Extremes. They’re everywhere. Extreme heights, extreme sports, extreme foods, extreme cars – hell you can attach the adjective to just about anything. Extreme sushi. See? How about extreme chocolate? Extreme clothing? But sometimes “extreme” is not an adjective, it’s a noun, an intellectual place holder for limits that might otherwise be difficult to imagine. Temperature extremes. Technological extremes. And of course a subject in which I might, just might, be considered an expert.
I think this fall I’ve proven my versatility in sexual matters. From a week of non-stop orgasmic insanity to a somewhat less successful week of edging, I know what sexual extremes are. I’ve lived them. I know what it’s like to bask in the euphoria of satisfaction, of mind-blowing orgasm. And I know what it’s like to be so desperate, so wanton, that you would literally do almost anything for relief.
So I hope you can understand where I’m coming from when I confess that I was desperate. In fact I was extremely desperate. I’d gone almost eleven full days without an orgasm and for a girl like me, that tends to make you just a bit irrational. Even with the first five of those days spent miserably enduring my tome of the month, the last six had been a repeated lesson in sexual frustration. Kari, the woman responsible for selecting my “toy of the day,” the simple yet effective means for me to comply with NHPS Rule #1, had left me in various stages of unfulfillment. Trust me – when a woman says she hasn’t been filled properly, it’s serious.
Extreme dissatisfaction. So when Master Dan had suggested a simple yet diabolical assignment, the day before I was scheduled to go on a six day trip to New York City with David, I latched onto it with my teeth and bit down. I had presented the idea with an enthusiasm that a rational person would have identified as extreme stupidity, but Kari approved the concept with a few of her more rational specifics, provided that both Kari and David agreed to what I, or more accurately – Master Dan – was proposing. A phone call and a text message were all that were required to set things up and so Halloween morning found me at the mall, just a few minutes before ten.
I had managed to sneak out of the house by wearing my blue denim duster, braving the wet and chilly weather clad in what is nominally considered “cowgirl” attire. But underneath, unseen to the piercing eyes of my mom or the curious eyes of my father, was a pair of sheer, white cotton shorts that crawled up my butt and molded to my curves like rubber. Men snicker and use the phrase “camel toe” to describe the condition I was sporting rather well. Regardless, a prudent girl would be very cautious about what color panties she should wear with that particular pair of shorts.
My top was marginally better. First of all it was a tee shirt, a tight one, but it was black cotton and while it conformed to my breasts as well as the shorts emphasized my sex, the color made it hard to see the piercing of my right nipple, or the small, charm-sized padlock that hung down, emblazoned with a rose. Across the front of my shirt was a blue and red emblem that looked suspiciously like the major league baseball emblem, except instead of a batter waiting for a curve ball, there was a silhouette of a girl with more curves than an Astros’ pitcher. Underneath were the words “Major League Porn Star.” As you can imagine, there is nothing to better to complete an image of something than to add a caption.
The shirt was not just tight, but too small as well, and I felt like a sausage. The bottom of the shirt didn’t go down to my shorts and left a swath of bare belly about six inches wide, leaving my navel exposed and ensuring my inability to use my shirt to hide my shorts. All in all, quite an awkward ensemble. The only good thing was that rather than wearing my high heels, my bare feet were tucked into flip flops, which made the outfit appropriate for summer and not the last day of October.
But what the hell. It was Halloween. I’d get a couple of looks, a shrug, and then maybe a smile. After all, Halloween is the day that decent girls get to dress up like total sluts, get drunk, and have lots of sex. Wait. I do that every day, don’t I? Guess next year instead of dressing up normal, I should put on sweatpants and a sweatshirt and sit around eating corn chips and salsa.
The other thing I did when I got to the mall was leave my duster in the truck. I wrapped my arms around myself as I hurried into the mall, managing to get inside without freezing my rather underdressed ass off. My small purse was slung over my shoulder and the first thing I did was head to the nearest ladies restroom. In private I worked the tight shorts down past my knees and then stuck my fingers up between the soft petals of my flower. I let out a soft gasp, but no one was in the bathroom to hear it, and felt a thin strand of twine. A slow pull eventually forced not one but two, golf-ball sized spheres from my depths and I groaned as they came free. I wrapped them in tissue paper and then put them in my purse, extracting the toy that would shortly become both my relief and my torment.
“Vibroballs” might not be an accurate description of what should more properly be called “vibro-ovoid like thingies.” I slipped both bullets, one at a time, into my slit and pushed them deep with my thumb, reveling in the sensation of being stuffed once again. My pre-moistened slit responded sweetly to the new sensation and I carefully positioned the wire that led from the vibroballs to the controller up past my clitoris. I pulled up my shorts and was disturbed to discover that the purple colored wire was intriguingly visible, right through the thin material of my shorts. Worse, my aroused state was already have a deleterious effect on the translucency of the fabric. That “camel toe” was becoming increasingly pink.
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!