A NHPS Christmas

There is something special about Christmas. I’ve always enjoyed this time of year; the lights and decorations, candles and scents, eggnog and hot chocolate, the wrapped presents and the look of joy on a friend’s face as they open up a gift. The music… oh yes. The music. For me it’s Christina Perri crooning out “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” or listening to the Piano Guys play “Carol of the Bells”. Kenny Rogers’ “Mary Did You Know” and Luka Bloom’s “Ciara”. Add in Pentatonix’s version of “Hallelujah” and Jim Brickman’s “We Three Kings.” These are the songs that envelope me at this time of year.

And they were all playing in the background, a perfect soundtrack to the goings on. I know. I was the one who put the music together.

Kari’s condo had been trashed during Hurricane Harvey, requiring some impressive repairs after everything below three and a half feet had become waterlogged. Most of the furniture and the bottom third of every wall had needed to be thrown away, but a woman like Kari takes advantage of events of this nature. Gone was the red and gold of her younger years and earliest design, to be replaced by charcoals and grays, steel and blues. All in all, it was a very different look and by that Christmas Eve, the painting had been finished, the carpet laid, new furniture brought in, and the decorating done.

In one corner of the living room stood the Christmas Tree, synthetic of course, but modeled after a blue spruce that seemed to match the decor of the room with almost uncanny accuracy. The decorations were all silver, a designer tree, which admittedly looked beautiful, though I felt it was too perfect. My own tree is a mishmash of color and personalized ornaments, given to me and my daughter over the years. Kari had only a few such ornamental knickknacks, (all of them given to her by me), and hung on the backside where they wouldn’t destroy “the look”, but I didn’t mind. There was something about the perfect proportions of her tree. The silver ornaments, the white and blue lights, the luster of it. It was Kari. Beautiful. Cold. Perfect.

Candles flames glittered everywhere, and across the room a fire flickered on the hearth. The scent of spiced cider permeated the room, cloves and cinnamon dancing on our tongues. A plate full of cookies, which I’d carefully selected at the cookie bar from the upscale grocery Kari liked,  sat near the tree, along with a glittering glass of brandy. There were no children in this home, so it was presumed Santa would prefer something a little more adult. Presents were stacked under the tree, waiting.

Along with something else.

A quiet, but passionate gasp came from Alissa. She was lying on her back, splayed out on top of the large but low ottoman, which had been pulled out to the very center of the rug, close enough to the tree for the lights to glitter across her well-oiled skin. She wore absolutely nothing, which was perfect, because kneeling beside her was Sara, her lesbian mistress, who pressed a soft headed massager against Alissa’s sex with one hand. While the submissive girl was naked, Mistress Sara wore a short, black negligee that left nothing to the imagination. Her full bosom was impressive, the large pink nipples straining against the black lace. The only other redhead beside me in the Society, her auburn locks fell to her shoulders, framing her chin with scarlet. The pale skin of her thighs, as well as the wet pink of her slit, were in full view and I knew she was just as aroused as Alissa. The bound girl moaned again, straining, but Alissa’s ankles were tied with soft, nylon rope, so she had no choice but to accept the caress, her hips rolling as waves of pleasure swirled upward through her body.

With her other hand, Sara lifted the guttering candle, tipping it over Alissa’s chest. Crimson paraffin fell, striking the young woman’s left breast, splattering only a little, eliciting a sharp cry. Red was the worst candle color to use on someone, since the red dye required a hotter melting temperature, than say a white candle. Alissa’s back arched as she pressed herself upward, teeth clenched tightly, and Sara merely moved the candle, targeting the uncovered bits of Alissa’s bosom. Wax fell on Alissa’s right nipple, coating the small, gold padlock that was clipped to the piercing. The girl let out a gurgling moan of ecstasy as her body failed to cope with the dichotomy of sensation. Was she in pain? Or was it pleasure? Sara set down the candle, moved the massager down to press against Alissa’s bottom, and pressed her face between the girl’s thighs, licking and sucking Alissa’s clit.

