Quarantine Punishment #1

I licked my lips and the trepidation I was feeling congealed into a heavy weight that settled in the pit of my stomach. I looked down at the phone and dialed, then lifted it to my ear, praying that maybe she wouldn’t answer. The line on the other end rang twice and I heard the telltale chirp, followed by a sweet, high pitched voice.

“Hello, Princess! Are you ready?”

Julie Uterro was a thin stick of a woman with a gorgeous face and a bubbling personality. Add to it a sadistic streak and access to Houston’s own resident “nympho humiliation pain slut,” and it created a combination that was both deviant and extreme. I swallowed down a touch of panic and the urge to run to look down at my desk.

“Yes, Mistress,” I replied, my nerves still getting the better of me. If Julie heard the tremor in my voice, she ignored it.

“Excellent. I presume that you got all of the items I requested?” She asked.

I nodded. I had indeed collected the rather disturbing inventory she’d emailed me. Arranged just in front of my laptop computer were a trio of wooden clothespins, two and a half feet worth of binder’s twine, and a small galvanized steel bucket that held the melted remains of a citronella candle. “Yes, I have them,” I told her.

Julie almost purred. “Good. Now please describe to me what you’re wearing. The way I taught you.”

I took a deep breath. There are certain protocols to being a submissive, and being able to describe your attire properly is one of them. You start at your feet.

“I am barefoot,” I said simply. “My toes are painted red and I’m wearing a silver chain on my right ankle. I’m wearing a pair of light gray gym shorts, with the word ‘juicy’ written on the back. Underneath the shorts I have on a set of light pink, bikini cut panties. I am wearing a Cougars tee shirt, in red, and beneath that, a white, very utilitarian bra.”

Julie chuckled. “I suppose that’s to be expected, but I am disappointed in you,” she chided. “You are certainly not dressing like the slut you are.”

I frowned. “Julie, I have a child in the apartment with me.”

“Does she get to see your underwear?” Julie sneered.

I hesitated. “No,” I admitted. “But still…”

“The big question I have, is do you have the vibroballs in?” She asked, switching tracks. I bit my lip. The vibroballs were a motorized sex toy consisting of two, golf-ball sized spheres, which were controlled via a wireless remote. For most of the day they’d been in my pussy, teasing and taunting me when I wasn’t actually edging. On low, they kept me wet and needy, but ostensibly they were meant to keep me ready. Ready to be thrown down, spread open, and fucked stupid.

“Of course I have them in,” I said, somewhat indignantly. “As if I’d violate Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Rule #1.”

“Excellent, so first, I want you to strip. And just to make sure you’re doing this correctly, please turn on the lights in your room so you are properly illuminated, and pull open your blinds. All the way to the top of the window.” She let out a little sigh of satisfaction. “And then you can strip where everyone can see you.”

I gulped silently, placed the phone on speaker mode, and set it down on the desk. Julie had discovered on the second or third day that I had interpreted “open your blinds” to mean just tilting the slats so that I could look out. She’d been furious and I’d earned myself a punishment almost immediately. She’d also found out around day four or five that I was stripping in the dark, making it impossible to see me through the now quite unblocked window. That had also earned me a punishment.

I opened the blinds and the high-pitched whine of them going up was certainly loud enough to fill the room. Next I walked over to the nightstand lamp and turned it on. Then I flipped the switch on the overhead light. A moment later I stood in front of the window, brightly lit, and stared out onto the parking lot of my apartment complex.

For the most part, it was quiet. The weather was warm and while there had been an uptick in people wandering about, usually going on solitary walks, my particular window looked out on what was essentially nothing but parking. So unless you were walking to your car, I wasn’t going to see you. Not only that, but there were bushes in front of my window. Granted, they were cut low, but still… the parking lot was lower than the apartments, so if you were standing in the lot, the bushes cut a bit of the view. Finally, my apartment was on the end of the building and there was only one more building past mine. So traffic, if there had been any traffic, would have been light.

And there wasn’t a single person in view. No cars were driving by. I was, for all intents and purposes, alone. So, why the fuck was I close to hyperventilating at the thought of taking off all my clothes while standing there in the window?

“Strip now, please. And if those vibroballs aren’t on yet, get them that way. To low.”

