Hothouse

Stacy wouldn't have spent the money to add it, but when she bought her new home it was already in place. She wasn't that into gardening, but the previous owner had kept a very large flower garden on the spacious grounds and had a large, glass enclosure attached to the back of the house alongside the deck where she raised prize-winning violets.

It wasn't really glass. The clear, curved panels of its roof and the not-so-clear panels of its walls were actually some sort of heavy plastic. It faced south so the full force of the sun shone on it throughout the day. The description of the home on the realtor's website said it had an attached greenhouse, but as the realtor showed Stacy around the place, she constantly referred to it as a hothouse.

"Even if you don't want to use it for plant seedlings," the realtor had chirped. "It makes a very efficient solar collector and already has fans in place to circulate the warmth collected throughout the house in the cool days of fall and early spring." She flipped a large switch and added, "And in the summertime, just open the roof panels and all heat escapes through the roof as cool air is pulled in through the louvers at the bottom." She flipped the switch in the opposite direction and said smartly, "Perfect for the gardener or the environmentalist."

Stacy was neither a gardener nor an environmentalist, she was a free-lance writer who worked from home and wrote everything from advertising copy to romance novels. She even did some ghost writing for an x-rated publishing house. She was not one of those women who loved to get her hands in the dirt and make things grow, but she did love visiting nude beaches and lying in the sun naked. As the saleslady babbled on about how many awards the previous owner had won for her violets, Stacy was not seeing flowers. She was envisioning the large hot house filled with a thick carpet on which she could lie and bask in the sun as it streamed into the glass enclosure.

There were other visions of herself in her mind, but those were for after she knew whether or not she could buy the house. It was way above her price range, but something told her that the seller would take a much lower bid than the asking price. Hoping for the best, she worked out what she could afford on her royalties and anticipated new book sales and made a ridiculously low offer to see what the counter offer would be.

To Stacy's surprise, the counter offer was an acceptance of her bid. The realtor waited until signatures were in place on the closing documents to explain in her non-stop babbling style of talking, "I was starting to despair that I would ever find anyone who would appreciate that hothouse. Something like that sounds like a really good addition to the value of a home - and it is for the right person. But unless you have a really avid gardener or an extreme environmentalist, such a specialized add-on is a stumbling block to the sale. With the prices depressed and the glut on the market and the previous owner transferred to another state, all we could pray for was finding someone who was into the environment or gardening."

As she sorted out the copies for Stacy, she added, "She was actually hoping for a quite a bit more, but was afraid that if she made a counter offer, it would scare you away...," she stopped to take a breath and give Stacy a wide, toothy grin, "... so you got a really good deal. Since you said you weren't all that much into the environment, I assume you will be using it for gardening." She paused slightly again and finished with, "After all, what else could you use it for? "

Stacy kept her mouth tightly clamped shut so she didn't accidentally say out loud, "Naked self-bondage."

Stacy had plans for that greenhouse that had nothing to do with plants or the environment. She could see herself suspended in place of the trays of earth, with the spring-loaded chains going not from the bottom of the trays, but from ankle restraints on her legs to the floor mounts at the ends of where the trays were held. In her mind, the same was true for her hands so that she was held in mid-air, sweating heavily in the heat of the sun like a naked, glistening X.

Moving and settling into the house took several weeks, so it was late spring before Stacy began preparing the hothouse. The previous owner had not skimped on the design. It was as good, or better, than many commercial greenhouses that Stacy had seen. It was about twenty feet wide and forty feet long with two long rows of seedling tables down the middle. What was unusual about these tables is that they were not wooden or metal structures rising from the floor. Instead, they hung from the ceiling on stout cables. Beneath the trays, chains and long springs connected the trays to floor and prevented them from swaying around. The upper cables wound around long shafts which could be turned by electric motors. Thus, the trays could be raised to a comfortable height for work or lowered completely to ground level so that soil could be easily added for the next crop of seedlings. The row closest to the house was shorter than the other. In that row, one of the boxes had been removed. The cables for that box were wound tightly within the spool on the control shaft and held in place with a large pin. A large number of those pins - evidently one for each cable - were hanging on the exterior wall of the house next to a control panel for the hothouse.