A few feet away, another girl, just as naked as Alissa, lay upon the carpet, face up, her legs spread wide, knees up. She was thin, with a pixie cut, that was fluffed out around her head. One hand cupped her right breast, pinching and squeezing her nipple, where a charm-sized padlock danced due to her fingers. The other hand was between her legs, frantically pumping a thick, rubber dildo in and out of her rose colored slit. Her skin was oiled as well, and her name was Kylie. Above her sat a luscious blonde, dressed in an electric blue shift, holding a black riding crop. The blonde dominatrix’s eyes glittered as she smiled down at Kylie, flicking the leather head against the girl’s left breast, teasing the nipple, only to drag it down her ribs, across her belly, and down to Kylie’s sex. Kylie was panting, working the thick rubber frantically.

“Move your hand for a moment, darling.”

Kylie’s eyes betrayed her desperation, but she did it, pulling the dildo out of her pussy. The crop flickered lightly, then with heat. Kylie gasped, her bottom coming up off the floor as Mistress Savannah flicked the crop across her clit, back and forth with light, but solid strokes. Her thighs rippled with tension until her bottom was a full six inches off the carpet. Savannah grinned and landed a solid, biting blow, making Kylie yelp and grimace. Then the crop lifted and the girl went back to pumping the dildo in and out through her freshly abused pussy. The soft, wet, slippery sounds of it going in and out seemed to combine with George Winston’s “Carol of the Bells” perfectly.

A guttural, more masculine groan came from the couch. Kari herself sat there, a queen among her court. Her golden hair spilled down to her shoulders and she wore a black, leather catsuit that emphasized, rather than concealed her more prurient features. Across her lap lay her husband Robert, naked, face up, his poor cock sticking up like a mast. It was red and purple, a leather harness wrapped around the base and his scrotum. His crotch glistened, his cock covered in the same oil that covered Kylie and Alissa. Kari was watching Sara pour more wax on Alissa with hungry eyes, but at the same time her hand worked the straining shaft of her husband. Not to satisfy him. Oh no. She knew him better than that. She kept him on edge, never quite allowing him to reach climax. He shuddered, another ragged gasp coming from his lips. It was a cruel, but exquisite torment.

Lastly, a thin stick of a woman sat on one side of the loveseat. She had started the evening wearing a set of black, leather panties and breast strap, but the bottoms had been lost already, leaving her bony hips and dark, pink, bare gash showing. Her legs were partly spread, one hand idly rubbing at her own sex, as the fingers of her other hand flicked the clothespin attached to my clitoris. I was lying much the same way Robert was with Kari, except my right leg was raised, positioned over the back of the loveseat, my black strap stiletto waving in the air on the other side of Julie’s head. My left leg was down on the floor and my ass was in her lap. My hands were bound with rope above my head, and my breasts sported at least half a dozen, wiggling, jiggling, wooden pegs. I trembled as Julie tormented me, working me into a froth as the clothespin on my clit was twisted, pulled, and turned.

Julie checked her watch. “Five minutes,” she announced, looking across the room at Sara. The redhead domme lifted her mouth from Alissa’s pussy and grinned. Sara’s eyes glittered like diamonds and her chin was soaked.

“She’ll be done,” she said, lifting the scarlet candle again. Alissa shuddered and then tightened up when she saw what Sara intended. The candle was poised above her sex and the hot, melted paraffin fell. It splattered as it struck, sending out a flurry of little bits, leaving an intriguing pattern radiating out from Alissa’s cooking clit. The girl cried out, lifting her pubis to the heat, as Sara coated the entire area with a thin layer.

Julie ran a finger up and down my labia, teasing me, as I watched Alissa’s suffering.

Sara stood and went to the coffee table. There, positioned in well lined rows, were a number of different instruments. She selected a thin, whippy switch, tested it once, and then brought it back to Alissa. My mouth opened in longing as Sara brought down the branch, tracing a sharp, narrow line across both of poor Alissa’s breasts. I was so distracted by the vision, that when Julie flicked the clothespins clinging to my own nipples, the pain came as a surprise.

