Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog: January 2013

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Friday, January 25, 2013

Trucks, Clocks, and Canes

01/25/2013

I sat down in my desk chair with a groan, shifting my hips and trying very hard to ignore the buzzing between my legs. Embedded underneath my tight blue jean shorts, and even below a pair of pink bikini style panties, even deeper than the wet and soft petals of my sex, two roughly spherical objects that were rattling around and clattering inside my well. A thin wire trailed outward, past my labia, down by my thigh, out of the panties and then shorts, to a small rectangular remote that was tucked into my left front pocket.

I had just endured two hours of exertion, and not the kind I prefer. If I’m going to exert myself, I’d rather be on my knees sucking cock, or maybe mashed between two guys, with one up my rear and one up my front. Hell, had in a third guy and fill every hole. Now that’s what I call exercise. Filling feed bags, currying horses, slopping pigs, spreading chicken and goat feed is not what I’d call a lot of fun.

Now try doing that with a pair of vibroballs stuffed up inside you, buzzing away at medium.

As usual, I checked my email. There was the usual junk mail, a note from Kari, an email from Kylie, and then my heart skipped a beat. There was an email from Master Brandon. The subject line read “Open Immediately.” My fingers trembled on the computer mouse but I’m a good girl and I clicked on the email and started reading it.

“Breanne, the moment you read this email, the clock starts ticking,” read the first line. I scanned the rest of the assignment, for that was what it was and my sex tightened around the vibroballs with desperation.

No cumming? Not without purchase? But… but… I was on MEDIUM! There was no way I wasn’t going to be able to keep from coming! And the punishment for unauthorized orgasm was brutal – vicious even. I bit my lip and shook my head. How was I going to do this?

The crux of the assignment was simple. I had to get my breasts beaten, and within a certain time limit. I gritted my teeth and jumped up from the chair. I didn’t have much time. I practically ran to my closet and grabbed my toy box. I dumped it out on my bed, unwilling to spend the time searching through it. I grabbed everything Brandon had asked for, mentally categorizing everything and hoping desperately that I wouldn’t need any of it.

As I stripped off my shirt and bra, I ruminated about my plan. I had a single hour in which to find a stranger, present myself and my cane, and get twenty strokes across my breasts. The very THOUGHT made my nipples tingle. I found the small box of nipplebands and as the assignment required, pulled two out and stretched them over each hardened nub.

Clamped with rubber, I felt even more arousal and I had to really focus not to let the vibrations and the tight suction feeling on each nipple send me over the edge. I realized that I had to get downstairs and into my truck as soon as possible. I’m allowed to turn off any vibrators when I’m driving and so I shoved everything, the cane, the flogger, the sap, and all of the various clamps Brandon had ordered me to take, into a canvas bag and I flew downstairs with my tee shirt in one hand. My bare breasts jiggled deliciously but I knew that no one was up, so I’d be okay.

I made it to the truck just in time. I turned off the vibroballs and settled back in my seat with a sigh of relief. Still, my sex kept squeezing and contracting around the two plastic spheres, as if it expected them to turn back on at any second. I took a deep breath. Then, realizing that I was still naked from the waist up, I slipped on my tee shirt. It was tight and without a bra, both nipples were hard little points, especially distended with the nipplebands. I let my finger graze over each tip and shivered as another flurry of decadent delight poured through me.

Tick tock! Time girl! I glanced at the dash clock. I’d already lost nine minutes! I shook my head clear of the mist of arousal and gunned the engine, peeling out and heading toward the farm to market road that runs past the south end of our farm. It took me mere seconds to get to the road and I turned toward town.

I didn’t really have a plan. It was just barely after seven in the morning, on a Thursday, and while it was a work day which meant plenty of people around, I wasn’t asking to give someone a blowjob. I was going to have to ask someone to hit me. That’s not as easy as finding a guy to fuck me up the ass, trust me. You have to be a sadist of some sort in order to be okay with taking a thin wooden rod to a girl’s breasts. Especially if she needs twenty strokes and there need to be visible welts to go with it.

I passed the gas station, the first sign of advanced non-agricultural civilization closest to my farm. One car in the lot. Cashier? Go in and beg him to whip me? No… the last few times I’d done anything there it had been a challenge. The clerks were generally Indian (not Native American) and while I’d given one a blow job once, the others had been resistant to me. Weird. I know. Also, their bathroom was outside. Not very convenient and I doubted anyone would stop there for gas in the next thirty minutes anyway.

No. I needed somewhere heavily populated with guys, guys who were constantly horny, guys who would have no problem caning my breasts, and where there was instant privacy a few steps away. That logic trickled through my mind and I grinned. It would take me a good fifteen more minutes to get there, putting me past the half hour mark, but if I did it right, I might just have a quick torment, a solid fuck, and spend the rest of the day in sexual nirvana cumming whenever I wanted.

