I tugged my smart-phone out of my
jeans pocket and hurriedly glanced at it.
I was running a bit late that morning and the sky was already
brightening on the distant horizon and the half-light of false dawn turned the
goat pen and courtyard outside our barn gray.
I clomped along in the chilly air, lugging a bucket in one hand and I
grumbled a bit to myself as I poured the feed into the trough. That done I shook my head and hurried back
into the barn where at least it was warmer, out of the wind, and an almost
balmy sixty-five or so degrees.
I tossed the bucket back into a
corner and headed straight for the pile of square hay bales I have stored in
one section of the barn. You wouldn’t
recognize it, but I had arranged those bales specifically for a significant
purpose, and I grabbed a blanket I had draped over one of the stall doors on
the way, tossing it down on one of the hay bales with a flick of my wrist.
Attired as I was, anyone seeing me
would have thought “cowgirl,” immediately.
My feet were shoved into mountain boots (they’re more comfortable than
cowboy boots, trust me,) a pair of dark blue and somewhat stained at the knees
blue jeans, a red and black flannel plaid over-shirt, under which I wore a pink
tee shirt that declared me a fan of Pepsi, which I’m not. A fan I mean. I’ll take Diet Coke over Pepsi
any day of the week.
Of course under that attire I was
wearing the usual as well. A white lace
bra cupped my 36c breasts snugly enough that tossing feed and hay around with
a bucket or pitchfork didn’t make my bosom sway, and if you went lower you’d
find a typical pair of off white, slightly frayed, bikini cut panties.
But under those is where things got
interesting.
The back pocket of my jeans held
the large purple remote and anyone with half a brain and a quick eye would see
the long, thin wire that disappeared down the back of my pants. That wire curled around my hip like a lover’s
fingers and then slipped underneath the waist band of my panties. I could feel
it snaking past my mons, the wire delicate against my folds, only to vanish
into the depths of my quite wet and pulsing sex.
It was the equivalent of a life
line in some ways, since the remote held the batteries that powered the two
golf-ball sized spheres that buzzed merrily away inside me. Admittedly, it was a distraction, but since
they were set to their lowest setting, it wasn’t a terrible situation for me. I
was pleasantly aroused, but not painfully so, and while I was wet and willing
and ready for orgasm, the vibroballs like this wouldn’t set me off, not for
hours.
And I didn’t have hours.
I unbuttoned my jeans and pushed
them down, feeling the excess wire unspooling near my loins as the remote to
the vibroballs dropped toward my feet. I didn’t bother taking off my boots and
my pants crumpled around my calves instead.
I tugged the remote free and with my thumb jacked the vibrations up to
full power, even as I reached up to the pocket of my flannel shirt, opened the
flap, and dug down, looking for what came next.
My fingers plucked a relatively
small item out of the pocket and brought it down to my lap. My thumbs fumbled
at the waist band of my panties and shoved the material downward, exposing my
incredibly damp and now shaking slit to the cool air of the barn. I had to swallow and brace myself as I sat
down on the blanket, spreading my knees wide apart, as the sensation of being
half-naked and incredibly exposed, even if by myself, made my arousal that much
stronger.
That tiny item clenched in my right
fist came forward and I hesitated, like I often do, but finally summoned
sufficient courage. Or perhaps it was
desire. Or insanity. I’m not sure. But my thumb and forefinger found the rubber
coated back edges of the jumbo alligator clamp and I pinched it open even as I
set the slightly dulled but still painful metal teeth to either side of my
clitoral hood. Slowly I reduced the
pressure of my fingers and the steel jaws clamped down. Pain shot through my sex and I let out a high
pitched whimper. I resisted the urge to close my legs, the instinctive need to
protect my delicate flower almost overwhelming me. But with the clamp sticking straight out,
chewing on my clit, I also felt the pain merge with the pleasure caused by the
vibroballs, and being exposed outside, of just being plain naughty.
My fingers flicked the alligator
clamp and another spark of agony shot through me, exploding from my clit and
radiating through my loins and then up my spinal cord, straight to my
brain. My other hand came up to my breasts
and forced its way underneath my shirt, and then my bra, only to begin teasing
the hard little bumps of my nipples. I
flicked the alligator clamp again. Then
a third time. And a fourth. Fresh pain burst upward each time, but while
agonizing, it was also arousing and by the time my fingers were flicking
rapidly back and forth across the metal vice chewing on my clit, I was
screaming out my orgasm, my hips gyrating wildly as I brought myself to
climax. Fluids squirted out of me,
splattering my jeans, the panties, a portion of the blanket and even the dusty
floor, a visible reminder of my release and when my brain finally cleared of
endorphins and adrenaline and oxytocin, I gingerly plucked the alligator clamp
from my clit, winced through the painful rush of blood back to the crushed and
bitten nub, and deposited the clip back in my pocket.
Carefully, and very aware of the
tenderness of my clit, I pulled my panties back up, turned down the vibroballs
back to their original setting of low, and then yanked my jeans back up. Again I glanced at my phone, checking the
time.
Damn. I was running late.
