10 Strokes

“What?” Julie said with exasperated disbelief. “Already?” She turned and looked at me, one eyebrow arched in that Spockish sort of way that I liked. I wanted to smile, to grin at her, but I was just a little bit focused on maintaining my poise. My face was steel and the rest of me was almost as firmly tense. She sighed, rolling her eyes.

“Christ, Breanne. It’s only been ten minutes,” she said, grabbing my hand and looking around. I nodded, my throat tight as I tried to focus on my breathing, which was steadily becoming more labored. My hips suddenly thrust forward and I let out a little whimper as Julie spotted an appropriate clothing store and hauled me in.

We moved past the counter rapidly, Julie’s commanding look more than enough to satisfy the clerks. That was a girl who knew where she was going. What she wanted. And she dressed like it too. Gold earrings and necklace, combined with a stunning black blouse with some intriguing black lace panels, with a pair of those chino type pants that flared and hung loosely around the calves. High heeled open toed sandals to match, with purple painted toe nails.  All in all a definite possibility for a quick sale.

The girl with her? The redhead? Um… yeah. Not so much. Cute, definitely. Especially with the shoulder length red hair.  But that halter top! It looked like it had been through the wash one to many times, faded and thin. And you could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra either. You could practically see her nipple! And speaking of nipple, did you see what was hanging off her right tit? A padlock! An actual padlock! Granted, it was a small one, but what kind of girl has a lock hanging off her nipple?  The skirt? Blue denim, flared and pleated. How old fashioned. Definitely needs a new one. It was too short too. I’ll bet if she were sitting down it wouldn’t cover her bottom! Shoes? Flip flops you mean. How… base. Couldn’t she at least afford some nice beach sandals? At least her toe nails were painted a crimson to match her hair…

Julie snatched a blouse off a rack and pushed me toward the changing rooms. I was breaking down, too close and Julie glanced around. “Hush!” she whispered, then opened the small door and took us inside.  The changing room was nothing more than a closet with a mirror, though there was a small bench. Julie hung the shirt up on a hook and then nodded at me. I groaned and put one leg up on the seat while Julie pushed her hands up underneath my skirt. Her deft fingers followed the Velcro straps upward to my hip, finding the small controller and with a simple swipe of her thumb she turned the Rotating Venus Penis off.

I crumpled, whimpering as the four inch plastic cock inside me went silent. It also stopped moving. The “rotation” function of the “ROTATING Venus Penis” makes the little cock churn inside me like a wooden spoon stirring a pot of soup. It drives me crazy.

“They were only on medium!” Julie said in disgust as she ripped the first of the straps off. I trembled, unwilling to answer her. She pulled on the other side and the front of the RVP loosened. Her hands tugged and a moment later the entire thing came away from my sex, the soaked petals glistening. My clit was peeking out, desperate for release as well. The RVP, silent but wet, hung down from beneath me, half the straps still connected, or I was sitting on them. Julie opened her purse, pulled out the sap and gave me an expectant look.

I took a deep breath and spread my legs, pulling my feet out of my flip flops and setting them on the bench. It was an awkward position and my knees were forced wide apart, almost to the walls. I braced myself, clenching my teeth as Julie dropped down to get a better angle. She knelt right in front of me, then bent down and kissed my clit. It was a wet kiss, with lots of tongue, and this just brought me right back to the edge of the cliff, desperate for release. Then she pulled back, her lips wet with my juice, raised the sap, and smashed my clit into paste.

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!

Rain & Orchids

It had been a tough week, mostly because I was wet.  Under normal circumstances, that particular adjective merely means that I’m the kind of girl most men want to meet on a city street because I’m dressed provocatively, act like I’m a sex starved slut willing to fuck anything vaguely cock shaped, and am so moist you almost need a boat to traverse the sodden swamp between my legs.  But this wasn’t normal circumstances. I was wet because it was raining, and by rain I mean RAINING.

Like tropical storm RAINING.

