Monday, July 21, 2014

Afterdark Online
Every author knows that you can't please everyone all of the time.  Which means that we recognize that maybe you might need more than just Breanne and I can provide.  I know what it's like cursing an author under your breath while waiting for that next book.  So where can you go to satisfy that itch?  Well there is one great place you should check out: Afterdark Online.  It's a smorgasmborg (yes, that's a word. Breanne made it up) of awesome erotica to fit just about every taste.  From light to dark to vanilla to chocolate, it's all there, with incredible author interviews, constant freebies, and plenty of naughty little secrets to keep you either wet, or hard, depending on your own personal physique.  So if you've perused everything Michael Alexander Stories has to offer for right now, go visit our great friends at Afterdark Online and see what else might be lurking underneath that bed sheet!

Sunday, July 20, 2014

The Vibrator That Roared - Part Two

You should read Part One.  It will make more sense, but I guess technically, this time, it isn't really necessary. - Bre

The lights above her are bright, leaving spots in her vision as she sits on a box, part of a collection of containers that rests on a pallet.  She is in a stockroom and she leans back on her elbows, mouth open. She is no longer cumming, but she’s close to another orgasm. She can feel it, the pressing urgency of need, the epicenter of desperation. Not that it matters.  The vibrator is pulled from her wet slit by a man’s fingers, her shorts and panties having been tossed aside along with her shirt. Her legs are spread wide apart and her sex is sopping wet, the petals swollen and bright red, as if they’d been struck, beaten into a fleshy, hot pulp that only barely resembled pussy.  The man holds her belt, the last few inches in his hand as he tosses the vibrator aside.

He is focused even as her hips thrust up and the scent of her arousal permeates the air like thick syrup.  Her chest heaves as well, the bright red marks he has just left upon her breasts combining with the previous welts and bruises. He knows she is well-used and craves it.  Still, it is somewhat disturbing to see the damage that has been done to her flesh.  He wants her though, and knows that he must punish her first, for cumming.  He swings the end of the belt, silver rivets flashing, against her clit and folds, mashing the soft, soaked lips into red hot heat.  Her knees buckle and she almost closes her legs as her head is thrown back and she cries out.  Pain explodes up through her cunt, lightning flashes of agony that fly up to her breasts and then her brain.  She clenches tight, the pain flooding through her.  It is more than she can stand and her body begins to fold in on itself.

But there are others there, and they step in to help the man, holding her legs open with strong hands.  She bucks, but a second stroke of her own belt, smashing down upon her open sex, the wet leather cracking against her flesh ominously, the petals bright red, forces her to fight those holding her. She loses and a third stroke of her own belt lands in the hot wetness of her desperation.  Tight fingers encircle her ankles and wrists and more hands touch her, fingers exploring her bare breasts.  There is a piercing, a simple gold hoop, no bigger than a nickel, going through her right nipple.  Attached to the gold hoop is a padlock, too delicate and small to be anything other than symbolic, a black enameled rose emblazoned upon its side.  One set of fingers take the padlock and twists, sending a searing burn down through her breasts, which only combines with the heat of the leather belt.   Small circles appear along the folds of her sex, matching the ones on her breasts and bottom, the open rivets of her belt leaving an intriguing pattern of torment etched into her skin.

More strokes land, three, then four, then five, and he tosses away her belt, letting one of the other men catch it midair as he yanks down his trousers, fumbling with a condom, and grabs her hips.  He knows only her name as he pushes his own trembling shaft into her abused sex, feeling the residual heat as she clamps down upon him, crying out.  He is not gentle with her, pounding away with little concern for her well-being, or even her needs.  He understands her.  He knows her without even being able to tell someone her name. She is a slut, perfect for only one thing - satisfying him.  Her body is nothing more than a toy to be played with, broken and shaken and forced to amuse him.  And as he pummels away, one of the other men lifts the belt and brings it slashing down upon her upturned breasts.

She throws her head back with a cry as the belt leaves two red lines, only a few inches apart, straight across her already well-marked bosom.  More small circles appear and her swollen nipples rise toward the sky as she sucks in a hard breath.  He pumps wildly, the image of her getting whipped, her breasts sore and red and swollen, so arousing that it almost hurts.  He groans, his face contorted as he lets loose, his throbbing member spurting cream into the condom’s reservoir, filling it completely, her intoxicating flesh sucking every last drop from his depths.

He pulls free and the man with the belt takes his place, putting a fresh condom on before dipping his wick into the girl’s used well.  She lies there, almost catatonic as she is fucked, pulled apart and used without mercy, without care.  And the most horrible thing is that it makes the sexual pressure inside her build to almost nuclear proportions.  Every touch is light lightning, every thrust a pulverizing motion that leaves her only one direction to go.  Her body doesn’t even belong to her.  She is merely along for the ride others wish to take, using her, pressing her, fucking her.  A hand grabs her hair, twisting her face and then cock is pushed between her lips.  She sucks, craving the taste and feel of it, knowing that she is doing what she was meant to be doing.  And inside her there is a little girl crying piteously, aghast and repelled by what the other half of her wants and needs.

