Friday, August 28, 2015

A Telling Yarn - Part One

A Telling Yarn - Part One

My morning was a lesson in frustration. How was yours?

Dawn broke on that beautiful Wednesday morning in the late August summer heat with its usual intensity. Crimson and gold played out across the clouds that spotted the horizon and the scents of wheat and holly filled my nose as I worked out in the barn. The goats were happy and fed, goofing off in their enclosure. The pigs seemed satisfied with their feed and the piglets, which had been adorable and cute a few months before were starting to look more and more like bacon. The chickens seemed to doing well, though they were still a little disconcerted by the presence of this year’s gobbler, a still only somewhat grown turkey that wasn’t looking forward to Thanksgiving nearly as well as much as I was.  Our horses had already been fed, combed, and turned out for the morning and if I’d taken a survey of all the creatures in the barn that morning, only one of them wouldn’t have been perfectly happy.  Only one would have confessed to an acute discomfort, a sort of incessant pressure building on the senses that seemed to leave raw nerves exposed.

That animal would be me.

Frustration can come in all shapes and sizes, from the three tiny elastic bands clinging tightly to the tips of my breasts and wrapped around my clit, to the set of vibroballs I’d been told to slip buzzing into my wet depths that morning. Frustration is all about unmet needs, and when it comes to that particular subject, the term “unmet needs” pretty much describes my life.

Master Phil is the commander of “unmet needs,” inflicting them upon me with a skill that leaves me breathless. I’d been directed to go sans panties specifically so that the denim of my blue jeans would rub constantly against my distended, elastic wrapped clit, driving me crazy. So I had eschewed my normal white bikini style underwear and just pulled my work jeans up, feeling the seam of the crotch rub immediately against the extended, rubber-band wrapped nodule. I finished dressing, hyper-aware of the vibroballs turbulent movement, the tingling of my nipples, and of course the slow grinding of my clit against my pants. Then I started my chores.

At six-twenty the first fifty minutes had passed us by and I swallowed, bracing myself. Master Phil, knowing how easy I am to flip, had also required me to turn up the vibroball stimulation for ten minutes each hour. I turned up the oscillating sex toy in my pussy to medium, cognizant of the fact that I wasn’t allowed to orgasm. That in and of itself was a problem, because I was already quite aroused, that “unmet need” a sort of fire being fed by the constant influx of sexual stimulation. Having an explosion of sexually satisfactory release without authorization was tantamount to disobeying a direct order from a commanding officer. And just like the military I was well aware that such behavior was not only frowned upon, but rewarded with certain unpleasant consequences.

For me it would mean a self-inflicted punishment, focused no doubt on the same parts of my anatomy that were already being subjected to intense stimulation. So I strained and tightened up and generally tried to think about other things while my pussy throbbed in time with the increased agitation of the vibroballs. I was perspiring when the prescribed ten minutes was up and turning the vibrator back down to low didn’t take the edge off, it just kept me from exploding as soon. I wasn’t even finished with the next hour before I couldn’t take it anymore, grabbed hold of stall door, and braced myself as my slight frame rocked with orgasmic bliss. It felt amazing, the idea that I was about to be hurting because of it nothing but icing on the cake. When I was done shaking, I felt wrung out. Slowly I straightened, walked over to the work bench along one wall of the barn, and found the implement I needed.

I headed for a couple of half bales, small rectangular blocks of hay we had stacked in a corner of the barn and I spread an extra blanket over them. Then I unbuttoned my jeans. My clitoris already looked a little raw, the tiny nodule trying hard to get back under its hood, but incapable thanks to the rubber band.  I moaned as I sat there, my hips pumping slightly. The exposure made a second wave of arousal very real and I sat down, my jeans around my ankles. I spread my knees, making sure my sex was wide open and exposed, then I lifted the flexible, plastic stir stick, and rubbed it very gently against my petals until it was wet.

