I looked at myself in the mirror and took a deep breath. Most farm girls I know, including me, usually wear sort of a uniform. It starts with a decent, if somewhat plain, white colored bra, usually with bleachable, white cotton panties. Over this rather uninspiring ensemble comes a set of heavy, denim, blue jeans that go all the way down to the ankles, which cover the white tube socks that cushion our feet from the heavy boots we wear. On top we usually wear a simple tee shirt, along with a long sleeve button up shirt, which I normally pull off eventually cause I get hot and sweaty. All in all, it’s the perfect outfit to be wearing when you’re slopping pigs, currying horses, feeding goats, or riding a tractor all over kingdom come plowing, harvesting, seeding, weeding, spraying, or whatever.
On the flip side I can assure you that a short, black mini-skirt that barely covers one’s ass, flip flops, and a white gauze shirt that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination and was meant to go over an undershirt of some kind, is not the sort of outfit that is appropriate for doing chores. I looked… well… some might say a tart, but the shirt was over the top. It was clearly inappropriate for anything except the inside of strip club. In fact, that might have been the only venue in the world where I would be considered overdressed.
I slipped my bare feet into my flip flops and padded downstairs. It was five in the morning and it was still dark outside, but the temperature was still in the upper seventies. Summer in South Texas isn’t easy, but it did make wearing fewer clothes less objectionable. So I started my chores, dressed like a hooker or a seductive teen girl trying to tease her neighbor into sex. Either way, it was awkward. I’m sure you can imagine me walking around, my breasts in full view, covered only by this thin sheer material that wouldn’t even make a decent curtain. Every time I bent over you could see my bottom and I’m betting that even my wet slit was on display, showing off the thin purple wire that extruded from between the petals and disappeared up my backside under the skirt.
Oh. Did I forget to mention the vibroballs?
Two ovoid objects were nestled in my sex, churning and rattling at their lowest setting. I had put them in before getting dressed in the first place and I was understandably turned on. Granted, at low the vibroballs weren’t going to push me over the edge for hours, and I’ve even been known to tolerate them for over half a day before finally succumbing to the sexual pressures of non-stop internal vibration. All I could do was thank God that it wasn’t my butterfly clitoral vibrator teasing me.
But while the vibroballs wouldn’t send me into orgasmic orbit any time soon, they certainly kept my attention focused between my legs. Worse, my outfit, despite the fact that only a few random pigs, goats, and my horse could see me, also seemed to egg me on, making my arousal something much more intoxicating. By the time I was getting close to finishing, I could literally feel the juices wetting my thighs. I was desperate and I wanted to cum.
And that was the catch. I wanted to cum but doing so was forbidden, with a series of punishments that both scared me and turned me on looming. Realistically I knew that I’d be forced to do them anyway, but I wanted to hold off as long as possible. Which is why I grabbed my canvas bag when I was done, along with my keys, and climbed into my truck on that bright morning, not even bothering to stop and eat breakfast.
It was a little strange not having to stop on the gravel shoulder of the farm to market road that bordered the southern side of our property, but I was already appropriately attired as a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut. Of course the big question I had to ask myself wasn’t about my attire, or at least not directly. The question was where I was going to spend my day? It wasn’t like I could go up to the mall, not with a shirt that was see through. I couldn’t go hang out at the library either. That would just create problems. So I fished out my phone.
“What’s up, Bre?” Julie asked me, sounding just a little groggy. I didn’t blame her. Julie is a party girl and I had no doubt that she had spent Sunday night getting blasted – and I mean that in more ways than one. Julie isn’t into drugs, but liquor is like iced tea to that girl and I had no doubt she either had a hangover or was still barely functioning on a mental level that early in the morning.
“I’m looking for a place to hang today,” I said, trying not to sound either bright or desperate. Julie hates brightness when she’s hung over, and if she was free, the last thing I wanted to sound was as if I NEEDED to be tortured. She’d gobble that up in a heartbeat and the assignment, as tough as it was, would suddenly get incredible worse.