But for Alissa, the agony was just beginning. Sara brought the stick back down, wax shattering, striking firmly, if not cruelly, at the tips of Alissa’s breasts. The girl began to wail, shaking, her legs jittering from tension. Sara flicked the last of the wax away and I could see the light welts forming already. Then the mistress moved so that she was straddling Alissa’s head. I watched as Sara squatted down, pressing her own wet slit to Amanda’s face. No words were needed. No commands. No encouragement. The second Sara’s pussy was close enough, Alissa was licking and sucking, trying to get as much of her mistress as she could. Then the switch fell again, this time on the thin layer of melt covering Alissa’s covered cunt. The wax broke and the girl went nuts again, even screaming into Sara’s pussy, her muffled cries of pain seemingly distant. Sara whipped her with at least a dozen strokes, and the second the wax was clear of Alissa’s sex, the mistress stood, grabbed the massager again, and then resumed her position over Alissa’s mouth, this time pressing and holding the soft tipped wand, buzzing against Alissa’s petals.

Within seconds I watched as Alissa’s overloaded. She achieved her climax. A look of grim satisfaction crossed Sara’s face and she pressed her pussy hard against Alissa’s mouth, until both of them found satisfaction. Then Sara sighed in happiness, slid off to the side, but with more than enough energy to keep her hand between Alissa’s legs, clearly trying to over stimulate her.

“Sara,” Kari said softly, almost as a warning.

Sara sighed and nodded, then pulled the massager away from her submissive. “You’ve earned your present, Alissa.” The woman got up on her knees, turned toward the Christmas Tree, and pulled out a small, exquisitely wrapped box. She set it on Alissa’s stomach, and then began untying the petite, brown haired girl. Alissa, still dazed with sex, a smile etched across her face, sat up the moment her hands were released, and with legs still obscenely spread, she grabbed the box and tore into it.

“I hope it hurts, Mistress.” She said it was affection and a light in her eyes.

The rest of this tale is no longer available on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog, but can be found in Breanne's book "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 18" which is available in e-book format from Amazon.com!

Merry Christmas

Breanne and I wish you a very Merry Christmas! - MA

New Technology Means New Opportunities

Michael Alexander Stories began almost eight years ago, in December of 2009. As technology has improved, we have found our website becoming more difficult to keep operating and up to date. As a result, my webmaster has suggested that we move to a slightly different format. While the blog will remain operating just as it always has, we're trying the new site out on a temporary basis, just to get a feel for it.

We welcome your input and if you'd like to check out what is only the beginnings of a new home at Michael Alexander Stories, then please join us. Click the link below and check out some of the best dark erotica on the internet today!

http://michaelalexanderstories.com/wp/

Whipped

Author's Note - This is NOT part of "No Right To Shoes", but I couldn't help myself. I hope you like it. - Bre

Yesterday morning, it was quick and unsubtle. I was wearing what I'd been told too - the short blue skirt, the one with pleats. It was tad bit too short, just enough that sitting meant pressing bare skin to the leather chair at my desk. The blouse? A pretty, tie-dyed thing, with a plunging V neck, crisscrossed with black bars. It actually covered me better than some of the shirts Kari has given me in the past. Of course I was following NHPS Rule #1 as well - one of Kari's favorites; a vibrating egg toy. Thick, large, and controlled remotely, I felt it start up even before she'd made an appearance. I gasped, stiffening at my desk, my pussy tightening in rhythmic pulses around the now buzzing and buried object.

She glided past the glass to the door, all golds and reds. Her suit was incredible, a dark, wine colored burgundy. Her hair was curled today, like rings of gold, resting on her shoulders. It matched her ears and neck and finger, twenty-four carats glittering. The only other color, besides the pale beauty of her perfect, alabaster skin and the cardinal glistening of her lips, were her piercing, sparkling blue eyes, which locked onto me with a fury of emotion. She opened the door and looked at me trembling in my seat. I gulped.

"Good morning, fuckslut." The words that came from her mouth were sweet, despite the vulgarity of her vocabulary. It was meant to demean me, to remind me of the truth of my existence. I AM a fuckslut, a sexual object, a walking, breathing literal fuck doll whose sole purpose is to provide others with an opportunity to sate their base desires.

