Saturday, July 8, 2017

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.


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.

And yet … I admit to a certain curiosity. I also knew that he’d designed it for one person in mind, measuring me specifically and then using a model to form the chest piece. It wouldn’t fit anyone else. Probably.

“It’s not the Iron Maiden, right?” I said cautiously.

Mike’s gaze softened. “Of course not Bre. You know I wouldn’t use that on you, not without your permission.” He shrugged. “But I do have something new that I’m calling a “Pressure Fucker.”

I screwed up my face. “Please tell me we aren’t going all water bondage?” I’ve been hosed before and while I can deal with it, that particular means of sexual torment isn’t my first choice.

He laughed. “No. No. No pressure washers. Just… well… wait and see!”

I sighed and then shook my head, dismissing protests and questions, and headed down the hall. Mike was a widower and while there were signs everywhere that Julie had practically moved in, the master bedroom was still a workshop, the walls lined with benches. The carpet had been removed, leaving a concrete pad exposed. In the very center, on a raised wooden platform, was a post.

It was adjustable in two spots. The bottom half was a metal casing, squared and smooth, and the middle portion could be raised or lowered as needed. An upper portion had a T shaped protuberance at the top and could also be adjusted with a few pins. But there were a couple of other features I immediately noticed; the first being the massager.

Hitachi massagers are a common sight on the BDSM scene. They are soft to the touch with their silicon bulbs, vibrate at a variety of speeds, and when pressed tightly to a woman’s clitoris and labia, can create some intense clitoral orgasms. There are even attachments that can provide penetration. They’re like pocket vibrators, or sybians. Well worth it if you ask me. I own two.

Mike had roughly secured one of these style massagers to the post, pointing upward on the second, adjustable height portion. A heavy leather belt was screwed in above the massager, making it clear that someone would be positioned against the post, with no option but to press herself against the bulb. The belt mean she wouldn’t be able to get free.

I leaned down to look at the bulb, suspicious, and Mike did as well, except he pointed with his big finger.

“So you’ll be bound to the post, facing it, so your pussy is grinding against the massager,” he explained simply. “I’ll turn it on and you can fuck yourself on it.”

“What’s the catch?” I demanded.

Mike looked uncomfortable, as if he didn’t want to actually tell me. “What catch?”

I waved my hand. “There’s a catch. There always is. So what’s the catch?”

He gave me a steady look, then sighed. He lifted his hand and put a single finger on the side of the Hitachi’s bulbed head. “Listen,” he said softly. Then he began pushing. The massager moved slightly and I heard a soft click. Then there came a second click, followed by a third. And a fourth. When the fifth click came the edge of the massager was actually touching the post itself.

“It clicks,” I said sarcastically. “Cool!”

Mike gave me a frustrated look. “Actually, it’s a pressure switch.”

Suddenly, the name “Pressure Fucker” began to make more sense. He didn’t mean water pressure. He meant the pressure my hips were going to apply to the massager as I mashed my clit up against it. Realization dawned on me. A switch meant current going somewhere else. Redirected current meant utilization. When you flip a switch on the wall, chances are the light is going to come on. Or a fan. Or...

A switch on one of Mike’s machines meant something infinitely worse.

He straightened up. “Let’s get you on it,” he said brightly.

“What does the switch do?” I asked hesitantly.

Mike grinned. “You’ll find out. Stand up straight.”

I rose warily and he grabbed my arm. “I have to admit, it’s convenient you showing up naked. Here, just step up right here.”  He manhandled me into position and I found that he must have preset the height of the post. The bulb of the massager touched my clit in just the right spot, with the side of the bulb spreading my petals open. For the fun of it, I pushed forward slightly with my hips and heard the clicking noise. It didn’t take much force at all and I found that I could mash the bulb against the post very easily. Worse, it felt good to do it, like I was humping something soft.

Mike wrapped the leather belt around my waist and began buckling it. It felt like hands holding me up.

“Will that keep me from pushing on the massager?” I asked, now feeling a lot more hopeful. Already my pussy was wet and even off, the silicon head rubbing against my clit felt amazing. Sure, my little wanton thrusts were accompanied by a series of clicks as the massager moved through a ten degree arc, but who cared?

“No. The belt just makes sure you can’t get away from the massager,” Mike replied.

I giggled. “Why would I want to get away?” I said with a grin. “It feels amazing. Can’t wait till you turn it on!”

