It was hot and humid in Mike’s backyard and the south Texas sun beat down like a fucking sledge hammer. I’ve heard it can be hotter elsewhere, but when there isn’t a breath of wind, not even a breeze, and the Gulf of Mexico has put enough moisture in the air to raise the humidity level to a hundred and ten percent, there really isn’t anything much more unpleasant. Mike the Hardware Guy was standing next to a piece of backyard furniture I personally doubted I’d find sitting behind most homes. As I slathered on the sunscreen, an expensive ultra-protection kind, my eyes traced over the spiderlike form. It was merely a slight modification of the bench he had made for my Chinese Water Torture Assignment.
There were four “arms” made of one inch steel tubing which had been bent at angles and jutted out from under a three foot long, padded, leather bench. Reaching up to about four feet up, each arm was equipped with a small hand crank and pulley, which clearly was meant to mount and angle a flexible steel cable. Part of me wondered where Mike got all this crap to make shit like this, but knowing he manages a hardware store and has more than enough income to acquire the raw materials, it wasn’t hard to guess.
“You ready?” he asked, holding up a thin, braided, yellow cord. My eyebrows went up.”
“Master H said plastic wrap,” I objected as I finished rubbing the sunscreen into my exposed breasts. I felt the gold hoop that pierced my right nipple slide under my fingers, and then the tiny, charm sized padlock pressed into the underside of my bosom.
Mike sighed. “Bre, I love you, and you know I think Master H is an inventive, demented genius. But it’s ninety-nine degrees outside, and the humidity is at around ninety-eight percent. If I wrap you in plastic you will be suffering from heat stroke in about twenty minutes.” He explained this patiently, as if I were a stupid moron.
“Oh,” I said, stupidly. “Well duh.”
Mike smiled. “Well now, if you think you’re ready, we can get you settled,” he said, gesturing at his latest restraint creation.
I took a deep breath, set the bottle of sunscreen down, and wiped a trickle of perspiration from my forehead. I was hot already and the only thing I was wearing was a pair of heavy duty sunglasses. Plus in my hand I held a small, rectangular controller, one that sported a wire that led straight to the crevasse between my legs. I was ignoring the steady rumbling of the vibroballs, despite the fact that I was desperate already. The two plastic ovoid objects inside me were only shaking at their lowest setting and I was well aware that without further stimulation, I’d be suffering sexual frustration for at least an hour or two.
I was barefoot as well, which really sucked because unlike my friend Kari’s backyard, which is lush, tropical, and covered in St. Augustine, Mike’s backyard was mostly Bermuda grass with enough crab and dollar weed to make it look as splotchy as my ass after a bad spanking. It was dry too. Mike didn’t believe in watering. His attitude was if it survived the summer, it deserved to be there. Texas natural he called it. I couldn’t help thinking that his attitude toward grass was about to apply to me.
I climbed up on the small bench and laid down. It was distinctly uncomfortable. Despite the small pool towel he draped over the leather clad platform, I could feel the heat it had already soaked up. My head was supported, but my buttocks literally hung off the end and my toes dangled downward, actually touching the dry stalks of the grass. Fortunately I only had to handle that for a few moments as Mike hurriedly attached the Velcro strap ankle cuffs around my legs. A moment later I heard a metallic click and my right leg was being drawn upward. The same thing happened to my left leg and I saw my bare toes come into view as my legs were pulled upward and outward.
Then Mike took the remote control of my vibroballs away and laid it on my stomach, just above my spread slit. He fumbled at my wrists for a few seconds and then I felt my right arm drawn toward the third arm, angled out from shoulders. My left arm followed and when Mike stepped back to admire my glistening, nude, restrained, and spread-eagled body, I wondered just how bad this was going to get.
The yellow cord came next and I was surprised when he started by tying a small loop and fixing it around the middle toe of my right foot. Working methodically, he wrapped the twine around my calf and up my thigh, keeping it tight enough to make me wonder what he was doing. It wasn’t like I needed my leg tied to anything. It was going anywhere, trust me. I was pulled taut by the restraint frame and despite its simplicity, it was doing a damn good job of keeping me immobile and spread out like a frog on a dissection slab.
Mike continued up my body, reaching under the small bench and wrapping the robe around my waist, literally tying me to the bench. Again, I didn’t think it necessary, but I suppose that before I would have been able to lift myself off the bench a few inches, while afterward, even that range of movement was denied me. I felt the loops of yellow cordage move up my torso and then Mike bound my breasts. Strands went above and below, but then he crisscrossed the rope through my cleavage, and then with a grin on his face, wrapped the thin nylon cable around each breast tightly. I groaned.
“Feel nice and tight?” he asked me, one hand squeezing my taut and swollen breast.