The control panel consisted of a large electrical box with conduit branching off to several smaller boxes. Above the control panel was a box about a foot square with a lever on the side. Out of each of the smaller boxes additional conduit led to large electric heaters mounted along the walls of the hothouse and to additional heaters which hung from the ceiling above the rows of seedling boxes. Conduit also led to outdoor style electrical plugs mounted about a foot off the floor around the entire greenhouse. On the house wall next to the power panel, there was a large, open panel with a row of buttons labeled "Up" and "Down." There was also a hand-held remote sitting on a shelf at the base of the button panel. It evidently also controlled the raising and lowering of the cables. That task could apparently also be controlled remotely by a computer or cell phone, at least that is what it said on the installation disk instructions that were on the shelf with the remote..

On the front of the main control panel was a stylized flower of some sort and, in a very large font that looked like growing vines, the words "Thompson's Automated Fail-safe Greenhouse System." Beneath that in smaller, normal, print, it said, "This system protects against the extremes of temperature 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Full power backup is included and all systems are fully redundant with cell phone and internet interface." Finally, in a smaller version of the vine font, it said, "You can trust your precious flowers to Thompson's" There was a thick operating manual also sitting on the shelf with the installation disk and other small parts and pieces that had the Thompson logo on them.

Stacy spent two weekends working in the hothouse removing the soil and the trays. That first Saturday, she worked nude inside the steaming structure, and then would slip on a light sundress at the door as she wheeled the garden wheel barrow out to the back of the property. She probably could have remained naked since the back yard was large and completely enclosed with a tall wooden fence, but she was afraid someone might be able see down into the yard across the back fence from the deck or upper floors of the house behind her.

No one was watching. If someone had been watching, the dress would have made little difference. Stacy was perspiring so heavily that even on the first trip with the wheelbarrow the dress was wet with sweat and stuck tightly to her body. As the day wore on, the mixture of sweat and dust which clung to her body created swirled patterns of light and dark making it look like she was wearing camo body paint beneath the now practically transparent garment. As the day began to fade into darkness, Stacy made the final two trips of the day without bothering to put on her dress. The next morning, when she resumed her labors, she didn't bother with the dress at all.

Finally the heavy trays were empty and stacked neatly behind the garage. The hothouse was now just a large glass room with cables hanging from the ceiling and large eyebolts protruding slightly from recessed cavities in the floor. Stacy thought of removing all but one pair of the cables, but then realized that if she merely wound them totally around the control shaft, she could pin them in place.

The hothouse was cleaned out. Everything was almost ready. But the floor was still bare concrete. She went to a pool supply place a couple of towns over and asked if they worked in her neighborhood. They said, "Usually not," but indicated that they were willing to work on her pool or whatever for a slight trip charge.

"Oh, no," she answered, "It's not that. What I want is that special pool area carpet you sell. A friend of mine recommended you. She said the carpet was very long and soft like an indoor carpet, but could get wet and would stand the sun like a good pool side carpet."

"How big is your pool?" the salesman asked.

"Actually," she replied, "it's a greenhouse that I want to be able to use as an indoor patio." She went on to say that she wanted to have parties out there and wanted it to look nice. "I'm reducing the hanging stuff to a minimum," she explained, hoping that the salesman didn't notice that she suddenly turned a deep shade of red.

The carpeting was installed the following Monday. Stacy wanted to be sure that nothing could go wrong, so Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday evenings were spent testing. She was tempted to do the testing during the day, but she had not made a successful living as a writer by breaking her routine. She worked from home, but she worked very regular hours. Unless she gave herself a day off, she would be in her office room, at her desk writing or editing, from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon. Of course, sometimes she would need to compose her thoughts or clear her mind and would take a few hours off.