Mike smiled. “Good. I’m glad you like it.” Then he reached down and grabbed the top of the post, where the T branch was located. He lifted it, and then lifted it, and I gasped when it went higher than my head by a good two feet.

“Wow! What’s that for?” I asked, looking up.

“Your wrists,” Mike calmly informed me. He took a step over to one of the benches and plucked a set of padded, leather manacles from the surface and quickly wrapped them around each of my wrists. I let him, not that I could have resisted. The leather belt around my waist was buckled in the back. I could have tried to undo it, but it would have taken me a while. Besides, I was still wriggling my pussy on the massager head, working myself into a steamy heat. I batted my eyelashes at Mike.

“I hope you plan on fucking me hard when we’re done testing this thing,” I said dreamily.

He grinned as he finished wrapping my right wrist. “Oh, I intend too. But you may not be up for it.”

The look I gave him should have caught his shirt on fire it was so hot. “You’d be surprised what I’m up for.”

He smiled. “Oh, I know you’re up for quite a bit,” he assured me, producing a set of D link clips. A moment later the black, leather manacles were clipped to the T at the top of the post, my hands held high above my head. This stretched me out nicely, but didn’t really move my pussy away from the massager. It just meant that now I really couldn’t get myself loose. I was stuck there. No matter what.

“So what happens next?” I said eagerly.

Mike reached down and to my surprise, opened up some sort of panel on the back side of the post. I had trouble seeing what he was doing since it was on the other side of the post. I pushed myself a bit to the right, just to see. That was when my skepticism and concern came back. Two clamps, both connected to the panel via black and red wires, sporting copper contacts at the tips, were in his hands. The wires were the issue, not the clamps. I knew what those wires meant.

“Oh. Oh fuck,” I breathed. “TENS Unit?”

Mike gave me a smile. “Sort of. I cannibalized two of them.”

TENS stands for transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulator and in the simplest terms, it’s a machine that shocks the living crap out of you.

My eyes widened. “Two of them? You mean they’ll shock me at different levels?” That did not sound like fun.

Mike shook his head. “Oh no. These two are on the same line. But I’ve got a set that I can stick on your ass later. Makes you dance.”

That calmed me a little. “Oh. Okay.” I watched with trepidation as he brought the clamps closer and then, with almost cruel fingers, he pinched each of my nipples, deep behind the piercings, leaving me wired to his machine. The clamps felt heavy and in seconds the pain of them clinging to my chest changed to a pulsing throb. “What level are you going to have those set at?” I asked, noticing that my chest was already heaving a bit, the pain making my breaths shorter and more intense.

He shrugged. “Well, that sort of depends on you. The level depends on the position of the massager. All I can do is set the initial level.”

I fidgeted. “And that level will be?” I asked, very concerned. I had no idea which kind of TENS Unit he was using, but generally they came with about ten levels and I could only tolerate levels one through five. Frying my nipples on level six felt sort of like having hot needles shoved directly into my tits.

“Level two,” he said, giving me an evasive sort of look, like he didn’t want me thinking too much about it.

“That doesn’t seem like a smart plan,” I said quickly, thinking through it. “The more I’m turned on, the more electricity I get hit with?” I might have been starting to hyperventilate too.

Mike’s eyes widened. “Oh no! Not at all! In fact, just the opposite.” He bent down and to my surprise, he switched on his machine.

“Wait! I’m not ready!” I exclaimed, pulling hard. But it was to no avail. The massager turned on, sending waves of sweet, oscillating bliss deep into my pussy. “Oh my God,” I whispered. Stretched taut on the post, my hands held high above my head, with my feet close together, I had very little wiggle room. And the leather belt around my waist kept me centered perfectly over the massager. I could go an inch left or right, but that was about it. I found I could go up on tiptoe, but that didn’t spare my pussy, just relieved some of the immediate pressure on my clitoris. In short, it was a diabolical set up.

But my God it felt good. The massager purred between my petals and sent tremors through my nether region. I had my own personal earthquake and I was totally willing to let it lay waste to me.

“Okay, now pull away from the massager as far as you can,” Mike said.

I struggled not to just mash myself forward, the massager felt that good. “What happens when I do?”

Mike smiled. “Prime setting. I’m about to turn it on.”

