Sunday, July 30, 2017

Punishment's Folly - Part Three

(This is Part Three of Punishment's Folly, which means that if you haven't read the other two parts, you might be a little lost. So let me provide a map. Click here to read Part One. Click here to read Part Two.  - Breanne)

I made it to my desk only to see Jose, our day porter, lingering in the atrium outside. He grinned at me, his pert little mustache wiggling, and he lifted both of his hands to his chest, as if he were cupping a set of imaginary tits, and hefted the invisible globes up and down.

I took a deep breath, my nipples throbbing, and I sat down. Inside me, the Rotating Venus Penis was going full blast and the only reason I wasn’t already a Rice Crispy Treat was that I’d already snapped, crackled, and popped just a few minutes earlier. The hell with the arousal Kari had whipped up with her fingers. I was sore, tender, wasted, and somewhat sensitive.

The last little bit was my downfall.

When I was a teenager, I remember burying my face between Kari’s outstretched legs, my tongue dancing across her clitoris, sucking every last little bit of cum juice out of the girl I called both best friend and lover. She was a darling seventeen years old and I was spending the night, her mother totally unaware that it wasn’t boys she had to worry about her daughter inviting over, but the hot and scrumptious, little, red-headed cowgirl from two miles down the road.

Kari had spent the evening tormenting me - rubbing my pussy, licking me herself, tickling me, fisting me, and working me through multiple orgasms, my naked body outstretched on her bed, one foot stuck through a tiny opening in the metal frame of her foot board, my hands tied above my head with a silk robe belt. Eventually it had been too much for her. She’d become too aroused and I’d suddenly found myself in a reversed position, my own mouth tormenting my tormentor. I licked and sucked and felt her shudder above me, trembling with the soft, sapphic violence.

She lasted three minutes.

I remember clinging to her, trying to continue my ministrations, just like she did to me, all the time. Except she fought me, far beyond that of a girl just wanting peace. She went nuts. She pushed me. She hit me. She ended up curled into a ball, hands between her legs, too tender to even function.

Kari is a one orgasm at a time woman. She’ll go a week, sometimes two, without cumming. Me? Hell, give me the occasional bathroom break, some time to sleep, and twenty seconds between cocks and I’m good to go. Except - I still get sore. And sensitive. Just like every other woman. Where I go a little psycho is how I react to it. I’m at the opposite end of the spectrum from Kari, who curls up and turns away. Instead I accept the raw, abrasive sensation. I embrace it. It hurts, just a little. And as long as it is sexualized, that sensitivity feeds my obsession. I become aroused, even more. I want it to hurt. I want it to feel good. I want to cum. I want… I want… I want…

I sat at my desk and suffered mind-numbing torment for forty-seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds. Then I could no longer stand it and my body screamed for release. The RVP spun inside me and shook against my pussy and I grit my teeth, shaking hard, nipples pulsing with pain, as I stumbled down the hall toward Kari’s office. I exploded standing up, fluids splattering my legs as I braced myself against her door, my knuckles jammed between my teeth, like bubble wrap under a toddler’s little shoes.

I sagged as exhaustion overwhelmed me and as the RVP controller slipped from my fingers, Kari caught it in her hand, turning off the vibrations. The four-inch-long probe slowed and stopped and I found myself in her arms, head on her shoulder, trembling violently.

Her voice was soothing. “There, there,” she whispered in my ear. “I know you couldn’t. It was impossible. Especially for a girl like you.”

My voice seemed broken. “I tried,” I whimpered.

She ran her hand over my head and down my back. “Ssshhhh. Yes. I know.” Then she held me, rocking me back and forth until I calmed down. When I finally seemed a bit more stable, she pulled back a bit and gave ma sweet look. “Are you okay now?” She asked seriously.

I nodded.

She smiled. “Then go to the conference room. Take off everything but the clothespins, and lie down on the table.” Her hand slid across my bare side in a delicate caress. “I’m going to go lock the door.”

I swallowed, but nodded. I pulled away from her and went down the hall. In the conference room I pulled off my peasant blouse for the first time that day, tossing it in one of the chairs. Then I slid out of the skirt. I figured Kari meant shoes too, so I slipped out of the high heels as well. Naked, except for the two dangling clothespins wiggling on my nipples, I pushed myself up on the table, laid back, and waited.

