I got up from the computer, my mind
numb and slightly frayed. He wasn’t
pleased. I didn’t realize it was a hard
number. I did the best I could. Isn’t four orgasms enough, especially if they
are solid and full of torments like alligator clamps and an over-sensitizing
clitoral vibrator? I’d think so. But oh no… five was the magic number. Not four.
Not six. Five. And with trembling fingers I unbuttoned my
khaki shorts and pushed them down.
I could
feel the triple vibroballs inside me, gently purring, adding their incessant
thrum to the mix of my sexuality. I can
tolerate them for extended periods now, provided they’re set to low, without
much more than a constantly soaked slit and urges to fuck practically
everything in sight. But as I pulled
down my panties to expose my still tender clit, I felt my pussy tighten, my
libido already reacting to what it thought was coming, rather than what was
happening.
The
previous “assignment” had been tough on me, and that wasn’t just because of my
hour long masturbation and torment session early that morning. Oh no… I spent the entire day suffering. I could have removed the twelve inch long,
hard, black, rubber dildo when I was done.
I could have taken off the purple butterfly clitoral vibrator, instead
of making sure my tight blue jeans kept it mashed against my already sore
clit. And of course, I could have not turned it on every twenty or so
minutes, stimulating myself right back to the point of near orgasm before
turning it off, denying myself the ultimate reward, edging constantly all
day. This had gone on for hours until
bed time when I had tugged the Core Driller dildo out from between my legs with
a groan of relief. The butterfly
vibrator came next, exposing my bright red, super chaffed clit to the air. I didn’t even wear panties that night, not
wanting ANYTHING to touch my clit. So
much for that.
I held the
remote in my hands, the wire trailing along my hip and up into the wet pink
slit between my legs. My clit was still
sore that morning, but not quite as tender as it had been the previous
evening. I took a few steps to my book
shelf, the one near my bed and my eyes slid over my collection of paperback
novels and hardback bestsellers. What
book would work best? My copy of J.K.
Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows?
Stephanie Meyer’s Breaking Dawn?
(Yes, I admit, I read the books and enjoyed them, but I’m not into
sparkly vampires!) Maybe Ann Rice’s
Sleeping Beauty series? No… not big
enough. To bad those don’t come in a
single volume, right? The Bible? No…too sacrilegious. George R.R. Martin’s Dancing With
Dragons? Hmmm… I like Daeneyrs, but I’m
not sure that would be a smart thing.
Danielle Steele maybe? No…
drat. What book would work?
I finally
settled on my dictionary. It was a full
three inches thick, with a hard bound cover and there was always the fact that
it would be unlikely that I’d offend anyone.
There was also the off chance I’d learn something through osmosis,
though I highly doubted it. As I thumbed
the vibroballs higher, moaning softly as I moved to the bed, I put the
dictionary aside and settled myself in one of the most unnatural positions I’ve
ever been forced into.
I lay on my
back, staring up at the ceiling while I lifted my bare legs upward, toes
pointed as the soles of my feet pressed against the wall. My knees fell outward and I spread my legs
wide, eventually letting my heels rest on the top of the metal frame headboard. My hips were already jerking, rolling as the
vibroballs sent spirals of exquisite pleasure rushing through me. Maybe if I had an hour or two I could cum
without touching myself, but that wasn’t what Master Barrett had in mind. Oh no.
I needed to cum alright. That was
the trigger. But it was the punishment
that I would be avoiding.
I picked up
the dictionary and held it in my trembling hands. How high should I hold it? A foot?
A few inches? I settled for a
foot, knowing that the greater distance would mean more pain and that is what
Master Barrett would want. So I held the
book up above my wet and swollen slit, my tender and bruised clit directly
underneath. Then I dropped it.
It was
everything I could do not to scream. It
was like getting kicked between the legs and my knees came together as I rolled,
trying to absorb the blow. Oh God it
hurt. Why not just order me out
somewhere, stripped to the waist, begging passersby to kick me in the crotch. Hell, Julie would have loved that. I could just imagine being at her place,
standing at the foot of her mattress, my ankles wide apart and tied to the
corners of the bedframe. Julie would
have spent at least five minutes slapping my breasts back and forth before
finally taking the requisite steps backward.
Then she’d skip forward and bring her bare foot up between my legs,
slamming it hard into my pussy and watching with enjoyment as I collapsed,
falling inward in agony.
