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.