© Copyright 2011 - Dave Chimes - Used by permission
Storycodes: Solo-F; Machine/f; capture; bond; tape; wrap; cocoon; encase; trashcan; foam; storage; toys; climax; stuck; reluct/cons; X
Officer Lacey was in trouble. The strange wrapping machine she'd brought home from evidence storage at the police station had gone rampant while she slept through the night, completely oblivious that it had turned rogue. She'd awoken to a house rigged with traps, and containing a crazed machine that, going by the duct-tape snares distributed throughout the place, was intent on capturing her. She'd left her bedroom, and headed downstairs this late morning on her day off, to be confronted by a bizarre scene in her living room, where she now stood. A washing machine blocking the exit to the hallway, and front door. Sneaky lines of fishing wire across rooms at ankle-level. Her home had been turned against her, and still hosted the machine responsible.
Lacey stood statue-still, inhaled and released a deep breath, and took stock of the situation. If she tried to smash a window, The Machine would hear and could be on her within seconds; her back would be turned, and the prospect of a neighbor hearing and investigating was too slim, given the time of day. Off to one side was the kitchen, with several lines of tape across the doorway, sticky side facing toward her, at ankle and shoulder level, designed to snag her if she had bolted that way, not to mention the multiple tripwires that were catching the light pouring in through the window. To the other side of her, the door down to the basement, currently wide open and beckoning. Tempting, but probably another deliberate flytrap – perhaps she could barricade herself in, but there would be no way to get back out. Hell, that thing could be in there right now, just waiting for her. She turned around, carefully and quietly. In front of her was the study, door open, seemingly untouched. She could see that it was unoccupied, and in there were some useful options for her – a spare pistol hidden in the desk, and perhaps (but unlikely) a working internet connection. The computer on the desk was switched off, but there were no signs of damage. She made her choice, and gingerly tip-toed her way into the study.
Close the door quietly, pushing it to with a gentle click. There were no windows in the room, but it was a better place to be. Make a plan. Think things through, without worry of being pounced upon. She cautiously wheeled her waist-high filing cabinet from the nearby corner to behind the door, offering muttered thanks for the carpeted floor. Lacey checked her desk, feeling around at the far end of the bottom drawer; taped to the base of the drawer above it, her spare pistol. Bingo. Still there. And loaded. Next, she ducked under the desk, seeking out the phone port in the wall where her network cable would connect. Dammit. Nothing but a bunch of torn wires, and the plug itself wrenched from the wall. No idea how to fix it. Not worth trying, as she didn't have the first clue. Lacey stood up, hands on hips, and ran a hand through her hair. Another deep breath.
She's going to have to leave, at some point. But Lacey had another problem to deal with, one potentially more cumbersome than the finer points of reverse-housebreaking against a robotic lunatic. The problem was that she really, really wanted this. To be wrapped, from head to toe, so tightly and completely that she couldn't move a muscle. It's exactly why she'd smuggled that insane contraption out of the evidence holding pen, and brought it home. She didn't have the slightest clue of how she was going to make it happen, yet alone make it happen safely, but she had been led by an irresistible, blooming heat in her belly had spread with alarming speed to her pussy. She really wanted it. But such lust was clogging her thoughts. She could just stroll out there... deliberately trigger a tripwire... stand and wait, eyes closed... and her sudden, burning fantasy would become a realit... C'mon Lacey, keep it together, she thought to herself. You've faced difficult, dangerous situations plenty of times. You're a pro. Keep it together.
She's going to have to leave, at some point. And the kitchen would be the best bet. Now that she had seen that it was rigged, it was a known quantity to overcome, she could take her time, keep her gun ready, and get to the garage. And then it'd hopefully be the home straight. This insane, ill-guided fantasy of hers could live on thereafter, to be staged and experienced another day, under circumstances that weren't so hazardous and unknown. And so, the kitchen it was. Lacey started taking her clothes off.
