Valentine's Torture Party - Part One

Part One (Last Saturday)

 

            I stood there staring at the remains of Julie’s apartment.  The living room was trashed, covered in napkins and plastic cups and beer bottles and paper plates.  The floor was there, somewhere, under the detritus.  The sour odors of cigarette smoke and marijuana still filled the place and I stumbled through the litter, stubbing my toe on something hard and unyielding as I made my way to the sliding porch door.  I slid it open, gasping in a lungful of clean air, ignoring for the moment my total nudity, or the fact that another apartment building stood across a brightly sunlit parking lot.

            Conscious for the first time in hours, I wrapped one arm across my breasts and groaned.  Fresh pain circled up, taking my breath away and I looked down at the damage.  Bright red marks, deep and obvious, covered my bosom from the top of my sternum, over my nipples, and even down underneath.  Ligature marks were still visible encircling the base of each breast, and my nipples were misshapen, having spent hours in a variety of clamps that most humans would never willingly allow to be applied to their bodies.  My sex itself was swollen, the petals stained blue with little azure rivulets running down my thighs.

            I turned away, starting to shiver as the cold chilled my skin.  Stepping back into the dank miasma of fumes I again slogged my way through the party debris, heading toward the bathroom.  I tripped again though and this time I bent down and discovered one of the guests from the previous evening, a boy name George, passed out.  How the hell could twelve people make this much of a mess?

            Had it been twelve people?  I’m not sure.  I had spent much of the evening on Julie’s bed.  Just that thought made me wince and my earlier self-examination continued as I studied the crisscross welts that spanned both buttocks, not to mention the swollen and abraded state of my bright blue clit and labia.  There were still rectangular marks where the sap had struck me between the legs. 

            Both thighs were welted as well, and not just across the fronts and backs, but on the tender insides, just under my sex.  Even my feet ached and when I pulled up one foot to check the sole, I saw the red lines where the rubber bands and the cane had been smashed against my arches.

            I felt… awful.  I kicked my way through cast of clothing and another unconscious but breathing body, Mayra this time, and made my way into the bathroom.  I started tossing beer bottles out of the door, just trying not to hit anyone or break any glass and when I finally had a clear space on the floor, and had flushed what looked like puke down the toilet, I sagged against the wall and wondered…

            What the hell happened?

           

            It all started with an assignment as do most of my little bursts of insanity do.  This particular gem came from Master Dan, who has a penchant for complicated extremism, not to mention making me hurt.  It started simply.  I was to be the center piece for a gathering, the intention to be my suffering and the sexual gratification of all present – with the possible exception of me personally, though fortunately I had my moments.  I was to be abused, clamped, whipped, caned, welted, hot waxed, iced, and practically everything in between.  Considering some of the things I’ve had done to me at Julie’s place, it actually wasn’t that big of a deal.

            But what was different about this assignment was that it wasn’t a duet.  It wasn’t even a trio. It was a fucking band and I was the primary instrument to be played. Julie agreed to the whole thing and when I arrived Saturday afternoon, ostensibly to help set up for the party, I was a little surprised to find most of it already done.

            “Wow, you’ve really outdone yourself, Julie,” I said softly as I stood there in her living room.  I was naked, my clothes having been removed mere minutes before and I was ignoring the steady heat that seemed to be permeating my bosom.  Both breasts were sporting large red hand prints, on several of them, individual fingers clearly visible worked into my flesh.  My nipples were hard and I was taking deep breaths, trying to shake off Julie’s normal greeting protocol, which almost always involved a rather vigorous breast slapping that frequently threatened to knock me off my feet.

            The dining room table had been converted into a bar.  There was vodka and black cherry Fresca.  There was rum and Coke.  There were mixings for highballs and lowballs, salt for margaritas, and enough beer to fill a wading pool.  And there was food too.  A bowl the size of a tire held pretzels.  There were chips and an unopened jar of French onion dip.  There were crackers and cheese crackers and cheese puffs and cookies and my head began to swim as my brain tried to add up the calories.

            But while the food was amazing, Julie had outdone herself in the living room.  All of the light bulbs had been changed to strange colors.  Now blue and red were the predominant hues and it made me feel like I was standing in an aquarium, bubbling my way through the weeds.  Her easy chair had been pushed to one corner and about five more folding chairs had been added in various spots, practically doubling the available seating. 