At her old house, when that happened - if the weather was good - she would put on her bikini and lie out on the back deck in the sun. Now she didn't have to put on her bikini. For a half hour Tuesday afternoon and for almost two hours Thursday morning, she lay naked in the sunny hothouse sweating while she sorted out the ideas of her lasted project.

At her old house, after she lay out on the deck and cleared her mind, she would often leave the bikini on and return to her writing while things were still fresh in her mind. Thursday morning, she returned to her writing naked, taking her towel with her into her office to drape over her chair. That afternoon, she found that her mind seemed freer and more liberated as she wrote, and decided to make her office, as well as her whole home, clothing optional.

The weekend was spent getting to know the system, and doing additional testing. The Thompson control system manuals said it was fail-safe, but Stacy wanted to be totally sure. There was a "Test" button inside the circuit breaker panel. The manual said to test the panel at least four times a year. When Stacy pushed and held the test button all of the circuit breakers in the panel flipped off as though they had tripped. Red lights next to each breaker blinked in sequence while a small display screen at the top of the panel said, "Testing load." Then one by one, the breakers flipped back to the on position. A voice from a small speaker said, "Power restored."

A separate test button on a small switch panel said, "Alternate Power Test." When Stacy pushed that, a large box mounted on the wall began humming and a beeping noise filled the hot house. The little voice said, "On battery backup." The manual said to wait ten minutes before pushing the button again to complete the test. After five minutes, Stacy could hear a noise from the back yard. About half-way back in the yard was a very small shed that looked almost like a dog house, except that it had no door, only louvers on the sides. There was a fairly large propane tank next to the little structure. Stacy identified the noise as coming from the shed. It was the sound of a small motor. The humming stopped and a little voice from the control panel said, "Backup generator on line."

Stacy also lowered the upper cables all of the way and connected them to the spring-loaded lower cables. When she raised them again, the cables stopped once there was sufficient tension on the spring. At least it wouldn't rip her arms off if it didn't stop where it was supposed to. She pressed the test buttons again with tension on the cables. After the circuit breakers restored, the little voice said, "Moving to safe position" and the cables unwound to floor level. When she repeated the test with the power backup, the cables remained in place until she pressed the "Generator Off" button. Then the buzzing returned to the box on the wall and the cables lowered. Evidently as long as the generator worked, everything ran normally, but if it went to battery backup, the system moved everything to the "safe position."

"This really is fail-safe," she said aloud, but she still did another week of testing. Finally on Thursday night, after having repeated every test at least three times, she said, "Tomorrow night I try a live test and Saturday go for real."

Friday night, Stacy attached her suspension restraints to the upper and lower cables. The foot restraints were almost boots except that they opened totally in the front and were wrapped firmly in place with a Velcro band that went over the top of her foot and another which went all the way around the ankle and lower calf. On the bottom of the boot was a round metal bar, almost like a horses bit, through which a cable or other connection could be run.

Stacy attached one boot restraint to each of the spring stabilizers that had been at opposite ends of the eight foot trays. She then attached the special suspension hand restraints to the matching upper cables. The hand restraints were almost glove-like, or more accurately, mitten-like. They covered most of the forearm and had an area for the hand that curved around a padded iron bar so that a person could carry most of their weight on the closed hand rather than on the arm itself. Like the boots, they were totally open on the front and closed securely with large Velcro flaps. For the "live test," Stacy did not close the flaps, but left them open so that she could, if necessary, withdraw her hand from the restraint glove.

It was 7:45 when she finished her other tests, so she set the controls to raise the cables at exactly 8:00 pm and release them at 8:10. It took less time that she had expected to secure her feet in the restraint boots and to put her hands in the restraint gloves, so she ended up standing there waiting for almost ten minutes. Finally, she heard the winch motors turning and the cable began to slowly wind up around the long support bar. Soon her arms were being stretched widely apart and then her feet began to leave the ground.

