Monday, October 28, 2013

Seventy-Eight Edges - Sunday

My God.  It's almost a book, isn't it?  Okay, so if you have no idea what the heck is going on, you really should start HERE, and the go backward until you get up to date.  And gosh... you should be checking the blog more often. Right?  Am I right?  Of course I am.  So... Sunday.  And edges.

Sunday morning I woke in a somewhat normal state, despite the temporary damage I’d done to my clitoris the previous evening.  Stretching languorously, I spent the first ten minutes doing some awful pleasant things down between my legs.  I brought myself right to the edge of orgasm, working myself into an early morning froth that I felt would set the proper tone for the day.  Trembling as I got there, right at the cutting edge of climax, I stopped with a whimper, biting my knuckle as I struggled for the will power to stop.
I did, but barely.  But isn’t that the point?  Isn’t it supposed to be a struggle each time?  Isn’t that what DEFINES an edge?  Shouldn’t I be right there, hanging on by the fingertips, my body screaming “GO GO DO IT!”, while my brain says “no, that’s not really a good idea right now.  Did you forget the Taser?”
So feeling just a little punked I got up, padded naked across my bedroom and to the computer, and checked my email.  I have to admit, I was grinning at the knowledge that I only had six more edges to do in order to complete things and I was off to a good start.  My mouse button clicked and then my eyes widened as I read the email.

Breanne – today’s toy will be your RVP.  You will keep it off for the majority of the time, but once each hour, at the top of the hour, you will turn the RVP to its maximum setting, both the spinning and vibrating functions, and endure the torment.  How long you might ask?  The first hour you are awake you will turn it on for one minute.  The second hour, two minutes, and so on until nine tonight.  Should you make it through the entire time period, turn off the RVP and wait till the next assigned torment time.  These will NOT count as edges. However, should you feel as if you are going to edge and MUST turn the RVP off, you may do so at any time, however the cost will be doing a second torment time at the bottom of the hour for the same amount of time you were going to endure at the top.  In essence, if you were supposed to endure ten minutes at the top, and you edge, turning the RVP off in order to keep from coming, then you will still need to endure a ten minute torment at the bottom of the hour.  Should you also have to turn the bottom one off to keep from coming, you will put a pair of clamps on your nipples, your choice, until the next torment time.  Change out the clamps each time you edge at the bottom of the hour, and you can’t wear the same clamps twice, except for the alligator clamps.  I remind you, don’t edge more than seven times, or less if you were dumb enough to masturbate to the edge before checking with me.  And don’t forget, if you cum, use the Taser for the remainder of your edges.  If you can’t get to your clit fast enough, I suggest a nipple would probably suffice.  Love you – Kari.

Holy Shit.  I collapsed into my chair.  The RVP.  All day.  And on high?  I shook, and not from the sexual need.  I bit my lip.  This was going to be… hard.  Impossible even.  She was setting me up for failure.  I know she had said “enjoy tomorrow,”  but this… this was insane.  I stood up and stumbled over to the closet where I keep my toy box.  I got out the heavy metal box, unlocked it, and got out my RVP.
RVP, if you didn’t know, stands for Rotating Venus Penis.  It’s a toy you can buy online and isn’t that expensive.  I’ve gone through three of them in the last two years, but I’m the sexual equivalent of testing a product to destruction.  Hell, you should see what I do to vibrators.  In any event the RVP consists of a four inch plastic cock which is mounted to what could be considered an overly large base.  This is because instead of there being just one motor involved, there are two.  One vibrates the whole damn contraption, which is difficult to deal with because the base is big enough to stretch upward all the way to your clit and rub that too, while a second motor actual spins the phallus.  Frankly, it drives me banana crackers.
Slipping the RVP wasn’t much of a problem. I was still slick and very accepting from my first edge and I buckled the thing into place.  I understood what Kari wanted, what she was asking, but I decided that since she hadn’t specified, and it was well after the top of the hour, I would do my first “torment time” at six am, and go from there.  And yes, I was counting the hours and minutes.  One minute at six meant two minutes at seven.  At noon I’d be enduring a full seven minutes.  At six in the evening my torment time would last thirteen minutes.  And by my nine o’clock bedtime?  The last torment of the evening?  Fuck.  I’d be vibrating like mad for a full sixteen minutes.
I got dressed in something appropriate to be mucking out stalls, but even that didn’t distract me from the toy that sat quietly, waiting like a shark, for the right time.  I stumped down the steps of the house in my boots and walked across the cold gravel courtyard between the house and the barn.  Starting my chores was a needed distraction.
But six o’clock came soon enough and I stopped momentarily and looked down at my watch.  It had a stop watch function that I’d insisted on when I bought it and I tugged the RVP controller out of my hip pocket.  With a deep breath that didn’t prepare me as much as I thought it would, I pushed both sliders up to maximum and with my other hand hit the start button on my watch.