I pulled back, letting out a little moan. I heard some clicks, five of them. The massager bulb stayed against my pussy, but I could tell that pressure was decidedly less, even though the vibrations could still be felt. “There,” I panted. “I think I’m there.”

Mike patted me on the shoulder. “Yes, you are. Now when the light comes on you can move. Okay? That means the system is ready and charged.” Then, before I could even respond, I heard a beep and then a light started blinking.

“Is that it?” I exclaimed, still careful not to push forward. I didn’t want to get shocked or anything. I was scared to move.

“Indicator light. Don’t worry about it,” Mike replied.

My nipples were throbbing, but only from the pressure of the clamps, not because of any electricity surging through my tits. “When can I move again?” I begged, sensation overwhelming me as the vibrations purred against my sex.

“What? Oh you can move now. Press your pussy to the bulb as hard as you can.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. My hips rotated forward and I pressed myself hard against the massager, letting the soft, velvety caress of its motions warp every perception I had. Sweet sensation bloomed between my legs and I knew that there was no way I was going to be able to handle this level of intensity for very long. It felt so good!

Then I realized that there was another sensation beneath the first, something new and different. And it wasn’t coming from between my legs. Instead, it came from my nipples. I still felt the throbbing bite of the clamps, but underneath there was an even deeper sensation. Like fingers holding my breasts and squeezing gently. I gulped, realizing that the electric current was already flowing through my bosom. What confused me is why it wasn’t hurting.

“You may now cum as much as you want,” Mike said.

That surprised me. “What?” I gasped. I glanced over at him. He was standing with this smug, self-satisfied look on his face, arms crossed over his chest. His boxers sported a massive hard on and while I was absolutely loving the massager’s buzz and the light jolts of electricity, I would have much preferred to be tied down to his bed, giving him satisfaction.

“You may cum as much as you want,” Mike repeated.

“I - I can?” I stammered, thrusting my hips hard against the Hitachi Magic Wand.

“Absolutely,” he said. “Cum. Go for it.”

So I did. With deliberate aggression, I humped the Pressure Fucker, rubbing my pussy over and around the bulb of the massager, gasping and moaning, and basically making a soaking wet fool of myself. Mike leaned against one of his benches and watched as I gyrated on the frame. I jammed my rumbling pussy hard against the Hitachi massager. The electricity chewed at my breasts, but not hard. Not painful. Oh God no. It was soft and sweet - a pulsing throb that emphasized my arousal, enhancing what was going on between my legs dramatically.

“Oh my God!” I whimpered, grinding myself hard against the bulb. “Oh yes. Come on. Oh fuck yes!”

I can only imagine what I looked like, strung up with my hands above my head, nipples clamped, belted to the side of the post, fast fucking the stupid thing manically. I pressed myself, all stretched out, against the post, reveling in the sensation. Orgasm was no longer just a word in my skull. It was a force, hurtling toward me faster than any other I’d ever felt.

I exploded with a longing cry, a body shaking shudder, and a soft, burning sensation between my legs. The heat of the explosion rushed through me and I sagged, my knees buckling. But between my hands being bound above my head, and the belt, my pussy stayed in direct contact with the buzzing bulb. I groaned and pulled my hips back, my clit slightly sensitive. And I heard the switch.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

I went through them fast and as I did the electricity going to my nipples increased a level with each click. I’d been enjoying a soft, squeezing sensation when my pussy was pressed hard against the massager bulb. But as I pulled away, I went immediately to having red hot needles shoved through both nipples.

I let out a choked cry and began to thrash, trying to pull away from the post.

“Push Bre! Push your cunt back up against the massager!” Mike shouted over my wails. His hand came down on my ass and physically forced me back up against the post.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

The surge of pain ebbed and faded and I found myself panting in horror, both nipples throbbing lightly again. I began trembling, violently, as my pussy rubbed against the massager. I was scared to move.

“W-w-what happened?” I blubbered.

Mike licked his lips. “Well, you initialized the electrical current going to your tits with the first full depression. As long as you keep your cunt mashed against the massager bulb, the electricity going to your nipples will be soft and light. If you pull away though, you’re going to get those nips fried.”

“Fried?” I repeated dumbly. “It felt like hot needles going through them!” I half-squealed. Mike shrugged. “Level Seven. What did you expect? We started on two.”

