Sunday, April 15, 2018


(Yes, we did one of the poll assignments. No. I haven't written it up yet. I did it last night and these things take time. But here's something from about three weeks ago. - Love Bre.)

“Oh. Shit,” I said as the front wheels of my jeep bounced up onto the entrance of the parking lot. I quivered in the driver’s seat, a steel chain stretched between my breasts. Two alligator clamps chewed delicately on my nipples, the metal teeth biting into the tender points with cruelty. I turned into the parking lot and gulped with sudden trepidation. My pussy tightened around the rubber dildo and my stomach both gurgled with hunger, and formed a tight little ball of lead.

It tends to do that when I know I’m in trouble. The problem was that I didn’t know just how bad that trouble would be.

I pulled my jeep into the empty parking space between the red convertible and the red coupe. It was a familiar spot, sandwiched between my two mistresses, Kari and Julie. Usually they tormented me separately, but on occasion, their passion for sexually satisfying their sadistic needs complimented each other. This wasn’t good. Not in the least. I knew it. I took a deep breath, trying to settle my nerves, but it was hopeless. I knew that. Instead I reached up, and with a soft hiss, freed my tender nipples from the clover clamps.

The jeep had been a gift from Kari, but it had come with a couple of “stipulations”, a term I had once appropriated to indicate a series of sexual enhancements to turn the mundane into something more prurient. At first, Kari had stipulated that if driving alone, my nipples needed to be clamped and chained to the steering wheel. The problem with this, as one of my fans pointed out, was that in the event of a collision, the airbag would become lethal. No one wants me dead, so that stipulation was tossed out in favor of something else - thus the alligator clamps. This meant either opening my shirt, or taking it off my outfit, and since one of the other stipulations Kari had established from day one, was that I drive naked, weather permitting, I reached over and grabbed my dress, which was sitting on the seat next to me.

It was a short dress, with everything under the bosom a familiar blue plaid that screamed “schoolgirl.” The bust itself was made of a disturbingly thin, white cotton, which did not go well with the braless, gold pierced, padlock wearing girl who was about to put it on. I slipped it down over my head, jiggled a few bits to get them into the right spots, and then glanced down. The tips of both breasts were visible through the translucent material, the dollar sized points pink and gold. An actual padlock, small and engraved with a rose, hung from the right nipple and just emphasized my slutty nature. Never mind the scarlet locks, the long bare legs, the overly short dress, or the high heels I was about to put on. Everything about me screamed four simple words; nympho humiliation pain slut.

One of Kari’s other car stipulations involved a seven inch long vibrator, which was to be inserted any time I was behind the wheel. This had created some logistical problems, because of Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Rule 1. Rule 1 says that girls like me are required to have cock, or some other toy, in her pussy at all times. The idea is that I'm ready to be sexually used at any moment, but I think it's more psychological than that. I'm always wet and wanting. It affects my attitude, my demeanor. I constantly think of sex, of being spread open, taken, used for pleasure. It reinforces my general attitude, emphasizing it until I'm nothing but a walking, talking, squirming, squirting sex doll.

I pulled the vibrator out from between my legs. It was soaked, which was expected since I hadn't had an orgasm in over five days. The stop light masturbation and edging Kari required had only primed the pump, setting me up for what would undoubtedly be an unauthorized orgasm later. That was a favorite of Kari and Julie. Get me all worked up, then deny me permission to cum. Of course it was a trick. They would tell me that if I came without permission I'd be punished. Which is what they really wanted.

I licked the vibrator clean, just as any slut would, and dumped the slick phallus into the plastic cup I kept in the center console. Switching out sex toys every time you get in the car requires planning. The car vibe settled and I plucked the Monster Vibrator out of the cup, pointed the tapered tip toward my hot, slippery slit, and thrust it in.

The Monster Vibrator had been a gift from Julie and was diabolical on several levels. First of all, it was long. Twelve inches long in fact, and three inches thick. It filled me rather completely. Which I admit I liked. Inside the Monster Vibrator, were not one, or two, or even three motors, but four, each of them capable of independent operation. There was only one switch; turning it off or on, and I made sure the toy was ready.

But it stayed silent.

I had very little control over the Monster Vibrator. It was operated using a special phone app that required a code. Connected via Bluetooth to my own cell phone, anyone with the correct code could order it to run, in a variety of patterns that could simulate everything from being fucked with a jackhammer to having your insides tickled from cervix to clitoris.