It finally ends.  The orgasms, the non-stop fucking. The men are all sated.  She is dripping in cum. It coats her breasts and loins, even down to her toes where one of them men made sure to cum on her feet.  They let her go, allowing her to sit up and she is handed her shirt.  She puts it on, exhausted, trying to think beyond the mixture of sexual juices running through her veins.  Cum spots the material, the scent of spunk thick.  She doesn’t care. She can’t.  It is all too much.  She hurts everywhere, but mostly between her legs, where the worst of the whipping fell.

One of the men helps her to put her feet into the shorts.  Her panties are gone.  She slides from the box and almost falls and they hold her up, hands tugging her shorts into place, the rough denim against her mangled petals.  She whimpers uncontrollably, clutching to his arm as tears spring to her eyes.  They put her flip flops on her feet, the cum squishing wetly between her toes.  The front of her shorts are still open and as she straightens, he steps back up to her.  He is holding the vibrator.

“Uh, are you still sure about this?  I know you said ‘no matter what’ and ‘in any condition’, but frankly I’m not sure you knew this would be how it ended.”

She stares at him and he shifts uncomfortably.  Does she understand?  Finally he shrugs. He kneels down and begins working at her shorts.

“Dude, what are you doing?” one of the other men ask. “She can’t handle that!”

He looks up.  “She said that no matter what, she has to leave here with the vibrator buried in her cunt, on full power.”  He presses the tip against her flesh and she lets out a sharp cry as it goes in.  He pushes it deep, and then twists the base.  Her arms jerk but they are holding her.  He seals up her panties and then begins threading the very belt they used upon her bottom, her breasts, and her sex through the loops.  She trembles violently.  When he is done he gives her a soft pat on the bottom.  From the way she jerks, he knows it must hurt.

“I put fresh batteries in there, just for you,” he whispers, pushing her toward the double doors.  She stumbles forward, arm outstretched to catch herself, but she ends up against the door, falling through.  Suddenly she is there, in public, people staring at her.  She knows what she looks like.  She can feel it.  The steady thrum of the motor, revolving at speed, shaking the shaft of plastic, translating the concussions of vibration through her loins and into her heart.  She can feel her sex contracting around the vibrator, the sound of it in her ears and in her mind.  She takes a step, slipping in her shoe, the viscous glob of cum make her toes slip.  She shambles forward, her every part hurting.  People are staring, some with wide eyes and one woman forces her child to look elsewhere.  

She leaves, knowing there is no hope for her to get her groceries.  She’ll have to clean up, to stop, to try another time.  And despite the orgasms, despite the crash of her belt against her soft flesh, she knows she is still in trouble, still subject to the whims and forces that hold her in such contempt.  There is no surcease from it, no peace and before she even makes it to the parking lot she knows that she’ll be in more trouble soon enough. It’s too strong, too salient, too powerful, and she’ll have to accept the punishment again. All because of the vibrator that roared.

 Breanne Erickson is the author of the wildly popular "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut" Series!  Check out all her books at Michael Alexander Stories!

The Vibrator That Roared - Part One

The Vibrator That Roared


Let’s set the scene. It’s just after lunch, right around twelve-fifteen or so, and she’s standing in the middle of the produce section at the grocery store.  The girl is dressed in flip flops, her bare feet cute and tiny, the toenails lightly painted in a delightful pink.  She’s sporting a faded red tee shirt bearing a cougar logo, no doubt her alma mater.  Just a bit of bare midriff is showing and it’s clear she’s got something of a farmer’s tan, her legs and arms dark brown with a smattering of freckles, while her belly is creamy white.  A careful look would also reveal she isn’t wearing a bra, the material of the shirt tight against her full breasts.  There’s a curious outline in the material, at her right nipple.  Is it a piercing?  And is something actually hanging from it? She’s wearing a thick leather belt with silver rivets wrapped around her waist, holding up a pair of blue denim shorts that look like they’ve practically been painted on.  The material is so tight that on most women you’d be able to see the actual shape of her sex beneath the cloth, yet with her, there is something strange.  An odd circle has formed in the crotch of her shorts, as if something cylindrical is occupying the same space she is and the material has darkened slightly.  The geometry is intriguing and makes you want a better look. Her age is somewhat indeterminate, though she looks like she can’t be much older than twenty.

