, strapped the length of her body to a metal grate. It's an easy position for a bondage pro like Wenona, known for her muscular, flexible physique. But this is PD we're talking about. He starts with a thin wire cane on her ass. Wenona's a screecher. It's girls like Wenona that lead one to appreciate tape and a muzzle. He lectures Wenona on the means of inducing terror as he tapes her eyes. Embedded within the idea of terror, one finds terror itself. A singular example of the merging of cause and consequence.

Step 2 Over-stimulation as Preparation
Start with a car jack, two pipes, and stainless steel anal beads. Add Mr. Pogo and a vibrator. Strap the girl's head upward to restrict movement. Use a heavy cane on her ass. She comes with a howl. He slides her over to the side as though bored. The lights go dark.

Step 3 The Payoff
The Hackle, a PD creation. Wenona rests within its grip delicately, afraid to move. A metal bar connects her neck, wrists, and the sensitive flesh of her inner ass vis-a-vis an ass hook. The Hackle - perhaps the ultimate posture collar, transmitting every movement of the spine directly to her inner ass.

Steel spring clamps dangle bells from her nipples. A gag screws into her mouth to keep down the noise. She's made to walk, lifting each beautifully sculpted thigh high. The strain is clear. She moans and groans. A film of sweat dampens her skin. She takes on a blush. A string of drool hangs from mouth to floor. A vibrator hums in her pussy. She comes, barely able to stay on her feet. But of course, she must. The Hackle won't let her off that easy.

Epilogue
Locked in the Chinese cangue, we see only a head, two hands, and two legs from knee to toes. She's lifted this way and flogged. He sets her swinging. . .

Spooky serial killer hood. Wrists and neck locked to a post, the stretch in her arms just a little long. All of her weight rests upon her ass and thighs, settling onto a bed of spikes. What predominates is her heavy breathing. He reminds her that today it's about suffering, not sex. And he cinches a belt snug about her waist. More than tight extreme. Because, he tells her, pressure around the torso has the same affect as around the neck. She goes glassy-eyed. He slaps her cheeks. Not much response.

He relents.

She's ordered to undress. It's difficult. She's still half-gone. A triangle of sweat wets her T-shirt between her neck and breasts. When he rubs her clit, she's soppy with want. Whether he gives her pain or pleasure, the lines in her face look like disaster. He tells her to get herself off. Her fingers flick and circle her pussy. She comes, but never once does she smile.

With wrists and ankles locked in double stocks, she could be dismembered, no hands or feet. The bed of spikes braised the skin of her ass. Angry red welts. He flogs it her ass. He fucks her mouth-hole with a handheld cock. Her legs shake. She's fucked in her cunt. He torments her pussy with a vibrator. Her clit goes pointy and stiff. And after she comes, she's soaked at the cunt like some crazy slut trapped in a dense cloud of misery, giving anything for a single moment of release.

The Grand Inquisitor sits at his desk. The self-abuser is carried into the room locked in double shackles, a bag strapped over her head. The metal collar holds her in place where all the girls are held for interrogation directly in front of the Inquisitor. And as she's measured her neck, breast, the depth of her cunt, the width and depth of her face hole she is constantly under the control of metal. The Grand Inquisitor allows no resistance.

Her training begins, the teaching of her innocent cunt. She must masturbate for him. She must learn to take pain with her face frozen, blank, the howl of pain stuck inside, in the isolate of some unfathomable endless space.

He designs for her a construct of irritation and pleasure, using the tools of his trade. A primitive chair a square post for her ass with wrists and ankles locked away from her. The repeated sound of a cane striking flesh. It's nothing, a little discomfort, then a little more. A metal bit locked into her mouth holds her head in rigid stillness as she comes for him.

The bars of the narrow standing cage compress her flesh. Her neck is locked and still. He pokes and prods. He terrifies her with alcohol and a lighter. He lights a fire beneath her feet. He stabs her tight innocent cunt from behind. In every moment, the fact of her helplessness is made plain the metal about her neck, the cage, and the vibrator buried in the flesh of her enfolded pussy.

