Two Hands Please

The dress was scandalous, but no one seemed to mind either the fact that I was practically falling out of it, or that much of it was transparent. The other men seated at our table had actually behaved decorously, which had mitigated some of my embarrassment. The conversation was excellent, the food decent, and the murder mystery itself entertaining. And the fact that I had a jeweled plug stuck up my ass, and a very active and rather distracting vibrator pendant clamped to my clitoris, merely meant that I was wet, ready, and practically bursting at the seams, all with a desire to get fucked.

Who done it? I barely remember. I had more wine than was good for me. I distinctly remember us going up to the bar, asking for a Merlot or a Malbec, only to have the bar tender raise the single option of vino and tell me in a distinctly Hispanic accent, that all he had was this. I blinked and stared at the bottle an Oakwood Cabernet Sauvignon? Oh well, at least it was red.

I giggled my way with him back out to the front of the theater... or was it a restaurant? I get confused.

The valet brought the car. I admit, I was impressed. A 2015 Chevrolet Camaro, electric blue, with all the bells and whistles. He helped me in, which was good because I think I was very, very drunk and the five inch stilettos I was wearing weren't exactly cooperating with either my sense of balance, or getting into the low slung muscle car.

He got in and looked at me. "Girls who ride in my car drunk are usually naked," he informed me, a serious look on his face.

"I'm almost naked," I'd assured him with a silly grin.

He shrugged. "Almost isn't," he replied. The car hadn't even moved.

I laughed. "You want me naked? Is that a good idea?" I leaned forward and grabbed the bodice of my dress and pulled downward. "Wouldn't this be a distraction?" Both of my breasts fell out of my dress and the four valets, all of whom were still standing nearby, stared at me through the window, mouths open in delight. 

"To a lesser man," my date assured me. Suddenly the engine roared and I was pressed back into the seat. Even as we sped down the deserted street, I shimmied until the slip of a dress was around my knees. It fell to my ankles and I kicked it aside. I fumbled with the seat, laying it back until I was practically horizontal. Thank God it was an automatic, because his right hand was on me in seconds, caressing my breasts, tweaking my nipples, and fondling me. I moaned, one hand on him, the other rubbing the vibrator pendant, still buzzing mind you, against my clit. The scent of my arousal filled the car.

His hand slid down my body and between my legs and I spread them for him. I was soaked and his finger dipped into me, pushing past the vibrator pendant. "Take that off," he ordered and I pulled the little clamp from my clitty and turned it off. It landed on my dress, right between my red painted toes. Then his finger found my tingling nub and began rubbing in wet, tight circles. I groaned, thrusting my hips up.

The freeway loomed up in front of us and the Camaro sped up to near eighty miles an hour and I can say I matched it. He slid his finger into me, weaving in and out of traffic, dodging slow drivers and obstacles like Mario Andretti. He went back to rubbing just my clit and I put a foot up on the dash, moaning as my body torqued, my own internal rpms cycling. 

I took both hands and cupped my breasts, pushing my nipples toward the roof of the thrumming car. I pinched them hard, twisting the tips, my back arched and he plunged his finger back deep into me. "Oh my God!" I cried out, waves of sweet bliss exploding between my outstretched thighs, flowing through my veins. The engine purred just as I did.

I put my hand on his and he stopped, giving me a glance, just a moment's distraction from the road. "What?" He demanded. "I thought you were a nympho humiliation pain slut? Are you too sensitive?" He almost said it with scorn. I frowned and took my hand away. Was his touch intense? Oh God yes. But... he was right. And so despite the fact my clit was sore and sensitive, I spread my legs, and let him rub me more. And more...

I reached over and put my hand in his lap. "You know," I whispered darkly. "You should use two hands." I imagine me tied to the hood of his car, him leaning over me, thrusting his piston into my cylinder. I wanted more. I needed... more.

He looked over at me, his eyes glimmering. "Two hands, Breanne?" He asked curiously. "But how would I drive?" Then his finger slid back into me and it reminded me of a saying I once heard.

"If everything is under control, then you aren't going fast enough."

Perfect. 

Demolition Day

I pulled my silver Saturn SL up into the parking lot and my jaw dropped open. The candy apple red convertible, driven by my boss, was positioned carefully between two of the white lines. This is and of itself wasn’t exactly why I was surprised. Kari always parked exactly right. Even taking an extra minute to position her vehicle precisely if need be. Unless of course that meant being late. As an individual afflicted with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Kari found peace in strict time and space management. Which is why I was shocked to find her at the office early.