It made sense. She'd be far quieter. And greeting the authorities in her underwear would be nothing to worry about, ultimately. She knew from her years as a police officer that, while such behaviours would be embarrassing in day-to-day life, you do what you can to give yourself the edge under duress. Besides, whispered a little voice from deep inside her, if I do get caught, the tape would find my skin directly, constrict and hold me that much more tightly. She shook her head, and sighed. Shush. You're losing it, girl. Now stripped down to her underwear, Lacey continued disrobing, removing her bra and panties. She didn't need to; her underwear would be enough to minimize noise from her movement. She hadn't realised this, distracted as she was by her internal conflict, trying hard to avoid fixating on the fact that if she pressed her hand down between her legs, it would be there for quite some time, and she wouldn't stop until The Machine broke the door down and captured her there and then, binding her into an unforgiving, inescapable cocoo...
She didn't have time to become further tangled in her desires, broken out of her lull by a volley of noises that came from the room above. Her bedroom. Something was clomping and clattering around in there. It was The Machine! Upstairs, doing whatever the fuck it was up to. Now was the time. She could stealth her way out. Sliding the filing cabinet back with painstaking care, she picked the gun from the desk and slowly twisted the door handle... only for it to come off in her hand, with a click that made her grimace and stifle a yelp. Shit. I didn't check it, did I? Just pushed the door shut. No wonder there was no resistance when I twisted the handle. But stay with it, stay with it. The lock was simple and flimsy. She could slip it easily with a piece of paper from her desk, folded multiple times, pushed into the gap between the frame and the door, slotted and wiggled. It was when she started doing this, with the chock sliding back with ease, that she noticed the noise upstairs had ceased. Fuck. When did it go quiet? Is it still up there? Coerced by adrenalin, Lacey pulled the door open a crack, and peeked into the living room. Nothing there. Nothing had changed. She hadn't heard it come downstairs. Go for it.
Open the door, slink on out. Gun raised, ready for response. Padding coolly across to the kitchen, she stopped, and scanned around. Nothing. Except... The Machine had laid tape, adhesive-side up, on the stairs that led to the landing. Three lines per step. Clever. Not enough to stop her, but enough to slow her. No matter; she wasn't going back upstairs. And there's no way The Machine could've done that while she was working her makeshift lockpick. She took this as reassurance that it was still upstairs, occupied with whatever mischief was on its maniacal little mind.
Tentatively, Lacey ducked under the strips of tape across the kitchen doorway, holding on to the jamb, lifting her legs in exaggerated enough fashion to avoid the lower strips. Stopped. Took a few seconds to pick out each line of tripwire with her eyes, before prancing over them. Another look back. Nothing. The door to the garage was open. She peered in; again, there was no sign of anything troublesome laying in wait. She descended the single step, holding her breath even, the concrete flooring chilly on the soles of her feet. She'd forgotten to look directly up, to check the rafters just above the door to the kitchen.
The Machine lowered itself quickly, but not silently. Startled, Lacey began to turn, but it was too late. A single line of tape was pressed beneath her left shoulderblade, just as she twisted in that direction, almost jumping into it as it was spooled once, twice quickly around her, nearly pinning her elbows to her side as she spun full circle, desperately searching for her target. By the time she spotted The Machine, dangling by one hand from a strut in the roof, the tops of her arms were now held by her side. She tried to raise her hand high enough to get a clean shot with the gun, but her movement was impeded, and her professional experience prevented her from letting off a round until the shot was certain. As she pivoted herself around awkwardly, The Machine had raised itself slightly, enough that it could throw another strip of tape at the back of Lacey's head. She only started to feel this as it was quickly pulled around her face, and the last thing she saw was the dull white of the sticky side of the duct tape, as it whizzed around, three times, five times, enough to blind her, sealing her eyes shut the moment she instinctively closed them. She dropped the gun, her hands moving to claw at the tape that was cutting out her sight.
As Lacey hunched herself to bring her fingers up to her mummified eyes, The Machine made a sixth wrap with the tape, under her jaw and around her neck, before feeding it up to the rafter above and attaching it there. It wasn't enough to choke her, but was enough to hinder her, and she was rotating into it, rather than away from it. Before she could realise this and react accordingly, The Machine lowered itself again, this time applying even more tape around her neck, before mooring that to the rooftop support. Lacey lost her balance slightly, doddering to one side, pulled off-centre by the tethers. As she waved her hands and wobbled to right herself, The Machine started to feed tape over her upper torso once more, around and around, to the tops of her breasts, further restricting her arms.
