Wednesday. March 31, 2010
Today’s Assignment: (Assigned By Master Mark) Proceed to your regular stripping spot with a two by one foot piece of cardboard, a black marker, and your duster. Remove all of your clothes with the exception of your panties. Put on your high heels and your duster. Take the marker and the cardboard and write the following: "See my tits for one dollar. I'll flash the whole thing for five dollars." Then drive to a busy intersection of your choice and stand on the corner holding the sign. If anyone pays you a dollar, open your duster enough to show them your breasts. If anyone gives you five dollars open your duster all the way. Any money you collect should be donated to your favorite charity. You can leave after ten minutes.
Yesterday’s Results: (Assigned by Master Brandon) Get a piece of rough hemp rope that can span the length of your barn, as well as your collar, ankle and wrist cuffs, and a key operated pad lock. Tie loose overhand knots every six to eight inches down the entire length of the rope. Tie the rope across the barn at approximately the height of your belly button. Strip naked. Attach the ankle and wrist cuffs to your arms and legs, but do not connect them together. Hang the key to the padlock on the wall right above where you have tied one end of the rope. Straddle the rope at the end opposite the key and connect your ankle cuffs together. Then connect the wrist cuffs together and attach them to your collar with the padlock. Walk/shuffle forward along the rope until you can unlock your wrists from the collar. Once you have unlocked your wrists you can free your ankles and get off the rope. Then you must masturbate to orgasm.
Yesterday evening I spent some time online with Michael working on the new website. I’m getting my own page! Wow! The graphics are cool and I love the layout. When can you see it? I’m not sure. I know Michael is still working out the kinks but the idea is to move my posts from the blog to the website. But my whole point in bringing this up was because I had the opportunity to go back in time and check out some of my earlier daily assignments.
Things have gotten more complicated.
Daily Assignments used to be these one sentence instructions. Now they’ve turned into complicated grocery lists of to do directions. Take yesterday’s daily assignment for example. Do this, do that, then do this, and do this at precisely this height blah blah blah. Oh, I’m not complaining. I know it’s my own doing. My many assignment master and mistress contributors are no doubt trying very hard not to leave me wiggle room, especially if that wiggle room happens to be between my legs.
So yesterday afternoon I went out to the barn to start this insane procedure. The first thing I did was pick out a piece of rope. This wasn’t too hard because I’ve pretty much used the same stuff for all my “rope” assignments. In fact, if this keeps up I’m going to have to go buy some more soon. I had to measure out like one hundred and twenty feet of the stuff. Oh, my barn isn’t that long, it’s only about ninety feet long, but I knew I’d be shortening the rope with all the knots I had to tie.
And damn, it took me an entire fucking hour! I started near the middle of the rope actually, which while tough was absolutely the smartest thing to do. They were just over hand knots, nothing spectacular, but I tugged each one tight as I moved on. As I reached one end of the rope I left enough unknotted length to tie it to one of the heavy beams near the doorway. I measured things appropriately by lifting up my shirt and wrapping a couple of loops around the beam right at the height of my belly button. See? I can follow direct instructions! Then I moved back to the center of the rope and began making more knots.
By the time I reached the other end of the barn my hands were scratched and incredibly sore. Tying that many knots in a piece of rope as thick as this sucks. It’s not soft rope either. It’s scratchy, rough hemp that could abrade a rock smooth given enough time. At that point I could only imagine what this was going to do to my pussy. Finally I had enough knots and only about ten feet of extra rope. I cut a bit off, looped the ends at belly height, but then had second thoughts. I undid my tie and then made a loop and grabbed hold of some of our ratcheting bale straps. We use these to hold down hay ricks if we’re transporting a huge stack on the trailer. The hook went right were it was supposed to on the rope and I wrapped the other end and hooked it on the beam. Then it was just a matter of tightening and I had a rope stretched across my barn with very little give. Yes. This was stupid, but I didn’t realize it at the time.
I had brought my bag full of toys out with me: the cuffs, both ankle and wrist, my vibrator, for afterward, my pet store collar complete with padlock and key! I hung the key on a quickly pounded nail at neck height and took everything back to the other side of the barn. Then I stripped.
I had been wearing my mountain boots, white tube socks, blue jeans, blue bikini cut panties, a red cotton button up shirt, and a rather plain 36B cup bra. I took it all off, just as ordered. It was a mild 75 degrees and inside the barn there wasn’t any wind, so I felt rather comfortable as I attached my Velcro cuffs.