Bilbos locked at her elbows and knees bend her joints into one position only. Pulling her chain, he drags her mouth to his crotch. She learns to suck cock, how to use her lips and tongue. He leaves her then, locked this way, with her not-so-innocent cunt speared as she lies helpless on the floor.

Shackled to a metal bed, her thick steel collar digs into her perfect chin. Her pretty pastel panties, scalloped at the edge, are glimpsed in the shadows between her thighs. And as he tickles and canes her, two torments simultaneously, it's clear. The primacy of Her in his mind. A fucking machine is raised into position. Embedded in metal and machine, she comes.

Is it his lust that drives him to such extreme means? Unbridled want? Desperation? Or does he so fear this animal, that he keeps her clasped in metal that cannot want, cannot feel, cannot love, cannot lose?

She's locked in the fiddle that's chained to a metal ankle spreader. Metal gag against her soft lips. She is dismayed by metal, but still, she's powerful, don't you think? Because she's lovely. You can't stop thinking about her skin, her breasts, her ass, her smell. Even from where you sit viewing her on your screen, you smell her, don't you? He flogs her. He controls everything. He controls nothing.

The Pear slips inside her. He turns the key to lock it in place. It's a work of art, the Pear. A complex mechanism. Like her. Maybe that's what he thinks. That it's as simple as a twist of the key, loosening her power over him. So he practices the erotic art of self-deception.

The Pear goes in, filling her cunt that empty space, that vacuum, that everything and nothing place where even the gods stumble. The handle of the Pear is turned. Whose hand turns the key? Whose desire? Whose despair? The Pear is sucked inward. Clamps bite into her nipples. And her body spasms in pleasure. She comes. Her fingers bend, as if beckoning.

The Animal rises.

Gravity plus mass plus steel equals a vicious torment.

As everyone at Infernal Restraints prepares for the shoot, PD preps Erika, locking her in metal and leaving her to languish. Her neck is clamped inside a collar held away from the wall by a metal arm. Her wrists, pulled up in a stressful strappado behind her, keep her on her toes. It is her own weight that applies the pressure against her throat. PD ignores her except to raise her up a few more inches, increasing the drag downward. It's nothing really, a simple matter of mathematics.

A pair of scissors snips at her tuft of pussy hair. PD shreds Erika's T-shirt. Snip, snip goes her bra. The tip of a singletail rips at her tummy and chest, and at that little tuft of pussy hair. Then she's turned so that she faces the wall. The whip targets her ass and back. And as she fusses, trying to pull away from the tip of the whip, her back arches. Her body is beautiful in profile as she strains against the metal and gravity.

Erika's wrists are shackled behind and tied to a thick, scratchy rope that's dragged through her crotch (a nasty little agony) and tied upward. Nipple clamps pull her tits up also. Gravity takes its toll, a sublime moment of truth, the pain of inhabiting a body.

A new device makes its debut. Erika stands on a wooden crossbeam with her head and wrists locked in stocks. His fingers investigate her holes. Then a cane smacks her ass, thighs, and feet. Erika keeps up a continuous stream of cries, like some secretive animal that screams all night. A board slides between her thighs. Then the beam beneath her feet is removed. Now her weight rests there upon her cunt. Gravity wins.

Hanging in a very small cage, a dental gag holds Erika's mouth open. Drool runs from her lips to her cunt where white pussy juice wets her hole. The fucking machine stands at the ready. She's positioned and penetrated, as though it is her cunt that serves the machine. It pounds away inside of her. And Erika's cries create such a clamor.

He's done with her now. The machine is silent. The cage slides along a rail until it hangs over an awaiting box. Erika's dropped inside, cage and all. The lid slams shut, latched, and a breathing pipe screwed in place. Erika's constant stream of noise goes on, more distant now. Far away. A world apart.

Thick shackles, heavy bilbos, and the Horse create a stark contrast to Lystra's willowy physique. her guileless face, and her wide eyes. PD establishes the theme very early. One foot for tickling, one foot for caning a euphemism for the blending of pain and pleasure as he draws Lystra into a spiral of sensory overload, a dark ecstasy the severing of Self.