I glanced back over at the other seat. My panties were sitting there and I picked them up, threading them onto my bare feet, careful to leave the Monster Vibe buried in my pussy. Normally, panties were anathema around Kari. She claimed they got in the way, though she did say that the emotional stress inflicted upon me in that state was beneficial. Panties are, afterall, a barrier. And for a fuckslut, barriers are bad. Julie was more pragmatic about them. As far as she was concerned, me wearing panties had just one purpose. Holding something in.

Like twelve inches of motorized plastic pipe.

I squirmed around until the Monster Vibrator was cupped in the crotch of my panties, the cotton straining around the large circular base. The elastic was tight and as I reached for the acrylic stripper shoes Kari had asked me to wear that day, I could feel the full length of the silent vibrator digging at me. My pussy tightened in rhythmic little pulses and considering how wet and desperate I already was, I almost dreaded the thing coming to life.

There. Physically ready, if not emotionally. I was dressed in slutty clothing, wearing stupid “please fuck me hard” heels, stuffed to the brim with a foot long, plastic phallus, with my sex a sodden, grasping swamp. Now I just had to prepare mentally. The sad part however, is that nothing prepares a girl to be sexually humiliated, especially if dressing like a whore and having her private parts displayed, toyed with, and eventually tormented are anathema to her personality.

Some girls love being naked. They become pornstars and exhibitionists, nude models and such. Good for them. Me? I'd be quite content to wear blue jeans and flannel tee shirts every day. Work boots too. I'd love to be inconspicuous, a mousy, brown haired girl no one ever pays attention. And that would be my life, except for one thing.

I'm horny.

I know. Disgusting, isn't it? I've been addicted to orgasm: sensual, sexual gratification, since I was twelve years old. Imagine my surprise, discovering (not quite at that tender age, but close,) that some judiciously applied humiliation, a little sexual pain, and being used by an ever changing plethora of lovers would provide orgasms ten, twenty, even a hundred times more powerful than those I could achieve on my own.

Kari and Julie were the means to that end.

I closed the door of my jeep. The air was warm and smelled of dew, flowers, and morning sunlight. I took a careful step away from my jeep and faced the restaurant. Meeting both of my mistresses for breakfast was unusual. It meant torment. It meant pleasure. It meant punishment. I headed toward the restaurant and wondered how long before they were twisting my body to dance to their whims, tormenting me into the stressed, half panicked state where I was willing to let them use me, defile me, abuse me, and make me theirs.

The answer? The time it took to take just three fucking steps.

Before I'd even passed the bumper of Kari’s convertible the Monster Vibrator roared to life. There was no slow increase from zero to sixty, shifting through the gears. Fuck no. All four motors went full throttle right from the start. I froze mid step, pussy tightening in spasms, my entire lower half on a fucking collision test track, aimed straight for a wall with the words “public orgasm” painted sloppily across the brick.

And I was the crash test dummy.

But just as I thought I'd swoon, toppling over in a fit, the vibrations between my legs slowed to a mere trickle. I felt each motor flutter, a tickling spasm that flittered up through my pussy, danced across my G spot, and swirled back down to my petals. I gasped, locked in place, trembling as I tried to assert my will, struggling to maintain a vestige of decorum.

It took a minute, and I had to resist the urge to use the hem of my dress to dab at the rapidly moistening crotch of my panties, but I managed to get ambulatory. I made my way up to the door, the Monster Vibrator still dancing in short, light bursts, and I went into the building.

The place wasn't packed, which was a blessing, and I spotted Kari and Julie sitting together in the corner booth along the front window. That explained how they had known I'd arrived. They’d literally seen me. I headed toward them, trying to ignore the incessant buzz between my legs, and slid into the empty seat across from the two dominatrixes.

Julie Uterro was seven years younger than me and was model thin. This wouldn't have been a problem, since her cherub face, dark chocolate colored hair, and almost perfect complexion would have given fashion models a run for their money. The issue was that she had no chest. Her breasts were flatter than pancakes. She deliberately wore outfits that were cut to make her top look bulkier and today was no exception. A ivory colored silk blouse along with a felt jacket made her look svelte, fashionable, and busty.

Kari, on the other hand, was a golden goddess. She was half a year older than me, taller than me, bustier than me, and sported a wealth of sunshine colored hair that fell in straight, stylish sheets to cascade off her shoulders. Kari wore a scarlet colored suit, with a matching pencil skirt, and gold glinted at her neck, ears, and fingers. She was worthy of worship. Her eyes sparkled with the same vitality that illuminated Julie's, but there was also a hint of amusement, as if she wanted to laugh at me.