            Crepe paper had been strung from the patio door shades to the ceiling fan and then into various corners, taped in place.  Balloons, in matching reds and blues with an occasional green, were hung to conceal the streamer mounts.  And centered on the wall behind the sofa was a menu.

            Or perhaps it was a price list.  I’m not quite sure how to define it.  I had to read it several times, and not because it was small either.  No, it was handwritten but drawn on a piece of poster-board the size of a freaking billboard and across the top was scrawled “Breanne’s Cost”

            Underneath the title was a listing, a rather complete listing I might add, of all the sexual services I’ve been known to provide.  It started at benign, with a hand job, then moved downward in sexual intensity.  However, it wasn’t the list that startled me. It was the cost.  I had known it was coming, but Julie had taken a few liberties with Master Dan’s original assignment.

Breanne’s Cost

Handjob – 10 strokes of rubber band to both feet

Blowjob – 10 spanks to the ass

Ass Fuck – 10 strokes to both breasts with the cane

Pussy Fuck -  10 strokes to clit, breasts, feet, and ass with the sap

            It was a scary list and from the amount of liquor Julie had available, I began to have a foreboding feeling in my stomach.  How many people were actually coming to this little shindig?  I turned around.  The coffee table, a heavy wooden monstrosity that I’ve spent hours tied and spread on, had been moved away from the sofa and positioned more centrally in the room.  Julie had also placed some specific items here and there.  A whole set of candles were arranged, with a lighter, on top of the television set.  A bowl full of rubber bands sat on a side table.  There was a fresh cut selection of willow switches, still green at the ends and plucked free of leaves.  Julie’s flogger was lying across one chair.  A roll of electrical tape was under the coffee table, lying next to rope, several skeins worth.  And Julie’s Japanese clover clamps lay on a sofa cushion, waiting for some sucker to offer her tits.

            I had brought my bag too. Julie had requested “party favors” and I had obliged.  My Core Driller dildo was there, as were my alligator clamps, Kari’s portable TENS Unit, a Wartenberg Wheel, enough clothespins to start a laundry service, and my tack mat, rolled up nicely.  Add to that my ankle and wrist cuffs and the thick leather bondage collar, and it looked like we were ready to party.

           I spent the next hour helping Julie clean her bedroom.  We changed the sheets on the bed, pulled back the comforter, cleared the floor of clothes and filled the hamper.  And yes, I did it all naked, and I even had my ben wa balls stuffed up inside me, just in case the anticipation of my forthcoming party fuck wasn’t sufficient to keep me wet.  Admittedly, I felt a bit of trepidation when Julie got out her bungee cords and hooked them to each corner of the bed.  I knew they were meant for me.  And when we had fifteen minutes to go before the first guest was set to arrive, she turned on the music, lit the candles, put ice out in the coolers, and then scattered my stuff all over the living room.

            “Let’s go, girl.  Cuff and collar time!” Julie called to me.  I came out of the bathroom, where I had put a small basket of potpourri out and used the toilet myself.  Now extremely nervous, I stood in front of Julie, who was wearing fishnet stockings, a black miniskirt, and a fishnet shirt that exposed her breasts as thoroughly as mine were. I held out my hands.  It took her seconds to buckle the thick black leather cuffs around my wrists and then she did my throat, wrapping the collar around my neck with deft fingers.  My ankles came next and I lifted each slip-on heeled foot, letting her buckle the ankle cuffs on.

            “Now, do you want to meet and greet? Or do you want to suffer right off the bat?” Julie asked me.

            My eyes narrowed.  “What’s the difference?”

            She shrugged. “Meet and greet means you answer the door with your clothespins and politely ask each guest to put one on you, wherever they’d like, before they come in.  If I were you, I’d remember their names too.  So introduce yourself and ask them each who they are.”

            I blinked. “Why do I need to remember their names?” I demanded.

            Julie’s eyes narrowed.  “It’s a test Bre.  Trust me, you will want to remember their names.”

            I shifted uncomfortably.  Did I really want to answer the door naked, repeatedly, offering arriving guests the opportunity to place a clothespin on whatever portion of my very exposed and naked body was closest?  Not really.

            “What’s the suffer option?” I asked hesitantly.

