Splattered

“What could you possibly want to show me out here?” I shouted over the downpour. Heavy raindrops didn’t just fall from the sky, they poured, as if the heavens had opened up and every fucking angle was sobbing their heart out. I walked barefoot next to him, already soaked from my bare little feet up to my waist, which wasn’t a good thing considering all that I was wearing was a simple, white, summer dress. The water had turned it opaque from my belly button down and the only saving grace was the fact that no one else was braving a fucking hurricane like the two of us.

Idiots.

We were halfway out into the middle of the park meadow behind Julie’s apartment complex, something of a mix between sports field and open green area. It also happened to be about two feet below the level of the complex itself, which was good, because it was rapidly filling up. I followed along, totally bewildered, stepping carefully as my bare feet splashed down into the sodden field.

Mike had selected something a little more appropriate for a torrential downpour than my own attire. Of course, he’d known where we were going. Sports sandals graced both feet and he had actually put on a pair of swim trunks. I moved closer to him, just a little chilled, trying to stay under both Mike’s hulking mass, as well as the umbrella. He wrapped one arm around me, but that really didn’t mean much. It was a hurricane for God’s sake! The cut grass tickled my toes as we headed for the one possible bit of shelter in the middle of the meadow - a somewhat stunted, live oak that seemed to have shrunk under the torrential rain.

Oddly, there wasn’t a terrible amount of wind, just lots and lots of water. Hurricane Harvey had sort of petered out after striking the central coast of Texas, dropping from a Category 4 hurricane to an abysmal Category 1, even before turning toward Houston. And while it had brought about a zillion buckets of the Gulf of Mexico with it, all which Harvey intended to dump on South Texas, that Saturday morning, the winds weren’t anything more than blustery. We’d survived two or three major rainbands.

Of course, Mike was holding onto the umbrella with both hands, so what the fuck do I know?

We sloshed through ankle deep water, which is par for the course in Houston during this kind of weather and after another minute of skin soaking splatter, we made it to the relative shelter of the tree. Mike looked up, made a frowny face and then closed the umbrella.

“Your fans,” he shouted at me, “sometimes suck!”

I blinked. I hadn’t been told anything. What the hell was he talking about? Then I remembered the tweets. One in particular.

“You mean we’re out here because of me?” I demanded. Rain poured down off the top of my head, taking my red locks into my eyes. I wiped a hand across my face, rain flinging off my fingers. My vision stayed clear for about half a second. Then more rain hit me.

“Yeah!” Mike yelled. “Strip!”

“What? Are you fucking nuts?” I shouted back at him. “In a hurricane?”

He nodded. Then he reached behind his back and lifted his shirt. Tucked into the waistband was one of Julie’s rubber floggers, a skein of nylon rope, and a short hafted crop.

“You mean you dragged me out here, in a hurricane, to strip me naked, tie me to a tree, and whip me?” I demanded, stamping my foot. “They were joking!” The splash hit him, but he didn’t notice. He was soaked to the skin, just like I was.

In fact, stripping wouldn’t have been a problem anyway, because my dress was literally stuck to my flesh like paint and what once had been white cotton was now skin colored tissue, showing every curve, freckle, and pink circle I had.

“Yep!” He shouted, grinning at me. “So strip!” He gestured at my dress, while untying the rope.

“I am not going to let you whip me in a hurricane!” I spluttered, a bit in outrage, but more from the fact that my mouth was filling with water. “This is insane!”

Mike dropped the crop, and the flogger and gave me a look as he unraveled the rope. “Do I have to take your dress off myself?”

I stuck my tongue out at him. “I’d like to see you try!” I shouted back at him through the storm.

The rope fell from his hands and before I could move, he grabbed the front of my dress. I cried out in alarm as he simply tore it, shredding the front straight down from collar to hem, leaving my bare skin exposed. I wasn’t wearing a bra or panties and my pink slit was soaked with not just water. My nipple stood out, chilled and wet, and I gasped, eyes wide as he reached back to tear the rest off me.

