Thursday, March 21, 2013

Flick II

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.

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!


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