Kari bought these cuffs a long time ago. They were a gift and one of the first things we realized about them was that the plastic pressure buckles were worthless. A decent amount of force snapped them open, which was no doubt what the manufacturer had in mind. Kari upgraded them with D link metal carabineers and a few lengths of steel chain. So I had maybe a foot and a half of chain between my ankles and about two inches between my wrists. At least, after I clipped them together. I took my gear, plus the padlock and the collar over to the rope and lifted one leg over the hemp. I weight one twenty, give or take a few pounds depending on how much water I’ve had during the day. The rope slipped up between my legs and dug deeply into my pussy. I actually stood on tip toe, which did nothing to relieve the pressure. So wincing with the discomfort I bent down and latched my ankle cuffs together.
Now that my feet were hobbled together I wouldn’t be getting off the rope unless I was able to bend down and unclasp the chain. With that thought firmly in mind, I put the dog collar around my neck, buckling it nice and tight. Oh sure, not enough to choke me, but enough so I felt it. Then I did the last little bit. I used the small chain link on the wrist cuffs and threaded it through the metal link on the cuff. The small padlock went neck, locking in place and now my hands were secured about three inches beneath my chin.
In retrospect, it’s possible, I suppose, that if I were desperate enough, I might, just might, have been able to twist myself off the rope, fall on my side, and bend myself into a pretzel in order to release the D Link carabineers on my ankle cuffs. But even now, I give that maybe a forty percent chance of success. Failure would have resulted in my laying there in the barn until dinner time to be found by either my limping father or mystified mother. In either case, it would have been difficult to explain what I was doing.
And so I only had one direction to go: forward. It was during the first two feet that I realized that the ratchet strap had been a major mistake. If the rope had been five inches lower, maybe it would have been fine, but instead I made an almost ridged beam of rough, scratchy, hemp rope that had about four inches of play in a one hundred foot length. As I took a step forward I literally dragged my pussy forward, feeling the coarse strands abrading the pink petals. Standing on my tip toes did nothing and I made it all the way to the first knot while gasping and wincing.
The knot was like an unmovable mountain. I couldn’t lift myself up over it, no matter how I tried, and in the end I realized that I wasn’t supposed to. The knot had to go THROUGH my pussy, from clit to perineum and then a quick crawl up my ass. With a snarl of determination and a little mental chiding, I pushed forward, feeling the small knot strike my clit, drag downward into my pussy, and then strike the soft spot between my bottom and my sex. Then it was behind me and I stopped, gasping.
It’s a bit difficult to properly describe the sensation I was feeling. First of all, my pussy was in quite a bit of discomfort. It wasn’t pain, not really, more like getting in a battle of tug of war and you hold the rope but it ends up stinging your hands. That’s what it felt like. Except I was feeling it on some very delicate tissues. The rope was still pressed tight into my crotch and I moved forward another six inches, only to encounter another knot.
I quickly discovered that knots were much much worse on my pussy than just general rope. While I could minimize the abrasive qualities of the rope with slow gentle steps, the knots could not be handled slowly. You had to push through them, feeling their heavy width spreading your lips, scratching the inner membranes, literally tearing your skin a little bit at a time. I think it was on the third or fourth knot that my clit got caught and dragged downward with the knot. I gasped, flinched, almost fell, and then backed up enough to free my now supersensitive clit.
Fortunately, my predicament was starting to excite me in ways that are perhaps unseemly. I felt my pussy ripening, trying to lubricate itself as the rough hemp soaked up my juices. I tried again, making it over the knot this time and shuddering as I worked my way up the line.
I made it about fifteen feet before the discomfort actually changed and became pain, but by this time I was so hot and bothered, so wanting to cum from the stimulation that I was literally gushing. I could feel my juices running down my thighs. I’m sure the rope was discolored from it, darkening behind me. I started moving a bit faster, relishing the approaching knot, letting it catch on my clit and drag it downward. I was near the halfway point when I came, gasping out loud, stopping in my tracks, my knees buckling, the rope eating its way upward through me, threatening to saw me in half. I almost collapsed right then my orgasm was so powerful, but I managed to stay upright and after a few moments took another step forward.
This time the scratchy abrasive drag of the rope through my pussy was like fire. Without the sexual necessity blunting the pain I felt as if someone were using sandpaper on my clit. Once again I was forced to make tiny steps, lengthening my time on the rope. Step by painful step I made it to the next knot, my goal still a full fifty or so feet ahead of me. I cried out as the knot made contact with my clit, my aching calves and toes burning. To my surprise, it was my legs that gave out first, dropping me down another three inches as my aching arches collapsed.
I hadn’t intended on riding a wooden pony, much less a hemp one, during my delicate traversal of my barn. But in effect, thanks to my idiotic rope attachment, I had created a taut line that yielded to my weight by only a few degrees. Worse, the pressure let off only marginally as I stood on tip toe, something I hadn’t realized until I was standing flat footed. The problem was that my body was reacting naturally to having something pulling upward between my legs. So in truth, while not quite as painful as a real wooden horse or pony, there was no relief, ever. The rope would always be pushing up into my pussy. If I raised up on tip toes I got only a small relief. This was becoming pure agony.
