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John's Party - Part One

I was on my knees.

Admittedly, that’s not really a surprise for anyone is it?  I mean, realistically I spend a good deal of time in that position.  I’m a submissive with a penchant for doing crazy, mind-blowing (and cock-blowing) things.  Hell, on any given day, if I say “I’m on my knees,” there’s a damn good chance there is cock inside me too, on any one of a variety of damp, dark places.  Either that or a sex toy, buzzing away like mad, making me so desperate and wet that all I can think of doing is screwing someone, anyone. It’s almost a law of nature.  “Breanne is on her knees, getting fucked.”  I wonder if I’d been around, and fallen on him like that apple, if Newton would have been up to the task of creating a “law of Breanne?”

So like I said, I was on my knees.  And yes, I had a stiff, hard cock inside me.  I was kneeling on the bed, straddling a gray haired gentlemen in his mid-fifties, whose bright blue eyes stared up at me even as his hands kneaded my bare breasts urgently.  I was bouncing, enjoying the sensation of his rigid member slipping up and down through my loins, watching his own face darken as my nubile body did its thing.

It was late in the afternoon, almost five o’clock and I’d been at John’s house on that first day of February since almost lunch time.  For the first few hours I’d helped him clean the house, as well as prep the munchies we’d planned for the party.  It had been fun actually, despite the fact that he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off me. Part of that was because I’d stripped naked the moment I got in the door, but also because I’d been particularly naughty.  I’d teased him with touches and little ass wiggles the entire time.  And not to make you jealous or anything, but this was the second screwing he’d give me.  The first had been in the living room right after I finished vacuuming.  Do you know what it’s like doing it doggie style while half bent over a sofa?

I do!

But now, as I rode him gently on the bed, I knew everything was ready.  Snacks were prepared, lined up. Beer was cold in the fridge.  We had every soda type known to mankind. There were pretzels, chips, dip, little smokies, peanuts, sliders, candy, wings… everything.  We’d maneuvered the living room furniture around so that besides John’s sofa, there were now also three large recliners available.  The coffee table was loaded with goodies. As far as parties go, this one had plenty of food and drink.

And I was ready as well.  As I bounced up and down I glanced over to the bureau where my costume for the evening was waiting.

“Oh God! Breanne! I think I’m going to cum!” John groaned, his fingers pinching my nipple.  “I can’t hold back any more!”

I laughed, the light, silvery music coming from my throat. “Then cum!” I said wickedly, grinding my hips. His body responded immediately and I worked to get his cock to spurt a second time.

“But…” he gasped, panting. “You haven’t popped yet.  Not once,” he protested.

My smile warmed.  Awww… how sweet.  “John,” I whispered, bending down to touch my lips to his ear. “That doesn’t matter.  If I’m horny for the rest of the evening, isn’t that a good thing? Use me. Satisfy yourself with me,” I said. “Hurt me. That’s what I’m here for.”

And he did. I groaned as he twisted my nipples, the small gold padlock and piercing that hung from my right breast nothing but a cruel dial for his fingertips.  I threw my head back and let out a whimper that morphed into a pain ridden whine and that was all he needed.  I felt him, already stiff inside me, become granite.  Then his shaft began to pulse, throbbing between the soft sides of my slit until I knew he was exploding.  White cream burst forth, caught in the condom’s bubble, and then he groaned in relief, pulling me down by my breasts until I was pressed to his chest, still rolling my hips, my body, if not my mind, looking for satisfaction.

Don’t get me wrong. I would have loved to explode.  I always do.  But that’s not my purpose.  See, I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut and that means that generally, at least when it comes to sex, my needs are a distant second to every single person who happens to be in the room.  Me?  I’m a toy, a tool.  And if my suffering, whether by denial or torment, is what someone requires, then I’m going to provide it.  That’s not abusive either.  That’s what I like.  It’s what makes me even more turned on, to be that tool.  And honestly? I love making men, and yes - even women - cum from using me. 

Eventually John let me go and I rolled off him, glancing at the clock.  With a laugh I touched his shoulder and nodded at the time.

“I know. I know, they’ll be arriving soon,” he muttered and then stood.  We still had thirty minutes before game time, but all of his guests would be showing up in the next half hour.  We didn’t have that much time. 

I padded over to the bureau and picked up the mess of white and black cloth.  I’d borrowed one of Madeline’s outfits, another “little French maid” getup that I had thought appropriate for hosting John’s Super Bowl party.  He’d agreed immediately when I’d described the outfit and I went about putting it on.  There wasn’t much too it.  The white blouse was nothing more than a half shirt that covered one’s breasts, with a disturbingly low collar and an off the shoulder cut.  The white underskirt was more of a tutu, which was actually okay, since I had a pair of black, lace panties, also disturbingly transparent, that I’d known would contrast well with the uniform.  Lastly came the dress, which went over both the tutu thingy and my bared midriff.  This actually did a better job of covering me up, though the underskirt kept the dress from covering my bottom or sex.  The apron was sewed straight to the dress.

I know.  Impressive, right?  But I said it was a costume. Sheesh.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and started to put on my shoes. John had opted for bare legs instead of stockings, all because he really liked the stripper heels I’d brought.  Crystal clear with a dangerous arch and five inch heels on top of a four inch lift, my stripper heels shouted “whore” a whole lot better than a sign. At least I wore them well, my exposed toes, arch, and ankles attractive enough.  Five minutes later I walked into the bathroom, darkened my makeup - especially the eyeliner (except no lipstick. Lipstick in sexual settings sucks,) cleaned up just a little more, and then headed out into the rest of the house.

The rest of Breanne's amazing tale is no longer available here on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog. You CAN find out what happens though, by reading Breanne's "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 11," now available from Amazon.com!