This might sound odd, especially coming from me, but I’m usually not one to stand on a soap box, or a stage for that matter. Despite my proclivity for garnering attention in public, doing so in any kind of official capacity makes me tongue tied, forget what I’m trying to say, and wobble a little from nerves. Stage fright is a big issue for me and I think that’s what makes me respond so well to public humiliation. After all, if I was at ease getting stripped, punished, and sexually abused in front of everyone, I wouldn’t exactly be into “humiliation” would I?
I pulled up into the gravel parking lot of the fraternity residence located adjacent to my alma mater and licked my lips. Cars were everywhere, indicating a full house. At its peak, there were generally around fifty guys living here at any one time. Tonight I had little doubt that all of them would be there.
My palms were damp and I admit that I toyed with the idea of just turning my truck around and leaving. Had it just been something sexual that I was expecting, it would have been easy. I could have entered the house and disappeared into an upstairs bedroom, the line would have started, and I’d be screwed silly for the next eight hours non-stop. But it wasn’t just sexual. In fact, it didn’t have to be sexual at all, and that was the weird part.
Awhile back I got chastised for making bad jokes on Twitter, the online social medium that for some reason seems to encourage people to either utter inane nonsense or attempt witty pontification without much success. Mostly I used it to keep people informed of my daily toy regimen, since evidently there are some weird people out there who get their jollies by knowing “what’s up” the nympho humiliation pain slut. Usually it’s a dildo, or my vibroballs, or the RVP (Rotating Venus Penis), and usually I’m either cumming or going, one way or another. But sometimes, occasionally, I’ve been known to utter things like, “I’m thinking of taking a hot shower. That’s like a regular shower but with me in it.” Cheesy? Absolutely. Funny? Well, maybe.
Anyway, I got verbally spanked for my jokes and then it was suggested that I be punished for every bad joke I had ever uttered on Twitter. Well, I wasn’t going to go back through two and a half years of tweets, so the individual setting this up decided that simple arithmetic would help. He assumed two bad joke tweets a month (which I seriously disagreed with) times the number of months I had been tweeting, which worked out to around twenty eight. Round it out to an even thirty, and an assignment was born.
I was already dressed for the occasion and I looked down at myself. Sexy is a word that frequently describes me, but tonight I had gone all out. First, I was all in white, which is a dazzling color on me, especially in contrast to my hair, which I had freshly dyed a few days before. The bright, fire engine red locks cascaded down past my bare shoulders, almost reaching to the white tube top I was wearing. It was stretchy and the material was thick enough that you could only see the indentation of my nipple piercing, not to mention the small charm padlock that dangled from my right nipple, if you were really looking for it. My midriff was exposed though, a broad expanse of taut white belly that ended just below my hips with a matching white tube skirt.
In fact, now that I think about it, I could probably have switched the skirt and tube top without much trouble. I had an assignment like that once, a long time ago. But this night wouldn’t include anything like that. In fact, if everything went well, my clothing would stay right where it was.
In case you’re wondering, I wasn’t wearing a bra. It would have been very obvious and since the tube top basically just covered my breasts, it wasn’t like I really needed one. And I wasn’t wearing panties either, not even a thong. My freshly shaved slit was bare, less than an inch above the hemline of the stretchy skirt, and that was when I was standing. Sitting down my clit was visible unless my thighs were pressed tightly together.
My legs were bare, no stockings, and I didn’t mind. I’m not a fan of stockings, though I have a few pairs. They run. They tear. They’re pains in the ass to put on sometimes, and frankly, my legs are smooth enough and pretty enough that I don’t really need the added help. Add my pair of crystal fuck me heels, the stripper shoes that add about eight inches to my height, and you can easily picture me getting out of my truck.
Oh, I guess I should mention I was following NHPS Rule #1, which states that nympho humiliation pain sluts like me have to be stuffed at all times. In my case, my vibroballs were nestled quietly in between my legs, the little wire extruding from between my wet petals, while the remote control was tucked into the waist band of my stretchy skirt at the small of my back. The vibroballs were buzzing along on low, not enough to send me over the edge, but definitely enough to keep me aroused.
I reached back into the truck and grabbed my bag, feeling its hefty weight. At that moment all I could do was hope I wouldn’t need a single thing out of it. I slung it over my shoulder and slammed the truck door shut. Then I faced the fraternity house and gingerly picked my way across the lot, taking care not to fall.
