Two Hours

            “All of them?” asked Robert.  I glanced up at the tall and handsome man, admiring his biceps, not to mention the taut pectorals of his chest.  There was something about this man that I found intriguing, and not just because he was buck naked, his cock at rigid attention.  Perhaps it was his total acceptance of his role as Kari’s sex slave.  Or perhaps it was our relationship, both serving in our style the blond thin lady we loved.  It’s hard to explain.

           

            I was already wearing the vibrating clitoral stimulator, known as a butterfly.  It was strapped on over my waist and thighs, sitting lightly against my already some what tender clit.  It had been there over two days, frequently active, though only on its lowest setting.  A little lower, my shaven slit sported a thin wire that emerged from between the soft petals and curled around my leg to my hand, where I was holding the remote.  It was set to low and my pussy was already clenching tightly around the two plastic egg shaped bullets inside me.  The vibroballs had been on for a good portion of the last two days, the second part of a diabolical method of denial that Master Barrett had so kindly wished to inflict on me.

            “Yes, all of them,” I replied.  Robert shrugged and lifted the anal beads as I bent over the edge of the couch.  His touch was light and soft, but I still had to mentally force myself to open, to relax.  I’ve never liked things going up my ass, even cock, and taking eight rubber coated beads, each one containing a tiny motor, were not high on my list of things to do today.  Robert had used enough baby oil to make the penetration easier, if not easy and within a few minutes I was able to straighten.  I turned and looked at Robert as I felt the vibroballs churning, sending me spiraling upward toward the edge of orgasm cliff.  I reached out to him as I got close, the waves of desperation sending me into orbit.  But just as I was about to jump, or launch, or whatever metaphor you wish to use to describe orgasming, I turned off the vibroballs and then fell into Robert’s arms, shuddering.

            “Wow.  And you’ve been doing this for two days?” he asked.

            I nodded.  It had been brutal if horribly simple.  Master Barrett had instructed me to wear both the vibroballs (my double set) as well as the Butterfly vibrator.  The task was simple.   Turn on one of the vibes to low.  Suffer until I approached the edge, though not to close to control myself.  Once I was there, I was to turn the vibrator off, wait five minutes (which is just enough time to let the boiling water go back to simmer) and then turn on the OTHER vibrator, switching back and forth.  That way I was constantly wet, constantly in need, desperate from the very first moment.

            And I had gone two days.  Oh, and by the way, I wasn’t allowed to cum.

            You have to understand the first day was pure hell.  I’m used to being aroused, tormented, brought to the physical limits of sexual insanity, but this was just evil.  I could barely function.  The only time I could have the vibrators off was when I was driving somewhere or sitting with my family.  Worse, I had chores to do almost the entire day.  Do you know how difficult it is to drive a combine or set irrigators when you are on sexual edge?  There is no metaphor I can give you to describe it.  I was desperate, willing to fuck anyone and anything just to cum.  In fact, in hindsight, I have no idea why I didn’t just do it.  Perhaps it was the threat of whatever punishment Master Barrett would give me.  Perhaps it was fear that Kari might get some ideas. Or maybe it was something personal, the desire that I survive this on my own, strong of heart and will.

            I ended up repeating a mantra I stole from Jim Henson’s movie Labyrinth.  “For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom as great.  You have no power over me.”  I’m not sure who I was saying it to.  Maybe the orgasm.  Maybe the vibrators.  Maybe even to Master Barrett. But I said it and it helped me.  I wanted to finish this.

            Robert lifted the nipple clamp and set it delicately against my nipple.  The pincers bit down, but without the same sort of agony that my clover or alligator clamps seem to impart.  Instead there was just this crushing sensation that made it even harder to control myself.  Thank God I was in my five minute period of stillness, designed to give me the ability to go on. 

            “Let’s hurry. I want to do this,” I said as Robert attached the other clamp.  I swung my breasts back and forth and then nodded.  “All right. I’m ready.”

           

            Robert took my hand and led me to the second bedroom.  Kari’s condo isn’t exactly like everyone else’s.  Her second bedroom wasn’t the depository of a spare bed, bureau, and night stand.  Her second bedroom was equipped as a torture chamber/ dungeon.  A wooden horse was along one wall.  A metal and leather “I” bench stood along another.  A crazy motorized stool with double dildos sat in the center.  And of course there were a pair of stocks.  But none of these restraints were our goal.  Instead Robert led me to the St. Andrew’s Cross at the back corner, a wooden “X” shaped restraint padded in black leather and fitted with enough metal brackets to secure me in practically any way imaginable. 

           I leaned against it and let Robert secure my wrists.  He used heavy leather cuffs, the kind designed to support weight, so I figured he expected me to faint or collapse and didn’t want to break skin or hurt me.  At least, hurt me in ways not instructed by either Kari or Barrett.  A leather belt went around my waist.  Then to my surprise, he placed the support straps around my inner thighs.  My left leg went up first, bent at the knee, followed my the right.  Now instead of an X, I was left in the shape of the letter M, or approximately.  I protested.  I didn’t want to spend two hours like this!