"Go to the conference room and strip," she continued, eyeing me hungrily. "Everything but the shoes."

For a second I sat there immobile, just a tad bit surprised, my mind wondering what torment she intended to inflict upon me. Would it be sweet or sour? Would I be forced to lay upon the mahogany table again, my breasts pressed to the spiked, plastic mat, pinpoints of discomfort digging into my bosom as she spanked me? Would I be told to take a seat, legs spread with my knees bent over the arm rests, my exposed sex presented as a target for her sap, my swollen clit and dripping petals hungry for anything she was willing to give? Or was this just a convenient stopping point before she dragged me to the punishment closet and her new favorite toy - the kneeler, a padded bench that served as both restraint and torture device, a wooden ridge jacked up between my legs, the edge digging hard into my sex...

I nodded and rose. I was wearing my black stilettos, not because I liked them, but because she did. I went quietly down the hall, knowing she was behind me, staring at my ass. I turned the corner, passing her office, our little kitchenette, then her art room, turning once more to enter the largest room of our suite. It was a conference room, like most, with white walls, a television mounted on one wall, a small bar, and a massive table. Six leather chairs were positioned around it. But none of this mattered. I stopped, grabbed the bottom of my shirt, and pulled it upward, exposing my breasts. Two piercings went through the nipples, one on each side. They were gold, and because they'd been given to me by the woman who had just come into the room behind me, were also twenty-four carat. But while hers were meant to adorn and bring glitter to beauty, mine were meant to increase my sexual appeal, to demean me. My piercings were those of an object. A slut.

A nympho humiliation pain slut.

Besides the gold hoops, there was also a padlock. A small one to be sure, more of a charm than an actual functioning device. It dangled from my right tit like a tag, the black emblazoned rose over more gold, glittering. It swung with each breath.

I pushed the skirt down over my hips and it fell to the floor. I was bare beneath it, neither panty nor shorts covering my tush. My sex was ripe and slippery and I couldn't help the flood of expectation, of satisfaction, that might be coming. The egg inside me was vibrating too.

Naked, I turned to face her and my eyes caught sight of the two objects she was holding. The first, and most obvious, was a whip. It was black, and made of wood and leather, with a narrow handle and about twenty, thick straps. A flogger. Between her fingers was also a clothespin, a wooden one.

"Spread your legs wide apart," Kari said, her face dark and wonderful. "And put your hands behind your head."

I took a deep, shuddering breath. I lifted my hands, my lips pressed together in a fine line. She brought the clothespin up to my breast, pinching it open. I sucked in a gasp as she positioned it over the hot tip of my bosom, but then only let it close for half a second, just enough to send a shard of pain through me, before opening it, lifting it, and bringing it over to my padlocked nipple. Again, she teased me, rubbing my now raised nub higher. She let the clothespin pinch it, lightly, momentarily. Then she removed it. My eyes widened as I understood, her hand moving downward, between my breasts, over my belly. She pressed it into my navel, then drew it down my tummy, over my mound, until she held it, still open and ready to bite, over my clit.

I swallowed in anticipation and she did not disappoint. The wooden maw closed hard, crushing the most sensitive and delicate spot on my body. Pain pushed up through my arousal and want, making me grimace.

But while Kari Anders is a sadist, I am her foil. Yin to her yang. I am a masochist and sexualized pain explodes within me, sending me into ecstatic loops of satisfaction. The clothespin hurt, but the vibrating egg added its own impetus to the mix, and my poor brain couldn't properly sort the signals. In seconds I was panting, yes - because it hurt - but also because now, more than ever, I wanted to cum. I needed to cum. I had to cum. I whimpered softly, letting her know.

She stepped back from me, on my right, and raised the flogger. With my fingers interlaced behind my head, I braced myself. She swung the whip, not too hard, nor too soft. The leather slashed the air and stopped upon impact, flattening against my soft, curved breasts, pressing into them. I grit my teeth, a stinging sensation crossing from one nipple to the other and before that feeling had turned to warmth, she struck me again.

The rest of this tale is no longer available on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog, but can be found in Breanne's book "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 18" which is available in e-book format from Amazon.com!

