I’m a moron. Would you believe that I wrote out this whole thing early this afternoon and forgot to post it? Yeah. Me. Stupid. I guess last night’s little adventure tuckered me out, because I feel back asleep this morning. Anyway, I’ve got more to tell you than what’s below, but I’m too tuckered to write it out tonight. So tomorrow morning I’ll try to get it done. For now, be happy. Here’s Part Four:
I’m seriously beginning to hate clothespins.
Okay, for those of you who are just joining in, you need to read Part One, Part Two, and Part Three before you go on. Lots of stuff has been happening this week and you’ll probably get lost if you just go a head and read. Of course, if you do the basic concept is this: Ever since last Saturday, I have to spend a week ASKING for permission to cum. Of course, I have to ask a stranger each time, and I have to masturbate to orgasm within one minute of asking permission. There are a few other caveats, but right now that pretty much takes care of the basics.
Yesterday I finished my last post around nine thirty in the morning and even managed to get it up on the blog before I went crazy. Crazy as in please I need to be fucked crazy. Granted, I wasn’t being tormented with the vibroballs again yesterday, instead I was stuffed with my ben wa balls, but Master Barrett, the wonderful man who is doing this to me, added just a little bit of spice to this already hot and tangy mix.
Clothespins. Of course, he called them pegs, being from the United Kingdom, but whether you call them wooden clamps, clothespins, clothesclippers, or pegs, they’re all the same. Two pieces of soft wood held together by a spring under pressure. Oh yeah, and they come in plastic too.
Mine are classic though. Wooden, cheap, and the bite is just strong enough to hurt and be uncomfortable without cutting off circulation. Actually, to be honest, in the pantheon of clamps I own, they’re actually some of the lightest. They’re versatile though, and you can get them in packages of two dozen at a time for just a few bucks. Do you KNOW what it feels like to have two dozen clothespins dangling from just your sensitive parts?
Speaking of dangling, that is exactly what Master Barrett asked me to do: dangle clothespins. For the entire day. He was a little nice and gave me the option of either having one on my clit, or having one on each nipple, but no matter what I was to stay clamped. After four days of sexual frustration interspersed with some amazing powerful orgasm, having clothespins dangling from the two most sexualized and sensual spots changed the dynamics rather intensely.
Right after I finished writing yesterday’s post I moved one of the clothespins to my purse while the other went on my clit. The short skirt I was wearing didn’t have pockets, which made it relatively impossible to keep both pegs on my person, but since I was planning on taking my purse with me everywhere, it wasn’t that bad. My nipples burned and ached, but it was the kind that just turns me on, rather than hurts, and let me tell you, that stoked the fires more than anything.
Now I’ve done an assignment before where I was required to wear clothespins like this. In private, the pegs had to be on my nipples. In public, the pegs (both of them that time) had to be on my pussy and clit. It was tough, but I managed, and I figured that a similar pattern this time would keep either my nipples or clit from being over sensitized. Now it’s hard to walk straight when you’ve got a two inch long wooden clamp dangling down from your clit. Mostly its because your thigh has a tendency to snag it on the next step, the base of the clamp digging into your skin. This of course does all sorts of things to your clit. Pushing, tugging, pulling. You end up doing this sort of waddle as your nub becomes tenderized, and you begin thinking that having the clothespins on your breasts isn’t such a bad thing after all.
I left the house that morning around 10 am and headed out with no particular destination in mind except the O-zone. (Sorry, Michael. I couldn’t resist after reading that story review you wrote!) Also, I realized that while the ben wa balls were certainly stimulating enough to keep me wet and ready, I lacked the control I had over my nearness to orgasm that I had with the vibroballs. Sorry. That was a convoluted sentence, wasn’t it? But it’s true. I ended up at my local mall, walking slowly through the “neighborhoods”, trying not to excite my clit too much as the ben wa balls slowly churned inside me, never quite taking me to the levels of immediate need.
As usual, I was looking for solitary men. Eventually I followed one into one of the bathroom hallways. I let him go into the restroom, then after waiting a few moments, opened the door and stuck my head in. Ah… solitude! There he was, standing at the urinals.
I’ve always had a fascination with men’s public restrooms. I’ve sort of become an expert on them. This one was cleaner than most, but it’s at a mall, which I would expect to be cleaner. The one thing that really has struck me is seeing the number of stalls compared to the number of urinals. I wonder if there is a formula somewhere that dictates “if you have this many men using the restroom, you need x number of urinals and y number of stalls.
I waited near the door until he was finished, and then when he got himself zipped up and turned around to go to the sink, he saw me. He was about thirty five or so, with a slight paunch. I don’t really mind that. As long as a guy isn’t grossly overweight I can take it. Granted, I like sculpted athletic bodies, but clean and sweet is sometimes just as good. I can’t abide dirty guys. The absolute worst are guys who masturbate a lot and don’t clean their cocks afterward. Yuck.