I struggled for a moment. The massager was intense - honestly too intense. I was rubbing hard, twisting my hips and moving the bulb through my slit. Worse, it was making me horny again.

“Mike, please. I’m not sure this is a good idea,” I said rapidly. “I’m going to cum again soon.”

“Damn. What a surprise.” He said sarcastically. Then he shrugged. “That’s sort of the point. The submissive girl who likes to cum get punished for it. So you’ll cum. Over and over. And if you aren’t mashing your cunt against the Hitachi, then you get tortured and punished.”

I stared at him in shocked fright. “That’s … that’s … awful!”

“Ready for the ass tabs now?” He asked, pulling out a pair of sticky stim tabs.

I suddenly yanked my hands hard, but the post didn’t move. But my antics caused me to back away from the massager. Three clicks.

Click. Click. Click.

The pain going through my breasts wasn’t as bad, but it made me swing my hips back forward, pressing my pussy to the massager. “Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh shit!” I whispered, grinding my hips.

“That’s it,” Mike said, watching my vivacious and eager hips, humping and jerking against the Hitachi Magic Wand. “Fuck it baby!”

Then he stuck the adhesive stimtabs on my ass. One pair on each cheek. It didn’t matter to me. Not at that point. I wriggled and wiggled and rubbed my sensitive clit against the massager, scared to pull away, but needing too as the next orgasm barreled down toward me. I felt the wires going around me and then Mike went to the panel on the other side of the post and I heard a snap. Another light came on.

“If you pull away now, you’ll really feel it!” He said with excitement.

Like many girls, I’m multi-orgasmic and under the right circumstances you can keep me going for ten to fifteen minutes, with just these little dips. The very act of cumming is sort of like climbing a mountain. Even getting blown off the top doesn’t always mean starting back at the bottom. So it wasn’t much of a surprise that I was so close to cumming again. At least, not to me. And probably not to Mike.

Now I was hyperventilating. The next orgasm was cresting the top of the hill and I cried out, rubbing myself frantically against the massager, not caring about the noise I made. Cream was dripping from my pussy, soaking the silicon bulb and cascading down my thighs. I went up on tiptoe, trying to fuck the machine tormenting me, my nipples throbbing, but not hurting, in the grip of the electrified clamps. I thought I felt something squeezing my buttocks as well, but the sensation between my legs was too intense, too strong. I threw my head back and cried out, cumming hard.

“That’s it! Cum for me!” Mike crooned.

For me, there are different kinds of orgasm. The simplest, easiest to achieve, and least rewarding, is the kind I can accomplish myself. My fingers rubbing in soft circles over my clit, the thrust of a vibrator or dildo into my slit, legs spread open, one hand pinching a nipple, laid out on the coverlet of my bed. Give me a Michael Alexander novel and I can masturbate over and over, almost non-stop, all day. In fact, I’ve literally done that, experiencing almost twenty orgasms in the space of an eight hour work day. But those are small explosions. And they barely satisfy me.

Which is why I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut. Sure, I could do that all day long, but when certain things are done to me, rather than me doing them to myself, those small, simple orgasms become something else entirely. I start to feel them, a force of nature, huge gulps of satisfaction instead of tiny sips. My body feels the reality of it and despite the fact that I’ve been tortured or tormented in some way, that satisfaction, so much better than my slight, questing fingers, is what I need.

I slumped as my adrenaline levels crashed and the sexual euphoria of a powerful, mind-blowing orgasm made thinking hard. The post must have been weighted at the bottom because it held my weight. I felt a discomforting tingle between my legs, the powerful vibrations of the massager pressed against the over-sensitized nub of my clit, and foolishly, unthinkingly, I pulled away, desperate for relief.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Hot needles were shoved through both tits and I cried out, throwing my head back as the pain ricocheted through my body. Then my ass tightened, not through any choice of my own, but because electricity shot across each butt cheek. Newton’s equation was in full force and as the powerful contraction of my bottom forced me to tighten, it also pushed me forward, pressing my clit, which was still lightly touching the massager by the way, forcefully hard against the Hitachi.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

The pain slowed. Dull, incessant throbbing. Mike’s face. Agony. Want. Vibrations. Wetness.

“Yes. Rub yourself again, Bre.”

I lifted my head, vision blurry. Mike was watching, intrigued. I hung there, struggling as my pussy felt both hot and cold, pain and pleasure. My nipples and bottom pulsed lightly, teasingly, and the specter of another orgasmic event rose.