“Sorry girl. Got to work this afternoon. But I don’t mind if you come by the store,” Julie said.
I grimaced. That was hardly what I wanted. Could you imagine me trying to walk through mall keeping my arms crossed over my chest? And if I went to the mall it also meant stopping in to see David, who would find my situation even more tempting than Julie and he would certainly take advantage of it.
“Well, maybe.” The hesitation in my voice was clear. “I don’t want to interrupt your work. And…. I’m sort of…” my voice trailed off.
There was a grunt. “You doing another assignment?” she asked, her voice hard.
“Yes, but I don’t need your help. Just a place to hang out so not to get in more trouble than I have to.”
“Really? What are you wearing?” she asked.
I glanced down at myself, only taking my eyes off the road for half a second. Submissive girls are trained from almost day one to list their attire and you always start at the bottom. “Flip flops, a miniskirt, vibroballs, and a gauze shirt,” I said.
“A gauze shirt?” she asked.
“Yes. It’s white and see through,” I replied.
“See through? How see through?”
I let out an exasperated grunt. “Very see through!”
“Like I can see the rose emblem on your padlock see through, or just dark circles where your nipples are?” Julie asked.
“Damn it, Julie! You can see everything!” I said with heat.
“Oh. Hmmm… maybe you shouldn’t come by the store then.”
I sort of rolled my eyes at that point and turned on to the frontage road that borders I-10. I went east, figuring that if things didn’t pan out with Julie, I’d still be heading toward SOMEONE who could babysit me for a few hours.
“Sorry Julie. I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll just call Kari and see if I can hang out with her.”
“She’ll hurt you just as much,” Julie snorted.
I shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s better than walking the mall with my arms glued to my bosom.”
Julie laughed at that. “I’d like to see that!”
I didn’t reply to that and eventually Julie sighed. “Well, let me know how things turn out. I’ll catch ya later.”
“Bye, Julie.” I let out a sigh and pressed the speed dial. The phone only rang once before Kari answered.
“Hello, Bre. Having fun yet?” Kari asked. Kari approves all of my assignments and knew what was on the agenda for today. She had raised an eyebrow when I brought Master Dre’s assignment to her, but had signed off on it with a smirk.
“Well, the shirt is… making things difficult.”
“I presume you’re calling to ask if you can stay at my condo?”
I cringed. The way she asked that told me precisely what the answer would be. “Not any more.”
“Good. Come by the office. I’ll put you to work.”
I paused. I wasn’t exactly in a condition to “work” as Kari so affectionately called it. “Um… you know I’m…” I started to say, only to have her interrupt me.
“I am fully aware of your attire. I’ll see you here at the office in thirty minutes.” Then she hung up.
I made a face and tossed the phone down. Spending the day at Kari’s office was NOT what I had in mind. Julie’s would have been so much better. It was private and any time I needed the damn flicking done Julie would have been right there. Kari would be too, but she might be with a client, which made the prospect daunting.
What flicking? Oh… did I not mention that. How silly of me. Be patient.
I was hungry but Kari’s time table didn’t give me much time to stop and grab something. In addition, I couldn’t believe she was already at the office. That sort of surprised me. I pulled off the freeway and got in line at McDonalds, shocking both the girl at the first window who took my money, and the horde of guys who tried to get a glimpse of me at the second. No one said a word about my see through shirt. Thank God the vibroballs were off, or all the extra attention would have made pop like crazy!
I ate on the way and when I pulled up to Kari’s office building I glanced around, mostly worried about how my attire would be construed in this upscale area. Kari runs an interior design business and she caters to the ultra-rich, which means she has to keep offices in a part of town where neither a south Texas farm girl, nor a nympho humiliation pain slut would really be comfortable. As I climbed out of my truck, I turned on the vibroballs and stuck the remote control back into the waistband of my mini-skirt. Then with a judicious arm across my chest, I hurried as fast as my flip flopped feet could carry me. The sound of my footwear snapping against the soles of my feet sounded very loud to me and I yanked open the atrium door, stepping into the deliciously cool interior.