Paint sticks are cheap and this one was drilled with holes. The cost of cumming was twenty swats, each of which had to sting. That was the measure by which I was being held. So I lifted it up from my soaked slit, held it approximately six inches away, and then gave my wrist a sharp little twist. The paint stick, essentially a lever designed to magnify the minimal force of your movement, swung fast, the flat edge striking a three inch swath of flesh starting at my clitoris (the intended and purposed target) going down my labia. I’d done a good job because I let out a sharp squeal as the pain shot up from between my legs and my knees jerked close. It took me a moment to get myself all sorted out again, and this time, when I smacked myself with the stick, a touch of fear made the movement a simple tap.

No sting. Damn.

So I got to do it again. My results were haphazard. The third stroke stung, but just barely. The fourth was too hard again. The fifth, too hard still. The sixth too weak. I had no consistency. All I knew was that my clitoris felt raw, chapped, excoriated, and tender. I loved it. The vibroballs continued to dance inside me and on the ninth stroke the little rubber band around my clitoris couldn’t take the impact tremors and snapped off. I whimpered, taking the time to put it back on, having all sorts of trouble with my fingers wet and slick and my clitoris tender and moist. I managed it and kept going. Whack. Whack. Whack…

The rubber band came off again. I was too erratic. Any more of this and I’d need help. I wasn’t going to be able to self-inflict the punishment. That realization didn’t stop me though. I needed to get through the first bit and I decided that more pain was the key to surviving it. So I ignored the rubber band and slammed the paint stir stick into my pussy with loud, wet cracks of plastic meeting soft flesh. And when I was done with all twenty strokes I let out a chocked sob of anguish, collapsed back against the hay, and just laid there, trying to come to grips with my situation.

Gingerly I put the elastic band back on, checked the time, and saw that I’d literally used up every minute I had before I was forced by Master Phil’s orders turn the vibroballs back up to medium. So I futzed with the controller and a moment later was moaning with my eyes closed, the stimulating vibrations rumbling with in me. I almost lost it right there.

Two hours later I blasted through another unauthorized orgasm. This time, instead of doing the punishment myself, I climbed into my truck and drove a quick twenty minutes until I pulled up in front of a small, somewhat dilapidated building that looked like it belonged in Leave it to Beaver. The exterior walls were painted an off-white and the parking lot was just gravel. I was very familiar with the place, since it was run by Mike the Hardware Guy, a close personal friend who I’d met some years before. I parked my truck and waddled inside, finding him in his office, working on paperwork. I pushed the door open with the toe of my boot and looked in with an easy smile. I had the paint stick in my hand.

“Hey Mike,” I said nonchalantly, but quite aware that even that platonic greeting seemed laced with the sexual tension I was under. My petals tightened around the vibroballs and squeezed.

He looked up, then his eyes brightened immediately. “Well, well, well. What brings my favorite nympho humiliation pain slut here today?” He asked, leaning back in his chair with a huge grin. His eyes worked their way down from my throat to my feet and I could see he was curious about my attire. Usually when I show up at the office I’m dressed like a scarlet whore. Me looking wholesome, at least on the surface, was a bit different.  I came in and closed the door behind me. I locked it as well, just in case. Then I sat down on the edge of his desk and held up my canvas bag. He looked at it curiously as drew the dreaded paint stick out from its depths.

His eyes went from me to the stick, then back to me. He sighed and shook his head. “Seriously Bre? Where this time?”

I bit my lip. “My clit,” I told him. “Twenty strokes.”  Then I paused, remembering. “Twenty-five I mean. I forgot there’s a five stroke increase after each unauthorized orgasm.”

Mike eyed me and took the stick. “So you’ve only had the two?” He asked sarcastically, as if he expected more out of me.

I nodded. “It was an accident, but I think Master Phil was deliberately trying to set me up to fail. He wants me nice and sensitive for the real assignment coming up this afternoon.”

Mike grinned. “What’s the real assignment?”

I hesitated. “It’s complicated. Alligator clamps. Yarn. Strangers. Pain. Edging, Oral, Anal, and regular sex. That sort of thing.”