I closed my eyes. Of course, count on Julie to push me closer to the edge, as part of her intended punishment. I leaned back over to the desk, grabbed the small control fob, and turned the sex toys to low and the faint buzzing hum from between my legs made me gasp. Waves of pleasure began streaming up from my sex and I let out a tiny groan. It wasn’t easy to bear. I’d been aroused all day, thanks to hourly masturbations that each ended in me yanking my wet, goo-covered fingers out from the hot and slippery depths of my slit, curling up into a fetal ball, and moaning about the cruelties of my sexual mistresses. Do you understand what longing truly is?

With my pussy already quivering, I returned to my vantage point by the window and once again checked for cars, people, drones, cameras, and God only knows what else. Call me paranoid, or skittish, or just plain ole embarrassed, I dreaded what was coming next. I reached for the bottom of my tee shirt and pulled it over the top of my head. My bra, a rather plain, boring, unadorned utilitarian thing with an underwire, came into view and I moved my hands down to the shorts. I admit, this was a calculated gesture to keep me unexposed just a little longer. My gym shorts fell off my legs and I kicked them away and into the far corner, tossing the shirt after it. That was another thing. Six or seven days in, I’d been naked in my room, standing at the window, when someone had come by. I’d just dropped, grabbed my clothes, and gotten dressed. Julie had been furious. I earned another punishment and now I had to toss my clothes as far away as possible.

I took a deep breath, eyes darting left and right. I couldn’t put it off any longer. I reached behind my back and undid the clasp holding my bra together, and let it drop. My breasts, free of the halter, dropped a little, but the bright shining barbell piercings caught the sunlight coming through the window and sparkled. I threw the bra after my shorts and still watching for passersby, finished up by removing my panties and standing buck naked, fully lit, at the window of my apartment.

“Okay,” I said in a high-pitched, agitated voice. “I’m naked.”

“Now stand there for a moment,” Julie said.

I stared out the window, my chest heaving. Inside me the vibroballs were buzzing softly and I could feel the wetness of my sex moistening my petals, almost seeping down to my thigh. I was on edge. I was tense. I could feel the fight or flight instincts right on the surface. Had someone popped into view and said “boo!” I would have screamed. The seconds stretched out.

“So,” Julie asked conversationally. “Were you able to find the bucket I was talking about?”

I glanced over at my desk. “Yes,” I replied. “It was on the porch, just like you said.”  Julie had been over one night a few months back and we had sat out on the back patio, a citronella candle lit to keep away the mosquitoes, and I’d been tasked with kneeling between Julie’s outstretched legs, licking her clit. It had been one of those “oh my God, what if we’re discovered?” moments, but in hindsight, it had been dark, the candle lighting barely anything, and with the slats around the porch, only someone standing right there would have been able to see Julie, much less me with my nose pressed against her mons and my tongue buried as deeply as possible in her slit.

“Good,” Julie said. “I’d like to you to take the binder’s twine and tie it to the bucket handle. Do it at the window.”

 I grimaced. At the window. Damn it. It’s like she knew every little trick I had. Of course, on day eight, I’d done exactly that. She’d ordered me to stuff myself with a massive, twelve inch cock, and when she’d discovered that I’d done it at the desk, I suddenly found myself earning another punishment. With a deep breath, I went to the desk, grabbed the twine and the little bucket. It was galvanized steel, and since the candle had long since burned down to nothing, it weighed less than half a pound. I returned to the glass and set the container on the windowsill, then concentrated on tying one end of the binder twine to the metal handle. It actually helped. Being focused on the task meant I wasn’t watching the parking lot quite as close.

“Okay. One end of the binder twine is tied to the bucket,” I said simply.

“Good,” replied Julie. “Now, go get one of the clothespins.”

I padded, still barefoot, over to the desk, retrieved one of the wooden pegs, and returned to the window. “Alright, I’m ready,” I told her.

“Tie the clothespin to the other end of the binder twine. Make sure it can’t slip off.”

I was making the loop when motion made me squeal. I was about to dart out of the way, ducking to the side, but it was just a car, and it was going fast. My heart thudded painfully in my chest as I struggled to calm down.

“You okay?” Julie asked, her voice filled with concern.

“Just… just a car,” I gasped, trembling.

Julie seemed to perk up. “Did they see you?”

I shook my head. “No,” I said in a wavering voice. “They didn’t slow down.”

“Drat,” she muttered in disappointment. “Oh well. Maybe next time.”

I struggled with that. I turned my attention back to the clothespin and binder’s twine and a moment later everything was connected. Small bucket to twine to clothespin. “Alright,” I told my mistress. “It’s tied.

Julie seemed satisfied. “Good. Now get the other two clothespins. Do you want to guess where those have to go?” She asked sweetly.