Kari came back, arms loaded. Four sets of bondage cuffs were laid on the table next to my bare hip. Then two pieces of rope, each about five feet in length, were dropped across my loins. Kari placed a ruler, a new one, this one long and sporting holes, across my stomach. She picked up the first cuff.

“You know,” she said roughly. “There are times when I wonder if we push you to hard.”

“What?” I replied. “Kari, you know I…”

She reached up, grabbed a clothespin and twisted. My sentence faltered and I let out a little squeal. Kari leaned over and smiled. “This isn’t a conversation. Just listen,” she said softly. I nodded violently and she let the clothespin go.


“What I’m trying to say is that all of us, me, Julie, the other mistresses of the Society, Zack, Nick, Mike the Hardware Guy, Alex, even your fans, have expectations.” She said as she buckled the ankle cuffs around each leg. Her fingers felt light and delicate on my skin.

“We make an effort, go out of our way even, to make sure that everything we ask of you, initially, is just barely too much for you to handle. And then from there, we make it impossible for you to do anything but cope with the suffering.” Her fingers tied one of the pieces of rope to my right ankle cuff and she crossed to the other side of the table. She dipped down, grabbed the hemp line, and then threaded it through my other ankle cuff. I had no choice but to spread my legs to the edges of my makeshift bed, groaning as my thighs rippled. Kari tied it off, leaving my lower half wide open and vulnerable.

“Take today for example. Your task was simple. Endure the RVP on low for a thirty minutes. You’ve done that before. I know you have. So does Julie,” Kari said as she came around to the top end of the table. She took my wrist and began buckling the next cuff on. “So what did we do? We timed it, so that you’d be confronted with the punishment immediately after a week of no orgasms. Your TOTM, as you like to call it,” she said, finishing my right wrist and going to the next. “And worse, Julie tormented you yesterday evening. I heard about it. Again, no orgasms.” She finished with the buckled and began tying on the rope. “So what happened? You come in here so hot and bothered that not even having the RVP on low will keep you from popping. We set you up. Deliberately. Just so we could do the next round.”

“Kari,” I began again. “I don’t mi…”

Her hand lashed out and slapped me. Not across the face, but across the breast. The clothespin hanging on my left nipple was catapulted across the room and I let out a rather shrill squeak.

“Please be quiet,” Kari admonished me. She tossed the rope under the table and crossed back to the first wrist, only to bend down, grab the rope, and pull. My arms went wide, finishing the spread-eagled position Kari intended. My breast and nipple still stung.

Kari tied off the rope beneath me. “The next round of punishment was double though. You had to have the RVP on medium, which I knew you couldn’t handle. Not for an entire hour. Even after just cumming, that much stimulation would just bring you right back to me for another punishment.” She closed her eyes and I watched as she began unzipping her dress. “Do you have any idea what slapping that ruler against your clit did to me?” She asked roughly. I swallowed, not sure if it was a rhetorical question or not. I didn’t want her to slap the other clothespin off.

“I wanted to tear your apart,” she admitted, slipping out of the dress. She was wearing matching bra and panties, all colored a deep, royal blue. Her full breasts looked magnificent and I licked my lips, not sure of what was about to happen.

“I wanted to pleasure you, and hurt you. I wanted to hear you scream in both utter, mindless, orgasm, and in acute pain. I wanted to see looks of anguish on your face, your cute, little feet kicking wildly.” She undid her bra and I felt a rush of hunger - the sexual kind. I really, really, really wanted to bury my face between her breasts.

She pushed down her panties next. She was clean shaven except for a thin, dark line - a landing strip some call it. Her petals were glistening and her clit was visible. Her eyes smoldered with need. “I wanted to do awful things to your clit. I wanted to beat it into paste. I wanted it bruised and swollen and hurting.””

Then Kari climbed up on the table. Her fingers picked up the ruler, the one with holes. Her knees came down on either side of my breasts, her shins pressing against my arms. It didn’t hurt, but wasn’t comfortable. My vision was filled with her sex, wet and dripping. She lowered herself down slowly, carefully and I couldn’t help myself. I stuck my tongue out and lifted my head, desperate to reach her. She bent over, her pussy still above my face, just out of reach.

