Tuesday, September 22, 2015

The Princess and the Peg



Author's Note: I'm going to be honest here. A whole lot of what you're about to read is fiction. Sigh... generally when I write fictional stuff I use third person. And I did here. But... well... this was complicated. It all started when I received a very cute little email from Master Matt. Except... it was a story. Well... the start of a story. It began with "Once upon a time..." and then talked about a princess, a quest, and an evil queen. Within about four seconds I was hooked. And I ran with it. So... yes. A whole bunch of this is fiction. Except what happened. Sort of. Argggh... Fuck it. Read this or not. I don't care. If you enjoy it then I'm happy. And that's all I can say. - Bre


Once upon a time, in a land far, far away there lived a princess who was controlled by an evil queen, the good kind of evil not the bad kind. This worked out well for the princess because she was no ordinary princess, she was a nympho humiliation pain slut princess and needed her queen to be mean to her and make her cum.

One of the favorite things for the evil queen to do to the princess was to give the beautiful young girl quests; difficult challenges which she was encouraged to complete or suffer the evil queen’s wrath. These quests became so popular with the queen’s many subjects, that even the common rabble had begun to think of quests for the princess, each subject of the evil queen’s realm dreaming that one day the gorgeous princess, with her locks of crimson, would burst through their door, or find them in a secluded glade in the woods, begging them to fuck her, or even better, whip her cute little body too.

That delicious Friday morning the queen sat on her throne, contemplating another cruel and sexually explicit quest for her young ward, the princess, when her herald announced the arrival of the Baron. He was a tall, well cut gentleman and his belt was dark, supple, and thick, with a leather bound riding crop hanging from it. His boots cut sharply on the stone as he approached the queen and he bowed his head to her. He carried with him a canvas sack, the contents of which seemed to rattle. He dropped it to the ground as he stood in front of her.

The queen herself was dressed in black, as any evil queen should be. But where other women might have covered themselves with layers of cloth, the evil queen was beautiful in ways that made men willing to die for her. Magic kept her looking young, as young as her ward the princess, her dark chocolate colored hair encircling her smooth face. Her attire was part lace, part leather and it covered none of her more prurient points, making it obvious that her throne itself sported a massive, slick dildo upon which she was mounted. The Baron couldn’t help grinning.

“Good morning, your Majesty,” he said brightly, enjoying the sight of his monarch’s well lubricated petals, spread open wide to accept the massive girth of the Phallic Throne. The story was that the Queen had placed the massively large dildo there to discourage any of her male courtiers from conspiring against her. Had they wanted the throne, they would have been forced to accept something uncomfortable. He wondered if he could arrange for an anal plug to be added to the seat, just to torment the queen. Her eyes flashed with wanton lust and she smiled wickedly at the Baron.

“Your excellency,” said the Queen, eyes bright. She knew that of all her subjects he was perhaps one of the most deviant, the most cruel when it came to creating the quests meant to entertain the princess. “And what brings you to me this morning?” She asked.

The Baron smiled. “A quest of course, your Majesty. For the princess. May I ask where she is?”

The Queen laughed. “Riding,” she said with a nonchalant shrug. “You know how she adores her horse.”

The Baron nodded with a smile. “Yes. I know your Majesty keeps quite the stable.”

The Queen’s hips rocked and the soft sound of her body sliding up and down the phallus seemed to fill the cavernous and empty audience chamber. “Very true. But please, tell me of the quest.”

The Baron bowed, the reached down to the bag and deftly untied the top. The queen could still not see the contents, but he reached in and then extracted a small wooden device, holding it up. “Do you recognize this your Majesty?”

The queen leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Is it not the new invention from the blacksmith? A peg, is it not? Meant for washerwomen to hang their linens to dry?”

The Baron smiled. “As usual, you are well informed. But I have discovered another purpose for this device. Might I demonstrate?”

The queen, looking curious, nodded.