I climbed out of my car and realized that there was another oddity, except this time with me. Normally, arriving for work was a harrowing experience. I’d have to navigate the choppy waters of Houston traffic, and my stomach would be in knots as waves of humiliation swept over me. But this time? Nope. Not a smidgen. No hurried glances around the lot to see if anyone was watching. No desperate attempts to get my skirt lower, or cover up my breasts.

I was completely dressed for a change!

Okay, it’s not like I go to work naked. But if you saw the outfits Kari preferred me in, you’d think I was starring in a porn flick entitled Secretary Sluts IV. How the hell is a girl supposed to deal with shirts that are see through, transparent, or cut in a way that leaves little to the imagination? All my bras are lace, leaving my curves, and usually my nipples too, totally visible. And the skirts? All of them are too short. ALL OF THEM DAMN IT! Pleated, stretchy, whatever. They’re all minis. Do you know how many times my ass has hung out of a skirt, showing off two slivers of bubble butt? Do you know what it’s like to get a compliment on the jeweled anal plug your mistress shoved up your ass that morning? Well I do.

So it was with great pleasure that I stood there on the sidewalk, dressed in denim jeans, boots, and a tee shirt. Underneath I was wearing the usual attire any south Texas farm girl might have on; pink cotton bikini cut panties and a rather utilitarian bra, the kind that Kari objects too for “aesthetic” reasons.  

I know. You’re disappointed. YOU like me being forced to show up to work all embarrassed, with my tits half hanging out and my rear end exposed. And I know how you feel about jeweled anal plugs. The more the better, right? Sigh. But before you get all bent out of shape and toss this book away in disgust, remember that someone agrees with you.

I walked into the office and waved high to Jose, our day porter, who stared at me in astonishment, not to mention as much disappointment as you’re expressing right now. I couldn’t help grinning, just a bit pleased with myself. Do you know what a relief it is NOT to be a sex object? Your whole life changes. I yanked open the glass door of Kari’s little office and there she was, at the end of the hall. She was sitting at her desk and I wasn’t the only one wearing attire more suited for a construction site.

Kari Anders, blond goddess of both interior design and sadistic sexual cruelty, was wearing a pair of blue overalls that certainly looked as if she were ready to go spelunking, but lacked the necessary sturdiness to survive the adventure. Kari was no farm girl and had never been. Even demolition days, Kari usually managed to keep from getting too dirty, though she was happy enough to wade in if something wasn’t being done to her expectation. Her boots were too clean, her overalls too well fitting, as if they’d been tailored. I stopped in at her door, leaned against the wall and crossed my arms expectantly.

“You’re here early,” I said sweetly.

She smiled. “Today is demo day. We need to leave soon and I had to do a few things here at the office.”

I nodded. It was an acceptable explanation. People with OCD can change their schedule. They just don’t like too. And Kari can function without seeming to be too outrageous. She gave me a warm smile.

“So what do you have to do?” I asked curiously. Her desk was clean except for the folder with the day’s demo plan in place. And it was closed.

She looked up at me and grinned, all while her left hand opened the bottom drawer of her desk. She pulled some folded cloth out and tossed it to me. It was denim, the same material as my jeans.

“Getting you appropriately dressed,” she said wickedly.

My stomach immediately tightened up as I unfolded the material. It didn’t take long. There wasn’t much of it. I looked at her little gift and found myself holding a pair of Daisy Duke short shorts that seemed so tight I wasn’t sure that the circulation to my legs wouldn’t get cut off.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said in a surly tone. “Kari, demo days are dirty. If I wear this I’ll be covered in dust and dirt! On my skin!”

She shrugged. “It will make a fetching look,” she said. “Especially with your little toy.” Her eyebrows wiggled with meaning and my eyes narrowed as I gave her an exasperated look. I knew exactly which toy she was referring too. But before I could respond, she opened the top drawer on the right side of her desk, reached in, and pulled out a small, keychain-sized fob with two large buttons, and then two pairs of smaller ones. My eyes widened in alarm as her thumb began moving and suddenly an earthquake erupted inside me, beneath both my jeans and my panties.

