Punishment's Folly - Part One

“Well,” said Kari, stepping into the office. “That’s a look I can appreciate.” Her eyes focused on the peasant blouse, or possibly the two wooden clothespins that hung from my barely concealed nipples, the ends peeking out from under the mostly transparent material. The blouse, a pleated monstrosity with a single strand of elastic holding it in place above my breasts, didn’t do much more than keep my bosom from being immediately bare and the slightest gust of wind had a tendency to flip the whole thing up, forcing me to involuntarily flash my breasts to the whole freaking world.

I gave Kari a sour look. I wasn’t happy about the outfit, which was purely Julie’s fault. She’d texted me that morning, directing me to wear it. I’d have gone for something more conservative, despite the assigned punishment I was to endure that morning, but still. The peasant blouse? Why not just strip me naked?

“Are you ready?” Inquired Kari sweetly, coming around to check out my skirt. I’d worn the pleated blue one, the one that was too short to actually cover my ass, and I nodded.

“Yes, Kari. I’m ready,” I assured her. “The RVP is in, with fresh batteries, and as you can see,” I said, gesturing at my breasts. “I already have the clothespins on.”

“Mmmmm,” she hummed. “Yes. I like it when you’re proactive like this. Has it been hard, sitting here with your tender, little nipples crushed like that for so long?”

I swallowed and nodded, not wanting to admit that I’d put them on just a few minutes ago. I’m sexually crazy.

Not stupid.

“Turn on the RVP then,” she told me. “Both functions on low please. Thirty minutes. No cumming.”

I nodded. The remote was already out on my desk and I quickly activated it. Kari stayed to watch the immediate response and it certainly wasn’t disappointing. Inside me the four-inch-long synthetic cock spun up, wriggling around inside my desperate pussy like a chef’s spoon in a small pot. I gasped, eyes widening as the sensation incited a riot of pleasure. Then, just as quickly, the other motor in the Rotating Venus Penis started up, shaking lightly. The base of the RVP was pressed against my petals, and worse - my clitoris.

I’m a girl who is accustomed to sexual stimulation, but I admit that the one toy I consistently have trouble handling is the Rotating Venus Penis. I’ve had four of them, which shouldn’t be a referendum on their durability. I have a tendency to fuck to destruction. The latest incarnation was more solid, and had no wires. I liked that because it left out one additional way for Kari and Julie to humiliate the fuck out of me. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have someone look at you when you’ve got a bright pink or purple colored wire going up under your skirt, with a battery pack and control sticking into your waistband?

But as the RVP churned up to it’s lowest settings, my pussy tightened and I found myself gripping the desk, my entire body keyed to react. Thirty minutes is a long time and I realized that under the circumstances, I’d be lucky to last five. I glanced up at Kari, the panic on my face apparent, and she laughed.

“Too much, too soon?” She asked. “That’s what you get for being a naughty little slut,” she said snidely. “Out of curiosity, what did you do to deserve this particular punishment?”

I swallowed, my entire body shifting as the RVP did it’s magic dance between my legs. “You know that Wizard of Oz porn parody I’m writing?” I asked her. She nodded.

“I know of it. I haven’t read any,” she replied.

“Well, no one has,” I said roughly. “I mean had. Master William inquired about it and I’d sort of put it on a back burner. So I sent him the first part.” A surge of sexual energy shot through me and I let out a whimper. Control. It’s all about control. I looked back up at Kari. “He was disappointed that I only sent him part one.”

Kari crossed her arms over her chest. “Why?”

Another wave of absolute sexual lust rushed through me. And with all due respect, I should be forgiven for the lack of control. I hadn’t cum in six days for goodness’ sake!

“Why what?” I stammered.

Kari snapped her finger in front of my face. “Bre, concentrate. Why didn’t you send him the whole thing?”

I closed my eyes, swaying dangerously in my seat. “I… I… .it wasn’t finished,” I blurted out. Then I moaned. “It was a rough… rough… oh my God.” I realized I was panting. “Draft!”

Kari smiled. “Well then, don’t let me stop you. Get to work. Edit the first part and make sure everyone gets it. Start typing,” she ordered.

I blinked. “I… how can I write like this?” I gasped, my legs starting to tremble.

Kari shrugged. “It’s your normal state isn’t it?” She reached down, slid her right hand under the peasant blouse, and squeezed my breast, shaking the clothespin. That did not help.