My masturbation had taken all of fifteen
minutes that first time and frankly I was glad that each one was a full two
hours apart. My clit was still only
barely recovered from the previous Saturday’s elemental clit torture and to be
honest my pussy still wasn’t back to normal. I was highly sensitive, easily
aroused, and my clit was still a little swollen. Though I’d lost the terrible edge that the
sanding, power-washing, blow drying, and finally hot waxing, vibrating, and
sapping I had gotten, all on my clit, I was still on edge so you can imagine
how delicate I was. The human body just
isn’t designed to absorb that sort of abuse in such a small period. So in essence, I had a short fuse.
I had finished my chores late that
morning and then come into the house halfway through breakfast. My family was gathered around the breakfast
table and I dug into my food without explaining why I was late. I could hardly explain that I’d been
compelled to attach a metal electrician’s clamp to my sex and flick it until I
exploded. While my dad would have been
fine with the idea, and probably would have wanted to watch, my mom was not
only a prude of the first degree, she would have been shocked to the point of
speechlessness. So why create those kind
of problems?
I also told them I had a few
errands to run that morning and afternoon, which was totally true, but there
was also an element of deception on my part.
I did have errands to run. But I
was also going out to handle the more diabolical parts of my sex
assignment. I finished breakfast after
every one else, and since my two hours were almost up, I retired upstairs to my
bedroom.
Just as before I dropped my jeans
and panties, plucked the jumbo alligator clamp from my pocket, and half
stripped before falling backward on the bed.
A second later the vibroballs were churning like mad inside me and I set
the alligator clamp on my clit with lightning like speed, feeling the sexual
urgency inside me build to a frantic pace.
I wanted to rub my clit, or twist the alligator clamp, but instead I did
as I had been told, as the assignment ordered, flicking the damn metal vice
crushing my clitoris back and forth until finally I brought my fist up to my
mouth and bit down on my knuckles to keep from screaming.
Was there pain? Oh fuck yes. It hurt like hell! But there was also ecstasy, a kind of
pleasure that only comes when the lines between hurt and sweet bliss are
blurred and distorted and probably in my case, warped beyond recognition. Am I sick?
Oh yes. I know it. I’ve got
issues. What kind of girl gets her
jollies by having a metal toothed monstrosity clamped to her nethers while
deliberately flicking it back and forth, making it hurt MORE?
Finished, I took off the clamp, pulled
up my panties and jeans, turned down the vibroballs, and then packed my bag for
the day.
You didn’t think I was planning on
wearing blue jeans, a tee shirt, and a plaid flannel were you?
Fifteen minutes later I pulled my
truck up along the gravel shoulder of the farm to market road that runs by the
south side of our farm. Three years ago
it was rarely traveled and I’d see another car once in a blue moon. Now after Katy’s expansion and crazy
commuters even living out in Sealy, not to mention a few of the new housing
subdivisions that have cropped up, my little farm to market road has become a
bit more active. When I was a kid I
could lean against the front gate for an hour and not see a single truck or car
passing. Now it’s more like a ten or fifteen minute window.
All of which mean that I had to
hustle. The temperature had risen with the sun but not by very much and I even
had my duster with me. I climbed out of
the truck and hurried to the front grill, a look of resignation on my face. I’ve done this so many times, either freezing
or cooking my ass off. It makes me wish
I could change outfits somewhere more climate controlled one day.
I started with my boots and unlaced
them, then peeled the socks off my feet.
That was highly unpleasant because I had to put my bare soles down on
the cold gravel. Then I unbuttoned my
jeans. I know that’s a little different
from normal, but I wanted to keep the coat on as long as possible, especially
considering there was a breeze from the north and the temperature was hovering
just below fifty degrees. I pushed my
jeans down, tugging the vibroballs remote out of the back pocket. Then my panties went down and I stepped out
of both. For just a moment I wished very, very hard that I was allowed to get
dressed piecemeal. I would have
instantly snatched the little denim skirt I was planning on wearing out of my
bag and yanked it up over my ass.
But instead, now totally naked from
the waist down, with the silly wire stretched from my pouting, glistening
petals to the hood of the truck where the remote was sitting, I began
unbuttoning my flannel shirt. My knees
knocked together in the cold and I grimaced as I contemplated taking off my
coat, then my two shirts.
That was when I heard the car
engine and I immediately dropped my hands and closed the coat tightly, covering
my exposed loins. Sure enough the car
slowed and I saw a nice looking couple staring at me as the window came down.
“Everything okay, miss?” the man
asked, leaning across his wife to look at me.
I smiled and nodded.
“Oh yeah! Everything’s okay! Thank.
This is my farm,” I said, pointing at the gravel driveway just a few feet
behind my truck.
The man was oblivious, but the
woman, her eyes tracked down my exposed calves to my bare feet and the pile of
jeans and very obvious panties lying on the ground. It didn’t take a genius to put things
together and she made some sort of remark to her husband and he glanced at me
in surprise. Then he shrugged and they
sped off.
I sighed in relief.
I hurried at that point, not that I was
lollygagging along before hand, but the moment their car disappeared over the
small hill to the west, I jerked my coat and flannel shirt off and then tugged
my tee shirt over my head.