            Julie laughed.  “You get tied to the coffee table, I stuff you with vibrators, and then I put all two dozen clothespins I’ve got on you and when everyone has arrived, we’ll play a game where everyone gets to have one swing and try to remove them all from your body.  The winner gets a prize.”

            I blanched.  That sounded like a horrible game.  So let’s see.  Two dozen clothespins now, followed by a brutal flogging, or clothespins one by one, along with horrible humiliation.

            “Guess I’ll answer the door,” I said dispiritedly. 

            “Good!  Now let’s replace the ben wa balls with your vibroballs.  Here, I’ll duct tape the remote to your hip.”  And she did.  A moment later my depths were being assaulted and I was trying to deal with the very intense high level setting of two plastic spheres rattling around inside me.  Julie didn’t seem to care and poured herself a drink.

            Me? I stayed away from the liquor. I would have loved a vodka and Fresca, but when I’m doing crazy sex stuff, I try to avoid getting fuddled by anything other than massive levels of adrenaline, endorphins, and oxytocin.  Being a nympho humiliation pain slut means also being mentally sound.  Drunk girls can’t give consent to sex, even if they would have sober.  And to be honest, I’m not a fun drunk.  I get sleepy and the last thing you want is a fuck buddy or torture slut who just keeps falling over and snoring.  So I poured myself a diet Coke and waited.

            Eventually, a little after five, the first guest arrived and I resisted the urge to run and hide as the knock was almost lost in the heavy bump and grind of the music.  I took a deep breath, grabbed the bowl full of clothespins, and walked quickly to the front door.  I didn’t look through the peep hole and instead, opened it wide and tried to smile. My stomach did flip flops while my pussy continued to throttle the vibroballs buzzing inside me.

           “Holy Shit!” was the greeting I got.  A nice looking young man, about twenty or so, stood in the doorway, eyes wide, staring at me.

            I forced a smile. “No, I’m Breanne.  Thanks for coming,” I said, the words sounding a little wooden.  I didn’t welcome him in or get out of the way and he didn’t even notice. He was too busy staring at my body.  I held out the bowl full of wooden pegs.

            “Would you care to put one on me?” I asked politely.

            His eyes widened and then he grinned. “You have to be Breanne.”

            I gave him a queer look. “I thought I said that.”

            He plucked one of the clothespins out of the bowl and gave it a thoughtful look.  “Anywhere on your body?”

            I nodded, but then suddenly amended my offer. “Except my tongue please. It might be tough to greet other guests if I’m having trouble talking.”

            He laughed.  “That’s funny!  Stick out your tongue.”

            I blinked. ‘But… I said.”

            “I know.  That’s what’s so funny about it!”

            Stunned, I stuck out my tongue and the bastard clipped the clothespin right to it.  I felt ridiculous.  Julie, who was leaning against the foyer wall was laughing her ass off, arms crossed across her chest.  Her blue/green hair waved wildly and I frowned at her, my tongue hanging out and sporting the wooden peg.

            “This is not funny,” I said crossly, or tried to. It actually came out like “Dith ith noth fthunnee.” 

            Julie stepped forward and gave the boy who had clothespinned my tongue a hug. I started to shut the door. 

            “That was well done, Kevin.  Come on in and make yourself a drink.”

            It was only then that I noticed that Kevin was also holding a great big bag.  More beer, chips, and snacks joined the collection on the dining room table.  I followed them in, feeling incredibly stupid and more than a little humiliated, which of course made me more aroused, but since it wasn’t sexual humiliation, it was worse.  I was a laughing stock.  Ridiculed.  I could see Kevin glancing around the place, seeing the sex toys lying about, the prices on the wall, and I could tell that if another guest didn’t arrive soon, I wouldn’t be greeting anyone.  I’d be giving Kevin a handjob.

            But the next guest arrived on time and I was able to excuse myself from Julie and Kevin’s conversation with a short “exthuseme.”  The laughter followed me to the door.

            No words came out of the blond haired guy who stood there, a six pack in his hand and a shocked look on his face. 

            “Hi.  I’mth Breanneth.  Thankth forth commminunng.” I mumbled.

            Look, do I have to do this?  Write out the gobbledee gook?  What? Yes? It’s easier for you to laugh at me like that?  Please…. This is totally ridiculous. Hell, it’s DAYS later and I’m still feeling embarrassed.

