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!”

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!


  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.


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