It Never Ends - Part Two

Part Two

I did the rest of my chores naked.  I know it sounds crazy but the very idea of putting on a bra or panties, of anything touching my breasts or clit, was about as appealing as cutting off my own leg.  You won’t believe how slowly I moved either.  It took me three times as long to get through my chores and when I finally had the gumption to put on my clothes and wander back up to the house, I moved as if I’d been run over by a combine and then quickly baled. 

After breakfast I took a shower.  Some of the marks were fading on my breasts.  Many of them weren’t.  All I knew was that every single part of me hurt.  My clit was so sore that I couldn’t stand to touch it and even the water sliding down my belly and between my legs felt as if someone was scrubbing at me with sandpaper. 

Master Barrett was kind enough not to torment me anymore that day.  He knew that my date with Julie was coming up and the last thing he wanted to do was make it impossible for her to abuse and hurt me too.  So I spent the remainder of the day recovering.  Of course I still had to follow NHPS Rule #1, keeping some sex toy buried inside me, but Kari was kind enough to specify it had to be my triple vibroballs, which while certainly distracting didn’t touch my clit. 

The vibroballs stayed in, on low and I found myself cumming again late that afternoon.  But with no prohibition on explosions, I just quietly shuddered, enjoying the overload of ecstasy.  My fingers stayed far away from my clitoris and I exploded with a soft sigh. 

The next day I was still too sore to really allow for any torment.  At least not until that evening.  So with almost a full day of recuperation, my clit had lost some of that raw meat appearance, and while it was still tender, sensitive, and overly stimulated in general, I was able to face Julie.  It was around four o’clock when I pulled up into the parking lot of her apartment complex.  My attire was simple; a thin cotton tee shirt which helped to hide the still ragged complexion of my cleavage thanks to the one hundred and fifty NHPS pushups, and a respectable short denim skirt that came down mid-thigh and swung loosely around my ass.  My vibroballs were still there inside me, though most of the day they had been off.  I was wearing flip flops as well, though admittedly my fuck me high heels were in my bag along with some of my other toys.   Toys Julie had specifically requested I bring.

I knocked on her door with a moment’s trepidation.  Sure enough, she opened almost immediately and I blinked as I took in the blue and purple frizz on top of her head.

      “You dyed your hair again,” I said stupidly as I stepped into the apartment.  She looked like two sticks of bubblegum swirled together.  It was almost painful on the eyes.  She grinned, her purple lipstick giving her mouth a dark bruised look.  Both eyes sported the same color eye shadow and the effect was somewhere between beaten, homeless waif and sex goddess.

Julie grinned.  “Yep.  Now lift your shirt.  You know how this works,” she demanded.

Like my mistress Kari, Julie has her own procedure.  Kari makes me strip naked on the doorstep.  Julie prefers a more hands on approach.  Every time I see her, I’m forced to expose my breasts, brace myself, and accept however many blows across my bosom she wishes to give me.  To be honest, my breasts were still only marginally tender from my repeated perforation of NHPS Pushups, but you could still see the marks.  As I tugged my shirt upward and my breasts fell free, Julie raised her hand, only to pause.

“Wow.  That looks like it hurt!” she exclaimed. Her fingers came up and she gently squeezed my right breast, shaking it slightly and letting the charm padlock swing.  It tingled and I nodded.

“One hundred and fifty NHPS Pushups,” I commented, hoping to win some sympathy from her.

Julie blinked.  “A hundred and fifty?  Amazing.  Well I guess I shouldn’t slap your breasts, should I?” she asked, still squeezing gently.

Now it was my turn to be surprised.  She was going to go easy on me, just because my breasts looked all prickled?  I smiled softly.  “Thank you.  I really appreciate it.”

Julie grinned and pulled me in to the kitchen.  I came willingly and then she leaned me up against a counter, told me to put my hands behind my head, and opened the refrigerator.  I blinked as she got out a small yellow bottle with a green label and poured a generous amount in a large tumbler.  Then she fished a plastic spatula out of a drawer and dipped it in the fluid.

“So if I can’t slap you with my hand, we’ll just have to punish you some other way,” Julie announced.  Then she pulled the spatula out of the liquid and slapped it hard against my left breast.  It stung and I gasped and my knees came together while I dealt with the harsh tingle.  She had nailed my nipple directly and as the sting moved to heat, I let out a low groan and shuddered.  Julie took that as a signal to smack the spatula against my other breast, leaving another massive wet spot.  That’s when the scent of lemon hit me.

In retrospect, it would have been a totally evil and cruel torture about forty minutes AFTER my NHPS pushups.  Enough of the pins actually punctured deep enough that the lemon juice would have literally set my breasts on fire, and the delivery system was diabolical.  Ingenious even.  But I had gone a full day and a half since my little adventure on the tack mat and frankly, even the few spots where I had bled had healed enough.  I felt the sting of Julie’s strokes, but the lemon juice did zilch.

But I made the noises.  The sting of the spatula was more than enough to have me quivering in agony.  The vibroballs were off too.  This wasn’t combining with sex.  It was just to tenderize me.  Julie knew I wasn’t going to cum like this.  The beating continued for at least ten minutes and probably would have gone on longer had the doorbell not rang.

I was left in the kitchen, my breasts a pretty shade of deep pink, dripping with lemon juice, wearing a tugged up tee shirt, a short blue denim skirt, and flip flops.  I held position, even when I heard Julie greeting someone and letting them into the apartment. I bit my lip and then my eyes widened when Mayra walked in.

I had met Mayra almost a year before when Julie had decided that she was the one who needed to inflict the Chinese Water Torture on me.  It hadn’t worked.  But Mayra, Kelly, and Julie had gone ahead and done some pretty interesting things to me with a water pick instead.  Kelly had been soft.  Julie had been firm.  Mayra?  Well Mayra had to be restrained.  And I don’t mean restrained like I was restrained.  Julie had literally had to tell her to knock it off because she was being to rough with me.  So I wasn’t terribly happy to see Mayra, especially on a day that Julie was specifically asked to kick me between the legs.

Repeatedly.