The Baron mounted the steps of the dais and then approached his Monarch. Her bare breast, cupped in a cushion of lace and leather, sported a bring pink tip, already stiff and pointed. The queen kept it cold in the audience chamber for just this reason. She held the arms of the Phallic Throne with both hands as he approached. He lifted the peg and her eyes narrowed.

“This might tingle, just a bit, your Majesty.” Then he clipped the clothespin to the tip of her breast.

The Queen’s eyes widened but she never moved her hands. A flash of pain crossed her face and her hips jerked even more rapidly on the Phallic Throne until even the Baron stepped back in surprise. The diminutive woman cried out, head thrown back, clearly in the throes of rapture. Fluids bursting from between her legs, running down the chair in rivulets. Clearly orgasming, the Queen stared at the Baron in wonder. A moment later though she reached up and pulled the peg from her nipple.

“It is a wonder!” She gushed.

The Baron smiled. “Indeed. And it is this sensation I propose inflicting upon our hapless and innocent princess.”

“Oh, your excellency! I approve! I approve indeed.” The Queen rose, the squelching noise of the phallus leaving her soaked slit clear in the cool air. The folds of her dress closed around her hips, the cut still leaving her pink and sodden cleft exposed to his eyes.

“Come,” she said imperiously. “Tell me of the quest while I reward you for creativity.” She reached forward, her long, slim fingers cupping his manhood, stroking the already firm and thickening member. “Then we can see how the princess’ riding lesson goes, and propose her latest quest.”



***

    The princess glistened with a sheen of perspiration as she rode her horse vigorously. She’d been at it for over a hour and the horse master stood with his back to the nearby field wall, watching as she adjusted her seat for the millionth time. Riding was part pleasure, but also pain, something she was used to.

    Movement caught her eye and her breath caught in her throat as she noticed the evil queen and her paramour, the Baron, approaching. The two of them, mistress and master, were responsible for the terrible quests the princess was frequently forced to go on, the punishment for refusal more than the redhead girl could bear. Her hips moved again as they came closer, both of them studying her form as she rode her horse.

    “Good morning, your highness,” said the Baron, looking up at the slight, but beautiful redheaded girl as he smiled, his appreciation for the princess’ beauty apparent on his face. The queen grinned as well, but it wasn’t the girl’s beauty she was appreciating.

    “And how is your ride, my dear?” The queen asked.

    Princess Breanne groaned. Her hips began slinging back and forth, her naked body undulating on the cruel spine of the horse. It was wooden, nothing more than a smoothly sanded beam, tilted so that one sharp edged faced upward. Her legs, obscenely spread to either side of the massive wooden plank, were secured with a spreader bar, each ankle weighted with several bags of sand. Her sex was split open, the wood biting deep as the girl ground herself viciously downward, unable to relive the agony. She wore only a leather corset, wrapped around her middle, her breasts exposed and pushed upward. The tip of her right breast was pierced with a golden hope, a small gold padlock hanging lightly from the pierced nub. Each nipple was also cruelly tied with string, small iron weights dangling down, the points of her breasts purple. Her wrists were bound behind her back with leather cuffs, secured to the back of the corset with a leather thong and around her throat she wore a collar. Lastly, secured to the top of her head was a tiara, studded with glittering gemstones that spelled a single word: “SLUT.” It was a final insult.

    The queen looked over at the riding master. “Has she been whipped yet today?”

    The man looked uncomfortable, clearly not wanting to answer, but an angry glare from the evil queen was enough to motivate him.

    “No your Majesty. I’ve not yet done that to her.”

    A flash of anger crossed the queen’s face. “You are flogging her thoroughly during her daily rides, are you not?”

    The Baron stepped close to the panting girl, her face a mask of pain, and he ran his hand along her side. “I think not your Majesty. Look at her skin. She clearly has not been whipped for some time.

    The look of anger on the queen’s face made the riding master blanch. She snapped her finger and a guard appeared from the doorway behind her. Dressed in simple chainmail he approached with crisp obedience.