            Okay. Fine.

            I held out the bowl.  “Wouth you likth to puth a clothepinth on me?”

            Blond guy still hadn’t said a word.  But he glanced down at the bowl and plucked one out. 

            “Uh… where…” he asked.

            I sort of posed.  “Anywheth you wanth,” I said. “Whath your name?”

            “Ian,” he replied promptly, then lifted the clothespin.  He pinched it open and I sucked in a breath around my clamped tongue. Sure enough, Ian’s peg tightened on my left nipple, crushing it firmly in the strong wooden jaw.  I winced and let out a sharp breath, trying to adjust to the pulverizing bite.  Ian seemed to enjoy my discomfort and I stepped backward, letting him in.

            The next time I opened the door I blinked in surprise and had to brace myself as a gorgeous brunette with a baby face and long dark locks practically hurled herself at me.  Before I could even react she had wrapped me in a hug that crushed Ian’s clothespin sideways, sending bursts of fresh pain through my bosom.  I whimpered and sort of returned the hug.

            “Hi Kellith,” I mumbled.

            Kelly released me and took a step back, not seeming to notice how the clothespin, which had been sticking straight out from my left nipple was now canted at an awkward angle..  Her eyes narrowed and she reached up and plucked the wooden peg from my tongue.

            “Why on earth do you have a clothespin on your tongue?” Kelly demanded.

            Relieved of the awkward clamp, I pulled my tongue back into my mouth and worked my jaw a bit. I was already sore.  “One of our guests put it there to embarrass me.”

            Kelly’s eyes widened.  “Oh.  Did I screw up one of your assignment thingies?  I am so sorry!”  Her apology was totally ingenuous and she lifted the clothespin as if intending to put it right back on my tongue.  My eyes widened and I shook my head in alarm.

            “Oh. You don’t want it back on, do you?”

            I swallowed in relief.  I had met Kelly at a club one night with Julie and she had turned out to be a softy.  She enjoyed watching my torments, but hadn’t wanted to inflict any herself.  That was fine by me.  I lifted my bowl.

            “Would you like to put a clothespin on me?” I asked softly.

            Kelly looked in the bowl, but then grinned. “Got one!” she said.  Then she looked at my nude form and studied me.  Finally she looked back up at my face. “Where would it hurt the least?” she asked.

           I pondered that.  Where would it hurt the least?  I’d never categorized that from the bottom.  Usually the list goes clit, nipples, beneath the triceps, labia, sides, and then around the breasts.  Oh.  Listing it that way was fine.

            “My breasts, but not the nipple.  Just pinch a little bit and put the clothespin on,” I replied clearly, thankful the clothespin was no longer on my tongue.

            Kelly nodded and reached up. Then she fit her peg on a bit of my bosom.  It ached, but wasn’t bad.  Then she stood on tip toe and kissed me.  It was a passionate kiss.  A soft kiss.  And it was a wet kiss.  I kissed her back, feeling a shiver of delight run through me all the way down to my purring vibroballs.  My arousal meter jumped and I felt another wave of lust rush through my veins. At that moment, what I really wanted to do was drag Kelly into the back bedroom and see how many ways I could make her cum using just my tongue!

            As Kelly turned away to head toward the dining room, I didn’t even have a chance to close the door.  Two more young men had walked up during the kiss and were enjoying the view.

            “Hello, I’m Breanne.  Welcome to the Torture Party,” I said brightly, my positive tone coming from my unclamped tongue and the left over feeling of Kelly’s soft lips on mine.  “Would you care to put a clothespin on me?” I asked, holding out the bowl.

            “You are one crazy slut,” the first young man said to me.  He had a mop of unruly blond hair.  He plucked a clothespin out of the bowl and immediately put it on my right nipple, over my piercing. I gasped as the shooting pain exploded in my breast and I hunched over slightly, fighting for breath.  Clothespins always have this effect on me.  The first thirty or forty seconds are brutal.  Then the pain dulls to a throb.  He looked at his friend who took another clothespin out of the bowl.  He was dark haired and he looked me over and then for some reason, added his clothespin to the meaty side of my breast, matching Kelly’s peg. 

            They turned to go in, but I stopped them with a gasp. “Wait! What are your names?” I begged.