In seconds I was going crazy, my hips were jerking and my sex and tightened down on the spinning, rumbling phallus like a pair of vicegrips.  The seconds seemed to slow and I felt myself being forced up the metaphorical orgasmic mountain, approach a pinnacle that only had one route down – the fast way.  But just as I was really starting to feel it, my stop watch beeped and I turned off the RVP.
It was… tough.  I’m going to admit that right now.  With only one minute’s worth of stirring the pot I was bubbling and simmering and wanting some spice.  I put a hand out to steady myself and stuck the controller back into my pocket.  It took another minute to calm the fuck down, backtracking down the trail per se, until I was once again steady enough to work on other, non-sexual related things.
But seven o’clock rolled around soon enough and I put my back to a stall and once again set both the timer and the sliders of the RVP controller.  The damn thing rumbled to life, caressing and shaking my clit even as the phallus inside me translated those same sensation to my sex.  Waves of exquisite pleasure roared through me like a wildfire in dry grass and after the first minute my hips were pumping madly and it was only through great force of will that I kept my hands off my own breasts. 
When it was over I was shaking and the need building up inside me was like this massive pressure.  It went down a bit, subsiding as I recovered, but by no means was it easier to deal with.  My throat was tight, my pussy ached, and I couldn’t stop pulsing around that damn phallus for about twenty minutes after having been spun up.
But I still hadn’t edged.  And thank God I hadn’t cum.
At eight o’clock I was almost finished with my chores, but I still took the time to step over to a wall, brace myself, and endure three minutes of spinning, sexual torment that drove me like a heard of horses toward a cliff.  I pounded my way up there and for the first time thought I might actually have to turn off the RVP before the timer was up, just to keep from cumming.  But no, I made it.  The timer beeped before I made the active decision to save myself from plunging madly over the edge.
Breakfast with the family went easily enough.  Despite my fidgeting, not having the RVP on while sitting at the breakfast table was a welcome break.  I actually got distracted by my family’s antics as well and was able to forget for a moment that I was actually being slowly driven insane by sexual torture.  Of course breakfast ended soon enough and since it was Sunday and we had church, it meant going upstairs and getting ready.  And since it was nine o’clock it also meant I got to endure another round of vibration and spinning.
That one was tough and again I almost didn’t make it.  Four minutes seemed very, very long and as desperate as I was, I’m actually surprised I did make it.  It left me perspiring, leaning naked against the wall of my bedroom, panting, and I was surprised to find myself cupping my own breasts, both nipples tightly pinched between thumb and forefinger.  Shocked at my involuntary cooperation, I dropped my hands and clenched my fists, trying very hard to settle my nerves.
I’m Catholic in case you didn’t know and mass starts brightly at ten in the morning.  We normally get there a bit early and I excused myself to go to the restroom before the service started.  It wasn’t exactly at ten, but Kari had said “the top of the hour” and that had always meant I had a thirty minute window between the forty-five and fifteen minute marks.  In the restroom I lifted the hem of my dress, plucked the RVP controller from where it was stuck in the waist band of my panties (which were stretched obscenely over the RVP of course) and turned myself up to full blast.
Ten o’clock meant five minutes and I buzzed and shook and vibrated and swirled in ever increasing torment, my eyes glued to the clock if not shut as I struggled to keep quiet.  I had to brace myself against the stall, my hips shaking, pumping forward and back as my body did what it was intended to do; ripen, moisten, and fuck.
I was at four minutes and five seconds when I realized it was going too fast.  In alarm I shut off the RVP, letting it spin down, leaving me in the sexual equivalent of deprived agony.  Without the pressure of the RVP, the approaching cliff was still coming, but I was slowing down, skidding as it were, through the dust.  I stopped a mere foot away from the edge, my chest heaving, struggling to deal with the overpowering sensation of denial and that horrible let down as your body protests being led to the water but not being allowed to drink.
There were juices running down my thighs and I used some paper to clean myself up when a horrible realization occurred to me.  By not managing the full five minute, I’d earned myself another dose in less than twenty five more.  How the hell would I get out of mass in order to sneak off to the bathroom and do this all over again?  I stopped in the mirror and noticed the flush look of my face.  I washed and then went and sat with my family.
At ten thirty, or around that point since the offering wasn’t exactly then, I quietly excused myself and escaped.  I got a glare from my mother, and a grin from my dad, and I hurried back to the bathroom with my nerves on fire, my sex constantly pulsing around the RVP’s four inch, plastic cock, and a distinct worry in my mind.  In private I jacked the RVP up to maximum and in seconds I made it from wherever I was half-way up the mountain to the top.  In SECONDS mind you. It was crazy.  It was intense.  Maybe it was doing it at the church.  Maybe it was the fact that this was my second time in an hour.  Or hell, maybe it was just because I am uniquely unsuited for this kind of torment.