But that’s
not what was happening, was it? No. I did it to myself with a fucking book. How lame is that? I groaned, wincing as I reached out for the
book again. That was the
punishment. I had to keep dropping the
book on my pussy, specifically my clit, until I came. Orgasm just seemed very far away at that
point. The dictionary fell again,
bruising me and I groaned, gritting my teeth and trying hard to think past the
blow.
It was no
use. I wasn’t going to cum and with each
additional drop of the dictionary, the height it fell from decreased as my arm
got tired and I had trouble holding it up.
Finally I rolled off the bed and stumbled to the computer. But before I could fire off an email to
Master Barrett, I heard my mother calling me downstairs. I sighed.
Damn…
It was the
next day before I had a chance to get back on and check my in box. I was stuffed with my triple vibroballs and
logging on there was a new email from Master Barrett. My fingers trembled as I read it:
“Just to make sure you don't forget
about me I want you to wear a peg on your clit for the next few days. I will
let you know when I think you deserve to take it off. I assume you usually keep
the peg flat against your body when you have worn them in the past well this
time whenever you are alone (that includes when you are working) I want you to
wear it so it sticks out from you will have to rearrange or remove some
clothing to accommodate the peg but I don't see that as a problem. - Barrett”
I was
already dressed, complete with blue jeans, a tee shirt, socks, panties, and
bra. While I really didn’t want a
clothespin on my clit all day, it was the “rearrange your clothing” issue that
was the problem. With a sigh, I peeled
off my shorts and panties. One went in
the hamper while the other got draped over my shoulder. I felt the ben wa balls rolling inside me,
keeping me wet, and I pulled the drawer of my desk outward. Inside were over two dozen clothespins. Please don’t ask me why I keep them
there. I’m sure you can figure it out.
Trembling,
I grasped one and brought it down between my legs. I’ve clamped my clit before, hundreds of
times, even in the manner that Master Barrett requested. The difference is that this time I couldn’t
take it off. And worse, if I were in
private, it meant full exposure or at least wearing something that wouldn’t
interfere with the angle of the peg. I
hissed as it latched on, biting my still tender nub. It stuck out like a little odd shaped,
wooden cock. Worse, each step or wiggle of my hips sent it
jiggling, sharp bursts of agony laced ecstasy shooting up through my pussy as
my sex tried to throttle the ben wa balls.
I fired off
a reply to Master Barrett, but it wasn’t just about the clothespin. I admitted that I had failed his little book
assignment and offered what I thought was a satisfactory option: an evening
with Julie, one of the more brutal of my mistresses, with a specific torment in
mind.
I went
downstairs and out the door half naked, which isn’t my usual method. I must have looked ridiculous wearing a tee
shirt and bra, bare from the waist down except for my boots, waving a little
wooden clamp around. I almost wished,
just for a moment, that Master Barrett had given my breasts the same
treatment. At least that way I would
have been balanced.
Of course,
it would have set me off even quicker. I
came of course. You try doing your
chores with a clothespin dangling from your withers. It actually happened twice as I pranced my
way across the barn multiple times and worked my way out the goat pen. With each step that clothespin bounced up and
down and I can’t even begin to tell you how bad it got. By the time I was done and ready to head
inside, the thought of putting my jeans on and letting the material mash the
peg up against my tummy, even knowing how that would twist my clit, was a
relief. Doing it hurt, but the cessation
of the bouncing was worth it.
I waddled
through the house, ate breakfast with my family, but was soon left alone to my
own devices outside as I set the irrigators.
After getting out to the barn, I once again stripped off my jeans, grit
my teeth as the clothespin dropped and began wiggling, then saddled Star. We rode out to the south fields and got the
irrigators going and I felt a momentary giddiness. The ride had woken my libido again and I
admit it, I stripped totally naked in the late morning sunlight, with just a
single clothespin on, and ran through the mist coming off the sprinklers. It was amazing. I masturbated then, hard and fast, my fingers
twisting and pulling on the clothespin with one hand while the other tried to
emulate the sensation of another clamp on my nipple.
The rest of
the day was just awful though. My clit
was terribly sore and more often than not, pulled into a terrible position by
my jeans. Finally around five, I changed
into a skirt, just so that I didn’t have to deal with the pressure of my clothing. It only helped for a small period of time
because almost immediately the damn thing began bouncing, pulsing with every
roll of my hips, step, or shake. I slept
with it on too. I know. I’m amazing right? Of course I wasn’t feeling any kind of sexual
urge by that point. I just wanted it to stop.