    “Your Majesty?”

    The queen glared at the riding master. “Take this man to my torture chamber and have my slave stimulate him until he has cum ten times. Then send for me. I will use him then.”

    The guard nodded and took a step forward as the riding master let out a groan of disbelief and fell to his knees, sobbing.

    “Please your Majesty! Anything but that! Please don’t use me! I’ll whip her good! I swear it! I’ll hurt her as much as you want! Please don’t take me to your bed!”

    But the queen ignored the man’s pleas as the guard dragged the riding master out. She walked daintily over to the wall to where the leather flogger hung, lifted it, and then brought it to the Baron, who stood next to the panting, whining princess. The wooden spine where she rode had been well oiled and stained with her juices.

    “Your excellency, might I ask that you handle the whipping of the princess? You might also explain her next quest at the same time.”

    The Baron accepted the flogger and turned back to the young girl gyrating helplessly on the wooden horse. Her slick pussy rocked back and forth, pinching her clit against the wood and she trembled helplessly. Her eyes met the Baron’s and she bit her bottom lip. Another quest? She shut her eyes and sensed him moving close to her. His hand came up to her left breast and he flicked her nipple. The weight on the end of the string dangled down.

    “Good news, your highness. You will never again be forced to endure these strings tied to your nipples.” He tugged on the loose strand and even as the girl continued to rock, pain shooting up through her loins, she gasped as the blood surged back into the tip of her breast. The Baron smiled, watching the expression of relief flood her face.

    His hands moved just out of sight as she panted. Perspiration streamed down her temple and she sat, half exhausted, her body burning with both sexual need and pain. Then the Baron lifted something up.

    “We now have this.” He pinched what appeared to be two small pieces of wood connected with some spring-like mechanism. The end opposite his fingers spread wide and he placed it on her left nipple. Princess Breanne screamed as he let it close. There was a sudden yank as he stepped back and she realized the Baron had actually tied the weight to the device biting her nipple.

    “It’s called a ‘peg’, though the technical term is ‘clothespin’,” He told her smugly. “And I have a whole bag of them for you.”  Then he pulled another “clothespin” from the bag and lifted it to her other nipple, even as he raised the flogger. “Now, your highness, let’s see how well these new ‘pegs’ will stay on your body through a serious flogging? And we can discuss your next quest. Shall we?”

    The Baron swung the leather whip, the twenty or so leather strands biting into the princess’ bottom. She let out a scream, her hips jerking, her clit dragged under her swinging body and a few feet away the queen leaned against the wall, her hands between her legs, slipping two wet and glistening fingers into her sex.

    “Yes,” she whispered as the Baron beat her the princess, leaving a hash of bright red marks across the girl’s backside. “Oh God yes…”



***



The princess moaned as the body slave rubbed the oil into her backside. She was lying face down on the soft mattress of her bed while her page, a young man named Zach, massaged her welted buttocks.

“It doesn’t look too bad, your highness,” the page said softly, slipping his fingers through the crack of her buttocks to graze her petals. The princess moaned and opened her legs a little wider.

“The riding master spared me for days in exchange for me pretending to be his ‘little filly’ after each riding session,” the princess said in reply. “This was the worst flogging I’ve had since the queen had me whipped me in front of the courtiers at dinner two weeks ago.”

Zach couldn’t help smiling. He’d been present for that. “Yes, your highness. It was quite an event.”

The princess shuddered. She’d been dragged from her dinner chair into the center of the hall, her robes torn from her body while the Queen’s men had bound her face up on a wooden block. Her legs had then been pulled open, her ankles secured with hemp and each courtier was invited to whip the princess’s body prior to driving their cocks into her slit. It had been a long evening and both the princess’ breasts, bottom, and sex had been frequently and viciously targeted. She’d enjoyed most of it, but some of the evil queen’s subjects believed that fucking the princess in the ass was the appropriate way to spend the evening.

The princess disagreed.