When I got to the freeway and headed west. As I drove out of town I felt the butterflies in my stomach go into a frenzy as my nerves tingled. Part of it was from fear. I was about to do the unthinkable. I was going to a truck stop, where I would select a driver with a rig, approach him, and offer him sex in exchange for him caning my tits. That would clearly put me in the “crazy but fuckable” category in a trucker’s book, but it classified as “incredibly stupid and nuts” in mine.

This tale is no longer available on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog, but can be found in Breanne Erickson's book "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Vol. 7" Click here to check out our sample page and take a look at the amazing work of Breanne Erickson!

Thursday, January 24, 2013

New Covers

We are in the process of revising our covers for Breanne's Tales Series.

Tales Vol 1 is also currently undergoing some revisions to clean up some grammatical errors. If you've already purchased it, the updated version will be downloaded to your Nook or Kindle next time you archive and open the book! We'll let you know when we're done!

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

A Warm Breeze

I always love warm days in the middle of winter and yesterday was especially nice. The temperature hit a balmy seventy three degrees, the wind was from the south, the sun was warm and lovely, and I was trembling on the verge of absolute insanity as I laid staring up at the sky. I was naked, my nipples caught in the hard metal jaws of a pair of Clover Clamps while I struggled with the incessant buzzing of the vibroballs inside me. My hand rocked back and forth across the hemp thong, the thick knot positioned strategically over my clit. My ass vibrated from the anal beads and I groaned.

The view from the bed of my truck was slightly altered by the twenty four bags of feed that had been laid evenly across the back and while normally I’d have been well beneath the edge, and thus invisible from view of any passing vehicles, thanks to my cargo I was now literally close to two feet higher and I was perfectly exposed, my naked body draped across the plastic feed bags in an obscene tableau that practically defied understanding.

It had all started that afternoon with a desperate plea to Master Barrett. I was horny, having worn my vibroballs all morning, and with the temperature and weather so nice, I wanted something more invigorating than a simple masturbation session out at the barn. My email was simple. “I’m horny. It’s warm. Wearing vibroballs. Going to feed store. Please torture me.”

Master Brandon, with his usual skill, responded to my begging within minutes. I read his email and the bottom dropped out of my stomach, which clenched and squirmed as the realization that I had totally screwed up begging for torture hit me like a brick. I quickly gathered up what I would need, took a few minutes to stuff my vibrating anal beads up my ass, and headed out the front door. I hopped into my Ford F-150 and gunning the engine.

I didn’t make it that far. I stopped at the small gravel side road just south of our farm where I climbed out of the cab and just breathed deeply for a moment. I moved to the front of the truck and began peeling off my clothes. My boots went first, then my socks, followed by my jeans and my shirt, bra and panties, until I stood there naked. I fished the replacement outfit out my bag and stepped into the handmade hemp thong that waited for me.

I had made the thong ages ago and it consisted of one single nylon roped that encircled my waist, along with a rougher, thicker rope, that in a normal, welcoming world would have no place lying against someone’s skin. But for me, that rope was not just positioned between my legs, but folded over and deliberately tightened to maximize penetration into every crack and dip running from the small of my back to my mons.

Friday, January 18, 2013

Anniversary Assignment: 12 Hours Torment - Part Five

Part Five - 12 Hours Torment

She didn’t really tighten it beyond making sure it was going to come off, and if you know about clover clamps, you know they are designed to actually tighten the more you tug on them. My clover clamps also happen to have ridges filed into the plates, just to make them harder to slip off. As I grimaced and adjusted to the new weight and pressure dangling from my nipple, Julie attached the other one and stepped back.

I now had a steel chain running from breast to breast, dangling down almost to my belly button. Yes, it hurt, but it was a good hurt for some reason and the weight of it felt good. The chain kept grazing my belly and I tried not to move or breathe too much. Julie then picked up the small bottle of oil and I bit my teeth, trying to mentally prepare myself for this next torment. I would have preferred my grapeseed oil, but it was the Stinging O and Julie let a single drop of the pepper and cinnamon oil mixture fall on each clamped tip, changing the bite of the clover clamps into something more vicious, more evil. The tingling began, and then the burning.

The good news was that the oil would help me out in the end and so while it burned my nipples, my poor nipples, I was thankful for it. I turned toward Julie even as she picked up the first weight and hung it from the chain.

I have a set of weights that I made using my kitchen scale, a hook bolt, a nut, and several washers. I had a whole set of them. The first one was a mere half of a pound, barely negligible. I felt it. It wasn’t comfortable. But it wasn’t bad either. More like adding an extra book to an armload already being carried. I raised my hands straight out in front of me, braced myself, and then started my squats.

