Cross Bracing Table Legs Novels & Stories

I sucked in a breath. "Keep your legs apart." He ordered in that low, commanding tone again. He gripped behind one knee and forced it open. I gasped. “Oceans...” Then, cool metal bracketed one ankle. It was a cuff. The inside was padded, but the lock still gave a hard, little sound when it shut. He did the same to the other side, then attached something between them. There was a small series of clicks. And when he let go, my legs stayed completely spread.

All had their own motors and were designed for easy one-man operation. I explained that I was starting her with the tension table. It acts like a medieval rack to stretch a body and limbs out while presenting a body for sex in the 'bent-over, from-behind' position. The device was actually desk-sized. Feet were secured to a base platform on the legs of the table, they fit into movable pieces that looked much like front of a shoe. These had wide leather straps that wrapped around the feet and lower leg then laced up, so really the bottom half of the calf was secure. The bent-over occupant rested on a padded bolster that motors could move up-down, in-out, or change the angle. The arms were stre

She swallowed it down like medicine and crossed the table before taking the opposite seat. The chair was reinforced to hold her giant stature better. Thick, reinforced legs. Broader back. Special joints that should hold her weight. Should. It was still small, however. And still creaked under her weight with a long, wooden groan that broke the silence like a reluctant sigh.

A dom and a sub are doing something complicated with wax that I try not to let myself stare at. Kir steers me directly to the stocks. They’re made of oak and look like the kind you see in pictures of public squares from three hundred years ago, except clean and oiled and built by someone who knew exactly what they were for. The crossbar is hinged. The wrist holes are padded. The neck hole is padded. There is a low step in front, so the sub can rest their weight on it and not be hanging from their own collarbone. I look at it.

I set up the table that I would use. The table was like that at a hospital to deliver babies. the bottom would fall away and the legs being strapped in would be able to be split apart. The fun part of this table was that with a flick of a button I could have her standing up or if she was laying down on her stomach I could have her bent over. I decided for this session, because I would want her back. I would start her on her back.

I suspected a person would lay face down on the padded piece giving access to their butt but certainly didn't appreciate the details. "Okay, I agree," I told him. With a smile, he took my wife by the elbow, and now resigned to her fate, she allowed him to direct her to the device. Like I guessed, he had her lay face down on the bench and then stand up as he made some height adjustment. When he finished, he put her back in place, and then from a nearby table he took some objects and I looked on as he connected her ankles and wrists to the crossbars. The simplicity and effectiveness of the design was evident as my wife's pretty ass now protruded before me on full display.

I heard the familiar, heavy clink of the leather straps near the table legs. Before I could even protest… not that I wanted to, he reconnected the ankle straps around my cuffs, tightly binding my legs wide apart, locking my thighs in a completely open, vulnerable position. Then, he grabbed my wrists, pulling them forward and securing them to the metal rings at the front of the table.

I could see where a person could be made to lay on it, face down or face up, and their legs would drape over the edge. I moved about, looking even deeper into the shadows towards the back of the room. A red velvet sofa was there, and then I spied some things I had never seen before but had read about. There was a large wooden cross shaped like an "X," with rings attached at different points and supported by other beams. I recognized this as a St. Andrew's cross, designed to have someone tied to it with their arms above their head and their legs spread and attached at the bottom of the cross.

The room revealed itself in intoxicating pulses of crimson, each new glow unveiling horrors and temptations I’d only read in dark romance novels. Walls gleamed with polished steel rails, instruments displayed like macabre art pieces—floggers with thick leather tails, some braided for sting, others studded with metal for bite. Paddles hung in neat rows, crafted from ebony wood, silicone, even padded leather. Cuffs dangled from overhead chains, heavy and unforgiving, designed to lock wrists, ankles, or even encircle a neck in unyielding restraint. A massive St. Andrew’s cross dominated one corner, its X-frame equipped with buckles that glinted menacingly.

The only upside is this wasn’t made of silver, just cold, hard steel. He began strapping my arms and legs in place. My body was still weak that despite my brain telling me to fight him, stop this, my legs and arms refused to move. Each of my legs and arms locked in place as I waited to see what he planned to do to me. There was no escape now. The table may not be made of silver, but the cuffs certainly were.