Still, it could have been worse. There could have been “objects” Or It could have been a quest. And that was the problem she was facing now.

The princess considered the Baron something of a personal nemesis. She knew that at least a quarter of the quests she was tasked to complete were to his credit. The time she’d been sent to the neighboring kingdom to deliver a letter, forced wear nothing but ribbons tied to her hair, nipples, and clit, while riding that awful saddle with the two phallic probes, had been his. She was sure of it.  And what about the time she’d been ordered to brave the Westfire Cave, to pluck a wilder-grape from the vine of the prophet, only to find that the darkness had been filled with tentacled nether beasts? She’d spent three days spread-eagled as all twenty of the beasts had plunged their slimy appendages into every hole she had. She still had dreams about the way her breasts and nipples had been cruelly squeezed.

And the Queen had said “no” when the princess had asked for one as a pet.

This latest quest was a case in point. Clothespins. Pegs. Who would have thought such an innocent device could be so cruel? She reached under her pillow where two of the little wooden jaws were quietly waiting as the page continued to work her, his fingers now delving gently into her sex. She wasn’t just slick with the oil. She was wet. Ridiculously wet.

“Keep doing that,” she murmured as her fingers pulled the pegs the Baron had clipped to her nipple during her morning ride out from under her pillow. “And you’ll have to fuck me.”

Zach swallowed. “I would be willing to accept her Majesty’s punishment for the privilege, your highness.”

She turned and looked over her shoulder at him. “But would you come with me on the quest? And would you help me avoid this horrible fate?

The page’s face looked stricken. “Come with you? Of course your highness. But please don’t ask me to cheat the quest. It is one thing to accept her Majesty’s punishment for giving you pleasure without pain. But to violate the queen’s command so directly? I wouldn’t just be milked your Highness! My balls would be pounded and crushed! She would rub my manhood until I was raw. She’d force orgasms from me until I could no longer think straight. And even then I’d be forced to serve her, my face bound to her pussy each night as she slept. I can’t even imagine…”

Princess Breanne sighed. “No. I wouldn’t wish that punishment on anyone. She can be a cruel mistress, yes?”

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 Amazon.com!


Thursday, September 17, 2015

Selection - Part One



She was waiting for me when I got out of the truck and I stepped quickly toward the diminutive, chocolate haired girl that stood a few feet away. Her bangs were cut straight across her brow and the curve of her chin looked like a well-rounded heart. It made her adorably cute as well as pretty. She was leaning back against her fancy car with her arms crossed, a mischievous smile on her face and a wicked brightness in her eyes. Of the two of us, she was the more elegantly attired, a playful summer dress, folded in the cream and pink floral pattern of late spring, while I was dressed in the more familiar hues of a South Texas summer. She looked much more comfortable. As I got closer her face scrunched up in judgmental distaste and she shook her head as she looked at my cowboy boots, faded blue denim jeans, a dark green tee-shirt over which I was wearing an olive colored, long-sleeved button up work shirt. Hell, I even had on my big leather belt with the three pound buckle. The only thing I was missing was the hat.

“Well, don’t you look… cowboy today,” Julie said as I came up, leaning forward with a smile. Our lips met and we kissed. It took a few moments as we both got into it. A few years ago I’d have been nervous kissing a girl like that while standing in the parking lot of a mall, but today things are a bit different. Being bi-sexual, especially for a girl, is not just accepted, but appreciated by men. Especially if we’re willing to bring the partner along for a threesome. I can understand that. Men’s magazines, as well as the internet, have been conditioning men to accept lesbian and bi-sexual women for decades. It might be a little longer before I get sandwiched between two bi-sexual guys though. At least here in Texas. Regardless, it was a long, wet kiss.

“I look ‘cowgirlish’,” I amended smartly, pulling back from the sensuous touch. Julie straightened up off the car and started walking toward the entrance of the mall. I followed along obediently, just a half step behind. My boots made a sharp sound on the concrete and I pushed the slipping shoulder strap of the oversized purse I was carrying back up my shoulder. Julie’s sandals were silent, the high heeled cork absorbing sound.