I knocked on the door and was instantly greeted by one of the freshman guys. I recognized him from Christmas and gave him a quick peck on the cheek while he ogled me. The foyer of the fraternity house has a massive stair case to the right, while the large common room dominates the entire bottom left side of the building. The upstairs is dedicated to the dorm rooms, and the bottom right side to their library, kitchen, utility room and god knows what else. I’ve rarely seen that part of the building.
But there was a commotion going on in the common room and I stuck my head in and peered around. It looked like the entire compliment of fraternity members, as well as quite a number of their friends, were sitting in the common room. Tables and chairs had been set up and there was music playing. Food and drink was set out and people were getting up and getting beers and peanuts and pizza and then heading back to their chairs. But what really got to me was the fact that the normally bright overhead lighting was off, and near the back wall, just beside the pool table I had once been sexually sacrificed upon, was a makeshift stage, brilliantly illuminated with a few overhead spot lights.
I swallowed. “I don’t think I can do this,” I muttered to myself.
“Of course you can,” Zach said in my ear, startling me. I jumped and whirled and then promptly lost my balance. I had to reach out and grab him to keep from falling on my ass. He clearly didn’t mind and I felt one hand on my hip and the other on my breast. He was copping a feel!
“Are you ready?” he asked as I pulled away slightly, giving him a glare.
I rolled my eyes. “Hardly. This is NOT my forte.”
Zach laughed. “We’re looking forward to it,” he said, grinning.
Now my eyes narrowed. “You’re looking forward to what happens if I flub up.”
He shrugged. “That too.”
I sighed. I had spent the previous week studying, hitting the books and doing computer research until I had memorized the material. I practiced in front of the mirror, even in front of my parents, eyes bright, trying to maintain my composure. You see, my punishment for telling bad jokes on Twitter was to do a better job. To be more funny. And woe betide me if I failed.
“Is everything in here?” Zach asked, reaching up to pull my bag off my shoulder. I let him, nodding.
“Good. I’ll go get it all set up on the pool table so it’s near at hand. Then I’ll get everyone quiet and introduce you.”
I swallowed, butterflies in my stomach almost making me sick. My sex tightened around the buzzing vibroballs, a steady sensation that almost felt like a crutch. Zach grinned, patted my shoulder, and worked his way through the crowd. I watched from the foyer entryway as he got to the pool table. He opened my bag and began to plumb the depths. The array of items he laid out on the table would have intrigued a medieval Church Inquisitor into thinking a female witch or heretic was about to be brought to his dungeon. Finally Zach finished and I watched as he picked up the pair of thick leather wrist cuffs as well as one of my two foot lengths of chain, the one with the clips on both ends. Curious, I wondered what he was doing but he just stepped up onto the stage and waved at the crowd. He reached into one corner and to my surprise pulled an actual microphone stand, complete with microphone, forward and tapped it. I heard the noise over the crowd. A sound system? Really? I felt a new surge of terror.
“Hey everyone!” Zach said loudly. The crowd began to quiet.
“Hey, I just want to thank everyone for coming tonight and I hope that you really don’t enjoy tonight’s routine. Seriously. I don’t want to hear a single laugh, or snort, or anything out of any of you. You all know how this works, so with that in mind, I’d like to welcome Breanne Erickson, our very own nympho humiliation pain slut and bad comedian to the stage!” He pointed to the back of the room, right at me and everyone turned and stared, even as a round of applause began and then increased into a thunderous noise.
I froze in stark terror but then grinned with this absolutely fake smile that probably looked real enough. I call it my “million watt smile.” Slowly I started forward but a chant of “Breanne, Breanne, Breanne” echoing through the room made me pick up the speed as much as my stupid shoes would allow. A number of guys reached out and patted my rump as I walked by and I saw a lot of familiar faces. It didn’t take me long to realize that I’d been intimate with at least ninety percent of the people in the room. That very fact settled me down enough that I was able to get to the front of the room without falling or fleeing and I stepped up next to Zach on the wooden, makeshift stage, the bright spot lights illuminating me perfectly in the semi-darkness of the makeshift comedy club.
“Hey Breanne!” Zach greeted me, as if we hadn’t just spoken moments before. “What’s up?” he asked, motioning me toward the microphone. I gave him a glare, trying hard not to loose my fake smile. How could he ask me that in front of everyone?
“You know better than to ask me that question,” I said, somewhat coyly, hoping I wouldn’t have to actually answer.
Zach laughed. “Yes, but in this case, I think we all want to know,” he said brightly.