If you’ve ever exercised, you’ve probably done squats. They’re simple to do. You spread your legs, bend your knees and squat down, preferably touching the floor at the same time, or holding weights with your arms held out. I had my arms out alright, but the weight was dangling from my breasts. Julie’s eyes widened and brightened, clearly turned on by the visual image of me doing this. I bobbed up and down, the chain swinging, dragging on my nipples.

Breanne Erickson is the author of the popular confessional BDSM erotica series, "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut." Described as the "Goddesss of Dark Erotica" by Afterdark Online, Breanne brings her amazing tales to the page with a cheerful abandon and self-depreciating humor. If you enjoyed this Tale make sure you check out her other amazing works!

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Anniversary Assignment: 12 Hours Torment - Part Four

I started to roll off the mat as my brain began responding to the various nervous impulses coming in. My breasts reported that they hurt, lots. My clit was begging my brain to do something about the non-stop vibrations which weren’t exactly painful, but had frayed my levels of endurance to paper thin capacity. I wasn’t going to be able to stand more. My pussy on the other hand was begging for relief in a different way. It was tired, deep down tired. Hours of clenching and contracting and squeezing the plastic spinning cock had made me ache from the constant sexual movements. Now my sex was trying something different – total relaxation, the forced non-response to sexual stimuli. I knew it wasn’t going to work. Nothing is more difficult to do that NOT responding to sex. And relaxing all my muscles and actively choosing NOT to tighten, to squeeze, to accept openly and with utter abandon the actions between your legs is not easily done.

Try it sometime. I dare you. If you are a woman, you probably have already done it at one point or another. If you are a man, let your girlfriend rub your cock until you are hard as a rock and then try not to tighten, to pulse. Keep your muscles loose no matter what she does to your shaft. Bet you can’t last longer than a minute or two without tightening up again. Don’t cheat either. No pulsing.

There were other issues. My feet ached savagely, especially the arches, which had taken a lot of both abuse and pressure during the last two torments. My wrists hurt from the up and down movements of the NHPS pushups. My back ached, my legs were cramped and all I really wanted to do was collapse in a ball and go to sleep.

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Anniversary Assignment: 12 Hours Torment - Part Two

Part Two

I’m not sure if I slept or if I just lay there in a daze for an hour, but it was close to noon when Julie roused me from my self-induced semi-coma.

“Come on. We need to get through the next torment.”

I groaned and shook my head. I had changed my mind. No more torments. No anniversary was worth this. I might have been celebrating my three years of writing confessional BDSM erotica, but my breasts felt as if I’d been beaten by a crazy woman with a plastic rod while fucking a non-stop, spinning machine that didn’t care if I was over-sensitive or not.

And I had.

I sat up and took stock of my condition. My breast felt huge. Both were slightly swollen, bright red and still sporting some obvious welts that had darkened into easily visible lines. My nipples looked odd, misshapen slightly, as the swollen tips distorted the distended points. It made my piercing ache and the padlock that dangled from my right breast was cocked at an even more irritating angle than usual. But as bad as my breasts hurt, the real trouble was between my legs.

Sitting up made it more obvious, but the non-stop vibration and spinning was beginning to be a problem. I realized I wasn’t lubricating any more and I stood, moving quickly into the dining room. Julie was in the kitchen, pouring some drinks for us.

“I need to lube,” I said darkly.

She glanced at me and then shrugged. “Sure. You going to use Stinging O?” she asked.

I shook my head. Stinging O would hurt and make things worse. “Just grapeseed oil,” I replied.

“Whatever. Just do it. We need to be quick about this,” she said.

I nodded and reached into my bag. I had brought a bottle of grapeseed oil for just this reason and I began unbuckling the RVP enough to pull it away from sex. Looking past my bruised and beaten breasts, I tugged the four inch, spinning, plastic cock out of my depths and groaned in relief. It wasn’t dry, but it wasn’t soaked either, which seemed odd to me. Usually I gush in sexual juice. I’m like Old Faithful even. I’m never dry.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Anniversary Assignment: 12 Hours Torment - Part One

When I closed the door behind me, the sound of it felt like thunder on my nerves. I was trembling just a little bit. Some of it was excitement, and some of it was dread, but regardless I felt as if I were walking the last few feet of a plank, ready to plunge into the cold water swirling beneath me.

Ostensibly there was no plank. Instead I traversed a parking lot. The asphalt was pitted, almost falling apart and more gravel than tar. Years of hot Texas sun had baked it to the point where it was almost white washed, the fading parking space lines barely visible. The apartment complex surrounding the lot was hardly in better shape. The paint was peeling, the sidewalks covered with dirt slurries that had come with the rain, and the landscaping was practically nonexistent. Every time I went there I felt a surge of trepidation, just walking up to my destination. And that had nothing to do with the expectation of sexual adventure.