“Hey!” I yelled, angry now. “That was mine!”

“I’ll buy you a new one. Strip or I’ll spank you too!”

Furious, I tore the ruined dress off and threw it to the ground. In seconds it disappeared, soaking up the rain and mud and sinking. “You realize I now have absolutely nothing to wear back to the apartment?” I yelled at him.

Mike shrugged. “You should have thought of that before arguing with me!”

I spluttered again.

He bent down and picked up the rope. “Wrists!” he hollered. I rolled my eyes but obediently held out my wrists, mostly to prevent getting spanked or something, crossing them in front of him. He looped the rope and in less than a minute both of my hands had been tied, tightly too. He tossed the other end of the rope upward and managed to get it over a tree branch just above his head. He pulled and I squawked as I was pulled up on tiptoe, arms pointed upward, the maelstrom lashing my body with water. He tied the excess off on the trunk. I whimpered as Mike found the flogger, the bright pink tips easy to see.

“Count the strokes!” He shouted, and before I could respond, he swung the flogger at my breasts, catching them both perfectly. I gasped, which was stupid, because I immediately choked on all the precipitation that went right into my mouth. I choked and swung away from him, only to feel my toes drag through the water as I was brought back. He hit me again, same spot, and with more than enough force that the stinging sensation of the multi-headed flogger was easily discernible against the backdrop of rain.

It took him five strikes before the sting managed to successfully turn into heat and I had learned a new way to scream - through clenched teeth and partially drawn back lips. The plus was that I was no longer drowning. My nipples, both hardened from the wind and cold rain, began to warm up, but Mike couldn’t tell. Instead he swung again, and then again, working against the rain, whipping my tits.

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!

Oil Slick

When I opened the door leading into the atrium, the blast of cold air felt good upon my skin. It was early, too early actually, and the building was still quiet, drifting out of the sleepy emptiness of night. The other office on the ground floor was dark, as was the small lobby belonging to the interior design firm that catered to the ultra elite and idiotically rich of the city's wealthier denizens.

The decor for the atrium looked like it was stuck in the 1980’s, though I admit that I really liked it. The tile was dark, a rich brown color that looked like glazed pottery. Cut through the center, from one corner to the other, was a faux riverbed, complete with tropical plants, a real, flowing creek with actual water, some goldfish, and a small, wooden bridge that was more ornamental than functional. After all, you could have hopped over the creek itself.

I moved easily through the atrium, toward the interior design firm tucked away into the back right hand corner. My purse was slung over my right shoulder, while a brown sack with rope handles dangled heavily from my left hand. The slapping sound of my flip flops striking the bottoms of my feet seemed to echo through the chamber, just barely louder than the babbling of the tiny brook.

I looked around, surprised that I was unobserved. I was ridiculously early, but for the first time in quite awhile, Jose, our day porter, didn’t happen to be loitering around to watch me come into work. I wondered if I had beaten him in, an uneasy feeling starting in my stomach. I reached the door of Kari’s offices, bent down to unlock it, and was then scared out of my wits when Jose appeared out of nowhere, grinning down at me, cooing at me in his sing song voice.

“Breaaaaannneeee! Look you!!” He sang, gesturing down at me with wild and unbelieving eyes. He gestured at my clothes again, a look of astonishment on his face and I let out a relieved chuckle. I knew what he was trying to imply. I was dressed. Or at least nothing sexual was hanging out. I finished unlocking the door and stood up, giving him a smile. I crooked a finger.

“Necesito tu ayuda,” I said softly, glancing around, giving him a little eyebrow wiggle that clearly meant “follow me and have something tasty.” No one else was in the atrium. I watched as Jose’s eyes widened with excitement and he bobbed his head eagerly. This wasn’t the first time I’d been alone with the man so there weren’t any questions asked, in English or Spanish. I opened the door and gestured for him to go in and he did. He stepped to the side the moment he got into the lobby, and I grabbed his hand and pulled him in deeper. I didn’t bother locking the door back up. No one would come in until Kari arrived an hour later, and that left me with plenty of time to abuse Jose’s good nature.