Ewww… sorry about that. Probably killed any sexual tension you were feeling, right? Ok, well picture this instead: Bathroom. Two people. One could be you. The other? Twenty four year old white female, dark brown shoulder length hair with red highlights. Pale complexion, but with a smattering of light brown freckles on her cheeks and arms. Attire? Simple. A incredibly tight tee shirt, pink, with the words “Princess” in white, slightly faded. Both nipples clearly visible, and they aren’t even hard. The skirt is blue denim, also faded, flared with pleats. Long smooth legs go all the way down to a pair of blue colored flip flops. Her toenails are painted pink. Her only accessory is a small purse on a thing silver strand that crosses her chest, making her breasts stand out even more.
There? Back in the mood? Good.
Anyway, the guy saw me, stopped, smiled and then said the classic line men always seem to say when they encounter me in a men’s restroom.
“One of us seems to be in the wrong bathroom.”
No. Seriously? Really? One of us? You just fucking peed in a urinal and you think ONE of us is in the wrong room? You aren’t sure? The sign on the door has a figure who ISN’T wearing a dress. I think we could probably come right out and say that “I’m in the wrong restroom.”
I hid my irritation and instead replaced it with one of my million watt please fuck me like this was your bedroom smiles and took a few steps closer.
“Yeah, I know. I’m in the wrong place, but I really needed some help and I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to do it.”
His eyebrow went up. “What can I do for you?” Ah… what a gentleman! Of course, I find most guys to be gentlemen. At least usually.
“I was wondering if you would give me permission to have an orgasm right now.” I said. See? I changed my question. I was tired of the “huh?” and the “what?” and the “seriously?” that kept coming my way.
“What?” he replied. Geeze. There must be something defective in the male build or something.
I repeated myself, speaking slowly and emphasizing my requirements.
“Seriously?” he asked. I stifled my groan and nodded.
“Uh, sure. You can go a head and orgasm,” he told me.
Damn. I wasn’t quite ready! I glanced at my watch, quickly lifted my skirt, and immediately began working my fingers in and out of my hole. I didn’t quite catch his expression because my focus was elsewhere, but I heard a low whistle of astonishment, so I’m guessing he either was impressed at the clothespin dangling from my clit, or the fact that I was doing this in front of him. Or maybe it was both things. Who knows.
My thumb began doing some rather intense things to the clothespin on my clit, mostly flicking it even as I drove three fingers deeper and deeper into my pussy. For the first thirty seconds, I was worried that I wouldn’t manage in time, but the frustrations of the entire morning, the agony of denial, and now finally, the humiliation of doing this in front of a stranger got to me. I felt the wave build up and then crash into me, swamping me wetly. I felt the juices squirt out onto my hand and I leaned backward against the wall gasping, my face flushed, hand still buried in my sex.
“Geeze girl, you are a slut,” my audience said. He clearly had a hard on and he was stroking it slightly through the material of his trousers.
After recovering, I pulled my hand away from my crotch, let my skirt drop, and then moved to the sink, washing my hands. I turned toward him with a smile and thanked him.
I thought about offering him a blowjob, but it just seemed awkward. So instead I waddled on out of the restroom and out into the mall. Feeling sated, but just a tad bit hungry, I went to the food court, got some grub (I’m a cowgirl for God’s sake, give me a break) and ate.
After lunch I stopped by the junk jewelry store. I shouldn’t call it that, since the jewelry is quality stuff, just cheap. Julie wasn’t working, which was good because I didn’t think I was up for having my breasts slapped again. She loves doing that for some reason. I had to stop by just in case though, because the last time I walked the mall and didn’t and posted about it, she got pissed that I hadn’t “dropped by”. And when Julie gets pissed it hurts.
I headed back out to my truck then, only feeling the stir of the ben wa balls slowly trying to build the fire back up. As I got behind the wheel, I pulled my tee shirt up and moved the clothespin from my clit to my right nipple, got out the second peg, and attached that to my left. I left my shirt up. It’s not illegal to drive topless! Ha ha!
And I went home. Yeah, I know boring, right? Except by the time I got home, the added stimulation of having my breasts hanging out, not to mention the incredible sensation of the wooden clamps chewing on my nubs, had me ready for another orgasm. But I bit the bullet so to speak, parked the truck, moved one clip back to my clit, and suffered in silence through the rest of the afternoon.
I even suffered through dinner.
But around nine that evening I couldn’t take it any more. Granted, I’d moved the clothespins back and forth all day, but my clit was now so tender that I was hurting. The ben wa balls made it difficult to move around, and my nipples, while having received the least amount of attention during the day, were still hyper sensitive. I changed into a halter top and high heels, left the skirt on, and escaped.