Or should I say, perfect for this kind of torment?
As you would expect, I didn’t make it through the five minutes. I had to turn the damn thing off at about three.  That worried me, but only after I’d slid to a halt and barely kept myself from going over the edge.  An awful thing occurred to me.  I had seven edges left to do and I’d just done TWO of them and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet.  Worse, the requirement for fucking up and edging during the bottom of the hour torment were clamps.
I’m not stupid.  I was hardly going to put a pair of clothespins on my tits and walk back into church.  I’d prepared for this, hoping I wouldn’t NEED too use them, but ready for it.  I wasn’t wearing a bra and I pulled down the front of my dress and quickly teased my nipples into hardness.  That didn’t take as much effort as I thought it would.  Then I slipped the nipplebands over each tip, letting the elastic clamps tighten around the distended nipple.  Pulling my dress up was easy, but now I had two massive bumps on the front of my dress.  How embarrassing!  I snuck back into church with my arm across my breasts.
As soon as the service was over I rushed back to the bathroom and spun up the RVP again, this time for six minutes.  Again, I didn’t make, having to turn it off after about four minutes while I teetered on the edge, struggling not to fall of the wagon.   It took another four or five minutes to calm down to a point where my hips weren’t involuntarily jerking around lewdly, and I found my family mostly giving me weird looks and wondering if I was okay.  We made it back to the house just in time for me to go up to my room, take off my dress, and turn the RVP back on for a six minute round of “lets try to make Breanne cum!”
I didn’t make it through that one either, topping off at just under five minutes.  Worse, that added two more actual edges to my list and with only three left for the seventy-eight requirement, I resigned myself to whatever punishment I’d have coming for not getting exactly seventy-eight edges.  The nipplebands were still on, tingling, and I dealt with the waves of wanton need and psychological destruction that were emanating from between my legs.
At eleven thirty I was back up in my room, the RVP one again churning and buzzing through my sex, sending me rocketing upward as I tried very hard to survive six minutes of intense sexual stimulation, on top of an entire morning’s worth of torment.  I’m sure no one is surprised that I couldn’t handle it.  I didn’t even get to three minutes.  I felt the orgasm coming like a freight train while I dallied on the tracks and my fingers scrambled for the sliders of the RVP controls.  I turned the damn thing off and looked at the engine barreling down on me, the light getting bigger and bigger, the wheels squealing as the brakes tried to stop the massive steel orgasm coming right at me.
Had that been a real train, with me standing on real tracks, I’d have been spared getting crushed by an inch.  I shook like mad, the tension in me near breaking.  My hips swung wildly, totally out of my control as my sex tightened and loosened around the four inch long plastic cock planted in my sex.  I wanted… everything.  I took off the nipplebands and replaced them with a pair of rubber tipped duck billed clamps and hid them by putting on a bra.  Trust me, getting my nipples clamped even tighter did not help.  Barely myself, going practically out of my mind with desperation, I went downstairs and tried to forget my sexual problems by having lunch.

At ten after twelve I was out in the barn.  Rachel was riding Star around the paddock and I was tucked into a stall doing a pretty damned impressive impersonation of someone having a seizure.  The day had warmed up slightly so I was in a skirt and flip flops, along with a tee shirt.  The timer steadily clicked but I was too lost in the buzzing, swirling wonder that was sexual bliss and this time I plowed through it all, cumming like a freight train in a tunnel and exploding into a world of light and bliss and total ecstasy.  I literally screamed and poor Rachel galloped Star over and climbed down and then over the fence to see her mommy leaning against the wall, shaking like a leaf, rivulets of juice running down her legs, and a glazed look in her eye.
Nothing pulls you together like your kid needing you, so after I turned off the RVP and shook off the orgasm, I put her back on Star and sent her out for another ride.  And that’s when it occurred to me.  If I’d managed to edge, I’d only have two left.  Now, not only did I have three still left to do, but I’d lost one.  So I had four more edges to do before I got to orgasm.  Of course there was the added problem of now every edge had to end with the Taser.  I bit my lip.  The issue was could I actually orgasm again DESPITE the Taser.  Which did I fear more?  The punishment for going over the seventy-eight edge limit, or the taser?
Taser. Definitely.
And besides, in hind-sight, the idea of me actually trying to cum in spite of the Taser was fucking stupid.