I knew damn well where they were going, but my mouth moved before my brain. “On the lamp shade?” I said hopefully.

Julie laughed. “Hardly. Those two clothespin go on your nipples. And you know how I want them, right?”

“Straight on,” I said dejectedly. It was Julie’s standard. She didn’t want them hanging downward, or clipped from the top. She wanted them sticking straight out from my tits like a set of antenna pointing outward from a bug’s head. That way the full weight of the clothespin itself would bend my nipples downward, ever so slightly, making them hurt more.

Straight, with a twist.

I snatched the clothespins off the desk and returned to the window. No people. No dogs. No cats. Nothing but unmoving, unoccupied cars. I took a deep breath and set the first clothespin in place, just the way Julie liked it.

I made a soft, whimpering sort of whine as the wooden maw bit down hard on my left nipple and I grimaced as the pain shot through my breast. Clothespins might seem to be one of the lighter options when it comes to nipple hardware, but I can assure you, these damn things pinch tight and even with the pincer positioned well behind my piercing, it still inflicted enough pressure to make the tip of my breast throb with acute strain. With the clothespin wiggling as I sucked in a pain-laced breath, I placed the other clothespin on my right nipple and closed my eyes momentarily, adjusting to the intense burn flashing through my bosom.

“I’m clamped,” I said in a croak.

“Not yet, you aren’t,” Julie assured me. “Now comes the fun part of your punishment. Get the remote for your vibroballs and put it where you can reach it. Like the windowsill. Put the bucket on the floor between your window and bed. Stretch the binder twine up and clip the attached clothespin to your clit.”

I was expecting something like this. Trembling, I put the bucket on the floor. There wasn’t that much room between the window and the bed, just a measly four feet. But it was enough. I pulled up the twine and discovered that two and a half feet, tied at both ends, translated into a problem.

“There’s not enough twine,” I exclaimed in surprise. I heard Julie chuckle.

“Squat,” she retorted. “Bend those knees.”

I looked up. No one outside. Thank God. “You’re kidding me, right?” I demanded.

“Not in the least. Bend your legs and get that clothespin attached. But Breanne – I don’t want you lifting the bucket by your clit. Okay? Keep the bucket on the ground.”

Frustrated, with my pussy clenching around the vibroballs, and my nipples throbbing, I squatted down. It was an uncomplimentary position and looked about as awkward as it felt. With my knees bent, I held the position and quickly, roughly, attached the third clothespin right over my clitoral hood. It dug in and I rose up until the string was taut. Out of curiosity, I rose up just a bit more, testing the weight of the steel bucket. It was… not negligible. I could feel it pull hard on my clitoris. I dropped back down a bit, wincing.

“I’m… I’m… attached,” was all I could think of to say. I was breathing heavily and my breasts were pulsing with discomfort from the clothespins wiggling at the tips.

“Good. Now here is what you are going to do,” Julie said, her voice getting more excited. “You will keep the bucket on the floor and you will turn around in circles. This will cause the binder’s twine to twirl, tightening it up. Keep the bucket on the floor though. You will do one hundred full circles. At the end, you will turn up the vibroballs to full and then stand up straight, lifting the bucket from the floor. Do you understand?”

I gasped. “But… Julie… it will twist my clit!” I protested.

She laughed. “I know! Isn’t that wonderful?”

My head reeled. “But… but I’ll get dizzy!”

“I hope not,” she said. “I want you to suffer. So go slow enough that you don’t wobble.”

I let out a whimper. “But… what if someone sees me?”

She chuckled. “Then they will think you are a mentally fucked up nympho humiliation pain slut.” She sighed happily. “Breanne, just do it.”

I looked down at the bucket. “What if I cum?” I whispered.

“If you can cum from this torment,” she said simply. “Then you deserve to cum.”

I gulped, took a deep breath, and began turning.

***

It was a challenge not to get dizzy, and not to fall, and it took me almost a full five minutes to do the full one hundred spins. I might have done a few extra by accident too. Worse, the binder’s twine tightened up by almost an additional inch, all while tugging with fits and spurts on my clit. Little shards of glass-edged sensation seemed to burst against my clitoris, like being stroked with a rough brush. Each step made the clothespins on my nipple wiggle up and down, and agony laced through my bosom, even as my clit competed for attention. My thighs began to burn as I struggled not to lift up and I realized halfway through that I was standing on tiptoe as well, my arches aching as I performed Julie’s perverted calisthenics.

