Yesterday morning, it was quick and unsubtle. I was wearing what I'd been told too - the short blue skirt, the one with pleats. It was tad bit too short, just enough that sitting meant pressing bare skin to the leather chair at my desk. The blouse? A pretty, tie-dyed thing, with a plunging V neck, crisscrossed with black bars. It actually covered me better than some of the shirts Kari has given me in the past. Of course I was following NHPS Rule #1 as well - one of Kari's favorites; a vibrating egg toy. Thick, large, and controlled remotely, I felt it start up even before she'd made an appearance. I gasped, stiffening at my desk, my pussy tightening in rhythmic pulses around the now buzzing and buried object.
She glided past the glass to the door, all golds and reds. Her suit was incredible, a dark, wine colored burgundy. Her hair was curled today, like rings of gold, resting on her shoulders. It matched her ears and neck and finger, twenty-four carats glittering. The only other color, besides the pale beauty of her perfect, alabaster skin and the cardinal glistening of her lips, were her piercing, sparkling blue eyes, which locked onto me with a fury of emotion. She opened the door and looked at me trembling in my seat. I gulped.
"Good morning, fuckslut." The words that came from her mouth were sweet, despite the vulgarity of her vocabulary. It was meant to demean me, to remind me of the truth of my existence. I AM a fuckslut, a sexual object, a walking, breathing literal fuck doll whose sole purpose is to provide others with an opportunity to sate their base desires.
"Go to the conference room and strip," she continued, eyeing me hungrily. "Everything but the shoes."
For a second I sat there immobile, just a tad bit surprised, my mind wondering what torment she intended to inflict upon me. Would it be sweet or sour? Would I be forced to lay upon the mahogany table again, my breasts pressed to the spiked, plastic mat, pinpoints of discomfort digging into my bosom as she spanked me? Would I be told to take a seat, legs spread with my knees bent over the arm rests, my exposed sex presented as a target for her sap, my swollen clit and dripping petals hungry for anything she was willing to give? Or was this just a convenient stopping point before she dragged me to the punishment closet and her new favorite toy - the kneeler, a padded bench that served as both restraint and torture device, a wooden ridge jacked up between my legs, the edge digging hard into my sex...
I nodded and rose. I was wearing my black stilettos, not because I liked them, but because she did. I went quietly down the hall, knowing she was behind me, staring at my ass. I turned the corner, passing her office, our little kitchenette, then her art room, turning once more to enter the largest room of our suite. It was a conference room, like most, with white walls, a television mounted on one wall, a small bar, and a massive table. Six leather chairs were positioned around it. But none of this mattered. I stopped, grabbed the bottom of my shirt, and pulled it upward, exposing my breasts. Two piercings went through the nipples, one on each side. They were gold, and because they'd been given to me by the woman who had just come into the room behind me, were also twenty-four carat. But while hers were meant to adorn and bring glitter to beauty, mine were meant to increase my sexual appeal, to demean me. My piercings were those of an object. A slut.
A nympho humiliation pain slut.
Besides the gold hoops, there was also a padlock. A small one to be sure, more of a charm than an actual functioning device. It dangled from my right tit like a tag, the black emblazoned rose over more gold, glittering. It swung with each breath.
I pushed the skirt down over my hips and it fell to the floor. I was bare beneath it, neither panty nor shorts covering my tush. My sex was ripe and slippery and I couldn't help the flood of expectation, of satisfaction, that might be coming. The egg inside me was vibrating too.
Naked, I turned to face her and my eyes caught sight of the two objects she was holding. The first, and most obvious, was a whip. It was black, and made of wood and leather, with a narrow handle and about twenty, thick straps. A flogger. Between her fingers was also a clothespin, a wooden one.
"Spread your legs wide apart," Kari said, her face dark and wonderful. "And put your hands behind your head."
I took a deep, shuddering breath. I lifted my hands, my lips pressed together in a fine line. She brought the clothespin up to my breast, pinching it open. I sucked in a gasp as she positioned it over the hot tip of my bosom, but then only let it close for half a second, just enough to send a shard of pain through me, before opening it, lifting it, and bringing it over to my padlocked nipple. Again, she teased me, rubbing my now raised nub higher. She let the clothespin pinch it, lightly, momentarily. Then she removed it. My eyes widened as I understood, her hand moving downward, between my breasts, over my belly. She pressed it into my navel, then drew it down my tummy, over my mound, until she held it, still open and ready to bite, over my clit.
I swallowed in anticipation and she did not disappoint. The wooden maw closed hard, crushing the most sensitive and delicate spot on my body. Pain pushed up through my arousal and want, making me grimace.
But while Kari Anders is a sadist, I am her foil. Yin to her yang. I am a masochist and sexualized pain explodes within me, sending me into ecstatic loops of satisfaction. The clothespin hurt, but the vibrating egg added its own impetus to the mix, and my poor brain couldn't properly sort the signals. In seconds I was panting, yes - because it hurt - but also because now, more than ever, I wanted to cum. I needed to cum. I had to cum. I whimpered softly, letting her know.
She stepped back from me, on my right, and raised the flogger. With my fingers interlaced behind my head, I braced myself. She swung the whip, not too hard, nor too soft. The leather slashed the air and stopped upon impact, flattening against my soft, curved breasts, pressing into them. I grit my teeth, a stinging sensation crossing from one nipple to the other and before that feeling had turned to warmth, she struck me again.
The rest of this tale is no longer available on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog, but can be found in Breanne's book "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 18" which is available in e-book format from Amazon.com!