Her nose tipped upward snobbishly. “Cowgirlish is a short flared skirt, bared midriff, and a too tight, barely buttoned shirt with your cleavage on display. You’re dressed like you just got off a horse.” She leaned forward and sniffed. “Smell like it too.”

I cringed, but then got a little defensive. “You’re the one who said ‘drop everything and meet me at the mall’!” I protested. “I was in the middle of riding Star and you know how that is.” Julie’s eyes softened just a little. She wasn’t much of a horse person but she’d been out with me a few times to know how much I liked it. I rode a spirited mare named Star and we’d been together for years.

“Which makes me think I need to ask about…” she started to say, but I interrupted her, a hint of redness coming to my cheeks. I knew exactly what she was talking about. I’d actually been hoping she’d have forgotten. Yeah. Like that would happen.

“It’s in. Just off,” I said quickly, holding up a hand. We approached the doors and darted forward to pull one open for her.

“Back pocket?” She asked as she slipped through the opening, her eyes glancing down my body. The large green over shirt I was wearing covered a good portion of my ass. It had been deliberate and I bit my bottom lip. I followed her into the building, feeling the cool air of the mall’s air conditioning system kick in. I looked around. The place had only been open an hour but it was already packed with people. That’s what a Saturday morning looks like. I took a deep breath, steadying myself for the normal reaction a crowd seems to have for me, but no one spared me more than a passing glance. Thank God. It was a nice change. Usually I’m an instant celebrity, and not the good kind. With fire-engine red hair I’m immediately on every man’s radar, and not a few women’s. But had I been dressed a little more provocatively, hell… even in a dress like Julie’s, I’d have been regarded as prime USDA choice steak. The hungry looks I’d have gotten would have been enough to make me nervous. I nodded at Julie, answering her question.

“Yeah,” I said. She grinned, wrapped one arm around me, slid her hand up along my flank, then pulled the pink battery pack and controller out of my back pocket. A thick pink wire leading from the palm sized box disappeared up under my shirt and then darted into my waistband, gliding against pale skin. I took a quick breath, bracing myself, well aware of what was about to happen. Julie didn’t spare a moment’s thought to where we were, or who might be watching, or what effect it might have. She just moved the little sliders up a single level and the two red LED lights glowed brightly.

Of course the little controller’s purpose wasn’t to turn on two small LED lights. Not by a long shot. My face was frozen into a mask of indifference, but if you’d been staring at me you’d have seen the subtle change in my stance, the rigidity of freshly caused stress; perhaps even an almost imperceptible twitch of my hips. The faintest prelude of a “bump and grind.” Or if you had been standing close enough you might have heard the perplexing, faint and muted hum of a pair of electric motors, churning and vibrating away.

Me? I felt my sex contract around the four inch long silicon and plastic phallus, the petals of my flower spreading outward as the base, a butterfly shaped pack nestled against my clit and perineum. One motor turned the finger like probe inside me, swirling through my depths like a soup spoon in a chef’s hand. The other engine merely forced the entire apparatus to rumble, shaking and trembling with rapid movements, sending spiraling waves of exquisite pleasure through my very core. It was like someone was licking my clitoris, fingering me, and pressing a vibrator against every single nerve ending. All at the same time.

I tried to ignore it.

Julie tucked the controller back into my pocket. “There!” She said satisfactorily, letting the flap of my over shirt fall back down over my rump. “How does that feel?” She asked cheerfully, as if she’d just baked a cake and was feeling this surge of pride.

I licked my lips, trying to get a grip. How did it feel? How did it feel to be on edge? Wet and wanting? How did it feel to have a soft but firm finger slipped into my cleft, only to have it vibrate and swirl in a maddening circle, teasing me into insane levels of sexual need? How did it feel to be standing there in public, frightened that someone would see, or know, or figure out just what that cute redhead might have going on down there? How did it feel to be so close to orgasm that you knew punishment was right around the corner?