At twelve thirty I had sent Rachel back inside and I was out in the barn.  I turned on the RVP, and… despite seven minutes… made it through.  I sighed. I was so scared I’d have to tase myself.  At one I did it again, this time for eight minutes and I got to take off the clamps when I was done.  Again, I survived.  Not having to mess around on the bottom of the hour made things so much easier and when two o’clock rolled around, I felt ready to handle things.  I buzzed and stirred and swung my hips and then… then it became too much again.  Nine minutes of the most intense churning and rattling is just not something I can handle, not together.  And when I felt the eruption gathering beneath me, deep in my dark crevases, my shaking fingers went to the RVP, turned it off, and then brought the taser up to my left nipple.
Admittedly, there is no more sure method of immediately stopping an orgasmic eruption that getting shocked with a fucking taser.  It works rather well. Of course it left me in paroxysms of pain, hunched over like Quasimodo, clutching my pain pierced breast as if someone had shoved a hot needle through my nipple.  I groaned, my head spinning and I just sat down on a hay bale, too tired and too torn up inside to really think about what was going on. 
I sat there until it was two-thirty and it took almost as much willpower to START the damn RVP as it had to press a fucking taser to my bosom.  Soon enough I was spinning back up to speed, my brain fuzzy, my eyes rolling, my legs obscenely spread, toes tight and curled.  I focused as much as I could on my stopwatch, the seconds ticking by so slowly that I thought I could write a novel in the meantime.
I didn’t make it.  Seven minutes twenty three seconds in I gave up.  Or more appropriately my body did.  The orgasm started, my vision went white, the pleasure blossomed inside me like a nuclear bomb and my trembling hand shoved the front of the RVP down away from swollen and perfectly chaffed clit, and pressed the taser to my sex.
Want to talk about ruined orgasms?  There ya go.  I screamed and fell to the ground, the world spinning, pain blossoming, and just about every emotion and sensation inside me exploding into fragments of insanity.  I couldn’t take it. It blew my mind away.  I lay there twitching.  When I finally had enough of my shredded faculties back, I looked at my watch and burst into tears.  It was three o’clock.
So I turned the RVP back on.  Ten minutes.  I couldn’t believe I made it.  I guess the pain did something to me.  Then I realized I had forgotten to put a fresh set of clamps on and I cursed.  I rooted around in the barn until I found two small C-vice clamps my father kept on his work bench and I tugged up my shirt and spun the wheel until both nipples looked like I’d got them caught in a door frame. Ached too.
I was stayed that way, puttering in the barn until around four.  Then I did the whole thing again.  Eleven minutes was the required time frame.  Shaking and panting, my hands cupping my breasts, my shirt pulled up, I made to seven and a half before I had to turn off the RVP.  I couldn’t take it.  And despite the fact that the Taser was sitting right there by my leg, I totally forgot to use it.  Things were falling apart.
At four thirty I tried again, another eleven minutes of sexual torment.  I made it past seven this time and actually got to nine.  It didn’t matter.  That little plastic cock was spinning inside me, corkscrewing away even as the base rumbled and shook against my petals and clit.  I couldn’t take it and this time I remembered the Taser. I mashed it against my left nipple and as the Rotating Venus Penis came to a stop, I pulled the trigger and pain blasted through me.
I was still twitching when I called Kari.
My throat was raspy.  “I… I… I can’t, Kari.  I can’t d-d-do it,” I whispered.
“Hello Breanne.  What can’t you do?”
My arms were having trouble holding the phone to my ear.  “This.  RVP t-t-thing.  Can’t.”
“Ah… I see.  Have you edged the appropriate number of times?” She asked. 
I blinked.  Had I?  I had no idea.  I’d lost count.  I nodded frantically, but she didn’t respond and I finally spat out a crumpled and tense “yes.”
“Are you absolutely positive?” she asked.
Fuck it.  No I wasn’t. But I didn’t care.  I just couldn’t go through another RVP session.  “Yes Kari! I’m certain!” I gasped.
“Is it on now?”
“Are you using the Taser already?” She asked.
I whimpered. “Yes.  It hurts.”
“Oohhh.  How many times?”
The answer was pretty pathetic.  “I don’t know,” I moaned. 
There was a pause, as if she were thinking.  “Breanne, don’t get me wrong.  I know you’re hurting and having some difficulty, but I’m not sure you want to come over right now.”
I blinked. Come over?  I just wanted it to stop.
“But you need to think really hard about this.  If I let you come over I won’t let you cum for the rest of the night, though you will be given the chance to screw up and edge some more on occasion.  What I can promise you is that it will hurt.”
My guts turned to jelly.  “The Taser?” I sniveled.
“Only if you’re dumb enough to try to cum,” she replid.  “So yes.  But that’s not my plan.”
“Will I have to keep the RVP in?” I asked.
“No. The RVP will be retired for the rest of the night,” she said, though I could tell she was leaving things out.
