A NHPS Christmas

There is something special about Christmas. I’ve always enjoyed this time of year; the lights and decorations, candles and scents, eggnog and hot chocolate, the wrapped presents and the look of joy on a friend’s face as they open up a gift. The music… oh yes. The music. For me it’s Christina Perri crooning out “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” or listening to the Piano Guys play “Carol of the Bells”. Kenny Rogers’ “Mary Did You Know” and Luka Bloom’s “Ciara”. Add in Pentatonix’s version of “Hallelujah” and Jim Brickman’s “We Three Kings.” These are the songs that envelope me at this time of year.

And they were all playing in the background, a perfect soundtrack to the goings on. I know. I was the one who put the music together.

Kari’s condo had been trashed during Hurricane Harvey, requiring some impressive repairs after everything below three and a half feet had become waterlogged. Most of the furniture and the bottom third of every wall had needed to be thrown away, but a woman like Kari takes advantage of events of this nature. Gone was the red and gold of her younger years and earliest design, to be replaced by charcoals and grays, steel and blues. All in all, it was a very different look and by that Christmas Eve, the painting had been finished, the carpet laid, new furniture brought in, and the decorating done.

In one corner of the living room stood the Christmas Tree, synthetic of course, but modeled after a blue spruce that seemed to match the decor of the room with almost uncanny accuracy. The decorations were all silver, a designer tree, which admittedly looked beautiful, though I felt it was too perfect. My own tree is a mishmash of color and personalized ornaments, given to me and my daughter over the years. Kari had only a few such ornamental knickknacks, (all of them given to her by me), and hung on the backside where they wouldn’t destroy “the look”, but I didn’t mind. There was something about the perfect proportions of her tree. The silver ornaments, the white and blue lights, the luster of it. It was Kari. Beautiful. Cold. Perfect.

Candles flames glittered everywhere, and across the room a fire flickered on the hearth. The scent of spiced cider permeated the room, cloves and cinnamon dancing on our tongues. A plate full of cookies, which I’d carefully selected at the cookie bar from the upscale grocery Kari liked,  sat near the tree, along with a glittering glass of brandy. There were no children in this home, so it was presumed Santa would prefer something a little more adult. Presents were stacked under the tree, waiting.

Along with something else.

A quiet, but passionate gasp came from Alissa. She was lying on her back, splayed out on top of the large but low ottoman, which had been pulled out to the very center of the rug, close enough to the tree for the lights to glitter across her well-oiled skin. She wore absolutely nothing, which was perfect, because kneeling beside her was Sara, her lesbian mistress, who pressed a soft headed massager against Alissa’s sex with one hand. While the submissive girl was naked, Mistress Sara wore a short, black negligee that left nothing to the imagination. Her full bosom was impressive, the large pink nipples straining against the black lace. The only other redhead beside me in the Society, her auburn locks fell to her shoulders, framing her chin with scarlet. The pale skin of her thighs, as well as the wet pink of her slit, were in full view and I knew she was just as aroused as Alissa. The bound girl moaned again, straining, but Alissa’s ankles were tied with soft, nylon rope, so she had no choice but to accept the caress, her hips rolling as waves of pleasure swirled upward through her body.

With her other hand, Sara lifted the guttering candle, tipping it over Alissa’s chest. Crimson paraffin fell, striking the young woman’s left breast, splattering only a little, eliciting a sharp cry. Red was the worst candle color to use on someone, since the red dye required a hotter melting temperature, than say a white candle. Alissa’s back arched as she pressed herself upward, teeth clenched tightly, and Sara merely moved the candle, targeting the uncovered bits of Alissa’s bosom. Wax fell on Alissa’s right nipple, coating the small, gold padlock that was clipped to the piercing. The girl let out a gurgling moan of ecstasy as her body failed to cope with the dichotomy of sensation. Was she in pain? Or was it pleasure? Sara set down the candle, moved the massager down to press against Alissa’s bottom, and pressed her face between the girl’s thighs, licking and sucking Alissa’s clit.

A few feet away, another girl, just as naked as Alissa, lay upon the carpet, face up, her legs spread wide, knees up. She was thin, with a pixie cut, that was fluffed out around her head. One hand cupped her right breast, pinching and squeezing her nipple, where a charm-sized padlock danced due to her fingers. The other hand was between her legs, frantically pumping a thick, rubber dildo in and out of her rose colored slit. Her skin was oiled as well, and her name was Kylie. Above her sat a luscious blonde, dressed in an electric blue shift, holding a black riding crop. The blonde dominatrix’s eyes glittered as she smiled down at Kylie, flicking the leather head against the girl’s left breast, teasing the nipple, only to drag it down her ribs, across her belly, and down to Kylie’s sex. Kylie was panting, working the thick rubber frantically.

“Move your hand for a moment, darling.”