I fell asleep with an awful throbbing between my legs and the sensation
of sharp edges against my thighs.
The next
morning Master Barrett had responded. He
thought a trip to Julie’s was more than acceptable. But he also didn’t want me to remove the
clothespin. “Give the peg a twist every
hour on the hour until I tell you to stop,” he wrote. I almost cried. I reached down between my legs, grabbed hold
of the clothespin, and twisted. Pain
shot through me, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. My clit had been pulled, tugged, and forced
through just as bad moments the day before.
What had changed? Instead of
going out in jeans though, I slid my ass into a skirt, leaving sufficient room
to have the clothespin sticking straight out.
The material still pressed slightly against it, but for all intents and
purposes, it was doing exactly what Master Barrett wanted it to.
My second
day of Clothespin Hell was little different from my first, except for the fact
that I came a few extra times, which was good, and each of those orgasms were
absolutely excruciating, which was bad.
My clit felt like it had been sanded, crushed, bitten, rubbed with oil,
set on fire, and then frozen. Every step
sent vibrations through the clothespin and adding those half twists every half
and hour was like pouring lemon juice on a paper cut. I think the worst moment came while at the
grocery store.
I was still
wearing the skirt, a blue denim number with a lot of flare and pleats. Unfortunately it wasn’t really long
enough. In fact, none of my skirts go
down lower than mid thigh and most of them are a little higher than that. I’m seriously going to have to rethink my
wardrobe soon. Girls my age aren’t
supposed to be dressing like seventeen year old sluts. At this rate I’m going to end up in one of
those “people of Wal-Mart” videos. I
guess I can take solace in the thought that I at least look good in that kind
of clothing, if a little over blown.
I’ve got a bit of a baby face and look younger than I am, but still, I
may need to change from slutty to sexy soon.
Where was
I? Oh yeah. The grocery store. My toy for the day had been specified by
Mistress Kari and she very kindly had me in my double vibroballs, on medium no
less, to give me an edge against the clothespin twisting. So I was already higher than a kite, at least
sexually, when I went into the store.
Desperation can do funny things to you and I think I was in the middle
of the soup aisle when I couldn’t take it any more and lifted the front of my
skirt and diddled and twisted the clothespin.
No, there wasn’t any people in the aisle. Duh. I
wouldn’t do that. But as I worked myself
rather strenuously, I closed my eyes and really got into it. It’s tough to keep an eye on things when
you’re in the throes of orgasm, with your eyes shut, and when I opened them
again, my lips tightly pressed together to mute the obvious noises of extreme
bliss mixed with clit crushing agony, I discovered I had an audience, an older
guy who stood there watching me with something between shock and
appreciation. I jerked my hand away
from between my legs, my face burning
with shame. My fingers were wet too and
I hurriedly wiped them on the side of my skirt.
With trembling hands I grabbed the cart handle and pushed, walking as
briskly as I could considering that every step set the clothespin swinging and
bobbing.
As I passed
him he grinned. “Nice clothespin,” was
all he said and I hurried through the rest of my shopping, scared to death I’d
run into him again.
Sleep that
night was almost impossible, but eventually I managed it, even with the
clothespin on. All sorts of things went
through my brain. Why is the clothespin
hurting so much? It’s not like it is
metal with sharp teeth! Steady, non-stop
torment is what was doing it, but I didn’t have the mental faculty to do the
math. Two days of having the clothespin on, not even with that
much pressure, only removing it to use the bathroom, was having a serious
affect on me. It was like the Chinese
Water Torture. One clothespin, dangling
for an hour turned me on. One
clothespin, dangling for two days, with the added mental stress of making sure
it either stuck straight out or was mashed painfully between my clothes and my
sex, combined with a nose tweaking (that’s a metaphor ya’ll) half twist every
half hour, drove me banana fucking nuts crazy.
I stumbled
out of bed, my thighs rubbed raw from the straight edges of the
clothespin. My clit throbbed with both
sexual need and pain and I found my computer, completely intent on begging
Master Barrett for release. I couldn’t
take this. Not for another day. I opened my email but he was actually online,
waiting for me. Not good was what I
thought. I sat down, spreading my legs
as far apart as I could, almost straddling my chair, letting the air soothe the
chaffed nub between my legs. I greeted
Master Barrett, who politely allowed me to remove the clothespin. For one long moment of relief I sat there, my
skirt up around my waist, the clothespin on the desk, wet from my juices, my
clitoris throbbing in relief.