I gripped the large black duffle bag in my right hand and swallowed. Three years of Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Assignments were coming to an end. And a fourth one was beginning. It was difficult to wrap my mind around. In the space of three years, I’ve written two novels, six anthologies, a handful of short stories, and one novella. That’s a lot of sex. I looked toward the apartment. My blue denim duster flapped around my calves, snapping against my thick jeans. I was warm at least, wearing a tee shirt underneath a long sleeve flannel shirt. I had opted not to wear a bra that day, knowing what was coming, and both feet were stuck down into my leather cowboy boots. I even wore a hat.

Of course there was one other accessory that I should mention, and that is my RVP. That stands for Rotating Venus Penis, a particularly fun sex toy that consists of a strap harness that holds a plastic base against your clit and sex. Connected to the base is a four inch plastic dildo. A control box, or remote, is hardwired to the base and controls the two motors, one of which shakes the entire apparatus like a California earthquake and the other that makes the corkscrew shaped dildo spin like a top. As you can imagine, it is a difficult sex toy to deal with for very long.

At that particular moment though, my RVP was off. I felt neither vibrations nor spinning, and hadn’t since I first slipped that four inch dildo up into my very wet and very wanting depths. Did I want to turn it on? Oh, absolutely! But I knew what was coming, what the assignment would require, and the last thing I wanted to do was prime the pump so to speak. So instead of suffering, or enjoying as the case may be, waves of orgasmic pleasure during my morning chores, I walked around stuffed, yet un-tormented. The RVP stayed quiet.

It was still early however and as I walked across the parking lot, I glanced eastward to see the still rising sun. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. All I had done that morning was complete my chores, grab a bite to eat at a fast food joint, and drive. Now I walked carefully and quietly to my destination, facing the coming ordeal with quiet fortitude.

Quite fortitude my ass. My stomach was rumbling, and not from hunger, but from trepidation. I was scared frankly. The assignment I was facing was brutal enough without involving my friend and domme Julie. But there was little I could do about it at that point and when I arrived at her door and knocked, I resisted the urge to scream like a little girl and run away.

Julie opened the door and I blinked. She was dressed in a tee shirt that didn’t fit her, with one bare shoulder hanging out of the oversized collar. The shirt would have gone down to her thighs, had it not be raggedly cut across the torso, just under Julie’s smallish breasts, leaving her midriff bare. She was wearing a pair of boy shorts that served as both underclothes and overclothes, as if she were a guy going out for the morning paper in nothing but his boxers. Her feet were bare, but her toenails were painted a bright purple. She sported a fingerless, black lace glove on her right hand, a matching choker around her throat, and while she wasn’t wearing much makeup, mostly eyeliner and shadow, her hair was a mixture of bright blue, pea green, and garish orange. I had to look away just to give my eyes time to adjust.

She didn’t say anything to me, just stepped aside, letting me into the apartment and I crossed the threshold, knowing that my fate was sealed with that one tiny step. The door closed behind me and Julie twisted the deadbolt, a final “snick” that took every last option but one from my pantheon of choices. I turned to face her, dropping the duffel bag on the floor and she crossed her arms across her tummy and leaned against the wall. Her eyes were hard and I knew what was expected.

Like Kari, Julie preferred me nude and I took off my boots and my clothes methodically. At Kari’s place, I undress outside and put my clothes in a bag. At Julie’s place, I am forced by the environment to strip inside and my clothes are left in a large pile in the foyer. Julie is not a clean freak like Kari is.

Naked, except for the RVP harness holding the pink plastic base nestled against my sex, I stepped out onto the carpet. I closed my eyes and put my hands behind my head, lacing my fingers together. I took a few deep breaths, preparing myself both mentally and physically for Julie’s traditional hello.

A swift, solid blow smacked into my left breast, sending an impact tremor through the soft curves, across the cleavage, and into my other breast in a fluid wave. It hurt and left my nipples tingling. But before I could do more than gasp and let out a breath, Julie caught me on the backhand, striking me from the other direction and magnifying the overall assault. I groaned and Julie swung again, going back and forth across my chest with her hand until my breasts felt hot and heavy, swollen with the impromptu beating. And to think, this wasn’t even the start of the assignment!

When my breast spanking was done Julie’s palm was red and my bosom felt as if it had been run over by a steamroller and then beaten with chopsticks. I ached abominably. I groaned as I brought down my hands and then Julie was hugging me, pressing her own breasts against mine, lifting her shirt so that we were skin to skin, nipple to nipple. I could even feel the little barbell piercings she wore. Our mouths met and she was hungrily sucking on my tongue.