I didn’t turn on the lights and instead pulled Jose down the hall and to the right. It wasn’t until we got to the conference room that I snapped a switch and let the white luminescence bathe me. Jose stopped and waited, a hungry look on his face and I didn’t want to disappoint him. I slipped off my shoes as I set the paper sack down on the conference table. Then I turned toward him, our eyes meeting, and I unbuttoned the white blouse.

When you aren’t wearing a bra, breasts have a tendency to flop out when released from the tight cotton weft of a shirt. I’m a C cup, which translates into two “grapefruit” sized melons on my chest. My nipples, both of them pierced with gold hoops, danced in front of Jose’s face, and the little padlock which dangled from my right tit wiggled enticingly as each breath just made me look all that much more desireable. I shrugged out of the shirt and tossed it to the side where it hung on one of Kari’s leather conference room chairs.

Jose didn’t say a word as my thumbs went down to the shorts. I unbuttoned them quickly, pushing them down at the same time, and the fact that I wasn’t wearing panties either only turned the heat up. Naked, I kicked off the clothing. Jose stared, still unmoving, waiting for me. So I reached into the bag, pulled out the anal beads and bottle of baby oil. And since I was already facing the right way, toward the table, I laid my top half down on the table and stuck my ass out.

Some things do not need words. Much less translation.

Jose was a practical man and he needed no urging or explanation. He grabbed the anal beads and bottle of oil. The beads themselves were black and there were eight of them, starting with one the size of a marble and getting bigger until the very last one would feel like a walnut had been shoved in my butt. Worse, and I’m not sure if Jose knew this, but they vibrated. There was a black cord leading to a controller with an overpowered battery.

I heard the snap of the bottle cap and I closed my eyes as cool, wet drops began falling on my tailbone, right above the crack of my ass. Jose didn’t go easy on the oil either. I reached back for him, grabbing my butt cheeks and pulling them open even as I spread my legs. I’m sure the gaping wetness of my pussy, which was uncharacteristically empty at that particular moment, was undoubtedly inviting, but Jose is not a man who takes. He’s a man who gives. And right at that moment, he knew that what I needed was my ass filled.

And preferably well lubricated.

He used his finger, which drove me absolutely nuts, because he basically gave me the hand massage equivalent of a rimjob, gently caressing my anus with his finger. I groaned, quivering like mad. Jose slipped a digit into my ass, just up to the first knuckle and I gasped, eyes widening. It wasn’t supposed to feel good. But it did. I shook my head, trying to grasp the reality I found myself in. Getting turned on by anal play isn’t really my thing.

Jose fucked my ass with his fingers and I struggled not to clamp down or tighten up. He did this for almost thirty seconds, then twisted his hand and pushed his thumb into my pussy. He sat down in a chair behind me and, ignoring the beads, began using his other hand to rub my clit. I trembled violently, waves of sweet, exquisite bliss shooting up from between my legs and I couldn’t help it. The pressure became too great and I found myself crying out in rapture, the heat and pleasure of his gentle, but thorough ministrations took me to the cliff and tossed me over the edge.

He didn’t pull his fingers out of me until I sighed in relief, sagging onto the table, my breasts mashed outward as the euphoria of climax left me blissfully sublime. Jose let out a chuckle as I hummed. Then he pulled his fingers out of me, wiped them on a towel he pulled from his back pocket, and grabbed the anal beads.

I’d let out a disappointed groan when he’d pulled his hand out of me, but that sound disappeared when I felt the first silicon covered bead get pressed against the brown button of my bottom. It went in easily, though Jose applied a little more oil and pressed the second sphere up against my sphincter. The third bead got pushed in next, then the fourth. I moaned as my bottom took more and more of the round balls until finally the last bead was a constant pressure against my bottom. I felt too full, my bottom achingly stuffed, but Jose managed to get the last, walnut size object into my ass. I looked back at him and nodded, eyes bright.

