Wet - Part 1 and Part 2

4 * 6 * 7 * 8 * M * DD * CS * H9 * SG * CD * 13S * JD

"Wow," Julie said, looking down at the bed. Her eyes had widened and her right eyebrow had arched upward in a slightly disbelieving look. "So this is what you do with your royalty money."

I rolled my eyes. "Hardly," I protested sarcastically. "Some of those were gifts," I said, putting my hands on my hips. "As you should damn well know, since you gave me four of them."

Julie looked up at me, her mouth curling up into a grin. "Touche, girl. I get it. But really, you might want to scale back at this point."

I glanced down at the assembled assortment and I couldn't help feeling that she wasn't far off the mark. There was certainly a bell curve in style, width, and length, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse.

Lots worse.

Julie pursed her lips, considering things. "Well," she said, tapping the smallest, which was only four inches. I'd placed down at the far left end. "Under the circumstances, this one has to go." She picked it up and set it aside. "And obviously this six inch one next." It too was pulled from the lineup. Her finger hovered over the next three samples. "Hmmm. These are all in the seven inch range, right?"

I nodded. "Yep. With realistic 'flesh' tone and suction cup base," I added in a sort of car salesman type voice.

Julie shrugged. "Whatever. They're like your Husky, just shorter." She grabbed the top one and set it with the smallest and the six incher.

"And we'll just add one of these eight inchers too," she said smugly, picking from one of four options. I sighed and watched as she set the top one with the others.

"Might as well do the metal one as well," I muttered. "It's different enough."

Julie snorted. "Don't leave it in the car. It will be too hot," she warned. I rolled my eyes. Like I would do something that stupid.

"Now, you only have one double," she said with a smirk. "So that has to go for sure."

My eyes widened. "Hey. That wasn't part of the assignment!" I protested. It didn’t matter.

Julie grinned. "That's not my problem. It fits the parameters, so you get to deal with it."

I frowned and crossed my arms across my breasts. The thought of what she was insisting I do both frustrating and a turn on. She picked up the double and set it with the "assortment of samples."

"Now this crystal stick," she said, running a finger over the ridged and bumpy acrylic rod.  That's different enough to make for an interesting experience." She put it with the others. The little heart on the end was cute and it looked slightly out of place next to the rest. Then she tapped my Husky. "This one too. It's a classic," she assured me. I grunted. I'd expected that one to go. How would this entire thing be complete without my Husky?

“What the hell is this?” She asked, holding up the ten inch long Sha Gua stick.

I shrugged. "Gift from Georgia. Rose quartz," I replied. "It’s supposed to be for acupressure, but someone got ambitious. Probably. It comes from China."

She gave me an appraising look. “I need to find out where she gets her acupressure massage done because it looks like fun.” She set it with the others. Then she touched the Core Driller. It looked like a black rocket ship. "Why didn't you get the bigger one?" She asked with a grin. "This one is only twelve inches."

I took a deep breath. "Because that was what was available at the time," I replied tartly. She moved on to the next.

"I haven't seen this one before. You should have brought it to me. Guess you like a good screwing. What is this?" She asked me, picking up the second to last. "Thirteen inches?"

I nodded, eyeing the monstrosity she held in her hands. "One of my online masters gifted it to me," I explained. “About a month ago.” Julie put it down. She glanced at the last selection, a purple, double ended one that I called the "jelly dong" with a wry grin. She knew where that one came from. I sighed. "Yeah. Master Fred got me that one."

Julie put both the screw and the jelly dong with the top pile. "Well, that's quite a selection," she admitted. We looked at the row of toys.

"Christ," I muttered. "That's a dozen!"

Julie chuckled. "Wow. You're lucky!" She picked up the canvas bag and started shoving my dozen into it. I watched, my stomach squirming, the sides of the satchel distending. Then Julie tossed in two small bottles. "There," she said. She glanced over at me and grinned. "You're ready," she declared.  She handed me the bag and I took it, shocked at the weight.

"Not quite," I said, somewhat despondent.

Julie laughed, looking at my gym shorts and tee shirt. "Yeah. Right. Not quite."

Part One

I took a deep breath and wondered if I could get away with sprinting. The parking lot was bright with sunlight and there were more cars in the lot than I had expected for a Saturday morning. The thought of running from my car to the entrance was appealing, but a number of factors that made it impractical occurred to me before I took the first step. First off - I was wearing flip flops, a sort of foam-soled shoe that did little more than keep sharp stones and pieces of glass from cutting up the bottoms of my feet. They weren't made for running, that's for sure. The next problem to hauling ass across the parking lot was the skirt I was wearing. It was a loose, blue denim number, pleated in appealing folds, and short enough that every running leap would provide intriguing glimpses of my panties.

If I'd been wearing any that is.

Then there was the peasant blouse, a monstrosity of attire that I've hated from day one. The offspring of a sex demon and a curtain valance, a single strand of skimpy elastic kept an almost transparent skein of eight inch long material positioned, more or less, over my bosom. If I were standing straight, on a breezeless day, my breasts remained covered. Running? Not a snowball's chance in Texas. My boobs would bounce around like a pair of water balloons tied to a stick and the shirt would follow, leaving my bosom exposed and as uncovered as if I were in a windstorm.

And lastly, jogging across the lot was out, because… well… I was carrying a canvas bag full of dildos.

This last item wasn't as much of a concern, but it would have hampered any attempt at running, so I figured I'd include it, just to show that I was thinking ahead. I slipped the bag over my shoulder and climbed out of my jeep. The concrete lot was big enough to hold three or four dozen cars, but only five, including mine, were present. My Jeep Wrangler looked slightly out of place next to the BMWs and Lincolns, but I didn't mind it. The Jeep was me.