Choices.  What choice did I have?  Spend the rest of the day out in the barn twitching?  Hell!  What was I going to do about dinner?  I shook my head. I had no choice.  I had to go.
“I’ll be there in less than an hour,” I said, energy finally coming back now that I had a solution to my immediate problem. 
“I’ll be waiting.  And Bre,” she said sternly.  “Don’t take the RVP out until you get here.  In fact, I expect it to be on, stirring and buzzing away on full power when you knock, naked of course, on my door.  Got it?” she told me.
I swallowed.  “Yes Kari.”
“Good.  See you in a few.”
The next few minutes were a whirlwind.  I told my family I was going out and not to wait up for me.  Then I packed a few things in my bag, headed out the door, and despite the quiet trouble still penetrating me between the legs, felt relieved on a level magnitude that I can barely describe.  It took forty minutes to get to Kari’s place and I pulled up in front of her condo with both a sense of relief and a sense of dread.  I bit my lip, turned the RVP up to full power, and felt the little plastic cock begin to rotate and vibrate inside me.  I climbed from my truck with my bag, padded up to the door, and began to strip.
It didn’t take me long. In less than a minute I was wearing absolutely nothing but the silly RVP strapped to my loins, which was doing some rather unique and interesting things to my libido.  The forty minute drive had helped, but you have to remember I was dry tinder.  I was so dry that little tiny sparks were a danger.  I rang the doorbell and stood there, already starting to tremble, feeling the need simmer and bubble and then boil between my legs.
I bit my lip and rang the doorbell again.  I tapped my foot.  Another minute passed.  Now I was getting worried.  I knocked this time and to my total relief the door opened.  Kari stood there, eyes hard.  She looked at me, her body blocking the door.  Then she grabbed my bag, which had my keys, clothes, and purse in it, and pulled it inside.  Then she shut the door.
I blinked, shocked.  Oh fuck.  She was leaving me out there to stew! I couldn’t leave. She had the keys to my truck, so I was literally rooted to this little shade of privacy on her front stoop.  I shifted back and forth uncomfortably as my sex ripened with increasingly difficult to ignore levels of arousal. 
I waited and the game was not a good one.  I focused on everything I could that was separate from the churning froth between my legs.  I counted to twenty.  Then fifty, the decided to think of gross things.  None of it worked.  On and on and on it went.  Two minutes went to four, then to six and then to eight.  I grit my teeth and held on, farther and farther until finally I couldn’t handle it anymore my fingers scrambled for the RVP controller, turning off the spinning and vibrating as I slid toward the edge.
I was panting and shuddering when the door opened and Kari grabbed my arm.  She pulled me into the house.  I tried to say something but she didn’t give me much of a chance. Instead I was dragged through the living room across to the hallway and in seconds I was standing in what Kari affectionately calls “Breanne’s Bedroom.”
It should be called Robert’s bedroom since I’m positive he spends more time in it than I do, but you could also call it “the dungeon” if you really wanted.  Three pieces of large furniture dominate the room; the iBench, the St. Andrew’s Cross, and the wooden horse.  The iBench is a metal and leather contraption shaped like a capital “I” or possibly the capital letter “H” depending on how generous you want to be and what font you happen to be using.  The St. Andrew’s Cross is a wooden “X” against the far corner and is canted backward toward the wall.  If you are mounted on it you won’t be touching the floor unless you’re over six feet tall and it can get very disconcerting when Kari releases the locking mechanism and the whole fucking thin spins so you’re upside down. 
But Kari pushed me toward the wooden horse and my heart froze.  I’m very, very familiar with her wooden horse, a massive piece of wood that was cut from a beam of wood a foot thick and a foot and a half tall.  It was mounted with steel bolts to a set of legs that kept it absolutely immobile, so secure that not even the crazy antics of a hundred and seventeen pound girl bouncing on its back would move it.  It stood on a stand and to each side were two small, adjustable height stools.  A spreader bar leaned against the wall and there was even four plastic milk just filled with wet sand, the handles wrapped with black leather that ran up to a pair of steel D link carabineers. 
“Oil it. Now,” Kari said, pointing at the wooden horse.  A bottle of oil appeared in her hand and I sagged in relief.  I thought she meant for me to ride it.  But dungeon maintenance I could handle.  I took the bottle from her and started to uncap it. 
“No.  Do it with your tits,” Kari said.  I frowned at her but nodded and poured a liberal amount of oil along the spine of the wooden horse.  The strong scent of cinnamon should have tipped me off, but I wasn’t exactly running on all cylinders mentally and it wasn’t until I pushed my breasts up against the oil slick wood and began rubbing my nipples back and forth along the polished and smooth surface, that I realized she’d handed me a bottle of Stinging O. 