“Now put on
your butterfly clitoral stimulator. It
needs to be on low,” he ordered.
Please imagine
me quaking in absolute terror.
“I don't
think I can do this, sir.” I typed, trying not to make any mistakes. “I'm so sore right now just from the peg...
adding the butterfly....with it on. It's
just... it's been an awkward two days.”
“So? What are you for?” Master Barrett
replied.
I knew the answer he wanted. It was almost a mantra, the classic theme of
being a nympho humiliation pain slut.
“To be hurt sir. To be used and
abused,” I typed.
“Exactly. So you are going to do as you are instructed,
yes?” he asked.
“Yes sir. I'll put it on right now. It's
just... it's hard to do it to myself. Do you understand? If I was tied down or
something, and couldn't stop it, that would be one thing... but…” Master Barrett’s comment came before I
finished mine.
“I wish I was there to tie you down, but
unfortunately neither of us get what we want in that respect.”
“I know.” I typed. “Give me a sec. I'm putting the butterfly
on.” I rose from my chair and crossed
over to the closet. It only took a moment
to open my toybox, a large metal chest I keep most of my various sex toys
in. I pushed past the hemp thong, the
chastity belt, dildos and clamps and vibrators and plucked my butterfly
clitoral stimulator out of the mess of motors and plastic. Carefully I stepped into the harness, pulling
it up my legs until the little purple plastic butterfly shaped vibrator sat
directly on top of my clitoris. Just the
pressure was having an effect. I bent
over the keyboard and typed.
“Okay, it’s in place. I’m turning it on now.” I flipped the switch and gasped as my clit
suddenly stung. Every muscle in my body
tensed. “Oh... damn... that
stings.” My fingers flew across the
keyboard even as I felt a renewed sense of sexual energy flood through my
loins.
“Good,” Master Barrett said.
“No.
No it’s not good.” The typos in
my sentence were distracting, but were more a symptom of something else.
Master Barrett didn’t seem to mind. “That is what I want; for you to be
constantly tormented”
I blinked. My hips were rolling and my clit was
reporting that I was quickly approaching a nexus of pain that would floor
me. I was just to tender and sore. I typed, mostly by hunt and peck, and still
barely managed to put together a coherent sentence. Here’s exactly what I typed:
“iim not suree im goign to be able to
handle tthis very long”
Then:
“ssir I'm beign honest. I'll evventually
take a medical out iff you don't give mee a way to end this soemtime today”
Master Barrett thought for a moment, and
then sent his reply. “You can take it
off when you have completed 150 NHPS push ups. That should keep you busy for a
while.”
NHPS pushups? I stifled a groan. Worse, a hundred and fifty of them would
leave me exhausted and sore. And I still
had a meeting with Julie the next day and I knew how that would go. Do you know what a NHPS pushup is? No? Let
me describe one for you. First of all,
you get a NHPS, a nympho humiliation pain slut.
Then you strip her naked. Stuff
her with either a vibrator or vibroballs, turn them to high, and set out your
spiked tack mat. Then, with her breasts
dangling right above the mat, she is to lower herself completely on to the
ground, pressing her breasts into the tacks.
She is then to clasp her hands behind her back once, then repeat.
“Sir?” I asked, trying to ignore
the pulsing need between my legs. “Is
the requirement of the triple vibroballs or vibrator on high still active for
the NHPS pushups?”
“Of course,” Master Barrett replied
and I could hear the amusement in his tone.
“Am I allowed to cum?” I closed my eyes. My pussy was shuddering and I could feel the
pressure building.
“I don’t think you will be able to
stop yourself, will you?”
My fingers shook. “No sir.”
“Though of course if you cum it will
cost you 10 jumping jacks with 1/2 lb weights clamped to your tits,” he wrote.
I couldn’t help it. I exploded wetly, orgasming in my seat. And that was without the pair of double
vibroballs rumbling inside me. Master
Barrett enjoyed every second of it.
I hurried down to the barn. I didn’t
even bother with my jeans. They were
tossed over my shoulder. I ran barefoot
across the yard, yelping slightly as the gravel bit into the soles of my
feet. But I didn’t care. I only had one thing on my mind. Stopping the butterfly.
On a good day, when I’m not sore and
tender, the butterfly drives me crazy.