“Just sort of a smorgasbord of everything huh?”

I shrugged. “You know how Master Phil’s assignments are. Very complicated.”

Mike glanced down at his watch. “Well, I’ve got my lunch break in about thirty minutes. I could come with you for the start,” he offered.

I shifted nervously. “It’s sort of an explicit assignment. And to be honest, I think it will take me two or three hours. Maybe more.”

Mike laughed. “Hopefully with you sexually wanting and in pain the whole time, right?”

“Yep,” I said. Then I stood up. My fingers went to my zipper and I quickly tugged it down. The button and belt were nothing and a second later I was kicking off one boot and pushing my jeans down my long legs. Mike watched with appreciation, taking special note of the already bright pink nodule as well as the similarly colored wires coming from my sex.

“No panties,” he said. “I love a girl who goes commando. Especially in jeans. You look a little wet. Vibroballs?” I knew he could see the wire and I nodded.

“Buzzing much?”

“On low right now, but set to medium for ten minutes every hour.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “Is that a rubber band on your clit?” He asked suspiciously.

I kicked off my other boot, then the jeans. “Yes.”  

Mike reached out and picked up the paint stick, which I had thoughtfully left right there on his desk. “I presume I’m supposed to aim for your clitoris, right?”

I took a deep breath, spread my legs, going up on tip toe, all while leaning back against his desk.  “Yes. And it has to be hard enough to sting.”

Mike grunted. “Well that should be easy enough. I’ll just try to knock off the rubber band,” he said. “When do you have to turn the vibroballs higher?”

Ignoring his sarcasm I glanced over at his clock. “Another ten minutes.”

“Why not wait?” He asked. “You can put your talented mouth to work.”

I gave him a cold, hard stare which he matched perfectly. Nothing happened and I realized I wasn’t going to get my strokes until I cooperated. Letting out a grunt of exasperation I sank to my knees, unbuckled his jeans, and took his cock in my mouth. I worked hard at him, bobbing and licking and stroking. He moaned and was clearly loving every second of it, but at the ten minute mark he was still only insanely hard. Not close. He patted me on the head and when I looked up all I saw was the wicked and sadistic smile on his face.

“My turn. Up on the desk and spread those gorgeous legs of yours.”

My heart thudded hard in my chest and I resisted this urge to run out of his office. I think the only thing that stopped me was the fact I was naked from the waist down. Slowly I stood up, wiping at my mouth, then sat back on his metal and wood desk. He’d already cleared off some of the papers and my bare bottom slid easily on the surface. I laid back, further and further until I was supine, my head hanging off the top edge as I assumed the butterfly position, my legs open, the soles of my feet together. I had to use my hands to hold my legs wide.

“No, no. Open up, Breanne.” Mike pushed on my foot and swung my leg outward. I groaned, the muscles in my thigh rippling. Then I did what he told me to do and I spread my legs, almost to the opposite edges of the desk. It was very uncomfortable but it certainly presented my pussy in perfect position. Mike grabbed the remote control for the vibroballs and I felt the rumble inside me increase dramatically. It was too intense actually. I was so wet and bothered, getting to suck cock, the non-stop stimulation, the light pinching of my nipples and clit. It was just too much. Throw in the vibroballs, but turn them up to high. And then, to be spread like that on a man’s desk, all so he could take a paint stick to my pussy? Who wouldn’t be on the edge, ready to take that first stroke?

Then Mike hit me.

It was a decent snap of the stick, the flat of the blade striking my clit perfectly perpendicular, smashing it flat. The rubber band snapped off immediately, unable to resist the force of the blow mashing the little nub back into the clitoral hood. My own physical response was to yelp, grit my teeth, and jerk a little. Then Mike bent over, and in what I can only call an extreme act of vicious cruelty, licked my clit once, long and slow. Then suckled it.