I cocked my head to the side just an inch. “I’m fine,” I said by rote, my one million watt smile on my face.

Julie grinned, eyes flashing with mirth. “Good! Let’s shop!” She took my arm in hers and she pulled me down the corridor, every step a maddening maelstrom of sexual stimulation.

Julie is an avid window shopper and we stopped multiple times to take closer looks at various items. We’d be moving along, Julie talking animatedly about a zillion things as I became more and more distracted. Then she’d suddenly yank me into a store, asking my opinion on a shirt, or a skirt, or as often as not, something overly sexual. Short shorts, skirts, even lingerie. It made things much more difficult for me as my mind was forced to not only reply to her, but imagine her wearing those things. Or me wearing them. Time was not on my side and every moment we spent studying some knickknack that Julie suggested might be a wonderful object to thrust into me on a lazy, sexual afternoon, or scanty article of clothing might look good barely covering my curves, was additional seconds of torment affecting me. Still, it was better than the alternative. I knew what was in the bag and was grateful I hadn’t been forced to change into the outfit Julie had demanded I bring.

“Are you okay?” Julie asked me as I shrugged, pushing the strap of my canvas bag a little higher on my shoulder. I wasn’t okay and she knew it. My face was flushed, my breathing rapid, and each and every step she forced me to make was making the sodden swamp between my legs flush with moisture. My pussy was pulsing almost non-stop around the revolving phallus and I knew that wasn’t good. The RVP moved in me with an incessant caress and it had already been a full twenty minutes. Even on its lowest setting there was no hope for me. I knew it. I was minutes away from orgasm. I swallowed hard and nodded.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’m just… I’m…”

Julie grinned, reached up, and patted me. Except not on the shoulder. On the breast. Her eyes narrowed a bit and she cocked her head sideways.  “Breanne? Are you wearing a bra?” She asked. Her tone was playful, mischievous, dark. She’d known damned well I was wearing a bra. She hadn’t needed to feel me up to tell. Even with two shirts on. The pat was intended to send a surge through me.

And it had worked. I whimpered, my entire sex clenching hard around the vibrating, rotating plastic toy buried between my legs. I nodded at her, eyes flinching as I struggled to keep my face from reflecting the torment I was feeling. Had I been in private I’d have thrown my head back, closed my eyes, opened my mouth in a soft moan, and let my hips grind in sexual urgency as I worked myself into orgasmic bliss. Here? Standing in front of a hip clothier while hundreds of people walked by? All I could do was freeze and hope for the best.

“Well, that’s not going to work,” Julie said quietly. “So go in there, go into the changing room, and remove your bra. Bring it back out to me. Right here.”

I blinked. “What?” I asked, my voice about as tight as my pussy. In fact, now that I think about it, the sound that emerged from my throat wavered with the same amount of trembling as my clitoris was enduring.

She grinned evilly. “You heard me. Your bra. Now.”

For a second I was going to say “but,” then reconsidered. You don’t argue with your dominant mistress about something like this. I nodded obediently and hurried into the store, leaving her leering at me from the corridor. It didn’t take me long. I grabbed a shirt off a rack to explain my presence in the changing room and then moved to the back of the store. Evidently my tense situation wasn’t that noticeable since a smiling clerk let me in, with nothing more than an appreciating smile for both my taste (the shirt was very expensive) or my figure. I moved into the tiny cubicle and began to peel off clothes.

I left my jeans on, but the over shirt went first. The buttons at the sleeves, then the six down the front. I dropped it on the bench and then faced the mirror. The tee shirt was green too, and not bright green like an Irish Beer Festival shirt, but more like something you’d find a soldier in the US Army wearing. I liked the color because it could handle anything a South Texas farm girl could throw at it.  Heat, sweat, dirt… you name it. And it matched the over shirt. But then it came off.

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 Amazon.com!