Kari decorated the atrium and it shows. There’s a sort of stream running from one corner to another, with the stairs on the far side in the back corner. You have to cross a bridge if you want to go from one side of the atrium to the other, but it’s just a little wooden arch bridge, barely three feet long, and frankly, if you weren’t wearing high heels, you could step over the stream. Smooth, water polished rocks lined the waterway and the place was crammed with shady tolerant plants that echoed the outside tropical landscape in a seamless way. In fact, if you stood on the stairs, it looked like the stream actually continued on outside the building. It’s pretty cool.
I crossed the bridge and then turned left and tugged on Kari’s office door. It opened easily and there was a loud chiming sound. Kari frequently is alone at her office and I know she likes to be prepared for all contingencies. I dropped my arm and walked past the tiny student’s desk that served as sort of secretary’s station. There was a phone there, and some business cards, but most of the rest of the tiny waiting room was a couch, a coffee table, and a portfolio book that showcased some of Kari’s best work. Add in the lighting and the art, and it was a cozy place to sit down and wait to see the blond goddess herself.
I didn’t sit. Instead I walked right down the dimly lit hallway, enjoying the indirect lighting. Kari’s speciality is mood decorating. She asks clients what kind of mood they like to be in for each particular room. Libraries are peaceful and studious and promote mental prowess. Kitchens are bright and creative. Bathrooms are lustful (think shower and spa, not the toilet. Kari says there isn’t any decent way to dress up a commode.) Personally, I’ve always liked her bedrooms. She does this dual thing where half of it is designed for sleep, peaceful sleep, while the other half is designed for fun. It’s kind of scary what she can do. Of course electricians hate her. Why does there have to be TWO light switches? Well one for mood one. One for mood two!
The very first office is Kari’s and looks like an office. She has an expensive and rarely used lap top computer on the credenza behind her desk and the furniture is expensive and comfortable. There is an actual blotter and an expensive calendar and appointment book sitting nearby. Kari doesn’t like computers and avoids them as much as she can. But when I glanced in her office, she wasn’t there. I turned right since the hallway curved like a capital letter “L” and glanced in the next room, finding the love of my life there.
The second office was her “art room” and seemed cluttered to the unknowledgeable eye. Yet to me, everything was in exactly the right place, stacked and filed away were my obsessive compulsive best friend could find anything she needed. Paper, pens, cloth samples, color wheels, paints; hell – she even had a box of crayons! My daughter Rachel loves going to Aunt Kari’s art room! It’s a kid’s dream come true.
Kari glanced up as I stepped into the door frame. She smiled warmly at me and motioned me to come in and I slipped into the packed and cramped room, which was dominated by her slanted artist’s desk, and found a seat on a small stool she kept there for visitors. She was clearly working on something.
“How ya doing?” she asked.
“Humiliated, thanks.” My reply was a little more curt than I intended.
Kari frowned and gave me a short glare. “I meant how close are you,” she explained.
Ah… right. I took a deep breath. “Well they weren’t on for the drive, so I’m probably good for three or four hours,” I said. I knew exactly what she was referring to. She wanted to know how bothered I was. Was I going to be exploding in a few minutes, or a few hours?
Kari laughed. “Can’t have that. If you’re going to be here, I want you desperate,” she told me.
My eyes widened in alarm. I knew that eventually I was going to start the whole punishment aspect of my assignment, but I was hoping to hold off as long as possible. It wasn’t that I was scared, but part of the punishment for cumming was to increase the stimulation that caused the unauthorized orgasm in the first place. So technically I had to hold off as long as possible.
“Um… that wasn’t how I saw today working.”
“Should have stayed home, then.”
I gestured at my shirt, which displayed the curves of my breasts perfectly, along with my gold nipple piercing, the tiny charm padlock that dangled from the piercing, and hell... let’s be honest. Some of the freckles dotting my chest too. Yep. All of that could be seen THROUGH the shirt. “I’m not sure Mom could have handled this.”