            “I’m Matthew.  This is Sam,” said the blond.  Then he smiled and moved off toward the drinks.  Sam gave me a smile and then shrugged.  I watched them walk into the dining room and I shut the front door.

            Another ten minutes passed and three more guests arrived, all of them male, and they introduced themselves to me easily.  Again I was spared as each of them followed Kelly and Sam’s route, putting clothespins on my breasts, rather than elsewhere.  But when I opened the door the next time, my eyes widened in surprise as a somewhat dark skinned girl grinned at me. 

            “Mayra!” I said in shock.

            “Hello Bre.  Good to see you. It’s been a while since I’ve had you licking me.  We’re going to fix that tonight.”  Her voice was thin and reedy.

            Mayra was a large girl with massive breasts but she wore her weight well and while she could stand to loose a few pounds, I knew her Mexican heritage stood her in good stead.  She wasn’t fat by any means, she just had a lot of bulk, most of it in her bosom.  But her appearance wasn’t what fazed me.  Last time I had been at her mercy, Julie had been forced to step in and stop her when it became apparent that she wasn’t respecting my limits.  The idea of her using me was just a tad bit frightening.  She was one of the few women on my list that I would never submit to for a one on one session.  It was too dangerous.

            I licked my lips, contemplating NOT offering her a clothespin, but she took that option away from me by just reaching into the bowl and grabbing one.  I stood there, waiting, and she bucked the trend.

            “Can’t let your little clitty not get any attention, can we?” she said, bending over.  I spread my legs slightly as she pinched open the peg and immediately let it close on my slightly swollen clit.  I groaned as the discomfort of the clamp shot upward through me.  But Mayra wasn’t done.  She held on to the clothespin with one hand and began twisting it, rotating the peg and my clitoris in a circle.  Her left hand grabbed hold of the clothespin on my pierced nipple and began twisting it too.  I fell backward against the wall, agony shooting through my breast and my sex as Mayra turned each clothespin a full one hundred and eighty degrees away from normal.

            “I am so going to hurt you tonight,” she whispered to me while I shuddered and quivered under the painful onslaught of sensation.  Then she let go and I felt my clit snap back to center.  My nipple took longer and she walked away, leaving me almost blubbering against the wall, the open door of the apartment a few feet away.

            I had almost recovered when another form filled the doorway.  I recognized him too, the dark eyes, the easy smile, and I struggled to stand upright.

            “Hey, Breanne.”

            I licked my lips and sucked in another breath, which of course made the clothespins sticking out at various angles from my chest bounce and jiggle. I’m sure it looked fetching.

            “Hi Jimmy,” I whispered, still dealing with the aftershocks of the pain Mayra had inflicted upon me.  I lifted the bowl and said “clothespin?”

            Jimmy laughed and stepped into the apartment. I had met him only a few weeks before when he had been part of my third year anniversary assignment.  We had gotten along well and admittedly it was always easier to deal with people I knew, rather than strangers.  Except for Mayra.  I wish she hadn’t been invited.

            Gently, Jimmy put the clothespin on my right labia, just under my clit and I could feel the weight dangling from my petal. It was a good feeling and didn’t particularly hurt either.  I liked that.  I gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek, remembering that it hadn’t been that long since I had experienced his cock up my ass.  I reasoned that it probably wouldn’t be that long before I had it there again.  I sighed and he smiled again, and then joined the growing crowd at the table.  Some people had moved off into the living room and I looked around.  Kelly was chatting with Mayra and both of them were continually glancing over at me. Kelly had a look of chagrin and maybe concern on her face and Mayra was making strange gestures, as if she were describing some awful thing she planned on doing to me. 

            There was another knock on the door and I turned to answer it.  Two more boys were shown into the apartment and my pussy soon sported more clamps along the labia. 

            I was starting to get tired. I’d been answering the door for thirty minutes and by my count, there was now a dozen people sitting, standing, chatting, and carrying on in Julie’s apartment.  And that didn’t even count Julie or me!  Another hard, sharp, confident knock found me turning back to the foyer and I opened the door to see…

            Kari Anders; my best friend, my lover, my mistress.

Check back tomorrow to see what happens next!

 

Breanne Erickson is the author of the wildly popular confessional BDSM erotica series, "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut," available in e-book format from fine booksellers.