Monday, March 29 2010
Today’s Assignment: (Assigned by Mistress Ellen) Your current stripping spot is too secluded. You will now be stripping in the Gazebo at Thomas Park. Before going, print up ten fliers stating the fact that you will be stripping naked at the Gazebo at “specify time” (around a half hour after you arrive. Plan accordingly). You will then proceed to Thomas Park and the gazebo. Bring your duster and a vibrator. You will hand out all ten fliers to various people walking or jogging by. At the appointed time you will enter the gazebo and strip naked. If you have eight or more people in the audience, take a vote asking them if they want to see you masturbate. If they vote yes, then masturbate with the vibrator until you orgasm. If they vote no, put on your duster and return to your vehicle.
Fridays’s Results: (Assigned by Master Brandon) Today you will proceed to your stripping spot and remove your clothing. You will then put on a mini skirt and a halter top. No panties. You will bring your cylindrical hair brush. If you no longer have that brush you will go and buy one. You will then proceed to the mall and go to the food court. Once there, you will find an out of the way corner, table, or booth, and insert the bristle end of the brush into your pussy. You may masturbate if you desire. You must then walk the entire circumference of the mall and then out to your vehicle before you can remove the brush.
Well well, another day of torment provided by our friendly neighborhood Master Brandon. Almost ranking up there with Butt Plug Hell Day (which Master Brandon politely informed me would soon be repeated with some various environmental changes) we now get to deal with Hairbrush in the Pussy Day. Okay, I’ll be honest. I love it. I really do. It’s cruel, it’s humiliating, especially since in all probability the handle will stick out lower than the hem of my skirt, and it will stimulate me sexually to the point of explosion. Which is what I want. So as cruel as this assignment is, I’m not too upset about it.
Okay. I’m actually excited by it.
This one was definitely a morning assignment, right before lunch, because doing something like this on a Friday afternoon or evening is like stripping at a truck stop. Everyone notices and the place is filled with undesirable elements. So right after ten am I made my excuses and packed up what I would need. It was too warm for my duster so I headed out in just my boots, white tube socks, blue jeans, white cotton bikini panties, tee shirt, and bra.
I guess I should take a moment to explain something. I was taught a long time ago that there is a particular way nympho humiliation pain sluts are supposed to describe what they are wearing. First we start at our feet and you go up, outer, then inner. This gives your master or mistress (who may not be present) a visual map of what you are dressed in. It’s also good manners to provide details like color and cut. I don’t ALWAYS do it, but I try, and if I’m private messaging with an online Master or Mistress and they ask what I’m wearing I ALWAYS try to do it properly. My regular attire for a normal day is like what you saw above. After I did my stripping routine at the front of my truck, my attire description goes like this: I’m wearing black strap four inch high heels, a black miniskirt, and a red halter top. Since I didn’t mention panties or bra, it can be assumed I am not wearing them, which I wasn’t. So there you have it: the appropriate way to describe your attire.
So while definitely unprepared for a game of strip poker, I was totally ready for a trip to the mall. My purse was slung over my shoulder and my hairbrush was tucked inside with just the handle sticking out at an angle.
I’m getting used to doing things at this mall. It wouldn’t surprise me if certain store clerks recognized me. I’m up here so often wearing provocative clothing that I’m sure I’m building up a reputation. Besides, the last time I was here I cut off all my clothing and left it in various dressing rooms around the place.
But today I parked near the Rainforest Café and made my way to the Food Court. Oddly enough, this food court is actually a center crossover at the mall and is huge. There are no “booths”. There are no private “corners”. There are only tables and the best you can do is pick a table that is as far away from the other diners as possible, choose a seat that will be least likely to allow you to be seen, and do it.
I sat down at the table, my stress level shooting through the roof. I pulled out my brush and set it on the table, heart thumping, and I spent a few minutes thinking about what I was about to do. One thing was sure: it would be easy to push it in, since I was practically gushing. I had worn my super short skirt so I doubted I was leaving a wet spot on the cloth, though I admit the wooden seat of the chair was in questionable danger. Finally I summoned up the necessary courage to do it and grabbed hold of my brush. I ran it through the hair on my head a few times and then, with what I hoped was a nonchalant movement, put it in my lap.
No one seemed to notice or care, which was the way I wanted it. Besides, a girl brushing her hair is rather a non-event, isn’t it? But what about a girl pushing said hair brush up inside her? I knew that the next part was the clincher. Slowly, I pulled the hem of my skirt up until the majority of my thighs were visible to me between the table and my stomach. Then I spread my legs as far as the skirt allowed me, which was quite far since my skirt was a very elastic material that hugged and wrapped around my butt and legs. I’m sure I looked very unlady like, except for the very ladylike parts now surely visible from the right angle.