As she regained equilibrium, spacing her legs at shoulder width, she managed to bring her hands up to her collarbone, scrabbling at the tape, but there was no easy purchase. It was affixed like superglue. As she strained to snag a thumbnail under the tape in order to start shrugging it off, The Machine gave her a little shove against the top of her left shoulder. She teetered to the right, panicked, then swayed in order to save herself, jerking and bringing her feet together as she once again found her balance. It was half a second later that she realised her mistake, as more tape found her ankles, and speedily wound up to the middle of her calves. She responded without thinking, giving up on her shoulders and attempting to reach down, but the tethers held tight, and she swiped uselessly at knee height. No sooner had her arms flailed once, than the wrapping resumed this time at her elbows. The first feed of tape wasn't very tight – she had a little wiggle room – but around and around it went, enough to further incapacitate her. She could probably loosen it a little with some effort, but Lacey instead tried another tactic.
“Please stop. PLEASE... stop. STOP!” she babbled, hoping that The Machine's command system, the one that responded fine the previous day before it had gone beserk, was still intact and obedient. “Please stop. Stop, please...” she begged. The following moments of silence were deafening.
Just seconds after Lacey's desperate pleas, she had her answer, as she felt the wrapping resume around the base of her breasts down to her hips, completely pinning her arms and setting her squealing and wriggling. As she was about to start shouting in a last-bid hope for help, she felt tape winding and sealing itself around her mouth, around the back of her head. She yelled, her mouth still able to open a little, but the cry was muffled. And then, tape under her jaw and over her scalp, catching her hair in layered bunches, as it was pulled more and more rigid with the application of each revolution. Lacey fought it, but the tethers, along with the increasing number of tightening layers meant that she soon lost her capacity for speech. She tried to scream, only for it to emerge as a manic MMMPH.
The Machine wasn't deterred by Lacey's verbal commands. Aside from its existing protocol to capture, subdue and store this individual, it had acquired new information that would've cause it to further disregard her wishes. During the night, as Lacey had slept peacefully in the bed upstairs, The Machine had connected itself to the internet, in order to conduct further diligence on its current situation and refine plans that were as efficient and effective as possible.
Thanks to its efforts, it had uncovered three pieces of intelligence that would dictate how Lacey's predicament would play out. Among its research remit were any common, established practices for wrapping live humans. There was plentiful content explaining how to wrap the dead, but results for standard storage and treatment of functioning human units were rare. In among the destinations it explored, it had found Gromet's Plaza, and several similar sites.
The typical procedure involved a person that would often resist but ultimately enjoy mummification once it was complete; this made no direct sense to The Machine, but it meant that overpowering its targets would usually be necessary, once certain conditions were met and a value judgement performed. In Lacey's case, it had been swayed by peripheral evidence: she had brought the unit home. She had sat and ogled it with an endless curiosity, and even softly voiced “Please wrap me” twice, while her eyes gazed blankly through The Machine when it was in standby mode. It had registered the fact, but wouldn't respond when in that state.
And so, with Lacey's angry MMMPH, The Machine continued about its business without any hesitation. As she stood and swayed gently, Lacey's mind raced. This was it. She was beyond the point of no return. She wasn't completely engulfed, with her chest and thighs still free, and her hands able to wave impotently, catching nothing but air. The heat between her legs started to build unlike anything she'd ever known, fed rather than chastised by her fear. Functionally, she was now in a situation she could do nothing about. It had happened against her will, and that will was now lost in a freefall of arousal that set every nerve-ending tingling. Why had The Machine stopped? It had been nearly a minute, and nothing more had happened. Is that it? pondered the irrepressible little voice from deep within her, Am I now trapped, half-wrapped? More. MORE! Lacey's quickening breath was accelerated afresh by the feel of The Machine's cold metal hand parting the flesh at the top of her inner thighs.