I responded eagerly. I was horny, wanting even, and despite knowing what was coming, I desperately wanted relief as well. Julie finally released me, only to take a step into the apartment, practically begging me to follow. She glanced at the clock.

“It’s a little after eight. Let’s not start things off until eight thirty. That way it’s easier to keep track of the time,” she said.

I shrugged. “Whatever works for you,” I replied. “But what do you want to do until eight thirty?”

She grinned and grabbed my hand. I was pulled over to the sofa and watched as Julie pushed down her boy shorts, exposing the delicately shaved slit and pink wetness. She put a hand on my shoulder and pushed me to my knees. I reached up and tugged down her boy shorts, pulling them off one dainty foot. She sat down, spreading her legs wide apart and I leaned in, tongue extended, taking a taste of her.

She smelled like strawberries, at least right at first. She must have showered before I came over because her skin felt soft. It took a minute of licking before I tasted the musky salty flavor of her arousal and then I focused on her clitoris, listening to her moans of pleasure as I tantalized her. Unlike Kari, Julie has no trouble cumming from a variety of stimuli. I felt her fingers entangle in my hair and she held my face against her sex, rubbing my nose up and down her slit. Suddenly she let out a wild yell and a flood of juice boiled out of her, soaking my cheeks. I gasped for air, bubbling.

She let me go and I fell backward, sucking in a breath. Julie’s eyes were unfocused, a little dazed and I settled downward, waiting for her to recover. She did eventually, a few minutes later, and got up, still naked from the ribcage down, and padded into the back bathroom. She emerged again dry and wearing a delighted smirk on her face.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

I nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

She shook her head. “I’m looking forward to this. Twelve hours of torturing you. Want to guess how many orgasms you’ll have?”

I frowned. “I don’t think so.”

Julie grinned. “I’m hoping we beat your record. Twenty one right?”

“Yes, twenty one.”

“So that’s what we’ll shoot for.”

I gave her a cross look. “That’s not the point of this assignment. It’s to test my endurance.”

“Oh sure! I know,” she said, waving off my protestation. She checked the time. “I think we’re ready. Come here.”

I padded over to her, the remote of the RVP stuck in the strap harness that held the plastic toy to my sex. Julie plucked at the little plastic toy controller and I gasped as I felt it rumble to life. My pussy tightened and then the plastic cock inside me began rotating slowly. I sighed, mouth open, eyes closed. But then, the vibrations picked up and I groaned.

“Julie? It’s supposed to be on low. That feels like medium,” I said softly.

Julie grinned. “I know. I’m changing the setting. I want you on medium.”

“But, it’s supposed to be on low! You aren’t supposed to change the assignment,” I protested.

“Nonsense. All of your readers know that I’m allowed to make things harder and more difficult for you. So now instead of lasting an hour or two on low before your first orgasm, you’ll be cumming in about thirty minutes. I like the idea of you suffering all day at medium with that thing spinning inside you.”

“But…” I started to say and she grabbed my nipple, pinching it hard and pulling me toward her with a twist.

“Would you rather spend the next twelve hours with it on full power, vibrating and spinning inside you?” she asked.

I was actually afraid she might do that and I shook my head. “No thank you,” I whispered.

“Good. Now shut the fuck up and go get your candles and set them up. I want them burning for at least thirty minutes before you put them out.”

Already I felt the tension between my legs increasing steadily. Under normal circumstances I can handle a low intensity vibration for hours before exploding. But that was with something like vibroballs. The base of the RVP touched my clit as well as my entire labia, thus doubling the amount of sensation caressing me. To be honest though, the rotation is what I’ve always had a problem with. I’ve never been able to endure long periods of spinning plastic cock, no matter what setting. I’ve never even lasted an hour. So Julie’s claim that I’d last beyond nine thirty was a crock. We both knew it too. But now, with the vibrations at medium, I’d be lucky to last twenty minutes.

I dug through my duffle bag, trying to ignore the steady churning inside me. The vibrations were tough to deal with as well and I focused on putting the two small bayberry scented candles on the dining room table and lighting them with one of Julie’s cigarette lighters. When I was done, I padded back into the living room and knelt at Julie’s feet. She was draped across her sofa and motioned me closer. As soon as I was in the spot she wanted, she reached out and began caressing my breasts, teasing the nipples and tugging on my piercing and padlock.

I was about three quarters of the way toward popping like an over-inflated balloon when Julie arbitrarily decided it was time for me to do my very first torment. She stood up, tugging me to my feet by the nipple, and leading me to the dining room. The flickering flames were reflected in the pools of melted wax that capped the tops of both votive candles. Julie pushed me forward and I stood there, swallowing hard, butterflies in my stomach, an earthquake between my legs, and a drill spinning into my depths, mining for whatever fluids might be deep beneath the surface.