“Ahora, por favor. Úsame.” I reached over to the bag and tipped it over. A number of things spilled out - the alligator clamps (three of them), my vibroballs, and a box of condoms. I grabbed the prophylactics and handed one to Jose who took it with a grin. He knew what I was doing; granting permission. He applied it himself right after I heard the zipper of his pants. Then, with exquisite grace and accuracy, he pressed himself against my bottom and I felt his long, thick cock slide deep into my pussy.

Yessssssssss.

There is something right about getting fucked by a man. Don’t get me wrong - I’m bi-sexual and I can have a sweet, steamy time with any girl. But men come naturally with the right equipment. There’s no buckles or straps. They feel amazing inside me, and while I can understand the psychological reasons some women become homosexual, being able to have the best of both worlds means a lot to me. I wasn’t planning on marrying Jose. In fact, I think he is married. But clearly our relationship was a physical one only. I was using him. In fact, I wasn’t done using him.

Jose worked himself into a tizzy in relatively short order, though I admit if he’d managed to hold off for another minute or two, I’d have been joining him on the “I just had a fucking oragasm” porch. Instead, with me quivering in renewed excitement, he stiffened, hardened, trembled, and popped, squirting a cumload of cream into the tip of the condom. He sighed in relief, pulling out slowly, his cock softening.

I groaned too, straightening up as my pussy complained about the sudden emptiness. I turned to face him, being careful of the anal beads and the wire and controller. I faced him with a grin. Then I grabbed the bottle of oil and held it out, even as I gestured with my other hand at my chest.

“¿Por favor? ¿En todos lados?” I asked him meekly. “Lots of it.”

His eyes brightened and he nodded. He stood up and tucked away his sausage, straightening his pants easily. Then he took the bottle and poured a small amount of baby oil on my sternum, right between my breasts.

“Mas’ I said as he brought a hand up, catching the trickling oil and spreading it over my breast.

His eyes widened and I nodded. “More please,” I said, this time in English. Jose tipped more and caught it again in his free hand, letting go of my bosom. He set the bottle down, but I grabbed it. Our eyes met and I nodded smiling. I poured more oil right onto my left tit and he had no choice but to bring his hand up, catching the over flow, and begin spreading it around.

In seconds my breasts glistened, as did Jose’s hands, and I poured a bit more baby oil onto my chest, high up by the hollow of my throat. Jose took the hint and left my boobs, oiling my chest, a look of concern on his face as I kept putting on more oil.

“Lower please?” I asked him, then said, “Bajo?”

Jose glanced up at me sharply, but then nodded, dropping to one knee, even as I poured another trickle into my cleavage. This time it slid downward, through my slick breasts, over my tummy and into my belly button. Jose caught it, spreading it around, rubbing it into my skin until I turned shiny. And I poured more. He had no choice but to move lower and I tilted my hips, pushing my sweet pussy out for his hand.

“Me piernas, tambien, por favor,” I whispered. Jose nodded and I poured oil onto my right thigh. His hands touched me everywhere and my skin glistened as if I’d just been glazed. It felt so good and he moved down to my foot.

“Todo,” I said, arching my foot. I felt his fingers on my sole, then slipping across the top and down to my toes.

“Le otro pierna?” I asked. He switched as I poured the oil and rubbed my other leg.

Then it was time for the other side of me. As he looked up I turned around, sticking my ass right into his face. I put a hand on the table to brace myself and literally upended the bottle onto my back. Jose quickly rose.

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” He said, his “t’s” dropping. “Un momento!” He grabbed the bottle from me and set it down, his hands slipping and then going to my skin. He spread the film across my shoulders and down my arms, then rubbed my spine. Eventually he got to my bottom and he poured more oil into his hand.

“Mas, por favor,” I said. “I have to glisten.”

“Glisten?” He asked.

I thought hard, straining my Spanish. “Resplandescer?” I asked.

He gave me a confused look. “Brillante?”

Jose shook his head. Then his eyes brightened. “Con brillo?”