“Come see when you cum. Now, write.” She let go of my boob and turned and walked away. Shaking, panting, aching, needing, I grabbed hold of the mouse and opened my documents file. Tons of half-finished assignment write-ups filled the screen, files and files of them. I opened my “fiction folder.” Only five items in there, none of them done, and I started to open “Bondage in Oz”.

The red-haired girl lay on the bed, eyes half closed as her fingers moved in lazy circles. A low moan came from parted lips and her back arched, the pale, white curves of her body writhing in self created ecstasy. Sunlight and a light breeze came in through the open window, pushing on the curtains that weren’t quite closed. She seemed lost in her own little world, legs parted with her toes just barely grazing the corners of the footboard, while her fingers moved from the swollen nub of sweet flesh at the cleft of her slit to the thick, black, cucumber sized phallus that waited patiently for another chance to feel her warm, sweet depths...

And then I exploded.  Three minutes. Well done, Bre.

Leaving the RVP on, I climbed out of my chair, wobbled slightly on the stripper shoes I was wearing and headed back down the hall. I walked into Kari’s office and the golden haired goddess I routinely worship glanced up at me. She didn’t seem surprised.

“That took longer than I expected,” she said with a grin. “Go to my art room and get one of the plastic rulers. Then go to the conference room and remove your RVP. You know how I want you,” she said with a smirk.

I swallowed and nodded. “Yes, Kari” I replied obediently. I turned tail and moved down the hall to her art room. It was cluttered, or at least appeared to be, but I knew that everything had a place. On the second shelf, in the back corner, was a jar full of rulers. There were wooden ones, plastic ones, short ones, foot and a half long ones, ones with holes, ones with slides, and even wide ones. I spent a moment trying to figure out which would be the least painful. I skipped the one with holes, and the wide one, and the long one, and instead selected a simple, smooth, straight, orange, plastic ruler.

It would do.

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 17."  Get it now at Amazon.com!

oung lady!

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

07/06/17

I parked my car in the driveway and looked over at the bungalow style house. It had been several months since I’d last been to Mike’s place and I admit that I felt a little bit of trepidation as I stood before the brick and wood structure. Last time I was here he’d strapped me down to a piece of MDF covered plywood. Admittedly, the orgasms I’d endured were rather impressive, but Mike’s place was sort of a testing lab, where he indulged in creating devices designed to sexually torment women from one extreme to another. And since I was the most willing of all the masochistic submissives he knew, generally eager to mount whatever, godawful new thing he’d created, provided there was some reasonable assurance I wasn’t going to be leaving body parts lying around, I’d get a call.

I’m a human, sexual, guinea pig.    

The last time I’d gone to Mike’s place, I’d shown up wearing gym shorts and a tee shirt. Then I’d been thoroughly castigated for not dressing “slutty” enough. So this time, while still sitting in my car, I slipped out of my shorts and panties, tossed them into the front passenger seat, and then followed up with my top. That left me completely naked, and except for the ben wa balls I had stuffed inside me, all I still needed to do was slip my bare, little feet back into the flip flops and scurry my exposed ass up to the door.

Which I did.

I stood on his stoop, glancing back over my shoulder for less than twenty seconds, but it felt like a lifetime. Mike appeared, his eyes widening as he caught sight of me, then got even bigger when he realized that not only was I naked, there was no sign of my clothes. At all. He loomed in the doorway, blocking my entrance.

“Where are your clothes?” He asked.

I jiggled a little, impatient and just a little worried someone was going to call the cops about the girl violating the state’s public nudity laws in their neighborhood. “In the car. Can I please come in?”

He blinked. “Yes, but I’m curious. Why strip there?” He stepped back, letting me in. I scurried by.

“Because last time you gave me flack about being inappropriately dressed,” I retorted, moving out of the hall and into the living room. I was half scared I’d find another piece of MDF covered plywood, but this time the coffee table was just a coffee table and there weren’t any power tools or pliers immediately available.

“So this time you went with no dress at all,” he finished. I could see the gears turning. “Okay. I can deal with you being naked and showing up that way.” He gave me a smile and opened his arms. “How about a hug?”

I laughed and went to him. He was warm and the inside of his house was cool. “How about you jam yourself inside me and see if you can shoot me to the moon with just your spunk?” I replied good-naturedly.

Mike laughed and then let me go. “Well, as fun as that sounds, I need your help.” He gestured at the hallway. “In my workshop.”