It had been an unusual ride that morning. First of all, I'd been allowed to eschew the usual vibrator torment that came with driving my jeep around, and I'd even been allowed to wear clothes, which was just bizarre. Part of me grumbled about the fact that my peasant blouse could hardly be considered "clothes," but complaining about it didn't seem right, especially since the peasant blouse was better at keeping my bare breasts from distracting other drivers, which was the usual way I had to drive.

The building I'd selected was a five story structure where Kari and I had recently done some design work. I was familiar with the layout, knew that the weekends were slow, with few people wandering about, and it didn't even have a security officer on site to keep out the riffraff. During one of our first tours, I'd spotted a sweet little niche at the end of one hall, overlooking an amazing garden and pond. There was a wooden bench there, ostensibly set so one could look down and watch the ducks.

I pushed open the door, one arm wrapped across my bosom to keep the peasant blouse from doing anything crazy, like flashing my breasts, and was relieved to find the lobby empty. With a hurrying pace, I went to the emergency stairs and pushed open the door. With steady steps, I began climbing. I didn't have to go very far. Just to the third floor. Could I have used the elevators? Oh yeah. They worked. But you can get cornered in an elevator. Very few people used the stairs. And right now, the last thing I needed was temptation.

The climb to the third floor went quickly enough, but I have to admit that it felt strange to be walking around with my pussy empty. Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Rule #1 states quite clearly that girls like me need to have cock in them at all times, and failing that, should keep a sex toy or other phallic like object stuffed in their cunts. The idea, ostensibly, is to keep us wet and ready for use at anytime. But in reality I suspected that it was more of a kind of physical and psychological torment. Being constantly aroused, even at a low level, was a reminder that my purpose in life was basically to serve as a receptacle, a sex object, meant to satisfy the desires of others.

Besides, I was already wet. It came naturally.

As I remembered, the end of the hall had a beautiful window overlooking the nearby grounds. All was lush and green, with a concrete path encircling the duck pond. Little copses of flora had been bunched together to make private areas and I was high enough up that even had the lawn below been packed with people, the likelihood of being seen was slim. I checked the hallway behind me. Yep. Empty. So I sat down on the wooden bench, surrounded by flowers and bromeliads, leaned back against the wall, and lifted one foot up onto the bench. My red painted toenails looked pretty.

The short denim skirt wasn't able to handle the new position and the hem lifted, exposing the soft, pink gash between my legs. I have a very average pussy when it comes to appearance. My pubes aren't puffy, which means that my folds are visible, but not to the point where there is anything else. My clit is large enough to find, tease, and abuse, but not sticking out like a girl penis or anything. I resisted the urge to put my hand down there, to check my wetness, and instead rifled through my bag. I found the smallest of them, a stunted little thing that had been given to me as a gag gift by one of the other mistresses in the Society of the Golden Rose. I held it up. Flesh toned and molded into a shape that resembled a very tiny, disappointing cock, the four-inch-long rubber phallus was hard as a rock. It was by no means a favorite, but I'd held onto it in sort of a sick fascination, laughing as I routinely pushed it aside for something both longer and more supple. Still, it held the honor of being the shortest of the collection. I'd never had trouble with it, other than lack of depth and a certain over-firmness, but today there was an additional variable that concerned me.  

Over the years I've commented that my default state is "horny" and that I really don't need NHPS Rule #1 to keep me wet and ready. I've even boasted that I come naturally this way. It makes for a clever statement as my readers imagine a constantly moist, wet, and ready slit, perfect for receiving wanton cock or any random phallic item. But in reality, I think the statement says more about my general mindset. I really do constantly think about sex. I want it, practically all the time. I crave orgasm like some people do sweets and soda pop. It's not just a clever saying on a tee shirt; given a choice, I WOULD rather be fucking. Or more accurately, getting fucked.

That said, I recognize that the reality of my condition might truly be different than my blithe comments. After all, how the hell would I know? I've literally been stuffed with a variety of sex toys, practically every day for the last nine years. Do you have any idea what that's like? Most of the time the things I stick inside me aren't even static. They roll. They twist. They shake. They corkscrew. I'm a living, breathing fuck doll running on batteries. Forget the Energizer Bunny.  Breanne's toys just keep going and going and...

But one of my online doms, Master Brandon, questioned all this. Was I really wet? All the time? He wanted to know if "wet and ready" was my natural state, without NHPS Rule #1 in effect. And this was the test. I knew it. So at Julie and Kari's command, I'd been empty for almost a full twelve hours prior to the assignment. No sex. No masturbation. No orgasm. No toys. Just plain old Bre. And was I wet?

I looked down at my sex. I didn't actually see any moisture on my labia, not that this meant anything. People put a lot of emphasis on humidity levels when it comes to fuckable pussy. But I disagree. Mindset is paramount. And frankly, denying me sex, or even sexual stimulation, which I was very used to, for half a day, only created the sort of mental construct I needed for arousal. Honestly? I wanted to cum, that's for certain. And the fact that I'd been dressed in the peasant blouse, breasts flashing practically at each step, while wearing a short skirt, sans panties, just made for a more intense scenario. So ... I just had to stuff a totally dry, unlubricated, four-inch, hard rubber shaft into my pussy, with one, solid thrust. I positioned the dildo at my sex, pointed inward and upward.

I hesitated.

My instincts warned me against it. I wanted to lick a finger and rub it against my clit. I wanted to slide my nail through my folds, wetting my labia. I wanted to work myself into a froth before taking this smallest, and narrowest of dildos. I wanted to wait until someone was walking down the hall toward me, curious as to what I was doing with my leg up, flashing my slit.

Would it go in easily? Would I be, as I'd boasted, wet? Would it hurt?

I took a deep breath, let it out in a shuddering wave, closed my eyes, and then jammed the dildo in.

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!