“How's tricks, princess?” Julie asked crudely, using her pet name for me. I despised it. It made me feel like I was twelve.

I swallowed. “Tense. I almost orgasmed out in the parking lot.”

“Good,” Julie declared. “I like it when you're on the edge.”

A waitress swung by and got our orders and I was relieved that she didn't glare or seem to judge me. After she left, I gave the two of them a suspicious glare.

“So what brings the two of you together for breakfast?” I asked, deciding that I’d rather know what was coming, instead of having it dangle over me like the sword of Damocles.

“You do,” Kari replied. “After a week of being denied sexual gratification, both Julie and I felt the timing for this particular assignment was appropriate.”

Oh. Oh shit.

When I first started writing out my “tales” they were intended to be short, sweet, and sassy. To help with content, I came up with this idea: readers could submit sexual tasks they wanted me to do. That blossomed into a bevy of online doms and dommes, each who sent in task after task, subjecting me to a whirlwind of free love, public humiliation, bondage, discipline, and masochism. I hated it. I loved it.

“I'm not sure if your fans love you, or just love to torment you,” Julie said with a grin, “but there is good news.”

“There’s good news?” I asked plaintively.

Kari leaned forward, an engaging smile on her face. “For the next seventy-two hours, you may cum.”

I blinked in surprise.

“As often as you would like,” Julie added with a nod. She was grinning.

I sat there, flummoxed. Orgasms? Lots of them? I wasn't biting. There was a catch. There had to be.

Julie nudged Kari with her elbow. “Look at her, the suspicious little fuck. She's wondering what the catch is.”

Kari laughed. “It is amusing, watching her twitch.”

“That's not twitching,” she disagreed, picking up her phone. She swiped her fingers across it and suddenly the tickling sensation between my legs intensified, changing into a wave of stimulation that crested and crashed against my cervix, threatening to swamp me. I clenched my teeth, trying not to twitch, but my hips had other ideas. The two dominatrixes watched as I struggled against the inevitable, a gasp escaping my lips as my loins began pumping.

Now she's twitching,” Julie said. Kari nodded. “You're right of course,” Julie continued. “There is a catch. While you are allowed to cum as many times as possible, in fact encouraged to cum over and over again, you must ask permission to cum each time.”

My eyes widened and I gulped. I was going to need to ask permission soon. Really soon if Julie didn't turn down the Monster Vibrator. I shifted in my seat, squirming as my blood pressure rose dramatically. I glanced around the restaurant. My back was to most of it, but just a few tables away were an elderly couple. The wife wasn't paying me any attention, but older gentleman certainly was. I blushed crimson and tried not to shift my hips, looking away from his eyes.

“The problem,” Kari said. “Is that neither Julie nor I can grant you permission to cum. In fact, none of your regular doms and dommes may. This includes the various mistresses of the Society of the Golden Rose…”

“... and Zach at the fraternity,” added Julie. I blinked, their instructions turning in my brain. Wait a moment. What? They couldn’t “grant” permission?

“Nor Nick, Alex, or Mike the Hardware Guy,” finished Kari. “That's not our role.”

“B-b-but… who can grant permission?” I stammered, my slipping tongue stuttering in time with the throbbing pulses of the Monster Vibrator. My ass tightened as my pussy tried to throttle the phallic toy dancing inside me.

Julie shrugged. “Anyone else obviously,” she said scornfully. She gave me a wicked look, like she was expecting me to pull my breasts out and offer them up for a quick spanking session.

“As soon as you are on the edge, you will need to approach someone,” said Kari.

“Anyone,” chimed in Julie.

Kari smiled patiently. “And ask them for permission.”

“To cum!” Julie finished.

My jaw dropped in horror as the awful realization hit me.

Julie grinned. “It gets worse! If they do grant you permission, you need to cum in their presence, and announce your orgasm, just like you are supposed to.”

Kari nodded. “I believe you are to say ‘Oh god, I'm cumming!’ in a loud, clear voice?”

“Indeed,” Julie affirmed. “And after you've had a nice, little explosion, you should offer the very nice person who gave you permission to orgasm, the opportunity to use your body.” She reached out and patted my trembling hand. “Boys or girls. It doesn't matter who you ask, or how they want to use you afterword.”

I knew what that meant. It meant that I’d offer to let them use me. It could be something as simple as feeling me up, or having cock stuck down my throat, or being laid across a table for a good, hard fucking. But I’m not stupid. Getting that sort of treatment, right after exploding, would only jack me up again. I’d be on edge by the time they were finished, ready to cum once more.

