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!