It’s small, soft, and when nestled against my clit sends me into
paroxysms of lust. I can barely stand it
for any length of time. Usually about an
hour on low, or about fifteen minutes on high is about as long as I can handle
the vibrations. But add in the facts
that my clit was hyper-sensitive and I had just cum? Well, you can just imagine what that felt
like. Think rug burn combined with
arousal. Weird huh? Yeah.
Want to know what’s worse?
Knowing that the rug burn caused
the arousal.
And so by the time I tugged the black
rubber tack mat free of the cupboard and tossed it down on the floor, I was in
quite a state. My clit felt as if I were
straddling a grinder, letting the bristle brush wheel strike it, all while
feeling the urge to fuck something, anything, in order to relieve the growing
sexual urgency between my legs. Instead,
I pulled off my shirt and bra, tossing them aside. I wasn’t wearing shorts, or even panties,
though admittedly I brought them with me.
That left me naked, holding the remote to the vibroballs, with the
purple plastic butterfly vibrator metaphorically chewing at my clit.
I looked down at the tack mat. Over a thousand tiny one millimeter long
points stuck out of the heavy rubber.
They were sharp too. Had they
been longer, they would have easily broken skin and changed torment into
serious torture. But they weren’t
longer. I turned the vibroballs up to
their highest setting, gasping loudly as they purred inside me. Then I carefully moved into position.
A normal pushup is all about working
muscles that don’t get that much use.
You suspend yourself above the ground, straight, on your hands and toes,
only to lower yourself down until your nose is almost touching the floor. Then you go back up. NHPS pushups are dramatically different. While regular pushups are designed to work
certain muscle groups, NHPS pushups are designed to do one thing: torment
sexually the one doing them.
My breasts dangled down beneath me. The first NHPS pushup is always the toughest
for me. I could see the mat, the sharp
spikes pointing up and I gently lowered myself down. Straight down. The last thing you want to do when pressing
any part of your body against a surface covered in sharp metal spikes is to
slide along it. The other aspect of an
NHPS pushup is that once you start, you don’t stop until you’re back up. So when the tip of my left breast managed to
land perfectly centered on one of the nail tips, I had to keep going. Down, down, down, the pain increasing
exponentially as more and more of both breasts were gently lowered to the
mat. But as I continued downward,
putting more of my weight on my chest, my breasts flattened out, stretching
slightly. I felt the pressure of the
tacks, the tiny pin prick bites spreading outward. The worst pinching sensation was at the tips,
working their way inward and outward, all at the same time.
Then, with a gasp of serious discomfort,
I lifted my hands off the floor and wrapped them around my back. My fingers clenched at the small of my back
and pain rushed through me. It exploded
through my breasts and down my spine to swirl through my tormented sex until it
was changed and became something else.
Then it flashed back upward to my brain, driving me up the mountain of
orgasm, literally kicking me up the trail.
I lifted myself up. There was a tingling in my breasts and as I
lifted, the mat came up with me for a good inch before the tiny embedded nails
came free of my skin. I gave myself a
quick examination. No blood. Good. The only clear spot that was free of the
thousands of little dots was the tiny portion of skin that had been lucky
enough to be positioned under the tiny charm padlock that dangled from my right
nipple. My pussy clenched around the
vibroballs and my clit reported that it was about to be rubbed right off my
body via erosion. So I did what any
normal nympho humiliation pain slut would do; another pushup.
I got tired around forty and each time I
laid down upon the tack mat, allowing my breasts to be pin pricked with my
weight driving each sharp point into my flesh, the pain increased. At forty three I exploded, thrashing my ass
up and down, driving my loins into the dusty floor of the barn as I writhed on
my tack mat. When I rolled off, a tiny
trickle of blood came from my right breast, along the bottom side. I grimaced, but honestly, I didn’t even feel
whatever tiny tear had caused me to seep.
My clit was in agony. Without the
sexual stimulation to stopgap the violent rubbing of my clitoris, I was
literally rolling into a fetal ball, crooning in physical distress.
It took
every fiber of my being not to turn off the butterfly. I wanted to so badly. I pushed my hands between my thighs, my
fingers caressing my wet petals while I struggled to keep my hands away from
the butterfly. When I was finally ready
to go back for more NHPS pushups, I remembered the last thing Master Barrett
had said to me that morning.
“Though of course if you cum it
will cost you 10 jumping jacks with 1/2 lb weights clamped to your tits.”