So with my knees awkwardly bent, my thighs splayed outward, my dripping sex aching and the vibroballs buzzing madly inside me, I finally stood up and looked out the window. My legs ached from holding the original position, but now the bucket lifted from the ground, swinging freely, hanging from my clitoris. It began to spin, slowly at first, but then with increasing speed and the motion translated up the line, twisting the clothespin on my clit and sending jarring jolts of biting anguish up into me. Waves of sensation blurred up my spine, ricocheting around in my head like bullets, all while two very different competing feelings exploded through my psyche. The first was pleasure. My pussy was vibrating madly, wrapped around the vibroballs, purring and buzzing and quivering wetly. The edges Julie had forced me to inflict upon myself had merely been preparation for this moment; to turn me into a quivering, pussy soaked, public slut desperate for satisfaction. The second sensation was pain. A throbbing agony that burst into being at my most sensitive points; the tips of my breasts and the apex of my sex. Pain laced up along with the pleasure and when it got to my brain the magic started. I say magic, but really what it means is that I’m a fucked up masochist. My neurons, never normal on a good day, began misfiring. My brain, unable to handle the overload of sensation, of the twisting and tugging on my clit, the oscillations of pleasure streaming up from my stuffed cunt, the burning pinch at the tip of each breast, began shorting out. Colors and lights flashed in front of my eyes as the bucket at the end of the twine spun and I grabbed my breasts with both hands, facing the window. I cried out, hurting and embarrassed, wanting and hating. And then my brain couldn’t tell the difference anymore and the pain and the pleasure both stopped. Instead there was just pressure. Heat and want and desire and need. I threw my head back, eyes closed as the orgasm ripped through me. My hips began jerking wildly as the adrenaline surged through my veins and there was a sharp snap and another lancet of agony as the clothespin on my clit fell. The bucket clattered to the floor and I fell backward, onto the bed, legs spread wide, one hand going to my crotch, cupping my abused pussy, while the other squeezed my right breast.

“Breanne?” Julie said, her voice almost as breathless as mine. “Bre? Are you okay? I heard you yelp.”

Panting, I sat up and looked around. The bucket was still on the floor, the binder’s twine and clothespin next to it. My nipples were hurting badly and I groaned, reaching up to remove the clothespins. I let out a soft whimper as the blood rushed back into the crushed tips of my breasts. I bit my lip, still struggling to catch my breath.

“Bre?”

I swallowed. “I’m here,” I said softly. Then, because there was no response, I repeated myself. “Here!” I called out. “I’m okay.”

There was a moment of silence. “It sounded like you exploded,” Julie said, her voice smug. I took a deep, shuddering breath and then found the control fob to the vibroballs. I turned them off.

“I did,” I said, eyeing the window. I was still naked. The lights were still on. And there was still a parking lot, right there.

Julie let out a soft chuckle. “Good,” she said. “You can take off the clothespins then.”

I hesitated. “Okay,” I said finally. “But the clothespin on my clit snapped off, right at the end there.”

“It did?” Julie asked, suddenly a bit more chipper. “Well then, that’s unfortunate.”

“It is?” I asked, bewildered. “Why?”

Julie laughed. “Why? Because you’re a naughty little fuck slut who can’t seem to do anything right,” she said cheerfully. “And that little lapse is going to cost you. You know what it means for you tomorrow, right?”

I straightened up. The debris of my torment was all around me and I looked out the window. I stepped up close to it, pressing the sore tips of my breasts right against the glass. No one was out there, but that didn’t mean someone wouldn’t be. A car might drive by, the driver glancing in this direction. Or maybe someone heading out to work, walking by.

I took a deep breath, feeling wonderful. Sure, I was sore. I was aching. But the burning need I’d felt all day was gone. “Yes,” I said softly. “I know what it means.” I said it without resignation, and without fear. “It means I’m going to be punished.”

Julie snickered. “That’s right, princess. You’re going to be punished.” She took a big breath, clearly satisfied. “And leave the vibroballs on and in for the rest of the day. But no cumming. Alright?”

“Alright,” I said softly, still looking out the window.

“Bre?”

I took a moment to answer. “Yes?”

“I love you,” Julie said softly. Then the line went dead.

“I love you too,” I whispered, tormented, tortured, punished…

… And sated.

On April 10th, the last chapter of Breanne's "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut" hits the shelves! Are you ready for more adventure? If you enjoyed Quarantine Punishment, please support Breanne and get her latest book! Available at Amazon.com!