I closed my eyes and bent over the table, my chest hovering six or seven inches above the candles. I felt the heat wash over my nipples, caressing me, sliding up through my cleavage and even touching my cheek. Julie reached out, checked the position, and then put her hand on my shoulder.

“Wait just a moment, Bre. Not yet.”

I choked back a protest and waited while Julie ran into the back bedroom. I stayed where I was, bathing my chest with the heat of the lit candles, my nipples dangling above them.

Julie ran back to me with a grin on her face. She held up a roll of black tape, the kind used to censor girls all over the world. Actually it was just black electrical tape but she quickly pulled a small length off the roll and cut it with a pair of kitchen scissors. Then she set it across the padlock that dangled down from my right nipple. She taped the metal square to the bottom of my breast. Bitch.

“You’re set, girl. Do it.”

It took me a moment to get my moxie, but then I did it. Fast is always the way to go, just so you don’t get burned, and I dropped the final six inches in less than a second, mashing the tips of both breasts into the flaming wicks. I didn’t stop either, I kept going until both nipples were down, coated in the melted wax, burning me to cinders and leaving me gasping and squealing, my legs buckling. I pulled back and two strands of smoke flew up from the candles. Both of my nipples were coated in dark red wax, the turgid and now quite hot bumps sticking straight out.

Some of it hadn’t cooled yet and had run in rivulets down the underside of my breast. I shook, my fingers cupping my breasts as I struggled against the pain. But then the sensations of the RVP slammed into me and at exactly 9:03am I exploded like a stick of dynamite with a short fuse. I cried out and fell back against the wall while my knees knocked together. Suddenly my breasts weren’t hurting. The scorching wax seemed to add something to the stirring vibrations coming from between my legs and would you believe, that just for a second, I wished I was getting hot waxed down there as well?

As soon as the wax pasties had hardened Julie took me by the hand into the kitchen and made me hold her trash bin under my breasts. She grabbed a wooden spoon from a kitchen drawer and began whacking my nipples, first one and then the other, splintering the wax into chips and letting red flecks fall away from my boiled skin. It hurt, but I was already struggling with the sensorial aftermath of the RVP still churning and shaking away between my legs.

Finally Julie finished and I was sent back to the living room to await either my next orgasm or the next torment, which ever came first.

The directions provided by Master Salvador were quite explicit about the torments and they weren’t connected to the masturbatory antics of my Rotating Venus Penis. Each hour Julie was to deliver one of the torments, most of which were inflicted to my breasts, though eventually my feet and ass were to join the fun. But through it all I endured the steady thrumming and spin of the RVP. And that was the whole point.

The second orgasm came before Julie inflicted the second round of torment and it happened at about 9:40am. To me, it has always seemed odd that for awhile, my endurance actually decreases, at least until sensitive nerves are frayed and the constant stimulation turns to discomfort. I sat there on the easy chair shuddering and moaning as the RVP spun and shook, sending me onward toward sexual oblivion. Julie enjoyed the show and waited for me to calm down, but noted that calming down wasn’t much of a statement considering that after two orgasms I still had the RVP swirling and rumbling between my legs.

I was starting to get a tad bit sensitive, just enough to put an edge on the sensation when she announced it was time for another torment. There were twelve in all, with one already finished, with no two alike, and while Julie had to complete all of them, as did I, she had the right to choose what order the torments were to be delivered. She walked into the living room after rifling through my duffle bag and she placed a small plastic container and a six ounce bottle of oil on the coffee table.

My nipples tightened.

I put my hands behind my head, knowing damn well what was coming. My sex tightened too, wrapping around the four inch spinning cock and sending delicious shivers up through my body. Julie uncapped the little bottle of oil and lifted it over my bosom. A gentle squeeze put several drops on the upper slope of my left breast. Even as the oil slipped down toward my nipple, she did the other side. Then with the forefinger of both hands, she reached out, dipped into the oil, and began smearing it across the tips of both breasts.

The first sensation was olfactory. I smelled cinnamon. Lots of cinnamon. Then there was a tingle, a cool tingle, very similar to muscle relaxant cream. As the tips of my breasts began reacting to the chemical stimulant, another sensation arrived, a sort of gentle heat that steadily grew until it overwhelmed the cool tingle and began burning in earnest. Stinging O oil is a concoction of my own design, a mixture of grapeseed oil, cinnamon oil, and pepper oil, though admittedly I sometimes opt for mint oil rather than cinnamon. It’s not a recipe that I can mass produce since depending on the oils you purchase, the strength of the Stinging O can change dramatically. Each batch has its own characteristics. Once I made a bottle that was so hot that I literally burned for days. In general however, it is one cup grapeseed oil, an eighth of a cup cinnamon oil, and a quarter cup of pepper oil. I never put in a quarter cup of pepper oil all at once. I start with an eighth of a cup and see how strong the burn is. Be warned, be careful if you try this at home. I’m not responsible for your cooking mistakes.