            “This is what Kari told me to do,” Robert said apologetically.  Kari wasn’t even there.  She was at work, no doubt deep in the designs for some rich schmuck.  Robert glanced up at the clock on the wall, no doubt the most horrible torture device in the room.  He gave me a smile as I hung there like a fucking art decoration and then asked me if I was ready.

            “No,” I replied with just a bit of trepidation.  Part of me longed for this.  I was horny, so desperately horny, that the idea of finally being allowed to cum was a beautiful one.   But I was also aware that for two hours I’d hang there, vibrated beyond endurance, cumming as many times as I could. 

            As I expected, my negative response meant nothing to Robert.  He started by turning the vibroballs back on, except this time they went to full power.  Instantly my pussy began convulsing around them, squeezing and rolling them through my well in sexual bliss.  Then his finger turned on the vibrating anal beads and a whole new earthquake joined the first.  My tectonic plates didn’t handle the second epicenter well and in moments I wasn’t just heading for the cliff of orgasm, I was hurtling toward at breakneck speed and there was no stopping.

            Suddenly the clamps on my nipples joined the fray, sending even more sensorial overload to my nervous system.  I cried out, stiffening and pulling on my bonds, hanging there twitching.  It took all of four minutes for me to reach orgasm and I’m surprised I took that long.  I exploded with Robert only a few inches away, watching with deep curiosity.  It was an incredible release, one of my most powerful ever, and I literally squirted cum across the floor.  Then I slumped in my bonds, spent, exhausted, and totally blown away. 

            But as you can imagine, I wasn’t done.  With one hour and fifty six minutes left to go, I had to endure the vibrations, on high, the entire time.  Of course I was sort of out of it for the first ten minutes of that time.  My vision had darkened and most of my functioning thought centered on the fact that I felt pretty damn good.  But then the vibrations began to cut through the adrenaline and endorphin haze.  I felt a sharp pain at my clit which roused me and I bucked a little.  As my upper level thought processes came back on line, my brain realized that my nerves were still reporting stimulation, intense stimulation.  Worse, some of it hurt, some of it felt odd, and some of it felt really really good.

            Have you ever used an old fashioned typewriter?  You know, the kind with metal bars that move and strike the paper when you hit the keys?  It’s the reason that computer keyboards today have mixed up letters.  If you’ve ever wondered what “Qwerty” means, well… you can blame technology.  Typewriter designers mixed up the letters because secretaries were typing so fast that they were causing those little arms on the original typewriter to jam.  Imagine typing a word so fast that the arms all go up to strike the page almost in synchronization, only to get stuck, a mess of metal and ink.  The resulting imprint on the page would frequently be a mashed mess.

            And that was what was happening to me.  My clit, my pussy, my ass, and my breasts were all reporting different sensations.  My brain started to overload. I began babbling, begging Robert to turn off the vibrators.  It felt slow to me, but in minutes I was super aroused again, shivering and jerking like someone being shocked.  All I knew was that I was going to pop again, and this time there was an edge. 

            When I exploded the second time, I didn’t handle it as well as the first.  My vision blurred, I felt my blood pressure rise and go through the roof, and there was an edge that the first one lacked.  It was like a single line of fire, of pain, that encircled the orgasm.  And as I came back down from my heights, admittedly only halfway thanks to the vibrators, that line stayed, hurting me.

            Robert pulled out a metal folding chair from the closet and sat down across from me, his thick and very hard cock straight up.  He poured some oil on his hand and began masturbating in long slow movements, designed not to let him explode, but to keep him tense and hard.  The visual stimulation to me was almost as horrible as the vibrators and I let out a loud keening cry as I was dragged back to the cliffs of orgasm and thrown off.

            It took longer for each consecutive orgasm.  My body fought it, my brain couldn’t handle it, my clit felt as if it were being sawn off, my pussy was tighter than it had ever been and my ass was sore from clenching.  Eventually I lacked even the strength to fight the next one coming.  By the time I managed my fifth orgasm, I was a little over a hour in and I went stupid, babbling, with eyes rolling and drool coming out of my mouth.  I couldn’t take it.  I actually passed out.

            When I came too, I was still bound to the St. Andrews Cross, my legs still up, with every pore shaking under the onslaught of vibrators.  Robert was holding something nasty smelling under my nose and making sure I was still breathing.  The pain of my torture hit me like a freight train and I screamed out loud, shouting at Robert to let me up.

            But there are no safe words at Kari’s place.  Had I gone to Julie’s, I’d have at least been able to set limits.  Here, it was Kari’s desires that held sway.  It didn’t matter what I wanted.  Unless there was a medical problem, Robert would never let me down.  At least not until I was officially finished.  As I yelled, blubbering and crying, he stood up.  With strong fingers, he pushed a rubber band around my right foot.  I begged him not to, but then he began snapping the elastic against the arch.  The sting cut through me, mixing with all the other sensations.  But the newness of it, the cruelty of the torment added to the swelling need inside me and I came again a moment later, though I didn’t black out this time.  As my head was rolling and I was in lala land, Robert put a second rubber band on my other foot.  More harsh snaps followed.

This tale is no longer available on the blog and can be found in Breanne Erickson's e-book anthology "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 6"

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Breanne Erickson is the author of the "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut" series.  Check out her work at www.nymphohumiliationpainsluts.com!