Mayra approached me with a warm smile and kissed me.  She was portly girl, a little large, but cute in her own way.  As our lips met she stuck her tongue in my mouth while at the same time tweaking my nipple as hard as possible.  While I struggled to bear the pain, especially after the spatula whacking, I felt her lift my skirt, her pudgy fingers digging around the petals of my sex.  She found my clit and suddenly, despite my day of rest, my clit felt as if someone was yanking it off.  I let out a high pitched squeal and she rubbed me, pinched between thumb and forefinger, and I think both she and Julie knew that sound was not sourced from a feeling of deep pleasure.

Mayra let me go and I reeled backward, stumbling before finding the solid counter with my spine.  It hurt, but so did my clit and my nipple.  Julie just laughed, offered Mayra a drink, and then I was told to go wait in the living room.

I did as asked.  I didn’t sit down on the sofa either.  I kept my shirt up around my chin, lifted my skirt so my clean shaven slit was exposed, and laid down face up on the coffee table.  I wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to do, but I knew for certain it wouldn’t be the wrong thing to do.  Sure enough, both Julie and Mayra were incredibly pleased to find me like that when they came in.  Both were drinking beers, chatting away and talking about events and parties I hadn’t attended and wasn’t invited too.  They sat on the sofa, taking turns pinching me, tickling me, and generally trying to make as horny as possible while inflicting minor pains on me. 

Finally Julie stood up.  “Breanne, get up.  Stand over there,” she pointed to a clear space halfway between the foyer and the sofa.  I stood and moved there.  “Put your hands behind your head with your fingers laced.”  I did, tensing.  I knew what was coming.  I spread my legs without her even ordering me and waited, bracing myself. 

Julie stepped up and lifted my skirt.  With agonizing slowness she tucked the hem into my waist band, leaving my mons and pussy totally exposed.  I spread my legs even wider as my chest began heaving with short hard breaths.  I was not dealing with expectation very well.

Lastly, Julie turned on the vibroballs.  The roared to life inside me and she slid the control to full power.  It felt amazing.  Suddenly the warmth of my breasts combined with the need between my legs and I felt a sort of power, a tension inside me that I knew would help me withstand what Julie was about to do.  Her little bare foot was ready and she took a single step back, swinging he foot like a pendulum, getting her hip and leg loose.

Then she swung, bringing the top of her foot upward in a classic punting kick which culminated in a wet smack against my sex.  I jerked at the impact, but then blinked and stood my ground.  It hadn’t hurt.  Sure it stung a little.  I felt a little bruised maybe, but I had thought I’d be rolling on the ground with my hands between my legs.  My hips churned with the vibroballs and I felt the flames inside me intensify.  My God!  The kick had literally knocked me half way up the orgasmic mountain!  I was MUCH closer to cumming!  I twisted myself back to face her, spread my legs, the look of relief and want and desperation writ plain upon my face.  Julie peered at me, realized what had happened, and her lips tightened to a thin red line.  As my pelvis rocked, presenting my swollen and hurting pussy, only wanting more, Julie pulled back and planted her foot between my legs in a kick that would have made a soccer goalie quiver in fear.

I collapsed.  Literally. I fell to the ground.  I thought something was broken inside me.  She landed a kick that exploded through my pussy with a deep dark hurt that felt as if I’d been fucked with the business end of a baseball bat while being simultaneously stepped on by an elephant.  It was pressure and heat and agony all rolled into one and my hands found their way to my thighs as I rolled on the floor like a teenage boy who had just been kneed.  I remember opening my eyes as the tears poured out of me and seeing Julie’s foot just an inch away.  The entire top of her foot was coated with a thin slick coat of my juice. 

“Stand up!” she demanded.  I tried, but had trouble getting to my feet.  Suddenly Mayra was there, grabbing my arm, hauling me upright.  She stood behind me, holding me up and I was only barely able to take my weight.  

“Get those legs spread!” demanded Julie.  I trembled, fighting it.  I tried opening them, but the memory and fear of that last kick kept my knees together.  Mayra got one foot at my left ankle and kicked me open.  My body fought that, trying to close back up, but Julie moved quick.  In a flash her little bare foot had once again landed between my legs.  But this time my thighs had gotten quite a bit of the impact.  It hurt, causing me to spread my legs farther apart, giving Julie another opportunity to kick me.  Her foot sped upward, but the same force she had used earlier was gone, as if she knew where my spectrum of tolerance was.  Four blows smashed my petals into my pubic bone and my clit felt as if it was caught in a vice.  Then I folded and my dead weight was more than Mayra could handle.  She let me down as my knees closed.

But then Julie’s hands were on me.  With rough pushes, she moved me to a kneeling position, spreading my thighs wide apart.  She replaced Mayra behind me, locking my arms  behind my back and lifting me up right, tilting me back.  My breasts and pussy were on perfect display and I was in a position that left me little choice.  Through my tears I watched as Mayra removed her shoe, the vibroballs making me shake.  I was so close.  So close to orgasm…

Then Mayra kicked me.  I wasn’t able to fold or really move, but my legs came together and the noise I made evidently got a little concerning for Julie, who quickly put one hand over my mouth to muffle the cries.  And make no mistake, I was yelling.  It hurt.  But more importantly, the last kick had knocked me all the way to climax and I was cumming like you wouldn’t believe.  My entire weight went on Julie as I twitched through the explosion and then, instead of setting me up for another series of kicks, she let go and let me topple to the ground.

I lay there, a heap of wet, cum soaked, aching girl for about five minutes before I picked myself up off the ground and crawled over to the sofa.  Mayra and Julie were sitting there chatting as if kicking me and hurting me hadn’t happened.  I knelt in front of them, closed my eyes, and catalogued my hurts.  There were plenty of them, let me tell you.  The deep ache between my legs was only the worst.

“I’m hungry,” Mayra commented a few minutes later.  A quick flurry of conversation followed, without my input, and then Julie was up.  A moment later she came back into the room with a black magic marker. 

     

“Get up on the coffee table, Bre.  Show us your pussy,” Julie ordered.

With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I did what she asked.  It was everything I could do just to hold still as I felt the soft fiber tip of the marker sliding against my skin.  I didn’t know what she was doing.  She was drawing something over my crotch, around my labia.  Then she pinched my petals closed and drew little lines horizontally across my sex.  I tried not to jerk my hips.  Then she wrote something just above my pussy. 

“Stand up and pull your shirt down,” Julie said.