I groaned. “Machine testing? Again?”

He nodded. “Hey. It could be worse. It could be the Iron Maiden, right?”

I sort of shivered when he said that. Mike had confessed to me that he’d created an Iron Maiden, a real one, except one designed not to kill the occupant. Instead of iron spikes, the inside of the chest piece was covered with long needles, each positioned to penetrate deep into a woman’s bosom, rather than cause massive internal trauma to her organs. Add a similar patchwork for the rear, and a crotch piece that would have tenderized the labia with a bristle brush pad of spikes, and you can understand my worry. I’m not into bleeding and this device would have seriously violated my personal limits.

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 17."  Get it now at Amazon.com!

Forced Exposure

The car jerked slightly as Alissa pulled into a parking space and I looked around. Green trees rustled in the hot, southern breeze and the scent of moisture, of wet earth, penetrated even the sealed and cool environment of the air conditioned car. 

White, baked concrete stretched in aimless paths through verdant, well-manicured grass, and a number of stately buildings, each looking prim and proper, stood at various squared off points of the compass. Better yet, those same sidewalks were mostly empty, with only a few, meandering students crisscrossing the campus.

I love summer break.

I glanced at my friend. Like me, she was wearing a pair of shorts, though admittedly hers looked cute. The denim cut completely covered her ass, leaving everything to the imagination, and thanks to her age, a full seven years younger than me, her blouse, tied just beneath her magnificent breasts and leaving her belly exposed, looked fashionable. Alissa could still pull off the teenager slut look.

Me? Not so much. There was no mistaking that I was a woman in my prime. My hips were too wide, my breasts full and lush, rather than perky. My limbs had thickened slightly, and only a daily battle with what I eat was keeping my middle from looking like a muffin top. I swear that sometimes I think I’m becoming a rabbit. All I eat are salads.

My outfit did not compliment my form in any way, unless someone mistook my preferences for a desire to be identified as a porn star. The shorts, a gift from Julie, were tight and cut a little short, leaving half of each butt cheek exposed. I could feel the crotch of the stupid things digging up into my body, the feeling of a permanent and uncomfortable wedgie a constant problem.

The shirt wasn’t much better. I’d worn it before. It was nothing but a kind of undershirt that some men like to wear; frequently called a “wife beater,” though I hate that name for it. Julie had gifted it to me a few years ago, for an assignment, where it had been doused with enough baby oil to become permanently translucent in a few important areas. Worse, the shirt was meant for a man three times my size in height, and at least a hundred and fifty pounds wider. That meant that the shoulder straps were basically all that was covering my breasts, and the dip in the collar went well beneath my bosom. The wide arm holes meant that a ton of side boob was showing, and I had to be insanely careful on how I moved, lest I flash the world my top.

Which, unfortunately for me, was the whole point.

“Let’s go!” Alissa said eagerly, switching off the engine and opening the car door.

I groaned. “Please, Alissa. Not here,” I said with timidity. My eyes were rapidly going back and forth, scared to be seen.

She sighed and got out of the car, only to look back in at me. “If not here, then where? You want to walk the Galleria like that?” She demanded. “Look, I’m trying to help you here. Do you want to fail this assignment?”

I gave her a torn look. “No! But … “ I didn’t know what else to say.

Alissa sighed. “I get it. I do. But I’m about a minute away from starting the timer on this thing. So if you don’t get your cute little ass out of the car and start shaking it, you’re going to end up handcuffed to a light post out here.” Her eyes sparkled. “Which, to be honest, I love the thought of. What an amazing punishment! Master Brandon sure knows how to flip your switches, doesn’t he?”

I frowned at that and grabbed the door handle. Alissa was right. This was probably one of the few places that I could get away with what Master Brandon, one of my online doms, had in mind. Inspired by one of Julie’s recent attempts to get me naked in a more public setting, Brandon had decided to force the issue.

Alissa let out an appreciative hum as she rounded the car and got another good look at me. I was wearing a pair of high heeled sandals, as well as the slave bell anklet Kari had gifted me.

“Let’s make sure everything is working,” Alissa said smartly, reaching into the small canvas bag she was carrying. I watched with trepidation as she pulled out a small, purple, key fob sized device, equipped with two sliders. Then with a knowing smile, she slid the first one up, just a bit.

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 17."  Get it now at Amazon.com!