One of the requirements of being a nympho humiliation pain slut is Rule #1. Stated simply, a girl like me is required, at all times, to keep either cock, or an object that promotes readiness, inside her pussy. Vibrators, dildos, vibroballs, anything… as long as it keeps her wet and ready. The idea is to make it possible for any dom or domme wanting to shove something inside my pussy, to do so with a single, wanton thrust.

No need for foreplay, Mr. Bond. I’m ready now.

One of Kari’s more recent acquisitions from Q Branch was a toy I referred to as Fat Man and Little Boy. Yes. I know those were the names of the bombs dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima, but please understand that this particular toy consists of two vibrating eggs, one small and one large, connected by an eight inch tether. The larger end, which is obviously “Fat Man” is too large to go in any hole other than my pussy. At least comfortably, though I suppose if it were lubed well enough you could successfully jam it up my ass. I wouldn’t be happy with that though. Normally when forced to wear this particular toy I slide it deep into my pussy where it fills me quite nicely.

On the other end of the tether is “Little Boy”.  It’s another vibrator, just as powerful, but only a little larger than my thumb. This one is the problem. For example, right then, as I was standing in Kari’s doorway, Little Boy was jammed in the front of my panties, right above my clit. And now that she’d turned both vibrators on, well… let’s just say that sort of intense sexual stimulation has its rewards.

I gasped and pressed my thighs together, my knees buckling slightly. Kari looked at me with a peculiar expression and then sighed.

“You tucked Little Boy in the front, didn’t you?” She asked with disappointment. I nodded, but really the only thing I could think about at that particular moment was whether I was going to try to remain on my feet, or fall down and curl up into a ball as I exploded wetly.

The vibrations seemed to get even stronger as Kari stood up. “You will go into the conference room and put on the shorts. I shouldn’t even have to say this, but if you are wearing panties or a bra you can remove them. They won’t be needed for the day.” She grabbed my chin and lifted my face so that our eyes met. Waves of pleasure burrowed through my crotch as I panted in her grasp. “And Breanne, you know where Little Boy needs to go.”

Then she pushed my face to the side and I stumbled toward the door. I took two steps and then to my chagrin the vibrations between my legs stopped. Completely. Considering how close I’d been to cumming, the sudden cessation of vibration was distinctly unpleasant. When I got to the conference room I wiped my hand across my face and fought a series of shudders. My fingers trembled as I unbuttoned my jeans and a moment later I pushed them down, revealing the pink cotton panties I was wearing. The small bulge of Little Boy made it look like I was packing some tackle up front, but as I kicked off my boots and then pushed my jeans down, Little Boy slipped a little lower, falling into the very wet slit just a little lower down.

I took the panties off next. Normally I’d go for the top, trying to delay the exposure of my body as long as possible, but except for you, there wasn’t an audience. So I went for expediency. The panties slid down my legs and Little Boy fell, dangling between my inner thighs on the tether, as Fat Man stayed right in position, buried deep within the soft, pink, wet petals of my sex. I kicked off my panties and stood there in just the tee shirt and my tube socks, one hand between my legs, grabbing hold of the small bullet hanging there.

Kari had said to put Little Boy in his appropriate spot and I sighed. It took a chair and a unique position where I had one foot up on the seat, along with a bit of contortionism, before I could grab hold of the stupid little vibrator and haul it backward. I pressed the untethered end of Little Boy against the little brown star on the other side of my perineum and focused on relaxing. I breathed steadily and through my nose, taking deep breaths. Then I applied pressure as I relaxed my sphincter.

I absolutely hate having things in my ass. It’s not a comfort thing really. Not now at least. I’m so used to having someone shove something up my rear end that I’ve grown to accept it. Still, I won’t lie. I don’t like it. And it pisses me off when Kari finds some way to not only get me fucked up the ass, but make it sexually stimulating too. Which is one of the reasons I dislike Little Boy so much. It is small enough to go in easily, buzzes fast and hard, and feels… well… as much as I hate to admit it, I love the way it stimulates me.

It slid into my ass and didn’t go any deeper than a thumbnail. This was due to the tether between Fat Man and Little boy, stretched across my perineum. It also meant that when (not if) Kari reactivated the vibrators, Little Boy was in a position to do maximum torment. Like having someone’s finger going into your ass up to just the first knuckle. Over and over.

 Curious to know what happened next? We totally understand! We wanted to know too! Fortunately, the rest of this amazing tale is available for purchase at Amazon.com! Check out Breanne's "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 15!"