“What…. what…. what are you doing?” I gasped as insane levels of pleasure snapped through me, replacing the hurt of his stroke. Mike didn’t answer, but he did come back up. My clit tingled with the warmth of his mouth. My hips rolled and thrust and then the paint stick was back in his hand. I didn’t even see it coming but by God I sure as hell felt it. Another cracking noise filled the little office and I cried out again, softly of course, my entire body quivering. Then Mike went back down, licking and sucking.

That’s how it went for the next ten minutes. First there would be a fiery impact, a harsh abrasive sting, and then warm wetness followed by soft massage. All of this was going on at the same time the two vibroballs roared inside me, on full power, despite Master Phil’s assignment stating I only had to have them at medium. Clearly Phil wasn’t the only one trying to get me to fuck up the assignment. By the time we hit eighteen or nineteen I was so horny, so desperate for orgasm, that the idea of another twenty-five strokes didn’t seem that bad. And around twenty-two I couldn’t take it. I felt the roar in my ears matching the buzz between my legs. My heart thudded painfully as my pussy tightened around the two vibroballs. My clit felt like it had been split open and was being coated with hot magma. There was nothing I could do. The punishment had become the pleasure and this time I did scream, quickly bringing a white clenched knuckle to my mouth, gnawing on a finger as I exploded.

Mike hit me two or three more times but I was out of it by that point, lying on his desk like a wet noodle with just about as much mental capacity. Moisture trickled down from my slit and I had every intention of just lying there, sleeping until there was a tentative knock on the door. I jerked my head up as Mike pulled his pants back into position. I hurled myself up off the desk, scrambling for my jeans. Thank God I was still wearing my shirt. I jammed my feet into the pant legs and had them halfway up when Mike did the unthinkable. He opened the door. With my ass hanging out.

“Yes Alex?” He asked. Behind him a twenty something year old guy stood, his eyes a little wide as he caught a glimpse of my bare bottom. Then it was covered up with denim and I turned my back to him as I buckled and zipped up my jeans.

“Uh. I heard a cry and…”

“We’re fine. Did you finish restocking the machine screws?”

He blinked. “Uh. Almost.”

Mike nodded. “Good. Breanne and I are heading out to lunch now. You’ve got the store. Call me if there are any problems.”

Alex looked at me again, no doubt noticing my flushed face or still heaving bosom. Then he wandered away.

“Who’s that?” I asked, nodding toward the door Mike was in the process of shutting. “I’ve never seen him before.”

Mike sighed. “Alex. Someone who you’ll need to fuck sooner or later. He’s seen you twice now and been curious. We’ll need to get him satisfaction at some point.”

I laughed, but it was a touch sardonic, rather than humorous. “I’ll put him on my list.” I looked around the room. The paint stick was lying on the desk, in a pool of cum. You could see the outline of my bottom in the wetness. I picked up the paint stick and jammed the stick back into my bag. Then I turned toward Mike. “I’m ready.”

We took his truck for a number of reasons. First, Mike likes driving. Second, it’s a lot easier to make me do things like take off my clothes if I’m in the passenger seat instead of behind the wheel. Mike drives this massive black Dodge Ram pickup and we trundled away from the hardware store heading for the boonies with Mike grilling me about Master Phil’s assignment. You should have heard him laughing at me, shaking his head as he imagined what I’d be going through the rest of the day.

“Still, I like the way that man thinks. He’s got a sadistic streak a mile wide. What’s the outfit again today?”

“Skirt and shirt,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “It’s the accessories that are the problem.”

Mike grinned. “Well, if I’m taking you out for lunch, I think you should be appropriately dressed.

I blinked. “What? Are you crazy? Do you know what that will feel like? With the yarn?”

He nodded. “Absolutely.” He turned north and a few minutes later we were on a gravel road in the middle of freaking nowhere, with fields stretching out on every side. I grinned. We’d see a dust trail long before anyone got near to us and I gave Mike a dark glare.

“Should I get out too?” Mike asked.

I shrugged. “It’s not like I need help. You might find it more amusing to sit here and watch.”