Kari shrugged. “Go see Julie,”
I looked down, shoulder’s slumping.
My best friend laughed. “She’s busy? You already tried?”
“She has to work today,” I replied.
Kari nodded. “That means you have a choice.” My eyebrow went up and Kari continued. “You can accept whatever I’m about to do to you, or you can go elsewhere.”
I didn’t move and that was answer enough. Kari grinned. “Good. Now bring that stool right over here next to me, roll your skirt up around your waist, and have a seat.”
I slid off the stool and I have to admit that my arousal had just spiked. The anticipation of suffering or being pleasured at Kari’s hands is always an immediate turn on and the fact that she wanted to use me here in the office, knowing the front door was open and a client could walk in at any moment just made me even wetter. I licked my lips, tried to still my thumping heart and excitement, and moved the stool.
I rolled the skirt up and instantly she could see the swollen and moist petals of my sex, the thin wire emerging from between the puffy lips and disappearing backward between my buttocks. I moved the stool and then sat down, my bare bottom on the shiny wood.
“Good now spread your legs and don’t close them or I’ll punish you,” she said softly. I nodded obediently while she opened a nearby drawer and extracted what looked like a one inch paintbrush. I struggled to control my breathing as her once again focused on her paper, one hand idly using a pencil to make notations, while her other hand moved sideways and pressed the soft bristles directly against my clit.
She then began to brush me. I went practically nuts.
Have you ever had someone use a paint brush on your cli, especially after you’ve already been somewhat sensitized to new sexual stimulation. Sure, my clit hadn’t been touched before this, at least not this day, but it was still eager for the light caress she provided and I went from level four to level in ten in about four seconds.
Kari told me to things: to keep my legs spread as wide as I could and to keep my hands out of the way. Do you know how hard it to sit in front of someone so exposed, so vulnerable, already tense from sexual need? Do you know what it does to your nerves having someone sit there, gently and steadily caressing you, but doing it in a way that always brought you to the very edge, but never quite pushed you over it? If I were a cello, Kari Anders was Yo Yo Ma – or perhaps Steven Sharpe Nelson of the Pianoguys – she’s more modern. If I were a piano, she was Liberace. If I were clay, she was Don Reitz. If I were a painting, she was Van Gogh. Am I getting my point across? She played me and I sang.
Forty minutes later the stool beneath me shined and I was actually leaning back against one of her shelving units, with my bare feet propped up, one on her desk and the other on another bookcase behind her chair. I was quivering, shaking with need, panting with desperation and my clit was sticking out, swollen from the non-stop stimulation that Kari had applied with almost negligent attention. While she had sat there designing some client’s new office décor, she had casually brushed my clit, my labia, even my perineum. When she told me to lean back and put my feet up, she even stroked me down to the button of my bottom. Let me tell you THAT felt incredible. She alternated between immediate need and slow burn.
It was almost nine thirty when my body finally couldn’t take it anymore and in hindsight, I’m pretty sure she intended for me to pop right around then. She had suddenly spent more time on my clit, lightly brushing me, only occasionally moving away just to make the return that much more poignant. As I clearly became more overwrought, she began tapping the bristles against me and when I cried out, fingers clenching the shelves behind me, my toes curling against the desk, she lifted a single piece of white cloth and literally caught the spurt of my orgasm before it splattered her immaculate, white blouse, or the dark gray business skirt she wore.
I almost collapsed. One foot slipped and Kari gently put it back on the desk. I sat there, lost in the sexual euphoria of overload, eyes dazed and brain barely functioning. The vibroballs still rumbled inside me, but the orgasm had been clitoral, not vaginal, and while my sex still felt amazing, it was my clit that was the epicenter of that particular earthquake. Kari stood and wrapped one arm around me, leaning down for a kiss and I opened my mouth and let her tongue touch mine. It was delicious and felt incredibly good, especially as an after affect for the orgasm. Then her hand slipped down behind me and pulled the vibroballs remote from my waist band. I felt the two ovoid objects inside me suddenly pick up speed and then my sex contacted tightly around the vibrating sex toys.
