The bright, late-spring, morning sunlight illuminated me completely as I sat on the bench, my wrist frantically pumping the seven-inch-long, purple-colored vibrator through my very pink, very wet slit. My head was swiveling back and forth like a weather vane in a tornado, checking down each side of the concrete path, my eyes questing for the next approaching jogger. Doing two things at once, like rubbing your tummy and patting your head, is never easy. For me, keeping an eye on the path, even as I tried desperately to make myself cum, was a challenge easier said than done.
It would have been nice to have help. Across from me, leaning against a tree, was Julie. She stood there with her arms folded over her chest, a thin branch clutched lightly in her hand, her eyes staring at me. She was dressed more conservatively than I was, in tight, Lycra running shorts and a halter top. Still, her bone thin form was hardly something most men would find attractive. With most women, you might be able to compare their breasts with some recognizable fruit. My mistress, unfortunately, was more like a fine Italian ravioli, a small, flattened pillow of something tasty.
“Keep your legs spread,” she reminded me pleasantly, despite the fact that the twinkle in her eye matched the little twitch of her switch. I gave her a somewhat desperate look.
“Julie, I’ve already had two orgasms,” I whimpered. “Do we really need any more?” It came out in a pleading, whining voice.
Her eyes widened and her arms unfolded. “Do you mean to tell me, that Breanne Erickson, cum slut extraordinaire, is actually asking to be spared additional orgasms? I thought that’s what you lived for.”
I kept the vibrator moving and nodded. “I’m satisfied now. Thank you.”
Julie laughed, shaking her head. “Oh no. I don’t think so. Master Brandon said four orgasms, so four we will do.” She shook the thin stick at me. “And keep those legs open or I’ll give you another welt.”
I bit my lip as I moved my feet another few inches apart. I was already sitting in a very undignified and unladylike fashion on the bench, and while my skirt was certainly long enough for decorum’s sake, plunging a purple colored dildo into my pussy wasn’t exactly something I could hide. By necessity the material was bunched up around my waist. And it was just at that moment I spotted movement down the far side of the path.
Julie spotted the runner right after I did and she turned her gaze back to me, a wide and silly grin on her face.
“Uh oh,” she said wickedly. “Are you going to manage this time?” It was a taunt, plain and simple.
I clenched my teeth as my blood pressure increased and I felt my heartbeat pick up speed. I had about fifteen seconds to make an awful decision and my wrist faltered, the vibrator in my pussy slowed it’s in and out movement as my arm stopped. I felt a shudder work its way from my shoulders down to my ass, where my buttocks clenched tightly around the jeweled anal plug and then I couldn’t take it. I gave Julie a pleading look even as my hand moved. She shook her head in disappointment as I let go of the vibrator, pushing it in deep. A half second later I swung my knees back together, just to hold in the sex toy. The other hand smoothed down the material of my skirt and I brought my left arm up across my chest, doing a better job of concealing my bosom than the hated “peasant blouse” Julie had forced me to wear that morning. I hissed with discomfort, but didn’t dare remove my arm pressing against my poor breasts. The jogger, a nice looking guy in his thirties, ran by with only a curious glance at the two of us. I gave him a winsome, if suffering smile. Thankfully, he didn’t seem all that intrigued by the daringly and slutty dressed girl sitting on the bench.
I watched him go off into the distance and looked back the way he’d come. I was hoping, praying even, for another runner. Because it wasn’t the number of joggers, or hikers, or even cyclists, that came by. It was my choice that was the problem. I glanced back up at Julie, my bottom lip caught between my teeth. She was already crossing the concrete path.
“Too bad, princess,” she declared, knowing I hated the cutesy nickname. “Bare them.” The switch she was holding flicked through the air and managed to flick a bit of the exposed shirt. Whimpering, I dropped my left arm, and then with both hands, grabbed hold of the peasant blouse, and lifted up the seven or so inches of transparent, pleated material, and exposed both of my breasts.
The gold padlock that dangled from the hoop piercing on my right nipple caught the sunlight and sparkled. Even the other circle of gold going through the other tip of my breast gleamed. But while the jewelry caught the eye, a number of very fresh, very thin, wicked looking, crimson lines crossed my bosom. There were more than I could have conveniently counted quickly, even with a mirror and privacy.