“Shiny,” I repeated, pointing at my arm where the oil was thick. He nodded, grabbed the bottle again, and put more oil on me. I could feel it dripping down my back and along my legs.

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!

the word about this amazing young lady!

The Check

I checked the time on my phone and stood up, smoothing down the material of the dress. My black strap stilettos, the ones with six inch heels, didn’t make a sound on the carpeted hallway as I walked down to see Kari. As I expected, she wasn’t in her office, so I took the ninety degree turn, passed the door to the small kitchenette, glanced to the left, and found my golden haired goddess hard at work in her art room.

To a casual observer, one would think that Kari’s art room is a chaotic mess of materials. As an interior designer, Kari possessed one of the more impressive collections of samples in existence. She had binders full of photography, books full of 2x2 carpet squares, stone samples in little plastic pockets, and stacks of miniature wood shingles. And that was just a short list. For art supplies the woman was stocked. Markers, pencils, pens, ink, hell - she had crayons. But despite the seemingly haphazard collection, I knew that each item had a very specific place - the consequence of an ordered mind.

And perhaps some obsessive compulsive behavior too.

Kari’s long golden hair was tucked back behind her ears along with a teal colored pencil. Far sighted, Kari had started wearing glasses to do the close up work and when I gave a soft knock on the open door frame, she looked up forgetfully, the spectacles making her eyes look like one of those Japanese anime characters.

Or bug-eyed. Depending on how gracious I was being.

I smiled. “Hey. Gotta go. First of the month,” I reminded her.

She eyed my outfit with a wry smile. “Yeah. I could tell when I walked in this morning.” She sighed and waved a marker at me. “Okay. No worries. I can hold the fort.”

I laughed. “You are the fort,” I reminded her. “I’m just the guard at the gate.”

“Dressed like that?” She asked mischievously. I glanced down. Sure, the little black dress wasn’t exactly meant for office work. No administrative assistant, receptionist, or secretary would dare show up at the office wearing it. Too short at the hem, my rear end was in constant danger of being exposed, and with the top tied to my neck and only barely flaring out to cover my ample breasts, my bosom was in constant threat of literally falling out of the material. There was no back except for a four-inch-wide lace strip that went from the collar to my tailbone, most of which was exposed. But hey, the dress had been cheap. Just five bucks from Fabshopper. Who could complain?

I smiled. “I might remind you that some of the ‘outfits’ you’ve purchased for me to wear at work have literally been more risque and obscene than this one.”

Kari smiled and shrugged. “What can I say? I like to see your naked body?”

I laughed, stepped into the room, rounded her desk, and kissed her on the top of the head. “You’re cute. Gotta go,” I said. Kari gave me a little wave and I swished my sweet, little ass out of her art space, letting my best friend forever, lover, mistress, and employer get back to work.

A few minutes later I was in my silver Saturn sedan, heading just a few blocks north. That late in the morning there was little to no traffic, and I wasn’t getting on any of the major thoroughfares anyway. Fifteen minutes of relaxed driving found me pulling up into a small industrial area. The warehouse I was looking for was small, meant for a business with just a few employees, but it suited our purposes just fine. And by “our,” I meant “The Society of the Golden Rose”, not Kari and me.

Several years before Kari had been inducted into a rather elite social group. To join, you had to first be invited. Second, you had to be female, though being a lesbian was not specifically required. Third, you had to already have in your possession, a submissive female who you were willing to share. Lastly, you pretty much had to be rich. The membership costs were steep - and I’m not talking like HOA dues. Think “expensive car”. In full, each year. And by expensive car I mean a current, brand new Corvette, not a Camaro.

The warehouse was actually a conglomeration of them. Five in all, with ours being the second from the street. There was a large, steel garage door, positioned four feet up from the parking lot, as well as a set of concrete steps leading to a glass entryway. I pulled into the lot. It wasn’t empty. Two of the other sections were occupied by functioning businesses, but I didn’t see anyone, and the space in front of the Society’s door was empty. That suited me just fine. Getting ogled while walking through the lot always made me quiver a bit. At heart I’m a sexual coward and conservative. My dress was overly risque and I’d have much preferred to be wearing a pair of blue jeans, a tee shirt, and and even a nice cowboy hat and boots. It’s not that I believed that a girl wearing a slutty, black cocktail dress was asking for it, but why advertise the goods if you aren’t for sale?