It had almost been a hurricane but had missed out by about fifteen miles an hour.  I’m not really scared of hurricanes, despite living just a few miles to the west of Houston. Tornados? Those I’m scared of. But hurricanes? Lots of wind and water, but it’s too diffuse for me to get really concerned about. I’m so far from the coast that it’s not like a storm surge is going to wipe out my digs, and Katy is far enough away from the Brazos that more water isn’t really a dangerous threat for me.  And that’s a good thing.

But I was still wet. Even down to my socks, buried in my boots. I was wet everywhere, from my head to my feet. The rain slicker was pointless. The wind was whipping it around and even tore it open, which soaked the button up, red and white checkered shirt to my skin. You could see the rather plain, unassuming and rather utilitarian bra I had on underneath, and it didn’t take long for my blue jeans to start darkening either. I struggled in the rain with a shovel, trying to widen a collapsed drainage opening. My soy beans were under water.

The problem wasn’t really the tropical storm. It was the two months of rain we’d had prior to the tropical storm. The ground was saturated. Usually at this time of year I’m out here, still wet and muddy, but mostly from wrestling with an irrigator, spraying expensive water on plants baking in the south Texas heat. We grow cotton, soy beans, and wheat on my farm and frankly I think I should have planted rice.

It was ten o’clock before I slogged my way back into the barn, dripping as if I’d just climbed out of the shower and I wrung out my hair and toweled off. I thought about stripping, but then decided that the best thing to do would be to just run back into the house, risk the wrath of my mother’s tongue as I left muddy footprints on the linoleum floor of the kitchen, and then lay down a trail of water all the way to the stairs and up to my bedroom.

But before I did that, I checked my phone.  I hadn’t taken it out with me. Not in that kind of weather. I noticed two emails, one from Master Matt, the other from Julie. Matt was responding to a sarcastic tweet I’d sent out earlier that morning, one where I said I might as well eschew my jeans and shirt in favor of a bikini. It was a joke! A flippancy! Commentary about the weather! And of course that made it an assignment.

I read through Matt’s instructions, a dark, sinking feeling in my stomach and an increasing wetness between my legs. Matt wanted me in a crotch rope and bobby pins, stripped naked and cumming, along with having my swimsuit - all of it - out of immediate reach.  All sorts of fun. So I opened Julie’s email.

Oh. Oh boy. The sinking feeling became butterflies. Sarcasm became reality. the bobbypins Matt wanted on my nipples were exchanged for orchid clamps (damn! those hurt worse than bobbypins! And Kittish! Argggh! I still blame you for those damn things!)  The crotch rope became the vibrating egg she used on me during Denial & Consequences and I was instructed to cum at least once. From there her demands just got more unsettling.

I took a deep breath. The green bikini. She’d bought it for me and I’d only worn it once. I’d like to say that I looked good in it, but that wouldn’t be the truth. I looked amazing in it. Bun floss bottoms and a top so skimpy that it almost qualified as a micro bikini. Almost. I wore it once to a pool party Julie and I had been invited too and let’s just say that the attention I garnered was quite flattering.

Going out in it? And only the bikini? Insane.

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!

Context

The problem was context. I stood there in front of the cash register, my face flushed crimson, my selected items combining with my attire to leave an impression that was, admittedly in this instance, totally accurate.

"Nice shirt," Dorbin commented. That was the clerk's name. His name tag said so.

Me? I blushed even more, the redness creeping down my chest. I'd been told to wear my peasant blouse, which was a bit of a misnomer since it only resembled that particular style of clothing. Sort of like how a Shetland pony resembles a quarter horse. To me my shirt looked more like a set of partially see-thru drapes you hang across the top of a window called a valance and is designed to hide the curtain rack the sheers are hanging from. My shirt, which didn't actually do much to hide my rack, was both deep at the collar and daringly short at the hem. There was just enough material to keep from flashing the world as long as I didn’t move. Raising my arms above my head or bending over would have caused both breasts to swing delicately free of the covering material.