“Except my truck is huge and even in heels I’d only be able to see you from the chin down.”

I considered it for a moment. “Tell you what. I’ll do it in the middle of the road.  That should make Master Phil happy and satisfy you too.”

Mike nodded. “Just as long as you do it where I can see. Middle of the road works for me.” So I got out of the truck with my bag, scurried around the front, and then hung the bag on Mike’s side mirror. Now came the easy part. In the late morning sunlight, on a dirt and gravel road, with open sky around me, cicadas and grasshoppers buzzing in the grass, I took off my clothes.

I started with my boots, leaving me in stockinged feet. Then my tee shirt was peeled off. I wasn’t wearing a bra. My denim jeans came next and you already know I wasn’t wearing panties. I stood there posing stupidly for Mike who watched me in a clearly wanting state. I knew I was going to need to satisfy him soon or things weren’t going to be easy. For either one of us.  

“Hey, what time is it exactly?” I asked suddenly, one hand on the wire stretched between my wet and dripping petals and the small pink battery pack of the vibroballs.

Mike looked at his dashboard. “It’s eleven twenty.”

“Shit,” I cursed. “I can’t take the vibroballs out for another ten minutes.” I reached down and grabbed my jeans, pushing my foot in.

Mike let out a little shout. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I gave him a crazy look. “Getting dressed. I can’t stand out here naked for ten minutes!”

“Sure you can. Besides, you can handle the punishment for your last orgasm. Twenty-five strokes, right?” He asked. Then to my fury he tossed the paint stick out the window. It fell into the dirt at my feet.

“You can’t be serious,” I demanded, stooping down to pick up the stick. “I came because you were hitting me!”

Mike grinned. “Not my fault you can’t handle your sexual punishments properly. Get to it.”
    I spluttered, waving the stick, still half naked. “You want me to hit myself right here? In the middle of the fucking road?”

“Punish, Breanne. Punish. Be precise with your language.” He looked up and down the road, then back at me through his open driver’s side window. “Besides, there doesn’t seem to be anyone coming except maybe you. And hopefully this time you’ll refrain. So go ahead. Make them sting. Twenty-five strokes.”

I glanced up and down the road and then looked at the stick sullenly. “Thirty. I’m supposed to add five for every unauthorized orgasm.”

He laughed. “Excellent. So I’ll help. I’ll provide the motivation. You’ve got nine minutes to get them all done. Otherwise I’ll come out there and punish you. Except I’ll start off back at one and we won’t be stopping at thirty.”

I blinked. The thought of that… well, I wasn’t sure if I should stick out my tongue and make him do it, or if I should avoid it like the plague.

I took a deep breath and glared at Mike, but brought the paint stick down against my sex. I spread my legs, going up slightly on tip toe, arching my feet, bending my knees so that my thighs were spread. I reached down with my left hand, spreading my petals so that I could see my clit.

“Crap!” I said.

Mike stared. “What is it now?” he demanded.

“The rubber band! I forgot to put it back on my clit. It must be in your office.”

Mike shrugged. “Or somewhere in between.” He let out a thick laugh. “Too bad princess. I’m sure Master Phil will come up with a suitable punishment for that lapse. Right now though you need to give your pussy a firm thirty whacks. And you’ve wasted another minute.”

I looked up at him, my mouth a line of frustration. I shook my head, trying to clear it of all the rampaging thoughts. Focus. Breathe. I aimed the stick at the dark pink nodule, barely peeking out of the hood. The vibroballs buzzed inside me. I pulled back, and then with a flick of my wrist, struck my own clitoris.

It wasn’t as intense as the spanking Mike had given me not thirty minutes earlier on his desk. Still, it was pretty wild. A number of new and exciting stimulants were affecting me. I was naked, standing in the middle of a public road. Granted, it was an empty public road, but my overactive imagination provided a whole herd of cowboys driving past, staring at my naked body. That made me tingle in ways that I have difficulty describing and despite three previous orgasms in the space of six hours, I felt myself ripening immediately. Then I heard it. The sound of the paint stick impacting against my petals went from a dry, crackling thud to a very wet sound smack. My legs trembled and I could feel the sting building up. I was around fifteen when Mike interrupted me.