I took hold of the hair brush and turned it inward so that the top was at my pussy. I couldn’t help wiggling it a few times, letting the prickly bristles tap my clit. That was a mistake because it almost made me cum and certainly got a decent gasp out of me. My eyes locked onto every person walking by, sure that they had either heard or seen me. But I guess people are rather oblivious because despite the fact I was sitting in the middle of a wide open space surrounded by shops and stores and tables and diners, no one seemed to notice or care that a semi-attractive girl wearing black strap high heels, a super short mini-skirt, and a red halter top was sitting with her legs spread wide, one hand between her legs, tapping her clit with a bristle brush.
Or maybe they did notice and were just waiting for Act II.
I lowered the tip of the brush and began working it in, twisting it slowly as the bristles collapsed and were compressed by the forced entry. As the first inch went in I shuddered, my thighs trembling in passion as my pussy tightened around the arguably odd dildo. The interesting thing about fucking cylindrical hair brushes is that you don’t feel any prickles when it’s going in. The bristles all compress back down along the edge as you push it in. It’s AFTERWARD, when you are either going to pump with it or tug it backward just a little that all of the bristles pop out inside you, creating a pin prick feeling that not even my spiked dildo can duplicate.
Of course after the first inch the rest is easy and I rammed the hair brush into my body with a sigh of relief. I didn’t immediately set the brush, which basically means yanking it back out slightly, causing the bristles to pop into position, but a few already were returning to their normal angle because of the extra space inside my pussy. I could feel them. Instead I put both hands on the table and sat there for a bit, trying to look normal.
After a few minutes and lack of law enforcement or security figures, I reached down and quickly “set” the hair brush. Now a description of my attire would be as follows: 4 inch black strap open toed high heels, black super-short mini-skirt, large bristle cylindrical hairbrush, and a red halter top. With the slightest move of my hips I could feel all of the hundreds of little bristles rubbing against the interior walls of my pussy. For a moment, I thought about masturbating, but then decided it was too risky. Slowly, gingerly, I got to my feet, trying not to jam the handle into my thighs and dealing with a persistent irritant inside me. I pushed down my skirt and with a glance realized that about a half an inch of handle was visible between my legs. Oh well.
Circumference is defined as the outer boundary or perimeter of an object, most especially a circle. Used in terms describing a mall, it could mean either the outside walls of the mall and its anchor stores, or the interior walkway. I presumed that Master Brandon wanted me to walk the interior perimeter, which thankfully is a shorter distance despite the fact that there are tons more people. So I took a right hand turn and began my walk.
The first thing I noticed was that I was walking funny. I couldn’t take large or even normal steps due to my very strange embedded make-shift dildo. If I did it seemed to painfully jab me either internally or ramming the end of the brush into my thigh. So I ended up moving in this short little step, waddle kind of thing which I’m sure attracted even more attention. HEY! Look at that funny girl walk? I wonder what she’s got up her ass making her walk like that?
After a quarter of the way around the mall I was experiencing some rather different inside me. Evidently cylindrical hairbrushes were not made to be inserted into a pussy and used to stimulate sexual response on a long walk. Or maybe I should say that pussies were not made to be penetrated by cylindrical hairbrushes and used to stimulate sexual response on a long walk. To be honest, I was getting chaffed, but INSIDE. How’s that for weird. You see, the brush didn’t move up and down when I walked, like a thrusting cock. It moves back and forth, as if someone was stirring me. This caused the bristles to really twist inside me, literally scrubbing my insides. It made me tender, it even hurt a little bit, and that combined with what I was doing made me want to cum.
I stopped at a bench and sat down, trying hard to master myself. I was breathing a little heavy, I couldn’t close my legs to main decency, and I’m pretty sure I was flushed. It was practically everything I could do to keep myself from grabbing hold of the handle and pumping madly, right there in front of everyone. It took about ten minutes or so, but I finally felt okay enough to continue, rising to my feet and moving off down the corridor.
The sensation of having my pussy scrubbed returned even quicker the next time and I moved closer to the wall, frequently putting out a hand to steady myself as I stumbled. I’m sure the expression on my face was intriguing, since I was now hovering in that strange world between orgasmic bliss and excruciating pain. I didn’t even make it to the half way point before I let out a loud and literally exploded on my feet, leaning up against a wall.
