Jackhammered

Kari gave me a look of consternation as she walked up to the office building. I was leaning against the wall, right near the outer door, arms crossed over my chest, a look of smug satisfaction on my face. She herself was dressed in blue jeans, a gray designer tee shirt with some sort of black crest on, and a button up over shirt that she’d artfully left open. Dark, brown, leather boots finished the outfit and looked far too expensive to get dirty.

I, on the other hand, had been requested to wear something a little different from my classier, goddess of a boss. Instead of blue jeans, my creamy white legs were exposed, my loins jammed into a pair of extremely short, denim shorts, so tight that anyone looking at my sticks had to wonder how blood was circulating. Instead of a tee shirt, my boobs were covered with a blue, almost translucent bikini top, the bottoms of which were back at my apartment. My feet were jammed into a pair of decent work boots, cowgirl style, and I wore my hat to ward off the sun.

Oh yeah - and I had on one other thing. A similar shirt as Kari - a button down the front, cotton long sleeve, except while hers was exposing the tee shirt, mine was tied just under my breasts, doing a better job of concealing my curves than the blue swimsuit. She didn’t even bother to say good morning.

“That’s going to cost you,” Kari warned, eyeing my attire. I sighed and gestured around.

“You wanted me to stand in front of the office, with my tits hanging out?” I protested.

Kari gave me a stern look. “Yes. That’s exactly what I wanted. Is the RVP on at least?”

I gave her a blank stare, but inside I was feeling a tremor of fear. Slowly I shook my head. I hadn’t turned on the sex toy because I knew I couldn’t handle it. Even on low it would only be a matter of an hour before I popped, both loudly and wetly.

Kari frowned. “On. Now. On high.”

The blush on my face faded as I went white. “Kari? Please. Not high,” I begged softly, glancing around again.

Kari pretended to look thoughtful. “Perhaps I’ll allow you to suffer one of the functions on low,” she said amiably. She leaned in, an angry look on her face “If you take off that goddamned shirt.” Then she smiled warmly again.

Mental torment is kind of Kari’s specialty. Okay, technically “Breanne Torment” is her specialty. But I shrugged out of the shirt, exposing my bikini bound boobs, and handed her the shirt. She took it smugly, then stared at me until I plucked the wired controller for the RVP out of my back pocket, the pink wire disappearing into my waistband in a very obvious and disturbing manner, meant to make someone look. I held out the little box and she pulled on it, forcing me a step closer via the control wire.

“Brace yourself,” she said softly. Then she cranked up the controls to maximum.

Beneath the extremely tight denim of my shorts, jammed directly against my clitoris, was the proboscis of a bug shaped piece of plastic. About the size of my palm, this plastic formed the base of a particular sex toy called a Rotating Venus Penis, which consisted of two separate motors, one which vibrated the entire toy from end to end, and another which caused a four inch long, silicon covered, slightly off-set phallus, to rotate at various speeds. In short, the damn thing cause two very separate and extreme sensations. I’ve likened it to being butter churned during an earthquake. On the lowest setting I’m good for an hour, maybe an hour and a half. On medium you can expect me to cum in ten to fifteen minutes. On high?

Don’t bother going to get popcorn. I’ll be climaxing before you get back.

I stiffened, eyes wide, mouth half open as the rushing earthquake between my legs started up, easily audible through the single layer of denim separating the motors and everything around me. My clit, sensitive, slightly swollen, and suffering from a full fourteen hours of denial, was pressed directly against the RVP base. That translated into an immediate urgency of sexual need. My knees swung in together and buckled, and I groaned as I pressed my thighs to each other, twisting as the four inch cock inside me began a maelstrom like movement, stirring the pot with single-minded intensity.

Kari plucked her keys out of her purse and gave me a winsome smile. “I need to get something out of the office,” she said simply. “You can wait her for me.”

I croaked out some sort of acknowledgement, my teeth locked together as I struggled not to make any noise. Then Kari pushed past me, opened the door to the atrium, and disappeared inside, leaving me to dance.

For the first three minutes I was alone and I’m not sure why I tried to hold off, to resist the incessant stimulation. Maybe if I’d just gone along and cum, teasing my own nipples, or hell, even exposing myself, baring my breasts and pinching each pierced nipple lightly, I’d have gotten through it enough so that when Mr. Thompson, the attorney on the third floor, pulled into the parking lot, I’d have been able to stand straight, ignore my near nudity, and greet him with a controlled smile. Instead, he climbed out of his Lexus, strolled across the lot straight toward me, his mouth curled up in a grin.

“Good morning, Breanne. Are you okay?” He asked with a knowing look. My reputation around the building isn’t exactly pristine.

I swallowed hard, the orgasm threatening to burst through and I realized that trying to hold back from jumping off that cliff was not going to work. I looked up at him, panic in my eyes as I nodded, my fake, three million watt, please fuck me stupid smile, writ large upon my face. My voice came out high pitched.

“Oh! Good morning, Mr. Thompson! I’m fine!” I gasped, bending slightly at the waist as another storm surge of acute pleasure hit me like a hurricane’s wave. I wished, with all my heart, that he’d just go on in, leaving me alone, so that I could jam a knuckle into my mouth, scream in rapture, and fall to the ground bucking.

“I have to admit that your outfit is quite nice. Going swimming today?” He asked pleasantly, as if we were just chatting. The sparkle in his eye told me outright that he knew exactly what was happening. He was waiting for it. But something inside me resisted. I didn’t want him witnessing my loss of control.

“Demolition day,” I said, stifling another groan. “We’re tearing out two retaining walls and a sidewalk, along with a lot of landscaping.”

The rest of this story is no longer available on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog, but is available for purchase, contained in Breanne Erickson's book "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 16."  Get it now at Amazon.com!