I clenched my teeth, closed my eyes, and looked away.
Julie didn’t spare me this time either and the switch slashed across my breasts with a sharp, scalding pain. She went below my nipples, catching the underside of my boobs, leaving another welt in a spot that had been mostly pain free. I squealed right through my locked jaw and folded immediately, my hands letting the stupid, overly-revealing blouse fall back over my tits, even as I put my head down between my knees.
For one long, horrible moment, pain was pretty much the only thing I felt. My tits felt hot and swollen and while the pain slowly faded to a vicious sting, which then melted into a harsh heat, I knew that I’d have some impressive bruises to go along with the scarlet stripes. Julie hummed to herself and whirled back across the concrete path to her position by the tree.
“As soon as you’re ready,” she said graciously, as if she were giving me a gift. I glanced up at her, tears welling in my eyes.
“This is awful,” I sniveled.
Julie shrugged,” Yes, well, we have to train you to be more accepting. Eventually, the fear of getting your tits whacked will be enough for you to overcome certain, annoying tendencies; like covering up.” Her eyes hardened. “Now, are you going to masturbate or not?”
For a moment I considered saying “not.” I didn’t want to cum again. My breasts hurt too much. I didn’t like being displayed in public. Especially dressed in a short, pleated blue skirt and a blouse that was more window valance than cover. I was hot too. And thirsty. My bottom ached around the jeweled anal plug.
I glanced back down the trail, both directions. Empty. I spread my legs. The hem of my skirt couldn’t handle the movement and suddenly my pussy was in full view. I was wearing flip flops and I went up on tiptoe, knees as far apart as I could make them. I grabbed the vibrator, which was still going, and caught it before it went slipping out of my pussy. With a trembling whimper, I began pumping it, slowly and surely, in and out of my sex, trying to work myself into a froth
“When was your last bastinado and foot job session with Alex?” Julie asked, making small talk. “The bottoms of your feet look too pretty.”
I looked up at her. “Two weeks ago,” I said softly, as if trying to avoid attention. My hand moved the vibrator, trying to get back to where I was a minute or two before. “He got busy this week.”
Julie shook her head in disappointment. “Hmmm. That’s not good. Maybe I need to lay a few across those little arches of yours,” she said, wiggling her stick. “You can kneel right there on the bench and I’ll leave a few little, red stripes across your soles.”
The vibrator was starting to feel good again and the feel of it slipping in and out of my sex was making the pain fade. Or at least, I was able to ignore more of it. Still, I couldn’t keep my head still. I kept looking down the trail.
“Thanks,” I said breathily. “But I’d like to be able to walk out of here.” It came out sort of sarcastic, but that didn’t faze Julie.
“Oh, you’d walk,” she said easily. “But with a noticeable limp. People would stop and ask you if you were okay and you’d have to tell them that you were a naughty nympho humiliation pain slut who just had the soles of her feet switched.”
The idea of that little scenario happening had different effects on different parts of me. My pussy loved the idea and the idea of a third orgasm wasn’t so much wishful thinking now. Of course, the more conservative side of my psyche, the part checking the trail every few seconds, had a totally different reaction.
“That doesn’t sound that appealing,” I muttered, even as my pussy betrayed how my other half felt to Julie. She let out a laugh.
“You should see how wet your cunt is. I know you love the idea. Besides, you need to get more accustomed to being seen. To being open.” She sighed. “Do you have any idea how popular you’d be if you would just let me videotape…”
“No!” I said more forcefully.
Julie sighed. “You are NOT ugly,” she said, for like the thousandth time.
I gave her a stern glare. My pussy was starting to quiver around the vibrator.
“Okay. I get it. Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes. Then her head snapped to the right. “Uh oh,” she said, her mouth curling up into another smile. “Decision time again!”
I twisted my head and my mouth went dry. Another fucking runner! Damn it! And a woman! I closed my eyes and bit my lip. For a second I hesitated. I could feel the pressure building inside me. I wasn’t close, obviously, but if I let it go, I might not get it back. I twisted internally, indecision wracking me. It didn’t help that the risk of exposure was making my pussy even wetter. The vibrator moved twice more and then … then I couldn’t help it.
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!