But right then, in Julie’s living room, with my breasts oiled and glistening and burning and tingling, the torment was just right. It was a very different feeling than the candle wax, which had suffused deeply into my chest. This sensation was all surface and I knew it, like ants crawling along your skin. As the distinct discomfort increased at the tips of each breast, I squirmed, almost as if I were trying to get away from the sensation.

Julie brought my attention back to my situation instead of the chemical fires smoldering on my nipples. She popped the lid off the plastic container and upended it, pouring out a dozen or so wooden clothespin across the coffee table. Would you believe that my sex literally tightened spasmodically around the RVP? Even without a single clothespin on me I was getting close to another orgasm. It was insane. I was hurting, my sex was highly sensitive, my nipples were taut and ablaze, and I was about to cum.

She put the first clothespin on my right nipple, sticking straight out. I groaned, my hips jerking as my body coped with the new torment the only way it knew how. The second clothespin matched the first, except on the other breast. The pinching should have hurt me, at least a little, but instead there was a flash of heat, of light, of nirvana even, and my orgasm started even as Julie grabbed more clothespins and stuck them willy-nilly on my body. More went on my breasts but then Julie began clipping them to the soft flesh of my upper arm, along my side, and then my lip. I didn’t care. I was too far gone, lost in the music of a symphony, the harmonies of each instrument of torture blending into a crescendo of orgasmic ecstasy that made it impossible to pick out each individual sound.

I collapsed to the ground at 10:05am, twitching as the music ended. The RVP still buzzed against my clit, my thighs pressed tightly together making little difference to the stimulation being inflicted upon my clit. My breasts burned from the Stinging O, and the clothespins were merely salt on the wounds. They hurt, but only lightly, more an irritant than anything else. To be honest, the worst discomfort came from between my legs.

I’ve said this a million times, but believe me, while women are multi-orgasmic in the general sense, we are NOT equipped to have non-stop sexual stimulation of our genitals, especially clitoral stimulation, like the kind being inflicted upon me by the RVP. Granted, it wasn’t as bad as my butterfly clitoral vibrator, but it wasn’t exactly fun either. Add in the spin of the plastic cock embedded inside me, and you might be able to understand that there was lots of stimulation I had to deal with. Most women can’t handle it. In fact, technically speaking, neither can I. I get over-sensitized, my nerves overloaded with input, and regardless of how well lubricated I might be, my mind begins interpreting the excess sensory input as acute discomfort, even pain.

Most women would put a stop to it. But me? I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut, and pain for me, especially sexualized pain, happens to be a turn on. Where another woman, like Kari, or even Julie, would yank out the RVP and sigh in relief, I curled up into a fetal ball, shuddering and whimpering, the clothespins digging into my flesh, my breasts still smoldering with chemical induced heat, and slowly allowed the discomfort to turn to pain, which eventually became arousal, which changed the pain into discomfort and then the discomfort into want. By the time forty five minutes had passed, I was kneeling again in front of the sofa, manipulating a vibrator in and out of Julie’s sex, wanting my own orgasm.

Julie came rather quickly, which wasn’t that much of a surprise. She made me lick the vibrator clean as she stood up and again marched, naked from the waist down, out of the room. I wondered what was coming next and my eyes widened in alarm as she came back into the living room with a thin plastic rod.

“Stand up,” Julie demanded.

Trembling, I climbed to my feet. The RVP spun and rumbled and the clothespins on my breast bobbed and wiggled. The burn from the Stinging O had finally faded into practical nothingness, but that didn’t change the fact that my sex felt as if I had been fucked with a sandblaster and then put back to work.

“Now put your hands behind your head and stick your tits out.”

Tears formed in my eyes as I realized what was about to happen. There were three torments involving the cane, and all were unpleasant. But one involved my bottom and another my feet, and I had been hoping she’d spare my breasts. Now I knew that the ass caning and bastinado would come later, while my already tender breasts would receive their crisscrossing welts now. I bit my lip, choking back the coming sob.

She began to reach up as I arched my back and presented my bosom. For a second I thought she was going to remove the clothespins first, but instead she just wiggled the one on my left nipple up and down, then twisted it, sending shooting pains through my breast. Just as I was about to crumple again, she let go and let me suck in a few quivering breaths. I recovered my equilibrium, if not my composure and then Julie took a single step back, raised the plastic cane, and swung it at my chest.