“Yes. That’s it. Move your hips. Grind your pussy against it. The more times you cum the more this is going to hurt you,” Mike said encouragingly. He stepped closer and I felt his hand on my back. He wasn’t pushing on me, but he was rubbing, caressing me. Comforting me.

“Mike,” I panted, my hips pressed to the post, my pussy mashed hard against the massager, nipples and ass throbbing softly, my nerves afire. “H-h-how many orgasms do I h-h-have to have?” I whimpered.

His eyebrows went up. “How many?” He asked incredulously. “Oh no. You got it wrong, Bre. There is no limit to the number of orgasms you can have on this machine. You can have as many as you can churn out. Cum. Cum lots. Each time you do, your cute, little cunt is going to get more tender, more swollen, and more sensitive. Eventually, every time you’re forced to push your clit against the massager, it will burn and sting until finally you’re wriggling like mad, unable to decide whether you want your pussy or tits to hurt. And the beautiful thing is that the shocks going to your ass will prevent you from straddling the center, three clicks in. Your hips will be jerking back and forth like a piston and it will be like lightning striking your breasts. Repeatedly. So cum. Cum hard.” He patted my rump.

“H-h-how long? How long are you going to leave me here?” I wailed. The massager buzzed caustically against my clit, but the idea of another shock to my tits was enough to keep me mashed against the Hitachi.

Mike looked down at his watch. “Well, you’ve been on it for about fifteen minutes. How about I take you out to lunch? Around twelve-thirty, or one o’clock I suppose.”

My eyes widened and I let out a horrible, gut wrenching groan. “Mike! What fucking time is it?” I demanded, wailing. The clips at my wrists rattled as I yanked on the post, fighting it.

Mike the Hardware Guy grinned. “Bre, it’s not even nine-thirty yet,” he said with a grin, standing up. “I’m going to go get a drink. And maybe a snack.” He gave me a little wave as my hips began moving, again, thrusting and pumping, rubbing my pussy against the massager. “Hang tight, Bre. You’ve got a lot of cumming to do.”


I was barely cognizant of the silence and I hung there, the belt around my waist supporting most of my weight. It dug into my middle painfully, so I’d pulled hard on the bonds holding my wrists above my head. There was a burning sensation between my legs, as if someone had taken a power sander to my clit and done their best to abrade the first two or three layers of skin off my sex. My labia was not in any better condition.

I was covered with a sheen of perspiration, my hair lank and damp, and I groaned as I pressed my forehead to the post. I felt Mike’s hands on the belt, loosening it at the small of my back. It fell away, but the manacles held me up. His fingers fluttered at my breasts and I let out a tiny cry as the clamps came free. My nipples seemed to burn. Lingering pain, beating and fluttering inside me and it was only then that I was able to look up at him, eyes glazed, weak and exhausted.

“Easy Bre,” he said simply, one hand unclipping my bondage cuffs from the post, if not freeing me from my bonds. I fell then, unable or not wanting to stand, and Mike caught me, cradling me to his chest. My world spun and he carried me out of his workshop, directly across the hall. He laid me in his bed, a massive, king sized thing that filled the room. I groaned, whimpering, hurting in too many places to name, but he produced a bowl of warm water and a rag and he began washing me, my arms, my legs, staying away from my breasts and loins.

Slowly I felt myself recovering. The clock on the nightstand read 1:48 and I knew we were well into the afternoon. I felt a sudden surge of hunger and it galvanized me. I looked up at him.

“Bastard. You were supposed to let me off at twelve.” The words came out weak, but clear.

Mike grinned. “At twelve you were a wildcat, bucking like mad between one agony and another, all of it laced with orgasm. It was beautiful.” He shook his head and touched my leg. “Too beautiful to pull you off, that’s for sure. You should have seen yourself Bre. It was amazing.”

“Twelve-thirty? One o’clock?” I demanded, half angry, half resigned.

“Like I said; amazing. You were sobbing, suffering so perfectly. You were jerking back and forth between the pain in your tits and your sore pussy. I’ve never seen anyone languish like that. Even the rare point where you found a balance, the shocks to your ass kept pushing you back toward cumming. Do you know how many times?

I shook my head. I’d lost count somewhere around five or six.