Kylie’s eyes betrayed her desperation, but she did it, pulling the dildo out of her pussy. The crop flickered lightly, then with heat. Kylie gasped, her bottom coming up off the floor as Mistress Savannah flicked the crop across her clit, back and forth with light, but solid strokes. Her thighs rippled with tension until her bottom was a full six inches off the carpet. Savannah grinned and landed a solid, biting blow, making Kylie yelp and grimace. Then the crop lifted and the girl went back to pumping the dildo in and out through her freshly abused pussy. The soft, wet, slippery sounds of it going in and out seemed to combine with George Winston’s “Carol of the Bells” perfectly.

A guttural, more masculine groan came from the couch. Kari herself sat there, a queen among her court. Her golden hair spilled down to her shoulders and she wore a black, leather catsuit that emphasized, rather than concealed her more prurient features. Across her lap lay her husband Robert, naked, face up, his poor cock sticking up like a mast. It was red and purple, a leather harness wrapped around the base and his scrotum. His crotch glistened, his cock covered in the same oil that covered Kylie and Alissa. Kari was watching Sara pour more wax on Alissa with hungry eyes, but at the same time her hand worked the straining shaft of her husband. Not to satisfy him. Oh no. She knew him better than that. She kept him on edge, never quite allowing him to reach climax. He shuddered, another ragged gasp coming from his lips. It was a cruel, but exquisite torment.

Lastly, a thin stick of a woman sat on one side of the loveseat. She had started the evening wearing a set of black, leather panties and breast strap, but the bottoms had been lost already, leaving her bony hips and dark, pink, bare gash showing. Her legs were partly spread, one hand idly rubbing at her own sex, as the fingers of her other hand flicked the clothespin attached to my clitoris. I was lying much the same way Robert was with Kari, except my right leg was raised, positioned over the back of the loveseat, my black strap stiletto waving in the air on the other side of Julie’s head. My left leg was down on the floor and my ass was in her lap. My hands were bound with rope above my head, and my breasts sported at least half a dozen, wiggling, jiggling, wooden pegs. I trembled as Julie tormented me, working me into a froth as the clothespin on my clit was twisted, pulled, and turned.

Julie checked her watch. “Five minutes,” she announced, looking across the room at Sara. The redhead domme lifted her mouth from Alissa’s pussy and grinned. Sara’s eyes glittered like diamonds and her chin was soaked.

“She’ll be done,” she said, lifting the scarlet candle again. Alissa shuddered and then tightened up when she saw what Sara intended. The candle was poised above her sex and the hot, melted paraffin fell. It splattered as it struck, sending out a flurry of little bits, leaving an intriguing pattern radiating out from Alissa’s cooking clit. The girl cried out, lifting her pubis to the heat, as Sara coated the entire area with a thin layer.

Julie ran a finger up and down my labia, teasing me, as I watched Alissa’s suffering.

Sara stood and went to the coffee table. There, positioned in well lined rows, were a number of different instruments. She selected a thin, whippy switch, tested it once, and then brought it back to Alissa. My mouth opened in longing as Sara brought down the branch, tracing a sharp, narrow line across both of poor Alissa’s breasts. I was so distracted by the vision, that when Julie flicked the clothespins clinging to my own nipples, the pain came as a surprise.

But for Alissa, the agony was just beginning. Sara brought the stick back down, wax shattering, striking firmly, if not cruelly, at the tips of Alissa’s breasts. The girl began to wail, shaking, her legs jittering from tension. Sara flicked the last of the wax away and I could see the light welts forming already. Then the mistress moved so that she was straddling Alissa’s head. I watched as Sara squatted down, pressing her own wet slit to Amanda’s face. No words were needed. No commands. No encouragement. The second Sara’s pussy was close enough, Alissa was licking and sucking, trying to get as much of her mistress as she could. Then the switch fell again, this time on the thin layer of melt covering Alissa’s covered cunt. The wax broke and the girl went nuts again, even screaming into Sara’s pussy, her muffled cries of pain seemingly distant. Sara whipped her with at least a dozen strokes, and the second the wax was clear of Alissa’s sex, the mistress stood, grabbed the massager again, and then resumed her position over Alissa’s mouth, this time pressing and holding the soft tipped wand, buzzing against Alissa’s petals.

Within seconds I watched as Alissa’s overloaded. She achieved her climax. A look of grim satisfaction crossed Sara’s face and she pressed her pussy hard against Alissa’s mouth, until both of them found satisfaction. Then Sara sighed in happiness, slid off to the side, but with more than enough energy to keep her hand between Alissa’s legs, clearly trying to over stimulate her.

“Sara,” Kari said softly, almost as a warning.

Sara sighed and nodded, then pulled the massager away from her submissive. “You’ve earned your present, Alissa.” The woman got up on her knees, turned toward the Christmas Tree, and pulled out a small, exquisitely wrapped box. She set it on Alissa’s stomach, and then began untying the petite, brown haired girl. Alissa, still dazed with sex, a smile etched across her face, sat up the moment her hands were released, and with legs still obscenely spread, she grabbed the box and tore into it.

“I hope it hurts, Mistress.” She said it was affection and a light in her eyes.

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!