Fifteen minutes later we were in Julie’s car heading for Fazoli’s Italian Restaurant.  I’ll admit that my curiosity was intense.  Despite the fact that I was still hurting and since I wasn’t driving, still dealing with the vibroballs buzzing inside me at full power, what I really wanted to do was lift my skirt and find out what Julie had written.  At the restaurant I had another orgasm sitting in the booth eating my pasta.  But no opportunity for self-exploration came.  After we left though, Julie turned off the vibroballs, but reached down and put her hand beneath the denim of my skirt and rubbed me until I was humming in desperation.

“Want it, don’t you?” she asked me softly.

“Oh yes please!” I begged.  My body rippled with spasms of need.

“Gotta earn it,” she said softly.

I really need to be careful with the term “anything”, because frequently my tormentors think that actually means “anything”.  Anything in this case meant Julie grabbing my elbow, dragging me along the strip mall with Mayra in tow, and pushing me into one of the small stores.  The place was empty except for the clerk who looked at us in surprise. It was a phone store, nothing special, but he asked how he could help.

Julie marched me over to the counter and grinned at the clerk.

“I was wondering if you’d like to play a quick came of punt the cunt?” she asked.

No one answered. I think all of us, Mayra, the clerk, and most especially me, were very surprised.

“It’s very simple.  Breanne here wants to be abused.  So she’ll spread her legs and you kick her.  If she drops, you get a blowjob.  If she stays standing, she gets to cum,” Julie explained.

Oh hell.  Oh crap.  I closed my eyes.  This was going to be brutal.  The clerk’s eyes flashed with interest. 

“This is a little unusual,” he stammered.

Julie shrugged with indifference.  “Either you play or not.  If you want your cock sucked, you have to kick her.”

He looked around and then finally made his decision.  He came around the counter and motioned us to the back corner of the store.  There was at least a stand there that provided a bit of privacy.  I was pulled into position, ordered to spread my legs as wide as possible, and lift my skirt.

Oh look!  A fucking football!  She had drawn a goddamned football on my pussy!  And oh look!  “Punt the Cunt” in big bold letters!  How amazing!

This tale is no longer available on the blog and can be found in Breanne Erickson's e-book anthology "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 6"

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Breanne Erickson is the author of "The Society of the Golden Rose" and "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut" series.  Described as the "Goddess of Dark Erotica by Afterdark Online, Breanne's work is available at both the Free Story Archive and at fine booksellers!  Check her out!

It Never Ends

I got up from the computer, my mind numb and slightly frayed.  He wasn’t pleased.  I didn’t realize it was a hard number.  I did the best I could.  Isn’t four orgasms enough, especially if they are solid and full of torments like alligator clamps and an over-sensitizing clitoral vibrator?  I’d think so.  But oh no… five was the magic number.  Not four.  Not six.  Five.  And with trembling fingers I unbuttoned my khaki shorts and pushed them down.

            I could feel the triple vibroballs inside me, gently purring, adding their incessant thrum to the mix of my sexuality.  I can tolerate them for extended periods now, provided they’re set to low, without much more than a constantly soaked slit and urges to fuck practically everything in sight.  But as I pulled down my panties to expose my still tender clit, I felt my pussy tighten, my libido already reacting to what it thought was coming, rather than what was happening.

            The previous “assignment” had been tough on me, and that wasn’t just because of my hour long masturbation and torment session early that morning.  Oh no… I spent the entire day suffering.  I could have removed the twelve inch long, hard, black, rubber dildo when I was done.  I could have taken off the purple butterfly clitoral vibrator, instead of making sure my tight blue jeans kept it mashed against my already sore clit.  And of course, I could have not turned it on every twenty or so minutes, stimulating myself right back to the point of near orgasm before turning it off, denying myself the ultimate reward, edging constantly all day.  This had gone on for hours until bed time when I had tugged the Core Driller dildo out from between my legs with a groan of relief.  The butterfly vibrator came next, exposing my bright red, super chaffed clit to the air.  I didn’t even wear panties that night, not wanting ANYTHING to touch my clit.  So much for that.

            I held the remote in my hands, the wire trailing along my hip and up into the wet pink slit between my legs.  My clit was still sore that morning, but not quite as tender as it had been the previous evening.  I took a few steps to my book shelf, the one near my bed and my eyes slid over my collection of paperback novels and hardback bestsellers.  What book would work best?  My copy of J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows?  Stephanie Meyer’s Breaking Dawn?  (Yes, I admit, I read the books and enjoyed them, but I’m not into sparkly vampires!)  Maybe Ann Rice’s Sleeping Beauty series?  No… not big enough.  To bad those don’t come in a single volume, right?  The Bible?  No…too sacrilegious.  George R.R. Martin’s Dancing With Dragons?  Hmmm… I like Daeneyrs, but I’m not sure that would be a smart thing.  Danielle Steele maybe?  No… drat.  What book would work?

            I finally settled on my dictionary.  It was a full three inches thick, with a hard bound cover and there was always the fact that it would be unlikely that I’d offend anyone.  There was also the off chance I’d learn something through osmosis, though I highly doubted it.  As I thumbed the vibroballs higher, moaning softly as I moved to the bed, I put the dictionary aside and settled myself in one of the most unnatural positions I’ve ever been forced into.

            I lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling while I lifted my bare legs upward, toes pointed as the soles of my feet pressed against the wall.  My knees fell outward and I spread my legs wide, eventually letting my heels rest on the top of the metal frame headboard.  My hips were already jerking, rolling as the vibroballs sent spirals of exquisite pleasure rushing through me.  Maybe if I had an hour or two I could cum without touching myself, but that wasn’t what Master Barrett had in mind.  Oh no.  I needed to cum alright.  That was the trigger.  But it was the punishment that I would be avoiding.

            I picked up the dictionary and held it in my trembling hands.  How high should I hold it?  A foot?  A few inches?   I settled for a foot, knowing that the greater distance would mean more pain and that is what Master Barrett would want.  So I held the book up above my wet and swollen slit, my tender and bruised clit directly underneath.  Then I dropped it.