I licked my lips, suddenly feeling a wave of anger. “Vibroballs. I’ve got a set of vibroballs up inside me.”
He nodded knowingly and I heard a sort of murmur from the crowd. “In case any of you weren’t aware, Breanne is required to keep a sex toy in her pussy at all times, just so she’s ready for sex at any moment.”
Yeah, like everyone didn’t know that already. Even the girls who were present either seemed to know or didn’t care. I tried to see expressions, but the lights blinded me and I could only see a few faces. Another wash of panic almost had me running off the stage, but Zach solved that by holding out the leather wrist cuffs.
“So let’s get you prepped!” he announced.
If he hadn’t told me prior to getting up to the stage exactly what he intended, I would have resisted, but we had settled the issue a few days before. That’s why I had brought the cuffs in the first place. I held out my hands and he quickly buckled the thick and padded leather manacles around my wrists. Then he grinned. He clipped the steel chain he had plucked from the pool table to the silver circlets embedded in the sides of my cuffs, and thanks to his tall height and the fact that we were at least a foot and a half above the regular floor, reached up and slipped the center of the chain over a thick hook screwed into the ceiling above me.
I immediately had to stand on tip toe, which is something of a challenge when you’re wearing fuck me high heels, but it wasn’t quite a debilitating stretch. I pulled downward and was surprised to find that the hook could actually support my entire weight. I dangled, only barely able to keep myself from twisting and Zach patted my rump.
“Well, that does it! I think we’re all ready to be entertained, Breanne! Let’s hear your best material! Everyone! Give Breanne a round of applause!”
The room erupted into clapping again and Zach stepped off the stage and stood next to the pool table. He crossed his arms and gave me a big smile. I took a deep breath. The lime light was mine. It was time for me to shine.
“Hi guys,” I said, struggling to find something even close to confidence somewhere in my brain. It isn’t easy to actually address a crowd when you’re literally bound on stage, body taut, your blood pumping with adrenaline from the fight or flight response. “I’d like to say it’s nice to be here, but the truth is that ya’ll have a very different idea of what ‘come on over and hang around with us’ means.”
It was off the cuff, totally lame, and considering the crowd’s reaction, not even funny. But there were a couple of snickers that was enough. I had memorized a ton of jokes and all I needed was for ONE of those fifty or so people sitting out there to laugh, or chuckle, or even snort. A single sound was all the protection I needed. I had flubbed up my opening and accidentally said something funny – one joke down! Twenty nine to go! Confidence rushed through me and my smile went from wooden to warm.
“If you didn’t know, I’m from a little west of here and we’re real big into farming. A little while ago three brothers were driving through our town late at night when their car died. They walked a mile or so to the nearest farm house and the farmer agreed to let them spend the night. He turned to the first brother and said “you can sleep with the pigs.” The second brother was told “you can sleep with cows,” and to third and youngest brother he said “I like the look of your jib. You can sleep with my six daughters.”
I paused momentarily to take a breath, then went on with the punch line. “In the morning the farmer asked all three men how they slept. The oldest brother was grumpy. ‘I slept like a pig,’ he muttered. The middle brother nodded. ‘I slept like a cow,’ he replied. The third brother, who appeared very tired, smiled. ‘I slept like a rabbit,’ he explained. Even the farmer looked confused and the youngest brother nodded. ‘I went from hole to hole to hole to hole…”
You could hear a pin drop after I delivered the punch line. No one laughed. No one chuckled. Hell, there wasn’t even a cough. My eyes darted back and forth for a moment and my confidence shattered. I saw big smiles, but that was it. For a split second, I wondered what had gone wrong. The silence was deafening and then Zach stepped up onto the stage, coming to my side.
“Well, that was certainly an amusing joke, Breanne. Too bad everyone thought it was lame. Unfortunately there are repercussions for telling rotten jokes.” He stepped up behind me and I felt his fingers slide down my arms, tickling me lightly as he slipped his fingers into the elastic tube top. Then without even a warning, he pushed my top down, exposing both my breasts. The crowd roared with approval and Zach stretched the top outward, working it down my body. For a moment, I thought he was going to snag my skirt as well, but he managed to leave it on and even in place. Finally he made me step out of my fallen top and I stood there, still hanging from the ceiling, stretched out, my bare breasts on full display.
The rest of this tale from Breanne Erickson is available in her book "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut, Volume 8" available at Amazon.com. Click here to find out what happened next!