There were a number of places that I could go, and one of them happened to be a bar I know. I’m not much of a drinker, but I’ve been taken too a few bars in my time. This particular one was unique, since I’d never been fucked in it before. The music was pretty heavy rock, the lighting was strobe, and the volume was so loud that if I had to go every night I’d be deaf as a post within a week.
I was dressed appropriately and immediately got asked to dance. I said yes before considering the consequences and the next thing I knew I was up on the dance floor in this handsome guy’s arms, being twirled and bent in half, his hands on me, the ben wa balls suddenly going into overtime as my clit was stretched, tugged, pushed, pulled, and in general, terribly tormented. I made it through the dance without pulling off this guys clothes and fucking him, but only through a massive burst of will power. I ended the dance with a kiss, sticking my tongue down his throat.
His name was Jonas, but I only found that out afterward. When the dance and kiss were finished, I told him to take me someplace and fuck me or we could do it on the floor.
Trust a guy to know right where to take a girl for a quick fuck. Evidently this bar is a little lax on their regulations regarding public fucking, though granted we did move to a back corner. In moments he was sitting on a chair while I was straddling him. I took out the ben wa balls, dropped them on the floor (yes…bad idea I know) and then watched his eyes bug out as I pulled the clothespin off my clit, move it to my nipple, and then add the other clamp. His cock was out already, sticking straight up and I went to my knees, sucking and licking him for a few moments. I got a condom on him with my mouth.
I admit I didn’t do my normal job on his cock. I was too horny. Instead I got up, straddled him, and then impaled myself. We pumped as the few party goers around us cheered Jonas and me on and then he was grabbing hold of the clothespins, twisting them around as my breasts jiggled with my bouncing. Oh god…. It was awesome. I clutched at him, begging “can I cum? Please can I cum?”
YES! Permission! I felt my tee shirt being pulled off my body by someone other than Jonas and I shook and shuddered through my sexual release. No need to consult a watch. I came fast. I kept up with the bouncing though until I felt Jonas come as well and then I bent over and was kissing him.
Disentanglement is always so anticlimactic. I picked up my vibroballs from the floor and to Jonas’ surprise, I reinserted them into my pussy. I looked around for my shirt, but it was gone. No one seemed to have it. I looked at Jonas expectantly. A gentleman would offer me HIS shirt, but evidently that didn’t occur to him. Instead, I got pulled back out on to the dance floor, bare breasted, still stuffed with ben wa balls, while clothespins dangled from my nipples.
You should have heard the cheers and jeers. I saw about a zillion cell phones and even a couple of flashes as the cameras took shots. So if you see happen to see video or pictures of a girl at a bar wearing nothing but a blue denim skirt and clothespins…well. How embarrassing.
I was pretty much forced to dance. Jonas had a hold on me, but then one of his buddies had me. Despite my orgasm, the forced movement caused the ben wa balls to once again kick into overdrive and after thirty minutes I found myself once again wanting a fuck. I couldn’t find Jonas, so I was led back to the chair by a stranger. Another guy’s hands grabbed my skirt and it was tugged off my body. I barely had a chance to get my ben wa balls out before I was rather unceremoniously manhandled into position and then forced down on hard extended cock. It felt good, but then another cock was suddenly pushed into my face and I saw Jonas standing there, holding out his stick. I turned my face and sucked him, even while a number of hands touched me. The guy beneath me came, filling the condom he was wearing and then I was lifted again, my world a flash of lights and heavy music and then someone else was on the chair, a hastily applied condom on his cock and I was impaled again.
The clothespin became a focal point and they were twisted, pulled, tugged and even removed and reapplied. I made it clear they had to stay on, but the guys surrounding me WANTED that. Every time I neared orgasm, I would ask the guy I was fucking if I could cum. They all said yes.
It was one o’clock when we got kicked out of the bar. My shirt and skirt were gone and I was finally wearing Jonas’ shirt. It barely covered my ass. The only thing I still had were my vibroballs, which were tucked back up inside me, and my clothespins and purse. I was sore, tender, and very much sated and Jonas helped me too my car. We exchanged numbers and I headed home.
I snuck into the house, showered, removed the clothespins and the ben wa balls, and then got into my pajamas. My pussy was sore from the night’s fucking, but Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Rule #1 came to mind, and I reached over to the bedside table, extracted my husky dildo, and slid it easily into my stretched pussy. I groaned once, realizing that I would no doubt be masturbating right now if it wasn’t for the damned permission situation. With a deep breath, I rolled over, clamped my thighs together, and slept.
I woke at five like usual, fed the critters, had breakfast, and then went back to bed. Now it’s one o’clock and I’m feeling it. That need. The urge. The desperation.
Excuse me. I need to go ask someone for permission.