Wednesday, February 21, 2018

I Need You

“Breanne! I need you!”

My head snapped up from my computer at her words. It wasn’t a cry for help. No, the tone wasn’t right. It sounded relaxed, as if Kari merely needed me to render judgement on her latest design, or comment on the color of a particular textile. It didn’t sound sexual either. There was no lust or seduction in her plea, merely a simple command.

I need you.

Carefully I stood up. This was partly because I’d been hunched behind my open laptop computer in a desperate, but ultimately useless attempt to conceal my attire from anyone walking through the building’s atrium. My desk was positioned in the small lobby of Kari’s interior design firm, just a few short feet from her office door, but in full view of the building’s central core. A glass wall separated me from the other denizens of the office complex and I’d become something of a well known commodity at the building; the personal assistant who looked and dressed like the star of Secretary Sluts III.

Kari had bought the latest outfit, a gauze mesh blouse that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. My bare breasts were completely visible through the material, leaving only a black haze to mute the whiteness of my skin, or the dark pink tips of my breasts. If you looked closely enough, you could see the fading welts of a caning I’d received a week before.

The skirt wasn’t much better. Kari had eschewed the tight, Spandex like minis she usually liked to dress me in, and instead had purchased a black, pleated number that barely covered my ass while standing and did nothing of the sort while sitting. This left me in quite the state since the front of my desk lacked a solid partition to keep passersby from getting a glimpse of my thighs. And since Kari’s defacto rule was that I should never let my knees touch, my only remedy was keeping my stuffed slit in shadow.

And stuffed it was, which was why I rose carefully.

The feel of the well-oiled, rubber dildo almost made me swoon, but that’s the kind of girl I am. Thick, nine inches long, and buried deep in my sex, the “toy of the day” neither vibrated or corkscrewed, instead spurring me toward desires of bouncing delight. Constantly wet and wanting, do you have any idea what it’s like, sitting there at a desk, knowing that people are walking by to see your body, your sexual antics, all while you’re torn between the desire to run and hide and to give in and just bounce your way to orgasm?

It’s torture.

My knees touched as I stood, wrapping one arm across my bosom. There was no help for it. The dildo would have slid out, falling wetly to the carpeted floor. I blushed, just thinking about such a thing. The atrium was empty, but the thought of being seen mortified me. With small steps, I hurried down the hall, my feet encased in six inch stilettos, and looked into Kari’s office.

It was empty.

The dildo seemed to move inside me, wriggling as I took a few more steps and glanced into the kitchenette. The coffee machine was quiet and my boss was nowhere to be found. I looked to my left, into her art room. Her drawing desk was empty, her pens and papers and texture books all set in place, ordered and quiet. I gulped. There were just two more doors; the conference room and the punishment closet. A fifty - fifty chance. Not that it made a difference. Kari could punish me in either room.

She had done it before.

With more hesitation, wondering if I were about to be forced onto the kneeler, a thick angled rod pressing up into my pussy, strapped down so she could beat out her frustrations on my breasts, bottom, and feet, I caught the scent of cinnamon. I love the flavor, the taste of cinnamon and I followed it to the conference room, where Kari stood, waiting patiently.

She was blonde, tall, gorgeous, and queenly. Her very poise screamed confidence and her sparkling blue eyes took me in, burrowing into my soul, exposing once more, the dark secret inside me. I am a masochist, a sexual hedonist, a quivering soul whose body is addicted to the rush of orgasm, to the chemical imbalance of arousal. I’m damaged, psychologically, both hating and loving the inflicted torments, the sexual abuses, the constant forced cumming. Each climax, in my mind, is a game, enhanced by the humiliation, the discomfort, the bawdry usage of my body. And I am Kari’s toy.

Dressed in scarlet, she stood next to the mahogany table, the leather chairs along the near side pushed away toward the wall. My eyes darted to a flicker of light, an open flame, the source of the cinnamon musk. It was a thick pillar candle and I smelled the flavor of candied red hots.

“You needed me?” I asked meekly.

Kari nodded, businesslike and brisk. “Yes please,” she said, gesturing me closer. “Come here.”

I waddled over, my pussy quivering around the rubber shaft. God… I wanted to sit down and masturbate. Or better yet, beg her to do it to me.

“Stand here,” she said, pointing right near the edge of the table. I did, looking at her expectantly. What did she need me for? She lifted a hand and set it on my chest, between my breasts, and pushed.

I had nowhere to go, my ass the fulcrum. I tipped back with a gasp, falling backward as I was forced up onto the mahogany surface. I felt the smooth wood against the back of my legs and then she was pushing me across the table, centering me. I shot a glance at the candle, worried about catching the gauze of my blouse on fire, but it was far enough away. Kari was watching out for me.