“Nine. You came nine times. And you started to scream when you exploded. Or cry. They were so painful. Do you remember that?”

I nodded. “It felt like my clit was being rubbed with hot irons.”

“And yet you came. Over and over.” He sighed. “It was beautiful.” He grabbed hold of my foot, absently running his thumb across the sole. It felt good and I sighed. A little pleasure.

He took a deep breath. “So I owe you a lunch, but before I we go, there’s just one thing I personally need.” He put a hand on his own groin and I noticed the massive bulge there. I let out a groan.

“Mike,” I said. “I’m exhausted. My pussy hurts. And I feel like I’ve been pulled apart in ways I don’t even understand.”

“Bre, I need it,” he said seriously.

I didn’t reply. I just closed my eyes.

“Breanne Erickson,” he said, his tone going stern. “What are you?”

I cringed. Fuck. I took a deep breath, knowing exactly where this was headed. “I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut, sir.” I replied sullenly.

“And what is your purpose?” He asked.

There was no way to escape it. “To satisfy you sir.”

“In what way?” He demanded.

Duh. “Sexually, sir. In any manner you see fit.”

“And if I want to relieve my needs in your swollen, abraded, perfect little cunt?”

I looked at him, hesitating. I didn’t want Mike fucking me. Oh God no. I couldn’t handle it. Not in the least. Not after nine fucking orgasms and rubbing my pussy against the massager for three and a half goddamned hours. No way. Not a chance in hell.

But, I am what I am. A Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut.

“Fuck me please,” I whispered. And I spread my legs. It was hard. He pushed down his boxers and a massive cock seemed to erupt, full and thick and long. He climbed up on the bed and picked up my legs, bending me in half and holding them aloft as he slid his meat into my warped, swollen, chafed, little hole. I grit my teeth as he pumped.

And yet, finally, I had something inside me. Not against my clit, but inside me. Deep. And the position Mike adopted, holding my legs up against his chest, my bare feet around his ears, meant that his weight and movements weren’t rubbing against my clit. For all his cruelty, the torment on his post, his “Pressure Fucker”, now, when it really, really mattered, he was loving me, kind, and sweet, satisfying himself in a way he knew would minimize my discomfort, yet still use me for the purpose I was intended - as a nympho humiliation pain slut.

I felt loved, warm, sexy and yes - even wet. Mike moaned and soon I was thrusting up against him, my base nature ignoring everything that had already been done to me. Soon he was straddling me. I tugged on him, wrapping my legs around his body, the feel of his cock against my sore pussy even better than the fucking massager. I moaned, wanting it. Needing it. And even as he began to cum, I pressed my breasts against him. His face came down to mine and I heard his words, whispered in my ear.

“After we eat, I’m going to put you back on the Pressure Fucker. Another three hours. Do you think you’ll cum?”

And you know what? It clicked. I cried out, teeth clenched as the tenth orgasm blasted through me, my pussy wrapped tight around Mike’s already softening cock. I sagged, every last bit of energy seeping out through the holes of my body, as I settled against the man holding me. But in the back of my mind, past the euphoria, past the pain, against the warmth, and even through my hunger, I heard something - and wanted it. Wanted it with a passion that I couldn’t even explain. I hugged Mike and above the sound in my head I spoke.

“Yes,” I whispered over the noise.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Breanne Erickson is the author of "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut", one of the most expressive and popular BDSM adventures out there! Check out her books at!


  1. As much as I enjoy your writing, and Mike's description of your happy time, this particular torment screams out for a visual. I'm sure others would enjoy seeing it as well. You should be mounted for a couple of hours in a busy club or at a dinner party Bre, buzzing away in front of an audience.

    I look forward to the invitation.

  2. Bravo! and Holy Fuck. To avoid the temptation of gushing, will only say this; Who could read this and not almost instantly contact their own Mistress (or Master)begging to be blindfolded, gagged, stripped, collared, cuffed, and strung up in front of an audience to be tormented? The trepidation and humiliation going into it is only matched, and beaten, by the sensation driving you out of your mind in a minute or two, and going on for a half-hour or more.
    MyLady made me beg and beg; and I have to earn the 'privilege' of a similar experience.


Thanks for commenting on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog! We love hearing from our fans. Whether it's a critique, a suggestion, or just a plain old "well done!" drop us a line! Or feel free to email us directly! You can find our address at our website! Thanks!