I almost burst into tears. Slowly I stood. I tugged the weights and my clover clamps out
of shorts pocket. With my hips once
again rolling in a provocative and quite lewd thrusting movement, the
vibroballs and butterfly shaking in combination, I clamped my recently abused
nipples and dangled the heavy weights from both breasts. Pain shot through me and with the vibroballs
remote in one hand, I spread my legs, lifted my arms, and jumped.
The only thing I can say is that I
didn’t pass out and the weights didn’t drop.
But that’s about all. I did my
ten jumping jacks, though I doubt they would have passed muster at any fitness
center worth its salt. I could barely
stand straight and I think I did one jump every thirty to forty seconds. I’m trying to figure out a way to articulate
the pain I was enduring but I really can’t.
Every major nerve bundle on the front of my body was being directly
stimulated with either crushing pain or violent vibrations. That’s the kind of thing that just makes
coherent thought practically non-existent.
When I was done with the jumping
jacks, I stumbled back over to the tack mat.
I was on my knees, getting into position, when I realized that my
nipples were still crushed in the clover clamps. I plucked the clamps off, letting out a thin
screams as the blood rushed back into the crushed tips of my breasts. Then, without waiting for balance, I dropped
down, pressed my bosom as hard as possible into the tack mat, and clasped my
hands behind my back.
I didn’t make it to a hundred and
fifty. But I at least made it past one
ten. That was when the second orgasm hit
me and this one was a doozy. This time I
let out a scream that startled the animals in the barn and left me a soggy,
barely conscious girl lying on her side in the hay and dust, twitching. When I came back to my senses, my left hand
was between my legs, ostensibly between the vibrating butterfly and my
clit. I pulled it away and immediately
felt the buzzing overload my tenderized clit.
My fuzzy brain rolled me back over to the tack mat. All I could think about was the fact that my
clit hurt. I struggled through the last
forty pushups as fast as possible. Tears
streaked my cheeks. I felt like someone
had poured gasoline over my clitoris and lit it on fire. Finally I hit fifty and I just toppled to the
side, my fingers scrabbling at the butterfly.
I didn’t even turn it off. I just tore it from my body, the Velcro
straps scratching my skin. I flung it away
and lay there shuddering, my legs spread far apart, as if exposing my clit to
the air would be enough to relieve the damage I had done.
I’m not positive how long I laid
there, but figure that I didn’t head out to the barn until maybe five thirty or
six. When I finally sat up, the
vibroballs still buzzing inside me on high and rousing me toward another
orgasm, it was ten after eight. And I
hadn’t even DONE my chores yet. A quick
examination revealed two more minor cuts on my breasts and a swollen, chaffed,
raw meat look to my clit.
But then I realized something even
more horrible. I had CUM. A second time. And that realization sent another wracking
sob through me. I struggled to my
feet. I didn’t want to do more jumping
jacks. My breasts looked like I had lost
a battle with a horde of angry killer bees who only had the option of stinging
my tits. They were red all over, looking
like a painting by Serat in which only varying shades of red were used on the
canvas. My bosom hurt like the dickens
and the last thing I wanted to do was clamp a pair of clover clamps to my nipples,
weight them, and then jump violently up and down.
I’m no dummy. This was my punishment for cumming. Plain and simple, right? This is what I’m for. If Master Barrett wants to stimulate me, to
torture me, to hurt me to the point where I can’t help but to explode, all
while forbidding me to do it, knowing that I will, then he can. If he wanted to tie me to a pole, legs
spread, butterfly vibrator on high, stuffed with triple vibroballs for a full
twenty four hours, he could. Who am I to
stop him? This is my purpose. I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut and I was
meant to be tortured.
Or am I just psychologically
damaged?
You should have seen my hand shake
as I put the clover clamps back on my breasts.
Yes they hurt, but it just melded in with all of the other pains. The weights were once more hung from each
breast and I stood carefully in position.
The first jump felt like a blow to the chest. My breasts bounced up and down, the extra
half pound of weight serving like a physical blow.
Kari once showed me a video where
a group of large breasted girls were used as gym equipment. One of the girls was hogtied and suspended
from the ceiling with her massive breasts dangling down. A young man walked up, fingers curled tightly
into fists. Then with a cruelty that
could only be described as vicious, he began hitting her tits as if they were
boxing speed bags. Her wails were
impressive, as were the swings of both breasts.
Within a minute they were bright red and he just kept at it. Frankly, I’ve always wondered what that must
have felt like.
Yeah, well NOW I don't.
Part Two Coming Soon!