Yes. I know. Feminists are screaming at me in fury. How can I, an acknowledged and certified Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut, say such a thing? No. I’m not saying that wearing provocative clothing, or even walking around nude, should deserve being molested or worse. Never. But let me ask you this - if you don’t want a toddler to eat the cookies, why would you leave them out where they can see them?

See? It’s just common sense.

I closed the door of the car, my purse slung over my shoulder. As I walked toward the door, I felt the smooth, soft, rolling sensation of my ben wa balls, a pair of golf-ball sized spheres, connected by twine, that were right at that moment, buried deep in my sex. As I said, I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut and rule number one is that if I couldn’t have actual cock inside me at all times, something else had to take its place. Ostensibly the rule was designed to keep me wet and ready for sex at the drop of a hat (or pants.) But personally, I’m of the opinion that it’s really just meant to humiliate me - keeping a particular thought fresh in a submissive girl’s mind.

I’m a sex object, meant to be fucked and used.

Don’t get me wrong - I’m also a person. A lovely, wonderful person. At least I hope I am. My entire life does not revolve around me spreading my legs. Just most of it. And because I’m a little messed up psychologically (I have proof. I have a doctor’s file that says I am totally fucked up in the head,) I happen to like the fact that sexual arousal tends to color my worldview. While one little part of me was screaming in horror that I was dressed like an escort on the way to a job, wanting me to hide, run, and possibly buy a burqa (which yes, would be going way too far,) the other part of me relished my deviant, prurient, provocative, hyper-sexualism.

And I might, possibly, probably, be addicted to orgasm.

I stepped carefully across the hot, asphalt parking lot and climbed the stairs, my hands going to my rear to keep the hem from bouncing too far up and flashing the goodies. No one was really around to see, but it was habit, especially since I wasn’t wearing any panties. No bra either, in case you’re keeping score or something. It would have seriously clashed with the dress. I adjusted my top, just to keep my breasts from falling out, and looked around. No one. Perfect.

I tilted forward and used my thumb to type in the code. We’d had the lock changed for an expensive lock that required only knowledge to enter. I heard the latch click, straightened up, tucked a boob back into the dress, cognizant of the fact that I’d just had a major nipple slip, and hurried into the dark lobby. Welcome to the meeting rooms of the Society of the Golden Rose.

The lobby itself was about the size of Kari’s closet. The one in her condo, not the punishment closet in her office. Or if you want to be more realistic, the lobby was about the size of my apartment bedroom, which says a lot about either Kari’s clothes collection or my small living quarters. Back in the Society’s lobby, a small wooden desk sat in one corner, while two old, leather chairs were positioned opposite. There was some art on the walls, but it was non-descript, just some metal, sculpture type pieces that Kari had hung when we got the place, to add some flare. A ficus tree stood near the glass door. I wasn’t sure if it was fake or not. I’d never watered it and it was still green.

A hallway led off toward the main floor and the light from outside didn’t penetrate very far. I passed the door to the restrooms. We had two of them, and then I glanced into the kitchen. Dark. I kept going and the industrial carpet suddenly changed in texture and thickness into something thick, heavy, and padded. My heels sank down considerably, though there was at least no shag. It would have sucked to catch a spike on a carpet loop and take a tumble!

The idea, of course, was to make it easier on the submissives, who weren’t expected to be walking on the carpet, even in ridiculous shoes. We were expected to be kneeling on it. Or flat on our backs, legs spread, waiting for whatever torment, punishment, or pleasure the nearest mistress felt like inflicting upon us. I’d spent some quality hours on that carpet.