“Breanne, I want to hurt you,” Kari whispered.

I didn’t care about being quiet. I wanted the taste of her in my mouth. “Then hurt me,” I said.

The ruler with the holes snapped down in what I swear was the hardest stroke I’d received that day. It didn’t sting. It burned. It didn’t warm up, it lit me on fire. It felt like lightning had struck me between the legs, electrifying me. Every muscle went rigid. My back arched. My mouth opened and as I let out a cry of agony, Kari dropped down, mashing her pussy against my face.

It muffled my cry and juices exploded into my mouth. Salty and tangy and sweet and perfect, Kari ground herself into me, one hand supporting her weight, the other whacking at my unprotected sex, the plastic ruler smashing my folds and clit in a flushed mess of pain and pleasure. My hips pumped wildly, but Kari’s aim was true. The sensation of the plastic blistering hot against my clit filled my brain, but it was mixed with other things, things I didn’t comprehend. Why? Why the fuck did it feel good?

I jammed my tongue up in Kari’s pussy, sucking and licking, but with my arms tied, I couldn’t get a good grip on her. I wanted to wrap my arms around her legs and pull her down on me. I wanted to chew my way through her clit. I found it and licked at it hungrily, angrily, desperate and the beating just continued, like a heartbeat, or running over those goddamned “turtle” reflectors in the middle of the road. Fire and ice and salt and my heart pounding in my ears, it all swirled through me and in me and out of me and I screamed, my voice lost in the timeless depths of my mistress’ sex.

And then, then Kari came.

It was a quiet thing. A shudder. No more. I couldn’t even tell except that she tore herself from me, twisting to the side, away from my mouth. I strained to reach her, tongue out, an animal in heat, but she stayed just out of reach, panting. Her pussy was a perfect pink, her clit swollen and extended. I knew she was sensitive. But I didn’t care. I laid my head down as she carefully got down off the table, making sure not to gouge me with her high heels.
I watched as she carefully picked up the RVP, lying on one of the chairs, and she went to my side with it.

“Kari?” I said. “What…”

“Ssshhhhh,” she said softly, pushing the four-inch-long cock into me. I whimpered as she forced me to lift up, strapping the toy on. Then she found the controller and turned it to low.

“Kari,’ I said, panting. “Please…”

She laughed softly. “I know, princess. I know.” She bent down and kissed me on the lips, tasting her own flavor. “I know.” she put a hand on my breast, kneading and caressing me. The buzzing between my legs, the soft churning. Oh my God.

“I’ll be back in a bit. I’m going to get cleaned up,” she said softly. Then she winked. “In the meantime, I have just one command for you to follow,” she said.

My chest was already heaving and my hips rolling. “What?” I whimpered.

Kari straightened up, commanding, regal, powerful, dominant. “Don’t cum. Or it will be ten strokes…”

My mouth went dry and my pussy tightened around the RVP.

“To each tit,” she finished. “See you in a thirty minutes.” She gave me a little wave and walked out of the conference room, leaving me bound naked and alone, the RVP churning and rippling between my legs. I let out a shuddering, trembling sigh.

Torment or punishment? I wasn’t sure any more. Or was it that I didn’t care?

I closed my eyes, struggling against the growing pressure inside me, the unbelievable need, the sweet, pleasure of hedonistic delight. Thirty minutes? Of this?

It may have been punishment. It may have been torment.

But I knew for certain that it was definitely one thing: my folly. 

Breanne Erickson is the author of the BDSM Confessional Erotica series "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut. With over twenty novel-length works, Breanne is best known as the “goddess of dark erotica” a moniker bestowed upon her by Afterdark Online. Her witty repartee, honest narrative, and self-deprecating humor makes each “tale” seem like an entry into her personal diary, the ins and outs of a girl who can’t ever seem to get enough when it comes to sex. A prolific blogger on Michael Alexander’s BDSM Blog, Breanne continues to charm both men and women and serves as the prime example of what a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut can be when she puts her heart and soul into achieving her goals. Breanne's novels are available from, where we hope you will express your appreciation of her writing by buying and reviewing and even spreading the word about this amazing young lady!

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