Stinging O is a concoction of my own devising, though it’s simple enough to make. A combination of grapeseed oil, pepper oil, and cinnamon oil, mixed thoroughly and tested frequently (due to inconsistent strengths on some of the oils) makes a homemade lubricant that certainly makes it easier to insert difficult objects into tight places, but you really, really don’t want to fuck with it.  Stinging O starts by tingling, the cinnamon oil does some weird things to mucus membranes and other highly sensitive nerve bundles.  Then the pepper oil kicks in.  That burns.  A lot.  Seconds after I pressed myself against the wood it felt like I’d dipped the tips of my breasts into hot wax.
I felt fingertips flutter near my waist and then Kari lifted the control remote for the RVP.  Suddenly the damn thing came back to life between my legs, swirling and vibrating.  I let out a half-groan, half-whimper that did absolutely nothing to conceal the fact that I was almost immediately humming with sexual need and tension. My loins tightened up in seconds and my mouth came open as I let out a shuddering gasp.  Kari snapped her fingers in front of my face to get my attention.
“Oil the entire damn thing to finish.  If you start to cum turn off the RVP and understand there will be consequences.”  Then she grabbed a pair of metal handcuffs from the nearby storage closet and half a second later my hands were cuffed behind my back.  There wasn’t much in the way of options at that point and I squatted a bit and began rubbing my tits back and forth across the freshly oiled wood.
Hissing but still sliding my bosom back and forth across one side of the wooden horse, I reflected that things could be a lot worse. I could be RIDING the damn thing.  Oil turned the wooden side a glistening sheen and I tried desperately to ignore the wild party that was being thrown just south of the border.  My petals felt like they were being massaged.  My clit was the center of attention, and the rotating shaft was deep inside me churning me like freshly made butter.  And I was all cream, trust me.  After a few minutes Kari tapped me on the shoulder and told me to get the other side.  That wasn’t as easy since the wall was right there, but I still managed, rubbing the oil into the wood and my breasts with equal fervor.  Of course each passing second my own libido complicated the task and finally, well before I finished spreading the Stinging O oil around, I felt the wave of approaching orgasm and I quickly turned off the RVP.
Perhaps even a bit early since I was scared to death of what the punishment might be for actually cumming.
Kari clucked her tongue. “You couldn’t even hold off long enough to oil the horse?” she asked with a disgusted tone.  I turned crimson at the rebuke.  “Mount up,” she ordered.
“What?” I asked dumbfounded.
“Get on it,” Kari said simply but earnestly.
“But you said…” I stammered.
“I said that there will be consequences.  This is the consequence.”
I quivered.  “But Kari, I’m…”
“You’re what? Sore?  Tender? Desperate?  Like I care.  Get on it.  Now.”
Kari’s tone made it clear that I was going to get on either willingly or unwillingly, whether I liked it or not and I tried hard to quell the sudden urge to run.  I have no idea why the butterflies in my stomach decided to launch at that moment.  I’ve ridden the wooden horse before and while it isn’t comfortable, it’s not the horrible torment most people consider it to be.  At least not at first.
I put one bare foot up on the first stool and stepped up.  My hip brushed the side of the horse and I swung my left leg over the back.  The stools are high enough that the spine of the horse is a full inch or two below my labia, which is a good thing, but it is also a bad thing because if you don’t want to endure a painful, sex-smashing two inch drop when the stools are yanked out from under you, it means lowering yourself down first and getting as much of your weight on the damn thing as possible.
And I had incentive NOT to lower my weight.  Even getting on allowed some of my more delicate parts to brush against the oiled wood.  Considering I’d just used my breasts to work in what was a mildly caustic material, you’d expect me to be having second thoughts.  I could feel the cinnamon caused tingle, followed by the slowly increasing burn of the pepper oil.  And worst of all, having the spine so well lubricated meant that not only would I be resting my weight on the damn thing, but I’d be sliding myself up and down on the edge as well.
“Better get yourself down, Bre.  I’m gonna pull the stools in a moment.”  Kari plucked the spreader bar off the wall and then opened the nearby storage closet.  She pulled a pair of thick leather cuffs out and went to work buckling the bondage gear to my ankles.  A moment later one leg was forced off the small stool as she attached the spreader bar to my legs, essentially forcing me open and making sure that I wouldn’t be able to use my thighs to help support my weight.  Not that it would have worked anyway.  There was enough oil on the damn thing to eliminate anything in the way of friction.  Had I tried to muscle my way through this my knees would have slid like butter on a hot plate.

I groaned as the edge started biting up into my crotch and leaned back, using my cuffed hands to help support my weight.  I knew that wouldn’t last though.  The Stinging O began coating my petals and as my body instinctively began looking for a more comfortable position, my hips rocked back and forth, making sure that every fold, not to mention my ass, perineum, and clitoris, were all nicely lubricated with oil.  In seconds it felt as if someone had poured rubbing alcohol on me and lit it.  I still had one foot on a stool but that ended a second later as Kari pushed me into a more balanced position.  I cried out, a surge of pain rushing up between my legs, and then the stool was gone, knocked aside by her foot.