Of course bending over would have been stupid for other reasons as well. The skirt I'd been ordered to pair with the peasant blouse was of a similar cut and material. It hung excruciatingly low on my hips, feeling as if the slightest twitch would send it to the floor, while the hem only came down mid-thigh. Let me amend that statement: upper mid-thigh. The only plus in my book was that it was flared and you couldn't actually see through it, which was good, since I wasn't wearing any panties.

My sex tightened as Dorbin's hand started sliding my purchases across his scanner. I'd chosen the drugstore because it would be less busy than the standard grocery. I'm not sure I'd have been able to bear the humiliation had another customer been standing behind me. How would I explain the bottle of sexual lubricant, or the tube of Icy Hot?

Dorbin held up the motorized, vibrating toothbrush I'd been told to get. "These are very effective," he assured me, the sexual innuendo in his voice rather obvious. I'd have turned even more crimson had I not already been blushing down to the tips my breasts. The box of condoms went next and he smiled knowingly.

I thought I was going to die of extreme mortification. Everything got totaled up and I paid in cash, fumbling with the small clutch I had slung over one shoulder. Then I watched as Dorbin printed my receipt, folded it in half lengthwise, and tossed it out into the middle of the floor with a polite but totally insincere, "oops. I'm sorry." My eyes widened in alarm.

A war broke out in my head, one half of me screaming "FORGET THE RECEIPT!" while my darker, more scrumptious half said, "go ahead. Pick it up. Tempt him. Torment him. Leave him hard and wanting." I froze, not sure which half of myself to listen too. That’s my problem. Half the time I want to run, scared and humiliated. The other half… well… I listen to it too sometimes.

I glanced around. It was just Dorbin and me. I swallowed hard, my bottom lip caught between my teeth, then I turned around. I wanted to close my eyes as I started to bend down, and not by folding my legs and scrunching down. I felt the air against my bottom, the skirt swirling dangerously. Of course the moment I bent over my blouse fell forward too, both breasts dangling bare beneath me, the gold piercing and small padlock hanging from my right nipple. I turned as my fingers snagged the receipt and I came back up with my side presented to him, just so he could see the sides of my breasts before my blouse recovered them.

Dorbin’s eyes were wide in shock and his mouth was half open, though the beginnings of a big smile were already there. He blinked as I stepped back up to the counter and tucked the receipt into the small plastic bag he’d filled with my items. I gave him a little smile, half-pleased with myself and very, very, very wet. The ben wa balls I had inside me rolled as I shifted my hips, the little bells ringing lightly.

“Girl, where have you been my whole life?” Dorbin asked in dismay.

I took a deep breath, fighting down the urge to flee.  “When do you get off from work?” I asked.  It was around one in the afternoon, so I thought I’d ask.  Instead his face fell. “Not till three,” he said somewhat dejected. I sighed.

“Too bad. I need an audience.” The words came out of my mouth in a dark, sultry wave.

He didn’t know what to say.

I reached into the bag and pulled out the toothbrush and popped it out of the plastic and cardboard container it had come in.  Then with a touch of my thumb, I hit the small button along the thick, battery filled handle, and both felt and heard it come to life. I stared straight at Dorbin as I slipped the bristle end up under my blouse, pressing it to my left nipple. I let out a soft gasp, eyes widening, then issued a moan that would have hardened a cooked noodle.

My loins tightened and I admit I wanted to see where this was going to go, but I knew that masturbating at the front counter of a drug store wasn’t exactly brilliant. Besides, I’d already pushed it. The security surveillance footage was going to end up on the internet at some point, showing a barely dressed redhead with sunglasses, a small purse, strutting her stuff while picking up a receipt.

I grabbed my stuff and fled, throwing the vibrating toothbrush into the bag. Out in my truck I clutched the steering wheel and tried to keep from hyperventilating. I could feel the moisture seeping out from between my petals, soaking the back of my skirt as my slit tightened rhythmically around the two golf ball sized spheres rolling around in there. I let out a light moan. God, I was so desperate! I so needed to cum!

I turned on the truck and headed out.

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!