Tied, Tormented, & Tested - A NHPS Story!

For years, Breanne has called her self a "nympho humiliation pain slut". But now her mistresses have determined to test her. Is she truly worthy of the title, or does her snarky attitude, frequent punishments, and occasional failures to follow the NHPS Rules mean she should be stripped of both her clothes and her right to call herself "Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut"? Breanne's skills and form are reviewed, recounted, analyzed, and judged.  

Codes: M+F+/f+,  BDSM, toys, spanking, consensual, humiliation, confessional.

123k words, 320 pages (MSWord), 39 Chapters

AVAILABLE NOW AT AMAZON.COM!

Punishment Essay - For Master Shadow

Hi. I suppose I should start by explaining myself. My name is Breanne. Breanne Erickson, and I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut.

I know. Extensive, fancy title for a girl who basically walks around in public, essentially offering her ass to any and all comers, for pokies and spankings, all for free. But I worked damn hard to get that title and I’m sticking to it. But that’s not what this is about. Nope. It’s supposed to be a one page essay. A punishment essay. Now I know what you’re thinking. What could a nympho humiliation pain slut possibly have as a topic for her essay?

Well that’s easy. Need.

That’s right. Need. Desperation. Constant want. We all have the capacity for it. Cookies. Steak. Money. Drugs. Power. Other people. We all want something. Me? I want to cum. I want to explode. I want to orgasm. Over and over again. As often and as strongly as possible.

I’m not an idiot. I know I’m addicted to it. That overwhelming urge to constantly touch myself, to rub that little nub in little circles, to get out a pair of clamps, or a flogger… I suppose every girl gets it. Hell, I hear men have it too - self satisfaction? Masturbation? That little bit of self-pleasure? But there’s a problem I have. Doing it myself… just doesn’t cut it.

Which totally sucks.

The rest of this tale is no longer available on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog, but can be found in Breanne's book "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 18" which is available in e-book format from Amazon.com!

Faith In Humanity

“Are you ready?” Paul asked me, giving me an uncomfortable, somewhat skeptical look. His sandy brown hair was cut short and he’d put on some muscle since the last time I’d seen him. Now, in his early twenties, he was much more man and less teenager, and I liked the change in him. I reached out and patted his arm, though I admit I wasn’t exactly feeling calm about things either.

Ready, in my case, is highly subjective.

I gave Paul a shrug. “I suppose so, though I admit that I’m a little nervous about this.”

He looked up at me. “Well, you don’t have to do this,” he said, gesturing at the box and the double wrapped set of wires running from it.

I took a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah. I sort of do.” I gave him an appreciative glance. “Thanks for being willing to help.”

Paul smiled. “Well, it’s always worth it to spend time with you. This morning was great, by the way.”

I grinned, remembering. Paul had tied me down spread-eagled to his bed right after I’d arrived and I’ve rarely has such a memorable torture session when my tormentor used nothing but a paint brush. He’d made me beg, multiple times, before finally allowing me to cum. Now it was payback time though and the assignment presented by Master Lukas bordered on evil.

We stood on the campus of Paul’s college, which was already a week into the fall semester. Hurricane Harvey hadn’t quite managed to flood this part of Houston and as a result, the campus was bustling. A ton of underclassmen were wandering around, and the only thing that kept me from being a spectacle was the fact that for once, I was completely dressed.

Yeah. Gasp.

I was wearing a solid blue blouse that did a very nice job of accentuating my curves without making a display of it. The collar made it clear I had a bit of cleavage to be proud of, and even the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra wasn’t a big deal. The white skirt was almost knee-length and playful, without being indecent. Any college coed would be wearing them. My feet? Flats. Sandals. Comfortable and pretty without screaming “slut.” In fact, the only weird thing about my entire ensemble was the heavy canvas bag I had over one shoulder, the wires leading from the bag under my clothes, not to mention, the cable that ran to the handmade, metal button box held by Paul.

“Do you want to test it?” Paul said, holding up the box. My face went white.

“God no,” I replied, eyes widening as we began walking slowly along the path.

“Are you sure?” He asked, somewhat confused.