Worse, I couldn’t touch my clit, or any other part of my body. When I had regained some of my strength, I went up on tip toes as I slid over the next knot. It was like sawing myself in half starting with my clit. I shook, I shuddered. The only thing that could have made this worse was if I had soaked the rope in lemon juice or Tabasco sauce or something. I rested my calves again, inching forward to the next knot. Rising up, I crossed that one, hissing as it dragged against my clitoris and then sinking deeply into the my slit and then scratching at my anus. Onward.
I could describe each individual moment of the next forty minutes as I continued my way across the rope. I could tell about the burning ache in my calves, feet, and toes as I held myself up. I could articulate the agony and little lances of fire from between my legs. I could explain how even then I started to feel another surge of sexual desire, slowly ebbing away the immediate pain and replacing it with a need that caused me to surge ahead. When my second orgasm hit me I was still fifteen feet from my goal. Too far for sure to just push my way through. My entire pussy was on fire and I was sure that I what I was experiencing was as close to being sandblasted as possible. I admit, I actually considered falling off the rope and trying to get my leg cuffs undone.
I stood there panting, my entire body trembling as I moved up and down on my aching calves. I was covered in perspiration. My arms ached from being held up by my neck, and my shoulders felt like lead from having to support the weight of my arms. I actually started to cry.
Then in my blurry tears I saw Michael standing there at the end of the rope. He was holding out his hand and speaking.
“What are you?” He asked softly.
“I’m a slut.” I responded automatically, choking back a sob.
“What kind of slut?”
“A pain slut.” The response was ingrained in me.
“And what are pain sluts for?” he asked.
“To be hurt and abused.” I replied looking at him with a bit more control.
“If you don’t get your ass over here to the wall right now, the punishment I will assign you next will make this one look like a friendly walk in the park.”
“Yes Master.” I said forcefully, blinking the tears out of my eyes. I took a large step, dragging the next knot through my pussy, ignoring the burn, the dragging pinch on my clit. Another step, and another, and then another knot. Michael was urging me on, repeating over and over that I was a pain slut and I deserved this. He said that next time I had to do this I would be wearing nipple clamps and high heels, and that the last fifteen feet would be covered in lemon juice, and there would be a plug up my ass, and it would be during the winter, so I would be cold. And then he would pull me down as soon as I got to the end and fuck my brains out, no matter what my pussy looked or felt like.
The sexual surge was back and I dragged myself over the next four knots with it building like a fire beneath me. I wiped my tears away as I imagined the next torment and pushed forward. To be honest, I don’t remember much of that last nine or so feet. I remember cumming though as I reached for the key. I remember my clit touching the metal hook and feeling the cool smooth hardware as I came. I remember looking for Michael, waiting for him to pull me from my rope and screw my brains out.
He wasn’t there. No one was.
I unlocked my hands and fell off the rope into the dust of the barn floor. The incredible bliss of not having the rope between my legs was like finding water after walking for miles through a hot dessert. One of my legs was still draped over the rope and I barely had the strength, but I managed to literally rip the Velcro cuff from my ankle, letting my legs separate. I was free.
I’m not sure how long I laid there. I’m guessing about fifteen minutes before I gathered up enough strength to pull off the cuffs. Then I inspected the damage. To be honest, it wasn’t as bad as I expected. My pussy was raw, certainly, and I could literally feel some of the more intense scratches were they left welts, but I wasn’t bleeding, which surprised me. My clit was too sore to touch, even for inspection, so I hobbled over to our water pump and very gingerly cleaned myself of sex juice, dust, and sweat. Feeling better, I went back to my bundled pile of clothes and checked my watch.
Two and a half hours. I had spent almost an entire hour and a half on one hundred feet of rope. I shuddered in horror. After getting dressed again I went to the ratchet and released the tension, letting the rope drop. I scooped it up, totally intent on throwing the whole thing in the trash bin. As I prepared to throw it away I heard Michael’s voice in my head.
“I don’t think you want to do that.” He said to me.
“Why?” I demanded. “This was pure hell.” I replied dreading his next words.
“What are you?” He asked softly.
“I’m a slut.” I responded automatically, my hands shaking as I clutched the rope.
“What kind of slut?”
“A pain slut.” The response was ingrained in me.
“And what are pain sluts for?” he asked.
“To be hurt and abused.” I replied.
“So, the question is: will you need that rope again sometime?”
To my shock and horror I felt a new surge of wetness between my legs and I took a step back from the trash barrel. Slowly I coiled up the rope and tossed it in the rope locker. I don’t know when it will see the light of day again, but I know that it will, and when it does, there will be a pain slut, straddling it. Most likely wearing nipple clamps, and dreading the last fifteen feet of lemon juice soaked hemp. Why you may ask? Well. That's what pain sluts are for.
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