Kari doesn’t mess around.  This isn’t a pony ride.  There is no me bouncing up and down.  This is truly riding the wooden horse.  You don’t go up and down.  Here you go back and forth.  You literally hump the thing, fucking it with every fiber of your being.  It is not designed to feel good.  It aches.  It burns.  It hurts.  And there is NOTHING you can do about it.  The first minute is excruciating.  The next few minutes your body begins processing the pain and by the time you hit the three or four minute mark, you are already building up something of a tolerance.  You have to.  The burn begins to fade slightly and all you have is the gentle rocking of your hips as you struggle to change the pressure point of your entire body’s weight pressing down on something edged enough to leave massive bruises.  Your petals get caught, crushed between your pelvis and the wood, and God help you if you roll far enough forward to catch your clit. 
Kari puttered around the dungeon while I got through that first adjustment period and when my cries had changed to whimpers and I was steadily grinding my sex into the sharp edge, she finally came back over.  I didn’t even realize what she doing until a terrible weight suddenly was pulling me to the right.  I gasped as I crushed an entirely new part of my pussy as I struggled to stay balanced, but was then yanked back the other direction when a second weight was hung from my left ankle.
I couldn’t see them from my position, but I knew without a doubt that Kari had hung the two milk jugs on my ankles.  Or from the spreader bar.  One or the other.  Both were filled with wet sand and sealed, as if that mattered.  All I knew was that each one weighed around twenty pounds and she’d effectively increased the pressure between my legs by almost a full fifty percent of my body weight.  When you go from a hundred and seventeen pounds to a hundred and sixty seven, there are some dire consequences.
That effectively reset me back to the same kind of pain I had dealt with when I first got on the damn horse.  My arms tried to pull on the cuffs holding my hands together.  The biting pain between my legs was horrible and the fact that I was still rocking back and forth like a crazy, sex starved whore didn’t make things easier.  With each passing minute my sex got redder, my clit swelling and aching. 
Kari went and found my canvas bag next and had I been more aware of my surroundings and goings on instead of my own carnal torments, I would have been shaking.  Her fingers plucked the alligator clamps from the canvas container and quickly brought them over to me.  As soon as it appeared I was adjusting to the added weight pulling me down as well as the biting edge that felt as if it could cut me in half, she attached the metal toothed jaws to both nipples.
I’m sure you have a mental picture in your mind of this cute, lithe redhead girl, head thrown back, hands cuffed in the small of her back, alligator clamps on her breasts, a chain swinging between each bitten nipple, thrusting her hips wildly on the sharp edge of a wooden horse, her ankles held apart by a spreader bar, toes arching down desperately, searching for support that isn’t there, while two white milk jugs swing heavily from her ankles.  That’s probably a pretty good image.  And I’m sure you’re imagining me screaming my head off the moment those alligator clamps snagged my bosom.  Right?
Okay, I did let out a pretty impressive cry, but it was right then that it happened. I’m a torturer’s wet dream remember.  I’m not a normal person.  I have “issues”.  I’m mentally fucked up.  I’m psychologically damaged.  I’m… I’m…
I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut. 
And getting my nipples caught like prey in those metal toothed vices, the sharp incisors biting into my areola and the nipple itself, was like a catalyst.  I felt a sudden surge of sexual need, the rocking of my hips took on a new life, and I let out a moan of desire that probably even surprised Kari.  She blinked, watching me work myself into a sexual froth, disappeared from view for a moment, then came back with a pair of one pound weights.  These went on the chain swinging between my clamped breasts and hit me in the stomach with each fresh thrust of my hips.  It also didn’t impede what was happening.  It helped.
“God damn it, Bre.  This is supposed to be punishment!” Kari snarled at me. 
I ignored her.  It wasn’t that I was trying to be disobedient.  But if you WANT to punish a nympho humiliation pain slut, don’t stick her on a fucking wooden horse and apply sexually oriented pain to her private parts.  Duh.  If you want to punish me tie me to the iBench, ice me down, and don’t do a damn THING to my privates.
Metaphorically speaking, I was riding my horse right up to the edge of the cliffs of orgasm.  Hell, I could SEE the gorge.  And I didn’t care.  I wasn’t galloping of course, but it wasn’t a walk either.  My clit felt huge and swollen and hot and pain and pleasure coursed through me in strange loops and patterns that were impossible to identify or categorize.  My nipples throbbed and I threw my head back, eyes closed as I prepared to ride that fucking wooden stallion right off the edge of the cliff.