I sighed. “Look. I can see that it’s all on. I don’t want to have to deal with more than I absolutely have to. If it doesn’t work, we go back to Mike and declare a technological failure. I don’t get punished and I don’t have to put my ass on the line for science.”

Paul snorted. “I’m not sure you can call this science,” he assured me. He pointed to a building in front of us. “There. That’s the dorm.”

I bit my lip. “Alright. Let’s get going.”

It didn’t take us long to get in, thanks to Paul’s school ID and a little wheedling, and we made our way up to one of the hallways. After that it became a waiting game, and we didn’t have to wait very long. In just two or three minutes a young man, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen years of age, came strolling down the hallway.

“Hi,” I said brightly. “Excuse me. I was wondering if you had a moment.”

He slowed, curious. And perhaps interested. I mean, why would a pretty girl have wires running up under her clothes, going to and from a box with two big buttons?

“Hey, thanks for helping,” Paul said with a grin. “We’re conducting a simple experiment on social interactions. What’s your name?”

“Jim,” the young man replied.

“Hi Jim,” I said warmly, smiling. I wanted, very much, to make this young man like me.

He grinned back at me.

“Okay, Jim. This is pretty simple. See this box?” Paul held up the control box with the two buttons. “There are a pair of buttons here and what we’d like you to do is push one.”

Jim looked a bit skeptical. “That’s it? What do they do?”

Paul grinned. “Well, this green one turns on a vibrator in Breanne’s pussy,” Paul replied. “Here. Watch.”  Paul pressed the green button and I gasped as the RVP in my slit went into overdrive. My hands went down to the dip at the front of my skirt and the sound, which was very audible, changed. Vibrations and the corkscrewing sensation of the four inch long probe churning in my depths made me sway and I blushed prettily. For the next thirty seconds I quivered in front of both guys, clearly reacting to the sexual stimulation.

“Freaking awesome!” Jim exclaimed, laughing. “What does the red one do?

Paul gave Jim an uncomfortable look. “Well, that’s a different story,” he said “The red button isn’t very nice. It will hurt.”

“Me?” Jim asked.

“What?” Paul asked. “Of course not. Her!” He said pointing at me.

I blinked as Jim gave me a curious look. Paul sighed. Then he reached out, and grabbed my shirt, yanking it up.

I did let out a little squeal as Jim’s eyeballs seemed to pop out of his skull. Of course that meant he got a good look at my tits, the gold piercings through both nipples, the silly, charm-sized padlock dangling from the right hoop, and most of all, the white, wired, electrostim tabs stuck to either side of each nipple.

“Holy shit,” Jim observed, eyes wide.

Paul tugged my shirt back down. “Exactly. There’s one over her clit too, so remember she gets shocked down there as well. We also have to sweeten the deal. If you press the red button, she gets zapped for a full thirty seconds. But when she’s done frying, she will get down on her knees and suck your cock until you cum.

Jim blinked. “You’re kidding me.” He glanced at me and I nodded, my face scarlet.

Paul nodded. “Of course, in order to get her mouth wrapped around your cock, you’ve got to shock her. She’s got a TENS Unit in the bag and she’s already wired up. Press that red button and to her, it will feel like having hot needles shoved through her tits.”

Jim looked at me with uncertainty. “I don’t understand. If I hurt you, why would you be willing to suck my cock?”

I took a deep breath. “It’s an experiment I agreed to. Honestly, I’d rather not be hurt at all. You could press the green button. You don’t get the blowjob, but for thirty seconds the vibrator is going to make me feel amazing. I might even cum,” I said softly, almost sadly. Hopeful even.

Paul held out the box. “Press a button. Decide. Does she fry so you can get your cock sucked? Or are you going to spare her and maybe even make her cum?”

Jim took the box, indecision writ large upon his face. He looked back and forth, considering his options, and I stared at him, my eyes expressive, silently pleading with him. Then his mouth formed a straight line and he lifted his hand to the control box. I watched, holding my breath, as he made his choice, and pressed a button.

***

The rest of this tale is no longer available on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog, but can be found in Breanne's book "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 18" which is available in e-book format from Amazon.com!