Wednesday, June 13, 2012

It Never Ends

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”
“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!

1 comment:

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