            It was everything I could do not to scream.  It was like getting kicked between the legs and my knees came together as I rolled, trying to absorb the blow.  Oh God it hurt.  Why not just order me out somewhere, stripped to the waist, begging passersby to kick me in the crotch.  Hell, Julie would have loved that.  I could just imagine being at her place, standing at the foot of her mattress, my ankles wide apart and tied to the corners of the bedframe.  Julie would have spent at least five minutes slapping my breasts back and forth before finally taking the requisite steps backward.  Then she’d skip forward and bring her bare foot up between my legs, slamming it hard into my pussy and watching with enjoyment as I collapsed, falling inward in agony.

            But that’s not what was happening, was it?  No.  I did it to myself with a fucking book.  How lame is that?  I groaned, wincing as I reached out for the book again.  That was the punishment.  I had to keep dropping the book on my pussy, specifically my clit, until I came.  Orgasm just seemed very far away at that point.  The dictionary fell again, bruising me and I groaned, gritting my teeth and trying hard to think past the blow.

            It was no use.  I wasn’t going to cum and with each additional drop of the dictionary, the height it fell from decreased as my arm got tired and I had trouble holding it up.  Finally I rolled off the bed and stumbled to the computer.  But before I could fire off an email to Master Barrett, I heard my mother calling me downstairs.  I sighed.  Damn…

            It was the next day before I had a chance to get back on and check my in box.  I was stuffed with my triple vibroballs and logging on there was a new email from Master Barrett.  My fingers trembled as I read it:

“Just to make sure you don't forget about me I want you to wear a peg on your clit for the next few days. I will let you know when I think you deserve to take it off. I assume you usually keep the peg flat against your body when you have worn them in the past well this time whenever you are alone (that includes when you are working) I want you to wear it so it sticks out from you will have to rearrange or remove some clothing to accommodate the peg but I don't see that as a problem. - Barrett”

            I was already dressed, complete with blue jeans, a tee shirt, socks, panties, and bra.  While I really didn’t want a clothespin on my clit all day, it was the “rearrange your clothing” issue that was the problem.  With a sigh, I peeled off my shorts and panties.  One went in the hamper while the other got draped over my shoulder.  I felt the ben wa balls rolling inside me, keeping me wet, and I pulled the drawer of my desk outward.  Inside were over two dozen clothespins.  Please don’t ask me why I keep them there.  I’m sure you can figure it out. 

            Trembling, I grasped one and brought it down between my legs.  I’ve clamped my clit before, hundreds of times, even in the manner that Master Barrett requested.  The difference is that this time I couldn’t take it off.  And worse, if I were in private, it meant full exposure or at least wearing something that wouldn’t interfere with the angle of the peg.  I hissed as it latched on, biting my still tender nub.  It stuck out like a little odd shaped, wooden  cock.  Worse, each step or wiggle of my hips sent it jiggling, sharp bursts of agony laced ecstasy shooting up through my pussy as my sex tried to throttle the ben wa balls.

            I fired off a reply to Master Barrett, but it wasn’t just about the clothespin.  I admitted that I had failed his little book assignment and offered what I thought was a satisfactory option: an evening with Julie, one of the more brutal of my mistresses, with a specific torment in mind.

            I went downstairs and out the door half naked, which isn’t my usual method.  I must have looked ridiculous wearing a tee shirt and bra, bare from the waist down except for my boots, waving a little wooden clamp around.  I almost wished, just for a moment, that Master Barrett had given my breasts the same treatment.  At least that way I would have been balanced.

            Of course, it would have set me off even quicker.  I came of course.  You try doing your chores with a clothespin dangling from your withers.  It actually happened twice as I pranced my way across the barn multiple times and worked my way out the goat pen.  With each step that clothespin bounced up and down and I can’t even begin to tell you how bad it got.  By the time I was done and ready to head inside, the thought of putting my jeans on and letting the material mash the peg up against my tummy, even knowing how that would twist my clit, was a relief.  Doing it hurt, but the cessation of the bouncing was worth it.

            I waddled through the house, ate breakfast with my family, but was soon left alone to my own devices outside as I set the irrigators.  After getting out to the barn, I once again stripped off my jeans, grit my teeth as the clothespin dropped and began wiggling, then saddled Star.  We rode out to the south fields and got the irrigators going and I felt a momentary giddiness.  The ride had woken my libido again and I admit it, I stripped totally naked in the late morning sunlight, with just a single clothespin on, and ran through the mist coming off the sprinklers.  It was amazing.  I masturbated then, hard and fast, my fingers twisting and pulling on the clothespin with one hand while the other tried to emulate the sensation of another clamp on my nipple.

            The rest of the day was just awful though.  My clit was terribly sore and more often than not, pulled into a terrible position by my jeans.  Finally around five, I changed into a skirt, just so that I didn’t have to deal with the pressure of my clothing.  It only helped for a small period of time because almost immediately the damn thing began bouncing, pulsing with every roll of my hips, step, or shake.  I slept with it on too.  I know.  I’m amazing right?  Of course I wasn’t feeling any kind of sexual urge by that point. I just wanted it to stop.  I fell asleep with an awful throbbing between my legs and the sensation of sharp edges against my thighs.

            The next morning Master Barrett had responded.  He thought a trip to Julie’s was more than acceptable.  But he also didn’t want me to remove the clothespin.  “Give the peg a twist every hour on the hour until I tell you to stop,” he wrote.   I almost cried.  I reached down between my legs, grabbed hold of the clothespin, and twisted.  Pain shot through me, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.  My clit had been pulled, tugged, and forced through just as bad moments the day before.  What had changed?  Instead of going out in jeans though, I slid my ass into a skirt, leaving sufficient room to have the clothespin sticking straight out.  The material still pressed slightly against it, but for all intents and purposes, it was doing exactly what Master Barrett wanted it to.

            My second day of Clothespin Hell was little different from my first, except for the fact that I came a few extra times, which was good, and each of those orgasms were absolutely excruciating, which was bad.  My clit felt like it had been sanded, crushed, bitten, rubbed with oil, set on fire, and then frozen.  Every step sent vibrations through the clothespin and adding those half twists every half and hour was like pouring lemon juice on a paper cut.  I think the worst moment came while at the grocery store. 