I gave him a decent glare. “You tell me. You’re a hands on kind of guy,” I said with some heat.
He laughed and responded by giving my left breast a decent enough slap to draw out a loud gasp. Then as I was recovering from that he dropped the skein of rope on my tummy and put his other hand between my legs. I was soaked of course and he slid his fingers through my petals with a gentleness that surprised me. His fingertips grazed my clit and I suddenly realized he wasn’t pleasuring me.
He was torturing me.
He moved his hand away a moment later, leaving me even more desperate and wanting than I had been before. My hips rocked as my loins tried to force the vibroballs into a more satisfying position, but that was a lost cause and I knew it. I could virtually fuck that sex toy for a week and never get any more satisfaction from it than time could give me. Sure, after two or three hours, I’d probably cum, but not until then, no matter what I did.
Mike picked up the rope again and moved up my right arm, binding it tightly, only to move back down to my shoulders. One strand went around my neck and made me distinctly nervous, but Mike didn’t tighten it. It was just part of the bondage. Then he wrapped my left arm. Down my body he went, adding loop after loop until he finished at my other leg. I could see another tiny loop on my middle toe and then he tied it off with a clove hitch and tightened it all up.
“You look like a sausage,” he commented wryly. He pulled out his phone and began snapping pictures.
“Hey!” I protested. “No photos!” I said heatedly. “You know the rules!”
He grinned. “Personal collection Bre. I promise. I won’t show anyone.”
“If I see these on the internet I will personally kill you.”
Mike laughed. “No you won’t. You just will never let me do anything like this to you again.”
“Damn right,” I said, still a little mad. He focused on the restraints, rather than me, so I was mollified that my face wasn’t exactly in the shot.
Finally he put away his phone. “All right. I think we’re ready.” He went back over to the deck table and picked up the large bottle. It was colored golden and I licked my lips a little fearfully as he approached.
One of my favorite books of all time is Anne Rice’s “The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty.” I actually own two copies. One is on my e-reader and the other is in a lock box up in my closet. In the first book of the trilogy, Beauty is shown the “Hall of Punishments” and the wicked princess Lizetta is brought in, doubled, and hung from a hook. To me, this particular position doesn’t sound very comfortable. But when the Lady Juliana comes in to chastise Lizetta, Beauty gets to watch as Lizetta’s torturer applies some sort of sweet liquid to Lizetta’s sex. Lord Gregory, who is showing all this to Beauty, explains “it will attract any flies we have about, and if we have none it shall produce its inevitable itching as it dries.” Then Lady Julianna replied, “I suppose it will do for now, but I wish she were bound with her legs apart to a stake in the garden. Then let the flies and the little insects of the air find her honeyed mouth. She deserves it.”
This entire scene ran through my mind as Mike stepped up between my legs. He uncapped the bottle and tipped it upside down, letting the syrup fall in a golden stream upon my sex. It felt… strange actually. And the maple flavored liquid coated my labia, my clit, and even worked its way into my depths. Mike didn’t stop pouring and left a trail up my torso right up to my breasts. He coated both swollen, tightly bound globes, making them look like some sort of sexualized pastry treat. My nipples were hard and standing straight up, now glistening with maple syrup.
I’m usually defined as a sweet little piece of ass. But this… this took the cake.
Most of the syrup between my legs poured down through my sex and into the crack of my ass, coating my perineum and even my anus. Remember, my buttocks were hanging off the edge of the bench? But while the majority of the syrup fell from my body to leave a nice pile of attracting sweetness below me, a thin, delectable film of gooey sugar was left coating the most delicate parts of me. The sun made it even runnier and I could smell the scent of hot maple syrup.
Mike returned the bottle to the table and then set up a nice beach umbrella. He went inside the house, leaving me to my fate as he went and got two glasses of ice tea, one with a straw. Then he sat down and waited for me to suffer.
The first sensation I felt was heat. I had already been hot, but things change dramatically when you are laid out in the sun, face up, bound tightly and spread-eagled. For one thing, more of you is exposed to the light. Even with the sunglasses on I had to keep my eyes closed to keep from blinding myself. I could FEEL the heat and the light and within half a minute I had started perspiring. I could also feel a tingling along the insides of my arms, from where the delicate and not often exposed skin was starting to fry a little. I had made sure to put sunscreen EVERYWHERE, instead of just on the tops of my arms and such. But still, I have a farmer’s tan that makes me look ridiculous in a bikini and the creamy whiteness from elbow to ribcage was just begging for a burning.
But the next thing I felt was the syrup. It was… clingy. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it at that point. It felt sticky, but with nothing sticking to it. It felt gooey, yet it didn’t pull or stretch or suck. It just felt very strange. Flows of syrup had slid down the sides of my breasts, over the yellow cord binding me, and left strange sensations down my sides. I twitched a bit and tried to settle.