The second thing that The Machine had learnt was that, in order to be stored, humans were apparently required to receive extreme sexual stimulation. For the female variant, the requirements were straightforward – continuous, strong vibration on some specific zones of the body. This was another element that was often involuntary and yet welcomed by the target, but such contradiction was no longer and obstacle, thanks to its earlier finding. With some basic knowledge of anatomy in tow, The Machine had gone through Lacey's home, procuring three suitable vibrational devices. The first had come from inside a smartphone. The second was a modified component of a vacuum cleaner, small but fit for purpose. The third? That had come from Lacey's bedroom, as The Machine had ransacked it earlier while she was taking refuge in the study. It was her vibrator, found in a drawer alongside a collection of her underwear. Neither The Machine nor Lacey knew how apt this would be. Each device needed to be adapted slightly, but it didn't take long; it had prepped the first two during the night, and the third was now ready.
With Lacey's inner thighs previously pressed together by tape and now parted by harsh metal fingers, this bracing sensation was followed by an even more shocking one – she felt something also metal and cold press itself up against her pussy, gently sliding along between its sodden lips, until it reached that special spot where the folds met. She gasped as something was rubbed and shoved against her clit, an exclamation that left through her nose as a whimper. The device was snuggled directly against her pleasure center, moulded to press exactly on it, tucking into the clitoral hood. With this held in place, two small pieces of tape were applied over it from her bellybutton to her butt, and her thighs released, the vicious gizmo now installed resolutely in its place. From this device came a small cable, which The Machine had taped to her stomach, leading up to two other metal widgets that were pressed against her nipples, and again held in place with a few stretches of duct tape. Lacey was urgently snatching her breaths; her clit was already throbbing, and her nipples swollen and engorged to full attention. These invasive additions only heightened her situation; she could feel an orgasm beginning to lap at her, frustratingly going nowhere, but not receding anytime soon.
Before she could process what was going on, The Machine set about wrapping her fully and attentively. Starting at her ankles, it shuttled around her at great speed, unimpeded by any protestation by a now-neutralised Lacey. Around and around it wound, pulling tighter and tighter, reaching her knees and adding layer upon layer direct to her skin, up to the middle of her thighs. Her hands were free but quickly apprehended, bound perfectly flat to the side of her body. The tape pressed on remorselessly, several layers thick, skin-tight and flawless, up to her chest, covering her breasts and flattening them, with only the telltale outline of the improvised nipple vibrators visible from her side-profile.
Lacey was moaning heavily throughout, inaudible above the scratch of the tape being dispensed, no longer able to grasp the extent of her imprisonment, now utterly a victim of the reluctant but ravenous hunger coursing through her, unable to earth itself. Shoulders, neck and now head – The Machine was careful with the cable from the devices, which dangled freely over her shoulder, leading to a plug that swung lazily just above her buttocks. No skin was visible. She could breathe, but the layers of wrapping were so thorough that her nostrils could only be viewed by someone looking up from her feet. The Machine raised itself to the rafters once more, attaching new tethers from Lacey's shoulders, and severing the old ones. It gradually wound these new moorings until she was lifted a few inches from the floor. She was unable to see, unable to hear, unable to speak, barely able to think, and capable of no movement apart from frantic wiggles of her toes. The Machine wrapped her feet, completing her encasement.
The Machine now had to implement its third new finding. When practising forms of bondage, humans would provide safeguards to counter the life-threatening risks of such indulgences. Often, these would be release mechanisms, but the most reliable form of insurance came from using other humans, complicit friends or otherwise, to act as the ultimate failsafe. Given this particular human's arguable wish to be captured by The Machine, it was probable that her expectations had led to her arrange for a friend to visit at some point, in order to release her. Since The Machine needed Lacey to remain stored and subdued until it received instruction as to what to do with her next, it would need to secrete her somewhere to minimize the chance of her being discovered prematurely.
And so began the final phase. The Machine grabbed one of the two tall, slim trash containers that Lacey kept in the garage, and emptied the bags from inside it. It wheeled it over to Lacey, where it came up to her shoulder when stood straight. It placed the trashcan down on the floor, with the lid open and flat on the ground, before moving it just under Lacey's suspended feet. It then slid the trashcan at an angle, up over her body, until her toes almost met the bottom of it. It sliced the tethers. Lacey dropped barely an inch, such was the precision of its actions, and The Machine used one arm to prop her body steadily at the centre of the trashcan.