            I was still wearing the skirt, a blue denim number with a lot of flare and pleats.  Unfortunately it wasn’t really long enough.  In fact, none of my skirts go down lower than mid thigh and most of them are a little higher than that.  I’m seriously going to have to rethink my wardrobe soon.  Girls my age aren’t supposed to be dressing like seventeen year old sluts.  At this rate I’m going to end up in one of those “people of Wal-Mart” videos.  I guess I can take solace in the thought that I at least look good in that kind of clothing, if a little over blown.  I’ve got a bit of a baby face and look younger than I am, but still, I may need to change from slutty to sexy soon.

            Where was I?  Oh yeah.  The grocery store.  My toy for the day had been specified by Mistress Kari and she very kindly had me in my double vibroballs, on medium no less, to give me an edge against the clothespin twisting.  So I was already higher than a kite, at least sexually, when I went into the store.  Desperation can do funny things to you and I think I was in the middle of the soup aisle when I couldn’t take it any more and lifted the front of my skirt and diddled and twisted the clothespin.  No, there wasn’t any people in the aisle.  Duh.  I wouldn’t do that.  But as I worked myself rather strenuously, I closed my eyes and really got into it.  It’s tough to keep an eye on things when you’re in the throes of orgasm, with your eyes shut, and when I opened them again, my lips tightly pressed together to mute the obvious noises of extreme bliss mixed with clit crushing agony, I discovered I had an audience, an older guy who stood there watching me with something between shock and appreciation.  I jerked my hand away from  between my legs, my face burning with shame.  My fingers were wet too and I hurriedly wiped them on the side of my skirt.  With trembling hands I grabbed the cart handle and pushed, walking as briskly as I could considering that every step set the clothespin swinging and bobbing.

            As I passed him he grinned.  “Nice clothespin,” was all he said and I hurried through the rest of my shopping, scared to death I’d run into him again.

            Sleep that night was almost impossible, but eventually I managed it, even with the clothespin on.  All sorts of things went through my brain.  Why is the clothespin hurting so much?  It’s not like it is metal with sharp teeth!  Steady, non-stop torment is what was doing it, but I didn’t have the mental faculty to do the math.  Two days of  having the clothespin on, not even with that much pressure, only removing it to use the bathroom, was having a serious affect on me.  It was like the Chinese Water Torture.  One clothespin, dangling for an hour turned me on.  One clothespin, dangling for two days, with the added mental stress of making sure it either stuck straight out or was mashed painfully between my clothes and my sex, combined with a nose tweaking (that’s a metaphor ya’ll) half twist every half hour, drove me banana fucking nuts crazy.

            I stumbled out of bed, my thighs rubbed raw from the straight edges of the clothespin.  My clit throbbed with both sexual need and pain and I found my computer, completely intent on begging Master Barrett for release.  I couldn’t take this.  Not for another day.  I opened my email but he was actually online, waiting for me.  Not good was what I thought.  I sat down, spreading my legs as far apart as I could, almost straddling my chair, letting the air soothe the chaffed nub between my legs.  I greeted Master Barrett, who politely allowed me to remove the clothespin.  For one long moment of relief I sat there, my skirt up around my waist, the clothespin on the desk, wet from my juices, my clitoris throbbing in relief.

            “Now put on your butterfly clitoral stimulator.  It needs to be on low,” he ordered.

            Please imagine me quaking in absolute terror.

            “I don't think I can do this, sir.” I typed, trying not to make any mistakes.  “I'm so sore right now just from the peg... adding the butterfly....with it on.  It's just...  it's been an awkward two days.”

“So? What are you for?” Master Barrett replied.

I knew the answer he wanted.  It was almost a mantra, the classic theme of being a nympho humiliation pain slut.  “To be hurt sir.  To be used and abused,” I typed.

“Exactly.  So you are going to do as you are instructed, yes?” he asked.

“Yes sir. I'll put it on right now. It's just... it's hard to do it to myself. Do you understand? If I was tied down or something, and couldn't stop it, that would be one thing... but…”  Master Barrett’s comment came before I finished mine.

“I wish I was there to tie you down, but unfortunately neither of us get what we want in that respect.”

“I know.” I typed.  “Give me a sec. I'm putting the butterfly on.”  I rose from my chair and crossed over to the closet.  It only took a moment to open my toybox, a large metal chest I keep most of my various sex toys in.  I pushed past the hemp thong, the chastity belt, dildos and clamps and vibrators and plucked my butterfly clitoral stimulator out of the mess of motors and plastic.  Carefully I stepped into the harness, pulling it up my legs until the little purple plastic butterfly shaped vibrator sat directly on top of my clitoris.  Just the pressure was having an effect.  I bent over the keyboard and typed.  

“Okay, it’s in place.  I’m turning it on now.”  I flipped the switch and gasped as my clit suddenly stung.  Every muscle in my body tensed.  “Oh... damn... that stings.”  My fingers flew across the keyboard even as I felt a renewed sense of sexual energy flood through my loins.

“Good,” Master Barrett said.

“No.  No it’s not good.”  The typos in my sentence were distracting, but were more a symptom of something else.

Master Barrett didn’t seem to mind.  “That is what I want; for you to be constantly tormented”

I blinked.  My hips were rolling and my clit was reporting that I was quickly approaching a nexus of pain that would floor me.  I was just to tender and sore.  I typed, mostly by hunt and peck, and still barely managed to put together a coherent sentence.  Here’s exactly what I typed:

“iim not suree im goign to be able to handle tthis very long”

Then:

“ssir I'm beign honest. I'll evventually take a medical out iff you don't give mee a way to end this soemtime today”

Master Barrett thought for a moment, and then sent his reply.  “You can take it off when you have completed 150 NHPS push ups. That should keep you busy for a while.”

NHPS pushups?  I stifled a groan.  Worse, a hundred and fifty of them would leave me exhausted and sore.  And I still had a meeting with Julie the next day and I knew how that would go.  Do you know what a NHPS pushup is?  No?  Let me describe one for you.  First of all, you get a NHPS, a nympho humiliation pain slut.  Then you strip her naked.  Stuff her with either a vibrator or vibroballs, turn them to high, and set out your spiked tack mat.  Then, with her breasts dangling right above the mat, she is to lower herself completely on to the ground, pressing her breasts into the tacks.  She is then to clasp her hands behind her back once, then repeat. 

“Sir?” I asked, trying to ignore the pulsing need between my legs.  “Is the requirement of the triple vibroballs or vibrator on high still active for the NHPS pushups?”