Evidently the quickest way to attract attention to yourself is to experience a pain and humiliation induced orgasm in public. Next thing I knew a very handsome middle eastern man from one of kiosks came up to me and inquired if I was all right. Regaining some sense of dignity I nodded, told him I felt just a bit woozy and should probably sit down. There wasn’t a bench nearby so he led me to his kiosk where there was a nice director’s chair waiting for me. Unfortunately it was the kind that boosted you up to be on eye level with your customers. I didn’t even think about that until after I had climbed up into the canvas seat, experiencing another dizzying wave piercing pleasure.
“Maybe I should call Mall Security.” The man said, concern clearly written on his face. The word security brought me out of my orgasm induced euphoria and cleared my thinking. Nothing scares me more than people in uniform with badges. You hear stories of brutal strip and body cavity searches, of cops groping their arrested suspects, of bent over the trunk rapes, but those things are the exception, not the rule, and if ten percent of all cops are bad and totally willing to do those things to you, then ninety percent aren’t, and that meant my chance of getting this honorable but slightly suspicious knight of the law investigating the nature of my illness, or worse, calling an ambulance. Could you imagine it?
“So, what’s wrong with her?” asks the security guard.
The paramedic shrugs. “She’s got a hairbrush in her vagina.”
“She has a hairbrush up in her vagina.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. Here, look.” The paramedic lifts my skirt, showing the security officer the pale handle of the brush extruding out of my shaved petals.
“Well, I’ll be damned. She does have a hairbrush up in her vagina. Why would she do that?”
The paramedic shrugs. “Beats the hell out of me. Must be one of those weird sexual perverts who thinks she’s a nympho humiliation pain slut.”
See? See how BAD that would be? And what would happen next? Would he yank the brush out? Would I be arrested? So many things to consider. And of course I wouldn’t get the BAD security officer or paramedic who would grab the brush and pump it in and out while rubbing my clit rapidly back and forth, would I?
So I snapped out of it and told my concerned kiosk clerk that I was fine and that I just needed to rest for a moment and then go home. He nodded, but still kept an eye on me. I sat patiently for a few minutes when suddenly the clerk looked at me, suspicion in his eyes.
“What is that between your legs?” He asked.
So much for delicacy. I pressed my thighs together, feeling the brush handle jam into my flesh and I tried to adopt a “huh?” look. I forgot to take into account the height of my chair. Worse, I could feel my juices leaking out of my pussy, no doubt leaving a dramatic wet spot on my host’s canvas chair.
“What is going on?” He asked again in his clipped accent. I bit my lip, debating on my options and finally reached out a hand and pulled him close. His stomach bumped into my knees.
“You want the truth? Okay. I am a nympho humiliation pain slut and I happen to have a hairbrush stuck up into my pussy right now. It hurts a bit, but it keeps making me orgasm, which is why I was swooning up against the wall a moment ago.”
Evidently you don’t hear this in Iran or Iraq or Syria or where ever this guy came from. His eyes widened like saucers and he blinked, clearly at odds with what I had just told him.
“I LOVE America!” He suddenly said, his face beaming into a huge smile. “Can I see?”
Whoa…what the hell? Not the reaction I was expecting. But I only hesitated a moment before nodding and slowly opening up. My skirt had ridden up a bit already so just moving my knees apart was all that was needed to let him get a glimpse of a rather puffy, swollen, wet slit.
“Oh! American women are such sluts! Can I touch it?” He asked, the excitement in his voice apparent. I glanced once around the kiosk and saw that there was no one really around so I nodded.
The touch of his hand on the handle was like pouring gasoline on a fire. Everything was reignited, flaming up to previous levels. But my Arab friend didn’t just wiggle the handle around, he pulled it halfway out and then thrust it back in again. I cried out, jumping in my seat. Evidently he liked that too because he was suddenly pumping the brush in and out of my pussy hard and fast, two words I rarely use to describe sex. Michael once told me that only the worst authors use “hard and fast” when describing a sexual act and supposedly the only way it could be worse if you used “harder and faster” afterwards.
But what can I say? He pumped the brush into me hard and fast and then when I grabbed his shoulders, practically bucking in the seat he thrust the brush into me harder and faster. I came with my hand in my mouth, horrified that some mall walker would notice, or the vendor a few dozen feet away. It was a violent orgasm, filled with a spreading heat the blossomed between my legs and forced me to wrap my arms around my kiosk clerk as my body shook in that gray area between agony and ecstasy that only pain sluts can enjoy. Oh wait, pain sluts and every guy on the planet.
I spent maybe a whole minute or two calming down, dealing with the sensations, my head on his shoulder. After a while I was able to sit erect and I could still feel his hand on the hairbrush handle. The slight movement sent more tingles through me and I reached down and gripped his hand.
“Do you want me to pull it out?” He asked.