She had to estimate how high to take the cables because she didn't know for sure how tightly it would stretch her at any given height. She had expected to either be hanging slightly limp in the cables or have to let go of the gloves and drop to the ground when the cables got over tight, but her estimate was perfect. She was raised into the air in a taut, naked X with her feet about four feet off the ground. When she realized it was exactly what she wanted, a wave of pleasure washed through her and she felt her cunt overflowing onto her thighs. "Tomorrow, I go for one hour in the sun," she said aloud as the motors reversed and gently lowered her to the ground.

She spent the rest of the evening investigating more of the menus and controls on the remote control program which she has installed on her tablet computer. The purpose of one control totally baffled her. It said, "Opcty" and then had two input blocks. One said "Upper" and it was set to 00%. The other said "Lower" and it was set to 50%. She changed the lower number to 00% and pressed enter. Suddenly she was standing outside - or at least, the frosted portion of the green house had suddenly become clear. She changed both to 80% and it was as if the clear plastic had become solid walls. "I think I will leave that one alone for now," she said aloud, and clicked the "Restore Defaults" button. Once again the plastic panes of the greenhouse became frosted in appearance on the lower portion and totally clear on the ceiling.

Saturday morning, Stacy rubbed herself down with sunblock and strapped herself into the restraint boots and gloves. This time it was for real. She folded the Velcro flaps over her arms and pushed them securely in place. Once the cables went taut, there was no way she could release herself until they lowered her back to the ground. She had set the controls to rise at 10:00 am and lower at 11:00.

Again, she stood waiting for the winch motors to kick in. As she waited, she thought, "This would probably be better with a blindfold." There wasn't time, however, to do anything about that this time. Exactly on time, the motors began turning. As the cables pulled her into the air, she could just barely see out of the top of the hothouse windows. "My neighbor across the way can probably see my head if they look out their back windows," she thought to herself as she hung there.

For Stacy, the feeling of naked helplessness was amazing. Her nipples were stiff and erect. Her clit stuck out prominently from her cleft. Juices dribbled slowly down her legs. She found herself slowly rotating her hips and bucking slightly forward as if she were fucking an imaginary lover in mid-air. "I really have to figure out a way for some appropriate stimulation," she thought to herself. "I wonder if my vibrator would stay in me up here?" she asked aloud. "I would hate to have to wear something like a thong just to hold it in place."

11:00 o'clock came all too soon. The cables lowered her to the ground and went totally slack. She opened the flaps on the restraint gloves and freed her hands, but didn't bother to free her feet. Instead, she lay back on the thick carpet with her feet still in the boots and began rubbing herself between the legs. Her cunt was sopping wet and her clit was extremely sensitive. It only took a few moments to bring herself to a very satisfying, screaming climax. "I wonder what the neighbors thought of that?" she wondered as she finally freed her feet from the restraint boots.

That afternoon around three, Stacy was ready once again to suspend herself naked in the hothouse. She had spent the time modifying one of the tray attachments to hold her favorite vibrator. One of the trays had a special watering device of some sort that was intended to drip a growth solution onto the soil. It was basically a tripod with a long counterweighted arm. The nozzle end set against the side of the tray and as the tray went up and down, it rose and fell with the tray.

Stacy added more weight to the counterweight so that the long arm pushed itself upward rather forcefully. Then she taped the base of her vibrator to the nozzle head, only pointing upward. Standing on the ground, it pressed tightly into her cunt. Without her weight holding it down, it would rise almost eight feet into the air, more than enough to keep the dildo vibrating firmly in her cunt as she was suspended.

3:00 came and the motors took Stacy up. This time she was wearing a blindfold, and her vibrator was on low and buzzing inside her. The cycle was set for two hours. Stacy came four times in those 120 minutes. Each screaming orgasm was a little more intense that the one that preceded it. By the time the controls returned her to the ground, she was a sweating, sopping mess.