Kari gave Julie a stern look. “It is possible that they decline the offer, and if so you have no further obligation. The orgasm is earned, free and clear.” She leaned forward. “ However, if the person you have asked permission from, either denies you, or does not respond, you need to explain to them that if you cum without their permission, you will earn a punishment, a ten stroke spanking to your bare bottom, which they may give you.”

“Wait! You mean I have to tell them this?”

They nodded together in unison.

“So after telling me I can't cum, they then get to spank me?” The incredulity in my voice raised the pitch a few octaves.

Julie nodded. “And if I were you, I'd be both sincere and exuberant in my request, because if they don't handle your punishment, a simple, ten stroke, bare bottom spanking…”

Kari gave me a direct, penetrating look. “Then we will.” Her tone was dark and foreboding. “The punishment for not getting punished is ten strokes of a whip or sap to each breast, each buttock, the bottoms of both feet, and of course, your clit.”

“That's seventy strokes!” said Julie with excitement.

The color drained from my face as my mouth went dry. This was a direct contrast to the swamp sucking down the Monster Vibrator. My hips shifted as my overactive imagination led me down a variety of paths, all of them ending with my legs spread, a leather sap smacking the wet folds of my sex with hard, fast blows.

Oh. Oh shit.

“In addition,” Julie said, “we are to push you, torment you, and stimulate you in every way imaginable, so that you are constantly needing to cum.” She picked up the phone and fiddled with it. The patterns of pulses coming from the Monster Vibrator changed, worsening. I clenched my teeth and held my breath.

Kari smiled. “Today, tomorrow,  and the next day, you will wear outfits I deem appropriate to facilitate your sexual state. Your toy of the day will reflect our desire for you to cum. Frequently.”

The Monster Vibrator did a herky jerk inside me and I gave Julie a wild eyed look. How could she? Holy fuck! I was so close? Did she expect me to get up out of my seat and approach another customer and beg allowed to splatter my pussy juice all over their shoes? My body and my brain fought, but I knew it was a losing battle. My body was going to win, no matter how humiliating I found my circumstances.

The two women stared at me, watching as the boiler began to steam, the escape valve whistling the danger. I was going to cum. The vibrator churned wildly.

“What if I don't ask anyone permission?” I gasped, pushing my hand down into my lap. The pressure changed. It didn’t actually help, but I had to do something.

Kari frowned. “Then you automatically earn the punishment, as well as having your ass stuffed with your Thrusting Anal Vibrator for the rest of the day.” She gave me a dark look. “I strongly suggest compliance.” Her words were cruel, but effective. No way did I want to endure that. I hate having things up my ass. And to pair it with seventy strokes? That was just cruel.

I took a last shuddering breath, bracing myself, knowing I'd leave a disgusting wet streak as I lifted myself up from the bench seat. But I had no choice. I was about to explode. I was seconds away. I had to ask someone… anyone… my eyes turned toward the older man sitting there, watching me squirm.

“Here you ladies go,” announced the waitress, blocking my view, setting down three plates, laden with eggs and English Muffins and hashbrowns. Fresh fruit and yogurt sat waiting. All three of us looked up at her, two in expectation, me in desperation. My panties were soaked. I could hear the vibrator buzzing.

“Miss?” I asked in a soft, strained voice. The waitress looked down at me, expression pleasant but blank, as if she was unaware of the torment being inflicted upon me.

“Yes?” She asked, no doubt expecting a request for ketchup, or salsa, or more toast. I took a deep breath. It was now or never. I was seconds away, dancing on the edge of a cliff. I at least needed to ask. I had to… ask… before… oh god. Oh shit. The orgasm. It was there, pushing, forcing me. I looked up at her with frantic eyes and blurted out the question Kari and Julie were dying to hear me ask. The Monster Vibrator went nuts in my pussy and there was no more time.

“Please? Can I have your permission to cum?”

If you enjoyed this erotic tale, then you might consider supporting Breanne’s endeavors, by purchasing her books! Available in e-book format from, 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


  1. Nice. Cant wait to hear how the rest of the weekend turned out. It would've been fun to take Breanne to a retirement home.

  2. One thing this gets very right is the intensification of feelings, the intoxicating thrill and exhilaration of pain and humiliation, especially in front of people.
    But. 70 strokes per infraction . . .Holy shit! The worst I ever got was 50 from a single-tail, yes publicly, and the after care & recovery was intense. What a mind fuck.
    P.S. when y'all put Bre on the horse, please wreck those nipples.


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