It then dispensed a special mixture it had synthesised during the night, from various plastics it had found stored in cupboards and drawers throughout the lower floor of the house, including a sack of carrier bags Lacey had stashed under the sink. A form of expansion foam crafted for such purposes, it sprayed a small amount around Lacey's feet. Within seconds it bulged and firmed up to her shins, effectively locking her legs in place. More of the mixture was added, in thin layers, until it reached Lacey's midriff, setting her even tighter, rendering her lower half completely immobile. She had no idea what was going on, lost in her dark, silent delirium of enforced pleasure, she could smell something chemical, strange and unrecognisable. Her lower half felt as if it was buried in cement, a pressure that was moving upward to her chest, before ceasing at her shoulders. She could still breath, but if she attempted a deep intake of air, her whole body would spontaneously feel outrageous force pushing back at it, that wouldn't budge. She did her best to buck and writhe, but nothing happened; only her head could tilt slightly, its motion scuppered by the thick layers of duct tape coating her neck and jawline.
The Machine had draped the plug and cables to one side of the trashcan. It then cut a round hole in the lid – a burning whiff that was more familiar to Lacey, but still made zero sense – which was then lowered over her head, while feeding the cable through and taping the lid down across all of its sides. She felt herself being tilted back, and bumped as the dustbin was dragged and wheeled into the kitchen. Across to the living room, and then to the basement; she was tilted further back again, as The Machine lowered her down the wooden staircase. With each rhythmic bump, Lacey twigged what was happening. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I'm being taken to the basement . To be stored. Where no-one will find me. No way out. Oh shit. Such terror was quickly converted into deeper and deeper arousal, an eruption of horniness the likes of which she had never known, or even known she was capable of. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Around and around her mind went, each jolt of fear multiplying her desperation for release. But the only release that was crossing her fizzing mind was the need for climax, which pounded her with increasing violence, but never approached the orgasm she was seeking. In her fugue, she'd forgotten about the devices that were now pressed immutably to her nipples and pussy.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, The Machine kept wheeling the trashcan along. Down to the end of the basement, and around a corner: a small, almost concealed area that Lacey had been using as a makeshift laundry room. There was only space in the kitchen for her washing machine; down here was a drier, and a radiator next to a clothes horse, where she could sort and prep her clothes, whatever the weather. With the faint, familiar smell of detergent reaching her nostrils, Lacey's mind lurched when she realised where she was, but her dread was short-lived and given no time to take hold. The Machine rolled Lacey into place in the corner, between the drier and the wall. It plugged the cable into the socket in the wall, flicked the switch and left the room.
As soon as the switch was flicked, Lacey felt like she was hit by a bolt of lightning. All three vibrators roared into life, intense and unyielding. She shrieked at the top of her voice and jerked every single muscle; anyone in the laundry room would hear nothing but an aggravated series of high-pitched MMMPHs, and see nothing but her head rocking slightly. Anyone outside the room would hear or see nothing at all. The Machine locked the door, and took the key with it, leaving the basement, also locking that door behind it. It took both keys, wrapped them into a fist-sized ball of duct-tape, then threw it into the remaining trashcan in the garage. It then cleared up as much evidence of its presence as possible, taking half an hour to undo and obscure any damage or visible signs that an intruder had been present. It left the house, in order to complete its programming, not knowing when, if ever, it would return here.
Meanwhile, in the unseen, unheard and nigh-on unknown corner of a small room hidden behind two locked doors in a deserted, unshared house that was expecting no guests for the foreseeable future, Lacey shuddered in hellish ecstasy. Her mind melted and useless, her body dissolved and electrified, unable to bear the shockwaves of orgasmic frenzy that whipped through her, but having no choice but to endure them. As each one crashed and brought explosive relief, the next had already begun, fiercer and more exhausting than the last, with no end in sight.
Just as she had always wanted.