“Oh… that’s a big one,” I heard Mike comment. Then I heard the buzz. Something was flying near me.
I’m not a fan of bugs. I crush cockroaches the moment I see them. Ants around the barn are subject to a through dose of Amdro Ant Killer. Termites get a call from our pest control guy (and yes, I’ve fucked him too.) Wasps I take care of myself with Raid. But all that said, I’m not like freaked out by them either. I remember my parents showing me Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom when I was fourteen. I was more grossed out by the dinner party (SNAKE SURPRISE!) than the room full of bugs.
I have no idea what landed on me, but it choose to sample the syrup that coated my wide open sex and had I not been tied down, I would have jerked wildly. As it was, all that I did was jiggle a little bit as whatever wanted some of my honey sweet nectar had its fill.
Oddly enough, it tickled. I’m terribly ticklish, so this was devilish in and of itself, but the light touch right there on my labia was maddening. I felt the tickle grow, realizing that something else had landed on me. I opened my eyes to try to see, lifting my head, but the glow of the sun kept me from seeing whatever it was feasting. I let out a whimper, trying to move my hips, to dislodge whatever it was CRAWLING across my sex.
“Oh my God!” I said out loud. “What is it?”
Mike shrugged. I couldn’t see it, but I could HEAR it in his tone. “You don’t want to know. But you want to keep quiet too. I don’t want to have to gag you. I know it’s a weekday, but one of my neighbors might be home.”
Then I felt something land on my left breast. It began crawling around, clearly seeking something and I felt it against my nipple. Again I opened my eyes, lifting my head. This time I saw something black and yellow and I stiffened. There was a fucking yellow jacket on my tit!
“Mike!” I said in an urgent, tense whisper. “There’s a wasp!”
Mike laughed. “There are several of them Bre. Evidently they like syrup. You’ve also got a massive fly buzzing around.”
I heard it then, the thick and heavy buzzing. I let my head back down, realizing I was getting no help and the smart thing was to try not to move or make a fuss. Maybe I’d avoid a sting. Something else landed on me, though it did on my thigh and then walked, driving me crazy, to the feast. Again I felt something against my petals and I tried not to tense.
I’ve been through many different tortures in my life. I’ve been bound and stakes. I’ve been hot waxed. I’ve been figged. I’ve been iced, burned, abraded, crushed, pinned, and had practically every even remotely cock shaped object jammed up either in my ass or in my sex. But nothing, and I mean that literally, prepared me for the itching, icky, nerve maddening torment I was experiencing that bright, sunny, hot afternoon.
I didn’t count the number of bugs that landed on me, but it was mostly flies and they had an annoying tendency to alight on bare skin and then do their hop walk skip thing over to the snack bar. My breasts were just as juicy targets as my sex and as the steady, non-stop itching and tingle of little feet drove me absolutely bonkers. It was a lighter touch than fingers, or tongue, or even a probing feather. And worse, the movement and feeling made no sense, at least not to a desperate, sexually needy girl who WANTED stimulation. The flies didn’t care if they were clinging to my clit or to my labia. There was insufficient pressure to get me off. It was absolutely horrible. And with the vibroballs still buzzing away inside me, the pressure merely continued to build, though so slowly.
Metaphors and similes are only good in descriptions if you have a common frame of reference and the problem here is that I can’t think of one. Unless you’ve actually had bugs crawling on your privates, there is no way for you to understand what that feels like. There are no “felt likes” or “similar too”. It’s just too strange, too weird, and sort of disgusting if you really think about it.
About forty minutes in Mike came back over and placed a fresh dollop of syrup on my clit. Then he capped off both nipples again. He held the straw to my lips and let me sip some ice cold tea, which was wonderful, but he did nothing else to help me. I was twitching like crazy, my chest heaving as my breathing got heavier and I was starting to make enough noise that if someone was standing on the other side of the privacy fence they’d sure want to know what was going on inside. The mere thought of that idea, of some teenage boy pressing his cheek to the wood, staring through an open knot hole, or a two millimeter gap, to see my breasts and sex, covered with little black flies and the occasional bee or wasp, almost gave me enough impetus to pop. I think it was the “ick” factor that prevented it.
The fresh syrup attracted fresh insects and the nimble and frustrating touch continued. I went slowly and completely bonkers, eventually begging Mike to stop it, to let me up. Sweat poured from my temples and my hair hung beneath me lank and damp. Mike let me have another drink and then poured some syrup on the toes of my right foot, letting the goo slip down my insole. Had I the ability to kick, I would have and it didn’t take long for my little guests to find the fresh course.