“Of course,” Master Barrett replied and I could hear the amusement in his tone.

“Am I allowed to cum?”  I closed my eyes.  My pussy was shuddering and I could feel the pressure building.

“I don’t think you will be able to stop yourself, will you?”

My fingers shook.  “No sir.”

“Though of course if you cum it will cost you 10 jumping jacks with 1/2 lb weights clamped to your tits,” he wrote.

I couldn’t help it.  I exploded wetly, orgasming in my seat.  And that was without the pair of double vibroballs rumbling inside me.  Master Barrett enjoyed every second of it.

I hurried down to the barn. I didn’t even bother with my jeans.  They were tossed over my shoulder.  I ran barefoot across the yard, yelping slightly as the gravel bit into the soles of my feet.  But I didn’t care.  I only had one thing on my mind.  Stopping the butterfly.

On a good day, when I’m not sore and tender, the butterfly drives me crazy.  It’s small, soft, and when nestled against my clit sends me into paroxysms of lust.  I can barely stand it for any length of time.  Usually about an hour on low, or about fifteen minutes on high is about as long as I can handle the vibrations.  But add in the facts that my clit was hyper-sensitive and I had just cum?  Well, you can just imagine what that felt like.  Think rug burn combined with arousal.  Weird huh?  Yeah.  Want to know what’s worse?  Knowing that the rug burn caused the arousal.

And so by the time I tugged the black rubber tack mat free of the cupboard and tossed it down on the floor, I was in quite a state.  My clit felt as if I were straddling a grinder, letting the bristle brush wheel strike it, all while feeling the urge to fuck something, anything, in order to relieve the growing sexual urgency between my legs.  Instead, I pulled off my shirt and bra, tossing them aside.  I wasn’t wearing shorts, or even panties, though admittedly I brought them with me.  That left me naked, holding the remote to the vibroballs, with the purple plastic butterfly vibrator metaphorically chewing at my clit.

I looked down at the tack mat.  Over a thousand tiny one millimeter long points stuck out of the heavy rubber.  They were sharp too.  Had they been longer, they would have easily broken skin and changed torment into serious torture.  But they weren’t longer.  I turned the vibroballs up to their highest setting, gasping loudly as they purred inside me.  Then I carefully moved into position.

A normal pushup is all about working muscles that don’t get that much use.  You suspend yourself above the ground, straight, on your hands and toes, only to lower yourself down until your nose is almost touching the floor.  Then you go back up.  NHPS pushups are dramatically different.  While regular pushups are designed to work certain muscle groups, NHPS pushups are designed to do one thing: torment sexually the one doing them.

My breasts dangled down beneath me.  The first NHPS pushup is always the toughest for me.  I could see the mat, the sharp spikes pointing up and I gently lowered myself down.  Straight down.  The last thing you want to do when pressing any part of your body against a surface covered in sharp metal spikes is to slide along it.  The other aspect of an NHPS pushup is that once you start, you don’t stop until you’re back up.  So when the tip of my left breast managed to land perfectly centered on one of the nail tips, I had to keep going.  Down, down, down, the pain increasing exponentially as more and more of both breasts were gently lowered to the mat.  But as I continued downward, putting more of my weight on my chest, my breasts flattened out, stretching slightly.  I felt the pressure of the tacks, the tiny pin prick bites spreading outward.  The worst pinching sensation was at the tips, working their way inward and outward, all at the same time.

Then, with a gasp of serious discomfort, I lifted my hands off the floor and wrapped them around my back.  My fingers clenched at the small of my back and pain rushed through me.  It exploded through my breasts and down my spine to swirl through my tormented sex until it was changed and became something else.  Then it flashed back upward to my brain, driving me up the mountain of orgasm, literally kicking me up the trail.

I lifted myself up.  There was a tingling in my breasts and as I lifted, the mat came up with me for a good inch before the tiny embedded nails came free of my skin.  I gave myself a quick examination.  No blood. Good.  The only clear spot that was free of the thousands of little dots was the tiny portion of skin that had been lucky enough to be positioned under the tiny charm padlock that dangled from my right nipple.  My pussy clenched around the vibroballs and my clit reported that it was about to be rubbed right off my body via erosion.  So I did what any normal nympho humiliation pain slut would do; another pushup.

I got tired around forty and each time I laid down upon the tack mat, allowing my breasts to be pin pricked with my weight driving each sharp point into my flesh, the pain increased.  At forty three I exploded, thrashing my ass up and down, driving my loins into the dusty floor of the barn as I writhed on my tack mat.  When I rolled off, a tiny trickle of blood came from my right breast, along the bottom side.  I grimaced, but honestly, I didn’t even feel whatever tiny tear had caused me to seep.  My clit was in agony.  Without the sexual stimulation to stopgap the violent rubbing of my clitoris, I was literally rolling into a fetal ball, crooning in physical distress. 

            It took every fiber of my being not to turn off the butterfly.  I wanted to so badly.  I pushed my hands between my thighs, my fingers caressing my wet petals while I struggled to keep my hands away from the butterfly.   When I was finally ready to go back for more NHPS pushups, I remembered the last thing Master Barrett had said to me that morning.

“Though of course if you cum it will cost you 10 jumping jacks with 1/2 lb weights clamped to your tits.”

I almost burst into tears.  Slowly I stood.  I tugged the weights and my clover clamps out of shorts pocket.  With my hips once again rolling in a provocative and quite lewd thrusting movement, the vibroballs and butterfly shaking in combination, I clamped my recently abused nipples and dangled the heavy weights from both breasts.  Pain shot through me and with the vibroballs remote in one hand, I spread my legs, lifted my arms, and jumped.

The only thing I can say is that I didn’t pass out and the weights didn’t drop.  But that’s about all.  I did my ten jumping jacks, though I doubt they would have passed muster at any fitness center worth its salt.  I could barely stand straight and I think I did one jump every thirty to forty seconds.  I’m trying to figure out a way to articulate the pain I was enduring but I really can’t.  Every major nerve bundle on the front of my body was being directly stimulated with either crushing pain or violent vibrations.  That’s the kind of thing that just makes coherent thought practically non-existent.