She’s staring at her phone, her face stricken, though it’s not with a look of fear, or anger, or even excitement. It’s a mixture of those things. It’s trepidation.  Something is bothering her.  A small grocery basket hangs from her arm, a few miscellaneous and now forgotten fruit at the bottom. She looks around, eyes darting back and forth, as if she’s worried she is being observed.  Does anyone notice her distress?  She puts down the basket and walks away, leaving her fruit behind. Slowly and just a bit cautiously she heads toward the back of the store, her destination the semi-privacy of the restrooms.  She enters the women’s facilities and moves to one of the stalls, grateful she is alone.  No one else is in the bathroom and she closes the stall door with a sigh of relief. It is clear that part of her terror is the possibility she will be discovered, her secret revealed publicly.  She has no need to use the facilities and the moment the door is shut she unbuckles her belt and opens the front of her shorts.  There is a noise, a low mechanical hum.  It sounds… wet… which is the only way it can be described, as if whatever is making the noise has been half-buried in mud.  And that noise? It’s coming from between her legs.

Some might be surprised that she’s wearing panties, but it’s a matter of comfort for her.  What isn’t a surprise is that the thin, light blue cotton is wet, practically soaked, which explains the darkness of the denim of her shorts.  She reaches down between her legs, feeling the thick end of the vibrator, a six inch long sex toy, embedded in her slit.  Trembling slightly, already aroused and tender, she clearly doesn’t want to do whatever it is she’s been ordered to do.  Disobedience crosses her mind for just a moment.  Would he know?  But it is against her nature to refuse and besides, there is a rule that she has agreed to follow; that she be constantly ready, willing, and obedient to orders of this nature.  She knows it does not violate her pre-established limits, and so she twists the base of the vibrator, changing the soft purr into a full throated roar.  Her sex clenches tightly around the phallic toy, the shaking violence of its movement translating from motor to plastic and from plastic to flesh.  It sinks into her and due to it’s nature and location makes her gasp, her fingers tightening into fists.  She is unused to the setting, the higher level more difficult to tolerate.  And she is already on edge.

She’s trying not to cum as she buttons up her shorts, her fingers trembling from the waves of demanding pleasure.  It screams at her to break, to given in, but she knows that she cannot, should not.  She’s already been spanked, the stinging swats of a bare hand against her buttocks leaving her sore and tender and she knows she can’t take anymore. She secures the belt back across her waist, but it’s difficult.  She’s used to vibrators, but she’s been trying to keep from cumming for hours and having to endure the toy at its highest levels is more than she can be expected to handle. Part of her knows this, that no matter what she does the expectation is that she will cum.  It’s a setup. She knows it.  But still, she tries. She doesn’t know why. Perhaps it is her rebellious spirit that makes her fight it, to try to win regardless of what her master wants.  And inside there is a part of her screaming, horrified at what she has become: a sex object, with no value except for the entertainment of others, her body a pliant plaything for sexual gratification.  But there is also another part, a section of her psyche that loves it, and craves what the humiliation, the pain, the incessant pushing does to her.  It’s like a drug and she, the addict.

Now she can hear the vibrator, even through her shorts and panties and the vibrations reach her hips, a tingling that is so deep and so powerful that the epicenter of the earthquake begins a chain reaction she is powerless to hold back.  She stops in front of the counter full of sinks, standing there in the bathroom, her haunted eyes locked on her own image reflected in the mirror.  Long red hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, some dark eyeliner and just a touch of eye shadow give her a slightly exotic look. Her cheeks are rounded, making her adorably cute rather than pretty, and she has laugh lines - a girl that cries and grins often.  Yet it is the gentle movement of her waist, the steady and involuntary thrusting of her loins that draws the eye.  

She wonders if she can even manage to finish her grocery shopping.  How much time does she have before her assaulted nerves give in, exploding with sexual force, releasing the mixture of hormonal nirvana into her bloodstream and leaving her wet and wrung-out? Can she manage to get what she needs, stand in line, and make it back to her truck before she pops like a fire-cracker, albeit a very wet and aroused one?  Or is what she needs truly the sexual epiphany or climax, the muscle tightening explosion that might, or might not, relieve the pressure waves building up between her legs. She swallows hard and closes her eyes, breathing deeply as if that might help her deal with the incessant buzz.  It does not.

She looks toward the door, but then she as her answer, the philosophy of her existence flashing before her eyes like fireworks.  Before she can take a single step her body tightens again and the involuntary thrusting becomes more violent, more insistent.  She gasps, hands going down to her loins, pressing against her flesh, not that it helps. She folds as the vibrator buried inside her roars. It is too strong, too powerful, too pressing.  She feels the wetness between her legs, the explosion of fluids soaking her panties, the shorts, even her thighs.  She is no longer thinking of grocery shopping as she falls backward, leaning against the wall, eyes closed, mouth open, cumming.  And when it stops there are tears in her eyes.  She has failed him, cumming without permission, knowing the cost.  And the cost scares her.  She doesn’t even have what she needs for the coming punishment.  Her eyes stare at the redhead, nympho humiliation pain slut in the mirror and they lock on the answer, the thick leather, the silver rivets, all while the vibrator sends it’s prurient manipulation through her loins, sending her right back into orbit a second time.  She can’t help it.  It’s too strong.

And she cums again.