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!