When I was done with the jumping jacks, I stumbled back over to the tack mat.  I was on my knees, getting into position, when I realized that my nipples were still crushed in the clover clamps.  I plucked the clamps off, letting out a thin screams as the blood rushed back into the crushed tips of my breasts.  Then, without waiting for balance, I dropped down, pressed my bosom as hard as possible into the tack mat, and clasped my hands behind my back.

I didn’t make it to a hundred and fifty.  But I at least made it past one ten.  That was when the second orgasm hit me and this one was a doozy.  This time I let out a scream that startled the animals in the barn and left me a soggy, barely conscious girl lying on her side in the hay and dust, twitching.  When I came back to my senses, my left hand was between my legs, ostensibly between the vibrating butterfly and my clit.  I pulled it away and immediately felt the buzzing overload my tenderized clit.  My fuzzy brain rolled me back over to the tack mat.  All I could think about was the fact that my clit hurt.  I struggled through the last forty pushups as fast as possible.  Tears streaked my cheeks.  I felt like someone had poured gasoline over my clitoris and lit it on fire.  Finally I hit fifty and I just toppled to the side, my fingers scrabbling at the butterfly.  I didn’t even turn it off. I just tore it from my body, the Velcro straps scratching my skin.  I flung it away and lay there shuddering, my legs spread far apart, as if exposing my clit to the air would be enough to relieve the damage I had done.

I’m not positive how long I laid there, but figure that I didn’t head out to the barn until maybe five thirty or six.  When I finally sat up, the vibroballs still buzzing inside me on high and rousing me toward another orgasm, it was ten after eight.  And I hadn’t even DONE my chores yet.  A quick examination revealed two more minor cuts on my breasts and a swollen, chaffed, raw meat look to my clit.

But then I realized something even more horrible.  I had CUM.  A second time.  And that realization sent another wracking sob through me.  I struggled to my feet.  I didn’t want to do more jumping jacks.  My breasts looked like I had lost a battle with a horde of angry killer bees who only had the option of stinging my tits.  They were red all over, looking like a painting by Serat in which only varying shades of red were used on the canvas.  My bosom hurt like the dickens and the last thing I wanted to do was clamp a pair of clover clamps to my nipples, weight them, and then jump violently up and down.

I’m no dummy.  This was my punishment for cumming.  Plain and simple, right?  This is what I’m for.  If Master Barrett wants to stimulate me, to torture me, to hurt me to the point where I can’t help but to explode, all while forbidding me to do it, knowing that I will, then he can.  If he wanted to tie me to a pole, legs spread, butterfly vibrator on high, stuffed with triple vibroballs for a full twenty four hours, he could.  Who am I to stop him?  This is my purpose.  I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut and I was meant to be tortured.

Or am I just psychologically damaged?

You should have seen my hand shake as I put the clover clamps back on my breasts.  Yes they hurt, but it just melded in with all of the other pains.  The weights were once more hung from each breast and I stood carefully in position.  The first jump felt like a blow to the chest.  My breasts bounced up and down, the extra half pound of weight serving like a physical blow.

Kari once showed me a video where a group of large breasted girls were used as gym equipment.  One of the girls was hogtied and suspended from the ceiling with her massive breasts dangling down.  A young man walked up, fingers curled tightly into fists.  Then with a cruelty that could only be described as vicious, he began hitting her tits as if they were boxing speed bags.  Her wails were impressive, as were the swings of both breasts.  Within a minute they were bright red and he just kept at it.  Frankly, I’ve always wondered what that must have felt like.

Yeah, well NOW I don't.

Part Two Coming Soon!

Suction Cup

06/06/2012

I glanced around nervously.  The place was packed.  Afternoon shoppers were skittering around, people were eating, joking, laughing around me, and I was about to sit down.  Frankly, that was a good thing.  I had been clenching my muscles tightly for about ten minutes, praying that my pussy was tight enough to keep my newest toy embedded where it was supposed to go. I had walked with short tiny steps, my thighs pressed together, feeling the thick rubber base, ostensibly cast in the shape of a pair of testicles, rubbing against my skin. 

Even without knowing of my ten inch long accessory, I was still the subject of intense scrutiny.  Every male within twenty feet of me had their eyes glued to my body.  The shirt I was wearing was ultra tight, with a collar low enough for me to risk “loosing containment” of my upper half if I even bounced up and down a bit.  My nipple piercing, not to mention the charm sized padlock that dangled from the tip of my right breast were quite visible through the material.  A three inch strip of my belly was exposed, under which a short denim skirt covered just my bottom and front, leaving the vast majority of my thighs exposed.  I was actually worried that the bottom of the dildo could be seen from the right angle the skirt was so short.

I was also wearing the fuck me shoes, a pair of stripper style heels, complete with four inch heels and four inch platforms, which lifted me a dizzying eight inches into the air above my usual five foot four and a quarter inches.  This in itself affected my walking, but add the fact that I had almost a foot of supple yet firm rubber shoved up inside me, and I couldn’t relax or it would fall out, made my movements not just noticeable, but odd.  There’s nothing more humiliating than taking a step and everyone noticing that something is not right, and wondering.

The seat before me had a wooden bottom and I bit my lip.  This was exactly what Master Mark had insisted on.  I set my tray down on the table top.  There was a paper cup filled with water, some orange chicken and rice on a plate, and a pair of chopsticks and a fork.  Slowly, I moved over the seat and sat down gently.  Sure enough, the dildo had slipped, though not much. I felt two or three inches of penetration, the rubber shaft driving up into me as the base was pressed up against the seat.  I groaned lightly.  I had been driven nuts all morning, masturbating to the edge, wearing the vibroballs on low, all in preparation for this assignment.

            Breanne – Amazing new toy.  I especially like the functionality you described.  For your assignment today, please wear a low, tight top that will allow your breasts to “pop” out of should you bounce.  In addition, please wear a short tight skirt and your stripper shoes.  I know I shouldn’t have to say this – no panties or bra obviously.  You will go to the mall.  You will walk with the dildo embedded in your sex.  If at any time you feel that it is about to fall out, you will find a chair or bench and sit down.  However, the chair or bench must have a flat surface so that the suction cup will function.  Once sitting you must orgasm before getting back up. Two trips around the mall would be acceptable, don’t you think?  – Master Mark

I hadn’t walked the mall yet.  I was hungry.  Besides, I wanted to see just how hard it would be.  Well, just the walk from the parking lot, passed the carousel, into the food court had been a trial.  I could feel the dildo slipping.  Worse, I was soaked, had been for hours, but the combination of the dildo, along with the stares my outfit was attracting, had me practically humming with sexual energy.  It’s too bad we can’t find a way to harness that stuff, right?  Could you imagine that job?  I’d love to be strapped into the local power plant’s sexual torture chamber, wires going to various parts of my body to collect the energy, while the technician readies the whip and his cock…

Sorry.  Sometimes my imagination gets away from me.  Perhaps that will be a fiction story I write some day.  Cool huh? So now you know how I get my ideas!