“Two minutes left. Better pick up the pace.”

At that I just mentally said “fuck it” and went to town. My hips rolled and thrust and I matched the pelvic movements with hard strokes. My chest heaved and I found myself screaming in wild abandon, totally fine with anyone and everyone within two or three miles hearing me. I managed the thirtieth stroke just as Mike was doing a ten count down to zero.

The moment we both finished I dropped the stick and stumbled forward, grabbing hold of the truck. Mike stayed in the cab, watching as I just clung to the door frame. “You okay?” he asked, his tone making his concern obvious.

I was panting and sweating and I looked up at him. “That hurt,” I whispered. He looked down at me, naked, clinging to his truck, and smiled.

“And you loved it, didn’t you?”

I didn’t answer him.

“So now you won’t be having any more unauthorized orgasms today, right?”

I still didn’t answer him. Instead I took a deep breath, squared myself, grabbed my canvas bag from his mirror, and moved back out into the middle of the road. I put my hands on my breasts and removed both of the elastic bands I had wrapped around my nipples. It felt good to take those off but it also hurt since fresh blood surged through the constricted veins and capillaries. Next I extracted a silver chain, capped at both ends with alligator clamps. These steel toothed monstrosities looked bad, but weren’t really that hard to deal with. Sure, there was some discomfort, pain even, but the pressure was less then what I’d have been forced to deal with if wearing clothespins. They looked good though. Carefully I put both pincers on my nipples, one behind the piercing and padlock, the other on the bare and tender left tip.

I went digging again and this time came up out of the bag with my jumbo alligator clamp. A slightly larger version of the ones clinging to my nipples, this version hurt just a bit more. Dutifully, I clipped it to my clitoral hood, making sure the tender nub was crushed underneath. That almost made me fall as my knees buckled. Evidently hitting yourself multiple times between the legs with a plastic paddle does not make it easier to bear having a clamp placed on your clit. Again it took me a few seconds to collect myself. One I was finished, I drew the bright crimson colored piece of yarn from the bag and held it up to untangle.

“Ah the infamous yarn?” Mike asked curiously.

I nodded and bent over, my legs again spreading as I tied the end of the piece of yarn to the jumbo alligator clamp. Every twitch and movement was perfectly relayed into my clit and I realized that I was going to have another orgasm soon if I didn’t get the vibroballs turned off and out. I finished tying it and then pulled the thread upward.

“It’s to connect the clamps,” I said. I threaded the yarn through one of the links of steel chain hanging from my nipples. Then I took another bracing breath and rolled my shoulders, using my upper arms to push my boobs together. The chain hung slack as the distance between one nipple and the other was dramatically reduced, and daringly, with one hand, I threaded the yarn through a link on the other side. One full loop. Then I made a knot. This forced my breasts together, creating a dark deep cleft as the soft mounds were pulled together. Unfortunately it also felt like I was having my nipples ripped off.


When I was done my cleavage was impressive. Both breasts were drawn tightly against each other, as if I were wearing a push up bra. The only problem was that it was actually the nipple clamps and yarn that were doing it. The tips of both breasts were now pulled painfully sideways, the clamps sending twinges of pain up through both boobs. Worse, there was no slack between the knot and my clit. The yarn stretched perfectly straight up my body and seemed taut enough to be a guitar string. Mike murmured in appreciation as I moaned, then whimpered with pain.

“Wow,” Mike said. “The hell with the rest of it. Just wear that.”

It took me a moment to deal with the ache and discomfort shooting up from the tips of my breasts and my clitoris. When I did, I reached down between my legs and pulled the vibroballs out of my sex. They were dripping wet. Very, very wet. Insanely wet and I whimpered again with understanding. This was not going to be good for me. I put them in the bag and got out the next item; a leather harness.