A divider wall, three quarters of the way back, had been partially pulled across the space and the only reason I could see it was because a single light had been left on. I didn’t know if it was on an emergency circuit, or deliberate, but it illuminated the divider enough that I could see it. Behind the wall was where we stored all of the medieval torture devices we owned, each custom made, of high quality materials, each designed for some aspect of sexual deviance generally shunned by the common populace unless featured in some “shades of gray” movie or novel. None of them were out though, leaving most of the meeting room empty, save for the scattered setees, couches, and other seating areas, pushed to the sides, meant for mistresses and their submissives to socialize. If that’s what you want to call it.

But the light from above did illuminate one thing. Someone had left a bondage mattress out. Merely a full sized mattress with a waterproof cover and a fitted sheet, special holes had been cut in the bedclothes, leaving room for the four, black straps sewn directly to the mattress itself. I’m sure you can picture it. Imagine a pristine, white bed, and at each corner, black bondage straps, which were attached too … you guessed it! Bondage cuffs! Leather ones. It sort of came as a package deal.

I frowned. Criminy. I hate it when people don’t clean up after themselves! I mean, really! No doubt Mistress Savannah had dragged Kylie in here, tied her down and ravished her. Or maybe it was Mistress Isobel, the current matron of the society, electing to give her little French maid submissive Madeline a lesson in manners and a rubber baguette. Or hell, it could have be Margaret, bringing her pet girl Lisa in… except… that was actually unlikely. Lisa took “fucked up” way beyond anything I do. She lives like a dog. As a dog. She actually barks.

It’s disturbing.

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!

A Quick Punishment

“Alright, Bre. Head down to the punishment closet and strip,” Kari said as she opened the door to the office and let me in. We’d spent the morning working. Or more accurately, I’d spent the morning writing, while Kari had done her thing back in her art room. Except, I knew what was coming the moment we got back.

I gave her a hesitant look, but bit my lip, not to mention the retort. Kari hadn’t mandated the punishment after all, and it had been my own stupid fault for messing up Julie’s email. One stupid little dot. I took a deep breath and nodded. There wasn’t much to say. When your mistress says “go to the punishment closet and strip,” you head to the punishment closet and strip. Except, maybe not quite in that order.

It was a long walk, especially for a girl wearing six inch heels, but I plodded along. All during lunch I’d been dreading the return and now it was time. My fingers plucked at the bottom of my blouse, a white, mostly see through thing that left most of the lacey details of my bra quite visible despite being beneath the material. I unbuttoned the shirt, shrugging it off and letting it fall in the hall. That might have been a bit naughty, what with Kari’s OCD, knowing she was going to clean it up and that I’d eventually find my entire outfit, folded neatly, waiting for me on the conference room table. Still, it felt right and I let my skirt drop next, stepping out of it with unusual grace.

That left me treading down the hall in lingerie and my fingers swept backward, finding the small clasp and undoing it, freeing both breasts from the crimson bondage of the bra. It dropped, a trickle of ruby on the beige floor. I made it to the last door on the hall. Originally a barely used supply closet, on my first day, Kari had made me empty it. All to make room for the installation of something I considered an atrocity:

The punishment frame.

It had been designed and built by Mike the Hardware Guy and utilized two hydraulic foot pumps, cannibalized from a pair of old salon chairs and plenty of metal. Black painted steel, chains, leather, and bondage cuffs made for an intriguing piece of art, but as the one and only person to have ever been secured to “the punishment frame,” I could argue a slightly different perspective. It wasn’t a punishment frame at all. It was just a convenient place to hang me while other things, including people, punished me.

I pushed my panties down and caught the massive, twelve inch long “Core Driller” dildo. I’d had it in all day and the crotch of my underwear was stretched from having to bear the brunt of my convulsing pussy trying to incessantly push the dildo out. I set the Core Driller aside on one of the little shelves inside the punishment closet and without further ado, began buckling on the pair of wrist cuffs Kari kept there.