There is pain, and then there is pain.  Just as I was preparing to leap off the damn cliff, orgasming in uncontrolled delight, a fucking lightning bolt fell from the sky, struck my clit, and blasted me back from the edge with such force that for a moment I thought I’d been burned to a crisp.  My eyes flew open wide and Kari, with the technological equivalent of Zeus’ thunderbolt, stood there with a satisfied look.  Hell, the only thing needed was a touch of smoke to be wafting up from the God damned Taser. 
Orgasm, especially pain induced orgasm, is sort of like standing on a pedestal.  The higher it becomes the more precarious the position and with that one blast from my cruel mistress I’d been shoved all the way back down to the base of the mountain, the sexual aspect of my torment blown away by the sudden burst of pain. 
Arousal is a shield and if you’re horny you’d be surprised what you can endure.  Lose that and suddenly you are at the whim of the pain.  Everything hurt three times as much at that point.  The alligator clamps felt as if they were tearing my nipples off with each beat of my heart.  My clit had been ground into mincemeat.  My petals, flattened and pulverized from my rocking ride, and impromptu saddle of flesh that did nothing to pad the inner secrets of my sex, all combined to make things really bad.  My ass ached, especially the ridge of bone between my slit and bottom.  I hurt so much that I actually stopped rocking.
Kari stayed there, monitoring me, and I like to think that had I begged, or pleaded, or got into real trouble, she’d have pulled me off in a heartbeat.  Instead I sat there, pain radiating up from between my legs in waves of agony that made it difficult to breathe sometimes.  Kari brought a vibrator over and began touching it to various places on my body; my clamped nipples.  My clit.  Elsewhere.  And eventually I began my arduous climb back up the mountain, steadily grinding the best parts of me against the spine of the wooden horse.  Kari watched it all with an appreciative eye, waiting until I was totally unbalanced to push the tip of her vibrator against my clit for another swift kick toward the cliff.  On and on it went and my hips ground back and forth until I felt like I was being sawed in half.
And then, quite by accident, I was there again, standing right at the edge of the cliff. I looked out across the abyss, seeing the peace and utter bliss of orgasm staring back at me.  I didn’t care. I ran.  I jumped.  I FLEW toward that goal with every fiber of my being, my brain soaked in endorphins and dopamine and adrenaline.  It was a running leap and my toes bit into the dirt so I could fling myself off into orgasmic bliss.
There are gods and there are ANGRY gods.  Again I was struck down with lightning, pressed to my clit.  This time she had to hold me as I thrashed in her arms and the moment I wept, slumping downward she called out for Robert.  He came in quickly, his naked body sculpted perfection and he held me as Kari quickly released the spreader bar and weights.  The alligator clamps and the handcuffs were removed and I was pulled from the horse after only an hour and a half. Robert cradled me in his arms.
They put me on the iBench and loosely secured me to the four posts at each corner.  Thank God Kari didn’t crank me tightly open. I’m not sure I could have endured it, just for medical reasons, but she always seems to know when I’m at a hard limit.  She spent some time between my legs, making sure I wasn’t really damaged and I fell asleep in what for me, is a natural position; spread-eagled, bound, and hurting.
It was after nine when Kari woke me in the most expedient way she could think of: a well lubricated dildo which she slid unabashedly up inside me without a word of warning.  I groaned as she worked me into another close encounter, a massive pending orgasm that she left hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles, letting me edge instead.
Panting, totally lost in arousal and need, I was sort of out of it when she kissed me on the lips.  “I think you over-shot your seventy-eight orgasm goal,” she whispered to me.
I shuddered, still suffering from the aborted orgasm and not really able to respond.  Her fingers fluttered at my nipple, tweaking and rubbing. 
“So what do you think the repercussions for fucking it up will be, Breanne?” she asked me, her hand sliding down to my sex and gently, lightly, almost with a tickling motion, caressed my labia.  I gasped, my hips instantly thrusting upward.  It did nothing to relieve me.
“Hmmm?  What do you think we should do to you for having more edges than you were supposed to?
A single word came to mind and I said it, my voice cracking.  Kari laughed, her fingers tweaking and rubbing and teasing.
“Seriously?  That’s what you think should happen?” she asked.  She caught hold of my clit and twisted it slightly, not enough to hurt, but definitely enough to make me incredibly aware of it, how sore I was, how swollen I’d become.  I wanted… I needed something.
“And that’s exactly what you won’t be getting, I can promise you,” she whispered in my ear.  “You won’t be coming for days.  Weeks, if I can arrange it.”  She paused and the pressure on my clit tightened and became pain.
“Because the last thing you should be rewarded with for edging too many times, is being allowed to cum.”

Breanne Erickson is the author of Coming of Age: A BDSM Romance.  Check out her work at!

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