Day 6: Seven Days of Sluttiness

Well, events finally outpaced my ability to write about them. I’ve now technically got TWO days worth of sluttiness to write about, Wednesday’s AND Thursday’s, and I’m very very sore. In fact, I was so out of it on Thursday morning that I showed up at the Frat house in something of a daze. Granted, the guys snapped me out of it pretty quick… but hey… let’s not get ahead of ourselves, right?

Wednesday (Day 6) was pretty busy, mostly because I spent a great deal of time writing and also getting distracted by various online friends. Of course the best was Karen. She knows why :D! Anyway, I had a lot to write about. That whole night out with Sara had been pretty intense, from start to finish and I wanted to make sure I related it appropriately. So it was after three before I managed to get out of the house and into my truck. Of course, as usual, my bag was packed with the full assortment of what I might need: binder clamps, ½ pound weights, the alligator clamp for my clit, ankle and wrist cuffs, a bit of rope, condoms, Stinging O, the usual. Okay, so I ADDED the cuffs and the rope. Sue me.

Wednesday was also Day 6 of my 7 Days of Sluttiness, a smorgasbord of leveled sexual insanity that Master Barrett said was designed to break me. Well, it worked. I’m broken. I have no idea if I will be able to do my first Anniversary Assignment tomorrow. There are parts of me that hurt that I’m not sure will be sufficiently… recuperated… enough to proceed. But we’ll see. But back to Day 6. Day 6 had every single thing the previous days had required, with one more addition. Now, I ALSO had to actually fuck 6 guys along with everything else. Now honestly, it wasn’t so much the sex. I was ALREADY having that much sex. It wasn’t the QUALITY of the action, but the QUANTITY. See, in all the other cases I used a new stranger for every single one of my tasks and frequently I screwed them silly in order to get what I needed. Willing to fist me to orgasm? Great, but unfortunately I had to “purchase” that with a bit of pussy. Granted I didn’t mind either. But now, on top of … let’s see… what… at least five, but more likely nine screwings, I had to do an additional three. And every single one of them had to be a stranger and none of them could complete TWO of my tasks.

That’s a lot of fucking.

So at three I stuffed my bag and headed out. My first stop was as usual the side of the road right behind my dad’s farm. It’s a quiet farm to market asphalt two lane road that sees about as much traffic as the moon. Oh look. There goes Neil Armstrong! Hi Neil! Anyway, again the day was freezing cold. And when I say freezing, I mean it was about two or three degrees above it. That meant I changed in the cab again.

My cowboy boots went first, followed by my socks. I then shimmied out of my jeans, tossed them aside, and shifted slightly as the RVP (or Rotating Venus Penis) dug into my crotch. I was already wearing the anal beads, the wire and remote draped across the seat next to the pink RVP controls. I pulled off my shirt and sat there naked for a moment, considering things.

Master Barrett had informed me earlier that morning that I HAD screwed up the whole unauthorized orgasm thing, erroneously concluding that my orgasm with Donald in the car had been an authorized explosion. I argued my point, but then realized that Master Barrett could pretty much decide things any way he wanted. I was in the middle of writing out my narrative from Tuesday however, and wearing the binder clamps on my nipples wasn’t exactly conducive to getting that done. So we did some negotiating and I ended up agreeing to something a little more intense, in order to buy the time I needed to finish writing.

I have about seven different types of clamps. I’ve got duck billed, rubber tipped, clothespin, chip clip, crushers, bell clamps, Japanese Clovers, and of course, the ones that were currently in my pocket. I was dreading the whole idea of putting them on. Connected together with a silver chain, each clamp was nothing more than a set of sharp metal teeth, originally designed to transmit small amounts of electricity. They were NEVER intended to be applied to the delicate never filled nubs of a woman’s breasts.

And yet, sitting there, I pulled the clamps out, looked down at my breasts, and gently pinched each clamp open. I released the tension on the clamps simultaneously, the idea being that enduring the pain all at once was better than enduring one breast at a time for an extend period. I gasped as the metal teeth sank into my flesh, crushing my nipple but also tearing into it, the alligator jaws sinking deeply into the skin. It hurt, oh God it hurt, but I’ve dealt with it before and would do so again. After a minute the pain changed to a burning throb and I pulled my black dress out of the bag.

My dress isn’t terribly fancy, but it LOOKS that way. Sure, it’s a designer knock off, and not really worth all that much, but I look good in it anyway. Basically it’s nothing more than a sheath that goes from the top of my breasts down to mid-thigh. It’s even decent. I could go to the opera in it. Well… maybe. Maybe because the sides of the dress, both sides I might add, are decorated by a long series of horizontal slits that reveal the skin underneath from arm pit to thigh. With this dress you don’t wear a bra. With this dress, you don’t wear panties. Why? Because everyone would KNOW. You’d be able to actually see them. Well, at least the parts that wrapped around your body. I slipped the dress down over my head and wiggled it down until my arms and shoulders were out of it and it rested atop my clamped breasts. Finally I managed to get the black material down my entire body. My RVP was mostly concealed, though you could still see the black Velcro straps through the slits on both sides of the dress.

I reached into the bag, pulled out the bondage collar, and put it on next. Lastly came the clear please fuck me shoes, four inch platforms you only see strippers and whores wearing. I swear, there must be a whole generation of American men who think that women wear their high heel shoes to bed.




The rest of this post is no longer available on Michael Alexander's BDSM blog but can be read in Breanne Erickson's amazing e-book novel "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 3!" from Amazon.com and Barnesandnoble.com! Check it out today and find out just what happened.


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