It wasn’t hard. Neither was turning my back to the post and hooking the simple steel loops to the hooks. Now I had no recourse. The only way I was getting off the punishment frame was if Kari came in and freed the snaps. I was hanging from my wrists, toes just barely touching the floor, metal touching the backs of each thigh. I felt the two, padded, posts that stuck out at an angle and I spread my legs so that the double barreled cock-like protrusion thrust out from between my thighs. That gave me a better stance, since I could now put my feet straight down, but it looked obscene.

Kari appeared in the doorway.

“Ah, all trussed up I see!” She said brightly. She stepped into the closet and thrust a foot toward the base of the punishment frame. The metal bar she touched creaked and I heard the hiss. The overhead crossbar holding my wrists went up and a moment later I wasn’t touching the ground anymore. Then she switched to the second pedal and began pumping that one too. The two poles sticking out from between my thighs began moving, outward as the case may be, forcing my legs open. With every pump of her foot, I was widened and at one point I slipped, the poles going into the crease behind each knee. Now with my pussy on full display, totally vulnerable and exposed, Kari stepped back and got to work.

“So how did Julie know that I’d be willing to do this to you?” Kari asked, picking up the first of the TENS Unit clamps and holding it up to my left nipple.

I snorted, at least until the clamp closed tightly, sending a shock of discomfort through my breast. “It’s you,” I hissed, wincing at the pain. It was a smartass answer, and Kari hummed a little, picking up the next clamp and she held it up, right over my right nipple.

“What if I’d been busy?” She asked, closing the clamp. Matching pain shot up through my right breast now and I groaned, trembling as she feathered the wires, running them down to the small device sitting on the nearby shelf. She plugged in a third clamp.

“She had an alternative punishment,” I gasped as Kari’s fingers found my clit. She pinched it, then set the clamp in place. I let out a tiny cry as she let go and I trembled, my body stretched open, toes pointing through my black stilettoes, pussy red, dripping, and clamped. Red and black wires ran everywhere and Kari stepped back to appreciate the view.

I hung there, panting.

“Oh yes! The vibrating egg,” she said. “It’s in my office. Be back in a moment.” She turned and left, but then hesitated. Her hand shot out to the TENS Unit, which, if you are unfamiliar with the device, stands for Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulator, or as I like to think of it - the FBNC Machine. Which stands for “fry Breanne’s nipples and clit.” Kari’s deft fingers twisted the first knob, moving it around in a clockwise circle. I watched with increasing panic as she moved it past one, then past two, and left it on level three.

My right nipple suddenly felt like Kari had pinched it, hard, followed by a cruel twist to the right. Then the sensation stopped. I sucked in a breath as Kari’s hand moved to the second dial, twisting it much like the first, but even as my left breast started to feel similar stimulation, my right nipple convulsed again, once more enduring the harsh pinch of non-existent fingers. Great. She’d set the FBNC Machine to “pulse.”

Kari’s hand moved to the third dial and that’s when things got tough. The third clamp went to my clitoris and I whimpered, straining against both the wrist bonds and the poles holding my legs spread. Kari spun the dial to the number four and once more, a sensation of crushing pressure seemed to catch hold of that most sensitive spot, leaving me breathless.

“If you’ll just hang here, I’ll be right back,” Kari assured me.

“Ah!” I gasped, “Ha. Ha. Very funny,” I blowed, wheezing as the electrical current did a nice job of simulating what it would feel like to have my clit caught between someone’s questing fingers, twisting and pulling hard.

Kari waved, a teasing smile on her face, and disappeared, leaving me to whimper, shudder, and suffer, still hanging naked in the punishment closet. She came back just a minute later, a egg-shaped and sized object in her hand.

“Are you wet enough?” She asked me, pressing the narrower, tapered end of the toy against my folds.

I almost laughed, except I was wincing. “That’s a funny question,” I gasped through clenched teeth. The pulses of electricity were not easy to deal with and they hurt. But then Kari pushed and the sensation of being opened, of having my pussy filled, was beyond perfect. I shuddered as the egg slipped in fully, wetly, and with disturbing ease. It was like I was meant to be stuffed. Kari licked her thumb clean of my juices.

“There now,” she said, pulling out a small, wireless controller. “And…”

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!