The plastic rod landed at an angle, impacting just above both nipples and snapped downward across my areola, snagging the clothespins and ripping them off the tips of my breasts. The pain was beyond description. I screamed and my hands came off the back of my head and cupped my breasts. I fell backward, landing on my ass as tears streamed down my face. Julie didn’t like that and reached out with one hand, grabbing my hair and pulling me back up.

“GET UP, BITCH! YOU STAND THERE AND GET THOSE TITS OUT OR I’ll HURT YOU SO BAD YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO FUCK FOR A MONTH!” she screamed at me. The pain in my scalp was enough to get me heading in the right direction and I sobbed crazily as I once more stood and put my hands behind my back. A quick glance down through my tears showed me a bright red welt that crossed both breasts along the upper slope.

“Spread your legs wide,” Julie snarled.

I opened my legs. She wouldn’t hit me there. The RVP was in the way and I knew she wouldn’t remove it. She did it to make it less likely I’d fall to the ground. Or maybe it was to increase my sexual wantonness. I’m going to admit that the stroke that took the two clothespins from my nipples made my arousal small and insignificant.

She gave me maybe a minute to both recover and to anticipate. But eventually she again stepped to my side, raised the cane, and brought it whistling across at my breasts. This time it impacted directly on my nipples, smashing them backward into my chest, flattening my breasts, and leaving a thick red line cutting directly across my bosom. Again I wilted like a flower, but I managed to remain upright at least. The pain was brutal, awful even, but my body’s natural defenses began to kick in and I tightened around the RVP. That was the saving grace, the keystone, and even before she struck again, my loins began pumping, thrusting against the plastic cock and vibrations with need and energy. It was the only thing I could do to siphon off some of the excess hurt. I converted it into sexual energy.

Julie set to work, matching my thrusts with angry flicks of the cane. While none of the following strokes seemed to have the same intensity of the first two, she laid them all on my breasts, scoring me over and over until my chest was hot and heavy, swollen flesh capped with two dark red nipples. It became impossible to see the red welts since so many were overlaid across each other, but you could feel them, the raised flesh reacting to the horrible impacts. I can still feel some of those welts now as I cup my breasts, remembering.

All in all, Julie knocked all of the clothespins loose, even the ones on my arms and sides, just by hitting my bosom. I rocked back and forth, but managed to stay upright through the entire set. When the fiftieth stroke landed hard and I almost burst into a fresh round of tears, Julie dropped the cane, grabbed hold of me, and smashed me against the wall. Her body molded to mine and her mouth came up, pressing against my lips as her tongue sought out mine. The kiss was fiery and passionate and then her knee came up, not with force, but with pressure, and she moved her leg, pressing it against the base of the RVP.

I came, right there, at 11:09am, in her arms, her tongue in my mouth, her knee between my legs, quivering like jelly, my breasts hurting horribly, but skin to skin, the heat of our embrace the final flambé I needed to be finished. The explosion rocked through me and I clung to her, kissing her back, my body thumping against her leg desperately. Everything faded, molding and melting and becoming and my world blurred as the most powerful orgasm I had experienced yet that morning blasted through me like a bullet train going through a dark tunnel. Flashes of light went past my eyes; I felt the roar of movement, of speed and need. And then, Julie slipped one arm around my shoulders and helped me move the four steps to the sofa. She laid me down as I quietly sobbed, unable to cope with the dichotomy of agony and ecstasy.

Part Two will be posted tomorrow.

Breanne Erickson is the author of Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut, a six volume series of confessional BDSM erotica! Check out her work at Michael Alexander Stories!

Michael Alexander Stories

Twenty ago Michael Alexander began writing erotic BDSM fiction. Over thirty stories and six novels later Michael started his own blog and website. Join us here at the blog for behind the scenes glimpses, news, vignettes, and excerpts from www.michaelalexanderstories.com

Breanne Erickson, self-proclaimed Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut has been delighting readers with her "Tales of a NHPS" series for the last two years. Her sexual escapades and mis-adventures are funny, erotic, and appetizing anecdotes that please the senses and serve as a reminder that the BDSM lifestyle isn't just about dominance and submission, but love, respect, and just a touch of humor. Breanne has been co-authoring Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog since January of 2010.

Michael Alexander Stories presents a vast new array of erotic fiction, both in style and in content, bursting with new characters, innovative situations, original plots, and fresh models, all while keeping hold of the characters and settings you may have come to know and love so well. It serves as a foundation for the amazing novels and stories of Michael Alexander and Breanne Erickson.

Check this blog every day for your regular dose of BDSM erotic excitement!