“Uhhhhhh,” I said, which doesn’t sound very intelligent, but conveys exactly what was going through my mind at the time. I quivered and my hips rocked.
“It’s really too bad you had an orgasm, isn’t it?” Kari asked.
That question didn’t really clear my sex-fogged thought processes and it wasn’t until she picked up my canvas bag and pulled out the jumbo alligator clamp, as well as the set of alligator nipple clamps, that I began to suddenly realize what was in store for me. That’s how good the orgasm was.
My alligator clamps are not “off the shelf.” They’ve been altered to reduce the amount of grip they apply, because frankly I don’t want to have to go get tetanus shots every time I wear them. The metal teeth dig into my nipples and clit, but don’t actually cut or pierce my skin. The spring that provides the tension has been loosened, warped or something. Stretched out? So if you plan on getting alligator clamps, don’t do something stupid like open the package and put them on. They’re supposed to be SEX TORTURE TOYS, not ACTUAL TORTURE TOYS.
That said, they still hurt. Lots. I hate wearing them for longer than an hour at a time and as I sat there with my legs still propped up and open, I watched with rising tension as Kari picked up the two smaller clamps, which were on opposite ends of a light steel chain about twelve inches long, and held them up.
“Can you please open your shirt?” she asked.
My hands trembled as I unbuttoned the front, pulling the thin gauze away from my breasts. I whimpered slightly as she got closer and when the metal first touched me I jerked slightly. But Kari was expecting it and a moment later I whimpered and gritted my teeth as the painful bite of both clamps dug into my nipples and sent shards of exquisite pain deep into both breasts. Oddly enough, it combined the leftover pleasure of Kari’s brushing of my clit and you wouldn’t believe the sudden resurgence of sexual need I suddenly felt, just from having my nipples crushed and locked. But then Kari picked up the jumbo alligator clamp, held it up, and then brought it down to my clit.
Had I not just spent the last forty five minutes with my legs spread and a soft brush stroking my clit, I probably would have handled the cruel pinch better. But as it was I was really sensitive and when the jumbo alligator clamp closed on my clitoris, I let out a high pitched squeal, closed my legs violently, and pitched forward, almost hitting Kari’s head with my own. Kari was expecting it though and caught me before I fell off the stool and I let out a wild sob with my face against her shoulder.
“Now, I have a client meeting at ten, so if you’ll sit at the secretary’s desk and welcome her in when she gets here, I’d appreciate it,” Kari said, letting me go once she was sure I could stand up on my own.
I looked up at her, still fighting the urge to crumple up into a ball. My sex warped brain stuttered through the implications of her sentence and I think I had to repeat it to myself two or three times before I realized what she was telling me to do. And it wasn’t right. That wasn’t how this was supposed to work.
See, I wasn’t supposed to have to keep the alligator clamps on. They hurt. Quite a bit. The punishment for cumming was to turn the vibroballs up one level and then put on the alligator clamps. But I could get them off. All I had to do was ask someone ELSE to flick each clamp five times and then I could take them off. All I had to do was present my crushed and bitten nipples to…
I got it then. Really. I did. She WANTED me to suffer. Sure, she’d flick those clamps, but not right at that moment. She was busy. And so I got to endure the biting pain of having sharp metal teeth gnawing on three points of my anatomy that were not only sexual, but packed with raw nerve bundles. Oh yeah. I saw her villainy. I knew what she wanted. And my only option was to deal with it or leave and find someone else to do the flicking.
God knows if I’d be allowed back.
Stay tuned for Part Two...
Breanne Erickson is the author of "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut", the popular series of her sexual misadventures. Told with a touch of humor and a little bit of depreciation, Breanne is the quintessential slut! Check out her work at Michael Alexander Stories!