**Note: This story is part of a series with a consistent setting and cast of characters. However, each story is meant to stand alone, and they will not necessarily be published in chronological order. Please enjoy the ones that spark your interest and feel free to ignore the rest!**
--------- Intro ---------
Some people pity me for being a farm girl. They say that when you live five miles from the nearest hangout, it's so much harder to socialize and meet people.. and meet boys *wink*.
I think being a farm girl comes with benefits. Actually LOTS of benefits - benefits that those town girls don't understand. For example, I have plenty of privacy, I can do whatever I want, my parents don't blink an eye when I leave the house ... the list goes on.
I feel like any young woman would be interested in those perks, but for me specifically there is more. I enjoy "DIY", or in other words making or building my own solutions to problems. Living on a farm means I have access to loads of tools and machines that let me make just about anything I want to, with a little trial and error and help from the internet. Plus we have plenty of spare materials - wood, leather, metal, and more!
And maybe it takes a Very special kind of person, but the combination of all that is especially perfect for me because it has all the ingredients of the perfect self-bondage scenarios. After all, why do I need to meet boys when I can satisfy myself just as well - actually even better - on my own?
That's why when my classmates were choosing colleges and making plans to move around the country, I instead made plans to work full time on our family farm, maybe someday to inherit it when my parents are ready to retire. You might find this to be a boring and monotonous life, but trust me: I keep myself busy and entertained with wild new ideas.
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I finally got it figured out. The last piece of my newest "invention", as it were. Now I can finally do the deep-throat scenario that has been exciting me for weeks!
Honestly, if I had given up on my water wheel plans, I probably could have gotten everything rigged up sooner, and with less trouble. But I thought it was a cool idea to use the power of flowing water to make the whole ordeal work, so even when that became more challenging than I expected, I was still determined to finish the idea like that.
Yesterday afternoon I finished building and testing the contraption, after the final stroke of genius hit me that morning during my daily chores. Good timing, too, because today is Sunday! Most Sundays my whole family takes a trip to town to do all of the shopping for the week - groceries, toiletries, new clothes, whatever. Most of the time I go with them - often secretly purchasing a component or two for my scenarios - but it isn't so unusual for me or my brother to stay home while the others shop. It's not the Most ideal opportunity for executing a scenario, since it is pretty unpredictable how long the trip will last, but I'm confident that I'll have enough time for this scenario today.
The Ford finally starts moving down the dirt drive after a chorus of "are you sure you don't need anything" and similar questions I thought would never end. I feel like a burglar - an inverse burglar? - as I peer through the window. My hand impatiently drifts into my pants as I carefully eye the progress of the billowing cloud of dust trailing away from the farm. I want them to believe that I am casually chilling in my room or on the couch. Who knows what they would suspect if they saw me immediately head to the outbuildings with a conspicuous bag as soon as they left the property.
Once the truck disappears over the third hill to the West I scramble out the door, impatient to set my plan into motion. Across the yard in a flash, I drop my bag near the door to the shed and take a brief detour around the side, lifting the handle of the spigot there. The attached hose becomes rigid as water traces the sinuous path from the spigot to the small crack through the siding panels and into the shed.
I enter the dusty building, bringing my bag to the other side of the wall breached by the hose. I can hear water sloshing into the large trough that I had relocated to the loft up above as I pull away the old towels and rags covering my contraption down below.
I fiddle with a few things while waiting for the trough to fill, making sure everything is in place. I pull a dildo from my bag - a straight translucent pink shaft about seven inches long and medium girth. I eye it greedily and can't help but give it a long, sloppy lick before sliding the flared base into a slot rigged to a post. The pink cock points proudly out from the post at belly button height, just beneath a conspicuous red button. I quickly test a few other things - spinning a wheel and pulling on a slider to ensure they aren't stuck in place, running my hand through a container of marbles mostly just to be sure that they are still there, and so on.
The trough needs more time to fill, and it is hard to stand there waiting without giving in to certain worldly urges pulsing from my groin. I deserve a medal for the self-restraint I show by allowing myself only to clench my legs together tightly in a slow pulse as I bide time. Finally, I sense that the trough is likely almost full of water - sure enough, the excess starts to spill over the low corner. I rush out and turn the spigot off, and run back in just as quickly, eager to get the show on the road.
Without further ado, I strip down to my panties, tossing my other clothes unceremoniously over the back of a nearby chair that's missing a few rungs. I shiver a bit and can feel my nipples growing hard right away, both from the chill in the shed and in anticipation, and I have to resist the urge to touch my breasts in response. I have learned from past botched scenarios that it's dangerous to start playing before the setup is complete.
First things first, I pull the chain of my cuckoo clock, a tried-and-true release mechanism I use for most of my scenarios, usually as a failsafe or backup. The clock is attached higher up on the pole on the opposite side of the dildo, and I carefully watch the chain emerge from the clock until the 1-hour line is just visible below the aged wood. My eyes trace the chain down to where a key hangs below the clock's weight.
I kneel down into two grooves of a simple wooden construction I had cobbled together - really just a few thin lengths of wood attached to a flat base. My knees nestle into a rudimentary padding of towels in the grooves, and I reach back to pull the Velcro straps tight over my calves, two for each leg.