Now THAT drove me nuts. Sure, I was pretty bonkers beforehand, but that was a more sexual sort of bonkers. Soft movements over your clit, labia, and nipples can only drive you mad in one way. But the sole of my foot? God forgive me, but that just fucking tickles. It was wrong. And it was that which drove me over the edge to starting shouting. True to his word Mike hurried over and shoved the rubber ball gag into my mouth, disrupting the cloud of flies that circled round me. I let out another cry but he worked the gag in further and then lifted my head and got it buckled tight. This reduced my cries a little, but not enough. That’s what the duct tape was for. He put a huge strand across my face.
Normally I don’t approve of duct tape as a gag. It just doesn’t work, no matter what Hollywood thinks. I’ve been gagged with duct tape before and trust me, a single strip across the mouth doesn’t do squat to keep a girl quiet. But combine duct tape with a ball gag and you’ve got a pretty decent silencer. So once Mike had me twitchy AND quiet, going mad as bugs tickled my toes, he once again retreated to his shady little seat and sat back watching.
I… I sort of lost it. It was just too much. My nerves were on fire, but not burning with heat and intensity, but with acid, just enough to irritate. My sex felt hyper-sensitive, and each little touch felt like a finger dragging along my petals. My clit was exposed, swollen and erect, begging for attention. My breasts throbbed from the bindings and my nipples were tight bumps at the top, tingling. I was so hot. My brain short circuited and I think Mike realized about twenty minutes later that I was no longer in the zone.
I’m not sure if I was exhausted and dozing, or on the verge of losing consciousness when Mike ripped the gag off me and pointed the hose at my body. The water that exploded forth in a fine mist felt amazingly cold and roused me. Bugs flew off in multiple directions and I cried out as Mike directed the spray at my clit, changing the hose aperture from a gentle shower to a jet of ice cold water. My clit burned under the onslaught and Mike washed away the syrup. He aimed the water at my sex, then my breasts, and finally my right foot, power washing away the syrup. The spray hurt my nipples and clit and I cried out, bucking wildly as he cleaned me off.
Then he moved back down between my legs and angled the water up into my well, washing out my insides. My petals flapped back and forth from his movements and water exploded backward, soaking his shirt and shorts. The bulge of his hardened cock was huge and then he closed the sprayer valve, bent down, and suckled my clit into his mouth.
I popped like a blowup doll hugging a blowfish, screaming out in ecstasy as his tongue finally did to me what no amount of bugs could possibly do. I was so sensitive though, that within seconds it felt like sandpaper and I my next cry was not just of sexual satisfaction, but of torment. Mike sensed the change in my voice and came up for air. He pulled the vibroballs free, tossing them aside, still buzzing, into the grass. Then he shoved his shorts downward and exposed his cock. With a steady hand he guided it into the soaked slit of my well and drove deep, plunging his shaft into my flesh like a wasp with its stinger. And like a hornet, he stung me over and over, pumping fast and hard until finally he too exploded, spurting ribbons of white cream.
We were both breathing hard and when he looked up I smiled at him. “Satisfied?” I asked.
He grinned. “I suppose. Was that sweet enough for you, or do you need me to sap your pussy too?”
My eyes widened. “A sapping? Are you serious?” I pulled hard on my bonds, but the steel cable was taut and held me perfectly in place.
Mike eyes flashed and he smiled. “Never mind. You clearly can’t handle it,” he said, walking away. I sighed in relief and put my head back down. The sun streamed against my skin and I felt it warming me from where the cold water had scoured me clear of syrup. I relaxed and waited for him to come and release me. I felt his presence along my side and then his hand settled lightly on my belly.
“Know what that wasp and I have in common?” he asked softly.
I opened my eyes, but the sun was behind his head and all I saw was a shadow. “No. What?” I asked.
“We both have a sting,” he said. Then he smacked the leather sap against my sex, aiming for my clit. I let out a cry, my hips thrusting upward as he laid another light blow along my swollen petals. His left hand came up and covered my mouth as I cried out, using his right to land stroke after stroke on my sex. My clit seemed to burst, catching fire and burning with a heat that scorched me down to my very depths. And then, just when it seemed I couldn’t take it any longer, he moved to my tits, smacking the wet, sex soaked leather paddle against my turgid nipples. He dropped the sap a few blows later and let my mouth go. He circled round me until he was once again between my legs. His mouth again found my sex, licking and suckling at my clit as his right hand came up to my left breast, twisting and teasing my nipple.
Me? Oh, I exploded. Hard. It was wet. It was hot. It was delicate. It was intense. And yes… it was one more thing:
Breanne Erickson is the author of "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut" a series of books detailing her adventures and filled with sexual mis-adventures! Check out her amazing work at Michael Alexander Stories!