With bilbos and shackles bolted to a single thick beam, Lystra's bent over, straining her back. A cane smacks the sole of her foot. She is ordered not to flinch. Not to make a face. PD bargains with Lystra - one more stroke and he'll ease her position. She agrees, taking the bite of the cane with a little smile held tight upon her face. But after he releases her and she lies back in relief, he whips her cunt. And she writhes, trying to protect her pretty little pussy. But it's useless all this thrashing back and forth. Besides, PD's suddenly very kind and sweet. Touch yourself, he says. Rub yourself. And the cane beats her foot. Her fingertips slip back and forth over her pussy, at first hesitant then faster. She comes. The eroticism of misery.

With her legs spread by the shackles, he hoists her upward, off balance. The repeated slap of cane on flesh. Her face has frozen like a bleak landscape over which has been fastened a mask of smiles. She wants to please him. It's clear. She can learn anything to survive.

He staples a dildo to the beam. She's ordered to sit. Penetrated, she sucks plastic cock, fingering herself again. Then with metal locked around her waist and crotch, and a long wooden dildo inside of her, she's told to kneel. But it's impossible with that wooden thing coming out her cunt. As impossible as when she's lying on the floor and told to get up.

Now sitting on the Horse with metal stocks at her neck and wrists, ankle stocks hold her legs open. He gently spreads her labia and ass cheeks for maximum effect. And still, she mustn't frown from pain. Little Lystra's getting weak, flailing. A vibrator adds to the brew. And he canes her ass. She explodes in orgiastic ecstasy. He ramps up the vibrator, pushing it deeper into her pussy. She rides it unwilling. Shuddering.

The metal band around her waist is more than tight. It constricts her liver, her stomach, her spleen. Metal shackles pinch and bruise the skin at her wrists and ankles. And the head cage - forty pounds of steel that doesn’t quite fit. It presses. It rubs. The relentlessness of metal. The little pains accrue.

He positions her so that she can’t quite stand. She can’t sit. So she shuffles this way and that. Her hands make soothing motions as though searching for comfort. But there is no comfort. Not here.

Sasha Sparks is known for extreme bondage. She won an award! She’s got big tits. Huge tits. Tits that men love to bruise. But this man, PD, he ignores her huge tits. He leaves her to stew. Just a little softening up. Just a little ripening. Metal teaches the more subtle meanings of the word "cruel."

He rolls her out for display. Her head is locked in stocks, a metal gag, her wrists chained to the sides, and her feet stand on metal pipe. It’s excruciating. He knows this. It pleases him, her suffering, her continuous moan. He uses a singletail, a cane, and a heavy flogger. Big tits just make a big target. And she’s caught, held firm, and he revels. He makes her oink. He calls her his little piggy. But she begs him anyway. Begs him because of the pain in her feet. He gives her wicked little blocks of wood that wobble and turn. He ties her tremendous tits and pulls them up. And a fucking machine grinds away at her cunt. Then he leaves her like that. Fucked. In darkness.

When she comes, her moans are the same moans as for pain. But the machine doesn’t care. The metal doesn’t care. She’s nowhere now. She’s gone one step too far - over the edge of the earth and falling.

JC carries a bundle of girl over his shoulder. Her head is taped, her wrists, her ankles. He drops her on the metal bed. PD bolts her head inside a box. Rolled metal shackles lock her wrists and ankles outward. Poor Mei. She pisses her pants. Offended, PD makes her undress, then he scrubs her down. A thick metal collar chains her neck tightly to the headboard. PD dries Mei's pussy with an industrial heat gun. Now begins a heady brew of fucking, orgasm denial, orgasm, and pain as PD whips and canes Mei, ordering her to come when he strikes her hard. PD keeps caning. Mei just keeps coming.

In Part 1, Pinky was locked in the Fiddle with a dildo up her cunt and a vibrator at her pussy, driving her mad. Now she's shackled and placed in containment for the entire shoot. The face hole opens and she's fucked in the mouth. Mr. Pogo and a vibrator make her come. After she's tormented with a sharpened cane, the fucking machine takes her in the ass. When Pinky comes, it goes on and on and. . . .on