“Hey,” Mike said. “Is that the one I made you?”

I nodded as I buckled it on. The leather straps were easy to secure and there was a loose, black bungee cord looking thing right in the middle. I left that dangling.

“What replaces the vibroballs?” Mike queried.

I smiled, though it was incredibly strained. The physical realization of what was happening to me made my fingers tremble. “The G-spot vibrator.”

“On high?” he asked hopefully.

“Off right now, but it will go to low for the oral part of the assignment.”

Mike scoffed. “I’d have made you wear it on high.”

I looked up at him, a tense expression crossing my face. “Sometimes Mike, it’s the steady buildup of tension that makes for a superior experience.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Sure. It’s just I can see how close you are. You’re ready to pop again.”

I ignored that. Mostly because he was right.

I pulled the G-spot vibrator out of my canvas bag. It was seven inches long and made of bright purple plastic with a black, twist control at the bottom. I’d stuck an adhesive hook on the base, the kind you can pick up at your local *ahem* hardware store. It was small enough that I didn’t have to worry about it cutting me, but it was perfect to help hold the vibrator in. The bungee cord slid easily between the base and the hook and then I clipped the back of the cord to the little ring at the back of the harness. I took an experimental hop to see if the vibrator would fall out and instantly regretted it. Not because the vibrator fell, but because the tension between my alligator clamped nipples and my alligator crushed clit sent shards of agony through me.

I whimpered.

“Sweet. Do it again,” Mike cheered.

I shook my head. “I’ve got to edge now,” I panted.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he scoffed. “You? Edge? Now? You’ll never be able to stop. I’ve seen you like this before Breanne.”  But he gave me a satisfied smirk. “But by all means, go ahead. What’s the punishment for cumming again? Thirty-five strokes?”

But I was already rubbing at my clit, or more accurately the jumbo alligator clamp crushing it. I pushed my fingers under the elastic bungee cord and felt the movements translate through the thick but silent phallus within me. Mike was right about one thing. I was close. I was desperate. I was hurting and the only thing that would have made this better was an audience, a few people staring at me in shock and disgust and awe and want. I whimpered and my fingers moved and a moment later I felt the surge of need overwhelm me. I stood there in the middle of the road, one foot up on my toes, legs spread, standing on the fallen denim of my own blue jeans, and masturbated. A minute later, maybe less, and I let out a whiny whimper as I yanked my hand out from under the bungee. It snapped hard against my clit, hurting twice as much as any of the paint stick snaps and made the G-spot vibrator dip and then resettle.

But no orgasm. I managed it. I edged. Take that Master Phil!

Honestly, I could have ended this right there and felt like I’d done a good job paying lip service to the all the tenants of BDSM. Torture? Yep. Humiliation? Absolutely. Pain? Present. Wild, imaginative sexual satisfaction? Absolutely. But instead I got out a loose, plaid short skirt, a midriff baring light blue halter top, a pair of slip on, four inch heels. The shirt made it obvious my nipples were tied together, clamped and tormented and the crimson line stretching down from the center of my impressive cleavage, straight down what my father might have called his “gig line”, only to disappear into the waist band of my skirt, screamed for attention. The skirt was in the style of “little school girl,” blue and white plaid. As I slipped on the shoes I realized that I looked exactly like a hooker. A hooker with a severe masochistic fetish.

Slowly I picked up my mess. Dusty clothes. The paint stick. My boots and socks. I gathered it all up, put most of it in my bag, and then waddled painfully around to the passenger side of the truck. Mike helped open the door, took my bag like a gentleman, then watched as I climbed up, pain etched across my face. I settled down, finding relief in a sort of hunched over position which just made my breasts bunch up even more.

“Now,” Mike said in satisfaction. “Let’s go get some lunch.”

Breanne Erickson's amazing tale is no longer available on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog. You can find it in Breanne's book "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 12!" Available from!

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