I shook my head. “I can’t. It has to stay in until I walk the whole mall and then back to my truck.”
“You make me hard as a rock.” He said, his imperfect English perfectly understandable. “I want to fuck you.”
I nodded. I hear that a lot. I looked around his kiosk. “Not much privacy here.” I replied, thinking this would be the killer. His eyes went wide and he suddenly left me sitting there, walking away to the next kiosk where a pretty dark eyed Asian girl was sitting. They spoke together for a moment and then she glanced back at me and nodded. Then my kiosk clerk was practically running toward me.
“She will watch my shop. Come!” And he grabbed my hand.
The next twenty or so steps, being dragged behind this man were almost pure agony for me. The waves of pleasure were gone and I just felt the renewed pain as the brush stroked my insides. I was lead to a back corridor which stretched off into the bowels of the mall and in moments I found myself tucked away in some sort of loading dock or store room, crammed full of those large floor washing machines. My clerk pushed me up against the wall, his hands now freely roaming over my body and I felt my halter top rise and his fingers pinching my nipples. I groaned and his mouth was on mine and I kissed him back as I felt the renewed energy of sexual need pulse through me. Then his hand was at my skirt, lifting it, grabbing hold of the brush. He pumped it a few times, causing me to squeal and buck and then he tugged it completely out, dropping it on the floor. I gasped, totally shocked to find my pussy empty. I slid downward to my knees, my sex clenching tightly around nothing, only to find my clerk’s dick pressing against my lips.
So I sucked on him. Did a pretty good job too. I was close to making him pop when he too dropped to his knees and positioned me on my back, legs propped up, with him between them. I did manage to get him to wait long enough for me to pull a condom out of my purse and get it on him, but then he plunged himself into my pussy like a mad hairdresser. (Okay, so that metaphor didn’t exactly work out. Sorry). To be honest, it was incredible. I NEEDED it. I matched him, rising up and outward as my pussy felt the soft but ridged thrusts of incredible sex. It was SO much better than the hairbrush.
And then he came, softening almost immediately afterward. I groaned, knowing that we were practically done and that I wasn’t going to find release. I felt him pull out and I think I wept in frustration. There is nothing worse than being sexually tortured, finding release, being built back up and dealing with almost exactly the same tension as before. At least I didn’t have the hair brush inside me.
My clerk got up onto his knees and pulled his trousers back into position after stripping off his condom and dumping it on the concrete floor. I stayed where I was, legs spread, my skirt around my waist, my halter top around my neck, and the wet hair brush on the concrete next to me.
Then to my astonishment, the clerk picked up the brush, brought it back to my pussy, and slowly twisted it in, driving it deeply into my wet sopping hole. It felt as if my pussy were being ripped open, a sensation that when combined with my overwhelming need for release created a whole new flood of emotions.
“You still have to finish your walk around the mall.” He said, his voice a mixture of awe and thankfulness. He reached out and lifted me to my feet, ignoring the wince I made when the bristles of my brush caressed the insides of my body once again. I was lead back to the main mall and by the time I stepped into the common mall area, my pussy was leaking, I was desperate for orgasm, and there was this underlying current of sexual agony spreading slowly through my loins.
I got a pat on the butt, a sly smile, and heard another muttered comment about “American girls” and then he returned to his kiosk. I admit I harbored a few cold thoughts in my heart at that particular moment, and was only appeased a little when the clerk discovered the nasty wetspot on his chair. He looked back at me and I waved and grinned, and then proceeded to walk away.
My anger kept me going for most of the way, but I admit by the time I made it back to the food court I made a quick detour for the women’s restroom. There I found my hair mussed, my halter askew and showing a bit too much cleavage, my skirt rumpled and barely covering my ass. I made it to a stall just before breaking down and plunged my hands between my legs, pumping the brush like mad with one hand while the other did things to my clit I can’t even describe properly.
I know I was pretty noisy, but thankfully there wasn’t anyone else in the bathroom. I came rather hard, especially when I practically pulled the brush completely out and then smashed it back in…or when I spanked my clit with the prickly end. All I remember was being this loose glob of human gelatin, totally worn out, sore, tender, hurting, and happy.
I rested there in the bathroom for like twenty minutes before I had the will power to put the brush back in my pussy for the walk out to the truck. It was almost too much to bear. It hurt, a lot. And I winced and waddled my way out to the truck, barely able to walk. But I managed. When I got there I tugged the brush loose and tossed it on the floorboards where it left a wet smear of pussy juice. I hopped up into the seat and just sat there, tired, resting.
Then I drove home. What a trip. But I think it will be a while before I use that brush again!