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!