“Um... “ I stammered as her hands came up to my throat. Her long fingers, tipped with blue sparkling nails, found the first button of the shirt and unfastened it. “So… um… what did you need me for?” I asked, excited and terrified. Was she going to use me? Was I going to get to cum at last? My body quivered with tension, my pussy throttling the dildo. It threatened to slip out and I squeezed my thighs even tighter together.

Kari worked her way down my torso in silence, unbuttoning my shirt and baring my already visible breasts. She smiled as she parted the blouse and cupped my bosom. Her fingers tweaked my pierced nipples, playing with the gold rings and even the small, charm-sized padlock that dangled down from the right breast. I moaned with pleasure, shaking with need. Oh yes. Oh god yes!

For several long seconds I wondered what she’d do next. Would she bring her mouth down upon my flesh, leaving hot, wet kisses? Would she slip her hand between my legs, prying my thighs open to take the dildo in hand, thrusting it in and with slow, torturous thrusts? Would she tease my clit with her nail until I cried out, squirming in desperation?

She picked up the candle.

I wasn’t expecting it. Under normal circumstances, Kari would have oiled my skin before allowing the hot wax to fall. It adds resiliency to the flesh, and makes removal easy. And red wax, especially scented, is not a good choice for sexual play. The crimson colored dye changes the melting temperature, raising it so that in order to liquify, the paraffin must be hot, hotter than any other color. Add in the cinnamon scent? You could literally burn someone.

She held the candle several feet above me and my eyes widened. I gasped in alarm as she tipped it, and a splash of scorching fury fell from the burning candle down to my right breast. Her aim, as in all things, was perfect, striking the very center of my nipple, coating the raised tip perfectly. Lines of melt splashed outward, radiating down the slopes. I let out a choked scream, the pain of it rushing through my chest, the heat of it searing my soul. My pussy tightened around the rubber dildo, trying to crush it. My fingers balled into fists and all I could do was fight the urge to roll away, to curl up. My chest heaved, panted breaths fighting to escape my lungs, and one, then two, then three hot spots struck my sternum. I opened my eyes, not even realizing that I’d closed them, just in time to see her pour again, this time aiming for my left breast. I flinched, and the splash of paraffin struck the upper slope of my bosom, runs circling down around the underside as I whimpered in agony.

“Oh my. That was disappointing,” she said mechanically. “Hold still.”

She moved the candle and tipped it again. This time I froze and felt the smoldering heat engulf my nipple. My teeth clenched tightly as I screeched, eyes shut, tears streaming from the corner of my eyes. In my head, alarm klaxons were screaming and I braced myself for more. More pain. More torment. And maybe, if I was lucky, an orgasm.

But that was all. Kari put down the candle. As I panted and struggled to hold still, she took hold of my shirt and brought it together, over my wax doused bosom. With my skin unoiled, the paraffin clung, hot and heavy, darkening my areolas, hardening around my raised nipples. She buttoned the shirt back up, carefully. I looked down. My breathing was insufficient to crack the melts, the wax coating, and the color only intensified and emphasized my nudity beneath the shirt. I whimpered, appalled at the garishness of her decor. How could I hide myself now? Every eye would be drawn toward the scarlet spots that adorned my bosom.

Kari straightened up, a smirk on her face. She nodded in satisfaction. “There. I needed that,” she said simply, as if I were some project completed. I lay there, twitching, the dildo inside me still torturing me with need.

“Kari?” I whispered. “Can I please cum? Please?” Our eyes met and she saw my need.

She paused deliciously, tormenting me with just the illusion of her indecision. It was her needs that had to be satisfied. Her needs that must be met. Her needs that required fulfillment. “Maybe,” she replied with a shrug of her shoulders. “After we go to lunch. And only if you keep your hands down at your sides.” She smiled. “I want people to see your waxing.”

I trembled, closing my eyes. A knot in my stomach came from nowhere as I imagined me paraded in public, my tits hanging out, under the shirt, the wax drawing stares. I bit my lip. Oh god, I didn’t want that! I didn’t want to be humiliated like that! Why? Why did she want to do this to me? Then she leaned over me, her mouth kissing me wetly, and I felt her hand between my legs. I gasped and stiffened as she grabbed hold of the dildo, drawing it halfway out of my pussy as I hurriedly spread my legs.

“Would you be willing to spread yourself open for me?” She asked cruelly, even as she teased me. “Even knowing that I still had that candle? Knowing where I was going to drip the hot wax next?” She asked, drawing the dildo almost out of me once more. I groaned, nodding mindlessly, lust and heat flowing through me. With excruciating slowness, she pushed it back in. “Good,” she whispered, her tongue dancing along my lips. “I like your willingness to suffer for me.”

Then she let the dildo go, straightened up, looking down at me with loving, vicious eyes.

“After all, I might need you again.”



If you enjoyed this erotic tale, then you might consider supporting Breanne’s endeavors, by purchasing her books! Available in e-book format from Amazon.com, Breanne Erickson’s “Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut” series is one of the most highly rated extreme BDSM erotica collections. Check out her amazing work at Amazon.com.

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