Wednesday, August 2, 2017

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.

I let out a frustrated breath and that’s when the hand clamped itself across my mouth. I tried to gasp in surprise, but an arm wrapped itself around my torso, pulling me off my feet and against the body of my attacker. I kicked my legs, but struck only air. A second shadow loomed up out of the darkness. There were two of them. With hard fingers, the second man grabbed my legs, tucking them both up under one arm. I tried to scream, but even if I had, the walls were sound proof. The Society had paid for that. What would be the point of having meeting rooms where you could literally tie a girl up and whip her repeatedly to the point of screaming, if the police were just going to show up a few minutes later?

I was hauled toward the light, or more appropriately, the bondage mattress. I wriggled, fighting it, but my attackers were much, much stronger than me. A moment later I was thrown down, which knocked some of the wind out of me. My dress was pulled to the side, both breasts exposed, the hem up around my waist. All I could see of the two men were dark silhouettes. The light came from above. The one who had covered my mouth grabbed my wrist and pinned it with his knee, only to take my other hand and force it up to the corner of the bed. At the same time, I kicked out with my foot, and I heard a grunt from the other man. I think I got him in the thigh. My leg was roughly pushed aside, my other calf trapped under a knee. Then both my ankles and wrists were forced into the bondage cuffs, strapped and buckled in.

And that pretty much was it.

I writhed on the mattress,  yanking hard on the bondage cuffs holding me open and down. No longer worried about flailing limbs, rough hands began groping me, coming up between my legs, kneading my breasts and pinching my nipples hard. A few well placed smacks to each boob left me breathless. I yelled. I yanked. I flailed. I tried to bite. Then the larger of the two men, the one who had secured my wrists, reached down to my chest, grabbed the front of my dress and pulled.

“Please!” I cried out. “Not the dress!” But it was too late. I heard the tearing noise. The flimsy material shredded, parting at the collar leaving me with a sexy, black choker and a strip of lace hanging from the back of my neck. He rolled up the torn material and then roughly tied the remnants of my dress over my eyes.

I do not like blindfolds.

A heavy hand slapped my breasts, back and forth and I grimaced. Fingers pried up between my legs and I felt the tiny loop of twine going to my ben wa balls tugged on. The toy was pulled from my sex and tossed aside. I could hear it ring lightly as it rolled onto the carpet.

“Damn,” someone said, obviously impressed. A hand cupped my sex and two fingers were roughly pushed in. My pussy tightened on them. “She’s soaked. Guess she likes it.”

I felt a flurry of emotions. Embarrassment, anger, arousal. I pulled on my bonds but went absolutely nowhere. Freaking bondage cuffs.

I heard a zipper and a moment later a cock was stuffed into my mouth. “I wouldn’t bite, if I were you,” I was warned. “Considering you have nowhere to go, you hurt me and my partner will destroy you.”

To be honest, I hadn’t even considered it from that perspective, but I couldn’t argue the logic. I opened my mouth and began sucking, eagerly and with all the prodigious skill I could muster. But while this was going on, my other attacker had been doing his own preparations. Granted, I couldn’t see, but when the man I was sucking on spoke, I realized that the bondage mattress wasn’t the only thing these men had gotten ready for use.

“Now. Do it. Just like I told you.”

And with that came a hard, stinging slap to my pussy, aimed at my clit, but blistering its way down my labia. I gasped around the cock, my hips lifting, thrusting hard, and a second blow landed, mashing my sodden swamp downward.

“Again. Faster. I told you, she likes it!” The man I was sucking on said eagerly. “See? Look at her hips pump!”

The leather sap began falling faster and in seconds I was crooning, my entire body trembling. Fluids seemed to gush from my pussy and my brain, always the true danger, once again demonstrated its lack of differential. My clit was screaming “Ow, ow, oww, owwww!” and my brain was misinterpreting it as “Oh yes! Yes! Yes! Fuck me baby!”

Like I said, “messed up.”

“She’s ready. Do it!” I heard a paper tearing sound.

The pressure on the mattress changed and a rigid, hard cock slid into my beaten pussy. I gasped, loving the sensation of it, the need of it, and more weight fell on me, pressing my hips down. The two men fucked me, one in the mouth, one between my legs, and there was nothing I could do but serve as a receptacle; a willing, wanton one. I sucked on him hard, listening to him groan.

The man between my legs moaned and his breathing became labored. I felt the stiffness of his cock, thick steel driving into me. He pumped hard and then I felt the flutter, the familiar sensation of pulsing cum, thick white cream pumped into the rubber reservoir of the condom. He gasped and sighed, relief palpable in his breath. Then he rolled off me.

The cock in my mouth wasted no time and I felt the movement. I heard a tear of paper and realized another condom was being applied. Then the leather sap slapped into my cunt again, two, three, four times, wetting and stinging me, before the man who’d first clamped his hand over my mouth mounted me, driving his shaft deep into my body.

I surged. Two screws, under awful circumstances. I couldn’t handle it. My body arced and the pressure built as he fucked me hard, pounding away, beating into my sex with force and fury. My toes curled. I cried out. And then, arching my entire body, I exploded just a second before him, voicing my climax with a shouted “Oh my God! I’m cumming!” The remnants of my dress, a makeshift blindfold, slipped from my head. I blinked, trying to see.