I shifted in my seat and realized my first predicament.  The dildo was stuck to the wooden bottom and I wasn’t quite sitting where I wanted too.  You know how you sit down and then move to wear you are most comfortable.  Well that’s kinda hard to do when your physically impaled on a ten inch rod that’s attached to the seat itself.  You can’t slide.  You can’t shift.  You’re stuck.

I went to reach down between my legs, to unstuck the dildo’s suction cup, but noticed that a few teenage boys one table over were quite obviously watching.  I don’t think they could see anything, after all, my legs were together, but spreading them, lifting up my skirt to get to the dildo, freeing it, and then sitting back down, once more impaling myself nicely on the thick rubber, would have been more show than I was willing to give.

No doubt you are asking “why is a humiliation pain slut unwilling to give a show?”  Yes, well, I AM a nympho humiliation pain slut.  But that doesn’t mean I LIKE it.  I don’t.  I actually HATE being a nympho humiliation pain slut.  The emotional toll it takes on me is insane.  I hate dressing like a whore, a sex-starved slut who wants nothing more than cock in every hole.  And yet, when I’m put in this position, when I’m flaunting my body like this, put on display, humiliated, embarrassed, toyed with, or even when I’m being hurt and used, my orgasms are so powerful, so intense, so amazing that some tiny part of me longs for it.  Do I hate it?  Yes.  Do I want it?  Oh… absolutely.

I’m fucked up, in almost every connotation of that statement you can think of.  Mentally, emotionally, and yes, even physically, and at that moment it was a ten inch realistic rubber cock doing most of it.

So yes, I shifted, quite uncomfortable, bending the cock at the apex of it’s joining with the table.  My hips rocked and I tried, unsuccessfully, to break the suction cup’s seal and move the dildo over an inch or two.  No luck.  So after a minute of what must of appeared as very strange movements, I sighed in exasperation and started to eat.  That distracted me for a few minutes, but I couldn’t help twisting my hips every once in a while.  Sitting still with ten inches of rubber rod inside you is not the easiest thing to do.  Sure, I wasn’t suffering from the torment of a buzzing vibrator, but there is something elegant and simple about a thick inanimate dildo.  It’s not what it does, it’s what you do to it.  And while my brain was contemplating food, my outfit, the boys (who couldn’t have been more than thirteen and fourteen) at the opposite table, my pussy was contemplating things like in and out, squeeze and relax, and most importantly, up and down.  With every involuntary twist of my hips, the dildo moved inside me.

Remember how I told you I was already aroused?  Well, it didn’t help.  Or maybe it did, depending on your point of view.  If you were hoping I’d hold off, keep control, and strongly represent woman as a force to be recognized with, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.  Instead I was halfway through my meal when those movements, which my audience had noted quite obviously considering the snickers, wide eyes, and whispered comments, when I realized that I was going to cum.

I braced myself for it of course.  It meant putting my fork down, gripping the table, clenching my teeth, and closing my eyes.  It was a strong one too, more than enough that had I been in my barn, or at Kari’s place, I would have been gasping and crying out in wet delight.  Instead I was in the middle of a crowded place, being ogled and observed, with my hips delightfully bouncing up and down on a pillar two inches thick and long enough to stir a five gallon bucket of paint.

What?  We recently painted the living room of the house!  So I know what a five gallon bucket of paint is like!

I managed to keep the audible portion of my climax to a bare minimum, but I swooned in my seat like a drunken sailor stumbling out of a bar.  When I opened my eyes to take stock, I realized that my legs had come open and the entire table of boys were staring at me, mouths open in shock and glee.  There was even a pointing finger.  I turned absolutely scarlet.  Not cool.  I smashed my knees quickly together, grabbed my tray and started to get up, intent on escape.

Oops.

I got about six inches up when I realized that I had a slight problem.  “Think Breanne.  Don’t be stupid,” I said to myself angrily.  I slammed back down, this time letting out a groan as the thick cock, which had been stuck to the seat and stayed there, split me up the middle again.  Another rush of sexual wantonness rocked me and I struggled to maintain control.  It wasn’t easy, trust me. 

With my eyes down, but watching the boys, who were still all staring at me, no doubt having glimpsed the dildo, I tried to pry up the suction cup without spreading my legs.  My thighs were cooperative, but the dildo’s full sized balls kept getting in the way and with my weight on the damn thing, I couldn’t get a finger under the phallus.  In addition, it looked… well… there was more chuckling and head nodding coming from my audience.  Or were they judges?  For one moment I pictured them holding up rating cards like Olympic Figure Skating judges.  How was Breanne’s art at orgasm?  9.6 average.  How was Breanne’s expressiveness?  6.7 average.  Do we want her to do it again?  Hell yes.

When I drew my fingers back out from between my legs, they were soaked.  And I mean very soaked.  In fact, I could feel the wetness on my buttocks and the backs of my thighs, puddling around the base of the dildo.  I bit back a grimace.  Not because I was disgusted, oh no, but because I couldn’t think of anything more embarrassing.  I was going to leave the mother of all wet spots.

The boys were definitely enjoying the show and that’s when things turned ugly.  Fascination and interest turned to mocking.  One of them grabbed his chest and pretended to “shake boobs”, clearly wanting me to do a little bouncing.  This spurred further insults as one made a circle with thumb and forefinger and then very clearly used his other hand and a single finger to “fuck” it.  The implications were clear.  I needed to leave. Immediately.

This tale is no longer available on the blog and can be found in Breanne Erickson's e-book anthology "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 6"

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Breanne Erickson is the author of the critically acclaimed "Society of the Golden Rose" as well as the popular "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut" series.  Check out the best of Breanne Erickson!