The aftermath of sex is never pretty. It’s messy. It’s anti-climactic. Literally. And when you’re bound to a mattress, ravished and helpless, even some of my usual antics don’t make a whit of difference.

The two men left me lying there, walking off together. I heard soft voices, not enough to identify either one. Then laughter. A tone of regret maybe? Then one man headed for the lobby, while the other came back toward me. I heard the glass door open and close, leaving me alone with just one scoundrel.

He reached down and undid the bondage cuffs on my ankles. I didn’t kick him. If he was going to release me, why stop him there, when my wrists were still bound? Sure enough, he came higher and in seconds my left hand was free. He leaned over me, his shirt grazing my bare breasts, only to quickly unbuckle my right hand. Then he got close, his face near mine, his smile huge.

“That was fucking amazing. As usual, Bre.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thank you, Bart. Who was your friend?” I asked, sitting up.

Bart chuckled and sat down next to me on the mattress. “Just a buddy. He knew it was a set-up. Consensual of course, but it’s a fantasy, you know? You were exquisite by the way.” He put a hand on my bare hip and I quivered as his finger caressed me.

“Thank you,” I said. “Where’s my purse?”

He reached out and snagged it, bringing it over to me. I unsnapped it and pulled out a crisp, white, envelope. I held it out and he took it.

“Most of my tenants pay electronically,” he said wistfully. “I definitely prefer your method,” he said with a laugh. He took a deep breath and then stood up. I realized he was still naked from the waist down. He picked up his pants.

“Hey,” I said softly. “Do you have to go? I mean, here we are, alone. With all these sexual torture devices back here,” I said, gesturing toward the divider wall. “I could show you how to use them on me.”

Bart stopped, his jeans halfway up his legs. He seriously considered my offer, but then shook his head. “Maybe next month, Bre. I just came and it will be hours before I’m charged again. I’m getting old. You do realize I’m like twenty years older than you, right? You’re what? Twenty-five or so?”

I shrugged. I’m older than that, but why ruin his fantasy. “I could get you hard again,” I assured him, a wicked smile on my face. And maybe I sort of posed for him. You know, a leg up, knee bent, my wet pussy gaping open.

Bart laughed. “Yes. I know you could. But I do have other responsibilities to attend to. And other rent checks to collect.” He waved the envelope. “It’s the first of the month.”

I sighed in disappointment and climbed to my feet. I picked up the leather sap and carried it over to the small cupboard we stored such things.

“Need help with the mattress?” Bart asked. I shook my head.

“Nah, we’ll take care of it before the next meeting, presuming someone doesn’t use it between now and then.”

Bart sighed. “I’d love to come to one of those meetings,” he said wistfully.

I laughed. “Sorry. Got to be female,” I replied. We started walking toward the front of the warehouse.

“Yeah. I know. But to be a fly on the wall!” He said wistfully. Then he shook his head. “Still, I appreciate the time you give me,” he said honestly. “Oh! By the way, loved the last book! It was great! You are totally insane. You know?”

I laughed. “I appreciate that. Maybe you’ll be in the next one.”

“Really? Hope you change my name,” he said wryly.

I nodded. We passed the kitchen. Then the bathrooms. In the little lobby we stopped. I fished my keys out of my purse and held them out to him. “Favor?” I asked. “In my car, in the front seat, is a paper bag. It’s got a replacement dress in it. Would you mind?”

He took the keys and looked at me. “I’d think that a nympho humiliation pain slut like you would have no problem waltzing out to your car buck naked to get that dress.”

I stared at him. He laughed and rolled his eyes. “Oh… alright. The things I do for a fuck!” He headed out the door into the bright sunlight.

The door shut and I watched him go to my car and I couldn’t help it. “Yeah,” I said to myself. “The things I do for a fuck.”


“You’re back!” Kari exclaimed. “And in time for lunch! Perfect!” She stood up, putting her pencil carefully back into the single canister she used to hold them. I stood at the door, arms crossed, my slutty, little, black dress barely containing my breasts. The hem was too high, almost showing my ben wa balls stuffed pussy, and the black material matched my stilettoes perfectly. The four inch wide strip of lace running from my neck to my ass was the only bit covering my back.

“Any problems getting Bart the rent money for the meeting rooms?” Kari asked as we stepped into the hall and headed toward the office door. I shook my head.

“Nope. Easy as usual. The guy is a professional,” I assured her. “I handed him the check and off he went. Never said a thing.”

Kari smiled. “Pretty dress. Why won’t you let me get you something nicer though?” She asked as we got into the atrium. “That one is so cheap. It looks like it could get ripped right off your body.”

I laughed, eyes a little wild. “No,” I said. “That’s okay. I like this dress. It’s cheap, but irreplaceable,” I assured my mistress.

She shrugged. “Well, since you only wear it once a month. Bart must think you’re a tease.” She turned and led the way, her high heels clicking on the ceramic floor.

I paused, just long enough.

“Oh, he does,” I muttered under my breath. “He certainly does.”

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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